It was on Wednesday morning, early, right at sunup when a taxi—a minivan equipped for passengers with disabilities—turned off the main Interstate and headed west. The van drove for miles down a private lane which arrowed in a near straight shot directly toward a large splotch on the otherwise pristine plain of white sand. Upon approach, the discoloration slowly transformed into a reclusive compound of extraordinary structures, which pillared out of the sands like some futuristic base on a remote planet.
“Ah, Sandcastle!” the man said eagerly to himself, eyes wide and intriguing.
The vehicle finally rolled to a stop before a large gated entry. The driver sat motionless, as if waiting for further instructions. He glared out his window at the massive metal gate spanning the only gap in the thick perimeter wall. He noted with astonishment, the greenery which abounded within the unique courtyard; a stern contrast to the lifeless wasteland he had observed on his drive out from the city. Lush, manicured vines, large blooms of flowers and plump green shrubberies grew abundantly at the perimeter’s base; some climbing high up the barrier in great colorful columns.
Off to his right, near the latching side of the heavy-ribbed gate, the driver noticed a neat cobble-stone path which cut through the shrubbery. The pathway ended abruptly at the base of a solid metal doorway which was framed incongruently into a section of the outside wall, nearly out of site, and certainly out of place for an entryway. The door’s shiny surface was lathed in strange symmetrical patterns which—when he pulled off his sunglasses to gaze more clearly—cast a shimmering spectrum of reflected sunlight far outward onto the driveway. There, the mirrored display of shapes, designs and symbols danced in radiant brilliance upon the flat white rock.
The intrigued driver seemed unable to stop his ogling display, as he gawked wide looking here and there, mesmerized by this amazing oasis, this mysterious Sandcastle as it was called; a place he had heard so much about yet had never seen. The surrounding beauty and peaceful atmosphere seemed almost hypnotic, and he felt the urge to get out of his van and meander through the great yard.
Fortunately—per his instructions—he did not, for things were not as tranquil as they appeared; and in fact, quite the opposite was true.
The curious driver could not have known the sequence of events his arrival had triggered: hidden surveillance cameras placed at every angle had turned their faces toward his vehicle, now aware, they watched, recorded, and listened. All topside EMR devices—mounted in stealth locations on exterior buildings and perimeter walls—had also come online, having switched from manual to sentry mode, their targeting algorithms were now directed accordingly. But the bulk of the disruption, like that of the enraged ants beneath their injured hill, was taking place underground, below the estate. There in the HOPE complex, things were really hopping!
Multiple divisions of security droids had been put on alert, switching from impassive laborers to sentry defense soldiers, and like well-oiled machines, they were carrying out their assigned tasks with precision. All substations, passageways, tunnels and entries had been sealed, secured and lined with the robot guard. And within Avalon—Eli, Ellen, Jacob and Ruthanne had all been awakened and briefed by their android counterparts. It seemed the four Avalonites were now aware of a breach in their security net—somehow, a fish had gotten through undetected, and they needed to know how.
Eli scurried down the walkway. He pushed anxiously at his wristcom. “Jacob! What have you found!”
“I’m checking now!” came the boy’s nervous reply. “Would you give me a second! I’m still trying to wake up.”
“We don’t have a second! I need to know how this vehicle breached our outer sensors!” Eli arrowed off the main walk and hurried toward Ellen’s apartment.
Avalon’s connecting pathways joined at a large, patio courtyard. There, an assortment of raised gardens drew upward on high pillared tiers. From atop of each fell coils of heavy blossoms—some Ellen’s own genetic creations—their colorful fingers just touching the ground. Cascades of small waterfalls poured down into catch-pools below, flowing into other colorful vegetation which lined the glistening footpaths. It would have been a picturesque view, had it not been for the emergency lighting which now pulsed on every surface in a blood-red wash, signaling the underground’s state of alert.
Eli had just bounded onto the first front step when Ellen’s door flew open. By the looks of her clothing and her disheveled appearance, it was obvious that she had been caught off guard; and like the rest of her nocturnal company, had been asleep when the automated systems engaged the alarms.
“Why is Avalon in lockdown!” she blurted out.
“Not just Avalon. The entire complex is on alert. We have an unknown vehicle parked right above us at Sandcastle’s front gate!”
She bounded down the steps, still tugging at the tie-back in her hair. “I don’t understand. Is it a hostile?”
“Unknown.”
“The perimeter sensors didn’t see it? But how is that poss—”
“I don’t know. Whoever it is, they somehow circumvented all of our outer detectors and the sentry scans. We didn’t see them coming until they showed up at our front door! Jacob is currently trying to figure out how they pulled it off.”
“Is the mansion secured?” she asked. “Is Gracie safe?”
Eli didn’t reply.
“Eli. Is Gracie safe?”
He turned. “I can’t access Sandcastle’s security system—and all in-house nodes are offline, I can’t even ping Hank or Emma Sue.” He paused and turned his fearful eyes on Ellen. “Sis. I can’t find Gracie. All scans are negative. She’s not in the mansion nor on the grounds!”
Ellen gasped. It was more than she intended. But she couldn’t help it. Her expression had morphed from confusion to fear. “What do you mean? Eli . . . she couldn’t have just vanished. Then, before her brother could reply, she was off on a dead run. She flew past him like a runner on the last lap for the gold medal. “I’m heading topside!” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Wait a minute! Ruthanne is already in-route with four of the Heavies!” he shouted after her. But Ellen had already disappeared down the main corridor.
“Don’t bother waiting for me,” he grumbled to himself, heading after her. He got as far as the corridor intersection when bang! He ran smack into Jacob who was bulleting in the opposite direction.
The two rebounded like a couple of pool-balls. Jacob, being the smallest, went flying against the wall, hit, then slid down hard on his butt. “Ouch!”
“What in the name of—!” Eli barked, reaching to pick his equipment up off the ground.
Jacob recoiled like a spring, and was back on his feet as quick as he went down. “I . . . I know why we didn’t see the vehicle coming!” he blurted out in a panting exhale.
Eli coughed, cleared his throat and managed to stop brushing off his pants long enough to focus on the boy. “Why? For heaven’s sake, why?”
“It . . . it was Gracie!” Jacob stuttered, eyes wide in his sweaty, placid face. “She shutdown everything from the topside’s remote interface! She even disabled Hank! Can you imagine! Hank! She’s never done that before!” he gasped, nearly on the verge of hyperventilating.
Eli stared in a daze. Then, his entire demeanor changed so abruptly, it was as if another presence had entered his body. He shook his head slowly, then chuckled. “That sly old coyote.”
--
The cabbie had finally turned to his morning newspaper. He read on, flipping casually through the pages as he waited for his passenger. His instructions had been specific: he was to keep the car running and stay put. That was fine with him. The tab was ticking up whether his vehicle was in motion or not. He continued his routine—periodically peering up over the paper at the side entry—until finally, he heard the snap of a lock. The paper dropped.
The thick, steel aperture gently swung outward on perfectly balanced hinges. From within, a sleek little wheelchair suddenly emerged. Its passenger—
an elegantly dressed little woman, topped in a silk-rimed hat and pawed with white-laced gloves—paused only a moment before pushing ahead on the motorized chair. The transport whined as it rolled onto the outside pathway and then stopped. The woman tapped at several other buttons on the arm rest, and glanced over her shoulder to confirm the door had closed tightly behind her.
The taxi-driver—a middle-aged, stout little man with tuffs of grey hair bordering around a shiny bald dome—jumped out of his door. He grinned generously from behind an unkempt mustache, revealing a row of slightly stained, crooked teeth. His stomach bulged beyond his taut belt, which he quickly adjusted with a large intake of breath before hurrying over to help his fare.
Gracie smiled brilliantly. “Right on time, my man,” she clapped, happily.
“Good morning,” he boomed back boisterously. “I didn’t believe dispatch when they told me I’d be coming out here this morning.” He shook his head. “Yet here I am. I’ve always wanted to see this place.” He dazed around as if waiting for something profound to happen. “Sandcastle Estate. Right?”
Gracie nodded. “Yes.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he continued. “I’d sure love to get a peek behind that wall.”
“I’ll bet you would,” she winked back. “Now, Mr.—?”
“Carter. The name’s Paul Carter,” he added with a fat extended hand.
Gracie grabbed hold of a single finger and gave it a quick shake. “Mr. Carter. I’m in a frightful hurry. Can we get going?” she asked as cordially as she could without sounding rude.
“Of course,” he replied with a final, deflated glance at the closed gate—he would not be getting his peek inside. “We’ll have you delivered downtown in no time at all.”
Mr. Carter was surprisingly fast for his ponderous size. In the next minute, he had helped Gracie into her seat and maneuver the wheelchair into a back compartment of the van.
Gracie found herself seated comfortably in the seat just behind him.
Carter slid into the driver’s seat and situated himself, rather snuggly, behind the wheel. “Now,” he began, addressing the rear-view mirror, “where are we taking you this morning, Mrs. Reitman?”
Gracie reached and handed him a piece of paper across the seat. “I need you to take me to this address,” she said, leaning forward. “I have an appointment at 10:30 A.M sharp.”
The man eyed the paper. “Hmm. That’s right downtown. Well,” he mused with a settling of his bulky form. “We better get going then. It will take all of two hours just to get into the city. Heaven knows what the traffic will be like by then.” He fumbled around for another minute or so—rolled up his newspaper, collected and tossed his used food wrappers, adjusted his mirrors . . . then finally started up the motor. He had just put the van in gear, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Again, his eyes drew to the rear-view mirror. This time, however, it was not Gracie’s face staring back at him, but a daintily-gloved hand; and clutched tightly in it was a crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill. She waved it alluringly in his view.
“Get me there by 10:00 A.M, Mr. Carter, and I’ll slap a dozen of these babies on that firm hand of yours.”
A large grin creased across his round, saggy jowls. “Mrs. Reitman. Hold on to your hat.”
Chapter 25:
It was in the Avalon square—the think spot as Gracie often referred to it, and arguably the most beautiful part of the unique residential section—where the team had met for their council. The HOPE complex, finally operating as it had been before the unexpected intrusion, was back in auto control, with the computers, droids and sentry returned to nominal status. Jacob and Eli had been able to quickly override and reset all of the systems which Gracie had so cleverly circumvented. But now, several hours later, there were still many unanswered questions; and even more unsettlingly was the fact that there had been no word from Gracie or her whereabouts.
Initially, the group had considered contacting Jimmy—which was what they were supposed to do in any sort of lockdown situation involving the underground or Sandcastle—but had decided against it. Gracie, after all, had gone to a great deal of trouble and preparation to escape, as Eli had put it. She had orchestrated this little scheme all on her own, and arguably, for some purpose paramount to her.
The Four decided to wait for more facts before simply blowing the whistle, as Jacob had stated. And all had agreed without hesitation.
So there they sat within the Avalon courtyard . . . each pondering the situation to the cognizant limits of their brains. They just wanted to understand what on earth their fugitive matriarch was up to?
At least the patio-garden was a cathartic atmosphere. Its peaceful pools bubbled in a soft calming cadence, conducive to both thought and spirit. Because this particular section of the yard had been uniquely designed as a conference area, it held an additional clandestine feature built directly into a recessed circular area of the floor. Bounded by an intricate collage of mosaic tiling, was a sophisticated IGS (Image Gateway System), another of the team’s inventions. The cryptic device now powered up and brought unprecedented technology to this first-century, Roman-themed courtyard—a paradox which was neither uncommon nor out of place in the realm of Avalon.
The IGS was a large, flat metallic plate which laid perfectly within its circular mold. When activated, the system’s energy could not only visually penetrate walls and barriers, but could generate and display detailed 3D images from any intercepted data feed in the world. The images appeared above the plate with incredible clarity and could be manipulated along any of the three axes. The only limitation to the advanced system came as a self-induced protocol: the team had long since restricted themselves to data within the realm of Sandcastle property only.
Tempting as it was to access cameras, video or audio feeds from beyond their borders, they were under oath and therefore were precluded from such encroachment. But now as they nervously sat—that is all but Jacob, who continued in his incessant pacing—monitoring every facet of their security web, nothing but empty dark desert imaged back to them. There, within their paradoxical sanctuary of futuristic technology and Byzantium architecture, they sat . . . paced . . . worried . . . and waited like the parents of some spoiled teenager out passed her curfew.
“For goodness sakes! She’s a grown woman. It isn’t as though she’s under house arrest!” exclaimed Ellen finally.
“Ellen is right,” Ruthanne conceded. “Gracie should be able to come and go as she wishes.”
“You know that isn’t the point,” Eli disputed. “We have protocols for this—”
“You mean Jimmy has protocols for this,” Ellen put in.
Eli paused. “Yes. But at least under Jimmy’s procedure we know that she travels safely. The vehicle designated for her incorporates our technology. It can be tracked, monitored and is impervious to the unexpected. Mike Wilde is Jimmy’s bonded pilot and chauffeur. He is also a formidable bodyguard.”
“Jimmy treats his mother like a juvenile delinquent! Gracie should be able to come and go in a taxi . . . like everyone else,” growled Ellen.
“Agreed,” but it is not up to us,” reminded Eli.
“I don’t think she likes Mr. Wilde,” Jacob mumbled. He glance up. “Well, have you seen him . . . he doesn’t seem very friendly.”
“Gracie does not mind Mike Wilde,” said Ruthanne. “He has always provided for her transportation. She trusts him, and . . . I suppose, so do we.” She hesitated then sighed in frustration. “No. I think we all have a good idea why Gracie left the way she did—under the radar.”
“She wanted anonymity; to be alone on her errand,” stated Ellen with an affirming nod.
“Exactly.” Ruthanne folded her arms and let her head fall back against her chair.
“But why?” asked Jacob. “She knows how dangerous it is to go alone. Jimmy would have
a—”
“Yes,” Eli cut in. “Jimmy would have a fit,” he echoed, tossing his signature glare at hi
s
companions.
“Gracie doesn’t want Jimmy to know where she’s gone,” whispered Ellen. “I mean, it’s really the only logical explanation. If Mike had driven her, it follows that he would also have accompanied her on her errand . . . that’s his job. The company requires this.”
“You mean Jimmy requires this,” Eli reminded.
Ellen’s eyes drew up. “Yes. But either way, Mike has to keep a log,” she continued, “a detailed record of everywhere he drives Gracie; how long she was away and what business she attended to.”
“And Jimmy has access to those records any time he pleases,” Jacob chimed in, his chin set nervously in his hand.
“Correct,” said Ruthanne. “And so now we know the reason. But we still do not know the why.”
For a time no one said a word. Only wisps of Avalon’s aesthetic character mingled in the air.
Ellen rubbed her forehead and joined Ruthanne in kicking off her shoes.
Jacob finally wound down and found a restful seat.
Eli just sat motionless like a statue, contemplating all possible avenues. But soon, with a long drawn out sigh, he stood up and glared down at the IGS’s blank readouts and spoke as though to himself: “What are you up to Gracie Reitman? What is it you don’t want Jimmy to know?”
“Or any of us, evidently,” Jacob added, his tone slightly bruised. “Why didn’t she just confide in us? She knows she can trust us.”
“She knows us better than we know ourselves, Jake,” Eli replied. “That’s the problem. Do you really think any of us could have just let her leave and head off into the city alone? A woman in a wheelchair with her affluent reputation? It is inherently against our reasoning to be so illogical.”
Jacob nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I would have followed her in the Sandray for sure . . . stealth mode, of course.”
“Exactly,” Eli replied. “Gracie knows we have the ability to track her. She obviously wasn’t willing to take the risk.”
Of Salt and Sand Page 33