The android pair were not only Gracie’s companions, aides and guardians, they were also some of the underground’s most intelligent and sophisticated systems. But because of their topside placement within the estate—outside the advanced security net of the sub complex—the two artificial humanoids, with their futuristic designs, intelligence algorithms, alloy compositions, intricate circuitry . . . all which made them unique, posed an elevated risk. To counter this vulnerability, neither of the android’s memory contained data regarding their origin. And in fact, the entire HOPE facility—including all remote stations, laboratories, bunkers and even the Avalon annex—did not exists in their databases. And although the two mechanical marvels could easily navigate every centimeter of their Sandcastle home above, they were to be forever unaware of their origin-home below. This necessary precaution was obvious: in an unlikely event of a hostile seizure of either system, the secret underground expanse, with its HOPE and Avalon sub-sections, could not be compromised via a download of their data circuitry. The downside to this additional security level, however, meant that any type of pre-maintenance—software upgrades, hardware adjustments, and the like—had to be done topside . . . and in the garage workshop.
Gracie had recently mentioned that both systems had issues, which may have simply come from her usual frustration caused by the communication barrier. But either way, Eli had scheduled a diagnostic checkup for both Hank and Emma Sue. And whom of the team better qualified for the task than the one who had engineered, designed and built the mechanical marvels? Jacob.
That particular evening, Gracie had retired to her room early, and other than Ruthanne—who at the last minute had offered to provide Jacob both company and assistance—the house had been quiet and empty, its normal state during the night hours.
The work had gone surprising fast, and soon the two nocturnal technicians had finished their diagnostics and were in the process of bringing Hank and Emma Sue back online, both systems having passed their robotic physicals with flying colors. Jacob had just queried Hank for a final response of all motion sensory to his upper torso, when the mechanical man suddenly blinked, rose abruptly and gave Ruthanne a brisk command: Please remove your equipment from this counter, Miss Ruthanne. The tool is not well balanced.
Ruthanne’s mouth dropped open. This was a first for passive Hank.
This shelf has importance to Mrs. Reitman, and may sustain damage if the instrument tips and accelerates rapidly downward, he burbled on.
Ruthanne had, in fact, just set the tool in question casually against the counter. And although it was rather carelessly placed, Hank’s interjection came very unexpected indeed.
Jacob was unable to contain himself, of course, and burst into laughter.
Ruthanne—after closing her mouth—simply cleared her throat and replied matter-of-factly: by all means, Hank. She then stood, reached, and moved the tool promptly as instructed.
A little too much personality, perhaps? Jacob teased.
On the contrary, countered Ruthanne, it shows concern and respect for his bond, Gracie, even beyond that of myself, his programmer.
Good answer, snorted Jacob.
Ruthanne heaved an annoyed sigh. Are we finished?
Absolutely—or, the boy paused with animation, perhaps we should ask Hank if we can be done. He broke into another stream of laughter.
Ruthanne just shook her head. I can only extrapolate your sarcastic expression from your voice. I am certain, however, that you are far more animated in your own cleverness than I will ever give you credit for. She grinned and grabbed for her stuff. Come on. I still have work to do in the lab.
Jacob calmed himself long enough to gather his own gear. Okay. Let’s go Hank. You and Emma Sue are in fine working order.
Ruthanne was already at the door waiting.
Jacob grabbed his bag from off the shelf and reached to shut down power to the last of his equipment. As he did, his eyes swept past the spot of metal veneer where Ruthanne’s instrument had caused such a stir from Hank. His keen eye suddenly caught a subtle line along an area of the smooth steel. It was a shadow, a tiny seam caused by the uneven intersection of two surfaces.
Jacob should have known better, as he hesitated there for a few moments, considering his next action. But curiosity had gotten the best of him. And so he caved. The boy genius with unmatched willpower and mental strength, had caved to mere curiosity. He feigned a slight pause: You go ahead with Hank and Emma Sue, he called out to Ruthanne. I’ll meet up with you in the library. I won’t be a minute.
Ruthanne hesitated just briefly, then nodded.
As the heavy door shut behind her, Jacob scurried over to the counter. It took only moments to discover a hidden compartment built into the metal stand. He eased his fingers along the suppressed line and pushed down. It released suddenly, and as expected, popped easily open. He hesitated, took another cautious canvass of the garage area, then lifted the top cover completely off.
Inside the compartment were two folders: one was labeled, Jessie Goodwin; the other, Sam Goodwin.
“ . . . merits risk. Don’t you agree, Jacob?”
Jacob’s head came up. “Huh?”
“Are you listening?” Eli’s voice caught him off guard. “This is an extremely sensitive subject, and you’re daydreaming?”
“No. No I’m not. I’m listening . . . so can you repeat the question?”
Eli rolled his eyes.
Ellen smacked her tongue.
But Ruthanne? Well, she just smiled. She knew where the boy’s thoughts were.
Jacob was never good at keeping things to himself. And secrets? He was as transparent as a polished window.
That same night, after the maintenance had been finished and Ruthanne had put Hank and Emma Sue back in manual-mode, she had sensed that Jacob was preoccupied. He was hiding something. So as soon as he returned to the sub-complex, Ruthanne had snuck back to the garage . . . and she had discovered the hidden compartment. It wasn’t really all that hidden anyway. She had run her hands carefully along the counter’s surface and easily discovered it—Hank had simply been too obvious. But unlike Jacob, Ruthanne was unable to see what was in the folders—nor would she have, even if her eyes had allowed it. She could control her curiosity much better than Jacob, deferring instead to the respected of other’s privacy.
And now, with Gracie’s announcement coming like a freight train, it was pretty obvious what was in the files. It was also a pretty good bet that Jacob knew far more about what Gracie knew, than the rest of them did. Ruthanne could have called him out on his snooping, but chose to remain silent.
For the next few minutes, Jacob actually tried to be attentive. But as he sat there in that high-backed, oversized chair like some munchkin lost in the cushions, he couldn’t help but let his mind drift back to the contents of the hidden folders he had found in the garage.
He understand why Gracie couldn’t bring the documents into the estate without being flagged: Sandcastle teamed with cameras, data collecting sensors, audio and visual reconnaissance devices, all designed to keep Gracie comfortable and above all else, safe. But with such a scrutinizing eye of protection, it would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, to smuggle anything of significant size into the home without it being noticed, especially if one wanted to be discreet.
Hank’s strange attentiveness to the counter in the garage was clear to Jacob now. Gracie had obviously ordered the trusting aide to hide the folders somewhere in the garage workshop. And he had obeyed her. No wonder Hank had reacted so strangely to Ruthanne’s careless placement of her tools. They were right on top of the android’s hiding place. If he could have produced sweat, he would have.
But Jacob still struggled with one spurring question: if Gracie had intended to divulge Tom’s past—particularly that of his two grandchildren—then why hide the files? Why not bring the material into the library for the discussion? That way, the group could see the material firsthand. The information, coupl
ed with the personal effect of the pictures, letters, etc. would have helped personify the kids . . . given them a face and character to attach to their names. It would have benefitted her argument.
Then Jacob suddenly realized why, and he felt a fool for not figuring it out sooner. It was because of Jimmy. Gracie would keep her scheme from the ears of Jimmy at all costs . . . and now, she had involved them all. They would all have to play the game . . . a deceitful, defying game.
As the debate continued—voices bandying back and forth; opinions ricocheting around the library like a game of racquetball—Jacob became more anxious. He just wanted Gracie to make the decision; to put her foot down and shout: this is the way it is! But that’s not how Gracie worked. She would not override the Four. Yet, after seeing Jessie’s folder, Jacob almost wished she would.
Ruthanne’s assumptions had been right. That night in the garage, Jacob—rather than replacing the top component on the cabinet and leaving the files as he found them—had acted on his overwhelming curiosity: Jessie’s file was the first he had opened. After that, he had hardly noticed anything else.
Amid the top-most stack of documents was a collage of recent photos. It appeared that these pictures had been taken unsanctioned and intrusive—the camera’s recipient being unaware of the lens in the distance.
The pictures captured a girl—obviously Jessie Goodwin—in her everyday routine: walking to school with books in hand down an oak-lined street with white vinyl fencing on one side and a row of bricked shops on the other; sitting on the steps in front of a two-story, dilapidated home with too many windows; and a final set of pictures: Jessie sitting on the grass at a park reading a book. There were children playing in the background, and her eyes had lifted from the pages. A subtle crease was seen across her face. A smile . . . a longing, hopeful smile. That’s evidently when the shot was taken.
In a glance, Jacob had taken in every facet of each photo. Seeing well more than just the exquisite girl in the center of each. And although the pictures had been taken at different times and places, they had one very distinct characteristic: In each picture, the girl, Jessie, was alone. And not just alone in the sense that no one else was with her, but infinitely and terribly alone.
Jacob had lingered in the garage much longer than he had planned that night. The girl’s innocence and simple beauty were beyond words. He had been absolutely absorbed by her images, and he had not been able to move past them. As if in a trance, he had just stared. Jessie Goodwin was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Perhaps in part, because he loved her grandfather, Tom, so completely. But whatever the reason, Jessie Goodwin had smitten him. Simple pictures—shadow, hue and ink, yet he could not get those images off his mind.
The girl had a soft, warm smile which formed from natural red lips and teeth as white and perfect as pearls. Her long dark hair and slim eyebrows had punctuated a pair of intelligent, ocean-blue eyes which even now caused the boy’s heart to expand. Jessie’s images had lingered in Jacob’s mind like a dream, filling him with a strange, foreign sensation. A sensation which even now, continued in throbbing of his soul.
Yes. Ruthanne had sensed something hidden within her young comrade that night. But it was far more than just discovered information. It seemed that Jacob, the boy prodigy, had finally come up against a situation that did not present an immediate solution. There was no formula, computation, or equation which could be applied to this conundrum. This was a strange new science—an enigma of the heart. And the prospect of a solution unknown, terrified the kid.
“It’s only for a few weeks,” said Gracie, her voice suddenly breaching Jacob’s reverie and pulling him back to the moment.
Jacob blinked and snapped his head back up. He shuffled in the chair and refocused.
“Just until a foster home can be found which can accommodate both children,” Gracie was saying. “I won’t allow them to be split apart. Tom was adamant about that. It was the reason he intervened so quickly. It was his last wish.”
“I agree with Gracie!” Jacob suddenly jumped up. It was a case of speaking before thinking.
“Jacob?” Ellen questioned. Her eyes were so focused on him they almost burned.
“I think we can pull it off. No. I know we can. Gracie is right. We owe it to Tom,” he defended.
“You sit there in la-la land for nearly the entire discussion, and now you, ‘think we can pull it off’?” Eli’s glare was just one step less intense than his sisters.
Thankfully, Ruthanne spoke up—as she so often did when things grew tense—with a daring, bold suggestion.
Chapter 28:
Granite East was a secluded street; at the west end was Marble Circle. The entire subdivision was named after rocks, and how appropriate, thought Jessie. The degraded neighborhood was constructed on what had once been an old abandoned rock quarry located on the west side of the city. Now it just felt like a pit.
She laid very quiet in her tiny attic room. It wasn’t a bad room really, with its fake wood paneling, arched walls and hideous orange shag carpet—had to be from the 70’s. But the room had a high, freshly painted ceiling, and was clean. The DCFS (Division of Child and Family Services) had inspected it and given their stamp of approval; their stamp of, not only the room, but house, location and family. How nice that they had checked out the cage before consigning the bird, to it.
The Barton’s were okay—on the foster parents scale from one to ten, they were an average of five . . . most of the time—it really just depended on the day. They had two other foster kids, both much younger than Jessie, which like herself, were treated as rented equipment: don’t break it, but use and abuse it before returning it. After all, you want to get your money’s worth. There was no warmth, and little genuine kindness, but the Barton’s provided a home and the basic necessities therein.
Jessie had learned to focus all her energy to the future. Looking back on the past was just too unbearable, and—when she pushed that mental wall—too unbelievable. Even now there were times she awoke at night, screaming for her parents, wondering if it had all been a terrible nightmare. But each time, as no one came to her side, the realization hit her with ever more intelligibility: the accident had happened. In one terrible moment, her life was changed forever. Her mother and father were dead. Yes dead! How she hated that word. And they weren’t coming back. She and her brother, Sam, had no relatives, no other family . . . they were alone, absolutely alone. And even worse, they were separated!
Jessie felt the warm liquid roll down her cheeks. Ahh! Crying again! she thought, and chastened herself for the millionth time. You’ve got to be strong for Sam, she told herself. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat up on her bed. She breathed a long sigh and glanced at her watch. It was almost time. She just prayed that Sam would respond correctly; would catch on to what was happening. He was good at impromptu, wasn’t he? If only they had been placed together in the same home—none of this would be necessary. But they hadn’t.
At the time, there wasn’t a family able (or willing) to take in two more foster kids—at least not on such short notice. The agency was supposed to be working on finding a family that could take them both, but Jessie had not heard anything in weeks. And when she called her contact, Diane . . . somebody, she got the same run-around answer: We are doing all that we can. You must be patient. Patience! Jessie was sick of the word! She had used up every ounce of the stuff. It was time to act.
For her . . . well, she had come to the realization of her situation. She could get through it. But not her brother. No. Not Sam. She feared he would not survive, at least not emotionally. His placement family, the Staples, had a reputation; a bad reputation. The very thought of Sam trapped in that house caused a burst of anxiety, a queasy sickness, and a desperation she could not temper.
The first few weeks of foster-care had been bearable . . . barely. Jessie was able to contact Sam by calling him now and then, and on occasion, even arranging a visit—the agency had allowed s
uch appointments. But the last visit—just a week ago—had gone horribly wrong.
When Sam got out of the Staples’ car, Jessie noticed immediately that he had lost weight . . . lots of weight. She was shocked. She hardly recognized him. His eyes were sunken, his frame boney, and when she ran to hug him, he felt as though he might break in half. Their time to visit was short, very short, and Sam was so despondent. Jessie could hardly get him to talk at all. Of course it didn’t help having Mr. Staples standing right there within earshot. The man hovered like a vulture, waiting to swoop and assail at the slightest misspoken word.
When the last minute had ticked past, Staples barked, time’s up! That’s when things really fell apart. Sam burst into tears and sobbed desperately. Jessie just couldn’t pull herself away. She continued to hold him in a tight embrace. His small body trembled and he couldn’t stop crying. But then Mrs. Barton—Jessie’s foster mom, and an eccentric woman by all aspects—also started in about rules and Jessie’s allotted time being over. We have other places we need to be! was how the woman had cackled it.
Please don’t go, Jessie! Sam had cried. And that’s when the event, as it had come to be called, happened.
It was all still a blur to Jessie. But according to the Mrs. Barton—the story changed every time the woman told it, her voice whining in and out like a siren, her arms flapping in exaggerated emotion . . . gads! It was ridiculous!—as Mr. Staples reached and pulled Sam from Jessie’s waist, she punched him, square in the face. Yes, the event was a bit hazy, but Jessie’s hand, still slightly swollen and sore, attested to the fact that she had punched . . . something? She also didn’t remember threatening Staples—again, so said banshee woman, Mrs. Barton—telling the fat man to leave her brother alone.
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