“Hanging?” Ruthanne turned a puzzled stance on Ellen.
Ellen shrugged, took a quick bite.
“Um,” Gracie cleared her throat and touched her lips with her serviette. “I believe Jessie means to enjoy the company of, Ruthy.”
“Oh? Oh, I see,” Ruthanne replied in a rational tone. Then she turned her head in brief reflection. “I should think that hanging around then, is quite enjoyable?”
Jessie smiled back and replied through a sip of water. “Yes. It is.”
And that’s how things went . . . for the next hour. The kids were quizzed about their favorite foods, clothes, games, movies—basic stuff. Some of the questions were still unusual, but the laughter, commentary and general ambiance of the dining room was genuine, and even fun. In fact, both Jessie and Sam were beginning to enjoy the effects their answers apparently had on the two nieces. It felt like revealing Santa Claus for the first time to children.
As the evening progressed, however, Jessie became even more convinced in her earlier assumption, which was that Ruthanne and Ellen were adopted—probably from a different country. She was just sure of it. She had even detected—once she had suspected a foreign flavor—the slightest accent carried on just a handful of their words . . . and it wasn’t French. Jessie took a French class in high school.
The dinner was progressing smoothly. Gracie had just asked about dessert, when the event took place. Jessie would later write in her journal: it was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced . . . underscored twice!
Somewhere between a final bite of mashed potatoes and the last piece of a second roll, the doorbell rang . . . at least that’s what Jessie assumed it to be. It was a very normal sounding doorbell: a simple ding-dong chime found in any number of American homes. But the effect at the table was indescribable!
Ellen suddenly leaped to her feet and shouted, “what was that!”
Ruthanne followed in similar action but instead of making an uproar, she just stood and froze.
Ellen then babbled out whole slew of crazy words, something like contacting control! and engaging lockdown! She carried on for several more seconds before finally catching sight of Jessie and Sam. Who simply glared at her as though she had gone mad! Ellen instantly silenced, calmed herself and in absolute mortification, crumpled back down in her chair.
Ruthanne, however, appeared to remain a statue, her semblance locked in some kind of mental exercise.
Gracie sighed, desperately. She set down her spoon, folded her hands and said, “doorbell, dear.”
“What?” Ellen gasped, stiffening once again.
At this, Ruthanne turned abruptly to Gracie and stammered, “doorbell? I . . . I was not aware that one of those audible calling devices had been installed?”
“It has,” spoke Gracie.
Dingdong
“There it is again!” said Ruthanne, rather fearfully.
“Well fine! But what do we do with it!” Ellen exclaimed, still very confused.
Gracie groaned and steered her chair back slightly. She leveled a direct glare at Ellen. “You answer the door, my dear.”
“But, but!” Ellen stammered, bouncing her stunned face from Gracie to Ruthanne. “No one should be at the door! We would have been notified!”
“Precisely,” Gracie replied, extending a calming hand. “We would have been notified. So there is obviously nothing to worry about. Now please . . . go and see who is at our front entrance,” she emphasized, her voice tainted in some irritation.
Jessie and Sam just sat in a stupor, watching this peculiar event play out. They felt like spectators viewing some foreign performance from a stage, aloof. They were both confused beyond measure—make no mistake—even though by now, they had seen and heard enough to be well beyond weirded out.
Jessie finally stood and spoke, rather awkwardly: “I’ll . . . I’ll answer the door if you’d like.”
“No, no!” cried Ellen, jumping to her feet. “You must not!”
Gracie groaned and her chin went down. This was a disaster!
“No one need move,” interrupted Ruthanne. She stood and faced the arched entry. “The individual has entered the premises and will be stepping into the dining room in approximately seven seconds.”
Ellen looked shocked and initially braced. Then in the last seconds, as if catching something in Ruthanne’s expression, she suddenly let out an exasperated exhale, folded her arms, and waited in boiling agitation.
Now, as footsteps echoed down the hallway, all eyes leveled at the open entry.
Jessie felt her heart increase its rhythm, and Sam reached for her hand.
Then, a final step and there he was: a figure in the entryway. “Hey? Why didn’t anyone answer the door?”
“Jacob!” growled Ellen, first.
Gracie let out an audible sigh, and shook her head in frustration.
“Why are you here, Jacob?” spoke up Ruthanne. Her tone was serious, but far more reserved than Ellen.
But Jacob didn’t answer straightaway. He was preoccupied in an entranced gaze of his own.
Jessie felt the heat of blood rush into her cheeks. She hated when that happened. But it always did when she locked eyes with a cute boy. And this Jacob? He was one of the cutest she had ever seen.
“Jacob,” said Gracie, rigidly. “You should not be here. We discussed this in detail.”
Jacob finally turned from Jessie and faced his accusers. “I know,” he answered, shamefully; chin down and shoulders drooping. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m just an insignificant grounds employee,” he underscored. “All I wanted was to say hello to our new guests.”
“Grounds employee!” barked Ellen. “Why you—”
“Ellen,” Gracie intervened, just in the nick of time. She had caught sight of Jacob’s expression . . . and of Jessie’s. The two were transfixed on each other. How could she have been so foolish? None of them had calculated the crushing temptation which must have harbored in the boy, eventually driving him to break, so drastically, with the plan. How often they forgot that Jacob was still an adolescent, just like Jessie. And the opportunity of finally mingling with one of his own—especially a pretty girl—even for a short period, must have been beyond temping . . . too tempting, obviously. Gracie allowed a subtle smile, then let out a trodden breath. “You just took us by surprise, Jacob. But now that you’re here, you might as well join us.”
“Join us?” Ellen glared, clicking her tongue. She sat and seethed.
Ruthanne just grinned as if at any moment she might burst into laughter. She had perceived Gracie’s reasoning, and responded with an approving gesture. “This should be interesting,” she commented.
Jacob straightened himself up like a watered weed. “Thanks Gracie!” he replied happily, then focused once more on Jessie. He held out his hand—which trebled ever so slightly—then slowly walked toward her. “I’m Jacob. I work on the grounds crew here at Sandcastle. It is so nice to meet you.”
“Hi back,” Jessie replied, her face still flushed. She shook his hand softly and tried not to stare at his large, amber eyes; nor his thick curly black hair; nor even at his handsome face with its trace of stubble on pale skin. “This is my brother, Sam,” she said, resting her hands on the boy’s shoulder.
Sam nodded back cheerfully, “Hi.”
“Sam,” Jacob repeated. He eyed the boy meticulously, then reached to shake the kid’s hand. “Sam and Jessie,” he repeated. “You are both really here.”
“Yup,” replied Sam, tugging to free his hand. “We’re really here.”
Jacob finally released his grip. As he did, Sam slipped back to his chair, and dessert. Which of course was more important than these stupid introductions.
“Jacob,” persisted Ellen, brusquely. “Have you seen Eli?”
“Eli?” he repeated, as though he hadn’t quite heard her.
“Yes. Eli. Weren’t you and he working together tonight,” she cocked her head, intimidatingly, “on the grounds,” she played
on the words.
Jacob thought on this for moment, his lips a taut line. “Ah, yes. Well . . . he was tied-up on . . . something? I don’t remember just what it was at the moment.”
“Uh-huh,” growled Ellen, her eyes narrowing in on the boy.
Gracie groaned . . . yet again.
Ellen turned to Ruthanne. “Ruthy. Perhaps you should go and see if Eli needs assistance.”
But Ruthanne was already on her feet and heading quickly toward the hallway. “An excellent suggestion,” she called over her shoulder. Then she disappeared.
“I’m sure by now, he’s loosened up his schedules. I wouldn’t worry about him, Ruthy.” Jacob hollered at the closing door.
Ellen’s glare was relentless—like tethered steel cord. But Jacob would neither be daunted nor distraught by his colleague’s stare of death. He had been in her crosshairs before. In fact, many times.
“This food looks delicious,” he said, changing course. He pulled Jessie’s chair out. “Come sit by me and we’ll have some dessert.”
“Sure, why not,” she shrugged, seeming as cool as an evening breeze off a still lake. But deep below the estate, in one of the HOPE complex medical relay cubicles, a bio-readout panel assigned to Jessie Goodwin, suddenly went into alarm. It seemed the girl’s heart rate had momentarily jumped thirty-two percent, but was now decreasing back to normal. An android—assigned to monitor all those living within the estate above—moved a human-like finger and cleared it. The event would not be escalated at this time. But because of the anomalous incident, the robot’s programming now required a closer observation of the girl’s life-signs—at least until they fell back into nominal range, which, unknown to the mechanical humanoid, would probably not happen until Jacob had left the room.
Chapter 34:
Jimmy Reitman scanned the office he had just entered. It was dimly lit—large for an office—and was furnished more richly than most he had passed. It smelled of age, wood polish and coffee. At the far end, a formidable oak desk stood silent in the shadows, void of its occupant; its surface adorned in stacks of papers, files, pictures and other mundane knick-knacks. Behind the desk, a leather chair sat empty, hastily pushed to one side. The chair’s back rested against a crowded counter, sided by shelving which climbed nearly to the ceiling, each filled to capacity with dusky spines. On an adjoining wall, illuminated by a beam of track lighting from the ceiling above, hung a great framed canvas. The painting depicted a World War II P51 Mustang Fighter in action, swooping down on the German Luftwaffe’s, LufFocke-Wulf 190—many such pictures dotted the hallway through which Jimmy had just traversed.
At the opposite end of the room, tucked back in a well-lit corner, a meeting was in progress. There, Jimmy’s entrance had just precipitated the quick-stand of two men from their seated positions at a rectangle conference table. At the center, an overhead projector hummed, its bright beam still focused on a screen hanging on the north wall. Sprawled out at the table were several open laptops, stacks of assorted documents and folders, and several styrofoam cups—some still steaming with coffee.
Jimmy instantly recognized Colonel Briggs as one of the men standing—this was no surprise.
Briggs was done up as usual in his standard uniform, spit-shined and fresh off the press, and much too tidy for the late hour. But the other man in the room—probably a civilian by his dark pinstriped suit—he did not recognize, at least not initially in the contrast of gradient lighting. But whether civilian, military or other, he was an unexpected, and therefore an unwelcomed surprise; and Jimmy Reitman hated surprises.
“Doctor Reitman,” clapped Colonel Briggs in a hospitable tone. He moved hurriedly from his stance at the table. He proffered an extended hand, which Jimmy quickly snubbed, and instead, returned a narrow, distrusting glare.
“I understood our business to be of a confidential nature,” he sneered, eyeing the suited man inimically.
Briggs’ hand dropped. “Ah,” he managed, collapsing his welcoming façade. He turned and indicated toward the stranger.
“Will other’s be joining us as well then?” Jimmy continued, his sarcasm clearly marked.
“No,” came the stern reply from the suited man across the room. He stepped forward out of the wash of bright lighting.
As the vivid contrast dissipated away, Jimmy’s eyes suddenly expanded in recognition. “Mr. Tanner,” he spoke, somewhat startled. “I might have known.”
“Yes. You might have.” Tanner replied, brusquely.
Jimmy turned a frown on Briggs. “I take it something rather ugly has transpired to warrant his involvement?”
“Please.” Briggs motioned toward the table. “If you’ll join us, we will explain.”
Mr. Tanner nodded, his face austere and void of debate.
Jimmy glared from one man to the other, then with a capitulating shrug, mumbled “as you wish.” He followed Briggs’ lead and took a seat. He leaned back and folded his hands, contentedly. “Enlighten me then, gentlemen.”
Colonel Briggs nodded at Tanner.
The man shoved a file across the table.
Jimmy stopped it with a single finger, then reached, opened it and began to glance through its material. He flipped through the first few pages with little emotion, then rather suddenly, Briggs saw Jimmy see something; his face went ashen, and his lips tightened in a pale line.
Tanner knew exactly what image was glaring back at Jim Reitman. “Do you know those two children?” Tanner put the question to him.
Jimmy’s eyes came up once . . . twice, then he replied calmly, “yes.”
“Do you know their current whereabouts?” Tanner’s voice tightened like a lasso.
Jimmy grew annoyed. “I do not make a habit of keeping track of my late stepbrother’s progeny. Particularly that of his infidelities prior to his leaching-years at Sandcastle.”
Tanner made no reply. He tapped his fingers, cleared his throat and again leveled an emotionless lock. “It would appear that your mother feels differently than you.”
Jimmy puzzled and shifted in his chair, nervously. “What do you mean?”
“Tom’s grandchildren, Jessie and Sam Goodwin, are currently residing at Sandcastle Estate.”
“That is not possible,” Jimmy scoffed, bringing himself upright.
“He’s right,” Briggs added, slapping down more documents and photos. “These were taken yesterday from one of our patrol out of the Mole Hole.”
Jimmy yanked at the papers. He made a cursory glance at them, his face reddening with anger.
“It would appear,” Tanner continued with an air of scorn, “that you are not as in control at Reitman Enterprises, nor Sandcastle Estate, as you may have assumed.” He paused to let the effect of his words do the most damage. “Our people have learned that your mother, Mrs. Gracie Reitman, used your company’s legal team to strong-arm the State’s DCFS into releasing the two children to her custody.”
Jimmy’s head turned oddly. “Foster care?” he pushed out the words.
“Jessie and Sam were orphaned several months ago. You were unaware of this?” Tanner sparred the question.
Jimmy didn’t respond. His skin bristled with emotion and the vein’s in his head and throat bulged in a pulsing rage. He finally exhaled in an glassy-eyed, apathetic guise. “Orphaned,” he mumbled.”
Tanner took his own long breath. “Yes. Which was the basis for your mother’s involvement. It is a provisional stay, thank goodness,” he continued, glancing up. “It seems Mrs. Reitman made it very clear that she only intends to accommodate the two youths until a solid family unit can be found; one which can permanently adopt them.”
Again, Tanner’s remarks were met with silence.
“Oh, there is a great deal more. We’re just getting started,” he goaded, aligning a stack of folders against the table with a thud. He turned to Colonel Briggs and nodded, deferring now to him.
Briggs picked up where Tanner left off, opening another file.
Jimmy’s eye
s, like a robot, now shifted mechanically to Briggs. His dazed expression still prevalent.
“You will remember the meteorologist, Professor Brant Stephens? The man whom your mother allowed unrestricted access to the whole of Sandcastle property, several months back for”—he tossed a verifying sweep at Tanner—“research and data gathering purposes, I believe was what Stephens claimed; for his students at the university. An empathic ploy which your mother credulously bought into.”
“Yes,” Jimmy admitted. “My mother has a weakness for the academic . . . her history and all. But I understood that Stephens had left the area with the rest of that investigative group from the NWS (National Weather Service).”
“No. He did not.” Tanner spoke, reprovingly, shoving another stack of incriminating paraphernalia toward him.
“Our scouts at Mole Hole have confirmed my suspicions,” Briggs expounded. “This Stephens is more about investigation than fieldtrip. He’s on a quest of his own, and is convinced that there is some kind of weather-enhancing phenomenon taking place in the west desert.”
“Unfortunately, he’s right,” Tanner interjected.
“Yes,” replied Briggs shifting through his pages. “He’s been in contact with the family of one of the boy scouts nearly killed last summer during the—”
“During your,” Tanner underscored, eyeing Briggs for the first time with some disdain.
Briggs paused. “Yes,” he conceded with a crease of humiliation. “Our mishap.”
“Mishap!” Jimmy lashed, finding his voice. “Because of your people’s incompetent—”
“That will do,” Tanner countered, raising an arresting hand. “We have been through this, Doctor Reitman. Let’s not beat a dead horse.”
Jimmy silenced, swallowing back his recrimination.
“The fact is,” Briggs continued, “this Stephens is no longer just a nuisance. He has superior equipment, far better than those of that ridiculous government team dispatched to investigate. They only lasted a week, and found nothing. Stephens, on the other hand, hasn’t flinched. We don’t know how, but he’s getting uncomfortably close to pinpointing the location of the disturbance. He’s nearly on top of the Omega-seven collecting grid now.
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