Ruthanne nodded agreeably. “As am I.”
Ellen eyed Ruthanne suspiciously. “There’s something bothering you. I can tell. Is it Jacob?”
“Yes,” Ruthanne confessed. “You are most perceptive.” She hesitated for a moment, then glanced off as though focusing on something in the distance. “I feel the same about the two youths as you do, of course, but it is very different for Jacob.”
“Yes. I know. He wasn’t supposed to be part of this two-week charade,” Ellen stated.
“Exactly. And for a good reason,” Ruthanne said with a sigh. She relaxed her arm, and seemed to shuffle her stride in a less hurried fashion. “Jacob has always been strong-willed.”
“Strong-willed?” Ellen mocked. “Now that’s putting it mildly.”
Ruthanne laughed. “I suppose I should have seen this coming. Jacob, albeit youthful and brilliant, antedates us all. We forget this because of his adolescence. He is filled with all the aspirations—”
“You mean he’s a teenager with hormones,” Ellen interjected.
“Precisely. And it is these hormones which have me so concerned,” Ruthanne continued. “Jessie is a very attractive young girl.”
“Yes she is, and sweet—a rare attribute in today’s youth.”
“The dispute is not about her good character, Ellen, but rather the effect her departure will have on Jacob.”
Ellen stopped short. “What are you saying, Ruthy?”
Ruthanne turned and gestured to an area just of the main pathway. “I want to show you something. Do you have time?”
Ellen shrugged, “of course.” She followed Ruthanne to an open-pillared, vaulted sitting area with a circular marbled coil which spiraled nearly a meter down, forming a rotund cutting of perfectly chiseled seats. In the center, was a remote terminal—a communication kiosk. They sat, and Ruthanne tapped a glass plate. A screen rose to eye level, then powered up, its illuminating surface ready for data input. She touched several more buttons, feeling the markings on the smooth transparent plate. Soon, she had found the file which Eli had given her.
“Eli was not going to show any of us these files, but I sensed he was in some turmoil and persuaded him”—Ruthanne hesitated with a smile—“to fess up, I believe is what Jacob would say.”
Ellen leaned in to get a better view. “Fess up to what?”
“These are images from several of the exterior cameras,” Ruthanne began. “Eli discovered a tampering of the recorded data. Nearly an hour of surveillance footage had been skillfully deleted from two evenings ago. One of the droids assigned to authenticate the time-date signature on the video feed caught an input discrepancy. One which was so authentic, it could only have been interleaved by Jacob.”
Ellen looked distraught. “What do you mean?”
“Jacob was clever enough to delete the video, but he forgot about the thermal imaging systems.” Ruthanne touched the screen one last time. “There. You should see the replay now.” Then she sat back and folded her arms, allowing Ellen to get an even better look at the recorded data.
Ellen glared down at the display. Her eyebrows rose and fell with each new frame. “Well I’ll be!” she gasped. “That fast moving little—”
“Ellen,” Ruthanne interjected. “Just view the screen, please.”
“Sorry.”
The playback, although displayed in a pseudo-color pattern showed, very clearly, the bright areas of heat forming in two human shapes on a dark backdrop. One, a boy, the other, a girl. The image of the boy depicted a clear orientation change as he leaned slowly toward the girl, and then the two images seemed to combine for a moment—a rather long moment—at the upper-torso and head. The heat output of the combined pair suddenly changed from deep red, to orange, to yellow and then nearly white!
“They kissed!” cried Ellen, her eyes wide.
“Evidently,” Ruthanne added, quite unimpressed. She couldn’t see Ellen’s expression, but imagined the woman had one large grin plastered from one cheek to the other.
Ellen burst into laughter. “Well, I’ll be!” Then she gawked at Ruthanne, and howled, “that little Romeo!”
“It is not a laughing matter, Ellen,” Ruthanne reproved. “This is very serious. I fear that Jacob has fallen in love with this girl, and visa-versa. When Jessie leaves—and leave she must—her exodus will have significant effects. And at this crucial time, we need,” she paused and shook her head adamantly. “No, HOPE needs Jacob focused, absolutely, on his work. There cannot be distractions.”
“But he’s just a kid with a crush.”
“No. He is not. He is an aged, sagacious genius stuck in the body of a boy, and,”—Ruthanne stressed with even more fervor—“he is the master-mind, and creator of nearly all which HOPE is founded upon. Without him, HOPE can quickly tumble from reality to mere aspirations. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes.” This time Ellen’s voice was subdued. “I don’t think Jacob understood these consequences when he broke from the plan. He was not to be involved.”
“Yes. But involved he has become, irrevocably so. And I fear that not even Jacob comprehends the damage he is inflicting on himself,”—Ruthanne’s dark lenses turned on Ellen—“and the project.”
Ellen’s fearful expression reflected off opaque lenses. Behind of which were Ruthann’s intelligent, large eyes—Ellen felt their penetrating glare. “Alright. We’ll talk some sense into him, Ruthy. But honestly, I think we are all overreacting.”
Ruthanne said nothing.
“Now come on,” Ellen continued optimistically, reaching for Ruthanne’s arm. “Let’s head aloft. Jacob would never do anything to jeopardize HOPE. And he’s smart enough to know that this is a fleeting affection; a mere crush, is the word they use today. He can handle it.”
Ruthanne nodded then managed a painted smile, one meant to pacify. In her heart she was afraid; afraid of this new nemesis, this formidable opponent fearfully unknown to them. Jacob had no aegis against this creature, this thing called young love. He would have to be watched very carefully.
Ellen steered the two of them toward the vestibule hub—a fortified area containing not only the elevator entrance, but the entrance to Avalon and the rest of the intersecting corridors in and out of the HOPE complex facilities. “Going up?” she joked, as her DNA sequence was confirmed.
The elevator door opened, and in they stepped.
--
Eli shifted his weight and countered the heavy attachment. His body was strong, especially for his age. But then all of the group held similar characteristics—a perpetual gift left over from their Nazi captors. “Okay. It’s level, Jake. Go ahead and zero-it out.”
Jacob wiggled in like a contortionist and applied the disks along the object’s center-of-gravity. The small devices were only the size of a coin, yet when energized and positioned correctly, they could easily repel the gravitation force of several tons each.
“That’s got it,” Jacob replied confidently, backing out of his precarious stance. He took a long breath and wiped at his brow. “You can release the hydraulics now.”
Eli nodded, moved himself back and touched a button on the panel.
Bang!
The crash that followed was tremendous! The heavy load came down with full weight, smashing first into the delicate circuitry of controls and panels below, before rolling onto the ground with another resounding clang. The entire floor shook, and both Eli and Jacob were nearly knocked off of their feet. Smoke, sparks and fragments of smashed equipment went flying in all directions.
The automated alarms followed as two emergency-response drones suddenly appeared from holding-stations nearby. “Please step aside,” one toned. It then moved to the damaged area and began to contain and assess.
The other robotic aide headed to assist Eli and Jacob.
The two stunned engineers had not been injured in the physical sense, but their nerves had been shattered even beyond the broken pieces now littering the corridor all around them. Pa
rticularly those of Eli.
“Well that’s a first!” he growled, his face flushed with anger. He stood straight as a stick and glared at Jacob with the regard of a wounded wasp. “That could have killed us both!”
Jacob returned a dumfounded look. “I . . . I don’t understand,” he stammered, his voice trilling from the shock.
“Well let me help you out!” Eli let loose.
“Sir,” the droid broke in like a song in a hurricane. “Your heart-rate is elevated fifteen percent. Your adrenaline level is elevated—”
“Oh shut up!” Eli bellowed back at the emotionless form. The robot craned its head back and blinked its great eyes as though to say, well excuse me for trying to help! But of course, it did not. Instead, the android responded by doing just as it was told. It shut up. But the data it was gathering was still being closely monitored. It would do so until Eli’s critical stats fell within a nominal range. If they did not, the artificial assistant would again attempt to intervene, and if need be, would seek authorization from another of the Four to override Eli and administer aid.
Eli gathered himself and blew out air like a stuck tire. He rolled his eyes at his outburst—it was rather childish, and uncharacteristic, even for him—then he sighed, calmed and once more seemed to assess the situation. “You’re not focused, Jacob. You have more Jessie on the brain than anything else.”
“I do not!” Jacob retorted, locking a defensive glare and stopping short, his culling through broken items.
“Yes, you do. And I’m not the only one to notice it. You have lost your focus, and it is beginning to manifest itself in your work. I have tried to be patient and have held my tongue, but no longer. Not when your distractions circumvent safety here in the complex.”
Jacob bristled. He pressured up for a blast of recrimination. The effect was obvious as his lips drew taut and his forehead went ruddy and wet with perspiration. Then, like the snake of rising smoke from the extinguished fuse, his impending tirade suddenly fizzled out.
Behind Eli’s forceful silhouette, Jacob had caught sight of the worker-drones busily engaged in the background. In an instant, he had seen the mechanical team working their onboard EMR devices with skill and precision, seemingly turning back time as the damaged area now began—as if by magic—to reform and regenerate exactly as it had been before the accident. But even more profoundly, he had also noticed the smashed object still laying where it had fallen, the floor underneath it now crushed from the force. And he knew . . . he knew that Eli was right. Jacob had to concede that they both might have been killed. The sudden gravity of this realization shook the boy to his frame.
Jacob put his face in his hands and shook his head. “You’re right, Eli. I’m sorry.” Then he leaned against the wall and slid down until he sat, his face concealed between his knees and trembling hands, and began to sob. “I love her. I love her more than life . . . more, I fear, than even HOPE.” He brought his face up, and for the first time in more years than Eli could recall, he saw—in the folds of emotion on the boy’s—an old nemesis, a forgotten terror; a look which had not manifested itself since the time of the clinic . . . it was torment.
Chapter 37:
Teresa slammed the door of her brother’s 1996 red Toyota Corolla and stomped to the front of the vehicle. The smell of radiator fluid filled the air as a trickle of steaming liquid gurgled out from underneath the hood like blood from a wounded animal. Satisfied that the thing truly was mortally wounded, she turned and got back inside to consider her options.
For the last few miles, she had noticed the temperature gauge creep ever so slightly toward the hot indicator. She had hoped it was just the vehicle’s age-debilitated cooling system working a little harder than usual in the desert heat, but she had been wrong. The metal pointer had suddenly plummeted to the furthest point on the gauge. There, it had wedged as if trying to break past its sealed confines. Teresa had pushed the car even harder, hoping to find a paved road where she could pull off and call for help. It wasn’t until a burst of steam shot out from around the hood like Yellowstone’s Old Faithful that the motor had sputtered its last breath and died. Teresa had coasted to a ominous stop.
Although the seething ambient had obviously played a role in her unfortunate predicament, Teresa somehow sensed that most of the blame was Jackson’s for lack of preventative maintenance on his car. She knew how her brother kept his room—his vehicle was obviously no exception.
Jackson and some of his buddies had planned one last get-away, a brew-ha-ha thrown together before school started in the fall.
Oh alright, Teresa had finally relinquished, but take care of my car. It’s new and it better come back to me that way, she had threatened.
Jackson had grabbed her up and hugged her tightly, his eyes flashing their youthful excitement, thanks, Sis! You’re the best!
And that, as they say, had been that.
The exchange had taken place. Teresa got Willameena—yes, he named it—and with a name like that, she should have expected a break-down. Jackson, on the other hand, got her nice new reliable Honda Civic. What had she been thinking? Clearly, thinking had not been a viable participant during the car-swap negotiations.
Only now—stranded in the middle of nowhere—did she realize that she had been swindled by her own brother. Jackson obviously knew there were issues with Willameena and didn’t have the money to fix her up—the kid was scraping every dime he had to save for books and fees for college in the fall. It was a clear cut case of better you than me, Sis.
“Ooh!” she growled, pounding her fist on the steering wheel. And to think she had been so nice about it! “Now what am I going to do!”
Teresa threw open the door and stomped out onto the dusty road. Sandcastle was one of those appointments you just didn’t miss. She had known her agenda, and the amount of time it would take to get out to the estate. It was a long and tedious drive! Why was it she could never tell Jackson, no!
“Willameena can take you anywhere you need to go, Sis,” she mocked her brother’s words, spitefully. “I’ll kill him.”
Teresa looked at her watch, somehow knowing that Gracie would be looking at hers. Why couldn’t the blasted mansion just be in the avenues with the rest of the millionaires—twenty minutes from my apartment! She took another moment to gather herself and consider her options—which were apparently, few.
The assessment visit was a crucial part of the foster-care process, especially since Gracie Reitman had come to expect the visit with far more enthusiasm than any of Teresa’s other placement families. In fact, there were times when Teresa wondered if the old woman waited by the door with stopwatch in hand. Not because she was obsessed with being punctual, but because Teresa’s visits were anticipated with such excitement, and when overdue, with such worry and distress.
It had become apparent from the beginning—at least to Teresa—that Gracie Reitman was a woman who had been so isolated in her desert sanctuary that a standing visitor from the outside was something of a major event, and the little matron spared no expense, or time, in her assimilation as hostess supreme. Two visits a week was a bit over-the-top, and took far more of Teresa’s time than her job required, but she loved seeing Jessie and Sam, and if truth be told, even Gracie.
All afternoon Teresa had been driving. Then, just over an hour ago, the feminine voice of her GPS had announced a signal loss. She had expected the signal to return—along with her phone service, but neither had. Soon after that, she had made a series of turns, then back-tracked, turned again . . . the pattern had continued until she found herself in a labyrinth of remote access roads and ATV trails—none of which she would ever have taken her sweet Honda on. Oh why hadn’t she listen to her intuition—which had begun screaming at her back when poor Willameena started to bounce over potholes and ruts! And now this! I probably did kill old Willameena after all, she considered, taking one more glance at the lifeless car. She looked up and down the graveled road as it narrowed to a dot in both direction
s before vanishing on a boiling horizon. “What I wouldn’t give to see that old Rolls Royce pull up alongside now,” she muttered. Then again, she mentally reproved. I should have refused Gracie’s offer that first night. But the woman had been so insistent!
I will send my car to escort you back, dear, the sweet little lady had insisted. I absolutely refuse to have you drive all that distance, back and forth, by yourself.
And what was Teresa supposed to say anyway? Gracie had been sitting there in her wheelchair with look of sincerity as genuine as an angel, beaming with joy having just received the two kids. Shoot, it was a moment right out of a child’s fairytale: the long lost orphans finally unite with their only relative—a rich, magnate grandmother who is the epitome of what every child dreams their grandmother should be.
“Oh gads,” Teresa chuckled to herself. “If ever there had been a picturesque moment . . . no wonder I caved!”
She had been so overwhelmed by the entire Sandcastle experience; completely exhausted; and had just wanted to get back home. And so, yes, against her better judgment she allowed Gracie’s chauffeur to driver ahead and guide her back out of the secured gating, through the maze of remote desert roadways, and finally back on Interstate15 toward to Salt Lake City. Teresa had followed like a tethered caboose until with a honk, the Rolls Royce made a U-turn and headed back toward the desert.
It had been a kind gesture, and one which Teresa had been very grateful for—at least at that time. But the subsequent trips—to and from Sandcastle in the days that followed—could have . . . no, should have been refused, in spite of Mrs. Reitman’s generosity. But then again, how does one say no to a shiny black Rolls-Royce that drives right up to your apartment building’s front curb—drawing the attention of every envy eye—then patiently waits for its passenger. Teresa had to admit, she loved that part.
Of Salt and Sand Page 48