Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  Brant smiled. “Well, I happen to collect unique rocks—for my class. If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on your kind offer. I’m dying to find out what type of stone this one is.”

  “Okay. It’s yours,” replied the boy, his eyes and attention still very much drawn on his new catch.

  “Well, I’m off then,” said Brant, dropping the stone in his pocket. He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam. Perhaps we’ll see you around, huh?”

  “Sure. I hope so.” Sam broke from his lizard just long enough to return a nod and a quick hand shake.

  Brant headed to his jeep, took one more long glance at Sandcastle, then started up the vehicle. He buckled up, turned to back out, then suddenly realized something rather obstructive: “How the heck do I get out of here?” he mumbled to himself.

  Chapter 40:

  The sun beat down on the black Mercedes in an endless wash of heated energy. The exhaust from hundreds of idling vehicles rose in a hot, toxic cloud of blurred apparitions. Jimmy turned up the air conditioner and jerked his tie loose. He glared down at his watch and swore angrily at the endless line of cars stopped ahead of him.

  "Why today!" he growled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. The congested Salt Lake City interstate was even worse than normal. Record temperatures added to an already intense traffic problem; with stalled cars periodically dotting the black asphalt river. It had been two-and-a-half hours since leaving that miserable Mole-Hole Base, and he was still tied up on the interstate.

  Finally, after what seemed like an insatiable amount of time, his exit came; but he would still be late for his meeting. Jimmy’s lack of patience was evident as he rudely honked and carelessly accelerated past other vehicles. The Benz eventually found its way onto Main Street, and soon made the turn into the underground parking lot of a Reitman-owned office complex—the building’s third floor reserved for Reitman Enterprises, their Salt Lake City sales division. Jimmy, of course, had commandeered an office space there as well.

  He entered through the underground garage—parking in his reserved space—and hurriedly headed straight for the elevator. He walked briskly past several indicating employees who obviously knew who he was, and were surprised by another rare, and impromptu visit. Jimmy, however, snubbed all welcoming gestures. After all, they were mere subordinates—employees he had neither hired himself, nor cared about. And besides, he was late for his meeting.

  Once inside the elevator, he removed his suit coat and draped it over his arm. He straightened his tie, sighed the tension from his body, then departed from the lift onto his floor. As he entered the office, an attractive young lady turned a surprised look on him from behind a large, tailored desk. "Good morning, Mr. Reitman. I wasn’t aware that you were flying in today; you weren't scheduled. I—”

  "Is there a gentleman here to see me?" he rudely interrupted.

  "Yes there is," she replied, compliantly. "He’s waiting in your office. A Mr. Adams."

  "Good." Jimmy cleared his throat then entered the opulent suite. The room was large, masculine, and held a rich appearance. It was filled with fine furnishings and reflected the antique atmosphere which Jimmy Reitman was so fond of.

  A corpulent man sat quietly in one of the chairs. His stomach bulged outward against his very tight suit jacket. He was a middle-aged, over-weight man, seemingly wrapped up like some stale gift in expensive paper. His gray suit was worn, and his loud tie had a coffee stain just visible above the jacket. The man had been flipping through some papers, but at Jimmy’s entrance, he suddenly put down the folder and stood.

  "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Adams . . . traffic," said Jimmy apologetically, shaking the lawyer's hand.

  "No problem. I’m a L.A. native. Trust me, this is nothing. Besides, I've only just arrived myself.” He sat back down and reached for his briefcase. “Your secretary wasn't expecting you in today, I take it,” he grinned suggestively.

  "No. She wasn't."

  "I had quite a time convincing her that our meeting was here at the Salt Lake branch, and not in Fort Lauderdale."

  “She can be a bit of a bulldog,” Jimmy said, “but that’s why I hired her.” He opened his briefcase and dug quickly through it until he removed some papers. "Well,” he sighed, “what have you found out?"

  Adams flaunted a vain grin before answering. "Let's just say,” he paused, “it can be done. I don’t know where your people got their documents, but it’s the best job I’ve ever seen of forgery—and I’ve seen some great ones," he continued, clearing the tension from his throat. "To be honest, Mr. Reitman," he continued, "I had hoped for a little more time. But it seems things have changed.”

  “What do you mean?

  “I received a telephone call from your Colonel Briggs at Dugway. He was very explicit about expediting my timetable."

  Jimmy's expression contorted slightly at the mention of Briggs' name. “The Colonel’s lack of patience is going to destroy this project," he replied with obvious distain. "Both he and Tanner are inept, and incapable of evaluating the inherent danger of my mother’s involvement. From their perspective, she is a frail, half-senile old lady. But I assure you, the very converse is true." Jimmy’s uneasiness drove him from his chair. He rounded the desk, and sat on the edge, subduing the urge to pace like a caged animal. "She is absolutely astute, Mr. Adams—and as capable, and clever, as always. She can, and certainly would, wipe HOPE from existence if she knew what has been done.”

  “Yes, I understand,” he replied somewhat troubled. “Briggs sent me the minutes from your last meeting at Mole Hole. Tanner, I see, is living up to his reputation—close call, I might add on that civilian incident involving the Goliaths. I’m glad this meeting isn’t about me having to clean-up that mess.”

  “The man’s a fool!” snapped Jimmy. “I warned them. I warned them and was ignored!”

  “But I see here,” Adams said, gesturing down at his documents, “that you were able to convince them not to use the Goliaths against Stephen’s camp after all. A good move considering the fickle nature of the things.”

  “They are not fickle!” Jimmy retorted abruptly. “It was Mole Hole’s inability to transmit data to them correctly. An issue tied directly to Tanner and his people. The Goliath’s acted exactly as they should.”

  “I see,” said Adams passively.

  “Admittedly,” calmed Jimmy, “because of the incident, the elimination of Stephens’ camp was reconsidered. It was decided, among other things, to task Briggs’ team with taking care of Stephens’ equipment. The raid will appear to be that of a group of drunken vandals—kids out running their ATVs in the dunes, who came up on the camp. There will be enough evidence placed at the site to leave little doubt of the perpetrators. The destruction of Stephens’ campsite, and his missing equipment, will be seen as an act of vandalism and blatant robbery—equipment to pawn off for drug money. It should be that cut and dry.”

  “And one in which Stephens survives, I see?” noted Adams.

  “Yes. Only because our intel indicates that the good Professor leaves his camp frequently for hours at a time, providing an easy window for the raid to take place. The man obviously feels immune to threat, being on Reitman property—I understand he leaves his equipment quite vulnerable. Most of it is locked up in a series of metal cases, all of which can be lifted or broken in to.”

  Adams nodded. “I have to say that I’m relieved. The last thing I want to deal with is any unpleasantness tied to a missing person. Like it or not, if Stephens had turned up missing, or dead, we would have had to deal with investigators snooping around the area. And that is risk we do not need.”

  “Yes,” agreed said Jimmy. “Another reason we decided to back down on the elimination protocol.”

  Adams cleared his throat and sipped at his drink. “Good. I think it is a better plan. Stephens will lick his wounds, and return to his university having acquired nothing.”

  “That’s the idea,” Jimmy moved back to his desk, sat, poured himself a
large glass of water, and toyed with the rim. He seemed momentarily preoccupied as he scanned Adams in silence for a time.

  Adams sat uneasy, feeling the odd sweep from Jimmy’s intense gaze. He shifted in his chair, and loosened his tie—he was beginning to sweat. After he had cleared his throat at least a half-dozen times, Jimmy finally spoke.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Adams?”

  Adams chortled a cool composure. “I was getting to that,” he said. Then he paused, sighed and flipped through more papers until his fat ring-festooned hand, pulled out the document he was grasping for. “Tanner offered me a very generous incentive,” he spoke with a hint of threat. “He's upped the amount of money by—should I say, a substantial amount . . . if I agree to expedite the process. It was made clear, I might add, that this offer was to be handled with, or without, your approbation.”

  Jimmy put his glass down hard. “More money than we agreed on, I take it?”

  “That would be an understatement.” Adams’ eyebrows rose, shrewdly.

  “I see.”

  “As your employee and legal liaison, you need to be aware that Tanner, and his people, are trying to sidestep you,” the lawyer cautioned. “Of course, I have no intention of entertaining their proposals,” he coughed, “tempting as the money is,” he added under his breath. “Above all else, I am an ethical man,” he stated, his joules hanging down like a sad-eyed bloodhound.

  “Indeed you are,” solicited Jimmy, trying his best not to vomit. He relaxed back in his chair and pulled his arms behind his neck. “It may surprise you to know that I’m already aware of Tanner’s attempt to finagle timetables. It was discussed in a previous meeting. But having said that, I would still be very grateful if you would keep me in the know involving any deviation from my original schedules. Any discrepancies, no matter how trivial. If it feels, looks, smells, or tastes funny, I want to know about it. Do we have an agreement?”

  “Absolutely,” Adam’s replied with a sense of relief. “Now, about those documents. I—”

  “Whatever monetary enticement they dangled at you, Mr. Adams,” Jimmy interjected, “I will triple it. That’s how I reward loyalty.”

  The animated grin which appeared on the large, round face could have taken first prize at a pumpkin carving contest. It was that exaggerated, and boasted at least as many, white, square teeth.

  “Thank you!” he aired, swelling like warm dough. "And here are the papers that you'll need to sign." He held out a black-bound folder.

  Jimmy took the folder from his hand and briefly glanced through the material.

  "These documents," continued Adams, "are copies of those which Tanner has already had drawn up, and which he wants expedited through the courts. They will have your mother legally tucked up, packaged and put away in her own little apartment. Due to a tragic stroke, Gracie Reitman will be found mentally impaired and incapable of holding her position as CEO of Reitman Enterprises. Your written testimony, along with your signature on these papers, are all that is needed. You will be the new CEO, sole proprietor and regulator of Reitman Enterprises.”

  Jimmy didn't reply, but simply listened intensely, periodically glancing down at the documents tremoring in his hand. “They seem in order,” he finally managed. He handed the folder back to the man. The lawyer stood and gently laid out the sheets individually, as if solving a puzzle atop the desk. “You just have to sign."

  "It sounds too easy," cautioned Jimmy, rubbing his finger gently along the rim of his glass, “especially when it smells of Tanner.”

  Adams cackled aloud. “Believe me, it’s not Tanner’s bank account that has taken the hit—this has cost you plenty."

  Jimmy’s eyes met his, "So it would seem."

  "Now, there is one caveat," cautioned the man. "A dangerous one. You understand that if someone files a counter suit; another relative for example, or an acquaintance of your mother's. If this happens, the authenticity of these documents could be challenged. I don’t need to tell you how ugly that could get." He stared blankly at Jimmy. "We would both get twenty years, at least. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I get the picture. There won’t be a problem. I am the only one in position who could make any kind of challenge," he assured.

  “Excellent.” Adams sat back and crossed his large legs comfortably. “I understand that your mother will be personally on site to view the liftoff of the Reitman satellites . . . then off to the opera that very same night?”

  Jimmy put down his pen and frowned at the man. “We both know that you are aware of the plan, Mr. Adams. Don’t toy with me by employing innuendo. You have all the information you need.”

  Adams threw up his arms defensively. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll wait to hear from you sometime after the event then?”

  “Fine,” said Jimmy, peering up under heavy brows. He scribbled his signature on the last of the documents, then cussed angry. "This pen is out of ink.”

  Adam's eyebrows rose alluringly. "Here,” he said, leaning in. “Use mine, Jimmy."

  --

  “You should have seen her face!” howled Jacob. “She just kept rubbing her hand over the spot where the big tear had been on the passenger’s seat. Wait until she tries the radio and the CD player! Oh. And the back powered window!”

  “It’s not funny, Jacob,” Eli scolded. “You were told to only fix what was necessary to get Miss Henington’s vehicle running effectively. Certainly not to regenerate new replacement parts. Don’t you think she’s going to wonder how on earth Gracie’s mechanic was able to pull that off in such a short time? She is a very intelligent woman.”

  Jacob’s animation dulled. “But I left the outside untouched—the paint still looks disastrous!” He sighed, paused, “which is really unfortunate because I could have had that baby shining like a polished gem.”

  “That’s my point, Jake!” Eli bellowed in frustration. “We are so close to the end of such a long, long journey. Do you really want to start being careless now? First Jessie and now this!”

  Jacob frowned and turned away.

  Eli winced, instantly feeling the need to kick himself. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Jake. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Jacob didn’t reply. He continued standing aloof, his back intentionally toward his colleague. “It’s alright,” he finally forced. “It’s just . . . I don’t know how to tell her.”

  “I understand,” replied Eli, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But you need too . . . you must, and soon. We are running out of time. The satellites launch in two days.”

  “I know, I know. Tomorrow. Tomorrow evening for sure. I promise.”

  “Good kid,” Eli nodded with a last supportive pat.

  Just at that instant Eli’s wristcom whistled a familiar tune.

  “Eli,” came Ellen’s voice echoing through. “Gracie wants to speak to all of us tonight in the Solarium. Can you and Jacob adjust your schedules accordingly? Perhaps put the upgrades on hold for an hour or so?”

  “The solarium?” he toned softly at Jacob, then shrugged. “Sure thing,” he clicked back.

  “She wants to meet around 2:00 A.M, while the kids are sleeping,” Ellen said. “She assured me it won’t take too long.”

  “Very good. We’ll see you there.” Eli turned a frustrated look on Jacob. “Your car-detail might just be on the agenda.”

  Jacob bit his lip nervously. “Hmm, perhaps I did overdue things . . . just a tad?”

  “Come on,” groaned Eli, setting down his equipment. “Let’s check the external security systems. Gracie will want full redundancies online while we’re all gathered in her Garden of Eden.”

  --

  Brant couldn’t sleep. There was a hardy wind blowing in from the west, a precursor for what his weather equipment had already predicted: a desert downpour—rare but certainly not unheard of this time of year. It would be a local deluge, short-lived but with lots of lightning, thunder and possibly some flash flooding.

  His tent shook an
d rattled with each gust, and seemed to moan in the darkness for what was on the approach. Yet, as he lay there in the shadows, his senses more alert than his mind, he had to concede that even if there hadn’t been a wisp of breeze and a crisp clear star-field night, he would still be lying there wide-eyed and restless.

  With the extraordinary events of the day still resonating through him, sleep was the last thing on his mind. Amid all that he had experienced that day—the odd tremors; the unexplainable dust storm that developed out of nowhere nearly destroying his car, not to mention the terrifying illusion he had experienced during the height of it; his trip to the mysterious Sandcastle Estate, and the meeting of its owner, Mrs. Gracie Reitman, a cryptic woman in and of herself—the one event which had completely overshadowed all of the others was his uncanny encounter, and consequent interaction, with a girl from his past: Teresa Henington. A girl so transformed by time from the sweet, corpulent wallflower she once was, to a stunning, sophisticated bombshell beauty he had met that day. He would never have believed such an alchemy was possible if he hadn’t seen Miss Henington with his own eyes.

  Man! he continued in this reminiscing, picturing her again in his head. She is so beautiful! He could hardly think of anything else. He actually considered—more of a what if than anything else—jumping up and giving her a quick, impromptu phone call, right then. She’d be furious, no doubt, and think him even more mad than she had during their reckless flight from the odd dust storm, but he was almost willing to risk it . . . almost.

  Brant sighed and turned over on his cot for what felt like the hundredth time. Besides just wanting to see Teresa again, there were unanswered questions which were banging around in his head like bees in a bottle. Questions he knew he didn’t dare ask . . . at least not yet. For one, who on earth were those two kids, Jessie and Sam; and why were they living at one of the world’s most mysterious locations? And with a woman tycoon old enough to be their grandmother, who shared her immensely successful company with her only blood relation: a son, Jimmy Reitman. What other professional business did Miss Henington employ? And how did she also come to be involved with the enigmatic Reitmans?