Jessie didn’t reply.
“Jess,” spoke Brant. “Jacob is the boy who saved those two scouts in the desert, isn’t he.”
At this, her head suddenly came up, and she pierced him with an exploratory glare.
Brant had his answer.
“How did you know about that?” she asked.
“Yes . . . how did you know that?” put in Teresa, her gaze lining up along with Jessie’s.
Brant maneuvered around the question like a bat flying through a maze. “If you’ll tell us what’s happening here, Jessie . . . I just know we can help.”
Jessie paused. She turned her distressed gaze on Three-Of-Ten as if supplicating for some kind of visual cue, but the android just eyed casually, as if he himself needed some direction. Finally, she nodded. “Alright. Alright but I doubt you’ll believe me.”
Teresa busted into a snort. It was so loud and abrupt that everybody was taken by surprise. “Are you kidding me?” she said. “My car drove itself . . . itself, right through a solid concrete wall and into some weird underground enclosure. I meet this robotic, human-looking thing—” she gestured at Three-Of-Ten, “no offence—who, other than being far beyond the technology of the day, seems to have an overstated sense of good manners and an innate sense of patriarchal parenting! And now I’m sitting in some craft that looks like it came right out of Star Wars . . . Really? You’re worried that we won’t believe you?”
Sam chuckled, and as he did, Jessie actually smiled . . . well, sort of.
“Okay. Okay. You’re right,” she caved. Then she shook her head, as if her conscience was chastening her . . . which it was. “I took an oath,” she added defiantly. “And not the kind of oath one makes to a girlfriend to keep quiet about some boy she’s got the hots for. This oath carries a weight which can change the world. Do you understand me?”
They didn’t . . . couldn’t.
She sighed, bit her lip and went on. “Three-Of-Ten says that Jacob and the others are ‘offline or out-of-range’, which can’t be right. Something has gone wrong—terribly wrong. Everything has changed.” She paused—a long contemplating pause. “For the sake of my Jacob, Gracie and the rest of the Four, I’m going to tell you everything. Everything I know. I pray they will forgive me.”
--
Gracie opened her eyes. The light which poured into her head was bright and uncomfortable, and she immediately shut them again. Her head hurt and her mind felt fragmented, as though she had dreamed of a thousand lifetimes, and none of them her own. After several coaxing attempts, she found that she was able to look around without discomfort. But now, as her vision cleared, an entirely new sensation overcame her: an emptiness, deep and throbbing; foreign and unfriendly. It was a cold lonely touch of something ugly, and she wanted to cry. But why?
Gracie realized almost immediately that she was lying on a large sofa with a pillow under her head. Whomever had helped her to the couch meant for her to be comfortable; at least that was good thing, wasn’t it? Yet, as she began to move her limbs, comfort was the last thing she felt. Her hands and feet were numb, and felt like attached bricks instead of limbs. Her neck was stiff and her back hurt. It took some effort and determination, but she finally managed to toss her legs over the side of the cushions and pull herself up and into a seated position. As soon as she did however, the room began to spin. She fought this strange malaise until her stomach eased and her head cleared. Finally, her thoughts began to coalesce into a normal sense of reality. Gracie began her muddled assessment with a cursory scan of the room, but nothing was familiar.
It was an elegantly furnished room—chairs, sofas and a small table topped in an embroidered cloth and centered with a large vase of artificial flowers. The lighting in the room was bright—the walls were lined in high windows with wood-shuttered frames—all open—which allowed for plenty of sunlight. The soft ambiance of the room appeared initially pleasant. Gracie felt that soon all would be explained, and that this strange situation would inevitably become just other unforeseen, unpleasant event which she would be glad to see pass into her compendium of adventures, not recalled. But then her eyes caught something which shattered any hope of a reasonable justification. In the background of the room’s rich colors, leathered furnishings and expensive hangings, was a collage of paintings hanging on a far wall. She knew them well. It was her own collection of pre-nineteen-century Picassos, worth millions. And now, with the sickening crawl of confusion and horror, Gracie began to notice many other of her personal heirlooms—family pictures, artwork, gifts and even some of her private keepsakes—placed calculatingly around the room . . . and each obviously taken from her guarded sanctuary: her own Sandcastle Estate.
A door opposite the sofa suddenly clicked open. Gracie startled, her body still stung from the shock. A weighty figure stepped in on squeaky shoes. The woman entered as she would her own home, as though she had pushed in that key and turned that knob a thousand times. Her hair was a mix of gray and black, and was pulled back rather sloppily in a simply band. Her face was round, her eyes empty, and her neck . . . well, there was no neck. In fact, there was nothing of attraction or intrigue about the woman, and no attempt to ameliorate the disheveled ensemble—makeup, jewelry, clothing or otherwise. Her dark pants were stretched like a balloon around the hips, wrinkled down the legs, and frayed at the bottom seam. Her shirt was a plain tan, and covered under a white jacket except for the collar, which seemed to rise up only to support a portly chin. The woman’s jacket was buttoned so tightly around a hefty chest and bulging stomach that it appeared it might explode at any moment sending buttons flying like bullets. But it wasn’t the woman’s appearance which set Gracie’s six-sense into overdrive, it was her strange indifference. A callous, cold sense which she carried like she did her weight, enveloping and uncontrolled. She shuffled around a bit, as if unaware—no, uncaring of the other presence in the room. Then, as if Gracie was just another piece of furniture in the room, she briefly ricocheted a glance. “Oh. You’re finally awake then.”
Gracie didn’t reply.
“They said you would sleep awhile, but I didn’t expect you to be out so long,” she rattled on through uneven teeth. She reached and took the pillow from the couch and shoved it harshly under her arm.
“Where am I?” Gracie asked in a raspy tone.
She was ignored as the woman went on with her routines—fiddling with window shades, straightening cushions and moving about through the room as if on a quick tidy-up campaign.
“Excuse me, please,” Gracie spoke again. “I would like an answer.”
“Not for me to say,” came a grumble on the in-breath. “I’ll be back with a wheelchair. Not that fancy one you arrived in, mind you,” she snorted. “But one which will let you move about.” Then she turned and squeaked out of the room as brusquely as she had entered.
“Wait!” shouted Gracie after her. But the door slammed shut. Gracie blinked, stunned and unbelieving. How could this be happening? Where was she? She had to remember! Where was Jimmy? Had they both been abducted? Why? Ransom? Terrorism? She knew that Reitman Enterprises had contracts with the United States government, and that their technology was used in military satellites as well as commercial. Perhaps this was a terrorist act against her and her son, and their company. As she struggled with her shattered thoughts, the door flew open again.
It was the same corpulent woman. She stomped in, went straight for the table, then annoyingly snatched up some papers she’d obviously forgotten.
“I demand you tell me why I am here!” Gracie petitioned in voice far beyond her small frame and agile age.
The woman stopped at the half-opened door and turned like a whip. “You are no longer queen in your castle, Madam!” she spat, then stormed out with a slam.
Madam! The word rebounded in Gracie’s head. What was it about that word . . . ? Suddenly, like the flip of a switch, it ignited something just at the peripheral of her conscience. “Madam Butterfly!” she suddenly spoke, and in t
he same instant, her memories came crashing back into the reality which was hers. Her life, her thoughts, her purpose . . . everything poured back! It was like breaking above the surface into light and air from the depths of an endless ascension. Gracie now remembered everything in vivid detail, even the last moments of the opera! That is where it had happened! She again saw the face of the mysterious man and chilled at the vision. And Jimmy? Jimmy had not been in his seat? Where had he gone? Where was he now? The myriad of questions continued to pound at her head. And with each one came the same mental response. Where was she and what had happened to her son?
Again, the opening door caught her off guard and she jumped. But this time, the person who stepped in was not the rude woman. It was man, a man Gracie knew well. He was dressed sharply in the same dark suit, white shirt and paisley patterned tie which he had worn while accompanying her and Jimmy from Sandcastle to Florida. He was her driver; a trusted friend and bodyguard from Reitman Enterprises’ security staff. It was Mike Wilde!
Gracie’s face lit up and a rush of hope filled her. “Mike!” she gasped. “Thank Heaven it’s you! Hurry! There’s a woman who will be returning soon!” She reached out anxiously toward the man. But something was wrong. Mike didn’t move. He just stared at her in that same uncaring regard which she had seen in the woman. Gracie’s hands dropped slowly down.
“Sorry, Mrs. Reitman,” he said. “But you won’t be going anywhere.”
Gracie shrank. She shook her head slow and unbelieving. “How could you, Mike?”
His eyebrows rose and he grinned coldly. “Money, of course.”
“You traitor,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. “Jimmy will have you shredded alive when he—”
“When he what?” Mike cut in, laughing. “Who do you think is paying me? You really are one stupid old broad, ya know that?”
“You liar! Jimmy would never do such a thing!”
He chuckled conceitedly. “Whatever. Just don’t you worry about it. You just relax and settle in. You’ll like your new digs.” He glanced around, mockingly. “Nice place if you ask me. You got your own personal assistant, Miss Martz—which you’ve met—and a half-dozen armed guards hanging around just like me. What else could a crippled old prune want?” he spurred.
Had Mike Wilde shot her dead, it would have been more merciful than his vile words. Gracie felt her stomach churn and she fought the urge to vomit. This is all lies! she told herself. A ploy her captors had put into motion as part of their devious plan! Jimmy could never—would never! Gracie turned her face away from the man’s harsh gaze. She felt weak and considered that she might faint. But no! She would not allow even one more incident for his cruel amusement . . . not one! She would not be seen as weak!
Gracie’s head suddenly came up. There was a way to prove beyond doubt that Mike’s words were as phony as the items in the room which appeared to be her own. She looked squarely at him and said, “Mr. Wilde. Would you mind bringing me that picture hanging on the wall behind you. The one taken of my husband and Jimmy.”
“Why?”
“Because if what you say is true, then all of these personal belongings surrounding me are authentic. If these pictures and paintings are genuine, then they are truly mine and were attained at Jimmy’s own hands. For only Jimmy could retrieve them from Sandcastle; no one else on earth could. However, if they are fake, I will know it. And I will take great pleasure in calling you, once again, a liar to your face!”
The man grinned an egotistical sneer and shrugged. “Why not. If it will shut you up.” He walked over and pulled down a black and white photograph of a young Zen Reitman with a small boy sitting on his knee.
“Here you go,” he said, half tossing the frame at her lap.
With hands shaking, Gracie meticulously examined the photo. It would be difficult, with the technology of the day. Items such as these could be easily and nearly perfectly duplicated. However, she knew something of this particular frame which no one else knew . . . not even Jimmy. Gracie carefully pulled the false back out. Her eyes fell hopelessly upon the paper folded between photo and backing. She took the aged letter in her hands and opened it. It was a hand written note from Zen.
. . . of all the miracles we’ve been blessed to achieve together, this one from you, my love, will always be the most treasured and greatest of all—our little Jimmy. I’m a dad, and life for me has a renewed joy and purpose I cannot put to words . . .
Tears fell onto the letter, blurring the ink. The moist beads dripping on the parchment was as her blood on white linen. “No, no, no . . .” she sobbed.
Mike Wilde was going to have his taunt after all.
Chapter 51:
Jessie took in a long breath: “ . . . so you see, Sandcastle is infinitely more than it seems.” She finally broke after nearly two hours of nonstop talking. Her throat was dry and her voice, tired.
If ever the old cliché time flies on the wings of a story well told, was true, it was at that moment, for now as Jessie finished her account, she eyed her captivated spectators as if waiting for some final score, an evaluation of her storytelling skills. But Brant could only continue staring at her, as if wanting to hear more. Had the book closed so soon? Couldn’t there be just one more chapter?
What seemed like minutes had been hours . . . hours of the most fascinating information Brant had ever heard in his life. And especially overwhelming because he knew that every word was the truth. He finally blinked past his skepticism, allowed a subtle grin, then shook his head in awe. “At least all the weird stuff going down out there in the desert makes sense to me now. That group of government men-in-blacks parked out there for two weeks? I knew there was something up with them. I was beginning to think we had some kind of alien incursion taking place.” Then he clicked his tongue in frustration. “And to think I was right on top of those underground energy collectors the entire time.”
Teresa let out an exaggerated exhale and rested her hand on Jessie’s arm. “If I hadn’t just seen all of this, I would be driving you right to the psycho ward,” she admitted in a strange mixture of humor and seriousness. “But I believe you, Jess. I mean, I’m still teetering on the edge of it’s time to wake up now, but until I do . . . well, I’m convinced. And, I hate to add pepper to the heat, but I think you’re right on target about foul-play. We need to do something. Find Jimmy and beat the sh—”
“Now hold on,” Brant interjected. “It’s not that easy. I mean I concur, of course. But it’s not just Jimmy Reitman we’re talking about here. Something is amiss, and personally, I think it has the military written all over it. I’ve seen those camouflaged jeeps driving around out there just waiting to jump the fences onto Reitman lands. We can’t just go knocking on Fort Bragg’s front door. We’re talking about the United States Military!”
“We’re talking about Jimmy Reitman. Where are you getting this conspiracy theory crap from?” Teresa shot back.
“It’s not crap. Nor is it a theory.” Brant defended. “I’ve got proof. Proof that Jimmy is involved—at least on some level—with the military. I’m not just going off the cuff of my sleeve here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Teresa felt sick all over again. “Well thanks for sharing Sherlock!”
“Hey! Until now, you’d have thought I was nuts!”
“News flash! Still do!”
“Well that’s—!”
“Please,” interrupted Jessie. “Please don’t fight.” She looked from one to the other of them, her expression full of disappointment.
Teresa sighed. Her eyes went shamefully down. “Sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry. I would have told you everything, but I had no way of knowing we’d become involved.” He bent in and gave Teresa a kiss.
“Gross,” grumbled Sam. “I think I liked the fighting better.”
Teresa smiled. She took Brant’s hand and collected herself. Then she turned to Jessie. “Okay. What we need is information.
I don’t suppose there’s anything else your robot friend can tell us?”
Jessie eyed Three-Of-Ten confidently. “Maybe. Why don’t you ask him? You can speak to him as well as I can.”
“But he . . . he knows you,” Teresa stuttered hesitantly.
“Trust me. He knows you too. In fact, he probably knows more about all of us than we can possibly imagine.” She smiled, turned her head askew and gestured toward the android. “Go ahead. Ask him.”
“I’ll ask him,” Brant volunteered, seeing Teresa’s reluctance.
Teresa nodded. “Good idea. You ask him.”
Jessie rolled her eyes.
Brant cleared his throat. “Three—Of—Ten.”
“You can talk normal Brant,” Jessie put in. “You don’t need to sound like the angel of death calling forth a dead soul.”
“I didn’t.” Brant returned, annoyed.
“Yeah, you kind of did,” Sam added.
“Fine.” He ogled them both irritatingly then focused once again. “Three-Of-Ten. Can you access all data on Jacob’s activities during the last twenty-four hours, and then display the results?”
“Excellent query,” Teresa leaned in, supportively.
“Thanks,” he whispered back.
Three-Of-Ten blinked once, craned his head, then reached to touch several buttons on the panel. Within seconds, Jacob’s file appeared on a center screen. One of the display options was labeled 24-hour backlog to current - visual/audio tracking. Jessie quickly reached up and touched that selection on the screen.
“Hey, how did you know —?” Brant started up.
“Jacob showed me,” she replied, giving him a confident wink. “I’ve driven . . . that is, flown this thing several times. I’m better at maneuvering the Sandray than I am at driving a car, Brant.”
“Ah,” Brant nodded. He turned to Teresa. “I don’t know that that makes me feel any better.”
Jessie shot him a scowl.
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