Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  The door pounded. “Time’s up! We have to get going!”

  Gracie quickly turned the water off. “I’ll be right out,” she spoke at the door. She only had seconds. She could only assume that because they were moving her, someone must be looking for her. Perhaps one of the Four had escaped, or even all of them. At this thought, Gracie’s heart jumped with renewed hope. But how to let her pursuers (whoever they were) know where she was being taken? There was nothing to write on, nothing to scratch with; and even if there was, the entire apartment would certainly be scrubbed top to bottom to remove any evidence that she had been there. Then Gracie remembered Hank, her own android companion. Hank could read her DNA and her bio-imprint for miles in a set radius, like a hound dog to the scent. If the Four were looking for her, she could leave them breadcrumbs . . . breadcrumbs that only they could see. In the next instant she had touched her finger to her tongue, and reaching up the wall as high as she could, wrote the words: island off Maine. Gracie’s hope was that when the cleaning crew came, their swathes would not care to reach an area which appeared clean and was that high up a bathroom wall. If her saliva remained, the message would be as clear to Hank (or any of the companion androids) as a flashing beacon.

  “Now!” came Martz’s voice with a loud rap to the door.

  Gracie hurriedly unlocked the door and opened it. “I’m sorry. I had to wipe some water which spilled on the floor.”

  Martz stood with both hands on her large hips. She gave Gracie a hate-stare and grunted like a sow pig. “Looks like you just wasted your chance to pack a few things. You’ll have to go just as you are. They’re waiting for us now.” She walked in and took hold of the handles on the wheelchair. “You are a real pain, lady.”

  Gracie swallowed back her tears in an attempt of dignity. Martz was stupid, cruel and as worthless a human being as Gracie ever knew. How dare the woman speak to her like that. A sudden sense of rage began to rise within her. She didn’t care anymore. She would not be spoken to that way again! “Miss Martz. I suspect that eventually, I will see my son. And when I do, there are many words I have for him—none of which will be pleasant. However, I think you should know that my first question will be to inquire as to what barnyard he employed such a foul creature as yourself. Surely one of the other animals would have made a better choice.”

  Martz’s mouth dropped like dump truck on the unload. She turned an odd color of red, not one which could easily be described. “Why I ought to—!”

  “What?” Gracie cut in. “Hit me? Kick me? I should think that even someone as stupid as yourself would realize the mistake of such an action.” Gracie didn’t flinch. Her eyes were as steady as a loaded gun. She had had enough of this woman’s relentless barrage. Now—and at great risk—she had fired back, hurling her shell right into the heart of the Martz camp.

  The woman stood stunned, quivering from head to toe with anger.

  Gracie’s hunch had been right. Someone—she assumed it was Jimmy—had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the apartment feel like home. There was much effort, and expense, in the gathering of her personal belongings, and in the furnishings which embellished this elaborate prison-home—all in Gracie’s favorite colors and tastes. Yes. She knew Martz dared not strike her. The fat dross was all bark and bravado . . . and Gracie was simply done with her. “Don’t just stand there,” she commanded. “I thought we had someplace to be.”

  Martz ground her teeth together and snorted in a seething outtake of breath. She muttered several obscenities as she thrust the wheelchair forward in a hard push.

  Gracie grinned. “Such language, my dear.”

  Chapter 55:

  “No, dad. Just leave Hissy outside. It won’t hurt her a bit. She likes being outside. Besides, I don’t want you going back over there. I’ll call you in a few days—same time, same location. And dad, be careful.” Brant put down the phone.

  Teresa sat at the edge of the bed looking anxiously at him. “That didn’t sound good.”

  Brant shook his head, wearily. “No. And you’re right. Someone is looking for us.”

  Her expression deepened. “Oh man! I knew it! I knew they’d come after us! So what happened?”

  “I sent dad over to my place, to check on things and let my cat out. He said everything in the house appeared fine. He let her out, locked up and was heading back to his car when a man walking his dog approached—all smiles and as friendly as they come, or so said dad. The guy introduced himself as my neighbor, a Mr. Franklin. He told dad that he hadn’t seen me around for a while . . . wanted to know how I was doing. Dad told him I was stuck in Denver at a conference, just as I told him to.”

  “Okay. So you have a friendly neighbor?” Teresa said. “It might have been a legit encounter.”

  “Yeah, I have friendly enough neighbors alright,” Brant replied. “But none of them with the name, Franklin. Besides, there was something else that made dad suspicious.”

  “What?”

  “His dog.”

  “His dog?” Teresa repeated, her brow peaked.

  “Yes. The dog was a Boxer; a white Boxer. As luck would have it, dad once raised Boxers—he’s practically a canine connoisseur when it comes to that breed. Now dad’s a smart guy, and he’s also in the know as far as my field work and investigation out on Reitman property this summer. He knows what happened to my equipment, and the other strange stuff that took place out there. So he’s inclined to be a little wary with strangers who ask about me. Anyway, he had an odd feeling about this guy right from the get-go, so he baited him.”

  “He baited him?”

  “Yeah. He asked this Mr. Franklin some very specific questions about his dog; questions that only the owner would know. Stuff like whether it was a reverse brindle Boxer, cropped and docked. He even asked the guy the dog’s name. Dad said the man tried to fake it big-time, but it was obvious he was lying. And when dad bent to pet the animal, he noticed a nametag on its collar . . . it wasn’t the name the guy gave him.”

  Teresa sighed. “Crap. So much for my friendly neighbor theory.”

  “How about you? How did things go on your end?” Brant asked. “Are we going to be the top story on the evening news: an Amber Alert for a couple of kidnapped state custodies?”

  Teresa glanced down at her phone and blew the hair from her brow. “Well, let’s just say that Sara used some very big phrases, even for her. Words like ‘pushing the envelope’, and ‘extremely unorthodox’ and,”—she paused—“oh yeah, my favorite one: ‘teetering on the line of unlawful activities’.” She forced a sardonic grin.

  “Ah,” Brant said, nodding. “So it was standard stuff then.” He smiled.

  Teresa snorted and exhaled fatefully. “I told Sara it was for the safety of the children, and that I needed twenty-four more hours. I said I’d explain everything when I saw her. I was trying to buy us more time, but then again, she might go ahead and notify the authorizes . . . I just don’t know.”

  “Are you going to get fired?” came Jessie’s voice from the doorway of the adjoining rooms.

  They both turned as she entered.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Teresa replied.

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie said, pensively. She strode over and sat down next to Teresa.

  Teresa shook her head, optimistically. “Hey. We’re alive. That trumps everything.”

  “Yeah. It’s just that—”

  “Jessie. None of us planned on this,” Brant quickly eased. “This machination runs deeper than we could have possibly imagined. And right now, all we have is each other,”—he hesitated, his gaze shifted to the window then back—“okay, and our android friend out there. But that’s it. We’ve got to stick together, have faith, and be as optimistic as we can. That’s all we have, Jess.”

  Jessie nodded, but her expression was distant and laced with a uncertainty.

  “How’s Sam?” Teresa asked, changing the subject.

  Jessie turned and eyed through the doorway at the small bump lying
on one of the twin beds in the next room. “He’s out like a light. I just put the covers over him.”

  “Good,” she replied. “He’s probably exhausted.”

  “He is . . . I am . . .” Jessie shook her head. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shake-off her frustration. “So. Where are we, exactly?” she segued.

  “We are at the most inconspicuous, five-star rated motel ever to grace the desert-lands of western Utah,” Brant announced. He was being facetious of course. The dumpy lodging had been their only option once they had escaped the Apache’s onslaught. The dilapidated ma-and-pa shop establishment could have been a replica for Bates Hotel. But after nearly being blown to bits, running for their lives and half scared out of their wits—and emotionally exhausted—the remote location was just what the doctor ordered. And even more importantly, they could hide out for the night while they reassessed their situation—their halftime huddle to devise a plan for scoring a first point.

  “I thought I heard you say Grantsville?” Jessie queried.

  “Somewhere outside of Grantsville, actually,” Teresa corrected.

  “Hmm.” Jessie leaned to the window and parted the drapes slightly. She looked out into the small gaveled parking lot which pushed right up to the face of their door. Her eyes focused on a far corner. The moonless night had swallowed up all but a few feet from the window. “Well,” she said, letting the drape fall back into place. “It sure works for the Sandray. Even if she wasn‘t in stealth, no one would see her parked out there in this dark corner of town.”

  Teresa reached and tugged the drapes tightly together. “I’m just glad our metal guardian-angel is outside watching over us. It makes me feel so much better.”

  Jessie nodded, and her expression brightened. “Have you had any luck deciphering the data he gathered from Sandcastle’s computers?”

  Brant looked up from the small table near the bed. He peered at her under thick eyebrows and clicked his tongue optimistically. “Three-Of-Ten isn’t only a guardian angel, he’s an incredibly clever guardian angel.” Brant shook his head in amazement. “It was a miracle he had time to retrieve anything, what with those hideous robot things set loose on us.” Brant turned and tapped at his keyboard. “When Three-Of-Ten first downloaded the data to my computer, it looked like gibberish—and there was so, so much of it. He must have known I’d have difficulty culling through it all, and quite frankly, it would have been impossible, even if I’d had access to the university’s mainframes. But our metal comrade has somehow—don’t ask me—quantified the data down into probabilities. And then these, he has linked via keyed relationships. He’s basically pointed me right where I need to go.”

  Both girls looked a question at him, their faces glazed in confusion.

  “Database queries,” Brant clarified. “It’s all here. I can sort through thousands of categories, dates, names, places, events . . . everything—and all in seconds. And not only that. It appears that the Sandcastle network system was linked to the Reitman corporate mainframes. The darn android hacked all of it, nearly effortlessly. And the clincher is, he’s compiled and formatted the data-sets for human comprehension. He’s simply—”

  “Oh let me say it!” blurted out Teresa, her hand jetting up. “He’s unbelievable,” she emphasized dramatically.

  They all laughed.

  Jessie bent and eyed Brant’s monitor. “Gads” she grumbled. “It still looks like gibberish to me.”

  Brant returned an artful smile. “Oh but when you speak gibberish . . . ”

  “You’ve found something then?” Jessie asked.

  “You know,” he replied, chuckling at himself. “I think I have. But I need Three-Of-Ten to confirm my assumptions.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she clapped.

  Teresa sat up, surprised. “Honestly? Well tell us. Tell us what you’ve found.”

  Brant put a cautionary hand out. “Now, I don’t want to give you any false hopes—”

  “Hopes-smopes! Just spill it!” Teresa exclaimed. “I need to know that there’s a chance of this nightmare ending with all of us still breathing air!”

  He nodded. “Okay. Okay, but it’s only a probable lead.”

  “Hmm,” Teresa snorted. “Good enough.”

  “On the night of the opera—when Gracie supposedly had her stroke—one of Reitman Enterprises’ Learjets was refueled. When I crossed-referenced this information, I came up with a name: a Mr. Mike Wilde. Wilde is not only one of company’s pilots, but he also doubles as a personal bodyguard for Jimmy Reitman. Now here’s where it gets interesting: the man’s salary is more than triple that of his counterparts. And, according the company’s records, Wilde was one of the security guards assigned to deliver both mother and son to the opera that night.” Brant broke his transfixed lock, peering up over his glasses at his two mesmerized spectators. He nodded, slyly.

  “Go on,” muttered Teresa, her voice dry, her expression thirsty.

  “I’ve checked all the records for the destination of that jet, but there was no flight-plan filed; which in-and-of-itself is suspicious. The FAA now requires all privately owned jets—even those of large corporations—to file a flight-plan. It’s the law.” Brant sighed. His voice rested while his mind recharged. He took off his glasses and placed them on the table then rubbed at his eyes. “It looks like this Mr. Wilde didn’t want anyone to know where he was heading that night.” He shrugged and turned a beaten look at the two sets of eyes bearing down upon him.

  “So that’s it? Teresa moaned, obviously frustrated. “And how does that help us? Wilde could have flown that jet anywhere.”

  “True.” Brant put his glasses back on and gave her a taunting smile. “Except for one word,” he said: “Transponder.”

  “What’s that?” toned Jessie, curiously.

  Teresa snorted then broke into a cunning laugh. “They didn’t turn off their transponder!”

  “Exactly!” Brant confirmed. “I was able to identify the transponder registered for that particular Learjet. Thanks to Three-Of-Ten, we have a ping-trail from every airport, and beacon, whose radar bounced off that aircraft.” Brant’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of satisfaction and excitement. He turned and tapped his finger on a piece of paper—one which was filled with more scribbles than words. “The night Gracie Reitman disappeared from the Ziff Opera House, one of her own company’s Learjets, piloted by Mike Wilde, landed at 2:37 A.M at Lee Airport in Maryland.”

  “Maryland,” Teresa whispered on the exhale.

  “That’s right. Lee is a public owned airport located near Annapolis.” He turned and gave the two girls a long sigh of gratification. “Gracie is in Maryland. I’d bet my life on it. And because of her condition that night, I also bet that she’s somewhere close by it. Her abductors wouldn’t have risked driving her a long distance. Even if she was medically sound. She would likely have been coming out of a drug-induced coma, and needed to be situated quickly.”

  Silence followed for a few moments as the information digested like peppermint tea on an upset stomach.

  “Awesome!” exclaimed Jessie.

  “Honey,” added Teresa as she reached and put her arms around Brant’s neck. “You are one smart hunk-of-man.” Then she bent and kissed him, passionately.

  Jessie blushed.

  “Ooh-wee, I could take that kind of accolade all night. But if you want to kiss the real hunk responsible, he’s right out there in the parking lot,” Brant pointed humorously to the window.

  Teresa glanced at the window, patted his head prissily, and said, “that’s okay. I’m not into heavy-metal, baby.” She winked at Jessie.

  Jessie laughed.

  “Now we’re not out-of-the-woods yet. But if we can get Three-Of-Ten within twenty miles of Gracie’s location, he should be able to pick up her DNA signature and guide us right to her. At least that’s a start,” Brant stated, confidently. “And hey,” he continued, tossing his glasses down on the table. “If nothing else, we have a name: Mike Wilde.”


  “Ooow,” growled Jessie. “I’d love nothing more than to set Three-Of-Ten loose on that creep. Those tough guys are always the first to crap in their fancy suit pants.”

  “Now hold on, girl. This is all stipulation,” Brant reminded. “Let’s keep that in mind.”

  “Yeah,” said Teresa, her eyes marbled in a revengeful intimidation. “We’ll keep that in mind, won’t we Jess. But I have a feeling that before all this is over, I’m gonna see a grown man crying like a baby.” She smiled at Jessie, devilishly.

  “Yikes! You know . . . sometimes you frighten me?” Brant said, looking her down with a grin.

  “Me too!” Jessie added, humorously.

  Teresa tightened her fists and scowled, comically.

  “Alright then,” said Brant, back to the task at hand. His keyboard began its familiar rap. “Let’s get some maps online and figure out the best route for the Sandray. She’s actually more aircraft than hovercraft—I was shocked by the elevation Three-Of-Ten achieved during our escape.”

  “You were shocked; I was terrified,” Teresa interjected. “I thought we were going to drop like a flat stone at any moment.”

  Jessie clicked her tongue. “So little faith. Didn’t I tell you the Sandray was amazing?”

  “In fact, you did,” Brant admitted. “But we’ll see how truly amazing she is if she can get us to Maryland in one piece—and in time.”

  “She will,” Jessie winked.

  “It’ll be best if we can stay clear of the Urban grids and the busy Interstates.” Brant suggested. “I’m going to look over these maps and formulate a game-plan. Why don’t you girls wake up Sam and get ready to head out. Time is not a luxury we have. We need to be out of here before it gets light. Let’s plan to leave in about,”—he glanced at his watch—“thirty-minutes.”

  Teresa bent and kissed him one more time. She put her arm around Jessie and the two of them walked into the adjoining room.