First Stringers

by Gerald M. Weinberg

“To be blind is bad, but worse is to have eyes and not see.”

Helen Keller (1880 - 1968)

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Copyright Protected © 2009 by Gerald M. Weinberg

All rights reserved. No part of this e-book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, or photographic including photocopying, recording of any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission of Gerald M. Weinberg.

Chapter 1.

Ember tries to run away.

Ember slipped out the servants' entrance, her shoes safely tucked in her duffel, careful to make no loud tapping sounds with her sonic cane. Hearing nothing but the distant strains of "Stars and Stripes Forever" and feeling the warmth of the July sun on her face, she notched up her courage.

Independence Day at last, she thought. After more than twenty years, the lonely blind worm is crawling out of her cave. Welcome to the world of light. De-light.

She smiled at her little joke, then guided by the sweet, green lemony scent of verbena, she buried herself behind the waxy rhododendron leaves. Even though she had successfully hidden here on her last three escape attempts, she tucked her limbs tightly so nothing would show for the sighted people. Then she waited, her mouth tasting like dry straw. She wondered if she would miss the smell of new-mown grass.

Everything was quiet except for the fluttering of the neighbor's flag and the chattering of little birds. After a few more minutes, she heard the sound of a vehicle turning onto the cul-de-sac. She pressed her lips together, straining to interpret the sound. It's definitely not a truck, she reasoned, not on this holiday. No, it's not one of the local fancy cars, either. Everyone's away. And none of them have an engine knock. It has to be the taxi.

She brushed aside the branches and stepped out quickly–a slight risk, but necessary. The grass tickled her bare toes as she advanced across the broad lawn, waving to the driver before she heard the sound of his door opening. Feeling her way, unassisted, into the back seat, she announced her destination, then held her breath until they rounded the second corner. Now, she thought, they won't be able to see me. Goodbye Beverly Hills.

The taxi was less well insulated than a limousine, allowing her to enjoy the medley of traffic sounds until the driver dropped her at the Seal Beach Starlite Motel, miles from home. She paid the driver from her tiny stash but refused his help. On her own, she located the motel's half-open front door by the raucous sound of a blaring game show. The office door stuck and the hinges needed oil, but Ember opened it with a solid yank. Warm, humid air accosted her face. Mildew, fresh paint, and garlic assaulted her nose.

When she found the counter with her hand and rang the bell, the desk clerk sounded annoyed to be taken away from the television set droning from somewhere behind him. He spoke with an Israeli accent–like Oded Fehr, she thought, in The Mummy Returns. She could barely understand him, but when she switched to Hebrew, paid cash, and gave a false name, he replied in Hebrew and didn't ask for identification. She was relieved. My real ID would make it possible for one of Daddy's hired detectives to trace me. If Art didn't find me first, the way he usually does.

Overall, she was satisfied with the transaction. That was good practice at making friends. I need that if I'm ever going to have any.

Ember allowed him to show her to her room and guide her to its features, including an air-conditioner that sounded like an industrial strength coffee-grinder. When he left, she tore the plastic wrap off the single bathroom glass and turned on the tap. The water tasted strongly of rust–to Ember, the exotic savor of freedom. The room smelled faintly of a blend of various human body fluids, and when she pulled back the bedspread, her fingers felt two crusty spots of some dried foreign matter on the spread. She suppressed a shudder of disgust. Deal with it, girl. Nobody said freedom would be tidy.

She logged onto her computer and listened for news of missing young, tall, skinny, blind blondes. Hearing none, she closed the lid and prepared to enjoy the first night of her life utterly on her own. Though she was twenty-one, the court had accepted her father's argument that her blindness rendered her incapable of taking care of herself. He had the expensive lawyers and the judge in his back pocket, so she was legally his ward. But as long as he didn't know where she was, she was freer than she'd ever been in her life.

Time to go out.

When she opened the door, she stood for a moment taking in the odors that spoke of the beach–the keen tang of salt and the penetrating scent of rotting sea creatures. She focused her attention on the ocean's voice–the rise and fall of coarse whispers, the ebb and flow of soft crashing sound–and let it guide her to the beach.

The delicious fragrance of cooking oil made her aware of a new experience: she had almost missed a meal. And, today, she could really choose what she ate–or choose not to eat at all.

She chose to eat. By the time she emerged from the shop with paper-wrapped fish-and-chips in one hand, a forbidden Coke in the other, and her white cane tucked under one arm, Ember had refused three friendly offers of assistance. She wanted to be really on her own.

Minutes later, she possessed new wisdom. Greasy, unnamed fish eaten in freedom on a stone bench on the shores of Seal Beach was infinitely more delicious than Turbot Rôti en Ecailles, Beurre Monté au Gingembre eaten under control of her father at l'Auberge du Père Bise on the shore of Lake Annecy.

A number of people passed–some alone, some chattering with friends, some on clattering skateboards. She wanted to meet all of them, but she found herself surprisingly shy.

All of it was new and exciting to Ember, who had never been allowed to experience crowds of strangers. Being the blind daughter of a movie mogul had some advantages, but she was too rich and famous to be unguarded among the paparazzi and would-be kidnappers. Here, by herself, she wouldn't be recognized.

Her private tutoring had raced her through high-school and college equivalence before she was eighteen, but socially she had no real experience with kids her own age. She kept busy–reading great books, learning to play new instruments and mastering new languages–but sometimes, like now, when she allowed herself to pause, she felt her desperate loneliness. Even if I wasn't blind, I would definitely scare people away.

She didn't like to think of those unspeakable experiences with a few men who knew her father. She hoped boys her own age would be different from her father's friends, but she really didn't know any except as part of the crowds at her father's movie openings. And, of course, from listening to movies. hundreds of movies.

She was both apprehensive and excited when two young male voices approached her bench from behind. They were whispering, but Ember's acute hearing sorted them out, even over the background of human and ocean hubbub. "Maybe she's got a friend."

"Let's chat her up." Australian accent. "You sit on her left."

She heard them move around the two sides of the bench, but instead of sitting, they hovered for a moment in front. Ember grasped her right knuckles firmly in her left hand to stop the trembling. This is the hard part, but I have to face it. They sound like decent guys, but there are two of them. I think I can handle one okay. I knew I'd have to face this someday, and I've practiced, but I didn't think about meeting two guys at once.

How do I look? Art says I'm beautiful, but he's biased. I just hope I don't look too ugly.

When neither of the two said anything, Ember worried. Maybe they're giving me some nonverbal signals, waiting for me to respond.

She wanted them to know she was blind, and see her as she really was–no surprises later. She removed her dark glasses and gave her best smile.

One of them emitted a small gasp.

Now they see I'm blind, but at least they're not taking advantage and groping me like my father's friends. Come on, girl, say something. Time you learned to handle this kind of situation.

Before she could decide how to respond, the boys moved away, whispering again. "Ugh," grunted the Aussie. "Did you see her eyes? No pupils. Nothing. Jeez, what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know. And that expression ..."

"That freaky blue makes her look like an alien. But I don't want ..." His voice faded as they moved away. Ember heard no more. She didn't want to hear more. She replaced her dark glasses to hide the cool wet streaks trailing down her cheeks. I knew it would take some time, but it still hurts. Worse than any of those useless operations.

Get over it. Just enjoy the beach. They don't matter at all.

She fed the remnants of her meal to the squawking gulls, who lost interest in her once the paper was empty. Carrying her shoes, she ventured onto the beach, relishing the squirming of hot, gritty sand between her toes. She could sense how far the waves had come up the beach by the cooler press of wet sand on her toes. Once she determined from the succession of waves that the tide was probably ebbing, she ventured further out in measured steps, allowing the cool salt water and soft foam to surge around her ankles. It doesn't matter what I look like. Paradise cannot be better than this.

"Ember Wells, right?" A young voice said.

Early twenties, she thought, but a crude accent. Who would know I'm here? "Who are you?"

A second voice, somewhat older, answered. "Never mind that. You're coming with us."

Do guys always travel in pairs? This pair sounds worse than the other. "No, I'm not," she said indignantly. "I don't even know who you are."

A large hand clamped onto her shoulder. "You don't need to know."

She tried to pry the hand away. She wasn't weak, but his hand was like a steel clamp. "You're hurting me. Let go or I'll scream."

"Nobody around to hear you, so scream all you want." Her ears strained. He was right. Somehow, this strip of beach had become empty.

He pulled her firmly against him. "I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart, so just come along quietly. It's not our job to hurt you, but we will do what's necessary."

He sounds like a stupid movie cliché from Prison Break, but he doesn't feel like one. She detested his forceful grip, hating herself for being too weak to resist. She wanted desperately to satisfy her anger, but she had vowed never to harm anyone again. Not even a little bit.

I might not be able to stop before killing them.

Chapter 2.

Twins make a delivery.

Gina sat in the idling van, cursing the heat, trying not to pay attention to the familiar cramps in her belly. Her paraplegic twin brother George sat securely strapped in his computer-equipped wheelchair beside her, watching the flags fluttering in front of half the houses on Omaha's uptown Harney Street. In the muggy air outside, not much was happening. This is as exciting as a snail race.

Four houses ahead of her, a matron in a pink pantsuit coaxed a miniature poodle to do its business under a mature maple tree. Half a block behind her, two men sat talking in a dark gray Mercedes. From across the street, she could smell hot dogs grilling and hear the sound of small firecrackers and children shouting. I hate working on holidays, she thought. No, I hate working, period. And holidays. No Independence Day for me. Not with George to support. No independence at all.

Gina Red Bear hated Omaha, especially these pretentiously wealthy, tree-lined residential neighborhoods. The damp air from the Missouri River made her sweat, even in cotton jeans and linen shirt. This far from the brewery, the air still stank of brewer's yeast. People from the neighborhood wore expensive fashions that still looked like they were rejected by the Salvation Army. As if in response to her thought, the poodle woman lost patience and headed down the hill toward Elmwood park. The dog, at least, seemed happy.

What made it all worse was the way her brother never seemed bothered. She removed her Versace fashion sun shades for a moment and studied his tiny body, enlarged chest, and crooked smile. "What I want to know, George, is if we're twins, how come you're always cold and I'm always hot?"

"Hey, you're just a hot piece, Sis," George squeaked, all bundled in a red, black, and yellow striped Pendleton blanket.

"Very funny." She had to tolerate her poor brother's preoccupation with sex, since his misshapen body totally lacked the physical capability for any kind of sexual activity. She pretended to be embarrassed by his off-color remarks, then induced in him a feeling of satisfaction, as if he'd scored a joke.

When she slapped him playfully on the face, he blenched comedically as if he'd been severely wounded. "Well, if you're going to play S-and-M games with me over this heat business, why don't you just get this clunker air-conditioned? I don't think I can live through any more of your savage beatings."

She didn't want to tell him they couldn't afford a new van. His life was so limited, she never wanted to deny him anything. But even with all the cash flow from her drug deals, she could barely keep up with his endless, uninsurable medical expenses. And hers.

"This clunker, as you call it, is so old that I have to buy parts in an antique shop. And it barely goes up hills now. Even if I could find an air-conditioner, the extra strain would probably burn out the engine." She posed the back of her hand on her forehead and breathed an exaggerated sigh. "So, I'll just suffer for your sake. As usual."

"Thank you, Sis."

She heard genuine apology in his voice and felt the contrition in his mind. Her ability to sense feelings might be her curse, but it never lied.

"Actually," he said, "the real reason you're hot and I'm not is that I'm a lot smaller than you. Size matters. Larger surface-to-volume ratio."

Gina never understood his technical explanations, so she waved it off. "And don't you smell the exhaust, sitting here with the engine idling?"

"I just neutralize it before it touches my nose."

"Nobody else can do that, George. Only you."

"If it bothers you, why don't you turn off the engine?"

She surveyed the street again. "You know I can't do that. We might have to move fast."

"Maybe so, but we don't have to sit here like drug wholesalers you saw in some B movie."

"We are drug wholesalers, brud. And Dr. Opthamologist Ensworth is our top retailer. He needs this delivery. Today."

George made a corkscrew motion with his finger next to his temple. "But we're not in a B movie. We're in real life, like those guys in that car back there. They can't be good news. Just take the merchandise up to Ensworth's house. Cross your eyes. You'll look like one of his patients."

"Very funny, bro, but I can't risk it. You're the one who's worried about the guys back there. If something happens, I need you here to vanish the evidence."

"So, wheel me up with you."

"And leave the rest of the medicine in the van? I may not be as smart as you, Georgy, but I'm not utterly stupid. Anyway, here here's the doctor now."

As the poodle lady disappeared among the trees, a tubby, balding man in a green and brown plaid jacket emerged from the brick house. He stood on the front porch, door half open, and looked up and down the quiet street. Satisfied, he reached inside and brought out a fat leather briefcase.

Gina did a quick check to be sure the briefcase matched the one she had hidden from sight next to her brother–Dr. Palmer Ensworth had been known to forget such details.

Satisfied, she lowered the window. Ensworth scurried down the walkway, still nervously scanning the street. When he reached the van, he exchanged briefcases. Without saying a word, he hustled back into his house.

Gina counted the cash in the briefcase. She had reached $22,500 when the Mercedes behind her roared its engine, shot up the street, and angled to a stop in front of the van, blocking her exit. While she cursed to herself, the well-dressed passenger with thick glasses stepped out and tapped on her window, making a rolling motion with his left hand.

It's not police, she thought. Not this time. Not with bad eyesight. And not in a Mercedes. Maybe he's just one of Ensworth's patients.

She signaled George to hold off destroying their remaining inventory of narcotics and prescription drugs, then rolled down her window, focusing on the man's face. "Hey, pal. You're blocking my van. I've got deliveries to make. My customers need their cosmetics to dress up for the holiday." Her voice took on its special command tone. "Tell your friend to back up." She projected feelings of sympathy and the desire to be helpful.

He held his forehead in one hand, as if fighting a headache, but then grinned, showing perfect teeth. "I know, Miss Red Bear. We'll move, but why don't you sit a while?"

Why can't I sway him?

He took his hand away from his forehead, covering his glasses for a moment. "We're here to talk to you about those deliveries. But not cosmetics."

Gina saw his right hand. It held a pistol.

Chapter 3.

Santa Fe steak dinner.

Bolton Tinetti's leg throbbed. Driving up to Santa Fe for holiday dinner, his leg ached because it always hurt when he sat still too long—like when he waited to pick up his grandmother from her swimming workouts. Then again, it always pained him when he moved around too much. In fact, the only difference between sitting and moving was the way the leg hurt. Deep ache when sitting still. Sudden electric shocks when moving, like now, whenever he used the elevated clutch on his Jeep. Since his birth, Bolton had suffered a hundred different kinds of pain in his withered leg. The only feeling he didn't know was painlessness.

But today's pain was particularly bad. Usually, he shut out the feeling by focusing his entire mind on his computers and remote-controlled cars and planes. Today, however, grandma Cathy was taking him to a fancy restaurant, so he had to leave his toys behind. His uncle Garland was supposed to come, but as usual, his absentee uncle finked out at the last minute. His mother's brother hadn't said "boo" to him since his high school graduation–and then all the words had been negative. Garland hadn't even showed up for any of his college commencements. Even the one in May, when he was the youngest student ever to earn a Ph.D. in Information Science from the University of New Mexico. Probably Uncle Garland couldn't think of anything negative to say about that.

He had planned to take his uncle to Española, where El Paragua's fiery salsa would have given him a night to remember. Bolton's native New Mexican stomach thrived on hot chili, but it made his uncle's guts mutiny. I know it's juvenile, but I deserve retribution for the way he ignores me.

They approached the Plaza. Well, be fair, he's paying for this dinner as a graduation present. Guilt, probably. So I'll get my vengeance by treating Cathy to the most expensive restaurant in the state. He had heard about the fabulous steaks at the Bull Ring, half a block away from the Plaza. I'll probably be uncomfortable in such a fancy place, but what the heck–I hear they serve massive portions. And the waitresses are drop-dead gorgeous.

Time for a decision. Bolton saw the Saint Francis Cathedral, which made him remember his mother's tales about the gentle Saint. He recalled how much his mother had loved her brother. He decided to be merciful. A bit.

Traffic on the Plaza was unusually light, though he couldn't find a parking place as close to the restaurant as he'd like. He found a spot two blocks away, expertly backing into the space in one try, despite the pain in his clutch leg. No way he was give up his off-roading by driving an automatic.

He steeled himself for the walk. I could drive around until a closer spot opens up, but I don't think I can tolerate this pain for another minute. Walking, at least, will change it to something else.

In typical Santa Fe style, the Plaza showed only subdued, tasteful signs of the holiday. Other than a few red-white-and-blue rosettes on the lampposts, a whiff of burned black powder as they walked through was the only clue that the nation was celebrating its independence. Perhaps Santa Fe, having been around long before 1776, wasn't impressed by the holiday.

The Bull Ring wasn't crowded, confirming Bolton's theory about blasé Santa Feans. The furnishings certainly looked expensive–way out of his class–but it was Garland's treat. He'll probably put it on an expense account, which he'll justify by asking Cathy to nag me into going to work for the government.

He knows I like to eat. Probably believes I'll be more receptive when my stomach is full. No thanks.

But I might as well enjoy myself before the lecture starts. Anyway, Cathy doesn't usually lecture me. Not like Garland.

True to her gentle nature, his grandmother said nothing when Bolton ordered the largest porterhouse steak, with giant sides of onion rings and au gratin potatoes.

Cathy contented herself with broiled trout with steamed tomatoes and broccoli on the side, offering to share the vegetables. While they waited in awkward silence for their order, Bolton stuffed himself with crusty bread, thickly buttered. He gawked at the starched white table cloths, the dark wood decor, and the stunning waitresses who provided impeccable service. Though he was impressed, his grandmother seemed indifferent to the ambiance. She belongs in an executive setting like this. She looks twenty years younger than her age, and she's the most beautiful woman here. Must be the vegetables.

Cathy scanned the patrons unobtrusively, but she didn't seem to notice when the shapely red-haired waitress leaned over her to brush away bread crumbs. Bolton noticed. He took off his glasses and tucked them in his jacket pocket. She's close to my age, but she treats me like a piece of furniture. I'm better looking than any of the older guys here–except for a few zits–but to her I'm just a chubby cripple.

Forcing his fingers away from touching the bumps on his cheek, he took out his hand-held computer, his latest toy. The waitress, fussing with Cathy's place setting, didn't seem to notice. It's useless. She doesn't know a CPU from a thumb drive. She pays more attention to Cathy's bread crumbs than she does to me.

He put away the computer while they ate–no way he would risk grease in the mechanism. Besides, he could mentally access the machine while it was in his pocket. He didn't, but busied himself with cutting his steak so he could put off any possible lectures for a few more minutes.

Since Cathy ate only about half her portions, Bolton finished her tomatoes, ignored the broccoli except for dipping the tomatoes in its cheese sauce, then ordered a triple chocolate fudge brownie a la mode. When he asked if he could order a second dessert, Cathy frowned, "You can eat whatever you want. It might help with your weight, though, if you got some exercise."

Before Bolton could say anything, Cathy held up her hand, forestalling the familiar response. "Yes, I know your leg is a problem, but your weight only makes it worse. You could find something–swim, for instance, like I do. I'd love to swim with you."

Bolton tried to ignore the comment about his weight, but couldn't resist responding with an attack. "Maybe if my uncle was around more often, he could motivate me."

"Would you like that?" Cathy said calmly, not taking the bait. "I guess I'm not much of a father figure for you."

"I would ... Of course I'd like that," Bolton said, silently cursing his nasty habit of starting sentences before his thoughts were fully formed. "And you're the perfect grandmother. I don't need a father figure."

"You're my only living relative, Bolton. You don't appreciate how lucky you are to have your mother's brother. I know he's not around much, but he's an important man in the government. Did you know I've been working with him on this trip?"

"I suppose he's a big shot," Bolton said, suddenly realizing that Garland had not come to New Mexico to visit him, but to work with Cathy at Sandia Lab. Typical.

"I think that ... Why does everybody judge people by their work?" I wouldn't be caught dead slaving in a cubicle all day. He poked his fork at some food bits. "I know your job is evaluating people at the lab, but why does someone have to measure their own family?"

"I judge people because it's my job, Bolton. Human Resources. People. And mostly I measure people for their value to our government. Your uncle's job is to judge their danger."

"And who is he measuring now? Does he ... Are there some villains here in New Mexico, so I can expect to see him more often? If he shows up for our dinner dates?"

Cathy brushed three crumbs from the white tablecloth into her palm, then deposited them on her plate. "As a matter of fact, yes. Have you ever heard of a religious cult that calls themselves 'The Sons of the Fathers?' Apparently they claim to be great patriots–"

"Don't they all?"

"–and they're heavily armed–"

"Nothing new there. Yes, I've heard of them. They beat up people and blow up buildings. Are they his new assignment?"

"Apparently."

In spite of himself, Bolton was intrigued. He tried not to show it. "Why him? Doesn't ATF handle this kind of thing?"

"They're supposed to, but they've failed. Your uncle is the guy they assign to a case when nobody else can solve a problem."

We're a lot alike, Bolton thought. Cathy knows she can hook me with a problem nobody else can solve. "Failed how?"

"He told me that every time ATF brings one of their leaders into their offices for questioning, they somehow plant a bomb. Three or four days afterward, there's an explosion in the same interrogation room."

"Why don't they ... They should just check the offices after each interview."

"Apparently they did. ATF brought in bomb dogs."

"That should do it. Joe and Lily could track a bomb that had been driven by in a truck two days ago." Joe and Lily were Cathy's own German Shepherd Dogs. Both had won many tracking awards. "So what did the dogs find?"

"They should have been able to sniff the kind of explosives The Sons are using, but they never found the bombs. And the bombings continued."

"Okay, so the dogs didn't work. I know the government has sniffer devices better than dogs."

The red-head stopped at their table. Cathy remained quiet until the waitress finished brushing away some non-existent crumbs. "You know I can't tell you about such things. It violates Lab security."

"It doesn't ... You don't have to tell me anything. You might be amazed at what I can find on the internet."

Cathy smiled at their shared secret, then excused herself for a visit to the ladies' room. Bolton lost himself in thinking about design parameters for his next toy rocket. When he looked up, his grandmother was standing next to their table with her arm around the shoulders of a rather attractive young woman dressed all in shades of purple. Her eye makeup was streaked with tears, and her eyes were so red and puffy that even unobservant Bolton noticed. Oh, no, he groaned to himself. She's picked up another stray.

Cathy made a small gesture to remind him it was the gentlemanly thing to stand. "Bolton, this is Phyllis. She desperately needs help with a computer problem."

Chapter 4.

Caught, rescued, and caught again.

Ember managed to bump purposely into her captors several times on the way to the car, each time garnering a bit more information. By the time they reached the car, she knew their heights, weights, and musculature. She wished they wore some deodorant–or at least after-shave–but the upside was her ability to identify them by body odors. No two people smelled alike, though most people were too culture-bound to notice. Ember couldn't afford the luxury of being conventionally polite.

One smelled of unwashed locker room and a distinctive acid. The other clearly had an abscessed tooth. She filed these away in her olfactory memory, then turned her attention to their clothing.

Both men wore leather jackets, though she didn't think the leather smell would be sufficiently unique to identify them. The younger one seemed to be wearing a knife, a large knife, under his jacket, while the older one, the larger one, definitely carried something the size of a pistol. She knew how to defend herself, but these were serious criminals.

If I don't want to hurt anyone, I have to control my anger, but this is outrageous. You can't allow people to be kidnapped off the beach in broad daylight. She didn't know why "broad daylight" should make a difference–it didn't to her–but it was one of those expressions sighted people used unconsciously. And these two kidnappers were obviously sighted.

She heard a car door open, memorizing the sound. The larger man put his hand on her head and guided her inside with surprising gentleness. When she grabbed the leather sleeve of his jacket for support, she felt some sort of raised emblem just below the shoulder. I won't be able to tell police what these guys look like, but maybe this will help. She traced the emblem with her sensitive fingers. At first she thought it was a circle–common enough as a symbol–but there was a line sticking out from the circle, with an arrow on the end. Mars! Or male?

Wait, there's more. Inside the circle. Another Mars!

Her captor pulled his arm away. "Slide over, girlie, and get your hand inside unless you want to smash your fingers in the door."

The door slammed. She tried the handle, but it wouldn't move. Probably one of those child-safety locks.

Outside, someone approached the men and began speaking softly. With her fingers, she mapped out the controls on the door. Seems like the same layout as a Chrysler limo. That may be useful information–more useful than the cigarette smell in here. I can't tell one brand from another. Not from ashes, anyway. I'm no Sherlock Holmes.

The conversation outside was turning into an argument. Something, or someone, thumped against the car, knocking Ember sideways.

As the men began to shout, she recognized Art's voice. She yelled, "Art, the big one's got a gun." She wished she didn't have such a pipsqueak voice. She wasn't sure he could hear her, but she shouted again. "The other one has a knife."

All of a sudden, it was quiet outside.

Someone tried to open her door, failed, and stopped trying.

A moment later, something smashed the glass.

She heard the lock click.

The door opened. An instant later, she recognized the weight of Art's meaty hand on her shoulder. Only now, she realized she'd been holding her breath.

"That's taken care of, Ember." Art's throaty voice overshadowed the soft ocean sounds. "I don't know where you thought you were going with these two gentlemen, but the holiday's over. They decided to stay here and sleep by the beach."

There was nothing she could do. Once again, she would give in, go home, and try to learn from the experience.

"I have to go back to the motel and pick up my computer. I'm lost without it."

"I already have it," her tutor said.

She swallowed her anger and touched her watch. Four-thirty. Less than six hours to find me. Next time, I'll go farther away. Much farther.

 

Chapter 5.

Twins battle bad guys.

Gina believed she had prepared for just this situation, but these were real criminals, not make-believe. None of her practice sessions with George had ever produced this sinking feeling deep in her bowels. The gun barrel looked like the yawning mouth of a dragon, much more frightening than any surgeon's scalpel she'd ever faced.

She struggled to gain control of her own emotions, and block out George's screechy yelling. For a moment, she considered contesting for control of the gun–until she saw that the Mercedes driver held another. She wasn't sure she could control two at a time. Not with guns, anyway.

The first gunman climbed into the back of her van and ordered her to drive down the hill to a secluded area of Elmwood Park. In the dimming twilight, Gina could see the Mercedes following, but couldn't read the license plate or discern any markings.

The man in back directed her to pull over the curb onto the grass and park with her front bumper touching a huge cottonwood tree. She felt the van bounce as the Mercedes nudged her rear bumper. Now the van was pinned in place between the Mercedes and the tree. A small broken branch fell onto her windshield. Though she could still see light among the leaves, the parking spot was dark and growing darker. Gray cumulus clouds threatened another Omaha summer thundershower.

Hoping to fix her assailant's eyes with hers, Gina started to turn to the back and face him. He jammed the barrel of his pistol into her neck. "Just look straight ahead and listen to my proposition. Agreed?"

"What choice do I have? Why don't you put the gun down?" Her command voice was not nearly as effective when she couldn't meet his eyes. "It makes me nervous."

She detected his mind radiating some concern, but he managed to say, "No thanks. I'd be nervous without it."

Gina turned her head slightly towards George, hoping he wouldn't forget their preparations, but he sat still as a log of petrified wood. "When I get nervous, my stomach gets upset. It can give a person the runs."

"Then you'll just have to hold it," the gunman said. "This won't take long–not if you cooperate."

She squirmed in her seat to make the story more credible. "Then hurry. Just tell us what you want, then leave. I'd hate to have to use these bushes for a toilet."

From the back seat came an uncomfortable grunt, but he told his story in a chilling, calm voice. "We've been watching your business for a few months now. Omaha looks like a fine territory. Our grapevine tells us your merchandise is of finest quality, so you're lucky. We're offering you a partnership."

Gina could hear his stomach gurgling, which told her George had taken the hint. It won't be long now. Stall. "I might be interested. What sort of partnership?"

"Fifty ... uh ... fifty. And we protect you."

A foul odor from the rear told her the time had almost come. "Gross or net?"

"Just a minute." He opened the side door and called out to his companion. "Hey, Bud. Get over here and keep her covered." He jumped out and ran haltingly toward the bushes. "I'll be right back."

Bud emerged and stood outside Gina's window, pointing his pistol. "I think he must have eaten something that disagreed with him," she said, her comment reinforced by unappetizing sounds coming from behind the tree.

"Pete had the same thing I ate, and I ain't sick."

"Did you hear that, George? Bud ain't sick. Yet." She ignored the gun and stared straight into Bud's eyes, sending the feeling of nausea. "I think Pete might have food poisoning. You'll want to take him to the hospital. You might be sick, too. You should turn your car around so you can get a quick start."

"I do feel kinda like I'm gonna barf." He waved the gun in her face. "You stay right here."

When he heard the Mercedes start, Pete came rushing out of the bushes, only to stop halfway, clutch his belly, and turn back. By the time Bud had moved the Mercedes and come back to the window, Gina could smell something rotten on the summer breeze. Bud must have smelled it, too, and his face was contorted with distress. He waggled the gun again. "You wait–"

He never finished the sentence. When he bent over and started heaving his stomach contents, Gina threw the van in reverse. The wheels whined, spinning in the dirt as she made a bootlegger's turn out of the park.

"Not so fast," George protested. "You should erase their memories first."

"I've told you a million times that I don't erase memories."

"Well, then, you must have erased mine, because I've seen you do it before."

She glanced quickly in both directions, then ran a stop sign. "I don't erase them. I just attach painful and fearful emotions to them, so they're not so likely to be recalled. But the memories are still there."

"So why didn't you do that?"

"Because it takes time, and there were two of them. With guns." She pulled the van into the streaming traffic. "Besides, brother, you did great work making Bud puke like that. I thought we only practiced diarrhea?"

"I was scared, and I thought it would work better if I attacked both ends. It affected them differently."

She ignored the distasteful image of George's victims spilling their guts. "I was scared, too. In fact, I could use a treatment right now." She drove up Happy Hollow and around the University of Nebraska campus, parking in the usual visitors' lot where their next drop-off was scheduled in ten minutes. She kept watching her rear view mirror, but she would be safe here, even if the gunmen had followed unseen. Too many people around.

She sat quietly while her brother created soothing chemicals in her belly, as crippled internally as his own body was externally. "There," he said at last, "good as new. As good as those sharks are bad." He looked around as far as he could turn his head. "Do you think they'll still come after us?"

Gina stretched her back, kneading her abdomen as if to convince herself there was no more pain. "Maybe they'll just decide to look for another partner."

"That wasn't easy. I was so scared I wanted to puke myself. I think we need more defenses."

Someone knocked on Gina's window. She gave a start, mostly because she realized she'd not been paying attention to their surroundings, but it was their campus retailer, carrying his own matching briefcase—smaller than the opthamologist's because business on campus wasn't half as good. Gina smiled, suppressing her resentment of this rich, privileged college boy who had all the advantages and luxuries she had never experienced. It's just business. Someday I'll have more than he does.

She concluded their transaction quickly, then drove off the campus. "Speaking of defenses, I was thinking it's too bad you can't sculpt the molecules in guns."

"I'm a chemical genius, not a metallurgist. But maybe I could do something to the gunpowder."

"I miss Duncan. Why did he have to be so stupid? Or why can't you melt things like he did." But then she shuddered. She still had nightmares about fourteen-year-old Duncan losing control of his power and immolating himself. If he had lived, and learned to control his power, Duncan would have been a perfect partner. "With Duncan, we might have been able to get out of this business."

"I'd like that," said George, as she drove cautiously to their next customer. "So let's get a partner."

"You know we can't trust our secrets to anybody," she snapped. "Forget it."

"We could trust them if they were like us. Like Duncan. We can't be the only freaks trying to hide."

She looked around. The passing landscape had stopped shaking, and she realized it had been her own fear. "Yes, you're probably right. We should try to find someone." But it won't be easy. Those sharks will be back.

Chapter 6.

Bolton receives a job offer.

As they moved over to Phyllis's friends' table, Bolton estimated her age as about thirty. From behind, she has a great body, but in front, she's kind of flat. And frumpy. I don't know much about women's clothes, but Grandma dresses much better. Phyllis dresses like she's sixty, but Cathy, who is sixty, dresses like she's thirty. Well, maybe forty.

When he sat down, his critical voice chimed in. Anyway, fool, stop being a horny goat and concentrate on her problem. Phyllis is much too old for you. Probably at least 25. Though not so bad looking, if she would smile.

He picked up what his pro bono client was saying in mid-sentence. "–when he joined that horrible organization. Then one m– " She looked over at Bolton, hesitated, then continued her story. "m-morning, I woke up and he was gone. Just disappeared without a word."

I think she was embarrassed to admit she'd been sleeping with some guy.

Right, said his critical voice. Until she checked you out and figured you weren't worth being embarrassed for. Schmuck.

Cathy said, "Phyllis's friends are giving her a celebration dinner here, for getting rid of that schmuck."

Are you reading my mind, Grandma?

One of Phyllis's mates volunteered, "She brought her computer, but none of us could help her,"

Okay, I'd better help her out. She's been treated badly and deserves something better.

Phyllis was extracting a laptop from her briefcase. "–and it was locked. My password didn't work, and I couldn't get at any of my work, and I have to submit my report in the morning, and if I don't, I'll lose my job, so I'm taking it home with me, and there aren't any jobs in Santa Fe, and–"

Bolton held up his hand to put an end to Phyllis's nervous babbling. "No problem. He must have changed your password." Why don't I ever have a problem speaking confidently when I'm working with computers? He reached out for the PC, a rather old model.

"But– But I don't have the new password, and I don't have a backup, and–"

Of course you don't have a backup. Who would have guessed? But he held his tongue. Before the PC touched his hand, he'd already "talked" with the computer and captured the new password. He took the machine anyway. I have to    put on a show. Make it look good.

He turned the PC so she couldn't see what he was doing. Extracting one of his thumb drives from his jacket pocket, he inserted it in the USB slot, saying, "I've got special tools here." He opened the lid, saw the login screen, and began touching meaningless keys, muttering unintelligible syllables. "Oh. Mmm. Aha!"

He pivoted the PC, sliding it across the sleek white tablecloth. "There. Your new password is 'BACKUP'–something you should be doing regularly. It's backing up your documents now onto the thumb drive. I've also set it to backup nightly. You don't have to do anything, just don't touch anything you don't understand."

Her eyes were wide and her mouth sagged open. "But I don't have a–what do you call it?–finger drive."

"Thumb drive. And you do have one. This one's a gift."

"Oh, I couldn't. How much do I owe you? For the, uh, thumb drive. And the repair?"

"It's on the house. They're really cheap as dirt." This was always the awkward part. He stood up, eager to escape her embarrassing gratitude.

"But I insist," she twittered, holding up her purse.

He looked away, his eye fell on the dessert menu tented on the table. "Okay, how about you buy me dessert? The New York cheesecake a la mode?"

He quickly checked his grandmother's face, hoping she wouldn't want to embarrass Phyllis by making him refuse her offer. His grandmother's eyes twinkled with a suppressed smile–what she always did when he outmaneuvered her. He smiled back and winked. Maybe I'll just eat the ice cream. And maybe only a few bits of the cake. That will make her happy.

As they walked back to their table, Cathy offered her grandson an approving smile. "I know how you do talk with the computer," she whispered. "In a general way. But your hacking always surprises me. Even without your special power, your generation has a talent that mine will never have. And your uncle told me you may be the best programmer he's ever seen."

How come he never acknowledged that to me? And how did he hear?

He wanted to shift the subject away from his uncle. "What horrible organization?"

Cathy plunked herself down in her chair. "Huh? Organization?"

"The one her boyfriend joined. I didn't catch it." He did, but he didn't want to admit it. This was beginning to sound like a setup.

She nodded. "It was the same one we've been discussing. The Sons."

I give up. She's determined to discuss Uncle Garland. Might as well get it over with. "Okay. If we ... So we're going to talk about the Sons of the Fathers. Want to tell me about these ... uh ... unmentionable sniffing devices?"

"The Agency did try some inventions from Sandia Labs to supplement the dogs. We're still trying to fix the apparatus, but it didn't work, either. ATF had three offices bombed since then, each with a clean bill of health from both dogs and scientists."

A different waitress, blonde, bent over their table to deliver his cheesecake and pick up empty plates. Bolton glanced down her cleavage, saying, absentmindedly, "Interesting. Did anyone die?"

"That's another curious thing. The buildings were all empty. Garland thinks the Sons want to make trouble, but not raise too much opposition—for now, anyway."

"Curiouser and curiouser. What else?"

"After that, the ATF took the precaution of interviewing the Sons in public places–open fields, where nobody could be hurt by an explosion. Since then, there's been no bombs in those–"

"So, they've solved the problem. Why do they need your lab?"

"But they haven't solved the problem. The Sons' response was to switch tactics. Now the bombs detonate somewhere in the ATF offices they've never visited. So far as anyone has been able to determine, they would have had no opportunity to plant explosives any time after the interviews."

Bolton was thoroughly hooked now. "Curiouser and curiouser?"

"So far, it's only happening out here in the mountain states–Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona. The Four Corners."

"Do you think ... I guess Uncle Garland will be visiting me more often?"

"I guess so. His job is to keep these disturbances from spreading, so his team will be stationed out here until they get things under control."

"His team?"

"A team he'd like you to join–if you're still determined not to go on to take a postdoc fellowship."

"No thanks." The answer was out of his mouth before even an instant of thought. "Twenty-one is way too young to be a postdoc." All the girls will be older and think I'm a baby–a crippled freak. I had enough of that in high-school and college.

"So you'll go to work for your uncle?"

Bolton could hear the hope in her voice. She would never say it in so many words, but she wanted him to put away his "toys" and get "serious." "Sorry, but I have other plans. And if I worked for my uncle, wouldn't that be nepotism?"

"He showed his NSA colleagues your published work and your commendations for helping the local police. And for helping the guide dog organization and setting up the computers at the rape-crisis line. They were so impressed, they wanted to hire you themselves. They don't care about your age. Genius is genius."

Bolton could feel heat rise in his neck, and not just because his grandmother called him a genius. He's been spying on me, even the little hacking jobs I do for the police. Maybe even the free favors I do for the library. He looked over to the table where Phyllis was still staring in amazement at her computer while her girlfriends chattered away. And ditzy dames.

Hey, dodo, you liked helping her. Admit it!

Cathy pressed her case. "They need people to crack communications so they can anticipate Sons' attacks. And he knows you're one of the best."

Resentment welled up in Bolton's throat, in spite of the flattery. His uncle had never told him these things, "It doesn't ... That's all very appealing, but I have bigger plans. Just one of my robotic ideas, when it's worked out, will be worth more to this country than any amount of chasing fanatics."

Cathy cast her grandson an annoyed I'm-an-adult-and-you're-just-a-child look. "I don't think we should underestimate the Sons. They may not be a huge problem now, but Garland says they're expanding. Last week, a police station in Utah was bombed. Just a few hours after the arrest of a Son for refusing to allow mine inspectors into one of their properties."

Bolton noticed this was his last spoonful of ice cream. "They own mines? I thought they were just a gang of street thugs."

Two middle-aged couples rose from a nearby table and headed for the exit. Cathy waited until they were well past before speaking again. "Those Mars thugs are the ones you see, but they're only foot soldiers. Their main focus seems to be acquiring leases and properties at bargain prices. Garland is sure they're intimidating the owners–extortion tactics, like mine accidents–but he hasn't been able to prove anything. Just like the explosions. If he could crack their computers, he thinks he will get the evidence he needs. That's where you come in."

"I wouldn't be ... Maybe the best tactic is to leave them alone," Bolton said. Against his will, the problem was beginning to intrigue him. "Anyway, I'm sure he's got competent computer people who can work on this."

"That's not the main problem." Cathy leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "The FBI has been able to reconstruct their explosive devices, but their triggers are simple capacitor-timed contraptions with ten or fifteen-second delays. Someone had to set the triggers less than a minute before the bombs went off. But the buildings were empty."

"What kind ... And he thinks I could help figure out how they're doing it?"

"He knows about your work on remote control–"

"Last time he called, he laughed at my robot cars," Bolton said bitterly. "Called them toys."

Cathy said nothing while Bolton mopped up the few remaining crumbs of  the cheesecake and beckoned the waitress for a check. When it arrived, Cathy signed and added a tip, then laid her palms flat on the table. "So what do you think, sweetie? Want to take your uncle's offer? It should be challenging. And fun."

True enough, Bolton thought, but the years of bitterness won. "No way, Grandma. Maybe someday I'll get a job, but one thing I'll never do is work for my uncle."

"All right," said Cathy, rising. "I'll tell him."

Halfway to the exit, she stopped and turned to face her grandson. "I'm still convinced that one way or another, you'll help your uncle."

Chapter 7.

Next time I'll go farther.

The sound of the solid oak front door thumping closed behind her was still echoing in Ember's ears when the living room grandfather clock struck the hour. With Art's hand wrapped protectively around hers, he led her down the hall to the sitting room of her suite. The silvery tones of the chime curtain in her doorway reminded her to switch on the room's only lamp for her visitor. Her tutor. Her coach. Her guardian. Her only real friend.

She bounced down on her bed and felt for the potpourri bowl. She stirred the mixture, filling the air with the scent of orange blossom and lily of-the-valley. Then she cuddled her stuffed bear and waited for Art's debrief of her adventure.

He sat down on the bed beside her, his great bulk taxing the capability of the firm mattress. "Congratulations, little one. This was a new record. Did you manage to have lunch?"

She shrugged off the question. "I didn't even get to stay overnight. Are you going to tell Daddy?"

"No," he said simply. "By this time, you should know I never tell."

"Aren't old teammates supposed to tell each other everything?"

"Not in football. The offense and defense don't talk to each other." He smacked his fist against his palm as if illustrating a hard tackle. "If the servants don't tell, Jack won't know. And they'll forget by the time he returns to L.A. I'll make sure of that."

When she remained silent, he poked her in the ribs. "Hey, Slim, I don't want to appear to be failing in my job. Did you eat?"

She ignored his question again. "Daddy's your best friend. After twenty-one years, you're still worried about losing your job?"

"Which one? Guarding you, or teaching you to guard yourself? Or making sure you don't starve?"

"I won't starve. I had the most exciting lunch–fish and chips. And a Coke!"

"Better not tell your Dad. He thinks Coke causes zits. How much did you spend?"

"Most of my savings. I paid in advance for the motel."

"I've used the Starlite a few times. I had a friendly talk with the manager. Since you didn't stay very long, he decided to charge you his hourly rate and refund half your money. Here."

He placed a few bills in her hand. She checked and found that they were folded properly. Two tens folded in half widthwise, a five in half lengthwise, and three ones not folded at all. She tucked them into the hollow belly of her teddy bear. "Thank you. I hope you didn't hurt him."

"Didn't have to. You must have charmed him. You got a lot better deal than he gives when an old black faggot like me asks for an hourly rate."

Ember felt her ears growing hot. She'd always known about Art's boyfriends, but her only experience with anything sexual had been uninvited, clumsy attempts  by some of her fathers' friends to take advantage of her presumed weakness. She wondered if men tried those tricks with sighted girls, but she had nobody to ask.

She had a hard time imagining anybody enjoying sex with anybody, male or female. Her mind struggled with the issue until she caught the end of Art's question. " ... still have your escape fund?"

"Not enough." She held up the fuzzy bear where she kept her stash. "This little darling won't even hold the amount of money it cost Daddy. If only I could sell some of my useless junk ..."

"Have you tried on-line auctions?"

"I've studied them, but so far I can't figure out how to arrange to deliver large items without you noticing."

"What about jewelry? You're always telling me you hate it."

Ember scrunched into Art's lap and felt for his earring. "Would you be willing to sell your bling?"

He laughed. "No way. I'm getting too old and out of shape to attract pretty boys without looking rich."

She ran both hands over the rough contours of his face. "You are not. You're just as good looking as you always were." She measured his biceps with both hands, which didn't nearly fit around. "You're probably in better shape than you were when you played for the Huskers."

Art laughed. "That's probably because you're a tougher workout partner than I ever had in Lincoln." He moved one of her hands to his head. "Try up here. You can't see how gray it is–what there's left of it."

"That just makes you distinguished. Like Gary Cooper and Cary Grant."

"I think they're dead. Besides, most of my jewelry pieces were presents from your father. I couldn't sell any. You'll have to sell your own."

"I thought of slipping some to Marta when she takes out the mail, but I don't want to get her in trouble. Besides, every time he's away for a long time, Daddy buys me rare, one-of-a-kind baubles." She made a vague gesture toward the jewelry boxes on top of her dresser, even though she knew the most valuable items were in her father's safe.

"That's true. He's been away so long on this trip, he'll have to buy you the Koh-i-noor diamond."

"Precisely. And just possibly someone might recognize when the crown jewels of the British Empire appeared on E-bay."

"In that case, your next attempt will have to be on a tight budget."

"I don't think so. I'm going to make it, Art, whatever it takes. Next time, I'll just go farther away."

"As far as it takes, young lady, until you learn how to survive without my help. Then we'll see if the court will still say you need a guardian." 

Chapter 8.

Ember's new idea.

To give herself time to think, Ember began removing her travel jewelry–her mother's Tiffany blue star sapphire ring, the matching earrings with smaller stones, and the gold charm bracelet with a different heart from her father for each birthday. Weighing the four pieces in her hand, she thought, I may be rich, but I'm cash poor. If I'm going to go farther, I'll need more cash.

It was time for another lesson from the man who was secretly opposing her father–training her to be independent. Telling her that the only failure was failure to learn. She put aside her negative thoughts, turned and said to Art. "I already knew how quickly you can trace credit cards. I thought I solved that one by using cash, so how did you find me so fast?"

"Your outgoing calls. You should have used the net to make your reservations."

"Darn. None of the cheap motels had blind-enabled registration. Maybe I'll invest in a secret cell phone."

"Nice try, but that's still easy to trace–if you have the right connections."

She placed her hands on his muscular chest and pushed herself up to stand in front of him, arms akimbo. "Then I'll just have to figure out how to get more cash. Maybe you'll leave Daddy's safe unlocked one day."

"Not a chance. Maybe you should study safecracking."

"Hah." She had studied the life of Harry King, the famous blind safecracker, but didn't want Art to know . "But I'll figure out something. Don't worry."

She stepped over to the dresser and put away the jewels, each in its proper compartment. Stepping back, she found his hand and yanked. "I'm hungry. How about some popcorn?" He allowed her to pull his three-hundred-pound frame off the bed and down the hall to her father's private screening room. Popcorn was their code for sharing movies. Art described the scenes for Ember while she mentioned subtleties in the dialog.

Once they were seated in the soft leather armchairs and Ember could hear the popping in the microwave, she knew she had to talk with Art about her abduction. "What did you do to those two kidnappers?"

"You don't want to know."

She didn't, actually, except for one thing. "Did you find their weapons?"

"Don't worry. They've been disposed of. You did a good job finding them, but you missed one knife."

"Where?"

"Strapped to the big one's leg. You would have found it if you weren't so squeamish."

She blushed. "I'll ... do better next time. I could have handled one, but we've never practiced with two attackers."

"We'll have to lure Marta back to the gym."

"She hates Aikido practice."

"She's too gentle a soul to make a convincing attack. Do you want Aikido films tonight?"

"No, save that for the gym. I want some films about making money. Maybe safecracking."

There was a long pause while he filled two bowls with fresh popcorn, smelling of newly melted butter. Then he handed her a paper cup that gave off the aroma of grape juice. She sipped the juice, then said, "And I don't want one of those stories of stupid rich kids squandering fortunes. Citizen Kane, for one. I don't know why they say it's such a great film."

She knew Art treasured the way she could always summon up a movie on any subject, so she always humored him. She was rewarded by the sound of a smile in his voice. "You're no stupid rich kid. When it comes to finance, you're your Dad's best student. But he'd rather you devote your life to other pursuits."

Ember heard Art crunching his popcorn. "Like what?"

"Anything you want. Your music, or chess–why did you give it up, anyway? You could learn another dozen languages. Get married. Raise a family."

"I must never have children."

"I'm not sure your blindness is genetic. Besides, you could always adopt children."

"Daddy doesn't think I should marry. He's afraid some man will marry me for my money … For his money." Ember bit her lower lip. "He guards me like a mother grizzly guards her cub." She rested her cheek on his broad shoulder. "And you're worse."

"We're only trying to protect you. Lots of men would love to take advantage of a rich ... girl."

"A rich blind girl, you were going to say. I know you never believe me, but I'm really reconciled to being blind–it's all I've ever known. I don't want any more trips halfway around the world to visit another expensive quack."

"Then tell me what you do want."

Ember hesitated, not sure if it was for his sake or hers. "I thought about this when I was on the beach. I'd like to be a philanthropist. Like Daddy. He gives money to all sorts of causes, like the Association for Conservation of America's Resources, Values, and Environment. I'm sure that ACARVE is a wonderful organization, but it's oriented to things, not people."

"A lot of the ACARVE money helps people. Resources benefit everyone."

"Sure, but I'd feel better using all that money to help people. Directly. If I'm destined to be rich and pampered, at least I can do something for the less fortunate people in the world."

Art rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I never really thought of that. Most folks would imagine that being blind made you one of the 'less fortunate.'"

"I'm not the only person in the world who can't see, but I may be the only one with access to so much money. There are millions of us who could use a little help."

He leaned over planted an avuncular kiss on the top of her blonde head. "You make me very proud, Baby. Very proud."

Ember could hear him tapping on the keyboards. "What are you doing?"

"Given your interest in philanthropy, I think I chose the wrong movies for today."

"How come?"

"Because mostly they're about illegal or immoral ways of getting money–like stealing and gambling. I was going to start with the Cincinnati Kid."

"Steve McQueen, right?"

"Right."

"It's about poker, isn't it? I never really understood."

"Well, then we'll watch something else."

"No, that's all right." She pushed her body back in the deep leather seat. "I keep finding advertisements for poker on-line. Maybe it's time I learned something about that part of life." Maybe it's a way to earn my escape. 

Chapter 9.

Ember banished.

After her Independence Day capture, Ember vowed to learn patience. While she worked to master internet poker, she avoided situations where she might experience another mysterious kidnapping attempt. She quietly sold a few of her less identifiable possessions in on-line auctions, hiding behind Marta as a front. She wasn't sure if Art knew what she was doing, but she received hints he was going to allow a bit more slack on her next escape attempt.

The attempt took place when her teddy bear would no longer hold her stash, just before Christmas. After six months of preparation, practice, she qualified for an all expenses trip to participate in a face-to-face tournament here in Las Vegas. The expedition was a kind of graduation to the adult world, but now she was bogged down in red tape at the fabulous Caligula's Castle. As a warmup for the tournament, she played in a few cash games. The casino supplied her with middle-aged man to be her card reader–to whisper what her cards were and to say out loud the other cards bets. He was not supposed to give advice, but to her annoyance, he did. She did well in spite of his advice, building up a small bankroll, but her very success caused her trouble.

One of the other tournament players, noticing her success, complained that the card reader's advice gave her an unfair advantage. Ember though that was ironic, but the casino decided she couldn't play in the tournament until they found her a new card reader acceptable to all parties. She wasn't sorry to be rid of the man–aside from his poor advice, his breath was like a ripe cesspool. But for now, all she could do was wait in the cigar-stinking audience listening to the dealer's calls against a background of tinny Christmas carols.

At first she amused herself trying to imagine what the people around the nearest table were like. What kind of clothing did they wear? How did the materials feel? Were they well stitched? She couldn't sort out the melange of colognes, after-shaves, and perfumes, but some characteristics were trivial. The men's voices were easily distinguished from the women's, and Ember could tell their height from the angle of the sound. She even knew most of their birthplaces from large and small nuances of speech.

I definitely need practice picking out their emotions. Emotions are the real key to poker, but there's no emotions on the internet. I'll need to know, just in case this rotten casino ever gives me a chance to join the tournament I qualified for.

A person's weight or the way they shaped their hair–those were definitely challenges. If she was allowed to play, she had no intention of groping her way around the table and running her fingers through someone's greasy hair. She laughed to herself. But Mr. Tall-Bass-voice-from-Milwaukee across the table might appreciate the gesture.

Ember was confident she could keep track of the number of chips in each player's stack. She could do those calculations when she played on line, so she figured that when she was finally at the table, it wouldn't be that different. For her, the math was simple.

She could also assess what was happening from the players' tone and demeanor, and from the other players' reactions when they won. Mr. Bass and Mrs. Shrill were the high rollers at this table, holding large stacks of chips. She sized up the others until she was sure she could handle all of them, especially since most of them were dead money–bad players who were never going to win, but just feed their chips to the others. To me, if I ever get to play.

Eager to test her theories, she left her seat and began to make her way unassisted to the office to check on her status. With her earpiece and sonic cane, she listened carefully for gaps in the ocean of sounds, weaving her way among the noisy slots and past the blackjack tables. After a few light collisions with moving gamblers and a couple of near misses, she reached her destination.

The office of Caligula's Castle was chillier than it had been earlier, and now smelled of artificial pine-scented cleaning fluid. Based on a few brief touches, she imagined the walls lacked the glamorous veneer the rest of the hotel displayed for the customers. Before she could explore the wood grain with her hand, she recognized the voice of the assistant manager, Ms. Bradley, whose tone exposed her genuine upset. "I'm sorry, Ms. Wells, but we're still not completely set up for you."

"What's the big difficulty?"

"Please don't take this personally, but in a casino, everyone is ultra sensitive to any possibility of someone ... gaining an unfair edge ..."

"You mean cheating?"

"Well, it's not that anybody thinks that you would be cheating, but ordinarily non-players are forbidden to communicate with any player seated at the tournament table. We have to get everyone's permission for one of our dealers to assist you. And you couldn't wear that earpiece."

"Sorry. I forgot I had it on. It's for my cane." She removed the plug and tucked it into her purse. "You could just use braille decks."

"That would be even harder. People would consider them 'marked cards.'"

"But nobody's allowed to touch anybody else's cards."

"True enough, but we have to be above any possible suspicion, reasonable or not. There are so many ways that people try to cheat at poker. But we'll let you know as soon as we have a suitable card-reader."

Ember said nothing and stalked out of the office. As she made her way back to the lobby, she heard the whirr of a wheel, the clicking of the little steel ball, and the sound of "Adeste Fideles" above her head. She found her way to the elevator, then to her "mountain-view" suite. She kicked off her shoes, not placing them with her usual care. She rubbed her feet for a few moments, then lay back on the sofa and began to daydream.

I'm so emotional, just like Maureen O'Hara in The Quiet Man. Daddy would say I need a John Wayne. A man who will be my steady anchor. Like Art–a gay man playing The Duke. Pretty funny.

The sound of revelers in the corridor snapped Ember back to the present–to Caligula's and her great adventure.

Regardless of what Daddy believes, winning a place in this tournament proves I can earn my own money and be independent. And it's so easy. Most poker players are mathematical morons–the on-line players at least.

Please, God, all I ever wanted was a chance.

Chapter 10.

Bolton's winning system.

The final strains of "Adeste Fideles" were just fading as Bolton and his grandmother stepped into Caligula's lobby. Bolton was so excited by what he was about to attempt that he barely noticed the tall elegant blind girl in the pale blue silk dress entering the elevators. He usually noticed all the beautiful young women–not that they noticed him.

He let Cathy register and find a porter while he hobbled as quickly as he could to the velvet rope that separated the lobby from the flashing lights and electronic sounds of the casino's slot machines. The machines were a much more interesting problem–much more fun–than some ridiculous cult's bombs, no matter how relentlessly his uncle attempted to recruit him. That's why he had shown his grandmother his secret power–what he could do with slot machines. It took a while, but he'd finally persuaded her to take this trip over her Christmas vacation.

"New Mexico is small time gaming," she had explained. "Better to go to Vegas, where your winnings won't be so easily noticed, even if you comp."

The elegant crowds in Caligula's opulent lobby seemed to confirm her observation. The forty-foot crystal Christmas tree in the center of the red-and-gold grand circle might cost more than the entire Casino Hollywood on the San Felipe Pueblo. He was staring open-mouthed at the matching crystal menorah standing in the curve of the yellow marble staircase when Cathy startled him by tapping on his shoulder. "It probably cost more than our house."

He shook himself back to her presence. "Are we all checked in?"

"We have to wait a few minutes while the verify that our suite is ready." She glanced into the rows of flashing slots. "But you go ahead and start playing. I'll stay here and wait for the porter."

"There are– I mean, I've waited this long. A few more minutes won't hurt. I'll stay with you."

They found an empty wood-and-velvet sofa facing the registration desk. Bolton plopped down, relieved to take the weight off his leg.

Cathy took his hand between both of hers. "I'm glad to see that you're developing some patience. We have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. All you need is just one big jackpot, or someone might be suspicious. Then you should quit for a few years while you spend it on something worthwhile. Or invest it. Believe me, you don't want to be a professional gambler."

Bolton, entranced by the lush surroundings, had been contemplating that very career. "Why not?"

"In the first place, it's a lousy life, and before long, you'll wind up into drinking or drugs. Or both. If they don't kill you, the smoke in these gambling dens will." She slid a ceramic ashtray with a smoldering cigarette to the farthest corner of the end table.

"You know I'm totally opposed to anything that alters my mind," he said vehemently. "What's the second reason?"

Cathy smiled and squeezed his hand. "Because I raised you, and I know you. You're easily bored. Besides, you're never going to be happy until you're doing something good for other people. And the gaming business is not that interesting, and definitely not a charity."

"You can't ... It's doing good for the Indians," he countered, still trying to deflect the implied praise.

He took a moment to study the crowd lingering in the lobby–not an Indian face among them. "Well, maybe not here in Vegas, but in New Mexico and other places."

"And how do you know that?"

"I've been following the good things they're doing with the profits–schools, hospitals, social welfare, things like that."

Cathy began to answer, but was interrupted by a female voice that seemed to emanate from the ceiling fresco. An angel seemed to be announcing a new poker tournament starting in fifteen minutes. Cathy looked up and shrugged. "'Things like that?' You've just proved my point. Notice where your real interest lies, or why would you follow 'things like that'?"

"Well, it doesn't ... I'm not that much of a philanthropist. I'd just like to have some money of my own so I can pursue my real interests–physics and computers. I'm going to make important theoretical contributions to String Theory. And robotics."

"And you will, Bolton. You will. But you can't be a physicist or a philanthropist if you're not taking care of yourself first. What do you think you need?"

As if in response, a petite, exquisitely gowned woman tripped on his twisted leg–which was stretched out to ease the pain. He winced as the shock reached his hip and penetrated his groin. "Sorry," he mumbled as the woman tossed him an icy look.

Even without the agonizing reminder, Cathy knew he wanted a new leg, even though he knew that was futile. They'd exhausted all existing medical technology, and his leg was still deformed and five inches short of normal. He blocked the pain out of his mind, partly succeeding. "For one thing, I'd like an up-to-date wardrobe."

Cathy seemed pleased, probably because he had never before taken much interest in how he dressed. "Exactly the right idea. Strings in physics might be fine, but you can't have strings hanging off your clothes when we go to Vegas." Her eyes told him to check out all the sophisticated bling circulating on the Persian rugs. She picked a bit of white lint off his new navy blazer. "Otherwise, they might toss you out of these big-time houses. Instead, you're going in a style that fits what you're shooting for."

A togaed bellboy approached to tell them their room was ready. As the passed the bank of elevators, Bolton paused to regard himself in the mirror. From the neck up, he looked pretty good. Maybe once I win my fortune, I can hire a tailor to hide the rest. Maybe then I could get a girlfriend.

Chapter 11.

Meeting

Later that evening, when he finally reached the casino, Bolton's life wasn't changing–not for the better, anyway. He wasn't faring well at the slots. During his months of practice in New Mexico, he'd learned to ignore the the ringing of bells and the flickering red, green, and blue lights–even the acrid smell of smoke. Not tonight.

It was all fine and dandy for Cathy to tell him to score big on the slots. It was just that he couldn't figure out how to do it, and nothing made Bolton angrier than something he couldn't figure out.

He had no problem with the circuit patterns. Thought they were different from the poker machines, they were just as predictable. And, he could translate the internal patterns into the upcoming slot symbols–cherries, watermelons, pears, bananas and lemons; stars and planets; olives and onions; it made no difference. But none of that really helped him win.

The problem was that the slots were different from the draw poker machines. They didn't give him choices. He knew what was coming up on the next spin, but he couldn't do anything about it except raise his bet to the maximum when a winner was imminent. That would provide a small advantage, but would pretty quickly attract attention. He knew there were watchers behind the security cameras, just waiting to spot some unusual pattern of play.

No, he was at the mercy of the machines–unless he happened upon an abandoned slot just primed to pay off. And if he kept searching the hundreds of slot machines for the few that were ready to pop, the watchers were sure to notice that, too.

Earlier, he had completely decoded the patterns of the simple slots. Now, he adopted the routine of studying the progressive slots whenever he could do so without attracting notice. The progressives, of course–like the classics Betty Boop and Popeye–were the big attraction, so watching someone take a spin wasn't unusual behavior. During busy hours, Bolton could always hide himself as part of a small crowd of spectators all watching the growth of the massive jackpot.

The progressives' bonanza accumulated continuously, adding a small proportion of the cash played in dozens of slots throughout an entire network of casinos. The lower digits flickered past too quickly for the eye to follow the pennies, dimes, and dollars that, over time, created the huge payoff–the pot of gold at the end of all slot players' rainbows. This was the payoff that attracted Bolton to Vegas. Currently, the prize pool stood at well over Cathy's goal of $500,000. Half a million dollars.

He cursed himself for his inability to influence the outcomes. Like all the other slot players, he was at the mercy of chance. As the kitty mounted, so did his gnawing frustration.

Since three that afternoon, he had been trapped in an ineffective cycle. He would build up his stake by winning a few hundred dollars at the draw poker machines, then squander most of it, three dollars at a time, in one of the progressive slots. When his stake ran low, he would return to the poker machines to begin again. As if this frustrating cycle weren't bad enough, the two voices in his head squabbled endlessly.

Not exactly fruitless, dummy, his critical voice nagged. You're seeing lots of cherries and lemons.

Very funny, but I'm getting nowhere. Why don't you shut up so I can concentrate.

Nasty, nasty! I think you're running low on blood sugar. What you need is some real fruit.

That, at least, made sense. He limped out of the casino and rode the glass elevator upstairs to change clothes before joining his grandmother for dinner in the Roman Room. A barefoot hostess wearing a flimsy white tunic led him to Cathy's table. Once he took his eyes off her departing form, he was pleased to see that his grandmother had found a dinner companion–a slim blonde girl wearing dark sunglasses, in spite of the dim restaurant light.

Though he couldn't see the girl's eyes, she looked about his age. She was elegantly dressed, bedecked in diamonds, and beautiful–except for a smear of food on her cheek. When he reached the table, he leaned over to kiss his grandmother on the forehead. "I've been ..." Dammit. Stop doing that! You sound like an imbecile. Think before you open your mouth. "Good evening ladies. May I join you?"

"Would you mind?" Cathy asked her companion. "Bolton's my grandson.. Bolton, this is Ember. We met in the lobby. We're both at loose ends, so we've spent the loveliest time together, getting acquainted. You two have a lot in common, like chess and music."

"That's nice," he said, absentmindedly staring at the food on the table, but still preoccupied with the slot machine puzzle.

Cathy turned to her companion. "Bolton must be losing. Ordinarily, he's quite the gentleman." She patted the chair next to her and held out one of the crisp breadsticks. "Come, sit down. Eat some grissini and take your mind off your losses."

Once he was seated and had a few calories in his belly, Bolton looked more closely at the blonde. Seeing how young and how pretty she was, he felt compelled to impress her. He started to say something, then caught himself and thought for a moment about what to say. "I'm not losing, Cathy. I'm breaking even, trying to play your slot machine system."

The girl spoke for the first time. "Your grandmother tells me you have a system. I've noticed how everyone with a system is 'breaking even.' Funny how the casino stays in business with all those systems out there."

Bolton stiffened. Is she mocking you, or just kidding?

Looking more closely, he realized she was more than pretty. Even with the smear of food on her face, she was stunning. Don't blow this, Bolton.

He shaped his voice into as reasonable a tone as he could manage, considering his words carefully. "That's probably true for most players, Amber, but I do have a system that works. It's just that Cathy had some ideas about how I could do better. The problem is that I haven't been successful at making her ideas work."

He realized he was rattling on, but he couldn't stop. "If I didn't have my own system to turn to once in a while, I'd be broke by now. You're mostly right, though. Her system is definitely a loser."

(end of this sample)

If you are a reviewer for a regular publication and would like a review copy of this novel, email me with your request for a reviewer copy.