Shatter Point Read online

  Jack pointed to a few dents in the front right bumper. “Having problems with trees jumping out at you again, Aunt Jackie?”

  “That’s my blind spot.”

  “Your blind spot is the front right bumper?” Jack asked, incredulous. “Maybe I should drive.”

  “You’d have to pry the keys from my dead hand. I still don’t understand why Maggie got you that bicycle.”

  “Doesn’t the car have a sensor that automatically stops it before it hits something?” Tom asked. Every car had a sensor for safety. The Silver Bullet was old, but not that old.

  “Yes, it used to, but the damn thing kept going off, so I disabled it. Every ten feet the car jerked to a stop. I can’t drive like that. I started driving long before those stupid sensors were invented.”

  “That sensor communicates with the other vehicles on the road, Aunt Jackie,” Tom explained. “Without that sensor, they won’t automatically stop before they crash into you. Their auto-drive feature won’t work.”

  “Sucks for them.” She pressed the door latch on her remote key, and the locks on all four doors responded.

  Tom hesitated when he opened the door. The interior was in worse shape than the exterior, with duct tape covering rips in the seats in a dozen places. Still, Aunt Jackie couldn’t fit on Jack’s bike, even if the idea brought a smile to Tom’s face.

  Aunt Jackie settled behind the wheel on an orange cushion that squawked under her weight.

  Jack snickered from the backseat as Tom calculated the angles and realized the cushion wasn’t for her comfort. It raised her body just high enough for her to see over the dashboard. She couldn’t see the right front edge of the car because she still sat too low. She needed another four inches, but her toes barely reached the pedals at this height, which explained the blind spot and the dents. He shook his head and reached for the seatbelt.

  Aunt Jackie pressed the start button and nothing happened. Jack moaned from the back as she tried again. Still nothing. “I drove over here okay. I don’t know what’s wrong with the thing. It has enough gas. Sometimes it’s a little finicky.”

  She tapped the start button in rapid fire as if it were a video game controller and she gunned down aliens. Each time, she jammed the button harder. She stopped after a half dozen times and pounded the steering wheel with her small fists.

  Tom held up his left hand. “The car has an electrical problem. Let me take a look at the circuit board.” He pushed back the front seat as far as it would go, shifted under the dash, and looked for the circuit board. “Do you have a mirror or something I could use to catch a better look under here?”

  She rummaged through her bag and handed him a small, round mirror.

  After a short search, he found the circuit board, unscrewed it with his fingers, and popped the plastic board off. He squinted at the reflection. The panel contained a series of computer chips lined up in two rows. Tom noticed the problem immediately.

  “One of the chips is blown.” He pulled a blackened chip off the board and lifted the charred bit of metal so Aunt Jackie and Jack both saw it. “It must control the ignition. You wouldn’t have any replacement chips around here anywhere, would you, Aunt Jackie?”

  She shook her head.

  Of course not.

  “How about a small screwdriver?” he asked without much hope for success.

  “Sure, I use one of those for my reading glasses.” She dug around in her bag and pulled out a small expandable screwdriver.

  “That should work.” Tom smiled. “Jack, I’m going to need a small strip of wire. Nothing longer than six inches.”

  “I’ll find it.” Jack bounded out of the car and jogged back toward the apartment.

  Tom went to work on the panel. He unscrewed the board and let it hang down, exposing a series of blue and red wires from behind the panel. He studied them carefully. He knew the basics about car design. His school didn’t offer classes in automotive mechanics, but he became interested in the topic when he fixed Jack’s bike, so he read up on it. Cars worked just like every other machine—maybe more complicated than most, but his mind reveled in the complicated. At least the mechanical problem gave him a short refuge from obsessing over his mom.

  The battery still held a charge, because the doors unlocked when Aunt Jackie used the remote control key. Usually, the wire that connected the battery to the rest of the car was thicker than the ones that connected the chips to the rest of the board. He ran his fingertips against the wires and assessed their gauge. On the third pass, he figured he had the right one.

  Jack returned and Tom took the wire from him. “This should do just fine. I’m going to bypass the chip and connect this portal directly to the battery. The wire might burn out when the car starts, but it should work for at least one start.” He ducked back under the dashboard. “When I connect the wire, press the start button, Aunt Jackie.”

  He used the mirror and some nifty handwork to attach the wire, bypass the defective chip, and hook the battery directly into the portal. “Almost done, Aunt Jackie.”

  “Okay, Thomas.”

  “Wait—”

  Aunt Jackie pressed the start button.

  The battery’s electric current surged through Tom’s fingers. He squealed and jerked his body up, clunking his head hard against the dashboard.

  The car started.

  He rubbed his scalp as he sat up, his hand still numb. “Aunt Jackie, I said to start the car when I told you it was okay.”

  “Sorry, Thomas, I thought you said it was okay.” She shrugged, shifted the car into drive, and without looking in her rearview mirror, swung away from the curb and cut off a red coupe in the process. At the blaring of the driver’s horn, she flipped him the bird.

  Country music flooded the small interior.

  “You’ve got to shut off that noise!” Jack shouted from the backseat.

  “That’s not noise, that’s Waylon Jennings. It would do you good to listen to some real music.”

  Jack clutched both hands over his ears. “I stand corrected.”

  Tom worked the radio controls without success. “The stereo must be connected to that chip. I can’t shut it off.”

  Aunt Jackie pulled a bulky mobile phone from her bag. “Be a dear, Thomas, and press speed dial 14.”

  He looked warily at the device, three times the size of any phone he’d ever used. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Where’d you find it?”

  “It’s a low frequency phone, Thomas—hard to trace. Just press the S button and then the one and four for me.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. The phone wasn’t simply old. It was valuable. He dialed the number and handed her the phone.

  She drove slowly, working the steering wheel with one hand and the phone with the other. “I’ve got to come in, Rachel. It’s an emergency. It has to do with Maggie. I have the boys with me also. I’ll use the usual entrance. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” She stuffed the phone back into her bag and ignored the surprised look Tom gave her.

  He turned to face Jack. “Where’d you get that wire?”

  Jack ignored the question and stared out the window, his hands still covering his ears.

  “No, seriously, Jack, I need to know so I can calculate whether the wire might last through another start.”

  Jack grinned. “I used one from your stereo. It’s the only place I could think to look.”

  Tom slumped back into his seat. “Great.”

  He gazed at Aunt Jackie, who appeared different, more alive than usual, and somehow dangerous. He suddenly felt that he didn’t really know much about his family.

  Who is she, and what’s her connection to the Fourteenth Colony?

  Samuel Wickersham leaned back in his leather chair, head hung low, a gloomy mood clouding his day. Having just worked up a sweat playing Helicopter Madness for the last two hours, he failed to advance to the championship round. Even worse, his scores had started to slip.

  He looked somberly at Emmanuelle, t
he main character of the game—an attractive, if not impossibly built, bikini-clad female helicopter pilot. Her character’s official name was Jane, but he’d renamed her Emmanuelle and spent enough time playing the game to begin having salacious thoughts about her. He switched the game off his new holographic computer monitor.

  As head of research, he should have been reviewing the weekly progress reports from the ten different research teams who worked in the labs. Each team leader filmed a short video update on his or her project with supporting documentation, and he watched the videos. He didn’t focus on what the team leaders said, really, but studied their body language. He believed his strength was in “reading” people, and rarely opened the documents. What would be the point?

  In truth, the weekly progress reports depressed him, and the science behind the projects baffled him. He did his best to keep up, reading the latest articles in academic journals, attending a few of the conferences. He understood enough to ask superficial questions when he met the research teams in person. Still, he focused on the big picture. He had to wade through the shallow end of the pool because the details would drown him.

  He drummed his fingers against the desk. He’d heard the talk around the facility—some called him a political hack and joked about his “credentials.” No one liked him, and they were right. He had no business being head of research.

  Still, he hated the researchers. God, how I hate them! He envied their ability and despised their aloofness. The two emotions wrapped around themselves like a double helix until they became inseparable. He wanted to hurt them, but he needed them. Their work would lift him up, so long as he took credit for it.

  And he would take credit for it. If only he possessed abilities of his own to see the world differently than others, to figure out truths no one had previously known. Darian’s work intrigued him because he imagined it could open those windows for him. Yes, the project could help cure Alzheimer’s and senility, but even Wickersham saw other applications. Perhaps he could take the drug himself. Maybe it would change him, make him smarter, make him special. He so wanted to be special.

  His family had made a fortune in construction, but his father and two older brothers ran the family business and had excluded him.

  His mother had encouraged him to further his education. “Let the rest of the family handle the business,” she said. “You should do something else, something important.”

  Mom had no idea what he should study, and he quickly realized what he studied wasn’t the point so long as his studies were far removed from the family business. His parents had never physically abused him, but they beat him over the head with low expectations, which might not have been as bad, but certainly left a mark.

  Upon his mother’s urging, he earned a doctorate in nonverbal communications with a concentration on lower-developed animals from a second rate institution that wanted a new administration building and a new office for the dean. Cooper got him appointed at the hospital. It wasn’t the first job Cooper had used his influence to obtain for Samuel, but it was the best so far.

  As director of two secret research projects that had far-reaching implications, he almost felt important. He so wanted to win a Nobel Prize, and had already memorized his acceptance speech. He would take credit for the project and finally show his father that he had value—that he mattered. He just hoped his father would live long enough to see it. If the old man croaked the day after his acceptance speech, he would be happy. Elated, really.

  He removed the miniature taser from his pocket. Usually, the tiny weapon lifted his mood, but his melancholy persisted. He would rather carry a gun, but he feared shooting himself again. Unfortunately, his record with the taser was only marginally better, including a regrettable incident during a lap dance at a bachelor party two years earlier. Still, he shuddered to think what would have happened if he’d had a gun in his pocket.

  The intercom buzzed and he jumped, fumbling the taser on the desk. He pressed the button and his secretary’s voice sprang from the box. “Doctor Beck is here to see you, Doctor Wickersham.”

  He grinned. His assistant always called him Doctor Wickersham. He liked how that sounded. “Have him wait five minutes and then let him in.”

  He unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk, opened a leather case, took out a small glass vial, and poured the contents of the vial into a glass of water. He needed a little pick-up before confronting Doctor Beck. The drug was the latest mood enhancement narcotic on the underground market. It worked instantly. As he gulped down the glass of water, his spirits rose. Water dribbled off his chin, but he didn’t care.

  Darian smiled at Clair as he strolled into the waiting area outside Wickersham’s office. “I’m here to see the Doctor.” He dragged out the last part of the word as if it were magically transformed into a dirty dishtowel he had discarded.

  Clair frowned, but her eyes twinkled. “You shouldn’t tease him, Darian. You know how sensitive he is about his credentials.”

  He winked mischievously. “I would never doubt his credentials.”

  While she worked the intercom, he scanned the pictures that littered the top of her desk. Most of them showed her family, but a few displayed members of her church. Although not religious himself, he remembered the mandatory sermons at the orphanage. The priest had passionately preached that God was an unfettered capitalist—the original Adam Smith. All other economic systems were the work of Satan himself.

  He had his doubts, and sure didn’t understand where orphanages, or working children, or addicted mothers fit in to God’s plan, so he turned to science. He was smart enough to know that science didn’t answer all the questions, but he wasn’t ready to give God serious consideration.

  “You’ll have to wait a few minutes before he sees you,” Clair said, interrupting his musings.

  He clasped both hands behind his back and pulled, stretching his body. Coiled so tightly, he thought his muscles might explode any second. The results from the latest computer simulation on Jack’s condition would be finished any minute, and his stomach soured in anticipation of bad news. “Do you have any idea when his busy schedule will allow him to see me?”

  “He’s in a bit of a mood today, so I’d take it easy with him,” she whispered.

  He resisted telling her what he really thought about Wickersham’s moods.

  He resolved to call Jack and his mom later in the day to come clean with them, to explain the situation and his role in Jack’s condition. He would accept the ramifications of the truth, but they needed to know Jack had little time left. Darian would continue to search for a cure, but in all honesty, he didn’t know where to look. He needed more information. Anything he tried now would constitute an unlikely guess.

  He had failed them.

  He pulled himself from his trance and focused on Clair. “How’s that sweet little girl of yours?”

  “She’s growing like a weed. I can’t believe she’s already ten.” She flipped around a framed picture of her daughter, who looked like a young version of Clair, all smiles in a yellow dress and pigtails.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Darian.” She looked at him with one eyebrow lifted. “Are you ready to settle down, maybe have a child of your own?”

  “I thought you were already married!”

  She blushed and chuckled. “I know a really nice girl from my church that I think you’d like.”

  He wondered if there was an unlimited supply of women from Clair’s church looking for mates, or if she always had the same girl in mind. Before he could respond, the intercom buzzed. “Saved by the buzzer.”

  Clair grinned. “He’ll see you now.”

  Darian swung the door open and strode into Wickersham’s office. He had no idea why his boss had called the meeting, but he felt a little like he used to when called to the Warden’s office in the orphanage for fighting.

  Bright light flooded through the windows behind Wickersham’s desk.

  He squinte
d as he trekked his way toward his boss, who slouched behind his massive oak desk and fiddled with his bright red tie.

  “Welcome, Doctor Beck. Good to see you. Please take a seat.” Wickersham brushed a few imaginary particles of dust from his charcoal suit as he talked.

  Darian didn’t budge. He kept a scowl planted on his face like a danger sign. “I’d rather stand.”

  “Well, suit yourself.” Wickersham leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands, his eyes smiling.

  Darian assumed the rest of his face tried to follow along, but only so much free movement remained after the plastic surgeries.

  “I’ve interrupted your good work because of an exciting development. A powerful benefactor of your research wants to meet with you and hear an update in person. This is a great opportunity for me... I mean for you, to sell EBF-202. Millions in funding may be on the line.”

  Darian listened to the words, but it took a moment for them to register. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear; he’d assumed the worst, that maybe Wickersham had removed him from the project.

  As the initial surprise thawed, he started to heat up. “Who’s the mysterious benefactor?”

  “I can’t say right now.” Wickersham drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “Does he know about Jack?”

  “No, of course not.” Wickersham’s eyes widened. “That’s our secret. There’s no need to mention that until we see how it all plays out with the tennis instructor. We need to focus on the drug’s positives. We’ll stress the incredible possibilities behind the treatment, and the improvements from the first version.”

  “The treatment has a long way to go. I still can’t stop it from overdeveloping the brain. We’ve lost all the canine test subjects but one, and Jack’s not doing well.” Darian leaned against the desk, his shoulders folded downward. He had invested so much of his life into this research, and made tremendous strides, but at what cost? If they hadn’t injected Jack, everything would be different. But they had, and now the truth and Jack’s life hung precariously by a thread of Darian’s making.