The Tesla Gate (12 page)

As we walked out the door I put my arm around him and squeezed tight until I felt the odd mix of cold and warmth.

“You're a special kid, buddy,” I said with a wink. “I love you.”

He didn't reply, but his beaming smile was the only response I required.

“Wait!” the desk clerk shouted before we made it through the door. “Let me make a phone call.”

I turned around and watched her nervously dial the phone. A few moments later, someone answered.

“Hello, Lizzie, this is Rose,” she said, excited. “Can I ask you a small favor tonight?”

She paused, listening for several seconds then said, “I have a nice man and little boy that are desperate for a place to stay tonight. Your guest room still empty?”

Rose listened for several more seconds then smirked and shook her head.

“Fine, I'll make you a pot of my chili this weekend. I appreciate your
hospitality
,” she said, putting sarcastic emphasis on the last word.

Rose the desk clerk hung up the phone and smiled. It was a hesitant smile as her brow wrinkled fretfully.

“You can stay in my sister's guest room tonight, as long as you keep it clean.”

“Of course we will, thank you,” I said, but I don't think she heard me. She was busy rummaging through her desk drawers for a pen and paper. She eventually produced a pencil that had probably made its last trip through the sharpener and a wrinkled yellow Post-It note. She pinched the stub of a pencil tightly between her pudgy thumb and middle finger, then hurriedly scribbled on the paper.

“Here is the address,” she said, extending the Post-It note to me with the sticky part clinging to her index finger. “Her name is Lizzie Chenowith.”

I took it from her and thanked her again. I started to leave, but Rose spoke. Not to me, to Seth.

“What's your name, young man?”

He smiled and walked back to the counter.

“Seth … Seth Pendleton,” my son said, proudly.

I could tell Rose was still apprehensive, but her sudden friendly demeanor toward Seth was genuine enough.

“Well Seth, I would like to give you something in return,” she said as she reached under the counter and produced a Hershey's bar.

Seth's face beamed. Hershey's milk chocolate is his absolute favorite. When I considered the potential messy side effects of a six-year-old and a chocolate bar, I said a silent prayer to give thanks for squenching.

“Thank you.” Seth rolled the chocolate bar over in his hands, anticipating the chocolaty goodness.

“You're welcome … you are a nice young man,” she said.

Seth smiled and turned to follow me out the door.

“Do you need directions?” Rose called to me.

I looked down at the Post-It note and smiled.

“No, I should be able to find it with my GPS. Thank you again, Rose. I really appreciate this.”

Before I could turn to leave, Rose's eyes grew as big as saucers and she shrieked. I turned back to the door just in time to see a silvery streak shoot by outside the glass, knocking Seth off of his feet and out of sight.

CHAPTER 14

Jackson

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want
to test a man's character, give him power.”

—Abraham Lincoln

As I ran out the door, I was filled with a terror that only a parent who has lost a child can know. It was as if my nightmare had returned. What had happened to him? Had something taken him, had the phenomenon suddenly ended? That thought hung in the air like a poisonous gas as the world seemed to be moving in slow motion with the luminescent light of the phenomenon highlighting every detail of the night with eerie foreboding.

I had forgotten to breathe as I bolted through the door and rounded the far side of the car. That's why I could only rasp a one word response to the sight I beheld.

“Seth?”

Seth lay on his back giggling with joy as a small object with a similar silvery glow to Seth's hopped from his chest to his head and back to his chest again. It didn't register to me at first what I was seeing and I instinctively lunged for the object as it hopped back to Seth's chest. It turned and made a high-pitched yelp as it came toward me. I was just about to cry out with surprise when I realized what I was seeing. I stopped and dropped to my knees with amused disbelief as I felt an ice-cold tongue lapping at my hand, then glowing warmth as it penetrated through my flesh. I was briefly reminded of the phrase “warm hearts, cold noses” that was used to promote a local animal shelter back home.

Standing—no, more like bouncing—in front of me was an Impalpable, one unlike any I had seen as of yet. It was a full-grown border collie whose silvery luminescence shone as brightly as the happy dog's playful personality. It stopped licking and looked up at me hopefully. When I did nothing more than stare in disbelief, it barked twice and bounded back to Seth, planting a big doggie kiss on his cheek. He shrieked with delight and stroked the pooch's head.

“Can we keep him, Daddy?” Seth pleaded.

I absently got to my feet about the same time Rose the night clerk came through the door. I assured her everything was fine, but that didn't stop her from staring with bewilderment at Seth and his newfound friend. When I spoke again, I think it startled her, because she jumped with a start like someone had just goosed her ample fanny.

“Thank you, Rose. We're fine,” I said.

She looked at me and nodded then backed through the door, keeping her eye on Seth and the dog like someone who didn't want to turn their back on a dangerous animal. The door had just swung closed when Seth asked again.

“Can we keep him, Daddy?”

It had dawned on me in the past few moments that what I was witnessing was the second most incredible thing of this whole phenomenon. Ironically enough, one of Seth's favorite movies is
All Dogs Go to Heaven
. I guess the answer to that is, indeed they do. The ones that choose to do so, anyway. This one had obviously chosen not to go through the door, or in this case, doggie door. The age-old debate of whether or not animals have a soul was just answered by a playful border collie.

“Pllleeeease, Daddy,” Seth pleaded again.

Under normal circumstances, I would have said absolutely not. I am not an animal hater by any means, just not a fan of dogs. We never allowed Seth to have a dog because I had always considered them filthy creatures. Why anyone would willingly clean up the messes of a creature of lesser intelligence I would never know. Not to mention the perpetual “dog” smell that could never be fumigated no matter how many times you bathed the hairy beast. But then these were not normal circumstances, were they?

This was indeed a dog, but sans the unpleasantness of dogs. Besides, Seth needed a friend, one that was more like him. Not to compare my son to a dog, but this particular canine is more like him than I am, in the physical sense, anyway. I had just seen Seth interact with Impalpables at lunch, but there was no physical contact. It seemed as normal and as solid to them as it would for me to interact with another flesh-and-blood person. Something told me that he needed this interaction, this connection … so I agreed.

“Okay, buddy, but he is your responsibility,”

The words were no sooner out of my mouth when the subject of squenching came to mind. Could a dog do it? Could they be, for lack of a better word, squench-broken? I doubted it, but I decided we would cross that bridge when we came to it.

I opened the door to our vehicle and the dog bounded inside like he belonged. He turned in the passenger seat and gave two quick barks to Seth as if to say,
“Well, are you coming?”

Seth clambered in behind him and took his seat as the dog happily curled up in his lap.

I got in and started the vehicle then entered the address that Rose had given me into the GPS. There was a moment there that I wondered if the storm had affected my high-tech navigation system as it searched for a satellite signal, but after a few moments my course was plotted; it looked like it was going to take about 15 minutes to get there. I shifted the vehicle into reverse and glanced at Seth. He was lovingly stroking the dog's head. As I shifted into drive I said, “Well buddy, what are you going to name him?”

He closed one eye like Popeye and frowned.

“Hmmmmm … let me see,” he said, then kissed the pooch between the ears. The dog happily wagged his tail and reciprocated with a lick to the end of Seth's nose.

“Rover … or Spot?” I suggested.

“That's so clickay, Daddy. Everyone names their dogs that!”

He's right, it was cliché, but that's all I could come up with at the moment. I couldn't help but smile at his use of a word that is generally above the head of a six-year-old. The pronunciation was a little off, but I give him an A for effort. Like I have always said, he is a smart little guy.

“Where are we?” Seth asked.

I squinted out the window, trying to make out the white lettering on the street sign as it reflected an ethereal glow from the phenomenon.

“Looks like Davis Street.”

Seth gave a sigh of frustration.

“No, Daddy. What town are we in?”

“Jackson. Jackson, Tennessee.”

He did another quick impression of Popeye and then smiled broadly.

“Jackson! How do you like that boy?” he said as he patted the dog's head.

The dog voiced its approval with a series of excited barks and another round of doggie kisses to Seth's face.

“Okay, boy,” he giggled. “Jackson it is!”

The incident outside the motel changed the dynamic of our trip, but not nearly as much as the events happening this very night, things that were very far away in both distance and concept but would soon enough be made horrifically apparent and dangerously close. It seems that the worst decisions in human history are based on ignorance and fear. Yes, the fear
du jour
is usually different—in this case it is monumentally different—but the same knee-jerk reaction is almost as constant as the sunset. Unfortunately, like the sunset, night must run its course before light can once again bring the clarity of a new sunrise.

Political posturing, manipulation, and corruption are at the very core of this issue, a fact I can speak confidently of due to the eyewitness recounting of measures taken from one of my favorite politicians, a man I had never met and never dreamed that I would, but I would soon be crossing paths with him in a most unorthodox way.

Abraham Lincoln stood in the corner of the Oval Office, staring absently at a small painting of an old wooden schooner. He was fond of the painting, though it was not one that was added during his administration but several years later by Teddy Roosevelt. The small piece of art reminded him of a simpler and happier time when he was alive, alive in the flesh-and-blood sense. It reminded him of his boat trips down the Mississippi River to New Orleans in his youth. He loved to stroll through the port in his spare time and admire the great sea vessels with masts that seemed as tall as great oak trees.

The problem with most sea ports was that one must always be on their guard. Characters from all over the world would converge there, and a person never knew if the next corner taken would put them face to face with a friendly sailor or one who would put a knife in your gut for the few pennies carried in your pocket. Or even worse, throw a hood over your head and force or sell you into servitude. Abe never had this problem, possibly because of his intimidating size and muscular frame from years of chopping wood, but he was still on his guard as he admired the ships. He was big and intimidating, but he was no fool. A strong sense of
déjà vu
descended over him as he looked at the ship in the painting and listened apprehensively to what was going on in the room.

The sitting president's staff was assembled. Most of the cabinet was present, along with two guests: the president's science advisor, Dr. Ray Winder, and the great Albert Einstein. Even Mr. Lincoln was familiar with Einstein's accomplishments; the German-born scientist had made several trips to the White House in the years preceding his death. Lincoln had observed several of these meetings, but of course he and Einstein had never really met.

Ray Winder sat on one of the blue sofas perpendicular to the president's desk. He sat quietly nursing a mug of black coffee that had just made the slow journey from lukewarm to room temperature. He had consumed copious amounts of the caffeinated beverage today, he and millions of others, so he was not in a hurry to finish this cup. He knew he needed it, though, because it was going to be another sleepless night. The stocks of Folgers and Maxwell House had probably risen ten-percent in the past few days; there weren't many people who could or wanted to sleep, not with what was currently happening. I'm reasonably sure that most of the motel rooms in Jackson were not occupied by peacefully sleeping travelers, but by people who were just tired of driving or possibly even afraid to drive any further.

Most people would have probably mistaken the sullen expression on Winder's face as that of extreme fatigue, like someone who hasn't slept in a couple of days. That much was true but Mr. Lincoln recognized this expression for what it was, God knew he had seen it dozens of times during his life. It was the sallow and haggard expression of a man under extreme stress. Abe had seen this countenance on the face of his generals shortly before they were to engage in a campaign that would undoubtedly cost dozens, if not hundreds, of young men's lives. But this unpleasant memory was not only relegated to the president's military leaders; Mr. Lincoln had seen this same look more times than he could count in the four years of his presidency, clearly reflected each time he passed one of the White House's numerous mirrors.

Something was going on, something terrible. There was little doubt left when Einstein got up and exited the room with obvious disgust. Winder sat perfectly still, staring into the dark contents of his mug as the president addressed him.

“Ray, what is your assessment? When will this get out of control?”

He paused and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice didn't sound like someone who had consumed large amounts of coffee but rather a person that has just spent a week in the desert.

“A week, maybe two.”

“So …” the president persisted, “you are in agreement with the military's opinion?”

A tear streaked down Winder's face and splashed into his coffee, sending a gentle halo of ripples around his mug. He did not agree, although Mr. Lincoln was not aware of that at the time; he thought the government was being hasty considering it had only been 48 hours. Yes, they were frightened, everyone was frightened, but he knew that was no excuse.

Actually … a part of him did agree with the assessment. The facts were there; it was just a matter of simple mathematics. It was estimated that within two weeks, the US population – living and Impal – would increase by almost 300,000. That was not taking into consideration the number of Impals that were already here. The number would continue to increase the longer the phenomenon lasted.

Winder agreed with the assessment, but it was the solution that troubled his soul. He couldn't help but think of the term the Nazis used: “the final solution.” Was that a fitting analogy? Perhaps not, or perhaps it was more fitting in more ways than one. He was in a precarious position as the science advisor, one that he could see no way out of for himself except death. Given the current circumstances, that was not a viable option either.

Winder did not answer aloud, but nodded his head weakly. He excused himself to the restroom and heaved violently as if his body were trying to expel his guilt along with his stomach contents.

The president dismissed the meeting a short time afterwards while Winder was still indisposed. On the final advice of his Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a General Ott Garrison; he gave the order to begin the “project” immediately. It was no secret to anyone in the inner circles of Washington politics that Garrison actually had more pull and influence than the Secretary of Defense, a post he would probably be appointed to in the near future. The problem was that he was still active duty in the Army, and under normal circumstances he would have to wait seven years after resigning his commission. But he was not the type of man who would let a little detail like that set him back; he was good at finding loopholes and taking advantage of opportunity, a talent that had served him well in his 30 years of service.

This would be the last night our illustrious 16th President would spend in the White House. His suspicions had been validated in his mind; he couldn't be a part of what was to come. Oh, sure, the “project” sounded innocent and helpful, but if that were the case, why were Einstein and Winder so upset? Lincoln didn't know for sure exactly what was going on, but there was one thing that 200 years of life experience had taught him: The devil's favorite disguises are always innocent and helpful.

I suppose it is a good thing that I didn't know the details of what was happening or going to happen until much later. I was already nervous about my precious time with Seth. I knew it was borrowed time, a gift that could be gone at any second. I was afraid to take my eyes off him, afraid to sleep because when I opened my eyes again he may be gone. I didn't think I could endure the pain of losing him twice.