The Perfect Test

The Perfect Test

The Perfect Test Ron Dietel UCLA Graduate School of Education and Information Studies, Los Angeles, California USA

SENSE PUBLISHERS ROTTERDAM/BOSTON/TAIPEI

A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-94-6091-476-8 (paperback) ISBN: 978-94-6091-477-5 (hardback) ISBN: 978-94-6091-478-2 (e-book)

Published by: Sense Publishers, P.O. Box 21858, 3001 AW Rotterdam, The Netherlands www.sensepublishers.com

Printed on acid-free paper

All Rights Reserved © 2011 Sense Publishers No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose of being entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work.

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my wife, Susan, to my children, Coty and Markie, and to any student or adult who has ever failed a test

v

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface..................................................................................................................... ix Acknowledgements ................................................................................................. xi CHAPTER 1 .......................................................................................................... 1 CHAPTER 2 .......................................................................................................... 5 CHAPTER 3 .......................................................................................................... 9 CHAPTER 4 ........................................................................................................ 13 CHAPTER 5 ........................................................................................................ 21 CHAPTER 6 ........................................................................................................ 25 CHAPTER 7 ........................................................................................................ 27 CHAPTER 8 ........................................................................................................ 31 CHAPTER 9 ........................................................................................................ 33 CHAPTER 10 ........................................................................................................ 35 CHAPTER 11 ........................................................................................................ 37 CHAPTER 12 ........................................................................................................ 41 CHAPTER 13 ........................................................................................................ 43 CHAPTER 14 ........................................................................................................ 45 CHAPTER 15 ........................................................................................................ 51 CHAPTER 16 ........................................................................................................ 55 CHAPTER 17 ........................................................................................................ 61 CHAPTER 18 ........................................................................................................ 63 CHAPTER 19 ........................................................................................................ 67 CHAPTER 20 ........................................................................................................ 69 CHAPTER 21 ........................................................................................................ 71 CHAPTER 22 ........................................................................................................ 77 CHAPTER 23 ........................................................................................................ 79 CHAPTER 24 ........................................................................................................ 83 vii

CHAPTER 25 ........................................................................................................ 87 CHAPTER 26 ........................................................................................................ 89 CHAPTER 27 ........................................................................................................ 93 CHAPTER 28 ...................................................................................................... 101 CHAPTER 29 ...................................................................................................... 105 CHAPTER 30 ...................................................................................................... 111 CHAPTER 31 ...................................................................................................... 115 CHAPTER 32 ...................................................................................................... 121 CHAPTER 33 ...................................................................................................... 127 CHAPTER 34 ...................................................................................................... 131 CHAPTER 35 ...................................................................................................... 135 CHAPTER 36 ...................................................................................................... 141 CHAPTER 37 ...................................................................................................... 143 CHAPTER 38 ...................................................................................................... 145 CHAPTER 39 ...................................................................................................... 147 CHAPTER 40 ...................................................................................................... 149 CHAPTER 41 ...................................................................................................... 151 CHAPTER 42 ...................................................................................................... 153 CHAPTER 43 ...................................................................................................... 155 CHAPTER 44 ...................................................................................................... 159 CHAPTER 45 ...................................................................................................... 161 CHAPTER 46 ...................................................................................................... 163 CHAPTER 47 ...................................................................................................... 167 CHAPTER 48 ...................................................................................................... 169 CHAPTER 49 ...................................................................................................... 173 CHAPTER 50 ...................................................................................................... 175 CHAPTER 51 ...................................................................................................... 183 CHAPTER 52 ...................................................................................................... 185 CHAPTER 53 ...................................................................................................... 193 viii

PREFACE

We therefore are deeply concerned that despite the development of core academic standards, America’s educational system has still failed to produce the type of learning essential to our economic progress. The students from the same nation that put the first colony on the moon recently scored near the bottom of the world rankings on the Seventh International Mathematics, Language, and Science Assessment. Consequently, this commission believes that education and schools in the United States must be overhauled from top to bottom in order to regain our global competitive advantage. We should finally do what other top nations have done for years: develop and mandate a single national test, the most challenging test that has ever been created on this planet. Only by building the most comprehensive educational accountability system and holding teachers, children, and parents responsible for student achievement can we recover from a stagnant economy and regain our position among the world’s top economic powers. We must begin immediately. Every day that we fail to act, we fail our children and our nation. Recommendations from “A Nation of Failure” Report from the President’s National Economic and Educational Summit

ix

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my publisher, Peter de Liefde, who was willing to take a chance on The Perfect Test, my first novel and second book. My appreciation to Deborah Medvick and Thomas Finnegan, my outstanding development and copy editors, who shared many useful suggestions. Appreciation also to Ron White and Kathy Hernandez, who reviewed early drafts and gave me many invaluable suggestions. Special thanks to Paul Baker and Terry Vendlinski, who reviewed early drafts and gave me enthusiastic support. Thanks also to Claudia Salguero and Frances Andino for reviewing my short Spanish phrases. Finally, my very special thanks to researchers Eva Baker, Joan Herman, and Robert Linn, who nearly two decades ago brought me into the world of educational testing. From all of them, I learned that it isn’t so much a test itself that is important, but how the test is used and the impact the test results have on students and adults. The responsibility for the content in The Perfect Test, of course, rests with me. I would be happy to hear your thoughts. Feel free to send me a note at [email protected].

xi

CHAPTER 1

It started to rain. David Tong brushed the drizzle from his sleeve. Great, that’s all I need: water stains on my best business suit, he thought as he dodged the puddles growing underfoot. The spring precipitation seemed a fitting end to a miserable day. One of many midlevel designers for the first-ever bridge from Los Angeles to Catalina Island, Tong had been called on the carpet today by his supervisor. The bridge, bogged down by a clash of recovery assistance and environmental issues not seen since the Obama days, finally got the green light last year. Now the pressure was on to meet an impossible schedule. With Tong’s design team recently missing a critical deadline, there were not likely to be any midyear bonuses. Contributing to Tong’s misery, as he inched up the ramp onto L.A.’s new I-346 tollway, was a bus crash that would surely add an hour to his always depressing commute. Even a skinny hybrid vehicle running on solar cells and recycled fuel couldn’t get through Los Angeles traffic any faster today than a double-length semi-truck. It was dusk when he pulled into the narrow driveway of his dome home in Burbank. To accommodate L.A.’s endless population growth, thousands of the supposedly futuristic dome homes had been built on quad spaces, with barely a foot of distance between neighbors. Tong was trying to save for his daughter’s college education, and the thrifty dome home was part of the plan. Approaching the front door, he heard his daughter crying inside. Dabbing heavy raindrops from his brow, he quickened his pace. Putting the key in the lock, he heard his wife speaking animatedly. “What will we tell your father?” “I don’t know, Mama. I’m so sorry!” He pushed open the door to the meticulously clean and well-organized house and saw his wife, Jia, wiping tears away. Beside her, Wendy sobbed in distress. Tong’s frame and height immediately brought a measure of calm and reassurance into the scene. “Jia, what’s the matter? Wendy, are you all right?” “She’s all right,” said Jia. “It’s school, the test.” “I’m so very sorry, Papa. Very sorry.” “We are disgraced,” Jia exclaimed. “I don’t know what we will tell the grandparents.” “What’s this about the test?” Tong demanded, wanting to know the precise cause of all this sadness. Jia presented a form letter, as Wendy continued apologizing. “So sorry Papa, so very sorry.” Tong took the letter and slowly sat down in the head dining room chair. Of ornately designed, handpicked fine mahogany, the costly Asian chair was a traditional symbol of the father’s inner strength and family leadership.

1

He carefully unfolded the letter, saw the familiar Venus logo, glanced past the header of Achievement Learning Systems, and scanned the document for the results from Wendy’s National Sixth Grade Assessment. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Tong: As you know, every two years students across America take the Venus national test to determine their current achievement and whether they have mastered the grade-level national standards in math, language arts, and science. The results are used for appropriate school level placement.” He knew the Venus tests were developed and administered by ALS. He couldn’t help but recall that nowadays it was referred to, not just by those working there but by many people concerned with national school testing, as the Company. “We regret to inform you that your child’s recent Venus national test score was below his or her current school placement level. Consequently, he or she must transfer to a new school, better suited to his or her learning abilities, within ten school days. Under federal law, the results cannot be disputed or appealed. We assure you that we will do everything possible to make your child’s school transition as smooth as possible.” The letter droned on about next steps. The bureaucratic language was calibrated more to an English professor than to a parent whose native language was not English. But Tong understood. He controlled an impulse to strike the table with his fist, and carefully refolded the letter. Although the disappointment was obvious on his face, he kissed Wendy and Jia. “Everything will be fine.” Inside, though, he knew better. Tong had such high hopes for his daughter attending an Ivy League university one day. In a flash, the goal now seemed unattainable, despite Wendy’s young age and many years of schooling still ahead. He put the letter on the table, his large hand resting firmly atop it. Wendy forced a slight smile despite her tears. Her father placed his other hand under her chin, slightly raising it so he could look deeply into her eyes. “Hold your head high, my dear daughter. This is not the end of the world. You are a beautiful and smart girl. You will always be my pride and joy. Life may place many stones on your path, but you can get over every one of them—even the biggest. Go and help your mother with dinner. We will not discuss this further.” Wendy forced herself to smile bravely for her father. She led her mother into the kitchen. Tong calmly pocketed the letter and walked to the den. He slowly and quietly closed the door behind him, and then he turned on the wall-size Vidvision. A male newscaster, whose sculptured shoulders and size 17 neck gave him the appearance of a football linebacker, described a storm that was brewing off the Pacific Coast, expected to hit Los Angeles later this week. As the weather segment 2

ended, a beautiful advertising spokeswoman appeared on the screen, extolling the quality and durability of the latest series of handheld electronic devices. Weighing little more than a pencil, the Q2 model “is guaranteed for ten years,” asserted the lovely young lady, and “contains every possible feature including the latest game learning programs.” He poured himself a vodka Martini with a heavy twist of lemon. A single adult refreshment every night was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself at the end of a stressful day. Settling himself into a straight-back chair, Tong withdrew a small prayer book from a desk, muttering some words as the commercial droned on about the high quality of the Q2. In the kitchen, Jia and Wendy prepared a dish of noodles and shrimp. “I am so sorry, Mama,” said a still distressed Wendy. “I have studied well in all my courses, have I not?” “Shush. Your father said the talking is ended, and so it must be,” replied Jia. Wendy nodded her head obediently. In the den, a hand reached into a drawer, just below the shelf containing the prayer book. Inside was a small revolver. Ever so slowly and cautiously, the hand loaded bullets into the cylinders. Tong drew the gun up and menacingly pointed it toward the Vidvision screen, as though the gun was a remote control. Wendy was setting the dining table as Jia bustled around the kitchen. “Do you think Papa is OK?” “Why, of course, my dear. He is simply under a great deal of stress at work these days. Papa is fine.” A deafening blast shook them both. Tong’s body fell through the doorway and slammed in a heap onto the kitchen floor. Horrified, Wendy and Jia watched as the bloody mess of his skull thudded against the floor without the slightest bounce. His blood puddled thickly as the two, in disbelief, rushed to save him. “Oh, Papa! Papa! What did I do, what did I do?” cried Wendy. Jia covered her husband’s head with her skirt in a futile attempt to stop the river of blood on the marble floor. She found no movement in her husband’s limp body. “Oh David, I love you, I love you, I love you, don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” she sobbed. The commercial on the Vidvision droned meaninglessly behind their wailing. Jia saw the gun in one of her husband’s hands and crumpled paper in the other. Prying his fingers away, she saw the letter about the test. While she held it uncomprehendingly, just two words swam into focus. Habid School

3

CHAPTER 2

Jennifer Wilson was driving her car on a dark stretch of California Highway 1 when she saw in the rearview mirror the distant headlights of a single vehicle. She quickly shifted her focus back to the narrow, winding road in front of her. A striking young woman, Jennifer wore a tight red pullover shirt with black pants and matching shoes. Her long brown hair was pulled back sharply on her head into a ponytail. She had the look of a young Stanford professor, which is where she had completed her doctoral studies, eventually moving with her husband, Grant, to the Los Angeles area. None of her Northern California friends could understand why anyone would willingly move to Southern California. It might as well be another state in the union with its amusement parks, mini-malls, and perceived lack of culture. Too many people in too little space, combined with unhealthy air, frequent fires and floods, and a population that had made L.A. the largest city in the nation, surpassing New York City several years ago. Why anyone would choose to live there was beyond most Northern Californians’ comprehension. But Jennifer loved Southern California. The sun-drenched beaches were just thirty minutes away from her home in La Cañada Flintridge. She and Grant could go skiing in less than two hours during the winter. They had an unobstructed view of the San Gabriel Mountains, bordering the Angeles Crest National Forest, a place where she loved to hike and cycle. She warmly remembered the day when she trekked Cherry Canyon above Descanso Gardens at sunrise, skied Big Bear Mountain later that morning, and surfed in the Pacific Ocean near Del Mar as the sun set—all in the same day. The Kodak Theatre, the J. Paul Getty Museum, Walt Disney Concert Hall, and Hollywood Bowl were just a handful of choices for entertainment. With just over twenty thousand people, small-town La Cañada was a place where you could still sleep with the windows open and know your neighbors. Yet it was just ten minutes from large Pasadena shops and museums. Downtown L.A. was a twenty-minute shot down State Route 2. Fiesta Days, La Cañada’s biggest event of the year, boasted small-town activities including free fireworks, a car show, and French toast breakfast. The weekend culminated with a Memorial Day parade, where it was often said that half the city marched while the other half cheered them on. You could shake hands with the mayor as he or she walked down the street. Jennifer didn’t care what anyone else thought; she’d found a quality place to live and raise a family. Checking her speedometer, she glanced at the photograph lying on the dashboard and smiled. She always carried the photo with her. It was a simple image of a large heart drawn in the sand and an equally large arrow pointing like a valentine. In the middle of the heart were the words, “I love Jen and Hamlie.” She fondly remembered the day when Grant drew the image in the white sands of Pismo Beach, right off Highway 1, the old Camino Real.

5

“Hey, Mom, you have to see this!” said Hamlie, who was twelve at the time. Jennifer woke from her nap, got up, and looked out the window of the Shore Cliff Lodge. She took in the stunning view of the Pacific Ocean before her eyes landed on the heart in the sand. Seeing the valentine was the climax of a fabulous mini-vacation. The night before, Jennifer and Grant had romantically watched a meteor shower. One shooting star in particularly seemed to hang in the air forever. It reminded them of their wedding night some fifteen years earlier, after they were married at the Air Force Academy chapel in Colorado. They had spent many nights at the Academy overlook, watching meteors and falling in love. But tonight only an eerie stillness accompanied her on the long ride home from a conference in Monterey. She was just north of the Hearst Castle, with its more than fifty bedrooms and equal number of bathrooms. Jennifer called her teenage daughter using the car’s built-in phone system. “How’s my baby girl?” teased Jennifer, knowing she would get a rise out of her daughter now that she had just turned thirteen. Hamlie, a mature and sometimes rebellious eighth grader, was becoming interested in the opposite sex. She was Jennifer and Grant’s only child, adopted after their best efforts (unproductive, but fun) to have their own children failed. Hamlie was in the midst of psychologically coping with her adoption, having never met her birth parents. At times of anger, she longed for the other parents she never knew, presuming somehow that they must be smart, charming, and kind—perhaps better than her adoptive parents. Yet she couldn’t comprehend why her birth parents would give her away just hours after she entered this world. “No babies around here,” replied Hamlie. “Just me and my new boyfriend Ben, who dropped over for a quickie because you and the old man left me home alone again.” “Hamlie!” her mother scolded. “Why do you say things like that?” “Don’t believe me, huh, Jen?” She knew that using her mom’s first name always got under Jennifer’s skin, at least a little. “Go ahead, Ben, say hello to your future mother-in-law.” “Woof.” Benjamin wailed, a blind and nearly deaf cocker spaniel, who had recently lost his battle with glaucoma in both eyes. Benjamin’s blindness made his already acute sense of smell only stronger, and he sniffed the pizza that Hamlie was munching. She gave him a large piece. Jennifer laughed. “I’ll be home in a few hours.” She glanced at the note lying on the passenger seat. The word “List” was at the top, with scribbles below it. “I’ve been trying to reach Dad to tell him something important. Have any idea where he is?” “Wait a minute, Mom.” Jennifer heard the Vidvision in the background. “There’s our guy Grant, all right,” said Hamlie, emphasizing her dad’s first name. “He’s on the ALS subchannel making another one of his totally boring presentations. There’s a bunch of adorable-looking kids behind him.” 6

“You could be a bit more respectful,” Jennifer chided. “A lot of people admire your father’s work.” “Boring,” sighed Hamlie. “Just how exciting could working in test development be?” The rearview mirror lit up. Jennifer was practically blinded by the bright headlights on her tail. It looked like a sports car honking and trying to pass. “Gotta go, sweetheart,” she said quickly. “Accident dying to happen right behind me.” “Be safe, Jen,” said Hamlie, hanging up and casually turning her attention back to her Vidvision screen. Jennifer switched off the phone. She waved the other driver on while moving to the side as much as she could on the narrow road. A mammoth fuel tanker truck suddenly appeared, coming around a bend toward her. The sports car was still on her tail. She frantically looked back and forth from the mirror to the truck. The car was honking incessantly. Distracted by the sports car behind her, she swerved and was lost in the lights of the oncoming truck. The valentine photograph flew off the dashboard and floated out of the car as if suspended in eternity.

7

CHAPTER 3

Grant woke up drenched in sweat. Another bad daydream. But here he was, on a large charter fishing yacht off Baja California. The dark blue, almost black ocean water was some of the deepest on the Baja coast. “Thinking about Jen?” Hamlie asked her father. “Yes. I miss her every minute.” Grant’s rugged good looks were losing out to a two-day-old stubble. Without his better half, personal hygiene had become a low priority. Sitting in the deck chair, in tank top and cutoffs, he rubbed his cheeks and eyes. A few days away in Baja were supposed to help Hamlie and him put their lives back together, six months after the crash that killed Jennifer. He was trying to make every weekend a special event, part of a healing process recommended by a counselor, in addition to his own penance for spending so much time away from home. He might have passed for a youthful Brad Pitt, or any number of today’s tough-guy actors. But looks were deceiving. He was much more interested in research and science than in acting, which struck him as a nonintellectual way to make a living and possibly a good way to starve. Hamlie’s brown eyes shimmered in the reflected light of the Pacific Ocean. Grant was quietly proud of his daughter, who was excelling in school and athletics despite her brooding nature. He studied her now, awkwardly feeling that he could never communicate with her as effectively as Jennifer had. Their chartered fishing boat, ForTuna, was a decent cruiser, forty-eight feet in length, owned and piloted by a crusty skipper, Ernesto Delacruz. Up near the bow, Pedro, the skipper’s teenage son and first mate, occasionally glanced at Hamlie. Although just thirteen, in her swimsuit it was clear she was blossoming into a beautiful young woman, likely to leave a few hearts on the table. ForTuna featured a barbecue, two ocean fish fighting chairs, and an aft swimming platform. The captain’s navigation space had the latest electronic technology, including sonar and satellite navigation. But for nearly all the customers, the fully stocked bar was the yacht’s most popular feature. Grant always had a hard time getting away from the office, and even while on this father-daughter deep-sea fishing trip in Marlin Alley he was busy reading the news on his Q2 handheld device, glistening in metallic gold. Among the lesser headlines was one about a David Tong committing suicide; there was mention of the Venus tests in the article. “Do you really have to work while on vacation? Remember the ‘u’ in us.” “Sorry, Honey, just checking my messages.” The Tong article encouraged him to review some ALS web holoscreens, including statistical visuals with multidimensional charts, tables, and diagrams. Each floated dynamically across the screen in vivid super-contrast colors. Using a voice recognition system, Grant scanned dozens of pages in seconds, halting when he reached a deep magenta page flashing:

9

PLATO’S LIST STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL DO NOT SHARE “Dr. Wilson, you are entering a restricted zone,” a digitized female voice from the ALS holoscreen intoned. “Interesting,” he said to himself, not knowing anything about Plato’s List. “Really, Grant, you need to get a life away from work,” chided Hamlie. A sharp bend of her fishing rod, which up to this point had been motionless, suddenly distracted her. “Got something?” he murmured without looking away from his Q2. He typed a password, revealing another screen, this one in dark red that flashed: PLATO’S LIST SENIOR ALS EXECUTIVES ONLY SECONDARY PASSWORD MANDATORY FOR ACCESS The previously computer-friendly female voice was now a male voice and one far less friendly: “Dr. Wilson, ALS security has been alerted; your page views are being monitored.” He typed in another password and his handheld revealed what appeared to be a substantial number of test scores from a group of students, all coded “Plato’s List, restricted access.” He dug deeper, rapidly manipulating the touch pad, revealing page after page of test scores. Each score was followed with the words “Special note.” “I got one!” Hamlie screamed, locked tight in the fighting chair. Fumbling to put his recent discovery into a pocket, Grant scrambled to help her hook and land a seven-foot sailfish. The fish soared out of the water, living up to its name before crashing back down into a sea of foam. It was strong, especially for a young girl to handle. Grant reached for the rod to help, but as he stretched across her chair his Q2 went overboard, into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. “Damn it!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, as the Q2 disappeared from sight. Meanwhile, the captain and Pedro rushed down to help Hamlie, but just as they were about to land the catch of her life, the line went slack. “Damn it,” she cried, “my fish is gone!” Pedro picked up the reel and rod, brought it in, and rebaited the hook. “Pez malo,” said Pedro. Hamlie’s shoulders collapsed downward. “My life sucks.” “Sorry about the fish,” Grant said. But he was thinking about his own woes more than his daughter’s. “I’ve had that handheld for less than a month.” “Gee, now you’ll just have to talk with me for a while, eh?”

10

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, settling back into his chair. “But I’m not the best conversationalist in the world.” He reflected on a sermon from a few years ago, when Monsignor Kentinwale encouraged everyone to give thanks for the good things they had in life, five times more often than anything that distressed them. “Stop complaining” was the real meaning of the Thanksgiving homily. Then again, Kentinwale had never been married. Was there anything really wrong with grieving over the person who had made your life worth living? “What’s your favorite memory about Jen?” Hamlie prompted. “Hmmm, there are so many, I don’t know where to begin.” He looked out at the ocean. Was it when he met Jennifer at that first Academy football game, a blind date set up by his roommate, Jason Zirkoff? Jennifer was actually supposed to go out with another Air Force cadet, but that friend was on the Academy rifle team and already had two girlfriends, one in Denver and another back home in Ohio. Grant remembered that Jennifer was driving a beat-up old Chevy, and that she was even better looking than her picture. He had learned to ask for pictures from a few other blind dates that weren’t too successful. “Well?” “I’m still thinking.” Grant found a lot of good memories in fifteen years. Maybe the favorite was when he surprised Jennifer with her first puppy, a black cocker spaniel that she named Benjamin for an uncle she had never met who died in the Vietnam War. Grant had never seen Jennifer happier in his whole life. While it seemed an uncomplicated act, it made him realize that it was the simple things that were important to them both. But his answer for Hamlie was not about the dog. “It was the day you came into our lives. We found out that all the science in the world wouldn’t let us have a child. So when the foster agency brought you to live with us, it was like giving birth for your mom and me. We couldn’t believe how beautiful you were, and that you were ours. I never saw your mom happier. Except maybe the day you were potty trained.” “Like you were born trained, huh?” “Of course! I was the perfect child, according to my mom,” he laughed. There were a lot of other great memories, like when Jennifer surprised him for his thirtieth birthday, hosting a big bash that included just about everyone he knew in his life, from old high school and college friends to many of the people they had both known through their research. The night of the party, he walked into the restaurant thinking they were at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a romantic weekend. But he was joyfully startled when so many people from his past and present life appeared. It was a surreal feeling, like seeing your life pass before you in an instant but not having to face a near-death experience. Grant and Jennifer were both strong runners in college. Even after marrying, they ran at least one marathon every year, usually to raise money for some charity. They loved to run through the streets surrounding the Rose Bowl, especially Linda Vista, to see if they could keep pace with the many cyclists for a while. More than

11

anything, they enjoyed long runs across the hard-packed wet sand in Redondo and Manhattan Beach, keeping the aging process temporarily at bay. Now that father and daughter had lost the part of their lives that most tied their little family together, they often talked about how Forrest Gump’s mother compared life to a box of chocolates: “You never know what you’re going to get.” They agreed that Jennifer’s death was the worst candy they had ever tasted, making them want to give up chocolate forever. The sun was setting as the ForTuna headed back to shore. With every second, the blue Pacific sky grew more golden, yellow, and red. Delacruz tracked their route on a computer and typed in a note about his two passengers and ForTuna’s current position.

12

CHAPTER 4

The gate went up. “Good morning, Dr. Wilson,” said Bartholomew as Grant drove into the Achievement Learning Systems executive parking lot in downtown Los Angeles. “How are you today, sir?” Bartholomew emigrated from Ethiopia to L.A. five years ago with his wife and two children. He had worked since then at ALS as the senior parking lot attendant. Although he held a college degree, he was quite happy with his current circumstances, earning enough money to afford a small home in the Valley while putting some money in the bank. “Good morning, Bartholomew. I’m doing fine, thank you. A nice day, isn’t it?” “Yes sir, Dr. Wilson, another beautiful day in the City of Angels. You have a great day now.” High up in the ALS headquarters building, overlooking the Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, Jason Zirkoff showed a group of Arab scholars around the ALS executive towers. Wilson’s right-hand man, Zirkoff looked and acted like the consummate corporate executive in his tailored Armani suit, meticulously pressed white shirt, and the latest Italian shoes. He always seemed to be smiling, showcasing perfect teeth that looked like fine porcelain. Behind that smile, though, Zirkoff hid the slight touch of jealousy that persisted throughout his college and adult life, always playing second fiddle to the man who had been his former roommate at the Air Force Academy and was now his boss. Wilson had creative vision, but Zirkoff, the ALS development chief of staff, was the detail person with great flair. Right now, Zirkoff and the scholars approached a massive entryway constructed of tubular steel and a series of huge aluminum panels. A wide granite and marble stairway led to one of the building’s multiple conference rooms. The entire edifice was brightly lit with skylights and vertical windows, giving a sense of being outdoors rather than inside. The visitors, about twenty in all, were a bit mesmerized by the height of several tetrahedrons that seemed to touch the sky. Wilson, who had always admired the Air Force Academy’s modern architecture, was part of the ALS building design committee, leading to the inclusion of many of the Academy’s structural elements, especially the use of aluminum, glass, and sharp angles. Affectionately (or disdainfully) called the Blue Zoo by many cadets, the nickname for the Academy was coined among the thousands of visitors every year who watched from the chapel as four thousand young men and women assembled in seconds on the terrazzo below for the noon meal. The cadets occasionally stole a look upward to the visitors at the chapel wall peering down to watch the upperclass cadets inspect the freshman doolies, as though the cadets were zoo primates (or, as the cadets often felt, inmates). Cadets had only a few off-base privileges 13

each semester and couldn’t have a car until their junior year. It wasn’t as if they could walk the twenty miles to Colorado Springs. The many rules and regulations were all part of a focused training program that theoretically prepared them for the rigors of a U.S. Air Force career. The Academy chapel, the most striking building on the Academy grounds, had seventeen pointed spires, symbolizing the Air Force mission to defend the skies. Legend had it that the number represented a disparate combination of the twelve disciples of Jesus, the four chiefs of staff of the armed forces, and the president of the United States, the ultimate commander in chief. As a first-class cadet at the Blue Zoo, Zirkoff had risen to the rank of vice wing commander, the number two ranking cadet in the Academy. That year, the wing commander, number one in his class, was cadet Colonel Grant Wilson. Although back then he was somewhat jealous of Wilson’s continuous success, Zirkoff harbored no negative feelings toward such a nice guy. Many cadets in leadership positions imitated George Patton’s hard-ass, give-‘em-hell approach, but Wilson led by example. Despite his heavy schedule as wing commander plus his own challenging engineering courses, he willingly took time to counsel any cadet who was thinking about quitting the Zoo or who had any type of personal problem. Many of the cadets he helped distinguished themselves quickly after graduation, among them a young woman who, not long after pilot training, led a harrowing helicopter rescue of seven nearly dead mountain climbers close to the summit of Mount McKinley. At the Academy, Grant had counseled the young cadet, who wanted to leave at the end of her first two years. She was unsure of her desire to become an Air Force officer and incur a long-term military commitment. But Grant convinced her to stay, pointing out that she had already made it through the toughest part of the Academy program. Sensing that she had special leadership skills, he found her a mentor as well. The young woman went on to become a distinguished Academy graduate and one of the best helicopter pilots the Air Force had ever seen. If Grant not been there for her when she needed it, she might well have not been there when those seven climbers needed her. At ALS, Grant was the same way, often counseling high-quality employees to stay with the company and taking it personally if they left. As had often been the case at the Academy, Zirkoff was still the runner-up to the real star of the show at ALS. Today he was prepping the visitors for the arrival of his “number one.” “Yes, Dr. Grant Wilson is the creative brain behind the ALS Venus tests,” he assured the visiting Arab scholars as they seated themselves inside the conference room with a small stage at the front. “As you may know, the Venus tests are a series of short performance assessments that measure intelligence and ability more accurately than any other test. A number of the individual test questions are in the format of a computerized game, intended to promote student motivation in solving real-world problems.” Zirkoff continued to rattle off his well-memorized introduction.

14

“Many of Dr. Wilson’s ideas about education derived from the Air Force Academy’s rigorous instruction and testing program, which was so standardized that professors teaching the same course often covered the same pages every day. Indeed, there was little variance from one Academy instructor to another because they all used identical lesson plans. That way everyone had the same opportunity to succeed.” Zirkoff explained that Wilson came to ALS after finishing his Air Force commitment and gaining knowledge and vision as a systems officer in the Air Education and Training Command. Once separated from the Air Force, Wilson earned his Ph.D. at Stanford University and joined the fledgling ALS. “He quickly burned up the track and became vice CEO at the young age of thirty-two.” Zirkoff flashed the toothy smile as he scanned the audience. “One other thing about Dr. Wilson,” he said, “was that he was always better than me in sports, academics, and getting the girls. But I don’t hold anything against him.” Zirkoff widened the smile. “Except for getting the girls.” The visitors joined him in laughter. The truth was that Zirkoff himself was always a bit in love with Jennifer, and he had taken her death almost as hard as Grant had. A short hyperdigital Vidvision promotion described for the Arab visitors the history of ALS. “The organization was founded to compete with the likes of Educational Testing Service, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, and McGraw-Hill, all major test publishers that thrived under the earlier federal No Child Left Behind Act. NCLB, a law that had bipartisan support, required all states to have a strong testing program and mandated that 100 percent of students reach proficiency in math and language arts by the year 2014. New tests proliferated, eventually followed by common national standards adopted by all states.” The Vidvision continued. “The new assessments to measure those standards helped innovative companies such as ALS get off the ground. Founded by British immigrant Nelson Abram, ALS flourished under his and Wilson’s capable leadership, winning contract after contract. Eventually ALS became the top test publisher in the United States, and now it is number one in the world. “New discoveries came easily to Wilson,” explained the Vidvision promotion. “He was one of the early developers of the sensors used to minutely analyze the steps a student or military trainee took during his or her performance of a process. Today, business executives, scientists, and even a few top Hollywood actors scramble for a place in Wilson’s seminars. His Venus assessment and training regimen is often likened to a nonsteroid program for improved human intellectual performance. Politicians and corporate gurus alike are known to pay substantial sums to participate in the weeklong assessment and training program.” The Vidvision then demonstrated Venus testing. “The assessment system is a computerized apparatus, with sensors monitoring every thought and motion, even brain waves.” The 3-D Star Wars-like results were impressive. The audience nodded approvingly, never having seen an assessment with this level of sophistication. 15

“Here’s a second clip that I would like to share with you,” Zirkoff said to his captivated listeners. The visitors now saw the U.S. president, Christopher Connelly, praising the contribution of educational testing to America’s improved national achievement. In one brief scene, he briefly shook hands with Grant Wilson and his boss, Nelson Abram, the distinguished-looking ALS CEO with his full pate of silver gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache. The clip continued. Happy kids surrounded the president in front of their top-performing school, a typical White House–orchestrated photo op. Behind them, posters proclaimed the United States “Number 1 in the World.” The president and the kids raised their fingers: number one. In the next scene, a second grade student drew an image of the current president next to George Washington, implying that Connelly was somehow the “second father” of the United States. The Vidvision program ended with the president at a D.C. school, this time taking a Venus test himself. Hooked up to a computer, wires attached to his head and hands, he was answering questions on a computer screen that led him through a White House gaming environment. The questions, focusing on key accomplishments of past presidents, grew increasingly difficult but didn’t go beyond a fourth grade level. When he finished the test, the message “100%” flashed across the screen. The president smiled and winked to the reporters and cameras: “That was fun!” Unseen behind the assembly of Arab visitors, Grant had arrived and was watching the presentation, with mixed feelings. All he could think about right now was that he desperately missed Jennifer, who during visits like these would have been right there. As a UCLA researcher and professor, she had co-directed R&D with him. Her performance development lab remained one of the preeminent facilities in the nation today, recently named the Jennifer Wilson Human Performance Laboratory in her memory. Feeling his throat tighten, Grant shifted on his feet, preparing to step forward as he was introduced. The ALS logo filled the screen as the audience members exchanged comments of admiration. Zirkoff stepped to the lectern. “And now, ladies and gentleman, I am delighted to introduce Dr. Grant P. Wilson, vice chief executive officer of Achievement Learning Systems.” Grant walked onto the stage and podium. Music resembling “Hail to the Chief” blared. The visiting Arab scholars greeted him with warm applause. “Thank you very much,” said Grant. “I’m delighted to welcome you to Achievement Learning Systems and hope that your visit here will be extremely productive. I want to start the day by providing some background about U.S. schools and their very dramatic turnaround on international assessments during the past few years. “As you may know, approximately a decade ago the National Academy of Education Sciences commissioned a distinguished group of American leaders and education researchers to investigate why U.S. students perform so poorly on international tests and why this country was making little improvement on our own National Assessment of Educational Progress, often called America’s report card.

16

“National statistics showed that despite hundreds of major school reforms, U.S. reading and mathematics skills remained almost completely flat for more than fifty years. In some cases, scores even went down.” A chart swirled across the screen. “In this figure, you can see the results from the Second, Third, and Fourth International Mathematics and Science Studies, which, apart from a few bright spots for fourth graders in the 1990s, placed U.S. students near the bottom of some forty other nations taking the test. “Results from the more recent International Student Assessment, ISA, again showed that U.S. high school students were far behind their foreign peers year after year.” Grant waved through a few more charts that supported his assertions of low U.S. performance compared to most other nations. “The National Academy’s scholars and leaders convened the National Economic and Educational Summit, where they released their report, ‘A Nation of Failure.’ That fifty-page document virtually flipped U.S. education on its ear. Among its recommendations was that for the first time the United States should fund almost all preschool education and implement national testing for students beginning at age three, based on common core standards. Second, states should and did take control from local school boards for both funding and management of all aspects of education. Local school boards and unions were ‘learning dinosaurs,’ prime examples of what didn’t work in education, preserving a system of competing factions and low performance. State takeover was so successful that the next step was national control of education funding, instruction, and assessment.” He paused and took a sip of water. He saw that many in the audience were leaning forward in their seats. It was going well. “In just two years,” he continued, “a national curriculum and annual testing, combined with monthly benchmark tests, began to turn around U.S. performance. Our student scores steadily rose on both national and international tests every year, until the United States was number one in the world in several subjects. “Today, all U.S. students are required to take very rigorous classes, including calculus in the eleventh grade and applied statistics in their senior year. Foreign language begins in first grade, and graduation tests are mandatory for every student. All schools closely evaluate every student’s progress and conduct intense tutoring for any student not meeting standards. Finally, our ridiculously low number of school days, previously averaging just a bit more than eight months of the calendar year, was expanded to eleven full months, the largest number of school days in the world. These were all recommendations from the National Academy commission. The rest, as we say, is a history of achievement.” Grant called up a plot of current test scores comparing U.S. students to those from other nations. They were clear and impressive. “As you can see from these figures, recently released from the International Mathematics, Language, and Science Study, U.S. students now surpass Singapore, Korea, Finland, and every other nation in the world in both mathematics and science.” He went on to the next image. 17

“This diagram shows that not only is the United States leading the world overall but its advantage is growing. America can now call on its own students to fill every high-technology need in the country. Indeed, other nations often recruit some high-performing U.S. students before they even go to college.” He moved on to an image of the ALS logo, signaling he was finished and ready to answer questions from the audience. “Where does your company come into the picture, Dr. Wilson?” asked a scholar in the front row. “Excellent question. Achievement Learning Systems administers the Venus national tests at age four, and every two years after that through high school. We also develop most of the monthly benchmark tests taken by all students, which provide regular student performance feedback to schools. Teachers use the benchmark tests to identify weaker and stronger students and change instruction accordingly.” The scholar nodded and Grant acknowledged a woman several rows behind. “Sir, do you think that testing is the primary reason for your international test increases?” “Beginning formal education at age three, plus the increased number of days that our children attend school, are important, don’t get me wrong. But yes, I believe that national control of schools, national standards, and national testing are the primary factors responsible for improved U.S. performance. Additionally, our teaching staff today earn salaries competitive with engineers, and even doctors and lawyers. They work the same number of days every year as the private sector and receive competitive pay based on performance. Raises for teachers and school principals are no longer based on just getting another year older or completing another degree. Test scores are regularly used in teacher and principal evaluations. Teachers whose students make the largest gains on test scores are eligible for a year-end bonus of $25,000. That gets people’s attention.” He could sense support for his words and his company’s product growing. Just as he was about to wish the group a good day and thank them for coming, a belligerent voice resounded from the back of the group. “Tell them about the two school systems.” The voice clearly didn’t fit in with the audience of Arabic speakers. “How did he get in here?” Zirkoff murmured to a young female assistant, who was shaking her head. A man of about sixty with stooped shoulders and weathered skin stepped forward. Grant appeared to recognize him. “Go on, tell them that the results you showed were from the Akeve schools in the United States,” the stranger insisted. Grant was a bit shaken but regained his professional composure. He cleared his throat and spoke. “How nice to see you, Professor,” he lied. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to my colleague, friend, and dissertation advisor, Professor Jonathan Gologon. Many of you may know him as a former U.S. testing researcher who retired several years ago from Stanford University, professor emeritus.” 18

His emphasis on the word “former” caught the professor’s attention, but not in a good way. All eyes turned to Gologon, who had walked halfway up the aisle. Dressed in light tan khakis, he looked as though he had just arrived from an African photography safari. His full gray beard, thinning hairline, and slightly rotund figure gave him a Santa Claus appearance. But it didn’t look like he’d be handing out any gifts today. “You’re full of PR crap, Wilson,” Gologon grumbled. “Tell them about the two different school systems in the United States: the Akeve schools for gifted and talented students and the Habid school system for everybody else.” Realizing he was in a no-win situation, Wilson nodded to Zirkoff, who pressed a button on his handheld. “Perhaps you’d like to tell them yourself, Professor,” Wilson said as Gologon made his way forward to the lectern. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He offered the microphone to Gologon, who ignored it, preferring to use his own vocal chords, which were quite robust. “What my former protégé intentionally failed to tell you,” said Gologon, “is that the United States achieved this major miracle by creating two school systems, the Akeve system for the gifted and talented, and the Habid schools for every other student in the nation—developing a student ability tracking system going further than any other nation on this planet.” Hardly stopping to take a breath, he continued from the center of the stage. “And this Venus system of tests that Wilson invented has many negative effects, including teaching only the content that schools know will appear on the test, ignoring the value of arts and music in the curriculum, and boring most students to utter insanity. School has become little more than memorization of mostly irrelevant facts, with little attention to applying knowledge to solve realworld problems. In other words, our kids can no longer think!” Gologon had gone too far. Wilson knew his mentor was threatening the day’s success. He stepped toward the professor and said sarcastically, “I’d like to thank Professor Gologon for teaching me virtually everything that I know about testing.” “I didn’t teach you to use tests to track students into smart and less-smart classes, let alone schools,” Gologon shot back. “That’s unfair, and it should be against the law.” “We only develop the tests, Professor. Our democratic government makes the policy to do the testing.” Trying to politely escort him off the stage, Wilson added, “Is there anything else you would like to say before you leave?” “Yes, I would,” said Gologon, switching to a quieter, more serious tone. “Tell them about the suicides, Wilson. Tell them about the parents and the students who are under such pressure to succeed that they take their own lives because they don’t measure up.” Grant glared at his nemesis and was unable to speak. Three ALS Security guards were already stepping onto the stage to escort Gologon away. Grant knew that if Gologon didn’t go quietly, they would carry him out. 19

“Get your hands off me, you murderers!” Gologon shouted. Wilson was frozen in the center of the stage, watching Gologon and the guards disappear behind the curtains. “And tell them how and why you betrayed the ethical codes that I taught you in graduate school! About why you need to study and report the negative effects of your tests. Shame on you, Wilson!” A stage door slammed, and there was silence. Wilson turned away, but Zirkoff stepped in to pick up the pieces. “Ladies and gentlemen, that will conclude today’s presentation. Lunch is served in the executive dining room on the thirty-eighth floor. If you will please follow me, I understand that the chef has outdone herself again this time, with some delectable Middle Eastern cuisine.” Grant was walking away, but some of the scholars (a good number of them female) stopped him and pressed for autographs on his new book, Measure for Success. As he signed one after another, an uneasy feeling rattled inside.

20

CHAPTER 5

Nelson Abram was a lean, tall, athletic fifty-four-year-old CEO who became one of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in the world, on a par with Gates, Carnegie, Rockefeller, and the like before him. The large windows of his luxurious executive office framed splendid views of the Pacific Ocean to the south, the Hollywood Hills to the north, and Beverly Hills to the west. Below were a substantial number of high-speed rapid transporter vehicles, and a light monorail system that hung above the streets, quickly and quietly moving thousands of people every minute. Billboards boasted campaign slogans and images of President Connelly and Vice President Anthony Mathews: “Trust in your Country. Trust in Connelly and Mathews.” The incumbents were in a tight race with Senator Winfred Gotia and her running mate, Governor Sarah Kahuma, the first all-female presidential ticket in U.S. history. Although the incumbents’ Achilles heel was a turbulent foreign policy, Connelly and Mathews were seizing credit for the major improvements in U.S. student test scores. Grant arrived to give a brief update. “Good morning, Nelson.” He gazed up at a new portrait of the Abram family, including his wife, Judy, and their kids, Steven and Lucy. The heavy gold-framed portrait spoke to the wealth Abram had accumulated in the past few years. The two men were a good combination. Abram loved the bureaucracy, paperwork, endless meetings, and socializing required of a CEO, all parts of the job that Wilson hated. Abram was by far the more dapper, wearing suits of impeccable style and great expense. Wilson was the polar opposite, creative but not prone to such details as neatly pressed clothes. “Delighted to see you, Grant.” Nelson’s British accent added to his distinction. “How did your presentation go to our Middle East colleagues? Did you offer them convincing proof to buy our Venus assessments for their nations? That the Venus tests would spur their international test scores? It would be another lucrative deal for ALS, and of course, for you, Grant.” “I’m afraid there was a bit of a problem.” Nelson raised an eyebrow. “Gologon was there,” Grant said. “Again, eh?” said Nelson. “Your old Stanford dissertation advisor and mentor. How did that geezer manage to get past security? A magic trick of some kind?” “His best days may be behind him, but he’s still clever enough to make his way past a group of security guards,” Grant replied, putting his hands into his pockets. “No bother. I’ve been in contact with the political leaders who are the real decision makers in those countries, and they assure me that our proposal is a done

21

deal. They had to give these academic types an opportunity for inclusion, but they will have no voice in the end.” Grant was relieved to hear that he hadn’t lost this opportunity. “So what little toys did you bring to share with me today, Grant?” Grant was eager to pursue a different topic. “I’ve been piloting a new assessment system called CRIME, Criminal Reporting Information Methods and Evaluation.” “I didn’t know you had an interest in the wretches of our society. You aren’t becoming a social reformer, are you?” “Jennifer and I were always concerned about leaving the world a better place, so yes, I guess you could say that the tin man is looking for a heart.” He paused. “And it should be quite profitable as well.” “Then, I love it already,” Nelson beamed, thinking of the bottom line. Grant turned on the Vidvision to demonstrate the CRIME software and hardware. The Vidvision apparatus in the CEO’s office covered an entire wall; it appeared as though they were watching the experiment taking place in the next room, but seen through a window. “This is a live demonstration,” Grant explained, “and now that we’re connected, our technician will proceed.” They saw a young woman sit down into a deep chair that seemed to consume her entire body; only her shoulders, neck, and head could be seen. A technician placed a helmet over her head. A computerized system of sensors was operating in the background, monitoring everything about her, from pulse and blood pressure to brain functions. “The CRIME assessment system,” Grant narrated, “contains over a thousand sensors, evaluating practically every bodily function. It is the most advanced human evaluation system ever developed, with the capacity to monitor and report more than thirty thousand data streams instantly.” “What’s that over there?” Abram asked, pointing to a digital screen display. “Well, that tells you our young lady has a relatively full bladder; we know that a good percentage of it is coffee, and when she finishes she will most likely ask for directions to the nearest ladies’ room.” “Intriguing. And that?” Abram pointed to a bank of Vidvision monitors. “Sensors don’t detect just her brain activity; they can pull data from her long-term memory. They furnish instant analysis of her IQ, extract past answers to tests she has taken in her life, and recall personal decisions. We can tell, for example, that she had a miscarriage at about age twenty-one, and that she loves Pinkberry and Victoria’s Secret.” “Incredible!” said Abram as if he just received the best birthday present in his life. “This is fabulous.” “You want more?” “Of course! I can see you outdid yourself on this one, Grant.” “Because the CRIME system can monitor nearly every human function, I believe that we can just about predict when she’ll die and the cause of death, presuming that she is not killed accidentally.” Grant was feeling his adrenaline pumping. 22

“We did a small pilot study of elderly patients, and the results were promising,” he said and then paused. “Jennifer was really the brains behind much of this—and one of the first subjects. If it hadn’t been for her accident,” Grant paused again and looked at the floor, “she would have lived to be a very old woman, eventually dying from heart failure at close to ninety-two.” There was an awkward silence. “And you?” Abram asked. “Not nearly so lucky. Onset of leukemia at age sixty-three, followed by the usual treatments that won’t be successful—and then dead by sixty-seven,” said Grant wistfully. “But that’s a diversion from our more immediate research.” “Go on, go on,” said Nelson excitedly, ignoring Grant’s discomfort. “We conducted a randomized control study of teenagers, kids on the fringes of the law, each having at least one misdemeanor on his record. We wanted to see if CRIME could predict future criminal behaviors.” “And?” “The results exceeded our best expectations. Of the ten students in our sample study, CRIME predicted that four of the teenagers would commit another crime within six months. The pilot test was 100 percent accurate. No false positives or negatives.” Suddenly, in the CRIME assessment chamber, the woman began shaking. The technician rushed to her side, but her convulsions grew worse. “What the hell is going on?” Abram shouted. Grabbing his handheld, Wilson stopped the procedure. Gasping for air and panting, the woman slowly emerged from the hookup, aided by the technician. “Unfortunately, during our beta testing,” he said matter-of-factly, “we found that some subjects were fairly intolerant of the cranium sensor-monitor, but we have yet to isolate the effect variable. We have a good deal of work to do before the system is ready for adults, much less children.” The image from the Vidvision screen vanished, leaving the original wall appearing intact. “Very impressive nonetheless,’ Abram commented. “No, incredible is a better word for it. How much longer until you isolate this problem and bring it to market?” “Several years at least, I’m afraid. Human-subject protection laws are preventing us from getting the sample sizes we need for our next research study. Plus we need to control for dozens of variables.” “Well if you need more development funding, you’ve got it. I don’t need any proposals; I’ve seen enough to realize the potential.” “Thank you, Nelson,” said Grant. He turned to leave but swung back around. “I have a question about a completely different matter.” Abram was flipping through papers. He was somewhat distracted by the need to prepare for his next meeting of the day. “Go ahead,” he said, still studying a memo. “When I was on my deep-sea fishing trip with Hamlie,” Grant began, “I came across a company project which I knew nothing about.” 23

“Uh huh,” Nelson muttered, still not looking up. “Do you know anything about Plato’s List?” Barely glancing up from his paperwork, he answered quickly. “Afraid I don’t know anything about that one. We have more than a hundred R&D studies going on right now.” At that moment, Abram’s administrative assistant popped in. “Sir, Audrey Willows, legislative aide to Senator Nunuu, is here to meet with you.” “Sorry, Grant,” Nelson nodded. “This is an important meeting. I’ll have Gertie run a check on our projects and see if she comes up with anything. If she does, I’ll let you know.” “Thank you, sir,” said Grant as he left. After work that same day, Grant went for a run through the streets of La Cañada, traveling his favorite route along Commonwealth and Flintridge Avenues. The California Pacific Marathon was next month, a race that he and Jennifer had run with decent success for the last two years. It wouldn’t be the same without her. At that thought he ran faster, to push out the grief churning in his stomach. He turned west on Berkshire, running as far as Descanso Gardens before making his way back along Foothill Boulevard, the main street in town. Seeing some cumulus clouds across the mountains, Grant decided to run up to Robin Hill Drive, with its often stunning view of the mountains in the Angeles National Forest that were sometimes capped with snow in the winter. Running helped him to push through his feelings, and to think. He found himself wondering about Plato’s List. Between meetings today, he had done a records check of current projects, which failed to reveal any such ALS program. As he crossed Hampstead and started the steep climb up to the Robin Hill overlook, he looked behind and saw another runner had joined him some distance back. It looked like a young woman; she seemed to have appeared from nowhere. He picked up his pace; he really didn’t want company today. But it was no use; whoever this person was, she didn’t even seem to be breathing hard and was quickly gaining on him. Indeed, with a few more strides she would easily pass him. As she came alongside, Grant took a long look. It was Jennifer, in full stride, a beautiful smile on her face. “You can do it,” she said. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he woke up, at home in his bed. Another dream.

24

CHAPTER 6

Just a few miles from Pasadena’s Old Town, Akeve School 18 was a modern three-story building with most of its surface covered in glass. Although nearby Colorado Boulevard had plenty of shopping distractions as well as the annual Rose Parade, kids at Akeve 18 concentrated more on learning than having fun or hanging out. The risk of negative consequences that too much entertainment could have on their grades was far too high. The inside walkways of Akeve 18 were marble parquet. There was not a spot of litter on the front lawn, or on any part of campus. Until her mother’s death, Hamlie Wilson had been attending Akeve 18 and excelling despite the fierce competition among students for academic and social honors. President of her eighth grade class, she was also the top athlete on the swimming team, regularly leaving the older and stronger athletes in her wake. Her coach thought she had Olympic potential—if she didn’t let mood swings interfere. Lately Hamlie’s work ethic had fallen off dramatically and her coach was having doubts. So was Hamlie. The students in Akeve 18 were generally well behaved and studious. Although there were the typical high school pranks and even a few drug incidents, Principal Dorita Hatati sometimes felt that her job was too easy, especially compared to her previous position as an assistant manager of Habid School 456, one of the most difficult Habid schools in Los Angeles, if not in all of California. Akeve 18 was blessed too with the latest innovative technology, including cognition-enhanced game learning systems. But even modern, architecturally perfect schools had at least some issues. At Akeve School 18 today, Hatati was meeting with several eighth grade students to discuss their Venus test results. One of the smart girls, Gretchen Fields, paced outside the principal’s office, waiting for news that could change her life. Gretchen’s shoulders were a bit slumped, and she forced a slight smile when she was invited to sit down on a soft chair in the office. Discussions with a school principal were always a bit nervewracking, even when Principal Hatati had good news. “Good morning, Gretchen, how are you today?” Hatati smiled. “I’m OK, Mrs. Hatati,” Gretchen replied. Her hands were twitching. “Gretchen, you’re an excellent student. Your grades have been consistently solid, and you’ve done some of the finest student government work I have ever seen. Your work for the American Community League and helping senior citizens in local nursing homes has made us all proud of you.” “Thank you, Ms. Hatati.” Gretchen was still not sure which direction the conversation was going. There was only one thing she wanted to know: her Venus scores. It was the only issue that really mattered. “But your Venus test,” continued Hatati, “well, I’m sorry to say that the results were not favorable this year. You were very close to making the cut score of 700. You scored 686 in math and 678 in English language arts. And science was 697. If I had any say in the matter, well, you would be allowed to stay at Akeve 18. 25

But the government ties my hands, and as you know, by not making the 700 cut score in at least two of the three subjects, you’ll have to transfer to a Habid school within the next ten days.” Gretchen’s eyes dropped. She stared at the floor, motionless but for her restless hands. “Now, I want to assure you that Habid schools are every bit as good as Akeve schools. They’re just a slightly different group of students, with somewhat more diverse abilities and needs.” Hatati knew that what she was saying wasn’t entirely true, but she believed students also needed to look at any new experience in a positive light. Gretchen held back tears, until suddenly the dam broke and small droplets became large ones running down her cheeks. “May I retake the test? I promise to study harder.” “I’m so very sorry, Gretchen. Retesting, unfortunately, is not an option. I wish there was something I could say or do to help. In two years, you’ll have the chance to retake the Venus tests. And if you do well, you could be right back with your classmates at an Akeve high school as though nothing had happened.” “I’ll miss my friends. And I’ll lose two years of being with them.” “I know this is hard for you,” said Hatati, putting her hand on Gretchen’s shoulder. “When I was in school, my parents were both in the military. I changed schools seven times as the Navy transferred us around the country. I always made a lot of new friends, and I’m still close to many of them today. I even married my high school sweetheart, who I met at a new school.” Hatati had used the same line with dozens of other students, yet she was never certain of its effect. Gretchen broke into sobs. The principal tried to comfort her. “Our counselor can help you with any transitioning needs. I want you to go see Ms. Rhodes right away, OK?” “OK,” Gretchen sobbed, with tears streaming down her face. Hatati handed her several tissues and then just gave her the box. Gretchen walked out of the office, past other students lined up to meet with the principal. On her way to the counselor’s office, Gretchen noticed Hamlie coming toward her. Disappointment turned to anger, and Gretchen couldn’t hold it back any longer. “It’s your fault, Hamlie. It’s your goddamn father who makes all these goddamn tests!” Realizing what had happened, Hamlie searched for the right words to say. But there were none she could offer to someone whose life was crashing down around her. “You didn’t pass?” said Hamlie with disbelief and true concern. “Oh Gretchen, I’m sorry, I really am.” “Screw you and your father. And may your mother burn in hell!” Gretchen spat on Hamlie, hitting her squarely in the eyes. Hamlie burst into tears.

26

CHAPTER 7

Converted from an office building constructed in the 1960s, Habid School 433 held nearly a thousand students. A few weather-beaten California palm trees and scraggly bushes were the only “landscaping” on the campus. The original electrical wiring was barely adequate to run even a modest set of computers, copiers, and office equipment; it required a supplemental generator to operate the power-hungry Venus assessment system. Students trudged up and down four flights of stairs; the few elevators that existed couldn’t handle the large volume of students between classes every day. Because the cafeteria held only two hundred people at one time, Habid 433 students ate in a series of five twenty-minute lunch shifts. Classrooms were segregated into male and female, because some ancient research study once said that many low-performing students performed better in same-sex classes. The students dressed markedly different from their Akeve counterparts. Black was their favorite color, often marked with gray stripes that looked a bit like prison garb. Body piercing and tattoos were the norm rather than an exception. Sam Smith, thirteen and youthfully handsome, milled around a Habid 433 hallway. Habid students were known for low performance and bad behavior, not exactly what Grant Wilson had claimed them to be in his presentations, nor quite what Principal Hatati had told Gretchen about Habid students. Sam didn’t meet those qualities, but his mild attention deficit disability and weak memory prevented him from being able to test into an Akeve school. Athletic, trim, and with deep blue eyes, Sam’s goal in life was to go to college and become a teacher, perhaps to help other students with disabilities. That was, if he could stay away from jerks like Pete Brewster and his gang. “Hey, Sammy boy,” Brewster shouted. He was a scraggly fifteen-year-old, a couple of years older than Sam and just about everyone else in the school, the worst of the worst Habid bullies. His tattooed body, expansive physical size, and generous use of eyeliner made him look much older than his years. He had been retained in kindergarten because his teacher said he was immature and had a major behavior problem. Not much changed, except that he developed a strong interest and ability in technology, although almost always using it for the wrong reasons, including hacking into other people’s computers. Brewster was surrounded as usual by several of his fellow ruffians, each obnoxious-looking in his own individual way. “What the hell do you mean getting an A on fart-head Bickers’s algebra test? You trying to make the rest of us geniuses look bad?” mocked Brewster. Sam knew that getting into a dialogue with him was a no-win situation. Brewster was an expert manipulator of words. His favorite trick was to make nasty comments to you just out of range of an adult, hoping you would take a swing at him so he could claim self-defense after he beat the crap out of you. “Damn,” Brewster shouted, “I studied all night for that test, and the best I could do was 20 out of 100. Yeah, I just love punching in those idiot bubbles on the screen, A, B, C, D, and sometimes E.” 27

Brewster came to being a thug and a bully through little fault of his own. His father disappeared from his life even before he was born, and his mother was an overbearing type who called him stupid for being smart (especially with computers) but never having any motivation to do well in school. He first experimented with drugs when he was ten. Now he was into ultra-methamphetamines, which were quickly eating his brain away and would no doubt leave him dead before he turned thirty. Most likely Brewster would manage to get himself killed some other way, probably through one of the drug deals that helped him own the coolest digielectronics of any Habid 433 student. Or he might find himself wrapped around a tree during one of his Friday night street races with his older brother, who was showing him the fun side of bad. Sam tried to ignore Brewster and walk past, but the bully got right into his face and pushed him hard. Brewster, his tone serious and threatening, was a good four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Sam. “Stop being so fucking good in school, you shithead. They’re gonna expect the rest of us to actually pick up a goddamn book. You wouldn’t want me and my buds to blow your fucking head off one night when you ain’t looking.” A large group of classmates gathered to watch the impending results, hoping for a fight so they wouldn’t have to go back to class. “Take him out right now, Pete!” encouraged one of the gang members. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the small group chanted, eager for a dose of entertainment before the bell rang. If the fight was big enough, they might be able to miss at least the first fifteen minutes of this period until order was restored. If they got really lucky, a few of them might be able to sneak out past the security guard at the front door. “Hey!” a loud male voice filled the hall. It was Mr. Bickers, an African American math teacher whose voice loomed as large as his chest. A former Marine, he was a tough guy even by Corps standards. The crowd immediately dissipated, with Brewster the first to run. “Where you going, Brewster? Over here, now! You too, Smith!” Kids could get away with quite a bit at Habid 433, but not around Bickers, who was known in some circles as The Enforcer. They slinked their way over to the teacher, Brewster cursing under his breath. The disappointed onlookers quietly made their way to their next class. “I’ll see you both in Saturday school,” Bickers said, asking no questions. “And Mr. Smith, your Venus test is today. Go over to the school psychologist’s office and get started. Brewster, you get to retake that math quiz you flunked yesterday. Go on, before I have you both here on Sunday too.” “Yes sir!” said Brewster loudly, simultaneously casting a pissed-off glance at Sam before disappearing into Bickers’s classroom. He knew that his mom would lay into him good for having to attend his tenth Saturday school this year. While she was at it, she would no doubt make sure to throw in a few more “stupid this and stupid that,” somehow intended to motivate the unmotivated. Sam headed toward the school psychologist’s office. “One more thing, Smith.” After a long pause, Bickers broke into a smile. 28

“Good luck on your test today. You deserve more than this school can give you.” “Thanks, Mr. Bickers,” said Sam, large dimples showing through his smile. It was helpful to have at least one teacher as a friend in a tough school. They went their separate ways. Sam took a long breath; today he was taking the biggest test in his life.

29

CHAPTER 8

“This is hard,” Sam told himself as he worked through a fully computerized Venus assessment in an isolated cubicle. As he answered each question, a new one presented itself. A series of sensors and cameras monitored his every movement. He answered every question with growing speed and confidence, feeling he was performing well enough to have a chance to get out of the Habid school system. Meanwhile, buried in the back of Mr. Bickers’s mathematics classroom, Pete kept a low profile, hidden from the teacher’s view by a few of his fellow nonperforming buddies. Holding a tiny computer handheld, he quietly tapped buttons with a stylus. Encountering a sequence of security control screens, he successfully entered passwords on each one. Next to him was Brian Jiffik, who was sporting what looked like an arrow through his head. “Mr. Jiffik,” boomed Bickers in his best Marine voice, “no fake arrows through the head today; you’ve got enough issues going on up there already.” The class laughed. Sneezing loudly, Jiffik mumbled a four-letter word as he reluctantly removed the arrow. “I thought I heard an expletive there, Mr. Jiffik, so I look forward to seeing you at Saturday school this weekend. With your friend Mr. Brewster.” “Cool it, you dip-shit,” Brewster mumbled to his buddy as he continued tapping his handheld. “I’m just about there.” “Bam, you the man who’s gonna get Sam,” proclaimed Jiffik, making sure Bickers didn’t see or hear him. “Bingo!” Brewster exclaimed. With another tap, he was viewing Sam’s Venus test exactly as Sam was taking it. Pete might not have been smart in math or any other subject, but when it came to computer devices and hacking security codes he was the smartest eighth grader around. “Oh baby, baby,” he said with glee, “you are gonna fry, toad-bag.” As Sam answered each question in the other room, Pete changed it to the answer that was most obviously wrong, all in a fraction of a second. Sam didn’t notice as he kept moving forward in the test. Brewster and Jiffik could hardly contain their elation. “Pete, you oughta be working for that ancient computer dude up in Oregon—what’s his name?” Jiffik said. “Gates, Bill Gates, you moron,” said Pete, “and he’s in Seattle, not Oregon.” “Yeah, that’s the dude I meant.” As he changed more questions on Sam’s test, Pete had a few final words for his archenemy, whom he hated only because he was different and tried harder than others at school. He believed as well that Sam got special privileges because of his ADD. “You SPED-wad,” he whispered, referring to Sam’s special education status, “you going down to Habid hell.”

31

In the Venus testing cubicle, a few minutes later, Sam finished the last of his test questions and noticed his screen flickering. He skipped back to the previous question and saw that the answer was different from what he had entered. When he tried to correct it, he couldn’t. Unexpectedly, the bell rang. The test proctor came up to Sam, who began to panic. “Time’s up, Mr. Smith,” she said as she disconnected Sam from the monitors. “On to your next class.” “But something’s wrong,” Sam yelled. “My last question wasn’t what I answered.” “Sure, sure,” the proctor replied, as though she had heard every possible excuse in the world during previous test administrations. “The Venus system has been evaluated dozens of times. We’ve never encountered any problems, but I’ll report your complaint to the proper authorities. It’s all recorded right there.” The proctor pointed to a meter showing that their voices were being recorded as they spoke. “OK, thanks. I think I did pretty well,” said Sam as he gathered his backpack and headed to his next class. With Sam out of sight, the proctor looked at the instantaneously scored results. They revealed a combined average of 42 percent. The technician shook her head and erased the audio track of Sam’s complaint. “Next!” she shouted.

32

CHAPTER 9

“Hi, Sam,” Tillie called from further down the Habid 433 hallway. She was a gorgeous, sexy vamp, tall, with copper red hair and emerald green eyes. A tattoo on her left cheek was evidence that she had bought into the Habid student culture. As usual, she was accompanied by a few giggling girlfriends, but Tillie was always in charge. “Hi, Tillie.” Moving close to Sam, with her friends drawing in around them, Tillie turned on her best impression of a woman in lust. “So, you want to go to the backwards dance, Sam? It could be a lot of fun, if you know what I mean.” Flattered, yet embarrassed by Tillie’s interest and direct words, Sam was unsure what to say. “I have a class I need to get to.” She drew closer and leaned over to show as much cleavage as a thirteenyear old girl might have with the help of a push-up bra. “A lot of fun,” she repeated. Still unsure of himself, Sam mumbled the words that Tillie was waiting for. “OK, yeah, why not?” “Good,” said Tillie, “because my pet rat doesn’t have a date, and you two will make a perfect match.” Her friends burst into laughter as a red-faced Sam scurried off to class. Tillie shouted after him. “I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last mammal on earth! Give me a real Habid boy anytime, if you know what I mean.” With the humiliation some distance behind him, Sam stepped into the nearest boy’s bathroom. It was dimly lit by the few lights that were not smashed or burnt out. He discovered his own name scrawled with deep red lipstick on the walls and mirrors in letters so big they couldn’t be missed even with the low light level. The only sound was the drip of a leaky faucet. The lights went out. Suddenly a sack of some kind was thrust over Sam’s head. Fists pummeled him, and he fell to the cold floor. He couldn’t get back up on his own feet. “Akeve, Akeve, Akeve!” several voices taunted in unison. A final push sent Sam hurling under the sinks. He rolled up in pain, almost in tears. Moments later, Sam was in the assistant principal’s office, proclaiming his innocence as he stood accused and convicted of defacing the bathroom. It was going to be a month of Saturday schools. Two teachers strolling past the open office door saw Sam. They were hardly out of earshot when one muttered to the other, “Not a single good one among these punks. We might as well just lock them all up right now and forget about educating America’s future inmates.” 33

CHAPTER 10

The two groups seldom spoke to each other. It wasn’t as though there were a law against it, but Habid and Akeve students had little in common, even when they gathered at Ronnie’s Pizza Parlor, a local Pasadena teen hangout for more than thirty years. With retro tile countertops and art deco chairs, Ronnie’s catered to students who were just getting into lattes and mochas in a big way. Hamlie and three girlfriends were giggling at their table when they noticed Sam walking in. His longish brown hair and huge dimples made him a dead ringer for Hugh Bucklie, the latest acting and singing heartthrob for millions of teenage girls. Sam’s only blemish was a blackened eye from his earlier bathroom beating. “Oh my Lord,” gushed Natalie. “Look at that too-cute dude who just walked through the door.” Natalie and Hamlie had been best friends since kindergarten. With her long blonde hair and naturally tan legs, Natalie would have been a cheerleader if there were any sports teams left at Akeve 18. But the extreme focus on academics made middle and high school sports nearly a thing of the past at many schools, including Akeve 18, replaced by after-school booster courses in Latin and Greek. Akeve 18 offered only swimming and equestrian teams. “I don’t think I’ve seen him before,” Natalie whispered to the other girls, “so he’s got to be Habid. He’s a hunk, all right.” “There should be a law against being that good-looking,” whined Ellen, a dark-haired athletic girl known for falling immediately in love with far too many boys. Of course, none of the boys knew they had smitten Ellen; she was so shy that she barely made eye contact with any of them. “Hey, look, ladies, he’s heading over here!” said Sofia, who had a tendency to say the obvious. “God, please command him to ask me out, and I’ll never pray for another thing in my life.” “You don’t even go to church,” Ellen said. “For him, I would start.” “Too bad he’s Habid,” said Natalie, bringing them all back to earth. “Strictly verboten for Akeve and Habid to mingle. Get hold of yourselves, girls, and cool those hormones.” Of the four young girls at the table, Sam noticed only Hamlie. Their eyes locked for a moment. “Hi,” said Sam to Hamlie as he slowed his pace just enough for all the girls to catch a long look at his blue eyes. The other girls unsuccessfully tried to hide their surprise. “Hi,” Hamlie answered. Trying to burn off some anger from his rotten day, Sam stepped over to the counter and ordered a Powerhead soda mix of cola, 7-Up, root beer, and orange

35

drink. Sitting just out of earshot of the girls’ conversation, he settled for occasionally sending a brief glance back toward Hamlie. “Oh heavens,” said Sofia, “I mean, you know that guy, Hamlie, or what?” “She knows him!” Ellen gasped. “I can tell, and she’s probably seen him shirtless, I’ll bet. Why do other girls have all the luck? Me, I’m lucky if some guy with warts gives me the time of day.” “Not really,” Hamlie insisted. “I mean I’ve seen him a couple of times, that’s it.” “How do you think he got that black eye?” Sofia asked. “Who cares, when the rest of the package looks like that?” Ellen shot back. “Hamlie, you’re playing with fire,” said Natalie, noticing the magnetism between the two. “The only nearby Habid school is 433, and that’s on the east side of the Gold Line. Definitely way off base to any Akeve girl with college aspirations like you, sweetheart.” “It’s nothing. We just said hello a couple of times in our life, that’s it.” “Yeah,” said Sofia, “that’s why you know his name and that’s why he’s gawking at you right now. Check it out, ladies.” As the four girls glanced over, Sam was caught in the act of staring at Hamlie. He quickly pulled his gaze back and finished his drink. Leaving a tip, he headed out the door, right past the quartet of wide-eyed, open-mouthed, admiring girls. “Bye, Hamlie…bye, girls,” he said, with what he hoped would be a heartmelting smile. He cruised out the door. “Oh, sweet Lord,” said Ellen, “he’s so handsome. I can’t believe it. I’m in heaven.” The three girls just stared at Hamlie, who herself squirmed a bit in her chair. “Hamlie, baby, you better get this out of your system right now,” Natalie warned. “You know what happened to Romeo and Juliet. West Side Story, the same thing. Capulets and Montagues, Jets and Sharks, Habid and Akeve, don’t mix ‘em, baby. You don’t need this.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hamlie feigned nonchalance. “It’s nothing at all.” The three friends stared her down. “Nothing, really. Nothing.” “Sure,” the other girls moaned.

36

CHAPTER 11

It wasn’t the way that Brittany Smith had planned it. You don’t really set your sights on being a copyeditor when you’re ten years old. The same thing with the divorce. It just came out of the blue when Brittany, mother to Sam Smith, found out that her husband, a veteran cop, was having an affair with a younger woman in Anaheim. He denied ever having sex with her, but the receipts that Brittany found at home showed that he had bought his “acquaintance,” as he called her, some interesting items from a swanky Beverly Hills lingerie shop. Then there were the bills from the Plaza Luxury Suites in Rancho Mirage, with numerous room service charges where her husband was supposedly attending a police conference. Here was a man who had always told Brittany that room service was an extravagant expense on the few times when they had managed to sneak away for a romantic weekend. The sheer number of items for breakfast, lunch, and dinner suggested to Brittany that the two of them never left the room. After the big D, Brittany needed a job, but after half a dozen interviews she had no offers. One of the prospective male employers seemed more interested in the size of her bust than the skills in her brain. The whole situation reinforced her general mistrust of men. When ALS offered her the copyediting job, she was thrilled, despite the low pay. This is really exciting, Brittany thought a bit pathetically as she proofed another set of ALS test questions. Tiny Vid cameras recorded workers’ every move, making sure that employees weren’t surfing the Web or chatting with colleagues. Once the Venus test questions were developed and approved, they needed grammar tweaking and formatting before becoming part of the next best-selling Venus assessment edition. Brittany’s technology skills were excellent, and just about every employee in her department came to her when they needed computer help— including Grone, her boss and the company’s most intimidating “T-Rex” supervisor. During a short authorized break, Brittany noticed an alert from Sam’s school on her personal handheld. From her tiny cubicle, she fingerprint-accessed his school records. On screen, Sam smiled and greeted her with a prerecorded message: “Hi Mom, I hope you’re doing well today.” Following the alert, Brittany proceeded through a menu until she found Sam’s results from today’s Venus test. Habid Principal Leslie Turner greeted her with a Vid message. A serious, soft-spoken woman with deepening crow’s feet, Turner taught middle school algebra for more than ten years before becoming a school administrator. Unlike many of her colleagues, she had never managed to fall in love with teaching, so moving into administration seemed the best choice. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith. Sam tried hard today on his Venus tests, but I’m sorry to inform you that his performance was below expectations. Indeed, his scores dropped substantially from his administration two years ago. Consequently, Sam will need to transfer to a different Habid school, one that is better matched to his learning abilities. If you have any questions at all, please send me a note. There

37

is also an alert waiting for you from the assistant principal for discipline. Have a nice day.” Brittany sighed and tapped another button. What happened? she thought. Sam was working so hard in all his classes, desperately wanting to move up to even the lowest-achieving Akeve school. On her handheld screen, the assistant principal for discipline greeted Brittany. His voice was polite even if official-sounding, but his facial expression revealed the tension that many assistant principals felt when confronting anxious parents about disciplinary issues. “Dear Mrs. Smith: I’m sorry to inform you that there was an incident today in the boy’s bathroom involving your son, Sam. You and I need to talk about this. But the bottom line is that we have to suspend Sam for a few days. Please stop by the school office just as soon as possible.” Brittany grabbed her purse and rushed through a set of security doors toward her car. A series of Vid cameras captured her every move, sending an emergency signal to her boss. As she reached her car, her digiphone blasted into her ear. “Mrs. Smith, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” “Mr. Grone, I need to go to my son’s school. It’s an emergency.” A lower-level ALS manager, Grone carried an air of self-importance well beyond his true status in the Company’s hierarchy. “Mrs. Smith, let me make myself absolutely clear. You have left your place of employment without permission, and there will be consequences that could result in termination. I am ordering you to return immediately to your work or face severe disciplinary action.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Grone, it’s about my son. I have to go see him.” “Last month, you had to suddenly leave work because your dog had an infected tooth. ALS cannot tolerate this number of personal issues requiring your presence away from the office.” She let a second pass without responding. “Furthermore, I need your help with my computer. It’s frozen again, and I need it now.” “Sorry, Mr. Grone, my battery is dying. Just restart your computer system, and it will be fine.” She clicked her digiphone off and stuffed it into her purse. “Smith! Smith!” Grone shouted into his own phone. “This incident will go into your employee file!” Grone clicked the phone off and simply dropped it on the desk. A few seconds later, he restarted his computer system. It worked perfectly. Walking into her house, Brittany was upset at Sam and Sam was equally upset with his whole life. Instead of talking their way through what happened, they started right in on each other. “What’s going on at school?” Brittany asked furiously. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t get fired for leaving early,” she said, looking at her own predicament. “I’m sorry I didn’t do well on that stupid test,” said Sam, “but I did the best I could. I thought I made it.” “And the bathroom incident?”

38

“I didn’t do that. Mom, believe me. You know I wouldn’t do anything like that. Pete Brewster’s been laying for me. He and his buddies set me up, I’m sure of it. They put a bag over my head and hit me. Can’t we talk about this instead of yelling at each other?” “That doesn’t match the story from the assistant principal,” Brittany replied, completely ignoring Sam’s suggestion that they both calm down. “I don’t know why you never trust me. You never trusted Dad either, and that’s why he left. I don’t think you trust any man.” “He was having an affair with another woman, Sam. That hardly builds trust in a marriage.” “Well, maybe if you had trusted him in the first place, he wouldn’t have needed another woman. I can’t remember a time when you said that you loved him, or me. It’s the L word that you seem to have trouble with. Or maybe just males in general.” Sam turned away, stomped up the stairs to his room, and slammed the door. Brittany folded her hands over her head in despair. Ever since high school, when the first boy she really loved jilted her for a popular blonde cheerleader, she had indeed learned to trust only herself. “Venus tests.” Brittany spoke her search term into the computer in her bedroom. She had to find out more about these tests that Sam just never seemed to do well on. Dozens of sites were available, but the one that grabbed her attention was Futurewords.net, a site well known for its accuracy. There she discovered extensive work by a professor named Jonathan Gologon, who had conducted research into false negatives on the Venus tests. According to Futurewords, Gologon was a pioneer in intelligence testing many years ago, contributing to the rise of a country and world that eventually were swept away with tests for everything. Gologon became a critic once his own research began to reveal many false negatives on high school exit tests. A false negative happened when a test score misclassified a student because of test error. Gologon had discovered that some kids would be denied getting a high school diploma by a margin of just one or two faulty test questions. Digging deeper into Futurewords, Brittany read that in other cases Gologon uncovered instances of alterations on Venus tests, or nonstandard testing conditions that also produced false negatives. She clicked on a Vid clip in which a talking-head woman popped up. Professor Gologon was the dissertation advisor to several exceptional students who have become renowned in their own right. These include Nora Cunningham, who developed one of the leading assessments that could successfully predict students’ artistic talents aligned with Howard Gardner’s multiple intelligence theory. Another was Dr. Grant Wilson, who is often credited as being the father of the Venus tests, now used in nearly every school in the nation. Gologon and Wilson had a falling out over the appropriate use of the Venus test score results, with Gologon criticizing Wilson for developing high-stakes tests that 39

were used to separate students into different schools. The two men remain on the most negative terms, with Wilson claiming that the final responsibility for a test rests not with test developers but with the schools that use them. Gologon claims that a test developer cannot shirk responsibility for the use of his or her tests. He once said that Wilson was as responsible for student and parent suicides as were gun manufacturers for the production of weapons that resulted in thousands of murders every year. There were several images identifying Gologon as the person who had criticized and embarrassed Wilson in front of a visiting delegation of scholars earlier in the day at ALS headquarters. Brittany was printing out the Futurewords factsheet about Gologon just as Sam came out of his room. She grabbed the handout and headed toward the front door. “Where are you going?” asked Sam. “To your school to see if I can straighten things out.” Brittany gave him a faint smile as best she could and, saying nothing, shut the door.

40

CHAPTER 12

“Mrs. Smith, I understand your concerns, but the Venus tests are valid and reliable,” Leslie Turner asserted as the clock clicked toward 6:00 p.m. Brittany had spent the last ten minutes pleading her son’s case, but the principal didn’t budge from her position. Turner had already met with half a dozen other parents, asking and begging to have their children’s Venus scores reconsidered. “We’ve given thousands of tests at Habid 433, and the few times that we had any issues from a student or parent, they were resolved in favor of the test.” “What about the research by Professor Jonathan Gologon?” asked Brittany. “He says there have been many cases of false negatives, when students were incorrectly identified for a Habid school but should have attended an Akeve school based on the test results.” “Yes, I’ve heard of Professor Gologon’s assertions. But that is an academic dispute which remains unresolved. At most, it may affect a very few students. Sam’s scores were nowhere close to being high enough for any other decision but the one required by the federal government. We have a school to run and must base our methods largely on what works. In my professional opinion, and that of thousands of schools across the nation, the Venus tests are both dependable and useful.” Brittany tried another line of query. “What about Sam’s grades? He’s among the top students here, yet his grades don’t match up with his performance on the Akeve test. He has almost straight A’s.” “You have a point there,” the principal conceded. “I don’t understand the discrepancy myself, but I think it’s probably a case of test anxiety on big tests, like the Venus ones. Sometimes children suffer from what is called learned helplessness, where past low performance on a test becomes a persistent pattern. It’s very difficult to regain your self-confidence. My daughter had a terrible time too, on major assessments. In fact, test anxiety may be what got Sam here in the first place.” “But he studied so hard. He was determined to get into an Akeve school.” “Yes, unfortunately very few students ever manage to do it,” Turner admitted, inadvertently leaving an opening. “How many, Mrs. Turner? You’ve been the principal here for several years. How many students have tested high enough to move up to an Akeve school?” Turner paused in thought, even though she already knew the answer. “None.” “None?” “No, none.” “That seems impossible.” “It is a very difficult test,” the principal continued as if reading from a promotional brochure. “Our national standards, which are based on international benchmarks, are the most challenging in the world. I know a fair amount about testing, but I don’t develop the tests. I do know that they are backed up by rigorous scientific research.” 41

“Could someone have altered his scores?” “No. The system has multiple safeguards, so that isn’t possible.” “You’re sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” Brittany detected a trace of doubt in Turner’s voice. “Is it true that Sam’s score was so low that he has to transfer to a new school?” “Yes. I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Smith,” said Turner. “Schools are based on ability today. Sam will get more help at a different school.” Turner paused. “You work at ALS. Have you talked with anyone there?” “I’ve only worked there a few months, as a copyeditor,” Brittany explained. “I’m not exactly on my supervisor’s best side, because I’ve had to take a lot of time off for family reasons.” “There must be someone,” Turner offered and then changed the subject. “But we need to talk about the bathroom incident.” “Sam claims that he was set up,” said Brittany heatedly. “He said there are some boys who have had it in for him because he tries to better himself.” “We interviewed all the probable suspects; we know who they are,” Turner answered. “Unfortunately, there isn’t any evidence to support Sam’s side of the story. The education code says that I have to suspend him for vandalism of school property, even on a first offense. My hands are tied. I’m sorry.” “How long?” Brittany sighed. “I can make it just one day.” “OK.” “I know how disappointed you and Sam are,” added Turner. “He’s a wonderful young man. You’ve done an excellent job raising him.” “Thanks,” said Brittany, as she rose to leave. “Well, I appreciate your staying late.” “No problem. We’ll do everything we can to help Sam.” Brittany left the office feeling like a total failure. A few yards down the hallway, she stopped. She had a crazy idea.

42

CHAPTER 13

The vidphone in his pocket was vibrating. From his position at the speaker’s lectern, talking to a number of graduate students, Grant knew that someone had tried to contact him several times in the past fifteen minutes. Should he stop in the middle of his lecture? These were, after all, students, and they would understand, better than anyone, being caught in a world of electronic communications that dominated their lives. No, stopping wouldn’t be professional, Grant thought. But what if something had happened to Hamlie? What if it was Jennifer, on her way back tonight from Monterey, and for some reason they really needed him right now? “Dr. Wilson, what was the interrater reliability of the third grade language arts performance assessment?” a student queried. “It was .75,” replied Grant as he continued with his lecture. “Well within the parameters set by the national test coordinating committee.” He forgot about the phone. Jennifer tried one more time to reach Grant but was unsuccessful. Through the darkness on Highway 1, the mysterious car behind drew ever closer. A sheet of notebook paper was lying on the passenger seat, with the word “List” written at the top and some notes below. The approaching vehicle closed in on Jennifer’s car, as the fuel tanker truck approached from the opposite direction. Flashes of light danced through the windows as Jennifer’s car twisted left and right, then sharper back to the left. For no apparent reason, the car behind slowed abruptly. Glancing in her rearview mirror, Jennifer breathed a sigh of relief and pulled her foot back from the accelerator. A refreshing gust of Pacific Ocean wind blew through the dual sunroof. The List memo slipped off the seat and onto the floor. She glanced toward the paper, and when she looked up again the tanker truck was almost on top of her. She swerved sharply to avoid twenty tons of deadly steel and fuel, but it was too late. The truck’s air horn blasted through the night, and the two vehicles collided head on. Jennifer’s car flipped high into the sky, somersaulting in a slow-motion dance with an angel. The moment seemed to last forever, as both truck and car exploded into flames and went crashing down a steep embankment. As though caught in a bubble, the “I love Jenn and Hamlie” valentine floated high into the night air, which thundered with the sound of two masses of metal gradually dropping into scattered remains. The photograph settled in cinder and ash, until it was picked up by the hand of the unknown individual who had driven Jennifer to her deadly distraction. The head of the mysterious man or woman tilted downward almost regretfully. The killer placed the valentine photo deep into a pocket and disappeared into the black night.

43

Grant bolted awake in a sweat. He caught his breath, looked around, and then lay back down, pulling a pillow over his head. Every night it was the same nightmare, the same broken heart, and the same guilt. If he had only stopped his presentation when he thought Jennifer was trying to reach him, she might be alive today. Everything would be so much different, so much better. Or maybe it wasn’t even Jennifer trying to reach him. And perhaps the mysterious person picking up the valentine photo was just part of his overactive imagination as well.

44

CHAPTER 14

“Dr. Wilson, there’s a Professor Julie Ludlow here to see you, from the University of Pretoria, South Africa.” Grant, lost in his thoughts of Jennifer while gazing at her photograph, was oblivious to his administrative assistant’s presence. His workspace was cluttered with dozens of photographs of Jennifer and Hamlie, including a large portrait of the three of them on one wall. A photo of Grant and Jason Zirkoff on graduation day at the Air Force Academy, both dashingly dressed in their parade blue uniforms, sat on top of a bookcase. The two new “butter bar” lieutenants were tossing their hats into the air just as the Thunderbirds aerial demonstration team zoomed overhead. “Dr. Wilson, Professor Ludlow is here,” Susan repeated. “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” said Grant, reviewing his daily calendar of back-to-back meetings and vidconferences. “Does she have an appointment?” “Sir, she said she does, but it isn’t on the DCP log.” Grant glanced out at the professor standing at Susan’s desk. Even from a distance, something interesting about this woman with the large black-framed glasses caused Grant to prolong his gaze. Susan prompted him again. “Sir?” “Yes, well, I have a few minutes before my first meeting today. I can chat with her, but tell her no more than ten minutes.” “Yes, sir.” Susan left and told Ludlow that he would see her but had just a short time before his first appointment of the day. “Thank you very much,” Ludlow replied graciously. As Ludlow walked into his office, Grant watched with deep curiosity. The similarity between this woman and Jennifer was remarkable. Ludlow’s facial curves, complexion, and physical proportions were all a close match. Even their gaits were alike. They weren’t twins, of course; Ludlow was substantially taller and wore glasses. Her cheeks were slightly fuller and her eyes were blue, not brown like Jennifer’s. Grant didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. “Good morning, Dr. Wilson,” said Ludlow. “I greatly appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.” He motioned her to a chair and then handed her a large bottle of water and a glass. Ludlow took a sip. He thought she seemed nervous. “That’s quite all right,” he said, noticing that Ludlow’s voice was similar, although not identical, to Jennifer’s. The emotional charge was surreal, and it caused him to uncharacteristically stumble over his words. “University of Pretoria. You certainly have come a long distance, Professor.” “I was in the United States on other business, visiting a number of associates at university campuses.” He glanced at a photograph of Jennifer. The hair was different, with Jennifer’s swept back as she usually wore it, and Ludlow’s down and longer. “I can’t help but feeling that we’ve met before. Have we?” Grant asked. 45

“No, I don’t think so. The closest I ever came to meeting you was when I heard you speak at the American Psychological Association conference several years ago.” “Right, that would have been New York City.” “Yes, that was it, New York. One of my favorite American cities.” “University of Pretoria…tell me, does Professor Chang Lin Kho still teach there? He and I were on a symposium together in Montreal a few years ago, speaking about performance assessment and cognitive development.” Hesitating for a split second, Ludlow replied, “Yes. Yes, he is still there. I admire his research a great deal.” “So what new work is Lin Kho investigating these days?” “Testing and learning.” “Yes, of course,” Grant mused, “but he’s well known for his studies into the validity and reliability of scoring ontology-based assessments, especially computerdriven instructional systems.” “He is still focusing his work on that area,” said Ludlow. This intriguing professor’s mannerisms and gestures were so close to his deceased wife’s that even her best friend might not know the difference. Grant was mystified. He also felt that dangerous edge of falling instantly in love with a total stranger. Grant didn’t want the conversation to end and was tempted to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day. Ten minutes wouldn’t be enough with this fascinating, unannounced visitor. “Very good. Please give Lin Kho my best. Now, how may I help you today, Professor?” “I wanted to chat with you about the Venus tests. As you know, they’re famous throughout the world, and a growing number of nations use them. But I have a few questions regarding some accuracy issues.” “There have been virtually hundreds of studies done,” said Grant, a defensiveness in his voice. “Split method reliability is .80. Face, content, concurrent, congruent, construct validity, you name it, we’ve studied it, as have dozens of independent universities and think tanks. The Venus tests meet the most rigorous standards of the International Assessment Association.” “But what about the research done by Professor Jonathan Gologon? He claims that if the same student took the test twice, there is a high probability that the second score would be more than 10 points different than the first score.” Grant straightened his spine and assumed a resistant stance. “Gologon’s work is based in theory only and isn’t scientifically sound. Our experts have replicated his analyses, and the results show only 1 percentage point difference between two students, with a .10 measurement error. That means only a one-in-ten chance that the one percentage point difference was due to the test. You can’t produce a more accurate assessment than that. You can read all about it in some twenty technical manuals…if you have trouble getting to sleep at night.” “You were Gologon’s protégé at one time?”

46

“He was my advisor at Stanford. After I finished my Ph.D., I continued to do research in his lab as a postdoctorate fellow. Gologon did the initial assessment model design for what eventually became the Venus tests. In fact, he still receives a fairly handsome royalty check every month, despite having become disillusioned with the tests and signed away any rights he held.” “To ALS?” “No, to Stanford,” said Grant. “Universities are good about getting their fair share of income generated from research. Gologon felt the money should go back into more research, and it did.” “What about test score changes? The results are used to rank schools and students. Wouldn’t at least a few people or schools have substantial motivation to game the system?” “You mean cheat?” “Yes, or any ability for someone to alter the test?” “Impossible,” Grant uttered emphatically. “We’ve designed and included dozens of safeguards to prevent anyone from having access to the test or the answers. Even the proctor can’t see the test or alter the score. The type pad matches every touch of a key to the fingerprints of the student taking the test. The results are immediately coded into a secure system.” “I see,” said Ludlow calmly. “Well, I guess I don’t have any other questions.” She looked around his office and prepared to leave, but stopped. “These must be photographs of your family?” “Yes, my daughter, Hamlie, and my late wife, Jennifer.” “They’re both beautiful. I’m sorry about your wife. Was it recent?” “Six months ago.” She rose, but Grant didn’t want the conversation to end. His mind raced in a thousand directions. Why was this woman asking these questions, challenging the Venus tests? It seemed odd for a visiting academic. “Dr. Wilson, your next appointment is here,” Susan informed him from the doorway. “Tell them to wait.” “I don’t have any other questions,” Ludlow responded. “But I do,” said Grant firmly, wanting to know more. “Certainly, although I have just a few minutes before I need to leave for a meeting at USC.” “Tell me who you really are,” Grant asked in a deadly serious tone. “What do you mean? I’ve told you who I am.” “There is no Professor Chang Lin Kho at the University of Pretoria. I made the name up. Professor Julie Ludlow at the University of Pretoria doesn’t exist either. In fact there isn’t a Professor Julie Ludlow in the entire world. Those sensors over there started checking your identity when you walked through that door.” “So you know who I am?” “It’s coming in right now,” said Grant, glancing at a name as it appeared on his computer. “Your real name is Brittany Smith, and you’re an ALS copyeditor.” She hung her head. “Why the phony pretense?” he asked angrily. 47

“You wouldn’t have seen me otherwise. You’re a busy man.” “You’re right. So what’s the real reason you came to see me?” She took a step toward him and spoke solemnly. “My son, Sam, he’s in eighth grade and took his Venus test recently. He was certain he performed well, and I had to find out if someone might have altered his test, or if there could have been some type of scoring mistake. This Professor Gologon calls it a false negative, falsely identifying someone as a low performer when they are a high performer. Sam does well in school, but because of this test he not only won’t have the opportunity to attend an Akeve school, which is his life’s dream, but will have to move down to a lower-rated Habid school. I want to know if he can retake the test. He’ll study harder; he’s a good kid.” “You can’t study for a Venus test,” Grant explained authoritatively. “It’s an aptitude test and measures your ability, not just how well you’ve done in your classes. The sensor systems involved in the Venus test also monitor a child’s potential to learn in a challenging environment. There are noises, for example, intended to distract lower-ability students from higher-ability students who have stronger concentration skills. If your son might have an attention problem, it would be more difficult for him.” “Why would you try to distract a student?” “Because that’s the real world,” he answered. “Very few people sit in a quiet office uninterrupted for eight hours at a time. The Venus test simulates an authentic environment. Dozens of sounds and even visual distractions tell us about a student’s specific abilities, not just how well they can regurgitate a bunch of memorized facts, like the name of the thirteenth U.S. president.” “Millard Fillmore.” “Very good.” He was impressed that anyone would know the answer to that one. “Tell me, Dr. Wilson: could someone have altered Sam’s environment— making too much noise, for example?” “No. We have over a hundred security safeguards that protect against everything from direct intrusion to external breaches. Our scientists have devoted substantial effort and expense to make the system as secure and accurate as it can be. I’m sorry, but your son had as much chance as any other student to perform well on the test.” “Sam’s principal told me that students have the opportunity to move up if they perform well on their next Venus test,” Brittany said. “But she couldn’t name a single child who has tested well enough at her own school. Tell me, Dr. Wilson, how many students in Habid schools pass the test and actually move up to an Akeve school?” “A small but significant percentage.” “What do mean?” she asked, unconvinced. “Does that mean 10 percent, 5 percent…?” “About 1 percent.” “One percent!” she blurted out. “That’s almost no one. How can you say that that’s a good test, when only 1 percent of students move up to an Akeve school?” 48

“The test is meant to differentiate between high-potential students and those with less potential. It doesn’t mean that individuals with low scores are condemned to live an unsuccessful life. Our whole existence is a sorting out process, Ms. Smith. It is Ms., correct?” “Yes.” She pushed on. “But name some well-known people who graduated from Habid schools.” “OK,” said Grant, taking the bait. “Roger Bonson is one of them.” “The basketball player?” “He’s a U.S. senator now.” “Right,” Brittany agreed. “But he was famous as a basketball player first. Try again.” “Angela Terrence.” “Never heard of her.” “Undersecretary of the U.S. Department of Education.” “Undersecretary. What about the secretary of education?” Brittany demanded. “Habid school?" “Akeve.” Grant stopped. He couldn’t think of anyone else. “That’s your list?” “We don’t track that kind of information.” Grant was getting more irritated. “Do you go up to people and ask them what elementary school they went to?” “No, but I didn’t create a test that discriminates against students.” She was indeed bold, and if he hadn’t wanted to know more about her he would have told her to leave already. Then again, he had always admired Jennifer’s direct honesty and willingness to say exactly what was on her mind. He preferred that to playing mental games. “OK, here’s another question,” she continued. “How many students move down, compared to the 1 percent that move up? Either dropping within an Akeve school or moving down to a lower Habid school?” “About 20 percent on each testing cycle.” “That’s awful,” she complained. “Why are 20 percent moving down and just 1 percent moving up?” “We have enormous international pressure to create better schools with higher standards,” he went on, as if giving a speech. “As children get older, the standards go up, the tests get harder, and Akeve schools become fewer. Other countries are increasingly doing the same thing. Japan, Finland, Korea, Germany, Australia. All of them.” Brittany’s demeanor changed from indignant to furious. “So that the privileged few can attend the most selective universities after high school,” she said forcefully. “Then the most selective graduate schools, on to selective Ph.D.s, and eventually big fat CEO salaries. The rest of us all become fodder for the superrich.” With that, she threw her water into Grant’s face and marched out, as Susan stepped into the office. “Oh my goodness, Dr. Wilson! I can’t believe she did that to you. Shall I call security?”

49

“No, no, it’s all right, Susan.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “It’s easier to blame a rather bureaucratic system than to face the facts about our kids.” He gazed at a photograph of Jennifer. “They have the same strong spirit,” he muttered. “Pardon me, sir?” “Oh, nothing, Susan. Please send in my next appointment.”

50

CHAPTER 15

I’m late again. Maybe he won’t see me, Brittany thought as she slipped into the office. No luck. Grone was waiting for her in her chair, impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk. She could tell by his face that he took pleasure in what he was about to do. After her episode in Wilson’s office, she figured it would make little difference. “Ah, there you are, Smith,” he said with a sly smile. “I was looking for you to help me with a small computer problem that’s slowing down the entire department. Where have you been?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me anyway; I’m curious.” “I was meeting with Dr. Wilson.” “Hmm, Grant Wilson, the ALS vice CEO,” Grone mused. “You are right, I find that very hard to believe. Enlighten me, why don’t you?” She remained silent, not wanting to divulge her poor disguise as a visiting scholar from South Africa. “Well, Smith,” he said in a flat, official voice, “you leave me no alternative but to let you go. Don’t bother with anything; just pack your personal items and depart. You have thirty minutes.” “It’s not like you to be so generous,” she sniped back. “You’re correct,” Grone said sharply. “Ten minutes. And if you say another word, I’m calling security and will have you escorted out.” Grone stood erect, shot back his shoulders, and quickly walked away. Brittany started packing her personal belongings into the same box she had used not long ago to bring them in. The final item was a photograph of her with Sam. She picked it up, gazed at it briefly, then packed it away. As she turned to leave, she bumped into a man’s shoulder. “What do you want now? I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” “I don’t want you to leave,” he said. As she looked up, Brittany saw it wasn’t Grone but Grant Wilson, with a smile on his face. Not impressed, she walked around him toward an elevator. He followed her like a puppy. Hearing the footsteps, she stopped, turned, and faced him directly. “I want to go, and I’m going. I won’t work for a company that does what you do to kids. You can ask Grone the rest.” “Please, I’m asking you to stay,” he said. “I need you to stay.” The all-glass elevator arrived. Without saying a word or making eye contact with him, she was gone. Disappointed, Grant headed back to his office. Grone came around the corner and bumped into him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Wilson. What brings you to our neck of the woods today?” 51

“Are you Brittany Smith’s supervisor?” “Yes sir. Grone’s the name.” He held out his hand, but Grant was in no handshaking mood and didn’t reciprocate. “Well then, Grone, what do you know about Smith leaving the company?” “Sir, she told me an improbable story that she was meeting with you and that’s why she was late this morning. She’s regularly tardy. On top of that, we needed help with our computers today and she wasn’t available.” “She was meeting with me,” Grant replied. “And we have a full department to help you with technology.” Grone was undaunted. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but I had to let her go. She didn’t have a good attitude. Even as a probationary employee, she missed a lot of work for personal reasons.” “You have kids, Grone?” “No sir, no wife—and no partner either. Never much interested.” “Just as well. You won’t have time for them anyway. You’ve got Smith’s job now.” “But sir,” Grone protested, standing up a little taller with his shoulders squared. “I’m not a copyeditor. I was never even a good English student.” “Learn,” Grant ordered in a direct voice. “That’s why we call this company Achievement Learning Systems.” He turned to leave. “But who will do my work?” countered Grone before Grant could escape. “Maybe Ms. Smith would be interested,” he said with a slight smile. “She seems to be suddenly available.” “I won’t be insulted like that. I’ll quit first,” insisted Grone. “Resignation accepted,” Grant called loudly, disappearing into the elevator. The elevator doors closed. Grone saw a couple of other employees passing by, barely hiding their pleasure. The next day, Grant was dropping Hamlie off at school. His car nearly matched the one Jennifer drove. Just a year ago, when some stock options peaked, the couple splurged and treated themselves to two new cars. His was racing red and hers was jet black, her favorite color. Had it been a brighter color, perhaps the truck driver would have seen it a split second earlier and avoided the crash, or so Grant would often ponder during his guilt-ridden moments. Several of Hamlie’s classmates were waiting for her near the Information Resource Center, a fancy name given to Akeve school libraries equipped with all the current technology gadgets. She worried as she pulled her backpack out, laden with a handheld device and other school essentials. It wasn’t just another school day. Today she would take this year’s Venus test. Although she had easily passed all of them before, she always felt anxious about a test with such serious consequences. “You’ll do fine,” Grant assured her, reading her mind. “I’d feel a lot better if you would share the answer key with me,” she said, only half kidding. “After all, I’m your only daughter.” “You’ve attended the best schools in the state. You’re a smart girl, and you’ll do well, just as you always have.” 52

She pointed to one of her friends standing by the resource center. The girl, who was bent over as if she had a hundred-pound backpack on her shoulders, said nothing as her classmates nearby chatted away. “Grant, maybe you want to tell that to Louise over there. She didn’t pass, and tomorrow she leaves for a Habid school. I don’t feel quite as confident without Jen around.” “I know, Honey,” said Grant. “Things will never be quite the same. If Mom were here, she would tell you to have confidence in yourself and everything will work out just fine.” “OK. But don’t forget to pick me up on time after school today.” “I won’t. Now, go break a leg, and max that test like I know you will.” She feigned a smile and headed toward Louise to see if she could console her friend.

53

CHAPTER 16

The rising sun cast long shadows at the Sunset Village Conference Center, creating a stunning morning on the UCLA campus. Oblivious to the gentle seventydegree weather, a panel of four researchers were presenting to a packed audience, including a small group of reporters anticipating fireworks between ALS vice CEO Grant Wilson and Stanford Distinguished Professor of Education emeritus Jonathan Gologon. The two researchers were among the most popular on the lecture circuit, not only for their exceptional speaking skills but also for their vast difference of opinion about educational testing. Gologon, the most well-known critic of national testing, was up first and loading his first slide onto an ancient overhead projector. He was the epitome of old-school style and humor. “I’ll bet you haven’t seen one of these dinosaurs in years,” quipped Gologon as he switched on the overhead projector lamp. “I call these my ‘Supremacy Power Points.’” The crowd laughed, but Gologon had a dead serious look on his face. “As you can see from this chart, the effects of the national Venus tests on instruction and learning are among the most negative in the history of educational testing. If Alfred Binet and John Dewey were alive today, they would be aghast at how narrow these national tests have made our curriculum, and how inflated the scores have become.” He manually replaced the first slide with a new one. “This chart shows that in those years in which a national test does not exist in a grade or subject, teachers spend 50 percent less time teaching the subject than in the year when it is tested. Borko and Stecher found similar effects back in the late 1990s with the Kentucky Instructional Results and Information System, better known as KIRIS. Teachers spend more time teaching what is tested and a lot less time teaching anything not on the test.” He paused and exchanged slides. “And turning to this chart, you see the extraordinary inflation on the Venus tests—again a clear effect of teaching to the test rather than applied understanding of deep knowledge. Indeed, in virtually every year since Congress approved national tests, the scores have increased by an average of 5.2 scale points. That increase is unparalleled by any other nation, representing teaching the test content as closely as possible, to the detriment of students learning anything of real value—including how to think.” The professor stepped to the side of the lectern. “But ladies and gentlemen, this is not the half of it.” His voice grew louder. “By far my deepest concern—and my analyses well bear this out—is the absolute criminal use of the Venus tests to send children to different schools. The number of false negatives and false positives that stem from sorting students using these test scores constitutes the most nefarious use of a test that man or woman has ever witnessed.” 55

The audience sat in rapt attention. Most had never witnessed such a strong attack at an academic conference. “As you can see from this next chart, the probability of a student being incorrectly evaluated on a Venus test and assigned to the wrong school is nearly 15 percent.” Gologon took out his handkerchief and wiped heavy perspiration from his forehead. “Even if one could assume that such a practice was educationally sound— and it isn’t, I assure you—fifteen out of every hundred children are today attending a Habid school when they should be attending an Akeve school, while a similar percentage of students, another 15 percent, are attending an Akeve school when they should theoretically be attending a Habid school.” Walking to the center of the stage and in front of the screen, Gologon raised his hand and shouted: “That, my friends, is a 30 percent rate of misidentification, and constitutes the greatest travesty that has ever been perpetuated in American education! The use of any single test to make such major decisions has long been a violation of both national and international testing standards.” Wilson was sitting in the front row, waiting his turn. Zirkoff was on his left, and Natan Chen, ALS’s director of data analysis and evaluation, sat to his right. Wilson had recruited Chen as one of the most respected and recognized experts on statistics in the nation. It took a lot of money to lure him away from his work at the University of Chicago, but Wilson’s charm and generosity, plus an opportunity to supervise a ten-person methods department, contributed to an offer Chen and his wife, also a statistics analyst, couldn’t refuse. Chen listened intently to Gologon’s remarks, taking scrupulous notes on his handheld. “The old prof is desperate, eh?” Zirkoff leaned over and whispered to Wilson, who nodded slightly. But he knew that Gologon was an influential force and a powerful mind to be contended with. As in war, even a single opponent could galvanize others into formidable opposition. Wilson didn’t need that right now, as he and Abram were negotiating with more than a dozen countries to invest in the Venus tests. Gologon continued, raising his voice throughout and emphasizing certain points. Wilson now remembered having been impressed with the professor’s oratorical ability back when he was sitting in Gologon’s assessment theory class at Stanford. That was when the same man now damning achievement testing was enthralled by the power of tests to change the scope of American education. “Test it and they will teach it,” Gologon would proclaim. Although Wilson understood how and why Gologon became such an ardent testing critic, those same issues had never resonated with him. Create the perfect test, Wilson believed, and it would be fine to teach to it. Researcher Lauren Resnick had said as much years ago about the New Standards tests that she helped to develop. “The effects of these tests and the segmenting of students into highachieving and low-achieving schools has only further contributed to the social and economic disparities in this country,” Gologon lamented. He paced across the stage, his voice taking on the forcefulness of an evangelist.

56

“You can see from this chart that nearly 90 percent of all incarcerated individuals in this nation are educated at Habid schools, where the high school drop-out rate is a scandalous 67 percent. The United States of America is truly the Divided States of America, thanks to a testing system that slices children into advantaged and disadvantaged groups. We must end this system—now!” The auditorium was silent. Gologon gathered his slides. “I have written a paper on this topic, which I’ll now automatically transmit to your electronic devices.” A simple push of a button, and his paper was in everyone’s handheld. “Thank you,” he concluded, stepping away from the lectern to the sound of polite applause. The clapping grew louder as Wilson walked up to the front. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the National Conference on School and Student Accountability,” he began. “It is indeed a pleasure to be here today, with such a distinguished panel of colleagues and associates.” He smiled warmly at his former mentor, whose response combined politeness and a scowl. “Professor Gologon and I agree on at least that point,” said Wilson. “But our differences are great, and I ask you to consider the facts that have evolved from more than twenty independently commissioned research studies related to the accuracy of the Venus tests.” As he continued, two digital screens appeared on either side of the audience as he proceeded to illustrate his contention that the Venus tests might be the best thing that had ever happened to U.S. education. If nothing else, Wilson far surpassed Gologon in the quality of his presentation graphics. “As you can see from this chart, American student performance on international assessments was dismal for many years. For example, on the 1995 Third International Mathematics and Science Study, American twelfth graders were among the lowest-performing students in forty nations. On the 2003 Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), American eighth grade students underperformed more than 70 percent of all participating nations in mathematics.” Wilson was reassured in seeing everyone’s eyes fixed on the screens. “Similarly, American achievement on the National Assessment of Educational Progress, also known as America’s Report Card, showed almost no improvement for more than twenty years, until 2014, when the National Education Reform Act, or NERA, was passed. As you know, that federal legislation was prompted by the ‘Nation of Failure’ report.” As Wilson scanned the audience, he noticed Brittany Smith walking in. He paused briefly and smiled to himself as he watched her take a seat among a group of researchers. Seeing he had made her conspicuous with his pause, he continued. “As you know, NERA mandated national tests, for the first time in American history, and since that time you can see the steady progress of U.S. student achievement, which has improved nearly 10 percent every year on average in math, language arts, science, and social studies. Ten percent is an annual increase never before achieved by any country.” He could see many in the audience smiling and nodding. 57

Chart after chart, he continued showing the unprecedented improvement in U.S. student test performance. A lower red line showed the fairly small annual international gains based on an average of many countries. A bold blue line showed how the United States initially scored far below its international competitors but then quickly and dramatically overtook them. “There are other progress indicators that strongly substantiate this dramatic advancement in achievement,” he said, “helping to confirm the validity and positive impact of the Venus tests as an effective accountability measure. This chart to your left shows dramatic gains in the percentage of African American and Latino students attending four-year colleges, the highest level in U.S. history; this chart to your right shows that the U.S. economy has been booming, with unemployment dropping to an incredibly low 3.7 percent. Even the juvenile delinquency rate has shown a dramatic decrease. “Further, the accuracy of the Venus assessments is the highest of any test yet developed, with a miniscule 0.1 percent error rate, meaning that policy uses of the tests, including school assignment, can be done with near certainty.” He took in the quiet but palpable approval of the audience. “Admittedly, the national Venus tests are only partially responsible for these outstanding results. As recommended by the ‘Nation of Failure, Part 2’ report and implemented through NERA, U.S. students now attend school year round, and our children begin mandatory preschool at age three, which is the earliest age in any nation. “Although I appreciate Professor Gologon’s comments, we should realize too that this is an election year, and President Connelly and his challenger, Senator Gotia, have made education a major political issue. I ask that we put politics aside and let the facts guide our thinking. The truth is that not even my colleague, Professor Gologon, has disputed these substantial achievement gains, which U.S. students continue to make under a system of core national standards and national tests.” He scanned the auditorium and saw the audience was still listening intently. Brittany Smith was furiously taking notes. Gologon was looking at him with the greatest possible displeasure. “As many of you know,” he resumed, “Dr. Gologon was himself a major developer of the early Venus tests, and I am indebted to him for teaching me as a graduate student most of what I know about testing. Indeed, several of his own writings describe the potential positive benefits of a national accountability system. I quote you, Professor, from a report that you will well remember.” As Wilson read the text, Gologon’s words simultaneously appeared on the large screen. Ladies and gentlemen, I therefore present to you the conclusions from the President’s National Economic and Educational Summit. The data contained in our report, ‘A Nation of Failure,’ present convincing proof that the primary cause of low U.S. student achievement has nothing to do with English learning factors; nor is it based on racial differences or a high percentage of students in special education. We are practically the only country without a 58

set of national tests, which the data show is a causative factor to our schools and students falling behind almost every other nation in the world. Wilson saw that Gologon was smoldering in his chair. The NEES committee of distinguished scholars and educators therefore unanimously and urgently recommends that the United States develop a stronger national accountability system in order to gain some semblance of improvement in international competitiveness. These national tests must be both rigorous and comprehensive, beginning in kindergarten and then every two years thereafter until grade twelve, assessing student knowledge and learning in English, mathematics, science, and history. The committee concludes that only by measuring every aspect of learning will we ever develop the means to improve it. As Wilson finished reading the excerpt, Gologon jumped up, stomped to the lectern, and pushed him aside. People murmured and shifted to the edge of their seats. Gologon bellowed into the microphone, imploring the audience like a man on a desperate mission. “Madame Chair, please excuse my interruption, but I most strongly object to Dr. Wilson’s misrepresentation of my research and my writings. It is true I made these comments, years ago on behalf of the President’s National Economic and Educational Summit. But they were made by a committee, and truthfully, by a man without the wisdom we now have from seeing the deleterious effects of national testing in the past decade.” He took a breath and continued. “I never envisioned that national core standards and assessments would lead to two completely divided school categories. This so-called improved system of education has been perpetuated and endorsed by Dr. Wilson and his moneyhungry ALS Company, which rakes in billions of dollars in profits each year, made at the expense of our precious children.” Gologon wiped his brow and loosened his collar. He shook his hand above his head like a preacher imploring his flock to follow him. “Each year, millions of students are forced into a system of Habid schools that neither challenge them to be their best nor give them the support they need to lead fulfilling lives,” Gologon pushed on. “Indeed, a substantial number of suicides and other ill effects can be directly traced to these reprehensible tests. I urge every one of you to join me by leaving this room right now, in a call to arms against these highest-of-high-stakes assessments.” The professor looked at Wilson. “I am ashamed of my former student and my own contributions to this catastrophe in our school system.” He turned again to the audience. “Please join with me now.” A pair of videographers was recording this most unusual academic conference, capturing the on-stage drama as well as the astonished audience. Wilson looked at Zirkoff, and they shook their heads in agreement as Gologon marched 59

down the aisle toward the exit. Chen sat quietly, continuing to finish his notes. The ALS group appeared confident at a positive outcome, indeed a bit smug in Gologon’s desperation. Gologon reached the last row of seats, stopped, and turned around. “Join with me, please! I urge you, do it now before it is too late!” Bewilderment and frustration were on his face. Not a single person rose, let alone followed him. He made one last plea to recruit someone from the five hundred people around him. “Will not one of you join me?” His voice faltered. “Not a single one of you cares about the future of our children?” There was dead silence. Then, just as Gologon was putting his hand on the door handle to leave the room, a voice called out. “I will.” Brittany Smith rose from her seat. Slinging her book bag over her shoulder, she rushed to join Gologon. All heads turned to watch as she reached the professor. Gologon opened the door for her. He turned back to the audience, still staring at them. With one last look of disgust and a grimace of final resignation, he swung back around and left, with Smith at his side. “What a fool,” Zirkoff smirked. But Wilson was staring blankly at the exit door. “Grant? Grant, did you hear me?” Zirkoff prodded. “What?” Grant looked at his watch. “Damn. I’m late. We’ll talk later.” He rushed toward the back stage door.

60

CHAPTER 17

She sat crying on the school steps. Most of the students had gone off to study or tutor younger Akeve 18 students. A few of her friends tried to console her, to no avail. Grant’s car skidded to a stop. He jumped out and ran to her. “Sorry I’m late, Honey. I got wrapped up in a conference, and—well, OK, I screwed up. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.” Hamlie looked up at him, still crying. “That’s not it, Grant.” “What’s the matter, then? If someone said something bad to you, I’ll—” She handed him a computer printout. At the top were the words Venus National 8th Grade Assessment, Individual Student Report. “Read it,” she said, sobbing and shoving it toward him. As he read the test scores, Grant realized for the first time the feelings that affected millions of other parents in the same situation: a sense of failure, hopelessness, and fear for their child’s uncertain future. Looking for the words that wouldn’t come, he rushed to say something that might comfort his daughter. “I’m sorry, Hamlie. I was sure you would pass.” He gently touched her shoulder. “I’ll talk to the principal.” “I’ve already done that, Grant,” she cried with a stinging tongue. “Don’t waste your time. Hatati said I couldn’t retake it and that you would know all about the policies because you created the Venus tests.” The next words came out with even more difficulty, her cheeks glazed with tears. “I have to report to a new school,” she choked. “Habid 15. By next week. Everything I’ve worked so hard for all these years—gone, just by one single, stupid test!” It was as if she had thrown cold water on him. He slowly comprehended the devastating impact his high-stakes assessments could have on children and their parents. “I see,” he said quietly. “Well, I’m sure it’s one of the better schools.” He wasn’t even convincing himself. “I’m so sorry, Hamlie.” “Tell that to my best friend, Grant,” she snapped. “Natalie Morris didn’t pass either. She’s going to a different Habid school, because of her scores. My life is over. I just want to die.” She buried her face in her hands. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Please don’t say anything like that.” He tried to embrace his daughter, but she pushed him away harshly. She wanted nothing to do with him. “What would you know? You didn’t have to take these goddamn tests when you were growing up. You weren’t taken away from your best friends in school. You went to the Air Force Academy and Stanford. I wanted to be like you and go to a good college and get a decent job. That isn’t going to happen now. How can you possibly do this to so many innocent children? Here—” 61

She tossed some papers that scattered over the steps. “My school transfer papers. Enjoy, Grant! Maybe you can take the test for me next time. Hope you kept up on your trig.” Natalie walked out of the school entrance, her long blonde hair disheveled and her shoulders slumped forward. The two girls embraced, their red faces bathed in tears. They kept some distance away from Grant. “Oh, Natalie,” cried Hamlie, “I’m so sorry for both of us. I’ll miss you so much.” “What school are you going to?” Natalie stuttered, her lower lip quivering. “Habid 15.” “I’m going to 37. It’s more than ten miles away. We’ll never see each other again!” They hugged one another tighter. “We’ll get together at Ronnie’s every Saturday night, OK?” said Hamlie. “Promise?” “Promise.” They hugged a little longer before Natalie pulled away. “Is that your dad?” Hamlie turned to Grant, defiance in her eyes. “No. He’s not my dad,” she lashed out. “I don’t know who he is. Be careful, he might be a stalker. I gotta go. Be careful and be good. Luv ya.” Hamlie ran to catch a city bus. As she reached the door, Grant shouted to her. “Honey, where are going? What are you doing?” “Getting away from you!” He saw her take a seat on the bus, without turning her head to acknowledge him. If she wanted to hurt him, she had succeeded. He stood frozen now, with his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do. He had never felt so lost and confused. What would Jennifer have done? If she were still alive, none of this would have happened. Jennifer would have tutored Hamlie at home. She would have easily passed her test. Then Grant thought of all the other kids, the ones who didn’t have such committed parents, or parents with deep pockets who could easily afford tutors and test-prep programs. What happens to them? he started to wonder. A second bus pulled up. As Natalie got on, she shouted back at him. “Stalker!”

62

CHAPTER 18

Why is everything going so terribly wrong? he asked himself. A year ago, life was so good. Now it’s crashing down around me. Barricaded in his home office, Grant searched file after file of research papers on his VidTablet looking for an answer to a question he couldn’t get out of his head. Benjamin sniffed at Grant’s half-eaten submarine sandwich. With his master distracted, the hungry dog snapped up the abandoned sandwich and then slurped a knocked-over protein drink. Paying no mind to the furry thief, Grant intently scanned data and analyses, including some of his articles in which he had vigorously defended the accuracy and infallibility of the Venus tests. Then he stopped. There was his dissertation, from many years ago. In it he had chastised a testing industry that eventually made him the wealthy man he was today. In the paper, he discussed the various negative effects of high-stakes college entrance tests, including the old SAT and ACT, which years ago changed their names in the midst of a short-lived upheaval against tests used for college admissions. His eyes landed on the signature of his dissertation advisor. He took a deep breath and sighed. Gologon, who, early in his own career, had been a staunch advocate of testing, was his role model and idol in school. But even at that time, the professor was the industry’s most well-known testing critic. Grant put down the tablet and stared into space, wondering again how things ended up as they did. Nothing was clear, not Jennifer’s death, not that intriguing employee he’d just met who bore such a close resemblance to his wife. Then there was Hamlie’s failure to pass her Venus test. Could he have been wrong about its accuracy, which earlier today he so staunchly and successfully defended? It wasn’t like him to second-guess his views and actions; he much preferred a life of black and white and not all these shades of gray. Although Grant thought the Air Force Academy had far too many rules, they were at least consistently enforced. If you forgot to set your alarm and missed a class, you knew you’d be marching tours on the terrazzo the next weekend. You always knew where you stood at the Zoo. But in the real world, Grant now felt lost. He wasn’t in control of his own life. He picked up the tablet and continued scanning files. He soon came across another paper he had written several years ago: “A Metamorphosis of Educational Test Theory,” funded by ALS, the National Science Foundation, and the International Office of Economic Improvement. His analysis of student performance in sixty-five countries was the first such randomized experiment of its type. His results showed conclusively that national tests coupled with high-stakes accountability had a stronger effect on student achievement than any other influence—even race and poverty, the two factors that strongly predicted student performance as far back as the 1966 Coleman study. Even though the analysis made Grant known throughout the world of education, he doubted that more than a few hundred people had ever read his entire paper. He became famous because the study was credited with leading to the first 63

comprehensive K–12 U.S. national testing program; but he became infamous because many thought it had led to the harmful tracking of students into higher- and lowerquality schools. His detractors, including Gologon, confident in their own deepseated personal beliefs against national tests, were then—and still remained— willing to use any means to disprove his research. Although Grant himself didn’t advocate national tests, his paper became the catalyst for those politicians and the public who wanted to take education in that direction. The policy makers ranted that no education reform in the previous fifty years had substantially improved America’s low rankings on international tests, and that achievement gaps had remained persistent for an equal number of years. If anything got the attention of students and schools, they believed, it was a series of frequent tests with major consequences, including grade retention and withholding a high school diploma. Grant gradually joined the national testing movement and endorsed the same set of strong accountability beliefs, based not just on his findings but on the short-lived achievement gains spurred by the No Child Left Behind Act earlier in the century. Like so many other education reforms before it, NCLB produced some test score improvements in its early years, before eventually faltering. Critics claimed that NCLB set the bar so high that almost every school in the nation was eventually identified as failing, even historically high-achieving public schools in affluent communities such as Beverly Hills, Lake Forest, and Palm Beach. In another wing of the spacious house, Hamlie listened to Bitter Band through her headphones, as loudly as she had ever listened to music. Her room was a mess of papers, books, dirty clothes, and shoes scattered on the floor and across the bed. The room was off-base to the maid who came in twice a week. Grant wasn’t enforcing house-cleaning rules, trying to give Hamlie her own space and time to deal with her loss. Hamlie missed Jen so much, especially the hours they spent swimming in the pool and hiking in nearby Cherry Canyon. Or when just the two of them would fly up to San Francisco for a shopping spree of new clothes and accessories. In some ways, Jen was like the sister Hamlie never had—still Mom, of course, with all the rules, but also fun. Grant had tried to fill in, but it was never the same. She couldn’t expect Grant to take her shopping for sexy lingerie or lip gloss. Even the loud music couldn’t drown out Hamlie’s anger about the Venus test. What’s so good about life when you were being forced to go to a new school? Then, two years later, probably another new one? She picked up a shoe and hurled it against the wall, plopped down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. I wish I could be with you, Jen. I don’t belong here anymore. Tears trickled down her cheek. Her thoughts turned dark. Hamlie wanted to be with Jen more than anything else in the world right now. Jen wasn’t coming back, so the only way to see her again was by dying. Hamlie didn’t know if she was ready for that. Death was final, so you had to make sure you did it right. No one wanted to botch the job of killing yourself. What might be the best way? Hamlie asked herself.

64

There weren’t any guns in the house. Both Grant and Jen hated them. Pills might work, but about the strongest thing in the house was ibuprofen. How many of those would you have to take? A zillion probably. Then you’d likely puke it all up and just make yourself look stupid and silly. Worse, they would send you to shrinks for the rest of your life, calling you mentally unstable. Hamlie spied the closet. The belt on her robe would work just fine.

65

CHAPTER 19

After what seemed like an endless search, he finally found them. He carefully read the scores in math, language arts, and science. “These can’t be right,” Grant said to himself. He totaled the scores again and was stunned. Hamlie fell short of the required 700 cut score by missing a single, difficult probability question. One wrong answer stood between Hamlie and two very different worlds. Grant well knew that despite a test developer’s most meticulous efforts to create a perfect assessment, every test had at least a few weak questions, often called “bad-behaving items.” High-performing students missed those questions at a higher than expected rate, for unknown reasons. Even the best item writers, smart people who spent a career creating the best test questions possible, had yet to make a test without at least a handful of questions that didn’t work exactly as expected. Test development companies too were under immense pressure to meet tight government contract dates. Miss a milestone, and the government would quickly fine the test developer under the latest administrative rules. Few people had any idea just how hard it was to develop a good test, especially knowing that there were a fair number of crackpot researchers out there waiting to take a shot at a test company’s smallest mistake. Many testing critics had never written a single test question in their life, much less developed a complete test. But with Jason Zirkoff and Natan Chen at the helm, the Venus tests had become the most accurate assessments ever developed. Grant had total confidence in his top two people, who themselves had recruited the very best item development experts from around the globe. It didn’t matter if they lived in Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, or one of the Americas, or what the cost was to get them. If they were the best, Jason and Natan brought them to ALS. One of the top people on the team was Christine Hoto, a crack analyst from Japan who was known as the finest item developer in the world, in any subject—language, mathematics, social studies, science, even art. Hoto was expensive but well worth the cost of having her on the ALS team. Grant’s discovery of Hamlie’s narrow miss encouraged him to review a few more statistics. The probability of false positives and false negatives was of particular interest—that is, the chance that students who should be attending Akeve schools were actually enrolled in Habid schools and the chance that a Habid student was incorrectly assigned to an Akeve school, all because of small test imperfections. For the next two hours, Grant toiled over the numbers, painstakingly working the rust out of his own math skills. He realized he had become too dependent on others for data reporting and analysis. Each time he ran the stats, the number 10 appeared. “Impossible,” he thought to himself. Every report Grant had ever read from the research department pegged the Venus measurement error rate at less than

67

0.1 percent. That’s a one-tenth chance in a hundred of misclassification due to test error, making the Venus tests the most accurate assessments ever created. For the rest of the evening, he pored over an enormous amount of data. Although there was some variation in the numbers, sometimes 7.5 percent misclassification, or sometimes 12.5 percent, the combined average was always close to 10 percent. There could only be one explanation.

68

CHAPTER 20

Dead silence. The lights were out as he approached her room. Strange, Grant thought, it’s only ten. Hamlie doesn’t go to bed until eleven. Her door’s shut. She always leaves it open for Benjamin. He tried to push away the concern edging its way into his thoughts. He put his ear to the door, hoping to hear the radio and KOUN, the sole remaining classical music station in L.A. Hamlie found the music soothing, whether it was Beethoven or Schoenberg. But tonight he heard nothing. “Hamlie? Is everything OK?” Grant asked as he gently knocked on her door. No answer. He knew it wasn’t like her not to say anything, even if it was sarcastic. He knocked again. “Hamlie? May I come in?” Silence. Grant didn’t like to just walk in on her, but afraid that something was dreadfully wrong he turned the knob and pushed the door open slightly. She wasn’t there. “Hamlie, where are you? Can we talk?” Concern broke into fear. He ran to the open window, but saw no sign of his daughter. Where could she be? he thought to himself. There was only a cool breeze, a full moon, and a few city lights. He rushed into the bathroom. “Hamlie!” His chest tightening, he slowly pulled open the shower curtain, inch by inch, in dread of finding her there. Nothing. He exhaled, but his relief lasted only a second; he was still wondering where she might be. He ran back into the bedroom, standing there and more fully taking in the entire room. When his scanning eyes passed the closet, he froze. The only sound he heard was the pounding of his racing heart. His hand trembled as he jerked the door open. He saw nothing but Hamlie’s clothes, half on hangers and half on the floor. She must be in another room. Suddenly, he knew which one. He ran down the hall to what used to be the old master bedroom suite, the one he moved out of after Jennifer died. He abruptly stopped at the closed door. This was one of the very few times he had gone back in, other than to pick out Jennifer’s funeral dress. A few days after her memorial service, he had moved his own things to the other master suite, trying to cope with the pain. He shuddered at the thought of seeing all the reminders of the life he had with Jennifer, but there was no time to lose; he had to find Hamlie. He pulled the door open. A wave of grief washed over him. Everything looked the same as he remembered, including the dozens of family photos sitting on Jennifer’s dresser. 69

He stared at the images for a moment, as if in a trance. Memories flowed and tears filled his eyes. But as he stared at an image of Hamlie, he snapped to. He knew where she was. Grant bolted to Jennifer’s walk-in closet, his heart pounding with fear. “Hamlie?” Sitting on the floor, as still as a statue, Hamlie was staring at images of Grant and Jennifer’s Air Force Academy wedding on a portable Vidvision screen. Saying nothing, Grant was grateful to just watch his daughter. After several moments, she slowly nodded, tears in her eyes. He sat down next to her. “I wanted to smell Jen’s clothes,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “They still smell like her, don’t they, Grant?” He stood and took one of Jennifer’s favorite dresses off the hanger, the blue sequined gown she had worn to a White House reception last year. The president had invited them for a visit after reading his book Measure for Success. Grant put the dress up to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. It took every bit of his strength to keep from losing control. He swallowed and sat down again beside Hamlie. “Yes, Honey, they still smell just like her.” “I want to be with her again,” she sobbed. “We both do,” he said, quietly and comfortingly. “And someday we will, but that needs to be many years from now. C’mon, it’s time for you to go to bed.” He wrapped his arms around his daughter. She stiffened but then relaxed. “Why don’t you sleep in here tonight?” he suggested. “Sleep where your mom used to sleep. See that big bear on the bed? That was Mom’s when she was a little girl. She would cuddle up in the bear and wrap its big furry arms around her. Why don’t you see if Mom’s bear will hug you and keep you safe tonight, OK?” “I’m not a little girl anymore.” He watched her as she eyed the big overstuffed Halloween bear. Sensing her need for some hope after a day of painful disappointment, he decided to tell her what he found tonight. “Honey, I have something important to tell you. The tests that you took to determine what school you go to? I think there may be a problem with them.” “The Venus tests?” He nodded. “I don’t understand. They’re so important. For you and Jen. You built your lives around them.” “Yes, that’s true. But I think the data behind them might be wrong. And if so, then they’re less accurate than we thought.” “But even Mrs. Hatati said that the Venus tests were totally correct.” “Yes, but she would only know what our company and other researchers reported in our work. I think I’ve found some mistakes in the data that your Mom and I didn’t know about. If that’s true, then the whole business of assigning kids to different schools could be a mistake.” “Does that mean I might be able to stay with my friends?” “I don’t know, Honey. But I’m going to find out.”

70

CHAPTER 21

It was nearly midnight. As the drizzle turned into a steady heavy rain, he double-checked the address on his new handheld, knocked on the door, and waited. Having forgotten an umbrella, Grant would be drenched if someone didn’t answer the door soon. He knocked louder, but still nobody arrived. Someone’s got to be here. He beat loudly on the door, and finally a light came on—as did lights in several other apartments, with neighbors wondering why some idiot was making so much noise. The door opened, and Grant saw a teenage boy standing there, halfasleep. “You must be Sam,” said Grant, wishing the boy would invite him in out of the rain. “Is your mother home?” “Yeah, gee, sir, I don’t know who you are, but it’s really late,” said Sam, yawning and scratching his head. “I’ve got school tomorrow, and my mom’s asleep. Do I know you?” “No, you wouldn’t know me. Grant Wilson is the name. Your mom and I work at the same company. I’m sorry for coming here so late, but I need to talk to her. It’s very important.” He wiped the raindrops from his face. Sam shrugged his shoulders and turned to shout. “Mom! This guy wants to talk to you.” There was no response, so Sam shouted even louder: “Hey, Mom!” Just like a teenager, Grant thought. A moment later, Brittany appeared, pulling a white robe across her nightgown. “Here she is. I’m going back to bed,” mumbled Sam. Even with tangled hair and no makeup, Grant thought she was beautiful, her light skin as smooth as a china doll. He was struck again by how much she looked like Jennifer, or perhaps it was that he wanted her to look like Jennifer. He was enchanted. If Brittany were to ask him to stand on his head and sing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” at the top of his lungs, he would do it. “What on earth are you doing here?” Sleep was still hanging in the sound of her voice. “It’s midnight on a week night.” “I’m sorry. I know it’s a bad time, but there’s something important I have to tell you.” “I’m not interested.” “It’s about the Venus tests.” “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Here it is in the middle of the night, and the president of the biggest test development company in the world is standing on my doorstep wanting to talk to me about his tests. The full moon must be making you do this, huh? You’re getting soaked, you know.” “Not the president,” Grant corrected. “Do you mind if I come in for a moment? It’s a bit damp out here.” 71

“No, you look better wet,” said Brittany. “Now, Mr. Big Shot, unless you’re telling me I just won the lottery and you have one of those $100 million checks with you, leave me alone.” She started to close the door. “Please, this is important. I’m not really in the habit of doing anything like this without a good reason.” “Let’s hope not—you could get arrested. Good night, Dr. Wilson.” She closed the door in his face, not rudely, but just hard enough that Grant knew not to try again. He looked at his watch, which read 12:05 a.m. He couldn’t blame her. What he had tried to do didn’t make sense. He needed a better plan. Disappointed and out of ideas, he headed through the now light rain back to his car—and saw a figure running away from it. Wonderful, he thought. It would have been a long hike home if someone stole my car. Grant fired up the engine but sat there thinking. A knock startled him. He couldn’t see clearly through the rain-streaked window. Was he about to be robbed? Shot? “Hey, Mr. Big Shot, do you still want to talk?” Brittany was as beautiful as he had ever seen a woman look. “Yes,” he said as he opened the window. “Yes, I do.” “Then come in and dry off. I’ll make us some coffee.” Grant took in the pleasant coziness of the small apartment. It was decorated with a feminine flair, quaint in its own simple way. There were some pink accents plus an old brick fireplace that had been converted to a solar heater. “I like the place you have here. It’s homey.” She handed him a towel, which he used to dry his hair and absorb some of the moisture from his clothes. His eyes sparkled even in the dim light. He hadn’t felt this alive since before Jen had died. “Thank you. I don’t know that I can afford it much longer, without a job. This city has no rent control, and the owner is greedy. Not a good combination.” “Perhaps you could wink your eyes and use your charm on him. That would work on me.” “She would increase the rent on her own mother.” Brittany replied, sitting down in a chair across from him. “So, what’s this important news that you have to share with me, late on a stormy night?” “I ran a comprehensive set of analyses from our Venus test data, and I discovered that the misclassification rate was higher than I thought.” “What does that mean?” “It’s possible that both Sam’s and Hamlie’s test scores were less accurate than we thought they were. If that’s the case, and if we can prove it, perhaps they won’t have to switch schools.” “You’re just figuring this out, after all these years?” It was as much an indictment as a question. “Only now, because your own daughter didn’t pass the test?” “How did you know about that?” 72

“Even the best security in the world can’t stop office gossip, Dr. Wilson.” There was an awkward pause as they both took another sip of coffee. “So your tests aren’t as perfect as you thought,” she said, with an edge in her voice. “I never said the tests were perfect,” he replied defensively. After all, he was trying to find a way to solve the problem, and she wasn’t being any help. “No, but you certainly implied it with that 0.1 percent error thing.” “Misclassification rate,” he clarified. “I trusted others; I had no reason not to.” “And all those outside studies you boasted about?” “Those evaluations would only be as good as the data the external researchers were given from the Company. If someone inside gave them bad data, they would get more positive results than would otherwise be the case, matching the Company’s own findings.” “That data was from you?” “From the Company, yes.” “So it was the Company’s fault?” “No. OK, it was my fault,” Wilson admitted. “I screwed up. I didn’t listen to Gologon, or to anyone else, until it was my own kid. I should have analyzed the data myself from the very beginning.” Was that what she wanted to hear? If so, now that he’d said it, he wondered if it would be enough. “So who in the Company might have done this? And why? Corporate profits?” “I don’t know. It’s true that our earnings have been excellent, because no one has been able to match our accuracy. However, there would only be a few people with top-level access. Jason Zirkoff, of course. He was my right-hand person, and often my left-hand too, ever since Jennifer passed. But we went to the Academy together; we had an honor code. He’d never do anything to hurt a fellow zoomie.” “Zoomie?” “It’s a nickname. Zoomies. Air Force Academy cadets. You know: jets. They zoom through the sky.” “How quaint. Zoomies. Zoom zoom zoom,” she mocked. “So, who else might have a reason to change the results?” “No one I can think of. We hired the very best people from around the world. I trusted all of them.” “Maybe the Academy taught you to believe that everyone in the real world is as blindly honest as you.” Brittany was thinking again of several of her own failed relationships, and even a few cases where she had not been perfectly honest in her own life. He mulled over the dilemma. “So, now what? Surely an Academy graduate with a Stanford Ph.D. has a plan of some sort.”

73

“Tomorrow I’ll meet with my boss and tell him what I found,” Grant declared. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a plan, but that was the best he had been able to come up with so far. “Nelson Abram? The tall CEO with the $5,000 Ardeni business suits? I wasn’t at the Company very long, but I know the rank-and-file workers weren’t too impressed with the way he flaunted his status. A bit too stylish for most.” The ALS art collection in Abram’s office suite was another frequent irritant among employees who themselves had a tough time keeping up with the expensive cost of living in L.A. Nor did they think that sponsoring a yacht in the America’s Cup was the best use of corporate profits, but rather that it served Abram’s personal interests in sailing. Brittany drew a bit closer to Grant, while laying on the criticism. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, she thought. If other cadets looked like this one and were so dreadfully and naïvely honest, then maybe she had been looking for men in the wrong city. Maybe she could learn to trust another man. “So, what do the rank-and-file say about me?” he asked, feeling his pulse rate increase as Brittany drew near. “You want the truth?” “Probably not.” “A lot of women think you’re attractive. Now that you’re rich and single, well, you won’t have trouble finding any dates, if that’s what you’re after.” “It’s only been six months since Jennifer passed. I’m not looking.” “Well, some of them are, including a few who are married. Most everyone feels sorry for you, of course.” “Will you help me?” asked Grant. She moved even closer. Grant had the largest blue eyes she had ever seen. If she were to change him, she would suggest a mustache or beard; he looked a bit too handsome with that strong chin line and deep thick hair. He wouldn’t look bad with a five o’clock shadow either. Even his scruffy clothes didn’t hurt his good looks. “OK, Dr. Wilson, what do you need?” He could take her question one of two ways, either suggestively from her physical closeness or as an honest offer to help. He found a middle ground. “How about lunch tomorrow?” “OK. I happen to be available, thanks to your Mr. Grone.” “Grone is gone at ALS; he quit,” said Grant. “His job is yours, if you want it.” “Thanks, but I don’t want charity.” Then he blurted it out, his emotions getting the better of him as he looked at her. “You are beautiful.” She had started to get up from her chair, and as she leaned toward him their eyes locked. “Is it me, or is it because I remind you of Jennifer?” she asked in a soft, angelic voice. A small flash of lightning from the storm lit up her face, as though from a 1940s movie. A rumble of thunder followed. 74

That’s a trick question, he thought, so he reverted to his honest ways. “I don’t know.” They rose and slowly made their way toward the door, where once again they faced one another. She took a deep breath, but just before their lips might touch, she pulled back. She didn’t want to be loved for being someone she wasn’t. Too many failed relationships suggested that she stop right now before it was too late. Her words came out neither harmful nor sarcastic, but soft and sincere. “Let me know when you find out, Dr. Wilson.” She closed the door gently behind him as he walked to his car. The rain had stopped. He drove home, so lost in his thoughts that he almost cruised through a red light. He didn’t notice a car following some distance behind. It was a dark car that blended into the night’s shadows and stormy wet roads. After Grant turned into his driveway, the car continued past.

75

CHAPTER 22

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said the minister in a monotone voice. More than fifty people stood solemnly in a semicircle, heads bowed. The minister, wearing a black suit, recited familiar passages from the Bible. Hamlie stood, hand in hand, next to a man silhouetted by the sun burning through the hazy sky. Family and friends dressed in traditional funeral black mourned the loss of a loved one. Sheaths of flowers adorned the finely crafted mahogany casket. The futuristic design with its smooth corners made it look like a torpedo. Was this Jennifer’s funeral, or maybe Grant’s? The minister read on, from Psalm 23. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Moments later, after the mourners had departed, several men lowered the casket into the ground. A series of mini-explosions sounded in the distance. A baby was crying. The casket lid flew open. The corpse sat up and called out, “Jennifer!” Grant woke in a cold sweat, still calling for Jennifer. He sat up and saw the sun about to rise. Then he looked at the other side of the immense bed. It was empty, just like his heart, longing for his wife, lover, and best friend. What was the meaning of the nightmare? Why did it keep coming back? Why couldn’t he see the face of the person holding Hamlie’s hand? Was he really the one in the casket? “Grant, what’s going on?” asked Hamlie, coming into his room to see what had happened. “I’m fine,” he said, his forehead drenched in sweat. Hamlie got a towel from the bathroom and handed it to him. She sat down on the bed. “Still having bad dreams?” “I’m afraid so, Honey. I thought they had gone for good.” He didn’t want to admit that these recurrent nightmares scared the hell out of him. He hadn’t felt so afraid of anything since he was a young boy. A shiver ran down his spine, which he tried to hide as best he could. “You’re shaking, Grant. Are you OK?” No, he wasn’t. But there was much to do today.

77

CHAPTER 23

“Good morning, Dr. Wilson. You’re earlier than usual.” “Morning, Bartholomew. I had trouble sleeping last night. How’s the family?” “Absolutely super. Just super. You have a great day today, Dr. Wilson,” the security guard said, motioning him through. Was he just imagining things, or had Bartholomew seemed overly friendly today? His smile seemed a little bigger and lasted a bit longer. Did Bartholomew know something? Or was Grant’s imagination getting away from him? It must be the latter—or at least Grant hoped so. Later, in Abram’s palatial office, Grant talked passionately about his concern for the integrity of the Venus test. He hadn’t expressed such conviction since he delivered a graduation speech at Stanford’s School of Education years ago. Nelson, an astute listener, as expected from the executive of a large corporation, knew that ALS would be half the company it was without Grant Wilson. He was the brains behind nearly a doubling of profit every year for the last four years, making Nelson and other top ALS executives wealthier than they had ever dreamed possible. “As you know,” Grant said, “one of the great strengths of the Venus tests has been their inter-item reliability and accuracy in predicting performance in future grade levels and college. Under Natan Chen’s leadership, we’ve spent tens of millions of dollars going far beyond what any other test company has been willing to spend to ensure accuracy.” “It was a worthwhile investment,” Nelson interrupted, as he glanced at an original Picasso painting on the wall. “I analyzed one of our largest datasets last night from more than a hundred thousand students,” Grant continued. “I don’t know how to say this, but the results were disturbing. The error rate was far beyond acceptable test standards, a 10 percent misclassification rate, indicating that a substantial number of students are attending the wrong schools.” “Really? How many?” “At a minimum, thousands of students misclassified. At worst, three or four million.” Nelson was gravely concerned about the bad news, but as always, he remained composed. “How could that possibly be? You’ve assembled the best experts in both research and development.” “I don’t know,” said Grant. “I didn’t believe it myself, so I analyzed several other datasets as well, and they showed similar results.” “You don’t suspect someone is, perhaps. . . .” “Cooking the data?” Grant finished the sentence. “The thought crossed my mind, but although the data are fairly accessible, only a few people would have 79

the ability to change it, which would have to happen to produce the 0.1 percent error rate that we have been publicizing to the world.” “Who would have the necessary access?” “I do, of course,” said Grant. “And a few employees in our data analysis division.” “This is serious, and I appreciate your bringing it to my attention. We have hundreds of datasets. Could the ones you checked be anomalies? Some sort of coincidence?” “Unlikely, but I’ll personally check a random variety of datasets today. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else, until I confirm my findings.” “Very well, use whatever resources you need—and however I might help, just say the word and you’ll have it.” “Thanks, Nelson.” Grant rose to leave and Nelson walked him to the door, patting him on the back. “You know, I’m sorry to hear about Hamlie’s test results.” “You already heard?” Grant was surprised and embarrassed. Nelson nodded. “Things are difficult when it’s your own child. I’m very sorry.” “Thank you, Nelson.” “As you know, we have a few connections here and there. You might appeal to keep her at the same school.” Grant was caught off-guard. “Appeal? I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to other kids.” “Ah, that old Academy honor code,” Nelson sighed. “I admire you. Sorry, I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” He moved closer and put his hand on Grant’s shoulder, as if with a brother. “Use any resource and as much time as you need, Grant, to further investigate your initial findings. As always, you have my total trust and support. Just be completely certain, because if your initial results are indeed accurate, they would have serious repercussions for the Company’s reputation as well as your own. If the evidence supports your hypothesis, I promise you that we‘ll bring it to the board at their next meeting. You have my word on it.” Grant faced his boss. “The board meets tomorrow; I’ll have it by then.” “Give yourself a bit more time, Grant. The board has a full agenda. But if you have something by then, well, I’ll personally get it in.” “I can’t ask for more than that. Thank you.” Satisfied as much as he could be with his discussion, Grant shook Nelson’s hand and walked out. Once Grant was gone, Nelson spoke to his assistant. “Get me Houdini.” Why can’t I get in? Anxious to crunch the numbers that might verify the Venus test problems he detected last night, Grant wanted to shore up his findings, just as Abram had asked him to do. 80

“Maybe I mistyped my password,” he muttered at his office desk, so he spoke it again into the computer’s voice recognition system. CODE EXPIRED AND VOICE UNRECOGNIZED Grant knew that that wasn’t true. ALS codes expired twice a year, and he’d set this new one just two weeks ago. Had he entered the old one by mistake? He checked the code card in his wallet, confirmed his number, and tried again. ENTRY DENIED. CONTACT YOUR SECURITY OFFICER That’s the last thing Grant had time to do. He needed to get to the data— now. He stepped over to his assistant’s office. Susan had not yet arrived. She always kept her code on a slip of paper under her table lamp. But when he lifted the lamp, it wasn’t there. “Good morning, Dr. Wilson,” said Susan, entering her office and catching him red-handed. “May I help you with something?” “My access code doesn’t work. I don’t know what’s going on.” “One of our techs—Sonya—came in yesterday,” Susan responded, “and found my little hiding place. She took my card and said that I would have a new one by tomorrow. They probably changed your code as well. Shall I get you a new one too?” “No,” said Grant, a bit nervous but not sure why he should be. He was after all, vice CEO of the entire company, including security. He changed his mind. “Sorry, Susan, I mean yes. And tell them it’s urgent.” “Will do. No problem, Dr. Wilson. The rest of your day is booked with meetings and a luncheon. Your first meeting is right now, in the Tyler Room.” “I made other plans for lunch today, so reschedule the luncheon. When you get the new code, interrupt me wherever I am.” “Yes, sir.” Grant headed to his first meeting of the day, with the uneasiness in his stomach running wild.

81

CHAPTER 24

“You’re not worried to be seen with me here?” she asked, noticing other ALS employees staring at either Grant or her, or more likely the two of them having lunch together. As usual during the noon hour, the Friendly Alligator, not far from the Disney Concert Hall and ALS headquarters, had drawn a good crowd. The twentyfour-year-old blonde waitress looked captivated by Grant’s handsome face, as if he reminded her of a veteran L.A. lifeguard she once dated. “It’s a business lunch, yes?” asked Grant, half-questioning. “Is it?” Brittany noticed his blue eyes exploring the curves of her face and her petite nose. “Well, even if it’s not all business, we’re both single,” he said. “Why would that concern anyone?” “I don’t know. Maybe a rumor might get started.” He moved his hand closer to hers but didn’t touch it. Her hands looked so smooth, matching her nearly perfect face, he mused. That dress and her slim figure and long legs would grab any man’s attention. Indeed, she had agonized this morning over what outfit to wear, and it almost made her late. She wanted it to be classy and something that a man might like. Then again, it had to be her. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was the catch of the day. A trio of ALS employees entered the restaurant, stopped, and stared at Grant and Brittany gazing into each other’s eyes. “Maybe we should give them something to really talk about,” said Grant conspiratorially, noticing the employees. He moved his hand over Brittany’s. She didn’t flinch as they touched for the first time. She felt an energy flowing between them that she hadn’t felt in years. And by the look on his face, she knew he had the same feeling. Two women at the next table couldn’t take their eyes off them. If Grant wanted to get attention, he was succeeding. His eyes fixed straight ahead on Brittany, paying attention to nothing else. “Are they watching?” Grant whispered. She didn’t need to look. She could feel their eyes on her. “Yes. Is that what you wanted?” “No, I don’t care about them.” “You’re moving kind of fast. Remember my question yesterday: Is it me, or is it because I remind you of Jennifer?” Grant’s hand caressed Brittany’s. “It’s you. I’m sure of it.” She pulled her hand back to place her napkin in her lap. “I think we need more time. I need more time, OK?” “I’ve got about thirty years left,” he joked, referring to his known life expectancy. 83

“You might not need to take that much time,” she laughed, her dimples deepening. “So what did your boss say?” “Abram asked me to further investigate my findings, and if I’m certain of the results, to present them to the ALS board. Unfortunately, I had trouble getting access to the data this morning. Security seems to be a bit overzealous these days, putting a death hold on our getting any real work done.” “Sam only has a few days to change schools.” “I’m sorry,” said Grant. “Hamlie is in the same predicament. She has to transfer next week. I’m worried that with Jennifer’s death and now this big change in her life, she might do something that just isn’t like her.” “Do you think she might harm herself?” she asked, reading the concern on his face. “No, I don’t think she would do anything like that. But I guess a parent never really knows their child as well as they think they do.” “Hey, pardner,” a twangy voice interrupted. “How the hell are you, GW?” “Justin Long, from ALS security,” replied Grant. “You’re exactly the person I need. Meet Brittany Smith.” “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” said Long as he eyed her over. He slowly turned his attention back to Grant. “Yeah, I got that note from Susie Q,” Long continued. “Something about you having access problems this morning. We had some outside security hits again, so we had to change all the damn passwords. It stinks, I tell ya. But I’ll get on it right after lunch, OK? Trust me, GW, I’m here to take care of the big boss.” Long slapped Grant on the back and then returned to his table, where he was having lunch with a very cute and very young security guard who looked barely out of high school. She gave Long a showy kiss as he reached the table. “Do you think those two will even make it back to work today?” asked Brittany. “I don’t know. Maybe we should follow their lead.” Grant couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Brittany blushed. “Uh, well, I’ll be looking for a new job this afternoon. And besides, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy. So y’all git to it ‘n’ help our kids, GW,” added Brittany, doing a poor Justin Long imitation. Grant laughed and wanted to hold her more tightly than he had held anyone. Maybe he was starting to love her for exactly who she was. The hectic afternoon quickly slipped by as one meeting faded into another and then another. When Grant finally got a break, he immediately tracked down Susan at her desk. “Do I have access yet?” “Sorry, no. I tried Justin Long four times, the last time just two minutes ago. His assistant finally admitted he never came back from lunch. She said it was food poisoning.” 84

“Oh, that’s original!” Grant allowed himself a good laugh. “Oh: your daughter called from school, asking that you be on time.” “OK. I’ll be back here early in the morning to run the numbers,” said Grant. “Get someone from security—anyone who can get us access—then text me.” “Yes sir.”

85

CHAPTER 25

At home, Grant and Hamlie sat at opposite ends of the table, lost in their own thoughts, which invariably ended up on Jennifer. The occasional fork chinking against a plate was the only sound in the room, other than Grant breaking ice. “OK, I’m sorry I was late picking you up from school today, but I wasn’t as late as I usually am,” pleaded Grant, who had been delayed by traffic for more than an hour. “Honey, I really am trying harder.” Saying nothing, Hamlie stared at the food on her plate. This was a day when she needed her dad more than any other person in the world. And he was late again. “As I was saying, you only missed passing by one question, and well, the measurement error on the test might account for that.” Grant offered, hoping he could reach her. Hamlie dropped her fork on the plate and looked at him. “I could have missed it by a hundred questions, or not even taken it. The results are the same, Grant. A new school. I have to go to a new school. Don’t you understand?” He was tiptoeing on eggshells now. “I talked with Dr. Abram today, Honey. He implied that there might be a way to make an appeal that would allow you to stay at the same school.” “An appeal?” Hamlie stared at him. “That’s interesting. None of my friends were told anything about appeals. Mrs. Hatati said there were none. You never mentioned it before.” A few more broken eggshells. “Yes, I know, but Abram said an appeal might be possible. I don’t really know the details. I’m in the development side of the company, not the policy side,” Grant admitted lamely as he handed Benjamin a corner piece of his toast. “Uh-huh. Wouldn’t that be like cheating?” “No, no, Honey, it’s an appeal.” “It sounds to me like cheating,” said Hamlie. “You call it what you want.” Silence set in. He felt there was nothing he could say; it wasn’t in his hands right now. “It certainly isn’t fair. That’s not like you or Jen, and it’s not the way you both raised me. ‘We will not lie, steal, cheat’—all that Academy crap you fed me when I was a kid. Then of course, Wooden, the famous UCLA basketball coach with that pyramid thing, and that other guy from Character Counts, Michael… I forget his last name. You and Jen were always so big on integrity. It doesn’t get you too far in your world of testing though, does it?” “Josephson,” he said, filling in a last name. Finally, he was able to look Hamlie directly in the eye and put a hand firmly on her shoulder. “I love you. You are all that I have in life, now that Mom is gone—” “What do you think she would say?” she interrupted. “About an appeal?” 87

“I want you to be happy.” “Maybe, but I think that like all parents, you want me to be like you and Jen. You want to be able to say that Hamlie goes to a top-ranked Akeve school and that your daughter is one day going to go to a top-ranked university, then to graduate school, and finally to a high-paying job. Then someday she can become the vice president of a rich company that makes money by breaking the spirit of millions of kids and their parents. That’s what you really want.” He didn’t answer. He understood her anger, having lost his mother to cancer when he was only twelve. He could remember lashing out at his dad, thinking that somehow his father was responsible or could have done something more to save her. Cancer wasn’t an auto accident, but he was grasping at a way to return to rightness and reconnection with his daughter. “Yes, I guess that most parents want their children to get a good education and a decent job. If so, then I’m guilty.” Grant considered adding that he also wanted her to meet someone someday who would make her happy, but prolonging this conversation along those lines would be counterproductive. “Oh my God!” Hamlie gasped. “What?” “Outside the window. Somebody’s out there! They were watching us!” Grant jumped up and ran to the window. “I saw someone!” yelled Hamlie, thoroughly frightened. “They were looking through the window!” Grant sprinted to the door and turned on the outdoor lights while shutting off the ones inside. Standing at the large French doors, his eyes searched the vast green lawn. “I don’t see anyone.” “Someone was looking in,” demanded Hamlie, “staring at us, staring at me!”

88

CHAPTER 26

Thank God, he thought to himself. Anxious to have full access to all ALS datafiles, Grant had arrived at his office earlier than usual. Onscreen, he was reading the message “Password has been reset.” “Everything working OK today, Dr. Wilson?” asked Susan as she stepped into his office. “Fine so far,” he replied, lost in his own thoughts. Last night’s incident at the house was still on his mind. He had called the local sheriff, who couldn’t find any sign of a trespasser. Grant himself had found nothing, despite several hours of scouring every inch of the yard. Had the recent stress caused Hamlie to see things that weren’t really there? “We finally tracked down Justin Long, but you don’t want to know where,” Susan said. “I’ll leave it to my imagination, although I suspect it had little to do with gastrointestinal issues.” “Dr. Abram said that if you had anything for the board, be there right away when they start at 9:00 a.m. Their schedule is full.” “Thanks, Susan.” Using his new password, Grant was into the system in seconds. After a few screens of basic information, he reached the data download page, selecting the files from last year’s nationwide Venus fourth grade reading results. But when he clicked on “Venus Test Scores: Access All,” he hit a glitch. DOWNLOAD ACCESS DENIED FOR USER PASSWORD TRY AGAIN? Maybe he’d typed the password wrong. Grant re-entered it. DOWNLOAD ACCESS DENIED FOR USER PASSWORD TRY AGAIN? He knew he had typed the password correctly. What had Long done? Time was short enough the way it was; he didn’t want to wait another two months before the next board meeting. He tried the password a final time. DOWNLOAD ACCESS DENIED FOR USER PASSWORD SYSTEM CLOSING NOW CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR Grant stormed out of the office and straight to Computer Security on the next floor down. There he found Long, reading the daily news online, his feet kicked high in the air and a big latte in his hand.

89

“Morning, GW. You’re here bright and early today. How’s that password working that I set up for you?” “It’s not, and that’s why I’m here.” “Sweet Jesus! I checked it out completely yesterday, and I was in like Flynn. What the heck seems to be the problem?” “Let me try it on your computer.” “Be my guest.” Grant typed in his password. Less than thirty minutes now before the board meeting. His anxiety was rising. Again, no luck. DOWNLOAD ACCESS DENIED FOR USER PASSWORD TRY AGAIN? “Are you sure you got your password right?” “Yes. I’ve typed it in four times. The system won’t let me in.” “Let me try.” DOWNLOAD ACCESS DENIED FOR USER PASSWORD TRY AGAIN? “Break in,” Grant ordered. “I can’t do that. It’s against company rules, and I could get fired. That won’t be pretty.” “You’re guaranteed fired if you don’t. I’ll take full responsibility. Just do it.” “OK, you’re the boss, GW.” Long typed in his own password and broke into the system. Various warnings would send alerts flying to a number of sources, including Abram, but Grant was concerned only about confirming his findings and giving the board critical information. After a few screens, Grant downloaded the same data that he had retrieved yesterday. A few more characters, and he had the fourth grade national Venus reading results he sought minutes before. He looked up at the clock: twenty minutes before the board meeting. More keystrokes, and he produced a vivid chart clearly showing a 10.6 percent margin of error on the latest version of the fourth grade Venus reading test. He saw similar charts for sixth grade reading, with a 9 percent total error rate, 10.4 percent for eighth grade, 9.3 percent for tenth grade, and 12.5 percent for twelfth grade. He typed in the word dummy, and a screen window came up saying “Dummy Data.” How many dummy sets did he want? He typed all. The next screen was completely filled with columns of dummy datafiles. Every one of them must have been altered to produce such low measurement error. Grant couldn’t believe it. There must have been fifty dummy datasets on just one page. The computer asked “More?” He answered yes. A new screen appeared with a similar list, and then after a few seconds another, and another, and another. He had to manually stop it. 90

This is incredible, Grant thought with astonishment. He felt breathless, as if he’d just run a marathon. Was it possible that every dataset ever developed from the Venus tests had a duplicate fake set associated with it? He looked at the clock; less than five minutes before the board meeting. There was a rap on the door. Grant looked up and saw Natan Chen standing there with Jason Zirkoff. “Dr. Wilson, might I ask what the problem is?” asked Chen politely. “The entire building is blazing with security messages of a breach from this office.” “I’ll explain later. Leave me alone for a minute; I have to concentrate. Don’t go far, Jason. You and I are heading to the board meeting.” He pointed to Long. “Justin, you stand out there in the hall where I can see you, understand?” Grant had two minutes. “Sure, GW,” came the reply, tinged with apprehension. “Whatever you say.” Zirkoff and Chen looked at Wilson as though he were crazy, but they followed instructions and left. Chen went back to work while Long stood outside the room, just beyond earshot, visible to Wilson but unable to see what Grant did next. Taking a brief pause and a deep breath, Grant typed in the word Plato. Each keystroke seemed to explode in his brain. “No access without Final Venus Code,” the computer barked in a synthesized voice. “Enter Final Venus Code.” He shouted out to Long, while watching the digital clock spin down to ninety seconds. “I need the Final Venus Code!” “Sir, I’m not supposed to give that to anyone.” “Really? Would you like to explain where you were yesterday afternoon with that young security guard?” “GW—you wouldn’t.” “The final code, Long. Now!” Forty-five seconds left. “Yes, sir. It’s a long one.” “Let’s hear it.” “8 7 6 D E 3 4 9 T U 5 Y 9 8 4.” ACCESS GRANTED The clock clicked down. Forty, thirty-nine.… Grant typed in Plato’s List. SPECIAL NOTE PLATO’S EXCEPTIONS Grant read a list of names, which were meaningless to him—except one. STEVEN ABRAM Reading further across were the names of the exception’s parents: NELSON AND JUDY ABRAM

91

CHAPTER 27

Twenty ALS board members, all impeccably dressed in black or gray suits, sat at an oval mahogany table in the plush executive conference room. Board President Duncan Trafalgar was a very tall and trim sixty-year-old who looked as fit as a professional athlete. He impatiently eyed the digital wall screen clock, which read 9:05 a.m. “Well, Dr. Abram,” he said, “since it looks as though Dr. Wilson is running late, we’ll get started. We have a great deal of business to handle today, and I’d like to finish before our usual 7:00 p.m. closing time.” “Yes, sir,” agreed Abram, glancing at his own watch, which exactly matched the wall clock (as did essentially all watches, automatically set to international cesium time). “The first item on today’s agenda is a contract with Argentina and Peru to develop their new national assessment systems,” said Trafalgar. The massive boardroom door burst open, and an out-of-breath Grant Wilson strode in. Wisps of hair were plastered against his sweaty forehead. Jason Zirkoff was right behind him, also winded. Grant skipped the handshakes, knowing that his sweaty palms wouldn’t impress anyone. He looked at the stone-cold faces around the table, sensing that most would have been just as happy if he had not shown up, so they might finish the meeting early and head to the ALS spa on the twenty-seventh floor. Going to the spa was a ritual and small treat for sitting through a ten-hour meeting. “All right, Dr. Wilson,” sighed Trafalgar, leaning back in his chair. “Do you need a moment or two?” Grant glanced over at Abram nervously, then quickly back to Trafalgar. “I’m ready sir.” “Very well. Proceed.” “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I apologize for being late. I know your time is valuable, and I deeply appreciate the opportunity to talk with you for a few minutes.” Grant’s voice was shaking as he struggled to regain his usually calm demeanor. He was groping as much with his discovery of a secret list of student names as with his lack of time to prepare his thoughts. ”Many of you already know our development chief of staff, Dr. Jason Zirkoff.” The impassive stares told Grant that he had already wasted valuable time. All of them knew him well, and most at least knew Zirkoff’s name. “I have important information to share with you today,” he continued. He looked at Abram as if asking for approval, made all the more awkward by his recent Plato’s List discovery. “Keep going, Dr. Wilson,” interrupted Trafalgar. “Dr. Abram already told the board that this was something we needed to hear.” “Thank you, sir.” 93

Grant clicked his remote and data appeared on large screens ringing the room, which gave each board member an unobstructed view. The individual board members listened but showed no expression whatsoever. “As you know, fundamental to the purpose and success of the Venus assessments is the accuracy of the results they produce. Even Alfred Binet, who is often credited as being the developer of the first intelligence test, was painfully cautious in the link between the purpose of a test and its accuracy. The higher the stakes—that is, the greater the consequences of the test—the more accurate the test must be. Baking a cake, for example, at 5 degrees more than the recommended temperature is low-stakes; the cake will likely taste just as good even with a tiny bit of overbaking. Those 5 degrees of difference probably don’t matter at all. And the worst consequence is a burnt cake.” Grant saw Abram discreetly writing something on the agenda. “But sending our first astronauts to Mars, as the Tri-Space agency recently did, with even one hundredth of a second of measurement error at a key time, would cause the Mars craft to miss its target by several thousand miles and entail the certain death of all five astronauts. The requirements for precision are therefore very much related to the consequences of measurement error.” The faces of the board members still showed little or no emotion. He couldn’t even guess what they might be thinking, but he sensed they were listening. “The use of the Venus tests to decide which students attend schools of two types is similarly high-stakes. As we know, several reports and the media have recently attributed a number of parent and child suicides to Venus test results. If even one of those deaths could reasonably be attributed to a test score used to send a child to the incorrect school, then the accuracy of our measurement system must be as nearly precise as the Mars spacecraft.” A few board members shifted in their chairs, and a couple looked at each other. Grant believed he was beginning to get through to them. “In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve analyzed dozens of Venus datasets myself, and reanalyzed them a second time. Just this morning, I discovered that dummy datasets have been created, which at minimum have contributed to the very small error rates that you see here, taken from our public reports. “This new set of figures on your screen clearly indicates the depth of the differences between a true dataset and a dummy set.” Grant paused and took a deep breath. “I am sorry to inform you that the actual misclassification rate, which I have previously reported to you as being usually in the 0.1 percent range, is in fact approximately 10 percent, averaged across Venus tests covering all grades and subjects. The highest misclassification rate is 12.5 percent, for twelfth grade reading. “I hope that you are with me so far.” “Dr. Wilson,” interrupted a male board member, “let me make sure I understand this correctly. Are you saying that at a minimum one in ten students may well be in the wrong school? And that’s because the test is the sole method for deciding who goes to a specific school? The Venus tests may be responsible for those mistakes?”

94

“That’s fairly close, sir. But unfortunately it’s worse than that. You see, the 10 percent goes both ways—10 percent too high and 10 percent too low. This means that approximately 10 percent of Akeve students should be in Habid schools and 10 percent of Habid students should be in Akeve schools. So that would be 20 percent of students misclassified, altogether.” “My god,” the board member gasped, as he started to understand the depth of the problem. Grant could see that others had questions and concerns; they had probably already forgotten about the rest of the day’s agenda. Grant himself realized that the numbers he had found were not very far from Gologon’s claim of 30 percent. “How could this have happened?” asked Trafalgar. “Mr. President, I truly do not know,” said Grant. “Over a period of years, the accuracy of the tests was gradually increasing. We had every reason to believe it was a result of improved test questions closely aligned to the common national academic learning standards. We brought in the best item developers and content experts from around the world. No company has ever invested as much as we have to ensure test accuracy. I haven’t had time to investigate, but my hypothesis is that the adjustments were introduced gradually—and, I might add, maybe purposefully, during that time. I take full responsibility for not being as diligent as I should have been.” “Purposefully?” Trafalgar was astounded. “That would suggest someone inside ALS did this?” Wilson looked at Abram and then at Zirkoff. “Yes sir, that appears to be the most likely hypothesis. If the data are false, the results will be inaccurate, regardless of who did the analysis.” “Are there other possible explanations?” asked a female board member. Grant thought for a long moment. “No, ma’am. The differences are far too high and on too many tests in different grades to be caused by anything else. At least no other plausible explanation comes to my mind. That leaves deliberate creation of false datasets as the only reasonable cause.” “You’re certain of your findings?” Trafalgar queried. “I am as convinced as I can possibly be, on the basis of the amount of time that I have had to analyze the data.” “This would have enormous consequences for the Company,” suggested a different female board member as she leaned forward. The normally suave Grant pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty brow. “Yes, ma’am, it would. I am aware that the effects could be quite detrimental.” “Detrimental? We might be awash in a sea of red ink,” she scoffed. “It could be of disastrous proportions.” “Yes, ma’am, I fully agree with you.” An awkward silence filled the room. “Well, Dr. Wilson, is there anything else you would like to share with us today?” the president asked. Wilson could tell that Trafalgar, and probably the rest of the board as well, really didn’t want to hear any more bad news.

95

Should I mention Plato’s List? he thought. He knew the answer: they’re the board, and they must know everything. After all, they were good people. Some, such as Trafalgar, Wilson had known for years. They would take the right action with any information he shared. But his more cautious voice told him that he’d only glanced at Plato’s List. Maybe his interpretation of the posting of Abram’s son was a mistake; Abram was not a unique name among the more than half a billion people in the United States. Grant wasn’t completely sure that Plato’s List was indeed an exception to the Akeve admissions policy. He had no clue why it was even called Plato’s List. With more time, he could figure that out. “No, sir, I think that’s it for right now.” “Dr. Wilson, what do you propose as a next course of action?” asked another board member. “If the decision were solely yours to make, how would you proceed?” “I would look further at the data, to confirm or disconfirm the findings. I would likely appoint an internal company investigative committee to find out who might have done this, and why.” “Let’s say you did all of this and found answers to those questions,” asked another. “What would you do with the findings, assuming they confirm what you’ve shared with us today?” “Well, the public has a right to know. I’m not a public relations expert, but in my opinion the Company should disclose the findings of any investigation, in the event we have made mistakes.” “Would you consider the financial implications to the Company?” asked Trafalgar. “Yes, of course, sir, but the truth and the effects on students are paramount. The findings would need to be made public regardless of financial implications, in my opinion.” “The Company employees: wouldn’t this potentially affect them?” asked a board member. He thought about dozens of colleagues at ALS, many of whom he had known since he started working here years ago. Numerous jobs could be lost. Single parents who were junior employees and earned little might be the first to go, should the Company hit the skids. On the other hand, ALS was a large company, and if it went public with possible mistakes before some reporter got wind of the problem, it could survive. “Yes, it would, but the public must know,” Grant reiterated. “It’s their children who are affected, virtually every child in the United States attending school. If not today, then the next time a child takes one of our tests.” The board members were silently exchanging glances. Finally, Trafalgar spoke. “Dr. Wilson, thank you for bringing this issue to our attention. It is serious, and it deserves serious thought. I’d like to ask you and Dr. Zirkoff to step outside for a moment, so the board can discuss this issue in private. We mean no discourtesy to you or your team at all.” “Of course, sir.”

96

Grant and Jason stepped outside, along with the board’s note taker, who quickly departed to get coffee. From outside the boardroom, they watched through the large glass windows but without hearing the discussion. The silence between the pair could be cut with a machete. Finally, Jason spoke, almost in a whisper. “Do you think I was responsible for the second datasets?” “No. I have no idea who might have done it, Jason,” said Grant curtly. “I didn’t fix any scores.” “I don’t believe I accused you of that,” Grant snapped. “No, you didn’t. You have to be thinking it, though. Someone had to have access, and it would be someone who was here at the Company long enough to make gradual improvements. Too fast, and the changes would be easy to detect. I’m obviously one of the few people meeting those conditions.” Grant turned to face his colleague and friend. “Look, Jason, I trust you. We were roommates at the Zoo, and we’ve remained best friends ever since. We both lived under the same honor code. You were the best man at my wedding to Jennifer, and I was your best man when you married Katherine. Is there anyone you know who comes to mind? Natan Chen or his wife? Christine Hoto? Justin Long?” “No. Like you, I trust all of our employees. Not a single one has ever given me any reason to doubt their complete honesty and integrity.” “What about an external breach of some type?” asked Grant, looking for any possible factor. “Not likely. If it was a competitor they would want to make the data look worse, not better. It has to be an inside job.” “Agreed,” Grant replied, wishing it had been someone outside. That would make it easier to handle emotionally. The thought of internal corruption was abhorrent. “I had access as well. I guess I could be a suspect too, although I would be pretty stupid to blow the whistle on myself.” “I can’t think of anyone else.” “Just one more question.” “Sure, anything. Go ahead.” “What do you know about Plato’s List?” Grant studied Jason. “Plato’s List? Never heard of it. Is it something I should know about?” “We both should know more than we do,” said Grant, turning away from the boardroom and looking outside at people walking on the street far below. After a moment, he turned again to face Jason. He desperately wanted and needed to tell his best friend about this. “I saw the name Steven Abram on a document called ‘Plato’s List.’ I would have missed it completely, but I also saw the name Nelson Abram next to Steven’s. It could be pure coincidence. Abram isn’t a rare name, and I was in a hurry. But I’m wondering if Plato’s List is a group of student exceptions to the requirements to reach the 700 mark on the Venus tests in order to attend an Akeve school.” “I’m sorry, Grant. Plato’s List just doesn’t ring with me. If it’s anything to do with classic philosophers, I’m clueless.” 97

Grant continued to think things out as he spoke. “It’s probably just a code name. Abram made a comment about Hamlie possibly applying for an appeal, the day after she failed her Venus test. I don’t know why it would be named after some long-dead Greek philosopher.” “I don’t get it either.” Before Grant could say another word, the boardroom door opened. Abram stepped halfway out the door into the hallway. The consummate executive, he was his usual polite self, handling this crisis as a matter of routine. “Excuse me. The board would like you both to come in for a few minutes.” “Do we need the note taker back?” asked Grant. “I think she went to the cafeteria.” “No, it isn’t necessary for this.” As they returned, several board members greeted them with warm smiles. Maybe things weren’t going to turn out so bad, Grant thought. Perhaps somebody had come up with a solution he hadn’t considered himself. They were all smart people, use to solving difficult management issues. “Gentlemen, please have a seat,” Abram started, pointing to open chairs at the table. “This is a complex issue,” said Trafalgar in a serious tone, “and it deserves more time than we are able to give it today on our agenda. We are in unanimous agreement, however, that Dr. Wilson’s allegations require an independent evaluation. Consequently, the CFO, Cecilia Garcia, will contract with an independent external evaluation company to review the datasets and the Venus tests themselves. The evaluators will give the board an accurate report just as soon as possible, together with any recommendations they may have. I’ve made it clear that we want a highly respected authority in charge of the evaluation, someone we and everyone else will totally trust.” These aren’t allegations, Grant thought. He was confident in his data and his own ability to perform relatively simple statistical calculations. But he knew that if anyone had the knowledge and could be trusted to oversee an investigation, it was Garcia. She and Jennifer had roomed together for a time at Stanford, and Cecilia was as smart a CFO as any he knew. Honest as well. “While Ms. Garcia is working on that aspect of the inquiry, Wilma Huntington from the board will conduct a comprehensive investigation into who had access to the data and into any possible security breaches that might have occurred. Wilma has the strongest measurement background of any board member and is a former president of the U.S. Measurement Association.” Grant glanced to both Huntington and Abram, knowing that she would conduct a fair internal investigation into possible security breaches. “Within thirty days or less, presuming they have informative results to share, both Dr. Huntington and the external evaluator will report their findings to the entire board. Should their findings confirm your initial analysis, Dr. Wilson, the board agrees to make the results public.” “In the meantime, you should both continue your work as though nothing has happened. We trust that the two of you, together with Dr. Abram, will keep this completely confidential. May I ask for your word on that, Dr. Wilson? Dr. Zirkoff?” 98

Both immediately answered in the affirmative. Grant felt relieved that the board trusted his results enough to conduct extensive investigations. “Thank you, Dr. Wilson,” continued Trafalgar, “for bringing this important issue to our attention. On behalf of the board, I want you to know that you did the right thing. Do either of you have any questions?” “No, sir,” said Grant. “No, sir,” said Jason. Grant glanced at Abram and Zirkoff, and then back at Trafalgar. “Good day, gentlemen,” said the president. With that, Grant and Jason left the boardroom, headed back to their offices, each deep in his own thoughts. As they split, they glanced at one another as though they had something to say but didn’t. Grant arrived at his office suite and noticed Susan chatting with a few other employees. Seeing Grant, they quickly returned to pushing papers. I’m probably the real talk of the Company, he thought. He knew that rumors about his relationship with Brittany, plus Hamlie’s test score results, would be hot fodder for gossip. He sat down at his computer. The always-efficient Susan had placed his favorite coffee in a warming cup on his desk, expecting he would want something to drink when he returned. The best assistant he had ever had, she could be part of the fallout from all of this as well. She had three kids to support, all because her deadbeat husband got caught with nearly a ton of the latest designer drugs in a bad part of town. He’d been in the slammer ever since. The temporary relief that Grant was feeling vanished as he thought about the consequences of his discovery and his actions. It’s times like these, he thought to himself, when he wanted to just be a kid again, with no responsibilities except to play and have fun. Grant keyed in Justin’s security code again. He quickly reached the Venus screen, which requested a final code for access. As before, he typed in 8 7 6 D E 3 4 9 T U 5 Y 9 8 4. A warning flashed: UNKNOWN USER ACCESS DENIED TO PLATO’S LIST SECURITY ALERT

99

CHAPTER 28

“Why can’t I get in? What the hell is going on? I know I typed in the right code.” Grant cursed aloud and banged his fist on the desk. “Susan!” She was at the doorway in an instant. “This security code isn’t working. Double-check it with Justin Long, and tell him to get over here right away.” Without saying a word, she disappeared. Could the code have expired? Grant wondered. Some of the codes were programmed to do so, but less than an hour ago he had all the access he needed, even to individual student data. Is it the computer? he asked himself. Or am I being intentionally shut out? Jason appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Grant, Susan said you were having trouble getting data access. Try my code.” “Thanks.” Jason handed Grant a blank slip of paper. Grant rubbed his fingers over it and a series of numbers and letters appeared. In seconds the code disappeared, but Grant had it in his head: 5 9 Y 4 1 G N. He immediately entered the code. A long list of names appeared on the screen. “What the hell is that?” asked a stunned Jason. “Plato’s List,” Grant answered. They scrolled through pages of names. “It looks like not everyone is playing by the same rules when it comes to sending their kids to Akeve or Habid schools,” he continued. “This is a list of students who were given special exemptions so they could attend an Akeve school even though they didn’t pass their Venus test.” “Cheating never goes out of style,” Jason replied as they exchanged glances. “I saw Abram’s son’s name earlier,” said Grant. “I wonder who else is on it.” He continued scrolling through the list and saw that many students had wellheeled parents. Jason peered over Grant’s shoulder and clicked his tongue. “Senator Andrea Kertoz. Her kids made the list. Darnell Cooperman, the oil magnate, has two kids on it—there. And look, those are Hollywood celebrities: Taylor Howard, Vanessa Sturgess, Dominic Samson, Trevor Bidwell. Each has a kid or two on the list.” Suddenly Grant sensed rushing footsteps in the distance—too many, too loud, to be anything but a small army of corporate security guards. “We’re about to have some company,” he said. “Close the door. Lock it.” Jason did so. The rumbling vibration of the footsteps grew, even through the closed door. 101

“Let’s do some more checking before our visitors arrive.” He typed in several names. Every one produced a hit. Leslie Wilkers. Evelyn Krametz. Luis Dominic Martinez. Sharon Donaldson. “They’re all ALS board members,” said Jason. “No wonder they didn’t say anything at the board meeting.” “I still don’t know what this might have to do with some long-dead Greek philosopher,” Grant murmured. “There must be a connection.” Grant typed faster. Another name appeared. “My god,” cried Jason, looking over his shoulder. “Duncan Trafalgar III. The board president’s grandson.” Grant typed furiously. There was one more name he had to check. WILSON, HAMLIE She was there. But instead of “exception” there was a different word after her name: PENDING Grant’s heart sank. Abram must have thought that Grant would say yes, that he would go along with their scheme, knowing that his daughter would be traumatized if she had to attend a new school. Grant couldn’t argue with them; he had certainly considered requesting an exception. It almost seemed normal. “They believed I would sell out too,” said Grant. “Then they could add Hamlie to Plato’s List of exceptions. They would have me like a puppet on a string.” In an instant, he realized other facts that must also be true. The board’s investigations were never intended to be carried out. They were just a delaying tactic to buy time. The board members hadn’t wanted a confrontation right there in the room. “I’m sorry, Grant,” said Jason, feeling deeply for his best friend. Someone was pounding on the door. “Security! Dr. Wilson, open up!” a deep, loud voice ordered. Grant typed in one more name. “What are you doing?” whispered Jason. “They’re here!” Grant ignored him. Wilson found the name he sought. He slumped in dejection. “My God—not you too, Jason. I was praying that you and your family weren’t on the list.” Grant stared at the names of Mary Ann and David followed by their parents’ names, Jason and Katherine Zirkoff. Jason stood in silence, with his head down. He had betrayed his best friend’s trust, the Academy’s honor code, and his own knowledge of right and wrong. “Open up,” the voice bellowed. “Two seconds, or the door comes down! There isn’t any way out, Dr. Wilson. You don’t need to make a scene.” Jason buried his face in his hands, as Grant watched. Jason was no longer the pillar of strength that had been his trademark. He turned away from Grant.

102

“I’m so sorry, Grant. I had to do what I thought was best for my own children and my family.” Jason opened the door, and Grant didn’t try to stop him. He was too devastated to move. His best friend and all the leaders of the company he had believed in had let him down. “I trusted you, Jason. You were my best friend. I always trusted you.”

103

CHAPTER 29

“Why the handcuffs? I haven’t broken any laws,” Grant told the six ALS security guards as they escorted him down the windowed hallway. “Sorry, Dr. Wilson,” said the lead guard. “Just following orders.” “From whom?” “I don’t know sir. Just orders,” came the reply from the lead guard, who towered over Grant and everyone else. As they passed several offices, Grant saw employees watching. What are they thinking? he wondered. Has their vice CEO embezzled company money? Been involved in a hit-and-run accident? The rumor mills will be going strong today. The robotic guards led Grant down a long and narrow corridor with steel gray beams pointing the way. Until a few moments ago, he was in charge of this building, including the Company’s security guards. Now his employees were escorting him to some unknown destination. At the Academy, he had been through a mock prisoner of war camp, called SERE (survival, escape, resistance, and evasion), where they tried to break you and get you to sign statements against the United States. Although the Academy couldn’t use authentic torture, their techniques were pretty effective. The defenses he learned there, Grant reflected, might soon come in handy. Still, he couldn’t imagine what the Company expected from him. They, not he, seemed to be the ones holding all the knowledge. Even if they detain me for a few hours, or even a day, they eventually have to let me go, don’t they? he thought. I haven’t committed any crimes. I just had knowledge they don’t want others to have. Actually, Grant was worrying less about himself than about Hamlie’s depressed mood. What would she do if he didn’t turn up after school or at home tonight? He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. The best course of action for now was to take no action. Wait them out. He might gain valuable information in the process. Besides, even with his marathon running experience, he wouldn’t get very far with his hands cuffed behind his back. The entourage exited the building as a fog started to move in, taking the place of the earlier drizzle and rain. He could see they were bringing him to Company security headquarters, just as he guessed. Once inside, there was no getting out until they let him out. Between here and there was Hope Street. It seemed, well, not to be living up to its name right now. A public-transit vehicle rounded the corner. It was the kind of high-speed transporter that stopped here every fifteen minutes, the same ones Grant saw every day from his office window. Should he make a dash for it? He would have the element of surprise, but he would be unable to swing his arms for speed and the security guards would quickly catch up. Before he could give it another thought, his instincts took over. He bolted for the rapid transporter. Adrenalin throbbed through his veins and arteries, propelling him into a mad sprint. If he could just reach it, he could get away, at least for a few moments. The air blasted through his lungs, forcing him to breathe harder and harder. He 105

glanced back and saw that he had a good head start on the security squad, still dealing with their surprise, but he would have liked more distance between them. “Get him!” shouted the commander. The guards scrambled after Grant. The transporter didn’t stop. Indeed, the driver didn’t even slow. The lead guard had signaled the transporter to keep moving. There was no escape, and the security guards were quickly gaining on him. The commander was on his digiphone, calling for reinforcements from the Los Angeles County Special Police, who were certain to oblige. They no doubt accepted the ALS guards’ claim that Wilson had stolen secret documents. Within seconds, an SP vehicle was skidding around the corner, tires squealing. The vehicle was immediately joined by another, and then another. Even if he could somehow outrun the guards behind him, Grant had no chance of escaping a trio of high-speed police cruisers. His only chance of getting away was either the blind luck of a lightning bolt striking the enemy or taking a risk that no one else in their right mind would take. Luck hadn’t worked for him today, so the latter seemed the only option. Grant blindly leapt over a small wall near the Los Angeles Music Center, disregarding whatever might be below. With no idea when or if his feet might ever touch down, he fell through the air for what seemed forever. He saw something coming up at him in a big hurry—a sidewalk. His feet smacked onto the concrete surface, followed by the rest of his body. This is it, he thought, I’m dead. But his instinct again overrode his thinking, and in a split second his body remembered learning how to hit the ground at Fort Benning’s parachute school. He let his legs collapse, rolled to one side, and transferred the ground impact to his thighs and buttocks, to act like a human shock absorber. Even though he executed the maneuver to a tee, Grant’s collision with the concrete as he crumpled was harder than anything he had ever felt. Lying on the sidewalk, feeling as if every bone in his body was broken, Grant slowly opened his eyes, not believing he wasn’t dead. He looked up and saw the ALS guards, still perched on the top of the wall above. “Go on,” the leader commanded one of his men. “Suicide’s not in my contract,” replied the guard. “You want him so bad, you jump. He ain’t going nowhere.” But Grant was going somewhere; at least, he was trying. Holding his side, he managed to get on his feet and began hobbling. “He’s getting away!” shouted the lead guard. “Go on, boss, show us how it’s done,” another guard laughed, pointing to the steep drop below them. “Lead, and we will follow. Maybe.” The other guards grinned. “Why don’t we just shoot him?” said a guard, as he took out his laser handgun. “Put that away before you kill yourself, you idiot,” said the commander. “We don’t have authority to fire a weapon outside of ALS property, and he’s outside of it now.” 106

Reluctantly, the guard holstered his weapon. “All right, split up,” Grant heard the leader order. “Half of you go left and the other half go right. He won’t get far.” They scattered into two groups, heading down toward Grant. As the county SP sirens blared all around him, Grant slowly regained some of his stamina. Soon he was some distance away from the foot guards. If he could only get his hands free, he might have a chance. No time to think. A squad vehicle slashed right in front of Grant, cutting him off. He jumped high in the air and as he landed, his feet shattered the windshield. He managed to slide off more or less on his feet, and he was off again. The second police vehicle also blocked his path, and Grant forced another jump. This time, as he kicked his way off the windshield and on to the top of the vehicle, glass cut deeply into his ankle. The squad vehicle skidded to a stop some distance away, and Grant tumbled across the ground. Ignoring the wound, he began sliding the plastic handcuffs back and forth over broken windshield glass. After a few swipes, he saw he was making progress. But guards were approaching, vehicle doors were opening, and he knew he had only seconds to get free of the cuffs. Holding the shard with his feet, he ripped the cuffs across it. They snapped. One prayer answered. But the guards were closing in. With his hands free, he could run, and run he did. Oblivious to a bleeding left leg, he gave it everything he had, but he was losing ground to the guards. Then he heard a familiar voice right behind him. “You can do it.” He turned…and saw Jennifer running alongside, just as he had dreamt about on Robin Hill Drive. With Jennifer pacing him, he increased his speed. Faster and faster, she stayed just a few steps ahead. He tried to catch her, but as he ran more quickly so did she, always just out of reach. Grant looked back and was amazed to see he was gaining distance on the guards. When he turned to look ahead for Jennifer, she was gone. Although he’d placed some distance between himself and the guards, he couldn’t outrun the third squad vehicle now behind him. If the SPs wanted him dead, they could easily run him over. Lunging around a corner, Grant found himself in an alley, facing buildings on both sides. Only a narrow and short stretch of street remained, and the walls were several stories high. His only path was straight ahead to whatever was at the end. But the remaining squad vehicle was already around the corner and bearing down on him fast. Grant shifted as close to a sidewall as he could, hoping the vehicle would hit the wall before hitting him. Zooming up, the SP vehicle passed on his right, the driver flinging his door open as a weapon, to stop if not kill him. Bang! The door hit Grant full force, and he crumpled into a heap. The driver lost control in the act. The vehicle clipped the wall and with a terrific impact careened into the opposite building. There was a muffled explosion, and flames. It flipped over on its side. The vehicle skidded along the asphalt,

107

slowly to rest at what Grant could finally see at the end of the alley: a low-walled precipice. Grant was battered and bruised, but alive. He looked down at his left leg and saw gushing blood. He heard sirens closing in. Grant ran ahead, in the only direction he could go, around the fiery, smoky wreck. At the precipice, he saw a blue pool below, a small abyss that might as well have been Niagara Falls. Hundreds of curious people were gathered around the sunken pool and the glamorous, bustling theater next to it, pointing now at the plume of smoke and a crazed and bleeding figure crouching on a wall some thirty feet overhead. The ALS guards were closing in. Grant looked down, far down to his only escape, and then back again at the guards, who appeared twice as threatening as they had a few moments ago. Should he surrender? It was the more reasonable course of action. If arrested, he would have his day in court and be found innocent. He hadn’t broken any laws. If he jumped, he might discover it was not a real pool below. He seemed to remember that it was one of those fake pools, about six inches deep, meant merely to give the illusion of deep water. “Give up, Wilson!” yelled the same bellowing commander. They were almost within arm’s reach when Grant suddenly disappeared. “He must be insane!” someone from the growing crowd called out. Others screamed. Grant hit the water—a real pool. But was it deep enough to keep him from being crushed? He was still diving down fast, under the water. Then his feet smacked onto the bottom. From far above, the security guards watched, their pursuit ended. Grant’s body resurfaced, and he floated lifelessly, his face down in the water. “Damn, this isn’t the way it was supposed to go,” said the commander. “Why the hell did he jump?” Beneath the surface, Wilson remained motionless. If he could breathe, he would swallow water and drown. Slowly his body began to move, as if someone were pushing him. Grant could swear he was unconscious, maybe even dead. From beneath him a beautiful woman appeared, like a mermaid. Was it Jennifer? Or perhaps her spirit? Is she pushing me to safety? Or is she taking me with her? Within seconds, his shoulder touched the pool’s edge. Grant moved one arm, slowly at first, then a bit faster, and soon he moved the other one. Carefully raising his face from the water, Grant saw a woman standing at the edge, her face a blur. “My guardian angel?” he asked weakly. “Come on,” said a woman who he swore looked a lot like Jennifer. “We’ve got to get you out of here before the coppers haul us both away.” She lifted him out of the water and braced him on her shoulder. He was delirious. 108

“Jennifer, I knew I would see you in heaven. Where’s Hamlie?” “Hamlie’s fine. Let’s go. Pick up your feet, Dr. Wilson.” Sirens howled in the background. “They’re coming for me,” Grant said, in a stupor. “Come on,” urged the woman as she pushed him into the passenger side of a waiting vehicle. He fell in, and she slammed the door. By the time the county SPs arrived, the two had vanished.

109

CHAPTER 30

“Jennifer?” It was nearly an hour later. Brittany had parked on the bottom floor of a mostly empty downtown L.A. parking lot. Grant was just coming out of a badly needed sleep. The bleeding in his left leg had stopped. Although cut and sore all over, his strength was slowly returning. “It’s not Jennifer. This is Brittany Smith, trying to save Old Man Wilson’s life.” Grant opened his eyes and soon smiled as he recognized Brittany for herself. “What took you so long?” “I was getting my nails done,” she replied, glad to see he was coherent enough to crack a joke. “Next time, try the drive-through, OK?” He did what he could to sit more upright in the passenger seat, still a bit dazed from the recent escape. “Where are we, and how did you find me, anyway? What about the job hunt?” “Aren’t you loaded with questions!” “Yeah, it’s been a tough day.” “The job hunt will have to wait. About two hours ago, a little bird told me that you needed some help. Her name was Susan, and you owe her—big time.” “Susan gets a medal of honor,” said Grant. “So I got in my car and followed the action. You know how to draw a crowd, Dr. Wilson. All of a sudden, I came around a corner and there you were. I picked you up.” “You deserve a medal too.” “Then I drove to a parking garage for us to rest.” “Yeah, now, that part I can see.” The conversation was helping him feel a bit better. “I seem to have suddenly fallen off the Company’s A list.” “Not ’seem to’; it’s for certain. OK, what’s next?” “My house.” “I don’t do one-night, or one-morning, stands, Dr. Wilson. I don’t think you’re in shape for that anyway.” She laughed, and although Grant felt terrible physically, he was clearly comforted by her presence. “Too bad. It was nice to get rescued, but to get rescued by an angel is a special treat.” “What’s at home?” “I saved the ALS datasets onto my computer when I accessed the files last night. I can use them to support my case.” “What exactly is your case?” “That the Venus tests are inaccurate. They shouldn’t be used for deciding which schools kids go to.” 111

Grant could see her beaming face, knowing now that she had been right. “That makes you happy, huh?” “A little bit.” “Why do I have to be so stinking honest?” he asked. “There’s a lot more money and success in being a crook.” She laughed, started the car, and slowly drove up several floors toward the exit. “You were probably an Eagle Scout.” “How did you know? My wings aren’t showing, are they?” “Just a guess. My ex-husband was an Eagle Scout, and for all of his shortcomings he was honest—except for when he was cheating on me.” “Why would he want to cheat on you?” Despite his somewhat blurred vision, Grant could still appreciate the striking female next to him. “I mean, you seem to have the attributes that would interest just about any man.” She paid the attendant and headed toward the interstate. “For him, it was the challenge of the hunt. To see if he still had it in him to attract another woman. Younger, of course.” “Of course.” “And what about you, Dr. Wilson?” “Jennifer and Hamlie are my life.” “Their photos in your office are beautiful.” “I know that you don’t want to hear this, but you look a bit like her.” “I don’t see it. Our noses, they aren’t even close. She’s elegant, like she’s been to lots of college. A doctor type, you know. I barely finished high school.” “Really? I couldn’t tell. I mean, how many people know who the thirteenth president of the United States was?” “You remember that remark?” He laughed, and winced as his ribcage felt it. Traffic was thankfully light. “It’s true. Studying wasn’t for me. I had a lot of fun.” “I’ll bet,” Grant replied with a clear sexual implication. “Not that kind of fun. I was a good girl. Decent, I mean.” “Too bad. Fun and decent seem like opposites to me.” Brittany pointed to Grant’s left leg. “Does that hurt?” “Only when I breathe. I’m sorry I’ve gotten blood all over your car.” “That’s OK. I’ve been meaning to have it cleaned any month now.” A short while later they neared Grant’s La Cañada estate. Or so the size of it seemed to Brittany. Immaculate in every detail, it had an acre of forest green lawn in the front yard and a circular driveway of paving stones. With seven bedrooms, including three master suites, the ten thousand square foot home was one of many with intertwining hundred-year-old oak trees. A large pool in back (which had given Jennifer much pleasure and practice) was nearly the size of the outdoor pool at the Hearst Castle, complete with statues and a tennis court. When they bought the house, Grant and Jennifer hoped it would be the home they would live in forever.

112

Brittany took it all in as she cautiously approached the circular driveway. She checked the rearview mirror closely, just in case someone was following them. “Gee, I guess the testing business pays well. You have servants and a doorman?” “No, just a maid and gardener a couple days a week.” “Then who are they?” she asked stopping some distance away. Grant looked up and saw a Company security van parked at the front door. Two uniformed guards were chatting alongside it. “Damn it! The bastards are at my house.” “You’ll have to clean up your language, or our relationship is over.” “What relationship?” “Two people running away from something much larger than themselves,” said Brittany. “Trying to find understanding in their lives.” “Are you sure you didn’t go to college?” “I’m sure. But maybe I will, when we both find what we’re looking for. What’s the plan now?” “There’s a side entrance. I can get into the library, grab the computer, and get the data. I don’t think they’re inside yet.” “OK.” She started forward, but he pulled her back. “I said ‘I.’” “Hey, I want the Grant tour. I’ve never seen the inside of a house like this one.” “Grand tour,” he corrected. She gave him a look. “OK, the grand tour,” he said, giving in. “We’re just getting the data and getting out.” “You’re the boss, Doc.” Hidden by trees, they made their way in through the side entrance. It was quiet inside. Grant punched the key code to disable the alarm. Brittany took in the house, the dark bamboo floors, the marble, the chandeliers. So this is how the other half lives, she told herself. CRASH! A security guard broke a small windowpane, reached in and opened the front door. Brittany and Grant retreated toward the back entrance. A lone security guard entered. He seemed to know where to go and quickly approached the library. From a corner, Grant and Brittany could only observe as the guard removed a computer along with anything else that looked as though it might contain data. Several other guards then entered. Crap, he thought to himself. “We have to go,” Brittany whispered, gently pulling his arm. “There’s too many of them.” Grant snapped to attention. “I’ve got another computer upstairs in the master bedroom. It has the data too.” “Had would be the better word,” said Brittany as she pointed toward a guard coming downstairs with the other computer. 113

“OK,” said Grant, seething. He’d have to come up with something else. As they quickly turned to make their escape, Brittany knocked over an exquisite Chihuly glass sculpture in the hallway. “Oh god, I’m sorry,” Brittany whispered, once they had ducked out of sight. Three people in uniforms arrived at the spot and found the spray of pieces. “Any of our people do this?” asked one. “No sir, none of us.” “Look around, and see if we have company. Maybe the owner has arrived.” “There!” said a guard who caught a glimpse of Grant and Brittany running down a hallway. “Get them!” he shouted to the other guards. The full cadre of company personnel gave chase. Grant and Brittany scrambled. “Downstairs!” yelled Grant. At the bottom of the stairwell, they rounded another corner and were again out of sight of the guards. Voices came down the stairs. “Sir, they have to be right down there.” “Dr. Wilson,” the lead guard called out. “We didn’t expect you to come back here, of all places. Now please come out, so that you and your friend don’t get hurt. Please don’t think just of yourself. Consider the person with you. And think of your daughter.” Silence. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, a guard shined a flashlight into the dark space. “Nothing here,” he said. “Where did they go?” asked another. The flashlight bearer moved forward and stood in front of three solid walls. “That’s impossible. They came down here. Where could they have gone?” He began running his palm along the edges of the far wall. “Found it!”

114

CHAPTER 31

“Where to now?” asked Brittany. They were speeding away in her car, already a good distance from Grant’s home. For the moment, no one was following them. The concealed door was something that Jennifer wanted in case someone broke into the house on one of the many nights when Grant was off giving a speech someplace. It led to a tunnel that surfaced well outside their home. Grant had never envisioned actually using it to escape from anyone. “We’re here; just pull over,” said Grant as they arrived at Hamlie’s Akeve school. It was lunchtime, and many kids were milling about the pristine campus. “Stay here, with the car running. I’ll be right back. I hope, anyway.” Grant limped up to the main entrance of the campus. Everything looked normal. Even so, he couldn’t risk just walking in, looking like a zombie in his tornup, bloody clothes. He walked around the campus, trying to find another way in. No luck. Finally, he found a side door, but it was locked tight and no one was around. Maybe if he knocked, someone would open it. Otherwise, he’d just have to go back to the main entrance, burst in, and take his chances. As Grant contemplated his best course of action, he noticed an ALS company vehicle slowly approaching the school’s main entrance. The lead guard who had chased him earlier got out and walked straight toward the main entrance. No time now; Grant had to get in and find Hamlie. He raised his fist to pound on the side door, but as he did, it suddenly opened outward. Hiding behind the door, Grant watched two teachers exit, chatting intently about an algebra lesson as they walked away from him. Before the door could completely close and lock, he grabbed it and stepped inside. Grant limped quickly down the hallway, which was lined with recent student work from the PTA arts contest. He was feeling hot and sweaty as he began searching for his daughter. He had only a few seconds to find her before the place would be swarming with cops. This time he had done something wrong. He’d broken into a school. Grant opened the first classroom door. Empty. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was lunchtime. The cafeteria—where was it? Hamlie must be there. He raced as fast as he could along the corridor, ignoring the pain in his leg. Nothing, no one. He came to a girl and a boy kissing in a darkened corner. “Cafeteria?” Grant asked the couple. The boy broke away from his girlfriend’s lips barely long enough to point forward with his hand. “Carry on,” Grant told the couple, as he bounded ahead. Then he was at the cafeteria door, but adult voices were nearby. “You need to lock down the school. He’ll be looking for his daughter.” “I’ll have to check with the principal.” 115

“Hurry.” Grant was now weaving through the crowded cafeteria, past countless kids agape at the look of the frenzied intruder. Conversations died away. He spotted Hamlie with friends in a far corner. As he lunged toward her, startled kids backed away. A cafeteria worker noticed him and quickly alerted the main office. “Grant! What are you doing here? What happened to you?” “C’mon, Hamlie. Hurry!” “My god, you look gross!” “Get up! We’ve got to get out, now!” “But I have a midterm this afternoon. I can’t miss it.” An announcement came over the PA system. “This is an emergency. There is an intruder on campus. We will immediately begin lock-down. You are not to leave school premises under any circumstances. Attention, all students and staff: report anyone unknown to you to the office immediately.” “Grant, what’s going on? It can’t be you that they’re talking about?” He grabbed her arm. “Now! Come on!” he shouted, dragging her behind him. “I can’t believe you’re doing this! Have you gone crazy?” He pulled Hamlie toward the same entrance he had used moments earlier. Suddenly a group of SPs came through the door, together with the lead ALS security guard, directly confronting him from the far wall. “Stop, Wilson—stop before someone gets hurt,” said the SP commander. “They’re after you?” Hamlie asked, still confused. “Why? What’s going on?” This was not part of her world. The only other time she had met a law enforcement officer face-to-face was when her mom was pulled over for speeding down the Angeles Crest Highway. “No time to explain,” said Grant, yanking Hamlie with him, away from the SPs. They were fanning out and would soon block any chance of escape. Grant frantically searched for a possible exit. He spied a door in the corner and rushed toward it. An SP blocked his way, but Grant bowled over him. The door was almost in reach. Grant saw a fire alarm and pulled it. “Grant, Grant, why are you doing this?” screamed Hamlie. The alarm shrieked, and the students broke into pandemonium, momentarily slowing the police. Grant and Hamlie escaped to the outside. He scanned the area and noticed an SP vehicle, with an officer standing outside monitoring radio transmissions. Seeing Grant and Hamlie running off, the SP jumped into his vehicle and gave chase. The two rounded a corner, and there was Brittany standing beside her car. She flung doors open, and the pair dove in. They sped away. “We’re going to go get Sam,” she announced. Hamlie was in tears. The SP vehicle was in close pursuit, lights flashing and siren whooping. “Grant, what on earth are you doing? Have you totally lost it? Do you know how much trouble you’re in?” Hamlie screamed. 116

“Yes, I know,” he said, bracing himself as Brittany braked for a sharp corner. She safely negotiated the curve, but the SP vehicle bobbled and missed the turn. It smashed into a pole. The fugitives were out of harm’s way, for the moment. “Brittany, you don’t have to be part of this,” said Grant. “You’re right, I don’t, and I’m not. I’m sorry to leave you,” said Brittany. “I know you’re in a bad situation and could use some help. But as soon as I get my son, it’s over. Take my car. I don’t care. But I do need out.” Grant leaned back. He had hoped that Brittany would want to stay with him, although he knew she was making the right choice. “Uh oh,” said Brittany. Stopped at a traffic light, she and Grant glanced into the Vidvision screen on the dash and saw an imposing Glendale police car idling right behind them, close to their bumper. The light changed to green. At the first side street Brittany turned right, hoping the cop wouldn’t follow. He did. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, or anyone to get hurt,” said Grant. “If he pulls us over, I’ll go quietly.” “OK,” Brittany answered, quite subdued. Her life was complicated enough the way it was. She was thinking she didn’t need to take on some other guy’s problems, especially big ones like this. She had done that far too often in her life already. Every time she stuck out her neck— or her heart—for a man, it ended in a bad way. But she had never been on the wrong side of the law. “He’s gone,” said Grant. Sure enough, the Glendale cop had turned off. Maybe they didn’t have an ID on Brittany’s vehicle yet, Grant thought. Or could it simply be that they would be waiting up ahead, this time in full force? Brittany turned left at Linda Vista. Using surface streets, they arrived at Sam’s Habid school back in Pasadena a short while later. No police or security guards were in sight. “I’ll go in and make up a story,” said Brittany. Grant nodded. The pain in his left leg had returned. A minute later, Brittany was chatting with the attendance clerk. “I’m sorry that I didn’t call ahead about Sam’s doctor appointment, but he needs to be there in ten minutes.” “OK, Mrs. Smith,” the clerk responded. “Is Sam coming back to class this afternoon?” Her back was turned to the outside door, so Brittany didn’t see a police car driving slowly past the school. “I don’t think he will,” answered Brittany. “He’s having a complete physical today.” “OK, I’ll call him from class,” said the clerk, with a suspicious look that Brittany missed. “Sam should be right out.” 117

Brittany was waiting in the lobby when two Pasadena police officers walked through the door toward the clerk. Brittany tried to hide her face, but she knew the officers got a good look at her nonetheless. Just then, Sam came out, with a look of surprise. “Mom, what’s going on?” “You have a doctor’s appointment, Sam, remember? With Doctor Fleming?” The police were at the attendance clerk’s window. “Yes, may I help you, officers?” asked the clerk. One of them glanced at Brittany and Sam, and then he took a longer look. “Come on, Sam,” said Brittany impatiently, hoping that her son wouldn’t say another word but simply comply. “Sure, OK, Mom.” Sam walked a bit faster to catch up with her. They were out the door and quickly into the car. Grant was behind the wheel, grateful that his right leg could at least manage the accelerator and brake. The two police officers were striding outside just as Brittany slammed her door shut. Grant set off briskly, but the police officers sprinted toward their car to take off after them. “Hey Mom, what’s going on?” asked Sam as they traveled west on Woodley. “This isn’t the way to Dr. Fleming’s office. And why are the police chasing us?” “It’s a new reality show,” said Hamlie, “called Cops and Robbers. Only this one is total reality.” “Dr. Wilson is in a bit of trouble. He needs us to help him out,” explained Brittany. “Oh yeah. You were the guy at our house the other night,” said Sam, surveying Grant’s injuries from the back seat. “Sam, this is my daughter, Hamlie,” said Grant. “Hamlie, meet Sam. I think you both are about the same age.” They immediately recognized each other from Ronnie’s. “Hi.” “Hi,” said Sam. “You live a pretty exciting life.” “Just another typical fun day with the Wilsons,” Hamlie drawled sarcastically. “You should have been with us the day we robbed three banks on Foothill. Now, that was a really fun day.” There was little time for conversation. As Grant and Brittany looked back, they saw that two speedcopters had joined the police pursuit, with flashing lights everywhere they looked. Speedcopters were nearly as silent as they were fast, giving law enforcement a measure of surprise against law breakers. “What next?” asked Brittany. “I’m going to pull over. This isn’t worth it. We aren’t going to get away and will only be in more trouble.” “No, wait a minute,” said Brittany. Other thoughts crossed her mind. She was, after all, intent on fighting an unjust system, for her son and other kids. She felt at least partly responsible for contributing to Wilson’s change of heart, and his current predicament. 118

The police vehicle was moving in on their rear bumper, preparing for a pit maneuver to hit the back of the car and push the tail out of control. Once that happened, the chase would be over. “What about Gologon?” Brittany asked. “Yeah, I’m listening.” “He can help, don’t you think?” “Gologon’s not about to help me. I’m the enemy.” “I think you switched sides today.” Grant briefly pondered Brittany’s words while keeping an eye on the squad vehicle behind. In the past twenty-four hours, his entire value and belief system had been shaken up. The people he thought were good and could be trusted were not so good and could not be trusted. The people who were his enemies were not exactly friends, but they seemed to be more on the same side now, whatever that meant. “What about the kids?” asked Brittany. Grant felt helpless. “I don’t know.” In the distance, fog was rolling in from the ocean, just as it was seeping into his thinking. “Do you have a friend we could take them to?” Brittany asked. “Not a relative, but someone you could trust who wouldn’t automatically be on the police search list?” Just like Jennifer, Grant thought, Brittany seemed to be a good sounding board with useful ideas when he had none. His body seemed about to shut down from today’s stress, along with his higher faculties. “Millie!” shouted Hamlie from the back seat. “She was a good friend of Mom’s. Her niece and my mom went to college together. She lives in Lake Castaic, past the old Magic Mountain.” “Well?” Brittany looked over at him. “We could trust Millie,” Grant agreed, “and Castaic is a good distance out of the city. The Company wouldn’t know about her. She doesn’t have anything to do with testing, no children of her own, and she isn’t a relative.” The police cruiser was backing off. “So,” Grant finally asked, “what are you going to do?” “You’re pretty beat-up,” said Brittany. “You could use some help.” “I’m fine.” He was relieved, though still intent on not endangering someone else’s life. Suddenly something hit the roof of the car with a pop. Everyone looked up. There was the tip of a small missile, lodged in the vinyl, emitting a pinkish spray of gas. It was clear now why the police had backed off. The gas was a more effective strategy than just blowing four people into heaven and making them martyrs. “Pull over,” blared a voice from the police speedcopter overhead. The latest police tactic for dealing with high-speed chases had become more aggressive than just following a vehicle until it ran out of fuel or into a dead-end street. The small missiles were filled with a skunklike gas so strong that almost without exception drivers would immediately pull over and surrender, just to escape the fumes. 119

“Open the windows,” Brittany yelled. Grant had already hit the switch, but the embedded projectile continued to emit noxious gas as all four occupants gagged. “I can’t breathe!” Hamlie cried out. A second projectile blast on the right side doubled the irritable fumes inside. Everyone was coughing horribly. The stinging and tearing in Grant’s eyes made it nearly impossible to see. With his exhaustion and the onslaught of the gas, he was on the verge of passing out. They entered the I-5 freeway tunnels, close to California State Highway 14, which years ago had been the scene of a terrible truck crash and fire that closed the freeway for three days. The group was momentarily protected from more speedcopter projectiles, but the squad cars were still behind them. Even with windows open, the fumes were unbearable. Out of the first tunnel, Grant saw flashing lights ahead, inside the next one. “Roadblock!” he shouted. “Grant, please, I can’t breathe,” choked Hamlie. Using his fist, Grant tried to punch the small gas-emitting projectiles out of the roof. But they were barbed, preventing them from being easily pushed out. Sam used his sneaker to bang on one projectile, eventually forcing it out. Brittany did likewise to the second one. “Hold on!” Grant shouted. As their vehicle approached the next tunnel, he turned the steering wheel as hard to the right as he could, spinning a 180-degree half-donut in the process. Just as soon as Grant got the car facing back toward oncoming traffic, which was screeching and scattering in chaos, he saw that he could get a clear shot back onto a service road running along the shoulder. In an instant, they were picking up speed on an empty road. Within a few seconds, and with relief at no longer seeing in the mirror anything having to do with the police, Grant turned at the first intersection, and again at the next. “What now?” asked Brittany. “I don’t know that we can take much more of this.” Grant spied a local bus idling at its roadside terminus. He pulled into an alley of sorts to hide the car, hoping to buy enough time to get a head start on the next wave of SPs. “Everyone out,” Grant ordered. “Why? What are we doing, Grant?” Hamlie asked. “Just get out. We can’t get away in the car. They’ll hunt us down. I’m sorry, Brittany, I’ll buy you a new one when this is all done.” “Forget the car. Just don’t get us killed,” she pleaded. They walked and limped over to the bus and got on. The expression on the faces of the driver and the handful of passengers told Grant this was the most haggard foursome they’d ever seen. Shaking his head, the driver pulled the bus away from the curb without comment. Grant was asleep within seconds.

120

CHAPTER 32

“Well, look what the lion drug in,” Millie said, as she answered the door with her usual friendly smile. “What happened to you, Grant Wilson? You look like crap.” Millie was a spry eighty-year-old with a sharp tongue and deeply wrinkled face. Her hair was long, gray, and a bit tangled. She wasn’t expecting any guests today, but Grant knew she wouldn’t look any different if the Queen of England were at her doorstep. “Millie, you don’t know how good it is to see you,” said Grant. The quaint home in Lake Castaic was a beautiful respite to the weary fugitives who had taken no less than five buses to reach it. Forty miles outside Los Angeles, Castaic was home to artists, a fair number of retirees, and an even larger number of L.A. city commuters. Like a grandmother, Millie scrutinized the condition of her visitors. “My, my, don’t you all look like you’ve just been to the Evil Empire and back?” she said. “C’mon and get cleaned up. I’ll bet you’re hungry. Auntie Millie has just the cure.” Thirty minutes later, everyone was cleaned up, although some blood still oozed from Grant’s left leg; he was going to be limping for a while. He, Brittany, and Millie chatted over coffee at the kitchen table as the two teenagers played Vidvision games in the living room. In one corner was an antique cassette radio, probably from the 1970s. But it worked, and Millie had it tuned to a station playing something equally as ancient: “Satisfaction,” by the Rolling Stones. “You should see a doctor for that leg of yours. It looks godawful,” said Millie. “I am a doctor,” Grant retorted. “A medical doctor. You’re an education doctor, and I’m not too sure our education system is working very well with all these tests all the time. When I was a kid, we had good teachers and good learning. Now they just test, test, test. No wonder kids are so stressed out. My Lord, they even did away with physical education, and I’ll bet they don’t have any cooking classes left either. Anyway, you need an M.D., not a Ph.D.” “I’ll be back to myself in no time.” “As I was saying, you and the kids can stay with me as long as you like. Or if you two still insist on going wherever you need to go, take my Harley; I don’t need it.” Millie pointed to the corner of the room, where there leaned against a wall not a big motorcycle but a banged-up, grimy motor scooter. “On clear days, it gets me to every place I need to go. Even a bit of rain don’t bother us one bit.” “Millie, I can’t possibly thank you enough for taking us in. When we get out of this, I owe you a trip to any place in the world you want to go.” 121

“I’ve never been to Antarctica. That’ll cost you a pretty dime, you know. I could make it easier on you and just go to the Midwest. I have a brother who lives in Troy Center, Wisconsin. Now, that’s a tiny town if there ever was one. I haven’t seen my brother in years. I’ve always wanted to go to a Packers game and wear one of those cheesehead hats.” “Both trips are on me, first-class,” said Grant. “Anyplace else?” “Well, would I be pressing your pocketbook if I visited the Galapagos Islands? I’ve always wanted to see those big tortoises.” Brittany smiled at Millie, realizing that she was a hoot. How could Grant possibly say no? “Why not a trip around the world?” Grant suggested. “Now you’re talking, Grant, my boy. Just take good care of yourself and this pretty lady, OK?” Millie drew close, examining Brittany’s face. “Hot damn, Grant. She looks a bit like Jennifer, now that I see her closely. Did anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Grant’s wife, who was my very best friend? Jennifer and I went way back, you know.” “I’ve heard that there is a similarity,” Brittany confided. “Mere coincidence, I’m sure.” Brittany’s smile warmed Millie and Grant both. As awful as the day’s events had been, Grant felt fortunate that Brittany had come into his life—and that he had a few good friends like Millie. “No, it isn’t a coincidence,” Millie corrected. “It’s fate. There is a reason God brought you into Grant’s life, and now mine. I miss her so much. She was warm, friendly, and smart. I’ll bet you’re smart too.” “I barely finished high school.” “I got you beat on that one. I dropped out in tenth grade,” Millie proudly proclaimed. “I hated school. It was boring and never taught you what you needed to know, which is how to get along with other people. That’s the most important lesson anyone can ever learn. Nowadays, schools only teach you how to do a bunch of boring crud that only a few people ever need. These hypereducated folks, like Grantie boy here, talk in eduspeak while making a small fortune on testing little kids. But I still like him; he’s not a really bad guy once you get to know him.” “He sure knows how to show a girl an exciting time,” Brittany beamed. “That small fortune was what will pay for your round-the-world trip, Millie,” Grant reminded her, smiling. A sudden pain struck, and he grabbed his left leg. “Are you OK, Grant?” asked Brittany. He noted it was just about the first time she had called him by his first name, and he liked it. “I think I need to lie down for a while.” “Use my room right there, Grantie boy,” said Millie. “I just changed the sheets this morning. Don’t you worry about a little blood getting on the bed sheets. We’ll wash them all tomorrow.” Brittany helped him to the bedroom, consciously leaving the door open. She noticed that his leg was still bleeding and called out. “Millie, might you have some scissors? And some gauze, antibiotic ointment, and strips of clean cloth?” “Coming right up, Missy.” 122

As Brittany laid Grant across the bed, she pulled a chair up close to him. This man had an electricity that she couldn’t understand. His shoulders were broad, like a football player’s. She wanted to run her fingers through his dark, thick hair, but she didn’t. It was enough for her just to touch him, feel his pulse, and watch his chest rise and fall. Could she really trust another man with her heart? She still wasn’t sure. “I’ve never had a more beautiful nurse in my life,” said Grant. “I need to change careers anyway.” Grant had never wanted to hold or be held more in his life than he did right now. Even a man needed to be cuddled once in a while. If there was some way Brittany could hold him, he might gladly die today a happy man. He was sure Jennifer would be waiting for him in heaven; but would she be jealous of his feelings right now for another woman? Or would she understand? He didn’t know but was filled with guilt for being attracted to another female just six months after the accident. Brittany seemed perfect in every way that a woman could be. “Here you go, Sweetie,” Millie said, handing Brittany every healing item in her house, and a heating pad on top of it. “Thank you,” said Brittany, wondering if Millie had had many relationships with men. She was such a caring person, a Mother Teresa. She would have been a good mom and a great wife. Grant was nearly asleep now as Brittany went about her nursing duties. Cutting the blood-stained clothes away, she washed Grant’s wounded leg in hot, soapy water. Although Grant showed no outward sign of noticing, he could feel every gentle touch of Brittany’s hand, longing for each stroke like a puppy dog waiting for the master to pet him. Brittany applied the antibiotic ointment, which also contained a painkiller to help him sleep soundly. Nothing hurt with her gentleness. She applied the gauze; Grant began to regret that his treatment was nearly over. This was so much better than when he had his appendix removed when he was just ten. St. Michael’s Hospital was bland, and the nurses…well, he had no interest in the opposite sex until a bit later. Brittany wrapped his wound in the strips of cloth. As the last one went on, she felt Grant’s touch on her hand. He wasn’t asleep after all. Had he noticed that she took extra time, only so that she might watch over him a bit longer? “Thank you my angel,” said Grant drifting off to sleep. Brittany, too, was exhausted from her long day. There was plenty of space atop the king-size bed for both of them. Would she be too presumptuous to lie down next to Grant, just far enough away so that they didn’t touch? She could watch his face as she herself fell asleep. Maybe she would do it for just a moment. But as her head touched the pillow, exhaustion set in and she closed her eyes. In the Vidvision room, Sam and Hamlie were watching a very old horror movie, Halloween VI. The special effects were enormously silly by today’s standards, and the story line was way overdone. But it was still spooky enough to be worth a view. Although they had seen each other at times at Ronnie’s and said hi, they didn’t know much about each other. 123

“What school do you go?” “Akeve 18. How about you?” “Habid 433 in Pasadena. You like your school?” “Not anymore. I didn’t score high enough on my Venus test, so I have to transfer to a Habid school next week. My life will be over, not seeing my friends every day.” “Yeah, I know what you mean. I hate my school. I don’t have any friends. Most of the kids are bullies. They don’t like me because I actually study. It makes them look bad. I always wanted to attend an Akeve school to see what it was like, and to get away from the jerks.” “We study all the time. It’s like a disease. Greek, Latin, fractals, Chaucer, you name it. The only thing I have time for outside of school is swimming. Sometimes that’s a drag, too, because there’s so much competition.” “You should have plenty of time at your next school. A lot of Habid kids don’t even bother to bring their books to class.” A long pause. Neither knew what to say next, but they were likely thinking the same thing. When you’re a teenager, it’s awkward getting to know someone. Adults just seem to be able to talk and talk, but kids often have to push themselves to make conversation. “That was some kind of ride today, huh?” said Hamlie. “Yeah. Is your dad OK? He seems kind of desperate.” “My mom died in a car accident six months ago, and Grant, well, he’s never been quite the same. I guess I haven’t been either. He’s never done anything like he did today—thank God. It must have something to do with work.” “I’m sorry, but gee, is he in trouble with the police or something?” “You know as much as I do. He works at a big testing company downtown, and I think he got fired or something, I don’t know.” “Are you OK?” asked Sam. “Physically or mentally?” “I don’t know. Both, I guess.” “Physically I’m fine,” Hamlie replied. “Everything else is just kind of collapsing all around me.” “Yeah, I know what you mean. Some days the sky just starts falling from the moment the sun comes up. Like pigs dropping out of the sky.” “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” she laughed, “but yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Is your father still around?” “Not really. My parents are divorced. I see my old man once every few weeks, if he isn’t too busy.” The truth was that Sam’s father had made no effort to see him in the last six months. “Your mom’s pretty,” said Hamlie. “She does look a bit like my mom did.” “Yeah, she gets hit on by a lot of old married men at my school. They’re so sick!” Laughter. “Yeah, that would be pretty strange,” said Hamlie. “There’s a lot of weird people running around, I guess.” “How about you?” 124

“What do you mean?” “You must have a boyfriend,” said Sam, half-questioning. “Ah, no. What about you? You have a girlfriend?” “Nope, no one.” Michael Myers knocked off one of his victims in the movie, causing Hamlie to reflect on what it really meant to die. “Do you ever think about death?” “No, not really. But then I’ve never lost anyone like you did. Do you think about it a lot?” “Yeah. Too much.” Sam looked at Hamlie. She was very different from the kids at his Habid school. She seemed intelligent. Like him, she was lonely, having many of the same feelings he had. Maybe somehow they would get transferred to the same Habid school, he thought. He wouldn’t be leaving anything behind at Habid 433, except Mr. Bickers, whom he liked a lot. “You want to be friends?” Sam asked. The words just seemed to stumble out. “Yeah, I’d like that. I could use a friend,” Hamlie replied with a warm, sincere smile. “We’re friends, then, OK?” “Sure.” They shook hands. There was a knock on the door, and Millie opened it. “I’m heading off to bed now, and you should too. You both had a long day. Sorry the place is so small. There are sleeping bags on the couches in the living room for you. Good night.” “Good night, Auntie Millie,” said Hamlie. “Ditto,” said Sam. As Sam and Hamlie walked toward the living room, they glanced into the bedroom with its open door and noticed Brittany and Grant lying on top of the bed. Millie had placed a blanket over them. Grant was curled up on his side away from Brittany, who faced his back, with a hand above the blanket just touching his shoulder. Sam and Hamlie exchanged looks with each other, wondering what was going on between their parents. In the living room, they both crawled into the sleeping bags Millie had carefully laid out for them. “Good night, Hamlie.” “Good night, Sam. See you in the morning.” Sam reached up to shut the lights off, and within minutes they were both sound asleep.

125

CHAPTER 33

The ultramodern clinic opened two years ago in the city of Dela in Quiton, an impoverished nation with one of the worst educational systems in the world. The bottom floors of the twenty-story structure gave patients views of a modest Asian garden that helped them relax and feel a bit better than they were. On this gray morning, a twenty-seven-year-old woman, heavy with a soon-to-be-born child, entered a doctor’s office up in a luxurious penthouse suite. She was carrying a pale yellow blanket. Her long, jet-black hair flowed down her back nearly to her waist. The doctor came out to meet her in the waiting room. “Are you ready for the tests?” She and every expectant mother in the country would undergo a series of wellness tests to examine both mother and soon-to-be-born baby. “Yes,” said the woman eagerly. “I want to know if we’re having a boy or girl. I picked yellow for this blanket I’m knitting because the color will be good for either.” The doctor smiled and led her into the recesses of the examining offices. On the street below, two men in business suits were hurrying to a business meeting. Moments later, there was a great crunching sound, as though a vehicle had hit a child’s bicycle. Screaming people rushed from all directions to see a body that had hit the ground from many stories above. A woman with long black hair lay dead. A yellow baby blanket wrapped around her shoulder was red with her blood. Grant startled awake. Another bad dream. It was so real, but then they were all so real. Every night. Sometimes it was the same dream, and sometimes a new one, but always something horrible. Grant looked at the clock and saw that it was 5:30 a.m. Time to get going. “The heaviest part of the storm is moving rapidly toward the Southern California coast,” said the Vidvision announcer, “and is expected to make landfall within the next twenty-four hours. Experts from Pasadena’s California Institute of Technology are saying that this will be the largest storm to hit the West Coast in the last hundred years. They attribute its massive size to the climatic changes that have encircled the globe for much of the past two decades.” “Sounds like a real whopper,” Millie said. She had also gotten up early this morning. Grant’s attention was affixed to the weather report on her ancient television set, which predated the Vidvision systems that were now ubiquitous. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, taking another sip from his pint-sized cup. On the side was a graphic of a Lake Castaic sailboat. “Although not officially a hurricane,” continued the announcer, “the tropical storm has near-hurricane-force winds. Ocean advisories are in effect along the entire Western Coast, from Baja California to as far north as Juneau, Alaska.”

127

“I wouldn’t want to be out in the ocean when that mother hits,” said Millie, completely unaware of Grant’s thinking also being tied to the ocean. “I have to leave early,” he said. “I know that the three of them will be safe with you. Hamlie can hold her own, and Sam is strong enough to board up the windows if the storm gets this far inland.” “Hamlie’s a pretty girl,” said Millie, thinking what she herself looked like when she was thirteen. “Yes, I suspect that someday I’ll be beating the boys off with a stick.” “And your new friend too—Brittany. She’s quite beautiful, so much like Jennifer that I can hardly believe it.” “Me neither,” Grant replied, his mind on other issues. “How do you feel about her?” “About Brittany? Millie, you’re prying,” he laughed. “That’s what aunts do, my dear.” “She’s OK,” he lied. “No one can replace Jennifer. You know that.” “Just OK, huh?” “Millie, you’re embarrassing me. I don’t know yet. I don’t think that I could ever feel the same for another woman as I did about Jennifer. Guess I like her a bit, but I feel as if I shouldn’t have any feelings right now. I don’t deserve another woman as good as Jennifer. No man does.” “People can’t always control their emotions,” said Millie, “especially those kinds of feelings. She seems like a nice person. Don’t worry; she won’t replace Jennifer. No one can do that. Jennifer will always be in our hearts.” “I’d better see how she’s doing.” He stood up quickly but nearly fell down from the sharp pain in his leg. Millie rushed to help him stay upright as he grabbed onto a coffee table for support. “And how are you doing, Dr. Wilson? You don’t look so good yourself.” “I’m doing just fine, Millie, just fine. Never been better,” he lied again. He stood up on his own and limped to the bedroom. Brittany was still sound asleep, as the sun streaming through the window illuminated her face. A gentle breeze blew outside. She is beautiful, Grant thought. I can’t believe she’s come into my life. Sensing his closeness, Brittany’s eyes slowly opened. He was backlit by the sun. “Is this a dream, or am I really awake?” she asked. “Good morning,” he said, gently caressing her cheek. She stretched her arms. Grant imagined those arms wrapped around him, and his around her. She grinned; her perfect teeth, like the rest of her, were inviting. Her bosom gently rose and fell with each breath. She smiled. This wasn’t the right time or place. Millie or one of the kids might walk by any moment. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said. “I guess this isn’t a dream. I can hear your voice.” “Did you sleep OK?” “Fine. How about you?” “Not too bad.” He didn’t let on about the nightmare. 128

“Uh huh.” He kissed her forehead, telling himself that that was OK. “It’s a beautiful day,” said Brittany, as she pushed herself up on her arms. “Actually, a big storm is headed this way.” “Let it come.” “I have to leave today.” “Why?” “I think you know.” “Yes, I suppose I do. You have to take on the Company, clear your name, and bring justice and peace to the world. Well, if you’re going, then I’m going with you,” she said, sitting up in bed. “No,” he replied firmly. “I need you to stay here and take care of Millie and the kids.” “You need help. That leg didn’t heal overnight.” Grant jumped to his feet to prove her wrong, but as he did, an excruciating pain shot through his leg. He grimaced and dropped back onto the bed, close to her. The two ladies were right. He wasn’t in the greatest shape of his life. The leg had grown stiff and sore overnight. He wouldn’t be running today. From the living room, Hamlie, who had been awake for a while, overheard their conversation. “We’ll be fine, Grant. You two go save the planet—and the solar system while you’re at it,” she said with her usual sarcasm. Grant gave it more thought. Brittany was strong and full of energy. Millie and the kids could certainly manage to stay here and lie low for a day or two. And he really didn’t want to say good-bye to Brittany. He didn’t want to lose her, as he had lost Jennifer. “OK, but no complaining. And whatever I say goes.” “Oh, a bit of chauvinism will work wonders for you, Dr. Wilson.” She gave him a small smile. They were both up now, and moving toward the kitchen. Millie threw Grant the keys to her rusty old car, one of the last off the assembly line before Pontiac shut its doors years ago. “I can’t thank you enough, Millie.” “Now get out of here,” she ordered. “Come back when you find whatever you need to find. Remember that Jennifer will always be with you.” Millie gave them both hugs, not completely sure that she would see either of them again. Sam and Hamlie came into the kitchen, both a bit sleepy-eyed and hungry. “I need a hug,” said Brittany. Sam obliged. “Me too,” Grant chimed in. Hamlie reluctantly gave her father a little hug. He reciprocated with a bear hug. “Don’t overdo it, Grant. You know I hate that mushy stuff.” “Take care of each other,” Grant said. “No digiphone calls; they’ll be traced. You won’t hear from us until you see us. We’ll be OK.” Then they were gone.

129

The sun moved in and out of the clouds, but mostly in. Millie, Sam, and Hamlie gathered around the Vidvision. “The storm is moving approximately ten miles an hour across the West Coast,” said the announcer. “Fire stations are loading up with sand bags, which will be distributed to homeowners in hilly and mountainous areas. The governor’s office and the superintendent of California State Disaster Control have scheduled a 10:00 a.m. press conference to give further details and precautions to the public. It looks like the makings of a statewide catastrophe, folks.”

130

CHAPTER 34

Raindrops splashed against the expansive ALS office windows. “A bad storm is headed this way,” said Abram, gazing out the window from his throne, a chair that was once owned by William Randolph Hearst. “And I don’t mean the weather, Jason.” “I’m sorry, sir, that we lost track of Dr. Wilson,” Zirkoff replied nervously, as if he were a cadet talking to a general. “Security removed all of the company computers from his home yesterday. We’re confident he’ll try to access the ALS network. When he does, we’ll have him. The location of any digiphone or totamail transmission will be immediately traced. The situation will be taken care of, I assure you, sir.” “Please have a seat, Jason,” Abram asked, his voice revealing the seriousness of the situation. Zirkoff sat down in a chair that was lower and stiffer than Abram’s. Just to reinforce who was in control and who was in the hot seat, Abram rose and sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at Zirkoff like a father talking to a son. “Jason, I know that you and Grant were good friends in college. But I need you to promise that your loyalties will remain first with the Company. I’m sure that your military training taught you that allegiance and obligation is sworn first to the organization, and second to colleagues. The organization serves many. Individuals often serve themselves.” “Yes sir, I understand.” “So, do I have your word? It would mean a lot to me, and to the Company.” Jason hesitated for a second, and Abram quickly added, “I think it would mean a lot to you and your family as well.” Jason breathed in and let it out slowly. “I’ve always placed the Company above any personal relationships, even with Dr. Wilson. Yes, you have my word, Dr. Abram.” “Excellent. Thank you Jason.” They shook hands. “I think we may need a little help, though, so that this doesn’t go any further.” He called to his assistant. “Get me the vice president on the line.” “Vice President Mathews?” Jason asked with considerable surprise. “That’s right. I don’t leave anything to chance, and neither should you, Jason. This is an election year, and ALS has made generous contributions to both sides. A smart business leader must not differentiate between political parties or their causes. You never know who will be in office after the next set of votes. My job— and yours—is to take care of the Company, make sure that earnings meet projections, and fix things that need to be fixed.” Zirkoff was bewildered. Until now he really hadn’t understood corporate political issues, but he was quickly learning. “It’s all about the details, Jason, and a little bit of insurance.” “Insurance?” 131

“That’s right. It’s not enough just to make substantial campaign donations. I’ve made sure that the right people will support us whenever we need it.” Abram stood and looked again out the window toward a large digital billboard with the flashing multicolored words, “Trust in your country. Trust in Connelly and Mathews.” “How?” “Well the vice president isn’t known for being the smartest man in the world, and neither are his kids. They’re on Plato’s List. Admittedly, we tracked his kids’ scores, and when we noticed they didn’t make the cut, I mentioned the possibility of an exception. He agreed.” “I see.” Zirkoff was beginning to regret his promise. “Mathews called yesterday. He was concerned that word might leak out.” “Right, sir.” Zirkoff cleared his throat. “Sir, if I might ask, what exactly is the charge against Dr. Wilson?” “Oh, that’s easy enough. Wilson has close ties to many Muslim countries. Remember those visitors the other day?” “Sir, I thought that was just one of our standard tours, with the hope that the academic professors might support national investment in the Venus tests.” “That’s what you thought it was, and what most people might think it was,” Abram responded. “But a smart number-two person at a large company might well consider Dr. Wilson’s presentation as a possible foundation for questionable contract negotiations with several nations that not long ago were at war with the United States. That same number-two person might mention his concerns in a conversation with the vice president, if he was pressed for a reason to pick up and detain a person of interest.” Abram moved closer and put his hand on Zirkoff’s shoulder. Jason, though, was feeling more and more uncomfortable. “I will be honest with you,” the CEO said in a soft, comforting voice. “Grant was excellent, very smart of course. Probably much smarter than just about anyone at the Company. But even Grant would admit that he wasn’t a politician. He wasn’t good at details. Now, he’s history here. We need a good number-two leader who isn’t afraid to get in there and be strategic at the right times. I’ve seen you in action, and I want you to be that person, because you’re the best individual for the job. And because I trust you.” “Yes, sir.” Zirkoff was having second and third thoughts. Abram read his expression as saying he needed more convincing. Abram moved even closer, his nose within a few inches of Jason’s. “The board and I think very highly of you,” he continued. “It would be a very sizeable raise and promotion. A much nicer office, almost as nice as this one. You like art, music, free Lakers and Dodgers tickets, paid trips to Vegas, China, Europe? For you and your family? Or maybe yourself and a companion? We keep private things private at the Company, Jason. So if you have someone on the side, that’s perfectly fine with us. We could even arrange for someone.” Abram hesitated for a moment. 132

“Then, of course, there’s that incident on Highway 1. It was an awful tragedy.” Jason felt as though a dagger were twisting into his back. Abram had sent him out there that night; it was their secret. But now Abram was using it just as he used every piece of private knowledge: to gain an advantage, whether in a business affair or a personal one. Success to Nelson Abram was about conquest, and had been since childhood and schooldays: manipulation of preschool playground buddies, blackmailing other kids in order to get answers to an advanced-placement level test; even bribing a police officer to get out of a DUI charge. “I know that I should say yes right away, sir, but do you mind if I give it some thought?” Jason had learned from his military training—and from real life, in business and elsewhere—that taking whatever time there was would lead to better decisions. He was being asked to betray his long-time friend (even if sometime rival). He also doubted that he wanted to be any more involved with this man who seemed willing to take down anyone in his quest for power. “Of course. Take whatever time you need. I know that you have a lot on your mind right now. Never rush big decisions. I read that management book too,” added Abram with his most charming smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your understanding.” But as he was escorted to the door, he stopped. “There’s one more thing, though, sir. What’s the List’s connection to a long-dead Greek philosopher?” “I’ll explain that after you’ve made your decision, OK, Jason? It really isn’t much of anything, I assure you.” “Yes, sir,” said Zirkoff, leaving the office. Once he was gone, Abram looked over to a spacious closet in the back of his office. “Everything is fine now, Mr. Houdini,” said Abram. From the darkness of the closet exited a tough-looking character. He was young, with bleached blond hair that hung over his shoulders, short and liberally tattooed, and dressed in a black sleeveless shirt with long black gym pants. An odd person to be visiting a CEO.

133

CHAPTER 35

“Teenagers Commit Double Suicide,” read the e-news headline. Sweet Lord, why did you let this happen? a shocked Jonathan Gologon asked himself, reading the article while doing his toilet business. The story explained that a young teenage boy killed himself shortly after he found out that his girlfriend, Gretchen Fields, had taken her own life. According to the article, Gretchen had been suffering from severe depression. Her failure to reach the minimum 700 score on her Venus tests would soon force her to attend a lowerachieving Habid school. She couldn’t make the adjustment, and her boyfriend couldn’t stand to live without her. Gologon finished his business. The doorbell rang. Walking to answer it, and placing his e-news tablet on a coffee table, to settle his nerves he poured himself a quick shot from an open whiskey bottle. His failure to garner any anti-testing support at the recent National Conference on School and Student Accountability had resulted in a return to the bottle. Gologon opened the door and was quite surprised to see Grant Wilson, his nemesis, paying him a visit, along with a young woman he thought he knew, from somewhere. “Well, well, well. Looks like the pigeons took a big dump on my doorstep this morning.” Gologon savored a few seconds of suspecting that Wilson wanted something that only he possessed. He eyed Brittany up and down. “You’re the lovely lady who walked out of that conference with me, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Brittany something, if I recall the name correctly. Well, come on in, then. I’m anxious to find out what the devil the two of you might be up to. And together, on top of it.” “Thanks,” said Grant as they stepped inside. “You know, you do look like Jennifer Wilson,” said Gologon. “I forgot to ask you the other day if you’re single. Interested in senior professors who’ve been round the block a few times? Lots of experience in the thin gray line.” “No way,” she replied, loud and clear. She didn’t much like being single, but she definitely didn’t like crusty old men. She got enough of that around Sam’s school. “Mmm, I like a woman with attitude.” Gologon traced her slim figure with his eyes. “Especially one who might need my help. Well, don’t stand there, have a seat. I don’t hold grudges for more than twenty years.” As Brittany and Grant sat down on his well-worn leather couch, they took in Gologon’s home. It was a small but messy version of the Air and Space Museum, filled with airplane and helicopter paraphernalia everywhere they looked. “I know you’re wondering what all this junk is for. You see, I was a helicopter pilot back in the first Iraq war. Now that was at least a bit of a war, not like ‘Nam or anything, but a lot better than that second skirmish after nine-eleven. They sure pulled the wool over our eyes with that one, eh? Grant, did you see my 135

little toy outside there? She’s a beaut, isn’t she? It’s a Solacopter; runs purely off the power of the sun. Zero admissions, mind you. I give a few flying lessons to anyone who manages to find this hellhole of a place. It helps pay for this house, that’s what’s important. Can’t afford much on a retired professor’s pay. Maybe I should have sold out to one of those big testing companies, eh? They offered me a lot of money, you know.” “Go on,” Gologon continued after a pause for a response that never came. “Spill your guts. I’m all ears.” “We need your help,” Wilson confessed, and then reflexively stopped. “Yes, I’ve read on the ‘Net chat rooms about the trouble you’ve managed to get yourself in. Running from the SPs, even. They should be using a better picture of you, though. My god, you look like hell, Wilson.” “I was hoping that we could put the past behind us.” “The only reason you’re here is because you need something, Wilson. This pretty little thing probably pushed you into it because you’re just as stubborn as I am. I doubt that begging on your knees was your idea. Remember, I was your advisor when you really screwed up your dissertation. So, tell me: what exactly are your plans to extricate yourselves from this mess?” He was well lubricated and not about to run out of words. “Of course, you should realize that I might just turn you in at any moment, and collect the big bucks from your old, trusted company. They’ve posted a half-million-dollar reward for information leading to your arrest. They want your head on a silver platter, Wilson, and when they get it they probably will still give you a test.” Gologon cackled. “Ha ha ha! Oh, I love that one.” His guests did not look amused. “Well, I’m waiting. What’s your plan?” Gologon poured and downed another swig without offering them any. “We have to find evidence that the Venus tests are not as valid as ALS claims them to be,” said Grant, “and stop this practice of sending kids to different schools based on the result of a single test.” “My God, you’re starting to sound like me!” Gologon scolded. “Hell, I gave you all the evidence you ever needed, but you just trumped it with your own fake research. What makes you think anyone would listen to you, even if you had more proof?” “I discovered that there were multiple datasets kept by the company, false ones that showed small errors for the pubic and then duplicate sets with results similar to the ones you claimed.” “A-ha, I knew I was right all along,” said Gologon triumphantly. “Scumbags every one of them, including you, Wilson. What else you got?” Grant took a deep breath. He wasn’t finding it easy to swallow his pride, or what was left of it, anyway. “I found something called ‘Plato’s List.’ It contains the names of kids whose test scores fell below the 700 cut-point, but they were given an exception so they could attend an Akeve school.” “Now, that’s something I didn’t even think about. Another outcome of high-stakes tests: powerhouse cheating. Just like Animal Farm: all the pigs are equal, 136

except some pigs are more equal than others. I bet the kids’ scores were fixed on the records, so they wouldn’t even know it; nor the schools.” “Yes, I believe that’s true.” “You’ve seen this list?” “Yes.” “Let me guess. You don’t have a copy of it?” Grant shook his head. “Why not? You’re a resourceful kind of guy, the number-two person at ALS.” “That’s a long story.” “I’ll bet. You probably had the list and lost it because you’re too trusting of others, Grant Wilson. You always have been. The bottom line is that you don’t have it, and now you want me to help you get it, eh? And if I recall your story correctly, little lady, you’re involved in this because your son got screwed on the tests and you think someone cheated him, right?” “Yes,” Brittany answered. “My son is certain that someone changed the answers on his test. You told me before; you discovered evidence of altered scores, some scores that were too good to be true and others that didn’t match a student’s grades.” “Correct, but nearly impossible to prove when you go up against a gigantic testing company that holds all the marbles and whose pockets get deeper every year.” Grant knew how right Gologon was. “The Company, as your boyfriend and his cronies like to call it,” continued Gologon, “has many well-connected friends and tons of lawyers. They fend off any regulations that might control the industry or create competition or be good for kids. Plus they have well-heeled lobbyists in Washington to encourage the federal government to keep passing laws requiring kids to take more and more tests. Not bad when you have a monopoly on the market, eh, Dr. Wilson?” Grant didn’t go for the bait. He didn’t need a lecture. He just needed some help. Gologon discovered his glass was empty. He unstashed a full bottle and poured himself a double. “It’s been a long time since anything this exciting has happened in my modest retired professor’s life. I feel like celebrating the moment.” The doorbell rang. Gologon seemed to know who it was. “I have to say no,” said Gologon. “You created your own problems, Wilson. You were a brilliant student and researcher, but you bought into the mantra and the money of the testing industry. I’m sorry, but I can’t help. I’m busy.” He concentrated on threading his fingers into a pair of flying gloves. To increase the chances of succeeding, he took a final swig of whiskey. “For the road—or I guess I should say for the sky,” said Gologon. “Excuse me; business beckons.” At the door was an attractive middle-age woman with jet-black dyed hair, dressed in tight leather slacks. She was vigorously chewing what must have been a large wad of gum. 137

“I’m ready for my lesson, Professor,” she said as she smacked. “And so you are. Folks, may I present Evelyn?” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your talk,” she added. “My visitors were just leaving,” said Gologon, taking a step back from the door as she passed by him. Wilson and Smith made their way toward the door, disappointed but not totally surprised. Brittany glanced at the article on the e-book reader, with its photograph of the young girl, Gretchen, and her boyfriend who committed suicide. Realizing what it was about and that Gologon wasn’t going to help them, she rapidly skimmed the article. Gretchen was the girl who had lambasted Hamlie for her father’s role in creating the Venus tests. “It isn’t just about our kids,” Brittany declared, loudly enough to draw Gologon’s attention from the new female arrival, and pointing to what would have been Gretchen’s eighth grade graduation picture, now in the news with her obituary. “There are millions of children who need your help.” Gologon was unmoved. Or if he was, he disguised it entirely. Grant spoke next. “If you change your mind, Jonathan—” He cut Grant off. “I know where I can find you: in jail.” In another time and another place, they might have convinced Gologon to make a different decision. Smith stepped in to make a last pitch to Gologon. She knew they had nothing to lose. “You’re turning your back on what you believe in,” she said, pointing to the e-reader. “This girl and boy didn’t have to die. And if you don’t help us, tomorrow there will be another suicide, and the next day another, and another.” They were surprised that he did not offer immediate repartee. He was silent and unmoving, whether considering Smith’s plea, or the flying lesson, or the reminder—in the form of a siren briefly audible in the distance, before the silence was restored—that there were police out there looking for the people in front of him. With a final look at Smith and Wilson, Gologon shut the door, the four of them inside. “What about my lesson?” Evelyn questioned. “I’ve studied everything you asked me to.” “Wilson,” he said with something of a slurred voice, “go put your vehicle in the hangar. Do it before I change my damn mind. I must be crazy for doing this.” With a small nod of thanks, Wilson went outside to follow Gologon’s instructions. Some minutes later, Wilson and Smith were once again back in the front room, for the moment obliged to watch Gologon carrying out some faintly lewd activity in instructing Evelyn on how to control the stick in the Solacopter. Gologon’s eye wandered to the window. A police vehicle had entered the long driveway and was slowly making its way toward the house.

138

“The detective arrives, no doubt. Wilson, you and your friend go down in the basement. The door’s over there.” “We know the drill,” Brittany replied, reflecting on their recent escape from Grant’s house. “Thank you,” Wilson nodded to Gologon. As their eyes met, the frosty relationship seemed to melt a degree or two, although the air of distrust remained. There was a knock at the door a moment later. Gologon answered, knowing what to expect. “Professor Gologon?” asked a young SP with red crewcut hair. “I be him.” “May I talk with you for a moment?” asked the SP as he scanned the room, looking for other persons. “No, but you already are, so you may as well continue,” Gologon said wryly. Evelyn was on the sofa, reading the latest e-version of Aviation Weekly. “Sir, we’re looking for a man wanted in connection with a series of crimes, including breaking and entering federal school property.” “Really, and who might that person be?” “Do you know Dr. Grant Wilson?” “The name is vaguely familiar.” “Here’s a photograph of him.” The SP held up a family photo confiscated from the Wilson home. Evelyn coyly looked up from the news at Gologon, and then went right back to reading. “Handsome family, aren’t they?” said Gologon with a small smile, slightly envious and more than slightly happy from the drinks. “I guess so, sir. Have you seen Dr. Wilson?” “I saw him at a conference a few days ago,” said Gologon, “and I’d be one of the last people he would visit. We had a falling out many years ago. If he’s in trouble—which I presume he is—he would know that I’d turn him right over to you. Wouldn’t mind getting that half-million dollars in bounty money that his company is offering, either. He’s a scoundrel, and I hope you catch him.” “Would you mind, sir, if I looked around a bit?” “Yes, I would mind. Just me and Evelyn here, and we have a lot to talk about, you understand. But you go right ahead and look around all you want. Start with the basement—through the door over there. That’s where I would hide, if I were hiding.” Gologon looked at his perpetually unfilled glass. “Thank you sir,” said the SP. Gologon, having refilled, and Evelyn, still chewing her original gum, headed out for a flying lesson. The SP gave the house a cursory search. Eventually he walked down into the basement. He scanned the small place, pointing his lightstick into every nook and cranny. He found nothing of interest and went back upstairs. Grant and Brittany remained hidden behind some hanging and boxed clothes deep inside a closet. For now, they had dodged a bullet. There was a bigger one to come. 139

CHAPTER 36

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, just what is this stuff, anyway?” the technician asked. Deep inside ALS headquarters, Zirkoff was watching a computer programmer working feverishly at a computer station, deleting files one after another. The windowless room looked like a military bunker buried deep within a mountain. “Classified.” Jason stepped away to gaze at photos of the technician’s young wife and baby. The techie didn’t know that his boss envied him his lack of knowledge about deep internal Company issues. Zirkoff pondered what a simpler life might be like, perhaps as a park ranger in a remote part of the Arizona or New Mexico desert. He loved photography, and the desert would be a good place to get away from the kind of people who always seemed to bring you their own overly complex problems to solve. But to reach that goal, he decided he needed to stay at ALS, at least for a while. So he had accepted Abram’s offer to become the number-two person at the largest testing company in the world. If he didn’t, he was quite certain the CEO would transfer him and his family to the Toronto office to fill a long-time job vacancy for which he was well qualified. Zirkoff didn’t want to go back to a cold climate like that of his childhood in upper Michigan, and he certainly didn’t want to uproot his whole family after so many years in California. Although distasteful on many levels, accepting the vice presidency would give him time to consider other options, and hopefully leave ALS with a reasonable recommendation. The consequences, though, were that he had to put the Company first, even if it included unwelcome tasks such as deleting files he felt on principle should not be obliterated. A dozen more rapid-fire keystrokes, and the technician finished his task. “That’s everything, Dr. Zirkoff.” “You erased every totamail file as well?” “Yes sir. It’s taken me and my team fifteen hours of constant work, but every totamail, text message, anything you asked me to remove is gone from every ALS computer in the world.” He paused. “Except one,” the technician added. “What do you mean? What could possibly be left?” “Sir, Dr. Wilson had an ALS-owned handheld device which he reported lost about ten days ago. According to a message he sent afterwards, the device went overboard on a charter fishing boat he rented in deep waters off Baja California. Our efforts to electronically delete files from that device were unsuccessful. Although his handheld was the latest Q2, it wouldn’t be able to withstand salt water for more than forty-eight hours. It’s toast. Maybe a better way of saying it is that the Q2 swims with the fish.” “You’re certain?” 141

“Absolutely, sir,” explained the technician. “The Q2 is a wonderful little gadget. It’s got thousands of apps built into its browser. It can do just about everything except pour you a drink, and I think they were working on that too. But finding a device that size in the Pacific Ocean, well, it would be like trying to find an honest politician in D.C., if you know what I mean.” Zirkoff seemed satisfied that the List and any references to it had been completely purged, at least to any extent that the Company might possibly be able to control. Even so, he knew Wilson would try to find the device. At the Academy, Grant always believed that a cadet should try what others said couldn’t be done. When, as a second classman, other cadets told him that it was impossible to turn the white planetarium into a black eight ball to symbolize their squadron, Evil 8, Grant became only more resolved to find a way to do it. As usual, Jason was Grant’s number-one assistant, responsible for getting more than four hundred large sheets of black plastic sewn together for what became a legend among all pranks. Eighth squadron was restricted for the next month, but it was worth it. Grant also led a daring group of cadets who took the Academy commandant’s desk out of his own office one night and hoisted it atop the roof of Mitchell Hall, the cadet dining building, together with a blow-up doll of the commandant himself. Jason’s role was to find a suitable doll, which obviously wasn’t something you could buy in the cadet store. Emily, a girl whom Jason was dating at the time, found one in downtown C-Springs, and he made it look just like the commandant, general’s uniform and all. The commandant didn’t find it too amusing and restricted the entire cadet wing for the weekend, despite Air Force beating Army in football that Saturday, which would normally have been a huge event where everyone was allowed to blow into the Springs to celebrate. Grant’s persistence, in every realm of life, was something Jason had always admired. He wished he had committed to a few important things in his own life, such as his first marriage. Jason knew now that his best odds were to find Grant trying to do the impossible, as always…and that would be trying to find a tiny electronic handheld device deep in the waters of the Pacific Ocean.

142

CHAPTER 37

“My god, woman, stabilize the damn thing!” he shouted. Evelyn’s unsteadiness at the controls was causing Gologon to rant, making her even more nervous and shakier as she tried to perform her first-ever Solacopter landing. As the copter tipped wildly, Gologon desperately grabbed the stick and finished the landing, narrowly averting a deadly crash in the California desert. Once on the ground safely, instead of being in tears for her failed efforts she was joyous, rapidly chewing her large wad of gum. “Oh wow, was that ever exciting!” she shouted. “You are the epitome of understatement,” said Gologon, considering making his emeritus status more permanent. “How did I do, Professor?” “Well, I have to say that I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” “Really? Oh, I could just kiss you.” She planted a wet one on his cheek as they climbed down the steps and touched terra firma. Gologon let out a sigh of relief. Walking toward the house, Gologon was startled to see Grant and Brittany standing there. They should’ve made their escape when they had the chance, he thought. What the hell could they want now? The four of them stood uncomfortably at the door. “You didn’t bring anything to drink by chance, did you Wilson?” asked Gologon. “I sure could use a triple right now.” “Sorry, no. Isn’t it a bit dangerous to drink and fly?” “On the contrary. It steadies the nerves and sharpens my already-acute mental cognitive abilities.” “Jonathan, will you help us?” Grant asked. “I knew you wanted something. What is it?” “I have to find my handheld.” “Ah, let me guess. That’s where this Plato’s List is and I’m your one chance for refinding it, eh? Where might the device be? In the ocean somewhere?” “As a matter of fact, yes. Not far off the coast of Baja California.” Grant stopped as if out of breath; he realized just how impossible this must sound. “You’re crazy. It might as well be on Pluto for that matter. You haven’t a ghost’s chance in hell.” “You’re probably right.” A gust of wind blew a cloud of sand high into the air, swirling into a dust devil. “But you’re still going to try?” Grant nodded. “I have to. Your Solacopter could get us to San Diego fast.”

143

“No, it wouldn’t stand a chance. The weather forecast is terrible. Besides, the fuel cells are far too low right now, and it will take half a day at least to charge. You should try waiting a few days until all this crud blows over.” “I don’t have that much time, Jonathan. It won’t take ALS long to find me, wherever I go.” “Sorry, I can’t risk everyone’s life in a Solacopter that I know won’t make it. You can drive there in three or four hours,” Gologon continued. “Maybe if you wait until the end of the day, and presuming we get some better sun than we have now, I might consider it.” But his last words spilled into thin air. Brittany and Grant were already walking toward the hangar to get Millie’s car.

144

CHAPTER 38

From an ALS window, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky in the raging storm. “Very good, Jason,” said Abram as they briskly walked the hallway. “I appreciate the update. Use any resources you need to clean up the rest of this little problem. And go ahead: start moving into your new office.” They reached the door to Grant’s former office suite. Jason stopped and looked inside. It had been completely cleaned out, including the personal photos of Jennifer and Hamlie. Vanished too was the Academy photo of Jason and Grant on graduation day that had sat prominently on the desk. Susan, Grant’s administrative assistant, was also gone, along with the personal items from her area. All the furniture in both offices had been replaced with modern pieces carefully selected by the new ALS interior design team. Jason felt regret and unease, which the look on his face didn’t hide from Abram. “This is business, Jason, nothing but business. The group before the individual, remember? We all get used to it after a while.” “I’d like to stay in my own office, if that’s OK with you.” “Certainly; not a problem at all. We will keep everything here for you when things settle down a bit.” Abram patted him on the back and walked off, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts. On a wall-sized Vidvision screen an announcer commented on the day’s financial news. “In today’s earnings report, Achievement Learning Systems, the largest test developer in the world, once again exceeded its own earnings estimates by 72 cents per share. ALS stock reached a record high in early trading…. In other news, the entire West Coast is bracing for a major storm, expected to hit with full force later today. Tropical Storm Colby could have the highest winds and rainfall amounts in recorded history to hit the Calif—” Jason clicked off the Vidvision and stood lost in empty silence. Abram returned to his office. “Sir, it’s a call from the White House.” “What does Mathews want now?” Abram muttered. “No sir; it’s President Connelly.” Abram quickened his pace into his office, closing the door firmly behind him, and picked up the phone. He stood in front of the window, again glancing at the Connelly-Mathews digital campaign billboard outside. Parts of the sign had been damaged by the rising storm, and a fair number of the LED lights were out. “Mr. President,” he said with some surprise, “I wasn’t expecting your call, but it’s good to hear from you, sir. How is the campaign going? I can see one of your ads from my office here.”

145

“The List, Abram. Have you taken care of it? I’m concerned about my kids’ names.” “Yes sir, it’s taken care of. Neither you nor the vice president have anything to worry about. The same goes for your other colleagues in the House and Senate. The List never existed. I apologize, and I assure you that nothing will come of it.” “Fine. Then we never had this conversation, understood?” “Yes, sir. Completely understood. May I ask one small favor, though?” “What is it? I’ve got a press conference in two minutes to defend myself from reckless attacks by Senator Gotia against my foreign policy. No doubt the reporters will want an update on FEMA’s preparation for that West Coast storm headed your way. Let’s hope they don’t screw this one up.” “Mr. President, I could use some help from Homeland Security in arresting Dr. Grant Wilson. He’s gone on the run, and we haven’t been able to pick him up.” Silence on the other end. The president inferred that everything wasn’t totally wrapped up. Abram took a quiet breath and continued. “Dr. Wilson created Plato’s List. His name and his daughter’s name are on it. I know this may sound crazy, but I think he planned to use it for blackmail purposes.” “Jesus Christ,” said Connelly. “There’s more, Mr. President. We have reason to believe that Dr. Wilson was supplying funds through his book sales to support a small but dangerous terrorist group. His totamail files had names of visiting Arab scholars linked to Islamic extremists.” “My God. Very well. You’ll have whatever help you need. Homeland Security, the FBI, CIA. Just get him.” Abram breathed an audible sigh of relief. “OK, but one final thing, Nelson. If any of this gets screwed up, I’m sending Homeland after you. Do you understand? You need to take care of it. There needs to be an absolute solution. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.” “You have twenty-four hours.” “Right, sir. Understood, Mr. President.” The phone clicked off. Abram looked at his watch and saw that he had only until 3:00 p.m. the next day to solve the Wilson problem for good. Standing at the far end of Abram’s office, gazing out the window was the long-haired, tattooed man in black. Having heard every word, he turned to receive his marching orders from Abram. “Kill him.”

146

CHAPTER 39

The puddles rippled in the moonlight, but it wasn’t from the wind. A rumble was slowly growing deep in the earth. Wisps of dust rose up from the ground; there was a growling noise in the distance. More dust scattered, and the sound grew louder like the approaching storm. The dust lingered in the air like smog. A Homeland Security Model IX approached Millie’s peaceful house at a cautious pace, followed by another and another monster camouflaged vehicle. Houdini was in the lead Model IX, dressed in his standard-issue black T-shirt and black pants, carrying a .45 magnum revolver holstered on each leg and a very large buck knife strapped to his ankle. It was now the early morning hours before dawn and still pitch black. Houdini finished his cigar and crushed it into the ground. As they neared Millie’s house, Houdini signaled the driver to stop. Like a precise Marine parade, each driver halted, drawing a tight circle around Millie’s home. It had been easy tracking them here, although it took fourteen hours of precious time. Homeland Security traced Jennifer Wilson’s college records and found that Millie’s niece and Jennifer were sorority sisters. Jennifer and Millie were also members in several peace groups, so it was simply a matter of eliminating other possible people who might have given Grant a safe haven. There would be no escape today. With guns drawn, Houdini motioned Homeland Security agents to strategic locations. On his command, they loaded their weapons and aimed them at the house. Drawing a machine gun from a rack, Houdini slowly approached the front door. Although they had the element of surprise, Houdini took no chances, avoiding any windows from which he and the agents might be observed. His hypersensitive ears heard faint, muffled sounds. Once near the front door, he could make out voices of a teenage boy and girl, but no adult voices. No matter. If Wilson was there, or anyone with him, they would soon be history. Houdini half smiled, like a deer hunter who had just found a large buck standing motionless ten feet away in the middle of the road. He shoved his boot into the front door, whose rotting wood exploded in a furry cloud. Two of the agents flung themselves inside and took cover behind a set of dusty bookcases. No one was in the room. Oddly, the voices carried on, oblivious to the crashing door and the agents. Wilson and the kids must be in another room, Houdini thought, now inside the house. He motioned the agents to cover him as he approached the first room along the hall. With weapons raised, Houdini sped around a corner, firing his weapon in a spray at whoever was there. Bullets tore into wood, brick, china, and glass, pulverizing everything in the small room. The agents held their fire, watching Houdini in astonishment, not expecting this to be a massacre. The last of his ammunition spent, Houdini stopped firing as quickly as he had started. There was an eerie silence. 147

A layer of smoke hung in the air, as after a forest fire. Houdini smashed one last window to ventilate the room—but also to release his anger. With the smoke clearing, he scanned the area but saw no sign of human carnage. No bodies on the floor. No blood splattered on the walls, as he always enjoyed in assassinations. The teens were still talking, but from where? In a corner, now visible, was Millie’s antique cassette-radio. He saw that it was set on continuous auto reverse, playing over again the recorded kids’ voices, and now Millie’s voice as well. “Screw that old bat,” Houdini spat out, his anger rising inside for having been humiliated in front of those in his command. “Look around!” he shouted in his native Monchovian accent. “We did,” said an agent. “It’s a small house, and they ain’t in it.” Houdini reloaded his machine gun and fired everywhere, spraying bullets across the entire house. Some agents ran outside, while others ducked for cover. Houdini blew the tape player into a thousand pieces. “It’s not nice to play games on Houdini!” He uttered a few more hate-filled obscenities and threats and then gave an order. “Burn it!” “What?” one of his men asked. “Why?” Furious at having his authority questioned, Houdini grabbed a laser grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it across the floor in the direction of the agents. He laughed, ready to go down with the house. The remaining agents scrambled out the windows and doors. At the last second Houdini strode out, and a split second later the house burst into flames. Millie’s home was gone. Outside, Houdini shouted to the sky, in the still-early morning light: “Wilson, I will find you and kill you!”

148

CHAPTER 40

The Homeland Security task force scoured the city’s hotels, restaurants, fuel stations, and hundreds of parking lots, but Grant Wilson outwitted them. He had managed to squeeze Millie’s car last night into the center of the largest used car lot in San Diego, not far from the yacht harbor. Huddled together for warmth, neither Grant nor Brittany got much sleep. Rather, they spent a lot of time talking and getting to know one another. Neither had felt this close to another human being, either physically or emotionally, for a long time. It was six months ago to the day since Jennifer died. Grant slowly woke up from having slept in the car, feeling every ache and pain from the day before. He felt Brittany’s heart beat as she slept, her head resting on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her. Her soft, golden-brown hair had a wonderful flowery smell to it, reminding him of Hawaii, his favorite place in the world. If they somehow made it out of all this, they would go to Kauai for a week, a month, a year, just to recuperate. He didn’t want this moment to end, but his internal clock reminded him that time was running out. Her eyes fluttered open. At first she thought she was home in a nice warm bed, but she flinched when she saw the blight of rows and rows of used cars. It was not a nice warm bed in a romantic setting; it wasn’t even a bed. “Rise and shine,” Grant yawned as Brittany tried to snuggle into him for a bit more warmth. “I was having such a good dream,” she said. “Really? What about?” “You and I were on a remote tropical isle, and none of this had ever happened.” “For guys like me, a car lot is just like paradise, you know?” She smiled. Although it wasn’t raining, a stiff breeze and dark clouds brought a chill to the morning. He turned on the radio, and they listened to the weather reports in silence. The major part of the storm was expected to hit by 11:00 a.m. Grant knew that to venture out into the Pacific Ocean in the middle of even a small storm was dangerous, but to go out in a major storm was suicidal. She spoke his thoughts. “Maybe we should wait for the weather to blow over?” “We should. But Abram has undoubtedly called in every favor he has to find us. There’s no time.” More than anything, he wanted Brittany, the kids, and Millie to be safe. Brittany should have stayed back in Lake Castaic, although at the same time he very much wanted her right by his side, to hold and love her and never let go. He wanted this ALS affair to be finished, and to return to a normal life. But he knew that a normal life didn’t exist for him anymore. If he didn’t succeed in retrieving his lost device, the Company would succeed in their cover-up of the false datasets as well as Plato’s List. More kids who couldn’t get into a parent’s alma mater or an Ivy 149

League college would take their own lives. The dual system of schools would continue to segregate students, perhaps into two classes of people throughout society, and maybe even other nations. “Don’t go with me, Brittany. It’s dangerous, and the chances of success are not good. Live, for our kids and yourself. I can drop you at the rail station, and you can catch a train back.” “No. This is something I believe in too. Something that I want to do…something I have to do. Don’t ask me again, OK?” “I’ll do everything I can to protect you. You know that.” “Yes, but you may be the one needing protection. They’re after you, not me.” They clung to each other for one last moment. Then Grant started the car and pulled out of the lot. The skies were darker now, grayer than they’d ever seen in their lives. Winds were blowing trash wildly as they drove the last few miles to the San Diego Yacht Harbor. They heard a siren in the distance. Grant checked his Vidvision rearview monitor and Brittany looked left and right. Neither saw anyone following, or anyone near them. They approached a curve and a hill, and the siren grew louder— almost on top of them. An ambulance flew over the hilltop, nearly airborne, its lights flashing. Grant swerved to escape a head-on collision. They skidded off the pavement, sprayed gravel into a six-foot retaining wall, and spun 360 degrees before coming to a shuddering halt. The same thought seemed to be in their minds as they looked wide-eyed at one another: What an ironic end that would have been.

150

CHAPTER 41

Hamlie exited the only bathroom inside the Castaic bus terminal, holding her nose. “That bad, Dearie?” Millie asked. “Worse than bad. It’s like an outhouse.” “You ever been in an outhouse?” Millie smiled, knowing that for most kids growing up these days, hardship is a relative thing. “Well, no,” Hamlie admitted, “but I read about them in elementary school, and I’m sure they stink.” Late last night, Millie had a sixth-sense feeling that she needed to keep the kids and herself one step ahead of whatever or whoever was chasing Grant. So a friend picked up the trio well before dawn and took them to the bus terminal. They bought their tickets at the counter and soon were on their way, sitting in the front of an EasyGlide bus headed to what they hoped would be a safe haven. The bus had seen better days and better customers, but it got the job done, transporting people who couldn’t afford cars wherever they needed to go. The bus company did its best to live up to the motto, “Always a fine ride on an EasyGlide.” An hour later, Millie gazed out the window and took in a large digital billboard with President Connelly’s smiling face, surrounded by happy children at an Akeve school. It flashed, “Number 1 in the World.” “Thirty minutes to San Pedro Harbor,” the driver announced as he drove through heavy traffic. His wide smile, white shirt, and tie belied the status of bus transportation as the travel mode just above hitchhiking. From the bus station, a friend would take them to safety in Portuguese Bend on the Palos Verdes Peninsula. Sam and Hamlie watched the sole Vidvision screen on the bus as it announced the impending storm yet again. The transmission was intermittently in dull color and then black and white. The announcer confirmed that this was likely to be the largest Pacific storm in the past one hundred years, and that evacuation warnings were now in effect. “In other tragic news,” said the announcer, “a fifteen-year-old boy from Habid School 433 in Pasadena hanged himself at home today. He apparently was upset about the recent death of his mother from a drug overdose. The mother’s family said she couldn’t handle the pressures of being a single mom. Funeral services will be held tomorrow.” They showed a YouTube image on the screen, and Sam recognized the face immediately. “God no, that’s Pete Brewster!” Sam nearly shouted, shocked that he would take his own life. “He had problems, but I never thought he was suicidal.” “A friend of yours?” asked Hamlie. “No, not a friend. He wasn’t a good kid. He used to taunt me in school all the time. Even so, I don’t understand how anyone could be so upset that they would kill themselves.” 151

But Hamlie understood. She had had those feelings herself. Sometimes the pressure and the pain just got so bad that she was ready to do anything to end it. Like so many others, she thought the only way to stop the hurt was, well, the same way Brewster had done it. From the main Model IX in the Homeland Security motorcade, the one with the interior gold trim, Houdini took a call from ALS security. “We traced a phone call, Mr. Houdini. A friend of Millie Ward’s took them to the Castaic EasyGlide station, and we tracked the three tickets they bought under an alias. They’re two kids and an old woman, headed for San Pedro, the station at 917 South Grand Avenue.” Houdini chomped on his cigar and grinned. “Good. We have time to make it. We’ll prepare a surprise party. Welcome home, kiddies!” Houdini laughed hysterically. “I crack myself up!” Twenty minutes later, the bus pulled in at San Pedro. Houdini and the agents had easily outpaced the lumbering vehicle and were fully encircling it at a few paces’ distance, weapons drawn. Houdini studied every passenger disembarking, one by one. They were all clearly startled on seeing themselves surrounded by armed forces. Nobody matched the description of Millie and the kids. Indeed, there was not a single teenager among the diverse dozen or so passengers. Finally, the last traveler stepped off, leaving only the driver aboard. One of the agents with Houdini flashed a badge at the driver. “And what may I do for you, Mr. Homeland Security officer?” beamed the smiling driver, as he carefully read the agent’s badge. “Anyone else?” asked Houdini as two agents boarded the bus for a thorough search. “Sir, this is everyone. But if you don’t believe me, just look around yourselves…. Oh, I see you’re already doing that.” “No old lady and two kids?” asked Houdini. “Oh, those three folks. They got off a few miles back. Maybe they were expecting you.” “Damn it!” snapped Houdini. “Let’s go!” he called to the agents. “We go after bigger fish.” “Have a nice day, and I hope you take the EasyGlide with us sometime. Remember, it’s always a fine ride on the EasyGlide.”

152

CHAPTER 42

Grant and Brittany reached the yacht club as several owners were battening down the hatches and double-lashing their moorings. The wind was already at Force 6, meaning that any sailing vessel in the ocean should already have taken down half its sails. The prediction for Tropical Storm Colby was Force 11, just short of hurricane status. No ships or vessels were leaving the harbor today, at least not any that wanted to see tomorrow. Grant spotted the forty-eight-foot custom yacht he had chartered with Hamlie for their fishing trip. Ernesto Delacruz was there, triple securing ForTuna to its slip, occasionally snatching a look at the threatening skies. “You think he’s crazy enough to go out in a storm like this?” Brittany asked. “No. He won’t do it unless the risk is worth it.” “How could it be worth it?” Grant rubbed his fingers together. “Mr. Delacruz wants to retire soon. I’ll make him a good offer.” Moments later they were chatting with Delacruz. Grant made an offer, but Delacruz refused animatedly. “You are loco,” said Delacruz. “It’s suicide. You could offer me ten times that much, and the answer is still no.” “Done,” Grant said. “Ten times my first offer.” “Nunca!” said Delacruz adamantly, continuing to tighten his lines. “Twenty.” The skipper considered the latest offer. “With thirty I can retire.” “With ten you can retire, with twenty you can retire in style, and with thirty you can retire in style and buy an even bigger yacht than ForTuna,” said Grant impatiently. “Done.” The skipper smiled. “It will do little good if you are not here to pay me and if I am not here to collect.” “That’s a risk we both take.” Brittany moved to step onto the boat. Grant pulled her arm, stopping her. “Don’t go with us.” “You’re breaking your promise.” The growing wind tousled her hair. “Anyway, you’ll need all the help you can get in this weather.” “She’s right, you know. Even with my son, Pedro, we can use an extra hand, and if she is estupida like you, she’s welcome to come along and finish dead with all of us.” “You know anything about the ocean, Brittany?” “Do you?” she shot back. “I grew up sailing and scuba diving in Catalina during the summer.”

153

“Then our knowledge is about equal,” she smiled. It made everything seem much less threatening. “I was scuba diving as soon as I learned how to swim.” “Dr. Wilson, this is no time for hablar,” Delacruz interrupted. “If we put fire under our butts, we can get out there and back before the worst of the storm hits. This captain has no plans to go down with his ship.” Grant and Brittany helped Pedro haul on board the last of the equipment they would need to find Grant’s missing handheld, including a special magnetometer that Delacruz borrowed from another skipper and friend who had also been lagging behind at the yacht club. As they headed out to sea, Grant gazed up at a speedcopter in camouflage paint flying over. It was too far away for him to determine if it was a Homeland Security aircraft. At the moment, the storm, now up to Force 8, was the greater threat. Millie was at that moment arriving at her friend’s summer home in Portuguese Bend, together with Sam and Hamlie. Not trusting anyone, Millie had decided to get off the bus a few miles before they reached the San Pedro bus terminal. A friend drove them the rest of the way to Palos Verdes. The bus driver wasn’t happy when Millie pushed the emergency signal to stop the bus, but he forgave her when she put a thirty-dollar tip in his hand. Millie hustled Sam and Hamlie into the house. The inside was decorated in blue and white, reflecting how much its owners, John and Patty Tobetha, loved the ocean. The three were long-time friends, having attended high school together before Millie dropped out. The small home featured two bedrooms and a single bath, but best of all was a fabulous Great Room overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The cozy house was all that a vacationing couple might ever need for a tranquil weekend retreat. Both sides of the patio had grand views of small bluffs, with the endless ocean beyond, creating a sheltered cove for great swimming but with ample breaking waves for decent surfing. Straight ahead, Catalina Island was visible, and the vast ocean made for fabulous sunsets. The Tobethas’ summer home had always been an ideal hideaway. But right now Millie was reflecting on what Grant and Brittany were off doing. She wondered in the back of her mind if they would survive.

154

CHAPTER 43

All other vessels were rushing in to the safety of San Diego harbor, but the ForTuna was heading full speed out to sea. Delacruz was right that the other ship captains were looking at him as if he were crazy. He just waved to them, grinning and blowing his air horn and singing “Cielito Lindo.” De la Sierra Morena, Cielito lindo, vienen bajando, Un par de ojitos negros, Cielito lindo, de contrabando. The waves were already threatening, with swells of ten feet and sometimes twelve and fourteen. A coastguard cutter was patrolling deep waters as Delacruz passed, studying his charts and thirty-inch GPS monitor. Grant peered over his shoulder. “Do you know what route you took that day?” “The same route that I take todos los dias,” said Delacruz, “that is basically wherever my sonar says there are fish, which can be anywhere in the ocean. Those little bastards never stay in the same place, you know.” “Do you have any record of where we were?” “Lucky for you, sì. Otherwise, I wouldn’t agree to be out here. We would find nada, which is what we will find anyway. Even if we do find something, salt water corrodes quickly, especially those expensive little electronic toys bought by rich white hombres.” Delacruz showed Wilson a copy of a computer log with a set of confusing lines all around it. “These are different routes on different dates?” “Muy bien, Dr. Wilson. No wonder you are a doctor, eh? You paid attention en su escuela.” “Which one was ours?” Delacruz pointed to a red line. At the same time, he printed out a new sheet and handed it to Wilson. “This was our course that day, tracked by satellite.” “I don’t see how this is going to help us. We traveled more than fifty miles.” “No problema, amigo.” Delacruz pointed to a group of specific dots among dozens along the route. “Each of those marks was a turning point of more than ten degrees. That mark is 152 degrees. It’s when you lost your little toy and we turned around to head back to the harbor. I made a note in the computer as well. The note reads, ’Doc drops gizmonito into ocean, big fish lost, return harbor.’” “You do know what you’re doing,” said Wilson, with a bright smile. “Let’s hope that we both do, mi amigo,” Delacruz replied. “You’re lucky that the water is shallow in that part of the Pacific. Just three hundred feet.” 155

“That’s still a deep dive. At 220 feet, compressed air in scuba tanks becomes toxic. We’ll have only one minute to travel 160 more feet, 80 feet down and 80 feet back to 220.” “If you make it that far,” said the skipper, looking down. “Su amiga is very pretty. It’s a big risk you are taking. You love her, no?” Grant wasn’t sure how to respond to the captain’s straightforward question. It’s one he’d asked himself several times in the past few days. He decided to be honest with himself and Delacruz. “Yes, I think I do.” “I know that I can’t talk you out of doing this stupid thing you are going to do. But, mi amigo, I want you to know that Pedro and I will do our best to keep you both alive and help you find your impossible dream. I too am in love, you see, and love needs to live. Vivir amor!” He pointed to a photograph of himself with his wife, Maria, and Pedro as a little boy. “Thank you, Ernesto. You have a beautiful family. Let’s see if we can make your retirement dreams come true.” Delacruz glanced at the wind gauge. It had just increased another ten knots. He sang: Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores, Porque cantando se alegran, Cielito lindo, los corazones. Puffing deeply on his Cuban cigar, the bounty hunter struck a dark contrast over the stylish yacht master of the San Diego Yacht club. Houdini had decided to follow up on the tip they received from Homeland Security about a single vessel heading out to sea when all others were heading in. The two Homeland Security agents with him flashed their ID badges to the yacht master. “Any boat go out in the last two hours?” demanded Houdini, making best use of a Monchovian accent that he knew to be capable of getting results on its own. “These are yachts, not boats,” the yacht master clarified, not easily intimidated by the tattooed hoodlum towering over him. “I not play games, we close you down for six months.” The yacht master quickly reconsidered. The risk was too great. “Just one yacht departed the harbor, a private charter fishing vessel owned by Captain Ernesto Delacruz.” “When?” asked Houdini with mild pleasure in his heart but not a trace of emotion on his face. The yacht master didn’t like Houdini’s attitude, his looks, or his demanding tone. He said nothing. “What time? They are terrorists. You must answer.” “According to our log, one hour and fifty-seven minutes ago,” replied the reluctant yacht master. “Where to?”

156

“It’s a fishing yacht; they went fishing. They don’t have to file a plan, you know.” No sooner said than a computer nearby beeped with a message. It was to all ports and harbors south of Santa Cruz. The yacht master scanned it on screen. “Gentleman, if you’re thinking about going out after them, I’d reconsider. Colby has just been upgraded to a Category Five hurricane.” “Mr. Houdini, I don’t think this is a good idea,” the lead agent offered as they walked toward the docks of the nearby Homeland Security North San Diego office. “Wilson has no chance to survive the hurricane. Even if he does, they’ll return to port and we can arrest him at the yacht club.” Houdini spit into the high wind, stepping onto the last of a small fleet of six fast ocean-going speedboats moored there. Houdini trusted nothing but his own instincts, which had made him the most successful bounty hunter in the Western United States. Wilson would be his biggest catch since Houdini brought in the notorious Devon the Demon, an infamous jewel thief who successfully broke into Fort Knox three years ago, making off with nearly $5 billion in gold. “Idiot,” Houdini snapped. “They will not come back here. They will go someplace else and idiots will lose them.” The lead agent deferred to his anger. Houdini commanded the flotilla of speedboats as they departed the harbor, heading into uncertainty and a storm whose wrath matched his own.

157

CHAPTER 44

“It’s after 1:00 p.m., and the clock is ticking,” said Abram, leaning forward in his chair. “We have less than two hours before I need to call the president with Dr. Wilson in hand. I hope you have some good news for me.” Natan Chen and Christine Hoto stood in front of his expansive desk, frightened by their CEO’s posture and seriousness. “Sir,” said Chen, “Homeland Security has traced the two children and old woman to the Portuguese Bend area of Palos Verdes. There are about two dozen agents headed out right now, together with Jason Zirkoff.” “Good. Make sure they don’t give us the slip this time.” “Yes, sir.” “What about Wilson?” “Sir, Dr. Wilson is out in a large fishing boat, apparently looking for the handheld device that he thinks by some miracle might still contain the List. Mr. Houdini is in pursuit with a substantial Homeland Security support group. Weather conditions are deteriorating.” “Fine. Maybe the storm will wipe all of them out, eh? Then we won’t need to pay Houdini. He’s goddamned expensive, you know. This whole thing is costing the Company a lot of money.” Chen and Hoto looked at each other, with the beginnings of concern that his cavalier attitude about Wilson and Houdini’s expendability might also apply to them. “Sir, speaking of expenses, we noticed a retainer for the services of a ‘John Doe’ who is in the group of agents approaching Portuguese Bend. Christine and I weren’t sure what that was for.” “Insurance,” said Abram. “You always have to have insurance.” “I’m not sure that I follow you, sir,” Chen said tentatively. “Insurance that Zirkoff doesn’t become a liability. If Jason gets wet feet, then John Doe steps in and does whatever is necessary. Wipes him out and whoever else is a problem for us.” Their expressions of astonishment were clear to Abram. He realized he needed to add some clarification. He stood up to make sure they got the message. “Doctors Chen and Hoto,” continued Nelson. “The Company must, and will, survive. The rest of us—myself included—are expendable.” They took this all in silently. “One more thing. I want a personal copy of that CRIME system that Wilson was developing. The whole thing, hardware and software, up and running, here. You worked with him on that, I presume?” “Yes, sir,” said Chen. “We were both involved.” “Good. And I’ll expect another update on Wilson in exactly thirty minutes.” The subordinates departed. Once outside, they exchanged glances that revealed they were thinking the same thing: their CEO was far from the person they had thought he was. 159

CHAPTER 45

The seas had increased another five feet in height, and even the forty-eight-foot fishing yacht ForTuna was stressed under colossal waves. Every yaw of the ocean brought forth moaning, creaking, and cracking from ForTuna’s hull as it drove through an apocalypse of ocean swells. At Portuguese Bend, mammoth waves crashed onto the shore, threatening those homes closer to the ocean than the Tobetha house. Torrential rains pounded the roof, like nail guns blasting into steel. The pelicans and seagulls had long since taken flight to inland areas. What promised to be a safe haven had become a stormy trap for Millie and the two teenagers. The trio was playing a game of crazy eights to pass the time, none concentrating very well. Millie was beginning to run out of make-do activities to keep the two teenagers occupied, as well as herself. A loud knock on the door. The police have found us, Millie thought to herself. “Don’t answer it,” Millie whispered to Sam and Hamlie. “Evacuate the premises immediately!” came the order through the door. Millie, Hamlie, and Sam stole a glance outside through pulled blinds. A firefighter was slapping up an evacuation notice. Then he knocked again, one last time, before heading to the next house. “Anyone inside, evacuate now—this is the only warning you’ll get!” Outside, several fire trucks and many firefighters were helping residents vacate their premises. From a loudspeaker, a voice shouted again: “Evacuate! Evacuate immediately!” The trio saw local neighbors hauling packed-up possessions out to their cars and heading to safer ground inland. Should we leave or stay? Millie asked herself. If they left, it would likely be only a short time before authorities identified them. If they stayed, no one was likely to find them. But would they be able to ride out the storm? She turned on the Vidvision for the latest news. An on-the-scene reporter, totally drenched in rain, was presenting her weather report from the Trump National Golf Club in Palos Verdes. The voracious gales forced her to hold on to a sign that was the only thing preventing her from being swept away. “The governor has ordered a complete evacuation of all coastal areas in California, south of Mendocino through San Francisco, Los Angeles, and all the way to San Diego. The worst part of the storm is expected to hit Baja California in the next hour. Ocean swells are cresting as high as forty feet in some parts of the Pacific. “Mexican President Gomez has ordered evacuation of all Mexican cities and villages within a ten-mile stretch of the coast. President Connelly has ordered military units from the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marines to assist with evacuation and prevent looting as necessary in California and parts of Oregon. FEMA warns that the damage may equal the loss of homes, property, and lives caused by Hurricane 161

Katrina in 2005, the most expensive natural disaster in U.S. history. A substantial number of homes are already in grave danger.” As if to make the point, the lights flickered. A second later, the Vidvision went out. Electricity was gone in the Tobetha home. “Look!” said Sam, pointing to a billowing tangle of electricity and phone cables swirling in the wind outside. A powerful gust caught an aging California sycamore tree, pulling it up roots and all, and throwing it like a toothpick into a neighboring house, most of which was immediately flattened. The residents were already scrambling into a waiting fire truck, having barely survived death. “Let’s go!” Millie yelled. “We have to get out.” They grabbed their few things and hurried outside, to run the several hundred feet toward the last remaining fire truck. Too late. Its crew couldn’t see them through the wall of rain. The trio’s desperate screams were lost in the howling wind. They turned back to the house, all three thinking in their own way that it would likely become their tomb.

162

CHAPTER 46

The six Homeland Security boats pounded through the ocean crests and troughs. A single wave caught the wrong way could capsize any or all of them. Houdini, however, was enjoying every second, laughing and cursing the ocean at the same time. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than living in the moment of danger, knowing that one false move could end his life, a life made worthwhile through pursuit of a prize as great as the finding of King Tut’s tomb or the sunken Titanic. To be a legendary bounty hunter in his own time was the reward Houdini sought and in which quest he thrived. Like most inventors and heroes, a certain amount of risk was necessary to accomplish anything significant. Let others toil at a dull office job; some men and women were born for a specific career. Houdini was born for exactly what he loved to do. Captain Delacruz was equally matched to navigate and control a vessel in the worst possible weather. Amidst driving showers of rain and nearly uncontrollable thirty-foot waves, Delacruz drove ForTuna forward. He too loved a good challenge, and this was the best he had ever encountered, although you couldn’t tell it from his face. Delacruz pointed to the GPS screen so that Wilson could see they were nearing the location where his device containing Plato’s List went overboard. “If it’s anywhere, it will be close to that spot, give or take a kilometer or ten,” Delacruz laughed to Wilson. “That’s too large an area.” “Not to worry, Señor Wilson. The bottom of this vessel contains a large sonar scanner for fishing. With a bit of fine-tuning, it can produce a good image of junk on the ocean floor.” “So why didn’t we catch more fish that day, Captain?” asked Wilson with a grin. “The fish they were all around us that day, but you are lousy fishers,” chuckled Delacruz. With a few keystrokes, Delacruz engaged the sonar scanning systems, providing a detailed view of the ocean bottom on a large Vidvision monitor. Delacruz pointed to a small, yellow, remote-operation device that Pedro had brought on board before they left the harbor, and that the young man was now struggling to position over the heaving side of the boat. “Señor Wilson, just for you, I borrowed a little tool from an amigo of mine. This little gizmonito is a pulse magnetometer, which can find small metal junk on the ocean floor.” “I am as impressed with your vocabulary as I am with your foresight,” Grant replied. Pedro was finally able to lower the underwater device over the side. Down it went, to an appropriate scanning level. “Now we will sweep the area, and if the storm doesn’t send us to the ocean bottom, we might find alguna cosa. Then again, we might not,” said Delacruz. “Even if we find something, it might not be the right thing, and even if we find the right thing, the salt water will have most assuredly destroyed it.” 163

“Have you always been so optimistic, Captain Delacruz?” Brittany queried. “I am a realist. You are the young dreamers.” Wilson knew Delacruz was right, at least about him. His dreams had always been one step beyond his grasp. That had kept him going, but never satisfied. He was thrilled to be appointed to the National Academy of Education Sciences the previous year, one of the youngest scientists ever to have been so honored. But after the awards ceremony, once the congratulations and parties were over, there was emptiness inside, a longing for something else, although he wasn’t sure quite what. Even Jennifer, who understood him better than Grant perhaps understood himself, couldn’t help him find the answer. It was like standing on a cliff and wanting to jump into the ocean below to see if you will live. Today was another opportunity to dive off that precipice. Thirty minutes later, they had yet to find anything except a good number of totally useless items. One of them was a chunk of an exploded engine casing from an old steamship and another was a small rusty anchor, both lost to the sea many years ago. “We’ve got something,” said Delacruz a moment later, as a sound bleeped out from the computer system. It grew louder and louder, and then faded as they passed over it. “What do you think?” Brittany asked, for the benefit of anyone who would answer. Delacruz, Wilson, and Smith closely studied both the sonar imaging system monitor and the images from the magnetometer. “The size seems to be right,” said Delacruz, “but probably nada.” Despite his doubts, Delacruz increased the magnification. The small object doubled in size. “Hmm, “said Delacruz. “It could be anything from a watch to a beer can, but it could well indeed be the small gizmonito you seek. I think it’s worth a dive.” Wilson noticed something else on the screen, something apparently moving in and out of view. He knew. “Sharks.” “Yes, the protectors of all ocean treasures,” replied Delacruz. “They are plentiful in this part of the ocean. If they have eaten recently, they will not bother you too much.” They all watched in contemplative silence for a while. “Eels would be a bigger concern,” added Delacruz. “As you know, they like to hide in places where you no see them. Very sharp teeth. Pedro will go down with you. I have to protect my investment. If you don’t come back alive, I don’t get mi dinero.” On a different screen, Brittany noticed something quite a distance off, but moving directly toward their current location. “I think company is arriving.” “Amigos of yours, no doubt,” said Delacruz as he counted six small objects on the screen. “Coming to join us for la hora de cocktail, perhaps?” “Let’s go,” Wilson ordered.

164

Pedro dropped an anchoring line as near as possible to the location of the suspected device. It would serve as a guiding point for the dive. At the same time, Delacruz dropped his heaviest anchoring chain to help stabilize the yacht in the water that was tossing them about like a matchbox. “You have less than thirty minutes,” said Delacruz. “Don’t forget that once you pass 220 feet, your air will be malo.”

165

CHAPTER 47

A large two-story house fell off the cliff, plummeting into the Pacific Ocean below. From the Oval Office, President Connelly and Vice President Mathews watched the storm on a large Vidvision system, transfixed and helpless. An aide arrived to brief them on its status. “So far, thirty-three homes and commercial buildings have been lost to the hurricane along the Pacific coast,” the aide read. “Southern California has been hardest hit, with eighteen houses lost, but buildings have been completely destroyed as far north as Seattle. Many more are threatened. Fortunately, FEMA Director Gail Wilshed says that almost all of the Pacific Coast has been evacuated inland at least five miles, and in lower-lying areas at least ten miles. The Coast Guard reports that virtually all ships have been diverted well outside of Colby’s path, and they expect minimal loss of human life at sea. Mexico too has successfully evacuated its coastal areas.” “Thank God,” said the president as he turned to the vice president with a wry smile. “Perhaps we finally got things right in the middle of a disaster. Might even help us a bit with the election. Let’s go ahead with the hurricane press conference as planned, with Wilshed and the FEMA people.” “Mr. President,” the aide continued, “I need to mention that there is a pesky reporter from the Associated Press who has been asking questions about something I know nothing about. Nor do any of the cabinet members, including the Secretary of Education. The reporter is likely to be at the press conference, and I just wanted to mention it so that she won’t catch you off-guard.” “What the hell does she want?” the president asked in exasperation. “Why can’t the media just focus on one catastrophe at a time?” “She’s been asking questions about something called Plato’s List.” The president and vice president exchange surprised glances. “What? What do you mean? Was she specific?” The President stumbled for the right words. “Mr. President, she said that it was something about a list connected to students attending Akeve schools. That was it. She didn’t seem to have any other information, but I haven’t been able to find out anything else through my normal channels. Do you know anything about it that you can share with me?” The president paused thoughtfully before answering. “No, nothing.” “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep making inquiries.” “No, don’t bother, it’s not important. If it comes up at the press conference, I’ll have an answer ready.” “Very well, Mr. President. As you wish.” The aide left as the president looked up at Lincoln’s portrait. On the West Coast, the time was 2:15 p.m. Connelly and Mathews turned their attention to the Vidvision screen again, in time to see another California house began its slide into the ocean. 167

In the Tobetha house, it was Millie who heard the terrible ripping sound first and pulled up the shades. The horrified trio got what the White House did not: a firsthand view of the same house falling into the Pacific. In a matter of seconds, it was simply gone. She realized what was coming. “My god,” said Millie. “This house is next. Get your things; we’ve got to get out. Now!” Hamlie and Sam didn’t bother to grab anything; they simply ran toward the front door. Suddenly a huge wave, having built on the record swells already ravaging the cove, swept across the lawn and crashed into the front of the house, shattering the bay window. Hamlie screamed, but there was no one there to hear.

168

CHAPTER 48

Brittany, Grant, and Pedro dove into the depths of the ocean, and soon the storm was far above them. Surrounded by hundreds of fish of spectacular variety, they were thankful that the ones they had seen and that had seen them weren’t carnivorous. Pedro was carrying a handheld underwater metal detector, an advanced model with exceptionally sensitive induction magnetometer technology. Grant carried a powerful underwater light to illuminate the near-total darkness they would soon encounter far beneath the ocean’s surface. They were now more than one hundred feet down, according to the miniature echo sounder on Grant’s wrist. The friendly fish disappeared, replaced by long dark shadows of sharks. Pedro motioned for Grant and Brittany to ignore the predators and keep diving. Deeper and deeper, darker and darker. The water was becoming ice cold. One shark followed for a while, but as they reached 200 feet, even the sharks lost interest. Some other creature could have them. Brittany wondered what she’d been thinking, to have agreed to come with Grant. Could having her son attend a Habid school be such a bad thing that she needed to risk her life on an expedition with so little chance of success? But isolated within her thoughts and the rhythmic sounds of the breathing apparatus, she knew that some student, somewhere, right now, or some parent, sick with excessive expectations for his or her child, would soon do what other students or parents had done when their child didn’t measure up. The suicides would continue, and the injustices in the education system would persist, or get worse. So if she didn’t help, who would? Grant had little enough chance as it was. He was likely to fail, and then what? Didn’t everyone need a friend or companion for encouragement, to keep pushing forward during times of weakness and despair? Brittany needed to concentrate and do her part. Stay at the 200-foot level; monitor messages between Delacruz, Pedro, and Grant as they dove to a depth of nearly 300 feet; relay information to the surface. Each diver carried a wireless DiveCom transmitter system, a technology that was showing its age. Should communications fail or some other emergency occur, Brittany was to swim up to the surface for help. Rapid decompression was another imminent danger. She hoped she didn’t need to do anything except focus on the promise she had made. Delacruz occasionally checked in with his “three little fishes,” as he liked to call them. So far, the communications system was intact. “Twenty minutes left,” said Delacruz into the mic, “fifteen minutes for dive, five minutes to get the hell out.” “How’s the weather up there?” Grant asked from the dark and deep. “It is, how do you Anglos like to call it, a piece of shit.” The winds were now fifteen knots stronger, and Delacruz was struggling to keep ForTuna in the same location, even with his largest anchor let out. With one hand on the throttle and the other hand on the wheel, he glanced at his radarscope. The six vessels were approaching, dead on target. 169

“You should go back,” warned Delacruz, his words heard only in his windravaged space. “Your boats are too small.” Too late for one Homeland Security crew. A huge wave flipped the fast-moving vessel thirty feet out of the water, spinning it three times before it crashed through a twenty-five-foot swell. The boat dissolved into splinters and shrapnel, without a doubt killing all on board. The commander of the Homeland Security force, in the lead craft, radioed back to Houdini’s boat, in panic. “Mr. Houdini, weather conditions make it impossible to continue. I strongly recommend we return.” Houdini took the radiophone, held it up defiantly so that the commander could see it, and threw it overboard. Houdini flicked his drenched cigar into the wind. There would be no turning back. “And then there were five,” Delacruz relayed to his little fishes below, observing the vessels on his radar screen. At nearly 230 feet beneath the surface, Pedro pointed to an object some 30 feet further down, reflected in the light that Grant carried. The borrowed magnetometer had guided them well. “Five minutes before return to 200,” Brittany cautioned from her position. The other two increased their downward pace, but suddenly Grant’s movements slowed. Despite his physical strength and diving experience, he had no antidote for the toxicity that now entered his lungs, made even worse by his recent physical injuries. Pedro motioned for him to return to the surface, while he would try to complete the dive. Grant, knowing he was now more a danger than an asset to their mission, reluctantly gave Pedro the OK sign. “Señor Wilson’s coming back. He has un problema,” Pedro yelled into the DiveCom system. Grant headed up. Pedro approached 260 feet. Visibility was zero as the water turned pitch black near the bottom. Pedro’s magnetometer abruptly lost its signal. “Time’s up—you need to return immediately to 200,” Brittany spoke loudly and nervously. Pedro ignored her warning and continued down. I’m almost there, he told only himself. The magnetometer regained a weak signal. A red light flashed and a faint audio signal could be heard through the intercom. Something was there. As Pedro came closer to the unknown object, the light flashed faster and the beeping interval shortened. “Pedro and Grant, confirm that you’re returning right now,” said Brittany with fear clearly in her voice. No answer. She tried again: “Pedro and Grant, do you hear me, either of you?” Nothing. Although Grant should have already rejoined Brittany at 200 feet, he was nowhere to be seen. Her fear turned to panic. “Will one of you please come in? Come in now!” 170

Silence. On the surface, the waters were well beyond turbulent. Delacruz had witnessed and survived countless storms, denying the devil his due many times. But now he was ready to accept that the devil might win, taking four lives in the process. It wasn’t just the fury of the wind, the force of the monumental waves, or the torrential downpour of rain that was pelting Delacruz right now. The ocean sound was like few men or women on earth had ever heard, eardrum-splitting and relentless. Every so often, the sea seemed to take a short breath, only to blast away stronger the next time. Then a thirty-foot wave ripped ForTuna’s anchoring line away from the ocean floor, pulling Brittany along at a pace so fast she could no longer hold on. Even with all his strength and skill, Delacruz couldn’t keep ForTuna in place. Within moments, ForTuna was nearly a quarter mile away from the divers. Zeroing in on the kill, Houdini refused to look at any of the other speedboats. He missed seeing a boat to starboard smash directly into a great swell, burying its prow deep into the water like a torpedo. The men and women on board were thrown forward full force against the structure and hull. The wall of water might just as well have been concrete. It crushed them all. The commander ordered an end to the pursuit. With luck, they might make it back to port before they caught the full force of the hurricane. “Cowards!” Houdini shouted uselessly into the air. He guided his sole speedboat over the crest of the next monster wave, disappearing into its vastness. Beneath the surface, the contrast between ripping and howling above and total silence below was complete. A roaring ocean nearly 300 feet overhead mattered little to Pedro, as he concentrated on approaching the metallic device. His detector pulsed faster and louder. But as he dove ever deeper, just as happened to Grant, Pedro ran into trouble. His air became caustic, his thinking affected, and his movements suddenly lethargic. Several minutes past the deadline for when he should have returned to the 200-foot level, Pedro’s communications were also gone. Losing his physical functions, he dropped the magnetometer, which clicked and flashed even more rapidly as it floated downward. The detector closed in on the possible treasure, but there was no one to pick it up. Pedro’s lifeless body slowly settled toward the frigid ocean floor. They had been so close. A figure out of nowhere dropped past the motionless young man. It scooped up the object that shone, beaconlike, in the dying pulses of light from the magnetometer, and then quickly swung toward Pedro, capturing him in the crook of one arm. Perhaps another of Grant’s dreams. Whoever or whatever it was continued to bear Pedro upward. Brittany was not in sight. Had she run into trouble herself? Had the ALS forces found her and Delacruz, and snatched the entire yacht away? What happened to Grant? There was no anchor line in sight. Time had run out for everyone.

171

The only good thing right now was that someone or something was still pushing Pedro’s body up to the surface, although he might be dead. As his body rose, another object slowly approached. Was it a shark waiting for a two-or-threecourse dinner? The outline of the figure grew more distinct, and as Pedro’s body rose, the mysterious figure looked more like a diver than a predator. A few meters further, and the figure was a diver. Either he or she was holding onto the anchoring line that Delacruz managed to plumb back to the ocean floor. Pedro’s body reached the other diver. It was Brittany, exactly where she needed to be to help bring a lifeless Pedro to the surface. She grabbed him, and together she and the other diver pushed Pedro up toward the pounding storm, to the slim possibility of resuscitation. As she glanced into the face of the other diver, she was thrilled to recognize Grant. She radioed to Delacruz with a smile on her face. “We’re on our way up.” Grant held an object that he had snatched from its ocean grave. “Device in hand,” she told Delacruz, “but our air supply is nearly gone.” She was too excited to care that there was no response. Somehow Grant had combined his marathoner’s strength and will to live to overcome his loss of oxygen. As the trio rose, Brittany kept close to Grant, as much from desire as necessity. Then she saw dark shapes ahead. Lots of them.

172

CHAPTER 49

John Doe watched from a fire truck as the storm continued to rage. He saw for himself a bright future even in the dark gray of the tempest all around. He knew who he was looking for in this Palos Verdes neighborhood, and that his undercover errand for Nelson Abram would be well rewarded. A second man sat silently in the passenger seat as they both watched another multimillion-dollar home, battered by unrelenting waves, collapse into the ocean. Large sections of the Trump National Golf Club started to succumb to the natural forces of Hurricane Colby, crashing into the Pacific below. Doe started the engine, ready to drive off quickly if necessary. Hit hard by pounding surf and torrential rains, they watched as the foundation to the Tobetha house rapidly crumbled. The next huge wave brought the entire house down, collapsing as though it never existed, a mass of debris being dragged into the ocean. Three figures dashed for their lives across the disappearing wasteland of the front lawn. The trio barely escaped certain death as the earth dissolved beneath their feet. John Doe waved his hand impatiently, fearful of the roadway itself collapsing—which it did, moments after the three refugees dove into the open doors and the fire truck sped off. Safe in the back seat, Millie, Hamlie, and Sam tried to shake the wetness from their hair and clothes. “I don’t know how we can thank you enough for saving our lives,” Millie said to the two men in front. “Happy to help out, Ma’am, but you know you should have evacuated earlier,” said the driver. “Yes, I know,” said Millie, with remorse and relief. “I’m so sorry, it was my fault.” The passenger in the right front seat turned around. “Mrs. Ward, I’m sorry to inform you that we have been directed to take you and the two children into protective custody.” “What do you mean?” asked Millie, surprised and defiant. “We haven’t done anything wrong.” “No, Ma’am, it’s protective custody. A matter of Homeland Security,” explained the passenger. He flashed his badge. Millie had to force herself to keep control. “We’ll make sure you’re kept safe, and that everything goes according to plan,” the driver added, considering this another well-done mission. “Isn’t that just like politicians?” Millie said. “When people are dying all around them and losing everything they own, our government has nothing better to do than harass law-abiding citizens.” As the fire truck reached the gate to Portuguese Bend, it was joined by a small convoy of Homeland Security vehicles. Soon the escort had them on the only safe road out from the city. Behind them, yet another Palos Verdes house collapsed into the Pacific. 173

CHAPTER 50

The predators busied themselves feeding on the remnants of some other fish, oblivious to the ocean trespassers rising toward the surface. Grant, Brittany, and Pedro ascended through the layer of cruising sharks they had passed on their way down. Pedro was still lethargic in his motions but had recovered enough to move slowly upward on his own. Suddenly, Brittany’s air was gone. She panicked, pulled off her mouthpiece, and thrashed wildly as salt water filled her lungs, burning. Grant grabbed her, put his face mask directly in front of hers, and stared wide-eyed to remind her of his promise to take care of her, no matter what happened. Although needing the dwindling air supply himself, he removed his mouthpiece and handed it to her. After she’d taken a couple of restorative breaths, he motioned his intention, took the mouthpiece back, and grabbed a lungful of air. She quickly calmed, and they buddy-breathed the rest of the way up. He was gazing steadily into her facemask when, at least for the moment, Brittany was Jennifer. The exchange of oxygen was as though he had breathed life back into the wife he loved with all his heart. Although he knew it was just a moment in time, Grant swore to hold onto the dream as long as he could. They reached the surface. Ernesto Delacruz was thrilled to see that his son was still alive, although spewing water from his lungs. His toothy smile intact, though his usual crusty attitude not entirely itself, Delacruz got all three of them out of the water. As Brittany and Grant climbed aboard ForTuna, they registered that there was some improvement in the weather. “I’ll be damned,” Delacruz smiled as he embraced each diver in turn. “I was afraid I would never see any of my little fishes again. Pedro, my son, I love you.” Pedro coughed up another significant volume of water, but he seemed otherwise OK. The weather had abated; the once-turbulent seas were still rough, but significantly calmer than before. “We found it,” Grant shouted, with the excitement of knowing he had defied logic and nature to set the world back on track, or at least to the extent that he had the power to do it. “Your sonar detection systems led us straight to my Q2.” He held it up like a prize. Delacruz placed his finger in front of his lips to quiet him down. “I could kiss you,” laughed Grant. “Silencio,” Delacruz whispered. “What are you silencio-ing me about, Ernesto? This is something to celebrate.” “Yes, indeed,” said one of three men who emerged from below decks. With weapons pointed at the diving trio, Houdini ripped Wilson’s handheld from his grasp and pocketed it. Although heavily corroded and probably useless, the device posed the one remaining risk to the Company and its influential friends.

175

“Thank you for return of company property, Dr. Wilson,” said Houdini as he lit up another cigar. “You are, how do they say, Employee of Month.” “I’m sorry,” said a dismayed Delacruz to Wilson and Brittany. “I was so busy trying to keep ForTuna steady, that I didn’t see them climbing aboard until it was too late.” “We are good, eh, Doc?” Houdini boasted. “The winds they die down just perfect for us. Not so perfect for you.” “It’s the eye of the hurricane,” Grant replied. “The second half will hit within the hour.” “Too bad none of you will be alive to see it.” Houdini drew a pistol from his belt and executed Delacruz, firing a bullet straight through his heart. “No!” screamed Pedro who ran toward his father in an effort to save him. Houdini fired another round, hitting Pedro in the shoulder. “Stop!” Brittany yelled in horror. Just as father and son’s hands touched, Houdini launched a fatal second shot at Pedro, then quickly turned the gun toward Grant and Wilson lest they interfere. “No think about it,” he warned. His two assassin henchmen manhandled the dead bodies to the rail and dumped them overboard as Brittany’s screaming continued. Grant was, for the first time in many years, immobilized with horror. The military training that had prepared him for death in war seemed now to be utterly incapable of disciplining him for anything like this. “You didn’t have to do that!” Grant seethed. “They didn’t do anything to you!” “They are no significance to me, and I leave no witnesses,” said Houdini. ”Right, boys?” His two henchmen nodded in agreement, lest they be the next victims. “Now is come moment we all waiting for. We play little game of mine.” Houdini pointedly dropped his cigar onto Wilson’s foot, slowly ground it out with his boot, and stared directly into Grant’s eyes, just inches away. Houdini motioned without looking away, and a henchman handed him a .44 magnum revolver. Houdini stepped back, opened the cylinder, dumped out five of its six bullets, closed the cylinder, and twirled it. “This is how we play the game of Monchovian Roulette. My little toy gun has one bullet, and you don’t know where. So, pretty lady, you shoot him. If you no pull the trigger, then he shoot you. Or if you pull the trigger and it no go off, then his turn to shoot you. Either way, we just keep going until one of you shoot the other.” He let this sink in. “Oh, and if you don’t play my little game, then we shoot your kids.” This too was reinforced by a moment of silence. “Would you like to talk with them?” Houdini held up a digiphone. “We found lake hideout. Too bad, but it burn to ground. You kids and old lady go to next place and it fall into ocean. Too, too bad,” he laughed. 176

“Are the kids safe?” Brittany spoke, half-choked. “Tell me they’re OK.” “Safe now,” Houdini chuckled, “but one stupid move by you or idiot doctor and they are dead dead. Ha—two deads.” Houdini flipped open his digiphone, and it autodialed. Brittany reached for it. “Ah, not so fast, first you have to kiss Houdini. With tongue. Ha ha ha!” On the line, Brittany could hear Sam yelling, “Mom? Mom? Mom? Are you there? Where are you? They’re holding us, Mom!” It took only a second for her to comply, though with as brief a kiss as she possibly could. “No, no, no. That isn’t good for Houdini. Tongue!” He stuck out his long, thick tongue. Brittany turned to Grant, who looked away to help her get it over with. Brittany complied, in abhorrence. Houdini grabbed her and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She gagged and pulled away violently. “Ha ha ha! Was it good for you as for me? Oh, I don’t really care, it was good for me. Ha ha ha!” Houdini held the digiphone to her head. “Sam, are you there? Are you OK, Honey?” “Yes, Mom. Hamlie, Millie, and I are OK. But they have guns.” Houdini took the digiphone back. “That’s enough! How about another kiss? Or maybe something more, eh?” Revolted, Brittany jerked her head away. “Houdini feelings hurt,” he mocked. “OK, now we play fun game,” said Houdini with great excitement. “Ladies first. I am a gentleman, right, boys?” “Yes, Mr. Houdini,” they agreed. Houdini handed her the revolver with a single bullet in it. One of his henchmen kept a gun to her head, while the other held Wilson tight. She refused to raise it. Houdini thrust his automatic handgun point blank between her eyes and held up the phone. “Play the game or everyone dies, starting with your kid. Aim at your boyfriend over there, and pull trigger. Only one chance in six he die—this time! Ha ha ha! Shoot now!” She did nothing. “Mr. Doe, get ready to kill boy,” Houdini yelled into the digiphone. “No!” shouted Brittany. “Then do it,” Houdini replied, growing impatient. “I can’t.” ”Enough, shoot boy!” “No wait,” said Grant, “Brittany, you have to do what he says. It’s Sam’s only chance.” Brittany slowly raised the gun toward Grant, taking a long time to prepare. Tears started to well up. “Good girl,” said Houdini, nearly dancing with excitement. Still she hesitated. How could she possibly decide between her son and a man she had fallen in love with?

177

“Go ahead. You’re Sam’s mother and he needs you,” Grant encouraged her. I’ll be OK. I’ve got someone waiting for me there.” Brittany was in tears. “I love you.” It was the first time in years that she had said those words to any man. “I love you too.” “Oh, isn’t that sweet? Two lovebirds,” Houdini chided. “Now, fire the goddamn gun or we kill boy!” Brittany closed her eyes, hoping senselessly that her aim would be off. She squeezed the trigger in slow motion. Click. She breathed a sigh of temporary relief and dropped the revolver to the deck. Houdini whooped in delight, and his cronies cheered. “This is great fun,” Houdini proclaimed. “You one damn lucky doc. Now, your turn, idiot doctor. Shoot lady. At least I guess she is a lady, eh? I should give her what she really needs, but we don’t have much time.” Houdini placed the revolver in Wilson’s hand. “OK, idiot doctor. Chances one in five you kill her, it is more fun. You not do it, then daughter dies.” A bit more loudly, toward the phone: “Right, Mr. Doe?” Houdini listened and then nodded. “He said yes, it would be his pleasure.” Wilson closed his eyes and slowly raised the gun, knowing that he couldn’t do this. No matter the outcome of the game, Houdini would kill all of them, and Grant would soon see Jennifer in the life beyond. He raised the gun ever so slowly. “Wait! You think I’m stupid, idiot doctor. I have eyes. You shoot past ear? Now, aim here! Right between her eyes, or your sweet daughter dead, got it, idiot doctor?” Houdini moved Wilson’s arm so that it would be a fatal shot. But Houdini noticed something. “Oh, she has such beautiful eyes, eh? She so pretty. But you know, orders is orders. Now shoot, idiot doctor!” “Go ahead, Grant,” said Brittany. “Do what he says. We both understand: our kids come first. They have a long life ahead of them.” He took his time to close his eyes, then pulled the trigger very quickly, wanting it all to be over. Click. “Wow! You two lucky idiots,” Houdini exclaimed, as all five people took a breath. “Say, Jinx, let’s bet on the next bullet, eh? I like that: bet on bullet, that rhymes, eh?” “How much?” asked Jinx, the shorter and stockier of the two henchmen, never much for words. He spit, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Oh, their lives are important. We have two important people here. This doc is very smart and very rich. He makes tests for kiddies to take and when they

178

no pass, they go to bad school and not good school. Doesn’t that sound good to you, Jinx? You got kids, eh?” “No kids. I hate kids,” said Jinx. “And this lady, I don’t know much about her, but she is kind of pretty, don’t you think? Her life is worth a lot of money, eh?” “I’ll bet a dollar,” said Jinx. “A dollar that he gets it before her.” “Cheapskate Jinx, don’t you think their lives worth more than one damn dollar?” “OK, two bucks,” said Jinx. “I’ve got five bucks that the broad gets it first,” said the other henchman, a tall lanky sort with balding scalp. His eyes pierced Brittany over. “Who you taking, Mr. Houdini?” “I want the doc to get it first, ‘cause then the lady and I are gonna get married. Where is the captain of the ship who can marry us?” “You killed him,” Jinx laughed. “Oh, too bad, no captain to marry us.” Houdini chuckled. “Then we just skip honeymoon and go to bedroom. Ha ha, that rhymes too. Bets down. Now pretty lady, your turn. Remember, you don’t play, your son is dead, then you.” Houdini forced the gun into her hand. As slowly as possible, she raised the pistol, aiming at Grant. A bead of sweat headed down his brow. Brittany slowly pulled the trigger. Click. “Wow, you are really two lucky idiots. Let’s see, three chambers left and a bullet in one of them. Hmm, one-third chance on next one. See doc, I didn’t go to no damn goody goody college. I go to Monchovia school and finish sixth grade math. Ha ha ha!” Houdini transferred the gun. “Your turn. You don’t want your poor little daughter to die. You no want her coffin next to dead wife instead of you? Be a man, idiot doctor.” One more time, Grant prepared to play the next round of roulette, knowing this killer would not let either of them live—and maybe not even his henchmen. Or the children and Millie. Wilson detected some distant change in the soundscape. He was not sure what it was, but there were only so many possibilities. He had to buy any time he possibly could. “One question.” “Oh, a question,” said Houdini, tilting his head. “What do you think, boys? Do we let idiot doctor ask one question?” The henchmen grudgingly nodded. “OK, idiot doc, go ahead,” Houdini jeered. “One damn question.” “Who gave the order to kill us?” “Good question, idiot doctor. I no say.” “Was it Nelson?” “No, no. It was the Pope.” Houdini roared. His henchmen followed suit. 179

“Go on, now,” said Houdini. “Pull the trigger, idiot doctor. You talk too much and waste Houdini’s time.” Wilson let eye contact with Brittany clear the way and squeezed the trigger. Click. Gasps all around. “Oh gee, señorita, you must be in good with the man upstairs,” said Houdini. “You can thank him real soon. Well, it’s your turn little lady. Now just fifty-fifty. My math so good, ha ha!” Again, she took the gun. Having comprehended the small act of grace that Grant had shown her twice before, she aimed, closed her eyes, and quickly squeezed the trigger. Click. Houdini was not the first to get a word out. “Yeah! I’m gonna win the jackpot,” yelled the henchman who had picked Brittany to die first. “Five from both a youse.” “Oh my god,” said Houdini. “You two idiots got farther than anyone else who ever play my game. Now, I know what you thinking: he took the bullet out. But no, I no do such thing. You are two really lucky idiots. But now, just one chamber left. The lady, she gonna die this time. Go on, idiot doctor. Pull the trigger and blow her brains out. Nice and big, so they go all over the ocean for the fish to eat. They been waiting long enough.” The sound in the distance was now detectable as a helicopter of some kind, able to make it skyward with the clearing weather. Houdini looked upward. “Ah, it is the big big boss, Doc Nelson. Right on time to see you both die. Now go on, idiot doctor, blow her brains out. One hundred percent chance on this one, eh?” Wilson pointed the gun to the deck. He was still going to play the only card left in his hand. “Then, let’s wait for the big big boss to enjoy the completion of your great plan, as he sees me kill her and you kill me.” Houdini frowned and formed a pout with his lips. “I don’t think so, idiot doctor. I think you sneaky man.” Grant let a few more seconds pass. Then he took the longest inhale and exhale he’d ever taken in his life. He gazed into Brittany’s eyes. She closed her eyes, and her lips whispered a wordless prayer. “Hurry up. No time for praying! I hate praying,” Houdini growled. She finished and opened her eyes to look at Grant with more compassion and love than she had ever shown anyone. “I’m ready.” Grant steadied the gun. Then, making a big theatrical gesture out of it, he began a slow squeeze of the trigger. With a flick, he fired one shot to the left, directly at the head of the henchman who had been keeping a gun trained on Brittany all this time. Without waiting even a fraction of a second to see the result, Grant wrenched free of the man behind him. He dove toward Houdini, who got off a trigger squeeze, just before Grant knocked the wind out of him.

180

Grant was oblivious to where Houdini’s bullet might have gone, other than that it missed him. Knowing Houdini wouldn’t miss a second time, he ran straight toward the killer, again with thoughts of revenge. A heaving explosion blew apart ForTuna’s bow, knocking everyone to the deck. As Grant wrestled to slam Houdini’s gun hand against the railing, he glanced up. A second missile exploded just off the beam of the yacht, lifting an avalanche of water that drenched everyone as they scrambled around the deck. Brittany, meanwhile, had lunged at the surviving henchman and gotten him off his feet. The rotors of the chopper raised a wall of wind and water. Grant saw a narrow chance for escape and cleared his mind for action. He rammed Houdini where it mattered most, ripped open the pocket where he’d seen him stow the handheld Q2, and lunged with all the power remaining in his thighs. In one motion, he caught Brittany and, in a makeshift embrace, took her with him overboard. As chunks of ForTuna fell from the sky, the two swimmers filled their lungs with air and dove. On board, doubled up in excruciation, Houdini got his hands on his weapon and let loose a spray of bullets toward where the swimmers had disappeared, to finish the job he’d been paid to do. Switching his attention skyward, Houdini fired at the helicopter that had spoiled all the fun and cost him glory and bounty. Grant and Brittany bobbed up just long enough to refill their lungs, lest Houdini redirect his attention to them. The copter fired a third missile, boring deeply into the stern of the yacht. The vessel erupted into flames rising nearly as high as the aircraft. The one living henchman jumped over the railing, practically landing atop the shark bait of his buddy Jinx. The blood quickly attracted the man-eaters. Houdini emptied his machine gun into the fuselage of the copter, ripping away a section of the tail. Its smaller rotor damaged, the craft began wobbling in the sky. As ForTuna quickly took on water, the occupants of the chopper fought with the controls and changed weapons. A bright laser beam wavered and then locked onto Houdini’s chest. A shot smashed into him for a certain deathblow. Grant and Brittany came up for air again. They were now astern of the yacht, and able to just see beyond the flaming fuel that engulfed it. The forgotten speedboat. Valuable seconds passed as he and Brittany labored to untether the rope that would otherwise soon consign the smaller boat to its own watery grave. After the longest minute of their lives, the duo got it free and cast it off, just as ForTuna slid, with a cacophony of deathly noises, into the depths. After another two minutes or so of keeping their heads hidden in the shadow of the hull, they made their way around to the stern ladder and emerged from the water, cautiously climbing aboard the speedboat. ForTuna’s debris littered the surface, above which hung dark smoke. The copter burst through the hazy air, approaching fast. As Brittany prepared to dive for cover, Grant saw what looked like friendly waving from the pilot and passenger. “My God! Gologon?”

181

Grant recognized the Solacopter. Evelyn, the passenger—who had evidently become a fairly good markswoman under Jonathan’s tutelage—blew them a kiss. The pair stood in the speedboat, waving their hands furiously, thrilled to see that Gologon had come through. Off toward starboard the ocean was churning. They realized that a squall was starting to blow again. The eye of the hurricane had nearly passed, and the second part of the storm was about to hit. Gologon came low enough to let the two below see a huge grin, and then piloted the quavering Solacopter off toward what Wilson presumed was the direction to follow toward shore. Grant dug into the pocket of his wetsuit. The corroded computer device was still there, having survived another swim in the ocean, even though a briefer one this time. Wilson saw a deep gouge in the device—apparently the result of a bullet during the melee. If the Q2 wasn’t useless before, it most certainly was now. Remnants of ForTuna still burned in the water. Gathering their wits about them, Brittany and Grant prepared to head back to shore aboard the speedboat. They cruised the waters for any sign of life from Delacruz or his son Pedro, seeing nothing except a few dolphins. With the wind growing, they headed back to shore, pressed by the need to return before the tempest struck a second time. Wilson looked at an onboard clock. It was 3:00 p.m.

182

CHAPTER 51

Rains and growing winds greeted Brittany and Grant as they arrived back at the harbor. Visibility was quickly dropping, but they made out Gologon and Evelyn waiting for them. The Solacopter rested on a concrete foundation where a storage building had stood just a few hours ago. They moored the speedboat in the harbor, which had been completely abandoned. The two walked toward them. As always, Evelyn was chewing a large wad of gum. “God, it’s good to see you,” said Grant. “What can I possibly say, except thank you for saving our lives?” “You could perhaps promise peace on earth, but your thanks will be adequate for now.” Gologon looked them up and down. “You both look like hell.” “You took a big risk. Why?” Gologon pointed at Brittany. “This young lady was the only person who stuck with me when I needed help at that conference.” He held up an e-reader. “There was a second reason. Another suicide attempt. Fortunately, this young lady wasn’t very skilled at slashing her wrists. Her parents were both Harvard grads, and she couldn’t handle the pressure of getting transferred to a Habid school. I think she went to Hamlie’s school. Do you know her?” Grant recognized the young girl right away. “Yes, that’s Natalie. She’s one of Hamlie’s best friends.” “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Gologon, changing the subject. Grant fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the corroded device with the deep gouge across it. Gologon examined it closely, rolling it over and over again in his hand. “Well, I see no chance that you’ll retrieve any data out of this piece of crap.” “I have to try,” Grant insisted. “Do you have enough power left to fly us over to Jennifer’s lab at UCLA? I’ve still got a key. Her lab was as good as they come.” Gologon went over to the Solacopter and checked an instrument inside. “I think we can make it, but we need to get going before this trailing storm gets worse and kills all the sunlight entirely. But give me a moment.” He returned to inspect the tail rotor and fingered a small bullet hole that had caused the wobbling vibration. He turned to Evelyn. “If you don’t mind.” Evelyn seemed to know, took one last chew of her gum, pulled it out of her mouth, and plopped it into his hand. He promptly plugged it into the hole. “We’re on our way,” Gologon announced, as they all climbed into the copter. “Pray for sun.”

183

CHAPTER 52

Moments after the storm resumed, they landed atop the UCLA Ronald Reagan Medical Center heliport. Grant was first out the door of the Solacopter and running to the elevator. The others scrambled to catch up. On the way down to the Jennifer Wilson Human Performance Laboratory, Grant said a silent but earnest prayer that the Q2 might somehow reveal the only surviving copy of Plato’s List. Once in the lab and able to study the device under strong light and magnification, he saw that the connector for data retrieval was so hopelessly corroded that no normal cable or connector would even fit. “Have to take it apart,” he said, grabbing a set of jeweler’s screwdrivers and sterile latex gloves. Like a surgeon, he meticulously dissected the Q2. He found each layer and section more heavily discolored than the previous one. Soon thirty pieces of the Q2’s insides were laid out on a sanitized sheet of foam core. Grant cautiously removed the last two components enclosing the drive; they had been designed to protect it more from shock and dust than from water and microscopic foragers. “We’ll see just how indestructible this thing is.” He gently probed and saw that there was only a small amount of oxidation on the outside of the drive itself. But it was impossible to tell from mere physical inspection whether or not the drive might still hold any data or reveal any secrets. He heated up a microlaser rod. “What do you think?” Brittany asked, leaning lightly on his shoulder to get a look. “Still can’t tell, but this area of corrosion over here doesn’t look good. It’s where I have to make the first connection.” He carefully scrapped away the sticky rust in order to access a nearly invisible silver plate, observable only under a magnifying lens. The other connection might be easier, he thought, although it too had a fair amount of reddish growth on it. Grant began fusing a thin wire to the first plate, which in turn was connected to a thicker wire and then a large computer tablet. Fusing the connection was no small task, but necessary to keep the wires attached. His hands began to shake, so he stopped and took a deep breath. A small slip now and the heat from the microlaser would destroy the completely exposed Q2 drive. He started again. His first two tries failed, neither connection holding. Perspiration fell from his forehead. “Third time’s the charm,” Gologon offered. But as Grant tried again, he failed once more. Suddenly an emergency exit door at the far end of the lab blew open. The hurricane was back, and the building seemed to sway in the wind, creaking and moaning everywhere. Brittany ran down and pushed the door closed. “Time’s running out,” said Gologon, stating the obvious. “The winds will be even stronger when the strength of Colby’s tail hits us.” “Thanks for the weather report, Professor,” Grant muttered. 185

“You’re welcome. Anytime,” smiled Gologon. “Did you know that my undergraduate work was in meteorology?” “No,” Wilson replied, not taking his eyes off the device, “but knowing that bit of information just brightens my whole day.” “Ah-ah-ah,” warned Gologon. “Don’t forget that I was kind enough to give you a D in your structural equation modeling class when you didn’t know a damn thing.” “I’m eternally in your debt, Jonathan.” He tried again to fuse together the pieces—and this time it worked. “OK, baby; one more to go.” Bam! A heavy tree branch crashed through a skylight, sending glass showering over the pristine laboratory, almost as far as their workspace. While others were distracted, Grant continued. Meanwhile Gologon calmly took a seat in a chair nearby. “I was getting a bit tired from watching you work so hard,” quipped Gologon, as though nothing had happened. “Got it,” Wilson sighed, as the wire graft worked. “Now, we’ll see if there’s anything inside.” He powered up the computer tablet and connected the other end of the cable to it. As the system started, screen after screen repeated the same message. NO DATA “Try swearing at it,” said Gologon, “that usually works for me.” Wilson attempted a few other keystrokes, hoping to bypass the basic operating system. NO DATA He dropped his head for a moment. “Not looking good.” “May I try something?” Brittany asked. Grant stepped aside. “Be my guest.” She did some typing and then looked over to Grant. “If only Grone could see me now.” She broke through to a clean and functioning partition of the Q2 drive. They were in. “How’d you do that?” Grant asked, astonished. “I’m a woman.” She smiled at Evelyn. “That I noticed,” added Gologon, a bit of lechery in his voice. After searching and scrolling through several more screens, Wilson sat bolt upright. The other three looked at him with their breath held. PLATO’S LIST “We got it.” Grant scrolled down. “My God, look at all the names,” said Gologon. “And many of them sooo familiar.” 186

“The president, vice president…senators, congressional reps . . .” Grant rattled off, “and a group of corporate CEOs who were always pushing a national agenda of having our kids surpass every other country in the world.” He scrolled down further. “Look at this. The children of Natan Chen, Cecilia Garcia, and even Wilma Huntington…. An ALS all-star team. I can’t believe it.” “Your colleagues never dropped any hints about this, eh?” asked Gologon. “No. It’s clear they thought that the fewer people who knew exceptions were being made, the better for Abram and the Company. Before this last test, Hamlie always scored high enough so that there was no reason to bring me into it. When she didn’t pass, Abram suggested that I apply for an exception. I didn’t bite and he didn’t push, so I wasn’t really suspicious. Then I remembered the list that I had seen on ForTuna when Hamlie and I were fishing. It all came together. If I agreed to Hamlie being an exception, Abram would have something on me. I’m sure that’s what he hoped I would do. That’s how they controlled Jason and pulled in political favors whenever ALS needed them.” “Your friend is now number two at ALS,” said Gologon. “He’s taken your place.” Wilson shook his head in disillusionment. “Why did you say no to Abram?” Brittany asked. “Everyone else caved in.” “I think Hamlie brought me back to what I’d always tried to teach her about doing the right thing when it was the hard thing to do. Turned out that she was the honest one when I wavered.” The storm stole their attention. Debris pelted the building, occasionally breaking more windows. Then everyone heard a door open—and the overhead lights went out. With computer screens casting the only illumination, Brittany caught sight of a figure in the dim entryway. “Who are you? What do you want?” The person, limping badly, pitched forward, identity still hidden by the low light. “They’re on their way here,” said a male voice. Grant recognized it. “Jason?” Zirkoff stumbled toward the group. “Oh my god, Jason, what happened to you?” Grant shouted as he rushed to him. His old friend was beaten up and bloodied. His fine business suit, or what was left of it, was in tatters. “Jason, sit down. What the hell happened?” Grant asked as he got him into a chair. “Who did this to you? Why?” Zirkoff was having difficulty holding his torso upright. He was out of breath. “Abram’s ‘insurance,’ you know. ‘John Doe.’” Grant remembered hearing the name back on ForTuna, when Houdini was threatening the kids on his phone. “I failed in my mission to find you, Grant—” 187

“Your mission? What mission? Mission for who?” “—my mission to find you by a 3:00 p.m. deadline, today. When the president turned Homeland Security against ALS, Abram wanted to make sure I wouldn’t spill my guts,” said Jason. “So he sent John Doe after me. The old fart should have known better than to mess with a zoomie. Mr. Doe won’t be bothering anyone else.” “You killed him?” asked Gologon. “Jesus, you look half-dead yourself.” “That Air Force karate training finally paid off. I broke his goddamn neck.” “What about Millie and the kids?” Brittany interjected, her voice trembling. “Are they OK?” “Yes, they’re fine,” said Jason, “but I’m not sure where they’ve taken them. They were at a hideout in Portuguese Bend. I got there just as they were being taken into protective custody. I pulled in front of their fire truck to cut them off, but they rammed me and disabled my car. That John Doe guy got out and came after me. While I was taking care of him, the truck with Millie and the kids sped off. I walked a long ways before hitching a ride here.” “I’m sorry, Jason, that you got so messed up in all of this,” Grant said. “Why should you be sorry? You didn’t do anything, except to hire me. And treat me better than I really deserved.” He shivered, whether from cold air blasting through the lab or otherwise. “I came to warn you, Grant,” he continued. “Run, all of you. Go as far and as fast as you can. Abram will stop at nothing to make sure that his secret doesn’t get out. He’ll keep after me too. I wanted to make sure you got this, before it was too late.” He found and handed Grant the photograph of the “I love Jen and Hamlie” valentine drawn in the sands of Pismo Beach. “That was in Jennifer’s car,” Grant uttered. “She always kept it there, on her dashboard.” Then he realized what this meant. “You were there, that night?” “Yes.” Silence. “Why?” Questions exploded in Grant’s head. “I was following Jennifer. Abram asked me to. He found out that she had discovered the List. He wanted me to—” Zirkoff stopped, unable to say more. Anger came into Grant’s voice, and his jaw tightened. “Wanted you to what?” Zirkoff said nothing, his eyes now averted. “Wanted you to what?” Grant shouted, grabbing Zirkoff by the lapels and shaking him. “Abram wanted me to make sure that Jennifer didn’t tell anyone about the List,” he practically whispered. “He wanted her to have an accident.” “You killed Jennifer? You killed my wife?!” “No, no! I didn’t! I followed her, Grant. I swear, that’s all I did. I could never do what Abram wanted me to do.” 188

Zirkoff closed his eyes. Half to himself and half out loud, he relived the night on the winding road. “I was in my car, following Jennifer. Her driving seemed a little erratic; I probably was distracting her. She motioned for me to pass. But then she entered a tight turn. Next thing I saw was a fuel tanker truck approaching, blinding her and me. I slammed on my brakes to fall back. But Jennifer swerved, and a split second later she collided with the tanker in a ball of fire.” “My god, I can’t believe what you’re telling me,” said Grant. “I skidded to a stop and ran to the inferno, but it was too late to do anything. I watched helplessly. When I looked up, there were scraps of paper and light debris, floating down on the hot waves of air. I picked up two of them: a slip on which was written “List” along with some scrawlings, and the Valentine. I put the photo in my pocket, got into my car, and left.” “That’s why you took her death almost as badly as I did,” Grant realized. “I stopped my car before Jennifer reached that sharp turn. You have to believe me,” he pleaded. Grant only glared. “I swear to you, that’s the truth,” Zirkoff continued. “Maybe it was my fault. I mean, if I hadn’t been following her, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Zirkoff collapsed into sobs. “I should kill you,” said Grant in a rage, knowing that nothing he did would bring Jennifer back. “I know you’re angry. But please believe me, Grant—and please realize that all of you are in grave danger. Abram has to take care of all of us. You have to get out, now.” There was a crash outside as if someone had knocked over a trashcan. It might have been just something in the wind, but to everyone it seemed more likely that Zirkoff was right, and death approached. Grant rushed over to the tablet and typed furiously. There was more noise outside, but they still couldn’t tell if it was the bad weather or an unwelcome visitor. “What are you doing, Grant?” Zirkoff cried out. “They’re coming! That’s probably them now. We all have to get out!” “We have the List, Jason,” Grant quietly proclaimed. “Impossible. We destroyed every copy, every totamail—anything having anything to do with it.” “Except one,” said Brittany, pointing to the cadaver of the handheld. Grant went on typing, undistracted. “You found it? You recovered your Q2 from the bottom of the ocean?” asked a stunned Zirkoff. “Incredible!” With a flourish appropriate to the most important message of his life, Grant pressed a key and sent it off. “Jason, I just shared Plato’s List with the rest of the world. Associated Press, CNN, the New York Times, and more than a thousand bloggers, twitterers, and other writers.” Grant pointed to a computer fire trail that mapped all of the news sources and the message’s instant distribution around the globe. 189

“My God, I can’t believe you found it,” said Zirkoff. “Of course, Abram will deny everything.” “He can’t fix the thousands of students attending the wrong schools. And you’ll verify that it’s authentic, right Jason?” asked Grant. “I can trust you, yes?” “Yes. Yes, I will.” Grant continued typing. “And I’m also sending the news agencies a recent dataset that was on my Q2,” said Grant, “with real scores. It can be used to confirm the exceptions that were made.” With another flourish, he sent the dataset on its way. They were distracted by footsteps beyond the entryway. Was it Homeland Security? The hit men hired by Abram to kill Wilson and anyone around him? It sounded like just one person, but whoever it was seemed to be walking faster and faster. Could it be that Abram had finally come to do his own dirty work? The footsteps stopped. Standing silently in the doorway was someone shrouded in a black scarf, large dark hat, and long black topcoat; an assassin no doubt. In a flash, Grant recalled the mysterious man who Hamlie had seen at their house. And another time, someone who watched him from a distance as he visited Brittany late on a stormy night. The intruder raised a handgun and pointed it directly at Grant. At the instant the figure in black fired, Grant instinctually lunged for cover. Everyone’s eyes, fixed on him, saw a great splash of blood, droplets spraying in a fan over Grant and anything near him. His body fell clumsily and noisily out of sight behind a lab counter. For Brittany, it was a fatal end to having found the one man whom she could love and trust in her life. For Jonathan Gologon, it was the loss of his best student, the man who had just become a colleague again, the prodigal son. Hamlie would lose her second parent in less than a year, the father she now knew she loved and needed during the most difficult time in her life. For Jason Zirkoff…it was redemption. He had taken the bullet meant for his best friend. In an instant and perhaps without any thought, Jason had stepped into the path of the assassin’s bullet. Now he lay moaning, settling from his side to lie on his back. The executioner, momentarily disbelieving what had gone wrong, raised the weapon again. But Evelyn had already pounced, and in an instant knocked him to the ground. The bullet shattered a plate glass window. “I hate you!” The shooter’s hat and scarf fell away. The assassin was not a man but a woman. “I hate you!” she screamed at Grant. “Your tests hurt my Wendy! You killed my David! I hate you, I hate you!” Brittany, Evelyn, and Gologon subdued Jia Tong and got the gun away from her. With the topcoat in disarray from the struggle, they could see she was wearing a dress stained black with old, dried blood, from her husband, David. 190

Jia sobbed, in grief as much as anything else. She finally calmed down, and the others released their hold on her. They got her up on her feet—and Jia charged at Grant, who was kneeling over Jason. She pounded on his back and shoulders with her fists. Her blows induced more emotional than physical pain, a punishment that Grant allowed himself to accept. “Murderer, murderer!” Jia sobbed. “You kill children and parents with your tests! I hate you! I hate you!” Brittany and Gologon moved to pull her away, but Grant shook his head. He knelt there until Jia collapsed in exhaustion, next to Zirkoff. From her pocket, Jia removed the ALS letter that David had clung to in death. It was the letter informing them that Wendy had not passed her Venus test. Grant accepted it from her trembling hands and hugged her, wanting to be forgiven himself. Nearly half of the letter was soaked in her husband’s dried blood. Grant was doing all he could to stop the profuse bleeding from Jason’s chest. He was near death. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gasping for air. “Guess I won’t make it to New Mexico to take those pictures. Can you forgive me?” “Yes,” said Grant. “Tell me one thing. Plato’s List. Why did they call it that?” Jason took a long time to get the syllables out. “Philosopher kings.” The final piece came together for Grant. “Abram saw himself as one of them,” said Grant quietly, “so he named the list after Plato, who created an elite school to teach the rulers of nations. Just like the Akeve schools. “I don’t think this was what Plato had in mind,” he added. Grant moved closer to Jason. “When you see Jen, tell her that I still love her. I’ll always love her.” Grant dropped the ALS letter that Jia handed him a moment ago. Zirkoff’s blood quickly soaked the remaining half of it. “She’s with you now,” Jason said, and he gazed at Brittany as he passed from this earth and into the next world. The wind and rain soon stopped. The late afternoon sun shone brightly for the first time since the hurricane hit. The sharp rays pierced through the clouds as if to announce a new day—a new beginning.

191

CHAPTER 53

The sun was rising over the seventeen spires of the Air Force Academy Chapel. On this solemn morning, trees stood nearly naked after Hurricane Colby, reaching as far inland as Kansas, had stripped them of their leaves. The Colorado landscape was a tan chaparral with a few evergreen bushes scattered about, punctuating the freshness of a new day. A child cried in the background. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said a minister dressed in black. Grant wasn’t dreaming about Jennifer’s funeral—or his. Today it wasn’t a dream at all. He was standing with the friends and relatives who had come to mourn the death of Jason Zirkoff. Standing outside in a long row at the Academy cemetery were Grant, Hamlie, Brittany, Sam, and Gologon. The minister continued, reading Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Grant and Hamlie stood on one side of the coffin while the Zirkoff family stood on the other side. All were dressed in black. Zirkoff’s widow held in her arms an infant, their youngest child. The baby was crying loudly. Grant shuddered as he remembered hearing the same sound in his recurring nightmares. “I’m sorry you lost your friend, Dad,” whispered Hamlie, who now realized that her father wasn’t quite the pain that she thought he was. It would be OK to call him Dad from now on. An honor guard of Air Force men and women fired a traditional rifle salute—the sharp sound, Grant grasped, that he had also heard in his nightmares. Next to the casket were photographs of Zirkoff with friends and relatives, including the Academy graduation photo of Grant and him dressed in their parade blues, the same picture Grant had displayed in his office. Two buglers played taps in delayed unison and perfect harmony. A thunderous roar from the sky signaled the arrival of a fallen-pilot formation of Air Force F-35s. Grant looked up as one of the young pilots peeled off to the south, symbolizing the loss of a fallen cadet and officer. As the service ended, Grant paid the Zirkoff family his respects, sharing his condolences with each. It seemed like only yesterday that he and Jason were two young cadets with the world at their feet. Stepping back, Grant gazed into Brittany’s eyes. She looked different today, he thought, not as much like Jennifer. Instead, her own beauty, spirit, and soul were shining. Brittany softly kissed him on the cheek. He felt his love for her growing deeper in this sad moment. It had been several days since the news broke across the country about Plato’s List. Grant’s totamail message did in fact spread like wildfire. The true dataset he also sent confirmed the intentional distortion of a low misclassification rate, and further investigations showed that the Venus tests were indeed vulnerable to electronic

193

cheating. For at least two days, across the country, Vidvision seemed to cover no other news except this latest corporate scandal. The U.S. Attorney General’s office ordered Nelson Abram arrested, charged with murder and making false statements to federal officials, among a long slate of other crimes. Millie got a new home in Lake Castaic, courtesy of the federal government—which gave her great pleasure. She had recently left on her roundthe-world cruise, courtesy of Wilson. The parents identified on Plato’s List read like a Who’s Who of wellconnected rich CEOs, including a fair number of congressional representatives and senators, plus the president and vice president. More than twenty senior executive officers from some of America’s wealthiest corporations had children or grandchildren on the List. Each was noted as an “exception.” Several CEOs had been perceived as major proponents of greater accountability for U.S. students and schools. Two were former members of the President’s Summit that had written the report “A Nation of Failure.” Amid the scandal, President Connelly and Vice President Mathews were resoundingly defeated by Senator Gotia and running mate Kahuma. There was insufficient evidence to connect the president or vice president to definitive culpability in the ALS mess, but their political careers were finished. A few months after the election, the U.S. Congress voted to change the legislation that had led to the first national tests. States regained the right to create their own education standards—and decide if they would even have a state assessment. The new legislation awaited President Gotia’s signature, which she fully endorsed, realizing that Americans no longer considered competing with South Korea, Japan, and Finland in terms of student test scores worth the tremendous consequences forced upon students and parents. The education testing evangelists, who for so long had extolled high standards and high-stakes national tests, were momentarily quiet, having proven themselves less-than-perfect role models for setting America’s education agenda. After a few years, a new senior corporate leader would undoubtedly take up the educational reform torch; the nation that put the first human on the moon must also be the nation with the smartest students. Corporate house cleaning at ALS quickly removed every executive and board member, actions reminiscent of other scandals earlier in the twenty-first century. Natan Chen and Cecilia Garcia were among the first casualties, indicted for falsifying a broad range of ALS data and documents. Practically no state or other organization would now do business with ALS, even after the Company changed its name to the Executive Accountability Consortium (EAC), expanding into personnel assessment and even some headhunting operations. More than three thousand employees lost their jobs in the first round of cost cutting, most of them honest, hard-working men and women. After filing for bankruptcy and hanging on for nearly eighteen months, EAC finally shut its doors on what had been by far the largest test development company in the world. Office space in the erstwhile corporate headquarters was grabbed up at fire-sale rents; 194

Abram’s expansive presidential suite was converted into a group of cubicles leased by a nonprofit children’s foster care organization. The Getty and Norton Simon Museums purchased the body of artworks once in ALS possession, making a number of Picassos and Pollocks accessible to the public for the first time. Almost all of the remaining employees joined the rolls of the U.S. unemployed. For his part, Abram was found guilty of contracting for the attempted murder of Grant Wilson and Jason Zirkoff, and responsible for the death of two people: Ernesto Delacruz, a father whose simple goal in life was a comfortable retirement, and his young son, Pedro, who had hoped to expand his father’s business into a small fleet of fishing vessels. A jury recommended sending Abram to prison for twenty years, but the judge reduced the sentence to ten, believing the sentence was too harsh. Rumors quickly spread that Abram had influence even in the judicial system. Houdini’s body was never recovered, most likely devoured by sea creatures of one sort or another. A reporter discovered that Houdini’s real name was Howard Sardini, but there was little else known about him. No one seemed interested in finding out. Ten months after news broke about Plato’s List, Brittany Smith married Grant Wilson, on a high bluff in Big Sur on the California coast. She enrolled at Pasadena City College and graduated just before giving birth to a baby girl. The parents named her Jennifer. Grant accepted a faculty position at the University of Southern California’s Rossier School of Education, teaching the subject he knew best: assessment and its effects on students and teaching. With the quick disbanding of the Habid and Akeve dual-track school systems, Hamlie Wilson and Sam Smith went on to attend their local public high schools. With a more stable family background and some counseling, Hamlie outgrew her depression and preoccupation with dying. Her exceptional swimming skills earned her a fouryear scholarship to UCLA, where she roomed with her still-best friend, Natalie. Hamlie loved playing with her baby sister on the weekends when she was home; she hoped someday to have her own children. She met her birth parents, who had divorced years ago, and reconciled the fact that neither of them had been ready to have children when Hamlie was born. Adoption probably was in everyone’s best interest, although she still coped with occasional feelings of abandonment. Sam Smith attended Marquette University in Milwaukee. He largely overcame and outgrew his ADD and wanted to become a high school science teacher or school counselor, helping other kids learn and succeed. With the dissolution of the Akeve and Habid school systems, student ability grouping of any type quickly fell out of fashion. Most school systems returned to mixed-ability classes, with stronger students in many cases helping less-able students and becoming better learners themselves. Only one or two news magazines kept an interest in ranking schools and students. Kids were just pretty much left to be kids, teachers were left to teach what they knew and how best to teach it. There was a lot less stress on everyone, including 195

parents. Despite what some critics said was impossible, U.S. student achievement remained high on international tests, nearly always placing in the top five in the past few years. No one seemed to be paying much attention anymore, although there was occasional grumbling about the United States no longer being number one in the world. Several years after the ALS crisis, a few countries saw the vacuum in competitive international rankings as an opportunity to improve their international status and economic well-being. The remote and tiny nation of Quiton, for example, set a goal to become number one in the world in science and mathematics within five years, using a strategy based on the findings and recommendations of the Quiton National Education Committee. Quiton had never been first in the world in anything. Indeed, it lagged behind nearly every other nation in human and economic development. To reach their lofty national education ambitions, the president of the nation welcomed and embraced a new immigrant to his country, who proposed that Quiton adopt an innovative educational program, based on the highest technology and most automated learning systems, called TechSuccess. In the preceding few years, the new immigrant had written several books on technology and educational reform, founded on the learning philosophies of Horace Mann, Benjamin Bloom, Alfred Binet, and Maria Montessori. Today in Quiton’s capitol city of Dela, the sun was hidden by clouds, as usual in one of the wettest cities in the world. High in a medical examination office of a modern Dela skyscraper, a very pregnant twenty-seven-year-old woman with long, jet-black hair was having her advanced pregnancy screening test. The test, the most sophisticated of its kind, had become popular throughout Quiton. The large testing equipment nearly consumed the patient during the medical analysis, monitoring virtually every possible human function. Having completed the exam, the expectant mother was impatiently awaiting the results, knitting a yellow blanket for her soon-to-be-born baby. The doctor walked in and explained to her that he was sorry, but he had some bad news to report. The mother listened intently for what must have been at least five minutes. Her face became ashen, as though she had just been told that her baby would not live very long after its birth. The doctor was still talking when without warning, the mother suddenly screamed out. “No! My child will not grow up to be a criminal!” With that, the expectant mother bolted toward an open window and jumped to her death fifteen stories below. The doctor raced out the door and down the elevator to see if there was even the slimmest chance that his patient survived the fall. A crowd quickly gathered on the pavement, looked at the motionless body, and shook their heads. The examining doctor arrived from the medical building, checked the woman’s vital signs, and carefully covered the body with his own white overcoat. The doctor was in total shock and distress, overwrought with pain and suffering, as though he had just lost someone from his own family. Never had

196

anyone reacted to one of his examinations with a suicidal act. The blood from the woman stained what would have been her baby’s first blanket. In the crowd that gathered around the hapless body, two businessmen dressed in fine suits gazed up at the building. The taller man, about fifty-five years old and blessed with distinguished-looking gray hair and a narrow mustache, immediately recognized the location and the office, not long ago having sold the clinic the diagnostic testing system used today on the pregnant woman. “What a shame,” he said, with a British accent, to his friend, a tattooed and light-skinned individual with stooped shoulders and longish gray-blond hair. “Perhaps our new program is a bit too much for some of the psychologically unfit locals to handle.” The colleague shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He had recently lost his voice from a bout with throat cancer, a result of his longtime smoking habit. A considerable amount of medical marijuana helped to ease his discomfort. “Pity that the woman did what she did,” continued the tall man. “But perhaps it means there will eventually be one less prisoner to feed from birth through death, and thus one more contribution to helping create a better human race.” The long-haired colleague nodded. “We owe a small debt of gratitude to Grant Wilson,” added the tall man, “although admittedly it was our own efforts and my money that improved his early criminal identification system.” The two quickened their pace so that they would be on time for a meeting at the Quiton Ministry of Education. Today the taller one would sign a lucrative contract to develop the new national Quiton Educational Assessment System, QEAS. A very smart society, thought Nelson Abram to himself, would come from the perfect test. Abram had become quite the authority on education while writing in prison. Then came the good fortune of being released early because of a legal technicality during his trial. He had even managed to keep most of a $100 million severance package awarded just before his firm had declared bankruptcy. Thus blessed, he was able to pursue and finish development of the CRIME system, which now promised a payout to him of at least several billion euros. Walking with a limp from some old injuries, and using a new alias, Howard Sardini quickly followed the distinguished elder gentleman off to their meeting. It started to rain.

197