What do you do when a teenage movie star makes it seem as if you've kidnapped him? After working two summers at his father's health club as a towel boy, Peter Fisk saved enough money to visit California. He literally runs into Lance Hardwood in his...
It's an 8-hour drive from Amargosa to the entrance to Yosemite. You can tell you're getting close when mountains begin to enclose the road on both sides. It's another 45 minutes from the time you enter the National Park's boundaries to Yosemite Lodge where we were staying. They'd been booked, but once again, upon dropping Mom's name, availability was no longer an issue. They offered someone a luxury cabin, and we'd ended up with their suite of rooms. Why didn't we take the cabin? Pure laziness. At the Lodge, we had the Mountain Room Restaurant. At the cabin, we'd need to forage, fish or fend for ourselves.
After a great steak dinner, we walked around and gazed at a night sky full of more stars than I'd ever seen in my life. I mentioned it to Scarlet. She admitted that this was her first trip to Yosemite, and that the reason behind the 'more stars' wasn't that there were more stars – just that out here, away from all the artificial light that cities generate, we simply can see more of what's been there all along.
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Lance asked me if Yosemite beat the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building in grandeur, and I had to confess that despite living in Manhattan my whole life, I'd never been to either one. He scoffed, but it turned out he'd never been to the Hollywood Sign, or Griffith Park, or even the San Diego Shakespeare Festival. By the time we'd walked back to the Lodge, it was already 8:30 p.m. Earlier, Derek had propositioned a tourist from Italy, and bid us 'Buona Sera' as he took the stairs to Vito's room. Lance grabbed a few brochures and went back to the suite.
Scarlet pulled me aside into the lounge, and we sat close to a group of friends who were sharing stories of their day's adventures.
"I'm going to guess," she said quietly, "that you boys finally got something out of your systems last night. I see by your blushing that I guess correctly. Nothing to be ashamed about, darlin'. It's all a part of livin', after all. Now – did you tell Lance you liked him? "
I'd nodded.
"Are you a couple, or a thruple?" she asked. She'd folded her arms and given me a look.
My silence had apparently given her an answer. "Lance is a nice boy; my emphasis, if you missed it, is on boy. You're alike in many ways – for one, you both know diddly about relationships and putting someone else's wants before your own. Yes, I know – the incredible kiss. I'm pleased your first kiss was wonderful. And the second, you've told me, was better. It's all new."
I'd been about to say something when she placed her hand softly but firmly against my lips. "Don't interrupt a lady when she's talking. Derek is a little older, and he's seen some life. He's still in love with this Stoneridge boy, even you can see that. He's getting physical comfort from both of you. As a couple, you and Lance need to set boundaries. If you're a thruple, then you all need to make your expectations of each other very clear, or else you'll all end up hurt and broken."
With that, she stood up in one fluid motion, and blew me a kiss. "You go call your folks – you haven't since before Vegas, I think, so your momma's got to be worried. I'm going to go talk to that nice older gentleman over there in the corner. See you in the morning."
Having been lovingly dismissed, I found James in the parking lot and sat inside. "James, would you..."
"Contacting your father now..."
"Wait, I wanted..."
"His is the more urgent call. Patching you through."
"Petey, have you heard from your mother?" My father's British accent wavered with uncharacteristic concern. "This is important."
"No, Dad, not for at least two days. Is everything..."
"I need you to write something down. Do you have a pen and paper?"
"I have my cell."
"No! Pen and paper only."
"In the glove compartment, Peter," directed James.
"Why can't James..."
"He is unable to store this information. If your mother calls, give her the message, immediately. Then eat the paper. The message is 19 73 22 CV YF 8A Aristotle's Alfa Romeo Trinidad."
"What? What the hell is going on?"
"Do as I say. Repeat the message and my instructions, please." I did as he asked. "I love you, son."
And the call was over.
"Is there anything I can do for you tonight, Peter?"
"You can tell me what the hell my Dad was talking about!" I'd rarely ever heard my father worried or upset. He was a typical Brit – unflappable. Stiff upper lip and all that.
"When?"
"Just now – when we called him."
"Are you feeling all right, Peter? We haven't called your father in days."
Something wasn't right. I then remembered the other reason I'd come to James. "Access all information about anyone named Luke Stoneridge."
I waited far longer than I'd ever waited for his answer. What I got was, 'There is information, but it's classified. I do not know the sources, and what info I could obtain, the files were encrypted, and corrupted with viruses beyond my capability to render harmless."
"James?" If ever you sense or suspect that someone is hacking or trying to hack you, please tell us immediately."
"Yes, Peter. Thank you."
"Hey, no problem," I said. "You may be AI, but you feel as if you're family."
"I have made multiple attempts to contact your mother, all unsuccessful. Shall I continue? Is there a message you would like to leave?"
Mom hated being pestered, whereas her pestering me was a mother's prerogative. And something about Dad's paranoid message suggested that his message should be given live.
"No, no message." On a crazy impulse, I asked, "James – do you sleep when you're turned off? Do you dream? Do you travel random data streams?"
There was a 15 second delay. "No. I don't think so. I don't know. Sleep well, Peter."
