Visible (Ripple)

by Cidney Swanson

  A message appears in shouty-caps on the notepad.

  HELLO—STRANGER DANGER ALERT!

  Sam replies. Sorry! Gwyn can hear me and see your messages.

  SERIOUSLY?

  I guess Will forgot to turn off the shouty-caps.

  WE’LL FIGURE THAT OUT LATER, he writes. FOR NOW, HIDE IN THE WALLS. JUST IN CASE.

  Just in case what, I want to ask, but I feel Sam pulling us into a wall. It’s tickly, like before, but the tickle sort of dies down to a nice magic-fingers massage after a minute.

  The intruders, visitors, whatever, are shuffling around on the gravel drive. They knock at the door.

  Not bad guys, I say. Just visitors. I am hoping that if I say this, it will make it true. But a second later, the door swings open. Two men enter and one is holding a firearm. But it’s not the carrying of weapons that is the problem. Both the dudes bear an uncanny resemblance to Hans.

  COMMUNICATE WITH IMAGES ONLY. JUST IN CASE THESE GUYS CAN “HEAR,” Will writes. And then, a moment later, ominously, IT’S THEM.

  Crap.

  Hansel-and-Gretel them? I write.

  Yes, Sam replies.

  Well, that’s just great. At least we know why they didn’t show up for volunteer work today. They had something better to do. Like break into Sir Walter’s super secret farmhouse carrying a weapon. The two blondies whisper.

  “Check down the hall,” says the one with the gun.

  HANSEL, writes Will.

  The other one takes off down the hall, passing us where we hide in the wall.

  Gretel? I ask.

  Georg, Sam writes.

  Heh, I write. I like Gretel better. Hey, Sam? Question? If we’re inside a wall, how come I can see stuff? Do we have x-ray vision to see through walls?

  Our faces aren’t in the wall, Sam writes. It’s a trick Sir Walter taught us—leave your face out so you can see. Because, no, we don’t have x-ray vision.

  Too bad, I reply. I wouldn’t mind seeing through Chrétien’s—

  GROSS! writes Will.

  Oh, I write. Sorry, Will.

  I swear I can feel Sam rolling her eyes at me.

  Gretel scurries back to the main room, shaking his head when Hansel raises his eyebrows in a question.

  “No one here, either,” says Hansel, now speaking at a normal volume. He sees my red shoes, lying where I kicked them off, and nudges one with his foot, making me very indignant. “There’s a fire, so they can’t be far.”

  Or we could be, you know, INVISIBLE, I write.

  Gretel walks over to the coffee table and picks up my cell phone. My cell phone! He wakes up the screen and opens a few things. I’m so putting password protection on that thing the first chance I get.

  “This is the girl’s phone. The number matches what headquarters traced.”

  “San Francisco got something right for once,” says Hansel. His tone makes it clear this isn’t always the case.

  Put my phone down! I shout at them with all my mind meld powers.

  Gwyn! What if they can hear us? writes Sam.

  Hansel looks up, but it could have been because a spark flew from the fireplace. He kicks the ember back, glancing around.

  Guess we’ll never know, I reply. Gretel is still messing with my phone, having demonstrated no ability to hear me shouting at him.

  THEY FOUND US BY TRACING GWYN’S PHONE? writes Will.

  Why are they looking for us? I ask.

  Sam replies, Um, it sounds like they came looking for Gwyn, specifically. San Francisco is where Geneses is headquartered. Considering they came inside with a weapon drawn, I’d guess they’re here to kidnap Gwyn again.

  That’s not very original, I write.

  It was effective, Sam replies. Her “notepad” looks like a cell phone screen. I guess she likes to “text” her messages. Figures Will would go for something more … historically dated.

  WE NEED TO LEAVE, Will writes, IN ORDER TO WARN SIR WALTER THE SAFE HOUSE HAS BEEN BLOWN.

  Wait, Sam writes. Hansel is texting. Let’s see if we can find out more.

  A hundred euros says it’s Uncle Fritz behind this, I write.

  I’LL GO READ IT, writes Will.

  I can feel Sam about to protest. I remind her, You’ve got me attached to you. Twice the bulk of one rippler. Didn’t you say cold air gives you away to fellow ripplers?

  Sam writes, I just hate when he gets all, “I’ll protect you because you’re a girl.”

  Maybe, I reply, he gets that way because he’s too afraid of what he’d feel like if anything happened to you, Ms. Femtastic.

  Hmmph.

  At that moment, Will shoots us an image of the cell phone screen. The number is a San Francisco area code and the person on the other end is named “Fritz.”

  I guess that settles the question of who sent them, I write.

  Hansel finishes texting and puts his phone in his pocket. “Put the girl’s cell back,” he says to his companion.

  Yeah, I write. Put the girl’s cell back.

  “I guess we’d better disappear,” says Hansel.

  “Right,” says Gretel.

  I never liked the story of Hansel and Gretel, I write.

  Georg, writes Sam.

  Whatever, I reply.

  A second later, it becomes clear what kind of “disappearing” they were talking about. The air around Hansel shimmers slightly and he’s gone. Gretel takes a few seconds longer, but then he’s gone, too.

  LET’S GO WARN THE OTHERS, writes Will. NOW.

  I feel an emotional tug as I look at my red shoes. My shoes. That I got with Chrétien. And then I think of something else. Back in my room, Cinderella’s golden slipper is hiding somewhere in the blankets on my bed. I’m the only one here who knows about it. I should probably suggest we come solid and grab it before we go. Who knows when we’ll be back again?

  Do we have time to grab anything? I ask Sam.

  We should probably just go, she writes. Will’s worried.

  Are we coming back later? I ask Sam.

  I doubt it, she replies. Our cover here has been blown.

  LET’S GO! Will writes.

  I should say something about the golden slipper. It’s the last tie Chrétien has to his dead wife. Or maybe this is fate. A chance for a final clean break. Chrétien said himself the slipper grounds him in his past. I could ask Sam what she thinks. But I hesitate.

  Because here’s the thing: if I go back for the shoe, he might never let her go.

  Is it something important? Sam asks.

  It’s nothing, I say. Let’s go.

  I ignore the uncomfortable tug in my belly as Sam scoots us down the wall toward the far end of the farmhouse, past the bedrooms. We pass through the outer wall, and when we reach the main road, I think of something that takes my mind off whatever it is I’ve just done.

  How are we supposed to contact Sir Walter? I ask. If the bad guys have my cell, they have all of your numbers. Including Sir Walter’s. If they’re smart enough to trace my cell, are they smart enough to hack our calls?

  No idea, writes Sam. We better not risk using any of our phones. We’ll have to go to Montpellier to find them.

  I DON’T KNOW WHERE THIS CLINIC IS, writes Will. YOU GUYS?

  I frown. This is going to be a problem. How do you find possibly invisible people at an unknown location?

  Chapter Nineteen

  MURDERER OF KITTENS

  The fact that a solution comes to me before it occurs to either of my rippling-experienced friends makes me feel just a bit smug. Of course, I have no guarantee it will work.

  Maybe we don’t have to find the clinic, I say to Sam. We could try shouting for Chrétien in our heads. Right?

  Um, yeah, actually, says Sam. I should have thought of that.

  A second later, I hear her calling out: Chrétien! Chrétien! It’s really important we talk!

  There’s no answer.

  WE SHOULD GET MOVING, writes Will.

  We should connect ha
nds, replies Sam. I’m guessing she means with Will, since she and I are already holding hands.

  OKAY, replies Will. LET’S GO AROUND THE NEXT BEND AND OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SO NO ONE SEES.

  A minute later, Sam and I solidify between a couple of olive trees and some tall brush. Will is standing behind a different tree about twenty feet away.

  “That’s why we have to grab hands,” Sam says to me as we cross to join Will. “So no one gets lost.”

  “Sure,” I say, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

  We grab hands and presto!, we are invisible and attached to each other. One problem down. But I’m worried how we’re going to find the others, what with Sam’s mind powers failing to catch Chrétien’s attention.

  I’m about to ask if getting closer to Chrétien will help, but on a whim, I decide to call out to Chrétien myself. I think about his face—those angular cheekbones, that sad half smile. I think of the way his hand in mine is like holding sunlight. And I say, half a sigh, Chrétien.

  And he answers me.

  Gwyn?

  Um, yeah. I’m tongue-tied for a few seconds, hearing that voice. Echoes of his stories bounce around in my head and I nearly tell Sam and Will we have to turn around now and get that slipper.

  Are you well, Mademoiselle Gwyn? asks Chrétien.

  Oh, we’re fine, I say.

  I am relieved to hear it, says Chrétien. You sound … strained, as one who carries a great burden.

  A twitch of guilt passes through me. No, I say. No burdens. Everyone’s fine. If by fine, you mean, no one fired their gun at us because we were smart enough to get invisible before they found us.

  I beg your pardon? Chrétien sounds worried.

  Hansel and Gretel—sorry, Hansel and Georg—came to pay a visit. They seem to have been looking for … well, for me. Or maybe the journal.

  You must flee at once, says Chrétien. He’s definitely using his worried voice.

  Already fleeing, I tell him. We’re on our way to find you, except we don’t know how to … um, find you. Oh, and we wanted to warn you not to go back to the farmhouse. Hansel and Gretel might still be hanging out there. It looked like they might be staying awhile, and I’d guess they aren’t feeling friendly towards us.

  Your supposition strikes me as an accurate one, says Chrétien. Allow me to consult my father and then we shall consider how and when to join one another.

  I sort of feel the moment he turns his attention away from me.

  Sam, I say. I found Chrétien.

  You did? She sounds surprised. How on earth did you do that when I couldn’t?

  Good question.

  It takes us over an hour to reach the clinic. Sam and Will apologize to me that they aren’t as fast as Chrétien when it comes to invisible motion.

  I’ll just say, for the record, that this clinic isn’t located in one of the prettier parts of Montpellier. When we arrive there, Sir Walter decides it would be bad for us to materialize in the actual clinic.

  My father fears someone may be watching for your appearance, Mademoiselle Gwyn, or that of Mademoiselle Sam or Monsieur Will, Chrétien tells me. Do you see the building to the south of the clinic?

  The one with boarded up windows? I ask.

  Indeed. Materialize within those walls. The building is without occupants.

  Yeah, I reply, the boarded up windows were sort of a clue.

  Will writes that I should pay extra close attention because he’s taking us through the windows instead of the door.

  THE GLASS WILL BE THE SECOND THING YOU FEEL, AFTER THE WOOD. IT’S REALLY COOL. GLASS, I MEAN. HOPE YOU ENJOY!

  I have no clue why he thinks I would enjoy rippling through glass. Solid objects and Gwyn should really not cross paths, in my own humble. But when we go through the window-board combination, I feel something like a sort of warm, viscous hug.

  COOL, RIGHT? asks Will.

  Sure, I write.

  A moment later we come solid. Sir Walter and Chrétien, along with Mickie and Pfeffer, appear seconds later.

  “Mademoiselle Samantha, Mademoiselle Gwyn, my dear Will,” says Sir Walter. “I am so greatly relieved to see you are all well.”

  “So,” Sam says, “I guess this answers the question as to whether or not Hansel and Georg are returning to the clinic anytime soon.”

  “Hansel and Gretel—sorry, Georg—will both get sick, though, right?” I ask. “Without whatever enzyme thingies they need?”

  “Fritz can take care of that,” Will says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.”

  Mickie shakes her head. “They seemed so … dedicated.”

  “Martina did not believe so,” says Chrétien. “She felt they had been keeping secrets for some time. She feared they might strike out alone.”

  Mickie’s eyes narrow. “She really did tell you more than she let on to me or Pfeff,” she says to Chrétien.

  “Martina finds me congenial,” says Chrétien in response.

  Yeah, I’ll bet she does. I shake the thought off. “Do Martina and the others seem like they’re going to switch to the dark side, too?”

  “Martina is very confused,” says Chrétien. “It is troubling to awaken within a world which operates not according to what you have deemed ‘normal.’”

  He’s speaking from experience, obviously. My heart pinches. Is he … into Martina? With her blonde hair and blue eyes and displaced-ness?

  “I have spoken to the others candidly about what I believe Fritz might want them for,” says Pfeffer. “I do not believe the three who remain will attempt to join him.” He looks like he’s about to add more, but his cell has been making noise from some notification setting. He frowns and pulls it from his pocket.

  “It’s Fritz,” he says. “Another emailed video.”

  We don’t have Will’s computer anymore, so we all huddle around Pfeffer’s cell phone and watch the newest from Uncle Fritz.

  He’s holding a cat. A very affectionate and very fluffy cat. Why would any cat want to be friends with a bad guy? This cat clearly has bad taste.

  Greetings, friends, says our not-friend. The cat in his arms yowls pitifully, begging for more attention by bumping the hand that stopped petting him a moment ago. That fluff-ball looks just like my cat Rufus Sewell, another total pushover who will rub up against anything with a heartbeat.

  I am sorry it has come to this, says Fritz. It would appear you have determined to reject my proposed trade.

  He takes a moment to look around, surveying his surroundings. Do you know, this area of California is really quite lovely as we approach the Spring equinox.

  It doesn’t look much like San Francisco. Not that you can tell from seeing him seated at a table in front of some old brick building.

  Well, I’m sure you will want to know what brings me to this charming foothill town.

  The camera pans back a little. Sam gasps half a second before I do. Fritz is sitting across the street from the Las Abuelitas Bakery Café.

  “That’s my cat!” I shout. “That’s my cat!” I say again. My brain can’t seem to come up with any other words. I feel like a firework must feel in the presence of a lit match.

  I wonder if you remember, brother dear, the year Father brought us that litter of kittens? Yes, I’m sure you must. It was the first time he gave us an assignment to engage in active killing. As opposed to, you know, allowing nature to take its course amongst us. I learned an important lesson that winter. Besides how to kill cats, of course. I learned, my dear Pfeffer, that there are some tasks which are less dangerous than others. Ending the life of a cat is a very low-risk proposition, you see.

  I feel sick to my stomach. I want to look away, but I can’t.

  Fighting Franz, on the other hand, was a very high risk proposition. Nasty temper, he had, that boy. Cross him with a fist and you could be sure to expect repayment in double or triple. Do you remember how I convinced Franz to become a sort of personal bodyguard for me? He did not wish to kil
l his kitten. So we made a deal. His fists to protect me when I needed it in exchange for my … disposal of the kitten he was assigned to kill.

  It’s so simple, ending the life of a kitten.

  Fritz places one hand around the neck of my cat.

  I wonder if I can remember how to do it after all these years.

  I gasp.

  He shifts his other hand quickly. But Rufus Sewell is faster. My heroic fluff-ball cat claws and bites Fritz before making an escape.

  Ah, there he goes, says Fritz, smiling placidly. So friendly. Everyone in Las Abuelitas has been remarkably friendly. You could learn a thing or two from the people here, Pfeffer. I wonder at your betrayal, after all we’ve been through together, brother.

  Fritz shakes his head.

  Beside me, Pfeffer makes a noise indicating disgust.

  After all those years … Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. We went our separate ways. But I think we both want the same outcome from this little … situation.

  Fritz pauses and smiles. The camera pans over to Las ABC.

  I should hurry with that journal, if I were you, Pfeffer. My patience begins to wear thin. I don’t think you want to know what I have in mind for this sleepy little town. You were always a bit of a softie. Refused to kill your kitten as well, didn’t you? Father thought you’d outgrown that softness of late, but I knew better. I never trusted you, Pfeffer. And I never liked you, either. So I’ll have no qualms about harming those you care for, will I?

  Consider this a warning. You have four hours to respond. Then we can discuss how the exchange will be managed.

  Oh, yes, brother … about that exchange? This time I promise I will have something you will want.

  The video ends.

  I want to scream. I want to kick something down. I don’t even know all the things I want right now.

  “How fast can you get us to Las Abuelitas?” I ask Chrétien.

  Chapter Twenty

  DON’T TELL ME EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE

  Chrétien has yet to figure out how to move more swiftly than a jet airplane, so we’re stuck using that form of transportation to get back home. Fortunately, Sir Walter has the means to hire a private one, which will save us a few hours. Chrétien and I board invisibly, to keep the gouvernement français from demanding passports neither of us possess.