“Madame Li,” says Chrétien, “none of us wishes to increase the discomfort of your beloved daughter. But it is possible something of great danger has occurred.”
“Fritz Gottlieb is Helmann’s son,” says Will. “And he invented the vaccines that killed off entire villages a week ago.”
My mother’s mouth forms a tiny “o” of shock. “Wo De Tian A!” she murmurs.
Auntie Carrie looks over.
“Close the bakery,” Ma says to my auntie. “Right now. Tell everyone we’re very sorry, but we’re closing.”
My ancient auntie shuffles through the door from the kitchen to the bakery.
“Tell me what you know,” says my mother, looking strong like I have never seen her before. “I need to hear everything.”
By the time Sir Walter explains things to my mom, my lungs are working again, and I’ve shoved the panic away, imagining it as a cold hard knot I can keep in my belly. I swear to myself I will not let my mom and aunties die like this. No one’s fallen sick, yet, and that is a lot more promising than what happened in central Africa.
Maybe Ma’s already had whatever virus was in those inoculations. Maybe Asians are naturally immune. But what about the rest of the people in Las Abs? No one in the café looked ill.
Something’s not right here.
“How long did it take for the virus used by the Angel Corps to take effect?” I ask.
Dr. Pfeffer answers. “Between six and ten hours after injection, the victims were dead.”
“But Ma’s flu clinic was yesterday. Right Ma?”
She nods. “Yesterday 9:00 to noon.”
“So,” I say, “whatever was in the vaccines, it wasn’t the same virus. Or am I missing something?”
“No, Mademoiselle Gwyn,” says Sir Walter. His eyes widen. “It would appear you have caught something important.”
Dr. Pfeffer nods slowly. “It cannot be the same vaccine.” His cell phone buzzes and he checks it.
“Another email?” asks Will.
“Yes,” replies Pfeffer, terse.
This time, there’s no video. Just a written message.
You will respond to me or someone will become very ill. I have randomly injected a toxin into one of the charming Li sisters residing in Las Abuelitas. An antidote exists, but I will only make it available if you deliver my father’s journal to me in the next twelve hours. I hope I have made myself clear. If not, someone will die. And that someone will not be the last to die, I can assure you.
Yours,
Fritz Gottlieb von Helmann
“We have no choice,” says Sir Walter, his voice soft, his gaze unfocused. “He has beaten us.”
Ma, who’s been quiet up until now, speaks. “One of us is … infected. Or poisoned. Or whatever it is.” She speaks in rapid Canton dialect to her sisters. Something about tea. Herbs. Medicine. The aunties nod and the three of them head for the stairs.
Pfeffer, who must know Chinese, calls after Ma. “Until we know what sort of toxin Fritz has used, it would be unwise to complicate things with supplements.”
“You handle things your way,” I say to Pfeffer, my hands on my hips. “My family will handle things their way.”
Pfeffer’s mouth shrinks. Then he nods.
“That’s my daughter,” says Ma, softly.
“Such spirit,” murmurs Chrétien.
Ma returns to place a hand on my shoulder. She squeezes tight, and then follows her sisters upstairs.
“What about Fritz?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we acknowledge his message?”
Sir Walter nods. “I have been considering our response. I believe we must reply as if we intend to acquiesce.”
“It could buy us something valuable,” agrees Will. “Time, or information, or cooperation.”
“But you can’t seriously intend to hand over Helmann’s journal, can you?” asks Mickie.
I snap at her. “We will do whatever we have to do to save a life.”
“Mademoiselle Mackenzie did not intend to communicate we would do anything less,” Sir Walter says, placing a hand upon my arm. “Truly, we will do whatever is needful to save the life that is endangered.”
“Fritz believes we have but one journal,” says Pfeffer. “And he is uncertain as to whether it contains what he wants.”
“It does,” says Mickie. “We know it does.”
“But he does not,” replies Sir Walter. “What if we were to give him the journal which records the experiments upon his original children?”
“We need that to show the former Angel Corps members,” says Mickie. “It’s the only proof we have that what we say about Helmann is true.”
“Why not give Fritz a fake journal?” I ask. “My auntie Sally can forge anyone’s handwriting.”
Sam raises an eyebrow.
“She can,” I say. “She totally forged the documents that got her and her sisters into Hong Kong following the Cultural Revolution.”
“Forgery is out of the question,” says Mickie, shaking her head sadly. “Fritz has a lab full of devices which can authenticate the age of the journal, the age of the ink, the presence or lack of presence of Helmann’s DNA in sloughed off skin cells, dandruff, that sort of thing. We can’t fake all of that.”
“In any case,” says Sir Walter, “we must not endanger the lives of the Li women by giving Fritz a reason not to trust us.”
Mickie sighs heavily. “We have to give up the journal with the experiments. We can’t risk him finding the pass phrase in the other one. We’ll just have to trust Martina, Günter, and Friedrich will be able to persuade others with the information we gave them.”
Pfeffer and Sir Walter exchange glances, both nodding curtly.
“Let us send a conciliatory message to my cousin Fritz,” says Sir Walter.
Pfeffer does this, and we wait for what seems like an hour. Although, according to the clock in the kitchen, only ten minutes pass before Pfeffer’s cell vibrates with another message.
He holds it up for us to see.
I am so happy you have seen reason, my brother. I will prepare the antidote at once. The exchange will take place in Las Abuelitas. Await my further instructions at the bakery. Don’t try anything. I will prepare only enough antidote for one. Once I am completely satisfied as to the genuineness of the item I seek, I will tell you who harbors the toxin. I regret I will not be able to personally attend the exchange. Unfortunately, I don’t trust you.
Yours,
Fritz Gottlieb von Helmann
A new fear seizes me. We abandoned everything at the farmhouse when we fled. Did that include the journals? I can’t remember if Sam said the journals were safe or not. Weight pushes on my lungs, heavy like the sacks of flour lining one wall of the kitchen. But this time, I push right back.
“Do you have … the right journal?” I ask Sir Walter.
“Yes,” he replies. “I brought the pair of them. I thought it wise.”
“It’s going to be okay,” says Sam, an arm around my shoulder.
I nod. And then the day’s events hit me like a hammer and a tear traces down my face. Sam takes me to sit on the stairs that lead to the apartment. I wipe my eyes and mutter something about acting like a baby.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Sam . “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah, right.” Tears gather at my eyelids. I blink them back.
“You are,” Sam insists. “Remember when you thought Will was hitting me?”
“One of my finer moments.”
“Stop it,” she says. “The point is, you stood strong where not one friend in a thousand would have.”
I make a grunting sound she can interpret however she wants.
“I’ve know you since you were little, and I’m so proud of who you’ve become.” She leans in. “And you’ve done it all with one parent. Trust me; I know how hard that is.”
I guess she does. Her dad didn’t find Sylvia for almost four years after Sam’s mom was killed. And then it
hits me: if Ma is the one who got the toxin, and if she dies, I will have no one.
I cover my face with my hands. Hot tears push right through my lids, even though they’re shut tight.
Sam hugs me, says more stuff about how everything’s going to be okay.
“I know,” I say, swallowing hard. I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. Because that’s so mature-looking. “It’s just … I couldn’t handle losing my mom, okay?”
“Hey, no one is dying here,” says Sam.
“I love her,” I say. “I mean, I joke about her and roll my eyes, but if anything were to happen….”
Chrétien eyes us from a few feet away, looking super distressed. He walks over and kneels so his eyes are on the same level as mine. “Mademoiselle,” he says, “upon my honor and upon the souls of my wife and child, I will die before I will allow any harm to come to your family.”
I know, now, what a vow like this means coming from Chrétien.
“Ma and the aunties—they’re all I have,” I whisper softly.
“No,” says Sam. “If there’s one thing I’ve know, it’s that family is more than just blood ties.”
“Indeed, Mademoiselle,” adds Chrétien, “you are not alone.”
I look from Sam’s face to Chrétien’s and back again.
Slowly I nod. I repeat the words. “I’m not alone.”
After this, time feels like it’s rushing past until we have less than three hours before Fritz’s deadline. I sit by Ma’s side, refilling her mug of herb tea and those of her sisters. They tell me I am a good daughter, which only makes it harder to not cry. I take to walking up and down the stairs because it is too hard to be still and impossible to be anywhere but here at the bakery, waiting.
I mutter, “Where is the bastard?” for the fifth or sixth time, when we hear a car pulling up in back by the cat kennels. I don’t know what I was expecting, but there is something so ordinary in the sound of tires crunching through our backyard gravel. Bad guy cars shouldn’t sound ordinary. They should sound ominous. Evil. I clench my hands into fists.
There’s a knock at the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE WRONG JOURNAL
Sir Walter answers the knock at the door.
The motion detector lights shine on not one, but two bad guys, neither of whom looks like the middle-aged brother of Hans and Franz. They’re too young, for one thing. Then I recognize them.
“Hansel,” says Sir Walter, doing one of his little bows. “And Georg.” Another bow.
“Step back from the door,” says Hansel. “You will remain at all times no less than seven meters distant from both of us.”
“That’ll be hard, considering the room’s only fifteen by eighteen feet,” mutters Ma. She came downstairs awhile back, but she made the aunties stay upstairs. She tried to make me go upstairs, too. Yeah. Right.
Apparently Hansel and Gretel aren’t great judges of distance; they don’t object when they see the room. Our group shuffles back to the small prep table against the wall that backs into the café. The Brothers Blond walk inside the bakery, where they hug the back exit.
Gretel opens a tablet screen and Hansel explains what’s going to happen.
“Doctor Gottlieb will address you via this monitor.”
Gretel walks toward us, setting the tablet up on the central work station so that the monitor faces us.
“That’s how Helmann communicated with Franz and Fritz,” Sam whispers to me.
“No whisperings,” says Hansel. “Should my brother or I feel ourselves in danger, we will disappear.” Hansel holds up a single syringe. “If what Uncle Fritz tells us is true, you don’t want us to disappear.”
“Please,” says Sir Walter, addressing Hansel. “Allow us to administer the antidote.”
Fritz’s face, overlarge, appears on the monitor screen. “Not yet, not yet. Greetings de Rochefort. I suppose I should call you cousin, but we’ve never really been close, have we?” He smiles and I swear I want to punch the monitor.
“The journal?” asks Fritz. “You have it?”
Sir Walter takes it from his jacket, slowly, holding it up so Fritz can see it.
“Good, good,” says Fritz.
“Give us the anti-serum,” says Sir Walter.
“In good time,” says Fritz. “The antidote won’t do you any good until you know who it’s for, anyway.”
I scowl, but I force myself to keep my mouth shut. Getting that antidote is the only thing that matters right now. I won’t make it worse by opening my big mouth.
“Set the book on the table beside the monitor,” says Hansel, evidently the one in charge between him and Gretel. He acted the same way back in Sir Walter’s farmhouse.
“Do as he instructs you,” Fritz says. “Slowly. No sudden moves or the Angels fly away.” He smiles at his stupid little joke.
I roll my eyes. I don’t care if he sees it. Then I realize I should care. Come on, Gwyn!
Sir Walter walks to the table and sets the book down. “The antidote, please,” he says. His voice is as calm as if he is asking a waiter for the check.
But Fritz shakes his head. “First things first, cousin. Back away so that Georg can examine the document to see if it meets my approval.”
It doesn’t look to me like Georg is packing any lab equipment. I wonder how he’s planning to scrape off old Helmann cells or whatever he’s supposed to do. Georg walks to the table and back super fast, his eyes trained on Sir Walter. He’s obviously nervous about getting close to him. It’s me he should be nervous about. I’m mentally reviewing every self-defense move I know.
Georg takes the journal to where Hansel waits at the back door. For a split-second, it looks to me like we’ve done this all wrong. Like they’re about to leave without giving us the serum or even telling us who needs it. But they don’t try to run. They bend over the journal.
“Well?” demands Fritz. Ridiculously, he says it to us, because he can’t see the two brothers with the monitor pointed our direction.
“They’re verifying the journal is genuine,” says Sir Walter, his voice calm and assured.
I wish I felt half that calm. My stomach is twisting over on itself like a pretzel.
“Boys?” asks Fritz. You can tell he’s irritated they haven’t said anything yet.
“There seems to be a problem, Uncle Fritz,” says Hansel. “This is not the journal you are looking for.”
“What do you mean?” demands Mickie. “Of course it’s Helmann’s journal. Full of every spiteful little thing he ever did to you and your siblings.” She practically spits the words out and I sort of love her right now.
“It looks genuine,” says Hansel, “but it is not the correct one. Have you brought the other one, Mr. de Rochefort?”
“That’s Sir Mr. de Rochefort to you,” I snap.
Everyone ignores me.
“Cousin?” demands Fritz. “Are you playing games with me? I warned you. A life is at stake. Consider carefully what you are doing.”
My heart starts racing. I shouldn’t have taunted him. Nothing matters but making him happy enough to give us that antidote.
“I brought what you asked for,” says Sir Walter. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.
“No,” says Hansel. “I overheard you and Pfeffer speaking of another journal. A second one. When you were speaking mind-to-mind, I heard you.”
Pfeffer nearly chokes as he responds. “But that’s impossible. You don’t ‘hear’ anything when you’re invisible. I tested you for it. All of you. Only Martina has that gift.”
Hansel’s cheeks turn pink. “You tested us. It does not follow we cooperated in responding to your questions.”
Pfeffer and Mickie swear at the same time.
“You brought me the wrong journal?” Fritz shouts the question. “I warned you, de Rochefort! Hansel, Georg: you will depart. Leave the monitor in place, my nephews. I want to see the look on my cousin’s face when the Asian woman perishes.”
&
nbsp; Hansel and Georg vanish from sight, the space where they stood rippling slightly.
“No!” I cry out. My hands fly to my mouth. This can’t be happening.
Chapter Twenty-Six
LIKED HIS SCHNAPPS
“Wait!” cries Chrétien. In his hand, he holds the other journal. He lifts it for Fritz to see. “Here. We have what you want.”
“No, Chrétien!” cries Mickie.
Pfeffer, at her side, holds her back. “It’s not worth it,” he murmurs to Mickie. “The price of a human life is too high a price to pay.”
Mickie shakes her head. Then she nods once. Twice.
Fritz allows one side of his mouth to curve into a smile. “Very smart. Very wise, indeed. Hansel, Georg, please come back.”
Hansel and Georg solidify, one after the other, on the far side of the room.
From the monitor on the table where I’ve scooped ten thousand cookies alongside my mom, Fritz speaks slowly and carefully.
“Let’s try this again, shall we? This had better be the right journal, this time.”
Sir Walter shrugs. “I had no way of knowing which one you wanted.”
“Hmm,” replies Fritz. “And you thought to keep one for yourself. How selfish of you. Georg? Is it genuine?”
Georg is flipping through the pages. “It appears to be the one missing from Aunt Helga’s laboratory,” he says. “The dates are right.”
My heart sinks. They knew about the two journals all along. At least, they knew they wanted the one Sam stole from Helga’s lab at UC Merced.
“Test its authenticity,” Fritz orders.
Georg addresses us. “We have to disappear to test the journal. I swear we will return.”
“You can’t leave!” I cry out. “We’ve only got two hours!”
“We’re not leaving, only vanishing,” he says. “We’ll be right here, conducting the examination. It should take only a minute. Less, maybe.”
And they disappear.
“What are they doing?” I demand, turning to Pfeffer, to Sir Walter.
The two men shrug, both as clueless as I am.
I turn to the monitor. “Hansel’s coming back with the antidote, isn’t he?” I’m begging Fritz.
Visible (Ripple) Page 16
