“Of course I don’t want them to worry,” I snapped. “Take me home and that’ll be a non–issue.”
Hans smiled. “I have already ensured it will be a ‘non–issue’ by sending them a message.”
“You texted my parents?” I asked, feeling my face growing hot. “What, like a ransom note?”
Hans looked taken aback. “Of course not, my dear young woman. I merely indicated your intentions to spend the day in Fresno with your, ah, Asian friend.” He pronounced it “A–zee–un.”
“They’ll figure that out as soon as they call Gwyn,” I said. Instantly I regretted revealing her name.
“Gwyn Li and her mother Bridget are even now driving to meet you at Shibuki Spa for a day of luxury and relaxation in the Japanese tradition,” said Hans.
So he knew their names already.
“They’re Chinese, not Japanese. There’s a big difference,” I said angrily.
“Yes, yes,” said Hans, brushing his fingers through the air in a dismissive gesture. “That is neither here nor there. You indicated that you would prefer your parents not worry as to your disappearance. I have gone to great pains to ensure they will not.” His own voice carried an impatient edge.
“So why am I here?” I demanded.
Hans’ face smoothed back into implacable good humor. “You are a very important young woman, my dear Samantha.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled when he used the epithet ‘dear,’ but I let it go.
Hans continued. “And your devotion to your family is admirable. Most admirable.” From inside his jacket pocket, my phone jingled. He checked the text. “Ah, here we are. Your father David Ruiz wishes you a pleasant day with your friend.”
I wondered if that was an accurate rendering of my dad’s text. It didn’t sound like any text my dad would send. “Give me my phone,” I said.
Hans continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Family loyalty should always come above loyalty to anyone or anything else.”
I thought of the siblings he’d tormented in long–ago Germany.
“I wonder if it would surprise you, Samantha, to learn that you and I are distant relations?” Here he paused.
I hadn’t thought it through before, maybe in subconscious self–defense. Hans was Helmann’s son. I was the great–times–a–bazillion grand–daughter of Helmann’s wife. We were some strange form of in–laws. At least we weren’t blood–related.
Hans’ mouth moved into a small sort of smile. “You will understand that I have no wish to harm you, or indeed to detain you longer than necessary, seeing as we are family.”
“So I’ll ask again: why am I here?”
“You have something that I would very much like to possess.” Here he leaned closer. “Of course, I could simply take what I want, but that would be bad manners on my part. And I believe you might be made to see how a free gift from you would benefit many, not least yourself.”
He wants my blood. Or my genes. Or whatever Helga wanted. “I’m listening,” I said, my voice sounding a million times calmer than I actually felt.
“Samantha, I wonder, have you ever done something which later you found that you very much regretted?”
“Of course,” I muttered, wondering where he was going with this.
He looked contemplative for a moment, running a finger along his chin. “I have, myself, many regrets. And I have vowed, as a result, that moving forward I shall do all in my power to benefit mankind. Call it penance, if you will. I wonder, young as you are, how much you know of the suffering of humanity?” His head cocked to one side and he sighed heavily. “Alas, of personal suffering you have known much.”
I crossed my arms, forcing myself to betray none of what I knew about the murder of my mother by the man seated across from me.
“My own journey in this life has been filled with pain and violence, with lack and distress at times. I desire to eliminate the pain of those who suffer with no hope.” Here he leaned towards me once more, brows drawn together as if in pain. “You have never, I think, known what it is to be in pain so great that you wished to die rather than continue to live.”
He didn’t let me answer but continued, detailing horrors of starving children, children whose bodies were riddled with parasites and disease, children with AIDs whose parents had succumbed to the disease. His eyes rested upon the floor. “I would spare you the photographs and videos I have of those who daily suffer under these conditions. All I ask is the chance to offer hope to those who pray for death.”
I raised my eyes to meet his. My voice came out in a ragged whisper. “I’ve heard of euthanasia.”
“Your mind is quick. Good, good. My father,” he began, “Has for two decades been engaged in what he believes one of the greatest humanitarian efforts of all time. To those who beg for release, yes, he has offered it.”
Hans rose and began pacing. “Euthanasia, as you called it. Yet I conclude that his efforts are misdirected. You see, I believe it is more merciful to offer vaccination or food to those who crave death. In this, he and I disagree. I feel that my father’s efforts, well–intentioned as they are, have been short–sighted. Who would offer death when they might instead offer hope?” Hans broke off, exasperation furrowing his brow.
I had no idea how this was going to come back around to me being here.
Hans laughed, a short, forced laugh as he began pacing again, shoes clicking upon the sterile polished floor. “I am hardly the first child who wished his father would retire and pass along the family business into more capable hands.”
I raised my eyebrows. Hans wanted to run Geneses?
“And yet my father will never agree to rest from his efforts. Unless.” Hans looked deeply into my eyes, and I forced myself to meet his gaze, glacial and ravenous. “Unless there were something else with which he might occupy himself.” He paused. “Something which touches his heart even more profoundly than his desire to lessen human suffering.”
A name popped into my thoughts. One that I absolutely did not come up with on my own. The name Elisabeth, spoken in a man’s voice, and with angry emotions.
Where did that come from, I wondered? I felt an uneasy certainty that it came from Hans’ mind. That he had inadvertently spoken in my mind like Sir Walter or Christian might do.
He spoke in a whisper. “Your great–grandmother twenty–three times removed was called Elizabeth de Rochefort. The name means nothing to you, I know, and yet I assure you that there is no other name more precious to my father. His dearest wish was to have a child with her.”
I remembered, just in time, to look shocked by what Hans said. “How can your dad have a child with someone who died centuries ago?”
“How indeed?” Hans asked, carefully examining my face.
I tried to keep an innocently–puzzled expression upon it. Which, honestly, wasn’t all that difficult because I still didn’t see what I had to do with early retirement for Helmann.
And then I did.
Fortunately Hans had just turned his back to me as my face registered disgust. I grabbed for my hot cocoa, now luke–warm. The syllaberry syrup had gathered at the bottom and tasted too sweet. I struggled to swallow it down.
“My father has an unusual genetic make–up which has allowed him to live for a very long time. He was once married to Elisabeth, but none of their children survived infancy. Although she was long–lived as well, she did not survive as my father has done.”
“You want me to get pregnant with your dad so he’ll focus on a baby instead of trying to euthanize the world?” The words tumbled out like I’d choke on them if I kept them inside.
Hans looked at me with what appeared to be genuine shock. “I would never ask such a thing of you. Forgive me, Samantha. I have explained things most ineffectively if that is what you have concluded.”
I frowned. “You don’t want me to have your father’s baby?”
“I hardly think an unwanted teen pregnancy would be a reasonable request to make of a y
oung person who has suffered as you have already done in your life. Child, forgive me.” Hans shook his head slowly.
“Then what am I doing here?” I asked.
“I wish only to ask if you would, out of the kindness of your heart, and for the benefit of millions who die and billions more who may yet—” Here he paused to draw breath. “Might you consider an egg donation?”
Chapter Eight
* * *
CROSSES OF ASH
· WILL ·
Sir Walter pressed us back into the wall of the office. Lest we should be detected.
Right, I wrote. Our freezing cold invisible bodies would send a pretty clear “someone’s rippled in here” message to Pfeffer, if it really was him.
The massive oak door creaked open and in walked my sister’s dead former advisor with a dude in a suit, and a priest, and two guys dressed like monks.
Helmann, Sir Walter informed me.
I should have been freaked to be in the same room with über–bad–guy, but I was a little preoccupied seeing my friend back from the grave.
Pfeffer, most definitely not dead, scanned the desk for a moment, looking for something that was missing from the pen–holder.
Oh, crap, I thought. I’d left his pen over by the file drawers. Not finding it, he reached in his pocket and removed another pen which he turned backwards and thrust into a teensy hole on the side of his desk, like it was a key. Which it must have been, because a drawer that you couldn’t even tell was a drawer a moment ago now slid open. The priest reached down inside the drawer and pulled out probably the last thing I was expecting to see. For some unfathomable reason, Pfeffer kept the elements of the Eucharist—communion—in his desk.
What??? I wrote to Sir Walter.
Peace, young Will, said my French friend. We shall observe.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure what he meant by observe. Observe like watch this stuff or observe like, I observe Christmas, you observe Hanukkah. So I just shut my mouth. Well, I stopped with the note–writing. I was dying to ask what Pfeffer was thinking, but Sir Walter maintained radio silence as the priest chanted his way through an Ash Wednesday service in Latin. When it came time for serving the Host, Helmann seemed to defer to Pfeffer. Meaning he let Pfeffer eat the thin wafer first. Helmann observed Pfeffer for a few minutes while the priest paused like this was how they always celebrated Mass.
After this little pause, Helmann nodded curtly to the priest who then placed the Host on Helmann’s tongue. When it came to the chalice containing the wine, Pfeffer went first again, everyone pausing for a couple of minutes. And then they finished up with it and somewhere in there while my mind must’ve been wandering, Helmann, Pfeffer, and the two monks got ash–crosses on their foreheads.
What’s Pfeffer saying to you? I wrote as soon as the office–Mass concluded.
Wait, came the response. Classic Sir Walter.
While we waited, the priest and the monks started chanting again, but it wasn’t any part of the Mass I was familiar with, just some Gregorian chant, like maybe Psalms or something.
Watch Helmann, said Sir Walter.
I watched as Helmann stood with his eyes closed. And then I remembered how Sir Walter told us Helmann couldn’t change form quickly and needed chanting monks to calm him. Well, if my conscience was as smudged and dark as his, maybe I’d need monks, too. It took over a minute. Once, when my eyes flicked to Pfeffer, I thought I saw a hint of a smile on his face. Nothing with his mouth, just this look his eyes had that I recognized. Like a little pre–smile.
Why’s he happy? I asked.
Please, Will, wait! This time I realized Sir Walter wasn’t just telling me to wait in his usual annoying way. I could hear stress in his voice, like I’d distracted him, and he needed to focus so he could drive in bad traffic or something.
Helmann vanished.
Pfeffer closed his eyes briefly, then crossed back to the heavy oak door, allowing the Church trio to exit.
Can we talk to Pfeffer yet? I asked.
Do not change form! Sir Walter’s voice was hard as stone.
I cast my gaze back on Pfeffer. He leaned against the door with his eyes closed looking suddenly like a very tired man. Opening his eyes, he noticed the pen I’d misplaced earlier. He frowned, stepped over to pick it up, and stared at the pen, like he was daring it to explain how come it wasn’t in the pen–holder on the desk. He rubbed his eyes, sighed, and returned the pen–key to its place after using it to close the secret drawer.
Then he walked to the door, crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind him. I could just barely make out the sound of an electronic click, like from the card–swipe Sir Walter had used on the file drawers.
Mon Dieu, said Sir Walter. Let us return at once to your sister. I would speak with her concerning our encounter with Pfeffer.
Wait a sec— , I wrote. We’re just going to let him walk off, without demanding an explanation?
My dear Will, the man whom you have just beheld is no longer a man with whom it would be safe for you to speak. Pfeffer is working for my cousin.
Excerpted from the personal diary of Girard L’Inferne.
Circa 1998
My little school delights me.
The children exceed my expectations. Even without the aid of hypnotic suggestion, they beg to be allowed such privileges as the donation of blood plasma, bone marrow, and even their tiny allowances to aid those in need. I saw a boy whose shoes were worn through the sole. When I asked him why he had not exchanged them for new ones, his answer silenced me.
“I sent my new shoes to a village where children have none,” he said. Then he showed me how he had cleverly inserted a piece of cardboard to cover the hole in his shoe. “I need only replace this every week, and another child like me can have shoes for the first time in his life.”
The angelic smile which accompanied this remark would melt the heart of the veriest reprobate in hell.
This time, I shall succeed.
Chapter Nine
* * *
FATE OF THE WORLD
· SAM ·
After requesting that I make an egg donation, Hans left the room. I needed time to think, he said. Which was the first completely rational thing I’d heard since arriving. I needed time, certainly, but how I wished I had Sir Walter, or Mickie, or Will to consult with before making my decision.
My mind drifted to Christian. Could I contact him? I closed my eyes. Christian! I called. Suddenly, I regretted that I hadn’t spent more time trying to build up my ability to converse mind–to–mind with Christian. He’d explained it was as simple as strengthening a muscle. Which I’d ignored. I didn’t want to hear him any better at night, and I sure as heck didn’t want him listening to my thoughts. But now, my reluctance looked foolish. Christian? I called out once more.
I heard only silence. I was alone. I had to figure this out by myself.
So, where was the truth in all of the things Hans had told me?
If I gave Helmann one of my eggs, disgusting though it sounded, would he stop his intended decimation of the world? If what Hans told me was true, it sounded like a simple trade–off.
But something bothered me about it. And until I could navigate to the core of that unease, I couldn’t make a decision. Meanwhile, the clock ticked. Hans had called our meal together breakfast. If I was indeed in San Francisco, and if Hans could travel swiftly when rippled, then I’d arrived here at maybe 7:00 in the morning. Breakfast had been somewhere around 8:00. Which made sense, because no way would my dad sleep in past 8:00 even though we’d all been up ‘til 2:00. I had maybe ten hours ‘til my parents expected me back home again.
Ten hours in which to decide the fate of the world.
But I didn’t actually know if I would truly be deciding the fate of billions. I didn’t know if Hans was telling the truth.
Another knock on the door.
I sat up, alert.
A woman entered, bowed with hands in a position I’d seen on Sylvia’
s yoga DVDs.
“Namasté,” she said. “I am Indira. I am instructed to ask if you wish for a massage? I can provide any style you like: Swedish, relaxation, deep tissue—”
“A massage?” I raised both eyebrows. “Seriously?”
Her expression remained calm as she awaited my answer.
“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t need a massage.”
She bowed again, palms together, and exited.
Okay, that was weird.
I tried to gather my thoughts back together. What did I know about Helmann?
One: He’d experimented on his own kids. I had the journal from Pfeffer to back that up as well as Sir Walter’s accounts.
Two: Helmann had purged those with the gene to ripple, both during WWII and within the last decade. Although Hans had blamed Helga for the more recent purges, when I’d eavesdropped on them last fall.
Three: Helmann thought it was a justifiable act to end the lives of anyone he chose. I’d seen that in the video we’d watched, and Hans’ claims just now backed this up.
Four: Helmann wanted me alive even though at one point he tried to have me killed.
Another knock at my door.
“What?” I asked, irritated by the interruption.
A nurse entered the room, trailing medical paraphernalia.
“I haven’t said yes,” I said. A chill raced along my spine.
“I just need to take your vitals,” he said. “Now,” he added when I didn’t respond. He held a blood pressure cuff in one hand.
“My vitals are fine,” I said. But then I wondered if this was true. I still felt very strange inside if I tried to focus on it. My insides were too much like … Jell–o. Maybe I needed monitoring, thanks to whatever drug Hans had used to prevent me from rippling. I extended an arm, sighing.
The nurse checked my pulse, clipped something to my index finger, and took a blood–pressure reading without speaking to me.
Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy) Page 4
