Bridget answered. “A rental I have in Midpines. It’s a complete dump. Mice–infested—”
Here Gwyn, smiling, pointed to the cats.
Her mother continued. “But the oil heater is powerful, and there’s something else waiting there that you’re going to need.”
I looked out the window. It was still dark, but I recognized a motel sign with a tiny burro. I remembered this place. Bridget flicked her turn–signal and we pulled down a drive just past the motel.
Sylvia sighed. “Dave’s going to need directions.” She passed my cell to Bridget, who’d just parked the Mini beside a dark shack. “You better tell him. I don’t think I could.”
“Non!” cried Christian. He grabbed the phone before Bridget could take it. Holding it in the air and waving it he explained. “My father has spoken to me about these small electronic espions … ah, spies. To speak into them is to broadcast to all. To all,” he said with added emphasis.
“Electronic ‘spies’?” murmured Gwyn.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know how to tell Dad where we are without telling anyone else.” I punched in the numbers for my dad’s cell. “Dad? It’s me. Sam.”
“I’m on my way, honey.” My dad’s voice, strained and anxious, brought tears to my eyes.
“We’re fine, Dad. Try not to worry. Bridget Li has given us a place to stay for now.”
“I should come to the bakery?”
“No, Dad. Um, do you remember where I puked in the mini–van you were test driving? Don’t say where! Just tell me if you remember where it happened.”
“Sure, honey.” I heard a short laugh. “That would be hard to forget.”
“Okay, so listen close. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. We’ll explain why later. Just drive to that place where I puked in the car, and then go one more drive down and turn into it. You’ll find us there. Same side of the highway, okay?”
“Sammy, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, Daddy.” My voice cracked as I said goodbye.
We piled out into the cold night air.
“I forgot to have the electric disconnected,” said Bridget as a sensor light illuminated our path. “Fortune smiles on you.”
We shuffled inside the small cabin. Inside felt as cold as outside. Or nearly. The cats set to work, scurrying across the cold linoleum floor, and Bridget fussed with a panel of dials beside an ancient wall heater.
“Doesn’t take long to warm such a small place, at least,” she said.
I sank into a scratchy brown plaid couch. The cold made its way through, slowly freezing the backs of my thighs, but I felt too tired to stand.
“Gwyn, give me a hand with the bags,” said Bridget.
“Ask Christian,” replied Gwyn, yawning hugely.
“Gwyneth Li!”
Gwyn rose, rolled her eyes dramatically as she passed me, and followed her mom outside.
“We’re going to need cash,” said Sylvia. “You didn’t happen to grab your wallet, did you?” she asked me.
I shook my head.
“Our ATM cards have probably all melted,” murmured my step–mom.
“Forgive me, Ma Dame,” said Christian, “But my father left me a strict list of things to be avoided should we find ourselves within circumstances such as these.” Christian straightened himself and closed his eyes, reciting. “Do not make use of: passports, ATM cards, cards of credit, vehicles owned by yourselves or close friends or family, cellular telephones owned by the same …” He continued through a litany of don’t use items concluding with, “Your true names.”
Bridget and Gwyn re–entered, dropping duffle bags on the floor before us.
“Mmmm, it’s warming up nicely,” said Bridget, smiling.
“It’s freezing, Ma,” said Gwyn, unzipping one of the duffels and withdrawing a poofy down jacket.
“Those are for your friends,” said her mom.
“Put on your own oxygen mask first,” retorted Gwyn. She threw me a jacket. “Just sayin’.” She tossed another jacket to Sylvia.
“We packed what we could for you,” said Bridget. “I’m afraid we have nothing for Christian.”
“Who apparently sleeps fully dressed,” said Gwyn, eyeing his apparel. “Dude, that’s got to be bad for the health of the foot, there, sleeping with your shoes on.”
I guffawed. “Christian pretty much doesn’t sleep. So he doesn’t need, uh, sleepwear.”
Sylvia looked at him, opened her mouth, closed her mouth, and shook her head. “I don’t need to know everything,” she mumbled.
Gwyn handed a stack of clothing and a pair of Uggs to Sylvia. “These should all fit you.” Stepping closer to me, she whispered, “Seeing as how you totally outrank me in the boob–department, I didn’t bother packing you a normal bra. I brought you a sports–bra. More one–size–fits–all, I figured.”
I felt my cheeks warm as I took the clothes. “I’m sure this will be fine,” I murmured. “How did you even know …”
“About the fire?”
I nodded.
“It’s like Sir Walter said. Nothing goes on in Las Abs without Bridget Li knowing. I had a bad feeling you might need to disappear for awhile, so we grabbed some clothes.” She giggled. “Disappear. That’s totally funny when you think about it.”
I changed clothes with Sylvia in a cold, dark bedroom. Pulling on the sports bra, I felt an ache to be out on the roads, running. My running shoes were probably melted into a puddle of goo. Gwyn had brought flip–flops for me. She knew I’d never fit in her size 6 shoes. My heel hung sadly off the back of the flip–flops.
When we stepped back into the main room, I noticed the temperature had improved significantly. Unfortunately, the warmth had brought with it an unpleasant odor. My nose wrinkled.
“Mouse–poop,” said Gwyn. “Ma says it’s in the heater, so the smell should burn off pretty quickly.”
On the floor, sitting cross–legged, Christian pulled his eating knife through what had been a blanket minutes ago.
“Um, Christian? What’s with the wanton destruction?” asked Gwyn.
Setting one piece aside, he pulled his knife through the blanket again. “I am constructing a … how do you call it? Un manteau.”
“A jacket?” I asked. “A cloak?”
“A cloak, yes,” he replied. “We have no money. I have no jacket. I would prefer to make one rather than thieve for one.” He slipped his eating knife inside its case and withdrew a flat piece of leather, folded over upon itself. Inside lay several coils of thread and a bright golden needle.
“So, what,” said Gwyn, “You’re like a bodyguard–seamstress?”
Christian laughed. “I was, before my father discovered my existence, apprenticed for three years unto a tailor.”
“Dude, how could your own dad not know you existed?” asked Gwyn. Then her face flushed. “Oh. Same as my dad, I’m guessing.”
Christian looked up as he drew a length of thread through the needle. “Sir Walter married not my mother. Nor did he know that my mother had borne me. He learned of me during my fifteenth year and at once brought me to live with him at the court of Louis Quatorze, à Versailles.”
Sylvia drew in a rapid breath. “My French is a little rusty, but did you just say something about Louis the Fourteenth?”
While Christian drew long stitches through the fleece, I explained to Sylvia the possibilities of extending life as a chameleon. Gwyn’s mom listened with eyes wide, murmuring to herself in Chinese.
“Wo De Tian Ah,” she breathed out as I finished. “Everlasting life. No wonder someone’s trying to kill you. Although kidnapping you would make a lot more sense, wouldn’t it? So they could use you like a … a donor bank?”
“Ma!” said Gwyn. “Not helpful.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder, protective.
“Why didn’t I hear the smoke alarms?” asked Sylvia suddenly. “Did you hear them?”
I shook my head. “Hans must have removed the batteries. Or rippled a
way with the detectors entirely. I think Hans wanted me dead, for sure. But I don’t think he was acting on orders.”
“That is my conclusion as well,” said Christian. He frowned as he pulled out his knife to clip a knotted thread. He drew a new length through the tiny needle. “Yes, Mademoiselle, I feel certain Hans acted outside his father’s wishes. After obsessing for so long upon his deceased wife, Helmann is not someone to disregard the death of her last remaining heir.”
We had to do some more explaining for Sylvia here. By the time we’d finished, we heard a truck pulling down the drive. Christian looked alarmed, but Syl and I reassured him that we knew the deep rumble of my dad’s pickup.
Bridget pressed her face to the window, using her hands to block the inside light. “It’s him,” she confirmed. “Gwyn, you’ll need to drive the Mini back. I’m not having you wreck that truck.”
“We’re going to need my dad’s truck,” I said. “I mean, this is nice as a landing pad, but we can’t stay here.”
Christian added, “Those at Geneses are surely aware of your friendship with la famille Li—with Gwyn and Bridget. Eventually, our enemies will search all of the dwellings owned by these friends.”
“If only they thought we died in the house fire,” I said.
“This is going to hit the news, honey,” said Sylvia. “Your dad is a big name in valley farming. The police and the fire department know we survived.”
“Not to mention the several dozen onlookers who came to watch,” said Gwyn. “We got there late compared to some, but everyone was passing the word you’d made it out okay.”
Bridget opened the door for my dad, who rushed to gather me and Sylvia in his arms.
During our explanation to my dad, he lapsed several times into whispered Spanish, reminding me of Gwyn’s mom. The sun had risen by the time we finished.
Standing by a side window, hands on her hips, Bridget spoke. “So, you need a car that won’t be recognized as belonging to you, and I just happen to have one.” She pointed out the side window. “I have the pink slip for that vehicle. My last renter couldn’t pay me or even afford a new battery, and I told him I’d take the truck.”
“First order of business is to get that battery taken care of,” said Sylvia. She’d been jotting down notes for several minutes.
“I’ve got jumper–cables,” said my dad. “But I’ll need the keys to the other truck.”
“Keys?” Bridget blanched. “I forgot them.”
“Really, Ma?” Gwyn shook her head and marched outside. We watched as she felt under each wheel–well.
When she strode back into the cabin, she held up a key. We all stared at her, dumbfounded.
“What?” she asked. “As–seen–on–TV, dudes. Don’t tell me I’m the only one here who watches the Infomercial Channel.” She shook her head in disbelief.
Taking the key, Dad stepped outside. He returned several minutes later shaking his head. “Your renter wasn’t kidding when he said he needed a new battery. That one’s deader than last season’s berries.”
Sylvia removed a pen from her mouth. Bite marks disfigured one end. “Buy new battery,” she murmured as she wrote. Finishing, she resumed chewing the writing instrument, her wide eyes fixed on a spot beside the wall–heater.
I shook my head, slowly. “I can’t ask you to do this,” I said. “It’s me Geneses wants, not all of you.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Christian. “You have already the proof that Hans will not hesitate to harm the ones you love in order to reach you. And when Helmann discovers the loss of your egg and your jumelle—how do you say it in English?”
“My clone,” I whispered, nodding. “He’ll force my family to reveal where I am.”
“He would harm them to learn this, certainement, Mademoiselle.”
A shiver ran through me.
My father cleared his throat. “Did you just say Geneses wants you?”
“Geneses is Helmann’s company,” I replied.
“It’s just …” my dad broke off, scratching his head. “Anyone else caught the news today? About Geneses?”
We shook our heads.
“It’s all over the radio stations.” Dad frowned. “There was a massive outbreak of a plague in central Africa. Thousands dead, apparently within hours of contracting the virus. And the only relief organization who’ll set foot in there right now is some group backed by Geneses. Angel Corps, the media’s calling them.”
My dad paused and looked at us long and hard. “Are you sure a company with that sort of integrity would hire murderous thugs?”
I sighed. “Yeah, Dad. We’re sure. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
“Hush!” said Christian, straining to listen for something.
“Another car,” whispered Bridget.
“Quick,” cried Gwyn. “Do that hug–thing where you ripple away with someone.”
I looked to Christian. I’ll get your father; you must secure your belle mere—your step–mother. His silent words resounded in my head as I looked in alarm at Gwyn.
“Get your family to safety!” demanded Gwyn. “Ma and I will be fine. It’s probably nothing, anyway. Some lost tourist looking for Yosemite.”
I nodded and threw my arms around Sylvia, rippling to safety with her. Beside me my dad was cut off mid–gasp as Christian vanished with him.
Outside, a car door slammed and someone approached the cabin.
“Can I help you?” asked Bridget, opening the door.
“Oh, good morning. I was about to knock,” said a friendly–sounding voice. “I’m here hoping to interview the Ruiz family? I was told this was the place to find them.”
As he craned his head around Bridget and smiled at Gwyn, my suspicions were confirmed. I’d heard that voice before. It came from a man with a thing for expensive running shoes.
Chapter Twenty–Eight
* * *
SELF SACRIFICE
· WILL ·
It took me a split–second to come solid behind Eric, ready to defend Sir Walter with one of those blows–to–the–head.
But Eric didn’t look like he wanted a fight. He looked like a kid who just dropped his ice cream cone.
“Please,” he said, “I must know if my name has been struck from the Corps.”
Sir Walter frowned. Obviously neither of us could tell Eric what he wanted to know. And now we had the issue of his status as a chameleon to deal with.
Eric spoke again. “If this is about my hesitation during the fire, when I was eleven, please allow me to prove myself. I am a different man today than that young child. I am a member of the Angel Corps. I passed the tests.”
“Yes, my dear young man,” said Sir Walter, stroking his goatee again.
I got ready to vanish with Eric again, but Sir Walter shook his head, a sharp negative, just as I was going to ripple.
“The thing I must determine is whether you are, in fact, an angel of mercy or an angel of death,” said Sir Walter.
As soon as the words had left Sir Walter’s lips, Eric collapsed, out cold.
Onto me.
I grunted, smacking hard on the floor.
“Fascinating,” said Sir Walter.
“Heavy,” I said, rolling now–sleeping–Eric off of me.
“I think we discovered the trigger that induces a hypnotic sleep,” said Sir Walter.
“You think?” I asked. “A little heads up would be nice though, next time. How the heck did you know the password?”
Sir Walter laughed. “I did not intend to send him to sleep. I merely asked the question that came to mind. It was a happy accident, my friend, if such things are ever accidental.”
We stared for a few moments at blond–haired, blue–eyed Eric, sleeping on the floor again.
“Let us return him to his hidden state,” said Sir Walter. “I also should like to, er, ree–pill. I am spending so much time solid that my stomach begins to demand meals at regular intervals.”
My stomach grow
led loudly. “Sure.”
Sir Walter placed an arm upon my shoulder as I vanished with Eric.
I replaced the body and began writing questions to Sir Walter about the “angel.” So, obviously he’s talking about Helmann, right? All that ‘Dr. Girard’ stuff?
I believe we can assume that, said Sir Walter. My cousin is only too likely to have called them, out of unadulterated pride, his ‘Angels.’ But I am disturbed that I knew not of this new generation of children.
You think Eric’s his kid? Like, part of a new batch? I asked.
Do you not think so? asked Sir Walter. Based upon his appearance, he could be a sibling to any of them: Hans, Fritz, Franz, Helga …
Yeah, I agreed. Never seen Fritz or Hans, but this dude looked like Helga, all right. And the other sleepers looked like Eric. You think they’re clones?
No, said Sir Walter. They are at a minimum of eighteen years of age. I think not that Helmann was engaged in cloning that long ago.
Guess they didn’t look like twins, quite, I wrote. So what have we got here? Kids trained as medical experts or something?
Indeed, agreed Sir Walter. Loyal, even as his earlier children were. And yet … there was something less threatening in Eric’s demeanor. Certainly he believes himself ready to act in self–sacrifice, for the good of others.
He said something about a plague, I said. That can’t be good.
Agreed, said Sir Walter. Does my cousin mean to infect the nations with disease and then offer selective healing?
We’d drifted to the windows on one side of the room as we spoke. Outside, the sun settled, brooding and red, spreading in a thin ooze as it slipped behind the horizon.
Let us return and consult with your sister, said Sir Walter. She has proven her worth several times over in these mysteries.
That and she’s probably bored senseless by now, I wrote back.
We glided silently across the room, toward the front of the building. I was just thinking how I hoped Sir Walter would let us take the stairs when I felt something brush through my knees.
What the heck? I wrote to Sir Walter.
Something troubles you?
Walk over here, I wrote. There’s something invisible.
Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy) Page 15
