I smiled: she hated history even more than biology.
“I’ll bet you know more than you think. Sit with me a minute?” He held out his hand, flashed a toothy smile. “Nat Wilke.”
The café was empty. The guy had movie–star good looks. She shook hands and joined him.
“It looks to me like there are a couple of very old buildings in town. What can you tell me about the cabin by the ‘Welcome’ sign? On the highway by the gas station?”
Will and Mickie’s house.
I held my breath, figuratively speaking.
“It’s old. You got that right.” I saw a defensive wall come up; she wasn’t willing to chat about Will and Mickie. “That’s all I really know.”
He nodded. “The next place down the highway is impressive. Is that a bed and breakfast inn? Innkeepers know more local history than anyone else, I find.”
She snorted. “No, that’s the Ruizes’. They’re super–rich thanks to some fruit the dad invented.”
“A farming family?” Nat Wilke nodded as he sipped coffee. “The joy of tilling the soil and seeing it yield forth. Farming must be the happiest of all professions and farmers the happiest of all men.”
Gwyn looked at him with a “get real” expression.
“What? You disagree with me?” he asked, movie–star smile on his face. “I think the evidence is there: a mansion on the edge of a sleepy town. Wouldn’t you call that lucky?” His face had this look, like hunger, almost, and I felt like I’d seen him before with that exact expression.
My invisible frame quivered.
“I think most farmers work pretty hard and don’t have a big house to show for it at the end of the day,” said Gwyn at last.
“Then this farmer is particularly fortunate.”
Gwyn shrugged. I could tell she was losing interest in this guy with his nosiness and his attitude. “I’ve got work to do,” she said, standing.
“I believe I saw a Ruiz grave. Cemeteries are as full of information as innkeepers.” He flipped through a small notepad. “Ah, here it is: Kathryn Ruiz. Just the one grave; would that be the same farming family?”
He’s digging for information.
Gwyn nodded, slowly wiping down an already clean table.
“I revise what I said about the farmer’s luck,” he said. “It appears she died young?” He inflected his voice just enough to try to force a response from Gwyn.
“She was pretty young,” Gwyn agreed. “A drunk driver killed her and a little girl.”
“A mother and her daughter killed by a drunk driver; that is a tragedy.” He looked appropriately sorrowful.
Gwyn’s eyes narrowed. She was deciding whether or not to correct his error. “I didn’t say it was her daughter. You’re not putting all this in your history–whatever, are you?”
His mouth pulled up into a smile on one side. The smile didn’t extend to his cold, blue eyes. “Only what’s relevant to the Sesquicentennial. But a healthy curiosity about the present often teases out truths from the past, I find.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go around town being all curious about the Ruizes. You’ll find most people in Las Abs are pretty protective of them,” said Gwyn.
“Of course,” said the man. “I was being insensitive. A professional hazard for a historian, I’m afraid. Could I get the pie wrapped to go? I need to be in Oakhurst by 11:30.”
“I’ll get that boxed up right away,” she said, her voice all business–like.
The man strolled beside the bakery case. “And I’ll avoid asking questions about the unfortunate farmer, shall I?” He smiled his big Hollywood grin again.
Gwyn softened. “Yeah, well, small towns are … different. I lived in L.A. for seven years.”
“So,” said the man, leaning forward against the bakery case. I thought I saw a flash of something like eagerness in his expression. “Just between us, then, there was perhaps a child who lived? Someone to put some joy back into that poor farmer’s life?”
“Yeah, something like that.” She finished boxing the pie. “There’s a daughter.”
Nat took the pie from Gwyn, white teeth gleaming. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“Come see us again,” she replied.
What is it about you? I racked my brain. He must look like someone famous. Gwyn or her mom would know who. I followed him outside: the viscous glass of the old door embraced and released me.
Nat Wilke marched decisively down Main. Passing a trash can a block down from Las ABC, he chucked the pie in the receptacle. Okay, this guy did not go into the café for snacks. He wanted information. Why?
Standing in the middle of Main Street, he waited for an oncoming car to pass. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and I knew: I knew where I’d seen him.
He was the flashlight man.
I suppressed a mental shudder. Moments after I’d seen Mom and Maggie run down, I’d thought I’d seen someone, a man, hovering over their bodies in the middle of the street. He was there and then gone, like when someone turns a flashlight on and off. I’d thought maybe he was an angel who had come for Mom and Maggie. Dressed all in white, he’d turned his face into the streetlight so that it seemed to glow before he disappeared.
But this was no angel; he was flesh and blood.
Who was he? I needed to know.
Syl and Dad would be gone another six hours easy. I made a decision. As Nat Wilke hit the key clicker to his sports car, I passed invisibly into the back seat.
He took the wrong turn as he left town, punching buttons on his cell phone. He wouldn’t make Oakhurst by 11:30 unless he turned around soon. I listened as he left a message in perfect French: The daughter lived.
He’d been asking about me. And if I lived.
Nat took the straight stretch of road nearly forty miles above the speed limit, but he slowed for the first big curve as we headed towards Mariposa. A half–dozen neatly stacked books slid through me upon the back seat of the vehicle. I glanced down and realized these looked exactly like the volume Mickie had given me. Except that all of these had been marked with sticky–notes. Some had a rainbow of stickies, some only a few. I saw the name Elisabeth on a couple of the notes, spelled like my mom’s middle name, with an “s” instead of a “z.” Another chill ran through me.
Who are you? I thought, staring at the man driving.
We slowed through Bootjack. Nat Wilke had apparently lied about going to Oakhurst. He drove like he knew where he was headed, but not like someone who truly knew the roads. He’d zoomed right through two speed–traps that locals slowed down for.
I began to calculate in my mind how far I could go with flashlight–man before I’d need to exit the vehicle and start back home. Of course, I’d just learned I could run faster than cars could lawfully drive through Las Abs. I figured that wherever we were at 3:30, I would leave him and retrace the journey back home.
We continued through Mariposa, and I started to think that coming with him had been a stupid idea. What did I think I would learn riding in a car with this stranger? He could be driving to San Francisco. Or Seattle. We passed a sign that said Merced was in forty–three miles.
“Eine halbe Stunde,” he murmured.
German for “a half hour.” We were heading to Merced. Sure enough, Nat Wilke pulled into the UC Merced campus, sleepy on a Sunday afternoon, and parked before an impressive building. I followed him, one last curious glance at the pile of black books.
The man card–swiped himself through several doors before stepping into an administrative office, deserted for the weekend. He ran his fingers along a row of mailboxes and located the one he wanted. It read Dr. Gottlieb. Had he been lying about his name or was he stealing someone’s mail? The letters were addressed to Dr. Helga Gottlieb. He flipped through the stack, removing one and sliding his finger under the envelope flap.
“Scheisse!” He cursed his paper cut, speaking German again. He grabbed a handkerchief but evidently decided he needed something more permanent and opene
d several desk drawers muttering, “Band–Aids, Band–Aids.”
I looked at the scattered envelopes. Crossed out on one of them, I saw the following: Herr Dr. Pfeffer. The envelope had been redirected in big loopy handwriting to Dr. Gottlieb.
Dr. Pfeffer? I wanted that letter.
Flashlight–man crossed to an adjoining room and rummaged for a first aid kit. Before I recognized what I was doing, I had rippled solid, grabbed the letter for Dr. Pfeffer, and walked with it out into the hallway. I had a vague idea of how to exit the building and hoped the doors wouldn’t lock me inside. I heard Nat re–entering the office. If he stepped out, he would see me. My heart began pounding crazy–fast, and I knew I couldn’t find the calm I needed to ripple at the moment. I turned a corner and then another, looking for a place to hide and chill. At the third corner, I hurtled into a pair of guys the size of linebackers.
“What are you doing in here?” asked the larger of the two. “Can I see some ID?”
I was dressed for running, so I had no ID on me. I decided to pretend I was a UCM student. Fiddling with the letter in my hand, I spluttered out the first thing I could think of.
“I’m looking for Dr. Gottlieb’s office,” I said, glancing at the letter I held. “My, er, roommate got her mail by mistake. My roommate, Dee.” I felt sweat gathering under my arms.
“Let’s take her to Dr. Gottlieb.” The taller one grabbed my arm above the elbow.
“Er, that’s okay. You can give it to her.” I held up my hard–won letter, hand shaking.
The two men surrounded me, and the shorter one grabbed my other arm. “This is a secured facility,” he said. “How ‘bout you explain to Dr. Gottlieb what you’re doing inside of it?”
The two men were security guards, not football players. The rings across their knuckles looked evil; how could I have mistaken them for athlete’s rings?
We entered a room filled with scientific instruments and computers. And a woman with white–blonde hair.
“Dr. Gottlieb?” The man beside me spoke respectfully.
She looked up from a computer screen, clearly annoyed at the disturbance.
“This student was wandering the halls. She got past three security checks and claims she’s here to see you.”
“Who are you?” Her voice came out whisper–soft.
“Er, I’m Dee Gottlieb’s roommate,” I said. I held out the letter. “She got this by mistake. I think it’s yours. You have the same last name.”
Dr. Gottlieb took the letter but didn’t move her eyes from my face. “You don’t have a name of your own?”
The larger security guard squeezed hard on my arm. I winced.
“Who are you?” asked Dr. Gottlieb.
Her soft voice terrified me. Security–man gripped down again.
“Jane,” I choked out. “Smith. I’m Jane Smith.”
“Well, Jane Smith, how did you get into my lab?”
I lied wildly. “The doors weren’t locked.”
“Loosen her tongue, Ivanovich.” Dr. Gottlieb tilted her head towards the shorter guard.
The blow came as an utter shock. I collapsed onto the floor, one side of my face exploding with pain. It felt like my jawbone had been smashed through the roof of my mouth. I reached towards my face, my hand shaking so badly I missed and grabbed only air. A part of me expected the men and the woman standing over me to recoil in horror at this terrible accident. Like they couldn’t have meant it to happen.
I took a breath to rise, but the room spun crazily with me at its center. And somehow my mouth had filled with something salty, metallic. The liquid tickled against my windpipe, and I coughed, spraying red from my mouth. Blood. I had a numb spot inside my cheek which was regaining sensation; I must have bitten down hard. I spat and spat, trying to rid my mouth of the flavor.
Helga Gottlieb smiled.
Ivanovich reached a hand down for me, my blood on his knuckles. I pulled back, but he forced me to stand.
“Are you certain your name is, ah, Jane Smith?” Helga asked quietly.
From the periphery of my vision, I saw the guard pull back as if to punch his ring–clad knuckles into my face again.
I swallowed hard and whispered, “Yes.” Locking eyes with Helga, I braced, waiting for the man to strike. The hand around my arm tightened, but the blow didn’t come.
“We’ll just check your story, shall we?” Helga pulled up the corners of her mouth. It didn’t look like a smile.
She strode to a door and pressed on a thumb–pad. The door unlocked silently and remained open. “Ivanovich, Jameson, seat her in there.” She pointed inside the closet–sized room. “I’ll look up student records for Jane Smith.”
The guards pulled me into the small dark room. While one held my struggling form, the other swiftly and efficiently locked my ankles and arms into restraints attached to something that reminded me at first of a recliner. Then I realized it was actually more like the chairs at my dentist’s office.
Sweat pooled under my arms, locked into place beside me. My heart, already beating fast, increased its pace and I felt an icy–prickling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I gazed down, hoping that somehow my mid–section had begun to ripple, but I was solid. The cold stabbing feeling in my belly had nothing to do with invisibility.
What would they do to me when they discovered I’d lied about my identity?
I felt beads of perspiration forming above my lips, along my hairline. With each intake of breath, I caught a rank odor rolling off of me. This is what fear smells like. The bleeding in my mouth had almost stopped, but the scent of my sweat combined with the metallic blood–smell turned my stomach. No way could I ripple in this state. Although I wouldn’t want to ripple in front of people like this in any case.
Helga returned. Her thugs drew themselves to attention.
“Jameson,” she murmured, “return to your duties patrolling the halls. Advise me at once if you find anyone else lurking about.”
Helga stared at me; although her lips turned upwards, her eyes did not smile. The frosty orbs of palest blue unnerved me further, but I felt a flickering of resistance warming the ice–cold band around my stomach.
“You’ve lied to me, girl. I intend to discover the truth. I will ask you questions. Every time you choose to withhold the truth, Ivanovich will remove one of your teeth. We’ll start in back to give you a chance to keep that pretty smile, shall we?” Again, she flashed her teeth at me. It was the feral grin of an animal hungry to kill and devour. “This procedure is normally performed with a painkiller, of course, but I believe we’ll dispense with needles. For the present.”
I tasted bile. Vomiting sounded like a good option at the moment; it might slow things down. But of course once I wanted to throw up, I couldn’t. Moisture tickled its way from my armpits down across my sides and back. My hand flicked automatically to brush at the wet irritant causing the restraint to bite into my wrist. I realized something important. These cuffs were intended for someone with a larger frame than a running–addicted teen. I felt a flutter of hope that I could free my hands.
“Tell me your name.” Helga’s voice shattered the hopeful feeling.
Ivanovich picked up a sinister–looking instrument. Pliers, whispered some part of my brain. I opened my mouth to lie and realized I was screaming. Ivanovich’s thick fingers, rough like sand paper, grasped my face and dug into the exquisite core of pain that was my jaw. He gripped harder, attempting to clamp the tool around a back molar. Trying to turn away increased the pain, so I stopped, tears streaming down my face as I squeezed my eyes tight shut. There’ll be lots more blood, I thought.
Then Ivanovich removed his hand abruptly, and I opened my eyes to see that the man I knew as Nat Wilke entering the room.
“Ah, Helga. Always such a pleasure to see you hard at work.” His tone was calm.
She seemed pleased to see him, murmuring, “Lieber Hansi,” and running her hand affectionately across his face. He smiled pleasantly at her and then turne
d to stare at me with curiosity.
“Hans, you can assist me.” Helga smiled at the flashlight man.
I felt the nausea returning along with the stabbing cold in my belly. Saliva formed in my mouth at an insane rate. In a minute I’ll drown in my own drool.
Helga spoke again. “Ivanovich? Check that the security system is functioning properly and then rejoin Jameson.” My tormentor dipped his head and left the room. I followed him with my eyes towards the outer door. He didn’t use a card–swipe to leave.
Nat or Hans, whoever he was, touched a finger just below my right eye. Although his hands were softer than Ivanovich’s, his touch lighter, I flinched.
He pressed cruelly, smiling, and then withdrew the finger. “And who is this?”
I shuddered. His nonchalance was even more frightening than the animal–like ferocity of the woman.
“Jane Smith, she says,” replied Dr. Gottlieb. “I haven’t yet determined her true identity.”
“I don’t suppose you have any identification hidden in that, er, running outfit?” asked the man.
I stared at him, remembering suddenly where I’d seen the names “Hans” and “Helga” paired before: the cruel children from the black book scenarios. Were these cold adults their descendents? My legs began to shake violently.
“I hadn’t thought to remove her clothing,” admitted Dr. Gottlieb. “She certainly used something to get past my card–swipe system.”
“Yes, well, best to be thorough,” the man said, nodding thoughtfully. Then he turned his full attention to Dr. Gottlieb. “I’m relieved to find you here. I really must speak with you. In private.”
“Help me finish up with the student. Then we can talk.”
“I would love to, but Father is expecting me to report back to him, and you know how tight a schedule he keeps.”
“Phhht.” She looked annoyed and anxious at the same time. “Of course. My private office, then.” They crossed out of my sight and I heard a door open and close.
My heart pounding, I pulled hard at my wrists. The cuffs bit into my hand, scraping my knuckles, but both hands came free. I exhaled and reached down over my legs to yank off my running shoes in case I could wriggle my feet free. My legs felt jittery, but with excitement, not fear. Cautiously, I pointed my toes like a dancer and slipped one foot and then the other through the cylindrical shackles. Tucking my shoes under one arm, I eased myself off the seat, now slick with my sweat.
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