Chameleon (The Ripple Series)

by Cidney Swanson

  Chapter Seven

  ÜBERMENSCH

  My struggles against this pursuer proved useless; maybe he couldn’t even feel pain. I saw my form wavering along with his and despair overwhelmed me. Ivanovich is rippling, taking me with him.

  But then as I vanished into nothingness, I smelled Will: clean–soap and pine–needles. Just who had grabbed me?

  Sam, I got you. It’s okay, wrote Will.

  I recognized Will’s yellow note–pad and his handwriting upon it, and I wanted to cry and laugh and run until we caught up to the sun.

  Let’s get out of here, I wrote on my imagined cell–phone screen.

  Behind us, as Will and I slipped free, we heard the blue–eyed man howl his rage like a crazed beast.

  The return journey passed in a blur. Will ran swiftly, overtaking cars as he “carried” me back to Las Abuelitas. We reached his cabin and drifted through the worn log–walls. Once there, I felt the moment when his arms slipped away from my form. After he came solid, I rippled back as well.

  Will’s ridiculous pantyhose–covered face was the first thing I saw, and it put a smile back on my face. I pulled off my disguise and gazed at the black book we’d risked so much to obtain.

  “We did it,” said Will, grinning.

  I nodded, fretting over what exactly we had done.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “There’s no way anyone could recognize us thanks to these.” He held up the nylons and shot them across the room like a rubber band.

  The pantyhose hit the living room pendant light and circled once before coming to a rest, bathing the room in a glow of “Nearly–Nude.”

  “Hmm,” Will murmured, inclining his head as if in appreciation of the new décor.

  “Get those down,” I said, a small snort of a laugh escaping.

  Will looked at me, eyebrows and hands raised in a “but, why?” gesture.

  “Your sister, dweeb?”

  Will rose, sighing in dejection. Grabbing the hose, he rippled, coming solid a half–second later, minus the incriminating evidence.

  “Totally handy how we can make stuff disappear, huh?” asked Will.

  I frowned. “I wonder if Ivanovich was planning to ripple away with me.”

  “I thought of that,” Will said. “It’s what gave me the idea.”

  “Thanks, by the way.”

  “I just hope I didn’t give him a brand new idea he didn’t already know about,” said Will.

  I thought for a moment. “You taking me away like that, it wouldn’t look any different than if we’d decided to ripple at the same time, right?”

  Will scuffed his shoe against the leg of his sister’s desk. “Except for you were kind of kicking and fighting.”

  I felt heat rising to my face. “Sorry about that,” I mumbled.

  “So he probably had a pretty good idea of what went down,” said Will. “Or he will have figured it out by now, being an übermensch and all.”

  “What’s an über–whatsit?”

  “It’s an idea this philosopher Nietzsche had, about a new race of man who would transcend common man.”

  “Sounds right up Geneses’ alley.” A chill ran along my spine, stiffening the hairs on the back of my neck as I remembered Helmann’s speech on the video.

  Will scowled. “Yeah, pretty much. Among other things, the übermensch holds himself apart from common ideas of morality.”

  “Uh, yeah, I kind of got that when the knives started flying.”

  Will grunted a single laugh.

  “Where do you get all this … stuff, you know, Shakespeare and Nietzsche and all?” I asked.

  Will’s face flushed. “There was this year after Mom died when Mick was supposed to be homeschooling me—I refused to go to school—only her idea of homeschool was to let me read anything I wanted and listen while I spouted over dinner.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Actually I don’t know if she really listened—I’m the history–geek in the family—but she didn’t make me shut up.”

  I struggled to recall a quote I’d heard my dad repeat. “Those who don’t remember history … are … screwed. Right?”

  Will laughed. “Close enough. So let’s check out our ill–gotten gains, huh?”

  The book in my hands felt smooth, the leather worn by many years of handling. “It’s older than the other one,” I said, holding it up for Will’s inspection.

  “You want to take this to your home and try translating?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “But what do we tell your sister about this book?”

  Will pulled one hand through his tangle of curls. “I’m thinking she doesn’t need to know about this at the moment. I mean, we don’t even know what’s inside yet, right? We can always tell her later, if it turns out to be important.”

  I swallowed, relieved. I didn’t want to recount our evening’s activities to Will’s paranoid sister. “Do you think we’re in any increased danger? Now that Ivanovich knows we both ripple?”

  Will shrugged. “He seemed to think we were sent by Helmann.” His mouth curved upward. “And trust me—you looked nothing like yourself with that disguise. Seriously, you looked like an alien being.”

  “Shut up,” I said. But I laughed.

  “Anyway,” said Will, his face sobering, “We’ve got one more weapon in our arsenal. I bet Sir Walter will be very glad to see this book, whatever it contains.”

  We said goodnight. Driving the short mile to my home, I felt my heart thrumming with the memory of Will’s hand touching mine. Why couldn’t he see how right we were together? I ran the back of my sleeve across wet eyes. Within the bright tunnel of my head beams, tiny snowflakes drifted and spun.

  ***

  Thanksgiving came and passed, I studied for finals, and the day arrived for our flight to France. During the intervening weeks since we’d stolen Helga’s book, as we came to call it, there’d been no sign that she knew of the theft. Certainly, she hadn’t sent anyone to Las Abs to come looking for her book. Word traveled fast if a new face showed up in our town, and we hadn’t heard anything.

  Still, Will and I breathed easier once we put Las Abuelitas and Merced behind us on our flight day. Our plane left from San Francisco, a non–stop to Paris/Charles de Gaulle airport. I had the window seat, Will sat in the middle, and Mickie had the aisle.

  “In case I have to step into chaperone–mode early,” she said.

  Every now and again I heard Gwyn’s low pitched belly–laugh above the hum of airplane passengers. I missed hanging out with her, missed her laughter. She’d avoided making eye contact during the entire three hours our group spent in SFO. With only twenty–four students, this trip would make it harder for us to ignore one another.

  In any case, I felt blissfully happy to be sitting by Will for the eleven hour flight. Not that we could talk about any of the things we ached to discuss: what would Sir Walter be like, in the flesh? Would he be able to translate Pfeffer’s black book? Had Pfeffer left him any messages to deliver in person? Would he be too old and decrepit to count on for any real help?

  Will and I squandered the first hours playing cards with Mickie (“You cheated!” “Did not!”) and drinking copious amounts of the free soft drinks offered every hour or two. Mick upgraded her beverage to wine as we crossed the Mississippi, and she drifted off to sleep a few hundred miles west of the Atlantic, lulled by the roar of the engines and the whine of a hundred headsets tuned to different movies.

  Will didn’t really fit in the tiny economy seat wedged between me and his sister. Every time his leg drifted over to Mickie’s side, she’d awaken with a start, snarl at her brother, and shove his leg back. I tried to think of a non–awkward way to say to Will, Rest your legs against mine.

  Across the aisle, a young couple returning to France folded into one another so completely that I couldn’t tell where one body began and the other ended. Comfort travel in the coach class. I glanced over at Will beside me, stiff and awkward, ho
lding himself within the imaginary boundaries of his middle–seat.

  I curled my knees up, collapsing them against the wall at my left. “Hey,” I said to Will, pointing to the space in front of me. “Stretch out already. You look ridiculous all pretzeled in your seat.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Unless you got a way to fold your legs in thirds,” I replied. “Besides, I like the fetal position.” I hugged my arms around my knees.

  Will grinned and thanked me, easing his long legs into the space where my feet had been a moment earlier.

  “Oh, man,” he said, “You have no idea how good that feels. It’s like they built this plane for under–nourished pre–schoolers.”

  Mickie mumbled in her sleep and shot an elbow into Will’s ribs.

  “No respect for my personal space even when she’s asleep,” Will whispered, gently replacing her arm. “Sir Walter offered to upgrade our tickets to First Class, and Mick said no.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “She takes stubborn to new heights,” said Will.

  “I thought you guys were passing him off as your rich French uncle.”

  “Maybe he’s feeling the recession.” Will yawned hugely. “I think I might be able to sleep now. How much longer?”

  I consulted my cell. “Five and a half hours.”

  Will’s eyes settled to half–mast. “Mmmm.” He looked comfortable now that his legs had somewhere to rest. His eyes drifted shut.

  My eyes followed the curve of space between us, a pathway of places where we didn’t touch, where our bodies might intersect but didn’t. Will’s breathing settled until it matched his sister’s.

  My reading light cast an industrial white glow about me. Most other passengers had turned theirs off. I might have been the only person on the flight still awake. I should have drunk Sprite instead of Coke. Sighing, I pulled Helga’s book from my bag and started flipping pages. Unfortunately, in the past three weeks, I’d begun to admit that we’d stolen something utterly useless. It was a book of names and dates and crisscross lines with no hint of a story or confession of evil schemes. I’d recognized no names so far except for “Napoleon” and a couple of “Helisaba’s” like from Pfeffer’s book, but nothing remotely useful had turned up. We’d undertaken that trip to UC Merced and exposed our underbellies with nothing to show for it.

  Beside me Will twitched and mumbled something incomprehensible. His right side pushed up against his sister, but she was finally too crashed out to care. Another twitch and a small shift and now his cheek pressed into my shoulder, his legs articulating a curve around the front edge of my chair. I ached for how his hand would feel pressed into my hand. For his lips melting with mine. For wishing his head resting upon my shoulder meant something more than my–neck–got–tired.

  I closed the book, nestling it into my bag. I closed my eyes upon the image of Will’s form surrounding mine. Aching, wishing, breathing in the clean–washed scent of Will’s hair, I wandered at last into sleep.

  Excerpted from the private journal of Helga Gottlieb, circa present day

  The time is ripe! The girl will be mine.

  Hans has warned me that should some accident befall the girl, Father’s retribution would be swift. I do not doubt that Father would kill me. As surely as he employed me to kill others of his children, he would employ one of them to dispatch me.

  But only if he knew!

  From this will come my triumph: I need not take the child from her sleepy home town. Oh, not at all! She travels to France! A mishap in France, while dutiful Helga works in her laboratory in California—such a thing could not be linked to me. I shall send Ivanovich for the girl. I trust no one else.

  Oh, Father, I shall best you! Hans, you, too, shall bow before me in time. In the establishment of a New Race of Man, I shall be victorious.

  To the victor go the spoils!

  Chapter Eight

  FRANCE

  I woke to the sound of someone pounding on my door. My dad, I thought blearily as my eyes tried to make the darkened room resemble my bedroom.

  Then I sat up, remembering I was in France—in France!

  As I pulled socks and boots back on my feet, the door–pounding recommenced. I grabbed my bag and threw open the door.

  “Never open a door if you don’t know who is on the other side,” barked Mickie, glaring at me. “Can you be ready in two minutes? We all overslept. Madame Evans is taking the group to the castle now.”

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing my jacket and bag.

  I rubbed my eyes and recalled yesterday’s travel. Or was it today’s? The journey from San Francisco to Paris had wearied us. The train to Tours and bus to Chenonceaux remained only a blur of jostlings and legs that fell asleep, hands that cramped clutching suitcase handles.

  Sir Walter had suggested giving us twenty–four hours to acclimate before meeting him, and now I understood why. My eyes saw bright daylight, but my body protested it was only 3:00 in the morning in California.

  Our connection with Sir Walter had proven a useful one for the French Club. Mickie’s “rich uncle” would be our host family—well, host person—for a three–day home–stay where we would be sent off in pairs to experience the holidays with French families at the end of our two–week trip.

  Sir Walter had also secured discounted group lodging for our first several days during a season when many hotels closed. Although apparently he didn’t think much of elevators. Upon our arrival at the Hôtel de Rose, Chenonceaux, we hauled our bags up endless, narrow flights of stairs. I silently thanked Dad for making me pack light. Mick had her own room.

  “The size of a half–bath,” she whispered to Will and me as we sat in a group meeting designed to inform us that we were in France where the spoken language was French. We also received a lesson on currency and an envelope apiece with one lunch’s–worth of Euros. Finally, we heard that we had the next two hours free until 1:00 PM when we would walk as a group to the Château de Chenonceau, the first of our Loire Valley castle–tours.

  “I know what I’m doing with my two hours,” said Will. “Sleeping.”

  “Wrong,” said Mickie. “You’re asking the French–speaking desk clerk if there are any messages from our uncle.”

  Will grunted in discontent, but shuffled from the small breakfast room into the lobby where he asked, in passable French, if there were any messages.

  “Non, monsieur,” was an answer even Mickie could understand, and the three of us hiked up to our respective rooms.

  That had been my first morning in France.

  Now that it was afternoon, I finally felt awake. And hungry. My stomach demanded breakfast. Downstairs, Will had scored some croissants from a bakery next door to the hotel. Mickie berated him for wandering off, but she also took a croissant.

  “You might have remembered coffee while you were at it,” she grumbled.

  “She’s allergic to morning,” Will mouthed as he handed a pastry to me. We clomped along a quiet road behind Madame Evans, who seemed to have forgotten how to speak English since landing in France. Our group made enough noise to earn more than a few dour Gallic stares, human and canine, as we tromped past.

  Upon arriving at Château de Chenonceau, our destination, we received entrance tickets and instructions to meet for the walk back to the hotel at 5:00 PM. Mickie took students to find restrooms; Will and I strolled together down an avenue of giant, leafless trees. A weak sun peered from behind thin clouds, and I wrapped my scarf once more around my neck as we crunched along the gravel drive. We moved past outbuildings and hibernating gardens, past stumps of knobby pruned trees, beside canals green with moss until at last, Chenonceau castle rose up before us.

  “Hey look,” Will said, raising a gloved hand and pointing. “Our first scaffolding.” He snapped a picture. “For your step–mom.”

  Sylvia had told us the French took excellent care of their historical treasures, leaving the country in a state of constant repair. As we neared the ch�
�teau, I saw a formal garden to the right. Sylvia would love the winter blooms: red and white flowers amidst carefully trimmed hedges and geometric walkways. I didn’t know what any of the flowering things were, only that they were unexpected in winter.

  “Let’s go up,” I said. I pointed to leaded glass windows along the castle façade before us. “I want to take a picture of the garden from up there.”

  Will nodded.

  “Billets? Vos billets, s’il vous plaît,” said a woman at the door. I couldn’t have figured how to knot her elegant scarf if I’d had a year to attempt it.

  “Tee–kets please, your tee–kets,” she repeated in English. We held ours up for inspection and proceeded into the entrance hall. Nothing grand, hardly larger than the oversized entry to my own home thousands of miles away.

  Will gestured to the stairs ahead and to the right. We marched up the cold white marble. This kind of floor would be heaven in Central California in the summer, but I didn’t want to touch it in France in December.

  “Imagine living here,” Will said. “You’d need a ton of space heaters.”

  “Yeah.”

  At the top of the staircase, we turned left into a wide hallway, with doors leading off on either side. From one end of the hall, light danced through the windows, sparkling off the hundred tiny bits of leaded glass. My shoes squeaked on the highly polished floor.

  “Wish we could open these for my picture.” I brushed fingers along the window, smooth planes interrupted by ridges of ancient lead. “There’s got to be windows open somewhere. Did you feel that draft?” I pulled out my camera.

  From my second–story lookout, I discovered another, larger garden to the right, across a small waterway.

  “I’m going in this room,” Will said, leaving the hallway.

  I could hear the rest of our group lumbering below, chattering loudly, announcing to one and all our identity as les Americains. I’d never felt uncomfortable with my nationality before. Okay, I’d never thought about it. But now, I couldn’t help noticing how noisy Americans were compared to the French.