Rippler (9 page)

“O-kaaaay,” she said.

“I mean it. Truly. I like that you speak your mind.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Before my brain has a chance to catch up.”

“Exactly.” I’d wished for years that someone would simply
talk
to me instead of looking all sorry for me. “At least you say words.”

“Hey, Sam?” She bit her lip. “No eggshells, right?”

“Just say it.”

“Ma said there was a girl with your mom and she died, too.”

“Maggie. She was my best friend. She was driving with me and Mom that evening.

Maggie had her new kitten with her and she let me hold it. She made a big deal about how I had to hold on no matter what, but when we stopped at my house, the kitten clawed me and I let go. It jumped out the car door and ran into the street, and that’s why Maggie and Mom were in the road when the drunk driver struck them down. This is another speed-trap,” I said, pointing to an upcoming twenty-five mile-per-hour sign. “Sorry.” I sighed. “I’m a little hyper-aware when it comes to cars and driving.”

“I would be, too.”

We pulled into the SIERRA CARES Animal Advocates parking lot, and Gwyn picked up

three rescue kittens. As we climbed back into the car, she said it felt awful not taking more.

“Like it’s my fault the rest of them could die,” she said.

“Sierra Cares is a no-kill facility,” I pointed out. “Besides, you can’t rescue every cat in the state of California. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“Well, I
do
, and I don’t care how I’m
supposed
to feel.”

I knew all about having to conform to what you’re supposed to feel. I’d learned early on to tell counselors that I knew Mom’s and Maggie’s deaths weren’t my fault rather than confess how I really felt.

I was quiet on the drive back, thinking of Mom, worrying about Will, but Gwyn talked enough for both of us.

“So what do you think?” she asked. I realized I had no idea what she’d been talking about.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I spaced out—what did you ask me?”

“Rufus. What do you think about adoption?”

Rufus. Fluffy grey cat who apparently didn’t spend much time in the kitty-apartments.

“Um, you mean me? Adopt Rufus?”

“Hello. Yes. You.”

I stared awkwardly at my feet.

“Oh. My. God. I’m such an idiot. You probably can’t stand cats after . . .” She squeezed my hand as we pulled into my driveway. Leaning over, she gave me a huge hug. “Forget about the cat. And forget everything I said about Will and his sister. I’m sure he’s a very nice person with no dark secrets to hide.”

I smiled and said goodbye.

Gwyn drove off and my phone buzzed. It was Will. Asking if he could come pick me up for dinner because his sister wanted to talk.

Now.

Chapter Eight

LETTER FROM FRANCE

“Is he allowed to drive teens without his sister?” asked my dad. Which meant that at least one person in Las Abs didn’t know Will and I had come back alone last night.

Sylvia murmured that it was only a mile.

“Does your license allow you to drive someone my age?” I asked Will over the phone.

Will laughed on the other end. “I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Right,” I replied.

I told Syl and my dad what Will said, and my dad nodded his “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Will said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”

I started to ask why a one-minute drive would take twenty, but then realized they might want the time to tidy or something.

Will arrived shortly in his sister’s Jeep. “What did I tell you about my sister? She started out driving to Fresno this morning, but curiosity changed her mind. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving town now she knows you’ve got Rippler’s Syndrome. She’s a pain, but she is so predictable.”

“I’m sure she’s not as big of a pain as my dad,” I said, still embarrassed at having to ask Will before Dad let him drive me one mile.

Will smiled.

“What, no comment about Mr. Safety-Patrol?” I asked.

“There’s this thing Mick says: if you can’t say anything nice, stow it your seat-back pocket for take-off and landing.”

I guffawed. “I thought you said she wasn’t funny.”

“No, I said she doesn’t have a sense of humor. She’s plenty funny.” Will shook his head.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking—how about you train with me? I have some ideas you could try so you’d be more in control of your rippling.”

“Training? Absolutely!”

“Okay, then. We’ll set something up,” Will said.

“Are you going to tell me what this visit’s all about?” I asked.

“My sister wants to be the one,” Will said. “Tell you this much though; she’s decided to trust you. And she doesn’t go halve-sies. When you’re in her confidence, you’re in all the way.”

Outside, heat blasted off the cracked pavement in waves, and I watched a constantly receding mirage, the only hint of water in a parched August. The weeds on either side of our quiet highway had been brown for months; soon the poison oak would flame red across the hills—our fall color.

We arrived at the small cabin and I smelled chocolate.

Mickie greeted me and then turned to her brother. “The timer went off five minutes ago and I took them out.”

Brownies.
“I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble just for me,” I said.

“I didn’t,” Mickie replied. “Will’s the chef around here.”

Will checked the brownies. “They could have used another couple minutes.”

“I did what you said—I took them out when the timer went off.”

“I said to test them with a knife first.”

“You said to take them out—”

“And
test
them with a knife,” Will interrupted.

“Next time, take your own stupid brownies out of the oven.”

“Next time I won’t make any.”

I intervened. “I love gooey brownies. Sylvia always overcooks them because she likes the edges crunchy. Which I think is gross.”

“That
is
gross,” said Mick and Will in perfect synchronization.

Mickie cleared her throat. “So, as you can see, we are staying put it Las Abuelitas for now.”

Will settled at the counter, grinning and cutting vegetables.

“And Will and I have agreed, no more secrets,” Mickie said. “Between the three of us.”

“How hot do you like your salsa?” Will asked.

“Um, pretty hot is good by me,” I replied.

“Will told me you think you rippled for the first time right after your mom’s death?”

asked Mickie.

She wasn’t wasting any time gathering information from me. “That’s the first time as far as I know,” I said.

“Did you find water calming prior to your mom passing?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied. “I’ve always liked water. My earliest memories are of times I was staring at the water in the creek or the ocean.”

“And you’re sure you never rippled any of those times?”

“I am sure I didn’t on at least one occasion, because Mom got it on film. If you vanish, you wouldn’t show up on film, would you?”

“No,” replied Will, guffawing. “Of course not.”

I shrugged. “It’s not like I have a user’s manual here.”

Mickie frowned at her brother and asked me to tell her about my memory.

“It was the weekend before Mom died, actually. We went to Lake Havasu for a growers’

convention. I played on the shore all weekend. Mom forgot my Donald Duck towel and I said the hotel towels were scratchy, and after I complained enough, she let me bring the sheet off my bed instead.

“I remember how the sheet sounded, flapping in the wind. I liked the snapping and

fluttering, and I liked how the water looked, and I stood ankle-deep in the lake for ninety-five minutes, mesmerized.

“Mom made a movie of me standing there with the sheet billowing out like a super-hero cape. She forgot to turn it off and that’s why I know how long I stood there. Mom set the camera down, thinking it was off, and from then on you see my feet moving in and out of the water.”

I lowered my voice. “I still dream about that day at Havasu. I thought of it as the best day of my life for like, forever.”

“It certainly sounds like your serotonin levels were elevated,” said Mickie. “I wonder why you didn’t ripple?”

I tried to remember the last time I’d dreamed of the sheet snapping in the wind and my mother’s laughter behind me. It had been awhile. My life was happier now; I needed the dream less and less.

Mickie seemed to notice my shift in mood. “Sorry if that was a hard thing to recall, Sam.

I forget to be sensitive sometimes.”

Will snorted from the kitchen.

Mickie ignored him. “We have plenty of other things to go over. There’s some

information we’d like to share with you.”

Will hummed as he chopped through a bunch of cilantro. “Sam, would you juice these

limes for me?” He stopped chopping. “Sorry. Go ahead Mick.”

He saw my eyes zip to Mickie.

“Mick and me in the kitchen together:
not
good,” said Will.

I stepped over to help. The limes scented the hot, stuffy cabin with citrus.

“You going to show her the letter before we’re senior citizens?” asked Will.

Mickie made a sound that combined growling and grunting and walked to a desk. Will

laughed noiselessly.

“Step over here when
Chef Will
decides to release you,” Mickie said.

She stood at a small, crowded table that functioned as a desk. Their home was compact; kitchen and family room occupied one room together. On the wall beside the desk I saw a map of the world. There were red dots concentrated in various countries, the heaviest concentration of dots in locations that I knew recreated a map I’d looked at before. There were lots of dots immediately north of where Las Abuelitas snuggled into the base of the Sierra. More dots in the south of France. More in Russia, Alaska, below the Nile River in Egypt. I tried to remember the connection these locations had to one another.

Mick interrupted my reverie. “This July, I began a correspondence with someone

claiming to be a friend and colleague of my former advisor, Dr. Pfeffer.”

Will chimed in. “Correspondence isn’t quite the right word, Mick.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “He began sending me information, both written and stuff on encrypted mini-drives. I’m not allowed to write him back—”

“Not that you would have, anyway,” Will interrupted.

“I only correspond with coded ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers or simple bits of information that he has me send via personal ads in various small local French newspapers.”

“Never thought I’d be using my French to write love letters for my big sister,” Will said.

“Will, stuff it, already!” snapped his sister.

“Especially to some ninety year old dude.”

Mickie closed her eyes and moved her lips like she was counting to ten.

She continued. “So here’s what we know so far. The letter-writer, Waldhart de Rochefort

—”

“I call him Sir Walter,” said Will. “You’ll see why when you get a look at his

handwriting.”

“—whom Will calls Sir Walter, used to spy on Dr. Helmann in his lab in Nazi Germany.

Apparently he was very worried about what Helmann was up to at that time. And he thinks that the current threat to carriers of Helmann’s disease began at that time.”

“What makes you think you can trust this Walter-guy?” I asked.

“Easy,” said Will. “If he wanted us dead, we’d be history already. He’s got a lot of resources at his disposal.”

“He’s probably too old to come to California and kill us himself,” Mickie said. “But he could afford to hire someone to do it.”

“Took me awhile to convince Mick on that one, though,” said Will.

Suddenly I felt paranoid about this Sir Walter. “What if he plans to kill you later, you know, like get a bunch of information from you first, then kill you?”

“I worried about that,” Mickie said. “But I’m reassured on two points. First, he point-blank refuses to let me send him any information, saying that it could be dangerous. Second, he knows all kinds of things that Pfeffer alone could have told him.”

Will added, “Like sending letters in wedding invitations, that’s something Pfeffer used to do because a wedding invitation can be stuffed full and doesn’t look interesting to someone watching your mail. And the password, Twin Rivers.”

“Where’s Twin Rivers?” I asked.

“Not
where,
but
what,
” Mick replied. “It refers to the two rivers after which Will and I were named. Pfeffer and I used to include it in all correspondence, in some innocuous way, as proof of identity and safety.”

“So Pfeffer’s not dead?” I asked.

“He’s dead,” she said, sighing. “But Sir Walter is someone he trusted.”

That sounded reassuring. I looked at the map again. “Hey, can I ask, what’s with the red dots on this map? Is that something to do with my gene?”

“It’s a map Pfeffer sent me with a bunch of other stuff right before he was killed,” Mickie said. “I don’t know what it marks. I’m dying to ask Sir Walter if he knows, but that would be breaking his rules on our correspondence.”

“Sir Walter sent us an identical map,” Will said. “Part of his proof that he was friends with Pfeffer.”

“Sir Walter wrote as though he thought I’d know what the map meant already,” said

Mickie. “The map he sent was printed on Pfeffer’s crappy Big Bertha printer. You can see where it skips in all the same places.”

“These locations remind me of something,” I said.

“The meteorites with that element, toviasite. No, no—tobiasite,” Will said. “From the Geology unit last year.”

Geology.
Right
! That was where I’d seen a map marked up like this. I’d actually
made
a map highlighting these locations. “Not meteorites, Will—gold. These are all places where significant gold mining has taken place.”

Will walked toward us. “I did a report on those meteorites. The red dots mark places they were found.” He extended an avocado-smeared finger towards the map.

“Respect the research, man!” Mickie slapped Will’s messy hand away. “Don’t you have things to finish up in the kitchen?”