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“Indeed,” replied Sir Walter. “There is, I believe, hope for me yet.”

Eventually, last night’s interrupted sleep caught up to me and Mick. We crashed out, and the next thing I was awake for was crossing the border into France. With fake passports—proof that deceitfulness had its uses.

“I propose that we make a stop in Nice,” said Sir Walter. “My cousin has leased a building there rather closer to the
Musée National Marc Chagall
than makes me content.”

He then explained we might actually be able to learn what use the buildings were being put to, seeing as this one had been acquired a couple years back.

Sir Walter had a new plan for keeping Mickie safe, as well. “I like it not that we must abandon you for so many hours at a time, my dear. I propose placing you invisibly within the walls of our hotel during the hours we must be gone.”

I shook my head, ‘cause no way was my sister going for that.

To my shock, she nodded and said, “Okay. Good idea.”

I turned to her. “Who are you and what did you do with my sister?”

She looked down, her long lashes hiding her eyes from me. “It’s the least I can do,” she murmured. “One less thing for you to worry about.”

“Thanks, Mick,” I said. “And, by the way? It’s really relaxing, hanging inside a wall.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Chrétien told me about it.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“I placed Chrétien within the walls of my family’s castle following the death of his wife and daughter,” said Sir Walter. “For nearly four–hundred years he rested there.”

“Dude!” I exclaimed. “Four–
hundred
years?”

“He wished to end his own life,” said Sir Walter. “I convinced him instead to rest, to heal.”

“Still,” I said. “Four–hundred years … What about eating and sleeping?”

“Those are only required when one moves about as a chameleon,” replied Sir Walter. “However, if one is still, it is possible to remain indefinitely invisible.”

That made sense. “So what convinced him to, um, come out of hiding?” I asked.

“I asked him to protect the life of
Mademoiselle
Sam, explaining that she is like a long–lost grand–daughter,” said Sir Walter.

I felt a sick gnawing in my stomach, wondering if Sir Walter secretly hoped Chrétien would “heal” by falling in love with Sam. I seriously couldn’t let myself start thinking like that. Only how do you get rid of that sort of idea once it moves in?

Sir Walter put us up in a really swank hotel with crystal chandeliers and marble everywhere. One great thing about Nice was we got to try a local special,
Salade Niçoise
.

The salty black
niçoise
olives tasted so good you kind of wanted to keep gnawing on the pits. Unfortunately, you couldn’t take more bites and gnaw at the same time. I popped out a pit in my hand, setting it on the white tablecloth beside two others.

“Could you be any more cave–man?” murmured my sister.

I was glad to see Mick’s sarcasm back, ‘cause it freaked me hanging around the version of my sister that cried and apologized for everything.

Following dinner, Sir Walter placed Mick into a really nice patch of very ancient stone wall. Then we rippled and took off toward Helmann’s building. Like the structures surrounding it, this building had red roof tiles and was painted off–white. There was absolutely nothing special about it, except for the location.

Helmann, like his former associate Herr Hitler,
said Sir Walter,
would like nothing better than to obliterate the art of the Jewish people. Along with their race, that is. He is disturbed by how the beauty of Chagall’s work calls to the hearts of so many nations.

Sick bastard
, I wrote.

Quite.

The inside of the building appeared every bit as empty as the one we’d viewed near Paris. We started with our zig–zags on the ground floor. We’d nearly finished the third level when Sir Walter spoke, sounding excited.

Pass before me,
he commanded.
As if in a circle.

We were holding hands, facing the same direction. I didn’t really see the point, but there’s times it’s better to just do what Walter de Rocheforte tells you. I swung out in a little half–circle ‘til I must’ve been facing him.

Okay
, I wrote,
now what?

You noticed nothing unusual?
He asked.

Nada,
I wrote.

Reverse the motion,
this time lending your full attention to what you can sense.

I raised up one hand in this “whatever you say, dude,” gesture even though obviously it wasn’t like he’d see me do it. But when I brought my hands back down it made me think of something.

I had five senses, right? So I already knew Sam and Sir Walter killed me on smell and taste. But I’d always been able to
see
stuff just fine when I rippled. I could
hear
just fine, too. That left one last sense: touch. And me and Sam were both good at noticing what something
felt
like.

This time, when I wheeled out around Sir Walter, I extended my free hand and held all the fingers out wide.

I kind of noticed something. Like the air was gooey or super–thick.

What the heck?
I scribbled on my note–pad. Then I moved ahead and back several more times. That was some freaky air right there.

What’s wrong with the air?
I wrote.
Why’s it all thick and moist?

I believe we have discovered something of importance. Pass through me, Will, and tell me what you notice.

I had a sick feeling I knew what was here in the building with us. Which was confirmed when I walked “through” Sir Walter’s invisible body.

It’s the same,
I wrote.

Indeed
, he said.

So Helmann’s stuffing these buildings with corpses, you think? Like some creepy Nazi cemetery?

That is no corpse,
replied Sir Walter.
It is a living being before us. It may even be the body of a Geneses employee. I do not think Helmann would go to such lengths to dispose of his enemies.

Dude,
I wrote, as quickly as I could.
Stop talking! It’ll hear you!

Indeed, I have been attempting communication, but with no success
, said Sir Walter.

You want to talk to it?

I would welcome the chance to discover anything that might reveal to us my cousin’s intentions. Unfortunately, the person you have encountered seems to slumber. It is impossible to be certain, without bring him into solid form, but I can hear no active thoughts, no trace of conversation within the mind.

I thought of something worse than being overheard. Pulling hard on Sir Walter’s hand, I yanked us back several feet.
What if it—uh, he or she—knows how to do that thing you did with getting the bullet out?

Pardon?
Sir Walter sounded confused.

It’s just, I don’t want someone from Geneses that close, you know. Like, what if that person reached inside me and yanked out my heart, you know?

Sir Walter chuckled.
Be at peace in that regard, my young friend. Firstly, because you are thinking of two entirely distinct actions: the removal of an object which does not belong in your body is quite different from the removal of an object which is knit to you by a thousand strands, even invisible. Secondly, it is extremely unlikely that this individual has received training in this area of expertise.

Again with the chuckling. I didn’t see anything funny about it.

My cousin Helmann never mastered the art as did I. As children, during an exceptionally snowy winter, we played at a game of my invention, Helisaba—that is, Elisabeth—Girard, and myself. I would hide a small object within the walls of the castle and the other two would seek it out. Never could Girard find the object, save with the help of Elisabeth. After a few tries, he refused to play, saying the game was impossible.

Years later, he sought me out to teach him this ability, which came easily to me. I attempted to teach my cousin how to trace the air in search of subtle differences in its texture, or its weight, or its moisture–content. None of these could he perceive. He scorned my lessons and accused me of lying about things that were not possible to detect.

Loser,
I wrote.
It’s not like it’s even that hard.

Ah,
said Sir Walter,
for you, it is possible, but for my cousin, it was supremely difficult. Think of your own abilities: you can see and hear clearly, but you say that odor is difficult for you to sense.

Oh,
I wrote.
Yeah, I guess. I can’t taste, either, like Sam can.

In any case, my dear young man, I am quite certain Helmann’s enormous ego would never permit others to learn what he himself has no mastery over. In addition, it took me many centuries to develop the skills I possess. I do not exaggerate, Will, when I say that I have never met nor heard of anyone who is my equal in this area.

I didn’t need any convincing in this department. I couldn’t imagine training my fingers to detect what was invisible–bullet and what was invisible–flesh.

Okay,
I wrote.
So this person’s not going to come screaming at us and pull our brains out. Got it. But what’s Helmann sticking live people in empty buildings for, anyway?

This, I do not understand,
said Sir Walter.
But I intend to discover. And Will? There are five bodies stored here.

PINACLE OF RESPECT

·
SAM
·

I crunched mournfully through a bowl of Sylvia’s homemade granola. Missing Will had become an ache that pressed upon me without mercy and without respite. It was another six days before our every–other–Friday phone call. I’d passed the half–way mark yesterday.

Sir Walter was taking no chances that anyone would be able to figure out that any of us were connected, or important to one another. “Your danger would increase significantly if my cousin suspected you to be in league with me,” he’d said. Sir Walter had checked where my parents’ long–distance phone calls came from. He’d acquired phones registered to owners in those locations. Not fail–safe, but at least calls from Nayarit, Mexico or Ontario, Canada wouldn’t stand out as unusual to anyone who might be monitoring calls to my family.

I shuddered.
Monitored
described me all too well.

Sylvia was keeping a close eye on me, too.

“What is it? Did I overcook the granola again?” She pulled the lid off the half–gallon jar, sniffing the cereal.

“No,” I said. “I’m just not in a granola mood, I guess.” I carried the bowl to the sink.

Sylvia caught something in the way I shuffled.

“Aunt Flo here for a visit?” she asked.

I guffawed. Syl had a million ways to describe menstruating, and none of them involved the word “period.” She opened the freezer and pulled something out.

“You need chocolate,” she said. “Lucky for you I froze some chocolate croissants from Bridget’s last fundraiser.”

Chocolate croissants sounded good. Really good. I sat back down at the kitchen island as my stepmother clattered through a narrow cupboard of baking sheets, lined up on end. She found the one she wanted for re–heating croissants. Then she plunked two more on the marble in front of me. Warped from use, the pans rocked back and forth, chattering to one another in the quiet kitchen.

“After croissants, we’re making double–chocolate chocolate–chip cookies,” she said, smiling.

“Bet you don’t miss having your period,” I said, figuring I’d just go with her assessment of the cause of my doldrums. I remembered the day I’d asked her why she and my dad didn’t have a baby. I was eleven and longing for a sibling. Sylvia had told me of her first husband’s vicious abuse, how he’d landed her in the hospital with heavy internal bleeding. “
They took out all my baby–making–parts to stop the hemorrhaging, sweetie,
” she’d told me. “
They saved my life, and got me help to leave the relationship, but only after he’d destroyed something infinitely precious.
”

Across from me, my step–mother frowned, clutching a sponge. “Do I miss the aches and mood shifts? Not so much. But, the power to reproduce …” She applied the sponge to a stubborn spot on the counter. “Something irreplaceable was stolen from me, Sam.”

I swallowed. Eerie coincidence, Sylvia’s choice of words about her abusive first husband.

“Promise me you’ll never grant anyone that amount of power over you,” said Sylvia, crossing over to rub my back. Then she sighed. “Sorry for the heavy. Turning forty–one must really be getting to my biological clock. It seems more final than forty, somehow.”

I turned to hug my step–mom. “You still managed to become a great mom, you know.”

She smiled, blinking back tears, and kissed the top of my head. “And you’re a great daughter, Sammy.”

Down the hall, Christian opened his door, keeping up the illusion that he spent his nights downstairs.

“
Ooooh–la–la
, that’s more like it!” Sylvia said, all signs of sorrow brushed aside. “Now you’re a handsome California
hombre
.”

Christian flushed. Sir Walter had provided his son with contemporary clothing, but it had been contemporary for
Paris
, not central California. Sylvia had recently suggested a trip to La Perla, Las Abs’ one and only retailer of clothing. I had to admit the fit of his new jeans was an improvement over the hyper–fashionable Parisian jeans. He looked friendlier, somehow. Less of a stand–out in our homogenous town. Not standing out was good.

“Gwyn dispatched unto me an electronic messenger,” announced Christian as Sylvia passed him a croissant.

“She
texted
you,” I corrected. So much for not standing out.