“They should’ve taken one of you, or Mickie, to add a cool head to the bunch,” Syl was saying to Gwyn.
Sam’s eyebrows rose. Sylvia wanted people to run into danger?
“I can’t ripple,” said Gwyn sadly. “Or believe me, I’d have gone.”
“They should have taken you anyway. Or Mickie. All that testosterone….” Sylvia shook her head as she scooped a cookie onto the sheet. “In my opinion, the world would be a much better place with less testosterone.”
Gwyn stifled a giggle and Sam waited for her to say something inappropriate. In a startling display of good taste, Gwyn said nothing.
“Although,” continued Sylvia, “I guess we wouldn’t have syllaberries without it.”
“The syllaberry has … testosterone in it?” asked Gwyn, looking appalled.
“Oh, no,” said Sylvia, laughing. “It’s just something Dave told me. After Sam’s mom died, the thing that really helped him was finding a cause he believed in. Did you girls know that only 3% of our nation’s farms are owned by Latinos?”
“Did not know that,” said Gwyn.
“Yes,” said Sylvia. “And the numbers used to be worse, before Dave and some other farmers won a suit making it easier for women and Hispanics to get seed money.”
“I remember Dad getting really worked up about that,” said Sam, taking a fingerful of cookie dough.
“Well, he decided he was going to prove a Latino farmer could make a go of it, and that’s what drove him to develop the syllaberry—his hormone-fueled desire to compete and win. And now, two-thirds of all strawberry farms are owned by Hispanic farmers. Your father was a part of that, Sam, for which we can thank testosterone.”
“That certainly puts Ma’s syllaberry pies in a new light for me,” murmured Gwyn. Then, looking at her phone, she uttered a squeal as she read an incoming text. “It’s Chrétien,” she said, grinning. “He says they’ll be refueling in Florida on their way to the Canary Islands and arriving in the wee hours—well, our wee hours.”
Sam felt her chest constricting. “I’ll feel much better when they’re back home.”
“Change of topic,” said Gwyn, firmly.
Sylvia stepped in, asking about the reconciliation of the Li family, and Gwyn carried the conversation after that.
But Sam found herself thinking about her father and how he’d channeled his energy into helping Latino farmers after the loss of his wife. Maybe Sylvia was right. Maybe Sam needed to do something more proactive to keep herself from brooding. As unlikely a remedy as it sounded, maybe painting was just what she needed right now.
23
CONSUMED
When it came to Katrin, things weren’t going well for Georg. In fact, relations between the two were strained enough that Georg had yet to demand his office back. He was afraid of her response if he asked her to move out and live in the dormitory quarters with everyone else. This was in spite of the fact that he loved his office and his privacy very much.
But he craved Katrin’s approval so much more. He wanted her to love him the way she had when they were small. Why couldn’t she just accept that Skandor was dead, that the world had moved on, and it was time for her to move on as well?
For the first week, Georg had allowed Katrin to mope, had tried, even, to offer her comfort. It turned out he wasn’t good at this.
Next he thought perhaps inspiration would help her. It had helped him after he’d lost Hansel, hadn’t it? So Georg planned a special dinner to be shared between only the two of them. And while Katrin picked at her food, Georg unfolded for her the wonders of his discoveries and the genius of his Great Work.
“Do you not see the beauty of it, Katrin?” he asked when she remained silent and listless. Where were the accolades, the commendations, the smiles of approval? Doubt set up residence in his heart.
“Katrin?” He spoke her name softly this time, and something in the childlike tone of his voice must have roused her.
“I can see it makes you happy,” Katrin said at last.
“Yes,” Georg replied tentatively. “What we do now will affect the lives of all who live and all those yet to be born. It is a very great good we will bring about. We are bringing about the single greatest leap forward in human history, are we not?”
“Perhaps,” said Katrin. “I’m sorry, Georg, but I’m not feeling well. I want to sleep.”
Sleep? Sleep? Katrin wanted to sleep after Georg had bared his hopes and his life’s work to her? How could she not see the enormity of what he proposed? How could it fail to move her?
As these thoughts flashed through his mind, Katrin rose and shuffled to her tiny cot in the corner.
Georg felt a burning sensation behind his eyes. Was it … was he crying? He would not cry before her. He vanished and took himself miles from where Katrin slumbered, uncaring, unkind, and he howled to the wide sea in silent anguish.
From that time forward, Georg found himself more easily irritated, more frequently moody, and more than ever consumed by his obsession with the girl who lived in his office, hardly ever raising her sad eyes to meet his.
24
ABOUT TO GET REAL
The flight to Tenerife in Sir Walter’s privately hired jet brought back memories Will wished he could forget. Memories filled with Sam and her kisses and the bliss of discovering she loved him.
Even when he was able to shove these memories aside, there was love-stricken Skandor, ready to remind Will of the pain of loving someone you couldn’t be with.
Beside Will, Skandor woke with a small start and rubbed his eyes. “Hey,” he said, consulting his phone. “We must be nearly there, huh?”
Will nodded. “Chrétien’s started listening for the sound of Georg’s thoughts, and I know he has to be close to do that.”
Skandor nodded. “Hmm….” Then he shook his head.
“What?” asked Will.
“Oh, you know. Katrin. Does she still feel anything for me?” Skandor wiped his hand over his face, embarrassed. “Geez. I’m sorry, man.”
“No worries,” said Will.
“It’s not that I need her to throw herself in my arms,” said Skandor. “It’s more … I just need to know she’s okay. And I don’t trust Georg. He’s like this … okay, so you’ll laugh, but I used to think of him as, like, this evil dragon who kept watch over Katrin.”
Will did laugh.
Skandor shrugged. “I think lots worse things about him, now, though, I can tell you.” Skandor’s stomach growled loudly.
“There’s cold pork chops in the back galley,” said Will. He’d eaten four already.
Skandor shook his head. “No way can I eat. I’d just puke it back up.”
Will laughed. “I get that. If the tables were turned….” He didn’t finish the thought. He’d been in Skandor’s shoes. Worried about whether he could save Sam from Helmann or not. Something constricted in his chest. But at least then, he’d known she loved him. He’d had that. He stood up and began stretching his tight calves. He had to think about something else.
By the time Will’s calves were stretched, Pfeffer was pointing out landmarks to Chrétien. Skandor was gazing silently out the window by himself. Will joined him.
“Wow,” said Will. “We’re almost there.”
“That’s Tenerife?” asked Skandor.
“That large one’s Tenerife. The one with the volcano.”
“It’s not what I was expecting,” said Skandor. “I guess I was thinking more … desert island. Flat with a couple of coconut trees or something. That coastline is crazy.”
“It’s a lot like the Napali coast in Hawaii,” said Will. “Which makes sense, since they’re both volcanic islands. You can see which end gets most of the clouds and moisture though.”
Skandor nodded. “And we’re heading to the green end.”
“Yup,” replied Will. “Well, technically we’re heading for the airport, after which we’ll travel invisibly over to the, uh, green end.”
Skandor nodd
ed.
The descent was swift and dramatic. Will supposed anything involving a looming volcano would have to be classified as dramatic. This was about to get real.
“I’m ready, man,” said Skandor. “So ready to land a good one on Georg.”
Will nodded. Earlier, Skandor had described his workout routine, which included forty minutes of sand-bag punching.
“All this is assuming we manage to disable Georg’s ability to ripple, of course,” muttered Skandor.
“And here we are,” said Dr. Pfeffer as the jet hit the runway, reverse engines shrieking.
“Bring it,” murmured Skandor.
The group remained inside the aircraft for ten minutes of silence while Chrétien tried to find Georg’s voice among the hundreds of thousands of people on the island. Will grew bored and went to stand on the stairs, basking in the noon sun. Back home, it would be around sunrise. Pfeffer came and stood beside Will, enjoying the fresh air as well. Eventually Skandor joined them, too, but the added weight made the stairs groan and Skandor retreated after a minute, apologizing.
“Dude’s freaking huge,” muttered Will.
At last, Chrétien called for them and they returned inside.
“Forgive me, but I hear Georg not. Perhaps he is no longer on the island. Or, perhaps Mademoiselle Samantha was right when she chided me last year for teaching Georg to more completely conceal his thoughts.”
“We’ll find him,” said Pfeffer, looking soberly out the windows. “We know within a twenty kilometer radius where he has to be hiding, and we have the advantage of surprise on our side. Shall we begin?”
25
SNAPPED INTO PLACE
It was Raoul who had pointed out to Georg that Katrin was exhibiting classic signs of depression. Raoul had sent Georg links to articles about depression, and Georg had concurred: Katrin was depressed.
So he’d coddled her. He’d asked what sorts of fruits she liked best, what dinners she preferred. Did she have a favorite brand of coffee? She’d laughed at him over that question. When, she demanded, would she have been at liberty to develop a taste for one brand over another?
Georg bristled at the hidden accusation, but he kept his feelings hidden. Politely, he asked if she wanted to accompany Owen on an upcoming shopping excursion.
“No,” she said, her voice dull.
Next, Georg had tried to cheer her by spending time (valuable time) taking her on a sightseeing trip around the island. In Taganana, she’d tasted canary wine and eaten local goat cheese at a little café for tourists, but if she cared for it, she didn’t say so to Georg. Her mood lightened slightly when they continued down to the beach. The tide was out and the black sand stretched hundreds of meters, flanked on either side by mountains that looked like they’d been drawn by children, exaggeratedly sharp and steep.
“It’s so lovely,” she said, gazing at the receding tide.
When Georg dug for more, for an exhibition of gratitude, perhaps, she grew silent.
She was probably thinking of that idiot security guard again.
So the days passed.
Katrin moped. Georg fumed (silently) and coddled (repeatedly), instructing Owen to pick up something nice for Katrin on his grocery run.
But when Owen returned, it was not with “something nice for Katrin.” It was with news of a most unwelcome nature.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” said Owen, “but I would swear I saw Uncle Pfeffer down at the airport an hour ago, when I picked up the rental truck. I loaded the groceries we ordered and drove back here crazy-fast, to tell you.”
“Uncle Pfeffer?” asked Georg. His heart began to race in response to the unwelcome suggestion.
“Well, it sure looked like how I remember Pfeffer.”
“Was he alone?”
“He was with a skinny, dark-haired boy, standing on the stairway of a private jet. Another man joined them—he was huge. Over six feet. Blond and bulked up. I rippled and got as close as I dared to try to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.”
Georg ran a hand through his hair.
“If it was Pfeffer, then you did the right thing,” he said, fussing with his phone, scrolling through images he’d saved. “Is this the man you saw?”
Owen looked carefully. “That’s him.”
“Pfeffer.” Georg uttered the name as if it was a curse.
“The same uncle who attacked your siblings last year?” asked Owen.
“Yes,” replied Georg. “And now he’s come for us.”
The color drained from Owen’s face.
Georg frowned. “I want you and Raoul and the others to pack up everything we need to begin Operation Chameleon.”
“We need a day to print up the safety advice we discussed, before we can start the operation,” said Owen. “We could do the printing down in town, rather than stay another day at this facility.”
“We won’t spend another day on this island,” snapped Georg. “Not with Pfeffer here. We depart immediately. We can print flyers at each location on an as-needed basis.”
Owen nodded in agreement. “We’ll start packing.”
Owen strode off, barking orders.
Besides the flyers, Georg had only one task that stood between him and the beginning of Operation Chameleon. He placed a call, ordering the immediate delivery to their first destination of ten large water storage tanks fitted with solar-powered filtration systems.
That task accomplished, Georg’s fears clamored for attention. Dr. Pfeffer was on the island. Accompanied by friends from Las Abuelitas, California. And while Owen wouldn’t have recognized Skandor Dusselhoff, Owen’s description of a hulking young man made Georg’s blood freeze. Katrin must not be allowed to find out.
How had they been discovered?
But really, it didn’t matter how. All that mattered was escape.
~ ~ ~
Katrin had been introduced to the others as Georg’s special friend, whose health had prevented her from joining them earlier. She didn’t bother to correct Georg’s version of the story. Raoul was the only one whose presence she found tolerable. She’d thought of leaving, but where would she go? Georg was all she had left.
If Katrin had overheard the conversation between Owen and Georg, she would almost certainly have recognized the description of Skandor. But she didn’t; she was napping. Sleep was the only certain way to push back against the growing depression into which she found herself sinking. There were days when she cried until she ran out of tears. It was so unfair that the beautiful, generous-hearted boy had died. So unfair she hadn’t been there to save him.
But today something woke her from her nap. It was the sound of boxes and large pieces of equipment being dragged over the cement floors.
She stirred. Sat up. Sighed and stretched and wandered out of her room. Owen and some of the others were loading cartons onto a dolly.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“We’re packing up. Moving on. It’s time to put the plan in motion,” said Owen. “Georg’s orders.”
“Oh,” she said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded dull and flat.
Katrin had a tight knot twisting in her stomach. Georg was so sure of himself. Katrin didn’t have the energy to tell him she thought he was crazy. Honestly, she’d thought they must be years and years from implementing Georg’s mad scheme. She should have roused herself to tell him what she thought.
She waited until only Raoul was in the room. “Raoul,” she called.
He walked over to her. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Georg’s orders.”
“You can’t seriously think Georg’s plan is a good one.”
Raoul shrugged. “I think it offers hope for a world that is overpopulated and environmentally overtaxed.”
“I think Georg is crazy,” muttered Katrin.
Raoul smiled. “They said that about Gandhi, too, you know.” He leaned closer. “Actually, you looked just like Günter and Friedrich when you said that.”
Katrin’s brow furrowed. Günter and Friedrich. “Günter and Friedrich?” she asked.
Raoul’s face paled. “Georg’s brothers. I wasn’t supposed to mention them to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re my brothers, too. We were raised in the same family group. Why aren’t they here helping Georg like the rest of you?”
“They’re going to school in France. Nice, France. They … they didn’t wish to leave their studies.”
“That sounds like the brothers I remember, all right,” she said, rolling her eyes. Those two had plowed through every book Mutti could supply them with, always demanding more.
“Please don’t tell Georg I told you about them,” said Raoul. “He specifically forbid me from ever saying their names in front of you.”
Katrin glowered, staring at the wall past Raoul. “I’ll bet he did.”
Something inside her stirred. And then something inside her snapped. Or maybe, snapped into place. She was done living here with Georg. He wasn’t the brother she remembered. Not anymore. Or maybe she’d changed. One of them certainly had. It was time to strike out on her own. Maybe she would visit Friedrich and Günter and tell them of Georg’s mad plans, to see if they thought he could be stopped. Of one thing she was certain: she was done with Georg.
“I won’t say anything to Georg about what you told me,” she told Raoul. “You shouldn’t say anything either. He’d … he might hurt you.”
She waited until Raoul had left the room, carting several computers outside. He left his own behind. No doubt Georg had told him he wouldn’t be needing it in the brave new order of things to come.
Katrin dashed from the room. She slipped her feet inside shoes and tugged on a windbreaker and thought about her next move.
She heard a crunch, crunch, crunch of volcanic stone outside her door. Georg. Coming to talk to her, no doubt.
Well, she didn’t want to talk to him.
She opened the door, surprising him, and walked off the opposite direction.
“Katrin,” Georg called.
Katrin could hear the way he modulated his tone. He wasn’t happy to see her walking away from him. He must have come to talk about the move.
Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7) Page 11