Chapter Thirty

Egyptian Silk

Dennis looked at himself in the hotel mirror. He moved the disposable razor over his scalp, removing the last bit of hair from his head. He was ready to be someone else. He toweled off the remaining bits of shaving cream and took another good look at himself. He was surprised to see himself smiling. It made sense, seeing how he had never been happier. He had also never been more sinister. As a general rule, sinisterism is usually not that happy a thing, but Dennis was so new to it, he couldn’t properly interpret his feelings. He dried off the top of his bald head and looked back at Sabine.

Sabine was sprawled out on the second bed in the hotel, looking like a ghostly black towel. All the lights were turned off, aside from the small one in the bathroom. Sabine preferred the dark. Dennis had worn him in as a robe, and now Sabine was trying to feel sinister despite the elegant, thousand-thread-count sheets he was lying on. Luckily for every wicked cause he was a part of, he was perfectly sinister, whether sleeping on satin or in soil.

Dennis had no answers as to what his future held, but he and Sabine felt that heading toward the spot where the gateway had been located was as good a move as any. With Dennis’s help it might be possible to build a new and better gateway. Dennis picked up the fanny pack and pulled out the crippled body of Ezra. He looked at what he now saw as the pathetic little tyrant and wondered where he would be now if he had ordered a piece of pizza instead of the sandwich Ezra had been in.

“Need to look at what you did?” Ezra seethed, his speech weak and airy. “Broke a defenseless toothpick in half.”

Dennis pinched Ezra tightly. There was still some feeling of anger and hatred in the sliver of wood, but Dennis knew that most of the passionate hatred the toothpick had once housed had been transferred to himself.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Ezra coughed weakly. “You don’t have the stomach. You gutless—”

Dennis didn’t let him finish. He jammed Ezra back into the fanny pack and zipped it up.

“No stomach?” Dennis said to himself. “We’ll see.”

He splashed water on his face and approached Sabine, who was still sprawled out on the bed.

“I want to know what Foo is,” Dennis said.

“Why?” Sabine hissed from his small mouth at his far corner.

“How can I build a gateway without knowing where it leads to?”

“Foo is paradise,” Sabine seethed. “A paradise that is being withheld from people like you.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Dennis said, trying to sound bold. “And this gateway?”

“It will be the hope of millions,” Sabine lied. “You will be a hero to millions.”

Dennis liked that.

“And what about this Geth that Ezra spoke about?”

Sabine hissed and then breathed in very slowly. “Don’t think of Geth,” he demanded. “He will be dead before you get there. My other half will see to that.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Dennis asked.

“That’s a perfect thing,” Sabine hissed. “One less wall to knock down before we can have it all.”

Dennis liked that too.

Dennis flicked off the bathroom light and climbed into the other bed. They had an early flight to catch. Dennis slept soundly in his white shirt with the bank sticker and his wrinkle-proof pants—getting ready for whatever lay ahead.

ii

Tim didn’t understand a word of German. People wearing felt hats and drab clothes just stared at him as he walked down the street, trying to figure out where he was. He had taken a taxi from the airport, but the cabbie had dropped him off at the wrong spot, insisting that he was where he had asked to be.

Tim was confused. He needed the train station, but all he could see were houses and a few small businesses. He stepped into a tiny delicatessen and bought a bit of cheese and bread with some of the money he had exchanged at the airport.

“Excuse me,” Tim tried. “Train station?”

The owner of the shop looked at him as if he had just let a pack of monkeys loose in his store.

“Trains?” Tim said again.

The owner wiped his hands on his apron and pointed to the west. “You go,” he insisted.

Tim couldn’t tell if he was being instructed to leave or given directions.

“Thank you,” Tim said, backing out. “Guten Tag,” he added, trying to be gracious.

The German shopkeeper just shook his head.

Tim walked down the street in the direction he had been pointed. Germany was so green and beautiful, with honest-looking people. He couldn’t believe he was here. If someone had asked him two weeks before where he would be today, he never would have guessed.

Tim was happy collecting trash. Now here he was halfway across the world, working off a hunch to find Winter and a boy named Leven. As with the trash he collected, he couldn’t wait to figure out the story behind what remained.

After walking two miles, Tim found the train station. He walked in and looked around as if the answer might be right there.

It wasn’t.

Instead, there were rows of wooden benches in the middle of the depot and people walking back and forth trying to catch trains that would take them someplace they would stay until they went someplace else.

Tim walked through the crowd and up to the ticket window. Behind the glass sat a skinny woman with braided hair and crooked white teeth. She smiled, which took Tim by surprise.

“Do you speak English?” Tim asked, smiling back.

“A bit,” she said, still smiling.

“I read about the situation that happened here a couple of days ago,” he tried. “People flying around.” Tim waved his arms in the air as if to demonstrate.

Her smile left.

“Were you here?” he asked.

“No,” she said solemnly. “But Herr Wondra.” She pointed to a ticket window four glass panels down. “He was here.”

“Thanks,” Tim said.

He slipped four windows down and found himself facing a man with no smile.

“Do you speak English?” Tim asked.

“Of course,” he answered curtly.

“You were here during the incident?” Tim asked. “When people were flying around?”

Again with the arms.

The German man sniffed. “I was,” he said sharply. “This is a result,” he added, lifting up his right arm to show off a cast. “I hurt it flying through the ice.”

“Ice?” Tim asked, the hairs on the back of his neck dancing like a bunch of uncoordinated teenagers.

“Glass,” the man corrected. “I flew through the glass.”

“Not ice?” Tim questioned.

“Some of the glass may have . . . melted,” he finally admitted, looking around as if concerned that others would overhear. “I flew through this glass,” he said confidentially, pointing toward the pane of glass he was behind at the moment. “The glass, it . . . broke, and I fell on my arm. I was scared to be getting up. That I might get
cut . . .” He paused to see if Tim understood.

Tim nodded, “Of course.”

“But it wasn’t glass,” he continued. “There was water everywhere and the glass was melting. I took one day off,” he said shamefacedly.

“Only one?” Tim said sympathetically.

The ticket master liked that. “I’ve never missed another day in my life,” he declared proudly.

“So it was the heater that caused all the mess?” Tim asked.

“Certainly not,” the man said, sticking out his strong German chin. “No heater could do that.”

“So what happened?”

The ticket agent looked as though he were thinking, but he obviously already had the story down. “It began while I was in pursuit of a young American.”

“Girl or boy?” Tim asked.

“Girl,” he said, as if proud of his memory. “She was in tears and wanting to travel to Berchtesgaden. I remember, because I have spent many weeks there.”

“What did she look like?” Tim asked, trying to stay calm.

“Wild, blonde hair,” he sniffed. “Young. Stubborn, of course.”

“Of course,” Tim said, his pulse racing. “And this Berchtes-
gaden . . . ?” he prompted.

“Proof that God prefers Germany,” the ticket agent said proudly.

“Did she go there?” Tim asked.

“How should I know?” the agent said suspiciously. Suddenly he was far less friendly than he had been. “Why all the questions?” he asked.

“No reason.”

“Are you traveling somewhere?” the agent asked, switching to a professional tone. “If not, please step aside.”

“Actually,” Tim said, “I would like a ticket to this Berchtesgaden place.”

The ticket agent didn’t smile. It was apparent from his eyes that he was suspicious and concerned about all he had said. He straightened himself and brushed back the sides of his hair, as if physically regaining his composure.

“Your papers, please,” he finally said.

Tim handed the man his passport, happy to oblige.