Back in the entryway, Wes takes a sharp turn toward the Final Debriefing room. It’s a smaller space than Outfitting, with one metal desk and multiple chairs. Wes and I both sit down. There are a series of buttons in the middle of the desk. He pushes one of them, then sits back in his chair.
I covertly study him as we wait. He’s wearing a blue-striped button-down that clings to his chest. A sports jacket is slung over one shoulder.
The door flies open. Wes jumps to his feet, and I mimic his actions. A man enters the room. He is middle-aged, though wearing it well: his hair is mostly brown, with streaks of gray at his temples, and the creases surrounding his eyes suggest that he smiles often.
He drops a file down onto the desk. “Eleven and Seventeen?”
“Yes, General Walker.” Wes’s words are quick and robotic.
“The results from a District Five city council election in New York City have changed. The original time line has a John McGregor winning by a landslide. In this new time line, he loses by a small margin. The election is won by a young candidate named Alan Sardosky.” The man sounds as though he’s reading off of a grocery list.
“Yes, General.”
“We’re sending you to New York City. Today is August eighth, nineteen eighty-nine. Up until this point, McGregor has been ahead in the polls, but something changes in the next few days. He loses momentum and stops campaigning aggressively, allowing Sardosky to inch ahead of him. By the time the election takes place, in October, he can’t catch up. We need to know what happens near August eighth to affect his performance.
“As you know, time isn’t always a neat package. Someone could have bumped into him in the street differently for some reason. But I want to know why and when that happens. You’ll be trailing McGregor and the people he associates with in these few days. Consider this an intelligence mission. It goes without saying, you do not do anything to further alter the time line.” He flips his wrist up and checks his watch. “Right now it’s eighteen hundred hours. You’ll be brought to the Center at nineteen hundred hours. Get the weapons and money you need before then.”
He taps the file once, a muted sound. “Seventeen, you understand why you’ve been tasked to go with Eleven?”
Seventeen. He’s talking to me. “Yes, General Walker,” I say. The man finally looks up and his eyes scan my face. He stares at me for a minute, his mouth smoothing into a frown. Does he know I’m not her?
I want to sweat, to blink rapidly, to rub my palms together, but I fight against every instinct. After a minute, the general drops his eyes and I almost sigh in relief. “You were the one who discovered the error in the time line, and because of that we’re allowing you to aid this mission. We haven’t concluded whether or not you were the one who created this error in the first place. You will be watched by Eleven. Any misstep, and you understand the consequences.”
“Yes, General.” I force the words from my throat.
“Fine.” He pushes the file across the desk toward us. “In this document you’ll find McGregor’s current address. Memorize it.”
Wes flips open the folder and we both lean over. There are several papers inside, but the one on top is a blank sheet with a handwritten address on it: 32 New Street, Apartment 14D.
I repeat the words over and over in my head.
General Walker reaches over and snaps the file shut. “You’re both free to go. Since you’ll be in the city, you can stay at the Center. Your mission may take you elsewhere, but you need to report back here within six days. I expect a debrief by the fourteenth.”
Six days to be with Wes. Six days to figure out how to get both of us free of the Montauk Project.
Wes turns to the door and I follow him. I can still feel the General’s hard stare on the back of my neck long after we leave the room.
CHAPTER 6
The gun is an anchor in my pocket, weighing me to the seat. It bumps against my hip every time we hit a rough patch in the tar, and I cannot get used to its presence—not even after being on the road for almost an hour.
Wes is quiet beside me. Up front, a guard in jeans and a plain T-shirt drives the nondescript van. Before we left the Facility, we stopped at the Cultural Integration room, where a soldier gave us money and subway tokens. In the Weaponry room, they issued us both guns. I have never shot a gun—I’ve never even held one except for in the time-machine room in 1944—but now I have one pressed to my side. And I’m expected to use it if things go wrong.
I lean my head back against the seat and struggle to keep my eyes open. I barely slept last night, and I’ve been riding a sharp wave of adrenaline and fear since I left my bedroom. Only now can I feel the heaviness of the past few hours settling down on me.
But I can’t sleep yet, not while the guard keeps looking at us in his rearview mirror. I sigh and rest my hand on the seat next to Wes’s leg. My fingers are spread out and reaching, wishing I could span the few feet that separate us. We haven’t spoken to each other since we were in the woods at Camp Hero. We’ve hardly even looked at each other. I know that the distance is necessary, but it’s still hard to be right next to him, unable to talk or touch.
I turn my head to look out the window. We pass a convenience store. The cars lined up by the gas pumps are all lower and longer than what I’m used to. They’re sharper too, without the rounded edges that make modern cars look like oversized bugs, and the colors are duller—beige, gray, a faded blue.
I feel something move over my finger. It’s so light that I think it must be a spider crawling on my skin. I jerk my head to the side, ready to swat it away. Only it’s not a spider, it’s Wes. He is resting his hand next to mine, so that the very tips of our pinkies touch.
I look down at our hands, then up at him. He’s facing straight ahead, his expression empty. It’s a look that used to scare me; he seemed so removed and closed off. But now I bite my bottom lip in an effort not to smile and I turn back to the window, hyper aware of the small place where our skin meets.
The sun is starting to set when I finally see the New York City skyline on the horizon. It is far enough away that it looks like a postcard: the buildings in lower Manhattan tower over the harbor, where clouds etched with purple wrap around the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.
My eyes are caught by something in the sky. Above all the other buildings, I can see the twin shapes of the World Trade Center.
I make a noise in my throat, and Wes gives me a warning look. I press my lips together to stay silent, though I don’t tear my gaze away. I’ve seen pictures of what New York looked like with those two towers, but I’ve never seen them in person.
I can’t help thinking about what’s destined to happen here in twelve years, and I want to stop this van and grab a random person on the street and warn them. I know I can’t, though. The knowledge that there’s nothing I can do, no way I can help, is like a lead ball in my stomach.
We keep driving west through Queens and over the Kosciuszko Bridge. Brooklyn appears in front of us, a sprawling mass of low buildings and factories. Large smokestacks line the highway, pumping black clouds into the sky. We pass an apartment complex that is falling in on itself. It is like a skeleton: the exposed steel frame is its broken arms and legs, the hollowed-out windows its empty eye sockets.
Since New York City is only a few hours away from Montauk, Hannah and I used to take the train in for the day to go shopping or hang out around St. Marks Place. We’d buy cheap jewelry in the crowded shops or books from the street vendors. We were usually home before dark; my grandfather always worried about me spending too much time in the city alone.
But I have never seen New York like this.
We drive over the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. The structure is made of beams so intricately placed they look more like lace than metal. Every surface is covered in graffiti, brightly colored names and pictures that overlap one another.
On the other side, we merge onto the highway that runs along the East River. Traffic is light,
and it doesn’t take us long to reach our exit. We drive under a small overpass, and I see the rounded, prone shapes of people lying beneath torn blankets and newspapers. It is almost like a village in this hidden place—ripped pieces of cloth form walls and ceilings, attached to overturned shopping carts and cardboard boxes.
A pair of street signs says 125 ST and MALCOLM X BLVD. Harlem. We pass the Apollo Theater, the red letters glowing on a muted yellow background. Our driver turns left on Fredrick Douglass Boulevard. Every other building has blackened or boarded-up windows. I can see a group of teenagers break-dancing on the corner. A crowd has formed around them, and everyone claps to the music pouring out of a boom box.
Soon the streets become cleaner, narrower. The buildings seem taller, made of gray stone and curling Baroque cornices, and there are fewer people lining the sidewalks.
Central Park starts to the left of us, and tall green trees tangle together above the stone wall bordering it. This far north the park is wilder, with no carefully manicured lawns and ice-skating rinks.
The driver pulls over near 100th Street and Central Park West. Wes and I both step out onto the sidewalk. The second the door shuts behind us, the van pulls away.
It is not yet fully dark, though the streetlamps have come on, sending a warm glow onto the pavement. I glance up at the large stone buildings above us. It seems an odd place for a government facility to be.
“Is this the Center?” I whisper to Wes. There is no reason for me to be so quiet—we’re practically alone on the street. But after the hushed, secretive environment of the Facility, it feels strange to speak freely.
He smiles slightly. “No. It’s over there.”
I look to where he’s pointing. “Over there? You mean Central Park? Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s under the park. There’s an entrance at One hundred and sixth Street.”
“But . . . that’s . . .” I sputter.
“Crazy, right?” He smiles fully this time and I see the dimple in his cheek. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since 1944, and I smile back at him.
“Have you heard of the Central Park Conspiracy?” he asks.
I nod. “They created a huge underground city. I remember Grant talking about it. It’s supposed to be up to seven hundred acres and was used to hide all kinds of government officials. Even Hitler. They think his suicide was a cover-up, and that the government brought him here to contain him instead.” I drop my voice again. “Is it true? Did it really house Hitler?”
Wes looks taken aback by the question. “No. There is a large bunker down there, but it was built for the Montauk Project.”
“I guess the conspiracy wires got crossed.”
Wes opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What is it?”
“Grant . . . told you about this?”
I tilt my head at him. “Yeah. So?”
“Nothing, I . . .” He looks away from me.
“Grant was my—Lydia’s—boyfriend in this time line,” I say carefully. “I assumed you knew about that.”
“I did.”
“Well—” But I’m interrupted as an older woman walking a very small dog passes us. The dog yips at my ankles and I step back to avoid getting bitten.
“Sorry,” the woman apologizes. “He’s usually so friendly. Aren’t you, Pookie? Aren’t you?” She leans down and makes a kissing noise.
“No problem,” I mumble. But the moment between Wes and me has passed, and for the first time I realize how exposed we are out here. This area might not be very crowded, but we should probably get off the street.
I take Wes’s arm and pull him back, away from the woman and her dog. “Are we sleeping in the Center tonight?”
He nods, clearly distracted by something.
“Is there anything I need to know? Like any laser body scans you might have forgotten to mention?”
He straightens at my accusing tone. “I’m sorry it scared you. They were scanning for your tracking chip, not for our identity.”
“This Center . . . what’s it like? Will anyone recognize that I’m not Seventeen?”
“No. There are two wings—the training area and then the quarters for recruits and soldiers. Recruits can come and go as they please from that section.”
“I don’t understand.” I don’t bother hiding my frustration. “If you can come and go as you please, then why don’t you all just leave?”
“And go where?” Wes’s voice is detached. “I told you this before—most of us never had a family, and those who did have forgotten them long ago. There’s no point in guarding something that wouldn’t escape even if it could.”
“But you do have something to escape for.” My voice is rising, and I see a young couple turn to look at us.
“Lydia, they will find me. I never have more than a few days out of the Facility, and then only for missions. You heard the general—we have to report back in six days. And it better be worthwhile information, or we’re as good as dead. If we don’t show up, then they come looking. And when they find us they kill us or make us wish we were dead.” Wes is maddeningly calm.
“There has to be a way,” I say harshly. “We will find a way.”
His mouth tightens the smallest bit, but he doesn’t answer. We stand there staring at each other.
He is the first one to break the silence. “Come on, we need shelter for the night. Tomorrow we have to start investigating McGregor.”
I thought he brought me here so we could figure out how to break him free, not so he could complete General Walker’s mission. But I don’t push it, at least not yet. Instead, I say, “Fine,” and follow him across the street.
On the other side, I step closer to him and our arms bump together by accident. It’s the first time we’ve really touched in hours, and the contact makes him stop walking abruptly. I turn to face him. A heavy lock of black hair falls across his forehead, impervious to the gel he put in earlier. I slowly lean up to brush it away.
He peers down at me, his brows drawn. Then he grabs my arm and pulls me along the sidewalk.
“I thought the entrance was the other way.” I have to shout the words. He’s walking so quickly that wind whips across my face and pulls at the pins holding back my hair.
“There’s something I need to show you.”
“Wes, wait.” I tug on my arm until he’s forced to stop or let go of me. “You have to talk to me.”
His eyes are wide, and his skin seems stretched too tightly over the bones of his face. He seems to be vibrating with energy. It’s so different from how he was a few minutes ago that I tense, afraid something is wrong.
“I used to live near here.” His voice sounds the same, and I relax slightly. “Do you remember what I told you by the beach?”
I think back to our conversation that night in 1944: the open door of his jeep, my knees almost touching his stomach as he leaned toward me. “Yeah,” I say, a little breathlessly. He said he was living in an abandoned subway station uptown with some other orphans.
“I want to take you there.”
“Won’t they miss us at the Center?”
He shakes his head quickly. “The general will track us using our chips, but even he understands that these missions can take you to unexpected places. We can’t always get back to the Center to sleep. As long as we don’t disturb the time line, it doesn’t matter. But we don’t have to . . .” His voice falters, and that strange gleam leaves his eyes. “We can go to the Center now, if you want. It’ll be dark soon.”
I take in the stiff way he’s holding himself. “This is important to you, isn’t it? You want to show me your home.”
He looks down at the uneven cobblestones at our feet. “It’s not really a home, not like you know it. But it’s the place I remember the best. We stayed there for years. I missed it, after they took me. And . . . I want you to see where I’m from.”
I put my hand over his and hold on tight. “Take me there.”
Th
e station is dirty and brown—tiles are falling off the walls and the paint is chipped. Wes and I slip our subway tokens into a metal slot and go through the turnstile. There are people all around us; a train must have just arrived. I feel the ground rumble and vibrate as it departs.
It smells like sweat and urine, and I try not to breathe as we walk all the way to the end of the platform. Up ahead is a wall and some stairs that disappear down onto the tracks. Wes looks over his shoulder, but there are only a few people standing near the turnstiles and none of them are paying us any attention. He quickly hops down the steps. I take his hand and follow him into the underground subway system.
It is even hotter down here, like black pavement in summer that spent all day in the sun. Sweat gathers along the back of my neck. I want to fan myself, but I also don’t want to let go of Wes’s hand—the only thing guiding me through the dark.
We travel along the edge of the tracks, on a narrow stretch of dirt close to the wall of the tunnel. There are tall black columns every few feet, and we skirt around them as we walk.
“As long as we stick to the right side we’re fine,” Wes whispers to me. “The third rail is the only one that’s electrified.”
“What happens if a train comes?”
“We die.”
His words startle a laugh out of me, and the sound echoes through the enclosed passageways. “I seriously hope you’re kidding.”
I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Don’t worry. If a train comes, we’ll have enough room to squeeze against the wall and wait it out.”
He stops talking as we reach a fork in our path, where the rails twist in different directions. “Careful. There are some live wires here.”
A dim yellow bulb overhead sheds a small amount of light onto the ground. It’s not much, but I can see Wes’s feet as he steps around the interlocking metal rails. I slowly trace his path, using his hand to steady myself.
After a few more minutes of walking, we come upon a door set in the wall not far from the tracks. It is rusted and partially falling off its hinges. Wes pulls it open enough for me to squeeze through, and I crawl into a long, skinny room covered in graffiti and grime. The air smells sour and heavy. There’s a small, faint light set high in the ceiling and another door at the far end.
This Strange and Familiar Place Page 6