This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  Wes frowns. “But how would your grandfather have seen or talked with him, if he was brain-dead and under surveillance by the Project?”

  “I don’t know. How could my being in the past affect McGregor’s outcome? What is the mark of the time traveler?” I drop the paper back down and press one hand to my forehead. “I’m so sick of all these questions.”

  We’re sitting on a bench on a narrow side street. Every now and then, people walk by and yellow cabs pass, but it’s like we’re in our own world, hidden from the crowded, noisy city.

  “You like answers.” I can hear the smile in Wes’s voice.

  I drop my hand and look up. “Of course I like answers. Who doesn’t?”

  “You’re kind of obsessive about it, though.”

  I bristle at his words. “Well, I want to be a journalist. It comes with the job.”

  He tilts his head, his dark eyes finding mine. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s fascinating, to watch you try to puzzle all of this out.”

  I feel myself start to blush, and I look down at my lap. “Life was a lot easier when I was interviewing cheerleaders and writing exposés on cafeteria food. This is a little out of my depth.”

  “Lydia.” His voice is low. “I’m so sorry that you got caught up in all this. If I hadn’t—”

  “Saved my life?” I cut in. “Wes, you haven’t done anything but help me. I don’t regret what happened. I . . .” I hesitate.

  He breaks the moment by sitting back quickly and picking up the clear plastic bag. “What’s in here?”

  I sigh, but take the bag from his hands and open it slowly. “I think it’s the stuff Grandpa had on him when he was brought in to Bellevue.” I sift through the shoestrings and the belt, knowing that they took them from my grandfather so he wouldn’t try to hurt himself, and pull out the only other item—Franz Kafka’s novel The Metamorphosis.

  “I read this in tenth grade.”

  Wes takes it from me and examines the cover. “What’s it about?”

  “This guy wakes up and realizes he’s been turned into a giant insect. And even though he feels the same on the inside, everyone is disgusted and starts to treat him differently.”

  “What happens to him?” He hands it back to me.

  “He kills himself, to spare his family from having to deal with him anymore.” My fingers clench around the paperback, until I’m almost bending the spine in half. “I guess it makes sense why my grandfather had it, huh? He didn’t wake up as a cockroach, but the world can’t relate to what he became.”

  “Lydia . . .”

  I shake my head. “I’m okay.” I flip through the book to distract myself. My grandfather has written in the margins here and there, and I realize it’s a pattern: SO4N2H11C9OC9H11N2O4S. The same one he wrote over and over in the journal I found on Lydia 2’s desk.

  Why does he keep repeating the same sequence over and over? What does it mean to him?

  I find something else toward the back, tucked in between the pages. It’s a folded newspaper clipping. I pull it out and set the book aside, aware that Wes is watching me closely.

  I open the crumpled paper. It is a clip about a rally that took place near Riverside Park on the Upper West Side. I scan the words, but they mean nothing to me.

  In the bottom corner there’s a small, grainy photo. I hold it up higher, angling it toward the light. It’s a picture of the rally, with groups of people marching past a large building. There are wide steps leading up to an ornate front door. It looks like a hotel, but I can’t really be sure. A man stands near the entrance, wearing a fancy uniform and a small hat. I squint at his face and turn to Wes in horror. The man in the photo looks exactly like Dean Bentley.

  CHAPTER 10

  Why would there be a picture of Dean in a newspaper clipping from February 10, 1989? I shove the paper at Wes as my mind races through the possibilities. Is it even him? Maybe it isn’t.

  “That’s Dean.” Wes’s voice sounds resigned, and I wonder if he can ever be shocked by the Project anymore.

  “How is this possible? Why would a soldier from World War II end up working at some hotel in nineteen eighty-nine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I gather all of the papers and stuff them back into the folder. “We have to find this place. We have to talk to him. Maybe it’s just someone who looks a lot like Dean.”

  “Maybe,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he believes it. “Seeing this might be what sent your grandfather to Bellevue.”

  I stand up. “Or what made him come to New York in the first place. He left Montauk around the end of February. He was hunting his father.”

  Wes stands too and faces me. “But the question is, did he find him?”

  “If he did, then wouldn’t Dean have recognized him?”

  “Not if he was brain-dead after his trip through the TM.”

  “But why would he be working as a doorman if the TM destroyed his mind? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And it also doesn’t explain what ‘the mark of the traveler’ means.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I look down the street, at the quiet brownstones and the green, canopy-like trees. “And I don’t know if it’s connected to McGregor. I don’t want to pull you away from your mission, but . . .”

  “But this is something you have to do,” he finishes. “I understand, Lydia. It’s your family.”

  “I can do it alone, if you need to focus on McGregor,” I offer, but he shakes his head.

  “I think all of this is connected to McGregor. It’s not like we’re chasing down some false lead.”

  “True.” I tap the folder against my leg. “I wonder if McGregor knows what ‘the mark of the traveler’ means. Maybe my grandfather mentioned it to him too.”

  “I think it’s time we talk to McGregor. It seems like his losing the election had to do with your grandfather in some way, which had to do with the reason he ended up in Bellevue—”

  “Which had to do with us being in nineteen forty-four,” I finish. “But that’s not information you can bring to your debrief with General Walker. Not without giving us away.”

  He tilts his head. I was right—his gel has officially given up and a piece of black hair falls down into his eyes. He brushes it away with a quick movement. “No, but there could still be another reason he loses his election. We won’t know until we talk to him.”

  “We should talk to McGregor first, then. If he’s not connected to all of this”—I sweep my hand out, indicating Grandpa’s files—“then we might as well close that door before we go see Dean.”

  Wes gives me a look. “Are you sure you’re not just avoiding Dean?”

  My heartbeat picks up at the thought of seeing Dean again. I may have had a hand in his disappearance, but if it really is him in the photo, then at least I didn’t get him killed. But still, to see him again and remember that moment when he disappeared into the TM, and the pain of imagining him ripped apart in time. To think of how it must have affected Mary and her parents and Lucas, forever left wondering what happened to him.

  “I can’t decide if I want it to be Dean, or if I don’t.” My voice is quiet.

  “It’ll be okay, either way.”

  It’s not a promise he can make—I know that—but it doesn’t stop me from smiling at him as we stand up and head toward the subway.

  We can’t bring Grandpa’s files with us to visit McGregor. They’re too bulky and too obvious—the name Peter Bentley is printed all over them in large red letters. If McGregor sees them, he’s bound to get suspicious. It’s not an aspect of the butterfly that I’m willing to chance, and Wes suggests we drop them off at his old home in the subway.

  “Are you sure you want to go back there again?” I ask him as we walk down the sidewalk. “I know it was . . .” I search for the right word. “Hard for you.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s fine. I like the idea of using it like it still belongs to me.”

  I touch his w
rist lightly. “Let’s go then.”

  We take the subway back to 103rd Street. The station is different during the day, buzzing with life and noise and energy. It is harder to sneak onto the tracks; we have to wait for a train to come and go, until the platform is mostly empty.

  We move quickly through the underground tunnels. No trains pass, but I hear one far away, rumbling the walls next to me and causing small pieces of dirt to fall from the ceiling down onto my hair.

  When we reach Wes’s hideout, he pries open the outside door for me and I duck into the long hallway. I move forward, not waiting for Wes to join me. But as soon as I clear the other doorway, I skid to a stop.

  The room isn’t empty. Two people are sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall. They stand up as soon as they see me.

  Wes comes up behind me more slowly. He’s moving with that deliberate prowl, probably sensing long before me that we weren’t alone in here.

  “Yo.” One of the intruders steps forward.

  As he says it I recognize the boy who called to us in the street. His black hair is closely cropped, and he has a neat line shaved along one side of his head, twisting up around his right ear and ending at his temple.

  The girl is still with him. She’s standing near the wall, watching us with narrowed eyes. Wes moves out of the doorway and stands next to me.

  “I knew it was you.” The boy grins widely with bright white, crooked teeth. His features are just a little too blunt to be handsome, though the corners of his mouth naturally tilt up, as if at any moment he’s about to break into a grin. “Where have you been, man?” He steps closer to us, his arm outstretched.

  “I think you’re mistaken.” Wes’s voice is so cold that even I shrink away from him a little bit.

  “What are you talking about? It’s me. Tag.” The boy laughs a little. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

  Wes is silent.

  “Come on, man. Tag. Remember Izzy and Little Pop and Jake? You’re here, aren’t you?” He gestures around the darkly lit room.

  What is he talking about? Could Wes know this person?

  The girl eyes me. She stands with one leg thrust in front of the other, her arms crossed. She sees me looking and her mouth twists, like she just tasted something sour.

  Tag is shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Wes, man. I know you remember. Where the hell have you been?”

  My mouth falls open. He knows Wes’s real name. I thought I was the only person in the world who knew Wes’s identity before he was taken in by the Project.

  Wes was kidnapped in 1984 when he was only eleven years old. If he had stayed in this time period, he would be . . . sixteen in 1989. The age Tag appears to be now. This kid is someone from Wes’s old crew, someone who recognizes him even after all these years.

  I look up into Wes’s face. He’s still frowning, but there’s a spark in his eyes I’ve never seen before. He recognizes this person, probably did from the minute Tag started yelling at us on the street. But all of his training is forcing him to deny it. To push away anyone who might try to get close to him.

  My hands curl into fists. I refuse to let him keep closing himself off. Not from me, or from Tag, who cares enough about Wes to track him down here.

  “Wes,” I say softly. He tears his gaze away from Tag and looks down at me. “It’s okay.”

  Tag and the girl are watching us, but I tune them out and rise on my tiptoes so I can whisper into Wes’s ear. “No one has to know if you remember him. The Project will never find out. You can have a piece of your old life back.”

  I rest my hand on his chest for leverage as I lean closer to him. I feel his heartbeat under my palm. “It’s okay.” I repeat the words, breathing them into his ear. “You’re not alone anymore. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Long dark eyelashes sweep across his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut. He sighs and I feel the tension leave his body in a heavy rush. His hand comes up and fists in my hair, holding me close to his chest for a minute. Then he lets go and steps back.

  “Tag.” His voice is rough. “I remember you.”

  “Of course you remember me, man. Who could forget Tag?” He steps closer and holds his hand out.

  Wes hesitates for a second before he reaches out. The boys slap palms, bump fists twice, then pull their hands back with their fingers spread wide.

  A secret handshake that neither forgot.

  Laughing, Tag slaps Wes hard on the back. He’s about six inches shorter than him, and he has to reach up to clasp his shoulder. “It’s good to see you. Where you been?”

  “It’s a long story,” Wes responds. He sounds different—he has the slightest New York accent that wasn’t there before.

  “I haven’t been down here in years.” Tag does a small spin, taking in the pile of blankets, the single overturned chair. “Not since you left. We’re mostly all downtown now. No wonder we haven’t run into you, if you’ve been crashing up here.” He gestures toward me. “This your girl? She’s fly.”

  Wes doesn’t answer. I look down at the dirty floor. There’s a silence that should be awkward, but Tag laughs through it. “Yeah, man, you haven’t changed. Still all quiet and shit. Don’t let anyone know your business.”

  I turn to Wes in surprise. I thought his stoicism was something the Montauk Project instilled in him, but maybe Wes always kept his emotions to himself.

  “This place is whack.” Tag wrinkles his nose at the blankets in the corner. “You can’t stay here. Come crash with us. I’m pretty set up right now. Squatting over near Avenue D. Rigged up electricity and everything, man. You got to see it.” He looks over his shoulder, suddenly remembering that he didn’t come alone. “Nik, get over here.”

  The girl slides forward. She’s not exactly pretty, but her sharp features and her large brown eyes give her an innocent, appealing quality.

  “This is my old pal, Wes. We used to hang with the same posse. Wes and me known each other since we were practically babies.”

  “That so?” Her voice is high and a little squeaky. Kind of like a frightened bird. She keeps her arms crossed and her mouth pursed as she stares at Wes and me. All attitude. It’s a strange contrast to her cartoonish voice and cherubic features.

  “Wes, this is Nikki. She’s been hanging with me for a while.” Tag hooks his arm around Nikki’s neck. They’re about the same height and both rail thin.

  “This is Lydia.” I feel Wes’s hand touch my shoulder. It’s so different from the way Tag curls Nikki into his body that I glance away, swallowing hard. When I lift my eyes, I see Nikki watching me carefully. She gives me a knowing look before she turns back to Tag.

  “Nice to meet you, Lydia.” Tag grins. There’s something infectious about it, and I find myself smiling back at him.

  “You too.”

  “So what’ll it be?” Tag asks Wes. “You gonna stay in this shit hole, or you gonna come back to our crib?”

  Wes and I exchange a glance. We’re supposed to be visiting McGregor. But we have five days before our time is up. And Wes has been alone for so long . . .

  Wes’s mouth is drawn, and I know that he’s about to turn Tag down to focus on our mission.

  “We’ll come,” he says.

  I jerk in surprise.

  Tag grins even wider. “Wicked. Let’s go now. LJ’s on dinner tonight, and he always manages to find the good stuff.” He takes Nikki’s hand and leads her to the exit.

  Wes turns to follow them but stops when I grab his arm. “You agreed to stay with them, just like that?”

  “Do you not want to?”

  “No, I mean, I do, but . . .” I push my hands up through my bangs. “It’s just not like you. To agree so quickly. I thought I’d have to talk you into it.”

  He smirks at me, a very un-Wes-like look. “Well, now you don’t have to.”

  He disappears through the door. I stare at his back, wondering what’s gotten into him. That strange moment with his eyes twitching, that manic look whe
n he was dragging me toward the subway, and now agreeing to put off the mission? Wes is not acting like himself.

  But if it means he’s willing to open himself up to his old memories, is that necessarily a bad thing? Maybe he doesn’t need to rebreak the bone like I thought. Maybe he’s healing all on his own.

  We walk up through the East Village and turn onto a side street off of Avenue C. I edge closer to Wes as we pass homeless kids in roving gangs, old men passed out in doorways, and drug dealers camped out on every corner. They shout at us as we pass. “Coke, smoke? Coke, smoke?” they shout when we walk by.

  The buildings on both sides are tall and imposing, throwing deep shadows across the sidewalk. Most of the windows are smashed out or have thick metal grates over them. It already feels like night here, though the sun hasn’t even set yet. I see a drag queen in a huge pink wig tottering down the concrete in stiletto heels. She disappears into a sunken doorway.

  Tag and Nikki stop in front of a large brick building. It looks like an abandoned tenement, with several stories and boarded-up windows and doors. Graffiti, bright and garish, sweeps across the light-colored brick.

  “This is it.” Tag points at a basement window, where two wooden boards have been pried off and tossed to the side.

  Nikki goes first, crawling through the small space. She disappears into the blackness beyond.

  Wes walks forward and braces one hand on the frame as he slides in the window. The fluid way he folds his body is too graceful, too perfect. It’s easy to see that he has been trained in some way: no one is born able to move like that.

  I turn to see Tag watching the spot where Wes disappeared with narrowed eyes. “I guess he’s learned some new moves.”

  Before I can say anything, Wes calls out, “Come on, Lydia.”

  I slide through the window, and Tag follows. The dark room around us is filled with junk—empty bins and crates, old furniture covered in dusty tarps. The only light comes from the cracks between the boards that cover all the windows.

  “This way.” Tag leads us through a doorway and to a tall staircase. We climb up three flights. I can’t see much, just the impression of small hallways and battered doors. The entire building smells stale, like moth-eaten sweaters or an old basement.