Blackout

by Meredith McCardle

  “And Lockheed is ready and able to meet this increased demand,” one of the other men says. I place the big stack of my papers next to my dad. “As you know, our Polaris missiles are the most advanced technology on the market.”

  “To date,” my father says. He turns to face the military officer, who’s now staring at the other two men. No eyes on me. I swipe my father’s papers and replace them with the five I took from the top of the stack. “But I guarantee Pantheon can do better.”

  Pantheon. My head swims. That’s what Joe said in 1995. He was building himself a pantheon.

  Jackpot.

  I bet Pantheon turns out to be a subsidiary of Eagle. Eagle wants a government contract to arm nuclear submarines. Of course they do. They profit off of wars and government contracts. That’s their bread and butter.

  As I turn to go, I glance down at the top page in my hand. Pantheon is there, and under it, there’s a name. Joseph C. Caldwell Sr. Senior. As in Joe’s dad? He somehow got his father in on this?

  I need to forget Ariel and whatever he’s up to, and let him do what history demands of him. I need to get the hell out of here. I open the door. I can’t project in the middle of the White House, but it’s good to be prepared.

  I close the door behind me. I’m still dizzy. I have the evidence I need to launch the investigation into Joe and all of Eagle Industries.

  I hurry down the hall, back toward the press briefing room. I pause at the staircase where Ariel followed those men and pray I haven’t done anything here that would compromise his mission. Then I keep walking. I don’t know any other exit than the way I came in. I’m close to freedom, so close to freedom.

  But then I’m not.

  A door bangs open behind me.

  “There she is!”

  It’s my dad. He looks from me to the papers in my hand. “Stop her!” he shouts. “She must be KGB!”

  My dad thinks I’m a Russian spy? Oh no. Oh no! You do not want to be captured as a suspected KGB agent in 1962!

  Another man in a naval officer’s uniform rounds the corner from the press briefing area.

  “Stop her! KGB!” my dad shouts again.

  No! I make a hard right and tear down the stairs. Footsteps thunder after me. Lots of them. I’m going to wind up with a bullet in my back. I just need to get out of sight so I can project. My dad can’t see me project. He can’t know I’m Annum Guard. It will blow everything. He has to keep thinking I’m KGB.

  Because my dad has already seen me. Not for more than a glance and not while he was focusing, but he’s seen me. That alone could alter the course of history—the course of me.

  “Stop!” a man shouts.

  I don’t stop. I tear to the right, then to the left. There are more stairs and a maze of doors, and I’m completely lost somewhere in the West Wing. I make another right.

  “KGB on the loose!” the same man shouts. I can’t tell where he is. Somewhere behind me. “Young! Female! Dark hair! Capture immediately!”

  Doors fly open. Guns are drawn. I freeze. No! I can’t project right now. Not in front of these people. I’m screwed. Completely screwed. And then the door directly in front of me opens. One of the men I saw Ariel with steps out. I look past him. Ariel is staring at me, and I know I need help. I look at him and reach inside the top of my dress to grab my Annum Watch. It falls against my chest.

  Ariel blinks.

  I pray this decision didn’t just mess up the future. The only reason I was able to take down Alpha in the first place was because Ariel helped me in 1963. Is that timeline screwed up? What if he won’t help me then? What if he won’t help me now?

  Then I have my answer. Ariel pushes past the man standing in the doorway to get to me.

  “What are you doing?” the man yells.

  Lots of things happen at once. People rush at me from all angles. There are guns almost everywhere I look. Ariel dives into me.

  “Go!” he whispers in my ear. Then he yells to everyone else, “I’ll get her!”

  His elbow thumps into my back, telling me to go, and I duck and somehow squeeze my way through a wall of men.

  “She’s getting away!” someone shouts.

  And then there’s a shot. And another shot. And a hailstorm of bullets rains down in the West Wing. I scream and round the corner, then whip open my watch face, spin the dial, and I’m gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  Going forward wasn’t an option, so I went back. Two hundred years, three hundred years. I don’t know. I didn’t count.

  I land in a heap on the ground. I’m panting and gasping. The papers! I still have the papers. The ones that link Eagle Industries to Joe Caldwell. Well, that will link him with a little more investigation.

  I force myself to take a breath and look around. I have no idea when I am, but I’m in a very primitive version of DC. There are a few small buildings, houses, and churches, and I’m standing in an open field where the White House will be built . . . at some point in the future.

  I run. I ignore the men in white powdered wigs, the women in long, sweeping dresses, the children playing with wooden toys in the streets. The cries, the protests. I ignore all of it. I don’t stop running until I’m alone and gasping for breath again.

  Good enough. Then I pull out my watch and project to 1975. I pick the date at random. I need a time before there were airport screenings because I don’t have any ID on me. I need to hop a plane and get back to Annum Hall. Get back to Abe. I feel like my entire life is riding on this.

  I’m now standing in front of the Washington Monument. It’s five in the morning. There are cars on the street and joggers on the sidewalks, but it doesn’t look like anyone saw me project.

  I book it to a sidewalk and raise my arm for a cab. Any cab. I just need to get to the airport. Annum Hall. Annum Hall. I have to get to Annum Hall. I have to trust that Red reached my teammates first. But what if Colton escaped? I still have his watch safe in my pocket, but what if Tyler found him somehow? What if . . . no. I didn’t even think about the possibility that Colton might have a tracker! If they’ve moved Abe and the others, I might never see them again. Not after what I did.

  Colton now has a vendetta against me. What if he took my teammates back hundreds of years—the seventeenth century, the sixteenth century, the fifteenth century? I could be seventy by the time Abe makes his way back to me. He might never catch up. There’s a lump in the back of my throat and I retch.

  No. Positive thoughts. They’re fine. They’re all fine.

  I wave my hand in the air, and a cab stops. I press my evidence tight against my chest and hop in.

  “Where to?” the driver asks.

  “The airport. An airport. I don’t care which one. Dulles or Reagan. I just need to get to Boston as soon as possible.”

  The driver’s brow furrows. “Reagan? What’s that? Do you mean National?”

  “I . . . um . . . yes.” Stupid me. Of course the airport isn’t named Reagan yet. He wasn’t the president until the eighties. “I’m a little flustered. I just need to get on a flight.”

  The driver looks at me for another second. His expression is mostly one of distrust, but there’s a hint of compassion peeking through. I prey on it. Time to pull out the big gun, the one that hasn’t failed me yet.

  “I have to get to a funeral. Immediately.”

  That does it. The driver turns and shifts the car into gear. The old-fashioned gearshift is up by the steering wheel. “National’s gonna be your best bet. They have more flights.”

  I murmur a thank you, then watch the trees blur as we head down the highway. Again, I have to wait for the ticket counter to open. I pace around. My training is failing me. I’m all in my head and I can’t shut off the voices. The voices telling me I’ve lost, that Colton won, that Abe is gone, that I’ll never see him again.

  By the time the counter opens, I’m frantic.

  “I need to get to Boston,” I pant to the ticket agent. Uniforms have changed since the sixties. Her skirt
falls to her knees. She doesn’t budge, so I throw out a “funeral.”

  “Oh,” she says in a soft whisper, then issues me a ticket on a seven a.m. flight. I run to the gate, even though I still have an hour to kill.

  By the time we board, my hands are shaking.

  The flight feels four times longer than it actually is. The second we reach the gate, I push my way through the other passengers so I’m the first one off the plane. I ignore the stares and the comments. I know I’m being rude, but I don’t care. I’m on a mission.

  Literally.

  I lock myself in one of the bathroom stalls and pull out my watch. I click the knob on top that will send me to the present, and before I know it, I’m in my time. I have no idea what day it is, how much time I lost. Is it July? August?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I cut to the front of the cab line. I push right past a businessman stepping off the curb and launch myself into the car.

  “Funeral!” I bark, but I don’t bother to apologize. “I need to get to 34 Beacon Street now! By the State House!”

  “Beacon Street?” The driver turns to look at me. Why isn’t he driving yet? “Ain’t no funeral homes on that stretch of Beacon Street.”

  I give him a stern look. “It’s a private memorial service.”

  We’re off. I press my knees together and bounce my heels on the floor of the car. Up and down, up and down. Close. I’m so close. Indigo’s still weeks behind, but maybe if Red got Abe right away, we’re both caught up. He might be there waiting for me.

  I manage to keep it together as the driver pulls up in front of Annum Hall.

  I run up the steps. The door is unlocked. There’s no one in the foyer. I run into the living room. Where is everyone? I spin in a circle. Yellow is sitting in the library, her nose in a book.

  “Yellow!”

  She looks up at me and wrinkles her nose. “What?” She sounds annoyed.

  “Did you find them? Blue, Indigo, the others?”

  “What are you blabbering about?” She goes back to her book and mutters, “Drama queen.”

  I blink. Once. Twice. It’s like she has no idea what I’m talking about. And she’s acting like the Yellow I first met, not the Yellow who’s my friend.

  The pop of gunfire erupts in my memories. Wait. What if—

  “Hello,” a voice says behind me. No. It can’t be.

  I turn.

  It is.

  Alpha smiles. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”

  I choke. “What . . . what are . . . I don’t understand.”

  His smile widens. “Rough trip back?”

  “Where’s Abe?” I sway slightly.

  “Abe?” he asks.

  “Stender,” I say.

  “Like Ariel Stender?”

  “Yes! Like Ariel Stender!”

  Alpha purses his lips and stares at me with intense eyes, and I’m reminded how intimidating he is. Or used to be. I don’t understand what’s going on.

  Alpha squares his shoulders. “How did you find out about Ariel Stender? That’s classified information.”

  I don’t say anything—can’t say anything.

  His voice is firm. “I’m not sure why you’re asking about Ariel Stender. If you know about his existence, you must know he’s dead. He died on the very first Annum Guard mission.”

  I hear the sounds again. They’re so loud, like they’re not just in my mind anymore. The thunder, the popping, the gunfire. Ariel is dead?

  But—no. That means he never met Mona—he never had children—he never—

  Abe.

  And then everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER 32

  I open my eyes. I’m still, but only for a second. Then everything comes rushing back. Ariel. Abe. A scream bursts from my lips before I can stop it.

  The door flies open, and my mom is at my side. Her arms are around me, and she pulls my head into her chest.

  “Amanda, shh, it’s all right. Everything is all right. You’re home.”

  I’m in my bed. In Vermont? They took me back to Vermont? How? When? I’m so confused. I want to yell at my mom for everything she’s done, but I don’t. She’s warm and comfortable and everything I need in this moment. I sink into her arms. My hands slide around her waist. Her fuller, curvier waist. She’s wearing a long skirt and a tank top. A little roll of flesh peeks out over the top of the skirt. Her wavy hair hangs down her back. It smells like shampoo. I feel how strong her arms are around me.

  She’s better. She got better. How is that possible? I don’t know if I care.

  I pull her closer. “Mom, I think I had the most awful dream.”

  She smooths my hair and leans down to whisper in my ear, “It wasn’t a dream, Amanda. I don’t know what happened on that mission of yours, but you’re never going on one like that again. This was not part of the agreement. Your father’s already heard an earful from me.”

  My . . . what?

  I pull away from my mom and look around. I’m in a bedroom, but it’s not mine in Vermont. It’s not my room at Annum Hall either. There’s a pale-aqua duvet on the bed and a folded pile of clean clothes in front of the closet. There’s a giant butterfly mural on one of the walls, and a window that looks out over—

  I gasp and rush to the window.

  I’m staring at Commonwealth Avenue, at the park that runs the length of the street, splitting it north and south. I’m in a brownstone on Comm. Ave. The most expensive street in Boston.

  Do I . . . live here? I look down at a small white desk under the window. There’s a neon-pink picture frame set on top of it, and I snatch it up. It’s a picture of me and a bichon frise sitting in front of a Christmas tree. I set the picture down next to a notepad that has “AMANDA OBERMANN” printed on top, right next to six yearbooks lined up on the desk, all with “Phillips Andover Academy” printed on the spine. A painting hangs over the bed. It’s the scene of a sailboat gliding across a blue Mediterranean.

  I do. I do live here.

  Ariel is dead. Alpha is alive. My dad is . . .

  “Did you say my dad?” I ask as I look back at my mom. She smiles at me with her big peridot eyes.

  “He was at the Hall, but he’ll be home soon.”

  “I . . .” I what? I don’t how to end the sentence. I don’t even know how to start it. How did I even get here?

  She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. My very healthy, very stable mother.

  “Are you taking your meds, Mom?”

  She lets out a throaty laugh. “Like you even need to ask? I take the same combo. Every day. Just like always, baby.”

  “I think I need to be alone for a little bit,” I tell her. My head is spinning. Everything is spinning. I can’t focus on anything except that boat above my bed.

  “Of course.” My mom drops her hand from my shoulder. She’s almost out the door when she turns back to me. “But I’m serious. No more missions like that.” And then she smiles again. “And the law requires that you listen to me for about three and a half more months. My baby girl—almost eighteen. Crazy.”

  She shuts the door. I stare at it.

  What the hell did I do?

  I have a mother. I have a father. I have—I look toward my closet full of clothes and shoes, then to the Mac laptop on my desk—things. Nice things. Do I have brothers and sisters?

  A phone rings, and I look toward the desk. I spot it right away. It has a turquoise case, and the screen is lit up. I grab it. Incoming call from Jess. Who is Jess? Do I answer or ignore?

  I have to answer.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Dude, what happened to you today?” The voice is female, and it’s familiar. “Did the Molasses Disaster take a wrong turn or something? I mean, I knew it was going to be intense, but—”

  “Hang on. Violet?”

  There’s a quick laugh on the other end. “Well, I guess if you want to be all formal about it, Iris. Seriously, are you okay? You don’t crack like that. Your dad’s go
ing to flip. I mean, he already has. He left here like twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been trying to find a sec to call and give you the heads up. You may have escaped today, but you’re in for one hell of a debriefing tomorrow.”

  A debriefing. Of course. Because I arrived back in the present completely confused and asking about someone who’s been dead for like fifty years. I sink down onto my bed. Alpha’s smart. I have to imagine my dad is, too. They know something is up.

  “Amanda.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Are you okay? I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. It was just like you said. The Molasses Disaster was a little more intense than I was expecting. But I’m fine. Promise.” I hear voices in the hall.

  My father is home.

  “I gotta go,” I say. “Thanks for calling. I—” There are footsteps heading toward my door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hang up as my door opens. My father stands in the doorway, and my heart is beating so loudly in my chest I don’t know how he doesn’t hear it. He’s staring at me, really looking at me, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. This man is a stranger to me.

  “Hey, Princess,” he says. “Rough day, huh?”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  He smiles. It’s warm and relaxed. “We’ll talk about it in a bit. I picked up dinner. Spicy miso soup and a mango, salmon avocado roll, just for you.”

  What do I say to that? I’ve never eaten sushi before in my life, and I can’t even think about food right now.

  “Okay, great,” I say.

  My father is still smiling. He raps the door with his knuckles—once, twice. “Your mom’s going to meet with Leslie”—who?—“so it’s just you and me tonight. Come on. We don’t have to talk about the Molasses Disaster if you don’t want. It can wait until tomorrow.”

  I can’t get a read on this man at all. What did Violet say? That he flipped? The man in front of me is calm and collected. Is this a test? I’m so confused. Should I follow him? I think I should follow him.

  I push up off the bed and follow my dad down a hall lined with paintings and into a kitchen that opens into a living room. The kitchen is sleek and modern, with white cabinets, a six-burner gas stove, and a stone backsplash. The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Comm. Ave. There’s also a gallery wall. I recognize my mother’s signature on a few of the paintings. I stare down the hall, toward another open door that must lead to my parents’ bedroom. I hear mom softly singing a Madonna song that was popular before I was born.