The Eighth Guardian (Annum Guard) Page 11

  I’m not aware of my sharp intake of breath until my lungs burn. Eight Xs. I count all of them twice. They’re the computer equivalent of taking a big black marker to a piece of paper and scrawling the word redacted on top. A truth I don’t get to know.

  I rest my head in my hands before I look back at the screen. My dad’s date of birth is listed, too, as well as his date of death. Dates I already know. Information I already freaking know. My breath chokes inside my throat, and I look away. This page isn’t going to tell me anything. Just like the dog tags.

  A surge of anger shoots through my body. Anger at the injustice of the whole thing. Anger at how helpless I feel. I’ve worked so hard to make sure I’d never have to feel helpless again, but in this game of life, the house always wins. Screw the house.

  Still, a small part of me hopes there’s even one useful nugget of information. I look back and keep reading.

  Educational Background

  Johnson School, Natick, Massachusetts.

  Coolidge Junior High School, Natick, Massachusetts.

  The Peel Academy, Upton, Massachusetts.

  United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland.

  And now I sit up straight. My dad did go to Peel. I mean, I always suspected he did, despite the dog tags—because how else would I get in?—but you never know. Peel doesn’t exactly keep public records of its students. You won’t find any old yearbooks in the library. No photos of past valedictorians hanging on the walls.

  I guess my dad was in the ten percent who didn’t go CIA. That happens. Some go FBI, some go NSA, some don’t go government at all. Like Abe’s dad, who went private sector after Peel.

  According to this, my dad went on to the navy. So he graduated from the Naval Academy and then . . . Wait. I stare at the dates I skimmed past the first time. That doesn’t make sense. My dad only spent three years at the Naval Academy. He didn’t graduate.

  Something isn’t adding up here. I scroll down the page, but there’s no employment information. Nothing to tell me what my dad did from the time he left the academy until he died. Not even an [XXXXXXXX]. That means it’s really classified.

  I scan the Personal Information section. There’s a bunch of information on my grandparents—my dad’s parents—both of whom are long dead. Walter and Dorothy Obermann. I never knew them. Although—I stare at their birth and death dates—my grandfather died young. I never knew that. That must have been hard on my dad.

  My mom’s name is there. I stare at it—

  Spouse – Joy Crina Obermann (nee Amar). Born Brooklyn, New York.

  I wonder how’s she’s doing today. Is it a manic day? A depressed day? Has she maybe started having normal days again since I left?

  I shake my head and move down to the next line.

  Child(ren) – Amanda Jean Obermann.* Born Jericho, Vermont.

  I blink. Over and over again, but it doesn’t do a thing to get rid of that star next to my name. I’d scroll farther, but I’m already at the bottom of the page. I look at the entire page, but just like I thought, the star isn’t explained anywhere. It’s a stray star hanging there, taunting me.

  Which just means that I’ll have to work harder to weasel the next level of clearance away from them.

  Screw you, house. I will beat you.

  I find a note under my door the next morning, and I yawn as I bend to pick it up.

  NUMBER EIGHT

  My neck snaps up. When Alpha said I was back to training missions, I didn’t realize he meant the next day. I race to my closet and push all the hangers holding my things to the side, eager to get to my historical wardrobe. I find the hanger marked with an 8 and pull it down.

  It’s a knee-length baby-blue dress with a wide skirt and a white Peter Pan collar. There’s a matching purse. I wrinkle my nose. That collar looks like something I would have worn on a jumper when I was four. But then I remember the star next to my name and tell myself it’s time to get serious.

  I take a quick shower and zip up the dress. It looks even more ridiculous on me than it did on the hanger. With a pair of white wrist gloves and some sensible heels, I’d be ready for bridge club in the church fellowship hall. I have no idea what to do with my hair, so I throw it back into a low ponytail. I add a thin layer of black eyeliner and a smidge of a shimmery brown eye shadow, then I swipe a few dabs of mascara onto my eyelashes—only because I’m afraid Alpha would put me through another Yellow makeover if I don’t. I take one quick look in the mirror, and the mascara tube clatters to the floor.

  I look so much like my mom with the makeup. The old pictures of her. The ones from before her diagnosis or from shortly after, when she was still medicating. The ones when she was young and happy, full of life. Her eyes are green and wide, while mine are brown and close set—my dad’s eyes; but everything else is my mom. In this mirror, I am her.

  I hope and pray every single night that looks are the only thing I inherited from her. She wasn’t that much older than I am now when she got the diagnosis. There could be a ticking time bomb lying dormant inside of me, waiting for the right moment to explode its mania and desperation all over the normal life I’m trying so hard to build. I chew my bottom lip for a few seconds, then I’m out the door.

  There isn’t. I’m not.

  I slide into my place next to Indigo and try to delete my mom from my mind. Indigo leans over and lifts one of the flaps of my collar. “Cute.”

  I bat his hand away but then notice he’s ditched the Civil War getup today. Instead he’s wearing a pair of high-waisted, pleated pants and a charcoal tweed skinny tie over a short-sleeved white button-down. His hair is slicked back with probably an entire bottle of gel. It’s not the best look for him.

  “Iris,” Alpha says. “We were just discussing you.”

  I look at the clock on the wall. It’s seven on the dot. I’m not late, am I?

  “This morning you’ll be going on your second training mission.”

  “Great!” I say. “You and me? Where are we going?”

  A few people at the table exchange worried looks, which is not lost on me. What did I say? Alpha takes in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a short second.

  “Ah. No. Zeta handles all training missions.”

  Ugh. Awesome.

  “And Indigo will be accompanying the two of you,” Alpha continues.

  I look at Indigo. That would explain the hair. He leans over and jostles his shoulder into mine. “We’re a team, kid.”

  I’m not sure why, but I bristle when Indigo calls me “kid.”

  Alpha pours a dab of cream into his coffee and gives it a quick swirl with a sterling spoon. “The car will be here in ten, so eat quickly.”

  Car? What car? But I don’t have time to think about it, because trays of food are set in front of us. I try to inhale it, but I’ve only managed a piece of toast and a few bites of a scrambled egg when Zeta stands up and announces it’s time to go.

  Zeta punches in a code to disengage the alarm before we go out the front door, and once I’m outside it dawns on me that I’ve never been out this way. Just through that little door on the side street, and even then, only in another time.

  And now here we are, standing on the sidewalk in modern-day Boston, watching the cars go whizzing down Beacon Street. A group of schoolkids passes us on their way to school, and Zeta gives them a quick nod of his head. On the other side of the street, a young mother speed walks down the steps into Boston Common, hoisting a small toddler to her hip while balancing a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and holding a cell phone up to her ear with the other. She doesn’t even pay us a second glance. These people are our neighbors. They go about their lives every day and have no clue that there’s a group of time travelers living next door with a freaking gravity chamber in the basement.

  I turn back around to look at the house. There’s a small bron
ze sign tacked to the door that reads THE CLAREMONT SCHOOL.

  Must be our cover.

  A black Lincoln Town Car pulls onto the street and stops in front of Annum Hall. The driver hops out, but Zeta waves him off and opens the back door for Indigo and me. Indigo slides all the way over, then I get in after him. Zeta sits in the front.

  “Logan,” he tells the driver.

  “We’re going to the airport?” I ask.

  “Affirmative.” Zeta reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out two envelopes. He hands one to me and one to Indigo. Indigo and I look at each other before opening them. A driver’s license bearing my picture and the name Kelly Hodges tumbles into my lap, as well as a ticket to Washington DC’s Reagan National Airport and several bills and coins. I look over at Indigo, who’s also holding a ticket, ID, and money.

  “Hold on to them carefully,” Zeta says. “Otherwise you’re going to be hitchhiking your way home.”

  The three of us get through the security line in record time. The plane is boarding as we walk up, and it’s not until we’re on the plane that I realize we’re sitting in first class. I stop in my tracks in front of Row 2. Indigo comes up behind me and leans down so close that I can feel his breath blow on my neck. It sends shivers down my arms.

  “Aisle or window?” he asks.

  “Window,” I say.

  “Then get in there and quit holding up the line.” He’s smiling at me, so I playfully punch him in the arm and climb in. Zeta takes the seat across the aisle and instantly pulls out his phone and starts typing an e-mail. Or maybe he’s changing national security codes. I have no idea really.

  “I’ve never flown first class,” I say, settling into the roomy leather seat. I could get used to this.

  “We always fly first class,” Indigo says. “Although don’t get too excited. This flight is barely more than an hour, and you’re not going to be happy when we land.”

  I’m about to ask him what he means when a man comes around and offers us bottles of water. I reach up to the seat in front of me to unhook the tray table, but there isn’t one.

  Indigo chuckles behind me and taps the armrest of my seat. “It’s in here.”

  I stare out the window as we take off, then close my eyes and lean the seat back. I’m starting to think I was too quick to judge Annum Guard before. I’d always thought I’d live a high-pressure life where I was constantly all over the world, putting my life in danger almost daily, never having a permanent address. But now I imagine myself jetting across the country, maybe even the world, traveling back in time and enhancing our history, then making it home all in time for dinner.

  Of course, there is no Abe in my future with Annum Guard.

  Before I know it, the pilot announces our initial descent. I straighten my chair and fold up the tray before tucking it back into the armrest.

  When we deplane, there’s a driver dressed in a black suit outside the airport, holding a handwritten sign that says SMITH. Zeta walks up to him and shakes his hand, then we all pile into another black Town Car and head into the city. No one says a word the entire trip, which only takes about twenty minutes. The driver drops us off on the corner of Potomac and N Street. We’re in a residential zone, and there are a bunch of brownstones lining the street.

  Zeta stops us at a house on the corner as a college-age guy wearing black plastic glasses and a yellow-and-green plaid shirt tucked into black skinny jeans slows to a halt in front of us. He turns to Indigo. “Cool tie, bro. Urban Outfitters?”

  I bite my tongue to keep from laughing as Indigo flashes a coy smile. “It’s vintage.”

  “Going for legit cred. I like it.” And then he nods his head and keeps walking. I look at Indigo and can’t help but smile.

  “Can we focus, please?” Zeta asks in a clipped voice. I wipe the smile off my face and turn to see him gesturing toward a brick three-story with a bright-red front door and a little herb garden planted out front. “This is it,” he says.

  “Annum Guard headquarters?” I guess. It makes sense that a government organization would have its headquarters in the nation’s capital, but Zeta shakes his head.

  “You live in Annum Guard headquarters. We don’t have an official presence in DC. They don’t mention our name in public, our funding is hidden in miscellaneous Title 10 projects, and only those persons with the highest level of clearance know about our existence. Anonymity keeps us safe, Iris.”

  I don’t know what it is about Zeta, but he has a way of making me feel as if I’m being scolded every time he speaks to me.

  He clears his throat. “Training mission number Iris-Two,” he says as he points to the house we’re standing in front of. “In the fall of 1960, this brownstone was home to one Eugene McCarthy, a Democratic senator out of Minnesota. Do you know anything about Senator McCarthy?”

  Senator McCarthy. That name sounds familiar. And then it hits me.

  “Communism!” I practically shout. “Senate hearings to determine whether there were any communists living in America. He organized it. Led to a lot of Hollywood people being blacklisted.”

  Zeta shakes his head. “Wrong McCarthy. You’re about ten years too late. And that was Joseph McCarthy. We’re dealing with Eugene McCarthy.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Then I know nothing about Senator McCarthy.”

  “Nor do you need to. Your mission is a simple one. At precisely 8:53, Senator McCarthy is going to walk down those steps, hail a cab, and head to the Capitol building just in time for an important vote, which takes place at 9:08. You are going to make him miss that cab and miss that vote, thereby freeing up funds that your modern-day commerce secretary has decided would have been better spent on . . . other projects. Understand?”

  This is just like Alpha’s first example to me. The smallest feeling of disappointment creeps in. Making someone miss a cab? Ho-hum. But I nod my head.

  “You get one try,” Zeta says in a hushed whisper as he walks a few yards down Potomac and stops in front of a black gate leading into the backyard. He takes a black leather pouch from his inside suit pocket, jiggles the padlock on the gate, and pulls a tension wrench and hook lock pick from the pouch. The lock clicks open in about three seconds. “If you fail, you fail. No going back in time again to correct your mistakes. We can project back here without being seen. Now set your watch. October 25, 1960.”

  I look over at Indigo, who’s already turning the knobs on his watch as he steps through the gate into someone’s backyard. I do the same. I start to shut the lid, but Zeta reaches out and grabs my hand before I can.

  “One word of caution. This is your first time projecting outside of Annum Hall. The gravity chamber spares us some of the stresses that projection can wreak on our bodies.” Beside him, Indigo nods his head with his lips pursed. “Traveling this way is rough, I won’t lie to you. Most times we opt to travel from Annum Hall and commute to our location in the past. Sometimes this is impractical, say if I needed to get from Boston to San Francisco in 1849. Much easier to hop a flight to San Francisco in present day than to travel three thousand miles in a covered wagon.”

  “They had air travel in 1960,” I point out. At least I think they did.

  “I know. But I wanted you to experience this. To know how it used to be for all of us.”

  “So this is like hazing?” I clutch the watch in my hand and squeeze.

  Zeta doesn’t respond. He turns to Indigo. “Are you ready?”

  Indigo swallows what I can only assume is the lump in his throat and gives one quick nod of the head. “Ready, sir.”

  And then Zeta looks down at me. “Iris?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” It’s the truth.

  Zeta stares straight ahead. “Watches shut, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  I slam my watch face lid shut, and instantly I know something is wrong. I’m falling to
o fast. My body can’t keep up. My limbs are straining, stretching, and I can’t breathe. Can’t talk. My eyes are bulging out of their sockets as wind whips through them, threatening to yank them free. My limbs are being stretched too far. They’re going to pop off. Every muscle in my body shrieks in pain. I try to scream but make no sound. I want this to stop. I want this to stop now.

  And just like that I slam hard into the ground. I gasp for breath and look up. I’m on my hands and knees in Senator McCarthy’s backyard.

  Indigo and Zeta stand over me, and Indigo bends a knee and comes down to the ground. “Are you all right?”

  I nod my head, but it’s a lie.

  It’s no big secret that had I been recruited by the CIA, I would have gone through some serious Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape (SERE) training, where they would subject me to Abu Ghraib–type shit. I think this might have been worse. Indigo grabs my hand and pulls me up, and my legs protest. I’m unsteady on my feet. I sway back and forth a few times, trying not to fall over.

  Zeta looks amused. Of course he does. He swings open the gate, which apparently doesn’t have a lock in 1960, and I follow him to the corner. He points to the brownstone, and my eyes follow. The front door is black, not red, and there’s no herb garden; other than that, the house is the same.

  Nothing else is. Not at all. Huge cars that look more like submarines line the streets. Men hustle down the sidewalk wearing hats. Fedoras. The women all wear dresses and gloves, and one walks past me wearing cat’s-eye glasses.

  “Time check,” Zeta says.

  I look down at my watch. 8:52. The second hand is ticking past forty seconds on its way to the top. Whoa. Talk about not giving me much lead time. I haven’t even caught my breath yet. A big yellow boat of a cab turns onto N Street a block away.

  That has to be the cab.

  Behind me, the front door of the brownstone opens, and a very proper-looking man with dark hair and a serious face trots down the steps. He plops a hat on his head, spots the cab, and raises his arm. The car slows, and I forget how much pain I’m in. It all disappears. I have to get to that cab.