Blackout Page 24

  Caroline Caldwell is spending all this time—all this effort—trying to bring down her husband, whose stolen oil money is the only thing funding her political career. Talk about a snake eating its own tail. “Your dad had Marie Quail put at Annum Guard, didn’t he? To make sure we didn’t dig too deeply. And then . . . you.” I think about my meeting with the vice president a few weeks ago. How she told me that keeping Colton in Boston was Joe’s idea. And there’s only one federal agency headquartered in Boston . . .

  Colton just shrugs.

  “Tell me about the missions you guys have been on.”

  “You know all of them,” Colton says. The water is helping him recover. The color is returning to his face.

  “The mission when you nabbed Orange, the one where you nabbed Indigo, the one on the train, the Strangler mission. What else?”

  “That’s all of them.”

  “What else?”

  “I told you that’s all of them!” His voice is coming back. “More water!”

  “No. We’re done with the water until you tell me everything. Then you can drink the whole damned bucket.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier! You said a sip for every question and I’ve answered—”

  “Well, the rules have changed. You answer all my questions, you get the bucket. Now tell me about the other missions!”

  “I already told you!”

  “Tell me about the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  I see the fear flash in his eyes. Cuba is big. Cuba is important.

  “We haven’t gone on that one yet,” he says. “Because you haven’t gone on that one yet.”

  “You know something about the Cuban mission.” It’s not a question because it doesn’t need to be. Colton’s body language is giving everything away. I tap his foot with mine. It’s not an outright kick but there’s enough force to be threatening. “Tell me.”

  “Our mission was to stop you before you ever got to DC. Is. Is to stop you before you get there. You can’t get to DC.”

  “Why?”

  Colton doesn’t answer, but it’s obvious. “Your dad’s there, isn’t he? Or at least there’s some solid proof that Joe Caldwell equals Eagle Industries. That’s what’s there.”

  Again, he doesn’t answer, so I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. I need to get to DC in October of 1962. I need to see the evidence for myself. That’s the only way to end this thing.

  “How did your dad recruit Tyler?”

  Colton raises both eyebrows. “Recruit Tyler? Are you joking? Tyler came to us.”

  His voice is firm, amused. He’s telling the truth. Tyler is an even bigger threat than I thought. But I push him to the side for a moment.

  “Okay, Colton, when did Eagle start? How long has it been going on?”

  Colton’s eyes flick down to his waist, then back up. I can tell he’s trying to hide his fear, but his body is betraying him. His pulse is racing; I can see it throbbing on the side of his neck.

  I stare at his midsection. “What’s on your waist that you want to hide?”

  “Nothing.” He says it so fast that I barely hear him.

  I take a step closer. “You’ve had some combat training, I’ll give you that. But clearly no one’s taught you how to lie.” I crouch down and lift the side of Colton’s shirt. There’s a tattoo peeking out of the top of his waistband. I push down his waistband to see it.

  HC1013LX3V

  “You know, you really should be better about picking passwords. You’ve shown me your hand twice now. So sloppy.” I stand up and cross my arms over my chest. “What does it mean?”

  Colton’s head bobs forward, and he takes a long, ragged breath. I really think he’s about to cry.

  I tap him with my foot. It doesn’t take me long to put it together. “It’s a date, right?” 1013—October thirteenth? LX3V. Roman numerals . . . L is fifty, I think? X is ten. Three of them is thirty. V is five. Eighty-five altogether. “That’s easy. So what’s HC?”

  “No. I’m done talking to you.”

  “Colton.”

  “I SAID I’M DONE!” And then he opens his mouth and lets out a scream so loud, I’m afraid he’ll wake the entire city. I drop to my knees and force the gag into his mouth.

  I have so many more questions. Logistics questions. Who created Colton’s watch? How can he project? How long has he been projecting? What sensitive Annum Guard information has he given his father? How did Tyler find out about Joe? But Colton is clearly done talking.

  I slip downstairs to the shelves and grab one of the rumpled papers. I straighten it as best I can. There’s a pencil trapped in a crack at the very back of the shelf, and I wriggle it free. The point is dull. It’s almost flat, more of a stick than a pencil. I try to whittle a point against the wall, but the pencil keeps slipping. I claw at it with my fingernails, but all I wind up doing is piercing my nail beds with shards of wood. A dull point will have to do.

  I bend over the counter and scribble down everything Colton just told me. Then I head back up the stairs.

  “You need to sign this,” I say as I slap the paper down by his hands. “It’s your confession.” I’m going to take it to Red. Right now. I don’t know if it’s enough, but it’s a start.

  He garbles something that I’m pretty sure is, “Screw you.”

  I look down at him. “Colton, do you want me to take out my watch again? You’ve had some water, so maybe we can try two days in the future this time? Three?” I hate myself for saying this, for doing this. But I need my teammates.

  Colton rears back his head and screams into the gag. It comes out like a growl. Then he looks right up into my eyes with pure venom, and I know he’s vowing to kill me for what I’m doing.

  I put the pencil in Colton’s hands, which are still tied to the rail. He hesitates, then scribbles something that looks like a straight line on the bottom of the paper. It probably doesn’t look anything like his signature. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing about this is legal. I’m taking Red something that could be in a textbook under “coerced confession.” But I can’t think about that now.

  I shove the confession in my pocket. “Sorry, Colton, but for now you’re staying put. You’re the biggest bargaining chip I’ve ever had.”

  Then I stand, hit the top knob on my watch to take me to the present day, and shut the face.

  CHAPTER 27

  I land in someone’s living room. There’s a leather couch and a pair of armchairs, and I’m standing on a rug. I scan around and find a mantel clock. It’s four in the morning.

  It’s four in the morning, and I’m an intruder in someone’s apartment. I don’t even want to breathe for fear of waking whoever is sleeping . . . somewhere. I try to get my bearings. The stairs where I left Colton tied in 1811 have been replaced by a door. Behind me, there’s a tiny kitchen off to the side and a hallway that I assume leads back to a bedroom or two.

  I tiptoe over to the door and unlock the deadbolt. It makes a click. I hold my breath and wait, but no one stirs. I open the door. There’s a muted scraping sound against the carpet, so I only open it about a foot and slip through. I quietly shut the door behind me, then I tiptoe down the stairs.

  The whole building has been converted into apartments. I was up in number 2, and there’s a door on the ground floor with a bronze number 1 nailed to the center of it.

  I slip out the building entrance and take off at a sprint. I go so fast that my lungs take in more air than they can expel. They’re filling . . . more, more, more. More than they can hold. They’re going to burst. But I don’t slow down.

  I tear up the steps to Annum Hall. The door is locked. I don’t have a key, so I ring the bell. Once. Twice. Three times. I pound on the door. I keep pounding as I ring the bell for a fourth, fifth, sixth time. I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. I don’t know if I’m going to find Red or another interim leader.

  Then there are footsteps on the stairs and a hall light flicks on.

/>   The door swings open, and Red stands before me, dressed in rumpled khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Calm down. One ring would have done it. It’s not like I’m sleeping much these days.”

  “Is it just you?” I’m out of breath.

  “Yes.”

  I push past him. “It’s Joe Caldwell. XP is Joe Caldwell.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “And the blackout team is Colton Caldwell—”

  “Colton?” He sounds shocked.

  “And Tyler Fertig. Tyler Fertig, Red. He’s a mercenary now, employed by Joe Caldwell.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  I slap Colton’s confession into his chest. “It’s all right there.”

  Red scans it.

  “And I know where everyone is being held. When everyone is being held. Three forty Seaver Street in Dorchester. May 2, 1832. We have to go get them, now! They took Abe—Blue—too!”

  Red’s still reading.

  “Is that enough? Can we go after Caldwell with that?”

  Red looks up. “We need more, Iris. You have to know that.” He waves the paper at me. “This is almost laughable.”

  My spirits crumble, but I knew that was coming. “I have two leads. There’s one more XP mission. It’s . . . the Cuban Missile Crisis. I’m pretty sure there’s some concrete evidence there that links Caldwell to Eagle. And there’s something else. Something about Eagle being formed in the first place. A meeting, maybe? I have a date. October 13. The year’s in Roman numerals. LX3V. That’s eighty-five, right?”

  “LX3V,” Red repeats. “You mean LXXXV? Yeah, that’s eighty-five.”

  “October 13, 1985.” It has to be 1985. That’s the only ’85 Joe’s been alive for.

  “Do you have a location?”

  I shake my head. “HC—initials. That’s all I have.”

  Red takes off down the hall toward his office. By the time I catch up he’s already typing into a government database. “We need to find a reference to an HC that means something to Joe Caldwell.”

  “Colton goes to Harvard,” I point out.

  “Not in 1985.”

  “The vice president got a master’s degree there, too.”

  Red shakes his head as he scrolls. “The grad schools are part of Harvard University, not Harvard College. Here’s something. Joe owns a shipping facility in Haltom City, Texas, in between Dallas and Fort Worth. We can check the address.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s bigger than that.” I remember how proud Joe was the first time he introduced me to Colton—practically beaming when he told me about Harvard. My gut is nagging me that I’m on the right track. I think. Harvard Campus. Harvard Cambridge. Harvard— I gasp.

  “Harvard Club! Red, it’s Harvard Club!” I’ve walked past the clubhouse building more times than I can count. It’s a huge mansion on Comm. Ave., right in the heart of the Back Bay. I look at Red, and he nods at me.

  I’m already out the door, but then I stop and turn around. “The others? Seaver Street?”

  “Dorchester. I got it. I’ll send Green and Violet now.” He nods again as he stands. “You did good. We’ll take care of it. We’ll find them. You go get Joe. Do whatever you need to do.”

  My stomach lurches when I think about what I’ve already done. “Red, I left Colton in the past. I—”

  Red holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me anything I’d have a duty to report.”

  “Okay. I’ll just be going then.” But still, I hesitate.

  “What are you waiting for?” Red pushes me toward the back stairs.

  I race down the steps, grab a wad of cash, and shove it inside my bra. Then I ditch the duffel bag on the floor. I don’t need it anymore. I’m going to 1985, then 1962, and then I’m done with missions.

  Maybe forever.

  I set my watch, and I’m gone. When I land, it’s October 13, 1985.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Harvard Club is a four-story building, almost exactly one block south of where Tyler stole Abe. The club is sandwiched between a hotel and a brownstone that’s been converted to apartments.

  A car rolls down the street with its windows open and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” blaring. It reminds me of my mom. A redhead with a ponytail on the side of her head sits in the passenger seat, her head rocking from side to side as she sings along. Another group of girls brushes past me on the street. Two of them have on neon shirts and leggings, and the other—a girl with black, lace fingerless gloves—gives me the once-over. Because I’m in 1985 wearing a dress I purchased in 1962, and we’re way too early for the vintage resurgence.

  There’s a lock on the heavy wooden door where people who belong here can use their fancy membership keys, and a telephone call box for the rest of us common folk. I pick up the receiver and press the call button.

  “Harvard Club,” a friendly female voice crackles through the box. “Are you a member?”

  I lean in. “Yes, hi. I’m meeting my father for lunch. His name is”—I make a static sound.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “I said”—more static.

  “Why don’t you just come in?” The door buzzes, and I open it. I step into a wood-paneled foyer. There’s a group of men having brandy and cigars in a bar just to my left. Both of them have sweaters draped over their shoulders. I walk straight into a larger foyer with red carpeting—Harvard crimson, I suppose—and more wood walls. There’s a fire going in a fireplace, and the whole feel is very old-school New England.

  “Hello,” a woman behind a desk says, standing to greet me. Her bronze name tag says Kimberly. “I’m sorry, there must be something wrong with our call box. Who did you say you’re here to see?”

  “My father.” I look past her into a ballroom that’s even more opulent than the one in Leighton’s house. Its walls are two stories high, and there are marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Beautiful. Then I lock eyes with a man on the other side of the room, sitting in a chair by the staircase, looking up at me over a newspaper. I raise my hand and wave, a big, goofy, back-and-forth motion like I’m in a parade. He tilts his head, but then returns the wave. “There he is.” I turn back to the woman. “I’m a little late. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Kimberly looks from the man to me. I smile at him and give another wave while the woman isn’t looking. He has a confused expression on his face, which I see him try to cover up with a false look of recognition. Good. Let him think I’m the daughter of an old college buddy or something.

  “I’ve got it from here,” I tell her and walk away before she can question me.

  “Hi,” I say to the man. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Not since my father’s party, oh, when was that, two summers ago?” I peek over my shoulder. Kimberly is still staring.

  “I’m sorry,” the man says. “I’m having trouble—”

  “I’m Laura. John’s daughter.” Then I give the man my warmest smile.

  “Oh,” he finally says. “Oh right. Laura. How is John these days?”

  “You know my father,” I say. “Always up to something. He’s at his cabin in New Hampshire for a long weekend.” I peek behind me. Kimberly is back at the desk, with a phone receiver pressed to her ear. I turn back to the man. “Well, good to see you! I’ll tell Dad you said hi!” Then I hightail it up the stairs.

  I step off the last stair into . . . another foyer? How many foyers can one place have? Honestly. There are a few employees milling about, wearing jackets, ties, and the same bronze name tags as Kimberly’s, but I skip over all of them. I need someone young. Someone who won’t ask too many questions. I find a kid who looks like he might be in college himself, rolling a cart of silverware into a room with a black-and-white checkered floor.

  “Excuse me,” I say, rushing over to him. And then I take a deep breath. I have only one shot at this. “I’m looking for Joe Caldwell.”

  The guy looks at my dress, so I decide to play the part. I cha
nnel Jackie Kennedy and toss my shoulders back and click my heels together. “He’s expecting me,” I say in my best Brahmin accent. I pray my voice sounds authoritative because the truth is, I’m not even sure that Harvard Club is the right HC. I mean, my gut is telling me it is, but I don’t know for certain.

  I get the confirmation I need. The guy nods at the staircase. “I know they have him set up in a meeting room on the third floor. The Saltonstall Room, maybe? It’s the most private. Far back corner.”

  “Thank you,” I say, giving him a small smile with my mouth, not my eyes. Very Boston proper. I wait until he’s done wheeling the cart into the room before I sprint up the stairs once more.

  I stop and get my bearings. There are four meeting rooms up here. As the guy downstairs promised me, the Saltonstall Room is tucked away in a back corner. The door is shut, but I can hear voices inside.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn around. There’s a uniformed man staring at me. No name tag. He’s older, with silver-flecked hair and a face full of laugh lines. His smile is polite, not distrusting, and he’s looking at my dress with a smile, like it brings back pleasant memories. I instantly read him as not being a threat.

  But still, do I tell him I work for Joe? If it gets back to Joe that someone claiming to be an assistant is loitering around, I’m done for. No, I need something more subtle. “Yes, hi. I’m with”—it’s 1985—“the phone company. I’m here about adding new lines for the Internet.” Even though we’re about ten years too early for that.

  “What’s the Internet?”

  “It’s the wave of the future. Management wants to run the phone line through that room.” I point at the Saltonstall.

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. There’s a private meeting going on in there. It just started, and I’m not sure how long it will last. They’ve requested the utmost privacy”—he says the word British-style with a short i—“so I cannot allow you access.”

  I look at the room. The ladies room shares a wall, but I’m sure it’s pretty well insulated.

  “I could let you see the pantry. It’s where we keep place settings and linens, but it’s adjacent to the Saltonstall Room. Would that work?”