Read Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You) Online
Authors: Rachel Carter
Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)
To my sisters, Mary and Emma Carter, for always having my back
Contents
T
he
dress is laid out on the bed, so dark red it looks black in the muted light of the hotel room. I run my hand down the fabric and it parts like water, the silk gliding across my skin, the deep color swallowing the paleness of my fingertips.
I take off the robe I’ve been wearing and lay it over the back of an overstuffed chair. Though the room is empty, I cover my nakedness with my hands, keeping my body angled toward the door. I am waiting for the knock, waiting for it to open at any moment.
I pick up the dress and quickly pull it over my head. It molds itself to my body, sweeping against the low heels of my sandals. It is a simple column, with a cut that reminds me of old Hollywood movies, where the women had smoky voices and everyone talked too fast.
The knock still doesn’t come. I turn on another light next to the bed and the thick fringe from the lampshade sweeps across my hand. This one has a tinted bulb, which turns the room a garish pink, making the shadows deeper and staining the white floral wallpaper with slashes of red.
There is a mirror across from the bed, framed in gold and silver, ornate twists and circles that make me dizzy when I catch them from the corner of my eye. I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the face that looks back at me. My old bangs grew out months ago, and my red hair falls in heavy waves around my shoulders. My cheekbones were always high, but now they are even more pronounced, making hollow grooves above my jawline. I dab a light gloss over my lips, ignoring the flatness in my eyes and the new muscles that curve along my arms and shoulders.
I’m not supposed to wear a lot of makeup, they said. No one in this time period does, and blending in is the most important part of being in an era that’s not your own. I take care to use only a small swipe of mascara, a touch of blush, and though I run an ivory comb through my hair, I leave it down, skimming where the edge of the silk hits my lower back.
I step away and examine my reflection, still detached, as though it is a stranger’s face and body that I am somehow controlling. The color should look wrong against my skin, but the red brings out the lighter strands in my hair and the sheath hugs my frame, making me seem curvier than I am these days.
It has been nine months since I faced General Walker in that bare gray cell, hidden so many feet below the ground. He told me I could walk away from my old life, join the Montauk Project and start traveling through time as part of a secret government organization, or I could die. It wasn’t much of a choice, and so here I am, standing in this lavish hotel room, waiting for my contact on my first mission.
I have not met the rest of the team yet. I don’t even know who they are, and the anticipation is crawling over me, like an itch I can’t quite reach in the middle of my back. I pick at the fabric of the dress, pinching the silk between my fingers and then smoothing the wrinkles out again. I’m surprised at how nervous I am; I thought they had stripped all my feelings from me, that those endless months of training—not speaking to anyone but my commanding officers, not seeing my family or friends—had made me numb in a way that was permanent, in a way that would make me unable to feel anything ever again.
But there it is inside of me, curled in a ball, tucked low in the pit of my stomach—fear. Tonight I have to kill a man, and I don’t know if I can.
The knock on the door is so loud it makes me jerk, and the comb falls from my hand to bounce against the glossy tiled floor. I take a deep breath, pushing my shoulders back, lifting my chin. I am a skilled recruit for the Project, just like whoever is standing on the other side of that door. They don’t have to know that this is my first mission. They don’t have to know that I’m afraid.
I cross the room quickly, the silk whipping around my legs. The wooden door is cool to the touch, and I lay my cheek against it, listening. “Who is it?” I call out.
The voice that answers is muffled. It sounds deep, but I can’t quite tell through the thickness of the door. “It’s Michael. Let me in. The fund-raiser is starting soon and the champagne will get warm.”
It’s my contact. He’s using the code, even mentioning his alias. I slide back the old-fashioned lock and swing the door open.
There is a phrase I am supposed to say back so that he’ll know who I am. “Darling, the champagne is on ice, don’t—”
But the final words die in my throat.
Standing in front of me, dressed in a slim black tuxedo, is the boy who left me crumbled on the cold floor of a cell after betraying me to General Walker and telling me he never loved me. Wes.
The boy who broke my heart.
W
e
both freeze, unable to look away from each other. I had forgotten how dark his eyes were, more black than brown. The dim light of the room falls harshly on his face, and the shadows make his cheekbones look almost as sharp as mine.
Wes.
I mouth the word, careful not to say it out loud. I don’t want anyone lingering in the hallway to hear, but I’m also not ready to remember what his name feels like on my lips.
He frowns slightly, and I imagine he’s reacting to my thinner cheeks, my wary eyes. “Samantha.” He says my alias, then clears his throat, breaking my gaze to look behind me into the hotel room.
His voice. The last time I heard it was during my training, weeks after I learned of his betrayal. I was in a hallway in the Center in New York City, hidden from sight, watching a future version of him hug a future version of me, their faces glowing as their lips met again and again. I knew then that I would forgive him, at least one day.
But that doesn’t mean that I have yet, and I step back to avoid contact as he enters the room. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, but then Wes was always good at hiding what he felt.
He does a quick sweep, his head moving back and forth to examine the reddened walls, the shadowed corners, and his hair falls over his forehead in a black wave. It is longer than it was the last time, almost touching the collar of his jacket.
The hotel is secure—we both know that—but he takes his time turning back to face me. I watch the way his fingers tap against the sides of his pants, an awkward move that doesn’t match his usual grace, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.
“You’re alone?”
I nod and shut the door, looking out the window. Outside, the lights of the city are like oversize stars, and I remember being with him in my bedroom in Montauk, New York, so long ago, his body covered in blood, my chest pressed against his, the night sky beyond my window looking a little like this one, though without the buildings or the busy streets.
With the door closed tight we are hidden from the hallway, but we still don’t make eye contact. Wes examines the fringed lamp, the gilded furniture, the creamy wall-paper. It is a blend of old-fashioned styles, with no modern sleek lines, no black or chrome metal. I see him take a deep breath and I know that he is thinking the same thing I am—this room looks like it could belong in the 1920s, the time we once promised each other we would run away to. In another life, this would have been our space, far away from the reach of the Project.
But Wes broke his word, and the large, holographic TV against the far wall proves that what I thought was love was not as strong as the pull of the Project. Now we are in the year 2049, near Washington, DC, and in just under three hours we will attempt to kill the president.
Wes finally faces me, and when he speaks his voice is lower, softer. “How have you been, Lydia?”
It is hearing my name that brings my anger back, boiling and churning, and suddenly I am on that cold floor again, hearing him tell me I was just a mission, that he never loved me.
“Stop.” I spit out the word, keeping my face turned toward the window. “Don’t say it.”
“It’s your name.” I hear the rustle of his tux as he moves closer. “You can’t forget that.”
“My name is Seventeen. I’m a number now, just like you.”
His mouth tightens, his full lips thinning. Small lines fan out from the sides of his eyes, even though he is only nineteen—nearly the same age I am. But the life of the Montauk Project recruits is a hard one, and he has been working for them since he was eleven years old.
“You know we’re more than a number. Some of us remember our real names.”
“You’re the one who told me to think of you as Eleven. You told me to forget W—” But I can’t bring myself to say his name, and I turn from the window, staring at the white bedspread, now a faint pink in this red-lit room. “When I die, another recruit will become Seventeen. Isn’t that what you told me? We’re just numbers; our lives don’t mean anything. There were hundreds of Elevens before you and there will be more after you die.”
I hear him suck in a breath and despite how angry I am, I instantly wish I could take back the words. When we were in 1989, Wes told me he was dying. That the prolonged effects of the time machine were slowly killing him. Since then I’ve wondered if he was telling me the truth, but if he was . . .
I lift my head. He’s watching me, his jaw tight. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “I shouldn’t have put it like that. This is just too confusing. I didn’t even know you’d be on this mission.”
“I volunteered. I wanted to see you.”
His voice is serious, measured and deep, but I shake my head. I couldn’t have heard him right. Wes would never have come here just to see me. Not after what happened.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s true.” There are several feet between us, but it’s still too close. I inch away until I feel the cold glass of the windowpane against my back. Why would Wes say that? He was so convincing in the cell when he told me I was just a mission. But he looks just as convincing now, with his palms slightly open toward me and his black eyes steady on mine.
“Why now?” The question is too raw, and I lean back even farther, my head tapping the glass as he takes a step forward. “I haven’t seen you in months. You knew where I was.”
“Walker sent me out on a mission right after they took you. . . .” He trails off, staring down at the white and black tiles on the floor. “Then . . . I thought you probably wouldn’t want to see me, after what happened.”
I press my lips together, not wanting to remember what it felt like when he said he never loved me, that it was all a lie. Is this a lie now? I try and hold on to that moment I saw in the hallway between the future versions of us. There must have been a reason for his betrayal, otherwise why would future me forgive him? Or was she just so in love, so lost, that she was willing to forget how he made her feel? Was future him playing her, too?
Wes suddenly lifts his head, his eyes bright and seeking mine. “Lydia, we need to talk. I need to explain—”
There is a knock on the door that cuts into his words.
“It’s the rest of the team,” I say. My thoughts wrapped up in Wes, I had almost forgotten why we were here.
He runs his hands through his hair. “We never have enough time.”
“I can’t think about this right now. I need to focus on the mission.” I start to cross the room.
“Lydia.” He grabs my arm as I move past him, forcing me to stop. The skin of my wrist grows warm under his touch. “Before this mission is over, we’ll talk. I’ll explain everything.”
I nod without looking at him and he peels his hand away from me, slowly, picking up his fingers one by one. As soon as I’m free I move toward the door again, ignoring the way my arm still tingles, ignoring the way he stares at my back as though he is trying to see through my flesh to what lies underneath.
The first recruit who enters is a petite, dark-haired girl. I take in her small, perfect nose, her olive skin, and I realize I’ve seen her before—in 1989, when I was posing as a recruit with Wes, in the Assimilation Center in the Project’s main facility in Montauk, New York. She watched Wes then as she watches him now, like he is something she wants to consume.
Wes lifts his chin at her, no more than a slight jerk, and I remember him telling me that her name is Twenty-two. He said he’d never spoken to her before, but that doesn’t mean anything when it comes to the recruits. They could have gone on countless missions together, traveled through time over and over without saying a word.
She enters the room with that deliberate prowl that all the long-term recruits have, brushing past me as though I’m another piece of furniture. She moves to stand next to Wes, and I turn to see a boy in the doorway. I immediately recognize his broad frame, his short brown hair. Thirty-one. He and I were sparring partners a few months ago, part of the same training group in the Center.
Now he enters the room, his black jacket hanging from one hand, as though he is going to his prom instead of attempting to kill the president. When he sees me, he stops. “You . . .”
I quickly shut the door, surprised that he would show his reaction so openly. Most recruits would act like Twenty-two, watching our exchange with a blank expression, her hands resting on her hips.
But then I see the way she leans in slightly toward Wes. Maybe she’s not as impassive as she seems.
Thirty-one briefly glances at the other two before he turns back to me. “There are seventeen shells where the water ends.”
I stare at him, blinking. It is a code phrase, one that all recruits use to identify themselves to each other in public.
But the rocks are too sharp
, I am supposed to say back.
“Oh wait.” He shakes his head. “We’re on a mission. I don’t have to say that. I keep forgetting. I did it to her too.” He gestures at Twenty-two. Her expression is still blank.
“That’s okay,” I say quietly.
His lips tilt up. It’s not quite a smile, but his eyes are warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
This time I don’t answer.
Twenty-two looks directly at me. “You two know each other?”
“We were in training together,” I say.
Thirty-one opens his mouth to respond, but Wes moves so suddenly that everyone freezes, even though he is just crossing his arms over his chest. He is taller than Thirty-one by several inches, but not as muscular—Wes’s body is long and lean where Thirty-one’s is sturdy. “This isn’t a reunion.” His voice has changed again, remote but authoritative. That intimate, soft tone he used to tell me he volunteered for the mission has disappeared completely.
“You can call me Eleven,” he says to the room in general.
The rest of us go around and state our numbers, a collective lottery ticket instead of a group of people.
“The hallway and the room next door are secure too.” Twenty-two’s voice is low and husky, like she has a perpetual cold. “I cut the camera feed in both, so no one will see us enter or leave. And we have weapons if we need them, though we won’t be able to smuggle any of the guns into the party. We’ll all be screened by their security.”
“You think we’ll need guns?” I ask.
She shrugs and looks back up at Wes. She is so small she barely reaches his shoulder. “Who’s running the play?”
“I am,” he answers. “You have the I-units?”
She nods. “And this.” She reaches into the bodice of her white, slinky gown and pulls out a small vial. It reminds me of the first time I traveled into the past, to 1944, and met my great-great-aunt Mary, who told me the best way to hide your lipstick was in your bra. I can still picture us wrestling with the lipstick tube on her bed, laughing as our skirts tangled, but I push down the pang that the memory brings. She is now just another name on the list of lost people. Like my parents, and Hannah, my childhood best friend, who I left behind in my own time. Like Dean, Mary’s brother and my great-grandfather, who disappeared in the forties, and then had his brain stripped in the eighties.
Like my grandfather.
Twenty-two’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, though she addresses Wes only. “The I-units are in the next room. We can get them and I’ll show you the other supplies.”
But Wes hesitates, glancing over at me. I keep my eyes on the floor, not letting on that we know each other.
“Why don’t we let them get reacquainted?” Twenty-two still speaks in that flat monotone. It’s unsettling to sense her sarcasm but not hear it. “I’m sure they have a lot to talk about.”
Thirty-one just looks amused by her words, but Wes’s gaze shifts to the other boy, staring at him in a way that seems to suck the air out of the room.
“We don’t have much time. The fund-raiser starts soon,” Twenty-two adds. Wes finally nods and follows her to the door, though the rigid line of his shoulders never softens.
Thirty-one moves to stand next to me, and I can’t help but think we’re already pairing off—the two experienced recruits united against the newer ones.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, Thirty-one sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m exhausted. The TM never gets easier, does it?”
He moves toward the bed and slumps down onto the mattress. I stare at the relaxed, easy way he moves his body. Most recruits are like coiled springs, their muscles tight, their eyes watchful. But not Thirty-one.
He raises his brows and I realize he’s waiting for me to answer. “No.” I think of the time machine—Tesla’s Machine, or the TM as the Project refers to it—the way it rips your body apart, shooting you through space and time in broken pieces. “It never gets easier.”
We are silent for a minute. I stare at the heavy wooden door, wondering what Twenty-two and Wes are doing in the next room.
Thirty-one is watching me closely. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“We sparred together under Lieutenant Andrews,” I say. “There were only ten of us on our team. Why wouldn’t I remember you?”
He shrugs. “You seemed pretty out of it. And it wasn’t just the sparring. I would watch you, sometimes, in the Center. Eating in the cafeteria, or walking down the halls.”
I try to think back to that time, but it is a blur of empty hallways, endless lessons, white lights, and cold, blank recruits. “You did?”
“You didn’t even notice.” He spreads his legs wide and rests his forearms on his knees. It is too comfortable of a position. Everything about this boy is too comfortable, too casual. “You had your head down, looked kind of blank. But there was one day, a few months ago, when I saw you crying and I knew you weren’t like the rest of them.”
I remember that day. It was after my commanding officers had forced me to write a letter to my parents, saying that I was running away. They would put it in my bedroom the same night I disappeared, and a few days later a body matching my description would be found in a nearby ditch. My parents would never know the truth of what happened to me.
I had written it carefully and silently, my fingers not even shaking. It wasn’t until I was out in the hallway that the impact hit me. I fell back against the wall, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other to my chest, trying to hold in the sobs I could feel ripping through me. Only a few tears escaped, sliding down my face to fall onto the white tiles below. I had thought I was alone, that no one had seen me, but obviously I was wrong.
