Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You) (4 page)

Wes looks from her fingers against my skin to the confused expression on my face. His frown deepens, and he carefully steps between us, forcing Twenty-two to drop her arm. “Bea,” he says, his voice low. “I wanted to introduce you both to one of my business colleagues. He’s at that table over in the corner.”

She has to stand on her toes to see around the other guests, and when she spots the table holding the president her back straightens the smallest amount. She turns to smile at Wes. “I’d love to meet him.”

It is even harder to get through the crowd with three people, and we end up forming a straight line, with Wes in the front and me at the back. We pass a congresswoman, a governor from Texas, a current movie star I recognize from her file on my I-unit. I spot Tim a few feet away, holding a silver plate of hors d’oeuvres and smiling as he offers it to a simpering woman in purple silk. Her hair is up in an elaborate white twist, a large feather wrapped around her bun. It is an ostentatious hairstyle for a decade that stresses natural simplicity, and I watch Tim trying to dodge the feather as the older woman leans toward him.

There is a gap in the crowd in front of the president’s table, and we realize why when a member of the Secret Service steps forward and puts his hand on Wes’s arm. “State your name.”

“Michael Gallo. I have business with Lawrence Tierney.”

The agent looks over his shoulder. There are only men sitting at the large circular table—the first lady couldn’t attend tonight, which is part of the reason we picked this event. The president is in profile to us, laughing at a joke someone just made. He’s an attractive older man, and looks more like he’s in his early sixties than his eighties. Next to him is a small, thin man with dark hair. He glances over at us and when he sees Wes his smile widens. “Michael!”

Seeing his reaction, the agent steps back and lets us pass. Wes and I go first, with Twenty-two following closely behind.

“Tierney.” Wes puts his hand out. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

Mr. Tierney gets up from the table. He can’t be much taller than my five feet six.

“I was starting to think you were a myth.” He has a surprisingly booming voice for such a small man. “You and I are meeting tomorrow to discuss that proposal. No getting out of it this time.”

“Of course. I’ll be by your office first thing in the morning.”

“I look forward to it. I can’t believe I couldn’t even get you on video chat. It’s unheard of.”

“Who knew my I-unit wouldn’t work in Tanzania.” Wes shrugs. “We’ve been traveling so much these days, we haven’t had a chance to catch up with anyone yet. Samantha and I are exhausted.”

Tierney looks at me and his smile wavers. I tilt my head at the odd look on his face. It quickly disappears and he says politely, “Ah, right. You must be Michael’s fiancée, Samantha.”

First Mr. Lee, now Tierney. Have I done something wrong? Am I not blending in?

Tierney looks behind us and his eyes glaze over for a second. We all wait until he has finished scanning Twenty-two.

I know that our I-units are foolproof, but I still have a small moment when I tense, waiting to see if Tierney will know that Twenty-two is a fraud. It is almost impossible to fake an I-unit, and the ones you can find on the black market are mostly useless. But the Project has resources we can only imagine, and I trust that our new identities are enough to get us through this evening. Still, if we are caught, blood tests and deep background checks will show the truth—that there is no real record of Michael, Bea, and Samantha.

Though the Montauk Project emerged from a U.S. government program, it works independently in this time period. Only a very small number in the government know of its existence at all, and an even smaller number know what they do. If something goes wrong, we will be four fugitives with no identities, completely at the mercy of an organization that has proven again and again that its recruits do not matter.

But of course Tierney just smiles, and I let out a slow breath. “You brought a guest.”

Twenty-two steps forward. “Bea Carlisle.” She says her name as though Tierney doesn’t know it yet, and he smiles at her and nods. It is strange how the I-unit has worked itself into social custom, how much you can know about someone you’ve never really met before.

“Bea is staying with us while we visit New Washington,” I say.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Twenty-two cocks her head to the side. “I don’t want to sound forward, but is that really the president?”

The breathy way she says it makes Tierney move toward her. “It is. He’s a close friend of mine.”

“This is all so exciting.” She clasps her hands together, and Tierney’s eyes fall to the bodice of her dress.

“You’ll have to forgive Bea,” Wes cuts in. “She’s not used to events like this.”

The shorter man inches closer to Twenty-two. “We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”

“I’m from a small town. Peaksville, New York.” Twenty-two laughs. It is a throaty sound that makes one of the Secret Service agents glance over at her. “I haven’t seen Samantha in years, and now here we are in a ballroom with the president.”

“Did you say Peaksville?”

The four of us turn. President Sardosky is standing now, watching our conversation. “I have family in Peaksville.”

“Really?” Twenty-two’s smile widens. “I didn’t know that.”

“I used to visit my grandparents there every summer.” He pushes away from the china-laden table and moves to join us.

“Don’t you miss it, stuck in this big city?” Twenty-two drops her voice, forcing the president to lean in close to hear her.

“Every day.”

“I’m Bea Carlisle.” She holds out her hand.

President Sardosky takes it in his, though he doesn’t let go right away. “A pleasure. I’m sure you know who I am.” He smiles, and thick creases spread out around his eyes.

She does. We all do. And not just that he’s the president. We know about his childhood on the streets of Brooklyn, about his rise to politics. His daily routine, down to what type of coffee he drinks in the morning—Brazilian, imported, rare in this time period.

We also know that in some ways he is a contradiction: a president who will do anything to create peace across the world, while his own household is in upheaval. He is notorious for his indiscretions; he keeps a mistress, and there have been more than a few rumors of what happens with the young, dark-haired interns at Hill House. The first lady staunchly ignores the rumors in public, but the tabloids are constantly writing about the screaming fights overheard by their staff.

Twenty-two keeps her voice light as she says, “Oh, of course, Mr. President.” She sounds in awe of him, and he stands a bit straighter, expanding his barrel-shaped chest. He is a broad man, just a little shorter than Wes, with thick graying hair and a mustache that hangs down over his top lip.

“This is my cousin and her fiancé.”

The president uses his I-unit to scan us all, but when he gets to me, he blinks several times. I feel Wes’s hand settle on my back again and I automatically move in to his touch.

Twenty-two starts to speak, but Sardosky cuts her off. “I’m sorry. But . . . your hair.”

“Is something wrong?” I touch a strand that has fallen over my shoulder. Sardosky follows the movement with his eyes.

“The color. This might be rude, but do you dye it?”

He is insulting me by asking this, since no one in 2049 dyes their hair. It is considered taboo to try and alter your appearance in such a drastic way, perhaps as a response to the plastic-surgery boom of the early twenty-first century. Even though stem cells make everyone appear more youthful, they’re considered medicinal, not cosmetic.

I remember a passing comment from Lieutenant Andrews, who told me that my red hair might stand out in this era. I was so nervous tonight that I had forgotten all about it, assuming I was making some mistake that was drawing people’s eyes to me. But now when I scan the room, I see that most people have black or brown hair. There are only a few blonds, and no other redheads.

I had asked Andrews if I should dye it or wear a wig, but he’d said it was better to look natural, that if people even suspected I altered it, I’d be ostracized. I hadn’t realized that people would assume mine was fake.

“Of course I don’t.”

Sardosky raises one bushy eyebrow.

“She doesn’t.” Wes’s voice is firm. “It’s natural, I assure you. The color runs in her family.” And it does—Mary and her mother, Harriet Bentley, had red hair too.

Tierney turns to the president. “Michael Gallo is an honest man. If he says so, then it must be true.”

The president is still staring at me. “I haven’t seen red like that in years, and certainly not on such a young woman.”

“I thought it was extinct,” Tierney adds. “You’re a lucky girl.”

Wes raises his arm and drapes it over my shoulder, twisting a section of my hair around his hand. It is a deliberately possessive move, and when Tierney sees it he looks down, fighting a smile. Sardosky is too focused on that spiraling length of hair to react to Wes.

“Thank you,” I say to both men, as though I’m used to hearing comments like this all the time. “People often think it’s fake. Sometimes I consider dying it just so the speculation will stop.”

Tierney and Twenty-two both laugh, but President Sardosky shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. It reminds me of . . .” His voice trails off and the corners of his lips drop. He reaches back toward the table. One of the men there shoves a glass of dark liquid into his hand, and he quickly swings it up to his mouth.

No one says a word while he drinks, slowly chugging the entire glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against the weathered skin of his neck. When the cup is empty he pulls it away with a gasp, and his eyes find mine again.

Wes’s arm presses into my shoulders and I smile tightly. This is not good. Sardosky is supposed to be noticing Bea by now, not paying so much attention to me.

“Mr. President,” Twenty-two cuts in smoothly. She takes a small step forward, subtly angling her body in front of mine. “I’d love to hear more about your memories of Peaksville. Perhaps we have acquaintances in common?”

“Perhaps.” The president seems flustered, his eyes slightly glassy, but he turns toward Twenty-two. “I haven’t been back there in years.”

Wes looks at Tierney. “Would you please excuse us? My fiancée wanted to dance before they serve dinner.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll sit at our table,” Sardosky says before we can leave. “I’d love to have you as my guests.” He is addressing Wes, but he glances at me as he speaks.

Wes nods and turns us both. It’s not until we’re a few feet away from the table that I feel him relax.

“I can’t dance holding this.” I shake the purse in my hand, trying to distract him. We need to pass the vial off to Tim before Bea can get the president alone.

Wes nods and I watch his eyes come back into focus. I hand him the clutch and he holds it up a little. Suddenly Tim is there, pushing through the crowd. “Excuse me!” I hear a woman gasp as he nudges past her.

“Can I help you with something, sir?”

“We seem to have forgotten about this when we were at the coat check. Would you mind taking care of it for us?”

“Certainly.” Tim bows slightly and takes the bag. He is gone as quickly as he came, and finally this mission feels real. We are not just playing dress up—Twenty-two is with the president, Tim is getting ready to poison his drink, and soon I will need to do my part in killing a man who just admired my hair.

Not many people are dancing yet, and Wes smoothly slides his arm around my waist as we join the slowly moving couples. Everyone waltzes as though it has been choreographed, twisting in a wide, orderly circle on the floor in front of the orchestra. The music is staccato and the strings get louder, then soft again, the uneven tones making it hard for me to find the beat. It feels like we are in some eighteenth-century novel, but for 2049 this is the latest fashion. Children learn how to waltz at a young age, and even public high schools have formal dances now.

Wes moves me through the box step, one hand at my waist, the other kept stiffly in the air. There’s a foot of space between us, but he is holding me in the circle of his arms and I can smell him—pine needles, the forest, a heavy rain. We have been on a dance floor in every era we’ve been to and each time has been different. I remember him holding me close in 1944, kissing me in the club in 1989. I turn my head so that I don’t meet his gaze. This is too confusing, and now I’m the one who doesn’t know where the acting starts and ends.

“I wonder what they’re serving for dinner,” he says after a moment of silence.

I stare at the pale curve of his ear, partially hidden by his black hair. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

“Maybe chicken. It’s been so long since I had American food.”

“Then you’ll probably want it to be hamburgers.”

He laughs, though I hear how fake it sounds, how forced. Now that we’ve been seen talking to the president, security will be monitoring our I-units even more closely. We’ll need to be careful. We cannot say what we’re really thinking—that the president’s interest in me could present a problem.

And so, as usual, we do not speak as Wes leads me in a stiff arc across the floor.

Chapter 5

T
wenty-two
is sitting next to the president when we return, both elbows resting on the white tablecloth as she cradles her chin in her hands. Sardosky bends down closer to her and some of the tension leaves my body at how attentively he is listening to whatever she has to say. But then she catches my eye and runs her index finger down the edge of her cheek. Wes goes solid, and my breath leaves my body in a long, low rush.

It is a nonverbal code—one of many we have for this mission—indicating that the plan has changed. Twenty-two is telling me that she doesn’t believe she can successfully distract the president, and now she and I have to switch roles.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Twenty-two’s voice is still bright, cheerful. “I’ve been telling the president all about you, Sam. He’s very curious.”

Sardosky looks up at me. “Sam? Is that your nickname?”

I take a small step away from Wes. “Only for my closest friends.”

He smiles. “Something to strive for.”

Wes keeps his arms tight against his sides, not reaching for me even though I can tell he wants to. But what I don’t know is why. Is he just acting as my doting fiancé, bothered by the interest of another man? Or is there another reason, one that’s tied to that moment in the hallway where he pulled the future me flush against his body and she never seemed to doubt his love?

I do not have the time to find out now, and all I feel is relief when Tierney says, “Take a seat, Michael. We need to discuss that venture in Japan.”

“Of course,” Wes responds, and Twenty-two narrows her eyes at him, hearing the same strangled quality in his voice that I do. But he folds himself into the chair next to Tierney and doesn’t try to stop me from walking over to a smiling Sardosky.

When I get closer, the president stands. “Samantha, why don’t you sit by me? They’re about to start the speeches.”

I take his outstretched hand, lowering myself into the seat next to his. Beside me, Wes whips out his napkin with more force than is necessary, but then Tierney says something on his left, capturing his attention.

The president turns to me. “Bea tells me you grew up in Boston.”

I nod. “Yes, I miss it.”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

We continue to make light conversation, and Twenty-two excuses herself, turning to flirt with the older man on her right. The president pours me a glass of champagne himself, even though there are several waiters hovering behind us.

He asks me about my family, where I went to college, even how I met Michael, which I’m surprised by. I give him the answers I’ve memorized, and for a minute I pretend that Samantha is real, and that her life is mine, and I almost enjoy talking with him. I’ve spent the last nine months alone, with the Project hurling instructions at me. Classes and combat and orders. No friends. No Wes. Sardosky is attentive and focused, and there’s something about him that reminds me of my grandfather. It might be his bushy hair, laced with strands of gray and white, or the wire-rimmed glasses he puts on to read the menu that one of the waiters places in front of him, or maybe it’s just that he’s paying me attention, in a way that makes it seem like he doesn’t want anything back in return.

That can’t be right. I must be reading the situation wrong, lulled by the friendly way he offers me some of the organic freshwater trout on his plate. I was told that, based on his reputation with women, the only interest he would show in Twenty-two or me would be sexual. But his attention doesn’t feel like how I thought it would. It’s politely friendly, not sleazy. Which might present a problem. Now that I’ve switched roles with Twenty-two, I am the one who is supposed to get him alone.

I lean in to him, making sure my side brushes against his arm. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself, Mr. President?”

He pulls away, reaching for his glass of whiskey. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”

We are no longer touching, and I sit back again, defeated. Behind Sardosky’s back, Twenty-two is watching me. When our eyes meet she raises one of her small shoulders. I give a tiny shake of my head, and I see her look down at the table as she sighs.

Sardosky turns to me and I smile, but we both jump when Twenty-two abruptly stands, pushing back her chair with a long scrape against the marble floor. “Michael, dance with me.”

Her voice is loud enough to carry halfway across the table, and most of the conversations around us trail off. I feel a rush of gratitude for her, that she would try to help me complete my part, that she would recognize how Wes’s presence might be a distraction for Sardosky.

Wes shifts in his seat, his body finally angled toward mine. He has spent the entire dinner physically turned away from me, as if he is trying to block out what is happening at his back. Now he takes in the way I’m twisting my fingers together in my lap, the way Sardosky is staring into his whiskey and turning it around and around until the liquor is a mini-tornado trapped in the glass.

I watch as Wes’s eyes close for a second, as he realizes that he needs to leave in order for me to get Sardosky to make a move.

“Go dance. I’ll be fine here,” I say.

He hesitates, both of his hands coming up to rest on the table in front of him. That’s when I see that his fingers are shaking. It’s just a minor tremble, but I look up at him in alarm. This was one of the symptoms that suggested his body had started to fall apart because of the damaging trips through the TM and that he didn’t have much time left. Once the Project noticed, they would experiment on his body while he was still alive to try to learn more about the long-term effects of time traveling on a recruit. He would eventually die, but it would be slow and agonizing. It was why I wanted us to run away together—to get him away from the Project and to save his life.

Who knows how many times Wes has traveled through the TM since the last time we were together, feeling the way it tears through your skin, separating molecules and shoving them back together again? It is why the Project uses only young people—our bodies are able to hold up longer, to take the abuse more easily. But even then we need a special serum in our blood, called
polypenamaether
.

If the TM is hard on a new recruit, leaving us white and shaking, what is it doing to Wes, who’s been through it hundreds of time?

I put my arm out, but before I can touch him he clenches his teeth together, his hands slowly steady, and he gets up from the table in that careful, measured way of his. “Let’s go, Bea.” He offers Twenty-two his arm and bows slightly toward Sardosky. “Mr. President, please excuse us.” His voice sounds strained, and he won’t look either of us in the eye.

Sardosky inclines his head. Twenty-two pulls Wes away, and they disappear into the crowd. I stare at their backs, not paying attention to the waiters clearing the plates around us or to Sardosky, who has turned to study me.

“He’s a good man?”

Startled, I shift in my seat to face the president. “I’m sorry?”

“Your fiancé. He’s a good man?”

I open my mouth but no words come out. It is not what I expected him to say. “I . . . yes. I guess he is.”

He puts his tumbler down roughly and the whiskey swings back and forth in the glass. When he turns to me, his hand falls out to the side to brace himself against the table. He is drunk. I hadn’t realized it before, even though he was steadily drinking throughout dinner, but now his eyes are unfocused, and his body matches his whiskey, swaying a little from side to side.

“You’re not sure?” he asks.

I stare at the condensation that beads on the edge of his glass. The table is littered with the remnants of our dinner: dirty forks and water-stains on the once white cloth. “I don’t know. I think there was a time I would have said yes without reservation. But now I’m wondering if I ever knew him at all.”

“Relationships change.” The bitterness in his voice makes me look up.

“Mr. President, are you okay?”

He takes a heavy breath that flutters through his mustache. “I think I might need to rest for a minute. I’m usually more careful at events like this.”

This is my opportunity. I lean into him and lower my voice. “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? No one would have to know.”

He nods his head, his eyes half closed. I cannot tell how drunk he is, but his body is steady as he pulls himself up from the table.

“If you’ll excuse me for a minute, gentlemen.”

The other men murmur their good-byes, and I ignore the way they look at me with knowing eyes.

The president walks on his own, his back straight, his large chest pushed out in front of him like a sail that has just caught the wind. At first we are side by side, but I slowly move in front of him until I’m leading the way, angling us toward the small library where I know Twenty-two had been planning on taking him.

We pass by Tim, who’s carrying a tray heavy with dishes. I put my hand out to stop him. “Bring two glasses of water to the reading room, please.”

He nods.

Sardosky and I continue through the crowd. It is different walking with him. Instead of fighting my way through the guests, everyone parts before us, a Red Sea disguised as silk gowns and dark suits. A Secret Service agent follows behind, and even when the crowd is dense I can feel him at our backs.

When we are near the orchestra, almost to the edge of the room, I turn my head and see Wes and Twenty-two on the dance floor. Their arms are wrapped around each other, his hand on the bare skin of her back, and he appears to be holding her more closely than he held me. For one second I think our eyes meet, but then he whips her around in a fast circle, and the moment is gone.

I lead Sardosky out of the ballroom, down a short hallway, and into the small library. When I open the door, he looks over his shoulder at the agent who followed us. “Wait outside.”

The younger man’s face is like granite as he nods.

The room is empty, the walls lined with bookshelves from ceiling to floor. A pale green love seat sits in the center, and there are no windows, just the overwhelming smell of musty books.

Sardosky steps inside while I shut the door behind us.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

Now that we are away from the staring crowds, he is like a marionette with his strings cut, staggering forward until he reaches the couch. He slumps down onto the silk cushion and lifts his hand to his forehead. “Unsteady.” He narrows his eyes at me from under his hand. “Will you get in trouble for being in here alone with me?”

“Michael didn’t see us leave.”

“I suppose it would look bad, if he did.”

Before I can respond there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, Tim is there, holding a tray with two tall glasses of water. I step back to let him enter.

He sets the tray on a side table next to the couch. Sardosky does not acknowledge him; he still has one hand pressed to his forehead, but now his eyes are tightly closed. Tim glances at me, then nudges the glass closest to the lamp. I tilt my chin down and he bows low.

“Please let me know if you need anything else,” he says before he leaves the room.

When I shut the door behind him the click it makes sounds ominously loud, and I stare at the wood for a second, at the wavy lines of the grain running parallel, up and up. I imagine them as part of a tree, alive and stretching toward the sun. When I turn back around, Sardosky is in the same spot, his head against the back of the couch.

“I hate these things,” he mumbles.

“The fund-raiser?”

“Just a bunch of blowhards standing around bragging about who has more money, with politicians kissing their asses.”

I don’t say anything.

“I know, I know.” He laughs without opening his eyes. “I’m one of those ass-kissing politicians. It’s the game you have to play, if you want to make any sort of change.”

I lean back until I’m pressed against the door. I know the type of change he wants to make, but I can’t tell him the consequences of it. It makes it worse, that his intentions are good.

“You should have some water,” I say.

He sits up fully. It takes a minute for his eyes to focus on me. “Not yet.” He runs a hand down his face, stroking his mustache, his chin. “I don’t usually drink this much. But seeing you . . .”

I tilt my head, my hair sliding across the smooth wood. “What about me?”

“You remind me of someone. That’s all.”

“Who?”

He suddenly lurches to his feet and stumbles over to the bookcase on the far wall. He was holding it together for the partygoers outside, hiding how drunk he really was, but here, with me, he is letting down his guard.

So that is why he has been so focused on me: because I remind him of someone. It would explain why he drank so much, if it was a person he lost long ago.

I walk to the side table, reaching for the glass of water with the poison in it. It is cold in my hand, the ice cubes clinking together when I pick it up, and I’m amazed by how normal it seems, this thing that will soon kill a man.

“How old are you?” He still has his back to me, and I watch as he runs his finger down the spine of a book. It looks old, but that could mean anything here. Maybe it was written when I was a girl.

“Twenty-nine,” I lie.

“You look younger. But then, everyone does these days. I remember when twenty-nine looked like twenty-nine. And eighty-five looked like eighty-five. Did you know that’s how old I am?”

“Yes.” I step forward, skirting the side of the couch. The condensation from the glass slides down my fingertips. “But you don’t look a day over fifty, Mr. President.”

“Call me Alan.”

“Okay, Alan.” The word feels unnatural on my lips. In training we never referred to him as anything other than Sardosky or the president. It’s hard enough looking at his face, knowing I have to kill him. I don’t want him to have a name, too.

He finally turns around, propped up against the bookcase, unable to stand on his own. I clutch the water glass in my hand.

“I had a daughter, once.”

“You did?” I act surprised, but of course I knew. She died when she was sixteen, not much younger than I am now. He and his wife never had any more children.