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

by Rachel Carter

  “Bea!” I call out when I see her standing not far from us.

  She is already talking to someone, an older gentleman in a tuxedo similar to Wes’s. When she hears her name she waves at me through the crowd. “Coming, Sam!”

  She beams up at the man, says something to make him laugh, and then shimmies over to us. Several people turn to watch her walk past, and I wonder where she learned how to be so open and free. It can’t have just been the Project’s training. Maybe this is how Twenty-two would have been without the brainwashing and the time traveling. Maybe she’s just slipping into a role she was always meant to play.

  “This room is amazing,” she says when she reaches us. She throws out her arm, narrowly missing an older woman, and I follow where she’s looking, to the cream-colored walls, the deep-red curtains pulled back from the windows with heavy gold rope. “I’m so happy you brought me along.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Wes smiles down at her.

  “You’re such a charmer. Oh, champagne? I want some.”

  Wes spots a waiter near the dance floor. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He steps into the crowd and is quickly lost among the other guests.

  Twenty-two and I are alone. I stare at her warily, but she just smiles and touches me lightly on the arm. “I’m so glad to be here with you, Sam. It’s been forever since we last saw each other.”

  “Years, right?” I struggle to keep my voice as affectionate as hers.

  “I was at your old house just last week, and your parents were asking about you.”

  I can’t help but picture my own parents on the night I left, lying in their bed under their summer blanket, no idea that their only child was slipping out into the darkness.

  “Don’t you miss your mother? Your father? They’re missing you terribly, you know.”

  “It seems . . . like a really long time since I last saw them.”

  Twenty-two steps closer. “It’ll be okay. Family is so important, but I’m here now; don’t worry. You’re not alone.”

  She’s acting. This is an act. I repeat the phrase in my head, but it’s difficult to remember when she squeezes my arm, when she says the words I’ve so desperately needed to hear these past few months.

  “Here you go.” Wes is back, and Twenty-two steps away, taking the glass from his outstretched hand. “What were you two talking about?”

  He looks directly at me and his eyes narrow slightly. I take a shaky breath as Bea sips from her glass. “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Just about our family and how hard it is for Samantha to live so far away.”

  Wes frowns, but I wave my hand in the air. “It’s fine!” My voice is overly high and I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Having Bea here reminds me of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

  “Oh, cuz.” Bea smiles and reaches out to touch my arm again. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

  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

  Twenty-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.”