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

by Rachel Carter

  “What’s with that look on your face?” Wes does not stop rowing, his arms laced with muscle, his breath even despite the weight he’s pulling.

  “Nothing.” I smile at him through the spray from the crashing waves that sends mist up over my hair, my bare arms. “I’m just happy.”

  On the beach, Mary has spread out a picnic blanket. We reach the shore and Lucas wades into the cold springtime water, grabs the thick rope that Wes uses to tether the boat, and pulls us in. Wes hops out and holds his arms up, lifting me onto the dry sand.

  Peter is standing on the beach, trying to reach the rope to help Lucas and Wes pull the boat in.

  “Whoa.” I grab his shoulders and bring him back a few feet. “The waves are strong today. Let them do it.”

  He twists away from me. “I’m not a little kid, you know. I can help.”

  I look down into his face. His cheeks are nothing like my grandfather’s. He’s still a little boy, his face round and soft where my grandfather’s was angular. But the direct, stubborn way Peter speaks is startlingly familiar.

  The grandfather I remember might be gone, but, in a way, he’s still here. I’ll have a different role in his life—caretaker instead of charge—but he’ll always be someone I love. And now I’ll be able to watch him grow up, instead of knowing he would probably pass away during my lifetime.

  I lean down close to Peter.

  “I know you can,” I say softly. “But Wes will tell you when he needs help.”

  “I help Wes a lot. Sometimes he takes me fishing.”

  “I just helped him too.”

  “And she wasn’t very good at it. Not nearly as good of a helper as you are, Peter.” Wes walks toward us in the sand, wiping his hand across his face. The boat is now several feet up the shore, well out of the high-tide line. “She kept dropping the fish back in the water.”

  “Hey.” I put my hands on my hips. “I was a great helper.”

  “You’re a girl,” Peter says. “Girls don’t know how to fish.”

  “That is so sexist. Girls can do anything boys can do.”

  He cocks his dark head at me and scowls. “What’s sexist mean?”

  I open my mouth, then shut it. Wes starts laughing. “Oh shut up,” I mumble, pushing his stomach as I walk past. He clutches his middle and gives an exaggerated groan, which makes Peter start to laugh.

  I shake my head, sitting down next to Mary on the blanket.

  “Lydia.” She waves her hand in the air. “You reek of fish.”

  “Wes made me throw back the little ones. My hands are all gooey.” I hold them in her direction and she shrieks.

  The boys join us, and Wes lies down on his side, tucking my back against his front, his arm around my waist. Lucas sits near Mary, resting his hand behind her. She scoots back a little so his forearm is pressed to her side. Despite Lucas’s fears, they look comfortable with each other.

  “I have hard-boiled eggs,” Mary says. “Ma packed breakfast for us, and there’s eggs and apples and root beer and brown bread and butter, I think, maybe a little and—”

  “Mary!” I interrupt. “We got it, there’s food.”

  I feel Wes’s body shake behind me as he laughs and I lean into him.

  “I’m just trying to tell you what there is.” She huffs.

  “I’m starving.” Wes pushes up until he’s sitting beside me, keeping his left arm wrapped around my waist. “What’s in there, Clarke?”

  “Well, there’s eggs and apples and root beer and brown bread and butter . . .”

  We all laugh, even Mary. I watch the way she looks up at Lucas from under her lashes, and I know that even though she is still mourning Dean, she is going to be okay.

  Peter runs over to eat with us, squeezing in between Lucas and Wes, and they both rumple his hair. I give him a plate with chicken and he thanks me, smiling.

  While he eats he lays his treasures on the blanket: rocks smooth and pale from the waves beating against them, a white seashell, curved and hollow. Lucas shifts through them, pointing to a dark rock with lighter-colored stripes. “I like this one best.”

  “Me too,” Peter says, though I know he would have agreed regardless. Lucas is a lot like Tim, I realize, and it’s not just their build—both a little stocky with light eyes and broad shoulders. Lucas is just as easygoing, just as comfortable in his kindness.

  “I’m still hungry.” Lucas reaches for the basket, but Mary holds out an apple.

  “Here.”

  “Feed it to me?” He bends his head close to her, opening his mouth wide.

  “You have arms, don’t you?” She tosses the fruit at his face and he catches it right before it connects with his nose.

  “Oh, I have arms.” He throws the apple to the side and lunges at Mary.

  “Get away!” she shrieks as they topple over into the sand. “Ahh! Lydia! Save me!”

  I do not move from the blanket. “Peter, go rescue your aunt.”

  Peter jumps to his feet and hurls his tiny body onto Lucas’s back. “Get off her.” He giggles.

  “You’re like a monkey!” Lucas shouts, sitting up with the smaller boy clinging to his neck.

  Mary sits up too, patting at her hair and glaring at Lucas. “It took me two hours to set these curls, and now look at them. You’re a menace, Clarke.”

  “And you’re beautiful, even covered in sand.” He leans forward and pecks her on the cheek, Peter still hanging off his shoulders.

  “Oh stop.” Mary waves her hand in the air, her face tinted pink.

  Lucas pries Peter away, setting the boy to the side. “Eat more food,” he commands.

  “Don’t wanna.” Peter jumps up and runs to the water’s edge to look for shells.

  I watch him lean his face close to the sand, and then my gaze wanders over to Wes’s shack, to his rundown truck, to the dunes above us.

  My body goes solid.

  “What is it?” Wes whispers into my ear, too quiet for Lucas or Mary to hear.

  “On the dunes. Something reflected the sun. I think someone’s watching us.”

  Wes scans the ridge above us. “There’s nothing there.”

  “I’m sure I saw it.”

  “It could have just been a shell, or a piece of glass.”

  “What if it’s a recruit? What if they sent someone to find us?” I breathe the words.

  “There’s no way. Don’t worry.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Mary asks.

  “Nothing.” I force myself to relax, and Wes squeezes my side. He’s right. It was probably nothing. Trying to shake the uneasy feeling, I hold up a raspberry and his lips close around my fingers. Our eyes meet and I remember how it felt last night when those same lips grazed my neck, when he whispered in my ear. I glance away, clearing my throat.

  Mary is watching from across the blanket and she rolls her eyes. “You do not get to take up all of Lydia’s time.” She points her finger at Wes. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year and we have so much to catch up on, and we need to—well, no offense, Lydia, but we need to fix that hair of yours. It is so old-fashioned; I mean, honestly.”

  Wes chokes on the raspberry and I hand him a root beer. When he has taken a long sip he grins at Mary. “I promise I won’t occupy her all the time.”

  But Mary and I will only have time together if Wes and I succeed tomorrow. If we are caught in the Facility, it’s all over. We have one shot at destroying the TM, and we can only hope we don’t destroy ourselves in the process. Wes feels my shoulders tense and he moves even closer, resting his chin on the top of my head.

  Mary smiles, missing the stiff way I’m holding my body, and I do my best to smile back. I will not be afraid on our last day together, not when we are on this deserted beach, the sun high and bright overhead, and people I love sitting right in front of me. They are gifts, moments like these, and I have learned not to waste them.

  When we are driving back from East Hampton, the supplies for the bombs in the truck bed b
ehind us, I turn to face Wes. “I think I have an idea,” I say.

  He glances at me, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “What is it?”

  “In order to save those kids, we need to draw attention to the Facility, right? We need civilians there. It’s the only way to make sure the scientists and officers who are involved can’t cover up what’s happening.”

  “How will we get people out there?” He sounds thoughtful. “It’s pretty far in the woods, and not many civilians go near the army camp.”

  The windows are partially down, and air whips through the small space. I move closer to Wes. So he can hear me better, I tell myself, ignoring the half grin he gives me.

  “Dr. Bentley goes to Camp Hero every day to work in the hospital.” I almost have to shout over the wind. “You know he wouldn’t be involved in any kind of cover-up, and if he brought the other doctors with him to the Facility, there’d be too many people for the Project to keep quiet.”

  “But how are we going to get him out there? And when?”

  “Tomorrow morning. At first light.”

  We are both silent for a minute. It is only hours from now, but it will give us more than enough time to make the bombs and map out how we’ll get in and out of the Facility. I’ve been having fun, reconnecting with Wes and the Bentleys, but I can’t forget why I’m here. Destroying the Project has to come first. It’s the only way any of us will have a future together.

  “We need to go when it’s light,” I say, and Wes nods. We’re getting closer to Montauk, to his home, but also to the Facility. I watch the low trees and dunes fly past the window.

  “I think we should write Dr. Bentley a letter.” I lean back against the seat, my head tipped toward Wes. “We can leave it in his study tonight when we go for dinner. That way we won’t have to answer any questions in person. I’ll tell him to be at the camp at a certain time, that something is happening in the western woods that will require medical aid. He’ll go; he trusts us.”

  Wes reaches down to change gears and the old truck jolts, rocking my body forward. Instead of putting his hand back on the wheel, he rests it on my thigh. “You’ll need a better story than that.”

  “I’ll think of something. But this is the best solution I could come up with for now.”

  He squeezes my leg, and I imagine that the layer of my dress isn’t there, that he’s touching my bare skin. “It’s a good idea, Lydia. I trust Bentley. He’ll make sure those kids are safe.”

  Later that evening, as the sun is setting a deep red behind us, Wes and I walk back toward his small shack. “I love Mrs. Bentley,” I say, “and maybe we can blame it on the war, but I cannot eat any more of that horrible cake.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Cakes should not be made without sugar and butter. It’s a crime.”

  Wes laughs, his hand curled tight around mine. I move closer to him, wanting to be in the moment, but I cannot shake this nagging feeling I’ve had since we came back from East Hampton.

  “Wes? Do you feel like someone is watching us?”

  He stops walking, his body still as he listens. “I can’t hear anything but the water,” he says after a moment.

  “I’m not saying it’s something you can hear, I just have this feeling. Like there’s someone staring at my back. I’ve had it all night. And then this morning on the dunes—”

  “Do you think you’re being overly suspicious?” His voice is soft. “You spent the last week in the woods being hunted. It’s normal that you’d still feel that way.”

  “I guess so.” He starts moving forward again and I let him pull me along, our hands still clasped together.

  He might be right—maybe I am overreacting, still remembering how it felt to sleep with my heart in my throat, wondering if every sound, every breeze was a sign that the Secret Service had found us. But Wes has also spent the last six months alone, never looking over his shoulder. Am I paranoid or has he lost his instincts?

  “Don’t worry.” He squeezes my hand, turning to look at me in the fading light. “Tomorrow morning this will all be over.”

  It’s not exactly reassuring, but I try and smile at him. I must have been mistaken; there are not many places for a person to hide out here, with the ocean to our left and the dunes to our right.

  Inside his tiny house he pulls out the bags of supplies we bought in East Hampton and we sit side by side at the table. We are silent as we separate out the ingredients, using small lead pipes to contain the explosions.

  “The fuses can’t be too long,” Wes says when we are almost finished mixing the materials. “Otherwise a guard might be able to stop them before they explode.”

  “But how are we going to get out in time?” I lift up one of the small fuses he’s already cut. “This would only give us thirty seconds.”

  He takes it from my hand, fitting it into the end of the pipe. “We have no choice. We’ll have to steal timers from inside the Facility. We can wire and rig the bombs in the TM room after we send Faust through time, and set the countdown for two minutes. Even if they find the bombs, a guard wouldn’t be able to stop one in time. Deactivating a timer isn’t as simple as cutting a fuse.”

  “Will we have time for that? It won’t be easy to sneak around, especially if we have Faust with us and we’re trying to keep him quiet.”

  “We’ll have to make it.” He sounds distracted, and I stare down at his bent head as he concentrates on installing the fuse. “We need to make sure the TM explodes, but I’m also planning on living a long life with you, Lydia. That means we need to make it out alive.”

  I smile. “Only you can be romantic while assembling a deadly weapon.”

  “I try.” He looks up and grins, the dimple cutting deep into his cheek.

  Earlier, I left a note for Dr. Bentley on the desk in his study. I wrote that I had heard some soldiers in town talking about testing bombs near the southwest bunker of Camp Hero at dawn, and how they’re sure it won’t be safe. I asked him to check it out with the other volunteer doctors and nurses from the hospital, because I thought some men would end up injured. I know he’s the type of doctor who will go, even if my information wasn’t certain.

  As soon as Wes and I have assembled three bombs, we lay out the contents of LJ’s file. Most of the documents are things we already know—a layout of Camp Hero, a brief description of how to get into the entrances. But one paper is a detailed map of the Facility, and another is a write-up on Faust, including details about his schedule. He lives in the Facility, eats and sleeps there, and almost never leaves. It will make him easy to find, and we use the map to pinpoint the exact location of his office, and the entrances we’ll use to get in and out.

  When it is close to midnight, Wes stands up from the table. “Come here.” He lifts his shirt over his head and I stare at his bare chest.

  I move toward him because I cannot help it, we are magnetic, and his fingers tangle in the loose strands of my hair. He kisses me, then pulls back. “I love the freckle you have right here.” With his opposite hand he touches my face, just below my eye.

  I run my fingers over his shoulders. He has twin bullet holes, one on each arm, and I trace the raised white flesh on his right shoulder. The one on the left side is newer, still an angry pink. “It’s strange to see this healed. For me, it happened three days ago.”

  He twists, pulling me down beneath him on the bed. “Wes . . .”

  “What?” His voice is muffled against my collarbone.

  “We have to concentrate.”

  “On what?” His hand cups my cheek, his mouth moving lower.

  “The plan.”

  He lifts up until he’s staring me in the face. “We’ve been over the plan a hundred times. We’ve made the bombs. We put the letter on Jacob’s desk. All that’s left is to execute it, and we can’t do that for hours.”

  “Aren’t you scared?” I ask.

  He twists his finger around a lock of my hair. “A little. But we’ve been in the Fa
cility before, and this time there are fewer soldiers and no cameras. We’ll be fine.”

  But I can’t relax. Everything is riding on tomorrow.

  “We’re trained for this,” Wes says. But then he sees the way I bite my lip and he sighs. “Lydia, don’t worry. We’re ready. And you’re here, in my bed, and I don’t want to think about what could go wrong tomorrow.” He moves his hand from my hair to my cheek, running the backs of his fingers down to my chin. “Let’s think about something else, okay?”

  I nod, knowing I need to trust him, to believe that we will succeed. He leans over and kisses me, and then I stop thinking about anything at all.

  We get dressed in the early morning, when the sky is just starting to lighten and the moon is low on the horizon. I put on Wes’s old recruit uniform, washed and tucked away in a drawer. It is too big on me, but I roll up the sleeves and the pant legs. Wes is dressed in black too, in a tight T-shirt and rugged work pants.

  When we leave the shack, the fog from the ocean hits us, damp and thick, making it hard to see where we’re walking. Wes takes my hand and we stumble over to his truck, our shoes slipping on the wet grass.

  Maybe it is the mist, maybe we are both still wrapped up in what it felt like to lie in each other’s arms all night, but neither of us senses her presence until it is too late. Wes reaches for the handle of the passenger’s-side door when he freezes, slowly turning to face the beach. I turn with him, and that’s when I see her, standing on the top of a dune, her black uniform molded to her body, the rolling mass of waves at high tide crashing on the sand behind her. It is Twenty-two. She’s holding a gun, and it’s pointed right at us.

  Chapter 23

  She steps down off the sand, the high sea grass winding around her legs. Neither Wes nor I moves as she approaches. “You need to come with me,” she says, the sound of the crashing waves nearly drowning out her words. “General Walker sent me to bring you back.”