I pull away and walk toward the back door, and the dogs let me go. Obstacle one, out of the way. I glance up at the camera hanging over the door. Obstacle two.
According to Indigo, there are no cameras inside the house, which makes sense. Can you imagine growing up in a house where a camera tracked your every move? He also said there’s another one over the front door and half a dozen others guarding the first-floor windows. But if I come in the back, this is the only one I need to contend with.
I scoot around so I’m behind the camera and look in the window. I see a sunroom. Behind that is the kitchen. I nod my head, close my eyes, and map my location. There’s a dining room and a formal living room and a parlor—whatever the hell that is—on this floor. The second floor has Zeta’s bedroom and, more importantly, his office. Yellow and Indigo have bedrooms on the third floor.
I peer into the window again. There’s no one in the kitchen. This is my chance.
I reach into my bag and pull out a pair of black gloves, which I know look very suspicious in the middle of August, but I yank them on my hands. Then I sling the bag over my shoulder, put my hands on the window ledge, and hoist myself up. The window box heaves a creaky sigh, and I silently pray it doesn’t crack and break off. I scoot along the edge until I’m close to the door. I keep one hand against the window for balance and with the other pull out a can of spray paint from my bag. I use my chin as leverage to get the cap off, then I shake the can and spray the camera lens black.
Obstacle two, conquered. I jump off the window box, put the spray paint back in my bag, and dust myself off. I try the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. Of course. I pull out the lock kit I have tucked into my front pocket. The simple hook pick should do it, so I slide it out of the leather pouch and into the lock. A few jimmies to the left and it clicks unlocked.
And now for obstacle three.
I turn the knob, and the alarm immediately blares. A series of loud, one-second-long beeps fill the house. I shut the door behind me, beeline through the sunroom and kitchen, and make my way to the stairs, to the door on the side of the staircase that Indigo told me about. I swing it open and hurl myself inside, settling behind a vacuum cleaner as the alarm continues to wail.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs over my head.
“Nicholas!” a woman shouts. “I told you that you weren’t to leave this house until you’ve finished unpacking your camp bag!”
Inez.
I hold my breath as I strain to listen. Between the beeps, I hear a series of softer ones. Inez entering the alarm code. Sure enough, the house falls silent. I hear the back door swing open.
“Nicholas!” Inez shouts into the backyard. Then the door shuts, and I hear a gentler, “That boy!”
And then I remember to take a breath. Indigo told me that Inez wouldn’t bother to check the security cameras—that she thinks Zeta is a little crazy for having them in the first place. But I don’t move an inch from my spot behind the vacuum. I close my eyes and listen. Waiting for some cue that it’s safe to come out.
I hear it. In the kitchen, the faucet turns on, and there’s the splashing of dishes being washed. I open the door and peer my head out. I don’t see Inez. I step out and shut the door softly. Then I round the corner, grab the banister, and head up the stairs on my tiptoes.
On the second floor, there’s a door that’s shut and locked just to the right of the staircase, so I pull out my hook pick again, and a few seconds later, I’m in Zeta’s office.
I rest my back against the door for a moment. I keep forgetting to breathe.
Zeta’s office is the opposite of Ariel’s. Nothing’s out of place in here. Actually, nothing’s in place. The desk is empty, except for a boxy computer monitor and one picture frame. I pick up the frame. It’s a photo of Yellow and Indigo, and I smile. Yellow can’t be more than six. She has white-blonde pigtails tied with pink ribbon and she’s grinning at the camera. A front tooth is missing. Indigo’s blond hair has flopped in front of his left eye, and he has his arm thrown around his older sister. This picture was taken somewhere on the beach, and there’s the outline of another huge house in the background. I wonder if Zeta has a beach house on Martha’s Vineyard or the Cape. That wouldn’t be surprising.
I set the frame down. I’m wasting time.
Yellow told me the blackout memo was in a file cabinet to the left of the desk. I use my lock pick for the third time and slide the drawer open. Damn. There have to be fifty files in here. I don’t know what I was hoping, that I’d open the drawer and the memo would be sitting there on top, waiting for me?
I scan the tabs on the folders. Bank, Insurance, Investments—no, no, no—Warranties, Medical Info, Chilmark—no, no, no, come on! And then I see it. AG.
Annum Guard.
I flip open the folder. I’m not here to snoop, I remind myself. No matter how much I want to pull out this file and read every word that’s inside it, I won’t. I’m looking for the blackout memo and the blackout memo only.
The first paper is a memo, and my heart leaps. I scan the first few lines. The word Delta jumps out at me. Delta—my dad. I close my eyes for a second before scanning the rest of the page. I don’t see anything about a blackout, so I flip to the next paper. At this point, I don’t think I even want to know anything more about my dad. He’s not the man I built up in my mind, and finding out more about the man he really is—was—just makes me lose focus.
I flip past mission ledgers, forms, and contracts. But there’s nothing about a blackout. I broke into Zeta’s house for nothing. There are only a few papers left.
But then there it is.
A confidential memo. Subject line: BLACKOUT EXPERIMENT. I yank it out of the drawer. I’m going to read it, memorize it, then tuck it back into the file and bolt. But before I get a chance, I hear feet pounding down the stairs and shouting.
“Where are you going, Nick?” a young female voice shouts.
Yellow.
“It’s gotta be in Dad’s office!” Indigo’s voice. He’s on the landing, and he’s heading here.
I’m trapped. I fly to the window, but it’s not an escape. There’s no tree or bush or anything to soften a fall. Plus, there are alarm wires running the entire length of the window.
“You know you’re not supposed to go in there!” Yellow says. Her voice is outside the door.
I don’t think. I leap into the closet, pull the door shut, and hope that whatever Indigo wants isn’t in here.
“Yeah, well, Dad’s not here right now,” Indigo says as he opens the office door. “And besides, that’s never stopped you.”
I reach into my shirt and pull out my Annum watch. Should I project now? I press on the top knob—the one that automatically sends me back to the present—and listen as the hands spin around the face. I start to press the face shut and then stop myself. What if I project back to the present, only to find Inez dusting the office windowsills? And let’s not forget that Zeta would certainly realize this memo is missing.
Not yet.
Yellow and Indigo are in the room. “Dad’s going to kill you,” she says.
“Shut up, Lizzie.” Lizzie. It’s so weird to hear Yellow called that. Hell, it’s still weird to know that her real name is Elizabeth. “Go listen to some more of that whiny crap you won’t stop playing.” Indigo must be at the desk. I hear a drawer slide open, then another one, and then— “Look, Dad left the file cabinet open. It’s like he wants me to find it.”
Uh-oh.
“Dad never leaves the file cabinet open,” Yellow says. Oh, not good. Not good at all.
There are footsteps. A loud stomp-stomp from whatever shoes Yellow must be wearing, which makes me wonder. In the present, Yellow is not a stomp-stomp kind of girl. She’s a click-clack all the way. The footsteps head toward the closet. My fingers find the watch lid. Do I stay and let her find me, or do I run and face the unknown?
“Here it is!”
Yellow’s footsteps fall silent, and I allow myself a quic
k breath. There’s a ripping sound, like the opening of an envelope, and then an unfurling of paper.
Indigo sucks in his breath. “Yep, this is it. ‘Dear Mr. Masters, we regret to inform you that Nicholas will not be welcomed back at Bretton Pines next year’—like I want to go back—‘due to his extreme insubordination toward the Bretton Pines counselors.’ Insubordination. What’s that mean?”
There’s a crumpling noise, and I assume that Yellow’s grabbed the paper out of her brother’s hands. “It means you’re a huge jerk who won’t follow rules.”
“Fair enough,” Indigo says. “But Cody’s the jerk, not me. He only hates me because he hates Jack’s dad because Jack’s dad—”
Yellow gasps. “They talk about me, too,” she says. “ ‘I also must mention that I’m worried by Elizabeth’s sudden mood change. I’ve gotten to know her over the past two summers, and thus you can understand that her appearance and attitude were surprising this year. I tried to engage Elizabeth in conversation but found her to be extremely withdrawn and sullen all summer’—yeah, because I don’t want to be there—‘and I can’t help but wonder if her relationship with her mother might be the root of the problem.’ ” Yellow laughs. “Dude, she mentioned Mom. Just leave the letter there for Dad to read. He’ll flip that they brought her up like that. There’s no way he’s sending us back there next year. He’ll be so mad, he won’t even care about your insubordination. Just keep playing the Mom angle—Cody wouldn’t shut up about Mom, and that’s why you never listened to him.”
“Except that’s not true.”
“Whatever.” Her tone is angry. It’s very different from the sunshine Yellow she is today. Well, under normal circumstances. I have to physically restrain myself from opening the closet door and peeking out. “Come on, you did what you need to do. Now let’s go.”
Yes. Go.
“I’m taking the letter with me.”
“Stop being a pansy,” she snaps. “Leave it!”
There are footsteps against the wood floor, and the sound of the office door opening, and then I really can’t help myself. I crack the closet door open an inch. My mouth drops open. Yellow—who is normally a walking J.Crew ad—is dressed head to toe in black. Black, sheer lace top with a black tank top over it. Layered black miniskirt. Ripped black tights. Black Doc Martens. Her hair is streaked with pink and purple, and I’d bet you anything that if she turned around, I’d see her eyes outlined in kohl like a raccoon.
I pull the closet door shut. So, Yellow went through a goth phase. Fascinating. And by fascinating, I mean hilarious. I’m dying to rifle through her bedroom, but I remind myself again why I’m here. The piece of paper I’m holding. I wait another minute to make sure they’re not coming back, then I open the closet once more and slip out. I crouch low and slide underneath Zeta’s desk to give myself a fighting chance in case anyone else comes in. Then I look at the memo. It’s short. One quick, little paragraph.
My eyes widen. Zeta wrote the memo. The recipient was the defense secretary. And there’s a CC: to A. Cairo. It’s dated only a few weeks ago. I start reading.
It is my recommendation that the blackout experiment be regarded as a failure. We do not at present have the time or resources to police another layer of Annum Guard, and the Justice Department has quite unsurprisingly affirmed my opinion that there are serious constitutional, due process concerns in adding a punitive team to our existing ranks. While I commend your enthusiasm for the project, I regret that I must withdraw my support.
And that’s it. Two phrases jump out at me. Another layer of Annum Guard. A punitive team. What does that mean? The defense secretary wanted to add more members to the Guard? Members that would . . . punish people? Who? I have more questions than answers. I know who the defense secretary was six years ago—I mean, today, in the past. And I do mean was. It was all over the news when he had a heart attack and died while still serving his post. But I have no idea who A. Cairo is.
And then I gasp. Loudly. I hope no one heard that. Because it’s all adding up. XP really is Chi Rho. Chi Rho. Cairo. It has to be the same person. Does that mean Zeta knows—knew?—who XP is? Is that why he was taken—blacked out?
My hands are shaking.
I need to get back to the present. Now. I need to find Zeta, and I need to get some answers.
I read the memo two more times, then I repeat every word back in my head. I got it. I tuck it back in the drawer and slide it shut. There are voices in the hall.
“I don’t care what you say, I’m not just leaving it!” Indigo shouts. The doorknob turns. I don’t have time to hide. The door swings open. Indigo’s head is turned toward Yellow, who’s charging down the stairs in those big black boots of hers.
My necklace is still open. I slam my forefinger onto the top knob that will take me to the present, and shut the lid. It clicks, and the last thing I see is Indigo’s head turning toward the sound. I’m shot up, and my heart is beating so fast that I don’t even feel the pain of projecting.
I land in the same spot I left, but the office door is shut and the house is quiet. I strain to hear a sound—any sound—but there’s only silence. I remember to breathe, and the breath makes me dizzy. I take a step toward the door, then stop myself. What am I doing? This is the perfect chance to see if there are any clues about what happened to Zeta.
I backtrack to the file cabinet. It’s locked, but I break it in a matter of seconds. The door slides open easily. It’s empty. Not one folder, not one slip of paper. I open all the drawers on the desk. Same thing. No pens, no memo pads, no paper clips. Nothing. There is no trace of Zeta in this room at all. It’s . . . eerie.
I slip out of the office into the hallway. I pause and listen. Nothing. So I slink over to the staircase, pause and listen again. Still nothing. I wish I had some sign of whether anyone else is home. Inez, she’s the wild card.
I walk down the steps very gently, my gloved hand gripping the railing. I don’t want to risk a creaky stair, even though I’d be shocked to find one in this house. Zeta strikes me as the kind of guy who’d rip out the entire staircase at the first tiny creak and replace it with some state-of-the-art design that never makes a sound.
The only sound I hear on the first floor is my own breathing. The front door is right there, and I wonder if I should slip out that way. It’s been six years since I arrived. I assume someone noticed the spray-painted camera in the backyard at some point and replaced it.
But I still think the back door is my best bet. I already have that route mapped out.
I creep down the hall. I’m almost to the kitchen.
Then there’s a click behind me that stops my heart. I slowly raise my hands over my head and turn.
Inez is about ten feet away. Her right hand trembles as she holds a .357 aimed at my head. It’s a small gun, but it looks enormous in her hands. I need her to move closer if I have any chance of disarming her.
“Who are you?” she demands. She looks up at my hands—at my black gloves. The kind of gloves you only wear when you’re doing something very, very bad.
“I work with Ze—Noah. And I’m a friend of . . . Elizabeth’s. And Nick’s.”
“I’ve never seen you before.” Her voice shakes. I’m not sure how much she knows about Zeta and what he really does for a living.
“I know.”
“Where is Mr. Masters?” Now she sounds almost pained, like a mother who’s lost her child in a crowded shopping mall.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find that out, I promise.” I take a step toward Inez, and she reaches up her other hand to cradle the gun.
“Don’t move, or I will shoot you.” Her voice and body language are telling me it’s a bluff, but still I stop.
“Listen, I swear I’m only trying to help. I’m sure I frightened you”—her face relaxes just a little—“and I’m sorry about that”—I keep one hand in the air and lower the other so it’s reaching forward for the gun—“but right now I’d really li
ke for you to drop that gun.” I take one step.
And then Inez pulls the trigger. A bullet flies over my head and into the wall. Inez rocks backward, thrown off balance by the shot.
“Holy shit!” I scream. I rush toward Inez, who’s swaying on her feet. I instinctively slam my elbow into her chin, grab the gun, and twist it out of her hands. “I’m sorry!” I yell as she moans in pain. I jump back, unload the bullets, and throw the gun behind me.
Then I turn to Inez. “What was that?”
She’s shaking. Convulsing, almost. She thrusts her hands in the air. “Don’t hurt me. I have children. Grandchildren.”
“I’m not going to hurt you! I told you that. I’m a friend. I know you’ve never met me before, but I’m a friend.”
It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “I don’t know where Mr. Masters is. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I—” There are a million things I’d like to ask her. When was the last time she saw Zeta. Whether there was anything unusual in his behavior in the weeks before he disappeared. But Inez is a basket case right now. She’s on her knees, muttering in Spanish, praying to Dios. Tears stream down her face.
So I just turn and bolt out the back door. I keep my head ducked as I run past the camera, even though I don’t think Inez is going to call the cops. She knows they can’t help. And Yellow and Indigo can make sure this all goes away.
I toss the bullets and my gloves into a trash can next to the T stop, and only then does it hit me.
I just came within a foot of getting my face blown off. I suddenly don’t know up from down. I sway, and a guy in a suit and tie shouts, “Whoa!” as he hooks his arms around my waist to steady me.
“Easy there,” the man says. Then he chuckles as I hold out my arms to keep my balance. “Rough day, eh? It’s a bit early to be tossing back a drink, but I won’t judge.”
What? What is he talking about?
“Shut up,” I mumble as a train rings a warning bell and pulls up to the aboveground stop. I push onto the train, plop onto a seat, and look down at my hands. They’re still shaking.
Blackout Page 14
