Book One

by K. C. Archer

  He pulled out another Ping-Pong ball from his pocket. “Practice over break, okay?” The ball flew in an arc toward Teddy.

  She caught it, barely. Hand-eye coordination wasn’t her strongest suit. Turned out neither was moving Ping-Pong balls with her mind. “Clint?”

  He stopped at the door and frowned at the strain in her voice. “Yeah?”

  Teddy chewed her lower lip. Since their last meeting, she’d been trying to shake the images she’d seen in Clint’s mind. She wanted to talk to him about it, but she didn’t know how. At last she said, “That guy. The child molester. Did you ever catch him?”

  A flash of brilliant white teeth. “Of course I did. But the right way,” he said.

  *  *  *

  Later that evening, she burrowed into an armchair in the library, books spread out before her, the Ping-Pong ball clutched in her hand. Jillian, Molly, Dara, and Teddy had each claimed a corner of the room, the four of them struggling to finish their Forensics research paper before break. “So,” Jillian said, “there’s this coyote on the island who’s so heartsick. When he cries, he sounds like a preteen girl screaming at a One Direction concert.”

  “Hmm,” Teddy said. But her thoughts kept ricocheting back to the glimpse she’d had into Clint’s consciousness. The coyote, the bunker, the desert, the smoke. Coyote. She’d heard that before.

  She set down her pen and looked at Jillian. “Hey. Speaking of coyotes. Remember that dream you had a few weeks ago?”

  Jillian, her nose in her textbook, didn’t bother to look up. “If you’re talking about the one with Al Gore, that was told in confidence.”

  “Okay, enough with Gore. I meant the one where you were”—she really felt like an idiot saying it aloud—“a coyote?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Do you recall anything else? Any details?”

  Jillian raised one eyebrow. “Sand.” That could have been anywhere. Teddy was about to dismiss the dream when Jillian continued: “I was in the middle of the desert. And all around me, I felt like, the world was ending.” She shivered. “And I remember seeing an inscription.”

  Teddy ripped out a page from her notebook, scribbling the symbol she’d seen in Clint’s office and in his mind.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Jillian said.

  “Why are you drawing the symbol for Sector Three, Cannon?” Dara said, leaning forward.

  Molly’s head snapped up. “I thought we were trying to get this report done.”

  “Give me a minute,” Teddy said, waving her off. “I think Clint knows something about Sector Three. He was involved with it somehow.”

  “Well, he wasn’t at Sector Three, I can tell you that for sure,” Dara said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Sector Three had no survivors.”

  Jillian frowned. “No survivors? Then how does anyone know—”

  “My grandmother also gets death predictions. People here wouldn’t approve of what she does. But she has a shop. Headdress. Crystal ball. The whole shebang. She told me a story about this one guy who came to New Orleans for Mardi Gras in the eighties.

  “He told my grandmother he worked for a government contractor at the time. The contractor had clearance to enter this military base once a week and deliver food, drinks, ice, propane, whatever the mess hall needed.”

  “The base was in the desert?” Teddy said.

  “Yeah. Somewhere in Nevada.” Dara lowered her voice. “Anyway, the vision she first got was normal—most of what happened on the base was just boring military stuff. Combat training, weapons drills, vehicle maneuvers, things like that. But all of a sudden, she got this picture of this guy getting blown up on his delivery. She wanted to warn him, so she drew the symbol that she saw in her vision for him. And she told him to stay away from there if he wanted to live. And the guy basically flipped out. Told her that he’d had it up to here with psychics and he was never going back to Nevada.”

  “So Sector Three trained psychics?” Teddy asked.

  Dara shrugged. “I guess so. That’s what my grandmother always assumed. No one else in our community ever talked about it. There was no mention of the facility in any records. She got another vision months later. Just bodies. Everyone there had died. That’s why I said no survivors.”

  An explosion. Teddy had seen the aftermath of an explosion in Clint’s thoughts. But did that mean—

  Boyd chose that moment to stroll through the library. They watched as she perused the rack of DVDs available for checkout, finally selecting one and leaving the library again.

  Dara leaned forward, mischief dancing in her eyes, her story temporarily forgotten. “Showgirls or Sharknado?”

  Jillian didn’t quite manage to choke back her laugh. But Molly flinched as though struck. White-faced, she sat motionless at the table. Even at the mere sight of Boyd, Molly seemed to shut down.

  “Hey,” Teddy said softly. “Molly. I know it’s hard, but try not to let Boyd get under your skin like that.”

  “You don’t understand,” Molly said. She grabbed her books, shoved them into her backpack, and fled their table.

  Jillian blinked. “I hope she’s okay.”

  Teddy looked up and saw Jeremy stop Molly at the library door. The two stood huddled together. At times Teddy couldn’t tell if Jeremy was part of the problem or the solution. His presence seemed to calm Molly but also agitate her. Relationships. She didn’t get them.

  Jeremy came in and bypassed their table to sit down next to a pretty, athletic African-American woman with long brown hair.

  “Who’s that?” Teddy asked, pissed on Molly’s behalf that he was talking to another girl.

  Dara followed Teddy’s gaze. “Christine Federico. She’s one of the top third-years.”

  Evans. Federico. Cannon.

  Teddy’s shock must have shown on her face: Dara cocked her head, waiting expectantly for her to say something. Teddy opened her mouth and waited for her brain to catch up. It didn’t. The gears simply spun. What linked Teddy to Brett Evans and this girl? Though Clint had effectively blocked any further discussion on the topic, Teddy couldn’t dismiss the notion that the theft hadn’t been random.

  “Sometimes I see her in the meditation lawn,” Jillian said. “I feel bad she’s staying here for Thanksgiving.”

  “She is?” Teddy said. Her brain started to whir again—maybe Christine knew something about the theft. And though she had planned to do schoolwork over break, she now had another research project in mind: Christine Federico.

  Jillian yawned. “I’m so glad I’m going home for the weekend. Need to recharge. You want to join, Teddy? Some time away from campus might do you good.”

  Teddy shook her head. “No, I’ve got stuff to do over break.”

  Did she ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BY THANKSGIVING DAY, TEDDY WAS regretting her decision to stay at Whitfield over break. For all of her idealistic plans of bumping into Christine around campus, Teddy hadn’t seen the girl once. She went to the meditation lawn each morning; hung out around the gym; stayed in the dining hall until the hot pumpkin soup the staff was serving in honor of the holiday went cold. And despite her fear of slipping back into her old bad habits, she missed the idea of being home for the holidays. Even if that home was Jillian’s parents’ split-level in New Jersey, with a menagerie of bizarre animals, hippie parents, and a full vegan dinner.

  Teddy walked to the main office in Fort McDowell, the Ping-Pong ball in her pocket. She hadn’t managed to move it with her astral body, or whatever Clint had said, but she had taken to carrying it around with her. She’d come to think of it as a sort of talisman, a symbol of what she might accomplish.

  Because there was basically no one on campus, there was no line to use one of the phones. She called her parents but wasn’t surprised to get the answering machine. Thanksgiving in their family began with a morning hike in Red Rock Canyon. Her mom considered it early penance for all the food they’d dev
our later.

  Teddy left a message and hung up. She decided to follow tradition as best she could, so she walked back to her room and suited up for a jog. Following the trail around the island’s perimeter, Teddy tried to put home out of her head. She pushed herself to run faster and longer, through the burn in her chest, the cramps in her legs. She didn’t know if she was running toward or away from something—all she knew was that if she kept moving, she’d eventually be too tired to think.

  *  *  *

  Exhausted, Teddy couldn’t even bring herself to put in an appearance at the on-campus Thanksgiving celebration. Instead, with legs feeling the approximate texture of the cold canned cranberry sauce her mother usually served, she passed out on her cot, thankful for sleep free of Jillian’s snores. When a knock came at the door, she was surprised to see that it was Pyro. They hadn’t been alone together since that night at the Cantina. Teddy hadn’t realized that he’d also decided to spend the holiday on-campus.

  “Come on,” he said, leaning against her door. “It’s even more pathetic if you don’t show.”

  She suspected she wasn’t alone in feeling moody and out of place. The handful of students who remained sat together at a single table, decorated with perfunctory gourds. All except the one she’d hoped would be there: Christine.

  Teddy and Pyro were the only first-years; the rest were upperclassmen, and the difference in conversation was noticeable. Where Teddy and her peers discussed nothing but the midyear exam, the upperclassmen compared their internships and debated the qualifications of the new FBI liaison on campus. Whenever Nick’s name came up, Teddy felt Pyro’s gaze shift toward her. She kept her face blank and her wall up. It was none of his damn business.

  Just when Teddy had made the decision to return to her room, Christine took a seat across from her, wedging in between two upperclassmen.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said to her friends. “Had to finish a report.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working on those Russian theories again,” a blond third-year woman said from down the table. “You know that Cold War remote-viewing stuff is garbage.”

  This is your chance, Cannon. Be cool.

  She didn’t want to scare Christine off by seeming overeager. Teddy thought of the dining table as being like a poker table. She needed a play to get the most information. First-year suckup? Aloof but interested?

  “You’re a remote viewer?” Teddy asked.

  Christine nodded. Teddy found she didn’t have to act at all as she listened, fascinated by Christine’s report.

  “It’s funny,” Christine said, “I’m in here, but everything important is happening outside these walls.” She paused, shaking her head. “I’ve seen it. I know.”

  Teddy found it hard to stay invested in Christine’s rant when all she wanted to do was ask about the blood samples. But how did you ask a stranger about her genetic makeup without coming across as creepy?

  “Brett agreed with me,” Christine continued.

  “Brett Evans?” Teddy said, the name slipping out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

  Christine turned to her. “He was my best friend.”

  “Was?”

  “Is. I only meant he’s no longer here.”

  “He was really nice to me when I first came here. At the party.”

  Christine nodded. “He’s a nice guy.”

  Teddy wondered how far she could push Christine. Should she bring up the lab? “He was nice to everyone, trading for Internet and stuff.”

  Christine rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t nice. That was stupid. But Brett was always a sucker for extra cash. If he had twenty bucks in his pocket, he could turn it into a hundred, and then he’d show up in Wyoming three weeks later with a new horse, fresh from a wild bender. He was like that.”

  “So has he called from Wyoming yet? What’s the horse’s name?”

  Christine smiled. “Nothing yet.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Teddy asked.

  Christine shook her head. “Brett could be anywhere. Surfing in Hawaii. Backpacking in Tibet. He’s pretty impulsive that way. But one place he isn’t is back home in Austin.”

  “Oh?”

  “He didn’t get along with his grandparents. Strict religious types. They raised him after his parents died. He couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “How did his parents die?” Teddy asked. She knew the question sounded crass before she even finished asking it. She’d met plenty of people whose parents were divorced and a few who had lost a single parent. But never had she met someone her age whose mother and father had both passed away, like hers had.

  “Actually, the same way I lost mine,” Christine replied. “Car accident. I think that’s one of the reasons he and I bonded: we both understood what it was like to lose our parents in an instant and at such a young age. What it was like to not feel like we belonged with the people we were supposed to.”

  Teddy froze. Her mind raced to calculate the odds: three Whitfield students out of a population of under one hundred, all of who had lost their parents as infants. No, not a coincidence, not when their three names were on a list.

  “Did you ever learn more about those accidents? Ever think that was a coincidence?”

  Christine clenched her jaw. “You know, I don’t think I really want to discuss this anymore. I barely know you. Excuse me.”

  With that, Christine got up from the table and left the dining hall. Teddy had completely blown her chance to question her further.

  Hey, Christine, what makes you, me, and Brett so special? What happened to our parents?

  Like that was going to happen.

  “What the hell was that about?” Pyro asked.

  Teddy shook her head, trying to clear the conversation from her mind. She’d had Christine right where she wanted her. “I don’t know. I mean, nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  Pyro put his hand on her shoulder. For a moment, she wanted to lean in to him, but she caught herself. She wasn’t going backward. Only forward. “I’ve got some studying to do,” she said, getting up from the table.

  It was the truth, kind of. She wanted to go over what Christine had said. About Brett and her parents. Car crashes. It was too coincidental. She said good night to Pyro and returned to her room. Alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MIDYEAR exam, Teddy dreamed of the yellow house. It was always in the back of her mind somehow, but since the night when she’d gone inside, her dreams had taken on a different tenor. Everything felt more vivid, more real—the colors brighter, the sounds louder, the smells stronger.

  Tonight the desert sky was full of clouds, like a storm was brewing. Wind blew desert brush across the ordinarily manicured front lawn. The windows were boarded up. Teddy sensed that something was wrong. She’d never encountered the house like this.

  Teddy reached for the green door, paint now chipped away, and walked in. She stood in the foyer. The wallpaper was stripped from the walls. On the low table, once loaded with knickknacks, stood a single photograph in a silver frame. Teddy stopped in front of it and reached down to pick it up. She studied it. Three men and a woman. They were all wearing army jackets emblazoned with a number three surrounded by concentric circles—the symbol for Sector Three.

  Clint Corbett’s face grinned at her from the photograph, his arms loosely draped over the shoulders of people he must have considered good friends.

  She stepped closer to get a better look. The man to Clint’s left was almost a full head taller than Clint and wiry, with dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, a prominent nose. His strong features were made even more distinguished by a slender scar that ran along his jaw from ear to chin.

  On Clint’s right stood another man and a woman. They stood close, in a manner that suggested they might be a couple.

  The man was good-looking, but even from the picture, Teddy could tell that his nose had been broken more than once. His dark hair was slicked back off his face, revealin
g ears almost too big for his head. He looked kind, almost goofy. His eyes were dark but held an intensity that made Teddy step back.

  The woman next to him looked familiar, and for a brief, disconcerting moment, Teddy thought she was staring at a photo of herself: same dark hair, same angular features, same slightly pointed chin. But she had never worn her hair that long, almost halfway down her back. She’d never had an army jacket. Teddy studied the picture, noticing more details: how the woman’s silver necklace, furnished with a large purple stone, stood out against the military garb; how her eyes shone as she looked at the man next to her.

  The moment of recognition set in, sending Teddy’s emotions reeling.

  My mother. My parents.

  But not the mother she knew, who was a middle-school math teacher and drove a ten-year-old Camry. This was her birth mother. Teddy put her hand on the wall to steady herself, catching her finger on a nail as she did. She pulled her hand away and saw the blood welling up.

  Her heart beat a wild tempo against her ribs.

  *  *  *

  Teddy jerked upright in her bed, her sheets twisted around her ankles.

  “What’s wrong?” Jillian looked over at her from her bed, her hair tousled from sleep.

  “A dream.” Teddy was drenched in sweat. She looked at her hand, feeling the sting as if it had happened to her just then. Teddy’s heart stopped when she saw the bright red spot on her finger.

  “Was it Ryan Gosling?”

  Teddy collapsed back against her pillow, blinking up at the ceiling as she tried to piece together the sharp fragments of her dream. The house. The photograph. The jackets. Her parents? In the dream, Teddy had been so certain. But in the cool morning light, she began to doubt what she had seen.

  “Get up before you fall back asleep,” Jillian said. “You don’t want to be late to the exam.”

  December 18 already. The days since Thanksgiving had blended together in a monotony of classes and studying. Teddy tossed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of her bed. For three whole minutes, she’d actually forgotten that in a matter of hours, the first-year recruits would face their most difficult challenge to date. It seemed less important now, considering everything else that had happened.