So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (19 page)

I keep flipping through the pages, watching Mary’s life emerge in the well-drawn pictures. There’s one of Lucas, laughing, and I stare at it for a long time. Mary captured every detail, from the crinkling around the corner of his eyes to the way he smiles with his whole face. She really knows him.

I stop, staring down at a picture of myself toward the back of the book. In it, I’m wearing Mary’s green dress. I look strong, fierce almost. My shoulders are back and my mouth is pulled into a serious frown. But there’s also a certain sadness, and a lost expression around my eyes. Is this how Mary sees me? As some sort of tragic heroine?

I’m about to put the sketchbook aside when a piece of paper falls out and drifts to the floor. I pick it up. It’s the charcoal rendering of Lucas. There’s some writing on the back that I didn’t notice before. I scan it as I place the picture back inside the notebook.
Lucas Clarke, February 1944
, “
Georgia Boy
.” I smile. Didn’t Lucas tell me he grew up on a farm in South Carolina? I try to think back to our conversation at the fundraiser. No, he’d said Georgia. White Plains, Georgia, “a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.” Where did I get South Carolina from?

As I close the sketchbook, a memory tugs at the back of my mind. My grandfather’s room in the morning, light falling through the lace curtains. A mourning dove calling outside. Grandfather’s voice: “She eloped with a soldier from the base not long after my father left, and they moved back to his family farm as soon as the war was over. I think it was in South Carolina? Maybe Georgia.”

How could I not have put the pieces together before now?

Lucas is Mary’s future husband.

I carefully close the sketchbook and place it neatly on the bed. It was confusing and exciting to think about Lucas harboring feelings for me, but he’s
meant
for Mary. I don’t want to get in the way of her happiness—their happiness. If Lucas
does
like me, then I need to discourage him as much as I can. It’s not like I don’t have enough going on to be convincing about it.

I abruptly stand up from the bed, determined to carry out my mission tonight. Opening the bedroom door a crack, I listen to the voices downstairs. They’ve finished dessert. They’re walking into the living room, laughing and talking. The radio clicks on and the tinny, high voice of an announcer talks about the night’s programs. Then a news announcement, and everyone falls silent. The troops are moving through the European theater, the front lines in the Pacific are expanding. A detective program comes on and conversation starts again, a low murmur.

I sneak out the door and into Mary’s room. Her window is open a little, and the light breeze is cool on my flushed skin. I push the blackout curtains farther aside and lean out into the night, looking for the rose trellis that crawls up this side of the house. Moving slowly, I work my way down the wooden slats. When I reach the bottom, I crouch near the windows, inching my way around the dark house. The crickets are louder at night, a constant clicking sound. I pause near the blacked-out window that I know leads to the den. The window is open beyond the heavy curtains and I hear the hum of the radio, Mary’s laugh, Lucas’s deep voice.

I make my way over to the truck. It’s darker near the front of the house, and I creep through the shadows. The military truck has a large truck bed, with olive-colored canvas stretched over the back. It reminds me of those old covered wagons people used to take out west.

As I tiptoe closer, I hear the front door of the house open.

“It was a pleasure, Sergeant Clarke,” Dr. Bentley says. His voice is muffled, and I can tell he’s standing inside the entryway.

“Thank you for having me.” Lucas sounds clearer, and I picture him standing on the front steps, his cap clutched between his hands. “Tell Lydia I hope she feels better.”

“I will.”

“Bye, Lucas!” Mary calls out from somewhere far away. I can hear the happiness in her voice.

There’s a moment of silence followed by the sound of footsteps in the dirt. I have to move quickly. I climb onto the back bumper, trying to keep my movements steady. Slowly, I crawl forward until I’m all the way inside the truck. It smells like an old basement, dusty and earthy and wet. There’s a black tarp on the floor, covering a pile of empty crates. I lie down on the floor next to the crates and pull the tarp over my body. As soon as I’m settled, I hear the driver-side door open. The truck shifts under Lucas’s weight as he gets in. A moment later the engine roars to life, and we start moving slowly away from the Bentleys’ house.

The ride to Camp Hero is bumpy and uncomfortable. One of the crates is digging into my side but I don’t dare move. I stay tucked under the tarp, not sure where we are or what’s happening outside of this dark space. It’s disorienting in the near blackness, and I find myself losing track of time, as if I’m drifting in and out of my body.

The truck finally comes to a stop. I hear laughter, Lucas’s slow drawl. It must be a checkpoint. We start moving again, and the road is even bumpier, rocking my body hard against the rough sides of the crates. We drive for a short time before Lucas turns off the engine. I hear his door open, then slam shut. His footsteps disappear. I pull the tarp off me. It’s dim inside the truck bed, but light trickles in through the open back. Somewhere in the distance I hear a man shouting. I crawl forward and peer around the edge of the canvas. We’re parked near the officers’ barracks. Beyond them I see the steeple of the fake chapel rising into the night.

There are a few outdoor lights illuminating the open space, and soldiers mill around, some leaning against the steps of the buildings, some smoking cigarettes in small groups. Lucas’s truck is parked in the shadows, in a long line of similar army vehicles. To the right is a large stretch of forest. As quickly as I can, I jump out of the back and run into the woods. I stop behind a large tree trunk, listening for shouting behind me, waiting for a soldier to burst through the trees, gun in hand. But everything is quiet.

I walk carefully through the woods, keeping to the edge of the trees, my eyes on the clearing and the soldiers scattered near the white buildings. The men are all wearing olive uniforms, some with hats, some carrying guns. I don’t want to think about what will happen if I’m caught here again.

I circle the wide space until I find the main road. I follow it for a quarter of a mile, then veer to the right, heading into the trees. The bunker is to the southwest, and I walk in that general direction, grateful, for once, that my grandpa used to drag me here so often—at least I know where I’m going. But the forest is harder to navigate at night, and it’s less familiar in this time period. I trip over low roots and large rocks, and branches knot in my hair, swiping at my shoulders and cheeks. It reminds me of the night of the bonfire, where I felt like someone was following me. Now I wonder if someone
was
following me, if even then I was getting too close to the mysteries underground.

The moon is bright; it’s a cloudless, star-filled night. But instead of lighting my way, the moon just seems to make the shadows deeper, the trees taller. I hear a noise up ahead and I duck on instinct, curling my body around a rock. A group of soldiers walks through the woods in front of me, crackling the leaves underfoot and rustling tree branches. Someone laughs, a quick, abrasive sound that makes me flinch. I smell the smoke of their cigarettes as they pass.

I stay there for a moment and close my eyes, wondering if I’m making a mistake. Then I see that image of my grandfather again, shuffling through the trees, and I stand up. I can’t back out now.

I move deeper and deeper into the woods. I am aware of every sound I make: branches snapping under my feet, the rustling of leaves on the forest floor. I move more slowly, more quietly. Soon I am almost at the clearing. I hold my breath as I walk the last few feet and then quickly let it out in a rush of air. I can just make out the black outline of the concrete bunker in front of me.

The space around the bunker is empty and quiet. I pull the metal key out of my pocket and take a step forward.

Something grabs my shirt and yanks me back. I open my mouth to scream, but a warm hand covers it. An arm snakes around my middle and holds me tight. I’m dragged back into the woods.

I struggle against the hands that hold me, blood rushing through my veins. Suddenly I’m released, and I swing around, ready to face my attacker head on. I freeze when I see Wes staring down at me with his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight. He’s pissed. I’m used to having to try to read what he’s thinking, so it’s a shock to see his emotions so clearly written on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I spit the words at him. I rub at my stomach, still able to feel his arm there.

“What are
you
doing here?” he snaps. “No, let me guess. You’re sneaking into the Facility.” His voice is annoyed, even sarcastic. I’m a little taken aback. I’ve seen uncertainty and confusion in him before, but this is like he’s on the edge of a cliff and any little move will push him over.

I don’t answer.

He clenches his jaw. “That’s what I thought.”

“I need to get inside.”

He steps closer to me. We’re almost touching. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

“I heard what you said.”

“Obviously not. Or you don’t care?”

The outline of his body is dark against the trees. He’s completely tense. I can practically feel the anger vibrating off of him.

I’m surprised by how mad he is. But then, I don’t really know him. He doesn’t really know me.

Both of us are keeping secrets, only giving out tiny pieces of information.

I raise my hands, ready to be diplomatic. “Look, I’m not trying to make you angry. I know you want me to go back to my own time, and I promise I will eventually. But there’s something I need to do first.”

He stares at me hard, then rubs his jaw with one hand. “Tell me why.”

So I do. I tell him about my grandfather, about Dean, about June 5. “If I can just get into the Facility, then I can find out information about what Dean is up to. Then I can know why he disappears, and the mystery will be solved. My grandfather and I will know the truth.”

“You’re
only
looking for answers? You’re not trying to change anything?” His voice is softer, more thoughtful.

“I’m not trying to change anything,” I lie. I wish I could tell him the truth. I want him to know how conflicted I am, that this isn’t an easy decision for me, and that I’m terrified of what might happen. But it’s the only one I can make if I want to save my family from the pain of Dean’s disappearance.

Wes sighs and looks at me for a minute. I can barely see his eyes in the dark forest, and I can’t read his expression. “Okay. Let’s go.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“I’ll help you get into the Facility. Let’s go,” he repeats.

I give him a suspicious look. “Why do you want to help me now? You don’t agree with what I’m doing.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I know you’re going to do it anyway, unless I physically restrain you.” At my alarmed expression, he keeps talking. “Which I’m not willing to do. If you go into the Facility alone, you’ll get caught and the guards will kill you. Or worse. If I go with you, at least I can keep you alive. And if you’re only after information, then you probably aren’t a threat to the time line.”

I wonder again why Wes cares so much if I live. Is he trying to prevent me from changing the past—or is it something else, something about me that keeps him here?

“Okay.” I grin at him in the dark. Sneaking into a heavily armed government lab doesn’t seem half as scary with Wes coming with me. “Let’s go.”

Instead of going directly to where I know the bunker is, Wes circles us through the woods.

“Why aren’t we using the entrance?” I whisper as I follow behind him, my eyes glued to his dark form.

“Too conspicuous. And loud.”

We walk for a few minutes before he stops at a random point in the trees. I can’t see anything special about where we are, but then Wes points to a metal disk set into the ground.

“We’re going in through the vents.” He crouches down next to the round metal and pushes it. It makes a loud grinding noise as it slides open, and I look into the woods. Distorted shadows hide in the forest and the moon is heavy in the sky. Something moves in the grass near my feet and I jump.

Wes looks unconcerned as he stands and holds out his hands. Our eyes meet as I slip mine into his. He pulls me forward. The metal disk has been pushed to the side to reveal a large hole that seems to drop into blackness.

I look up at Wes. “Once we’re inside, we need to be quiet, and we need to be fast,” he says, his voice urgent and low. “I’ll be right behind you. I’ll direct you through the vents. If there’s trouble, you need to do what I say, even if that means running for your life. Can you do that?”