Annum Guard: Blackout Part 22

CHAPTER 22.

I close the browser. What the h.e.l.l does XP have to do with the Cuban Missile Crisis? With the very first Annum Guard mission?

Wait, what if XP is . . . Ariel? No. The thought has barely entered my mind before I realize how ridiculous it is. Ariel isn't XP. XP must have tampered with the mission later on. It's the only explanation.

I have to follow these leads. Location-wise, it would be much easier to go to the Boston mission first, then do both DC missions at once, but logic is telling me I should go to them in order, the way XP commissioned them. Like following a trail of breadcrumbs.

Lincoln it is.

I sling the duffel bag over my shoulder and jog down the stairs, toward the door. I pa.s.s the security guard.

"Hang on!" he says, slipping his fingers under his bulging stomach and into his belt loops. He hoists his pants up. "I need to check your bag."

I stare at the duffel. It's full of clothing and money from other eras, which is going to lead to a bunch of unnecessary questions. So I hug the bag to my chest and barrel through the door at a sprint.

"Hey!" the guard shouts. "Stop! Someone stop her!"

The guard certainly doesn't chase after me-no one does-but still I run. I slow down around Arlington Street. I need to find a place to project. I jog across the street, and before I know it, I'm approaching Annum Hall.

I didn't even realize I was coming back here.

Abe is inside. Yellow. Red.

My heart pangs. I haven't been gone very long, but . . . I miss them. All of them. Someone I've come to know as more than a leader. Someone who's become the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had. And someone who's my everything. For now, for always, no matter the b.u.mps we hit. An image of Mike flashes in my mind, and anger erupts in my chest. I let him kiss me. What was I thinking?

I'm stupid for coming here. I whip out my watch and set it for four in the morning of April 13, 1865-almost forty-two hours before the Lincoln a.s.sa.s.sination. I pause. That's pretty far back. Every hour in 1865 is about twenty here. That's . . . whoa. That's thirty-five days. On one mission. I wish I could travel to DC in the present and project from there, but that's not as safe. They're going to be antic.i.p.ating that. They won't count on me giving up more than a month of my life and taking a train the night before. But d.a.m.n. Thirty-five days.

It is what it is. See you on the other side, July.

I shut the watch face. When I land, I'm in Civil Warera Boston.

I've been to the latter half of the nineteenth century before. Several times. It's starting to feel familiar. Not quite like my home, but maybe the home of an aunt we visit several times a year. I look at the carriages parked in front of brownstones the same way I'd look at an old, battered mailbox. They're comfortable. Comforting.

I could use some comfort right now.

Boston is asleep at this hour, so I grab the dark-gray dress out of the duffel bag and duck into a doorway on a side street. I put on the soft corset so the dress has some hopes of fitting, then slip the dress over my head and zip it up. It's designed to look like it b.u.t.tons up in the back but has one very key modern convenience. Finally, I pull the shoes on my feet. They're stiff leather booties, not nearly as comfortable as my running shoes. But they draw less attention.

I cross Beacon Street and trot down the steps into the Common. The park is deserted. It's just me and my thoughts. Me and my thoughts. Me and the terrified voice of Jane Bonner, of Marie Quail. The ghost of Alpha. Memories I'd like to forget. More questions than answers.

I put my hand on the back of my neck, where the tracker is. As much as I want to-need to-follow this lead, I know it could end any second now. Red might send someone for me. He's going to want to know what happened to Bonner.

But something tells me if he hasn't come for me yet, he's not going to.

I'm heading toward South Station. I wander through the downtown district and pa.s.s by one closed shop after another. Then there's a bakery with light spilling from the window. I watch a baker pound dough on a butcher block. He catches me staring and frowns, then tilts his head as if to say "Move along."

I know what he's thinking. There's only one profession that would have a woman wandering the streets in the wee morning hours in 1865. And there's no point in correcting his a.s.sumptions, so I keep walking.

I've been to South Station a lot lately. It's easy to find, a ma.s.sive brick building by the water that stretches an entire block. Still, making this walk so long ago is disorienting. There are no sidewalks on the cobblestone streets and no skysc.r.a.pers to help me find my bearings. And then I'm at the water.

Wait, what?

I spin around. There's no South Station. It should be there. Right there, where there's . . . nothing. A tract of land. Oh, not good.

"Excuse me!" A young man is loading bricks into the back of a horse-drawn cart. I rush over to him. He's dressed in dirty pants and a shabby black cap.

He turns to me. "Miss?" He's missing at least two teeth.

"I need to catch a train. Could you point me toward the station?"

"A train at this hour? Ain't no trains at this hour."

"I need to depart first thing," I say firmly.

"Where you heading?" I can't tell if he's being creepy or just curious, so I hesitate. I'm really not looking for trouble. But then he adds, "What station you need depends on where you goin'."

My shoulders relax. He's being helpful, that's all. "Oh. Washington."

The man's nose scrunches. "You do realize there's a war bein' fought right now."

"I . . . yes. I do." I clear my throat. "But it's important that I get to Washington immediately."

The man nods with a disbelieving look on his face. "You can try to catch a B&O train to Baltimore, and then try to find another one into Washington from there. The station's at Utica and Kneeland."

Utica and Kneeland. My mind maps it in the present day. "In Chinatown?"

The man laughs. "In what?"

I bite my lip. "Never mind. Thank you." And then I run.

The station is small and cramped, nestled in between a garment factory and an Irish grocery on a dirty, dingy street. The station's also closed. I sigh and lean against the side of the building.

As the sun rises, the streets fill. Horses clomp by, leaving an odor of manure and earthiness. There are carriages hauling lumber, dry goods, animals off to slaughter, and people covered in layers of grime. The whole place reeks with the scent of unwashed skin and soiled clothing. I grit my teeth and wait.

As soon as the station opens, I buy a ticket on the Baltimore and Ohio line. The train leaves at 10:30 a.m. and is due to arrive in Baltimore . . . sometime. That's as specific as the man at the ticket counter can get. He looks at me with a slack jaw and mumbles that we might be taken over and forced out so the Union army can transport goods. There's no twinkle in his eye, no humor in his voice, so apparently this is a very real possibility.

I splurge and buy a ticket in the most expensive compartment available because, if this becomes an overnight trip, I have no desire to sleep sitting up in a dining car. Plus, it turns out I took a c.r.a.p load of money from the safe. Enough to probably buy my own train.

The train starts boarding at ten, six hours after I arrived in 1865. That's 120 hours-five days-in the present.

No.

Blackout. That's what I have to worry about now. "Traveling alone, miss?"

I jolt and turn around. There's a man standing behind me. He's well dressed in a dark-gray suit. He's taken off his top hat and is holding it close to his chest, along with a black walking stick with a marble top. No luggage. The man looks to be midforties, maybe? He has a soft, rounded face and a midsection to match. He smiles at me, and I know it's meant to be friendly, but still my hackles are raised. I'm probably reading too much into this. I know that a young woman traveling alone in the nineteenth century is an eye-raiser, especially with a war going on.

"Oh, no," I say, returning his smile. "My chaperone is already in our car. I just stepped out for a moment."

The man gives me a quick nod and another smile, and I'm probably reading too much into this, too, but it's not as friendly. And then his gaze travels down to the duffel bag in my hand. I squeeze the handles but don't hide it from view. That would raise even more suspicion.

"Have a good day, miss," the man says, before walking in the opposite direction.

I watch him slide open a door and disappear into the next compartment. New strategy: stay hidden in my car until we arrive in Baltimore.

I don't make eye contact with anyone as I find my car. I'm in a long compartment with two rows of paired benches, one facing forward and the other backward, and a center aisle. And that's it. No beds. What? I specifically asked for a sleeper car. I glance down at my ticket again to make sure I'm at the right car. I am.

A porter with dark-brown skin rushes forward and takes hold of my bag. I instinctively s.n.a.t.c.h it back, so hard that he stumbles. He looks at me with wide eyes.

I give a forced laugh to diffuse the tension. "I'm sorry; you startled me."

"I apologize, miss. Would you like me to stow . . . er"-he looks at the duffel-"your bag?" He holds out his hand for it, but I wave him off.

"I've got it." I'm sure this is not normal behavior for the time-a young woman fighting to keep her very odd-looking bag-but I'm not letting it out of my sight.

I can see him debating whether to argue, but ultimately he just nods and gestures to my ticket. He looks down at it, then indicates I'm in the third bench on the right.

Well, at least I'm facing forward. I drop into my seat. The train is half full at this point. Heading to my compartment are men in top hats and suits, and women in long dresses or long skirts and crisp white shirts with necks so high they could strangle you with one wrong turn. Heading to the back of the train are Union soldiers dressed in blue uniforms with hats that stand straight in the back and slouch in the front. I'm sure Yellow would know the correct term.

I keep my head down, glancing up only briefly whenever another pa.s.senger enters the car. I'm looking out for that man I met on the platform. But he's not here. I feel relieved.

The last pa.s.sengers arrive, and I stare at the empty bench directly across from mine, facing me. And then I watch a very large, very gruff older woman deposit herself onto it.

"Will you be needing anything else at this moment, Mrs. Withers?" the porter asks her.

"When I need something, George, you'll know it."

Her tone is rude and dismissive. She doesn't even look at him. I give him a sympathetic smile.

"Don't smile at him like that," Mrs. Withers orders me. "You have no idea what his sort is capable of."

My mouth drops open because, one, who says that?, and two, he's standing right there. I want to tell this woman exactly what I think of her, but I can't. Blend in. That's my story right now.

The porter walks away without another word, and I look out the window.

"Are you traveling alone?" Mrs. Withers asks me. Unlike the man on the platform, there's no joviality in her voice. It's almost an accusation.

I guess I can't lie to her because it's going to be obvious that I'm alone. Sure enough, the train lurches forward on the tracks at that exact moment. We're off. Headed toward Worcester, then Hartford, then down to Baltimore.

I hope.

"Yes," I mutter as I look out the window.

"You're a rude little strumpet, aren't you? Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

I turn from the window and toward this toad of a woman. Wiry silver hair escapes a hat that looks like it's smooshing her bulbous head down into her neck. She narrows dark, beady eyes at me.

"I'm on my way to a funeral," I lie. "I apologize if I'm not in the mood for conversation." And then I turn away. I know I'm in an era where manners and niceties were everything, but that's as polite as she's going to get from me.

I can feel her staring. But if I don't give in and turn my attention to her, eventually she'll get bored and look away. Rude little strumpet. Whatever. If she thinks that's the worst insult I've ever heard in my life, she's mistaken. My mom's hurled some good ones at me during her down periods. Ones that involve four-letter words and would require some smelling salts to revive this woman.

I close my eyes. I bet you anything my mom did go back to Vermont, even if just to pack a bag. I should have called our neighbor, Mrs. McNamara, before I left. To tell her that there might not be any money in the mail this month but that I'd think of something soon, and to ask her to keep an eye out for Mom. Not that she really needs the reminder. She's been keeping an eye on both of us for years. Maybe Abe will have thought to call. No, not maybe. He definitely will have thought of it.

Abe.

He must know I'm gone by now. All of them must know. My tracker is still active, but no one's come for me yet. Red has to know that I went to Peel, so they must believe me, right? They must trust me.

Stop, I tell myself. Stop thinking about them. XP. That's why I'm here. To find out who XP is. And to avoid being taken out by a blackout squad in the meantime. They're going to get me for sure if I'm not at the top of my game.

I keep one eye trained on the window and the other on my surroundings. The blackout team might not know I'm on this train, but they're definitely going to be expecting me in Washington. XP was involved in the Lincoln a.s.sa.s.sination somehow. He isn't going to let something that huge go unguarded.

He or she, I chide myself. I don't know who's behind this.

Around noon, the porter comes by again. "Pardon me, ladies, I'd like to accompany you to the dining car, if I may."

"It's about time, George," Mrs. Withers says, swaying from side to side to get out of her seat. She grabs the porter's arm, almost yanking him down on top of her as she rises. Then she pushes past him so forcefully he b.u.mps into the seat on the other side of the aisle.

"My apologies, sir," he says to the man whose shoulder he b.u.mped. The man gives a curt smile, and the porter turns back to me and extends a hand.

"Thank you, George," I say, and he winces. What did I do?

"My name is Willie, ma'am," the porter says quietly.

"Then why-" But I cut myself off as I see Mrs. Withers glaring at Willie, irritated that he's taken so long to open the door for her. And suddenly I know. Well, I get the gist. George is an insult of some sort, and I'm going to guess it's based on the color of his skin.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper back. "I didn't know."

Willie's face softens, and he gives the smallest nod. Mrs. Withers clears her throat loudly and heads to the door.

"Miss, you can leave your bag here. Nothing will happen to it." Willie tips his head toward my hands.

"I'd rather take it with me, thank you." I grip the handles tighter.

Mrs. Withers clucks her tongue. "Am I supposed to open this door myself, George?"

"Of course not, ma'am," Willie calls up to her; then he turns back to me. "As you wish, miss." He lets me pa.s.s.

"It's as if no one cares about service anymore," Mrs. Withers says as Willie slides the door open. She shoves past him, and I slink through behind her. Willie brings up the rear.

We have to pa.s.s through three pa.s.senger cars before we get to the dining car. It's packed, but my eyes zero in on one person. I scoot around Mrs. Withers to get a better look, to make sure I'm right. My mouth goes dry.

"I'm not hungry," I say. "Willie, would you please escort me back to the car?"

But it's too late. Because the man from the platform has already looked up and caught my eye. He's sitting at a table only a few feet away with another man, whose back is to me. The man from the platform is pointing right at me.