The Eighth Guardian (21 page)

Zeta is waiting for us when we get back to Annum Hall. “So?”

“Success,” I say. “Nothing was stolen from the museum.”

Zeta smiles and leads us into Annum Hall. “I’m sure you’re exhausted. Yellow and Violet, go upstairs to bed. Iris, wait here.”

Neither Yellow nor Violet turns to look at me as they head up the stairs, and I’m a little hurt. I don’t know why. What was I expecting, that we’d all get matching BFF tattoos after this?

I turn to Zeta. “Yes?”

“Excellent job.” He’s smiling. Actually, genuinely smiling. “I’m very proud of you. I know I’ve been hard on you, but it’s because I see leadership in you. I’m going to be making my full recommendation to the DOD tomorrow that you be promoted to full and permanent Annum Guard member. I know Alpha is doing the same.” He holds out his hand. “Welcome to the Guard, ma’am.”

I shake his hand and don’t try to hide the smile that spreads across my face. “Thank you.”

A full and permanent member of Annum Guard. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but I like this. I actually
like
this. I feel pride beaming from my chest. This feels right. So right.

I let go of Zeta’s hand and head toward the stairs.

“Hang on,” Zeta says. “You’re skipping the best part.”

I turn my head back to look at him. “Which is?”

He points to the library. “Don’t you want to see what history has to say about you?”

My mouth drops open. I didn’t even think about that. I run into the library, open a search engine, and type in ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER MUSEUM BURGLARY.

I click on the first link, which takes me to an encyclopedia entry on the attempted burglary of the museum. My heart skips a beat when I read the word
attempted
.

In the wee morning hours of March 18, 1990, two thieves dressed as uniformed police officers knocked on the service entrance door to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and were let through the door by one of the security guards. A second guard came downstairs, and the thieves overpowered the men and locked them in the basement.

At just after 2 a.m., the Boston Police Department received an anonymous phone call from a female a block away from the museum that tipped them off to a possible burglary occurring inside the museum. When police arrived on the scene, they found two men handcuffed and unconscious in the museum.
The
Concert
, a painting by Johannes Vermeer valued at over $200 million, was found lying on the floor of the museum’s Dutch Room, but no other artwork had been taken.

Police believe a third person was involved in the heist, despite the fact that the security guards testified that they only let two men through the door. The police reached their conclusion after discovering that the service door had been pried open, probably by use of a crowbar. In addition, numerous alarms were tripped in close succession minutes before the phone call to police. A popular theory holds that a third person who was well known to the thieves betrayed them the night of the heist. Both men apprehended adamantly denied this theory, and police were unable to follow any additional leads.

Perhaps the most puzzling piece of evidence left behind is a note that appears to be a detailed timeline of how the thieves planned the burglary. The note details when certain alarms should be tripped and when the thieves should appear in each room. The police have not been able to make sense of the note, and both men charged with the crime deny having written the note or having seen it before.

I gasp and jump up, then plunge my hands into my pockets. And that’s when it hits me. I don’t have my cheat sheet. I must have dropped it in the scuffle.

No one says anything to me about the missing cheat sheet, so I guess either it’s not a big deal or no one knows. Neither Yellow nor Violet say a word to me. Not one. It’s like no matter how hard you try to bend them, the rules of physics are set. We’ll all go back to the place we were meant to be. And that place has me as the outsider.

Indigo shows up for breakfast the next morning. I slide in next to him, remembering that our last interaction involved me body slamming him to the ground and muttering several choice words.

“Hey,” he greets me. He doesn’t even make eye contact.

“Hey,” I say back.

I’m sorry,
I say in my head. Before I can get the words to my lips, Indigo plops a heap of potatoes onto his plate and turns so that he’s facing Green, not me. Point taken.

But then Alpha clears his throat to start making announcements, and I forget Indigo for a second and sit up straight. Here it comes. He’s going to say something about the museum heist. I’m beaming with pride. Maybe people will start to see me as an equal around here for once. And then maybe I’ll get my clearance codes.

“Big announcement this morning,” Alpha says, and I bite my bottom lip in anticipation. “Our funding has come through, and it looks as if we’re going to be adding a second gravity chamber in Los Angeles. And there are plans to add a third in Chicago, hopefully within the next five years.”

There are cheers and hoots and hollers, and I guess that’s okay. A second gravity chamber is big news, but I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Come on. I completed my first mission last night. They’re going to make me a full member of the Guard.

“Second big announcement of the morning,” Alpha says, and I scoot around in my chair. Here we go. “Red has been promoted to senior team leader. He’s going to start designing some of the missions.”

Okay, I guess that’s pretty important news, too. We’ll get to me next.

“And those are the announcements for this morning,” Alpha says. “You will all be meeting with Zeta and Red for the remainder of the day to discuss a very important matter.” And then Alpha’s looking right at me. “Except for you, Iris. You’ll be with me.”

Alpha’s voice sounds reserved. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. Suddenly it hits me.
They know about the cheat sheet.
If it was important enough to make that stupid encyclopedia site, it’s important enough for me to have a face-to-face conference about it with my boss. Shit. I mean, crap. No, I do mean
shit
.

Breakfast ends, and everyone piles out of the dining room except for Alpha and me. He takes a long time folding over his napkin and setting it next to his plate. Then he stands and pushes his chair into the table before finally turning and facing me.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“Is this about the Gardner mission?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to bring up the cheat sheet.

Alpha takes a long inhale through his nose and lets it out just as slowly. “Yes and no.” He pauses a second. “I’m afraid I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“The bad.” Always get the bad news first. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. You just have to do it.

Alpha shakes his head and hands me a piece of paper that’s been folded over and sealed with wax. “Good news first.”

I take the paper and look down at the wax owl. “Then why did you pretend to give me a choice?”

“To see which you would choose. I’m a bad-news-first kind of person, too. Go on and open that.”

I slide my finger under the crease and break the seal.

GREEN
67^
CAPITOL
8*8

My breath catches in my throat. “Is this . . . Green’s log-in and password? Why are you giving this to me?”

Alpha takes a second before responding. “Because I think you deserve it. Don’t tell anyone.” He nods his head toward the library. “Go. You have five minutes. I’ll be in my office. Meet me there when you’re done.”

He walks toward his office, leaving me alone in the dining room. I don’t hesitate. I bolt into the library and pull out the chair in front of one of the computers. I flick the mouse from side to side to get the screen to turn on. Then I enter Green’s log-in and password.

Green. Green’s? What does this have to do with the Gardner museum? Anything? As soon as the US emblem hits the page, I type my dad’s name into the search box and wait for the page to load.
There it is.
I click on it and hold my breath.

A new page pops up, and my face falls. I only scan it, but it’s the same thing as before. Just a long, boring family tree. What is Alpha doing? Am I supposed to be looking for something else? Maybe something on the Gardner museum, something I don’t have clearance for? I move the mouse up to the search function and start typing. I’ve gotten as far as ISABELLA STEWART GAR when I notice something. This page is different. I stare at it, and my mouth drops open.

His dates of birth and death are there, but that’s not all.

Mitchell Thomas Obermann. Born Natick, Massachusetts. Died Dallas, Texas.

Dallas, Texas. My dad died in Dallas. In the United States. That doesn’t make any sense at all. He was in the navy. I always assumed he died a hero, saving our country in some foreign locale. But not in
Texas
. Why would my dad be in Texas?

I stare at the screen for several minutes, waiting for an answer that will never materialize. I glance at the clock. I’m supposed to meet Alpha in a minute and a half. I close the government window and launch the Web browser, then quickly type
DALLAS, TEXAS
and the date he died into the search engine.

I scan the results. There was a Hole concert. That’s probably not why he was there. A meeting of the Dallas city council. Maybe? We’ll come back to that. A mixer of the Texas Iron Spikes, whatever that is. A wire fraud case. Gah! No. To all of these. I glance at the clock again. Thirty seconds. I click on the city council meeting, which takes me to a PDF. I scan it. Economic studies, housing reports, legal BS. A bunch of boring nothing.

I close the browser and slide the mouse across the table. I don’t get it. Did Alpha know I wanted to look up my dad? He had to have known. I push back the chair and head to his office. The door is open when I get there.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Alpha asks.

“No,” I say.

His face doesn’t give away anything. He gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Ah. Will you sit?”

“I’d rather stand.”

Alpha nods his head, very slowly. “The bad news.”

“The bad news,” I repeat.

“Well, there’s no reason to beat around the bush or try to build you up with platitudes. Late last night we received word from the DOD that the experiment is over.”

I blink. “What does that mean?”

“It means . . .” He takes a slow breath. “They’ve decided to keep Annum Guard as it is. No new members.”

I gasp. “I’m out?”

“You’re out,” Alpha says.

I scramble backward. My back hits the door, while my brain flies in a billion different directions at once. I’m out. The word bounces around in my mind.
Out. Out.
Out. Solitary. I have to get away from here. Now. They’re coming for me.
I reach behind me to the door handle as the other hand reaches up to the Annum watch.

“Iris, wait!” Alpha says. “I think I have another solution!”

I keep my hands where they are and stop. “What other solution? Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to go. Neither does Zeta. We protested the decision, pointed out how well you’d done on the Gardner mission, but this goes higher than either of us. So much higher. It’s not our decision. But I think I know how to fix this. Will you listen?”

I still don’t move as Alpha’s words replay in my mind.

“You’re going to have to trust me.” His eyes travel to my hands, and I let go of the handle and watch. “And I know your past. This is going to be really difficult for you. But I think it’s your only shot. Are you with me?”

My past. Something that involves my past. My bipolar mother? Peel? Small-town Vermont? Or maybe—

My dad
. A jolt of electricity shocks my system.

“I’m with you,” I say. It’s barely a whisper.

“You’re going to have to leave now. One last mission before the suits from DC show up for you. You’re going to have to go back in time and meet the man who invented the Annum watches. And you’re going to have to convince him not to add the genetic link. That way everyone will be able to project, and the government won’t care that you’re an outsider. Do you understand?”

I nod my head, but I don’t really understand. Alpha turns around and starts rifling through a filing cabinet. My dad invented the Annum watches? No, he couldn’t have. Annum Guard was started in the 1960s, when my dad was a baby.

Alpha finds a file and picks it up, then shuts the drawer. “This is your only shot,” he tells me. “You have to convince this man to change his entire design.”

“I understand,” I say.

Alpha pauses for a second, then flips over the file and plunks it down on the desk. My breath catches in my throat as a picture of someone I know very well stares back up at me. It’s not my dad. It’s Abe’s grandfather.