The Eighth Guardian (41 page)

“So changing the past is okay?”

“It can be.”

“In that case, I need to talk to you about something. Alone. It’s important.”

Zeta takes a breath, then turns to Indigo. “Go see your sister.”

“What?” Indigo’s head whips to the glass door. “She’s asleep.”

“I don’t care,” Zeta says. “Go see her. Now.”

We wait until Indigo has shut the sliding glass door behind him. Then I turn back to Zeta. “What’s your security clearance like?”

Zeta raises an eyebrow. “What did it used to be like, or what is it like now? If you need sensitive information this minute, you’re out of luck.”

“I’m not talking about log-ins and passwords,” I say. “What’s your building clearance? Like, for instance, in this hospital?”

“Ah.” Zeta slowly nods his head and unclips the plain white pass key from his belt that got us into the ICU. “They forgot to take this from me. I’m sure they’ll figure it out any second now, but in the meantime you saw the doors it can open. I’m sure I could go observe a brain surgery if I wanted to.”

I hold out my hand. “Can I borrow that for a few hours? I have some unfinished business I need to take care of.”

Zeta hesitates for a second but then hands me the key. “I trust you.”

I close my hands around it. “Thank you,” I whisper. And then I walk out of the ICU.

I dress a little more appropriately this time. I’m in the dress I wore for the Boston Massacre, corset and all. The corset was not by choice. I tried to lace up the dress without it, but hell if it isn’t tighter than it was a few days ago. I mean, a few months ago.

Damn.

I’m going to have to get used to the fact that it’s February. Not November. I slide my brand-new charm bracelet onto my wrist. My mom bought it for me. She’s here. In Boston. Staying at the Omni Parker House, of all places, until a spot opens up at McLean, which has the best damned bipolar treatment program in the country. And it’s only eight miles west of here.

She cried when I called her from the hospital. She’s sorry, I’m sorry, and while we have miles still to go toward fixing our relationship, McLean is a start. A twice-daily dose of lithium is a start. My sincerest apology is a start. The joint therapy and PTSD counseling our government is springing for is a start. And the one charm hanging from the bracelet is the biggest start of all. It’s a bird. Not in a cage. Free from the weight of its past and soaring into the future.

I’ve been down this road before with my mom, but this time it feels different. This time I think she has a shot. I have a shot.

I grab the edge of the dress and puff it out before slipping down the stairs as quietly as I can. Two female investigators are in the library on the computer, but they don’t even glance up at me as I walk by. Perfect. It’s as good as empty.

Except that it’s not empty. I take a few steps, my heels
click-clack
against the hardwood floor by the stairs, and Abe sits up from behind the back of the couch.

My feet grind to a halt, and I gasp as he makes eye contact.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Um, I live here,” he says.

My mouth drops open. “You mean you’re staying? You’re going to be in Annum Guard from now on?”

“I think that’s what I just said.”

“But what about Ariel?” I didn’t dream that, did I?

“Ariel said one thing,” Abe says with a smile, “but my dad said another. My dad knows about the Guard. Always has. I guess he’s a little resentful that Ariel refused to let him join. My dad thinks it’s a great honor, and the physical risks aren’t nearly as bad as they were a generation ago. I have my dad’s blessing.”

“And you live here now.” I repeat the words, but my brain is having a hard time processing them.

“Seriously, were you always this bad at listening?”

I run. I pick up the edge of my damn dress and I run. Straight to Abe. I fling myself into his arms and throw my hands around his neck.

“You’re here,” I whisper. “You’re really here. To stay.”

Abe slips his arms around my waist and touches his forehead to mine.

“I thought you were going to break up with me,” I say.

“Never.”

I press my mouth into his. I’ve missed the soft feel of his mouth, the tenderness of his kiss. I don’t know how long I stay there, entwined with him. For once I don’t care how much time passes.

Soon enough, Abe pulls away. “What’s with the costume?”

“Oh.” I look down at the dress and all of its restricting layers and bones. “I have one last mission before I can put this whole experience behind me.” I hold up the plain brown bag I’ve been clutching.

“What’s that?” Abe asks.

“Penicillin I swiped from the hospital.”

“Isn’t that a felony?”

“Possibly,” I say. “But it’s for a good reason. There’s a little girl in 1782 who needs this. And I promised her I’d help her. I won’t be long. Wait for me?”

Abe smiles. “Always.”

He slips his hand through mine and walks me to the gravity chamber. I enter the code they gave me that morning—seriously, they change the codes around here every twelve hours now, and let’s not talk about how many forms I had to fill out to get this mission authorized—and the room opens to blackness.

I give Abe’s hand a squeeze because I know he’ll be right here when I get back. Like he promised. Like he always will. And then I leap.

I’m not sure how old I was when I first started figuring out that some of the history that filled my schoolbooks was a partial, if not total, fabrication; but this discovery stayed with me for a while. It even inspired many of the events in this book. I tried to stay as close to true historical accuracy as I could, but there were a few instances where I fudged the truth for the sake of narration.

In the Boston Massacre scene, I have James Caldwell and Samuel Maverick running to the location together, under the impression there was a fire. There’s no indication in history that Caldwell and Maverick knew each other, much less that they ever spoke during the massacre. And while it’s true that both boys probably would have assumed there was a fire when they first heard the church bells ringing throughout Boston, by the time they reached the Old State House—the location of the Boston Massacre—they had already realized what was going on and joined the mob.

But my biggest fabrication in the Boston Massacre scene lies with Patrick Carr. Not much is known of Carr’s history. There’s no indication that he was married with a family, so it’s certainly not true that he was there with his young son. But it is true that Carr, being from Ireland, was used to political mobs and would have known instantly the danger of the situation. It’s also true that Carr’s deathbed account of the massacre was perhaps the most important piece of evidence in the subsequent trial (and acquittal) of the British soldiers. (Legal trivia: Carr’s testimony is one of the first recorded instances of the dying declaration hearsay exception used in an American courtroom.)

Also, I tried to keep the events and timeline of the notorious Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist as close to accurate as I could, but I have to admit to embellishing the security system in place at the time. The museum did use electric eyes that were hooked up to alarms, but they were not audible alarms that would have rung throughout the museum. This detail was added to the book just for dramatic effect. None of the artwork stolen that night has been recovered, although the FBI recently came out and said they know who was behind the heist. As of my writing this, however, no suspects have been identified.

Next, the scene where Iris causes Senator McCarthy to miss a cab is a complete fabrication. Senator Eugene McCarthy was a real person with a long, winding (and pretty fascinating) political career, but the vote he was late for and his exact residence were fictions of my mind.

Finally, there is no indication that any member of the Dallas police force was in the school book depository at the time of the Kennedy assassination. What is true is that Lee Harvey Oswald, after killing the president and fleeing the building, encountered Dallas officer J.D. Tippitt on the street. By that time, police were already on the lookout for someone matching Oswald’s description, and when Tippitt confronted Oswald, Oswald shot him four times, killing him. The police officer portrayed in this book is not meant to be Tippitt, however. This is just a bit of trivia.

Any other historical inaccuracies that might be revealed are, unfortunately, simply errors on my part.

I have just now realized that writing an acknowledgments section is harder than writing a book. So many people contributed to this story in so many ways, and I worry that I won’t be able to sufficiently express my gratitude.

But I’ll try.

First, thank you to my agent, Rubin Pfeffer, for taking a chance on a wide-eyed newbie, for whipping this book into shape, and for finding the perfect home for it. And to my editor extraordinaire, Marilyn Brigham, thank you for loving these characters as much as I did and for polishing their story until it shone. And to this book’s copyeditor, Andrea Curley: you did a tremendous job, and I can’t thank you enough.

Thank you to my mom, for making me a reader, which then made me a writer, and to my dad, who made sure my early cultural education included a dash of James Bond and Jack Ryan. That shaped me more than you know. To my sister, Hilary, for being my own personal PR rep and for patiently answering bizarre medical questions without batting an eyelash. To my brother, Patrick, for sharing a love of books and writing and for helping me cultivate a thick skin with regard to the latter.

Thank you to two individuals who gave me the early encouragement I needed to try my hand at writing. My aunt, Kathy Goût, whose interest in my early childhood writings led me on this path. And my high school English teacher, Mr. Charles Balkcom, who was the first teacher I had who recognized that, for me, books were more than words on paper and who gave me the confidence I needed to write some words of my own.

A huge debt of gratitude to my fearless critique group—Kerry Cerra, Michelle Delisle, Jill Mackenzie, Kristina Miranda, and Nicole Cabrera. You taught me so much about writing, about publishing, about
life
. And you read the very early (very rough) chapters of this story, encouraged me, and gave me a push to get it moving in the right direction. I would not be here without you.

Thank you to Susan Dennard, Jenni Valentino, Katy Upperman, and Corinne Duyvis, who read this story at various points. Your insight made it so much stronger and saved me from several embarrassing mistakes. I still cringe when I think about them.

Thank you to Greg Bollrud, who answered countless questions about MIT and who introduced me to the lore of Building Twenty.

Thank you to my FK girls, for being the world’s best cheerleaders.

And finally, I could not have done this without my family. Vivian and Audrey, thank you for being the world’s most patient three-year-old and newborn, respectively. And to Scott, for being my rock, my support, my plot whisperer. This book would not exist without you, and for that I will be forever grateful.