“You’re saying our job is to feed the corruption,” I whisper.
“Only if you always follow regulations.”
I look at her, apprehensive. “What are you talking about?”
“You and I have spent a lot of time together. I could tell early on you know the difference between right and wrong. We wouldn’t be having this discussion otherwise. All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s okay to ignore what you’ve been taught. Maybe you come across something you think the institute might use in ways you’re not comfortable with. You can choose not to report it. As you get a sense of those you’re tracing, you can decide how much or how little the institute learns.”
These words are treason on a slightly smaller, institute-related scale, and would certainly result in her being locked up in some deep, dark dungeon at Upjohn Hall.
She must be reading my mind, because she says, half smiling, “You’re free to turn me in if you want, but I would appreciate it if you don’t. At the very least, give me some warning.”
“Of course I won’t turn you in.” How can I when everything she says makes sense?
“All I’m really trying to tell you is that when you’re unsure of a situation, you should take however long you need and then do what you think is right. If you’re not true to yourself, this job will kill you.”
The part of me that remembers growing up as the son of a laborer — constantly reminded to “know your place” and “don’t make waves” and “do as you’re told”—is waging an all-out war with the part of my mind that wants to embrace the path Marie is offering me.
“I’m only telling you to do what you think is right,” she says.
“Is that what you’ve been doing?”
She looks across the meadow, whatever’s left of her smile disappearing. “Not as much as I should.”
“How am I supposed to know what’s right?”
“You’ll know.”
Will I?
As the sun nears the mountains to our west, the temperature drops noticeably. Marie rubs her arms. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?”
A million things, I think, but what she’s already told me has overloaded my mind. “Not right now.”
“Then you should head back.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“In a bit. Go on. I’ll be fine.”
Once I’m off the rock, I ask, “If I have more questions, can we meet again?”
“We’ll see.”
It’s not exactly the answer I’m hoping for but at least she doesn’t say no. I turn, intending to put a little distance between us before I travel home.
“It’s Roger, by the way,” she says.
I pause and look back. “I’m sorry?”
“The student I hadn’t met yet who watched Dawson Tower go down. His name’s Roger. I’m training him now.”
“Is he your last?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t planned on stopping.”
“Maybe you can take future students somewhere else. The roof is getting a bit crowded.”
“Maybe.”
I detect her uncertainty and wonder what she’s thinking.
“Go home, Denny,” she says before I can ask. “You’ll do fine.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As winter becomes spring, Johnston assigns me more and more responsibility on each of our projects. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing all the work while he finds a place to get a drink and wait until I’m done, but I’m not complaining.
I enjoy the work. I enjoy the places we go and the things we see.
So far, I’ve been lucky in that I haven’t found myself needing to decide whether or not I should cover up something. I know I will at some point. When that time comes, I hope I’m not too scared to do what Marie has suggested.
The first time Johnston leaves me completely alone, we’re in London, England, 1893, tracking the maternal great-grandfather of a minor industrialist from northern Virginia. According to what we’ve been able to piece together, today is the day the man will meet his future wife for the first time. This isn’t a critical item, exactly, but clients love to know these small details. Our job today is to verify the meeting.
“You ready?” Johnston asks.
“Of course.” I assume he’s about to go in search of a pub, so I ask, “Where are we meeting up?”
Johnston shakes his head. “No meeting. I have things to do back at the institute. Return when you’re done.”
My blood goes cold. “You’re leaving me here alone?”
“You’ve been handling everything by yourself just fine for the past several weeks. What does it matter if I’m here or not?”
“But what if something happens?”
“If something happens, you’ve done something wrong. You’re not going to do anything wrong, are you?”
“No. Of course not, but—”
“Just do the job and return to the institute. Got it?”
Reflexively I nod, while inside I’m shouting, No, I don’t have it! I don’t have it at all!
“Good. I’ll see you when you’re finished.” He strides off, and I soon lose him among the other pedestrians on the walkway.
I’m hoping he’s only trying to fool me and isn’t really leaving, but I know in my gut that the moment he gets someplace private, he’ll be gone.
I take several deep breaths to calm down.
“Are you all right?” A man has stopped nearby and is looking at me, concerned.
“I’m fine, thank you. Just…a little winded.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
With a nod, he moves on.
I look across the street at the target house just in time to see the man I’m supposed to be following turn onto the sidewalk. I almost missed him. This realization nearly spins me into another near panic attack, but I keep my head and take up pursuit.
It turns out that our information’s correct, and at precisely 1:43 p.m. on July 2, 1893, Harold Radcliff runs into an old friend named David Wallis who introduces Harold to his sister, Elizabeth Wallis. In exactly eight months and seven days, Harold and Elizabeth would wed.
I note all the pertinent information and even snap several photographs with the camera built into my jacket — the latter strictly for institute records.
As soon as the meeting ends, I find a deserted space between two buildings and send myself home.
For two more weeks, Johnston and I repeat this pattern. We jump to our specified location together, Johnston makes sure I’m set on what to do, and then he returns to the institute while I do the work alone.
On the fifteenth day, I enter the prep room and begin pulling on the outfit that’s waiting for me. When Johnston enters several minutes later, he sits on the bench.
“Have we been canceled?” I ask.
“Not that I know of,” he says.
“Are you…going to wear that?” His clothes are distinctly twenty-first century and would definitely stand out in 1824.
He gives himself a quick look. “You don’t like this?”
“It’s fine, but — never mind.”
He snorts a laugh. “Hurry up.”
I button my shirt, pull on my shoes, and follow him out the door.
As we walk to the departure hall, Johnston quizzes me about our assignment. Like with all our projects, I’ve memorized the brief, so I answer everything quickly and correctly.
“Good,” he says as we enter the hall. From him, this is the highest of praise.
The room has eight different platforms raised a few feet above the floor. Checking the board, we see we’re assigned to platform number five. As soon as we get there, I climb on top, and then realize Johnston hasn’t joined me.
“You know what to do,” he says from below. “Get the information and get back.”