When they finally round the corner between the buildings, he can see right away that things have been moved, cleaned up. Reorganized. The box is gone, and so are the ashes, which means he can pretend to look around for them. Hope something comes to him.
“Where is it?” Quentin asks.
“Man, it was right here, I swear,” Jasper says. His confusion is genuine at least, Lethe should feel that. “Right here, out in the open. He didn’t even stick around until it had burned all the way. And there was other junk back here, too. Someone has been here, cleaned things up.”
“What other stuff?” Lethe asks, and she sounds different than she has. More nervous.
“Garbage, some wooden pallets stacked over there, and there were some cans and stuff, too.” Jasper looks around, trying to remember what he saw exactly. “And maybe some, like, flattened empty boxes and newspapers tied together. Over there.” With his arms still tied, Jasper has to jerk in the direction with his shoulder. It’s when he turns that he sees something move inside the back warehouse, the one farther from the road. A shadowy figure. Too tall for any kind of animal. “What was that?” he asks, ducking down to look.
“What was what?” Quentin steps toward the back warehouse.
“I don’t know,” Jasper says, squinting closer. “I think I saw somebody in there at the far end.”
Quentin turns to Lethe. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “You go check it out.”
“It was locked before,” Jasper says.
“Yep,” Quentin says, checking the knob. “Still is.”
“Why don’t you go around and check the far end, see if there’s another way in?” Lethe asks. “I’ll stay here and stand watch.”
“What, are you scared now?” Quentin sneers. “You need the men to go take care of things?”
“Not scared,” Lethe says icily. “Just smart. Now go. Get your ass back there and check it out.”
EndOfDays Blog
July 3
The End of Days is upon us. Will we meet our end with grace and the utmost faith? Will we, in our final moments, be able to accept the plan for us even if’s not what we want for ourselves? Will we be strong enough to carry the weak, the sick, the broken, the deluded, and the unbelievers with us toward our final destinations?
I realize now that I have been wrong about many things. That I risked too much that wasn’t mine to give. But I have to believe that this is not how my story ends. That I can find grace in this failure. And salvation. That I can honor the sacrifice of those I love.
It is faith that gives us strength to reach out as we are carried into the flames.
Go in peace, everyone. To the light.
WYLIE
WE SPEED AWAY FROM THE MARSHES, HEADED BACK TOWARD NEWTON. AWAY from those hands reaching toward the sky. Eventually we spotted six of them. Six hands. Maybe or maybe not attached to something.
We stop at the first gas station we can find, three miles down the road. Large and new, with brightly lit pumps and a huge, sparkling mini-mart, it reminds me of the Freshmart where Jasper and I met Doug and Lexi and the Cape Cod market where we later bought dry T-shirts, except much nicer than both.
Thinking of Jasper, I am swamped again with regret. That letter was such a risk. Why did I think it would be so easy just to take back? Even now, I am much more worried about that than some blog post somehow coming from his house.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask the clerk once we are inside. He has limp blond hair and an empty face, half-asleep behind the gleaming counter with its vast selection of the newest candies.
This time, I am calling the police even if I don’t entirely trust them. Even if I don’t trust anyone anymore.
“Phone?” the clerk asks, like he’s never heard of such a thing.
I point to the landline behind the counter. “Yeah, your phone. My cell is dead, and it’s an emergency.”
I have no intention of telling him what kind of emergency, or mentioning that we don’t have cell phones because we’ve tossed them to avoid being followed. Anything remotely suspicious will make this guy refuse to help; two seconds in that store and I am sure of that. I need to stay vague. Pressure him enough to get what we want, but not enough to make him freak out.
“Fine, whatever,” the clerk says finally, handing me the receiver. “I’ve got to dial for you, though.” He pushes his slack hair back behind his ears. “No customers behind the register.”
“Nine-one-one, please,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Seriously?” The clerk makes a face. But he dials when all I do is stare right back at him.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the operator answers.
“We found a body,” I say, trying to talk fast before anybody can stop me. “At mile marker seven off Sunset Highway.”
“What is she talking about?” the clerk squeaks at Gideon. I avoid looking at the clerk as Gideon shrugs and rolls his eyes, like he’s got no idea.
“A body?” the operator asks, sounding not particularly surprised or interested.
“Yes, a dead body,” I press on, willing my voice to sound trustworthy. “Back in the woods, where the marsh starts. Actually, I think there might be more than one.”
“More than one?” Now I have her attention.
“Yes,” I say. “It was dark, but it looked like maybe.”
“And you just happened to spot this. In the woods alongside a highway. At this time of night?”
Luckily, I’m ready for this question. “I had to pee. We pulled off. Um, sorry.”
“Oh, well,” she says, “are you still there now?”
“No, we left to find a phone,” I say. “Mine was dead.”
“Okay, I see where you are here on my system.” And I am kind of alarmed by just how fast they can trace the call. It makes me think again of whoever might be following us. “Stay put. I’ll send an officer right out to you. I’ll send another to the mile marker location.”
“Thank you,” I say. When I hang up, I turn to Gideon. “We have to go, now.”
“Hey!” the clerk calls after us when we’re almost at the door. “Is that true about dead bodies?” He looks toward the darkness, more intrigued than scared. He likes a good conspiracy, and also, maybe the idea of dead bodies. “Around here?”
I turn back. “Yeah, it is true. Tell as many people as possible, too. Before somebody makes them disappear.”
GIDEON AND I are quiet on the drive back toward Newton. Or the BC campus, specifically. With Sophie-Ann dead, Jasper—of all people—is now the only possible link to our dad. Jasper didn’t post those EndOfDays blogs from his house. I know that he did not. But the reality is, someone did.
“So, what do you think happened to them?” Gideon asks. “Those . . . girls. Outliers, probably, right?”
He is hoping that I know something more than him. That I have a feeling. And maybe I even do.
“Probably all girls. Outliers, maybe. Some of them, at least. I think somebody killed them because they became a problem or were no longer useful. The WSRF must be doing some kind of testing either about Outliers or on Outliers. Or they were.”
“And then they killed them?” Gideon asks.
“Or they died accidentally,” I say. “Mrs. Porter’s son, the Wolf—that’s what I called him when I was in the hospital—is probably giving them a steady stream of foster girls. I think he was responsible for at least some of them being in the hospital, too. Maybe he’s even helping dump them.”
“But he’s not the criminal mastermind behind the whole thing.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Any chance you know who is?”
“Not yet,” I say, turning to look at him. “But I think I will.”
IT DOESN’T TAKE long to find the dorm on campus where the preseason hockey players are staying. Then Gideon and I wait outside Hamilton Hall, with its white columns and tall stairs, until someone in a BC hockey shirt comes out, a nice, totally oblivious kid with a
Southern accent and huge hands, who has absolutely no issue with letting us inside when we say we are there for Jasper. He even tells us where Jasper’s room is, even though it’s almost ten p.m. and we don’t even say who we are.
As we head down the hall toward Jasper’s room on the third floor, I think about what to say. I do have to ask him about the EndOfDays posts. I have no choice. But after my letter, who knows what Jasper is feeling or what he might say? He might claim that he’s EndOfDays just so he can hurt me back.
An attractive blond boy answers Jasper’s door. He is sleepy but welcoming.
“What’s up?” he asks, like maybe we’ve met already. He’s not sure, but he likes to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“We’re looking for Jasper,” I say, both comforted and troubled by his ease.
“You and everybody else, man,” he says with a shake of his head.
“What do you mean?” I put a hand on Jasper’s door frame, afraid his roommate might try to close the door before he explains.
He scrubs at his sandy hair with a hand. “Jasper, um, is missing, I guess, technically. I mean, not for long. Like a few hours. I personally wouldn’t even say that’s missing, but his mom is freaking.”
“Missing?” My heart picks up speed. I lean closer. “What are you talking about?”
“His mom thinks maybe he took off, with someone who I guess is bad news,” he says. And I know that person would be me. “Supposedly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be here to begin with. I mean, I never noticed that. But that’s what his mom said. And, man, is she pissed. I thought there was a chance she was going to pop me when she was here before. Like I’m the one who told him to take off. If that’s even what happened. But I said something to her about this girl who was here earlier and—”
“What girl?” I ask, and too harshly. Gideon eyeballs me in disbelief: Seriously? Jealousy, now?
Jasper’s roommate holds up his hands, worried he’s back in the hornet’s nest. “Listen, maybe they were just friends, I don’t know. She came by to see Jasper this afternoon. He wasn’t here, so she left some cookies and said she’d come back. That’s all I know.”
Cookies?
“What did she look like?” I ask, and guiltily. These are facts we need, but maybe that’s not the only reason I’m asking.
“Long curly hair, big greenish-yellow eyes,” he says. “She was pretty. Oh, and she had this tattoo, on the inside of her wrist. Some kind of symbol.”
My heart stops. Kelsey from the hospital? Jasper would have had no way of knowing it was her, either. Unless. Unless Jasper did know it was the fake Kelsey. Between the EndOfDays posts and now Jasper being with the fake Kelsey, I’d be an idiot not to consider the possibility.
Still, it doesn’t feel right. There’s some betrayal somewhere. But not that. Not Jasper.
“What was her name?” Gideon asks. Such an ordinary question, one that I hadn’t even thought to ask.
“Lethe,” Jasper’s roommate says. “For real. I asked her twice.”
“WYLIE, SLOW DOWN,” Gideon calls after me as I run down the dorm steps in front of him.
Lethe. Lethe. Lethe. The fake Kelsey is named Lethe, and Lethe is one of the girls Mrs. Porter mentioned, her name wedged between Teresa and Sophie-Ann. I don’t stop running until I am all the way outside, standing in the darkness. I lean over, trying to catch my breath. Hoping my heart will slow.
So Lethe and Teresa actually knew each other before the hospital. And they both knew the Wolf the whole time. Ramona said something about the fake Kelsey talking to the guards, the Wolf, surely. Is it possible Lethe let Jasper in? And that the two of them together . . . No. No, I don’t think so. I really don’t.
“Wylie, what’s wrong?” Gideon asks, finally catching up to me. He’s panting.
And I realize then how much he doesn’t know—I never even told him about the fake Kelsey. There’d been no reason to.
“Either Jasper did something really, really bad, or he is in serious bad trouble.” I look around the campus, like the answer lies somewhere out there in the darkness.
“Okay,” Gideon says, doing his best to sound like the levelheaded one. “Which do you think it is?”
“I believe in Jasper,” I say, because that’s how I’ve felt the whole time. “And I think he’s in trouble now. Really, really terrible trouble.”
WHEN WE FINALLY arrive home, there’s a woman standing at our door in the dark. She has brown skin, chin-length hair, and high cheekbones highlighted in the glow from the streetlight. And from her crossed arms and the way she keeps looking over her shoulder back at the house, she seems like she’s been waiting for some time.
“Who’s that?” Gideon asks as we pull up to the curb.
“I have no idea,” I say. But already I’m sure that this woman knows something that we need to. “Come on, let’s go find out.”
“Are you sure?” Gideon asks. “We could keep driving. She wouldn’t even know we live here. I mean, at this point, we should be careful, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I think careful right now is talking to her.”
THE WOMAN STARTLES and turns in our direction as our car doors slam closed. “Hello?” she calls, squinting in our direction. She sounds and looks more hesitant now.
“Can we help you?” I call, trying to move quickly into the light so she can at least see that it’s Gideon and me coming—two teenagers—and not someone like Agent Klute.
“I’m Dr. Oduwole,” she says, once we are coming up the steps. And the way she says her name, it’s like that alone should explain everything. “I’m looking for Hope Lang or Dr. Ben Lang. Though I don’t think he’s here, is he? Are you Wylie and Gideon?”
Finally, I place the name. Dr. Oduwole was one of the people my mom went out to see in California, the neuroscientist from UCLA my dad was working with. Dr. Oduwole was helping my dad discover why the Outliers existed. She was to be part of the study he was trying to get funding for.
“Our mom went out to see you,” I say. And I feel sure that this woman is telling the truth about who she is. More importantly, I can feel that her intentions are genuine. “She just sent me an email saying she’d met with you.”
“Met with me already?” she asks, stepping closer. Dr. Oduwole has gone in a flash from tentatively concerned to full-on worried. “Several weeks ago, your mother and I exchanged emails that said she would be coming. She asked me not to say anything to anyone about having heard from her. That it would put you in terrible danger. But then she never showed up, and I became worried that something had happened to her.” And now Dr. Oduwole looks past us for an actual incoming threat. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
Gideon looks at me: Should we tell her? Should we trust her? I nod at him before turning back to the doctor.
“I saw her a couple weeks ago. But I was, it was—we really didn’t talk,” I say. “And our dad has been missing for almost three weeks.”
“Yes, I am so sorry. Your mother did tell me,” she says. And with real regret. She genuinely cares about our dad, that much is for sure. “Your mother said he had gone missing while trying to secure funding for our study. I thought maybe—”
“When was the last time you talked to her again?” I ask, already with a terrible churning in my gut.
“About three weeks ago,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. I got concerned when we lost touch.”
“She said that you and my dad had a big fight about him wanting to keep some things secret about why Outliers were just being discovered now.” But already I’m skeptical. Hearing it out loud, it just doesn’t sound right.
“An argument with me?” Dr. Oduwole asks, eyes wide. “Your father and I were always in complete agreement. And he was never at all interested in secrecy. The opposite, in fact.”
“Then why would my mom tell me that?” I ask, though I already feel like an idiot. The “SwimTeacher” email name, her little secret message between the two of us
. It made me believe it was her. But it could have been anybody.
“I’m not sure.”
Dr. Oduwole looks past us again and into the darkness warily. “But someone has just published a study. Exactly like the one your father and I were working on. It definitively establishes the existence of the Outliers. The race to try to make our findings public—” She hesitates. “Well, I guess it’s not much of a race once someone else has won.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” I ask, because wasn’t going public supposed to be the Outliers’ best protection, my best protection. But I can already feel that Dr. Oduwole doesn’t see it that way.
“I am troubled by where this research came from. Frankly, it looks very much like ours,” Dr. Oduwole says. “It’s hard to believe they came up with it on their own. There are very few corners of the scientific community that would be capable of working in such secrecy. In fact, I can think of only one.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The US military.”
RIEL
IT TAKES MORE THAN AN HOUR FOR RIEL TO GET FROM THE WAREHOUSE TO HER parents’ closed-up house in East Boston, perched high on the top of Eagle Hill. It’s past ten p.m. when she arrives, and the house—big, old, Victorian—is dark when she pulls up, as it should be. As it has been for months now. No one has lived there since Kelsey died.
Riel told her aunt she would keep an eye on the place, that she’d just be staying with a friend for a little bit. And then she’d come back. Not that it mattered. After Kelsey died, no one cared anymore what Riel did. No one, it turned out, except for her grandfather. Apparently, he never took his eyes off her. And yet, he’s kept her alive. She’s afraid to find out why.
IT WAS TEN minutes, twenty maybe, that Riel had lain, cheek pressed against that cold warehouse floor. She was afraid to move. Afraid whoever shot Kendall would shoot her, too, afraid to go near where Kendall was lying lifeless on the floor.
For a long time, Riel had hoped he’d wake up. Alive and well because he was wearing a bulletproof vest or something or because he was just . . . him. But once the blood started to pool under his head like the petals of some terrible flower, Riel knew it was really over, that Kendall was dead.