The Eighth Guardian

CHAPTER 13

I rifle through the clothes hanging in my closet. 1990. What was popular in 1990? I think of all the old sitcom reruns my mom liked to watch back when she was still having normal phases—before she started rapid cycling—and pull out a pair of black jeans. I slip them on and roll up the bottoms, then grab a plain black sweater. I shove my feet into black sneakers and hope this is close enough. Before I leave, I pull my dark hair back into a ponytail. Simple. And then I grab my bag. Can’t do anything without the stuff in this bag.

Yellow and Violet are already standing with Zeta in the main room. Zeta’s still wearing khakis and a sweater, so I guess he’s not joining us. I won’t lie—I wish that he was. I mean, I get the whole trial-by-fire thing, but not having him on this mission seems more like trial-by-volcanic-eruption-spewing-lava-onto-the-unprepared-people-of-Pompeii. Annum Guard has a warped way of doing things, that’s for sure.

Zeta has a serious expression on his face—I’m starting to wonder whether he has any other expression—and the flecks of gray at his temples seem to have multiplied since this morning, and he’s clasping his hands together so tightly his veins are bulging out of his forearms. At least someone else recognizes the importance of this mission.

Speaking of my oh-so-competent teammates, Yellow has on skin-tight, high-waisted black jeans with a leather motorcycle jacket. Her hair is teased and frizzed and piled half on top of her head in a ponytail that resembles an ostrich plume. The whole look is not at all fashionable today, but somehow Yellow pulls it off. I hate to admit it, but she does. Violet’s wearing black leggings with a black miniskirt and a black off-the-shoulder sweater. She’s ditched the purple wig, and her real hair is cut supershort, like a pixie. I sort of look like the homeless cousin next to them, and both of them stare at me when I walk in. But I don’t care. I’m going to stop a burglary tonight. The two of them can do whatever they want.

“One shot,” Zeta tells us. “That’s all you get to stop this.”

“I still don’t understand why we only get one shot,” I say.

Zeta turns to me with patient eyes. Polar opposite from the Boston Massacre, the last time I asked this question. “It’s not our doing; it’s the wormhole. Once you open it to a specific date, your watch can’t go back there again.”

“What about someone else’s?”

Zeta tilts his head to the side an inch. “It’s possible, but then you’d run the risk of injuring your fellow team members on a mission you bungled in the first place. Too many cooks in the kitchen, so to speak. Does that make sense?”

I guess? Not really.

“Plus it gives you a false sense of security,” Zeta says. “No do-overs. It’s a better motto. Now are you ready?”

We all set our watches for midnight on March 18. That will give us almost an hour and a half to get to the museum before the thieves knock on the door dressed like cops. I spent four hours after Violet and Yellow left, trying to figure out a way to break into the museum beforehand, but I failed. It’s just impossible. There are too many alarms and too many cameras. Going to have to go in after the thieves. It’s the only way.

Yellow enters the gravity chamber first. Zeta shuts the door behind her, waits a few seconds, and opens it for Violet. And then it’s my turn. Zeta puts out his arm to stop me.

“You can do this,” he tells me.

“I know,” I say. I’m staring straight ahead at the door, bouncing back and forth between my heels. I’m a bundle of nervous energy, and I just want to go already.

“I believe in you, Iris.” Zeta’s voice sounds different than it ever has. It’s softer. There’s no intensity in it. He really wants me to succeed. It’s as if he knows I’m the only one who can. I turn to look at him.

“I won’t fail,” I tell him. Zeta nods his head and opens the door, and as I hurl myself through it, all I can think is that I hope I’m right.

I land in the broom closet. It’s dark, and I can’t make out my hand five inches in front of me, but I don’t sense anyone else.

“Yellow?” I whisper. “Violet?”

Nothing. I fumble around, tripping over something long and wooden, until I find the handle that leads into the alleyway. Yellow and Violet are already turning onto Beacon Street when I step out.

“Hey!” I call to them. “What the hell?”

“Keep up,” Yellow tosses over her shoulder. Neither of them slows down.

I want to slam the door, but that will only attract attention, so I shut it as softly as I can. And then I punch the air.

St. Patrick’s Day festivities are in full swing as I step onto Beacon Street, even though there’s a cold, light rain falling. A group of drunken college girls wearing green, oversize shirts tucked into light-wash, high-waisted jeans stumble past me. One of the girls has on a glittery shamrock headband that bounces as she ambles by.

“Hurry up!” I hear Yellow say. I look past the girls to a cab. Violet’s already in the backseat, and Yellow is holding open the door. “The T doesn’t run anymore. Let’s go.”

“Actually, it does; it’s just totally unreliable this late,” I mutter under my breath as I jog over to the cab. Yellow squeezes into the middle seat, and I slide in next to her.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks as he resets the meter.

Yellow touches the front seat. “The Isabella—”

“Simmons College!” I interrupt her. “We’re heading back to the dorms.” And then I shoot Yellow a look that lets her know I think she’s a complete moron. Why would anyone need to go to a museum at midnight when it’s closed? Idiot. And Simmons is practically next door.

The driver lets us out in front of the dorms, and we wait until he’s rounded the corner before we walk toward the museum. There are a bunch of college kids hanging around, either coming home from a night of St. Paddy’s Day drinking or still in the middle of it.

“Now what?” Violet asks.

Yellow comes to a stop in front of the museum. “Now we keep an eye out for two men dressed as cops.” She’s standing right in front of the main door, and I sigh.

“Where did you go to school?” I ask her. “Before you joined Annum Guard. Where did you go? Did you even complete kindergarten, or do you really have no idea how to stake a lookout?”

Yellow wrinkles her nose. “I went to Andover. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s—”

“Not the kind of school where they teach you anything you need to know in the field,” I say. “Or else you’d know not to stand in front of the building like a big ‘Hey, thieves, look at me!’ sign. And besides, they come in the service entrance, not the front door.” I point back at Palace Road.

“This is my fourth fire mission,” Yellow snaps. “I’ve been doing this for almost a year and a half.”

“Congratulations. Did you mess up the first three missions just as badly as you’re about to blow this one? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to stop a burglary.” I keep walking and turn onto the street that lines the other side of the museum, one street up from Palace.

“Where is she going?” I hear Violet ask.

“Quiet!” Yellow hisses. But then I hear them follow behind me. I walk to the end of the block and make a right on Tetlow Street to head back to Palace. There’s a dingy golden-brick apartment building on the corner, so I plant myself on the crumbling concrete stoop, underneath two very out-of-place, very large, black, winged griffins hanging on either side of the front door. I wait for Yellow and Violet to catch up.

“Now what?” Violet asks as she glances up at one of the griffins and shudders.

“We wait,” I say as I look at the other one. Those things are really creepy. They’re not calming my nerves.

We do. For a long time, nothing happens. We hear kids shouting from the streets and ambulance sirens wailing toward Beth Israel, dropping off the people who partied a little too hard downtown. But we don’t see anything.

Then at a little before one, a small hatchback creeps its way down Palace Road with the lights turned off. I drop to the ground and press myself against the building’s glass front door. Yellow and Violet at least have the common sense to do the same. I peek my head out and stare at the car as it drives past, and every hair on my arm stands on end. There are two uniformed police officers sitting inside of it. One has light-brown hair and is wearing gold, wire-rimmed glasses. The other has dark hair and a mustache. They park the car a few yards away from the service entrance.

“There they are,” I whisper.

Yellow springs up behind me. “Okay, now we just have to call the real cops, and we can go home.”

“No.” I stand up. “Calling the cops will ruin everything. They’ll just come back later when we won’t be able to stop it, I told you.”

“It’s the safest way for the guards inside,” Violet says.

“And who’s to say they won’t decide to put two bullets in the guards’ heads next time? We have to stop this inside, in the museum. Tonight. It’s the only way. We wait until they go in and then we follow.”

“No.” Yellow narrows her eyes at me. “I’m going to go find a phone somewhere and call the cops.”

I grab her arm as she takes a step. “You’re going to go find a phone somewhere? Your plan all along was to call the cops, and you didn’t even figure out where the nearest phone was? You’re more incompetent than I thought.”

Yellow yanks her arm away. “At least I’m smart enough to realize a cell phone won’t work in the past. And we’ll see who’s incompetent after I stop this thing.”

“Yellow, don’t call the cops,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’ll ruin everything.”

Yellow turns on her heel, and before I realize she’s about to attack, she kicks me hard in the right shin. I choke back a yell and grab on to the steel railing while Yellow hops down the two steps and takes off running back toward Simmons with Violet right behind her. I throw my hands up and slam my palms onto the top of the railing.

Fine. Whatever. Let them go. I check my watch again. It’s three minutes after one. That gives them twenty-one minutes to find a phone, call the authorities, and have the cops show up. I’m going to guess “possibly suspicious-looking car” isn’t going to be top on their list of priorities on the night of St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe Yellow and Violet won’t even be able to find a phone. I’m going to wait right here.

They’re back five minutes later.

Yellow flashes a smug smile. “Done. Called and reported two men dressed as police officers sitting in a hatchback outside the Gardner. The dispatcher said there was a car in the area she’d send to check it out. Consider this mission over.”

I could punch her. Instead I pray the cops don’t come until after 1:24. But sure enough, a cop car turns onto Palace Road at 1:19 and heads toward the hatchback. I drop to the ground and flatten myself against the building again. My breath catches in my throat. This is not good. Not good at all.

When the car is past, I tiptoe down the steps, making sure to stay low, and peer around the corner as the cop car slows in front of the hatchback. And then I gasp. The hatchback looks empty from here. Where did the thieves go? The cop gets out of the driver’s seat and walks over to the hatchback. He shines a flashlight through the hatchback’s windows and makes a complete lap around the car. And then he shuts off the flashlight, gets back in his car, and drives away.

I’m still crouched down, but I pivot behind me to look at Yellow. Her mouth has dropped open, and her eyes stare straight ahead in disbelief.

“Brilliant plan,” I say.

“Where did they go?” Yellow whispers as if she can’t believe it didn’t work.

I take a breath and steady my hands. “We have to go in. It’s the only way. Like I’ve been telling you all along. Maybe you’ll listen now.”

Violet gasps and points down Palace Road. Yellow and I both whip our heads to follow her finger. The two thieves, still dressed as cops, are walking down the street toward their car. One of them pops the hatchback, rifles around in the back, then shuts it quietly. The two men turn to each other, nod, and head toward the service entrance. They ring the buzzer, and a few seconds later they disappear inside.

“Go time,” I say. I tiptoe around the corner, and Yellow follows me after a moment’s hesitation. But Violet doesn’t budge.

“I don’t want to go in,” she whispers. “I’m scared. We don’t have a plan.”

I make a disgusted noise and turn to look at Yellow. There’s fear written all over her face, but she nods her head. “Why don’t we just call the cops again and say that we saw someone breaking in?”

“Yeah, the cop plan worked out so well the last time, didn’t it? Listen, the president gave us a mission to stop this. Us. Not the cops. You can be a weak little chicken shit if you want and stay here, but I’m going to complete the mission.” I look right at Violet. “And for the record, I do have a plan. I always have a plan.”

Yellow slowly nods. “No, you’re right. We’re going in. We’re all going in.”

I reach into the pocket on the front of my bag and pull out an index card.

“What’s that?” Yellow asks.

“My cheat sheet,” I tell her. “I made it this afternoon in the library. There’s tons of information out there on the burglary in addition to what Zeta told us. I was able to re-create a timeline of what happens inside. At 1:24, the thieves enter the building. That’s already happened. They spend twenty-four minutes tying up the guards and sticking them in the basement, and then they head upstairs at 1:48. When they’re in the basement, that’s our only shot to get into the building after them.”

“What time do they go into the basement?” Violet’s voice quivers.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably closer to 1:48 than 1:24, but I don’t know exactly.”

Violet’s eyes pop open, and she bites her bottom lip.

“1:40,” Yellow says. “I think that’s our best shot. That gives them sixteen minutes to round up the guards and handcuff them, then get them to the basement. That sounds about right to me.”

I nod my head in agreement. “Once we get inside, one of us should stake out the Blue Room. Violet, that will be your post. Yellow and I will head upstairs. I’ll go into the Dutch Room; and, Yellow, you hide out in the Raphael Room. It’s just before the Short Gallery, and there are more places to conceal yourself. The Short Gallery is too small. At some point the thieves split up. If we’re one-on-one, we’ll have a better shot. Can you do that?” I look right at Yellow.

“Listen, I know you think I’m some prissy little wunderbitch who hates to break a nail, but I’ve been doing Tae Kwon Do since I was six. I can take one of them.”

Tae Kwon Do? That does surprise me. But I’m oddly relieved.

“Okay,” I say. “Chances are you and I will be able to overpower the two of them.” I reach into my bag and pull out a bundle of zip-tie handcuffs, bungee cords, a few rags, a small bottle, and three pairs of black gloves. I hand some of the supplies to Yellow, who raises her eyebrows. “I’m prepared,” I say, waving her off. “Once you have the thief down, knock him out with the chloroform, secure his hands and feet, and hog-tie him with the bungee cord. I’ll take care of the other one, then we’ll grab the security tapes and get out.”

“What about me?” Violet says. She’s probably trying to hide her fear, but her voice shakes and betrays her.

“Have you been trained to fight?” I ask.

“Of course she has,” Yellow says. “We all have. Violet, pull yourself together and stop acting like a baby.”

I give Violet handcuffs and a bungee cord. “Take these just in case. No one knows what time the thieves enter the Blue Room. It’s either first or last, but I’m willing to bet it’s last. The most valuable stuff is upstairs. If they do hit it first, just hide. Yellow and I will take care of them when they come upstairs. But”—I swallow a lump in my throat—“if for some reason we fail, it’s on you. It has to be. Can you do that?”

Violet stares straight ahead and bites her bottom lip. Then Yellow shoves her shoulder into Violet, and Violet snaps to attention.

“Yes,” Violet says. “I can do that.”

“All right.” I check my watch. 1:35. “Gloves on. Let’s do this.”