06:11:01:03
I head upstairs and slip into my bedroom. The room smells like evergreen trees. We didn’t have a tree for Christmas this year—obviously, since there aren’t exactly trees to go around—so Jared and Struz dug up some old evergreen-scented candles and lit them all over the house.
I light the candle on the nightstand and peel off my jeans and change my T-shirt, then reach under the bed for a manila folder before crawling under the covers. The file is worn and a little frayed from overhandling, but that doesn’t stop me. It was already overhandled before it was passed to me.
Lying back on my pillow, I look at her name—Emily Bauer. The blue ink is faded, as if time is trying to erase her existence completely. For a minute, I imagine what Emily was like, if she was anything like I am now. I wonder where she’d be and what she’d be like if she hadn’t gone missing seventeen years ago.
Then I open it up—the one case file of my father’s that I refused to throw away.
I don’t even need to read it—every word has been burned in my memory at this point.
The file is an unsolved case from 1995, from one of my dad’s first years on the job, back when he worked missing persons—ironically, the same job I’m working right now.
A seventeen-year-old girl—captain of the swim team, with an academic scholarship to USC, a boyfriend, friends, the perfect family with a dog and a white picket fence—went missing from her bedroom. All her possessions were untouched and in their rightful place. No forced entry, no signs of a break-in, no one who heard or saw anything unusual—it was like she just disappeared.
Except for a bloody partial handprint on her wall.
I know the case is cold now; it’s been cold for the past seventeen years while it sat on my dad’s desk, and now that the world is changed, I know there isn’t any hope of solving it. But this case isn’t that different from the ones we have now. Maybe something will help me solve them. Besides, if my dad were still here, he would still be looking over the file every night, still looking for something he missed.
Once, when we were twelve, Alex asked my dad why he held on to the case. He said, “Why haven’t you given up?”
It was a Saturday in the summer. We’d just played in one of those coed Little League softball games, and we were sweaty and starving, and my dad was pulling pizza leftovers from the fridge. But when Alex asked that, he stopped and turned around. His face was so serious that, even then, I knew whatever he said would be something I never forgot.
And I haven’t.
He said, “Giving up on something is like admitting you never wanted it in the first place. I won’t ever give up on that girl. I’ll always be looking for her. Even if everyone else in her life has moved on, I won’t rest until I figure out what we missed and we’ve gotten her back. Until she’s safe.”
He’s not here to look for her anymore, but I am, and I’m not going to give up on her either.
Who knows—maybe something will help me with the people going missing right now.
Or that’s what I tell myself. The other reason I reread this file every night is because I need something to focus on right before I go to sleep—something to think about—because that’s the moment when my mind is at its worst, when if left to its own devices, it won’t stop remembering.
The gunshot, Reid’s and Alex’s hands on the gun, blood pouring from the hole in Alex’s neck, his eyes glassy, my hands covered in blood.
I can’t shake these images. I see them every time I close my eyes. I dream about that night almost every time I fall asleep. In the dreams, I try to make different choices, but the end result is always the same.
My dad is still dead. There won’t be any more X-Files marathons or bad Syfy movies. Alex is still dead—his blood still staining the ground just outside Park Village—and he’s never going to drag me to another terrible action movie with no plot. He’ll never have the chance to defy his mother and go to West Point instead of Stanford. He’s never going to follow his dreams.
And Ben is still gone.
05:17:37:43
The next morning I’m up early and then gone all day, delivering rations from the base to different neighborhoods. When I get home, Struz is out. Jared launches into a story about his Monday before I even get inside, something about a guy diving out of a skyscraper or something. I know I’m not hearing him right, but all day this terrible feeling has been welling up inside me, the kind that reaches through your veins and down into your bones. My whole body is practically vibrating with it.
Like my body knows something bad is about to happen.
“Dude, if you’re not going to listen to me . . .”
“Jared, I’m sorry, I spaced out.”
I look at my brother—he’s got Monopoly set up, and he’s playing against himself. He sees me looking and says, “I set it up so you could play with me when you got back, and then I got bored. But we can set it up again.”
“Sure, that works,” I say. I suddenly feel like I’m too old. Not physically, but just that I’m too tired, too stressed, and too anxious. Even though there isn’t any danger of Wave Function Collapse and there’s no Oppenheimer counting down to the end of the world, it’s like I’m waiting for something else to go wrong.
I sit on the floor with him, and he launches into a story about his class field trip to the movie theater down the street from the school. “It was so cool. Mr. Hubley totally broke into the theater and we went in the biggest one, and he had the other teachers all sit with us while he set up a projector and we watched Mission Impossible 4.”
I’m not sure if it’s considered breaking in now that the theater has been abandoned, although I guess it’s still private property. “How was the movie?” I ask, even though I’m sure it was just as bad as the first three.
My eyes burn with that thought, because it’s something I would have said to Alex.
“It was so awesome. There’s this really cool part where Tom Cruise flies down the side of this building. Maybe Cecily can get that for the next movie night?”
“I’ll ask her,” I say truthfully, as we clear the houses off the board.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Jared asks. “No spaghetti, right?”
We try to have something special on Mondays. I’m not sure if it was Struz’s idea or mine, but we all eat together then too. It’s nice. “I was thinking a feast of macaroni and cheese, and canned peas and chicken.”
“Canned chicken?” Jared makes a face.
“I imagine the canned sardines are worse,” I tell him.
“Why can’t you just lift something better from the commissary?” Jared asks.
I don’t tell him there is nothing better. Instead, I say, “Wow, Jared, I don’t know, maybe because that’s stealing?”
“Whatever, plenty of people steal stuff.” Jared begins listing all of his friends and the amazing things they’ve gotten to eat recently.
There’s a knock at the door.
“I bet Struz forgot his keys,” Jared says, bouncing up from the floor.
“I can assure you if Victor Le says he had filet mignon last night, he either has cattle in his backyard or he’s lying,” I call after him.
I hear my brother say something muffled, and then there’s a slam as someone kicks open the front door.
I have a split second to consider a strategy, but I don’t know what I’m up against, so I jump up and step into the hall.
In my doorway is the outline of a man, standing behind my brother. Based on his height and build, I know it’s not Struz.
It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. I have absolutely nothing to defend myself with, and this guy has my brother.
But when he uses his foot to kick the door shut and the light adjusts in the room, I realize it’s Taylor Barclay.
“What’s the matter, Tenner? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says with a smile.
05:17:21:49
I relax for a second. My whole body feels a little like Jell-O, and I reach out and put my hand on the wall. Though I’m sure Barclay in my world is a bad sign.
He’s got one hand on Jared’s shoulder. I don’t like that.
Barclay must see the shift in my position. “Why don’t you head upstairs, kid?”
Jared looks at me, and I nod. The last thing I want is him getting dragged into whatever has Barclay showing up at my door. We both watch him as he leaves the room.
“Tenner, relax.” He raises his empty hands and smiles. “Just here to talk. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His smile is disarming. It’s light and casual, like we’re long-lost friends and he’s happy to see me.
“So you come to my home and scare my brother?”
Barclay shrugs. “I knocked.”
“What do you want?” I ask, because let’s face it, he wants something.
His smile disappears and his eyebrows draw together, a flicker of annoyance on his face. “I need your help. I need you to come with me.”
He pulls a quantum charger from his pocket—I’d recognize one of those anywhere—and I shake my head. I remember how much it burned the last time he dragged me through a portal, and that thought sparks one that’s worse—all our missing people. What if that’s why Barclay is here? What if I’m next?
“I’m not going anywhere.” I bite my bottom lip and debate what to do next.
“We don’t have time to argue right now,” he says. “I’ll explain everything once we’re out of here.”
In hand-to-hand combat, I don’t stand a chance with Barclay unless I can take him by complete surprise and knock him out. I’m sure he has a gun on him, and I don’t. He also has a quantum charger and as a result he has access to anywhere—any universe. I can’t possibly keep him away from us.
Which means I need to hear him out.
“If you want me to go somewhere with you, you can explain it right now,” I say, pulling back. “I’m not about to just blindly follow you through a portal.”
“Fine, you want to have a chat, Tenner? Why don’t you have a seat,” he says as he sits down on our taupe couch with that stupid, arrogant smirk on his face.
I move into the living room and sit down on the couch as far as I can physically get from him. “So what is it?”
“We have a problem.”
“We?” I ask. Because there’s Barclay, and then there’s me. There’s no we at all.
He turns his blue eyes to me and stares for a second. Then he says, “It’s Ben.”
05:17:15:12
My heart might actually stop. “What about Ben?” My voice is too breathy, too quiet. It doesn’t sound like my own.
Barclay sits up straighter. “Have you seen him?”
I swallow. Hard. “No, he’s back in his home world.”
Barclay nods. “If you have—”
“I haven’t,” I insist, and I hate the fact that I’ve had to say it again.
He nods. “A couple months ago, I stumbled on a case. It’s big, Tenner,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “People from different universes are disappearing. They’re being kidnapped.”
Kidnapped. As in abducted.
He has my full attention now. I can feel my pulse all over my body, even in the tips of my fingers.
“Everything I’ve uncovered points to a complex organization, one that’s avoided getting caught for a long time,” Barclay continues. “Someone has set up the ultimate human-trafficking ring. They’re going into different universes, kidnapping people, and then selling them into slavery on other earths.”
“Human trafficking? Like sex slaves?”
“It’s bigger than that,” Barclay says with a grimace. “Think about the overall picture. Stealing people from other universes, especially universes that don’t have interverse travel capabilities. No one’s going to come looking for them, and they don’t have anywhere to go. No escape.
“And if there’s no fear of getting caught, someone could turn a huge profit by selling house slaves to the wealthy in every different world. Slaves for cheap labor, slaves that could be soldiers in a war you’re waging, and yes, slaves for sex, too.”
No one’s going to come looking for them, and they don’t have anywhere to go.
I can’t help be stuck on that. I see what he’s saying—that makes it the perfect crime—but there’s something in my brain that’s having trouble computing. How selfish and depraved does a person have to be to put something like this together? I wonder if they watch people and pick them out with a purpose, or if they just grab them at random and figure it out later.
I think of Renee Adams, and I wonder what kind of slave she is right now. The thought makes me want to throw up.
“So that’s what’s happening here—why we have so many missing people?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“What?” Barclay asks, before he nods and says, “Oh. Yeah. Any world that has low technology capabilities would be a huge target. A world that’s just gone through a disaster or a war, or any kind of devastating event, of course would become a likely target. More people can be abducted in a shorter period of time before authorities catch on.”
Something in the matter-of-fact way that he says this makes me realize that’s not why he’s here. He doesn’t care about Renee Adams or any of the other hundred thousand missing people we have in San Diego.
“So why are you here?” I ask.
“I need to find Ben,” he says. “And you’re the only one who can help me.”
“I haven’t seen him, Barclay,” I repeat, and I feel my throat tightening and my eyes burning as I have to admit again that he hasn’t come back.
“I know,” he says. “But you can still help me.”
“I’m not going to talk him into doing anything dangerous, if that’s what this is about,” I say, although from the look on Barclay’s face, I can tell that’s not it. “Besides, what does Ben have to do with a human-trafficking ring, unless . . .”
Unless he’s missing.
05:17:11:02
I can’t bring myself to even voice the possibility.
Barclay shakes his head. “It’s complicated. Like I said. This is a big case. Missing persons was never even really on my radar—until a few months ago.”
“And what happened then?”
“The details aren’t important, but I started looking into a standard missing-persons case as a favor to a friend, only it turned out not to be very standard. It’s big, Tenner. A major interverse trafficking ring.”
This all makes sense, but . . . “I still don’t understand what this has to do with Ben.”
Barclay hesitates. He looks at his hands for a second, and I notice he’s biting the inside of his cheek. I’ve never seen him agitated quite like this.
“Tell me,” I say, even though I’m afraid to hear it.
Then he looks up with pity in his face. “Someone with unique abilities—like the ability to open portals and travel universes at will—would have an easier time getting around the strict interverse travel regulations the IA has in place.”
My mind jumps to the logical conclusion, but it takes my heart a minute to catch up. Because I don’t want to believe that it’s a possibility. “Ben can’t be a suspect. He—”
“You know what Ben can do,” Barclay says. “He’s the prime suspect.”
“But he’s home—”
Barclay shakes his head. “Tenner, Ben hasn’t been in his home world for almost three months.”
05:17:09:58
I can’t breathe. For a minute, I’m not sure what I’m more upset about—the fact that the IA suspects Ben of human trafficking or that he isn’t at home and he hasn’t come back to me. Where else would he be? The whole reason he didn’t stay here was because I told him to go home—to his family.
“Look, I know Ben isn’t responsible. That’s why I need your help,” Barclay adds.
That makes me remember what I know of the IA and I realize that if Ben is the prime suspect, they probably have a shoot-on-sight command, and I focus on that.
“Ben would never do this,” I say. “You know him enough to know that.”
Barclay nods. “I’ve said as much, but none of my higher-ups will listen.”
“What do you need from me? To testify or something?” I ask. Character witnesses don’t count for much, but I know Ben. I know him better than anyone else. I know what kind of person he is, the mistakes he’s made, and the things he’s done to make up for them.
Barclay shakes his head, and something about the look on his face tells me whatever his plan is, it’s bigger, more dangerous, and maybe even less legal than something like testifying. “I need you to help me find him.”
I almost laugh. “If he’s not at home and he’s not here, I’ve got no other ideas. You have resources I can’t even imagine. How can I possibly help you? Besides, did you look around on your way in? My world is trying to rebuild. I need to be here.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not on the case anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Barclay sighs. “I’ve been taken off the case because I have too many ties to it. They think that I’m personally invested since I know all the main players involved.”
He doesn’t have to say that he thinks it’s bullshit. I know he does, and he’s right. Sure, he worked a case that ended up involving Ben, but Ben was a target in that case, and if he were a suspect now, any agency would want an agent who knew the suspect to help out.
Agents are taken off cases for one reason: when they’ve become a liability.
Barclay didn’t seem to dislike Ben—once he decided not to shoot him, at least—but he didn’t have any real personal ties to him, either. If Ben did something wrong, Barclay wouldn’t hesitate to do what was needed. It’s the one quality he has that I actually respect.
Which begs the question: Who thinks he would be a liability, and why?
“What about Eric?” I say. Eric Brandt is another IA agent and Barclay’s partner. “You said he was your mentor. He could talk to someone.”
Barclay shakes his head, and when he speaks again his voice is thick. “Eric is dead.”
05:17:04:14
“What?” My voice is breathless. “How?”
“Officially, it was an accident,” Barclay says. “He was home alone, taking a shower. He slipped and fell, pulling the shower curtain down with him, and knocked himself out. The shower curtain clogged the drain and he drowned.”
And in case I hadn’t heard the skepticism in his voice or seen it on his face, he adds, “But it wasn’t an accident. Someone murdered him.”
I don’t disagree. It sounds like a scene from one of those bad Final Destination movies—too many coincidences lining up to equal an accidental death. Instead, I get to the point. “Who would do that?”
“I don’t know,” Barclay admits.
I open my mouth to offer my opinion, but then I stop and look at Barclay. He’s looking at me, waiting—expectant even. He obviously has a theory, and he wants to know if I’m going to come up with the same one.
I take a deep breath because I know that if I’m right, I might be about to dive into something huge. “When did it happen?”
“Both Eric and I wrote up our reports as soon as we realized this was human trafficking, not just one missing person,” Barclay answers. “Then we were excused from the case. I fought it. This case was huge for me, a career maker, but Eric told me to lay off the information, that he’d talk to the higher-ups.”
“And he did,” I say. I don’t like where I think this is going.
Barclay nods. “Two days later, Eric was dead and a report he supposedly signed with ‘proof’ against Ben was on the server. The order to find Ben and bring him in was issued.”
“That means . . .” My heart hammers in my chest, and I can’t say what I think out loud.
But Barclay knows what I mean. “Someone in IA is involved.”
Which would also explain the liability issue—Barclay was taken off the case because someone above him doesn’t actually want it solved.
Because Ben is a convenient scapegoat.