Wes frowns. “Let’s hope McGregor is too.” We push through the crowd until we find a space between two buildings. Thirty-two New is right across the street, and I look up at the fourteenth floor. I can’t see anything but row after row of mirrored windows.
“We need a plan,” Wes says.
“Let’s go up there, knock on his door. If he’s there, we say we’re Jehovah Witnesses and leave. Wait till he’s gone again. If he’s not there, we break in and see what we can find.”
“Pretty simple.”
“You got a better idea?”
Wes shakes his head. “Remember, we’re trying to have as little contact as possible with him. We don’t want to alter the time line further.”
“What happens if we do, by accident or something?”
“Time can always be changed again. As long as I can prove it wasn’t deliberate, then they won’t punish me. But I’d have to tell General Walker in my debrief, and they would send another recruit back to this exact moment to stop us.”
I glance back and forth, but no recruit materializes out of the sea of briefcases. “Looks like we’re good.”
There is no lobby or doorman in McGregor’s building, just a locked front door. I start to pull a pin from my hair so I can open it, but Wes stops me. “Hang on,” he says. “That will take too long.” He pulls out his Swiss Army knife.
I watch, fascinated, as he covertly opens one end, like he’s taking the cap off a pen. Underneath are a bunch of pins sticking straight up. Wes pushes them into the lock. Some collapse while the rest mold to the keyhole. I hear a clicking noise, and then Wes turns the knife like it’s a key. The door opens.
“I want one of those,” I say as we enter the building.
“You could have gotten one in Weaponry.”
“Don’t tell me that now, it’s just mean.”
He laughs softly and I smile. I love making Wes laugh; he does it so rarely.
We take the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. The hallway outside McGregor’s apartment has dingy carpet and dull yellow lighting. It’s not where I would have expected a politician to live.
When we reach 14D, Wes knocks twice. There’s no answer. I put my ear to the wood, but I can’t hear anything moving in there. “I don’t think he’s home,” I whisper.
“Let’s find out.”
Wes pushes the pins into the lock. It clicks a few times, and I slowly turn the door handle.
It opens into a studio apartment. There’s no way McGregor is home; there’s no place to hide in here.
“I’ll take the desk,” I say quietly.
Wes walks over to a file cabinet near McGregor’s bed and opens it with a creak.
I glance around the small, masculine space. It’s as though he just moved in: only one chair sits near the counter in the tiny kitchenette area. His bed is covered with a faded red blanket. Nothing hangs on the walls except for a blue sports banner.
I walk over to look at the pennant more closely. It says EAGLES in white letters. There is something familiar about it that I can’t quite place.
I leave it and move to examine his desk. A black leather notebook sits on one side. I open it and flip through the pages. It’s a datebook.
“Wes, look at this.”
He comes over to join me near the desk. “It’s all of his appointments for the week.” I angle it toward him.
“Where is he now?”
I find Wednesday, August 9. “Right now he’s . . .” I trail off.
Wes leans over me. “Visiting Bellevue Hospital.” He steps back and rubs at the corner of his jaw. “Lydia, do you think—?”
But I don’t answer, because I have finally realized why that pennant looks so familiar. It matches one that was hanging on the wall in Dean’s room in 1944. The Eagles. My East Hampton High School football team.
“John McGregor is from Montauk.” I pronounce each word slowly. “Wes, do you know how old he was?”
He shakes his head. “I was looking for a birth certificate, but it’s not here.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I sit down on McGregor’s bed, holding his datebook close to my chest. “They stopped making those pennants ages ago. He had to have known my grandfather. Maybe even Dean.” I look up, my eyes wild. “Wes, you know what this means. McGregor’s loss could be connected to my grandfather.”
“Or we could have affected his fate somehow when we were in nineteen forty-four. If he was in Montauk then, it’s possible.” He comes to kneel in front of me. “You don’t know your grandfather is involved.”
I squeeze the datebook tight. “He must be. John McGregor is visiting someone in Bellevue right now. I’m betting it’s him.”
Wes suddenly goes tense. His eyes dart over to the door. “Lydia, we have to leave.” He jumps to his feet and tugs me across the room. “Someone’s coming.”
I hear the sound of keys jingling in the hallway, and I throw the datebook back onto the neat wooden desk. It lands with a thud that I’m sure is noticeable, but I don’t have time to care. Wes has opened the tiny window in the kitchen, and he waves me through.
I duck down and out onto the fire escape. Wes is right behind me. We pull the window shut as the front door swings wide-open.
We both press against the side of the building, breathing hard. “Too close,” I whisper, and Wes nods. He starts to climb down the fire escape, but I stop him.
“Lydia . . .” Wes murmurs as I crawl under the dingy window ledge.
“Hang on a second.” I slowly lift my head until I can see into the apartment. McGregor has his back to me, and is roughly yanking off his tie. He turns slightly, and I duck, but not before I see his profile and the weary look on his lined face.
He’s a small man, with almost dainty shoulders and dirty-blond hair. But he’s broadly handsome in
