“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But I found something I think you’ll want to see.”
“What was there to find?” My voice isn’t much friendlier than Wes’s was, but maybe LJ found something we can use. “Wes and I thought they were just a random pattern.”
“But they’re not.” Despite the glacial freeze emanating from Wes, LJ is beginning to sound excited. “They don’t make much sense the way they’re written, it’s true. But then I realized they weren’t just letters, they were elements, and it all came together.”
“Elements?” Wes sounds curious, though the coldness never leaves his tone.
LJ ducks a little lower, but his excitement is clearly outweighing his self-preservation. “It looks like nonsense, but when you arrange it in a different way . . .” He holds out a sheet of scribbled-on paper, and Wes peers at it.
“It’s a molecular formula,” Wes finishes.
“A what?” I lean over Wes’s arm, and see: SO4N2H11C9-O-C9H11N2O4S. I remember seeing formulas like that in chemistry class.
“It’s a serum of sorts. It looks like it could be a type of medicine or something.” LJ drops the paper back down on his desk. “The strain isn’t that far from the makeup of penicillin. That’s how I recognized some of the numbers in the first place.”
“Why did you do this? Why do you care?” Now Wes sounds suspicious, and I tense. I feel like I should be prepared for something, though I’m not sure what it is. But if Wes thinks that LJ might be involved with the Project, then we have a huge problem on our hands.
“I like solving problems. Stuff like this makes sense to me.” He sees our expressions and sinks down again. “I was just curious. I’m really sorry I went through your stuff, but I thought you would want to know what it meant. That’s all.”
I don’t know why, but I believe him: the only time LJ seems to come out of his shell is when he’s talking about codes and computers. It’s easy to believe that he saw a problem in front of him and he ignored our privacy in order to solve it.
“Okay,” I say, “but what does—”
I stop speaking as the computer screen lights up. Words appear on the screen in a steady stream of blue light.
For Lydia.
“Did you just type that?” I ask LJ.
“No.” LJ’s eyes are glued to the blue light. “I’m in a chat room with this guy. He’s sending it.”
I suddenly feel cold. “What guy? Why does he know my name?”
“I don’t know. He calls himself Resister.”
“Resister?” I look at Wes with wild eyes. “I met someone with that same handle back in Montauk. He told me he was on the conspiracy message boards. He said he was working on a rebellion to take down the Project.”
Wes takes a step toward me. “When was this?”
I quickly tell him about the man who came into my father’s store back in 2012. I don’t know why I didn’t mention it before; I must have gotten so caught up in my grandfather, Dean, and McGregor that I forgot all about it. “But the man was in his thirties, Wes. If he was sending it from this time period, he would be . . .”
“A teenager,” Wes finishes.
“What are you talking about?” LJ glances between the two of us. But before I can come up with some kind of explanation, more text appears on the screen. It is a replica of the exact molecular formula that LJ discovered in The Metamorphosis.
“How does he know this?” I whisper.
“What kind of chat room are you in right now?” Wes demands of LJ. “What do you know about this Resister?”
“We have a number we all dial into with our modems. It’s secure.” LJ’s voice sounds higher. “The Resister set it up. We talk about conspiracy stuff. To try and find out why—”
“Kids are going missing,” I cut in. “Nikki told me you’ve been looking into it. She said you have a list.”
LJ opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a handwritten list. There are about ten names on it. “Tag helped me with the names. The Resister said it’s happening because of this conspiracy in an old army base on Long Island.”
I suck in a breath.
Wes steps forward. “This guy shouldn’t know Lydia’s name. And he shouldn’t know this formula you just figured out. Are you lying to us?”
“No, no, I swear!” LJ puts his hands up. “He’s never mentioned this stuff before. He was just talking to me about Chris. He said he thinks he’s probably still alive! I wanted to . . . believe him.”
The screen blinks again. Blue writing appears: The Mark of the Traveler.
All of the tiny hairs rise on my arms. I bend over LJ’s shoulder and type out: How do you know this?
But a blue line of text pops up: Resister has left the room.
“Can you hack into his server?” Wes asks. “Can you follow him?”
LJ shakes his head. “He’s the one who set it up. He’s hiding behind firewalls. I know how to hack, but not like that. . . .” He starts to pop his knuckles. Slowly and loudly, over and over. I ignore the sound as I try to process what’s happening. The mark of the traveler? I had never heard that phrase before my grandfather screamed it at me yesterday. And why does this person—who’s only a teenager now—know my name?
“Could this be coming from the future?” I whisper the words.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Wes says.
But LJ just looks at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this guy has built a kind of system I’ve never seen before. I’ve been in and out of chat rooms for years, but none with firewall protection like this.”
“Jesus,” Wes breathes. “Maybe it’s coming from the
