“We need to go when it’s light,” I say, and Wes nods. We’re getting closer to Montauk, to his home, but also to the Facility. I watch the low trees and dunes fly past the window.
“I think we should write Dr. Bentley a letter.” I lean back against the seat, my head tipped toward Wes. “We can leave it in his study tonight when we go for dinner. That way we won’t have to answer any questions in person. I’ll tell him to be at the camp at a certain time, that something is happening in the western woods that will require medical aid. He’ll go; he trusts us.”
Wes reaches down to change gears and the old truck jolts, rocking my body forward. Instead of putting his hand back on the wheel, he rests it on my thigh. “You’ll need a better story than that.”
“I’ll think of something. But this is the best solution I could come up with for now.”
He squeezes my leg, and I imagine that the layer of my dress isn’t there, that he’s touching my bare skin. “It’s a good idea, Lydia. I trust Bentley. He’ll make sure those kids are safe.”
Later that evening, as the sun is setting a deep red behind us, Wes and I walk back toward his small shack. “I love Mrs. Bentley,” I say, “and maybe we can blame it on the war, but I cannot eat any more of that horrible cake.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Cakes should not be made without sugar and butter. It’s a crime.”
Wes laughs, his hand curled tight around mine. I move closer to him, wanting to be in the moment, but I cannot shake this nagging feeling I’ve had since we came back from East Hampton.
“Wes? Do you feel like someone is watching us?”
He stops walking, his body still as he listens. “I can’t hear anything but the water,” he says after a moment.
“I’m not saying it’s something you can hear, I just have this feeling. Like there’s someone staring at my back. I’ve had it all night. And then this morning on the dunes—”
“Do you think you’re being overly suspicious?” His voice is soft. “You spent the last week in the woods being hunted. It’s normal that you’d still feel that way.”
“I guess so.” He starts moving forward again and I let him pull me along, our hands still clasped together.
He might be right—maybe I am overreacting, still remembering how it felt to sleep with my heart in my throat, wondering if every sound, every breeze was a sign that the Secret Service had found us. But Wes has also spent the last six months alone, never looking over his shoulder. Am I paranoid or has he lost his instincts?
“Don’t worry.” He squeezes my hand, turning to look at me in the fading light. “Tomorrow morning this will all be over.”
It’s not exactly reassuring, but I try and smile at him. I must have been mistaken; there are not many places for a person to hide out here, with the ocean to our left and the dunes to our right.
Inside his tiny house he pulls out the bags of supplies we bought in East Hampton and we sit side by side at the table. We are silent as we separate out the ingredients, using small lead pipes to contain the explosions.
“The fuses can’t be too long,” Wes says when we are almost finished mixing the materials. “Otherwise a guard might be able to stop them before they explode.”
“But how are we going to get out in time?” I lift up one of the small fuses he’s already cut. “This would only give us thirty seconds.”
He takes it from my hand, fitting it into the end of the pipe. “We have no choice. We’ll have to steal timers from inside the Facility. We can wire and rig the bombs in the TM room after we send Faust through time, and set the countdown for two minutes. Even if they find the bombs, a guard wouldn’t be able to stop one in time. Deactivating a timer isn’t as simple as cutting a fuse.”
“Will we have time for that? It won’t be easy to sneak around, especially if we have Faust with us and we’re trying to keep him quiet.”
“We’ll have to make it.” He sounds distracted, and I stare down at his bent head as he concentrates on installing the fuse. “We need to make sure the TM explodes, but I’m also planning on living a long life with you, Lydia. That means we need to make it out alive.”
I smile. “Only you can be romantic while assembling a deadly weapon.”
“I try.” He looks up and grins, the dimple cutting deep into his cheek.
Earlier, I left a note for Dr. Bentley on the desk in his study. I wrote that I had heard some soldiers in town talking about testing bombs near the southwest bunker of Camp Hero at dawn, and how they’re sure it won’t be safe. I asked him to check it out with the other volunteer doctors and nurses from the hospital, because I thought some men would end up injured. I know he’s the type of doctor who will go, even if my information wasn’t certain.
As soon as Wes and I have assembled three bombs, we lay out the contents of LJ’s file. Most of the documents are things we already know—a layout of Camp Hero, a brief description of how to get into the entrances. But one paper is a detailed map of the Facility, and another is a write-up on Faust, including details about his schedule. He lives in the Facility, eats and sleeps there, and almost never leaves. It will make him easy to find, and we use the map to pinpoint the exact location of his office, and the entrances we’ll use to get in and out.
When it
