Chapter 6: Simple Subtraction
Most people my age probably haven't given much thought to how they might die. I make a daily practice of it. It's not that I enjoy thinking morbid thoughts…it just seems prudent to consider the possibilities. It helps me stay levelheaded in stressful moments—like now, when a mysterious bolted door separates my partner and me from any number of fates.
A good part of our Sundial training involves imagining situations that might develop and how we'd escape safely. Right now, for instance, I know where my exit routes are (up the stairs and out the unlocked front door; through a basement window I'd need to smash) and what weapons are within reach (an aluminum bat; the washing machine hosing; worst case scenario, my lighter and the gas main).
Logically, it makes sense to imagine not escaping, too. If I'm about to die and have the luxury of knowing it, will I still make every last decision with integrity, with a level head? Will I be calm and collected enough to minimize collateral damage? And when the time comes, is there anything I'll regret? Anything that's in my power to change, anyway?
This last part troubles me, because I don't know whether I'm supposed to change my feelings or the thing itself. I drank three beers in a row last summer at a Fourth of July party in Rose's uncle's backyard just to know what it felt like to be tipsy. That's one less thing on my list. Edward made fun of me in the morning when I was hung over for our team call…and he made me promise not to do it again, unless we were together. Not that I'm eager to do it again. Not now that I'm rid of that nagging not-knowing feeling.
There are more things on that list. It's growing, actually.
The drum of my heartbeat in my ears brings me back into the moment. Probably three seconds have passed since Edward and I registered this new development. His eyes stay locked on mine while a silent conversation passes between the two of us.
Our decision-making process is so deeply ingrained: To evaluate a potential threat, isolate the unknown elements from the known. Assign severity and likelihood to various risks. Calculate. Act.
What we know: There's a hatch embedded in the floor of the basement of the home I grew up in. We know that it's been here for a long time. Years. Maybe more years than I've been involved with Sundial.
What we don't know: who or what's beyond the door—or who might be responsible.
I hand Edward his bag but hang back, scanning the room once more with new eyes. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Miss Violet blithely sniffs the laundry basket on the other side of the room. Edward uses a swab and his BioSafe canister to test the corroded, warped edges of the hatch for toxins or gasses. He passes me the canister so I can read the display. Biological particles consistent with ordinary mold.
He drags his fingers through the dust on an old armoire, making the shape of a striped triangle that indicates a fallout shelter. He raises his eyebrows at me—a silent question mark.
I guess it's possible. I shrug. The gap at the edge of the hatch is probably big enough for a mouse to squeeze through. They don't need much room at all.
He folds his arms, staring hard at the hatch door. I know that he's contemplating calling in the Volturi emergency guard, who would arrive in moments in nondescript repairman's garb and either explain or demolish whatever it is underneath the basement. That call would be heard by all active agents in the region, including Carlisle and Esme, which would blow my cover with them.
I think we can handle this ourselves, and I know Edward can guess what I'm thinking. He's always the more cautious one, swayed by imagined consequences rather than calculated risk. The only reason he's considering going along with me, I'm guessing, is that he can imagine positive consequences as well as negative. For example, if this turns out to be a simple root cellar, we'll have the pleasure of sharing this new type of secret—a small and thrilling place to escape to.
"Let's try it. We can at least unlatch the bolt. If it's also bolted from the other side, we have a problem. If not, I think we have the upper hand," I say, keeping my voice low. I don't really care if we're overheard. In fact, if this whole adventure goes badly, anything Aro will have heard becomes a clue. Edward mulls this over, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
He toes the flat surface of the hatch with his shoe, tapping three times to activate the UltraAudio embedded in the sole. He shakes his head to tell me he hears nothing. And with a sigh and a slump of his shoulders, he tells me he's ready.
"Wait." I loop a utility cord through Miss Violet's collar and anchor her to the stair rail. I hand Edward the aluminum baseball bat and back halfway up the stairs, keeping our exit path in view. I check my phone, making sure I have a signal. "Okay. Open it."
He wrests the rusty bolt loose with some effort. He looks at me again, his face stony, before creaking the heavy hatch open. He rears back, but only because of a musty odor. I smell it, too. Lights below the entryway flicker on automatically, casting a glow on his face. He crouches and peers down into the hole, looking back at me with an unreadable expression. When I see his posture relax, though, it's enough. I let out a shaky breath.
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Trust is such a strange phenomenon. It seems abstract, yet it has the power to calm a racing heart and restore erratic brainwaves. It's the thing that keeps stress and shock from killing people. There's research on it and everything. The human brain needs it so much, I think, that we are willing to explain away almost anything before we allow ourselves to let go of trust.
And so when I step off the bottom rung of the rickety ladder into a plain, sparsely furnished room, my first instinct is to tell myself that Charlie must have forgotten to tell me about this place. That it can't be a secret he'd keep from me, because Charlie doesn't have secrets. Not like this. I loosen my grip on Edward's warm hand.
There's nothing here but a sagging futon, covered with a thin blanket, and a few dusty items of clothing. Some record albums spill out of a cardboard box, and a yellowed concert poster droops on one wall. A set of storage shelves stand empty of whatever emergency provisions they must have held at some point. Nothing dangerous, and nothing worth hiding.
Without the looming specter of some nefarious attack scheme, there is only the question of whether Charlie knows this is here—and if so, why he's kept it hidden. But even that doesn't concern me. After all, it's just an old fallout shelter.
I sink down on the futon, relieved to discover it isn't damp. I feel so tired and heavy all of a sudden. Edward eases himself down next to me, moving with exaggerated caution. I'm sitting on something lumpy, which turns out to be a cardigan sweater with patches on the elbows. I smooth it out and fold it into a neat square.
"Are you all right?" Edward asks. He's watching me with a wary look on his face.
"Nothing should surprise me anymore. Seriously." I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling. I surprise myself by laughing bitterly. "Hah! Would it kill us to just lighten up once in a while? Imagine if Alice came across a bomb shelter in her basement. She'd throw the hatch wide open and turn it into a…music room or something."
He frowns.
"We could do that, you know. Why don't we? Just—ugh. Who cares?" I start looking around for electrical outlets, imagining strings of Christmas tree lights ringing the room.
"I mean…Bella. Look again." He covers my hands with his—my hands that are clenched tightly around the wool cardigan. He practically has to pry my fingers loose. The elbow patches feel familiar, but hazy-familiar, like in a dream.
I realize I'm trembling. It's like my body is aware of what's happening before my brain is. I let myself get folded into his arms, burying my nose in the soft fabric and skin at the crease where his neck meets his shoulder. I take a deep breath.
"I guess this was my mother's."
He only hums in response. I let my eyes wander around the room again, really seeing, finally.
These were her things. It's more of her than I can remember seeing together in one place. Her crocheted lap blanket—a patchwork of yarn I've only ever seen in photos from my childhood, including the one on my dresser. Her Sonic Youth poster on the wall. Her Soundgarden and Nirvana records, a fine layer of ruinous dust covering the vinyl that peeks out from one of the sleeves. There's even a strand of her hair caught in the fibers of this grungy cardigan.
I have to admit to myself that when I indulge in missing my mom, I'm usually thinking of who she might have been in my life today. I'm not used to thinking of her as a person with a whole world of her own before me—as a Seattle teenager listening to records in her secret sub-basement room not long before I was born. And, really, not that many years before she died.
I wonder what my face looks like to Edward, if he can even see my face…or if I should be embarrassed that he's witnessing something so personal. I don't feel embarrassed.
"She grew up in this house, you know. Moved out when she married my dad, but when Gran and Grandpa moved to San Diego, she bought the place from them."
"I could see anybody our age loving this place," he says. His arms are still circled comfortably around my waist. He rests his chin on my shoulder. "She probably would have wanted you to have it for yourself when the time was right. Do you think she would have been cool like that?"
"Yeah," I say. I can feel Edward's lips move to the back of my neck—a strange mix of comforting and exciting. I don't want to think about this too hard. "Not sure she would have let me lock myself in here with you, though."
He stills for a moment, as if he's waiting for me to pull away. When I don't, he uses his hands to gather my hair to the side and goes on kissing my neck and massaging my shoulders. "Do you think she'd suspect me of trying to steal your virtue?"
Yes. Without a doubt, yes. "Aren't you, though?"
His chest rumbles against my back. "Depends. Does virtue mean virginity? The answer is either never or not today."
This makes heat rise to the surface of my skin. I know he feels it because he brushes his lips along my hairline where I must be flushed pink.
"Are you asking what it means to me? Or to my mom?"
"This is a strange conversation. To the modern world. To you." His fingers are nestled in my hair again.
"What do you think it means?"
"Virtue? I think virtue means…goodness and worth. And I couldn't make a dent in yours in a million years. No matter where I convince you to let me put my hands or my mouth. Or my…anything else."
Jesus Christ. I twist around to face him, tucking my knees underneath me and staying close enough that his hands stay buried in my hair. "This all sounds like what a very smooth-talking villain might say."
"Mm-hmm. That's a fallacy, and you know it. A dicto simpliciter. The specific taken for the general." He bites his lip. The intensity in his face doesn't match the lightness of his voice. He blinks once and then closes his eyes again for a long moment, capturing an image.
I giggle. "Now you're using logic to make me swoon. That's a low blow, Cullen."
"Never. I could never make you do anything. Would never." He relaxes back against the futon and moves his hands to my waist. He tugs the fabric of my shirt down where it's begun to ride up.
He waits until I look him in the eye. "Just kiss me, Bella."
I don't know what happened to not letting our hormones complicate things. Maybe it's a factor of being in this safe haven, feeling secure and protected. Maybe it's the sobering discovery of my mother's well-loved possessions abandoned and unused, a forlorn tableau that says life is short.
I lean in and kiss him, and it feels like something. The opposite of regret. It may be dank and musty in this airless cellar, but his blood is hot and coursing under his skin, and his ragged breath is sweet and confusing, the way it burns me up and cools on my skin. He holds back and follows my lead, letting me get used to this new sensation of being ruled by my impulses. I like learning how he reacts, imagining how it feels to him, the little ways I can make it even better.
"Yeah," he says when I move to straddle his lap. His voice is half breath. "Okay."
I'm surprised when I feel his fingers wrap around my ankles. He holds on as if he doesn't trust himself to touch me elsewhere. I try to remember if I shaved my legs this morning. When I tense up, he shakes his head.
"Shh. Just relax. You're killing me here, but don't stop."
I rise up and take in his pink face and sweaty hairline.
"How am I killing you?"
He blinks. "You're…I…hmm. Nothing a cold shower won't fix. Believe me, I like it."
"You can touch me, you know."
"No, I can't. I really can't. Not before you really know…" He chuckles and squeezes my ankles when he sees me frown. "I'm serious. I'll go too far. I think I would traumatize you. And poor Miss Violet, up there whining."
"I—"
"It's too soon." He takes my hands in his and brings them together to press them to his smiling lips. "Are you gonna tell your dad you know about this room?"
I climb off of his lap. "He'll lock it up and throw away the key."
"So…that's a no?"
I hate keeping things from my dad, but this seems harmless enough, relatively speaking. And there's surely a reason why he's kept it a secret all this time.
"I guess if I were in Charlie's position, I might want to shut this place away, too. Just based on his own memories. I mean…I might have been conceived on this futon."
Edward groans. "Don't. Ugh."
"Is your little room something like this?" I've never actually seen the passage hidden behind his bookcase.
"It's more like a tunnel. No place you'd spend time in." He twists his head, looking around. "And it's not private like this. Not soundproof."
"Think this is? Soundproof?"
He nods. "And if it was built to shield nuclear fallout, it probably shields transmitters."
I sit up straight and face him squarely. "Try it." I don't know why this idea thrills me, but it does.
Even though we're in the same room together, our SatCom system works by sending a signal to a satellite, which retransmits it to us and to the Volturi nerve center. The idea of being unreachable is so foreign to me. Frankly, it could be a problem. If our SatComs don't work in here and Aro tries to page us, it could trigger an unnecessary search mission.
Edward grins and reaches up to his earlobe. "May I speak to Phoenix, please? Come in, Phoenix."
"Oh." My face falls. "I heard you. I mean, on the SatCom."
He purses his lips and launches himself to standing. "That's odd." And just like that, he's back in investigator mode, tapping the walls and circling the perimeter.
I hear Aro's raspy voice in my ear. "What's going on? Big, can you not locate Phoenix?"
I pinch my earlobe to respond, noting that he seems to only be hearing the satellite feed; not anything a wire in the room would be transmitting to him.
"No. I'm here." I cringe at what I'm about to say. "We were just…playing around."
"Hmph. Very well. Carry on—but try to keep it PG-13 over the signal, if you can."
I roll my eyes. I watch Edward smooth his hands over the Sonic Youth poster. Even I can hear the hollow echo when he raps his fingers against it. When he peels it away from the wall, a flimsy panel is revealed, and he lifts this away from the wall, too.
The aroma of fresh packed earth fills the chamber. I see where our mice have been coming from, and what the crews using King County Energy equipment must have been doing in the street back in April.
It's an escape tunnel of my very own.
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Auxiliary escape routes are a Volturi perk reserved for the most senior officers. I'd always assumed Edward's tunnel had more to do with him being placed with Carlisle and Esme than anything related to Sundial. But if I have one, too, there must be a plan behind it all—something Aro will disclose to me if and when he sees fit.
Edward covers up the hole again and scratches his head. "I don't understand that dude."
"Nope. Nobody does."
"Do we bring it up? Mention we know about it?"
"Just practice your surprised face. You know how he loves his big reveals."
He nods. We climb out of the room and secure the bolt and layers of carpets behind us. I like knowing that it can't be used as an entrance to my home, at least.
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When I work my next volunteer shift at Evergreen, I take Edward with me. He wants to meet Mrs. Cope. She convinces him to play an old-fashioned card game, complaining that I'm no fun because I'm always calculating probabilities.
He snorts. "Tell me about it."
"I can't help it!" I laugh and turn back to organizing the library cart. They want me to sort the books by color instead of by alphabet, because people have an easier time remembering their favorite titles that way.
Mrs. Cope stays lucid during most of the game. At one point, she mistakes Edward for someone else. "Roger, would you believe Therese brought me her dresses to take in? Six dresses. She's lost a good deal of extra weight."
He raises his eyebrows and falters for just a second before giving her a neutral response. "Oh, really?"
"That soldier is going to marry her. I have a feeling for these things."
Edward nods and plays his turn. I allow myself to sneak a peek at her chart. Yes, she's on donepezil. And something else: oxycodone, in a rather large dose.
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I drop by to visit my dad at the museum on a Saturday afternoon. He's not really supposed to socialize when he's manning a gallery, but he has me meet him in the cafeteria when it's time for his break.
"Didja see that Gaugin exhibit?"
"No, Dad. That's not really my thing."
"Too colonialist, right? Imposed primitivism reinforcing a subjugated eroticism?"
I almost choke on my sandwich. "What! Who did you overhear saying that?" This is an old game of his.
"Couple of ladies with hats. Those are the ones to listen to. Them and the ones who match the purse with the shoes." He's pleased with himself for making me laugh. His moustache twitches.
"How much longer do you think for these double shifts?"
"Miss your old man, do ya? Just let's wait until we see your financial aid packages. Then I'll be able to relax."
It drives me crazy that I can't tell him about the "scholarship" funding I know is coming from my Sundial trust. I make a mental note to get Aro to push the notification window up. "Okay, Dad. I'm fine—really—but I wish you had time to take a vacation or something. Do some fishing with Harry?"
He murmurs in agreement, promptly changing the subject. "I like your new haircut. You look…more grown up."
I thank him. I don't tell him I haven't had a haircut.
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My chats with Edward using the stealth laptops are so mundane it's ridiculous—yet I'm giddy, all the same. What are you eating? Did you write down which chapters we're supposed to read for English? I'll see you after brunch at A.'s tomorrow—sorry, girls only. Do you really not know how to swim?
Um, not nachos again. I promise. (Except…I lied, I am eating nachos. So salty and delicious!) Read through the part where Jane finds out he's already married. Sorry, spoiler alert. Save me some bacon in a napkin? Yes, really, I don't. You saw me in there.
I did see him in there—"there" being the pool, three times already this week. The beginners have mostly just been learning to float, clutching the pool's edge with both hands, foam floaters pinched between their knees. I've found myself mesmerized by the way the water rolls between his shoulder blades and the other lesser-known divots and subtle bulges that crisscross his back. Not only that—I'm allowed to stare. It's expected, even. Yesterday, Rose, waiting her turn at the diving board alongside me, put a hand on her hip, saying Girl. I looked at her and blushed.
Yeah, I reply to Edward. If you're pretending to learn, it's very convincing.
There's a lot I don't know how to do. ;) Next week we pair up. Lucky you.
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On Sunday, I'm home alone, chatting with Edward on the SatCom about a suspected biological weapon smuggling ring in Canada that we're supposed to follow up on later in the week. This is the worst type of job; even Aro admits he hates bioweapon traces, because protocol requires eliminating the carrier and quarantining the body, no matter what. And they're usually innocent bystanders—so we're told. Anyway, neither Edward nor I has had direct involvement before now. We're immunized regularly, of course. That's not the part that makes my stomach churn.
I never have a chance to get anxious about it, though, because in the middle of quizzing me about symptoms to watch for, Edward cuts off with a gasp. A split second later, I process the distinct Ping! Ping! tone I've just heard.
"Did you hear that?"
My breath comes out in a squeak. Yes, I did. It wasn't my imagination. My knees turn to jelly, but I'm already in motion, racing down the stairs to the ground floor. I'm assaulted by a flurry of voices shouting in confusion over the SatCom. Overriding all of it, Aro barks instructions.
"All units evacuate. Protocol white. Thirty seconds to rendezvous. Sam—I mean King and Crow were in the field, hot." Aro is flustered.
I shout my all-clear code over the line—ten twenty-six—and hear Edward do the same. I hold my breath while, one by one, I mentally check off each of the other voices I need to hear. Jacob and Leah. Bree is next to pipe up, sounding shy. After an agonizing few seconds, we hear from Sam, his voice a desperate howl, and it isn't good: "Ten-forty five, Bravo. Fuck, she's—there's a lot of blood. Extract to Medivac, Aro. We've been compromised."
Emily. I let out a whoosh of breath and squint my eyes to focus on my buzzing wristwatch for instructions. Inexplicably, my micro-GPS is directing me out the front door and down the street to a waiting car, not through the escape tunnel designed expressly for this purpose. I file away the observation for another day. Right now, I'm only thinking of my colleague.
Our SatCom equipment is programmed with a security feature that alerts every user—Ping! Ping!—when a resource abruptly goes off line. I fear that sound more than anything on earth. Only one thing can trigger it: complete loss of blood flow to the surrounding tissue. I collapse into the cushiony leather back seat of the town car, letting tears sting my eyes. The SatCom is silent. There's nothing any of us can do now but regroup. And wait.
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AN: Many thanks to beta happymelt and prereading duo midsouthmama and faireyfan!To save you a making a visit to medline, donepezil is a prescription sometimes given to treat dementia. Oxycodone is a powerful pain medication. Thanks, everyone, for reading! And for your reviews! I've only ever seen about two episodes of Lost but was amused by the comparisons when it comes to the hatch!