AN: Hi and thanks for reading! Happymelt and faireyfan helped enormously with this chapter, pointing out grammar issues and clarity disconnects, and whilemidsouthmama has been busy with real life stuff, she has been our spirit guide (though she may not realize it).
Chapter 16: Real Numbers
The federal prison hospital doesn't exactly have a lobby. Rose sits with me in the empty warden's office while Edward assists Carlisle with his middle-of-the-night stitch-up procedure. The ambulance, at least, allowed us to evade any additional followers. We seem to have shaken Aro's people—for now.
While I can't admit this to Rose or Emmett, a major advantage of this spot is that we can isolate them and clean things up—them, the ambulance, their stories. It's ironic that one of the most watched places in the country is the safest for us to do clandestine business. All the suspicion is reserved for the inmate patients, and no one can spare a damn about a few teenagers in bloodstained formalwear.
We can count on Carlisle to sell the witness protection angle to our families, even though he's beginning to doubt it himself. The ambulance is a charred crisp by now, next to a salvage yard near the airport. And it's my job to assure Rose that the best way to help me is to keep her head down.
"He's going to be okay, Rose. A couple of weeks of strengthening and he'll be good as new. Carlisle's people have already placed a cover story with his boss."
"About the ambulance getting hijacked. I know." She picks at a frayed string on the greenish-gray scrubs that have taken the place of her bloody prom dress. "Carlisle's people? Listen to you."
"I'm sorry you got mixed up in any of this."
She purses her lips. "I never imagined a couple of thugs were hunting you down. I should have left you alone."
I frown. "It's not your fault. The whole point of a Witness Protection Program is to keep things like this from happening." I wish I could tell her the truth, but almost anything I say will put her in danger. "What made you decide to follow me?"
"I just had a feeling something weird was going on with you. Bella . . . live-action Dungeons and Dragons on prom night? The way he looked? I don't think so."
I don't protest. "You know I would have told you if there was any possible way, right?"
She pushes her hair out of her eyes and looks at me sideways. "Are you in trouble?"
"Maybe. No." I realize I actually mean it. I sit up taller and grasp her hand. "I mean, I was, but what Emmett did—I think he saved Edward's life. That was the worst of it, so . . . I'm not in trouble anymore. Neither of us is."
She nods.
"I just need to take care of one last thing. If you don't see me for a while, take it as a good sign. Okay?"
She grimaces and shrugs. "I don't have much choice, do I?"
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Once Carlisle is done patching Emmett up, he sits with Edward and me in his office. A row of glowing monitors lines one wall, showing him the vital signs of patients who have undergone surgery in recent days.
"Bella, it appears Edward has come clean to you about his Witness Protection situation," he says. "Protocol dictates your friends will be given discharge papers stating King County General treated them, a cover story that explains things—that they were taken hostage by drug-seeking ambulance thieves, in this case—and protective watch detail for at least the next several days. I have a way of inducing amnesia, if you think that's necessary."
"No," I say. "The idea that the mob is after Edward is enough to keep Rose quiet. And judging from his behavior in the ambulance, Emmett isn't looking to stir up trouble. He exhibited classic social equilibrium-seeking responses."
Edward clears his throat. "We've been studying crisis psychology," he adds. He shoots me a look. "You know. At school."
"Well. That's good." Carlisle spins a pen between his fingers. "I'm owed a great number of favors here, so you have nothing to worry about on this end, or I'd never have said yes to your call. But speaking of cover stories, here's the thing. My assignment is to uphold yours, Edward, no questions asked. As far as anyone else knows, you're in my care, and Esme's, as a foster son. Usually we're briefed about threats that would require overnights away from home, that sort of thing. But now this—and we haven't heard a word."
This means he hasn't contacted mainstream Volturi headquarters. He's already out on a limb for us, and he's letting us know.
Carlisle continues, "If this is going where I think it is—if Esme and I let a protected witness slip away—both of our careers go up in smoke."
"We know that. That's why we need to be the ones to break protocol." Edward takes a deep breath and wipes his palms on his knees. He glances around the room, peering at the light fixtures and shady corners.
"The room is clean," Carlisle says. "Any surveillance measures we do have in our measly budget are directed at the inmates."
Edward takes a deep breath. "I'm not a protected witness. Neither is Bella. We're both part of a more . . . active clandestine arrangement."
Carlisle sighs heavily.
Edward glances at me, waiting. I can see how heavy this is for him, and I know how long he's wanted to be free of it. I nod, and he goes on. "Would it mean anything to you if I said the word . . . Sundial?"
Carlisle presses his hands together and leans forward. His head bows down. "Son of a bitch. They decommissioned that program in the nineties."
Edward stares at his own hands. I hear a decade of regret coloring his one-syllable answer. "No."
The sound of Carlisle's agitated breathing fills the room. "There have been rumors. In fact, just tonight a young girl was using ten-codes on the all-agents wire. A rogue signal, as it turns out. But I never seriously thought . . . at any rate, you need out? That's what this is?"
"It's a bit more delicate. The less you know the better, but—"
"Who is after you?"
I look at Edward. He pulls yesterday's newspaper from the top of Carlisle's recycling bin pile and points to the front-page headline. It's a variation on the previous day's headline, and the day before that. "These people."
Carlisle raises his eyebrows. "Six thousand elderly Floridians?"
"The people who made the thing that's making them sick—it's a contagion, but not a natural one. It's a bioweapon specifically designed to target older people," Edward says.
Carlisle looks at him, his expression fierce. "That's quite a serious allegation. Two of our inmates have confirmed cases. Three more are on watch."
Edward turns toward me and stares pointedly. His knee starts bouncing. I glare at him. I know what he's thinking: a chance to get definitive confirmation of the cure. But this was not part of our plan. It would mean tipping our hand about having the cure, and to the wrong audiences—no place is more full of informants than a prison. It would also put Carlisle under a microscope.
I shake my head and watch Edward clench his jaw.
"What's the prognosis?"
"The CDC advises typical incubation is nine days. I'd say, for the most advanced case, we're looking at six more days before he's in ICU."
Edward's face relaxes the slightest amount. It's early Sunday morning right now; assuming our FedEx to the Centers for Disease Control goes out in Monday's first pick-up, that's enough time. "Without saying more, I can tell you we have evidence that implicates this person, and he's aware of it, so it means we need to get far away, and fast."
"And I presume there's a reason you can't pursue this through your normal channels? Sundial channels?" Carlisle asks.
Edward stares at the ground, evaluating. I reach across the gap between our two chairs and grasp his hand. It's tempting to spill the beans now, to tell Carlisle everything, but we both know it's safest to keep the circle tight and be far away from this place before the story blows up.
Finally, he nods. "There's a reason. The worst reason."
A look passes between them, something so full of anguish it makes me realize Edward hasn't been quite as fatherless as he thinks.
Carlisle rummages in a box for a set of keys, which he tosses to me. "You'll find a Honda 50R under a tarp beyond the exercise yard. Unregistered, so don't get pulled over. Helmets are chained to the bike. Use them. As far as the job goes, my story is I got nervous and put you under deep cover. Agent's prerogative."
"But the timing—it's too coincidental," Edward says.
"Let that be my problem. At a pier about five miles north of here is a lot where the police department holds recovered property. Watercraft included."
My shoulders relax the tiniest bit. A boat would put us back on track with our plan.
"I can offer you a thing called GoDoze to knock out the guard dogs—"
"Uh, thanks. We're covered."
"Contingency cash?"
Edward shakes his head. "We're good."
"Do you want scrubs? Something clean to wear?"
"No. If we get caught, it would lead back to you."
Edward has stuffed his jacket and tie into our pack, but he's still in his tuxedo pants and shirt, a burgundy handprint marring the starched placket. His undershirt peeks out where the top few buttons are undone. I've got just a few smears of blood on my dress, and my T-shirt from home covers them.
"Your father," he says, looking at me. "He won't rest easy. I'll do my best to appease him, but I want you to promise me you'll contact him the moment you see evidence the danger has passed."
I nod. That moment feels so far away. I can't think about such things without feeling that an avalanche of impossible hopes could bury me, but I agree. "Of course."
He turns to Edward. "The same goes for you. Be careful."
They shake hands. "Tell Esme I—. I wish—. I mean, I'll see her again," Edward says. Then there's the sort of shoulder clap that turns into a man-hug that lasts a while. I step into the hall.
Carlisle commandeers a security van to drive us to the exit near the exercise yard. We're almost there when I put my hand on his shoulder, remembering one last thing. Carlisle and Edward look at me, waiting. What I'm about to say turns my stomach, but I swallow bile and do it, because the alternative is infinitely worse. I can't go on with this microphone installed in my mouth, in constant fear of the SatCom OverRyde running out of batteries.
"I don't suppose you have anybody who owes you a favor who can remove a couple of temporary crowns? A sort of . . . prison dentist?"
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Crammed between Edward and me on the motorcycle is our getaway backpack with its precious cargo: three slim FedEx packages we hand-addressed weeks ago and prepaid with a burner debit card, and that have since been lying in wait until we cracked the cure. One contains everything the CDC will need to understand, verify, and initiate the manufacture of what we've discovered. The cure. The second goes to the man who signs off on Aro's budgets, and it details purchasing irregularities we think will get their attention, even if ethical lapses don't. The last one goes to a "shade dump" in New Orleans—a café that collects packages from deep cover sources for a London journalist. He's someone less likely to be under the thumb of our government—just in case.
Edward pulls up to a box outside of a bland office park, and I drop the packages into the slot.
He shouts over his shoulder as we begin to roll away again, his voice muffled by his helmet. "When's first pickup?"
"Monday at eight." Normally, we'd page an all-hours courier, but those resources will never be ours to use again.
He nods. The sky is more indigo than black right now. In an hour, we'll be looking at lavender-blue. By the time things turn dusty pink, we need to be far away from shore.
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The impound lot is just as Carlisle described. Two Dobermans prowl behind a fence rimmed with barbed wire. Near the entry gate, the red pinpoints of cameras glow in the pre-dawn haze—at least, until Edward takes them out with a few well-placed spitballs from his blowdart gun.
"That was impressive," I say, when he nails the third and final camera square in the center of its metal bracket in one try.
"I'll tell you a secret," he says, glancing at me. "My patented spitball recipe. Are you ready to get your mind blown?"
I grin. "Always."
He folds up his blowdart kit and slips it back into our pack. "Newsprint, obviously. It's stickiest. And birdseed. That way they get to the evidence before anyone's the wiser."
"Genius." I nod. "Poor birdies, though. Gross."
"Indeed."
"Thanks for sharing. I feel like I'm really in your inner circle now."
"It's very exclusive. You're the only member, in fact."
While we talk, Edward helps me tear the long stretchy sleeves of my dress off at the shoulder seams. We tie them around our faces to filter out the GoDoze before I split a packet open and toss it near the dogs. He boosts me to stand on his shoulders, and I drape his suit coat over the loop of wire at the top of the fence.
"I think this is the end of your new tux," I say. "It suited you."
"Now we're even." I feel his hand wrap around my bare ankle, just above the edge of my boot. "You can buy me a new one."
A stroke from his thumb tells me to shift all of my weight onto that leg so he can raise me higher with both hands. We've done this before. I always feel like the world's most inelegant circus performer.
"And you can buy me a new dress." His arms tremble beneath me, but just for a moment, and then I am up and over, bringing his torn and frayed jacket down with me. I let him in through the iron-bolted gate.
I help myself to a red plastic container of fuel. Edward scans the manifest for descriptions of the vehicles, and we select a midsized speedboat without structural or mechanical damage. It's as easy as that. There's even a set of keys attached to a squishy floater key ring.
As we make our way to the end of the dock, Edward ransacks a large touring boat and comes out with two wetsuits that look like they might fit us. Snorkeling gear dangles from his hooked fingers.
"Overkill much? Life vests would probably do."
"Not at these temps. I did some research. Just humor me, okay?"
He tosses everything into the cabin of the boat and dips his hand into the water as we board. After I've settled into the cockpit, he leans in close to me. "I've been wanting to do this for hours. You have smears of dirt."
"I do?"
"Just a little."
"Oh. Gross."
He brushes his fingertips across my cheekbones and forehead. I expect my jaw to feel tender where my SatCom microphone was removed, but it's not that bad. Edward is extra gentle.
"Do I have a bruise from the dentist?"
"Nope. Just dirt. I think it's from when I pulled you down in the woods."
He frowns. He's moved on from tidying me up and is just cupping the side of my face. "I should be pissed at you for going off-book back there. Your little detour to the house? But it probably saved your life."
"I was within our time constraints. I couldn't just leave Charlie like that. He'd have put himself in danger."
He bites the inside of his cheek. His heavy veil of distress is back; I never know what prompts it.
"The kid Carlisle heard on the wire—Bree, do you think?"
Ah. Of course—thinking of Bree always makes him torment himself. "They must have moved off the SatComs to keep the rest of Sundial from clueing in. That's why we haven't heard a peep."
"When these batteries drain, it's going to ping them." He strokes my earlobe. The charger was in our molar caps, so it's only a matter of time before the signals in our subcutaneous transponders die.
"Good. Let Aro explain that. He'll say we're dead before he admits we got away."
Edward cringes. He moves his hand down to the side of my neck.
"My God. I can talk to you now. And . . . everything. This is really happening."
I cover his hand with mine and lean in closer. When our lips meet, I can feel him trembling. This kiss feels different. Enough so that I don't want to wait another second for what's coming—for the next part of our lives.
I break away. "Edward, we gotta go. Now."
"I guess so." He cracks a faint grin and starts the engine at a slow idle. "Final gear check?"
"Passports, identity papers, foreign cash, regular cash, gold, compass, survival basics. Everything's sealed up and watertight. Wetsuits. Good to go."
We putter away from the dock and up through the Sound. When we hit the ocean, we'll be able to really open it up.
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After we're a good distance away from the Sound, Edward drops anchor and sits next to me on a padded bench in the stern. He bends to retrieve the SatCom OverRyde from my boot.
"I guess we don't need this anymore," he says.
"I guess we'll never need it again."
He dangles it over the water, and when I nod, we both watch it disappear into the murky depths. It sends a thrill down my spine.
"We're just a couple of kids on a boat, now," I say. "Does it feel weird?"
"No." He touches the skin behind his ear, where our listening transponders will remain buried and silent until we can locate a surgeon. "Or . . . yes." He shrugs.
"Are you sad it's over?"
He frowns and waits for me to continue.
"You never got to parachute out of a helicopter. Or ride on top of an elevator."
He smirks. "You don't know everything about me, you know."
"Maybe not. And now you have no excuse. You can tell me everything."
"I'll tell you this one thing, actually." He takes my hand and presses it against his sternum, holding it there. "I'm going to miss the way you look at me."
"What do you mean? I won't stop looking at you. I mean—I don't—" I'm flustered and I can feel my face heating.
"Not like that." He tucks hair behind my ear and strokes the side of my face. "I mean the way we used to need to do it. To communicate. You have a thousand ways of saying a thing without using words."
"Oh." I think back to all the different looks I can remember him giving me—across a crowded room, or when we were alone-but-not-alone together. They flash through my memory like a slide show. Every time I can remember, there's been a split second where my heart stilled while I interpreted his meaning, before I knew I'd nailed it. Did it feel that way for him? "Yeah."
I slide my hand up past his collarbones until all I feel is the skin of his throat, warm in the sun, peppered with stubble. I don't know exactly where his voice comes from inside there, which muscles and tendons make it sound the way it does, but I think about all the times I'll hear it throughout the rest of my life, and my heart doesn't stand still—it swells to bursting in my chest. "We'll make do, Edward."
I slip my arm through his and rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in a scent that seems more flesh and blood, more real-live-boy, every moment. I feel his strong hand smooth my hair at the back of my head and savor the satisfied sounds that bubble out of his chest.
We pull anchor, put the boat back in gear, and start moving again. For hour after hour on the water, we talk and talk. We both shout to be heard above the hum of the motor, and it feels good. He says silly things to me, which is important. I like your hair messy like that. I like it long. I don't think you'll need to cut it. Give me a few days with it, at least? We should get a place on the beach. Learn to surf. I steep in the sound of my own voice answering him. I love that I never have to bite my tongue again. You have a ways to go on swimming first. But yeah, we should. Maybe you can grow a beard. At least, until everything comes to light and the heat is off. He grins openly. I'm so proud of you, Edward. We did it. Home stretch.
I find sunscreen under a seat cushion and slather it on. We nibble on protein bars and scan the water for followers, finding none. Only a half-dozen pleasure boats idling to the south and a few slow barges. The sun dips into the horizon to the west. Along the north end of Vancouver Island, Edward tips his head toward the CB scanner. His brow crinkles, and then he slows the engine down.
"What is it?"
"There's an APB out for this boat. Just a matter of time before the fuzz comes looking."
"Time for our disappearing act?"
"No time like the present."
I stand up and start rummaging for our wetsuits. Showtime. "I love that you're a contingency planner."
He cocks an eyebrow and starts peeling off his T-shirt. "Stick with me, kid."
He isn't bashful about changing in front of me, but I make him turn away as I tug my suit on. I test the flashlights on both of our snorkeling masks. I stow our Mylar-sealed identity papers inside my wetsuit while he does the same with our survival essentials and valuables. He ties a grappling hook around his waist. The gold bar is secure in a mesh specimen bag hanging from his shoulders like a backpack. I scatter our clothes around so that, when the empty boat is found, it will look like we went for a dip and vanished.
"We're in the shipping channel, right? Good traffic?" We're a few hundred yards from the nearest shore, but it doesn't even matter. These suits should allow us to hang out for hours. Edward in his wetsuit makes me grin.
"A barge will pass us within the hour. Let's get the hell off this ghost ship."
He switches the boat to run on autopilot at a slow speed. That and the current will take it far away from us. He takes my hand and we leap over the side, hand in hand.
Saltwater fills my mouth, shockingly cold. It soaks my buoyant wetsuit, and I kick my legs to get the blood flowing, knowing my body heat will warm up the suit within seconds. We doggie paddle a few yards and watch the driverless boat glide away from us toward where the darkening sky glows purple.
"Uh, Bella?" Edward says.
I turn to face him and feel my skin go warm, prickling with alarm. His chin is tipped up, barely above the water, and I can see his arms paddling fast under the surface.
His voice is quiet and unnaturally calm. "I think I made a mistake."
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