“Let’s just hurry up and get this done,” someone says. I think it’s a different voice than the first two, but I can’t be sure.
I close my eyes. My left leg twitches again, and I can feel my calf starting to cramp up. Barclay shifts slightly next to me and my left knee slides in between his. I can feel the soft cotton threads of his shirt under my fingertips, the tense muscles tight underneath the fabric. And I can feel his heartbeat thumping in his chest.
Outside dishes clatter in the kitchen, drawers open and slam shut.
I wonder if the IA will trump up fake charges to put on my execution papers or if they’ll be honest and cite that I’m a means to an end, something that doesn’t matter. I wonder if they’re allowed to just dispose of me since I don’t live here.
In the living room, I hear books being pulled off shelves and dumped onto the floor, while Chuckles gives a soft running commentary of what he thinks of Barclay’s reading selection and laughs at his own jokes.
“Don’t dump them on the floor,” Gruff Guy says. “Check the pages.”
My hands curl into fists and I hold on to Barclay’s shirt so tightly, they start to shake. I want to let go of him, but my brain doesn’t seem to be listening. I try to take a deep breath, inhale from my mouth, but I hear myself wheeze.
“Relax,” Barclay whispers into my hair. He rubs a circle on my back, but then he stops because the fabric of my shirt rustles against his hand.
I try to count his heartbeats. Eighteen beats in the span of six seconds. It means his heart rate is 180. I used to finish ocean swims with a lower pulse.
Paper crackles, and fabric tears. They’re looking for something, something Barclay has hidden and doesn’t want them to find. I wonder what’s so important that they’d break into his apartment, that he’d hide us under the floor of his closet in order to keep it from them. I wonder what’s turned them against him and what they would do if they found us.
“Got it,” the third voice says, and fingers clack against a keyboard.
Beneath my hands, Barclay’s chest expands and his pulse speeds up. He’s holding his breath.
The noise goes on—the rustling of paper, the books thumping against the ground, the drawers opening and shutting, things being moved around, the shuffling of footsteps, the murmur of voices—I’m not sure how long. Sweat beads on my skin, and droplets slide from my neck down the curve of my shoulder.
It feels like we’ve already been here forever. I try to count the seconds, but Barclay’s pulse against my skin keeps messing me up, and I keep losing count somewhere in the forties.
Heavy footsteps enter the bedroom.
Another set follows.
“Check the drawers, I’ll look in the closet,” Gruff Guy says.
My breathing comes too fast and too loud, and it doesn’t matter how much I tell myself to calm down and shut up, I’m not seeing any results. Barclay’s arm tightens around me, and he pulls me closer to him.
The bulb in the closet flicks on and threads of light shine through the floorboard.
Heavy footsteps thump right above us—military style boots. They step into the closet, and I’m paralyzed, waiting for him to notice the difference in sound from where he steps. Wire hangers scrape against metal as he moves Barclay’s clothes around.
There’s a thud, like he just dropped to his knees. I hold my breath and refuse to breathe. His hands slide around the floor right above us.
I wonder if the heat of our bodies will tell him where we are.
“Yo, I found something in here,” Chuckles calls, and Gruff Guy stands up.
04:21:39:34
I feel like I’m made of liquid, or like I’m melting somehow.
Another set of footsteps comes into the bedroom. “That’s just an old charger,” Third Guy says.
“You don’t think we could trace where he’s been?” Chuckles asks.
“What good is that going to do if he hasn’t used it in months?”
There’s movement and rustling, and someone comes back to the closet. He reaches up and feels around the top shelf, pulling things down. My backpack falls heavily to the floor and I flinch from the sound.
“I don’t think there’s anything in here,” Third Guy says, stepping out of the closet.
“We can’t go back empty-handed,” Gruff Guy says. Something in the way he says it catches my attention. There’s an undercurrent of fear in his voice, like he’s a little afraid of whoever sent him here.
All three sets of steps come to the edge of the closet. They’re so close, I can smell the polished leather of their boots.
“If it was my house, I’d have hidden it under the floor in my kitchen,” Chuckles says. “There’s a tile that comes up easy. That’s where I keep all the good stuff.”
“What have you got to hide?” Third Guy says. “You don’t even have enough cash to do laundry.”
There’s a sweeping sound, like fingers sliding against the floor.
They’re so close. We’re only separated by thin pieces of plywood.
“There’s something weird about this floor,” Gruff Guy says. His fingers feel along the edges of each of the floorboards, and he grunts as he tries to pull them up.
Any second now, they’re going to realize we’re underneath them. Barclay presses his lips down into the top of my head, his arm around me tightening even more.
I taste salt on my lips. I hadn’t realized I was crying.
“Hey, is that a safe?” Third Guy asks.
Gruff Guy stands up and shuffles something around in the closet.
“Oh hell yeah,” Chuckles says.
“Get me something to get it open,” Gruff Guy says.
They move around, someone says something I don’t hear, the floor above us shifts. Through it all, I try to hold my breath.
After what feels like an eternity, there are several beeps and a click, and Chuckles laughs in celebration of whatever they’ve got. More shuffling, as all three of them crowd into the closet.
“Is that it?” Third Guy says.
“Of course it is, what else would it be? And there’s at least twenty grand in here.”
“Let me see it,” Third Guy says. “Not the money.”
I hear pages flipping against each other, and then there’s a pause. I can hear someone, probably Chuckles, shuffling through the closet still. And there’s a sharp intake of breath as Third Guy confirms, “This is it.”
“Good,” Gruff Guy says, taking a step back. His heel comes down right above us, and the floor gives in slightly and clicks. “Take the gun and the money too,” he adds, as Barclay’s hand shoots up and grabs the string.
“And grab anything valuable on the way out. If we’re lucky, when he gets back, he’ll think it was random.”
They shuffle around, the closet light flicks off, and the door shuts behind them. Still holding on to the string, Barclay’s arm starts to shake under the stress.
“Think Wonder Boy will come back empty-handed?” Chuckles asks with his signature laugh.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gruff Guy says. “We know where to find her.”
04:21:07:11
After the front door closes, Barclay lets go of the string and the floorboards pop up. A rush of cool air hits my face as I sit up and scramble out of the compartment. I can’t get out of there fast enough. And I can’t seem to get enough air. My breaths are harsh and loud.
“Are you okay?” Barclay asks as he sits up and cracks his knuckles.
“What were they looking for?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t give me that, what was in your safe?”
“Tenner, it’s not important,” he says, pulling himself out. “It’s all over, we’ll—”
I shake my head and slide back as he approaches me. “What was the mission IA gave you, the one you ignored?” My voice rises. “What were they looking for, what did they find in your safe, and if you come back empty-handed, what does ‘we know where to find her’ mean?”
On his knees Barclay crawls toward me, reaching his hands around mine. His eyes are closed. “Janelle,” he says quietly. My first name sounds strange on his lips. “IA sent me to your world, to bring you back here. That was the mission.”
“Because of Ben?”
Barclay’s hands squeeze mine. He nods. “It was also a test, for me. To see how dedicated I still was after Eric’s death.”
They sent him after me. I don’t know why, but I can’t believe it. Even knowing that they were looking for me, knowing that Ben’s family is in prison, it’s like I can’t reconcile my notion of law enforcement with the truth. “So why—”
“I deleted all the files,” he says.
“What?”
“Before I left, I deleted all the files that referenced your world. Everything that Eric and I found out while we were there, all of the addresses and the names. I deleted everything.”
For a split second, I’m almost moved. I look at Barclay, kneeling just a few inches from me—this guy who’s the youngest agent in IA. He’s smart and determined, and he’s not above being a complete asshole to get his own way, not above doing whatever needs to be done in order to solve the case and make his superiors proud. And he deleted my file in order to protect me.
“There’s no written record of you.”
But there is, and as I realize that, I’m over my awe of him. There’s a hard copy, and they have it now. When Elijah and I escape from prison, they’re going to be able to use everything I care about against me. Jared and Struz. They’re not safe. How could I have not realized IA would come after my family if I did this?
Ben, the guy who brought me back to life—IA is after him. They threw him in prison, and when he escaped they grabbed his parents, his brother, and his best friend. They grabbed the people he cared about.
“Oh my God, we have to go back.” I struggle to get to my feet, but Barclay pulls me back down. I pull against him. “Barclay, my family—my brother!”
He pushes me against the ground and leans into me. “Listen to me.” I try to push him off me, but he’s too heavy. “Janelle, I took care of it!”
I relax for a second, and his hands come to rest on either side of my face. “I took care of it,” he says again, his forehead against mine.
I’m not sure if I believe him. “How?”
“The file is a fake,” he says. “Someone in IA, someone high up, doesn’t trust me. With good reason,” he adds darkly. “When I erased the files, I doctored them first, printed out a fake one to leave here, just in case, and then I deleted them all. So even if they recovered the information, it would be wrong.”
I nod against him, but he must not be convinced. “No one is going to find Struz or your brother. You might not think that much of my word, but I swear to you, on everything I’ve worked for, no one will ever find them.”
I take a minute to absorb that. No one will ever find them. There are thousands of universes out there and billions of people still on mine. But there’s nothing now—no record of me or my family or where we lived.
Thank God.
“Thank you,” I whisper, closing my eyes. This right here is the treason he was talking about. He erased IA files and destroyed evidence. This is what he could lose his life for. He couldn’t have done this just for me. His job and the IA are everything to him. I know it must be killing him that there are people high up who are dirty. I know what my dad thought about cops who were dirty—they were the worst kind of bad guys. Because they were supposed to be good guys and they changed teams for money.
But at the same time, sitting here in the corner of Barclay’s closet, leaning my forehead against his, his hands holding mine, I know he did do this for me.
I don’t even care if he did it as some kind of leverage to somehow get me to help him. It’s done now, and no one can undo it.
His thumbs sweep under my eyes, wiping the tears away.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
I nod and open my eyes. And I realize how close together we are. Barclay is practically sitting on top of me, and our faces are touching. “Get off of me, will you?” I say, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel myself blushing. “Haven’t I been through enough today?”
“Whatever you say, Tenner,” he says as he stands up, and for a reason I can’t explain, I’m glad he’s back to using my last name.
I push myself off the floor, and because I need to acknowledge what he’s doing for me, I add, “We’re going to win.”
“You bet we are.” Barclay smiles, and for the first time the arrogance in his expression doesn’t bother me. “We’re going to take them down.”
He doesn’t say we have to.
He doesn’t need to.
04:20:48:23
“We need to get out of here,” Barclay says when we make it out into the living room. The bedroom is messy. His drawers have been emptied onto the floor, and his things carelessly strewn about. But they did a number on the rest of his apartment.
The flat-screen TV is gone, the living-room lamp is overturned, and papers from Barclay’s desk are everywhere. The couches where Ben and I watched the collapse of my earth have been gutted and there’s stuffing everywhere. Something like Coke has spilled and splattered the rug with brown stains. In the kitchen, all of Barclay’s cabinets and drawers are open, their contents now shattered in a mix of glass and ceramic on the floor.
“Here, put these in your backpack,” he says, handing me the blueprints.
I fold them carefully and do as instructed. “I’m not exactly a fan of the need-to-know basis,” I call after him as he slips into the bathroom.
“If I were you, I’d say that’s shocking,” he says.
I just stare at him. “Where are we going?”
The bathroom door opens, and I look away as he tucks in his shirt and then buttons up his jeans. “Take this too,” he says, handing me a gun. It’s a 9mm, black and stainless steel, and just a few pounds in my hand. It looks a little like the HK that Deirdre carries, only instead it reads HM USP. It has a compensator on the end that makes the barrel longer, but I know from Deirdre that this is only a stylish way to weight the barrel, reduce the kickback, and make the gun more accurate.
My heart beats a little faster as I turn it over in my hands. This is a gun that means business.
“We’re going somewhere else to study the blueprints and crash for the night.”
He doesn’t have to say any more. He wants to get out of his apartment, sleep somewhere else tonight. I don’t blame him. I’m not anxious to stay here any longer than I have to, and I certainly don’t want to hang out here alone while he does whatever it is he’s got to do.
“Not a problem. Let’s go.”
I follow him to the door, but before we head out, he turns to me. “Same rules as on the way here. Keep your hood up and eyes down. Stay quiet and stay by my side.”
I pull my hood up and follow him through the hallway, down the elevator. But instead of getting off at the lobby, we go ten floors down to P10.
“Are we taking your car?” I ask. I don’t add that I think that might tip off some of the city cameras, but it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Barclay shakes his head as the elevator doors open to a very empty and dimly lit parking garage that smells like mildew and looks like it hasn’t seen use in at least five years. We exit into the alley at the back of the building. It doesn’t exactly have the red-light vibe of the alley we portaled into, but in a way it’s worse.
This is what anyone would call the slums. Graffiti-covered buildings seem to droop rather than stand. There are broken windows, collapsed doors, boxes piled awkwardly and adorned with thin blankets to make some kind of tentlike structure. We walk at a brisk pace, not fast enough to call attention to ourselves, but not slow, either.
The smell of burning rubber and cigarette smoke hangs in the air. It reminds me of old New York, from
before Giuliani, when the city was covered in graffiti, drug needles, and worse. When the crime rate was the highest in the country and no one felt safe walking alone. It’s the New York from Taxi Driver.
It doesn’t take much for me to realize the glitzy buildings near Barclay’s apartment in New Prima are hiding a lot of the same problems that are a big deal in my world—poverty, drugs, organized crime. I’m surprised. I thought they were more advanced here, smarter somehow. If they’re policing the interverse, surely they should be able to create better lives for their own people.
04:20:00:29
We turn a corner and Barclay leads me down a set of stairs and into an underground subway that smells like urine and worse. I stick close to him even though there’s no one else on the platform with us.
When the downtown train comes, it’s only three cars that look like they should be out of commission. The windows are broken or just gone, and when we get inside, most of the seats are cracked, stained, or falling apart. I follow Barclay’s lead and sit down next to him on one of the cleaner seats. I’m already looking forward to a shower.
There’s one other guy in the car with us, slumped in a seat at the opposite corner. From the color of his skin and the smell, he’s either passed out or dead. I look at Barclay, about to ask if there’s anything we should do, but he shakes his head.
At the sixth stop, Barclay stands and nods his head toward the door. I get up, following him out, with one last glance at the guy we’re leaving behind. I might die tomorrow in an attempted prison break, but I still can’t help feeling like I’m better off.
We come aboveground into another alley that looks like it’s straight out of a movie where the naive girl gets off at the wrong subway stop and ends up dead. We’re facing the back of a line of abandoned row homes that look like they were boarded up years ago and forgotten about.
Unbreakable (Unraveling) Page 10