A notice to vacate had been slipped under the door. She stood for a while, holding it in her hand, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before the landlord, or an agent of the landlord, came by again. She wondered whether rooms had aura, whether they contained something of their residents, something that lingered after they were gone. If it wasn’t Tomi’s aura she was feeling, she didn’t know what it was. Lee put a hand to her belly and let herself feel sick. Not drug sick, or revulsion sick, but baby sick. She’d pushed it back and ignored it every time before, but now she let it take her over in waves of nausea. It felt good.
The place was in the same ransacked state they’d left it in, and Lee began cleaning. At some point someone would let themselves in, and Lee wanted them to find a tidy space, the way Tomi liked to keep it. It made no sense, but she couldn’t help herself. She righted the dresser and refolded his clothes before putting them back in his drawers. She righted the refrigerator and emptied it of its rotting food, then scrubbed a dried pool of milk from the floor. She watered a desiccated plant on the sill above his sink. She picked up the papers strewn about the room and stacked them in a neat pile, which she put in the drawer of his desk. She returned the slashed cushions to the couch, cut sides down, and she made his bed.
When she was done, she stripped off her clothes and showered for a very long time, turning the water up as hot as she could stand and washing her hair, what there was of it, three times. She put on one of Tomi’s T-shirts and pulled on a pair of his boxers and his jeans. The T-shirt wasn’t clean, and she could smell him on it. Lee got into the made bed and pulled the covers up over her head.
She woke to the late afternoon sun fading across the room, wondering who would contact his family in the Czech Republic. She thought of his body, abandoned in the old aquarium on Petty Island. Lee searched the place for something with information on his parents—an address book, a letter, anything. She found nothing. There was an old laptop in the back of the closet that whoever tossed the place must have missed, but it had been wiped clean. Maybe on his USB drive?
She inserted the drive and opened it, scrolling through various folders until she found the one where most of Tomi’s personal files seemed to be contained—scans of his artwork and essays he’d written for various small art journals. She opened a folder called “Pics” and lost herself for a half hour, scrolling through photos of creeps he’d made when it was all purely solo. And then she saw a folder simply titled “Lee.” There was a single photo inside, and Lee hesitated before clicking on it. The photo was of her, sleeping on Tomi’s bed, taken from above. She was curled into herself, wearing only her underwear and one of his T-shirts. There was such tenderness in the photo she could almost love the girl there, a stranger in the oblivion of her sleep. Lee let the image sink in, then dragged it into the trash and emptied it.
Then she found a folder labeled “Family.” It was full of pictures, very old black-and-white photos of a life on a European-looking farm: a dozen people crowded around a large wood table outdoors, sharing a meal; two sisters dancing in a field; a man with a foot-propelled helicopter contraption attempting to get airborne. It looked like the kind of place Tomi imagined them going in his fantasies. There were later photos, too, in color. There was one of Tomi, he must have been about four, holding in both arms a big floppy house cat. His grin had never changed. She could see in the mirror behind him the reflection of the photographer, a stout man whose face was obscured by the flash. His father, maybe. Another photo showed Tomi outside, a few years later. It must have been Halloween, because he was dressed as a medieval knight, with a shield in one hand and a bag of candy in the other. He was grinning unabashedly and standing in front of a house; it looked like any suburban house in the United States.
There was nothing in the folder that looked like an address. She was about to shut the laptop when she caught herself and did what she should have done from the get-go: open his contacts folder. There, under Cěrnák, she found an address. In Dubuque, Iowa. She stared at the house number, then opened the Halloween photo again. The same number was on the house, behind him. It took a moment for this new information to reconcile itself with what she thought she knew. Tomi hadn’t grown up in the Czech Republic at all. He had grown up in Iowa.
Maybe it had all been a lie. Maybe only some of it. Lee realized she didn’t care. There had still been truth between them, even if every detail he’d told her had been fabricated. And his parents still deserved to know. Lee dug a piece of paper out from the drawer of his desk and found a pen and sat staring at the blank page for a long time before writing, “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cěrnák,” then sat a while longer. She couldn’t imagine how to tell them of Tomi’s death, how even to begin. Finally she settled on a short note, saying that Tomi had been killed while trying to protect her. That he was a good man and that they should be proud of the son they raised. She told them where his body was. She used the word “sorry” six times in five lines. She didn’t mention the baby. Lee folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and licked it shut.
Something beeped from the computer. In the lower right corner the icon of the Subnet was flashing. Lee sat staring at it for a long moment before moving the mouse to it and clicking.
A chat box came up. Then:
[Teutonik23]: Bride?
Lee paused, then typed:
Who is Bride?
[Teutonik23]: Who is this?
H3rm3s. Who do you think?
[Teutonik23]: That is really you?
Of course. Who else?
[Teutonik23]: We all thought you were dead. We set up a fucking memorial to you.
Lee typed:
Why would you think I was dead?
[Teutonik23]: Your girlfriend gave us that impression. What is going on?
Lee thought about how to proceed.
She disappeared. When did you hear from her?
[Teutonik23]: Several days ago. Why would she tell me you were dead?
Maybe because I broke up with the bitch. But I need to reach her. Do you have a way for me to contact her?
[Teutonik23]: No. But she is in danger. I need to find her, too.
What do you mean, she’s in danger?
[Teutonik23]: We had an infiltrator. He was using her.
Who?
[Teutonik23]: Can we turn video on and talk?
Lee thought for a moment.
I’m not in a place I can do that right now.
There was a long pause, then,
[Teutonik23]: H3rm3s, what is the one thing you told me, that you made me promise never to repeat?
Lee tried to type something, but there was nothing to type.
[Teutonik23]: Who is this?
She thought about all the people she had trusted who had betrayed her. Her mother, Steve, Edie, Derrick, DreamClown. But Tomi? Tomi had lied to her, but he never betrayed her. He’d loved her. She had trusted him because her gut had told her to. What was her gut telling her now?
Lee clicked on the video icon. She saw her face pop up in a window on the monitor. The wound on her cheek was purple and puckered with each hard stitch. Then she saw Teutonik, there at his desk, a fat gray cat on his lap.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I thought that might be you,” he said. “I was sure it was not Hermes, in any case. Hermes would never have called you a bitch. I am relieved to see you are okay. But it was not good of you to make me believe that Hermes was still alive.”
“His name was Tomi. Tomas Cěrnák.”
“Did you see the memorial?”
“No.”
“Look for it on the Subnet. It was a proper wake. You were missed.”
“How did you find out about DreamClown?”
“That he was S.A.? We figured it out when we were scrubbing some of Hermes’s more sensitive presence from the Subnet. We found some documents. I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner. I was trying to help and I put you in danger. Don’t worry, we will take care of him. The Subnet knows how to take care of those who cross us.”
“He’s already been taken care of.” Lee scanned his face for some reaction.
“May I ask how?” Teutonik didn’t look surprised but appeared genuinely sad.
“How do I know you aren’t with them, too?”
This seemed to stump the skinny old German, who leaned back in his seat and ran his fingers through his beard. “Come back in two days,” he said finally. “You will see. The Subnet takes care of its own.” He waited for her to acknowledge this, then the screen went blank.
• • •
Lee had to know something for sure, so she rode her bike out to the house she never thought she’d revisit, parked it a block away, then snuck up through the back and to the rear bedroom window.
She could see Edie’s sleeping form in the bed, and that was enough; she didn’t need more. But as she was turning to go, she knocked over a flowerpot, and Edie sat up and saw her. Edie’s eyes widened, then she blinked and kept blinking, as though she’d seen a ghost and was trying to blink it away.
Edie had put on a little weight around her cheeks, and she’d let her hair grow down to her shoulders and go its natural color, which Lee only now realized was brown. Lee thought about just walking away, but then Edie was at the window and the window was open and she was staring into Edie’s green eyes. She felt that familiar tug inside, that need, and hated herself for it.
“Lee? Is it really you? Get in here,” she whispered, opening the window all the way. “Wow, fuck.”
Lee shook her head. “I just came to make sure you were all right.”
“Me? What about you? Look at you, I didn’t think it was possible but you’re even skinnier. Except for your tits, holy shit, what, did you get them done? Can I feel them?”
Edie actually reached out, making Lee shrink back.
“You were the talk of the school all last year, you know. Where have you been? There were rumors flying around that you stabbed a girl in Juvie and then escaped. That is so dope.”
Lee said nothing, afraid she might start crying.
“I know, I’m a fat pig, right? It’s true what they say about the freshman fifteen. But fuck, college totally rules, you have no idea. You know where I am? University of Fucking Michigan. Can you believe it?”
Edie was the same old Edie, breathless in her excitement. Lee found a smile, but she could feel the sadness in it.
“You poor little bird, look at you. Where have you been staying all this time? What’s your situation? Listen, I’ve got my own apartment in Ann Arbor. You can come live with me. We’ll keep you undercover, it will be so sexy. You won’t be able to go to school, of course, but other than that it will be exactly like we always talked about. I’m going back in a week. Where will you be until then? Where the hell have you been, Lee?”
Lee leaned in through the window and kissed Edie on the cheek, then she left.
• • •
Lee had noted the address weeks before. She had never seen the building, though, and when she arrived, it took a while to locate the pink corner structure, which looked more residence than medical facility. A small sign on the door said simply PHILADELPHIA WOMEN’S CLINIC, with a phone number beneath.
Lee walked around the block. She took in the meat laid out in trays in a butcher’s shop, the wreaths of salami lining the wall behind the register. Someone had spray-painted two dots, one red, the other green, onto the window of a drugstore. She stared at the whimsical display of a hardware store, a little circus scene of figures made up of bits of hardware and pipe fittings. She couldn’t help but think of Duchamp’s Bachelors. She thought about going to a movie—there would still be time in the day when she got out, but she didn’t have enough money on her. She was at the docks before she realized where she had been walking and, before she knew it, was at the end of the pier, where the little boat she knew so well was still tied up where she’d left it. Lee undid the rope from the dock and got in. She was halfway across the reach when she turned back around. She’d just make her way back to the clinic, and be done with it. It would be over.
• • •
By the time she got to the aquarium, she was muddy from where the boggy ground had sucked on her shoes, making the trip slow and treacherous. She nearly fell three times, righting herself each time with the knowledge that if she fell down into that mud, she might not have the will to drag herself back out. Lee let herself in under the bent door of the loading dock. She stopped at the Cambrian display and stared down at the little plastic seascape from which she’d plucked out the note. This is where it had all begun. Some thirteen weeks ago she had learned of the thing growing in her belly, and since that day her life had crumbled into ruins.
She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, held in the underwater dream, but she knew she was avoiding what was in the next room. If she left now, she could still make it to the clinic before it closed. Lee knew that if she didn’t do it today, she wasn’t going to do it. The thing would continue to grow, and her life path would fulfill its downward trajectory. She’d be a fugitive, homeless, and pregnant.
As she entered the room, she could make out his dark form on the platform of the Paleolithic Man display, where she’d left him, half covered by the horsehide blanket. She stopped, not wanting to see his face bloated or eaten away by animals and insects. Lee wanted to cry; she could feel the tears building inside her, but nothing came.
“I know you lied to me,” she told him. “I know that now. But I don’t care. Because I also know that you loved me. And if you want to know, I loved you, too.” She paused, wondering what else to say. “I wrote your parents. I don’t know what you would have wanted me to say, but I just kept telling them I was sorry. I am sorry. It was all for nothing. I took that thing for nothing, and all those people died for nothing. And you . . . you died for nothing, too. But I can’t keep it. I know you wanted to, and maybe if you were around I could, but I can’t do it alone. I couldn’t bring it up seeing your face in it every day.” She thought of the picture of Tomi as a little boy. “Your stupid smile.”
Lee took a few steps forward and stopped again. Something wasn’t right. His body seemed deflated, hardly a form at all. As she got close to the platform, she could see that what she’d thought was a form was only the folds of the blanket. There was nothing beneath it. Tomi’s body wasn’t here; it was simply gone. Lee went back to where she had held him, dying, in her arms. There had been blood, a lot of it. There was nothing now; the floor was clean. There was even a layer of dust.
Then her eye landed on a folded piece of paper, tucked beneath the blanket where Tomi’s head would have been. She pulled it out and unfolded it, shining her light onto the torn notebook paper. A note written on the inside read: “D’ailleurs, c’est toujours les autres qui meurent.”
Lee recognized the quote. It was Duchamp’s epitaph, translating to something like “Anyway, it’s always the others who die.” Lee thought again about what the Priest had said, about Duchamp’s machine altering space-time somehow. What would that look like—could it change events of the past? Her heart began to pound so hard she could feel it. She looked around for some other sign as to what had happened, but there was nothing else.
Lee looked at the paper again. There was something, a faint image, coming through. Lee shined her light through it, and there it was, a watermark: the little falling cupid she recognized from Duchamp’s unsolvable chess problem. And she could see now, the cupid’s arrow pointed directly at the center of the word “D’ailleurs.” Lee stared at it until she saw the name embedded within: Áille.
For a moment she let herself imagine that Tomi was alive. That somehow he had never even died. That he was . . . what? Going about his day-to-day as though none of this had ever happened? Wandering around somewhere in a fugue, wondering who he was? She fantasized about seeking him out, finding him, taking that bus to Detroit together after all. Then she stopped herself before she could dig any deeper into this rabbit hole. The Priest was mad; the Undertaker, too. All of them were. In the end they saw only what they’d wanted to see. And now she was doing the same. This note . . . this wasn’t Tomi. This was them, cleaning up after themselves. Still playing games. She looked around the empty aquarium. She was sure she was alone. But she’d been wrong before.
• • •
When Lee got back to the dock, it was late afternoon, judging by the height of the sun. She still had time to make it to the clinic. For a long time she stared at the door, until a woman came out and asked Lee if she wanted to come inside. After a moment Lee said, “I’m just waiting for someone.”
The woman looked at her like she’d heard that before. She smiled. “You can wait inside, if you like. It’s okay. Or if you just want someone to talk to . . .”
Lee shook her head. “That’s okay. I’ll just come back.”
• • •
In Fishtown she found a café with Internet access and opened Tomi’s laptop. She’d taken it, along with a few items of clothing and anything else she thought she could use; she knew she wouldn’t be coming back. Almost immediately the Subnet logo began flashing. Lee went to an isolated corner of the café and plugged in a pair of Tomi’s earbuds. She clicked on the flashing logo.
“Good afternoon, Bride,” Teutonik said.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I have something for you. I told you the Subnet takes care of its own, and we have.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Forgive me, but we did some digging and we know your situation. On August twelfth you escaped from the Queensbrook Juvenile Detention Center. Currently you are wanted for questioning in the murder of Derrick James.”
“I didn’t do that. I mean, I escaped that juvenile shitbox, but I didn’t kill Derrick.”
“The authorities think you did. Can you prove otherwise?”
Lee thought about it. “No.”
“No matter. We have already begun the process: Birth certificate, passport, driver’s license, social security number. High school diploma—graduated with honors? You’re smart enough, why not? Valedictorian? Perhaps that is too much, I don’t know. But with a clean slate, why not give it all to yourself?”
Lee didn’t know what to say.
“Just come up with a history of the person you want to be—name, birth date, education, jobs . . . a foundation, something to build on. What follows will be up to you. We have some very resourceful people in our network. Take your time and give me the details when you’re ready; we’ll take care of the rest.”
Lee told herself not to believe him. Trust had gotten her betrayed too many times. But she didn’t regret trusting Tomi. And if the universe was throwing her another betrayal, the universe could fuck itself.
Lee left the café with one more thing she needed to do. Something the Priest had said, combined with something she had seen, that had been worming around in her head, and she couldn’t shut it down. She had to see for herself.
• • •
It must have been thirty-five degrees out, but she was sweating by the time she got to the Silo. The way was mostly uphill, and riding one-handed had assaulted her shoulders. She parked the bike in the woods before the first hill and made her way by foot around the back. Crime scene tape marked the perimeter, but there were no police cars to be seen. Four days had passed since the fire, and the place was deserted. Lee ducked beneath the tape surrounding the entrance. The fire had spread to the generator shack and to the dry brush, and the ground was all black ash. The brick outlet vent stacks came up through the ground, and Lee peered down one into the darkness below.
The big steel front door had on it a condemned notice from the city, warning of dangerous internal instability. She let herself in, coughing as she descended the stairs. The air smelled of old smoke and something chemical. She turned on her flashlight when she got to the bottom and headed to the central stairwell and into what had been the dance hall. The floor was sticky black tar. She opened the door in the middle of the floor and went down.
The concrete walls of the room where she’d found Annie were scorched black, all the wires and light fixtures melted. Even the steel duct housing was melted and warped and falling in places. The carpeting had melted into a thin black crust that cracked when she stepped on it. She went down two more levels, each one with more soot and more lingering smoke. When she opened the door to the Undertaker’s room, she had to pull her shirt up over her face to breathe. Everything that had been wood was burned to charcoal, and shining her light through it was like looking at the wreck of a ship uncovered on the bottom of the ocean after hundreds of years. The brass fixtures were intact, as was the old iron bed frame. The wood paneling had burned away. It was just a concrete-and-rebar bunker again. Marble chess pieces lay scattered about the floor. Lee picked up a knight and blew on it. When her light washed over what used to be his bed, she saw the gun, its melted grip fusing it to the frame. Something was off about the bed, some trick of perspective that made staring at it impossible, and she sat on the ground, suddenly feeling dizzy. The place must be noxious with chemical fumes.
She went down two more floors, stepped over a collapsed vent housing, and entered the lab—or what was left of it. She couldn’t imagine the temperatures that must have been reached in this room. What once was a wall of stacked plastic chemical drums had melted into a black mass on the floor, like a frozen tar pit that had half-engulfed bits of steel and glass that had fallen into it while it was still liquid. A few of the steel frames that had housed the larger machines were intact, but otherwise everything had been destroyed. All the glass jars and beakers had melted as well, pooling where they sat into igneous blobs of soot-encrusted crystal. She shined her light over the blackened concrete. The lingering chemical smell was so dense down here Lee could not stand it, but she walked to the wall on the opposite side, behind what had been the massive fan enclosure. Now the fan blades lay in a heap of twisted metal on the floor, and the enclosure itself was pretty much burned to the ground. Lee picked her way through it gingerly until she reached the far wall. She walked back to the other end carefully, measuring her paces.
She went up to the Undertaker’s study. Each of the levels should be the same diameter, and yet she’d sensed when she was here before that this one was smaller than it should be. She paced the room and confirmed it. Lee turned to The Large Glass replica, still hanging there on the wall. It was singed, the glass warped, but otherwise intact. She ran her fingers along its sides until she found a tiny latch. She pressed and with a click the whole panel swung outward from a hinge on the other side. Lee let it swing past her, then shined her light on the wall. There, behind where the circle of Bachelors would have been, was a safe dial and a latch. Lee ran her light over the whole wall and saw now the steel door laid into the concrete.
Lee spun the dial. Mr. Velasquez had taught her rudimentary safe-cracking skills, but those applied to cheap home safes, and she wasn’t sure about this one. It must have been fifty years old at least, but it looked formidable. She reached into her bag and took out the small amp she had from her burgling days. She plugged in the earbuds, then pressed the amp to the steel door and turned the dial slowly, listening for the soft click of a tumbler clicking into place. She turned the dial a full revolution, then another, and another. She heard a whisper of gears, and that was all. She just wasn’t skilled enough.
Mr. Velasquez had taught her that, before even attempting to crack a safe, she should try the easier route and look in desk drawers for the combination, which was sometimes taped along the bottom. Or to try to find the birth date of the owner, always a good bet. Lee had no way of finding the birth date of the Undertaker, but maybe . . . She went back upstairs, into the control room. Everything had been blackened and smoke damaged, but the room was set apart from the burned floors below and mostly it was intact. She went to the bookshelf and pulled out a smoke-blackened biography of Duchamp. His birth date took some finding, it was buried in the text, but she finally located it. July 28, 1887. She tore out the page and brought it downstairs.
Lee spun the dial several times clockwise, stopping on the seven. Then counterclockwise, past the seven, to twenty-eight. Clockwise again to eighty-seven. She gingerly took her hand from the dial, placed it on the lever, and pulled. It swung down without a click. Nothing. It had just been a shot in the dark anyway. Then she thought of something. Europeans wrote the date in reverse, didn’t they? She tried it again: clockwise to twenty-eight, counterclockwise to seven, clockwise to eighty-seven. The click of the lever was the sweetest sound she’d heard in a long time. She swung open the door and shined her light in. Inside were stacks upon stacks of brick-sized bundles of bills, the columns in back reaching nearly to the ceiling.
She picked one up, flipping through it. It was all twenties. She tore off the rubber band and counted. A thousand dollars, exactly. Then she saw another stack near the door that was all bricks of hundreds. Five thousand a brick. Lee emptied the duffel bag and stuffed bricks in instead: five thousand, then fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, as she did the math in her head.
Four years of school at forty thousand a year, plus living expenses for her and a kid. Tomi had always imagined it a girl, and that’s how Lee saw the child, too. She’d be a little girl by the time Lee graduated. No more shit holes. Seventy a year times four equals two hundred eighty thousand. Lee added a bit extra for emergencies, then doubled what she had—something to leave for Mrs. Velasquez. By the time she had six hundred thousand dollars in her bag, it was bulging and so heavy she had to get under it to get it on her back. Her bad arm screamed at her. Lee took a last look. She had hardly made a dent in it; piles of cash still approached the ceiling.
She was backing out when she saw something wrapped in plastic jutting out behind one of the piles. It leaned to one side of the safe and was pushed to the back. Lee set the bag down and pulled it out. It was large and rectangular and wrapped in duct tape and Hefty bags. She tore it open and could see the edges of half a dozen frames. Lee worked two fingers under the plastic and pulled down along the front, the tear opening onto a painting of two peasants in a wheat field. Lee tore the wrapping off and looked through the paintings. They were the kind she’d seen hanging in the museum: impressionist and cubist and fauvist works that did little for her at the time and still did little for her. They seemed old and drab here under the beam of her flashlight. If they were real they were probably worth more than all the cash in the room, but that knowledge did nothing to raise her appreciation of them. A smaller painting, sandwiched between two larger ones, caught Lee’s attention and she pulled it out.
It was a small study in oil of a young woman with a long face, red lips, and large black depthless eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a Thrumm kid; they were just sad and inward-looking. She had wild, dark brown hair, a long neck, and skin like churned butter. The work was done in loose, expressive brushstrokes that gave a kind of impenetrable depth to its subject. It was the kind of work, Lee knew, that Duchamp would have dismissed as retinal. But she didn’t care; she thought painting was beautiful. It was small enough that it fit in her bag.
Lee retouched the safe door and relatched The Large Glass over it. She climbed back up the stairs with difficulty, resting at each flight and trying not to breathe too much of the chemical air but nearly out of breath by the time she got to the top.
It was dusk when she reached the motel. She paid in cash, doubling the rate in lieu of an ID. In the room she dropped the bag on the floor and took a shower. When she climbed out, feeling truly clean for the first time in memory, she pulled her dirty clothes back on and took a blank piece of paper from the desk. She thought about the questions Teutonik had asked her, the new bio she was supposed to come up with. Lee supposed she should start with a name.