Tunnel Vision

by Susan Adrian

  He eyes me. Then he takes out his phone. “Let me see what I can do.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later my cell buzzes. Unknown caller.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Jacob.” Her lilting syrup voice gives me shivers, not in a good way. “I understand you wanted to speak with me.”

  Eric stands by the mausoleum, hands in his pockets, watching. I press the phone to my ear and walk away along the path to my corner.

  “Yes.” I try to sound firm. “I know it’s late notice, but I want to make this trip to my grandfather’s this weekend.”

  “I’m sure Ed explained to you why that can’t happen.” She pauses. “Perhaps if you’d notified us as soon as he contacted you…”

  So that’s part of it. A punishment for not telling them everything. “I’m sure with all your resources you can manage it. It’s not for another three days. Can’t you just send a car behind me, post guards?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Jacob. You’re far more valuable to me than that.”

  Valuable to her. That reminds me. “I’m not dropping this. But I wanted to speak to you about something else too.”

  There’s silence on the other end as she waits. Oh, yeah, she’s good at power plays.

  “Those objects you’re giving me? Those aren’t from DARPA. Someone else knows about me.”

  She sighs. “Jacob. I told you I would keep your secret safe, only those who needed to know. Didn’t I?”

  I don’t answer. I’m learning. I walk slowly, kicking at pebbles on the ground. They scatter, clanking into headstones. Eric still watches, behind me.

  “Yes, of course the objects are from another agency,” she says, almost irritably. “The CIA. They, and the FBI, often have the most need for urgent information like this. But they have no idea of your identity, where you are, or even how you’re getting the information. They give me the objects, I give them the answers they want. That’s all. I told you, it’s a DARPA project. Very few people know anything.”

  I sit at the base of an oak in my corner, looking over the cemetery.

  “Jacob?”

  I wait a beat. Then: “I’m here.”

  “You’re safe. I promised you that. As long as you cooperate with us, and don’t spring any more surprises or act on your own, like with this trip.”

  Don’t touch that, Jakey.

  “I want to go,” I say stubbornly. “He’s never asked me alone before.”

  There’s another, longer pause. I can hear her shuffling papers. “Give us the address, and we’ll see if you can go next weekend, or the weekend after. With Ed. That’s the best I can do.”

  I consider. It’s something, I guess. Not that there’s any threat at Dedushka’s house, but I see that they need to make sure. To keep him safe too.

  “I’m waiting, Jacob.”

  “Don’t you have his address?” I ask. “Don’t you have everyone’s address?”

  “Not handy. What is it?”

  “All right.” I sigh. “3430 Wolf Point Road, in Standish, New York. It’s a cabin. A long way in on a dirt road.”

  “Got it.” I hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll get right on this, and we’ll set it up. A pleasure speaking with you, Jacob. I’m glad you called.”

  She hangs up.

  “You called,” I mutter at the phone.

  Eric’s still waiting at the mausoleum. When I come back he looks normal. Easy again. “At least you can go to your party now.” He hands me three Ziploc bags bundled together. “We won’t have time for these today. You’ll need to do them with Ana tonight.”

  I glance at them, stuff them in a zipper pocket of my backpack. Homework.

  “And don’t forget—” He pokes me in the shoulder, and I stiffen, expecting more warnings, demands. “We’ve got tennis practice this afternoon. I’m gonna take you down.”

  I smile. “Don’t count on it.”

  12

  “Tunneling Through” by Tweak Bird

  I figured it would be hard to tunnel in the evening with Myka and Mom both there. What’s the explanation for the housekeeper to come and hang out with me in my room for an hour or two?

  Other than the obvious. Which I don’t think the government probably wants my mom and little sister thinking.

  But Mom goes into her room right after dinner to pack for her trip, and Myk disappears with her usual homework. We’re clear.

  Ana turns on the TV loud, and sits next to me on the sofa. It feels risky, open. But it’s not like I go into a coma or anything when I tunnel. I guess she’s pretty confident she could stop me if they come out.

  It’s still awkward with Ana. I’m with Eric all day—literally right next to him most of the time—but I’ve only seen her for a couple hours the last two nights. And so far only a few minutes alone. I don’t have a good grasp of what she’s like, other than making decent food and cleaning our house.

  She gives me an encouraging smile. Her dark hair is pulled up into a knot, exposing the curve of her neck. She’s wearing jeans, a green long-sleeved shirt, and her silver bracelet. No other jewelry. No makeup. “I understand you spoke with Dr. Miller today.”

  I press my lips together. “Yeah. I know I’m not supposed to—”

  She waves a hand, stopping me. “I do not wish to be involved with any of that. I do not wish to know the details of any arrangements you make with Dr. Miller, other than what I need to do my job.” She holds my gaze. “I am a professional in this situation, and that is all. Not a confidante, a friend, an enemy. I am your handler. You have an important job, and I help you do it, and protect you. Yes?”

  Blunt. Kind of cold. But also refreshingly honest, and simple. I appreciate that. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now let us get to work.” She turns on a camera, a twin to Eric’s, and focuses it on me. “Open the first.”

  It’s a small set of pliers. Simple steel, no grips, nothing fancy except a symbol engraved in the handle: an open, many-pointed star.

  I rub my thumb over the star, close my eyes.

  A man. Middle aged, pale brown skin mottled with scars, deep lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Full, dark beard. He wears a gray-green cap with a fold in it, so it poufs up on his head. Location: Afghanistan. A long Quonset hut on the western edge of Lake Puzak, draped with camouflage netting. It’s dark outside, but there are rows of bright, fluorescent lights in the hut. He’s working closely on something, stripping red wires attached to something that looks like a hubcap. He looks up, and I see the rest of the building: table after table lined with men and women, even children, all doing the same thing, quietly working. Attaching wires, loading ammunition into canisters shaped like bullets. Setting detonators. Thousands of them. He’s proud, satisfied with the work they’re doing here. Expectant.

  “Bombs,” I say to Ana. I open my eyes. “They’re making bombs.”

  She takes a deep breath, then gives a single nod. “IEDs. Just a moment—let me make a call.” She heads into the kitchen.

  I drop my forehead into my hand, rubbing like I can wipe the knowledge away. They’re going to kill people with those bombs. American soldiers like my dad. Afghani soldiers. Innocent people. And he’s proud. Sometimes I don’t understand the world at all.

  “Jake? What are you doing?”

  My head snaps up. Myka stands in the doorway.

  “I’m … watching TV.” I point at the TV blaring Cops.

  Like I ever watch Cops. She glances over her shoulder, to make sure Mom’s not there. “I thought you were buckling down for Stanford?”

  “Yeah. Um. I just needed a break for a few minutes.” I hide the pliers behind me in the cushion, stand. Stretch. Turn off the TV. “Guess I’ll get back to it. Everything okay with you?”

  “Sure.” She stares at me for another minute, like she’s scanning my brain. “Just getting a drink.”

  When we get to the kitchen Ana’s wiping down the counters, like a housekeeper should be. She has good ears. Of co
urse.

  I set up my books on the table while Myk gets some spicy hot V8—her addiction—chats with Ana for a minute, and then leaves. I get the pliers before I forget.

  “We’ve got to do it in the kitchen,” I say. “It’s too out of character otherwise.”

  “Even better,” she says placidly, with a last swipe of the dishrag. “The other is taken care of. Are you ready for the next?”

  “What are you going to do to them?”

  She pauses, rag in hand. “Them?”

  “You know. The bombers.”

  She drops her chin. “I cannot tell you outcomes, Jake. Most of the time I do not know myself.” She hangs the rag neatly over the sink, sits across from me, and spreads her hands on the table, examining her fingers. “It is best not to think of it.”

  I know, though. We both know. I picture that hut blowing sky-high, fire billowing to the clouds with all the explosives in there. Bombs for bombs. I picture it being gone within an hour, all those people, children, gone.

  Does it make it okay if they were going to bomb people? Does it make it right?

  Ana hands me another bag. This one has a small oval rock. Not really smooth, not special in any way. Except when I turn it over, I see it has a smiley face painted on it in blue paint.

  It’s a kid’s object. I look at her, suddenly afraid of this one.

  “Go ahead,” she says, soft.

  It’s a little girl. Maybe five or six years old. She has yellow hair and plump, round cheeks like Rachel’s, streaked with dirt and tears. Location: Louisiana. Broussard. A white trailer, parked at the end of St. Cabrini Street. She’s in a dark, confined space, hunched on the floor, her head in her folded arms. She’s crying, quietly, so they won’t come back. The people who took her, pushed her into the car. Locked her in here. All she wants is her mother, for that door to open and her mother to be there, arms wide, all of it over …

  I stop. Ana and I exchange a long, tired look. A little girl. I could’ve saved her this afternoon if I hadn’t gotten on the phone with Liesel instead. Hours ago.

  “We’ll get her,” she says, low. “We’ll go get her right now.”

  She picks up her phone, pushes a button.

  And then my head bursts open with pain.

  * * *

  I come to on the floor, the taste of Froot Loops in my mouth. Ana is bent over me, her hand cool on my face.

  “You are all right,” she says. “It is over.”

  Peaceful. Calm. No worries.

  “What’s going on? I heard—” I see my mom’s feet pad around the corner. “Jake!” she gasps. “Oh my God.” She’s on her knees next to me. “Are you all right?”

  “He’s fine.” Ana’s quiet, measured. “He slipped and fell. But I don’t feel a bump, and there’s no sign of concussion. I think he just needs to go lie down.”

  I smile at Mom. It’s a funky view, her chin looming over me. “Hi.”

  She frowns down at me, pushes my hair off my forehead. “You sure you’re okay, baby?”

  I have just enough sense to know that I have to push through the high I’m floating on, or Mom will drag me to the doctor. Wonder how T-680 would show up on a blood test. Red flags.

  Flags, flapping in the breeze. That’s relaxing, isn’t it? The sound of flapping … my eyes start to roll back.

  Get it together, Jake.

  “Fine,” I manage. I push myself up, so I’m propped on my arms. They give me room. I barely resist collapsing back. “I should lie down.” Don’t slur, don’t slur.

  Together they help me up and walk me down the hallway to my room, one on each arm. I’m shaky, but I make it, flop onto the bed.

  Let the peace wash over me again. Stifle a giggle as Ana ushers Mom out the door.

  “I don’t think I should go tomorrow,” Mom says, as the door shuts behind her.

  I don’t worry, though. Ana will take care of it.

  I don’t have to worry about anything. Flags, flapping. A nice easy breeze over my face, with the sound of the aspens. And there’s music somewhere, a drum.

  Damn, that’s a good drug.

  * * *

  I have to stop doing that. Whatever’s triggering the transition problem, we have to figure it out fast. It’s freaking me out. Besides the small issue of excruciating pain, I can’t pass out and then get high for hours at a time. Someone just might notice.

  When I get up the next morning Mom’s gone, off to catch her flight to Chicago. Ana pulls me into the kitchen. She had to do some convincing, she says, and Mom checked on me three times in the night. But since I seemed okay, she decided to go. If Ana promised to watch me carefully.

  I snort so loud Myka, at the table, looks up from her cereal. “No worries there,” I say.

  Ana’s expression doesn’t change. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Normal.” I shrug. “As normal as I get, lately.”

  Ana tilts closer, lowers her voice more. “I’m sorry, but orders came in—”

  Myka gets up to take her bowl to the kitchen, and I dive into the refrigerator, pull out a carton of milk. Ana goes back to trying to yank out the bottom tray of the toaster, which probably hasn’t been emptied for years.

  “Morning, Myk,” I say. But I’m thinking of what Ana said in a loop. Orders? Sorry? Why is she sorry?

  Myk gives me a look stolen directly from Mom. “You okay? I heard you fell.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh, pour a glass of milk. “Pure grace, that’s me. I’m fine.”

  It seems to satisfy her. She makes a circle with her sneaker, on the floor. She wants something.

  “Since Mom’s gone, you wanna take me to the movies tonight? There are like four things I want to see.”

  I start to reply, but she keeps going.

  “I know, I know, it’s a school night. But every once in a while I have to be a kid. Play hooky from homework.”

  I glance at Ana. Do “orders” mean I won’t be here tonight?

  She nods subtly. It’s okay.

  I fake-punch Myk in the arm. “You’re on.”

  “Yes!” She dances away from me, out of range. “And you didn’t say what movie, so I get to pick … ha ha ha…”

  I don’t even mind. I’d sit through two hours of some dancing princesses tonight if it’d make her happy. Though she’ll probably choose a twisty mind-bending thriller and figure it out before the end. I chase her out of the room, down the hall, until I catch her and tickle her mercilessly. Under the armpits, where she can’t stand it.

  Then I leave her, wheezing with laughter, hair all tangled up around her, and go back to hear my orders.

  I swear, I can’t read Ana at all. I think her face would be the same if she was telling me I have to disappear tonight, or that I have a bunch of objects to read and damn the headache.

  “They want you to go see a DARPA doctor on Saturday.” She finishes scraping bits out of the toaster, and turns to me. “There is concern about the headaches, and they want to check on your health, do some more tests.” She sighs. “I am sorry. It will take most of the day.”

  I almost hug her from pure relief. Yeah, an all-day doctor visit sounds nasty. Nothing makes me feel more helpless, more like a thing, than sitting in a paper gown on a metal table, people poking at me. But I want the headaches to stop. I’m glad they do too. And it’s a lot better than it could’ve been.

  There’s one more thing I have to do before school. I’d been putting it off, but I have to call Dedushka, tell him I’m not coming. I know he’ll be disappointed. I feel like a chickenshit for giving in to Liesel, for agreeing not to go. Even worse for being relieved when it’s just a voice mail that picks up, with a generic voice saying I can leave a message. I do. I’m so sorry, but I can’t make it this weekend after all. It will have to be another weekend soon.

  I hope it will be, and that nothing else comes up to stop it from happening.

  13

  “Little Truth” by the Delta Routine

  The next day I�
�m heading into lunch, Eric ahead of me, when someone grabs my arm and yanks me back into the hallway. I have a mini heart attack—in that split second imagining all sorts of people who could be abducting me, none of them good—before I realize it’s Rachel. She pulls me around the corner and up against a wall next to the drinking fountain, her hand still on my arm, her body only a step away from mine.

  My heart jackhammers for an entirely different reason.

  “Hey,” she says, her eyes darting over my face like she’s searching for something, trying to figure something out.

  I frown a little, just because I’m not sure what’s going on. “Hey. Is everything—”

  She lunges forward, up, her arms around my neck, and covers my mouth with hers. Her lips are soft, and so warm, and soft, and insistent, and …

  I lose all thought except her, the velvety skin of her cheek against my thumb, her vanilla scent, her lips, her. Rachel. Kissing me.

  Like I wanted. And yet so much better. The best surprise ever.

  When she pulls away I’m dizzy and drunk—like I took T-680—and lost. I just want to be there again, back where I was. I take a step forward, my hand still on her face, but she smiles, her eyes shining like I’ve never seen them, and shakes her head.

  “I wanted to get that out of the way,” she says, her voice wobbly, “before the party, since you’re coming now. So we wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried,” I say, low.

  If I could stay here, like this, forever, I wouldn’t worry about anything else.

  “No. Me either, not anymore.” She laughs, and looks over my shoulder. “But your friend looks a little concerned.”

  I spin. Eric’s right there, standing at the corner watching us. He has an expression like a dad would give his fourteen-year-old daughter if he caught her kissing a boy. Then he remembers himself and the expression vanishes, like it never existed at all. “Sorry,” he says, almost smirking. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Rachel presses herself against my back and stands up on tiptoe, her mouth near my ear. “We’ll talk more at the party,” she whispers. She squeezes my arm and strolls off around Eric, without a word, without a backward look, into the cafeteria.