Tunnel Vision (14 page)

Blank. “Of course we did. But we
were
very curious to know who had been tracking you. And now we have our answer.” She stands, walks to the window. It’s snowing again, the sky white with it. It casts an odd light over her face. “Why was your grandfather tracking you? That’s the most interesting question.”

Dangerous territory. Keep Dad out of it. “He thought something like this might happen.”

Her lips pucker. “So he knows about your abilities. And he knows you’re working with us. And he has the ability to fool our tracking devices—which you’ll tell me about, later.” She turns, leans back against the sill. “I must speak with him, Jacob. Where is he now?”

I meet her gaze, hoping she can read the honesty in my face. “He wouldn’t tell me, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I have no idea.”

There’s a long pause. Long enough for me to sweat more. But I keep my eyes on her face.

“Very well,” she says. “We’ll find him on our own. And we’ll talk more later, you and I. But right now we have the doctor waiting. I want to get on with that testing.”

*   *   *

They hook me up to the EEG again, testing my brain waves in all sorts of conditions. Pre-tunnel, during tunnel, after tunnel. The objects they give me are purely tests—all staff, in a couple different locations. I figure the doctor and nurses aren’t cleared for the spy stuff.

In all the downtime between objects, I imagine what Mom and Myk are doing today. Mom’s probably running around putting the final touches on a State Department reception, or meeting: laying out the seating chart, making sure the food is right, arranging for the flowers. Myk’s probably hiding in her room reading. Or maybe taking over the kitchen with a chemistry experiment, if Ana lets her.

The important thing is they’re safe, and happy. I’m keeping them safe and happy by cooperating here.

When they pull the EEG wires off I breathe easy: they’re done. At last. It’s late—8:15, by the big old-style clock in the room—but I can still make it to the party. I can wipe out all the confusion of today with a round of foosball with Chris … or another kiss with Rachel. Yes, that.

But they aren’t done. The next part is way worse than an EEG.

It’s a psychologist.

His name is Dr. Tenney. He’s small and neat, with round glasses and a warm, damp handshake. He’s mostly bald. The fluorescent lights in the borrowed office reflect off his head and his glasses. I sit in the chair across from him—identical chairs, across a plain wood desk—and watch the reflections change as he moves. He talks, reassuring me about his background, and confidentiality, and how I can talk about anything with him. That it won’t go to Liesel or anyone else. That he’s here for me.

“For two purposes, Jake—can I call you Jake? Or do you prefer Jacob?” He’s from somewhere in the South; he has a slow, deep drawl. Alabama, I guess. Maybe Georgia. We lived in Georgia for a year, but I was too small to remember it.

“Jake.”

“Very good.” He smiles, with his lips closed. “Two purposes. One, to deal with any issues you might be having with all this. It’s possible stress could be causing your headaches, and I may be able to help with all that stress.”

The way he says “stress” it’s like a four-syllable word.

“Two—” He holds up two fingers. “To see if I can help you explore and develop your gift further.” He flips through a fat folder in front of him. “I have read the reports of your work. They are extremely impressive. But I have done a great deal of research on this area, and I have a theory.” Again, with the smile, proud. The glasses glint, obscuring his eyes. “I believe you can go even further. I noticed you pull out of the … ah, tunnel … just when you could—” He stops.

There’s an odd, stretched silence, while we judge each other.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself. Tonight, I just want to talk.”

I look at my watch. 8:40.

Dr. Tenney takes out a fresh notepad, uncaps his pen, and looks up. “Now then, Jake. Tell me about your father.”

*   *   *

They drop me off at my house at 12:30 a.m. Ana’s waiting up for me, but she doesn’t say much. She offers me some maté tea, but I don’t want anything.

I made it through, telling him as little as I could. All of it general, what they’d expect me to say. But I’m utterly wiped. Questions and tunneling and testing—and lying up the wazoo, plus the adventure with Dedushka this morning—have flattened me. Lying takes more energy than you’d think.

Too late, and way too tired, to try to go to the party now. Too late to do anything but check on Myka—sound asleep—and go to bed.

Bed. Sleep. Forgetting. Pretending everything is normal for a few blessed hours.

I think the hardest part was talking about Dad at all.

15

“The Good Soldier” by Nine Inch Nails

The first time Dad saw me tunnel was two days before my eighth birthday.

It’s kind of crazy, looking back, that neither of my parents noticed before that. I figure they were both incredibly busy—Dad was always away at work, and Mom had her hands full with Myka. I was an easy kid, always did what I was told, so I didn’t need the attention.

Plus after Chris’s reaction six months earlier at a sleepover? I finally realized it was kind of a freakish thing to do, and started to actively hide it.

But this day, I was bored. We’d just moved from DC to North Carolina, on Pope Air Force Base near Fort Bragg. It was January, so it was cold and raining. It had been raining for a week. I missed Chris, and all my other friends in DC. Myk was teething—when I tunneled to her, the pain was too intense for me to take for long—so none of us were sleeping well. Mom was with her, trying to get her to take a nap, and Dad was at work.

I’d explored everything else in our little house, so I decided for once to do something forbidden, and explore Dad’s office.

It was neat, precise. One gray metal bookcase that came with the house, books arranged by author’s last name within subject. Books on military history, tactical specs on planes, Russian history, military projects. Nothing I wanted to read. I spun in Dad’s chair a few times, but it wasn’t fun with no one to push me. There was a gray metal desk with tan folders in a stack, and a pad of lined paper: all pencils and pens were in the drawer where they belonged. I knew better than to use his paper to write or doodle. There was a phone I didn’t dare touch.

Drat. For all the secrecy there wasn’t anything to
do
in here.

On a whim I decided to take one of the papers and tunnel to Dad, check out what he was doing right now. I had only a vague idea of what he did at work. I’d pop in, pop out. At least I’d see him.

The papers in the top folder were reports and letters, all with air force insignia on them. I took one that had Dad’s name on it in the
to
field, laid my hands flat on it, and closed my eyes.

It isn’t Dad. It’s a man, older than Dad, in a blue air force uniform, four silver stars on each shoulder. A general. His hair is gray, starting far back on his head and combed to the side. He has a sharp nose, curved, like a hawk. Sharp eyes. Location: Washington, DC. The Pentagon. The southwest side of the five-sided building, conference room 212. The room is small, and he sits at a large table crammed with people down each side. Most in uniform, some in suits, all turned to him. He’s worried. “We have to take these threats seriously,” he says. “Yes, the intelligence is uncertain. But if one of these terrorist groups does successfully launch an attack on U.S. soil, and we did not act—” He bangs a fist on the table. “I do not want to be the one to answer to that.”

“Jacob.”

I opened my eyes. Dad was there, sitting in front of me in the guest chair, hands in his lap.

Oh my God, he was going to kill me. I’d come into his office, riffled through his papers, spied on someone in the Pentagon. I was dead.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the words tumbling over themselves. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

He waved the apology away, scooted forward. He was just starting to get lines in his face then, wrinkles in his forehead, around his mouth. They seemed deep that day, carved. “What were you doing?” His voice was strained, but calm. “Explain it to me.”

I told him everything. He asked questions, mild, smart questions, and I answered all of them. How it worked. How I helped Myka. The things I’d figured out: it had to be an object that meant something to the person, or was significant.

I guess the report had been more significant to the general than to Dad.

I could go anywhere in the world, see what the person was seeing, hear what they heard, feel at least the surface of what they were feeling. But I never stayed too long. I hadn’t told anyone before that—no one to tell—but I was always a little afraid that I’d go too far, lose myself in someone else, and not be able to get back.

I told him about objects of dead people, and how I avoided them because of that dark, sick coldness.

He listened. He never did get mad. Then he talked, for a long time, about consequences, and caution. Never telling Mom. Never doing it in front of anyone else. He’d help me learn to control it, and I could always come to him, he said. Never anyone else.
Ever
. This was power. With power there was responsibility, and consequences.

And now look where I am. If I could only go to him now.

*   *   *

On Sunday morning I go on a bug hunt in my room. If Dedushka was right about the tracker, he’s probably right about the bugs too.

I find
five
.

Behind my headboard. On the side of my desk. Under my chair. Hidden in my books. There’s another one at the bottom of my backpack. I also find two cameras, dime sized, one on the bookcase and one on my nightstand. Pointed at my bed and my desk. Twenty-four-hour Jake viewing.

I am completely creeped out.

I make a pile of them, wrap them up in one of my T-shirts, and bring them to Ana.

She’s in Mom’s room vacuuming. I close the door, set the T-shirt on the bed, and unroll it. “You can take all these back.”

She turns off the vacuum and pushes her hair out of her face impatiently. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“I don’t need surveillance in my room. I’ve agreed voluntarily to help you. I’m not going to run away.” I gesture at the pile of bugs, cameras. “I don’t want this stuff in my room anymore. I don’t want to be on camera all the time. Get rid of the rest of them, too, if I missed any. And any others you have in my house.”

She regards me steadily, eyes dark. “It is not just to watch you. It is for your safety, to warn us of intruders—”

“If we have intruders in my room and this”—I point to the pile—“is the first indication you have of it, I think we have more serious problems. Yeah?”

She sighs. “Jake, I can’t just—”

“You can. I don’t want this stuff watching me, or my family. Get rid of it.”

I turn on my heel and leave.

When I get back to my room, Myk’s in the doorway, staring in. “God. What did you
do
in here?”

I laugh. I feel giddy, getting those things out of here. “Spring cleaning.”

“In February? And it doesn’t look like you cleaned anything. It looks like you took a blender to it.”

“You want me to come clean yours? I’d be happy to do the same treatment…”

“No, thank you.” She sticks her head in again, eyes wide. “I’m getting out of here before you ask me to help you pick this up.”

I frown. “Where are you going?”

“I do have friends, Jake.”

I look at her.

“Fine. I’m going to Stephanie’s house, okay? Her mom is coming to pick me up, so you don’t have to do anything. I’ll be back after dinner.”

Myk’s got the Lukin independent streak. Well, we all do.

“Take your cell phone,” I say. “Call me if you need me. Answer if I call.”

She salutes—smart-ass, also classic Lukin—and takes off down the hall.

And I realize that I have an afternoon and evening here alone with Ana before Mom gets home.

I take out my phone to text Chris, and see it’s still off. I turned it off when Dedushka told me to, and never turned it on again. I fire it up and find two missed calls, six messages. Two from Chris, and the rest from Rachel.

Hey, when are you coming?

Where are u?

You did say you were coming, right? Chris tried to call you.

And last, looking out of place in its happy green bubble:

I guess you think this is all a big joke.

Crap. Crap, crap, and more crap.

Once again the whole spy thing is getting in the way of real life. How do I fix this?

I need to talk to Chris. I send him a quick message:

Sorry about the party. Will explain. Want to come over and play COD Black Ops?

Two minutes later:

Hell yes. Perfect for hangover. Also can get my dragon on. See you in half an hour.

I relax. He’ll help.
That
is exactly what I need.

*   *   *

We’re doing split screen on the stadium map in
Call of Duty,
running and gunning through a deserted hockey rink. At first it felt strange—with the guns and threats and bomb tunnels lately in real life—but after a few minutes it’s just me and Chris playing, like always. We don’t even talk about anything but the game for a while.

Then Chris camps behind a Zamboni for a minute, and glances at me. “What the hell happened to you last night, anyway? You didn’t answer any texts.”

I thought of what to say. I dive around a corner and take out a sniper. “Couldn’t. Was in the emergency room.”

Perfect excuse. I am getting way better at this.

“
What
? What happened?” He comes out from his camp and runs through the empty seats, checking for snipers.

I shrug. Pull myself up a ledge, duck down again when somebody shoots at me. “Shit! Um … Myk was puking. A lot. She’s fine now, though. Off at a friend’s, even. But I couldn’t use the cell in the hospital.”

It feels
wrong
to use Myk as an excuse like that. But it works: why I wasn’t there, why I couldn’t call. And puking—nobody wants to know more about puking.