Tunnel Vision (18 page)

She lets go of my hand, folds hers together. There are tight lines around her mouth. “It is done, yes.”

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, breathe through my nose.
Keep it together.

Done. Far past fixing. Mom, Myka, Rachel …

I breathe. That’s all I can do.

“Now.” She waves around the room. “I have to apologize for the accommodations. This was unexpected, and DARPA doesn’t routinely use secure facilities. I’ve had to borrow some space from the CIA. It’s a bit … sparse, but we’ve done our best to give you what you need, at least to start. You have your own bathroom, there. Clothes will be coming today. Meals will be brought to you here. There are facilities you can use, accompanied, if you request a time. A gym, a chapel. There are doctors on site for medical needs.” She smiles, a little hesitant. Her lipstick is smeared at the corner. “And the TV. We can get you video games, movies, books. Whatever you like. A mini-fridge, maybe. Let me know if there are other necessities, and I’ll see if we can accommodate them.”

I sigh. “Music. And a computer. I need a computer.”

“No, Jacob. No computer, no Internet. We can’t risk being tracked, or you communicating with anyone from the outside. Any games, music, et cetera will be strictly offline.”

I hadn’t thought that far. No phone, no Internet. No contact with anyone outside of here. Ever.

Because Jacob Lukin is
dead
. Really dead, like an obituary and funeral, and counselors at school. Like I-am-not-going-back. I’m having a hard time grasping this.

“Speaking of tracking…” Her eyes change. “Were you aware that you were carrying a tracking device with you when we took you in?”

I frown, play dumb.

“Do you know how foolish that was? If you were tracked here, you could have compromised an entire secure facility. Not even ours. I would hate to have to explain that.”

“What tracking device?”

Skepticism flashes. “The ring in your pocket. From your slippery grandfather, I would guess. A little souvenir, to keep an eye on you? Like the one he had in your watch?”

“Oh, the ring.” I shrug. “I thought it was just a ring. It was too big for my finger, so I stuck it in my pocket. It had a
tracker
in it?”

She doesn’t believe me. “Fortunately, it doesn’t matter now. You’re here, and we are secure. If you need anything, you can just press the intercom. We … don’t have a lot of work for you yet, but I’m getting some. You’ll have something starting tomorrow.”

“Liesel?” I ask, low.

She raises her eyebrows.

“Where am I, anyway?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s best if you don’t know.”

“Can I go outside?
See
outside?”

There’s a moment when her eyes scan my face, and I hope. “Not now, Jacob. We’ll see how it goes.”

This is going to be my life?
This?
What the fuck have I done?

Remember Myka, Mom. The threats. I had to. I had to.
I had to.

“Dr. Tenney is here. I’d like for you to see him this afternoon. I know this has to be tough right now, and he’ll be able to help you deal with all of it.”

Somehow, I don’t think Liesel—or Dr. Tenney—has any idea.

*   *   *

This time, Dr. Tenney comes to me. Not a surprise. It sounds like it’ll be a while before I see any walls but these.

He sits across the table, a small brown notebook in front of him, fluorescent glare on his head. Does he polish it? His expression is grave, understanding. I look away.

“Tell me how you’re doing, Jake,” he drawls.

Is he kidding? “Great, Dr. Tenney. Best day
ever
.”

“I’ve asked that the cameras be turned off for our sessions.” He points, and I realize they are. At least the lights aren’t on. “Dr. Miller agreed. Anything you say is confidential, between us.”

I rub my palm on the edge of the table, back and forth.

“You’ve gone through a lot in the past couple weeks,” he pushes. “You’ve lost a great deal. I know you’re strong, but you’ll have to talk about it, work through it, or it’ll break you down.”

I glance at him, patient, waiting. I shake my head. I’ll lose it if I talk about this—them. It’s too raw.

“Jake. Please talk to me.”

“No! All right? No.” I look at my hand, unsteady on the table, and make a fist.

He writes a note, flips the page. “All right. I understand. Not now, but soon.” He sets the pen on the table with finality and leans back in the chair, tipping it back on two legs. “Would it make you feel better to work on the tunneling? Are you up to that?”

“Hell, yes.”
That
I can do. That hasn’t changed.

He smiles, slow. “I so hoped you’d say that. I think we can do some excellent work together.”

He reaches down to his case. I’m almost relieved to see the familiar Ziploc bag. This one holds an even smaller flip notebook, the kind old engineers carry in their shirt pockets. He pushes the bag across to me. “This is not for anyone’s purpose but ours,” he says, his fingers still on the bag. “It’s not real work. It’s just to practice, and see what you can really do. I am going to ask that when you tunnel, you let yourself go further, deeper. See how far in you can go.”

I eye him. “But the headache—”

“May happen, yes. Though we understand what it is, we don’t know yet what triggers it. But if we don’t test, we will have no idea what your boundaries truly are. And we are ready for the headache.”

He takes a small green glass bottle out of his briefcase and removes the stopper. T-680. My own special Froot Loops medicine.

I open the bag, grasp the notebook, and take a deep breath. Eager to get away from here.

A man. Small and neat, with round glasses, balding …

I open my eyes. “This is you.”

He cracks up, like he told a good joke. I don’t even smile. “Yes. I thought it easiest if we don’t involve anyone else, for the time being. While we’re starting.”

“But…” There are lots of reasons it’s odd. “I’ll know where we are.”

He nods. “True. Does it matter? Pardon my saying, but you’re not going anywhere, and you’re not talking to anybody. You’re not exactly a security risk anymore. I know Dr. Miller thinks differently, but personally I do not think it is significant.” He points at the cameras again with his chin. “And it is between us where you go, for now.”

I do want to know. I close my eyes again, concentrate on the object, and speak.

He sits at a small, oblong table in a white room, notebook in front of him. Location: New York. Long Island, far out on the very point. Montauk. A facility underground, below what used to be Montauk Air Force Station. Room 323, in the east wing. He’s watching a young man with dark, wild hair, his face scraggly with stubble. The young man’s eyes are closed, and he’s hunched over something in his hands, muttering. The man is pleased, hopeful. Encouragement flows through him.

That’s as far as I’ve ever gone. I want to pull away, while it’s safe. But he wants more. Deeper. I hesitate. Then I let my mind settle, spread into him.

There’s a dull ache in his shoulder when he grips the pen. He writes anyway, with his left hand in slanted script: Tunnel successful. No awareness of presence. The pen feels cool and solid against his fingers, the ink smooth as it rolls onto the paper.

Samuel. His name is Samuel Parker Tenney.

A thought flashes through: His daughter, Annie, has a piano recital tonight. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it back in time. But he can’t disappoint Annie.

I feel dense, stiff. Like wax beginning to harden into a mold. I feel my fingers inside his, my legs in his legs. My heart, beating faster than my heart should. His belly, curving where mine shouldn’t curve.

Any longer and I’ll be stuck here.

I yank myself away, open my eyes. I’m breathing hard. My skin feels stretched. I push the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to shove back the pain lurking there.

“That was marvelous.” Dr. Tenney is practically bouncing, like a leprechaun about to break into a jig. “I had no idea you were there at all. And you read my name! And my daughter’s name. I
knew
you could go further, if we just tried. And there’s more, I know there is.”

I don’t tell him about the physical aspect, about feeling part of him. Not yet.

“It’s coming,” I say, strained. “I can’t stop it.”

And then it’s there, crushing my head in.

I fall to the floor.

Dr. Tenney’s hands are in my mouth, his fingers fat, rough.

There’s the sweet taste of the pill, the pain flying away as quickly as it came.

He gets me to the bed. I’m so happy with the bed, with him, with my little hidden place underneath Montauk, Long Island. Liesel and DARPA and the work I’ll do. It all seems right, exactly as it should be. Where I should be.

If only I could take that pill all the time, maybe I could deal with this new life.

20

“Let Me Out” by Imelda May

When I wake up this time, it’s dark and I’m alone again. The cameras are back on. Dr. Tenney must have had to pack up and go—if he’s going to get to Annie’s concert, wherever that is.

It doesn’t seem fair that he can leave and I can’t. Just because I’m dead and in permanent protective custody.

I peer at my watch without triggering the lights: 9:22. The funny thing is I have no idea if that’s a.m. or p.m. If someone doesn’t tell me, I’ll never know. At least if I had an object I could tunnel to someone, to see what was happening in the world.

But I forgot. I do have an object, still in my pocket. Ana’s bracelet. I could go now, in the dark, without anyone knowing. I could go and see Mom and Myk, quick, just to make sure they’re okay.

I tug the bracelet out, run my thumb over the charms. Can I stand to see what I did to them?

If they have to deal with the loss, the least I can do is witness it.

Fucking just do it, Jake.

I close my eyes.

A woman, long, dark hair pulled back in a knot, black eyes. Ana. Location: 902 Van Buren Street, Herndon, Virginia. She sits on the edge of a big bed. It’s morning, light pushing in through the curtains. There’s another woman slumped on the bed, arms around her knees, head down. All I can see of her is knees and the top of her head. I can hear her, though. Sobbing. Heaving. So violently it seems like there’s no way she can breathe. Ana reaches out and places a hand on her back, rubs in slow circles. She feels sympathy, an ache of sympathy, and sorrow …

I pull away, but I don’t open my eyes. I lie there, bracelet in my hand, and cry too, just like Mom.

I don’t care who hears me.

*   *   *

After I finally sit up and trigger the lights, a youngish guy with a key card wheels in a cart with toast, eggs, and coffee. He nods, but doesn’t speak, and goes away again.

I eat, drink coffee, and go into the bathroom—the only camera-free zone, as far as I can tell—to change into some of the clothes I found in the dresser. A black T-shirt, long shorts. Why not shorts, I figure. There are no seasons in here. The floor is cool on my bare feet.

I don’t shave. I don’t feel like it.

I wonder what Rachel’s doing today. Chris. Are they falling apart too? Did I mess them up like I did Mom? Are they still going to do
Oklahoma
?

I want to take the last twenty-four hours back. No. I want to take the last two months back, listen to Dad, and everything would be fine.

When the door opens again I’m sitting in the chair watching a car show with zero interest. I turn slowly, not really up to dealing with Liesel.

It isn’t Liesel. It’s Bunny—Dr. Milkovich—in the doorway, a metal box in her arms. Her pale blond hair is pulled back on the sides with little clips, but hangs straight and smooth around her chin. She’s not wearing the lab coat today, just pants and a sweater. She smiles tentatively. “Hello. Ready to do some work, Mr. Lukin?”

“Hey, Bunny,” I say tiredly. I stand, turn off the TV. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. And it’s Jake.”

Her nostrils flare at
Bunny,
but she doesn’t comment. She sets the box down on the table with a clunk. “I’ve been assigned as lead investigator to your project, Mr. Lukin. You’ll be seeing me most days.”

“Jake,” I repeat.

She’s so small and thin, like a white bird. I can see her shoulder bones, sharp. “Dr. Miller is still the project head. She’ll be here often.”

“Yay.” Like I was missing Liesel. I glance up at the cameras. “Sure, let’s do some work.”

We sit at the table while Bunny sorts through her box, her notes. I guess she doesn’t need a video camera, since that’s amply covered.

She seems even more jittery today than before, throwing glances at me rapid-fire. Maybe she’s always like that. Or maybe I make her nervous. I stroke my jaw with my thumb. Scratchy, already getting out of control. I’ll have a beard in a couple more days if I let it go. Why not?

She passes across the first bag. I smooth my fingers across the plastic, but don’t open it yet.

“Have you heard from Eric?” I ask. “Eric Proctor?”

She slants a look at me. Her eyes—blue—are round, but they tilt up at the corners a touch. She’s not like a bird. She’s like a white kitten.

“I just … want to know if he’s okay.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course.” My voice turns hard. “You couldn’t tell me if you had, right? He’s already on to something else. Some other case.”

She shrugs again. There’s an awkward silence. Fuck conversation anyway. I open the bag, drop the foreign coin into my hands, and focus.

It’s a boy, maybe ten years old. Dusky skin, a small cap, a white caftan to his ankles. Location: Pakistan, Mingora. A large walled house down a side street off Haji Baba Road. It’s late, the stars bright above. The boy stands by a gate, shivering. He’s waiting for someone, a message. He’s worried something will go wrong, the messenger won’t come. Everyone would be angry. The boy scratches his foot, watches the full moon overhead. Not much longer. Footsteps. A man comes. It is the messenger, wrapped up so only his eyes show. He hands the boy a folded packet of news. The boy relaxes.