Tunnel Vision (23 page)

The page, a report, is typed, and stamped
Top Secret
. The date at the top is February 12.

The day of my first testing at DARPA.

It’s about the EEG tests, the theta level problem. She lingers on it, reads.

Nothing I don’t know. Transition problem, blah blah, result extreme pain, T-680.

She turns a page. Still February 12th, still
Top Secret
. There’s a paragraph labeled
Custody Deviation:

“Notified by Special Security Office that subject’s watch contains a tracking device. After consultation, have concluded that it likely is not from any external threat, but possibly tied to Grigory Lukin. John Lukin deceased two years ago, but may have set up tracker. CIA has great interest in Grigory Lukin, who is believed to have intel on Project Veles, possible significant abilities. Have requested we use opportunity to observe subject’s family, try to secure Grigory. Must deviate from original plan to move subject to immediate secure custody. Will establish appropriate security detail in field. Retained DARPA control of operation, right to reclaim subject at any time on my judgment of risk and usefulness of fieldwork. Retain—”

Liesel flips the pages forward, looking for something else. She wants to know more about the headaches, the T-680 effects, the pattern. There must be a way to prevent it. It seems the T-680 is not a good solution in the long run …

No. I need to know what the rest of that
Deviation
paragraph said. It’s getting tight, difficult to keep shallow, so I let myself go deeper, melting into her. My fingers in hers.

Turn the page. You need to go back to that report. There’s something there. Look again.

She turns the page back, her eye jumping to the end of the
Deviation
paragraph.

“Retain appearance of outside threat established for first contact for later use in securing subject’s cooperation.”

Underneath that is a handwritten note, in that same curving, neat script.

“I want this subject in custody ASAP, willing. Minimum time in the field. Too risky. Must be handled carefully. Handpick field agents.”

I’m losing myself in her, all my alarm bells sounding
too far
. I jerk out of it, breathing hard. I stuff the pen away and bolt upright, not caring that the lights go on. What I want to do is smash the door to pieces, find her, and scream in her face. Maybe punch her in the gut.

I failed. I didn’t find out what they’re planning. But I found out what they’ve
done
.

I stare at the white walls, panting, trying to understand it.

She lied to me. The whole time. Maybe they all did. She’d always been planning to have me here in her little cell. She would’ve had me locked up the first day, as soon as the testing panned out, except someone else wanted to dangle me as bait. To get
Dedushka!
What the hell? What did he do that the
CIA
wants him? What can he do?

There never was anyone else after me, no threat to Mom or Myka. The pig-eyed man was a plant, theirs. There was no reason to give myself up to them, to be in this place. No reason for self-sacrifice. It was just them playacting. The whole damn time.

It isn’t hard to believe Liesel lied. I would never have guessed how far she’d go, but I hadn’t trusted her.

But Ana probably knew it. Living in our house, knowing it was all a lie and they were going to rip me away from my family no matter what happened. That last night, walking with me, consoling me. Telling me I was brave. Knowing the threat wasn’t real. Knowing it’d be over the next day, and I’d be dead to them.

And Eric.

How can he look me in the eye? What kind of an asshole pretends to be your friend, your protector, when he’s part of the whole threat? What kind of cold do you have to be to do that?

I want to get up, pace, hit things. But I can’t draw that kind of attention. I need to think. I lie down again, barely able to control the twitching.

Now I know how badly they fucked with me. As far as I see it, I have two choices for how to respond.

One, I could stop being
willing
. I could shut down, refuse to do any more tunneling, tell them what I think of their fucked-up ways of dealing with people, and go on strike. It’s straightforward, and honest.

But I’m not dealing with honest people here. Not a single damned one of them could probably tell the truth with a gun to their head. And there’s still the threat to Mom and Myka, from them. DARPA, and maybe even the CIA, knows where they live, work, go to school. They already have people in place. Yeah, it’s not legal. It’s not ethical. But I don’t think that they give a rat’s ass about any of that anymore. Liesel could pull that trump card out any time and force me to do whatever she wants. And if I reveal what I know, no matter what, I’ll be stuck in here. They’ll know I’m hostile. They’ll know I tunneled to them. They’ll find and take away my objects. I’ll never have a chance to escape.

Option two. Be cool. Pretend I don’t know any more than I did an hour ago, days ago, before I started tunneling to Dr. Tenney. Play along. Keep dancing to their tune. And then find a way to use my unique skills, make a fucking brilliant plan, and get out of this place for good.

Outside, I’m dead to the world—except maybe to Dedushka. And if I make it out of here, I will be hunted by people used to hunting fugitives. People with access to guns, satellites, and smarts. Liesel will never give up trying to get me back in this room, and her resources are terrifying. I know it well. I’ve been one of them.

It isn’t even a question which one I choose.

I’m going to have to be a cold motherfucker, as cold as Eric and Ana and Liesel have been, to pull this off. And it’s going to have to be a damn good plan.

*   *   *

Liesel busts into my room, triggering the lights.

I figure I’m done. Somehow she knew I was in her head, and here come the consequences—and any hope of an escape plan.

She stops in the middle of the room, hands on her hips. “Why are you sleeping?”

“I … um…” I rub my eyes, buying time. I hate her for tricking me to get me here, for using my family. I hate her so much I can barely restrain myself from charging across the cell at her.

She shakes her head. “I’m sick of pussyfooting around this headache thing.” She drags a chair away from the table, plunks herself down in it, and stares at me, arms crossed. “We’ve got to figure this out. I am struggling to get work for you, to find customers who are willing to share their information on a secret project. I am continually scrambling to justify this project. But when we do get work, you get one of these headaches and you miss whole days at a time.” She blows a breath. “
And
we should be exploring your abilities, really probing to see what’s going on in there, how we can use it to its full potential. It’s a waste, frankly, and I’m tired of it.”

“A … waste?” I’m torn between being relieved as hell I’m not busted, and wanting to strangle her with my bare hands. I can’t show either. I stay blank.

“We know what causes the headaches; we just don’t know what triggers them. We’ll test it until we figure it out. And then you can work as you should. As you’re meant to.”

Like a machine. I make a face. “Great.”

“That’s right. Work.” She stands abruptly and comes to the bed, looming over me. Her hand shoots out and I think she’s going to slap me. Instead, she strokes my cheek gently with the tips of her fingers. She leans in. “Your work is going to be
amazing,
Jacob. You are going to prove this project is a phenomenal success, unlike the failures of the past. You are going to vindicate us.”

I don’t know if that’s a prediction or a threat. But a waste? My whole life gone, and it’s a
waste
for her?

“Don’t touch me.” I keep the violence out of my voice, mostly.

Her eyebrows fly up, but she takes a step back, folds her arms. “I’ve called Eric back. We have some real work for you to do, instead of piddling your time away playing
tennis
. So get up. There is a lot of pressure to make this project work. I’ve gone through a great deal to get you here. Stop wasting my time.”

She gives me one final look, eyes narrow, and leaves.

She’s gone through a great deal to get me here.
She
has. Ha-fucking-ha.

So now I have to try playing it cool with Eric—pretending that I don’t know what an absolute two-faced liar he is. The worst of all of them. Pretend nothing has changed since we hung out eating Cheetos this morning. I take a breath. I can do this.

The new Jake. Cold, hard, manipulative liar. Play by their game, their rules—none—and beat them at it. It’s the only thing that will get me out.

*   *   *

Eric’s all friendly professionalism—a look of sympathy, then straight to the contents of his new metal box—so I match him.

“You up for another set?” he asks. Like we’re playing tennis again.

I nod. Make fists in my lap under the table where no one can see. Close my eyes without comment and go.

Today I don’t have kidnappings, terrorists, or even criminals, as far as I can tell. These objects, all of them, feel different.

The first one is a woman working as a waitress in a bar in New Orleans. She has short, choppy black hair, brown contacts over blue eyes. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and a cracked, anxious smile. She eyes every customer who comes in the door, watching to see if they have earpieces, radios, weapons. She’s terrified.

The second object is a tattered brown cigarette. It belongs to an old man, bald, with a short, neat, yellow-white beard. He walks through a market in Cairo, in a white shirt and tan pants, the scent of spices thick around him, vendors calling out as he strides by. He seems confident, at home. Until I dive into his thoughts, see how he scans everyone he passes, stops to smoke and check behind him for a tail. How he twitches involuntarily at the sound of a siren.

They’re all like that, six of them. All fugitives: of the CIA, the government, whatever agency or organization gave these objects to Liesel. There are attempts at disguise, attempts at blending in, sometimes very good ones. But every single one of them is jumpy, eyes over their shoulders, always watching.

I find all of them, turn them in. Just like that. They’ll be caught within the hour, brought to prison, or worse.

It freaks me out like nothing else has, except controlling Buck at the beach. The power I have, without even really trying. If a personal object can be collected—not very tough with most people; just go to their past—there can be no hiding from me. From anyone who uses me. If you’re alive, and I have something of yours, I can find you.

And yet if I manage to come up with a plan, make it out, I’ll
be
one of those fugitives. Can I live like that, always looking behind me? Can I succeed, where they’ve all failed?

I have to hope there really isn’t another tunnel like me out there, hidden away.

“You okay, mate?” Eric’s the picture of normalcy, eyebrows creased in concern, eyes clear.

How does he lie so well?

But then there’s been no change for him. He’s been lying all along.

He sat there in the car with me and told me an attempt had been made on my sister. That it was best for everyone if I locked myself up and let my family believe I was dead. Did he really believe that? Or did he always know?

“Sure.” I shake myself. “I just have to clear my head, that’s all.”

“Impressive work there. Months of work—years—you save, every time you do one.” He packs everything away, closes the box. “Keep it up.”

“Thanks.” Like I have a choice. For now.

“Look,” he says. “I know they’re tough on you sometimes. She is. But it’s only because of the value of the work.”

I keep from rolling my eyes. I see it now, clearly, the good cop / bad cop routine they’ve been running. I only wonder why I didn’t see it before.

“So are we done here?” I tap my watch. “Because you know, I have someplace I need to be. Hot date.”

He laughs, only a touch uncomfortably. “Wouldn’t want to hold you up. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?”

He leaves, and I breathe out, slow. I can totally do this.

27

“Practice” by Capital Z

It takes a couple weeks to work out a rough plan. There are holes—and a big, unknown cliff at the end—but at least I know how to start.

I wonder a lot about what’s happening at home, at school. I don’t even know the date anymore. I lost track about six weeks in, and they won’t tell me. It seems warm outside, in my tunnels. May, maybe?

It’d be graduation soon. I would’ve been walking, with a cap and gown in Hornet black and red. With Stanford after. I’d have my acceptance packet already, everything lined up. Mom would be so proud of me, telling everyone she knows.

Chris and Rachel and all the rest are graduating. Do they think of me much? Was there a memorial somewhere at a random tree, with teddy bears and flowers? Has it all faded, been taken down? I wonder if Rachel thinks of that one kiss as often as I do. I don’t want her to go around being sad. I don’t want anyone to, not really. But I figure it’s normal to hope they miss me.

Most of all, I wonder how Mom and Myk are. If I could see them, just for a second or two, this all would be so much easier.

Well. I do see them, both of them, here in this room. Ana too, and Dedushka. Even Rachel and Chris and Caitlyn and Lily make appearances. Almost every day now, they pop up and talk to me. I try to ignore them. They’re not real, even though they seem real. Even though they talk to me, touch me, even though I’m awake.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I don’t tell anyone.

I spend the days hooked up to machines. I am
not
a fan of tunneling while in a tiny MRI tube, but I do it. And MEGs, and EEGs. There are enough different images of my brain that they could probably build it again from scratch if they wanted to.

Actually I hope they don’t have the technology to do that.