Tunnel Vision (11 page)

“Real,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

She nods slowly. “I thought so. That part about my dad—” She sighs. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed right.”

“Sorry,” I say, quiet.

She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s pretty crap.”

Lily laughs, across the room, and I can’t help but look. She’s flirting with Mike again, leaning in close.

Rachel follows my gaze. “She doesn’t say nice things about you. But—” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “She’s not very nice.”

“You,” I say, “are very perceptive.”

Ms. Gieck starts writing something on the board about the
Merchant of Venice,
and everybody quiets down.

Rachel leans over. She smells like vanilla, and suddenly I want cookies. “Caitlyn’s having another party on Saturday, after dress rehearsal,” she whispers. “I thought maybe you could come? You … don’t have to do the thing again. Unless you want to. But we could hang out?”

Her eyes are a very deep brown. Sparkly. It’s hard not to stare at them. At her. I want to go and hang out more than life itself.

But I have plans on Saturday. “Damn,” I say. “I promised my grandpa I’d go see him this weekend. He’s in upstate New York.”

“Oh,” she says, frowning. “That sucks.” She realizes what she said. “I mean, not about your grandpa—”

Ms. Gieck starts talking about Shylock, and I have to turn to the front. “I wish I could come,” I whisper sideways.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around at something else,” she whispers back. “Soon.”

I grin, tap my pen on the desk. I totally didn’t expect that. Today is looking up, in a big way.

Eric raises his hand and asks to go to the nurse’s office. He grabs up his stuff, snatches a permission slip from Ms. Gieck, and stalks out the door without looking back.

I stare after him. Whatever that was about, it can’t be good.

*   *   *

He’s waiting for me outside the cemetery, leaning against the wall. Face as blank and serious as I’ve seen it.

“What’s the matter?” I say, as soon as I get close enough. “I didn’t need supervision in English today? Or are you really sick?”

He slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s go to the crypt. We need to talk.”

“It’s a mausoleum,” I say. “A crypt is underground.”

He ignores me, strides up the path.

The fist is back in my gut. I follow.

Once the gate’s shut behind us he drops his pack on the stone floor and plops down. “Sit.”

Okay. I sit. “What’s up? National emergency?”

He sets his hands in his lap, carefully, like he’d rather be doing something else with them. “Were you serious that you were going to go to your grandfather’s this weekend? Or was that just an excuse for the girl?”

I frown. “Why would I make an excuse to avoid Rachel? Yeah, I was serious. He asked me to come.”

“To upstate New York,” he says, flat. “This weekend. And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Oh.

“He’s my
grandfather.
How threatening is that?” The truth is, I hadn’t thought much about it at all, with everything else.

“I spoke to Dr. Miller,” Eric says. “You’re not going.”

“What?”
I cross my arms, sit up straight against the wall.

“You’re not going. You haven’t been cleared for a trip like that. We don’t know where this place is. We’d need time to check it out, assess the threats. Our covers are just getting settled—it hasn’t been long enough for me to reasonably accompany you. And you’re
not
going on your own. Out of the question.”

The anger rises up my chest, acid in my throat. I rein it in, barely, remembering the gun. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

His eyes narrow. He looks completely different like that—like this. Not my age at all.

“Jake. I know it’s very new,” he says, over-patient, like I’m a kindergartner. “But in the end, you have agreed to work as a high-level asset of the U.S. government. You are under twenty-four-hour security detail. You do
not
—” Red is seeping into his cheeks. He stops himself, lowers his voice. “You do not go waltzing off on out-of-state trips unprotected, not without giving us time to properly prepare. I’m sorry. No.”

I get up and walk out into the graves, the mausoleum gate clanging behind me. My breath pumps clouds of steam. My hands clench tight inside my coat.

I feel like a toddler straining against one of those asinine leashes. I’ve worked to gain independence: my own bike, my own car. Trust. Responsibility. I’m eighteen, an adult. I’m almost out of high school, on to the rest of my life. My choices, on my own merits. My plans.

But now all of a sudden I’m back at square one.
Don’t do that, Jakey. Stay here, Jakey. Do only what we tell you.

I get it: I can help people. I’ve agreed. Plus, they’re protecting me. But everything in me strains to run away, to start over. I can’t. I’m trapped.

“You could go in a couple of weeks,” Eric says, behind me. “If you give us the address. We’ll get everything sorted, and then you and I can go.”

I clench my jaw, turn. I have to be an equal partner in this deal. “I want to talk to Liesel. Now.”

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 course.

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.