Tunnel Vision (2 page)

She pouts. “Fifty-four minutes exactly. Mom’s going to slaughter you and toss the pieces.”

I pinch her arm lightly, and she jerks away. “If you tell her. You won’t tell her, will you, Myk? Brother/sister bond?”

She narrows her eyes at me, rubbing her arm. She has gorgeous eyes, huge and green like our mom’s, with thick, dark lashes. They make up for the horsiness of the rest of her face at this age, the big front teeth. Twelve isn’t kind. ’Course I wouldn’t tell her any of that, good or bad.

“All right.” I sigh. “Music choice is yours. Today
and
tomorrow. And since we might hit rush hour traffic, that could be like the whole
Twilight
sound track.”

“That’s ancient,” she scoffs. She tucks her hair behind one ear, looks up at me. “When you didn’t call me back, I was worried.” Her voice goes small. “I thought … I don’t know. Something happened. Like…”

Like Dad.

I want to tuck her up in a hug, like I used to. But that won’t help in the long run. She has to be tough. We all do. Especially if something does happen to me—no. No even thinking like that.

I fake punch her in the arm. “I’m fine, dorkus. I’m here, everything’s okay. Now let’s clear out. What do I have to do to spring you?”

She sighs, stands, and pulls her backpack (Little Einsteins—my joke last Christmas, but she uses it anyway) over her shoulder. “Principal Evers,” she calls. “My brother’s here.”

The principal, a stern woman with fluffy hair like a poodle, pops her head out of the big office in the corner. “Fine, Myka. Have a great weekend. I’ll sign you out.”

That was way easier than I expected it to be.

Until we walk out the doors, and I see the black Durango idling next to my car.

2

“Police on My Back” by The Clash

I grab Myka’s arm, staring at the Durango. Trying to work out a better plan this time than trapping myself in a dead-end cemetery, or getting one of us caught while we try to make it to the car. Maybe the world won’t end if he “takes” me in, but nobody’s taking Myka anywhere.

He must’ve followed me from school, and I never even noticed.

She pushes my hand off. “What are you
doing
? It’s subzero out here! I’m still cold from waiting for you.” She steps forward.

“Myk,” I say in a low, tight voice. “Stop.”

She freezes. She knows to trust me when I sound like that—to a point. She’s also giving me a wide-eyed look like I’ve grown another head. We have to do this fast. Screw a brilliant plan. I don’t have one.

“We need to stay away from the man in that black car, okay? He’s dangerous.” I try to keep my voice calm, reasonable. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll get close enough to unlock the car. You stay here. When I say go, you
run
. Dive into the back, lock the door as soon as you get in. You got it?”

She shakes her head slowly. “You have
got
to get some meds. You’re delusional.”

The driver’s door of the Durango clicks, swings out. “Have you got it?” I repeat through my teeth. “I’ll explain later. Trust me.”

“If this is one of your games—” She sees my expression, frowns. “I got it. Stay, then run.”

I step forward, eyes on the Durango, clicking my remote. He probably could reach me if he tried now.

Two more steps. His big hand—Jesus, his hands are big enough to strangle puppies—slips over the edge of the doorframe, and he starts to leverage himself up. I take another two steps, click click click. Damn lame remote battery. Another. Click click. He’s standing, propped on the edge of his door, watching me. Awful eyes; small, like a pig’s. Step, click. Finally it unlocks. I press it again to get the back.

“Myk?
Go
!”

We run. I gotta give it to her, nerd or not, she’s faster than me. She’s already in as I slam my door—just as the man gets to it. I slam the lock down, shove the key in the ignition. He’s outside the door bent toward me, his face three inches from mine.

I don’t know what I expect him to do next. Maybe bang on the window, shout, break it with an elbow. Maybe pull a gun and shoot me dead. It makes as much sense as everything else. Instead, as the engine catches he takes a step back, puts his hands up in surrender, and grins.

What the hell?

I throw it in reverse and spin backward, squeal to a stop, then into first. We jolt past him out of the lot. He strolls back to his car, drops into the seat. He doesn’t seem worried at all.

That worries me.

I bounce onto Eds Drive. In a few seconds I see the Durango in the rearview mirror pulling out behind me. I also see Myka’s face—confused with a sheen of scared. She saw the guy come to the window. She knows something’s really wrong. But right now I have to lose this guy. I’m in a car chase scenario with my little sister strapped in the back.

And still not a video game.

Eds Drive goes around in a big-ass circle until you get to McLearen, and there are a couple cars in front of me, so there’s nothing I can do except keep driving forward and figure out what to do next.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Myk says, almost in a whisper.

It’s hard to keep my eyes off the rearview mirror, the all-black shape on my tail. I shift up, like it’ll make the car in front of me go faster. “This creep has been watching me after school this whole week, and he came after me today. Can’t tell you why.”

Fancy bit of lying. I know why—probably—but I shouldn’t tell her. God, I hate any kind of lying to my sister.

She’s quiet for a few minutes, biting her lip. “Something to do with Dad? Or with you?”

I meet her eyes. Huge, scared. But her brain is working fine. “No one knows anything about me,” I say, dismissive enough that I hope she drops it. I consider the possibility seriously. “It could be Dad, I guess. Something he was up to at the Pentagon. But why now? When he’s been dead for two years?”

We hit McLearen and I jet left, cutting off some woman in a minivan. She honks, her horn bleating like a sad sheep. At least there’s one car between us now.

I have a little plan forming in my head, a way to get away from him. Maybe.

“I don’t know,” Myk says slowly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

No, it doesn’t. Dad was a major general in the U.S. Air Force, stationed at the Pentagon for five years. Pretty high level, and I know he worked on some secret shit. But he’s dead, and none of his ghosts should be knocking for me.

So it probably isn’t Dad. She knows it, I know it. We’re back to the original theory.

I can’t think about it now.

I spin around the merging traffic onto Route 28, watching the mirror more than the road. He’s still there, two cars back. But it turns multilane here, and I need more space between us. I punch it, veer onto the off-ramp. If he knows the area, by now he’s probably figured out where I’m going.

I breathe. Try to focus on the plan.

“Should I call Mom?” Myk asks. “The police?”

“No!” The response is straight from my gut, strong enough to make me go with it. For all I know, he
is
the police. “Not yet.” I lower my voice. “You know Mom would only flip out. And there’s nothing she or the police can do right now. Hang on.”

I shoot into the other lane to pass a Fiesta, then keep the speed up, rumbling over the bridge. We’re three cars ahead now. We start the big loop that’ll take us to Dulles Airport. If I can get there with enough of a lead … this might work. It isn’t far. But the Durango is sneaking closer. He has a better engine than I do.

“Why are we going to the airport?” she asks, like she just looked out the window.

“Quiet, okay?” I say. “Just hang on. Trust me.” I sound a lot surer than I am.

There’s the stop, the U-turn into the airport. Luckily everyone has to stop, and the Durango is still stuck two cars behind me.

And then my plan. Instead of turning to go into the airport, as soon as I get to the stop, I shoot forward and turn hard right into the rental car area.

We’re lucky—it’s busy. Friday afternoon, plenty of travel. Tons of cars, lots of them white like ours, loaded with tired, confused people driving different directions. And it’ll be a couple minutes before he can follow us. Quick as I can I pull into the Enterprise lot, park in the “serve-yourself” aisle, or whatever it’s called, and kill the engine.

“Duck!” I hiss. I drop down as much as I can and scrunch my legs, my head on the edge of the seat. I don’t fit, and the pedals are pressing into my ankles, but I don’t think you can see me unless you look in the window. It’s a good thing the car is clean, newish. It blends in well enough for us to hide. I hope. I also hope no tourists choose this moment to pick a nice Civic to tool around DC in.

“And now?” Myk asks, a tremble in her voice even with it muffled. She’s folded into the space behind the seat, pretty well hidden. All I can see of her is her dark hair, spread over her hunched back like a blanket.

“Now,” I say, struggling to sound calm, “we wait until it’s safe to go home.”

*   *   *

I pull into our garage about six thirty, bone-tired and foggy from all the adrenaline dumping into my blood and then draining away. I was aware enough at least to make sure there weren’t any black Durangos following, or on the street. We’re clear. I need to eat, make sure Myk eats, and then sleep. And think. Mom has one of her State Department dinners and won’t be home until late. I have time to decide what I want to tell her about this. Maybe it’s finally the right moment to tell her about me, stop hiding it all. Though Dad was always clear about that. Never tell Mom.

Myk and I didn’t talk during the wait, or the drive home. I can tell from her serious face that her brain is whirring around in there, though. She’s worrying. I really don’t want her thinking too hard about it, not until I do. I want to keep her out of it, safe. No matter what happens.

I guess the main thing is what to do on Monday. I can’t run or hide in car lots forever—they already know my school and Myk’s. Eventually they’ll find home.

Oh, God.

Anyway. We’re safe now. First: eat. We throw our coats over the rack, and I drop my keys in the bowl. “Mac and cheese,” I say. “Start boiling the water, will you? I’m gonna dump my stuff in my room.”

She nods absently, and already has a pot out as I go down the hall and flip on the light in my room.

There’s a woman sitting on my bed, legs crossed in a gray professional skirt, gray jacket. Dark blond hair scraped back in a tight ponytail. She blinks in the light.

“Jacob Lukin,” she says, in a voice like syrup. “Did you think they knew where you went to school, but they couldn’t find your house?”

My arms and legs go wobbly, and I grip the doorknob hard to keep myself up.

She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, like she’s going to tell me a secret. “Why don’t you lock that door? We don’t want your sister any more involved than she already is, do we?”

I shut the door slowly, turn the lock, and lean back against it. I can see her cleavage, right out there as she leans toward me, and it pisses me off that I notice it. “What do you want?” My voice is a shadow.

She folds her hands in her lap and smiles with white teeth. “Right to the point. I respect that. I want to talk about a little something that happened at Caitlyn Timmerman’s party two weeks ago. And I’m not the only one.”

This time my legs do give out, and I slide to the floor.

3

“A Little Party Never Killed Nobody” by Fergie, Q-Tip, and GoonRock

I wasn’t going to go to Caitlyn Timmerman’s party.

I was supposed to be home with Myka while Mom was away in New York, but Myk had one of her friends there for a sleepover. After being around two twelve-year-old girls for two hours, it didn’t take much to convince me they’d be
fine
on their own for a while (Myk’s argument), and it was Friday night and I deserved to have a little fun (Chris’s argument).

When Chris happened to mention Rachel would be there—and Lily wouldn’t—it sealed the deal. Rachel is … well, she’s straight-up gorgeous, to start. Curvy in all the right places, shiny brown eyes, these beautiful, round pink cheeks … and smart. Focused. She didn’t seem to drift through school like a lot of people. She did things. I didn’t know
that
much about her. I was kind of absorbed in Lily for a long time. But I knew she was in theater with Chris, and active in political stuff and the school paper, and she was serious about wanting to go to college, like me. A poli-sci major.

And she’d smiled at me in English the day before. So I wasn’t going to miss this chance.

At the party, Rachel was surprisingly willing to sit with me on the couch and talk. We talked, and talked. About the problems of the two-party system (her) and the Jeffersonians versus the Hamiltonians (me), and as we sipped on the punch and started to get drunk, more about
The Right State
and old
West Wing
episodes. About how I was dying to go to Stanford, and she wanted to get away from DC and the East for a while and go to Berkeley. Which are practically right next to each other, she said. She smiled when she said it, and I melted a little.

As we talked, we slid closer. Her eyes got bright, her gestures wild. Once, her hand even landed on my leg and she left it there for a second, face crimson, before reaching for her drink.

I admit I was dizzy with her, with possibilities. Off my head happy, for the first time since Lily. This could really happen. Anything could happen. Everything.

So the problem wasn’t that I went to the party. The problem was that I had already had so much vodka punch, and I still went along with the drinking game.

Caitlyn started it. “It’s a great game!” she slurred. “Chris and I saw it … somewhere?” She paused, her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t remember where. TV.”

Words to live by: Don’t join a drinking game with someone who’s already slurring. But the punch tasted like grape Kool-Aid, and Caitlyn was generous with it. Every time I turned around my glass was full, tempting. And Rachel, beaming next to me, wanted to join in. It seemed like a good idea.