Tunnel Vision (27 page)

“Oh, and you’re an angel?” I retort. “You knew the whole time you were going to take me in—you
knew
I only had a few weeks. You knew there wasn’t a threat to me, to my mother or sister—you made that up. You lied to me the whole time.
The whole time, damn it
. But you pretended to be on my side. My
mate
?”

He looks at me, steady, for a long minute. Then he sets the gun down on the table, and sighs. “I didn’t know that until the end. The last day. And it was for the mission, for your ultimate protection. You weren’t safe out—”

“Bullshit.” I scoot forward on the chair. Like I can do anything with my hands cuffed. “It was for
her,
what she wants. For DARPA. Not for me. I was fine where I was, thanks very much. No one was after me. No one
knew
about me. And I did what I did to try to find some answers about myself. That’s all.”

He sits in the other chair, his hand curled around the edge of the table. “I see that,” he says finally.

“I think we’re done, sir,” the other guard says. “There’s not much to search.”

“Nothing else?” Eric says.

“Nothing. Should we take all this stuff out?”

He sighs again. “Yes. Leave the furniture, empty. Take the clothes and sheets and anything else.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “We have to check it all for bugs, or anything else you’ve got hidden.”

“There’s nothing else,” I say quietly. “I don’t bug people for a living. Or screw with their lives for my own purposes.”

He shrugs, stands. He waits at the door while they move out all the clothes, sheets, the Xbox, books, even the mini-fridge and the TV off the wall.

My tiny strip of cloth from Eric’s pants is still there, between the mattresses somewhere. I still might have my small advantage.

But not right now.

“Eric?” I say, when they’re done, and he’s about to leave. “Can you take this off my wrists? For one thing, I’ve got to piss like a racehorse, and I don’t see how that’s going to work.”

“Sorry, ma—” He stops himself. “Jake. She was clear. You get to keep that on for a while.” His mouth quirks up on one side. “But you’re resourceful. You’ve proven that. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

*   *   *

That was a farce. I nearly pissed the only shorts I have now. But I did manage it, even managed to get the shorts back up.

Now there’s only me and the room.

It looks naked, without even the small comforts I’m used to. I sit uncomfortably in the black chair. I don’t want to go near the bed, not yet. I won’t be able to get the cloth with my hands like this, and I don’t want them to have any reason to suspect I have anything else. They probably have somebody watching the camera full time now.

I can still escape, maybe, with Eric’s object. And there might be a chance—if I’m extremely careful—to get another one from Liesel. I need Eric’s to get away, but once outside I really want one from Liesel. If I get out of here, she’ll hunt me. I’ll need to know where she’s hunting, so I can stay one step ahead.

Is it ridiculous for me to be planning for after my escape, when I’m sitting cuffed in a chair, in a guarded cell?

The good news is they still have no idea I can control people, easily, anytime I want. That would be a deal buster.

I wonder if they’ll really go through with a meet, after finding my stolen objects. Or maybe I’ll never hear about it again, and be stuck here with cuffs on. Will they make me do tunnels at gunpoint?

So much to think about. And I have nothing—nothing—but time.

Hallucination Ana appears while I’m sitting there. She doesn’t say anything, just stands in front of me and watches, with her sad, dark eyes, her hair pulled up in a knot.

“You want to help me out with these?” I ask her, straight out. I don’t care anymore if they think I’m crazy. “You got any knives handy to cut this with?”

“You have to help yourself now,” she says, in her beautiful voice.

It’s true. If I can get to Dedushka, he’ll help. But in here I still only have myself.

31

“Answers” by Goldfinger

Eric comes by some hours later with a sandwich and some water.

“Bread and water for the prisoner?” I stand clumsily. It’s tougher than you’d think to stand up with your hands cuffed in back.

He doesn’t answer. He goes around behind me and cuts the zip ties.

“Thank God.” I rub my wrists to get some feeling back.

“You’d best eat quickly,” he says. “I don’t have long.”

Not a problem. I’m starving, thirsty. I tear at it like a wolf. He sits at the table and watches me, impassive.

“So,” I say, between bites. “What’s going on out there? Has she talked to my grandpa again?”

He shakes his head.

“Am I going to get to see him? Will they agree to it?”

“Jake,” he says, tired. “I can’t talk to you.”

That’s that, then. If he says he won’t, he won’t. I chew, drink in silence. He keeps his spy eyes on me. He tells me to have a bathroom break—with the door partway open. Then he takes metal cuffs out of his pocket.

“Come on,” I say. “I don’t need those in here. What am I going to do?”

“Orders. Here, put your hands in front. It’ll be easier to sleep that way—” He listens, makes a face. “Or not. Behind your back, please.”

“Damn it, Eric. I don’t—”

“Just do it,” he says. “You made this bed. Protesting’s not going to help.”

I clench my jaw, put my wrists behind my back. He turns them palms out, clasps the metal cuffs on. They aren’t quite as tight as the zip tie was. Still. My arms already hurt. He jerks his chin in acknowledgment, and is gone.

Leaving me standing alone in the room, cuffed. Again.

*   *   *

Two days.

Two freaking days with nothing. Eric or someone else comes in with three meals a day—that’s the only way I have any sense of time. They uncuff me, have me use the bathroom, let me eat and drink, put the cuffs back on. That’s all my life is. No tunneling, no other interaction except with hallucinations, mostly berating me for being so stupid. Even the lights are left on all the time. I try to sleep on the bed—incredibly awkwardly—but I don’t go near the cloth. I can’t.

I don’t dare go to Dedushka either. Not with the lights on. Not like this.

What if they arrange a meeting and I’m never uncuffed, can’t ever get to the cloth? What if they don’t arrange a meeting and I live like this for months, years?

I’ll go insane, that’s what. I’m not far off now. In the faint reflection in the door panel, I look like hell. My wrists are starting to chafe, with raw scrapes. I haven’t washed or changed clothes since this started. I have a good growth of beard going, and bags under my eyes from not sleeping. If Dedushka—or Mom or Myk—saw me the way I am now, it’d be hard to say I haven’t been mistreated.

I finally do manage to get to sleep in spite of the light, and the constant ache in my arms, and am having a vivid dream of Myka—we’re young, and flying kites in a field of tall grass, the blades scratching our legs as we run, laughing.

The sound of the door jolts me out of it. I sit upright, blinking.

It’s Liesel, in her jacket and skirt. It’s odd to see her look so normal, so put together, after my past couple days. But she seems calm. She sets a chair in front of me and perches in it delicately, brushing lint off her skirt, crossing her legs.

I wait.

She clears her throat. Her voice is composed. “In spite of your betrayal, Jacob, I have decided that it is worthwhile to continue working with you.”

I swallow. Is that good, or bad?

“To that end I have seen the wisdom of making an agreement with your grandfather that will allow us to continue here.”

And allow you to catch him.

“Good,” I say.

Her nostrils flare. “If you tell me what you know first. I want to know exactly what kind of confidential information you extracted from your illicit tunnels.”

“Does it matter? Aren’t I
secure
anyway?” I wiggle my fingers in the cuffs.

“It matters to me.”

There’s a standoff, for a few seconds. Then I shrug. I want to meet Dedushka. I want my escape route. “Okay. If I can ask you a couple questions too.”

Eyebrows up. “Such as?”

I pause, study her. I wonder if I can tell if she lies, now that I’m looking for it. “I wasn’t in danger. It was all a sham. Why? Why did you do this to me?”

She shifts, resettles herself. “Everything I’ve done is for the good of the project, Jacob. For the good of the country, the people we find, or the people we’re protecting by finding fugitives. I’m looking at the big picture, always.” Her voice drops, softens. “In the end, your talent and the opportunities it offers were more important than your everyday life.” Something flits across her face—regret? Understanding? Just as quickly it’s gone. “How did you get my pen?”

“I stole it from Dr. Tenney’s briefcase,” I say, honest. “I don’t know where he got it.” Not honest.

I wonder if
she
can tell the difference between lie and truth. I don’t think so.

“So you saw my office, and apparently some of your files. What else?”

I shake my head. “Nothing else.” Suddenly I’m exhausted. So exhausted I could lie down and go to sleep with her sitting there. I repeat what I said to Eric. “I only did it to find out about myself. I looked at my files through you. Listened to one conversation through Dr. Tenney, and you talked about tunneling. Nothing else. I swear.”

She considers it, me. Then she nods. “Let’s say I believe you … enough for now. We’ll do this more later, with the polygraph. You’re a mess. We’re meeting with your grandfather in a week’s time, and I can’t have you looking, and smelling like…” She flaps a hand at me. “That.”

I snort.

“Stand up,” she says with a sigh. “And I’ll take those cuffs off.”

I stand, let her take the cuffs off, and flex my arms, which will probably take the full week to recover.

Inside, I’m dancing.
Yes
, I’m getting out.
Yes
, I’ll see Dedushka. And
yes yes yes
, I’ll have a chance to recover the cloth so I can use it if all goes well. I can leave this hellhole and these crazy controlling people far behind.

I can almost taste the air.

I don’t say thank you, or how glad I am to have my hands free. “Can I have some fresh clothes, and soap?”

“And deodorant.” Her pale lips purse up. “I’d suggest a razor too.”

“Whatever you say.”

Anything to make it happen.

She pauses on her way out the door. “So you know—I no longer trust you, Jacob Lukin. I probably won’t trust you again. And that’s a great loss to you.”

I shrug again. “Whatever you say.”

Her eyes narrow. But she leaves. And I’m almost free.

*   *   *

I don’t get the cloth that night. I’m learning patience, bit by bit. I’m learning strategy, from the mistakes I’ve made till now. Too many of them.

Mostly I’m learning ruthlessness. I know how to do it, get both Dedushka and me out of that meeting safely. It’s bold, risky, and utterly ruthless. I’m going to do it. And I’m going to succeed.

I hope. I’ve also learned not to be cocky. Two days in cuffs will help with that.

I wake myself in the middle of the next night, and carefully—so carefully—slip my hand under the mattress beneath me. My wrists scream as the sore flesh scrapes along, but it doesn’t matter. It has to be there somewhere, unless it fell under the bed. I hope not. That would be a lot trickier to get. Or—God forbid—it fell on the floor and was swept out with all the clothes and such. My fingers bump slowly across every inch of the mattress, feeling for that minuscule strip.

Nothing. I’m sure.

I pull my arm out gradually, and stick my left arm under the other side. This is the camera side, and I didn’t want to do that. The same process, feeling, feeling …

There. It’s in my fingers. I bring my arm out, careful not to trigger the lights, the cloth curled in my hand.

Ruthless.

I can do this.

*   *   *

Dr. Tenney sits in the chair like he’s the one forced to be here. Ever since they found my objects—his notebook, and the pen—he won’t look me in the eye. “Tell me again. What are you going to say to your grandfather?”

I sigh. This is useless. I don’t even know why they’re putting up the pretense—they’re going to try their best to take Dedushka. If they don’t think I know that, even without any tunnels to Liesel, they’re underestimating me. So what does it matter what I say?

And of course I have my own agenda.

“Mr. Lukin?”

Oh, yeah, and he’s reverted to my last name.

“That I’m fine, that I’ve been well treated, that it was my choice to come here.”

“Thank you.” He makes a mark on his paper, glares at me over his glasses, and closes the notebook.

“Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?” I scratch at my wrists—they’re still sore, healing. “I’m so tired of lies.”

“Really. You’ve become a master liar, Mr. Lukin. How can you be tired of it?”

I blink, surprised. That was uncharacteristically honest. Then I realize his lips haven’t moved. And it came from behind me. I turn my head slowly. There’s another Dr. Tenney sitting on the bed, legs crossed, fingers laced over his knee.

Perfect.

I turn back to the real Dr. Tenney. He’s studying me, the old glint in his eye. “You’re seeing someone right now, aren’t you? Over there?”

He stiffens, listens. Then he deliberately puts a hand to his ear, takes out the earpiece, and sets it on the table between us. “I need to talk to you, Jake, no matter what they say. You should know.”

“Here we go,” says the hallucination. “This is going to be good.”

“Know what?” I ask.

“Are you seeing someone right now? Here in the room with us?”

I glance at the bed. That Dr. Tenney nods, waves me on. Oddly, he pulls a cigar out of his pocket and starts to light it, puffing. “Yes.” I turn back. “I should know what?”

“That the drug we’ve been feeding you so blithely has a significant side effect, Jake. That in tests it’s been shown to cause severe auditory and visual hallucinations.”