Tunnel Vision (8 page)

There’s so much going on, in all parts of my life, that it feels like my brain might spontaneously explode. I have to not freak out.

*   *   *

The next period is study hall. It’s my self-study research period for my senior project—Dr. Mathis, the vice principal, approved it special, so I could have a shot at Stanford. Time to go hang at the cemetery and work on my research.

I can’t think of a justification for Eric to follow me there.

I zip up my coat and trek outside, down the street, and through the familiar gates. It’s different today. It’s still bare, the grass still brown. But the snow melted over the weekend, and it doesn’t feel sad anymore, or creepy, like it did with that guy chasing me through it. Today I have it to myself again, and it’s comforting. Like all these people—friends, almost, I’ve read so many of their stories, sat at their gravestones—went through worse than I have going, and they’re past it now. This is my place.

“Hi, Jake.”

My shoulders sag. I turn, slowly. Eric stands inside the gate, hands in his pockets.

“Hey there, Eric.”

“Ed. You’re going to have to watch that. I’m Ed now.”

I sigh, rub at my chin wearily. “How did you even get permission to be out here?”

“Does it matter? We need to talk. It’s a good time, great place. Is the caretaker here?”

I shake my head, not even bothering to wonder how he knows about Pete. “He’s here Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday in the winter. Sometimes Fridays.”

Like last Friday, when he saved me from that goon. I wish Pete were here now. But this one I have to deal with myself.

“Good,” Eric says. “Then we’ll have the other days to work. Lesson one: be aware of surveillance. A place this open, you have to watch out for satellites.”

I look up instinctively, as if I’ll see a red-lit camera trained on us from the sky, like a UFO. There’s nothing but gray heavy clouds. Looks like snow later. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not kidding, mate. We don’t want to attract some analyst’s attention that something’s changed. We need to either do exactly what you normally do, or find a good cover somewhere. I prefer the latter, especially today.”

I want answers anyway. “I have someplace. Follow me.”

I take him up the main drive, past Pete’s little office building, around a couple corners. There it is: the Barker mausoleum. Huge, gray stone, with an iron gate across the front with a big padlock. The place reminds me of
Buffy
—like a Big Bad vampire is going to crawl out sometime, and I’ll get to witness a major ass kicking. Unfortunately it’s just a stone room with slabs and inscriptions. But I do have a key.

Eric—Ed—is thrilled. It’s private, well covered from satellites, and apparently hard to bug because of the thickness of the walls. But he doesn’t have too much time for his spy giddiness before I round on him.

“So. You want to tell me who you really are,
Ed
? I thought you were an EEG tech. Why are you in my school?”

He grins. “I said I wasn’t a doctor. I didn’t say what I was. As of now, I’m Ed Hanson. Fellow student, to them. Your primary DARPA handler, along with Ana Delgado, who will be stationed in your home. But you probably knew that.”

Handler
. Great. Good to know the terminology.

“And what’s your job as my handler? To follow me around 24/7?” The thick walls trap the cold in, forcing it into my bones. I shiver and lean against the wall. It’s even colder.

“To route work to you, for one. You’ll work directly through the two of us. But primarily my job is to keep you safe.”

I snort. “I’m sorry. You’re not much bigger or older than I am. I don’t see how you and a housekeeper are going to keep me sa—”

Before I can finish the sentence he whips a gun from his back, cocks it, and trains it on me. It’s dull black, long, with a silencer attached. A foot away. Pointed at my chest.

I gulp, loud. It echoes in the small space.

I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before. In video games, yeah. Lots. In games I’ve shot one a hundred times. It’s different when it’s real.

His expression doesn’t change at all: still, relaxed. He clicks off the gun, and settles it in his back again. “Oh, I think we’ll do fine. You all right, mate? You look a bit pale.”

I press my palm against the wall. That fast … it could happen that fast … Jesus.

I can’t believe he has a gun. At school, even. But he has it to point at
other
people. Other people with access to satellite pictures, who want to get at me. That guy with the pig eyes who followed me last week, maybe with a gun in his pocket. On second thought, that isn’t really better. I swallow. Drop some of the attitude. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good. Now, if that’s all the questions you have, I have some work for you to do. All right?”

“Work?” My voice sounds faint. I clear my throat. “But … I have to do my research. If I really want to go to Stanford, my project has to be perfect.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I think you have Stanford taken care of, if I understand it right. Plus there’s that full, willing cooperation?” It’s funny how he can sound so easygoing, look like a farm boy, but now I can hear the steel underneath. Like I can sense the gun there, waiting.

“You can do your research Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Pete’s here,” he continues. “When he’s not here, you’re ours. Plus whatever Ana has for you in the evenings. If we have an object for you, you have to assume it’s a priority. Work comes before everything else. You got it, Jake?”

I nod, slowly. That phrase—
full, willing cooperation
—is going to haunt me.

“Good. We only have one today, to start nice and easy. Tell me about this.” He pulls a Ziploc bag out of his sweatshirt pocket and tosses it to me. This one holds a small silver key. I drop it into my palm, close my eyes.

Open them again. He has a minicamera out, trained on me. “Wait. What if I get the headache, like before?”

“Ana and I both have your medicine handy. We know what to do.”

I guess that’ll have to do. If all goes well, I won’t need it anyway. I’d done a ton of tunnels before it happened last time. I settle my back against the wall, take a deep breath. Let it come, filling me with warmth.

A man. Fiftyish, small, but powerful. Leathery brown skin, dark hair to his shoulders. Location: Colombia, near the border with Venezuela. Puerto Carreño, in Vichada. An area called Caño Narizón. He’s in a tent, on a patch of high ground in the middle of a vividly green tropical swamp. He sits on a camp chair, reading a report. The bug clicks and bird calls are constant, almost deafening.

“What does the report say?”

I open my eyes, snapped out of it. “What?”

Eric watches me intently. “I need you to read the report he’s looking at. Read it aloud.”

“It’s in Spanish. And you can’t interrupt me in the middle like that. I may not be able to get back.”

“Try,” he says dryly.

I close my eyes. See the guy again, his location.

He’s reading a report. He turns a page and grunts to himself, pleased. Things are going well.

Usually I have only a general description of the person, a sense of their surroundings, and what they’re feeling. I try to focus on the page in his hand. It swims, blurred, the words jumping. Then it starts to come clear. The weird thing, though, is I don’t actually read the Spanish words in front of me. I understand what
he’s
reading.

Semisubmersible run up the Orinoco River a success. Have successfully run four times to Barrancas, each time carrying 1.1 tons of product. Recommend building another submersible ASAP. Best place to build in forests near Puerto Ayacucho.

He closes the report, sips at a strong, sweet drink, and laughs.

I come back. Eric is happy, no steel underneath at all. He turns the camera off, tucks it in his pocket, and reaches for the key. “That’s your first real work. Well done, Jake. We’ve got the location of a major drug runner, and know where to get proof, where he’s going next.”

I rub my head. I don’t have a headache, but I do feel a little off, woozy. My watch beeps: the alarm that it’s time to start packing up. That seemed short. “We’ve got to get back.”

He nods. “You’re right. We have lunch with Chris.”

Ugh. The lying and pretending part—especially to Chris and my family—is harder than tunneling on demand. At least
that
I’m good at.

I’m the only one who’s good at it. And I just identified the location of a Colombian drug runner. Huh.

Definitely something to get used to.

9

“Sister” by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds

I was right about the snow. It’s wet, with heavy, fat flakes piling up fast. I have to drive slowly, peering through the windshield. My tail is slogging through it too, a blue sedan trailing thirty feet behind like a loyal dog.

Myk is quiet in the back, chin on her fist, watching the snow. When we pull into the driveway, Mom’s car is in the garage and there’s another car—a white, unmarked van—in the second space. Dad’s old space. I meet Myk’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“She is
here
.” I make my voice all menacing, and do a vampire laugh. “You ready?”

I’m not ready, after a day spent with
Eric
Ed at my side every bleeding second. I could use a little breathing space between handlers. But I can deal—it’s my bed to lie in. I have to help Myka with this one.

She takes a deep breath, thinks, then shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

I pull behind the van, kill the engine. In the sudden silence I turn, so I can look at her square. “You know this has nothing to do with you, dorkus. Right?”

She looks at me sideways, her eyes wet. “No.”

“I’m serious. Mom doesn’t think you need watching, or that you’re not helping enough. She just had this offer, and it was too good to refuse.”

She shrugs. “It feels wrong, having a stranger here. Why is she doing it? I don’t get it.”

She feels it, somehow: that this isn’t as simple as it seems, a housekeeper who just happened to fall in our laps. She just doesn’t know what it
is
. And she won’t. Ever.

“It’ll be all right,” I say, gentler. “I swear. I’ll make sure it’s all right for you, one way or the other. Okay? Trust me?”

She tucks her hair behind one ear, eyes on me, and nods. If I ever let her down on something I really promised, I think it’d break both of us.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go face the dragon.”

That probably isn’t a good thing to say. Not positive. But it does make her laugh, and that’s all that matters right then.

“Hello,” I call when we come in and drop my keys in the bowl. I set a hand on Myk’s skinny shoulder.

There she is, sitting at the table with Mom, drinking coffee.

Christ, she looks like Salma Hayek. Midthirties, Latina, gorgeous smooth skin. She’s wearing a black sweater, her hair pulled back in a low bun. I cough with the surprise of it. Her mouth curves up, dark eyes on me.

“You must be Jacob and Myka.” She stands and stretches out a slim hand, a silver bracelet dangling from her wrist. “I am Ana Delgado. So nice to meet you.”

The accent is faint, but there. She really is Spanish, or Spanish-speaking, not just as a cover. Or she’s really good at accents. I wonder if she has a gun hidden in a back holster too.

She takes Myka’s hand first, then mine. Her handshake is firm, strong. She smiles again, this time at Myka. “I hope you do not mind so very much my coming to help here. I believe this situation will work out well for all of us. Perhaps we can be friends, in time?”

Her eyes flick to me, and reality floods in. I have to remember who she is, and why she’s here. She may be here to protect me, but she’s not my friend.

Myk visibly brightens, though. “Nice to meet you,” she says, polite, if quiet.

Mom relaxes. She must’ve been expecting fireworks. Then she frowns at me. “Jake?”

I realize I haven’t said anything. “Oh. Welcome, Mrs. Delgado.” I stop. Then I add, “So nice that you could come at such short notice.”

She laughs, a round, full laugh. “Oh, that. That is no trouble at all. I am so happy to have found you.”

I bet.

She gestures to the empty seats at the table. “Shall we sit and get to know each other before dinner? I brought enchiladas, to show your mother I can cook. I will make salad. I thought we could eat in an hour or so?”

Myk shifts, uncomfortable again. “Oh … I have too much homework to do. Sorry.”

“Me too,” I say, quick. “Got to get on that homework. But we’ll see you at dinner.”

And whatever comes after that.

She waves us off. “Of course. We will continue our chat, your mother and I.” Her eyes narrow, a touch, at me. “She has so many good things to say about you.”

Spy translation: She’s pumping my mother for information before she moves on to me. Excellent.

Once in my room I take out my phone and text Chris, just because it makes me feel normal.

Housekeeper is def a dragon. But damn she is hot. Salma Hayek, anyone?

He comes back right away.

I need me some housekeeping. Can I come over and play?

Yeah, definitely more normal.

Come have dinner tomorrow and see for yourself.

I know he has
Oklahoma
tech rehearsal tonight. But tomorrow will be perfect. I drop into my desk chair and spin, already looking forward to the buffer. If Chris is here, she can’t do anything wonky, can she?

Maybe I should just have Chris around all the time.

Can’t. Tech rehearsal tomorrow too. After show is over will come dragonate.

Damn. I really am on my own for a while. Me, my family, and my handlers.

But expect a surprise in a minute …

A surprise? Like I need more surprises in my life right now. My phone buzzes again. A message from an unknown number.

Jake? Hi. It’s Rachel.

I draw in a sharp breath. No way.

Chris gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.