Tunnel Vision (3 page)

Hell, everything seemed like a good idea.

We made a rough circle on the floor next to the couch: me, Rachel, Chris, Jeff, Caitlyn, Stacey, Kadeem, and Ashley. All theater geeks except me. I didn’t mind at all.

“Chris,” Caitlyn said, nodding. Too much nodding, like a bobblehead doll. “You tell them how.”

“Yes, friends, I will
tell them how
.” Chris said it in a game-show voice, too loud, his cheeks washed red behind his freckles. Also drunk, of course. “So everybody has funky things they can do.
Talents
.” He wiggled his eyebrows and we all laughed. “So show us your talent. Each of you does the coolest weird thing you can think of, and then everybody else tries. And if you can’t do the other person’s talent, you drink. Best one wins.”

An odd thrill flicked through me. I had a talent I guarantee none of them had. Maybe nobody else in the world had. I could win. But of course I couldn’t show them.

Why not?
I thought.
What does it really matter?

“I’ll go first.” Chris stood, weaving. I knew what his talent would be. I just didn’t know if he could do it, wasted as he was. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and winked at Caitlyn. “Drum roll, please.” We pounded our hands on the beige carpet. “Ladies and gentlemen, watch, amazed.”

He set his palms flat, tried to flip himself up to stand on his hands … and collapsed onto Jeff, who spilled about half his purple drink on the carpet. I nearly pissed myself laughing—we all did. No one else even tried to do it until we got to Ashley and then, surprisingly, Rachel. Seems they were both cheerleaders in grade school. Who knew?

Rachel flipped herself upside down and threw me a grin, her face full-on glowy.

All that and smart too. Did I even deserve her?

I drank, licking sticky purple off my lips. Then Jeff licked his own elbow. I thought that was impossible. All the rest of us drank.

Caitlyn put her whole fist in her mouth, which was interesting, especially to Chris. I drank. Stacey bent her pinkie back to her arm. Someone poured me more, and I drank. Kadeem raised one eyebrow, which I could do fine—couldn’t anybody?—but I drank anyway. Ashley did a cheerleader flip and knocked over a side table. Nobody cared. Everything was funny.

By the time it was my turn, I was more slammed than I had been in a very long time, maybe ever. Especially around that many people. My eyelids felt heavy. My whole body felt heavy. I looked at Chris. He was flickering, but maybe that was me.

“Do it, dude,” he said, his words stretched out slooooow. “Tunnel. You know you want to.”

I did want to. I
really
wanted to. Chris only knew about it because I’d told him—shown him—when we were seven, before Dad said I shouldn’t tell anybody. Before Dad knew. “No,” I said, shaking my head, thinking of Dad. “I can’t.”

“Tunnel?” Caitlyn said loud. “What’s that? Do it!”

“Do it, do it, do it,” they chanted.

This was such a safe place. Warm, safe. Nobody but my friends. High school kids, like me. And everybody as drunk as me. They wouldn’t even remember. I felt suddenly free, light. Yes. I could do it, this one time. It was the perfect time.

I could show Rachel. That might make me cool enough for her.

“Okay,” I announced, palms out. “But this is a seeecret. Okay?”

Rachel leaned over, poked me in the shoulder. “Yes!”

I smiled at her, lopsided.
Damn, girl.

“You’ve got to bring me something that belongs … belongs…” I frowned. I couldn’t think of how to put the words together so they made sense. “Belongs to someone who’s far away.” I tried to focus on Caitlyn. “Do you have anything like that?”

She thought hard for a minute, her forehead crinkling again, then flipped her hair back. “Yes.” She held up one finger. “Hang on.”

We waited while she disappeared upstairs. And drank more, of course. It seemed like she was gone a long time, almost long enough for me to decide maybe I shouldn’t do it after all. But not quite.

She almost tripped coming down the stairs. “Here.” She thrust a small object into my hand. It was a tiny velvet box, like the kind they always show in movies when the guy is going to propose. “It belongs to—”

“No, don’t tell me anything.” I grinned. I was sharing it, finally, with my friends. It didn’t have to be such a secret. It was just fun. A relief. What was I so worried about?

I cradled the box in my hands, closed my eyes, and let it come.

It sobered me instantly. First I got the warmth, the sense of energy that tells me it’s happening. It’s like the light from a glow stick, a shimmer that expands around the object that only I can see. Then the light, the warmth, makes its way through my fingertips, buzzing under my skin. Then come the images. Like watching a movie in my head.

A girl … no, young woman. Long black hair, tiny glasses, skinny. Clearly Caitlyn’s sister. I feel her location, closer and closer, like zooming in on a labeled map in Google: Hanover, New Hampshire. Dartmouth College. Hitchcock Hall, Room 220. And she is seeing … oh. Some guy’s lips, in a dark room with curtains drawn.… “I love you,” he said. “C’mon.” She is feeling pretty warm herself as she leans in, slides her hand down his pants …

I pulled out of it, blinking, drunk again. Seven pairs of eyes were staring at me.

When I tunnel to someone, I can do it silently or say it out loud. If I say it, there’s no filter—I say what I see, hear, feel. What that person is experiencing at that moment in time, wherever they are.

Everyone looked freaked out. Even Chris. Even Rachel.

“Dude,” Jeff said, swaying. “That was creepy.”

I tried to laugh. “Let’s see you do that! Everybody drinks!”

Everybody sipped, silent.

“But that was
true,
” Caitlyn said, thoughtful, tapping her fingers against her red plastic cup. “That was Cammie and Adam … it was totally true. Do another one.” She gestured around the circle. “Come on, somebody else has to have something.”

They all looked at each other.

“I have one,” Rachel said, soft. “Just a minute.” She got up and went to the corner, where all the coats and purses were piled on a chair, and dug into a brown purse.

When she came back, she slipped something into my hand. It was a piece of paper, folded in half. A letter. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth, the tingle, even faster than before.

A man, early fifties. He is big, barrel chested, with short, stumpy legs and heavy eyebrows. He is wearing purple-flowered swim trunks. His skin is a deep red, going into tan. Location: Oahu, Hawaii. Waimea Bay Beach Park. He is waxing a surfboard. He glances at the sun. Another hour at least. The waves are perfect right now—he has to get back out there. That’s all that matters, the sun and the waves. He’d been so right to leave it all—them all—and come here. He is exactly where he wants to be, finally. Alone. At peace.

When I opened my eyes Rachel had tears streaking down her cheeks. She sniffed, loud, almost a hiccup. “That’s my dad. He left six months ago … I thought … he might come back…” She got up, snatched the letter, and ran to the bathroom.

Caitlyn gave me a look like it was my fault and followed her.

I drank, letting the vodka wash out the feeling that this had been a really bad idea.

That’s when I saw a flicker of movement at the top of the stairs. I met the eyes of Caitlyn’s mom, sitting on the top step, watching me. On her face was the kind of look you’d give a dog who just recited Shakespeare. Stunned, sure. But
interested
.

How much did she see?

She stood smoothly, came down the stairs, and announced that it was time to go and she’d arranged a big taxi to take us all home. Now, please. She didn’t mind if we drank, but the party was over, and she wasn’t having any of us on the roads.

Crammed in next to Chris on the ride home, with Rachel puffy eyed in the front, all I could do was think about what a very, very stupid thing that could’ve been. I could’ve blown it all, right there. I knew better. It had just seemed so easy, so right. Safe.

But hardly anybody mentioned it the next week, or the next. Rachel turned distant—embarrassed, I guess. I tried to talk to her, but she would look away, or give me one-word answers. Massively disappointing, but about what I should have expected, I guess. I blew it.

I allowed myself to remember it like a bad dream, one of those nightmares where you do exactly what you’re not supposed to do. I allowed myself to forget about it, almost.

Until now.

4

“Life Is Over” by Curbstone

“Who are you?” I whisper. I look up at the woman from the floor, and even though the party was two weeks ago I feel drunk again, blurred.

Her eyes are an odd pale green, like they’d been real green until something sucked most of the color out. I want to look away, but I can’t. She tilts her head, and her ponytail swings sideways.

“I work with Mrs. Timmerman. She had a very interesting report about that party. Very interesting indeed.”

I sit up straighter, grab at a shred of hope. Maybe it isn’t what I think. “Mrs. Timmerman works at Georgetown, doesn’t she? Some sort of scientist?”

She actually laughs. “I don’t work for Georgetown University, Jacob. I work for the Department of Defense. A division called DARPA. Have you heard of it?”

Hope smears out. The Department of Defense. It’s exactly what I thought. It’s what Dad said would happen, if I kept tunneling, if I told anyone. I’d never really believed him—it sounded too much like he was just trying to scare me. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Stupid shit like that. But he was right.

With the realization comes a wave of anger. At him for being right. At myself for being stupid, for fucking up so royally. And at her, sitting there on my bedspread like she owns it.

“So you read some report and you follow me around all week? You break into my house?” I get louder. “What the hell? You could have
called
if you wanted to talk to me.”

“Keep your voice down,” she says, sharp. “And I said I wasn’t the only one interested. The man who followed you isn’t from us. He’s private. We’re not sure yet who he’s working for. Whoever it is, it’s certainly not good for you.”

I close my eyes. This isn’t happening.

A couple of tunnels at a party, and the Department of Defense
and
some other mystery person is all over me. Who else was at that party? Who do Rachel’s parents secretly work for? Chris’s? The Mafia? Al-Qaeda?

I’m being paranoid again.

No, I’m not. But I am scared.

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg, Jacob. We have done a great deal of research into this area, for decades.” Her voice is still soft, too-sweet. “Ever heard of Stargate?”

I don’t answer. Yes, I’ve heard of Stargate. A government project in the 1970s to use psychic phenomena—psychics—to spy long-distance. DARPA funded it. I’d read everything I could on it, a few years back, and I’m pretty good at the research now. But it was shut down a long time ago. It was most famous for being a failure.

“We have never been able to find a subject who is consistently right, who can provide us with the kind of information we need. Mrs. Timmerman believes she witnessed something special—exactly what we’ve been looking for. If this ability she saw is real, you could be extremely helpful to us, Jacob. You could locate hostages, fugitives, spies, criminals. Missing persons. That’s just the start. The CIA, FBI, NSA … and that’s only in Washington. Of course, we’ll have to test you first. But I believe we could be partners. I believe we could work very well together.”

I shake my head, eyes still closed, her words crashing over me. They don’t really know anything. They can’t make me do anything. I have to remember that.

“No.”

“What was that?”

I open my eyes. She hasn’t moved, hands still in her lap, but she seems more intense. Like she fired herself up a notch or two.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, stiff. “I’m as normal as you get. I’m eighteen. I’m graduating in a few months. I’m waiting to see what colleges I got into. I’m not some freak, like you’re saying. I’m
normal
.”

She shakes her head lightly. “I’m going to make you an offer, Jacob Lukin. I suggest you listen.”

“What’s your name?” She works my name so hard, and I don’t even know who she is. Maybe if I know it, it will make her human, someone I can deal with.

She purses her lips. “Liesel. Dr. Liesel Miller. Here, I’ll show you my badge, if it helps.”

She pulls a badge out of her coat pocket, with her picture on it. DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Dr. Liesel Miller.

It doesn’t help. She feels even more dangerous with a name, a badge.

I push to my feet, so I’m not looking up at her anymore. Try not to sway. “No, Liesel Miller. I don’t know anything. I can’t
do
anything. Whatever you heard, read, whatever, it’s not true. I don’t need to listen to your offer because I can’t help you. Now it’s time for you to get the fuck out of my house.”

“You’re forgetting about the man who followed you,” she says. “Aren’t you?”

There’s a knock on the door behind me, and I jump. The knob rattles.

“Jake? Who’re you talking to? I thought you were coming to help me with dinner.”

Myka.

“Tell her you’re on the phone,” Liesel whispers.

I keep my eyes on her. “I’m on the phone with Chris,” I say through the door. “I’ve got to talk to him for a couple more minutes. Can you keep going with dinner?”

There’s a puzzled pause. I never talk to Chris on the phone—we just text. I should’ve said I was talking to a girl. That at least is true. Kind of.

“Okay,” Myk says, finally, quietly. “I’ll do it myself. It’ll be ready in about 10 minutes.”

I wait for her to go away, but she doesn’t. I can still hear her breathing.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re acting very weird. This whole thing today was weird.”

The understatement of the century. I take a deep breath. “I know. Sorry.”

This time I hear her thump back toward the kitchen, and Liesel relaxes a little. I don’t.