Tunnel Vision (30 page)

Dedushka takes the pipe from his teeth and examines the bowl carefully, like it’s really important. “Perhaps not yet. They have a circle. A circle, it could be months…”

“Dedushka.”

He meets my eyes. He looks old to me suddenly, uncertain. Vulnerable. I’m risking him too, going out there again. But I don’t think we have a choice. We can’t stay hiding here like rabbits until they beat down the door.

“Please,” I say, low. “It’s time.”

He sighs, then sets the book and pipe on the table, and gives a short nod.

That’s enough for me.

It doesn’t take long—we’ve planned the heck out of this. I change clothes, pull on a baseball hat, and grab my backpack, Liesel’s gun tucked safely inside. Dedushka has his bag. We hike to the motorcycle hidden deep in the trees, take the forest path out. We’ll cross the border that way, and then do our best to disappear on the other side, make our way to Virginia again. To an object of Dad’s, and then to wherever he is.

I hope Dedushka really does know how to avoid surveillance like he says he does—but I have to trust him.

I always trust him. And finally, finally, it’s time to go.

*   *   *

We stop in Vermont, in a town called Saint Albans, to ditch the motorcycle and steal a car. We pull into a mall parking lot and troll the aisles, scouting. I let Dedushka choose the car, but I’m supposed to hot-wire it. He taught me how, theoretically at least. We’re probably going to have to do it a lot. Not just cars either. To survive, to stay hidden, we’re going to have to steal people’s clothes, food, money.

I feel a twinge of guilt about it. These people didn’t do anything to us; they’re not involved in any way. And I’m selfishly fucking with their lives.

But I don’t really have a choice there either. DARPA took my identity—Jacob Lukin is officially dead to everyone but Mom and Myka and Dedushka. I can’t change that now. It’s not like I can go get a job, apply for a credit card, start over. When I start over (if—no, when) it’s going to have to go a lot deeper than that.

I wish I could really think that far ahead.

Dedushka pulls up next to an old, beat-up yellow Volvo wagon, cuts the motorcycle engine, and gives me a nod.

Old cars are easier, he says. Less fancy protection, key sensors and alarms and all that. Plus they’re more likely to be unlocked, as long as we’re not in a city, so we don’t have to mess with a slim jim.

I look around … nobody nearby. Check the door handle. Unlocked. He’s right.

Here we go.

I jump in, pull off the plastic panel, and search for the right wires. Red one for starter. There it is. I pull out the wire strippers from my pocket, strip it, and carefully touch the copper to the bundle of connected power wires. My hands are shaking. I’m totally sure at any moment someone’s going to run over, yelling, and call the cops.

The engine catches, and I breathe. Dedushka stands next to the door, beaming.

“Well done,
malchik
. I will drive for now.”

I climb across. He spits three times over his left shoulder, then gets in, and we take off.

That wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe the Volvo owner will take the motorcycle we left parked, wires pulled and ready to start. Fair trade.

More likely I’m just trying to make myself feel better about it.

Dedushka heads east, aiming for the highway. We should be able to use this car for at least a few hours before we have to dump it too. Tonight we’ll go hole up somewhere for a while, away from satellites. From what I could see in tunnels, they’re actively scanning cameras, data, for any sign of us, 24/7. We don’t want to give them an easy path to find.

It’s quiet in here, compared to the roar of the motorcycle.

“Should I tunnel to her?” I ask. “See if they know anything?”

He shrugs. “
Nyet
. An hour or so.”

For some reason being in the car doesn’t give me claustrophobia like walls do. I guess because you can’t lock me in a regular car, not like that. It’s the being trapped part that starts all the panic feelings.

Worry about right now, Jake. Not tomorrow, or tonight, or what we’ll do once we see where Dad is.

I watch the small-town scenery fly by the window, churches and stores and pastel houses with flags hanging out front and sprinklers shooting off. A couple kids running through in their bathing suits. It feels like none of it, none of that normal, everyday life, has a thing to do with me anymore.

“Yakob,” Dedushka says, with a glance. “It is right that I should tell you, some. Now is good time.”

I raise my eyebrows. I hope I know what he means. I’ve been asking questions about his powers, his past, for weeks, but it’s like trying to pry a boulder.

“If something happens,” he says, “you should know. At least the start of it.”

I swallow, ignore the
if something happens
. “Know what?”

He sighs, grips the steering wheel, a tattered black leather cover. “It was in Russia, in 1958…” He stops and glances at me, his face stony. “No. I do not wish to tell this part of the story now. It is too much. Enough to say that … your talent is with touch, with people’s things. Mine was voices.”

I wait, watch him. Suddenly he stares hard at the rearview mirror. My guts clench. Did they find us already? How? I spin, scan behind us. Nothing unusual. “What do you see?”

After a couple minutes he relaxes. “
Nichevo
. Anyway, voices.” He waves his hand. “Like you and tunnel, but not quite. When I hear voice of someone who has died, I was taken over with last moments of this person, how they died, where. I feel it all.” He shudders. “Not pleasant, Yakob. I have died so many times, in so many people. Always it is sad.”

He stares ahead, chewing on his lip.

“Wow. I’m sorry, Dedushka.” Tunneling only to dead people. If it’s anything like that soul-sucking cold I feel when I touch dead people’s objects, I don’t know how he can stand it.

Then I realize what he’s really telling me. “Was. You said was. You don’t have it anymore?”

He shakes his head slowly. “This is what I want you to know. I was not born with it,
malchik
. It was created. It started with me. And we found a way to make it stop.”

My head spins. You can
stop
it? I try to think what it would be like not to have this ability I was born with. To truly be a normal person.

Wait. I would be useless to them, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be a pawn anymore.

“How?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Can I make it stop?”

He blows a long breath. “There was a serum. It is possible. But I do not think there is serum left, anymore.” He looks at me for a long minute, and sets a hand on my knee. “We did not know it would continue, that you would have power too.”

“Who’s
we
?”

He gets that look on his face, wistful, kind of goofy. “My Milena and I. Your Babushka.”

I nod, look out the window again. There are a million things he’s not telling me in this story, massive blanks. Who created this power in Russia in 1958? Why did he and my grandmother have a serum to stop it? And what about Dad?

I want to ask. I want to grill him on the details, find out more about this serum. But it doesn’t work to push Dedushka. He closes right up.

We hit the outskirts of Burlington, and he squints at the signs. “We go to get an object of Ivan’s? You are sure this is what you want?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. No matter what else happens, that’s the plan. The goal. Dedushka moves into the lane to go southeast, toward D.C. And then I ask, because I can’t help it. “Does Dad have a power too?”

Dedushka flinches. “I am sorry, Yakob. I will tell you, but it is a difficult story, and I must think how to tell. I will say it is … my choice that makes all this. That makes you like this, in danger. Your father apart. I would take it back if I could, a hundred times.”

I sigh. “It’s who I am. Who I’ve always been. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

He turns back to the road, and I can tell he’s not going to say any more. It’s enough, I guess. For the moment. Even though he didn’t answer how it happened. Or about Dad. I have to trust him that he’ll tell me what I need to know eventually.

We ride, silence cushioning us. I try to imagine life without tunneling. Without this.
Is
it who I am? Who would I be, without it?

Free?

35

“Accidents” by Fishboy

We sleep in the car, under an overpass. It’s easier and safer than negotiating a hotel, and hidden from satellites. Somehow, I actually sleep. In the morning we eat apples and Dedushka’s homemade granola bars, and I tunnel to Liesel. I can’t tell exactly what’s going on—she’s bustling down a hallway—but something’s changed. The activity level has picked up. It’s early, but the place seems full of analysts buzzing excitedly, and Liesel is out of breath, almost panting in anticipation.

I can’t tell for sure, but I think they might know we’re out, on the run.

I don’t tell Dedushka. I don’t want to freak him out.

Next I tunnel to Myka. She’s still in bed, her own bed at home, but awake. God, home seems so far away.

Hey,
I say in her mind.
Is it there? Did you leave it?

We set up a dead drop of a little air force tie tack of Dad’s—he used to wear it all the time, so it should work. I can’t wait to get my hands on it. I’m so close.

’Course. It’s been there for a week. I checked yesterday. When are you coming?

I pause.
You can’t be there, Myk.

Shame floods across, tangled with frustration. I was right. She had been planning to crash, to see me. My little sister, always a touch too smart for her own good.

It’s the worst thing you could do,
I say, dead serious.
Myka. They are watching you every second. You would lead them right to us.

I could get around them,
she says, hopeful.

No
.

Her hurt stabs through me.

Promise me,
I say.

She’s silent.

Myk. Promise.

Fine.
She stares out the window at the big elm in our backyard. I can hear the birds in it, chirping and fluttering around. I could hear them from my room too on summer mornings.
I miss you.

You too.

I pull away. I don’t like saying good-bye to her, to Dedushka. I never do.

“It is set?” Dedushka asks.

“Set. The library.”

*   *   *

We steal another car, an ancient rusted-out pickup. I hot-wire it faster this time, mostly because the panel is gone and the wires are already hanging out. The rumble of the questionable engine is so deafening that we couldn’t talk if we wanted to without shouting—but I don’t want to talk. All I want to do is get to the Reston library and have Dedushka go in and pick up Dad’s pin. I want to put a fat checkmark on that part of the plan and get on to the next part. Rescuing Dad.

We’re taking a risk having the drop so close to home. The house is under heavy surveillance, and there are still tails on both Mom and Myka. They may be increased if they know we’re out. But we’re not going to the house. I wanted it to be a public place where Myka went on a regular basis already, so no one would question her going there. Since she practically lives at the library when she’s not at school, especially in summer, this was perfect.

As long as she doesn’t show up today. I’m still a little worried about that. But I hope she’s smart enough to know better.

We’re less than ten minutes away. I practically bounce in the seat. I’ll know. Finally, I’ll
know
where Dad is. How he is. For the first time since I thought he died.

Hallucination Eric pops up, squished next to me on the seat. “Hey, look at you! Rabbit is running!”

I grit my teeth. It takes all my will not to move away, not to acknowledge he’s there.

He puts a hand to the back of his head and then examines his fingers, slick and red with blood. “Why Jake,” he says, falsetto, “what have you done?”

Hallucination Eric is always sarcastic and mean. Real Eric wasn’t, most of the time. I wonder if he is now. I haven’t seen enough of him to know.

“You really should just kill me next time. Maybe then I’ll leave you alone.” He winks. “But probably not.”

I look stubbornly out the window, then at the watch I borrowed from Dedushka. Five minutes.

“You’re no fun anyway,” he says. “Mad as a hatter. I think I’ll go visit your little sister.”

“Shut
up
!” I yell right in his face. “Leave me
alone
!”

But of course he’s not there, and I’m yelling at Dedushka. He slams on the brakes, startled. The old truck skids, the back end swinging to the right in a sickening lurch, and we smack right into a parked car. The heavy truck crumples the car, a horrible, squealing crunch.

Then the truck stalls, and everything is silent. We sit there side by side, staring ahead.

“Are you all right?” I ask, shaky. “Sorry.”

He sighs a long breath, blinks, and lets go of the steering wheel, stretches his fingers. Glances at me. “I am all right. That car, not so very much.”

He creaks open the driver’s door and goes to look. I get out too. It’s bad. It’s a Prius. The whole left side of the back end is smushed. The truck is fine, hardly a dent on it.

“What do we do?” I whisper. It’s not like we have insurance. It’s a stolen fucking car.

He shrugs. “Leave.”

But a man in a tie tumbles out of the office building in front of us, wild-eyed, careening down the steps. “What have you done to my car?”

“Guess not,” I say under my breath.

“Go,” Dedushka says. “Go and get it. It is two blocks away. This will take time to deal with. I will be here.”

“But…”

“You will be fine,” he says. “Just be quick. Careful.”

“I’m waiting for an answer, old man,” the guy says, rough. “What the hell did you do?”

I look at Dedushka once more, as he turns up the Russian act and starts speaking broken English to the man, and I take off.