Tunnel Vision (32 page)

“I’m right here,” Rachel cuts in. Her neck is mottled red. “I know you’re trying to find Jake’s dad.”

Dedushka bangs the steering wheel, swearing in Russian, and Rachel jumps back against me. Then he takes his pipe from the dashboard, shoves it in his mouth, and sucks on it, unlit. He speaks around it, his eyes moving from Rachel to me. “She must come with us.”

“
What
?”

She flashes me a grin.

“No,” I try. Has he lost his mind too? “It’s not safe.”

“It is not
safe
to leave someone behind with knowing,” Dedushka snaps. “If Myka was there, they will watch video, from the library. They will see you, this girl. The satellites follow you to the truck. They will know who she is in an hour. If she stays, they question her.” He takes out the pipe, studies Rachel. “
Interrogate
. She must come.”

For the first time, Rachel looks a little scared. Good, I think perversely. She should be scared. But it’s not good. None of it is.

“Your name?” Dedushka asks. His gentle voice.

“Rachel Watkins,” she answers soft.

“You like my Yakob?”

“
Dedushka,
” I say, and Rachel shifts. It’s hard for her not to be touching one of us in this truck.

Dedushka barks a short laugh. “Why else she wants to come?”

We both stare forward, awkward, through the windshield. I’m aware of her breaths, her leg against mine.

“Your sister is okay? Did you find your father’s tack?”

I nod, open my hand. I was squeezing so hard you can see the print of some of the stars on my palm. “I did. And Myk’s fine. Just … stubborn.” Like Rachel.

“So,” he says with a nod. “Go already. It is safe here, for a few moments. We must know where we head next.”

I look at the tack, small in my palm. I’m afraid I’ll see something horrific, Dad being tortured or hurt. That he’s unreachable. Worse, that he’s dead. If I feel that cold nothingness for him I’ll fall apart again.

But I can’t give in to fear. Besides, this isn’t only for me—or even Dad. It’s for Mom, and Myka. And Dedushka. And Rachel, I guess.

I glance at her—she’s watching me curiously—then squeeze my fist around the pin again, close my eyes, and go.

A man, tall, with dark curly hair, clean shaven, his face lined. New Mexico, southeast corner, not far from the border with Texas. Not near any towns at all. An underground base. He’s wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt and slacks, sitting behind an uncluttered metal desk. There’s another man across from him, a dignified man with silver hair … I’ve seen him before, somewhere … their heads bent together over something on the desk. A report of some kind, a chart with a stuttering set of lines—

There’s a loud knock and I open my eyes, startled out of it. There’s a uniformed cop standing there, knocking on my window.

Adrenaline shoots through me, mixed with confusion from jolting out of the tunnel. But Dedushka nods, calm. “Open it.”

I crank down the window. It protests, squeaking the whole way. The cop doesn’t even wait till it’s all the way down.

“Can’t park here,” he says, gruff. “Residential parking only. Move along.”

There’s a headache coming. I feel it shoving its way into my head. “Dedushka,” I say, weak, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead.

He starts the truck and pulls away as fast as he can manage.

I can’t stop it. I try. I have tried. But once it starts, there’s nothing I can do. I writhe in the seat, brace my feet against the floorboard, waiting for it. I at least think to shove the tack deep into my pocket, so I won’t lose it when it happens.

“What’s wrong?” Rachel asks, her voice high. “Jake?”

The full pain hits, and it’s all I can do not to scream. I squeeze my head between my hands and clench my jaw and think
don’t scream don’t scream don’t …

Until I pass out.

37

“Simple Twist of Fate” by Bob Dylan

I wake up on something soft. I open my eyes. Rachel’s face hangs over me, concerned. Her hand moves rhythmically through my hair. “Hi,” she whispers.

I’m lying on her lap. I try to sit up fast, but the headache pounces as soon as I move. It’s easy for her to push gently on my chest, settle me back where I was. I groan. I can’t help it.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t give him some of that medicine?”

“
Nyet,
” Dedushka answers, sure, from somewhere in front of us. “Not unless we must.”

I look at the ceiling, trying to puzzle together what’s going on in spite of the roar in my head. A car, but not the truck. The backseat. We’re moving.

“Where are we?”

She looks out the window. “Going through Beckley, West Virginia. We’re heading to New Mexico, to your dad.” She puts her hand in my hair again, rubbing my head with the tips of her fingers, looking down at me. I want her to stop—I don’t want her to be here, in danger, and I still can’t believe she forced her way into this madness—but I also
don’t
. It helps. Her fingers are strong, certain. I barely keep from giving in and closing my eyes again. I focus on her face.

She seems different. More serious. “Your grand—” Dedushka makes a sound from the front seat, like a warning growl, and she half-smiles. “Your
dedushka
and I had a long talk while you were out. I understand better now, everything that happened. Everything that’s going on.”

I can’t have a conversation lying on her like this. I push up, more slowly this time, the headache pulsing, and she lets me. I slide over to the other side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” She looks away. Out the window it’s ridiculously green, crammed with trees, and raining, drops racing each other down the glass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really understand. I didn’t mean to complicate it more.”

She puts one finger to a drop, and I have a sudden, strong memory of pushing my hands flat against the smoky glass door in my cell, pounding to get out. I let out a long breath. I’m not inside that hellish place anymore. I’m here, in the world, with Dedushka and Rachel. On my way to Dad. How can I complain?

“It’ll be okay,” I say.

The look she gives me is pure relief. It does something to me too, releases something, a band around my chest snapping. Or melting. Maybe I can be happy. Someday. Maybe I don’t have to be guarded and watchful and alone the rest of my life. The headache ebbs a little, and I actually smile. She smiles back, shiny like before … all of this.

“How long was I out?” I ask. “And how on earth did you get me into a different car?”

She laughs. “Awkwardly. I’m glad no one was watching. And a little over four hours. You passed out, and then you slept. I wanted to give you that medicine, but he said no.”

Like she summoned it, a hallucination of Liesel appears in the seat between us, in her business suit and everything, prim and proper. “Who’s this?” Liesel asks, strident. “Someone else for me to target? Wonderful. You make my job easier all the time.”

I frown, ignoring her.

“Pretty girl.” She leans over Rachel, her hand almost touching Rachel’s face, and I cringe. “Needed some company, did you? Well, I can’t guarantee a double cell. But I will get you back, Jacob. Soon.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s harder to ignore them out here with other people around. She’s still there when I look again. And Rachel, watching me on the other side of her. “Hallucination?” she asks.

I grit my teeth and nod. What must she think of me? Headaches, hallucinations. I’m a fucking wreck. Liesel leans in to me, her eyes close to mine. “We’re tracking you,” she whispers. “Soon.”

She disappears, the happy feeling gone with her. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t relax. Yes, I’m not locked up right this minute, but Liesel will never stop looking. And now she’s hunting Rachel too.

“Dedushka, give me the gun, please.”

Rachel starts. She probably thinks I’ve gone nuts again, am going to shoot her. Or myself.

Dedushka’s eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror. It’s too soon after the headache, and we both know it. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to. He grunts, slides one hand down into my bag, and hands Liesel’s gun over the back seat.

Rachel doesn’t say a word.

I ignore the dregs of the headache, hold the gun in my hands, and go. I do it out loud.

Location: Virginia. Arlington. 3701 North Fairfax Drive, sixth floor, room 622. She’s at the desk by the window, on the phone, looking out over the busy street below. The desk by the door is empty. She cradles the phone against her ear as she types, tries to scan the real-time images on the other monitor. “Yes, Sergeant. I understand. Thank you. Keep looking.”

Eric comes in, stopping in the doorway, and she hangs up the phone. “Not yet,” she says. “We’ve got eyes on the 40 West, the 81, and the 64. Nothing. They might have gone north again. We’re still looking for stolen cars.”

“They might have gone undercover,” he answers, frowning. “He might have spied on one of us and knows where we’re looking.”

She sighs, and I feel her surge of irritation. “Every time I get optimistic I remember he could be watching, anytime. Jesus, he could be making you or me say things, and we wouldn’t even know it.”

“I knew it,” Eric says, irritably. “I just couldn’t do anything about it.”

“True.” She taps her fingers against her skirt. “But Dr. Tenney didn’t know. So it might depend on the extent of his activity.” She sighs. “I need that boy in a lab.”

“Soon,” Eric answers. He looks severe, harsh. More like the Eric in hallucinations. “They’ll make a mistake, moving this way, and we’ll catch them. They have the girl with them too. That makes it harder to hide.” His lip curls. “This time he’ll never get away again.”

I come out of it. The first thing I do is drop the gun back in the bag—I can’t get it out of my hands fast enough. Only when it’s out of sight do I look at Dedushka. He frowns, clutching the wheel.

“We were going to travel on the 64,” he says. “From Charleston.”

“Well,” I sigh, “We can’t. We can’t keep doing the car switch either. Not if they know we’re stealing cars.”

“We could take a train,” Rachel says.

She seems totally unfazed by the tunnel, the gun, even her first glimpse of the hunters. She’s just working the problem.

I don’t know what I thought she’d do, exactly. Cry? Freak out? She’s not like that. That’s why I liked her in the first place.

“Like a passenger train?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Freight. My grandpa used to hop freight cars, back in the day. He said it was easy.” She looks wistful, for a moment. “My dad always said that’s where he got his wanderlust.”

“It is not so easy now,” Dedushka says, thoughtful. “But it is possible. I know how. There is hub in Charleston.”

“Okay then,” I say. I may not be able to relax, but at least I have help now. Partners. “We’ll take the train.”

*   *   *

We sit on the pavement behind huge stacks of boxes in the Charleston train yard, waiting for it to get dark enough to move, waiting for the train. They’re assembling a big one a couple tracks over, and Dedushka’s source—a homeless guy he met, who also showed us the hole in the fence—claims it’s westbound. All we have to do is wait for the right time: after they check the cars, as it’s pulling out, and hop on. I hope it’ll be that easy.

But it’ll be a while. Dedushka’s napping, and Rachel’s stretched out too, her eyes closed.

I wouldn’t mind sleeping either, but I need to do my tunnels. Not Liesel this time, though. Myka. And Dad.

Myka first, always.

Myka. 902 Van Buren Street, Herndon, Virginia.

Home.

She’s on her bed, reading a fat fantasy book, twisting her hair with her other hand. She’s all wrapped up in the story … but as soon as she feels me she slams it shut, drops it on the bed.

Jake. Thank God.

You okay?
I ask.
Is Mom okay?

Yes. I just—I went to the library. To see you.
Guilt floods through.
I was afraid I messed it up.

I don’t let her sense that she did, a little. Rachel probably wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t seen the agents.

Don’t worry.
I try my trick to soothe her, relax her, like always.
We’re fine. We’ll be okay.

Be careful,
she says, not soothed at all.
Did you find Dad?

Yes. He’s all right. Going to get him.

I feel her jumble of emotions. Relief, mostly. But she’s mad at him too. Like she was with me, but more.
Check with me every day. Please.

I will. Be safe, dorkus.

I pull away and lie on the pavement for a bit on my back, breathing.

Every once in a while it smacks me that this isn’t going to just go away, even when we get to Dad. That I am
never
going to be able to be Jake Lukin again, never go home.

One minute at a time.

I take out Dad’s tack. Maybe tunneling to him will make me feel better. He’s what I’m working toward, what I still have left. I close my eyes, let the warmth come.

He’s in the underground base in New Mexico. He sits at a table, a young man across from him, hair buzzed like a soldier, but in a white T-shirt and jeans. There’s a gray plastic tub between them. The young man has his eyes closed, cupping something in his hands. The young man frowns and scrunches his eyes shut while Dad watches, leaning as far as he can against the table, his feet tapping lightly on the floor. The man opens his eyes. “Sorry, sir. Still nothing.”

Disappointment fills Dad, sour, familiar. “That’s all right, son. We’ll keep trying.”

I don’t understand. Is that … an object? Is Dad giving someone else objects, trying to make that guy tunnel? Why would he do that?

Jesus, why would he do that?

The soldier leaves, and Dad sits for a second, staring at the object, a tennis ball. He picks it up, rolls it in his hands. It’s possible. He’s seen it. Why is it so hard?