Tunnel Vision Page 3

  “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.

  “You need to leave,” I say again. “Now. This is insane and an invasion of privacy, and probably illegal. We’re done.”

  Her eyebrows—perfectly plucked—arch. “You don’t want me to do that.”

  They don’t know anything. They can’t make me do anything. Whoever the other guy is—he can’t either. If I pretend to be normal from now on.…

  She sighs, dead green eyes on me, and her voice hardens. “Jacob. I’m going to be straight with you. Trust me, your other friend is out there, whoever he is. On this street somewhere, probably. He’s not in here only because I am, because my people are outside. Do you think he’s going to go away because you ask him to? That he’s going to believe your patently false denial? You knew why I was here as soon as I mentioned the party. It was obvious. And those men out there?” She jerks a chin toward my window. “They’ll take you away without a thought, without asking. If you can do what they think—what we think—they’ll push through your mother and your sister and everyone you know to get to you. You’ll be gone by morning. And by the time they’re done with you—”

  She pauses, looks me up and down, like she’s judging me. Her nose is long, pinched. It makes her face look stern. “You’ll be begging to do whatever they ask.”

  I cross my arms. “What if I don’t believe you?”

  “You saw him for yourself. He followed you. You want to take the risk, with your sister here? You’re normal, you say. I believe you to a point. I believe you can’t defend yourself and your family against hired guns like him.”

  I grit my teeth, but I don’t answer.

  “We don’t have much time—your sister’s expecting you. Do you want to hear my offer or not?” She pats the bed, smiles thinly. “Come. Sit by me. I’ll get a crick in my neck trying to talk to you like that.”

  I look at the bed, at her. I lean back against the door.

  Her lips twitch. “Fine. Here’s what I’m offering. As I said, I work for DARPA. We’re the innovation engine for the Department of Defense—we research and fund research for experimental, bleeding-edge ideas that could be used to help protect our country, and pass them on to the military if they prove useful. We invented the stealth fighter. The M-16. A small thing called the Internet.”

  I shift, impatient. I don’t want to hear a patriotic self-promotion spiel. I want to hear this “offer”—and figure out how I can turn it down. Get her out of here.

  But how do I deal with the other guy?

  Her voice relaxes. Honey again. “I know it’s overwhelming, Jacob. All we’re asking for right now, honestly, is for you to come in and do some tests with us. See what you can do, prove your abilities. Do your mother or sister know?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Skepticism flits across her face. “I need two days, that’s all. Tomorrow is Saturday—tell your mother you’re going somewhere for the weekend with Chris. Tell Chris you’re going away with your family. Meet me at the Starbucks on Elden at 9 a.m., and I’ll take you in. You’ll be back in time for Sunday dinner.”

  It thoroughly creeps me out that she knows so much: about Chris, my family. And there it is again: take you in. “I’m supposed to serve myself up to a secretive government agency for two days, without anyone knowing where I am. For tests? I’ve read books. People disappear in places like that, no matter what they can or can’t do.”

  A chill dances down my spine, saying it aloud. I really wish I could talk to Dad about this.

  She doesn’t hesitate. “You have my word, Jacob. I will bring you back here personally. And in return, whether we find you valuable or not, we offer you and your family continuing protection, so you can keep l
iving your normal life.” She smiles, with teeth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think it’s a fair offer. It’s only tests. The alternative is that your private friends, or someone else, gets hold of you. I’m sure they have their own tests and plans. None of us want that to happen.”

  She says the last bit slowly, each word distinct, her gaze steady. I understand her well enough. It means I don’t have a choice. They’ll take me in for their tests whether I agree or not, rather than let me end up somewhere else, used by someone else. Just because she doesn’t say it aloud doesn’t mean it isn’t plain as day.

  So there’s really nothing to decide. I go tomorrow—or I go now, probably. And there’s that protection she’s offering. I’ve seen that stalker guy close up. Even if he was unarmed, I’d be toast.

  And Myka. And Mom. I have to protect them.

  But I don’t have to roll over and take it either.

  “I’ll do your tests.” And I’ll bomb them on purpose. “In return for protection. But I’m not spending the night in a government facility. You’ll have to finish in one day, or no deal.”

  She thinks. Nods, slightly. “Not ideal, but it’ll do. Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll meet you at Starbucks, and you’ll bring me back tomorrow night.” And then this will be over, you government freak.

  She stands, stretches out one hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Jacob. I’m sure we’ll enjoy working together. The guards will remain posted outside, hidden, so no one else will disturb you or your family. You have my word. You will be safe until tomorrow.”

  I let her hand hang there, untouched, until she drops it. She pushes open the window and steps out, her heels in Mom’s flower bed, and disappears.

  I shut it after her, lock it, like that does much good—it was locked to begin with—and go out to eat dinner with my sister. I’ll have to work hard to tease her enough to distract her from noticing what’s wrong.

  Pretend everything is like it was this morning.

  5

  “Rock and a Hard Place” by Supreme Beings of Leisure

  DARPA headquarters is in Arlington, half an hour from home—only a few blocks from Mom’s work at the State Department. She might walk past it at lunchtime, in the sneakers she brings every day. I wonder if she knows what it is. There aren’t any signs.

  It looks like any other huge office building: modern, dark brown stone, a lot of glass windows. I guess I’d pictured a bleak underground lab with secret entrances, or military gates at least. I feel a little better when Liesel pulls into the normal parking structure, and when we walk into the normal lobby, with a café and a deli and everything.

  This isn’t bad. Actually, it’s kind of cool being inside someplace secret.

  My pulse bumps up when we’re waved past the regular Visitor Control Center, back to the guards at the Special Security Office. The guard is total military, six-foot-five with a crew cut, but stuffed into a shirt and tie instead of a uniform. The one behind him looks like his slightly smaller brother. Their faces are blank, polite. I figure neither one has any sense of humor at all, like most guards on military bases. I know the type well.

  “Please empty your pockets and surrender your personal items,” the first guard says. He holds out a tub like the ones at airports.

  I hesitate.

  “Everything on you, sir,” he says, impassive. “Including the watch. It’s for security reasons.”

  I look at Liesel.

  “Go ahead,” she says with a smile. “It’s routine.” She’s wearing a black suit, with another white shirt, and her badge around her neck on a lanyard.

  I hand over my wallet, my keys, and my phone. Even the watch, a fat silver military one that had been Dad’s, that Dedushka gave me after the funeral. The guard seals everything in a big Ziploc bag with my name written on it. Then he takes it all away, behind a white door.

  “Don’t I get them back?”

  Liesel shrugs. “When you leave. Visitors aren’t allowed to bring any items past the lobby. As I said, it’s routine, until you’ve been cleared. Security.”

  I feel stripped without my watch, my phone—and vulnerable. I now have no ID, money, or way of calling out if something goes wrong.

  The smaller guard takes me through an X-ray machine—in case I still have something hidden in a crevice somewhere—then positions me against a white wall and takes my picture. He tapes it on a visitor badge with my name, a bar code, and a bunch of seemingly random numbers and letters. To Liesel, he says, “He’s cleared for the SAPF.” Then he gives me a little smirk. “Welcome to DARPA, Mr. Lukin.”

  Maybe he does have a sense of humor, and he’s totally jacking with me. Sirens in my head blare bad idea, bad idea. I look back through the X-ray, past the desk, at the glass doors to outside.

  Too late.

  “This way.” Liesel smiles again and leads me to the elevators.

  * * *

  On the fourteenth floor the elevators open into a tiny room with another guard station, and a guy who is clearly a cousin of the dudes downstairs. He scans our badges with a fancy price gun-type thing, checks a computer screen, and scrutinizes our faces, comparing them to whatever he sees there. Finally he nods to Liesel.

  “This area is cleared for skiff, ma’am. The floor is all yours.”

  “Thank you. We’ll need it that way until tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? No, you need it that way until tonight. Or like an hour or two from now, when I’ve proven I can’t do a thing, and we all go back to business as usual. Fingers crossed.

  Liesel slides her badge into a reader in the door, like a hotel key, and it clicks open.

  I really want to turn around and go home now.

  But she gestures through the door, and I go. The hallway looks normal, if empty. She leads me past a dozen closed doors before opening one on the right. The windowless side. It’s set up like a conference room, with a big real-oak table in the middle and a few plush black leather chairs around it, all on the far side. To my left, behind the door, is a video camera on a tripod. There’s nothing else in the room. Beige carpet, beige blank walls.

  Liesel points to the middle seat, smiles. I’m beginning to hate her teeth.

  “Jacob, if you’ll have a seat there, please. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  The door closes behind her. It has a key card slot on this side too. I wonder if my temporary badge has a remote chance of working in it. Probably not. I sit, reluctantly, and look into the lens of the camera. A red light pops on.

  I’m on TV. I guess I should be glad there isn’t a two-way mirror to live up to all the stereotypes.

  I feel like making a face at the camera.

  But that’s probably stupid. I have no idea who’s watching me or where that footage is going. I am so out of my element here.

  The door clicks open and Liesel comes back in. A man and a woman, both in white medical coats, follow her. The man is pushing a cart loaded with a laptop and a bunch of wires and different-size Velcro bands.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Drs. Lennon and Milkovich, meet Jacob Lukin, our subject,” Liesel says. “Jacob, these are the doctors who will be performing your tests this morning.”

  “What’s that?” I repeat. But I know what it is, now that I can see it better. I’ve seen it on TV. “Is that a polygraph?”

  They exchange looks, but don’t answer. Dr. Lennon—a short, dark-skinned guy wearing a god-awful plaid shirt under his coat—sets the laptop on the end of the table and starts fiddling with the stuff on the cart.

  “Why,” I say sharply, “would you need a polygraph?”

  “You’re a smart kid,” Dr. Lennon says. “I bet you can figure that out.”

  Dr. Milkovich glances at me sideways. She’s in her twenties, short too, but pale all over: stick-straight, white-blond hair, skin so translucent the blue veins in her hands stand out. Her body is pretty stick-straight too, what I can see of it. She moves to the video camera, adjusting the height, the angle. M
aybe I’m taller than they thought I was.

  I can’t fake this with a polygraph. They’ll be able to tell.

  Dr. Lennon moves toward me with a fistful of bands. Maybe I should clock him, stop this whole thing right here. But then what? Run past layers of guards, if I even make it out the door? Run where? They know where I live.

  Liesel’s watching me closely. “The polygraph is to make certain what you say is what you believe to be the truth. As long as you’re honest and cooperate fully, it’s not a problem. It’s part of the scientific process. It doesn’t mean we don’t trust you.”

  Lennon straps bands around my chest, waist, arms, and fingers, and plugs them all into his machine.

  “Let’s not pretend we trust each other,” I say. It makes me feel a little better, that splash of honesty.

  She presses her lips together. They’re red today, shiny with lipstick. “Doctors, proceed with the tests as discussed. I’ll contact you if I see any issues or we need to deviate.” She nods to me, trussed up like a turkey. “Jacob, I’ll see you later. Please do your best. Much depends upon it.”

  It will be a lot better for me if I don’t do my best, thanks very much. I’ll still try to play dumb and see if it gets through the polygraph tests.

  I tap my feet on the floor, tap tap tap, because they’re all I can move.

  I’m trying to avoid the feeling that I’m in deep trouble.

  * * *

  It’s an hour before they even bring me any objects. It takes all that time for polygraph bullshit. Calibration. Detailed, excruciating explanation from Dr. Lennon of what’s going to happen and how it all works. (I don’t care, take it off.) Test question after test question after test question, while he stares at the screen and Dr. Milkovich sits in one of the chairs and takes notes, and I tap my feet and try not to swear or sweat or squirm like a five-year-old.

  Is your name Jacob Lukin? Yes.

  Are you eighteen years old? Yes.

  Do you live at 902 Van Buren Street, Herndon, Virginia? Yes.

  It gets old fast.

  Is your mother Abigail Lukin? Yes.

  Is your father major general John Lukin, deceased? I hesitate. His first name isn’t really John; it’s Ivan. He changed it before he joined the air force, because Ivan Lukin sounded too Russian. Still—that’s what’s on the records. Yes.