by Susan Adrian
I’m starting to lose it. Before long I won’t need to pretend—I’ll be a basket case gibbering on the bed. Useless.
I’m in the middle of a session with Dr. Tenney when Dedushka appears behind him.
His arms are crossed, eyebrows locked down. Even his beard is jutting at me.
I glance at him quick, then away. There’s no point. It’s kind of cruel, actually. The people I most want to see, right there, but totally in my mind.
“Is anything wrong, Jake?”
I shake my head at Dr. Tenney. “Completely normal over here.”
“Okay, then.” He leans in, all confidential, even though the cameras are on. “Dr. Miller has approved for us to do a tunnel today. Revisit the beach, and see if you have any luck with that subject again.”
I won’t, thanks. But I’ll take some beach time. I can pretend I’m really in the sun, escape that way. I can stay there as long as possible.
“You do this for them?” Dedushka paces behind Dr. Tenney’s chair, gesturing. “For these pigs? You do whatever they ask you to?”
I sigh. He’s always pissed at me in these visits. Like all my guilt on overdrive.
“You don’t want to do the tunnel? I thought you’d be pleased.”
Guilt in stereo.
“No, it’s good,” I tell Dr. Tenney. I don’t look at Dedushka.
“It’s good,” he mocks. “It is not good, Yakob. It is slavery. You are their slave.” He yells the last, spit flying over Dr. Tenney’s head.
“Just give me the object,” I say, edgy. “Please.”
Dr. Tenney passes me a bag with a key in it. “Try to move him,” he says. Tension creeps into his voice. “You really need to try.”
It’s the same beach and the same soldier: Ritidian Beach on Guam, Lance Buckley. Buck.
He lies on the sand, soaking the tropical sun into his skin. There’s a new scar, still-healing, puckered against the rest, on his shoulder. He doesn’t think of it beyond noticing the twinge of pain and letting it go. Only the moment. That’s all that matters. Colonel Martin must be satisfied with his work, to send him here again. He stretches out on the soft sand, the waves crashing at his feet.
I don’t try to control him. I let him lie there and enjoy the sand, the warmth. I enjoy it too, molding into his skin, feeling what he feels.
I could stay here, I think suddenly. I could not come back. I could become Buck, get up from here and go on with his life. Leave Jake Lukin back at Montauk, dead.
Like he is.
“Yakob!”
My eyes fly open. The moment’s snapped. Dedushka’s leaning down next to Dr. Tenney, their faces even. Both of them blaring disappointment.
My lip curls. “Just go.” I mean both of them.
Dr. Tenney protests, tries to get me to try it again, but I don’t respond. Finally he packs up and leaves.
Dedushka’s still sitting there.
“Go away,” I say. But I look at the cameras. I can’t do this on camera. Even if Liesel knows about the hallucinations, I don’t want hard evidence of my insanity.
I turn my back on him, go to the chair. Turn on the TV. Pawnshop reality show. Good enough.
He moves between me and the TV, frown carved deep. “It is not ‘good enough.’ You must get out of this nightmare place.”
I can’t answer. I can’t answer.
I’m trying, I think. I look straight at him—since he’s in front of the TV, it won’t look crazy.
He spreads his hands wide. “No trying. Do. Do you ever think of coming to me?”
My mind stills, and my vision blurs. Coming to him. Tunneling to him without an object, instead of Myka.
Because he has “abilities” of his own. Because he knows I’m alive. Because he’s the one I really want to talk to. Why didn’t I think of that?
I blink, and realize he’s gone. It doesn’t matter. Message delivered. I know what I need to do now.
I think it’s time for an afternoon nap.
* * *
I imagine him the way I remember him best: out on the water, fishing. He always had gear with him. Wherever we were living, he’d find water—and then he’d bundle us all up, me, Myk, Dad, sometimes Mom—and head out. In Standish he had his own boat, and he went out on the lake every day he could.
Fishing is a good time for talking, he said. Away from the TV, computers, video games, cell phones, all the things he hates. Also conveniently away from surveillance cameras and spies. In a boat you can see and hear somebody coming a mile away.
I like that idea.
I picture him on his boat, perched on the old patchwork quilt Babushka made, fishing hat low over his eyes. Beard splayed out over his chest. He’s alone, tossing out his trusty silver minnow lure, retrieving, over and over. A splatter of rain starts to fall. Then a hit, a fat rainbow pulling hard at the line, dancing. He smiles to himself as he brings it in, twists the lure off with his calloused fingers, drops the fish in a bucket of water. Dinner. It is good he can manage for himself. So much easier to stay hidden from the durnoy glaz when you can find your own food.
I open my eyes. Did I imagine him thinking that? It was so vivid, the thoughts so clear. But it wasn’t a real tunnel—there wasn’t a buzz, or warmth, or a location. It felt different. And he couldn’t be on his boat in Standish. I gave DARPA that location.
It was Standish I was picturing, wasn’t it? I can’t remember the lake well enough to be sure. But I am sure there was a connection, something …
I try again. Picture the same scene, same place. This time the boat seems different. Smaller, and he isn’t sitting on Babushka’s quilt, just a dark blue towel. The rest is the same: the hat, the lure, the beard. But those would be the same anywhere. I try tentatively to go into him, to feel him.
A breeze brushes his cheeks, ruffling the beard. He checks the sun—two o’clock. Still time to catch another one or two. He must call Abby tonight on the safe line, see how they are. Abby is struggling, bednyaga. Sometimes he wishes to tell her, give her hope. He cannot. If he is wrong, or if the boy cannot be retrieved …
This is a real tunnel. I did it. May be pure luck that he’s fishing, doing what I remembered. But it might be my only chance. I have to make him know I’m there. I hadn’t felt the location. I try to sense it, see if I can tell.
Location: Canada. Quebec, not far over the border from Vermont. Lac Bromont.
He can’t sense me, not like Myka can. I’ll have to be more obvious. I’ll have to control him, show him. I go deeper.
He casts again, the motion sore to his old arm, but familiar. Come on, little riba. I know you are there, fish, hiding beneath the waves. Nothing. Again …
I nudge him as he lifts his arm back for another cast.
No. You need to stop and open the tackle box. Right there, the top. Flip it open.
He sighs. Why does he want to get into the tackle box? The lure is fine, working. Always the same lure, silver for afternoon. He ignores the thought, casts again, reels.
Open it. You need to write it down on your notepad. You didn’t record that last fish, did you? You always record your fish. Take care of it now, before you forget.
Reluctantly he props the pole against the side of the boat and leans over to the tackle box. Little voice, you are annoying to me. You grow more annoying as I get older, pushing me to do things. I can record when I want to record! Should you not let an old man alone?
Still, he opens the lid, pulls out his notepad and small pencil, and starts to write.
I concentrate. I’ve never tried to write through anyone. I don’t know if I can. I fill his fingers, his thumb, with my own. He’d written RAI, but I stop his hand, scratch the letters out with big, dark scratches. I’m not even trying to convince him to do anything. Just doing it.
He stares at the page, puzzled. Watches as his hand moves on its own. He feels it move, part of him, but he did not do it. J-A-K-E, his hand spells. The letters are shaky, too large, like a child’s. But he can read them.
He lets his fingers move. A new line.
I-t i-s J-a-k-e. H-e-l-p m-e.
He looks around, quick—are the durnoy glaz watching? Is this a trick? There is no one near. “Malchik?” he whispers. “Is that you?”
His fingers flip the page, cramp again to write. He watches, fascinated.
Y-E-S! Alive. Locked in—Montauk.
I’m losing myself, sticking too much, too deep, like I did with Liesel. I have to pull away, and I don’t know if I can get back. I have one or two more seconds.
Need HELP. Later …
I jerk away, as hard as I can, and make it. I’m confused by the white above me, the bright white. Brighter than it should be … the lights.
The lights are on.
I sit up, fast. Liesel stands by the door, hands clasped in front of her, eyes on me.
“Oh,” I say, my breath coming fast. “Bad dream.”
“Yes. You were making … noises.” Her eyebrows curve. “I thought we’d talked about sleeping in the afternoon.”
“If you don’t have work for me to do, I assume my time is my own,” I snap. I swing my legs around. “It’s not like there are a lot of options.”
“Yes.” She clicks slowly forward, stops about a foot away. “We should talk about that too. You’ve stopped going to the gym altogether, and you never went to chapel. On your downtime, you sleep. You haven’t made any progress with Dr. Tenney in a long time. Frankly, I am concerned. My oversight committee is concerned.”
“You have an oversight committee? Like people who know I’m here and allow it?”
She frowns. “Of course. Even classified programs have oversight, Jacob. You were brought here for your safety. You agreed. There’s nothing illegal about it.”
Except for all the lying, and misrepresentation, and manipulation. Entrapment, I think it’s called. I stand, the floor cool on my bare feet, and take a step toward the door. “So I can leave, then, whenever I want?”
She smiles, and I really want to punch her. “No. You’re an intelligence asset of the U.S. government, and the subject of an ongoing study. You know far too much about us to leave, and you’re very aware of that. You’re here for national security now, as well as your own.”
My security … big, fat-ass liar. I close my eyes, clench my fists to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. One … two … three. Think of Dedushka fishing. That speck of hope. “Why are we talking about this again?”
She blinks. “You asked. And my oversight committee is concerned with your continuing mental health and happiness. As I am.”
“You want me to be happy?” I ask, incredulous.
“Content. Productive. Stable. Yes, Jacob. I have always wanted that. You should be nearing that point by now, settling in. But you’re not.” She tilts her head. “What can we do to help?”
“Let me go outside,” I answer. “Let me breathe the goddamned air.”
“Possibly…” she says, low. She frowns. “I have resisted the idea, for security reasons. But a guarded visit to a secure, isolated area…” Her eyes come up to mine. “Possibly. The committee also had this on their options list.” Her voice softens, the honey voice I barely remember. “It has never been my goal to make you miserable, Jacob. The happier you are here, the better your work. And that’s best for all of us. Your work benefits all of us.”
She stares at me with her bleached-grass eyes, steady, like she’s going to say something else. Maybe tell me she knows about the hallucinations, instead of letting me think I’m insane?
She turns and leaves without another word.
I plop onto the bed, triumphant. I could get to Dedushka—I did. I just have to do it again.
* * *
At 5:30 a.m. I click the alarm off before it beeps, alerts anyone. I’m already awake.
I imagine Dedushka pushing out the boat, bundled in his jacket. Using the oars, because he always uses the oars instead of the motor in the early morning, so he doesn’t startle the fish. I imagine him at a good spot not too far off the shore, unhooking the gold lure, making the first cast. Reeling. Casting again.
It falls into place, and I’m there. The same place, Lac Bromont.
It’s chilly, the sun starting its rise over Iron Hill to the east. No matter. The bugs are rising too, and fishing will be good. He’s eaten all his trout. He needs more today.
And Yakob. Will Yakob come? He has the big notepaper ready, in case.
Put the pole down, Dedushka, I think. Go to the paper.
He sets the pole down, without question. The little voice! Yakob? The paper. There is a big yellow pad, a fresh pencil ready, laid next to him on the seat. The pencil … here. In his fingers.
Dedushka, I write painstakingly, slowly. Love.
“Yakob,” he says aloud, gruff. I feel the tears well up in him, his rough hand brush at his eyes. “You are all right?”
His hand writes.
Yes. Don’t have long. Must escape.
It takes so much effort to write, to focus his fingers. I’m already feeling heavy.
He nods, speaks to the air. “I have called friends, found out about this Montauk CIA base. I have a plan. It will get us together for a meet, at a place of my choosing. They cannot help but bite on it. If you can do this, with me, perhaps you can…?”
He doesn’t finish, but I know what’s in his mind. Perhaps I can get us away, if he can get me outside, get me to him.
Yes, I write. I will make it work. What do I need to do?
“Nothing, malchik.” He strokes his beard, over and over, the hair wiry under his hand. “I will do the first part. What is the name of your control? The leader.”
I take his hand again, write.
Dr. Liesel Miller. Then: Must go. Thank you.
“My love, Yakob,” he whispers. “Pray to God, but continue to row for shore. We will be together soon.”
I pull away, with a lurch, back into the room.
I’d forgotten that saying. Dad used to say it all the time, even though he stopped going to temple. Now I know where he got it from. And it does fit perfectly. Hope, yes, but make it happen yourself. Put that together with the other thing that’s been repeating through my head the past couple days.
We Lukins stick together like glue.
Together we can make it through.
Anywhere we choose to roam,
Together we will make it home.
Dedushka is a Lukin, and so am I. I have no idea what his plan is, how he can force Liesel to arrange a meet. I’ll spy on her in the next couple of days to see. And I’ll come up with my own plan for what to do once there. I already have an idea.
Whatever happens, I’m not alone anymore. Together we will make it home.
God, I hope so.
30
“Caught” by Descendents
The next morning, during our usual tunnel session, Eric stops midmovement. He sets down the bag he’s holding, his expression intent. It reminds me of Bunny. He listens for a long time, eyes trained on me. I wait, silent.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says quietly. “Understood.”
He sets the bag in the metal box, leaves his hand there. Still staring me down.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Stand, please,” he says.
I sit back. It has to be Dedushka. Did he really work that fast? What did he do?
“Stand,” Eric repeats, voice frozen. “Now. Hands behind your back.”
It’s the look he gave me in the parking lot after my ride with Dedushka. I swallow and stand slowly. “What is it, Eric?”
“Hands behind your back!” he shouts.
I snap my hands together behind my back. He takes a zip tie out of the box, strides over to me, and hauls it tight over my wrists, cuffing me. Too tight, pinching. I flinch, but don’t say a word. I don’t know what’s going on yet. I don’t want to make it worse.
He sticks his hand in each of my pockets, like Liesel did before. He leaves them turned inside out, empty. Then he unlatches my
watch and tugs it off.
“No!” I say, hoarse. “Don’t take that. Please.”
He tugs a chair away from the table, sets it in the middle of the room. “Sit. Don’t move until I come back.”
I sit on the chair, facing the door, hands awkward behind my back. Bare, without Dad’s watch.
“Yes, ma’am,” Eric says. “On my way.”
He leaves. I wait, silent, mind flipping through possibilities. Whatever Dedushka did isn’t starting out well. Clearly they suspect me of secret tunneling, of collusion … of something. I can’t tunnel to anyone to find out what, why. I’m blind. Pinned in this chair. I stare up at the camera, like it will tell me something.
But there’s nothing I can do but wait.
* * *
It feels like hours before the door opens and Liesel stalks in, followed by Eric and two guards. I’m cramped, sore, and I have to piss. I don’t mention any of that. I lift my chin.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Be quiet,” Liesel snaps. “Don’t make me gag you.”
I press my lips together. Okay, then. Things aren’t better.
“Search it,” she says, with a wave around the room. “Search all of it. Behind the drawers, in the clothes, the sheets, mattresses, inside the toilet. Inside the drain. Everything. Show me anything you find that’s even slightly out of the ordinary.”
Oh. Crap.
I keep my mouth shut, eyes on her. The guards, two twenty-something guys, one black, one pasty white, start turning everything over. They don’t look at me. Eric stands behind Liesel, arms crossed.
Liesel is pure ice. “You want to know what happened, Jacob? I’ll tell you what happened.” She paces, in a tight oval. Her fingers tap against her skirt as she walks. “I was quite surprised to have a call this morning from a Mr. Grigory Lukin.” She pauses, gauges my expression—carefully blank—then starts up again. “He knew my name. He knew I was here, in Montauk, in a secret facility. More to the point, he knew you were here, and alive, in our custody.” Another pause. “How would he know that, Jacob?”