Tunnel Vision

by Susan Adrian

  His knees are not meant for this.

  I’m in.

  He kneels, in the dark, on damp grass, his hands up high. South Park Cemetery, Roswell, New Mexico. There’s a gun to his head.

  “I’m going to keep asking until you tell me where he is,” growls a voice.

  Dedushka looks up, back. Eric stands over him, his face twisted like I’ve seen it in hallucinations. “I have told you. He was taken,” Dedushka says, mildly.

  “I know he was ‘taken,’” Eric spits. “By John Lukin, who appears to be alive, yay for everyone. Except we’re not supposed to even look for Jake now. We’re supposed to leave him alone. And I will not settle for that.” He touches the back of his head, gingerly. “I need to see him.”

  “I am not in contact with Yakob,” Dedushka says. His arms start to tremble, holding them up like this. He cannot take it long.

  “Bullshit.” Eric yells. He sounds completely unhinged. “I’ll kill you if he doesn’t come meet me.”

  He looks down into Dedushka’s eyes, and I swear he’s looking at me. That he senses me, somehow.

  I come out of it, my whole body shaking. “Dedushka,” I whisper.

  Rachel starts the truck. “We’ll get there in time. We’ll get to him.”

  We have to.

  41

  “Full Circle” by Otherwise

  Rachel drives fast—we get there in just over half an hour. We fumble a little on where the cemetery is, with no phones or GPS, and I don’t want to ask. It’s not great to ask for directions when you’re driving a stolen car. Eventually we find a sign, and make it to the gates. Two stone pillars, with fancy wrought iron gates between them, swung open.

  It’s 5:30 according to the bank clock we drove by. It must be almost dawn.

  “Stop here,” I say.

  She pulls over next to the gates, stops. Frowns. “I’m not waiting here.”

  I lay my hand over hers. Her skin is cool, and she’s shivering a little. “You have to. I already have to worry about Dedushka. I can’t risk having both of you there. Eric seems insane.”

  “But I can help,” she says. “I can’t just sit here and—” She sighs. Turns her hand over, under mine. “And worry.”

  “I’ll be all right. But I have to get to Dedushka.”

  She grits her teeth. “Okay,” she whispers.

  “Keep the truck ready. In case we need to run. And you—take off if it goes wrong, okay?”

  We share one last, long look—she covers her mouth with her hand, but she nods quick—and then I slip out the door.

  I jog down a long, straight driveway lined with trees. Really long, nothing on either side but dirt fields. There’s no sign of the sun yet, but the sky is starting to lighten, the dark less dense.

  I’m starting to wish I’d had Rachel drive me this far, when I finally get to the graves. This is a huge cemetery.

  I think of cataloging all these graves, telling their stories like I used to. Like Oak Grove Cemetery in Virginia. The days with Pete, then Eric. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  I suddenly recognize the trees, the area, from my tunnel to Dedushka, down the second side road. I see a car. Then I spot them, a ways back from the path. Dedushka’s sitting on a bench under a tree. Eric stands behind him, twitching, holding a gun to Dedushka’s head.

  I run, at first. As I get closer I slow to a walk, careful.

  “Doesn’t this bring back fond memories, mate?” Eric shouts. “You and me, together?”

  I step forward. Dedushka watches, solemn. “Put the gun down, Eric,” I say.

  He snorts, his eyes wild. “Oh, now you’re going to tell me when to use my gun? I’m the one in charge here. I’m the agent. You—you’re just a rogue asset.”

  I keep walking slow. Put my hands up. “Not anymore.”

  His face hardens. “Right. I’m not an agent anymore, because of you. They’re probably going to fire me. And you think you’re free. You found your daddy and now you can do whatever you want.”

  I meet Dedushka’s eyes. He probably has an idea how untrue that is.

  His beard moves very slightly with his breath. “Go,” he mouths. “Walk away.”

  I shake my head.

  “Stop!” Eric says. “That’s close enough.”

  I stop ten feet away. Not close enough to do anything useful. “What do you want?”

  Eric rubs at the back of his neck. “I want you to undo what you did. But I’ll take an even trade. You for the old man. It’s very generous, since they really want you both. And this time—you’re not going to pull any of your crap. Not going to use me.” His lips curl. “I liked you, you know. I didn’t have to do the tennis thing. I was trying to make it easier for you.”

  “You worked to keep me a prisoner and a slave,” I answer, cold. “Easier is not enough.”

  “And you made me look like a traitor!” he shouts. “You got me shot. You made me lose my job.”

  We stare at each other.

  “Tunnel through one of those gravestones,” he says. “I want you to make yourself weak, and sick. Then I’ll leave the old man here, and you’ll come with me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t?” His voice goes higher, and he shoves the gun hard against Dedushka’s head, into his thick white hair. “You want me to blow his head off, right here in front of you?”

  “I’ll go with you,” I say slow. “But I’m not tunneling to dead people first.”

  “Do not,” Dedushka says. “I am old. Leave now, Yakob.”

  “Shut up!” Eric yells. “Do it!”

  A car comes screaming down the main road, dust barreling behind it. It pauses at the turn, then takes it, heads our way.

  Behind it, slower, I see the truck following. Rachel. Stay away, I want to tell her.

  “Who is that?” Eric moves closer to Dedushka, looking wildly all around him. “Who did you bring?”

  I think of using the distraction to get in there and pull Dedushka away, but I don’t think I could do it. The way Eric is right now, I think he’d shoot.

  “No idea,” I answer honestly.

  The car flies toward us, the brakes squealing as it stops, swings a little sideways. Liesel pops out of the door, her gun (a new gun) aimed at the three of us.

  Crap.

  “Eric.” She moves slow, steady, toward us. “Put the gun down.”

  What? I figured she was coming to help him. To be on his side.

  “Stay back!” Eric calls. “I’ve almost got him.”

  “You don’t want to do this, Eric,” she says, in that sweet voice I hate so much. She looks the same as always, hair back, professional. “Put the gun down now, and I can pretend this never happened.”

  Her eyes flick to me. “Jacob.”

  Like we’re old friends.

  At the end of the side road Rachel has the truck turned and waiting, idling.

  “He can’t just get away with it,” Eric says. Almost whining. “You need to study him. Don’t you want to study him?”

  Again, a glance at me, though she keeps creeping toward Eric. She’s even with me now. I could reach out and touch her. Though I’d rather touch a snake. “I might still. I put in to work with John, now that I know about his lab.”

  Hell, no. Reason number five billion and one not to go back to Dad.

  “But it’s time for you to move on, Eric. Other cases. Other projects.”

  Suddenly Eric swings the gun up, points it at me. “I’ll kill him. Right here. Then he won’t use anyone again.”

  I stare down the barrel, like I did in the cemetery so long ago. It’s worse this time. This time he’s serious.

  But I’m not the same person anymore.

  In one movement I duck, leap forward, and tackle him at the knees. We both go down hard. He kicks out, trying to get me off him. I jump sideways to try to get his gun arm, to get it away so he can’t shoot anyone.…

  There’s a massive bang, and I cover my head, total instinct. He must h
ave shot the gun. But I don’t feel anything, no pain. I sit up, checking for Dedushka. He’s fine, still motionless on the bench, watching.

  Eric is on the ground, flat, next to me. A hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Liesel lowers the gun like it’s suddenly heavy. “I couldn’t let him shoot you,” she says, almost to herself. “Not you.”

  There’s a moment where we stay there, still, looking at each other. Everything that’s happened, so much. Before Dad, it was me and her.

  And Eric.

  I jump to my feet, grab Dedushka, and run. I don’t look back. She’ll take me in again. To Dad. To labs and sunless rooms and tests. Tunneling for the rest of my life.

  “Wait!” she calls. “Jacob, wait!”

  My shoulders twitch. But no shot comes.

  It’s not far to the truck, and Dedushka manages to keep up, panting next to me. Rachel throws open the door from the inside and we hop up and in, slam the door behind us. She takes off, spraying gravel.

  I look back. Liesel’s standing over Eric, staring down, gun hanging at her side.

  I remember him joking with Chris, sitting in the mausoleum with me. Playing tennis at Montauk, on the court he rigged. Laughing.

  With his wife and his babies.

  Dead. Gone.

  I feel numb, like everything around me—trees, sky—is unreal. A hallucination that’ll wipe away any minute, and I’ll find myself sitting with Eric in a cell.

  Dedushka sets a hand on my shoulder, and I look at him, at Rachel, safe.

  “Malchik,” Dedushka says, quiet but urgent, “I contact my friend Vladimir yesterday. There is still serum, to stop this thing. He has hidden it, but it is there. It may need fixing, for you, but there is a chance…”

  “You could make it stop?” Rachel asks, hope spilling out of her voice.

  I don’t answer, not yet, the enormity of it overwhelming me. This is real, this moment. And we could make it stop. Then no one would be after me at all, ever again.

  I could live a normal life. Not Jake Lukin, maybe. But a normal person, above ground. A real person. Without guns and handcuffs and ruthlessness.

  We drive through the streets of Roswell, the three of us safe as the sun comes over the horizon.

  42

  “The End” by Jason Reeves

  We sit in a gas station parking lot in Daleville, Virginia, watching the trail. I’m behind the wheel, Rachel next to me in the passenger seat, Dedushka taking a nap in the back. This car—well, van—we actually bought with cash, so nobody will be reporting it stolen. We can keep it for a while. And it’s big enough for everybody.

  If they come.

  I go over it again in my head. It’s the right day, definitely the right crossing. If they stick to the schedule. Of course they may have had to change the plan. Or gone slower than they thought. Or had something horrible happen to them.

  “They’ll be here,” Rachel says, calm.

  I flash her a tense smile. It makes all the difference, her being here. Not being alone. Of course we don’t know what’s going to happen at the end of the summer. After we do this we’re going to go to this Vladimir guy in Florida, get the serum. See if it works.

  I wanted to get Myka first. She might be able to help with it, anyway.

  If all goes well, if the serum works, Rachel will go to Berkeley in the fall, like she planned. There won’t be anything for anyone to hold over her if there’s no reason to take me. She could claim she had a wild summer exploring the U.S. (true) and now she’s resuming her life.

  She says she might want to take a year off anyway. That this has been valuable experience of the political system, the behind-the-scenes working of the government, and she’s not sure if she’s ready for it to end.

  Then she laughs, and I kiss her, and we don’t talk about it anymore.

  But if it works—if it really works—maybe I can figure out a way to go to Stanford too. Maybe Dad can help if I’m wiped clean of this ability and not a temptation for him.

  I see it there, the future I want. It’s possible. If they come …

  “There,” Rachel says. “Someone’s there.”

  I see Myka first. She bounces with each step as she walks along on the dirt trail. Her hair pokes out under an army-green ball cap pulled down low, a backpack on her shoulders. Mom’s behind her. She looks tired, disheveled, but good. They’ve been walking the Appalachian Trail for three weeks now, since I called them. Just two more hikers, anonymous. Easily lost among the rest.

  Except now they’re found.

  Myka stops at the edge of the road, hand over her eyes, searching. I open the door, step out. Stand where she—they—can see me.

  I hear Myk’s squee from across the street. She grabs Mom’s hand and they run across, straight into my arms. All three of us, in a jumble of arms and grins and exclamations.

  Dedushka and Rachel get out too and watch us, laughing.

  Will Dad come after us before we get the serum? I hope not. I like to think that he knows it’s wrong, that he’ll go back to his original plan of keeping me out of it.

  He and Liesel can keep trying, but I doubt they’ll make another tunnel.

  Mr. Smith is another thing, but Dedushka says he can help me stay out of sight, stay above ground. Until the serum works, and then I’m out of this for good.

  I close my eyes and hug Myka, Mom. We don’t even need to do Glue, not anymore. If we can stick together through all that craziness, we can stick together through anything.

  We will. Mom, Myk, Dedushka, Rachel, me. Maybe we are kind of a super family after all.

  Together, at last. And almost free.

  Acknowledgments

  My journey to publication has not been quick or easy in any sense—which means there are more people to thank, friends and family who stuck firmly by my side and helped along the way. Thank you, to all of you. Persevering with writing long enough to get published requires a community of support, and I can never really thank you enough. If I miss you somehow here, know that I still appreciate you.

  First, to the one who was there first, my mom, and to my much-loved stepdad, Doc: your encouragement means everything.

  To Michael and Sophie, who live with this craziness every day even though they didn’t choose it: I love you most, always. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you.

  To Kate, who was the second person to love Jake as much as I did, and who wouldn’t give up on finding a home for him: you’re not just an agent, but my champion (my ninja superhero champion).

  To Brendan, who gave Jake’s story a home. It wouldn’t be book-shaped without you! Thank you for getting Jake so well. To all the fabulous Thomas Dunne and St. Martin’s crew for their excellent work: Nicole Sohl, Greg Collins, Stephanie Davis, Janna Dokos, Marie Estrada, Bridget Hartzler, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jessica Katz, Young Jin Lim, and everyone else behind the scenes. Thank you for transforming my words from a story to a Real Book.

  To the Compuserve Forum, where the Kick-Ass Writer Chicks were born, and to the Surrey International Writer’s Conference. Thank you Diana Gabaldon, my first writing mentor. Your reassurance early on was so important to me. Thank you especially Kathy Chung, Rose Holck, Julie Kentner, and Vicki Pettersson. Thank you to Janet Reid, for loving Jenna.

  To Team Sparkle—Linda Grimes, Emily Hainsworth, Tiffany Schmidt, Victoria Schwab, Courtney Summers, and Scott Tracey—who wouldn’t let me give up even when I was the only one still without a deal. Look! We made it!

  To Liz Briggs and Krista Van Dolzer, the other two triplets, for all the e-mails and IMs. To other fellow kt lit lovelies Sara Beitia, Ellen Booraem, Matthew Cody, Erin Danehy, Trish Doller, Carrie Harris, Renee Nyen, Stephanie Perkins, Rebecca Petruck, Amy Sonnichsen, Amy Spalding, and Kate Linnea Welsh. Fellow nerds, unite!

  To all the Fearless Fifteeners for your endless and necessary support, and especially to the admins who helped me make everything run for our debut year: MarcyKate Connolly, Lauren Gibaldi, Kathryn Holmes, Cordelia Jen
sen, Jen Klein, Stacey Lee, Moriah McStay, Heather Petty, Cindy Rodriguez, Jenn Marie Thorne, Krista Van Dolzer, and Jasmine Warga. And Ilene for keeping me company at BEA.

  To all the many, many writer and publishing friends who’ve e-mailed and posted and tweeted and hugged (virtually or otherwise) over the years. You inspire me every day: Dahlia Adler, Kendare Blake, Joanna Bourne, Heather Brewer, Patricia Briggs, Bill Cameron, Leah Clifford, Julie Cross, Kari Lynn Dell, Julianne Douglas, Sarah Beth Durst, Jamie Ford, Miriam Forster, Kelly Jensen, Mike Jung, S.J. Kincaid, Stephanie Kuehn, Yi Shun Lai, Claire Legrand, Melissa Manlove, Lish McBride, Gretchen McNeil, Jodi Meadows, Martha Mihalick, Molly O’Neill, Sarah Prineas, Diana Peterfreund, C.J. Redwine, Chandra Rooney, Shana Silver, Nova Ren Suma, Capillya Uptergrove, Joanna Volpe, Laura Whitaker, Kiersten White, and Cat Winters. I know the list is long, but every one of you has been critical in some way. You make me bubble-happy.

  To my first and forever inspirations: Douglas Adams, Susan Cooper, Madeleine L’Engle, and Mary Stewart.

  And last, but not least, to Chuck.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SUSAN ANDRIAN is a fourth-generation Californian who somehow stumbled into living in Montana. As a child she danced in a ballet company and read plays dramatically to blackberry bushes. Later she got a degree in English from the University of California, Davis, and worked in the fields of exotic-pet-sitting, clothes-schlepping, and bookstore management. She's settled in, mostly, as a scientific editor. When she's not hanging out with her husband and daughter, she keeps busy researching spy stuff, learning Russian, traveling, and writing more books.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  TUNNEL VISION. Copyright © 2014 by Susan Adrian. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com