by Susan Adrian
I stick one finger in the stitches and tear, with a silent apology to Vladimir. Inside is a single sheet of yellow paper, folded in half. I open it, my hands shaking.
It’s a note, handwritten. “Выпейте на старом соленой собаки.” It’s in Russian.
Of course it is.
I fold the note again, carefully, and tuck it in my shorts pocket. I check the jacket for anything else, but that’s all it was hiding.
I found a secret message. I have to admit, that’s pretty cool.
When I return to the field again, the rain is coming down in sheets. Dedushka and the manager are talking in the hallway, something about baseball and the Orioles, like it’s not torrential two steps away from them.
“Shall we get these back to Vladimir?” Dedushka says to me, a question in his voice. I nod, and he says polite goodbyes. It’s not till we’re outside, under the shelter of a bus stop, that I show him the note.
“Vlad, he is sly,” he says, nodding, pinching it in his fingers. He looks a tiny bit excited, which is saying something for Dedushka. “I checked the cleats, but there was nothing. Well done.” He reads it, and laughs. “Drink at the old salted dog?”
I frown. “A bar, maybe?”
“A silly bar name,” he says. “But a good guess. Let us go to the car and see if we can find it. Are you not now glad we took the time to steal a car?”
I snort. Life with Dedushka is so far from normal. From home, with Mom. I like it, most times. I just wish Jake, Abby, and Myka were with us too.
9
MYKA
Confessions of a Broken Heart (Daughter to Father)
by Lindsay Lohan
Dad is here.
This is his secret military base, somewhere in West Virginia. He’s the one who grabbed us off the street, without telling Jake or Dedushka or even telling us where we were going. For our “safety,” he says.
He hugs me when we get out of the van. At first I’m so surprised that I let him—and it feels nice. He smells the way I remember, Old Spice and fresh-pressed clothes and Dad. I want to fold into it like I used to, let him make everything okay.
But he left us. He pretended to be dead. He tried to keep Jake in an underground base, and now he brought us to one too.
I push him away and Mom draws me into her arms, like she’s protecting me from him. “What did you do?” she asks, high, her voice cracking. “Tell me, John. What have you done?”
Dad doesn’t answer. He and a couple of his soldiers escort us through a maze of tunnels—metal and undecorated and boring, nothing to mark one from the other except signs—and into a weird kind of lounge room. It’s pretty big, with about ten hard metal chairs, two low tables and a high table, a plain tan sofa, and a fridge. Dad dismisses everyone and sits on the sofa, gesturing for Mom to sit next to him. She sits on a chair. I drop onto a different one, across from them. And then they start arguing. She tells him he has to let us out of here, that he kidnapped us. That Jake and Dedushka and Rachel must be frantic.
“They’ll be here soon enough,” he says.
“Why?” I jump in. “Are we bait? Why didn’t you just take them too, if you wanted them here?”
He smiles. There’s something wrong with his smile, with him. It’s off. It’s not how I remember him at all. “Not to worry. It will all work out as planned.”
Whenever anybody says that in a movie, or a book, they’re the villain. They’re always talking about their evil plans. But he’s my dad. He’s the one who taught me how to play cards. He helped me with my math homework. He gave me big squeezy hugs. How could he be a villain?
It’s confusing.
I just watch him after that, talking to Mom. He explains that he’s only acting on our best interests, all of us. That he’s only trying to protect us from all the scary people who could be after us now that Jake’s secret is out.
“I’m running a very important operation here, Abby. We’re trying to enhance—or even create!—powers like Jake’s.”
He looks hard at me when he says that, and I shiver a little. He knows I don’t have a power like Jake does. Dedushka did—though I didn’t know that until recently—and Jake does, of course. But Dad and I don’t. I bet he always wanted one, and that’s why he’s doing this.
I bet he thinks I want one too.
I did, when I was little. I would have traded anything, when I was six, for a power even better than Jake’s, something spectacular. Invisibility, maybe. Or the ability to control light and dark. I always thought that would be a good one.
But lately? After seeing all the trouble Jake’s landed in, and all he’s had to go through, I don’t want that anymore. Unless absolutely no one knows about it, it’s just not worth it.
Dad keeps on talking about his base, and what an impact his research is going to have. It’s so weird to see Dad in person again when we thought he was dead for so long. He looks old. Older than I remember, anyway. The skin on his hands sags. The wrinkles in his forehead are deeper. It felt like I was so much younger when he died. I was nine, at the funeral. The fake funeral for a fake death.
I turn away. I don’t want to look at him anymore.
I want Jake, and Dedushka. And even Rachel. I want to be back in the van, sucking on a popsicle with everyone together. Or even better, back at home, in school, before this Liesel Miller even contacted Jake.
I guess it would be nice to have a power, right now, just so I could time travel, back to when none of this had happened. Or reach out and tell them where we are.
I curl up into a ball on the chair. I wonder what they’re doing right now. Where do they think we are?
I’d bet my whole bookshelf at home that they don’t know we’re with Dad.
10
JAKE
Can’t Find My Mind by The Black Keys
I wake up still on the sofa, stretched out, alone. Not even Jones the babysitter is here. It takes me a couple minutes to figure out what happened, shake off the drug.
T-680. Damnit. The drug that Liesel was feeding me to control the headaches, not knowing that it caused nasty hallucinations too. Smith must have kept the bottle I snuck out of Montauk when he captured me last time, in the train yard. I don’t even know why I took it with me in the first place. I never wanted to have that crap in my body again. I was finally almost done with the hallucinations, with it all out of my system, and here I am back at square one. Like an addict fallen off the wagon.
I sit up carefully, but I’m fine. Probably better, now that I got some sleep. The stuff works. It just has horrible side effects.
And there it is. The green glass bottle, sitting on the edge of his desk. I’m surprised he left it out. He seems like an “everything in its place” kind of guy. Maybe he didn’t know whether I’d need more.
It’s my chance. He probably wants to keep me dependent on this stuff, keep me crazy, hallucinating all the time. I’m not going to accept that.
I jump up, snatch the bottle. Take off down the hall to the bathroom before anyone can stop me. Sure enough, I hear footsteps as soon as I move. I was being watched. But I’m too fast. I open the bathroom door, pull off the toilet lid, and dump the whole contents, all those little white pills, into the water. Smith appears at the door.
“Stop! What are you—”
I flush it, watch all the pills swirl to oblivion. No more. I won’t be their guinea pig anymore. Not that way, at least.
Smith leans against the doorjamb, frowning. He waits for the flush to finish before he talks. “Those help you. Tell me why on God’s green—well, my green earth—you would destroy them?”
It sounds like he’s sincerely asking. I give him a what-kind-of-idiot-are-you look before I can stop myself. “The hallucinations? Not worth it. Never again.”
His frown deepens. “Hallucinations?”
I step back from the toilet, tilt my head. “You didn’t know about the hallucinations?”
There’s one more second of complete bafflement
before his mask clicks in, and he shrugs. “Of course.” He steps back, away from the door. “Would you kindly get out of there, please? I am tired of staring into a crapper.”
But it’s too late. He let something slip. He knew about the T-680, but not the hallucinations. That means something important. But what?
I follow him back into the main room. He goes straight to his desk, starts rummaging in a drawer. I don’t go to my place on the sofa. I walk to the window and stare out at the view, big clouds piling up over the familiar D.C. buildings. I’m not sure what time it is, how long I was out. Late afternoon, maybe. Or even early evening. Sometimes it puts me out for hours.
A different big guy appears in the far doorway and shuts the door behind him, blocking it with his football body. The blond guy who tackled me in the park. He smirks, the big jerk. I note for later that they don’t want me to go in that door.
I should go in that door as soon as I get the chance.
“Why didn’t you know about the hallucinations?” I muse aloud. “You knew about everything else. How the tunnels work, that the T-680 was for the headaches.”
“Shut up,” Smith says. “You’re yapping.”
But I’ve latched onto it now, and I can feel the answer there, waiting for me.
“You had an informant,” I continue, piecing it together. “Someone who was right there, closely involved. There weren’t very many of those, believe me.”
Big man in the corner is watching me like a cat watching a bug, but Smith hasn’t told him to move yet, so he doesn’t move. Smith is pretending to look in his drawer, but he’s listening. I think he’s curious if I can figure it out. I cross my arms and take a step closer to the window, my nose almost touching the glass. It’s cloudy out there, but I can still see it, the outside world. Which I never could in Montauk, when DARPA was holding me. I was stuck in that underground cell with no windows, no air, no sun. There were people who brought me food and stuff, but probably didn’t know who I was. And four other visitors, ever: Liesel, Bunny, Dr. Tenney, and Eric. Well, Liesel wouldn’t be his informant, not in a million years. She knows him, and hates him. And Dr. Tenney and Eric certainly knew about the hallucinations.
But Bunny didn’t. She was an assistant, a doctor, who ran the tunnels with me. She was there from the beginning. But Liesel kicked her out after I successfully flirted with Bunny and managed to steal something from her, to try to tunnel with. That was before the hallucinations started.
“Bunny,” I say, victorious. I spin around and face Smith. “Bunny was your informant.”
He laughs dismissively, and shuts his drawer with a bang. “Bunny? The drug has made you insane as well, is that it? Fast-acting. Or were you already insane?”
“Dr. Milkovich,” I say, remembering her real name. Bunny was a nickname. “She wasn’t there when the drug did start making me crazy, or you would’ve known about it.”
“That is quite enough, Mr. Lukin.” Smith stands, licks his lips, and I know I’ve got him. I’m right. “As you inconveniently slept through the second meeting I wanted you to attend, you are done for the day. Jones, escort Mr. Lukin to his room, please.”
The bulky guy comes over to me quicker than you’d think, but I don’t move. “Jones?” I ask. “They’re both named Jones?”
Smith rolls his eyes. “I call them all Jones, Mr. Lukin. I like to make my life as simple as possible.”
Figures.
“Is Bunny—Dr. Milkovich—still working for you? Or did she stop being useful once she wasn’t assisting with me anymore?”
His jaw clenches, and I know I’ve gone far enough. He waves a hand. This Jones grabs my arm like he’s going to strip it right off, and shoves me toward the hall. I take one last look at Smith over my shoulder before he disappears. Jones throws me ahead of him down the hall, into a bare bedroom, and locks the door.
I hope that wasn’t a mistake. After all, that guy, that psychotic guy, is in charge of everything about my life right now. Including whether I live or die. More, whether Myka and Mom live or die. Or are hurt. God.
But I know more than I did before. That’s gotta be worth something.
*
The room is smaller than my cell at Montauk, but not by much. It has an actual window and real furniture: a nightstand and a bed. Not even a cot. A normal bed, like a hotel. It smells like a hotel, detergent and cleaner. I sit on the bed gingerly, like it might explode. It’s a ridiculously soft, normal bed, with thick pillows. I don’t even remember the last time I slept in a nice bed. Since the cabin it’s all been cars, cots, or our Army/Navy store sleeping bags, that always smelled a little like mothballs. That cheap motel last night. Before the cabin…it was my DARPA cot, attached to the wall. The last time I slept in a real bed was my own, before all this started. Six months ago.
It smells faintly of food, something fried. My stomach starts rumbling. I haven’t eaten since before I came to Smith. Before we went into Vladimir’s house, we all had the ice cream. That night we picked at pizza. That was a long time ago.
I should tunnel to Dedushka, let him know where I am.
Myka appears on the bed, and I groan. Here come the hallucinations again, already. I try not to look at her.
“What the heck are you doing, Jake?”
I close my eyes. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. It’s the only way I can deal with them. Pretend they don’t exist.
“We’re being held by this guy, kidnapped, and you’re messing around? You don’t even care?”
“I do care,” I say through gritted teeth, even though I know it’s not her. Not real. “I’ll get you out. That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s why you’re here? Don’t even tell me you came here on purpose. How dumb are you?” She punches the bed, and I look at her. Her hair is short like it is in real life, not like the hallucinations I used to live with.
I shake my head. I can’t engage with hallucinations, or that’s all I’ll do. I know this. I close my eyes tight, for a long time. When I finally look again, she’s gone.
The door opens. It’s a Jones, though with the light behind him I can’t see which one.
“Mr. Smith has decided to invite you to dinner,” he says, in a butler voice, like he was told exactly what to say. Then he snorts. “No need to dress.”
My stomach growls in response. Okay, then. “I accept,” I say, formally. Because why not? And any opportunity to talk with Smith might give me more information.
Hallucination Myka appears again, and starts to protest about eating with the enemy, but I walk out the door. Fortunately, she stays behind.
11
JAKE
Dinner Party Massacre by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra
A Jones—a new one I haven’t seen before, skinnier than the others—takes me the other direction down the hall, which is mildly exciting in itself. Every bit more I can learn, I might be able to use. We go around a corner, then he opens a door on the right, with a flourish. At least this Jones has a sense of humor. I step in. It’s a formal dining room, fairly small, with a floor to ceiling window on one side showing a different spectacular view of D.C. There’s a crystal chandelier hanging over everything, scattering the light into rainbows.
There are narrow tables and cupboards around the walls, and a long table in the middle that could seat at least ten.
Right now it’s set for three. Smith sits at the head, waving like a little kid. Sarcastically, of course. Next to him is Bunny. Exactly like when I saw her last, except without the white lab coat. Pale, translucent skin, white blonde hair. Tiny bird-like frame. She’s wearing a bright red sweater, which only makes her look paler. She gives me a small, resigned smile.
I sit across from her, completely thrown. It’s one thing to figure something out in theory. It’s something else to have it confirmed in the flesh, in front of you.
“Come on, then,” Smith says, one hand out to each of us. “Entertain me.”
I pretend really hard he isn’t th
ere. “Bunny? You really did work for him the whole time?”
She locks her eyes on her empty plate and glances up, quick, then down again. A blush splashes over her face. Still shy. There’s a reason everyone called her Bunny. “Yes,” she says, soft.
“So that makes you…a traitor?”
She presses her lips together and stares at her plate, but doesn’t answer.
“Now, now,” Smith says, in a professor voice. “Not at all. It just makes her someone who’s smart enough to see there are multiple markets for the same information.”
I turn to him. “Like you. Did she tell you everything I did? Everyone I tunneled to?”
“And your sad-sack attempt at seducing her so you could escape.” He smiles viciously. “I was encouraging her to let you have the hair clips, to see what you’d do with them.”
I shake my head. Jesus. Did she have Liesel talking in one ear and Smith in the other? Was anything in my life ever simple or straightforward?
I know that one. No.
“I would’ve invited Eric Proctor to dinner as well,” he continues, “but I believe something is wrong with his head.”
That stings. I flinch. “You mean he was shot in it? Yes. He’s dead. But he never worked for you.”
“Sadly, no. Though perhaps he would’ve been interested, at the end.”
I can’t say anything to that. Eric was one of my handlers, and the closest thing I had to a friend. But I had to mess with him to escape, control his body so it looked like he was taking me hostage. He lost it when the government he trusted accused him of being a traitor…and because he couldn’t trust himself anymore, with me out there. I could’ve tunneled to him anytime, as far as he knew, and controlled him again like a puppet.
He took Dedushka hostage in return, to make me come to him. He would’ve killed me, if Liesel hadn’t shot him.
Simple and straightforward.