Read Tunnel Vision for Free Online Page B

definitely showing signs of preferential hydrolosis…”
    I set the ring on the bag. “This guy’s two floors down.”
    “It’s a test.” Dr. Milkovich says, even. But she has the look Mrs. Timmerman had at the party, times ten—like her fantasies have come true. Dr. Lennon peers at his screen like it has the mysteries of the universe on it.
    Wonderful.
    I bag up the ring and pass it back to her, and answer some questions for the Machine. She slides me another bag. This one has a small slip of paper folded in quarters, so worn it’s yellow and falling apart at the creases. I pluck it out carefully, with two fingers, and hold it in my hands.
    Another man. He’s old, tufts of gray hair like steam escaping from his ears. A gray, grizzled beard. Location: Toulouse, France. Place de Capitole. A small café on the edge of the plaza. He has a false leg—I can feel the joint aching, at the knee. He rubs it absentmindedly. He sits in the sun at a table with a bright red umbrella, a cup of coffee in front of him: white china in a plain white saucer. He lifts his chin to survey the plaza, the noise of the crowd floating past. He raises the coffee, sips. He feels calm, content.
    I let the paper fall, open my eyes. Odd to do two in a row like that. The only other time I’d done that was at the party. I feel a little disoriented, jerked from one reality to another.
    Dr. Milkovich scribbles like crazy.
    “Was that real time? You were seeing what he is seeing right now, in France?” Dr. Lennon asks, his voice tinged with awe. Yes.
    “Did you really feel what he was feeling? Physically and emotionally?” Yes.
    More questions on how it felt, what I did, how I did it. The questions take longer than the tunnel. I wish there was a way to stop this.
    Dr. Milkovich jumps up. “Excuse me for a minute.” She thrusts her card in the door and runs out.
    “She moves like a squirrel,” I say.
    Dr. Lennon chuckles—it’s true—but doesn’t respond. He’s busy typing. Dr. Milkovich is probably talking to Liesel and who knows who else. Discussing me. How they’re going to use me.
    I wonder if I could kill a man just by telling the wrong person—by telling them—where he is.
    The answer’s obvious . Yes.

 
    6
    “Pain” by Alice Cooper
    Nothing changes when Dr. Milkovich gets back. She hands me another bag—a brown comb—and I see a woman in California mowing her lawn. A gold pen shows me a man in Khartoum, Africa, sleeping. When somebody’s sleeping that’s all I can say: where they are, what they look like, and that they’re asleep. I guess that’s still useful for lots of things I don’t want to think about.
    Dr. Milkovich looks at her watch, which they didn’t take away from her . “We’ll do one more and then break for lunch.”
    That’s good. I’m feeling kind of dizzy, with a smear of a headache at the edges. I need food. Caffeine. A piss.
    She hands me a bag with a small, polished stone. It’s a tigereye, striped in bright orange and gold. It’s cool to the touch, slick. I rub it between my fingers—it feels good—and close my eyes.
    Darkness. Cold. Nothingness.
    I drop the stone. It clatters on the table.
    My hands start trembling. I want to shove them in my lap, out of sight, but I can’t. They’re strapped down. “This person’s dead.” I swallow hard, so I won’t get sick. “Don’t ever give me things from dead people.”
    Dr. Milkovich’s pen hovers over the paper. She doesn’t look up. “You can tell whether a subject is dead or alive?” she asks carefully. “With certainty?”
    Crap . They didn’t know that. I bet that’s pretty useful information in espionage and warcraft, huh? Dr. Lennon’s watching me, waiting to see if his screen will light up.
    I can try. “No.”
    He looks at his screen, shakes his head. “Again. Can you tell whether a subject is dead, with certainty, from their object?”
    I sigh. “Yes.”
    Dr. Milkovich jumps up again and speeds out of the room without a