The Truth of the Matter

  I wondered how long it would take us to reach our destination, how much time I had before they started to work on me.

  I turned to Handlebar. “You know what your problem is?” I said.

  His face contorted with anger. “I thought I told you . . .”

  “To shut up, yeah, I know.”

  “Well, do it then.”

  “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

  He only snorted at that.

  “All right, never mind. If you don’t want to know, I won’t tell you. You’ll go to your grave never knowing what’s wrong with you.”

  Handlebar laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. “Man, you are really something, aren’t you? You are really asking for it.”

  I was. I knew I was making these guys angrier and angrier. But if I got them angry enough maybe they’d make a mistake, blurt something out. Sure, maybe they’d kill me too. But what other choice did I have? I wasn’t going to just sit there and wait for them to start cutting me up.

  “Your problem is you’re stupid,” I told him.

  The way Handlebar bared his teeth, I thought he was going to take a bite out of me.

  “Hey, I mean that in the nicest possible way,” I told him. “I mean, I’m just trying to be helpful here.”

  “Is that right?” he said through his bared, gritted teeth.

  “Yeah. Really. See, you guys think I’m some sort of traitor to the cause or something, right? You think if you torture me, I’ll tell you the names of all the other traitors . . . or something like that anyway.”

  “And?” said Handlebar—I’d hooked him now. He was actually interested in what I was saying.

  “Well, the thing is, maybe I am a traitor. Maybe there are all kinds of people infiltrating your organization every which way. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh no? Why’s that?”

  “Because I can’t remember, you knucklehead. I can’t remember anything that happened for the last year.”

  At that, Handlebar’s eyes shifted. Interesting: he was looking across me at Blond Guy, as if they were sharing some sort of information between them.

  “You already know that, don’t you?” I said. It was a guess, but I could tell by the look on Handlebar’s face that I was right. They already knew all about my amnesia. Of course they did. I had told Mr. Sherman about it. And these were probably the guys who had found Sherman where I’d left him in the haunted mansion. These were the guys who had tortured and killed him there. They would have made sure he told them everything he knew before he died.

  I could see some of this playing out in Handlebar’s eyes and I said, “That’s right. Sherman was telling you the truth. I don’t remember anything.”

  Handlebar started at that. He didn’t like me reading his mind. He said, “Sherman told us what you told him. That doesn’t make it the truth. I mean, if you’re not a traitor, what were you doing with Waterman?”

  “Good question. I was with Waterman because he shot me up with a drug and carted me off to his underground playroom where—guess what?—he was trying to get information out of me too.”

  I could see Handlebar working that over in his none-too-bright brain.

  “I couldn’t help him anymore than I can help you,” I said. “Because I don’t remember anything. Am I a traitor to your cause? Man, I don’t even know what your cause is. Waterman said you were Islamic extremists. Maybe that guy Waylon is, but you guys . . .”

  It was Blond Guy who answered me, his voice full of bitterness. “We just want a little fairness in this world, that’s all.”

  “Fairness,” I said, trying to draw him out. “Sure. Who doesn’t want fairness? I mean, like, it’s no good that other people have stuff you don’t.”

  Blond Guy’s whole face contorted with anger. “That’s right,” he said. “It’s not. People like Waterman, they’re always talking about freedom, about liberty. Big words. But when people are free, they don’t do what’s right. The way the world works: just because some guy knows somebody or gets born with rich parents or something, he gets all the breaks.”

  “Right, right,” I said. I looked Blond Guy over. With his long, rangy body he looked like some kind of athlete. A basketball player maybe, or a runner. “Like, one guy has connections and makes the team; another guy gets cut.”

  “That’s right,” he said heatedly. “That’s it exactly. There’s no fairness anywhere. People are just totally corrupt.”

  “But you guys are gonna change all that, huh,” I said. “You’re going to make people be good.”

  “That’s right,” said Blond Guy heavily.

  “Sure,” I said. “Only the problem is, if you make someone good, he isn’t really good, is he? He didn’t choose to be good. He’s just a slave, doing what you tell him . . .”

  Blond Guy was about to answer, but Handlebar reached around with one massive hand and grabbed me by the throat. I think if he hadn’t been afraid of Waylon, he’d’ve choked me to death right then and there. But he only clutched at me for a second, while I gagged helplessly. Then he pushed me away so that I fell against Blond Guy—who pushed me right back.

  “Now will you shut up?” said Handlebar.

  I swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the pain in my throat. “Sure,” I said finally. “Sure. I’m just trying to tell you: You can torture me all day long, it won’t get you anywhere. I just don’t remember.”

  “You’ll remember,” said Blond Guy darkly. “We’ll make you remember.”

  Handlebar just turned away again and looked out the window sullenly.

  I looked out too. I could see a view of mountains beyond the edge of the road, a rolling sea of blue-green conifers and brown-gray hardwoods stretching out into the distance. I thought again about how lonely it was up here. Far from anywhere, far from anyone. There was no one around who could help me.

  And then, all of a sudden—maybe there was.

  I think I was the first one to hear it—and I didn’t believe my own ears right away. We seemed to be so far from civilization, so far from anything, that what I thought I was hearing didn’t make sense, didn’t fit in.

  But a second later, Handlebar stiffened in the seat next to me.

  “You hear that?” he said.

  Blond Guy listened. He shook his head. But then he said, “Oh, wait . . .”

  Then the driver chimed in, “Hey, you hear that?”

  And we all sat silently another second, listening.

  There was a siren. Far in the distance. But closing on us, closing fast. Whatever it was, it was traveling at high speed over the winding, climbing road behind us.

  Excitement woke up in me. It felt like a bird fluttering to life in my chest. Maybe it was the police. Maybe they knew about us. Maybe they were coming to rescue me. All right, that meant I’d get arrested, but getting arrested sounded a whole lot better than being tortured to death . . .

  “Could just be an ambulance or something,” said Blond Guy.

  There was another crackle of static. The driver spoke into his shoulder mike again. “We hear a siren.”

  Waylon’s voice came back at once. “Yes, I hear it too. You see anything coming up behind you?”

  The driver checked his rearview mirror. I saw his worried eyes reflected there. “Nothing,” he said into the mike. “The road winds around too much. I don’t have much of a view.”

  A pause. The siren grew louder. It was unmistakable now.

  Then static—and Waylon’s voice: “We’re going to go on ahead. Stay behind until you have a visual, then call.”

  “Great,” muttered the blond guy.

  “Shut up,” said Handlebar, his all-purpose response.

  I looked ahead through the windshield. For a moment I saw the rear fender of the green car ahead of us—Waylon’s car. Then the green car started speeding up, pulling away. Another second or two and it was gone around the next bend in the road, out of sight.

  Good old Waylon. He was running for it. He was leav
ing his henchmen behind to deal with whatever was coming up in back of us. Nice guy.

  So we were alone in the sedan now. Everything was tension and silence—silence and listening. The siren grew louder and louder behind us. I squirmed around, looking back over my shoulder through the rear window. But the driver was right: the road was so twisty, there wasn’t much of it visible.

  The driver must have been thinking the same thing. He let out a curse. “It’ll be right on top of us before we can see it.”

  “Just keep driving,” Handlebar ordered. “It may be nothing. An ambulance, a fire truck. Even if it’s the cops, they may not be after us. How would they even know we were here?”

  It was a good question. Would Waterman have called the police? I didn’t think so. His organization was so secret even the cops didn’t know it existed. The hope fluttering in my chest began to fall off a little. Maybe Handlebar was right. Maybe it was just an ambulance or something, something that had nothing to do with us.

  But all the while, the siren grew louder.

  The sedan pulled around another bend in the road. I strained to look behind me, but nothing was there.

  And then, with startling quickness, there it was: a police car pulled into view, its sirens wailing, its red and blue lights whirling, flashing.

  The sedan exploded with noise. The siren. The cursing of the guards on either side of me. The driver shouting into his microphone, his voice high with panic.

  “It’s a cop!”

  And Waylon’s guttural shout coming back over the speaker at once:

  “Lose him!”

  At that, the driver hit the gas.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Car Chase

  Helpless, my hands bound behind me, I was hurled hard to the right as the car sped up into the sharp turn. I slammed against Handlebar’s body as he reached down to lift his machine gun from the floor. To my left, Blond Guy was lifting his gun too from where it was wedged in beside the seat. As I straightened, they each pressed the button to lower their windows. My mouth went dry as I realized: they were going to open fire on the police.

  The sedan went into a straightaway, its engine straining as it climbed the steep slope. I took the opportunity to twist in my seat again, to look behind me again. There was the cop car—a state highway patrol cruiser— just coming out of the turn ahead, keeping pace with us.

  An amplified voice came booming out of the cruiser’s speakers: “Pull over! Police!”

  That was all the Homelanders needed to hear. Handlebar leaned out the window with his machine gun and let out a rattling blast. The smell of gunpowder drifted back into the car to me.

  Behind us, the cruiser swerved as the police realized they were being fired on. It careened wildly toward the side of the road, its tires kicking up dirt as they neared the edge. Another inch or two and the cruiser would go over the side, tumbling off the mountain.

  I turned to look through the windshield. Another switchback was coming at us up ahead. That would get us out of firing range of the police anyway.

  Then a thought flashed into my mind. I glanced over at Handlebar.

  He was still leaning out the window to shoot at the police. His body was turned awkwardly, his side exposed. The holster with the dagger in it was exposed. Out of my reach for now, but I started to think . . .

  Maybe, in all the panic and confusion, I could get my hands on it.

  And then we hit the turn, fast, and once again my body was flung against Handlebar’s. And as we straightened out, he lost his position in the window and toppled back into the car, the two of us scrunched up together.

  On a chance, my bound hands strained, my fingers wriggled, trying to find the knife handle. But it was no good. I was all out of position. I had no chance to get hold of it.

  The car straightened out. Handlebar shoved me off him roughly. I bumped into Blond Guy, who also pushed me away.

  I looked out the windshield. We sped on, trees to the left of us, a fall into nothingness to the right. Another curve coming up in the distance.

  I would have to prepare myself better this time if I was going to get hold of that knife.

  For the next second or two, the sedan shot forward over the straightaway. My heart was pounding hard, waiting for what I knew would come next.

  “There he is,” said Handlebar.

  Sure enough, the cruiser came speeding around the bend behind us. Once again, Handlebar leaned out his window, Blond Guy leaned out his. They both brought their machine guns to bear on the cruiser. And they both opened fire.

  I didn’t look back to see what happened. I just looked down at Handlebar’s belt, trying to figure out how I could position myself to be within reach of that knife when the next curve threw us together. It was going to be tough— but with a little thought, a little intention, it wouldn’t be impossible.

  Through the windshield, I saw the next sharp switchback in the road approaching. I knew it would throw me over toward Handlebar and that he’d tumble back into the car as we came out of the bend, just like before.

  I was ready for it.

  Then there was an enormous hollow roar. I looked back. One of the troopers was leaning out the window of the cruiser with a shotgun leveled at us. He had taken a shot and I could hear the slugs riddling the sedan’s trunk.

  Now it was the sedan’s turn to swerve—the driver’s natural reaction to being shot at. He let out another panicky curse as we skidded to one side. Emptiness pressed up close to the window as we neared the edge of the road. Then we skidded back until we were right up against the forest.

  Handlebar and Blond Guy both pulled inside, both dodging out of the way of the shotgun fire.

  Then the trooper fired again. The rear window blew out. Handlebar, Blond Guy, and I all ducked down, the glass raining down on us.

  And then we hit the next curve.

  We were all thrown hard to the side—me into Handlebar—Blond Guy into me—the three of us jumbled together. I twisted my body to get my hands on that knife. I felt my fingertips scrape the handle of it. I caught hold of it.

  There was a loud blam! and a spattering impact and the windshield cracked and the siren roared and the police lights flared behind us as the police car came back into sight.

  Both Handlebar and Blond Guy lunged toward their windows, leaned out, opened fire. I heard the screech of brakes as the police car dropped back. I heard the two Homelander thugs screaming curses as they unleashed another round of gunfire.

  But I forced myself to stay focused. Because I had the knife. I had lifted the knife out of Handlebar’s holster, and I was now working it around in my fingers until the blade came up and lay against the duct tape binding my wrists.

  Up ahead, I saw a straightaway come into view in the windshield. I glimpsed the flashing lights of the police car in the rearview mirror. I saw the trooper leaning out the window with his shotgun. Handlebar and Blond Guy were leaning out their windows with their machine guns.

  I began to use the knife to saw through the tape. The blade was sharp. Instantly I felt the stiff material giving way, my wrists beginning to loosen, beginning to come free.

  Then—another blast from the shotgun. Handlebar screamed. He dropped back into the car. He’d been winged by a shot and was clutching his face, blood pouring out between his fingers. At the same moment, the sedan went into a terrifying skid, turning full around in the middle of the road.

  Blond Guy let out one more shriek, unleashed one more round of machine-gun fire. The cruiser’s brakes screamed again. Then the two cars—ours and the cruiser— smashed together on the straightaway. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. The two cars spun around each other like dancers and then spun apart.

  At the force of the impact, the knife flew out of my grip and I was hurled off the seat, onto the floor. Handlebar, still clutching his bleeding face, smashed full force forehead-first into the seat back in front of him. In the front seat, the driver’s air bag exploded in a blinding white flare, smacking him in
the face. Only Blond Guy was able to brace himself, able to hold his position in the jolting, spinning crash.

  The two smashed cars came to rest. There was a second of confusion, a second of smoke and silence. Then Blond Guy was shrieking with rage, kicking at his door. The door came open and he tumbled out.

  Dazed, I started to climb off the floor. At the same time, I was working my hands, trying to get them free. I could feel the cut duct tape tearing, loosening, giving me more room to maneuver.

  I managed to get back on the seat. I could see through a fractured side window. I saw two state troopers come tumbling out of the wreck of their cruiser. I could see one taking cover behind an open door, the other behind the trunk.

  At the same time, another cruiser was coming out of the turn behind them, joining them on the straightaway. Its tires screamed, its front end swerved as the driver saw the wreck up ahead and hit the brakes.

  At the same time, the duct tape tore apart and my hands came free.

  At the same time, Blond Guy screamed, “It’s not fair!” and opened fire on the troopers.

  The troopers dropped behind their car, then popped up again, their pistols drawn and aimed. They fired back.

  Handlebar, meanwhile, lay writhing on the seat beside me. I reached out over him. I pushed open his door.

  Convulsively, Handlebar grabbed me. I tried to pull free. He held on with a powerful grip. I punched him in the side of the head. He let out a growling snarl of agony and fell back against the seat.

  I climbed over him and tumbled out of the car onto the road.

  I fell onto the pavement, landing on my back on the hard macadam. There was gunfire all around me. The cough and rattle of Blond Guy’s machine gun was answered by the steady bangs of the troopers’ pistols. Through the smoke from the wrecked cars, I could see flashes of fire as muzzles erupted. I could see sparks fly as stray bullets ricocheted off the pavement.

  And, all the while, above the general chaos of noise, there came the steady stream of Blond Guy’s shrieked curses, his curses against fate and the unfairness of life. It was a wild, unholy sound, the sound of a man completely out of control, completely possessed by rage and a fury for death.