The Long Way Home

by Andrew Klavan

  “Sit down on the floor,” he ordered. “Sit cross-legged.”

  I did what he told me to do. I sat on the floor and crossed my legs. I looked up at him over the flashlight, shielding my eyes with my hand. I could see his face now. His bland, youthful, all-too-familiar face. He was smiling.

  “I know you’re a dangerous guy, Charlie,” he said in a kind of friendly tone, the usual tone a teacher might use talking to one of his students. “But by the time you can untangle yourself from that position, I should be able to shoot you in about five different places.”

  He had a point. With me sitting cross-legged and him standing above me with a gun, it would be pretty difficult for me to unwind and get at him before he opened fire. But that’s not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about the fact that he seemed to have come here alone. That was weird. Why would he do that? If he was one of the Homelanders, why wouldn’t he bring some kind of fighting force along with him?

  Well, whatever the reason, I figured it was good news. It meant I had a chance against him, if I could figure out a way to get in the first strike.

  “I wouldn’t think about it if I were you,” Sherman said, as if he were reading my mind. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I want some information from you, but if you give me any trouble, believe me, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  “Like you killed Alex,” I said. The words just came out of me—and as soon as they did, I realized they were true.

  He gave a little laugh. “You’re the one who killed Alex, Charlie. Remember? The jury said so.”

  I shook my head. “They were wrong. I never would’ve done it. Alex was my friend. I wouldn’t have murdered him. In fact, I wouldn’t murder anyone and you know it. That’s why you framed me.”

  And I realized that was true too. And I felt relief, such incredible relief. I mean, it’s kind of crazy, I guess. There I was, sitting there helpless, with Sherman holding a gun on me, ready to kill me, wanting to kill me, and the relief just washed over me like a wave. I hadn’t killed Alex. I wouldn’t kill Alex. I wasn’t a murderer. I knew it.

  “It had to be someone Alex knew,” I said to Sherman now, squinting up at him over the flashlight beam. “It had to be someone who could approach him in the park in the dead of night. Someone he’d stand there and talk to and argue with. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  I saw Sherman give an indifferent shrug in the shadows. He didn’t bother to deny it anymore. Why should he? It wasn’t as if he would let me live to tell the tale. “You know, it really was your fault to some degree,” he said. “Partly your fault, anyway. I spent a lot of time recruiting Alex. We’d already brought him into the fold, educated him about our mission. But then he started to get cold feet, have doubts. That night, I was watching him to see if he was going to give us away to anyone.”

  I nodded. I knew that was exactly what Alex was going to do that night. He was going to go to Sensei Mike. Mike would’ve straightened him out, gotten the truth out of him, gotten him to confess that Sherman was recruiting him for the Homelanders. But he never made it to Mike. He got in the car with me instead.

  “I followed both of you that night,” Sherman said. “I heard you arguing in the car. I don’t know what you said exactly, but you really must’ve reached him, Charlie. By the time I caught up with Alex in the park, he was talking about leaving us, about going to the police. It was too late to let that happen. He knew too much.” He shook his head. “A lot of good work wasted. Just like with you.”

  When he mentioned me, he moved the flashlight so it shone directly into my eyes. I had to turn my head and look away into the darkness.

  “With me?” I said.

  “You’ve made things very hard for me in the organization, Charlie. After Alex—and now you—I’m beginning to lose support. In fact, if I don’t redeem myself, I could be in quite a bit of hot water. That’s why I came here alone tonight. I need to know what happened exactly. Where did I go wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you seemed . . . You seemed so committed to us. So committed to the cause. I mean, I was counting on that. That’s what I told them. I told them, a guy like you, a real true believer, with all your religion, all your blind patriotism, you were a natural for us. I knew if I could just turn all the passion of that belief to our side, you’d become one of the greatest warriors we had.”

  “But that . . .” That’s stupid, I almost said. I mean, I don’t go around believing in things just to believe in them. I believe in the things that make people free. I believe in the things that bring people to their best lives, that give them the full lives God meant them to have, in good times and bad. Those free lives, those full lives—I’ve seen them— those are proof of the things I believe. So how could a band of angry, murderous, bitter men like Sherman convince me to believe something else? It was crazy.

  I almost said those things out loud, but I didn’t. Because I suddenly realized: it was crazy. Everything he was saying was crazy. He seemed to think he had convinced me to become one of the Homelanders. But just as I knew I wouldn’t have killed Alex, I knew I never would have become a terrorist. I never would have joined him and his killers, no matter what was happening to me. And yet, they thought I had. Sherman obviously thought I had.

  You seemed so committed.

  Why? Why did I seem so committed? What had happened to make Sherman think I was one of them?

  “You worked on me just like you worked on Alex,” I said. “You recruited me to become one of the Homelanders.”

  “Oh, I told them. I told them,” Sherman said. “The situation was just so perfect, it would’ve been foolish to pass it up.” He said this in a kind of whiny, self-defensive voice. It was as if he were arguing with the Homelanders again, trying to convince them to let him recruit me. The argument going on in his mind seemed to make him agitated. He began pacing back and forth in front of me, moving one hand as he talked so that the flashlight beam danced wildly around the room.

  I began to shift my legs a little beneath me, began to see if I could maneuver myself into a position to strike.

  “I mean, after the police found Alex’s blood on your clothing,” Sherman went on, excited. “After that, I knew if we just helped them along, if we just . . . supplied the murder weapon with your DN A, we might clinch the deal and get you convicted. It was perfect! A true believer like you! When you saw how unjust everything was—how your precious American system failed you—how God failed you when he didn’t send his angels down from heaven to rescue you from being sent to prison—I figured you’d be bitter then, angry, betrayed—the perfect moment for me to get you to see the light. And you did. You did see the light. Better than Alex ever did. You understood everything, just like I thought you would. You were one of us, Charlie. I know you were. You couldn’t have been pretending. I told Prince—I told him—but he just wouldn’t believe me.”

  Prince. I knew that name. I’d heard it when the Homelanders captured me. He was their leader. The head of the organization. I was beginning to understand.

  “Prince was afraid I was going to betray you like Alex did,” I said.

  Sherman snorted, getting more agitated, pacing back and forth faster, waving the flashlight around. “Prince! He was convinced you were working for someone else. He was convinced you were trying to infiltrate us.”

  The idea sent a thrill of hope through me. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe I was working for someone else, joining the Homelanders only to bring them down. “He thought I was working for the law against you,” I said. “He thought I was some kind of spy for the police or something.”

  I untangled my legs a little more, a little more. Not so much that he would notice, just enough that I’d be able to move quickly.

  “I told him that was ridiculous. I told him,” Sherman whined.

  Of course he had. Because if Sherman had recruited me, and I was some kind of spy, then Sherman was to blame. And I bet when this Prince guy bl
amed you for something, you didn’t survive the experience. So that’s why Sherman had come here alone tonight. He was hoping to prove I was innocent, hoping to prove he’d been right to recruit me, right to trust me to become part of his organization. He was hoping to get the information he needed to save himself from Prince’s retribution.

  Which gave me an idea. Sometimes the simple truth is the best strategy you can come up with.

  “I’ve lost my memory,” I told Sherman.

  Sherman stopped pacing. He shone the flashlight on me. I saw his eyes gleaming as he stared. “What? What did you say?”

  “I never betrayed anybody, Mr. Sherman. I didn’t infiltrate anybody. I couldn’t get Prince to believe me. I couldn’t get anyone to understand. It’s not that I’m against you. It’s that I just don’t remember.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. A whole year is gone.”

  “How can that happen? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know . . . but it’s true. I didn’t betray you, I swear. I just can’t remember.”

  For another moment, Sherman stared, openmouthed. Then I saw his teeth flash in the shadows. He was smiling.

  “But that explains it,” he said. I could hear the hope in his voice. “That makes sense. You didn’t mean to betray us. You just lost your memory—and when you lost your memory, you lost . . .”

  “All the work you’d done convincing me.”

  He gave a little laugh to himself as if in wonder. It was all coming clear to him now. I could practically hear him thinking it through. This explanation might get him off the hook with Prince. If he could convince his leader that I was telling the truth, that I’d lost my memory, then it wouldn’t be as if he’d brought a spy into the organization. It wouldn’t be his fault.

  “They captured me,” I said. “They tortured me. But I couldn’t tell them anything because I didn’t remember. I escaped to stay alive, that’s all. If they hadn’t tried to kill me, I wouldn’t have run.”

  “Right,” said Sherman, still thinking about it. “Right. That makes sense.”

  “I’ve just been really confused,” I said earnestly—as earnestly as I could. (Beth was right: I could be a pretty decent liar when I put my mind to it.) “Trying to figure out what’s right, what’s wrong. Trying to figure out who my friends are.”

  Sherman kind of grunted—that was his only answer. He was still thinking about this, still trying to figure out how he could use it to get himself out of trouble. He was distracted—and that was good. The gun was making him overconfident. But he was standing just a little too far away for me to get to him.

  I needed to get him talking again, pacing again if I could.

  “In fact, there’s something I’ve really been wondering about,” I said. “Something that doesn’t make any sense to me. These Homelander guys—Prince and the rest— they’re Islamo-fascists, right? They’re trying to make everyone follow their religion. But you don’t even believe in God. How come you’re working with them?”

  He waved this question away with a quick motion of his gun. “I explained this to you a million times, Charlie. A million times.”

  “I know, but that’s what I’m saying. I don’t remember.”

  “We’re using them. The Islamos. We’re just using them. We have a common goal, so we’re working together for the time being.” That did it. He got excited again. He started pacing back and forth in front of me again. Waving the flashlight around as he explained. “We both want to bring this country down, drive it into chaos. That’s the first step, the all-important step. But once we’ve achieved that, we’ll get rid of them. Because we don’t want any more gods. We want a system of fairness, of equality, everyone with the same amount of money, everyone with the same beliefs, no one allowed to say things that offend other people . . .”

  He turned and paced back. It brought him closer to me. Almost within reach.

  Sherman went on. “Freedom is a mistake, Charlie. Freedom means imperfection. Freedom means inequality and injustice. Freedom means some people getting rich while others don’t. When people make their own choices, they make mistakes, they do cruel things. The Islamos want to destroy freedom for their own purposes, for their own way of life. But who cares why they do it as long as they get it done.”

  He went past me again, a little closer, waving the flashlight, thinking, talking.

  “We need them now because they have the commitment and the guns, but as soon as we have this country in flames . . .”

  He turned. He paced back. Closer. Close enough.

  “. . . we’ll be able to establish a new . . .”

  I tripped him.

  It was a dangerous move, but it was the best I could do. With that gun of his waving around, I knew I might catch a bullet, but I also knew he’d kill me eventually anyway.

  So I took my chance. I snapped one leg out in front of me. I shot the foot behind his ankle. I brought the other leg back fast and pistoned it out again in a kick to his knee.

  The swift pincer move knocked his leg out from under him. The flashlight beam shot into the air as Sherman tumbled over. He went down to the floor. He dropped the light—but not the gun.

  I sat forward fast and struck at Sherman’s gun hand. At the same moment, he fired.

  The blast of the gun was deafening. The flashlight rolled back and forth. The light and shadows expanded and contracted around us, giving the room a bizarre funhouse atmosphere. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether I’d been shot or not.

  But no, the bullet had gone wild as the edge of my hand hit Sherman’s wrist.

  I grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Pressed on his arm, forcing it to the floor, making him cry out in pain.

  “Drop it!” I shouted.

  He wouldn’t. I increased the pressure. His hand finally opened. The gun fell to the floor with a rattling thud.

  I shoved Sherman’s arm away and snapped up the gun and turned it on him. I scrambled to my feet.

  Sherman sat up, rubbing his wrist where I’d twisted it.

  The flashlight rolled slowly to a stop, the beam lying across the dusty floor.

  Holding the gun on Sherman, I knelt down beside him. I forced my hand into the pocket of his pants and found his car keys. I took them and stood up again out of his reach.

  All the while, Sherman stared at me, rubbing his wrist.

  “I’m taking you to the police,” I said. “You’re going to tell them the truth about Alex.”

  For another second, Sherman stared. Then, slowly, he broke out into a grin. He laughed. The sound sent a chill through me.

  “What’s so funny?” I said.

  “How dumb do you think I am?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you really think I’d come here alone without some backup, without some insurance?”

  I tried to answer his smile with one of my own. “You’re alone, all right,” I said. But a little sick sensation of doubt rose up in the back of my throat. “There’s no one else in this house.”

  “Oh, you’re right about that, Charlie. I couldn’t bring anyone with me, because I wasn’t sure what you might say. But I know what a dangerous guy you are. I wouldn’t just walk in here without a plan B.”

  He worked his way to his feet.

  I gestured at him with the gun. “Take it easy. I’ll shoot if I have to.”

  “You’re not gonna shoot, Charlie. In fact, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do.” Smiling, Sherman held his hand out. “And I’m telling you to give me the gun.” He saw the doubt in my eyes. His smile got even bigger. And he said, “Give me the gun, Charlie—or Beth dies.”

  Rage flashed through me like a flame. Before I even knew what I was doing, I grabbed Sherman by the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the wall. I stuck the gun into his face.

  “What are you talking about? Where is she?” I pressed the gun hard into his cheek, my finger t
ightening on the trigger. My voice came out hoarse and ferocious through my gritted teeth. “Is Beth in danger? Tell me! Tell me! You think I won’t kill you? Don’t be stupid. I’ll kill you, all right. Where is she?”

  He still managed to smile, even with the gun barrel digging into him. “Oh, she’s fine, Charlie. She’s sitting at home. She’s doing her homework. Her parents are out for the evening. She’s all by herself, working at the computer in her bedroom upstairs. And in approximately five minutes, if my people don’t hear from me, they’re going to pay her a little visit. They’ll come in oh-so-quietly, Charlie. She won’t even know they’re there. And they’ll kill her quietly, too, a knife to the throat. Cutting deep so she can’t cry out. She’ll bleed to death on the floor without a sound. No one’ll even know it happened until her parents get home and find her.”

  I was so angry I wanted to kill him then and there. So angry I could barely speak, but I managed it. “You’re going to call them. Your people. You’re going to phone them now and call them off.”

  Sherman laughed. “Am I? Or am I going to call them and say a code word that starts them going. How will you know, Charlie? How will you know?”

  When he saw that I had no answer, he gave another hard chuckle.

  “Face it, Charlie. You’re tougher than I am, but I’m a lot smarter than you. You have no choice. It’s you or Beth. Give me back the gun.”

  To be honest, I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d been thinking clearly. Maybe I just would’ve surrendered to save Beth. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done. But my fury against this man—this man who had murdered my friend—this man who had stolen my life from me—who was threatening to kill Beth—that fury roared through me hotter than ever, and I hit him. Without even thinking, I drew back the gun and smashed the butt of it into the side of his head.

  I was still gripping his shirtfront in my other hand and I felt him become a dead weight as he lost consciousness. I let him go. He dropped to the floor.

  For a moment, I stared at him where he lay. As my mind cleared, I realized what I’d done. Now he couldn’t make the call, couldn’t pull off his goons. They would break into Beth’s house in five minutes and kill her.