The Truth of the Matter

by Andrew Klavan

  I remembered that voice! Somehow, from somewhere. I knew the man who was speaking. I tried to picture his face, tried to call up his name, but I couldn’t. It was just beyond the edge of my memory, a shadowy presence in the deeper darkness of the year I had forgotten.

  Still—still—I knew him. I was sure of it. And I knew something else too: I knew he was a killer. Tough, vicious, wicked to the bone.

  I could not recall his face or his name, but I knew this for certain: he was one of the Homelanders.

  They were here.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Waylon

  I stood there, frozen. I didn’t even breathe. A thousand thoughts flashed through my head in a second.

  Waterman’s words: The Homelanders are close. Very close . . . It’s only a matter of time before they find this place and strike and try to kill us all.

  Had they done it? Had they broken in? Had they gotten Waterman and his friends? Or had he escaped? Where was he?

  I knew I had to do something, had to move. It was like forcing myself to break free from a block of ice. But I did it. I made myself step forward, step back to the wall again. I made myself press my ear against the wall.

  Once again, I heard that voice—now that I recognized it, I could distinguish it even though I couldn’t hear the words. Again, the face of that vicious killer seemed to rise up out of the darkness of my memory— come close to the surface—then sink back down again into obscurity.

  Then—startling—another shout—another voice—this one speaking English: “There’s no one else in here either!”

  The killer answered him with a shouted curse.

  The other man shouted in English again: “There must be another way out.”

  Then a third man shouted: “Waylon! No one here either. Maybe they snuck him out before we showed up.”

  The killer—obviously their leader—shouted out another stream of Arabic.

  I felt suddenly hollow inside. Hollow and weak and unsteady. I knew it was me they were looking for. And I knew that name too. The killer’s name: Waylon. This was something I did remember clearly, something that had happened when I woke up strapped to that metal chair with the Homelander goons working me over.

  There had been voices outside the door. There had been a man with an American name but a thick accent: Waylon. He had been coming from the Homelanders’ leader, a man who called himself Prince. He had given the order to my torturers:

  The West boy is useless to us now. Kill him.

  I understood why Waterman had put me inside the Panic Room. The Homelanders had been following him. They’d breached some of his files. They might know about this bunker. They might even have the entry codes. But he must’ve felt the Panic Room was still secure. He must’ve felt he could keep me safe here while I was helpless under the influence of the drug.

  I listened. Outside in the main bunker, there was a pause, silence. I could feel them out there, on the other side of that wall. I could sense them looking for me, listening for me. I felt that if I made even the slightest noise, they would hear it. They would find me. They would kill me. Waylon would finally kill me, as he’d wanted to do all this time.

  Then, Waylon spoke. He was standing right next to me, directly on the other side of the wall. His voice seemed almost at my ear and, even through the thick wall, I heard every word he said with perfect clarity.

  “All right. We’ll have a look around for him outside first. Then we blow this place to pieces. If he’s hiding here anywhere, he won’t survive.”

  One of the others answered him: “But I thought we were supposed to question him about . . .”

  “I know what we’re supposed to do!” Waylon shouted back. “But if he is here somewhere and we can’t find him—we can’t let him get away. Do what I tell you. Set the explosives! Make sure no one gets out of this hole alive!”

  I heard them moving again, heard their wordless voices again, talking to one another, the sounds growing dimmer as they moved out of earshot, as they went to search for me in the ruins of the facility outside.

  Then it was quiet.

  I stepped back away from the wall again. I looked around. They were going to blow the bunker up. Just in case I was here. If they couldn’t find me, they were going to make sure they killed me.

  And now the Panic Room—the place Waterman had intended to be my refuge—had become my trap—and would be my coffin.

  Because there was no way out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Second Wave

  I stood where I was, turning this way and that, looking frantically around me as if I might discover some other exit.

  But there was none. I knew there was none. The only entrance and exit was that secret door, and I didn’t know the code that opened it. That code—that series of passes Waterman had made with his hand to make the door slide open: I had tried to follow it, to memorize its straight lines and slashes, but it was way too complicated to fix in my mind. I had only the vaguest idea of the pattern.

  I stepped up to the wall. I passed my hand over it. It was an act of pure desperation. I tried to imitate the straight lines and diagonals Waterman had made. But of course nothing happened. The door didn’t open. It was hopeless. I was stuck in here. Stuck while the Homelanders prepared to blow the place—and me—into oblivion.

  I looked around again, hoping for another idea. I saw the chest. I moved to it quickly. I knelt down beside it. I took the tray off and placed it on the floor. Then I pushed up the lid of the chest. It opened easily.

  There was a pile of blankets inside. I pulled them out quickly, tossing them onto the floor. There was nothing underneath. The chest was empty. I felt the bottom, some crazy idea forming in my head that maybe there was a trapdoor, a secret tunnel or something like that. No such luck.

  I crouched back on my heels and tried to think. There had to be something I could do. There had to be something I could at least try.

  An idea began to form in my mind—and as it did, a slight hope began to rise in me . . .

  And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, the pain struck again—that writhing, fiery snake of pain that I’d felt when the crow-faced woman injected me. I cried out and twisted backward, as if I could escape it. But it gripped me from within, twisted me, made me thrash helplessly on the floor for an endless second, and then another, and then . . .

  It all began again. I felt myself break free of my body, as if my soul were floating away. I could see myself there below, twisting on the floor, gripping my stomach, but I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. My body grew more and more distant. I reached out for it, trying to grab hold of myself, to get back into myself. I couldn’t leave my body now! This was no time to go flying into the past—not with the Homelanders getting ready to dynamite the bunker.

  But there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop it. I drifted further and further away until even the urgency of my situation seemed part of another world, another life. A moment later, I had forgotten what the urgency was. I was entering an all-surrounding darkness, turning away from my lost body, turning toward a small point of light that I knew contained my memories . . .

  In a flash, I was there, in the past. I was in the long black limousine. I was sitting in the backseat with Waterman. I wasn’t watching the scene this time. I was in it. I was part of it. I was living it again.

  The black limousine was moving now. It had left the reservoir behind. The driver was guiding it into the darkness of the hills around my town. There was nothing on either side of us but looming forest and the night.

  “What I’m about to tell you is a secret,” Waterman was telling me. “A secret of the United States government. If you tell anyone, you’ll be endangering people’s lives. I want to know if you’re ready to hear it and if you can promise me not to tell anyone, not even your parents, not even your closest friends, no one.”

  I sat in the darkness, nervous. Was this guy really an intelligence agent for the United States government? What did they hav
e to do with what happened to Alex? What did they have to do with me?

  “Okay,” I said. “I promise not to tell. What’s the big secret?”

  “We want to frame you for Alex’s murder.”

  I sat staring at him as if I hadn’t heard him. I hadn’t really—at least I hadn’t been able to totally comprehend what he said. The meaning of it reached me slowly. And then I answered, “I . . . What?”

  “We want to plant your DNA on the murder weapon, traces of Alex’s blood on your clothes. We want to rush the case to trial as quickly as we can and basically railroad you into prison for murder.”

  I went on staring at him—or at his shadow in the dark. It seemed to take long, long minutes before each new sentence he spoke made sense to me. “You want to send me to prison?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to help you escape.”

  “Oh.”

  “But your family, your friends, your girl, everyone you know, is going to think you’re a murderer—and you won’t be able to tell them the truth.”

  I didn’t answer. There was no answer I could think of. What could I say? I sat there, nodding. “Whoa,” I said finally. “You want to frame me for murder, put me in prison, and make everyone I know think I’m a criminal. That’s a really great offer. Is there a second choice? Like: you shoot me in the kneecap and leave me by the side of the road to die?”

  Waterman gave a small snort of laughter in the dark. “Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?”

  “Any,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like any fun. But since you have the word intelligence in your agency, I’m guessing you have some reason for wanting me to do all this.”

  “We do,” said Waterman. I heard him take a deep breath, as if he needed strength before he tried to explain this to me. “Your friend Alex was murdered by one of your teachers at school.”

  “What?” I blurted out. Immediately, my mind went through a roster of my teachers. I couldn’t think of any one of them who would murder somebody. Okay, maybe Mrs. Truxell, the girl’s PE instructor . . . but no, not really, not even her. “Who?” I asked. “Who killed Alex?”

  “Mr. Sherman. Your history teacher.”

  “No! Come on!”

  Waterman shrugged in the shadows.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Sherman’s an idiot, but he’s not a killer.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid you’ve got that backward, Charlie. He’s a killer, but he’s no idiot.”

  I brought my hands to my face, confused. For a moment I felt that I was forgetting something important . . .

  And then, I was in the dark again, looking through a sort of keyhole of light, looking in at my own body where it lay writhing in agony on the floor of the Panic Room.

  They’re going to blow it up! They’re going to blow me up! I’ve got to get back there! I’ve got to stop it! I’ve got to get out of this flashback!

  For that one moment, I remembered my present situation, my present danger.

  But the next second, as if I’d reached the end of some enormous elastic tether, I was snapped backward out of consciousness and hurled into the past again . . .

  Back onto the seat of the dark limousine next to Waterman.

  “Your history teacher is a member of an organization that’s dedicated to attacking this country in any way it can,” he was saying. “They call themselves the Homelanders. The group was begun by Islamo-fascists in the Middle East, but they’ve come here to recruit Americans who don’t like the way our country works and who want to join with them in fighting us.”

  “Sherman . . . ?” I shook my head. Sherman and I had had our disagreements over the years, big disagreements about freedom and the founding ideals of our country— the stuff you talk about in history class. He always made fun of me in class, in fact, for being a patriot, for believing in the words of our Declaration of Independence that people are “created equal,” and “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights,” like life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Sherman didn’t believe in any Creator, for one thing, so he didn’t think there was anyone to endow us with rights. And he thought leaving people free to pursue their own ideas of happiness led to too much selfishness and unfairness in the world.

  “Look,” I said, “I never agreed with Sherman about much, but I always figured it’s a free country, he’s entitled to his opinions.”

  “He is entitled to his opinions,” Waterman said. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the Islamo-fascists are entitled to their opinions too. They’re just not entitled to force their opinions on the rest of us, or to kill and terrorize people who disagree with them. And Sherman’s not entitled to drive a knife into the chest of a seventeen-year-old boy because he decided he didn’t want to join with the Homelanders after all.”

  “Alex?” I said. It was almost too much to take in. Not almost—it was too much to take in. “Alex was going to join them?”

  “Sherman convinced Alex that he could somehow solve his personal problems by joining the Homelanders. And that was Alex’s plan until that night he talked to you. I don’t know what you said to him exactly, but we think it caused him to have second thoughts—and Sherman killed him to keep him from revealing the Homelanders’ existence—and maybe to protect himself from the consequences of his mistake in bringing Alex on board. The Homelanders aren’t that nice to people who make mistakes.”

  I shook my head again, trying to get my mind to come to grips with this. “So Alex was going to join the terrorists, only then he didn’t, so Sherman killed him . . .”

  “That’s it.”

  “So you want to frame me for murder? I mean, where does that come in?”

  Waterman shifted in his seat, turning to face me. “We think, if we play this just right, we can get you into the organization.”

  “What? Me? You want me to become one of these Homelander terrorist guys?”

  “As things stand, we could just arrest Sherman for murder. We might even be able to make a case against him. We might be able to pressure him into telling us what he knows. But the fact is, we already know what he knows—and it isn’t all that much. He’s been kept out of the centers of power and information because he hasn’t earned the trust of the high command. Losing Alex hasn’t helped his reputation with them either. That’s why he’d be eager to recruit someone like you . . .”

  In spite of my shock at hearing all this, I actually laughed out loud. “Recruit me? To the Homelanders? Big fat hairy chance, man. Sherman knows better than to think he can recruit me to attack this country. I think this country is one of the best ideas human beings ever had . . .”

  “Well, I think you’re right about that, Charlie. But I think you’re wrong about Sherman. In his efforts to please his masters, he’s been arguing that you’re the perfect recruit.”

  “The per—Me? But . . . why?”

  “Well, you’re a fighter, for one thing. And for another, you’re kind of the all-American boy, you know? With a face like yours, you can get in anywhere. And on top of that . . . well, Sherman’s theory is that you’re a true believer. Because you’re patriotic and religious, he figures you’re the type of person who follows along blindly, without thinking. He figures all he has to do is replace your patriotism and your faith in God with his beliefs and you’ll be willing to follow after him.”

  “But that’s crazy! I don’t just believe in anything that comes along. I’ve thought a lot about the things I believe. It’s about people being free and . . .”

  Waterman raised a hand. “You don’t have to explain it to me, son. We know all about your beliefs, Charlie. Your beliefs are exactly what we’re counting on. I’m just talking about what Sherman thinks. We feel if we can set up a scenario where it seems you have reason to feel bitter and disgruntled—like your being unfairly convicted of murder, for instance—it’ll give Sherman fresh motivation to approach you and win you over. And it’ll make your conversion believable to the people in charge.”

 
“Okay,” I said uncertainly. “I get that, I guess. So I’m unfairly convicted and Sherman recruits me. Then what?”

  “Then you work your way into the organization. You go through their training, you get assigned to carry out a terrorist attack and find out about any other attacks that are being planned. Then you help us prevent the attacks and find the people in charge so we can bring them to justice.”

  When Waterman was done, I sat in silence. I guess you could say I was dumbfounded. I mean, listen, I would do just about anything to protect this country, its freedom, its people. I already wanted to join the Air Force, and protect it from the sky. But this . . .

  “Why can’t you just use one of your own people?” I said after a while. “I mean, you’re spies, right? This is what you do.”

  “We’ve tried that. The Homelanders are too good, too sharp. We believe they even have people with access to government records. They see through our cover stories, they spot our agents. But someone like you. A teenager. Someone with no connection to us . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it, I get it.”

  “That’s why there’ll only be a small number of people— just me and a few others in the organization and one other outsider—who’ll know what’s going on, who’ll be able to prove your true purpose and identity.”

  I shook my head as the whole picture finally made itself clear to me. I turned away. I stared out the window of the limousine.

  “Look, you don’t have to give me an answer now,” Waterman went on. “And before you do answer, I want you to understand completely what I’m asking of you. You’ll be taken away from your family, your school, your friends, your girlfriend. They’ll all believe you were convicted of murder. They’ll believe you’re a fugitive who’s escaped from prison. They may even come to learn you’ve become a member of a group of terrorists. I can’t say how long it will be before you can come home and tell them the truth. It might take a month, six months, a year—I just don’t know. In the end, if you succeed, if you infiltrate the Homelanders, if you bring these people down before they can attack us, maybe you’ll be a hero. Maybe they’ll give you a parade in your hometown. But if you get caught, if the Homelanders expose you, kill you . . . Well, what we’re doing isn’t exactly legal, doesn’t exactly have the approval of all our higher-ups, you understand me? If it all goes wrong, we’ll never admit we know you, we’ll never tell anyone the truth. Everyone who loves you will go to his grave believing you betrayed your country.”