The Truth of the Matter

by Andrew Klavan

  “Oh, hey, Charlie. Don’t give me this ‘We, the People’ stuff, all right? Look around you. Most people are idiots. They can barely put two thoughts together in a row. You want them deciding what’s right for the country?”

  Well, again, I wasn’t there to argue with him. I was there to pretend to be convinced by him. So I said, “Okay. So you’re saying democracy isn’t always such a good thing . . .”

  “It’s not, Charlie, believe me. It’s the wrong way to go. People need to be forced to do what’s right.”

  “But what if they don’t agree. You’re talking about killing people then, aren’t you?”

  “No, no, no,” said Mr. Sherman—but always keeping his voice low, always keeping his face close to mine so no one else could hear what he was saying. “I’m talking about saving people, Charlie. Saving all the people who die because of America’s evil.”

  I would have paid cash money to tell him what I thought of him just then. But I did my job. I said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Listen, Charlie, here’s the thing,” Sherman went on softly. “Let’s say you get convicted of Alex’s murder.”

  “Well, I hope I won’t . . .”

  “I know, I know,” he said, cutting me off. “But let’s just say you get unfairly convicted and sent to prison. You could be forty or fifty before they set you free again. That’s your whole life gone, Charlie. For what? For a lie. For nothing. Just because they needed a scapegoat.”

  I swallowed hard, as if I were considering his words. “Yeah? So?”

  “So these Islamic guys you hate so much?”

  “I don’t hate them. I just disagree with them.”

  “Whatever. The thing is: they have deep contacts in our prisons, a lot of powerful contacts. If you joined with us, I could arrange for you to break free of any prison they try to put you in. Instead of rotting away behind bars until you’re an old man, you could be living free, fighting to make this a better country.”

  I leaned toward him and was about to answer, but as I did, I felt that nausea again. The way the dark room shifted back and forth and the way Mr. Sherman pressed his face close to me and the way he kept whispering in that soft, intense, insinuating way—it was all sickening.

  I shook my head a little, trying to clear it. It seemed to be getting darker around me. It was harder and harder to see the restaurant.

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay. Just for the sake of argument, if I joined up with you, what would I have to do?”

  The light got dimmer and dimmer. The walls of the restaurant disappeared in the encroaching darkness. The darkness spread toward us like a stain, the other tables disappearing first, then our own table getting dimmer. Soon, I could barely make out Sherman himself, even though he was right next to me.

  Finally, blackness.

  I reached out blindly. A gentle hand took hold of mine. A woman’s kindly face hovered over me.

  “Ma . . . ?” I moaned softly through my fever.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart.”

  “Didn’t want to hurt you . . .”

  “I know. It’s all right.”

  “So sorry . . .”

  “No, you did the right thing.”

  “Made you cry . . .”

  “It’s a sad world sometimes. Sometimes people have to cry, that’s all.”

  “Never wanted . . .”

  “I know. It’s all right.”

  I clung to her cool hand for comfort. Her face swam in and out of focus. Sometimes I thought it was my mom and sometimes I wasn’t sure. I wanted to see my mom so much. I wanted to be home again so much. I was tired of being on the run, tired of being alone.

  “Ma . . . ,” I whispered.

  “Ssh,” the woman whispered back. “Just rest.”

  I sank back into dreams and memory.

  I came into a strange and shadowed place. It was some kind of garden maze, but instead of hedges there were corridors formed by high trellises. The trellises were covered in twisting branches that sprouted thorns, like rosebushes with all their flowers gone. I moved through patches of bright light into patches of deep darkness. Somewhere not far away, I could hear voices murmuring:

  “The court is now back in session. Judge William Taggart presiding.”

  “The bailiff will bring in the jury.”

  It was my trial. In this dream-memory, it was going on at the same time I was wandering in this strange, barren garden maze.

  I turned a corner and stepped into a dark square. I had reached the center of the maze. I thought there was a statue here, the figure of a man. But as I stood and looked at it, the statue let out a sigh. It was no statue at all. It was an actual man, waiting for me in the depths of the maze’s shadows. I couldn’t see his face. I could only make out his figure.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” came the voices murmuring in the distance.

  “We have, Your Honor. We find the defendant, Charlie West, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

  There was a loud cry that seemed to go into my heart like a knife.

  “Charlie! No!”

  It was my mother, her voice rising above the general murmur of the crowd’s reaction. Her cry broke off into painful sobbing that went on and on beneath the pound, pound, pound of the judge’s gavel.

  “This court will come to order!”

  The noises of the courtroom faded slowly. My mother’s sobbing was the last sound to disappear. Then it was silent here at the center of the dark maze. I stood in that silence with the eerie figure in the shadows.

  After another moment, the figure spoke to me: “Hello, Charlie.”

  I don’t know why, but his voice sent a chill through me. I peered at him, trying to make out his face, but I couldn’t. Everything felt strange and uncanny to me. I knew I was in a dream, but I knew it was partly real too, partly a memory of something that had really happened to me.

  “You understand what’s going to happen now, right?” the dark figure said.

  I nodded. I shivered. I knew. “I’m going to prison.”

  “That’s right. Not for long, though. The Homelanders have already arranged for your escape. And we’ve already arranged for you to get away with it.”

  I nodded. My heart was beating hard.

  “Frightened?” the man asked me.

  I shrugged. I guess I was frightened a little. And sad too—sad about my mom and all the pain I was putting her through. But there was something else as well. I was excited. I was ready for the mission to begin, ready for the fight to begin, ready to do what I had been called to do.

  “I’ll be all right,” I told the shadowy man.

  The man’s voice grew grim. “You’re going into a dangerous world, Charlie. A world full of twisted people with twisted philosophies. They will try to use you to commit any atrocity they can. And if, for even a second, they suspect you’re not completely on their side, they will kill you without a second thought.”

  I put my hands in my pockets, lifting my shoulders around my ears. “I know all that. I’m ready.”

  I could feel the man smile in the darkness. “I’m sure you are. You’re a special guy, Charlie. That’s why we came to you in the first place.” He stepped toward me. Again, I strained against the shadows, trying to see him. I could just make out the outline of his features. “And now, before they take you away, there’s one last thing I have to tell you. A technician is going to come to you in your cell. He’s going to install a device inside your mouth. The device can be activated by a sound code, which he’ll teach you. When the device is activated, it will release a chemical for you to swallow . . .”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean? Like a suicide pill? In case I get captured and tortured or something?”

  “It is in case you get captured and tortured. And it is a pill of sorts. But it won’t kill you. We knew you wouldn’t use something like that.”

  “That’s right. I don’t do suicide.”

  “Fair enough. But what this pill will do is
wipe out your memory. That way, no matter what happens, you won’t be able to reveal anything about us, the people who sent you, the organization we represent.”

  I shook my head, trying to understand. “If I activate this device and swallow this stuff, I’ll lose my memory? I won’t know who I am?”

  “No, no, it shouldn’t affect your long-term memory. You’ll still know who you are. You’ll remember most of your life. We’re not sure, in fact, just how much of your memory will be erased. The drug is still experimental. But we figure about a year or two of your past will disappear. The point is: you won’t remember being sent on this mission or who sent you.”

  I just stood there in the shadows, thinking about it. A year or two of my life, gone. All the stuff that had happened to me. Beth . . . “Will the memories be erased forever?” I asked.

  He gave a small, sad laugh. “To be honest, Charlie, if you find yourself in a situation where you need to use this thing, it’s not likely you’ll live much longer, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “But, just as a point of information? If you do get caught and you do get tortured and you do swallow this chemical and then, somehow, against all odds, you manage to survive and find your way back to us . . . Well, in that very unlikely series of events, we have an experimental antidote to this drug as well. I would say there’s a good chance, under those unlikely circumstances, that you’ll be able to restore most of the memory that was lost.”

  I thought about it some more. Then I nodded.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s roll.”

  Then there was one of those sudden shifts in scenery that you get in dreams. I was no longer in the thorny maze. I was back in the courtroom. The bailiffs had my hands pinned behind my back. They were just closing the cuffs around my wrists. I was calling out to my crying mother.

  “It’s gonna be all right, Mom. Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be all right, I swear. Never be afraid.”

  The judge’s gavel was pound-pound-pounding on the bench.

  “The court will come to order!” he said loudly.

  I cast a last look back at the people in the gallery—at my mom, at my dad with his arms around her, his face grief-stricken; at Beth, trying so hard to keep from crying as she showed me an encouraging smile; at my friends, Josh and Rick and Miler, tapping their chests with their fists to let me know they were still with me in their hearts—everything seemed to fall away beneath that steady pound, pound, pound of the judge’s gavel . . .

  Which now became another pounding, a different sort of pounding, somewhere nearby.

  My eyes snapped open. I was awake. My gaze roamed over the white ceiling above me. Something was different. I was more clearheaded. I was covered in cold sweat.

  My fever had broken.

  I licked my dry lips. I turned my head on the pillow to look around. I was in a small bedroom. I was lying on a single bed against one wall. A woman—the same woman who had caught me after I’d broken into her house—was seated on a wooden chair by my bedside. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans now. She looked tired. She smiled at me. I tried to smile back.

  The pounding . . .

  Even though I was awake, the pounding from my dream continued. I realized now: It was not the judge’s gavel. It was someone knocking on the door in a nearby room.

  The woman gave a sigh and pushed out of her chair to her feet. Instinctively, I reached for her.

  “Ma’am . . . ,” I said weakly.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m just going to go see who’s at the door.”

  I let my hand fall back onto the thin blanket on top of me. I lay where I was and watched her move out of the room.

  The pounding continued. I heard the woman call out, “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

  I heard Sport add his opinion with a short, sharp bark.

  In the next several seconds as she crossed to her front door, my eyes traveled around the little room. It was bare, stark. Just the bed, the chair, a dresser with some framed photographs on it. No window. No pictures on the wall, just peeling old-fashioned wallpaper with purple flowers. There was a bowl of water on a small table by the woman’s chair. There was a washcloth in the bowl—the cloth she’d been using to keep me cool. There was a bottle of aspirin and a couple of empty juice cartons on the floor too. I guess she’d been giving me aspirin and juice to keep me going.

  About a million questions were flashing through my mind. How long had I been here? Hours? Days? How long had I been feverish and hallucinating, lying helpless while this woman I’d never met sat beside me and cared for me? Had I said anything to her? Had I spoken in my sleep? Had I given myself away . . . ?

  The pounding stopped. I heard the door open. I heard the woman’s voice again, “Down, Sport,” she said. Then she said, “Yes?”

  “Hello, ma’am,” a man answered her. With a jolt of fear, I recognized the voice just a second before he said, “My name is Detective Rose. I’m with the police.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rose

  The words went through me like an electric shock. Rose! Here! Had the woman asked him to come? Had I revealed something in my fevered sleep that had caused her to call the police? Or maybe she just called them because I’d broken into her house. Or maybe she’d just seen my picture on the news and recognized me. All these possibilities crowded into my mind when I heard his voice.

  But wait. Now I heard her answer him: “Yes, Detective? How can I help you?” So maybe she hadn’t called him at all. I shook my head, trying to clear it, trying to figure things out.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. A fugitive escaped from the police near here yesterday. We’ve been searching the woods for him, but our dogs seem to feel he took to the road and possibly came this way.”

  “A fugitive?” the woman said. “Oh, my.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t mean to frighten you, but he’s a convicted murderer. Considered very dangerous.”

  “Well, I’m glad you don’t mean to frighten me, but you’re doing a very good job of it anyway.”

  I started to sit up in bed, but weakness overcame me and I fell back. I wasn’t sure what I was planning anyway. I mean, I wanted to escape, but where could I go? I was wearing nothing but my boxer shorts and T-shirt. Even if I could endure the mountain cold in my underwear, there was no window to climb out of. If I tried to leave the room through the door, Rose would spot me in a second. Still, I couldn’t just lie there and wait for the inevitable . . .

  The conversation at the door went on. I gathered my strength and struggled to sit up again.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Rose. “Would you mind taking a look at this picture?”

  “Sure. Is that him? Is that the fugitive?”

  “Yes, it is. His name is Charlie West.”

  I waited for the woman to let out a shout of fear and recognition. I waited for her to say, “I know him! He’s right in the next room, Detective!”

  But all she said was, “Looks like a nice enough boy.” Her voice was steady and calm.

  “Yes, he does, ma’am,” Rose answered. “Believe me, I know. He fooled me once too.”

  “You say he murdered someone?”

  “His best friend. Stabbed him in the chest.”

  “Pretty cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it was.”

  As they talked, I managed to push my upper body off the mattress in slow, painful stages. I slid my feet over the edge to the floor. Now I was sitting up, trying to gather enough strength and willpower to get to my feet. I had no plan, but I figured: At least when Rose came for me, I could do my best to get away from him. I could put up some kind of fight, run as far as I could. I didn’t think I would get very far, weak as I was, but it was better to try than to do nothing.

  “So . . . ma’am?” Rose said, waiting for the woman’s response to the photograph.

  “Hmm?”

  “The boy. Wes
t. Have you seen him? Have you seen anyone who looked like him passing by the area?”

  I froze where I was, sitting there, listening.

  After a small pause, the woman answered, “No. No, sorry. I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that. Don’t recognize him at all.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The woman gave a little laugh. “We’re pretty isolated here. If I saw a stranger, I’m sure I’d have noticed and remembered. You’re welcome to come inside and look around if you think he might be hiding under the bed or something.”

  Desperate to get up, I held on to the bed frame and tried to stand.

  But Rose answered her, “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Here, let me give you my card. If you see anything, call that number, would you?”

  “Sure. Be happy to.”

  “Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take a look in your shed out there. Just to make sure he’s not hiding on the property without your knowing it.”

  “Well, you go right ahead, Detective. Look anywhere you like.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem, Detective. You have a nice day now.”

  I heard the door shut. I continued to push off the bed frame until I reached my feet. But the minute I did, my legs gave out beneath me. I wilted to the floor.

  A moment later, the woman was back with me. When she saw me lying on the floor, she let out a little noise of surprise and concern. She rushed to my side. Knelt down beside me. She caught me under the arms.

  “Why . . . ?” I said.

  “Ssh,” she whispered urgently. “He’s right outside. Keep your voice down or he’ll hear you.” She tried to get me back onto the bed. “Come on. I can’t lift you by myself. You have to help.”

  I reached out blindly until I found the edge of the bed and grabbed hold of it. With me using all my effort and the woman pushing at me, I finally managed to climb back up onto the mattress. Exhausted, I tumbled onto the bed and lay there, shivering, weak and cold. The woman pulled the cover over me. She sat on the edge of the bed beside me. She laid a hand on my shoulder to keep me still.

  “Why did you . . . ?” I muttered again.