Andrew Klavan - The Final Hour

I stammered stupidly as I tried to put the words together. Finally, I managed to say, “I didn’t remember.”

Warden Tanker sort of rolled that around in his mouth for a moment, then drawled it slowly back at me: “You didn’t remember.”

“That’s right!”

“Just kind of slipped your mind, did it?”

“Yes… No… I had amnesia.”

“Amnesia.”

“Well, not exactly amnesia. I took a drug…”

“I’ll just bet you did.”

“No, not that kind of drug. A special drug so I wouldn’t remember. So the terrorists couldn’t get any information out of me.”

Once again, the gorilla of frustration threatened to tear me wide open, as the warden swiveled slowly, moving his eyes from one guard to another as if they were all sharing a private joke.

“And you got this drug exactly where?” Tanker asked. “From the amnesia fairy, I’m guessing.”

The guard at my left shoulder snorted.

“Look,” I said, trying to control my temper. “I know this all sounds hard to believe.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?” asked the warden.

“Yes, but you have to believe it. You have to.”

Slowly, thoughtfully, Warden Tanker stroked his silver mustache with his hand. The way he did it reminded me of Sensei Mike. Sensei Mike had a big black mustache, and he’d stroke it with his hand sometimes when he was trying to hide the fact that he was laughing. But then Sensei Mike was always laughing because he thought the world was kind of a funny place in a lot of ways. The warden, on the other hand, was laughing at me. “Supposing I do believe you,” he went on slowly, “what do you expect me to do about it?”

The Frustration Creature was going so crazy inside me that for a minute I couldn’t answer-couldn’t answer without trying to throw this guy out the window. But finally, I managed to blurt out, “Tell somebody! Homeland Security. The FBI. Anybody! What’s wrong with you?”

I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. I stumbled forward a step. Dunbar had hit me.

“Speak to the warden with respect,” he growled.

“You see, son,” the warden said-and I so wanted to punch him. So. “My problem is: A lot of cons come in here with a lot of stories. Hoping to get some new privileges or just start some kind of trouble. You know how I can tell when they’re lying?”

I couldn’t answer. I gestured helplessly.

“I can tell they’re lying because their mouths are moving.” He waved me away like I was a bad smell. “You have something you want to communicate with the outside world, call your lawyer.”

The guards on either side of me took hold of my arms, ready to drag me out of there.

“I did call my lawyer,” I said as the Frustration Creature raged and hammered at the bars of his cage inside my chest. “His office is closed for the holidays. Even if they get back to me-and even if they believe me-it could be too late.”

But the warden wasn’t listening. He had already opened a folder on his desk, was already turning to other business. “Well, then I guess you’re out of luck,” he drawled.

I started to answer… but then I stopped. My mouth shut with an audible sound.

Because there was no point. The guards were drawing me toward the door and I realized: There was no way I would ever make Warden Tanker believe me. To him, I was just another lying con like a million others he’d seen. And the truth-the really terrible truth was, the story was so incredible, I’m not sure I would have believed me if I were sitting in his place.

“Come on,” said Dunbar with a jerk of his head.

The guards pulled me toward the door. The warden went about his business. And as I stumbled out, it hit me full force: The Great Death was coming, coming soon, New Year’s Eve.

And at that moment, suddenly-terribly-I knew what I had to do.

I paced my cell. A step and a half in one direction, a step and a half back. Again and again. Again and again. All the while, the Frustration Creature inside me stamped and raged, a beast in a cage of his own. But I just went on pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. A step and a half. Again and again.

My thoughts were wild, out of control. It was like some kind of crazed conversation of gibbering voices all talking over one another and interrupting one another inside my brain. I was trying to think of some way out of this, a way other than the one that had come to me in the warden’s office. Some way I could get the word out to someone who counted, warn someone who might be able to stop Prince, to stop the Great Death.

But who? It couldn’t just be anyone. It couldn’t just be a friend, or even one of my parents. How would that help? Who would they go to? Who would believe them? By the time they could reach anyone, convince anyone, it would be too late. There was so little time. No time really. No details the police could work on, no proof, no way to know what the attack would be or even where it was going to take place, unless…

Unless somehow I remembered. If I had ever known the answer, if it was still somewhere inside my mind, it might come back to me in the next memory attack. Or the one after that. It might…

But then what? Without Rose, without being able to contact Rose or anyone else who knew my mission, it still seemed impossible that I could catch up with Prince before he did whatever it was he was planning to do. There seemed no way. No way except…

Out of all those voices gibbering and interrupting in my brain, one kept speaking out louder than the others, one thought kept coming back to me:

If I were free…

If I were free, I thought, I could do something. I could find my way back to the mansion maybe, that crazy gray mansion sitting on the hill, the house Prince had used for his headquarters. It wouldn’t be easy to find. I wasn’t sure where it was. But I knew the location was in my head somewhere and I felt certain that, if I were free, I would be able to retrace my steps and get there.

If I were free…

I remembered Rose had told me that the mansion was still under guard and that it contained computers and records that had helped him and his agents arrest the other Homelanders. Maybe those computers and records held the key to where the Great Death attack was going to take place. Even if they didn’t, if I could reach the mansion, I would also reach the guards around the mansion. I would be able to give them the word, warn them about the coming of the Great Death.

If I were free…

But there was no way to get free, no way to get out of this hell of a prison. Even if my lawyers did everything they said they would, even if everything worked out the way Rose hoped it might, there was no way I could get out of Abingdon in time.

No way, that is, but one. One insane, dangerous, and totally desperate way.

I paced the cell. I paced the cell. One and a half steps back and forth. Again and again and again.

If I were free… If only I were free…

Then, finally, what I was waiting for: The door buzzed. Slid open. A guard shouted at our tier of cells:

“Yard time!”

I stepped out into the yard. The sky hung low, dark gray and heavy. It seemed to press down on me. The cold air felt full of a coming storm.

I felt the danger on every side. Wherever I turned, someone was watching me, waiting for his chance.

Out by the basketball court, it was the Islamist crew. They were gathered at the edge of the black asphalt. They were stealing glances at me with deep, angry eyes, then turning away to murmur to one another.

Over by the Outbuilding, it was the guards. They were standing with Dunbar at the Outbuilding door. Dunbar lifted his chin in my direction, his face like stone. It was his way of saying: I’m waiting for you, punk. I’m waiting for my moment.