Andrew Klavan - The truth of the matter

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 leaving 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.”