Andrew Klavan - The truth of the matter

“He’s trained in karate.” Rose went on speaking on the monitor. “And by all accounts, he’s extremely skilled. Civilians should not approach him, even if they’re armed. I can’t emphasize this enough. This man is vicious. He’s already been convicted of one murder, and now we have every reason to believe he’s committed a second.”

“What?” I said.

I was so taken aback that I didn’t even notice my new surroundings. I just went on staring at the television monitor as Detective Rose’s face was replaced by a snapshot of Mr. Sherman, my old history teacher. Recently, I had discovered that it was Sherman who had recruited me to join the Homelanders. He was the one who had killed Alex Hauser when Alex tried to leave the organization. Then he had framed me for the murder in order to make me angry at American injustice so I would sign on with him and his Islamo-fascist allies to attack the country.

I knew that Sherman was in trouble with the Homelanders. Their leader, a man who called himself Prince, felt that when Sherman had recruited me, he had brought a traitor into the ranks. Sherman had tried to capture me at gunpoint in order to prove himself to Prince. I had knocked him out-knocked him out, yes, but I hadn’t killed him. He was alive the last time I saw him.

Apparently, he was not alive anymore.

“The gruesome remains of the history teacher were found in an abandoned house at the outskirts of the little city,” a newswoman’s voice was saying. Sherman’s face faded out and was replaced by a picture of the old haunted McKenzie mansion where I had hidden out the last time I was home. Was it only a couple of weeks ago? The newswoman went on, “Police say Sherman was tortured before he was killed.”

The images disappeared as the monitor went blank.

“That was on the news about forty-five minutes ago.”

I looked down at the voice. I saw I was in a long, low-ceilinged cellar of a room with white plaster walls and a couple of doors leading off into other rooms. The fluorescent lighting gave the room a bright, cold, sterile feeling. The place was packed with equipment. There were workstations along the walls with laptops set up on them. There were several monitors hanging up high on the walls. Each monitor had pictures broken up into several little squares, as if it was bringing in several video feeds at once. Each laptop had readouts working on the screen. I was too dazed and confused to take it all in.

“They’re warning people that he could be heading for Manhattan. They seem to be hot on his trail.”

The guy who was speaking was a young man, American of Asian descent. He was trim with a squarish head, a strangely cheerful face-it seemed strange under the circumstances anyway. He was dressed in a shirt and tie, but no jacket. He was sitting at one of the workstations, one of the laptops. He was holding a small rectangular object in one hand. At first, I thought it was an iPhone.

“This is Milton One,” said Waterman with his ironic drawl. “The inventor and operator of Milton Two.”

Milton One held up the iPhone-thing and waggled it around. I could see a video readout on it. The little gadget was the control for the security drone upstairs.

“Sorry to blast you, kid,” he said merrily. “But it sure was fun. I’ve been dying to try this thing out under battle conditions.”

With that reminder, the pain of the burn on my wrist came back to me. I rubbed the spot.

“Glad to be of service,” I muttered.

Now, hearing the conversation, a woman came into the room, entering a step through the doorway to my right. She was spindly and crow-faced with black hair streaked with gray, pulled back tight. She had hard brown eyes empty of emotion. She had a nasty scowl plastered on her face.

“Get ready,” Waterman told her.

She nodded once and disappeared through the doorway again without a word.

Now Waterman turned his attention back to me. “You heard Rose, Charlie. The police are saying you killed Sherman now.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I said angrily. I was frustrated by the injustice of it. I couldn’t remember Alex dying. Until I got the truth out of Sherman, I sometimes worried I might really have killed him. But I did remember what happened with Sherman. “He was alive when I left him, I swear it. The Homelanders must have found him. They must’ve punished him for letting me get away. I can’t believe Detective Rose is blaming that on me too.”

Waterman answered with a slight sniff. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “We’re going to find out all about that,” he said. “We’re both going to find out all about everything.”

That didn’t sound good. I felt a nauseating gout of fear as I wondered what was coming next.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

Without answering, Waterman walked across the room to an empty spot on the wall underneath one of the monitors and in between two of the workstations. Once more, he moved his palm over the space. Once more, I tried to follow the movement, the pattern of diagonals and straight lines. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t place it.

Once more, as he finished, there was the hum of a motor. A door that had been invisible swung open. A light came on automatically within the next room.

Waterman gestured to the opening.

“Welcome to the Panic Room,” he said.

The Panic Room I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. No way I wanted to go through that door, to go into that place. But I was surrounded. There was no getting out of it.

I walked into the Panic Room.

It was a small, square, stark space. Looked like a prison cell. Four white walls, a metal chest against one wall, a cot against another, a metal toilet, a metal sink, a metal chair in the center of the floor.

I didn’t like the metal chair especially. Just the sight of it sent a new pulse of fear through me. It reminded me of how all this had started. I’d gone to bed one night and awakened strapped to a metal chair just like that one. Two Homelander goons had been torturing me. There were so many memories I wished I could get back, but that was one memory I wished I could get rid of forever.

Waterman and Dodger Jim came into the room behind me. Dodger Jim made a motion with his hand, and the electric door swung shut, becoming an invisible part of the wall again. I felt light-headed in the small space, helpless to stop what was happening.

Waterman stood to my right. Dodger Jim was to my left, holding the gun on me.

“This is the way it is, Charlie,” Waterman said. There was no tone, no emotion to his voice at all now. “We’re going to handcuff you to that chair…”

The fear flared higher. “Why? What for? Who are you people?” I said.

“Shut up,” said Dodger Jim.

“Either you can just sit down and let us do it, or we can do it by force,” said Waterman. “Whichever you choose, the result is going to be the same.”

I took a deep breath. I nodded, as if I agreed with him. And the fact was: I knew he was probably right. But I didn’t care whether he was right or not. There was just no way on this planet I was going to let them handcuff me to that chair without a fight. Once I was there, it was over. Once they had me cuffed, I had no chance at all.

“Look,” I said, “if you have something to ask me, why don’t you just ask? I have nothing to hide.”

“We have to be sure,” said Waterman. “Get in the chair, Charlie.”

I put my hands up as if to surrender. “Okay,” I said.

Then I pivoted, fast, and sent a snapping roundhouse kick at Dodger Jim’s gun hand.

The gun went flying-and then Waterman was on me. He was big, fast, tough-and a real fighter. I tried to chop at his throat, but he blocked it hard and got my arm in a lock. He got his foot behind me and, as he hit me in the chest with his hand, his foot came swinging back and swept my feet out from under me.