Andrew Klavan - The last thing I remember

She gave me another “mom look”: it was the one they give you when they don’t believe you, when they can see you’re making up a story to get out of trouble and they don’t want to call you a liar but they don’t want you to think you’ve fooled them either.

“It’s true!” I said-which is pretty much what you say to moms when they give you that look. It sort of comes out automatically. But then I had to admit: “I guess it does sound pretty lame.”

Mrs. Simmons nodded, but one corner of her mouth lifted in a kind of wry mom smile. “Where are you from, Charlie? Where are your mom and dad?”

“I guess they’re back home. In Spring Hill.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know it.”

“It’s the Whitney County seat.”

She gave me a strange look. Then she said: “You’re a long way from home. We’re just north of Centerville here.”

I gaped at her. “Centerville? No way! That’s on the other side of the state!”

That got me another soothing blast of “mom sympathy.” Then Mrs. Simmons nodded her head at the glove compartment. “The phone’s in there. Why don’t you see if you can get a signal?”

I got out her cell, a Razr. I flipped it open.

“No,” I said. “No service.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Simmons. “It’s always bad up in here. Wait till we get to the bottom of this road.”

I nodded. I leaned back against the seat. I was too tired to talk anymore. In fact, I’d never felt so tired in my life. I was hungry, too, really hungry now. I wondered if I could talk Mrs. Simmons into giving me some food or if I’d have to wait for my mom and dad to come get me.

In the seat behind me, the little girl, Angeline, began to sing. She had a doll back there she was playing with, and she was sort of singing to it and herself in a low voice. I guess it gets pretty boring strapped into those child seats.

I leaned my head back and listened to her rambling little song. I started to drift off into sleep, but then I felt myself strapped to the torture chair and saw the rat-faced guy coming at me with his syringe…

“Charlie!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I sat up suddenly. A strap pulled tight against my chest, holding me in place. For a second, I thought I really was back in the torture chair, that my whole escape had been a dream…

But no. I looked around. I was still in the Explorer. Mrs. Simmons was sitting next to me. She smiled gently.

“You fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“We’re here.”

I looked around, dazed. The car had stopped. We were in the driveway of a small house, a brown clapboard house on a wooded road. I could see a couple of other houses, but they were far away, all but hidden in the trees.

“This is where I live,” she said. Her voice sounded different now. It was nicer somehow, warmer. I guess she’d had time to think about it while I was asleep and had decided I was okay. “You can come in and use the phone inside,” she told me.

It felt strange to be inside her house-in a normal house where nice, regular people lived-it felt good. There were pictures on the wall and photographs of her and her husband over the fireplace. There was even a big old yellow Labrador who met us at the door, sniffed me up and down, and gave a throaty little cough of approval before slobbering all over Angeline and making her laugh.

The kitchen was especially nice, all homey and old-fashioned with yellow-and-white floor tiles and red-and-white curtains and a view of the forest through the window over the sink. It made me feel almost like I was at one of my friends’ houses or something.

Mrs. Simmons gestured to a phone that was standing in a charger on the kitchen counter. I went to it. Mrs. Simmons, meanwhile, told Angeline to sit down at the kitchen table. Angeline sat there and talked to her doll, and Mrs. Simmons went to the refrigerator to get her a snack.

“Do you want anything to eat, Charlie?” she asked over her shoulder.

I had to swallow a whole mouthful of drool before I could croak, “Yeah. Please.”

She stopped with her hand on the refrigerator and gave me the sympathy look again. Then, kind of quietly, she nodded at the phone and said, “Don’t forget to use the area code.”

I nodded. I dialed home. While I waited for the phone to ring, my heart started beating harder. I was crazy excited. Just to hear my mom’s voice or my dad’s… Just to know they were coming to get me… I almost didn’t care anymore how I’d gotten here or what had happened. Just as long as it was over. Just as long as I could go home.

The phone started ringing. Then my breath caught as the ringing stopped and a woman’s voice came over the line.

“Mom?” I said.

But the voice said only: “We’re sorry. This number has been disconnected. Please check the number and dial again.” It was a recording.

Confused, I looked over at Mrs. Simmons. She was setting a juice box and a Pop-Tart in front of Angeline.

“That’s weird,” I said.

She moved to the refrigerator again. “What’s weird?”

I didn’t answer. I redialed my home number, making sure I got it right. This time, the phone didn’t even ring. There was just the voice: “We’re sorry. This number has been disconnected…”

I lowered the phone from my ear.

“What? What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Simmons.

“They say the number’s been disconnected.”

Mrs. Simmons shrugged. “Might be some problem on the line. What about their cell phones?”

“I don’t know the numbers. They were on my speed dial-I never had to memorize them.”

“Well, why don’t you just call the sheriff ’s department? They’ll contact your folks for you. You’re going to need to talk to them anyway if there are all these bad guys you say are after you.”

“There are!” I insisted.

“Well, okay,” said Mrs. Simmons-she still sounded doubtful. “Then call the sheriff.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

I looked down at the phone in my hand. I hesitated. I could just imagine trying to explain to a bunch of policemen what had happened to me. Well, I went to bed and when I woke up… Right. I could just imagine how crazy I’d sound and the way they’d look at me, like I was some lying kid.

“Here,” Mrs. Simmons said, coming to me. “I’ll call them. My husband’s an assistant district attorney. They all know me.”

“Oh, great,” I said, relieved. I handed her the phone. At least she could tell them I wasn’t a bad guy.

“You sit down and eat something,” she told me. “I put some chicken out for you. You must be starved.”

She gestured at the table. I saw now she’d poured a glass of milk for me and put a couple of pieces of chicken and a Pop-Tart on a plate. The sight of the food just about blew everything else out of my mind. My mouth hung open as I sat down at the table. I stared at the food as if it were some kind of vision: a drumstick, a breast, a Pop-Tart with strawberry frosting. I said a quick grace in my head-very quick. My mouth was watering so much, I had to wipe it before I could start to eat.

“Jack! Hi, it’s Cathy Simmons,” Mrs. Simmons said into the phone. She went on talking as she carried the phone out into the living room. I couldn’t hear what she said. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t paying attention anymore anyway. I was lifting that drumstick. I was biting into it. For a second, the taste of the food was so powerful it made my head swim. I hesitated, afraid I was going to throw up. But then my stomach settled and I started eating for real. By which I mean: I ripped into that drumstick like Godzilla devouring a tourist. The drumstick, then the breast, then the Pop-Tart…