HL 04-The Final Hour (20 page)

I tried to think back, but in the end I could only spread my hands. “I saw it, but . . . it was so fast . . .”

There was another awful silence. Everyone looking at me. But I felt one stare more than the others.

I turned to her—to the crow-faced woman—the woman who had injected the drug that had sent me into paroxysms of agonizing pain—and into the past so that I could begin to recover my lost memories.

“I never knew your name,” I said. “Nobody ever told me.”

“Farber,” she said quietly. “Dr. Judith Farber.” She averted her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to look at me.

“Do you think it might work?” I asked her. “Do you think I could go back? To that specific moment. That specific memory.”

She couldn’t meet my eyes. “Early on, when we were first developing the drug,” she said, “there was some evidence that, with experience, you might be able to control it to some degree. Just like thinking back to a specific time, only . . .”

“Only more powerful,” I said, “because of the drug.”

She looked at me—forced herself to look at me, I think. She said, “I don’t know. I don’t know what would happen.” She looked around at the others as if she were appealing to them. “Nobody knows.”

No one answered her. No one said a word.

“If I could go back,” I told her. “If I could look into that room again . . . I might see the laptop again; I might see what I saw but can’t remember. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s possible,” said Dr. Farber. Her tone was almost desperate. She stared an appeal at Milton One and Dodger Jim. Then at Mike and Rose. Finally at me. “It’s possible, but . . .”

“But it might kill me. Or worse.”

She nodded. “Or worse. Yes.”

After that, nothing but silence all around. I turned back to the window. I stared into my own face again and through my reflection again into the darkness. I could say that I wasn’t afraid. I could say I trusted in God. And I did trust in God. But I was afraid too.

A million people
, I thought.

I faced the others. Mike looked at me and I looked at Mike and I’m pretty sure I knew exactly what he was thinking:
You do what you gotta do, chucklehead. You
never surrender and you do what you have to do
.

“I want to call Beth first,” I told them. “Just in case, you know. I want a chance to say good-bye.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
To Say Good-bye

Mike and Milton One took me into a bedroom—another one of these elaborate bedrooms in this crazy house: with a four-poster bed all draped with heavy curtains and heavy curtains on the windows and tables everywhere cluttered with shiny knickknacks and chiming clocks.

Mike grabbed up one tableful of knickknacks in a single big armload. He carried them to the bed and dumped them with a ringing clatter on the lacy bedspread. Milton One set a laptop on the cleared table.

“I’ve got the signal scrambled through about three different servers,” he told me, “but I wouldn’t stay on with her more than ten minutes if I were you. The cops are looking for you and may be monitoring her line. And Prince will know you escaped. You’re the one person who might know enough to catch up to him, so even though he hasn’t got a lot of manpower left, he’s sure to be looking out for you, waiting for a chance to send someone after you. Like I said, I’ve got it fixed to confuse a trace, but if you stay on too long . . . Well, ten minutes tops.”

I nodded. Milton One walked out of the room. Mike hesitated.

“What?” I said.

My old sensei didn’t say anything. He just lifted his right fist—the karate sign of power. Then he covered it with his left hand—the karate sign of restraint. Then— holding his hands like that—he gave a short sharp bow in my direction: the karate token of respect.

Then he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I waited a few minutes. Just a few. I wanted to be sure my emotions were under control. There are people, I know, who say guys shouldn’t control their emotions, that they should just express them anytime they want. I don’t agree. There’s a time to be emotional, sure, but there’s also plenty of times when it’s good to keep your emotions in check. I wanted Beth to know I loved her, but I didn’t want her to see I was afraid because I didn’t want her to be afraid.

When I could, I pulled up some fancy French-looking chair and sat down in front of the laptop. I remembered the system my pal Josh had set up for communications. I used it now.

A long tone came out of the laptop’s speakers. Then there was Beth’s voice:

“Charlie?”

It was another second or two before the video came on. Then there she was, looking into the screen; her hair falling in curls around her cheeks made her look like one of those cameos my mother sometimes wears. Her blue eyes were gazing right at me, an expectant smile on her lips. Then I guess she saw me at about the same time I saw her, because she kind of gave a little gasp and put her hands over her mouth.

I know I should have been glad to see her. All this time, every day, every minute, I’d missed her more than I could even bear to think about. So I should’ve been glad. But I wasn’t. Or, that is, I felt a weird mix of soaring gladness and plunging sorrow all at the same time. The sight of her made my heart clench inside me because I had a very strong feeling that I was never going to see her again.

I didn’t show any of that, though. I just smiled at her. A big bright smile. “Hey, Beth,” I said.

“Look at your face,” Beth said. “Your poor face.”

Without thinking, I reached up to touch it and flinched at the pain. “Tough place, Abingdon,” I told her.

She nodded. “We heard the news here about how you escaped again,” she answered softly. “The lawyers say you’ve ruined your chances for an appeal. The police say you’re going to get hurt if you don’t turn yourself in. I don’t care what anyone says: I’m glad you’re out of there.”

“I’m glad, too, Beth.”

She peered into the screen. She looked . . . I’m not sure what the word is to describe her. She looked like she trusted me. That’s it.

She said: “What’s going to happen now, Charlie?”

What could I tell her? “I don’t know—not exactly anyway. But one way or another, Beth, this is almost over. There’s just one more bad guy out there . . .”

“And you have to fight him, because you’re the good guy. I know.”

“That’s the way it works, yeah.”

“Is it dangerous?” she asked. Then right away, she said, “I guess that’s a stupid question. It must be really dangerous or you wouldn’t have risked calling me.”

I managed a laugh. “You’re too smart for me.”

“And don’t you forget it, Charlie.”

I looked into her soft eyes. That sweet face. It was amazing, I thought, how well I remembered the smell of her hair. It was amazing how often the scent of it had reached me in my prison cell as if she had been sitting on my cot, watching over me while I slept, and had only left a moment before I woke up.

“After this,” she said, “they’ll see the truth. I know they will. They won’t send you back to prison this time.”

I didn’t argue with her. “I hope not,” was all I said.

“I couldn’t stand thinking about you in there,” she told me. “I tried not to show it.”

“You did a good job,” I lied.

“But I couldn’t stand it. It was killing me.”

Yeah, me, too
, I thought. But what I said was: “I’m sorry, Beth. I’m really sorry for putting you through all this.”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “No. Don’t say that. You’re not sorry. I’m not sorry either. If I had known at the start this was what you were doing, I would have told you to do it. I love you because you’re the person who will do it.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m glad. Tell you the truth, I don’t really care why you love me, as long as you find a reason. Although I was kind of hoping it was ’cause I’m just so incredibly hot.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

She smiled, but a tear dropped over the edge of her eye and rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly. “I know what you’re doing, Charlie. Don’t think you’re fooling me, okay? I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh yeah? What am I doing?”

“You’re calling to say good-bye. You’re thinking you’re going to get killed out there so you’re calling so we can talk to each other one last time.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Only you’re wrong. You’re not going to get killed.”

“No?” I said.

“No. You’re not. You’re going to find whoever you have to find and do whatever you have to do and then . . .” Her voice broke. She put her hand over her eyes for a moment—only for a moment. Then she looked at me again, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And then you’re coming back. You hear me? When you’re done, when it’s all done, you’re coming back to me and to your mom and dad and to Josh and Rick and Miler and everybody. And that’s how it’s going to be. Okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice was hoarse. I could hardly get the words out. “Sure, Beth. That’s how it’s going to be.”

“Good,” she said, using her palm to swipe the tears off her cheeks. “As long as we understand each other.”

“I understand,” I said. “You’re with me every second, Beth.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I am.”

I lifted my hand. I put it to the computer screen. She lifted her hand and put it to the screen on her side.

We sat like that—in silence. Time seemed to stand still. Seemed to—but it didn’t. When I came back to myself, I realized we’d been on the line too long.

“Listen . . . ,” I said finally.

“I know,” Beth said, her voice almost a whisper. “You have to go.”

“I wish . . .”

“Me too,” she said.

My hand was still half lifted to the screen. But now I lowered it. My fingers curled into a fist and I pressed the fist against my heart. My way of telling her again, one last time, that she was with me still, with me always.

She did the same with her hand.

“See you,” I said.

“See you,” she said.

Then I shut down the connection.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
One Last Memory

They wanted to strap me down, but I wouldn’t let them. I was tired of feeling trapped and helpless. Tired of being pushed around and told what to do. This was my choice, my decision. I didn’t need any straps.

I rolled up my sleeve and held it out to Dr. Farber. “Just do it,” I told her.

I was sitting in the big chair behind the desk. Milton One and Dodger Jim were standing near me. Mike was leaning against the desk, his arms crossed on his chest, watching me. Rose was standing at the window, staring out at the night.

Dr. Farber lifted the hypodermic. She took a breath.

“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to say it won’t hurt a bit?” I asked her.

She tried to smile but didn’t do a very good job. She leaned forward and pressed the hypodermic needle against my arm.

I didn’t want to watch. I looked at Mike. He winked at me. I winked back.