The Truth of the Matter (24 page)

Then I was back in the little room again. I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” said Margaret.

I nodded. The pain in my stomach was beginning to subside. “I think it’s going away,” I said. “For now.”

“All right,” Margaret said. “I want you to lie down again. I want you to get some rest.”

“I think I’m all right.”

“I don’t care what you think. Lie down,” she said quietly. “Go on now. Do as I say.”

I let her gently push me down onto the bed again. I watched her face as she pulled the covers up around me. My eyes were already sinking shut . . .

I woke up suddenly. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep. All I knew was I had the powerful sense that something very important had just happened.

I lay in the bed, very still, listening. I could hear the television playing in the next room. There was the sort of silly music and funny voices that usually go along with cartoons. I could hear Larry speaking to his mother—not his words, but the tone of his voice. I could hear the low, warm tones of his mother answering. I breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing wrong in the house.

What was it, then? Something had happened while I was asleep. I felt a twinge in my stomach and it started to come back to me: more dreams . . . or more memories . . .

Yes. I remembered. I had been back in the garden. Back in the maze. The maze of my memory. I had been in that central square. I had seen the figure there again in the darkness. Suddenly, a light had flashed on. Suddenly, I was not in the maze, not at all. I was in a small white room somewhere, cluttered with shelves and files, brightly lit—so bright that, after the shadows of the garden, I was nearly blind. I was squinting so hard I couldn’t even see the man standing right there in front of me.

Protecting my eyes from the bright light, I turned away. There, behind me, were the twisting corridors of the maze again. While I stood there, watching them, a wild thing happened. The maze began to bloom. The stark, thorny branches that covered the maze’s trellises suddenly burst into flower everywhere. Rich, bloodred flowers blossoming all up and down the maze’s corridors while I stood and stared and then . . .

Then, all at once, I came awake fully. I understood. I had to get to Margaret. I had to tell her.

I sat up. I felt cool, good. My fever was gone. The food and the rest had made me much stronger. I stood— and for a moment, I was nearly knocked over by dizziness. But I grabbed hold of the back of the chair and kept myself on my feet. I waited there until the dizziness passed. After a moment I was fine—strong enough to keep moving.

I went to the door. I rested against the frame. There was a hall, with the kitchen door on the left wall and the living room on the right. It was a short hall, but just then, it seemed to me like a long way to travel.

“Margaret,” I called. But my voice was weak, and the sound of the television must’ve drowned it out. She didn’t answer.

I began to move down the hall, bracing myself against one wall, then staggering to the other side and bracing myself there. Images from my dream—or my memory— or whatever it was—flashed on the screen of my mind again. The maze. The white room. The bloodred flowers blooming on the trellises.

I reached the living room doorway. I leaned against it. Margaret was sitting on the sofa with her arm around her son. They had their backs to me. They were watching a DVD . A cartoon movie about fish. Sport lay curled up on the rug, right beside the sofa.

I blinked hard. I looked around me. I could see that night had fallen. There was only darkness at the windows. In that darkness, or over it, like a transparent image, I could still see the trellises blooming in the maze, the thorny bushes bursting with bloodred roses.

“Margaret,” I said.

She heard me this time. So did Larry. Startled, they both looked over their shoulders. Sport lifted his head to look at me.

Margaret jumped to her feet and came to me where I stood.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said.

“I remember.”

“Quiet now. You have to lie down.”

“I can’t. I remember. I remember who it was. My contact after Waterman left. The one who arranged for Milton One to come to me in my jail cell.”

“Calm down. Calm down. I don’t understand you.”

“He was the one who whispered in my ear that I should find Waterman. He was the one who unlocked my handcuffs.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

I looked at her tired, kind, and peaceful face. I could see her through the images of my dream that kept flashing before me. The dark maze. The white room. The blooming roses.

“I am making sense,” I told her. “I finally remember. It was Rose. He’s my contact. It was Detective Rose.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They’re Here

Margaret helped me to a chair. I sank into it. I shivered, feeling cold wearing only my boxers and T-shirt. Sport sat beside me and sniffed at me with concern.

“Let me get your clothes,” Margaret said.

She left me there. I hugged myself for warmth. The dog watched me eagerly. I looked up and saw Larry watching me eagerly too, staring at me over the back of the sofa with wide, worried eyes. I tried to wink and smile at him, to reassure him.

“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s going to be all right.”

He sank down a little behind the couch, but his eyes continued to peer at me over the top of it. The dog lay down at my feet.

A moment later Margaret came back carrying the rest of my clothing: the jeans, the sweatshirt, the fleece, the socks, all freshly washed and folded. I talked while I put the clothes on.

“I had a dream . . . ,” I told her. “Only it was more than a dream. You know? It was like a memory only with symbols standing in for things, if you see what I’m saying.”

“I see,” said Margaret. “Go ahead.”

“I was in this maze . . . I think that was supposed to represent my memory . . . and all along the walls of the maze, there were these vines with thorns on them. I didn’t realize what they were at first, but then, in the dream, they blossomed and I saw they were rosebushes. And there was this guy at the center of the maze who talked to me, who helped me. He was my ally. Only I couldn’t see his face. He was like the vines: I didn’t know who he was. But when the vines blossomed . . .”

“No!” said Margaret. She understood a moment before I explained it.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding slowly, remembering the blossoming walls of the maze. “They were rosebushes. And the guy in the maze was Rose. He was my ally. He was the one who told me about the device in my mouth, about how the Homelanders were going to break me out of prison. He was Waterman’s contact on the police department. It was Rose all along.”

“Are you sure, Charlie?” Margaret asked me. “He didn’t seem like any kind of ally when he was just here.”

I stood out of my chair to pull the sweatshirt down over my head. “I’m sure. I remember it now. It all makes sense. Just after I escaped from the Homelanders the first time, I was arrested. I was handcuffed and Rose and a bunch of deputies took me to a car to take me back to jail. But just before they put me in the car, someone unlocked my handcuffs and whispered in my ear, ‘Find Waterman.’ It was Rose. It must’ve been—he was the only one close enough to do it. I guess he couldn’t help me more than that without giving himself away. Later, I saw my chance and I escaped—but he must’ve given me that chance, must’ve let me do it. Where are my shoes?”

“What do you need your shoes for? You’re still sick. You’re too weak to go anywhere now.”

I looked at her for a moment, at her kind and tired face, her kind and tired eyes. I did my best to smile.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “Remember you talked about doing what you have to do? Now I know what I have to do.”

She hesitated another moment, then did her best to smile back. “I’ll get your sneakers.”

They were right there, against the wall by the computer table. She handed them to me. I sat down and put them on.

“What are you planning?” she asked me.

“I’m going to find him. Rose. He’s the only contact I have left, the only one I can get to anyway. Maybe he can set things straight once and for all.”

“Wait,” said Margaret. She went back to the alcove, back to the table. She picked up a small rectangle of cardboard lying next to the laptop. She held it up. “You don’t have to go anywhere,” she said. “He gave me his card. He said I should call him if I saw you. We can just call him and he’ll come. He’ll know what to do.”

She went to the phone.

“No,” I said. “Let me. I don’t want anyone to think you’re calling for help. If the other police think you’re in danger, one of them might shoot me or something. It would ruin my whole day.”

She nodded. She picked up the phone’s handset and gave it to me.

From the sofa, there came a short laugh. “‘Ruin my whole day,’” Larry repeated, getting the joke. He was listening to every word we said.

I laughed. Suddenly, I was feeling pretty good, pretty hopeful. If I was right—if Rose was on my side—if I had at least one friend in the police department—the situation might not be as bad as I thought it was.

Margaret read the phone number aloud off the card. I keyed the numbers into the phone. I held the phone to my ear. It was silent.

“I guess I didn’t do that right,” I said. “Read me the number again.”

She read the number again. This time, I pressed the Talk button first, then dialed the number. But when I held the phone to my ear, there was still nothing. It was still silent.

I pressed the Talk button. Listened. No dial tone.

“How do I get a dial tone?”

Margaret took the phone. Pressed the button. Listened. “Seems to be out. Maybe the battery . . .” She tapped the buttons, repeating Rose’s phone number out loud a third time as she did. She listened. Shook her head.

“You have a cell?”

She left the room to get it. I heard her footsteps on the kitchen linoleum. A moment later, she was back with her cell phone.

“The kitchen phone is dead too,” she said.

The first tremor of fear went through me. I opened her cell. Looked at it. “No signal.”

Margaret shook her head. “That’s impossible. There’s a cell tower just up the road. I always get full bars.” She took the phone. Stared at it. Stared at me. “How is that possible?”

I didn’t want her to see the fear in my eyes, but I knew she did. My voice was hoarse and tense as I said to her: “Get the boy out of here.”

It took only a second for Margaret to understand. It was the Homelanders. It had to be. They had cut her phone lines, jammed her cell.

Now I could see the fear come into Margaret’s eyes too. She gave a quick glance at her son, a quick shake of her head. When she spoke again, she dropped her voice low, hoping the boy wouldn’t hear.

“They must already be here. Outside.”

I turned to look at the window. Nothing visible out there but darkness; night. But I knew she had to be right. Why would they have cut the phones if they weren’t here, ready to make their move?

The boy went on staring at us over the back of the couch. I sensed his worried eyes on me. I tried to look relaxed. But I dropped my voice to a whisper too.

“We probably don’t have a lot of time.”

“No time, more like,” Margaret said.

“Is there a way out from upstairs?”

She thought for a second. Then she gestured at her son. “He’s light enough to climb down the drainpipe. He’s done it before.”

“Wait till they’re in the house,” I said. “Then tell him to go into the woods and hide.”

She was already moving to the sofa. She grabbed Larry’s hand.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where we going, Mommy?” Larry piped.

“Up to the attic.”

He dragged his heels. “But I want to see the end of the movie.”

Margaret gave his arm a good stiff tug. “Don’t you argue with me, boy. Come on!”

“But Mommy . . . !”

“Hurry!”

With her other hand, she took Sport by the collar and pulled him along as well.

They all went up the stairs quickly.

My eyes went back to the front window. Out there in the dark, looking in at us here in the lighted house, they’d be able to see every move we made.

I went to the light switch. I turned the top light off, then moved around the room, killing whatever lights I found—including the TV still showing the DVD . There were still lights in the hall, some in the kitchen. I turned those off too. Now the house was almost as dark as the night outside.

I waited in that dark. Long minutes went by. I looked out the kitchen windows. I saw nothing. I listened. The house creaked and settled, but there was no other sound.

I began to wonder if maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the Homelanders weren’t here after all.

After a few more minutes, I felt my way through the dark house back into the living room. I took a step toward the front window, to see if I could get another angle on the outdoors, maybe spot something on the front drive.

Before I took a second step, the door burst open and the Homelanders came charging in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Caught