I climbed to my feet and ran, bent over, stumbling toward the edge of the road, hoping to reach cover before a bullet caught me. As I ran, I glanced back over my shoulder—just a quick glance but long enough to see what happened next.
Blond Guy was out of his mind with blood-fury. He was screaming and screaming, firing and firing at the police behind their doors, riddling their cruiser with bullet holes. His rage made him fearless. He was standing clear out in the open, totally unprotected. He just kept screaming and shooting, walking toward the wrecked cruiser, step after step.
He had the police pinned down behind their car. But by now the second cruiser had pulled to the side of the road. Two more troopers were coming out of it with their guns drawn. They dropped behind their cruiser’s open doors for cover. They took aim through the open windows, bracing their arms on the window frames.
Then—in that moment I looked back while I was running, bent over, across the road—Blond Guy’s gun clicked on empty. You’d think he would have thrown the weapon down. You’d think he would have put his hands up and surrendered. But no. Standing there, right out in the open, with the police guns still trained on him, he tore one magazine from the machine gun, tossed it away and, in the same fluid motion, reached into his jacket and pulled out another. He jammed the magazine in place, chambered a bullet, and was ready to open fire again.
The last thing I saw before I reached the edge of the road was the troopers rising up from behind their cars—two from behind the ruined cruiser and two from the second cruiser that had just come up alongside it. All four of them opened fire at the same time.
I saw Blond Guy fly back, letting out a last blast of machine-gun fire at the sky as the police bullets tore into him. Then he was going down, crumpling to the ground like some kind of broken toy.
I couldn’t stay to watch anymore. I had come to the edge of the road. Only a few seconds had passed since the crash. Handlebar was still in his seat, still clutching his bleeding face. The driver was still sitting slumped and dazed behind the wheel of the car where the air bag had hit him. For a moment, I was there at the edge, unnoticed. Beneath me was a steep drop, a sharp slope of dirt dotted with bushes and stunted trees. It ended suddenly in a vertical fall off the side of the mountain.
I charged off the road and down the slope. After two steps, I lost my footing and was tumbling, tumbling toward the brink of nothingness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cliff-hanger
I rolled and tumbled, tumbled and rolled—for the longest time, it seemed. It seemed at any second I would reach the edge of the slope and go falling over. Roots and stones cut at me. Tree trunks banged me as I went past. But I kept falling faster, out of control.
Acid fear burned in me as I saw myself plunging toward the edge of the cliff and the sheer drop below it. I looked desperately for something to hang on to. I saw a tree—too far away to reach. But the roots came out of the ground in a great hunched tangle. Maybe . . .
I grabbed at the roots. I caught hold of a small cluster of them. My lower half kept falling, my legs tumbling past my torso. I clung to the roots as I felt my foot go over the edge into open air. But I had a firm grip. I dangled a second, holding on. Then I dragged myself back up onto the solid ground at the edge of the cliff.
Panting, bleeding, shocked, dazed, I tried desperately to get a sense of where I was. I looked up and saw the road far above me. I had tumbled down a long way. I heard another broken round of gunfire from up there and then the shooting stopped.
There were rough shouts:
“Get out of the car! Get out of the car with your hands up!”
It was the police. The law had won the day, and the two terrorists who were still alive were under arrest.
As I lay there, wincing, I saw a dark figure loom up on the ridge overhead. It was one of the state troopers. He was scanning the ground below, looking for me. I could see by the way he stiffened suddenly that he spotted me where I was at the edge of the drop-off, clinging to my cluster of roots.
I saw him turn away and I heard him shout to his fellow officers, “I see him! He’s down there!”
I knew I had to get out of there, fast.
I looked along the ridge on which I was lying. The slope was so steep, the edge so close, I didn’t think I’d be able to move quickly without falling over. I’d have to keep my grip on trees, on roots, on anything I could find in order to move along. The police would come down and get me easily. Either that, or they might just take a shot at me from the road.
No, the only way out was down—and that meant going over the side.
There was no time to be afraid. That didn’t stop me from being afraid—it just meant I couldn’t worry about it much. Holding on to my cluster of roots, I lowered my legs over the edge. My feet searched for purchase in the side of the mountain. There was soft earth and there were rocks— but I couldn’t tell if my footholds were firm or if they would crumble away underneath me. All the same, there was nothing else I could do. I let go of my handhold. I clutched at the earth under my fingers. I began to lower myself down.
It was a long climb and a scary one. Not a straight drop—not the whole way—but not much of a slope either. There was brush to hold on to, and rocks to brace my feet on. But the brush would tear free sometimes and I would have to grab hold of something else fast to keep from plummeting down. The rocks likewise would break from the earth under my feet and tumble down the mountainside, leaving me dangling helplessly until I could find somewhere else to stand.
But slowly, I made my way. When I looked down after a while, I could see the slope easing off a little bit. I could see a place where I might let go of my desperate handholds and start scrambling again. But I wasn’t there yet—it was still a dangerous fall. And as I climbed down, I began to feel something—something stirring inside me—and I groaned in terror.
It was another memory attack. I could feel it starting. I could feel that horrible writhing dragon of pain coming to life in my stomach.
My eyes filled with discomfort and frustration. Not now, I thought, not now. I paused in my climb, clinging to the mountain face. I clenched my teeth and tried to force the growing pain down by sheer willpower. To my relief, it actually seemed to work for a moment. I seemed to be able to make the clutching agony subside a little and recede—the dragon pulling its head back under cover. I was pretty sure I couldn’t keep the memory attack away forever. But while there was time, I had to keep moving.
Slowly, I continued my climb down the mountainside.
And now, I heard noises on the slope above me. Deep voices calling to each other. Brush and sticks crackling. I looked up and saw dirt and pebbles pouring over the edge. Some of the debris showered my hair.
It was the troopers. They were climbing down the slope. They were coming to get me.
“He was right there a minute ago,” said one voice. “I saw him.”
“All right. Hold on. Take it easy, go slow. You don’t want to lose your footing and go over the edge. It’s a long way down.”
There were two of them as far as I could tell. The other two troopers must’ve still been up top with their prisoners and the dead.
I kept climbing down. The earth kept raining down on top of me as the troopers’ feet dislodged it from the slope over my head.
Then the sounds of brush and branches cracking— the sounds of the troopers’ descent—paused.
“Man,” I heard one of the troopers say, breathless, “this is really getting steep. Maybe we oughta wait for some climbing equipment or something.”
“The kid didn’t wait,” said the other, also panting. “He just went over the side.”
“Yeah, well . . . the kid’s a kid.”
The other trooper gave a weary laugh. “I know what you mean.”
A handful of pebbles showered onto me as the troopers started carefully down the slope again.
I continued to make my slow way down the cliff. I flinched as another twist of pain flared in
my abdomen: the dragon of the memory attack rearing its head. But I managed to force the dragon down again and went on, moving my hand from rock to root to tree branch, working my feet from one crevice in the dirt to another as I descended.
A radio squawked above me. “Bravo-90.”
I heard the troopers pause again.
“This is Bravo-90,” I heard one of the troopers answer. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Rose.”
Now I paused too. Rose! Detective Rose. Was he here? Was he nearby? The idea frightened me.
Holding on to a stunted tree sticking out of the mountainside, I rested my face against the cold dirt. I was exhausted and, no matter how much I fought it, I could still feel that dragon of pain waiting to be born in my abdomen. I strained to listen.
“Go ahead, Detective,” said the trooper.
“Have you got him?” said Rose. I recognized his voice now, even through the static of the radio. “Have you got West?”
“We’re on the chase. He went over the side of a mountain. It’s pretty steep. We may need some grappling equipment.”
There was a pause. Then Rose said, “You have your orders. Do what you have to do. Get him.”
“Ten-four,” said the Trooper. Then, muttering to his companion, he said, “What’s he giving me orders for? Guy’s not even in his own jurisdiction.”
“I know. He’s obsessed with this kid, though. It’s something personal.”
“Yeah, well, not falling off mountains is something personal with me.”
There was a bitter laugh in answer.
The idea that Rose was guiding the hunt for me gave me a weak, sour feeling. I knew the trooper was right: he was obsessed with me. He had believed me when I told him I was innocent. He felt betrayed—humiliated and fooled—when I turned out to be guilty. Now I understood more fully: Rose had been right to think I was innocent. It wasn’t I who had tricked him. It was Waterman and his people, Waterman and his people framing me for murder. No wonder Rose felt like a fool. And then my escape . . . He didn’t know it was all arranged by Waterman. He was furious about it all, and he would never rest until he had me back in custody.
Fighting down the growing pain inside me, I began climbing again. I looked down and saw that a new slope rolled out under my feet not too many yards below. I was almost there. Even if I fell now, I’d probably only get banged up a little. And at this point, I was so banged, scratched, sore, and aching, that I didn’t think a few more bruises would bother me much.
“This isn’t working,” I heard one of the troopers say above me. He sounded completely out of breath now. “There’s no way I’m going over the side carrying all this equipment. Not without a rope at least.”
“Yeah, me either,” said the other one.
Then, all at once, the first trooper shouted out to me, “Hey, kid! Hey, West! Can you hear me?”
I didn’t answer. I kept climbing down toward the slope below.
“Hey, kid!” the trooper shouted. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and give yourself up? We’re in the middle of nowhere here. These woods go on for miles. It’s cold. Eventually the sun’ll go down. It’ll be dark. There’ll be bears. Snakes and whatnot. Come on! Starving and freezing to death—it’s no fun. Hey, West! Can you hear me?”
I heard him. And I knew he was right too. I couldn’t see anything beneath me but more forest, more trees. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know where I was going. I had no plan.
But I did have a sort of vague idea of a way forward.
I reached the bottom. I looked up. I could see one of the troopers. He was peeking carefully over the edge of the drop. I could just see his head where it stuck out over the precipice.
He spotted me and shouted: “West! West!”
I began to scramble down the slope away from him.
“This is crazy, West,” he shouted. “We’re gonna get you sooner or later!”
I knew he was right . . . but I kept going.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Next Attack
The slope eased as I reached the bottom of the mountain. Soon I was making my way through the woods again, pushing through brush and tangled branches, moving slowly under towering pine trees and past the gnarled, eerie shapes of leafless oaks. The sun was shining in between the large clouds that sailed majestically through the blue sky, but the air was dry and crisp and cold. I welcomed the feel of the cold air on my skin. I was hot with effort and covered in sweat and the chill was refreshing on my bloody face.
As I moved, I could feel the pain building inside me again. I knew it was only a matter of time before another memory attack came on. Before it happened, before it left me helpless and unconscious on the forest floor, I had to put as much distance between me and the police as I could.
My idea was this: if it was true, as Waylon had said, that there was someone else who knew me, who knew about Waterman and his plan to frame me for murder and work me inside the Homelanders organization, then maybe I already knew who it was. Maybe, I mean, the information was already deep down there in my brain somewhere and I just hadn’t remembered it yet. And with my memory slowly coming back to me one painful attack after another, maybe if I could just survive until the next attack, I’d remember who my ally was and figure out how to find my way to him.
The problem was, the memory attacks left me helpless. While I was busy lying unconscious writhing in agony and going back into the past and so on, the police—and Rose—would be spreading out through the forest looking for me. I needed to find a safe place where I could go through the whole rotten process in relative peace.
So I kept pushing my way through the tangled branches and underbrush, kept heading downhill, hoping to find a road or a house or even just a cave or something, hoping I could hold the attack at bay until I was someplace where I could hide and collapse and let myself go.
But with every step, I could feel myself growing weaker. I was thirsty, hungry. Every part of my body seemed to ache or sting or burn. Luckily, the forest floor was growing more and more level as I descended. I thought I must be getting near the bottom of the hill.
I paused. I leaned against the trunk of a tall pine, breathless. I looked into what seemed an endless tangle of forest. The sun was pouring down through the branches in yellow columns. As I scanned the scene, I saw, some yards ahead, a beam of sun fall through a stand of hemlocks to land glittering on the ground.
I saw that glitter and I thought: Water!
I moved toward the light. Sure enough, a stream was there, bubbling quickly over a bed of rocks. I knelt on the stream’s banks and drew the water out in my cupped hands and drank and drank until my head cleared. I bathed my sores, washed the blood off my face . . .
And as I did, I heard something.
I wasn’t sure of it at first. The trickling sound of the water obscured the other noise. But I held very still and listened very hard and after another moment, yes, I did hear it: an engine. The sound of a car or a truck on a road nearby!
I leapt to my feet. I crossed over the stream. I moved through the trees as quickly as I could. The engine sound grew louder. I was pretty sure it was a truck now. It was getting nearer and nearer to where I was.
Was it the police coming after me? The Homelanders? Or someone else, just an ordinary citizen passing through? In any case, it meant I was close to a road, close to finding a way out of the woods.
The sound of the truck grew louder. Then I saw it. Off in the distance, through the trees. A red pickup zipping along a road just beyond the edge of the forest. Not the police anyway. I didn’t think it was the Homelanders either.
The truck moved along the road, getting closer and closer to me.
Despite all my aches and pains, despite my exhaustion, I broke out in a smile. I moved faster and faster toward the truck. Maybe I could stop it. Maybe I could hitch a ride. But even if I couldn’t, the fact was: I had made it. I had found my way. I was almost out of the woods . . .
I took an
other step—and that’s when the dragon of pain burst to life inside me.
The next memory attack struck me to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Last Day of My Life
I looked around, startled. Where was I?
Dumb question. It was obvious, wasn’t it? I was sitting at the dining room table in my house in Spring Hill. Where else would I be? I mean, for a moment, I guess my mind had drifted and I had had this strange sense that I was somewhere else, in some forest wilderness somewhere where something unpleasant was going on . . .
But no, everything was all right now. Here I was at home, having dinner with my mom and dad and my sister, Amy, like pretty much always.
And I was struck by how . . . well, just how pleasant it was here. The smell of food filled the house. So did the sound of our voices and occasional laughter. Looking down at my plate, I saw we were having pork chops and applesauce and mashed potatoes. Sweet! One of my favorite meals.
But something was wrong. What was it?
I lifted a forkful of meat to my mouth, started chewing slowly, trying to figure it out. My heart was heavy. Why? What was the matter?
Then, as if I were waking from a dream, everything snapped into place and I remembered. This was my last night here, my last night at home. My last night with my parents for a long time, maybe forever.
Tomorrow, I was going to be arrested for the murder of Alex Hauser.
I had agreed to Waterman’s plan. I had told Waterman Okay, I’ll do it. And now the machinery of my frame-up and arrest had gone into operation and there was no stopping it.
Everything is already in place.
That’s what Waterman had told me as we’d driven around the hills in his limousine.
It’s all arranged. We’ll use what pull we have to expedite the trial. We’ll get rid of a lot of the usual preliminaries and get you convicted as soon as possible. It’s all going to happen very quickly, Charlie . . .
The Truth of the Matter Page 13
