I had to stop him. I looked around for help. The gun-his pistol-there it was, lying in the road about five yards away from me. Choking, I crawled toward it.
Orton stood up. He had a device in his hand-a small electronic box with a blinking red light on it. I knew what it was. He had finished activating the bomb and was ready to set it off by remote control.
I was almost at the gun. I was reaching for it. Crawling. I was just beginning to breathe again. I sounded like a creaking door as the air wheezed in and out of me. I reached the gun and wrapped my hand around its grip. I worked my finger into the trigger guard.
Orton spotted me. He walked quickly across the bridge. He kicked out and hit my wrist with the sharp tip of his shoe. The gun flew out of my grasp and went spinning across the bridge’s surface.
Orton seemed about to go after the gun, but he looked over his shoulder and hesitated.
Then he took off in the opposite direction, running along the bridge.
Still wheezing, I worked my way to my knees and looked where Orton had looked. I saw the motorcade. It had just come into view around the corner. It was heading for the bridge. It would reach the entrance in sixty seconds, maybe less. Orton was trying to get off the bridge so he could blow it and send Yarrow and everyone with him to their deaths.
There was no chance for me to get to the motorcade, no chance anymore to warn them. By the time I reached them, they would already be on the bridge. I had to stop Orton. I had to get that remote.
Crying out with the effort, I got to my feet and raced after him.
He was nearly at the end of the bridge, but I was faster than he was. Even as worn out and battered as I was, the fear and desperation of the moment gave me the energy to race at top speed. I closed the gap quickly.
I glanced back over my shoulder. The motorcade was nearly at the bridge. I faced forward and saw that Orton had reached the bridge’s far end. He turned, holding the remote, watching, waiting for the right moment to push the button. He saw me and cursed. I was going to reach him before the time was right.
He turned and tried to run farther, but he was too late. I threw myself at him.
I hit him low, around the legs. He toppled over and hit the road. The remote control was jarred out of his hand and skittered away from him.
I tried to climb over him, to get to it. Orton drove his elbow back and caught me in the side of the face. The blow knocked me off him. He pulled his way forward over the road and grabbed the remote again.
I looked back across the bridge. Yarrow’s motorcade was just reaching the bridge entrance. There were only seconds left before he would be in the blast zone.
I looked back at Orton. He was getting a grip on the remote. He was turning to face the bridge, waiting for the cars to get out on it, over the canyon.
I lunged at him, grabbed the remote, and drove my palm down on the button.
“No!” Orton shouted.
The car in the middle of the bridge exploded. The blast was enormous, a billowing fireball that blotted out the sky. The force of it washed over me. The roar of it erased every other noise, every thought. And still, for another endless second, that orange ball of fire kept rising up and up, obscuring everything.
The bridge broke. The steel railings were torn apart like paper. Concrete poured down into the canyon below, the debris falling and falling endlessly before hitting the water and earth at the bottom with a noise washed away by the echoing blast.
I climbed slowly to my feet, staring at the devastation. For a long moment, I couldn’t see anything beyond the explosion. The fireball was curling back into itself, but in its place was a rising column of black smoke that hid the far end of the bridge from view. It was another second or two before the breeze over the canyon blew the smoke aside and I could see what had happened.
The motorcade-it was still there. The cars had stopped well clear of the explosion. I had done it. Yarrow and his people were safe.
Orton saw it too. He was on his feet too. He let out a string of foul curses.
“Prince was right about you,” he said. “He was right all along. After all our preparation. All our plans. You ruined everything.”
Exhausted, I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did.”
“You rotten little…”
But suddenly his voice stopped. He stared at me with wide, frightened eyes. He looked down-we both looked down-and saw the bloody hole in the center of his shirt. He’d been shot.
“Oh…” He rolled his terrified eyes up to the sky. “Oh no.”
Then he collapsed onto the pavement, dead.
I stared at him, uncomprehending. The rumble of the blast was still echoing and fading along the walls of the canyon.
Then it was gone, and a new noise surrounded me: the deadly rattle and whine of gunfire.
I lifted my eyes from Orton’s body and looked back across the bridge. Secret Service agents and police had poured out of the cars of the motorcade. They were racing across the bridge toward where the bomb had blown a hole in it. Some had pistols in their hands. Some had rifles raised to their shoulders.
All of them were firing at me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
To Find the Truth The whistling breath of the bullets whizzed past my ear. The dirt and rocks began spitting up on every side of me. I understood at once. They thought I was a terrorist, too, that I was with Orton. They thought we had tried to kill Secretary Yarrow but had made a mistake and set the bomb off too soon. Their bullets had caught Orton and killed him. Now they were trying for me.
I dove for cover. I was off the pavement in a second, working my way up the incline into the trees. I ducked behind a tree trunk for protection.
The lawmen on the far side of the bridge continued firing at me. Some of them were shouting now too. I could hear their voices but couldn’t make out what they said. I didn’t have to. I could pretty much guess. They were telling me to give myself up.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d already been convicted of murder. Now they thought I was a terrorist too. How could I ever convince them that I’d blown up the bridge not to kill Yarrow but to save his life? How could I ever make them believe I wasn’t one of the Homelanders?
I crouched there another moment in my confusion and my fear. The truth was: I didn’t know what to believe myself. A court of law said I’d killed Alex Hauser. Orton said I was a Homelander just like him. I didn’t remember anything after my ordinary life ended a year ago. Maybe it was all true. Maybe I was as bad as they said I was.
The shooting from across the bridge had stopped now, but the shouting continued. I could hear them more clearly: the voices telling me to surrender.
Then another voice came to me, a voice I remembered. That voice that whispered in my ear:
You’re a better man than you know. Find Waterman.
Something deep inside me rose up to meet that voice. It wasn’t just a vague hope. It was more than that. It was a powerful conviction of truth. I know it looked like all the facts were against me. I know the courts said I was a killer, and Orton said I was a terrorist. But I knew it wasn’t so. I knew it to the bottom of my soul. I knew I’d never murder someone. I knew I’d never attack this country that I love. How could I turn myself in and let myself be put in prison before I had a chance to find out what had really happened?
I stayed there one last moment listening to the shouts from across the bridge. Then I stood up and began moving up the slope into the woods.
You’re a better man than you know.
I didn’t know what had happened to me this last year, but I knew my own heart. I knew who I was.
I still believe in you. I still love you.
And Beth too. I knew her. I trusted her. I knew she wouldn’t have fallen in love with me if I were a killer.
Find Waterman.
I knew I was not alone. I was never alone. I knew that no matter how confusing things get, how many voices are shouting lies, how many wrong turns you take, how many dea
d ends you run into, there is always, always the truth to find, always the truth somewhere, burning, shining.
Never give in. Never, never, never.
I knew I had to find that truth no matter what.
I said a quick prayer as I worked my way deeper into the forest. Then I started running.
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. Charlie keeps a quote from Churchill in his wallet that inspires him and helps him focus. Are there words like that you go back to anytime you need encouragement or an extra boost of confidence? Do Churchill’s words have the same effect on you that they do on Charlie? 2. After Charlie successfully finishes his demonstration at school, he stands on the stage and takes it all in. Do you have a moment like Charlie’s, one that you could call “one of the coolest moments of my life so far”? 3. One of the things that Charlie knows about himself is that he loves America and the freedoms we have here. Do you value those freedoms the way Charlie does? How does his patriotism make you feel? 4. Alex has had a difficult family life recently, but he also seems to be making some poor choices. Do you have any friends who have had changes in their lives and then started to seem like different people to you? Is there anything more that Charlie could have done to reach out to Alex? What have you done for your friends in those times? 5. Outside the jail, the person who releases Charlie’s handcuffs tells him “You’re a better man than you know.” If you were in Charlie’s shoes, what effect would those words have on you? 6. Even though Charlie doesn’t remember the last year, he knows he cannot have done the things he is accused of because they are contrary to who he is. What are some of the things that you believe that strongly about yourself? What would make you fight the way Charlie does? 7. Charlie faces in credible opposition in this novel. At which point were you the most afraid that he could not survive? Were there any places where you thought his adventures sounded like fun? 8. The last day that Charlie can remember was a really good day-his karate demonstration was a complete success and the number of the prettiest girl he knew was on his hand. If you had to pick a day in your life that would be the last one you could remember, which one would it be? What makes you want to hang on to that day? 9. The Last Thing I Remember closes with Charlie’s resolve to find the truth, no matter what. If you were Charlie, what steps would you take to stay alive and find the truth?
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCLUSIVE
PREVIEW OF THES EQUEL TO
THE LAST THING I REMEMBER…
THE LONG WAY HOME
COMING FEBRUARY 2010
CHAPTER ONE
The Killer in the Mirror
The man with the knife was a stranger. I never saw him before he tried to kill me.
I was in the Whitney Library when it happened, about seven miles from my hometown of Spring Hill. I’d been there for about forty-five minutes. I had come with a plan-a plan to clear my name, to get free, to get home to my family and out of danger. Now I had to leave. It wasn’t safe for me to stay in any one place for very long.
I was in the main research room on the library’s second floor. I went down the hall and pushed into the bathroom. I took off my black fleece and hung it on the door of one of the stalls. Then, wearing just my jeans and black t-shirt, I stood at the sink and splashed cold water on my face.
I was tired-way tired. I had been on the road-on the run-I don’t know-several weeks-a long time. I had to fight to stay alert. If I didn’t stay alert, I wouldn’t stay alive.
I dried myself off with a couple of paper towels. I looked at myself in the mirror. The guy looking back at me was six feet tall. Thin but with broad shoulders, good muscles, still in good shape. I had a lean, kind of solemn face with a mop of brown hair flopping over the forehead. Brown eyes- serious eyes-probably too serious for a guy who was only eighteen-but honest and straightforward. At least, I always thought they were…
I shook my head. Snap out of it. This was no time to doubt myself. I had to keep my spirits up, keep going. Never give in.
It was hard sometimes. I have to admit it. With the bad guys after me, and even the good guys-the police-after me too. It was hard not to get discouraged. Lonely. I missed my home. I missed my friends. I missed my mom and dad. I even missed my sister, who could be very annoying, believe me. Imagine sitting down to watch your absolutely favorite television show and then just as it’s about to begin, a nuclear explosion wipes out all of civilization as we know it-that’s how annoying my sister could be. But I missed her anyway.
I missed just being a regular guy, just going to school and church and hanging out and doing regular things.
But it was no good thinking about that now. I had to keep going. I had to do what I’d come here to do. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t stop trying. I’d promised God too. And I wouldn’t stop. Not ever.
I turned away from the mirror. I took the fleece down from the stall door. I’d bought it at a thrift shop a few days ago. Something to keep me warm now that winter was coming. I tapped it to feel the papers folded up in the inside pocket. That’s what I’d come to the library to find. I had what I wanted. It was time to go.
I slipped the fleece over my head, working my arms into the long sleeves.
It was just then-just as I got the fleece on-that the man came in.
He was a little older than I was-in his twenties maybe. A bit taller and a bit bigger around the waist and shoulders. He was wearing black jeans and a red windbreaker. He had a round, clean, pleasant face. Blond hair, blue eyes. He looked like a nice guy. He gave me a quick smile as he entered and I smiled back. Then he moved past me, heading toward the urinals at the far end of the room.
I took a step away from him, toward the door, ready to leave. As I went, I glanced over at the mirror to check myself one last time. I lifted my fist to my reflection by way of encouragement. Never give in.
And, as I did that, I caught a glimpse of the man behind me. I saw his reflection too, out of the corner of my eye. Strangely, he had stopped walking toward the urinals. He had pivoted around, back toward me.
Suddenly, without any warning at all, he had a knife in his hand. It was a killer’s knife, a combat knife. A seven-inch blade of black steel.
Even as I spotted him in the mirror, he tried to plunge the blade into my back.
A jolt of fear went through me, an electric terror that gave me almost supernatural speed. I leapt to my left, turning sideways. The blade lanced past my midsection, so close I felt its motion through the fleece. My years of karate training kicked in. I reacted without thinking, smacking his elbow with my left palm to push the knife hand away. At the same time, I struck out with my right hand, driving a quick punch into his face.
The blow hit home. The killer cried out. He reeled back, blood dripping down over his lips.
But he was well trained. He knew how to fight. Even as he grabbed his bleeding mouth in pain, he slashed out toward my face with the knife.
I threw my head back to get out of the way. The point of the blade went whispering past my chin. I stumbled backward. My back hit the door of the stall behind me. I went tumbling through and into the little cubicle.
The killer didn’t waste any time. He charged into the stall after me-or he tried to, anyway.
But I was fast too. I leapt forward, grabbed the door, and shoved it into him. It hit him. Knocked him backward. I ripped the door open at once. There he was. He had fallen against the sink-but only for a moment. He pushed off the porcelain edge and launched himself at me. This time, he drove the knife straight at my belly.
There was no doubt about it: it was meant to be a killing thrust. He wanted me dead.
Well, too bad for him. I didn’t feel like dying today. In fact, if I made a list of things I wanted to do, dying would probably be just about the last thing on it. I wanted to live and prove my innocence and go home to my parents and my friends and be an everyday guy again.
So now, as the killer came at me, I willed all my fear and all my survival instincts into one fiery ball of energy and focus. As his kni
fe jabbed at me, I used that energy to turn sideways in the stall doorway, to get my body out of the blade’s path. I struck my raised right forearm into the killer’s arm, pushing his knife hand out of the way. Then, in the same movement, I lashed my fist back crosswise and hammered as hard as I could into the side of the killer’s head.
The edge of my fist drove into his temple full force. His eyes went white. The knife dropped from his limp fingers.
His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
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