The Truth of the Matter Read Free Page A

rough road.
    “Where do you want to do this?” said the voice I now knew as Jim.
    “Might as well use the Panic Room. That way, we can be sure no one hears the screaming.”
    Great. Screaming. Screaming was never a positive. And Waterman’s tone when he talked about it was chillingly cool and casual. As if torturing me and getting rid of me was just another piece of business that had to be taken care of.
    There was a brief silence, then the guy called Jim said, “Poor kid.”
    “Like I said,” Waterman drawled, “this was the deal from the beginning.”
    “Yeah. Still. Poor kid.”
    My stomach turned. I was scared, I don’t mind saying. I’d escaped from the Homelanders. I’d escaped from the police. But something about these guys was different. They sounded so relaxed, so professional. Their tone sapped my confidence, made me feel there was no chance I could fight my way out of this.
    The car slowed. I felt a slight bump as if the car were lifting over a threshold. The car stopped. The engine died.
    I heard the doors opening. I held my breath. I heard footsteps.
    Then suddenly, Waterman’s voice sounded right nearby, right outside the trunk.
    “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
    The trunk came open.

CHAPTER THREE

Milton Two
    After such a long time in the darkness, I had to blink and squint in the pale light of evening before I could see anything. Then I saw Waterman, silhouetted by the light, standing above me holding the lid of the car trunk. Jim— the man in the Dodgers cap—was standing just behind him, his hands shoved into his overcoat pockets.
    “Come on, Charlie,” Waterman said grimly. “Let’s go.”
    He stepped back. I climbed slowly out of the trunk, my limbs stiff and aching after the long confinement.
    “Where are we?” I said. “Where are you taking me?”
    “Sorry,” said Waterman. “You don’t get any questions. We ask; you answer. That’s how it’s going to work.”
    I stood up, rubbing my legs to bring them back to life. I looked around, blinking, dazed.
    We were in an old barn of dried-out brown wood. The fading daylight poured through the open bay doors. Strips of light came in between the cracks in the ancient wallboards. Farm tools hung on nails in the boards: a pitchfork, a shovel, a pair of gardening shears. My eyes went over them as I tried to think of some way to get my hands on something I could use as a weapon.
    Waterman seemed to read my mind. “Don’t even think about it, son. I know you’re a tough guy. But you’re not tough enough. This is already going to be unpleasant. Don’t make it any harder on yourself than it has to be.”
    I eyed my two captors. Waterman looked like he was fifty or so. Dodger Jim looked somewhat younger, not much. But both of them looked like they were hard characters, very confident and experienced. It was a pretty good bet that Dodger Jim was holding a gun in his overcoat pocket too, and it might not be a tranquilizer gun this time. If I was going to try to escape, this wasn’t the time. I was going to have to take them when they were off guard in order to have even half a chance.
    Waterman glanced over his shoulder, as if he was afraid someone might be watching us. Outside the barn door I couldn’t see anything but forest.
    “All right,” he said. He slammed the trunk. “We can’t just stand around here. Let’s get moving.”
    Dodger Jim stepped aside and gave an ironic wave of his hand toward the barn door: right this way, sir. I stepped out into a deep forest that was fading into shadow with the coming of night. It was cold here, colder than in the city, colder with every moment the light grew dimmer. My breath frosted in front of me, and I could feel the chill eating at my skin through my fleece.
    Waterman closed the barn door and then he and Dodger Jim came up, one on either side of me. There was a trail going off in three directions. We took the path to the right.
    Sometimes we walked together. More often, the