The Last Thing I Remember Part 20

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 plana"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-s.h.i.+rt, I stood at the sink and splashed cold water on my face.

I was tireda"way tired. I had been on the roada"on the runa"I don't knowa"several weeksa"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 eyesa" serious eyesa"probably too serious for a guy who was only eighteena"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 guysa"the policea"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 ita"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 G.o.d 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 thena"just as I got the fleece ona"that the man came in.

He was a little older than I wasa"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 mea"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 sinka"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 knife 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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.

end.