The Masked Truth (4 page)

Later, I’ll tell her I’m glad she wore that shirt, because for that one moment it made me forget that I was standing at a wall, hands over my head, waiting for armed captors to frisk me. And that moment’s break is all I need to push out of the corner inside my head, squelch the inward panic, and take a deep breath and say, “I can do this.”

I know how hostage situations work. My dad was on the SWAT team for a few years, before he decided it took him away from his family too much. But I know the stats—fatalities and even injuries are extremely rare. These guys want money from Aaron’s dad. They won’t get it by killing kids Mr. Highgate doesn’t even know.

Does that make me relax? Just chill and wait my turn, no big deal? Absolutely not. Because no amount of logic and reasoning will change the fact that I’m against a wall, about to be frisked by armed captors. But I can suck it in enough
to exchange semi-genuine smiles with Maria as our captors go the line, taking the cell phones from our counselors and checking the rest of us for contraband weapons.

When they reach the boy beside me, he turns around so sharply that the guns fly up and my breath catches.

“We already went through a metal detector,” he says.

“Yeah,” X-Files says. “And we’re going to check you again, because metal detectors aren’t perfect. Turn around and put—”

“You want to check me out? Fine. Take me to another room and I’ll give you my clothes.”

“This isn’t airport security. You don’t get options here. Turn around—”

X-Files reaches for the boy’s shoulder, and he jerks away with “Don’t touch me.”

“Gideon …” Lorenzo calls from down from the line.

“Cool it, kid,” Maria whispers.

“Don’t tell me—”

Predator and Cantina are on Gideon before he can finish. They pin him to the wall, and he’s shaking so hard, his eyes filling like he’s going to cry, and I catch his gaze, but when I do, he glowers and turns the other way.

When Max first sees the alien with Riley, the only conceivable answer is that his meds aren’t working. No. Not again.
I will not go through this again. I’ll
—

You’ll what, Max?

Nothing.

No, really, Maximus. When you say you won’t go through it again, do you mean—?

Bugger off.

We need to talk about this
.

No, he doesn’t. Moving right along, there’s an alien in the hallway, and he’s quite certain he knows what that means. His latest cocktail of meds is not working. Oh, yes, he thought it was. Was so certain it was, but that was just another sign that it wasn’t. Delusions of a world where his bloody meds work, and he can get back to living a bloody normal life.

Ha-ha. Very funny, old boy. There is no normal life for you. Not anymore. Just aliens holding pretty girls hostage. Perhaps this is a new subtype of delusion—one where you get to play the knight in shining armor. Well, hop to it, then. Slay the alien. Win the girl
.

That’s when the alien speaks, and Max realizes it’s a man in a mask. That a perfectly ordinary criminal is holding
Riley hostage. His next thought:
Thank God, it’s not the meds
. Followed by:
Bloody hell, there’s a man holding Riley hostage
.

The kidnapper takes them back in the main room, and they go through the “Everybody against the wall, hands on your heads” and the pat-downs and the panic and the “Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

You and me both
.

Then they’re sitting on the floor, listening, and Max is trying to process what the hostage-takers are saying. It’s not that he can’t understand them. They came to the States a year ago, him and Mum—
I think what you need, Maximus, is a change of scenery, and what I won’t mention, dear boy, is that by “change of scenery” I really mean let’s both run across the ocean and find someplace where no one knows what you did
.

A year here means it isn’t as if these men speak a foreign language. He understands their words just fine. The problem is that he has to keep fighting against the voice in his head that whispers this isn’t real, that the meds actually
aren’t
working, that, yes, the alien heads do appear to be masks but that’s only because the logic center of his brain hasn’t completely shut down during this particular hallucination.

Three men in alien masks. The one speaking is the man who grabbed Riley. He wears a bulbous gray head. One of the others looks like a cross between an insect and a robot … with braids. Max vaguely recalls seeing it before. A film, maybe? He isn’t really into films. Reading is his thing. Reading and writing—wild stories that everyone always told him were so creative and vivid and how did you ever come up with that, Max my boy, and that’s some serious imagination there, and you’ll be a writer one day, mark my words, a famous one like Stephen King or Dean Koontz, and you’ll put me in your book then, won’t you, ha-ha.

No one says that to him anymore. Now it’s: Hmm, there’s some disturbing stuff here, son, and is this what you see in your head, and did you really dream this up or were you documenting one of your hal-oo-sin-aa-shuns. That’s how his American doctor says it. Hal-oo-sin-aa-shuns. Like one of those words you read but never have to say out loud, and when you do, it’s not quite right.

Bloody hell, Maximus.
Focus
.

Can’t. Sorry. One of the symptoms. Disorganized thought. Look it up.

No, Max. That’s just you. Always has been. Brain flitting like a hummingbird on speed
.

Because
it
has always been there. Waiting to pop up like a funhouse skeleton. You thought you were normal, kid? Surprise!

No, I’m quite certain no one ever called you normal, Max. Don’t go blaming the crazy for everything
.

Why not? It fits the symptoms. You want to know another one? Hearing voices.

He squeezes his eyes shut. What was he thinking …? Right. About the aliens.

The third guy wears a mask he recognizes from
Star Wars
. That’s one film he’s seen a few times, because it’s an excellent lesson on story structure and the universal mono-myth of the hero. He’ll call that one Star Wars. The other is Braids. And the one talking? Gray.

“So the next step,” Gray says, “is to contact Mr. Highgate, tell him not to phone the police and then send him a proof-of-life video and an ear. Preferably Aaron’s.” Gray laughs, as if this is hilarious. Even his confederates don’t join in.

“Kidding,” Gray says. “Well, maybe not about the ear, but we’ll see how Aaron here comports himself. The rest? Hollywood bullshit. Everyone with half a brain calls the police. So that’s where we start. Aaron? Smile.”

Gray raises an iPhone and Aaron scowls.

“You’re a natural,” Gray says. “Now, let me send that to your daddy, and in about twenty minutes I expect this place to be surrounded by cops. Unless your daddy’s busy tonight—screwing his girlfriend or screwing over another company—because that would be very inconvenient.”

Aaron says nothing.

“There, picture sent. Video even, with a time stamp. Yes, I did the proof-of-life thing, as cliché as it is. Now, the next steps, kiddies …”

He keeps talking, but Max’s attention slides away. This isn’t real. Cannot be real.
Kidnapped at a therapy sleepover? Really, Maximus? You’re losing your creative touch. You need to start writing again. Give that imagination a workout
.

Oh, believe me. It’s had a workout. Just ask Justin.

Now, Max. You weren’t thinking clearly. It’s not your fault
.

Sod off.

He looks over at Riley and focuses on her instead. That’s easy as pie, as his gran would say. Namely because Riley Vasquez is easy to look at. Two years ago he’d have sat across the class and planned how to talk to her.
Hey, I think you’re brilliant and cute, and I’d like to get to know you better, so how about we go to the cinema Friday night?

He did fantasize about talking to Riley, but the conversation, as with most everything in his life these days, was different.
Hey, I think you’re smart and sweet and a little bit messed up, and do you want to talk? Just talk? You seem like someone I could talk to, and sure, you think I’m a idiot, but that’s just an act. All right, maybe not completely an act. But you seem like you need someone to talk to and I do too, so how about it? You can talk about what happened to you and
—
Me? Um, nothing happened to me. Nothing important. Just lost my mind and haven’t found it again. Never will. Schizophrenia. Ever heard of it? Short version:
I’m crazy. Sorry. Not supposed to say that. Bad Max. Bad, bad Max. No using the C-word. I’m not crazy. I just see things that aren’t there, hear people who aren’t there … Huh, yeah, that does sound like crazy, but shhh, don’t tell anyone. And don’t worry. I’m perfectly harmless. Well, unless I mistake you for a demon and try to strangle
—
Wait! No, come back
.

Gray snaps his fingers in front of Max, startling him. “Am I boring you, son?”

“Yeah, kinda, mate. Can we speed this along?”

“Maximus …” his therapist, Aimee, says, her voice low with warning.

Gray snorts. “Maximus?”

“I prefer Max.”

“I bet you do. What kind of sadists name their kid Maximus?”

“A historian specializing in ancient Rome and a lieutenant-general in the British army. And if you know anything about the salaries of academics and career soldiers, you’ll realize I’m really not worth your time.” Max takes out his wallet and removes three twenties. “I have sixty. Can we call it a night? Things to do and all that. It is the weekend after all.”

“Max?” a voice says. “Sit down.”

He turns to see Riley walking toward him. Her hands tremble, and she’s obviously struggling to keep it together, and he wants to nod and say
all right
and sit down, but he wants to make her smile too, make her relax, show her this isn’t a big deal, not like before, like what happened when she was babysitting.

“I’m cutting through the bull—” he begins.

“Sit. Down.” She stops and lowers her voice. “Are you trying to get us killed? They have guns.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we’re imagining it. We are a little nuts, after all.”

She gives him a look that makes him happy she’s not the one with a gun.

So no chance of that talk, then? All right. Maybe we can just make out instead
.

He chuckles, and her eyes narrow.

“Sit the hell down,” she hisses.

Sorry. Not his fault. Inappropriate affect. It’s a symptom.

Bollocks. You’re just an idiot. No meds for that
.

At least she doesn’t look scared anymore.

Max sits cross-legged on the floor. Riley lowers herself beside him. See? Bad behavior has its reward.

Except she kind of hates your guts right now
.

And an hour ago, she just didn’t like him very much. He’s making progress.

“Max?” she whispers. “Pay attention. Please. Don’t make this worse.”

She does have a point. If it is real, he isn’t helping. If it isn’t, then that’s all the more reason to pay attention. Find the lies. Find the truth.

When they finish the pat-downs, they put us in a semicircle again, but on the floor this time. X-Files is at the front. The other two block the only exit, holding their guns casually, like a cup of coffee they’ve forgotten. X-Files is worse. He waves his around, gesturing as he explains the situation, the gun rising and falling, pointing this way and that, and every time it swings toward me I duck, just a little, and then I’m ashamed, not of the fear but of the way my muscles tense, ready to run. To skitter away like a scared mouse, looking for a hole to hide in.

No beds to scamper under here.

The gun points right at me, and it stays there, making me stare down the barrel. He’s not doing it intentionally, and somehow that’s worse, because all I can think is that his finger will slip and the gun will fire, and I’ll die, not because I stood up to him, not because I tried to save anyone, but because his finger slipped. Whoops. Sorry about that, kid.

I see that gun and I keep thinking back to the moment when I was walking to the Porters’, on the phone with Lucia, and I bumped into that man and spotted the gun under his jacket. That gun is emblazoned on my memory. I have described it in perfect detail to the detectives handling the Porters’ murders. What I cannot describe, what would
be infinitely more helpful to describe? The man’s face. But I never even looked up.

I know now that man was almost certainly the killer. I bumped into the Porters’ murderer that day, and all I had to do was look up. But I didn’t, because my damned phone call was
so
much more important.

The gun barrel shifts aside. Then, as X-Files waves both hands, it comes my way again, and I physically jump back, but the gun keeps going. I catch my breath and then sneak a look around to see if anyone noticed. No one’s paying any attention to me. Understandable, given that there’s a guy with a gun at the front of the room.

We sit like we’re in kindergarten, automatically crossing our legs and looking up to watch the teacher. All of us except Max. He’s on the far side of the semicircle, his expression suitably somber. Then his lips twitch in a smile.

X-Files walks over and snaps his fingers in front of Max’s face.
Damn it, Max. Pay attention. For once, be part of the group
.

Nope, not happening. Maximus has to give a smart-ass answer.

Maximus
. I know enough Latin to translate that to “largest” or “greatest.” Yeah, the greatest jerk.

I carefully rise, my gaze fixed on X-Files as I tell Max to sit down. When he doesn’t, I keep my hands where X-Files can see them and make my way past Aaron and Brienne. I’m shaking and part of me just wants to follow my own advice and sit, but if the damned counselors aren’t going to handle this, someone needs to. X-Files watches me but that’s it, just watches, as if waiting to see what I’ll do before he decides whether to shoot me.