Chapter 9

Alan rose at eight, and before he even thought about getting showered, he peeked into Charlie's room. He sighed at the sight of the empty bed. Charlie's nightmares had undoubtedly chased him down to the garage again. He headed for the shower with resignation, and dressed quickly. He would fix breakfast, and try to get his son to come in and eat. Thank God, Donnie was coming home today.

In the kitchen, he put coffee on, and grabbed a mug. He didn't see the note on the table until he turned. He picked it up with a frown, and then suddenly grabbed the edge of the table as his knees went weak. He sank slowly into one of the chairs, his eyes still riveted to the note, trying to figure out what the two cryptic lines meant. It didn't sound rational, and fear rose in his heart as he thought of his conversation with Charlie the night before.

He jumped up suddenly, and reached in a panic for the phone, dialing frantically He heard ringing in the receiver, then an odd buzzing noise and a thump, coming from the dining room. He looked into the room, and his heart sank. Charlie's cell phone had vibrated itself off the dining room table, and sat forlornly, uselessly on the dining room floor.

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The apparition spoke, its voice normal. "Where you headed?"

Charlie shook himself. This was not Mansour. The eyes were different; the voice rational, the man was a few years older. Other than that, though, he could be Mansour's twin. Charlie realized he was staring, and tried to collect himself. "Los Padres," he stammered.

The man nodded. "I'm headed up to Ventucopa. Los Padres is on the way. Hop in."

Charlie threw his backpack in the bed of the truck, his heart hammering, and climbed in the cab. He glanced sideways, but the sight was too much for him, and he wrenched his eyes forward to stare out of the windshield.

Willy Starks glanced at his passenger. The kid appeared petrified. He took another look. On closer inspection, he wasn't a kid, he realized. He looked young, though, and scared. "You okay?"

Charlie shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry, this is the first time I've done this."

The man grinned back at him wolfishly. "First time's always a little nerve-wracking. You can't help but think you'll end up with some kind of serial killer."

Charlie paled and looked back toward the windshield. "Right," he gulped.

"I'm William Starks. Folks call me Willy."

Charlie shot him a cautious look. "I'm Charlie."

"Pleased to meet ya, Charlie. I used to hitchhike a lot in my younger days." Willy launched into an animated conversation about his hitching adventures, and Charlie gradually felt the thumping of his heart slow. By the time they reached the park entrance he was so involved in one of Willy's stories; that he didn't realize for a moment that they were actually within the park boundaries.

Willy's question made his heartbeat quicken again. "Which trailhead?"

"The one just north of Elk Ridge." It was another half hour ride to get there, but the time seemed to fly. Charlie was only half-listening to Willy's stories now; growing apprehension was beginning to consume him. When Willy pulled into the parking area of the trailhead, he felt panic flare, and he pushed it back down with an effort. He looked at Willy. "Can I give you something for gas?"

Willy eyed him. The scared, hunted look was back. He smiled, instinctively trying to reassure the young man. "Heck no. It was on my way, besides, I figure I owe a little payback for all my rides when I was a kid." He paused, giving the young man a keen look. "Anyone know that you're going out on the trail? You always ought to leave word with someone, you know."

Charlie opened the door with an unsteady hand and slid out, his eyes down. "Yeah," he said, noncommittal. He glanced up. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," said Willy. He watched in his rearview mirror as the young man lifted his backpack out of the truck bed, and then pulled away, with a brief wave. Intense kind of guy, he thought. Seemed nice, though. He wondered briefly what had made the young man so nervous, and shrugged it off, cranking up the radio.

Charlie watched him go, suddenly stricken with doubt. He turned and looked at the trailhead, and icy fear began to creep through him. What on earth was he thinking? He couldn't do this. He felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable, and he moved closer to the board posted at the trailhead, as if to hide behind its meager cover. The warnings and closed signs had been removed, and the maps replenished. Charlie took one with shaking hands and clutched it to his chest, as a panic attack began its familiar, inexorable assault.

His knees felt suddenly weak, and he staggered over to a wooden bench at the edge of the lot, collapsing on it and bending over, trying to control his breathing. It was a monster of an attack, and at one point, his vision dimming, he was sure he was going to pass out, but somehow, he maintained consciousness. It eventually began to recede, but not all the way, it only came down to a point where barely-contained terror simmered in his gut. He sat, trying mightily to get control, to find the will to move. Two hours later, he was still sitting there.

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Don took a deep satisfied breath of L.A. smog, and climbed into his SUV. The noon sunshine peeked through clouds intermittently as he swung out of the airport, headed for Charlie's house. He smiled to himself. When did he start calling it Charlie's house? He had called it his father's house for so long, long after Charlie had bought it, out of habit. Somewhere along the line, he had made the conversion in his mind. His father's house or Charlie's house; it was still home to him, more than his apartment ever was, or ever would be.

He wondered how Charlie's session with Bradford had gone yesterday. He had called again that afternoon, hoping to reach his brother, and had gotten his father again instead, who told him Charlie was at his appointment. Don could only guess at how that was going. Bradford wasn't one to mince words, and Charlie wasn't exactly thick-skinned. In his current state he was even more vulnerable. Bradford might not have been the best match for him. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. Who was he kidding? He had to admit, it felt strange to have his brother talking to the same shrink as he was.

Same shrink as he was. That sounded like something ongoing. Granted, he had gone back to Bradford recently, after Los Padres, but that was justified, it was a pretty traumatic situation. 'Just where am I with Bradford?' Don wondered. 'Am I done with that?' He had a sneaking suspicion that Bradford would say no. In fact, Don himself had contemplated making another appointment on the plane trip home, to talk about a little incident that had involved a gun at his head.

Several minutes later, he pulled into his brother's driveway. He was abruptly overwhelmed with anticipation, tinged with a bit of anxiety, and he jumped out of the SUV, slamming the door in his haste. He had talked to his dad several times, but not to Charlie. His dad had given him reports, but how was his brother, really? He suddenly couldn't wait to see for himself.

More than that he thought, as he reached the front door, he was finally here to help, to offer support, comfort, a hug, whatever Charlie needed. He didn't bother to knock; he burst, full of anticipation, through the door. God knows, he wasn't the demonstrative type, but he was actually looking forward to it. A hug would be the first thing on the agenda.

His dad was sitting in an armchair his head down, but he lifted it as Don entered with a cheerful, "Hey Dad," and moved toward him. "Where's Charlie?" He stopped short at his father's expression.

Alan looked at him sadly, and held out a piece of paper with an unsteady hand. "He's gone," he said simply, his eyes filled with distress.

Don's heart plummeted. "What do you mean, gone?" He grabbed the note, thinking it would answer his question. It was in his brother's familiar scrawl, albeit a bit on the shaky side, but it raised more questions than it answered.

'Dear Dad – I'm okay. Don't worry –I will probably be gone for a while - I've gone to get back on the horse. Charlie'

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Charlie moaned softly, his face in his hands. He had been wrestling with himself for over two hours. There were now three vehicles in the parking lot; groups of hikers had arrived and had hit the trail, some of them long gone. If he didn't move soon, he would be here when the day hikers got back; like a pathetic version of a statue in a park. Or, more aptly, like some insane homeless derelict, mumbling to himself on the park bench. He shook himself, and grimaced, straightening. What were his choices, really? He only had one; failure was not an option.

He pulled a zipper open on his pack and took out his bottle of lorazepam. Thank God he had gotten the prescriptions filled yesterday. He had a full month's worth of each.

His hands trembling, he shook out a pill and stared at it, then shook out another and tossed them back. If ever a double dose was justified, it was now, he thought, shrugging off Bradford's warnings of addiction. One was just not going to cut it. Not for this. If he made it through tonight, he would start cutting back. Rising, he slowly shouldered his pack and took a deep breath. His legs began to move, almost independently of his brain, and a few steps later, he was on the trail.

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They sat in the kitchen, staring at the note. "It was here, on the table," sighed Alan. "I didn't know who to call. What does it mean?"

Don frowned at the note. Was Charlie being literal or figurative when he wrote it? Either way, it didn't make a lot of sense. The seemingly irrational words struck a chord of unease, and a small persistent fear took hold in his gut. He looked up at his father. "You don't remember him saying anything like this before?"

Alan shook his head.

"Do you know what he took with him?"

"His wallet is gone, his car keys obviously. He left his cell phone and his laptop here. I imagine he took some clothes, but he didn't take any of the suitcases – I checked."

Don sighed. "All right. I'll get hold of my guys. We'll see if we can get out an APB on his car, and start looking for credit card and ATM hits."

"Donnie." His father's voice was strangled, and Don looked at him sharply.

Alan continued, his voice shaking. "Last night, he had a terrible nightmare. I came in to talk to him about it and he -,"

"What?" asked Don, as Alan paused. The look on his father's face was turning the small pit of fear in his stomach into something more substantial.

Alan raised agonized eyes to him. "He said he couldn't take it anymore. I told him he had to, that he didn't have a choice, and he said yes he did."

Don felt his heart begin to drop. "What do you mean?"

"I – I think he was referring to -," Alan choked on the word suicide. "-ending it."

"What?" Don whispered. Alan just shook his head, miserably. They stared at each other, silently, each pale face reflecting the dread on the other.

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He passed by it the first time, hiking all the way to the end of the trail, and then turning back. On the way back, he passed by it again, and found himself standing at the trailhead once more. It was nearing five o'clock. He stood for a moment, staring at the parking lot, and then turned back to the trail.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood in front of the canyon entrance once more. The crime tape had been removed, but two stakes still guarded the entrance. Little stubs of tape still clung to them, flapping wildly in the breeze, like miniature arms frantically waving a warning. Memories reached out to him from a black abyss like tentacles, and he forced them away, making his mind go blank. They were just trees, he told himself, looking at the thicket. Trees and rocks. He took a deep breath, and pushed his way into the pines.

On the other side, the memories assailed him again, harder, and he reeled, staggering forward on shaking legs until he stood in the center of the canyon, near the tree that Mansour had tied him to. All traces of what had happened had been removed by the compulsively detailed fingers of the crime lab workers, but in his mind's eye, Charlie could still see the ropes, the wires, the dirty towel littered with tools. The pines were sighing overhead, whispering stories of dread, and Charlie dropped to his knees with his eyes closed, suddenly overcome, as black memories rose in his mind.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way, kneeling like a pilgrim an awful shrine, but when he opened his eyes the sun was lower on the horizon. He roused himself, climbing painfully out of the position and stretching stiff complaining knees. It took only a few moments to put up his tent. He worked mechanically, unrolling his sleeping bag in the tiny space, and then turned to his backpack.

He stared into his pack for a moment, looking at his packets of freeze dried food, blankly. He was supposed to eat; he'd had nothing but a granola bar all day. He didn't have the will to try to cook anything. Numbly, he grabbed a protein bar and a bottle of water, but the first bite stuck in his throat. He tried to swallow, but the unbidden memory of a dismembered body overcame him and he crawled frantically away from his tent, heaving.

He sat for a moment, catching his breath, and crawled back over to his pack. With shaking hands, he pulled out the bottle of lorazepam and greedily swallowed two more pills, then sat with his arms around himself, rocking back and forth slightly, waiting for night. When it came, he crawled into the tent, and slid into his sleeping bag, shaking, lying numbly on his back, like a death row prisoner on a gurney, awaiting lethal injection.

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He had known the dreams would be bad, but he was unprepared for the unrelenting stream of horror. One heart-stopping nightmare followed another; he would lie shaking after each one; each time a little more beaten, a little more consumed by despair. This wasn't going as planned; he was never going to make it through the night.

At around three a.m. he woke screaming in agony once again, and pulled himself up to a sitting position, nearly delirious with terror. He sat shaking for a moment as the vivid pictures faded, more graphic than any slasher film ever created, and fumbled for his backpack, tears of despair streaming down his face. He would never be free of this, never.

He pulled the bottle of lorazepam from his pack, shook two tablets into his trembling hand, and paused, mesmerized by the sight of the rest of the pills in the bottle. There were enough pills there, he was sure. Peace was there in his palm, permanent peace, a few swallows away. It would be so easy. The wind sighed in the pines again, murmuring agreement, as he stared into the mouth of the bottle, into the abyss.

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End Chapter 9