Chapter Ten: Waxicles

---1---

It was grim, definitely macabre, but Don and Charlie both required habeas corpus; in this case, photographs of Reylott's final fate: bloodied and sprawled in a pile of rubble. Jacobi, aka Katherine, had really lost her brother this time. Charlie's heart was big; he found himself feeling sorry for her son John. Don told him he'd be disappointed if his little brother didn't feel for the boy who'd been born into a very wrong family.

As expected, Reylott's gang pled out after the D.A. applied pressure, persuaded them to give in; there would be no trials. Neither Charlie nor Don would have to retell their story as they had more than once to authorities, or be subjected to public testimony and scrutiny. There was one piece of bad news: Jacobi had exchanged a tell-all deal with the D.A. against her co-defendants which reduced her sentence by several years. Whether she would tell-all about what she'd done to Charlie he didn't know, but he had a feeling she would skimp on the details of her own bad behavior and ratchet up the ones about her companions.

As for their health, both brothers submitted themselves to additional medical tests to insure there was no organ damage from the chemical exposure or infection from the needles. The results were negative. Once given a clean bill of health, Don was happy and relieved to return to work and was treated to a welcome back surprise party, complete with cake and gifts.

Charlie's arm and back healed steadily and he also returned to work at the university, his arm in a sling. He was greeted enthusiastically and after the informal reception in his office wound down, he had a chance to talk with Amita who lingered on the computer after everyone left, bringing up an important departmental memo she said Charlie would want to see.

"It's nice to have things back to normal," he said, shuffling a stack of files, getting his desk in order. "Well, after I sweep up this confetti."

Amita turned to him. "Here," she said, getting up. "You have some in your…" She'd been set to brush bits of confetti out of his hair but cut her words short, looking uneasy. "Sorry, I…"

"No, it's all right," he said, asking her where the bits were. She reached up, gave his locks little shakes on the sides and top and confetti sprinkled to the floor, some of the red, blue and gold dots dropping into Charlie's sling.

She went back to the computer. "Here's the memo," she said, motioning him over.

Quickly, he read it over her shoulder then walked towards the window, a file still in hand. "I'd like to clarify something," he said. "I didn't tell you everything…haven't really been able to talk to anyone about it except Dad and Don. Even Larry doesn't know. It's somewhat embarrassing."

Amita closed the computer, swiveled the chair round to face him. "Why you were so jumpy the other day?"

Charlie flashed a smile, got serious again. "Yeah. I wasn't expecting that. I mean, you're just you, you're Amita."

"But it bothered you."

"Yes," he said "Because of Jacobi, the way we were treated."

"Charlie, you don't have to talk about it if—"

"No. I owe you an apology," he said, shutting the door. "And I sort of feel the need to talk about it with someone outside the family."

She flashed her own brief semi-smile. "Sometimes that helps."

"It does." Too nervous…maybe I should keep my mouth shut. Relax—she'll understand. With the file, he brushed pieces of confetti from his shoulder and glanced at her. She'd leaned forward in the chair, knees together, palms on her knees and elbows straight, patiently waiting for him to go on. Her dark eyes seemed safe and empathetic, accepting of whatever he might say. Inside them, peace awaited him. He paced past her, put the file down on the tabletop.

She put out her hand, hung her fingertips in his. "What did she do to you, Charlie?"

There. She'd broken the ice and now he could fall through. Not into a freezing lake, but into those peaceful eyes. "A guy's not supposed to mind, but…"

"But you're struggling with it, whatever it is."

He gently let go of her fingers, pressed a fist to his lips then went on. "When it happens to a woman, there's no doubt in anyone's mind, it's wrong through and through. The woman's the weaker one, it's always wrong for a man to take advantage. With guys, people have their own notions about it. Do you see?"

"You were hurt, you were physically weaker."

"True. That was the case," he said. "I tried to resist. It wasn't any use. At first, I thought I could help Don, make a deal with her." He stood by the window; the sky was cloudless, pristine. "The other day, when you visited, I wouldn't let you touch me because for a second…for an instant I thought I was back at the castle, and that you were her and she was…"

"Going to hurt you again?"

He watched a jogger run across the lawn. "And intrude…touch me."

Amita sat back, supported on the armrests. "I had no idea."

"If you don't mind," he said, going to her. "I know you wouldn't anyway, but, I'd prefer you keep this to yourself?"

"I wish you wouldn't be embarrassed," she said. "You did nothing wrong. She did."

"Please?"

She nodded, promised it would always stay between them.

"Thanks." It's going to be all right. "I knew you'd get it."

---2---

When the brothers were sufficiently recovered, the tattoos were removed by a specialist. After undergoing several treatments, the last of the ink was erased and whatever pigment remained would be naturally removed by their bodies' scavenger cells. They were left with a slight discoloration and a change in the texture of skin which would improve over time. Now that the marks were gone, Don and Charlie could look in the mirror without reliving every second of their captivity in a glance. They could begin to heal inside as well as outside.

When they were emotionally prepared (as well as they could be), Don and Charlie decided there was an important place they needed to revisit. So, on a Saturday morning, they met early and boxed up their anxieties, got directions from Fitz and embarked on the two-hour trip. They'd asked if he wanted to go, but he'd declined, said he'd gone back twice already. With help, he'd had several of Anne's neglected rose bushes rooted up to transplant to his home.

Charlie and Don thought that'd been a brave thing to do. But it was Fitz, so not so surprising.

The terrain was rockier and hillier than they recalled. The night of their rescue, they'd been evacuated in the dark on stretchers and had seen very little, flying out in a helicopter. A gravelly road diverged from the main route and wound up into a mountain then down again to a small valley, growing flat and rising once more until they came over a large hill to the castle-house in the distance, built on a terraced foundation, the plateau rising to the west.

They parked the car under the long-dead tree and surveyed the area which had been encircled by yellow police tape, ripped and scattered by the winds. They walked and talked, finding the spot where Don had been nabbed and pointing out several places where agents had been stationed during the raid. At the side of the house, they came upon the secret entrance to the room where Don had hidden for a day. Since Fitzy had been there to harvest them, fewer plants blocked the entryway while the FBI had also sliced a portion away to gain access in the aftermath. Charlie belly-crawled under the bushes, avoiding weight on his still-achy arm, and discovered the small portal on the other side was uncovered. He wiggled in, asked Don if he was coming in, too.

Don was skittish, but prodded himself to proceed. They stood together in the small space with their flashlights aimed at the floor and stairs. Not much was left. Even the apple core and water had been collected. Nothing to fear here. Still, Don felt edgy and ascended the steps, showing Charlie which way he and Fitzy had come after their escape.

"Are you okay with this?" Charlie said. "If not we can go around the other way."

Don kept going. "I'm okay if you are, buddy."

"Then onward."

Together, they ascended the stairs to the shorter tower and peeked out the panel-door in the fireplace hearth, checking out the room. The parapet walkway was hazardous and could no longer be crossed so from that point they turned back and retraced their steps. Exiting the portal, they headed through the front door—unlockable now that it'd been busted to splinters by the FBI—and walked down the extended hallway with the pointed windows. At this time of day, the house was well-lit and when they approached the most-despised room, they halted in the archway, looked at each other and entered warily.

It was benign. A room with a wooden table, counter and shelves. Exposed rafters. Water-rotted walls and floors and pieces of cord littering the floor. All innocuous, yet disturbing.

"I can still smell it," Don said. "That sweetness. Turns my stomach."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

From under the table, Don picked up a piece of cord, showed it to Charlie. "Souvenir?"

Charlie took it, curled it round his index finger three times. "Some things we don't need to remember," he said, and threw it away. "What's going to happen to this place?" he said, and inspected the counter where Blue had worked, Reylott had sat. Everything had been gathered, taken away, but globs of candle wax marred the counter, ingrained in the wood.

"It'll be razed. But not until the case is officially closed."

Going out, they both hesitated in the archway.

"Funny how it draws you," Charlie said. "Yet you don't want to look."

Don took the lead down the hallway. "Or stay."

"Exactly."

From there, they cut through the courtyard and to the kitchen where Charlie got a look at the spot on the floor where he'd been dumped and left to languish. And on the wall beneath the dumbwaiter, bloody handprints remained where he'd touched following the crash. A strong desire to move on overcame him and he quickly turned to leave, Don right behind him.

They strolled back, up to the main tower. The stairs were as wonky as ever, their edges as crumbly as ever. At the top, the door was open and they peeked into the chamber. Before entering, they noticed the boards on the window had been removed, glass shutters still intact. The mattress was gone but the sun's heat had sucked the moisture from the floors and walls. It was as barren as the other rooms.

Don entered first. "Everything okay?" he said. Charlie was lagging outside the threshold.

"Don't hurry me." He thumped his fist on the doorjamb, stepped in. "I keep getting this feeling someone's going to run up and lock the door behind us."

"Yeah," Don said. "Me, too."

From there, they descended and examined the area where Reylott had met his maker. Unlike the photos, it was now merely a pile of debris with charcoal stains on the floor and split beams, plaster and nails strewn about for several feet.

Charlie backed away, nearly tripped over a two-by-four. "Other room's that way."

"You sure you want to go there?"

"No," he said. "But I'm going."

Crossing the hallways silently, they arrived in Jacobi's room. The disheveled antique bed seemed untouched and red candle wax had dripped onto the tabletop, spilling over the side as thin waxicles. Even without its previous occupant's possessions, the room felt cold to Charlie, inducing an almost superstitious chill which slinked down his neck like a spider.

Don stayed in the doorway, watched Charlie break off the waxicles then circle the bed and peer into the tubular skylight. "How's it going?"

"It's over," Charlie said, hand on the bedpost. "Ready to go when you are."

"I don't want to hurry you."

He rushed out past him. "There's nothing to be done here."

Don let him go and lingered in the room. Like the rest of the house, it appeared harmless enough, could almost be cozy if it were cleaned up, soft sunlight tempering the roughness in the brownstone. He knew better. This was where the worst memories were for Charlie, where he'd felt the most helpless, despairing. But Don was confident Charlie would recover; he was already doing a good job dealing with it—he was tougher than he gave himself credit for and gradually, he'd put this into perspective, leave it to the past along with Reylott.

Exiting, he returned to the front of the house and discovered Charlie in the back seat of the car, digging through a gym bag.

He lifted out an object. "Dad suggested this. Kind of a symbolic gesture. Although I'm not into this sort of thing, I don't see how it could hurt." He stepped out of the car, handed the object to Don. "After all, there are a few things I might not know."

"A mallet?" Don said, confused. "Not more of this junk. I thought we'd talked it out."

"Dad says closure, Dad says, why not? Dad says don't knock it till you've tried it."

"Enough. I don't want to hear about your midnight schemes." He cradled Charlie's hand in his, plopped the mallet in his palm. "Let's get out of here," he said, taking out his car keys. "Ridiculous."

"All right." Charlie threw the gym bag over his shoulder. "I'll bury it for you," he said, and marched towards the house.

"Bury it?" Don said. "Get back here! You're supposed to bury hatchets, not mallets."

Charlie had passed the yellow tape and was ascending a terraced ramp. Next to the front door, he took a shovel out of the bag and began to dig up the topsoil under a burly bush.

Back at the car, Don refused to fall for the mumbo-jumbo, mumbling a protest. This sort of goofiness was for women and TV shows. "Charlie, let's get out of here, it's getting hot," he said, sipping water. But Charlie never turned around, just calmly ignored him. He shook his head, got into the car and idled it, cranked up the A/C. While biding his time, he tuned into the radio and sang along, a little off-key. In ten minutes, Charlie reappeared and ditched his pack on the floorboard.

"So you did it?" Don said, turning down the radio.

"Done deal."

Little brothers. Smug brothers. So sure of themselves. Mallet of guilt, mallet of paper, mallet of cotton candy. "Someone's going to get a mallet for their birthday."

"I'm just doing Dad a favor, that's all. He went through a lot for us, you know. When we disappeared, can you imagine how it must've been for him? It's a miracle he didn't collapse from the stress. He told me you needed to get the blame out of your brain once and for all and suggested a minor gesture to bring everything out in the open."

Don said, "I don't blame myself anymore."

"True? Good. Because last time he talked to you, you worried him." Charlie leaned in to whisper. "Said you'd had too many beers."

"Dad worries too much."

"Maybe. He has to worry for mom, too," Charlie said. "But it's okay, it's done, don't trouble yourself over it. You didn't want to so I've done it for him. It's just not quite what Dad had in mind, that's all."

Don gripped the steering wheel. "Yeah, well, his idea and your idea of symbolism are different from mine," he said, and shut off the ignition. Getting out, he slammed the door closed and headed to the house. At the burly bush, with Charlie observing, he knelt where the topsoil had been broken up and dug into the loosened soil with his hands. About a foot down, he reclaimed the mallet, brushed it off. "I hate you," he said to it. "The ground's too good for you."

"What do you intend to do?" Charlie said, trailing him to the field beneath the tower. "Smash something?"

"You bet I'm gonna' smash something." Don had a bounce in his stride. At the base of the tower, he gazed up, estimated the distance to the window, moving forward and backwards to gauge it. The window was high; he had one chance to hit it.

Charlie stayed out of the way. "It's pretty far. I can help you with that."

"I don't need math," he asserted. "I still got it, it's instinct for me." But Charlie persisted, came to the conclusion Don would have to be standing twenty to twenty-two point five feet for maximum efficiency.

"Shhhh…" Don said, and warmed up his arm, the mallet revolving in circles through the air. "Quiet. This is for Dad, for brother there and…"

"Fitzy."

"Fitzgerald, the not-so-old man…" he said, quoting a name with each revolution, "And me." Stopping, he flexed his arm, raised it, pulled back and aimed.

Charlie stood back; Don pitched. The mallet spun upwards, handle to head, and shattered through the panes with a quick, keen clunk.

"Bravo!" Charlie clapped, patting him on the back. "Encore."

Don's grin made tiny peepholes of his eyes. "How's that for symbolic?" he said, and told Charlie their father was right—Dad's more than a survivor, he's a thriver.

---3---

Whether the symbolism of the mallet had done Don any good he didn't immediately know exactly, but what else could he expect from his father—a man who'd come of age in the turmoil and weirdness of the sixties? If it pleased Pop, it pleased him and that was enough in light of the suffering Dad had endured during their captivity. He deserved to be thanked and listened to, maybe humored a little, too. Mallets. What next.

Over the weeks, Charlie came to accept there was no shame in what had happened to him; he'd had no control over what Jacobi had subjected him to and he decided not to make a statement to authorities about the assault. Revealed or not, his father told him it'd been a noble thing to do to save his brother. Charlie didn't quite feel noble but he was proud that in the end he'd fought back although he'd had no chance of winning, persevering in the face of absolute defeat. He'd mined a power inside him that he never knew he possessed before Reylott had come into their lives. The power to go on.

Don came to accept he'd had no control while imprisoned in the tower or over his limitations. He'd been wrong about Reylott because evidence had indicated nothing was amiss. It took time before he could look at Charlie without remembering what his brother had gone through for him. What a guy, he'd think to himself, that's my little brother—he never gave up. Seems Charlie would make a great FBI Agent. But Don was pleased he was merely a brilliant mathematician because together they were an outstanding team, with their father as informal advisor.

Still, although he'd mostly made peace with it, in future Don figured he would always keep an iota of doubt in his mind in case what appeared to be a worthless clue might lead to something worthwhile. It wasn't good to get too comfortable in your job. He'd thought he'd known this from years of experience, but learned he had to be less dismissive, definitely sharper.

He wouldn't be letting himself off the hook too easily; that didn't make for a better Agent Don, a son, or brother. Because in all relationships, there were no pat answers. Just when you thought you had it right and everything appeared to be going wonderfully, something else came around to knock you back a step or two—or on your ass.

So, he figured there was a daily deal you made with yourself to set yourself aside time to time—put aside a bit of pride or identity or that persistent need to knock yourself on the head—for the sake of getting along, and to keep those whom you valued around you. If he hit it right, got the right balance between me and thee, those people would not only be around for a long time, but the passing years with them would be good. There'd be growth within him and he'd be all the better for it.

One more trade-off for want of a solution.

---The End---