---1---
They hit the sack early, each taking a room. Don shut the door, content and a little guilty for preferring his own space at day's end. When you lived alone, you got used to enjoying your own timetable and not talking if you didn't feel like it, and nobody took it personally. Some said that freedom came at a high cost but Don figured not everyone was on the same life schedule. He did think about it, about settling down, soon.
He'd called their father. It took three tries to get the signal through before leaving a message. Dad's probably having a great time, would've enjoyed this region. The hike might be difficult for him, but they could take it slower, increase the amount of reststops.
Don took off his boots and surrendered to the cot, lying on his sleeping bag, and rolled towards the window away from the door. The cots had been placed lengthwise along the wall. Crickets mused outdoors, taking turns, layering their shrill music over one another, competing. He sat up to peer out, cot squeaking, followed by a similar squeak from Charlie's room as he turned in his sleep. He could hear it every time. The meager springs were stiff, determined to toss Don off with every change of position.
Sometime after moonrise, he awoke to another cot-squeak from the next room. It was louder and he figured Charlie must have opened his window to allow in fresh air and the squeak was now straying in clearly. He relaxed, quickly into dreams.
Hours later, a strange roar roused him a second time, accompanied by a malicious glow, flickering on the walls. He turned over, saw flames and backed away, dropping to the floor. Charlie, he thought, and began to yell-get up get out. Outside, the fire crowded his window, the exterior shutters and sill set ablaze with a sudden whoosh. Smoke flowed in freely, thickening overhead. Once inside the fire refueled, snaking up the window frame to the ceiling, igniting sap in the wood like popcorn.
He pressed his shirt over nose and mouth and crawled to the door, touched it. Heat penetrated the boards but he had no choice and cracked it open, found the front room cloaked with fire. He dashed out on his feet, bent low, darting past a ring of flames which had engulfed the dining table and their packs, grazing across the roof. Charlie's door was closed and he didn't think to feel for its hotness and rushed in. An inferno waylaid him and he was driven back to the doorway, diving to the floor. Through the fire, he made out the cot, overturned on its side and facing the window, engulfed.
"Charlie!" he shouted, the oppressive heat bearing down on his back. Had he escaped? The fire progressed; smoke billowed across the ceiling, spreading to the exit. Charlie's door was consumed. His eyes stung and he battled to keep them open, finding his way on all fours to the front window on the right. He felt for the frame, missed then raised it, and poured out on to the deck, gasping for air.
Charlie's not here. He didn't give up and fell forward, then stood, tumbling down the deck stairs. He lugged himself up, staggering round to the rear of the cabin to Charlie's window. It was over six feet tall and he could touch the bottom edge but not see in. He defied the smoke and flames, clutched the frame and jumped, hit it at his chest. Crying out, he crashed to the ground, sleeve on fire. In the damp sod, he twisted round to extinguish it and ripped off the burned overshirt.
Screaming for Charlie, he sprung up and tried again. This time, there was no sill to take hold of-it was impossible to hang on to flames. He tore his cell phone from his jeans, dialed 9-1-1, hands trembling, uncooperative. He couldn't see. It's ringing.
Answering, he heard himself plead, repeating the same information, reciting their names and location, voice unintelligible, even to his own ears. My brother's in there, get help, please...
His legs buckled, the cabin disintegrating a few feet away. He wouldn't back away, wouldn't leave. I'll take care of you, Charlie. The fire cackled, leapt out into the night. He disconnected the caller and rose, faltered to the front, trying 9-1-1. An incoming call interfered but his fingers were numb, clumsy; he couldn't cancel it fast enough before another one followed. His mind overpowered him; he didn't know the number on the screen. Get out of my way...
The roof imploded, a din like a blast. He cried out, the plea swelling into the forest, and coughed uncontrollably. Losing his breath, he collapsed. The phone slipped to the grass, ringing.
He came to face down, bathed in the barest first light. Pain, everywhere. Dread, as if he'd also perished. It entombed him, denied release. He lifted his head, cradled burnt hands, tasted soot on his lips. His lungs felt constricted and he inhaled, wheezing.
The cabin was blackened, an orange-smoldering shell, curls of smoke streaming toward the clouds. The forest, draped in shadows, imposed on him like prison walls. It had lost its beauty. Fire in three spots, inconceivable. Don wanted to condemn the stars for being there when Charlie wasn't. If he could time-travel now, he'd return to the night before.
You are going to walk out of the woods aren't you, Charlie?
Damned phone is ringing. Late, too late. He stretched to gather it up and dropped it, scraped it nearer with his forearm and picked it up, couldn't speak.
The man on the line was impassive. "It's a fluke he was your brother, Eppes," he said. "He should've been mine."
Don lay inert, said nothing.
"Can you keep a secret?" the man said. "Well?"
"Get help." Don's voice cracked, weak, raspy. "There's been a fire."
"Here's my secret, Donny-by the way, your dad still calls you Donny, doesn't he?-I didn't actually need to squeeze Charlie, just you. But now that it's done."
"No one's come," he said. "Please, call 9-1-1."
"Shake off the webs, Eppes, and listen to a ghost."
Shake off the webs. He'd said it to Charlie the day of the koi. "Who the hell are you?"
"Your hiking pal," he said. "Your brother made my job simple. Limits the improvisation."
Don studied the woods, the cabin. The combined silhouettes of plants and trees hinted at human shapes. The light was too faint to see well.
"Once a special agent, always an agent, eh, Eppes? Too bad they can't erase our training when they kick us out on our asses."
"Tell me who you are." Don sat up, scoured his memories-career criminals, murderous suspects, relatives of those he'd brought to justice. His singed arm throbbed and he held it, couldn't concentrate.
"Guess. You know I love a good game, like you with baseball. Especially when I win."
Don needed cover. He stole over to the burned-up deck, remaining close to the ground. This madman had been in proximity, spying, or how could he have known he'd salvaged his phone and survived?
"What do you want?" Don said.
The man taunted him. "Intend to check for Charlie's body?"
He heaved forward, arm over his stomach. "I'm hanging up."
"I wouldn't."
"You're out of your mind. You got a gripe with me, show yourself."
"Guess first."
"Fuck, I don't know. I can't think, this isn't..." Don looked to where he'd last seen Charlie. Was he there? Overcome by smoke before saying a word?
"Need a hint?" said the man.
Don's eyes overflowed, odd relief to his sight. There was no road back, and his will withered. "I can't handle this," he said. "I can't do it. Leave me alone."
"Jeez, Eppes, you'd think you'd been working as a preschool teacher or something."
The phone plopped to the ground and he bowed his head, spent breaths stirring the topsoil. He felt as though he would suffocate.
"I'll take this."
Don heard the voice, did not look up. Powerful fists snatched the front of his shirt and he was shoved against the charred step, the barrel of a .38 thrust into his cheekbone. He tried to focus, the dawn increasing gradually.
"I expected this from you. Think you're brave?-so did they." The man tugged the shirt, shook him. "Stop it! I can't stand it."
Don felt warmth on his spine and the wood disintegrated beneath him. He recognized the man, the hazel and blue speckled irises. He spoke the name, inaudible. On the second try, the name was acknowledged. "Reylott."
Releasing him, Reylott towered upright, six foot three, bearing a backpack. He wound up a pitch and Don's phone sailed into the treetops. "Get up," he ordered. "You and I are scheduled for a conference. An overdue rendezvous. Not here, someone might show up."
Don swiped the back of a hand over his brows. The flesh around them was tender. "Why?" he said, leaning in.
"Just get up."
"I want to know."
Reylott bristled and seized him, stuck the gun under his chin. "If you don't know, then that's the reason. Get up!" He hauled him to his feet.
Don winced. Reylott's grip was cinched around his bad arm. He was dragged forward, lost balance and folded to the earth. "I'm not going anywhere."
Reylott kicked him in the thigh, said he'd shoot.
"Kill me now," Don said. "I'd rather be with Charlie."
"It'll kill your dad, too, to lose both his sons. That what you want? Alan's in San Diego today, isn't he?"
He turned to his side. "You bugged their house."
"Took me awhile to get around to it but like I said, we have a rendezvous." Reylott went to the corner of the cabin. The foundation was intact, the center of the roof destroyed, other sections threatening to sink. "Why don't you check?" he said, motioning with the gun.
"What?"
"Quit bawling and check," he said. "How do you know Charlie wasn't taking a leak and got lost?"
Don swallowed, throat sore and blocked by the burden. Easing up, he walked past Reylott to the rear. His captor followed. The outer wall of Charlie's room had burned through, two-thirds of the roof gone, planks hanging by scorched nails. He teetered at the foundation and peered in. The debris were too hot to touch. Cot springs protruded from the fallen logs, carbon rubble. He didn't want to find anything, but he had to know.
"Any evidence?" Reylott said. "Crispy feet?"
He fought to hold his anger, then spun round and exploded. Damn the gun. "You're sick!" he said, charging toward him. They were standing too far apart.
Don regained his footing. "Is Charlie alive?"
"Will you come with me now?"
Despite the burns, Don's hands had curled into fists. "Is he?"
"Even if he survived the fire," Reylott said. "It doesn't mean he survived me."