Chapter Two: Brain-Raid
His lesson was unorganized, the lecture a rambling embarrassment. Charlie had brought the wrong file and he hastily ended his class, leaving the students confused yet elated to be dismissed a half hour early on a Monday to recover from their weekends.
What gave Larry the right to interfere?
In late afternoon, he secluded himself in his office and locked the door, hiding behind the bookcase so he couldn't be made out through the opaque glass, the PC monitor providing the only illumination. At one point, someone knocked. It felt wrong not to answer but the last thing he wanted was another unsolicited opinion regarding his behavior or a grand intervention claiming to address his alleged transgressions. I can handle it.
Nighttime was no longer the harmless end of day it had been and he was careful to depart before darkness could thoroughly cloak the city. When he got home, his father wasn't there. It was true; Dad had spoken to him about getting help, professional help. A counselor, he'd said, a psychologist.
Why did Dad interfere?
I'm not crazy. It simply takes time to get over killing someone. He called Don but couldn't reach him. Out on a case. Need to hear his voice. How to bring up the subject? Hey Don, you having dreams of blood splattering all over your clothes, drops streaking across your face as a bullet tears through human flesh inches away from you and you see the horror of a man's face when he realizes yes, you pulled the trigger and he's going to die?
It was me. I did it, I had to. And it still makes me sick inside. He second guessed himself for the millionth time, questioned why he couldn't have shot into Reylott's arm or leg, thrown the gun away, or jumped out of the way, something.
God, I didn't. Accept it, Dr. Eppes, get over it. Get freaking over it. You took the only option open to you. It was self-defense. What's wrong with you?
Charlie couldn't shake it off, couldn't get by it. He knew he was getting worse. Don was right; there was no easy out. He felt like an emotional outlier—in math, a data point located far from the rest of the data. It was just that, well, acting normal—going to work, chatting about the weather and even math—seemed absurd. He'd been drifting, isolated from other humans, present in body but absent in spirit. And now his flimsy cover was blown. Within him, fear had grown. If only they'd found Reylott's body, then maybe he could sleep, wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat.
He dragged himself upstairs and stepped on the bathroom scale. He'd lost seven pounds. Never a good way to lose it either, snacking on cheese crackers at lunch, orange juice in the morning and a bite of Dad's cooking in the evening to keep him happy.
Hadn't worked. The screaming nightmares had given Charlie away, that and spending too much time brooding by the koi pond or holed up indoors. Peace of mind—where did you swim off to?
He hid in the makeshift study he'd set up in the garage, stretched out diagonally on the air hockey table like a human centerpiece—just as inanimate and obtrusive— and contemplated living there forever. But the call of nature beckoned and he was compelled to go into the house. On the return trip to the study, the doorbell rang. He ignored it, uninterested in anything out of his routine, cursing the interruption. He'd hoped he'd have a few hours alone. It rang again and he relented, sauntered over to the door and saw the woeful night, then the pretty woman.
She was memorable. Looking for my cat, she said, have you seen it? Black and white, with a spot on its nose.
Her smallish hazel-blue eyes unexpectedly charmed him as did her reddish hair, glacially smooth skin and slightly overlapped side tooth. "I'm sorry," he said. "Haven't. But I'll keep an eye out." She gave him her number on a torn piece of paper and departed promptly, sending him a teeny wave. He tarried at the door for a moment, watching her try the next house, when David drove up. Don was in the passenger's seat. Wonderful. And too late. I'm not in the mood to talk any longer.
Don had been in therapy—for his burns, not his head—exercising his arm and hands as the wounds healed, to keep the skin from contracting and impairing movement. It was painful treatment, but Don never let on how much. For the rest of his life, he would carry the scars Armen Reylott had given him.
"How's the arm?" Charlie said, but Don pushed past him, offering no reply.
David paused at the doorway. "Charlie, something happened today."
"It's Dad?"
"No," Don said from inside. He motioned Charlie to the dining table. "Come over here, sit a minute."
Sit down, stand up—you're crazy. What's with everybody today? When Don refused a beer, Charlie realized his brother's mood was as solemn as Larry's had been. What did I do this time?
Lingering, David told Don he could stick around, give him a ride home. Don replied it was a good idea if he'd wait, assuring David he'd be back to work tomorrow. David didn't seem to believe him and hesitated, then accepted Don's answer and served himself a drink from the fridge, going into the garden to grant the brothers their privacy.
After he'd gone out, Don shifted his position in the chair and fidgeted with the crystal salt shaker. "This afternoon," he said, turning it in his palm. "I got into a situation." He set the shaker down, removed his jacket and draped the sleeves over the chair. "I don't know where to start, I guess I can tell you I've had trouble falling asleep lately."
"Tell me about it," Charlie said. "I haven't—"
"Quiet Charlie, let me talk, okay? This is hard enough."
Scolded in Charlieland. "Sorry."
"Since I got back to work, I've been doing good. No problems on the job."
"Very fortunate."
Don glared at him.
"Go on." Charlie folded his hands together. "I'll shut up."
"Thank you. This afternoon—I had no idea this was going to happen—we executed an arrest. Suspect with a long rap sheet, ratty side of town, connected to an interstate trafficking ring. Doesn't matter the details, but, there was no electricity in the house and he and his dumb girlfriend had these stinky candles set out here and there. David and me, we knew beforehand but didn't think much of it. When we busted in, the guy ran and she ran and I went after him. They gave us a hard time and next thing I know there's this sound. A big explosion almost, like a rush of wind, you know, and something snapped in me, I don't know, came out of the blue."
He rubbed his eye with the bottom of his hand and Charlie noticed a welt darkening underneath his chin.
"I freaked out," Don said. "Froze. Guy got out from under my knee and slugged me one. I hit the floor and it was pandemonium from then on. Guy was all over the place, fighting like a ferret." He gestured, punctuating the action. "They were trying to get him down, the woman under control—she was screaming her head off—and a few feet away those stupid candles ignited a fire in their garbage—real pigs these two—and it was flying up the curtains and the futon and bunch of covers they'd been sleeping on." He stopped, seemed to be caught up in the pandemonium.
"Don?"
He blinked, untied his tie and slid it off with a snap. "I was on the floor, you know, and I backed off, shocked shitless, plastered up against the wall. Damn it, I dropped my gun. Can you believe it? Couldn't move. They're calling my name and I was glued to the wallpaper. Everyone yelling. Fire was getting bigger, on the ceiling. Can't believe how fast. Like that nightclub fire that killed all those people. David and Colby had to pull me out. I could barely walk. Legs wouldn't work. Couldn't take my eyes off the fire. It had me."
Charlie waited for him to regroup.
"It wasn't any better outside. They got me to the car and I crashed in the backseat. I was useless. Shaking, sweating, heart going a mile a minute. Couldn't breathe. Felt like there was a boulder on my chest. I thought I was dying, having a heart attack or something. Brain-raid, that's what Colby calls it."
"You okay now?"
"Yeah, yeah, I think so. Firefighters came, emergency, put out the fire. They checked me out. Post stress. That's what everybody says. Really came out of left field." He'd wrapped his hands around the shaker and was squeezing it, kneading one fist over the other. "I was back at the cabin. In the fire, you in the room, gone. All of it. My arm even hurt again."
"It's over, Don."
"That's why I'm here. Because it's not. Dad told me about your nightmares."
What the hell? "Enough," Charlie said, and slapped his hands on the table, rose to the kitchen. He needed wine, anything.
Don followed. "You should see someone."
Charlie chose the cabernet, previously sampled. "Me see someone? Why are we arguing over this? To each his own, right? If I think I need help, I'll get it. And if you think you need help, then get it. End of discussion."
"Dad said you won't do it."
"Are you going to do it?"
"Shrink's aren't for me," Don said. "Now that it's out in the open, I'm positive I can get it together."
"You kidding me?" Charlie removed a goblet from the cupboard. "Stop telling me what I should do."
"No one can tell you what to do, you do what you want."
"I'm hard-headed? Thick skulled? Look who's talking."
"I didn't say hard-headed or any other. Strong willed."
"Like my brother." Charlie opened the bottle on the counter. "I'm glad you're recovered. Congratulations."
"Cut it out. We have another problem."
Charlie said, "There's more?" and held the goblet in the air, pouring.
"Someone reported a sighting," he said, "of Reylott."
Wine spilled and the middle of Charlie's belly fluttered as if a moth were trapped inside. It threatened of things to come.
"There were pictures of him circulated when we went missing so a lot of people in that area know what he looked like. Someone from the hotel said they saw the same guy two days ago."
I'd better sit down.
"It isn't the only reported sighting." Don was at the counter, tearing a paper towel off the roll. "Charlie?"
By the back door, their father kept a folding stool used for items on the higher shelves. Charlie had gone over, was slowly lowering himself onto it, bottle and goblet in hand.
"I hope they're dead wrong." Don soaked up the spill, down on a knee. "Could be somebody who resembles him."
"You don't sound very sure."
"I'm not," he said.
Charlie poured again and as the mouth of the bottle met the goblet's rim it clinked, sounding as though it could break. He took a big sip, his grip wobbly.
From the floor, Don asked if he was okay.
He took another drink. "Where's Dad, anyway? He should be home by now."
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