Chapter Three: Misfire

---1---

At the front window, Charlie undertook an active vigil, expecting his father to drive up. He'd called him three times, getting voice mail each try. The more he'd pondered the Reylott reports, the more he imagined his adversary lurked on their doorstep, believing they were all in danger.

After a short respite, Don and David put on their jackets, preparing to leave. Charlie blocked them at the threshold, overwhelmed with the prospect of protecting his father on his own, convinced he might be in trouble. "Can't you get your people on him?" he said. "This is not like Dad."

"Premature," Don said, stepping out with David. "Dad's never been good about returning calls. He's probably at that dinner club he likes, the one with the Sinatra impersonator. I'll ring him on the way."

Charlie trailed them down the steps. "What if Reylott's at large?" He felt short of breath, shaky.

David turned to reassure him. "Charlie. He was severely wounded. It takes months to recover completely from an injury that bad. If he survived, which I doubt, he wouldn't be up and around for six weeks at least. And why would he be tooling around the same area where he knows we're after him? He'd be hustling it to Canada or Mexico weeks ago."

"Just the same. I'm calling the police." He produced his cell phone, dialing as he retreated up the steps. His fingers jumbled up the entry keys and he re-entered them clumsily under the porch light.

"Wait," Don said, going after him. "Chill out. It's not necessary." He waved back to David, indicated he'd be staying after all.

David asked if he was sure then nodded an acknowledgment, boarding his car to go. As he pulled out of the driveway, Charlie decided to text message his father, vaguely aware that his brother's attention had shifted back to him.

"Go inside," Don said, patting him on the back, and Charlie flinched. Don didn't give up, steering him towards the door. "Stop bothering Dad. Jeez, why'd I mention it?"

Determined to wait outside, Charlie refused to budge. "You took two days to tell me about the sightings," he said, shutting the phone. "Why?"

"They were unconfirmed. Still are. How much wine did you have?"

They don't trust me. I don't even trust myself. He touched the nape of his neck. It was sticky as if the air were humid. A faint numbness encircled his lips, damp film coating his palms. He scanned the thicket around the house, struggling with the odd thought that the night was getting blacker; he couldn't make out details as well as he normally could. I'm going blind. "Reylott's out there, isn't he?" he said, rubbing his eyes. "Alive. He has his rifle, restocked his supplies, reloading his guns, plans to take us all out at once. He has Dad, I know it, I…I can feel it, here." He dragged a fist back and forth over his chest, tapped it with a pair of fingertips, and heard a shout. "What was that?"

"Nothing, the neighbor's kids." Don held him by the arm. "Buddy, get a grip," he said. "Your nerves are shot. I know that look, it's me all over again today. Breathe."

The street light's flickering. There's a halo around it. An aberration, an omen. No such things as omens, no such things…

He heard Don order him into the house before his knees softened and he found himself sitting on a porch step, leaning forward.

"You're hyperventilating," Don said, "loosen up," and he lifted Charlie's hands to his face.

He cupped his palms over his mouth and nose, refilling on CO2. "I've lost my mind," he said, between inhalations. "I've gone nuts."

Don sat beside him, secured an arm around his shoulders. "Keep your hands to your mouth. Relax. You'll be all right, I'm with you."

"I can't sleep, can't eat." He sounded muffled. "Woke up crying last night."

"No talking. Concentrate on breathing normally."

"Dad…"

"He'll be here. It's early yet."

"He always calls." Charlie choked off. "When he's late."

"He doesn't," Don said. "Breathe. In, out, in, that's the way, out, you're doing it."

"I see Reylott everywhere. On campus, in classes, sitting at the back, around corners."

"Be quiet. Concentrate."

"At the store, crossing the street. From the window in my office, he passes by when I'm not looking. He's playing with me, Don, distorting my mind, tangling it all up."

"Shhhh."

"In this house. In my own house. At night, especially at night." Charlie reclined on the step behind him, arm outstretched for support. He could hear himself rambling. "I look down at the pond, think the koi aren't moving so I watch until I think I see they are and he's there, a ghost. Then that sickening sound, the gun pop."

Don said, "Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought it would go away by itself. It's worse, it's getting worse."

"You're breathing better. We should go in."

"Dad—when he gets…gets home." He'd taken both hands from his face. "Call him again."

"No, negative. He's all right."

Charlie gasped and Don guided his hands back up to his mouth. "Keep them there," he said, holding them in place. "You're going to pass out. Count backwards from a thousand by nines—no, too easy for you. By nine-sixteenths."

"Nine-sixteenths?" Charlie converted, fixing on decimals intuitively. Focus. 999.44. Breathe normally…998.88, 998.32…for your own good…997.76...your sight is fine…997.20. After a few numbers, he forgot and broke his silence, rapidly counting out loud: "996.64, 996.08..."

"Count to yourself," Don said, adding, "Still too easy, should've had you spell instead."

Charlie continued until he came to a whole number, 986, before running into a mathematical misfire. "I've lost my place," he said, panicking. "What…what's next?"

"You'll get it. Think."

"I don't know, I really don't. You drop your gun, I lose my place." He turned to Don, removing his hands. "Is it 985.3? 4?"

"Keep your hands up. Start from the last number you remember. Go—do it now."

984.88? "Oh man, I can't see it's too dark."

"Listen to me, your eyes are okay, you're just nervous," he said. "Count."

Charlie obeyed, heeding Don's command. It seemed natural to do so under the circumstances. Covering his mouth, he restarted at 986, going to 985.44 and lower, into the 960's, even though he wasn't sure the numbers were right. Soon, with Don's encouragement, he felt his heart adopt a gentler rhythm and he scooted forward, prepared to get up, quivering legs unprepared to support his weight. Don helped him rise, escorting him indoors and into a chair, asked how he was feeling.

He was about to answer when a car drove up, its headlights shining in.

---2---

One glance at his face and Charlie could tell their father wasn't fooled. Alan knew something had happened, asked about Don's welt and Charlie's gray complexion. They kept late hours that night, talking things over, with Don sleeping over in his old room. But true to his words and his decisive demeanor, he went home to his apartment early the next day, then to work.

Alan caught Charlie before he departed for campus. "Wouldn't you rather take the day off after yesterday? Think things over?"

"No more than Don," Charlie said. Sometimes he wished he lived alone. "I don't see the effectiveness of inactivity."

"You could help me with the eaves."

"I could." Charlie picked up his briefcase. "You don't need to work on the house. I'll hire someone."

"I enjoy doing it, I'm used to it. Round of golf?"

Charlie started for the door, his father hovering around him. "Dad, give me some space, please," he said, feeling warm again, a wad in his throat, as though a pill were jammed part way. The night had been an ordeal. He'd been restless in bed, finally giving up and attempting to catch up with work on the PC. Don't go to the window, he'd told himself, don't go there, he isn't there, he is dead. What a trap, utterly ironic—first I'm unnerved I killed the man, now I'm afraid he wasn't killed. Can't win. Can't banish him. He could be outside, anywhere, everywhere, preparing an ambush.

"How about it?"

"I have to go," he said, tempted to lock and bolt the door, rather than go through it. He checked out the window, laid his soft briefcase on the credenza and unbuckled it, lifted the flap, shut it, lifted the flap again, drew out a thick manuscript and shuffled through the pages, tidying them up.

His father showed him a business card, held it under his face. "Here's the doctor we talked about, Give him a call. Today."

Charlie shoved the papers back in, closed and fastened the case, snatching up the card, angry, then reached out for the doorknob while several feet away. He halted mid-step, thought he'd forgotten something, and rushed out. On the porch, he stalled, with Alan standing inside the doorway. What do you expect from me?

He scanned the street, up and down the neighborhood, soles cemented to the stoop. It seems peaceful out there yet there's turmoil in here. I can't go on. Couldn't stay away from the window either, slept propped in a chair, leaning on the sill, with Don's old black baseball bat beside me. What kind of person does things like that? No control. He owns me, Reylott owns me.

"Want me to call him?" Alan said, coming outside. "He's recommended."

"Why did you tell Larry, Dad?"

"I didn't know what else to do," he said. "I hoped he might have some influence. You can't go on like this."

Charlie stared at him, handed back the business card. "Tell me it'll be over someday, Dad."

"You'll have to work at it. But I promise, it will be."

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