Chapter Six: Scaredy-Cat

---1---

By the time the grounds-keeping truck rolled off the lawn, the park had become fuller, kids aplenty with school out for the afternoon, strollers tack-tack-tocking on the cobblestones. Feeling crowded, Charlie switched places, picking a corner bench where he sat with legs criss-crossed, arms across his lap, away from the pine trees and nearer the cherry woods, refusing to give in, to run away like a coward. He'd been clever, took a place with his back to the ivy-draped, cinder block fence, very high, a busy street and incline on the other side, a difficult approach for an assassin, anyone wanting to hurt him.

I'm falling apart by increments. Think about something else, Eppes. And so it went, his mind churning to and fro between disparate moods, from dread to defiance and back again. He considered calling Don's office to see if he'd returned but ruled against it. Why should I? He left me standing alone, my hands flailing in the breeze while he dove behind his impenetrable walls. As if I'm the one who caused him to be placed on leave.

He was in the midst of asking himself how anything evil could happen here in this idyllic setting—with children all around—when he noticed her. She dabbed her eyes under the tree, the flute at her side on the grass. His gaze followed her as she packed the instrument into its case and took the path that came towards him, past the ivy corner. He said hi. Why he said anything he didn't know but she'd walked dejectedly, music clutched at her side, no joy in her eyes. Charlie considered that odd for someone who played so beautifully, who probably loved music as much as his mother had right up to her last days on Earth.

When she came near, he peeked into the hazel eyes with the glimmer, unmistakable, speckled with blue, and he knew right away she was the same woman at his door. Hair redder in sunlight, blouse in berry colors with shiny things like Amita wore, and earthy jeans which looked broken in without breaking up the gentle curves and lines of her body.

She'd never found her cat, she told him, but thanked him for asking, said she'd rented a house around the corner in Charlie's neighborhood, and had towed the cat with her from Phoenix. She'd come for her mother, who died not long after, of heart disease, decided she preferred it here, it was cooler. There'd been someone else in the picture, a fiancé, and that hadn't worked out so she'd enrolled in college using her inheritance. And here she was on a beautiful day, playing hooky and enjoying the sun, thinking about mom, how she missed her.

My name is Jacobi Genini, by the way, she said, her eyes brightening, and they shook hands.

Charlie commiserated with her, attentive only part of the time, eyes darting past her continually. Although a cute diversion, she wasn't enough to take his mind completely away from his troubles and while she shared the details of her life, he sensed the growing urge to get going, to flee. Finally, after hastily telling her about losing his mother, how things would improve, they walked together and parted at the courtyard. With a mellow good-bye, she concluded their conversation then headed to the parking garage as he watched, scanning the area intermittently.

She'd disappeared on the other side of the galleria when a passerby bumped him against the railing and he scurried out of the courtyard, uneasy. The smell of French fries sailed by on the breeze and he held his knuckles to his nose, finding it disagreeable. Against the windowless wall of a bank, he made himself inconspicuous and contacted Megan and David who were anxious to speak with him, said they hadn't been able to reach Don.

His phone's waterlogged, Charlie informed them, and he'll be available when he wants to be available, no sooner.

They were concerned about him, the way he'd stormed from the office, out of control; it wasn't like him to be volatile, indifferent towards the reactions of others. It had added to the supervisors' image of him as unstable.

We're both off our rockers, Charlie thought, and aimed for home. I've had enough for one day. Don can apologize if I'm ever ready to hear an apology. He shook his head. Who am I kidding? I'm worried about him. He sorted through a mental list, places where Don might have gone, changing direction when he hit on a location with a high probability of success.

I know where he is.

---2---

At dinnertime on weekdays, a short window of opportunity opened up when the batting range was almost vacant. This was the time Don liked to go, before fathers and sons emerged for their evening bonding rituals.

From afar, Charlie observed his brother in the cage for several minutes, gathered up what he should say. He turned to go, thinking maybe he should leave it to their father to talk to him first. No, I have to try. Scratching his forehead, he approached from behind the chain-link fence and noticed Don hadn't changed clothes but wore his shirttails out with old joggers he usually stored in his car trunk alongside his baseball bat. Before interrupting, Charlie allowed him to complete a swing.

"Don?" he said.

He gave him a stern look askance and Charlie realized he'd have to talk to Don's back or not talk to him at all. "Have any news on Reylott?"

The balls popped from the pitching machine every half dozen seconds, give or take, and Don slammed another one down and out into the netting with a ping on impact.

Charlie wove his fingers through the fence holes. "Should I check with David?"

"Quit being such a scaredy-cat, Charlie."

He took offense, fingers tightening on the wires. Don had a habit of being too blunt, especially with his brother. "It isn't what you said before," he said. "I did a hell of a job."

"That was then. I thought you'd grown some backbone." He glanced sideways and adjusted his stance. "Go home. Take care of yourself."

Charlie didn't know how to reply. The words burrowed into his core, where there was no one to protect you, where you bled just as certainly as if you'd been stabbed. Don may as well have been an enemy. "We can help each other, like we did before."

"This one's mine," he said, and cracked out a grounder that rocketed across the grass. "I'm getting a lawyer."

"I'm not afraid," Charlie said.

"Then why see the shrink?" Don dug into his pants pocket and popped a gum into his mouth, missing a ball. "I don't believe it. You really lost it yesterday."

The remark stung, stabbed deeper. He clenched his jaw, itching to get back at him and at the same time, feeling childish for wanting to do such a thing. But he couldn't hold his tongue. "So did you," he said, and jiggled the fence until it rattled all the way to the top just to annoy Don a little more. That should get his attention.

Don chewed his gum harder and in the next instant, Charlie imagined his warrior brother would be scrambling over the fence with the bat poised for battle.

Newton's third law: If you push an object, it will push back.

Instead, Don got careless and cringed when a ball punched him between the shoulder blades. His bat thumped the ground and he drove the tip of a shoe into the loose sand, dusting the air. Charlie coughed, unintentionally breathing it in.

Newton's first law: Until you do something to an object, it won't move.

"Damn it." Don arched back, eyes pinched shut, tears forming. He hung his fingers on the fence and crouched, went to ground. The balls continued to emerge, clattering against the fence.

Charlie stepped away, appalled with himself. "You all right?" What have I done?

He straightened up a bit and groaned, exhaling loudly. "You're distracting me. I told you no. Quit following me around."

Another baseball volleyed into the fence and Charlie moved in to face him, peeking through the chain-links. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distract you."

"Get out of here," Don said, wrenching a hand up between his shoulder blades. "I need to think. This is where I think."

He stooped down to match Don's eyes, seeking a connection—feeling guiltier than ever. Don held his head down and avoided him, refused to meet his gaze.

"Talk to me," Charlie said, wiggling the fence as a ball popped out, struck it. "What's bugging you so much?" The pitching machine had gone quiet and from the cage next door, the cheers of a squealing teenaged girl filled the range.

Moving quickly, Don removed his helmet, let it drop. He seemed eager to get away and got up, stretching his once-burned arm. Recovering, he escaped towards the parking lot, hunched over, bat under his arm.

Charlie retreated from the fence and trailed him across the next field, repeating, "Don, please, I'm sorry." As they came to the edge of the property, he halted, unsure what more he could say or do to make things right, while Don went on. He's doing it again, why do I try? He took a few steps out into the lot. "We can work this out," he said. "I"ll make it up to you."

Don had reached his car, was opening the door.

Can't force him to open up.

Without turning, Don got in, shut the door.

It's his way.

The car's tail lights came on, red, glaring.

You're the one who said not to give up.

The car backed out.

Said you'd walk me through it.

The car went round to the driveway, into the street.

I'm going through it now.

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