Chapter Fourteen: Crazy
In the late afternoon, following the fitful nap, Charlie's temp was down despite the festival of odd dreams that had jumbled the contents of his brain. After shaking off the grogginess, he plucked up the laptop and concentrated on his armillary sundial sphere, changing his mind on the details for the tenth time. He'd been searching for design style options on the internet when his dad came in, dumped mail on the bed and seated himself in the chair Jacobi had used, shifting it nearer.
"Your visit went well?" he said.
"Sweet." Charlie offered a chocolate.
"Don't mind if I do," Alan said, harvesting a pumpkin.
He shuffled through his mail: catalogs, credit offers and brochures had accumulated before and during his illness and he separated them into two piles on either side of his legs: one for keepers, the other for discards.
His father ate the pumpkin in tiny bites. "You're liking her?"
"Dad," he said, his annoyance showing. His father's ceaseless quest for grandchildren was never a subtle matter. Sandwiched between two catalogs, a bright red envelope nabbed Charlie's interest and he slid it out, tossing the catalogs to the discard pile.
"Those bluish eyes are striking. She's talented, like your mother was."
"She's won you over," he said. "Change of heart?"
"Let's say I'm getting closer." Alan gleaned a second pumpkin.
Charlie grinned at his dad, pleased he was beginning to approve of Jacobi. "I'm already there," he said, and read the envelope. It was addressed simply to Charlie Eppes in neat long hand, but had no zip code, return address or meter stamp mark.
"Devil. Nice to see you smile."
"She could be the one." He turned the letter over, wondering how it got to him. The back was blank.
Alan's face lit up. "Don't Charlie. Those words aren't for saying too early."
"I suppose it is," he said. "Make up your…" Charlie had ripped open the red envelope and removed a greeting card decorated with a glittery Santa beneath a golden Happy Holidays arched across the front. It mesmerized him.
"And what about lonely Amita?" Alan said.
"Lonely Amita?" Charlie unfolded the card and froze in place, missing his father's next comment.
"You two have known each other a long time. It'd be awkward to…What is it?"
Inside, a pre-printed message read—To You and Your Family—but it was unsigned. "Didn't Don say Reylott sent him Christmas cards?" Charlie said, his voice rising.
"He did." Alan leaned in to see it. "Unsigned with a North Pole stamp."
The card flew to the keeper pile and Charlie scooted away as if it were harboring a contagious pathogen, the computer tumbling from his lap. "Oh, shit."
Alan stood up, shoved the chair away with his foot. "Fingerprints. Don't touch it."
Charlie was mortified. "Why here? Why would it come here? I was right, he is out there. You all thought I was exaggerating, overreacting but, but…"
"Stop it, get a hold of yourself." Alan had the cell phone at his ear and a snug grip on Charlie's upper arm. "David. I'm calling David."
A joke. It has to be a joke. "How about Don? The police?"
"I called him just a few minutes ago. We're playing voice mail again. He can be so pigheaded sometimes. I have a mind to go up there and haul him….David? We got a problem."
It was happening again. Déjà vu in Charlieland. Complications. Don, why aren't you here? He labored for braver breaths, failed and was soon in the throes of another panic attack. I have to move, have to get out…hide. He tore his arm away from his father's grasp and sprung from the bed, raced out into the hallway, turning towards the stairs. Alan trailed him, calling for him to stop and come back, the phone still at his ear.
Kitchen. Charlie sprinted in, foot slipping on the slick floor, and pulled an eight inch carving knife from its block. Spinning round, he collided into his father who tossed the cell phone to the counter as they hit. It skidded across the tiles, bouncing off the backsplash.
Charlie didn't expect what happened next: his father snatched both his wrists and clasped them solidly enough to hurt, insisting that he calm down and put the knife away. He squirmed, battling with Alan's surprising strength. "I'm getting out of here, I have to pack."
"Then what to you need that for?"
"Because I don't have a gun!"
"No, this isn't the way." Alan's elbows were rigid and he leaned aside, cautious of the blade. "Put it down," he ordered.
"Let me go, I have to hide."
"Charlie, please son, someone's going to get hurt—I could get hurt—that what you want? Put it down."
"I'm getting out of here." He took a step left but Alan held fast, the blade swinging outwards. "You need to pack, too. We both have to leave, save Don. Go someplace Reylott can't ever find us. He's out there, Dad, we're dead tonight if we don't get out. There's no time to waste."
"Look at yourself." Alan tried to meet Charlie's eyes. "Look at what you've come to. This is my wise son?"
Charlie checked out the window, behind them. "Oh God, it's starting all over again." He pulled at his wrists but was jerked back, his father's grip tightening round his forearms.
"Drop it, it's dangerous," Alan said, bracing his foot against the baseboard. "Charlie—now! Just open your fist and drop it."
He struggled, set on escaping. "Let me go."
"When you ease off and quit fighting me." He squeezed, shook Charlie's arms. "You have to calm down."
We're wasting time, Don could be in trouble.Over the phone, David's voice carried into the kitchen, asking what was going on. Realizing Alan would never let go as long as he resisted, Charlie relented and opened his fist, relinquishing the weapon. It fell to the counter and his father released his left arm, told him it was the best thing to do, the smart thing.
"Is it?" Charlie said, sweeping back his hair. He felt confused; apparently his father didn't trust him enough not to pick up the knife again and wouldn't release his right arm. With sweat trickling from his hairline, he yanked the locked wrist free and bolted out, going through the rear exit to his garage study. The door was unlocked and although there was sufficient sunshine, he nervously snuck a hand in to flick on the light before entering.
Behind him, his father was back on the phone, informing David he could handle his son, but to get here ASAP, call Don again for me, I have to go. "What're you doing?" Alan said. "Let's go back in. David's on his way."
At the green couch, Charlie knelt to search for the black bat. It had been jammed into the cushions and he forced his hands between them, plucking it out. "I need equipment."
"What equipment?" Alan said. "You aren't even over the flu yet. This is crazy."
"I know I'm crazy." He stuck the bat under his arm and rummaged through boxes and shelves, mining for supplies. Cooler. Blankets. Lamps. Tent. Food. Water. Weapons. Lots of weapons.
"I didn't say that." Alan was on his heels, following round the area. "Why don't you call Don, see what he says?"
"Don…we'll pick him up." He jerked a canvas tarp from a tower of shelves and spray cans and bottles spilled down, clanging over each other. The noise jarred him and he jumped back, the bat slipping out from under his arm. When it smacked the cement, he jumped again, stepping away. "I'm the one who shot Rey," he said. "He's wants to kill me, inch by inch."
"No, you won't give in, do you hear me?"
"I hear you. I'm not afraid." If you push Charlie, he'll push back. That's true, isn't it? "But I want to go, we have to go."
Alan shook his head. "We have friends, they'll get us through this. We aren't alone."
Not abandoned. Hard to believe. Charlie turned, retreating from the mess, and continued his search for supplies. Approaching another shelf, he rolled a chalkboard out partway and a can clinked, vaulting sharply across the floor, banged by his unprotected foot.
His father was by the door. "Charlie, you can't do this to yourself, you need to rest."
He didn't pay attention. Pain had traveled up the nerve in his big toe, radiating into the top of the foot, and he bent low to grit his teeth and tend it, poised in front of the board. A splash of color captured his peripheral sight and he looked up. On the back, over the drawing of the armillary sphere, someone had marred his property, spray-painting in bold, red letters:
CHARLES EPPES---> LIABLE---> P&S
His breathing nose-dived and he plunged into a bout of hyperventilation. Brain-raid. Not with Dad in the room...hands over mouth…nine-sixteenths, start at 986 go to 985.44, go to 984.88, go to 984.32…
Alan hurried to his side, saw the writing. "Let's get out of here," he said, taking his son by the shoulders and urging him out the door.
983.76…983.20… Charlie cooperated, walking stiffly and counting as they returned to the house. 982.64. He headed straight for his room and with a hand covering his mouth, dragged out his largest gym bag, deposited it on the bed and began to pack.
"You aren't going anywhere," Alan said, blocking the doorway. He was on the phone again.
At the tall chest of drawers, Charlie snatched socks and shorts out with a single hand. 971.44
"Charlie, stop this…Don? Thank God you answered."
He stuffed the clothes into the bag, opened the closet for shirts and shoes. 970.32
Alan addressed Don: "You have to talk to him."
969.76
"Charlie, your brother wants to talk to you."
He hesitated, 968.64, 968.08, and accepted the phone, pacing. Don's okay, calm the fuck down. "966.4…4…4," he said aloud.
"Good, you're counting. That's a boy," Don said. "I'm coming back. Charlie, listen to Dad, will you do that for me? Don't go anywhere until I get home."
"963.60…It's starting over. We have to leave."
"The state you're in it's not a good idea. You think you can go out there in a panic and defend yourself? Nobody could. Promise me you'll stay there."
"He was in the house." Pausing at the window, he searched for movement below. "He wrote on my board."
"You know better than to jump to conclusions," Don said. "Quickest track up the wrong street."
"959.68" How can you be so calm?
"Charlie, promise me. You trust me, don't you?"
"958. Whole number."
"You're going to run out of numbers," Don said, the reception cutting out, then in. "What do you say?"
"Impossible." He uncovered his mouth, paced small circles about the room. "How long 'til you get here?"
"We're arranging air transport. I should be home in three or four hours."
"Before dark?" 957.44
"I can't say. But David and Megan should be there anytime soon."
"No, not good enough." With his free hand, Charlie grabbed his wallet and tossed it into the bag, zipped it quickly. Picking it up, he hurried to the door. "Dad can drive, we'll just drive to…away…anywhere."
"Dad agrees with me, he understands you both should stay put."
Alan's arms were spread across the doorway. "I said you're not going anywhere, not like this."
Charlie lowered the phone, left Don hanging on the line. "Dad, please, let me through. We still have to pack your things and…"
Though shouting, Don's warnings went unheeded: "Charlie, no! You can't go, listen to me, I know what I'm doing. Stay where you are."
"Let me by!" Charlie tried to break through and Alan shifted to the right, planted a palm on his son's chest. The gym bag bumped against their knees and Charlie withdrew a step, disturbed by the weary, frustrated look on his father's face. He moved towards the bed, his brain snapping to attention, and dropped the bag, rethinking his actions, a knot in his stomach. He looked down at himself: he was in pajamas, shoeless, very thirsty, and ill. He'd distressed his father enough for today; there'd be no more wrestling matches on his account. With the phone at his ear, he resumed counting. 956.88. "I'm here," he said. "You okay?"
It seemed to take Don a second to figure out his brother was back on the phone before he answered. "I'm okay," he said. "And I want you and Dad to stay okay. Trust me. You'll sit tight, right?"
"It's hard to wait, Don, it's how it was in the cave. It'll be dark soon."
"I know, I know, but you're not there, you're not alone. We've got experts on the way, lots of help. Please Charlie, pay attention to Dad. Do what he says. Wait there."
Charlie collapsed on the bed pillows, hot and dizzy. "Hurry," he said. "Hurry."
Alan came away from the door and took the phone, sat on the bed. Charlie had closed his eyes, concentrating on balancing out his breaths. His head pounded as fiercely as his heart and any physical strength he'd previously mustered with the flood of adrenaline had ebbed, leaving him trembling and weak.
"Dad?" Don said.
"Yeah, it's me," he said, feeling Charlie's forehead first, then laying a hand on his chest. "He's quiet, for now."
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