Chapter Fifteen: Teddy Bear

---1---

With his eyes kept closed, Charlie gradually evened-out the rhythm of his breaths. His father remained by him, soothed his forehead and face with a handkerchief, speaking softly. He asked for a drink of water and Alan hesitated, saying he didn't want to leave him alone.

"It's all right," Charlie said, opening his eyes. "I promise, I'm not going anywhere."

Alan handed him the kerchief. "I'll get it from the bathroom faucet."

Charlie gave a little nod and shut his eyes again, gratefully anticipating the drink. "Dad?" he said, before Alan could get into the hall. "It's quiet, isn't it?"

"Yes Charlie, very…well, except for Mrs. Lenns' Lovebirds."

"The doors are locked?"

"And the windows, and the floors," Alan said, kidding a mite. "Don't worry about a thing, you're doing well now."

Locks keep people out, keep them in. He turned to a side, dragged the kerchief over his neck and drew up his knees, arms crossed.

This has got to stop.

-oo--oo--oo--oo--oo-

That evening, David had been attending a fund-raiser and Megan visiting a friend when they were summoned to the Eppes home. Concerned, they both arrived within the hour with extra people to scour the surrounding area.

David saved the red letter in a plastic bag, said he'd get it to the lab first thing. By then, Charlie had migrated to his father's room and appropriated the bed. He felt queasy, as if the moth in his belly were back in business, but he reasoned it had little to do with the virus. David as usual was confident, offered apologies in advance if it turned out he was wrong about Reylott, because this didn't quite fit his MO. The letter had come to Charlie's, not Don's, and lacked the novelty of the make-believe North Pole mark. Someone had personally and covertly slipped it into the mailbox. It seemed a copy-cat was afoot.

Charlie reclined against the headboard, picked up his mother's photo from the bedside and gave her a kiss, respectfully setting it down. He attempted to sleep but the pernicious fever had a mind of its own, rising again with nightfall, near the high level of the previous evening. A slow burner, his father called it. His body still ached and the headache seemed to be pressing in on his skull from the outside, not from within.

Downstairs, the investigation proceeded. He felt safer with others in the house yet had no desire to hang around below, get in the way. At his request, Alan brought the black bat to him, ardently suggesting that Charlie call their family physician on Monday to get something for his nerves, there was no use suffering endlessly.

Charlie agreed; he no longer needed any heavy-duty convincing. One thing at a time, perhaps return to Volkov. His father encouraged him, said he should direct his talents and skills to the task of finding the suspect once he'd recovered from the flu—and the fear.

Dad doesn't see how tough that's going to be.

Taking a break to see how he was, Megan visited upstairs, advising him that he was beyond the original trauma, building bad experience upon bad, that every anxiety attack was fueled by the ones before it. Charlie, she told him, no one can really help you but you…what Don has been planning—the visit to the forest to spend the night, although he's had to postpone it—may not be the Bureau's idea of standard or effective treatment, but it's Don's way to manage this, to rev himself up for what comes next. You can't keep backing down, she said, it weakens you every time. Do you see what I'm getting at?

Charlie assured her he knew all this, it's just that with the new developments he'd seemed to react spontaneously to fright. He slept after she left, succumbing to meds and stress. When he awoke, Don was sitting near him in the plaid wingback at the corner, scribbling in a notebook with their father's etched silver pen.

Don blinked at him, brows arched. "Running out of rooms, Charlie," he said. "Something wrong with mine?"

"The letter was in there. When'd you get back?"

"About…" Don checked his watch. "Half hour or so."

"You should've woke me," he said, extending his legs beneath the covers.

"It's best you kick back, let us do the work." He leaned forward. "You sure you're all right?"

Charlie affirmed. "How's Dad? I didn't mean to make it worse by flaking out on him."

"He's a trooper. When you gonna' get better?"

"At this point, I'm thinking never. I can't believe he was here."

"We don't know it was Reylott," Don said. "Could be someone he knew. A revenge motive. Or a huge crappy joke by someone who doesn't like you, a student. All we know is someone blames you for something."

Charlie said, "The P&S—stands for pain and suffering, doesn't it?"

"That'd be my guess. Or pizza and sodas." Don flipped a page in his notebook. "What do you know about this Jacobi Genini?"

Uh-oh. "You have to be kidding."

"No stone unturned. Dad says she was here alone with you. She with you all the time?"

"She played for me, I fell asleep."

Don asked how long he was zonked out.

"Forty or fifty minutes, approximately."

"And when you woke up?" he said, writing.

Charlie recalled the dream of his mother, its realness. "Jacobi was sitting on the bed, left here within ten minutes. You don't seriously think…"

"I might," Don said. "But we can't find her. We want to know if she saw anything."

"Her number's in my jeans. They're the ones hanging on the footboard."

"We'll check it out. Do what you've been doing—rest." Getting up, he seemed to notice something unusual and set his notebook on the side table. At the bed, he raised Charlie's arm, supporting the elbow, and turned it gently. "What's this—finger marks?"

"Ow," he said, not knowing what caused the pain, and lifted his head to investigate. "Oh great." On the inside wrist, large red fingerprints were clearly visible, spotting green to blue. "Dad'll be upset about this."

Don asked to see the other arm and lightly folded the blankets down. The second wrist was also bruised. "This when Dad tried to stop you?"

"He did stop me," Charlie said, examining the injuries. "I was being crazy with the knife. He told you?"

"Briefly. Don't worry, he'll know you won't blame him."

"Just the same, do me a favor, don't mention them to him, will you?"

"You got it," Don said, getting his notebook. "Lips are sealed." He started to leave. "I should see what's going downstairs."

"Did you make it to the cabin?"

"Unfortunately, no." He pointed to the bat, tucked in beside Charlie, the handle peeking out. "I remember when you used to sleep with a teddy bear."

Charlie frowned, felt Don was making fun of him"Not everyone can be as bulletproof as you."

"Hold on, I don't want to argue, especially now."

"Well then quit projecting on me."

"Projecting on you?" Don said. "Shrink tell you that?"

"Doesn't matter who. If you can't stand to see me you can go back to the woods."

"Charlie," he said, apparently wounded. "You're my brother."

"I am. And more than that." I'm an individual, apart from you, too.

"And what is it I'm supposed to be projecting?"

"My problems, they remind you of your shortcomings, when you lost it with Reylott and at work the other day."

"You talked to Megan, didn't you?" Don stepped towards the door then quickly back to the bed. "Got a Megananalysis? I should've known."

"I can talk to anyone I want," Charlie said. "I work with her, too."

"Oh yeah? Well…" A female voice summoned him from the hallway and Don paused, whispering to her on the other side of the door. "I gotta' go."

Charlie grunted, dragging himself out of bed as he disappeared. Not caring to leave the room and possibly run into strangers, he went to his father's closet and borrowed a plain white long-sleeved shirt, put it on and settled back, kicking the covers aside until he could cool off. He ran his fingertips gingerly over the bruises, knew they would be getting uglier before they improved. Aligning a cuff, he began to button it, listening to Don's steps fade away on the wooden hallway floors.

I'm glad you came back.

---2---

By ten PM, the neighbors had taken their snoopy noses back to their TV sets and the Eppes men, along with a lookout man named Sam in a car on the street, were the only ones remaining on the premises. For now, they would cautiously watch, expecting the perpetrator to return since they had reason to believe the broken window was connected to the same person or persons who'd been in the garage. Charlie tried calling Jacobi, got voice mail and became concerned when she didn't call back. Suppose she'd run into the perpetrator? Lab results for the fingerprints on the letter, etc., would take a few days to process. He hoped she was all right.

Discouraged, Charlie reluctantly returned to his own room, mulling over what Megan had said to him. He would eventually have to contend with the Tortuous Trinity despite the fact that he wasn't feeling any stronger. The memory of his anxiety attacks haunted him, the trouble they'd caused for Dad and Don and how they'd been forced to witness the outward manifestation of his disruptive nightmares. If he didn't start soon the latest developments would definitely drive him into a hole in the ground for the rest of his life. The time was ripe, while free of panic, to confront his fears. I'm tired of being bullied.

If this asinine fever would break, then I'd be up to the battle. He prepared the room, leaving the window wide for a fresh breeze which might encourage the fever to wane. On his desk, he found their father's silver pen. Don had apparently been in the room earlier and forgotten it. Charlie picked it up, put it in the drawer for safe keeping, regretting that he'd never gotten the chance to speak with him again because Don had been so busy. Although officially on leave, Don's intimate involvement with the case made him both victim and unofficial agent in the house and, according to Alan, he'd personally conducted a thorough inspection. When their father retired for the night, Don was downstairs, watching TV until after midnight. Charlie could hear the commercials blaring.

Crossing his fingers, he left the door ajar for the hall light—he couldn't persuade himself to sleep in total darkness—and got into bed with the bat next to him. Sometime in the night, light taps sounded on the roof. Mischievous cats, he reasoned, he'd heard them before, and dozed, heard a clicking noise at one point, fell back to sleep.

"You Charlie Eppes?" someone asked from the darkness, rather hoarse.

He believed he was dreaming, then writhed, beating a fist against the muscular chest that loomed above him, the body straddling his middle. He'd awakened to a crushing weight, felt as though he'd suffocate, realized he couldn't call for help. Slung over his mouth, a slick hand half-trapped the warm exhalations from his nose and pressed his lips against teeth and gums. The fingers smelled foul, like rotten meat, and a bony knee ground into his left armpit. At his throat, a hard object poked his flesh and he discerned the silhouette of a head in dim light from the window. With each heartbeat, he thought his chest would implode, certain he'd be shot.

The intruder shifted his weight. "You Charlie?"

He nodded, pressed his head hard back into the pillow. I'm dead this time.

"You'll answer my questions, and I won't kill you, get it?"

Mutely, Charlie affirmed, attempting a nod. The bat—under the covers.

"No screaming when my hand comes off."

Another silent affirmation. Reach for it.

"Where's Katherine?" the intruder said. "She was here, right?" He removed his hand.

"Who are you?" Charlie said, and the foul hand re-squeezed over his mouth. Can't get to it.

"Shhhh. Too loud. Where's Katherine? I need to talk to her, the bitch."

"I, I don't know a Katherine." Charlie's breaths were loud as well, but he couldn't stifle them.

"She's been hanging around here, huh? Jacobi, where is she?"

"Who are you?" he said, trying to make out the man's face.

"She took something from me." He wrenched Charlie's shirt, jerked his head off the pillow. "Do you know where she is?"

"I swear, she never called back. Don't—"

The intruder slapped him. "Where?"

His head dropped back. "Ouch," he said. "I don't know. I've n-never been to her house."

He was hit again, a backhand rougher than the first. "You got family in the house, don't you? Maybe they know."

"No, no family." Charlie craned his head sideways, expecting a hit, and got one.

"Don't lie to me, what'd she tell you?"

"I swear to you, I don't know—" His sentence was cut off, ended with another firm slap.

"Tell me," he said, and buried his fingers into Charlie's curls, tugging.

Charlie cried out. "Who are you?"

He twisted the hair, tugged again. "Your dad will tell."

"Leave him alone he d-doesn't—"

A knock came from the door and a voice called out: "Charlie? You okay?"

Charlie tried to reply but the hand clasped down on his lips. The intruder shook his head in threat, crammed the object deeper into his throat.

Go away, he has a gun…

Don knocked forcefully. "Hello? Answer me, you all right?"

He'll hurt you, run…

"Charlie! Open the door."

My arm is free, use it—now, and he reached across, seized the man's right arm and pushed it free of his throat, then heaved and thrust his knees upwards, knocking the intruder to the mattress. With a shout, Charlie warned Don of the gun and the intruder yielded, bounded off and stumbled to the floor.

As the man sprung up, Don rushed in shoulder first, busting the door open with a crack, his sidearm prepped, balanced in both hands. Unfazed, the fleeing intruder threw himself forward, crashed into Don and abruptly swung his own weapon, back-whacking Don across the face. Don hung on to his sidearm but reeled, spinning to the left and down onto the lamp which toppled over, splitting the base in two.

Charlie in the meantime had briefly become entangled in the sheets and was freeing himself, lunging out of bed and into the hallway, bumping shoulders with his father. He hesitated a second, never stopping, and pursued the intruder who'd darted for the stairs.

On the ground floor, the back door was ajar and Charlie ran out, saw the man lose his footing and tumble a few feet out from the threshold, rise and dash into the garden. He pursued him, shouting for help, hoping Sam the lookout would finally buy a clue and come round from his car out front. The intruder glanced behind him, beelined into the koi pond and executed an ungraceful splash. He was climbing out when Charlie overtook and tackled him into the sweet pea beds. The man whirled round, planted a right cross on his jaw, springing up. Charlie stretched forward, nailed his ankle and brought him down. They wrestled, mucked in freshly watered soil.

Give up! Charlie grunted with the effort, on his back, shoving and grabbing at the same time, when he realized his enigmatic opponent was being dragged off by Sam and a second officer and harshly slammed to his stomach, prepared for handcuffing. The man screamed to be let go, protesting that he was not the one they wanted.

Alan seemed to appear from nowhere, kneeling next to his son. "My God, what do you think you're doing?"

Charlie lay immobile with only his chest heaving, coughing in choked spurts. He swiped mud from an eye and rolled to get up. "Don," he said, taking his father's hand. "Where?"

"He's over there." Alan motioned towards the house. "Can you get up?"

"I'm working on it," he said, and folded in his legs.

"You're bleeding."

"What?" Charlie sat up, felt his side, suddenly aware of the wetness seeping through his PJ's. He scanned the ground—a garden lamp had been crushed under him, slicing into his right flank near the hip.

His father helped him up and they retraced the path to the house. Don sat beneath the porch light on the lowest flagstone deck-step, bleeding over half his face and down his chin, holding his shirttails to the wound. Charlie was shocked to see other than his own blood—especially his brother's—and knelt beside him, one hand on Don's arm and the other to his own side.

Alan had stepped into the house, came running out with towels. "Are you dizzy?" he asked Don, gingerly touching one to his cheekbone.

"A little." Don held the towel for himself. "Charlie, you nuts? You could've been killed."

He struggled to reclaim his breath, heard the intruder blurting out a string of objections from the other end of the garden. Tasting blood, he felt with his tongue, found a cut on the inside of his mouth. "Got the son-of-a-bitch," he said, lowering himself gently to the flagstone.

Alan crouched near, pressed a towel to the injured hip. "And I'm about to have a heart attack. Don's right, you could've been killed."

Charlie moaned; the pain was beginning to hit him."He made me mad, Dad. He just made me mad."

-oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--