Chapter Sixteen (A): Aftermath
As an emergency crew drove up, Charlie peeked through the front window and watched a petite woman in a frilly pink robe approach the house. With all the commotion going on next door, Mrs. Lenns apparently hadn't been able to contain herself and had rushed over, probably worried about Alan, eager to console him. Unfortunately for her, the police had cordoned off the area and wouldn't permit her to come nearer than fifty feet while the Eppes home was once again combed for suspicious tracings.
On his side, Charlie had sustained a ragged stab wound which bled steadily, requiring frequent pressure. Both he and Don boarded an ambulance and were transported to a hospital where they were separated. Don required treatment for a cut made not by a real gun but the intruder's weapon of choice, recovered from the koi pond: A rusty BB gun probably decades old, which didn't work.
Alan arrived by car and caught up with his younger son in a treatment room. On an examining table, Charlie tended his face, soothing reddened cheeks and chin with an ice pack, and retold the event to authorities, how he'd awakened with a man perched on top of him and nearly passed out from terror. The man asked for Katherine, then Jacobi, but it was unclear if there were one or two women he'd sought. He'd evidently sneaked into the house through the door with the broken window which had been patched with cardboard, creeping into Charlie's room and locking the door behind him. He'd turned off the hall light but Don had flicked it back on when he'd come up to investigate the noise.
The attending doctor had been peeking at Charlie's injury and now shooed the police, saying he needed to get to work; they could question the patient later. While he busied himself at a computer, a nurse with a stony topknot instructed Charlie to change out of his muddied clothes and handed him a gown.
He was concerned; his bruised arms would be unveiled before his father. Stalling, he thought about asking him to leave when Alan began to complain to the doctor rather excitedly, telling him Charlie had been sick with flu and fever the last few nights and still was. Then, as Charlie watched, his father suddenly went gray and walked out of the room without saying a word.
"Dad?" he called after him and the nurse ordered him to hurry, get out of his dirty clothes.
Charlie complied, undressing and getting into the flimsy gown whereupon she had him lay on his side, titled back, upper leg straight, and deftly threw a sheet over his lower half. He heard the pop of exam gloves being slipped on and lifted his arm to keep it out of the way, bicep under his chin. Then, with his hip exposed and draped, they peeled away the rest of the temporary dressing and prepared to irrigate the wound, first cleansing the skin around it.
"Will someone check on my father?" Charlie said, scooting slightly—he wasn't looking forward to this; it was already beginning to hurt. "He seemed a little—"
The nurse snapped, told him not to move.
We're in a hospital, he assured himself, Dad isn't having a heart attack. Someone would see it. His concern turned to Don. "Where's my brother?"
"No talking, no fidgeting," the nurse said. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill."
Having a bad day? Charlie thought, Try my molehill. He laid his head back down and winced. Not only did the stab wound feel raw but it stung to press his face into the not-so-very-soft pillow. From behind him, a cold, constant and stinging flow of saline streamed over the wound, washing out blood and soil, some of it missing the catch-container and spilling over his abdomen onto the table, soaked beneath him, damp and uncomfortable.
"Where's my brother?" he dared ask again. No one answered and he lifted his head. "Where's my brother is he all right?"
"I'm warning you, be still," the nurse said, a glint of spit shooting out. "You're not the only patient we have tonight."
Aren't they in for a treat. "Where's my brother? His name is Don Eppes."
"Eppes?" the nurse finally replied, tearing a pack of gauze. "He's probably waiting. He had a minor laceration, no sutures."
Correct, same last name as mine. He let out a long sigh and was about to ask what they were going to do to him when Don entered, peeking in first.
"Where's Dad?" Charlie said. "He took off so fast."
His face sported a short row of butterfly bandages and he'd changed out of his bloodied shirt, carried a paper bag. "He's fine."
"Damn it!" Charlie yelled, and raised his arm to see the wound, twisting forward. "Do you have to do that?" They were attempting to disinfect the wound more thoroughly and it felt to him as though they were excavating it with a fork.
The doctor continued to excavate, told him he was almost finished but had found seeds of broken glass and a nasty infection is the last thing you want, right?
No, the last thing I want is another excruciating…
He jerked forward, expelling a biting curse as the next invasion ensued. The nurse, rooted in front of him, pulled the sheet back up and scolded him to be still or she'd have him held still.
I have no doubt. He got the message: The faster the medicos completed the task, the faster he could get away from the Topknot of Kindness and return to the Tortuous Trinity. "Dad didn't look so good," he told Don. "He was pale."
"He's in the waiting area. We'll talk about it later." Don was observing the procedure and Charlie became worried when his brows furrowed into a frown.
Don said, "Uh, I wouldn't look, bro."
He did—just as the doctor raised a hypodermic needle into the air and said he'd need to anesthetize the wound before suturing. As the nurse applied a topical numbing ointment, Charlie glued his eyes shut to steel himself, clutching the edge of the table, relieved to sense only a minor pin prick over the throbbing. Then they waited a moment.
In that interval, Don informed Charlie that David had been surprised to be summoned back to the Eppes home so soon after the first incident and was presently waiting for him downstairs. As soon as Don was done, they planned to drive to the police department to follow-up on the interrogation of the intruder.
As Don spoke, Charlie was relieved to feel the throbbing subside and the doctor rolled his stool in closer, proceeded to repair the damage.
"How you doing?" Don said. He'd retreated to the wall, claimed a padded chair. "I think it's all downhill from here. Dad brought us clothes."
"He thought of that?"
"He did—had 'em in the car," he said, and filled Charlie in on what they'd learned about the intruder's breaking and entering methods. They didn't know much about him; thus far, the man refused to talk, giving away neither name nor intention.
After several stitches, the doctor was done and departed without good-bye or good riddance, leaving the Topknot to finish dressing the wound and assign hasty instructions on its care.
Don helped his brother sit up, allowed him to get dressed. Thankfully, by luck, their father had thrown a long-sleeved shirt into the bag and Charlie made sure he put it on over his T-shirt. This would be the absolutely worst night for his father to find out about the burgeoning bruises on his arms.
Out in the hallway, they headed to the elevator and Don explained that their father really was fine, but had confided to him that he'd been staring at Charlie on the examination table and felt overwhelmed by the circumstances he'd found himself in, including the sight of blood on those he loved, and told himself his younger son was in good hands, he'd be patched up in no time, then had to take a break.
"He's feels bad about it," Don said.
Charlie massaged his forehead, clipping a support post with his elbow when they got onto the elevator. "Poor Pop."
"That fever won't go, will it?"
"No," he said. The elevator doors shut. "They took my temp. It's stuck between 101, 102."
Don ran his fingers through his hair. The lights cast a ghoulish glare, made him look ill. "Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight."
"Easy for you to say."
"Charlie," Don said. "I'll do whatever I can to get to the bottom of this."
"I…." He rethought what he was about to say; it'd been a harrowing night and he was thankful his brother was living and breathing and tucking his shirt in right next to him. "How's your face?"
He tapped his temple. "Smarts."
"Hurt anywhere else?"
"Only my pride," Don said. "How's your jaw? It's beet red."
Charlie recalled the sting of slaps and glanced up, recoiling from the bad light. Somewhere in the night, the anger that had helped him maintain his composure had forsaken him completely. Why us? Why me? Covering his face, he slumped into the corner, and broke down. It overtook him like a wave.
Don put a hand on his back. "Hey what's going on?"
"There's no good place to rest anymore," he said, and straightened up, embarrassed, yet couldn't stop crying. The elevator doors retracted and a family of five marched in without waiting for them to exit. Don took over, grabbed Charlie's arm and escorted him from the rear of the elevator out onto the floor. Crossing the lobby, they ended up in a small alcove where service flyers and brochures were posted. Few people were about to take any interest but the darkness outside, sterile atmosphere and blighted scent of hospital depressed Charlie all the more.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said, averting his eyes, back against the wall. "I'll get my act together." He sucked back a breath, dabbed his tears and nose with his sleeves. "I don't want Dad to see me like this again. He can't take it."
Don squeezed his shoulder. "There'll be extra help at the house, additional lookouts. You'll be safe this time around."
"There's no such thing as safe."
"In my ballpark there is," Don said. "It's been a long twenty-four hours, try not to think about it too much." He hooked a hand gently onto Charlie's neck. "You're shook up, we all need sleep. Think relaxed, okay?"
Charlie nodded over and over, promising himself his knees wouldn't give out.
"Don't dwell on it, you can't let your…" A woman passed, pushing a man in a wheelchair, and Don paused until they'd gone by. "Things will look better in the morning." He glanced around, holding him by the shoulders. "Ready?"
Bracing himself, Charlie stepped from the alcove and headed towards the waiting room. "I'm going," he said, sniffling. "I'm going."
Don turned him around. "It's this way, buddy"
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Charlie found his father nodding off next to a magazine rack, a sweater thrown over his chest and arms. He seemed ten years older. David, who was ambling back and forth on the phone, waved at them as they entered and hung up.
"Dad?" Charlie sat next to him, Don on the other side. "We're done, it's time to go."
Alan's eyes popped open; he was startled.
"It's okay, Dad, just us," Don said.
He sat up, scrunched the sweater. "Finished?"
"Seven stitches." Charlie pictured the excavation, the hurried staff. "No problem. The bleeding slowed up."
"Seven?" Alan said. "I thought it'd be a dozen."
Charlie blinked hard, cleared a clinging drop from an eyelash. "Guess I was fortunate."
"He'll have a scar and a story to go with it," Don said, motioning to David. "Let's get out of here. I can think of a million other places I'd rather be about now."
Before leaving the hospital, Don asked Charlie and Alan if they preferred to go to a hotel for the remainder of the night, maybe even a couple of days. They considered it and decided a strange place would be more taxing than returning home and that the probability of another unpleasant visitor dropping by was slim.
Alan was physically spent so David drove. Once there, Don consulted with Megan before she left the premises for the night. Although he had a headache from the blow he'd received, he insisted he was no longer dizzy and that his vision was fine. With that, he and David left together for the police station, leaving behind three look-outs to monitor the house including one near the front door in place of Sam whom Don insisted be removed from the case for chatting on a cell phone with his girlfriend while on duty.
Too exhausted to talk, Charlie and Alan settled in, cloistered together downstairs: Charlie on the sofa, Alan in a chair with his feet up, too wound up to go to their own beds. The last hours until Monday morning sunrise were spent tossing and turning, peaceful slumber still elusive. But dawn came, arriving with a good sign, a welcome sigh: Charlie felt cool. After five days, the fever had broken. Perhaps today he'd begin to feel his better self. Mercifully, the crying jag from the night before had shaved off a sliver of the shock he'd felt in the aftermath of the assault…or was it the promising morning light which had him breathing a little easier?
On the sofa, he shifted from side to back and pain skipped through to the front. His injury was minor, still aggravating. The chair where his father had been trying to rest was empty. Alan had retreated to his own room in the wee hours, bent and stiff from the rigid position he'd lain in. He'd asked Charlie if he'd be okay alone and Charlie had remembered the lookouts, accepted that they were enough. Their odds had improved.
Larry. He hadn't had a chance to call him and picked up his phone. The physicist was just up, getting ready for work. Charlie warned him not to panic if he heard anything on the news or through the grapevine about the break-in, that everyone was all right. Larry was incredulous, said he'd be over immediately. Charlie begged off, told him to please come in the afternoon, that he wasn't up to visitors, wanted to take an indefinite nap. Larry obliged, said he'd call him at noon, see how he was doing.
After hanging up, he thought about Jacobi—hadn't she been scarce lately. She had something to do with all of this. She'd seemed innocent enough, but the intruder gave her away by mentioning her name. She had secrets. He remembered her at his bedside when he'd had the mom dream, the way she'd nonchalantly caressed her fingers over his as she spoke. Perfect. Exquisitely perfect. I fell for the tears, the cat, the Canon in D. And the chocolate pumpkins, confiscated by police, which would nevermore be eaten.
Don called, checking in on them. He said the intruder had refused to talk to the police initially, but had begun to spill the garbanzos as the interrogators wore him out. I'll call back, he said, David's dropping me off at home in a couple of hours so I can clean up, get some sleep.
Charlie got up, stretched carefully. His muscles were sore; he wasn't used to tussling with bad guys, and peered outdoors, scrutinizing the area. One of the lookout cars was parked across the street and he could hear the piercing calls of Mrs. Lenns' Lovebirds. Famished, he had a powerful craving for the sweetest cereal in their pantry and headed to the kitchen, ate a bowl then went upstairs to Don's bed—because just looking at his own was enough to make him jumpier—and tossed and turned for an hour or two.
It wasn't working; his whole sleep cycle had been disrupted and there was too much on his mind. He was anxious to hear what Don had to tell him about the intruder, to find out if this man was the same one who'd brought mischief upon the house, or if Jacobi had been the culprit, or both. If any portion of the mystery could be solved today, then Thank God, it would be over, and he wouldn't have to be afraid any longer on Jacobi's account or the intruder's. Other matters, like Reylott sightings, he'd still have to contend with.
Unintentionally, he wandered into a memory, knew it intimately but pushed away the guilt. Even if they discovered that last night's intruder was responsible for everything, it wouldn't change the fact that Charlie Eppes had killed Reylott, and the nightmares would probably continue, perhaps get worse. But he couldn't imagine it worse, didn't want to.
To escape the worry, he decided to organize overdue e-mail correspondence and pay past due bills. Taking a quick scan of the area first, he sneaked into his study to the couch, feeling drained as though more than a few minutes of work would wear him out, but he pressed on anyway. After accessing his bank accounts and reading them over, he nearly fainted, taking second and third looks at the totals. They were thousands short.
The phone rang and he answered it, befuddled, thinking there must be some mistake; it's someone else's account, a computer glitch.
Don was on the line from his apartment, speaking fitfully. "It's trashed," he said. "I got home awhile ago and somebody's ransacked it."
"What?"
"Charlie, you listening?" he said. "The police are here. I came to wash up and rest and found my place burglarized."
He absorbed merely a fraction of the tale as Don described the vandalism: furniture slashed, detergents scattered, fridge and cupboards wide open, food and liquids dumped to the floor, dishes smashed on the carpet to minimize noise, stains everywhere, bedroom ripped by knife, clothing covered with various caustic liquids and in addition, computer, camera, jewelry and other valuables stolen.
"I'll be over as soon as I can," he said. "I got a lot to tell you. Charlie, you there?"
"Don, put a hold on your funds." He swallowed the lump lodged in his neck. "I think they might've stolen more than your camera."
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