Chapter Eighteen: On Your Honor

---1---

While Don stayed below, Charlie climbed towards the cave, taking regular breaks, wondering if the tingling throb around his stitches would allow him to reach the top before dark. When he made it to the base of the outcropping, he looked down at Don and waved, breathless and thirsty, wondering what he was doing up here again. Only a crazy man would do this. I am, I am.

"Take it to hell!" Don said, and he punched a fist in the air, his cheers echoing against the rock face.

Charlie watched him retreat, getting smaller, dipping into the groves, and squelched the urge to call him back. As soon as he was out of sight, the Trinity invaded, advancing fully armed. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. Taking out his earphones and player, he tried sensory-pounding music to chase the Trinity away but the noise severed him from both his sense of place and the sounds of the forest and he ended up feeling as though someone would sneak up and tear his head from his body. He snatched the earphones off, stuffed them back into his pack. After a few minutes to collect himself, he pushed on and ascended the boulders, carefully setting his footholds into the crevices and cracks.

Perspiring, he came round the other side and sat down outside the threshold of the cave on a circle of patchy grass. Immediately, his reserves began to falter and he relied on the usual procedures: Hand over mouth, count, count—but from where he'd come to rest—enclosed in the center of overlapping boulders—claustrophobia set in and the idea of sunset terrified him. The command was forceful and clear: Move! and he jumped up, winced and scolded himself for not being smarter about his side, then clambered back over the rocks, lowering himself to the earth, and started down. I can't do this. I haven't conquered my bedroom and I think I can conquer this? The trees below seemed to dance and after descending about twenty feet, he felt light-headed and fell to the earth, hugged a young pine tree, hoping it would somehow ground him to reality, stem the spiral of ominous thoughts. Unlike his conflicted mind, the tree neither battled with itself nor had it split its being in two; it existed as one with the life around it. He closed his eyes momentarily, pressed his face to the bark, then pulled out his cell phone, brought up Don's number.

What's the worst that can happen? I pass out from over-breathing, come to feeling like a goofball. Or a bear will eat me for dinner, whichever comes first.

I can't go back without doing this. It's one night. Go into the cave. It's your choice today—no blindfold, no cuffs, no spiked water, no gun at your back. Don't let the Reylotts win. Jacobi—you betrayed my trust. From now on, I'll strictly date women who let me do the serenading. Money won't get you what you really need; you'll always be a servant to your greed and vengeance.

Don—you're not super human, why have I been so desperate, imagining you should be? You said you'd have to help yourself before you could help me. I've been entangled in my own head, sick to boot, and didn't think you might need my help. Just like Dad, Mom would've wanted us to be patient with each another.

No backing down. Or the blood will keep splattering, the nightmares go on. Trust myself. No such things as omens. Soothe the mind; resume operations. Make me normal, cared for. Don't abandon yourself. Until you do something to an object it won't move. Juice. I grew up beautifully. Try my molehill…excruciating.

Won't chicken out in Charlieland. He sent the call through.

"Phones already?" Don said. "How's the cave?"

"Cave's a cave. I—"

"You aren't in the cave are you?"

"It's not going anywhere and that's not why I called," he said, peeling a dab of sap off his ear. "I called to let you know you're going to sleep great tonight. And when we get home, everything's going to work out on your job."

"You sound a little shaky."

"Damn it, never mind that."

"I hear you, Charlie. Same to you. Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said. "See you in the morning."

---2---

In Charlie's book, there was no blackness as black as that in a cave: the ground cold and steely, isolation like a grave. After Reylott deserted him, he'd trembled, virtually blind, restrained like the prisoner in Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum—minus the gnawing rats—terrified he'd slowly starve, skeletonized before he could be rescued, not knowing if his abductor would return to finish him off. He'd jerked hysterically at the pitons, skin crawling, heard dripping water, skittering stones and screeches from outside; wind and a whirring noise he'd never identified. It'd been a blessing the water was drugged and eventually put him to sleep. Once unconscious, he'd been released from the horror. But it had scarred him nonetheless. He'd brought the blackness home with him.

Sunset. He returned to the cave entrance, regretting the energy he'd wasted on the temporary retreat, and took out his flashlight, pitched his pack through the threshold. He had no choice but to stay now; his side couldn't take more of this, a stitch could bust. He unbuckled his belt and scrunched down the waistband, saw that the sticky bandage had slid down, half stuck to the wound, and his clothing had rubbed against it, made it tender and red. After readjusting the tape, he took a deep breath, stuck a leg into the cave and crouched to clear his head. His movements reverberated, amplified by the enclosure, and his vision began to adjust to the dimness. I wish I had my bat.

Why am I dragging myself through this? Is it any wiser to confront this by force rather than stay home and take care of it through Dr. Volkov, gently progressing? Rationalizing, I'm rationalizing and doing an inadequate job. Get it in perspective, Eppes. You're here already, aren't you? And something tells me this may not be the "right" or perfect thing to do—someone like Volkov wouldn't appreciate the sink-or-swim approach—but today, for me, it's the right…well, it's what I'm going to do.

The cave appeared unchanged, yet seemed to be waiting for him. Nothing to indicate anyone had been there before. Same light from the dayhole, about twenty feet in, growing weaker. Where to spend the night? Where I was previously imprisoned. Stick it to Reylott, get it done. In your face to a very likely dead man.

Securing his backpack, he inhaled stiffly and inched forward. The ceiling dipped and he bowed up and down, bumping his head twice, and reached the dayhole. The sole sounds were water drips and loose stones scratching over the dirt layer every time he accidentally booted them about. He peeked upwards, into the dayhole's vertical tunnel. It was beautiful; the light stole in, pure and angelic, caressed the floor at his feet.

Ahead, he observed the large mini-outcropping where he'd been chained and set his pack down under the dayhole, turned on his flashlight. The area where he'd lain didn't look so menacing now: Two holes in the wall where the pitons had been staked, everything else collected as evidence. Only gravel and stones remained.

In the corner where he'd trembled, he spread out his sleeping bag in case he managed to fall asleep. He remembered being worried sick about Don—if Reylott intended to hurt or kill him. And he'd been correct; Don had been hurt. What he hadn't expected was that afterwards, the hurt would go on indefinitely.

The last light diminished, temperature dipping. He hadn't brought a lamp, only spare batteries, and the flashlight would remain on despite his on your honor to Don. Charlie couldn't see doing without it at this juncture. He was apprehensive, lonely.

He brought out his blanket, pulled it taut round his body and crept to the rear of the cave to examine the place where he and Don had sought escape from Reylott, recalling the sniper fire, Don's fall and the ubiquitous mud, the trek through the cave and gun later lost in the tumble over the ravine.

I killed a man. He shook his head. Unbelievable. I wasn't bred, reared or educated for such an act. I'm a mathematician, for Pete's sake. If there'd been another way…tell me it'll be over someday, Dad.

I promise, it will be.

Charlie made a promise to himself: there would be a conclusion to this adventure, a satisfactory one. If not tomorrow morning, he'd absolutely make it happen before the Reylotts could wrench away anymore of his precious life—and Don's and their father's. All would be restored in Charlieland.

At the opening, he refueled, sitting and listening to the flutter and chirps of the night fowl, squeaks of nocturnal rodents and rustling branches, his flashlight propped beside him. Moonlight was hours away when the Earth's friendly, waxing satellite would rise nearer to sunrise than nighttime, too late to be of service.

He rewrapped the blanket closely round his shoulders, decided the threshold would do to sleep by and got comfortable. He flicked off the flashlight but couldn't bear it and flicked it back on. His heart thumped like a kettle drum to imagine the depths of darkness, the unknown. This is going to be a long night.

His thoughts were a whirlwind. Control them, Charlie, and you'll control your reactions. But they're in there. Who? A collection of illusions. A Tortuous Trinity without teeth. I'm the wild animal, the one with pointy teeth. When I bite, I won't let go.

He mustered up courage and rose, returned to the mini-outcrop within the cave and settled in the corner, light on and sitting up, tempted to call someone, to hear a human being. Don wouldn't know. Instead, he spoke out loud, surprised to hear how tangible his voice became as it bounced and boomed off the walls. It suited him. For days he'd felt powerless and he loved hearing its unmistakable impact on the environment.

"Hello," he said, the sound resonating. "I'm Dr. Charlie Eppes." He waited. It seemed the polite thing to do for the sake of the natural world which had received him as guest. Does it mind if I toss dirty laundry out in its home? he thought, and continued, growing accustomed to the echo.

"I'm not afraid of you Reylott, or your ghost or your kooky sister, or the demon bed, or those worthless nightmares that mess up my brain efficiency when I need it most. I don't deserve to be treated this way. I'm a good person. I care about others. I lost Mom and Dad lives with me because I want him to and I have a brother who's in the same boat as I am but damn it, we're tough and we're going to win big time tonight, together or apart. Armen Reylott, you gave me no choice. I did what I had to do to save me and Don. I'd do it again if I had to. It's your fault you're dead. You killed yourself, jerk." He sat forward, shaking his fists at the Trinity. "Screw you!"

By the end of his speech, Charlie was laughing and misty-eyed, feeling as though he'd broken through a barrier and begun to exorcise the burdens relentlessly heaped upon him for weeks. Don, you don't have to walk me through it; I can go it on my own, sort of.

When he calmed down, the silence resumed, his spirit consoled. The natural world, the cave itself, seemed to understand, to grant him empathy, unconditionally drawing him in to share its wholeness. Drowsy, his muscles sore from the climb, he dozed and somewhere in the night lay down and turned off the light, then turned it on again, then off, as it was neither a complete serenity nor an instantaneous one. The Tortuous Trinity did not give up without a fight. Yet, he found solace in a newborn conviction and by the faintest, earliest light, he slept soundly knowing sunrise would soon supplant the indefinite dawn. He awoke dazed but encouraged, recalling how Don had been the first thing he'd seen when he was last here, reunited after the harrowing night. We survived, that's what's important. He grabbed his ringing cell phone.

Don seemed upbeat. "Charlie, my man, ready for breakfast?"

He cleared his throat. "How'd you do?"

"Cinch," he said. "I'll be waiting. You good?"

"It's a nice place to visit…"

"Don't sweat it, you don't have to live there," he said. "I knew you could do it."

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