Chapter Nineteen: The Tests
---1---
Charlie marched back to the cabin with a bounce in his step, feeling he'd won a battle, banished the Trinity. Even his side didn't seem to bother him as much. The entire night the cave had sheltered him— cocooned within its belly—and he came to realize that the danger had never resided in the cave or the darkness, but in Reylott's savage mind.
On the way, he passed a now familiar grouping of fir trees with thick underbrush and further down, an isolated four-meter stump which had been struck by lightning, splintering and scorching the top part into oblivion. Nearing the cabin, he signaled to Don and walked over whirling trails of sunflower seed shells scattered about the clearing as though Don had been pacing and munching at the same time—and in the shadows yet. It made him doubt whether Don's night had actually been such a cinch.
Don came round the front of the cabin and greeted him with a pat on the shoulder, asked if the stitches had held up all the way up and down the mountain. Although Charlie assured him they'd survived intact, Don wanted to take a look and Charlie relaxed while he disinfected the area and replaced the bandage, padding on extra gauze.
"That should protect it," he said, lining up the last strip of tape. "It's a little irritated."
After the doctoring and a bite to eat, they backtracked to the river to spend a second night. There, Don contacted their father mid-afternoon, told him everything was fine. As he listened, Charlie waded into the murmuring current just off the riverbank and studied the teal green river rocks below; they'd been there for centuries and seemed to be sending him a message: the past is past; it's time to move on.
Don finished his call, knelt by the dry border of the bank. "How'd you do last night?"
The water was chilly and Charlie stepped onto two flat stones, his toes numbed. "I came to terms with a few things."
"Like?"
"Reylott. His death. I accept it. I killed a man, but he brought it on himself. I'm not to blame."
The current lapped over Don's knuckles. "Huge step, Charlie."
"You get the old Don back last night?"
He swirled the sand, created an underwater cloud. "Not sure."
Charlie said, "You were a little restless."
"I'll own up, was kind of creepy. I hung out on the deck, then had to move, ended up about fifteen feet out. Close enough. I was beat but couldn't get to sleep. Up and down all night. I wanted to check on you, too."
On the river bottom, Fool's Gold coruscated delicately and Charlie admired its shine. "Think you're over fires?"
"I really don't know."
"Wish there was some way we could…" Charlie got up, the memory of the stump he'd passed painted on his mind. It'd been set ablaze by lightning, but the fire hadn't spread. It'd been naturally self-contained because there were few trees surrounding it. "I have an idea. A test."
"Oh boy, leave it to a mathematician to deploy a test."
"Why don't we build a bonfire?" Charlie said, jumping back to the bank.
"Charlie, we have a wilderness permit and a campfire permit. I don't think they issue bonfire permits."
"Nevertheless, this is an enormous forest, and this will be a substantial feat. We go back to the cabin, clear a fire ring, stones all around, safe distance from the branches, all that stuff, and gather up twigs, leaves and voila—bonfire!"
"I don't think that's legal."
"You're such an FBI agent." Charlie shook sand out of his socks and boots. "Look, it'll be somewhere between a campfire and a bonfire, not a full-sized bonfire."
Don had splashed water on his face and droplets sparkled along his hairline. "Why do we need a fire?"
"Question is, why do you need a fire?"
"I don't need a fire," he said, "but you need a nice long rest."
"Incorrect—you do need one, you have to build it yourself." His sock had unraveled and he folded it over to cover the hole. "Until your heart's so hyped you'll have to run faster just to slow it down."
"They'll spot it."
"They didn't spot a blazing blaze in the middle of the night, why this puny one? Odds are, no one will see it."
Don was selecting flat rocks from the riverbank. "What good would it do?"
"It's a power thing. The dark had power over me, so I slept in it."
"You want me to sleep in a fire?" he said, casting out a rock. It skipped three times, creating swells of interlocking ripples.
"Incorrect again." Charlie tugged on a boot. "I took charge. You need to take charge, too. Become the builder of the fire, the fire master, not the slave."
Don said, "Makes me nervous just thinking about it."
"It does? What additional proof could you have that this is crucial?"
"We have to be careful." He cast out another rock and it bounced off a boulder.
"Of course," Charlie said. "We won't leave until the ashes are cold to the touch."
"No wind. We can't do it if there's wind."
Charlie licked a finger and stuck it in the air. "No wind," he said, and watched the tree limbs for movement. "Zero breeze."
"All right." Don tossed a final rock; it skipped four times. "It's now or never."
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Like warriors in a tribe of two, they returned to the cabin and chose an area with the fewest overgrown weeds and cleared it, constructing a fire ring about ten feet in diameter with stones, far from the tree line. Afterwards, they gathered twigs, branches and leaves, piling them high, then waited for nightfall. While passing the time, Don re-checked Charlie's injury, told him there was no swelling and Charlie repaid the favor by getting out the first aid kit and putting a fresh bandage on Don's cut.
When it was well into twilight, Charlie handed his brother the matches. "You do the honors," he said.
Don tore out a match and scratched it across the surface tab. It ignited with a miniature burst and he threw it into the leaves where it fizzled out. He removed a second one and crouched down to ensure it would ignite, blowing into the dry pile. It began to thrive, worming through beneath the leafy surface to the other side, the dove-tailed flames meeting in the middle.
Charlie clicked off his flashlight to keep tabs on Don, see what he'd do. The glow had apparently entranced him and he stared into it, guarding the matches in one hand and holding a tall walking stick in the other like a sword. Slowly, he stuffed the matches into his pocket and stoked the fire, gave it oxygen. It expanded, growing taller, over their heads.
"We need more fuel," Don said, which surprised Charlie. He's really getting into this.
Dropping his sword-stick to the ground, Don went to the perimeter and brought back an armful of wood scraps draped across both limbs. He flung them in and the fire soared higher, its flickering light a scherzo of plumes, the brisk incandescence reflected into the foliage and onto the ruins, painting their bodies and faces with its pulsating flow.
"Fantastic," Charlie said. "We've done it." He checked Don's face: The new bandage on his cheek had fallen away with sweat and the wound was exposed, red and scabbed, dirtied with soot. He seemed satisfied—then his pleasurable expression faded.
"More," Don said, and he picked up his sword-stick, speared it into the fire. The heat had increased and Charlie wondered how he could bear to be so close.
Charlie said, "There's a breeze picking up."
Don stopped and scanned the area. "No there isn't."
There wasn't, but Charlie felt the fire was large enough and even he had his limits, hoping he hadn't created a Don the Frankenstein.
At the ruins, Don had ascended the choppy steps, tugging at one of the charred planks in the deck. He broke a few boards out, bundling the black wood with his elbows. Returning, he dropped them by the fire and flung one in. "Come on, try one," he said, grinning.
The fire appeared safe, encircled by the vast clearing, and the spirit of adventure reeled Charlie in. He yielded to the task, snatched a plank and chucked it into the flames, going to the ruins to get additional fuel. There he broke off out a piece and halted mid-pull, feeling a twinge of pain from his side. Trying again, he heard Don howling like a wild animal, a wolf, watched him gleefully weave round the fire, viewing his creation from all angles. He smiled, wondering if the impromptu ceremony would truly release Don from the past.
Clutching the wood, he returned to the fire and hurled short planks into it one by one. It roared and Don expressed his appreciation, calling out with whoops and cheers. Charlie had never seen him excited in quite such a way and he breathed in the aroma of the wood. It smelled grand and favorable like a fresh Christmas tree branch in the fireplace but the unbearable heat kept him several feet away, moving constantly as he joined the celebration, praising their handiwork.
Don yelled freely—unburdened, at least for the night. For the occasion, he'd cast off his self-consciousness and been transformed into the opposite sort of man he was at home: the cool, detached agent. It was odd; Don had unmasked a part of himself he hadn't revealed before in order to regain what he was, to rebuild his identity and reclaim his life, his job, his raison d'etre —everything that had made him the person he was.
"Call me master," Don said, hurling in a leftover branch. "We both are!" And he ran towards his hapless brother, arms opened to enfold him.
Charlie saw him charging and backed away, knowing he would be treated to a powerful, energetic embrace; sure he'd be tackled to the ground. Don hit him running, trapped him in a bear hug and squeezed until Charlie begged off, said he couldn't breathe, expelling a sharp cough when let go.
Don laughed, apologized for maiming the stitches. They turned to the fire and it popped and sizzled, reaffirming their dominance.
"You did it!" Charlie said, arm across his middle. "You built it. We're still here." It didn't kill me, didn't burn you. We're fearless, uncomplicated, wild.
Side by side, they began to sing:
In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight
In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight
Breaking into parts, Charlie let loose a string of a-wee-mah-wahs in the accompaniment that rocked the forest while Don belted out the lead:
Near the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight
Hush my darling, don't fear my darling, the lion sleeps tonight
Then he improvised:
It's my fire, we love our fire, the bad man sleeps tonight
It's not good singing, but Charlie's trying, the lions roar tonight
Charlie watched him play, hoping this would be a kind of catharsis, be enough to heal his pain. It had to help. He pictured their father, thought about what he'd do if he were here with them.
Can you imagine that, Dad? Don called himself a coward...a man who's always been my hero.
I can imagine it, Alan would say; but I'd never believe it.
---2---
They fed the fire, stoking it to a maximum point, as high as they dared, then backing off. Thereafter, it extinguished naturally, leaves and twigs burning first, the planks already half-consumed, reduced to powdery ashes.
But before the fire was out, Don informed Charlie that he'd come up with a test of his own and produced the gun from his backpack. Fire it, he said, up into the sky towards the cliffs, and see if it wins, or you do.
Charlie faltered for a moment, gauging what he wanted to do. "What would it prove?"
"You'll know," Don said. "If I'm right, you've got nothing to prove to anybody, just yourself."
He hesitated, looking back and forth between Don and the gun. Finally, he accepted the weapon and without delay, gripped it in both hands, discharging it once. He flinched, then fired again and flinched a little less. The third time, the flinch was almost imperceptible and he handed it back, shaking.
Don accepted it. "All right?"
"I think…a little nerve-racking," he said. It hadn't been comfortable to hear the gunshots, feel the kicks, the jabs of pain in the palm that came with them, but he'd done it. He'd handled and commanded a gun, pulled the trigger for the first time since Reylott.
In the wee early hours, as Charlie had declared they would do, they waited until the ashes had cooled before leaving the area. Mostly cooled. They'd had to drown it with dirt to be certain there wouldn't be any fiery accidents. Their clothes were blackened with soot and in the morning light, Charlie wiped his face with a shirt whereupon Don told him you'd better wait until you get to the river, because I can't tell where your forehead ends and your hair starts.
They arrived in the city the next night and Don left Charlie off before going home to much needed R&R. On the drive back, they'd learned from Megan that sightings of the phantom Reylott had dried out but authorities persisted in their search for Katherine, AKA Jacobi Genini or Long, and other aliases. They'd lost her trail; there were no leads. They did learn she'd rented a small semi-furnished home near Charlie's which upon inspection provided few clues concerning her habits other than she genuinely liked to bake. Evidently, she hadn't intended to stay long because the fridge was bare and she'd been sleeping on the floor. Her deceased mother, college classes and cat tales had been fictitious.
Charlie told his father he was spent, dumped his pack on the floor and plodded upstairs to wash up. Back in his room, he put the baseball bat into the closet and turned down the covers. My room is a room, not a castle dungeon; my bed is a bed, not a medieval rack.
His father knocked, came in. "Get done what you needed to?"
"Cinch," he said, and lay down. "Good night, Dad."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Alan said, "This is your room, you know, don't you?"
"I do. And—I can say with reasonable certainty—tonight, there will be peace in Charlieland." He flicked off the lamp.
"We'll see." Alan stepped out. "Good night."
Charlie flipped to his good side, called his father back. "Do me a favor," he said. "Turn off the hall light."
---3---
The subsequent week, with Larry acting as unofficial mediator, Charlie mended his working relationships with colleagues and others he'd offended during lapses and errors in the execution of his duties. At his office desk, he sorted through a pile of documents which had accumulated in his absence, prioritizing them into separate stacks. Larry, sitting opposite him, studied the computer schematic of the sundial sphere.
"What do you think?" Charlie said. "Doable?"
"We may have to request the services of an artist. One who welds. I have a friend who loves sculptures and sculpting, an art instructor, who might be able to recommend someone. He may have a student or two who does metalwork."
"I never considered that."
"You've exhibited more phases than the moon recently, Charles, I suppose a detail or two was bound to escape you."
Charlie wadded up a memo and tossed it into the trashcan. Taking a highlighter pen, he marked dates on a stack then paused, tapping the pen on the desk. "I wasn't always polite with you," he said. "I'd like to apologize."
"Although you should give yourself credit," Larry said, "I'm uncertain whether I would've taken the route you chose. Your night in the cave must've been a nail-biting experience."
"There's some things we can't back down from or we end up believing we can't do anything right." Charlie's cell phone rang and he twirled the chair towards the window. "Excuse me," he said, and answered without recognizing the number.
Her voice floated in, excessively sweet. "Finish the chocolates?"
"Jacobi?" I don't believe it. Charlie abruptly motioned to Larry to get his attention, snatching up a pencil. "They weren't very good after all," he said. "I want my money back."
"Wasted every dollar I could," she said. "Still jittery, Charlie?"
He scribbled a note, mouthing a message to Larry at the same time: 555-4947 Call David, get a trace. "They're going to catch you someday, Jacobi…Katherine. Whatever your name is."
She said, "I wanted to let you know I enjoyed seeing you squirm."
Charlie watched Larry dial out on the office phone. He had to keep her on as long as possible. "You're as bad as your brother was."
"And I enjoyed hearing you talk to your mommy." She laughed. "It was touching. A little pathetic, too." She laughed again, scornfully like a mad scientist.
"I'm hanging up," Charlie said. Larry appeared to have had no luck and was redialing.
"No you won't," she said. "Because you're trying to get them to locate me, aren't you? You won't find me. I'll be sailing the oceans."
Charlie sprung up, walked round the room. Keep her talking, he thought "Eventually we will."
Larry had reached someone, speaking in whispers with an eye on Charlie and Charlie's eye on him.
"Until then, I'll be dreaming about you, pretty boy." Her tone changed. "You know, I could've had you in my arms, but I couldn't do it. Every time I thought about Armen, I had to pinch myself to keep from cleaning your clock. Darn it all, if only I'd had the time. Oh well, I had you going, didn't I?"
Charlie's leg bumped the trashcan and it tumbled over. He ignored it. "I never would've slept with you."
"Sure you would've. Your face was like putty after that kiss, I could've shaped it anyway I wanted."
"You're the one that missed out," he said, and mouthed a silent word to Larry, making little hurry-up circles in the air: Well?
"Yeah, Charlie," she said. "You're probably right. I have a feeling you're a girl's best friend in bed."
Larry was holding five fingers up, palm outstretched.
"Is your brother dead?" Charlie said.
"You should know, you shot him," she said, giggling. "I love it, you're not sure! He's coming to get you, lover."
Larry had four fingers up, counting down.
Incite her anger. "He actually believed he was as brilliant as I am."
"You aren't that smart, Eppes."
Larry had three fingers up.
"I've earned degrees to prove it. You have nothing, you're a wanna-be. A disgrace to your son."
"Shut up." Her voice was shrill—Charlie had touched a nerve. "I'm the one who tanked your cash," she said.
Two fingers.
"Not very well done, Jacobi, you're as clumsy as your brother was." But not as ugly.
"We'll continue this some other time, huh?" She seemed to regain control, her tone resweetened. "By the way, your peacock rock? Lovely. I'll treasure it eternally."
Larry had one finger to go.
"See ya' " she said. "I'll catch you on the web."
Charlie added, "You're a lousy flutist," but she disconnected as Larry folded down his last finger. "She hung up. Did they pinpoint her location?"
"Trace was incomplete," Larry said. "There wasn't enough time. They'll follow up on it."
Damn. Charlie plopped into his chair, exasperated. "Heard any good jokes lately?"
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