Chapter 10

The movie was a comedy — Don was damned if he was going to take Charlie to a drama, right now — and he actually heard his brother laugh, once. Don considered the outing a success, even though he had gotten called to work right after the movie ended, and he wasn't able to really talk to Charlie. In fact, it was several days before they connected again, and then in was through Colby.

Leaving the conference room after a team briefing, he looked at Don. "Hey, I had lunch with Charlie, today."

"Really? How'd that happen?"

"He called, this morning. I thought he was looking for you, that you'd decided to bring him in on this one, but he just asked if I could meet him for lunch. Well, he asked David, too, but he didn't make it back from Century City in time."

That was odd. "Just lunch?"

"Yeah. I thought maybe he had an agenda or something, but he said he was just thinking about stuff. That's his word: 'stuff'. It was kind-of nice, I haven't seen the Whiz Kid lately." Colby broke off for his desk. "Looks pretty skinny, but he packed that lunch somewhere!"

Don felt Megan's hand on his arm. "Don, can I talk to you back in the conference room?"

He followed her back in and waited for her to speak. "Didn't you tell me that Charlie tried to give you his fishing pole last weekend?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Does he talk about being…worthless, or…"

"'Trouble.' He keeps apologizing for being so much trouble. But he seemed to have a good time at the movie…"

"Sad for weeks, suddenly happier. Unusual visits with people."

"You mean lunch with Colby. That is pretty unusual. For anybody."

Megan looked at him. "Don, I'm concerned. I think you need to talk to your father, and both of you need to talk to Charlie. Soon."

He frowned. "Why?"

"I'm not a psychologist, you know that, but my undergraduate concentration was in that field. And I volunteer."

Don waited.

She took a breath. "At a suicide hotline."

Don took a step back. "No. He's getting better. He's just having a rough time."

Megan touched his arm again. "Don…I hope I'm wrong. But from what you've told me, he's clinically depressed. You all need to deal with that, even if it hasn't gone this far, yet."

She let her voice become quiet. "I really hope I'm wrong. But is that a chance you want to take?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "You're right about talking to Dad, at least, about all of us talking together. I'll go tonight."

Megan smiled. "I'll go with you, if you think having a non-family member, but someone he knows, might make Charlie feel less threatened. To arbitrate."

"Maybe. I never really know with Charlie, especially these days." He imagined the conversation. "Yeah, actually, I think that might be a good idea. Thanks, Megan." They left the conference room again, and Don headed for the phone to call his father.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He saw the questions in his father's eyes that evening as he greeted Megan. "I'm always happy to see you, Megan. I would have made dinner, but Don said that we'd just order pizza? That you'd like to speak with us?"

Don led them through the kitchen into the dining room. "Is Charlie home?"

"He's upstairs. Got home about an hour ago from Cal Sci, said he was tired and was getting a headache. Again." Alan sighed, sat at the table with his son and Megan. "He stopped in the solarium to get something he left there last night, and then went up to his room." He started to stand. "Should I get him?"

"Not just yet, Mr. Eppes." She smiled when he held up a hand. "Alan. I think the three of us need to talk first." …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed, what he had retrieved from the solarium lying in front of him.

It had been easy, taking the picture off the wall, working the combination to the wall safe from memory.

He knew it was loaded, and he knew it worked. When he moved back from Albuquerque, Don had insisted they needed it, had bought it himself and put it in the safe. He took it to the range at least once a year, cleaning it afterwards, quizzing Alan and Charlie to make sure they knew how to use it. He hoped Don didn't feel too badly about that, later. At least he thought it was hope. He didn't really recognize that emotion, anymore.

He knew he should leave some kind of note. He had been trying for days to write one. But he was so tired, and nothing he wrote made any sense. He had finally settled for scribbled pencil on graph paper. He leaned over to place the two-word note on the end of the bed: "I'm sorry".

On the way back up, his hand brushed over the cold steel. It almost made him feel, again.

He had thought about how to do it. He knew the gun should go in his mouth, and he had decided it should point up, toward the roof of his mouth, so that the bullet would blow his brain out the top of his head. He had read about people who pointed the gun backwards, toward their necks, and sometimes that didn't work. If the aim was off, they didn't do enough damage to die. Just enough to lie in one place forever.

He picked it up, then, in both hands.

He opened his mouth.

This was awkward. Either his mouth wasn't big enough, or guns weren't supposed to point this way.

He took it out of his mouth, wiped the saliva from the barrel, then turned it so that he was looking straight into it. He could always place it directly on his forehead. He placed a finger on the trigger, to see what it felt like. Hesitated.

Maybe.

Maybe he didn't have to do it this way.

Maybe he didn't have to do it today.

Maybe there was some other answer. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I'll go up and get him," Don said. When he had heard Megan explain it all to his father, he had known that he had let this go too long. Even if Charlie hated him afterwards, they needed to talk to him, encourage him to get some help.

He mounted the stairs and stopped at his brother's door. It was closed, but not completely latched. When he knocked, it swung open.

He saw his brother on the bed, holding the gun, and he heard his own voice echoing. "CHARLIE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" He started to move across the room, but even as he did he saw his brother start, frightened out of his reverie by Don's voice. Charlie's head turned instinctively toward the sound even while the rest of his body jerked and convulsed in reaction.

With his finger on the trigger, his hands coiled.

With the gun pointing at him, his fingers spasmed.

With his mouth opening to say his brother's name, the explosion rocked the bed. The blood spattered on the wall behind him.