Delirious (15 page)

For an instant Charlie was the younger brother again. Joe wasn’t sick at all. They were back in high school. Charlie wanted something
from Joe, and Joe had a reason why Charlie couldn’t have it. It was as simple as that.
Score one for the big brother,
Charlie thought.

“Sure, Joe. I understand. Listen, I’m going to go out for a while. Get some air. I’ll be back a little after midnight. You’re an adult. Do what you want. Play as loud as you want. Go to bed when you want. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Joe gave him a mock salute good-bye. Charlie left the room. Monte stayed behind.

“Come on, boy,” Charlie said.

Monte looked up, cocked his head slightly, and went back to sniffing around the room.

“He can stay,” Joe said.

“Suit yourself,” Charlie replied, more to Monte than to Joe. He closed the door behind him and never felt more alone.

Two brothers,
Charlie thought.
Both desperate to stay out of our own heads because of the stress. Both afraid of what we might do if we can’t.
In that instant Charlie understood his brother better than he ever had. And that scared him the most.

The day had caught up with Charlie. He felt exhausted and drained of life. With Joe’s playing and what soon would be some obnoxious TV show blaring in the living room, the house could offer him no solace. Maybe he’d get a beer at Chaps. Perhaps even call Randal, see if he’d want to meet up. Heading to the bathroom in his mother’s room on the second floor, Charlie turned on the shower and let the warm water wash over his body. For a few blessed moments Charlie found some peace. The rushing water drowned out all sound, including Joe.

He dressed quickly. Charlie descended the stairs to get his jacket without saying a word to Joe, whom he once again heard banging away on his drums. Passing the closet at the foot of the stairwell, he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on. He jiggled the jacket, hearing the familiar rattle of keys in the front right pocket.

Walking past the archway opening to the dining room, Charlie peered to his right and froze. His laptop shone in the darkened room. The white page of a Word document glowing like the beacon of a lighthouse.

“Hadn’t I closed my résumé?” Charlie said it aloud as he walked
into the dining room. He stared at his computer, confused that some document other than his résumé was open. It was a single line of text that read:
Don’t forget to check under the sofa.

Charlie’s pulse quickened. He scanned the room, looking for any signs of an intruder, someone who might have entered the house while he was upstairs. Except for Joe’s drumming, the house was silent. Charlie darted in and out of the lower-level rooms, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes wide with adrenaline. He was satisfied no one else was in the house only after several minutes of exhaustive searching. He’d even checked the closets.

Walking back into the living room, Charlie stared at the sofa, which had somehow turned menacing, even with its faded floral pattern. His suitcase was where he had left it. Nothing seemed disturbed or out of place. He slowly knelt to his knees, then lowered himself flat onto his torso. He lifted the upholstered fabric covering the front rail and peered into the dark underside of the sofa. He hesitated before reaching his hand into the blackness. His eyes, adjusting to the dark, made out a rectangular shape on the floor. It was flat and clearly distinguishable from the floor itself. Charlie’s outstretched fingers felt for the edges of what he presumed to be an envelope of some sort.

It made a scratching sound as he pulled it across the wood floor with the tips of his fingers. His mother would have vacuumed under the sofa, but dust had gathered in her absence and some particle remnants escaped in a loose cloud as he slid out the manila-colored clasp envelope from underneath. Standing up, Charlie stared at it, the clasp still closed, the envelope free of dust, as though it had been placed there recently.

Charlie unhinged the flimsy metal clasp and opened the envelope. Half-expecting some powder to come shooting out at him, Charlie was momentarily relieved to see only a single sheet of paper within. Peering inside, aided by the dim light from the living-room lamp, Charlie could see something written on the paper.

He took out the document and held it up toward the light. His stomach lurched and he nearly lost his balance as he read. Steadying himself against the arm of the sofa, Charlie read it again, several times, but still couldn’t believe it.

“It’s impossible,” Charlie said aloud, slipping the paper back into the envelope. “I didn’t write this. I couldn’t have.”

But a seed of doubt planted days earlier was growing into a forest. These were the people who’d thrown him out of SoluCent. Charlie was the only one who knew their names. He hadn’t even shared that information with Randal. Perhaps a former coworker had put the envelope there as a joke—guessing that Mac and Yardley would have been involved in his firing. He checked to make certain the front and back doors were locked. They were, and he saw nothing to suggest a forced entry. Someone had put the envelope under the sofa recently, and the Word document telling him where to look hadn’t been there when he went up to berate Joe for his playing.

“Nothing makes sense. It doesn’t make sense,” Charlie said. “I wouldn’t kill anybody. No matter what they did to me. These people don’t deserve to die. I wouldn’t do that.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Then it came to him. He reddened with anger. There was only one possible explanation. Clutching the envelope in his hands, Charlie bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and came to a stop outside Joe’s closed practice studio door.

“I was in the shower,” Charlie muttered, breathless. “This envelope was put under the sofa not long ago. There wasn’t any dust on it. That can only mean one thing.”

Charlie recalled the e-mail he’d written to Mac earlier that evening. In it he’d mentioned both Yardley and Gomes. Joe could have easily checked the sent mail in his Gmail account. The Web browser with his e-mail account had still been open when Charlie went into dining room, and the computer had been connected to the Internet. Joe knew that something was wrong at work. But all Charlie had told him was that he was taking some time off—nothing
more. Joe could have been snooping around in his e-mail. He must have seen the message I sent to Mac, Charlie thought. Then he wrote this kill list, put it in an envelope, and slipped it under the sofa. Charlie didn’t understand why Joe would do it. But he was about to find out.

C
harlie opened the door to Joe’s practice studio with enough force to leave a black mark where the knob connected with the wall. The noise startled Joe, who was seated on his drum stool, putting his drumsticks back in the box on the floor. Monte jumped, too, and then barked.

“Is it nine fifty-five yet?” Joe asked with a wide grin.

“Why, Joe? Why did you do this?” Charlie shouted.

The anger and force of his voice was enough to startle Monte and send him bounding down the stairs, probably back to the window to pine for his beloved Maxine. The color drained completely from Joe’s face. His was the look of a child, scolded but unaware of the offense.

“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You seem angry.”

“That’s because I am angry, Joe. This is really sick and twisted, you know that?” Charlie waved the envelope in front of him like a flag.

“I don’t know what that is,” Joe said.

“Don’t play me like that, Joe,” Charlie countered. “I’m in the shower, and you decide to play a little joke on me. Why? Was it because of Rachel? Because I went to see her?”

“You actually went to see Dr. Evans?” Joe asked. “Why?”

“Why do you think? Because I don’t want to be a nut job like you or Dad. So tell me, is that what this is all about? Are you trying to make me into one?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Joe screamed the words with shocking intensity. His voice echoed throughout the room and seemed to hang in the air with the foreboding of a storm cloud.
Charlie could now see that Joe was being pushed beyond his ability to control the stress.

“I’m talking about opening up a Word document on my laptop, printing out a list of names, and then slipping this envelope under the sofa. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Joe shouted even louder. “I don’t know what that is! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“That’s a lie, Joe, and you know it. Just admit what you’ve done and apologize.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Joe said, softly this time.

Charlie’s mind flashed with images of Anne Pedersen and Jerry Schmidt. Of Gomes, Yardley, and Mac, seated around Mac’s table, accusing him. He pictured Harry Wessner and the rest of the Magellan Team. Everything flooded him at once. But the most upsetting thought of all, though, a thought to which he couldn’t bear to give credence, was that Joe was actually telling the truth. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow it to be.

“Admit it now!” Charlie demanded.

Joe shook his head in denial. Charlie knew of only one way to get him to confess, and it sickened him to use it.

“Oh, just you wait until I tell Mom what you did. She’s going to be very upset and disappointed with you.”

“Stop it,” Joe demanded.

“Maybe she won’t even wake up unless you tell the truth, Joe. Tell me the truth, dammit! You put this envelope under the sofa.”

Joe’s face turned crimson. “Don’t you say that. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do
anything
!”

Click.

Charlie saw something shift in Joe’s eyes, as though an imaginary sequence of switches were being turned on. The result, he knew, had the potential to be disastrous. He knew he needed to stop pushing, to keep those switches in their safe “off” position, but he couldn’t.

“Forget about me. Don’t lie to Mom, Joe.”

Click. Click. Click.

The switches of Joe’s mind were dusty and cobwebbed from having been unused for so long. Joe’s treatment at Walderman had implanted some sort of mental lockbox over them, one of the many tools he’d been given that helped to keep his emotions balanced and
his anger in check. Now Charlie was picking at the lock. Prying open the rusty door to that lockbox. Flicking his switches on, one by one, mindless of the consequences.

“Keep her out of this,” Joe growled.

“She’d want you to admit you’re lying….”

C-l-i-c-k.

Joe sprang. He leapt over the drum set and bounded for Charlie with outstretched arms.

“Give me that! I’ll rip it up! I’ll tear it apart! Give it to me now!”

Charging at him like a crazed rhino, Joe rammed full force into Charlie, pushing his brother backward. Charlie, stunned by the impact, landed painfully against the doorjamb, letting out a cry of equal parts surprise and pain. The envelope dropped from Charlie’s hand and floated silently to the floor.

Trying to counter, Charlie pressed his heels into the floorboards and drove the weight of his body into Joe. The move left Charlie off balance, though still standing. Sensing the advantage, Joe threw his massive weight hard left this time, keeping a firm grasp on Charlie’s jacket collar, and in one motion tossed Charlie sideways, as though he were throwing a pillow across the room. Legs and arms flailing, Charlie landed hard into a standing cymbal, knocking it over with a loud crash. The impact expunged all air from Charlie’s lungs, as though sucking it out with a vacuum, leaving him gasping madly for breath. Startled by the noise, Monte raced up the stairs and stood in the doorway, barking loudly but not daring to step inside.

Charlie had done it. All switches were on. Joe was no longer home, and he was the last person anyone wanted to fight when he was out of control. History had proved that. Joe couldn’t and wouldn’t stop. With Charlie winded, Joe climbed on top of his brother, pressing both knees mercilessly against his sternum. What little air Charlie could take in was now constricted by his brother’s weight.

“I didn’t do anything. Take back what you said about Mom!” Joe shouted, covering Charlie’s face with spit. He slapped at Charlie’s cheeks with alternating blows, each time demanding a retraction.

“Joe … please …” Charlie could barely speak the words. His vision began to go dark. “I’m sorry … I believe you….”

The first time Charlie experienced one of Joe’s rages, he was eight and his brother thirteen. It was the year Joe was diagnosed with
epilepsy, and his doctors linked his hulklike tantrums to the condition. Treating the seizures put a stop to Joe’s dangerous and terrifying rages.

When fate dealt Joe another blow years later, and he was diagnosed this time with schizophrenia shortly after his twentieth birthday, Charlie thought his rages would return. But they didn’t. Joe had some lingering anger management issues, compounded by his paranoia, but it was nothing close to the brutal ferocity displayed when Joe angered during one of his seizures. Joe hadn’t had a seizure since his seventeenth birthday, and Charlie prayed he wasn’t having one right now. If he was, Charlie had every reason to believe his life was in danger.

“I believe you, Joe,” Charlie said again. “I’m sorry for accusing you.”

The pressure on Charlie’s arms lessened. Joe stopped swinging his fists and peered down at Charlie’s bloodied and already swelling face. Tears flooded Joe’s eyes. He stood up, then bent over to extend a hand to Charlie.

Click.

Something in Joe’s eyes changed. Realization? Switches were turning off in his mind.

“I believe you … please …”

Joe got off of him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry,” Joe cried.

Charlie rubbed at his neck and shook his head from side to side, hoping to clear his vision. He was battered and bruised, but he’d live.

“It’s okay. It’s all right, Joe,” Charlie said. “It was my fault. I asked for it. I came after you.”