Delirious (40 page)

Like a snake, without raising his body more than an inch off the floor, Charlie shifted position until his head was at the driver’s side passenger door and his feet were where his head had been before. Then, with extreme caution, he lifted the door handle and slowly pushed open the Chevy Lumina’s passenger door, slipping outside undetected and onto the ground. He closed the door silently with his foot. Some shards of shattered glass rubbed against his arms, face, and chest. The shatterproof glass was irritating, but at least it didn’t break the skin.

Lying flat on his stomach like some Army Special Forces guy in the midst of a dangerous mission, Charlie crawled along the pavement
toward the front of the Camry. Joe had parked the car in front of the car next to the Lumina. Joe’s car would have to turn around or back out to exit the lot. The driver’s side door to the Camry was open. The Camry was in as good a location as he could have hoped.

Charlie saw that Rachel was just about to close the Camry door. He made a
pssst
sound with his mouth, and Rachel looked in the direction of the noise. She spotted Charlie’s head extended past the hood of the Lumina. He used the side of the Lumina to conceal most of his body. Her eyes widened with an expression that seemed to suggest both relief and anger. She made a move to get out of the car, but Charlie held up his hand.

Rising to his knees, he extended his body a bit farther out in front of the Lumina’s hood and pantomimed the motion of opening a door. Rachel nodded and, without exiting the car, stretched her long arms and torso, reached behind and pulled on the driver’s side rear door handle. When he saw the door open a crack, Charlie motioned with his head in the direction of Joe and the police. Rachel looked behind her. Turning back toward Charlie, she made urgent motions for him to make his move.

Charlie crawled on his hands and knees the twenty feet to Joe’s car. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground and resisted the powerful urge to stand and sprint toward the car. Once alongside the Camry, Charlie pulled the rear driver’s side door open with the tips of his fingers. Again using snakelike movements, he slithered his body inside the car and sank low to the backseat floor. There were blankets in the backseat of Joe’s car. They had been there for years. Charlie pulled them down and used them to cover as much of his body as he could.

“I should turn you in to the police,” Rachel growled at him.

Charlie kept the blankets over his head. “But you won’t?” Charlie asked.

“Not yet,” Rachel said.

“Why?” Charlie asked.

“I want you to prove to me that you didn’t kill that man. I want to see those notes myself. You have them?”

“I do,” Charlie said.

Rachel reached behind her and pulled the passenger door shut. She started the car and ran it in reverse.

The car stopped a short distance later. Charlie listened to her step outside. He was still buried underneath the blankets in the backseat. He kept his body as still as the dead.

“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Charlie could hear Joe say. “I could have sworn it was that Grand Am.”

“Don’t mention it,” someone said. It sounded like a cop but was not a voice Charlie recognized.

“Yeah. Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

That was Gary, Charlie thought.

“Well, these days, with terrorism and all, vigilance is all of our responsibility,” Joe said with pride.

“That’s right. If you do see anything suspicious, please let the police know right away. We’re going to get this guy soon enough,” Gary said.

“I hope you do,” Joe said. Charlie imagined the smile on his brother’s face.

Joe and Rachel got back into the Camry. Joe took the driver’s seat. Charlie felt the seat press against his legs as his brother adjusted it back to its usual position.

“Well, Jackie,” Joe said. “How did you do?”

“I did well,” Rachel said. She reached behind and with her left hand tapped on the blankets covering Charlie’s body. Her touch made Charlie flinch, and the blankets moved just a bit. Joe said nothing. From underneath the blankets Charlie listened as the engine roared to life. Joe backed the car up a few feet. Then he put it into drive. Within minutes they were going well over twenty miles an hour. It wasn’t until they were traveling at highway speed that Charlie dared to lift his head.

C
harlie didn’t say a word. He kept the blankets over him. The only voice speaking was the InVision system, directing Joe toward the MassPike and away from Boston. They were taking Route 16 and heading toward Route 1A.

“Prepare to enter highway in ninety yards,” InVision directed.

The car pulled up to a toll booth. Charlie held his breath. Were his feet completely covered? Joe barely stopped the car. Charlie heard the sound of a machine spitting out a turnpike ticket and breathed again. All he wanted was to get distance between himself and Revere. Only then could he think clearly.

“How far?” Joe asked.

From underneath the blankets Charlie’s muffled voice said, “At least get us past Framingham. Then we’ll talk.”

“To Framingham we go,” Joe said.

Charlie couldn’t believe the man driving, who had just saved his life, was his brother. Joe, the person Charlie blamed for much of his youthful frustration, was far more of a man than Charlie had ever believed possible. It was then he realized how little he knew his brother. Aside from the descriptive labels that he could ascribe to him—schizophrenic, classic rock music fan, novice drummer, security guard—he had never really invested much time in getting to know him as a person. He had thought of him as a brother but never as a friend. And yet Joe didn’t think twice about risking his life to save Charlie’s.

His mother had always seen the goodness in Joe, the compassion and loyalty that best defined him. Those were his brother’s traits that
Charlie had never seen. But they had always been there, just waiting for Charlie to reach out and discover them on his own. Their mother had never once wavered in her love for Joe. No matter who he became, he’d remained forever her son, whom she loved dearly. She’d never believed the disease had robbed Joe of his spirit and soul. But that was what made mothers different: they had the power to see deep into the soul. What would she think if she looked inside his? It was an answer he didn’t really want to know, certain she’d be disappointed with the man he’d become. Charlie said a silent prayer for her recovery. God had never factored much into his life before. If he survived this ordeal, he decided, agnosticism might be a choice worth revisiting.

“Is it safe?” Charlie asked from the floor of the backseat.

“Safe,” Joe said.

Charlie pulled off the blankets and worked himself up into the middle of the backseat. He put his arms around the front seats and gently touched both Joe’s and Rachel’s shoulders with his hands.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank anyone yet,” Rachel said. “We’re not out of this. Not by a long shot.” She avoided eye contact, and he could detect in the tone of her voice more than a hint of regret. Perhaps the adrenaline of the moment had worn off. Perhaps she had a chance to question her actions more objectively. It was clear Charlie had a long way to go before he was a free man in her eyes.

“I understand,” said Charlie. “But what you did back there for me is something I will never forget.”

“You’re my brother, Charlie. You’d do the same for me,” Joe said.

Charlie squeezed Joe’s broad shoulder with his left hand. They drove west without speaking for a while. Rachel finally broke the silence.

“I want to see those notes,” Rachel said. “I can’t drive with you any farther until I see this for myself.”

“Take this exit,” Charlie said, pointing right.

Joe pulled off the MassPike and into a large service area just past Exit 7W in Framingham. Given the volume of cars pulling in and out of the parking lot, the service area offered terrific cover. It had all the trappings of what made a Mass Turnpike service center the ultimate pit stop: McDonald’s, Honey Dew Donuts, and a bunch of other fastfood
restaurants, all inside a large shopping complex. They parked the Camry near a picnic bench and got out.

Charlie sat on the opposite side of the picnic table from Rachel. The disappointment in her eyes overpowered the fear she should have been feeling, given her involvement with a fugitive. Charlie wanted her to believe in his innocence. He wanted her to believe the way he believed.

Joe, however, needed no convincing. He operated on something much more persuasive. Instinct.

“Show me the notes,” Rachel said.

Charlie fished in his front pants pocket and pulled out two notes. The first was the Post-it note he had found in his BlackBerry holder. The other was the one on the Seacoast Motel stationery. From his other pocket he took out the photograph.

“Joe,” Charlie said, “this photograph is very upsetting. I just want you to know that I didn’t do this. I know that you’ll believe me. But I have to show this to Rachel.”

Charlie slid the notes across the picnic table. Rachel picked them up and put a hand to her mouth when she turned the photograph over and read the writing on the back. Joe saw the photograph and pulled it from her hand.

“Joe …,” Charlie said.

Joe read the back of the photograph and gave Charlie a ferocious and terrifying stare. “You wouldn’t hurt her.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I would never hurt our mother,” Charlie said. “I would kill myself before I’d do that. In fact I almost did. I was in my car at the Seacoast Motel. Don’t ask me how my car got there. I have no idea. Anyway, I had a gun, loaded, ready to pull the trigger. These notes stopped me.”

Rachel continued to read the notes. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and piece of paper. She put them in front of Charlie.

“Write,” she said.

“What do you want me to write?” Charlie asked.

“Write the note we found at Walderman,” she said.

Charlie did as instructed and showed it to Rachel. She studied it with the intensity and focus he found so attractive.

If only …

He let the idea pass before it hollowed him out even more.

“Amazing,” Rachel said. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“There is only one possible answer,” Charlie said. “These notes are machine made. They’re computer-generated.”

Joe looked at them and nodded. “The
u
is the only letter that looks different. But each
u
looks exactly the same in each note. Only one different is the note Charlie just wrote. It doesn’t have the darker extra lines at the base of the letter.”

“Because I didn’t write these notes,” Charlie said. “The only note that I know I wrote is this one.” He held up the note he had just written.

“I don’t understand,” Rachel said. Her voice was hard to hear over the trucks and cars roaring past. “I agree, Charlie, this doesn’t look right. These letters look exactly the same. Now that I’m looking at them together, they look too similar.”

“Sort of like type?” Charlie asked.

Rachel thought a moment. She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Like type.”

“But how is that possible?” Joe asked.

“If somebody were smart enough and made a font library out of my handwriting, they could write any note that they wanted. It would be indiscernible from my penmanship,” Charlie explained. “Except that this program had a bug with the letter
u.
Perhaps it was a glitch in the software the author didn’t notice. It’s really only evident when compared to other samples.”

“And now that you mention it, Rachel,” Joe said, “these notes are almost too similar. Real handwriting would always have some variation in it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not a handwriting expert,” Rachel said. “But I’ve been around them enough. Psychiatrists use it all the time, same as the police, when we build psychological profiles. I have examined samples from different cases and patients. But I agree with Joe. Penmanship is never this perfect.”

Charlie felt a wave of relief wash over him. He no longer saw doubt in Rachel’s eyes. Doubt had been replaced with confusion. Still, it was progress.

“But there’s so much more that doesn’t make sense,” Rachel said. “At least one person is dead. They have the body. And the incident with Anne Pedersen, how do you explain the paranoia? It’s symptomatic of somebody with schizophrenic or paranoid delusional thinking. That came from you, Charlie, not these notes.”

“It came from experiences I had,” Charlie said. “But I agree I can’t explain any of it.”

“So where do we go from here?” Joe asked.

“If it wasn’t me who wrote these notes,” Charlie said, “we start by figuring out who did.”

T
hey continued their westward drive along the Pike, away from Boston. Charlie sat in the front passenger seat, while Joe drove and Rachel had a seat in the back. Rachel had the notes, the ones they now believed were machine produced, fanned out on the seat beside her. She was deep in thought, tapping into her limited experience with handwriting analysis to see if anything else might be learned from them. Joe had fished out a baseball cap from the Camry’s trunk for Charlie and had also given him an extra pair of sunglasses he kept in the glove compartment. With the added cover, Charlie felt it was safe to sit up front. Even so, he never looked at passing motorists and kept a keen eye out for the police.

They listened to 1030 WBZ news radio for updates on the investigation. The Yardley murder and Charlie’s unknown whereabouts were, of course, the lead story. Urging listeners to contact police with any information on Charlie’s whereabouts, the report dominated most of the five minutes of news coverage before the station went to commercial. Charlie turned off the radio using a touch screen button on the InVision control display.

Rachel sighed from the backseat. “I can’t do anything with these,” she said. “What are you going to do, Charlie? Run forever? You’ll get caught.”

“I’ll make a new identity. I’m a computer guy. I can do that easily,” said Charlie.

“But you might also be sick,” Rachel said. “We haven’t figured out everything yet. For all I know, you wrote the software used to write these notes.”