Читать книгу Delirious - Daniel James Palmer - Страница 18

Wearing a scowl, Charlie walked into Chaps Sports Bar in Kenmore Square. The room was smoke-free, and Charlie, who wasn’t much for frequenting bars—he worked most nights well past last call—wondered how much more time he’d be spending in them since losing his job.

He spotted Randal Egan slouched over the bar, clutching a half-drunk pint glass of Guinness stout. Randal and Charlie had been friends since high school. A soccer teammate who’d grown up in Waltham, Randal was the better of the two at staying in touch and regularly sent Charlie e-mail, even while buried in law books. After a few years in private practice, he’d ended up taking a job with the FBI in the Boston field office for less than half his pay, saying he felt a need to do something more tangible to help people. He’d been there ever since. “A lifer,” he often joked. Charlie agreed— Randal was a lifer when it came to helping people.

Charlie had few people left to turn to. He had called Lawrence in IT from the car. As expected, Lawrence had reneged on Charlie’s search request, passing up the Sox tickets in exchange for keeping his job. Charlie assumed that as word got out, more and more people would turn their backs on him. Randal wasn’t like that.

Charlie approached the bar. He was still grappling with how he would explain to Randal what had happened to him without seeming totally insane. He felt he could trust Randal, but he wasn’t sure what benefit a full disclosure would bring, other than release.

The bottom line was, he had to talk to somebody or he’d explode.

“Hey, stranger,” Charlie said, placing a firm hand on Randal’s broad shoulder.

“Giles! Giles! Holy shit. What’s up, amigo!” Randal stood and gave Charlie a warm embrace. He called to the bartender, who was washing glasses at the other end of the bar. “A Guinness for my friend here, when you have a minute,” he said.

“And a shot of Jack,” Charlie added

“Whoa. Okay. I got it, fella. And a shot of Jack,” Randal called out.

The bartender grunted and began pouring the Guinness from the tap. He reached for the Jack on the top shelf.

“Thanks for coming to meet me,” Charlie said. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Parking in Kenmore isn’t easy.”

“Tell me about it,” Randal said. “I’m way down Beacon.”

“You look great, man. How have you been? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. Too long,” Randal said, poking Charlie’s shoulder with his finger. “Everything is good with me. Jenny and the kids are fine. But it’s you I’m worried about. Midafternoon cocktails aren’t exactly your MO, if you know what I mean.”

Charlie nodded. “I just needed to talk to somebody, Randal. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

The boy who’d played varsity striker three years at Waltham and fullback for BC was still present in Randal’s dark Italian eyes and smooth olive complexion. The familiarity comforted Charlie, especially in a world where nothing seemed familiar anymore. The bartender dropped two shots in front of Randal and went to finish the Guinness pour.

“Talk,” said Randal, pushing a shot toward Charlie, who picked up the fingerprint-stained tumbler and downed it with a single gulp. Without being prompted, Randal ordered another.

“I’ve been fired,” Charlie said.

“What? What for?”

“Let’s see…surfing porn and corporate espionage,” Charlie said.

“Oh, is that all?” Randal laughed as though that were the punch line.

Charlie didn’t flinch.

“No, really. What for?” Randal asked.

“I told you,” Charlie said.

Two more shots came along with the Guinness round Randal had ordered. This time Randal downed one before Charlie even lifted his off the bar.

“Are you serious?”

Charlie nodded.

“What were you thinking?” Randal asked.

“I’m thinking I don’t remember any of it. I’m thinking that fucked-up things are happening to me.”

“Like what?” Randal asked.

Charlie told him about the e-mail exchange and subsequent meeting with Anne Pedersen. Then about the PowerPoint presentation that supposedly Jerry Schmidt had authored but that somehow it had his name and not Jerry’s in the document’s “created by” property, and how Anne Pedersen apparently didn’t even work at SoluCent to begin with. He confided about the strange cryptic notes he’d been leaving himself, about his meeting with Dr. Rachel Evans at Walderman, and lastly about the morning’s confrontation in Mac’s office.

“I’m screwed,” Charlie said. “Totally screwed.”

Randal let out a sigh. “Your family history isn’t good, Giles. Tell me again what that doctor said.”

“She’s not an M.D., but she’s an expert on mental health, especially schizophrenia,” Charlie said. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. How could he, an MIT graduate, a successful entrepreneur, be schizophrenic? It wasn’t fathomable. And yet there was his family history to account for. A father and brother both afflicted with the illness. It was an inescapable truth.

Randal took a healthy sip of his beer and thought a moment.

“At the Bureau I have my fair share of cases involving that disease, Charlie,” he began. “I have to say, I’m no expert, but you’re a bit late in life to be developing symptoms. Mostly it happens in teenagers and young adults.”

Charlie nodded. “I know. That’s what Rachel said as well. She suggested I have an MRI. Maybe there’s some sort of lesion, a tumor, or something on my brain. It could cause similar symptoms. It’s a theory, at least.”

“Any other theories?” Randal asked.

“Sure. Somebody is out to get me,” Charlie said.

“Makes sense,” Randal said.

“It would if paranoia wasn’t a symptom of schizophrenia,” Charlie said.

“Do you think somebody is setting you up?”

“Of course,” Charlie said, almost letting out a smile. “That’s why I’m crazy.”

“Seriously?” Randal asked. His expression was both grave and concerned.

“I don’t know, Randal,” Charlie said. “I wish it was that. I really do. A few days ago I would have said yes, but now I’m not sure. Nothing is adding up. Mac and Leon deny they had anything to do with it. Not that they’d just go and confess. And I don’t know anybody else who would have such a vendetta. And how does it explain everything— Anne Pedersen, the PowerPoint, the e-mail, the notes? It’s too much for even me to believe somebody could pull that off.”

“I don’t know,” was all Randal could think of to say.

“Believe it or not, the espionage is what’s really getting me. I mean, it’s all so unbelievable and out of character for me. You know how strongly I feel about protecting company secrets. You know what I had to do when that trust was broken before.”

“Have you forgiven yourself for that?” Randal asked. “Do you think it’s catching up with you? Maybe this has all been triggered by some suppressed guilt.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Charlie said. “He made his choices. I didn’t make them for him.” Charlie looked away. He had enough on his plate without reliving that nightmare.

“So where does this leave you?” Randal asked. He nursed the few remaining sips of his beer.

“Nowhere, I guess,” Charlie said. “Unemployed. Unemployable. Crazy.”

“Charlie, you know I’m here for you,” Randal said. “Are you telling me everything? I mean, are you in any legal trouble?”

“Not yet. But Mac and Yardley have a case against me for the e-mail to Sony. They may come after me. But they said they wouldn’t. Like I said, I don’t know who to trust anymore.” Charlie picked up his Guinness and downed most of it in one long gulp. His hands shook, while his throat closed and his eyes moistened. He hadn’t felt that empty pit feeling since he was a kid, but it was a precursor to tears. Charlie looked away, staring out the window.

“Brother, you know I’m here for you. Honest,” Randal said after a moment’s silence. He extended a hand to Charlie, who took it, gave him a firm shake. It was the best he’d felt in days.

Maybe all he needed from Randal was an affirmation of their friendship. For the first time in as long a time as he could remember, Charlie needed to feel close to somebody. He needed someone he could trust.

“I’ll call when I get the MRI results. Okay?”

“I’m expecting to hear from you sooner.”

“Thanks, Randal. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I could do. Have you talked to Joe or your mother about any of this? I’d think if anyone would know something about what might be happening to you, it would be them.”

Charlie shook his head. “I can’t talk to Joe, and I wouldn’t want to worry Mom,” he said. “You know that. You know the history.”

“Yeah. Just a suggestion. Family is always there for you, even when you don’t think they’d be much of a support.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Charlie and Randal stayed in the bar for an hour before Randal looked down at his watch.

“Gotta run, pal,” Randal explained. “I’m dangerously close to a night of warm beer and a cold shoulder.”

Charlie thanked his friend, and the two exchanged a quick hug good-bye. One of the best traits about Monte was that he wouldn’t care when Charlie got home, just that he did. Besides his furry little friend, the only thing waiting for Charlie back home had a thin neck, six strings, and spoke only when his fingers did the talking. At that moment a warm body would have felt a lot better than another drink. He thought about Gwen. That she came to mind, given that they hadn’t spoken since he left California, was more than a little surprising. Briefly, Charlie flirted with the idea of calling her but resisted the impulse. Gwen’s number in his BlackBerry might have changed, and he wasn’t in the mood to explain the real reason behind the call if it hadn’t.

Charlie opted to stay in the bar. He’d parked in a garage. He already had too much of a buzz to drive home. He’d rather pay Brenda double her standard rate to take Monte for an evening walk than go home to his empty apartment. He pulled out his cell phone to call his dog walker—making another resolve that he wouldn’t break down and dial Gwen, anyway.

He noticed that he had missed a call and saw that he had a voice mail waiting for him. The number from the missed caller came up as restricted. Charlie dialed his voice mail and then entered his code. The message was marked urgent, and voice mail said it had arrived this morning. Charlie didn’t know how he’d missed the call. His blood turned icy cold when the caller’s message played.

“Charlie, it’s me, Joe,” his brother said, speaking with quick, breathless urgency. “You have to come to Mount Auburn soon as you get this. Mom’s had a stroke, and I don’t know how long she can hold on.”