Chapter Nine: Peace of Mind

---1---

One night in a hospital was all about Don could stand, but he spent two under observation. As far as he was concerned, what they observed was his profound annoyance with being regularly awakened when he was happily zonked out like a rummed-up sailor ninety percent of the time. The rest of the time he spent refueling—and calling his family. Yeah, not necessarily necessary, but he felt better when he did, if he didn't overuse the voice.

Charlie lucked out, had scrapes, sprained wrist and a minor cut on his shoulder, but didn't stay. He wanted to, for Don, then reality set in and he accepted their father's venerable wisdom which foretold that he would have to be carted away if he didn't get some rest. And you need a shower, Alan said.

Don bid him a scratchy Hasta la Vista and subsequently joined him for the three R's: rest, relaxation, and recovery, with Dad hanging about the house making sure they had what they needed and didn't go missing again. The first time was harrowing enough.

When Alan couldn't reach his sons, he'd enlisted David's help, leaving San Diego, and together they'd gotten things moving. From the air, authorities had discovered the burned-out cabin and Alan said he'd almost had a heart attack believing they'd been in it. Rain slowed the investigation but the preliminary report had been good: Don and Charlie weren't there. Alan's hope had been restored. It happened in a blur, he said, and David kept me sane.

Poor Dad, thought Don, he'll be recovering from this for months, like Charlie and me. In addition, after their rescue, Alan had fended off reporters who'd wanted interviews. They'd declined.

After Reylott, Charlie had retrieved the backpack, going through the ribbon of water to enter the cave, escorting his brother away from the mud and rain to a drier area under the trees, past the zone. There they waited for aid, huddled away from the run-off, hungry and frayed. Don had lain in a half-sleep, dazed but aware, opening his eyes occasionally to changing patterns of clouds through the branches as Charlie stood guard and vigil in one. Eventually, the helicopter returned and Charlie jumped to be seen. Searchers spotted them, arrived four hours later. It was a bit of a challenge to figure out how best to get to them especially through intermittent rainfall. Don had simply been relieved to know they were out there, trying.

The airlift alone was an unforgettable experience. Don breathed oxygen while Charlie sat silently over him the whole way, face streaked with dirt and sweat, fiddling with the handcuff which had come untied. It was gratefully discarded at the hospital.There, Don had opened his exhausted eyes not to another stranger's face but to his father's—drained and grave.

And although Dad had seemed frail, his words had been sturdy, telling Don he was going to be fine, that Charlie was fine, that he'd be waiting nearby while the doctors finished checking them over.

Fine—what a common word to toss around in such an uncommon situation. At that moment, he'd wondered whether Alan himself would be fine. Don's main desire had been to curl up and push everyone away, insist the strangers quit asking questions, quit touching him where it hurt because he couldn't say "fine" until they let him be. They didn't know half of what he and Charlie had endured.

Once Don had settled into a hospital room, he'd heard his dad in the distance—it sounded as if he were in the distance—saying he was going to drive Charlie home and would be back tomorrow morning, bright and early.

I hope you don't mind, Alan had said, you'll probably sleep all night, they say you're doing good.

Don had mumbled back that word, "Fine", and didn't worry, didn't notice much until Alan returned, not bright and early as he'd promised, but the same night after David and Larry had alternately offered to stay with Charlie at the house in case he needed anything.

Alan's emotions had spilled out: Thank God they found you, he'd said; Donny—you boys, for a while there I was sure it was the end. I almost went out there to look for you myself…they wouldn't let me, told me when the weather cleared up.

Don had nodded, lifted his hand in acknowledgement, whispered that it would take a lot more than a madman to take out an Eppes. Damn, we almost didn't make it. Charlie pulled off a hell of a job.

Recalling the aftermath, he realized Charlie had been operating on overload yet had bravely held himself together, reassuring Don that everything would be all right. He'd sat near him, made sure he was warm, blocked the wind and tucked the blanket under his limbs so it wouldn't fly away. At the cave site and afterwards, he'd taken on the strain of answering the rescuers' questions for both of them. Don was impressed Charlie had been able to keep a clear head despite everything that had happened. It wasn't until he'd spoken with Charlie by phone the next day that he'd known his brother was more distressed than he was letting on, told his father to keep an eye on him.

They'd begun to fill in the blanks. In the woods, investigators discovered a rifle above the cave, no stash. Reylott's father had recently committed suicide, one possible catalyst in the desire to satiate his obsession. He'd spent time in a hospital under psychiatric care after attacking a man he thought was stealing his car and had worked sporadically as a security guard.

From the beginning, Don had pinned his suspicions on a criminal, not a former friend. He'd relearned a lesson about gauging possibilities, however unlikely. He could never afford to discount clues in his line of business—although hindsight was unmercifully twenty-twenty.

Was the FBI better than baseball? Well, the freedom to enjoy baseball might not be there without the FBI. And maybe it was best not to compare apples and oranges like Reylott had.

Don's feet had blisters and his lungs were healing, up to capacity, almost. His hands had taken the brunt of his ordeal. The concussion and bruises were piddling compared to hardly being able to feed yourself and perform other necessities without discomfort. Writing was painful and a return to work would be at least two weeks off, for Charlie a week, depending on how he felt, how his spirit coped.

Adjustments would take time for Don as well. He thought he'd be able to put it away, be Mr. Cool and not go "there", to those feelings that were just feelings—they couldn't hurt him, but how they did. Nightmares invaded, anger warped his sleep. Pills helped, denial didn't. Talking to Dad, good. As much as he cared to confide. As much as he needed to, no farther.

Charlie dealt with it similarly, perhaps keeping his emotions private longer than Don, but revealing more when he was ready to, not quite everything. He talked in his sleep, then went silent as though he'd awakened and reassured himself of where he was. Don knew one thing: he would walk Charlie through it because what he'd had to do would continue to haunt him until all was accounted for, and probably a long time after that, too.

After coming home from the hospital, Don had asked Charlie what he'd intended to do when he'd fired into the mountain. He answered that it was impulse, an act of desperation, and he had no idea what would happen, hadn't expected the rock face to collapse, thought the rounds would scare off Reylott. If nothing, emptying the pistol so that Rey couldn't use it against them seemed an appropriate move. But he'd never gotten that far.

People visited, popping in throughout the day, some calling first, some not. Authorities had follow-up questions. Sometimes Don was up to it, sometimes he demanded quiet. Same with Charlie. It was impossible to explain how it felt to lose your brother, then get him back, then lose him again, how helpless you could feel about preserving both your lives, how giving up became the enemy, instead of the enemy himself.

---2---

Don's second evening at the house, Charlie came to the guestroom.

"Another nightmare?" Don said. He'd been watching TV in bed.

He denied it, hovered at the doorway. "Your hands?"

Don flipped them front to back. "Blisters are peeling, some of them. Skin feels tight here and there." By remote, he turned down the set.

Scabs dotted Charlie's face and arms. "I'm sure," he said, seriously, still at the doorway, "…it wasn't a lizard."

The reference escaped Don.

"That we buried." He sneezed, sleeve at his mouth. "When I was four. It was a turtle."

Don tried to remember. The memories were muddled. "I'll take your word for it," he said. "How's the cold?"

"At maximum velocity." Charlie wandered in, studying photographs he likely hadn't noticed for years.

Sitting up, Don eased his feet to the floor, bored with resting. "You holding up?"

"Can't sleep," he said, sniffling.

"We'll get in the swing of it—soon. Try a pill."

A photo of their grandmother caught Charlie's attention. He picked it up. "I don't like pills."

"Me either. But we don't have to make it any harder on ourselves than we have to."

Charlie replaced the photo. "Think he's dead?"

"We won't know for sure 'til they find something," Don said. Reylott had fled into the woods after Charlie shot him point-blank in the chest. A blood trail remained, dwindling out. Everyone speculated, wondered if he'd had help.

Charlie was reticent, so Don blurted it out: "What's up?"

"I want him dead," he said. "But I don't."

"Because you think it would make you a bad person."

"I guess that's true, if I did want it." Charlie picked up another photo, this one of their parents.

"Charlie not bad," Don said, teasing a bit. "You did what you had to do. Like me, when Reylott broke the rules."

"You never informed on him, did you?"

"My sin was one of omission, if anything." Don got up, flexed the injured arm. In the best of spots, it resembled a sunburn. In the worst, shriveled figs.

Charlie dusted a photo face with his thumb, set it down. "What if he's alive?"

"I know, I know. And he tries something again," Don said. "I don't think he made it. That's my call."

"Mine too." He sneezed again.

"Bless you. So what was on the back of his shirt?"

A bandage shielded Charlie's left wrist. " 'Don't tell, I really love koi'."

"You're kidding?"

"Yes, I am," Charlie said, but he didn't break a smile or laugh. "Honestly, it read, 'Don't tell, I cheat at chess'."

"Whatever I can do to help, I'm gonna' do," Don said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Dad says you're going home tomorrow."

"Think so. I can manage." He shut off the TV. "Okay with you?"

Charlie massaged his sprain, testing it with little twists. "Don," he said. "I killed somebody."

Reylott was gone, Don realized; yet there he was, dominating the entire room. "Don't think of it that way. It was him or us."

"Feels awful. Makes me sick inside."

"I don't know what to tell you, there's no easy way. Gotta' make up your mind you did the right thing, stop torturing yourself." Don sat, feeling lazy,pain in his leg."Hey, you saved my life."

Charlie had returned to the photos. He inhaled a stuffed-up breath, turned to him.

"I'll stay longer," Don said. "Give yourself time."

He seemed to collect his will, features less grim. "Thanks. It's no game, is it?"

Don reclined on the headboard. "We only win in baseball."

The floor in the hallway creaked and their father stuck his head in the doorway. "I've got a project," he said, creeping in. "Charlie, I know how you feel, but I think it's important to get back on your feet, well, not back on your feet, but, back on your peace of mind. So, I called a company to get the pond cleaned. They're going to restock it."

"Good move, Dad," Don said, and paused, expecting Charlie to say something. Alan waited, looking apprehensive.

"I see." From the bedside, Charlie grabbed a tissue, took a seat at the footboard. "I've kind of missed feeding them."

"Worrying about pH balance?" Don asked.

Charlie said, "Part of the job," and blew his nose.

"And the joy." Alan leaned on the entry. "They're for all of us."

Don agreed. "I could use some peace of mind."

"Should we think about an alarm?" Charlie stretched across the bed. "Don?"

"What, a fish alarm?" Alan said.

Don felt like laughing but the bruises objected, so he squelched it. "Not a bad idea, Charlie." He favored his aching side, adjusting a pillow. "They can always count on you to watch out for them," he said. "Just like I did."

the end