Then, against her better judgment, she’d taken a call from Joe Giles on her private line. He wouldn’t say why over the phone, but he’d begged her to meet him in her office as soon as possible. She had planned to go to the office early, anyway, to check for new developments in Charlie’s case. She’d agreed to meet Joe at 7:30 a.m., which didn’t leave much time to get dressed and ready.
Joe’s frantic tone had been more than troubling. She worried about behavioral regression. Given all that she had invested in his treatment and the fact that Joe’s progress was partly responsible for her meteoric rise within Walderman, his well-being was particularly important to her.
Even though she was running late, she couldn’t resist her morning habit of checking e-mail and her favorite news sites before leaving for work. It was then she learned of the all-out manhunt for Charlie. It was the lead story on both Boston.com and the Herald, as well as two other local news sites she’d bookmarked.
Rachel gasped when she read the grisly emerging details of Leon Yardley’s murder in his Concord home. The story named Charlie as a “person of interest.” The political favor Walderman had cashed in with the Belmont police to keep the escape out of the public eye had been a tragic case of poor judgment, she concluded. She had warned her superiors about the dangers of politicizing patient care. That argument held little sway with the facility directors, who constantly battled public opinion and fears of safety to keep the grants, licensing, and tax conditions working in their favor. Without those, Walder-man’s future would be jeopardized and the care of patients threatened. Creating public alarm every time a borderline patient might pose a public threat would create an air of mistrust between the community and the care center.
The perception of security was paramount to the institution’s survival. Only patients classified as an immediate threat to public safety justified a press release and news conference. Otherwise, good relations with the police typically kept such incidents under the radar of public awareness. An escapee would certainly threaten facility funding. Also a certainty, Shapiro would be one of the first to go if the money dried up. He was the one who had convinced Walderman’s board that Charlie would merely continue to fantasize about killing, and had doubted such fantasies would manifest into actual violence. They had put hospital interests ahead of public safety, and it would cost them a lot more than the loss of public confidence.
Rachel finished reading an updated report on WBZ-TV’s local news Web site. Charlie wasn’t named a suspect on that report, either, just a person of interest. But his escape from Walderman was clearly and accurately documented in the piece. She wondered where they had got their information.
Joe was waiting outside her office when she arrived and seemed in a frantic state. He wore a blue T-shirt, ripped slightly at the bottom, a navy blue Windbreaker, and jeans spotted with dark brown stains of varying sizes. His eyes darted about the room, as if he were afraid he might be assaulted, and he continually rubbed his hands together. Rachel observed that he would interlock his fingers, crack his knuckles, and start rubbing his hands together again, as though he were massaging hand cream into the skin. His hair was a tangled, bushy mess. When he wasn’t rubbing his hands together, Joe ran his fingers though his hair and pulled at the roots.
“Sit down, Joe,” Rachel said. “Please sit.”
“I can’t. I can’t!” Joe cried.
Rachel assumed he had already heard the news about his brother and that was why he needed to see her. A guiding principle of her profession was that the patient had to provide all the answers, not the therapist. That philosophy held true even when the answers were obvious.
“Joe, please tell me what is going on.”
“The nightmares are getting worse,” Joe said. “They’re even more violent and real. I’m worried I’m regressing. I don’t want to go back to where I was.” Joe paused a moment. “I won’t,” he added.
Rachel was stunned. He hadn’t read or seen the news this morning. Charlie’s plight might push him over the edge. Even so, concealing the truth, as Charlie’s situation tragically reinforced, was not how she operated.
“Joe, please sit down,” Rachel said.
Joe hesitated. “Do we need to do a full review of my medications?” he asked. “When Mom wakes up, she’ll be heartbroken if I lose my job. I can’t get angry again. I just can’t.”
“Listen to me,” Rachel said. “We have something more immediate to discuss.”
“What?” Joe asked.
Before Rachel could answer, her cell phone rang. She looked down at the number and gasped.
“What?” Joe asked.
“Oh my God,” Rachel breathed.
“What is it?” Joe asked again.
Rachel picked up the cell phone. Flipping it open, she answered the call. “Charlie? Charlie, it’s Rachel. Where are you?”
“Rachel! Rachel! Thank God you answered. You have to help me.”
Charlie didn’t sound scared. He sounded almost euphoric. That was even more disturbing, she thought.
“Why is Charlie calling you?” Joe asked. “Where is he?”
Joe knew about Charlie’s escape, but Rachel was certain he had no idea of the real trouble Charlie was in.
“Charlie, you must turn yourself in to the police. Where are you? Please tell me,” Rachel said.
“Is my brother with you? I thought I heard his voice,” Charlie said.
“Yes. He’s in my office.”
“I’ll call you back on your office line. Put me on speaker. I want Joe to hear this as well.”
Chapter 53
Charlie had InVision call Rachel again. This time he dialed the office line. Rachel picked up on the first ring.
“Charlie, the police are looking for you. You have to turn yourself in.” Rachel issued her demand before Charlie had a chance to say a word.
“Rachel, am I on speaker?”
“No. Your brother is in a highly agitated state. His nightmares are getting worse, and he’s worried he’s regressing and that his anger management issues might be resurfacing.”
“I don’t care about that,” Charlie said. “I want Joe to hear this. He’s seen the notes I’ve left. He might remember something.”
Joe had been the next call he was going to make. He might need his brother’s help if what he believed proved true.
“What are you talking about? What do your notes have to do with this?” Rachel said. “Charlie, you’re wanted for murder.”
“Just put me on speaker!” Charlie shouted. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but his adrenaline had taken over.
Moments later he heard something click and then his brother’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Charlie? Where are you? You can’t just leave without telling people,” Joe scolded. “What is Rachel talking about? Why did she say you’re wanted for murder?”
“Just listen, both of you,” Charlie said. “Rachel, I need you to grab the note Dr. Shapiro found in my room.”
“Charlie, I can’t—”
Charlie cut her off. “Get it now, dammit! It’s a matter of life and death.”
Rachel went to her files. She didn’t have the original copy. Dr. Shapiro had that. But she had made a photocopy for her own records.
“I have the note,” she said, sitting back at her desk. “Now tell me where you are.”
“Look at the note,” Charlie said. “Are there any words in that note containing the letter u?” Charlie was already reaching for his pen and paper.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
Charlie scratched out the words Look under the bed on his notebook and compared that to the note he’d found taped to the TV in the motel room. The lettering in the two notes was identical, with one exception. The letter u was different. The u in the word under that he had just written in the notebook didn’t have the bulge or extra thickness as the other notes did. He wrote the sentence three more times, even trying to replicate the distinct marking, but without success.
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“Charlie, are you there?” Rachel called out through the car’s speakers. “Talk to me!”
“I’m here. Do you have a camera on your cell phone?”
“Yes,” Rachel said.
“Good. Take a picture of the note and send it to this number. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
Charlie gave Rachel the phone number, repeating the sequence twice.
Moments latter the InVision screen changed, informing him that a new message had arrived. Charlie switched views and downloaded the picture taken from Rachel’s cell phone, storing it in InVision’s vast hard drive. InVision allowed customers not only to store digital photos but also to download them wirelessly from cell phones and even send them wirelessly to printers and other devices. The marketing pitch used in the current advertisements featured a family out on a picnic, downloading pictures from a camera’s full flash drive to make room for new pictures of family fun to send to Grandma, who was a thousand miles away. The announcer said, “Now your camera goes wherever you drive. Welcome to InVision.” When Charlie had approved those ads, he’d never imagined using the picture-sharing feature in this way. InVision, which had launched his career, now could be used to help save his life.
The quality of the photograph from Rachel’s camera wasn’t perfect. Still, it was good enough to show him what he needed to see. Charlie used the touch screen buttons to zoom in on the word surprise. It was the last word in the sentence “The last is still my surprise.”
He took the note from the motel TV and the note written on the back of the photograph and held them up to the screen on the InVi-sion system to compare. The letter u in all three notes was in fact identical. No matter how he’d tried, he couldn’t replicate that script exactly, even though all three notes had allegedly come from his hand.
“Charlie, talk to me,” Rachel said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I didn’t write these notes,” Charlie said.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“The markings on the letter u in each note, they’re identical.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they’re too identical. I can’t replicate the penmanship, and believe me, I’ve tried. The only thing I know that can be that precise is a machine.”
“You’re saying those are machine-written notes?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Charlie said. “A pen driven by a computer program with a custom-built font library based on my handwriting could do just that.”
“I’ve never heard of that before,” Rachel said.
“It exists. And it’s a technology used more widely than you might realize. I just read about an author who used something similar to sign fans’ books at a virtual book signing. She was in California. They were in New York. Her pen transferred her signature. A computer on the other end picked up the signal, and a pen re-created the lines exactly as she had written them.”
“Charlie, that’s an interesting theory, but not really relevant right now. You are wanted by the police for murder.”
Charlie heard Joe cry out in the background, “What do you mean, murder?”
“You have to believe me, Rachel. I didn’t write these notes. Why should I believe I killed anybody?”
“Because delusions can be more compelling than reality, Charlie,” Rachel said. “You’re a sick man, and you need help. Where are you? You have to turn yourself in.”
Charlie ignored her. “Joe, can you get to your car?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “Why did Rachel say you’re wanted for murder?”
“Forget about that right now,” said Charlie. “Do you know how to use the tracking feature on your InVision system? My car is programmed into yours. All you have to do is select TRACKING from the menu and then select my car. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
“I need you to go to your car now. Turn that feature on. I’ll call you and give you directions about what to do next,” Charlie instructed.
“Okay, Charlie. I’ll wait for you in my car,” Joe said.
“Joe,” Rachel said. “You can’t help him. That’s a crime. You could be charged with obstruction of justice or worse. Your brother is sick and delusional. There is no reason for you to believe him or to help him.”
“Yes, there is,” Joe said. “He’s my family.”
Charlie smiled. Nobody was more loyal or forgiving than Joe. When this was over, he promised himself he’d repay his brother’s loyalty and kindness. A wave of relief washed through him. It was an awakening he could liken only to a feeling of rebirth. He was convinced, without a doubt, that he hadn’t written the notes. He knew it with a deep, unwavering conviction. A machine had done it. And that meant everything else was up for grabs. From the mysterious Anne Pedersen to the body parts rotting under the bed in his motel room, something evil was at work, but that no longer meant that he was the source. Charlie was determined not to stop until he figured out what it was and why it was happening to him.
“Joe, you’re the best,” Charlie shouted. “I need you to move now. Get to your car. Start the tracking process. You got it?”
“Got it, bro,” Joe said.
“No. You can’t do that, Joe. That’s aiding and abetting a criminal. It’s a serious crime,” Rachel protested.
“You can’t stop me,” Joe said to Rachel. Charlie had forgotten that Joe possessed an iron will similar to his own.
“Joe, this is too dangerous a situation. Charlie, you have to turn yourself in,” Rachel said.
“Sorry, Rachel,” Charlie said. “The only way to get to me is to go with Joe. If you want me, you should go with him.”
It was a gamble bringing Rachel into this, but the old adage applied to this situation as well as to his business dealings: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” He didn’t know which side of the coin Rachel was on, but at least she and Joe were together. Her levelheaded thinking would help to keep Joe calm and focused. That would work in his favor.
“Besides,” Charlie continued, “if you let Joe go now and something happened to him, could you ever forgive yourself? Joe, I’ll call you shortly.” He hung up without giving Rachel a chance to respond.
Charlie sat in his BMW for several minutes, poring over the notes. It was, he decided, a rebirth. He had been moments away from death. He needed time to contemplate what it meant to be alive. The idea that his mind might still be his own gave him a sense of euphoric freedom. But two questions remained: who was behind those notes and why?
His euphoria ebbed and quickly turned to fear. From behind he heard the blaring of sirens. He looked in his rearview mirror, and his eyes widened. Four police cruisers, lights on and sirens screeching, sped into the parking lot of the Seacoast Motel.
Chapter 54
Charlie gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckling force. His instinct for self-preservation in full command, he turned the ignition and fired the engine. The evidence against him was almost laughable. Inside the motel room, police investigators would discover body parts from men he had threatened to kill. Not to mention that upon his arrest, a bloody hacksaw and a gun would be recovered from his car. A jury would need but a fraction of the evidence to send him away for life. Moments ago he had been prepared to die for these crimes. Now he was prepared to run. His only hope for redemption depended on his ability to escape.
The wheels of his BMW screamed in reverse. A cloud of toxic smoke spewed skyward from his tires as they melted away against the asphalt. Charlie spun the steering wheel hard left, then shifted the car out of first, jamming it into second gear. He straightened the wheels at the same instant, gunning the accelerator. Taking quick inventory of his surroundings, Charlie also searched his memory for any possible escape routes.
Revere’s narrow, congested streets limited his options. He had seen the surrounding area only briefly during his walk from the Wonderland MBTA station to the Seacoast Motel. There was, he rem
embered, another station stop between Wonderland and the motel. Revere Beach Station, he thought it was called. It was at most a quarter-mile walk from Wonderland to the Revere Beach MBTA station, which meant about a mile’s drive from the motel.
Outrunning the police in a car, even if that car was a BMW, he knew had a low, if not infinitesimal probability for success. He had seen enough high-speed chases on the TV news to know that most ended in the capture or the death of the pursued. The police presence coming after him now would escalate like wildfire the moment he ran. If he could make it to an MBTA station, perhaps he would have a chance. Perhaps.
The problem with getting to the Revere Beach Station was that it required him to travel almost a mile, driving the wrong way, heading north on Ocean Avenue. The traffic traveling the adjacent road, Revere Beach Boulevard, was heading in the right direction. But to get onto Revere Beach Boulevard meant having to jump the concrete median strip that separated the two main ocean drives. A quick glance ahead told him that the median was far too high for the BMW to traverse successfully.
An equally dismal prospect would be to go with the flow of traffic, south on Ocean Avenue, until he got to the nearest turnaround. A statistic his friend Randal Egan had once quoted during a discussion about Randal’s law enforcement career came to mind: most chases that ended in escape didn’t last longer than two miles. If the turnaround was even a half mile down the road, it would mean capture.
The same instinct that made him fire up his car now pushed his foot harder against the accelerator. The Beamer lunged over the parking lot curb and screamed across a patch of grass that separated the motel parking lot from the sidewalk. Debris was kicked up by the back tires as they spun across the narrow patch of green. The car shot cannonball-like over the cracked sidewalk running adjacent to Ocean Avenue. A couple was approaching arm in arm and jumped sideways to avoid what would have been a fatal hit. Ocean Avenue was wide enough to permit curbside car parking. It made beach strolling easier and essentially eliminated the need for unsightly parking lots. Thankfully, none of the parked cars blocked his exit.
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