LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

      Chapter 12

      Joe Giles sat by his mother’s bedside. His eyes were fixed to the floor; his chin was resting on the knuckles of his hands. To the nurse standing behind him, he appeared merely deep in thought, but his insides were roiling from the private war he waged. Though Joe could not see his enemy, he could readily sense its dark presence. His adversary was as merciless as it was shapeless, relentless as it was cunning. Blessedly, years of treatment had made it possible to detect his foe’s advancement. Early detection—that was the preferred weapon Joe had learned to wield; it was the key to defeating this scourge before it could consume him.

      Inside his mother’s equipment-jammed hospital room, Joe felt the enemy creeping steadily forward, searching for holes in his defenses to exploit. Stress and fear were fuel for this adversary. With his mother comatose, both emotions were in ready supply. If he was less vigilant, cracks in his barricade would widen, allowing the enemy to push deeper within. He had to stay mindful of its presence. For his mother’s sake, he had to stay sane.

      Joe looked to fortify his defenses with a sound—some specific noise in the room that he could focus on. It would help, he knew, to ground him in the reality of his mother’s condition, painful as that reality was to face. In the early years after the onset of his disorder, Joe’s hallucinations were a constant threat. To combat them required not only increasingly high doses of antipsychotic drugs but also constant engagement and stimulation. An idle mind was an invitation for his adversary to enter his house and tear apart reality with the thoroughness of a demolition team. Thanks to Walderman, Joe was learning new ways to stay episode free. Right now he needed every trick in the book.

      It took a moment for Joe to lock onto a useful sound, but it was there, a soft, rhythmic rise and fall of a machine breathing steadily in the stillness of the room like a sleeping animal. The ventilator that kept his mother alive could help keep Joe present with her as well. He concentrated on each mechanical breath as though it were his own.

      The nurse tending to his mother’s

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