Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Fifty-One





“Russell?” Charlie acted surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“About what happened back there on the ranch. About what connection it all has to you. I know you were part of it, Charlie.”

He scratched his gray-flecked beard and shrugged. “I’ve told you everything, Jay. I lived there for a while, that’s all. It kept me from having to sleep under a bridge somewhere . . . Russell tried to interest some record people in me.”

“Why did he want to push your music, Charlie? That day when you came up with him to Dad’s.”

“Who knows? That’s how he did stuff. Maybe he thought I had talent. He said he had connections. People trying to cut records were always coming in and out of the ranch.”

I looked at him. “I think that was how he was trying to push his message, Charlie.”

“His message?”

“The End of Days. This crazy philosophy of his. Up is down, heaven is hell. Through the music, right?”

My brother smiled, pushing back his hair. “I think you’re reading too much into this, Jay. All that was, was his way of bringing in the chicks.”

“No. I saw how you reacted. That day up at the house . . . You wanted to kill somebody, Charlie. Dad even.”

“I always wanted to kill someone back then. And I was mad at my shit-ass father for turning against me again. He knew why I was up there. Just once, I wanted something from him. Damn right I wanted to kill him, Jay.”

“No.” I looked at him closely. “There’s more. Why would Houvnanian want to get back at you, Charlie? Through Evan?”

Saying the name of his son was like thrusting a knife into his gut. He recoiled. The color changed in his face. I knew then there was a lot he wasn’t telling me. And that it wasn’t the haze of drugs or schizophrenia clouding it.

I said, “I saw him today.”

“Who?”

“Houvnanian. I went up there. With Detective Sherwood. We talked with him in prison.”

Charlie’s eyes grew agitated. “You saw Russell?” Alarm spread across his face. “What are you getting yourself involved in, Jay?”

“No, what are you hiding, Charlie? I’m trying to help you, but you’ve got to tell me everything. Evan’s dead. And I think you might be right, maybe he didn’t jump off that rock on his own after all. Maybe someone else had a hand in it. Wouldn’t you want to know that, Charlie? A few days back you wanted to. When you were using me.

“Why don’t you start with Susan Pollack, Charlie? You knew her. I know you did now. Zorn. Greenway. I know you’re tied to all of them somehow.” I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “What happened there, Charlie, please . . . ?”

He pulled away from me and suddenly jumped up, his guitar rattling to the floor. He was never one to show fear when he felt cornered. He just got angry. Like my father. He lost control. Fought his way out.

And I could see he felt cornered now.

“I want you to leave now, Jay. Before I really lose it. You’re getting into things you have no business in.”

“For God’s sake, Charlie, they killed your son.” I stood up too and grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t you see? They killed Evan.”

It was like a switch suddenly triggered in him. He wrenched his arm away, and blood rushed into his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jay!” Suddenly he lunged at me with a strength I never expected from his smallish frame.

He pushed me back into my chair, dinner plates and a vase clattering, and suddenly I swung at him—my anger coming from I don’t know where—and we crashed into a side table, toppling a lamp to the floor.

We both fell against the wall—his arms wrapped around my throat, me just trying to fend him off. “I told you to stop all this, Jay. I told you to go home!”

A canvas painted by his mother came crashing down.

“I didn’t kill my son.” He glared savagely into my eyes. His hands squeezed around my throat. “I didn’t!”

He reared his fist back at me, an animal intensity blazing in his eyes. I knew what was fueling it—that mixture of anger, grief, and guilt.

“I know you didn’t, Charlie.” I looked back at him. “I know!”

“Evan didn’t have anything to do with that. You hear? I want you to get out of here, Jay. I want you to go back home.”

“I saw him, Charlie!” A warm ooze trickled down my chin, blood from somewhere. “I know he’s behind what happened to Evan. He and Susan Pollack. I saw a letter she wrote to him in jail. It was her way of telling him it had begun. What’s begun, Charlie? Five people have died.” My eyes locked onto his. “Evan died . . .”

My brother’s eyes filled up with tears and he cocked his fist again. I was certain he was about to let it go and hit me.

And I would have let him—if that’s what it took to bring to the surface what it was he needed to say.

Gabriella ran over—“Charlie, Charlie . . .”—and grabbed his drawn-back arm. He fought against her for a second. “It’s Jay, Charlie,” she screamed, “it’s your brother! He’s only trying to help us, Charlie. What are you doing?”

I recalled the image of Evan squeezing the life out of my son. I also saw our father’s own unforgivable temper massed too.

Charlie glared, his eyes filled with ire. Whoever it was aimed at, I knew it wasn’t me.

Gabby’s frantic protestations finally seemed to get to him, and he blinked himself back to consciousness and put down his arm. He took a series of shuddering breaths and bowed his head, and rolled off me onto his back.

We both lay next to each other for a few seconds, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes were glistening and his cheeks moist. “I’m so sorry, Jay . . .”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” I lay next to him and reached over and put my hand on his chest.

“Look!” Gabriella shouted, staring around the room. “Look at what you’ve done!”

She pointed to his guitar. It was completely broken. The neck separated from the body, the wood splintered.

He’d had it as long as I could remember. He rolled over and picked it up, the broken neck coming apart in his hands.

All that he had ever done in his life seemed to fade there.

Gabby cried too. “Look at what you’ve done!”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t really matter, Gabby.” Charlie turned to me, like an empty weight. “You have to go back home, Jay.” He dropped the broken shaft and it lay on the floor. “There’s nothing to do here anymore. Please. Just let us be.”

I sat up and we stared at each other on the floor. I shook my head. “I can’t, Charlie. It’s too late. Not now.”

Gabby and I cleaned up the mess. Afterward she brought me a damp rag, and I dabbed my mouth. There was blood all over it. Charlie was back at the kitchen table, his hair wild and covering his face. He had picked up one of his other instruments, an old blue Fender Stratocaster that hadn’t worked in years, strumming at the silent strings.

Just when you say your last good-bye

Just when you calm my fears . . .

“He loves you, Jay,” Gabby said to me. She took the rag and wiped my face, blotting the blood. “But for your brother the past is a locked place. Even I cannot be let in. What’s happened has happened, Jay. Nothing is going to bring Evan back. I have to salvage something here. Maybe he’s right. You tried to help. You always help us, Jay. Now go back to your wife and kids. They need you there. That’s where you belong.”

“What’s happened has happened,” I said in agreement, “but even if I go, Gabby, it’s not going away.”

Charlie continued on the guitar:

Just when the dawn is breaking,

There’s always one last thing . . .

“Then let happen whatever will.” Gabby’s blue eyes fixed on me. “That’s what he wants. You can see that now. Now that Evan is gone, what is there for us, anyway?”

I took her hand and squeezed it warmly. But I shook my head. “It’s not just about him anymore, Gabby.”

I listened to my brother’s distant voice. The lyrics to his one recorded song.

Oooh, girl, it’s always one last thing . . .

“I’ve got to go.” I picked up my jacket and gave Gabby a hug, heading toward the door.

I turned a final time to look at Charlie, playing. He didn’t even look up at me.

The wind and the rain knocking at my door,

Don’t you know, girl, the dawn will be here soon . . .

I stopped, the words to my brother’s song knocking me back.

The wind and the rain . . . That refrain. I suddenly realized I’d never heard the whole thing through before, only pieces:

The storm’s outside, but in here how do we tell,

The morning sun from the dying moon?

The hairs stood up on my arms.

Those were Houvnanian’s words: The wind and the rain . . . The moon is the sun and the sun the moon.

I’d assumed it was just all gibberish.

But it wasn’t gibberish.

Houvnanian knew.

I brought back his face, that last mocking grin as they led him away. And suddenly it dawned on me that he hadn’t even been talking to me at all in there.

But to Charlie through me.

He’d been pulling the strings all along.

The room suddenly turned cold, and I looked back at my brother as he silently strummed the guitar.

Houvnanian’s ramblings about where God was, it was all from the lyrics to Charlie’s song.