Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (38 page)

“Hold it like this,” Charlie instructed. “And slide the clip in here, into the grip—”

Clip? Grip? I didn’t know the terms, but he guided me.

“The cartridges are already in the clip—”

“Cartridges?” I thought of ink.

“Bullets.”

Oh. Right. Those kinds of cartridges. There were boxes of them in the case.

“Pull the slide back, that’s right. And release it. Now you’re ready to shoot.”

Was I?

Armed and powerful, I stood tall, stretched my back, took a deep breath. And stepped into the outer closet.

Charlie warned me to stay back. To ignore the commotion and stay hidden. To use the gun only as a last resort.

But I was tired of being passive. I stood opposite the closet door, knees slightly bent, aiming the gun at it with both hands, ready to shoot anyone who opened it.

Something crashed in the hallway. Damn—the table. Grandma’s Wedgwood—What the hell was going on? Did Derek and Joel think that, since they couldn’t find me, they might as well trash my house? Were they turning on each other, frustrated that I’d gotten away? What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they just leave?

More pounding footsteps, shouting. A grunt, close by.

“Who the fuck is that guy?” Joel’s voice seemed to come from the living room.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Damned if I know.” Derek panted, sounded as if he was just outside the closet door.

He was. The door flew open and Derek dove in.

“Stop, Derek.” The forty-five stared at him, maybe six feet away, ready to fire.

He didn’t stop.

“I swear I’ll shoot.”

He kept coming, wide-eyed, arms outstretched as if to tackle me.

Not this time.

Charlie called, “Elle, wait!” but too late. The recoil knocked me against the closet wall. The bang rattled my ears, pounded my already throbbing skull.

Derek was still staring at me when he went down.

Grasping the gun, shaking, I stared at Derek, confused. He was facedown, dead. A heap on the floor of my closet. I’d just shot him in the chest. So why was there a knife protruding from his back?

I recognized the knife. It was mine. From my kitchen.

Not again, I thought.

Not again? Wait. What?

Déjà vu. Something told me this had happened before. That I’d found this very same knife once before, in someone else’s back.

Why was that? Why couldn’t I remember? And what was I doing in the closet holding a gun? Where were all the coats—I opened the door, saw coats strewn all across the hallway. Loose hangers. And Grandma’s Wedgwood collection, broken. Shards everywhere on the hardwood floor.

What had happened here?

The knife, I thought. I had to find out about the knife in the man’s back. There were voices in the study, and I started down the hallway, stepping over cushions, books. Broken bottles. Shoes. A vase. It looked as if someone had gone through the house throwing things. Confused, I waded through clutter, following sounds.

The study door was open just a crack. I peeked in. Saw the bar in disarray. Bottles overturned. Scotch and beer spilling onto the floor. Voices coming from the desk. I closed my eyes, strained to hear.

“I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

Was that Charlie?

“We’re done.”

It was, yes, Charlie. What was he doing in there? He didn’t live in this house anymore, had no business showing up unexpectedly. He had his own apartment now. And who was in there with him?

I stood in the hall, unable to see them without opening the door. But I didn’t want them to notice me. Wanted to hear what they were up to. I pushed the door just a hair, then another. Trying to see without being seen.

And somehow, I could. I didn’t have to open the door. I simply could see inside the room. Charlie sat at the desk. The other man faced him, his back to me.

“You have so much, damn it. You wouldn’t miss it.” Whose voice was that?

“It will never be enough. If I give you money this time, what about next week? Next month? Do you think I want to support you? Why should I? No one supported me. No one gave me a check every time I messed up. I made my money all by myself, like a grown-up.” Charlie stood, leaned on his desk. “You want money? Grow up. Go get a job.”

“Christ, don’t get self-righteous on me.” The guy stood, too. Faced Charlie eye to eye. “Don’t pretend you sweated and toiled in honest labor. You’re just like me, only you con richer people.”

“In no way am I like you. We share parents. Nothing else.”

Parents? The guy was Ted?

And Ted didn’t give up. “Think of it this way, Charlie. You’re divorced now. You don’t have to support your wife anymore. And what I need has to be a lot less than she cost you.”

“Your point?”

“Even if you help me out, you’ll still come out ahead.”

Charlie shook his head. “My wife fucked me. What have you done?” He huffed off to the bar. Reached for the Scotch—
but the bottle was upright. The glasses, too. Nothing had spilled or been knocked over. “I’m not giving you another dime.”

Ted followed him. Stood behind him. “I’m asking one more time. Last chance, Charlie.”

Last chance?

Charlie poured a drink. “Get lost.” Waved goodbye, dismissing Ted without even turning around.

Oh God. I needed to call out—to warn Charlie—I remembered. I knew what was going to happen. The knife. Ted was going to grab it off the bar and stab Charlie.

“Look out!” I raced into the study, shouting. “Charlie—he’s got the knife.”

Both men whirled around, facing me, agog. Neither of them was Charlie.

But one of them was Ted.

Ted. Looking at him, I remembered. All of it. In a flash.

I’d been in the kitchen, making a snack. Cutting an orange. And I heard a sudden shout—the knife slipped, stabbing my hand. Oh God. Who was in the house—prowlers? Burglars? Holding the knife like a dagger, I crept down the hall, following voices to the study. I stood outside, listening. Recognizing who was in there. Charlie and his brother. Arguing again. Ted asking for money again. But this time, Charlie refused. Ted stormed out of the study, irate. Fuming. Not even noticing me there in the corner.

What were they doing in there? In my house? Indignant, I flew into the study. “What the hell is going on?” I reminded Charlie that we were separated, that he had no right to barge into my home, much less to bring his drugged-out junkie brother with him. I demanded that he leave. That he give me his keys. That he respect my privacy. That he stop drinking my liquor.

Charlie swallowed Scotch, watching me, waiting for me to
finish. When I did, he put the glass down on the bar, held out a cocktail napkin. “Elf, your hand is bleeding.”

I looked. Lord. It really was. Blood ran down the knife I still held, dripped onto the carpet. Charlie took the knife, set it on the bar, pressed the napkin against my hand. But I pulled away, hurried across the hall to the powder room. Rinsed the wound, wrapped it in a towel.

I was coming out of the powder room when Ted ran out of the study. Wait. He’d already left. Had he come back? Why? I watched him run down the hall, heard him slam the front door.

And then I went back into the study.

Charlie dropped his glass of Scotch. Stood facing the door, eyes meeting mine.

“Elle—”

I was still angry. Didn’t care what he had to say. “You better go.”

His eyes were too steady. Intense. “Elle—”

Why did he keep saying my name? He took a step toward me, awkwardly, sloshing his drink, spilling some. He steadied himself, took another unsteady step.

“Charlie?” Something was wrong. Was he drugged? Had Ted slipped something into his drink?

His eyes were fixed on mine. Didn’t waver.

“What’s wrong?” I got to him just as he fell into my arms, knocking me backward. We both fell, tumbled to the floor, me under him, a pile of legs and arms. I called his name, examined his face. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke?

Charlie tried to get up. Pulled himself onto all fours. I scrambled to get out from under him, and he held onto my shoulders to push himself to his feet. I put an arm around him. My hand was bleeding. At first I thought it was my blood that had soaked his shirt. I twisted to look at his back.

And that’s when I saw the knife.

My knife. The one he’d taken from my hand. The one I’d cut myself with. But, what had happened?

Ted. Of course. He’d come back, seen the knife on the bar and, when Charlie dismissed him again, stabbed him. That’s why he’d run away.

Charlie squeezed my arm. A death grip.

“Charlie, let go. I need to call 911.”

“Why?” Charlie looked baffled. Maybe he didn’t grasp what had happened. Was in shock.

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“Why?”

“Come, sit down.” I helped him to the sofa, aware that the wound was deep, near his heart.

“Was it money?” His voice was raspy.

Probably it was. Money was what Ted always wanted from Charlie. “Sit, Charlie. Be careful. Here, lean this way so you don’t move the knife.”

“Why would you do this?”

Why would I? “I didn’t—it was Ted.”

“No. Ted left.”

“No, Charlie. He came back—” Hadn’t he seen him? Ted must have come from behind, stabbing him in the back without saying anything. Not even asking for money again.

“Elf. Why? Tell—”

Again why? “We’ll figure it out later.” I started to pull away, but his hand clutched my wrist. “Let go, Charlie—I have to call—”

“No. Please.”

He pulled at me. His eyes begged.

So, God forgive me, I didn’t call 911. I sat beside Charlie on the sofa, cradling his head against my chest, holding him until, a short time later, he let out his last breath.