Chapter 9
Monte pressed his cold nose against the stubble of Charlie’s cheek and licked at his face. The affection was enough to wake Charlie from a night of disjoined dreams and fitful sleep. Sun splashed through the large bay windows in Charlie’s bedroom. The warm light, normally welcomed, was a painful reminder that on any other Thursday he’d be at work at this hour. Charlie ran his fingers through his short hair and then gave Monte some requested attention. The dog walkers would be here around noon. Charlie wasn’t certain if it was close to that hour or not.
The calluses on his fingertips were raw and peeling from his marathon practice session, which had lasted well past midnight. He rarely played his prized Gibson ES-175, preferring to treat it more like a showpiece than an instrument. It had been outdoors only for transport from the music store to his apartment in California and briefly again for the move to Boston. It would be the guitar he’d use if he could ever get loose enough to feel inspired to play a live gig. Last night he’d uncorked the Gibson, expecting from it some magic, but ultimately he’d been disappointed at his perpetual inability to improvise. At least for now, the Gibson would stay indoors.
Dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of green hospital scrubs, Charlie made his way to the kitchen, and Monte followed. There he made coffee from his French press and, once brewed, took his cup into the living room, again followed by Monte, and gazed out the window at the traffic bustling below. It was earlier than he thought, 8:30 a.m., but still much later than he and Monte were accustomed to starting their day.
Charlie’s apartment in Boston’s Beacon Hill was the entire third floor of a brownstone on the south side of a steeply sloping hill. The apartment was barely furnished, but the cost of what little he owned could buy enough furniture to fill homes three times the size. Monte rubbed against his legs and gave a soft bark, fair warning that he needed to be walked soon, or else. Charlie didn’t react; his mind, already racing, even with what little caffeine he’d had, was replaying his meeting with Rachel. She hadn’t administered any mock tests or tried to delve deeper into his unexplained experiences. Instead she had suggested a medical MRI. Perhaps a brain lesion or even a tumor—uncommon, but known to cause hallucinations similar to schizophrenia—was to blame. Rachel hadn’t ruled out work pressures as being a cause, but she hadn’t jumped on the theory, either. There were other possibilities she’d suggested, infection being one, though she’d thought that unlikely given his lack of other symptoms. A comprehensive psychological evaluation and further medical testing, she’d insisted, were the only legitimate path to a diagnosis.
She had also provided the names of several doctors at Walderman who were accepting new patients. That had stung. He had crumpled the paper with the phone numbers on it and thrown it in the trash as he left. He was desperate to find any reason to discredit her professional assessment that he should seek psychiatric help. The MRI was at least medical—hopeful, so long as the cause was curable.
The stress of the last several days had left Charlie with dark circles under his eyes and an ashen complexion. The idea that his mind was a ticking bomb, perhaps ready to detonate, perhaps destined to send him to the same fate as his father and brother before him, went far beyond any corporate stress he’d ever faced. He knew he needed to find the real Anne Pedersen, but he had no idea where to start. He jotted himself a note to call Corner Ticket and get the Sox tickets he’d promised Lawrence. Right now Lawrence was his only hope of tracking her down.
Crossing his sparsely furnished living room, Charlie went to his computer, which stood on a drafting table he’d bought at a Scandinavian design center. Monte continued to shadow him and barked louder this time to get his attention. Charlie bent down and petted him gently on the head.
“I hear you, Monte. Just need to check one thing and we’ll go for a long walk today. Sound good?”
As if Monte understood, he barked again, turned, and trotted off into the kitchen. Charlie heard him lapping at his water bowl. His computer powered on, Charlie inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that he could still access the SoluCent corporate network, through the secure VPN connection. Not that he had expected otherwise, just that with the Anne Pedersen situation escalating the way that it was, he could no longer take anything for granted. He opened Outlook and scanned his in-box. Charlie prided himself on never having taken a sick day in his more than two years at SoluCent—the Cal Ripken of software engineering, someone once had dubbed him. Charlie was about to break that streak with a quick e-mail to his boss, Mac.
Unfortunately, Mac had contacted him first. Even worse, it was his first day back from vacation. His message was characteristically short, but from the scathing tone it was evident that both Leon Yardley and Jerry Schmidt had given Mac earfuls.
Mac had meetings until 11:00 a.m. and expected Charlie to contact his assistant Jean for an appointment with him in the afternoon. Typical Mac, not a “manage by walking around” guy. You had to make an appointment if you wanted to see him. Seldom did anyone want to.
His promised long walk with Monte finished and shortened considerably, Charlie dressed in gray slacks, a blue oxford, and a gray sports jacket. He studied his sunken face in the mirror and decided against shaving. There was no reason to pretend this was just another day at the office.
“Be good, boy, okay?” Charlie said, hand-feeding Monte his favorite beef-flavored treat. “Brenda will be here in a few hours. I’ll see if she can take you for another walk before I get home. Okay?”
Monte gulped down the treat in one bite and looked longingly up at Charlie.
Guilt washed through him. Monte was accustomed to spending his days with Charlie. This home-alone trend wasn’t sitting well with him in the least, Charlie could tell.
“How about I give you a new shoe?” Charlie suggested.
At that Monte perked up. Charlie went into the bedroom closet and there fished out a brown shoe from a pair he had bought months ago but had never worn.
“Will this do?” Charlie asked, bending down to hold the shoe up to Monte’s nose.
Monte let out a delighted little yip and trotted over to his bed, shoe in mouth. Sun pouring in from the living-room bay windows washed over his tiny body and warmed his fur. He seemed so at peace, and Charlie felt foolish for feeling jealous.
The traffic along Storrow Drive to Route 2 and eventually 128 was stop-and-go, reminding Charlie why he normally left for work before seven. On the radio, Dennis and Callahan prattled on about the upcoming Sox series in New York and the blessed arrival of the Patriots season. Every part of the commute offered signs of normalcy, including the SoluCent parking lot, with nearly every space taken by workers already well into their workday.
Climbing out of his BMW, Charlie spotted Harry Wessner coming down the stairs of the terraced parking lot. It looked as though he was coming from the Omni Way building, where Charlie and Anne Pedersen had supposedly had lunch just days before. Charlie had hoped to avoid the Magellan Team altogether, at least today, until after this mess could be sorted out. But Harry saw Charlie and waved hello, then quickened his pace to catch up with him. Harry’s heavy frame was not built for bursts of speed, and he was breathless by the time he reached Charlie.
“Hi there,” he said, still working to catch his breath.
“Hi, Harry,” Charlie said.
They walked together in silence toward the front entrance. Harry seemed distracted, his gaze averted. Charlie could feel his awkwardness and hated the uncomfortable tension. Harry was senior manager, quality assurance, for the InVision division within SoluCent, and his governance extended well beyond software, into manufacturing
