Chapter 60

They continued their westward drive along the Pike, away from Boston. Charlie sat in the front passenger seat, while Joe drove and Rachel had a seat in the back. Rachel had the notes, the ones they now believed were machine produced, fanned out on the seat beside her. She was deep in thought, tapping into her limited experience with handwriting analysis to see if anything else might be learned from them. Joe had fished out a baseball cap from the Camry’s trunk for Charlie and had also given him an extra pair of sunglasses he kept in the glove compartment. With the added cover, Charlie felt it was safe to sit up front. Even so, he never looked at passing motorists and kept a keen eye out for the police.

They listened to 1030 WBZ news radio for updates on the investigation. The Yardley murder and Charlie’s unknown whereabouts were, of course, the lead story. Urging listeners to contact police with any information on Charlie’s whereabouts, the report dominated most of the five minutes of news coverage before the station went to commercial. Charlie turned off the radio using a touch screen button on the InVision control display.

Rachel sighed from the backseat. “I can’t do anything with these,” she said. “What are you going to do, Charlie? Run forever? You’ll get caught.”

“I’ll make a new identity. I’m a computer guy. I can do that easily,” said Charlie.

“But you might also be sick,” Rachel said. “We haven’t figured out everything yet. For all I know, you wrote the software used to write these notes.”

Charlie lowered his sunglasses and gave Rachel his best “you don’t really believe that, do you?” look.

“Well, all I’m saying is we have no plan,” Rachel pointed out. “And I’m not sure I can support just letting you run. If we’re wrong, things could get much worse. More people could get hurt.”

“What are you suggesting, Rachel?” Charlie asked. He kept his eyes focused forward.

Joe stayed silent.

“I’m suggesting that you turn yourself in to the police. Let’s get them to look at this. We need more help to piece this together.”

“There are other things I haven’t told you,” Charlie said.

Rachel leaned forward so her body extended into the front seat area. “Like what?” she asked.

“Like, I found body parts in my motel room. Two hands. And they weren’t from the same person.”

“Jesus,” Rachel whispered.

“Not to mention my car was parked outside the motel,” Charlie added. “Our father’s gun and a bloody hacksaw were in the trunk. The police probably have already recovered the body parts, and they have the car, because I crashed it.”

“Charlie, that does it. You have to turn yourself in,” Rachel insisted. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to call the police.”

“Rachel, please,” Charlie said, but not forcibly. In a way, the idea of turning himself in felt like a relief. Once in custody, he could get Randal to help. Whoever or whatever was responsible for framing him, Charlie didn’t have the time or freedom to figure it out. “They’ll charge me with murder.”

“You’ll plead not guilty. You’ll get a lawyer, and then we’ll work together to try to get to the truth.” Rachel paused. “No matter what that truth might be.”

Charlie took in a deep breath. He held it a moment before exhaling. What choice was there? He could run. The question was, for how long? “The longer this goes on, the worse it is for you and Joe,” he said. He sounded like a man resolved to his fate.

“Good. Good.” Rachel nodded.

“There’s a state police station a few miles down the road,” Charlie said. “We can go there. I’ll explain everything. We just need to make sure we have a consistent story that absolves you both of any accountability. Sound good?”

“Yes,” Rachel said.

“Joe, what do you think?” Charlie asked.

Joe didn’t answer. Instead, an unexpected sound filled the car. The sound wasn’t strange because it was unfamiliar. No, it was very familiar. It was music, jazz music. But the idea of Joe listening to jazz music after all these years, given the effect it had on his brain, was as incongruous as the sound of seagull cries in a Midwestern city.

The music continued to spill out of the InVision speakers. Charlie checked and confirmed that the radio was turned off. Yet the music continued to play, even growing louder. Charlie saw that the CD player was empty, too. Where was this music coming from? Charlie wondered. Then came a bright flash of white light, not unlike the powerful strobes underneath an airplane’s wings. The light pulsed in regular intervals and seemed to emanate from the large quartz In-Vision display screen.

Charlie could identify the song. Its melodic theme was unmistakable. The blue notes defined its unique melody, which was expertly played on the trumpet by one of the all-time jazz greats. Behind the melody, he could hear the syncopated rhythms that gave this particular tune its infectious and unforgettable groove.

This had been their father’s favorite song. It was this song that had inspired their father’s passion for jazz in the first place. The notes of this song were in many ways an extension of their father’s heart. Joe and Charlie had listened to this very song while they read the note he had left for them on the kitchen table. It was the song that Joe’s doctors eventually concluded had both a tonal uniqueness and emotional context capable of triggering powerful seizures in Joe’s brain. Musicogenic epilepsy. Joe never had another seizure after he stopped listening to that song. The song playing was the Miles Davis classic “So What.”

Charlie knew the symptoms well. Joe’s past episodes had been forever implanted in his memory. He was afraid Joe had regressed and had had a seizure the night they fought over the kill list. Now he was certain Joe was having one. The patient first lost track of time as they entered into a trancelike state. They could respond to verbal commands but most often were not aware of their actions, as if they were sleepwalking. They might hallucinate as well, the result of extreme neurological changes in the front temporal lobe.

“What’s going on?” Rachel asked from the backseat.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “Joe?”

Again, Joe didn’t respond. But a hollow, mechanical voice answered in his place. It was a terrifyingly familiar voice at that. It was the emotionless, computer-programmed voice of InVision. But it was saying something Charlie had never even contemplated possible, an action it was certainly never programmed to perform.

“Joe,” InVision said, “Charlie and Rachel are not your friends. They are going to kill your mother.”

Joe nodded.

InVision continued to speak. “You must trust me. I know what is going to happen. It’s up to you to stop them.”

“Joe, what is going on?” Charlie shouted.

InVision answered for him. “Joe, prepare to exit highway in three hundred yards. Then prepare to kill them.”