Fugitive (11 page)

Freddy's death was the only downer for Charlie in the whirlwind that became his life after prison. Within days of his release he was on Oprah and the Today show, and he learned that Tom Cruise was interested in playing him in the movie. No longer did Charlie sleep in the upper bunk of a prison cell; now he slept on silk sheets in a Manhattan apartment that his publisher let him use while he was working on the book.

Charlie stayed away from drugs, which were offered at the many parties he attended, and he didn't get drunk, because he liked to keep his wits about him, but he did not stay away from the ladies. Charlie could not believe the variety of women who begged him to take them to bed. There were black women, white women, and Asian women. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads. There were women who were attracted to celebrities; there were women who wanted to have sex with a rich man; and there were women who were fascinated by dangerous felons, which was how Charlie began portraying himself. No one in his new circle of acquaintances had ever heard of him or Freddy before the prison standoff, so they accepted his new and improved version of Charlie Marsh, the extremely violent felon who had experienced a miraculous conversion.

Mickey Keys, his newly acquired agent, a fast-talking, red-haired, freckle-faced man of forty-two who was frenetically cheerful, had given him the idea when he joked that it would help sell books if Charlie had a more exciting name. As soon as his agent made this comment, Charlie realized that not only was his name as dull as the image a marsh conjured, but so was his life story. His parents had been decent, hardworking folks whose only sin was spoiling their only child. Charlie had turned to crime because he was lazy, and the only violence his escapades ever caused occurred when he was beaten up by a mark who caught on to his scam.

On the other hand, Freddy Clayton's life resembled a Shakespearean tragedy or a really good soap opera. Freddy had been an abused child. Television talk show hosts loved that dysfunctional-family shit. Freddy had committed murders and armed robberies. He'd had hairbreadth escapes from the law, and violent fights. Few people beside Charlie knew the facts of Freddy's life or his, for that matter. Who could contradict him if he took a few incidents from Freddy's saga and claimed them for his own? Their parents were dead, and so were many of the witnesses to Freddy's deeds. Oh, there was the odd living acquaintance, but most of those in the know had prison records. Who would take their word over a hero' s, and how many of them had outstanding warrants that would be executed if they stepped forward? Charlie convinced himself that his book would be a homage to Crazy Freddy if he claimed his friend's life as his own.

Most of his interviews had focused on the prison standoff, and Charlie had been vague when an interviewer asked him about his past. He hadn't started working with the ghostwriter who would actually write his book, either, so no one knew what he was going to say in his autobiography. Charlie spent the next month revising the outline his agent had suggested he write. By the time he met the ghostwriter, his autobiography contained accounts of knife fights and bare-fisted brawls, in which Charlie emerged victorious, as well as murders and other illegal endeavors. In his introduction, Charlie explained that the details of these incidents had to be kept vague because of potential criminal liability. There were also hints of a childhood in which he had been physically and perhaps sexually abused. Charlie knew that this would make his innocent parents look bad, but they were dead, and anyway, wouldn't a parent be willing to tarnish his or her name a little bit if it helped their child succeed in life after a rocky start?

Of course, the book had an uplifting ending. Charlie talked about the Inner Light that had infused him during his near-death experience, and how being filled with this light had led him to renounce crime and vow to help everyone else on earth find their own Inner Light . Getting a trademark for this phrase was another idea of Mickey Keys' s.

There hadn't really been any light, inner or otherwise. Charlie didn't have a clear recollection of what had happened during the insane moment when he'd thrown himself between the guard and the shiv. The inner-light business had been Mickey's suggestion, too. Well, not an outright suggestion, more a memory of Charlie's that had been elicited by some very pointed questions, such as Did you have any religious experience when you were stabbed? You know, some people who've had near-death experiences claim to see a blinding light. Something like that? That would be great, because talk shows love it when you have a religious conversion or a near-death experience.

Charlie announced the formation of Inner Light, Inc., at the press conference heralding the publication of The Light Within You, which had been hurried into print while the action at the prison was still fresh in the public's mind. At that conference, Charlie also announced that henceforth he would refer to himself as Gabriel Sun, a new name that would commemorate the death of the bandit Charlie Marsh and his rebirth as a bringer of light.

Charlie's autobiography became an instant best-seller. It began in his deprived childhood, detailed the way poverty and abuse had made him a criminal, and explained how his experience with his Inner Light while saving Larry Merritt and Warden Jeffrey Pulliams's belief in him had restored his faith in the goodness of man. Charlie told the attending media representatives how he looked forward to holding seminars in the cities on his book tour so he could help troubled people find their Inner Light. There would be a nominal fee for attendance but, Charlie promised, the benefits to an attendee's personal and spiritual development would far outweigh the price of admission.

The seminars and the concessions that hawked Charlie's book, CDs featuring Charlie's words of wisdom, T-shirts, and other Inner Light paraphernalia produced a river of cash. Charlie had made a living swindling people out of their money, and he found a kindred spirit in Mickey Keys. The agent and his new client began sending the cash in the accounts of Inner Light, Inc., to secret bank accounts in Switzerland as quickly as it came in. Mickey, who had an accounting background, worked up a second set of books for the IRS, and Charlie and Mickey's real financial picture looked very healthy even as it appeared to be anemic in their ledgers.

Charlie held his seminars at each stop on his book tour. They were attended by members of the middle class who longed to be wealthy and successful, and people with wealth who were troubled by their success. If the opportunity presented itself, he would fuck any rich woman who wished to purge her guilt by servicing an all-wise and dangerous ex-con. On occasion, he would have sex with one of the less well off groupies who hung around his book signings. That's what he was doing after a very lucrative seminar at Yale University when he was startled in mid-thrust by Mickey Keys's unannounced entry into his hotel bedroom.

What the fuck! Charlie shouted, furious at being interrupted. The coed he'd been banging was as delicious as a peach and as tight as a drum.

Keys ignored Charlie and turned on the television. Watch this.

It better be great.

It's better than great, Charlie. Now, pay attention.

It was night on the screen. Flames could be seen flicking out of a few barred windows, and the spotlight of a police helicopter illuminated the prison grounds and the National Guard and state troopers massed before the high walls.

Why did you need to interrupt the best fuck I've had all year to show me a prison? I' m trying to forget prison.

You'll want to get reacquainted when you hear my idea. This is a shot of the Oregon State Penitentiary. Early this morning, a fight erupted between a Latino gang and members of the Aryan Brotherhood. When guards tried to intervene, several were taken hostage and the fight turned into a full-scale riot.

What's your point? Charlie whined, upset that his boner had begun to wilt.

We' re going to Oregon, where you will offer your services as a negotiator to help end the insurrection at the prison.

Oregon? I don't even know where the fuck that is.

The national press knows where it is. This is the lead story on every network and all the cable news shows.

Mickey, you don't know squat about this kind of shit. The authorities aren't going to let me anywhere near the prison.

Mickey smiled. That's probably true but you'll get tons of free publicity if they do. And if the governor won't let you talk to the rioters, you look like a good guy who's just trying to help. No matter how the riot ends, you come out smelling like a rose and you get tons of free air time.

What about the book tour?

I talked to your publisher. They agree that you should go. They' re already setting up a seminar at the home of a lawyer who published a book with them.

Charlie lay back in bed. The coed was clutching a sheet to her chest and listening intently to the conversation.

All right, when do we leave?

In about two hours.

Charlie smiled at the girl. That gives us enough time to finish what we started, sweet thing.

Turn off the set and let me get back to my business, Charlie told Keys.

The agent shook his head and left the room. Charlie felt under the sheets until he found a hot, soft place between the coed's legs.

I see you haven't cooled down.

The coed rolled over until she was breast-to-breast with Charlie.

Fuck me hard, Charlie, she whispered, and when you' re done, take me with you to Oregon.

What? Charlie said, pulling away a little.

A hand wrapped around his penis.

I' m wasting my time in college. I' m so unhappy here. I want you to teach me the path to inner peace.

Charlie wasn't in the mood for a philosophical discussion. He also didn't want this broad tagging along to Oregon, even if he had been sincere when he praised her sexual abilities to Mickey Keys.

I hear you, sister, but Charlie started, when the soft, rhythmic motion of her hand made him forget what he was going to say.

Please, Charlie, let me come. I' m smart. I can help, and there are other things I can do for you.

Charlie knew he should say no, but the girl ducked beneath the sheets and the touch of her lips banished all knowledge of the English language from his brain.

D unthorpe was an affluent community on the outskirts of Portland, and Charlie's seminar had been hosted in a Tudor mansion surrounded by several acres of lawn and trees. The mansion was bigger than some he'd been in since he'd become a celebrity and smaller than others. When he was in these penthouses, mansions, and estates, he felt like Alice in Wonderland. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams, but since he'd started holding his seminars he'd met people compared to whom he was a pauper. Where did all this money come from?

There was something else that seemed surreal. Charlie had grown up poor. There were evictions, there were times when there wasn't enough food, and there was violence in his neighborhood and his life. He'd always thought that his problems would be solved if he were rich, but these people were rich and they looked to him for help in finding happiness. He didn't get it.

Charlie was rarely alone during his year and a half in prison or the whirlwind his life had become since regaining his freedom, and he'd come to treasure the rare moments of peace and quiet he was able to salvage from his hectic existence. As soon as he finished signing copies of his book, Charlie slipped through the French windows in the library to get a breath of fresh air. There was a flower garden on the far side of the spacious lawn. Charlie wandered across the manicured grass in its direction. Delmar Epps, a muscular ex-heavyweight boxer Mickey Keys had hired, followed far enough behind to give Charlie the illusion of privacy and close enough to fulfill his duties as a bodyguard.

Everything had gone as Mickey had predicted. The authorities had refused to let Charlie be involved in the negotiations with the prisoners, so he shared none of the blame when two guards and several inmates died in a bloody shoot-out. Charlie was able to go on television and pontificate about the way things might have ended if he had been allowed to bring inner peace to the rebellious souls of the prisoners. As a result of the publicity, Charlie had packed the convention center for a citywide seminar that had brought in a tidy sum. They had also done well in Dunthorpe at this second seminar aimed at a more select audience.

After initially bitching and moaning about having to fly to the boonies, Charlie had finally conceded that he was glad Mickey had dragged him to Portland. Oregon had been a revelation for a man who had been reared in bleak, urban poverty and had just emerged from the gray of prison to take up residence in the concrete caverns of Manhattan. There were clear blue skies here, emerald green grass, and a never-ending vista of trees and flowers. The summer air was warm and unpolluted, and Charlie breathed it in, savoring a gentle breeze as he crossed the lawn.

A high hedge of arborvitae divided the lawn from the garden and muffled a spirited conversation. Charlie wanted to be alone, so he started to change direction. He stopped when a woman's voice rose in anger. Charlie took a step into the garden and peered around the hedge. A man in tan slacks and a forest green polo shirt was arguing with a woman in a light blue dress held up by spaghetti straps.

The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was tan and fit, with the wide shoulders and slender waist of an athlete. Charlie didn't recognize him. But the woman was definitely familiar. She'd stood behind most of the guests at the seminar, wearing a bemused smile that told him she wasn't buying one word of his bullshit. Charlie also remembered the woman because she was stunningly beautiful, with caramel-colored, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes that reminded him of the clear Caribbean waters he'd seen in a television commercial.