Delirious by Daniel Palmer Page A

were the punch line.
    Charlie didn’t flinch.
    “No, really. What for?” Randal asked.
    “I told you,” Charlie said.
    Two more shots came along with the Guinness round Randal had ordered. This time Randal downed one before Charlie even lifted his off the bar.
    “Are you serious?”
    Charlie nodded.
    “What were you thinking?” Randal asked.
    “I’m thinking I don’t remember any of it. I’m thinking that fucked-up things are happening to me.”
    “Like what?” Randal asked.
    Charlie told him about the e-mail exchange and subsequent meeting with Anne Pedersen. Then about the PowerPoint presentation that supposedly Jerry Schmidt had authored but that somehow it had his name and not Jerry’s in the document’s “created by” property, and how Anne Pedersen apparently didn’t even work at Solu-Cent to begin with. He confided about the strange cryptic notes he’d been leaving himself, about his meeting with Dr. Rachel Evans at Wal-derman, and lastly about the morning’s confrontation in Mac’s office.
    “I’m screwed,” Charlie said. “Totally screwed.”
    Randal let out a sigh. “Your family history isn’t good, Giles. Tell me again what that doctor said.”
    “She’s not an M.D., but she’s an expert on mental health, especially schizophrenia,” Charlie said. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. How could he, an MIT graduate, a successful entrepreneur, be schizophrenic? It wasn’t fathomable. And yet there was his family history to account for. A father and brother both afflicted with the illness. It was an inescapable truth.
    Randal took a healthy sip of his beer and thought a moment.
    “At the Bureau I have my fair share of cases involving that disease, Charlie,” he began. “I have to say, I’m no expert, but you’re a bit late in life to be developing symptoms. Mostly it happens in teenagers and young adults.”
    Charlie nodded. “I know. That’s what Rachel said as well. She suggested I have an MRI. Maybe there’s some sort of lesion, a tumor, or something on my brain. It could cause similar symptoms. It’s a theory, at least.”
    “Any other theories?” Randal asked.
    “Sure. Somebody is out to get me,” Charlie said.
    “Makes sense,” Randal said.
    “It would if paranoia wasn’t a symptom of schizophrenia,” Charlie said.
    “Do you think somebody is setting you up?”
    “Of course,” Charlie said, almost letting out a smile. “That’s why I’m crazy.”
    “Seriously?” Randal asked. His expression was both grave and concerned.
    “I don’t know, Randal,” Charlie said. “I wish it was that. I really do. A few days ago I would have said yes, but now I’m not sure. Nothing is adding up. Mac and Leon deny they had anything to do with it. Not that they’d just go and confess. And I don’t know anybody else who would have such a vendetta. And how does it explain everything—Anne Pedersen, the PowerPoint, the e-mail, the notes? It’s too much for even me to believe somebody could pull that off.”
    “I don’t know,” was all Randal could think of to say.
    “Believe it or not, the espionage is what’s really getting me. I mean, it’s all so unbelievable and out of character for me. You know how strongly I feel about protecting company secrets. You know what I had to do when that trust was broken before.”
    “Have you forgiven yourself for that?” Randal asked. “Do you think it’s catching up with you? Maybe this has all been triggered by some suppressed guilt.”
    “It wasn’t my fault,” Charlie said. “He made his choices. I didn’t make them for him.” Charlie looked away. He had enough on his plate without reliving that nightmare.
    “So where does this leave you?” Randal asked. He nursed the few remaining sips of his beer.
    “Nowhere, I guess,” Charlie said. “Unemployed. Unemployable. Crazy.”
    “Charlie, you know I’m here for you,” Randal said. “Are you telling me everything? I mean, are you in any legal