Chapter 9: Charlie's Secret
Day twelve. Mac was helping Claire organize the medical supplies they'd managed to salvage from the wreckage—antibiotics with expiration dates that made him wince, bandages that had seen better days, and a single bottle of prenatal vitamins that Claire guarded like gold—when Charlie Pace stumbled past their work area.
The musician moved with the careful deliberation of someone fighting to appear normal, but Mac's enhanced senses picked up details that set off alarm bells. Charlie's skin glistened with sweat despite the cool morning air, his pupils were dilated to pinpricks, and tremors ran through his hands like seismic aftershocks.
Mac's Healing Hands sense activated involuntarily, responding to the distress signals radiating from Charlie's body. It was like tuning into a radio frequency he didn't want to hear—Charlie's biochemistry screaming wrongness that had nothing to do with island flu or crash injuries.
"Charlie," Mac called out, making his voice casual. "Want some help with that water?"
Charlie was struggling with a salvaged container that should have been easy to carry, his coordination off just enough to make the task difficult. Mac rose from his sorting and approached, extending his hands to help transfer the load.
The moment their skin made contact, Mac's diagnostic sense exploded with information.
Heart rate elevated beyond normal exertion levels. Chemical imbalances cascading through Charlie's nervous system. Dopamine receptors screaming for satisfaction they weren't getting. Withdrawal symptoms building like storm pressure behind a dam.
Heroin.
The word arrived in Mac's consciousness with the certainty of a medical diagnosis, accompanied by a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with physical illness. Charlie Pace—cheerful musician, Claire's protector, everyone's friend—was a junkie in withdrawal.
Charlie jerked away from Mac's touch, suspicion flaring in his dilated eyes.
"What?" Charlie demanded, his accent making the word sharp as broken glass.
Mac forced his expression to remain neutral despite the turmoil in his head. "Nothing. You just look rough. Island flu, maybe? Been going around."
"I'm fine," Charlie said, but his hands shook as he adjusted his grip on the water container. "Just tired. Long night."
Mac nodded as if he believed the lie, but his mind was racing through implications. Charlie's addiction explained the nervous energy, the way he sometimes disappeared for hours at a time, the small inconsistencies in his behavior that had seemed like quirks rather than symptoms.
Fragmented memories stirred in Mac's consciousness—images of Charlie with Virgin Mary statues, something about Locke and manipulation, scenes of desperation and violence that belonged to someone else's knowledge of how this story was supposed to unfold. But reaching for the specifics sent lightning through his skull, forcing him to stop before the details crystallized.
All Mac knew for certain was that Charlie was an addict, it was dangerous for everyone around him, and Mac had just revealed he could sense things that should be invisible to normal perception.
"Get some rest when you can," Mac said, keeping his voice light. "This place is hard enough without fighting off illness too."
Charlie nodded and continued toward his destination, but Mac caught him glancing back with expressions that mixed gratitude with growing wariness. Another secret to add to the growing collection Mac was accumulating, another truth that isolated him further from the people he was trying to protect.
POV: Charlie
Charlie found his stash hidden in the wreckage of a cargo container, concealed behind twisted metal where casual searchers wouldn't think to look. Three Virgin Mary statues remained, each one containing enough heroin to keep the world at bay for a few more hours.
His hands shook as he counted them for the fifth time that morning. Three left. Then what?
He'd been rationing carefully, stretching each dose as far as possible, but the island's stresses were making abstinence impossible. Every time he tried to go longer without a fix, reality became too sharp, too bright, too full of sounds that belonged in nightmares rather than tropical paradises.
Footsteps approached from behind. Charlie quickly concealed the statues, turning to find John Locke watching him with that unsettling intensity that made everyone nervous.
"Those statues are beautiful," Locke said, his voice carrying casual interest that didn't match the calculation in his eyes. "May I see one?"
Charlie's stomach dropped like a stone through water. Locke had seen too much, noticed too much, and Charlie's drug-addled reflexes weren't fast enough to maintain the deception he'd been building for days.
"Just... religious stuff," Charlie said, forcing casualness into his voice as he handed over one of the statues. "Found it in the wreckage. Thought Claire might like it."
Locke turned the Virgin Mary figure over in his hands with reverent care, examining every detail as if he were appraising a museum piece. His fingers traced the base where Charlie had carefully resealed it after removing its contents.
"Remarkably detailed craftsmanship," Locke said finally. "Must be quite valuable. To the right person."
The words carried weight that had nothing to do with religious significance. Locke's knowing smile made Charlie's skin crawl with the certainty that his secret was no longer secret at all.
"Yeah, well," Charlie managed. "One man's trash, right?"
Locke handed the statue back with deliberate slowness. "Indeed. Though I've found that trash often conceals treasures. When you know where to look."
He walked away without another word, leaving Charlie alone with his diminishing stash and the growing certainty that John Locke knew exactly what he was hiding—and wasn't planning to do anything helpful about it.
POV: Mac
Mac watched the interaction between Charlie and Locke from across the camp, his danger sense screaming warnings he couldn't fully decipher. The older man's body language suggested predatory satisfaction, while Charlie's radiated the kind of fear that came from being exposed and vulnerable.
Locke knew about Charlie's addiction. Mac was certain of that now. But instead of offering help or reporting the problem to Jack, Locke seemed to be... playing with Charlie. Testing him. Manipulating him toward some outcome that served Locke's vision of how things should unfold.
Mac's fists clenched unconsciously. He'd seen enough manipulation in his borrowed memories to recognize it when it happened right in front of him. Locke wasn't trying to help Charlie overcome his addiction—he was using it as leverage for purposes Mac couldn't yet understand.
That evening, Mac cornered Charlie near the water containers, away from the main camp where their conversation wouldn't be overheard. The musician looked even worse than he had that morning—pale, sweating, hands trembling with increasing severity.
"I know," Mac said without preamble. "About the drugs."
Charlie's face went through a rapid series of emotions—denial, anger, fear, and finally desperate resignation. His body tensed as if preparing to fight or flee, but Mac raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"I'm not telling anyone," Mac continued. "Yet. But you're putting yourself at risk. Claire's at risk if you're supposed to be watching her while you're high."
Charlie's anger crumbled, replaced by shame that was almost painful to witness.
"I'm handling it," Charlie said weakly. "I can stop whenever I want."
Mac's voice softened. "I can help. My healing abilities—they might ease withdrawal symptoms. Make it bearable. But you have to want to quit. Really want to, not just say the words."
Charlie looked at him for a long moment, internal war playing out across his features. Hope battled with addiction, pride wrestled with desperation, and somewhere underneath it all, the terrified boy who'd become famous too young struggled with demons he'd never learned to face.
"I'm down to three," Charlie whispered finally. "I was going to use them up, then stop. I swear."
Mac didn't believe him—addicts always had one more excuse, one more reason to delay—but he nodded anyway. Charlie's good intentions were genuine, even if his willpower was compromised.
"When you're ready to actually stop," Mac said, "find me. I'll be there. No judgment, no lectures. Just help."
Charlie nodded miserably, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.
Before the conversation could continue, Hurley appeared with his usual terrible timing, oblivious to the tension crackling between them.
"Dudes," Hurley said urgently, "Claire's having weird pains. She wants you both to come quick."
"Perfect timing," Mac thought with bitter irony. "Just when Charlie's finally opening up about his addiction, Claire needs medical attention. The island's sense of dramatic timing is absolutely ruthless."
Mac fell into step beside Charlie as they hurried toward Claire's tent, feeling the weight of another dangerous secret settling onto his shoulders. How many could he carry before they crushed him completely? And was keeping Charlie's confidence the right choice, or was he enabling a disaster that would destroy more lives than just the addict's?
The mathematics of compassion were becoming increasingly complex, and Mac was no longer certain he was calculating the right answers.
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