I orginally came up with this as a Colby centric story but decided that it would work better like this. Obviously I own nothing and no body. Next chapter up soon.
The storage locker door was stiff and hard to push up into its roller home but Don didn't need to see into the gloom to know that beyond the metal strips was another victim of the media's latest favourite monster; the sharp smell of blood flowed out and over his FBI team as the door clattered upwards. The strip lights blinked on and cast their cold light on a scene that was all too familiar from photos of the other crime scenes. Don knew that there would be a victim and behind them words painted in red spelling out what the killer was seeking to gain from his latest kill. True to form there was a figure at the far end of the room. He was tied to a frame work so that he was effectively standing, his arms outstretched to form a cruciform shape. On the floor, placed beneath both arms was a bowl slowly filling with the blood that was dripping from the poor man's lacerated wrists. The bowls were about a third full, maybe half of a pint in each, perhaps a bit more. Something clicked in Don's head.
"He's still alive!" he yelled and rushed to get to the man, hoping to stem the flow before he completely bled out; ignoring the need to fully check that the room was clear first. He was already half way across the room when a horrific realisation hit him, almost knocking him to the floor momentarily. Behind the bent head of the victim, behind the mass of black curls, was one word in foot high red letters – knowledge.
"Charlie!" Don screamed as he reached his baby brother. He lifted the bent head, praying fervently that he was wrong. Gotta be wrong, no, no, no, no, but as he raised the face to the level of his own all his hope was banished as Charlie's pale face - God, too pale – met his gaze. He shook Charlie's face a little, trying to elicit some sort of response. He was dimly aware that either side of him, people were cutting the ropes that pinned his brother to the metal frame, yelling, pressing cloth onto Charlie's wrists, and desperately trying to staunch the blood as Charlie's life flowed out of him and onto the concrete floor. He supported Charlie's weight as his bonds were cut and he slumped into Don's arms. Slowly, the two brothers slid to the floor, one wrapping his arms round the other as he collapsed onto the cold and now blood soaked concrete, pleading with him to stay, to wake up, to fight. As Don sat on the floor, cradling Charlie and trying not to cry, a malicious thought popped into his head, twisting its poisonous barbs deep into his conscience: He tried to warn you about this. Charlie knew, he'd worked it out that he next thing the guy would be after would be brains, knowledge. And you sent him away. Still angry about the stabbing weren't you, despite what you said. Well, you wanted to hurt him and congratulations you've done just that.
Don hugged his brother closer and sobbed, not caring who saw. Only one thing mattered, That was that Charlie lived. Everything else could go to hell.