Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alleyway- a narrow passageway
Don checked his gear, pulled out his gun and counted down from three, waited for the battering ram to bust in the apartment building's outside door before he began running inside, scrambling down to the basement while other agents ran up and spread out, scattering throughout the building, searching.
Eleven little boys, each snatched from a park within feet of where their mothers had been standing. Later, ten found dead, each found in a different dump spot; tortured and mutilated before death, molested after the last of their breath had long left their bodies, their innards torn out and unable to be located by the crime scene investigators. Don and his team had been given the case after the fifth child, and it would take the death of that many more before they identified a viable suspect and located the building that he used as a home base, reports that he had been seen walking around on the topmost floor, all within hours of when the eleventh boy had been reported missing.
The large Bureau task force had been gathered together and as one had surged here, to this building, the last leg of an abandoned apartment complex located at the edge of a dead-end street, far from the majority of the population of L.A., the single road leading to the kidnapper's den a broken channel of dilapidated and barren homes, a child's scream impossible to hear for miles around.
But Don had somehow managed it. While other agents threw open rotten doors and tore apart the upper rooms in a vain search for the boy and his own personal monster, Don had remembered that vile predators always hid in the cover of the night and where better to find perpetual darkness than the basement, so he headed there instead. Down, down he went- the stairway so narrow and pitch-black he felt like he was slipping down a mineshaft, only knowing where to put his feet through the experience of other raids and by the merciful grace of God. And when he reached a thick door at the bottom, he slammed through it with a force he did not think a truck could possess whether alone his body, not missing a step as he continued on, finally slowing when he reached the far wall and flicked on a flashlight, searching.
He's here, I know he is.
But all around him was emptiness. Cobwebs, dripping water down a wall, broken glass in a corner, a large rat hiding in its hole, wood sealing in the windows and the contents of the building- and us too, Don thought. We're in the belly of the beast and I know he's here, because that son of a bitch swallowed him like the animal he is, that's what they do, take them and feast on them and eat them, sucking them down their throats into their gullets and I know this is where he is, I can feel it, dammit, I can feel it.
But Don saw and heard nothing that indicated they were anywhere nearby. Finally conceding defeat, he began to head towards the stairway, wondering how his gut feeling could be so far off the mark.
"Please, Mom, make him stop."
Don stopped, turned around and leaned forward, his flashlight down and his gun held up at the ready, tilting his head to the side so he could concentrate on locating the direction of the cry.
"Please, Mom."
Striding forward, Don ran his hand up and down the wall in front of him. It was drywall, easily put into place, smooth, dirty, new, thin strips of light framing it in its entirety, supplied by a source on its other side- Don's fingertips pressing along the edge till, there, hidden hinges poorly put in place, a knot in the center of the opposite edge.
A doorway.
Don walked back several paces, quietly described his position to the rest of the agents and then went back to the makeshift door, took three breaths, yanked it open, drove in with a mission.
Light bouncing as a bare bulb swung back and forth, the crying boy hidden under a dark figure, oddly formed objects jutting out from the wall at bold angles, Don screaming for the shape to stop, put his hands in the air, release him, horror on the boy's face as an arm swung upwards, ready to plunge a twelve-inch knife-
Blast!
One large body falling while two others rushed towards each other, tiny arms circling the neck of the stronger one, both breathing heavily in desperate attempts to take in air, frightened of what had happened, what could have happened, what had almost happened- of the dead man who lay still on the floor and all the evil that had once animated his now lifeless body slowly flowing from him in lines that ended in thick, gelling pools.
When the rest of Don's team arrived, they found the agent sitting on the floor cross-legged, the small boy sitting in his lap. Upon realizing the dead man continued to have a grip on his knife, the team members were not surprised to see that tears were flowing as a release from the fear and anxiety that came from being so close to death. However, they were amazed to see they were absent from the face of the young boy and were completely inundating the face of their boss instead.
The boy smiled at them while he reassuringly patted Don on the back, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.
Later, after the boy had been carried away and when the room had been fully illuminated, the team had discovered the objects sticking close to the walls of the room were varied-shaped vases filled with the rotting innards of the other missing boys.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bobby Rogers tramped down the street, kicking a can every few feet, not knowing there was actually history behind his current choice in occupying the long day. It had been raining on and off, which prevented him from going to the park or even hanging at the corner with his crew. They were spoiled suburbanites like he was and even a little taste of foul weather sent them scurrying back inside to their computers, mp3 players, and game consoles, something Bobby refused to do.
If you were going to play punk, you did it right.
That meant gloomy weather was something you welcomed, not hid away from as if it could melt you like the witch in that movie he'd seen ages ago. Okay, it was really just a few weeks ago, but he couldn't admit he actually enjoyed fluffy little movies like that.
Munchkins were definitely not punk.
The lanky teenager continued down the street, humming the few strands of music he remembered from the movie, inattentive as he left the neighborhoods he normally traversed and made a side trip into no man's land, not noticing that the houses filled with desperate life were slowly being replaced with empty buildings of deadwood and forgotten despair.
Bobby often took the bus downtown L.A. and bravely walked its streets until nearly dusk. Today's trip had begun like all the other ones he'd made. He had started rambling along from the moment he stepped off the bus, gravely thinking about life, the universe, his future, friends- and now, embarrassingly, yellow brick roads and poppies. After giving the can a good kick, Bobby followed its path until it landed against the side of a building. The teenager's eyes took in the building, slowly realizing he had never seen one like that before. Well, not in this area. Warehouses were on the outskirts of town, not anywhere close to his usual walking path.
Which meant he wasn't on his usual walking path.
For the first time in over four hours, Bobby lifted his eyes from the sidewalk and took in his surroundings.
This is not good, he thought.
He had never seen any of these buildings on his prior walks. The teenager stared up and down the streets, trying to find a landmark or shop that would indicate to him where his present location was. But there was nothing. All of the buildings were boarded up, none of the businesses open. Suddenly scared, the teenager began to quickly walk up the road from which he'd come, but found at the juncture of it and the first cross street he came to that all of the adjacent neighborhoods were broken down and abandoned.
And he couldn't remember which of those forlorn streets he had come down to get to where he currently was. Never once had he paid attention to the names of the streets, not now or on any of his previous ventures. Somehow, he had always managed to get back to where he had started from; unfortunately, he knew that would not be true this time.
Bobby tried not to panic. He had a cell phone and could call his mom, ask her to pick him up.
Crap!
No, that wasn't a good idea. She'd kill him. Or if she had mercy and left him alive, he'd be grounded at least two weeks.
I told you not to go downtown, didn't I?
Okay, think. What else? Okay, okay- I can call Karen. She can come and-
Crap!
No, she's grounded from her car. Now what?
Before Bobby could think any further, his eyes caught sight of movement down one of the cross streets. Like a man dying of thirst, he ran down the street, coming upon a bar that was just opening up.
TECHNOS was spelled out in neon lights above the door.
Bobby slowed down and approached the bar. At seventeen, he knew he could not enter the establishment, but maybe he could yell in and ask for help. A few directions and he would be back in business. Picking up speed again, he headed for the sanctity of the building and was several yards from the front door when out stepped a poorly dressed but thickly built man. Bobby's eyes went wide when the man turned towards the still-open door of the bar and let loose a stream of profanity. The man was clearly drunk. Bobby stopped short of the bar's entrance, leery of the man.
The man wavered back and forth on his feet.
Bobby stepped back nervously. Suddenly, the man's eyes were on the teenager, at first propped open while running up and down the thin youth, narrowing as he saw the expensive cell phone hanging from Bobby's belt and then traveling along the chain beside it that the man supposed led to the teenager's wallet, which it did. Suburbanite or not, Bobby recognized the threat that appeared in the man's gaze, so he bolted, confident he could outrun him. That confidence was quickly shattered when he heard the guy yell into the bar for backup. Bobby looked around him for a place to hide, a building to go into, but everything was boarded up. Fear running rampant inside him, he ducked down an alley, pushed forward on and on, turned to his right down a narrower corridor and found himself at a dead end. He turned around and around, found no way out other than the opening through which he had just come.
Gotta be someplace I can hide, he thought fearfully.
The sound of voices startled him from his immobility. Somebody was following and would soon catch up to him. Terrified, Bobby searched about him one last time, finally noticing a dumpster pushed into a corner near a building in the midst of being demolished. Taking a chance, he lifted its lid and noted that it was mainly filled with old, mildewed furniture. He grabbed a nearby box, stood on it and propelled himself inside, a gasp escaping his lips when he hit the cardboard-covered bottom and the lid shut with a bang. Smartly, he pulled several chair cushions over his head and waited.
A short time later, someone banged along the outside of the container, lifted the lid, hesitated, mumbled a comment, dropped it with a loud clang and then moved on, a duo of voices fading away as the sound of footsteps receded.
Sighing in relief, Bobby sat up and rested his back against the inside of the dumpster. He tried to use his cell phone, but could get no reception. Okay, he would wait a while and then, once he was sure no one was waiting for him, he would jump out of here and immediately use his cell to call his mom and beg her to come pick him up, Bobby no longer caring if he would be grounded- even if it was for life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charlie flipped open his cell phone and crisply asked, "Where the hell are you?"
Don winced. "I have some paperwork I need to finish. I'm sorry Buddy, but it doesn't look like I can make it."
Charlie waved at an alumnus standing far across the room. The youngest Eppes smiled through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his composure. "You promised, Don. It's the only thing I've asked you to do in…in…months. No, make that years. And I made promises to other people because I trusted you to come through for me."
"I know, Buddy, I'm real sorry," Don leaned back in his office chair, wiping his brow with the side of his hand, frowning as he asked, "Can't I meet them some other time? This can't be the only luncheon the math department will have this year."
"No, it won't be. But I won't need you at any of those other luncheons- I need you now, at this one." Getting nothing but another apology from Don, Charlie sighed. "Fine, I'll invite them to Dad's party tonight. Just promise you'll be there on time."
"I promise, Charlie. I already have my shift covered- the team's shifts, too. They left for the day a few minutes ago and will be showing up right on time for the party."
"They're not the people I'm concerned about- they seem to have less of a problem keeping their promises to me than my own brother."
"I'm sorry, Buddy."
Don clicked his phone shut and turned to the paperwork in front of him. He had actually finished it hours before, but for some reason, could not pull himself away from all of the facts it contained.
It had been almost three days since they had stopped the murderer of those ten little boys and managed to just barely rescue the eleventh one. I stopped him, Don thought glumly, by shooting him in the back. Who could have known it would be the kind of hit that missed all the bones and shot straight through the body, tearing the heart apart in the process? It had been such a perfect hit that several of his fellow agents had asked him about his technique.
Don had walked away from them without answering.
No matter how evil a person was, Don hated when he had to take a life. It was a power he sometimes wished he did not have, the right to decide to terminate another person's life, to make a decision that could not be reversed, no matter what the science fiction books claimed.
It left him second-guessing himself sometimes, wondering if there had been another choice. Most times, the choice was an obvious one and he did not doubt himself. Other times, like in this case, Don had spent so much time channeling his anger and frustration into finding the perpetrator that when he finally confronted the guy and ended up killing him, he would get a momentary feeling of satisfaction that made him question whether he had killed the man because it was him or the perp- or because he had wanted to fulfill a personal desire for vengeance.
In either case, the end result was the same for the perpetrator.
Added to his doubts over killing the murderer was his guilt over having been too late to save the other five boys. Don was not unrealistic. He knew he was not accountable for the first five, as he had yet to be handed the case before they disappeared. However, the next five were his responsibility to keep safe and in this he had failed to do. No matter they caught the perpetrator long before anyone thought they could, or the fact that all the members of his team had received commendations for a job well done. All Don knew was that he had been unable to prevent the death of the five that had been his responsibility and this failure was gnawing at his bones.
At least, that was the way he was feeling now. After a case, it was not unusual for him to experience the residual grime that any obscene crime left behind. This time, though, it was harder to scrub it off, something about the case having burrowed under Don's skin and crawled down to his bone marrow, setting up residence as if it would never leave.
It was a habit of Don's to have a few beers and spend time with his family in order to dig out this type of emotional parasite, but Don had forfeited that routine the last two nights, not wanting to burden them with his problems at a time when they were busy with issues in their own lives. His father had spent the last week trying to land a major account and though he was now in a chipper mood after having closed it earlier that morning, up until then he had spent all of his time wringing his hands and worrying. Charlie had been preoccupied with the luncheon for the math department, as well as a birthday party for their father that was now going to serve the duo purpose of celebrating his father's newly acquired account. It was to be held that night, Charlie having made preparations well in advance and having received no help at all from his elder brother, another source of guilt that had attached itself to Don.
No, Don did not want to lay his baggage on them at this point in time. It could wait. Tonight was for toasting success and the obtainment of another year of life, not for mourning failure and the loss of five others.
Don glanced at the time and was surprised to see that the entire afternoon had passed since he had last talked to Charlie. He regretted having lied to his brother, first about the paperwork and second about being on time to the party. Don knew he could not spend the entire night in a room full of jovial family members and friends when he himself was in an opposing mood. So, he had decided long before calling Charlie that he would go very late, at a time when the festivities were dying down and he could find a nice corner to hide in-
-After he finished talking to the CalSci alumni, of course.
Charlie was seeking funds to enable his department to expand their applied mathematics curriculum. And what better way to convince the alumni of the validity of such funding than to show them the results of his own personal work with the F.B.I.? Charlie had relied on his own knowledge of mathematics to discuss the details of this work, but he had been counting on Don to supply the pizzazz- the end results of his mathematical efforts, when Don and his buddies would take the information written on boring paper and apply it to the field. Charlie knew his brother was a charmer and would captivate the alumni with stories filled with action and guns and drugs and gangsters and raids to save people, sometimes arriving at the last minute before a bomb went off or a victim was killed.
Charlie was 99.82 per cent positive the combination of rational thought and daring deeds would win the alumni over and his department would have funding for the next half decade at the very least.
Only, he had been let down by me, Don thought miserably. Knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, he called Charlie.
"Hey, bro," Charlie answered cheerfully, "You heading over?"
"No, Charlie. I haven't finished with that paperwork yet."
There was silence through the phone. Don nervously waited to hear his brother's response, anticipating it would not be good.
"Don," Charlie started slowly, his brother able to picture the younger man tugging agitatedly on a lock of hair, "you promised me that you would be on time. The party starts in less than an hour."
"I'm sorry, but this report has to be finished."
"Not right now it doesn't." The frustration that had been growing in Charlie came steadily through the phone. "I don't understand what the problem is. It's bad enough you lied to me about talking at the luncheon. But this is Dad's birthday party and he's going to want you here- and not at midnight or later when you can slink in so nobody notices you, but early on when he can be sure you were actually here."
Don shook his head, swiping a hand through his own hair. It was amazing how well Charlie knew him.
"I'm sorry, Buddy. I know I promised- and you and Dad deserve more from me, but I can't make it till later. Honestly, midnight sounds about right."
"That's not good enough!" Charlie snapped into the phone. "None of my prospective donors will be here past 6:30. You know, every time you ask me for a favor, I come running like a dog to his master. Do you know how many seminars I have passed up and how many invitations to lecture that I declined just so I could run some numbers for you, sometimes on cases that weren't even that significant in the long run or that you solved halfway through my computating? Never once have I complained- not one single time." Charlie paused, sighed. "Okay, forget helping me with the math department- now all I'm asking in return for all the help I've given you is for you to show up at a party I've been working on for over a month- not for me, but for our father."
"I'm sorry for not thanking you enough for all you've done for me."
"Don't tell me thanks, Don. I want you to show me thanks. It's obviously too much to ask that you show up in time to speak to the alumni, but I don't think I'm asking too much when I say you need to be here at our home earlier, not later tonight- for Dad's sake, not mine."
Don was silent. He had expected Charlie to be upset, but he was surprised to hear the anger in his voice. Don began nervously tapping his fingers on the desk. "Okay, I'll see if I can leave by nine-thirty."
"No deal- if you leave that late, you won't get here until ten-thirty at the earliest- if you're lucky enough to avoid running into any traffic delays; and it's Friday night, so you know there're going to be delays. Look, it's already five o'clock, so just punch out and call it a night- you can be here by six-thirty easy- seven if you have to be difficult about it. Hell, I'll settle for eight."
"Buddy, I swear, I just can't get away"-
"Stop making excuses that I don't want to hear. Either get here by eight or don't bother showing up at all. And Don, if you can't drag your ass over here by then, in the future you can just consider yourself person non grata as pertains to me and my house- period ."
Don pulled his phone from his ear and stared at it, stunned that Charlie had hung up on him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charlie put away his cell phone and went into his kitchen. Carefully, he began to gather packages of plastic cups and carry them to the buffet in the dining room. The table was already set up to carry the large assortment of prepared food he had ordered and picked up on the way home from the mathematics luncheon. Opening the packages and arranging the cups on the buffet, Charlie thought about his brother.
Megan had called him after she had arrived at her apartment, confiding in Charlie that his brother had been in a real mood since their last case- a particularly nasty one that Don had pointedly not discussed with Charlie.
"We almost lost a victim, Charlie," Megan told him, "for some reason, Don hasn't been able to get over it."
"He once told me that his mind is often a bad neighborhood to be in when a case is over."
"That's true about a lot of us. But we eventually find our way out of it and head back home again after the final papers are filed. That was this morning."
"So, what's wrong? He can't find his way back home?"
"Yes, Charlie, I think that's exactly it."
"Is it possible to tell me something about what happened? I might be able to get a handle on what's really bothering Don."
"I can't be specific, but I can tell you some generalities about the case. On Tuesday, we raided this empty apartment building the perp was using as his hideout and Don went off on his own, heading downstairs to the basement. Our perp was there, right in the process of killing his next victim- a child, Charlie. Don stopped him, but it was close. Real close- maybe too close."
"Did he have to kill the perpetrator? I know Don hates when he has to use lethal force."
"Yes, Charlie, he did."
"Then that must be a part of the problem."
"I know you're right, because I have seen the bad moods Don gets in after he has made a kill. But there's something more going on and I think it has more to do with the child he saved than the perp he killed. When everything was over, that child, a little boy, he didn't seem as upset about what had almost happened as Don did himself. The boy seemed to take it so well I even thought twice about sending him to the hospital- but protocal dictates we had to in order to have him thoroughly checked out. Thing is, Don insisted on putting the child in the ambulance himself and when it drove away, he stood at the end of the street and stared after it, like he was little boy lost and was being left behind. I've never seen him look so depressed when sending away someone we saved- someone we lost, sure, but not a survivor."
"I suppose he hasn't said anything to you?"
"No, he hasn't. Of course, he had to see the department shrink, but by now he probably knows the right things to say and the correct emotions to show in order to stay in the field."
"You mean he's a good fake."
"Yes, that's exactly it."
"Thanks for the heads up, Megan."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Well," Charlie had told her, "I am going to use every upset-little-brother trick I know to get him to come as early as possible tonight. Don always thinks he should solve his problems on his own- that is, until he's surrounded by his family and friends and is reminded that he doesn't have to."
"Sounds like a plan. See you later, Charlie. I'll be on hand to help."
And Charlie had done as promised, sounding as angry and upset with Don as he ever had, the crowning effect being when he hung up on him. The result was that the conversation had ended on an extremely sour note and if Charlie knew his brother well, then Don would already be heading over to sweeten it up with an apology. Charlie knew he would have to pretend to be hurt and that Don would then offer to do anything to make it up to him.
Participation would be Charlie's price for forgiveness and hopefully, when Don was done paying the fee, he would have found his way back home again, leaving behind that dark neighborhood in which his mind was insisting on residing.
Come home, Don, come home.