Disclaimer; If I owned Numb3rs I would hire the best fanfiction authors as writers for the show and we could all sit back on Friday nights again and enjoy some serious Don and Charlie whumping. Alas, the only Numb3rs related thing I have to call my own are my stories.
No spoilers
Warnings; Rated T (for safety) due to some rough language and violence.
A/N; This could take place in the second or the third season. Personally, I pictured it in the third, simply because I liked Charlie's hair better then. It's just a little scenario I would have loved to have seen on the show.
Summary; Charlie is injured when a rookie agent fails to clear a room at a crime scene and Don demands answers.
Baptism Under Fire
~by MsGrahamCracker~
The files were stacked ten deep on the long table in the conference room of the Los Angeles FBI office. There were three rows of them, fifteen stacks in each row. Special Agents David Sinclair, Colby Granger and Megan Reeves stared at the files – all 450 of them – and exchanged identical looks of dismay. The door opened and their team leader, Don Eppes, walked in, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
"Morning," he greeted them around the wooden stir stick in his mouth, then, "Ah, good, I see they got the files up here."
The three agents looked at one another again and silently David and Colby voted for Megan to say something. She had no problem with that. "Don," she started, "please tell me they're repainting the file room and they just needed a place to store all the files until they're done."
Don shot the profiler an approving look. "That's actually pretty good, Megan, but no, that's not it." He took a sip of coffee then explained. "While we're waiting for forensics on the Leibowitz murder, we need to review all the cases in the last ten years where DNA was the primary evidence. Some hot-shot lawyer had an independent lab run the evidence in his client's case and it didn't exactly match what our lab found. The AD doesn't want any more surprises."
"Don, that's a lot of files!" Colby spoke up. "It's gonna take ... "
"A long time. Yeah, I know." Don's eyes twinkled as he looked at the younger man. "And, I'd love to stay and help you, but I've got to put together a course syllabus for next month's tactical training at Quantico."
The three agents looked at each other, then to their boss. Colby cleared his throat.
"Something wrong?" Don asked.
"I was just wondering if Charlie could ... you know ... whip up one of his algorithms or some other mathy thing and narrow this stack down a bit."
David Sinclair looked at his partner and mouthed "mathy thing?"
Colby shrugged sheepishly.
"What's the matter, Colby," Don teased, "can't handle a little paperwork?"
"A little, yeah, but, this ..." he motioned towards the table, letting the sight of hundreds of files speak for themselves.
Don grinned. "Sorry, you're on your own, Granger. Mitchell's team picked up that espionage case and asked Charlie to give them a hand."
"Mitchell, huh?" David said. "That new rookie from Quantico ended up on Mitchell's team, didn't she? How's she doing?"
Don scrunched his lips together, thoughtfully, before answering. "She's smart; graduated in the top 10 percent of her class. Seems capable enough, I guess, but time will tell."
"She hasn't been under fire yet, has she?" Megan asked. Don shook his head and she continued. "An agent's baptism of fire can be the catalyst for everything else that follows – personal and professional."
"Hey," David grinned, "if she can deal with Mitchell as a team leader, she'll be alright."
Megan made a face of disgust. "He is an arrogant hard-ass, isn't he?"
Don shook his head, walking towards the door and shot back over his shoulder, "Yeah, well, not everyone can be as lucky as you three - getting someone like me for a boss. Now, get on those files."
- - Numb3rs - -
"Clear."
FBI Agent Grace Landon brought her service weapon back to her shoulder, the barrel pointing towards the ceiling, and exited the small bedroom behind her partner, Agent Ralph Abbott. They moved with precision down the hallway to another bedroom where Abbott took his position at the doorway while Grace, her gun held out straight in front of her again, entered the room quickly. Abbott stepped into the room behind her, out of the fatal tunnel of the doorway, and assumed a position of cover just inside the door, while Grace swept the room, her trained eye checking for anything or anyone that posed a threat. There was no one in the room, but the array of computers and high-tech equipment told her they had the right place. She checked the window; it was locked. She found nothing but dust under the bed and more of the same behind the dresser. She opened the closet door. Shirts, pants, several suit coats and sweaters hung neatly on the metal rod. Her eyes swept the shelf above the rod, finding several see-through file boxes with what looked like receipts and bank statements in them. Leaving those for the CSI's she turned her eyes down to the carpeted floor of the closet, finding a few shoe boxes and two sets of work boots. She noted the nap of the carpet was marked in an odd half moon shape towards the back wall, but, finding nothing else of interest, she turned towards her partner. "Clear," she repeated, then with a sigh she lowered her gun and they left the room, careful not to touch anything or contaminate any evidence.
She followed Abbott down the stairway into the foyer, then stepped through the front door onto the covered cement stoop that served as a front porch. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the intense noonday sun. She was still trying to adjust to that; sunshine everyday.
Back in Ohio, where she grew up, the skies were more likely to be gray than sunny. She admitted, too, that living in LA was not only a different climate, but a serious cultural change. Toledo, Ohio could never, in anyone's imagination, be called a social mecca. She liked the excitement and uninhibited lifestyle of LA . She was, essentially, living her dream. Raised by an stern father and an overprotective older brother, Grace had never been allowed to explore any avenues outside of what they deemed was appropriate for a young lady. Unable to find anyone willing to date her and subject themselves to her family's close scrutiny, she spent most of her time studying, which served her well in law school, but did nothing to boost her insecurities and low feeling of self worth.
She worked at her brother's law firm after graduation, but right away, she knew it wasn't what she wanted in life. She finally broke away, joined the FBI and left for training a week later.
She had arrived on the west coast just three months ago, her first assignment out of Quantico, and she was pleased with the way things were going. She liked the members of her team; her partner, Ralph Abbott, quiet but friendly; Mark Tanner, fun and outgoing; and Benton Cortez, a criminal analyst who loved the sound of his own voice.
The team leader, Roderick Mitchell, was a 20 year veteran, - stern, forceful, gruff and demanding, but, it's exactly what she expected an FBI team leader to be. He was a big man, tall and broad, with a middle-age spread that was beginning to hang over the waistband of his pants. He had a tendency to be arrogant and a little full of himself, but she could live with that. Contrary to what her father and brother believed, she could handle herself and had so far been able to effectively block Mitchell's clumsy attempts to, as her brother would put it, "get in her pants." She wasn't sure how long she could continue to put him off gracefully.
Agent Cortez had told her Mitchell had been in line for the head of the Violent Crimes Squad a couple of years ago, but lost the position to a younger man, Special Agent Don Eppes. Now there was one tough FBI agent, Grace thought. She had heard he and a partner had once brought in two of the ten most wanted – in one day! She hadn't believed it, until she'd met him. As her supervisor, he had met with her her first day, welcomed her to LA, then told her what he expected of her. No slouches under Eppes. She had watched him during briefings as he handed out assignments – serious, all business, confident and in complete control. If she had had any doubt about the man's prowess in the field, they were gone the first time she saw him in action. During a bank robbery with multiple suspects, her team had been called in as back-up. The robbers had split up and one of them had run into an alleyway two buildings down from the bank with her and Abbott in pursuit. Agent Eppes had suddenly appeared in the alley, blocking the robber's escape. His feet were apart, his stance intimidating, his dark eyes resembling twin pools of black steel. The suspect couldn't stop in time and decided, on the run, to speed up and mow the special agent down. Eppes braced himself, leaned his shoulder forward slightly, then brought both arms up in front of his chest. He took the full force of the man's momentum, pushing him back with the strength of his arms and upper body. The perp went down hard and Eppes, cool as a cucumber, placed his foot on the man's chest, holding him in place until Abbott cuffed him. Yeah, tough. Men like him had no emotions and no weaknesses. They were legendary and if asked, Grace would admit, agents like him were the reason she joined the bureau. She knew one thing for sure, in just the few times she had been around Special Agent Eppes, she didn't ever want to be on the wrong side of those dark eyes.
She hadn't used her gun other than the routine practice on the firing range and she hadn't been under fire yet. Cortez told her some agents never use their weapon, but being in Los Angeles County, the chances were greater she would need to at some time or another. She had heard an agent's first time under fire was life changing; it could either make or break an agent. It wouldn't be today, though, she sighed. It looked like their suspect had gotten away.
Standing on the front stoop of the suspect's house now, Grace peered across the small well-kept lawn that was currently being trampled by dozens of police officers and members of the CSI. She was looking for Mitchell. When she spotted him she stepped off the stoop and hurried across the yard. She saw the irritated and frustrated look on his face and surmised the other teams must have brought similar news – they had missed him. She knew how important it was to stop this particular suspect and she wished she had better news to report.
"Second floor is secured, sir," she said, confidently, trying to hide her apprehension at the scowl her words gave him, then added, "No sign of the suspect anywhere, but the rear bedroom upstairs is filled with electronic equipment and several computers."
He nodded once, acknowledging her report, then turned towards the street. "Dr. Eppes!"
Mitchell's voice, every bit as big as the man himself, boomed across the yard, reaching the small man standing nearly fifty feet away, head down, writing on the paper fastened to the plastic clip board he was holding. His head jerked up, his eyes searching until he found the special agent.
Mitchell waved his hand, indicating the consultant should come towards them. The diminutive professor carefully eased his way through the mess of people in the yard, stopping in front of Mitchell.
Professor Charles Eppes had been working with Mitchell's team for nearly a week now. Grace found him endearing and charming in a quirky sort of way. Friendly and eager to please, he was on a first name basis with every member of the team except Mitchell, who Cortez told her liked the title of Special Agent too well and was too pompous to be addressed as anything else.
At first she wondered how a mathematician could solve crimes using math, but maybe because of the way her father and brother had always told her she couldn't do anything, she had embraced the idea that the enigmatic young professor could work wonders with his equations. Why not, she thought. Stranger things had happened.
"The house is secure," Mitchell said. "Agent Landon says one of the bedrooms has a lot of electronic stuff in it. Do you want to check it out?"
Charlie's head bobbed up and down, excitedly. "Yes, additional data will help me quantify the methods he uses to ... "
"Yeah, alright," the team leader interrupted, brusquely, then turned to Grace. "Take him up, then you and Abbott help search the perimeter. I want everyone out of the house and searching the neighborhood. That bastard slipped through the net, and I want to know how, and I want to know asap."
"Yes, sir."
Walking towards the house again, she spoke over her shoulder to Charlie, who was following close behind. "Do you usually go to the crime scenes like this? I didn't think consultants would normally be in the field."
There was no answer and she turned her head slightly to make sure he was still there. He was writing again, not even looking at the paper in his hand, his eyes seemingly devouring the house as they approached it. What does he see, she wondered. His eyes were dancing, flickering from the roof line to the double window in the front of the house to the shrubbery on either side of the front door. It was just a house, she thought. She didn't see anything special about it. Nondescript and average to the point she would describe it as mundane or boring, the house sat sandwiched between dozens of similar homes, all placed no more than 15 to 20 feet apart, all part of a sub-division built in the early 1980s. The modest two-story Colonial had an average sized front yard, green and well-trimmed, not too large, but not too small that children couldn't run and play in it. The driveway had sustained a few cracks and stains through the years, but nothing that would prevent or hamper a vehicle's approach to the two car attached garage. Two shade trees offered comfort from the California sun on either side of the house, both in full bloom, both healthy looking and normal.
Normal. Average. Undistinguished. Ordinary. Common. There was nothing she could see that would set this house apart from the countless other homes gracing this neighborhood. Nothing, except that in the next few days it would systematically be torn apart, room by room, section by section, and it would all be done under the harsh lights of the media, because it had been the home of Lucas Stokes – a military engineer who was suspected of selling weapons designs to several hostile countries.
Mitchell was right, they had to stop this guy. Call it being naïve or showing her inexperience, but she had a feeling they would. She was pumped and focused, the team was efficient, experienced and motivated, and they had Dr. Charles Eppes consulting.
She entered the house again with Charlie right behind her and they started up the stairs. Funny, she thought, how different Charlie was from his big brother, Special Agent Eppes. She had heard, at Quantico, that the college professor and noted mathematician consulted on some of the FBI's cases for his brother and that Eppes' team enjoyed a very high clearance rate because of it. She knew, as well, that just because they were brothers didn't mean they had to think and act the same. Goodness knows she wasn't as thick-headed as her brother, Trevor. Working with Charlie the last few days she had noticed the brothers had the same intensity, the same determination and drive, the same obsessive never-say-die attitude. Their approach was different, though. Where Charlie was methodical and precise, his brother seemed more impulsive and spontaneous. Charlie was friendly and open, while Special Agent Eppes was more guarded and quiet. There was a distinct aura of confidence around the older brother, while the younger one seemed insecure and uncertain, most notably around his brother, which Grace thought was interesting. Not quite opposites, not in the 'odd couple' sort of way, but she wondered how they managed to work together. She shrugged it off as they reached the top of the stairs and she led the consultant to the small bedroom.
Two six foot tables occupied the northwest section of the room, butting up against each other at a 45 degree angle in the corner. Both tables were filled with various electronic devices. There were two desktop computers and one laptop, a large printer and scanner, and several other complicated machines Grace had never seen before.
Charlie was immediately drawn to the laptop. She watched him as he touched a few keys. His interest was instantly captured by something on the screen and he absently moved the small office chair back using his foot, his hands never leaving the keyboard. He pressed his lips tightly together, his dark brows forming a V and she saw the same look of determination in his eyes that Agent Eppes had shown in that alley. She smiled to herself and turned away, leaving him to his work, and joined the manhunt outside.
- - Numb3rs - -
The list of encrypted dates and details of weapon design sales which Charlie found on the computer had captured his complete attention. Lucas Stokes might have been a decent engineer, but he was only a mediocre cryptographer. Charlie had been able to break the code quickly enough and had become absorbed in the pattern of communication and treasonous deals with several hostile governments.
When lost in the elegance of a flow of data Charlie Eppes often became completely unaware of his surroundings. He was often embarrassed to find someone at his shoulder, irritated, saying they had been calling his name for several minutes. It was more than a little disconcerting, though, to reemerge from a math stupor to find he had missed dinner once again; the evidence being a plate of congealing food his father had left for him hours before on the table in the garage; or worse, the early morning light peeking through the windows telling him he had worked through the night again.
It was different this time; no one had been calling his name and the hunger pangs of a forgotten meal or morning light had not broken his concentration. It was the unexpected reflection of light in the corner of the laptop's screen that initially broke through the numbers. He frowned, slow to respond to it, then the light merged into a human shape and the clear image of a man standing behind him surfaced on the screen. He turned around.
At first, the sight of the man standing across the room from him, in front of the closet, did not register as danger. He assumed Agent Landon had sent a police officer or agent to stay with him. On the rare occasions Don would let him go to a crime scene he always assigned an agent to him. There was something wrong with this man, though. He wasn't wearing a uniform, so the odds were he wasn't a member of the LAPD. He was dressed casually, in a pair of khaki-colored pants and a red pullover shirt. Don and his team often came to work in casual clothing, so it wasn't his attire that told Charlie this man wasn't an FBI agent, either. It was the look in his eyes.
It was obvious he had not expected to see Charlie in the room and the mathematician saw the surprise on his face. It changed quickly to fear and the man glanced around the room. When he determined Charlie was the only intruder, his eyes darkened, becoming predatory.
Still, Charlie was slow to react. When the man took a step towards him, Charlie saw the closet door behind him - and the light emanating from the opening in the closet wall. A hidden door! Stokes!
Charlie finally realized he was in trouble. Wide-eyed, he looked at the bedroom's door, into the hallway, hoping to see Grace or another officer magically appear to help him, but taking his eyes off Stokes was a big mistake. The man moved quickly towards him.
Startled out of his stupor, he bolted for the door. Stokes' long arm reached out and snagged his jacket sleeve. Frantically, he tried to shake the jacket off his shoulders, twisting and turning his body, trying to get away. A sudden, strong and painful force stopped him and he was slammed up against the wall, Stokes' hand wrapped tightly around his throat.
He gasped and tried to yell for help, but the pressure against his neck was relentless and all he could manage was a garbled sound of panic. He looked up at Stokes, then wished he hadn't. The man's eyes flashed with fury and hatred and deadly purpose.
His initial shock and fear at being attacked was immediately replaced by absolute terror, and he felt it sweep over him, robbing him of the ability to think clearly, to rationalize what was happening, to feel anything but those vice-like fingers choking the life out of him. That brief look into Stokes' eyes had told him the man was not just trying to get away; he planned to escape leaving no witnesses behind to testify against him. He was going to kill him!
Charlie reached up and grabbed the man's hand and wrist, pulling as hard as he could, but he couldn't budge it. He tried to pry each finger away, but they just snapped painfully back into place as he moved to another one. Finally, as white spots started dancing in front of his eyes, he tried to rake his nails across the back of the man's hand, but the bitten stubs that topped his fingers were useless.
The pain was nearly unbearable. The white spots were fading, merging into the darkness that was creeping in on all sides and Charlie knew he had to do something now. What could he do? Then suddenly, he thought, what would Don do? Instantly, he remembered the advise his older brother had passed on to him his first year as a bully-magnet in high school. If they're bigger than you are and have you cornered, it's okay to hit him in the nuts. He centered all of his weight on one leg, bent the other at the knee and brought it up, fast and hard, connecting with Stokes' groin with a force his brother would be proud of.
Stokes buckled, gurgling in pain, and released his hold on Charlie's neck. For just an instant, both men struggled to breath, both drawing in much needed air. Charlie regained his composure first and ran for the door - but fell, face down, when Stokes grabbed his foot.
Pain burst through him, once again robbing him of the ability to breathe. He had hit the ground hard, his chin taking the brunt of it, forcing his jaw to clamp shut and bite down on his tongue. He tasted blood and panicked again, but Stokes was up, leaning over him and turning him over roughly. Charlie, himself, was surprised when, instinctively, he doubled his fist and used the turning momentum to deliver a stunning blow to Stokes' left eye. The man grunted and fell backwards onto the floor. Pressing his advantage, Charlie scrambled, once again, for the doorway, gaining his feet as he ran into the hall.
He tried to call for help again, but he gagged on the blood pooling in his mouth. He turned to spit it out and saw that Stokes was nearly on him again. He ran. The hallway wasn't very long, but the stairway seemed miles away as Charlie tried to stay ahead of Stokes.
A hand suddenly snagged the hair on the back of his head and stopped him. He choked, gagging again on the blood, as he cried out in pain. When Stokes turned him around again, Charlie started blindly swinging his fists. His attack was graceless, clumsy and ineffective, his punches uncoordinated and random. He was working on the theory that the odds were at least 58 to 1 that one of his punches would connect with some portion of Stokes' anatomy, hopefully hard enough to give him a chance to escape. When his fisted right hand plowed into the engineer's mouth hard enough to send him reeling backwards a few steps, both men were equally shocked. For just an instant, Charlie stared at the blood running down Stokes' chin from his split lip, then, from somewhere in the back of his memory, a tried and true defense mechanism he used often in high school resurfaced and Charlie drew his leg back and kicked out, connecting solidly with Stokes' shin.
The man cried out, grabbing his leg and Charlie stumbled towards the stairway. He thought he had made it, but Stokes grabbed him again, twisting him around and throwing a solid punch to his face. The world tilted around him, spinning and dipping, until he wasn't sure which way was up. He shook it off, feeling himself being manhandled and maneuvered into place at the top of the stairway.
Full blown panic set in when Charlie realized Stokes meant to throw him down the stairs. He struggled harder, trying to dig his feet into the carpet. He tried to twist his body, to loosen the man's hold on him, but Stokes had a firm grip. As Stokes shoved him towards the drop off, Charlie made a last minute, desperate attempt to grab the edge of the wall. His fingers scraped easily across the surface, and when the wall stopped and there was nothing left to cling to, his hands fumbled towards the man himself. At the last minute, as Stokes gave a final thrust, Charlie's fingers grabbed the man's shirt. It ripped apart in his hands and he plummeted down the stairs.
- - Numb3rs - -
Agents Landon and Abbott had finished searching their section of the small park two blocks north of Stokes' house and were heading back to report to Mitchell when they heard the ambulance sirens. Puzzled they looked at each other. No one had been hurt. Stokes had gotten away and they hadn't heard any gunfire to indicate he had been found. Of course he could have been taken without gun play, but, then who was the ambulance for? They both broke into a jog, reaching the scene in minutes.
They noticed the silence first. It was positively eerie. Mitchell, who stood near the small front porch, was bellowing, of course, shouting out orders as usual, but the police officers and agents and techs who were scurrying away to carry them out were grim-faced and silent. Mitchell, in contrast, was red-faced and belligerent. When he looked up and saw them, his eyes narrowed and the red-hued tint on his face turned scarlet.
Grace's mouth suddenly went dry. What had happened?
A paramedic appeared in the doorway of the house. He stopped and spoke a few words with Mitchell, then hurried to the ambulance and retrieved several items from it. He rushed back into the house.
Grace shivered with dread. When she had left the house, the only one there was ... oh, God, the only one left in the house had been Charlie; in a room she had cleared!
She started towards the house, but a movement at the door stopped her. A paramedic backed out, pulling one end of a gurney. Mitchell stepped up and gave him a hand lowering it down the two steps, then the two medics hurried towards the ambulance.
There was no mistaking the dark curls. They laid disheveled on the sheets, darker because of the blood that was drying through them. A large white bandage covered most of Charlie's forehead, the bandage itself nearly saturated with blood. Stunned she watched them rush by her, then collapse the legs of the gurney and slide it into the back of the vehicle. At the jostling the movement caused, she saw Charlie's hand move weakly to his head and heard the unmistakable moan.
The crime scene had frozen, everyone in the yard watching solemnly as the gurney made it's way to the ambulance. Grace didn't realize she was holding her breath until Mitchell appeared beside her, his face glowering and angry. "It was Stokes," he growled. "He practically attacked him right in front of us, then disappeared again!" The team leader pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the beads of sweat off his balding head. "What the hell did you miss in that bedroom?"
Before she could answer, Agent Tanner ran up behind Mitchell. "I called Eppes." he announced.
Mitchell glared angrily and nodded his head, knowing the man had to be notified, but not happy about it. Tanner unknowingly added fuel to the fire. "He's going to be pissed."
"Screw Eppes!" Mitchell snapped. "He doesn't worry me. It's Stokes' ass I want." He stomped away, leaving Grace stunned and completely confused. What had she missed?
Her partner's voice in her ear startled her. "There's going to be hell to pay for this one. Who would have thought your baptism under fire would be friendly fire – IF you can call Don Eppes friendly fire. "
- - Numb3rs - -
"I swear, I'm going to be reading DNA results in my sleep tonight." Colby added another file to the stack in front of him and reached for another one from the center of the table.
"Quit complaining, Granger," David groused from across the table.
"You're saying you wouldn't rather be out kicking in a few doors?"
"I'm saying if it keeps some high-priced-wouldn't-know-a-guilty-man-if-he-spit-on-him lawyer from getting some murderer off scot-free, then I'm okay with it."
"What about you, Megan?"
The profiler smiled, weary of the tedious work, but trying to remain positive. "I like to think of it as job security."
David laughed but Colby persisted. "Yeah, well, just give me a good old-fashion bank rob..."
The door opened and Colby looked up, ready to give his boss a hard time again, but the look on Don's face had Colby standing up quickly, his chair crashing to the floor as he did. "Don?"
"Charlie's been hurt."
Those three words brought David and Megan to their feet, too, all of them following Don as he hurried for the elevators.
"What happened?"
"I don't know." Don answered, practically decimating the elevator's down button. "Agent Tanner from Mitchell's team just called. Said there was a mix up and Charlie got hurt. They're taking him to County General."
They rode the elevator to the parking level and rushed towards Don's Suburban, where Don, still shaken by the news, quietly handed his keys to David Sinclair and climbed into the passenger seat.
- - Numb3rs - -
Naomi Ruth Melton was a seventeen year veteran at the emergency room desk at LA County General Hospital. She had seen more than her share of the sick and injured and despite the fact she didn't possess a medical diploma she rather blithely considered herself part of the emergency staff; part of the team. The doctors and nurses took care of the sick or wounded or injured, while she took care of the families. Some family members would come in hysterical, others in shock. Some were belligerent while others were polite and well-mannered. She handled them all the same; with an iron glove and a stern glare and no nonsense, "Have a seat. The doctor will be out to talk to you when he's done." In seventeen years no one had ever gotten past her to an exam room before the doctor was ready and she wasn't about to change that for the four anxious FBI agents in front of her. She was not intimated in the least by Don Eppes' insistence that he be allowed to see his brother immediately; or by David flashing his FBI badge; or Colby's hard glare; or Megan's attempt to make her feel guilty. "Have a seat. The doctor will be out to talk to you when he's done."
With no other choice but to cause a scene in the emergency room, they sat down; but, not for long. Don paced between the congested waiting room and Naomi's desk until she began to have second thoughts.
Twenty minutes later a harried looking, dark-haired doctor came out. "For Charlie Eppes?"
"Yeah, here. How is he?" Don was in front of the doctor instantly.
Startled the doctor swallowed, then offered his hand. "I'm Dr. Randall. Are you ..."
"I'm his brother, Don. Is he alright?"
"We're prepping him for surgery right now. We're going to need you to sign some papers."
"Yeah, sure, whatever you need. What happened to him?"
The doctor eyed David, Colby and Megan standing behind their boss. "It's okay," Don assured him quickly. "They're family – sort of."
Dr. Randall nodded, accepting the explanation. "He hasn't been able to tell us much," he began. "He has sustained a rather nasty head wound resulting in a level two concussion and he's drifting in and out of consciousness. He did tell us he was in a fight and apparently fell down a flight of stairs. His left arm is broken in two places and he has three cracked ribs on his right side. He's also sustained heavy bruising on his kidneys and larynx. "
Don was shocked by the doctor's words. Charlie in a fight? Right now, though, he wanted to know how bad it was. "Any internal injuries?" Don's voice was low, filled with worry.
"There's always a chance of internal bleeding in cases like this, but X-rays don't show any evidence of that. We'll keep an eye on him."
"Is he going to be alright?"
"Right now, the worst of it is his arm. Our resident orthopedic surgeon is Dr. Chan. He's one of the best in southern California. I'll be assisting. Barring any unforeseen complications or infections your brother should make a full recovery and be released in a few days."
"Can I see him?"
The doctor shook his head slowly. "I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Eppes."
"I understand, Dr. Randall, I do, but it's Agent Eppes. I'm with the FBI." The implication being, of course, that he had seen blood before and would not pass out.
The doctor considered it for a second, then, "It would have to be just you and only for a minute. We need to take care of that arm before it swells too much."
Don agreed quickly and Dr. Randall motioned towards a pair of closed doors. "Come with me, then."
Once past the double doors they turned into a small room on the left and Don froze in the doorway. Maybe the doctor had been right. He had seen the fragility of the human body many times, seen victims and fellow law enforcement officers and innocent bystanders – shot, stabbed, burned, broken. This time though, it was personal. It was Charlie; someone he gave noogies to whenever Mom wasn't looking, someone whose high-pitched, pre-puberty voice use to cheer from the bleachers during baseball games, someone who had stood beside him at their mother's funeral, quiet tears running down his face.
Charlie was on a narrow hospital bed, clad only in his boxers. Don noticed his brother's arm first, surrounded by cold packs and ice bags, obviously trying to keep the swelling down. His bare chest had several adhesive patches in various locations with wires running to an EKG machine beside the bed. There were open, bleeding cuts and numerous bruises on his legs. Two nurses, one on either side of the bed, were adjusting machines and IV drips. Charlie's eyes were closed and there was a large amount dried blood on his face and in his hair. Don swallowed back the emotion.
"Give us a minute," Doctor Randall said to the nurses and they both nodded and stepped away. He nodded his head to Don and gestured towards the bed.
Don approached his brother slowly. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched Charlie's shoulder. "Hey, buddy. "
Charlie's eyes fluttered, opened, closed, fluttered again, then opened and he turned his head slightly towards Don. His eyes were vacant, definitely drugged, and it was obvious he was having trouble focusing on Don. Once he did, he smiled. It was a loopy, dreamy, exaggerated smile. "Heeyyyy," he breathed, "ath my brrruthr."
Alarmed Don turned to Dr. Randall. Was there a neurological problem he didn't mention?
The doctor smiled reassuringly. "Part of that is the medicine we have him on. The rest of it is apparently at some point during the "incident" he bit his tongue rather badly. It's a little swollen. When he's under anesthesia, we'll put a few dissolvable stitches in it."
Don cringed and looked at his brother in heartfelt sympathy.
Charlie's eyes had closed again and Don touched his shoulder once more, waiting for his brother to focus on him again.
"Hey, it's going to be okay, Charlie. Just relax. The doctors are going to take care of that arm, okay?" Don patted the shoulder gently, then said, "Dad and I will be here when you wake up."
Charlie smiled broadly, again. "Okey, okey, ahn."
When Don joined his team in the waiting room he was glad to see his father and Larry Fleinhardt had arrived, both wearing worried expressions. He held his hands out before either of them could say anything. "He's going to be alright. They're taking him to surgery right now to fix his arm; it's broken in two places. He's got a few cracked ribs and a good sized knot on his head, but the doctors think he'll make a full recovery."
"What happened, Donnie?" Alan asked.
Don glanced at his team and answered, grimly. "We're not quite sure, Dad. All we know is he fell down a flight of stairs." For a moment, he looked torn, undecided, then he turned hesitantly to his father. "Dad, I ... "
Alan stopped him. "Go. Go. Find out what happened. Larry and I will wait here for news. I'll call you if you're not back by the time he's in a room."
Don and the others started for the door, David lagging a little behind, his cellphone to his ear. What could have happened, Don wondered. How could Charlie have gotten into a fight with someone and end up falling down the stairs? And why was Mitchell's team involved? He hadn't been thrilled when the team leader had asked for Charlie's help last week. There were still a few die hards who didn't see how math could help solve crimes, so Charlie hadn't worked with too many other teams except Don's. And, if pressed, Don would admit that it was harder than he thought letting his brother work with anyone else. A lifetime of making sure Charlie got to school okay, and dragging him away from the blackboards long enough to eat and sleep, and protecting him from the part of society that liked to prey on those who are different made it hard for Don to just relinquish control. Don admitted to himself the issue might be in the fact that he just plain didn't care for Mitchell and his way of doing things. Surely, though, the team leader would not have put Charlie in danger. First protocol, protect the asset. The call had come from Mitchell's team, though, so there had to be a connection. If Mitchell or any of his team had violated that, he would have their heads. He was consumed with confusion and worry and unjustified guilt, but mostly he was angry. The anger boiled in his stomach like an volcano, hissing and bubbling and ready to explode.
As they stepped outside David closed his phone and turned to his boss. "Mitchell and his team are still on site."
Grimly, they headed for the parking lot.
- - Numb3rs - -
The activity at Stokes' house was in full gear. Computer techs had been brought in to look at the computers Charlie had been working on before he was attacked. Members of the CSI unit were marking and photographing evidence and blood spills in the bedroom, hallway, and staircase to give them a clear picture of the fight between the consultant and the suspect. Outside, the perimeter of Stokes' property had been sealed off with yellow crime tape and the neighbors were being questioned about the traitor who had lived among them for years. Mitchell was standing in the front of the house, next to the large shade tree with Grace Landon when the large, dark SUV pulled along side several police cruisers in the street.
Once again, all sound and movement ceased as everyone watched Don Eppes and his team exit the car and step under the tape, heading with determined purpose towards Mitchell. Eppes was in the lead and the people in the yard standing between him and the team leader parted before him like water at the bow of a ship.
Mitchell was unimpressed. He stood firm, watching his supervisor approach and muttered under his breath "Cocky bastard." He leaned towards Grace and whispered, "You let me take care of Eppes. I know how to handle him. You hear me, Landon?"
She nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, sir." That was just fine with her, she thought. She hated to admit it, but, at this moment, Eppes terrified her.
"Now, Don ..." Mitchell began as Eppes and his team stopped a few feet away from them, but Eppes didn't wait for the rest of Mitchell's attempt to placate him.
"What the hell happened?"
Mitchell tried again. "Don't go overreacting. It was a simple rookie mistake. It could have happened to anyone."
"Don't give me any of your crap, Mitchell. Just tell me what happened."
Eppes' eyes had turned hard, his lips thin and pressed together. Grace couldn't help but think it was not a good start.
"I want a full report, Agent Mitchell, and I want it now."
Roderick Mitchell flinched slightly at the tone of Eppes' voice. He was several inches taller than Eppes and when he looked down and spoke there was a hint of contempt just below the surface he couldn't completely conceal.
"Your brother ran one of his math equation things that led us here, to Lucas Stokes. He works for the defense department Don and he was selling top secret plans overseas. Your brother was able to trace the bastard's last transmissions from here. There is a room full of electronic shit upstairs in one of the bedrooms. He probably used them to make the deals."
"Alright. And?"
"And, we did a routine entry and sector clearing, but there was no sign of him. Your brother was checking out the electronics in one of the back bedrooms when he was ..."
"Wait a minute," Don choked out, unbelieving, his eyes flashing. "He was here? You brought Charlie to a live crime scene? What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking it's the closest we've come to catching Stokes," Mitchell defended himself. "He found the right house, Don. He said he needed more data, and by God, I was going to give him what he needed."
"What about the suspect?" Don asked.
Mitchell sighed, vexed at having to admit to Eppes his failure in capturing Stokes. "He got away," he muttered.
Immediately, Don knew what had happened. Somehow, Charlie had stumbled onto Stokes, or vice versa and in the ensuing struggle ended up at the bottom of the staircase. The volcano in Don's stomach erupted with fury. Mitchell saw it and tried to pacify him. "Don't go postal, Don. It didn't look that bad. I mean, he was awake when they took him away. How's he doing?"
"How's he doing?" Don's voice was deep and angry, his face red, his expression incredulous. "He was attacked and thrown down a flight of stairs, Mitch! How the hell do you think he's doing?"
"Don." Megan Reeves' voice, behind him, was cautionary, but tight with anger. She should have saved her breath.
There was no quarter, no mercy in Don's eyes. They flashed furiously as he answered. "Charlie's in surgery. His arm is broken in two places, he's got a couple of cracked ribs not to mention the possibility of internal bleeding AND he's got a knot on his head the size of Nevada!" His voice had risen with each injury mentioned, the volume of the last word actually scattering a few nearby officers.
Mitchell remained unruffled. "So, he's going to be okay, right?"
Don's mouth gaped open. He was speechless at the man's gall, his brazenness.
"Come on, Don," Mitchell urged, irritated now, "a broken arm, a few bruises? Hell, we've all had worse. Tell him to man up; grow a pair, you know. I still need his help on ..."
There was so much sudden activity, Grace was startled and she stepped back, reflexively reaching for her weapon. When the movement stopped and she saw what had happened, she slid her gun back into the hip holster. David Sinclair and Colby Granger were on either side of their boss, each pinning one of his arms down. He had stopped struggling against them, but his right hand was fisted and his dark eyes were blazing.
Special Agent Mitchell had his back to the large tree trunk behind him, pressed up against the bark where he had been shoved, Megan Reeves standing in front him, her finger firmly embedded in his chest.
"You're a lucky man." She poked him, hard, in the chest to emphasize her words and he flinched. She spoke again, managing to purr and sound threatening at the same time. "A very, very stupid man, but lucky. See, Don's your supervisor. He can't hit you. It would against protocol. But David, Colby and I don't have that problem. We can hit you. In fact, we can hurt you a lot. Now, we may get our collective asses in a little trouble, and there might be some paperwork involved, but, hey, we can handle that, right, guys?"
David smiled grimly, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight, his expression menacing and intimidating. "No problem." he agreed. Colby Granger's smile was less intimidating. He looked strangely eager, almost enthusiastic. "Yeah. In fact, a little extra paperwork sounds pretty good right now."
Mitchell glared at the female agent, but she didn't back off. Poking him again she said, "Charlie is a friend of ours. We don't like seeing him get hurt. And we certainly don't like it when people who don't know Charlie say bad things about him."
Mitchell coughed when she poked his chest a little stronger than before, but in the end, Roderick Mitchell would not be intimidated by a woman. He looked over her shoulder, ignoring her, and spoke to his supervisor. "Dammit, Don. We almost had this guy. We need to stop him – and whether you want to admit it or not your brother is still our best bet. We need him back on the case right away."
Shaking off his team members, Don angrily stepped up to Mitchell and Megan stepped to the side. David and Colby joined him, standing on the other side of their boss as Don stopped inches from Mitchell, looking up into the older man's face. "Charlie's not working with you anymore," he growled, "you got that?"
"Yeah," Mitchell sneered, looking at each of the four people in turn. "I get it. Big brother Donnie won't let Charlie play with anyone else. Gonna take your ball and go home, huh?"
Still standing beside Mitchell, Grace turned astonished eyes towards her team leader. That statement didn't seem appropriate. Was he trying to piss Eppes off, goad him into actually hitting him? He seemed to be treating this like a testosterone contest instead of the serious breach of protocol she knew it was. She couldn't help but think, if that was the case, Eppes definitely had the winning hand. She watched Eppes and his team, expecting another episode of needed restraint, but everyone of them remained still and she saw a frightening calmness settle over Eppes.
"Charlie's a civilian who was under your protection," he growled. "It's you who dropped the ball, Mitch."
Once again, Mitchell seemed unruffled, unperturbed by his supervisor's attitude. "Hey, you know how it is. Sometimes you need to bend the rules a bit. I did what I had to to bring this guy in. I'd do it again."
"Yeah, but at what cost?" Don knew sometimes you had to throw the rule book out the window, but not when it jeopardizes someone's life – especially not Charlie's.
Mitchell stood silent, staring down his supervisor and Don took a few deep breaths. "Where was the agent you hand on him?" he demanded.
Both Grace and Mitchell froze and Don's mouth fell open in utter disbelief. "You did have an agent with him, didn't you?"
Mitchell puffed out his chest and answered belligerently, "I needed everyone in the perimeter search. We believed the suspect had eluded capture."
Don stepped backwards, quickly, away from Mitchell, as if he had been punched. He shook his head at David and Colby's questioning expressions, telling them he didn't need their help, but he was not altogether certain he could keep it together. He rubbed his hand down his face and took several deep breaths.
Megan Reeves, however, had no problem confronting the arrogant man again. "So, a civilian consultant – a college professor – was alone when he was attacked! Do you know how many regulations you broke right there?"
Don stepped back in again, closer to Mitchell than before, his posture one of dominance and authority. "Tell me he was at least wearing a vest."
This time Mitchell didn't answer and Don stayed his ground and exploded. "Charlie's got one of the top five minds in the world and you let him run around a live crime scene without a vest! What kind of crazy outfit are you running here?"
Mitchell's defenses were up again and he snapped back, "A damn good one, Don, and you know it."
They faced each other for a few tense seconds, then Don asked, "Who's the idiot that cleared the room?"
Mitchell shook his head, defiantly, "My team, my mistake. I'll handle it."
"Like hell you will," Don snapped furiously, "I'm head of the Violent Crimes Squad. It goes through me. Who cleared the damn room, Mitchell?"
Grace's heart was in her throat. Maybe she should say something – try to explain what happened, but Mitchell had ordered her to stay quiet and the last thing she wanted was both of them angry at her.
Mitchell momentarily sidestepped Don's demand with, "The perp was in a hidden room accessed through the closet. Anyone, including you, could have missed it." Mitchell's voice suddenly took on a contemptuous tone. "Oh wait, that's right, you're head of the Violent Crimes Squad. You don"t make mistakes, do you? Maybe the mistakes were made higher up when you were handed the position instead of ... "
This time it was Don who pressed him against the tree."You have enough to answer for, Special Agent Mitchell, without adding insubordination. Now you have exactly two seconds to tell me who cleared the room?"
She had to say something. She knew, orders or not, it was the right thing to do. Besides, she thought, she couldn't do any worse than Mitchell was. He seemed to be pissing Eppes off even more. She took a deep breath.
"It was me, sir."
Those dark eyes turned to her then, and she found herself praying he couldn't see her tremble. She tried to stand firm, tried to return his gaze, but she realized immediately it was no contest. She had never been so scrutinized in her whole life. His eyes were penetrating, almost probing, and she imagined he saw everything – every flaw she had; the crescent-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder, the small butterfly tattoo just inside her bra-line, the series of moles on her lower back that a past lover told her looked like a tiny arrow. She was sure he even saw the lacy, lavender, boycut underwear she was wearing.
Facing this man, this super agent, was every bit as intimidating and frightening as she had imagined. Then, he blinked and she saw something else. He had already known it was her! Her stomach turned in on itself because, dammit, he had known all along. He was waiting – no, testing her. He knew Mitchell would defend her, like he would no doubt defend and protect his own team. Maybe he even knew Mitchell had been trying to ... wait, if Mitchell could successfully convince his supervisor that she was blameless in this incident, she would owe him – she would be indebted to him, and she had no doubt how he would use that. What a scumbag!
Then Mitchell turned to Don and sealed his own fate. "Come on, Don," he started, stepping closer to him and talking as if they were old drinking buddies. "Let me handle this. You know how it is, you have women on your team. You have to show them who's boss, who's in charge. I can dole out any discipline needed here, you know what I mean?"
Special Agent Don Eppes didn't answer. After a few seconds of simply staring at the team leader he turned away with a scathing, dismissive look that said he was clearly disgusted and done talking with him.
Eppes turned to her once again. His lips were thin, practically invisible and they were pressed tightly together. She felt the intensity of his stare the entire length of her spine and her knees turned to jelly. When he spoke his voice was as cold and hard as his dark eyes.
"So." It wasn't a question or even an expectant statement – it was a clear and precise demand for an explanation; the "what happened" unspoken, implied and floating between them like a separate entity.
She swallowed, her mouth too dry for it to be much more than a reflective action. Instinct told her not to argue with him, besides what could she say? She had messed up. On some level she knew it had been wrong to leave Charlie alone, but the one thing that was drilled into them in Quantico was to follow orders. She had a feeling Mitchell would be paying the price for that.
She fought the overwhelming urge to throw herself at his feet and blabber incessantly about how sorry she was and beg for mercy, but she felt he wasn't the type to suffer fools easily; that he didn't want excuses. He wanted honesty and she decided to give it to him in a manner she felt he would appreciate. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and began. "Special Agent Mitchell determined a coordinated entry and clearing would be used, utilizing a dynamic method, giving Stokes an opportunity for surrender if he desired. Two teams were used. Special Agent Nolan's team cleared the main floor, while Agents Abbott, Tanner, Cortez and myself cleared the second floor. My partner, Agent Abbott, and I cleared the two smaller bedrooms in the rear of the house. We cleared the first one with no sign of Stokes. We entered the second bedroom, each moving to a dominating position, then Agent Abbott maintained cover while I systematically cleared the room, checking first for any hides or places Stokes could conceal himself. I checked the closet last."
She stopped. She honestly didn't know what else to say. There was nothing in the closet, so we reported to Special Agent Mitchell that the second floor was clear. Oh, but, there was something in the closet!
"So," he said, again, his words clipped and blunt, "what you're saying is that you followed procedure and utilized your training to find the threat without compromising the safety of your team members."
He made it sound bad. Isn't that what she was suppose to do? She nodded, red-faced and uncomfortable. What else was there to say?
Eppes' eyes narrowed. "And yet, Agent Landon, with all of that, you missed it."
"Yes, sir. As Special Agent Mitchell said, it was a hidden door in a closet."
"And you didn't see anything that told you it was there?"
She shook her head, "Nnn..." The word stopped in her throat. Her stomach flipped again and she blanched, suddenly realizing what the strange carpet patterns were from.
Don raised an eyebrow, waiting.
She cleared her throat, humiliation making it hard to talk. "A pattern, sir. There was an unusual and distinctive pattern on the carpet made when the hidden door opened and closed."
Don noticed the frown on Mitchell's forehead and knew it was the first time he had heard about it. He pressed her, angrily. "But you didn't report it to your team leader?"
"No, sir," she replied, knowing it was weak, inexcusable. "I didn't think it was significant."
The dark eyes flashed and he snapped, "How about now, agent? Do you think it has significance now?"
When she didn't answer, he repeated the word, his tone sarcastic and sharp. "Significance – defined as important, seriousness, gravity or consequence."
She found her voice and answered meekly, "Yes, sir."
"Do you know what that tells me? It tells me you screwed up – and because of that a man could have been killed. Do you understand what I'm saying, agent? A man could have died today – because you didn't do your job right."
"I understand, sir," she said quickly, blushing. "Charlie . . . Dr. Eppes is your brother and ..."
He interrupted her, his anger escalating to a new level, and he practically yelled, "My brother, your partner, an innocent bystander – it doesn't matter! You would have had to knock on a door and tell someone that their brother, or father, or wife or daughter was never coming home again! That is significant, Agent Landon! That is consequence!"
"The procedures and training that you learn at Quantico will keep you and your partner alive, but it's what you learn out here that makes a difference. You're going to have to make choices every time you're in the field; split second decisions that you – and others – have to live with. You have to trust your gut. You have develop a sixth sense and then listen to it. Everybody makes mistakes, Landon, but make a mistake in our line of work - and people die."
There was sudden flurry of activity and a young police officer ran up to them. "Sir! Special Agent Mitchell! They got him! They found Stokes four blocks away. They're bringing the son of a bitch through now."
The site grew quiet again as two police officers escorted a handcuffed Lucas Stokes across his front lawn towards their police unit. He wasn't what one would consider a big man, but Don and his team noticed he outweighed Charlie by 50 pounds or more. The man was limping heavily on one leg and his red polo shirt was torn and hanging off his shoulder. His lip was split open, the blood having clotted already and dried on it. It was swollen, much like his left eye and cheekbone.
"Damn," David Sinclair whispered. "Charlie did alright."
Everyone watched as Stokes was paraded in front of them; everyone except Grace. She couldn't take her eyes of Don Eppes. He was looking at Stokes as everyone else was, with hatred and disgust. He was a traitor who gave away his country's defense for money. Grace saw something else, though. Eppes was also seeing him as the man who tried to kill his brother. She saw it in his anguish and the barely repressed urge to attack the man right there in front of everyone, and dammit, she envied him. She envied that closeness he had with Charlie; the bond she didn't have with Trevor anymore.
Just then, as she thought of her brother, the proverbial light bulb went off in her head. Trevor! Who took her into his own law firm right out of college and mentored her and helped her and taught her how to win the cases everyone said were impossible. "You can solve more cases, Gracie, by listening to what isn't being said, than what everyone is telling you. Listen - they will always give up their secrets."
That's what she had done wrong. That's what Eppes was trying to tell her. She had cleared the room, but she hadn't listened to it. The carpet pattern couldn't have yelled any louder to her, but she hadn't been listening – she was too busy looking for the obvious to see the secret the room held.
The police cruiser with Stokes in the back seat pulled into the street and left the scene. There were a few mutterings among the people in the yard, a few smiles and congratulatory pats, then everyone returned to their work.
Don turned to her again and she felt her face color as she remembered his last heated remarks. He was still frowning, still in supervisory mode, but seeing Stokes had taken some of it out of him. Thinking of his expression when Stokes walked within two feet of him, she felt a sudden urge to share her epiphany; to face up to her mistake.
"My brother told me to listen; to look past the obvious; to seek out the secrets. I didn't do that. I messed up."
She expected him to agree with her and add a few more observations of his own. Instead, with a voice that was low and curt and still had the edge of anger to it, he asked, "You have a brother?"
It was a simple question, an easy one, but it surprised her and she stammered. "Yes, sir. One, older."
He didn't say anything, but his dark eyes seemed to be searching for more, and she felt pressed to add, "We used to be close but we haven't spoken in two years."
"Why not?" He was still hostile, speaking in a terse and succinct manner.
"He didn't approve of my choice to enlist in the FBI. He didn't think I could handle it."
"Yeah, well maybe he's right," he snapped.
Damn, that hurt. She felt her eyes burn, the tears threatening and she took a deep breath. She didn't want to cry in front of him. She couldn't stop herself, though, from groveling a little. "I'm so sorry. I screwed up. If it's any consolation, it will never happen again."
"Damn straight it won't," he shot back, "because if it does you'll be answering phones for a very long time."
Despite the threat of receptionist work, she was secretly thrilled. It meant she still had a job; he wasn't going to boot her out of the bureau.
"Now, finish up here, and start writing. I want a report in my hands before you leave today. Then take the next two days off – mandatory – without pay."
She hadn't expected that and it showed in her face. He elaborated.
"You need to do some serious thinking, Landon. There is no in-between in this job. You have to be committed. You have to give it everything you have, and then some. If you can't do that, you're not only useless, you're a danger to everyone around you. Give it some thought and if you think you can handle it, if you think you have what it takes and you're ready to try, come see me in two days."
As she struggled to process what he had said, he stepped closer to her, into her personal space, and spoke low in her ear, so that only she could hear what he said.
"And let me make one thing perfectly clear, Agent Landon – orders or not, if you ever put my brother in danger like that again, you'll have me to deal with – not the bureau. Do you understand?"
He stepped back, his eyes boring into hers with such intensity she held her breath, afraid to even breathe. She managed to swallow and nod her head stiffly in response.
Apparently satisfied he had gotten his point across, Don turned to David Sinclair beside him. "David, take over here. Colby and Megan, give him a hand." His team nodded and he turned abruptly to Mitchell. "Special Agent Mitchell," he said in a tone that left no doubt who was in charge, "you come with me."
Eppes turned away and started across the yard towards his vehicle, a glowering and clearly unrepentant Mitchell behind him. At the Suburban's door, he stopped, his hand on the handle. Turning around again, he looked at Grace, still standing where he had left her. "Landon!" His voice carried across the lawn and she raised her head, expectedly, waiting for him to continue.
"Call your brother."
She blinked in surprise, then frowned. "Sir?"
He had said what he wanted to say, though, and slid into the SUV and drove away. But, not before she saw the pain in his eyes; pain and ... loss. She knew at that moment that the legendary Don Eppes had a weakness after all; family. She glanced around at the other people working around her. Did they see it? Was she the only one? Maybe ... she thought, breathlessly, she was the only one he let see it.
- - Numb3rs - -
Grace walked down the hallway of the hospital, her hand clutched tightly around the clipboard. She was more apprehensive than she could ever remember being. Chances were good that Special Agent Eppes would be there. After all, it had only been a day and a half ago that through her negligence (because that's what is was) his brother had been viciously attacked and she wasn't sure how he would feel about her visit.
Dinner was being served to the patients and as she approached Charlie's room an aid was just leaving. She smiled at Grace and left the door open.
Grace stood in the doorway gathering her courage.
Charlie was sitting up in bed, the adjustable hospital table in position over his legs. His left arm was encased in a long arm cast and propped up beside him on several pillows. There was a large bandage on his forehead with several stray curls hanging over the top. She winced at the angry-looking finger shaped bruises that were clearly visible above the collar of the hospital gown he wore. There were more bruises, on his cheek and chin, noticeable even through several days of stubble. His eyes, one swollen and discolored, were clouded and dull with drugs.
She felt awful.
Someone in the room was talking and she froze when she saw Don Eppes, sitting on the other side of the bed, looking at his brother, his dark eyes filled with concern. He sounded different. The angry, enraged man she had last seen at Stokes' house was talking in muted, "hosptialese" tones. His voice had a tender quality to it, full of affection.
"Hey, buddy, you heard what the doctor said, right? He won't release you until you eat something."
Charlie's voice, when he answered, was still a little hoarse and raspy from the damage to the trachea, and there was a slight lisp due to his injured tongue, which made his attempt at sounding stubborn and argumentative almost humorous and very close to childish. "Would you eat that? Becauthe I know I could never eat anything that lookth or thmellth like that. I don't even know what it ith. Here, you try thome."
"Ha ha, no way, bro. As soon as you're settled Dad and I are going to that great little steak house down on Watson Ave. You know the one; with the fresh baked rolls and that great salad with the ginger dressing and those steaks that mmmmelt in your mouth. I think I'm going to try that gooey chocolate covered brownie dessert tonight. How about you Dad?"
Still in the doorway, Grace saw the laughter in her boss's eyes and it struck her how handsome he was when he smiled.
Another man, older, leaned forward from the chair he was sitting in at the bottom of the bed and scolded, "Don, stop tormenting your brother."
"Hey," Don smiled again, "it's what I do."
Charlie glared, as much as he could with one eye and opened his mouth to say something when he suddenly noticed her standing the doorway. "Grathe!"
Discovered, she took a few steps into the room. She felt relieved at Charlie's pleased expression, but she was very aware that Don stopped smiling and sat up straight in the chair. He remained silent, his eyes squinting slightly and watched her as she walked uncomfortably towards the bed.
She swallowed and took a deep breath and turned to Charlie. She held the clipboard up and smiled at him. "I brought your clipboard. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. I with they'd let me out of here. I want to go home."
She tried to smile at Charlie's remarks, but the tension in the room was so evident, she had to concentrate on keeping her breathing even.
Charlie spoke again. "Dad, thith ith Agent Grathe Landen. Grathe, my father Alan Eppeth."
The older man smiled, but she noticed his quick glance at Don before he said, "Nice to meet you. Charlie says you're new to the area. How do you like LA?"
It was obvious Alan noticed the tension between his oldest son and her, but was trying to ease it. She returned his smile, grateful for the help and determined to get through this. "It's great! I love the weather."
Either Alan Eppes didn't know the full story or he was more forgiving than Don. She didn't think Alan would be so friendly with her if he knew she had been responsible for Charlie's injuries – so, it made sense that Don may not have told his father the whole story.
"Well, it might be late in coming," Alan was saying, "but how about joining us for dinner one night this week? We can barbecue in the back yard or something. It can be a welcome home for Charlie and welcoming you to LA party, all at the same time. We'll invite Don's team, too."
Charlie, oblivious to the tension and still pushing the food around his plate, said, "At leath it will be real food."
Don remained still, almost chiseled and Grace took a deep breath. It was now or never.
"That sounds lovely. That's very kind of you." She turned to Charlie. "Your brother's right, you know. My dad's a doctor. My brother and I were just talking about it last night on the phone and we remember Dad always said the best medicine is a home cooked meal."
Charlie opened his mouth to say the soft diet on the tray in front of him was nothing at all resembling a home cooked meal, but Grace waved his remark off, continuing, "But, he said, if you can't have that, eat what's in front of you."
She chanced a glance at Don and was relieved to see his eyes had softened and the hard line of his jaw had relaxed.
"Well," she said, feeling lighter than she had in days, "Dad also prescribed a lot of rest, so I'd better get out of here and let you do that. I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Charlie." She inclined her head towards Alan. "Thank you. I'd love to come to the barbecue. Just let me know what I can bring." She turned then to face Don. With no hesitation or fear or doubt, she took one step towards him and let him know she had made her decision. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Special Agent Eppes."
His response was civil, minimal at best, but at least it wasn't hostile. He nodded his head once, his lips pursed, and he looked directly into her eyes. "Tomorrow morning," he repeated. For a fleeting second she thought – or maybe imagined - she saw something in his eyes, but he turned his eyes back to Charlie and she turned and left the room.
She had spent a lot of time thinking, just as he told her to. She spoke to Abbott who told her Special Agent Roderick Mitchell had voluntarily resigned his position with a full retirement package. She didn't know what was going to happen, whether a new team leader would be appointed or if the team would be split up, but she was not sorry to see him go.
It was sometime after ten o'clock last night when she finally broke down and called Trevor. It turned out he had started to call her many times, but backed out at the last minute; not sure she wanted to talk to him. She hadn't realized how much she had missed him. She was surprised and delighted to find him supportive and comforting, even encouraging. He told her he would back her in anything she wanted to do. And what she wanted, she knew, was to stay in the FBI.
One of her instructors at Quantico had told the class an agent's real merit showed in their baptism under fire. There may not have been any live ammunition flying around Stokes' front lawn, but she had definitely been under fire. She had the feeling Don Eppes' protective attitude for his family could make him a very dangerous man.
After talking to Trevor last night, acting on a strange impulse, she had Googled the phrase "baptism under fire". Among the numerous web pages offered she had clicked on a quote from the movie Rocky Balboa. "There's always somebody out there. Always. And when that time comes and you find something standing in front of you, something that ain't running and ain't backing up and is hitting on you and you're too tired to breathe. You find that situation on you. That's good, 'cause that's baptism under fire. Oh! You get through that and you find the only kind of respect that matters in this damn world – self respect."
Eppes had given her more than a second chance. He had given her something much more important. That last second, just before she left the hospital room, she had clearly seen the challenge in his eyes. He was daring her to be good, challenging her to be her best and prove to herself and others she could do it. She could show her father, and Trevor, and Agent Eppes and herself that she had what it takes to be a damn good agent. Somehow, she knew self respect was the key to gaining Eppes' respect. And if she had that, well, she had a feeling nothing could hold her back.
The end.