Benedictus

In the tender compassion of our God

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

From the Benedictus Song of Zechariah The Gospel of Luke

Part Two

Don Eppes' Apartment

Then – the previous evening . . .

The apartment was dark when he let himself in, but then again, it always was these days. Pretty dumb of him to expect anything else, not since Liz returned his spare set of keys.

He didn't waste any time with the light switch. Instead, he headed straight for the kitchen. There were only two things he wanted – an empty glass and the bourbon to fill it.

Christ, what a day.

What a bitch of a day. For all sorts of shapes and reasons. There was a knot of anxiety balled tight in his chest which stubbornly refused to go away.

First of all, there was the little girl's body. As if that wasn't enough. She'd looked just like a sleeping princess – like something out of a children's story. Except that this was no fucking fairytale, and the horrible, appalling irony was, she would never be awoken by a kiss.

He'd been in the business long enough.

By now, he should be getting wise to this.

Don shivered and set the glass on the counter. He filled it up to the brim. Just the comforting splash of the liquor itself, helped settle some of the anguish he was feeling. He'd held out right until the last minute – relying on some kind of miracle. After all, it was the holy season, whether you were Jewish, Christian or Pagan. A time of blessings and benediction, so, if not now at Christmas, then when?

But once they'd broken down the door of the basement, he'd discovered all hope was dead.

It was bad enough entering a stranger's house and delivering tragic news about a loved one – but when you'd built up a relationship with the people concerned – it was a walk in the park, by comparison.

Could he have handled it better?

Would anything have made a difference?

There was no real answer to that question, to the inference of blame in their eyes. All he knew was, he'd been agent in charge of the case, and any ultimate responsibility was his.

According to the techs. she'd been dead for three days. Killed almost straight away after he'd snatched her. Once he'd satisfied his perverted needs, the freak hadn't wasted much time.

There was nothing anyone could have done.

She was never going home alive.

Recriminations, both public and personal. Then paperwork, and even worse, a press conference. It was barely the right side of midnight before he could call it a day. Megan, God bless her, had stuck it out with him. She no longer had much to go home to. Not since Larry had become all existential and disappeared up his own backside.

He'd let Liz go several hours before that. It was probably some strange form of masochism, but he'd wanted her out of the office once he'd heard she was going on a date. The sight of her just kept rubbing salt in his wounds, and in the end, he'd sent her off-duty. It was late and he didn't need her around, in-spite of the heightened terror alerts.

If anything went down between now and the morning, then he'd just have to call her back in.

Otherwise, he was glad to see the back of her. Glad when he could lower the pretence. He no longer had the emotional resources, to either deal with it, or try to ignore it. He didn't want any more scenes with her. Not now, and especially not today.

Their break-up had been uncomfortable to say the least. Talk about out in the open. The old saying about dirty linen in public? It might just have been coined for him and Liz.

He hated it – each damned, awkward piece of it.

The whole thing had given him a headache, and he was stumbling around in a stupor. Every second he was forced to look at her only served to prolong the pain. Even then, she'd drawn out the agony. What the hell, did she want him to say something? To ask who the fuck she was meeting, or even worse, beg her to stay?

So, what did he know?

She'd made that quite clear. He had no rights and even fewer opinions. At the end of the day, he was only a man. Only capable of transient relationships. Apparently, he was a liar and a poor long-term prospect. He didn't understand squat about anything.

She'd left early, without a single word to him. Just more silent recrimination. And knowing she had gone – what she was doing – paradoxically, it hurt him all the more.

The bourbon hit the ground running. It burned a fiery path down his gullet. As he filled the empty glass for a second time, he realised he hadn't eaten today. Not that there was any point in it now – his fridge was about as barren as his apartment. And besides, the liquor was more than enough. The thought of food made him feel sick.

Maybe he should have gone to Pasadena.

And then again, maybe not.

He took the bottle through to the living room, and sank wearily down onto the sofa. He didn't bother putting the light on, when he'd finished, he'd probably crash out right here. He couldn't face the thought of getting up again – not even to take a shower or get changed. It was easier, and a damned sight more comforting, to stay put and drift away into the darkness.

Just him, the Jack, and a whole throng of ghosts.

They were always there on the periphery, crowding his senses, pushing in on him. Silent but usually accusing, just waiting on the edge of his vision. He turned his head into the sofa, and tried to avoid their censure. The faces, mainly dead, but some living, which haunted him and refused to let him go.

And now, the tiny, fairy princess had joined them, her blue eyes full of reproach.

Don filled the glass to the top again. He was going to regret this in the morning. He couldn't even get smashed without feeling guilty - but for a while, the booze would help mask the pain. It was nothing a handful of Tylenol wouldn't cure, and so what, if it gave him a headache.

The way he felt right at this minute?

Know what, he didn't even care.

He wanted the solace only whisky could give him. The rapid descent into comatose. When you looked, when it came right down to it, the booze was a reliable constant. Steadfast and insidiously comforting; always there at the end of the day. People – hell, people, they left you. Regular as clockwork with no big surprises. You either pushed them away, or failed to measure up, but always finished the race alone. He'd thought for a while, it would be different with Liz, but he'd sabotaged that one, too.

He snorted out loud in the silence. Way to go, Eppes, you're a prince among men.

Talking about the booze in this way - he sounded like a real lush.

The irony was, he hated being single. In truth, he always had. This persona, this reputation as a commitment phobe, it had gained a life all of its own. Don Eppes - Agent Supremo - ladies man and lothario. In nearly all of his recent relationships, he'd been the one who'd ended up getting dumped. Oh yeah, he was becoming pretty good at it, he'd gotten quite adept at pretending. He would brood for a time, go to ground and lick his wounds; after a while, he would pick himself up.

He was turning into a consumate actor, skilled at hiding the bruises on his heart.

But on nights like this, when he was vulnerable, it felt like there was no one out there. He would stare into the bottom of the glass and worry, he was destined to spend the rest of his life alone. And to be honest, the thought of it frightened him. Terrified him, in-fact.

He was lonely.

It was no big secret.

There was a hollow space growing inside of him, and he didn't know if he could fill it again.

It felt like everything was falling apart, like it was slowly eroding around him. He spent everyday working hard at the façade, trying his best to maintain the smokescreen. And most days, he probably succeeded, but it was hard – so hard to hold on.

He sighed; God, how he hated self-pity, and yet here he was, positively wallowing. He was restless, that was the truth of it. His skin felt too tight for his body. He was trapped in some kind of weird limbo, unable to shift backwards or forwards. Things were changing and growing all around him, but he was stuck here, unable to move on.

He'd always lived his life at high octane; forever pushing, always thrusting ahead. Since childhood, he'd been almost impatient, not content to let the world pass him by; constantly searching for new challenges, of both the physical and cerebral kind. Baseball and sports of any variety had satisfied this need when he was younger, and then, when he realised he would never make the cut, he'd turned to the FBI.

Of course, there was a little more to it than that. He wasn't some whacked-out, adrenalin junkie. Not like Coop and some of the others he'd run across during the course of his career. But, and he was being totally honest now, he kinda liked the frisson of fear. The way a fresh case made his pulse race and the visceral cut and thrust of it.

Hey, all this self-analysis stuff?

Nothing to it - way too easy. With just a little help from Jack, who the hell needed a shrink?

Better start calling him Herr Doctor Freud.

Don Eppes? He was a piece of cake.

More like a piece of fruitcake - with extra nuts on the side.

If only his life was as simple, he took another swallow of the bourbon, shaking his head at the mordant humour. It sure hadn't seemed that way lately. Actually, it resembled a minefield. He'd felt like he was swimming in a pool of molasses, filled with deadly, man-eating sharks.

The relationship with Liz had thrown him a lifeline – offered him a way out of the mire. For the first time in ages, he'd been feeling optimistic. Buoyant and happy again. Of course, in the end, it was too good to be true. He might have guessed fate would pitch him a curved ball - should have known Leah Wexford, and the can of worms called his past, would come back to bite him on the ass.

And now, she was gone – or as good as.

He had to face it.

Him and Liz – they were so over.

Hell, tonight, she'd made it clear she was moving forward, picking up the pieces, getting on with her life.

To be quite blunt, he couldn't blame her.

He wasn't exactly catch of the year, in fact, he was more like the booby prize. He was Don Eppes, the prince of darkness. A libertine and seducer of women. Incapable of sustaining a long-term relationship, either that, or the kiss of death. It was hard - so hard not to give into the shadows; he just hoped it would all work out in the end. It didn't stop him from wishing things were different. He reached for the bourbon again.

The worse thing was knowing his friends were concerned. In-fact, some of them were blatantly worried. Dad didn't make much of a secret about it, but then again, he wasn't known for his subtlety. It was clear in the way Megan kept an eye on him, trying her best to be discreet about it – obvious when his team acted warily, endeavouring to skirt around his short temper.

And then, of course, there was Charlie.

What could he say about Charlie?

Don sighed – might as well be honest. It was yet another no-go area. Ever since the debacle with that fool news reporter, and the subsequent fallout from the Bonnie Parks case, there was just no getting away from it; things had been pretty screwed up between them. It had resurrected all his worse nightmares, and brought back a slew of his old demons. They'd tumbled out of the closet to haunt him, to flaunt a whole string of fears in his face; stripping back the veneer of safety it had taken him so long to construct.

Charlie now had his act together big-time. He had Amita, he actually had a social-life. Charlie, the man, had come into his own, he was more self-assurred, somehow just tougher. It had been a long time in the making, and Don was one hundred per cent, relieved to finally see it. His little brother had come of age - he had finally grown into his skin. He appeared to be over the spun-glass fragility which had blighted him for so many years. In-fact - Don grimaced at the half-empty whisky tumbler – he almost didn't recognise him sometimes. It was hard reconciling today's Charlie with the timid, awkward man he'd once known.

His shy, introverted little brother had an ego the size of Texas.

Was he holding him back?

It was one of his worries. Charlie was brilliant - no, better make that incandescent. This had made it all the harder to swallow when his life had been placed so shockingly at risk. And maybe, that was why Charlie didn't get it. Couldn't understand what had made him so angry. The thought of losing his brother now . . . of all those achievements sailing off down the Swannee . . . Don took a large swallow of bourbon.

It just didn't bear thinking about.

He'd said things – they'd both said things. Angry words, in the heat of the moment. So, on the surface, they'd papered over the cracks, but the walls were weak and fractured underneath.

He tried so hard to do the right thing. He'd been trying for what seemed like forever. But he was tired, so fucking tired of it. Right now, he was running on empty.

So, yeah, it looked like he was destined to be alone.

For tonight, and for the long-term future. Uncle Don - the eternal bachelor, he toasted himself, wryly. The consumate career man, married to the FBI. Maybe he should just get used to it, and stop struggling against the tide? Besides, the way he was feeling, could be it was the easier option. Sometimes the quiet solace of being alone was preferable to anything else. He needed to pander to his demons, and the thought of Pasadena made him shudder. Too much sympathy and too many questions - the last thing he wanted was company. He hated their need to include him, and the pity he saw in their eyes.

Poor Don.

Did you hear about Donnie?

His love-life took another nose-dive. We'll all make an extra effort to be nice to him, to make him realise he's loved and among friends. Just don't mention the relationship word, because it flushed down the toilet again.

He wondered what Liz was doing right now. Where she was, and who she was with. He hadn't heard any rumours at the office – but then again, they probably wouldn't reach his ears. He'd take a bet she was wearing the killer red dress, the one with the little shoe-string shoulder straps. It was vibrant, a brilliant scarlet, and she looked pretty fantastic in it.

It had a zip at the back, he remembered.

It had always been a favourite of his.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. In his dreams, she always wore her hair down. It tumbled over her shoulders, in a cascade of black silk, like a waterfall against her honey skin. He loved to run his hands through the weighty mass, as he slowly undid it, pin by pin.

Whoa – time to put a stop to this line of thought. He was torturing himself again.

He'd thought for a while, they might make it. Hoped, yeah, really hoped, they'd stand a chance. He'd even entertained some dreams about the future, before fate had turned the screws and damped them down. From the start, Liz had been quite blunt with him. He'd laboured under no illusions. She'd been very clear about their relationship, and the fact that his past was an issue. She'd listened to the talk, and heard all the rumours, but it was obvious they'd played on her mind.

And he'd always known how ambitious she was. Her career was extremely important. One of the reasons she'd disliked going public was because of the office gossip. How she'd hated the whole nepotistic thing of being thought of as the boss's girlfriend. For a while, they'd let it run and had some fun with it. The fact of it being clandestine, it had made it kind of wild and kinky. The affair had been their dirty, little secret, before the truth had inevitably spilled out.

Don took a swallow of bourbon and closed his eyes. He leaned his head back against the sofa. The way this latest case had ended?

Maybe after today, she was right.

Hell, every woman he ever went out with?

They either died, or ran screaming for the hills.

They were back again. The ghosts were back, jostling and crowding in on him. Some of them pointed their fingers, their faces sharp and accusing. There was no point hoping they'd vanish just yet, he could even see them with his eyes shut. He knew of old, they were here to torment him. They would go in their own, sweet time.

He only prayed he would get some sleep tonight. It was the start of Hanukkah tomorrow. Hard to believe, in so many ways; the beginning of the Festival of Lights. Hanukkah - his heart clenched all over again. His mother had loved this time of year. She'd always decorated the house, and lit the candles on the menorah. The Craftsman had been warm with firelight and redolent with the scent of cinnamon. Funny - for a secular family, it was the one festival she insisted on keeping. In-fact, his pain was amplified, she'd been entranced by the holiday season. On several occasions, he recalled, she'd even wanted a Christmas tree.

Something for everyone, she'd said; a magical time of year.

A time of new hope and of giving thanks. Dad and Charlie were throwing a party.

A party. It was funny ironic. He'd never felt less like being sociable in his life. He knew he would turn up and act normal. It was the least he could do in her memory. He would tough it out along with the best of them, and pretend that everything was all right; look on it as a test of his endurance, until he could reasonably call it a night.

He couldn't go on like this anymore.

Couldn't carry on for much longer.

There was no escaping the cold, hard facts, he was obliged to do some serious thinking. By the time the Christmas holiday was over, he had some difficult choices to make. Whichever way around he looked at it, dad and Charlie no longer needed him. They'd picked up the threads of their lives and moved on, in the transitional wake of mom's death.

And he was happy for them – he really was. It was as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was no longer required to support anyone. It gave him a sense of liberation. At last, after a period of quite a long time, he was free to take a frank look at himself.

For a while, it seemed like he could make it work. He'd felt happier, more settled – who was he kidding?

For a while, he'd thought he had found his niche.

Maybe it was time to move on?

The tide just kept dragging him deeper and deeper, down into the blackness of the ocean. However much he struggled against it, he was caught in the undertow. He was sucked dry, like there was nothing left inside. Almost empty, like the bottle beside him. There was just no getting away from it - he was trapped in an outsized rut. The more he fought, the more he tried to battle and claw his way out of it, the more the earth piled in on top of him. The more he slipped back down the sides.

He laughed, quietly, drunk on bourbon and bitterness. Options. There were always options. They called to him with a siren's song, some of them dark and invidious. There was nothing he hadn't considered, late at night, when he took off his gun. And, on occasion, it was tempting, oh, so tempting, to take the easy way out. To put an end to this black hole of misery. Just to tighten his finger on the trigger, and end it all in the space of a second. Nothing too painful, and no going back. That was the beauty of a gun.

Not for him.

That opt out was not for him. Don shook himself away from the shadows. It was only for the lost and the desolate. For people who'd become so wounded and wretched, they could no longer think of anyone else. In the end, no matter how goddamned awful he felt, he knew he wasn't one of them. The protector thing was too well drummed into him. He couldn't do it to Charlie and dad.

No – his future didn't lie along that route. It was the road not taken.

Maybe it was time to move on?

To see what lay ahead through the woods.

At last – long last – he was drifting. He shifted down a little on the sofa. The whisky was working its insidious magic, and stealing through to weary muscles and bones. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the faces. Closed his mind to banish all the ghosts. If Washington relaxed the terror alert, then tomorrow, he would look out some numbers. He was owed a couple of favours, and he could make a few long-distance calls. Whichever way around he examined it, this state of affairs could not go on.

But right now, he was tired. He was so damned tired.

He prayed things would seem brighter in the morning.

TBC