Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions
Part Four
Random Variable Numb3r Eleven (Eppes House (Dining Room – Day Two, 9.20am)
"Don not out of the shower yet?"
"Who knows?" Charlie shrugged, somewhat studiedly. "He doesn't usually inform me of his schedule."
Alan sighed, and turned to face his younger son. "I take it you two haven't spoken yet this morning?"
"We spoke. Sort of. Don just told me how busy he was. As usual."
"Charlie . . ."
"It's no big deal, dad. Better just leave it alone."
Alan came out of the kitchen to where Charlie stood at the dining table. "Did he tell you he was sorry - that he didn't have any choice?"
"Yes, sort of," Charlie repeated. He began stuffing term papers haphazardly into his rucksack. "And then he went and blew it by insisting he left a message at Salvo's. Why would he do that - you did check with the floor manager, right?
"I did."
"Okay." Charlie nodded, unhappily. "You checked. I know you did."
"No, wait," Alan regarded him in bewilderment. "Something's wrong - I'm not getting this. There must be some sort of misunderstanding going on here. If there's one thing I know for sure about your brother, he would never tell you a lie."
"Wouldn't he?" Charlie looked up, suddenly, angrily, a fiery light in his eye. "Except for the many and varied times he's lied to us by omission." He put up a hand to stop Alan interrupting. "No, just listen to me a minute. How often has he walked in through the door hiding some sort of physical injury? And when does he ever come straight out and tell you, he's depressed, or he's had a lousy day?"
"Charlie . . ." There was a strange expression on Alan's face – unhappy and slightly guilty.
Charlie stared at him in dawning realisation, some unpleasant facts filtering down through his brain. "Dear God, I don't believe this." The stack of term papers scattered across the table and floated, unheeded, to the floor. "He does – Don does - talk to you about some of those things." Charlie began to pace the dining room in agitation. "Did he ask you to hide them from me, to treat me like a child? Or did you come to an agreement together? Let's protect poor, little Charlie. Poor, little, fragile Charlie. We both know he's not up to dealing with the nasty facts of life!"
"It isn't like that." Alan snapped. "Your brother rarely tells me anything about the cases he works on, but once in a while, he might confess that he's tired or admit he's had a bad day. Don's not like you, Charlie. He's a very private person. Getting him to talk about his feelings is like prying open a clam."
"A very, selective clam!" Charlie snorted. "You know what, Dad, he does the same with me. If I find out from one of his team he's picked-up a minor injury – not that he'll ever tell me - he asks me to keep quiet about it. To keep it hidden from you. He doesn't trust either one of us. Not enough to really let us in."
"Oh Charlie, do you think I don't realise that?" Alan shook his head somewhat sadly. "Don does what he thinks is right, in his own way. He's trying to protect us both."
The ring of a cell-phone interrupted them. It was Don's, from his neatly folded pants. It stopped after thirty seconds or so and then the house phone rang. Charlie returned to the dining table and began to gather his scattered papers.
"Hello, Eppes residence?"
"Alan?" It was Terry Lake. "I tried Don's cell but it went straight to voice-mail. Is everything all right?"
"He's in the bathroom . . ." Alan paused, his paternal antennae on sudden alert. The conversation with Charlie had touched on a raw spot. "What do you mean is everything all right? Did something happen I should know about?"
Terry hesitated. "He must be feeling sore this morning. It's why I let him sleep in a little. Could you tell him I'll drop by in thirty minutes to give him a ride downtown?"
Alan frowned. A few butterfly sutures and a cut on the ear should not prevent Don from driving. "Terry, was he hurt last night? I mean other than the cut on his ear? He hasn't said anything this morning, but there must be a reason he's not driving?"
Charlie gave a muffled exclamation and pulled something out from under the table. It was Don's rolled-up FBI jacket with the shoulder-brace still tucked inside. He held it in front of his father's face like a silent accusation. It substantiated everything he'd just been saying - proof positive of Don's reserve and guilt.
"He broke his collarbone." There was a hint of resignation in Terry's tone. No matter what she said, there was going to be trouble. If, for whatever reason, Don hadn't told his family about his injury, she knew him well enough by now to realise he was going to be pissed off. She wondered if she should say anything else, sensing some undercurrents. No – it really wasn't her business to do anything but stick to the facts. "Nothing too serious, apparently. He'll just need to be chauffeured around for a while."
Alan nodded, and even down the phone line she could hear a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Thank you. It's nice to know these things. I'll pass on the message as soon as he's done. I'm sure he'll be ready and waiting for you."
Random Variable Numb3r Twelve (Eppes House (Landing/Alan's Bedroom – Day Two, 9.30am)
By the time he reached dad's bedroom, Don realised something was wrong. Not off, in the lack of sleep/crappy night kind of way, but really, seriously, out of synch. He leaned up against the door-frame and tried to take a deep breath. Big mistake . . . the landing reeled around him and he broke out in a cold sweat.
'What the hell was up with him?'
His body ached mercilessly. Pulling the sweat pants on to go downstairs had been nothing short of a nightmare. Not just because his shoulder hurt, but because of his shaking hands. He made it into the bedroom and stumbled across to the wardrobe, grasping hold of the door knob and holding on tightly for dear life. The row of clean shirts blurred before him and he closed his eyes for a moment. The next thing Don knew, he pitched forward. He had almost fallen to the floor. He leaned his face up against the wardrobe door, the old walnut smooth against his cheek. It took a couple of breaths to clear his head and force the dizziness away.
'Not good. This was so not good.'
Don pulled out a clean shirt at random and made it across to the bed. He sank down on the edge of the mattress and fought to regain his balance. The sullen ache in the small of his back had turned into a vengeful monster. His belly felt hard and tight as a drum – must be something to do with all the barfing
'Maybe if he sat here for a little while . . . he could pull himself together. It would only take a minute or two, and then he would be all right.'
A telephone was ringing somewhere downstairs and Don recognised the sound of his cell. It was followed by the more strident tones of the house phone and then the swell of voices raised in anger.
'Dad and Charlie – sounded like they were fighting. No, surely that couldn't be right?'
He realised he was shivering violently - teeth chattering uncontrollably in his head. The room was dancing pirouettes around him. He slid off the bed onto the floor.
'Sick . . . he was going to be sick again . . . his father was going to kill him.' More useless retching onto the William Morris rug, he tried hard to stop, but it was futile. Each heave ripped the lining of his stomach, but the torture went on and on.
'Sorry about the rug, Mom.' Bizarrely, Don heard himself apologise. His mother had always loved this rug. He almost expected her to answer. Right now, she felt very close.
"Dad," Don figured it was time to shout for some help. Since when had his voice become so pathetic? He forced himself to try it again. "Dad - Charlie? Anyone!"
It was getting much harder for him to breathe and he was cold . . . so very cold. 'Shock,' he thought, vaguely, 'I'm going into shock.' He was still alert enough to categorise it. The first blow of the God-damned crowbar. It must have messed up something inside. 'Kidney's,' he remembered his anatomy hazily. Probably some kind of internal injury. 'Should have taken the EMT's advice and gone to the Emergency Room.'
Nobody was coming up to save him. Typical – it was typical. The one and only time he asked for help. He might as well be wasting his breath. Alan clearly hadn't heard him calling, what with all the racket going on downstairs. 'No wonder.' He was yelling too loudly at Charlie. 'What the hell was up with that?'
Don tucked his injured arm over his body and inched his way to the door. It was a journey of barely ten feet or so, but it felt like an epic endeavour. He pulled himself up by the doorframe and staggered out onto the landing, clutching hold of the balustrade tightly, when he made it to the top of the stairs.
"Dad!" He tried his best, he really did, but his voice was barely a whisper. The last burst of effort had sapped all his energy and there was little, if anything left.
Don's legs gave way beneath him and then he collapsed onto his knees. He slumped at the top of the staircase, afraid he was going to fall. At last, long last, there was movement below him. He heard someone call out his name. He lifted his hand in grateful acknowledgement but oddly, his arm wouldn't work.
Nothing seemed to work any longer. His voice . . . his arms . . . his body. All he was aware of now, were the terrible waves of pain. Pain which cut through his abdomen - pain which sawed across his back. Don curled into a ball to escape it. Mercifully, everything went black.
Random Variable Numb3r Thirteen (Eppes House (Downstairs) – Day Two, 10.00am)
Terry Lake's heart sank down into her boots as she pulled up alongside the curb. She normally parked in the driveway but it was clearly impossible this morning. The red and white bulk of an ambulance was already occupying that space. It was backed-up towards the open front door for quick and easy access to the house.
Her hands shook briefly as she cut the ignition. Somehow she knew without being told who the wagon was for. She was out of her car and across the lawn in seconds, ignoring a group of curious neighbours who had gathered by the gates to rubber-neck. She headed for the figure waiting just inside the door, and took a firm grip on his arm.
"Charlie? Charlie, tell me, did something happen to Don?"
He turned to stare at her blankly, his silence confirmation enough.
Terry took a deep breath and tried again. "Charlie, tell me what happened?"
Something flickered in Charlie's eyes and she felt him square his shoulders. "He didn't tell us, Terry. We didn't know anything was wrong. Don - he went for a shower. Dad and I . . . we heard him call out for help." He looked at her in confusion. "Don never calls out for help."
"It's all right." She spoke, automatically, but the words sounded meaningless. "His injuries aren't serious. It's going to be all right."
"No." Suddenly, Charlie snapped back to life and pulled away with anger. "No, Terry, it's not all right. We didn't even know he'd been hurt. He didn't tell us. Nobody told us. Don't you think someone should have told us? We are in-fact, Don's next of kin!"
"Charlie, wait - " she followed him through to the bottom of the staircase, aware of a flurry of activity taking place on the landing above. A ripple of alarm ran through her. She could tell by the sense of urgency that something was seriously wrong. It was not what she'd been expecting. Her feeling of dread increased. Terry could just about see Don's dark hair as an EMT supported his head. As much as she cared for Charlie, she didn't have time for this. Her hand was already on the banister - she had to know what was happening to Don. "Of course, you and your dad are listed as Don's next of kin, but he didn't seem seriously injured. I made sure he was seen by the medic's last night. They checked him out pretty thoroughly."
"So thoroughly, he has internal bleeding. So thoroughly, the EMT's say he's gone into clinical shock."
"I'm sorry." Terry pulled away from Charlie, and swiftly climbed the stairs. Alan Eppes turned relieved eyes to greet her from his position on the floor beside his son. She touched him briefly on the shoulder, and tried hard to curb her own fear; flashing her badge at the lead EMT as she gestured down at Don. "Agent Lake. Did they tell you he's a Federal Agent?"
"I understand he received these injuries last night?" The man nodded up at her tersely. He barely took time to look at her badge, before turning his attention back to Don. "I'd be interested to know who checked him out."
"What do you mean?" Terry frowned.
"I need to get this cannula sited while he still has any viable veins." The EMT ignored her for a second or two and spoke instead to his companion. "Let's get some fluids into him, stat. Then we'll scoop and run." He flicked his glace back up to Terry. "He should have gone to the ER last night. He's in severe clinical shock." He struggled to slide an IV port into a vein on the side of Don's wrist.
Terry stared in horrid fascination, her mind tussling with denial. "I don't understand why this has happened. He received two blows from an iron crowbar . . ." she heard Alan's smothered gasp beside her. "One which fractured his collarbone and another which barely scraped his ear. He seemed fine afterwards."
The EMT ran through a bag of fluid and watched as it started to flow. "Well, he's not fine now. There's bruising across his lower back and evidence of internal bleeding. My guess, he was struck at least three times by a heavy blunt force instrument. Someone got their wires crossed along the line. Someone oughta learn how to count!"
TBC
Lisa Paris
