Disclaimer: - Use of strong language


Superheroes

'Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'

Marc Brown


Part Seven

Breaking trail on these slopes was hard going. The woods were thick and tangled with undergrowth. In some places, the forest shelf sheered away vertically and forced him on a more circuitous route. He'd learned to be careful when placing his feet because the carpet of damp leaves was treacherous. The pine needles were slick like an ice-rink and he'd fallen on his backside several times.

Charlie sighed, and paused to take a quick break. By now, he was hurting all over. His muscles were sore and felt stretched to the limit, protesting both with bruises and exertion. He wiped a hand over his forehead, his skin clammy with rain and sweat. He was miserable, running on empty and for some reason, his joints really ached.

It was lighter but grey with drizzle. The fine rain seeping into his clothing. He was strung out on wretchedness, and fighting exhaustion as he pushed his way up to the ridge. He tried hard not to worry, even harder not to think, but his treacherous brain wasn't listening. It spun round like a disc on a continuous loop, stuck on endless repeat in his head.

This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd planned this little trip into the mountains, and selfishly, he couldn't help resenting the fact it had all gone so horribly awry. In retrospect, he knew he'd been obsessive and working within narrowed parameters. All he'd thought about, and with honesty, fixated upon, was telling Don and getting him on-side. This disastrous encounter with the Harrisons, it should be totally the worse thing he needed, but on the other hand, and very bizarrely, Charlie found he could barely remember when he'd last felt so urgently alive.

All these weeks after realising something was wrong, he'd existed in a kind of limbo, an insidious, creeping lassitude which had usurped and subjugated his days. Somehow, he'd just about managed to tough it out, to perform and go through the motions, refusing to acknowledge the lingering terror which skirted around the fringes of his consciousness.

Cancer.

He knew occasionally some types were familial, and that the tendency could run in families. And now he was being forced to face up to it – to confront this threat to his life. But he hadn't, of course, and that was the problem. He'd pushed it away, just like the last time. Refused to let it get past the barriers he'd erected in order to function.

What Don had said, his mini-lecture last night by the lake, Charlie accepted now he should have been more open. He should have confided in, and trusted his loved ones enough, to be honest and tell them the truth. In the end, by simple virtue of loving him, they had a right to be there to support him, and his misguided attempts at protection had done them a kind of disfavour. He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, really glad for the first time it was shorter. This mode of thinking looped him around in a circle and, inevitably, led right back to Don.

Don.

He thought about his brother stuck back there in that hole. Of all the hard-headed, obdurate, stubborn . . . any attempt at coherent words failed him. The same brother who'd driven all the way out here, despite being hurt and in pain. He might have laughed then if things weren't so desperate. The twisted irony didn't succeed in escaping him. For such a straight-arrow, down-to-earth type of guy, Don was really great at lying by omission. He ran clean away with the trophy when it came down to hiding his distress.

He hadn't been so great at it earlier.

Charlie sobered up, as he remembered.

It was hard to think of the last time he'd seen Don in quite so much pain.

He pushed off the tree and moved on again, filled with foreboding and bitter anxiety. What in God's name was he thinking, he had no luxury, no time in which to rest. He hurried now, more quickly, less carefully. The way was steep and the ground was uneven. Once, his heart nearly leapt from his body in fright, but it was only a young, white-tailed deer.

Keep cool – stay calm - mustn't lose it.

But the adrenalin rush didn't do him any favours. A sudden pounding of blood pulsed through his arteries and his head hurt worse than before. Startled, a bird flew out of the scrub, clacking and screeching up from the undergrowth. He lost his balance and flailed backwards, both feet slipping and sliding for purchase, but the wet leaves proved to be his undoing and he fell awkwardly, badly jarring his right knee.

Not broken, but he was sure he'd wrenched the ligaments. The whole structure felt fragile and twisted. The damp earth soaked up through the fabric of his jeans as he knelt there, taking deep draughts of air through his nose. He was shaking, both with pain and in panic. He was too vulnerable, too out in the open. The bird had advertised his presence like a siren to any listening or interested ears.

He bit his lip and got to his feet again, holding his breath as he stood quietly, listening. The only sounds he could hear were his pulse-rate and the soft rhythm of rain on the leaves. There was no echo of voices and no sudden shouts. No more crashing or loud crackling through undergrowth, but the Harrison boys were locals, had grown up in these parts. It didn't mean they weren't out there, somewhere.

The ground still rose up ahead of him and Charlie had to keep going - keep moving. He forced tired muscle groups into action again, and began to climb the last few yards up to the ridge. Progress was dicey and arduous, much more difficult following the last fall. His injured leg felt weak and unstable so he took his time and moved slowly, pacing his steps more methodically until at long last, he broke through the tree-line.

On a clear day, he might see the car from up here, but the rain clouds lay in shrouds across the mountains. Swathes of grey mist choked the valleys and effectively cut off his view. Sudden fear made him fumble as he reached for the cell phone. What if the weather had affected the signal? He didn't know if he could make it any further right now, and yet Don was still counting on him.

His clumsy fingers trembled on the keypad, and then the display lit, and he supposed that was something. He eased down with his back against a tree trunk, and then inhaled sharply and waited. It took an age for the menu to appear on the screen, let alone the range of signal bars. They flickered once or twice, as though taunting him, and then settled into a definite pattern. He realised then, he'd been holding his breath, and exhaled in shattered relief.

Sinclair answered at last, after six long rings. He sounded sleepy and a little disgruntled. It was Saturday, probably having a lie-in, but right now, Charlie couldn't care less. He'd called him first out of sheer survival instinct, knowing the agent would know what to do.

He spoke rapidly. "David – it's Charlie. Don and I are in big trouble. We need a team out here as quickly as possible. You have to alert Search and Rescue and place a GPS track on this phone."

"Charlie? What the hell . . ."

"Listen, David, we're up in the Sierras at Black Rock Lake – we were supposed to be fishing, long story. On the way up here, we stopped at a gas statiion, and Don got recognised by a guy called Kyle Harrison. He was involved in a robbery at Bakersfield, it happened roughly four years ago."

Sinclair was wide awake now. "Go on, Charlie, yeah, I think I remember. Don called the local cops from the store and one of the perps was shot dead. Wait a minute, Liz said something to me yesterday – Don asked her to run a name and plate check. I think she left a message on his cell-phone, but I'd been wrapping up my report on the warehouse raid, and was just about to call it a day."

Don had asked Liz to run a name and plate check?

Well, this was the first time he'd heard of it.

Charlie rallied and told him the rest, and gradually, his hands stopped shaking. He felt a little better and more in control as the other man spoke to him steadily. When it came down to being reassuring, Sinclair was firm and very supportive. He cut to the chase pretty quickly, and his questions were pertinent and calm.

Like Don.

The sudden comparison hurt him.

It was off-putting and distractingly unbidden.

Resolutely, he pushed any errant thoughts aside and tried to focus on the matter at hand. Three minutes later and the phone call was over. He felt a lightening of strain within his chest. The conversation had been brief out of necessity, and in spite of things, Charlie couldn't help a rueful smile. David had reiterated most of the advice he'd already been given by Don.

Stay off the trail and keep away from your vehicle. Don't double back through the forest. Leave your cell on but keep it in silent mode. Try and find some place sheltered and warm.

He grimaced and rubbed at his temples. By now, his head really was killing him. He winced a little at the throw away notion - never a truer word spoken in jest. It was tempting to stay where he was for a while; he was tired and aching all over. Frighteningly easy to doze off right here, and forget about his troubles for a moment.

Far too hazardous, too exposed, out in the open.

He sat up straighter and looked down into the valley, hoping to see a break in the weather, but if anything, the temperature had nose-dived and the poor visibility had worsened. The layer of clouds had settled more densely and the rain was now falling in earnest. Charlie took in a deep draught of air and exhaled, as the cool drops fell on his face.

He knew he should really set off again before the cold started to affect him. It was too uncovered here, too open to the elements, and he'd already begun to feel chilled. The sudden wash of fatigue could be a symptom of that – another reason why he had to get going. If he stayed here for very much longer there was a good chance he'd become hypothermic.

It was an awful lot harder getting back up to his feet, and he leaned heavily on the tree for a moment. His damaged knee felt clumsy and unstable. It might help if he could find a decent stick. By now, he was dangerously thirsty. Wouldn't do to become dehydrated. He stuck out his tongue for a second or two and then ran it across his wet lips. There were the remnants of a fallen tree trunk nearby, the old wood decaying and moss-covered. He drank from the small puddle of rainwater which had collected halfway down the trunk.

Not great, but better than nothing.

It was brackish and tasted of wood tannins.

Now, all he needed was a hearty breakfast, his stomach growled at him in protest. He only just realised, with a faint start of surprise, how ravenously hungry he was. God, he could really use something to eat. There was nothing up here on the ridgeline. No fallen acorns and no handy berries. It was more open, the windswept cover was sparser, and the tall, ragged trees were mostly pines.

No – he would have to wait a while longer for food - it wasn't high on his list of priorities. He had nothing, not even a packet of gum, to take the rough edge off his appetite. He hugged his jacket a little tighter around him, as the rain began to soak through his clothing. It was time to do as they'd told him before he became too uncomfortably wet.

He scanned around in search of some cover; looking for a tangle or a thicket of undergrowth. He needed somewhere less visible and more sheltered, but it was easier said then done. There was a large outcropping of basalt a little way down the hillside. It was a quarter of a mile or so in front of him, partially surrounded by a dense wall of scrub. Charlie stared, undecided, for a moment or two, as he tried to weigh all the options. On the whole, they were pretty meagre; he wasn't faced with a whole lot of choice.

On the plus side, he would probably find shelter there – unless a sleepy bear had already beaten him to it. Conversely, to any knowledgeable tracker, it was an obvious place to seek refuge, and if the Harrison boys were still behind him, then it was one of the first places they might look.

In actual fact, there was no other alternative, and it was a risk he was forced into considering. He faced real and more immediate danger from the rain and insidious cold. A couple of dozen yards down the rise and he was relieved to find a fallen pine bough, quickly stripping away the excess branches, until he was left with a fairly stout walking stick.

He leaned on it and tested his weight to make sure it was good and sturdy. By now, his leg was really hurting, and he needed to reduce the pressure on his knee. Not perfect but it was better than nothing, and he was glad of the extra balance. He was forced to slow to a veritable snail's pace as he limped downhill from the ridge.

It was tempting – too tempting – to play calculate the time, but the answers were manifestly depressing. He knew David wouldn't waste a single second, but Los Angeles was still too far away. On the plus side, there was a local S and R team, and they would have quicker access to the mountains. He glanced up at the skies with a stab of unease, and hoped the bad weather wouldn't delay them.

At least Don had a modicum of shelter.

He made a face – who was he kidding?

He'd left him, hurt and in danger, all alone and at possible risk.

His mind wandered, and the stick slipped from under him, tipping him back onto his bottom. A flush of exasperation flooded over him – he'd been unfocused and distracted again.

"Damn it – God damn it!"

Charlie cursed out loud, jamming the stick into the ground beside him. He levered his body on the flexible pine and pulled himself back to his feet. Knuckles clenching on the freshly stripped wood, he straightened and steadied his balance. To his relief, nothing else had been damaged, except for maybe his pride.

He swallowed hard and found he was shaking, but this time, neither with cold nor fear. He was livid – both with himself and Don – and with the fates who had conspired against them. It seemed like everything that could possibly go wrong, had gone wrong . . . and coming up here had been his idea.

If only he'd been more open. If he'd been honest and confided in his loved ones. Should have let them in – ought to have told them the truth, and trusted them right from the start. But then again, he wasn't the only one. His brow furrowed with righteous resentment. His brother was just as damnably stubborn, and should shoulder his fair share of the blame.

Don had asked Liz to run a name and plate check.

No wonder he'd been so uneasy.

He must have sensed there was something off-kilter or had a gut-feeling they might be in danger, but in usual, typical Don fashion, had decided he was not going to share. Charlie took it out on the poor old stick again and it felt good to vent some of his anger. Dark clouds swirled in dense squadrons around the mountain tops, and the cold rain drove down even harder, but he was still too incensed with the turn of events to pay attention or care very much.

He wondered then, what Don was trying to prove. What had fashioned him and made him so guarded. The answer wasn't particularly obvious when both mom and dad had showered him with love. He faltered then, and felt desperately guilty; with love, certainly – but perhaps not with time. As for him, he'd been in such awe of his brother that he'd always danced around him on eggshells. He'd always seemed so tough and self-sufficient, constantly distant and a little out of reach.

How many times did he have to knock at the door before his brother eventually answered?

He was tired now – or at least his body was – physically tired and his head ached. He strained his eyes and looked down into the valley. The basalt outcrop seemed a hundred miles away. He heard it then, and froze in sheer terror. The noise was deadly and sadly too familiar. And again, there could be no mistaking the sound, a sharp crack echoing up through the trees.

Crack.

The stark resonance of gunshots.

Charlie turned and headed back towards the lake.


He shifted, and then awoke with a jerk, confused and unaware of what was happening. He blinked once or twice in bewilderment and felt the dampness of earth on his face. There was a lake and something about Charlie . . . all jumbled up with Smokey the bear.

It took a while before he remembered, and then he started wishing maybe he hadn't. All in all, coming up to the mountains? Hell, not exactly his brightest idea. That was the trouble with emotions. They had a tendency first to ambush and then slay you. Once they burrowed in and got a tight hold on you, they pushed all rational thought flat out of your head.

God, he'd known from the very beginning, right from the first, when Charlie had called him. The feeling something was up with his brother had simply refused to go away. Under any normal set of circumstances, he wouldn't have been so damned hasty. Or, make that careless and better add stupid – he would have used his head and postponed the trip. He ought to have listened to David, fronted up, and told the truth about his injuries. If only he'd been a little more trusting, but he hadn't and now it was too late.

Don gave a low groan and not just with pain.

And now he was relying on Charlie.

Some kind of big brother he was, lying here, dependent and useless.

According to his wristwatch, another hour had passed, which meant Charlie should have made it to the ridge. He shivered and uttered a short sharp prayer, with any luck, there was help on the way. Sinclair – David Sinclair would know what to do, and more importantly, how to look out for Charlie's safety. Don hoped, that just for once, Charlie might acquiesce and actually listen to advice.

Problem was, he couldn't bank on it.

He knew his brother was worried about him, and was terrified Charlie would act on it. What if he should have second thoughts, turn around and re-trace his steps?

It would be the culmination of all his worse nightmares if Charlie walked into a trap.

There was pain in his head and pain in his chest, and he was having a little trouble concentrating, his mind roving back over the last twenty-four hours and all the disastrous decisions he'd made. He was shivering and wet, but his body felt parched, and he guessed he was becoming dehydrated. Kind of ironic when he was still so damned wet, but he'd sell his very soul for a drink.

Realistically, he knew he'd made the right choice, there was no way he could have walked any further, but there was something horrid and very demoralising, about being stuck here, in this hole. Talking of which, he noticed with a jolt of unease, he was lying in an icy cold puddle. The entrance to his burrow had been softened by a continuous trickle of rainwater, and the fine drizzle which had plagued them all morning had turned into a more copious deluge. It took a while to wriggle his body down flat, during which process, he almost passed out again, but it brought him into contact with the rainwater puddle and allowed him to take a long drink. The water was gritty and garnished with mud, and a side-order of dead leaves and tannins. He drank slowly, taking in as much as he could, before the taste made him feel sick. After that, he was forced to take another long rest, fighting off nausea and sporadic waves of shivering, and then he realised the damp was increasing, as more water seeped into the den.

Might be an idea to check it out – the aperture was already much bigger. It was a good thing he felt okay in small spaces, and wasn't phobic about being buried alive.

He eased forward away from the backrest of roots, then put a hand out and tested the opening. The reddish earth was sodden and crumbling, and in the words of the incomparable Han Solo - he had a bad feeing about this. As he watched, a medium-sized, chunk broke away, and came to rest in his lap. So okay, he was not claustrophobic, but he couldn't help a swift stab of anxiety. He had a sudden and rather alarming thought; this was the first heavy rainstorm of autumn, and as the summer had been long and exceptionally dry, on the whole, it did not auger well.

Time to get out – it was time to get out – he knew, with a grim surge of panic. Ignoring the fiery burn in his chest, as he levered over what remained of the lip. The soil fragmented under his hands as water poured into the root cave. It cascaded around him in rivulets, ferrous-coloured and uncannily like blood. He scrabbled out, just in time, as the whole structure collapsed in a tumble of soft earth and branches, and slumped there, face contorted with effort, as he fought the slicing pain in his chest.

Couldn't breathe – too hard to breathe – he struggled and pushed his fists against his sternum. It seemed to help a little for some reason and at long last he rasped in some air. He didn't know how long he lay prone in the mud; long enough to feel wretched and frozen, but the rainwater beat on his eyelids and rapidly soaked through his hair.

Much more of this and he was a goner.

He hurt and the cold made him sluggish.

If he stayed here for very much longer, chances were, he'd never get up again.

A twig snapped and then he knew the game was over - leaf scuff and the soft crunch of footsteps. He pushed down on the ground and rolled onto his back, looking up into the barrel of a gun.

"Ain't this nice," Kyle Harrison leered down at him, pressing the muzzle flush against his temple. "Quite an unexpected pleasure, really. Bet you never thought you'd see me again?"

"Bad pennies," his voice sounded awful, "turn up when you least want them to."

Harrison studied him carefully, eyes creased with a kind of native intelligence. He smiled and then hunkered beside him, running the gun down his face to his chin. "You know, I get it, I really do get it, what you said back there, by the water. About having to look out for your brother, it being your job to keep him from harm."

"Pity you didn't get it before," Don grunted, referring to Bakersfield. "If you'd looked out for Wayne a little better that day, then maybe he'd still be alive."

He sensed the anger; saw the flash of reaction, before Harrison spoke to him again.

"What about you, Mister smart-ass, FBI? Know what, I don't see your brother. Now, don't you tell me he's all by himself, all alone, in those big woods out there?"

Don looked up with a shade of defiance. "Go fuck yourself, think I'd say anything to you?"

Harrison laughed. "Know what, gotta say this for you, Eppes, I really don't think you would."

"Tell him, Kyle." Jake spoke, and he didn't sound much better than Don, voice grating like a pair of old bellows. He was gasping like a chronic asthmatic, weak and struggling for air. "You tell him what we done to his punk brother."

"Take it easy," Harrison turned and half-rose to his feet, forehead creased in a web of concern. "You need to take some rest now we found him, or you might start up that bleeding again."

Bleeding – he scarcely registered the word, maybe Jake had been mauled by the bear. It might be leverage, it could even be useful, but right now, it was the last thing on Don's mind. Disregarding the gun, he grasped Harrison's arm, and thrust himself up in the man's face. "Charlie – what was that about my brother – so help me, you'd better tell me! If you hurt him, if you've laid a damned finger on him - "

The vicious blow sent him spiralling, his various hurts shrieking in protest. It was foolish, and really he shouldn't, but he rose again like vengeance from the mud. He was fired by a red mist of anger and grief, head down and fists swinging wildly. Didn't matter – all his hurts were forgotten, in a tangle of fury and pain. A bony crunch and one blow connected . . . bastard's nose, he realised, with savagery. It was his last coherent thought for a while, and as a triumph, pretty sad and short-lived.

Crack - crack.

The gunshots brought an end to it quickly. It was Jake, like a grotesque puppet-master. He lifted the gun with obvious difficulty and fired twice into the air. The sharp sound was a salutary reminder that the balance of power was against him, and the way he felt right at this moment – Don was no longer sure if he cared.

"Charlie – tell me about Charlie. What the hell did you do to my brother?"

Harrison picked himself up off the ground, brushing mud and dead leaves off his clothing. He cursed for a few seconds and glared sourly at Don, a stream of red spurting out from his nose. "Shouldn't have left him alone, Eppes. These here woods, well, you've seen they can be dangerous. While you were tucked up all safe in your nice little hole . . . brother Charlie, now, he wasn't quite so lucky."

"I don't believe you, you're playing me. There weren't any shots."

"Who said anything about a gun?" Harrison grinned, and reached down to his belt, withdrawing a razor-sharp, hunting knife. He examined the blade and whistled out loud, while watching Don's face all the time. "You know, the corps did have some advantages. It sure taught me how to use a knife."

Jake spoke again, sounding excited, really turned-on by the idea of violence. His face twisted in feverish pleasure, an over bright sheen in his eyes. "Shoulda seen it . . . Kyle stuck him, he stuck him real good. He was crying, calling out for you to save him. Saying his big brother would come for him, right 'till the bitter end."

It was cold then – as cold as he'd ever known – and a black wave of wretchedness crashed over him. Don was choking, pulled down by the undertow, until he no longer felt any pain.

Oh God, Charlie, I'm so very sorry.

The words were futile and hopelessly inadequate.

Dark clouds billowed above him, as cruel and remorseless as omens. He shut his eyes against their pitiless brutality and surrendered to the false relief of stupor. The earth was red and he was sinking, sinking . . . and the sharp rain cried down on his face.

TBC