Was there one part of him that didn't hurt? Charlie didn't think so.
Maybe there was. His left pinky seemed to be intact, although it was being rapidly overwhelmed by the rest of him.
What had happened? Jessica Morton had forced him into her car, drove him off… and from there it got a little fuzzy. Well, yeah, a whole lot fuzzy. His eyes didn't work so well, either, and he just plain hurt.
He tried to move—and his leg objected so thoroughly that all he could do was to freeze and try not to whimper at the pain.
Higher functions such as thought were going to have to wait for a more opportune time.
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"He's a college professor, for cripes' sake!" Don was trying not to shout. Charlie's office was its usual chaotic self, whiteboards lining the wall with incomprehensible symbology covering it in a variety of colors. There was no evidence of anyone dragging off an unwilling mathematician. No, whatever had happened, Charlie had left this office by his own choice. Even the tests for one of the courses that he was teaching were graded and stacked in a pile that, for Charlie, looked neat. "Nobody goes gunning for college professors!"
"There was that math professor at UCLA a few years ago that—" Colby trailed off at Don's glare. "Well, it happened."
"Maybe we'd better notify the NSA," Megan suggested gently. "Charlie isn't just any college professor, Don. He has a few more connections than most."
"Don't you think I know that?" And then it hit Don. It was one of those hunches that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was correct. It was a leap of faith into the unknown, and it was correct. He knew what had happened. He knew where Charlie was. Almost. "Where's Morton?"
"Isn't that a little far-fetched?"
"Is it?" Don was certain. "Is it?" He looked around, not seeing the office surroundings. "Spread out. Question the students. Talk to those who were around this area, somewhere between eleven and twelve."
Slowly the details filtered in. Several students had seen Prof. Eppes leave the Math Building, heading for his car. Most ignored him. One had spoken to him briefly, got a clue toward solving a math question—Don really didn't care what the Mullica Paradigm was—and then had dropped back onto his laptop to continue to try come up with the correct answer, ignoring where Dr. Eppes had taken himself off to. Two other students—young women, both—had seen with disappointment the foxy lady who had latched onto Prof. Eppes and led him arm in arm away to her car. Her blue Miata.
The description of the lady matched Morton.
An APB went out.
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Charlie Eppes needed help. He needed it badly.
More details were coming back to him: the wild ride with Jelly Morton, getting bumped off of the road. Spinning into space, learning what it felt like to be wholly without gravity—sort of. Gravity had kicked in a moment later and splatted them onto the ground. Rocks, actually. They'd been splatted onto rocks, which accounted for the twisted shape of the Miata on top of him.
"Jelly—" he tried to call out. No good; his throat closed up and choked on the name, sending waves of pain through the rest of him at that small effort. Blackness tried to encroach once again; he fought it back. He tried again. "Jessica!"
No answer.
Was he alone? Was Jessica Morton as badly hurt as he was, maybe unconscious?
How long had Charlie himself been unconscious? He froze; the men in the other car, were they coming down after them, to finish what they'd started? Couldn't be. If they were, Charlie would be dead by now.
Still could happen, Eppes.
His right arm was free. It stung, but it didn't have that I'm crunched feeling to it that the rest of him did. If he took it little bit at a time, say inch by inch, he'd be able to do something. What, he didn't know, but at least he'd be doing something to help himself. He felt around.
And felt a hand. It was flesh. It was cold.
"Jessica?"
No answer. Charlie felt for a pulse. Nothing. And the flesh felt cold. Really cold. Unnaturally cold. And there was no pulse.
Charlie threw up. Which set the rest of him on fire, which sent him spiraling back down into unconsciousness. That, in his opinion, was a good thing.
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"Got a hit!" Megan held up her hand from the computer. "Morton's Miata ran a red light heading north out of L.A. We got the plate and the time: one forty-six this afternoon."
"All right, she's heading north. Everybody, listen up." Don waved his hand for attention. "We concentrate our efforts north of the city. Colby, get choppers in the air. Megan, notify LAPD. David?"
David motioned for quiet, held the phone more closely to his ear in an effort to hear clearly. "You sure, man? Yeah? Yes, if this pans out I will most definitely be speaking on your behalf to your parole officer." He hung up.
"David?"
"Two of Black Bart's men. My source thinks they're hit men. They're on their way out of the country in a hurry."
"Like they just pulled a job?"
"Right."
Crap. Just what he didn't need, a break on the Blackburn case while he needed to concentrate his efforts on finding his brother and Morton. Don Eppes couldn't afford to let either problem go.
Divide and conquer. "David, take it. Get—" Don looked around, needed more men—"get Metzger and Aarons, take them with you. They deserve to be in on this. Go pick up the pair of Blackburn's guys, squeeze 'em dry. Sit on 'em until I get back."
"If they give up Blackburn—?"
Crap. David was right. This might be their one chance to grab Blackburn. If the man thought that his cover had been compromised, once the pair was picked up, he'd rabbit and they'd lose him for good.
Well, Sinclair was a good man with a good head on his shoulders. "Do whatever you think is best," Don directed. It was the best that Don could do.
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Help. He needed help. He needed to summon help.
Calling out wasn't doing any good. The only one who heard him was the grasshopper that solemnly surveyed him with compound eyes and then crawled off, not even bothering to use those long legs through the dried brown stalks of grass growing in the canyon. Charlie envied the insect its mobility.
He wondered if there were vultures swirling overhead. Wouldn't surprise him. He'd heard that vultures were smarter than people thought, that they were learning to watch the roads for roadkill as an easy meal. Well, Charlie certainly qualified as roadkill. So did Jessica Jelly Morton, her more than he. Charlie had a pulse, at least for the moment.
Need to call for help. How? Charlie felt around, the meager afternoon light dying away more swiftly under the car. He could smell motor oil mixed with gasoline. Was the car going to explode into flames? Probably not. If it hadn't done so by now, then it probably wouldn't. Charlie had lost track of the time, but he was certain that it had been more than just a few minutes. A few hours, more like.
He felt something. Something hard, something fabric covered—his laptop!
Charlie could call for help. He could wiggle the small machine out of its case, turn it on—he had charged it all morning long, and congratulated himself on his forethought—and call for help across the internet.
It hurt, so much so that he needed to stop every few inches to catch his breath and let his vision waver back into alignment before he could pull again to get the laptop close enough to unzip the outer covering. But he persevered, maneuvering it out. He could only raise the screen two thirds of the way up; the crushed car didn't give him enough head room to lift it into a right angle. That didn't matter. What did matter was that he had it, and that he could tap the power button. He held his breath. Had his laptop survived the crash?
Power on. The screen lit, and obnoxious music rang forth in a very recognizable tune. Charlie didn't care. It would just be moments, and then he could log on into the 'net, call Don or someone at FBI headquarters—there was always someone monitoring—and help would be on its way.
He tapped the appropriate keys, opening up a link to the internet.
The page you have requested cannot be found. Please check your Internet connection and try again.
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Don scanned the country side with field glasses, looking for any sign of a blue Miata in the countryside north of L.A. This part of the country had a lot of trees, a lot of canyons, and a lot of territory to cover. Helicopter rotors whirred above him, making speech all but impossible.
"Run this sector again, or move on to the next?" the pilot shouted at him.
Neither option had anything to recommend it over the other. Don prayed for guidance. "Next sector."
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He could lie here and hurt, or he could try to distract himself with work. Charlie chose work.
The data from Don's case was sitting on his laptop. He didn't have internet access, but he didn't need it for this. Charlie needed to manipulate the data so that it yielded the answers that Don needed to identify who this Blackburn guy was.
He blinked, something liquid obscuring his vision. He wiped it away, noting distantly that it was blood. Or maybe motor oil. Charlie couldn't tell in the small amount of light underneath the Miata. It felt slimy, so maybe it was oil. He hoped so. He tapped away at the keyboard, cursing his slowness. Ten fingers worked faster than the five that he had access to at the moment. Four, actually; his ring finger didn't work so well, either.
And then it jumped out at him: the answer. He knew who Don's suspect was. He knew why it hadn't been possible to track the man down before this, why the data had gone in so many directions.
Low battery. Save your work immediately.
Let's change that to save my life immediately, Charlie thought. Yeah, that would be nice, he thought drowsily. Time for a little nap…
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"David!" Megan handed him a rap sheet. "I've ID'd one of your suspects. He's got priors, and two warrants out for his arrest. And, David, look at this."
David scanned the paper. He and Colby had brought in the two men that his source had identified for him as hit men for Black Bart. They caught them at LAX, just before they'd gone through Customs. Just in the nick of time. Neither one was talking.
Now it didn't matter. David didn't care that he couldn't identify one of the men, because he knew exactly who the other one was. And he knew exactly how to get to him.
The pair had been separated so that they couldn't compare stories. David didn't care. That wasn't going to be the hook. He had something much better.
He sauntered into the suspect's interrogation room, nodding pleasantly to the officer standing in the corner. He sat down in front of the suspect.
"Benjamin Cofort," he read off of the paper. "You've been a naughty boy, Benjamin. It says here that you like to play with six year old boys, Benjamin." David leaned back. "Do you know what other inmates think of men who play with six year old boys, Benjamin? They don't like them very much. They don't like to have them around, Benjamin. Inmates who play with six year old boys don't stay inmates very long. They usually end up in solitary, for their own protection. Or they end up dead." David tossed the paper onto the table. "Think you want to end up dead, Benjamin? Or do you want me to put in a good word for you, get you doing time in a place where they won't know that you like six year old boys?"
"I…"
"Mr. Blackburn isn't going to be able to get you out of this one, Benjamin. Does Mr. Blackburn know that you like six year old boys? Maybe if he learns about it, he's not going to be interested in bailing you out."
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Cell phone. Morton had taken his cell phone. Which meant that she still had it, unless it had been tossed out of the car on its tumbling route downhill.
Like Charlie had something better to do than to search the pockets of a dead FBI agent? Then again, she really wasn't an agent any more. She'd been fired. Terminated. Now terminated in a very permanent fashion, one that the FBI didn't approve of. He giggled, knowing that his thoughts were wandering like butterflies without a net. He was heading for termination himself unless he could get himself out of this mess.
He was trapped underneath Morton's car. It wasn't a very big car, but it was big enough to be pinning both of his legs under it and against some rock on the ground. Movement was limited.
One arm had the freedom to work, and Charlie was determined to take advantage of whatever he could. His stomach rebelled at the thought of searching the dead woman's clothing, especially when she was still wearing it, but the only other option was to wait for the vultures to come down from the sky to visit.
There! Right there! Something hard and box-shaped. It took several precious minutes for him to find the way into the pocket instead of feeling around the outside, feeling the uncomfortably sagging feeling of dead flesh. The flesh was soft, and poke-able, and felt entirely wrong. Flesh ought to feel warm and pliable. It ought to spring back under his fingers.
And then he had it: his cell phone. His phone, with Don's number in speed dial. Please, please let it work.
The screen lit up. Yes!
Don's speed dial number: three. Dad's was one, Larry's two. Amita was four; it had only been recently that he'd dared program it in. Like it would be bad luck if he presumed that much. Don was three because he'd moved back to L.A. after Charlie had put in both Dad and Larry.
Ten missed calls, the screen told him. Charlie could guess who they were from. Exit from that part of the tiny chip in the phone's scant memory, move into speed dial. There was some reason he was hesitating? Charlie hit the buttons.
A long moment, searching for the cell towers, finding them, other end ringing…
"Charlie?" Frantic. Terrified. "Charlie, where are you?"
"Don?" Charlie moistened his lips, tried to make cracked tissue speak clearly. "Don, there's been an accident." Not exactly. We were run off the road. I'm pretty sure that it was deliberate.
"Where are you, Charlie?" Enough with the small talk. Where the hell are you?
"I—I'm not sure."
Beep beep. Low battery.
He'd charged his laptop, but not his cell. How ironic.
"Are you hurt? Charlie, keep talking to me. Is Morton with you?" Don turned, shouted to someone else with his hand over the phone. "Somebody trace this call now! It's Charlie!"
"Sort of." Charlie winced.
"Sort of? What do you mean, sort of? Charlie, are you hurt?"
"I think so…"
Beep beep. Danger signal. Phone about to go dead. Just like Jessica Jelly Morton. Corpse in the vicinity, soon to be two corpses in the vicinity. One human, one cell phone. Maybe three corpses pretty soon, two of which would be human. Was that a vulture that just touched down over there? Maybe. Damn, he wished he could think straight.
"Where are you, buddy? What do you see around you? Give me some clues to work with, Charlie," Don pleaded.
Clues. That spurred something in Charlie's memory. "Don?"
"Yeah, Charlie? What do you see?"
"Don, I figured out who Black Bart is."
Don swore. "Just tell me where you are, Charlie! We can get him later."
Beep beep.
Silence.