Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series

Chapter 10: It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Marshall Penfield shuffled slowly into the prison interrogation room and sank into the chair that was indicated, blinking rapidly. He looked at the two NSA agents across from him, and his face twitched – a lopsided exaggerated tic, which made him look for a split second as if he was leering at them. "What do you want?" he asked sourly.

One of the NSA agents, and man named Peters, regarded him with distaste, and leaned over the table, planting his arms on it and his face in front of Penfield's. "We need to know what you know about Hector Macedo."

Penfield's face twitched again. "I already told you everything," he whined, and then his face turned calculating. "Almost everything. What is it you want to know?"

The NSA agents exchanged a glance. "There are rumors," said Peters, "that Macedo is still alive. We want to know if you think that's possible."

Penfield regarded them for a moment. The worst thing about the living hell that was Leavenworth was the lack of contact with anyone even remotely intelligent. He had no family or friends – none who cared enough to visit, anyway, and he craved some kind of connection with the outside world. His allowed visitation periods were non-existent, because he had no one to visit with. He just needed someone, anyone, to talk to… "Before I'll talk, I want something in return."

Peters looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. "And what is that?"

"I need medical attention – I need psychotherapy sessions. With a decent doctor, not one of the idiots who works here. You have no idea what this hellhole is like for someone of my mental caliber."

Peters looked at the other man, who apparently carried rank. The man spoke. "That can be arranged. Talk."

"Well," said Penfield slowly, stalling for time. He really didn't have much to give them, other than what he already had in order to reduce his sentence, so he had to play it up a little. "When I left South America and came back to the States, I was drawing from one of Macedo's accounts. It was the only one I had the password for, but I could view some of the other accounts. After I read in the paper that Eppes," his face twitched again at the name, "had siphoned Macedo's money into other accounts, I got in right away to see if I could still get to the account I was using. I managed to transfer just a bit more out before it closed, but while I was in the system, I looked at the other accounts."

"And?" prompted Peters, impatiently.

"All of them had already been converted to charities and such, except for one – and it was a pretty big account. Money had been pulled out into another offshore bank – it was Macedo's personal account." Penfield's expression turned crafty. "Of course, it may have been Eppes, feathering his own nest."

Peters face was cold. "We know that much. We've already ruled Eppes out." He clamped his mouth shut at a warning look from his partner, and tried to move on, glossing over his slip. "If it wasn't Eppes or Macedo, who else could it have been?"

Penfield face twitched again, and he rubbed it thoughtfully. "I suppose you can't exclude the possibility that one of his people somehow got the account information. However, when Macedo had me try to set up the programming to defeat the money laundering programs, that account was never in the mix. He kept it separate, and he told me even his own people had no access to it. I'd say it would be highly unlikely anyone but Macedo would know how to get access to it, unless Eppes figured it out."

Peters regarded him. "Highly unlikely, but not impossible."

Penfield shrugged, and his face twitched again. "Not impossible."

The other man nodded. "When you came back to the states, did you interface with any of Macedo's contacts here?"

Penfield's expression turned evasive. He had – in order to get advice on how to obtain the untraceable gun. "One or two."

"Did any of them give any indication they'd had contact with Macedo?"

Penfield snorted. "Hell, no. All communications with the cartel were cut off when Macedo went down in that plane. None of them knew anything more than what they'd read in the papers."

"And you've heard nothing in recent weeks."

Penfield stared at them. "In here? Are you kidding me?"

Peters shrugged. "You'd be surprised. Keep your ears open." They stood.

"What about my therapy sessions?" Penfield griped.

The senior agent looked at him coldly. "It will be arranged. You can contact us through your warden if you hear anything concerning Macedo." They stepped out, and Penfield sat, waiting for his escort. The conversation had brought up memories of the hated Eppes, who was never far from Penfield's mind anyway. The only thing that kept him going in here was the fantasy of what he would do to Eppes if he ever saw him again. His face contorted in a spasm again, transforming it into a mask of hate.

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Ana pored over the phonebook in the privacy of her bedroom, searching for airline numbers. This trip had been such a waste. She'd taken it on the spur of the moment, driven by the delusion that she could actually do something to put Macedo away, and perhaps in the process gain back some of the self-confidence that she'd lost so long ago. Instead, it had turned out to be a disaster. The one piece of real evidence they'd had was now lost, and she'd gotten herself into an extremely uncomfortable situation in the meantime. She needed to get away, to get out of this house, to go back and regroup. She was certain her presence didn't help poor Dr. Eppes, either; she must remind him of the love he lost every time he looked at her.

She found what she needed and dialed the airline. The first seat she could find back to Rio was on a flight that left at eight in the evening, and she made the reservation. With that done, she stood and fingered the phone book uncertainly. She hated to go out of the room, but she really should bring the book back downstairs.

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Don paced back and forth in the hallway outside the bedrooms. As he passed Charlie's door, he could hear the tap-tap of computer keys; David had brought Charlie's laptop with him, and his brother was happily reunited with it, already immersed in something. Don's eyes, however, were on the door at the end of the hallway – Ana's. When she stated her intention to leave; his heart had dropped. He tried to tell himself it was because of Charlie, and it was, to some extent. How could she love him and just leave like that? Don needed to fill her in – to let her know how fragile Charlie was, still – that she needed to be careful with his brother's already damaged heart. If that meant she needed to stay a little longer, then so be it.

Still, when he got to the hallway, he hesitated. It really wasn't his business. He knew he should just let it be, but the thought of her leaving was nearly unbearable. The notion took over his feet, and carried them down the hall to her door. He raised his hand to knock, and then stopped in shock as it opened suddenly.

Ana gasped, and they stared at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry," Don mumbled, a bit flustered, lowering his hand. "I just wanted to talk for a minute."

She gazed at him, just drinking in the sight of his face, his masculine body; then realized she was gaping. She collected herself, at least a bit; then nodded. "There is a small sitting room across the hall," she said.

One of the bedrooms had been converted into a small living area, usually used by agents guarding the safe house occupants. Ana sank into a chair, and Don sat in a love seat that was placed near it – too near. He took in her hair, her dark, slightly almond-shaped eyes. It wasn't until she cleared her throat and asked him politely what he wanted to talk about, that he realized he was staring.

He colored slightly. He was usually a lot cooler than this; this woman knocked him completely off-kilter. "I, uh, it's about Charlie." He paused, searching for words. "He's just been through a lot, you know. The prison was horrible – he was beaten, assaulted, and then kidnapped by Macedo. He was nearly killed, and Amita, his girlfriend, died. They were really close, and he hasn't really gotten over it all – he's still very – vulnerable."

She felt emotions whirling inside as he talked. Her attraction to him was so intense, it was all she could do to concentrate on what he was saying, and the fact that he obviously cared so much about his brother was even more endearing. That sensation fought with the realization that, as she suspected, she'd made a big mistake the night before. She never should have kissed the poor man, never should have opened those wounds. Her voice was unsteady as she responded. "I understand; that is why I must leave."

Color rose in his face, and his eyes flashed. "How can you do that? Spend the night with him, and just leave him? That's exactly what I'm talking about."

She stared at him in confusion. "Spend the night – but we didn't…" She started to get a little angry, herself. "He told you that?"

Don flushed, and his brow knit. "He didn't need to tell me. I heard him get up, and when I went to check on him, I saw him kissing you. The way you both were going at it, I didn't need to be Einstein to figure out where it went from there."

It was her turn to flush, her turn for her eyes to flash. "What do you take me for?" she demanded angrily. "There was nothing else – it was just a kiss. He made it clear to me he didn't want me – he said he made a mistake. He told me I reminded him of her." She looked away, and her lip trembled a bit.

"He didn't – doesn't-," Don trailed off. Charlie didn't want her? What in the hell was he kissing her for then? He took in her forlorn expression, and his anger resurfaced. Here he was, feeling sorry for the little jerk! "I apologize, that was thoughtless of him. I can't imagine -,"

She held up a hand. "You do not understand. I kissed him first – he simply reacted and kissed me back. It is all quite understandable. However, if you are concerned that I am 'loving him and leaving him,' I can assure you it is not the case. If anything, I think he will be relieved to see me go." She rose; her cheeks still warm with anger, and Don rose too, blocking her way out.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I get a little – overprotective – sometimes."

She swallowed and looked up at him, acutely aware of how close they were standing, and her face softened. She had wanted to make a snide remark regarding minding his own business – maybe even slap him – but she found that she could not. Unfortunately, she wanted to wrap herself around him even worse. "It is all right – I think that says much for your character."

He smiled faintly at that, and looked a bit embarrassed. "The fact is; I'm the one who doesn't want you to leave."

She blushed and looked down at her hands, and he continued, heading for safer ground with a question. "What will you do when you get back?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I am not certain I want to take on this practice now – if the doctor was in the habit of dealing with criminals, I am not sure I want his patients." She looked up at him. "I like Rio – but I have spent so many years in the United States, I am almost more comfortable here. Perhaps I will look at starting a new practice, somewhere here."

"L.A.'s a great place for a plastic surgeon," said Don softly, and his heart did a somersault as she smiled up at him.

"Yes," she said. "I think it might be."

They gazed at each other; and Don's eyes were captured by eyes, her inviting lips. He knew he shouldn't kiss her, but some irresistible force seemed to be drawing him to her. He bent slightly and grazed her lips with his, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight through him. She lifted her face and he paused, and was about to deepen the kiss, when a familiar voice came from the doorway.

"I thought I heard you guys down here…,"

Don and Ana pulled apart with a jerk, and Don turned to see Charlie's stunned face.

"Oh," Charlie stammered with confusion, and he put a hand to his head, and started walking the wrong way for a step before he got himself turned around. "I'm sorry," he babbled, his face crimson, and the next step took him out of sight, back toward his room.

Don looked at Ana. "Excuse me," he said softly, and she nodded, with a smile.

"Madre Dios," she whispered to herself with a dreamy expression, as he strode swiftly out of the room.

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Charlie was already seated at his keyboard when Don entered, his head down, his shoulders hunched. As he heard Don behind him, he lowered his head even further, and lifted his hands to the keyboard – retracting into himself a like a turtle into its shell. As Don stepped forward, he was dismayed to see a large drop of moisture – a single tear – hit the keyboard.

He put an arm around the hunched shoulders, his face filled with concern. "Hey – hey Buddy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," came the muffled response, and Charlie furtively ran a hand over his face, blinking furiously, head still down.

Don dropped his arm and stared at the back of his brother's head, nonplussed. Now he was completely confused. Apology spilled out of him in a torrent. "I'm sorry Buddy, Ana and I were talking – I mean, I know I saw you kissing last night, but she told me you told her you made a mistake – that she just reminded you of Amita – and so I didn't think -,"

Charlie stopped him in mid-stammer. "You saw us?" He had wiped his face and lifted his head, and shot Don a quick embarrassed glance.

"Yeah - I didn't mean to – I just heard you up and went to check on you. Look, I don't want to get in your way, Buddy -,"

Charlie cleared his throat. "You're not in my way. What she told you was correct. I … I'm really not interested in her."

Don gazed at him for a moment. "Then what's wrong?"

Charlie sighed and his shoulders sagged. "Because I can't help but think I should be – interested, I mean." He looked up, his eyes tortured. "I miss Amita so much; she's always there. She affects the way I look at everything – I don't think I'll ever be able to – to move on, to live again." He looked down at the keyboard again, and the next words were so low, Don could hardly hear them. "It's just a really lonely feeling, that's all."

"Aw, Charlie," Don murmured, and put an arm around him again, his heart twisting. "You will be able to move on, Buddy – it will just take time."

Charlie glanced at him and mustered a brave but tremulous grin. "Don't worry about it – you two really look like you hit it off. By all means, go ahead – you have my blessing." He straightened, took a deep breath, and turned back to his keyboard. "Go on, get out of here. I still have to finish this account analysis."

Ana drifted past the doorway with the phone book and snuck a peek inside. Her heart warmed as she saw Don with his arm around his brother, and she sighed, suddenly wishing she hadn't made that flight reservation. She touched her lips gently with her fingertips, and slipped quietly down the stairs.

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Douglas and Rutherford showed up that evening, right after Ana had left for the airport. Charlie had finished his analysis on the account several hours ago, finding a connection to yet another account in Rio. He had reported his findings to the NSA agents by phone, and they planned to meet that night to discuss the outcome.

They collected in the living room, and Douglas sat without being invited. Don Eppes was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking decidedly grumpy. Douglas turned his eyes on Charlie, who was seated. "Well, we followed your account trail. The last one you turned up looks like it was the final resting point – we leaned on the bank, found it was registered to a businessman in Sao Paolo named Jorge Caleña. We're trying to get the Brazilian authorities to track him down, but we're guessing it was one of Macedo's people, who somehow found out how to get access to the account. Probably took advantage of Macedo's death and jumped in the system to skim off some money for himself. We've had other agents making other queries, in the States and elsewhere, and there's nothing to indicate anything else – certainly nothing to suggest that Macedo's still alive. As far as you're concerned, this is a closed issue. We'll deal with tracking down Señor Caleña. You're free to go."

"Free to go!" snapped Don. "Someone just tried to kill him last night! You're just going to turn him out on the street for them to try again? The Macedo issue still isn't resolved, for your information – we still need to get new DNA samples."

Douglas turned a cold stare on him. "And I'm saying it's not an NSA issue any longer. If the FBI wants to launch their own investigation, they can. In fact, considering the number of FBI cases he's consulted on, it's far more likely that any attempt on his life would have come from that direction." He rose, and nodded stiffly at Charlie. "Dr. Eppes. Thank you for your help, and we're sorry for your inconvenience. Take your time packing your things, but I've been informed you need to be out of here by midnight."

They turned to go, and Don stepped forward angrily, ready to continue the argument, but Charlie interceded, quietly. "It's okay, Don. He's right. I just want to go home. I really think this is over."

Don clamped his mouth shut and contented himself with fixing the agents' departing backs with a nasty glare. He had no evidence, nothing solid to stand on, but he had a bad feeling that this wasn't over, not by a long shot.

End, Chapter 10