Disclaimer: I own no part of Numb3rs. This is just for fun

Rated T for violence and language

The Seventh Trumpet

Chapter Ten

The Wages of Sin

Charlie Eppes had lost track of time. He was not sure if he had been wondering the streets of hell for a day or a week. He was only certain of one thing: no one was coming. He knew that as surely as he knew his time was quickly running out. Don was not going to ride up on a white horse and save him. Mike was not going to come bursting through the door like Rambo, with a knife clinched in his teeth and guns blazing. As far as his brother or anyone else knew, he was dead—as dead as his mother, as dead as Ashley, as dead as his hopes.

His family was probably in the process of planning his funeral, if they had not already held one. They would never know the body they laid to rest beside Mom was that of a stranger. They would never know that Charlie lay buried in a shallow, unmarked grave in the desert, not that it mattered, he supposed. Nothing mattered anymore. Ashley was gone. His mother, Gary, Ron and all his dear friends from the past, they were all gone. He was really very tired and he had had enough. Even if by some miracle he survived this, maybe it was time he left this game to. At any rate he did not believe in miracles. They only happened in bedtime stories.

Dr. Charles Eppes, brilliant mathematician, author and college professor, would die at the hands of a serial killer who, like the Zodiac, would never be identified. His murder would become a cold case, relegated to an obscure file drawer along with hundreds of others. Every few years, at the insistence of his brother, an agent would go through the evidence again looking for something new, but to no avail. After all, it is difficult to catch a killer who officially died three years before he committed his crimes. And life would go on without him.

Charlie lay sprawled on the hard-packed sand. He was only vaguely aware of the dog howling some twenty feet away. His eyes were slits as he hovered somewhere between waking and dreams. He could almost hear his mother singing to him late at night when he could not sleep, 'You Are My Sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when sky's are gray', she would sing in a sweet, gentle voice and stroke his hair. He could almost hear her singing, but not quite. The relentless passage of time was making it harder and harder to picture her face or remember the sound of her voice and that made him unbearably sad.

"Mom, you were right. I never know when to keep my mouth shut." He whispered. It was more a prayer than a statement.

The last beating had been the worst one yet. Charlie thought Hicks was going to kill him and as usual, he was to blame for setting the madman off. Why had he called the bastard 'Lucius'? Why had he felt the need to prove that he still had the strength to be defiant?

Hicks had grabbed him by the collar of his tee shirt and his hair, dragged him to his feet and slammed him face-first into a mirror hanging on the wall behind them, slammed him with enough force to cause it to shatter. He had been thrown to the floor among the jagged shards of glass and mercilessly kicked and beaten with a wooden rod until he lost consciousness. Hicks had shoved smelling salts under his nose, bringing him too, only to beat him until he again passed out. This time he had been allowed to regain consciousness on his own. He was forced into the chair, his head pulled back, exposing his throat. He felt the sting of sharp, cold steel pressed to his flesh.

He swallowed hard. "You know it's much easier to slit someone's throat if you pull the head forward instead of back, and you don't make nearly as much of a mess from arterial spray." Charlie said then gasped as the blade was gently drawn across his taut skin just deep enough to cause a trickle of blood to run down his neck and disappear into his ruined tee shirt.

"Still feeling impudent, Charlie. Surely you are not holding on to the hope that help is coming." Hicks had said with a sneer.

Charlie shook his head and Hicks released him. Soon Charlie would wish his old friend had cut his throat and ended it then and there. It would have been kinder than what followed. Hicks placed a pile of photographs on the table ordering him to look at them. Charlie had obeyed and was immediately appalled.

"Where did you get these?" He had been scarcely able to speak. "These are classified!"

"Is that all you can say? These are classified? Here, this really is 'classified' as you call it." He handed Charlie a stack of papers.

Charlie nearly stood up. The papers contained his equations from various times he had consulted for the NSA or the CIA. There were copies of his work for the Agency all the way back to the beginning of their association, all the way back to the Indigo Project. Where had Hicks gotten them? He had to get out of here. He had to let Harrington know, let everyone know, there was a leak at the highest of levels. The implications were terrifying. If this crazy bastard had managed to get copies of his top-secret work, to what else had he gained access? This was a major breach of national security!

"LOOK AT THE PICTURES, CHARLIE!!!" Hicks ripped the papers from the mathematician's trembling hand, "If you help people plan wars, you can surely stomach the consequences of your labors."

And he had, photograph after photograph of carnage, and death and ruin. The ugly, raw face of war stripped of all the sterility of the nightly news or the pretense of Hollywood. These were not actors. The blood was not stage blood. No one would dust themselves off and go home at the end of the day. He had always known full well how his figures were being used, but to have to look at the reality of the bloodshed was devastating.

"While you sit in a room somewhere drinking coffee and scratching away at a blackboard, these are the people your equations move around. These are the people your equations kill." Hicks whispered in his ear.

Charlie shook his head slowly. He had never wanted to hurt anyone. He had only wanted to help. He had wanted to make things safer for troops in the field, to minimize loss. He knew that was not always possible, still he had wanted to try. That was why he had gotten involved in the first place. He had no great love for the Agency or the NSA and certainly not the CIA, but he had hoped his skills could make a difference, could help save lives.

"Do you remember my brother? Do you remember James? You played chess with him. This is where he died. His unit was on a mission mapped out by figures you gave them." Hicks handed him a photograph of the smoldering wreckage of an HMMWV. The broken bodies of the passengers were still scattered about on the ground. "Do you need more proof of the damage you have done? This is all that remains of an orphanage that was supposed to be a terrorist encampment according to your equations. Innocent blood was spilled here. All this death and suffering because you get off on sitting in a think-tank somewhere stateside complaining if you even get a hangnail, playing soldier."

It had been part of his training that in war there was an acceptable percentage of loss and an acceptable percentage of collateral damage. It is unavoidable. It had been his job, not to eliminate the losses, but to keep them as low as possible and he had tried, God knows he had tried. But it is a fact as unalterable as the laws of physics that soldiers die in wars; that innocent, good people die in wars. It had been that way since the beginning of time and would remain so until this old earth spun to an end. Yes — he had known the hideous realities of urban warfare. Hicks forced him to look at what the words 'an acceptable percentage of loss' meant in human terms. He was responsible for this misery. It was his math; his equations. This blood was on his hands. Charlie felt his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. He was going to be sick. Hicks grabbed him, pulling him out the front door into the cold desert night and threw him to the ground. He gagged, but he had not eaten since his dinner with Mike the night he was kidnapped. All he had in his stomach was a little water and tea. He lost it all.

"Did you really think it was a video game, Charlie or a movie? You are playing with people's lives, Dr. Eppes." Hicks sighed. "My father used to say that Charlie is as bright as the Morning Star. Look—" Hicks pointed to a bright object just above the horizon. "There it is, the Morning Star. Beautiful, isn't it? Of course I came to realize what he meant. He was not comparing you to that celestial body. He was telling me, warning me that you are the Betrayer, the Son of the Dawn— the Morning Star. You are evil, Charlie." He was ranting by now, hammering Charlie with his fists as hard as he could. Finally he stopped the pounding and he shouted, "You came into our midst like the snake into Eden. You destroyed my father, you destroyed me!"

The mathematician took deep, shuttering breaths "You give me far too much credit." He said weakly. "You are placing me in a starring role and I had a bit part at best. You ruined yourself and you took your father down with you. You were hurting people, Hicks. How could you experiment on our friends like that, without telling them? Your drugs drove Matt to insanity. You are the reason he is dead. You have even sold your own country down the river and for what, money, that's all, just money." Charlie looked at Hicks with disgust. His eidetic memory once again served him well as he remembered an often misquoted passage an English teacher in high school had made him look up and memorize. He took a second to silently thank Mrs. Gant. His eyes turned cold. In a voice dripping with disdain, he quoted. "For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. 1st Timothy 6:10, since you are so fond of brandishing the bible as a weapon, you sanctimonious bastard. Did you err from the faith? Is this why you have so many sorrows?" Charlie gasped when incredibly strong hands grabbed him around the neck and began to squeeze.

"You never discovered who the Master was did you, little fox? You never uncovered that secret." Hicks chuckled. "It's too bad." He leaned down and hissed in Charlie's ear, "Because he is the reason you are here, and Charlie, he is not who you suspect." His knee came up with full force, catching the kneeling man in the ribs, knocking the breath from his frail body.

Charlie was brutally dragged across the rough ground to a shovel sticking upright in the dirt. Hicks heaved the shivering man to his feet. "Dig," he hissed. "Dig your own grave. Tonight is the Blood Moon. Enjoy the rising of the sun. It's the last time you will see it."

Charlie took the shovel and began to dig. The ground was hard and he was weak from hunger, thirst and days of unrelenting torment. By the time the sun was at its' zenith, his hands were bleeding from the labor and he was cold and trembling. How can you be cold in the heat of the day in the Mojave Desert? He wondered. Charlie glanced at the dog watching from the shade. He was glad to see his bowls were filled with food and water because he had none to share.

"I'm sorry, Larry. I think I may have made promises to you that I can't keep," Charlie said hoarsely. "I wish I could have helped you, but apparently I can't help anyone. Take care of yourself." He returned to his digging. He felt like he deserved the pain that shot through his body with every shovelful. It was his punishment for being so arrogant as to think he could help save the world. Arrogance and pride were sins weren't they, so perhaps this was a just ending to things— the wages of sin.

Charlie's legs began shaking and without warning, they gave way under him and he fell to his knees. He thought of his promise to his body guard, the one who may have died trying to save him. "Sorry Mike, but I can't hang on. I tried, but I just don't have anything left. Please forgive me." And he collapsed.

It was as he lay on the hard ground, eyes half shut, thinking of his mother and how she sang that little song to him that Charlie came to the realization that he was no longer afraid of death. In fact he welcomed it. The only thought entering his weakened, drug addled brain was that it was almost over, and soon, for good or ill, he would be beyond anyone's reach.

"Thank God." he whispered as the dog let out a low, mournful howl.

Agent Don Eppes poured himself another cup of strong, hot coffee. He sat at the dining room table in his brother's house and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. He did not remember the last time he had slept or the last real meal he had eaten. Granger had given him a roast beef sandwich for lunch. The team would not leave him alone until he finished all of it, telling him he needed his strength. They were right. The last thing they needed was for the lead agent to collapse. Besides that sandwich, he had eaten nothing in days. Don placed his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together, rested his head on his hands and closed his burning eyes. A multitude of thoughts clouded his mind, not the least of which was thoughts of his father. Had he made a mistake in not bringing him home immediately when Charlie was taken? Even if all Dad could do was sit, wring his hands and worry, wasn't that his right? How would their father feel when he found out he was playing golf and drinking beer with Art while his youngest child was dying?

"Charlie, I don't know what to do! I don't know where to look!" Don said softly. "Please tell me how to help you. I need your input, buddy, like I have so many times before."

That was how GySgt Mike Donovan found him. For a moment the marine thought the agent was praying. If he had been a praying man himself, he might have joined Don. Mike was not a man to kneel or to bow his head, but he frequently spoke to God in his own way. In fact he and The General had a pretty good relationship. They had had a few conversations in the last three days, a couple of them heated and laced with a bit of profanity. He knew The General wouldn't take offense to a marine expressing himself as marines had for ages. After all they were both soldiers.

Mike would never admit it, but he had put in a requisition for the professor's safe return, even though he knew just how unlikely it was that this fiasco was going to have a happy ending. He knew Don Eppes was also aware of the facts in cases like this. No one said the words. No one dared to say the words. Giving voice to them only made it all too real. The unspoken truth hovered over them like a ghost haunting their every move. They spoke of the mathematician as if he would be found unharmed, as if he would soon be home ordering pizza and driving everyone crazy by applying math to every little thing. The cold, hard reality was that Charlie had been missing for nearly three days. There had been no ransom demands, no calls from his kidnapper, no proof of life. Statistically, he had not survived the first night. He had probably been murdered within hours of his abduction. Mike clinched his teeth and reaffirmed his vow to his missing brother-in-arms. He would find the bastard if it took years and before the asshole died, he would experience firsthand the many different ways the marine had been trained to inflict pain.

Mike pulled himself up to his full height, his perfect posture a prime example of the Corps training at its best. He was reluctant to interrupt the fatigued agent in one of the few quiet moments the man had found in recent days, but it was necessary. He had news— news that might piss Eppes off, but at this point, he really was not in the mood to walk on eggs shells so as not to offend the FBI agent. He had no word of Charlie's whereabouts, but their chances of finding him had greatly increased. He had contacted a very trusted colleague in another agency about the abduction of Charlie Eppes thus performing a well executed end-run around Jeremiah Harrington and Don Eppes.

Mike was counting on a fact well-known but rarely acknowledged among its exclusive membership. No one gossips among themselves more than the intelligence community. Within seconds of that call, a network similar to an old fashioned phone-tree his foster mother once ran sprang into action. It took a few hours, but soon the tree began to spread, stretching out its branches from L.A. to D.C. Soon it would bear fruit and he had better prepare Eppes and the team for the invasion heading their way.

Mike Donovan unapologetically approached the FBI agent. He lowered himself into the chair directly across from Don. The agent looked up, his eyes meeting the marine's head on. There was so much he wanted to ask this man, so much he wanted to say. In his heart he knew Donovan was in no way responsible for Charlie's loss, still he was angry at the man. He did not know why. It was an irrational anger. This brave man had nearly died attempting to protect his brother. He should feel gratitude, but all he felt was enmity.

Don was confused about his hostility towards Donovan, but he was racked by guilt for his feelings of anger towards Charlie. He was furious with his little brother for getting into this mess in the first place, for not being here in the dining room with him right now, for not being exactly who he was supposed to be. And Don was furious with Charlie for breaking Dad's heart, for breaking his heart, and damn it, for very probably being dead. Don felt himself shiver as if icy fingers had touched the back of his neck. 'A crow must be walking on my grave.' Don heard Charlie whisper those words as clearly as if he was standing right beside him. He blinked and licked his lips.

"Damn you, little brother, I'll never forgive you for leaving us like this." Don had thought of Charlie as dead and the realization was like a punch to his guts.

Mike could feel Don Eppes' anger. He knew the agent was exhausted, hurting, and conflicted. He understood his feelings, even if Don did not. He had no answers for the man nor did he have the time to concern himself with finding any. Don was an excellent FBI agent, probably one of the best. He knew many things, but he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about running black ops. Mike knew he had way over stepped his boundaries. He had made decisions that could seriously affect his own and everyone else's future. He did not care. Mike had one objective, the return of Charles Eppes by any means possible, even if it meant running a covert mission that could have serious ramifications on all involved.

"The situation has changed." Mike began without hesitation. "I have received calls from—certain people. They are offering their assistance. We will have access to technology and sources we otherwise would have to do without." Donovan said. "I just want to make sure everyone understands this is not a sanctioned mission. If it becomes public, there could be—consequences."

Before Don could respond, the two men were interrupted by a beleaguered looking David Sinclair, "There are some people at the door saying they are here to wire us up?"

Don Eppes looked at Mike.

"That will be the CIA." Donovan said, his eyes never leaving Don's. "It's okay, Sinclair. They are here to help."

David looked at his boss for conformation and received a curt nod.

The formally quiet living room erupted into chaos as strangers pushed their way past the confused team and began setting up equipment while shouting at each and talking on their cell phones.

"Delaney," Mike asked a rumpled looking middle aged man with flaming red hair, "about how long before you are up and running?"

"Give us twenty, maybe thirty minutes." He said as he unraveled cable from a spool. Then turning his attention to his people he barked, "Listen, we are here to find Eppes, not wreck his house, please be careful and don't make any holes you do not absolutely have to!" He glanced at Mike and winked his eye.

Mike shook his head, 'Geeks!' He thought and looked at Don. "Can you call your team? We need to talk."

"Guys, take a break and give the …." Don wasn't sure what to call the people who had invaded his brother's house and were busily moving furniture and setting up computers everywhere."All of you grab some coffee and join us."

Don's gaze returned to Mike's as his team and Larry Fleinhardt found seats around the table. "While we have a moment, I have a few questions for you, Donovan." He said, trying not to let the anger he was feeling show in his voice.

The marine had been waiting for this. He had known the questions were coming. Don Eppes deserved the truth and the truth he would get. He was not going to like it, but he would get it, no holds barred.

Don closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "Did you know my brother before all this happened?" Don asked.

"I didn't meet Charlie until two weeks ago, but I've known of him for years. Everyone in the community knows Dr. Charles Eppes." Mike said placing his folded hands on the table.

Don leaned towards the larger man. "How many years has Charlie consulted for your—organization?"

Mike looked at him, then at everyone else finding places around the table. "For one thing, Charlie does notmerely consult for us. He is a full- fledged recruit; has been since he was eighteen or nineteen." Mike felt an odd since of pleasure at the look of shock on all their faces. "What he does is very highly classified, but it is similar to what he does for the NSA or the CIA. Your brother is a very good strategist. You'd be surprised."

Don leaned back and looked at the stack of photographs lying on the table in front of him. He took the group shot and shoved it towards Mike. "This entire nightmare goes back to this group of people, to this Indigo Project. What do you know about it, Donovan?"

"Eppes, if you recall, I gave you this photograph and all the other data we had because we had reached a dead-end. Charlie, the Agency and I went over everything in that envelope a dozen times. Our labs searched the entire contents for any bit of evidence the perpetrator might have left, a partial finger print, skin cells, hair, anything. They came up blank. "

"Then what about the project it's self. We discovered some rumors but nothing substantial. What was this Indigo Project and how was my brother involved?" Don demanded.

Mike hesitated. "From what I understand, the Project was one of the reasons your brother was recruited by Harrington in the first place. He had all the attributes required for that mission. He was young, he has that innocent face, he was idealistic and he was a genius. He was perfect for Harrington's needs at the time."

"He was perfect for what?" Don asked.

"He was perfect to infiltrate the damned thing, to gain the Hickman's trust and to find out what was going on beyond the original intentions." Mike leaned back in his chair. "The Project was funded by The Agency and Fer de Lance among others. I cannot say for sure what they were working on or what happened to bring the whole thing down. No one outside of a privileged few knows the truth. It's all so fucking classified. Harrington knows and you can bet the farm Charlie knows. There is a lot of speculation. I have found over the years, when it comes to this kind of thing, speculation is rarely far off the mark." Mike looked around at the team.

"The Hickman's were supposed to be developing drugs to treat certain disorders like schizophrenia. At least this was the official purpose, the one on the paperwork. Scuttlebutt has it that they were actually developing powerful hallucinogens and other mind control substances for the Agency and the NSA in response to some intelligence we had received that certain less than trustworthy sorts were working on the same. After that little debacle with the CIA a few decades ago they obviously couldn't let news of research like that get to the wrong people, i.e. politicians. The story is that they had found a way to disburse one of the particularly powerful drugs through the air disabling anyone it came into contact with for hours. It could also be absorbed through the skin and be just as powerful as if you inhaled or ingested it. Can you imagine the disastrous effects a weapon like that could have if it fell in to the wrong hands, if was released on a city like L.A. or New York, or what if it was used on troops in combat? A lot of lives would be lost."

"They were developing a WMD." Granger said.

"That is the scuttlebutt." Mike continued. "And here is the really weird part. Rumor has it Jon Hickman himself contacted Harrington asking for the investigation. He suspected his son David of abusing the drugs they were developing, of abusing the Project's subjects and worse, he believed Hicks, as he was called, planned to sell the formulas and the means to weaponize them to the highest bidder, even if that bidder was a terrorist. This is where your brother came in. Charlie, being the kind of guy he is, managed to befriend everyone involved. He has that puppy dog way about him, you know. He's brilliant but he can come off as a little befuddled at times. He turns those big brown eyes on you and he looks so damned sweet and innocent, no one suspects him of anything, even if he's caught with his hand in the cookie jar." He chuckled along with the rest of the team.

"What exactly did my brother do?" Don asked, smiling slightly

"Again this is all only Agency rumor. He discovered the identity of Hicks' contact and the location and date the sell was supposed to go down. Charlie gave this information to Harrington and mysteriously enough, word reached the contact that his mission was compromised and he wisely pulled out." Mike said, tapping the table. "That should have been the end of Charlie's involvement, but, supposedly during his inquires he discovered David Hickman was following the orders of someone higher up, someone in a position of power. I don't believe Charlie ever learned his true identity. He only got the name, Azariah, nothing else."

"Was Charles'‒ spying‒ discovered?" Larry asked, rubbing his mouth as was his habit when he was nervous or upset.

"Was his cover blown? I don't know but some say this Azariah ordered a hit on the entire house. They swear Hicks used one of his drugs to program Matthew Langley to kill everyone at the house that night, wiping out the Indigos. They say killing everyone was really just to cover up the murder of the real target."

"Charles." Larry said softly.

"Yeah, Charlie," Mike nodded. "No one really knows if that's true. Hell, Langley was a nut job all on his own and had threatened everyone more than once, but someone supplied him with that gun. There is no record of his ever purchasing one and no one ever saw him in possession of one." Mike sighed. "From what I understand, your brother fought for that gun like a tiger. The struggle gave the others a chance to escape. The damned thing went off, killing Langley or Langley killed himself. It depends on which rumor you choose to believe. Only Charlie knows for sure and he's not talking. The Agency swept in and cleaned the whole thing up and buried it under a pile of secrecy and bureaucratic red tape about a mile deep. In the end, the Project was shut down and all the evidence confiscated. The Hickman's disappeared from view. The old man spent his remaining days as a hermit and David; well David had mental problems, probably from sampling his own 'cooking' that required hospitalization on more than one occasion over the years. He was living with his father when they were both murdered three years ago. You know the rest. Over the last three years, with the exception of Charlie, the remaining Indigos were murdered one by one leading us to where we are now."

"Donovan, we're up and ready." Delaney yelled from the living room.

"We'll discuss all of this later." Don said as he rose from his seat.

"No, Eppes, you'll discuss this with your brother later." Mike said as he pushed away from the table and headed for the living room.

"What have you got for us?" Donovan asked kneeling beside the CIA agent who was typing away at the keyboard.

"We have image enhancing, satellite access, access to every data base out there; in other words, we have it all, now we just need something to go on." Delaney leaned back in his chair. "Have you explained to your FBI pals that this mission is not exactly sanctioned?" He said under his breath.

"I guess I'd better." Mike sighed and stood up. He turned to face the team. "We seem to have hit a wall in our search for Charlie. That is why I took the liberty to bring in some outside help. Everyone you see here is an expert in their—fields. They have the knowhow and the technology available to…well let's just say you'd be more paranoid about Big Brother than you already are if you knew everything they can do, but here's the problem. This mission is not officially sanctioned and if it became public or if something goes wrong, there could be pretty severe ramifications. Anyone who would like to bail should do it now." He gave everyone a chance to make their decision. As expected no one left. He turned towards Delaney. "Start with any calls coming into this house or Charlie's cell. It's a long shot, but it's a place to start."

"How far back do you want me to go?" Delaney asked.

"Try a month." Mike suggested.

"Do you need his cell number?" Don asked.

"Naw, I can get it from the information I have." Delaney smiled and began clicking away.

"Let's go through everything we have again. Maybe there is something we missed." Don said to his team and watched as they split into groups of two.

Don Eppes stood in the doorway watching Mike Donovan as he sat at the desk in Charlie's room helping Larry sort through every journal, every piece of paper, and every drawer again looking for some small thing that might be of use. His anger with the man was not as intense as it had been earlier when the CIA and company invaded the house. He knew Donovan and his 'associates' had ways of finding things out, even if it was not strictly legal. Don no longer cared about legal; he only cared about Charlie.

Don had watched the marine work tirelessly throughout this entire ordeal. He had heard him on the phone telling Harrington he was not leaving this assignment until it was completed and that would be when his charge was safe at home and not before. What Don could not understand was why. Why was this case so important to him?

"I believe I may have discovered something!" Larry said, holding up a small white envelope.

"Let's see," Don stepped into the room and took the envelope from his hands. He looked inside and frowned. All it contained was the butt of a non-filtered cigarette.

"Don, a few weeks ago Charles mentioned that he believed someone had been on the property. He seemed concerned, but not overly so. I told him perhaps he should mention his concerns to you, but he did not want to bother you. He was sure Alan was correct in assuming it was one of the neighbors retrieving a runaway dog." Larry covered his mouth with his hands. "I just thought of this conversation because he said he had found a cigarette butt by the mailbox the next day. It was on the street and had very likely been tossed from a car window, but it bothered him." Larry was shaking. "My God, Don, I am sorry, I did not remember the conversation until…"

"Larry," Don put his hand on the physicist's shoulder, "it's okay. Just take this downstairs and give it to the team. They will take it from there." He patted Larry's shoulder as he dashed from the room.

He turned his eyes on Donovan. "Why are you doing this? You could walk away. Harrington had rather you walk away and move on to your next assignment. Why are you risking so much for someone you just met two weeks ago?" He asked.

Mike looked at Don and took a small breath. "I've been all over the world and I've met all kinds of people from kings to pig farmers. Men like Charlie Eppes are very rare, whether you realize it or not and I'm not talking about his genius. He is a truly good, decent man. There aren't many like him. When we were attacked and I was shot, Charlie was not going to run until I ordered him to. He was going to stay and try to help me no matter what the cost. Your brother said, Mike, you know the rules, we never leave anyone behind. I will not leave him behind now, Eppes. He might be your kid brother but he is one of our own. He's Fer De Lance and that makes him my brother." Mike walked away before Don had a chance to reply.

Charlie Eppes felt a hand touch his face. The shackles were removed from his wrists and ankles and his face was gently bathed with water. Someone was supporting his head and holding a cup to his parched lips. He took a sip then another. Arms reached beneath him, lifting him. He was carried to a dark, cool room and placed on a soft bed. Someone was stroking his hair, comforting him. For a moment, Charlie thought he was home. For a moment he thought his father was taking care of him and everything was going to be all right, but he opened his eyes to find himself looking into the face of his tormentor. He groaned and looked away, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Hicks, please," he whispered, "let me die."

"Poor Charlie, you have suffered so much. The sun will be setting soon and the moon will rise. You only have a few hours left," Hicks whispered, taking the mathematicians raw, bleeding hand in his own and tenderly turning his head so Charlie faced him. "Tell me Professor, does your equations allow for an afterlife? Is there room in your science for that? Do you believe that when we leave this world, we go to some wonderful place where there is no fear, no hunger," he stroked Charlie's hair as if comforting a small child, "and no suffering? A place where everyone we have lost will be waiting to welcome us home? That's what my mother believed. She would read to me from her bible and tell me to be a good boy so I could join her in heaven one day. She made me memorize bible verses and if I got them wrong or if she thought I was having wicked, carnal thoughts, she would burn me with these antique irons. They were originally made to press the fine lace on ladies dresses, but she would heat one up on the stove and… well I learned not to blaspheme at a very early age. Mom used fire to put the fear of God in me, Charlie."

"I'm sorry, I'm so..." Charlie could barely speak, "It's hard to think…I want my brother! Don!" Charlie called, struggling to sit up. Hicks held him down by his shoulders.

"Be still. Your brother is two hundred miles from here so calling for him is futile."Hicks said gently. When Charlie was calm, he left for a few minutes then returned carrying a container of warm, steaming water and a bar of soap. He sat the warm water on the nightstand and carefully began removing the remains of Charlie's tee shirt. Hicks saw the look of terror in his eyes.

"No, leave me alone!" Charlie grabbed at his captor's hands.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I think you should be clean when you meet your maker. Cleanliness is next to godliness, my mother used to say. Just lay still. I know what I'm doing. During that last year, I would slip dear old dad a little something extra in his oatmeal every morning. He was pretty much an invalid towards the end. I took very good care of him." He continued to talk as he undressed Charlie. He took a wash cloth dipped in the warm water added the sweet scented soap and began washing the dirt and blood from the professor's battered body.

"Mother would sit in an old rocking chair and brush her hair until it shone. She had incredibly beautiful long, black hair. When she was standing, it nearly touched the floor. She called it her crowning glory. If I was very good she let me brush it for her. Then she would braid it and let it hang over her shoulder. I can still see Mother rocking, brushing her hair and singing hymns in this soft, off key voice. 'Shall We Gather at the River' and 'The Old Rugged Cross'. Did your mother sing to you?"

Charlie, his eyes tightly closed only nodded.

"I guess all mothers do." He smiled at the memory. "Her name was Sarah, after the wife of Abraham. And she was beautiful, like an angel. I saw your mother's picture when I visited your home. She was also beautiful. Tell me Charlie, how did your mother punish you when you were bad?"

Charlie's opened his eyes. He looked at Hicks. "My mother never hurt me, not once." he said softly.

Hicks only smiled at him. "When I was small I thought my mother was a saint, Charlie, I truly did. Then I came home early from school one day and saw my saintly mother and the preacher naked in my father's bed." Hicks' mouth twitched in anger. "I think that was the day I learned there are no saints, not in this world anyway. I never told her what I saw, Charlie. I had plans to make. A month later we went out in the boat on the lake on our farm, just the two of us. She never knew why I threw her into the water that day. She never knew why I pushed her away from the boat, away from safety. Mother chose to wear her hair down that day. I can still see it spread out on the water like black silk as she sank below the surface. She never was a very good swimmer and the weight of her long skirts and her beautiful hair…well." He sighed sadly.

"As she struggled and finally lost the fight I sang to her for a change, I sang a hymn she taught me. 'Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod, with its crystal tide forever, flowing by the throne of God." His voice faded out with the last words. Hicks smiled, leaned over and whispered in Charlie's horrified ear, "I was twelve." He dried his victim with a soft towel, "See, we are all done. I even washed your hair and ran a razor over your face." He held up some clothes. "Do you recognize these? You should I took them from your house." He quickly dressed Charlie and brushed his damp hair.

"You killed your own mother!" Charlie could hardly say the words.

"She was a whore, Charlie. It was my duty. An immoral woman is an affront to God." Hicks pulled a chair up and sat beside the bed. For a while he fell silent then he spoke again. "The man who died in your place, the one your family and friends are grieving over, I think you should know about him. It's important because in killing him, I have made a slight change to my plans."

Charlie felt fear touch the base of his spine.

"I started to kill him just as I have the others. It wouldn't have been difficult. The man could barely walk, but as I went to slice his throat, I saw his tattoo. I saw the horned god and the pentacle covering his left arm. He had the mark. He was one of the evil ones. Perhaps he was even a minion of yours. There is only one way to destroy evil Charlie and that is by fire. Unlike the others, he was still alive when I burned him."

Charlie moaned. "My god, you are a monster."

"And he would still be alive if I hadn't needed a substitute for you so in a sense his death is on your head." Hicks chuckled. "Of course after he burned I sliced his throat as I did the others." Hicks leaned close to Charlie. "You see, the bible says fire is the second death. I have broken your spirit and your mind. You have already asked me to kill you as I told you would. I have made you see all the evil you have brought to this world, all who have died because of you. I believe for your evil to be truly ended, to free your soul from the demon within, you must truly suffer. You will die as the witches of old died, consumed by flames." He took Charlie's arm and gave him an injection. "Spend your last hours contemplating your sins my friend and making peace with God, if you can." He turned and left Charlie alone in the dark.

Fear gripped Charlie as never before. He had accepted that he was going to die on this night. He was not even sorry. He was too broken to be sorry, but the thought of burning sent him into a new kind of terror. It was his greatest fear. He was educated enough to know burning was not instantaneous. He would die slowly and in unimaginable agony. He felt tears running down his cheeks. He curled into a small, trembling ball, and he prayed. He prayed for the mercy of a heart attack or a stroke that would cheat this sadistic madman of his victory. He prayed, not for the first time, for the strength and the opportunity to end this nightmare himself, to find peace under his own terms. He prayed that the family he loved so deeply never find out how he died; that they could remember him without the horror that knowledge would bring. And he sent out a most fervent prayer that Hicks was right about one thing. That somewhere in some beautiful, peaceful place, his mother and Ashley were waiting and that soon, he would join them.

TCB