Chapter 11

Sean grinned in Charlie's face, showing a fresh gap in his diseased gums. His breath was foul; methamphetamine decreased saliva production, and the resulting oral environment created loads of bacteria, which in turn attacked the teeth and gums. Charlie could feel nausea rising at the sight and the smell, but that sensation was quickly overpowered by terror, as he watched Sean snap open a lethal-looking switchblade. He tensed as Sean moved behind him, but his terror degenerated into mere heart-pounding fear, as he felt Sean cut through the zip tie around his wrists. He was lying on his good arm, and he couldn't move the injured one very well, so he lay as he was until Sean grabbed him underneath the shoulders. He cried outbetweeen gritted teethat the pressure in his shoulder, and his head swam, but he maintained consciousness this time, and found himself in a semblance of a sitting position, propped against the wall.

He fought against the pain, breathing heavily; beads of cold sweat on his brow, as he watched Sean cut clean shop towels into strips. They were in the main room of the office on the floor next to the desk, and Sean was kneeling next to him.

"These are what Tommy had on his shoulder, when they brought him in," said Sean conversationally. "When they gave us his belongings, these were with his clothes."

He moved forward on his knees, and worked a strip under Charlie's arm, and wrapped it around his shoulder. Charlie groaned as Sean tightened the strip, applied pressure, and tied it off, and bit his lip to hold in the next cry as Sean put on another one. By the time his shoulder was bound, he was seeing black spots in front of his eyes, and he leaned weakly against the wall. He still had a zip tie around his ankles, and Sean put one around his wrists again, but this time left Charlie's hands in front of him. The tie bit into the fragile healing skin on his wrists, but it was hardly noticeable, compared to the agony in his shoulder.

Sean seemed to be in a good mood, and was almost vibrating with energy. He was high as kite, Charlie realized. The man not only was insane, he was doped up on meth, and Charlie suspected, completely unpredictable. He stayed silent, trying not to draw attention to himself, and sat against the wall without moving. Not that he could move, if he wanted to. It was all he could do to stay upright. He watched with growing trepidation as Sean stepped over to the dead firefighter and began to drag the man from the room, toward the back room. A moment later, he heard the clunk of the outside door, and then the faint sound of the shovel outside. Sean was reconstructing his brother's last days down to the minutest detail, going so far as to kill an innocent man and bury him, just to complete the picture. Each scrape of the shovel made the hair rise on the back of Charlie's neck. He couldn't help but remember his earlier premonition that he would be buried in that hole. It appeared it was going to come true, after all.

It was short work to bury the man; the hole hadn't been filled in; the mounds of dirt had been left around it, along with the bits of scrub and the occasional scrap of crime scene tape. Sean just had to scrape out a bit of dirt, and then cover the man up with some of the dirt around the holeand the bits of scrub. He shut the door and came inside; rubbing thedust from his hands, and grinned at Charlie, his eyes bright with meth and insanity. "Time to eat," he said cheerfully. "I bought crackers. That's what Tommy ate."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan, David and Colby had gone, heading to the office to begin to run down leads, and the room was silent. Don and Megan had refused to show Alan the video, but Megan had gently given him the news. Now Don and Alan sat in the living room; Don still in the recliner, and Alan was perched on the sofa, sitting forward, leaning over his legs, a hand over his face. He ran it downward as he drew in a huge breath, and Don's heart dropped as he realized that his father was crying. Alan was always such a dogged optimist, a bastion of strength – the only time Don had every seen him cry was at his wife's death. Don himself had been stunned into despair by the incomprehensible turn of events, and seeing his father like this – it was unbearable, too much to handle.

Alan tried to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he said, in a trembling voice. "This happening, after everything else..." He looked utterly defeated, and Don felt a sudden surge of impatience.

His father sounded as if he believed it was already over, and Don had to admit, he'd been submerged in despondency himself, but he refused to bow to it. As warped as Moran was, he had indicated that he wanted to meet. If he didn't go off the deep end before the deadline he gave, they had as much as three days, if Charlie could hold out that long with his injury. He was damned if he'd sit here and mope for three days, Don thought; concussion or not. He fumbled with the lever to the recliner, and lowered his feet with a sudden thump.

Alan's head jerked up with alarm. "What are you doing?"

Don stood for a moment, his jaw set stubbornly, trying to calm the whirling in his head from standing up so fast. "I'm going in the office, where I can do something. I sure as hell am not going to sit here."

Alan was on his feet, and grabbed Don's good arm as he started past him. "You can't do that. You're supposed to be resting. You can't drive yet. And that madman's after you, too."

Don tried to pry his arm away, and when Alan didn't relinquish his grip, Don yanked it away, hard. He staggered, and headed for the door. "I'm going in, Dad. First of all, I'll be safer there than anywhere – I'll be surrounded by agents in a secure building. Second of all, I will be resting; I'll be sitting at my desk."

"That's not resting," protested Alan. "Look at you, you can't even walk straight. You can't possibly drive."

"Then drive me," retorted Don, rooting through the bag they'd brought from the hospital. "Where are my badge and my wallet?"

Alan reluctantly picked them up from the end table. "They're here. I brought them home from the hospital the first night you were there." He looked at Don resignedly. "I'll drive you, and I'm staying there. If you get tired, I'll bring you home."

Don nodded, and his face relaxed a little. "I can't just sit here, Dad."

"I know," admitted Alan, quietly. "I can't either."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie flexed his left hand experimentally, wincing, and watched as Sean tore into the cellophane on a pack of crackers. The fact that he could move his hand was a good sign, but his arm motion was extremely limited. He could only shift it a bit, and lifting it was out of the question. Even aside from the pain, his arm wouldn't respond. He glanced downward at the wrappings. Blood was seeping through, but slowly. The bullet appeared to be lodged near the outside of the joint, but apparently hadn't hit any major veins or arteries. He probably wouldn't bleed to death – not from this injury anyway.

His head jerked up as Sean approached him, offering him a cracker with a grimy hand –the same hand that had grubbed in the dirt, and handled a dead man. Charlie couldn't suppress a shudder of revulsion. He shook his head, closing his eyes.

"You have to eat," Sean insisted, and the edge to his voice made Charlie open his eyes again. Sean was smiling, but his eyes looked hard, with a hint of desperation.

A wave of anger swept through Charlie. This nutcase might have the upper hand, but he'd be damned if he'd play along with his sick game. "I'm not hungry," he said firmly.

"You have to eat," Sean demanded, his voice rising. "You have to make it two days – you need to keep your strength. Tommy ate – he told me he had crackers and water. You have to eat to make it right."

Charlie looked him in the eye, defiantly. "No." As soon as the word was out, he regretted his momentary bravado.

Sean's face transformed, ugly with anger, and he pointed a shaking finger in Charlie's face. "You don't tell me 'no!'" he screamed. He flung the cracker aside and grabbed Charlie by the arms, shaking him. The movement sent a knife of agony though his shoulder, wrenching an involuntary cry of pain from his lips. Sean grabbed him by the neck with one hand, and forced his head back against the wall, and Charlie froze, trying to catch his breath, to recapture coherent thought as he fought down the pain.

Sean's face loomed over him, smiling wickedly. "You're gonna do what I say," he smirked. His head jerked and rolled, and his eyes wandered, suddenly losing focus. He released Charlie's neck and grabbed the pack of crackers from the floor and stuffed one in his own mouth, nodding and muttering to himself as he chewed. "You and your brother. Gonna do what I say…"

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan and David stood near Colby's desk, waiting for him to finish a phone conversation with LAPD. She snuck a sideways glance at David; he was taking Charlie's abduction hard. He was holding himself responsible, even though no one else did. Megan had tried to point out to him thatit most likely had occurred before he even got there, and he had countered by insisting that if he'd gone inside, they'd have known earlier, and perhaps would have had a better chance at finding them.

As an argument, it was feeble, because at that point, they wouldn't have known what vehicle to look for, but that apparently didn't matter. David blamed himself. It reminded him, sickeningly, of the sniper case, in which he'd driven Charlie to the plaza where the sniper was – and had nearly driven him to his death. In that instance, however, David had vindicated himself somewhat; he was the one who had pushed Charlie out of the way of the sniper's second bullet, when the first one missed. That time, he'd managed to atone for his mistake – in this case, he didn't have that opportunity. To make it worse, he'd become much closer to Charlie than he had been then. You couldn't work with someone as much as he had with Charlie, and not develop a personal relationship, a friendship, a bond. They all had; Charlie had gone from being an odd, geeky little outsider to being one of them – part of the team. David hadn't just let Charlie down – he'd let his team down, as well.

Megan shook her head at the look on David's face, and sighed to herself. The fact was, they still weren't sure which vehicle to look for. They had the detail on the navy Park Avenue – make, color, a license plate number, but it sounded as though Moran had already switched vehicles. Colby was in the process of having LAPD send records of any stolen car in tan or gold. She glanced down again as his tone indicated the conversation was coming to an end, and noticed the look of surprise cross his face as he looked past her.

She turned and saw Don and Alan in front of the elevators, and concern spread across her face. "What in the heck is he doing here?" she murmured, and walked toward them, as Don stiffly made his way toward his desk.

He sat, and she could see the lines of pain in his face as she got closer, and she repeated her question. "Don, what are you doing here?"

He looked at her, and she could see pain in his eyes that was from something more than physical discomfort. "I can't sit around and do nothing. I can work at my desk, man the phones, something."

She looked away from the intensity in his gaze toward Alan, and saw an identical expression of resolution. It was obvious they were determined to be a part of this. She sighed. "I told Wright what had happened on the way in. He thinks you're at home, still on medical leave."

"I'll call him," said Don, quietly, as Colby and David approached. "Fill me in on what's going on."

Colby spoke up. "I just got off the phone with LAPD. They've got APB's out for Moran and the two vehicles, although we didn't have much to give them on the second one. At least if they spot a tan or gold sedan, they'll take a second look at the driver. They'll be calling those in here."

Don nodded. "I can take any tips, sort through them and prioritize them. What else?"

Megan spoke up. "I'm heading down to meet with Lieutenant Walker, and we're going to organize some teams to go through a listing of any warehouses which show as holdings under either Dillon or Lenny Angelo. We'll have some of our people involved, but there are at least 10 properties that we need to check out – we'll need some help from LAPD. In fact, Walker will have his people there to prep at 10:30 – I need to get going." She paused and looked at him. "You're calling Wright?"

The word 'now' was unspoken, but Don understood. It would be Megan's head if Wright wasn't notified that Don was working on the case. "Yeah, don't worry; I'll call him before I start anything. Get going."

With nods at Alan, the group dispersed. Alan stood there watching them go, and then looked at his oldest son, who had immediately picked up the phone, and sighed. Don was already engaged in the effort, but Alan felt as helpless here as he had at home. All he could do was to wait, and pray.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie watched Sean from under half-closed lids, trying to keep his breathing slow and regular; his face expressionless. It was difficult; the throbbing in his shoulder made his breathing shallow and fast, and he was sure some of the pain showed in his face. He'd come very close to passing out after Sean's attack, and as a desperate measure of self-defense, he pretended to – he'd faked unconsciousness for over an hour now, sneaking occasional peeks at his captor, trying to gage his mood.

Moran seemed to be coming down from his high; he was pacing and still full of energy, but his mood had turned from cheerful to anxious after his outburst. As the drugs in his system diminished, he seemed to become a little more lucid and he'd stopped the muttering, although his physical symptoms increased. His nose was running, and he kept scratching himself, tugging at locks of hair; his hands always moving – poking, scratching, touching. From time to time his head would jerk and roll, as if he was a fish with a lure in its mouth, and someone unseen was pulling on the line. Even though the meth was wearing off, he seemed ready to explode.

He turned suddenly and looked at Charlie, and Charlie closed his eyes too late. He could hear footsteps approaching him, and Moran prodded him. "I know you're awake."

Charlie opened his eyes, and realized Sean was squatting in front of him again with a paper cup filled with water from the cooler.

"Drink," said Sean, and he held the water to Charlie's lips. The water was cool, and tasted better than Charlie expected, and physical need displaced his reluctance to cooperate. He drank half the cup before stopping, and Sean held up a cracker. Charlie stared at it a moment, then at Sean, as the need to maintain his autonomy, his dignity, warred with fear.

"Don't make me hurt you again, Eppes," said Sean softly, a dangerous gleam in his eye. He pressed the cracker against Charlie's lips, and Charlie took it, feeling as if he'd somehow defiled himself.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 11