Disclaimer: I own no part of Numb3rs. This is just for fun
Rated T for violence and language
The Seventh Trumpet
Chapter Eleven
Vae Victis
It was early evening. The sun had not yet sunk below the horizon. Don Eppes sprinkled a little of the special food Charlie had purchased less than a week before in the koi pond. He watched the colorful fish swirl and dive, their little mouths just touching the surface of the water. For a moment he had the impression they were asking why this Eppes was feeding them. Where was their owner, the one who spent so many happy hours sitting in the grass watching them, concentrating on the patterns their constant motion left in the water and quieting his always busy mind for a few blessed moments?
It was a ridiculous thought, of course. Fish were mindless creatures at best with a memory span of no more than a few seconds and they had no capacity to feel any emotion at all beyond the need to eat and survive. Still, he thought the animals missed his brother; the house missed his brother. Despite the multitude of agents ensconced throughout, the old place was empty without Charlie. He loved this house. No one had realized exactly how much until their father had put it up for sale. And no one even imagined the relatively young professor had the resources to purchase it. Many thought he was crazy to do it. The house was beautiful, yes, but it was also old and old houses require constant, very expensive maintenance. He, like Dad and everyone else attributed Charlie's almost pathological reluctance to accept change for his rash decision to buy it, but it was more than that, much, much more.
Don stood and looked at the dwelling in which he had spent his childhood. He knew this home was so much more than the 'sum of its components', as his mathematician brother would say. He remembered late one night, not long after the purchase, he and Charlie had sat in the grass by the pond, both of them groggy, both of them 'three sheets to the wind' as his brother laughingly described their state of inebriation. It had been one of those days with the FBI. He had been forced to shoot a man earlier that day. The man had given him no choice, still he felt guilty. He had come home, as he so often did when he was hurting. The family Eppes had enjoyed a wonderful dinner cooked by their father. He had not mentioned the shooting but Charlie had sensed his needs and had sat with him talking about nothing, drinking glass after glass of merlot while he drank beer after beer. Their father went to bed and he and his brother grabbed a bottle of wine and a six-pack and headed for the pond to continue their conversation. It was during a lull, when neither of them could think of anything to say that he asked the question, why— why would a young man want such an old, outdated place and all the problems that were bound to come with it. Why, since he obviously had ample funds wouldn't he want a new, modern place in a younger neighborhood?
Charlie had thought for a moment. He had pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them and had said in that soft, shy way he has when he is trying to be serious and not sure if he will be understood, criticized or laughed at.
"Don, a house is a living thing. It absorbs all the energy and emotions within its walls and it holds on to that energy forever. It becomes as much a part of a home's makeup as the wood in the floors and the glass in the windows. This old house has absorbed a lot of energy over its lifetime. It has seen a lot of history. A couple of years ago, I kind of got curious about this place so I researched it. I have the records and some photos in my safe deposit box if you'd like to see them sometime. Do you realize that when this house was built, Teddy Roosevelt was president? It was an election year and Taft won. It was here when the Titanic sank. It has seen The Great War, the one they called The War to End All Wars and the Spanish Flu epidemic that followed. The boy who had my room at that time was killed in the Argonne Forest and was buried over there. His name was Ed, Ed Sterling and he was seventeen when he died."
"This place was a bordello during The Jazz Age and was nearly lost twice during The Great Depression. The lady who owned it then took in boarders to make ends meet. There was a tent city not three blocks from here where the desperate subsisted on prayer and occasionally Hoover Stew made of rotting potatoes, onions and rat if one could be caught. It saw World War II begin and end. I'll bet the family who owned it then sat in the living room and listened to FDR deliver his 'A day that will live in infamy speech' on a Philco radio sitting about where we have the television now. Their name was Davidson and they lost two sons in that war, Craig who was nineteen, died at Normandy and Frank was lost during Midway. He was twenty. That war gave us the Atomic Age and faded into Korea which faded into Vietnam. The boy who had my room then was killed on January 31, 1968 in Da Nang on the first day of the Tet Offensive. His name was Charlie, just like me and he wanted to play baseball, just like you. I sometimes wonder about those lost so far from home. I find myself talking to them at night when sleep just won't come. I wonder what they would have been like if they had lived. Would they have had kids, worked in the factories, or been a great pitcher for the Sox's? Were their parents proud of their sacrifice or bitter and angry at the loss?"
"This house has seen years of prosperity, self indulgence, recession, depression, world wars, terrorism, death and wars and so called police actions in distant corners of the globe, so much for The War to End All Wars. It has survived it all. It has known renovation, earthquakes, the birth of babies, the deaths of occupants, both old and young and a dozen owners over the years. Some simply left their mark briefly and moved on, others loved this place with a passion and others died young and never had a chance to find their own place in the world. All of them are still here in one way or another. You can hear their voices in the groan of the joists on a windy night or the creak of the floors as the house settles. Yeah, Don, I could buy almost any house I wanted, but this place is alive, it has a soul like a new more modern place never could, not for many years. It's magical. How could I let that go?" He had grinned sheepishly, "Besides, this place has secrets only I know, why even here in this garden not very far from where we are now, you might be able to find the answer to a long forgotten mystery."
"What, is Jimmy Hoffa buried here?" Don remembered laughing as he stood up.
Charlie had grinned. "No, he was chopped up, packed in car trunks, crushed and sent to China as scrap metal years ago."
"I've discovered one of your secrets tonight, my mathematician, genius little brother." He had said, slurring his words. "Despite your stubborn insistence that you only believe what can be scientifically proven, you are, deep in your heart, a poet." He held out his hand to help his brother stand.
"You don't have to be insulting." Charlie had said as Don hauled him to his feet.
"No, the secret is out Mr. math guy PhD talking to ghosts in the middle of the night; you have the soul of a poet." Don had put his arm around his brother's shoulders.
"Well, I am reading 'In Search of Lost Times' You probably know it as 'Remembrance of Things Past." Charlie had admitted.
Don had squinted, "You're reading what?"
"Proust, big brother, I'm reading Proust." Charlie snickered.
"Why? Are you taking a course? Did you lose a bet?"
"No, I'm not taking a course and I didn't lose a bet. I didn't get to enjoy it the first time I read it. I had to rush through it too fast. Now I am rereading it for pleasure. I have a whole list of books I intend to reread because now I can really enjoy them."
"You're a weird one, Chuck." Don had nearly fallen and Charlie had caught him.
"Yeah, well don't call me Chuck, Donald, or I'll leave you right here by the pond until the sprinklers come on in the morning." Charlie had slipped his arm under his brother's arms to keep him from falling.
"Guess you were right earlier. We're three sheets to the wind." He had said.
"Big bro, I am three sheets to the wind. YOU, Mr. FBI guy are shitfaced." Charlie had laughed and helped him up to his room, dumping him on the bed and helping him out of his clothes.
"Charlie, you are a good baby brother, the very best." He had muttered as he fell asleep.
"Goodnight, Don." Charlie had moved the wastepaper basket to the edge of the bed, just in case he needed it and tucked a blanket around him.
"Charlie, you don't really think this house hears you when you talk to it do you? I mean you don't believe there are ghosts here? They don't talk back to you, do they?" He had asked as Charlie started to leave.
"Of course not, it's just a coping mechanism." Charlie smiled.
"Glad to hear it 'cause I'd hate to have to explain to the Bureau that my little brother sees and talks to ghosts." He had muttered as he fell asleep. "Charlie, I…"
"You what, Don?" Charlie leaned against the door jamb for a second.
"Nothing, see ya in the morning." He had pulled the blanket over his head.
"Sure, see ya in the morning." Charlie had said and walked down the hall to his room.
Don took a deep shuddering breath. Anyone who spent much time at all under the roof of this home said it was magical. Don sincerely believed that to be the truth and in his heart he knew part of the magic came from his brother's deep abiding love of the place. Part of Charlie was embedded in the very walls, the fine woodwork, in the soul of this house vintage house and it always would be. Don closed his stinging eyes. Charlie was the only one of them who had realized its importance to their family. In his foolish purchase of an old house he had preserved the family heritage for all of them. Don swore that if it was not the will of heaven that his brother return to his treasured home, that he, Don, would honor him by accepting his final gift. He would raise his future children in this house, grow old here and one day, the fates allowing die in his bed within these walls. He prayed one of his children would continue the legacy and that this magical place would always be the Eppes family home.
Don glanced at the blue gnome. Earlier he had filled in the hole and returned it to its proper place. 'I might be able to find the answer to a long forgotten mystery— good one, Charlie!' He thought with a was it Charlie had named the ugly thing years ago? Oh yeah, Coach Hart, after their hated gym teacher in high school. The man had it in for poor Charlie from day one and ran the slight boy into the ground. Dan smiled. The Coach was infuriated by Charlie's complete lack of coordination and he had made fourth period gym hell for him. Too bad the macho coach did not take into account that what Charlie lacked in athletic skills, he more than made up for in mental agility. It could never be proven that the device that erupted, filling the Coaches prized classic 1966 Mustang with polyurethane foam was Charlie's work, but his kid brother had an oddly satisfied smile on his face as they stood in the parking lot with half the student body watching the gym teacher stomp and curse. Don had looked past his friends and caught his kid brother's eye. Charlie had given him that 'Who, me?' look and walked away. He had known the truth at that moment and had felt a great sense of pride in his annoying younger brother. Now, so many years later, he was still proud of him for that clever act of vandalism, even though they never spoke of it.
Don crossed the yard to the patio. He sat down in one of the chairs and closed his eyes. He should be inside with the others, but he had remembered the fish needed care. If his brother came home and found he had allowed the slimy things to starve or even lose a scale, there would be hell to pay. He had taken care of the aquarium in the living room first then he had headed out back to feed the koi. There he had gotten lost in his thoughts of his brother. Charlie rarely let anyone see his less logical, more whimsical side, but that night with the help of a lot of booze, he had.
At the moment, he was of little help inside anyway. Everyone had their noses buried in computers and there comes a point where there are just enough people in an area that they start getting in each other's way. They had passed that point at least three people ago. The agent decided that he needed to push his ego aside and give the experts room to work. If they found anything, they would come and get him. He needed air.
Don sighed when Mike Donovan sauntered up and took the next chair. The marine had changed from the tee shirt and jeans he wore earlier into desert camouflage pants, a tan tee shirt and combat boots. His Sig was once again at his waist and Don guessed if you searched him, you would find another weapon or two hidden somewhere on his person. His injured arm was still bandaged, but the sling was gone. This was a well trained military man ready for action at a moment's notice. He began to wonder if Donovan really was a man at all or if he was a cyborg constructed by Cyberdyne Systems. 'If he asks for John Connor, I'm running,' Don thought.
"Eppes, I brought you some fresh fuel." The marine said, sitting a cup of hot coffee in front of Don. "They kick you out too? That damned Delaney accused me of hovering over his shoulder asking questions and making him jumpy." He said. "Can't say that he's wrong. I'm not much of a button pusher and sitting around when there's a job to do makes me want to kick the shit out of something. You could say I'm a simple man who likes simple solutions." he patted the Tactical and smiled.
"I didn't give them a chance to kick me out. I left on my own." Don said, exhaustion obvious in his voice. He took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. How did Mike know exactly how much cream and how much sugar to add?
"Nice garden, kind of Zen. While I was guarding him, Charlie wanted to sit out here in the evenings. I told him it was far too exposed, but we did it a couple of times anyway. He's a very persuasive man." Mike sat his cup on the table. "It's part of my training." He said slyly.
"What?" Don looked startled.
"I'm trained to be to be hyper-observant. I've seen you get at least a dozen cups, that's why I know how you take it. I can tell you how everyone in that room in there takes theirs, if you want to know that is." Mike looked at Don.
"I think I can let that bit of information go by." Don looked at his hands for a moment then at the marine, "I owe you an apology." He said, his voice trembling. "I know you did everything you could to protect my brother and there is no way I can ever repay you for all you've done to try to find him. I was just so angry with you. I'm angry with Charlie and…"
"Eppes, you're not angry with me or your brother. You're angry with the situation and with the fact we're fumbling around in the dark looking for any crumb we can find that might lead us to him. Hell, I'm furious myself. I'd punch a hole in the wall with my fist, but then I'd have to fix it and I really hate drywall work." Donovan interrupted.
Don held up his hand. "Please, let me finish because I'm not good at this kind of thing. I want you to know that I'm sorry if I did or said anything to make you feel responsible. I need to tell you that." He took a deep breath. "I think we both know the odds of finding Charlie alive are not good. We both know we're probably on a recovery mission and not a rescue. I just… I need to bring him home. I need to bring my little brother home, Mike. He needs to be here, with his family so we can take care of him."
Mike Donovan only nodded and took a sip of coffee. The two men sat in silence watching the light of day fade. "We'll bring him home, Don. One way or another, we'll bring him home." Donovan said, his gray eyes looking into the distance. "And when we do, I'll hold him and you kick his ass for causing all this trouble." He said and both men smiled.
Don looked out over the garden. For a moment, he thought he saw his brother standing by the koi pond. Charlie turned, smiled, and then was gone. He felt pain stab his heart as he realized Charlie would always be here, by the pond, admiring the roses or wondering through the house. He would never know his brother as an old man. Charlie's curly hair would remain dark and his face unmarred by lines, a phantom frozen forever in time.
"Boss," Both men looked up to see Colby Granger crossing the well manicured lawn, "they want the two of you inside, now!" He shouted.
The two men looked at each other and charged after the younger FBI agent.
"What's going on, guys?" Mike asked kneeling beside Delaney.
Don was standing behind Larry, his hands on the physicists' shoulder. "Did one of those phone numbers check out?" He asked.
"Don, most of those of the calls were from expected sources, you, Alan, the university, and me; nothing unusual except for this one. It matches no known source and the calls last less than a minute. It looks like he received a call every night at exactly eight PM for a week then the number changed and then it changed again. We cannot trace it because it is a disposable cell. We do know that the calls bounced off a tower very near this location."
"In other words, all it tells us is that these calls came from close by this house." Delaney chimed in. He held up the cigarette butt clamped firmly in a pair of tweezers, "but this little beauty just might be singing a prettier tune."
"Delaney, just tell us!" Mike snapped.
"Well, this is no ordinary cigarette. It's a Gitanes and you can't just run down to the Seven-Eleven and buy them. You have to go to a specialty shop or order them yourself. We are trying to trace back any orders or sales of this brand from every shop in a thirty mile radius over the last month. We are also tracing any internet sales and…."
"DELANEY!" Mike barked loud enough to make the entire room jump.
"If you will calm the hell down, Fleinhardt and I may have come up with something right about ….now." He hit a key and a list of names began appearing on his screen. "Shit! Who knew so many people smoked Gitanes!" he hissed under his breath. "Most of these are French names so it's probably their favorite brand from home and there are a few women, let's eliminate them for now… and that leaves us with….hummm." he tapped a few more times then began to read out loud. "Keith Willis, Jeff Jones, Lance Barnes, Robert Shank, Prentice Maggio, Anthony…"
"Wait!" Larry shouted, "Did you say Prentice Maggio?"
"Yeah, do you know him?" Delaney asked.
Larry nervously ran his hand through his hair, "I know the name. Prentice Maggio was a math student at Princeton during Charles' first year. He was brilliant, but fragile. One day, without a word to anyone, he walked into his dorm room and blew his brains out. After that, the students began referring to suicide as the Prentice Maggio Solution." He looked at Don. "You know, it solves all problems." He explained.
"If he's dead, then this can't be…" Mike started to say.
"No, but how many people named Prentice Maggio could there be. Delaney, run that name and see what you can find." Don said as he pushed his way past Mike, "Charlie, bless you, you have given us your input after all! You never let me buddy, you never let me down!" He thought.
The agent continued to mutter and punch away at his keyboard with lightening speed, "He ordered the cigarettes through a shop in Van Nuys around three weeks ago. He must have been almost out 'cause he had them flown in. Let's see, okay, he paid cash so there is no credit card record and he picked them up himself. Here's a phone number so they could contact him when his order came in."
"Colby, check this number against the incoming calls to Charlie's phone." Don read the number off as he stood up.
"We have a match!" Colby said. "That is one of the calls from the disposable phone. He received three calls from that number and then the bastard must have tossed it because the next number is different."
"So we know he is using a fake name and he buys French cigarettes. We still have no address or anything else to go on." Mike said.
Don thought for a minute, "I wish we had time to get the shop's security records for that day." he sighed. "I'd like to get a look at this bastard."
"Hennessey, do your thing." Delaney said, nodding at a thin balding man with wire framed glasses, as he stood up and stretched. "I need coffee."
"You can hack the stores security system?" David asked, standing behind the agent as he began typing.
"Well, it depends. If it's tied into the internet then, yes if it's a cheapo internal system then no, but we can get the records from the street security system." He said.
David narrowed his eyes, "Don't you need a warrant?"
Hennessy shrugged and chuckled softly. "Dr. Eppes has top security clearance and is privy to a lot of very sensitive material." he glanced at Don who had joined David. "Your brother knows where more than a few bodies are buried. If any questions come up, I'll just cry Homeland Defense. That pretty much excuses anything these days."
"You can do that?" Don asked.
The agent just smiled and continued his work. "And we're in. I'm going to narrow the perimeters to around the time he picked up the order and hopefully…I'll bet that's our guy." He froze the picture.
Don, Mike and the team gathered around the agent. The highly pixilated figure on the screen was tall and his face was covered by a thick scruffy gray beard. He wore dark aviator style sunglasses and a gray hoodie. The hood was pulled up covering much of the face.
"Do all of these nut jobs get fashion tips from the Unabomber?" Colby Granger asked.
Don frowned. "David, pull up the security tapes of the bombing."
"Do you mind?" the agent asked Hennessey, leaning past him.
"No, go ahead." he stood so David could sit down.
David was not familiar with Hennessey's setup so it took him a couple of minutes, but soon an out of focus picture of the street appeared on the screen. Charlie and Mike were leaning on the blue Prius. Ashley DeVoe and Ken Meyers were standing by the door to the building. The team braced themselves. Larry covered his mouth with his hands. This was not an easy thing to watch. Charlie looked up and to the left. He started to walk away with Mike at his side and suddenly there was a bright flash of light both from the car and the building. Charlie was flung through the air like a rag doll landing out of view of that camera.
"Every time I see this I'm amazed. He should have been killed or at the very least seriously injured. I don't know how he survived." Colby said softly.
"David, do you remember what Charlie said about the bomb in his interview?" Don asked, squeezing his friend's shoulders.
"Yeah, he said he was leaning against his car and someone called his name. The thing went off before he could see who." David said.
"Now run the tape from right after the explosion and run it slower." Don watched the images intently. "Stop! There— isn't that the same man? I mean, his beard is gone but look at the hoodie and the glasses."
"I think you're right!" David said. "I'm going to run the crowd pictures just afterwards." He put them up, one by one until he reached the one of Mike Donovan, his arms around Charlie supporting him and trying to get him out of the area. "That's him," he said. "Look at the group of people standing just past the debris, the man behind the woman in the red shirt."
"Can you zoom in on him?" Don asked, gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Yeah," He pulled the image up as large as he could. The face was now clean shaven, but the size of the man, the glasses, and the damned hoodie. It had to be the same man.
"There's not much of a face to go on, but I could try and run it through facial recognition and see…" Delaney started to say.
But Larry Fleinhardt had pushed Colby and Delaney aside. "Can you focus in on his right hand and his chin?" He asked.
"Sure but it's really not going to be very clear." David said.
"I am aware. Just humor me." Larry was fairly shaking with excitement.
David did as the physicist asked. Larry leaned in and examined the images very closely.
"Is there a reason for this?" Don asked impatiently.
Larry shook his head slowly saying, "Sherlock Holms had a saying, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth'. Hand me the group photograph of The Indigo Project."
"What the hell is this about?" Don demanded as he took the photograph from Colby and handed it to Larry.
"It is about a ghost, Don." Larry held the photograph next to the images on the computer screen."Look at the burn scar across the right hand and the small scar on the chin. This is David Hickman."
"No, it can't be." Don moved closer and froze as he gasped, "My God!"
But it was. Despite the fact the man died three years before, the figure standing in the crowd watching Mike lift his battered brother from the ground was David Hickman. The very distinctive scars matched perfectly. Don felt his heart beating faster. He wondered how it was possible that Hickman was alive, but the how's were going to have to wait. Right now they needed to find out where this madman had taken his brother.
"Delaney…" He started to say.
"I'm already on it." The agent said from his computer.
The room was dead silent as Delaney and Hennessey worked, trying every avenue available to find some clue as to where Hickman might be hiding. Mike Donovan was on his cell pacing like a tiger in a cage. Don was not sure who he was talking to, but the conversation was heated. To the FBI agent time seemed to have come to a standstill. He felt like he was on the verge of screaming at everyone in the room when Delaney slammed his fist into the table.
"Yes!" He shouted. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"What have you found?" Don asked.
"At first I didn't find anything that would help us, just the usual. The date of his birth, schools he attended, the date he graduated from college and of course the date he was supposedly murdered so I tried another tack. I ran Jon Hickman. I found his purchase of the house in Cambridge. He also owned a farm in Virginia that belonged to his late wife, Sarah. Now, here's where it gets a little hinky. The old man was not well that last year. In fact he was bedridden for much of it. His son had his power of attorney which he used to sell a couple of the old man's properties for practically nothing. He sold the farm to a holding company, Prentice Industries. Give you two guesses who the CEO is. He also sold a parcel of land in the desert about two hundred miles west southwest of here. That land had been in the Hickman family for over ninety years and was purchased by— Prentice Maggio. I found the plans and permits for tearing down the original structure and building a pretty large house, and it looks like it was completed less than a year ago."
He ran his fingers over the keyboard. "And here it is via satellite image. The full moon is helping but we're using night vision so it's not clear, but that's the place."
A large house appeared on the screen. It was dark, making it difficult to make out much detail, but there appeared to be a high wall surrounding it and an old dilapidated barn, probably original, and some kind of scaffold behind it.
"Now here's the part where you conspiracy nuts start worrying." He punched more keys. "Of course with heat rising from the desert, it's a little more difficult, but I'm getting three heat signatures. Look close and you can see two greenish figures outside and moving. It's too dark for detail but, I think that one is probably a coyote or a dog. I'm guessing dog because by its movements, it's either penned up or chained and what kind of whack job would keep a coyote for a pet. The other is a large man. You can see him by the scaffold. The third one is in a back room, not moving, sleeping maybe, but since I'm able to get a signature, alive." He smiled. "Big Brother is watching." he said softly.
Don and Mike stood in silence for a few long minutes, both of them thinking the same thing. This was the best lead they had; this was the ONLY lead they had. They could waste more precious time and research it further or they could act now and if they were wrong, in all likelihood, Charlie would never be found at all. The choice was agonizing, but in the end they both knew they had to act and act fast.
"I've a team standing by. I'm going to get them moving right now." Mike said as he pulled his cell from his pocket. "The two of us, Sinclair and Granger are taking another route. We need to get to the airport— NOW."
There was no time to ask questions. The house erupted into pandemonium. The four men raced for Don's SUV. If they broke one law, they broke a dozen. Don kept his lights flashing all the way, but L.A. traffic is always hell. No one spoke. They all knew what was at stake.
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Charlie lay as still and quiet as the dead, his hands folded serenely over his chest as if he were laid out for viewing. He watched as the last of the light filtering through the thick curtains faded to black. Outside, he could hear the wind picking up. It groaned and moaned like a lost soul through the eaves of the house. The door of an outbuilding slammed open and shut and a wind chime rang like dozens of tiny bells growing softer and louder with the strength of each gust. He could hear the sound of hammering close by. The hammering had been going on for hours, since shortly after Hicks had left him. The mathematician didn't even want to speculate on what his captor was building. He only knew he would complete it soon. He knew that when that hammer fell silent, his time would be up. Every once in a while, Hicks baritone voice floated in on the wind as he sang that same Nick Cave song he had been singing on that night when the world as Charlie knew it ended.
He closed his eyes and for a moment, he was home. Don was getting a beer out of the fridge then he and Dad would settle down in front of the TV to watch a game. He sat, an entity apart, watching his father and brother and listening to their easy banter. He loved them both so much it hurt. He reached out to touch his brother, but just as he laid his hand on Don's shoulder, he was pulled back into the reality of his hell. Hicks turned on the Tiffney lamp, bathing the room in soft light. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled slightly.
Laying a cool hand on Charlie's forehead, he frowned. "You have a high fever. Well, no matter, the game is almost over, little fox, and soon all will be set right." Hicks softly said as he bound Charlie's wrists with coarse rope. "It's such a beautiful night I thought you might enjoy a last look at it before you die. The moon is full and the stars, Charlie, there must be a million stars out tonight all shining as brightly as diamonds. But first I thought we'd share a drink. I have a fine red wine I'm sure you'll enjoy." He slipped his arm underneath his prisoner and helped him to sit. "I know you must feel faint from the fever and that last injection I gave you was a fairly large dose of one of my more potent creations. It should be wearing off by now, but you'll be disoriented for a while. Of course, you really don't have much time left. The drugs will help you through I suppose." He gently touched Charlie's hair and wrapped a curl around his finger. "Charlie, don't do anything to make me have to hurt you again before your final punishment. I really prefer not to. Let's just enjoy the wine and the night." He laid his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Can you stand? You must be weak." He took Charlie's hands and pulled him to his feet. "If you need to lean on me, it's okay. I'll help you."
Charlie shook his head. He wanted no help from his murderer, if he fell flat on his face and had to crawl, then so be it, he would crawl. He took a step, feeling unsteady on his feet. He forced himself not to shudder as a firm hand wrapped around his uninjured arm and led him to the living room. He sat in the chair by the fireplace, glad for the warmth against the chill of the room. He watched Hicks as he took a bottle and two glasses from a sideboard, sitting one glass on the table in front of him. Hicks filled both with ruby red wine.
"Go ahead, drink. I think you'll like it." Hicks took a drink of his wine and motioned for Charlie to do the same. Then he turned and took a plate and utensils from that same sideboard and sat them on the table. "I hope you don't mind. I've been working all day and I'm famished." He began to cut into a thick, steak. The blood ran from the rare meat and mixed with the potatoes.
Charlie sat in silence, his eyes dark eyes almost blank. He made no move to pick up the glass.
"Not thirsty? Okay, suit yourself. It's really very good. Someone of your discriminating taste should appreciate it." Hicks cut another slice of steak, chewed and washed it down with a gulp of wine. He smiled. "I would offer you a last meal, but I doubt you feel like eating." Some of the juice from the all but raw meat ran down his chin. He dabbed it away with a napkin. "Sorry. I always was a slob if you recall, but I love a good thick piece of beef."
Hicks laughed and continued consuming his meal like a ravenous dog, stopping only long enough to gulp the expensive vintage as if it were a cheap table wine. He seemed unusually elated, and cheerful. He was blathering meaningless banalities, as if he was entertaining an old friend he hadn't seen for a while, as if murder was the last thing on his mind. His eyes were bright with anticipation of the horror to come. When his plate was empty, he pushed it aside, poured himself another glass of wine, and leaned back in the chair.
He grinned. "That was perfect, if I do say so myself. I'm going to sleep well tonight, like a fat, lazy cat after devouring a particularly juicy mouse." He chuckled and motioned at Charlie's still untouched wine. "You really should drink that. I bought it especially for you and it might help you later." Charlie only looked away. Hicks sighed, feigning sadness, "No? It's a shame, after all this is your last chance to experience this excellent nectar." He picked up the glass and leaning his head back, drained glass of the rich, deep red liquid himself. "Good wine truly is a gift from the gods, don't you think?"
"Why are you doing this?" Charlie asked in an almost inaudible voice.
"You know why." Hicks' eyes turned as cold as steel.
Charlie shook his head, "No, I need the real reason. At least give me that before I die."
The larger man, his once handsome countenance marked by many years of a life consumed by hatred, his soul ravaged by bloodletting and vengeance, shrugged. "Charlie, we all have our orders." He said and looked at the grandfather's clock as it chimed the half hour. "It's almost time for this game to end, dear friend, almost time for your sins to be burned away by a holy fire." He stood and wrapped a noose around his prisoner's neck, tightened it and used it to pull him to his feet. "I promised you a last look at the stars. Let's go."
Charlie was not sure he could walk, but he forced himself to move. He was weak and shattered. The night was cold and the wind and sand cut through his thin shirt like a thousand knives. He was sick with dread. The remaining effects of the drugs and the fever made the scene before him dreamlike and the torches lighting his way cast hellish shadows. He looked up at a midnight blue sky alight with untold brilliant stars. A huge full moon hung over the barn, silhouetting the rundown building and the newly constructed scaffold looming before him. Light from the torches reflected off the wooden gallows-like structure. It was not difficult to discern Hick's plans. He would hoist Charlie up by his arms until his feet no longer touched the ground. Then Hicks would pile the firewood and kindling around him as high as it would go. He would douse the dried wood with gas and set it ablaze with one of the torches.
Cold, blind terror filled Charlie's heart as he was forced to his knees. "Bet you wish you'd drank that wine now." Hicks said and turning, he flung open his arms. "Soon the seventh angel will sound the seventh trumpet, Charlie, the third woe will descend, the gates of the Kingdom will open and there will be lightening, and voices and thunder and great hail. The sea will give up its dead, the dragon will walk the earth and all will be judged, Charlie, all. The seven angels will empty their vials upon the earth, the final seven plagues." He lowered his arms and turned towards Charlie. He grew quiet. Charlie could hear the crackle of the torches, the somber moan of the wind. "And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying," He gently touched the top of the kneeling man's head, "it is done." He whispered.
Charlie moaned, feeling tears stinging his raw, battered cheeks. His body tensed, and from somewhere deep within his tormented soul, he found strength. He remembered his resolve not to die at this madman's hands. If he was destined to meet death on this night, it would be on his own terms, and he had no intention of suffering a death by fire. He would rather the desert take him. He closed his eyes for a second and said a quick prayer to whatever angels might be hovering nearby, he made his move.
Perhaps if Hicks had been expecting him to fight, it would not have worked, but Charlie took advantage of his kneeling position and the element of surprise. He balled his fists and slammed his captor as hard as he could in his manhood, then when Hicks doubled over in shock and pain; the mathematician fell back and with both feet, kicked his opponent square in the knees. He went down. Charlie turned and tried to scramble to his feet, but Hicks had recovered and grabbed Charlie by his ankles. He had the weight and experience advantage, but Charlie was panicked and fighting for his life. Pure instincts and adrenalin had taken over. He bent his knees; his hands grasped Hicks by his long hair. Charlie plowed his feet into the monster's guts and using all his strength, kicked, sending him flying over his head to the ground behind him.
Charlie was on his knees. He had little time. Hicks was far stronger than him and in far better shape. Charlie looked around for anything he could use. He saw Hicks getting to his feet. Out of the side of his eyes, Charlie saw a piece of firewood. He rolled, grabbed it and swung catching Hicks in the shins. He yowled in agony and fell to the ground. Charlie spotted the knife on the ground beside his prone enemy. He picked it up, sliced the bindings from his wrists, and removed the noose from around his neck and tossed it to the ground. He was free of his bonds and he was on his feet. He started to run, but Hicks grabbed him from behind.
"You son of a bitch, you will not deny me my retribution!" The monstrous hulk shouted.
Charlie pulled free, stumbling backwards, nearly falling over the shovel still sticking up from the grave he had dug a lifetime ago. He grabbed it, his eyes narrowed. Don had never wanted to play with his little brother, but one sunny afternoon, a bored fourteen year old had taught his nine year old brother how to swing a baseball bat. Charlie remembered that lesson. He swung the shovel with all his might catching Hicks in the guts. The wind went out of the man. Then, before he could recover, Charlie brought the shovel around again, catching him in the head. Hicks dropped like a rock and this time he didn't move again. Charlie could see the blood oozing from a gash at the side of his head and trickling from his ear.
The tormented, broken man stood over his tormenter, knowing he could, with one swing, maybe two, bring the heavy shovel down and smash the hated face into a bloody pulp, he could burst the head like a ripe melon and spill his brains onto the dry, cracked earth. No one would blame him. It would be self defense, pure and simple. His hands shifted on the handle of the shovel. He planted his feet firmly in the sand. He could hear the wind whip the flames of the torches. Cocidius was frantically barking and howling as if assuring him he was justified. His eyes opened wide and set his mouth in a firm line. He raised the shovel over his head and with a bloodcurdling shriek, swung, sending the weapon end over end into the darkness.
Charlie stood sobbing; his head hung back, his arms wrapped around his tortured body. He knew he may very well have condemned himself, but he could not, WOULD not become the monster lying at his feet. Charlie looked down at a man he knew he had some part in helping to destroy. He took a step back, and turned. He started to run, but he stopped. His eyes went to the gas can and the dried firewood. He glanced back at his still unconscious captor; if this demon wanted Armageddon, than Charlie would give him a conflagration. He drenched the wood with the gas, took the torch and lit the pyre at several different points, he lit the scaffold, and finally he tossed the gas can and still burning torch into the broken down barn. He hurried to the dog he called Larry and released him from his chain. He spun on his heels and ran for freedom.
Charlie Eppes hit the eight foot wall surrounding the compound at full gallop. He was glad his seemingly laid-back hobby of hiking did not always include flat trails and a leisurely stroll as most people assumed. He leapt from the ground to a pile of stones and using his momentum, he leapt again, grabbing the edge of the wall with his finger tips. He pulled himself up, straddled the wall and was ready to drop down the other side when he paused and looked back, breaking yet another of Mike's Rules of Engagement. When escaping, never look back until you are well away from danger, but look back he did.
That seminal moment was imprinted forever on his mind like a photograph. If he lived to be one hundred, he would be able to see it in minute detail just as clearly as the night he straddled that wall. He saw Hicks rising up on one elbow, his body seeming to glow in the light from the fire. He saw the flames reaching ever higher into the air, their frenzy whipped by the wind, Hicks showered by the sparks floating and darting like hundreds of faeries in the night. Charlie could smell the acrid aroma of the burning wood. He would never forget that smell. Cocidius, now free ran around the edge of the house and out of view. Hicks turned and looked at him. His eyes seemed to glow red, like some B movie demon. He screamed something, but the words were lost in the wind. Charlie took one last look then throwing both legs over the top of the wall; he dropped to the other side.
The desert was bathed in moon light as he ran. Charlie had no idea where he was or where he was headed, he only knew he was free and he intended to remain— free. Shadows moved at the edge of his sight. He heard a familiar bark not very far away. It touched his mind that free of his constraints, the dog he renamed Larry just might rip his throat out, but even that was better than burning. The desert seemed alive. He was aware his perception was affected by fever and the drugs still clouding his reality, but it didn't matter. He tripped, nearly falling, but he recovered his footing and he kept running pulling to a stop only when the solid land gave way to a sharp drop. He looked into an abyss so deep and dark, he couldn't see the bottom. He felt the loose earth start to give way underneath him and he took one step back. Charlie looked up at the sky. It was so fantastically beautiful, like millions of jewels sparkling on a deep blue velvet gown. Suddenly a meteor streaked across the sky, then another and another.
"The stars are going away," he thought, "soon they'll take me with them and I'll be free." He stood eyes watching the sky, waiting for what, he didn't know. A song reached his ears, a baritone voice carried on the wind, growing closer as he sang:
'You'll be working in the darkness,
Against your fellow man,
And you'll find you're called to come forth
So you'll scrub and you'll scrub,
But the trouble is, bud
The blood it won't wash off
No, it won't come off
You better run, little fox, you better run
You better run to the City of Refuge.'
"Charlie," the despised voice was upon him. It sent bitter chills up his spine, "Charlie, all you have to do is take one more step then fall forward." The fetid breath was hot against his cheek. "Just stretch out your arms like this," Charlie felt hands lifting his aching arms, "and fall forward. Your mother and Ashley, beautiful, sweet Ashley are both waiting for you. Can you see them? Look hard enough and you'll see them. You are exhausted. I can see how very weary you are, even your bones hurt. Fall into their arms, Charlie, and sleep forever."
The Prentice Maggio Solution, it solves all problems. It had become almost a mantra once. He hadn't really thought about it in years, but now it seemed the only way out. Charlie swallowed hard. His lips trembled. He could see them in the shadows. His mother smiled at him and Ashley held out her arms. They were waiting. He took a small step. They were waiting all he had to do was fall forward and fly away into the darkness.
But the hushed night became suddenly, violently kinetic. A bright hellish light descended on them; sand and dirt whirled around them like a tempest. Creatures roared and screamed from above and all was madness. A beast burst from the dark, his head down, snarling and baring razor sharp teeth. The demon moved away. Charlie turned and saw him, his white hair blowing wildly about his face like Medusa's snakes.
"Until next time, my dear little fox," Hicks hissed with an exaggerated stage bow and fading into the maelstrom, "I'll give Azariah your respects." he shouted and seemed to dissolve into a cloud of carrion birds and was gone.
"Charlie!"
The voice came at him from a distance but Charlie wanted no more. He had had enough of everything to do with this life. He closed his eyes and took one step forward, then another. The loose ground began to crumble.
"Charlie, Charlie, Nooo!"
A hand reached for him. The frantic gray viper like eyes glinted in the moonlight.
"Oh God, please just let me go!" he pleaded in a desperate, pain riddled voice. "It is done." He whispered.
"I won't do that!" A hand was a fraction of an inch from grasping his.
"No, you're only a dream!" Charlie cried, as the world fell from beneath his feet.
TCB
