All of my information about Quantico comes from its Web site and my own imagination. I have no real knowledge of what the San Francisco music scene was like in 1994 either, so we'll call that poetic license. As usual – thank you CharmedMummy, and I own nothing.


Chapter Ten

Fall 1994

The small package was taped up so securely that Don resorted to hunting on the ground for a sharp rock. He carried the box and the stone to the bleachers surrounding the running track and sat in the first row. He hacked at the binding, torn between exasperated and amused – he was mildly surprised such a suspicious-looking parcel had made it through Quantico's security.

He finally got it open and turned it upside down on the bench beside him. Two packages of gum and a couple of photographs fell out, along with a folded note.

October 6, 1994

Dear Donny,

Hi! How's the training academy? Dad said it was at the Marine base – is it like boot camp?

So, I have news. I didn't go back to school. As soon as I put my hands on the piano keys, I couldn't believe I stayed away from it for so long. I'm in San Francisco. There was honestly no point in staying at Scripps. I didn't like any of the classes and since I have no idea what I'd do with no major and a bachelor of arts, I figured I'd save my brain and Mom and Dad's money. I packed up and got on a bus. I still can't believe I really did it, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that, right? I've been staying with Ellen – do you remember my friend Ellen? Tall girl, glasses? She's doing her masters at San Francisco State. The best part is they have a music department so I've been sneaking in to play, since I couldn't bring the piano with me. I'm starting to write some of my own songs, too. I'll send you a tape when they're done, someday.

I love it here. I'm meeting a lot of interesting people and I'm playing all the time. There are so many clubs. I've already had a couple of gigs – someone is always looking for someone to fill in. I played twice with this Eagles tribute band called "Tequila Sunrise" because I could play "Desperado." They're all pissed off the Eagles are back together. And there's a festival next week, and I'm going to play the keyboards simply because I knew "Saturday in the Park." Pretty cool.

News of home … Charlie is probably going to London in the spring. Oxford is going to pay for him to get another PhD. I told him I'd come visit and we could do a pub crawl. Mom and Dad are good. They weren't too happy with me quitting school, but I told them we'd talked in Stockton and you guys helped me see, school or no school, I had to go back to my music. Besides which, I'm 22 years old!

That's it for now. Write to me. Or call me – Ellen's number is 415-555-5309.

Please be careful, okay? I miss you.

Love always,
Lyddie

Don sighed deeply. They weren't too happy with me quitting school, but I told them we'd talked in Stockton and you guys helped me see, school or no school, I had to go back to my music. He wondered if she'd used those exact words and, if so, how angry Alan and Margaret might be with him. And with Charlie, too, maybe.

Margaret and Alan had been much calmer than he'd expected about his decision to join the FBI. Like Charlie and Lydia, they'd expressed surprise, and exchanged a glance Don couldn't read, but didn't say anything to outright discourage him.

He picked up the pictures. After breakfast in Stockton that morning in July, he and his siblings spent the day together, remembering Margaret's photo request far too late. Instead, they'd taken pictures of each other. Lydia had sent two: one of her on Don's back, piggyback style, and one of Don and Charlie, Don's arm casually hooked around his brother's neck. They were all grinning like fools and Don was a bit taken aback at how much the snapshots made him miss them both.

He leaned his head back, letting the fall sun play over his face. He had been at Quantico for two weeks and the training so far had been more grueling than he'd expected. He didn't have trouble with the physical aspect but he found he had to discipline himself to get back into the swing of taking notes and studying. The compound had dorms, a dining hall, a library, the classroom building, the forensics building along with an auditorium, chapel, gym and outdoor fitness complex, where he sat now.

There was also a firing range. Don was a natural; he shot so well his instructor asked if he'd hunted as a child. He didn't believe the only experience Don had with guns was shooting the cap pistol his uncle Tommy had given him.

He opened a package of gum and popped a stick into his mouth. He wondered if Charlie had received a similar package containing chalk.

A shadow fell over him. "Girl back home?" a voice asked.

Don looked up. A woman was standing there, with brown hair and soft brown eyes, a towel slung around her neck. She'd obviously been running the track. Don was so lost in his reverie he hadn't noticed.

"Nah," he answered. Not just a woman, but a very pretty woman. "Little sister."

"I have one of those," she said, sitting beside him. "Pain in the ass, drives me crazy, but strangely, I really miss her."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it." Don recognized her from his classes and he struggled to remember her name. Tammy? No. Tori?

She rescued him by smiling and extending her right hand. "Terry Lake," she said.


"England," Larry Fleinhardt said in a satisfied voice. "How I miss eventful London. And you will be able to visit the home of William Shakespeare. Stonehenge is a lovely day trip from London – and quite a remarkable sight."

"I haven't read much Shakespeare," Charlie replied absently.

"It is never too late to start," Larry said, a little reproachfully. "Numbers are not quite everything." As Charlie shot him a wry look, he continued, "Being well-versed in all disciplines is useful for critical thinking."

"Uh huh."

Larry watched as Charlie tossed a piece of paper at the wastebasket, mumbling "yes!" under his breath as it sailed in. "Charles. You are going to Oxford. Oxford! And yet, your excitement is not palpable."

Charlie shrugged. "I've never been away from home before," he said finally. He tossed another ball into the wastebasket.

"Princeton was not away?"

"My mother was with me," Charlie reminded him.

"Oh, yes," Larry said. "Well, you were just a boy. Precocious, quixotic, but still a boy."

Another two points.

"You will like Oxford," Larry predicted. "There are some fascinating young minds there – people who will be your peers. I always liked London. And," he leaned forward and tapped Charlie's knee, "you will find some lovely young ladies on campus."

Charlie reddened and began making a pile of paper balls. He had little experience in the ways of the opposite sex. The closest he'd come was after he'd published his first paper in the American Journal of Mathematics -- he'd received a provocative note and an invitation to spend the weekend at a bed and breakfast in Santa Barbara. He'd been fourteen.

Margaret had called the female professor and broken the news. "I'm sure you didn't realize he's just a child," she said, while Charlie, mortified, listened from the next room.

Charlie was always tempted to try some sort of analysis to see how far behind he actually was but it would be hard to get the proper data. He could hardly go around to the freshmen calculus class and ask how old everyone had been when they lost their virginity. He wondered how old Don and Lydia had been and his face grew even redder. That was something it was probably better not to contemplate.

"Charles?"

Charlie handed Larry a handful of paper. "Here," he said, deftly changing the subject. "One on one. I'll spot you ten points."

Larry obligingly tossed a ball towards the rubbish. It missed by four feet. "I fear those ten points will not last long," he sighed.

"Try again. You'll get closer." As Larry looked unconvinced, Charlie explained, "Regression to the mean. Trust me."

The next ball only missed by two feet.

"See?" Charlie said excitedly. "Numbers never lie."


Lydia splashed her face, trying to being as quiet as possible. She cupped water in her hand and used it to swallow four Tylenol to quiet the pounding in her head and the dull ache in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle in a strange bed.

She looked out the grimy window, hoping the street looked a little familiar. The last thing she really remembered was playing Chopin after hours at the bar for some moron who said he'd never heard of him. Said moron was now beyond the bathroom door, snoring loudly. Lydia tried to think. Colin? No. But something vaguely Irish. Brandon?

She pulled on her clothes. It didn't matter. It only mattered that she figure out where she was and get back to Ellen's. Today was Thursday, right? She had to shower. She had an audition at noon for an actual band, not a tribute band, or a garage band, a real honest-to-goodness-with-a-record-contract band. If she got it, she swore she'd never get drunk again.


Terry glanced sideways at Don and suddenly sprinted the last ten yards, leaving him behind her. He swore softly and dashed after her but her head start was just enough that she crossed the finish line a foot ahead of him.

She bent, panting hard. Steam billowed out of her mouth. "Be careful," she said when she could speak. "If a perp does that to you, you're screwed."

Don tackled her, tumbling her over on the grass and straddling her. "That's what this move is for," he said, kissing her.

She smiled up at him. "You're going to kiss the perp? What if he's a big hairy ugly guy?"

"That'll surprise him, wouldn't you think?"

Terry laughed. She was a small woman, and though she had good reflexes and instincts, and was already showing great skill as a profiler, she was a bit worried about passing the physical portion of the FBI tests. Don had offered to help and they'd been running and lifting weights together for almost three weeks. The kissing had started the week before when they discovered that sex was a great tension reliever for the pressures of the Academy.

She pushed at Don's chest and he rolled sideways to lie beside her. "So, do you have plans tonight?" she asked.

"Yup," Don answered. He was flattered that Terry looked disappointed. "Why don't you come along? We'll make it a date."

"A real date?" she asked skeptically.

"A real date," Don promised.

As it turned out, Terry and Don each had a different idea of what "a real date" was. He showed up in Terry's room with an overflowing basket of laundry and invited her to find her own. A half hour later, they were sitting at the Soap Bubble with a pizza as their whites got whiter.

"Eppes," Terry said, "you know this is pathetic, right?"

"Multi-tasking," Don corrected her. "We're killing two birds with one stone."

"This is not a date," Terry objected.

"Hell, yes, it is. We've got dinner. We've got entertainment." He gestured at the old TV mounted in the corner, showing a staticy rerun of "Taxi." "And at the end of the night, we'll have clean underwear. What could be better?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. He fed her a bite of pizza and leaned in to kiss the sauce from the corner of her mouth. She smiled in spite of herself. "I'm trying to figure out what makes you tick," she said softly.

"There ain't much there," he teased lightly. "A head full of FBI protocols and some baseball stats. That's about it."

"I don't believe that for a minute."

"Guys are shallow, right? That's what you all tell us."

"And yet, we let you take us to Laundromats and tempt us with pizza and potentially have your way with us," Terry teased.

Don smiled. "Clean sheets," he whispered. "I'm going to bribe you with clean sheets."

TBC