WP

Chapter 21 – Make it Stop

A/N: Okay, okay, here's the next one. Not that it will do you much good -

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

Sunday, April 27, 2014, late morning

Don touched Charlie's neck gingerly, trying to still his shaking hand enough to check for a heartbeat. Cold. God, he was cold. The realization of his worst fears nearly doubled Don over, but before he could withdraw his hand, he felt the faintest of flickers. Could that be – was that a…. pulse? He pressed harder, feverishly adjusting his fingers on Charlie's neck, trying to find the right spot, and he grabbed his brother's wrist with his other hand for good measure. The arm was limp; not rigid, and the featherlike heartbeat was proof. Charlie was still alive.

"Charlie." The name came out as a croak. He felt so cold, and all Don could think of was that he had to heat him up, warm him until help could come. He reached under Charlie's arms and sat back on the floor with a thump, dragging Charlie's inert form onto his lap as well he could considering Charlie's tethered ankle, holding his upper body against his and wrapping his arms around him as if he would never let go. Charlie's curls rested against his face, and Don was struck with the sudden fear that Charlie would die right there, in his arms. "Don't go," he whispered, and his breath stirred the curls against his cheek.

At nearly the same moment, feet came thumping down the stairs – Colby, a medic, David, another medic, and then Liz and Nikki. There were more voices and thumping footsteps upstairs, and Don heard the voice of the SWAT commander float down, as he spoke to his team. "Stay back – they'll need room to get him up. Finish checking the rest of the house and the grounds."

"I think he's alive," Don croaked again to no one in particular – God, he couldn't seem to find his voice. He cleared his throat, and focused on the medics who were approaching, kneeling beside him. One of them quickly felt for a pulse, and nodded. "Pulse is weak, but he's alive."

The other medic was running practiced fingers over Charlie's inner arms, palpating. "No veins – he's pretty dehydrated. It'll be really tough to start an IV. Better get him transported, let them get one at the hospital."

Don swallowed as he took in the arms, the wrists, so thin; he could feel Charlie's ribs through his shirt, prominent under his hands. David and Colby stood behind the medics, concern in their eyes, and beyond them, Don could see Nikki and Liz still peering over the railing, their faces pale, solemn. The two women suddenly looked up toward the door at the same time, and turned and bounded up the stairs out of the way. Don saw the reason for that a moment later as two more of the rescue personnel maneuvered a gurney down the steps. As they set it down, he realized that Colby had knelt and was unlocking the cuffs that secured Charlie's leg to the chain that wound around the pole. Don caught a glimpse of his ankle, bruised, crusted with dried blood, and thought disjointedly that the cuffs must have been standard issue, since Colby's key worked. He reluctantly released his hold on his brother, and allowed the medics to lift him gently onto the gurney. Charlie's head lolled lifelessly against the medic's arm, and suddenly, the sense of shock was replaced by anxiety. They needed to move fast…

"I want to ride with him." Don rose, his head whirling. For some unknown reason, as he scrambled to his feet he snatched up the full bottle of water on the floor, and then he was trotting after the medics, who were trundling the gurney toward the stairs. It was starting to sink in, now – they'd found him, they'd found Charlie alive, but he looked as though he was barely breathing and Don was terrified that if they didn't get him help soon, they would lose him. He was completely focused on his brother – everyone else, his agents, the SWAT team, the ongoing search of the house faded into the background. As he made the top of the stairs and saw the SWAT commander, he was suddenly very grateful that he wasn't in charge of the operation. He forced himself to stop and confer with the commander briefly, making sure the man understood that he was leaving the site, and by the time he was finished, he had to dash outside to catch up.

The medics already had Charlie in the ambulance and were attaching monitoring equipment. Don was watching one of them strap on a blood pressure cuff when he felt a solid hand on his shoulder. He turned to see David. "Hang with him, man," Sinclair said quietly. "We'll close up here and meet you at the hospital." He paused for a moment, and Don got the impression he was being assessed. "You want us to call your dad?"

Don blinked. Dad. And Robin – he promised he'd call Robin. "Yeah – if you would. I'm going to call Robin." The medic was motioning him in, and Don spoke the last sentence over his shoulder as he stepped into the rear of the ambulance.

It was a tight fit. The inside was obviously meant for no more than two bodies other than the patient, and Don was a third. One of the medics squeezed in somehow up at the head of the gurney, and Don and the other medic faced each other over Charlie's prone form. Don felt a flash of gratitude toward them; he was sure they didn't buck protocol for everyone who wanted to ride with a victim – they were giving him some special consideration. He looked down, and realized that he was still holding the water bottle from the basement. He didn't even remember picking it up, and had no idea why he had – was it from some subconscious irrational conviction that he needed to give Charlie water? His mind wasn't working right, and Don realized that he must be teetering on the edge of shock.

The medic toward the head of the Charlie's gurney must have thought so, too; he had scooted around and bent next to Don, and had taken his wrist to check his pulse. Don started at the touch and then jerked his hand away, and took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. "I'm okay," he said gruffly, and the medic retreated to his cramped perch, but exchanged a glance with his partner. Don took a few more breaths; his head was starting to clear a bit, and he watched as the medics cut Charlie's shirt right up the middle, so they could attach monitors to his chest. He winced at the sight of Charlie's ribs; they were so sharply defined they looked like they could poke through his skin. That skin was covered with mottled bruises, fading, but they were everywhere. Someone had beaten the hell out of Charlie, for no apparent reason, because they'd left his shirt on for the photographs. Don felt a flash of rage, and his jaw clenched.

"Respirations shallow and uneven," murmured one of the techs, who was listening to Charlie's chest with a stethoscope. "He's pretty banged up, but it looks like the bruises are several days old."

The other medic looked at Don. "I heard you mention you were going to call someone?"

Don had been gazing at Charlie's face as if trying to reacquaint himself, but the thin pale face covered with dark beard, with its sunken eyes, barely bore a resemblance to the brother who had gotten off the plane over two weeks ago. The medic's words jerked Don back to reality, and he reached for his cell phone, hitting the speed dial for his home number. "Where are we taking him?"

"Loma Linda University Medical Center."

Don stared at him, momentarily forgetting that the call was connecting. "Isn't that a little far from here?"

"Forty-five minutes. The nearest hospital is at least a half hour, but we have direction to take him to Loma Linda – it's not that much farther. Loma Linda has a helicopter pad – dispatch says they're flying a specialist over from UCLA Medical Center."

A noise came from the phone, and Don fumbled with it, still holding the water bottle in one hand, and got the phone up to his ear. "Robin?" He heard her voice, and abruptly lost his, for just a moment. He heard her say his name, and then again, with rising anxiety. "We found him," he finally managed. "He's alive, but unconscious. We're on our way to Loma Linda University Medical Center." He heard her shaky sigh of relief. He had one eye on the medics, could see one of them peering into Charlie's mouth and down his throat, could hear snatches of conversation.

"…better check the airway in case we have to intubate. His tongue is swollen – his airway, too – man, it's almost closed. That'll be tough…"

"…we've got some tachychardia – damn, that pulse is faint. We better not wait for the hospital – we'd better try to scare up a vein, get some saline into him…"

Don watched as they put a rubber tourniquet on Charlie's upper arm and searched for a vein, and spoke into the phone. "David said he'd call my dad, but maybe you could, too – just to be sure."

His voice trailed off when he realized what he was asking – he had just directed not one, but two others to call his father, just to be certain he was there – to be sure his father got a chance to see Charlie, in case… He realized she was agreeing, that she was telling him she'd see him there, and he managed a good-bye, and hung up the phone. He had an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and he closed his eyes, traveling back in time to a night, five long years ago, when other medics had worked over his brother.

He could still remember the sickening clutch of fear in his gut as he saw the unfamiliar vehicle drift down the dark street in front of the Craftsman, the lurch of his heart as the gun barrel protruded from a rear window. Then there were the shots, soft thwups in the night from the assassins' silenced automatic weapon, and his own gun, sounding far too loud. Gunshots – they didn't belong there, on that peaceful street, in the front yard of his boyhood home. He remembered running toward Charlie, the sensation of the hard ground under his knees, and Charlie's dazed expression as he looked upward, the dark stain spreading on the front of his shirt. He could remember the residual guilt from their argument; he'd yelled at Charlie – not so much because he was angry with him, but because he was afraid for him, afraid and frustrated. He could hear Alan's shout behind him, and his footsteps coming across the grass, and then Alan's voice behind him, panicky, shaky, as he called 911…

Saturday, May 30, 2009

"Donnie?" Charlie's voice was a half whisper, and he was still looking at Don with a look of disbelief on his face, looking at him as if for an answer, and Don had none. He stirred, and Don put a hand on his shoulder. Was that Charlie who was shaking so badly, or was it him?

"Stay down, Charlie," he said, his throat tight with fear. "You were hit – just lie still. We've got help coming."

Charlie's breath hitched, and Don could tell the initial shock was receding and pain was starting to assert itself, as his brother's hands crept toward his gut. "Ahh – ah God," he whispered, his face contorting in pain. He gasped, trying to gain control of his breathing. "Hurts -,"

"I know, buddy," Don said softly. Alan was beside him now, and Don lifted his head to look into his father's eyes. They exchanged a glance of naked fear for just a split second, and then they both tried to compose their faces for Charlie's sake.

It was only minutes, but it seemed an eternity before the ambulance arrived, an eternity of Charlie shuddering and writhing on the ground, trying vainly to hold in moans of pain. The medics arrived and bent over him. "Hang in there, Charlie," Don whispered…

Sunday, April 27, 2014, late morning

Don opened his eyes, and braced himself as the ambulance swayed around a corner. The medics were looking at him, and he wondered if he'd spoken aloud. He had a strange disconnected feeling, and he knew that medics were still watching him for shock. Maybe they should, he thought. He seemed to be having a hard time discriminating between the past and the present. The men bent back to the task of inserting an IV into Charlie's arm as soon as Don's eyes met theirs, and one of them exclaimed, "There! Got it."

He secured the IV in place, and hung a bag containing clear fluid from a hook. "This is just a saline solution," he told Don. "We'll try to get as much fluid into him as possible on the way there." He glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes since we left – we're about a half hour out." He looked up at Don, and spoke reassuringly. "We're getting some fluids in him now – pushing saline as fast as we can. It should help."

"Dr. Van!"

Peter Vanden Wymelenberg turned, and stopped mid-stride as he caught sight of the intern jogging toward him. "Yeah, Mike?"

Mike stopped, panting. "You're wanted on the roof, sir – they want you as a consult over at Loma Linda, like, now."

Peter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "For what?"

"Stabilizing a patient – severe dehydration, and apparently starvation to some degree."

Peter looked at him. He had spent a few years studying the effects of famine and dehydration in several locations in Africa, and had become something of an authority on the subjects of re-hydration and re-feeding. He'd moved on since then, though, to specialize in hematology, and besides, most of the time hospitals handled those usually relatively benign conditions without the help of a specialist. The only time he was called in to consult now on either dehydration or malnutrition was usually in the case of an ailing elderly patient who happened to be wealthy enough to warrant a specialist – and those cases were never emergencies. "Are you sure? Not a blood condition?"

Mike shook his head. "Well, they do suspect some hypovolemia, but that would be due to starvation, and the dehydration." He grinned excitedly, shot a glance sideways, and spoke in a low tone. "The chopper tech told me they called you because it's not just any patient – he says he heard from one of his buddies at the scene that they found that professor who's been missing for days – you know, the one all over the news. Anyway, Dr. Richards over at Loma Linda requested you head over there, pronto. We were sending the chopper anyway – transporting a patient back, and they said if you hurried, you could catch a ride."

Peter nodded, and started to trot for the elevators. "Make sure the admin knows where I've gone."

It had been a while since he'd been in a chopper, and he couldn't help but grin a little. A little excitement in his day wouldn't hurt a thing. Unfortunately, the ride was over in moments, and as he made his way down from the roof, he was met by his old friend, Dr. Jay Richards. Richards wasn't in charge of the incoming case himself, but he was in charge of the ER and the trauma unit, and had made the call. Peter got a quick briefing – apparently, the professor's ambulance was arriving as they were speaking – and then Richards was off to a surgery, and Peter was making his way down to the emergency room.

He stepped off the elevators and headed down the hall, just in time to see a gurney headed toward him. There was a dark-haired man in a flak jacket emblazoned with the letters 'FBI' trotting next to it, and with a little shock of recognition, Peter realized that it was the professor's brother, Agent Don Eppes; he'd seen him on the news. He saw the medics glance down suddenly and slow a bit, but they had startled looks on their faces, and then he realized that the man on the gurney was moving, his body jerking violently. "He's seizing!" One of the techs yelled.

"Damn it," swore Peter. The patient was seizing, he could see the reason why from where he stood, and he took off down the hall toward them, in an all-out sprint.

Don breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the hospital. Charlie still hadn't opened his eyes, and the medics were frowning over his heart rhythms. It was all making Don very nervous, and he was thankful when they finally arrived. He was more thankful yet when they exited the ambulance, entered the building, and began heading down the hall toward an exam room. He'd been watching his brother, anxiously; he didn't look good, and so he was the first one to see it when Charlie started to shake. "He's shaking," he said, and the medics slowed down to look.

The shaking was growing more pronounced, and then suddenly, it was apparent that it was far more than a bit of trembling. Charlie had gone rigid, and was beginning to jerk violently. "He's seizing!" exclaimed one of the medics, and then they began to run, pushing the gurney. People were running toward them, ushering them into the nearest exam room. Don was pushed in with them and found himself in the corner, as a flurry of activity exploded in the room and the medical personnel surged around Charlie, swiftly swinging the gurney in place, hooking him up to monitors. A screen displaying his heart rhythms came to life, the uneven tempo of the blip on the screen as jerky as Charlie's movements. Don could feel his heart pounding with terror, the feeling intensifying with each agonizing second of the seizure. "Make it stop," he whispered under his breath, and then suddenly, the breath that he did have vanished, and the world seemed to grind to a halt. His prayer had worked; it had stopped; Charlie had stopped moving, and lay there motionless. An eerie flat whine was coming from the heart monitor, and on it was a line, just as flat. The seizing had stopped, and his brother's heart along with it.

End, Chapter 21

A/N: I know. I'm mean.