Chapter 28

Charlie stirred and moaned softly, and Don snapped awake. He sat for a moment, his head foggy, trying to orient himself, taking in the early morning light that filtered through the fabric hanging. He had been up with Charlie in the night as yet another aftershock had torn his brother from sleep. Although it was bad enough, that one hadn't seemed quite as intense, and Don had hoped it was the last. As it subsided, they both had drifted back to sleep. Charlie leaned against him in the small alcove, and Don realized that his arms were still around him. His brother's body was thin, all angles, and felt so frail that it seemed as though Don's grip might crush him.

He loosened his hold and pushed a corner of the curtain aside. The Cabral family was up and gone, except for the two tiniest, who slumbered tucked in a corner. The only other figure in the room was Ian Edgerton, who sat propped against the opposite wall with his knees up, his rifle across his legs. His glance, dark and deceptively lazy, rested on Don.

As they made eye contact, he rose, and walked over to the alcove, pulling the cover aside. His eyes settled on Charlie, who blinked, then closed his eyes, his forehead furrowed with pain. Ian's gaze moved to Don. The cramped quarters looked uncomfortable. "Let's get him out of there. I think we're okay for now."

Ian grabbed Charlie's shoulders, and Don squirmed out from underneath him to his feet, wincing at the stiffness and the knifelike pain that shot through his injured arm. It was throbbing again, and the bandage was warm to the touch. He hadn't bothered to change it for two days, and now his duffel bag with his clothes and the bandages were in the Buick's trunk. He moved around awkwardly to take Charlie's legs, and he and Ian carried him out, back to the floor pad.

Charlie's face was pale, and in the daylight it seemed to have a slightly green cast. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he closed his eyes, as if keeping them open was too much of an effort. Don glanced up from him as Senora Cabral entered with two plastic bowls, and offered them to him and Ian, and they murmured their thanks. The bowls were filled with beans, and soft corn tortillas hung from the edges, meant to serve as both part of the meal, and as utensils. Don's stomach sprang to life at the smell, and he realized how hungry he was. He sat and broke off just a bit of tortilla, and held it to Charlie's lips.

"Hey Chuck," he said, as Charlie's eyes opened. "Here."

Charlie made a face, and turned his head away, as the woman returned with another bowl, containing what looked like gruel made from corn meal. She shook her head at Don, and he retracted his hand, and watched as she spooned up a bit of the gruel and held it to Charlie's lips. Charlie shook his head.

"Charlie," said Don, trying to swallow a mouthful of beans and tortilla, "you need to eat something."

Charlie stared at the spoon in front of him through slit-like eyes. "Don' feel good," he mumbled.

"Just try a little," said Don, and the woman offered the spoon again. Charlie took a small taste, taking his time getting it down. Don wolfed down his meal, watching as the woman fed him, bit by bit. After three meager mouthfuls, Charlie shook his head again.

Don set down his bowl, and retrieved the half empty water bottle from the night before. "Here, try a little water."

Edgerton frowned. "You realize that's not really bottled water."

Don paused, with the cap in his hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, they use them as containers. I saw her filling up three of them early this morning, down at the pump."

Don stared down at the bottle, disconcerted. In the daylight, he could see that the edges of the label were slightly worn. God only knew where the woman had gotten the bottle, or how often it had been used. He looked at Charlie with trepidation; who, as if to verify Edgerton's observation, began to retch, weakly. "Aw man," groaned Don, and he and Ian grabbed Charlie and turned him on his side, and winced he heaved into the bowl of gruel.

Mercifully, not much came up, and after a longer bout of retching than Don would have thought him capable of, Charlie laid back, spent. Not much would come up, thought Don grimly, other than the gruel, Charlie probably hadn't eaten since Wednesday morning, and hadn't had but a few swallows of water since the IV bag was removed. At five foot seven, Charlie normally weighed a mere 145 pounds, and hadn't seen that weight since before Los Padres. Don hated to think what that number was now.

Ian took a look at Don's face, tight with worry, and tried to reassure him. "Garcia left early this morning on a farm truck. He's going to line up a vehicle in Chihuahua, and come back in with the farm truck. When he gets back, we'll all sneak back out on the truck, which will get us to the vehicle."

Don sighed and nodded; his eyes still on Charlie's face. Ian watched him for a moment. "That was touch-and-go, last night. Garcia and I were that close to coming in. He didn't look behind the curtain?"

Don shook his head. "The guy's daughter slipped in there with us, right before he came in. He suspected someone was in there, but she stepped out and distracted him."

Edgerton pursed his lips. "Gutsy girl."

Don shook his head, with a glance at the doorway. "I don't see why the father would agree to help us. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he did, but it put his family in danger."

Edgerton shrugged. "These shantytowns are pretty lawless. People do what they can to scrape by, and they're used to dealing with crime. Garcia told me that he thought the man and his boys were packing their own heat. There is no law enforcement out here; they protect their own. The money Garcia gave him will probably feed his family for a year. I suppose if your kids are starving, that's pretty hard to pass up."

He paused for a moment, his eyes on Charlie. "Garcia was going to try to get a phone in Chihuahua, but he wanted me to try to get hold of Merrick. My phone's dead. Do you have yours?"

Don fished his phone out of his pocket, opened it, and stared at it, frowning. "Mine's dead too. We're going to have to wait for Garcia."

Ian nodded. "All right, I'm going to go outside and scope things out." He stood and glanced through the door into the kitchen, where the senora had retreated with the bowls. "She's got a propane stove. I'll ask her if she'll boil some water."

Don stayed where he was, seated next to Charlie. Charlie's eyes were closed again, the furrow still between his brows, his breathing quick and shallow; the breathing of someone in pain. Don stared at him, wondering what was going on his head. The things he had been through….Charlie's eyes opened unexpectedly, and he looked at Don, as if to reassure himself that he was still there.

"How are you doing?" asked Don softly.

"Hurts," responded Charlie, weakly.

Don frowned, taking in the bruises on Charlie's elbows, and his bandaged toes. The bandages looked dirty, and something had seeped through in spots. "Where?"

Charlie closed his and whispered. "Everywhere." It was true; although the aftershocks had subsided, the abused nerve endings were now generating constant pain. In small doses, it might have been bearable, but the constancy of it was wearing, especially following the exhausting aftershocks. Charlie could feel it eating at him, dissolving the little strength he had left. Added to that was the nausea, which was growing. It had gotten quiet and he opened his eyes again, as a flare of panic hit him, thinking that Don had left.

"I'm right here, Buddy," murmured Don, noting the flash of fear on Charlie's face. He took Charlie's hand and felt something sticky. It was still slowly oozing blood from the hole made by IV needle, and had generated a crusted mess on the back of Charlie's hand. He didn't release it; Charlie's fingers had curled feebly around his, and Don tightened his grip just slightly, reassuringly.

"I thought you were dead," whispered Charlie. Don looked at him, puzzled, and Charlie continued, his voice strengthening to a half-whisper, the words punctuated by pauses for air. "Mahir told me they burned the warehouse – that you died in the fire."

Don felt a stab at his heart. Charlie had gone through mental agony on top of the physical pain, and Don knew first hand how that felt. "I thought you were too. When Edgerton brought you up from the first floor, you were unconscious, and I thought…" His voice trailed off as he remembered the sight of Charlie hanging over Edgerton's shoulder, lifelessly. "Anyway, we're not," he continued, with a small smile for Charlie's benefit. "And as soon as Garcia gets us a car, we're going home."

Charlie gave a slight nod. His eyes rested on Don, filled with trust, and Don squirmed inwardly. Even after everything that had happened, after all of the ways he had let him down, Charlie still believed in him, counted on him. He returned the gaze, knowing he didn't deserve that faith.

Charlie broke the silence. "Dad's okay?"

Don's gut twisted with fresh guilt. Dad's probably going crazy, he thought. "Yeah, he's okay – he's worried, but he's okay."

"Your team?"

"Yeah, they're okay too."

Charlie nodded and closed his eyes, still clasping Don's hand. Don stared at him, wondering again what was going on in his brother's mind. After all of this, he had the discomfiting feeling that the brother that he thought he had known all these years was an unknown – not quite a stranger, but not exactly predictable. Who would have thought him capable of what he had just done?

He was still amazed by the enormity of it, of the strength of will that his brother had displayed. Added to that was the realization that Don had come to earlier; that his love for his brother, seemingly so recently discovered, had always been there. All of it made him look at himself, and at Charlie, with fresh eyes.

Would Charlie do the same? he wondered. Get a fresh outlook from this? Would it change how he feels about me? If it made him stronger, would he need me as much? The thought made him uncomfortable, and he had a flash of insight as to how Charlie had felt all those years, thinking that his love for his brother wasn't returned.

He realized that Charlie's eyes had opened again, and he was looking at him questioningly. Don felt a sudden need to say what was on his mind, and he spoke earnestly. "I was just thinking, Chuck. What you did was – incredible. You realize that you saved millions of people. And I don't know how you did it – how you kept from giving in – I would have thought no one could do that, but you did."

"I didn't do it by myself," said Charlie. He had a strange look on his face, almost wistful.

"You were there with me, the whole time."

He gazed at Don for a moment, and Don returned the look, trying to figure out exactly what Charlie meant by that statement. 'I wasn't,' he thought. 'He went through so much without me.'

'Regardless of what Charlie meant,' he thought to himself, 'this is where I should tell him I love him; I should say it,' but he paused. Something stopped him, and the words halted in his throat. I'll scare the heck out of him, if I say it now,' he rationalized. 'He's sick; he'll think he's worse off than he is – that I'm saying good-bye, like he did in the warehouse.'

Instead, he gave Charlie's hand a small squeeze. "No, Buddy, you need to give yourself credit. You're a hero, do you realize that? What you did was amazing, and you did it on your own."

Charlie smiled wanly. Don clearly hadn't understood what he was trying to say – that Charlie's love for his brother had given him the strength to hold on. He wouldn't understand, Charlie thought to himself, because Don didn't feel that way himself. In spite of all they had been through, the emotional distance was still there, and it wouldn't close. Don would never come all the way to meet him, Charlie thought sadly, but he knew, after thinking that he had lost Don, that he would take what he could get. Don was alive, and he was here, and for now, that was enough. He tightened his grip just slightly on his brother's hand, and closed his eyes.

Don stared at him, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He had ignored another opportunity to tell Charlie something that he knew his brother was longing to hear. An inner voice told him that to unload on his brother now would be selfish – it would make Charlie worry, but he wondered if that was his real rationale for not saying anything. He couldn't ignore the other voice, even deeper, that told him that Charlie needed to hear that he loved him, regardless of the situation.

His behavior provoked feelings of guilt, but even that remorse wasn't enough to make him say what needed to be said. There was something there; a mental block that he couldn't overcome. Where it had come from, he didn't know – the job perhaps, all those years of denying his feelings, living in an atmosphere where emotions were for the weak.

Where it had come from didn't matter, he thought, grimacing. In the end, he had failed to do what he should have done, to say what needed to be said, and God help him, when the opportunity came again, he knew, with disgust at his own weakness; that he could not guarantee that he wouldn't do the same thing.

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Paulson wiped at the bead of sweat rolling down his temple, and stared absently out of the windshield of the SUV. It was parked on a dirt road, the only road which led into and out of the shantytown, with the doors opened for air. He was turning over in his mind the possibility that the FBI might be communicating with Tompkins; and what that would mean for him, and the story he had been feeding his director.

He had told Tompkins that it was Conway who had taken Eppes, but if Merrick and Tompkins were communicating, Tompkins would know that the FBI had him. The question was; how likely was it that they were talking? Was this something that Merrick was doing on his own? It was possible, Paulson conceded. If Tompkins knew of the FBI's involvement, he should have told Paulson. He had to assume that Tompkins didn't know, but that Merrick could call him at any time, and tell him.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to change his story and tell Tompkins that he thought the FBI was involved, along with Conway, but to make it sound as though he wasn't sure who had Eppes. That would still implicate Conway, but it would have the ring of truth if Tompkins found out about the FBI. If Paulson played his cards right, he might even get some information out of this. He unhooked his cell phone from the charger, and dialed. While it rang, his eyes rested on the figures of Mahir and his men, stationed on the low hills above the shantytown.

Mahir stood next to his man on the hill, and scanned the village below. The men that he had assigned to comb through the houses were nearly done, after hours of fruitless searching. He was sure that his quarry was still here, however, somewhere, and they would need to come out eventually; more than likely sooner rather than later, given Dr. Eppes' condition.

Mahir had a man stationed on the dirt road, along with Paulson, examining the few vehicles that came in and out, and the other watchers could easily see the perimeters of the village; no one had come in or out on foot. When his searchers were done, he would station them inside the village, patrolling, and they would wait. At some point, the FBI team would have to move, and Mahir would be ready.

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End Chapter 28