Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Numb3rs, there is a scene in here taken directly from "Dark Matter." The concept and dialogue for that section were written by Don McGill. This chapter contains profanity, a little worse than usual.
Chapter 27
March 2006
"Can you play another one?"
Don snatched his fingers from the piano keys, startled, as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden. His mother's original composition, "Etude in G Minor," was open before him. Charlie had found it in a box in the garage – none of them had known Margaret wrote music. Don had sat down to try to pick out the melody and before he knew it, had gone through it twice.
"Can you play another one?" Alan repeated.
"I don't know if I'd call it playing," Don hedged. "Fooling around, I guess. I wanted to see what I remembered – I wanted to …"
"You wanted to hear your mother. Her music." Alan sighed. "Keep going, Donny, while I get dinner out of the oven. There's probably sheet music in the bench. We haven't had enough music in this house since – well, since we don't have any women around anymore."
Alan turned and abruptly went back through the swinging door. Charlie had been coming in from the other side and Alan's sudden departure nearly knocked him over. He looked over at his brother almost longingly.
"What, you were listening too?" Don asked irritably.
Charlie snorted. "Yeah, sorry, I'll start working on the Cone of Silence."
Don offered him a small smile. "It's a nice piece," he said.
"It was nice to hear it," Charlie replied. "Don't you remember how good that felt – to be doing whatever you were doing, while Mom or Lyddie played something? To just have the music in the background?"
"It felt like home," Don said quietly. "This is still home, but it's …"
"Evolved," Charlie supplied.
"Yeah. Something like that, I suppose."
"Boys, wash up, dinner's almost ready," Alan called from the kitchen.
Don rose and followed Charlie into the bathroom. "I don't know what's worse," he groused as he and Charlie jostled for the sink. "The fact that he tosses these orders at us like we're still kids, or the fact that we just get up and do it."
"He's been holding on a little tighter. You know why? Residual Lydia." Charlie leaned over Don to lather up his hands. "Another one came today. That always makes it a little worse."
Lydia had started sending Alan postcards the fall before, shortly after Don ran into her in West Hollywood. They were mostly quick scrawls saying she was fine, but the latest had a new twist, Charlie told Don: she mentioned her brothers.
"It's on the table?" Don asked. Alan's habit was to prop it against the napkin holder and leave it there until the new one arrived. He dried his hands and went into the dining room. The card showed a shot of the Hollywood sign. The back read: Hi Dad, all's well, don't worry. I was just thinking of you. Hug Donny and Charlie, I miss you all. L.
"Has she called?" Don asked softly, so his father wouldn't overhear.
"I don't think so. But this -- " Charlie pointed at his name in their sister's writing. "He thinks this might be a good sign. I kind of hope he's right."
October 2006
Don was browsing through the paper, reading about the school shooting case they'd just finished, when Charlie came in.
Charlie shook his head at him. "You don't get enough of that?"
"What can I say? I like to see how they spin it."
Charlie sat down on the sofa, thinking about the young people who had been murdered – teenagers who left for school and just never came home. "Do you think anyone really knows how any of this stuff happens?" he asked.
"Definitely not," Don sighed.
"I know when I was in high school I was so … angst-ridden," Charlie remembered.
"You didn't shoot anyone," Don pointed out.
"No, but there were days when I wanted to do serious damage …" Charlie met his brother's eyes. "… to you."
"To me?" Don said in surprise. "Hey, buddy, take your best shot. Here, I'll make it easy for you."
He slid to the floor, jabbing playfully at his brother. After some good-natured jostling – with Don fending Charlie off from his knees – Charlie agreed to grab a pizza with Don, seeing that his big brother was paying and all. They'd just arrived home and were settled at the dining room table with a deck of cards when Don's cell rang.
The brothers groaned in unison and Don answered it curtly, then snapped it closed. "I gotta go," he said, genuinely disappointed. "That was Megan – a church blew up in Culver City."
"Let me know if you need help," Charlie called after him.
Don drove to the scene quickly and expertly. First high school kids murdering each other, now people bombing churches, what the hell is next? He felt very old.
The parking lot of St. Boniface Church was littered with emergency vehicles but there didn't appear to be a lot of carnage. Don spotted Megan talking with a uniformed officer and she waved him over.
"What do we have?" he asked.
"The bomb squad says it looks like a simple pipe bomb," Megan answered. "Easy to make, common ingredients, but with enough explosives to take out a small building."
Don looked at what was left of the structure. "Like a church."
"Well, like this church, anyway. Thankfully, something went wrong with the timer – it was supposed to go off during services tomorrow morning. As it is, we only have two vics."
"Hurt?"
"Not badly. There was a man, Daniel Michaels – he was taken to the hospital, but it looks like he's going to be all right. The flying debris broke his arm."
"We'll want to talk to him. Let's send someone over to get his statement as soon as he's done. What about the second victim?"
"A woman – not a scratch on her. She's over there with Granger. But Don --" Megan took a deep breath. "She says her name is Lydia Eppes."
Don's head snapped up. She turns up in the damnedest places, he thought. He fought for a moment to keep his professional persona intact and then Megan laid a kind hand on his arm.
"Why are you standing here with me?" she chided him gently, and he bolted, shoving Colby rudely out of the way. He scooped Lydia into his arms so quickly she didn't realize who it was until he spoke.
"Lyddie, what the fuck," came unbidden out of his mouth.
Her arms tightened around him. "Classy," she murmured. "Bet that gets you lots of dates."
Don had to bite back a harsh laugh before it turned into a sob.
"Boss?" Colby said tentatively.
"She's my sister," Don explained. He pushed her away and looked at her intently. She looked a little different, but she looked good -- her hair was lighter, a soft honey color, and she'd gained a little weight. It suited her. "You're all right? You didn't get hurt?"
Lydia shook her head and pulled Don back into a tight embrace, listening to his heart ricochet against his rib cage. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Don dropped his head into his hands. He was beyond delighted to see Lydia – and to find her seemingly so well – but he'd forgotten how infuriatingly stubborn she could be.
He mumbled something under his breath to that effect and scowled as Megan and Colby exchanged a glance and fought back laughter.
"What?" he snapped.
"An Eppes? Stubborn?" Colby questioned. "Yeah, I'd say that particular ship sailed a long time ago."
Don glanced into the monitor. Lydia was in the interrogation room, talking quietly to David. She'd told her story several times but still hadn't revealed what she'd been doing at the church in the first place.
Lydia looked over at the camera; it appeared she was looking right at him. "Tell my brother that unless I'm arrested, I'd like to go over to the hospital and see how Daniel is," she said pointedly.
"Son of a bitch," Don mumbled. He hoisted himself out of the chair and went back into the room.
"Hey, Donny, are you the bad cop now?" Lydia greeted him.
He sighed heavily and motioned David out of the room without looking at him, so he wouldn't have to see him snickering.
"Once more, with feeling," he said to Lydia.
Her deep sigh matched his own. "I got there around 7:15. Daniel's car was in the lot. No one else's. He was waiting for me. I didn't see anyone, didn't hear anything, didn't notice anything, everything was fine. We went inside and about twenty minutes later, I went into the ladies' room. I was washing my hands when I heard the explosion."
"And you went back into the room – the big hall."
"Yes. The whole side of the building was gone. I could hear Daniel yelling and I found him and we went outside. I called 911 from my cell phone, but the dispatcher said the police were already on the way."
"How did you get in?"
"I told you, I had a key."
"How come you had a key? Do you belong to that church?" When she shook her head, Don continued, "Then what were you doing there?"
Lydia didn't answer. Don leaned across the table. "Do you understand what happened here? It was a bomb in a church. That makes it a possible hate crime. It makes it a possible terrorist act. And you were inside that locked church, on a Saturday night."
Lydia's mouth fell open. "You can't possibly think I had anything to do with that."
"I don't," Don said evenly. "But I don't want there to be any questions later. I'm trying to eliminate you from the suspect list."
She hung her head, slumping in her chair. There was a long silence, and finally, Lydia took a deep breath. "Okay. I was there for the AA meeting," she said. "It starts at eight. We take turns setting up – putting out chairs and literature, making coffee. It's a big meeting; the urn makes 100 cups and it takes a while to brew. I was there because it was my turn. Daniel was helping."
Don nodded thoughtfully, his mind in investigation mode. "So where'd you get the key?"
"From the church. There's one we pass around. I took it last Saturday, from Paul, after he set up."
"Where's it been all week?"
"In my purse."
"Where is it now?"
"Blown up, I guess. I put it on the table while we were doing the chairs."
"Have you had your purse all week?" Don persisted. "Could someone have taken the key to copy and returned it without your knowledge? How many people go to this meeting? Can you get me a list?"
A horror was growing on Lydia's face. "I would have noticed it gone, because I put it in my wallet so I wouldn't lose it," she said. "But no one from the meeting would have had anything to do with this."
"We'll have to check it out. Can you get me a list of people who had that key for the last several weeks? We can start there."
"I can try," Lydia said. "That second 'A' does stand for anonymous, but I'll talk to them."
"Tonight," Don emphasized.
She pulled her phone out of her purse. "Get me some paper and I'll see what I can do."
Don stood up. "Come on, I'll set you up somewhere a little more comfortable."
They were halfway to his desk when he suddenly said, "Lyddie, what were you doing at an AA meeting?"
She looked at him, astonished. "Are you serious? What do you think?"
Twenty minutes later, she put a piece of paper in front of her brother. Don squinted at it – it was a list of first names and numbers, but there was no other identifying information.
"Wait -- Paul M.?" Don questioned. "What's his last name?"
"I don't know," Lydia said. "We don't use last names. I have his number, he said you could call him. Two of the people didn't want their anonymity broken."
"This is a federal investigation," Don reminded her. "I need these names."
"I don't know what to tell you," she said. "I asked them all, and I explained, and this is what I have for you. It is what it is. I don't know how you subpoena a Twelve Step organization. They have a Web site, maybe you can contact someone? It's mostly run by volunteers, but there might be someone. It's AA-dot-org."
"Okay," Don said slowly. "Thanks."
Lydia's cell phone rang – Don smiled as he recognized the opening notes of "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters." She answered quickly then asked the caller to hold on. "Are we all set?" she asked Don. "My friend Cindy said she'd pick me up so we can go get Daniel."
Don nodded and when she hung up, he walked her out of the building. It was almost midnight; he waited with her for her ride.
" Lydia, how long," he started, and broke off when she looked at him intently. "I mean, this AA thing – can I ask you? About that?"
She was quiet for so long Don was sure she was going to ignore him. "I've been going for a while," she said finally. "The very first time was when I first came back here, after I had the – after I saw you in Virginia. Mom went with me. But I couldn't stay sober. I'd stop for a couple of months, then something would happen, and I'd drink, and it got worse and worse. It got bad again when Mom was sick and after I left home, after that fight with Charlie. And then again when you got shot." She couldn't look at him. "The worst was when I saw you last year. I was coming off a horrible bender."
"How horrible?" Don whispered hoarsely.
"It was bad like I'll probably never tell you," Lydia replied bluntly.
"So what happened?"
She smiled faintly. "Counting Crows."
Don furrowed his brow. "What, the group?"
"Yeah. I was in this bar one night and the jukebox started playing 'A Long December.' I've heard that song a million times – I mean, hell, I can play it -- but for some reason, it just hit me. It got me to thinking about that last December we had Mom, and about forgiveness, and how awful I was to you guys – and, I don't know, something flipped. I just knew I didn't want to die an early drunken death, and that was probably where I was headed. I'd met Daniel years ago in Program and I called him. He came and got me and took me to a meeting. I've been sober ever since -- in six weeks, it'll be a year. Day at a time, though."
"Why haven't you called any of us?" Don prodded.
Lydia took a deep breath. "Because," she started, her voice breaking, "after all those things I said and did – I'm so ashamed. How could I possibly face Charlie? And Dad? Why would you want to see me?"
"Because we love you. And we miss you," Don said quietly. "No one's been mad at you for a long time. Just worried. The postcards keep Dad from insisting I put out a BOLO on you, but they don't quite cut it."
"You think it'd be all right to call Dad?"
"All right?" Don echoed. "Um, yeah." He gestured to the two of them. "This is all right, isn't it?"
"Oh, yeah," she said, years of regret in her voice. "This is great. It's just … it's scary."
"You know, in my line of work, I see a lot of bad shit," Don said. "And I've seen a lot of heroes. And I have to tell you, one of the bravest things I've ever seen was you singing at Mom's funeral. Your voice didn't crack, you didn't hesitate – you were amazing."
"That's only because you were holding my hand," she answered quietly.
Don was surprised into speechlessness. He reached out and Lydia took his hand. "I can still do this," he said finally. "Dad and Charlie can, too."
Lydia swiped her free hand across her eyes. "I was such a mess, Donny. I'm not sure I'm still not a mess. The booze was a great cushion. I feel pretty naked a lot of the time." She took a deep breath. "But I'm not drinking. And I have stretches of time where I don't feel like I have to. They keep telling me that's something."
A/N "Program" or "The Program" refers to AA and other Twelve-Step programs as a whole, i.e., "Mary's in Program" or "I know John from the Program."
