Mistaken Identity Chapter 36: Stormy Weather, a numb3rs fanfic

Title: Mistaken Identity

Chapter 36: Stormy Weather

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

"CHARLIE!"

Halfway to the island, Don had temporarily regained some of his training, and directed the old man to sail around the ferry slip, to the other side of the island. The first time he had been out there, Don had noticed several private docks dotting the landscape – including one at the cabins, behind the main house. "Put in at Minerva's!" he had ordered, and Pete had grinned as if Don had shown him the Holy Grail.

"Damn fine woman," he nodded. Despite the challenge of keeping the boat afloat, he lifted one hand from the wheel, pushed against the left side of his nose and blew snot out of his right nostril, aiming for a corner of the cabin. Appalled, Don stepped as far away as he could and still remain inside, more disconcerted by Pete's continued mutterings than he cared to admit.

Sailing around to Minerva's dock made the trip longer, and kept them on the treacherous, rolling water so long that Don lost the fight with his nausea. The dock was in sight when he lurched out of the cabin into the driving rain, and lost his lunch all over the deck. He immediately felt better, however, and had jumped from Crazy Pete's boat while the old man was still tying off. Crashing to the mud and scrabbling for a foothold, his rubber legs refusing to keep him upright, he ordered the lunatic to wait, wallowed in the mire for a few seconds, and finally found his feet. He had sprinted for the road, cursing the storm for chasing all the vehicles away. "Charlie!" he yelled, knowing that his brother was still a mile away, deep in the woods. He would never be able to hear him, especially over the raging storm. But Don wasn't yelling to be heard. He didn't even know he was yelling at all.

"CHARLIE!"

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Charlie awoke confused and disoriented. Discombobulated. For a moment, he didn't understand why everything hurt again, or why he couldn't move. He wondered if he was back in the hospital...or if he had ever been there. Maybe he was still at Macedo's compound. Then the roaring in his aching head started to take on more specific sounds. A driving rain. Raging winds. The slamming of shutters against the cabin's exterior. Nearly hysterical laughter.

He let his head loll to the right and tracked that last sound. The light in the cabin was dim. A small halo was offered by the lantern on the kitchen table. Charlie appeared to be in the center of the circle, sitting on the floor and leaning against the sturdy wooden table leg. His hands were behind his back, and he could feel the rope that secured them to each other, around the supporting pillar. The only other light came from the fireplace. The fire within it glowed healthy for the time being, although each gust of wind that blew down the chimney caused the flames to dance in a frenzy that spoke of potential death. The couch was illuminated clearly; as was Marshall, who slumped as near to the fire as he could get. He was holding Charlie's spiral notebook in an awkward position off the end of the couch, using the light afforded by the fire to read, and chuckling in glee. "Oh, Eppsie," he finally choked out, turning a page, "you've just made it all so easy!"

Charlie grunted, pulling at the rope. It cut into his wrists a little, but the heavy antique table didn't even budge. "Marshall," he croaked. "What are you doing? Why are you doing this to me?"

Marshall looked away from the notebook, directing his attention toward Charlie. As he lowered the spiral to his lap, his sneer was apparent even in the firelight. "You stupid son of a bitch. You've been nothing but a pain in my ass since the first day I met you at Princeton!" He stood smoothly and dropped the journal onto the couch, and began pacing in front of it. "Hogging all the attention. And that damn Eppes Convergence -- I was holding my own, until that little piece of brilliance. After that, I was just another math major to them. They couldn't give you enough...and it was mine! MINE!" He advanced a few steps threateningly, which left him in shadows so that Charlie could not see him as clearly. "I could have let it go -- I'm a big man -- if you hadn't ruined my plans for Macedo and his money. Now I have nothing, and you -- as always -- have everything. A national fucking hero." He laughed again and backtracked to the couch, picking up the spiral and holding it aloft. "You are such a pathetic wuss, Eppes. You're always the only one who doesn't realize how much you have. Anyone who reads this will not be surprised by your suicide."

Charlie jerked at the ropes again; anger swelling in his chest so rapidly it may have cracked another rib. "You gutless piece of shit," he growled. "You killed Amita! YOU KILLED HER!"

Marshall dropped the notebook again, and as it bounced off the couch he strode purposefully toward Charlie. He leaned over and backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip and cutting his cheekbone with the ring on his finger. "I'd say you're not exactly in a position to talk that way to me," he huffed. Straightening his spine and backing off a step, he shrugged. "Anyway. I actually regret that the little bitch got in the way. You screwed up all my plans. I intended to be of comfort to her after Macedo fried your scrawny little butt."

"SHUT-UP!" Charlie yelled, jerking against the ropes like a madman in a straight jacket. His legs were unrestrained and he kicked out, but Penfield was out of reach. He saw the deranged smile on Marshall's face, and focusing on it, spit hard in that direction. "You're...evil," he gasped, leftover saliva drooling from his mouth and rolling down his chin. "And stupid! My brother's an F.B.I. agent, genius; he's going to know I didn't tie myself up and give myself rope burn!" The thought of Don, and how near he might still be, spurred him on recklessly. "Plus, he's here! He'll never let you out of here alive!"

To his dismay, Marshall threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, Eppsie," he huffed, looking back down at Charlie, "I will miss you, if only for your entertainment value. I read the journal, remember? I've got good news for you there - you were right again. You know as well as I do the Fine Agent Eppes doesn't give a rat's ass about you. He's not on the island, anymore, sweetheart -- I saw him take the last ferry back to the mainland." He laughed again. "Just you and me for a while, old friend. I wonder. How shall we pass the time?" He winked and grinned, his face a grotesque Jack-O-Lantern in the glow of the lantern. "Whaddya say? Learn any new tricks in prison?"

Generally, Minerva loved a good storm.

She had stopped being afraid of them long ago. She actually slept very well, during a storm. She wasn't stupid, and used the rear bedroom. There were no windows to break, so impalement was not much of a concern. Usually, with the house snug and boarded-up; with all the food and water she could want for several days lined up in the pantry like so many soldiers; she would take a lantern and a good book into the back bedroom. It was the only time of the year she really indulged herself. By the time these winter storms rolled around, all the guests had fled, so there was no reason to get up at all, until she felt like it.

This storm was different.

She couldn't relax, and the banging of the shutters was making her nervous. She knew it was because of Charlie, down in #8. She wished she had been able to talk him into coming back up to the house with her, or letting her stay with him in the cabin. She had double- and triple-checked everything there, and she knew he should be able to ride out the storm. There was firewood. More flashlights and lanterns than he would ever need. Lots of water, and plenty of non-perishable food. She had cautioned him over and over about staying away from the windows and doors. She had found him in a pathetic heap, but he had pulled himself together and assured her that he was fine. He had even remembered to press a little more cash into her hand, payment enough for another several days at the cabin. Finally, Minerva had reluctantly left and returned through the driving rain to her own house. She hadn't felt good about it, though - and she felt even worse now.

She had never tried to take on a Pelican Point winter storm; it was important to remember who was boss. From the sound of things, her old truck would blow right off the road if she tried to go back there now. Besides, she hadn't been able to talk him into anything before, so she wouldn't have any better luck if she tried again.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself. The whole time she was looking for her keys.

"I'm sure a man of your...ilk…was appreciated," snorted Marshall, standing just out of range of Charlie's feet. "I've seen the movies. A man of small stature, with a baby face like yours and those damn curls. I'm sure you were the most popular guy in your cell. You'll have to tell me all about it." Charlie swallowed thickly and closed his eyes against an encroaching flashback. It wasn't really happening, he told himself. There were no hands on him - it was Marshall. He was making him remember. His eyes were still squeezed shut so he had no warning of Penfield's next move, except the cold tone of his voice. "By the way? This is for spitting on me, you little piece of shit." Penfield kicked at Charlie, hard, his boot connecting with already bruised ribs. A satisfying crack could be heard even over the storm, and Marshall smiled as Charlie cried out, drawing his legs up to his chest in an awkward sitting fetal position. The sharp pain in his chest fuzzed his mind, threatening to take him under again, and he missed most of what Marshall said to him next. When he fought his way to the surface again, Marshall was leaning over him, trailing a finger down his face. "You know," he said almost conversationally, "you disappoint me. I'm surprised it took you so long to figure out exactly what Don thinks of you." He straightened, slowly. "That's one more thing you took from me. Now that I cannot live as Marshall Penfield anymore, I have to give up my association with the F.B.I. and Quantico." He paused in his ascent, leaning over again to hold Charlie's head in place so he could look him directly in the eye. "Donny and I had such a good time, too. He so obviously preferred working with me."

Don charged up the hill toward the grouping of cabins, slipping back in the mud two feet for every three feet that he gained. He tripped over a broken limb lying in the road, falling to his hands and knees, and swore under his breath. The ordinarily brilliant stars of the Maine night sky were darkened by the storm, and it was almost impossible to see. He scrambled to his feet again, berating himself for not thinking of bringing a lantern or something with him, when a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the landscape. In that microsecond, Don saw that he was approaching Minerva's house. His heart fell – in the darkness he'd run right past Charlie's cabin. As more lightning followed the first flash, he caught a glimpse of her old pick-up, and redirected his trajectory slightly. Maybe she'd left the keys in it... Don ran full force into the rear of the truck, bruising his thigh on the hard metal fender. He had just reached out a hand to touch the bed rails, and guide himself to the cab of the pick-up, when the truck roared to life - taking at least ten years off his. The headlights suddenly bounced off the side of the house, and Don saw a halo of hair through the windows. For a brief second he thought it was Charlie, and his heart leapt, but as he drew closer, he recognized Minerva. He began to slam his hand into the side of the pick-up, and he saw her jump, startled. Finally, even with the passenger door, Don ripped it open, drenching the old woman with rain and desperation. He slid into the seat without invitation, pulling the door shut behind him. "Drive!" he yelled over the noise of the wind. "Drive!"

Marshall let go of Charlie's chin and started to move away, again - tragically unprepared for the anger that suddenly boiled in the youngest Eppes. "You're lying," Charlie hissed against the pain, pushing his legs out straight to catch Penfield square in the face. Marshall gasped as Charlie's foot broke his nose and opened a gash above his left eye. As he staggered back toward the refrigerator, one hand flew to his face and the other reached around the back of his waistband. Sputtering and spitting blood, he found the gun still secure where he had tucked it earlier, and yanked it out of the back of his jeans with so much force and wild abandon that the weapon discharged before he had taken aim. The round, which plowed into the antique table, deafened them both and peppered Charlie's face with tiny slivers. The 38 still had enough kick that he nearly dropped it, and Marshall was still trying to regain control of the firearm one-handed when the cabin door burst open, extinguishing the lantern flame.

Don thanked God for the woman's crazy driving, this time. When the truck screeched to a halt outside Charlie's cabin, both doors flew open. Don hesitated long enough to slide over the seat and grab her coat. The vehicle's interior dome light clearly defined a CB radio mounted under the dash. "STAY HERE!" he ordered, ripping off the CB's mike and shoving it at her. "CALL THE COAST GUARD! GET SOMEBODY OUT HERE!" Without waiting for an answer, Don grabbed the flashlight lying on the bench seat next to him, and slid out of the truck.

He approached the cabin cautiously, even though he wanted to run through the front door with a machine gun blazing, and ask questions later. Still, he kept the light trained on the ground and started for one of the banging shutters, hoping to get a look inside. When the shot rang out, his ears easily picked up the sound over the storm, years of law enforcement experience taking precedence over Mother Nature. Abandoning caution to the overpowering winds, Don vaulted onto the porch. Gun drawn, the small flashlight gripped tightly in his hand, Don kicked open the door.

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End, Chapter 36