Disclaimer: see chapter 1

36. Errare Humanum Est

Megan seemed to be uncharacteristically antsy since the previous night, exactly until the moment when Thursday morning, her phone rang. Larry. Don retreated discretely. He would have considered it callous to remind her that they were still looking for Charlie before she hadn't had the opportunity to talk to him. Besides, even though he was impatient to go on in their search, he couldn't fail but notice that Larry's 'accident' seemed to be connected to Charlie's disappearance, and that thought was more than a little disconcerting.

What the hell was going on here?

Don buried himself in the old, musty armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture in their motel room, and in his thoughts. This case seemed so confusing to him… but that could easily be due to the fact that his mind had lost its ability for calm and rational deliberation.

So back to the facts. They knew that Anna Silversteen, a former nurse of Charlie's, had received money for her observations of him, probably from John Doe. They had been able to trace the transactions back, but that had only led them to a man called Hugh Pratchett, who was over ninety years old. When they'd looked deeper into the matter, they'd found that he was already dead, even though his bank account was still active. Pratchett didn't have any relatives and thus they had no clue as to who might have taken over the old man's bank account after his passing, especially since for over a week now, there were no more transactions going on that they could have traced back.

So Anna Silversteen had received money. But why had she been killed? It didn't look as though she was involved deeper in this matter as her role as an informant entailed, so the most plausible scenario was that it was the information that she'd forwarded that had gotten her killed. But how? Given everything they knew, she hadn't blackmailed her former employers; otherwise she would have hardly thrown her cell phone away. So it seemed to Don as though when Charlie had been back with them and thus Anna's usefulness as an informant had reached its end, she had been killed because Charlie's kidnappers had wanted to eliminate their confidant. They'd probably been afraid that Anna, as soon as she'd hear about the kidnapping – which she would have in the course of the FBI's investigation if she hadn't already been dead –, would tell them the truth about everything, so they'd eliminated her as a potential threat.

As a potential help for the FBI.

So these two cases, the murder and the kidnapping, had to be connected, but now there was a third case on top of it: the sabotage of Larry's car. Granted, the report of the investigation of that case wasn't available yet, but Don was certain that they were dealing with sabotage and, to be more precise, with the very same group of people that had committed the other two crimes. Thus, this group had to be very powerful or in any event very well connected, considering that they could be active both in California and in Mississippi simultaneously.

A memory shot through Don's mind like lightning, a memory of the conversation he'd had with his boss the day that Charlie had allegedly been arrested. It could also be that you have tangled with a very powerful opponent, Stevens had said. Unfortunately, Don felt more and more compelled to believe his words.

What made matters worse was the fact that their opponent didn't just seem to be powerful, but also unscrupulous. If Don was right with his suspicions, they had killed a woman in her own apartment in plain daylight just because there was a risk that she might endanger their plans by becoming a witness. And they had assaulted a university's professor just because he was a consultant on this case.

And those were the men whose hands Charlie had fallen into.

The main problem was that Don just couldn't see the motive that had to be behind everything this group was doing. He had to see it though, he had to find it, he had to know what was going on and how everything was connected, for by and by this whole case was involving consequences which sooner or later would be asking too much of each and every one of them. Larry had already suffered assault, but how far would Charlie's kidnappers go in their attempt to checkmate their adversaries? Who would be next? And could Don really continue taking the responsibility for each and every one of them? Larry could have just as well died from that assault. Did Don even have the right to continue asking for the help of civilians to solve this case?

But this was about Charlie…

Don ran his hands over his face. He just didn't know. Was his view on things still unhindered or was he so biased he couldn't even tell anymore? He didn't know. He just knew that he had to maintain a clear head.

He tried to approach the subject from the other end. This was about Charlie, that was a fact – so would Amita and Larry even consent to stopping their consulting work? No… no, probably not. And after all, they weren't stupid, they had a certain idea of what kind of risk they were taking… Yeah, it probably wasn't even for Don to decide about the continuation of their involvement…

His mouth was twitching. Was he doing it again? Was he putting on blinders, was he seeing what he saw only because he refused to see anything else? He had to be sure.

"Megan?"

She turned her head around to face him. There was a slight smile on her face that became gradually overshadowed by the look of a guilty conscience. "Hold on a sec," she said into the receiver and then to Don, "What is it?"

"In case Amita and Larry are willing to continue working on those images, tell them to do their work at the FBI. Until we know whether we can get a security detail for them."

Megan nodded slowly. She swallowed. "Alright," she said and forwarded the information to the other end of the line.

Don sighed. All of a sudden, he felt extremely tired. Still, he knew that there was no way he would rest until Charlie wasn't safely back with them.

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This time, Rosenthal wanted to lead the interrogation himself again. Playing hardball. This time, it would work. They were going to get him now – after one and a half weeks! as he noted bitterly.

"Alright, Professor, are you finally willing to cooperate with us?"

"No, I'm not. Let me go. This is deprivation of liberty."

Rosenthal was watching his prisoner. He seemed exhausted and was obviously tired of the never-changing questions and his never-changing answers, but he could also see the determination in his eyes. Eppes was firmly determined not to collaborate with them.

Rosenthal was curious as to how long his determination was going to last. He was almost in the mood for betting.

"You're wrong. It would only be deprivation of liberty if you were here against your will."

He had him. He was so close… The professor raised his eyes and stared at him and Rosenthal was hardly able to contain his pleasant anticipation. There was so much fear in those querying eyes that it was a real joy for him to stall for a little while longer.

"Are you still convinced that your friends are looking for you?" he finally asked with mock casualness.

The professor hesitated. "I don't know," he then said.

This was it. Rosenthal had him. Eppes was afraid for his friends, he could practically feel that. If he made it clear to him now how justified this fear was, he'd be able to turn him around, Rosenthal was sure of that. So maybe their guy in Los Angeles had gone a little far, but the result was better than Rosenthal could have ever imagined.

"But we do know," he said and pulled out the computer print of the scanned newspaper article that Juan had sent him few minutes earlier. "We know exactly who out there is trying to find you. We know everything. And you should know that we don't like people interfering with our affairs."

He unfolded the sheet of paper and held it out to his prisoner. They had cut off the text of the article – it said that Fleinhardt had survived – and gave him only the picture. It showed the professor's vintage car stuck to the tree as a pile of junk with the driver's side so damaged that it was unimaginable that the driver could have survived this accident. A beautiful picture.

Rosenthal concentrated on Eppes's reaction. He noticed that both the frequency and the intensity of the heaving of his torso increased while he was staring at the photo. A sign of arising panic. Very good.

"You're trying to deceive me."

Yes! Rosenthal clenched a fist in his trouser pocket, this time not because of fury, but because of a feeling of triumph, for the professor's voice had become low, hardly perceptible, and very hoarse. We've got him, we've got him, we've got him…

"I don't know this car."

Alright, now that was pathetic. "Come on, Eppes, who are you kidding? Just look at it closely, I think you should even be able to read the license plate. But we both know that you don't have to, for we both know very well whom that car belongs to. And why we had to do this. Your friend started looking for you. He thought you wouldn't want to stay here with us. Sadly, this is the consequence of his misinterpretation."

The poor professor was still breathing heavily. How very touching.

"What happened to him?"

Woah. Rosenthal leaned back a bit with his upper body. He wouldn't have expected a reaction like that. He'd misjudged Eppes. He wouldn't have thought that the professor's eyes would still be able to attack him with such a look of plain, glaring fury. No, that came unexpected.

Didn't help him much, though. It was still them who had the trump cards.

"Well, I don't know what happened to your friend. But if you ask me, it's not looking good. Tut, tut, tut… this car is really quite a wreck. I wonder if someone on the driver's seat could have survived that. I mean, it sure doesn't look like it and I heard they weren't too keen on seatbelts and airbags in the 30s, but you'd probably have to have some understanding of math and physics to be sure."

With delight, Rosenthal watched his victim clench his hands into fists. And he certainly didn't do that because of a feeling of triumph.

"It's a real pity with your friend," Rosenthal continued with that cynicism that – at least in his own opinion – fit him so well. "I wonder how the people associated with him might react to this tragedy. I heard he had quite a lovely colleague, a certain Amita Ramanujan." Rosenthal wasn't entirely sure, but he thought that the fists were clenched even tighter at his mentioning of her name. Eppes continued to avoid looking into his eyes though and instead kept his head bent down stubbornly. "I wonder how she might react? Who knows, maybe she's so desperate about her colleague's accident that she'll jump off the roof of one of the university buildings? Or maybe she'll accidentally take an overdose of sleeping pills? Such things can happen so easily to people who are desperate or depressed. Who knows, maybe there'll be another article in tomorrow's newspaper featuring her. Well, if you ask me, Professor, I think she'd be a lot safer if you finally consented to collaborating with us."

Rosenthal was certain that the professor understood, he'd made his situation abundantly clear to him. Now, there could be no doubt that Eppes would cooperate with them. They'd presumably killed his best friend and were now threatening to do away with his girlfriend as well. Eppes hardly had a choice.

He shoved a contract before him that basically made him their slave and stated that everything they had done to him so far had happened with his consent. When Eppes still didn't react, he held a pen out to him. "Well, Professor?"

"I…" His voice was only a croaking now. They got him, damn it, they finally got him!

"Yes?"

Eppes lifted his head. His hands were still clenched and you could still see the fury in his eyes, but there was more in them. Since he was still a bit high from his feeling of triumph, Rosenthal couldn't be sure what it was, but it felt a little as though those eyes were x-raying him.

Both Eppes's look and his silence stretched on before he finally answered.

"No."

You could even hear the professor swallow in the dead silence.

"No," he then repeated. "I won't help you."

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His team was simply the best. Both in Mississippi and in Nebraska, they had plodded through mountains of sometimes more, sometimes less secret documents, usually digital ones, and hadn't stopped until they'd finally found what they'd been looking for: the group of Charlie's kidnappers.

Starting from John Doe's phone number, they'd first determined who his provider was and after several phone calls and negotiations they'd eventually gotten some access to the user's data. Granted, they did not have his name, but they had some of the numbers he'd called, even though there had been no call made from that phone since Anna Silversteen's murder and Charlie's disappearance. Maybe because they'd gotten scared? They had probably cursed quite a lot when they hadn't been able to find their spy's cell phone, the only thing that connected her to them.

They were unable to identify most of the owners of the cell phone numbers since they, just like John Doe himself, didn't have a contract for their phone and thus hadn't been obliged to state their personal data when they'd bought the cell. Apart from the cell phone numbers, however, they also found three landline numbers on John Doe's list of contacts. A routine check revealed that all three belonged to law enforcement agencies, two to the CIA, the other one to the FBI. And when they did a little more poking around, the bombshell was dropped: the third number belonged to a Clifford Wellman, who'd been with the FBI for a little more than a decade now. And who, a little less than two weeks ago, had gone into hiding.

It hadn't taken long until, with the help of some coaxing, the A.D. in charge, James Burbank, had provided them with the most basic results of the current investigation: Wellman was still untraceable, but the investigating team was following a promising lead in the Yellowstone National Park.

Don had felt almost feverish when he'd heard that, and his ears had started ringing. They were so close now, this was such a promising lead… A national park, that would be perfect, the perfect hiding place for kidnappers and their kidnapping victim. Wellman had gone into hiding, and he was connected to John Doe, and John Doe had paid Anna to watch Charlie… It just fit together so perfectly, this had to be it, they were so close… All of a sudden, their progress was so fast that Don had to be careful not to lose track of what was going on. They couldn't allow themselves to make another mistake now, they had to stay focused.

In the morning, a chopper would be ready for Megan and him to take them to Montana, to the edge of the park, where they would meet the investigating team. And David and Colby, if everything went according to plan.

It was Thursday evening now and it was late, but Don could hardly entertain the thought of going to bed even though Megan was already sound asleep. He didn't know how she was doing that. Granted, the day had been wearing, but Don still seemed to be filled with an ineradicable amount of energy, although it had to be nervous energy, pure adrenaline that had been born from the newly awakened hope to get nearer to his brother with every minute passing.

Don was more than satisfied with the results of the day. They'd not only made significant progress in the case, but he'd also been able to organize a security detail for Amita and Larry – after having them accommodated in Charlie's house, not without ulterior motives concerning his dad. And they didn't make just progress with the case, they were also making progress in their search for Charlie, they were finally getting closer to him. Only yesterday, they'd found out about John Doe, and today, they already had a whole group of kidnappers in their sights. It was about time. However, Don was aware that even though they now had the group in their sights, they were still eyeing them through binoculars, so to speak. They had an idea where to go on with their search, yes, but Don couldn't deny that the other FBI team had been searching for Wellman and his presumed accomplices for one and a half weeks now without success. Why should he be hoping that they would be more successful? It was completely irrational and yet, his hope remained.

With their goal in view and with his eyes staring into the emptiness of their dark motel room, the moment had come that Don could no longer ban the horror scenarios from his mind. He just had to ask himself what Charlie's kidnappers might be doing to him, for the answer could be a necessary tool to find him.

Don shuddered when it occurred to him that they might already be too late. Maybe everything they were doing was in vain. Maybe the kidnappers had already gotten rid of his brother. Maybe they'd had no use for him anymore, maybe he'd become too great a risk for them, maybe they'd gotten cold feet, maybe they'd –

Charlie's lifeless body appeared before his inner eye, pale, his limbs distorted in an unnatural manner, lying on the bare floor in a barren room, lit only by a free-hanging light-bulb, his dark eyes staring at him without expression, without their lids sparing him this view, open and forever staring into the emptiness of another world, dead…

Don hardly managed to suppress the urge to vomit, and there was no way to suppress the tears that were pressing against the backs of his eyes. G-d, Charlie… What would happen if he actually lost him? If it was actually the way it had been last time when he'd thought him dead?

Don swallowed and was overcome by sudden weakness. He knew he couldn't bear that. He couldn't live through this a second time. Charlie had to be alive. It was the only way, for there was no doubt in Don's mind that his brother's end would also mark his own.