Title: Mistaken Identity

Chapter 37: Officer Down

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Startled and enraged, Marshall fired blindly into the abyss, with no sense of aim. The same could not be said for Don. The flashlight he held clearly highlighted Penfield, backed against the refrigerator, blood escaping below the hand he held over his face. Having heard the first shot already, the F.B.I. agent was not surprised to see the .38 Special Marshall was waving around. In quick succession Don squeezed off two rounds himself, then went into a duck-and-roll maneuver that should have saved him. Their ammunition crossed in the dark kitchen, and all the bullets found their mark.

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Charlie was surrounded by noise. His ears rang as guns both behind and in front of him were discharged. Marshall screamed as a round tore into his shoulder, blood spattering across the distance between him and Charlie, and spraying droplets on the professor's outstretched legs. As Penfield slid down the refrigerator, the second round grazed the top of his head; then lodged in the door of the freezer. His shout was cut off as he lapsed into unconsciousness, and Charlie heard a strangled and frighteningly familiar cry from behind him, then a solid thump as a body hit the floor. He twisted around the table leg, not aware of his own yells. "Don! Don!" Despite its abrupt meeting with the wooden floor, the flashlight maintained its glow, and as Charlie eventually more fully faced the open door of the cabin, his brother's limp body came more into view. One arm was crumpled beneath him; the other, stretched out across the floor. His service weapon lay loosely in his hand, and a pool of blood was already forming under the arm Charlie could see. "Oh, my God," he cried, ignoring his own pain and jerking at the ropes that made him an island separate from his brother. "Oh, my God! You're hit, you're hit! Don!"

"Mmmmumpf." The groan was so quiet; Charlie could not possibly hear it over the storm and his own frantic yells. With gargantuan effort Don moved his head slightly, the burning agony of his bicep brightening everything at the edges of his vision. He blinked lethargically, and the beam of the flashlight picked up Charlie's frantic struggles. Don saw the rope that secured Charlie to the table, and noted the spatters of blood on his jeans and his face. "Oh, God," he echoed, pushing forward with his legs, trying to close the distance between them. Charlie was hurt, he was hit – Don had to reach him! His wounded arm flopped uselessly as he inched across the floor. "AHHHH," he panted, steeling himself for another push. "Buddy…."

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Minerva was on the radio with a reluctant Coast Guard sailor when the volley of shots that could be heard over the connection finally convinced him there was real trouble up at the cabins. He promised to get someone there as soon as he could, warned her to stay out of sight and waited for her "10-4" of understanding. It never came.

The spunky old woman had thrown the CB mike at the windshield, and was digging under the front seat of the pick-up for the hunting knife that had been there since her husband bought the Ford almost twenty years ago. Finally getting a hand on it, Minerva extricated the knife and unsnapped the leather sheath, tossing it to the mud as she tumbled out of the truck. She took a step, then jumped back in to slide across the seat and open the glove compartment. She scooped gloves and sunglasses and old aspirin bottles out onto the floorboard until she found what she wanted – another flashlight. Knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, she squirted out the passenger side this time, like some kind of lethal toothpaste from a tube.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Minerva didn't hesitate. She ran full-tilt through the open door of the cabin, tripping over Don and falling in a heap. She heard him shout in protest beneath her, felt the sticky blood that splashed a little upon her landing, and narrowly avoided decapitating herself with her own knife. The second flashlight proved as resilient as the first, surviving impact, but rolling out of her grip. She lurched off Don's arm, eliciting yet another protest, and struggled her way up until she was on her knees, sitting back on her heels and blinking owlishly at the tableau before her. The F.B.I. agent was groaning in a pool of blood beside her; Charlie was half-yelling, half-crying, also speckled with blood and tied to the table; and a complete stranger, covered with more blood than both of them put together, lay still and quiet at the bottom of the refrigerator. "Holy shit," she breathed, leaning over to chase the still-rolling flashlight. "So much for a good book."

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She used the hunting knife to cut Charlie loose, and he had crawled over to his brother before she crossed the two feet to the drawer next to the sink. Barely pausing long enough to slide it open and grab all the clean dish towels inside, she rushed back to the Eppes. "Here," she said brusquely, shoving the towels at Charlie. "You find the wound, put pressure on it." Not waiting for an answer, Minerva spun around again and jogged for the bathroom, and the first aid kit. On the way back, she skidded to a stop at the pantry, and manage to add two more lanterns to her load. Frenetic as her pace was, she still had the wherewithal to kick Marshall's gun halfway to the fireplace. Dropping her treasures beside Charlie, Minerva even thought to reach out and slam the cabin door before she dropped beside him on the floor.

It was much quieter with the door shut, and she could hear Charlie's breathless chant the entire time she was lighting the lanterns. "DonDonDonDonDon…." Finally unconscious from blood loss and shock, the older Eppes did not answer, and Minerva saw Charlie's hands shaking as he pushed a bloody towel into Don's upper arm.

She started to rip into the first aid kit, looking worriedly in the surreal light at the blood on Charlie's face. "You all right, son? You hit, somewheres?"

He shook his head, mantra uninterrupted. "DonDonDonDonDon…."

Minerva frowned, not sure she believed him, but understanding there was no hope of a more succinct answer, at the moment. Finally throwing the mess of band-aids and antibiotic ointments aside with a growl, she picked up another clean towel and pushed at Charlie's hands so that she could take over. "Help me turn him over," she suggested. "Then you'd best elevate his feet."

Charlie nodded, placing a bloody hand on his brother's hip. "Bl – bl – blanket," he stuttered. "He's c – c – cold." The ribs shifted inside his own chest as he worked over Don, gently turning him and raising his feet onto an ottoman that he dragged in from the living room, where he had stumbled to grab the afghan from the couch. His breath hitched when he ran for the linen closet after more towels, and a sharp pain near his sternum nearly took him down. Arms full of terrycloth, Charlie leaned weakly against the wall for a moment, coughing dryly, his own heart thundering in his ears. He only allowed himself the moment. Working against the cough to draw in air, Charlie pushed himself off the wall and hurried back to his brother.

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The ride in the Coast Guard cutter was pure hell. Charlie huddled next to Don on the pitching boat, shaking, finding it difficult to breathe, his heart pounding with panic, as a young officer applied pressure to Don's upper arm. Don was pale, unconscious for most of the trip, moaning softly once or twice, when the boat hit a wave with greater force than usual. Penfield, also, was still out; he was on the other side of the cabin flanked by two Coast Guard members, his shoulder wrapped, as one of the men applied pressure to the gash on the top of his head. Charlie couldn't even stand to look at him; the fear that he would lose Don – that Penfield would take one other person away from him, consumed his thoughts, and he kept his eyes riveted on his brother, refusing to look at Penfield behind him, as if merely acknowledging his presence was a threat. He was only dimly aware of Minerva beside him, her occasional pats on his shoulder, her soothing voice.

They were met by police and two ambulances, and somehow - Charlie didn't even remember the trip - ended up at a clinic, in an ambulance with Don. He staggered out of the ambulance, and Minerva, who had made the trip in a patrol car, trotted over to him, concern on her face. Charlie heard men behind saying something about the other ambulance being routed to Maine Coast Memorial, and he felt a fleeting sense of relief that Penfield's malevolent presence was gone. Charlie had somehow managed to give the Coast Guard Penfield's name; they had called it in, and the Bar Harbor police already knew who they were dealing with. As far as they were concerned, Penfield was on a level with international terrorists; he was the biggest criminal to hit their town in history, and Sergeant Wharton had called out no less than four men to keep tabs on him.

Don was being wheeled in to the clinic on a gurney, and Minerva looked around at the medics. "This young man needs a gurney, too," she said, but Charlie raised a weak hand as if to fend her off, and stumbled alongside Don's gurney, as it was rolled in through the doors.

There were three emergency bays in the clinic. Don went into one, and a nurse gently pried Charlie away and had him lie on the bed in the bay next to his brother.

The harried doctor came in, a medic feeding him an update. "We've got a GSW– he pointed to Don – upper arm; he's lost some blood." The doctor nodded and moved toward Don, with a glance at Charlie in the next bay. "What about that one?"

"I'm okay," Charlie interjected, "take care of him." The doctor shot him a look; the young man was pale and shaking, and breathing a little too fast. "Get him a blanket," he ordered one of the nurses, "and keep an eye on him."

He turned to the unconscious man in front of him, and began to work quickly, stripping off Don's shirt, and applying a tourniquet on his upper arm, as he examined the wound to the inner part of his bicep, which was bleeding profusely. "We've got a nick to the brachial artery," he said tersely. "Get an IV started, O neg, and get a type and cross-match." They worked quickly, an IV was inserted and a transfusion started, monitors were attached. The doctor blocked Charlie's view; he could tell the man was working on Don's arm, but little else.

He couldn't even see Don's face, but the memory of it, pale and unresponsive, floated in his mind, and he tried desperately to fight down the panic welling inside him. It made it hard to breathe, and his chest felt like it was in a vise. Suddenly he heard a groan, Don's voice, and the doctor spoke. "Easy there, we're almost finished here, we need you to lie still."

Eventually he stepped back, and Charlie was rewarded with a view of his brother's face – he saw with a rush of gratitude that Don was conscious; his eyes were open. "Don," he said – the word came out in a weak rasp, and seemed to deplete his oxygen; he gasped for breath.

Don blinked, and turned his head slowly, weakly. His mind was fuzzy, but he was starting to regain his memory, and the recollection of the cabin came back in a rush. He heard his name again, and Don's head turned slightly toward the direction of the voice.

"Charlie," Don's voice was also weak, and it took a moment for him to focus. Damn, his arm hurt. Concern fought down the pain, as he took in their surroundings and Charlie on the gurney across from him. "Charlie, you okay?"

Charlie felt an odd sensation, like he was on a roller-coaster, floating. He could see Don talking, and he tried to say something back. The words caught in his throat, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop shaking, the left side of his chest ached, and his vision kept blurring. The nurse beside him was now watching him with concern. "Doctor," she said quietly.

The doctor had stepped aside and stripped off his gloves, pulling on new ones, and at her voice, he turned. He looked at the young man in the other bed, his eyes narrowed, as he stepped forward. A voice came from the doorway, and for the first time he noticed the tiny older woman standing there. "What's wrong with him?" she was staring at the young man with a frightened expression.

Don saw Charlie's eyes glaze and roll back in his head, his breathing labored, his lips blue, and he felt a surge of panic roll through him. "Charlie?" He tried to struggle upright, but an intern pushed him firmly back down.

"You can't move sir. Stay still. They'll take care of him."

The doctor was bent over Charlie, listening grimly to his chest. "Pneumothorax, left side. We need to get a tube in him. He's shocky, get a couple of warm blankets. And ask the woman in the doorway to go sit in the waiting area."

He straightened a little and peered in Charlie's face. "Sir, can you hear me?"

The voice sounded like it was coming from a tunnel, and it took a moment for the question to sink in, but Charlie nodded.

"Sir, your lung has deflated, and you appear to have some broken ribs. We're going to insert a tube – it should dissipate the trapped air in your pleural sac, and help you breathe…,"

The words were fading, and Charlie heard a roar in his ears. Don watched in panic, as he saw his brother's eyes shut, and his head loll to the side. Charlie's skin was bluish-white, a stark contrast to the cut on his cheekbone, and the small red dots that peppered the side of his face. "BP's dropping," said the nurse.

The doctor spoke rapidly. "Heart rate's up – we've got a tension pneumothorax here, it's putting pressure on his heart – let's get going with that tube!" He hit a button, elevating the bed so that Charlie's torso was raised.

"What's happening?" Don rasped, as a nurse slid an oxygen mask over Charlie's face.

Another nurse was hooking up another transfusion to his own IV, and she laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Sir, you need to lie still, the doctor just repaired an artery in your arm. If you move, you may damage the repair and start bleeding again, and the doctor won't be able to work on your brother. Do you understand?"

Don nodded, and tried to relax, but kept his head turned toward Charlie. They had stripped off Charlie's shirt, and a nurse moved to draw the curtain, but stopped at Don's agonized, "No!"

She looked hesitantly at the doctor, and at his nod, left the curtain where it was and stepped back to assist. The doctor was probing Charlie's rib cage gently. "He's got several broken ribs here; we're going to want an X-ray later." He finished the quick exam and applied a disinfectant, and made a small incision in Charlie's upper chest.

"BP still dropping," murmured the nurse quietly. "Heart rate is up to 140."

"Tube," the doctor murmured, and Don watched, mouth dry, as the doctor inserted a tube into the opening, and angled it upward. He winced as he watched the doctor gently push it in and secure it to his brother's chest. "Apply suction."

He stepped back, watching the monitors for a moment; then nodded in approval. "Okay, heart rate's coming down, BP coming up, slowly." He watched intently a minute more; then turned toward Don. "Your brother has what is known as tension pneumothorax; air was collecting inside the pleural lining around the lung, which caused the lung to collapse, and put pressure on his lung and his heart. The tube is drawing the air out; he will be greatly improved in a short time, but he'll need to be admitted for a few days, and the tube will need to stay in place while his lung re-inflates."

"You had a nick to the brachial artery, which I've repaired, and you will also need to be admitted for a few days, while that heals. We had to give you a couple of units of blood, and you'll need at least one more. I understand that you're brothers – I can put you in the same room, if you want." He smiled briefly. "It's not like we have all that many to choose from, anyway."

Don's eyes traveled over to Charlie, still out under the oxygen mask. "Yeah, that would be good," he said softly.

"I'll have the nurse get you something for pain, but I need to ask you a couple of questions first. We noticed some minor bruises and abrasions. Do you have any other injuries that you know of?"

Don gingerly moved his legs and his good arm. "No, I don't think so."

"How about your brother?"

Don's eyes again traveled to Charlie. He had no idea what Charlie had faced in that cabin before he got there, and the thought made his stomach twist. "I don't know." He paused for a minute. "He was pretty badly injured a few weeks ago – he had a bad concussion, his ribs were broken, and he had a bullet wound to his leg. His neck was injured, and he was still having some issues with his memory…"

The doctor watched a shadow pass over the other man's face. "Okay, we'll do an exam – it looks like he at least has abrasions on his wrists, a couple of cuts and some splinters in his face, and of course the broken ribs. Split lip, too. Do you know how he might have gotten the recent injuries?"

The expression on Don's face darkened. "He was attacked," he said tersely, and the doctor could see something in the man's eyes that sent a chill down his spine. "He was tied to the leg of a table when I got there."

The doctor nodded, trying to keep his face expressionless. "We're going to take you to a room, and as soon we're done examining your brother, and making sure that his pulse and BP are back to normal, we'll bring him in with you."

"What about the other man?" Don asked.

"He sustained a couple of gunshot wounds, that's all I know," said the doctor. "They were severe enough that they transported him to Maine Coast Memorial Hospital."

Don nodded, and an intern began to move him out of the room. He kept his eyes fixed on Charlie as long as he could, but his mind was on Penfield. As they rolled him out in the hall, he could feel the hatred rising in him, like a dark cloud. He'd dealt with many criminals before, monsters, some of them, and none had ever engendered this emotion in him. He'd never wished death on anyone before, until now.

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End, Chapter 37