Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series

Chapter 36: Save My Life, I'm Going Down for the Third Time

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Pete slumped in a camp chair and sulked, his wandering eye as focused as it could get. That dad-gum gigilo from Cal-uh-for-ni-A was bent over the cooler with his Minerva, and he didn't like it one little bit. They was pretendin' to pack up the picnic, but their heads didn't need to be so close for that!

He harrumphed, stood from the chair and hitched up his baggy jeans until they darn-near met his sagging pectorals, and took a step in their direction.

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Minnie offered Alan a container of pickles and blew her gray hair out of her face. "It's a hot one today," she noted, and let her gaze wander toward the docks. Don and Charlie were both out of sight, now. "I'm hoping that young'un's all right. He's been a mite quiet this visit." She heard her own words and chuckled, reaching into the cooler with the bowl of olives. "Not like he was givin' any wild parties the last time, you understand."

Alan wedged the pickles in-between the potato salad and the hot dogs, and laughed. "Can't say that surprises me," he admitted, brushing Minnie's hand as he took the olives from her. He smiled into her eyes. "He's always worn his heart on his sleeve." He pivoted his own head to look in the direction of the docks. "Now Donnie, he plays his hand a little closer to the chest." He looked back at Minerva, winked, and tilted his head toward Ana, who stood several feet away, still drinking in the view. "That's why I'm so pleased about this new relationship. He seems so open and peaceful with Ana." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Plus, she seems to understand how close the brothers are, and encourages that relationship. Like just now, when she suggested Don go to Charlie."

Minnie was pushing items around the cooler, trying to find enough room for a plastic bag full of cheese cubes. Why was it that even though they'd eaten over half of the food they brought, they couldn't fit the leftovers back into the cooler? "Ayup," she murmured distractedly. "Your sons seem mighty close." She finally gave up and just dropped the cheese on top, and grabbed the lid to the cooler, intending to jam it on by force. She paused long enough to grin at Alan. "Got yourself a couple of fine boys, there. You and the missus did a right good job."

Alan beamed, placing his hands over Minnie's as they combined forces to manhandle the cooler. Pete, just a few feet away by now, saw the smiles, the touch…and red. He had been moonin' around after this ol' biddy since the winter after her husband died, and dad-gum-it, enough was enough.

The grace with which he launched his body into space was truly a remarkable thing. The growl that tore from his throat would have frightened the dead, and the accuracy with which he wrapped his hands around that pretty boy's throat, was a thing of beauty.

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Don limped back into the fray right about the time Pete's right hook connected with Ana's jaw, causing her to yelp and stumble backwards into Minnie, who was holding a hand over one eye and didn't see her coming. Soon both women were flat on their backs in the grass. As if seeing his father attacked hadn't been enough motivation for Don, the insult to his woman thoroughly pushed him over the edge. He heard a mountain lion roar (even though later Minerva assured him there were no mountain lions in the area, and that noise had been him), and before he had time to plan what he was going to do, Crazy Pete was lifted clean off his feet and tossed nearly twenty feet across the clearing.

Didn't seem to bother Don's healing arms at all, and he stalked after the man. He fully intended that the next toss would be over the cliff into the rocks Ana had found so lovely. If Alan hadn't scrambled to his feet and run to plant himself between Don and Pete, it probably would have happened that way, too. As it was, Don had to clench his fists at his side to keep from cold-cocking his own father. "Let me at that sorry son of a bitch," he seethed, and Alan tried to talk him down.

"Don, get a hold of yourself. He's a crazy old man, and you've got murder in your eye! We're fine, son, he didn't hurt anybody!"

Ana had quickly regained her feet and was suddenly clutching at his elbow, breathing hard. "Sweetheart, just let him go. Let him go. Your father is…"

Minerva's sharp voice interrupted. She had older bones and was a little slower to rise, but when she was up again, right away she saw that something was wrong with the picture. "Where's Charlie?"

Crazy Pete was half-crawling, half-running for the hills, and Don had been about to drag Ana and his father with him while he chased the old coot down, but the question and the fearful tone with which it was asked stopped him short, as nothing else could. He turned to look toward the dock, confused. "He's right behind me," he started, but stopped when the familiar sight of a curly-haired tourist on crutches wasn't where it should have been.

He looked questioningly at Minnie before turning to Ana. "Are you all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he took a step toward Alan. "Dad?" Crazy Pete was already out of sight.

Alan rubbed at his throat and nodded, glancing worriedly toward the dock. "I'm fine, son, he just surprised me. Maybe Charlie needs help getting back up here?"

Don ran an exasperated hand through his hair and turned instead toward the women. Ana's jaw was already showing signs of bruising, and he winced as he reached for her. "My God, what got into that old man? Baby, I'm so sorry!" He glanced up at Minnie, who had joined the group but still stared toward the docks. Taking in what he knew would be a shiner in the morning, Don's voice grew authoritative. "There's ice in the cooler. You both need…"

"Shut-up," Ana barked, and Don's mouth gaped.

His eyes grew wide. "What?"

She pawed at his shoulders, turning him toward the docks, then slipped a hand into his and starting dragging him away. "I mean, I love you," she answered. "Let's go find Charlie."

Alan was nodding and prodding him in the back as he passed. "Go, go. I've got Minnie." The eldest Eppes caught a glimpse of the woman, hands on her hips, wild gray halo of hair flying around her head as if trying to escape, scowl on her face; and grimaced.

She scared him more than Crazy Pete.

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When Charlie tumbled backwards off the dock, his terrified yelp was over-screeched by a particularly hungry gull, and no-one heard him. Not his brother, just a few feet ahead of him, nor any of the other tourists farther down the dock. His crutches clattered on the wood that his hands automatically scrambled for during the 20-foot drop to the water. While he had started the dive in the shape of a "V," the weight of the heavy brace on his right leg straightened him out, and he parted the water in a completely vertical, almost soundless and splashless entry. Judges would have no doubt awarded a string of perfect 6's.

Unfortunately, he had also opened his mouth to cry out again, and instead ended up ingesting a pint of the Atlantic. He tried to sputter, but he was already underwater, his hair limp around his face like seaweed, so the bubbles he expelled were rapidly replaced by even more water. His hands thrashed frantically and he tried to kick with his legs toward the surface. In his panic he did not feel the pain as he tried to move his right leg. He couldn't think clearly enough to remember why that leg was so much heavier, and he became convinced that some creature of the sea was pulling at him, dragging him home for dinner. He turned in ineffective circles in one place, sinking ever lower, until one hand connected with something slimy, and solid,

Even in his terror he understood he had found his potential savior, and he fought to find purchase with his other hand and wrap his good leg around the dock piling. His hand slipped off the slime, once, a swell of the ocean knocking him back, and he screamed, taking in another quart of seawater before he found the piling again.

Charlie was losing all sense of direction, self-preservation and consciousness by the time he was wrapped around it, and he was having difficulty remembering exactly why he had placed himself in this position.

Perhaps he should just let go.

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Don gritted his teeth against the pain and managed to jog down the ramp leading to the dock, this time. If Ana hadn't been balancing him on his bad side, he no doubt would have tumbled head-over-heels. As it was, he practically ran head-on into a group of teenage tourists leaving the dock.

"Hey!" protested the boy he'd nearly taken out. "Watch where you're going, dude!"

"Yeah," piped up a younger variation of the teen. "No fire here."

Don had skidded to a halt and interrupted, breathless. "Brother," he panted. "Crutches?"

One of the females stepped forward from the back of the group and addressed the boy who had spoken first, apparently the group's leader. "Scotty, I told you something was weird about a pair of crutches just lying on the dock like that!"

Don gasped and tried to peer around the group to where he and Charlie had been sitting and Ana squeezed his hand. "Where?" asked the doctor. "Where did you see that?"

Scotty shrugged. "Right down there near the end, when we was leav…" He never got a chance to finish. Don was dragging Ana through the middle of the group of teenagers, heading for the last place he had seen Charlie.

As he broke through the other side of the group and looked toward the end of the dock, the glint of the sun off the abandoned aluminum crutches almost blinded him. "Oh, my God," he breathed, breaking into a run again, visions of the inevitable playing across his imagination like a macabre slide show. He spoke to Ana with certainty, his eyes never leaving the crutches splayed on the wooden dock. "Charlie's in the water!"

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Instinct had propelled Charlie to inch his way up the slippery piling, often losing whatever ground he'd gained when a swell of the ocean combined with the slime to send him in the wrong direction. By the time the top of his head finally cleared the water, he was beyond exhausted. One more heave and he knew he was up as far as he was going. He held on for dear life while he coughed and spewed out as much water as he could.

His left leg was wrapped around the submerged piling, and his braced right leg slammed into it with every breath of the ocean. Both arms surrounded the cylindrical concrete, which he had been relieved to discover grew a little less slimy once it no longer lived surrounded by water, and his cheek rested on his arms.

His body was racked by shivers made worse every time he tried to take a deep breath that collapsed into another coughing fit. Between hacking up seawater, the roar of the ocean and the din of the seabirds that nested under the dock and resented his intrusion, Charlie didn't hear his brother calling his name. He had just about regained enough of his senses to decide that something had to be done – his arms were growing tired – when he was almost frightened off the piling by something that hurtled off the dock above and slammed into the ocean a few feet from him. Good Lord, what now?

Charlie moved his head as much as he could while still gripping the piling and stared with wide and frightened eyes at the churning water just a few feet away, where something large was struggling to reach the surface. His teeth chattered and he had the sudden urge to cross himself, even though he wasn't Catholic. What was going to pop out of there, and was it going to kill him, after all this?

When the body broke free of the water and began preparations for another dive to the murky depths below, Charlie was so shocked he couldn't speak for a moment. It was lucky that when he did, the ocean was resting between swells, and most of the birds had fled in an affronted huff. Not to mention that under the dock as he was, an echo was added to his voice that lent volume; otherwise, there was no way anyone could have heard him. "D-d-d-don," he chattered, his weary arms slipping a notch. "Wh-wh-what the hell are y-y-you doing?"

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End, Chapter 36