Disclaimer: I thought about pretending I owned Numb3rs and its characters, but severe qualms of conscience prevent me from doing so (= I don't own them).
Rating: T
Timeline: season 2
Warning: The title is Qualms, so you'll have to expect the focus of the story to be on introspection.
A/N: Apologies to everyone with a connection to Lebanon. I don't mean any disrespect, it's just that even fanfiction occasionally needs to borrow some real world references.
Hope you'll enjoy.
Qualms
And above all, you must not breathe a word about this, not to anybody.
You must not breathe a word about this, not to anybody.
Not to anybody.
The words were ringing in Charlie's ears over and over again, the sound waves superposing each other and disintegrating, starting to lose their meaning, filling him with an uneasiness that put him on edge and made him so tense he thought he might snap. He didn't, though. There was no snapping, there was no release of the tension, it always stayed at this point, uncomfortable to the brink of unbearable, never letting go of him.
"Hello, somebody in there?"
He gave a start, feeling as though he'd just jolted awake from a nightmare. In a way, that was what had happened: he was back to reality, at the dinner table with Don and his dad. And yet, his nightmare was still very real as well.
"Sorry, you were saying?"
There was something familiar in the expressions on Don's and his dad's faces, a mix of amusement and exasperation. If Charlie wasn't mistaken though, he could see something else in their eyes, something new, and that was a tinge of worry.
"I was asking you to pass me the salt, like for the third time," Don said. "Seriously, Chuck, this is an extreme form of spacing out, even by your standards."
You must not breathe a word about this, not to anybody.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said while he passed his brother the salt, trying to drown the voice in his head. It was working rather well, but the queasy feeling in his stomach associated with those words was something he couldn't get rid of as easily. He noticed that his breathing had accelerated, he was feeling sick and there was an uncomfortable heat in his head. Those unpleasant sensations left him little room to think clearly, he only knew one thing: he needed to get away from here.
He got up from his chair and continued his mumbled apologies, "I'm not feeling too well, I guess I'm gonna turn in for the night."
He could practically feel the looks his brother and his father exchanged behind his back, but now that he'd opted for retreat, he couldn't get away from them too quickly. Thus, he was already on the stairs when he heard his father call out to him, "Should I make you a bowl of soup? Or a cup of tea?"
To tell the truth, Charlie didn't think he'd be able to hold down anything right now.
"No, thanks," he called back over his shoulder without even stopping, "don't bother."
He could feel the nausea increase, and getting to his room became even more of a challenge when his surroundings started wavering, making him lose his orientation. Eventually, he'd made it to his bed and lay down on his back, but only a few moments later had to sit upright again. Lying down was making everything worse, but sitting up wasn't very pleasant either. He bent forward, holding his head between his knees, tightly, waiting for his world to stop spinning.
Breathe, he told himself, realizing he was having a panic attack, but not sure what he was going to do about it. Breathing sounded like a good plan though.
Just keep breathing, he repeated in his mind when he realized that at least, the spinning hadn't grown worse since he'd put his plan into action.
Surprisingly enough, it actually became better after a few minutes, at least good enough so that he could start analyzing his problem to find a solution instead of merely fighting the symptoms. Ironically, his efforts were somewhat hampered by the nagging little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was about time he started to think about this problem, or it would soon solve itself – and not in a good way.
He took one last deep breath, effectively putting the voice to silence, and decided to bring order to the chaos in his mind by making a mental list of what he did and didn't know. So what did he know? He knew that he wasn't allowed to talk about this project to anyone – and how could he ever forget that with the agents' constant reminders? He also knew that lives were at stake. And he did not know, but he had every reason to believe that his decision on how to proceed in this matter was going to heavily influence what was going to happen with those lives. But there was one more crucial thing that he did indeed know, namely that whatever he decided to do, he needed to do it fast, for if his decryption was correct, they only had two more days to prevent a catastrophe.
He inhaled deeply, feeling as though he had still trouble to properly fill his lungs with air, and was struck by the question of how things could have come to this point. Thinking back, there had been moments when he hadn't felt fully at ease, but today, when he'd confronted his supervisor, he'd been met with a whole new level of uneasiness.
It was some time now that he had been working on this project for the DoD, and to tell the truth, he'd been thrilled when he'd started. After some weeks into the project, however, the magnitude of this operation had hit him and had brought uncomfortable moral issues with it. He'd found himself faced with a kind of dilemma he wouldn't have thought to be possible in real life, but there it was, and he was the one who had to figure out the right answer to it: could he willingly sacrifice the lives of innocent people if it meant serving a greater good?
He ran his hands over his face, feeling his heart rate quicken again, making the nausea return. He swallowed hard, fighting the next panic attack. He needed to remain rational about this. He had to find a solution to this problem, not hide from it. He knew from experience that hiding was no way to save himself from the repercussions of a difficult decision; hiding from his mother's sickness instead of standing by her during the last weeks of her life had proven that to him. He had no choice, he had to man up this time. He had to do what was right.
The problem was: how was he going to find out what the right option was?
You don't understand, the words of Agent Boyer, his supervisor on this project, were echoing in his ears, his voice still evoking the same nausea as before. There is no way we can intervene without the terrorists realizing we've decoded their communication, and once they do, all our efforts of keeping our people safe will have been in vain.
Charlie swallowed hard, his mouth dryer than ever. What was there to be done? Agent Boyer was right, he didn't understand any of these things, he had no knowledge of the terrorists' agenda above the project he'd been hired for. If Boyer said that stopping the attack that Charlie had found out about would thwart the DoD's plans of stopping even greater attacks on American soil in the future, of bringing the terrorist cell down once and for all, then Charlie had to trust his judgment, and that meant he had to stay quiet and let everything go its due course.
But how could he do that? If he did what Boyer had asked him to do, if he kept his silence about the terrorists' plans, that attack would not be stopped, Boyer had made it rather clear that they weren't going to intervene. And that was something that Charlie couldn't let happen, right? On the other hand, what if he did break his silence, what if he told someone else about the imminent attack? Chances were that it wouldn't make a difference anyway, since whomever he would tell would come to the same conclusion as Boyer, that they would be able to save more lives by letting the terrorists win this one battle. And if he told the wrong persons, the repercussions of that knowledge out in the open could be so disastrous that Charlie didn't even want to imagine, for in that case, he might become responsible for an even greater catastrophe to happen. So he didn't really have a choice here, did he? Staying quiet and waiting for this whole thing to be over was all he could do. He had done his job, he'd found out about the attack, but everything after that was none of his business. He just had to back down now, he had to trust Boyer in this matter and leave everything to him and the DoD.
Or did he?
After all, this wouldn't be the first time that more minds could think of a solution that fewer minds hadn't found. What if those future attacks weren't as imminent as the DoD seemed to think that they were? Or what if there was a way to prevent the attack in Lebanon without showing the terrorists their hand?
At any rate, he'd have to try.
Filled with a kind of jittery energy that didn't make him feel a whole lot stronger than before, but at least much more resolute in what he was to do about this matter, he made a decision. He had to confront Boyer, he had to find out what exactly they were up against. If they were asking him for his silence in the matter, he had to make sure first that they'd exhausted all other options.
He'd just yanked his door open to storm out and put his plan into action when he collided with his brother.
"Whoa, hey, I was just meaning to –"
"I'm sorry, I need to take care of something," Charlie interrupted him and was already hurrying down the stairs. "See you guys later," he threw over his shoulder as he grabbed his jacket.
A moment later, he was out of the door.
"So, it seems you're going to stay for the night?"
Don jerked awake from his musings, almost spilling the contents of his beer bottle on his trousers.
"Um, yeah, actually. It's gotten pretty late."
His father nodded with a scrutinizing stare that Don felt X-raying him. There was no doubt on his mind that his dad knew exactly what made him stay tonight.
"Is there anything I should know about?"
Don looked him in the eye. "I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."
The fact that his dad approved of his plans became clear by a slight nod of his head and his next words, "Let's hope for your sake he won't be too long. Good night."
"Night, Dad," Don replied before he turned back to the TV and restarted his musings about the abnormal behavior of his little brother.
Charlie was staring at Boyer, feeling like he was seeing the man, the real man underneath the clean-shaven facade, for the very first time.
"But you must have solid leads," he said in a last, desperate attempt to convince himself that this was all just one big misunderstanding. Boyer simply couldn't be so ruthless. "Otherwise why would you just stand by to let the attack happen?"
"Whether or not we have solid leads is no longer your concern, Dr. Eppes," Boyer said, locking eyes with him in a stare that sent shivers down Charlie's spine. "You've completed your task to our satisfaction, and now your work here is done. I trust you'll abide by the confidentiality agreement you signed, I don't think I have to tell you how severe the consequences would be that you would face otherwise."
Charlie was shaking his head, wondering if this was really happening, if Boyer was threatening him. "Why are you doing this? If you have no reason to think you'll be able to stop graver attacks from happening –"
"I told you, this is no longer your concern. Go home and stick to teaching, Professor, if you can't handle real life politics."
He was still feeling as though someone had put him in some weird, conspiracist-themed reality show, but until he didn't have solid pointers that this was fake, he had no choice but to assume it was real. And in that case, he absolutely needed to change the outcome of this episode. "Listen," he said, giving his voice a deliberately calm and diplomatic tone, "I don't want to do anything that might cross your plans. But if you can't give me a good reason why you're willing to sacrifice those people –"
"Those people aren't American citizens. We're not sworn to keeping them safe, so as I said before, this is no longer your concern." He made a pause, studying him. "I can see this is upsetting you, Professor, but we have to set our priorities. The people who might die in the attack are not that. Now that we finally cracked the terrorists' encryption, we'll be using that for something much more valuable than a few lives in the Middle East. If you had been there yourself, you'd realize how little a life is worth over there."
Charlie was standing there, gaping.
"You can see yourself out."
He was back to shaking his head. "You can't let that happen. You –"
"What we can and cannot do is for us to decide, Professor. As I said earlier, your work here is done."
Charlie bit his lip and started nodding, slowly, his decision taking a more substantiate form with every nod of his head. Boyer might be willing to let this happen, but he certainly wasn't. There had to be people that he could alert, the right people. He couldn't imagine for the life of him that Boyer's decision would sit well with their bosses in the DoD; his whole behavior, the secrecy and the threats, it all suggested that there was some agenda behind all this, one that Charlie was starting to think had little to do with what was in either of their job descriptions.
"Fine," he said while he was already trying to figure out how he could alert Boyer's bosses in time without Boyer being able to deny everything. "I'll go. But what you're doing is wrong, and I suggest you think it over."
With that, he left, failing to see the murderous spark that appeared in Boyer's eyes as soon as he turned his back on him.
Don still hadn't come to a conclusion as to what on earth might be going on with his brother when he was once again jerked away from his train of thoughts, this time by the sounds of tires in the driveway. He frowned. Was something wrong with Charlie's car? He could have sworn that the engine sounded a little higher than usual, but maybe his sense of hearing was misled by the pouring rain.
The mystery intensified when there was not one, but two car doors slamming shut. Don glanced at his watch, it was almost two in the morning. Was it possible that Charlie was bringing Amita home with him at this time of night – on a weeknight?
Still frowning, yet feeling too lazy to get up and look out of the window, Don waited for Charlie to solve the mystery when he was met with riddle number three: a knock at the door.
He got up, wondering if his easily distracted little brother had forgotten his key and immediately dismissing the idea, for he knew Charlie always kept a key of the house with his car keys. Before he'd come up with other theories though, he'd reached the door and spotted the late guests through the peephole, which, however, raised more questions than it answered.
"Good evening," he was greeted, doing the early hour little justice, by the two LAPD officers standing on Charlie's doormat. "I'm Lieutenant Johnson with the LAPD, this is my colleague Officer Humphrey. We're looking for Mr. Charles Eppes, is he here?"
The frown that had never completely left Don's face was back to its full depth. He took a moment to inspect the very real badges they were holding out towards him, then shook his head. "He's not home. What's this about?"
The fact that they glanced at each other instead of telling him off immediately should have made him suspicious. As it was, his alarm bells only started going crazy at their next words.
"May we come in?"
Knowing it was the fastest way to learn what this whole thing was about, Don stepped aside and led the way to the living-room, trying to ignore the raised hackles in his neck.
In order to cut the conversation short and get to the point, Don didn't waste time to wait for the police officers to ask their questions before he gave them his answers. "I'm Charlie's brother, Don Eppes. He went out earlier tonight, but didn't say where he was going. What's this about?"
With some impatience, Don watched them reorganize their previously laid-out speech in their mind before Johnson, the senior of the two, spoke. "We're sorry to inform you that your brother seems to have been in an accident. We found his car beside the road, though there was no one in it. We're now trying to figure out what happened."
"Charlie's missing?"
They all turned around to the stairs where the voice had originated from. Alan Eppes was standing there, a bathrobe over his pajama, and a look on his face that mirrored the shock and fear that Don was experiencing himself.
"It seems like it," Johnson said. Seeing the effect of his words, he added, "It has happened before that victims of a car accident suffered from shock and wandered back home on their own or were quickly found near the scene of the accident, so there's still a chance that this whole affair will get cleared up before morning. However..." He paused for a second and made sure with a quick glance that both Don and his dad had sat down before he continued, "There is reason to believe that we might not be so lucky in this case, because we have some reason to believe that the accident might have been caused by some other party."
Don was still trying to get everything in, so he wasn't at all sure if he was getting this right. "What are you saying?"
"We have found projectiles at the scene of the accident and the state the tires are in suggests that someone might have shot them out in order to force the car off the road." He paused for a second to let that sink in, then asked, "Do you have any idea who might have done something like that?"
Don tried hard to think, to bring order to the thoughts on his mind, but it was of no use. All he kept seeing was his little brother in his car, panicked, followed by some non-descript figures with half-automatic weapons, ducking from their bullets and failing.
The image made him sick.
"What about my brother? Is he –"
He broke off. The brutal scenarios in his head demanded more information, less space to let his all too broad imagination roam freely, but he was afraid to ask this question, afraid it would only stir up his father's imagination. On the other hand, the combination of projectiles and Charlie's accident in one sentence seemed to be enough to stir up any parent's imagination.
"Do you think he was hit?"
The two officers glanced at each other before Johnson spoke. "At this point, we have reason to believe that Charles is still alive. We did, however, find blood on the scene, but before we can tell how exactly it got there or even whom it is from, we'll have to wait for the CSI report."
Don swallowed down the sick feeling in his stomach that had risen to his throat, impeding his speech. He'd meant to stand up, to show his newly found activism on the outside, but found that his knees felt like Jell-O, so speech remained his only method of taking action.
"I'm with the FBI," he said, finding that despite his best efforts, his voice didn't sound nearly as firm as he would have liked. "Charlie's been working for us, so I'll make sure we'll be the ones to investigate this case."
Don wasn't sure what he'd expected and he knew he should have been glad that the LAPD officers didn't put up a fight as to his suggestion. Still, seeing the indifference on their faces and in their postures felt wrong. How could working this case or not be all the same to them when to Don, it felt as though investigating the accident was what he needed to enable him to keep breathing?
He was cold, cold and damp. A thin layer of sweat was covering his skin, leaving him in this uncomfortable, vulnerable state of shaking uncontrollably.
The next thing he became aware of was the pain. It felt as though someone was holding a hot metal bar against his arm, pushing harder and harder. He tried to get away from it, he was squirming, but there was no relief of the heated agony.
Then, there was his head. He could feel the dull headache, and when he'd shaken off his numbness enough to move his right and uninjured arm to his face, he could feel the bump and the dried blood on his forehead, probably from when he'd hit the side window when his car had fallen down the slope.
His eyes shot open, realization hitting him. His memory was back, and so was his fear, and yet, it all seemed so far away as though it had all been just a very, very bad dream. The shots, the accident, his flight through the dark night, through the pouring rain… had that all been real? On the other hand, looking at his surroundings he could hardly choose to believe otherwise.
The cold was creeping deeper under his skin when he realized just how bad of a mess he had gotten himself into. Last night, when he'd sought refuge and found this place, he hadn't been able to see much, but now that he could, he thought that it might have been better this way, for if he had seen the state of this place, he probably wouldn't have stayed a minute longer than absolutely necessary. Yet, rest had been necessary. He didn't know how long he had been hustling through the rain, running from his attacker, before he had felt safe enough to crash here. It had felt like days, but logic told him that it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours, for it had still been dark when he'd arrived here and had found shelter.
He let his eyes wander over his surroundings, trying to gain some orientation instead of letting the panic take a hold of him. For the time being, he couldn't pay too much attention to the fact that he was injured, that he had no idea where he was and that there was someone after him trying to kill him, even though he had to take all that into consideration while he was making a plan.
He needed help, that was obvious. He had to somehow get rid of Boyer, for there was no doubt on his mind that it had been him that had shot at him. He still felt shudders run down his spine when he thought back at those scary minutes, when he'd seen the headlights in his rear-view mirror, when the first shot had rung out. Even though he'd jerked the steering-wheel violently when the tires had developed their own will, his car had stayed on the road for another bit. He'd slowed down considerably though, which had given Boyer an opportunity to get nearer to his car and shoot another tire out. That had finally made him lose control over his vehicle for good. The car had tumbled down the precipice and left him numb and disoriented.
There had been no time to recover his wits however, for before Charlie had fully realized what had happened, the shots had continued, going through the windshield. The first had hit him in his arm, a burning sword slicing through his left biceps, and during the short pause when Boyer must have reloaded his weapon, he had taken flight. The driver's door had been jammed, but cracked open after only one strong push. Charlie had tumbled out, scrambled to his feet and started running. Three more shots had rung out then while he'd made a run for the treeline, one of them so close that he'd felt the bullet pass his ribs, tearing open his jacket, but he hadn't been hit again before the thicket had swallowed him up.
The adrenaline had still been pumping through his body and the sound of the shots had still been so vivid in Charlie's ears that he hadn't stopped running for several minutes, until he'd reached the end of the little wood. There, he'd stopped, panting heavily and leaning forward to get some relief from the stitches in his side. Only then had the numb throbbing in his arm turned into a fiercely burning stabbing that had made him wonder how he'd been able to ignore it for so long. He hadn't dared to examine his injury though, for he'd still been afraid that Boyer had somehow managed to get down the hillside and follow him, even though he couldn't see or hear him anywhere. He'd only made sure that the wound wasn't bleeding much before he had continued his flight for some place where he could feel reasonably safe.
He'd finally found it here, in the outskirts of a rundown residential area. Several houses here seemed to be unoccupied and he'd hogged the first one he'd been certain that was empty. There, he'd taken off his shirt, which had been more difficult and much more painful than he'd anticipated, and had tightly wrapped it around his left arm. He'd planned to stay awake until morning, to keep guard and make sure nobody would attack him in his hiding-place, but exhaustion had gotten the better of him and he'd soon slipped off into a less than restful slumber.
Now, it was the middle of the day, the rain was gone and bright light was seeping through the boarded up windows. Still, Charlie had no trouble seeing that he wasn't the first to seek refuge in this house. At the other end of the room, it must have been a living-room once, he could see a pile of old, dirty blankets, and the bottles of all types of alcoholic beverages and empty potato chip bags suggested that it was also a popular meeting place for teenagers. It was probably a good thing that he hadn't run into them or any homeless people yesterday, for he was well aware that in his current state, he couldn't have defended himself very well.
He took an inventory. His cell was gone, probably still lying in his car somewhere, but at least he had his wallet with him – not that he could see how it was going to help him, not if he wasn't going to leave the house, and that was something he didn't dare to do, not when Boyer was still out there somewhere looking for him.
He carefully got up, using the wall for support and trying to ignore the screaming muscles in his legs. He was thirsty, and he also thought that it would probably be a good idea to clean his wounds. When he opened the water faucet in the kitchen however, he found that the house had obviously been empty long enough for the city to turn off the water. Half against better judgment and not really knowing who he was going to call, he picked up the receiver of the phone hanging at the kitchen wall, but didn't get a signal, and when he tried, the light-switch wasn't working either, so electricity had obviously been turned off as well.
He sighed. Yes, this house had provided him shelter for the night, but it didn't really help him on his way to safety. He had to find some other means – and at the same time, he'd have to figure out what to do about the immanent attack in Lebanon.
The night had been a crazy one, the events rather blurring together than succeeding each other. Don tried concentrating on his breathing, but it was still too fast, bordering on hyperventilation. He had his eyes closed to be able to focus, but his mind kept presenting to him a variety of images, all more than unfit for this endeavor, all centering his little brother, and not in a good way.
He was pressing the palms of his hands against his closed eyes, trying to find a solution to this problem. He couldn't, and what made matters worse was that he'd been failing for almost a day now. It was late in the afternoon and they had come up with absolutely nothing so far.
Megan ended her call and put down her phone, and Don held his breath. Going by merely her end of the conversation, he hadn't been able to judge whether the news were good or bad or devastating, but going by the thin line her lips had become, he was relatively sure he could rule out good.
"The dogs couldn't pick up his scent," she shattered his hopes. She had to see what that was doing to him, for she continued encouragingly, "I'm sorry, Don, but we've known all along it was a long shot. With all the rain last night, it was unlikely the dogs would get us anywhere."
Don just nodded, his throat had closed up and inhibited him from speaking. They were running out of options. While their investigations and the initial crime scene report had led them to believe that Charlie had indeed been forced off the road, that information didn't help them one bit when it came to finding him. Sure, they were trying to figure out who was behind this, but without any proper leads, which they didn't have so far, Don had no illusions. With his consulting work for the FBI, Charlie had made so many enemies over the years that it might take weeks, if not months to go through everything, and that was an amount of time they didn't have. The car itself, while containing enough traces of blood to stir up Don's imagination and sicken him, had revealed nothing as to Charlie's whereabouts, they hadn't found any usable traces near the scene of the accident and neither had Charlie shown up at any of the hospitals. The search dogs had been Don's last ray of hope which now had burnt out, leaving him only with the dark clouds of desperation.
Charlie's mouth was dry. He'd examined the wound in his arm and was relatively sure that the bullet was still stuck in his muscle. And even though that inhibited him from moving around freely, it also seemed to ensure quite well that he wasn't bleeding too badly, and with everything else so not working in his favor, Charlie was immensely grateful for that.
Yet, he knew he had to do something, this problem wasn't going to solve itself. The bad thing was: he still hadn't decided what to do. He just didn't know how to reach a solution to this problem. Normally, he'd probably go to Larry, ask him for advice, but that was an option that wasn't open to him in his current situation.
So what would Larry advise him to do if Charlie could ask him? Well, he'd probably make some cryptic comments that would result in the deep and yet totally unhelpful observation that Charlie already knew what to do. He didn't, though, so he'd have to go on asking around.
He gave a soft, joyless chuckle when he imagined presenting his conundrum to Don. There was no doubt on his mind that his big brother would be doing the right thing, he would get out of this debasing hiding-place secret-agent-style and somehow manage to single-handedly take out both Boyer, the terrorist cell and everyone else connected to this dark scheme, and he'd just laugh at any form of danger that might be lurking on the way. The problem was that Charlie was not Don. He wasn't brave like him, and when the path before him was screaming DANGER at him, he couldn't just ignore that and throw all caution to the wind.
Amita would probably be a completely different story. She'd probably be much too worried about his well-being to tell him to go anywhere except for maybe a hospital. But even though staying cooped-up in this hovel held some appeal to him, something in his mind told him he couldn't just wait here and do nothing until it would all be over. There had to be some other way to deal with this.
Maybe his dad's insights would help? From what Charlie knew about his father, he was pretty sure that he would decide that once human lives were at stake, he had to present a front of passive resistance against the government's wrongdoings, and if passive resistance wasn't going to make the world a better place, he'd have to take more drastic actions. Fighting for one's nation was only good for as long as it was serving mankind, and judging from everything that Boyer had said to Charlie last night, he had some doubts that mankind would really benefit from his silence.
So in an ideal world, his father's take on the case was also rather clear, but Charlie had no illusions about his dad. Alan was a pragmatist, and even though the fight for a juster world might ask some sacrifice from the individual, Charlie was relatively sure that his dad wouldn't actively encourage him to risk his own life just to save others. Sure, he'd be immensely proud of such an act of altruism once it would have actually worked, just like he was proud of Don, but that didn't mean he'd want him to put himself out there.
Charlie sighed. It seemed as though he was back to Larry's advice, to the claim that deep down, he already knew what he had to do. But he didn't, did he? Granted, he knew that the easiest solution would be to stay here until the attack in Lebanon would be over. He had no proof against Boyer, and since the man could deny even having known about the attack, he had nothing to fear from Charlie, which, in turn, meant that Charlie could be reasonably certain to be safe from him once the attack had been committed.
He'd tried to tell himself that he couldn't do that, that mere self-preservation told him that he couldn't just stay here and ride this one out, that he had to get help as quickly as possible. But truth be told, there was no rush. Yes, he was cold and hungry and thirsty and hurt, but the bleeding had stopped and he could survive another day or two in this house – long enough to wait for the attack in Lebanon to occur and for Boyer to lose any interest in him. No, self-preservation was telling him in no uncertain ways that he should just sit here and let this whole thing blow over until it was safe for him to come out of hiding.
He sighed again. He knew it was the truth, it was more rational to stay here until the attack would have occurred. Besides, he could do more good alive than he could by going out there and crossing Boyer. How many lives had he helped saving while working with Don and the team? And how many more lives might follow? Didn't he have some kind of obligation to this unknown number of people to keep himself safe and sound?
He shuddered, a coldness having taken hold of him that was hard to shake off. He knew that his reasoning was sound. Yet, he was also well aware that it hadn't been reason to provide him with that line of argument, but fear, and that was putting a whole different question up on the table: did he have the right to let innocent people in Lebanon die just because he was too afraid to go out there and prevent the attack?
He closed his eyes, knowing the answer. He could never go through with that. He could never live with himself knowing that he'd stood by doing nothing when it had been in his power to prevent a catastrophe.
But was it really in his power? What was there to do? For if he looked at this soberly, he didn't really have a lot of options. He still had to factor in the possibility that Boyer was out there somewhere looking for him, maybe surveilling all the spots he felt safe at, his home, his office, Don's place… Wherever he'd show up, he'd have to allow for the possibility that Boyer would be waiting there for him or find him and remove him from the equation. To make matters worse, the past attack had shown that Boyer obviously had enough to lose to make him ruthless, so Charlie also had to allow for the possibility that Boyer wouldn't shrink from letting collateral damage occur.
And even if he made it safely to one of those safe havens, what was he supposed to do then? He had no idea what Boyer's agenda was, nor who else might be in on whatever scheme he was playing. Sure, he could inform the authorities, but there would always be a risk that his accusation would come to the attention of someone that was on Boyer's side, and in that case, what would Charlie have accomplished? The attack in Lebanon would still be happening, his own life still wouldn't be worth a dime, and, threes being more harm than charm, he'd have pulled even more innocent people into this mess and put them at risk.
No, if he wanted to voice his doubts about Boyer and still stand at least a slight chance of succeeding, he'd have to go to someone that was both worthy of his trust and occupying a high enough position to investigate this matter properly and in time. And since that person also had to be staying at a place he could reach with his limited mobility status, there was only one person that came to mind.
Don could feel his hands trembling. Yes, low blood sugar might have been a cause for that, since he hadn't taken the time to eat anything before he'd left Charlie's house this morning, but he doubted that it was everything to it. There was just no denying, they weren't getting anywhere, and now even his body had realized that and was reacting with the appropriate response.
Don's darkest hour had been last night, when they had decided to call it a day. They hadn't had any more promising leads to pursue and their hope had been that maybe something might pop up over night, like some new evidence from forensics, or a tip sent in as to Charlie's whereabouts. However, as it turned out now, there had been none of that, Charlie remained missing, as he had been for roughly thirty hours now.
"How're you holding up?"
Don flinched and turned around and was immediately met with David's concerned eyes.
He had to swallow dryly to get his ability of speech back. "We need to somehow minimize the pool of suspects," he replied, avoiding an actual answer to his friend's question. "Have Amita and Larry come up with anything by now?"
David made a gesture that was half a nod, half a shrug. "They developed a program that evaluates the likelihood of each of our suspects to be behind this and let it run through our databases. We have a ranked list of suspects now, but Don… I don't know how much that's gonna help us. The highest percentage is about 36 per cent, and there are 23 suspects with a percentage higher than 30 per cent, so we have a giant pool of viable suspects with no one standing out. I just don't know where we should start."
Don nodded to show he'd understood, but even more to buy himself some time. So there were at least 23 people who had a reason to go against Charlie, and why? Because Don had considered it a good idea to introduce him to this world of violence and crime. Now someone of these 23 people had decided to retaliate, and maybe Charlie had already paid the ultimate prize for his ticket into Don's world.
"I should have never let him consult for us."
He was a little startled himself, he hadn't consciously planned to say those words out loud, yet there was no reason to take them back, for they were the bleak, naked truth.
"You can't blame yourself for what happened, Don," David told him, and as much as Don had wanted to hear those words, he felt them blow out without leaving a mark on him. David could say all he wanted, it couldn't change the fact that Don knew he was responsible for this.
"Don, listen to me. I've been with you ever since Charlie's first real case for your team, so let me serve here as an eye-witness. You know just as well as I do that Charlie wants to do this, there's no stopping him. You two make a great team. In fact, he makes a great team with all of us, so instead of blaming yourself, we should concentrate on how to find him."
"Of course," Don said and forced himself to win his professionalism back. If this was his fault, he could at least do his best to make amends, so David was right, they had to make sure to get Charlie back.
"We start with those 23 suspects," Don said resolutely, but unable to ban the tremble from his voice.
David nodded to give his quiet consent, but even in his poor state of mind, Don could feel that there were things on his co-worker's mind that he didn't dare saying, because nobody wanted to hear them.
"You and Colby get to that, Megan and I will go back to trying to retrace Charlie's steps," he added quickly before David could voice his doubts about the successful outcome of their mission.
David gave him another obedient nod and was about to turn away, but halted. Instead of voicing his doubts however, his words took a different direction. "We're gonna find him, Don."
Don bit his lip to prevent the words from escaping his mouth, but the unspoken truth had been kept down for far too long already. "We don't even know if he's still alive," he said in a low voice that hardly sounded like his. He could feel his eyes burning and he blinked, forcing himself to focus on their task again. True, they didn't know whether Charlie was still alive, but as long as there was still a chance that he was, they had to do whatever was in their power to bring him home safely.
"Doctor Eppes," he was greeted by Ambrose Thorndike, the area director of the FBI's L.A. field office. "I must say, your visit is taking me by surprise."
Charlie stood on legs that felt slightly wobbly and stretched out his hand to greet the much larger man, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arm and the dull head-ache. At the same time, he was washed over by a giant wave of relief that almost made him feel a little light-headed. Ever since he'd made up his mind about what to do, he'd never fully believed in actually making it this far. True, when he'd arrived here at the FBI two hours ago, some tension had left him, but he'd still found it too early to feel safe before he'd spoken to the man he'd come to see.
"Let's go inside my office," Thorndike said after his penetrating eyes had taken in Charlie's appearance. "I have to admit, I'm somewhat curious to hear your story."
Charlie just nodded, his throat had closed up. Yes, there hadn't really been any reason to be afraid when he was staying inside the FBI's own building, especially since in front of Thorndike's office on the uppermost floor, there was no foot-traffic whatsoever so early in the morning, but still, the moment he entered the area director's office was the first time in thirty hours that he felt safe.
"You need medical assistance?" Thorndike asked as soon as Charlie had sat down, giving the scratch on his forehead and his arm a meaningful glance.
Charlie shook his head. "I'm okay for now," he said, "but I do need your help, Sir."
Thorndike nodded and let himself sink in his chair with an air of authority that Charlie found quite reassuring in his current situation. "I figured as much," the tall man said. "Now would you mind explaining to me what brings you here when some of our very own agents have been trying to locate you for the past day?"
Charlie opened his mouth to ask, but then thought better of it. He probably shouldn't be surprised that people had been looking for him, not with his empty car wreck lying beside the road with shot out tires.
And so, he told Thorndike his story from the beginning: how he'd come to suspect Boyer of having his own interests in keeping quiet about the imminent attack in Lebanon, how he'd been forced off the road and spent a day in hiding, how he'd waited for nightfall to venture to make it here, to the FBI office. It had taken him almost all night to get here and he was beyond exhausted, but also feeling more at ease than he had ever since having learned about the imminent attack.
"Those are some serious accusations you're making, Doctor Eppes," Thorndike said after a minute of quiet thinking when he'd heard him out.
Charlie nodded. His throat had become dry while talking. "I'm aware of that, and I'm not saying I'm certain that Boyer is dirty. I don't have any proof, but putting everything together that I know and that has happened, I doubt that it's our nation's best interests that he has at heart."
Thorndike nodded thoughtfully. "I can certainly see how you came by that impression," he said with the ghost of a smile on his lips. "But before we actually go against him, I'll have to make sure his plans go indeed against the DoD's intentions as to how to proceed in this case."
"Thank you. That was exactly what I was hoping for when I came here."
"It may take me a while to get to the bottom of this," Thorndike explained. "In the meanwhile, we'll have to make sure that no one learns about your presence here, we don't want to take any chances. Has anybody seen you come in?"
Charlie shook his head no. "Just the security guard downstairs, but he didn't show any signs of recognizing me when I showed him my ID."
"Very well. There's a back-room through this door where you can stay for the time being until we know how to proceed in this matter."
"Thank you, Sir," Charlie said, but hesitated before getting up from his chair.
"Anything else?" Thorndike prompted.
Charlie swallowed, trying to figure out how to phrase this. He didn't like asking for a favor, but he couldn't think of another way to reach his goal, not when he'd be confined to the back-room to Thorndike's office for the foreseeable future.
"Actually," he started and cleared his throat, "I need to inform my family that I'm okay. Would you mind letting me use your phone?"
Thorndike shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we can do no such thing."
Charlie frowned, unsure whether he'd understood him correctly. "What do you mean?"
"If what you're telling me is true," Thorndike explained, "then we'll have to tread very carefully. If we want to nail Boyer, we'll have to make sure he'll go through with his plan, and he won't do that if he suspects someone's onto him. Right now, he must think you're out of the picture, and that's exactly what we want him to think, not just for investigation's sake, but also for your own safety."
When Charlie noticed that his mouth was hanging open, he quickly closed it. "But you said it yourself. There are people looking for me. You'll at least have to tell them, and when you do that, why shouldn't you inform my brother as well?"
"Actually, you're brother and his team are the ones looking for you, and if Boyer is indeed watching our steps, what better way is there to let him think you're still M.I.A. than letting your own brother continue the search?"
Charlie opened his mouth to protest, but Thorndike wouldn't let him. "You told me the attack was planned for some time tomorrow, so we'll only have to keep this a secret for another day. I can understand that you're not happy with this solution, but now that you've come to me for help, this is how it's going to work. You'll stay in the back-room until I've got it all figure out, and then there'll still be time to share the happy news about your safe return."
Charlie swallowed and immediately chastised himself for that. His mouth was dry enough already, he wasn't really helping his agenda by getting rid of the little saliva there still was. "With all due respect, Sir," he tried again, "I've been gone for more than a day, I think my family may be a little worried by now."
Thorndike chuckled softly, but Charlie failed to see the humor in the situation. "I can assure you that they are," he said. "However, by coming here you have made it my job to keep you safe, so excuse me if I don't make a little insecurity on the family front my priority. If you want this whole thing not to blow up in your face, you will do exactly as I tell you, Doctor Eppes, you will stay here and leave every decision to me, and that includes the decision over whom to let know about our plans."
With that, Thorndike had made it abundantly clear that their conversation was over. As a by-product, he also hadn't left any doubt that by coming here, Charlie had traded his freedom for his safety, he had to play by Thorndike's rules if he wanted to get out of this mess without suffering more harm. True, he didn't like the idea of his loved ones worrying and wondering where he was, but in the end, what choice did he have?
"Don."
"Just let me think," Don mumbled through clenched teeth. He didn't know whether his words could be heard by anyone, with his head bent down and firmly held between his hands, but he didn't care, all he needed was to have some quiet so he could think straight, and fast.
Not that Megan would let him have that.
"You've been like this for half an hour, Don," she said. "Whatever it is you're thinking about, it seems you might be more successful if you thought about it out loud. Let us help you."
Don tried to block out her voice, but he didn't manage, he just couldn't concentrate any longer. He tried, but his mind was empty, he was just too tired, too exhausted. Too scared.
So maybe she was right, maybe letting his team in was the best way to proceed.
"I'm trying to remember," he said, his head still held in his hands and restarting the attempt, despite everything. "Something was up before Charlie left the house the night before last, there was something he wanted to take care of. I just can't figure out what it was."
"You remember what he said?" Colby asked.
Don shook his head, though more as a sign of his desperation than as an answer to the question. "Just that, that he needed to take care of something. And try as I might, I can't think of anything he said to point us as to what it was."
"But if he had an agenda on his mind," David threw in, "maybe we're on the wrong track by looking for somebody seeking revenge? If Charlie was onto something, maybe someone wanted to keep him quiet and went after him for that, so maybe this has nothing to do with any of the cases he worked with us."
Don looked up then. He'd stopped breathing. There it was, that was the realization his sub-conscious mind had made long ago, but that his conscious mind had refused to accept. But now that someone else had spoken the words out loud, there was no more denying their truth. There was a real possibility that Charlie had been attacked not by someone they'd put into jail, but by someone who was facing that prospect. And that, in turn, meant that with all likelihood, they'd wasted more than a day looking into suspects that had nothing to do with Charlie's disappearance. Even worse, it meant that they were now empty-handed.
"We need to figure out what it was he was looking into," Colby stated the obvious.
Don merely nodded, his throat had closed up. All he could think about was how they had wasted a day and a half looking into the wrong direction, and that the only one he had to blame for that was himself. He should have realized right from the start that Charlie's abnormal behavior had to be somehow connected to his disappearance, more than that, he should have taken the right course of action. He hadn't, though, and it was only now that he realized that the reason he hadn't looked into that direction right from the start had been fear. After all, it had been so much easier to be doing something, to look into suspects they could actually investigate, than being confronted with this unsolvable mystery without any clue to go on. In fact, it had been so easy that Don had allowed himself to ignore his intuition and interrogate this case as though he was an outsider investigating the disappearance of a stranger and not of his own little brother, of someone he probably knew better than anyone else in this world.
"We should take a look at his garage, maybe we'll find something there that might help us with that. Maybe Larry and Amita can help us figure out what he was working on," Megan suggested.
"I'll talk to our tech guys again, tell them to speed up working to get into Charlie's laptop," David said.
They were about to put their plans into action when Don held them back. "Hold on." He hesitated, not knowing how to phrase his question, but unable to hold it back any longer. He knew he had screwed up. He knew he shouldn't have blocked out his personal involvement in this case. He just didn't know how bad the consequences of his negligence were.
"Just give me your honest opinion," he started, but had to try twice before he could get the question out. "Do you think we're already too late?"
There was a silence that bespoke more than all the words in this world ever could.
"Let's just make sure we find him as quickly as we can," Megan eventually opted for diplomacy, but Don still heard the silent request not to give up hope just yet. On the other hand, it also didn't get past him that her optimism was far too easy-going to be real.
"Doctor Eppes."
Charlie jolted awake and immediately regretted the abrupt movement when he felt the stab in his arm. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but once he had, the heat rose to his head.
"Mr. Thorndike," he said, because it was literally the only thing his hazy mind had come up with while he was struggling to sit upright again. As little as the idea was to his liking, all facts were pointing in the direction that he had fallen asleep some time during the night right there at the desk while working on his case, so that now, he not only had to live with the kink in his neck, but also with the humiliation of being woken up by Don's boss.
"Have you," Charlie stuttered, but didn't know what he was going to say, so he had to start again. "Have there been any new developments?"
True, Charlie had been somewhat involved in the process of gathering more information about Boyer's agenda, but he'd had no illusions that Thorndike's goal in giving him those assignments had been more of an occupational therapy than anything else. And granted, even though Charlie had realized his investigation work wasn't very meaningful, he'd been thankful for the task, for it had kept him from going completely crazy in this small room.
"There have," Thorndike replied, nodding gravely, and Charlie felt the heat in his head increase even further. Now, however, it was caused less by embarrassment and more by a kind of hunting fever, though he wasn't sure whether he belonged to the hunting or the hunted party.
"The attacker is dead," Thorndike went on. "They had him cornered and when he opened fire at the local authorities, they shot him." He paused to give his next words a greater weight. "No further casualties."
Charlie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What about Boyer?" he then asked when he realized it was too early to breathe a sigh of relief.
"We arrested him earlier tonight. He's denying everything, but we've already taken a closer look at his contacts and they suggest he may have been in the pocket of al-Ajami, the leader of a rebel group that has become very powerful in the civil war that's currently raging in Lebanon. Al-Ajami is known to pursue a strict, military government, so my guess is that Boyer's goal was to increase instability in the region to give al-Ajami's group a greater support among the people and thus a greater chance to rise to power."
Charlie was shaking his head, trying to understand. "And he was willing to sacrifice innocent people's lives for that?"
Thorndike gave him a pitiful smile. "I hope your question is rhetorical. You don't actually think Boyer would be the first to do something like that."
Charlie felt a shudder run down his spine. Thorndike's matter-of-fact dealing with this situation was starting to freak him out a little. True, he'd felt safe here for a while, but suddenly, he couldn't wait to get out of here, away from a place that reminded him of how little value some people attached to a human life.
"Then it's over, isn't it?" he asked and couldn't ban the anxious tone from his voice.
Thorndike nodded slowly. "It is. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this is still a matter of absolute confidentiality. You must not breathe a word about this, not to anybody."
Another shudder ran down Charlie's spine. Those words and their tone were eerily close to what Boyer had told him when he'd found out about the imminent attack, and it hit him: this time, Boyer and Thorndike might have been standing on opposite sides of that blurry line that separated right from wrong, but Thorndike's nonchalance about this matter showed that on any given day, he was close enough to that ever-shifting line to peek on the other side. In the end, he too was a pragmatist choosing the best possible outcome for his nation without any qualms about harming anyone or anything else standing in their way. And while Charlie too was eager to serve his nation, he was convinced that there were still means to further this goal that were not acceptable to adopt, that not all was fair in this game of love and war.
"Then I can go?" he asked and stood, impatient to get out of here.
Thorndike nodded again. "I suggest you stop by your brother's office on your way out. He might be rather eager to see you."
Charlie swallowed and forced himself to shake Thorndike's hand. Despite his repulsion of his politics, he couldn't deny the fact that the man had been of invaluable help to him. There was a good chance he even owed him his life.
"Thank you," he said before he fled, but only as the door to Thorndike's office closed behind him did he realize that his agitation was caused not only by his repulsion of the DoD case, but also by the longing to finally come home. Now, however, that he could finally do that, he found himself confronted with another moral issue: how was he going to tell Don that the past 24 hours that he'd been looking for him, he'd been sitting safe and sound just a couple of floors higher up?
Don felt like crying. It was now sixty-two hours that he'd last seen Charlie, and his mind was gradually breaking down. He'd hardly slept for more than two days, he'd been eating very little and as time went by, all he could think about was those damn statistics of missing persons. Yes, there were those who returned safely home weeks or months or even years after their disappearance, but save for some very few exceptions, those were disappearances of the missing person's own free will, and as hard as Don tried to convince himself that Charlie might have for some reason chosen to vanish from the face of the earth, he just couldn't make himself believe it. Even if he could find some explanation for the shot-out tires, it just wasn't like his brother to disappear without a moment's notice, and despite what Don tried to tell himself, he couldn't believe that Charlie would just be gone without leaving their father word that he was okay if he was still able to do so.
In the meanwhile, all their leads had fizzled out. Whatever Charlie had been working on, he'd been diligent enough to hide or encrypt all traces of his findings. True, they were still waiting to get word from several institutions that Don knew Charlie had been working with in the past, but that didn't change the fact that time was running against them. And while Don couldn't help but feel relieved that his negligence of looking into other leads than Charlie's FBI cases earlier hadn't made any difference, the relief was suffocated by the leaden knowledge that they were once more at their wits' end.
"Maybe you should go home, Don," Megan said and Don's head jerked up towards her, a look of incredulity on his face. She couldn't be serious, could she?
"We barely started," he told her, trying not to think too much about the fact that 'barely' in this case meant about three hours, three hours with absolutely no noteworthy results.
"Yes, after having been here till midnight," Megan reminded him.
Don started to protest, but surprisingly enough, Colby came to his rescue. "Just let him be, Megan."
"You really believe he can think straight in the state he's in?"
"So what?" Colby shot back. "Thinking straight or not doesn't really make any difference, does it? Don't you see this is where he needs to be if he doesn't want to go crazy?"
Don was about to tell them that he was sitting right there between them hearing every word they were saying when there was a knock at the door. Before either of them could speak, it opened, and the apparition they saw instantly made all words disappear.
"Hey."
The greeting sounded so out of place that Don was sure he was dreaming. In a way, that would have been the most logical explanation for the sight his eyes were presenting him with.
It was Charlie, alright, but he was looking like a mess. His hair was disheveled and his clothes were in disarray, not to mention the bloody tear in his left sleeve. Don swallowed when his eyes landed on that, remembering the gun shots described in the forensics report.
Then, there was Charlie's face. To say it was pale would have been an understatement, but if it had only been the pallor, Don might not have thought too much about it. As it was, his cheeks were flushed, he had dark smudges under his eyes and the graze on his forehead, even though it had been cleaned, was looking pretty nasty.
And yet, all those things hardly mattered when Don could see with his own two eyes that his brother was standing there, alive and breathing.
Don stood, but had to use the desk for support. His legs were feeling wobbly.
"Where the hell have you been?"
He didn't know why, but it had been the first words coming out of his mouth, and now that he thought about it, he realized that it was indeed the second most important question on his mind.
Not really knowing what was happening, Don watched the impossible occur: his brother's appearance went from pitiful to even more miserable.
"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, his voice thin and trembling.
Don's legs were still denying their service and his mind was still struggling to come to grips with what was happening, but his eyes were effective enough to take in the actions of the quicker-witted people in the room.
"It's so good to see you, man," Colby said in a low voice as he stepped forward and pulled Charlie into a heartfelt half-handshake, half-hug.
"Yeah, you had us worried there," David added and mimicked his partner's gesture.
But it was Megan to ask the most important question, "Are you okay?"
Don watched his brother swallow, then nod, quickly, too quickly to let him believe the truthfulness of his answer. As he watched Megan hug his brother fiercely, he felt a sudden pain in his lip and after a moment realized that he was biting it down hard, hard enough in fact to finally break open the icy layer that had frozen his body and condemned him to immobility.
He took a step forward, but again seemed to be stopped by an invisible wall, as though he was afraid that if he came too close to this fragile bubble of reunion, it might burst.
"What happened?"
When Megan let go, Charlie briefly glanced up at him, but immediately cast down his eyes again. "That's a long story. And I…" He spoke very quickly then and in so low a voice that Don had to strain his ears, "Maybe I could tell you part of what happened during the past two days, but I still can't tell you why it happened, I'm sorry."
Don was about to protest. Something in his mind was telling him to be upset and angry and to demand answers, but when his eyes fell on his brother, on the frail, trembling figure he'd longed to see for more than two days, he just couldn't bring himself to be angry at him.
"Come here," he said in almost a whisper and pulled him to his chest. He made sure he had his arms around him, that he had him standing here, in the flesh, his lungs working under Don's hands, expecting his fears to come true any moment. They didn't, though. The bubble didn't burst, all his senses told him that his brother remained there, not going anywhere, not melting into thin air. Don closed his eyes, relishing this moment when he could feel him here right next to him, living and breathing. What else could he want?
Far too soon, the moment of closeness was gone and Don cleared his throat. He had his brother back, but seeing the state he was in, that was only the first step on a longer road of healing.
"We should get you home," he said, realizing that his voice was still husky. "And we should probably give Dad a heads-up if we don't want him to have a heart-attack."
He'd meant it as a joke, but had to see that it hadn't really been funny. Still serious and looking somehow distressed, Charlie nodded and swallowed, apparently summoning up the strength to say something. "I think we'll have to make a quick stop at the hospital first," he mumbled.
Don frowned. "What's wrong? Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, it's just my arm, I really should get it looked after. And I think I might need some antibiotics, I may have caught an infection."
Don's frown became deeper. "You didn't get the wound treated?"
Charlie shrugged and was apparently aiming for a sheepish grin, which, however, ended in a grimace. "I didn't really have the opportunity."
Don nodded slowly as though he understood, but at the same time made a mental note to get to the bottom of how exactly his brother had spent the past two days.
That, however, was not on top of his list of priorities.
"You guys will get all those files back to where they belong, okay?" he told his team. He couldn't wait to get his brother the help he needed, but he didn't really want to find a reminder of their most recent ordeal the next time he'd set foot in the office. "I'm taking a personal day."
It wasn't until they were in the elevator riding down before Don dared to break his self-imposed vow of silence. "So what happened?"
Charlie grimaced and showed all signs that the question had inflicted physical pain upon him. "I told you, I can't tell you, I'm sorry."
Don wasn't stupid, nor callous. He realized that his brother had been through a lot. But that wasn't good enough. He'd been patient, he'd been understanding, but even he had his breaking point. "We've been looking for you for more than two days, buddy. I was starting to think that we were never going to find you, or that we were going to find you dead in a ditch somewhere. I think I deserve more than 'I'm sorry'."
Charlie cast down his eyes again and Don had to restrain himself mightily not to pull him into a hug and tell him that he hadn't meant it, that the important thing was that he was safe and that everything was going to be fine. But he didn't know that, did he? So he really couldn't be comforting his brother, not if he actually cared for his well-being.
"It's about national security," Charlie's low voice fought its way through to his ears. "As much as I want to, I can't tell you anything more than that."
"You said you could tell me what happened, just not why."
It was then that Charlie deployed his secret weapon, that imploring look that seemed to let Don look right inside him into the depths of his damaged soul. "I can, and I will. But please… can we do that later? And not here?"
Don had known he had lost as soon as he'd been hit by the look in those chocolate-brown eyes. "Alright," he said and paused, summoning up his stamina, for there was one more thing he needed to have an answer to. "It's over though, isn't it? You're okay, and you're safe now."
The still trembling figure of his broken little brother gave him a nod, and Don decided to give those verbal and non-verbal communication pointers more attention than his appearance.
"Okay then," he said as though that nod had appeased him. After all, he'd make sure personally that Charlie was alright until he'd have heard the full story from his lips, so in a way, the question had been moot anyway.
They'd reached the underground parking and the doors of the elevator opened. Don put an arm around his brother's shoulders and led him towards the car, trying to look over the fact just how unstable Charlie seemed to be on his feet. He tightened his grip. He had the impression that he literally had to keep his brother together in order to prevent him from falling apart, and the urge to know what he'd gone through during the past two days became so strong that it was constricting Don's chest.
For now, however, he had to exercise patience, and he managed, although his self-imposed restriction led his speech to be much more nervous and rambling than it usually was. "We'll just make a quick stop at Huntington to get you checked out and then I'm gonna take you home," he said while he was trying to shut up the voice in his head that was telling him that he didn't really have reason to believe that their stop at the hospital would be as quick as he hoped. However, he just couldn't stop thinking about the promise of home, of a nice, comfortable evening with his family. "Let's give Dad an opportunity to get some food into you. Into all of us, actually." And then you'll finally tell me what the hell is going on, he silently added in his mind.
Charlie twisted his lips to something that Don guessed should have been a smile, and even though all he could see on his face was still nothing but pain and exhaustion, he knew that he should be content with a start like this. "Sounds like a plan," Charlie said.
Don waited, he could sense that there was something else on his brother's mind, but he remained silent. He swallowed uneasily. Charlie was safe now, wasn't he? Whatever had happened, it was over, he had said so – right?
It wasn't until they were sitting in the car that Charlie broke his silence, and Don held his breath.
"Don… I'm…." He swallowed nervously. Don tried to read in his eyes what was about to come, but Charlie kept averting them. Or rather had averted them, for he was looking up at him now. "I don't know how to say this, but I'm… I'm proud of you."
Don frowned and Charlie shook his head, obviously not content with his little speech. "I didn't mean to make it sound so condescending. I just… I wanted to thank you."
Don noticed that Charlie's breathing had become quicker, an obvious sign for his nervousness, so he tried to calm him down to get to the bottom of this.
He laid a hand on Charlie's leg, hoping the contact would have a soothing effect on him. "I'm sorry, buddy, but you're not making a lot of sense."
Charlie tried taking a deeper breath then, and although he was still trembling, it seemed to calm him down a little. "It's just that every day, you're confronted with all those horrible things that people do to each other. And yet, you always manage to do the right thing. You still think that every human life has a value that is greater than anything else. I just… I just want to thank you for being you, because whenever I'm lost, you always show me what is right."
Don was shaking his head. As flattering as those words were, he knew he didn't deserve them. There were so many instances on the top of his mind where he was anything but certain that he'd done the right thing, the most prominent incident being his behavior in investigating this case. Far from doing the right thing, he'd let his fear take over and thereby let his brother down, big-time.
"Look, Charlie," he started, but couldn't go on. A lump had formed in his throat as if his sub-conscious was trying to prevent him from saying the words. For he didn't want to say them, he didn't want to stop being his brother's hero, but he knew they both needed to hear the truth eventually. "I think it's nice you think of me like this, but I'm simply not that. I make mistakes all the time and..." His voice was gone then, the memory of his latest mistake getting the better of him.
"And you always try making them right again," Charlie took over. "That's what matters, Don. You don't content yourself with the easy answers, and that's something that shouldn't be taken for granted. But I guess until recently, I always did take it for granted, because I hadn't realized how hard it was, so… thank you for being someone I can look up to. If it hadn't been for you, I don't know if I would have done the right thing."
Don still didn't know what to say, because he still didn't think he deserved his brother's praise. Until he knew the details of what had happened to him though, he couldn't argue with him very well. "I'm glad that's what you think of me," he therefore chose the diplomatic answer. "But let me tell you, buddy: next time you consider taking me as a role-model, you should think again."
Charlie leaned back in his seat and shook his head. His eyes were closed and now that he had gotten that off his chest, he seemed to be much calmer than before. "I don't think so. It might not have been an easy decision, but actually, I'm quite happy with the way things turned out."
Don watched him from the side, watched his rib-cage rise and fall with a regularity that made him feel at peace and was hit by the realization that it was actually over. Sure, there still might be some things they needed to work out, but what mattered was that Charlie was back, and if Don could believe his words, that was at least partly because he'd used his big brother as a role-model, so despite what evidence suggested, Don must have done something right.
"Look," Charlie spoke again, turning his head towards him in a way that let his exhaustion show all too clearly. "I know I owe you an explanation, but could you drive me to the hospital first? For I'd really like to finally have that bullet removed."
"Right," Don said and hastened to turn on the ignition. Despite Charlie being alive and relatively well, he still needed medical attention, so Don had to take care of first things first. There'd be time to get to the bottom of this later. For the time being, he had to content himself with the knowledge that Charlie was happy with the outcome of his endeavor. And if his battered and bullet-bearing brother was happy with how things had turned out, then so was he.
- finis -