When you got right down to it, most hospitals all looked the same. Plain walls, tired, overworked, but somewhat cheerful nursing staff, elusive doctors, sterile rooms . . . it seemed as though these were standard. And despite the familiarity, it still made Alan Eppes' skin crawl with discomfort.
Alan never liked hospitals. He hated them as a boy when he had to stay and have his tonsils removed. He hated them as a teenager, when his best friend had been seriously injured in a car accident. They were uncomfortable when his boys were being born, but Alan went right back to hating them when his wife died. And now, knowing that his eldest son might share that fate, Alan found himself hating them even more.
The waiting room on the operating floor was crammed full of agents still clad in Kevlar vests, all milling about for some word about Don. Alan paused and scanned the room, hoping to see a familiar face.
"Mr. Eppes."
Alan glanced to his right as a tall African American agent not much older than Charlie approached him. He had to think for a minute before the name clicked into place.
"David," Alan greeted, barely keeping a lid on his fear. "What have they said? What's happened? How's Don?"
David led him to a corner of the room where Alan could see Terry sitting, her eyes fixed on the clock over the nurses' station.
"The EMTs got to us pretty quickly, which helped," David answered. "They managed to stabilize him. He took one bullet in the shoulder, and another entered his neck. They're working on him right now."
Alan nodded numbly, sinking into a chair. He looked around again. "Where's Charlie? I thought he was helping you on this case."
David hesitated. "He did . . . he was at the scene . . . he saw it happen."
Ice flooded through Alan's veins. "He what? David, where is he?"
David shook his head. "I don't know. He tried to get to Don's side, but I stopped him. Then he froze for a minute, then took off. I have no idea where he went."
Alan had a few possibilities in mind, and he filed them away. He wanted to go look for Charlie, but his concern for the survival of his other child weighed heavily in his mind.
David seemed to read Alan's mind. "Does Charlie have any friends that might be able to find him?"
Alan nodded. "Larry. At the university. I'll give him a call, he can find Charlie and bring him here."
He began to rise, but David waved him down. "Give me the number, and I'll call. You can wait for the doctor."
Alan observed the agent for a moment, then nodded. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a business card that Charlie had given him. It had his office number, and it had Larry's, in case Alan couldn't reach Charlie. Alan handed it to David with a grateful look, and leaned back against the molded, plastic chairs to wait.
Charlie ran through the streets, oblivious to the strange looks and honking of passing motorists. All he could think of was that he had to get away . . . he had to run.
Don was dead.
It was supposed to be a relatively simple case. Don had approached Charlie a week ago, asking for help with some inconsistent data that was troubling them. They were working on the smuggling case, but they were having trouble finding where the smugglers were hiding. There had been a discrepancy in the electrical output on some of the warehouses in the industrial part of Los Angeles, and Don had wanted Charlie to straighten it out. It had taken some time, and quite a few calls to track down several city workers, but in the end, Charlie had found the right building.
Unfortunately.
Don was dead.
Charlie turned sharply and ran through a park, dodging families out for a stroll. He was suddenly assaulted by a memory from what seemed like ages ago.
"Donnie! Wait up!"
Don stopped and turned, exasperated. "Charlie, just go play! I'm gonna go hang out with my friends, and I don't want you bugging us!"
Charlie slowed, then stopped. A hurt look blossomed over his face. They had all come to the park for some quality family time. Their parents were busy cleaning up their lunch, and had told the boys to play. Don, already fourteen, despised the enforced 'family time' and had asked his friends to meet him at the park. He certainly didn't want his baby brother tagging along.
The five-year-old felt his lip tremble as his heart broke. He couldn't understand why his big brother didn't like him. He watched as Don spun around and continued away from him.
A sudden weight slammed into Charlie, and he cried out as he fell to the ground. He tried to get up, but the weight was holding him in place.
"Not so smart down there, are you?"
Charlie froze at the voice. He turned his head to the side, trying to look up into the face of Dylan Miller, the boy who bullied him relentlessly at school.
"Get off, Dylan!" Charlie yelled, his voice high pitched with pain.
"Make me, runt," Dylan retorted.
Charlie didn't have a chance to reply. Someone barreled into Dylan, knocking him off of Charlie and into the dirt. Charlie immediately rolled to his feet and looked at his savior.
Don stood between Dylan and Charlie, his fists clenched at his sides. Charlie overcame his shock and moved closer to Don, one tiny hand grasping the back of Don's shirt.
"Sticking up for the runt again, Don," Dylan taunted, climbing to his feet. "Don't you get tired of defending him?"
"Don't call him a runt," Don ordered. "And if you so much as look at him again, you're gonna be counting teeth. You got me?"
"Whatever." Dylan tossed Charlie a glare and stalked off.
Don waited until he had moved farther off, then turned around to meet his brother's wide, awestruck eyes. The irritation he had felt earlier wore off, and he smiled.
"Come on, buddy," he said, playfully ruffling Charlie's mop of curls. "Let's go play on the swings."
Charlie let out a sharp gasp and stopped, falling to his knees. He clutched at his stomach, fighting down the sobs that were starting to break free. His brother had always looked after him, kept him safe. And how had he repaid that?
Don was dead.
Looking up, Charlie tried to figure out where he was. He hadn't paid much attention when he had run away, and he had no idea where he was. Or where he wanted to go. He couldn't go to the university. He couldn't go to the hospital. He couldn't go home.
Home.
"Oh, God . . ." Charlie leaned over and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the pristine grass in front of him. His father had barely been able to withstand the death of his mother. How would he take knowing that Don was dead, too?
And that he was responsible.
Charlie's skin crawled as he staggered to his feet. He had to get out of here. He had to go . . .
The solution fell into Charlie's mind, and he knew immediately that it was the perfect one. His decision made, he began to stagger towards the street to get his bearings.