Chapter Ten
7:00 pm
The E.R. at Rampart General was filled with people. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, janitors, relatives, the walking wounded – all were moving about in the frenzy of controlled chaos that defined every emergency room Don had ever been in. Usually, he was one of the many law enforcement officials escorting perpetrators or victims needing treatment. At times, in the past, he had been with college roommates who'd managed to relearn the laws of gravity after having a few too many beers. Once in a while it had been for himself – a broken arm when he was eight, a head on collision with a baseball at twenty, the cut on his thigh from a knife wielding crack-head at thirty-one.
He was well acquainted with the way it all worked and he'd been able to deal with it. It was just how it was. You came in, you waited endlessly for a room, and you waited some more. This time, though, it was different. This time it wasn't some hardened criminal who'd taken a bullet during an attempt to flee arrest. It wasn't some victim he was trying to squeeze information from while they waited for treatment. It wasn't a drunken friend. It was Charlie.
It was Charlie who'd been wheeled away into a treatment room with an oxygen mask over his face and tubes in his arms. It was Charlie whose bare chest had been covered with blood-soaked bandages. It was Charlie whose face was so bruised and swollen he was almost unrecognizable. It was Charlie who had lain so still in the ambulance that Don wasn't even sure he was still breathing half the time. Only his lips had moved, with barely perceptible motions, as he continued to recite the number sequence Don had told him was so crucial. But when the ambulance had stopped, and the stretcher was lowered, Charlie's body was jostled as the retractable legs were released. He moaned then, and even his mouth went still.
Yes, the E.R. was full of people. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, janitors, relatives, the walking wounded – but he saw none of it. He was alone in his grief and his guilt and was oblivious to the bits of life that orbited around him. He stood at the yellow line on the floor that marked the boundary between the waiting area and the exam rooms. He stood there and stared in the direction they'd taken his brother. His eyes never left the door of Treatment Room 4. People passed in and out of his line of vision but he wouldn't let them distract him. Inside that door was Charlie.
"How long has he been standing there?" David turned, and acknowledged the doctor standing next to him. The distinguished looking man was a stranger to him but his voice was filled with a worry and an urgency that told the FBI agent that he knew Don, knew him well enough to be concerned.
The man realized that David was eyeing him and he turned to face him. "Sorry. I'm Paul Wentworth. I'm Don and Charlie's uncle."
A relay clicked in David's head. "Uncle Paul the cardiac surgeon," he stated rather than asked.
Dr. Wentworth smiled slightly. "That would be me. Has he been standing there since they came in?"
David nodded. "He won't move. I tried to get him to sit down but I don't think he even knows I'm here. I've …" David studied the man beside him, wondering how much he should say. The kind, understanding eyes told him he could be honest. "I've never seen him like this," he confessed.
"He's most likely in shock. Look, I've arranged for you to occupy a conference room. It's down the hall there, second door on the left." Wentworth pointed to a door marked "Hospital Personnel Only". David could see a hallway through the glass panel.
"Alan should be here soon. Would you take him there? I'll talk to Don, find out what's going on, then meet you there."
Sinclair nodded, thankful to have something to do. "I got it covered."
The doctor nodded, then walked slowly toward his nephew, stamping down his own growing concern and focusing on what needed to be done first. When Alan had called him, he was almost incoherent with fear. It was only when a woman, an Agent Lake, he thought, got on the phone, that he was able to figure out what was going on. Charlie had been injured in an FBI 'situation'. He wanted to ask what exactly the 'situation' was, but he knew better than to try to get information from the feds. Don was always the picture of reticence when discussing his work.
Paul used his training to assess Don's condition as he approached. He could tell from the way Don held himself, it was bad. Whatever the 'situation' had been, whatever had gone down, it was enough to drive him into a state of near shock. He was going to have to handle this very, very carefully. And he was going to have to do it before Alan arrived. If his gut feeling was correct, they would need each other. Gently, he maneuvered himself into Don's line of vision and put a hand on his arm. "Don?"
Don's line of sight was suddenly blocked by a white wall. He waited for it to go away, as the others had, but it didn't. He was forced to look up. The face in front of him was familiar, caring. Don blinked a few times. "Uncle Paul."
"Hello, Don. I came as soon as I heard."
"They won't tell me anything," Don informed him pleadingly. "They've been in there forever but they won't tell me anything."
With a practiced move, Paul grasped Don by the elbow and led him away from the yellow line. At first, his nephew resisted him, and tried to pull away, but Paul Wentworth had dealt with enough traumatized families over the years that he knew how to handle obstinate relatives. He made sure his face was clearly in Don's line of vision and he spoke clearly and slowly. "I will find out what's going on. I promise. But first, you need to move. You're blocking the way and hospital personnel need access to this area."
"But Charlie …"
"Charlie is in good hands, Don, I work with these people, I know them. They will take good care of him. But you need to move out of the way. You can't help Charlie by standing here."
Reluctantly, Don allowed himself to be led away but his head swiveled around and he watched the treatment room door as he walked. When he had been pulled far enough around the corner that the door vanished, he looked over at his uncle, who was looking at him expectantly. He realized, belatedly, that he must have asked a question.
"What?"
"I asked you what Charlie's injuries were." The how and why would come later, right now Paul only wanted the relevant facts.
"Um …" With a supreme effort, Don forced his brain back into agent mode. Uncle Paul needed information. He had information. He could do this. "Uh … he's been badly beaten … um … possible head injury … gunshot wound to the chest." As Don said it aloud for the second time, the reality of the situation caught up with him. His eyes widened in panic and his knees began to buckle. "Oh my God, he's been shot. Charlie's been shot." The blood began to drain from his face.
Thankfully, they were passing in front of a row of unoccupied chairs and Paul expertly maneuvered him into one before he collapsed. He forced Don's weak knees apart and bent his nephew so his head was between them. "It's okay, Donny. It'll pass. Just breathe. Breathe, now. It's okay. It's going to be okay."
Don listened to his uncle's soft, comforting words but he didn't believe them. It wouldn't be okay. Not now, not ever. He'd failed. He'd failed to protect Charlie. He'd promised his father he'd keep his brother safe and he'd failed. This mantra kept repeating itself over and over in his head while he struggled to pull air into his lungs in deep, even breaths. When he no longer felt as if the floor was going to open up and swallow him, he raised his head.
"Easy, Don. Easy," Paul coached as he helped Don sit up. He looked carefully into Don's worried face and read the fear and self-reproach in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to get Don into the conference room and away from the hubbub of the ER but he knew he couldn't, not yet. "Listen to me, Don. If you promise me you will sit right here and not move, I will check on Charlie and come right back."
Don almost choked on bitter laughter. He didn't know if he could keep any more promises, but he was willing to try. He had to know if Charlie would live or die. Slowly, Don nodded.
"I have your word? You won't move? You won't try and get up? Or do anything stupid?"
"You have my word, I won't move." Don had already done something stupid. He'd left Charlie alone.
"Okay, then, I'll be right back."
Don watched his uncle walk away. He put his arms across his thighs and hung his head. He noticed then that the knees of his pants were crusty with dried blood; Charlie's blood. He was assailed by the memory of the smell of it as it poured out of his brother's body and onto the floor. It had been mixed with the chalky odor of concrete dust and building lumber, and the musky odor of his own fear. He remembered the slick, sticky feel of it on his hands as he held down the makeshift bandage. Without warning, his stomach lurched and Don launched himself at the trashcan nearby. Years of FBI training, dozens of desensitizing crime scenes, all went out the window as he emptied his stomach contents onto candy wrappers and coffee cups.
Someone was pressing a wet paper towel into his hand and he straightened. A young candy striper stood next to him, a cup of water in her hand. "It happens all the time," she said by way of explanation. Don wiped his mouth and nodded. Then he rinsed the harsh taste of bile from his mouth with the water. The girl smiled, and left him then. He watched her walk away. Remembering his promise, he sat back down on the chairs and waited for his uncle. He returned in a surprisingly short amount of time.
"Don, I need you to come with me," he announced abruptly.
His now empty stomach dropped. "He's dying." He choked on the words.
"No. No Don, he's not dying." Paul immediately regretted the tone he'd used and softened it. "I need you to listen to me, okay? Charlie's very agitated. He needs surgery and he won't cooperate until he sees you."
"Why …?"
"I don't know, he won't tell me. But we need to get him upstairs as soon as possible. Dr. Mudamga doesn't want to have to sedate him any sooner than necessary because of the head wound, so I want you to come and see if you can calm him down."
Don nodded. "Okay."
He followed Paul down the previously forbidden hallway and into the treatment room. Charlie lay pale and still on a gurney. Equipment of all kinds was attached to him at different points on his body – I.V.s, heart monitors, an oxymeter. A bag of blood dripped a steady supply into Charlie's arm. They'd stripped off his clothes and covered him with a blanket. As if in a dream, Don stepped closer. He see that Charlie's mouth was moving, he was trying to convey a message to the nurse beside him but she kept trying to shush him.
"Charlie?" he called, raising his voice above the beeps and whirrs of the machinery.
Painfully, Charlie turned toward his brother's voice. Don could see relief flash through Charlie's good eye. "Don."
Don didn't so much hear his name as recognize it from the way Charlie's swollen lips moved. He moved close and leaned over, close enough that he could hear the ragged wheezing as Charlie struggled to breathe. He carefully picked up Charlie's right hand, making sure not to disturb the deep I.V. needles that disappeared into his skin. "I'm here, buddy. I'm right here. Uncle Paul said you needed to see me."
"F'rgot …."
"Forgot what, Charlie?"
"F'rgot … where left off. F'rgot … next number … in th' sequence."
It took Don a few seconds to process what Charlie meant. Leave it his brother to think of numbers at a time like this. "It's okay, Charlie. I don't need any more numbers. I got all I needed."
"Y' sure? … 's okay?"
Don put his fingertips gently against Charlie's unmarked cheek. "Yeah, Charlie. You did great." Don could sense the tension leave his little brother as they spoke. "You need to rest now, Charlie. You need to let these people take care of you, okay?"
"'kay." Charlie's eye closed and his face relaxed a bit. Don removed his hand from Charlie's face and started to pull his fingers away. With a grip that surprised him, Charlie held on. He was looking at Don intensely. His lips moved and Don leaned close again. "What is it, Charlie?"
Charlie pulled in as deep a breath as he was able. Even in his stupor, he knew he had to say this one thing. It was crucial and he didn't want to mess it up. "Not your fault," he croaked hoarsely. "No way you could know." Don didn't need to speak. Charlie saw his reaction very clearly. He'd been right. "Promise me …"
A tear slipped down Don's face. He didn't know if he could face another promise. "What, Charlie?"
"D'n't blame y'self." Charlie waited but Don didn't speak. "Promise, Donny."
"Charlie …"
The fingers on his hand tightened. "Need you … be strong… can't be strong … if blame y'self."
Don nodded. "Okay, Charlie. I promise."
"Terry …"
"What about Terry?"
"Let her … help you… help Dad …"
"I will." Don saw his uncle and a strange man who must be Dr. Mudamga come into the room. "I have to go now, Charlie. Don't give Uncle Paul a hard time anymore."
"'kay. Donny …" Charlie's voice gave out. But he didn't need to say it. It was written on his face.
"I love you, too, buddy." Don told him, his fingers gently brushing Charlie's cheek one last time.
Later, Don would not remember how he made it from the treatment room to the conference room. He would only remember that someone sat him down and pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. He was only peripherally aware that his father had arrived and was speaking with Paul by the door. Time meant nothing. His inner pain meant nothing. All that mattered was that Charlie didn't blame him. He didn't have to ask for forgiveness or absolution, for his brother did not hold him responsible for what happened.
"Donny," Alan's voice was soft, gentle. "Look at me, son."
But Don refused to look at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I … didn't … I didn't do my job."
"What job, Donny?" Alan knelt on the floor and laid his hands on his son's encrusted knees. When David had called and Terry had relayed the message, he'd about had a nervous breakdown. But the initial shock had worn off. He'd spoken with Paul and was assured that everything was being done that could be done for his boy. He was still desperately worried about Charlie and right now he could nothing for him. But he could help his other son. He could help Don.
"I promised I would keep him safe," Don continued, brokenly. "It's my fault."
"No, Donny, it's not your fault, do you hear me? You said you would do everything you could to keep Charlie safe and you did. This … this … Carlson, he was what Charlie would call an anomaly. You can't predict an anomaly, Donny. You of all people should know that." Don remained silent. "You don't think Charlie would blame you, do you?"
Don shook his head. "No, he doesn't. I know he doesn't. He told me. That's why he wanted to see me. He wanted to tell me …"
"See there? Charlie needs us right now, Don. He needs us to be there for him. I need you to be here for me."
"Blood," was all Don could say.
"Blood, Don?"
"There's blood all over me. It's … it's …" Don's voice failed him and he looked at his dad.
Alan's heart skipped a beat in alarm. The emotional agony Don was feeling was clearly evident in his son's eyes. He saw that Don was looking down again, at his knees. It was then that Alan realized exactly what the crusted material under his fingertips was. He pulled his hands away quickly, as if they'd been burned.
Don couldn't help but see the motion and looked at his father again, his face distorted into a pained grimace. "Oh, God, Dad," he whispered. "There was so much blood."
A hand touched his shoulder and he slowly looked up. Terry stood there at his side, her face a mask of concern. "David told me …" She started to say something then changed her mind. "I brought you a change of clothes," she substituted. "Your uncle gave me the keys to his office. There's a private bath. You can shower and change."
Don stood up on shaky legs. "I can't. I can't leave Charlie."
"Charlie's in surgery," Alan told him. "And your Uncle Paul is in there with him. He said it would be several hours before we know anything so you have time for this."
"If anything should happen …" Don couldn't finish the thought.
Alan took a deep breath and nodded. "I know, Don. I know. But, uh, you need to clean up. You'll feel better."
"No. I don't want to …"
Alan cut him off. "Don, I can't … I can't do this without you. You know that. But I also can't wait here … with you …" Alan fumbled for the right word but couldn't find it, "… wearing Charlie's blood. Please, Don. For me."
Don looked at his father, saw the grief and desperate worry in his eyes. He also saw the tremendous effort he was exerting to hold himself together for the sake of his children.
"Okay," he capitulated. "You'll be here?"
David stepped forward. "No, we'll be on the fourth floor in the surgical waiting area. There are a couple of private waiting rooms and we've got one set aside. I'll be taking your father up and we'll meet you there later."
Alan caught his arms, stopping him, and met his gaze dead on.
"What you did, by slowing the bleeding, Paul told me you probably saved Charlie's life." He pursed his lips for a few seconds and Don could tell he was fighting emotions of his own. "You did everything you could to save him, Don. You did everything you could to keep him safe." Alan's voice did break then. "Thank you."
7:20 pm
Don stood in the full shower with his eyes closed and let the hot water cascade over his back. He had scrubbed himself over and over with the tiny courtesy soap and a coarse washcloth but now the soap was gone and so he simply stood there, desperately hoping he had gotten his hands clean, his knees clean.
His father was right, he had needed to rid himself of the smell of his brother's blood. However, no amount of soap would remove the scent of it from his memory. He kept seeing the images of Charlie lying on the cement floor. He kept seeing his bloody, swollen face. He kept seeing the bullet hole that, had it been inches lower, might have killed Charlie instantly. Don's eyes flew open. He wanted the pictures to end! But even though he stared at the blue tiles in front of him he still saw only Charlie.
A strangled sob stuck in his throat and he tried to swallow past it, but it burst forth anyway. Don stuffed a fist in his mouth but it was too late. The trauma and tension, exhaustion and emotion, of the past few days had caught up with him. His body needed a release and it would not be deterred. Not this time. He backed against the shower wall and let his body slide down, until he sat in the swirling pool at the bottom; the warm, soothing water splashing against him as he wept.
Terry leaned against the outside of the bathroom door and listened to the harsh sobs that the rushing water could not drown out. She wanted nothing more than to comfort him, hold him, tell him that everything would be okay. But she couldn't. The rules they'd lived by these past years were too ingrained in her. Instead, she waited, her hand flattened against the panel in silent commiseration, a pale substitute for touching him, but one that would have to do for now.
