With thanks to the few who dug around and found the first three sections so very, very quickly, and then wrote up reviews to let me know. Your appreciation means so much. And Sabrina, your comment in particular cracked me up -- what a temptation!


The Unquantifiable Variable
By BeckyS
April, 2005


The Eppes family and the characters and situations from the TV show "NUMB3RS" are the property of the Scotts and the creation of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.

Chapter Two, Part One

Don steered the quarter-ton black Suburban through the L.A. traffic with the ease of long practice. His mind drifted to the first time Terry and David had ridden in it together. It was an expensive vehicle, but he figured it more than paid its way by being able to haul some of the heaviest equipment the FBI needed for field work. Terry'd had a field day watching David play with all the manufacturer's gee-whiz gizmos. She thought it was funny that he was more intrigued by the Chevy gadgets than any FBI gear they had access to. Don was simply glad that she'd decided not to share her psychological analysis of David's preferences beyond a muttered Boys and their toys.

He was brought abruptly back to the present by a siren behind him. Heart thumping, he checked his location: about a mile from his father's – no, now it was Charlie's – house. He pulled to the side, shaking his head at the small sports car ahead of him that had decided to try for its turn before the official vehicle caught up with it. The police car passed him then slowed, hampered by the obnoxious driver, and accelerated quickly once there was even minimal space. As people do, he wondered idly if the policemen were headed toward his own destination and felt a small jolt of relief when he saw the patrol car pull into the parking lot of the small shopping center. Probably something going on at Varieties, Don thought. The bar had been open for about an hour; it wouldn't be unheard of for someone to get one drink too many under their belt, even this early.

The honk of a horn from behind brought his attention back to the road, and he realized that the light in front of him had turned green. He swore softly at himself – he was tired. That was the second time in ten minutes his mind had drifted. He checked the time on the dashboard: 11:08. Charlie had mentioned a noon class, so he might even catch him at home; let him know they'd be needing him later.

As he drove past the stores, although his thoughts were already on the bed in his old room, he automatically cataloged the location the police were interested in. Benito's Hardware. He hoped everything was okay, that it was nothing more than a shoplifter. The Mendezes had run the hardware store since he was a kid. Walking through the aisles still brought back memories of shopping trips with his father.

He forgot the policemen as he parked on the street in front of the family house and walked across the grass to the front door. His father's car was in the driveway, but he could see into the open garage that his brother's usual parking place for his bike was empty. Oh, well. Charlie must have gone to the university a bit early. He'd catch up with him later.

"Hey, Dad?" he called out as he came through the door.

"Donnie?" his father answered. "I'm in the kitchen." He turned from rinsing lettuce in the sink when Don entered. "Want some lunch? I'm making a sandwich for your brother – not that he'll remember to eat it."

Don rummaged around in the refrigerator and pulled out a can of soda. "Yeah, I could use something to eat. We were up all night, just finished up about an hour ago."

"So I see," Alan said, gesturing with a table knife at his son's rumpled clothes before dipping it into a jar of mayonnaise. A few quick swipes and the sandwich was ready. He slid it onto a plate and handed it to Don.

"I thought this was for Charlie?" Not that he was going to turn it down. The smell of the bread alone reminded him of how hungry he was.

"You're here, he's not. I'm sure I'll have time to make another one before he turns up." Don was, in fact, already settled in his chair and taking his first bite. "At the rate he's going, he'll have to ask you for a ride so he isn't late."

Don took another swig of soda, washing down the first delicious mouthful. "Where'd he go?"

Alan cut two more slices off a tomato and placed them on the lettuce leaves. "Said he wanted to pick a couple things up before class, something about flexible whiteboards." He shook his head. "Not enough we have blackboards all over the house, now he wants to glue whiteboards around corners. I wish Benito would sell shares—" He stopped suddenly, staring at his son. "What? Something's wrong with the sandwich?" He sniffed at the jar of mayo.

Don's sandwich had fallen to pieces on his plate. "Benito's Hardware?"

"Of course, your brother won't go anywhere else if he can help it. Donnie, what's wrong?"

Don reached for his cell phone, just as it rang.

"Eppes," he answered, his voice clipped.

"It's Terry," his partner answered.

"What's up?"

"L.A. police called in on a robbery in your area. I wanted to let you know, so you can tell your family to keep clear."

"Where is it?"

"They hit the savings and loan at Arroyo Plaza—"

"The savings and loan?" he interrupted, relief flooding his body.

Alan had set the sandwich makings aside and was listening carefully. "Robbery?" he mouthed at Don, who nodded back.

"More than that," Terry continued. "The gunmen have holed up in the hardware store. The police say they have hostages."

"Oh, my God," Don moaned.

"Don?" Terry's voice was strained.

"Charlie—" he choked. "Charlie went to the hardware store. He's late getting back." He felt the weight of his father's eyes. He nodded slowly, saw the same fear he felt growing on his father's face. "I can be there in four minutes. Tell them to expect me."

"Don, you're off the clock, and we already have a team on the way."

"But I'm closer. You tell them."

He didn't hear her answer because his phone was already back on his belt and he was on his way out the door.

Alan followed him, grabbing at his arm. "What about Charlie? Don, tell me about Charlie!"

"Dad, I don't know. I gotta go find out. Wait here in case he comes back. If he isn't here in five minutes, call Amita, let her know he won't be making his class, then get her to come over."

They were nearly at Don's car. "No. I'm coming with you."

Don turned back and put his hand on his father's shoulder. "You can't, Dad. This is official business now. You know I'll do everything I can."

"Yes, yes, I know you will, but I'm not sitting here at home—"

"Then get Amita to bring you over." He climbed up into the Suburban. "I hope Charlie's already on his way home, but if he's not, I don't want you alone."

Don turned the engine on and his scanner immediately crackled. Out of all the formal, stilted words, both heard ". . . shots fired . . ."

Alan swallowed, his grip on the door turning his knuckles white. "If he'd been on his way home, you would've seen him, wouldn't you?"

Don stared at his father for a brief moment, then whispered, "Yeah." He shifted into gear and burned rubber down the street.