AN: Two more parts this morning, for a complete chapter. Alice, thank you for the detailed reviews; as I've said before, it's very helpful and gratifying to know what catches your attention. As for Charlie not being helpless or a wimp in this fic, I've always seen him as a rather resourceful sort of person, just somewhat out of his depth as he moves into Don's world. One of the fascinations about the character, for me, is how he copes. Thanks to those who've contacted me privately, as well -- you know who you are, and I appreciate you taking the time and effort.


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 Three, Part One

Charlie sat on the floor near the construction worker, who still hadn't moved. The gunman had tossed him a chamois from a nearby rack, and he'd tied it around his leg to try to stop the bleeding. He thought it was working, because the red-brown had stopped leeching through the tan material.

The little girl sat in his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. He'd tried getting her interested in drawing on one of the many pads of paper that were strewn on the floor, but while she watched his scribblings, she wouldn't let go of him long enough to pick up a pen herself. He'd gotten her name out of her, but nothing else. He found himself doodling random formulas that none of his undergraduate students would have understood, but whenever he put down a plus or minus sign, she nodded at them.

The gunman had slowly cleared the bags from his partner using only his left hand, keeping the pistol steady on the hostages. When Charlie had first reached for one of the pads of paper that were strewn all over the floor, the gun had swung his way. His soft response, "Drawing paper for her," had apparently been innocent enough, and the gun had lowered.

Leeda had refused the pen, though. Without a word, she shook her head and buried her face in Charlie's neck again. With nothing else to do, Charlie started doodling.

The gunman watched him for a while and finally demanded to know what he was doing.

"Equations," Charlie answered.

The tall man loomed over the two of them where they sat on the floor and stared down at the paper, gun resting casually against Leeda's back and pointed at Charlie's shoulder. "Why?"

Charlie did his best to ignore the gun, but its proximity was making his stomach clench. "Some . . . um, some people pace," he explained. "Some people doodle pictures. I'm a, uh . . . I'm a mathematician, so I doodle equations."

The gunman stared hard at him, then spun and walked away. Charlie breathed a deep sigh of relief, and went back to his writing.

Solana and Benito sat next to each other on the opposite side of the aisle, their backs leaning against a register stall, his arm around her. Solana looked scared, but it was Benito that Charlie was beginning to worry about. Something about him didn't look right.

The gunman paced in between quick views out the windows and nudging his partner with his toe, who still hadn't moved. Everything seemed to be at a standstill, though Charlie knew there was a lot going on outside. The police would have called in the FBI because the savings and loan was federally insured, and they'd all be trying to gather information on the situation. How many hostages were there, had anyone been injured when the shots were fired, where were the hostages located in the building, how crazy were the robbers. All of the information would be distilled down into something that the agent in charge could turn into a plan.

He wondered if Don would be called to the scene. His brother was already on a hot case – one he figured he'd get called back in on soon, if he got out of this alive – so the odds weren't exactly in favor of him turning up. Especially if anyone figured out who was being held hostage. He didn't really believe the FBI would allow one of their agents to be in charge of rescuing his own brother. Just the same, if he could get word out somehow, maybe they'd bring him in as a consultant. It wasn't that Charlie didn't trust the other agents; rather that he trusted his brother more. And it wasn't because of their relationship, either. He'd seen Don in action, both working a problem and on a scene. Put simply, the genius in Charlie recognized expertise when he saw it, regardless of how much he knew about the actual subject, and Special Agent Don Eppes was an expert.

Charlie's mind began to wander, automatically figuring the probabilities of each of them surviving the next few hours. So many factors – it actually made a pretty interesting equation. He started fiddling with numbers, drawing graphs. A small part of him knew what he was doing, keeping his mind busy to keep it from dwelling on the harsh realities, but he shoved those thoughts aside and concentrated on the problem.

An equation . . . no, an expression . . . if Don was out there . . . .

He started scribbling in earnest while the little girl watched carefully.

The gunman broke the silence. "You. Old man." He waved his pistol at Benito. "There's other doors, right?"

Benito nodded. "Yes, there's two doors in the back. The big one isn't open – I only open it up when there's a big truck – but the regular door isn't locked."

"Okay. You're gonna go back there and lock it. And while you're at it, you're gonna look outside and see where the police are, and you're gonna come back and tell me. And if you don't come back, I'm gonna shoot this pretty little gal you got your arm around."

"I . . . I . . . ." Benito gasped. His brown skin was taking on an unhealthy gray tinge.

"Papa?" Solana pulled away from her father and studied his face, her eyebrows creased together with worry. She turned to the gunman. "His heart – he needs his medicine."

"No – he's faking it. He's gotta check the back door before anyone does anything."

While the gunman's attention was on Benito and Solana, Charlie surreptitiously tore off the top piece of paper from the pad, folded it several times, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Then he said, "He isn't faking it. He had a heart attack a few months ago. Just got back to work fulltime. Let me check the door, then get his medicine."

The man looked closer at Benito, then turned the gun on Charlie. "Okay. But leave the girl here. You run out the back and I'll kill her. You got that?"

"Yeah." He rose slowly, holding Leeda close, then limped over to Solana and started to untangle the little girl from his neck. "Go to Solana, honey. She'll give you a good hug, and I'll be back in just a minute to do more numbers. Okay?"

The little girl gradually gave up her death grip and allowed herself to be transferred.

"This won't take long," he reassured Solana, "and then I'll get your father's medicine for him, okay?"

Solana nodded, her arms surrounding Leeda. "It's a prescription bottle in his desk drawer, top right."

"Got it." He hobbled carefully around the gunman, acutely aware of the pistol that was pointed at his back all during the long trip to the rear of the store. He grabbed onto any merchandise or shelving on the way, trying to ease the screaming pain in his leg and finally reached the door, which was at the end of the aisle and in full view of the gunman. Hoping there weren't any trigger-happy cops outside, he opened it slowly and stuck his hand out first, then leaned out into the fresh air. It was another beautiful Southern California day. He wondered why he hadn't noticed before.

He counted two policemen out back – one to the right behind the dumpster, one to the left at the corner of the building. Charlie very carefully removed the paper from his pocket and dropped it on the ground. Then he waggled his hand in front of the deadbolt lock, hoping they'd get the idea, and without a word, backed into the store again and pulled the door shut. He flipped the deadbolt lock once loudly, then as he turned away, eased it off again quietly.

It was the best he could do. For now.