AN: I have the greatest respect for the members of the U.S. military, as well as for the overworked personnel of the military and Veteran's Administration hospitals. I know and work with many, andthis story is in no way, shape or form meant to be a criticism of them or their organizations.
The Unquantifiable Variable
By Becky Sims
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 Six, part two
Terry was headed back to the Command Post van from a check with the sharpshooters when the high-pitched scream of a little girl pierced the air. "What—?" Her body whirled to face the store and she whipped out her gun.
"That's Leeda!" cried Mrs. Gibson. "That's Leeda – do something! They're hurting my baby!"
The policemen all began to surge forward, but David and Terry moved in front of them. "Not yet," Terry said. "Give us just a second to find out what's going on." She spoke into her shoulder mike. "Someone give me some intel," she demanded.
"Shooter One," came a voice she recognized as the man in the back of the van. "There's movement inside, but no shots fired."
"Shooter Two. No action in back."
"Shooter Three – I see two people facing each other, bodies rigid. Might be facing each other down. Can't tell who's who. No sure shot at this time, it would be through two panes of glass."
"Shooter Three, Shooter One. Give the word and I'll take out the first window from here."
"Control?" asked Shooter Three.
"Keep it ready," Don's voice said over the mike. "Terry, get in here, someone just picked up the phone inside.
Terry picked Nolan out of the group. "Pete's made contact."
"Stay on alert," Nolan ordered his men, "but do what the Feds say." He stuffed his weapon in its shoulder holster and followed her.
Terry climbed up into the van to discover Pete handing the headset over to Don. "What's going on?" she asked.
Pete shifted out of the way. "It's the woman inside – Solana. She said the hostage-taker will only talk to the Agent In Charge."
A burning started in Terry's gut.
"Yeah," said Don into the receiver. "That's me."
There was a pause, and Don's expression changed ever so slightly to something between confusion and wariness. "Don Eppes," he said, then, "thirty-six."
"He's got the hostage-taker," she whispered to Pete.
There was a longer pause, and then, with great reluctance, Don said, "A year ago. We lost her a year ago."
Nolan tried to push through. "What's he doing on the phone? I thought we agreed he'd stay out of this."
"I don't think he can." Terry knew her partner well enough to fill in what the hostage-taker was asking. "I think Charlie told Jason about Don."
"What!" Nolan backed against an equipment locker in shock. "That's crazy."
"He must have had a good reason, but I have to agree with you. Regardless, it's the situation we have to deal with now."
"Terry!" It was David, yelling from outside the van. "The woman's coming out, and she has the little girl."
She touched Don's arm. "Charlie's the only one left in there."
Don nodded, eyes creased with worry.
"I'm going to go talk with Solana," she said, "see what I can find out."
He nodded again, but kept most of his attention on the phone.
She ran across the parking lot, gun in hand, hair flying, and took Solana from the policemen who were escorting her. Leeda was still whimpering, but as soon as she saw her grandmother, she started crying again.
"Solana," said Terry. "Tell me what happened – why is Leeda crying? Did he hurt you?"
"No," she said, but her eyes were haunted. "His . . . his face . . . it was such a shock. He's hurt so bad."
"Hurt how?" She took Solana by the arms.
"Iraq, he said. We were all so scared of him, so afraid he'd hurt us – that he'd kill us. I . . . I don't know what to think. How could someone live like that? How can he stand to look in the mirror?" She was shaking under Terry's hands.
"Is Charlie okay?"
Solana looked up. "You know Charlie? Oh, yeah – he's the brother of one of you guys, isn't he? He's . . . well, there's something wrong with his knee. He's scared, like all of us. But he's talking to the guy."
"Solana, what did Charlie tell Jason?"
"Who?" she asked in confusion.
"Jason – the hostage taker. His name is Jason."
She shook her head. "I didn't know. He never said. He didn't even take his mask off until . . . ."
Terry took a guess. "Just now? Was that why Leeda started screaming?"
"Yes. She was terrified."
"This is important. Tell me what happened."
Solana repeated the conversation the best she could remember, but Terry could see she was still completely unnerved by the whole experience.
"All right," she said finally. "I want you to go with Agent Sinclair, here. David, take care of whatever she needs, but keep her near in case Don has questions."
"It's all right now," David told the girl. "Come on back here, and we'll get you something to drink." He led her off, murmuring comforting words of reassurance.
Terry climbed back up into the van to see Don with the headset in his hands, deep in discussion with Pete.
First thing she knew he wanted to hear, "Charlie's still okay. Solana says he's been showing Jason some equations, and then talked him into believing that he didn't need her or Leeda. Charlie kept telling him that he was enough leverage, that you'd do whatever he wanted because your Dad couldn't handle losing another member of your family."
Don rubbed his face. "Charlie knows that I can't do that."
She nodded. "Yes, he does. But that wouldn't stop him from trying to convince Jason of it, if he thought the girls were in danger. And from Solana's description, I'd say Charlie pulled him back from the abyss just in time."
He stood. "I need some fresh air. Pete, make sure someone calls me if Jason gets back on the phone, but if we can do it, I want you to talk to him. Put him off, make him wait, give him time to calm down. You know the routine."
Jacobsen didn't take offense at being told how to do his job. He merely said, "All of us, Don, we'll get your brother out."
Don didn't take that as a guarantee of success, they were all too realistic for that, but as a promise that everyone was running flat-out to find a solution that would save Charlie. "Thanks," he said, his voice strangled.
He and Terry left the van and moved a little ways from it. A young but very competent looking policewoman with flaming red hair tucked neatly under her hat approached, two cardboard cups in hand. "Agent Eppes? Agent Lake?" she asked. "Thought you could use something hot."
He reached for it, popped the lid off, blew once across the top, and took a hefty sip. He glanced at her nameplate. "Thanks, Officer MacDill. How's the girl?"
The policewoman jerked her head to the right, and Don followed her gesture. Leeda was wrapped around her grandmother, thumb in her mouth, blanket covering them both. "Physically, she's fine. She'll likely have nightmares, but we'll set her and the family up with a counselor."
"Good. Any word on the brother and the other hostage?"
She pressed her lips together. "The other hostage has a good chance; he's in surgery now. Ricky—" She shook her head. "It doesn't look good. He's got a pretty severe head injury. If you were thinking about using him to talk his brother out, it's not going to happen."
Terry ran her hand through her hair. "If Jason's brother dies, he's going to have even less reason to live, or to keep Charlie alive."
"Keep that under your hat," he told MacDill. "Make sure the media does not find out. We have to control what Jason learns, and we don't know if he's got a radio in there."
"Solana didn't mention anything like that," Terry said, "but I'll check with her again."
"Don!" Jacobsen called. "It's Charlie!"
He leaped for the van and nearly tore the headset from the negotiator's hands. "Charlie?" he gasped.
"Don, I'm all right."
He didn't sound all right; his voice was strained and cracking. Don fought back his emotions and tried to keep professional, though he let a hint of warmth into his voice. "Hey, buddy, we're going to get you out of this."
"Maybe. I hope so. I . . . I don't know. He's—"
Faint voices, then Charlie was back. "He wants a car." He disappeared again, and Don faintly heard, won't work . . . don't have a driver's license.
Don knew Charlie could drive, had had a license in the past, but as distracted as he got under the best circumstances, Don hated to think what would happen if he got behind the wheel with a gun at his head. They wouldn't have to chase the car; it'd probably run off the road on the first turn. He would've let him do it, too, if there'd been some kind of guarantee that the gun wouldn't go off at the same time.
"Charlie!" he called into the mike. "Charlie – listen!"
"He's insisting on the car, Don."
"Put him off. Keep up with the thing about not driving. Tell him you'd wreck it in the first mile. Whatever it takes. Tell him we need to work out what we're going to do about it. He needs to talk to us and tell us just what kind of car he wants – two-door, four-door, pickup, sedan – we need all those details. And ask him if he's hungry. Tell him we offered to send in some food in the meantime. Charlie, we have to slow him down, calm him down. Getting him to focus on the details will help get his head back into real life."
"Okay."
Don could hear a deep breath.
"I'll tell him. I don't know if . . . he might not listen, but I . . . I'll try."
There was silence again, but Charlie hadn't hung up. Don found himself tapping his fingers on his leg in his impatience. He couldn't make out the words, but he could make out Charlie's voice, and there was an underlying despair to the tone that he didn't like.
Finally he came back on the line. "He doesn't know about the car. He'll think about it and get back to you."
"That's great – give us another reason to talk to him. And the food?"
"Pizza. There's drinks here in a cooler. Pepperoni."
"Okay. Good job, buddy. Pepperoni pizza." He saw David pull out his cell phone. "We'll get it as soon as we can, but it'll be at least 45 minutes, maybe an hour. Tell him that."
"Yeah." It was his distracted voice.
"Charlie – did you get that?"
"Forty-five minutes. Yeah." Then, in a voice that belonged to a bewildered child, he said, "He's hurting, Don. He's hurting bad, and he doesn't believe it will ever get better."
Damn! "We can get him some painkillers if you need them."
Charlie laughed once, a harsh, brittle sound that struck Don in the heart. "Oh, we need them, all right, but they can't fix . . . not this."
"What – what can't we fix, Charlie? Tell me, and I'll find a way."
"I have to go. Tell Dad—"
"You tell Dad, okay? You hear me, Charlie? You're gonna tell Dad at dinner tonight whatever you want him to know."
"Don, don't. The probabilities – I see them – they're as clear to me as this phone in my hand. They're . . . well, they're not in a realm that promises any kind of success. You'd have a better chance to call a coin toss right ten times in a row."
"But there's a chance, right? There's a chance, no matter how you cut it, right?" Charlie didn't answer, and he started to get mad. "Don't you give up on me. Not now, not when you've done so much already."
"Don . . ." his voice cracked, and Don barely heard his "goodbye."
"Charlie!"
But he was gone.
