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 Seven, Part two

Officer Brenda MacDill was thrilled with her assignment. She loved being undercover anyway, and the chance to do something directly to resolve this situation drove her to volunteer almost before Nolan had the words out of his mouth. She was also honest enough with herself to know that the chance to show her stuff in front of a group of FBI Special Agents was driving her, too. She was particularly impressed by Agent Eppes. She could see the pain lurking in the backs of his eyes, but he hadn't slipped once. He was a professional all the way. She also liked Terry Lake. Both of the women were petite, tiny in a world that valued strength, but Agent Lake had an inner toughness that Brenda recognized. She hoped she could get to talk with both Eppes and Lake after this was all over – she had a feeling she could learn a lot from them.

In the meantime, she had a job to do. She and Terry had moved to the agent's car where Brenda could leave her patrolman's clothes. She slid out of her blue uniform shirt first, to reveal a tight white tee and a strong physique beneath. She tossed the shirt on the back seat of Terry's car, then took off her equipment belt and handed all but the gun to Terry. The gun went under the waistband of her pants at the small of her back. She took her hair down from its tight pins and tied it into a high ponytail with a handy piece of string. Terry handed her the pizza man's ballcap, adjusted more to her size, and she pulled the ponytail through the back of it. The jacket was too big, but she simply rolled the sleeves up and fastened the bottom of it, not so coincidentally hiding the gun and the tailoring of her pants. She scuffed a little dirt over her spitshined shoes and hoped the hostage-taker wouldn't look too closely.

"Got a lipstick?" she asked.

"Hang on." Terry reached into her car's glove compartment and drew out a small cosmetic bag.

Brenda used her finger to swipe some color from the side of the lipstick and rubbed it on her lips, then used a second swipe to apply to her cheekbones for blush. She shrugged. "Anything in a pinch."

Terry grinned as the patrolwoman relaxed from her previous almost military posture. The transformation from competent patrolman to high school senior on an afterschool job had taken all of four minutes. She'd already passed on the information they needed, but felt compelled to add just a little more. "Officer MacDill, we don't know who will come out to get the pizza, but if it's Charlie, remember that although he's a very, very smart man and he's helped out with some of our cases, he's never found himself in a situation like this before. Don would kill me for telling you this, but he said it sounds like Charlie's giving up hope. If you get a chance to say anything to him, remind him that we aren't giving up, that we honestly believe we can resolve this peacefully."

"All right, I'll see what I can do if he comes out." She tilted her head in question. "This Charlie, he means a lot to you, too."

"Yeah, he's pretty special. Not just because he's Don's brother or because he's a certified genius, but just because he's . . . well . . . Charlie." She stopped in frustration. "I'm supposed to be able to do better than that."

Brenda placed a hand on her arm. "That's okay. There's a few people in this world who simply defy description. Sounds like he's one of them."

"Hopefully you'll get to judge for yourself, later."

She grinned. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much. But right now," she settled the jacket more comfortably on her shoulders, "I have a pizza to deliver."

With a quick nod in the direction of Detective Nolan, she headed for the pizza car. The real delivery driver handed her his keys with a worried smile. "I'll take care of your baby," she pledged. He stepped back, not particularly reassured, and she drove off the lot and back out into the street. She came back into the lot from the entrance closest to the left side of the hardware store. This meant she'd have to cross the rest of the access lane to get to the door, but it also left the sharpshooters and the Command Post more room to see what was going on.

She stopped short of the entrance, even with pallets of bags of grass seed that were settled on the wide sidewalk. She climbed out of the car, retrieved the pizza box, and with a deep breath, angled to the right to the door. Someone was moving around inside, but she couldn't tell yet who it was. She'd seen Charlie Eppes help bring the injured people out of the store, so she knew what he looked like, but when the front doors of the store slid open and revealed him, she felt a slight shock anyway. Bruised, worn and battered he might be, but he had the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. Puppy-dog eyes, she thought, not realizing she was echoing another woman. Especially now. Deep brown, almost black, they held the same pain that she'd seen in his brother's eyes. But Charlie's also showed almost unbearable weariness. He was stretched to the breaking point, all right.

He reached for the pizza, and muttered, "He has a gun on us from the left."

Her eyes shot in that direction, took in the chaotic mess on the floor directly behind them, and then steadied themselves on him. "Believe in your brother. He'll get you out."

Something flickered in his eyes, lit them with a warm glow from within. They had only seconds, but he replied, "I will," and a small grin lifted one corner of his mouth.

Then he turned away, and she ran back to the car. She threw it into gear and sped off, just as a panicked delivery-person would. When she got back to the real pizza man, she eased to a stop and got out. As she shed the jacket and hat, her mind was spinning with details that were already working into a cohesive report, but overriding it all was the conviction that she simply couldn't bear it if that light was extinguished forever.

π π π

Another down time. Time to regroup, time to analyze, time to plan.

Don rubbed at his increasingly gritty eyes and wished for a slice of that pizza and even ten minutes of sleep. Things were coming to a head, though. He could feel it. In no more than an hour, he'd either have Charlie out of there and on his way home, or—

No. He couldn't think that way. He had to take it one step at a time.

π π π

One slice of pizza. One bite of one slice of pizza. It was all his stomach could handle, even with the encouraging message from the girl. Who is she? he wondered. He'd never seen her around Don's office, so maybe she was LAPD. Awfully young. Then he laughed at himself. Who was he to judge how young a person could be and be competent.

The gunman – he wished he knew the man's name – had pulled a couple of soft drinks from the cooler and handed one to Charlie. He downed it in about ten seconds, astonished at how thirsty he was. Then he sat back down on the floor and picked up his pad of paper. The chart stared up at him and his eyes were drawn to the little triangles, the first one darker than all the rest. He outlined all of them, giving each darker, bolder lines. Delta. Change. Incremental change, caused by a variable. The variable that could change the balance of the entire equation.

π π π

Alan Eppes paced from one end of the Suburban to the other. Amita had shifted to his spot on the floor of the SUV and watched him with worried eyes. Neither interfered with the other, neither offered useless platitudes, but their thoughts were remarkably similar. Keep him safe. Bring him back to us. Let him live.

π π π

Terry went over the car that had been delivered. A new Honda Accord was what Jason had asked for, a note of wistfulness in his voice. Sapphire blue with gray interior. Terry made sure she knew how the door locks and automatic windows operated from the keypad at her left hand, and set the seat and adjustable steering wheel at comfortable angles. She'd drive up to the same spot Officer MacDill had used. It would make Jason travel farther from the door to get to her, and every step he had to take was that much more time they had to get him to give up.

π π π

Detective Nolan stood near the Command Post, flanked by three FBI agents and Officer MacDill, each checking their equipment. Brenda was back in uniform, though the borrowed flak jacket covered her from neck to legs.

Based on the tipped over display walls and merchandise that littered the floor, Nolan and Don had decided the entry-and-clear team should position themselves at the back of the store. They'd take over if Jason retreated back into the store. They'd practiced together, learning each other's signals as quickly as they could. It was unusual to mix a team like this, but then this was an unusual situation. Each member of the team, though, was completely dedicated to making it work, and that would be the difference.

David Sinclair would be on point with his pistol in hand, the first to enter, the first to engage the hostage-taker, if needed. The second man was also FBI, a big man in whose arms the submachine gun looked like a toy. They'd worked together enough that they would automatically avoid creating a crossfire situation. Nolan would be third, the team leader, who would be far enough back to make quick decisions or changes in tactics. Fourth was Officer MacDill in the other clearing position, armed with a shotgun in case the hostage-taker got behind any locked doors. The final man from the LAPD was probably overkill, but he carried a small battering ram which might be needed. Each member of the team checked their weapons one last time, strapped on their black helmets, and then carefully filed to the back of the hardware store.

π π π

As if telepathy existed among the law enforcement personnel, a single thought seemed to float through the air: It's time.