Charlie stared listlessly out the window as his plane soared thousands of feet in the air. There were thick clouds blocking his vision of the land far below, but he paid them no notice. His mind was somewhere else entirely.
He knew he was being selfish. Don had his own responsibilities to the FBI that certainly took precedence over a math conference. Given the choice between the safety of the people in LA or taking a brief vacation, Charlie knew that he would have made the same decision as Don. That didn't make the resulting feelings any easier.
"This is your captain speaking. We're beginning our approach to LaGuardia airport. Please return to your seats and trays to their upright positions, secure all loose items, and fasten your safety belts."
The gentle chime of the seatbelt sign echoed the announcement, and Charlie shook himself from his thoughts long enough to fasten his seatbelt. After several moments, he felt his stomach flutter and his ears pop as the plane began its descent.
All around the cabin, passengers spoke with one another, gathering their possessions together into one pile. Charlie had his computer notebook sitting on his lap, his notes for his presentation on the screen. As he switched the computer off and packed it away, he realized he had spent the entire flight from LAX to LaGuardia without reading so much as a word from it. He resolved himself to looking over his presentation in his hotel room that night so that he would be prepared for his presentation the next day.
The plane taxied on the ground for nearly fifteen minutes before reaching its destination. The minute the seatbelt sign was off (and maybe sooner than that), people were up on their feet and reaching into overhead compartments for the rest of their belongings. Charlie stood as well, squeezing into the crowded aisle.
Having been to LaGuardia several times before, Charlie knew what to expect when he reached the concourse. People of all nationalities filled the airport, all there for various purposes. Charlie suppressed a sigh as he fought past a reunited couple and an excited group of friends, his spirits still low.
Something in the corner of his eye pulled him up short, and he stopped. Mumbling an apology to the man behind him, he stepped aside and looked around for what had drawn his attention.
A tall man, dressed in a navy blue business suit and sedate red tie stood near a row of chairs. He wore dark sunglasses, and in his hands he held a simple white sign bearing the name 'Eppes'. Frowning in confusion, Charlie headed over to the man.
The man smiled and nodded at Charlie. "Dr. Charles Eppes?"
Charlie nodded. "I didn't know the conference was sending someone to come get me."
The man lowered his sign. "Last minute change, sir. They decided to greet all their presenters this way. I'll show you to the car."
Charlie hesitated. "My bags . . ." he said.
"My friend's getting them," the man replied easily. "He's meeting us there. Shall we?"
Something was bothering Charlie about this man and his story; something he couldn't entirely explain. There was something about him that was familiar to Charlie, but he just couldn't place it. Something was not quite right about this man.
He pushed the thought away. I've been spending too much time with Don, he thought to himself.
Pasting a smile on his face, Charlie gestured forward. "After you."
Don sighed wearily as he shuffled through his notes on the case. He and his team had been working on their new assignments within the arson case almost nonstop since the day before, breaking only for the night before returning bright and early the next morning. The four groups had amassed plenty of information on each of their sites; all that was left now was to sift through it.
And sift they did. Don felt as if he were about to go blind after staring at page after page of insurance claims, witness accounts, financial records, and past employee files of the old abandoned college. So far, nothing seemed pertinent to their case.
A cell phone chirped on the other side of the room, causing the agents in the conference room to jerk in surprise. Don looked up, annoyance tugging at his features. "Someone get that."
Heads turned and papers shuffled across the table. Terry stood and moved to Don's suit jacket, which he had abandoned on the other side of the room long ago. "Don, it's you."
Frowning in confusion, Don stood and joined Terry by his jacket. Digging his cell out of his pocket, he flipped it open. "Eppes."
"Donnie, have you heard from your brother?"
It took Don's muddled brain a minute to place the voice. "Dad?"
"Yes, Donnie, have you heard from Charlie?"
Don ran a hand through his hair. "No, Dad, I haven't. Why? Is something wrong?"
"Your brother was supposed to call me when he checked into his hotel yesterday, and he never did," Alan stated, his voice revealing anxiety. "Did he call you?"
"No, Dad, but I'm sure he's fine," Don replied calmly. His thoughts kept drifting back to his case, wanting to get back to work. "You know how Charlie can get."
"Don, he never showed up for his presentation."
That brought Don fully into focus. "What?"
Alan let out a huff of air. "The conference people called and said they were sorry he missed coming to present. They said they haven't heard anything from him."
Don caught Terry's inquisitive gaze and held up a hand. "Well, I'm sure there's an explanation-."
"I called the hotel he was supposed to stay at, and he never checked in," Alan pressed. "No one remembers anybody fitting Charlie's description coming into the hotel last night or today."
"So, what, you think something's happened?" Don asked. "Maybe he decided to just skip out of going to the conference altogether and forgot to tell you or anyone else."
"I hope that's all it is, Donnie," Alan replied, his voice belying reluctance. "If you hear from him-."
"I'll make sure he calls you," Don finished. "Dad, he's fine. Trust me."
"What was that all about?" Terry asked as Don hung up and put his phone back into his pocket.
Don made a face and shook his head. "Charlie didn't show up for the conference. Dad's pretty worried about it, but Charlie's fine."
Terry didn't appear as unconcerned as her partner. "Are you sure?"
Don sighed. "Not really, but what could happen? It's just a conference. He probably decided to do something more fun."
He ignored Terry's worried frown as he returned to his seat. He had just picked up the file on top of his stack of papers when David suddenly burst into the room with Larson right on his heels.
"Don!" David exclaimed, holding up a thick manila envelope. "This just came for you. It was attached to a piece of debris from the UCLA scene."
Don frowned as he took the envelope. "You test it?"
Larson nodded. "No prints, nothing dangerous about the envelope. We thought we'd let you see what's inside."
Don squeezed the middle of the envelope, allowing the slit at the top to expose the contents. A Polaroid fluttered face down to the table, along with a small, yellow piece of paper folded in half once. Don lifted the photo and turned it over. Almost instantly, the color drained from his face.
"Don?" Terry asked, concerned. "What is it?"
Don ignored the question and reached for the paper. Opening it, his brown eyes scanned the brief message. Tossing the note back onto the table and gripping the photo tightly in his right hand, he stood and stormed out of the conference room.
David retrieved the note and read it aloud for the rest of the room to hear. "Wait for my call. Tonight at seven." David looked around at the other puzzled faces. "Why would the arsonist want to call Don?"
Terry spun on her heel and followed Don out into the bullpen. Don had managed to walk all the way to the other side of the open room and was standing by a window, staring down at the street far below. His posture was rigid, the photo still clutched in a vise-like grip.
"Don?" Terry asked tentatively. "What is it? What's in the picture?"
Don moved ever-so-slightly at the sound of her voice. "I should have gone. I should have been there."
"Been where?" Terry asked. "What are you talking about? Don, why is the arsonist contacting you?"
Wordlessly, Don thrust the photo at Terry. Terry took it and turned it over in her hands. A gasp escaped her lips.
The photograph showed a dimly lit room, furnished with a table and a single chair. What had stunned Terry, however, was the person sitting in the chair.
Charlie.
He was unconscious, sagging heavily against the bonds that held him tight to the old wooden chair. His head was tipped forward, his unruly locks obscuring most of his face. Terry couldn't tell if he had been hurt or not.
Below the photograph, written in dark crimson ink, was a sequence of numbers. It didn't take a math genius to decipher their meaning.
72:00:00.
Countdown.