Don rubbed his eyes wearily, trying to take the sleep away by sheer force of will. He hadn't gone to his apartment after speaking with Terry last night; he had gone to his brother's house to talk to his father.
Alan had greeted him in his usual manner, but he had known from the moment Don had walked in the door that something was the matter. Looking into his father's eyes and watching the horror grow as he explained that Charlie was currently at the mercy of some unknown monster had been one of the hardest things Don had ever had to do in his life.
For a long time, Alan didn't speak a single word. He simply sat in the living room, hunched over with his face in his hands. Don had watched him with a combination of nervousness and guilt, waiting for some sign of emotion from his father other than shock. Finally, just when Don had felt as though he wasn't going to be able to last in the heavy silence any longer, Alan had looked up at Don and recovered some semblance of control.
"Donnie . . . what are you doing to find him?" he asked.
"We-we've got men out in New York scouting for clues as we speak," Don stammered, his eyes skittering to the side. "David's looking at Carroway's background now, hoping to find this cousin. Terry and I . . . we tried to talk to Carroway . . ." Don swallowed the lump in his throat. "We're doing everything we can to find him, Dad, I swear. I've got half the department combing through the arsonist's crime scenes, and the other half's digging through files. I just . . . I wish there was something more I could tell you . . ."
Alan stood and crossed the room to Don's side. Kneeling before his son, he grasped Don's shoulder and squeezed. "I know, Donnie. I know you're doing everything you can. And I believe that you'll find Charlie, and that you'll keep him safe."
It had been that, more than anything, that had caused Don to excuse himself and leave the house as quickly as possible. Don didn't think he could handle his father's unwavering trust and faith in him when he felt responsible for Charlie's predicament in the first place.
After driving around the city aimlessly, Don had returned to his office and had buried himself in his case files, hoping to unearth some clue that the teams had somehow missed. After working through the night, Don was fast approaching the conclusion that he was running out of options.
The lights in the office flickered on, causing Don to squint and shield his eyes against the harsh, fluorescent glare. He nodded absently to the agents filing into the office, then pulled up his email on his computer.
To his surprise, he found that he had another message. With some trepidation, he opened the file.
53:12:03
Time is running out, Agent Eppes. Meet me at Central Park West, tomorrow at 4:00 am, with Sam Carroway or Charlie dies.
Beneath the brief reminder was another scanned photo of Charlie. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes partially closed as though maintaining some precarious grasp on consciousness. Livid bruises shone on his face, and blood trailed down from Charlie's nose and lips, staining his pale skin and shirt. Looking closer at the image, Don could just make out a sheen of tear tracks making their way down Charlie's cheeks.
Hot, bubbling anger rose in Don's stomach. He rose to his feet, seized a nearby paperweight, and hurled it as hard as he could. The paperweight connected with the glass wall of the conference room, causing a cascade of shards. Heads turned in shock, several agents reaching for the weapons as they assessed the potential threat.
Don's breaths were coming in as heavy gasps, his rage clouding his vision. He picked up another object- this one a stapler- and drew his hand back as if to throw it again. A hand clamped down solidly on his wrist, halting the action. Don tried to tug his arm free, but the hand was too strong. The stapler was pried effortlessly from his grasp, and Don was forced into his chair.
David hovered over him, concern on his face. He didn't let go of Don's wrist, not trusting Don to control his anger just yet.
Don took several deep breaths, then looked up at David with a fierceness that sent a chill down the younger agent's spine. "Let . . . me . . . go."
David involuntarily tightened his grip. "Not until you promise not to destroy the office. Other people have to work here too, you know."
Don's eyes slid shut, and he took several more measured breaths. After a few more moments, he opened his eyes and turned once more to David. "I'm okay now, David. You can let go."
David hesitated, searching for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, he released his hold on Don. To his relief, Don merely leaned back in his chair and rubbed his aching wrist absently.
David's eyes slid to the image of Charlie on Don's computer. "I take it you had another message from our arsonist."
"Tell me you have something on him, David," Don said instead. "I could really use some good news right about now."
David retreated to his desk, casting a surreptitious eye around the bullpen as he retrieved a folder. Turning back to Don, he handed the senior agent the folder and began his report.
"I ran that background check on Carroway, and I couldn't find any next of kin or relatives or anything on any of his files," David stated. "I went back over some records and found that our 'cousin' is actually a second cousin, once removed. A Patrick Fischer is listed as the only remaining relative Carroway has. They used to spend their summers together growing up, but grew apart once Carroway went off to pursue his math career. Fischer got work as a fireman out in New York, but was kicked out when cocaine was found in his work locker. He hasn't been able to get work since."
"That explains his knowledge of incendiaries," Don muttered mostly to himself as he flipped through the file. "Have we got a residence on this guy?"
"I already sent our agents to check it out yesterday," David told him. "They found no sign of life. It looks like no one's been there for a year now."
"If they went their own separate ways, then why is Fischer trying so hard to get Carroway out of jail now?" Don wondered aloud. "There must be more to it than that. Has Fischer contacted Carroway since Carroway's been in jail?"
"Carroway hasn't made or received any calls, but I have a friend who says he's been receiving letters," David answered. "We can't tell who they're from, but odds are good it's Fischer."
Don sighed. "Thanks, David. Good work. This definitely helps."
David nodded. "So what's the next course of action?"
Don's eyes slid over to his computer screen, tracing his younger brother's battered form. "I guess . . . we give Fischer exactly what he wants."
Charlie tugged at the binds at his wrists, grunting in frustration when they refused to move. His whole body ached; since his captor's visit earlier, Charlie had been left on his own. Exactly how much time had passed since his abduction, he wasn't sure, but he believed that Don had to be looking for him by now.
His stomach rumbled in protest; Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. His captor hadn't thought to provide him with any food or water. He wondered if it was a simple oversight, or if it was an omen. Surely men who planned on returning hostages alive would see to their basic needs. If that was the case, the situation certainly did not bode well for Charlie.
His feet were free; Charlie wondered if that would be of any use to him. If he could somehow at least free himself from his chair, he might have a chance. With a quick glance to the door, Charlie braced his feet against the floor and tried to rise.
It was awkward, trying to stay upright with an old wooden chair strapped to your back and no arms to provide counterbalance. Twice, the chair fell back to the floor with a loud thud as Charlie struggled to maintain his footing. Looking around the dim room, Charlie managed to move slowly to one wall. Gritting his teeth against the pain he knew would follow his actions, he swung the chair forcefully against the wall.
It took several tries, but the old chair finally splintered and fell to the floor in several large pieces. Wriggling furiously at the suddenly loosened bonds, Charlie shifted the cords down his rail thin body, pushing them down his hips and onto the floor.
A sudden elation filled him. He was free! Now all he had to do was find a way out of his cell and he would be home free.
The door to the cell was locked, and there were no windows or vents. If Charlie was to escape, he knew it would have to be through his captor. The very idea sent a shiver of fright coursing through him. To have to face off against an armed man with nothing but a chair leg was certainly not something he would ever consider a good idea, but as it was the best option he had, Charlie selected his weapon and hunched down against the door to wait for his captor to return.