Wow, nearly a month without an update! I can't even being to express how sorry I am, and I hope none of you have given up on this story yet! The weeks following graduation were fraught with parties, family drama, and—worst of all—writer's block. Ask just about anyone—writing the scene between Alan and Don that appears at the beginning of this chapter was, for some reason, so incredibly hard that I gave up on it several times. In the end I must thank: Afton, BeckyS, Storyspindler, and Xanthia Morgan for all of their help providing me with insight and inspiration. It's a long time coming, but I'm finally happy with that scene!
As for the medical information that appears in this chapter and the ones following it: all of the credit for that goes to Storyspindler and Luvspook. Storyspindler has devoted hours—I'm not kidding—to research and answering my questions. Without these two, this story simply would not be.
Finally, eternal thanks for all of you who have left such wonderful reviews! Your input has helped greatly in the development of this story. Again, sorry for the wait, and enjoy!
CHAPTER IV
Silence. A complete absence of sound so heavy and, oddly, so loud, Don feared his ears would explode from the weight. Just inches away his father watched him stiffly, a haze of abject horror smeared across his features, as still and as silent as the air around him. For a moment, Don feared his father had stopped breathing.
"Don, no …" Alan fought a shaking breath. "W-What happened, Donny?"
Don swallowed hard. The lump would not stop rising in his throat; his head would not stop throbbing; the world would not stop wavering through a misty haze before his eyes. The one phrase he never should have to tell his father—that no son should have to tell his own father—burned hotly on the back of his tongue. When he tried to articulate the words they came as a muddled mess drowned in undertones of his innermost agony.
"I let … the--the sniper got him, dad."
The words ricocheted around Alan's unconscious for several seconds. He could not believe it. Would not.
"What?"
Not Charlie. Not his son.
"Charlie's been—sh-shot?" A father's desperation consolidated in three words, Alan's heart nearly ripped from his very chest upon speaking them.
"Don—no. Shot? No, Donny! No!"
Don would never let that happen.
"I—it just happened so fast, Dad … I-I don't even know what he was doing there! Dad, I—"
A hand. It came hard and fast. His father's fingers closed fiercely on Don's shoulder, gripping his very heart in tendrils of agony … and of anger.
"I said it," ire burned molten in Alan's eyes but his broken and languid tone belied his raw emotions. "I said it, Donny! Why—How—my son … Donny, how … could you …?"
Rage, burning white-hot in his chest, searing his mind with horrific images. Charlie was not a police officer. He did not belong among guns. Bullet proof vests. Helmets. Adversaries. Never; not for Charlie. Those were not the staple of the halls of academia. CalSci. Chalk. Lectures. Complex equations. That was where Charlie belonged, among his chalkboards and numbers. But now his son was gravely injured in a line of duty that was not even his own? How such an event could even be possible seemed simply inconceivable.
Suddenly a feeling that was not quite anger yet more of trepidation coursed through Alan's body. Forcing his tongue to for the words to a question he did not want answered, he hesitated to glance into Don's downcast eyes.
"… How bad is it, son?"
If the horrid sound of anguished regret that slipped from between Don's lips was not enough of a resignation, the turbulent expression on his face spoke volumes. Alan felt fingers of ice sinisterly grip his heart. This was not Don, the stoic FBI agent; this was Don, a broken man—Don, his son. For the first time in many years, Alan Eppes took his eldest son in his arms and held him close. It was all he could do; for Don, for Charlie, and for himself.
Don's entire body quivered with emotions Alan couldn't hope to calculate: fear, agony, self-loathing.
"He … he…" Don couldn't force himself past the first syllable. Defeated, Don's head hung nearly off his shoulders. As if baring his soul to the world, Don stepped back from his father and let his arms fall to his sides; the jacket slipped from his arms and spiraled to the ground, landing with absolutely no sound.
"I couldn't stop it, dad…" the words came with a gradual and breathless decrescendo.
Alan's eyes were being pulled, lured toward something he knew he should not see. Glancing down, he wished no less than to tear out his own eyes at the horror that greeted him there. So thick it could have been paint, blood—Charlie's blood; his son's blood—coated Don's jeans from his knees to his belt. By now a rust-colored and crusted mess, in Alan's eyes it was as bright a red as it had been hours before. So bright; almost on fire. Burning, searing, paining. Branded on the underside of his eyelids, a crimson and iridescent hallucination.
Utterly broadsided by the revelation and its subsequent cyclone of afterthought Alan's breath left him as if being forced out by a great weight. Vision dancing, he stumbled to lean against the hard brick wall of the house, clasping his hands over his eyes, willing in vain for the horrific image to melt away, to be effaced from his mind forever.
"D-Don," muffled by his hands and weighed down by inner turmoil Alan fought to keep his voice from shaking for the sake of his son's sanity. "Donny—I—no. I-It can't be, Donny, please."
Don bit his tongue, turning his head as far away from his father's gaze as possible.
"I—I'm sorry, Dad," his voice as distant as his heart felt at that moment.
Alan leaned his head back against the cool brick and sighed, his mind and body completely weighed down by the news. He swore to her, and to himself, that Charlie would always be safe…
Pushing himself off the wall and wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders, Alan mentally extended the comfort his eldest son was so desperately seeking.
"Take me to him, Don… let's go see him."
When both Eppes men climbed into the SUV Terry dared not speak. Her eyes fixed on the road, she knew better than to try and penetrate the fragile emotional walls both men had tried to build around themselves. Slipping the SUV silently into gear she pulled away from the house, writhing under the immense pressure of the Eppes men's silence.
But a piercing shriek soon shattered that silence. Don's entire body twitched, recoiling from the sound. He thought at first of ignoring the number, being of no mind for FBI chatter, until he saw the number plastered on the luminous screen: David. Sputtering and nearly dropping the phone from numb hands, Don finally managed to open the faceplate after what seemed an eternity and slammed it to his ear with a shaking hand.
"Eppes … David?"
At first, silence. Then, as if from a great distance: "Don?"
"… David, talk to me. Speak up—w-what's happening?"
The younger man audibly hesitated. "Y-You—you better get down here quick, Don…"
The bitter taste of bile seeped into Don's throat. Swallowing hard, he could barely articulate the phrase: "D-David … no, no…"
The younger agent's voice cracked, strained by unfathomable forces. "He's ... it's not going well, Don. Y-You—you need … to get here…"
Abruptly, the line disconnected. Don's arm fell heavy to his lap; the phone slipped to the floor from nerveless fingers.
"… Don?"
"Terry. Turn on the lights."
"Don, what's—"
"Turn on the damn lights, Terry!"
Shuddering from the mere tone of his voice—of its pure and tragic agony—Terry flipped the switch and the SUV's lights ignited. Lurching forward as she floored the accelerator, the SUV hurtled toward the hospital, the screaming siren its only means of safe passage.
Hours. Don was not sure if the sun was still up, had set, or had risen again. It could have been one hour; it could have been a day or more. In a fury Don paced the waiting room, head bent low, arms folded across his chest. Inwardly he berated himself for his foolishness, his blindness, his incompetence.
It had been too long. Too long that he had let Charlie wander the city with a sniper on the loose. Too long that he had struggled to stop that deadly sniper. Too long that he had taken to run to his brother's side. Too long that he had waited to stop the bleeding. Too long that Charlie had been in surgery. Too long.
Alan sat in a chair nearby, head resting on his steepled arms. He was tired; exhausted both mentally and physically. Why was he here? After his wife had fallen ill he imagined he would never have to see the inside of a hospital until the end of his life—and certainly, not the end of one of his sons. In his heart he knew—or, at least, prayed that he knew—that Charlie would pull through. That this was all as innocuous as a dream, that in the morning Alan would open his eyes and it would all gone, lost to the recesses of his mind.
The soft click of the waiting room door and the appearance of a middle-aged man in hospital scrubs assured Alan that this, in fact, was no dream. Driven by an almost ethereal force Alan heaved himself to his feet, his heart at his throat. Don stopped pacing mid-stride and watched the newcomer with an apprehensive glare.
"Eppes family?" His voice, though sounding somewhat weathered, rang clear and strong. "I'm Doctor Meisner. We've just concluded surgery on your son to repair damage from a gunshot wound to his left shoulder."
The statement lit a fire deep within Alan and his paternal instincts came forward with full force. "How is he? Where is he? I want to see him."
Meisner simply continued his explanation unabashed. "As the bullet passed through his body, it unfortunately nicked both a major vein and artery." His eyes caught sight of Don's soiled clothing. "This would explain his blood loss and the bulk of his trauma. We were able to repair the damage to both the vein and artery and the surrounding area—there were some minor complications during surgery, but he was able to pull through. It is likely that your son will have to undergo extensive physical therapy to regain full use of his arm again. We won't know to what extent, however, until he wakes up."
Taking a brief moment to soak in the information, Alan reiterated: "I want to see him." Don's gaze remained locked on the doctor, his face pale, his expression twisted into one of absolute shock and horror.
"I'm afraid he's still in recovery, Mr. Eppes. After a few hours we'll move him to the ICU. You'll be able to see him then. But I have to warn you—due to the severity of his chest wound we had to put your son on a respirator. Until his vital signs improve and remain stable, we're going to keep him in a drug-induced coma so that he does not try and fight it."
Don suddenly felt sick. He turned his back on the doctor, his head resting in the palm of his hand. Alan kept Meisner under his meticulous gaze, taking in every phrase as if it was his son's last will and testament—which he hoped and prayed it was not.
"How long, doctor?" It was a phrase spoken in defeat.
"A few hours, at the very most. You can wait here or we—"
"I'm staying here, Doctor Meisner." Despite his broken tone Alan's voice was solid. "I will not leave my son."
The doctor's own tone suddenly shifted from a detached reporter to an empathetic confidant. "I understand. And Mr. Eppes, if I may say … your son was incredibly lucky. Any higher, the bullet would have severed the artery completely and he would have bled out within minutes. Any farther to the left and it could have stuck a lung or—even worse—his heart. Someone was watching out for your son that day—you have much to be thankful for."
A bitter gall rose in Don's throat at that statement. Closing his eyes out of spite, he watched the same bloody scene play over and over in his mind.
To Be Continued.