Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Numb3rs. The Eppes men have been very quiet for quite some time, and the other characters just sit in the corner, staring off into space. This may be a signal that something is up, or I may need to increase their vitamin intake, I'm not sure which.
Chapter 5:
He was tired. Or fed up. Either way, he didn't move when the tune stopped. He just stood there, rooted to the spot… and waited.
When nothing happened, Don took a deep breath and pulled on the cord. The blinds zoomed upward, half startling him, to expose the window on the other side.
It looked harmless enough. A little wooden box, sitting unobtrusively on the second stair from the landing. He stepped closer to the window and looked beyond the fire escape in an effort to determine if anyone was watching. Satisfied, he pushed the sash up as far as it would go and stuck his head out, twisting to look up the metal staircase. Then he turned and looked down.
Nothing out of the ordinary. He pulled his head back in a stood for a moment trying to gauge what it meant. Finally, he shook his head and reached for the music box. Gently picking it up, he drew it inside and shut the window against the chill breeze. He examined it minutely for evidence but wasn't really surprised when he didn't find any. The wood was rough, unfinished. It wouldn't have held a print anyway. Opening the lid, he peered inside. There was a piece of paper lying on the bottom of the box, folded once. Don took it out carefully and laid it on the bedside table. He scrutinized the interior once more and decided it was empty. Closing the lid, he turned it over. The only thing on the underside was the key to wind the mechanism concealed in the floor of the box.
He was itching to wind it again, to listen to the tune again and see if he could place it. The key was metal, however, and might have something on it. He put it on the bedside table beside the paper and sat on the bed. He stared at the inoffensive scrap for a while before finally reaching for it. Using a fingernail, he unfolded it gingerly.
Don, it read.
Don't let him catch you.
This might help.
S.
Who the hell is S? he thought. How is this supposed to help me?
He wracked his brain for a few minutes, but concluded he was just too tired to figure it out. He needed sleep. Don laid back on the pillow on his side, so he could look at the semi-unfolded paper on the tabletop. He felt his eyelids getting heavy, and his last coherent thought was that he should check the roof of his building for any clues.
-x-x-x-x-x-
He was dancing.
To be precise, he was ballroom dancing. But his partner had her face turned away from him. The music sounded vaguely like it was coming from a wind-up music box.
He looked around, but the people standing around the dance floor were blurry, indistinct. The more he tried to focus on them, the fuzzier they became. He tried instead to see the ones sharing the dance area with him. That was much easier. Larry came whirling by, a veritable Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers in tow. Don assumed the blonde he was with was Lauren. Larry nodded at him once before twirling away, a sombre look on his face. Don got the impression Larry was disappointed in him. Another couple floated into his field of view: Charlie and Amita. Don tried to call out to them, but they didn't even spare him a glance, moving away much as Larry and Lauren had done. He saw other couples, people that seemed familiar, but he couldn't place them until he saw his father gliding by with what looked like the woman from the butcher shop.
"Dad!" Don called. Alan glanced at his son for a moment and then paused to dip his partner. He looked at Don with a sympathetic expression on his face as he brought her back up. From over her shoulder, Alan called, "You'll remember, Donnie! Just keep dancing!" and they waltzed away.
Frustration mounting by the second, Don watched as Megan and David whirled past, saying in unison, "Don't call, Don. Just dance." He tried to halt his steps, but his feet seemed to belong to someone else. The music continued to play, and he attempted to concentrate on that instead. The name of the tune eluded him for a while, although it was very familiar. He moved around the floor with his silent partner trying to place the tune, like having a word at the tip of your tongue that you just can't speak. He finally gave up and moved around the room, watching to see if he recognized anyone else.
Suddenly the title drifted, unbidden, through Don's mind. Chopin's Polonaise. He gasped as the realization hit him, and his dance partner finally lifted her face to his and smiled.
Don sat bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat.
-x-x-x-x-x-
After a long, hot shower and a shave, Don sat at his kitchen table and stared at the plate in front of him. He had made bacon and eggs and toast – normally one of his favorites – but now couldn't bring himself to eat it. He pushed the food around on the plate with a corner of toast, thinking.
What did it mean? The music, the dancing, the people – all of it had some significance. If he could only piece it together. And the girl he was dancing with, who was she? Once he woke up, he couldn't remember what her face looked like. Just the smile. So sweet and trusting. Like Charlie's.
He threw the toast onto the plate and pushed his chair back. This was getting him nowhere. He stood and picked up his plate, carrying it to the garbage can. Scraping the food into the bin, he set the dish in the sink and ran water over it, his mind once again drifting back to the visions in his dream. Why couldn't he remember what she looked like? He could recall everything else with perfect clarity.
Don twisted the faucet off savagely and went back to his room to get dressed. He wasn't going to spend one more minute in this apartment driving himself crazy. He resolved to find a way to get into the hospital to visit his brother and father without being followed. There had to be a way.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Easing open the stairwell door, Don peeked into the third floor corridor. Empty. He slid cautiously through the gap and made his way to the nurses' station at the end of the hallway. No one was seated at the desk, but that suited him fine. He already knew where he was going. Intensive Care was down the corridor to the left of the station, and Charlie's room was the second door on the right. Glancing over his shoulder, he turned the corner – and jumped a foot when he almost ran into his own father.
"Dad!"
"Don! What are you doing sneaking around in the hallway?" the older Eppes accused.
Don put a finger to his lips and grabbed Alan's elbow. He looked around once more before guiding him into a nearby lounge. Don's gaze took in the room's only other occupant, a man sound asleep in a recliner, and quickly dismissed him. He steered Alan to an uncomfortable-looking sofa and they both sat facing each other.
Alan asked in a hushed voice, "Donnie, what is going on?"
"I don't know, Dad," Don said. "I took a risk coming here, but I had to see you – see Charlie." Looking around for eavesdroppers, he leaned toward Alan and said quietly, "The guy who did this to Charlie said that I would choose the next victim. I think he's watching me. Trying to see who I talk to next. That's why I sneaked in here." He shook his head. "I had to see how Charlie was doing and how you're holding up, but I couldn't risk a phone call. I don't think I was followed, but…" He let the sentence trail off.
Alan stared at his eldest son's pale face with growing concern. Don looked exhausted and – was he reading that right? – haunted. He stood and walked to the coffee vending machine in the corner. Plugging a few coins in the slot, he selected cream and sugar and waited for the cup to fill. Don joined him, speaking in hushed tones. "Dad, I found a music box outside my bedroom window when I got home." Alan glanced at him, but didn't comment. Don tried again. "It was a little rough wooden box, and it played the 'Polonaise'. I recognized it – I don't know how."
Alan remained silent as he passed a paper cup full of steaming coffee to Don, and then dropped more change in the machine. Don took a sip before continuing. "There was a note inside that read 'Don't let him catch you – this might help' and it was signed 'S'. I have to figure out what it means, but I can't!"
Alan turned to his son, cup in hand, and said, "I can't help you, Don."
Don rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned away from his father. "Dad…"
"No, no. Hear me out on this," Alan interrupted, heading back to the couch. The man in the recliner snorted and rolled his head onto his other shoulder. Both men glanced at him before resuming their seats. Alan took a sip of his drink and gestured for Don to do the same. Satisfied, he continued. "I can't help you figure out who might have it in for you, Don – as much as I'd like to. This part of your life – the whole FBI thing – it's a mystery to me. The best I can do is offer support. But frankly, " he paused to rub a hand over his face. "That won't help you much, either, Donnie. I'm worn out. The past two days have been really hard on me."
Don stared at his father in shock. This confession of weakness was so out of character, he had difficulty grasping the fact that it had really been put into words. His father was always the rock in these situations. The voice of reason and wisdom. Somehow he had gotten the idea that by running the situation by him, the older man would pull a solution out of thin air – something that would, at the very least, point him in the right direction.
Don took a large swallow of coffee and gasped when it burned him. He found the sensation to be something of a relief – a welcome distraction. He turned in his seat so he was sitting squarely on the cushion and leaned back. After a quick glance at their roommate, he closed his eyes. Of course his father couldn't help – his desperate groping for a solution blinded him to that obvious fact. Alan was tired, too, and Don sometimes forgot how much he kept secret from his family.
He finally opened his eyes and sat up. Turning to his father, he said, "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to unload on you. Let's go see Charlie."
The two men finished their drinks and stood. Tossing the empty cups into a nearby trashcan, they left the room and headed across the hall. Alan stopped before entering the room and put his hand on Don's arm.
"He's not doing too good, Don," he warned. "Prepare yourself." Don nodded and pushed open the door.
Charlie lay on his back in the room's only bed surrounded by several pieces of medical equipment. Various tubes and wires were strapped to his brother's body, making him look somewhat like a science experiment. Don halted just inside the doorway, only moving when his father stepped around him and headed for the padded armchair next to the bed. Alan seated himself in the chair wearily and took Charlie's hand in his own. Glancing over his shoulder at Don, he said, "Come closer. Don't worry, you won't wake him."
Don swallowed the lump forming in his throat and took a tentative step toward the bed. Under the muted glow coming from a single bulb over the head of Charlie's bed, his brother looked very pale. His skin seemed almost transparent, the veins underneath showing blue under the alabaster skin. His face had lost its smooth planes and now appeared gaunt, like a starvation victim. His once springy, curly hair now lay in damp tendrils, and his face was bathed in a thin film of sweat. Don stood by the bed with one hand over his mouth, trying to take it all in. He jumped involuntarily when one of the machines beeped and began hissing.
"Automatic blood pressure monitor," Alan said from the other side of the bed. Don looked at him blankly. "It takes his blood pressure every twenty minutes. You get used to it." Don returned his gaze to Charlie. He couldn't get over how much his little brother looked like…
"Dad," he whispered. "Charlie looks the same way mom did – at the end."
Alan didn't reply. Don looked at him, noting the saddened expression on his face. Don moved to stand beside him. "How bad is it?" he asked.
Shaking his head slowly, Alan replied, "They won't say anything definite right now. If he lives past the four- to five-day mark, then he'll make it. Before that…"
Don knelt next to his father's chair and put what he hoped was a comforting arm around the older man's shoulders. Alan cleared his throat before continuing. Gesturing to the various pieces of equipment, he began to recite, "That one is to monitor his heart rate, that one is for his breathing…" For the first time, Don noticed the tube in Charlie's mouth – how did he miss that? "…And that one is for dialysis."
"Dialysis? As in – for kidneys?" Don asked. Alan nodded. "Kidney and liver functions become impaired. The doctor figures if they give him periodic dialysis, it'll take some of the strain off of him – make it easier for him to fight this… poison." Alan turned to him abruptly. "Don," he said firmly. "You can stay for five minutes only."
Don looked at his father, unsure of where this was leading. Alan had every right to be angry with him. It was his fault Charlie was lying in that bed. He waited for the other shoe to drop.
"In five minutes, my son, I want you to get the hell out of here, get your butt back to the office – and find the guy who did this to your brother!"