Disclaimer: Now that my Numb3rs detainees are looking a little perkier, I should be able to sum this up without too many more distractions and return them to their rightful… what's that scraping noise?

Chapter 6:

His elbow propped on the armrest, chin in hand, Don regarded the wooden box on his desk with a weary gaze. The lab techs had finished with it, stating no useable prints could be recovered from the key on the underside of the box. He didn't know where to go from there.

David, Megan and Colby had gone through every file that Records could come up with. Everyone Don put away, helped put away, testified against and basically crossed paths with since the beginning of his career, and no one fit the description Jimmy gave for the man from the bar.

Don heaved a sigh and switched to his other hand, staring at the music box, although by now he wasn't really seeing it. Rather, he was seeing Charlie as he lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping and flashing machines. He had stayed for the allotted five minutes, hoping for some sign of movement from his brother, but was disappointed. Charlie hadn't shown any indication of regaining consciousness. When the time was up, he had given his father's shoulder a silent squeeze and left, sneaking out the way he had come in an attempt to avoid contact with anyone he might put in danger.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped him out of his reverie. Don looked up, surprised to see Charlie's friend and mentor, Larry Fleinhardt, standing by his desk. He immediately sat up straighter in his chair.

"Larry!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

Larry regarded him sadly. "I spoke to your father, and thought I might offer my assistance."

Don paused, then asked quietly. "You've seen him?"

The little professor nodded a few times before replying. "I must say Charles has looked better. However, your father tells me he only has to wait two more days for him to improve."

Don gestured to a nearby chair and Larry pulled it closer to the desk before sitting down. He leaned closer to the other man and said, "Charlie might not…"

Larry waved a hand at Don. "I know what those doctors say – but abrin is an extremely useful pharmaceutical drug. Charles is a healthy, capable young man. I feel certain that he will take this experience – maybe not 'in stride', but he will take it – and rebound from its effects none the worse for wear."

Don regarded him for a full minute before deciding to let the matter drop. Leaning back in his chair, he asked, "So how do you think you can help?"

"Well," Larry began, lacing his fingers together and using both index fingers to point at Don. "You need some assistance in locating the man who is attempting to make your life miserable." Don nodded at this – it was true. They had gotten nowhere so far. "Alan told me you would not call anyone for help, because you are afraid whoever you contacted would be this deranged individual's next target. Correct?" Once again, Don had to agree. "Therefore, it naturally follows: you need help, I want to help, you cannot come to me, so I come to you." Larry unlaced his fingers and gestured at the room in general. "And here I am."

Don found himself smiling. This strange little physics professor with the quirky mannerisms just had a way of making him feel better. He said, "I'm glad you're here, Larry. We're at a dead end as far as suspects go." He pointed. "The only evidence we have is an envelope from Charlie's office, and that music box. I found it on my fire escape yesterday."

"May I?" Larry asked. At Don's nod, he picked up the box and examined it, inside and out. Then he turned it over, gave the key a short twist and listened intently as a few bars of Chopin issued forth.

"The Polonaise," Don said.

Larry nodded and waited for the tune to trail off. "Also known as 'Till The End of Time'. A lovely piece. I prefer Strauss, myself." He opened the lid and looked inside, tilting the box first one way and then the other.

"What are you doing, Larry?"

The professor allowed the lid to drop. "I find these trinkets fascinating. It always intrigues me, the things people can put together if they have a mind to – beautiful things. Not always destructive…" He trailed away upon seeing Don's wide-eyed look. "What? What did I say?"

Don reached out and grabbed the box from Larry. "Professor Fleinhardt, has anyone ever told you you're a genius?" He stood and quickly walked away from the desk. Larry watched him for a moment before replying, "Well, actually, there was this avionics engineer in Phoenix, once…"

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Report from the lab, Don," David strode toward the command center, waving a file folder. "There were two whole prints on the works inside that music box. They belong to a Gerry Marshall." He handed the folder over. Don spread it open on the tabletop so everyone gathered around could see it. Megan read over his shoulder, "Convicted of grand larceny and tax fraud. Probably made the music box in the prison woodworking shop. This guy couldn't have sent the poison to Charlie. Not unless his character has undergone a drastic change." Don glanced up at her and then resumed reading. David added, "And come back from the dead." This last statement got everyone's attention. Larry wandered over from the lunchroom, coffee cup in hand. David continued, "Marshall died in prison last week. Pneumonia."

Megan exchanged a look with Don before asking, "Does he have a brother?"

"No, but he did have a wife," David answered. "Theresa Marshall." He began flipping through a stack of folders. "Her file's in here, too."

Don gazed off into the distance, thinking. "Theresa Marshall… Theresa… that sounds so familiar. How do I…" Suddenly, the image of a woman dancing in his arms floated unbidden into his head. He stood abruptly, causing Larry to jump and spill his coffee. "Not Theresa!" he exclaimed. "Sandra! Sandra Burgess!"

"Don," Megan said, truly puzzled. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Don looked at her excitedly. "Gerry Marshall was into grand larceny big time," he said. "We couldn't get enough to pin on him, so we went to his ex-wife. She gave us everything we needed to nail Marshall and put him away for a long time. He swore he'd get her for it, so we put her in Witness Protection. Her name was changed to Sandra Burgess!"

"Ah, the mysterious 'S'," Megan said. David triumphantly pulled a folder out from the stack. "Theresa Marshall," he read. "Born Theresa McShea." After a moment, he indicated a spot on the page he was looking at. "Has one sibling – a brother."

Colby put in, "McShea – as in William McShea of McShea Holdings?" David nodded. Colby said to Don, "I was reading about this guy – there's an ongoing investigation of his holding company. He's into importing and exporting black market goods."

Megan said, "Don, that could explain the abrin."

"Colby, see if you can get hold of the people on McShea's case. Megan," Don said. Megan looked at him. "See if you can get a picture of McShea. And if she can, David," he pointed to the other agent. "Take it to Jimmy and see if he recognizes him." David nodded.

Each FBI agent departed for his or her various duties, and Larry approached Don, wiping absentmindedly at his shirt with a napkin. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Don looked at the physicist blankly for a moment before replying. "I – I don't…"

"Don!" David called. "Your dad's on line two."

Don looked at Larry. "Would you talk to him, Larry? I don't want to…" Larry flapped the hand with the napkin. "I understand," he said. Don handed him a receiver, and when Larry nodded, hit the appropriate button on the phone.

"Hello, Alan? This is Larry," he said. After a moment's pause, he continued. "Don is right here, but naturally he is reluctant to speak to you, for fear his nemesis will find out…" Larry listened for a moment and then said "Hold on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Your father wants to know if you remember the man in the recliner?" Don nodded, realization dawning on his face. He took a step back and sat on the edge of the table.

Larry said into the phone, "He says he does." He gasped as Alan spoke, and said "Oh my. Oh, that's not good news."

Don whispered, "Larry, what is it?" Larry covered the mouthpiece again. "Apparently the 'man in the recliner' – whoever that is – was found in said chair this morning – deceased!"

Don covered his open mouth with his hand. "How?" he asked. Larry didn't respond. He was back to listening on the phone. After a few seconds he said to Don, "They don't know – apparently he was otherwise healthy." He nodded twice and said, "I see." After another short pause he concluded, "All right, then, I'll talk to you later. Good bye." He handed the receiver back to Don, who replaced it on the base. "Your father said to tell you Charles is doing better today, although he hasn't woken yet."

"Okay," said Don. "Thanks, Larry."

Larry replied, "No problem, no problem. I told you he would pull through this."

"Larry, he's not out of it yet."

"Perhaps not," Larry said. "But the odds are in your brother's favor, you know."

"Right," Don said. "Somehow, Larry, coming from you – I believe it."

David walked up. "I have the picture of McShea, Don." He flipped open the folder and handed it to him. Don stared at the picture for a moment and then closed the folder. Handing it back, he said, "Well, that's a dead end, then."

"What?" Larry asked. "What's wrong?"

David answered, "McShea is a small man with balding red hair and brown eyes." At Larry's puzzled look, he added, "The man we're looking for is big with blond hair and blue eyes."

"Accomplice?" Larry asked.

"Maybe," Don conceded. "David, see if you can find the handler in Theresa's WP file." The other man nodded and left. Don ran a weary hand over his face a couple of times and then stood. "I need some more coffee." He had just turned toward the kitchenette, when the cell phone at his waist rang. He paused in mid-stride and unclipped it from his belt. Staring at the display for a moment, he called out, "Trace!" before flipping it open. The tech on the other side of the room was already hard at work.

"Eppes," Don said.

"Poor choice, Agent," came the now-familiar voice. "A sleeping target is much too easy."

"You're sick," Don said angrily. "These are people whose lives you're playing with. Not 'targets'."

The low voice chuckled mirthlessly. "You think so? And the people you interact with? What are they? Cases?"

Don exploded. "Don't even think of comparing yourself to me. You're twisted and evil – and we're closing in on you as we speak."

"Really?" the other man drawled. "Going to grab me yourself, Agent Eppes?"

"Absolutely," Don said with quiet conviction. "Just sit right there, and I'll come and get you."

The phone's small speaker rang with laughter. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, Agent!"

"On the contrary," replied Don. "I know precisely who I'm dealing with, McShea."

The line was briefly silent before the caller disconnected. Don snapped the phone shut and looked at Larry, who was scratching his head uncomfortably.

"Don," he said slowly. "I'm not so sure that was wise."