Disclaimer: I don't have time for a proper disclaimer. I have to affect repairs to what was once a fairly sturdy brick wall. I have no affiliation with Numb3rs. I will put them back, I promise.

Chapter 7:

"Don, we've got the address for McShea's holding company," David called from his desk. "You want him picked up?"

Don Eppes grabbed his sport coat from where it was draped over the back of his chair and replied, "I'll get him myself. Colby, you're with me." The younger agent quickly joined him. To David, he said, "Search employee records for McShea's company. See if anyone meets the description of the guy Jimmy saw." David nodded.

Megan asked, "And me?"

"Check with immigration," Don answered. "See if he applied for a working visa for someone."

"You're thinking imported talent?"

Don nodded. "It's the only thing I can come up with." He looked over Megan's shoulder at Larry. The cosmologist was sitting at the command center table, slowly and methodically making a rubber-band ball. "Brainstorm with the professor over there," he added.

Megan glanced back at Larry and then asked in a low voice, "Professor Fleinhardt? You want me to go over the case with him?"

Don lowered his tone as well. "Humor me, Reeves. He's pretty good at that sort of thing. Comes up with ideas that don't occur to most people." He turned from her, and he and Granger left the room.

Megan stared after them until they stepped onto the elevator, then turned to Larry. "Professor?" she asked, making her way to where he was sitting.

Larry looked up briefly before resuming his rubber band wrapping. "Hmm?"

"How do you think a person would go about bringing in someone they've hired for criminal purposes?"

The ball was abruptly forgotten.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don and Colby had made their way through McShea's offices without incident, handcuffed him and brought him back to the FBI building. There had been no sign of a large blond man. Sitting in the interrogation room alone, McShea had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. Colby, Don and David watched on the monitor as the small man primly picked invisible specks of dust from his pants, crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. Don asked "Well?" to no one in particular.

David began, "He hasn't asked for a lawyer."

"He hasn't said anything," Don reminded him.

Colby tried. "He hasn't fought us at all. We searched his office – there wasn't anything incriminating there."

"What about the warrant for his house?" asked Don.

"We executed the warrant half an hour ago," David ventured. "Preliminary reports say there's nothing there either."

"Phone records?"

"We haven't got them yet, but they're in the works." David let out a sigh. "The guy looks clean, Don."

Don's eyes never left the monitor. "He's been at this game for a long time. Probably for years. He knows how to hide his tracks." He scrubbed both hands through his short hair in a gesture of frustration. "There has to be a way to get to him!"

"You'd have to have some sort of leverage…" Colby began.

Don turned to him abruptly. "We do."

Colby and David exchanged puzzled looks as Don turned and headed for the table with the stacks of files on it. Following, they heard him ask the agent seated there if they had managed to find out who was handling Sandra Burgess' relocation program. The young woman handed him a folder, which he quickly scanned before turning back to them.

"I want you to talk to this agent, Granger," he said, handing him the file. "Find out where she is, and see if contact is possible." Colby took the folder and headed for his desk.

David asked, "What are you going to do?"

Don looked at him for a moment before replying. "I am going to talk to McShea. I'm going to make him tell me where to find this hit man of his." He strode toward the interrogation room, David close behind.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, Don turned to David and said, "Follow my lead on this, okay?"

David nodded once and they entered the room.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Alan was dozing lightly in the chair when he felt, rather than heard, his son move. He quickly roused himself and sat up, searching Charlie's face for any sign of consciousness.

"Charlie?" he called quietly. He waited for a response.

The young genius moved his head a bit, but didn't open his eyes. Alan tried again. "Charlie, son, if you can hear me – if you're awake – look at me." He watched Charlie as he struggled to wake. After a few seconds, the dark brown lashes parted slightly and Alan could see his son attempting to process what he was seeing through half closed lids.

"Charlie," he said, leaning closer. "It's me… Dad. You're in the hospital." He watched his son's eyes drift closed. "No! No, Charlie. Wake up. Talk to me."

After what seemed like a lifetime, Charlie once again opened his eyes. Alan slipped his hand through the rail on the side of the bed and took Charlie's right hand in his own. With his left, he slowly reached up and pushed the call button next to the bed. "That's it, Charlie," he soothed. "If you can hear me, son, squeeze my hand." He felt gentle pressure around his fingers. Alan glanced up at the nurse who had soundlessly entered the room and nodded at her. She turned and hurried back out. Alan looked at Charlie, who was once again allowing his eyes to drift shut.

"Come on, Charlie," he coaxed. "Stay with me. I haven't been able to talk to you for days." At this statement, the younger man inclined his head on the pillow and looked at him drowsily. Alan shifted his grip so he no longer had his arm threaded through the railing.

Alan grinned. "Atta boy, Charlie. Stay with me." He glanced briefly over his shoulder as the nurse re-entered with Charlie's doctor close behind. The two of them approached the bed. Alan stood and moved aside to give them room, but didn't release his hold on Charlie's hand. "Your doctor's here, Charlie. They need to check you out." At a glimmer of fear in Charlie's eyes, he quickly added, "But I'll be right here, son. I'm not going anywhere." The look of panic subsided, and Alan said again, "I'll be right here."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don and David stepped into the interrogation room and closed the door. McShea looked up disinterestedly. Exchanging a look that said 'Here we go', the two agents took seats on either side of the little man, so he would be unable to look at both agents simultaneously. McShea began studiously inspecting his nails.

Both agents sat silently at the table, fingers laced together on the tabletop, and waited.

Several uncomfortable minutes passed. Neither Don nor David spoke a word, watching McShea go over his perfectly manicured hands with intense scrutiny. When he seemed satisfied, he laced his fingers together and rested them on his knees. Gazing at a point somewhere over the two-way mirror in the wall, he said, "How's your brother the professor?"

Don replied slowly, "He's fine. Why do you ask?"

McShea went back to his fingernails. He shrugged. "I heard he wasn't feeling too good lately."

"I'm sure you did," David put in. "And you wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"Of course I would," McShea answered. "He had himself a nasty dose of poison."

Don glanced at David, who sent him a surprised look. They hadn't expected this. McShea should have been protesting his detainment and denying involvement in anything even remotely criminal. Carefully, Don said, "How would you know that unless you had something to do with it?"

The other man grinned suddenly and turned in his chair to face Don. "Don't play games, Agent Eppes. I could care less. You know I'm responsible, you just can't prove it. And even if you could," he leaned back in his chair. "What can you do about it?"

"How about attempted murder and conspiracy?" David asked. "How about a little terrorism charge to settle you comfortably onto a gurney while they give you the needle?"

McShea laughed. The sound grated on the agents' already thin patience. Don leaned in closer to the little man and said in a low voice, "How about you point us to the guy you brought in for this?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked, wiping at his eyes. "It gives me great pleasure to see you in misery, Agent Eppes."

Don glanced at David before continuing over the sound of McShea's chuckling, "Because if you don't, you'll never talk to Theresa again."

The laughter abruptly halted, and McShea regarded him warily. "What are you proposing, Eppes?" he asked.

Don leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. After a long pause, he finally answered, "I want this guy. Naturally, I want this whole experience over with. You give me what I want," he leaned in and rested his arms on the table. "I might let you talk to your sister."

"You can't," McShea argued. "You're a federal agent. She's under your protection."

Don just regarded him silently. McShea looked from him to David, and back again. The silence was oppressive. Finally, he seemed to mentally compose himself and went back to scrutinizing his manicure. "You're bluffing," he said.

Don shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Getting up, he indicated to David to do so as well. As the two men headed for the door, Don casually called back, "Am I? Think about it." He closed the door after him.

Outside the interrogation room, David rounded on him. "Don, what are you doing? You know we can't let him have contact with a protected witness!"

Don ran his hands through his hair. "I just want him off balance, David. Maybe he'll slip up somewhere. He's pretty slick."

"Still," David said, somewhat mollified. "You can't just go and tell him that, Don. You don't want to give him anything his lawyer might be able to use to get him off. Manipulation is usually considered lying."

Don regarded his friend for a long moment before confessing, "David, I'm getting desperate. I can't do this any more."

"Can't do what?" Megan asked as she walked up.

Don shook his head. David answered for him. "Living in constant fear of this mystery man – the one McShea hired. Anybody Don interacts with is a potential target."

"Speaking of which," Megan said. "We've managed to come up with a few very interesting theories on…"

Don interrupted. "Where's Larry?"

Megan glanced over her shoulder. "He was right there."

Don pushed past her to the desk where Megan and the physicist had been working. Not seeing him, he turned to another agent seated nearby. "Did you see where Professor Fleinhardt went, Jen?"

"I think he left, Don," she replied. "He picked up his coat and went out to the elevators."

Don's face drained of color. Turning to David and Megan, he said, "Didn't anyone tell him to stay put?"

"Why?" Megan asked. At Don's incredulous look, she realized the significance. "Oh my – he'll be a target, too!"

Don turned and raced out of the office, Megan and David on his heels. He glanced at the floor indicator above the elevator doors and, noting the car was still on its way down, headed for the stairwell.

Bursting into the lobby, he saw the polished silver doors sliding shut. Don made for the main doors at a dead run, searching for Larry's small figure as he went. He caught a glimpse of the shuffling figure heading for the parking lot and yelled "Larry!" before running to catch up. The professor turned at the sound of his voice and regarded him with a curious expression. Don gestured at him wildly. "Larry! Get down!"

"What is it?" Larry called back. Don screamed at him again, "Get down, Larry! Get down!" Behind him, he heard David yelling the same thing. "Professor Fleinhardt, get down!"

Just then, Don felt something slam into his back, and searing heat. White-hot pain spread rapidly through his body as he fell. He thought he heard Megan scream, but he didn't have time to decide if he'd imagined it before he lost consciousness.