At least one of us is comfortable.
It wasn't Charlie. Hanging from one's arms had definite disadvantages; he had come to that conclusion early on. Little Miss Bitch was making certain that Charlie had ample opportunity to test and re-test that hypothesis. She hadn't bothered with that electric stick thing any more; it was as though she'd sated herself for the moment. That was okay. That was more than okay; Charlie could live for the rest of his life without feeling that agony zap through him. The throbbing in his leg more than made up for the current lack of current—Charlie laughed dizzily to himself at the turn his thoughts were taking—and the only other thing that kept running through his brain was his father admonishing him to keep his leg elevated. That the doctors had told him to do that, to help the leg heal. Not following doctor's orders, are we, Dad? Sorry. Maybe I can do better next time. Assuming there'll be a next time.
He hoped his father was all right. He hoped that the two FBI bodyguards that Don had assigned to the house were okay. None of them had looked good when the woman slapped an oxygen mask over Charlie's face and told him to hustle. Alan Eppes was no longer a young man, and Charlie worried about him. All Charlie could hope for was that Don had gotten there in time. That the gas wasn't lethal. That his father wasn't dead. That Charlie himself wasn't going to end up in that category. And here I thought being a consultant was just some easy money and a great way to make a difference in this world. Learning a few new things here, aren't we?
Look around. Look for a way out. That's what his older brother had taught him, the few times that he'd been allowed to talk about some of his cases that Charlie hadn't been a part of. Charlie tried to focus on his surroundings: thick steel walls, a tall ceiling with beams across it with a rope hanging down that he was attached to so that his toes didn't quite touch the cold steel floor. Meat locker, that's what it was. An abandoned meat locker in an abandoned restaurant. Solid metal door that screams wouldn't go through. Just the place to keep an unwilling math professor…
The door was propped open far enough so that he could see his tormentor lounging in the kitchen. Dust covered most of everything, and the grill had a definite tilted look to it that suggested a very good reason why the place had been abandoned. No knives that he could see; a blessing. He'd put Don through enough blood-letting. The mere thought made him nauseous. Every now and again she'd look over at him with a thoughtful glare, and he'd try to make himself as small and as harmless-looking as possible. The stick thing that she'd used sat on the table, gleaming in the dirty light, the revolver that she'd initially threatened him with in the house beside it.
Had Don gotten the message? In mystery stories the victim always gave a clue as to where they were, and the hero of the story solved the clue just in the nick of time. Well, this wasn't a mystery story, and while his brother had his own set of smarts, math wasn't his strong suit. Of course, neither was it this woman's, otherwise she wouldn't have failed Charlie's course. It wasn't a tough course, but it did require work. Math was not an easy topic; nothing worthwhile ever was. But put in the time and the effort, and she could have gotten at least a 'C', enough to keep going. Charlie would have helped her if only she'd asked. He'd done that for other students. Look at the Daniel kid, and Ethan who was Charlie's own age. Ethan had taken time out for military service, was going to school on the GI bill. Ethan was no fool. He'd asked for help, and Charlie had been more than happy to give it to him. Gotten a 'B', too, if Charlie remembered correctly, and now was majoring in math. Aced the later course he'd taken with Langston.
Thoughts are wandering. Gotta focus. 'C Pi'. Gotta figure out how to help Don help me. That's the way things work.
"Blue sedan, California license plates Charlie three one four one eight Delta Delta, registered to a Jennifer Tilby," David whispered, closing his cell phone and slipping it into his pocket. "DMV issending a head shot over to my phone but it'll take a few minutes for the bytes to get through."
"Which matches one of the names on Megan's list." Don was grimly pleased. He shrugged into the bullet proof vest that he routinely kept in the back of the Suburban. "Not the nicest of neighborhoods for Ms. Tilby to live in. Which house do you think she's camping out in? She's not registered in any of 'em. Maybe a squatter."
"Made a drug bust six months ago right over there," Colby agreed from the back seat, jerking his thumb at a rowhouse with overgrown weeds as decoration. The windows had been boarded up again by the absentee landlord. A 'For Sale' sign had been stuck into a clump of dandelions. "You think she's in there? The other homes look occupied."
Don considered. "Not there. Walls are a little thin. Someone would have heard Charlie." Heard Charlie screaming, a little voice whispered inside his head. He put the thought away with as much force as it required to do the job. "We need a place where she won't be noticed."
"The car is in front of that restaurant," David pointed out, scanning an old hole in the wall sort of eatery. 'Buffalo Wings' the falling down sign said. The front window was intact but the side one had been boarded up with a shattering of old glass on the ground below. Weeds neatly covered up the broken part so that he couldn't tell just where the glass had given in. A small portrait of a chicken with its wings still attached hung upside down in the front window as someone's idea of a rancid joke. The yellow that smeared the bricks outside could either have been paint or old mustard. David decided not to investigate that part. "Damn, that was a good place to eat. Knew the guy who ran the place when I did some undercover work a couple of years back. Never wanted to look at the Department of Health inspection sheets, though, and not just because it was out of character for my cover."
"Too open," Don thought. "You can see right in through the front window. This kind of neighborhood, people take notice. They don't call us or the cops, but they notice. Tilby wouldn't want that."
"There's a back kitchen." David disagreed. "There's a pantry. Want me to check it out?"
Don cast his gaze around the area. David was right. Most of the homes looked occupied: a plant pot here, even one lawn neatly manicured with a whirligig standing still with no breeze to set it in motion. Most of the places were as run down as this restaurant but they were occupied and showed it. Several had bikes chained to front porches and a couple boasted 'beware of the dog' signs with leashes on the ground to signify that the signs were not just for show. This was not the type of neighborhood that an ex-college student would go for. Where ever Tilby was, it had to be a temporary and makeshift location. Which meant that the abandoned restaurant was the best option. "Do it."
Protective coloring: David pulled off his own bullet proof vest and the white shirt and tie beneath it. The tee shirt stayed but the belt went. From the kit that he'd thrown in to the back of the Suburban he pulled out a bandanna that he tied around his head. The vest got tied onto his waist, looking like an old camo jacket that was too hot to wear. In a few moments David had transformed himself into a local denizen, worthy of no more than a passing glance. "I'll be back."
David slouched down to the end of the block before turning and slipping behind the buildings, crossing through what passed for back yards and back alleys. He spoke into his radio. "So far, no signs of life from the front. No lights, but there's plenty of sunshine. She won't need any lights to see."
Don looked at his watch. Three fifty two. Eight more minutes, if the bitch was on time with her call. He'd already arranged for it to be forwarded to his cell sitting in his pocket. He'd talk to her all day if he had to, give his people time to locate her.
"Coming up into the back alley of the restaurant. No trash, nothing to say that anyone's using this place. Wait a minute." Don's heart stopped. "Looks like some fresh scratches on the back door lock. Someone jimmied their way in. No way to tell if it's our girl, or if it was some homeless type looking for a place out of the rain."
"Unlocked?"
"Yes." A moment of silence. "I can't hear anything inside. No movement, nothing." More heart stoppage. "But, Don, there's fresh dirt out here. I think this place has been used, and recently." Heart restarted.
"We're checking it out," Don decided. There wasn't much time left. "David, give me five minutes, and then make your way inside. Colby and I will be coming in from the front. Colby, have LAPD people take their places. Tell 'em not to be seen."
"On it."
There wasn't much he could do about keeping a low profile in this neighborhood. White dude in a suit and bullet-proof vest, gun in hand—he and Colby both stood out like a couple of federal sore thumbs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw more than one curtain get pulled back from the surrounding homes. Couldn't be helped. Not after you druggie types. Got bigger fish to fry at the moment.
Moment of truth. Don hoped that David had taken a moment to put his own bullet-proof vest back on, hoped that it wouldn't be needed. He peered in through the window. David was right: there were footsteps on the checkerboard floor inside, and they looked fresh in the thick dust. Aware of Colby watching him, he gently tried the handle to the front door.
Unlocked! Grim satisfaction. Something was going right. It was about damn time. He could have picked it, to ensure a silent entry with the warrant, but this was better. Safer. Faster. He risked another quick look at his watch: three fifty seven. He eased himself forward, Colby in his wake.
Once inside, he froze for a moment to take in his surroundings and let his eyes adjust to the diminished light. A half dozen tables dotted the place, two with broken legs, only four with chairs surrounding them. Three counter stools remained, one taking a nap on the floor. Dust prevented the full force of the afternoon sun from pounding through the front window but he could still see the multitude of tracks where someone had trod back and forth. There were footprints that looked stumbling, a spot where a knee had hit the floor with a handprint beside it. Another was a sloppy line in the dust where something—or someone—had been dragged. Don could guess who those belonged to. This chick had much to answer for. He moved toward the back of the restaurant.
And froze. A voice floated on the air.
"Just about time, Professor Eppes. Think your brother wants to hear from you?"
Mumble.
"What was that?"
Szzt. Cry of pain.
"Pay attention when I'm talking. Isn't that what you always said, professor?" Mocking. Don felt his hand clench on his gun, forced himself to relax. Move closer. Closer.
"Screaming seemed to work real well on big brother, didn't it? Wonder how the sound of a gunshot would do? Think it might upset him? Got something on you, professor, that I can shoot off? Wouldn't want to waste a bullet into the air. Maybe a flesh wound. Always wanted to say that: flesh wound. Can't put it into this leg. The cast would get in the way."
Don could see her in the metal sheeting of the thick meat locker door. The reflection was blurry, but he could make out shapes. He froze yet again, knowing that movement would attract her attention. From out of sight, David too came up to join them. There was no way out for the suspect. The meat locker was enclosed, a dead end. Colby signaled: the place is surrounded by LAPD. She's not getting out, even if she gets past us.
Good. Time to finish this. Don held up his hand. On the count of three: one—
His phone buzzed in vibrate mode. Flash of inspiration: he stepped forward. "Calling me?"
The look of shock and horror was worth it. Big blue eyes got bigger, and the jaw dropped so that it fell below the shoulder-length dirty blonde hair.
"FBI," he snapped, pistol in the approved position. "Hands in the air, now!" He sensed more than saw David and Colby come up behind him, their own guns trained on the suspect.
But Jennifer wasn't finished yet. Her gun was in her own hand, and she slipped behind her victim, using Charlie as a shield. She put the gun to his ribs. "Back off, or I'll kill him!" she yelled.
She'd do it, Don knew. Knew it as well as if profiler Megan Reeves was at his elbow, whispering instructions.
Talk. Negotiate. But under no circumstances let her get away. Rule Number Two in the FBI handbook of Hostage Negotiations. Once the bitch was in a car and driving away, Charlie would be as good as dead.
"There's no way out," he told her. Beside him he could feel both David and Colby biting their tongues, letting him take the lead. Wondering if it was the wise choice; you're going to have to live with the consequences of your words, Don Eppes. If she kills him, you'll have that nightmare for the rest of your life. You and your father. "If you put the gun down, you can walk out of here. You haven't murdered anyone. Don't start now." Don hoped that was true. He couldn't see his brother breathing. Was Charlie still alive? Don couldn't spare the attention to check. "You can still get out of this without a murder one charge. Don't be stupid."
"I'm not stupid!" It was the wrong button to push. "I'm not stupid! You are! You needed help to solve my riddles! He was the one to solve them, not you. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" She jammed the gun into Charlie's side, eking out a grunt.
Okay, he's alive. Let's see if we can keep him that way.
"You're right, I'm the stupid one. You showed me." Don eased his way to the left, inch by inch, hoping she wouldn't notice. Good chance; this chick was losing it. Pupils dilated, nostrils flaring. Hands shaking. Another minute, and the gun would start waving. Or go off. Careful, Eppes…
"It's time to make up another riddle," Don coaxed. He settled into himself, went icy inside. Can't afford to let emotions get in the way. All his attention was on the girl in front of him. This is what he knew how to do, what he had trained for. He put all the persuasion he was capable of into his voice. "I need a riddle to solve, a riddle to take to Professor Eppes, show him how smart you are. He was wrong to flunk you, wasn't he?"
"He was jealous of me! He flunked me because he knew I was smarter than he was!"
"He was jealous," Don agreed. Another inch. Another sliver of body available for his bullet to slam into, but not yet enough for a clean shot. "But you showed him. You sent riddles for him to solve." Side-step to the left. "It's time for another riddle. Have you thought of another riddle? Make Professor Eppes work for a change. Make him try to keep up with you."
Giggle. Mercurial change of mood. Don didn't need Megan to tell him that this girl was seriously over the edge and sinking fast. "I don't think he likes my riddles anymore. Do you, Professor Eppes?" She jabbed the gun into Charlie's side. Charlie coughed, his head hanging. "You need to wake up, Professor Eppes. That what you always said in class. 'Bring coffee' you said, 'but stay awake.' Wake up, Professor Eppes. Where's your coffee?" She looked around. Don seriously considered taking a shot at her; not yet, not yet. Not clear of Charlie yet. Another inch.
Jennifer Tilby looked at Don, her eyes clear and guileless. "He has to wake up," she told Don seriously. Sanity, like Elvis, had left the building. "I have to wake him up. It's time for class." She shifted her grip on the gun, index finger tightening.
"No!" Don yelled. And tightened his own finger on his own gun.
"I've got you, buddy." Don wrapped his arms around Charlie's waist, lifting the smaller man up so that his weight no longer rested on his arms tied over his head. Charlie stifled a groan, let his head rest on Don's shoulder. To one side David had dragged in a chair, was standing on it with his pocket knife in hand, sawing at the ropes that held the mathematician suspended. Behind them Colby had salvaged a tablecloth to toss over the body. It helped; the wide-eyed vacant look on Jennifer Tilby's face was gone even though they couldn't do much about the blood that was still slowly oozing out from underneath the eerily cheerful cloth. The gun had been kicked out of her hand and bagged in an evidence bag. None of them would take a chance that it might go off. It had been too close.
The cattle prod lay open on the silver kitchen workspace, gleaming on top of the dusty surface. Don glared at it, glared at Colby: cover it up.
Evidence, boss. Can't disturb it. Already did too much covering the body. Crime Lab's gonna pitch a fit.
"Let's get you out of here." David, ever the peace-maker, moved in. He sawed at the ropes that bound Charlie's wrists together, severing them as smoothly as he could and letting the man's arms down slowly before shouldering his side of mathematician. "Let's take him out front, Don, to wait for the ambulance."
"Don't…need…an ambulance," Charlie protested, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. The cast thunked onto the floor.
"I know you don't, buddy. We'll just let them check you out." Don maneuvered his brother past the table, blocking his view of both the checkerboard-covered body and the implements that she'd used on him.
"I ...can walk, you ...know. I'm ...fine, Don." Gasp for breath.Swallowed gruntwhen something touched the dusty floor that shouldn't have.
"Sure, you are, Charlie. This is just a precaution."
"What ...about Dad? There was ...gas…?"
"He's okay, buddy. Better than you, in fact. I'm bringing him home from the hospital tonight."
"Oh. Good." Charlie lurched, caught himself with a lot of help from the two men holding him upright. He blinked at the dusty light entering through the filthy front window. He blinked again, his eyes starting to roll backward. "Don?"
"Yes, Charlie?"
"I think ...I need to sit down now."
The two men caught him beforeCharlie could fall to the dust coveredfloor.
"Sit down, Dad. I've got it." Don irritably tried to wave at his father, prevent the older man from hoisting himself out of the easy chair that Don himself had put him in just a few moments ago. Don couldn't do it, couldn't wave; the result would be dropping the tray with the bowls of chicken soup ending up splattered all over the floor. The wooden floor, his father would remind him. Don't ruin the wood by getting it wet. "You were in the hospital last night after being almost gassed to death. You think I'm taking that lightly?"
"Don't spill the soup," Alan Eppes replied testily. "I'm not in the mood to clean up after you. Did you add the sherry?"
"That's alcohol, Dad. I'm not giving you and Charlie alcohol."
"The alcohol evaporates away as it heats. It's good for you. How about the garlic?"
"That's supposed to keep away a cold, Dad," Charlie put in from his spot on the sofa. He adjusted the throw over himself, covering over the cast and his bare toes. "The garlic prevents anyone from getting close."
"Nonsense. Your mother always put garlic into her chicken soup. Who am I to interfere with tradition? Put the tray onto the coffee table, Donnie. Did you bring coasters? Napkins, at least? You want to ruin the finish?"
"Dad, the wood's already ruined," Don said. "Charlie did that when he was twelve."
"Hey, you splashed stuff on it two years before that—"
"Which Mom had refinished, and then when you did it, didn't bother to have it re-finished again. Said she'd wait until we were both out of the house. Little did she know that you'd go ahead and buy the place. You're never moving out." Loved having the last word, Don thought.
Not a chance. "This is terrible," his father announced, putting his spoon down. "Didn't I teach you to cook?"
"No, Dad, you didn't. Mom did, and she gave up on him in disgust," Charlie slipped in.
"I can tell," Alan added, as a knock interrupted them.
Don froze, his hand automatically drifting toward the gun in his shoulder holster. It didn't help that both his father and Charlie also stiffened. Don deliberately relaxed; they were supposed to feel safe in this house. "Who is it?"
"Pizza delivery."
Don relaxed all the way. He'd recognize David Sinclair's voice anywhere. He pulled open the front door to greet the crowd of FBI agents. "What's the matter? You think I can't take care of my father and brother?"
David came in with two boxes of pizza, Megan and Colby behind him with their own bags. "Don, in all the time that I've known you, you've never cooked. You're about as domestic as a timber wolf. I'd trust you at my back with a gun, but not with a spatula."
"And a little bird told me that cooking is not your forte," Megan smiled. "In, fact, that same little bird begged to be rescued."
"I'm a great cook," Don lied. "I've been doing it for years." He glared at Charlie. "You were supposed to be taking a nap."
"You know all the take-out joints in L.A.," Colby disagreed. "You've told me about most of them."
"So I microwave a mean leftover," Don protested. "You bring the papers over?"
"Papers?" Alan raised his eyebrows. "What papers?"
"Report stuff, Dad. I may have a few days off, but the reports still need to be filled out."
"You don't need to take the time off for us, Donnie. Charlie and me, we can do just fine." Alan accepted a slice of pizza. "Better, in fact. This is good."
"Much better than the soup," Charlie added, casting a mischievous glance at his older brother. "You're as good at cooking as you are at solving codes. There are computer packages that handle that level of codes, you know. You don't need me."
"Stop flunking students, and it won't happen again," Colby joked, then hesitated. "Sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean it like that."
"No, it's okay." Charlie covered over the tremor by taking a bite of pizza. "You guys have the dangerous job. Overall, statistically, being a college professor is a very safe occupation. Very few of us get killed on the job. I should be fine for the rest of my life. I've had my close call." He gave a weak smile. "Just as long as they don't find the rest of those papers that were in my office before the explosion. That class doesn't contain some of my brighter pupils. At this point I welcome the opportunity not to have to grade them. I'm not sure I want to flunk anyone right now."
"'Professors don't fail students, students fail themse—'"
"David?"
"Yes, Charlie?"
"Shut up."
A/N: thank you, thank you, guys, for all the wonderful feedback! You really know how to make someone feel like they're doing a good job. I only hope the ending lived up to your expectations. Thanks again, OughtaKnowBetter