Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of its characters.

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Charlie hung up the phone, picked it up again, put it back down. He sat at the edge of the hotel bed, bouncing slightly up and down, the fingers of his right hand playing with the lower lip of his mouth.

It was Saturday night and he hadn't been able to contact Don all day.

He knew his brother might have been called in to work, but still, he would have answered his phone.

Or called back after Charlie had left so many messages.

The last one he left had been tempered with the quiet whine that he was so good at putting into his voice, a sound that always made Don call him back within seconds of hearing it.

That message had been left at 4:00; it was now almost 7:00.

Alan exited the bathroom, his shoulders bunched together from the stress that was beginning to gather at the base of his neck.

He couldn't understand why they hadn't been able to contact Don, either. He didn't tell Charlie, but when he had gone to the lobby to ostensibly get a newspaper, he had tried calling his eldest son for almost thirty minutes.

No answer. No reply.

Both men knew in their guts something was wrong. Since the third member of their family had been stationed in Los Angeles, only once had he gone more than a day without talking to them; and that they blamed on his ex-partner, who seemed to have been trying to rope Don back into playing the fugitive recovery game.

Alan had nipped that in the bud with demands that his eldest return to the family home, where he and Charlie had entangled him in the routine snare of family love and memories.

Don never strayed again.

Now, Alan and Charlie knew something was wrong.

They just weren't sure what to do about it.

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"Sinclair".

"Oh, David, I, uh, it's Alan- Alan Eppes. You know, Don's dad."

Alan's embarrassment stuttered on the phone. For the first time since he had decided to call David, he realized that the young man might actually be busy on a Saturday night.

"Of course, Alan- anything I can do for you?"

David wondered if Alan was looking for Don. The young agent had not seen his boss since the previous morning, when Don was starting to dive into a stack of paperwork, and David had headed out to the L.A. police department to return some files that the Bureau had borrowed. David knew Alan fairly well- he had been invited over on several occasions and had liked the man immensely. If he envied his boss one thing, it would be his having a father like Alan; well, maybe two things, because Don also had one hell of a brother.

"Well, actually, uh, me and Charlie are in San Diego right now, uh, at a, uh, convention."

Alan hesitated. He did not want to come across as overprotective- that might embarrass Don- but, then, this was David, and he was a good friend to his son. David knew how he and Charlie were, so he wouldn't be judgmental about their concern.

"Are you and Don on a case right now?" Alan blurted out, "Because we haven't been able to get a-hold of him all day."

David did not immediately reply. He thought about Alan's question, paying close attention to the worry that was enthroned upon his voice. Their team was not working any case, and he knew his boss-along with the rest of the team- had been given the weekend off. He also knew that Don made it a point to call his father and brother every day; he even made it a point to call them before a raid. David assumed it was his way of making sure they had a last word with him in case anything went wrong.

"No, Alan, we're not on a case. As a matter of fact, we all have the weekend off. You've tried his cell phone?"

"Yes- over and over. We've called his apartment, too- he told us about nine last night that he was heading there to do paperwork. That's the last we've heard from him."

Alan paused, wanting to ask David to check on Don, but not sure if he should obligate him to action. His silent request was answered by David-

"Look, I can go by his apartment- see if he's home." He chuckled. "Maybe he's actually getting some sleep."

Neither man on the phone believed that could be one of the explanations for Don not responding to his family's messages.

"Thanks, David- I'm glad Don has a friend like you."

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David Sinclair drove his car to Don's apartment building. He did not have a date tonight because he had been planning on relaxing in his apartment all weekend, a good book and a glass of wine his only companions. Well, he thought, my little party will still be in full swing when I get back, so this little drive is worth it if it helps Alan and Charlie stop worrying.

And if it helps me stop worrying, too.

After he parked his car, David went directly into the apartment complex, walking up the steps to Don's apartment at a fast pace. Arriving at his door, he first knocked quietly, but the lack of response compelled him to bang his fist on the door nearly five minutes before he gave up.

Not sure what his next move should be, David realized that he had not even checked to see if Don's SUV was in the parking lot in its assigned space. He wanted to kick himself, because that was the first thing he should have done. Walking back down the stairs, he exited the building and went to check the spot where Don was supposed to park his truck.

It was there.

David approached the driver's door of the large truck, looking into the side window for any signs of Don. When he saw the suit jacket with the edges of several files peeking out from underneath, a natural instinct that recognized trouble made the muscles in David's stomach constrict. He tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Entering the door, he pushed the jacket and files onto the passenger seat, and then looked around for Don (maybe asleep in back, knocked out, drunk, dead) but found no traces of the agent.

Finally sitting in the front seat, David placed his head on the steering wheel and thought about what he should do. This is so not Don, he thought, and made a decision. Pulling out his cell phone, he made two calls.

The first one was to the Bureau.

The second one was to Alan.

He most definitely did not want to make the latter one.

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A kaleidoscope of light and darkness encircled the head of Special Agent Don Eppes. He tried to piece together the odd shapes that hovered around him, but they moved apart too fast each time he tried to focus on them, their overlapping edges spinning into new mosaics each time he opened his eyes, a twist on reality each time he tried to concentrate.

Finally, the puzzle pieces spun together one last time, and a clear picture formed.

Don tried to sit up. His head hurt and every muscle in his body rippled with the aftershocks of pain. But he did not want to lie down anymore, so he willed his body into a sitting position and wedged his eyes open.

He blinked once, then again.

Then he rubbed his eyes.

Laid back down.

Sat back up.

Looked around.

Laid back down.

Closed his eyes.

Opened one gingerly, peering out from the wall of thick lashes that protected them.

Closed his eyes again.

Okay, Eppes, he thought, take stock.

Don focused on the last memories he had before coming-

here;

wherever here was.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was standing near my car- no, not my car, someone else's car. Who? Not someone I know- oh, yeah, some lady. She needed help.

With what?

A tire- her tire was flat. And it was in the trunk- no, I couldn't find it in the trunk.

Why?

Because there was no tire in the trunk- probably never had been.

A trick- to get me here.

But where is here.

And why did she do this?

And why me?