Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.
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"You know I'm a very patient person, Gordon. But you promised to call me early this morning, and I could not wait any longer to hear from you."
"I apologize, Melinda. I'm afraid that I am quite tired today, and am recuperating from the exertions of last night."
"Yes, dear, my heart goes out to you. But I believe it would be better to address our current topic before we go too far astray."
"Oh, most certainly."
Silence.
"Well, Gordon, as to the small gnat that was buzzing around my son?"
"I've heard that someone swatted him last night- it was quite a mess, so I am told. But I suspect that it is no surprise to you, as you have access to so many fly swatters and know how effective they can be in ridding one of pests."
"Why, Gordon, you are excessive in estimating my reach."
"I don't believe I have ever been excessive in any of my determinations, Melinda."
"Well, there shall be no further dispute as long as the opinion is kept between friends"
Pause.
"And what of that other concern we discussed yesterday?"
"I personally saw to it, Melinda, have no doubt."
"Gordon, it is not that I doubt you. It's just that I was concerned that you weren't up to doing the job yourself."
"I do not attend to any job that I think it best for someone else to handle. In this case, I wanted to see for myself that the problem was solved."
"And how well did you solve this little problem?"
"Let's just say that some things are better left buried."
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David Sinclair stepped across the rough stones marking the path to a small, shingled ranch house, his car sitting on a flattened patch of grass that was used as a parking lot in front of the aging building. Small crosses poked up from the ground beyond the house, dotting the hillside as far as his eyes could see, mausoleums of varying sizes asserting their domination amongst the smaller symbols of respect and religion, no discernable pattern to their placement. A wrought-iron fence circled from the back of the house, edging a thin line around the cemetery. David walked to the door of the house, and after he saw that there was a sign hanging on it that said 'Office-Come On In', he opened it and entered, walking into the dimness beyond.
A silver bell sat on a dark wooden desk set in the middle of the small room. David tapped it twice, taking stock of the place as he waited for someone to appear. All four walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled to capacity with binders, loose files, and thick cast-iron pots and pans. In between these objects, numerous stuffed crows looked out over the room, guarding it from unknown intruders, keeping watch with black and white photos of people dressed in Victorian garb besides them on the shelves. The only breaks in the thick mahogany of the bookcases were two solid doors, the first being the one David had entered through, the second one closed and located at the back of the room.
Besides the bell, the desk contained more files and binders, two large ashtrays filled with cigar buttes, an array of picture frames facing away from the door, a small shaded desk lamp, scattered pens and clips, and several large brown stones that seemed to serve no purpose. David idly picked up a frame from the desk and looked at the photo it contained. He was surprised to be holding an aerial view of a recently plowed field, the richness of the earth so apparent it reminded him how his grandmother used to visit and tell him stories about growing up on a farm, swearing to her grandson that the Midwest might not have oil, but it did have black gold. Having been raised in an urban area back east, David had always wondered how that could be. He found the picture he held in his hand explained it better than any verbal description his grandmother had given him.
When no one came, David put down the picture and rang the bell a second time, peering about the room. The only light came from the desk lamp and the door he had left ajar behind him, so the room was muggy and poorly lit, shadows muddled in the corners of the room. Curious about the pots and pans on the shelves of the bookcases, David walked over to one and looked at its contents. A chill went up his spine when he realized that it was filled to its brim with dirt. Cautiously putting a finger inside the pot, he felt that it was damp and could smell an earthy scent when he broke its thin upper layer.
"May I help you?"
David jumped. He quickly pulled his hand from the pot and turned around to see the man that went with the voice. A short, bald rotund man stood behind the desk, his hands clasped in front of him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, the paleness of his skin accented by the black turtleneck and jeans he was wearing, thick bifocals shoved against his face, smudges of dirt on his forehead and left cheek. David wondered briefly why the man wasn't breaking a sweat, especially because there was not so much as a fan in the tiny office, and definitely not any air conditioning.
"I said- may I help you?" the man repeated, crinkling his nose.
"Oh, I'm sorry." David held out his badge and offered his hand, noting the other man's limp grip and icy cold skin when the man shook it. "I'm Special Agent David Sinclair, with the F.B.I."
"Oh, it's nice to meet you Agent Sinclair. I'm Terra Firma. But you can call me Terra."
He has got to be kidding, David thought as he did a mind-roll of his eyes. "Interesting name, Terra. Oh, and you can call me David."
"Fine, David." Terra offered David a seat, and then sat behind the desk himself. "Of course, the uniqueness of my name was my own decision. I have a firm belief that people should choose their own names. After all, how did your parents know you were a David before they even knew who you were? You might actually be a Bart or a Caesar or even a Biff."
"I don't know about that Terra. I think my parents made the right choice in deciding from day one that I was never going to be a Biff." David frowned as he watched the cemetery director run a hand lovingly over the picture he himself had just been holding. He hated to think the man touched it like that all the time. Without thinking, David wiped his hands on his slacks.
"Biff may have been a poor example. But from your strong stance, I think Caesar would most definitely be appropriate." Terra pulled his hand from the picture and sat back. "Now, let me ask once again, David, can I help you? If you're looking for a burial plot, I'm afraid that I have limited space available."
"No, actually I'm here about a grave that has already been dug- I believe about thirty-five years ago, give or take a month or two." David squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Terra had wiped the dirt from his cheek and was licking his fingers, as if consuming the remains of a chocolate bar. "Uh, the name was Thompson." When Terra next swiped a finger through the black smudge on his forehead, it was too hard for David to not show disgust on his own face, so he sprang from his seat and, as casually as possible, walked to the nearest bookcase, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed in the crow propped before him.
Having finished with cleaning his face, Terra remarked, "Thompson's a pretty common name. Do you have any other information you can give me?"
"Yes," David said loudly, wanting Terra to hear him but not wanting to turn around quite yet. "It was a baby, and its parents were Randy and Melinda Thompson. Don't know the name of the child itself."
David heard rustling behind him. Hoping Terra was busy with books and not the remains of any more dirt on his bodily parts, he turned back to face the desk. Thankfully, Terra was going through a large binder filled with one thick section of old, yellowed paper and another with newer sheets of white.
"I'll look up the records for you," Terra said as he scoured the pages before him, "but I already know who you're talking about. This is a small town. Everybody knows Dr. Thompson and her hubby. Randy just died a little over two years ago." Terra's eyes looked up through the upper half of his glasses. "Cancer, you know, awful way to go."
Not wanting to get too close to Terra, David stayed near the bookcase. "So, Randy Thompson was buried here?"
"He wasn't buried," Terra explained, "but entombed."
David further asked, "Was his child also entombed?"
"Ah, here we go." Terra shoved the binder across the desk at David, but didn't answer the question.
Moving slowly, David approached the desk and bent over, stretching his arm forward in order to turn the binder around so it faced him, but trying to keep as far away from Terra as possible. A tip of a thick white finger appeared on the yellowed page, pointing out an entry. David was taken aback when he read what it said: Don Adam Thompson.
David became aware of why Terra wasn't sweating; a natural frost was in possession of the room. It bothered David to no end that the Thompsons had named their dead baby after his friend.
'That's the Thompson baby. I oversaw the opening of the family mausoleum. Rich people, those Thompsons were, had the best casket and seal for the baby you could buy at the time. Really wasn't surprising to find it was in near-perfect shape when we pulled it out of its resting place." Terra picked up a rock from his desk and began rubbing it between his hands.
"You moved the baby?' David asked, willing himself to keep his eyes on the written words before him, and not on the wormlike fingers working their way over the rock less than six feet from where he stood.
"We sure did. It was at Dr. Thompson's request. When she knew her husband was going to die, she started making plans for the baby and his father to be together, but she was distressed to learn that if she placed Randy next to the baby in the Thompson mausoleum, there would have been no room left for her when she died. So, she comes traipsing in here and buys another plot of land, telling me she's going to have a mausoleum built for their family alone. Wanted it to be big enough for the three of them- her, the baby, and Randy. If you go outside and look up the hill, that big one at the upper left corner belongs to the Thompsons."
"That's where you moved the baby- to this new mausoleum?" David moved back to the nearest bookcases, ignoring the crow's beak poking over his shoulder. He had found that the company of the stuffed bird was more attractive than the living man across the room from him.
Terra put the rock down on the desk. He held his hands together and rubbed them as if he were washing them with the dust from the rock. "No, we actually ended up leaving the casket in its original site. You see, a baby's casket is tiny, so all we had to do was crack the seal on the tomb, open the door and remove it. Only, one of my guys dropped the casket as he was hauling it out. Don't know if my former boss didn't set the lid right or what, but in any case, it failed to hold shut when it fell. Could've heard the proverbial pin drop when that casket flew open and we all realized the thing was empty- not even a hint that bones had ever been laid inside. Poor Dr. Thompson- she was all beside herself. I thought she lost it there for a second."
"What do you mean when you say 'lost it'?" David asked. He crossed his arms as protection against the weird vibes Terra's actions were sending his way.
"Oh, you know- the usual; ranting and raving, throwing her arms about, saying a bunch of crazy stuff about a conspiracy. When she finally calmed down, she just stood there all stiff, staring off into space, real creepy-like. I hate to admit it, but when people are like that, it really gets to me." Terra shuddered. "It took me a while to get up enough nerve to stand near her. And when I did, I could hear her whispering something, more like a chant than anything else."
"What was she saying?"
"I'm not sure. It sounded something like, 'Lies, all lies.' When I touched her shoulder, she went silent. I didn't know what to say, so I just apologized for what happened and she said, as if it were no big deal, that it was all for the best. I thought we had everything all squared away when she told us to put the casket back- which we did- and she walked away. But then all of a sudden, a couple days later, she comes in and tells me she's going to remove the mausoleum she had already placed here. I thought she was going to demand I give her some kind of compensation for what happened with the casket, maybe ask me to return the money she had paid for the new plot of land. Turns out she just wanted to put in a different type of mausoleum. If you want to see the final results, and the place where Randy is resting, we can go through the back of my house and I'll take you to it."
David balked at going any further into Terra's domain, so he politely told him he would meet him around back. Terra came out his back door as David came around the corner of the house, then both men headed up the hill. As they neared the mausoleum, David took note of its construction.
The mausoleum was a long rectangle built of grey granite, about fifteen feet in height and twelve in length, its face comprised of smooth, shiny black stone that was portioned into three sections, each one a square door; two were on the bottom next to each other, while one rested on top and centered between the two below it, each of the three presumably made to hold one body. A cross with the name Thompson carved into it was placed on its roof. David noticed the mausoleum was not bolted to the ground, but appeared to be held in place by its own weight.
"She had it special-delivered, that is, after she had the other one removed." Terra worked hard at keeping pace with the younger and fit agent, but found he was winded by the time they were almost to the top of the hill, so he stopped, catching his breath. David waited for him, aware that the older man might not climb up and down the hill very often, and not wanting to overexert him. As they rested, Terra said, "It's steel-reinforced, believe it or not, under the granite.'
"It looks like it's built for three people. What's the difference between this one and the one she got rid of?" David began to walk again, only at a slower pace than before. Terra fell in step beside him.
"Oh, that's simple. The other mausoleum was built for two people, not three. Like I said, the casket of a baby is tiny; Don Thompson's was really not much bigger than a storage box." David grimaced, feeling as if Terra was talking about his friend. Not seeing David's reaction, the old man kept talking. "Dr.Thompson had that first mausoleum customized, so that a small space was built in between the two larger ones, to fit the baby's casket in. For some reason, she decided she needed this mausoleum instead, with enough room for three adults. Which I thought was strange at first, because as far as I know, she and Randy never had any other children."
David and Terra arrived at the mausoleum. Stepping directly in front of its doors, David read the individual names on each one: to the left, Randal Thoreau Thompson-Beloved Husband and Father; to the right, Melinda Ursula Tammery Thompson-Beloved Wife and Mother, and not surprisingly, the one on top, Don Adam Thompson-Beloved Son. David decided that if there had been any doubt in his mind that Dr. Thompson was set on keeping Don, then the presence of the tomb was enough to wipe it away, because it was apparent that the woman had purchased the granite prison with the specific intention of spending the rest of eternity with him, whether he liked it or not.
As David stepped back, Terra said behind him, "After I saw that Dr. Thompson had put her baby's name on that vault, I got to thinking, since there was no body in that casket, maybe her son never died at all. Maybe he was alive somewhere. She must have been thinking the same thing, that's why she's prepared a full-sized resting place for him- 'cause he would be an adult by now."
David didn't respond, just headed down the hill, Terra trailing behind him. "Hey, I never did ask why the F.B.I. would be interested in all this."
David halted. He didn't want to have to explain, so he told Terra, "I'm not at liberty to say."
"Oh, it's that secretive," Terra observed. They got to the bottom of the hill and walked around to the front of the house. David thanked him for his time and began to climb into his car. But Terra stopped him. "If this has to do with her son being alive, well, I like Dr. Thompson. Wish her good luck for me, you know, in getting a hold of her son."
David stared at the man, but didn't respond out loud. Instead, he dropped into the driver's seat as he thought I don't think it likely that I will.
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Thursday morning in the Eppes home found all three men sitting tiredly on the living room couch, none of them wanting to move. Don's nightmares had kept them up once again and they were so drained that Charlie had considered delaying the aqua therapy till the afternoon, if possible. But then Larry showed up at the front door and rallied the troops, helping Alan get out the door to visit the courts once again, and providing a moral boost to Don and Charlie, exciting the one about seeing his therapist and praising the other about his foresight in preparing the laptop case with his brother's necessities, which lit up the younger man's face and compelled him to discover a new reservoir of energy as he described its contents to his friend.
When they pulled into the parking lot of the institute, all three men were hesitant to leave the car. Charlie gingerly took the first step out, looking around for nefarious men and women, chiding himself for being overprotective in the same way that he had been accusing his father, but not able to control his need to make sure there was nobody about that would hurt his brother. When he had checked all the nearby cars to his satisfaction, Charlie hustled Don into the institute, a frazzled Larry bounding behind him lugging the laptop case, its weight feeling as if it was equal to his own.
"Don, how is my favorite soldier this morning," Jim yelped as they entered the locker room next to the pool. His greeting was answered with a yawn. "Uh, oh- no sleeping on duty. Rise and shine my sleeping beauty." Jim lifted Don's arms up and down, flapping them lightly at his sides. "Be prepared to earn your wings today, because you're going to be flying through your exercises." Don giggled, remembering how much fun Jim could be and how he'd help keep him from the Badman.
Sashaying over to a locker, Jim unlocked it and bent his body to the side, his hand over his head pointing to its contents. Jim winked at Charlie, who walked over and listened to the therapist's explanation of how to dress his brother for the pool. When he finished, he gave Don one salute and jiggled all the way to the exit, then stopped and warned Charlie, "No fun time past this door. Hold on to Don, one of you on either side. The pool area can be slippery and I don't want him to fall." With that, he glided away.
"Unusual man," Larry observed, "almost a dual persona, the way he switches from one expressive state to the other."
"Yeah," Charlie said, starting to undress Don. "Unusual is right."
Larry sat down on the end of the bench, waiting while Charlie began to undo Don's pants. Charlie was sliding down the zipper of Don's jeans when he abruptly stopped. He looked up at Don and could see that he was oblivious to Larry's presence, no shame or embarrassment on his face that he was being undressed by his brother in front of another man. Thinking about what he had discussed with his father the day before, that it was the way Don had to be babied that would cause him the most pain when he regained his awareness of self, Charlie faced Larry.
"I think you better wait outside while I take care of Don. I'll call you in when he's ready."
"Oh, I'm sorry Charles," Larry went to leave.
"It's not you," Charlie tried to explain, "I don't want Don to think I let anyone see him naked when I had the option not to."
"Charles, I understand perfectly. It is well within your right to protect Don's privacy. I'll be directly outside the door if you need me." Larry pressed through the door, leaving Charlie and Don alone.
Having become adept at undressing Don, it did not take Charlie long to shed him of his clothes. He was slowed in redressing him, though, when he picked up the waterproof protection that Jim had shown to him and had briefly explained how to put it on his brother. It looked more like a baby's diaper than the briefs that Don usually wore. Made of red nylon on the outside and thick cotton padding within, its sides rose higher on the leg for more mobility. After fastening it around Don, Charlie pulled a regular pair of swimming trunks up Don's legs, adjusting the trunks until they looked like they were the only things he was wearing, the waterproof diaper carefully hidden underneath.
"All right, Larry. We're ready," Charlie called, putting an arm through one of his brother's. Larry came in, saw how Charlie was holding on to Don, and took up the same position on the opposite side.
"Buddy," Don said when they started to walk towards the door. Charlie scooped up the rabbit and they headed out to the pool.
Fifty minutes later, Charlie and Larry continued to maintain their positions clinging to Don's arms. Buddy was pressed against Don's chest and he was shaking his head 'no', a motion he had been doing almost continually for the better part of the hour. He would not get into the therapeutic pool.
"Come on, Don," Jim pleaded, sitting on the side of the pool with his arms raised for the hundredth time, "just for a minute. It will be really fun."
Don continued to shake his head, lowering his chin and pushing Buddy up to his cheek for reinforcement. His best friend was the only who knew what happened with Mommy, how he had fallen in the bathtub and almost drowned. He knew Charlie could hold him when he got into the tub at their house, but he was right by his side the whole time. The pool was just too big and he was afraid if he fell again, it would take Charlie too long to get to him and he would have no way to get out from under the water. And this time, he really would drown.
Jim pushed up from the pool and stood. "Well, that's that. If he doesn't do better next week, I think we can forget about this aspect of his therapy."
"Wait," Charlie said, "Can't we try it one more time."
"No, we don't want to force him. This is not just exercise for him, Charlie, it's supposed to be emotionally therapeutic. If getting in the pool causes him stress, it defeats the purpose and can even make his emotional stability worse." Jim walked them back to the locker room. Charlie asked Larry to wait with Don inside so he could have a few words with the therapist. Larry readily agreed.
"Isn't there anything we can do?" Charlie didn't want to give up on any portion of Don's therapy, especially one that was designed to decrease his anxiety; Charlie had hoped that its positive effects would carry over to bedtime, and enable Don to sleep through the night. Or, at least reduce the number of nightmares he was having.
"Well, he seems afraid of the water. Has he had any problems getting in the tub at home?"
"No, not that I have seen." Charlie thought about the different times he had given Don a bath since his brother had come home. "Except for the first time he took a bath, when he didn't know me; my dad had to bathe him that time. But since then, Don hasn't show any fear or indicated that he is uncomfortable in any way."
"Hmmm." Jim trotted back to the side of the pool and reached into the water. When he returned, he handed Charlie three plastic rings. "Maybe you can practice with these at home, in the bathtub. Put on his trunks and the protective swimwear, so he understands he's not taking a bath but is doing some more therapy. It might be enough to prepare him for next week."
Charlie looked the rings over. "These are for practicing gripping. I have a lot of things at home for that already, and I've ordered a lot more. To be honest, I was hoping Don would receive the emotional benefits of the aqua therapy- he's been having nightmares the last two nights."
"I'm sorry about that, Charlie. I guess Monday night affected him more than I thought," Jim said apologetically.
"It wasn't your fault. Actually, we haven't had time to thank you and Olivia for all that you did. I was remiss in not saying that when we first saw you today." Charlie slid the rings up his arm.
"Please, don't thank us. I didn't do anything and I think Olivia had more fun kicking that guy than she's had in a long time."
"I think I would have enjoyed it even more." Charlie stated with certainty. "But Don didn't enjoy any part of that eveninng. He's stuck with the aftereffects, and his stress level continues to increase."
"Really, if the goal is to release stress, the exercises aren't required. All Don needs is some hot, gently lapping water and a soothing atmosphere. You probably provide that every morning with his bath. Try doing this later in the day and see if it helps him sleep. Not everybody can afford these therapy sessions, and you wouldn't be the first to have to make-do with what's available at home; which might be your only option, too, because if Don is still afraid to get into the pool next week, I'm afraid I will have to insist that we cancel."
Charlie thanked Jim and entered the locker room, his thoughts on what the therapist had said about people having to make do with what they had at home. Charlie dressed Don and then they joined Larry outside, got in the car after a careful military scan of the parking lot, and were heading for home when Charlie decided he didn't have enough to 'make-do'. He made a detour and pulled in front of a toy store. He asked Larry to watch Don and then he bolted inside. Larry kept his eyes pinned to the rearview mirror as he fulfilled his obligation, and listened to the quiet snoring coming from the man sitting slumped in the back seat. It wasn't long before Charlie reappeared, and Larry helped him store his purchases in the trunk of the car, the older man approving of the reasoning he saw in buying them. Then, they were off, heading towards home once again.
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It was late afternoon when Colby pulled into the parking lot three blocks from the office building located in a prime section of L. A. The agent jogged down the street, knowing it was almost four o'clock and near the time many workers called it quits for the day. He kept a quick pace, as he didn't want to miss Alfie through the simple fluke of arriving a few minutes too late. When he entered the building, a security officer directed him to a bank of elevators. Colby entered the first one to open and pressed the button marked with a twenty, not in the least impressed that Alfie had purchased an entire floor for himself. He had already figured the man had to be wealthy from the first time Caleb mentioned that he was the one paying her property taxes. Colby had assumed they were high considering she was right in the middle of wine country, and after all, it was California; however, he had been wrong in his estimation by over two hundred per cent, leaving him to wonder what Alfie's net worth actually was.
When the doors to the elevator opened, Colby was greeted by a receptionist who asked if he had an appointment. He glibly replied, "Yes, here is the card I was given." Then he held out his badge. Without replying, the woman walked into a back room and left him standing. Less than sixty seconds later she reappeared and led him down a hall to an office, opening the door for him and indicating he should sit.
"He'll be with you momentarily," she said when leaving.
Colby sat on the edge of the chair, not sure what approach to take during his interrogation. Feeling as if he had been left in a cavern, Colby let his eyes roam over the room, assessing its appearance and what it said about its owner. The office was large, at least a thousand square feet, a long distance between the chair he sat in and the large cherry-wood desk before him. Colby assumed, correctly, that it was to make the man behind the desk appear large and overbearing, while the man in front would feel diminutive and weak. It almost had that effect on Colby, so he got up from his seat and took the liberty of walking around.
The walls of the room matched the wood of the desk, and gleamed from a recent polishing; a side door to Colby's left was set flushed with the wall, almost seamlessly. There were no adornments on the walls, not even the obligatory generic painting, though Colby would have expected an original- a Picasso or Van Gogh, maybe. Behind the desk, there was a bank of windows through which Colby could see parts of downtown L.A. It would be impossible for him to say it was an impressive view, because he had never thought much of the city's skyline.
As he dared to walk near the man's desk, Colby wondered at the bareness of the room. Other than the two chairs, the desk was the only other furniture in the room and its focal point no matter where you stood. The desk itself was limited in its possessions, with only five objects sitting on top: a phone, a desk pad with blotter paper, a pen, a small lamp, and a picture frame tilted towards the owner's chair. Curious, Colby took a step forward and carefully picked up the frame, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the photo within:
two people, a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, and a woman of twenty, wearing wildflowers in her hair, both sitting on the ground cross-legged, their arms around each other, his blond mustache and beard pressed against the much-taller woman's braids, a field of alfalfa all around them.
Colby was taken with how beautiful Caleb had been at the age of twenty. He felt as if he had fallen in love the moment he set his eyes on her youthful form, a twinge of guilt marring the feeling as he chastised himself once again for leaving her alone the night before. He gently placed the picture back where he had found it, and obstinately leaned against the desk. When the door across from him finally opened, he stood upright in his finest military pose, watching as Alfie scuffled across the hardwood floor and took his position behind the desk.
His thoughts on Caleb and her safety, Colby had decided a confrontation was in order. He placed his palms down flat on the desk and pressed all of his weight on them, and then he leaned forward inches from Alfie, anger and threats shading his eyes, menace in his voice.
"All right, Fairfield. What the hell did you do with Caleb!"