Chapter 11

Don hated this.

For 12 minutes of every hour — he'd counted — he was in agony beyond any he had ever known. For the next 24 he was recovering, and for the next 24 he was trying to steel himself for what was to come. He was stuck in an endless loop, and he couldn't get off. Cecile kept giving him shots, and while he wanted to ask her to stop so that his mind would clear and he could think, the thought of that 12 minutes without the shot actually made his testicles shrink.

Not that he told Cecile that.

When it was almost time for another shot, and he was as clear as he was going to get, it would hit him all over again that things were horribly wrong. He knew his father. His Dad would be here if he possibly could. Why couldn't he? Why hadn't any of the team come by to tell him what was happening? And Charlie…every time he thought of Charlie, no matter how drugged he was, his heart would crawl a little farther into his throat. He knew that Charlie was in some sort of trouble, and he wished that someone would tell him what was going on.

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The morning after Larry and Alan started all over with the data, Megan appeared excitedly at the door, laden down with a few file folders and grocery bags.

The men had been eating breakfast when their security detail showed her in, and they quickly rose to help her with her bundles.

"I think I got everything you both asked for," she started breathlessly, "and something else! We figured out that the cases aren'r related at all — Charlie somehow saw that, we think." She put the new files on the table and opened them. "We've gone back to the beginning, and we're working this case completely differently."

Alan stood over her shoulder and looked at the print-outs in the folder. Then he straightened and looked at Larry. Alan didn't speak, just backed away and let Larry step up to take a look.

The professor's hand crept toward his hair. "Oh, dear."

Megan knew that gesture, as well as that tone of voice. She and Colby and David had been up most of the night working on this, and all she got was an "Oh, dear"? She glared at Larry. "What does that mean?"

He looked at her sadly, then reached out to turn around the laptop so she could see the screen. "It's just that Alan and I came to the same conclusion ourselves yesterday afternoon. And largely the same results, I'm afraid."

Megan looked at the screen. She sighed. She tried to find something positive to say. "Well…if we all thought of it, maybe we're finally on the right track." She sighed again. "I guess I'll let you guys get back at it." She turned as if to leave, but then remembered the two grocery bags she had placed on the table. She indicated them. "Maybe you should take a break, first. I went by your house, Alan, and your apartment, Larry, and Cal Sci — I brought you all your mail. I thought you might find it distracting."

Alan just nodded his thanks and watched Larry open one of the bags. Alan was disheartened. When he had first seen Megan, she looked so excited…he was sure she would have good news.

Megan saw his melancholy and tried to cheer him. "The hospital called me. Don is doing well."

The mention of Don broke a smile on Alan's face. "Yes. Cecile helped him call me yesterday afternoon. It was wonderful to hear his voice." His smile quickly disappeared. "I wish I could see him…"

Megan touched his arm. "I know, Mr. Eppes, I'm sorry. I want this to be over, too. I'll be going by later this morning myself…I'll try to convey your love, although I know it won't be the same for either of you…" She looked at her watch and sighed. "I need to get back to the office for a few hours first, though."

Larry was engrossed in his mail, so Alan escorted her to the door alone. "Megan, I appreciate…everything you're doing. All of you." He suddenly reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, grabbed a $20. He offered it to Megan. "Take some real coffee and maybe some pastries back with you. Tell Colby and David they're from Larry and I."

She smiled and accepted the money. "Thank you, Alan. We were up most of the night, and we've had about all the office swill we can handle. I'm sure the guys will appreciate this." Her voice grew more serious and she touched his arm. "Alan — we'll find Charlie. We'll get him back."

Alan gave Megan a brief hug at the door and watched her drive away, then wandered back to the kitchen table. Larry put aside a letter and reached into the bag for more mail, so Alan started to turn back to the refrigerator. Larry's sudden proclamation stopped him. "Oh. My heavens." Alan came back to the table and Larry looked at him and held up a bubble wrap Cal Sci envelope. "This is from Charles. This is his handwriting."

Alan grabbed it and ripped it open before Larry could. He brought out the thumb drive and handed it to Larry. "What's on this?" He looked again in the envelope to see if there was anything he had missed.

Larry quickly sat and plugged the drive into the laptop, then dragged the data onto his own hard drive. While the information was transferring, Alan looked into his own bag of mail, and excitedly saw an identical envelope. He soon had a second thumb drive for Larry. "Here. This might just be another copy of that, but you'd better look."

When the first thumb drive was transferred, Larry exchanged the drives in the machine, and repeated the process. Alan had moved around to the back of his chair to watch. The seconds were agonizingly slow as they exchanged furtive glances.

Just when Alan was sure he would scream, Larry elicited another "Oh, my", and the two watched in wonder as the two data streams merged, an application completely unfamiliar to Larry was automatically launched, and the binary information began to reformat.

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Since Shotgun has sledge hammered his knee, and Charlie had passed out, he had spent a lot of time unconscious.

He had also spent a lot of time being brought to awareness again, just so that Shotgun could find some other way to torture him. Throw water on him. Kick his shattered knee. Laugh at Charlie's groans and distract him from that pain with the cigarette lighter, which Shotgun had decided would work in other places besides Charlie's arm. Wait until Charlie passed out again, throw more water on him, position him against the wall as if he were a Raggedy Andy, and plant calloused fists in Charlie's solar plexus.

Charlie couldn't even name all that had been done to him, and he was beyond refusing to help them, anymore. He didn't even remember that they wanted something from him.

Finally, mercifully, the last time Charlie passed out Max had taken Shotgun out of the room and left him lying on the mattress. His bullet graze was black and blistered. Several other second- and third-degree burns decorated both arms, both bare feet, and his torso, which was also covered with bruises. His knee had swollen as far as his jeans would let it, and pressed against them painfully, wanting to swell more. His nose, broken in one place on the roof and another here in the room, was also swollen, discolored, and throbbed unendingly even in his unconscious state.

Yet despite all the injuries his body had to choose from, it was Charlie's burning ulcer that woke him again. He had consumed nothing but water for almost 48 hours, and he didn't feel hunger, anymore. The burning gave way to an occasional sharp pain, as if he was being stabbed, and it was one of those stabbings that brought him to the surface again.

He opened his eyes and lay for a while mostly on his stomach on the mattress, then tried to sit up. He found that it was impossible. Presently the door opened and feet approached him. He closed his eyes again and waited for Shotgun to finish him off. He knew he wouldn't live through much more.

He heard someone sit on the floor just inches away from his head. Shotgun didn't usually take the time to sit down, first. Maybe it was Max. Charlie hoped it was Max. He seemed…sane, compared to the other one…

"Hello, Charlie."

Charlie tensed. He knew that voice, and it wasn't either of his captors. He found himself unable to open his eyes, not ready to see what he had known since the afternoon he had run the data.

"I underestimated you. Twice. First, I wasn't quite ready for you to figure it out so soon. Oh, I knew that you would — I wanted you to, but I thought it would take a little longer. I should have known better. Second, I never thought you could take Nicky for this long. You're as tough as your brother."

Charlie opened his eyes at that and met those of Director Merrick, Don's boss. "Is he dead?", he whispered.

Merrick shook his head. "Not yet. Tell me what you were going to tell him. Tell me what you know."

Charlie coughed a little and the Director noted the half-empty bottle of water near the foot of the mattress and leaned over to retrieve it, then tried to hand it to Charlie. Charlie just looked at it, so Merrick upcapped it and started to physically pull Charlie's hand away from his body and give it to him, but stopped at the sight of his burned bullet graze. Instead, he tipped the bottle to Charlie's lips himself, and waited while Charlie drank, then took the water away again. He sat it on the floor and continued to look at Charlie. "Tell me," he repeated.

Charlie swallowed. "The cases…aren't related," he finally said. "The branding of each victim was only a smokescreen to make it look like they were. Only the first was a real target. Simpson."

Merrick nodded solemnly. "Go on."

"Simpson's file indicates he once worked as a computer programmer with the DC office." Charlie had a question of his own, now. "Is that where you met him?"

Merrick smiled. "Yes. We both worked there at the same time. That's where we began our own…private enterprise."

Charlie finished for him. "Simpson designed two applications. One tapped unseen in the overseas financial accounts of wealthy crime victims. The other funneled funds into your own overseas account."

Merrick nodded again. "Correct. You are worth your fee, Dr. Eppes."

"So why did you kill him? The two of you have been doing this successfully for years."

"I think you know why. The people we took the money from are so wealthy, they didn't even notice. We were careful not to be greedy. I retire in a few years, and this was my nest egg. But Simpson decided his cut wasn't big enough. He documented all the activity, intending to use it to keep me silent, and then raided my account. When I checked the balance a few months ago, I saw what he was doing."

"Killing…" Charlie stopped to cough again, then went on. "Killing him ensures you'll never get the money back."

"That's where you come in," stated Merrick. "You have the data from his computer. It's encrypted, but what does that matter to you?" His voice changed, became less friendly and more threatening, somehow. "Break it. Find out where he moved my money, and move it back. Then destroy all the evidence he accumulated."

Charlie closed his eyes again and shook his head. "No."

Merrick was silent for a while. Then, "I have something to show you."

Against his better judgement, Charlie opened his eyes again and saw the Director remove a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He unfolded it and held it close enough so that Charlie could read the headline, and see the photo. It took Charlie a moment to focus his bleary eyes enough to read, but he could tell that the photo was one of Amita, so he forced himself to do it: "Harvard Professor's Ritualistic Slaying Linked to Several More in Los Angeles".

A whimper escaped Charlie and he tried to push himself up again.

"Ritualistic." Merrick shook his head and put the article on the floor beside him. "They're calling it that just because of the brand in her forehead. There was nothing 'ritualistic' about it. A simple struggle — a broken neck."

"Oh, God…"

"Understand this," said Merrick lowly, leaning closer to Charlie. "My people will do this to your father. To your brother. To every friend you have ever had." Charlie whimpered again and began to choke a little on unshed tears. The Director reached out and slapped him on the back, continuing his speech. "One every 6 hours." He spoke almost conversationally. "Until you do what I brought you here to do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And before they kill them, Charlie, they will tell them what they told her — that Charlie sent them. Your family will die knowing that you killed them."

With that Merrick pushed himself off the floor, gently shoved the laptop close to the mattress again with his feet. "All charged up and ready to go," he said. "If I were you — I'd pull myself together and start working."