Chapter 12

Larry wrinkled his brow. "This is odd."

Alan leaned over to look at the screen. "What?"

"This document is a list started by Charlie. 'Ask Don", it says. There are a few questions. 'Why did S leave DC?' and 'When was M assigned to DC?'"

"Why are questions for Don odd?"

"It's not that. It's all this documentation in the same folder. It shows that Don's boss — Director Merrick — he rents a boat storage facility near the marina."

"Okay…I guess it's odd that Charlie would bother to find that out and document it, and want to show it to Don…"

Larry looked at Alan. "Yes, but it's also odd that Director Merrick would rent a boat storage facility. Charles once told me a very funny story regarding Mr. Merrick and the sea. The poor gentleman was horrendously seasick all over the Vice President of the United States. Charles was trying to make me feel better — at the time I was being horrendously seasick myself."

Alan nodded. "Last year, when the two of you went charter fishing."

"Correct. So perhaps he was exaggerating for my benefit…he said that Merrick is notorious for his seasickness, to the point where Colby makes staff meetings shorter by swaying almost imperceptibly until Merrick turns green."

Alan smiled, and Larry continued musing. "It's just odd that a man so infamously seasick would need a boat storage facility…"

Alan looked toward the screen of the laptop again. "Let's see what else Charlie found."

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"Please don't."

Cecile hesitated, syringe at the IV port. "Don, the morphine is barely controlling your pain during traction. In a few days, you'll be stronger. Your other injuries will be improved. We can switch to something else then. Demerol, probably."

"Tell me, first," Don slurred.

Cecile's discomfort increased. She didn't want to be the one to tell Don about Charlie. She wasn't sure if his head injury had affected his memory of the roof, maybe his entire short-term memory…he might not remember going to Cal Sci at all. It was too soon to test those things. He needed more rest. She stalled. "Tell you what?"

He lifted a hand slowly, managed to brush her elbow. "How much you love me," he said, startling Cecile so badly that she almost dropped the syringe.

She managed to pull herself together enough to inject the medication into the IV solution, walk to the sharps container on the wall to dispose of the needle, and walk back to the bed. She leaned over the rail and ran a hand through Don's hair. His eyes had drifted shut, and she was pretty sure Morpheus had already taken him. "Of course I love you," she said lightly and softly, and moved her hand down to caress his cheek.

Don startled her once again when he leaned his head into her hand and yawned. "Good," he said tiredly, never opening his eyes. "Cuz I love you, too."

Suspended over the rail, suspended in time, Cecile listened to Don start snoring — and smiled.

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Larry looked at Alan with wide eyes and grabbed for the cell phone still on the table. "We have to call Megan!"

"No!" Alan reached the phone first, and he protected it from Larry. "We can't."

Larry looked at him in confusion. "Why not?"

Alan stood, with the phone. "Don't you see? If Merrick is involved, nothing related to the FBI is safe. Not this house. Not the security. Not Megan's phone." He saw the look on Larry's face and hastened to clarify. "Megan's phone, Larry — I believe we can still trust Don's team."

Larry's hand approached his mouth. "Then what can we do?"

Alan looked at his phone and made a decision. "I'm calling Merrick."

Larry gasped. "What? Are you mad?"

Alan started punching numbers. "I'll tell him that we'll trade. Information for Charlie." He looked at Larry, silently daring him to protest further, lifted the phone to his ear.

After nearly giving himself tennis elbow negotiating the automated answering system at the FBI, Alan eventually found himself connected to an actual person — Merrick's secretary. He asked to speak with the Director, identifying himself.

"I was so sorry to hear about both your sons, Mr. Eppes."

Alan, impatient, tried to be polite. "Thank you. The Director?"

"He just stepped out of the office for a few minutes. He's actually going by Huntington to see Don. If you would like to leave a …"

Politeness out the window, Alan disconnected, dropped the phone on the table and looked at Larry. "My God. I've got to get to Don."

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Director Merrick drove toward Huntington. He wasn't wearing his gun, although it would be easy enough for a man of his position to get past hopital security. Of course he couldn't let Agent Eppes live, eventually he would have to kill him, but he would try just to find out what he knew, for now. He didn't know if Dr. Eppes had time to tell his brother anything. Merrick had instructed his people to do the father, next. He glanced at the digital clock in the dashboard of the vehicle. Old man had about four hours left, by his reckoning.

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Larry's eyes grew wide. "Alan, this is insanity."

Alan looked at him, determined, and Larry suddenly understood Charles' stubborn streak a little better. "This is the only way. It has to be now — Merrick is on his way to Huntington. All you have to do is distract him."

Larry chewed his fingernails for a moment, then dropped his hand to his side and sighed. He advanced toward the kitchen door, and Alan faded into the open pantry. Larry stopped near the door and opened a cupboard, taking out a glass. Checking behind him to make sure that Alan was out of sight, Larry turned back toward the door, squeezed his eyes shut, and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the wall.

While the FBI agent assigned to their security detail struggled with the locked kitchen door, Larry approached the littering of glass, retrieved a piece, and just had enough time to slice it across a finger before the agent, gun drawn, appeared in the doorway. "What happened?"

Larry looked at him and allowed his blood to drip on the floor. "I'm so sorry. I broke a glass. I seem to have cut myself…"

The agent holstered his weapon and grabbed a towel off a counter. He started toward Larry. "Let me help," he said. "How bad is it?"

Approaching from the pantry behind the agent, Alan told himself that he had to do it. He would make the man a nice brisket later, if it turned out that he wasn't involved. While the agent peered at Larry's finger, Alan raised the frying pan, thought of his sons, and slammed it into the back of the agent's head.

He dropped like a stone, nearly pulling Larry with him, and the professor and the father stood and looked at him. They finally spoke, simultaneously.

"Have you killed him?"

"How badly did you cut yourself? I said 'distract him', Larry, not 'bleed all over him'!"

Larry looked at his finger, which was still bleeding and could probably use a stitch or two. He picked the towel up off the floor where the agent had dropped it and wrapped up his finger. "It's nothing. It's fine."

Alan looked at him a moment trying to judge the veracity of that statement. Finally satisfied, he leaned over the agent's body and touched a shaking hand to his neck. He was relieved almost beyond words to find a steady pulse. He started to feel around under the agent's jacket for his handcuffs. "He's not dead," Alan informed his partner in crime. Once he found the cuffs, he relieved the agent of them and straightened a little, kicked some glass out of he way and leaned again to roll the agent slowly onto his back. He brought the man's hands together. He had some difficulty at first because the agent was wearing a shoulder holster, and his limp arm kept catching on the gun, so Alan reached under his jacket and took the gun out, laid it on the floor, and then tried again. Finally he was able to handcuff the man's hands together. Then he patted his pockets until he found a set of keys, reached in and took them. Finally, straightening again, he brought the gun from the floor with him.

He started to lay it on the counter, then reconsidered and reached around behind himself, sticking it in the waistband of his jeans.

Larry's eyes, already wide, grew so much more so that it was almost comical. "Alan! Surely you're not taking a gun!"

Alan didn't answer.

Larry tried again. "Huntington probably has detectors at the door."

Alan shrugged. "Don's not in general population. You have to go through a service entrance to get to where he is, punch in a security code — Megan showed me all that, to reassure me, before I would leave with her."

Larry continued to protest. "It's not safe, handling a weapon you're not trained…"

Alan flashed angry eyes at him and Larry trailed off. "I know how they work, Larry. I have a gun of my own, at home in the safe. When Margaret and I decided to get one for protection, we took a class, so we would know how to use it."

The agent stirred a little on the floor, but was soon still again.

"You might want to sweep some of this glass up," said Alan, stepping over it to the kitchen door. Once there, he looked back at Larry. "Give me half an hour. Then you can call Megan." He stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him, then immediately opened it again and looked at Larry, who was still standing over the agent. "Take care of that finger," he said, and then he disappeared again.