Chapter 20

Don was drumming his fingers on the bedspread again, trying to use his head, and not resort to the laptop's calculator. He was trying to channel Charlie. He was attempting to figure out a number of things. It was 2 p.m. Monday, and he had every intention of being out of here by 2 p.m. Friday. How many traction sessions were left? 96. That didn't look good, unless you compared it with the amount he had already endured. 408? He'd have to check that one. How long had it been since he'd had any Demerol? 22 hours. He'd have to start bucking up more. He definitely wanted to be free and clear of that by Friday. He'd talk to the doctor in the morning about switching him to an oral pain med. How many times had he asked Megan to bring him a copy of Charlie's statement? Four — the same number of times she had come to see him, and "forgotten". Crap. It was always the low numbers — the ones you didn't watch so carefully — that tripped you up. Three times she had "forgotten". The last time she had told him it was basically none of his business, since he wasn't working the case. He had no right to infringe on a victim's right to privacy — even if that victim was his brother. What was the algebraic equation for determining the force with which he had almost slapped her? Maybe he shouldn't figure that one out. It was not a moment of which he was particularly proud.

He heard the door opening and looked up, surprised. His Dad would not be by until much later — he was taking Charlie to the doctor, and it wasn't time for traction yet. Don's surprise doubled when he recognized Assistant Director Walker. Bill Walker had only been A.D. of the L.A. office for a few months — came from Vegas — and the two had not had much of a chance to work together. If he was dropping by for a visit in the middle of the day, Don figured he must be trying for the hands-on approach with his agents. Just took him a little while to get his hands on. "Assistant Director. How are you?"

Walker smiled as he approached the bed. "I believe that's my line, Agent Eppes. Your father has been keeping me informed, and he says you're doing well."

Don grimaced. "If by 'well' you mean that I've been tied down in one place for over two weeks and haven't hurt anyone over it, yeah, I guess so."

The A.D. laughed a little and offered Don the paperback novel he was holding. "It's not new — I like to recycle. It's the latest John Grisham. I enjoyed it…I don't know if you read much, but I figured you can't be doing much else."

Don accepted the book. "Thanks — and you're right. Don't take the time to read much, usually…but I seem to have nothing but time, these days. I appreciate it. I've sunk so low I'm playing computer games." The A.D. was still standing and Don indicated a chair. "Would you like to sit down?"

Walker shook his head but came closer to the bed. "I can't stay. Office is pretty… Well. You can imagine." Don nodded. Walker cleared his throat. "Actually, that's why I'm here. As of today, I'm officially the Director of the L.A. office. It was announced on an interim basis, of course, but the powers assure me the position is mine."

Don was happy to hear that things hadn't reached a complete standstill in the wake of Merrick's deception, and from what he had seen so far, Walker could handle the job. "Congratulations. I'm sure you'll be quite successful — although I don't envy you having to deal with agent morale, after what Merrick did."

"Well, that's really more in the job description of the Assistant Director."

Don smiled. "Poor bastard."

Walker smiled back. "Quite. My hope is that 'poor bastard' will be you."

Don dropped the John Grisham novel. "Excuse me?"

"I've reviewed you work, both here and in the Albuquerque office, Agent Eppes. Your team speaks highly of you. In fact, no agent does not speak well of you; you have the respect of the entire office. That will go a long way toward making you an effective A.D."

Don couldn't seem to find anything to say.

"I understand this is something you'll need to consider seriously," continued Walker. "The position is yours if you want it. Take the rest of your recovery to think about it. From what I understand, once you're released, it will be several more weeks before you begin physical therapy?"

"Three," confirmed Don weakly.

"And while hopes are high and everyone maintains optimism, there's no way to tell at this point whether or not you can return to the field."

Don swallowed.

"I certainly join my hope with yours, if it is your desire to return to field work. I'm just asking that you take the next — month, shall we say? — to consider this alternative. I believe we would be an effective team, Agent Eppes, and that we could bring the L.A. office triumphantly through this challenge."

He offered his hand to Don then, and Don shook it with feeling. Regardless of his decision about accepting the A.D. position, he was learning a great appreciation for this man, and looked forward to working for him. "Thank you, A…Director. Director Walker. I'm…momentarily overwhelmed. I appreciate your confidence."

The new Director released his hand and smiled. "Enjoy Mr. Grisham, Agent Eppes. In those off moments you have when you can think of nothing else to do. I'll be in touch frequently."

Walker pivoted and walked toward the door, opening it just as the traction nurse arrived to hook Don up again. Strange thing, though. This time, he barely even felt it.

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His leg ached mightily by 3 o'clock, though. Don tried to convince himself that it was phychosomatic, because A.D. Walker had talked about therapy, and field work — but by 4, he reconsidered his stance on Demerol. Maybe he could have just one more shot…before he talked to the doctor in the morning. His nurse was happy to comply — he was a much easier patient when he was unconscious — and Don blissfully slept through the next two traction treatments. It was the 6:15 unhooking that brought him up through the haze enough to focus on his father sitting unhappily in the chair between the beds, staring at the floor.

Don watched him for almost a full minute before it hit him.

The chair between the beds? Why was there another bed in here again?

Don couldn't see around his father's head, but he recognized the knee brace outside the covers. He tried to hit the control to raise the head of his own bed, but didn't have that much fine motor control in his hands, yet. Stupid Demerol. At least all his IV lines were gone, so he could put his hand through the rail and poke his father in the shoulder. Alan looked up at him, startled. "Are you all right? You were sleeping so soundly you missed dinner."

That wasn't all, Don thought. If dinner was over, he had slept through two tractions and the reconfiguration of his room — his own bed had been moved and he hadn't awakened. That qualified as sound sleep, Don guessed. "Upid mmmoral," he muttered. Alan smiled gently and stood up, offering Don a drink from the cup on his rolling table. It helped loosen his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and Don drank gratefully.

When his father put the cup back, Don managed to lift a hand and almost point a finger toward the other bed. "Charlie?"

Alan glanced at the other bed, sighed and sat down again, nodding. "Didn't go as well as it did last week, with the doctor."

Don ruminated. Alan was either the eternal optimist or the king of the understatement, Don had never been able to quite decide which. "What?" His words were understandable now, but two in a row was still a challenge.

"Let me see if I can remember it all." Alan ticked the list off on his fingers. "Dehydrated. Persistent secondary infection. Not enough nutrition to keep his ulcer happy. Exhaustion. Complications to his knee surgery." He looked back at Don. "On the bright side, the tape on his nose has been downsized."

Alan looked over at Charlie again and then back at the floor. "The doctor saw him at 3, and by 5 he was admitted for at least 24 hours of IV nutrition and antibiotic treatment. PT is off, for a while." He looked back at Don. "I think that's about it."

"Sedated?"

"Oh, yeah. Turns out Charlie hasn't been sleeping at night. This morning I was changing his bed, and found a notebook crammed with equations hidden between the mattress and the box springs. At first I was glad he was working on something. But then Larry came over for lunch, and I asked him to come upstairs and help me with something. I showed it to him. He said it was that problem. The unsolvable one, that Charlie did before. You know."

Don closed his eyes for a second. Yeah, he knew. P vs NP.

"Anyway. Revelation didn't sit too well with me, and I nailed him on it…" Alan glanced at Don's leg and grimaced. "Sorry. Anyway. I confonted him in the doctor's office so he wouldn't lie to me. He never sleeps at night. Even the prescription the doctor gave him last week doesn't phase him. He hasn't wanted me to hear the screaming nightmares he has every afternoon on the daybed, while I've been here."

Don opened his eyes again. "Sleeps only while you're here?" He was proud of himself. Five consecutive words. Soon he would be able to ask his Dad to order pizza.

Or maybe not. Alan looked angry. He was nodding. "That means, sick and wounded, he's been averaging three or four hours of sleep a day." Alan looked at him full-on, and Don could see that he was angry. "I'll tell you, Don, I love that boy, and I feel like someone is stealing him. I want to fight for him again, hold someone at gunpoint again, but who do I fight? Who do I fight, Don?"

Alan's anger and frustration spilled over and invaded Don's space, and he felt himself feeling it, too. He wanted to come up with an answer for Alan, he wanted to assure him that Charlie would be all right.

He just didn't know if it was true.