Numb3rs: Family Ties
Running On Dry
Disclaimer: I don't have anything to do with the creation or use of the wonderful TV show called Numb3rs.
A/N: This is my first Numb3rs story and I'd love any feedback I can get. All kinds of criticisms are welcome. Also, I've been wondering if anyone figured out who the mastermind behind the kidnapping is yet; I left little clues through out these three chapters. If you have any ideas, I'd love to read what you think. Finally, I'd like to thank everyone for all their wonderful reviews; they really made me feel happy.
Summary: The Eppes brothers have been through thick and thin, but when the stakes change, will they be able to pull through for each other?
Don limped out of his car and headed towards his office. Entering it, he slumped down into his seat, covering his face with his face in a rare display of vulnerability. Rubbing his temple, he tried soothing his raging headache, but to no avail.
His nightmares had plagued with finding Charlie lying facedown in a ditch.
He couldn't even imagine it, his little brother with all of his quirks and idiosyncrasies actually still, even in death, for more than a moment. Charlie was always full of life, from the far off light in his eyes when he was thinking things that maybe only a hundred people worldwide could appreciate and only a dozen understood to the nervous twitching of his fingers when he needed to write some complex equation down, he was always in action. When Don was younger, it used to drive him crazy; he'd hate the way Charlie would toss and turn at night like his brain had too many thoughts in it and way his chair used to make that creaking sound when he bent back in it, thinking furiously.
Now Don would give anything to hear Charlie spout out one more theorem or axiom. He kept picturing Charlie huddling in a small dark room, terrified by his captors, hoping that Don would rescue him. Don would have to save him, there was no one else that Don trusted enough to do so.
"Don," Terry soft voice cut through the pain in Don's head, "I thought the hospital said you should have lots of bed rest. You did have a pretty severe concussion."
"I just couldn't stand Dad's face for another minute. I'd rather be wasting my time here, than being helpless at home. I just can't sit at home when he's out…there" Don made an angry, frustrated gesture with his hands.
"Your father doesn't blame you; he's just worried about Charlie," Terry said softly, "And you are doing something."
"If he doesn't blame me, then he should. He's warned me again and again about dragging Charlie into these things. He kept telling me that Charlie wasn't suited for FBI work, and that he only wanted to please his older brother, and now-" Don sighed and covered his face, "Do have anything?"
"As a matter of fact," David said, entering the office, "This just came in the mail"-David turned the slim package over in his hands-"and it's addressed to you."
"Other than that, is there anything else on the package?" Don questioned warily.
"Unmarked." David answered gravely.
"Hand it here." Don sighed, taking the large envelope.
Don opened the envelope carefully with a tissue. Shaking it, two enlarged pictures fluttered facedown to the floor. Reaching down, Terry picked up the pictures and gasping, dropped them again, kicking them away.
"Terry?"
"Don," Terry paused as if thinking of the right words, "I…don't think you should be working on this case." She bent down to gather the fallen pictures in her arms before Don could see them. "I'll hand this off to the appropriate persons. You should go home and rest."
"Terry," Don said, his voice icy, "Let me see the pictures."
"Don," Terry said cautiously, backing out of the room, "I'm going to give this to another team. We'll talk later."
Don held his hand out demandingly. "Give it to me. Now."
Reluctantly, Terry handed the pictures over. Don turned over them over quickly and staring, slowly clenched his fists, crumpling the pictures. There, in the pictures was Charlie, bloodied and broken, slumping against the wall. His knee was swollen like a grapefruit and was visible even under his jeans; his face was pinched and white, and his nose was oddly aligned, like it had been broken. Blood was still gently streaming down his face, matting his hair, and dripping down from his nose.
His eyes were half-lidded, looking pleadingly at the camera, one of his hands bracing himself on the wall behind him…the wall behind him. It was full of Charlie's scribblings. Looking closer, he saw it was a series of equations written in small cramped handwriting. Don had only seen writing like this once before.
"He's losing it." Don muttered, staring wistfully at his brother, "Look, my father will be here in an hour; don't let him see this, no matter what. Check the envelope for anything else; then take everything to the lab and check for fingerprints."
David quickly shook the envelope and took out a small piece of paper; handing it to Don, he said, "Give me one of those pictures; you keep the other one for now; maybe Charlie wrote us a clue in one of them."
Don nodded and looked at the paper. "This is what he looks like now." he read softly, "He'll be worse if you start looking for him."
Don breathed harshly and studied the picture, staring hard at it until the formulas blurred. Snarling under his breath, Don stalked towards the board and pinned the picture to the wall.
"Get Amita and Larry in here. They have the best chance of figuring this out." he snapped.
"On it." Terry walked out of the room, dialing on her cell, while David gathered everything else up and started for the lab, leaving Don alone.
Don stared at the picture of Charlie and then shaking his head, he focused on the writing on the wall behind him.
"What are you trying to tell me, Charlie?" he whispered, touching the picture.
(Three hours later)
"What do you mean, you have no idea?"
"Well, for starters, there seem to be clusters of information, like sets." Amita said, pointing out three separate equations, "These three are N vs. NP, but this here looks different. He's using a completely different style of math…most of this is in Greek."
"My brother knows Greek?" Don asked, a trifle hysterical.
Larry looked at him, consoling. "Nearly all mathematicians know Greek, because most symbols are written in Greek."
"But you two don't have any idea what he's trying to tell us?" Don repeated.
Amita shook her head, dark hair bouncing. "If Charlie was trying to tell us something, then he made it a little too hard to figure out."
"It's interesting though," Larry mused, "the whole equation is written in Greek, except for the answer: 9478377."
"Is that weird?" Don questioned
"Well…" Amita hesitated, "the answer's right, except, if he wrote the entire equation in Greek, why not write the answer like that too?"
"Maybe," Terry interjected, "he's describing something, like the situation or where he is?"
Larry scrutinized the picture. "He could be, but what would the symbols represent?"
"Well," Don said sarcastically, "That's why you were called here, but obviously, my little brother is-"
"Don," Terry said firmly, "I suggest you go home and spend some time with your father. We'll call you if something comes up."
"Terry-"
"We'll call you." Terry said warningly.
Don glared and stalked out of the room. Getting in his car, he headed home. He was tired and worried, and couldn't deal with his father right now. He felt so guilty; it was all his fault. If only he had dropped Charlie off somewhere, or stayed in the car with him, or even just kept a better eye on his surroundings…none of this should have happened, not while Don was there, supposedly watching over his brother.
Pulling into Charlie's driveway, Don slammed the car door closed and headed for the garage, taking his briefcase with him, which held all the relevant papers to Charlie's case, including a photocopy of his picture with the odd writing on it.
Don pulled open the garage door and cleared a space on the table, lovingly moving stacks of paper with Charlie's handwriting on it, to the side. Setting his briefcase in the cleared space, he dragged a chair over, letting it scrape against the floor. Settling himself in the chair, Don pulled the briefcase towards him and began to work.
It was over a two hours later and Don still hadn't learned anything new. He buried his fingers into his dark hair as the numbers in the picture behind Charlie started to blur. Once again, Don pulled the picture towards him and focused on the answer: 9478377. It didn't make sense; it wasn't Charlie. Charlie was smart and logical. He was passionate, true, but, according to Charlie, everything stemmed from numbers, which always followed through to a logical conclusion. This answer just didn't fit Charlie's standards. Why write the equations in Greek and then write the answer in English?
Something just wasn't-
Don jumped as the garage door opened and Don's father, Alan, walked in with a bowl of hot soup and Don's cell phone in his hands.
"I saw the light on and I figured-"
Don held up his hand, cutting Alan off and motioning him to come in.
Alan chuckled softly. "You know, I never thought that I'd be doing this for anyone else other than-" Alan cut himself off as Don slumped back in his seat tiredly.
"No clues?" Alan probed gently.
"You should go to bed, Dad." Don said, evading the question, "You were up all last night. If you keep this up, you'll wear yourself out."
Alan snorted and set the soup down with a thump. "Pot calling the kettle black." he quipped, "Move over so I can help."
"Sorry Dad." Don said, gathering his papers, "FBI sensitive."
Alan's hand smacked the table hard, rattling the soup and cell phone. "Charlie just isn't your little brother; he's my youngest son too, and I'll be damned if I just sit here while you kill yourself looking for him."
Don scrutinized him carefully and then quietly handed him the papers he was holding close to his chest. Alan's face got grayer and grayer as he flipped through the papers. Reaching the final one, Alan closed his eyes briefly, running his fingers over the picture lightly.
"What would Margaret say?" he whispered.
Don looked back at the picture Alan was caressing lovingly. "That we didn't do anything wrong; and that we're going to get him back."
Alan sighed as he looked down at the picture. "I wish I could believe that."
Don closed his eyes. "Yeah," he murmured, picking up his phone, "Me too."
Don leaned back in his chair, flipping his phone open and then closing it with a snap. Mulling over Charlie's equation, he suddenly shot forwards, letting the chair fall forward with a thud. He grabbed the picture out of his father's hands and studied it carefully while looking at his cell phone.
"Don?" Alan asked hesitantly.
Don ignored him, examining the cell phone. Then he grabbed a spare piece of paper, and turning it over, began it scribble on it furiously.
"Don!" Alan cried out, "What are you doing? That was your brother's!"
"Still is." Don answered, "Look at these numbers, Dad. 9478377. It looks like a phone number doesn't it?"
"Umm…"
"Disregard the equation itself, and only look at the answer. That's what Charlie wanted us to focus on."
Alan furrowed his brow. "Charlie gave us a phone number?"
"No, that was just a clue to point us in the right direction. Look at my cell; for every number, there are letters. What if each number represents a letter that tells us about his location or kidnappers. This sequence of numbers could represent a name or county, or street name."-Don paused for an instant to chuckle-"It was staring us straight in the face; leave it to Charlie to think of something so simple that it's hard."
Alan stared at him and then quickly stood. "I'll call Terry." he said, running out the door.
Don barely heard him; he was too busy writing down the letters on a legal pad. He'd run them through the computer and see if their were any matches to streets and then if that didn't work, he'd try names and then…he was on a roll; they were going to find Charlie safe and sound.
This was all going to work out.
The door creaked open. "Terry," Don said not turning, "I've found-"
Don jerked to the left, instinctively ducking. He felt a sharp sting on his temple and flew to the floor, groaning. Dully, he watched a steel hammer fall to the ground next to him and a shadowy body tower over him.
Roughly, the figure above him said, "Gather his papers and bring him. We have to get out of here quick."
Behind him, on the verge of unconsciousness, Don could hear the shuffling of papers and then, unexpectedly, the desk crashed to the ground, probably pushed by one of the men. Don's cell clattered close by and his hand sluggishly inched towards it, before one of the men kicked it away from him.
Still, Don hand's hand pitifully reached for it, though it was out of reach. There was something about the cell; something he needed to remember, something important…why did-
Too late, Don lost the last tendrils of the thought as he drifted into darkness.
To Be Continued…