Chapter 8

Don crawled quickly to the mattress he had been sleeping on, ripped the sheet from the mess of bedding. He tried to tear it, got nowhere. "Some tough FBI agent I am," he thought, glancing over at Charlie, who still kneeled motionless by the east wall. Aloud, he growled, "Dammit!" and searched the sheet for a weaker spot. He looked at Charlie again, saw how pale he was against the dark blood coming off both his face and arm. He felt fear, and nothing made him angrier than feeling fear — except maybe seeing Charlie hurt. In a sudden rip he felt the sheet give way, and he scrambled back toward his brother as he continued to tear the sheet in pieces. When he reached him, he had just enough time to drop the impromptu bandages and catch Charlie as he slumped backwards, preventing him from banging his head on the wall. He helped his brother straighten his legs in front of him, careful of the injured foot.

He shoved a piece of sheet into Charlie's hand. "Hold this," he commanded, "put your head back". It turned out to be more of a narration than an order, as he had to physically tilt Charlie's head back himself, and guide his hand to his face.

Then he was back at the mattresses, grabbing the few alcohol pads they had left. He looked around for something — anything — else he could use, settled for the water, grabbed it, and went back to Charlie. The sheet was soaking through already, and he lifted Charlie's left hand long enough to add another piece under it. Then he concentrated on Charlie's right arm. Most of the gauze was hanging loosely already, and he unwound it, tossed it toward the bucket in the corner. The wound still looked angry and red, and it was bleeding again, but at least there was no thin yellow stream of purulent infection this time. First he used a wet piece of sheet to clean the arm. When he moved to the alcohol pads, he finally got a reaction out of Charlie, who grunted and involuntarily jerked his arm away. Don hung on, and did what he could with what he had left, using the largest piece of sheet to wrap his brother's arm again. He cringed as he did it, knowing the sheet was not sterile…but it was all he had.

Carefully, he lifted Charlie's hand from his face, used another scrap wet with water to wash away the blood. Mercifully, it had slowed considerably. He picked up the last piece of sheet, replaced the bloody ones, and held it in place himself this time.

"Not quite done," he said quietly. His voice was unsteady as he apologized again to his brother. "I'm so sorry, Charlie. I'm so sorry."

Charlie kept his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. He was bracing himself with his left hand, now, but he raised his right one and located Don's holding the sheet to his nose. He trailed his fingers up the arm, blindly reaching Don's face. Then he continued on, until his hand was on the back of his brother's head, buried in his hair. He pulled Don, who was crying now, he couldn't stop it, down toward his chest, patted the back of his head. He let his arm fall then, and Don knew he was unconscious again.

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The light from the skylight was dwindling. Don couldn't feel his arm anymore. Cautiously, he lifted his hand. Not bleeding anymore. That was good. Charlie was seriously slumping, and rather than try to get him across the room, Don got up and kicked both of the mattresses over to Charlie. He tried to lay him down gently, but Charlie moaned a little, drew his arm into his side. Don sighed. He was still so hot. He decided to roll him onto his side, in case his nose started bleeding again. He didn't want Charlie to choke. Once he had him positioned, he used one of his own blankets to prop him at the back, and covered him up.

Then he huddled under the one remaining blanket on the other mattress, and waited for morning.

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"I'm so sorry, Mr. Eppes. We're looking at everything. I'm sure this is difficult for you."

"I know, Megan, I'm sorry I called so late."

"Not at all, please, anything I can do…You know we'll get in touch as soon as we have a solid lead. Do you need someone to come and stay with you?"

Alan rubbed his face. "No, dear, no. Thank you. That's not necessary. We'll talk tomorrow?"

"Of course. And please, call me again whenever you want to."

Alan hung up the phone, collapsed on the couch. It was dark, he should turn the light on. But all he would see were those who were missing.

He dropped his head into his hands, and waited for morning.

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She was back from the store, and looked at the monitors in confusion. What was this new mess? Why was there more blood? The youngest hadn't been hurt that badly in the accident, she was sure of it. He must have been sick before; she remembered that he was warm when she helped pull him from the SUV. The mattresses had been moved again. She paced a little, worried. She had gotten everything he had asked for, she just needed to arrange a trade, somehow. It was too soon, but maybe she should move up the timeline. She would have to think about that, tonight.

She prepared the new buckets, placed them directly outside the wall. She would figure out tonight what to do next.

She glanced at the monitors once more, let the cat out, then walked to the other end of the house to her bedroom.

She lay down, and waited for morning.