Chapter 17

Don could hear yelling, banging on a far-away door. He recognized Colby's voice, felt something. Was it relief that the team was finally there? Was it anger that they hadn't come earlier? He got to his feet, rifle in his hand, pulled Alan up and shoved it at him. "Watch her."

He turned to Charlie, then, saw his brother half-sitting, half-lying on the floor. Saw the blood. He saw the blood. Don looked around frantically. He had already used both the sheets, all the gauze…finally he just crossed the distance between them, dropped to his knees and buried his hand in Charlie's t-shirt, over the stain on his shoulder. His brother moved slightly, moaned, but did not open his eyes. The only eyes Don felt on him were Alan's, watching from across the room.

He heard several shots, jumped at the same time that he figured someone must be shooting a lock off the door. As if in verification, he heard their voices growing closer.

"Don!" "Charlie!" "Where are you?"

"Here!" shouted Alan, and he kept shouting it until they appeared at the door that used to be a wall. Megan stepped in quickly, pried the rifle from Alan, trained her weapon on the woman on the floor.

Don could hear David requesting EMT service and back-up, saying there was an officer down.

Good. He was an officer. He was down on the floor, his brother's blood pooling over his hands.

"Found this in the bathroom." Colby was trying to move Don's hands to place a towel on the wound, but Don wasn't moving. With his hands, he could feel Charlie's heart beating, and he wasn't moving.

"We're out pretty far," he heard David saying. "Should we take him in ourselves?"

He didn't answer, because that would require energy directed elsewhere.

"My car is in the driveway," he heard his father say next, "but…but she took my keys, I don't have the keys…" His father's voice was taking on an edge of panic.

Don felt David's hand brush his back, felt the other man stand up. "I'm going for our car," he said. "Colby, Megan, you got things covered here?"

"Go," Megan said, and Colby just nodded. Then David was gone.

Don looked again at Charlie's face, couldn't stand the paleness and refocused on his shoulder. Vaguely, he wondered when he had gotten a third hand…squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again to realize that his father was beside him, one hand next to his on Charlie's shoulder, the other brushing curls out of his face.

They stayed there forever. The three of them — Don, Colby and Alan — leaning over Charlie. Megan standing over Rosa. They stayed there forever, and no one said a word. They listened to Charlie breathe.

Colby and Megan took in the room, the mattresses on the floor, the groove of the receding wall, the bucket of human waste in the corner. Colby saw the camera hanging from the ceiling then, whispered, "Shit."

Then David burst back in, panting, leading two EMTs. "Met 'em on the road," he said. "There's a rural fire station out here."

It took all of them — except Megan, who watched from her stance over Rosa — to pull Don off Charlie. Once that had been accomplished, and the medics had set to work with their needles and tubes and lines, speaking quietly to each other in what Don was sure was another language, his adrenaline surge began to wane. Colby and David steadied him as his knees wobbled, then Colby gently absorbed some of Charlie's blood off his hands with the unused towel. He tried to find Don's eyes, but they were glued on the scene playing out on the floor. "You ok?"

More bodies were bumping him. Sherrif's deputies. When had they gotten here? Don would not be swayed again, tore his eyes from Charlie long enough to burn his gaze into Colby.

"Get us out of here," he ordered.

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Don and Alan sat silent. Alan looked again at his son. "Please," he begged. "You should let them look at you."

At least this time Don answered, though he didn't return Alan's gaze. "I'm fine."

Megan was with them, but Colby and David were still processing the house…the crime scene. Rosa had required another ambulance, and lay catatonic in the same Emergency Room where Charlie was being treated. She tried to broker a comprimise. "Later?" It was a question. "After you've talked to someone about Charlie?"

She thought she saw Don nod slightly, let it go at that.

"I'm so sorry."

This time Don looked at Alan. The older man's eyes welled with tears. "I should have known…"

Don remembered Charlie's words: Don is the strong one, Don can help you… His brother had believed that, had trusted him to be there for their father.

"You couldn't", he finally said, gently, this time looking Alan in the eye. "You couldn't."

"But I've known her for over a year! Spent hours talking with her…"

"Dad. Stop. Stop." Don was glad someone — who? Megan, maybe — had at least gotten him to leave the waiting area long enough to wash his hands, and now he placed one on the ones his father was clutching tightly together in his lap. "You saved us. If you hadn't convinced her that it could be real, what she…what she planned…" A tear dropped from Alan's chin, falling onto their hands. "You're the victim, here, Dad. You did nothing wrong." Don continued to look at Alan, who gave him a sad little smile, shook his head. He unclenched his hands long enough to grasp Don's, and Don let him have it for a while, squeezing to let him know they were connected.

Alan altered the line of conversation, but it was no easier where he took them. "Why would he do that? Why would he say those things?"

Megan didn't know what they were talking about, didn't know what Charlie had done, or said, but she looked at their faces and felt the fear of finding out tickle her blood.

Don shook his head, looked at the floor. "I wish I knew."

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"My name is Dr. Anderson." He shook the hand of the older man facing him in the hallway. "I'm the ER attending here."

"My son?"

"Considering what I know of all your son has been through the last few days, he's a remarkably lucky young man."

"He'll be all right?" Don was almost afraid to ask.

"I believe so," the doctor answered, and the older man smiled, while the younger frowned at the floor. The woman edged closer to hear. "Don't misunderstand me. He's very sick right now. He's being prepped for surgery…"

Alan blanched. "Surgery?"

"It's necessary to debride the GSW."

Now Alan was frowning, and the doctor indicated the chairs behind them. After they had all sat, he continued. "I'm sorry. Gun shot wound. The surgery will debride the wound, check for any brachial artery or obvious nerve involvement,although from what we can see it's a clean through-and-through . It did some major muscle and soft tissue damage — he's looking as months of physical therapy, and perhaps will still have diminished use of that arm. How well he tolerates the pain will indicate if any further surgery is necessary."

"But he'll live," Alan stated, and smiled at Megan, who smiled back.

"There are complications," the doctor continued, and Don stood up again.

"He's been sick," he said. "He was hurt in the accident, too."

Alan's smile faded, and Dr. Anderson nodded. "I understand that. He's going into this, a traumatic enough injury on its own, with an infection. His white blood cell count is dangerously low. He's also dehydrated." He looked at Don. "If you were in the same place he was the last few days, we need to check you out for that as well."

Don shook his head with impatience. "What else?", he said.

"The wound to the right arm has already had a debridement here in the ER, been cleaned out and stitched. Of course, he's been placed on IV antibiotics, and will stay on them for at least a week. We're also using saline to replace some of his lost fluids, and he will possibly need a unit of blood before this surgery is over."

"His foot? Nose?" Don asked.

"Not fractured," the doctor answered, "either one of them. Considerable soft tissue damage to the foot, but by the time he wants to use it again he should be able to. The septum of his nasal cavity did separate, which often feels like a broken nose. We will tape it for a few weeks."

Alan looked at Don. "How did he do all of these things? In the accident?"

"Most of it," Don shrugged, still looking at the doctor. "I punched him in the nose."

Alan was aghast. "What?"

Don looked over at him briefly. "I'll tell you later." He looked back at the doctor. "So he'll be in surgery for how long?"

"An hour or two, then in recovery for a while. It will be at least three hours before you can see him." Dr. Anderson studied Don, saw him sag a little. "You might as well spend it with me," he offered, and Don at last allowed himself to be led to an exam room.