Chapter 8
Don tried to at least talk to Charlie every day that week. Even lunch in one of their offices was impossible; he knew about finals week. Ordinarily, he would have asked for Charlie's help on the case they were working. It made him crazy to have to wait for the FBI's own in-house experts to analyze something he knew Charlie could do in less than half the time. But finals week always demanded respect. Not that Charlie wouldn't help, if Don asked. Charlie would find a way to put 25 hours in the day, if Don asked.
Some days, between Charlie's schedule and Don's, they didn't even connect by phone. Tuesday and Thursday had been like that. Voice mail tag. Don was still worried about Charlie, but he let himself feel a little relief when he remembered Wednesday evening's conversation.
"This is Dr. Eppes." The fact that Charlie was too busy to check his caller ID display could not be a good sign.
"Hey. It's me."
He heard a smile in Charlie's voice. "Hey, Donnie."
Don heard a familiar squeak. "Where are you?"
"Office." Another squeak. "Working on something."
Don checked the time. "Charlie, it's almost 11. Haven't you gone home, yet?"
"That won't work…", his brother mumbled, and he heard another squeak.
"Charlie!"
"What?"
"I asked if you'd been home yet."
"Oh, oh…sorry. This step is extremely elusive…no, not home…" Charlie kept talking over Don's exasperation. "But I went to dinner. I was away from campus all evening, actually. Well, until 10."
"Are you working on your cognitive thing?"
"Yes."
"During finals week?"
Charlie sighed this time. "Just a little. It helps if I concentrate on numbers."
"Charlie…" Don's voice took on a warning tone.
"Don't worry," Charlie assured him. "I'm not into P vs. NP."
"Maybe your theory is becoming a new P vs. NP."
Charlie was silent for a moment. Don heard the wheels of a chair roll across the floor.
"No. For one, this is not unsolvable. I'm actually making progress. I'm ahead of my own projected schedule. Another thing, this is the first time since Sunday I have worked on it. I just have some extra energy to expend tonight."
"So why aren't you doing this at home?"
"As I said, I did some work Sunday; it was on the board here, and I wanted to continue…" Don heard Charlie yawn. "Although now that you've made me sit down, I regret that I still have to drive home."
Don smiled. "Don't sleep in your office again. That really freaked Dad out."
Charlie chuckled. "I won't." He yawned again. "Thanks for calling, Don. I need to go now, or I'll never make it seven miles."
Don felt a twinge of concern. "You're not going to fall asleep at the wheel, are you? Maybe you should call a cab, or I could come get you…"
He heard the wheels of the chair again. "I'll be fine. When I get outside and the cool air hits me, it will wake me up enough to drive home."
Don pursued the subject. "If it doesn't, you promise me. You'll call a cab, or me, or something. Promise me, Charlie."
He heard the smile in Charlie's voice, and reveled both in the lack of tension and the words.
"You know Donnie, I love you too. I promise."
He smiled again remembering that. No one had called to tell him that Charlie was in an accident, so he must have gotten home ok, even though Thursday involved more voice mail tag.
He looked up at the clock in the bullpen. Almost 5. It was Friday, maybe Charlie would be at the house for dinner, tonight. Even if he wasn't, Don decided to go. He hadn't seen his father since last week's matinee, and tomorrow night, Don actually had a date. He would never do laundry on a Saturday night again. Or maybe he would…he had met this woman in the building's laundry room.
He pulled out his cell, grimaced. Voice mail from Charlie. He must have called this afternoon while he was in the interrogation room with a suspect. He put the phone to his ear.
"Don, I just wanted to tell you that I'm going out of town for the weekend. I know we just got back two weeks ago, but it's been a hell of a two weeks…anyway, I'll tell you when I get back Sunday afternoon. I had to leave Dad voice mail, also, he forgot to take his phone with him again." He laughed. "I left a message on the house phone, too, in case he forgets to check his cell. Um…could you please not call, for a couple of days? Unless it's an emergency…I just…I just want some time. One more thing. Pick me up at the airport? United baggage claim, should be there by six Sunday afternoon. If you're not there I can grab a cab, so don't worry. Have some fun this weekend, Don. See you soon."
He flipped shut the cell. Charlie didn't sound particularly upset. On the contrary, he was speaking in that million-mile-an-hour excited voice half the time. The kid needed some time, it had been a hell of a two weeks. Don looked at the clock again, stood and grabbed his jacket. He, on the other hand…he needed some dinner. Maybe he could talk his Dad into going out on the town, tonight.
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Don circled the pick-up terminal a couple of times, just in case Charlie was waiting outside, then gave up and found a place in short-term parking. Once inside, he wished Charlie had been a little more specific. Which United baggage claim carousel? Where did the flight originate?
He started methodically checking all the carousels, finally spotting his brother. He was standing with his backpack over his shoulder, arms crossed. Several pieces of wheeled luggage was so close that it must be his, but it confused Don. Charlie hadn't taken that much stuff on the cruise…and this was definitely not his luggage.
"Hey," he said as he reached him, and Charlie scared him to death when he launched himself at Don, hugging him like it had been years since they'd seen each other. The embrace was warm, long. Eventually Don started laughing, still held in his brother's arms. Finally Charlie let go.
"You must have had a good weekend." Charlie looked relaxed, like he had on the ship. Lines of fatigue from finals week lingered, but he looked good. Don was happy to see that.
Charlie stepped back and laughed. "I did." He looked Don in the eye. He startled him again, saying, "Thank you so much. You are the best brother." Suddenly he was hugging Don, again.
He didn't think he and Charlie had touched this much in their lives. As he let the warmth spread pleasantly through his body, relaxing him when he didn't even know he'd needed relaxing, he wondered why.
They finally separated again. Don smiled, shook his head a little. He indicated the luggage. "Is this yours? Ready to go?"
"Just a minute. She went to the ladies', she'll be right back."
Don immediately tensed again. She? What had Charlie done? Where had he gone? He was a freakin' genius, he must have found a way to locate Amy and bring her back here. How could he have not seen that coming?
Charlie was looking over his shoulder, smiling brightly at someone. "The luggage is hers," he said conversationally.
Don turned to follow his gaze and was surprised yet a third time when he saw Amita coming toward them, waving. He felt Charlie clap him on the shoulder, and heard him speak again, and understood that he hadn't known what surprised meant.
"The luggage belongs to my wife."
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A/N: Just for the record, I don't do Amita. I prefer killing Amita. But the fans have spoken, and this is for you. Just a tiny epilogue to follow.