Vendetta
By BeckyS
April 2005-2006
The Eppes family and the characters and situations from the TV show "NUMB3RS"
are the property of the Scotts and the creation of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci.
No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Charlie hated being tired.
Fatigue was the enemy of meticulous thinking, and that was the world he was used to living in, the world he loved. This last time he'd woken, random equations had started rocketing through his mind, but he couldn't nail any of them down long enough to evaluate their reliability. He wasn't even sure which problems they were for. He sighed.
"Charlie?"
He opened his eyes to see his father bending over him, a worried frown on his face.
"'s all right, Dad," he mumbled. "Just keep seeing the proofs Larry asked me for. Something wrong with them." He tried to grab on to one as it flew by. "Maybe wrong. Can't tell, 'cause they won't stay put long enough to get a good look at 'em."
His father eased down into a chair on his right. "Maybe if you got some more sleep, the answers would clear up for you."
"Can't sleep. Too much going through my head." He rubbed at his temple – the one on the opposite side from where he'd been hit – and frowned. "I can't catch them."
"Catch what?"
"The concepts. They're too complex." A weight seemed to settle somewhere in his gut. "I can't get them, Dad. They're too hard."
"Charlie," his father said soothingly. "It's not that they're too hard for you, you're just too tired right now. You were badly hurt, and it's going to take some time for you to get well again."
"But Dad," his voice hitched, "what if it's gone?"
"Son, trust me, it's not gone, but getting upset is not going to help. In fact, it'll probably make it worse." He took Charlie's hand and squeezed it gently. "You need to let it all go and think about something else for a while."
"I'd like to, but what else am I going to think about? Getting beaten up and left for dead?" The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted saying them. He wasn't so muddled he couldn't see the pain flash across his father's face. "I'm sorry," he said wearily.
Someone knocked at the door, and he tensed. "Dad?"
Alan patted his shoulder and rose. "If they bothered to knock, I'm sure it's okay."
Charlie relaxed back into his pillow and closed his eyes. He could hear soft murmurs from the door and then several sets of feet approaching his bed. He didn't want to talk to any more doctors or nurses, so he just kept his eyes closed.
"He was awake a minute ago," said his father softly.
A soft hand lit delicately on his cheek, and a familiar voice said, "It's enough just to see him breathing."
Tired as he was, he had to know. " 'Mita?" he murmured and turned his head into her palm.
"Charlie?" Her voice wobbled.
He forced his eyes open and saw not just her, but Larry as well. His father hovered in the background.
He blinked and smiled, pleasure at their visit overriding the fatigue. Then he got a good look at them. "You look terrible."
Amita laughed, a brief sound that ended in a choke. "I'm sure we look better than you."
"Yes," added Larry, "but considering that the last time I saw you, you were dead, I must say there's been a vast improvement."
Alan rolled his eyes.
Charlie just grinned. Larry was the breath of fresh air he'd needed, someone who operated in the world the same way he did and had no hesitation in calling things as he saw them. And Amita . . . having her near soothed him in a way he didn't try to understand. Someone was missing though. He looked around the room, but the person he wanted to see wasn't there. "Don?" he asked.
"He's not coming," a new voice said from the doorway.
He turned his head to discover Megan coming over to his side. "Why not?" he asked.
She cocked an eyebrow. "How much do you know about what happened?"
"Not a whole lot. They told me that somebody attacked me." A quickly indrawn breath on his other side had him looking at Amita and Larry. He caught something – a look of fear? – between them.
Panic began to shorten his breath. He looked for his father. "Don . . . Dad, is Don . . . is he okay?"
"He's fine," Alan soothed, though he shot a frustrated look at the FBI agent. "He came to see you, remember?"
Charlie sorted through images from recent memory. Don had been here, had said . . . Just checking on you. "That was real?" he asked.
"I just came from him," said Megan. "He's worried about you, but otherwise, he's fine."
"Why didn't he come back?" Charlie hated that his voice was so thin and weak; he sounded like a little kid deprived of a toy.
Megan didn't answer directly. "Can I talk to Charlie alone for a minute?" she asked the others.
A thoughtful look on his face, Alan nodded slowly. "He should rest, though."
"I'll remember," she answered.
"Charles," said Larry, "we'll be right back. We'll just be outside."
"Thanks," he said. "There are some equations I need to go over with you."
Larry shook his head. "Equations. I should have known. Other people ask for crossword puzzles or novels when they're in the hospital." His voice faded as he left the room. "Though where I'm going to find a whiteboard . . ."
He looked at Megan to discover she was grinning.
"I'd say you're feeling better," she said. "Don said you only woke up for a minute when he was here. He'll be glad to know you remember his visit."
"I don't remember much," he confessed. "I'm getting this feeling, though, that all of this wasn't someone mad about a grade."
She sobered. "No. It wasn't." She seemed to study him for a moment, then came to some conclusion. "Charlie, you were specifically targeted; deliberately attacked. Someone set out to kill you."
A swinging pole suddenly obscured his vision, and he flinched. People were yelling at him, demanding something he didn't have. Chalk pounded on a blackboard, then a hand furiously erased the equations. Noise, so much noise, then an explosion of pain in his head, and everything faded away.
"Charlie? Charlie!"
It was Megan calling him. He concentrated hard and finally managed to push the images away. He opened his eyes, saw her standing over him, saw the deep concern on her face.
"I'm—" He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. "I'm all right."
She poured a cup of water and helped him hold it. He drank gratefully.
"Thanks," he whispered. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen in his mind. "A long, thin round object – wood? – swinging at my head. Two people. A man and a woman. Arguing. The man started erasing my equations."
"Where are you?" she asked.
"In my classroom. Getting ready for my students." He tried to remember, but the effort was exhausting.
"What's the answer? Dammit, tell me what the answer is or I'll bash your head in!"
He said softly, "There was no answer."
Megan gave him an odd look, but asked, "Do they introduce themselves, or just walk in?"
Two people bursting through the door, demanding his attention, drawing him away from the equations he was preparing for his lecture.
"They . . . don't knock. The door is closed, but they just come in. They're yelling at me, insisting that I write the answer on the board, but I can't make them understand."
"What are they yelling? What are they asking you?" Her voice was soft and gentle, almost like they were discussing the fish in his back yard. No pressure, but her questions took him back.
"They want something I worked on for . . ." he paused. His head had started to pound, and his stomach was churning. "Does it matter? It was a classified project."
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "If they're the ones who attacked you, it probably has bearing. I know you're tired, Charlie. Can you at least give me a person to talk with?"
He rubbed at his middle, trying to ease the nausea. "Merrick," he finally said. He could feel darkness pulling at him, taking him away from the sick swirling in his head. "Ask Merrick," he managed to mumble again before he gave in and sank back into comforting nothingness.
Megan checked the numbers on the various pieces of medical equipment and, satisfied that they were within safe norms for someone in his condition, eased back in her chair to study the man who lay in front of her. He was pale and a few of the wilder curls of hair were stuck to his forehead with sweat, but based on the medical knowledge she'd gained while getting her psychology training, she came to the conclusion that he'd simply worn himself out.
"Merrick," she whispered. What did the attack on Charlie have to do with the Assistant Director of the LA office? Was that why he'd been on the scene, and so quickly? Had Charlie been working on something for him?
Suddenly pieces began to fall into place. She didn't know what shape they were yet, but she could see that there was a pattern. She rubbed her sore shoulder. Yes, there was definitely a pattern.