A/N, 11 May 06: I'm still having internet problems, so thanks for hanging in there. An interesting comment came in . . . someone was upset because they'd been thinking this was a "Don story" and "it turns out it's a Charlie story." Aside of the fact that ten chapters focused on Don before we got one about Charlie, I didn't set out to write about one Eppes brother over another. As with everything I write, I set out to tell a particular story. In order to tell that story each character is used as needed to advance the plot, so – particularly with longer stories – beware of making assumptions and generalizations based on the first few chapters. Or the first eleven.
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.
Megan stepped through the doorway into the Eppes' living room and cut Don off before he could say a word. "He's doing fine, he remembered your visit, and your father's fine, too." Having gotten that much out of the way, she added in a voice that came out more piteously than she intended, "Coffee?"
"Yeah. Fresh pot." He ran a hand over his face. "Thanks."
He followed her as she wound her way through the house to the kitchen, past the dining room table that was strewn with case files and random pieces of paper. The real laptop was sitting in the middle, the lid lifting like a sentinel above the stacks of folders. She shuddered, and her shoulder began to ache again.
Don filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it to her. "Did the doc give you any pills?"
"Yeah," she nodded, "but they'll probably put me to sleep, and I'm not ready for that yet. We have some things to talk about first."
"Aspirin?" He held out a bottle. "And there'll be leftover lasagna in about—" a quick look at his watch "—ten minutes. I just put it in the microwave."
"Yes to both," she answered gratefully.
She swallowed the pills as he poured two hefty mugs of coffee, and then they headed back to the dining room. He settled himself at the laptop and gave her just long enough to take one heavenly sip of the dark brew before asking, "So? What did Charlie say?"
"As I suspected, his memory is fragmented. He actually remembers more than I thought he would, but it's still not a complete picture." She sipped again. "You were right about not limiting ourselves to one person. He said there were two, a man and a woman, and they came into his classroom uninvited while he was preparing for his next class. He'd been writing some equations on the board for his students. They either didn't say who they were, or he doesn't remember. He said they asked for something he'd been working on, but it was something he didn't have. I'm not clear on whether he told them that, but it seems likely because they became violent at some point. He did give me a few things I can have forensics check on. The door was closed when they arrived, so we might be able to pick up prints from the doorknob—"
She waved a hand at his pained expression. "I know, it's a long shot, but if we're lucky we might at least get corroborating evidence. And Charlie said the man was erasing his blackboards, so there might be a chance of prints there, as well as finding chalk dust on the perp's clothing later. I think he might have been hit with a cane, so again, if we can find it, it could help nail them."
"But for finding them, it's thin," Don murmured. "Really thin."
"I know. But it's pretty much all we have to work with right now. The little he does remember isn't in any time line that makes sense, and he fell asleep before I could get him to clarify. I'll follow up on the cane, since I can't exactly explain to anyone else where I got it from."
"A man and a woman, maybe one of them with a cane," Don mused, swirling his remaining coffee around in his mug. "That's not much to go on. Did he say what they looked like?"
"No," she shook her head, "That's about when he fell asleep."
"You didn't wake him up again?" Don said with a hint of exasperation.
"I didn't think that would be wise," she retorted, then sighed. She went on, more calmly. "He gave me everything he could, Don. He's going to be okay, but he's not well by a long shot. After he gets some rest, he may remember more."
Don shut the laptop, parked his elbows on the table, and rubbed at his eyes. "Sorry. You're right. I'm the last one who wants to see my brother treated like he's being interrogated. I just wish I knew who was behind this, what it's all about."
Megan tilted her head towards the laptop. "Anything useful?"
He opened it again. "Miles of files, just like always. Merrick had it loaded up with anything that could possibly be relevant, which means—"
She winced. "—it's loaded with lots of irrelevant stuff, too."
"Yeah."
"Merrick," she said thoughtfully. She rose from her chair and wandered around the room, finally ending up by the antique player piano.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
"One thing Charlie said . . ." She ran her hand along the keyboard cover as she pulled up his exact words.
"About Merrick?" questioned Don.
"Uh-huh. When I asked him what it was he was working on . . . what the perps were asking about . . . he said to ask Merrick."
"Merrick?" Don repeated, astonished. "Charlie was working on something for the AD, and nobody told us?"
Megan sank down into an easy chair and leaned her head back. A sharp pain ran from her neck all the way down her back. Her shoulder throbbed in time to her heart, and all she wanted was a handful of painkillers, a Jacuzzi and a soft bed, in that order. Instead, she answered Don. "Might not have been working for him – might be a case of Merrick simply knowing who we should ask."
The timer for the lasagna went off, and as Don headed for the kitchen, he threw a look back at her. "First thing tomorrow morning, we go find out."
Once Megan left, Don realized how eerily quiet the house was with his father and brother gone. Not that he hadn't been here alone before, but somehow it felt particularly empty tonight. A house, not a home. Not with his father and brother gone. Gone because they couldn't come home. Because it wasn't safe for his father. Because moving Charlie anywhere right now could kill him.
Restless, Don wandered into the dark kitchen. The windows let in enough moonlight that he had no trouble finding a glass and filling it from the tap. He leaned against the counter and stared out into the back yard.
It would soon be time to rake the leaves again.
His dad and brother usually did the chore together. They both raked, then Charlie held the bag open, talking about whatever was on his mind as their father gradually filled it while listening, oh, so casually and carefully. Don knew the routine – he'd been the bag holder until he left for college. Somehow it was easier to talk about important things while working in the yard.
If Charlie had died . . . .
He had a sudden, frightening vision of what might have been. If Charlie had died, Don was sure his father wouldn't have been far behind. The shock of losing his youngest to a violent crime not even a year after losing his wife might well have proven too much for him. Not that losing one son would have been worse than the other, but Don knew that his father was at least somewhat prepared for something to happen to him. The FBI wasn't exactly a safe career. Not like math professor.
The house would have been his, to either sell or try to fill with a new family, one that would never have known his mother, his father or brother.
It could still happen.
He glanced around the kitchen, saw in his memory his mother cooking at the stove, his father chopping vegetables for a salad, his brother snatching an olive or a pickle from the tray. He wanted that life back. He knew it was gone; nothing would bring his mother back, but the family was still there. The love was still there.
The future isn't cast in stone, he thought. It can be different. I can make it be different.
He set the glass in the sink and headed upstairs to bed. The only way to get his family back home was to solve the mystery – and that was tomorrow's task.