A/N: This is one that just wouldn't break up nicely - just the first part seemed too short, with the second part seemed too long - so I opted for long. Thanks to everyone who hung in there this far. And Patty, I meant to mention last time (always seem to be rushing these days): you have told me that - and I appreciate it more than I can say. It's the thing I work hardest at. Hope everyone here in the US is enjoying a nice holiday weekend.

Chapter 24

"So, what's the verdict?" Alan leaned in the doorway.

The doctor smiled without looking up from the chart he was writing on. "Good news and bad news. His temperature's up, but the new stitches seem to be holding fine. My recommendation is sleep."

"Sleep is all I do." Don gave his arch enemy, the IV, a sideways look. "Think you could lighten up on this stuff?"

Dr. Gillworth glanced up from his notes to follow his gaze. "I don't think you'd like that as much as you think you would. The morphine is fooling you into thinking there's less pain than there is. Let's give it a couple more days, then we'll talk about that again."

"A couple more days," Don repeated blankly. "Here?"

"You don't enjoy our guest services?"

"Nothing personal," said Don bluntly, "But you ever try sleeping in one of these beds?"

"No, and I hope I never do," Dr. Gillworth replied cheerfully. "Get some rest."

Yeah. Everybody keeps saying that.

"Maybe what you need to do is remember how you got here." Alan suggested significantly.

Don looked at his father than back at Dr. Gillworth. "Could you tell him what you told me? In fact, if you could print it out and hang it over the bed, that would be a big help."

Dr. Gillworth's smile deepened. "It's very difficult to diagnose appendicitis in people over thirty," he recited obediently. " - they almost never display all the classic symptoms and it can mimic so many other things."

"Like food poisoning."

"Food poisoning is a good example."

"Yeah, I thought so." He raised his brows triumphantly in Alan's direction.

"Some people stay home with food poisoning," Alan countered.

Don shook his head. "Man, there's no winning with you."

Alan nodded. "Try and remember that. I brought you something. Doctor approved." He held out a paper tumbler, sealed with a plastic lid punctured by a straw.

Don eyed it suspiciously. "That's not Goldilocks food in a cup, is it?"

Alan made space for it on the tray in front of him. "It's a milkshake, ye of little faith. Drink up."

Don tried to peer down the straw. "That's it? No fancy additives?"

"There might be a little protein supplement. It won't kill you. Come on - you need something inside besides saline. If that sits well, maybe the doctor will think about real food." He nodded at Dr. Gillworth. "Thank you, doctor. I know how he can be."

"I'm just lying here," Don protested.

"Right. Let's stick with that, shall we?"

Don opened his mouth to answer and sighed instead. Not like anybody listened to him anyway.

Dr. Gillworth closed the chart. "I'll be back to check on you tonight. Until then, try to ask for help before you get up, all right?"

Don lifted his hand in a gesture that might be taken as assent.

"I'll make sure of it," Alan assured him with a tight-lipped smile.

Great. Don watched the door swing shut behind the doctor, heard the scrape of a chair next to the bed, but didn't turn and look.

"You should drink that. It's strawberry."

Don pumped the straw absently. He couldn't imagine having less appetite.

"Come on. Humor me."

Don took a sip, winced a little as drawing through a straw pulled on the new stitches in his abdomen. He pushed off the lid with his thumb, stirred the contents idlly with his straw.

"Playing with your food was never your style."

Don tried sipping directly from the cup rim. Yeah, that was better. "Where's Charlie?"

"I told everybody to go away for awhile."

Don glanced at him warily. So…lecture? What?

"I would think you'd be feeling a little better. If a doctor would have trouble diagnosing appendicitis, you wouldn't be able to, either."

"Careful - that sounds like you're cutting me some slack."

He could see the movement of Alan shaking his head in his peripheral vision. "Not me. I think you should stay home when you're sick. I'm asking you to cut yourself some slack."

"I - " he poked more violently at the milkshake. "It's not that." Or maybe it was. "I just - I guess I feel like a - an - accomplice or something. Can't seem to get past it. I don't need him pointing it out to me."

"He's trying to mess with your head, Megan says. So don't let him."

"I know." Don rubbed at his ear. "Guess I'm doing a good enough job messing with it on my own."

"I think so. And I think you just plain overdid it for one day."

Don looked indignant. "I'm just lying here!"

"No, it's your first day pushing out full sentences and so far you've taken a little stroll unattended, had some clean up work done on your stitches, entertained visitors, viewed part of an interrogation - there are a lot of well people who would consider that a pretty full day."

Don was silent.

"Donnie."

That got his attention. His father had a lot of ways of saying his name: angry, teasing, matter-of-fact - and, every once in a while, a note like a caress that never failed to pull him up up short. It was one he often heard him use with Charlie, but not so much with himself - they had a more push-and-pull relationship - almost more friends than father and son sometimes, so the indulgent, tender tone always caught him off guard. Now he felt his throat tighten and he pushed aside the mess he was making of the milkshake.

"I know it's difficult for an active, busy person to suddenly find themselves stuck in bed and unable to do things - to wait for everybody to do them for them. I remember how your mother struggled with it - how dehumanizing she found it. But - well - here you are, kiddo. I don't think you have any choice but to ride it out."

Don hesitated. "Yeah. I know," he breathed at last. This was where he usually found a reason to make a hasty exit. Guess that's not an option.

"So take it easy. Give yourself a chanceto heal- inside and out. And drink your milkshake. You'll feel better with something in your stomach."

Don almost smiled. Food. The great cure for everything. He took another sip of the milkshake. It seemed easier than arguing about it.

"And try to let go of work for a while? I knew it was too soon for you to be looking at that stuff."

"No - you're wrong." He stirred the damp mush in the cup with the straw. "I need to - get it in perspective. I need information for that." He fell abruptly silent. That reminded him of what Charlie had said - maybe that's what he had been trying to tell him.

"Well, then, eat now and get some sleep. Then you can collect more information later. Come on - what would your mother say?"

Don's mouth turned up on one side. "That everything will look better in the morning."

"And was she ever wrong?"

"Not to hear her tell it."

Alan laughed. "Then finish that and go to sleep and everything will look brighter in the morning."

Morning. He frowned suddenly, glancing around at the walls. It was like being stuck in a sensory deprivation tank. "Dad?"

"Hm?" Alan looked over from adjusting the half open blinds.

"What time is it, exactly?"

Alan harrumphed. "Uh - about - three in the afternoon, I guess…" he said vaguely.

Don squinted at him. "And you're expecting me to sleep through until morning?"

Alan scooted the chair closer to the bed and picked up his abandoned magazine, manipulating a small bedside lamp until it rested away from the bed and directly in his page. He pulled out his glasses and balanced them on his nose. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

000

He knew he'd been dreaming and the frenetic hammering of his heart told him it hadn't been a good dream, but the particulars were fading like thin wisps of smoke in a breeze. Smoke. He made a face, using both hands to massage his eyes clear. Bad analogy. Because for all he couldn't remember, he could remember it was about Twilliger, could almost hear the echo of his voice in his mind.

Bastard. Get out of my head.

The light in the room had changed and he glanced around for a clock of some kind, remembered that he hadn't been able to find one earlier and swore softly to himself. Come on, come on - this was cruel and unusual punishment - how many times a day did he check his watch? Too many to count - almost a nervous tick - he always felt he was trying to race it and losing. What would be so deadly about allowing him that small sense of control and normalcy - a clock?

He patted the mattress next to him, trying to find the bed controls, managed to get a hand on them and the head of the bed in motion, then noticed that with surprise that he was alone. Huh. That was different.

Feeling a little cheered, he spotted the DVD case on the tray table in front of him, everything now neatly zipped away, and reached for it, careful not to lean forward. As he got his hand around the handle, a piece of paper slid off the top and into his lap. He picked it up curiously, recognized his father's neat draftsman's block printing immediately.

Donnie, it read, I've stepped away for a little while, but I'll be back soon. If you wake up and need anything, ring for the nurse. Love, Dad. P.S. I mean it. Ring.

Don smiled in spite of himself. Nagging by written proxy. Great. He put the note aside and stuck his hand in the front pocket of the DVD case and pulled out the stack of DVDs. Which was all very well, he reflected, but unless this thing had charged batteries, that was as far as he was getting. No way was he going to be able to manage to plug it in. He was struggling with the zipper and contemplating a way around this predicament when he heard a quiet rap on the door and looked up quickly, fumbling for an excuse. When he saw it wasn't anyone he'd expected, he relaxed. And who was I kidding anyway? Who in my family would ever bother to knock?

"Hey," he said in surprise. "Come on in."

Wainwright elbowed the door inward, holding a hard cover mystery novel at an arm's length in front of him. "You don't look half bad," he offered, handing it to Don and studying him keenly. "For road kill."

Don laughed. "Thanks. Have a seat."

Wainwright pulled over a chair. "I met your father at the nurse's station. He law enforcement too?"

"Dad?" Don tried to picture that and failed. "No - he was a - a city planner. Why?"

"Because he told me that I could see you if you were awake, but that if you were asleep and I woke you up, he'd kill me. Didn't seem to be packing, but he was still pretty convincing, so I assumed law enforcement."

Don gave an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. He's in full Papa Bear mode these days."

Wainwright smiled. "Well, can't really blame him. I've got kids of my own. Know how I'd feel."

"Yeah?" Don smiled, relieved for a little conversation that wasn't about himself. "Any of them looking at law enforcement?"

"Lord, I hope not. I wouldn't wish this life on a dog, never mind my kid."

"Pretty much how my dad feels." Don dropped his eyes to the book cover. "Thanks for this, too."

"Well, you don't look like the type for flowers, and I didn't think they'd let me in with a fifth of scotch, so that was the next best thing. Besides, I've been hung up here before - boring as hell."

"You got that right."

Wainwright spied the DVDs. "Though you seem to have some entertainment." He raised his eyebrows as he noted the official FBI label. "That Twilliger?"

Don nodded. "Megan brought them by."

"She's a good one. Good team."

"The best," Don agreed. "Yours too. David told me about Jeffries and the kitty litter. Creative guy."

"Yeah. They're a good bunch." He smiled suddenly. "So, now that we've done all the polite stuff - how are you doing? Really?"

The question hung between them. "Wish I knew," Don said after a minute.

Wainwright sobered. "Takes some time." He gestured to the DVDs. "Those the interrogation?"

"And the press conference. I haven't gotten very far yet."

Wainwright picked up a DVD and read the label. "I'm not surprised. Listening to him is enough to make a strong man lose his lunch. Had to get up and leave the room once or twice to keep from slugging him."

"Yeah." Don turned the book over in his hands. "Some of them just seem to - get under your skin."

"That they do." They sat in pensive silence.

Don took a breath, struggling for the words he wanted. "Look, I wanted to - David told me what you said to the reporters about - about what happened, and - "

"And - ?" Wainwright prompted unhelpfully.

Don forced himself to look him in the eye. "About the arrest. I know why you told them what you did - " Wainwright remained politely unenlightened and he added impatiently, " - about me being some kind of hero?"

Wainwright's expression remained mild. "You kept the collar of my career from going down the crapper. As far as I'm concerned, you are a hero."

Don frowned at him. "If it wasn't for me, the collar wouldn't have been in the crapper to begin with."

Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully. "In that case, if it wasn't for me and my team losing him briefly, Karen McGuire would still be alive. There's been a lot of 'what ifs' in this case over the decades - dwell on those and you'll make yourself crazy. Outcome - that's what matters in the end. In the end you pulled an ace out of your sleeve when it counted. So count that."

Don shook his head. "That was a lot of good luck."

Wainwright smiled faintly. "Luck is all we've got out there most days - good and bad. So when the good comes your way - just enjoy it."

Don eyed him narrowly, trying to read him, then finally relaxed back into the pillows. "Maybe you're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm right. I've been at this longer than you have."

Don gave an appreciative laugh. "Yeah, okay. Still - tell me you weren't trying to make sure they couldn't turn anything against me. Come on - the truth."

Wainright rubbed his chin, his eyes on the wall over Don's headboard.

"They think they remember what it's like out in the field," he said slowly at last. "They don't remember. Even the best of them - the ones who really mean to - they don't. Too many pressures from public opinion and brass who want answers and reporters who twist things and pensions that can disappear. They don't remember how many things - small, uncontrollable, unpredictable things - can send the whole thing careening out of control in the blink of an eye. You have to be out there to remember. And you have to watch the backs of the people who are out there with you."

Don sat quietly, turning that over in his mind. "Yeah, okay," he said after a minute. "Thanks."

Wainwright shrugged. "You'd do it for me."

Don grinned. "Yeah."

"So - " Wainwright held up the DVD in his hand. "How'd you like the press conference?"

Don was about to say that he hated press conferences - the press asking sensationalized questions about all the wrong things, a lot of big wigs patting each other on the back - when he remembered that this was the press conference of Wainwright's career and stopped himself in time.

"Haven't seen it. Just - got started on the interrogations."

Wainwright's smile grew. "You looked at those without looking at the press conference? You gotta see the press conference." He unzipped the case that held the DVD player.

Don bit his tongue to stop a protest. Oh, well. It was the least he could do for the guy.

Wainwright efficiently brought the DVD player screen to life, then dropped in the DVD. Don tried to look interested as the images jumped into motion on the small screen.

It started like a normal press conference - Wainwright giving the details of the arrest and the supporting evidence to the press and the people crowding the area behind them. But there was something about Wainwright's expression - a look of peace and triumph after a long battle - that actually started a lump in his throat. He shook his head. This is just great. They'd better get me off this morphine soon, or I'll be sobbing at Hallmark commercials next.

Wainwright's voice continued on the small speakers, sounding tinny and far away. And so, ladies and gentlemen, to make a long story short - Arthur Twilliger has been stopped. There was a spontaneous burst of applause and Don's eyebrows jumped in surprise.

Wainwright noticed and grinned. "How's that, huh? How often do we get applause for what we do? Most days it's a good day if nobody spits on us."

Don smiled a little. "Got that right." His eyes were on the screen though. The camera was panning through the crowd now, where people were clapping or hugging or sobbing, the shot freezing occasionally on this one or that one to overlay titles: Mr. And Mrs. George Viscay - parents of victim Marjorie Viscay, 21. Mrs. Faustina Ramirez, grandmother of victim Rosa Pereda, 17. Ms. Lillian Turnbot, sister of victim Agnes MacNamara, 39. Jeffery Crandall, son of victim Phyllis Crandall, 33. Mrs. Anna McGuire, mother of victim Karen McGuire, 9...his hand groped for the remote, found it and hit the pause button.

He stared at the small image. It would be too much to say that Mrs. McGuire looked at peace, sobbing wildly and hands clasped over her heart. But she had a look of fierce satisfaction that Don studied for a long time.

They couldn't stop Twilliger sooner and they couldn't bring Karen back, but they had apprehended her killer and he would pay, one way or another. It wasn't perfect, but then, so little was. It was still something. And Arthur Twilliger wouldn't hurt another woman, ever again.

"You're right - " he agreed slowly, "this is a good press conference."

He kept the screen in freeze-frame, trying to fix Mrs. McGuire's image in his mind, scrolling through the list of the victims' families in his head. They'd find a measure of peace now. Of closure…and the applause was nice. He hit the button to release the freeze, watched as the camera continued to pick victims' families out of the crowd, his eyes dark with thought as he focused their faces. He half smiled.

Then again - sometimes applause was where you found it.

TBC