Charlie's POV
Carl dropped me to the floor. I did my best to keep from grunting with the pain. I was thankful my ankle had healed enough that I could apply light pressure to it. I feared it would be worse after today, though.
I opened my eyes to thin slits, just enough to see out of. Carl walked to the other side of the room and he pulled out a rope. It wasn't ours, so he must have brought it.
While his back was turned to me, I slowly crept to a standing position, careful, so I wouldn't make a sound. Carl didn't seem to notice. I grabbed the umbrella once more, holding the handle out so it would cause more injury than the soft end I was holding. I tip-toed toward him. I brought the umbrella back, like Don taught me to hold a baseball bat, and swung.
Carl spun around, grabbing the umbrella from me once more. With a rough shove, I fell backwards.
"You think this stupid umbrella is going to save you?" He asked as he pulled me up by my shirt collar. I grabbed at the front neckline as it dug into my neck. My air supply was cut off and I began to gag. Thankfully, when he pulled me to a standing position, he held me up with by the arm.
He twisted my arm behind my back again, tightening it when I struggled against him.
"What do you say we get Daddy in here to join us?" Carl hissed in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the barrel of the gun.
He twisted my arm until I could feel my bones grind together. I gasped in pain.
"Scream for me. We need some company."
"No," I said through gritted teeth, fighting the pain.
"Scream!" He moved my arm at such an awkward angle, I felt the moment it broke. I screamed, bringing my other hand around to muffle the sound.
"No!" Carl moved my hand away and the end of my scream could be heard.
I panted, trying to calm myself. The pain was overbearing. My left arm was still in Carl's hold. I looked down at it and I could see it was still at the odd angle. I felt my stomach turn at the sight.
"Let's see if Daddy heard you."
Carl began to drag me to the door of the garage. Since he was pulling my left arm, I had to comply for the pain was too great to ignore.
"No! No!" I pleaded, pulling on the arm he dragged me with with my good arm.
"Don't you want to see?"
I dug my heels into the floor, slowing his process briefly. We were almost to the door when I found an old length of wood. I remembered I used it when I was building a model of a house the FBI was protecting. I was thankful it was still in the garage.
I grabbed it, barely within my reach. I used it to hit Carl upside the head.
"What the-" He grabbed his head, dropping my arm.
I used that moment to hit his hand, the one holding the gun. He dropped it when the wood connected with his hand.
"You think you can stop me?" He dove for the gun at the same time I did. As we fought for it, I heard the shot, then felt it in my upper arm. Ignoring the pain, though persistent, I used the piece of wood once more and hit Carl's head as hard as he could. He fell back, blinking rapidly.
Taking my advantage and running with it, I hit his head again. And again. And again.
I was crying now, tears spilling down my face and sobs choking me. I stopped on the fourth hit. Carl lay there, limp.
I collapsed to the floor and crawled backwards away from him. As thankful as I was that Carl was unconscious, I didn't like the feeling of hurting someone else.
When he didn't regain consciousness after over five minutes, I crawled over to him. I checked for a pulse, listened for signs of breathing. I found neither.
"Oh, God." I rushed forward, and threw up in the trash can in the corner of the room.
"I killed him," I breathed, making the sobs come harder, and my stomach to empty once again.
Don's POV
I ran up the sidewalk, not even taking the key out of the ignition. When I flung the door open, my gun in my hands, Dad was vacuuming the steps. He shut it off when he saw me.
"What's the matter, Donnie?" He looked confused and worried.
"Where's Charlie?" I demanded, pacing around the room to see if I could see him in the living room or in the kitchen.
"He's in the garage. Why? You might want to check on him. I thought I heard something a little while ago, but with the vacuum cleaner on, who knows."
I barely heard the rest of it. When I heard garage, I moved.
I waited a few seconds outside the closed garage door. I listened. When I didn't hear anything, I charged into the room, prepared to shoot.
What I found shocked me. Charlie was in the corner of the room, vomiting into a trash can. Carl Waits lay limp in the center of the room, a puddle of blood spreading from his head. I stooped down beside him and checked for a pulse. As I expected, I found no pulse.
I reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone, calling Megan, though I wanted to go and help Charlie.
"Reeves," She answered.
"Megan... it's Don. Every thing's clear. Bring in a body bag and call an ambulance." My voice sounded tired, resigned.
"Oh, God. Charlie?"
"No." I hung up before she could say another word.
"Charlie? Buddy are you okay?"
I could see that he wasn't when I came closer. His right upper arm was bleeding, soaking his button down shirt. I could see the awkward angle his left arm was in and I figured it was broken.
"Oh, God," I could hear Charlie saying over and over.
He leaned over the trash can. His stomach heaved, but there was nothing left in his stomach.
"Buddy, look at me." I turned his body toward me.
His wide, panicked eyes looked into mine. He shook his head.
"I killed him. Oh, God, I'm a murderer."
My heart broke for Charlie. It wasn't easy killing people. I could name everyone. Though they were all criminals and each time it was in self defense, I could still feel the guilt. And now Charlie, gentle, Charlie, had taken a life. What must he be thinking.
I framed Charlie's face with my hands, forcing him to look at me.
"You did the right thing. You hear me? You did the right thing."
I pulled him in my arms, though afraid it may cause him pain.
As he sobbed and shook against me, I looked up and Dad walked in.
"What is going on-" He stopped in the doorway when he saw Carl's body.
Dad looked at me.
"Is he-" I knew what he meant. I nodded.
"Oh, my."
Dad came over and sat beside me and Charlie on the floor.
Megan and her team came in soon after, along with David and Colby. They brought in the body bag, as planned. They worked on Waits' body while I held Charlie. Megan handed me a towel to try to clot the bleeding of Charlie's arm. I looked over and saw David pick up a gun off the floor.
After a while, Charlie leaned back, looking so fearful it scared me.
His breathing became ragged. He couldn't get what he wanted to say out for his rapid breathing.
"I can't...I didn't...I..."
"Dad, go get him a paper bag," I ordered, fearing he was beginning to hyperventilate.
"In through your nose, out through your mouth, Charlie," Megan said as she came over, taking Dad's spot on the floor.
Charlie tried to obey but he began to breathe wildly again. Dad came in and handed me the paper bag. I held it against his mouth and Charlie breathed into it. Within a few minutes, he was calm enough.
"We need to get you to the hospital." I heard the ambulance siren. They'd be out there soon.
"Come on." I helped him to his feet. Dad walked along side us and outside to the ambulance. I turned back to Colby.
"Will you guys look after the house?"
"Sure."
I nodded my thanks and helped Charlie over to a stretcher. They laid him down and he sank into it, looking exhausted.
Dad and I rode to the hospital with him. He lost consciousness half-way there. Dad watched him worriedly, and I understood his fear.
Alan's POV
I held Charlie's hand on the ride to the hospital. He spent the first half in tears and the second unconscious. I feared for him. Having never killed a man, I didn't exactly know what to tell him to comfort him. I was glad he did, though, or I'd be short one son.
When they took Charlie back and we reached the point where we could go no further, Don and I went to the waiting room. I had to get some answers from him. Don had to understand what was happening because he wouldn't have shown up when he did if he hadn't.
"Don. What went on today?" I asked him, looking him in the eye.
Don tore his gaze away from me.
"I should have known. I should have known!" He stood up and kicked out angrily.
"What? What should you have known?"
He stood there, glaring. I could tell he was angry with himself, not me or Charlie.
"Carl Waits, Dad. The guy who kidnapped Charlie. He escaped from prison and came after him. That was his body in the garage. If Charlie hadn't done anything, it would have been his body in there. I knew something was wrong! I asked him about it countless times, but did I ever get the answer? No! I should have done something. I should have forced him to tell me. Then we wouldn't be here, waiting on hearing how he is and Charlie wouldn't have killed a man."
Don sank back into the chair beside me, holding his head in his hands. I reached out and grabbed him by the back of the neck, forcing him to turn and look at me.
"Don, this was not your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself for everything. This was not your fault. Charlie kept it from you for a reason. I don't know why, but I don't want you blaming yourself."
He looked up at me, his eyes teary.
"There's more."
I inwardly groaned. What more could there be?
"Go on."
Don sighed. "Jake. Jake was connected to it. I should have known. I didn't think much of it, but on my drive home I connected one of Jake's weapons in his house to one that was used in one of the murders we investigated involving Carl. It just... it shouldn't have happened. After Charlie got hurt by jake, I should have known, should have connected it sooner."
Don moved out of my grasp, which had gone limp, and cried into his hands. It broke my heart to see him cry. Don didn't cry often, but it seemed whenever he did, it was over his little brother. No one could deny the love between those two.
I wrapped my arms around Don's shoulders and held him while he cried. There was no use telling him not to blame himself. He always took the blame for things like this. Don took his role as a big brother more seriously than anyone I knew. He was too hard on himself. Don was a great brother. Maybe I should remind him of it more often.
We waited for thirty minutes before a doctor came out and talked to us. Charlie was doing fine. He was stable. He had to had eight stitches in his upper arm. I was thankful it wasn't worse than it could have been. Charlie's arm was the worst, broken in three places. They would perform surgery on it in the morning, needing to place a few pins inside. It was casted at the moment.
Other than the bruised knuckles, the cut on his head, and a few more bruises here and there, he was fine. We were allowed to go see him, but he was sleeping when we arrived.
I brought one of the chairs in the room closer so I could see his face better. I held his hand again, the one without a cast, and with my other hand, I brushed his curls.
"My poor, poor boy."