Chapter 4

Right now, Don hated that he was so damn rational. He hated that he could find the self-control to follow his boss silently through the hospital, as if he were an obedient child. He hated knowing he hadn't done what he wanted to at the scene of the bombing, or in the hospital parking lot — decked the idiot, job be damned. He absolutely couldn't abide knowing that part of him valued his job enough that he wouldn't even risk it for Charlie.

Not that rearranging Merrick's face would really help Charlie any. He felt the steam rising, again. The only way Don could help Charlie right now was by finding out who had done this to him…if he concentrated on that, if he held onto his anger, he could almost convince himself that knowing that would make a difference. Having someone to blame would somehow erase the bad timing that had Charlie standing in front of that exact bank at that exact time on this exact day, wouldn't it?

He almost worked himself up enough to make a break for it, when he felt a hand on his back, guiding him, and found himself at a door, eye level with a sign that promised him inside was a private family waiting area. He stood there for so long that eventually a hand reached around his shoulder and pushed the door open, another hand shoved at the small of his back, and Don stumbled over the threshold.

Alan, sitting dismally in a corner chair, looked up at the sound, and the abject relief on his face tugged at Don's guilt-strings. Before he could speak to his father, he saw the relief replaced with a frown, and worry, as Alan's eyes took in Director Merrick, entering the room behind Don.

The Director passed him and approached Alan. The two had never actually met, although Alan had seen the Director in television interviews, and knew who he was. Merrick extended a hand. "Mr. Eppes?"

Alan started to stand, and the Director stopped him. "Please, keep your seat. My name is Richard Merrick, I'm the Director of the Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Alan shook his hand, trying to see beyond him, to Don. "I know. Thank you for coming." He looked at Larry, sitting beside him. "This is Dr. Fleinhardt, a close friend."

The Director nodded and moved to shake Larry's hand. "I've seen your name in connection with Dr. Eppes' on some of our projects. It's good to finally meet you." Larry just shook his hand silently, apparently stunned into silence.

Merrick turned to the side and reached out toward Don, barely snagging an arm and dragging him up beside him. "I found this," he smiled at Alan. "I thought perhaps it was yours."

Alan visibly started, and then a slow smile began to spread over his face. He watched the discomfort on Don's face and admired the man who could exercise some control over him. "Yes, I believe it is," he answered.

Don jerked away from Merrick and took a few steps to sit next to his father, but remained silent. The Director's eyes twinkled at Alan. "You can keep it for a few days," he said, then looked at Don, and his eyes were steel again. "Agent Eppes knows the conditions that must be met before he returns to work."

Alan glanced tentatively at Don, and decided he didn't want to go there, yet. He looked back at the Director, and indicated the other chairs in the room. "Please, sit down."

"Just for a moment," Merrick agreed, taking a chair and moving it a little so that it faced the three of them before he sat down. "How is your son?"

Alan's face visibly aged, and he ran a hand over his chin before he dropped it to his lap. "They say he's a good candidate for…" he turned to Larry. "What do they call it?"

Larry cleared his throat. "Replantation."

Alan nodded. "Oh. Right." He refocused on Merrick. "Because it was not a crushing injury, and he's young, and he was brought here right away…they're…putting it back." He couldn't seem to make himself be any more specific, and he was glad, feeling Don tense next to him.

The Director nodded grimly. "His other injuries?"

"He was very shaken, of course…he never really understood what happened, although he did regain consciousness for a few minutes. He has a mild concussion, several superficial shrapnel wounds…God," Alan suddenly said, and his voice took on a hint of desperation. "My son has shrapnel wounds."

In the ensuing silence, Don leaned back in his chair a little, draping his arm over his father's shoulders. Alan leaned into the touch. Merrick watched them, and nodded to himself. Finally, he spoke again, looking directly at Alan with those compassionate eyes that Don had just seen for the first time himself, today. "I'm so sorry this happened, Mr. Eppes. I assure you, we will do our best to find out exactly what happened. Dr. Eppes is a valuable asset to our organization…and a vital part of your family, I'm sure."

Alan just nodded silently. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"I've heard remarkable things about the work done here," continued Don's boss. "Dr. Eppes is receiving the best of care." He stood to leave, returning his chair to its original position. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a business card, which he offered to Alan. "Please don't hestitate to contact me if I can help in any way. My private numbers are listed."

Alan leaned forward to accept the card and shook Merrick's hand again. "Thank you," he said, sincerely, pocketing the card. He sensed Don straightening in his chair, and finally he heard Don manage to join the conversation.

"We appreciate this," Don said to his knees. He raised his eyes and exposed his fear and anger and frustration for a moment. "I appreciate this."

Director Merrick threw him a bone. "I'm sure your team will keep you informed on the investigation," he said. With a final smile at Alan and a confused look at the apparently mute Fleinhardt, he turned and left the room.

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The men remained silent for a few moments until Larry was hit by a bolt of lightning and almost leaped from his chair. "I'll go to the cafeteria," he declared. "Would you care for something to eat, Alan? Don?"

"Coffee," they both said at once, and Larry nodded.

"Yes. I believe I will be joining you today, although I usually steer clear of that beverage." He bobbed his head and smiled at them. "I shall return."

Alan waited until the door closed behind him, then shifted in his chair to face Don. "Are you all right?"

Don stood and began pacing the small room. "Don't ask me that," he answered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have, I should have…"

Alan's voice was tired. "You did what you could, Donnie. You always do what you can. Sit with me, please?"

His father hardly ever made a direct request, and it was powerful enough to drop Don into the chair again. "I can't make it stop. It's like an endless loop." He chuckled, a little. "Now I know what Charlie means, when he gets obsessed with something and complains that the numbers won't leave him alone."

Alan patted Don's knee. "Your brother will complain again, Donnie. Even…Even if this does not work, if the worst happens…he's alive. He's alive, son, and that is what matters." Don felt his heart squeeze as he watched his father tear up. "My Lord, when I think that I could have lost you both, when I think that the two of you were that close to a bomb…"

It was at that moment, finally, that Don managed to pull away from his own grief, his own anger, his own fear and frustration. It was at that moment that he leaned over, and took Alan in his arms, and held him as tightly as he could.