Chapter 9

Don stood at the window of Charlie's room, looking out, listening to his brother breathe, and he knew that everybody was right. If he came within a state of the suspect, he would chew the bastard's hand off. It was downright biblical. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A hand for a hand. He stood there long after he finished his coffee, tense and waiting. He knew he was worrying his father, so he finally crossed to the empty chair on the opposite side of the bed from Alan, and sat down.

He felt like he was losing his mind. He'd gone from staring at the bandaged arm all the time to not being able to loke at it at all, and now he was even having difficulty looking at Charlie's face. He fixed his eyes on a point in the corner of the room, and fidgeted. This was the longest day of his entire damn life.

Alan took it as long as he could, and just before noon he cleared his throat. Neither of them had spoken since Don brought in the coffee. "They tell me he'll be out for a while." He stood, unhappy about leaving him anyway, but knowing that he had to concentrate on Don for a while. "Let's go to the cafeteria. Maybe the nurse will give us one of those pagers, again."

Don tore his eyes away from the corner. He was about to protest, truthfully enough, that he wasn't hungry. At the last second he realized his Dad was offering him a way out of this room. He came to his feet so quickly he got dizzy, and swayed a little. Alan was quickly beside him, a steadying hand on his arm. "We both left the house without breakfast, I should have made you eat something earlier."

Don shrugged him off. "It's not that, Dad. Just stood up too fast." Unaccountably concerned that they might not leave, Don started for the door. "You're probably right, though. We both need something."

Twenty minutes later, pager a silent sentry between them on the table, Alan put something in his mouth — didn't exactly know what — and studied Don's face, watched him pick at his food. "Son. You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some."

Alan translated. None. "I know the SUV is in the shop, being checked; the air bags are being repacked, so they went off. It's a miracle you weren't seriously injured, Don, but you should face the fact that you did incur some physical ramifications. You need to rest. Charlie will sleep for a few more hours, why don't you go home and try to take a nap, please?"

Again, Don found himself in the uncomfortable position of knowing he would usually protest, and not wanting to. He pushed a green bean to the other side of the plate and looked at his father. "Can I go to the house?"

Alan was surprised by the request. "Of course. It's no closer than your apartment, I don't think, but it you want to go there you know you're always welcome. In fact, I think that's a good idea."

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Don wasn't sure why his Dad thought it was a good idea, but he knew what he was thinking about. Charlie's sleeping pills. Last year his brother's numbers had gotten the best of him, and he had entered a phase of insomnia almost six months long. When sleep deprivation had him hallucinating in the daytime, he finally sought help. The resulting pills had gotten him through for a few weeks, until he was able to break the cycle. Taking a taxi toward the house, Don flipped open his cell to call Megan again, and hoped to hell some where still left.

Megan must have a ringtone for him. "Hey, Don." She definitely did not sound as happy as she had earlier, and Don's own shoulders slumped.

"Davison?"

Bad news, and better news. Looks like he's taken off. Didn't show up for work last night, and he wasn't home when the guys went to pick him up. Jacobs' team hit the motherlode, though. This is definitely our guy. There was enough raw material there for at least two more bombs, and his computer was full of research on the bank, plus a string of gay bars that may have been his next target."

"Were you able to get an APB with that?"

"Merrick put it out himself. His name will definitely get attention, Don. Davison won't get far."

He might already be far, thought Don. He might have been out of town before the bomb even went off. Shit. Shit. Shit. He managed a tight "Thanks," and disconnected before she could ask about Charlie or say anything else. He bounced the cell off the door, earning a dirty look from the cab driver, and, he discovered when he gathered the pieces off the floor, thoroughly killing it. At the house, he made it up to the driver with a generous tip. He let himself in the front door, crossed the living room, and took the stairs two at a time. In the bathroom, he rooted around in the medicine cabinet until he found the Ambien. He swallowed two of the tiny, white pills, not even needing water. Then, he went into his old room, and lay on his back on his old bed. Later, he rolled onto his side and stared at the doorway. There in the hall was the family portrait his mother had hung there when he was 15 and Charlie was 10, still lopsided on the far wall. He closed his eyes, and 15 minutes later made a 180-roll, so that he was facing the other direction. After 10 minutes that aggravated a chronic rotator cuff injury, from his ballplaying days, so he tried his back again.

About an hour after he got there, and after giving his stomach a turn, Don got up and went back to the bathroom. He took another Ambien. He started back for his old room, but his feet took him a few feet beyond, and to the opposite side of the hallway.

The door to Charlie's room was not quite shut, standing ajar a few inches. Tentatively, Don reached out and pushed it open. It looked pretty much the same as it always did — sort-of like a cyclone had just traveled through. Don picked his way around the piles of books stacked on the floor. He negotiated his way through what looked like all of Charlie's winter clothing, hanging off of furniture and laced around the books. Evenually, he got to the bed, and stood there unsure for a moment. Then, he sat down. He continued on, and lay back, then curled on his side, bringing Charlie's pillow under his nose and closing his eyes, so that he could inhale the scent of his brother. He slid one arm under it, the other over it, and held on as if for life itself.

He thought of Charlie, and he slept.