A/N: Man, send a guy to the gym for a little R&R and everybody thinks you have nefarious motives!
And thank you for all the lovely feedback. I work very hard to keep the characters as they are in the show, so that's the best compliment of all to me. And if I could dump it out of my brain onto the paper without all that nasty typing, I'd be a happy camper. Or maybe not - the writing really is half the fun. That, and finding out that you enjoy it.
Chapter 9
The gym lobby was bright, almost garish, after the darkness outside, and Don glanced automatically at the clock over the counter. He'd give himself about an hour, then he'd head home. A stiff workout and a hot shower and he'd be ready for his first good night's sleep in…yeah, okay. Better not to count how long. That never helped.
He glanced around impatiently. Where was whoever was supposed to be manning the counter? Come on, guys - I could have smuggled in twenty free guests by now. Of course, he could always go right to his locker then hit the machines instead, but all the way over he had been looking forward to a little bag work and he wasn't quite ready to give up on the idea yet. He tapped the bell on the counter and waited.
"Hey. Agent Eppes." A tousled brown head poked around the corner, followed by a long, lanky body.
"Hey, J.D. I thought I told you to call me Don?"
"Yeah." J.D. leaned on the counter. "But 'Agent Eppes' is cooler. You takin' a break from the secret agent stuff?"
Don fought down a smile. "I'm not a secret agent, J.D., I'm an FBI agent. Nothing secret about it. They got you all alone on the graveyard shift?"
"…yeah…not too many clients in at this hour and it pays a little more. Good for my tuition bill. Something I can get you? Gatorade, maybe?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of a set of gloves - I wanted to use the bag room, if it's free."
"At this hour? You got it all to yourself. Want a speed bag, or will the heavy bag be enough?"
"Speed bag. I want to use both. And now that you say it, that Gatorade sounds like a good idea, too."
"Great." J.D. pulled some boxing gloves and a speed bag from under the counter and pushed them across with sign-out sheet and a pen. "I'll get the Gatorade." He turned to the cooler behind him. "Sorry I took so long - I'm practicing for my Tai Bo class and I guess I had the music up a little loud. You workin' on a big case?"
Don scrawled his name on the equipment sign out sheet. "J.D., you know I can't talk about…"
"…an open case. Yeah, I know - sorry. It just sounds so cool."
Don's smile grew strained. God. Had he ever been that innocent? "It's not cool. Believe me."
"I didn't mean…you know…"
"Yeah. Sure." Don pushed the sheet back across the counter and dug through his pocket for money. "You still thinking about going for CHP?"
"Yeah," J.D. handed him the Gatorade. "My Mom's havin' a fit."
"They always do." Don twisted the top off the bottle and took a swallow. "Let me know if you're serious - I can hook you up with some people."
"Cool." J.D. beamed. "They keep as crummy hours as you?"
Don grinned. "Pretty much. Criminals just don't seem to have any respect for the nine to five thing."
J.D. made a face. "Great. Say, I'm goin' back to work on my Tai Bo - if you need anything, you can find me in the gym, okay?"
Don nodded, scooping up his gloves and his speed bag. "I'll see you later."
The locker room was empty, so he took his time peeling off his work clothes and slipping into track pants and tank top and running shoes. He grimaced at his shirt as he hung it on the hook in the locker. He really needed to squeeze in a trip to the dry cleaner. Some smart somebody should open a 24 hour one - in the right part of town, they'd do a killer business. Heck, they could make a fortune on him alone.
He fastened his left glove then stuffed his other hand into the right one, using his teeth to pull the laces tight. Probably he should get J.D. to tie it for him, but there was something satisfying and primal about wrestling with it himself. He shoved the locker door closed and made sure the lock caught before picking up his speed bag and Gatorade and heading to the bag room.
He passed the gym on his way and smiled at the decibel level of the music echoing through the closed doors. It reminded him a little of Charlie and his headphones, and he made a mental note to call Charlie when he got home, if it wasn't too late.
The bag room was as empty as J.D. had promised and he hung his speed bag then turned to the heavy bag, finding a spot he liked before pivoting and driving his fist deep into the leather side. Oh, yeah. This was going to be good.
He danced around the bag, circling it, attacking it, hitting it again and again, his shoulders vibrating with the force of the blows, sweat spraying the floor. That's for Meyers. And Alderman. And Motta…lying in a pool of blood with their skulls crushed, always, always struck from behind, you miserable coward… And for the photos from a time when he had been as young and almost as innocent as J.D. that hung above them - like a signature…or something else…something worse that he couldn't quite get his brain around…his fist shot out again. And again. And again - harder and harder, until his breath dragged through his lungs in great whooshing gasps, and he finally had to bend over and rest his gloved hands on his knees to quiet it. He closed his eyes, feeling the sweat stinging beneath his lids, and maybe something else, too - swabbed at his forehead with the gloves, then reached for his towel and buried his face in it, leaning into the bag and letting it soak up sweat and grief and strangled breaths, his shoulders shaking. He wasn't sure how long he stood there with the bag in a pseudo-embrace before the paroxysm slowed and he forced himself upright again. He blotted at his eyes, scrubbing the towel over his face, the back of his neck, the exposed skin at his neckline, sniffed, breathing cautiously, testing himself. Okay. Maybe you needed that. But it's done now.
He took a gulp of Gatorade and faced the speed bag. This one demanded a different kind of skill and he started slow, finding his rhythm, switching from one hand to the other. The heavy bag had emptied his brain, but this one helped him think, the precision of the motion and timing getting him focused. He pressed his lips together hard and listened to the steady rat-a-tat-tat of leather on leather. Three murders in twenty-four hours. Somebody playing with your head. So it's up to you not to let them. You need to get a grip, Eppes, or more innocent people could die, just to make sure you're paying attention. Wallowing in guilt isn't going to help, it will just serve his purpose - distract you from what you need to do - what you need to know. From what you maybe already know. He slowed his steady patter on the ball, thinking about that.
High School. College. Stockton Rangers. How do those things tie together? Or were they just images of himself that somebody could get ahold of easily? And if so, why? What did they want from him?
He slowed to a stop, one hand resting on the bag to keep it from swinging back at him. That was the $64,000 question all right, and he didn't feel any closer to the answer now than he had when he had first looked at that baseball card at Meyers' apartment. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again, then chewed the laces of the right glove free and untied the left, lifting the speed bag down. He'd take a shower. He'd call Charlie when he got home - see if he had an inkling. Get some real sleep. And maybe in the morning, some of the pieces would start to make something like an understandable picture.
He gathered up his things and paced the short distance to the locker rooms, dumping everything on a bench and cranking the shower as high as it would go.
That's one nice thing about working out at this hour - no competition for the hot water. Just as well, too - he was going to need more than his share - his clothes were glued to him like a second skin. He peeled them off and threw them on the bench next to everything else and stepped into the steamy cubicle. The water peppered his flesh, hot and angry, and he leaned into it, letting it wash over him, the moist air scalding his lungs. He was going to feel this workout tomorrow, but that was okay - just a little pain to keep him alert and banish the numbness. He let the water sluice over him until he realized he was starting to nod off right in the shower, then he shut it off and reached for his towel, patting himself all over and wringing his hair into some semblance of order. He climbed back into his shoes and slacks and undershirt, abandoning his shirt until he could get it to a dry cleaner, and fastened his belt, checking the equipment automatically. A look at his watch stunned him with how easily his planned hour had stretched to two. Maybe it was too late to call Charlie after all - tomorrow morning would be soon enough. He'd turn in his gloves and bag and head on home, where his bed was suddenly sending out a siren's call.
He picked up his jacket and gloves and speed bag and exited the locker room, traversing the short hallway to the small gym, where the music told him J.D. was still working. As he got closer, the sound seemed even louder than before, earsplitting, an almost physical presence pounding at the entry door, and he had to resist the urge to cover his ears. How could anybody think with it that loud? He grinned and shook his head. I sound like Dad used to. I must really be getting old.
He pushed his way through the double doors, calling out, "Hey, J.D., keep playing your music like that and by the time you're my age - "
He broke off abruptly, frozen, his heart suddenly slow and loud and too big for his chest, crowding the oxygen out and leaving him airless. Then he was moving forward in an action that was all about training and habit and nothing about conscious thought, because his mind had stopped dead - careened to a halt at the first sight of the rooster tail of blood sweeping the mirror and speckling the adjacent wall, the dark, almost black pool congealing on the shiny wooden floor.
No…no…he had been…in his mind, he kept seeing some version of this, all day long, over and over, so maybe…maybe…it was just…it was just one more…He almost tripped over a gore-encrusted hand weight at the edge of the growing puddle, jumped over it and slid to his knees. Even as his mind registered that it was pointless, that there was nothing anybody could do for J.D., he was flipping open his cell phone and positioning himself for CPR.
"This is Special Agent Don Eppes, 3695, I need back up at Orly's Gym. Possible homicide. Send an amb - " He broke off, trying to breathe through the swelling that stoppered his breath somewhere south of his collarbone, kept his free hand centered tight over the motionless chest beside him, warmth already fleeing the skin under his palm. He clamped his lips resolutely together and tried again, fighting down a sickening wave of despair. "…a coroner's van," he corrected more quietly, then stopped.
He caught a flutter in the corner of his vision, something dancing in the updraft of the fans. A newspaper clipping, taped to the wall of mirrors. The header was still very black, so it must be a photocopy, not the original: Baby Boy born to Margaret and Alan Eppes…
His hand snatched at it, longing to rip it from the wall and shred it into tiny pieces, but conditioning ran deep and part of him remembered that this was a crime scene…you didn't tamper with a crime scene… the hand curled into a fist instead, knuckle-skin tight over bone, and he thought for a second that he had himself back under control.
He could hear a voice still droning from his phone, asking him something over and over, then a faint crunching sound, saw a spider web of cracks spread across the mirror, faintly ribboned with red.
Above it, the clipping twisted and twirled, revealing then concealing a glimpse of his mother's beaming, photographed face, a tiny bundle clasped proudly in her arms.
000
"Don."
He looked up, squinted at a Styrofoam cup floating in front of his eyes, steam wafting from it. He took it mechanically, sipped. It was too hot - burned all the way down, leaving a scalded trail. That gave him a sort of grim satisfaction and he took another swallow before putting it aside. He shifted his shoulders and felt something slither free, noticed then that someone had draped a blanket around him. When had that happened?
This time a towel dropped in front of his eyes. "For your hands."
He stared at it blankly, then turned his hands over to study his blood-slicked palms. Oh, yeah. "I tried to give him CPR."
"I know," Megan's voice was patient, kind. "You were doing that when we got here. It took two policemen to pull you off him."
Oh. He swallowed. It stung along his seared throat. "He's dead." He knew that - had known it from the first glimpse, but…but…but what, Eppes? You were going to force him back to life by sheer will? Well, good luck with that.
"Yeah." He could feel the warmth as Megan settled herself on the floor next to him. "I'm sorry. How you holding up?"
He turned his head, looking for an answer, just caught sight of the coroner's team as they zippered the long black bag closed and turned away again quickly, letting his head drop back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. "I think I…might have left a handprint on the door…before I knew…I mean, there haven't been any fingerprints so far, but…"
"Yeah, okay." Megan's voice sounded a little too kind and patient this time, and it rankled him. The Styrofoam cup nudged his cheek until he opened his eyes again. "Have a little more. It'll warm you up."
He was about to retort that he had just taken a very long, hot shower, when it struck him that his teeth were clattering against each other, faint tremors shaking his limbs. Huh. He let the blanket hang lax, but after a second he accepted the cup and drank again.
Vile coffee.
"Don, is this your usual night for the gym? I mean, are you here regularly at this day and time?"
What the heck was Megan babbling about now? He was trying to tell her where he might have contaminated the crime scene. She should be paying attention. "I don't know. What day is it?"
"Tuesday. Do you come here pretty routinely on Tuesday nights?"
Routinely. "Like we can ever do anything routinely."
"All right. I know." Megan's voice was more patient than ever, but there was an underlying note of urgency that made him curious. "But more often the not. Was it a habit?"
"Well, I'm usually here late - you know how it is. J.D. was joking about it…" he looked back to where they were now lifting the bag onto a gurney and strapping it down. "He wanted to be a Highway Patrol cop. I think he just liked the cycles and the uniforms…" the world blurred and he took another sip of the too-hot coffee, relishing the distracting burning in his throat. Megan's hand squeezed his forearm lightly and stayed there. He wanted to shake it off, to tell her that he wasn't pathetic and didn't need sympathy, but somehow he didn't have the energy. Besides, maybe he was pathetic.
"So you're here most Tuesdays. When you can."
Man, why was she harping on this? When you had a job where your life depended on being able to run in a crouch hefting a submachine gun or jog up ten flights of stairs in full body armor, staying in shape was a priority. She knew that. What was the deal? "I got here whenever I could - couple times a week. I don't know about any day more than the other."
"When did you decide to come tonight? How long before you told me?"
"I don't know - maybe an hour…"
"And did you mention it to anyone else?"
"No, I - " Oh. He suddenly understood what they were talking about, and his delay in catching on told him how out of it he really was. Shaken, he took the Styrofoam cup in both hands and resolutely swallowed the entire contents in one pull. It tasted like crap, but he felt a little more coherent. "He's following me?"
"Keeping tabs on you somehow. He's gone from making you come to him, to seeking you out."
"Well, that's just swell." He crushed the Styrofoam cup into a ball and let it drop. "I should talk to J.D.'s mom."
"I'll talk to her."
Don shook his head. "You're a stranger - I knew him. It should be me."
"Don, I don't think you're in any shape to talk to anybody. I'll take you home, then I'll go see his mother."
"She didn't want to him to be a cop…" His vision fogged again and he bit his lip, hard. Yeah, okay. Maybe he wasn't the person to go. He let his head rock back against the wall again.
Megan's grip on his arm tightened. "Let's go. Do you want me to call your dad and Charlie and say you're coming?"
"What? No!" he sat up straight, suddenly bristling. "You can take me home - to my place!"
"Don, I don't think you should be alone - and I need to go talk to J.D.'s mother."
"You just told me you think this guy followed me here - now you want me to lead him to my father and brother? Thanks, I'll pass!"
"Don - " Megan kept hold of his arm, gesturing to where a crime scene technician was removing the newspaper clipping from the mirror and stowing it in an evidence bag. "If they can find that, do you really think they don't know about your Dad and Charlie already? And if somebody does decide to head that way, wouldn't you rather be there with them?"
Don narrowed his eyes at her. Oh, yeah, you're good all right. Just the right emotional weak spot. If I get through this thing with my sanity intact, I'll have to remember to mention it in your performance review.
He tried to yank his arm away in some small show of independence, was faintly alarmed when Megan managed to maintain her hold. "Okay," he agreed bitterly. Because now, with that on the table, he was almost frantic to get to Charlie's - check things out. "Let's go, then."
But Megan was examining the arm in her grasp, pulled the hand close for a better look. She touched it delicately and he startled himself by jumping with a sharp, short cry of pain. His eyes turned reflexively to the mirror, a kaleidoscope of cracks fracturing the reflected light. He was surprised and mildly impressed with the size of the dent.
Megan was busily doing something with the towel and his hand, but her voice, directly in his ear, told him that she was looking at the same thing.
"What on earth did you do to yourself?" she breathed.
Her soft tongue click reminded him so powerfully of his mother that for a minute, he wasn't sure he'd be able to find his feet and stand.
TBC