A/N: Another longish one, but it's hard to know where to break some of them. Patty, I did want you to know that I got your wonderful review - thank you so much - it came to my mailbox. Not sure why it doesn't show up on the site or in the review count, but I did report the problem. I'm glad you didn't guess J.D. was going to die - I tried not to tip my hand, but you guys are quick! And alessandriana, I was sorry to see poor J.D. die too.

Chapter 10

"How's the hand?"

Don realized he was cradling his hand against his chest and abruptly lowered it to his knee. "Fine. It's fine."

"What did the doctor say?"

"That it might be a good idea not to punch any more mirrors."

Megan laughed and Don leaned forward in his seat, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. "You had them put a man on the house, right?"

"Yup. Holding the fort as we speak."

Don nodded, easing back into the seat again. "What about my car?"

"Once they're done processing it and they're sure it's not part of the crime scene, they'll either drop it off or leave it for you to pick up. Can you drive, did the doctor say?"

Don glanced at the hand now resting quietly in his lap. "Yeah - it's not like I drive a shift. And it's not the palm. It'll be a little awkward. I can take a cab in tomorrow if my car isn't released yet."

"Don…"

Don could hear what she was warming up to and cut her off. "No."

"Don't you think - "

"That I should get some sleep? That I should take a break from it? That I don't have anything to prove? I remember suggesting that to you under similar circumstances - do you remember what you said to me?" The protracted silence told him his words had hit home. "Right. Just keep it in mind now that the shoe's on the other foot."

Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled into the driveway. Don reached for the door handle. "Thanks." He hesitated, glanced over at her. "I mean it."

Megan smiled slightly. "I'll walk you to the door."

"No." The sharpness in his tone surprised even him and he counted to five and tried again. "You can watch me walk to the door, from the car."

"Don - " This time Megan sounded nettled.

"No, listen to me. I really don't want to open that door tomorrow morning to find you lying on the walkway a bloody mess, beaten to death with a flashlight or a garden tool or whatever else seemed handy. In case you haven't noticed, I'm fine - it's everybody around me that seems to be turning up dead and I really can't face another body on my conscience right now, so you'll stay in the car, I'll walk to the door and we'll call it a night."

Okay, that hadn't been exactly how he'd meant to put that.

He rested his good hand over his mouth, trying to collect himself, torn between explaining, apologizing, or just high-tailing it out of the car and into the sanctuary of the house.

"You don't know that," Megan said at last.

"No?" Don's tone was brittle. "There was nobody at that desk half the night - anybody could have walked in. I was in the bag room, alone - heck, I was almost alone in the gym, except for - " he broke off and grit his teeth, pressed the hand over his mouth again, then took a breath.

"If anybody wanted to take me out, they coulda done it. But they didn't. They took out some poor kid whose only crime was working at the gym I happen to belong to and then they cranked that damn music to make sure I found him. The message I'm getting is that they can do anything they want to anybody they want and that I can't do a damn thing to stop it. Well, whoever they are, they're wrong - I can stop it and I will - but in the meantime, I need to be sure that the people around me aren't picked off one by one. I need to know they're safe." He peered anxiously through the glass again at the hulking shadow that was the house. "I still don't know that coming here isn't…you sure there's a man here?"

"If you could see him, he'd be fired," Megan pointed out dryly.

Don stared at the house again, then nodded. "Yeah."

Megan rested a hand between his shoulder blades for a second. "Get a little sleep. You have your medications?"

He nodded again, eyes scanning the landscaping. "Yeah."

"You sure you don't want to wake up somebody? Just for company?"

Don sighed impatiently. "Charlie's trying to get ready for the fall semester and Dad's working. Believe it or not, they've got lives and things to do besides coddle me."

"Oh, well, heaven forbid." Megan hit the button to release the locks. "All right, I'm going to sit right here and watch you walk to the door. I'll lock the car door behind you. You lock the house door behind you. Deal?"

"Deal." He opened the car door and found the ground with his feet, stood a little awkwardly, hampered by the use of only one hand. "See you tomorrow."

"Say, Eppes - do me one favor - "

He stopped, unconsciously maneuvering the door to act as a shield, eyes again roving the darkness. "What?" he asked cautiously.

"Don't assume you know what's going on."

He barked a short laugh. "I look like a man who knows what's going on?"

"I mean watch your back. Don't get so busy looking for danger for everybody else that you forget that." His mouth tightened and she continued quickly, "We had a cat once. A big Tom - a real mouser." His expression changed to curiosity and he propped one arm on the roof, trying to read her face in the yellow glare of the dome light. She held his eyes. "He loved it - killing mice. But never right away. He liked to play with them first - for him that was half the fun."

Don studied her expression, drawn and anxious, and gave her a small smile. "Thanks," he said ruefully. "I'll take that one to bed with me." He closed the car door and waited to hear the locks click, walked to the front porch and slid his key into the lock, letting her see him push the door inward before lifting his bandaged hand in a gesture of farewell. Then he slipped inside and closed the door behind him, shooting the locks home.

He saw her flash her headlights once, then heard the purr of the engine as the car pulled away. He leaned his forehead against the door, just for a minute.

And who am I kidding. I'm not going to bed.

000

He moved from window to window, door to door, room to room; rattling knobs, checking locks, leaving at least one low light on in each room. The solarium nearly daunted him - so pleasant in the daytime, tonight it looked to him like nothing less than a death trap, and he traveled meticulously from window to window, making sure they were all shut tight and fastened, clucking his tongue impatiently at the clumsiness of his injured hand. He wished he dared to sneak into his father's and Charlie's rooms to check the windows, but he knew that would really be pushing his luck. When he felt he'd done all he could, he slipped soundlessly back downstairs and got comfortable on the couch, finding a vantage point that gave him a good view of the whole room, close to the door. Then he uholstered his gun and rested it on his thigh, letting his bad hand curl against his chest.

The good news, he mused, was that he'd been holding his cell phone in his right hand, so his left was the damaged one. The bad news…well, there was so much bad news, actually, that it was better not to dwell on it. The trick now was to stay awake - nerves and adrenaline could only take you so far. He lifted his feet onto an ottoman and resisted the urge to close his eyes, mentally laundry-listing every trick he'd ever learned for staying alert on stake-out. Coffee might help, but the aroma of coffee brewing was bound to rouse somebody. Besides, the coffee he'd had so far was already doing lousy things to his stomach.

The Craftsman clock that had been his mother's pride and joy seemed loud in the still room. It had a hypnotic, soothing sound, but somehow, tonight it just sawed at raw nerves. He tried to tune it out and focus on the small night sounds beneath the ticking instead. He didn't even notice things beginning to blur at the edges until the whisper of stealthy movements shot him back into alertness, feet swinging down to the floor and gun handgrip tight in his palm, almost before he was aware of it. He never made it to his feet, though, and the gun was still in stand down position on his thigh when reality caught up with him. He sank back into the cushions, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Man.

"Hey," he said weakly. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

Charlie stood at the foot of the stairs in robe and slippers, grinding the sleep from his eyes. "I thought I heard somebody moving around and decided to have a look." Don opened his mouth and Charlie held up one hand to display a cell phone. "I would have called 911 if anything was up - just didn't want to phone in a squirrel or something." He tucked the phone back in his robe pocket. "What are you doing here? Need a place to crash?"

"Something like that." Don scrubbed his damp palm across his jeans to dry it. "I didn't mean to disturb anybody."

"No problem." Charlie dropped into the arm chair. He glanced at the clock. "It's so late."

"Yeah, well, I seem to recall somebody showing up at my place at 2 a.m. once."

Charlie smiled. "Yeah, I guess we just keep strange hours. Good news is, the door is always open for visitors."

Don half-smiled. "Yeah."

Charlie leaned forward in his chair. "What did you do to your hand?"

"Huh?" Don glanced at the mountain of gauze mummifying his left hand. "Oh. Something stupid." Charlie frowned and Don shrugged self-consciously, really looking at it for the first time, brushing ineffectually at a couple of reddish brown blotches on his white undershirt. "It's nothing - really. Couple of stitches - some bruising - maybe some little fractures. Inconvenient, more than anything. I figure emergency room doctors must own stock in gauze companies, the way they over wrap these things."

"I think it's supposed to cushion the injury - from being bumped and stuff."

"I guess so."

Charlie's eyes drifted to the uholstered gun on Don's thigh, and his frown returned. "Everything okay?"

Don opened his mouth again, then closed it. 'Okay' was too big a whopper even for him to tell. He looked down at his gun. "There was another murder tonight."

"Oh." Charlie searched his face.

"Yeah - " Don's gaze skittered from one familiar object to another, dodging Charlie's eyes. "Um - somebody I knew."

"I'm sorry."

The tone was heartfelt, and Don did look at him this time. "I mean, not well - to talk to. But…"

"Still." Charlie shifted. "Say," he suggested after an uncomfortable pause. "You want a beer or something?"

Don hesitated. Let's see…antibiotics…ibuprophen…nothing that should be a problem with alcohol, right? "Yeah. Sounds good." He leaned forward to rise, but Charlie shooed him back.

"I'll get it."

Don watched Charlie's robed back as it disappeared into the kitchen, groaned inwardly. Charlie was waiting on him? He really must be pathetic.

Charlie returned carrying two beers, which raised Don's brows a fraction. Still, he was happy for the company.

Charlie handed one to Don and sat back down to open his own. "How many lights you got on here, anyway? That costs money, you know."

"So send me the bill." Don pursed his lips at his beer with a speculative glance at his injured hand. Charlie wordlessly took it back, wrestling the cap free before handing it to him again. Don gave him a rueful smile in thanks and took a long pull. Uh huh. Definitely pathetic.

The beer felt cool against his scalded throat and he gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

"So - 'maybe some fractures'. What does that mean, exactly?"

Don took another sip and shrugged. "Guess it's hard to tell with a hand - got a whole mess of little bones."

"Twenty-seven."

Don tilted his beer bottle in acknowledged salute.

"But you're all right?"

Don nodded. "Sure. Probably didn't even need the emergency room, but Megan can be a real hard ass."

"You said stitches," Charlie pointed out.

"A couple." Charlie raised his brows. "Twenty-two," Don admitted reluctantly. "Just - surface stuff." Sheesh. Always with the numbers. "Look, buddy, I promise it's no big deal - probably won't even scar."

"Okay."

"So, how about you? Any luck with the stuff I gave you?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not really. Maybe if you give me some information on this new one…?"

Don flinched. "Yeah. CSU is still working on it." He was quiet a moment, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. "You know, back when I was a NAT - "

Charlie interrupted, wrinkling his forehead. "You were a gnat?"

Don grinned. "New Agent Trainee - FBI Academy." Charlie nodded, and Don continued, "There was this one guy in my class - Douglas Jericho. Huge guy - maybe six foot four, and broad - looked like a building with feet. Anyway, we had DT together - Defensive Tactics - " he corrected hastily when he saw Charlie open his mouth to ask. "We switched partners a lot, so you could get a lot of different experiences - how to take down somebody smaller, somebody bigger, how to take down a woman - don't look at me like that, it wasn't as much fun as it sounds."

Charlie wiggled his brows. "Not even with the right woman? Say, Terry?"

"Terry?" Don snorted. "Don't let it fool you - she was ruthless in DT. You never wanted to get teamed with her." But he smiled a little at the memory.

Charlie cleared his throat discreetly. "Jericho?"

"Yeah." Don took another swallow of beer. "Seemed like I got teamed with him a lot. Probably it wasn't more than anybody else, but it seemed like it. Anyway, the point of DT is that size shouldn't matter - you should know how to use balance and leverage and weaknesses to your advantage. So the fact that this guy had, like, seventy pounds on me shouldn't make a difference. Trouble is, he was getting the same instruction I was, so no matter how carefully I thought it through, or how many tricks I tried, or how hard I hit, somehow or other our sessions always ended up the same way - with me flat on my butt on the mat, sucking wind, while Jericho stood there like a wall, not even breathing hard." He shook his head, taking another sip. "Then he'd always say the same thing. 'That it, Eppes? That all you've got?'" He drained the beer bottle. "That's how I feel on this case - just like I'm in DT class with old Jericho. I've run every angle I can think of, looked at it from every direction, thought it through a hundred times…and it doesn't even make a dent. That board just keeps looking back at me as if to say, 'That it, Eppes? That all you've got?'"

Charlie put his beer down. "Anything I can do?"

Don looked at him thoughtfully. He was hearing Lt. Gary Walker's voice now, reminding him, 'You can't protect your brother, Eppes. All you can do is hit this guy with everything you've got.'

Everything you've got. Wise words. Even if they did go against every instinct he had. He took a deep mental breath. "Yeah, maybe. You got any time tomorrow?"

"Sure. Tomorrow is mostly freshman orientation and that doesn't really involve me. I should be free by three or so."

Don smirked. "CalSci doesn't waste its genius prof on incoming frosh, huh?"

Charlie tried to look dignified. "My work is just better suited to upper classmen and grad students."

Don laughed. "Yeah. That's what I said."

"Oh, hey - speaking of upper classmen - I found out about the yearbooks. Turns out they keep extras for a couple of years in case somebody wants one after the fact, then they archive about ten and toss the rest. They tie them up and somebody comes and gets them for recycling."

"Huh." Don frowned. "You know the name of the company that picks them up?"

"No. But I can find out."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Not a problem." His tone was a little too eager, and Don eyed him narrowly. Charlie flushed. "Um - Dr. Winston - she's in charge of the yearbook committee - she was - um - very easy to - to work with, as it turns out."

"Yeah?" Don grinned and raised his brows. "'Easy to work with' as in 'easy to look at'?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "She's - um - " he crumbled. "- a really hot redhead," he confessed. "Smart, too."

"Yeah?" Don stretched until his back cracked. "Should Amita be looking over her shoulder?"

"No, no - " Charlie looked shocked, then dismayed. "No - Virginia - I mean, Dr. Winston - is just - just - "

"A friendly eyeful."

Charlie's flush deepened, but he grinned. "Yeah."

Don reached over to slap his arm. "Well, don't worry - your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks." Charlie stood, then noticed that Don hadn't. "You going to bed?"

"Hm?" Don glanced around the living room. "I think I'm going to stay down here."

Charlie looked down at the gun, still out of its holster, and frowned, but finally nodded. "Okay. See you in the morning."

"Or afternoon. If I'm gone when you get up."

"Three, then. For sure. Your office."

Don watched him make his way back up the stairs, torn. Maybe this wasn't the best thing to do. Then again…

"Hey, Don - "

Don looked up at Charlie, now leaning over the banister. "Yeah?"

"Whatever happened to Jericho anyway? Do you know?"

"Yeah. He went into the Behavioral Science Unit - doesn't even do field work. Didn't like all the violence."

Charlie gave a short laugh of disbelief, then lifted a hand. "Night."

"Night."

That all you got, Eppes?

Don watched Charlie's dark robe turn the landing corner and disappear from sight.

Maybe not quite. Might be one good face card up my sleeve yet.

TBC