A/N: I promise this vein will not go on forever , but the only way I know to get where I'm going is step by step.
Chapter 17
NO.
Nononononononono…
He had nightmares like this…twisted dreams that shook him awake in the middle of the night, steeped in his own sweat, and left him restlessly pacing the confines of the small apartment until dawn, trying to outrun them. Almost, almost he could believe it was another one of those - he really wanted to believe it - but there was that lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the ominous creaking in his chest and the thundering under his scalp that was all too painfully, vividly real to be a dream.
"Don?" The voice came again, closer this time.
"Ssssh." Soames hand moved threateningly from his chest to encircle his throat.
Yeah, that's really necessary, because I'm REALLY looking to have him run in here and break this up…go on, Charlie - GO. Leave. Get out of here. Go home. NOW.
Of course, if you want to send the cavalry back, that would be okay too…
Soames leaned in closer, warning him, and he tried not to choke on the oppressive stench of stale smoke and old sweat. What's with these felons anyway, do they forget how to bathe in prison?
"Hey, Don?"
Come on, buddy - nobody here you need to see - a polite guy would just pick up and go - right out the front door - before Soames gets any other ideas…
The thought of Soames trying out his particular brand of justice on Charlie made his gorge rise so forcefully that he almost gagged. He closed his eyes and prayed…dozens of fragments of half-remembered rituals, no less heartfelt for being neglected.
The sound of footsteps came closer, then hesitated.
That's it, Chuck, there's nothing here to see…he squeezed his eyes tighter shut, trying to winnow his senses down to acute hearing, made out the soft shuffle of feet. Soames grip on his throat tightened and he wasn't sure he quite managed to suppress a gulp for air. He swore inwardly. Come on, Charlie - you didn't hear anything…nothing going on here…go, go, go, go…
The feet shuffled again on the floorboards, and he hardly dared hope they were actually headed in the opposite direction.
Okay, Charlie - it's not that long a damn hall - out the door - come on - out! Then get as damned far away from here as you can manage. Fast!
The feet paused again and he thought his heart would burst in his chest.
For the love of GOD, Charlie…!
The doorknob rattled, and the sound of the latch giving hung in the air.
Okay, now go THROUGH the door. Get on the other SIDE of the door. Close it BEHIND you…!
Don had his teeth clenched so hard that his sinuses reverberated with pain. Dampness stung the corners of his eyes. Soames leaned in closer, flattening him into the wall, and only the thought of Charlie coming running at the sound of the ensuing commotion stopped Don from kneeing him where it would do the most good.
What the hell is your problem anyway, you stupid behemoth? What exactly is it you think I can do here with my hands cuffed and in this shape?
He held his breath, trying to block out the wall of human flesh and concentrate only on the soft noises in the hallway. The knob rattled again. His temples throbbed with the strain of not breathing and grey splotches swam behind his eyes. There was a soft click as the door snicked closed.
For a second Don still held his breath, not at all sure the sound wasn't really a combination of imagination and wishful thinking. The seconds ticked on as he waited, frozen in time with Soames. No other sound came, and his knees dissolved abruptly, only Soames' huge hand keeping him upright.
"Jesus." Soames rumbled a laugh. "You should see your face. That was worth about a million bucks."
Don carefully sipped in a breath, his stomach churning with relief, but his limbs frigid and stiff with anger. Charlie should be at the elevator by now…out of hearing range…almost without thinking, he jerked his knee up.
His crumpled ribcage slowed him down and it was an imperfect blow, only half-landing. Soames' bark of pain and indignation was followed almost immediately by retribution - Don's head snapped to the side, a red fireball igniting along his cheekbone, spreading to his eyeballs. Soames released him and he dropped. Without his hands to break his fall, he met the floor leadenly on his chest, sharp edges inside meshing and driving deep. This time he did vomit.
"Puh." Soames sounded disgusted. Something solid prodded his shoulder, then slid under it and flipped him onto his back - he assumed hazily only once, but the room seemed to keep flipping for some time to come. "What's the matter, Eppes? Can't take it?"
Don turned his head and spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste. "Think it's - the quality - of the company…" he gasped.
He caught a glimpse of Soames' face and closed what worked of his eyes again.
Yeah, okay, Eppes. Someday you've got to really learn when to zip it.
000
Charlie paused with his hand hovering over the door. He had seen Don's SUV in the complex parking lot, so he knew he was home, but if he was really sleeping, he hated to wake him. On the other hand, Don was a light sleeper and he didn't want to let himself in only to find a pistol shoved in his face, either. Wouldn't be a good way to start this conversation for either of them. On the other, other hand, he couldn't stand out here in the hallway all day. Determined, he let his knuckles drop lightly against the door panel and waited. Nothing.
He made a face, knocking a little louder. "Don?" he called. If Don was sacked out on the couch, he would definitely hear that. If he was actually asleep in his bedroom, it was harder to say.
Still no answer. Well, he couldn't just stand out here like a visiting burglar, and he was determined to follow through on his plan to stick to Don like glue, so he pulled out his key to Don's apartment and inserted it in the lock, turning it gently. The lock gave smoothly and he pushed the door inward.
"Hey, Don, it's me - you home?" No gun, cocked and loaded, greeted him. Neither did anything else. He pushed the door in further, tapping lightly.
Silence. But it didn't exactly seem like the silence of an empty apartment. Puzzled, he paused on the threshold, wrinkling his nose. What was that smell…? Smelled like…cigarettes. Don didn't smoke. He couldn't think of any friends he had who smoked either, not that he claimed to be a particular authority on that subject…
Cautiously, he stepped into the entryway, feeling intrusive and uneasy all at the same time. Could Don have a woman with him…? He felt a flush rise in his cheeks at the thought. Don would really not thank him for intruding if that was the case…he took a step backward, then stopped. Okay, wait a minute - Don taking a nap in the middle of a case wasn't unheard of - sometimes he grabbed sleep where he could - but the thought of him taking a couple of hours off to get a little action…that suddenly struck him as so absurd that he frowned. So what…?
An inexplicable chill shuddered over his back and he bit his lip. Something just felt so…wrong. He took another step.
"Hey, Don?" He made his voice a littler louder this time. Even dead asleep, Don should hear it. He thought he just barely caught an odd noise - a sibilated syllable and a sound like an intake of air, and he took another step toward it. Maybe Don is having a nightmare. He was halfway to the bedroom door when he stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach heaving into his throat.
Oh. God. What was…? He reached delicately toward the wall, thinking that if he could just touch that dark sea fan spattering the paint he would find that it was really only…only…what else could it be? It had to be…he looked down at his feet, and the turgid puddle, nearly touching his sneaker toes, was almost his undoing. He bent over double, hooking his hands behind his neck and trying to breathe, fighting not to noisily lose his lunch then and there. Evidence, he lectured himself vaguely. This is evidence, a crime scene - Don would say not to disturb…oh, God, Don - what…?
A crime scene. At Don's apartment. He closed his eyes, willing himself to keep breathing, slow and even. All that blood…he took another step toward the bedroom, jerked to a stop, his eyes riveted on something leaning in the corner, by the door. He might not know everything about Don, but this much he was sure of - he never had, and never would, own a sawed-off shotgun. He'd heard him refer to them as 'barbaric'. So, odds were - and he was something of an expert on odds - that someone else had been…and probably still was…
He turned abruptly, trying not to run, and headed back down the short expanse of hallway. Megan had said to call in. That's what he needed to do. He needed help.
He slipped out the door, instinctively trying not to make any noise, and pulled it closed behind him with a pointed click. Fumbling for his cell phone, he took a few steps down the outer hall, glancing urgently back at the door, as though he expected to see something there. His cell phone skipped from his fingers and slid along the hallway runner and he stumbled after it, trying to scoop it back up, his eyes watering with terror and frustration. Bending to retrieve it nearly sent him toppling, and he sat down hard, clutching it to his chest and leaning into the wall for support. He gave himself two heartbeats to steady himself - he didn't dare spare more - then shook the cell phone open and fumbled for the right speed dial button.
The ringing went on so long he thought he would scream, though, logically, he figured it couldn't have been more than three actual rings. When Megan's voice, warm and familiar and reassuring, came on, he nearly cried with relief.
"Megan," he breathed
"Hi, Charlie." She sounded as cheerful as ever, but a little rushed. "What's up?"
"I'm at Don's…" he had to take a breath - his heart seemed to be blocking his esophagus, and things swirled a little around him. "Something's…I think something's really, really wrong. I think you should come."
Megan's voice changed instantly, crisp now, and professional. "What's wrong, Charlie? Where's Don?"
"He's - " he broke off, a little thrown. He didn't know, actually, where Don was - not for sure. "I think - Megan, there's blood all over the hall wall, and there's - cigarette smoke - I - I think - "
"Okay, Charlie. Okay. Just take it easy and listen to me, okay? Charlie?"
He let his head rest back against the wall and breathed in and out, slowly and carefully. I will not hyperventilate. This would be a really bad time to hyperventilate…
"Charlie?"
Megan's voice was sharper now, and he lifted the phone to his mouth again. "I'm here."
"Okay - good. Charlie, we're headed that way right now - right this minute - okay? But even with the sirens, our ETA is about twenty minutes, so here's what we're going to do: I'm going to contact LAPD and see if they have a black and white in the area they can send over. I want you to leave the building right now - right NOW, Charlie - and go downstairs and wait outside for the black and white or us - whichever gets there first. Wait right in front of the building. Start now."
Charlie nodded, realized that she couldn't hear the nod and stammered. "O - okay."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Charlie. Just sit tight. Everything's gonna be okay."
Charlie nodded again, remembered again that that wouldn't carry over the phone, but couldn't find the air to verbalize this time. He could hear the sounds of movement and hustle in the background, could visualize Megan and David and Colby pulling on vests and grabbing for tactical information. The sounds offered him a thread of comfort.
He shut the cell phone and crushed it between his clammy palms, trying to find the will to stand.
Go outside and wait, she had said. Megan knew what she was talking about. He should listen to her. Don would expect him to listen to her. His breath froze in his throat.
Don.
He hadn't even seen Don. He hadn't heard him. For all he knew, Don was…NO. No, he wouldn't even…but Don could be hurt. He could need - medical attention. There was all that blood. He had left without even finding out…he frowned at the door down the hall.
Megan had said to go outside and wait. Okay. Okay, he could do that. But first he just had to make sure…using the wall for support, he eased himself back to his feet. Hand skimming the wall, he walked as noiselessly as he could, until he was standing right next to the door. He hesitated. Megan would be furious. Don would be really, REALLY furious. But Don would have to be alive to be angry. He was willing to risk the one to be sure of the other. He pressed his hand, palm wide, against the door panel. And Don would never, never walk away on him in similar circumstances. He leaned his ear against the door, trying to listen. Of course, Don had training, and he carried a gun, which he would be quick to point out if Charlie tried that argument, but…he could just hear a voice through the door - not a familiar one, not Don's - and then a muffled thump. Before he could even think about it, his hand was on the knob, turning it carefully, slowly, soundlessly. The door swung gently inward. He stood, rooted to the spot, a hand braced on either side of the doorframe. What the heck did he think he was doing?
The voice came again - the unfamiliar one - but he couldn't quite make out the words. It was followed almost immediately by another one, and this one, though faint and airless, he knew as well as he knew his own. He ground his forehead against the lintel, nearly sick with relief. Thankgodthankgodthankgod…
There was another sound, like the slap of a boxing glove hitting a full-sized punching bag, followed by pained grunt, and his head snapped up again. What…?
He didn't remember walking through the door, but suddenly there he was, in the apartment hallway, eyes straining painfully toward the bedroom. That sounded like…? He winced as the sound came again, ducking his head. Oh, God. What could he…? How could he…? Help is on the way. Help is coming.
Help…reminded a little voice in his head…is twenty minutes out.
Twenty minutes. His heart shivered in his chest. It sounded like forever now. What if Don couldn't hold on for twenty minutes? Was he supposed to just walk away, knowing that up here…this was going on? And if Don didn't…that is, how would he feel if…while he waited downstairs…? He stared at the partly open bedroom door, then back at the front door. What should he do?
Something taped inside the front door caught his eye and he stopped, reached forward to touch it, let his hand drop. He licked suddenly dry lips, his head light, but clear with resolve.
Okay, that settled it. Twenty minutes might not be good enough. It looked like it was up to him.
TBC
A/N: Oh, come on - you knew it wasn't going to be that simple.
P.S. I was mean LONG before I got sick.