Disclaimer: Standard - Numb3rs and its characters aren't mine.

Eh. This chapter is...just more building of the mystery and much father-worry from poor Alan.

The comfort Alan felt in Don's presence lasted for about ten minutes, the ten minutes that it had taken him to realize Don wasn't going to find any easy answers. He'd clung to hope that he was simply making more of Charlie's absence than it really was. He watched his son pace back and forth, trapped by less than helpful evidence just as effectively as a tiger in a cage was trapped by the bars. Somewhere deep inside Alan had known that Don wouldn't be able to slap an FBI bandaid on this, knew it before he'd even made the call. The police not being willing to touch the case due to lack of evidence of wrongdoing might have been a big clue had he not been panicking and thinking of about two hundred worst case scenarios.

"So when you say Charlie didn't seem like himself, what did you mean, exactly?" Don said. "Was he 'off' enough to just leave without telling anyone?"

Larry, who'd insisted on coming over earlier now looked as though he regretted it. He twitched almost rabbit-like several times and shot Alan a help-me glance or two. They had gone over the very little they knew in detail three times already. There was, it seemed to Alan, nothing to go on. He hated that the very idea had occurred to him. He took up Don's habit and started pacing. It helped a bit, though his legs actually wanted to hit the streets. He looked at his watch. They had reached the twenty-seven hour mark. Charlie. Gone. Twenty-seven hours.

"What I meant by Charles not seeming like himself is that I have never known him to leave campus early. Moreover, he seemed very anxious to depart."

"Well, that's a starting point, at least."

Alan didn't follow the logic, but then it wasn't his place to do so. If Don had connected some dots he personally couldn't see, that was enough. He'd just keep busily and morbidly thinking about Charlie beaten, bloody and possibly dead. That was oh so helpful. There had been no phone calls demanding ransom, and why would there be? There would be because Charlie had valuable skills and knowledge. His stomach hurt. No, connecting imaginary dots was not his forte.

"You think something happened on campus that made him want to leave?" Alan said.

"It's possible."

"I think Charles would have simply told me, or at the very least I would have heard something. It's a big campus, but we're a pretty tight-knit group."

"But it's possible," Don said, snapping a little. He let out a low growl. Alan thought his son didn't even realize he'd made the sound of frustration. "We've got to start somewhere."

The whole house smelled of beef stew now. It was choking him, and it made his stomach turn. Alan suddenly wondered if Charlie had eaten anything, how long it would take his relatively small son to starve. If he wasn't already dead from some other horrible cause. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? They didn't know if this was a kidnapping at all, let alone if there was malicious intent. His legs felt weak now, exhausted by their back and forth non-search. He collapsed into an armchair.

"You won't get anywhere tonight. How many people stick around after hours, Larry?" he said, hating to bring that point up. He'd waited too long to call Don. "There has to be something here."

"The jacket." Don walked over to the sofa and picked up Charlie's abandoned jacket. "Did you touch anything besides the cell phone?"

"Hmm?" Alan sat up straighter. "No, but Charlie leaves his stuff around all the time. I'm not sure the jacket will help."

Don ignored him as he rifled through the pockets. The thought of doing so hadn't occurred to him. If the phone hadn't rung before, Alan doubted he would have noticed it either. It wasn't his job. He had no job here but to become more worried by every passing second. He had always felt bad for the parent on the TV news, begging whoever had taken their child to please bring little Tracy back home, but he had never understood. Not really. He didn't suppose anyone could, unless they had experienced it first hand. Now he understood, and it didn't matter that his son wasn't a five year old. The pain was the same. Unlike those unfortunate others, he had direct access to more information, but then he was assuming Don would keep him in the loop.

"Here," Don said, pulling a small piece of white paper from the left pocket. "I found something."

Something, he didn't care about, unless it found Charlie. He sat forward. Listen to him, already flying off the handle and it had only been twenty-seven hours, thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds since anyone Charlie knew had seen him. And only about five hours since he had realized his son had vanished. He stared at the little paper, now caring a great deal what might be on it.

"What is it?"

"Looks like a receipt." Don unfolded the paper and looked it over. "From Great Clips, not too far away from here. It's dated yesterday."

"So Charles went there after I dropped him off," Larry said. "He did say he had something to take care of."

"Hold on, we don't know that. He could have gone earlier in the day. Before work, maybe, or at lunch."

Larry frowned and shook his head slowly.

"I don't think so, Don. Why would he come all the way back here for a haircut in the middle of the day? And I would have noticed if he had gotten it cut before coming to work." Alan raised his eyebrows. He couldn't remember the last time he noticed someone had a trim. "Charles is known first and foremost for his math. Second only to that, on campus, his hair. Women apparently appreciate his ample follicles."

Don rolled his eyes at that, then a second later looked strange, almost remorseful. He knew those expressions, the former more than the latter. Alan knew it hadn't been easy for Don, growing up with a genius kid brother. It wasn't easy now, he thought, but it was getting better between them all the time.

"Well, we have another path to follow."

"But you still can't do anything until morning. It'll be another twelve hours before…"

Alan stopped himself, nauseated by the fact their hands were tied. He wondered if Charlie's hands were tied. The smell of the stew infiltrated his nostrils and increased the nausea. He stood up abruptly, brushing by Don as he made his way to the kitchen. He had no appetite, certainly not for the damned stuff in the slow cooker. He stalked over to the counter and turned the small appliance off. With more force than necessary, he heaved the removable pot out and dumped it into the sink. The lid slid off. It clattered against the sink, but he hardly noticed. The stew looked like vomit.

"I'll find him, Dad."

He leaned against the counter, planting his hands on the stainless steel edge of the sink. He wanted to believe Don, but the only lead they had was that Charlie had gone for a much-needed haircut yesterday afternoon. He didn't have that FBI mind. He didn't see how something so mundane could possibly help. But he also knew that it had to.

"I know you will," he said, lying just a little. He knew Don would try his best, and that the best effort didn't always guarantee success. "It's just a bit difficult not to be very worried right now."

"The million different scenarios about what could have happened to him, what could be happening at his very moment while we stand here doing nothing?"

"Yeah, those."

"I have them, too, but we can't think like that."

Easier said than done, he thought. Alan figured if Don was going to be involved on this highly personal case, he was going to have to detach from the subject and not let it impact him. He had no idea how that was even possible, yet he also knew Don would not let himself be removed from the case.

"Give me something else to think," he said.

"You know I can't, Dad, much as I want to be able to do that."

Alan stared down at the rapidly congealing stew. It wasn't making him feel any better. But as irrational as his anger about the food was, it did give him something to do. He hated the stupid stuff, but he couldn't bring himself to let it just sit there and rot. He lifted the pot up, setting it on the counter while he searched for a rubber spatula and container to put the uneaten dinner in. He would prefer to dump it all down the disposal, but was also reluctant waste it all. He absently pulled a clear tub from the cupboard.

"You wouldn't happen to be hungry, would you?"

"No, not really."

"I should ask Larry."

"Dad, it's way too early for dinner anyway."

"He probably hasn't eaten all day."

He was having another absurd conversation, out of place for what was going on. He knew it, but couldn't really stop. Thinking about the stupid stinking stew or whether or not Larry had eaten (even knowing Larry's strange tendency to eat only white food) was better than thinking about other things. Unfortunately, this strange obsession probably would last only as long as it took for him to clear it up and stick the container in the freezer, where it would sit until it became freezer-burned and he could throw it away with good conscience. Maybe Charlie would even find…he coughed, and his whole body felt uncomfortable. Strange.

"Yeah, actually, ask Larry." Don clapped him on the shoulder softly. "And if you could dig out a recent picture of Charlie, that would be good."

"But the police aren't on the case," he said stupidly.

"They don't need to be. Charlie consulted for us, and chances are good it has something to do with the intelligence he knows. It's a federal case." Don took a step back toward the kitchen door. "I want to see if I can get his photo on the eleven o'clock news. I'm going to call in a few people."

With those words, Alan realized, with more finality than he'd allowed himself before, how real this was. Don wanted to put Charlie's face on the news, and it would appear with a "Have you seen this man?" caption. He put the container down and wandered back through the house. He wasn't sure if he even had a recent picture. The camera had been more Margaret's thing, and it wasn't as though he felt compelled to snap photos of his thirty-year-old son.

"Are you doing all right, Alan?" Larry said. Alan blinked; he had ended up just standing in the middle of the den. He looked at Larry, whose forehead was crinkled. "Can I get you anything?"

"Can you…no, no. I was just coming to see if you needed something to eat. The, uh, I made stew. Or there's white bread."

"Oh, I couldn't eat." Larry walked over to him. "I feel just awful about this. I should have noticed something sooner."

Alan shook his head, or thought he did. He felt…numb and slightly detached and unable to breathe all at the same time. He wondered if this strange foggy sensation would ever go away. He heard Don back in the kitchen, talking to someone on his cell and sounding calm but terse.

"No, it's not your fault. You're not Charlie's keeper."

"For the record, neither are you," Larry said softly. "The cold fact of the matter is that none of us had any reason to think something was amiss."

"I know that, and yet somehow it doesn't seem to matter." Larry nodded, remaining silent. For a second or two they stood next to each other wordlessly, long enough for Alan to feel as though he were drowning in the empty quiet. "You know, I don't think I have a recent picture of him. Don said I should get one. I don't even know where to look."

"I think I can help you with that. Every couple of years, we get new pictures for our campus identification cards."

"A good idea, Larry, but do you see his ID anywhere?" Don said, walking toward them. "His wallet's gone, his keys are gone."

Charlie was gone, Alan thought, but didn't add out loud. There was no sense restating the obvious, after all. Alan tried to understand the importance of the absent wallet and keys. Since the house was locked up when he got home last night, that must mean Charlie had come back after his errand and then gone again. And this time they had no idea where he could have gone, no receipt to trace.

"I must have something useable," Alan said. "Charlie bought that new digital camera not too long ago. How does that thing work?"

"Where is it?" Larry moved from foot to foot. "I can hook it up to the computer to see if any shots are on it."

"In the other room. This way."

He led Don and Larry to the office. The camera was docked next to the computer. Larry powered up the PC and punched a couple of magic buttons Alan would eventually figure out how to use properly. Before he knew it, there were pictures on the screen. A flower. A parked car. The first trophy Don had ever won for baseball. And then Charlie's face with a cheesy grin, the camera angle making it clear he'd taken the picture himself. Alan backed up a couple of steps, pinned by the image of his son's goofy grin, absolutely terrified he'd never see it in person again.