Chapter IX: Janus and Epimetheus

The moment Colby stepped past a LAPD officer and into Markenson's hotel suite he was hit with sheer opulence. The sitting room boasted plush carpet, two richly upholstered sofas engulfed with throw pillows, an ornate coffee table, a built-in housing a big screen television, and—of all things—a crystal chandelier. An uneaten array of breakfast foods on several china plates sat on a mobile kitchen cart in just inside the room. There was even a vase with a red rose on the cart.

People actually lived like this?

It was nice to see that the NSA's budget was going to such a worthwhile cause as keeping its people living in the lap of luxury. Well, Markenson wasn't technically living anymore, now was he?

The door to the immediate right led into an office and through the open door Colby glimpsed a matching desk and credenza set along with another uniformed officer, a man dressed in a hotel uniform, and a woman dressed in a suit. There was a door further down that must have led to the bedroom. A uniformed LAPD lieutenant met him and David before they could make it to the center of the suite's main room.

"We're with the FBI," David said flashing his badge before the man could open his mouth to protest. "I'm Agent David Sinclair."

"Lieutenant Randall Alexander," the man replied and offered his hand to David. He wore a friendly smile and he fit the plump donut eating cliché image of a middle aged cop.

"Agent Granger," Colby said firmly shaking Alexander's hand.

There was a spark of recognition in the other man's eyes as he digested their names. "You're on Don Eppes' team?"

"Yeah, that's correct," Colby said as he released the man's grip. He didn't bother to add that Don Eppes wasn't currently in charge at the moment or allowed to give them orders. "Body in the bedroom?"

"Yes, I'll take you guys on back."

"That'd be great," David replied.

The room smelled like death and it had all the hallmarks of a typical suicide scene: a half-full glass of water on the nightstand, an empty bottle of prescription Valium clutched in the deceased's hand, and a scrawled note on the floor next to the king sized bed. The fact that it looked so perfectly routine set Colby's teeth on edge and sounded the warning bells. A quick glance at David showed he felt roughly the same.

Alexander handed them both pairs of gloves. David took his pair, but he made no move to put them on. Clearly identification was going to be Colby's responsibility. As Colby slid the gloves on he reflected once more how much he despised the blunted sensitivity of the latex, but he also knew better than to disturb or mishandle any evidence. It seemed that duty always warred with desire.

"May I?" Colby asked Alexander before he reached out to move back the drape over the body.

"Be my guest."

He pulled the white drape down enough to reveal the head and one look at the body confirmed it was the bastard Markenson. He continued to pull the drape back and saw that Markenson's body lay sprawled on top of the comforter. He was still fully dressed in a pin striped dress shirt, a solid blue tie, and below his belt he wore charcoal grey slacks. The matching jacket was draped across the end of the bed. And while the cuff on his right side of his shirt was unbuttoned, all his other clothing was meticulous.

When David unearthed the evidence that Markenson had also worked for Black Rain Colby couldn't help but wonder if Markenson was playing Westwood, or if Westwood was playing Markenson.

Markenson's head lolled disturbingly to one side and so Colby reached out and gently tipped Markenson's pale face towards him. The lax neck muscles didn't resist but the heavy weight of the man's head was an interesting counterpoint. Even through the gloves Markenson's freckled skin felt clammy. His red hair contrasted with blue tinged lips and fingernails.

The last time Colby had seen Markenson his face had been flushed with life and excitement. Westwood may have been his handler, but Markenson was always one step ahead.

Colby couldn't count the number of dead people he'd seen any more than he could count the number of people he'd killed, but it had never stopped him from wondering what his own death would be like.

Would it be better to die in a hail of bullets or to be force fed a lethal cocktail of drugs? To be killed by the enemy or to be killed by your country? To die in an instant or to have life slowly leached out of you? Peaceful sleep or eternal torment? Heaven or Hell? If he was dead, did it matter how it happened?

Someday, probably sooner than later, it would be him, Colby had no illusions about that. He just hoped his death—and life—would mean something to either his nation or his friends.

If it didn't, then what this for? What was any of it for?

"Is it him?" David asked and the clipped question snapped Colby out of his depressing ponderings.

Colby looked up and noticed that David still hovered in the open doorway. "It's Markenson."

"Then it's confirmed." The undertone was that Colby should never have doubted David's initial report at all. "I'll go and check the rest of the suite." David tossed his unused gloves back to Alexander and tapped the door jam before he turned around to leave. Colby nodded and bit back a sigh and a snarl. He knew they were going to have to talk. The sooner the better. However, David was going to have to be the one to make the first move.

"I'm no coroner, but I suspect the time of death was sometime between ten and one in the morning," Alexander said.

"You're probably correct, but if it's all the same to you I'll like the body examined by our coroner." Despite himself he grinned. Talking with Claudia would definitely put David in a bit better of a mood.

"Fine by me. If you don't mind me asking why're you feds interested in this at all?"

"Justin Markenson was NSA," Colby replied as he checked his watch. He still had an hour before he needed to be at the café to meet Chen. There was still plenty of time for further investigation.

"That explains it then." Lieutenant Alexander said. The man picked up an evidence bag with a single sheet of paper inside. "He left a suicide note. We found it about where you're standing." Alexander pointed across the bed and body to Colby. "It's an average suicide note on one side."

"Oh?"

"It starts with the standard life's not worth living passage and them moves into a goodbye world and screw you section—all of it neatly printed and legible too. It isn't too interesting. Then when you flip it over"—Alexander did so—"there's a scribbled note on the back. It's much harder to make out."

"What's it say?" Colby asked as he redraped the body. Wonder where the pen went? Colby scanned the floor and found a lone pen cap a few inches from the bed, but beyond that he didn't see anything other than carpet fibers.

Alexander paused as he tilted the paper about forty-five degrees hoping to make it easier to read. "'Even'" he paused puzzling through the plastic at the next word, "'Dora is military. Eastern,'" he paused again and squinted at the note, "I'm not sure what the next word is."

While Alexander muttered under his breath trying to match the scrawl with actual words Colby squatted down and moved the bed skirt out of the way. On his knees he peered under the bed and sure enough there was an uncapped black and green pen with the Bonaventure Hotel crest and phone number resting a couple of centimeters from his nose.

"Tropics maybe?" Alexander shrugged as Colby stood up again. "'Eastern tropics have encl… enclosed… ecli… eclipsed….' then the only part of the next two words I can make out are the first letters: U and S. They're very large."

"Well, I did find the pen he wrote it with," Colby said pointing under the bed. "Is there another evidence bag somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'll get you one. Take the note for a sec." Alexander handed over the letter across the bed and the body. Colby accepted it.

It was written on a piece of hotel stationary and seeing the scrawl for himself Colby wasn't surprised that Alexander had so much trouble reading it aloud. Didn't Charlie have some fancy algorithm for handwriting analysis? Given an expert—who was missing—and a bit of time—which they didn't have—perhaps they could decode it, figure out Markenson's dying intent. In the meantime, just the word 'military' sent a chill up his spine.

"I wonder how far into hallucinations he was when he penned this nonsense?" Colby asked trying for levity when he felt dread once Alexander got the bag and walked over to Colby's side of the bed.

"Pretty far I'd say," Alexander said when said bending down to take care of the pen.

Colby gave a false, tight smile and then he cleared his throat to change the subject. "Who found the body?"

"Room service. The employee's in the other room giving his statement. With his unhappy manager."

"Not happy to have a dead body in the hotel?"

"Not happy with the inconvenience of telling her other high-paying guests, I believe."

"Ahhhh. Mind if I go and listen in?" Colby asked, stripping off the gloves.

"Go on. I'll finish dealing with the pen and see about arranging a pickup"—he pointed to his cell phone—"for the body so it can be transferred to your coroner."

"Make sure it comes to the attention of Claudia Gomez."

"Gomez," Alexander repeated. "I got it."

"Appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. Once I make a few calls it'll be one less thing I have to worry about today. Besides, Lieutenant Walker tells me you're the good guys."

"Thanks."

He sure hoped they were the good guys in this little tale.

The office was just as spacious and ostentatious as the sitting room and the bedroom. The desktop was bare, but there was an Ethernet cable still plugged into the jack, which meant that whoever killed Markenson also took the laptop. On the far wall there was a large safe nestled in one of the full length bookshelves. Colby was willing to bet that whatever Markenson had put in there for safe keeping wasn't there anymore.

In the middle of the room David and another LAPD cop were questioning the room service employee while his boss hovered over the scene and tried not to wring her hands.

"Yes, I delivered the breakfast," the hotel employee answered the question that Colby had obviously missed. Benardo, as the stitchery on his hotel uniform dubbed him, had a faint trace of a Spanish accent, but he covered it up very well. "Last night, when I brought him dessert, he was insistent on an early breakfast. He told me that he'd probably be in the shower so I was to bring breakfast directly in without waiting."

"You delivered both dessert and breakfast, Benardo?" David asked, skeptical.

"Eva,"—he gestured to his boss—"assigned me to work the night shift this week. I brought dessert when I came on shift and then his early breakfast was one of my last responsibilities."

"Go on," David prompted.

"So I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Following his instructions from last night I entered with the breakfast cart. It was too quiet and the shower wasn't running." Because of his habitual interviewing and interrogation skills Colby realized that Benardo, with mastery of two languages and all the sound references, was definitely an auditory individual.

"I'm listening," David said, falling back on his own training as he tuned himself into the interviewee's wavelength.

"I went to knock on the bedroom door to announce breakfast was here. I figured he might still be sleeping. He didn't answer, but my knock pushed the door open and I saw the body. I froze for a moment. I didn't know what to do. I've never seen a dead person before. Only in movies, you know." Colby casually leaned against the door jamb and stuffed his hands in his jean pockets. Oh, how he envied Benardo. Tremendously. "Then I called Eva," he gestured to his supervisor, "and she called the cops."

"Let's go back to last night. Can you describe what you heard then?"

"Sure," Benardo's eyes shifted to his left as he remembered." When I knocked on the door he was humming to himself." From the expression on Benardo's face that humming had been woefully out of tune. "I brought the champagne and cake tray into the room and his cell rang."

"Did you catch who he was talking to?" David asked. Colby made a mental note to get a record of all the calls Markenson had made in the past few days.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted the man's supervisor twitch. When Colby focused his full attention on her, her expression was calm and serene. She met his gaze boldly. She was all show and no substance. Her makeup, even at this early hour, was immaculate. She dressed with the intent of distracting all members of the opposite sex; her necklace hung low and deliberately drew attention to her silicon-enhanced breasts.

Colby had seen better.

Naomi Vaughn's weren't implants. He shook his head to dispel the random thought. He needed more coffee if his thoughts were getting this muddled. Naomi Vaughn would never speak to him again... assuming he could rescue her in the first place.

Eva tossed her long hair over her shoulder as and she sized him up in return. Her gaze lingered a touch too long on his biceps and below the belt. Let the ninny believe he was all brawn and no brain. She clearly liked what he saw; he wanted to take a shower.

"I didn't catch a name, no sir," Benardo replied.

"That's okay. Do you know what time that was?"

"Just after nine o'clock, but…" Benardo hesitated and chewed the inside of his lip and again he looked to his left. The eye cues were again indicative of memory rather than construction and Colby felt the hotel employee was most likely telling the truth.

"Yes?"

"It seemed as if he was expecting the call."

"That's good to know. Do you remember any of the conversation?" David asked.

"It was short. He told whoever was on the other end his room number and asked him to come on up."

"Him?"

"The tinny voice on the other end was deep. It wasn't a woman."

"Then what happened," David prompted.

"He handed me a large tip, gave me his breakfast order for the morning, and gave me the instructions I told you about earlier. I left shortly after that."

"When was the next time you were in this hotel room?"

"Two hours ago when I delivered the breakfast cart. At five sharp."

"Let's jump back again," David said to redirect the line of questioning. It didn't seem like the man was lying, but it didn't hurt to check for a rehearsed statements. Benardo nodded again accepting the shift. "Did you retrieve the dessert tray?"

"'Bout three in the morning. When I made my rounds."

"Did you pass anyone in the hall?"

"No, sir."

"What about when you left the dessert and champagne?"

"The gentleman in room 1811 was escorting a young woman back to his suite," he said delicately and the implication was she was a high-priced woman of the evening. "He stopped me to ask for more towels and an extra bathrobe. I had maid service send some fresh ones up. Promptly."

"No one else?"

Benardo shook his head.

"I think that's all the questions I have for now. Can we get your contact information?" David asked. "Your address and phone number in case we need to get a hold of you for some more questions."

"Okay. Do you have a pen or somethin'?"

The LAPD officer put a fresh piece of paper on the desk and handed Benardo a pen. Colby noted that he took it with his right hand. Eye movements were never a slam dunk, but it helped to know which hand was the dominant one.

"Eva, can I take off for the day?" he asked his supervisor once he had finished putting down all his contact information.

"You may. Get some sleep. I'm sorry we had to keep you longer than usual. Make sure you add the extra hours to your time card," Eva said.

"Overtime, Ma'am?"

"Yes, of course," she replied warmly. Too warmly.

"Gracias." Benardo gave them all half bows and approached the door—and Colby.

Eva Rodriguez dropped the smile the instant Benardo's back was turned. She didn't want to have to pay the man time and a half, but needed to keep face with all the police officers and FBI agents in the room.

"What do you think your friends will say when you tell them about what you discovered this morning?" Colby asked before Benardo could pass him and head out into the main suite.

This time he looked to the right to construct the imaginary conversation. Benardo passed his test. "I imagine they'll be shocked and won't believe me."

"You're right about that." Colby said and moved out of the way. Without looking back, Benardo left the room and suite.

"Ms. Rodriguez," David said turning to the hotel manager once Benardo was out of hearing range. "How spotless of a record does Benardo have?"

"Not very spotless," she replied promptly. "His record is sub par, actually."

"Really?" the LAPD agent—his name tag read Leonard Kipp—asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"If only I could paint you a picture." With the inordinate amount of attention she paid to her appearance coupled with her frank appraisal of his…ahem…assets, he deduced Ms. Rodriguez was much more of a visual person than her employee. "You see, he's a lyricist and musician on the side," she elaborated and crossed her arms across her chest protectively and the fake diamonds of her necklace burrowed into the valley between her breasts. "Unfortunately, his head isn't where it should be most of the time because to him this job is just a way to pay the bills until he hits it big."

Interesting. Colby's impression had been that her employee had been quite competent and his head seemed quite clear. He remembered quite a bit about the events of the past few hours. Was she deliberately smearing him? And to what end?

"Do you keep employee reviews and employee records on file?" Kipp asked.

"We do. I'll be happy to show Benardo's to you if you'd like." I'm sure you would be, Colby thought to himself. She was a bit overeager to dish out the dirt about her employee.

"Yes, it would be good if we could see those," officer Kipp replied and Eva Rodriguez smiled. "We'll also need to have a look at the records of all your employees who have been working in the past week or so."

"Certainly."

"And a record of all your guests," David chimed in.

The look in her eyes went as cold as she looked at David. "You'll need a warrant for that."

"Then we'll get one, Ma'am," he said full his voice full of courtesy.

"Hotel policy," she said unapologetically. "We have an international reputation to maintain."

"Did Mr. Markenson have anything held at the front desk for anyone else to pickup?" Kipp asked drawing her attention away.

"No." She shook her head. "Nothing."

David followed the line of questioning. "Has there been any mail or faxes held for Mr. Markenson since he checked in?"

"Nothing that I can tell you about," she replied.

Tell.

What an interesting word choice. That implied that there may have actually been something. Or there was some business Markenson was involved in that she was aware of. David met his eyes directly and Colby bit his lip in order to stay silent. Regardless of their current personal problems there was a reason they made an excellent team, made excellent partners. Colby nodded in understanding. Message received. David could play the bad cop for now and Colby's part would come after he was done.

"Are you certain?" David asked.

"Perfectly," she replied primly. "What reason would I have to lie to you?"

David let the implication hanging and pushed on. "What's your hotel policy about opening safes?" he pointed to the locked safe in the bookshelf.

"You'll also need a warrant for that," the woman answered.

"Do you make video recordings of your guests?"

"For security purposes, naturally," the woman stressed the word naturally as if he were insulted by the very implication that they wouldn't. She also left out any offer for them to look at them.

"Don't worry, we'll have a judge issue a warrant for that too," David said wryly.

"I'm sure you will," she said darkly. "If there isn't anything else, then I'd like to head downstairs and see if I can mediate any of the brouhaha you officers have stirred up."

"There's a dead body in the other room. It's hardly brouhaha. The investigation is going to take some time."

"As far as I'm concerned the guest in room 1814 had more champagne and prescription pain killers than any human should."

"That's what it appears like," David said straight-faced.

"Appears?" She tilted her head to the side and some of her hair fell into her face. "Do you suspect foul play?" she asked oh-so-nonchalantly as she brushed the hair out of her eyes and pushed it over her shoulder. Once that was done she brushed some imaginary fluff off her shoulder as well.

Foul play? Colby managed, just barely, not to pull a face. She'd made their investigation sound like a bad detective novel. Interesting that she would even question it, that clinched it; she did know something and she was fishing.

"It's probably certain that it was suicide," David lied, trying to deflect any worries that she might have about the hotel's reputation, or her involvement in Markenson's death. "We just like to be thorough and not leave any stone unturned."

"Alright then," she said rising gracefully like a swan from the chair she'd been seated in for the duration of her interview. "Please try to stay out of the way of our paying guests."

"We'll do what we can," David assured her.

"See to it." She spun on her high heels and walked towards the door.

Time to play good cop.

When she approached, Colby deliberately didn't give ground. She was forced—the pleasure of the act showed on her face when she winked wickedly at him—to brush against him to exit the office area; he was hit with a whiff of her cloying, cheap perfume.

"Ms. Rodriguez?" Colby asked following her into the main room.

"Please call me Eva," she said turning around. She held out her hand and he took it. Her grip was feather light, but despite her overuse of moisturizer the palm of her hand was cold. He shook it because he supposed kissing it would be a little extreme.

"Colby."

"Colby," she repeated, tasting his name, letting it roll off her tongue like honey. "Is there something you want?" She took her right hand and put it on her hip to emphasize her figure.

He knew he was going to have to butter her up and the notion made him queasy. "Many, many things," he charmed her. "But I'd like to apologize for my partner. I'm sorry about the inconvenience. We'll try to get out of your way as soon as possible."

"Why thank you."

He reached out and squeezed her arm gently. "I do have a question I'd like to ask. Something my partner neglected to ask." He gave a long suffering sigh as if to imply David was an incompetent.

"What is it?" she asked and batted her eyelashes. It was pitiful.

Colby released her arm. "Mr. Markenson checked into the hotel on Friday morning, correct?"

"Yes, I checked him in personally."

"Did he check in alone?" Colby asked.

"No," she closed her eyes briefly as if she were trying to remember a name. "A Mr. Westwood checked in as well. They appeared to be such nice men."

Don was right. Now they had independent confirmation that Markenson and Westwood had all arrived Friday just as Ashby was trying to blow up the bridge. "Just one other? No one else was with them?"

"Just the two of them," she confirmed.

"I see." Hummm…. Dolon was probably staying at another hotel. The NSA and the FBI my work together occasionally, but the blood between them was thinner than water.

"If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate to ask," she purred.

"There is something I'd like you to do."

"Name it." Did she seriously expect him to make a pass at her?

"I'd like to visualize something for me. Close your eyes."

She looked at him askance. "You're serious?"

"Yes, go on close them." She gave a little giggle as she obeyed. "Imagine a warm sandy beach," Colby said and let his voice hit the rumbling tone he knew turned women to putty as he leaned in close. "A crystal clear'n cloudless day ending with a fire-red sunset, skimpy swimsuits and flimsy shoes, and cold drinks with umbrellas in them."

Her lips twitched. "Am I'm going to need a cabana boy to bring me that drink?"

"Call him Pedro."

"Pedro?" Her eyes fluttered open. "I don't think that's his first name." God! She'd cast him the role of the cabana boy.

"I'll let you pick the name. Close your eyes again." She did. "I want to you picture that beach and that man. Feel like you're there. You got that?"

"Umm hummm."

"Good," he whispered in her ear seductively. "If you lie in a criminal investigation again then the closest you'll ever get to that beach will be while you are dreaming in a jail cell." He didn't bother to keep the sneer from his voice as he finished.

Her eyes snapped open. "Why would yo—" she cut herself off before she could betray anything else.

He leaned in even closer. "I can play bad cop too. You understand, don't you?"

"I do. Pity," she spat, "I rather liked you before you opened your mouth."

"And I knew what kind of woman you were before you even opened yours."

She reared back and slapped him. Hard. The impact made his eyes water and though he didn't see her flounce out in a huff he heard the door slam. He rubbed his jaw as David came up next to him.

"Nice going, Casanova," David laughed.

"Next time you get to play the good cop," he grumbled. It almost seemed like old times.

"Was it worth it?"

"I'm convinced she knew something about Markenson's clandestine activities. And now she knows that we know. She'll slip up." Colby stopped rubbing his stinging jaw. "In the meantime my cheek stings like a b—"

"Gomez?" Lieutenant Alexander poked his head out the bedroom door with his phone glued to his ear.

"That's correct."

Alexander, jabbering on his phone, ducked back into the bedroom.

"I asked them for custody of the body," Colby said off David's look.

"Why?"

"Because I want first look at the autopsy."

"And you want Claudia to do it?"

"Exactly."

Despite the circumstances there was a gleam in David's eyes when he mentioned Claudia's name. Everyone seemed neatly paired up: David and Claudia, Don and Liz, Megan and Larry, Charlie and Amita, Alan and Mille. He was the odd one out in couplehood bliss.

It was his choice, but it hurt more than his tender cheek.

David shifted his feet. "I am sorry."

"She didn't hit me that hard."

"No, I meant for earlier."

"Sticks and stones," Colby tried to wave it away.

"Funny. I always thought the quote would be better if it was 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will always hurt me.' It doesn't excuse what I said, but I'd always figured I was your best friend—that I knew everything about you."

Colby looked over his shoulder, but they were alone and no one was in earshot. "Friendship isn't a contest, David. I don't know if it was in my file or not, but Dwayne was with me every step of the way for those nineteen days. Both you and Dwayne were my best friend at different times in my life."

"How could he've been your best friend? Dwayne's guilty of espionage," David countered, his voice pitched to a whisper on the final word.

"Is he?"

"Don't give me that. You brought him in yourself."

"Yeah, but who told me to?" Colby countered.

"Don did," David replied quickly, "because Megan and I had to convince him to."

"I haven't always reported solely to Don. He wasn't the only one I cleared it with. What Dwayne's going through could just as easily be me. I have no guarantee that I won't be locked up after this is over. Or that I'll—" he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

"Or that you'll end up dead like our friend Markenson?" David finished for him.

"You understand?"

"Maybe not understand, but I do acknowledge your difficulty."

Colby checked his watch for the time again. He needed to get going, or he'd be late. "Do you think you can handle the rest from here? I have a meeting I need to get to."

"A meeting?" David's eyes narrowed. He didn't like that.

"It's important," Colby assured him, hypersensitive of the fact they really couldn't have an entirely private conversation with the Los Angeles police force milling about.

"More important than this investigation?" David asked him, clearly unhappy with the revelation.

"It is for this investigation." Colby held his breath hoping the entire preceding conversation and apology hadn't just been invalidated.

"What do you want me to tell Megan? That you skipped out?"

"I warned her that I had something to do that I couldn't avoid. Now, I'm tellin' you the same thing." Colby looked at David levelly. "I'm gonna be unavailable for the next few hours."

David read between the lines. "We're in this together. "

"No," Colby denied, "I'm still—"

"Still expecting us to back out?" David finished.

David had hit it on the nose. When hadn't someone drop-kicked him to the curb and left him to fend for himself? "Look, I'm trying to protect you three. Four if you count Charlie. I've got the most to lose and while I appreciate your help—"

"Stop trying to shield us. For us to survive this with our careers—"

"With our lives," Colby hissed.

"—intact there can't be any secrets between us."

"Tonight," Colby assured him.

"Fine. Tonight. I'm going to hold you to that." David wasn't happy, but he wasn't about to argue in the hotel suite. "Do you need a ride to wherever you're going?"

"I can walk. Besides, it probably wouldn't be a good thing to have you anywhere nearby while I do what I gotta do."

"I'll let Megan know. Take care."

"Thanks." Colby turned and he had his hand on the door knob when he hesitated. "For what it's worth, if I needed someone to guard my back and my choice was between you and Dwayne. I'd choose you without question."

Colby was out the door before he could hear David's reply.

-oOo-

By the time Megan had dropped him off at the house everyone was there: his father, Amita, Larry, and Millie. There may have been only four of them but they swarmed him the moment he stepped over the threshold.

"What did you find out?"

"Do they know who took Charlie?"

"What can you tell us?"

"Did they know where he is?"

Don slowly shut the door before saying, "Hello." His greeting didn't stem the tide of their questions in the least.

"Anything?"

"Do they know who was behind it?"

"What did the Assistant Director say?"

"Do they know anything?"

He held up his hands in self defense. "I don't know much. The team is working on some solid leads. Megan promises that she'll call to check in regularly and especially when they have something concrete. Other than that I can't tell you much more."

To avoid everyone's crestfallen expressions he plowed through the crowd and picked up a piece of mail from the green fluted bowl. He could feel them all staring at his back, burning holes no doubt. The letter contained a bill from Verizon Wireless. He owed forty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents.

Owed.

He owed Charlie protection. He owed his country duty. He owed his team leadership. He owed his friends and family more of an explanation, but couldn't bring himself to admit he was impotent. Blindly he reached for the next letter in the stack. It was noticeably thick.

"Donnie," his father began, "what about—"

"I don't know ANYTHING!" Don shouted. He ripped into the envelope violently and a small black piece of plastic fell to the floor.

Silence reigned and no one asked another blasted question.

The hush stretched too long and he took a deep breath to steady himself. When he turned around his father wore a hurt expression, there were tears in Amita's eyes again which were threatening to spill down her cheeks, Millie looked affronted, and Larry imitated stone.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. He meant it. "I honestly don't know much. Megan has assigned an agent to watch the house, so if you see them outside don't be alarmed. We think there may be a connection with another missing person case—Naomi Vaughn."

"She's missing?" Amita asked.

"Unfortunately," Don said, refusing to feel guilty about what part he may have played in releasing her too soon. "David and Colby were leaving to check out a lead. Then I spoke with Assistant Director Dolon and asked to have myself put on leave for the duration of the case. Afterwards Megan drove me home." And now that he thought about it he'd left his car in the FBI garage. How was he going to get it back?

Disgusted with himself he extracted the multiple pages of the letter. He leafed through the sheets, but they were all blank. Who sends blank pages in the mail?

Correction. All blank but the last one. When he read it, it sent cold chills down his spine. It read: If you are reading this I am dead. I trust you will not lack foresight like Epimetheus.

The letter wasn't signed, but it must have been from Ashby. He tuned the envelope over, but there was no return address. The stamp indicated that it had been mailed on Friday May 18, 2007 at 10:04 in the morning. Ashby mailed this five days ago! He must have deposited it at the post office before he'd headed to the bridge last Friday.

"Donnie, what's wrong? You're as white as a sheet."

"Is that a ransom note?" Millie asked.

"No. It's… I'm not sure what it is actually." He knew it wasn't good. That was for damn sure. "Does anyone know who Epi… Epime…." Don attempted to pronounce the name, but failed.

Larry tiptoed closer and Don passed him the letter. Larry read it aloud to everyone.

"Glad you can pronounce Epimetheus,"—the name sounded foreign on his tongue—"but who in the bloody hell is he?" Don said once everyone knew its contents.

"Epimetheus is a Titan in Greek myth," Millie answered. "He wasn't the brightest of gods. His brother was Prometheus and his wife was Pandora."

"As in Pandora's box?"

Millie nodded. "The very same."

"Fantastic," Don said sarcastically. Bloody, fucking fantastic! He knew there was a reason he shouldn't have been screwing around in his mythology class in high school.

"Epimetheus is also one of Saturn's moons," Amita revealed. "It shares a co-orbit with…" she faltered, swallowed, and blinked back tears, "with Janus."

Don's head snapped around to look at his brother's girlfriend. "Janus?"

"Janus," Amita confirmed. "In between the F and G rings. The two moons swap positions relative to Saturn every four years or so. They tug on each other with equal and opposite forces and exchange angular momentum. It's a classic example of a three bodied problem that…" Amita trailed off and put her hand to her mouth. The tears spilled over. "I sound like Charlie," she whispered.

Larry handed Amita a handkerchief from his pocket. To cover up the awkward moment Millie stooped down and picked up the fallen bit of plastic.

"What is it?" Don asked.

"It's an eight megabyte memory disk," she replied, handing it over.

The small SanDisk square fit easily in the palm of his hand. He'd seen Charlie handle them millions of times moving data from one computer to another and—Charlie! He could hear Charlie's last words from their fight ringing in his ears. You forgot your mail!

The guilt piled on in thick swathes. If only he had checked his mail immediately when he came to the house Saturday evening instead of picking a fight, then things would have been different. He would have had the foresight to protect Charlie better, or at the very least apologize if they'd gotten into the fight anyways.

Janus is in your mailbox, indeed.

-oOo-