Chapter XI: Fairytale Time
Charlie woke with a crick in his neck. He'd waited a long, long time before sleep—dreamless and deep—claimed him. Sleep had skewed his sense of time, but he certainly didn't feel well rested. Gingerly lifting his arm, he tried to check his watch. Seeing only his bare wrist Charlie remembered that he'd taken it off after dinner the night before. It could be early morning or mid afternoon for all he knew.
Rubbing his eyes, he lifted his head off of Naomi's shoulder and eased away from her. They hadn't spoken much after he'd finished throwing up. She'd led him back to the bed as it was the only place to sit. He'd let himself be led, had even laid down beside Naomi at her urging, but he hadn't slipped into sleep easily.
At least it didn't hurt to look directly at the bedside lamp anymore. That was a small mercy, but mercy all the same. Neither he nor Naomi had even suggested turning it off and now it still cast a warm glow throughout the room. There was protection in the light.
Thank god for the light!
They'd taken what little comfort they could in it and in each other's unsteady breathing.
Charlie had been sure—so sure—Don would burst though the door, rescue them, and make this nightmare disappear. If he waited just one more moment, just one more breath, then it would happen. Just one more.
Don never came.
Maybe Don had tried. And failed. And gotten himself killed. Don't think about that. Don't! Don't make it real. Don't think about Don or Dad.
Dad….
Charlie's heart bottomed out. He'd been so wrapped up in himself he'd avoided thinking about his father. As they'd hauled him to the van, he hadn't heard a shot and he was going to cling to that until he knew differently.
He had to.
Maybe that's why Don didn't come. Dad was dead, Don was dead, he was next, and….
Stop!
Charlie swung his legs over the side of the bed in an attempt to try to banish his morbid thoughts. His body creaked and the bedsprings squeaked as he moved, but Naomi continued to sleep on, her eyes busy under her eyelids. She wasn't what he had expected.
Was she what Colby had expected?
It was a cruel joke on them all to spare her, only to be kidnapped. Kidnapped. The word alone made it seem like he was six years old.
A chill raced up his spine and Charlie felt inexplicably cold. To combat the feeling he wrapped his arms about himself. His right arm and shoulder moved fine, but when he tried to roll his left shoulder—fucking hell!—it sparked stinging rivers of pain that slammed into his fingertips. How easy that movement was twelve hours ago; he'd gone from rocks to shocks. The sensation made his eyes water.
He refused to cry. He was a fully grown adult and he refused.
Blinking the tears away, he eyed both of his hands. From a simple visual inspection they appeared to be identical opposites, but appearances are deceiving; the left hand felt off—stiffer, darker, slower, wrong.
Then he realized that it was subtle, but his whole left side felt that way. Gulping, he took stock of the rest of his body: his mouth tasted like skunk, the room wasn't spinning, his vision was only fuzzy on the edges, his head ached, he was hungry, and his bladder was on the verge of bursting.
Well, his bladder was something he could take care of. He hobbled towards the bathroom. He held his breath, but could still smell the stench of vomit. It took two fumbling tries to undo his pants, but he was able to relieve himself without major incident.
Finished, he flushed the toilet, tidied up, turned on the tap, and rinsed his hands in the basin. Wiping his hands dry on his thighs, he looked up into the tiny mirror above the sink. Its surface was foggy with grime, but he could still see himself though the dim light and shadows cast from the bedside lamp.
He didn't recognize the man who frowned back; the stranger had the audacity to blink at the same time he did. Circles ringed his eyes, a gash slashed from temple to ear on his right side, and dried blood dyed his hair.
What had he become?
A dizzy spell forced Charlie to put his good hand against the brick wall for balance. Who would want to save him now? Maybe Don had decided not to come. What if—
The bathroom suddenly seemed way too small. He had to get out.
Now!
Panicked, he staggered drunk-like towards the bed, towards Naomi, towards safety. He tried to crawl up the bed, but regretted it when the pain in his arm forced him to collapse. The instant he landed in a heap Naomi jerked awake.
She bolted up, brown eyes wild. All of his fears were echoed in her expression.
It was too much. He hadn't made this bed, but he couldn't do anything but lay in it. His breath hitched and he felt the inevitable tears start to sting. "He didn't come," Charlie choked out, letting the tears stain his cheeks.
"Who didn't come?" she asked.
"We fought." Then there were more tears. He couldn't stop them and there didn't seem to be any point in holding them in.
"Shhhhh," she hushed. She reached out for his right hand. He clutched it like a buoy in a storm. "Who're you talking about?"
"I told him that I could handle things myself, that I knew what I was getting into. So, what if…." he trailed off. What if? What if? What if? He was nearly hysterical. He knew it couldn't be true, shouldn't be true but what if…. A new pit opened up in the depths of his stomach. "He's left me all alone."
"That's not true."
"It is. It is!"
"No, it's not. I'm here." She was something he could cling to no matter how bad it would get. They were in this together. "I'm right here." She let him cry himself out just like she had let him heave himself empty the night prior.
"Sorry," he whispered once he'd regained some semblance of control.
"Don't be. I wasn't having that good of a dream."
He sniffed, but didn't wipe the tears away. He didn't trust his left hand and he didn't want to let go of her with his right. "I'm not normally this neurotic."
"I'm not normally this motherly," she replied.
"That makes us even."
She smiled at that, her eyes glassy-wet. "Feel any better now?"
"Yeah," he said automatically and then changed his mind. "No, not really."
"Who didn't come?" she asked again, gently.
"Don."
"Ahhh," she said, understanding rich in her voice. "You expected your brother to come and rescue us."
He nodded. "He always has before." Always. From childhood baseball bullies to mob hardened criminals. Don was as invincible as a superhero.
"Then why would you think otherwise now?"
"Because…." He floundered for words to explain his emotions that had seemed so overwhelming a few minutes ago. They were on the tip of his tongue, but wouldn't form. Superheroes don't give up on their family, even during a fight. "Perhaps I'm being irrational."
"That's allowed."
"Is it?" he asked weakly. He studied the plain, white cotton sheet because it wasn't as overwhelming as her gaze. "You don't think less of me?"
"Why would I?"
"'Cause I just lost it."
"You didn't see me in the hours I was alone." She continued after a brief pause, "I think we're sleep deprived, half starved, injured, and afraid. I'm willing to cut you some slack, if you'll grant me the same."
He squeezed her hand this time. "That's a deal."
"It must be nice to have a big, older brother who you've always known will protect you." There was a wistfulness in her voice that made Charlie feel insanely lucky.
"You don't?"
"Only child," she revealed. "My mother died when I was little."
"And your father?"
"Wasn't the best of men."
"Oh," he said lamely, reading between the lines.
She shrugged into the mattress. "I cut him out of my life as soon as I was able."
"What about a boyfriend? Husband?"
"Once, but not now, not anymore."
"Divorced?"
"He was older," she confirmed. "I was young and foolish and it ended as quickly as it started. Suffice it to say I don't believe in fairytale romance."
"But you did?"
"Growing up?" She shook her head. "No, I was drawn more to myth and legend than Disney and princesses."
"Which legends?" Charlie asked genuinely interested.
"What, are we playing twenty questions here?"
"I don't have anything better to do. Do you?"
"Not really," she agreed, slipping her hand out of his grip. She curled her hand against her belly and rubbed slowly. "Anything to do with Avalon, mainly. Are you going to ask what my favorite color is next?" she joked.
"I won't. However, just to be sure, you should ask me something instead."
"Okay," she said and smiled weakly. "What's your favorite movie?"
That was a simple answer. "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." Naomi had a puzzled look on her face like one of his students in way over their head. "That's not what you were expecting, was it?"
Her lips twitched in silent laughter. "Not even close. I'd pegged you as A Beautiful Mind type of guy."
"Most would. I live the life of a brilliant mathematician helping the government, so I don't need it enacted for me. Besides, it was slightly odd watching a movie about a man I've met and who I know read some of my early work." Charlie picked up the edge of the bed sheet and flicked the worn fabric between his thumb and forefinger. "My Big Fat Greek Wedding was the last movie I saw with my mother."
"Last movie?"
"Cancer," he said simply, dropping the sheet and smoothing it out on the bed. He'd seen a review in the newspaper and known she'd love it. He also figured it would be something he could sit though. They'd gone together on a Friday night just like they always use to during his time at Princeton. During the movie and dinner afterwards they had both forgotten she was sick; they were a mother and son out and about enjoying life.
"It's your turn to ask me a question," she reminded him.
He cleared his throat. "What's your favorite book?"
"To Kill a Mockingbird."
"Why?"
"It's a story about the loss of innocence and discovering that people aren't necessarily who you think they are. And with what you've told me about Agent Granger," she blew his name out with a sigh and rolled onto her back, "it seems I've forgotten that myself."
"That's hardly your fault."
"Does it really matter who's to blame?" she asked him.
"In the grand scheme of things, it probably doesn't."
"What's he like?" she asked the ceiling.
"Who, Colby?"
"Mmm hum."
"He's…." Who was Colby Granger? The first time he'd heard Colby's name it was joined with a curse. Don had been downing a beer and blowing off steam about how his new rookie was having difficulty getting along with David. What else did he know about the man? "He grew up in Idaho. He fought in Afghanistan with the Army Special Forces. He plays chess." That was just the surface because he'd kept lots of his life hidden. Reading his classified file had been a revelation: spying, Falcon's Blessing, and China. "Above all he's a friend."
He let her digest that.
"Why'd you become a mathematician?" she asked after a long, quiet moment.
Charlie accepted the subject change without comment. "I didn't."
"You said you were one two minutes ago."
"A mathematician wasn't something that I could become because it was something I always was."
"Even when you were little?" she asked, skepticism in her voice.
"Especially then." It was nice to talk with someone who didn't automatically think of him as a prodigy. Vomit and crying jags must have been good for something. If anything it turned him into a mortal man.
"What do you see yourself as then?"
"A teacher. I have answers and people come to me. I like learning. I like math. I like passing on what I know. It's rewarding to see a student grasp, really truly understand, a concept for the first time. Why'd you become a reporter?" he asked.
"Almost the same reason you teach. So other people will learn a little bit of what I know," she propped herself up on an elbow and elaborated. "I went into journalism because when things are written down they become record. Those words say I was here and I remember. Ink and paper are black and white, but stories I tell span all the colors in between. I publish something and it's the prism with which people form their own interpretation. I don't seek out sensational stories because I want to trash the powerful. I seek out stories that shouldn't be hidden and shouldn't be forgotten. My work's gotten me into trouble over the years, but I can't control what people do with my words."
"I understand," Charlie said. He thought of telling Don that Ashby named Colby a spy and of Victor Westwood standing on his porch. Both wanted his help and Charlie gave it, but he couldn't control what they did with the knowledge he gave them. He'd gotten more than he'd bargained for. Both times. "I can't control what people do with my work either."
"Seems like we're doomed to be misunderstood no matter if we're speaking in words or if we're speaking in numbers," she said wryly.
"I can't spell to save my soul," he confessed.
"I haven't misspelled a word in ten years."
"You write for a living. I wouldn't expect anything less."
"True." She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand against her belly again.
"Are you okay?" Charlie asked, concerned.
"Magenta," she replied.
"Huh?"
"My favorite color," she responded, standing up and making her way to the small bathroom. "I'll be back in a sec." She shut the door behind her.
"Mine's grey," he muttered to the empty room.
What was that all about? He waited and when five minutes stretched into ten Charlie got up and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Naomi?"
"Give me a moment," she called back, voice muffed through the door. A second later he heard the flush of the toilet and the gurgle of tap water as she washed her hands.
When she opened the door she didn't meet his eyes. "I'm fine," she said unconvincingly.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "Do you think we can strip the bed?"
"Whatever for?"
"I was hoping you weren't going to ask that," she muttered and sunk down on the bed. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Yes, Amita."
"And are there times when Amita watches girly movies and craves chocolate?"
"She likes dark chocolate," he replied and sat next to her. "I'm still not getting—"
"You're a smart man, Charlie. Are there times of the month when she isn't in the mood?"
"Oh!" He felt his eyes bug out. "You're… you're… you're, you know.…"
"In a bit of a bloody predicament."
Please let her be kidding. Please. "There isn't anything in the bathroom you can use?"
"There's precious little toilet tissue and I'd rather not use the pillowcase from last night. It's wet and it's—"
"Not exactly hygienic anymore," he finished for her. "You want to use the sheet?"
"I figure that the sheet's old and warn enough that it shouldn't be too hard to rip off a piece that I can use."
"Okay, let's do it."
"Thank you." Then she paused cocking her head sideways.
He was starting to be unnerved. "What?"
"Is it wrong that I can find a small amount of humor in how quickly your face blanched?"
Now he was sure he was blushing. "Yes," he said as solemnly as he could manage while he got up and went to untuck the blasted sheet from the right side of the bed.
She did laugh at him then. "If I don't laugh then I think I'll cry."
"I've cried enough for the both of us."
"If you're not careful then I might just nickname you Sheets."
He grumbled, but let her laugh. Charlie had pulled his side free from the mattress when he heard heavy footsteps and muffled voices outside. Both of them stopped cold.
"What should we do?" he whispered.
"Sit," she hissed back.
They scrambled onto the bed and Charlie made sure that he was between Naomi and the door. He schooled his expression as much as possible before it opened.
Three men entered.
The first two were thick and thuggish. The Black Rain henchmen took up stations on either side of the door and made no attempt to hide the fact they were armed to the teeth. Were these the men responsible for beating him and drugging him? Charlie made it a point to look in their chilling eyes.
The third man had a smaller stature and unlike the Caucasian guards he was Chinese. He was undoubtedly in command and upon entering he gave a small bow. "My name is Ta-Ming Wang."
Out of reflex Charlie inclined his head in greeting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Naomi do the same.
"What do you want?" Charlie asked hoarsely. He couldn't help but stare out into the hallway through the wide open door. Freedom was close at hand, but very far away. He'd be dead before he crossed the threshold.
"Come here." Wang addressed Charlie.
Against his better judgment, Charlie stood. With the guards standing by, it's not like he really had a choice in the matter. It was a blessing his legs didn't shake.
Once Charlie stood before him Wang licked his lips and smiled softly. He took Charlie's uninjured hand in his. "You have a beautiful hand." The man tuned his hand over, so Charlie's vulnerable palm faced up. He drew his fingers over the crisscross of lines he found there.
It was a horrible, tickling-soft touch. Now both of his hands felt wrong, felt cloaked in darkness.
"You have information I want," Wang announced.
"We don't know anything."
"We will see." Wang brought Charlie's hand up to his lips and kissed it before he dropped it. Charlie tried and failed to suppress a shudder. Then in a very cold voice Wang said: "Lights."
At his command one of the henchmen went into action. He strolled, as casual as you please, into the bathroom and emerged a few moments later with the light bulb from the bathroom. Charlie heard Naomi's gasp. The guard handed Wang the bulb on his way back to his former post.
Wang held it directly in front of Charlie and offered it to him. Like a fool Charlie reached for it, but Wang snatched it away before he even got close enough to touch it.
"I don't know what you want," Charlie pleaded.
Without a word Wang pointed to the bedside lamp. The other guard reached for it and when the lamp was unplugged the room plunged into darkness. A slanted ray from the hallway was the only illumination. It was dim and weak, much like the hope in Charlie's heart.
"You will have to figure out what will please me," Wang said. Then as quickly as they had entered all three exited. When the door clanged shut it was dark, so very dark.
"Naomi?" Charlie called out, blind.
"I'm here."
He blinked back fresh tears. "Can I still believe in fairytales?"
"Tell me one now," she urged.
"Once upon… a time… there…" he faltered and then stopped, unable to continue.
She cleared her throat and picked up his thread. "Once upon a time, there was a mathematician, a journalist, and a list."
He followed her voice towards where he knew the bed was. "How does the story end?"
"Your brother will come before that happens," she said firmly.
"He'll come," Charlie echoed. He didn't care if this whole tale was a lie. He needed to believe it and he wouldn't imagine any other possibility, permutation, or combination. "He'll come."
-oOo-
Don opened the door when Megan knocked. The first words out of his mouth weren't a greeting to her, but a growl for David. "You told Terry."
"She'd've wanted to know," David replied as she and Colby shuffled inside.
"I was going to tell her."
"But did you?" David responded. No remorse. No guilt. "I thought it would help to talk with a friend."
"It did." No reproach. No apology.
And with that Don closed the door behind them. Why was it men had such a hard time thanking each other sometimes? They dance around the topic when what they really mean to say is thank you.
"Do you have any solid leads?" Don asked.
"Do we have to have this discussion in the foyer?" Colby said curtly.
"Colby," Megan cautioned. She knew he'd been on edge since learning about Naomi Vaughn and Michael Dolon's marriage and she didn't want him to take anything out on Don. Especially now.
"No, no," Don said. "It's alright. Everyone's upstairs. We've been working upstairs in the solarium. Ashby's letter's up there too and I want you to see that." No one commented on the fact that the garage was out of bounds.
Don led his team—no matter the circumstances they were his team—to the stairs and they ascended.
As Megan put her left foot on the first stair, Alan stuck his head out of the kitchen briefly. "I'll have food ready in 'bout a half an hour," he called and ducked back into the kitchen.
"There'll be coffee too, won't there?" Colby asked continuing to climb.
"Sure thing," Don replied. "Millie brewed a pot earlier. I bet there's some left upstairs."
"Good." Colby was gruff.
David, concerned, met Megan's gaze. Both were thinking the same thing: Colby should be kept far, far away from any additional caffeine. Over the course of the afternoon he'd had at least seven cups of coffee—she knew because she'd counted—and none of it accompanied by food. Colby was wired and wound even tighter. She was going to do everything in her power to make sure he had a full, healthy meal instead of more coffee.
She had her hands full of more than just FBI documents and memos, that was for darn sure.
In the solarium, Amita was hunched over a laptop typing. Larry and Millie were off to the side standing before two large blackboards, which had probably been taken from the garage. Millie waved hello and Larry drew Megan into a hug.
"Missed you," Megan said into his shoulder.
"Me too," Larry replied and then pulled away. "We're in the middle of a train of thought." He indicated the chalked signs and symbols covering the blackboard. Megan thought them just as unintelligible as ever.
"Go, go work," she urged him. "A train's a train."
Without further preamble Don handed Megan a bundle of papers and an envelope. "Ashby's letter."
She set down her files on the table next to Amita and leafed through the blank pages—odd that there were so many of them—and read the note. David skimmed it over her shoulder while Colby took a seat on the sofa.
"Who is Epimetheus?" Megan asked the room at large.
"A Greek Titan whose wife was Pandora," Amita supplied, "but we think the note refers to a what not a who because Epimetheus is also one of Saturn's moons. Like Janus."
"Pandora!" Colby exclaimed, stunned.
"You know something?" Don asked him.
"I met today with Chinese Consul Chen."
"He's who we watched Carter contact?" Don asked with a frown.
"Yes, he has generously offered me safe harbor on Chinese soil."
"In exchange for the Janus List?"
"No," Colby rose from the sofa and started to pace. "In exchange for all information on a military operation named Pandora," he stressed the code name, "which was activated in November of 1992. I was ordered to provide the List for Chen, but he had no interest in it."
"Ordered by whom?" Don was hard, too hard. However, Colby had been cosseted enough. Perhaps it would take steel to bring him out of his shell.
"Michael Dolon and Victor Westwood." Colby stopped pacing in front of the window and let everyone absorb the names.
"How long have you been working for them?" David asked.
Colby didn't bother to turn around. "Every minute I've known you."
Don broke the tension and asked, "Did Chen offer you anything else?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"A young woman." From his mood it was clear he sure didn't take her.
"Who was she?"
"I didn't exactly get a name."
"What'd she look like?"
"Don," Colby pleaded. "She was a bribe. I didn't sleep with her. She doesn't have anything to do with anything."
"You sure had woman throwing themselves at you today," David commented cynically.
Colby rounded on David. "I'm trying to explain what happened today and you go there?"
"Go where?" Megan asked, trying to ease the strain.
"We played good cop, bad cop at the Bonaventure Hotel," David explained while Colby dropped back onto the sofa.
"Who was the good cop?" Amita asked, pausing from writing her code, and bit her lip to restrain a grin.
"I was." Colby said, offended. He put his head in his hands and sighed.
"Good cop, my eye," Megan muttered under her breath. "This couldn't have been the first thing the Chen has had this woman do," she stated aloud.
"I doubt it," Colby agreed.
Don crossed his arms across his chest, broking no argument. "Describe her then."
"I close my eyes,"—he did so and leaned his head back onto the couch—"and can see her perfectly, but I wouldn't trust a professional sketch artist, right now," Colby replied. "Can I get some coffee?" he asked, changing the subject. "Millie, Don said you had coffee."
"God damn it, Granger!" Megan slammed her hand on the table, suddenly furious.
Everyone, except for Larry, jumped. "Is your hand alright?" he asked, full of zen and concern.
"It's fine," she spat, ignoring the pain. It was time to force the issue. "How much coffee have you had today? Do you even know?"
"What does it matter?" he asked. "It's only coffee. Look, what would you have me do? They have my balls in a vice grip! I make a wrong move and I'm as dead as Markenson."
"You've got to trust us, Colby, or this is for nothing." Megan pounded her hand on the table again. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
That hit home. "Trust and trade," he said slowly. "I seem to keep coming back to that. Who else would you have me trust?"
"Larry could sketch her," Amita suggested, closing the laptop's lid.
Larry held up both his hands in a sign of surrender. "I don't think—"
"You're the best artist we've got," Megan said. "Let's get you some paper and a pencil."
In short order David furnished fresh paper from the printer and Millie dug up a handful of sharpened yellow number two pencils. Both Larry and Colby were installed at the table in the space Amita vacated.
"What am I drawing?"
"She was Asian—Chinese," Colby began. "She was slender, about five feet tall, had high cheek bones, and a pert nose."
"Like this?" Larry made a quick sketch of a nose. "Or this."
"More like the second one, but not as straight, here." Colby pointed to the bridge of her nose and everyone peered intently at the drawing.
"Feel like you're in a fishbowl?" Amita asked when she saw Larry's glare.
"Charles' koi don't suffer from performance anxiety." Larry made another attempt.
"That's closer," Colby said. "Her eyes were almond shaped. They weren't close together or wide set."
Everyone in the room tried not to watch as Larry sketched a few different pairs of eyes for Colby's inspection. "Megan," Don said drawing her aside. "You're going to want to put something on your hand."
"You're one to talk," she retorted. "I seem to remember your fist coming into contact with a chalkboard not too long ago."
"And it still hurts," he said. "Don't be as stupid as I was. Go put some ice on it."
She grumbled, but gave in when Don pointed to the door. Her left hand tucked protectively against her chest, Megan descended to the kitchen. She stopped short as she entered to find Alan staring blindly into the open refrigerator clutching a bottle of lemon juice. Water from the faucet also gushed down the kitchen sink's drain. Down. Down. Down. Nowhere to go but down.
"Alan?" Megan asked tentatively.
Alan jerked and looked guilty. "Dinner's nearly done," he replied, gesturing to the oven and letting the refrigerator door shut of its own accord. "I'm just…" he put the lemon juice on the counter next to the sink. "Just tidying up," he lied and shut the water off.
She'd never seen the Eppes' kitchen in such a state before. Carrot and cucumber skin shavings stuck to the sides of the sink, empty jars of Prego lined the granite countertop, an empty package of manicotti noodles had missed the recycle bin, a frying pan with left over ground beef and grease sat on the stove, and the pullout breadboard had remnants of shredded mozzarella cheese stuck to it. The dishwasher, filled with dirty dishes, gaped open and half the cupboard cabinets were flung open. Herbs and spices—oregano, basil, sage, and thyme—littered the ground and scented the air.
If it was an attempt to organize dinner, it came out in disarray. In all the confusion this must be like hell on earth for Alan.
"I didn't come to hurry you along," she assured him, eying the salad bowls, glasses, plates, napkins, and silverware stacked to the side near the dining room. "I came to get some ice." She held out her hand, flesh still discolored red, for his inspection.
Grateful for something to do, Alan turned away and rummaged through a pull-out drawer for a Ziploc baggie. "I'll get you some."
"You don't need—"
"I'm happy to," he cut her off. His smile was forced but genuine and Megan realized that he needed to be useful, needed to provide for the team. It was all he had left to give.
Megan leaned against the counter, making sure to avoid a lump of wayward cottage cheese, and allowed him to fill the bag one by one with ice cubes. He sealed it shut with the fluid motion that only a father—nursing boys' bumps and bruises—could acquire.
"Do you have a salad dressing choice?" he asked holding the Ziploc out to her. "That's what I was trying to decide before you startled me." It may have started as an innocent trip to the refrigerator, but she was willing to bet good money that he'd gotten stuck and had started wallowing in misery. "I was thinking of a homemade citrus salad dressing."
"What are we having for dinner?" she asked, accepting the ice. Whatever rage and hurt she felt, it paled in comparison to what he must feel.
"Manicotti, garlic bread, and tossed salad. I figured it was filling and people could eat as much as they like." He grabbed the lemon juice and shook it vigorously, the liquid sloshed merrily.
"Smart of you."
"Actually, it should be done now." Alan opened the oven door and maybe it was her imagination, but the room felt a tad bit warmer. Then again she did have freezing blocks of ice on her skin. Any hint of warmth would make her feel better. Alan pulled on an oven mitt and slid the rack out to reveal three casserole dishes and a foil wrapped loaf of bread. He took one of the dishes out and set it on the counter. It held noodles, bubbling red sauce, and gooey melted cheese.
"That smells divine," Megan said as he took the bread and the other two dishes out and closed the oven.
"It's been a favorite of—" he bit off Charlie's name. "It's been a family favorite for years. You never answered. Does citrus dressing sound good to you?" He took off the mitt and picked up the lemon juice again. "I have oil and honey around here somewhere too." He went to the pantry hand hauled out the necessary ingredients. "Most of the spices are already out. Sage would be good," he prattled on. "Or thyme. Maybe marjoram, it's usually underused nowadays."
"Alan."
"Yes?"
"I slammed my hand against the table in the solarium because I'm angry and frustrated. Those aren't forbidden emotions."
His food enthusiasm faded as she waited him out. He cleared an empty spot on the counter and set the lemon juice, honey, and extra virgin olive oil down slowly. "I'm not fooling you, am I?"
"You shouldn't need to."
"I'm trying to kid myself too." He sighed, accepting the truth of his words. "We aren't going to crack this case with lemon juice, are we?"
"Nope."
"With Margaret we at least knew what was coming. There were doctors, there was a diagnosis, and then we knew—even if it was horrible—what to expect."
"And here you don't?" Megan asked, adjusting the ice.
"There are too many unanswered questions. When Donnie came home earlier, I'd never seen his eyes so hollow. He'd gone to get answers and came back empty. There wasn't anything he could tell us and we kept asking and asking and asking. Then he opened Ashby's letter and everyone launched into overdrive."
"Everyone except you."
He nodded. "It's just that… that you all have something you can do to help find Charlie, or unravel this mystery. You, Colby, David, and Don have FBI training you can fall back on. There's a case to solve. Amita, Larry, and Millie, they can keep their minds busy by attacking Ashby's latest riddle. But me? Look!" Alan pointed to the sink, the counter, the dishwasher, and then the floor. "Just look! It's a disaster. I can only make a mess in the kitchen."
"No," she corrected him, taking the ice off her now numb hand and setting it aside, "you made dinner in your kitchen. And that's important too."
"No, it's not." He sounded like a petulant two year old.
"How are we supposed to work if we aren't fed?"
"It's just food. You can get that anywhere."
"Food, yes. A family dinner with homemade salad dressing, no. Besides," she shrugged lightening the mood, "I'm quite sure Colby hasn't eaten anything all day. You and I are going to make sure he gets something healthy into his body."
"You think we're going to have to force feed him?" She saw him perk up at the idea of helping another man's son.
"God help us if it comes to that."
"You think it might?"
"Granger's hanging on by his willpower and a caffeine high."
"I'm going to have to change that," Alan said, gracing her with a sad, sad smile. "Megan, I'm glad you didn't try'n placate me by telling me you know this will have a happy ending."
"I wish I could, but you're right. There are too many unanswered questions, but we'll get you some answers. I promise. And in the meantime, I can help you make a fresh citrus salad dressing."
He reached for the sage and shook the small bottle. "That's sage advice, thank you."
Perhaps the ability to thank someone developed with age like a fine wine. She grabbed another spice. "Any thyme."
Despite the bad pun and the bad situation, they both chuckled.
-oOo-
Author's Notes: I hope the wait was worth it.