I'm sorry for the delay. I rewrote a good bit of the beginning and then panicked that I'd lost the emotion I was trying to create. I'm calm enough now to post, so be gentle! Many thanks to M. Marchand and especially to Xanthia Morgan for comments and encouragement.
Manipulation Part 5
By Ecri
Don skidded to a stop, throwing the car into park, and bounding toward the prison doors leaving the car door swinging open. He waved his badge around at the guards, using his position as an FBI agent to intimidate and infiltrate. He didn't stop moving. He walked purposely and quickly, If stopped by a guard, he continued to make demands, pacing, waving his arms, his badge, doing whatever he needed to do to see his brother and prove to himself that the calm, collected man he'd met had no power to hurt his brother.
Waiting for the room to be prepared, for Charlie to be brought to him didn't still his perpetual motion. He prowled the hallway like a tormented tiger ready to leap through the door to the private room. He'd told himself again and again that there was nothing to worry about, that Charlie was safe, but he knew it didn't matter what his intellect told him. He had to see Charlie.
Regulations required that Charlie be brought in first and 'secured' before Don was allowed to enter. He'd had to pull strings to get the private room, but he had made it here in time for regularly scheduled visiting hours.
At some unseen signal, the guard standing with him opened the door and gestured for Don to enter. The moment that Don bolted through the door, his complete attention was fastened on his brother.
Charlie looked expectantly up at him, and Don heard his brother mumbling a string of numbers under his breath. It stopped as soon as Charlie recognized him, which, Don noted, had taken a split second longer than it should have.
He sat down across from his brother. Charlie looked unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Charlie."
Charlie smiled tentatively. "I'm glad to see you, too, Don."
Don grinned in response, but wondered at his brother's reticence. He looked Charlie over once more pleased at the lack of injury. The man must have been lying. "You wouldn't believe the day I had."
"Me, too." Charlie whispered as his gaze fell to the tabletop leaving Don staring at a mop of curls.
Don's heart skipped a beat. He'd heard something in that tone, something that Charlie had undoubtedly not meant to let slip. "What happened?"
Charlie shook his head, the smile returning as he tried to brush aside the question. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine."
Something instinctual kicked in and Don was never more certain that his brother was lying. He walked around the table and knelt by Charlie's side, his eyes scanning his little brother for hidden injuries. His eyes fell immediately on Charlie's left arm, encased in a plaster cast, which his brother was holding hidden under the table.
"What happened?" He asked again, his tone demanding an answer though hovering just below fury.
Charlie, seeing he couldn't hide it any longer, stopped trying. "It's nothing, Don."
Don exploded. "It's not nothing! It's most definitely not nothing!"
"Don, please"
"How did this happen?"
"Iwould really rather not"
Don's anger abruptly burned out, and when he spoke his brother's name, it was little more than a whisper pleading for answers. "Charlie"
Charlie, startled by the change in his brother, caved. He spoke quickly "I'd really rather not, Don. It's justit happens. I haven't worked out the rules yet, Ican we just drop it? I'm okay. Really. It's just a fractured wrist."
"Just a" Don took a deep breath to keep from exploding. It wouldn't do Charlie any good to have him waste what precious time they had screaming about something he could no longer prevent. "Are you okay otherwise?"
When Charlie didn't answer right away, Don felt his fury swell. "Tell me."
Charlie didn't look up. "Just a bruised rib, Don. That's all. I swear."
Don believed him, but his concern for his brother's well being wouldn't leave it at that. He placed a hand on Charlie's knee, hoping to offer some small comfort. "Charlie, are you sure there's nothing else you need to tell me?"
"I'm sure, Don. I'm okay. The doctor is letting me spend the night in the infirmary anyway. I'm supposed to go straight back there after you leave."
Charlie sounded relieved to Don, and that set off alarm bells for him. If Charlie was glad to be spending time in the infirmary, could mean something was going on in his cell that Charlie wanted to escape. He'd have to follow up on that later.
"Charlie, this is important. I can't help you if you keep things from me. You have to tell me what's going on with you while you're in here, okay?"
Don watched Charlie's face for some sign that he was still trying keep something from him. He'd learned long ago how to read that much in his brother's expressive face. To his relief, honesty, and perhaps fear, won the day.
"I told you everything. It happens. I'm all right."
Don wasn't pleased at the defeated look in his brother's eyes, or the slump of his shoulders. Not that he imagined he'd hold up better if the situation were reversed. Charlie looked exhausted, and Don was sure, though it was partly physical, that the mental strain of being herein jailwas taking a toll. "I should go. I bet you need a good night's sleep"
Charlie shook his head waving away the words. "I can't sleepI'm a chronic insomniacespecially when there are numbers running through my head. I needI need paper and a pen or pencilssomething." Charlie brought his right hand up to his head, and tapped his temple. "There's too much in there. I haveto get it outI have to get it out"
His eyes brimmed with tears that refused to fall. "The numbers are in thereI have to get them out" He kept tapping at his temple using the action as though to underscore his words as he spoke. The jabs came quicker and with more energy as though that might get the numbers and equations to spill out of his head and give him some relief. In another moment, he was speaking them again, rocking back and forth as they spilled involuntarily from his mouth in a soft, almost unconscious whisper.
Don took his brother's hands and held them. "Shhh. Charlie, it's okay," he whispered.
Charlie, turning his tear-filled eyes on his brother, finally let go. Sobbing into Don's shoulder, he finally released the fear and anguish that had been with him the moment he'd seen Agent Pierce on Campus.
Don held his brother, rocking him, soothing him with the nonsense sounds that people resort to when a child cries. It was as he rocked and as he whispered in Charlie's ear for the umpteenth time that everything would be okay, that he realized that Charlie was clinging to him much as he had done when they'd been children. In a dizzying moment of déjà vu, Don tightened his grip to equal his brother's as past and present juxtaposed themselves over his thoughts. The memory played itself out. Charlie's grip gradually relaxed, and his tears gradually subsided.
Charlie, once he was all cried out, tried to brush off his breakdown. "I'm sorry, Don."
Don shook his head. "No apologies, Charlie, not when you're in here." His voice was a whisper, and he didn't raise it at all as he continued. "You have to promise me that while you're in here, you'll always tell me when you need something, or if someone is mistreating you. I need to know, Charlie, or I can't protect you."
Charlie nodded, but Don saw the doubt in his eyes and it hurt him.
Charlie must have seen the hurt, because his good hand shot out and gripped Don's arm. "It's not you I doubt, Donny. It's justhow can you protect me here? It's not like high school." He offered his brother a lopsided grin, and Don knew he was trying to put on a brave face. They both knew Don hadn't been thrilled to play protector to his baby brother back then.
Don nodded. "I know it might seem that way, Charlie, but I can help. There are things I can do, people I can talk to. If your life is in danger, we might be able to force the courts to set bail or at least to hold you somewhere else."
"I don't suppose the words 'house arrest' or 'under his own recognizance' might come up?"
Don smiled. "We can hope."
The door to the cell opened then and the guard appeared. "Agent? Your time is up."
Don nodded, noting that the smile that had appeared so briefly on his brother's face had disappeared. He frowned at that, but stood. Just before he turned to leave, he asked his brother a question that had been nagging at him. "Charlie, why don't you have any pens? Didn't you have any one you? Didn't Dad, or even the prison supply any?"
Charlie ducked his head sheepishly, but then looked his brother in the eye. "I had one on me when I was arrested, but they took it. Dad gave me one he had on me on one of his visits, but Iit was old and nearly out of ink. I've been scratching into the underside of the desk with it, but I've run out of room. I asked" He eyed the guard and swallowed, but Don's presence gave him courage. "I asked for some, but I haven't gotten any yet."
Don nodded and reached into his own pocket and pulled out a Sharpie. "I hope this will hold you until I can send some more."
Charlie's face lit up and Don laughed that something so simple could make him so happy.
Don made his way back to his car, the reality of the situation just hitting him. The man he'd met had implied that Charlie would be hurt, and he had been. Was it something the man had caused, or something he had learned about and decided to take advantage of?
He thought about that all the way back to his office.
April 8
Terry watched Don as he twirled a Sharpie in his hands. He had been distracted all day, and now he'd given up all pretence of working and stared at the clock. She'd tried to talk to him, but every attempt had been shot down.
His cell phone rang, and to Terry's amazement, he jumped as though terrified. He yanked open the phone and all but barked into it.
"Eppes."
She watched, her eyes narrowing as she took in the strangeness of his behavior.
"I believe you. No! I mean, that's not necessary."
Whatever wasn't necessary, she lost the rest of the conversation as Don pardoned himself and walked toward the empty conference room and pulled the door shut behind him.
Behind the closed door of the conference room, Don was still trying to get answers. "If you can manipulate everything so easily, why do you need me?"
The man's harsh laughter was irritating. "How do you think I can manipulate everything so easily? I have a large and loyal team. Individuals scattered all over the world with access to more secrets than you can even know exist."
"If I do this, will Charlie be released?"
"As soon as I know you're mine, yes."
"When will that be?"
"When I know that you're in too deep to pull out once he's returned to you."
"And will he be all right. I mean, he won't be hurt again?"
Again the harsh laughter filtered through the cell phone. "That depends largely on you and on him. Do as I say and I will not harm him or have him harmed. I will do nothing, however, to protect him from the day to day dangers of prison life."
The way the man said those last words made Don's skin crawl. He fought the strong and sudden urge to break Charlie out of prison before anything could befall him. Both of them on the run wouldn't do them any good.
Don didn't want to agree to this. It was blackmail. Technically, if he gave up anything, especially anything concerned with national security, it could be construed as treason.
"Agent, I get the impression that you think you have all the time in the world. You don't. If you do not agree to my terms right now, I will make sure your brother is convicted if not outright killed."
Don didn't speak.
"Very well. I see I miscalculated. You don't care about your brother at all"
"What do you need?" Don asked the question because it was easier than telling the man that he'd bought himself an agent.
The man spoke as though he'd never doubted it. "You may call me Buchmann. I want a report on the progress of an investigation"
April 12
Buchmann watched Don as he took a seat across from the other man. This was the first time Don had been called to the man's office, and he wasn't pleased about it. He was less pleased with the next words Buchmann said to him.
"The information you've been giving me is mine already. It was a test, Agent Eppes. I was testing you to see that you weren't playing games with me. Misinformation is a favorite of most government agencies. Not to worry. You've passed."
"A test?" Don was angry and let it show. "You're testing me?"
"How else can I be sure if you're giving me what I want?"
Don stood, his fists clenched at his side, and took a menacing step forward.
Buchmann raised a hand and pointed to a portion of wall that slid aside to reveal a television. "I don't think you want to hurt me."
It took Don a moment to realize what he was looking at. On the screen, he saw Charlie sitting at a large table. It was the cafeteria at the prison. Don glared at the man. "How can you have access to this?"
The man smiled a smile that Don would have loved to remove permanently. "That isn't really your concern." He picked up his telephone and pressed the hold button making Don wonder, irrelevantly, how long Buchmann had had someone holding. He spoke one word clearly into the open line. "Now." Then, he held the phone choosing not to break the connection.
As Don watched, the man sitting next to Charlie seemed to get a visual signal from someone off screen. He then shifted in his seat, jostling Charlie's arm just as Charlie raised his cup. A dark beverage, coffee, tea, or soda, Don couldn't be sure, sloshed all over the table and all over the first man's arm. Don couldn't hear a thing, but he saw the man speak. He could see Charlie, trying to keep a low profile, was trying to apologize, but the larger man did not accept. Beefy hands gripped Charlie's shirtfront and raised the smaller, slighter man off the bench. Charlie's cast struck the table, and Charlie glanced at it involuntarily. The arm and the bruised rib, Don was sure, had to be hurting.
"Stop this!" Don said, amazed at the depth and breadth of the man's power.
Buchmann smiled. "Did you say something?"
Don's eyes were glued to his brother's struggling form. The large man had drawn back his hand and was preparing to punch Charlie in the stomachperhaps in the ribsperhaps to crack them
"STOP THIS! STOP IT NOW!" Don screamed, frantic to save his brother from the pain both Eppes boys knew was coming. He forced his eyes away from the screen and locked them on Buchmann's eyes. "Please."
With that one word, Buchmann spoke into the still open phone line. "Stop." He hung up not waiting to see if his orders were obeyed.
Don waited. He watched the screen, his heart rate pounding as he saw the large man seem to think better of what he was doing as the guards closed in on the pair. He didn't stop staring at the screen until Charlie was seated again. Don could see that Charlie was speaking. His lips moved almost incessantly, and several of the other men seated around him were glaring at him as though they thought him crazy. Charlie avoided their gazes keeping his eyes on the food he was no longer eating.
Don slumped back down in his chair. He was breathing heavy like a man who'd run a marathon, and he blinked back tears at his own helplessness.
Buchmann smiled. "You've passed the final test, Agent Eppes. I can see it now. I own you."
Don shuddered at the notion, but he couldn't dispute it.
April 13
Larry paged through the lesson plans for the next week wondering how far ahead Charlie had prepared. He wasn't covering the classes himself, but he felt an obligation to his friend to be sure that whoever was covering them would be able to decipher Charlie's sometimes indecipherable train of thought.
He had taken all of the lesson plans and other vital documents–projects near and dear to Charlie's heart, papers to be returned to students, and notes on Amita's thesis–out of Charlie's office as soon as Don had informed him that Charlie was indeed being charged. He had assumed, from his limited knowledge of police procedure, that Charlie's home and office would be searched.
He remembered as he turned the pages how adamant Charlie had been as he was being arrested that Larry had to remember his 4:00 class. Charlie had no class at that time on that day. It was unusual for Charlie to make such a mistakerealization smacked him in the face. Charlie was trying to tell him something.
He paged through Charlie's calendar, but there was nothing. He checked the appointment tracker on the computer, but that looked as though it had never been used. Finally, Larry paged through the lesson plans and there was a folder for 4:00 on the day Charlie had been arrested.
Larry read through it and, as so often happened when Charlie was involved, suddenly the pieces began to fall into place. "Forgive me, Charles, for being so obtuse."
When, Larry wondered, had Charlie developed such a sense of paranoia that it would compel him to keep a set of notes so carefully mislabeled and filed? It occurred to Larry that Charlie wasn't nearly as innocent and naïve as many assumed.
He packed up a few of Charlie's files, the ones indicated in the lesson plan file that he would need, as well as the work he and Amita and some of Charlie's students had done. A quick phone call arranging for a Teaching Assistant to monitor the test he was supposed to give this afternoon, and Larry was on his way to see Charlie.
The last time he had visited Charlie, the young professor had seemed disappointed about something. Now it was painfully obvious that he had expected Larry to bring these notes to him. Larry wondered if Charlie had assumed the delay was because he had opted not to help. He hoped that wasn't the case.
The guards, of course, inspected his briefcase, and because he was asking to leave some notes there, they were thorough. They had no idea what they were looking at. It was almost amusing watching them stare at the pages of numbers and try to decipher them.
After some time, he was finally ushered to the visiting room, and the case was passed brought to Charlie. Charlie's face lit up when he saw his friend. Speaking through the partition with a telephone was awkward, but they adjusted.
"Larry! This is a surprise." He frowned. "Didn't midterms start today? Why aren't you giving a test or grading one or something?"
"That's what TAs are for, my friend." He took in Charlie's appearance. "You have looked better."
"That's because I've been better." His hand rested on the briefcase the guard had given him. "You got my note?"
Larry nodded. "Forgive me for not coming sooner, but I am getting either stupid or senile in my old age."
"You're not old, stupid, or senile, Larry."
"Maybe not, but I am sometimes unobservant."
Charlie laughed. "Not unobservant, just selectively observant."
"Charlie, Amita and I–well, not me so much–and a handful of your students have been working on your equations–the ones I saw you scribbling on the floor and walls of your office. I've included our findings in your files. We haven't solved it, yet, but there's enough in there that will either help, or, more likely, merely repeat a line of thought you've already abandoned."
Charlie smiled, genuinely surprised. "That's great! Thank everyone for me. Especially Amita. Is she okay?"
Larry shrugged. "She's coping. She wants to be of more help." He shrugged. "We both do." He leaned closer to the partition, though it was unnecessary given that they weren't speaking directly, but rather over the phone. "What is it you're hoping to discover? Maybe we could help if we had some idea."
Charlie shook his head. "I still don't know what it is that bothers me about the case. I mean, aside from the fact that I'm the prime suspect."
"Something in the math?"
"That has to be it. There's something I'm not seeing. Something that would explain if not the entire case, then at least some part of it. Maybe it's motive, criteria for choosing victims" The litany seemed to increase his frustration. "There's something my unconscious mind has recognized, but I don't know what it is!"
"Don't obsess on it, Charlie. Your brother and his friends will catch the real killer."
"I know. You're right. I just have to pinpoint what it is that's bugging me. There's something we're not seeingnot just me, but Don, the FBIthere's more here than we think there is" Charlie smiled and tried to explain away the obsession. "It's this or P versus NP, and I really don't feel like going there right now."
Larry leaned forward and dropped his voice slightly. "Listen, Charles, how are you, really? Not to state the obvious, but this must be hard on you. Is there anything I can do?"
An odd flicker of something crossed Charlie's face, and his smile almost slipped, but he managed to keep it in place. "I'm fine, Larry. Really I am."
Larry shook his head sadly. "You don't look it."
"It'shard."
"Your talent for understatement is astonishing in one so young." Larry could see that Charlie wasn't going to tell him anything. He'd have to talk to Don or Alan, although Don was increasingly hard to get a hold of lately.
Charlie shrugged. "I'm okay. At least my cellmate and I have come to an understanding. I explained a few mathematical probabilities to him. He's taken to calling me Professor."
Larry laughed louder this time. "That's great, Charles. I was afraid your cellmate would be some big goon with a bad attitude."
"Oh, he is. Well, he's big, but the attitude is okay now that it's not directed at me."
Charlie gave Larry a brave smile as the guard came over to tell him his time was up. "I'll be okay, Larry. Justlook in on my Dad and on Don for me, will you? Dad has never been alone in that house for this long. I don't want him to start thinking too hard aboutyou know?"
"I will, Charles."
As Charlie was led away, Larry could hear him begin to mumble numbers and complex equations under his breath. He resolved to continue working with Amita and the others. It wasn't much, and Charlie was certainly a better mathematician than he was, but it was something that would make him feel useful. He'd get started as soon as he stopped by to see Alan Eppes.
The house was dark and as silent as Alan could remember it ever being. It was hard to be alone in your home after years of being with the people you loved the most. He thought he'd considered what it would be like when he'd decided to sell his house. Now he couldn't help but be grateful to Charlie for deciding to buy it.
When he'd decided to sell the house, he had thought living alone would be good for both him and for his son. Now, all he wanted was to see Charlie coming through the door, or pouring over papers scattered across every free surface in the house. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. He wasn't happy. Charlie certainly wasn't happy. What could he have been thinking? If only he had it to do over again! Separation from his baby son–for no matter his age, that was what Charlie was–seemed unbearable now that Charlie was in a jail cell.
Alan shuddered at the idea. Charlie didn't belong in prison. It was absurd.
A knock on the door shook him from his reverie.
He was sure it wasn't Don. His eldest son was keeping his distance lately, and Alan liked to think it was because he was busy getting Charlie released. Opening the door, he was surprised for a moment to see Charlie's friend.
"Larry. This is a surprise."
"I promised Charles I'd look in on you, Mr. Eppes, and he'd know if I didn't."
Alan laughed. "He's in prison and he wants you to look in on me?"
"He's worried about you."
"When did you see him?"
"Just a little while ago. He's convinced there's something about this case that he's missing, so he's trying to go through the data again. It'shard for him."
Alan nodded. "I know. He never did take to staying put. He likes to move around, even when he's working. The worst punishment his mother and I could ever come up with for him was time out in the corner. It brought him to tears more than once to be stuck staring at a wall without at least a pencil or crayon or chalk or something." He ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't something he'll ever get used to. If they convict him" He let the thought trail and he cleared his throat. "Well, it worries me."
"They won't. Don won't let that happen. He'd do anything to save Charlie."
Alan nodded. "That worries me, too."
April 15
Terry was surprised when Don told the agents not to bother coming over one night. Apparently, he was too distraught to keep working the angles. He'd been more and more agitated at work. She wasn't the only one to notice. He was bouncing off the walls one minute and motionless the next. She understood his anxiety, even his anger, or she was trying to, but she hated what he was doing to himself.
Giving it some thought, she supposed that just because Don needed a break, didn't mean that she'd stop working. She parked her car a half block from his apartment and had just started walking when she saw him coming out.
Something, some instinct, told her to hide, though she felt ridiculous hiding from Don. She tailed him for about a block or two and he slipped into a coffee shop on the corner. She peered in the window and saw a strange looking man with a sinister smile sitting in the booth Don slipped into.
She watched for a moment and saw Don handed an envelope to the man. A few unfriendly words later, Don got up and left. He was out on the sidewalk before Terry could think to hide, and their eyes locked on each other. Terry didn't know what she'd seen, but she knew a shady deal when she saw one, and, even if she hadn't, the look on Don's face would have told her more than she needed to know.
Don peered in the window then walked swiftly to Terry's side. Grabbing her roughly by the arm, he started to walk back to his apartment. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you that."
"Well, don't."
"That's all you're going to say? I see you here"
"What?" He stopped walking, never taking his hand off her arm. "What did you see? You have no idea what you just saw, so don't pretend" He took a deep breath, looked around, and began moving again, dragging her toward his apartment. He didn't speak again until they were safely inside, and he'd switched on the radio, which she found odd. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to pick up some of your files and work on Charlie's case." Terry told him quietly. She was still trying to come to grips with what she had seen.
"I've got Charlie covered. I don't want you breaking any rules for me."
She shook her head. "I'm breaking them for him. He's my friend, too. I care about what happens to him." She stepped back away from him and the door. She couldn't look at him. Something was seriously wrong.
"Don, if you're into something"
"Don't worry about what I'm into."
She raised her hands slightly as though trying to get a grip on something. "I'm a profiler. Like Charlie sees patterns in numbers, I see them in behavior. You look like a man with a secret."
The silence was almost overwhelming, but she saw confirmation of her accusations in his eyes. Maybe it's not that bad, she thought. Maybe the secret isn't what I think it is. She didn't want to ask, but she knew she had to. Not just because it was her sworn duty as a law enforcement officer, but because of a much more personal responsibility. This man was her friend, had almost been much more than thatand might be again. She couldn't just allow him to throw his life away because things looked bleak. There had to be a way to save Charlie and not lose Don.
Still he refused to answer. She had only one chance; that having a witness to what he'd done would be more than he could bear. "I saw a drop. Tell me it was a sanctioned sting operation and it will go no further. If it wasn'tDon, Ithere are rulesif an agent sees another agent in a situation like thisthat agent has to report it. Do I have to report it, Don?
Don stepped away from the door. His eyes were dark, haunted, and somehow, dead. He opened the door and stood to one side holding it open.
Terry didn't have to be told twice. She started to leave. Just as she passed him, he grabbed her arm. "Make your report." He whispered the words, but with an intensity that she recognized as the old Don. Her Don. She opened her mouth to say something, but he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. She closed her mouth again and stepped out, hearing the door slam shut behind her.
She heard him click the chains in place, and she heard the muffled sound of Don sliding down the length of the closed door. She wanted nothing more than to go to him, but she knew she couldn't.
April 16
Charlie scribbled on the walls trying to get the numbers and equations he was working on to make sense. He'd slipped into P versus NP for awhile, but had shaken that off and returned to the equation that could lead him to the real killerthe one who had expertly framed him. He'd used all the paper Don had sent him in the first couple of days. Now, the walls, the floors, even the chair, sported the black ink of his fine point Sharpie in swirls and numbers and patterns that he found comforting.
His cellmate generally left him alone unless Charlie somehow disturbed his sleep. Charlie tried not to do that, but occasionally, he would cry out in either triumph or frustration depending on how the equation was going. The other man had first responded to those instances by hitting Charlie or threatening him in some way. Then one night, Charlie had blurted out something that had stopped the man in his tracks.
"The amount of force you use to hit me is proportional to how deeply asleep you are when I disturb you."
The man blinked and loosened his grip. "What?"
"The amount of force you use to hit me is proportional to how deeply asleep you are when I disturb you. It's actually a bit fascinating, and I've worked it out in the corner of the room over by the cell door. You see if A equals the amount of force"
He'd gone on and on and had walked the man through the equation. The man had been amazed, first of all that the numbers and complex looking equations had anything to do with him, and, second of all, that anyone would spend so much time working out some sort of equation based on his behavior. That was when, as he'd told Larry, the man had started to call him Professor. Since that night, the man, whose name was Mike, while certainly not proclaiming himself Charlie's biggest fan, had generally been more tolerant of Charlie's nocturnal activities, especially once he had explained that they might help him prove he was innocent.
Charlie had noticed that a large proportion of the prison population supported the idea of getting out of prison whether legally or illegally. Since he was new, it was expected that he would be trying to get out through proper channels.
He looked down at his sharpie. It was drying out, and wouldn't last another hour. Not that he had an hour. He had pulled kitchen duty this week and he was supposed to report to the kitchen to set up for lunch. The guard would be by in fifteen minutes to escort him there.
When the guard appeared ten minutes early, Charlie really didn't give it much thought. When they headed in the opposite direction from the kitchen, Charlie barely noticed. Calculations running in his mind, and out of his mouth, he only paused to take in his surroundings when the guard stopped. Realizing he'd fallen prey to his own inattentiveness, not that he was all that certain he'd have been able to keep this from happening if he had been aware of it at the time, Charlie backed away from the guard.
"Where are we?" Charlie succeeded in keeping the fear out of his voice.
"Not your concern." The man closed the distance between them and drew back his arm to throw a punch.
Charlie didn't wait for the blow. He was a genius, after all. He ducked and raced to his left, dodging under the conduits and pipes. Laundry, he thought, and sure enough, as he raced down the hall he passed the laundry rooms. The guard was still chasing him, and Charlie's fear and unfamiliarity with the place left him at a disadvantage. He felt like a mouse in a maze. Everywhere he turned, there was something blocking his way. He twisted, turned, ducked, dodged, but still he couldn't find a way out. The noise and the steam further disoriented him, and he twisted when he should have dodged, ending up face to face with the guard who'd been chasing him.
To Be Continued