Chapter 7: Recovery

"What have we got?" LAPD Detective Frank Pierce said as he entered the apartment. It was modestly furnished, and would have seemed quite comfortable, save for covered body on the floor.

"Looks like a suicide, sir," the officer who had been first on the scene answered. "Gunshot wound to the head."

"We have a name, yet?"

"That's why I called you, sir," the officer said, handing him a wallet. Pierce shook his head when he saw the badge.

"FBI Agent," he said grimly. "You call any of the feds yet?"

"Yes. Their on their way."

"Sir," another officer said. She handed him a bloodstained note.

"It's the suicide note, sir," she said.

Pierce glanced over it. It was typed, on notebook paper, and had been meticulously folded.

"I'm saying hello, and goodbye

Losing you was too much to bear

I've lost too much already

Twenty-five years of pain

They have to be avenged, I guess

So, I'll take them one by one

And save a bullet for my pain

It wasn't supposed to end like this

But you forced me to where I am

And now I can't stop myself"

"Well, that's an interesting note," Pierce murmured.

"Detective Pierce," a voice called behind him. He turned and saw a tall man in a dark suit. It had to be an FBI agent. And judging by the weariness and pain in his eyes, he had known the deceased. "Agent Sinclair."

Pierce shook them man's hand, then gestured to the body on the floor. David approached it, and lifted up the sheet. He saw the familiar clothes, and knew it was true.

Terry Lake was dead.

"Tenant next door heard a gunshot last night. Didn't think much of it, because it had been pretty loud in there. He said the radio had been blasting, and he thought the gunshot was part of the music. He called it in when she didn't answer the door this morning when he tried checking on her."

"Did you find a note?" David asked, rubbing his face. He knew he shouldn't have come, but he wouldn't have believed it otherwise. It didn't seem possible that in two days both Don and Terry had been shot.

"Yeah." Pierce waited for David to don gloves before handing him the note. David read over it.

"Never seen one like it. So, what are you thinking? Do you think it could have been staged?" Pierce watched David. He was trying to cheer the man up. As dismal and depressing as murder was, nothing was more heartbreaking than suicide.

"No. She did it," David said, giving the note back to the detective.

"Are you sure?" Pierce said, surprised.

"Her partner was shot last night. They're saying he's not going to pull through."

"Damn. I'm sorry, Agent Sinclair," Pierce said, realizing it was not just Terry Lake's death that was occupying the agent's mind.

"Detective," an officer approached the two. "We found this in her pants pocket."

Pierce took it, and handed it to David. It was a picture of Don and Terry, walking next to each other. Don was studying an open manila folder, entirely focused on its contents. Terry, however, was focused on her partner's face, her own filled with concern.

David left the apartment, sorrow filling him. He knew that Terry had cared for Don, but had never dreamed that she would kill herself because of him. Raymond Leary was dead, but the repercussions of his actions were still doing damage.

"He's right in here, Mr. Eppes," a nurse said, beckoning with her arm. Alan nodded in thanks, and then entered the room.

Charlie was still sleeping. Alan felt relief pour through his system looking at his son's face. Though he had known last night that his son was all right, it was seeing his face that made it a reality.

Alan sat down beside Charlie's bed, watching his son sleep. He took his hand and wished he never had to let it go. The nightmare of the night before was still fresh in Alan's mind. Suddenly, the young man stirred.

"Dad?" Charlie said drowsily. Alan smiled.

"Good morning, Charlie," Alan said.

"What time is it?"

"That's an interesting question for someone in your situation to ask. It's 11:03, and it's a beautiful Tuesday morning."

"I'm late for class," Charlie murmured, and began to rise. Pain, and his father's hand, however, kept him down.

"You won't be teaching for a while, son," Alan said. "Larry's going to cover for you, though."

Charlie smiled, allowing his muscles to relax. He looked around.

"Why am I here?" He asked.

"There was an accident last night. You were hurt," Alan said, carefully choosing his words.

"An accident?" Charlie repeated, confused. "I don't remember-"

Suddenly, the horrid events of the night before came back to him.

"Oh," he breathed, closing his eyes.

"Charlie, it's okay," Alan said, for Charlie was beginning to hyperventilate. "Charlie I need you to take a deep breath, and look at me."

Charlie nodded, trembling. He stared at his father, trying to breathe, trying to push away the memories.

Slowly, he found control. He looked into Alan's eyes, recalling good memories. Playing Scrabble with Alan. Eating dinner. Talking about Don.

Don…

"Dad, where's Don?" He asked.

"Charlie, you should probably be sleeping. I'm sorry I woke you," Alan said quickly.

"Dad, I need to know. Is he… is he gone?" Charlie's voice was barely above a whisper. He could see, in his mind, his big brother bleeding out on the bed, and if terrified him. The pain in his stomach laced with nausea suddenly.

"No. God, no," Alan said, shaking his head violently, tears threatening to flow. His heart was sinking again. Yes, Charlie was alive and well, but he knew he could lose Don at any moment.

"Then where is he?" Charlie said.

"Don's here," Alan said.

"Is he alright?" Charlie asked, his brown eyes filled with concern. Alan shook his head, afraid to speak.

"When you were attacked, Don was there. He shot the man who… who did it, but he was shot as well." Charlie's mouth opened, his face a picture of horror.

"But he's going to be okay, right? Right, Dad?" Charlie searched his father's eyes, but saw no traces of hope. Only pain and despair.

"It's… it's not looking good, Charlie. The doctor's say there is a chance he could make it, but he could go any time. He's off the respirator, but… if only he could wake up…" Alan said, his voice going hoarse. Charlie's brown eyes went wide. He shook his head, tears welling up.

"Charlie, I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Charlie said, his voice hoarse. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. The terrifying fact that Don could die cut through Charlie, chilling his heart. He had always known that Don had a high-risk job, that Don's chances of dying young were much higher than that of a normal person, but Charlie had never applied that knowledge to Don. He had always foolishly hoped that Don would not lose to the percentages.

But now, the mathematical percentages mocked Charlie's foolish hopes. For once, Charlie hated math and its cold finality.

"Don't you worry, Charlie," Alan whispered, curling his hand around the back of Charlie's neck. "He's going to pull through. He's been in harder situations."

No, he hasn't, Charlie thought to himself.

Suddenly, Alan's phone rang. He excused himself, and answered.

"Mr. Eppes, it's Agent Sinclair," a weary voice said.

"Oh, hello," Alan said.

"How's Don?"

"Doctor's still saying it's critical," Alan said, clearing his throat. He walked out of the room, standing just outside so he could still see Charlie.

"I'm sorry," David responded sympathetically. "I'm sorry I can't be there."

"Will you and Terry be visiting any time soon? Charlie's awake, and he could use some encouragement."

There was a long pause on the phone. Alan began to wonder if he had lost the connection.

"Mr. Eppes, Terry's dead," David finally said.

"What?" Alan asked, horrified.

"She died last night," the agent answered, his voice wearier than before.

"How?" Alan could not believe it.

"We… we think she killed herself."

"Suicide?" It didn't make sense. Terry had been a strong woman. Alan knew she had cared for Don, but still…

"It's looking that way, sir."

"I'm so sorry, David," Alan said, as he realized that in one night, David had lost Terry and could also lose Don.

"Tell Charlie I hope he gets well soon."

"I will," he promised. "Take care, David."

Alan looked down. This week was getting worse and worse.

When he finally glanced up, to check on Charlie, his heart twisted.

Charlie was sitting up, his hands hiding his face. Even from outside the room, Alan could hear his sobs.

"Charlie!" He ran to his son, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"I can't lose him, Dad," Charlie gasped between sobs. "I can't."

"We're not going to lose Don, Charlie," Alan said, his voice trembling.

"What if we do, Dad? First Mom, and now-"

"Charles," Alan said, cupping his son's face. "You cannot think that way. Don needs our hope as much as he needs our love."

Charlie nodded, sniffing. He wanted to hope, but the sneering face of Raymond Leary killed all the hope in his heart.

"Mr. Eppes, Charlie needs to rest," a nurse said, entering the room.

"Charlie," Alan said, rising. "I'm going to be sitting right outside. Don't be afraid."

Charlie nodded, lying down.

Alan left the room, and sat down. Charlie had been violated and had nearly lost his own brother. He was extremely fragile. Who knew what he would do to cope with his pain?

Then, a terrible thought crossed his mind. What if Charlie decided to cope with pain the same way Terry had?

Alan did not wait another second. He flipped open his cell phone, and searched for an address. He had lost his wife, he could possibly lose his eldest son, but there was no way in hell he would lose Charlie.

"Reuter Psychological Center, how may I help you?"

"May I speak to Erin Worthing?"

"Hold one moment."

"David, glad you could make it," the coroner said, slightly nervous. David nodded, wondering why the coroner had left a message for him, asking to come to the morgue immediately.

"What did you find?" David asked. He knew it was about Terry.

"It wasn't a suicide, David," the coroner said bluntly. "My findings suggest she murdered."

"Murdered?" David questioned, surprised. "But there was a note, no sign of struggle-"

"Perhaps not at your crime scene, but I found signs of struggle all over the body. Internal bleeding in the abdomen, bruises on the neck, and a broken wrist someone attempted to set. The area surrounding the bullet entry was bruised, suggesting the gun was pressed hard against the skin. She fought like hell, David." The coroner paused. "There's something else."

"What is it?" David asked. His mind was whirling. Terry murdered? How could it be?

"I first realized this wasn't a suicide I noticed several lacerations on the inner thighs. At first, I thought they might have been part of an act of self-mutilation before suicide, but when I checked the reports, there was no mention of a knife or sharp object of any sort in the proximity of the victim. So I checked the area even more." The coroner paused. When he spoke again, his voice was a slightly softer. "She was raped, twice."

David stared at the coroner. Murdered, and now raped?

"First it was with an object, most likely with whatever gave her the lacerations on her thighs. But I also found semen and pubic hair. And, I found this."

David's heart skipped a beat the coroner held up a piece of laminated notebook paper. Three words were scrawled in messy, angry handwriting:

FUCK YOU, BITCH!

"This can't be," David murmured.

"I believe you have a copycat on your hands," the coroner said. "A very pissed copycat."

Pain is his only reminder that he lives. All other sensations are black or numb. He knows he sleeps, he knows he may never awaken, but for now he is alive and in pain. He tries to dream, but the memory of the knife piercing his brother's flesh keeps him from escaping reality. He remembers nothing else, haunted by that chilling reality. He wants to run from it, but he is afraid to lose sight of his brother. He is his brother's protector, and no matter how painful it is to watch, leaving him would be even more painful.

"He's alright, Donnie," a soft voice whispers. Reality begins to fade as he realizes it is the voice of Terry Lake.

"How do you know?" He asks, watching his brother still.

"Because he's not here with us."

"He's right there," Don motions, but then sees the image of his brother has faded to dull gray. There is no longer color in his world but the dull gray. He turns to Terry. She is now the only color.

"Why are you here, Terry?" She smiles.

"Close your eyes, Donnie." He obeys, and feels her take his hand.

"Are you in pain?"

"What do you think? I just got shot," Don replies, his eyes remaining shut. His breathing is deeper, and the pain has lessened.

"It's good to have pain, Donnie. It reminds us that we are still alive. Without pain, we would be cold, unappreciative of all warmth we are given."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Don's asks. Though his eyes are still closed, the darkness is beginning to brighten to a deep gray. He is awakening.

"Will you remember that, Donnie?" Terry asks softly.

"I'd remember it better if you'd explain to me why the hell you're getting philosophical on me," Don retorts. He can almost open his eyes now.

"Don't try to analyze a dream, Donnie. People might start to think you're trying to act like me." He hears the smile in her voice. He opens his eyes, but he can no longer see her.

"I'm going to miss you, Don." Her voice echoes, and the sensation of her hand holding his fades.

Pain grows as the light grows, slowly bringing Don to consciousness. Just before his eyes open, he wonders why Terry would miss him. Would she not be right there beside him?

Don opened his eyes, blinking as he took in brightness of the white hospital room. He listened to the steady beep, an electronic reminder that he was alive. Feeling came back to him. He felt the IV in his arm, the bed sheet against his bare legs, the hospital gown rustling against his skin, the mask on his face forcing air into his mouth and nose.

Then pain settled in, sharp and deep. He tried to sit up slowly, wincing. He put a hand to his abdomen.

"Mr. Eppes, you need to remain lying down. You might hurt yourself even more." a nurse exclaimed. Don complied, fully agreeing with her.

"Where's my family?" he asked. He was surprised at the hoarseness of his voice.

"Hold on, sir, I'm getting the doctor." A moment later, a tall man appeared.

"Figures you would wake up on my coffee break," the doctor said, smiling. "How do you feel, Agent Eppes?"

"Like shit," Don responded. The pain in his side had increased. "Where's my brother?"

"Charlie's doing very well. I left him with your father. They're both very worried about you. Now, let's get something to help you with that pain."

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. He focused on the thought of his brother, alive and well, and his father.

"Donnie!" His father called, what could have been minutes or hours later. Don's eyes flew open.

"Hey, Dad," he replied. Alan took his son's hand, smiling.

"Thank God. I thought I was going to lose you for a few moments there."

"I'm sorry I worried you, Dad. How's Charlie?"

"He's sleeping, Donnie. It's about three in the morning. He was awake earlier today."

"Why are you still up?"

"I couldn't sleep, Don. I was afraid that if I fell asleep, you…" Alan's voice trailed off.

"Dad, I'm going anywhere. I'm okay. Please, just get some sleep."

Alan watched his eldest son. He didn't want to leave Don. It was too soon. But Don needed peace and rest.

"Alright. I'll see if I can get some sleep. I love you, son." Alan smiled. Finally, it seemed the nightmare was ending.

Chapter 8: Not Strong Enough, will be up in a few weeks. I sincerely apologize for the lateness of this update. I have been holding down two jobs, as well as maintaining a relationship a fun, sexy relationship.