Chapter 12

Colby and David dragged their makeshift poles up the hill and laid them next to Edgerton's. Pulling two of the canvas lean-tos from their packs, they began lashing them to the poles. Megan sat next to Charlie and scanned the forest as they worked; eyes watchful. Her attention was suddenly captured by a groan, and a slight movement from Don. She rose and moved to Don's side in time to see his eyes open briefly.

Don's vision swam, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that surged in his head and his leg, a low moan escaping. He tried vainly to collect his thoughts, but they swirled and twisted, eluding him. Something nagged at the back of his mind, something to do with Charlie. As if from a great distance, he heard Megan's voice, and he twisted slightly, trying to alleviate the pain in his leg and the fire in his side.

"Don," said Megan, "lie still." Charlie could stand it no longer. He flung off Colby's jacket, rolled to his knees and crawled to his brother, his left arm held to his side like a broken wing, and she looked at him sternly. "Charlie, stay down." He ignored her, leaning over Don anxiously, and she shot him a look, but turned her attention to Don.

Don gasped, and reached a hand toward his left leg, and Megan followed the gesture. "What is it? Your leg?" She ran her hands down his leg gently; she couldn't feel anything broken, but his lower leg did feel swollen. Experimentally, she ran her hands over his lower right leg for comparison. Yes, the left was definitely swollen. She tried to gently pull up Don's pant leg, and he groaned, twisting in agony.

She looked up at the other agents, who were watching as they worked. "Guys, I think we might have a bad sprain or a broken leg here." Don's eyes were closed, his face twisted in pain, and he muttered something incoherent. "What?" she asked, bending her head closer.

Don's eyes opened, searching, trying to focus. "Charlie," he gasped.

"I'm here, Don," Charlie said quietly. His face was anxious; he was still trembling and his eyes were riveted on his brother, but his voice was much more controlled than Megan would have expected. "It's okay."

Don panted, his breaths growing slower, and his eyes fluttered closed. "Don," said Charlie, pleading. "Stay. Stay with me." His shoulders slumped in defeat as Don's head tilted slowly sideways, and his body relaxed. He stared at his brother forlornly, sitting dejectedly on the ground, and his strength seemed to leave along with his brother's consciousness. His body sagged and trembled, and he felt Megan's hands on his shoulders as a wave of dizziness hit.

"Charlie, can you lie down on this for me?" He turned his head, realizing dazedly that there was a stretcher next to him, and he shifted painfully onto the canvas, turning his head toward Don as he lay. The shaking was returning with a vengeance, and he heard a roaring in his ears. He felt someone lay a sleeping bag over him, and he fought for consciousness. He needed to stay awake; Don might need him. He watched, still struggling for awareness, as they lifted Don gently onto a stretcher, and covered him with another sleeping bag.

Edgerton scanned the woods around them, and turned to the team, who were shouldering their packs. "All right," he said quietly. "Let's go."

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Sheriff Peters had seen military duty, and the group approaching him reminded him of wartime. They looked like a band of exiles, carrying their wounded; tired, dirty, eyes that had seen too much pain. He felt a growing dread as he looked at them; a crack band of FBI agents reduced to an exhausted group of refugees. 'What kind of monster are we dealing with?' he wondered.

He and his men had brought real stretchers, and they transferred the Eppes brothers to them. They were both conscious, but Agent Eppes was extremely groggy and in significant pain. His younger brother appeared to be bordering on shock and was also in pain, exhausted and on the verge of passing out, but he struggled to stay awake, craning his neck to watch his brother's stretcher ahead of him on the trail. The local law enforcement officers took over the stretchers, and the FBI agents, relieved of their burdens, spread out in front of and behind Peters and his men, eyes wary in spite of their fatigue, scanning the forest around them with tense faces.

Edgerton brought up the rear, purposely putting some space between his position and the group's to distance himself from the noise they were making. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling, and from time to time he would hear a slight noise to one side of them or the other, but when he turned to look, he saw only forest. Mansour was out there, though, Edgerton could feel it, and he fingered his service weapon, ready, waiting, watching.

His personal philosophy was to always remain detached from a case, but in spite of himself, this was becoming personal to him. He attacked all of his assignments with a single-mindedness that always yielded results, but his focus on this case had gone beyond that, bordering almost on obsession. Mansour almost seemed to be mocking him, killing, causing destruction at will, and Edgerton could not stifle the feeling that it was his fault. He was lead agent on this case – this was between him and Mansour. He would get this monster at any cost.

They all felt a surge of relief as they reached the trailhead. Two ambulances were waiting, called in by Peters, the attendants standing by. They laid Charlie's stretcher gently on the ground, and the medics gathered around to transfer Don from his stretcher to the ambulance gurney. The agents were watching the forest behind them, and Megan turned as she caught Charlie moving out of the corner of her eye. Momentarily unattended, he had struggled off the stretcher, and was staggering to his feet.

"Charlie! What are you doing?" She bounded over and grabbed his arm, and he yanked it away, tottering toward Don's gurney.

"I'm going with him," he said, his voice weak but defiant.

One of the medics stepped forward, trying to guide him to the other gurney. "Sir, I need to ask that you lie down. We're taking you in the other ambulance."

"No," said Charlie firmly, pushing away. He moved next to Don, and another medic put gentle hands on his shoulders. He shrugged them away, and faced them. "You can't treat me if I don't accept treatment. I'm going with him."

The group eyed him for a moment, disconcerted. The young man in front of them could barely stand, his face bruised and pale, his clothes blood-stained, but his eyes were blazing, and his resolve made them pause. The medics glanced at each other. "Humor him," said one of them quietly. "Let's just get them out of here. We can let them talk him into treatment at the hospital."

The other medic gave him a doubtful look, but nodded at Charlie. "Okay. Sit where we tell you."

Charlie nodded, and turned to his brother. Don was looking at him, his eyes trying to focus. "Charlie." His face was twisted with pain, and the name came out as a hoarse whisper. His hand moved, and Charlie grasped it tightly.

"I'm here, Donnie," said Charlie, his voice shaking. "It's okay."

Megan and Colby moved next to Charlie as they loaded Don into the ambulance. Charlie was swaying on his feet, and Megan and Colby exchanged looks of concern. "Charlie, this isn't a good idea," said Colby quietly. "Peters says the hospital's only a half hour away, and you'll get there at the same time as Don. Let them take care of you."

Charlie shook his head stubbornly, and Megan eyed him closely. He looked shell-shocked, beyond reason, she realized; and her concern deepened. Maybe the medics were right, she thought, to at least get him there without a struggle. He would be dealt with there, whether he wanted to or not, she resolved. She would see to it personally. She watched as a medic helped Charlie into the ambulance, and saw him sit shakily and lean over Don as the doors closed. She glanced at Colby. "Let's get going. I want to get there with them."

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Alan had made himself a sandwich for dinner, and had just sat down when the phone call came from Megan. She hadn't given him much in the way of details – the news that both of his boys were hurt and were on the way to the hospital was frightening enough that for a moment he wouldn't have been able to digest the details anyway. He finally was made to understand that they had been in some kind of accident; that Don had a concussion and a possible broken leg, and that Charlie needed stitches. She assured him that they were stable, and his heart gradually slowed from a painful pounding to something more normal.

Megan advised him to bring some extra clothes and a jacket for Charlie; and for Don too if he could find any, and pleaded with him to take his time and drive carefully. He flew around the house, collecting clothes for himself and his sons, tossed them into bags, and few moments later, he was in the car, on the way to Santa Paula Memorial Hospital, driving too fast, white knuckled, his sandwich forgotten on the kitchen table.

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