Disclaimer: If Liz is still on the show tonight, then you know I still don't own Numb3rs. If by some chance she has been randomly written off, I can assure you that it is indeed mere coincidence.
Author's Notes: Apologies in the delay, and I take full credit. Life has decided to throw everything at me for the last seven days. Not your fault, and doesn't make up for it but there it is. Amber: Many thanks for your review. Made me very happy. I've put an explination at the end for the title and for anyone else as well. :)
And, I have always loved Alanis Morisette.
"All I really want is some peace man, a place to find a common ground, And all I really want is a wavelength, And all I really want is some justice..."
-Alanis Morissette-
'Plink. Plink. Plink…'
If he was a common or simple man, the incessant dripping of the tepid fluid from the lone faucet might have caused his mind some stress. But he was not just any simple man.
A long time ago, when he was younger, Meinhard had learned the trick of barring his mind from the outside world. The psychological barrier he raised to shield himself was similar to that of a concrete wall: thick and impenetrable unless he chose to bring it down.
Thus, the noise from the sink didn't bother him. Besides, a guard had let slip the fact that he was due to be transferred in less than two weeks from now. By sitting on his thin cot and facing the wall, appearing to be oblivious, he was able to listen and pick up on the gossip of the place. It was yesterday evening, after his utterly unsatisfying dinner, that he had discovered the tidbit that was actually pertained to him.
Two weeks left here. After that a one way ticket on a federal correctional bus to up north would bring him to his new residence, at least until the trial was over. His trial would last for a long time, the magnitude of the case as well as the severity of the accusations against him requiring an equally large and severe trial.
Meinhard did not lament the fact that he had been discovered or brought in as he sat there on his cot. Everyone was eventually discovered. No one remained obscured and hidden from sight for all of eternity. He had had a good and long ride; with countless years of studying and experimentations paired with a substantial amount of human bodies, he was satisfied with what he had done, though a few more years of work would have been nice.
He would be remembered long after they placed him in the ground, dead and old. His name, Meinhard Ackerman, would be found years later from now in the same books as Josef Mengele and Sigmund Rascher. They could kill him, but he would still live on.
The only thing he did lament was his wish for one more year. He was sure that he only needed a few more bodies to perfect his formula, just as he had been so sure that his answer would have been found in the words of the female doctor. Certain of that, it would have been a very different story if she had of helped him.
No matter though, her mind was twisted now. Meinhard had gotten his revenge on her, the disgustingly Jewish agent from yesterday having given him his answer as to her status.
He could at least take consolation in that fact as he blinked for the first time. Surveying the small room for the umpteenth time since he had been remanded to custody, he added the fact that he was alone to his list of consolations. The chatter of a companion did nothing for him, and his remand had seen to it that he was placed under twenty four hour surveillance by himself.
"You have a guest, Ackerman."
Slowly, he turned his head rightward to face the guard, letting the corners of his mouth twitch. Inwardly he wondered who had come to see him now. As far as the gossip had divulged, no one from either the F.B.I. or the U.S. Attorney's office was scheduled to see him. His empty words had spoken for themselves, sending the message out about his refusal to cooperate or plead down.
The guard eyed him, uncomfortable with his charge. "No funny business."
Meinhard nodded his head, giving in to what the man wanted to hear before he would leave to bring his guest to the front of his cell. People, he had come to realize, were very easy to read.
Shuffling noises regained his attention to the front of his cell, and he stood sharply at realizing who it was that was on the other side. His eyes widened a fraction for a second, and he quickly regained his composure at having something thrown at him unexpectedly. He had not counted on seeing her again.
Across the hall, standing straight and still, was the woman who could have helped him. Her arms were folded calmly over her chest, the blonde hair pulled back, and the eyes the same perfect shade of green. Those green eyes stared at him, unwavering in her fake confidence.
"I hadn't expected to see you again," he said, walking forward the few steps to get as close to her as possible. Her showing up again was just an added bonus, another chance for him to tear her apart.
Surprising him, she continued to stare him down. "I bet you didn't," and then she was moving. Her arms uncrossed themselves, and she took a step closer before raising her chin and continuing on to say boldly, "I came to tell you a few things before you are moved."
"Really? You didn't have to do that on my account," his muscles worked in his face, bringing a sneer to his features. "And just what is it that you have come to tell me?"
Of all the things he was waiting for- that what he had done was wrong, he was a monster, or the hollow assurance that she wasn't afraid of him- he didn't expect this one.
"I came to tell you that I know what was wrong with your dye. A simple slight modification to the formula could have produced more desired effects. And I know why it wouldn't take."
His teeth gritted, and he desperately wanted to reach through to her. Instead he tried for his sought after answer as to what he had been doing wrong.
She laughed softly to herself, and shook her head. "I don't think so."
Taking a second to even out his tone, he glared at her coolly. "Then what is the real reason as to why you are here if you won't tell me what I want?"
The forensic doctor and withholder of information cocked her head to the side, and examined him before saying anything. "Why don't you tell me? I've heard you're good at reading minds."
The darkness in him surged forward, and a thrill ran through his mind. His face twisted and he hissed out, "You hate me, but you can't get me out of your mind. I'm everywhere to you, and there is nothing you can do about it. It's only natural your obsession would drive you back here."
His prediction didn't gain the response he had been hoping for, and he was beginning to think that he had been wrong about her. But that was impossible…He was never wrong.
Boldly she moved again until she was looking directly in his eyes, only inches of metal separating them. "You couldn't be more wrong. I came here to tell you that when I walk out that door, I will not think about you again. Ever. But you…You will think about me for the rest of your life."
She whispered the end of her conviction, and he was left with no words, forced to watch her give him one last look before turning completely away. Spine straight and head held back, she walked out the door, true to her words. Not once did she spare him a backwards glance.
'…plink. Plink. Plink…'
His reluctant guard returned to stare in wonder as for the first time since being locked up, Meinhard allowed the outside world to infiltrate and bother him. Screaming in rage, he threw everything he could get his hands on. The sheets and the lone pillow were hurled towards the sink.
Gasping for breath, Meinhard looked at his hands, shocked to see that they were shaking. This wasn't right. This was not how it was supposed to happen.
And he was left by himself. Utterly alone, his only companion the steady drops of water…
'…Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink…'
Someone had once said "defer no time, delays have dangerous ends". He couldn't exactly remember who had said it; the name Shakespeare came to mind. English had never been his strong suit, and certainly not iambic pentameters and the likes. It didn't matter who had said it; he figured it only mattered that he was living by the words.
Charlie stopped for a moment in mid thought. Perplexed, he rocked back on his heels and examined his work. A sudden possibility for his Theory had hit him after his early-afternoon class, prompting him to drive home and seek his work in the garage. The last time that he had stopped to check the time, he still had another two hours before his final class of the day.
Satisfied with where he was going, Charlie resumed writing on the blackboard, white chalk flying with dust rising, then falling, and then rising again when mixed along side the new dust in a never ending cycle. Every so often he would pause and shuffle the scattered papers around to check something and cross reference it before continuing on. It made for an even pattern, and one in which he was comfortable and used to.
Numbers and esoteric symbols flew from his brain down his arm only to reappear as a new line replaced the last in his mind. As he worked, Charlie reflected on the normality of the scene. Things were slowly piecing themselves back together. There were no federal agents hounding him for his brain. His brother wasn't here to interrupt and seek his help. The silence spoke volumes after two weeks of everyone holding their breaths. Now, if he could only get Larry to come back, the status quo would really be restored.
He shook his head. His dear friend had returned from his space travels a few days ago. Instead of rejoining them, Larry had placed himself in a monastery, telling them that he needed time to readjust to Earth and her people. While he didn't understand all of the reasoning, Charlie respected his friend's wishes and would wait until the time was right for him to come back.
The uneven staccato of the chalk echoed in the cluttered garage. So absorbed was he that when the knock came it went unnoticed. Only when the door actually turned and the light filtered in through the opening, caught by his peripheral vision, did he actually stop.
"I tried calling. First your office, and then your cell. You didn't answer and Don mentioned this would probably be the best place to go next," cautiously the person stepped through the doorway and into his silent place, looking around once and then back at him. "I'm not interrupting you am I? I just wanted to catch you before I left."
Blinking out of his daze of seeing her, Charlie shook his head. He suddenly remembered the chalk in his hand and the white dust that had settled on his clothes and no doubt in his hair as well. The chalk was replaced to its resting home, hands wiping his fabric. Charlie frowned as it did nothing and gave up.
The knocker had ventured closer, and was now peering at the board and his work. He noticed that she shifted from one foot to another; her fingers lightly scratched the plaster covered wrist, the skin itching after several days as all casts eventually did. The petite doctor certainly looked better than when she had been hospitalized, that visual image being passed on by his brother.
"So this is the famous work of Dr. Charles Eppes, huh? The much anticipated Cognitive Emergence Theory." Peyton said, her teasing snapping him out of his thoughts of hospitals and broken bones.
He tilted his head and opened his mouth to ask her how she knew what his blackboards had divulged, but she read his question and beat him to it.
"You shouldn't be surprised by how many people talk about you. Even in my circles. Word gets around. Besides, it's better this way. You'll stun them when you finish with it and you're nobody until you've been talked about."
He smiled at her. About to respond with something of his own, the last part of her first statement jingled in the back of his brain, resurfacing and raising another question. "It's nice to see you back again, but did I hear you say you were leaving?"
The second doctor in the garage turned her head left and right, indicating a negative. "No. I mean yes. I am leaving, but I'm coming back. I'm flying to D.C. tonight to take care of some things back there. Well, to actually see my father," the last part was said reluctantly, her face brightening as she moved on, "So, you see I'm coming back. In five days. You didn't get rid of me that easily."
Charlie understood. His father had helped him many a times, his advice seeing him through and often providing another way to look at a certain problem. "That's good. You look good," she raised an eyebrow at him, and he hurried on to say, "I mean, you appear to be better than what, uh, Don said you have been."
"Yeah. Your brother's been very helpful to me. That and my psychiatrist. And Kathryn of course."
The silence of his sanctuary reined, each of them not knowing what to say after that subject had been breached.
Finally after a few long pauses Peyton turned to look at him directly. She scratched at her skin, taking a deep breath and then letting it out in a huff. "I won't take up much more of your time. I can see that you were working on something. I came here because I wanted to say thank you."
"Thank you for what?"
She raised her eyes to his, all teasing and humor erased. "I want to say thank you for saving my life. I know that it was you who figured out where he had me. The team told me, and I needed to say something."
It meant a lot to him to hear her say that, but it wasn't necessarily true. Charlie could see how nervous she was. He thought for a moment before he opened his mouth. "Peyton, that's…it means a lot, but it's not necessary. I was doing my job—"
An index finger came up to forestall him. "Don't. You can say you were doing your job all you want, Charlie, but the truth is that you did indeed save my life. Meinhard Ackerman was too smart of a man to leave behind anything that would lead the others directly to that factory. It would have taken them at least two more days to find something to tie him there. Those were two days that I didn't have. I know that. So, yeah, you might have been doing your job, but you are still probably the reason for why I am standing here in your garage. And that has to count for something."
His throat constricted and he didn't know what else to say. He had never really examined that particular angle of the matter. Just when he thought he had a proper response, she laid her good hand on his arm and gave him a small squeeze.
Charlie watched, stunned, as she left him, pausing in the doorframe to look back. "I just wanted to say thanks and I really am thankful for your genius mind. I'll be back, so enjoy your time for your work. I'm sure your brother will have something for the both of us by the time five days have passed."
And then she was gone and he was left still there, in the same spot as before she had knocked and entered. Sorting out his thoughts, he flicked his wrist and looked down. The hands on his watch told him he had a good hour before he needed to be back at school, not including variables such as traffic and road construction.
The white chalk found its way back between his fingers and a smile spread across his face and stayed there, his memories replaying what had just happened. Seconds later and he had regained his momentum, his numbers and symbols taking over.
The uneven staccato of the rapping chalk merged with the silence of his garage to create a totally unique sound that was his life's soundtrack. It was to that he worked for the next hour and so it came to no big surprise to his students when their professor showed up fifteen minutes late and out of breath.
That was after all the second track to his life.
His holster, gun, and phone clip made a low thud as he dropped them onto the table, much like they had six weeks ago when he had come to his childhood home in a manner very similar to this. Satisfied with where they were, he left them, moving away from the entrance area.
Don lifted a hand to run through his hair, slowly sliding it down over his face and then kneading the muscles of his neck. It had been a long day and he for one was glad that it was over. The case of Meinhard Ackerman and his two accomplices was over, the mastermind out of his hands and ready to move, and the juniors in custody until their trial. Both of them had worked out a deal with the attorneys, eventually pleading down to lower charges in exchange for information to be used against the big guy; though each would still go away for a very long time.
His team's job was done. The folder closed, and the evidence awaiting the warehouse for storage. The only loose end was the crimes in South Carolina, but that belonged to that field office, and would become their job. He wasn't sorry to see the whole ordeal end. It had tested and pushed all of them, and he was starting to welcome the old cases of kidnappers and arsonists that he had once thought hard.
No answer came as he called out first his father's name and then his brother's. A glance down told him that it was only a little after nine. Neither of them had mentioned anything about plans for the night, but he never knew. Charlie could be working on something, though he hadn't seen the familiar lights on in the garage. Or the genius could possibly be with Amita somewhere, and his father could have decided to have dinner with Millie.
"Hey, Donnie," Alan came through the swinging kitchen door, foiling his idea about Millie. "I thought I heard someone in the driveway. I didn't think it was Charlie. He just left a little while ago with Amita. She actually managed to drag him out of the garage."
Don let out a small laugh at his father's expression at the end of his sentence. Feminine wiles had won out over the lure of Charlie's numbers. Good for Amita; Charlie could use a night out.
It took him a moment to realize his father was speaking to him again; his focus had been drawn back to the hands of his watch. "You, uh, want something to eat, Donnie? I don't know if you already ate, but there's some left over that's still somewhat warm and nothing that can't be reheated."
Food sounded good. "Yeah, Pop. That sounds good."
Alan retreated back through the swinging door, talking as he moved about. Don could hear parts of his speech as the door moved back and forth. "So, everything back to normal now? That man put away?"
"Yes. We've done our part. He's in the hands of the U.S. attorneys now. It's up to them to see that he gets put away." Though, with the statements provided by Garza and Garcia, along with the evidence, and the testimony from the two survivors, it shouldn't be too hard to find a jury that would give him the needle.
It was harder to hear as the door slowed in its swinging. Some words came out muted, but he was able to get the jest of the next question. "And, uh, the two survivors? That boy and Dr. Huntzberger."
"Keith Kelli is partially blind, but he'll live which is something in itself. Peyton is another deal entirely. Her problems are different from the kid's. It's hard to read her and tell what she's thinking. Given time she'll eventually be okay. I know that," he said, his wrist calling to him again.
9:24. Excluding delays of any kind or turbulence, she would be over the Rockies now, on her way to O'Hare. Her sudden decision to fly three thousand miles home had been explained as something that she needed to do. Not to get away from any of them, but to have a chance to be with her own family. If Don needed his he could drive the thirty minutes it took to Pasadena. With her she had to settle for the three hour time difference and a phone call. It was understandable and she had sworn that she was not staying, even going so far as to flash both him and Kathryn the return flight receipt. Plus, she'd also added to him, she was beginning to think that if she didn't go home, her father was going to hire somebody to bring her himself, and that she had assured him, was not something either of them wanted.
"Good. None of those kids deserved what happened to them. It's just hard to think that people like that still exist."
Don looked back up towards the table. Alan had finished with the reheating and had placed the plate at his usual spot when he did come to eat, and there next to it was a very cold and very refreshing looking beer, which was exactly what he needed after today. Actually it was exactly what he needed after the last six weeks.
"Yeah, well, they're still out there. It just means that there's one less now."
The chair slid back with ease against the wood, and he took his seat. Alan nodded once, acknowledging wearily that Don was right.
He ate, not surprised at how fast he did away with it. After all, he couldn't remember when he had eaten anything for breakfast, and he knew that no lunch had found him. His father, always a companion to talk just about anything with, spent the passing minutes that turned into hours with him. He was surprised at how much he had missed and listened with complete attention to catch up, laughing when Charlie or Millie had done something particularly funny.
His left wrist went unnoticed for that time, and in truth he didn't need to check it. Five days would pass quickly, and besides, he was sure that when Charlie came home, Don could ask him the probability that she was likely to die in a plane crash.
After all, what good was there in having a genius brother if you couldn't use them sometimes?
Only two left to go. I decided to include another before the end. Next one includes flashbacks, and we are working towards that part SG. I promise.
Meinhard: His story in this novel ends here. Logically, it is only reasonable to assume that a jury would find him guilty and convict him with the death penalty. He will possibly be mentioned again in the sequel. Actually, there is a very strong possibility of that. I just can't seem to get away from him. :)
Stupid Yellow Letters: The title stems from the fact that on the flak vests of the FBI and the vests sometimes worn by CSI's, both letters are in very bright, bold yellow. And, Garcia and Garza mistook Peyton's vest to say FBI during the press conference outside of the FBI office. Hence, the stupid yellow letters which resulted in her home invasion.