Chapter 5

Charlie stirred, opened his eyes, and closed them again, with a grunt. His head was pounding, and his tongue felt three times its normal size. He could hear water running in the kitchen and the clink of Don's coffee pot, and with a huge effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position with his good arm and leaned back against the sofa. For a moment, he wondered how he'd gotten there, but then pieces of the night came back to him, and with them, the memory of his fight with Amita. At the thought, he closed his eyes, and groaned aloud.

He heard footsteps, and opened his eyes again to see a glass of orange juice suspended in front of him. It was attached to a hand, and he followed the arm with bleary eyes up to Don's face, as he reached for the glass. "Thanks," he muttered.

Don eyed him with a sympathetic but slightly amused grin. "Looks like you fought with José and lost," he said.

Charlie grimaced. "Before I walk into the kitchen, maybe you can put José in the cabinet. I don't think I can even stand to look at the bottle this morning." He shuddered a little and took a tentative sip of his orange juice. "Whose bright idea was that, anyway?"

Don smirked. "It must have been yours. I don't remember offering you tequila."

Charlie set the orange juice on the floor, squinting, but then his eyes widened in alarm. "I called her last night, didn't I? Did I call her? What did I say?" He looked at Don in panic.

Don shook his head. "I don't think you got a chance to say a whole lot. She hung up on you – you were trying again when I got out to the kitchen and stopped you."

Charlie moaned and put his face in his hand. "And I thought I couldn't screw it up any worse…"

Don cut him off. "Look, take it from someone with experience, there's no sense stewing over it." He held out a hand and helped him to his feet, grabbing his arm as Charlie swayed a little. "Come into the kitchen and sit down. Let's get some food into you."

Charlie's stomach churned at the thought of food, but he didn't protest; primarily because it was taking everything he had to make to the kitchen chair. He plopped into it, and rested his aching head in one hand, his eyes closed. The orange juice made its reappearance, followed by a steaming mug of coffee, and he opened his eyes and wrapped his hands around it gratefully, lifting it to his lips like a precious vial of elixir. Sipping and setting it down carefully, he looked across the table at Don, who had pulled up a chair and was sipping at his own mug. The morning light illuminated his brother's face, and Charlie noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, and a line or two that hadn't been there before. "You look tired."

Don avoided his eyes, looking into his mug as if for a response, and shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping too well." He glanced up, and caught Charlie's solemn expression. "It's not a big deal. I'm sure it's temporary."

"You've been through a lot lately," said Charlie softly. "You probably ought to talk to someone." His brother's penchant for denying his feelings was something that had always worried him, and the uneasy thought added to his own emotional stew.

Don snorted, but felt pleased inside at Charlie's concern, in spite of himself. "Look who's talking. I'm not the one still sleeping on the floor." Charlie looked away, and Don studied him for a moment. He'd kept the comment light, but the fact was; he was disturbed that Charlie had ended up there last night. Charlie had problems with the bed, he knew, after the traumatic experience of being buried alive, but Don thought his brother would have gotten through that by now. Last night, he had thought perhaps it had merely been a result of the alcohol, but Charlie's reaction to his statement made him suspect otherwise. It couldn't be, he told himself, Amita would surely have noticed – but he asked the question anyway. "Is that an every-night occurrence, still?"

Charlie shot him a guilty glance, and paused, weighing his reply, but Don took the look as a confession, frowning, as he continued. "What does Amita have to say about that?"

Charlie's eyes dropped. "She doesn't know," he admitted in a low voice.

Don stared at him, as he processed that. That meant they weren't sleeping together, and that added to the fact that Charlie hadn't told her he was consulting – no wonder Amita was feeling left out of the equation. "Charlie," he began. His voice was gentle, but he couldn't keep the admonishing tone out of it, and Charlie cut him off, with a tired wave of his hand.

"I know, I know," he said wearily. "Believe me, I've heard it from Dad already."

"He knows you're still sleeping on the floor? I can't believe he hasn't parked a shrink on your doorstep."

"No, he doesn't know that," said Charlie crossly. "I don't see what the big deal is anyway. Nobody should care whether I sleep on a floor, or in a tree, for that matter."

"You apparently do," Don pointed out quietly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't care if Amita knew."

Charlie's shoulders drooped and he stared into his mug, miserably. The discussion was bringing to a head memories and feelings he'd been trying with all his might to suppress. He swallowed, and whispered, "I just want it to go away – I'd figured it would have by now."

Don took in the expression on his brother's face, and felt a surge of pity, along with a twinge of guilt. He'd suspected Charlie was still dealing with some residual anxiety, but he hadn't realized the extent of it. When had his brother gotten so good at hiding his feelings? There was a new element of opaqueness to him that hadn't been there before. "Charlie," he said gently, "you were nearly killed." He didn't mention the live burial, which was a reminder Charlie didn't need, and he wasn't sure he could safely put it into words, himself. "You can't just wave that away. You really need to get some professional help. I did." Charlie looked up at that, and Don nodded. "I saw Bradford this week, and I'm planning on going back."

He didn't mention the fact that the visit had been cursory; what mattered was that he did intend to go back. At least that's what he told himself.

"Yeah," said Charlie. "I guess I should." His voice was doubtful, but Don didn't push it any further, instead rising from his chair.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

Charlie made a face. "Nothing. Coffee's good, thanks."

"Come on," said Don heartily, as he reached for a loaf of bread, and inspected it for mold. "You can eat toast, anyway. Maybe we'll take a run out to the shooting range later."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jack O'Brien slid into the driver's seat of his car and shut the door. His alert green eyes took in the surrounding parking lot and flashed in the rearview mirror, briefly resting on his own reflection, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. He never programmed contacts like Dillon Moran into his cell phone; it was too risky. Instead, he memorized the numbers, and wiped his received and recently-called lists clean each time he spoke with them. It was a little more trouble, but he rested easier, knowing if the cell phone was lost or stolen and somehow made it into the hands of the police, they would find nothing. It was the kind of discretion that made him valuable to his contacts; that and a sharp mind. He was a utility man, and a good one – no one better in the Jersey/Philly area. On top of that, he was a personal friend of the Morans. His family and theirs went way back – their alliance formed by their fathers.

It was around noon on Saturday his time; which made it nine in the morning in L.A., and Dillon answered on the second ring. "Jackie," he said softly, from the rear seat of his new Mercedes. The vehicle was empty and parked near a downtown plaza; he'd sent the driver for a paper. "How's it going?"

"I lined up a guy inside, like you asked. Name is Mike LaBonte, an experienced agent in the Philly office. Gambler, owes the mob money; he jumped at the offer. He knew about the case, but isn't working it. I told him to try to get himself assigned."

Dillon had the faintest trace of disappointment in his voice. "That's it?"

"There's not a lot yet," admitted O'Brien. "He's only been on it one day, we talked last night. There was something interesting, though; it may or may not be related to this case. LaBonte said yesterday that the Director of the Bureau, Dave Maxwell, showed up in person. Met with the A.D., Norris, the SAC, Pete Wilhelm, and the District Attorney – he's a young guy – you may not know him, Isaac Shaw. Closed-door meeting; and Wilhelm didn't pass on any of it to his agents – or at least not all of them. LaBonte said he met later with the two agents assigned to your case, but he didn't know if it was just a preplanned update, or if Wilhelm was passing on intel from his meeting with Maxwell."

Dillon was silent for a moment. "I talked to Jason Walsh yesterday; he didn't say anything about Maxwell going to Philadelphia."

O'Brien's features twitched slightly in a facial approximation of a shrug. "I doubt Maxwell clears his agenda with him. Especially if it's not a personnel issue."

"Yeah," said Dillon, but his expression remained doubtful. "Okay, thanks, Jackie. Keep on that LaBonte guy – tell him we need more, and we need it quicker."

"Right."

"Anything from Patrick?" Patrick Conaghan was Dillon's front man for the illegal businesses in the Philly area, just as Lenny Angelo had been in L.A. He'd asked Jackie to keep in regular contact with him, and for Patrick to keep an eye on possible law enforcement inquiries.

"Nothing. He says it's quiet."

"Okay. Lean on LaBonte – make him earn his pay."

"You got it," came the reply, and Dillon flipped his phone shut, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. The fact that Jason hadn't said anything about a fairly significant visit by Maxwell meant one of three things. The first possibility was that he truly didn't know it had occurred, but it had no bearing on their situation. The second was more ominous – Jason didn't know it occurred, and there was a connection with their situation. That option meant perhaps, Maxwell didn't trust Jason with information concerning Dillon's case – not a good sign for either of them. The third option was that Jason did know about the visit, but hadn't told Dillon – and that possibility was even more disturbing. It very well might mean that Walsh had turned – and was cooperating with the Bureau to save his own ass.

Dillon thought for a minute more, and yet another option occurred to him – perhaps Walsh did know about the visit, and knew it didn't apply to them, so he didn't bring it up. It seemed odd though, that he wouldn't at least mention it. But then, Dillon hadn't told Walsh that he was putting his own man, O'Brien on this, either. The way things were evolving, he was glad he had.

The upshot of all of this was he had to make a decision – should he bring it up with Walsh, or not? Honestly, if Walsh had turned evidence and was no longer on his side, Dillon knew things were hopeless, regardless. There would be nothing he could do to squirm out of this, because the Bureau would be monitoring any moves he might make through Jason – and frankly, they probably already had enough evidence. Furthermore, if the reverse was true; if Walsh was still in this with him, then Jason needed to know what was going on. Dillon really had nothing to lose by bringing it up – and in addition, the direct approach suited him. He'd never been one to skirt issues. He opened his cell phone again, and dialed Walsh. "Jason."

Jason Walsh held up an apologetic hand to his wife and stepped from the kitchen, as he replied. "Yeah. Give me a sec."

It took him several seconds to get to his study; his tastefully furnished Maryland home was large. The phone call was a rankling reminder that some of that home and the furnishings had been made possible by his association over the years with Dillon Moran. As much as Walsh coveted the trappings of wealth, his nice home, his dream retirement home secretly being built on Mustique, the cars, the trophy wife – he hated the connection to Moran. It was a reminder of his past life, his ordinary middle-class roots. Even worse, that association was getting increasingly dicey. If Moran went down, chances were good he'd go along for the ride.

"What is it?" he asked a bit gruffly, as he moved into the study and eased the door shut.

"You hear anything about Maxwell taking a trip to Philly?" Dillon asked; his voice light, casual.

"What? No – when is he going?"

Dillon felt a glimmer of relief. Walsh's tone was quite believable – filled with the appropriate amount of surprise and concern. "I've got a man tied in to the Philly office – he said Maxwell was there yesterday for a closed-door meeting with Pete Wilhelm and George Norris. The D.A. was there too."

"Your man – who's that?"

"My contact's name isn't important," Dillon hedged, "but he's associating with a name you might recognize – Mike LaBonte, an agent in the office. Apparently the guy's got himself sideways with the mob – a little debt issue."

"LaBonte," repeated Walsh, slowly. "We've never had an issue with him before, and I'd know. Interesting. So what did LaBonte have to say – did he have anything specific?"

"No. LaBonte did see Wilhelm afterward with the two agents assigned to the case, but he wasn't sure what they were talking about. Might be something, might not. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything."

"Nothing." Walsh was silent for a moment, thinking. He and Maxwell worked in the same office suite, and Jason was usually aware of Maxwell's schedule. He'd known Maxwell was out of the office on Friday, but he thought he remembered, vaguely, a reference to a vacation day. It was somewhat disturbing that he hadn't heard about this, but not out of the question. "I've been pulling up all the reports submitted from the Philly office – it sounds like they're just getting started, and not rolling too fast. They don't have anything yet, according to the reports."

Moran grunted. "Probably nothing then. I just thought you ought to know."

"Yeah," said Walsh. "Yeah, thanks. Keep me updated on what your man finds."

"You know it."

They hung up, and both of them were silent for a moment, wearing the same expression, pondering the same question, on opposite ends of the continent.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan glanced up as Charlie pushed through the front door, followed by Don. His oldest was carrying a case that looked unfamiliar, but it was Charlie who drew Alan's radar. He looked pale, bedraggled, and miserable, a contrast to Don's showered and clean-shaven appearance.

Charlie shot him a glance in return, aiming for casual, but exuding something else that looked at least in part like guilt. His demeanor reminded Alan of the day he'd left his new bicycle in the street as a child, and it got crushed by a delivery truck which had pulled up to the curb. His treasure was gone, and he knew it was his fault. Then, as now, Alan felt both irritated and sorry for him. Pity triumphed as Charlie spoke.

"Hi Dad. Did anyone call?" Charlie delivered it with feigned casualness, but Alan knew what, or who, prompted the question. Larry had called earlier looking for Charlie, and had mentioned his son's argument with Amita.

"Just Larry," he replied. "He said he'd call you back." Charlie gave a nod, trying to look disinterested, but Alan saw the disappointment in his face, the slump in his posture.

"I'm going to get a shower." Charlie glanced at Don. "I won't be long."

"Take your time," replied Don. His eyes followed Charlie up the stairs, mainly to avoid looking at Alan. His father had lifted the paper again, but Don knew his sharp eyes missed nothing, at least as far as his sons were concerned.

"You two must have been out late last night," remarked Alan mildly.

Don shrugged. "Not really. We got a bite to eat, hung out over at my place." He paused, and glanced at his father, who appeared safely engrossed in the grocery circular. "He uh, maybe had a couple too many. Not that many," he amended hastily. "He didn't get sick or anything. He's just feeling less than stellar this morning." Damn, Eppes, quit talking, he told himself. Not for the first time, he thought that Alan would be good in the interrogation room. His father had hardly said anything; his detached silence was enough to invoke diarrhea of the mouth.

Alan grunted at a photo of impossibly large raspberries. "Can't say he does that too often. Is something bothering him?"

"Uh," Don managed, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably, and glancing at the stairs.

Alan shot him a sharp glance, and looked back at his paper. Interesting, he thought. His sons had closed ranks against him; Don was obviously trying to guard Charlie's secret. There had only been one period in their lives when they'd done that – when Don was around ten or eleven, and Charlie five or six. Since then, it seemed that they hadn't been close enough to confide in each other, or at any rate, they hadn't chosen each other over their parents when it came to discussing private matters. Until now. It was a little disconcerting, Alan had to admit, but he told himself, a bit smugly, that he still had the upper hand. Father still knew all. Or at least, he could make them think he did. He looked at his paper nonchalantly, and offered, "Other than his fight with Amita, I mean."

Don looked at him, a bit taken aback. Apparently his father was not only an interrogator par excellence, he knew the answers to his questions before he asked them. "How did you know?"

"Larry."

A bit of relief crept into Don's expression. "Well, if you bring it up, make sure he knows I didn't tell you."

Alan lowered the paper, and looked at him directly. "Larry seemed to think it was a hell of an argument."

Don grimaced. "Yeah, I heard some of it." He sighed and shook his head. "It didn't sound good. It sounded like she's broken things off, at least temporarily. She's pretty ticked off that he started consulting again, and didn't tell her." He declined to mention that they hadn't been spending the evenings together, but Omniscient Al had apparently picked up on that too.

"I noticed she hasn't been over much," sighed Alan. "I told him he needed to talk to her about it." He shook his head with aggravation. "He's so damn stubborn."

It was another revelation when, instead of the "tell me about it," he'd been expecting, Don jumped to Charlie's defense. "Yeah, well, he's been through a hell of a lot lately. I'm not saying what he did was right, but it's understandable."

It was Alan's turn to stare, but he caught himself quickly, turning back to his paper with another grunt, as Don made his way toward the kitchen. "What's in the case?"

"Charlie's new pistol," Don replied. "We were going to go to the shooting range, but maybe we'll do that tomorrow. I don't think his hands are too steady today. I'm just going to show him how to load and clean it." He pushed through the door.

Alan had lowered the paper at the comment and stared with a bemused expression at nothing. His youngest son had just lost a girlfriend, and acquired a firearm. He was starting to sound more like his older brother every day, and Alan wasn't quite sure he liked it. He had a funny, sad nostalgic feeling in the pit of his stomach, the same one he got when he looked at their baby pictures. He sighed, shook his head, and looked back at the paper, observing that the grocery prices, like life, seemed to be spiraling out of control.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 5