A/N: Thanks to you loyal reviewers, I appreciate it.

Chapter 6

Don ended up spending the night at Charlie's house. He was glad for the company, even as morose as it was. Charlie moped by the phone for most of the day, although Don managed to divert his attention for a while to learn how to load and clean his new pistol, a compact semi-automatic Smith & Wesson, with a sleek brushed-silver finish and a black grip. It was now Sunday, and they had just arrived at the target range, and geared up with hearing protection in a practice station.

Charlie stared at the target disinterestedly as Don explained some of the finer points of positioning. "Two hands are always better for stability, in a raised position so you can sight down the barrel. Bent knees keep you more stable also. I know you've shot a rifle before, but a pistol is much harder to aim and control. The closer the range, the better chance you have of hitting your target."

Charlie grimaced, and Don paused for a moment, looking at him. "You're really not into this, are you?"

Charlie sighed; then gave him an apologetic look. "It's one thing to shoot at a target. I'm really not all that keen at pointing one of these things at a human being."

Don's mouth twisted. "You might have a different opinion if that person's bent on doing you harm."

Charlie looked doubtful. "I suppose – but when it comes down to it, I'm just not sure if I could go through with it, no matter what. I don't know how you do it."

He regretted the words as soon as he saw the dark look pass over Don's face. "If you think it's easy to shoot someone, Charlie, trust me, it's not. I won't kid you; it's not something you get over right away, if ever. But if that someone is trying to kill you, it beats the alternative. Hopefully you'll never have to find out, but you've got the thing now; don't you think it makes sense to at least learn how to use it?"

Charlie looked up at him, a bit abashed. The fact was, he could never refuse Don anything – whom was he kidding by his reluctance? His brother knew a lot more about this than he did, and Charlie was sure he had his best interests at heart. Don was probably right, he conceded, he needed to focus. He reached carefully for the pistol. "Okay, so I hold it this way?" He gripped the butt of the pistol, placed his other hand so it supported the first, and faced the target.

Don looked at the hand position, and nodded. "Yeah. Now bend your knees a bit, straighten your arms, and sight down the pistol at the target. Take a deep breath to steady yourself, and then let it out. Shoot on exhale, just as you did with the rifle. It helps if you tighten your stomach muscles at the end…" He broke off; frowning as he looked at Charlie's shaking arms. Did this disturb him that much? he wondered. Or was his brother still feeling the effects of the alcohol two nights ago? "Try to hold it steady."

Charlie's face was pinched. "I'm trying – it's my shoulder – I can't lift it this high in this position."

Don paused, taken aback. He had nearly forgotten about Charlie's shoulder injury – his brother rarely had to lift his arm that high for everyday activities – at least those activities that Don could see. "Okay, lower your arms again." He thought for a moment. "We can try it one of two ways. One is to hold it one-handed, and try to sight down your arm. The other is to bring your arms up to a lower point, but bend your elbows to bring the gun up closer to your line of sight. We'll do both, and see which works better for you. Try the bent arms first."

Charlie nodded, and bent his arms. The position did allow him to lower his elbows, while keeping the pistol up near his line of sight. He squeezed the trigger, tentatively, and started a little as the pistol bucked in his hands, with a sharp crack. He'd known there would be recoil, but it still felt odd when the pistol jumped, as if it was a live thing. He worked on steadying his hands, and aimed again.

Don watched, eyes narrowed, as his brother took several shots at the target. Even at the lower arm level, Charlie still favored that side, and the shoulder drooped a bit, pulling his aim off. When they examined the target, Don could see the initial shots were all low and to the left. Charlie had tried to compensate as he went along, but was woefully inaccurate. He was actually better; it turned out, at shooting one-handed, sighting down his good arm. It wasn't something Don would have recommended for a beginner, and truthfully, Charlie's aim was still poor, but it was obviously more accurate than his two-handed attempt.

"Okay, now, I want you to practice something for me," Don said, as they put up a new target. "You're tight, and you're trying to rush things. Make each shot deliberate, nice and slow. Even in an emergency situation, you're better off thinking that way. It's better to take an extra second or two and get a good shot off, than to waste four or five with wild ones. Take some deep breaths."

The advice apparently worked; Charlie's next target was much better; in fact better than Don would have expected of most beginners. Charlie, though, was frowning. "I did a lot better when I came out with you the first time, on the sniper case."

"You were shooting a rifle then," Don pointed out. "That's always much more accurate at distance. Plus, you're shooting one-handed. For a pistol, this is actually pretty good."

Charlie's face brightened a little. "Really?"

Don grinned back at him. "Really. Try a few more."

After several rounds, Don could see that Charlie's efforts were actually starting to deteriorate, as his arm tired. He examined the last target. "Okay, I think that's enough for today."

Charlie stared at it, his forehead puckered. "I think I'm getting worse, instead of better."

"That's normal," said Don lightly. "You're using muscles in your wrists, arm, and hand that you don't normally use, and you're getting tired. Happens to everyone. You have to remember, you probably won't be shooting at something as far away as this target." He clapped a reassuring hand on Charlie's back and smiled at him.

Charlie's frown relaxed a little, but he still looked doubtful. "Yeah, I suppose."

They packed up and trudged back to the SUV, and Don felt a twinge of sympathy as he looked at Charlie's gloomy face. He had a good idea what was on his brother's mind, and it was confirmed as soon as they got in the car, and Charlie spoke.

"Do you think she called?" The words were delivered without much hope, and Charlie didn't even look at him as he said them, instead staring bleakly out through the windshield.

"I don't know, Buddy," Don replied softly. "Let's head back and find out."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Monday afternoon, SAC Pete Wilhelm leaned forward expectantly, elbows on his knees, and faced his agents, Brad Decker and Steve Zuckerman. The D.A., Isaac Shaw, had been tied in to the conference room by speakerphone, the volume turned low, the door shut. This particular room was relatively soundproof, and windowless; Wilhelm had picked it for that reason.

"So how's our consultant doing?"

Decker and Zuckerman exchanged glances, and Decker spoke. "I don't know. Not good, I don't think. He was freaking out a little when we left him."

Shaw's voice came from the speakerphone. "He's not on site?"

Wilhelm addressed the phone. "No. We're keeping this low profile, at Maxwell's request. We don't want people seeing him coming in and out of the office. We've got him holed up in a little office downtown, a backroom of a store we use as a front. We four, and the man we've got stationed there with him right now, are the only ones who know he's on this job."

"Who is he again?" asked Shaw.

"Name's Professor William Koslowski, from Philadelphia U." Wilhelm turned back to Decker. "Freaking out how?"

Decker grimaced. "I don't know – he seems a little overwhelmed by all of the data, and the timeline we're giving him. He says he could develop something, but not within the timeframe we're asking. He's still working on it, but he was a little upset when we left."

Zuckerman snorted. "A little! The guy was wearing a hole in the floor in front of the computer. He paces, then taps on the keyboard, and paces again. And he's talking to himself. He'll wear himself out or go nuts before he gets anywhere."

"We need to get him some help." Wilhelm thought for a minute, and addressed the phone. "What about Dr. Eppes?"

Shaw's voice came back at him, crisp and decisive. "No way. We can't have him do this – the judge will throw it out, just like in L.A."

"I'm not saying have him do it," responded Wilhelm. "We'll still have Koslowski do the actual work. Eppes can just show him how he did it, what equations he used, or whatever it is they do. Koslowski can just apply it to his data – he'll do the work, and the testifying."

The phone was silent for a moment; then Isaac spoke. "Yeah, I don't see how they could argue with that. First of all, no one would necessarily know that Eppes participated, but even if they found out and we had to disclose, we could still maintain he didn't do any of the actual analysis. That could work. We need to keep him just as low profile as Koslowski, though."

Wilhelm looked at Decker and Zuckerman. "Not a problem. You two make arrangements – I want you on a Bureau jet to L.A. as soon as possible."

"Okay," came Isaac's voice. "I gotta run – anything else?"

"Yeah, Isaac, hold up for a minute – I've got a question on another case." Wilhelm nodded a dismissal at his agents. "You guys can go – line up your flight and we'll talk details later."

Out in the bullpen, Mike LaBonte lazily leaned back and watched as Decker and Zuckerman came around the corner from the conference room and headed toward the break area. Zuckerman was carrying his coffee mug, and as they turned into the entrance, LaBonte rose, snagging his own cup. He made his way across the office, trying to force himself not to rush, and stopped outside the doorway, pretending to inspect the inside of his cup, rubbing at a non-existent spot inside the rim. Zuckerman's voice was quiet, but LaBonte could make it out.

"I don't get what this consultant's doing for us, anyway. Seems like a waste. We could do the same thing by bringing in the whole team and having them dog these leads."

LaBonte could almost see the shrug; it was reflected in Decker's voice. "Not our call, man. Plus, it supposedly helped on the other case. You gotta admit; there are hundreds of transactions there, maybe thousands. It's probably a lot faster once the guy figures it out."

His voice increased in volume slightly, and LaBonte knew they were heading out of the break room. He turned to go in, and passed them with a nod as they came through the doorway.

"Hey, Mikey," said Zuckerman with a grin. "How's it goin'?"

LaBonte grimaced. "The usual, man, the usual." He put his head down, and headed into the break room.

Three hours later, at around six p.m., he left work. Right at the scheduled time, he pulled into the gas station in Exton, parking next to his contact's car. He got out of his vehicle, and slid into the passenger seat.

Jack O'Brien looked at him with a bland, lazy expression, which somehow was more threatening than a scowl. "So LaBonte, what's the story? Tell me you got something today."

"You got my money?"

O'Brien pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to him, with look of distaste. "You better hope for your sake you earned this, or you're not getting another chance to earn more."

"I got something," retorted LaBonte. "I overheard Decker and Zuckerman today. They've got a consultant on the case. Sounds like he's going through data, transactions, maybe writing a computer program or something."

"Who is it?"

"They didn't say. It doesn't sound like he's gotten very far, though. Zuckerman said something about being further ahead if they ran down the leads themselves."

O'Brien grunted. "You haven't seen him? The consultant?"

"No. He could be working downstairs, but he's definitely not up in the offices."

"Okay. Try to find out who and where he is, and see if you can get updates somehow on how he's doing. We need this - like yesterday. Get your ass in gear. Tomorrow night's meeting place is at the Denny's in West Chester, 7:30 p.m."

LaBonte nodded, his mouth tight, but restrained the sharp response that hovered on his lips. He climbed out of the car, straightened his jacket with a shrug of his shoulders, and strolled toward the gas station for a cup of coffee he didn't need, as O'Brien pulled away.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don pulled the door open to his apartment building Monday evening, wearily. It was around seven, and had been a long day. Things were looking up a bit; Charlie had made good progress on the Marciano tax fraud case, and the noose around the mobster's neck was tightening nicely. Just a bit more on their end to clean up; and they could go for an arrest warrant. He stopped to open his mail slot, only half-noticing the UPS truck that had pulled up outside. The driver approached the door with a medium sized box, and Don stepped over to let him in.

"Thanks," said the man, glancing at the name on his package. His eyes followed Don as he turned back toward his mail slot and locked it, and then he looked down at his package again, with a flash of recognition. "I see your apartment number – are you Don Eppes?"

Don turned. "Yeah."

"This is for you then." The man handed it to him with a grin. "Saved me a trip. Thanks."

Don took the package with a bemused look, and murmured, "No problem," as the man turned and trotted back out to his truck. He frowned in confusion. The box was light, about a foot square, and the label indicated it was from a sporting goods manufacturer. He turned and headed up the stairs, pondering. He'd been looking at a catalogue from one lately, but it wasn't this company, and he didn't order anything anyway. Had to be some kind of mistake.

His mind ran idly over the weekend as he made his way down the hall, and stopped to unlock his door. He'd stayed at Charlie's for dinner the night before, and headed back to his apartment, leaving his brother stewing over whether to try to call Amita or not. He knew Charlie was looking for some guidance there, but he'd bowed out of that discussion; he hardly felt qualified to give relationship advice with his track record. Instead, he settled for lending a sympathetic ear.

In spite of Charlie's predicament, the weekend had done Don a world of good. The time he'd spent with Charlie, their conversation, had been easy, relaxed, infused with a casual closeness that Don had once thought they'd never have. It made coming back to his apartment a much easier prospect than it had been before the weekend started. Work had gone well that day too; the only disturbing thing about the day was that Charlie had called to talk late in the afternoon, and had said Amita was still refusing to see him. Don could feel his disappointment, his anxiety through the line, and it left a residue of unease, as he pushed through the door and set down his mail.

Mild curiosity took over as he glanced again at the box, and he stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, returning and slicing through the packaging tape. It had to be a mistake; he'd more than likely be sending this back, he thought, as he opened the flaps.

His first reaction was to recoil instinctively, as the snake shot out of the box, directly toward his face.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 6