Chapter 8

Dillon stood in the waiting area, trying to ignore the hair prickling on the back of his neck. The state-run facility for the criminally insane was a hellhole, one deeper than anything Dante could have imagined. High fences rimmed with barbed wire surrounded the grounds, through which visitors needed to be escorted, even though it was segregated from the prison yard. On the other side of an inner fence, he could see inmates shuffling in a dusty common area, wandering a large field devoid of anything other than parched grass. For the most part, they looked a docile bunch, doped up on whatever medications they were fed on a daily basis, wearing tracking bracelets on their arms, shuffling with vacant stares and repetitive mannerisms, tongue thrusts, head rolls. One of them stood in the yard, blissfully urinating and drooling, while another walked past him, gibbering to himself. His brother was in this place, Dillon thought, and his gut clenched. His brother was in this God-awful place.

The guard had walked him through two sets of security doors and into a waiting area. Another had been dispatched for Sean, who was on a different level of the building. It housed the worst of them – murderers, some of them serial killers – most found incapable of being tried by reason of insanity, a few, like Sean, who were awaiting trial, but judged to be too dangerous for a normal mental hospital. Not that Sean was insane – at least not since his withdrawal from meth. It had seemed a good idea at the time – to plead insanity. Looking at the place now, Dillon was not so sure.

The door opened, and he found himself staring at his brother. Even in the faded tan jumpsuit and the hobbling shackles, Sean looked physically so much better that Dillon was momentarily taken aback. It was brutally apparent how much the meth had contributed to Sean's decline, now that he was off it. His brother's eyes were focused, he looked rested; he'd gained some weight. He'd apparently stopped the incessant hair-pulling and it was beginning to grow back, and looked clean and neatly cut. The only thing to mar the picture, other than the trappings of prison, was the expression on his face. Sean looked desperate.

"Dillon," he said, almost choking on the name, and shuffled forward.

Dillon strode toward him and despite the guard's warning, clasped him in a hug. "Seanie-boy," he whispered. As the guard protested, he stepped back, and they took seats as directed.

He looked into Sean's tortured face. "You look good, Sean. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," replied Sean miserably. He looked into Dillon's eyes, pleadingly, and spoke in a voice low enough that the guards couldn't hear. "You got to get me out of this place, Dillon. I'll go to regular prison, I don't care. I gotta get out."

Dillon leaned forward, and spoke just as quietly. "I can't do that, Sean. They'll try you for the fireman's murder, and for attempted murder of the Eppes. You could get the death penalty."

At his mention of the name, Sean's face darkened. "I hate them," he whispered. "It's all their fault."

Dillon nodded, and his mouth twisted slightly in a grimace. "I know, Seanie," he whispered back. "I know."

The visit was pitifully brief, and a few minutes later, Dillon found himself outside in the parking lot, standing next to his car. A blast of wind blew a cloud of dust in his face, and he opened the car door and got in to escape it, still staring at the ugly concrete building, squatting like a beige monster in a sea of chain link. It was no place fit for a human, especially not a sane one. "What kind of life is that?" Dillon whispered to himself. He started the car, pulled slowly out of the lot, and headed down the bleak driveway, and as he reached the tree line and the facility and its grounds disappeared from view, a shudder ran down his spine.

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Wednesday evening, Don stood with his arms folded, and watched as Charlie plowed through the boxes in the corner of the basement. "What are you looking for?"

"Another medium-sized suitcase. Dad took the one I usually use. I think we've got another one here somewhere." Charlie straightened, and wiped a cobweb off his cheek. "I ended up telling him I was going out of town to a conference myself. That way he won't panic if he calls back here and doesn't get anyone."

"What did you tell Millie?"

"That I'm getting called out on a top-secret consulting job that I can't tell her about, and she isn't supposed to say anything."

"Charlie." Don's voice was disapproving, but he couldn't stifle a grin.

"What? What was I supposed to say? She knows I do that stuff. She won't say anything. It's not as if I told her what I'm doing or for whom, and besides, she's perpetuating the conference myth. Even Larry thinks I'm going to discuss dispersion calculations for nano-particles in metal plating." Charlie pulled another box from the stack and set it aside. "Huh."

"What?"

"Back there against the wall. I forgot we had that – the little safe. It might be a good place to stick papers in while I'm gone."

"You can put your gun in it, too," Don observed. "Guns are one of the first things taken in home thefts."

Charlie waded in between boxes toward the safe, and began pulling another one from the top of the stack. He had started to turn his torso a bit to hand it to Don, who had stepped forward, when Charlie suddenly froze. Before Don could grab the box, Charlie had dropped it, and was backpedaling away from the wall, so fast he backed right into Don.

Don grabbed him to steady him, and could feel the vibration running through his brother's body. "What? What is it?" He pulled Charlie backward, and eased in front of him, half-expecting another snake. Charlie's face was white, and he was staring toward a gap between the bottom boxes and the wall. As Don moved forward, he could see a blanket on the floor, several empty packages of crackers, and some water bottles. They'd just discovered where Sean Moran had made his home.

"That's where he was," exclaimed Don softly. He surveyed the scene in front of him. "He pulled out the bottom boxes a little, and stacked the top ones over them all the way against the wall." The ruse had made it look like the pile was solid, but actually, there was a gap at the bottom. "I'll have to tell Colby." He turned and looked at Charlie, who was still pale, his eyes dark. "Are you okay?"

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, shakily. "Yeah. It just, uh, startled me. I wasn't expecting it." He swallowed, looked away, and back again. "Sometimes I still feel like he's here, waiting to jump out again."

Don reached in and dragged the little safe away from the wall, and then hefted a suitcase out of a nearby box. "Come on, I've got your suitcase." He stepped over to Charlie and put an arm around him. "Why don't you go up and get packed?"

Charlie nodded and took the case. His eyes had lost their earlier conviction, and he seemed suddenly deflated as he made for the steps. Don watched him go, and looked back again at the nest by the basement wall. He'd get the crime lab to go through it while Charlie was gone – if Sean Moran was ever declared fit to stand trial, it could be added to the evidence. The mention of the drug addict brought back memories in a rush, and Don shifted uncomfortably. He suddenly wished he'd tried harder to talk Charlie out of helping out the Philly office; he'd had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since the arrival of the agents that afternoon. He took a deep breath, trying to shake it off, and headed toward the stairs.

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Walsh felt the buzz of the disposable cell in his pocket. He was carrying two these days – he couldn't afford not to. One for Moran, one for everyone else. As he flipped it open, he glanced at the clock. It was 11:30 p.m. Wednesday evening and he was in his home study. His wife had just gone to bed; even his two teens were asleep – they had tests the next morning. Moran's voice came over the line. "Can you talk?"

"Yeah," replied Walsh. "Give me five – I'll call you back." He disconnected, and immediately headed quietly out of the study, grabbed his jacket, and let himself softly out of the front door. He'd done a search for bugs and hadn't found any, but he wasn't about to take chances. His front yard was large and filled with landscaping, most of it bare this time of year, but there was cover afforded by some large white pines, and he moved next to them, with a quick glance up and down the street. Empty. Satisfied, he redialed. "I'm here."

Dillon spoke tersely. "Dr. Eppes just left L.A. on a government jet. Unmarked, had a couple of suits with him, but we have no idea where there were headed or what agency the suits were from. They flew out of Burbank."

"What time was this?"

"Half hour ago, eight our time. The suits stopped in to see him at his office this afternoon, then came by this evening, picked him up, and took him to the airport. Don Eppes was there when they met this afternoon, and again tonight, but he stayed there."

Jason was silent for a moment, pondering the information. The feds already had another consultant lined up in Philly, so chances were good Dr. Eppes' departure had nothing to do with their case. Plus, Walsh had made sure through another contact that the D.A., Isaac Shaw, knew any work Eppes did would probably be disallowed. On the other hand, if the Feds had decided to use Eppes to speed up the investigation anyway, it would be disastrous. It was a risk they couldn't afford.

"We need to figure out where he went."

"I've got a couple of guys already on their way out to Philadelphia area airports, but if they're headed your direction, they could land anywhere in the Philly/Newark area – even New York. We can't cover them all. The best bet is to find the consultant in Philly – I've got LaBonte working on that. The way things are going, I think we need to take care of him anyway, even if Eppes doesn't show up there. It didn't sound like the guy was making a lot of progress, but we should err on the cautious side."

Walsh grunted his acknowledgment. "You're probably right. All right – look, I fly out tomorrow afternoon. Find someway we can meet safely while I'm out in L.A., and keep in mind you're probably being tailed."

Dillon snorted. "I know I am. I can ditch 'em anytime I need to. You need to worry about your own ass. Call me when you get in – I'll have something set up."

The line disconnected, and Walsh stood for a moment, silently, watching his breath rise in the cold night air, listening, watching. Finally, he turned, and went back into the house.

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Charlie accepted the cup of coffee from Pete Wilhelm the next morning, gratefully, and glanced around the kitchen. The Philadelphia SAC had insisted on putting Charlie up during his stay in Philadelphia, arguing that Charlie's credit card could be traced if he used a hotel. Of course, the Bureau could have reserved the room, so it was a feeble argument. Or perhaps not, Charlie reflected; an insider might be able to find out about such an arrangement. However, he suspected the real reason had to do with Wilhelm's desire to keep an eye on him. So early Thursday morning, he sat in the kitchen of Wilhelm's home, a modest two-story in the Philadelphia suburbs.

Last evening, he had occupied one of the three bedrooms on the second floor. The other was Wilhelm's and the third had been outfitted as an office – there was no family, apparently. Wilhelm looked to be around forty, a few years older than Don was, and the comparisons were undeniable. Bright, good-looking, obviously good at his job, and alone. Is this what Don was headed for? A lonely bachelor existence in a home that should have been filled with family? The thought made a lump rise in Charlie's throat.

"Coffee okay?" asked Wilhelm.

Charlie blinked. "Yeah, it's great. Hot." He sipped gingerly, as if to demonstrate.

Wilhelm studied the man in front of him. He was much younger than he expected, and his long hair and casual dress made him look younger yet. Pete had gotten background information from his agents after they'd met with Don Eppes, and he had details on what both men had been through recently. In spite of what must have been a horrific experience, and his work on many cases, some of which were certain to have been ugly, the young man still seemed to project an air of innocence, of naivety. Not as clueless to the real world as Koslowski, but still, without the sharp eyes and discerning manner of an agent. The intelligence in those eyes was unmistakable, but it seemed focused inward, trained on another world. But then, like Koslowski, Eppes was a math professor, and it made sense that both of them would be out of their element when dealing with dangerous men. It was his job to make sure they stayed whole and unharmed while they did whatever it was that they did. "You sure you don't want anything? Toast, even?"

Charlie smiled. "No, thanks. I'm not a big breakfast person." He liked his host well enough, but he was itching to be gone. The sooner he took care of this, the sooner he could get back home.

A little over a half hour later, they pulled into a parking lot behind a row of rather seamy-looking downtown buildings. Charlie couldn't help but notice that Wilhelm had taken a circuitous route to get there, and had communicated with agents or officers behind him more than once.

"We use this building as a front on occasion," Wilhelm informed him, as they made their way to a rear door. "The street side of the building houses a legitimate travel agency, and we have an office set up in the back. It's a safe setting, and you can work without disturbance. We have at least one Philly PD officer with you at all times, and going forward, they'll be handling most of your transportation. I came along this morning to introduce you, and to discuss the parameters of the case."

He rapped on the metal door, and after a pause, during which someone was presumably looking out through the small viewing aperture, it swung open, held by a burly-looking cop in uniform. "Morning, Andy," said Pete, and ushered Charlie in ahead of him, as Andy nodded at them.

They proceeded down a narrow hallway, and were met by Agent Decker. "Zuckerman's in with him," he said quietly to Wilhelm, jerking his head toward a room with an open door. Voices were floating out from it to the hallway, one quiet, one irritated. "He's not all that happy about this."

Charlie heard the irritated voice rise as they began to move toward the room. It was reedy and nasal, and the owner was obviously perturbed. "I told you guys I could do this – I just need more time than you're giving me."

Charlie could hear Zuckerman trying to placate the consultant as he moved into the doorway, and got a look at the thin, rather scruffy looking man, whose appearance was somewhat reminiscent of Woody Allen. The consultant had opened his mouth to reply, but stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Charlie over Zuckerman's shoulder. He stared, and the thick lenses in his glasses made his eyes appear even more bugged than they actually were. "Oh, my God," he exclaimed, and Zuckerman shot a confused look back over his shoulder. Willy pushed him aside, and made his way eagerly to the door, both hands outstretched. "Oh, my God," he exclaimed again. "Why didn't you tell me? Professor Eppes, it's such an honor, sir."

The small man grabbed Charlie's hand with both of his, and pumped it vigorously. "I'm William Koslowski, but call me Willy – you will call me Willy, right? I'm such an admirer of your work – the Eppes Convergence – I've been reading your papers – and of course, your book is a big hit on campus -,"

Charlie gently pried his hand out of Willy's grip and tried to interrupt the excited flow of words. "I'm pleased to meet you, Willy. Please, call me Charlie."

Willy flushed, and beamed. "Of course, of course." He took Charlie's arm, and steered him excitedly toward his laptop, nearly overrunning Zuckerman in the process. "Let me show you what I have so far. I can't believe they didn't tell me…"

Zuckerman shook his head, and grinning, strolled over to Wilhelm and Decker, standing outside the doorway. "So much for Willy being upset," he said in a low voice.

Decker snorted softly. "Christ, I thought he was going to pee his pants. It's like he's meeting some kind of rock star, or something."

A dry smile played on Wilhelm's lips. "In their world, he probably is. Come on; let's get a cup of coffee. We'll talk to them later when they come up for air."

They drifted down the hallway, and Zuckerman shot a glance at the two heads bent over the laptop, already immersed in an energetic discussion. He scratched his head, shook it again, and headed down the hall.

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End Chapter 8