Chapter Two
Charlie didn't take that as much of an answer, but he was a little curious about this mysterious stranger. The man reminded Charlie of his older brother, Don. His FBI agent brother had the same take-charge attitude he saw in this man now. Charlie hurried outside with John, still a bit dazed and confused. They walked a good ways before John hailed a cab. Charlie aversely stepped out into the street after him. John pulled open the driver side door. "Get out," he told the bald man inside.
"What? You can't take my cab!" the old man snapped.
John held up an NYPD badge, saying, "Detective Stills. I need to commandeer your vehicle, sir."
That did the trick. The bald guy hopped out and meandered to the sidewalk, muttering curses under his breath. Charlie climbed into the front passenger seat and John floored it. Charlie grabbed onto the armrest and door for stability. "So, you're NYPD," he said.
"No."
"You know, impersonating a police officer is a federal offense," Charlie explained, agitated.
John's face was blank like a canvas. Charlie furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you FBI, CIA, NSA . . . MI6?" he asked the last one more jokingly.
"None of the above," John replied quietly.
"Then, what, are you a private investigator?"
"I guess you could say that."
"Do you have a name?"
"John."
The rest of the ride back to Harold's headquarters in the old library was in silence. Charlie studied John. The tall man was middle-aged, with dark graying hair. The expressions on his face were so serious. Charlie could tell he had a past that haunted him. John's cool gray eyes spoke the words that never left his lips. The pain in him was buried beneath his sleek façade. But Charlie knew better than to ask. When they reached their destination, John led Charlie down the old halls of books to the room where Harold waited patiently. Charlie stared—unintentionally—at Harold's quirky appearance. The short brown hair and long, thick sideburns threw him off from the sound of his calm voice saying, "Hello, Mr. Eppes."
Harold stood and hobbled unevenly over to Charlie. "Who are you?" asked Charlie.
"You can call me Mr. Finch."
He pushed his glassed up and extended a hand. Charlie coolly slid his hands into his pockets instead of shaking Harold's. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked defensively. "How do you know I'm in danger? Where—where are you getting your information?"
Charlie was obviously still in shock from the attack at the convention center. "I can't reveal my sources, but I can tell you without a doubt that you're in danger," Harold explained. "I'm not certain yet why those men shot up the Mathematics Convention. Do you know why someone would try to hurt you?"
"They weren't after me. They couldn't have been. They had a clear shot and they didn't take it. At first I thought it was a terrorist attack, but then it looked like they were targeting the other man on stage, the employee," Charlie replied, shaking his head.
"We have reason to believe they were there for you," John said. "There's no way they missed. It may have been a warning. Who would want to kill you?"
"I don't know!" Charlie shouted. "What the hell is going on?"
"You have NSA clearance. When was the last time you consulted with the NSA?" Harold asked politely.
"About a year ago, maybe ten months," he answered. "And the last case I consulted for the FBI was four weeks ago. But the man who was arrested doesn't even know I exist, so that's just irrelevant. How much do you know about me?"
"You live in Los Angeles, with your father Alan. Your brother Don works for the FBI, your mother died years ago, you graduated high school at the age of thirteen and attended Princeton, and your currently a professor at CalSci. Your name is Charles Eppes, but most call you Charlie, sometimes Chuck, except Dr. Fleinhardt who commonly refers to you as Charles."
Charlie stared wide-eyed at Harold, his mouth ajar. "How—do—you—know?" he whispered. "Researching me on the internet's one thing, but this is a whole other level."
"I think we should tell him, Finch," John said.
"No! If he knows, nothing will ever be the same. Knowing is a burden too heavy for such a young man to have to carry. It could compromise everything," Harold stated.
"He's a genius mathematician. We may need all the help we can get and he can't fully help us if he doesn't know," John argued calmly.
"You don't understand the ramifications, Mr. Reese!"
"I do, but what choice do we have?" John whispered, raising an eyebrow.
"This conversation is over," Harold snapped, and limped back to his desk.
"Know what?" Charlie questioned. "Tell me what?"
John ignored his questions. "Can I at least go back to the hotel? If only to get some things?" asked Charlie.
"Take him, Mr. Reese," Harold told him. "Maybe the fresh air will help you think clearer."
John pursed his lips and trudged out of the room, Charlie following behind. John drove the taxi back to the hotel. As Charlie was gathering up his things, his cellphone rang. When he looked at the caller ID, he saw it was Don. "Hey, Don," he answered, sitting on the hotel room bed.
"Thank God you're alive!" the FBI agent cried. "I saw what happened at the convention. It's all over the news. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Don."
John watched Charlie closely. "Are you sure you're okay?" Don asked.
"Yes, I'm alright! I'm just a little shaken up, but I'm fine, really, I am. You worry too much."
"I don't think Dad's seen the news yet, so I'll make sure he hears it from me first. Are you going to fly home early?"
"Uh, no, I—I already bought the tickets for three days from now."
"We should go," John cut in.
"But, I . . .," Charlie began.
"Who are you talking to?" asked Don.
"Sorry, Don, I'll call you back later. I have to go," Charlie responded, and hung up.
Charlie snatched up his stuff and rushed out of the hotel with John. After dumping Charlie's stuff in the back of the cab, they hopped in and headed back. "Mr. Reese," Harold said through the earwig, "It looks like someone put out a hit on Mr. Eppes. The Fischers were paid to shoot him."
"But they missed," John stated.
"They weren't professional assassins. It turns out they just wanted some extra cash for drugs."
Charlie gazed at John in confusion. "You're talking to Mr. Finch?"
John looked at Charlie and pointed to his ear, nodding. "Who hired them?" John probed.
"A man by the name of Louis Harnett," Harold replied. "He's an astrophysicist with a display at the convention center."
"Do you know a Louis Harnett?" John asked Charlie.
"Yeah," Charlie answered slowly. "Why?"
John glanced in the rearview mirror. "Is that who's tailing us?"
Charlie craned his neck to look behind the taxi cab. "Oh, hey, yeah it is him. How'd you know?"
"Harnett hired those men to kill you," John stated, making a sharp turn.