Title: High Society

Chapter 30: A Godless Inconvenience

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Timmons was expecting the call.

He was already sitting on his couch, a bottle of Jack in one hand and his cell in the other. The bottle was almost a third down when the phone began to vibrate. He took a final chug for stamina, and didn't even bother to check his 'caller I.D.'

"Timmons."

"You should have kept me informed."

Timmons had already ingested enough alcohol to allow a brief sarcastic snort to escape him. "Right. I tried explaining to the SAC that I needed to take a quick break, so that I could instigate the convoluted relay system involved when I initiate contact with Mr. X -- the very target of an active investigation -- and leak all pertinent information to him; but my boss just didn't understand."

A few seconds of silence greeted his speech, and then Markus continued as if it had never happened. "You are paid very well to take certain risks."

Timmons closed his eyes and held the bottle to his forehead, hoping to somehow absorb another hit of whiskey. "Well, heads-up," he finally responded wearily. "You'd better keep Saul under wraps for a while."

Markus kept any note of alarm from entering his voice, even though Saul was one of his most-trusted and important couriers. "Indeed?"

Timmons sighed, lowering the bottle. "Yeah. Resin worked with a sketch artist. They think it's you, but I recognized Saul right away."

"Of course," Markus mused. "Saul often handles the payments for me, and he coordinates the drivers. This is truly an inconvenience."

"If I were you, I'd suspend operations for awhile anyway," Jack advised.

This time Markus sighed in put-upon aggrievance. "I likely will," he conceded. His voice hardened. "I need you to take care of Resin."

Timmons was so surprised he almost dropped the bottle, and his eyes shot open wide. "Beg pardon?"

Markus confirmed his request. "You heard me."

Jack leaned forward a little, frowning. "But…he won't be able to do any more damage than what he's already done. The GPS, the picture of Saul – he's given them all he has!"

"Exactly," Markus purred. "For this betrayal he must suffer retribution. He now has a personal debt to pay. In addition, my other employees may need an example, during this difficult time."

Timmons stood, and began to pace his small living room. "Look, it's one thing to leak information. Murder is entirely different."

"Is it?" Markus sounded genuinely interested. "Do your employers also draw a definitive line there? When evidence of your transgressions over the years is delivered to your Mr. Wright in the morning, will he congratulate you for never having killed anyone?" Without waiting for a response, he hardened his tone. "Eppes' brother has been repeatedly drugged. Beaten. Raped." He allowed a few seconds of silence to underscore his last revelation. "These things have happened, in no small part, due to your cooperation and assistance. I assure you, it is documented in the file I shall have delivered."

Timmons swayed a little at the end of the couch and sunk heavily into the cushions before he fell down. He clutched the bottle of Jack harder. "Raped?" he whispered. "I thought…"

Markus interrupted. "You thought what, my dear man? That I simply wanted to kidnap him to slap him on the wrist for nearly destroying my livelihood?" He laughed, bitterly. "I'm sure some wrist-slapping has been involved – but you'd have to confirm that with Morrison."

Timmons swallowed, sickened. "My God," he murmured.

"Oh, I doubt that your God or anyone else's is here at the moment," Markus remarked almost jovially. "Now. Tell me. Should I prepare the file for delivery, or are you ready to talk business?"

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Robin accompanied Don to his father's after work. The loosely-knit plan involved making sure the older man was eating and taking care of himself – but that all flew out of Don's head when he let himself and Robin in the kitchen door of the Craftsman.

Amita and Alan sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table. Alan just looked confused – shell-shocked, even. Amita sat primly back in the chair a few feet from the table, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression when she looked up at Don reminded him of someone who had taken a huge and unsuspecting bite of something sour, and bitter. He hesitated in the doorway, barely allowing enough room for Robin to prod him forward and close the door.

"Hey," he greeted, trying to smile.

Amita slowly stood and turned to face him fully, her visage dark and accusing. Her voice trembled with anger. "It's all over campus, you know. How could you even hope that I wouldn't hear about your fight with Charlie? Dane told me you broke his nose – and Millie confirmed it!"

Don's shoulders sagged, but he felt Robin's steadying hand at his back. "It was part of the set-up," he explained lamely. He shot a glance toward his father. "I told you Charlie was undercover."

Alan shook his head, as if trying to relieve a ringing in his ears. He looked up at his son with an expression that said he felt the pain of Charlie's broken nose himself. "I don't understand," he said in a voice that clearly said he did not. "You had to break your brother's nose in order for him to go undercover?"

Don leaned back a little so that he could feel the pressure of Robin's hand more firmly. "Things got a little out of hand," he admitted sheepishly. "We were supposed to stage an argument in the office for the benefit of a possible F.B.I. leak. We wanted to make sure that the bad guys believed Charlie and I were estranged." He sighed. "Things got out of hand," he repeated.

Alan pushed himself up slowly, using the table for leverage. "My God," he breathed, looking at Don as if he did not even recognize him. "You knew there was a leak in the office, and you sent your brother into this…this…Dear Lord, I don't even know what you sent him into."

Don tried to take a step closer to Alan, but Amita blocked his path. "Dad, I didn't send him. I told you, I asked Charlie not to…" His voice trailed off, and he found that he could not perpetuate the myth any longer. He hung his head. "I did ask him not to get involved," he continued, "but he did it for me. The NSA agent working the case lied to him, and implied that my job was in danger. He told Charlie that he could save my career by going under."

Alan just stood silently but Amita practically flew at him. "Why didn't you tell him it wasn't true?" she demanded, pounding at his chest with her tiny fists. They were ineffectual, so she soon gave up, slapping him soundly across the face before Robin had time to step between them. "You've always used him, always! Charlie would do anything for you!" She choked back a sob. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Now Don was stunned speechless, and after Alan's murmured, "Amita…," Robin stepped up to the plate.

"Stop it!" she demanded firmly, planting herself in the middle of the kitchen and glaring at Amita. "You are not in a position to speak about hurting Charlie, Dr. Ramanujan – is Dane waiting in the living room for you?" She ignored Amita's offended gasp and turned a disapproving gaze to Alan. "And you. You should know your own son better than this. Don had no idea what the NSA agent had done until after Charlie went missing, and his own partner turned on him." Finally she turned to look almost reluctantly at Don. "And sweetheart," she said, tempering her words with love, "you have to get your head out of your misappropriated guilt and utilize it for something more useful." She took a step closer to him and locked her eyes with his, continuing to speak to Don as if they were the only two people in the room. "I know how much you love your brother. I know that about you. Now is the time to pull it together, Eppes, so that you can prove it to him, and everybody else." She reached out and lovingly cupped the cheek Amita had so recently slapped. "It's time to find Charlie."

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Bert Resin was a little surprised to see Jack Timmons on his porch; it was after nine, and no-one from the Bureau had called to indicate the need to question him further. Plus, this guy hadn't been a principal on the case….but Resin remembered him. He seemed to be always in the background during the time Bert was being questioned at the Field Office, and he lent administrative assistance on more than one occasion. Now, the man was holding his I.D. up to the peephole in the front door, but he didn't really need to. Bert had seen this agent all over the office, and knew that he was legit.

There was no reason not to open the door, and let him in.

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Apologies were said all around – but the damage had been done. When Don and Robin decided to order in some Chinese take-out, Amita had excused herself, claiming she had a lot to do, what with catching up on her own classes, and preparing to help cover Charlie's. Don found that he wasn't exactly reluctant to see her go. Sure, she had claimed to be sorry for her physical assault as well as her verbal one, but he found himself just a tad unwilling to believe the entire performance. The Amita he had grown to know over the last few years was not given to wild assumptions, frenetic outbursts rife with unfounded accusations. It had been clear that she and Charlie had been having some problems before Charlie disappeared, and now Don couldn't help wondering if she protested too much.

His father's apology seemed more genuine. The man was haggard with grief and despair, and he had not been sleeping well. His behavior was both understandable and forgivable. In fact, Don found himself quite unable to leave the old man alone that night.

He offered to drive Robin home or call her a cab, but in the end she surprised him by asking if she could stay. "You're not the only one who sometimes stays overnight at the office," she teased, smiling gently. "I keep an emergency overnight bag there. Just drop me off early, before anyone else gets in – I can change, put on some make-up; no-one will suspect."

Don was seriously moved. He understood that Robin wanted to stay not only to be with and support him, but because she was genuinely concerned about Alan, as well. "Thank-you," he murmured into her hair after the two of them had retired to the guest room – Alan had decided that trying to squeeze them into the twin bed of Don's youth was both ridiculous and unnecessary. "You don't know how much this means to me."

Robin smiled into the dark. "Of course I do," she murmured. "You may have dated a few idiots in the past, but I'm the real thing, Eppes."

For the first time since Charlie disappeared, Don laughed.

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Timmons had brought his bottle of Jack along for the ride, and now that it was over, and he had walked the block back to his vehicle, he drained the bottle in one long swallow. He shuddered as he tossed the empty onto the passenger-side floorboard and fumbled with the keys at the ignition.

God, that was horrible.

It wasn't as if he had not killed, before. He'd been an agent with the F.B.I. for nearly 15 years, and before that he was with Baltimore P.D. Hell, at this point, he wasn't sure he could remember everyone he'd shot. There had even been a case or two of mistaken identity, of non-targeted personnel jumping into the line of fire. He had been cleared by internal affairs in those cases, and while they still ate at him, kept him awake at night and contributed to the gambling and drinking problems that had led him to Mr. X in the first place…they did not feel like this.

This was the worst moment of his life. Without a doubt, he knew that he would never forget the look in Bert Resin's eyes when Timmons had reached around to his back and liberated his unregistered back-up piece. Resin was no fool. Still, he must have held out hope, until Timmons forced him onto his knees, hands locked behind his head.

The truck driver had started crying, then, and Timmons had almost burst into tears with him.

He had muffled the sound with a pillow from the couch after the silencer had slipped through sweaty fingers. He had been as merciful as possible: One to the base of the skull, and after Resin had toppled to the floor like a felled tree, two more in quick succession. Base of the spine, and a gut shot, to insure that he would bleed out if all else failed. Timmons was pretty sure they were all fatal hits, though.

He had almost slipped out the back door when he remembered to go back for the dropped silencer. His hands were shaking when he picked it up. He left the casings; the gun was not registered, and after he used one of Resin's own kitchen towels to wipe it for prints, he would dump the .38 special in one of the garbage cans that lined the alley on the way back to the car anyway.

He cranked the car's heater up as high as it would go, but he couldn't stop shaking. He had murdered his first man tonight, and he had killed an entire fifth of whiskey, too. He didn't even realize that he was crying; his only thought was to make it to a liquor store before closing.

Jack Timmons drove almost three miles away from Bert Resin's house before, drunk and despondent, he ran the red light.

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End, Chapter 30