25 – CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – 1.137^25

Charlie began to move again. He wanted to get away. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to run away. However, he couldn't.

Through the inert, heavy water he could hardly make three hops while constantly holding onto one of the walls, before he bumped against another wall. He turned again, and then again into another direction, and again he tried to get out, and again he failed. It was impossible.

The salt water burned the grazes on his forearms and wrists. He had pressed the water bottle against his chest like a lifebelt. The water was already waist high. Even if the tide turned now and started draining away he would still have serious problems and would probably be forced to swim. He could only hope that the water was already retreating and that it wouldn't rise any further inside his hole.

He paused. The sound of splashing water had become weaker. Less. There had to be less water coming through the skylight.

For a few anxious moments, Charlie looked above without seeing anything at all. And finally the splashing died away completely. His prison wasn't being flooded anymore. The water had to be retreating. It was over.

Exhausted and at the same time relieved, Charlie leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and wondered how many tide changes he would still have to endure in here.

And how many he would survive.

0 – 0 – 0

Don watched his superior with tension. He still didn't know why he'd been ordered to come into his office, although of course he couldn't help having a very specific and very uncomfortable suspicion.

"To cut a long story short, Agent," Merrick, the assistant director, began and Don's suspicion became stronger, "I have to put your team off the case."

"Sir, you can't do that."

"I can, Eppes, and you know exactly that I not only can do, but have to. Your team is biased, you anyway. You can't possibly continue being in charge of this case. After this mess with Norvtcharov we really can do without further scandals."

Fury began to surge up inside Don, but he stayed calm on the outside. "Are you suspending me?"

"That would be the best thing to do –"

"I thought you don't have enough agents," Don interrupted him. "For if you had enough, you could have provided protection for my brother and we wouldn't even be having this conversation now!"

"Are you trying to blame me for your brother's abduction, Eppes?" Merrick retorted coldly. "You shouldn't do that. I could always re-consider my decision."

Don frowned. "But you intend to take me off the case," he reiterated. "Do you want to assign me to another team or what?" He hesitated, wondering if he should really explain to the AD what a daft idea that was, and Merrick made use of this pause.

"No, that's not what I'm intending to do. I'm very well aware that your concentration is currently pointed in one very specific direction and that therefore you wouldn't really be a help to the other teams."

Don didn't know if it was because of his displeasure hearing the news of his suspension, but he thought he could feel that this wasn't everything. "But?" he asked, hopefully.

The AD smiled, and in their current situation the gesture appeared to be fairly out of place. "This mafia case," he explained, "requires as many agents as possible. Now that they have one of our counselors in their grasp, even more so. We're going to unite two teams, one of them yours. However, it won't be you who'll be in charge, but the SAC of the other team."

For the first time this day a little warm feeling surged through Don's body. He wasn't being pulled off the case. "Who?" He asked.

"James O'Connagh," Merrick answered willingly, and warm feeling number two flashed through Don. O'Connagh was a friend of his and more than that a good agent. He would know what to do in order to save Charlie. "His team, consisting of Vicky Lomersdale, Martin Harrior and Daniel Richardson, is going to support the investigation. Moreover, I've consented to the wish of your former colleague Reeves so that she will be counseling the team with regarding to psycho-analysis."

"Thank you, Sir," Don said sincerely and wanted to rise from his seat when Merrick held him back.

"Eppes, I hope I've made myself clear. I would have suspended you if I hadn't had enough confidence in you, so don't disappoint me. You're going to follow every order O'Connagh gives you. No solo efforts. As soon as I hear about the smallest mistake you make, you're off the case."

"You don't need to worry, Sir. I'll do everything that is necessary in order to... to find the victim."

Merrick smiled drily. "I've never doubted that."

0 – 0 – 0

There remained just enough water to cover the ground. It was now low enough that he could ease himself out of his uncomfortable sitting position and lie down. little enough to change from the uncomfortable sitting position into the lying one. He still hadn't found out for sure where the water was going, but it had to by tiny fissures at the edges between the floor and the walls of his stony prison. In any case they were large enough so that the water could run away.

His knee was still pulsating unpleasantly even if he had bandaged it haphazardly. As soon as the water had been on knee-height, he had sat down; the water was bitterly cold. He had taken off his jacket and his shirt and had knotted the latter in agony around his knee. That way it was at least a little bit more stable. And the feeling of pressure was easier to bear than the pricking. And as long as he cushioned the fracture on his jacket, the pain was nearly bearable.

The pain. Not the cold. His T-shirt wasn't made for protecting him from his cool surroundings. However, his drenched wet jacket wouldn't have done any better.

Charlie was lying there, shivering. He was completely soaked and down here it was unpleasantly cold.

He had a headache and his throat was dry. And he felt weak, so impossibly weak... those had to be the consequences of his lack of liquids. Thoughtful, Charlie twisted the water bottle in his hands. He had to stay strong; he had to withstand the urge a little longer; who knew how long he would have to stay here or when he would get the next ration of water?

Did his kidnappers want him to die? If so, why the water bottle?

However, it now occurred to Charlie that they hadn't given him anything to eat. Mind you, it was better that way than the other, for strangely he didn't feel hungry. He was though, unbearably thirsty.

A little gulp of water ran down Charlie's throat before he screwed the bottle shut reluctantly, but with determination. He had to save it.

Now his irregular eating habits were finally paying off. For him it wasn't anything new to take no nourishment for a long period. His stomach had been trained for such extreme cases during numerous hours in the garage. Only the thirst, this thirst...

As soon as Alan reproached him for his eating habits the next time, he would have a nearly unbeatable defense. He was only training himself for the serious part of life; his father should be glad! Yes, at his father's next attack Charlie would be prepared.

Always presuming that there would be a next time.

He was certainly lost in worries right now. His father. And Amita. And Larry. And Don. He would have given a lot for being with them now. For down here, it wasn't only dark and cold and painful and uncomfortable – it was also immensely lonely.

Lost in thoughts, his fingers were playing with the neck of the bottle. He wondered what they were doing right now? He had no clue of what time it might be, maybe around noon? But he was fairly certain that it was still Monday. Yeah, he was very sure; otherwise the flood would have already come a second time.

Charlie's fingers paused. The fear was back again. The flood would return, in less than twelve hours. Again and again and again. Until everything would be over.

One way or another.

0 – 0 – 0

The names began to become blurred in front of his eyes. By now it was Monday evening and they still hadn't made any considerable progress. On the contrary, they even had had to start anew with this searching through the damned files because Larry had called and told them their provisional result: it looked, he had said, as if it was the big mafia that had kidnapped Charlie. He couldn't give them any concrete names, but at least their circle of suspects was now limited and they knew where to look. The problem was only that they didn't find anything in the files.

Don's mobile rang and he jolted up as if he had been stung. The noises immediately around him fell silent, but he didn't notice the tense looks that were being fixed upon him.

There was an unknown number on the display.

"Eppes," Don said. He thought he could hear the hammering of his heart. Please... please give me a sign of life...

"Ah, Donnie, thank God!"

Don's shoulders drooped. It wasn't Charlie or his kidnappers. It was his father.

"Dad," he said tonelessly. The disappointment threatened to suffocate him. Everywhere around him the agents returned to their work while he tried to concentrate on the conversation. "Why are you calling?"

"Are you kidding?" Alan sounded incensed. "Charlie isn't answering his mobile, although he said he would call this morning. And at home I'm not allowed to call in case the phone's been tapped. Could you maybe tell me what's going on over there with you?"

Don twisted the corners of his mouth into a smile, but it rather looked as if he was going to cry at any instant. So Charlie had been afraid someone could listen to the telephone in the Craftsman. It was a bit ironic that it was now actually tapped, but by a very different group than his brother had feared.

"Dad, listen." Don swallowed. "We've got kind of a problematic situation." He rose up from his chair and disappeared into an empty interrogation room where he was alone.

"What problematic situation?"

Don couldn't. He couldn't say it.

"Donald Alan Eppes, what problematic situation?"

"Charlie," it finally broke out of him. "It's Charlie, Dad. They've kidnapped him."

There was silence on the other end of the line. For too long.

"Dad?" The fear, omnipresent during the past few days, returned with all its might to the foreground. "Dad, you still there?"

Again the silence. Again for too long. Don was taking in a deep breath to ask more urgently when the words came to his ear, "What are you saying there?"

Don held his cell phone tight. His father's voice sounded hoarse. Hoarse and so filled with fear that Don hardly recognized it. "Charlie was kidnapped by the mafia, Dad," he repeated, and every syllable gave him immense agony. Damn, he had been supposed to take care of Charlie! "We're on it, though." He tried to sound optimistic. "We'll find him."

Don faltered. He held his breath. What was he doing there? 'We'll find him'? Why did he say that? Why the hell did he say that!

Again a nerve-racking silence on the other end. "I'm coming over to you."

The dullness fell off him in one stroke. "No, Dad –"

"Yes, Don, and believe me, you can't order me to do anything! Maybe you've got your brother under your control so you can rope him in at any moment for your work, but I am still your father and you can't forbid any father to care for his son!"

The dullness was there again. Alan had sounded more furious than Don had heard him for a very long time. So there he was. His father had analyzed the situation and come to an indisputable result: he, Don, was to blame for his brother's abduction.

"Dad, stay where you are," Don's voice came from his soul. It was empty. Cold. Dead.

Don hung up. He couldn't do it anymore.

0 – 0 – 0

Still caught up in the chaos of his emotions, Alan stared at the cordless phone. The connection had been cut. Furiously, he threw the receiver on to the grey-blue patterned couch in his sister's apartment.

"What's the matter?" she asked him, startled. Although her brother had been quite a nervous guest during the past days, she had never seen him as shaken as he was now.

"I'm going back," he informed her tersely and was already on his way into the guest room to pack his belongings.

"What, now?"

"Yes, now." It couldn't have been more obvious that for the moment Alan wasn't in the mood for small talk.

But she could still give it a try. "What's happened, Alan? What did Donnie say? You did talk to Donnie, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," Alan retorted, flinging his socks into his suitcase.

"So? What's up?"

And all of a sudden Alan was as tired as he'd seldom been before in his entire life. He lowered himself onto the squeaking guest bed, his gaze directed onto nothing.

"So, what?" Susann repeated, sitting down next to him, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

"Charlie's been kidnapped."

The words sounded even more terrible spoken out aloud. However, he hadn't fully understood their meaning until he saw his sister's horrified features, her eyes wide open and her hands in front of her mouth.

"Oh, my God," he could hear her whisper, but it sounded strangely far way. His senses were muffled and suddenly he wasn't a part of this world anymore, everything was far away and getting further away from him...

"And Donnie? What about Donnie? How is he?"

Breathing shallowly, Alan lifted his head, staring at her. Then he let his gaze wander again, into the void, to the place where there was no horror.

"I don't know," he whispered. Reluctantly, he could feel the tears in the corners of his eyes. "Oh Susann, what have I done? If... What did I say?" He ran his hands over his face. "I guess I'm the worst father in the world."

0 – 0 – 0

Don didn't see anything anymore. Don didn't hear anything anymore. Don didn't feel anything anymore, not physically. Mentally, however, he could feel more than he would have liked to. The feeling of guilt that he could never assuage suppressing fault he could never compensate threatened to eat him up from the inside.

It had been clear to him the whole time. He hadn't thought about it clearly, of course not, even he could apply the most simple self-protection measurements. Now, however, it was too late. The realization had reached the forefront of his consciousness. And once reached that part, it couldn't be driven out again.

It was his fault.

Don ran both his hands over his tired face, not knowing that in this moment with this gesture he was mirroring his father in Baltimore, 2,250 miles away.

It had started four years ago. Don had dragged his brother into his work and hadn't let go of him since then. Granted, for most of the time Charlie seemed to have wanted it himself, but did that make any difference? He had known, somewhere in his mind he had always known where the whole thing was going to lead to one day. And to be honest: it wasn't the first time. First the sniper, then the shooting in FBI headquarters, shortly afterwards the mafia for the first time... He should have foreseen and prevented this terrible event. He hadn't done that, though.

And that was exactly the reason why he hadn't wanted to call his father. Not only that Alan was now coming over here; no, he had also understood that it was Don's fault. And Don couldn't delude himself. His father wouldn't want to have anything more to do with the murderer of his son.

Don was sick, all of a sudden. He shivered. He was hot, cold, hot. No... no... not the murderer...

Charlie was alive. He had to be alive. And he would still be alive when they found him. They would rescue him. Everything would be fine again. Charlie could have a calm life together with their father. Don would retreat. He wouldn't endanger the two of them further.

"Don, are you alright?"

Megan had laid a hand on his upper-arm, looking worriedly at his pale face. He answered with an empty look that hit her so hard she had to swallow deeply before she could continue, "Your cell is ringing."

Slowly, Don turned his gaze to the vibrating item that again – less however than before – attracted the attention of its surroundings.

"Yeah?" The sound came weakly out of his throat.

"It's me."

Don was silent.

"Donnie, I am sorry. I'm... You know that I didn't mean the things I said. Of course I know that what happened isn't your fault. I – I am sorry."

Don kept his silence.

"How are you, Donnie? Are you sure I hadn't better return?"

"No, you shouldn't." Still coolly. Neutrally. But at least not hostilely. "You can't do here anything anyway."

"I... I can... I can help you. And I can be there for Charlie when you find him." When, Alan silently tried to convince himself, when, not if.

"Dad, please, it's too dangerous; I don't want them to... that something happens to you also."

On the other end, Alan closed his eyes. He could hardly bear it that Don was a so much better son than he was a father. "Donnie, they've already got Charlie in order to get their way. They really don't need anything more. There is no reason why they should do anything to me."

Don was silent. Oh yes, there was a reason. But he didn't want to verbalize the possibility; he didn't even want to think about it, that the mafia might need a new means of exerting pressure because they had worn out the old one.

Stop thinking like that! Stop it! he admonished himself desperately. Charlie was alive, everything else was a lie.

"Please, Dad."

Alan nodded slowly. His eldest son did his job and he did it well. And he would probably do it better if there were no nervous, rotten father standing next to him, making him unfounded reproaches. He would bring Charlie back.

With more or less success, Alan fought his tears. It was so unreal, it couldn't be... Charlie couldn't be just – gone! It couldn't be, it would never do...

Alan had to swallow before he was able to speak again. "Alright, Donnie. I'm staying." He hesitated. "But please take good care of yourself."