Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alan Eppes gave a wave through the windshield as he spotted a figure coming out of LAX, then gave the horn a quick blip as his son appeared to look right through him, his eyes still searching the string of vehicles at the curb. Charlie blinked, then raised a hand and shuffled toward him, and Alan popped the trunk, stepped out of the car, and hurried around to the rear to meet him.
“Hey, there,” he said, “Welcome home.” He cocked his head and gave Charlie a look. “Long time, no see.” It came out just a bit archly - he meant it to - but he softened the jab with a smile.
Charlie sighed as he set his computer case carefully on the ground and got two hands on his suitcase. “You’re telling me.” He looked tired, and now that Alan was next to him, he could see that his son’s clothes, typically worn baggy, looked more voluminous than usual. A scan of Charlie’s face confirmed his suspicions; Charlie had lost a noticeable amount of weight. His dark curly hair was mussed and unruly, he looked pale and plain worn out, and he struggled to lift his suitcase into the trunk.
Alan jumped forward to help him with it. “Didn’t they feed you in D.C?”
Charlie picked up his computer bag and started to head for the passenger side, and Alan closed the trunk and got back into the driver’s seat. “Yeah,” said Charlie as he closed his door. With another gusty sigh, he leaned his head back on the headrest. “It was just a ton of work - pretty intense.”
“And what was it they had you doing?”
Charlie finally met his eyes with a wry smile. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dad. I thought I made that clear before I left - and the lack of phone calls should have confirmed it.”
“You got that right,” Alan agreed, as he pulled his car out into traffic. “One phone call in over a month does not make for a happy parent.”
Charlie was silent, and a full five minutes passed before he said, “I thought Don was coming to pick me up.”
“Change of plans,” said Alan. “He got tied up at work.” He sent Charlie a glance. “No worse than what you did to him - leaving in the middle of a case.”
“I offered to work on the case while I was out in D.C.”
His words, laced with frustration, hung in the air. Alan hadn’t known that, and from the way that Charlie phrased the statement, he suspected that Don had turned down the offer. He wondered why. Granted, Charlie would have only been able to spare a few hours in the evenings, and they would have to work over the phone, but surely that was better than nothing.
Charlie broke the silence with a worried grimace. “How did they do?”
Alan shook his head. “Not good. The killer got two more victims before they got him. Took them three weeks after you left. But they did get him.”
Charlie rubbed his face. “Crap,” he muttered. A pause, then, “Is Don upset?”
“Of course, he’s upset. Upset with you? I don’t know. You’ll need to ask him that.” Alan glanced at him. “You were only supposed to be gone for two weeks. It turned into six. You’d think the government could do a better job of predicting than that.”
“Yeah, well, the first job was only two weeks. Less than that, actually, but another agency found out I was out there and pulled me in on something during the second week.”
“You could have said no.”
“Well, no, I couldn’t. I was - it was an odd situation. And quit fishing. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
He leaned his head back on the headrest and shut his eyes. He did look exhausted, Alan thought. As if he’d been through a war.
………………
Three days later, Don Eppes pulled up in front of his brother’s Craftsman home and parked. He just sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and finally got out of the vehicle. He didn’t want to be there, and the fact that he was had everything to do with appeasing his father and nothing to do with the fact that he had any intention of forgiving his brother. Charlie was undoubtedly brilliant - no one would question that - and his overactive mind eagerly seized on any project put in front of him. Unfortunately, he tended to take on too much because he just couldn’t let an unsolved problem lie. Don had to admit that he had taken advantage of that predilection more than once and cajoled Charlie into taking on projects with impossible deadlines. But Don had also been frustrated more than once, by Charlie’s incapacity for time management. The last case had been the last straw.
He let himself in the front door, relaxing just slightly when he saw that Charlie was nowhere to be seen, and he strolled into the kitchen to find his father, puttering around at the sink. Alan glanced up at him with a smile, relief apparent on his face. “Hi. Dinner will be ready in a half-hour. There’s beer in the fridge. Charlie’s out in the garage.”
“I thought you said 5:30.” Don had fully intended to get there just in time to eat, to cut down on interactions with his brother as much as possible.
“Yes, well, I got a bit of a late start, and the roast was a little on the large side. It’ll need a few more minutes.”
Conniving old man. He’d done this on purpose. Alan Eppes had spent a good part of his sons’ later years trying to get them to connect. And they had done that to some extent, but the connection was tenuous. Charlie still frustrated the hell out of him, and Don didn’t think that would change any time soon.
Don was practiced at putting on a flinty expression that revealed nothing, but his father had had years of reading his mind. Alan said, “Go on out. Don’t be too hard on him.”
Don grumbled something unintelligible, even to himself, snagged a beer out of the refrigerator - just one - and reluctantly pushed out through the kitchen door. He ambled over to the garage door and stopped at the entrance. His brother was staring at one of three chalkboards covered with what looked like scribbles, then he swiveled around to a table behind him and pecked away on his laptop. During a previous case, Don had recently discovered that his brother had consulted for the government, and the thought was still foreign to him, unsettling. His mental picture of Charlie was, well, nerdy, his little brother’s head blissfully full of unfathomable theory that had no relation to the real world. The fact that his brother had proven him wrong by helping Don out on his cases still didn’t seem to vanquish that picture.
Charlie was so intent on what he was doing, he overlooked Don in the doorway, and Don was in no hurry to start a conversation, so he just stood, took a swig of his beer, and waited. Just the sight of his brother was enough to piss him off, he told himself, although as he watched, he felt a niggling concern. Charlie didn’t look so hot, Don thought to himself. Pale, and skinnier than he’d seen him since their mom died. It served him right, running off to Washington like that. They’d undoubtedly worked his ass off. Maybe Charlie would think twice before he consulted for them again. Whoever they were.
He expected a surge of satisfaction at the thought, but there wasn’t one - just a sensation of worry, that something was wrong. It was screwing with his righteous anger, and he didn’t like it. He cleared his throat, and Charlie jumped and straightened so quickly he almost knocked his laptop off the table. He faced Don, fingering a piece of chalk nervously. “Oh, hi, I didn’t see you standing there.”
Don didn’t greet him, just gave the laptop a curt nod. “Still working on your D.C. assignment?”
Charlie looked somber, and when he wanted something from someone, his eyes made him look like every poor dog and cat in every ASPCA commercial ever filmed. He had those eyes turned on now, dark, uncertain, pleading. He said, “No, just trying to get caught up on something for school.” There was silence, and he took a deep breath and said, “Look, I’m sorry about running out on you. But I did offer to follow the case and do what I could. You never called.”
Don scowled. The anger was back. “I did call. Three times, the second week that you were gone.”
To his credit, Charlie looked genuinely surprised. Don hadn’t thought him such an actor. “I never got them,” said Charlie. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” snarled Don. “I got some honey-voiced Southern belle who assured me that she would pass on the messages to you. I never got a callback.”
Charlie frowned. “Well, there was a little confusion. I was done with the first job at the end of that first week and was getting ready to go back, but another group heard I was out there and pulled me into something else. That girl you talked to was associated with the first assignment and had nothing to do with the second group. The messages must have gotten lost.” He stopped talking, his frown turned a little angry, and he mumbled something under his breath.
Don said, “What?”
Charlie met his eyes. “Or the second group didn’t bother to pass on the message because they didn’t want me to go.”
That, Don had to admit, he could buy. He had worked with enough government agencies to know how territorial they were - his own included. Hell, who was he kidding? When it came to Charlie, he was more territorial than all of them combined. And that was part of the problem. He sighed. “The fact is, I don’t know how much you could have done, anyway. I called you because we were desperate, more than because I expected some miraculous result. The guy was a lunatic - he didn’t think rationally. I’m not sure if anyone could have predicted what he’d do next. In the end, we got lucky - put some people out as bait in the middle of the night in the last neighborhood he’d hit. The guy attacked, and we took him down. A DNA test clinched it.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “He attacked one of our people?”
Don nodded. “There were some LAPD people out there, too, but he picked on Colby. Wrong guy to take on. Megan was just down the block - to the average assailant, she would have looked like a better target - but as I said, the guy was a nutcase. Like a rabid animal, just fixating on whoever he saw, no rhyme or reason to it.” He saw Charlie’s expression and added, “Colby was fine. And we were right there. The whole takedown lasted less than five minutes.”
Charlie nodded, and his gaze drifted down, and then up. Hesitating. “Um, about the backpacking trip…”
Don swore to himself. He’d completely forgotten about that. He and Charlie had had an unexpected kumbaya moment months ago after the close of a case and a few shots of bourbon, and somehow, Charlie had roped him into a backpacking trip in the Inyo National Forest, including an ascent of Mount Whitney. It was coming up soon, Don realized. Charlie had planned a week-long trip, and Don had already requested the time off and gotten conditional approval months ago - the condition being no critical cases. The fact was, he was already less angry with Charlie after realizing that his messages probably hadn’t gone through, and he knew that, barring an emergency, he intended to go with him, but he didn’t want to let Charlie off the hook. Not yet. Let him stew for a few days. Don admitted that he might be less angry, but he was still irked.
“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “I’ve got to double-check our caseload. I’ll let you know.” He took a last gulp of beer, noting the look on Charlie’s face - half hurt, half hopeful. It made Don want to head straight for the nearest animal shelter and adopt a puppy. He turned toward the house and said gruffly, “Come on, dinner’s about ready.”
…………………………
Later that night, Charlie Eppes crawled wearily into bed. Don’s visit could have gone worse, but it could have been better, he thought. It didn’t sound as though his brother was necessarily blaming Charlie for the outcome of the case, but he was still upset with him for leaving when he did. Maybe angry enough to forgo the backpacking trip.
As a trip, it wasn’t much - a few days of backpacking in the mountains. Still, as a landmark in their developing relationship, which was moving at about the pace of an iceberg, it was significant, or at least, Charlie reflected, it was significant to him. He and Don didn’t do much together outside of work. They hadn’t ever taken a trip together, just the two of them, their last trip being a drive up to Portland with their parents one summer, when Charlie was twelve and Don was seventeen, the year before they’d both graduated from high school. Even then, Don hadn’t wanted to go. And tonight, he didn’t seem all that keen on the hiking trip, and he was clearly still angry over Charlie’s defection. Charlie half-suspected that Don might make an excuse, find some case that needed his attention so that he could beg off.
Charlie sighed, frustrated with the situation, and he had to admit, with himself. “You need to learn how to say ‘no,’ Eppes,” he muttered. He closed his eyes; he could vividly remember the conversation with Clare Dunway, the head of the project in D.C.
“Charlie - hi, I’m glad you stopped by. Something has come up that I need to talk to you about.”
Charlie smiled at her. “Another assignment? Honestly, it’s good we got this one done early; I’ve got something cooking back at home.”
“No, not another assignment - an extension of this one,” said Clare, briskly. “We’ve been invited to meet with the Prime Minister in two days - the whole team, and he will have members of his cabinet and his technical people there to discuss our proposition. We’ve chartered a plane, and everyone is making arrangements to fly tonight. Senators Ross and Stevenson are coming along as well.”
Charlie stared at her open-mouthed for a moment before recovering his composure. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “That wasn’t part of the project. I didn’t bring a passport -,”
She cut him off. “That’s being taken care of.”
Charlie smiled again, trying to be charming. “Surely you don’t need a mathematician on this trip. There are plenty of other experts going.”
Clare bared her teeth in a smile that looked more frightening than pleasant and launched into a lecture. “You apparently aren’t grasping how important this is,” she said. “Our competition is the Chinese, and you can bet they have ALL of their people pitching their projects in person, including a platoon of experts. The President is personally invested in this project; we are NOT going to do this half-assed. The original timeframe of this project is two weeks, and we’re barely through one. We fly over, the team meets with the Prime Minister and his people, and we fly back. Three days - four days, tops. You will be back in the States; in fact, back in L.A., by the end of the second week. Are we clear?”
Charlie bit back a sigh and nodded. “Yes, perfectly. I guess I’d better go pack.”
“For those of you from out of town, I’ve arranged a shuttle from the hotel to the airport at 5:00 pm. Don’t miss it.”
It was Charlie’s turn for a frosty smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now, he lay in his bed and stared into the darkness. “Dumbass,” he said to himself. It had been one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. Things had gone downhill as soon as he had stepped on that plane. He rolled on his side, trying to put it out of his mind, and a few minutes later, was mercifully claimed by sheer exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, Don pulled up to the Craftsman and popped the rear hatch on his SUV.  Charlie immediately bustled out of the front door, lugging a backpack, a nice one, with a frame.  It had plenty of room for spare clothing and gear and a place for a bedroll on the top, with a waterproof cover; Don had one just like it, compliments of Charlie, who had insisted on buying them each one.  Alan came out to the front yard, and Don drifted over to stand near him, and they watched Charlie stow the backpack in the SUV, and then dart past them back into the house. 

         “I’ve just got to get my jacket and boots,” he panted.

They watched him trot back out again and stow the items in the back, and Alan said, “I’m glad you decided to go.”

Don made a face.  “I was never going to not go.”

Alan smiled at him.  “Of course not.”  They watched Charlie zip back into the house again, and Alan said, “Have fun.  And keep an eye on him.”

Charlie trotted back out to the SUV, huffing a little.  Don said, “Why is that?”

Their eyes tracked back to Charlie, who had stopped near the vehicle with his phone, checking a list he had posted on it.  “I’m not sure,” mused Alan.  “He just seems a little under the weather.  He’s seemed tired ever since that trip.  Look at him; he’s out of breath.”

“Well, he’s been running like a hamster on a wheel ever since I got here.  I’m out of breath just watching him.”  They fell silent for a minute.  Charlie certainly hadn’t put any weight back on, Don thought.  But that would probably be a good thing, hiking in the mountains.  They’d be carrying enough load in their packs. 

Charlie looked over at them, beaming, and they couldn’t help but smile back.  “Okay,” said Charlie.  “I’m ready.”

“All right,” said Don.  “Let’s hit the road.”

…………………………

              The drive from Pasadena to Independence was just a bit over three hours.  Charlie was content to let Don concentrate on the road until they got past Palmdale, and the traffic thinned out.  “You okay?  I can take a spell at the wheel.”

Don glanced at him with an amused smile.  “I’m good.  This is nothing like driving in the city - no traffic.  It’s almost fun.”

Charlie felt a surge of relief at his expression.  He’d been afraid that Don was just humoring him by coming along.  Maybe he was, but at least he looked as if he was enjoying himself.  Heartened, Charlie pulled out the trail map.  They’d both gone over the route, but he suspected that Don hadn’t looked at it since.  Charlie had - almost daily for the last two weeks.  “We only have two-plus miles today - it’ll be afternoon when we get there, and we need to start to acclimate to the altitude before we try Kearsarge Pass.”  Charlie had to admit, the thought of ascending to nearly 12,000 feet - or more, in the case of Mount Whitney - was making him a little nervous.  He wasn’t afraid of heights, but he knew that hiking at altitude in thin air was challenging, even for someone fit.  He still wasn’t entirely up to speed since his trip overseas - he couldn’t shake the fatigue.   Given a choice, he might have postponed the trip, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to talk Don into it again.  Or for both of them to be able to get a week away from work.  Exercise and fresh air were just what he needed, he told himself.   

As they wound north on US 395, the elevation rose steadily.  The highway ran north-south on the eastern side of the park and was the only decent road for miles.  They made it to Independence and headed west for about thirteen miles until they got to Onion Valley, where Don planned to leave the SUV.  There was a parking area near a campground, and they parked and grabbed a sandwich, thoughtfully provided by their father.  Then they put on their hiking socks and boots, each filled up two two-liter bottles with water from a spout at the campground and shouldered their packs.

Charlie couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.  “Okay,” he said, “the trailhead is over here.”

Their destination that day was Flower Lake.  The campground elevation was over 9000 feet, and the hike would bring them a thousand feet higher.  They were already at a height much higher than either of them was accustomed to, and Charlie had kept the first day’s hike short for that reason.  He was immediately glad he had; he felt the lack of oxygen, and as they slowly ascended the rocky path, Charlie found himself breathing heavily.  But Don was huffing a bit, too, he told himself.  Just pace yourself, breathe, one step after another.  His sturdy hiking boots made a solid, reassuring crunch on the path with each step.

………………………..

              The air was thin; Don had to admit.  He was in reasonably good shape; however - he had to be in his line of work.  Don jogged and worked out at the gym at least somewhat consistently unless a critical case got in the way.  Still, he hadn’t expected to outpace Charlie, who was a more experienced hiker.  As busy as Charlie was, he still managed to get out backpacking, often with groups of college kids.  Hiking and camping outdoors seemed to be a thing with the younger generation.  When Don was in college, nobody headed for the boondocks unless they were sneaking off for some underage drinking.  Or maybe it was just the crowd he hung around. 

              Don cut his musings short as he realized that he was several yards ahead of Charlie, once again, and he shortened his stride, waiting for him to catch up.  Charlie was winded, and although his steps were even and measured, he had slowed them to be able to take in enough oxygen.  His brother seemed intent on his thoughts and on placing each foot on the trail - no breath left for talking, but he didn’t look distressed.  Of course, Don thought, Charlie probably hadn’t had any exercise at all in two months, between six weeks in Washington, D.C., and two weeks of catching up at school.  He likely had been parked at his laptop the entire time. 

              They passed a few hardcore hikers on the way in, people who were tackling the entire John Muir Trail, which started up in Yosemite and went all the way south to Mount Whitney, two hundred miles plus.  Don and Charlie planned to do just part of that, the roughly forty miles between Mount Whitney and Kearsarge Pass, and then back up. They stopped for a breather and some water, and Charlie pointed at a group of four hikers who had just passed them, heading downhill, striding loose and easy.   Of course, they were going downhill.

              “They’re heading into Independence to stock up on food,” Charlie said, between breaths.  He paused and took a sip of water.  It was August, and it was warm.  There was little shade on the trail, and they were both sweating.  “There are several places to stop and get supplies north of here, but this is the last stop for that before you head south.  That’s why we needed to pack enough for a week.”

              Charlie had handled all of the provision planning.  He had given Don a bag of food, plus a bear canister filled with more food - freeze-dried meals, energy bars, and the like.  Don’s brow knit as he thought about the extra food in the bag.  “What good does a bear canister do if you’ve got extra food floating around in your pack?”

              “There are some locations along the trail that have bear bins, where you can store loose food,” said Charlie.  “Our first camping stops will all be at those spots until we use all of our extra food up.  Once we’re down to just what’s in our bear canister, we can camp where we want.”

              The thought of a bear canister had sorely tempted Don to bring his Glock, but Charlie had tried to talk him out of it, telling him the less weight in his pack, the better.  They each had a can of bear spray instead.  At the last minute, though, Don had tucked his gun in a lower outside pocket of his pack, where he could get at it.  In his opinion, the weight was a decent trade-off for a little more peace of mind.  No extra ammo, though, just the rounds in the gun.  That much he would concede.

              They took their time on the rest of the trail, enjoying the scenery, passing waterfalls, streams, and lakes along the way.  There weren’t a lot of trees at that elevation, just a few pines scattered here and there.  There were a fair amount of people on the path; Charlie told him that many of them would be day hikers who only went as far as Kearsarge Pass at the most, and they wouldn’t encounter nearly as many people once they hit the John Muir Trail.  They reached Flower Lake, a blue expanse of water that stood out against the gray rocks and dark green pines clustered around its rim, and set up camp.  Charlie had a couple of bottles of chemicals with him; they filled up their bottles with lake water, and he treated them with the substances.  Dinner was just okay - freeze-dried something or other mixed with boiling water from a portable heater, eaten right out of the packet, but Charlie had brought a small bottle of hot sauce to jazz it up and pulled a chocolate bar out of his pack for dessert.  They ate it while watching a glorious sunset over the lake and the mountains beyond, and the only word that Don could find was, “Wow.” 

              Maybe Charlie had something here.

Chapter Text

Charlie crawled out of their ultra-lite two-person tent - a tiny affair, with just room for two moderately sized bodies - the next morning, just as the sun came up.  The early morning chirping of birds had awakened him - that and the fact that his sleep had been less than sound.  He’d woken twice with the uncomfortable feeling of not being able to breathe.  Nighttime breathing difficulties were a hallmark of altitude sickness; he knew that, although he’d never experienced it before.  It had added to his underlying sense of unease, but he shrugged it off as he heated water for instant coffee, served in a lightweight plastic mug.  Two bracing sips had him feeling a little better, and he had a smile on his face as Don crawled out of the tent, sleep-eyed and with his hair on end, looking bearish.  He got Don a coffee, and Don plopped onto his camping stool next to him and took a sip, closed his eyes, and groaned in appreciation. 

              “I can do anything,” Don said, “as long as there is hot coffee in the morning.”  Charlie grinned at him and handed him a protein bar, and he continued.  “That’s my mantra.  I live by it.”

              “You sleep okay?” asked Charlie as he pulled out his phone to check the weather. 

              “Like a rock.  Hey, wait a minute.  How are you getting cell service up here?”

              “It’s a satellite phone.  Okay, the weather looks good.” 

He shut the phone off to conserve the battery, and Don said, “I hope you didn’t give anyone at the office the number.”

Charlie grinned.  “Not on your life.”

“What’s on the agenda?”

              “Today we hit Kearsarge Pass, and hook up with the John Muir trail and head south.  We’re camping between Kearsarge Pass and Forrester Pass tonight.   It’s about an eight miler, with a pretty stiff climb, but then we head downhill toward the campsite.”

              Don took an experimental bite of his protein bar.  “No bacon and eggs?” he teased.

              “Protein bars are your friend,” Charlie shot back.  “Get used to them.  Put another one in an outside pocket where you can get to it - you’ll need it this morning.”  

              They got their excess food out of the bear bins, loaded up their packs and water bottles, and headed over to the trail.  Ahead of them was the two thousand foot climb to Kearsage Pass.  At the top, they would be above 12,000 feet.  Charlie felt a little nervous about taking on more height but consoled himself with the fact that tonight, they would be camping down at 10,000 feet again.   As they started up the trail, a wave of dizziness hit, and he felt a little clutch of apprehension in his gut.  But his vertigo cleared as quickly as it came, and he took a deep breath.  One foot after another.  Up, up.

………………………….

              The day was a repeat of yesterday, to an extent, thought Don.  More climbing, only even steeper, and again Charlie lagged behind.  Don wasn’t sorry to stop and wait for him from time to time; however, the climb was tough.  It didn’t look terrible if you concentrated on the few feet in front of you, but it felt bad; the thin air took its toll.  And when one looked up the trail - well, best not to look up.  They took a break at an overlook that offered a spectacular view of Heart Lake, and then the real fun began - a series of switchbacks that led up to the summit. 

              It was painful, and it was more painful to watch Charlie struggle.  Don was starting to get concerned and decided to say something when they stopped for lunch.  But lunch was at the summit, as it turned out, and views from the top wiped the thoughts right from his head.  They stood silently for a moment, taking in the spectacular views of the Kearsarge Pinnacles, Kearsage Lakes, and Bull Frog Lake to the west.  Well, mostly silently, Charlie was wheezing, at least at first, but as they stood there, his breathing finally moderated. 

              They were the only ones up there; the day hikers hadn’t gotten that far yet.  They ate flour tortillas spread with peanut butter and jelly for lunch, and Charlie seemed to perk up a little, but Don said, “Hey, you doing okay?”

              Charlie grimaced sheepishly.  “Yeah, I’m okay.  I’m just more out of shape than I thought.  I guess sitting behind a laptop for the last couple of months didn’t do me any favors.  I’ll be okay - the rest of the hike today will be downhill, which is hard on the legs, but a heck of a lot easier on the lungs.”

              Don looked down the slope ahead and stretched his stiff legs.  “I don’t know - it looks easier on the legs, too.”

              Charlie just grinned at him and shook his head, and Don soon found out why as they started back on the trail.  Each step required a bend at the knee, like walking down endless stairs.  Two miles in, his knees were wobbly, and by the time they reached the bottom of the grade, late that afternoon, his legs were like the jelly that he’d had for lunch.  They started up again, and Charlie, who led on the downward slope, began to fall behind again.  However, they didn’t have far to climb before they reached their campsite by some bear bins near Bubbs Creek.

……………………

              They slung their packs on the ground, and Charlie sank onto a rock.  He had reached his limit; he couldn’t move.  Don took their water bottles down to the creek to fill them and rummaged in Charlie’s pack for the purification drops.  He pulled out the two bottles and looked at them.  “What is this stuff?”

              “Chlorine dioxide and phosphoric acid.  Mix seven drops of each of them in that cap, swirl it around, wait a couple of minutes, and pour it into a liter bottle.  Then do the same thing for the rest of them.  We’ll need to wait for a half-hour before we drink them.”

              He watched as Don purified their water and tried to fight down a growing sense of unease.  Something was wrong.  They still had the worst of their trip ahead of them - they were camping on the lower slope of Forrester Gap, a climb of over 3000 feet to an elevation of over 13,000 that would make today’s hike look easy.   Even if he made it through tomorrow’s trek, they would only be halfway there, and Mount Whitney was higher yet, at over 14,000 feet.  He’d never had altitude sickness before, although he knew that anyone could get it at any time.  If it got worse, he would need to descend.  He didn’t want to think about that - he’d waited so long for this trip.

              However, by dinner, he was starting to feel better, and warm food in his stomach helped, even it was reconstituted freeze-dried.  Charlie turned on a small solar-powered lantern. They bundled up; it was cold, and there was a fire ban so they couldn’t build a campfire.  Still, they sat up and talked, and for the first time since they were kids, not about work or school.  Movies, sports, funny stories from their past, that Don was better at remembering than Charlie.  And women.

“So what’s up with you?  Are you dating anyone?”  asked Charlie.

Don’s face softened with unnamed emotion.  “Nah, not right now,” he said.

Charlie prodded.  “Ever have anyone serious?”

Don dodged the question with a grin.  “They’re all serious at the time.”

“When was your first time?” 

“Getting nosy there, Chuck,” Don said, but he smiled.   “Senior year of high school.”

“I knew it,” said Charlie.

“Was it that obvious?”

“No, not at all.  I don’t think Mom and Dad knew.”

Don turned around and rummaged in his pack and pulled out a small flask.  “My turn to provide dessert,” he said.  Charlie looked at it with trepidation; there were few rules if a person wanted to avoid altitude sickness.  The first was to drink lots of water.  They’d been managing that.  The second was to minimize exertion, and they’d certainly violated that.  And a third was to stay away from alcohol.  But it was the kind of moment that Charlie had hoped for, and he hated to put a damper on the evening, so he took a small swig and handed the flask back to Don.  The bourbon stung his lips and felt warm going down.  Charlie had surmised that bringing out the flask was Don’s way of changing the subject, but Don said, “So how about you?”

Charlie realized belatedly that maybe he shouldn’t have opened up the topic; his love life was decidedly lacking, compared to Don’s.  “Ah, uh, no, I’m not dating anyone,” he said, blushing.

“And when was your first?” Don said.  His smile was teasing, and Charlie realized that he might well think that Charlie had never had a first. 

Charlie tipped his chin up.  “When I was nineteen.”

Don’s eyebrows went up, and Charlie could see the wheels turning.  “Really?  You were - wait - where were you then?”

“At Oxford.”

“At Oxford?”  A slow smile was coming to Don’s face.  “Really.  Huh.  Well, was she English?”

“Yes.”

“You said, ‘woman.’  How old was she?” 

“Getting kinda nosy there, Don,” said Charlie, grinning at his brother’s obvious discombobulation.  “She was twenty-five.”

“Whoa,” crowed Don, with a big grin.  “Going for the older women, there, Chuck!”

“Well, it’s a little hard not to, when they’re almost all older than you,” Charlie shot back.

Don threw back his head and laughed.

They talked a while longer, sitting there under the stars, and it was one of the best nights that Charlie could remember.  Finally, they pitched their tent and climbed into their sleeping bags to get out of the wind. 

As they lay there, Don said, “Hey, Chuck?”

“Yeah?”

“This is pretty cool.”

And Charlie smiled in the darkness.

Later that night, Charlie woke, sweating, thinking sleepily that the wind must have died down.  He flipped open his sleeping bag, but soon was shivering, and he pulled it back over him again.  The cycle repeated itself about an hour later, and he groggily thought about the drink he’d taken, wondering if it was having an ill effect, then dismissed the thought.  He’d just had a sip. When it happened a third time, it felt eerily familiar, and Charlie’s eyes flew open.  “Oh, no,” he breathed.  “No, it can’t be.”   He put the thought out of his head; he didn’t want to believe it.  If it was true, he was dealing with something a hell of a lot worse than altitude sickness.

Chapter Text

Don was the first one out of the tent that morning.  Charlie was face down in his sleeping bag, and little could be seen of him other than a mop of dark curls, so Don heated water for coffee and went over to the stream to fill up their water containers.  As he returned to the campsite, Charlie crawled out of the tent, looking groggy, and Don had to grin.  “Morning, sunshine.” 

Charlie just gave him a grunt and staggered over to his camp chair.  Don handed him a mug of coffee.  “You look like you could use this.”

Don sat, ate a protein bar, and watched the sun come up as Charlie fiddled with his satphone, and after a few minutes, he realized that his brother had yet to say a word.  He looked over to find Charlie staring up at the expanse of mountain in front of them with an odd look on his face.  Don said, “You okay?”

Charlie blinked and seemed to rouse himself.  “Yeah, yeah.  Just looking at our hike for today.”  He shivered and tried to hide it by digging in his backpack for a protein bar.  “We’re doing Forrester Pass, and it’s a difficult one.  It’s up one side and down the other, like yesterday, but it’s higher, and it can be pretty tough to navigate in spots.”  He took a bite of his protein bar and chewed it slowly as if it had no appeal.  He looked pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“Didn’t you sleep?”

Charlie straightened.  “I woke up a few times.  Probably just a touch of altitude sickness.”

Don frowned, thinking about what his father had said.  “If you’re not feeling well, we can cut this short.”

“No, no,” Charlie said hastily, waving off the suggestion. “After today, we’ll be halfway there.  If we want to cut the trip in half, we can do it - we can get a shuttle from Mount Whitney back up to Independence to get your car, instead of hiking back.  But we might as well try to make it down there - it isn’t much further now than it is to go back.”  He paused and sent Don a lopsided grin.  “And besides, I haven’t puked yet, so it can’t be that bad.”

              Five hours later, Don stood at the top of Forrester Pass and watched Charlie retch, on his hands and knees.  They had allotted four hours for the climb and had planned to take a lunch break at the top.  Neither of those things had happened on schedule.  Don had gone from slightly concerned to full-on worry.   

              Finally, Charlie stopped heaving and managed to get from his knees to his backside, where he sat, panting, and wiping the sweat from his brow.  “Good now,” he said.  “S’all good.  Heading downhill from here.”

              “Heading downhill by rolling?” asked Don. “Because you don’t look capable of walking.”

              “Ha,” Charlie managed.  He fumbled for his water and took a gulp.  “It’s got to be the altitude.”  He didn’t look entirely convinced, though, and he said apologetically, “This has never happened to me before.”  He held out a hand.  “Help me up.”

              Don pulled him to his feet.  “Maybe we should rest awhile.”  Charlie’s hand felt hot, his eyes were a little glassy, and his face looked flushed.  Don peered at him.  “Do you get a fever with altitude sickness?”

              Charlie’s false bravado wavered, and he turned away.  “I don’t know.  It’s cold up here.  We’ll head downhill a little bit and then grab some lunch.”  He wobbled, and Don caught his arm to right him, and then Charlie started picking his way downhill across a slope littered with scree. 

              Don followed close behind, and they made it down the slope another half mile.  His stomach was rumbling, and he knew Charlie had to be on empty, seeing that he’d lost part of his breakfast.  They finally reached a spot that seemed to be warmer, somewhat out of the wind. Down the slope, Don could see two hikers approaching, the first people they’d seen since they’d been on this section of the trail.  He rummaged in his pack for the wraps and slathered one with peanut butter and jelly, rolled it up, and handed it to Charlie, who accepted it reluctantly and took a half-hearted bite.   Don made two for himself and wolfed both of them down before Charlie had eaten half of his.

              There was a small cascade down a nearby cliffside.  They still had purified water in one container each, but their others were empty, so Don went and filled them.  As he returned to where Charlie was sitting, he noticed with alarm that he was shaking, his gaze unfocused.  He set the water bottles down quickly and knelt by Charlie’s side.  “Charlie!”  He shook him a little, and Charlie turned bleary eyes on him.  “I think I’m in trouble,” he said in a scratchy half-whisper.

              Up until now, Don had been concerned, but Charlie’s words and his condition were sparking real fear.  But as quickly as the trembling had come on, it subsided.  Charlie seemed to regain focus, although he looked exhausted.  His half of a wrap lay uneaten on his lap, and Don handed it to him.  “Here,” he said, “try to get this down and drink some more water.”

              Charlie dutifully took a bite, but his eyes were downhill.  The other hikers were approaching.  They looked experienced, with long steady strides even though they were heading uphill.   Don waved them over.  “Hey, you guys know anything about altitude sickness?”

              They were both young, probably in their late twenties, lean and bearded.  One of them looked at Charlie and said, “Hey, yeah, that’s a bummer.  You should probably get down off these hills.”

              “No shit,” thought Don to himself, but he said, “Yeah, that’s just what we want to do.  What’s the fastest way?”

              They looked at each other, and hiker number two said, “Well, that’s a problem.  You’re smack in the middle.  It’s just as far to go back up to Onion Valley as it is to get down to the base of Mount Whitney.”

              Don shook his head.  “He’s not gonna make it up another hill.”

              “You don’t know that,” said Charlie, although his voice lacked conviction. 

              “I know what you can do,” said hiker two.  He pointed off to their left.  “See that peak over there?  That’s Junction Peak.”

              Don and Charlie followed his pointing finger with their eyes.  “Yeah, I see it,” said Don. 

              “Okay,” said the hiker.  “Now look along the right side of it.  There’s a kind of big shelf, a wide area where you can walk about halfway down the slope.  That’s Junction Pass.  If you follow that pass around the side of the mountain and you look down to your right in that valley, you’ll see a creek.  That’s Shepherd’s Creek.  I came in here that way once, a long time ago, and last year I hiked over to Junction Pass from here.   Now you want to get down to the creek, but if you try to do it too soon, it’ll be too steep.  That whole bottom half of the Junction Peak is just one big talus field.  But if you follow the pass far enough, you’ll hit some pine trees, and it’s not so steep there.  You can make your way down among the trees.  Once you get to Shepherd’s Creek, make a left and just follow it downhill.  You’ll already be at a little lower altitude at that point, and it’ll descend to maybe eight or nine thousand feet as you go along.  Still high, but lower than here, so it should help.  The valley kind of levels out and the creek runs all the way out to 395.  As long as you follow the stream, you can’t get lost.  So you can get to the road and hitch a ride.  Independence will be just a few miles to your left, to the north.  I’ll be way quicker and a lot less climbing to get him downhill.”

              Don felt a surge of relief.  There was a way out of this.  “Just one thing - how do we get over there?” 

              “It’s not as bad as it looks.”  The hiker pointed out a route across the valley. 

              Charlie seemed to be perking up; he was chewing on the remains of his wrap while they talked.  He said, “You guys need some food?  We’ve got a little extra that won’t fit in our bear canisters, and I don’t think there will be any bear bins along that route.”

              Hiker One said, “Yeah, wow, that would be great.  Maybe we won’t have to go into Independence for food then.   Good luck, man.”

              The hikers took off, and all four felt they had gotten the better end of the deal.  Charlie stood, a little shakily, and looked longingly down the slope of Forrester Pass - the way they would have gone if they were continuing the hike. 

              “No, Charlie,” said Don, who was purifying the water he had just gotten.  “Just - no.”

              Charlie nodded resignedly.  “I know.”  He was twisting a strap on his backpack, nervously, and Don watched him.  Something was on his mind - maybe it was just the situation they were in, but Don had the feeling there was something more to it than that. 

…………………………..

              The description of the hike was a lot easier than the reality of it.  Charlie was trying to put a good face on it, but he was losing ground, physically and mentally.  Loose stones covered the pass.  The talus field was brutal and tricky to traverse; rocks slid underfoot, and Charlie fell several times.  He could feel cuts from the rocks stinging, and the stickiness of spots of blood on his arms and legs.  He would move along all right for a while, although breathing was difficult, and then he’d break out into a cold sweat and start shaking and nearly grind to a halt.  He was slowly admitting the truth - that this was not altitude sickness - and he knew he needed help, but he was unsure of where to go to get it.  His diagnosis would provide a clue as to where he’d been on his recent assignment, and that was classified information.  He couldn’t just walk into any hospital.  And he had to get down out of the damned mountains first.

              And he was not only ill; he was sick with disappointment that their trip had been cut short, especially when it had been going so well.  He felt like a failure as he limped across the rocky slope behind Don, who must think of him as a complete wimp.  He was sure, however, that he had to get out and get help.  He’d been through this once already, and he knew he didn’t have long.

………………………………

              Watching Charlie limp across fields of loose stone was gut-wrenching.  Don pulled everything he possibly could fit out of Charlie’s pack and put it in his. And he led the way, trying to pick the best route, but there was no easy path. Rocks that looked like solid footholds would suddenly give way when one stepped on them, and it was tough to maintain balance.  Don went down once or twice himself, but Charlie, who had a shorter stride, had even fewer options for landing his feet than Don did, and fell multiple times.  Each time, Don held his breath, afraid that more rocks would give way, and Charlie would end up sliding down the scree-filled slope.  His brother was a trooper, Don had to admit, and he was almost as proud of his grit as he was worried about him.

              It was apparent that Charlie was declining quickly, even though they were slowly descending.  Something was seriously wrong.  It took them until sunset to make their way down through the trees to the creek, and although Don desperately wanted to keep hiking, to get Charlie back to civilization as soon as possible, he knew Charlie was at his limit.  He sat Charlie on his camp chair and hurriedly set up camp.  Then Don got their tent set up, replenished and purified their water, and fired up the water heater to heat their freeze-dried dinners.  He saw Charlie looking longingly at his sleeping bag; he was shivering, but Don wasn’t about to let him in there without getting some food and water into him.  He found tea bags in his pack and gave Charlie a warm cup of tea to start.

              Charlie cupped it in his hands, gratefully, and sipped.  “Thank you,” he said.  And a moment later, “I’m sorry.”

              Don got himself a cup of tea and wearily sat on his camp chair.  “What are you sorry for?  You can’t help it.  Although,” he said, fixing Charlie with a direct stare, “I’d like to know what’s going on here.”

              Charlie dropped his eyes and lifted them again.  Don had expected him to dodge the question, but Charlie met his gaze directly.  “I can’t tell you,” he said softly.  “At least, if this is what I think it is.”

              “What do you mean?”  The words were ominous, and if Don wasn’t scared before, he was now.

              “It has to do with something that happened when I was gone a few weeks ago.  I can’t tell you more than that without getting clearance.  I thought it was done, but apparently not.”

              Don stared at him, then finally found his voice.  “Well, you have your satphone, don’t you?  Can’t you call them and get clearance, or help, or something?”

              “Yeah, I was thinking about that.  I have a contact number.  I’m not sure this is an emergency, yet.  It could still be altitude sickness or a combination of that and just being run-down from being sick a few weeks back.” 

              “Okay,” said Don.  “But if you wake up worse tomorrow, you’re calling.”  He reconstituted two pouches of freeze-dried noodles and chicken, trying not to be upset at Charlie’s unwillingness to confide in him.   It’s understandable, he told himself.  It was one thing to talk about their love life, and another thing entirely to spill state secrets.  He got that, but it still felt wrong, especially when Charlie's health was at stake.

      Before he started eating, Charlie spooned some of his food into Don’s package. 

      “Hey, don’t do that.  You need to eat.”

       “I can’t overeat, or it will come back up,” said Charlie.  He managed to get the rest of it down, along with some water.  Don ate all of his, along with the extra, and had to admit that he was glad to get it.  He was starving, beat up, and exhausted.  He couldn’t imagine how Charlie felt.

       It was now dark, and Don lit the lantern.  He stood and packed up their empty food packs and utensils, put anything to do with food in their bear canisters and into a bear bag, and walked well away from the camp to hang the bag in a tree.  Charlie was shaking again when Don got back, and Don helped him to his feet and steered him toward the tent.  He helped him pull off his boots, and Charlie crawled into his sleeping bag and huddled in a ball. 

Don waited until he was asleep, then fished in his pack for the satellite phone.  He walked away from the tent and dialed David Sinclair’s cell phone. 

“David?  It’s Don.  Sorry to call you at home.  Hey, I need some help.”

Chapter Text

The night was a bad one.  Fever came and went, came and went.  Charlie tried not to toss and turn to keep from waking Don, but his body was aching, and from time to time, he needed to throw the covers off, and then pull them back on again.  His head was pounding, and he had one episode where he went completely out of his mind and woke up sweating and gasping, with Don bent over him. 

              “Charlie.  Charlie!”

              “Yeah.”  His chest heaved.  Why was it so hard to breathe?  “Whaa happened?”

              “You didn’t know you were doing that?”

              “Doing what?”

              “I don’t know - you were rigid like you were convulsing.  Were you dreaming?”

              “I - uh - yeah.”  He knew that he hadn’t been.  So convulsions were starting.  Not good.  “I dreamt I was falling down the hill.”

              Don sat there, and although Charlie couldn’t see his face in the darkness, his silence told Charlie that he was less than convinced, but finally, Don sighed.  “All right, wake me up if you need me.”  He lay back down, and Charlie stared at his dark form guiltily.   Don had to be exhausted, too; he’d taken a precious week’s vacation for - this - this debacle.  Charlie didn’t have much time for guilt, however, or for any coherent thoughts and emotions - he soon slipped back into sleep himself, or the half-sleep, half-hallucination that seemed to be taking over.

              He woke a little after dawn sore and shivering, every muscle aching.  God, how was he going to continue?  But he slowly crept out of the tent - Don was already up - and Charlie somehow managed to pull himself up by leaning on his camp chair.  Don was heating water for coffee and turned to see him standing there, swaying.

              Don darted over to him and grabbed his arm.  “Charlie, for God’s sake, sit down.”  He held on as Charlie sat.

              Don got a mug and stirred in some instant coffee and handed it to him.  “Can you handle this?”

              “Yeah,” said Charlie.  It came out as a croak.  The coffee was bracing; the heat felt like heaven going down.  Maybe he could do this.  “I wonder how far we are from the road?  Can you hand me my satphone?”

              Don hesitated for a split second.  He stepped over to Charlie’s pack and pulled out the phone and handed it to him.  Charlie pulled up a GPS map and squinted at it.  There they were - the blue dot - and there was the road.  Farther away than he had hoped, but they could conceivably make it by nightfall.  And it was going to be downhill.  “It’ll probably take us until night, but I think we can make it in one day.”

              Don was staring at him suspiciously as he took the phone and handed him a protein bar.  “I didn’t think you would be going anywhere today,” he admitted.  “I was trying to figure out how to carry you.”

              Charlie regarded him somberly.  “I can’t guarantee anything,” he conceded.  “But as of this moment, I think I can walk.  Maybe sleep helped.” 

              Don sat down the other camp chair with his elbows on his knees, facing Charlie, as if he was about to confess.  He was.  “I talked to David.  I used your satphone.  I called him last night and again this morning.  He and Colby will head up here today and try to meet us out on the road - maybe even come in to help us get out if they have to.”

              “Okay,” said Charlie cautiously.  He had the sense that there was more coming.

              “I also had David do some digging.  He went up through the A.D. last night, asking questions on your assignment.  They both got calls about an hour afterward, telling them to stand down, and that someone would be coming out here to address the situation.”

              “Oh, boy,” said Charlie.  “That couldn’t have gone over too well.”  He didn’t want to get sideways with the government, but on the other hand, they hadn’t done a good job of looking after their consultant.  Maybe he’d get the opportunity to tell them so.  In private. 

              Don frowned at him.  “Charlie, who in the hell are you dealing with, here?  What happened?  Was this some sort of job for the CDC?  Did something go wrong - is that how you got sick?”

              Charlie looked at him, horrified.  “No - no - nothing for the CDC.  Nothing contagious - God, do you think I’d be around you and dad - or at school - if I’d gotten something contagious?”

              “What, then?” demanded Don. 

              Charlie sighed.  “If I told you, you’d be able to guess something about the assignment.  I don’t want you to get sideways with the government - it could hurt your career.”

              “At this point, I don’t give a damn,” said Don.  “They’re at fault - you’re a civilian, and they obviously didn’t take very good care of you.” 

He’d echoed Charlie’s very thoughts, but Charlie wasn’t about to pull him into this, even if they had wronged him.  Maybe later he’d tell Don and his father - but not without getting permission.  “Look,” he sighed.  “My fever is bound to come back.  We ought to be walking while we can.”

Even Don had to concede that, so they packed up camp.  Don refused to let Charlie carry his gear; he strapped it on to the back of his pack and only allowed Charlie to take the bear bag with his water and a protein bar.  And the satphone - Charlie slipped it into his small pack for safekeeping.  He had visions of his contact calling and Don answering and giving the man a piece of his mind. 

              They were now in a valley.  The slope along the creek was not as steep, but the ground around it was littered with stones from the talus fields above them.  There was no trail - they were headed into a part of the forest far off the main paths.  It was almost as tough going as the day before, but eventually, they wound down far enough that they were away from the talus fields, and the ground smoothed out.  They made better progress, but Charlie was still finding it difficult to breathe.  And he was tired, God, he was tired.  They stopped every hour for him to rest for five minutes. 

Their surroundings were getting greener.  The gray rocks were nearly gone, replaced by trees and shrubs.  They paused for lunch, and Charlie had to force his down.  He could feel another bout coming on - fever and chills.  Don took the time to fill their water bottles and purify them, and as he stood, he frowned, his nose wrinkling, and he looked around.  “Oh, hell,” he said, his eyes widening.

His tone brought Charlie to his feet - too quickly - the world spun, and he reached out for a nearby tree to steady himself.  “What?”

Don’s voice dropped, and he moved closer to Charlie as he spoke.  “Look around you, Charlie.  We’re on a pot farm.  Can’t you smell it?”

Charlie looked around - the spiky-leaved plants were growing in seemingly random groups, blending in with the forest growth.  He could see partway down the slope, and it was covered with them - hundreds of plants. 

“An operation this big might have guards,” Don said, in a low voice.  “I don’t know how many or how often they’re around - we may be able to slip through.  Stay here with the packs for a minute; I’m going to take a look.” 

He pulled open a flap on his pack and pulled out his Glock.  Charlie gave him a look but didn’t say anything.  He’d told him not to take his gun, but maybe it was good that he had.  Or maybe, it would get him into a shootout.  “Don -,” he said as his brother turned away, and Don looked back at him.

“Be careful,” he finished. 

              Don nodded, and Charlie watched him slip down the hill.  The stream wandered through a clearing, and Don followed its general direction but kept out of the open space in the trees.  Charlie felt another wave of dizziness, and he backed up against the trunk of a large pine tree for support.   His heart thumping, he watched as Don moved down the slope - and then his heart pounded harder because another man had appeared at the bottom of the clearing to Don’s right, with an assault rifle slung over his back.  A guard.  There was a large clump of brush between the guard and Don; they hadn’t seen each other yet, but Charlie, with his vantage point from higher up the hill, could see both of them.  He could tell that if they kept on their current courses, they would come face to face just past the mass of undergrowth. 

              Charlie grabbed his bag, fumbled for his satphone, and pulled up the emergency number they had given him after his assignment.  He punched it in, and a familiar voice answered - his primary contact, a man named Robles.   “Professor Eppes.”

              “Hi - I’m sure you know by now, I’ve got a situation here.”

              “Yes, your brother’s call to his agent and his A.D. last night raised a little bit of a stir. I’m out here now - I got into L.A. this morning, and I’m driving up there.  I’ve got a fix on your phone - I’m tracking you, and I know exactly where you are.  I’m coming in with some help.  Charlie, we need to keep a lid on this.  We’ll get you treatment, but we need to be careful.”

              “Yeah, well, I’ve got another problem,” Charlie spoke rapidly.  His eyes were riveted on Don - and a second man had appeared behind the first.  They were staring in Don’s direction, but couldn’t see him yet through the pile of brush.  Don had stopped walking - perhaps he had heard them. 

A noise behind Charlie made him look around the tree trunk back up the slope, the way they had come.  Two more men were coming down from that direction - both with guns.  They had seen him poke his head out behind the tree, or maybe they had seen Don, and one of them was on a radio, undoubtedly alerting the two men below.  Charlie ducked back behind the tree and said, “Don and I have stumbled onto an illegal pot farm.  Right now, we’re surrounded by men with guns.  They’ve seen us and are heading our way.”

“How many?” said Robles tersely.

“Four, but there may be more.  It looks like a big operation.”

The men were getting closer, and Charlie knew he was almost out of time.  He heard Robles say, “Okay, hang on to your phone - we’ll use it to track you.  I’m calling in reinforcements -,” Charlie didn’t hear the rest.  He ended the call, leaned down, and shoved the phone inside his hiking boot under his pants leg, and stepped out from behind the tree, and put up his hands. 

He turned his head to look for Don - Don had his Glock pointed at the two men with automatic weapons, and they had their guns aimed at him.  “Oh, God, don’t, Don, please,” Charlie breathed.  He could see one of the men say something and point up the hill, and Don looked up to see Charlie, flanked by the other two guards.  Their eyes met.  Don’s shoulders slumped, and he spread his arms out to the side and dropped the Glock.

Chapter Text

Don walked slowly up back up the clearing with his hands on his head, the two armed men behind him.  As he came up to Charlie, he could see emotion almost radiating from him - tension and fear, to be sure, but there was something else there, and Don tried to place it.  It was almost - agony - and guilt.  “This is not your fault, Charlie.”  Don caught his gaze, tried to convey the thought with his eyes. 

              He knew they were in a bad spot.  It would be a simple matter for the men to kill them out here and bury their bodies where no one would find them.  He stepped to Charlie’s side and looked at the men, trying to assess who might be the group leader.  Three men were dark and bearded, possibly Hispanic, and the fourth looked Caucasian, with a scruffy sandy beard and hair.

              One of the dark-haired men spoke.  “So, what are you doing out here?”  His English was unaccented.  

              Don addressed him directly.  “We were hiking the trail, and my brother got sick.  We’re just trying to get back to the road.  We could care less about what you’re doing up here.  It’s not our business.”

              A small smile showed through the beard.  “No, it’s not.  But you made it our business.  Come on; we’re going to take a little walk.”

              Not good, Don thought.  So, they weren’t going to let them go - he didn’t really believe that they would, but there was always that chance.  Illegal pot farms were transient enterprises - if threatened with discovery, the farmers would swoop in and harvest their crop and just abandon the area, and then find a new place to plant.  Trying to shut them down was like playing whack-a-mole.  This crop, however, was too big to harvest in a few hours.  It would take a day or two.  If they were lucky, that was what this group would do - hold them for a couple of days until they could bring in their crop, then let them go.  But that delay could be deadly, for Charlie.  And then there was the possibility that the men would choose door number one, and just kill them both.

              The men patted them both down, quickly.  Charlie looked unsteady on his feet.  He staggered a little as a man began patting him down, then coughed right his face.  The man stepped back quickly, eyeing him with disgust.  He resumed the pat-down, but it wasn’t a thorough one - he evidently didn’t want to be near the sick guy.   It didn’t matter much, Don thought despondently.  Charlie didn’t have a weapon anyway.  Then the men opened their packs.  They pulled out his and Charlie’s cell phones, and one of the men opened one of their water bottles and dropped the phones in it. 

Don was hoping against hope that they wouldn’t look in the bear bag that Charlie had been carrying, and his heart fell as they picked it up and dumped it unceremoniously on the ground.  Charlie’s two water bottles and a protein bar flew out - but no satellite phone.   Don looked at Charlie, who met his eyes but looked away quickly.  Charlie must have hidden the phone somehow.  Good thinking - Colby and David could track them via GPS.  Even if the phone was left behind, hidden in the underbrush, the signal would bring their rescuers to this spot.  They would see the pot farm and surmise what happened and track them from here. 

Their search completed, two of the men picked up their bigger packs, leaving the bear bag and the water bottles on the ground.  One of the men started back downhill, and the leader motioned with his assault rifle to follow.  “Walk,” he said. 

Don nodded at Charlie to go first; Don would be behind him to help him up if he fell.  It looked as though Charlie’s fever might be returning; his face was flushed, and his eyes looked glassy.  He appeared to be extremely unsteady on his feet, and he tottered behind the man leading the way. 

Toward the bottom of the clearing, a path came from the left.  It followed the remainder of the slope down past a big clump of brush.  As the trail hit the clearing, it jogged down the hill, and then right, around the mass of vegetation.  The two men he had encountered had come from the right, but the man leading them took the trail left. 

They wound their way through trees, across the face of the hill.  Charlie was dragging, falling behind the man in front, and one of the men behind Don snarled, “Hey, move it!”

Charlie responded by trying to pick up his pace; Don could hear his ragged breathing.  He made it only a few yards before he stumbled and fell, and the man charged past Don, pushing him aside.  Don stumbled himself, and then the man was on Charlie, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and yanking him to his feet.  He shook him, and Don barked, “Stop it!  He’s sick, I told you.”

The man released Charlie, who swayed dangerously on his feet.  His eyes were at half-mast, unfocused, his lips parted for air.  The man looked at him, realizing that Charlie was indeed that ill, and he muttered to himself and stepped back. 

Their leader spoke up from behind.  “Keep moving.”  As the other man dropped back behind Don, the leader said something to him in rapid Spanish. 

Charlie just stood there, wavering on his feet.  He looked disoriented, out of it.  Don stepped forward and put an arm around him, gently guiding him onward.  He expected a reprimand, but the men said nothing.

They hadn’t traveled that far, maybe only three hundred yards, when they reached a sizable camp, although it seemed to take forever to get there.  Don estimated that it was around two in the afternoon. There were six large canvas tents made out of green camouflage material, set up under trees to thwart aerial surveillance.   Two men lounged in camp chairs set up in the center of the camp, and they rose to their feet as the group approached, eying the captives. 

They paused in the center of the camp, and the leader pointed to one of the tents.  “Put them in there.”

Don guided Charlie to the tent - half of it held a table and chairs, and the other half, boxes and bins of supplies.  One of the men pulled their bedrolls from the tops of their packs and threw them inside, and Don unrolled them.  It was a small act of kindness, and it gave Don just a little bit of hope.  Charlie was shaking again with fatigue, chills, or both, and Don guided him to a sleeping bag and went to unlace Charlie’s boots. 

Charlie stopped him, gripping his wrist with surprising strength, then checking to make sure that the men outside couldn’t see him, carefully turned up his pants leg to give him a peek.  Don could see the top of the satphone, tucked well down into the ankle of his hiking boot.  It must have hurt to walk with it in there.  Don nodded and left the boots alone.  Charlie had been brilliant to put it there, and then he had made sure that the man searching him didn’t look too hard by distracting him, coughing in his face.  Then the men had searched their packs and found two cell phones.  Two captives, two cell phones.  Their captors didn’t think to look further.

  “Good thinking, bud,” Don whispered. Charlie’s only response was a single nod, and then he closed his eyes.  Don was warm, sweating from the walk, but Charlie was still shaking badly.  Don helped him into the sleeping bag, and Charlie lay back and immediately closed his eyes.  He looked utterly spent.

Don pulled up a seat and sat wearily.  Outside, the men hunkered down in the camp chairs and started going through the packs more thoroughly, and laying anything of interest or value on a small folding table.  Don could see his Glock sitting there.  They pulled out their wallets, and the man scanning Don’s wallet suddenly pointed to it and said something urgently in Spanish to the leader.  They had found his ID; they now knew he was FBI.  The leader looked into the tent, his eyes meeting Don’s. 

Then the man stood and pulled out his phone.

…………………….

              Colby Granger stood by the side of David Sinclair’s car and rubbed his head.  “We’ve got to be in the right spot,” he said for the second time.  “There’s the stream that they’re following.  Do you think we should call them?”

              David shook his head, scanning the landscape.  “Don said he’d call us if they needed us.”  They had parked on the side of US 395, out in the middle of nowhere, a few miles south of Independence. Ahead of them was a relatively flat section of greenery, dissected by a meandering stream - Shepherd’s Creek, according to the map.  Beyond the meadow, brush and trees covered rising green hills, and beyond those slopes, they could see the tall gray peaks of the mountains.  David gave the mountaintops a nod.  “And if they’re hiking down from there, it’s going to take time.”

              Colby shook his head.  “I’m not sure I get the attraction.”  He gestured at the mountains.  “I mean, they’re beautiful and all, but that looks damned painful.”  It was quiet out there; the occasional vehicle whizzed by, leaving only the sound of the wind.  Colby had gotten used to the cars and was, for the most part, ignoring them, but when a big black SUV slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder behind him, both he and David looked at it.  “What’s this?” murmured Colby.  They both tensed, hands ready to grab weapons.

              Two men got out of the vehicle.  They were wearing jeans, pullovers, and boots, but somehow looked official, and one of them whipped out his ID.  David and Colby did likewise because they were similarly attired and weren’t readily identifiable as FBI.  The man’s ID read Derek Robles, and his affiliation simply read ‘Department of Defense.’  ‘Not very descriptive,’ thought Colby.  ‘I wonder who he’s really with.’

              The second man didn’t introduce himself; he just stood back with his arms crossed.  Robles seemed to recognize David.  “Agent Sinclair.  We haven’t met officially.  We spoke on the phone last night.”

              “Ah, yes, of course,” said David.  He didn’t shake hands.  “We didn’t realize that you were coming out.”

              “Yes, I’ve been asked to coordinate the extraction.”

              David looked at Colby, then back at Robles.  “Extraction?”

              Robles seemed to be enjoying some sort of superior knowledge.  “You don’t know?”

              David’s lips were tight.  “Know what?  Don Eppes called me and asked me to meet them here and pick them up.”

              “Ah,” said Robles.  “Well, there’s a problem.  There’s an illegal pot farm up in those hills, and the Eppes brothers have been taken captive.”

              “What?” Colby couldn’t help himself.

              Robles nodded curtly.  “There’s an extraction team coming in behind me.  They’ll get them out.  Airlift.”

              David frowned.  “If they’ve been taken captive, how do you even know they’re still up there?”

              Robles pulled up a GPS map on his phone, and they could see a pulsing blue dot.  He pointed up into the green portion of the hills, and slightly to their right.  “They’re right up there,” he said.  “We’ve got a tracker on Charlie’s satellite phone, and we’ve got a high altitude drone overhead.  The drone has confirmed the location of the camp.”

              “Well, maybe we shouldn’t wait, then,” said Colby.  “We can go in and reconnoiter.”

              “Trust me, we’ll want to leave this to the professionals,” said Robles, with a condescending smile.

              “Last time I looked, I was a professional,” Colby shot back. 

              Robles just shook his head and pointed upward.  Colby and David craned their necks, and the faint sound of chopper blades drew their gaze beyond Robles’ head.  Two Blackhawk helicopters appeared on the southern horizon, and all four men watched as they approached and landed in the field on the other side of the road.  A squad of men in black poured out of one of the helicopters and immediately charged across the highway and toward the hills.  They bore no military insignia.  Neither did the helicopters. Colby was suddenly aware he hadn’t seen any traffic for a while, and he glanced up and down the road. 

              Robles read his thoughts.  “We’ve got roadblocks up a few miles away on either end of the road until we’re finished here.  We don’t need idiots with their cell phones filming this.”  He pointed up to a grassy slope near the location of the camp.  “We’ll give the extraction team some time to get to them.  They’ll call in the second chopper just before engagement, and it will head up to that open area up there.  The team will get the Eppes brothers on that chopper and fly them immediately to a hospital.”

              “Which hospital?” demanded David.

              “I’m sure Agent Eppes will let you know.  If I were you, I’d start heading back to L.A.  It’s a three-hour drive.”

              “That’s okay,” said David.  “We’ll just stay here until we’re sure they’re on that chopper.”

              Robles shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”  He turned toward his vehicle and then turned back.  “You do realize, everything involved here is classified.  You are, under no circumstances, to speak of this mission to anyone.  Understood?”

              David said, tightlipped, “Understood.”

              Robles walked back to speak to the other man, and they both headed across the street to the other chopper.  “That guy’s an asshole,” said Colby.  “He’s the one in charge of getting Charlie some help?”

              “It sounds like it,” David said, frowning.  “I don’t like it either.”

              They stood there for another fifteen minutes, and the second chopper began to rev up, its blades rotating faster.  They turned to see it start to ascend.  The doorway was open, and they could see the people inside, and one of them was Robles.  The other man who had arrived with him walked back to the SUV and got in, turned around, and drove south, the way they had come. 

              Colby and David turned to watch the second helicopter soar across the meadow and head for the open slope up above.  “Showtime,” said David softly. 

Chapter Text

Don watched as the leader of their group of captors ended his call.  The man looked at him and motioned, and Don slowly rose from his chair, stepped out of the tent, and came forward to meet him.  Three others were sitting there - two of the men had vanished.  Probably out on patrol, Don thought. 

The leader eyed Don and said, “I saw your ID.  We don’t want trouble with the feds.  My boss would like to know your position on this.”

              “My position,” said Don, “is to get my brother to a hospital as quickly as possible.  I don’t give a crap about your lousy pot farm.  It’s not my jurisdiction, and I know you’re just going to move it elsewhere.  I am not interested in chasing after you.”

              The leader nodded as if satisfied.  “We aren’t going to hurt you if you behave.  But we need a day or two to bring in our harvest.  We can’t let you go until then.”

              “We can’t wait a day or two.  You saw him.  He needs help now.  I promise you; I won’t say a word about your farm.  I’ll at least have to say I saw the plants up here, in case the local cops find it.  But I’ll wait for two days before I do.”

              The man considered that and said, “Let me discuss with the boss.”  He pulled out his phone, but he didn’t get a chance to dial.  The sharp report of an automatic weapon sounded in the woods on the north side of the camp.  The leader immediately screamed at his men in Spanish.

              The men scattered, moving into the brush around the perimeter of the camp, taking cover behind trees, and bullets began flying.  Don darted to the table to grab his Glock and started to retreat toward the tent.  He had no clear plan other than to try to take cover behind the boxes in the tent and defend Charlie as long as he could.  Before he could reach it, two men burst into the clearing.  They wore black, with black balaclavas covering their heads, leaving only their eyes exposed, and Don swiveled, crouching into a shooting stance, his Glock extended.  “Don Eppes!” barked one of the men.  “Sir, please holster your weapon.  We’re here to extract you.”

              The fact that they knew his name gave some credibility to their request, but the lack of insignia on their uniforms was sketchy at best.  However, Don holstered his weapon and raised his hands for good measure.  He couldn’t use a Glock to argue with two automatic rifles, in any event.

              “Sir, you don’t need to raise your hands.  We are not hostile.  The U.S. government has sent us for you and Professor Eppes.”

              Okay, so this was legit - at least as legit as a covert op could be.  Because that was what this was.  There was no doubt the men were trained military, but balaclavas and no insignia meant a clandestine mission.  Bullets were still flying, and Don motioned them into the tent, where Charlie, who had heard the commotion, had somehow struggled to his feet, propped up by some stacked boxes.  His eyes were wide, and he looked at Don.

              “It’s okay, Charlie, we’re getting out of here.” 

              Outside, Don could still hear shots - the smugglers were putting up a good fight.  They knew these woods, but Don was betting on the guys in black.  The sound of chopper blades became apparent over the din as the two men hustled them out of the tent, one on either side of Charlie, holding him up with one arm and holding their automatic weapons with the other.  There was a hill behind the camp, and without hesitation, they went straight for it, half-dragging a stumbling Charlie up the slope.  Don could see a Blackhawk helicopter slowly descending onto a relatively flat spot at the top of the hill.  The noise, the intensity, the utter cold efficiency of the rescue team - it was a surreal scene, and Don’s only coherent thought was, “Holy shit.”

              He was scrambling up the slope beside them, alternating looking back for possible threats with glances at Charlie.  Then, Charlie went down, and Don did, too.

              Charlie had reached his limit.  His legs had given out, and he went to his knees, gasping, his head lolling.  And at the same time, Don felt a searing pain in his upper arm.  He’d been hit.  The force of the bullet strike threw him off-balance, and he stumbled. 

              Help was coming.  Two medics were scrambling down the slope with a gurney as Don sat up.  His arm burned like fire, and he was bleeding profusely, but the wound was a relatively superficial gash.  Manageable, if they could stop the bleeding.  One of the soldiers pulled him to his feet by his uninjured arm, and the other man faced down the slope, firing, as the medics trundled Charlie and the gurney up the hill.  The roar of the helicopter blades was deafening, and dust and dirt swirled in the air.  They made it inside, Don first, grunting with pain as they pulled him in by the arms, while they attached the gurney to a hoist.  Don scrambled in and knelt back out of the way as the gurney was lifted and swung inside.  The medics pulled it to the far side, as far away from the gunfire as possible, and one of them bent over Charlie, and the other turned to Don as the two soldiers leaped into the chopper.  The aircraft began to rise, and the soldiers hung out of the open doorway with their weapons directed downward, scanning for threats. 

              From that height, Don could see down into the forest.  The only resistance now was one lone smuggler perched behind some rocks, firing futilely at six black-clad attackers.  The bodies of the other smugglers littered the terrain. Three of the soldiers were beginning a flanking maneuver.  In a moment, it would all be over.  Soldiers six, smugglers zero.  Don took a deep breath and sat back and let the medic work on his arm, as the chopper, now at altitude, swung away from the scene and picked up speed, heading south.

……………………………..

              Charlie regained consciousness, a roaring sound in his ears, sensing an odd feeling of weightlessness.  He was terrified, disoriented.  There had been shooting, and strange people surrounded him.  Don.  Where was his brother?  He struggled to sit up.  “Don!”

              The man beside him gently pushed him down, but he could hear his brother’s voice calling to him over the roar.  He turned his head to see Don scrambling toward him.  “I’m here, Charlie, right here!”  It was a relief to see him, but then he saw that Don’s shirt was splashed with blood. 

              Don saw his distress and pointed to a bandage on his arm.  It was tightly bound, but blood was still seeping through it.  Don looked pale under smudges of dirt, and Charlie could see lines of pain in his face, but his brother smiled at him.  “I’m fine, Chuck.  It’s okay.” 

              Charlie took a breath and took in his surroundings.  They were flying, he realized, in a helicopter.  Someone hit a control, and the door to the chopper slid shut, and instantly the roar died down.  Don lowered his voice from a shout.  “I’m not sure who these guys are, or how they found us, but they’re getting us to a hospital.”

              Another voice sounded, and Derek Robles stepped into view.  He was swaying slightly from the motion, holding a strap for support, but he looked perfectly at ease in the chopper.  “Actually, it was Charlie who called us in,” he said.  “This morning, when you first encountered the smugglers.”

              Don looked at him.  “And you are?”

              Their conversation faded away.  Breathing, even lying down, was becoming more difficult.  Charlie saw Robles pull out his ID and saw Don look at it skeptically, and then he felt the floating sensation that meant he was going out again.  He tried to hold on, but it was a losing battle.  The world turned gray, then black.

……………………..

                            Don tensed as the helicopter touched down at Los Angeles Airforce Base.  Robles had given him less-than-satisfactory answers to his questions.  The plan was to land at the LAAFB, where a doctor would give Charlie a preliminary examination.  Robles had said that if the doctor thought they had the time, they would fly Charlie across the country to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center for treatment. Don would be transported by ambulance to Cedars Sinai.  If time were critical, Charlie would also go to Cedars Sinai. 

              “So you’re saying Cedars Sinai would be able to treat what he has?” Don had asked.

              “Well, yes,” admitted Robles.  “It would mean involving civilian medical staff, however.  There are security issues.”

              “What does he have?  What’s wrong with him?” demanded Don.

              “So, he didn’t tell you?”

              “No, damn it, he said he wasn’t allowed to.”  Don’s shoulder was throbbing, and his temper was flaring.  He didn’t like Robles, and he didn’t trust the DOD on his identification - it wasn’t specific enough.  ‘He’s a goddamned spook,’ Don thought to himself.  He had to be.  What in the hell was Charlie doing, getting involved with the CIA? 

              “Good, he wasn’t supposed to tell you. You don’t have the clearance.”  Robles looked smug, satisfied.  Don wanted to punch him.

              “Well, there’s no way in hell that he’s going all the way out to Walter Reed without either his father or me,” Don stated.  “He’s in no condition to agree to treatment, for one thing.  He’d need to have one of us sign for him.”  And Don was going to make damned sure he was the one going along for the ride, bullet wound or not.  If Charlie could wait for treatment, so could he. 

              Upon landing at Los Angeles Air Force Base,  Don waited until Charlie’s gurney was on the tarmac and unhooked from the hoist before he jumped down next to it, to pre-empt them from taking off again with Charlie after he was on the ground.  He trotted alongside the stretcher as they wheeled Charlie into the medical center on the base.   Charlie was awake, but groggy, and looked as though he was trying vainly to comprehend what was happening.   There was no way that Don was leaving him - he intended to stick to him like a leech.

              They entered a hallway and pulled up next to an exam room, and the door opened.  Don could see a doctor and a nurse inside.  He prepared to follow the gurney in, but Robles stepped in front of him.  “You’ll wait outside,” he said. 

“Okay,” said Don.  “I will.  But wherever you take him after this, I am going with him.”

              “You won’t be authorized to go to Walter Reed,” Robles said flatly. 

              Don stepped up close, right in his face, and played his trump card.  “I may not know anything about Charlie’s part of the mission, but I know what I saw today.  I saw a black ops team take out six pot farmers, with no mercy shown to any of them.  I wouldn’t want to have to make that public.”

              Robles’ eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened.  “You wouldn’t do that.”

              “Try me.”

              Robles glared at him, and went inside and shut the door.  Don took a breath.  Okay, so that one had hit home.  He had a bargaining chip.  The fact that the ops team had killed those men was defensible; the smugglers were shooting back at them.  But Robles wouldn’t want the inquiry or the press involved, because that would create questions as to why they were there, to begin with.  There was a long bench in the hallway, and Don sat there to wait.  The stress, the blood loss, and his injury were making themselves felt; he could sense exhaustion bearing down on him.  There was enough room next to him for others to sit, but the medics who had handled the gurney took one look at his expression and walked halfway down the hallway to another bench. 

              After roughly twenty minutes, Robles stalked out of the room without a glance at Don, walked down to the far end of the hall, and got on his cell phone.  It was a short call, and Robles stopped at the other bench as he returned and said, “Go in and get him.  We’re going to Cedars Sinai.”  Robles had a sour expression on his face, and he didn’t wait for the medics; he turned and walked outside.  Don stood and wobbled a little, found his legs, and prepared to go with them.  Leech time. 

              He was glad to hear that he didn’t need to fight Robles on accompanying Charlie to Walter Reed.  On the other hand, the fact that the doctor had insisted on faster treatment sounded ominous.  Don got a look at Charlie as they wheeled him out; he looked delirious and was muttering something unintelligible. 

              “I’m here, buddy, I’m right here,” said Don, and Charlie looked through him as if he wasn’t.  The doctor stepped out, and Don glanced at his nametag.  Jaworski, it said.  “How is he?” Don asked.

              The doctor was tight-lipped.  “He needs to start treatment immediately,” he said. 

              “What treatment?” asked Don.

              The doctor shook his head with a grim smile.  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

              As the medics wheeled Charlie out, one of them gave Don a look.  Don muttered, “It was worth a try.”

              An ambulance was outside with its doors open, and another medic was sitting inside it, awaiting his patient.  They trundled Charlie into the back, and Don prepared to hop in with him.  Robles had come up beside him and said curtly.  “There’s no room.  You can ride with me.” At Don’s hesitation, he said, “I’m not about to let him out of my sight, either.”

              Don gave Charlie a last quick look and followed Robles over to a dark SUV.  There was another man at the wheel, and Robles got into the front passenger seat, so Don climbed into the back, cradling his injured arm.  The other man glanced over his shoulder at Don, curiously, and Robles said, “Cedars Sinai, Jim.  Emergency entrance.” 

Chapter Text

Sitting in the backseat on the way to Cedars Sinai, Don second-guessed himself.  What if they pulled a fast one, and the ambulance turned around and went back to the airbase?  He didn’t trust Robles whatsoever.  Somehow, though, he felt that Robles was telling the truth in this instance.  That man was going to be where Charlie was so he could control the situation.  He’d made that clear.

              At the emergency room, the medics quickly pushed Charlie’s gurney into a room with a closed door, and the man named Jim went in with him.   Robles stood with Don in the hallway and nodded toward an ER attendant waiting down the hall near some curtained-off patient bays.  “I’ve arranged for them to take care of your wound.  I didn’t think you’d get very far on your own without ID.  I’d go get treated - we’ll get Professor Eppes admitted and into a room.”

              Don had visions of them whisking Charlie up to the helipad as soon as he was gone.  He knew it probably ridiculous, but he was staying nearby.  “Thanks, I’ll do that, but I’ll wait until the doctor sees him, and he gets into a room.” 

              Robles shrugged, irritably.  “Suit yourself.”

              Don walked down and spoke to the ER attendant and told him he’d be back down later.  He did need to get his arm taken care of - just not quite yet.  Down the hall, he saw a man in a suit hurry off an elevator and make his way to Robles.  They spoke briefly, and they both went into Charlie’s ER bay.  The attendant, a stocky young man with sharp eyes, said, “That’s a new one.  I’ve never seen the hospital director down here before - at least not in a room.”  He looked at Don with curiosity.  “So what gives?”

              “If you find out, please let me know,” said Don.  “I’ll come down later.”

              The young man shrugged.  “No problem.  I’ve got a chart started for you.  I’m here all night.”

Don walked back down and sat in a chair in the hallway.  Shortly after that, a doctor popped out of the same elevator and disappeared into the room.  Don began to take stock of his situation.  He had no ID, no wallet, and no phone.  His Glock was tucked in his waistband under his sweatshirt, but without an ID, that was almost a liability.  He hadn’t had a shave in at least three days, he was dirty, smelly, and covered in blood, and he was walking around with no ID with a gun tucked in his rear waistband.  In short, he looked like your average L.A. gang member.  Just a little older.

He needed to get hold of his father, he decided.  He walked back down the ER attendant, who very generously let Don use his cellphone, and Don walked back down the hallway for privacy.  He called David first. 

“Don,” came David’s voice, “Where are you?”

“We’re at Cedars Sinai.  They got us out and flew us to LAAFB, and then we came here by ambulance, or Charlie did.  They’re in there looking at him now.  But there’s something pretty hinky about all of this.  I’m not letting Charlie out of my sight.”

“We’re about an hour out.  We’ll head right there.”

Unexpectedly, Don felt a lump in his throat.  Finally, someone other than himself to lean on.  He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until that moment.  “Okay, that’ll be good.  I’ll fill you in when you get here with what I know, which isn’t much.”

He signed off and then called his father.  “Hi, Dad.”

“Don?”  His father processed the fact that Don was calling several days earlier than the planned end of the trip - and from an unknown number - in an instant.  “What’s wrong?”

“We have a slight issue.  We’re at Cedars Sinai.  Charlie is sick.  I’m not sure what’s wrong.  They’re in there looking at him.  They sent a guy here from D.C.  Charlie’s illness is somehow connected to his trip, and neither Charlie nor this guy will talk about it.  I’m hoping the doctor here will figure it out and fill us in.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” Alan said. 

“Okay, Dad, can you do me a favor?  Bring me a change of clothes, deodorant, some shaving cream, and a razor.  And I may need to borrow a little cash.  I had to leave my ID and my phone behind.  Meet me in Emergency.”

“Done,” said Alan firmly. 

“Okay, take it easy on the roads.  Nothing is happening too fast here.”

That was an understatement.  Don walked back down and returned the phone and sat there another twenty minutes before the doctor, Robles, and the hospital administrator came back out.  Two orderlies bustled into the room.  Don approached the doctor, who was striding toward him.  The man didn’t look like he intended to stop, and Don belatedly realized that he was heading for the elevator.  He fell into step beside him.  “Doctor, I’m Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes’ brother.  Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I wish I knew,” muttered the doctor.  His name tag said Ceres.  He didn’t look happy.  He gave Don a sharp glance as if seeing him for the first time.  “His brother, you said?”  He gave a glance over his shoulder to make sure the others were still down the hallway, and said in a low voice, “Come up and see me in my office - alone - when you can.”

Don’s heart leaped with hope.  Finally, someone was going to fill him in on what was going on.  The doctor paused at the elevator and punched a button, and his next comment sent Don’s heart back down into his shoes.  “Maybe you can shed some light on this.” 

He stepped onto the elevator, and Don stood staring as the doors closed.  Then he whirled on his heel.  The orderlies were wheeling Charlie out of the room, but Robles, Jim, and the hospital administrator had vanished.  Don soon found out why.  They had taken another elevator.  The orderlies wheeled Charlie toward the back end of the emergency room.  There was another set of elevators there, large enough to accommodate the gurney, and Don stepped into the lift with them.  Charlie was out cold and white as a sheet, his eyes closed, and didn’t respond when Don called his name.  They had started an IV, but it didn’t seem as if they’d done anything else. 

              They took him up to the ICU and wheeled him toward a room.  One of the orderlies said, “You won’t be allowed in.  No visitors.”

              “I’m his brother.”

              “Those are the orders.  If you break them, they’ll call security, and take you off the floor.”  His words were curt, but his eyes were sympathetic.  “Just sayin’.”  He inclined his head.  “There’s a waiting area over there.”

              The waiting room was an alcove with a collection of chairs and a sightline to a few rooms.  Unfortunately, Don realized that Charlie’s room was not one of them, as the orderlies pushed inside a doorway at the far end of the corridor.  Still, he was at least on the same floor.  The rooms all had windows, and Don walked down and looked inside to see Robles and Jim sitting inside, watching as the orderlies transferred Charlie to the bed.  Don yanked the door open.  “What gives?” he demanded.  “They tell me I can’t be in the room, but you two clowns can be?”

              Robles gave Don a look of annoyance and gave Jim a wave that said ‘deal with him.’  Jim hurried over to the door, ushered Don into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.  “Professor Eppes is in and out of a delirious state,” he said, quietly, even though there was no one else in the hallway.  “He may inadvertently speak of his assignment.  We need to monitor the situation, so the ICU staff is bending the rules for us.  Orders from Washington.”

              He was polite and seemed concerned, unlike Robles.  Don stared him down.  “I’d like to see your ID.”

              Jim fished it out and handed it to him.  His full name was James Vanderberg, and he had the same nondescript Department of Defense designation on his identification. 

              “Who are you guys really with?” Don demanded.  “You’re spooks, aren’t you?”

              Vanderberg raised his eyebrows.  “I really can’t say, one way or another.” 

              “I thought so.  Did you give the doctor enough information to treat him?”

              “As far as we could.  We may be able to help further, but we’re waiting for the green light from Washington.  The doctor has ordered blood work and tests - they took several vials downstairs already, and they are already in the lab.  According to the doctor, he’s suffering some respiratory distress; they’re going to fit him with a nasal cannula and put him on some oxygen.  Low-flow, they told us.”

              Vanderberg was either more forthcoming and sympathetic than Robles, or a smooth talker.  A possible ally, or perhaps even more dangerous.  They seemed to be doing the right things, but Don wasn’t sure they had Charlie’s best interests at heart.  He wondered what their further help might entail, but he knew he wouldn’t get that out of them, at least not until they heard from Washington.  He gave Vanderberg a sharp nod and said, “Keep me informed.  My father is on his way.  If there is a time when Charlie is sleeping and not talking, I’m sure he’ll want to step in there to see him.”

              “We’ll see what we can do,” was Vanderberg’s noncommittal response.

              Don headed back toward the elevator and made his way back down to the first level, where he found a directory.  He looked up the location of Dr. Ceres’ office, which was in another building on the medical campus, and decided that he didn’t have time to see him before his father arrived.  So he headed back to the emergency department and waited.  Alan Eppes showed up ten minutes later, and so did David and Colby.  They walked in together, all with expressions of concern on their faces and looking at Don for answers.  He came out of the treatment area and into the waiting room to meet them, and everyone in the room looked at him.  He had to be a sight: covered in dirt and blood, his hair and clothes disheveled.  His father uttered an exclamation.  “Let’s step outside,” Don said.

              It was August, and L.A. temperatures were a far cry from the coolness of the mountains.  Don’s sweatshirt suddenly felt stifling.   Waves of heat were radiating from the pavement.  They walked over to a shaded area away from the doorway.  Colby and his father spoke at once: “What happened?” although Colby’s version had an accompanying epithet. 

              Don told them all of it: he spoke about Charlie starting to feel ill, and their decision to get off the trail.  About finding themselves on an illegal pot farm and being rescued by a covert ops team.   He said, “After I called you and Colby to come up, we realized that we were in the middle of that illegal operation.  I went off to scope things out. As the smugglers were moving in on us, Charlie must have seen them and called Robles.  Robles called in support.”

              “Thank goodness,” said Alan.  “Who is Robles?”

              “His ID says Derek Robles from the DOD, but my guess is he’s CIA.  It sounds like he was part of Charlie’s second assignment in D.C.”

              “We ran into him up in the mountains,” said David.  “We were stationed where the creek meets the road, which is where you asked us to wait.  Robles and another guy drove up in an SUV, and then the two helicopters came in.”

              “Two helicopters!” exclaimed Alan.

              David nodded.  “They dispatched a team out of one of them to take down the camp, and the other one was used to evacuate Don and Charlie.  We watched what we could from below.  When the second chopper headed south, we figured you guys were on it, and we started driving home.  I tried to call you, both on your cell phone and Charlie’s satphone.”

              “Our cell phones are toast,” said Don.  “The smugglers destroyed them.  Charlie hid the satphone in his boot.  I guess I don’t know what happened to it.  I imagine Robles has it.  We left our packs, everything, behind, including my wallet, ID, and the keys to my SUV.”

              Alan was looking at his arm with concern.  “What happened to your arm?”

              “It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Don.  “Someone winged me when as we ran for the chopper.  There’s a guy in the emergency room waiting to stitch me up.”

              “Which you are going to do as soon as we finish here,” said Alan firmly.  “And Charlie? You said he wasn’t feeling well.  Did they admit him?”

              This was tough.  “Yeah,” said Don.  “He’s in the ICU.”

              “ICU!”

              Don took a deep breath and let it out.  “He wasn’t doing well from the start.  Charlie was lagging behind me, blamed it on getting no exercise for two months.  He kept getting worse, and we both thought it was a touch of altitude sickness.  But as Charlie got even sicker, he finally admitted to me that he was in trouble, and he thought it had something to do with his recent assignment.  It sounded like he had been ill while he was gone, and it also sounded to me like he knows what it is.  He said it wasn’t contagious, and he’d thought he was done with it.” 

              “Do you think he was working on disease research for the government?  Like for the CDC?” asked Colby.

              “I asked him that same thing, and he said no, it had nothing to do with that.  Robles and Vanderberg - the two spooks who are watching over him - wanted to fly him to Walter Reed for treatment, but a doctor here at LAAFB nixed that.  He said Charlie needs treatment right away, so they brought him here.  Whatever this is, the spooks feel that if it gets out, people will be able to determine something about his assignment.  They are up in his room now, and they aren’t letting anyone in because they say he is delirious, and there is a risk of him inadvertently spilling something they want to keep secret.”

              “We’ll see about that,” Alan growled.  “I’m going in whether they want me to or not.”

              “The weird part of this is, I thought they would have confided in Charlie’s doctor, but I don’t think they told him everything.  He wants me to come up and see him, maybe to see if I can shed any light on this.  When I questioned Vanderberg, he said that the hospital did blood work. It’s in the labs now, and he and Robles are waiting for some kind of green light from Washington before they can say more.  I was just going to go up to talk to Charlie’s doctor when you showed up.”

              Alan shook his head.  “You should get looked at first.”  He held up a bag.  “I brought your clothes.”

…………………………

              Charlie’s eyebrows knit in a frown, and he opened his eyes, blinking.  His first realization was that he was in a hospital bed, and with that came a measure of relief.  There was a cannula in his nose, and he could hear the soft whoosh and thump of the oxygen pump.  Then the hazy recollection of being on a helicopter, and Don being there too, resurfaced.  So they’d made it to a hospital.  He would have felt better if he had seen Don and knew for sure that he was okay, but this was something.  His eyes landed on the IV in his arm, and he knew he must be getting treatment.  It was strange, though, he reflected.  When he’d been treated previously, the medicine had produced a horrible metallic taste in his mouth, but now there was none.  And he felt terrible, just as bad as before. 

              Robles and Vanderberg were across the room, talking in low voices.  Why were they here, and Don wasn’t?  As groggy as he was, Charlie felt that something was off.  He closed his eyes and tried to listen to their conversation over the hiss of the oxygen. 

              ‘…checking to see if the bids have been made public over there…’  Then something that Charlie couldn’t catch, and then, ‘…we could at least tell them what he has - we don’t necessarily have to give them the country…’ then, ‘…we could tie it to the first assignment.  That’s not where he got it, but they wouldn’t know that…’  then, ‘…we could propose that, but I’m betting they’ll want to us at least wait until they see where the bidding process is…’

              Charlie felt his gut contract.  That’s why he wasn’t starting to feel better - they weren’t treating him at all.  They hadn’t told the doctors what he had.  He quickly opened his eyes and looked up at his IV bag.  There was nothing attached to it, no tube of medicine that dripped medication into his IV line, just a simple bag of fluids.  No, no treatment - he was just lying there, getting worse.  

              His eyes tracked back across the room, and he saw Robles looking at him.  He closed his eyes, hoping the man would think that he had only partially wakened and gone back to sleep.  The first time, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, the doctors told him, in and out of delirium.  Then and now, the pattern was the same.  Fever, chills, and hallucinations, sweating as the fever broke, and returning to consciousness and terrible fatigue.  Over and over again.  He was in the conscious phase now.  There was no telling how long it would last.  Or if consciousness would return if he didn’t get treatment.  He might just go under and never come up again.

              He could hear someone walk over to his bedside and pull up a chair.  “Dr. Eppes.”  It was Robles.  “Dr. Eppes, can you hear me?” 

              Charlie opened his eyes and looked at him and gave him a nod.  “Dr. Eppes, you’re at Cedars Sinai.  Your brother is downstairs, getting stitched up, but he’s fine.  Do you understand?

              “Yes.”  The word came out barely audible, his voice scratchy.  So they were in L.A., and Don was here and was relatively ok.  Relief surged so sharply that tears came to his eyes.

              “The doctors are doing bloodwork before they give you treatment,” Robles said.  “They should have a medication identified soon.  In the meantime, we are asking that there be no visitors, because you’ve been feverish and, well, babbling, I’m afraid, and some of it has been about your work with us.  Do you understand?”

              “Yes,” Charlie rasped.  He understood perfectly.  Not only did they not want people to hear him when he was delirious, but they also didn’t want him to talk when he was awake.  They didn’t care if the doctors found out what he had in time to save him or not.  If he were dead, his travels and his assignments would remain a mystery.  If the doctors did figure out what was wrong, Robles and Vanderberg would have to create a mitigation plan and swear civilians to secrecy, and they didn’t want that mess.  But Robles was betting that the doctors would not be able to figure it out, and Charlie knew why. 

              He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep again.  Sooner or later, medical personnel would need to come into the room.  Maybe his doctor would visit, or someone would at least come to change the IV.  He needed to stay conscious until then and figure out how to tell someone what he had without Robles and Vanderberg hearing him.  He knew he would be breaking his vow of silence, but they were breaking their vow to protect a civilian.  It was a fight for survival. 

              He wished he had yielded and told Don what he had, out there in the forest.  He could have at least done that, without divulging exactly where he’d been.  A tremor ran through him, and his heart sank.  The fever was coming on yet again.

Chapter Text

Alan had brought Don a much-needed sandwich.  He wolfed it down, found a restroom off the ER waiting room, and went in and washed; he put his whole head in the sink and rinsed his hair and washed his face, and toweled off with the handtowel his father had brought, and then he shaved.  He ran his fingers through his hair and left it touseled.  He changed his pants but left the shirt on until he was through the ER, and threw everything back in the bag, laying the clean shirt carefully on top.

              Thankfully, the ER doctor was free and took Don right back to a curtained bay, where he removed the temporary bandage and cleaned Don’s arm.  He worked quickly, expertly.  “Doesn’t look like there’s any muscle damage, or if there is slight damage, it should heal on its own,” he said. “Although it’s going to hurt for a while.  A few weeks out, if your arm function doesn’t feel normal, make an appointment for an MRI, but I don’t think you’ll need it.” 

              Don took a deep breath as the man went to work on stitching the wound.  “I take it this isn’t your first rodeo,” he said.

              The doctor shook his head ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many gunshot wounds I’ve treated.   I’m going to write you a prescription for an antibiotic, and you should start taking it right away.”

              He finished up, rebandaged the wound, and Don put on some deodorant and his clean shirt.   He at least looked halfway human now, even if he didn’t feel it.  He threw his destroyed shirt in the bag and, once he had his prescription and signed a form, ventured out to find his father and his agents.  They were sitting in the waiting room, and they jumped to their feet as he approached.  The clock on the wall said 5:10.  Hopefully, Doctor Ceres was still in.

              “Okay,” said Don.  “I’d like to go up and see Charlie’s doctor, and I think you should come with me, Dad.  David and Colby, maybe you can head up to Charlie’s room and try to get into to see him - see if anything has changed.  We’ll meet you there after we talk to the doctor.” 

              He gave Colby and David Charlie’s room number and some brief directions; Cedars Sinai had a whole tower dedicated to intensive care.   Before they left, he discreetly handed David his Glock.  “I don’t feel good about carrying this around without ID on me,” he said.  “With my luck, security will bust me and kick me out of here. Hang onto it and take it into the office for me when you go back.”     

              As he and his father walked, Don borrowed his father’s cell phone and called Megan Reeves, who was managing the office.  He filled her in and asked her to come to the hospital after she finished up at work.  He told her what he had in mind, and she said, “Absolutely.  I’m done for the day here anyway.  I’ll head right there.”

They found the building and Doctor Ceres’ office without issue.  He opened the door, and he and Alan found themselves in a small waiting room.  A woman sat behind a glass partition, and she slid it aside.  “Can I help you?”

              “Don Eppes, to see Dr. Ceres,” Don said

              She nodded.  “Of course.  He has been expecting you.  Through that door - just go right in.”

              They stepped through another door into a short hallway.  The doctor’s office was at the end of it, and Don rapped on the door.

              “Come in.”

              They entered.   “Don Eppes,” said Don.  “This is my father, Alan Eppes.  You said you wanted to see me.”

              “Yes, please take a seat.”   Ceres was in his mid-fifties, with olive skin, a receding hairline, and a pleasant round face.  “You look better since I saw you last.  I wanted to talk about Dr. Eppes’ symptoms with you.  We are seeing fever, disorientation, chills, and spasms.  We’ve got blood work in the labs, and reports are trickling in.  One of them indicates anemia.  He is also suffering from respiratory distress, and his lungs show fluid, so an obvious diagnosis might be pneumonia.  I think there may be more to this than that, however.”

              Alan stopped him.  “You mean they didn’t tell you what he has?”

              Ceres looked at him.  “Who?”

              Don interjected.  “The two men who were with him.  Robles and Vanderberg.”

              “They know?  They gave me the impression that they didn’t know what was wrong with him.  I thought they were just there for national security reasons.  They told me that Dr. Eppes has some sensitive information that they didn’t want him to blurt out.  They convinced our admin to let them stay in his room and to refuse all other visitors.  Even our staff was not to enter the room if Dr. Eppes was, uh, having a talkative spell - which I disagreed with, and I told them so.  I was outvoted.”

              Don said, “Charlie was on an assignment for six weeks, consulting for the government.  He left for the job a little over two months ago.  When he got back, he didn’t look well.  He had lost quite a bit of weight and seemed tired.  Other than that, he seemed normal at the time, and he and I went on a backpacking trip, starting four days ago, in the Sierra Nevadas.  On the trip, he seemed to have difficulty breathing.”

              “A lot of people would, in those mountains,” interjected Ceres.  “This could be complications of altitude sickness.”

              “Yes, but he’s hiked before with no issues.  He started to feel ill - feverish, chills.  He had no appetite at first and then nausea and vomiting later.  We got through two days of it before he told me that he thought he was in trouble - and there’s something else.  Apparently, Charlie had whatever this is while he was on assignment.  He was sure it had come back.  He wouldn’t tell me what it was because he said I might be able to guess at the assignment.  He was under orders not to say where he’d been.”

              Ceres frowned.  “That would mean those two agents - Robles and Vanderberg - would probably know what it is.  Why wouldn’t they tell me?  I can’t divulge anything in a patient’s record anyway because of HIPA laws.”

              Don hesitated - he hated to say this in front of his father, who had been quietly taking it all in, but it had to be said.  “I’m not sure they necessarily have his best interests at heart.  I talked to them this afternoon, and they admitted they might know something, but they’re waiting for some kind of approval from Washington.”

              Ceres drew himself up; Don could almost see outrage radiating from him, but he kept his voice level.  “Let’s be clear here.  Dr. Eppes is extremely ill.  Depending on what this is, we may not have time to wait for bureaucratic B.S.”

              Alan was nearly vibrating with fury in his chair.  “I can fix the situation.  I’ll call the local news station and go on air.  They’ll be sorry they tried to hide anything.” 

              Don held up a hand.  “We may not have to.  I have an idea.  I have a couple of agents up there now, checking to see if anything has changed and whether they have gotten whatever approval they need.  If Robles and Vanderberg are still playing coy, I’d like to send in another agent; one they haven’t seen before.  I’d like her to go in masquerading as a nurse or a member of your staff, just to see if she can pick anything up.  In the meantime, Doctor, now that you know they’re holding back, maybe you can push things with them.  Go in and talk to them, bring up the HIPA laws, whatever you need to do. Maybe even create enough distraction so that my agent can talk to Charlie.”

              “If he’s awake and lucid enough to talk,” said Ceres.  “He’s been in and out of consciousness.”

              “That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” said Don.  “We may have to send her in more than once. And in the meanwhile, maybe I can try to go up through my organization.”

              “Which is?”

              “I’m FBI.”

              “And what in the hell are those agents?  Their ID said Department of Defense.”

              “I don’t know,” Don admitted.  “I think possibly CIA.”

              Alan’s cell phone rang, and he fished it out and handed it to Don, who answered.  “Okay, we’re in Doctor Ceres’ office.  Meet us here.”

              “Megan Reeves is here,” he said.  “My agent.”

              Dr. Ceres scratched his head.  “I’m not sure about all of this.  It is irregular.  Maybe the right approach is to demand that they get their approval within the next two hours.  That we can’t afford to wait longer than that.”

              “I’m not sure the deadline would mean much to them.  In fact, if they thought that Charlie was that sick, it could encourage them to stall.”

              ‘’What do you mean?”

              “Think about it.  If Charlie dies, their problem goes away.”

              They stared at him, shock on their faces, and Alan looked at Dr. Ceres, beseeching.

              Ceres nodded.  “You’re right.  If you think they would go that far, we have to do everything we can to find the truth.  I’m all in.”

…………………………

              Twenty minutes later, Don, Alan, and Dr. Ceres were in the ICU's waiting area.  David and Colby saw them and met them in the hallway. 

              “No luck,” said David.  “They wouldn’t let us in and wouldn’t give us any information.  It doesn’t sound like anything has changed.”

              Don saw Megan, dressed in scrubs, appear at the end of the hallway, near the nurses’ station, and he inclined his head toward her.  “Well, we’ve got a plan. Megan is going in to pretend to check on Charlie.  While she’s doing that, Dr. Ceres will start a conversation with the agents, to distract them.  We’re giving them a chance to give him the information if he agrees to keep it private, according to HIPA laws.  If they don’t, he’ll start an argument, and Megan will use that distraction to try to talk to Charlie.”

              “What if it doesn’t work?” asked Colby.  “We got a quick peek through the window.  It looked like Charlie was sleeping.”

              “If they don’t give the doctor any info and Charlie isn’t conscious, then I don’t know if it will get us anything. If it doesn’t, all we can do is watch for Charlie to wake up and try again later.  Just between us, A. D. Merrill is making some calls as well, trying to push this up the ladder, but that may take a while.”

              “Ok,” said Ceres.  “Let’s get this show on the road.  I need to talk to your agent.”  He walked down to the nurses’ station to confer with Megan. 

              “I want to see him,” said Alan quietly. 

              “Me too,” said Don.  He led his father down the hallway, and they stopped at the window and looked into the room.  Charlie was lying pale and motionless in the bed, his eyes closed.   Alan made a soft exclamation when he saw him.

              Robles and Vanderberg were sitting on the other side of the room.  They looked up at the window, Vanderberg expressionless, and Robles smug, and Don stared back at them.   It made him furious just to look at them, and he thought to himself that it was probably a good thing that he had given his gun to David because he had an overwhelming inclination to use it.  Don decided to rattle them a little and try to wake Charlie up before Ceres and Megan walked in.  He rapped on the door and opened it. 

              “This is my father, Alan Eppes.  He would like to see Charlie for a moment.”

              Robles and Vanderberg stood, and both of them glanced at Charlie at the same time.  Charlie’s eyes flickered open, then shut.  Robles said, “He’s sleeping anyway.  Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the waiting area, and we’ll call you if he wakes up and is, well, in his right mind.”

              Don’s voice dripped with sarcasm.  “Did you hear from Washington?”

              “Not yet.”  Robles was curt, his manner abrupt.

              Ceres appeared behind them in the doorway, with Megan in tow.  “Excuse me, gentlemen.  We need to examine Dr. Eppes, and I would like to have a discussion with these - agents.” 

              Don and Alan stepped aside to let them through, and Megan, her face expressionless, held Don’s eyes for just a moment as she passed him.  She headed straight for Charlie’s bedside, and Ceres walked over to confront Robles and Vanderberg. 

              Don stepped back and shut the door.  Alan protested.  “Wait, I want to hear this.”

              “We will,” Don assured him.  “But I have a slight change of plans.  You see how Robles is talking to Ceres, but Vanderberg is watching Megan and Charlie closely?  If they don’t give Ceres the information he wants, the plan is for Ceres to start an argument and create a distraction, but it won’t work if Vanderberg ignores him.  Here’s the change of plans -  if it comes to that, we’re going to go in and help.  We’re going to argue, get right in their faces, so we can completely pull their attention away from Charlie.”

Alan nodded with grim satisfaction.  “My pleasure.”

“Okay, I’m going to open the door again so we can listen in.” 

He pulled the door open and thought, “here we go.”

………………………………….

              Megan Reeves walked over to Charlie’s bedside.  They had given her a thermometer, and she held it to Charlie’s forehead, as she said, cheerfully, “Hello, Dr. Eppes!”

              Charlie’s eyes flickered open, but only halfway.  They looked glassy, and it looked as though he didn’t recognize her.  Behind her, she could hear Dr. Ceres say, “It has come to my attention that you know something about my patient’s illness.  Gentlemen, I know you have security concerns, but I assure you, anything you tell me will be confidential - it has to be, due to patient privacy laws.”

              Megan glanced around behind her and saw that one of the agents was watching her closely.  Agent Vanderberg, according to Don’s description.  She looked at the thermometer and said,  “Hmm, maybe I should retake this reading.”  It read 104, which she thought sounded way too high.  She figured that perhaps she had done it wrong, but the second reading came out the same.  She smiled at Charlie, trying to catch his eye as she reached for his chart.  He blinked at her, frowning.  “How do you feel, Dr. Eppes?” she said loudly.

              No response, other than a deeper frown.  ‘Charlie doesn’t even know where he is,’ she thought with despair.  “He doesn’t recognize me.  He won’t be able to tell me anything.”

              Behind her, Ceres had begun arguing with Robles, but Vanderberg still had his eyes on her and Charlie.  The conversation was loud enough now that she chanced a whisper.  “Charlie, can you hear me?” 

              Don and Alan suddenly stormed into the room, shouting, which startled her; it was not in the script.  Megan glanced back and saw that they had pulled Vanderberg into the argument.  It was now or never, she thought.  Charlie’s eyes had tracked over to the group, and Megan hissed, “Charlie!  You need to tell me what you know!” and suddenly Charlie looked up at her and grabbed her wrist like a drowning man, pulled her down, and whispered in her ear.  Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

              She straightened and walked out of the room, which was her signal to Ceres that she had what she needed.  She heard Ceres snarl, “If I were you, I’d get on the phone to my superiors and tell them to get off their asses.  This is inexcusable!”

              She turned in the doorway to see Don ushering Alan out, somewhat firmly - the senior Eppes looked like he wanted to take a swing at Robles.  She walked down the hall and around the corner into the waiting room, and they followed her there.  Colby and David joined the group as they all clustered around her. 

“I got it,” she said.  “It’s malaria.”

Chapter Text

“Malaria!” exclaimed Alan.

              Megan nodded.  “He pulled me down close and said it out loud in my ear - just that one word.”

              “So much for Washington, D.C.,” said Colby.  “That must have been a front for wherever he actually went.”

              Ceres said, “Well, it’s good we found that out.  That certainly wasn’t in our testing panel because we didn’t think he was out of the States.”

              “So that’s good, right?” asked Alan.  “You can treat malaria.”

              “You can,” said Ceres, “but this won’t be a slam dunk.  There are several types of malaria in various parts of the world, and they respond to different drugs.  We need to find out which one he has.  And we are coming late to the game - he’s already very sick.  I don’t want to dash your hopes, but I don’t think we can run right in there with a cure in the next hour.  I’m going to get our top infectious disease guy on the phone, and I’ll instruct the nurses to get him on something for his fever in the meantime.  If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get right on it.”  He nodded with a small smile.  “That was one of the most satisfying patient discussions I’ve ever participated in.”

              He strode off.  Alan turned to Megan and impulsively hugged her, which made her beam.  “Nice work,” he said.  “Thank you.” 

              Don nodded.  “Thanks, all of you,” he said to his team.  “It looks like we’re in for a wait.  Why don’t you guys head out?  You’ve all had a long day.”

              “Not as long as yours,” said Colby.  “I can stick around for a while.”

              “It’s okay.  I’m not leaving,” said Don. 

              “Neither am I,” said Alan.  “Don is right - you all have to go in and protect our fine city tomorrow.  Get some rest.  We’ll be okay here.” 

              The others straggled out one at a time, and Don and Alan settled down in the waiting area.  Alan attempted to get Don to go home and sleep, but Don refused.  There was no way he would leave the floor as long as those two vultures were in there with Charlie. He said, “Dad, I had that sandwich you brought, but you probably didn’t get any dinner.  Why don’t you go down and grab something before everything closes up here?  It’s going to be a long night, and you’ll need your energy.  I guarantee you; I’ll be taking a nap on these chairs at some point.”

              His father conceded, and ten minutes after he left, Don walked down to Charlie’s room, pushed the door open, and went and sat beside his bed.  There was a nurse there, putting something in his IV - probably the medication for fever that Ceres had ordered.

              “Hey,” said Robles, who looked like he was still fuming from their previous altercation. “You can’t be in here.”  But his show of anger was just bluster; he and Vanderberg didn’t bother to stand.  Something had changed.

              “I know,” said Don.  “I’ll leave in a minute.  Charlie, are you awake?” 

              Charlie looked flushed, but his eyes opened and tracked toward Don.  Don reached over and grabbed his hand and said, loudly enough for the others to hear,  “It’s okay, buddy.  The labs came back, and you’ve got malaria.”  He saw Robles and Vanderberg glance at each other.  “They’re going figure out which type it is, and get you on some medicine.  You should start to feel better soon.”

              He saw a glimmer of understanding in Charlie’s eyes. He gave a faint nod and squeezed Don’s hand.  He was too weak to muster a smile, but Don could see him relax slightly.  His breathing sounded horrible, raspy, and too fast.  Don saw the nurse check Charlie’s pulse oximeter and frown.  She made some notations in his chart and left.  Don sat there for five more minutes until Charlie closed his eyes, and his hand relaxed. 

              Robles said, “Time to go.”

              Don stood and faced him.  “What do you care?  We know he’s been out of the States now.”

              “Yes, but you don’t know where or why.  We need to keep it that way,” said Robles stubbornly. 

              Don gestured at Charlie.  “Fine - but if he’s sleeping like this and not in a delirious state, my dad will be in to sit with him later.”

              “It’s against our orders -,” Robles began, but Vanderberg cut him off.

              “We’ll allow it under those conditions,” he said firmly.  Robles gave him a look but shut his mouth. 

              Don wondered at Vanderberg’s change of heart.  He went back out to the waiting room to sit.  His father was gone a little longer than he expected, and when he returned, he handed Don a new prepaid phone, still in its packaging.  “David called me, and I met him downstairs,” said Alan.  “He brought you this.  And I brought you this.”  He handed Don a cup of coffee.

              “Thanks.”  Don took a swig of coffee gratefully. It was hot, and after days of instant coffee, tasted like heaven.  “I went in to see Charlie.  Only for about five minutes, but they let me stay that long.  I told Charlie that the labs had come in, and they showed he had malaria, and they were going to treat him.”

              “Good thinking,” said Alan.  “Now, they won’t suspect that Charlie said anything.” 

              “I told them you were going to come in and sit with him if he was quiet, and Robles objected, but Vanderberg overruled him.”

              Alan was already on his feet.  “Now?”

              Don nodded.  “Whenever you want.”

              “I’ll be back,” his father muttered, already on his way down the hallway.

              Don opened up the prepaid phone and punched in any numbers he knew by heart - his father, Colby, David, Megan, and A. D. Merrill.  He sent a text to David thanking him for the phone and then one to A. D. Merrill, letting him know he had a prepaid phone, and he could reach him at that number.

              The phone rang just seconds later.  A. D. Merrill said, “Well, that helped.  I was just trying to figure out how to get hold of you.  I have some information.”

              “Yes?”

              “Charlie has some friends in high places.  And I do mean high.  I won’t say specifically, but I pushed this up to our director, and he started making noise at his level in other organizations.  He didn’t get much out of the CIA, but one of those other department heads knew Charlie.  He must have spoken to the President, and the President directed the CIA or whoever Robles and Vanderberg are working for, to stand down.  They’ll be out of there shortly.  Apparently, Robles and Vanderberg weren’t acting according to any specific orders anyway.  They had orders to keep the mission quiet and were waiting for further instructions on how to handle it.  Keeping people away from Charlie was their own interpretation of those orders, and they pushed it too far.”

              So that was why Vanderberg had backed off, thought Don.  He knew that their superiors hadn’t sanctioned their overly-aggressive stance.  He’d read the writing on the wall. 

              “Unfortunately, I still haven’t found out anything about the assignment itself.”

              “Well, we found out what he has, and that he was out of the States, but not specifically where.  He has malaria.  He had it while he was away, and he’s going through a relapse.”

              “Well, it’s good they have a diagnosis.  Are they treating him?”

              “Not yet.  There are different strains in different parts of the world, and they have specific treatments for each.  They’re trying to figure out which strain Charlie has.”

              “So, it would still be helpful to know where he’s been.”

              “Yes, it might be, depending on how fast their tests are.”

              “That might be tougher to get, but I’ll see what I can do.”

              “We would appreciate that.  Thank you, sir, I mean it.”

              “Don’t mention it.  I always enjoy a scrap with my brethren in the CIA.”

              He hung up, and not fifteen minutes later, Robles and Vanderberg came trudging down the hallway, heads down, on their way out. 

              Don grinned cheerfully and saluted them with his cup of coffee.  “Good-bye!” he called loudly.  “Thank you!”  Or at least, ‘thank you’ was what he meant to say.  He might have said something not quite so nice. 

……………………………………..

              Don walked into Charlie’s room to see Alan leaning over him. “What was that, Charlie?”  He glanced up at Don.  “Charlie’s trying to tell me something.”

              Don eyed him dubiously. “Maybe you’d better make sure it’s something you want to know.”

              “No, he’s not delirious,” said Alan.  “He’s looking right at me - he knows what he wants to say.”

              He was right - Charlie’s eyes weren’t all the way open, but they were focused.  Charlie waved his hand - the slightest of movements - toward a bedside table.  “Water?” asked Alan.  “He wants water.”

              He grabbed the plastic container of water and put the straw to Charlie’s lips.  Charlie took a sip and stopped to catch his breath.  He took another, just as Dr. Ceres and another man walked into the room.  Alan nodded at Ceres.  “You keep some hours.”

              Don saw Charlie move his mouth again, but what he was trying to say was inaudible.  Alan gave him another quick sip of water, but his attention was on the doctors.  Ceres said, “This is Dr. Amid, our infectious disease expert. We have been conferring.  We’re still waiting for lab work to come back to type his malaria.”

              Amid said, “Malaria is caused by the plasmodium parasite, and there are five different species.  The most common are P. falciparum, P. vivax, and P. ovale.  Each of them responds best to different medications.  The fact that Dr. Eppes believes that he had this once and it has now returned could mean one of two things.  Either it is a recrudescence, which means that it was not eradicated with the first treatment and in the absence of medicine has returned, or it is a relapse, which occurs when the parasites are removed from the blood, but they have left behind dormant particles that cause symptoms.  Recrudescence could happen with any of the three, but relapse is more likely with P. vivax or P. ovale.”  He spoke directly to Charlie.  “Dr. Eppes, since some of these types occur most commonly in certain areas of the world, it would be helpful to know where you have been.”

              Charlie looked distressed.  His shoulders sank, and he closed his eyes and shook his head.  There was a collective sigh from the group.  “I hate to wait,” said Amid, in a low voice, to the rest of them.  “He is very ill.  Malaria can present in many ways and attack different organs, including the spleen and liver, but it can also attack the lungs, which is happening here.  His oxygen levels are dropping, and we are preparing to switch him from low flow oxygen to high flow oxygen.  The next step is a ventilator.”

              Don was watching Charlie.  His eyes had opened, and he was moving his mouth.  “He’s trying to say something.”

              Amid and Alan were the closest to him, and they both bent to listen.  “‘P’ - he said ‘P,’” Alan said. 

              Amid said, “Dr. Eppes, do you remember which type you had?”

              Charlie nodded, a single weak nod, but it was a nod.  Amid said, “Which one?” 

              They all watched Charlie’s lips as he tried again.  “He’s saying ‘F’ or ‘V,’” Don said.  “Not ‘O.’”

              Amid straightened.  “It’s falciparum. Is that correct, Dr. Eppes?” 

              Charlie nodded again, and Don let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.  “Very good,” said Amid briskly.  “I will start treatment immediately, but we will follow up with lab tests.  If it turns out to be something else, we will switch the medication.  Can I speak to the family outside?”

              Don and Alan exchanged a glance, and Alan patted Charlie’s hand.  “We’ll be right back, son.”

              Amid led them down the hallway and stopped to face them, with Ceres by his side.  “It is good news that we have some idea of what this is, as long as it was diagnosed correctly the first time.  Unfortunately, P. falciparum is typically the most dangerous type of malaria.  It is found predominantly in sub-Saharan Africa.”

              “Africa!” exclaimed Alan.

              Amid nodded.  “There are also some P. falciparum strains that have become resistant to the more common malaria drugs.  I am going straight to some medications that are newer and more substantial.  I’m afraid they have some unpleasant side effects, including nausea and vomiting.  Dr. Eppes is in for a rough time.  I don’t think we have a choice, however.  He is sick enough that we will only have one shot at this.  That is also why I am starting treatment based on his word, which generally would not be done - although we will confirm with testing as soon as we can.  We need to get him started on medicine as soon as possible.” 

He paused.  “I worked several years in Africa, battling this and other diseases, and I know P. falciparum well.  The parasites are in his bloodstream and are multiplying fast.  If they get too numerous, the drug will not work quickly enough to save him.  I didn’t want to say this in front of him because we need him to fight, but there is a genuine chance he may not make it.” 

There was complete silence in the hallway.  Amid said, “I am sorry to make you worry, but I think you have been lied to enough today by others.  I want you to understand so that you can make the most of your time.”

Don’s throat constricted; he couldn’t speak.  After all that he and Charlie had gone through, after everything they had done to get him here and find out what was wrong, the man was saying it was too late?  

Alan finally found his voice.  “We understand.  We aren’t going to give up on him, but we will use our time wisely.”

Both doctors nodded.  Ceres said, “I have told the staff that I have waived ICU visitor restrictions for the two of you.  You may spend as much time with him as you like.”

“No, we can’t,” Don thought miserably.  “Not if he’s going to leave us.”  The doctor’s last statement held particular irony in his case.  He had just gotten to a point in his life where he actually wanted to spend time with his brother, and now there was the possibility that they might not get that chance.

Chapter Text

There were two reclining chairs in Charlie’s room where the two agents had been sitting, and one straight-backed chair by his bedside.  Don took the chair next to the bed and sat for a moment, while Alan went in search of water bottles.  The hospital staff had given Charlie some different breathing equipment, including a mask that covered his face.  His eyes were closed, and although his breathing sounded raspy, it wasn’t quite as labored as before.  A nurse bustled in and began medication for Charlie’s IV, and at Don’s questioning look, she said, “This is an anti-malarial treatment ordered by Dr. Amin.”  Her gaze moved to Charlie, and Don realized that he had opened his eyes.  The nurse continued but spoke directly to Charlie.  “This is a combination of artesunate and mefloquine.  You will get this once a day for a week.  Mefloquine can cause some nausea.  If you experience that, Dr. Eppes, please tell us.  We can give you something to help with that.”

              Charlie gave her a nod, and she added the medication to his IV.  Don watched it go in - liquid hope.  Charlie closed his eyes again, and the nurse checked his pulse oximeter.  She nodded.  “That’s better,” she said as she entered a number in the chart.   “We’ve got him on high-flow oxygen now.”  She gave Don an encouraging smile as she walked out.  “He’s in good hands.”

              Don nodded at her.  “Thank you.”

              He looked back at Charlie.  His face was pale; his closed lids had a dusky, slightly blue tint to them, as if his flesh was becoming transparent.  Don imagined the drug spreading through his arm into his veins, coursing through his body.  “Please work,” he whispered to himself.  “Please work.”

              He reached for Charlie’s hand, and Charlie opened his eyes again, just slits.  “You’re doing great, buddy,” Don said.  “They’ve loaded you up with cutting edge stuff - you’ll be feeling better soon.”  He felt as though he was forcing the words out around a lump in his throat, but his voice somehow came out sounding normal.  Charlie gave his hand the slightest squeeze and closed his eyes again.

              Alan came in with the water bottles and handed one to Don.  “These came from the nurses’ station,” he said.  “They’ll give us more whenever we want.”  He looked at Charlie.

              Don said, “The nurse was just in to give him his first dose of medicine.”

              “Good,” said Alan.  “It’s getting late.  I suggest we hit those recliners and try to get a little rest.  Especially you - you’ve had a rough few days.”

              Don stood stiffly.  He didn’t need a second invitation.  A piece of him wanted to stay there and watch Charlie, watch for the medicine to do its work.  Looking for a miracle, for a cure, for Charlie to open his eyes.  He knew, though, that as much as he wanted it to, it wouldn’t happen that quickly. 

              He drained half of his water and put the bottle on the floor within easy reach of his recliner.  He slid into the chair and leaned back, and that was the last thing he remembered until he woke, disoriented, at a little after two in the morning. 

              The lights had been turned down in the room except for a bedside lamp.  Alan and a nurse were bending over Charlie; they had him partially turned on his side.  His oxygen mask had been removed, and he was retching weakly into a bedpan.  “Ah, man,” breathed Don.  He sat up, wincing; his injured arm had gotten stiff and sore. 

              They eased Charlie back down onto his back; his face was white and covered with a sheen of sweat, lines of misery etched into his face.  Alan turned and saw Don sitting up, and they exchanged a glance.  His father looked tired, stooped with sadness.   He came back and sat in the other recliner, and the nurse readjusted Charlie’s oxygen mask, clicked off the bedside lamp, and walked out, and Don lay back and stared up into the darkness.

……………………………..

              It was a long night.  Charlie woke and vomited twice more, despite the anti-nausea medication they gave him.  And then, at around five a.m., a noise woke Don again. 

              At first, he couldn’t place it; then, Don realized that it was the sound of Charlie moving in his bed, rhythmic, convulsive movements…  “He’s seizing!” he exclaimed. 

He jumped out of the recliner as Alan woke, groggy.  Don dashed over to Charlie’s bedside.  Charlie’s body was rigid, his head tilted back, eyes closed.  Don fumbled for the nurse's button and turned the light on, and Alan got to the bedside just in time to see Charlie’s position.  As soon as the seizure came on, it left; Charlie relaxed.  His eyes fluttered open, then shut.  His breathing was shallow and rapid.  “Did you see it?” asked Don.

              “Just for a minute,” said Alan, as a nurse hurried into the room.

              “Is there an issue?” she asked.

              “He was just seizing or convulsing.  He did that when we were camping too.” 

              The nurse frowned, reached for the chart, and made a note.  “How long did it last?”

              “I’m not sure.  The noise he made moving around woke me up.  I don’t think it was too long.”

              “I’ll make sure the doctor knows.  He may need to prescribe something.”  She checked Charlie’s temperature.  “His fever is back.  I’ll get him something for it.”

              She bustled out, and Don rubbed his head.  “I didn’t tell the doctor about the seizure he had while we were on the mountain - maybe I should have.  But I wasn’t sure.  It woke me up, but when I asked Charlie about it, he said he was just dreaming.  But he was doing the same thing that night he just did now.”

              Alan frowned.  “Which night was it?”

              “The night before we got here.  Last night?”  Was it only last night?  It seemed ages ago.

              The nurse came back in with medication that she put into Charlie’s IV.  He had started to shake and murmur, and she stood back and watched him for a full five minutes until the medication took effect.  The shivering and muttering stopped, and Charlie slipped back into sleep.  “His fever had spiked again,” she said.  “I’ll make sure the doctor knows.  He may want to order some tests.”

              After that, sleep was impossible, and Don went to find a restroom and then went downstairs in search of coffee.  He was back in the room twenty minutes later, and at a little after six, Dr. Amid stopped in himself.  “The nurse tells me that Dr. Eppes experienced seizures,” he said. 

              Alan said, “Yes, about an hour ago.”

              “Just once?”

              “As far as we know,” said Alan, but Don interjected.

              “I think he had one the night before we came here,” he said.  “I didn’t know what it was, and Charlie woke up right after it, and said he’d been dreaming.”

              The doctor frowned.  He bent over Charlie and lifted an eyelid and shined a penlight in his eye.  Charlie recoiled and blinked, and then to Don’s surprise, opened his eyes.  Amid said, “Dr. Eppes, nod if you can hear me.”

              A slight frown knit Charlie’s brow, and his eyes slid slowly over to Amid.  He gave a brief nod, and Don could hear his father let out a breath.  A nurse slipped into the room and retook Charlie’s temperature, and she showed the doctor the result, and he nodded. 

              Amid gestured toward the hallway, and they followed him out.  “Seizures can indicate neurological damage, which is possible with an advanced case of malaria,” he said.  “Seizures can be the result of a very high fever, as well.  I am tending to think it was the latter in this case - his reading at the time of the episode was nearly 106, and since he received medication for it, it is dropping.  It is now 102.8 and hopefully will come down further as the medicine works.  I got a good reaction from him just now.  That said, if the convulsions recur, I will order an EEG to be safe.”  He paused.  “I do not see enough either way to change my prognosis.  He has not changed much from last night - it is good that he has not deteriorated further, but I am concerned that we do not yet see improvement.  Today will be a turning point, either way, I feel.  Please call the nurse if you think that something is changing.  She has instructions to inform me.” 

              “Thank you,” said Alan, and the doctor strode off.  His father sighed; he looked as deflated as Don felt.  Then he took a breath and looked at Don.  “The coffee was great, son, but you need to eat something.”

              The last thing his father needed was to fret over him, as well as Charlie, Don thought.  “It’s okay, Dad.  It’s pretty early yet.  I’ll go down and get us something in a bit.”

              “No, I’ll go, maybe at around eight.  There ought to be something open by then,” said Alan.  “I need to stretch my legs.”

………………………………

              Charlie woke to voices.  He was aware that people were in and out of the room, but their identity and the timing of the visits were all one vague jumble, not a coherent memory.  His father and brother had been there, and Charlie could hear them talking now, more clearly than before.  He opened his eyes as his father said something about going to get breakfast and walked out.  Don was standing there, watching him go, and then he turned toward Charlie.  He must have seen Charlie looking at him because he immediately darted over and sat in the chair next to the bed. 

              “Hey, buddy,” he said.  “How are you doing?”

              Charlie responded before thinking about it.  “Kay,” he managed.  It came out as a dry whisper, as if he had a chunk of bread stuck in the back of his throat.  The thought made him a little nauseous.  How was he feeling exactly?  Well, he was thinking a bit more clearly.  He still was sick to his stomach, his head ached along with every joint in his body, but all of it was better than it had been.  Don was watching him like a hungry dog, and Charlie felt a pang of regret as it came to him why he was there.  “S-sorry I ruined the trip,” he said sadly, but the words came out as a husky whisper.  His throat was so dry, and his lips felt like rubber.

              Don leaned closer.  “What was that, buddy?”

              Charlie paused.  Nothing was going to come out right unless he could wet his vocal cords, and get the damn oxygen mask off his face.  He looked at the table beside him, and Don followed his eyes.  “You need water?”  Don lifted a cup with a straw in it, and Charlie pulled at his mask, weakly.  Don put the cup down and managed to pull the mask down.  His face freed, Charlie tilted his head forward and took one sip from the straw, then two.  It was enough to exhaust him, temporarily, and he laid his head back down and caught his breath for a moment, then looked at Don.  “Sorry.  About the trip.”  He tried to form each word carefully.  This time his vocal cords kicked into gear, and there was sound to go along with the raspy whisper.

              “Aw, Charlie,” Don said.  “Don’t be sorry.  This wasn’t your fault.”

              But it was, Charlie thought, as his face twisted with regret.  It had been his decision to take that second assignment.  He could have told them no.  He wanted to tell Don that, but the words were beyond him at the moment. 

              Don’s face, oddly, was a mirror of his own, filled with remorse.  “I’m sorry, too, Charlie.  I’m sorry for all of the years we didn’t talk.  I’m sorry for not being very nice to you in high school.”

              Charlie frowned and shook his head.  “Takes two to tango,” he managed.  Silence fell, and he said, “Didn’t matter.  Always loved you.”

              Tears and Don were two things that didn’t go together.  Even when their mother died, Don had fought them down, at least when others were around, burying emotion under a flinty exterior.  He’d had a lot of practice submerging his feelings at work, Charlie suspected, because he was damned good at it.  And it was probably part of his persona because he’d been that way in high school too.  Cool and unruffled - angry sometimes.  Don would allow anger because it was not a weak emotion.  But tears - never.  And he had them in his eyes, now.    

              “Ah, Charlie,” Don said, “I love you, too, buddy.”  He gathered himself and managed a smile.  “And I’m sorry about the trip, too.  Just for the record, the first two days were awesome.  When you get healed up, we’ll do it again.  I want to hear more stories about your wild and crazy dating life.”

              “Ha,” said Charlie, and he smiled back.

…………………….

              When Alan returned with breakfast, he nearly dropped it on the floor.  Don was seated next to Charlie, holding his hand.  Charlie’s eyes were closed, and Don’s head was down, and his face was wet with tears.  Alan’s mind was crying, ‘Oh, God, no,’ even as his mouth was saying, “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

              Don stood up quickly, almost guiltily wiping his face, and motioned Alan out into the hallway.  “Nothing’s wrong, Dad.  It’s good.  He was actually talking.”  He paused.  “It was - it’s just - I was so relieved -,” his voice broke again, and he looked at the ceiling as if in surrender.  “Ah, hell.”

              His reaction was a measure of the strain he’d been under for the past few days, but Alan was well aware that Don wouldn’t appreciate any acknowledgment of what he viewed as a weakness.  So he hid his own sense of relief, clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, and said, “Well, good.  Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, let’s eat breakfast.” 

              Don swiped at his face again and grinned.  “You’re on.”

              Later that day, Charlie was awake again and was trying to get down some ginger ale when Dr. Amid returned, accompanied by Dr. Ceres.   Amid immediately broke into a huge grin.  “Well, well, look who’s awake!  Welcome back, Dr. Eppes!”  He gave Don and Alan an encouraging nod, and that told Alan what he’d already suspected.  Charlie was going to make it.

Chapter Text

Charlie came off the oxygen the next day.  It took him three more days before he could tolerate any food due to his medication and the disease itself.  His lungs began to clear, and his breathing was better.  He was alert for several hours each day, although he was frail and did a lot of sleeping.  Even so, he progressed, day by day.  Don was on vacation anyway that week, and he finally went home for a shower and some much-needed sleep after Charlie’s improvement, the day after he’d arrived at the hospital.  After that, though, he was there every day, all day, as was Alan.  Two days after the turnaround, they moved Charlie to a regular room, and Colby, David, and Megan stopped by to visit.  Charlie asked that no one at Cal Sci be told that he was there - he was supposedly on vacation in the mountains, so no one would ask.  Telling them that he was in the hospital would only invite questions that he couldn’t answer anyway. 

              His fourth day in the hospital was a Thursday, and Don was there that morning when they brought Charlie his first real food - a small bowl of oatmeal and some toast.  Charlie nibbled at it gingerly.

              Don frowned at him.  “You aren’t going to get stronger if you don’t eat.”

              “I’m eating,” Charlie retorted.  “I’m just taking it slow.  I don’t want it to come back up.”

              “So what are you going to do next week?  You’re supposed to be back at school.”

              Charlie chewed on a bite of toast and lifted a shoulder in a shrug.  “Then I’ll be back at school.  I might ask for an extra day or two.  Any more than that, and they’ll want to know why.  Classes haven’t started yet.  I can go into my office and work and not have to move around much.”

              Don looked skeptical.  “And how are you going to get to your office?  You haven’t even tried to walk yet.  They’re saying you’ll need physical therapy to get moving again.”

              “I start therapy today.  I’ll make it work.  I’ll have to.”

              “I don’t think you should push it.  You need to make sure you get over this stuff this time.  You don’t need another relapse.”

              Charlie sighed.  “I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

              “Lie,” suggested Don.  “Tell them you contracted some bug in the mountains.  Your water purifier didn’t work, something like that.” 

              “Maybe that would work,” Charlie said doubtfully.  “I could probably ask to work from home.”

              “There you go,” Don said, briskly.  “That wasn’t so hard.”

              “Hmmph,” said Charlie, through another bite of oatmeal. 

              Therapy, on the other hand, was hard.  Harder than Charlie would have liked to admit.  It consisted of a walk out into the hallway and back into the room.  By the time he finished that, he was trembling and sweating and his legs were ready to give way.  The therapist had planned additional strength exercises, but he nixed those.  He got Charlie back into bed with a quick stop for the bathroom and just did some simple stretching and manipulation.  Charlie figured that if he was getting a grade for the session, he had probably flunked it, and by the look on his father’s and brother’s faces, they thought so, too.  Less than a week ago, he’d been climbing mountains, and now he couldn’t even make it to the bathroom by himself.  And Charlie knew he looked terrible.  He’d gotten a look at his legs as he got out of bed, and they resembled matchsticks.  He didn’t even recognize the gaunt creature with the scruffy beard in the bathroom mirror.  Don was right.  It was going to be a long road back.  And it was about then that he finally got angry.  Angry at his own weakness, angry for what they’d put him through.  Angry at missing out on the trip of a lifetime with his brother.  He was just downright pissed.

……………………………………..

              Four days later, on Sunday afternoon, Charlie was released.  Don came with Alan to the hospital to help bring him home.  He hovered nearby as Charlie stepped out of the wheelchair and slid into the passenger seat, but Charlie needed no help.  Don had to admit, he didn’t think there was the remotest chance of Charlie getting released so soon, but on the second day of therapy, Charlie surprised them all, including the therapist, and attacked his set of exercises, then demanded more.  He was sore and tired the next day, but he went at it just as hard.  And the next after that.  He’d ensured that he could walk without help, which was one of the most significant determining factors for release.  He was keeping food down, and his appetite was improving.  His fever was gone, and his regimen of medication ended Sunday.  So the doctors released him.  Don didn’t know whether to be worried over Charlie or admire his grit.  He did both. 

              Charlie had finally admitted to the University that he had been hospitalized, saying only that he had caught a ‘bug’ on his trip.  Which bug and which trip he neglected to specify, letting them think he’d gotten sick on his camping trip.   He asked to prepare for his fall classes from home, and they agreed.  His close friend and colleague, Larry Fleinhardt, showed up at the house as soon as he heard the news and fussed over Charlie’s gaunt appearance.  With Alan there, and Larry making frequent visits, Don decided it was safe to go back to work.   Monday morning, A. D. Merrill called Don, David, Colby, and Megan into his office. He informed them that they were being sworn to secrecy concerning Charlie’s diagnosis and the raid on the pot farm in the mountains - orders from the FBI Director.  Don did not doubt that the Director had gotten his orders from someone even higher. 

              Tuesday evening, Don stopped at the house for dinner.  As he stepped into the doorway, the smell of his father’s lasagne  ̶  award-winning, in Don’s opinion  ̶  wafted through the house.  Charlie was on the sofa, feet propped on an ottoman, his laptop in his lap.  He looked up and smiled.  “Hey there.  Just in time for dinner.”

              Don smiled back.  “Is there any other time to visit?” 

“How’s your arm?”

            “Good.  I get the stitches out tomorrow.  Can’t wait  ̶  it’s itchy as heck.”  Charlie looked good, relatively speaking, Don thought.  He was still far too thin, but he’d shaved, his curls were washed and tamed, and he looked relaxed, upbeat.  Much closer to the same old Charlie, although Don would never look at him in quite the same way again.  Don still had a hard time reconciling his mental image of an innocent nerdy head-in-the-clouds mathematician with someone who worked top-secret missions for the government.  Or, for that matter, someone who loved the outdoors and was well-versed in the demands and planning of long-distance hiking.  There was a lot about Charlie that he had missed during the years they’d been apart. 

              Alan came into the room, and Charlie set aside his laptop and motioned them both over to the sofa.  “Here,” Charlie said, “Look at this.”   He had the Sunday paper flipped open to page three, which featured international news.  The headline read, “U.S. Agrees to Infrasture Deal in Africa.” 

              Charlie allowed them a moment to read the article, which stated that a U.S. coalition of companies had agreed to a comprehensive infrastructure agreement with several African nations, including the building of roads and bridges and hospitals.  “China has been doing infrastructure projects in Africa for some time,” he said.  “The U.S. is also trying to participate, partially to offset Chinese influence on the continent, and partly because it provides lucrative work for some of our contractors.  We had to bid competitively to beat the Chinese prices.  This was the first project I worked on when I went to D.C.   At the time, they wanted to keep it secret because they didn’t want the Chinese to know we were bidding on it.  I can tell you about it now because we won the project, and it’s obviously public knowledge.”

              He continued.  “I was only supposed to go to D.C., but the plans changed.  We got the project ready in about a week.  I did volume and flow analyses for the highways, including projected increases in population and the number of vehicles on the roads to plan for size.  At the end of the week, word came in that the prime minister of one of the key countries, his cabinet, and his technical advisors wanted to meet in person, so they charted a plane and flew us over there.  Some of the group had been traveling back and forth there already, and they had already received vaccinations and preventative anti-malarial drugs.  I was one of the few that hadn’t, but the plan was for us to fly over one day, be in a conference room in a large city the next, and fly back the following day.  It was low-risk for encountering mosquitos, so they deemed it safe for us to go.  I tried to tell them that they didn’t need me for the conference and that I had something that required my attention back at home, but they wouldn’t budge.”

              He took a breath.  “While I was over there, another group, working on something else entirely, decided that they needed a mathematical analysis done, and they heard that I was over there.  As soon as the first project ended,  I ended up in another part of the continent, stationed in a military outpost in the bush.  It happened so fast that no one thought about vaccines or anti-malarial medicine, including me.  I felt I’d been shanghaied, was irritated about the whole situation, and just wanted to get them what they needed as quickly as possible so I could get home.  I can’t tell you what that second assignment was about - it is highly classified and probably will be for a long time.” 

He paused and looked at Don directly.  “I did my best to get home to help you, but once I was out there, they weren’t letting me go until they had gotten what they wanted.  I should have told them ‘no’ in D.C. while I was still on U.S. soil and could make my own travel arrangements.  But at the time, I had no inkling that another group would ask me to work on a second project, and I thought it was just going to be an extra three days.  The two weeks allotted for the first project wasn’t even over yet.  So, I went.”  He made a face.  “Bad decision on my part.”

Don didn’t respond; he was still having a hard time thinking of Charlie in a “military outpost in the bush,” but Alan said, “It’s perfectly understandable, Charlie.  You were supporting your country.”

Don finally found his voice.  “I can’t fault you for that - supporting our country is my job.  But I do fault them.  Ensuring your safety should have been considered first, and they completely dropped the ball.”

“Agreed,” said Alan, heartily. 

Dinner was delicious - salad, fresh Italian bread, lasagne, and Alan opened a nice red wine.  Don noted with satisfaction that Charlie did an excellent job with his plate, although he apologetically turned down the wine.  “I’m not supposed to drink for a month or so,” he said.  “The doctors said that malaria is hard on the liver.” 

After dinner, Don and Alan both shooed Charlie out of the kitchen, and Don helped Alan clean up.  Charlie let them, saying with a mischievous grin, “I’m milking this as long as I can,” and he disappeared out into the garage.   The screen door slammed shut behind him.  It was the same old wooden door that Don had grown up with, and the dry ‘thwack’ sounded comfortable and familiar. The sound of two car doors slamming outside was another matter.  Don stepped to the screen door, in time to see Charlie disappear into the garage, and then two men in suits strode by, after him.  Alan peered over his shoulder.  “What are they up to?”

        Don tossed him the kitchen towel and pushed out through the door.  “Hopefully, to give him a commendation,” he said, but he had his doubts.  The men looked grim, and they had an air about them that said ‘agents.’  For whom, was anybody’s guess.  Don flung over his shoulder, “I’m going to check it out.”

        He approached the garage door, intending to go inside and help Charlie face them; they were intimidating.   But at the door, he heard Charlie’s raised voice, and he stopped.  “You guys really know how to beat something to death,” Charlie growled.  “I already swore to secrecy.  I didn’t say anything in the hospital to give anyone any idea of the subject of the project.”

       One of the men said, “We’re just following protocol.  A situation like that calls for a debriefing, and the other two agents were pulled out before they could do that.  It’s simply attention to detail and following procedure.”

     “Attention to detail, like the attention you paid to getting me the proper preventive drugs for the assignment,” Charlie shot back. 

     “Atta boy,” grinned Don.  Charlie was far from intimidated; he was angry, and he was letting them have it.

     “That was an oversight,” said the other man stiffly.  “You were already over there; we thought you probably already had taken them.”

     “An oversight?  I thought you guys didn’t make mistakes,”  Charlie snapped.  “Your oversight nearly cost me my life.  I’m a civilian who is committed enough to almost give his life for his country, and you have the gall to come to my house and question my commitment to secrecy?”

     The two men were starting to look angry, and Don thought to himself, “Okay, buddy, enough is enough.  You don’t want to piss them off.”   One of the men took a menacing step closer.  Charlie was facing them, trembling with anger.  Don had a mental image of a cartoon that someone had floated around the office, showing a furious little mouse giving the finger to a ferocious eagle bearing down on him, and despite his trepidation, he had to grin.

     The first man said, “I’d be a little more civil if I were you.  Granted, you have support now, but Presidents come and go.  We’ll be around long after he’s out of office.”

     “Consider your debriefing finished.  I just verified that I said nothing about the mission.  Now get off my property,” said Charlie coldly.

     The men turned to go, and all of them, including Charlie, finally noticed Don in the doorway.  Don gave them his best smile as the two men stalked past him with sour faces.  “Evening, gentlemen,” he said, pleasantly. 

     As soon as they were out of earshot, Don said, still grinning, “I came out here to see if you needed any help.  Apparently not.” 

     Charlie finally smiled, a little shakily.  “Yeah, well, I was a little torqued.”  He ran a hand through his hair and let out his breath. 

     Don said, “You really are familiar with the President?”

     “Not exactly,” said Charlie.  “I know the head of the NSA.  I’m guessing he heard about it and let the President know what was going on.  Although how the NSA heard about it to begin with, I don’t know.”

     “I think that was A. D. Merrill and the FBI,” said Don.  “I told him what was happening, and he ran it up the flagpole.  I suspect that the FBI Director ran it past the other agency heads.”

     “Ah,” said Charlie.  Their eyes met, and he smiled.  “Thank you.”

     “No problem.  Hey, about that hiking trip -,”

     Charlie’s shoulders sagged.  “I don’t see how we can reschedule it now.  I won’t be in any shape for it for another month or two, and by then, there’s snow in the mountains.  It’s pretty much impassible in the winter unless you have hardcore equipment - ice picks, crampons - and a lot of know-how for hiking in the ice and snow.  Plus, school is starting.  We had that one window, and I blew it.”

     Don shrugged.  “Well, there’s always next year.  When does the season start?”

     He saw Charlie’s face brighten.  “The best time is June through August.  Really?  You’d want to try it again?”

     Don threw an arm around his shoulders. “Damn right.  Those two days up there before you got sick were the best two I’ve had since I’ve been back home.  Pick a week, and I’ll make sure to get time off.”

     Charlie looked surprised - enough to render him speechless - but his huge grin was all the response Don needed.  As soon as Charlie found his voice, he ran for his computer, babbling excitedly about when they should go and why, and the importance of getting a hiking permit early.  Don stood there and listened and watched him type, and smiled. 

End