Title: Mistaken Identity

Chapter 40: Loose Ends

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie stood on one side of the dining room table, his father on the other. Alan's eyes, full of concern, were fastened on his son. Charlie's focus was only on the box that sat on the table between them. In quick succession, his demeanor varied from slightly suspicious; to palpable vulnerability; to blatant curiosity. "What's in it?" he finally asked softly.

Alan rubbed his hand over his forehead; then shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I don't know, son. They didn't say." He waited for Charlie to speak again, and when he didn't, Alan plunged ahead. He pulled his hands from his pockets and reached for the box, speaking decisively. "You don't have to do this now; it can wait until later. Good Lord, son, you've only been home a week! Let me put this in the garage, or the solarium." He continued in a low grumble, talking mostly to himself now. "Should've done that in the first place…."

Charlie found his voice and started to reach out toward the box himself, but then awkwardly redirected his fingers to absently pull at a curl near his ear. "Wait," he squeaked. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Just wait. Please." He finally looked up from the box long enough to meet Alan's gaze. "What exactly did they say?"

Alan hesitated. "Charlie, just leave it for now. Why don't you find your cell and call Minerva? She seems like a nice woman. It's only polite to return her call, you know." He grinned, putting forth a mighty effort to distract his son. "If you don't, next time I'll wake you up and force you to take it – I don't care how soundly you're sleeping!" He inched the box closer. "Plus, Larry called. And your brother." By the end of his speech, he sounded a little desperate.

"I'll call them in a minute," said Charlie grimly, looking back at the box. "Tell me exactly what they said."

Alan sighed. The gig was up – and he knew it. He rested his hands on top of the box. "Just that, when they were cleaning out her apartment, they found some things that you might want." Charlie glanced up, and Alan arched an eyebrow. "Honestly, that's all I've got. I confess, I didn't ask for details." Charlie drew in a deep breath and winced, moving his hand to absently rub at his ribs. "Charlie…" Alan began but his youngest interrupted him.

"Could you open it for me?"

Alan sighed again. "You, sit," he said at length. "Let me go get some scissors, or a knife or something." He turned from the table and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, raided the junk drawer and was back only seconds later – not at all surprised to see that Charlie was still standing, staring at the box again. "I said, 'sit'," he reiterated, cutting carefully at the tape that sealed the package UPS had delivered just that morning.

Charlie started a little, as if pulling himself out of a trance; then obediently moved the closest chair a little, so he could perch on the edge. He continued to watch the box as Alan negotiated his way inside. At last, his father ripped through the last shreds of tape and opened the flaps. Studiously not looking inside, he instead pushed the entire collection closer to Charlie. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and straddled his feet a little, waiting.

Charlie glanced up for a moment. "Um…thank you," he whispered nervously. His eyes wandered to his mother's photo on the wall behind Alan, then to the upper left corner of the dining room, then to his feet, then back to the box. "Well," he said, more forcefully. "All right, then." Still, Alan counted off a full 60 seconds in his head before he saw a thin arm snake out and dip into the abyss.

One-by-one, Charlie pulled items up into the air, studied them, and placed them quietly on the table. Three small, framed photographs: one of them standing near each other when Amita received her Master's; a copy of the same one he kept on his own desk at the office, outside the convention center; and one he had not seen before – it was just of him, obviously cropped from a larger photo. His head was thrown back, and he was laughing. Charlie looked at that one a long time, trying to determine when it was taken. He finally gave up and placed it with the others when he began to feel the all-too-familiar frustration of lost memories. Next, a legal-size envelope bulging with…ticket stubs. Fascinated, Charlie turned them each over in his hand. The fear of not being able to place the photograph faded when he remembered every event represented on a stub. He and Amita had attended them all together – some before they were officially 'dating'. There were lectures, concerts, plays, even movies. He smiled sadly, re-stuffing the envelope. "I never knew she was such a girl," he stated, gently laying the envelope on the table. "I can't believe she kept all this stuff." A single, folded sheet of paper followed. He frowned at first when he opened it. What was this? "This is just an unconnected list of words and dates," he noted, and offered the paper to Alan.

Alan quickly scanned the sheet and fought against tears. "Oh, son," he choked out, handing the list back. "You and your brother are hopeless in the romance department."

Charlie's frown grew deeper. "What?" he asked, looking at the list again. "'Flowers, Nov. 10. CD, Nov. 16…' " He skipped down the list. "And here – 'Wind Chimes, April 7. White Bear, May 23…' ".

Alan shook his head. "You idiot," he chastised fondly. "She kept a list of everything you ever gave her. Remember the white stuffed bear you found in an airport gift shop and brought back from a conference? It didn't fit in your carry-on, and you carried a bear on your lap all the way home."

Charlie paled, dropping the list as if it burned his fingers. "Oh, God."

Alan's glimpse at humor faded. "Maybe that's enough now, Charlie."

Charlie was about to agree, getting shakily to his feet. He had to use the table for support to accomplish the simple task, and in the end he was bent over like an old man. As he worked on straightening his spine, he caught a glimpse of a glossy brochure lying near one edge of the box. Almost against his will, he reached in and plucked it out. 'Greater Los Angeles Symphonic Series', he read, his sweating hand leaving a moist thumbprint on a photo of Andre Rubinov seated at a grand piano. He stood transfixed, eyes glassing over, and began to sway.

Alan moved quickly, jerking the box back and starting for the other side of the table. "That's enough for today," he said, inviting no debate. He found that when he reached his son's side, he didn't get one.

"Okay," Charlie agreed weakly, still looking at the glossy program. He tightened his grip a little, and looked at Alan. "I think you're right. I should go make some calls."

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Don laid his hands on the closest object – which happened to be a chair – and picked it up. He thrust it angrily to the other side of the room, where it bounced off a wall and dropped like a wounded soldier to the carpet below. "SHIT!" he bellowed. "The hell you say!"

A.D. Merrick's sharp eyes took in the gouge in the sheetrock, but he wisely didn't mention it. "I was fairly certain you would find this disturbing," he said instead. "That's why I insisted they give me time to tell you before the story was released to the media."

Don kicked at the leg of the conference room table so hard that he broke his little toe – although it would be several hours before he noticed. "Disturbing? DISTURBING? How can this even happen?"

Merrick tore his eyes from the scuff-mark on the table leg. "Agent Eppes. Calm down and think. We make deals every day. You make deals every day. It happens."

Don shoved his clenched fists into his pockets so that he wouldn't deck his boss. "I make deals," he growled. "The point is to get something for what you give – preferably more. What in God's name could Penfield possibly bring to the table?"

Merrick sighed. "That is on a need-to-know basis," he answered, raising his voice over Don's exclamation of disgust. "The State Department feels that I don't need to know, so I can't really tell you – I can only speculate. Obviously Penfield would want to avoid extradition to answer for his crimes in South America. They are less…reluctant, there, to enforce the death penalty. Even if he avoided that, death might sometimes be preferable to life in some of those prisons." He stopped, embarrassed. Don's brother had spent time in "one of those prisons," and in the beginning, Merrick hadn't done much to help. He may have even fired Granger, and now he had the good sense to stop talking.

Don had paled a little at the mention of prison, but his voice was strong when he spoke. Determined. Angry. "I'm…I'm not ignorant to what Penfield wants out of all this," he said. "He can be tied to the Macedo cartel. Right there, we've got him on an 18 U.S.C. 3591. The drugs he helped bring into this country resulted in countless deaths – that's a 21 U.S.C. 848." Merrick was looking a little stunned, his mouth hanging open, and Don narrowed his eyes. "What? I looked it up. Point is, Penfield can face the federal death penalty on either one of those; not taking into account everything else! Of course he wants to deal his way out of that possibility. What I'm questioning is how he did it."

Merrick regarded the floor and shook his head a little, as if to clear cobwebs. When he looked back at his agent, it was with a mixture of respect and fear. Heaven help the entity that crossed Don Alan Eppes. "Uh…" He stopped, cleared his throat; started again. "I repeat, I'm just speculating. Perhaps he's giving them details on the cartel's operations – or high-level cartel contacts in the U.S."

Don was not mollified. "Charlie fed everything in Macedo's mainframe directly to Tompkins," he argued. "After that and the mysterious disappearing money, the cartel fell apart anyway. That idiot Penfield could not possibly give them any more than Charlie already managed." He snorted; then added proudly, "Hell, the kid did it when he was sick, injured, terrified, heart broken over Amita – he wasn't even operating at half-speed, and Penfield still couldn't even hope to keep up with him."

Merrick smiled grimly, thankful – not for the first time – that Charlie was on his side. "I agree. But you must agree with this: Penfield is a weasel, slippery. The fact remains that he convinced someone that he has something to sell. He pled guilty to lesser charges, and made a deal. There will be no trial."

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Prisons in Chile housed nearly twice as many inmates as they were designed to hold. Even though the Americans and the international drug trafficking enforcement team had somehow managed to get Yuri transferred to a prison in Talca, away from El Lobo and possible retaliation, day-to-day survival was still a struggle. The transfer orders had called for solitary; a safety measure. This prison was as overcrowded as all the others, though, and there was none. So Rubinov started all over in the hierarchy of thieves that existed in every holding cell in the world, taking on all challengers. His bulk and his demeanor fought half the battles for him. As of yet, he had not been on the losing end of an altercation.

He was a little worried when the guards appeared to escort him to the warden. Perhaps he had beaten someone he shouldn't have. He had not been seeking the battles – but he did not back down from any, either. He wasn't entirely sure yet who was in charge at this prison. The invisible levels of command could include prisoners and guards working together, again. There could be an "El Lobo" equivalent, and it was always possible Rubinov had wiped the floor of the cell with his face, last night. Surely this warden was as crooked as every other, and now Yuri would pay for his sin.

The guards ushered him into a dark-paneled office, and Rubinov squared his shoulders and lifted his head.

He would take his punishment well.

He would leave this hellhole a man, just as he had entered.

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The way Don burst through the kitchen door, almost at a full run and breathing heavily, startled Alan into knocking over his glass of water. Don skidded to a halt at the end of the table, eyes on Charlie. Alan shoved his chair back roughly, stood quickly and looked back-and-forth between them. What level of hell awaited them now? "Oy," he groaned. "What? What's wrong?"

Don glanced at him, but quickly redirected his attention to his brother. "Buddy, I'm sorry. I tried to get here earlier; I wanted you to hear it from me, but I got sidetracked on a hot case that we caught late this afternoon." His voice rose, full of anger. "I couldn't get Merrick to tell me how the hell this happened." He snorted, disgusted. "Claims he doesn't know."

Charlie was mopping at the pool of water on the table with his napkin. "Don, what the hell are you talking about? Dad, can you get a dishtowel?"

When Alan didn't move, Don turned around and grabbed one off the counter himself. He thrust it in Charlie's general direction. "Look, I know you talked to Tompkins. Merrick called me at the crime scene and told me one of the major networks will break the story tonight. I tried to protest, but he said Tompkins cleared it, since he'd talked to you already. Are you….Damn. Of course you're not all right. I'm not all right. This is outrageous."

Comprehension dawned on Charlie's face, then carefully-schooled impassiveness. "Oh," he answered, concentrating on the towel. "That. I actually called him about something else, but I think I know what you're talking about."

Alan leaned over and snatched the towel from him. "Well I'm glad somebody does," he grumbled, mopping at the water.

Don was taken aback by Charlie's calm reaction. His brother was talking, and he wasn't out in the garage in the middle of some equation of distraction – but Don almost wished he was. "Come on, Charlie. You have a right to be upset about this. Penfield…." He paused, replaying Charlie's comment. "Why else would you need to call Tompkins? Is something else going on?"

Charlie reddened and looked away. "Bob is a friend of mine," he defended. "I can call my friends when I want to, Agent."

Don's eyes flashed darkly and he crossed his arms over his chest, stung by the 'Agent' and biting back a retort. Alan spoke for him, turning slightly to heave the soaked dishtowel in the sink. "Charlie, son, there's no need for that. I'm sure once one of you gets around to cluing in the old man, it will be apparent that Don is just concerned about you."

Charlie sighed, and looked back at his brother. "I'm sorry. I know Dad's right. Look, Bob told me about Marshall's deal, and I'm actually kind of relieved."

Don and Alan spoke simultaneously. "What deal?" demanded Alan, but it was barely audible over Don's bellow.

"What?" With an obvious effort, Don forced himself to lower his voice. "I swear, Chuck, I was going to volunteer for the firing squad myself. How can you be relieved?"

Charlie turned a little green and swallowed thickly, not doubting for a moment a word Don had said. "I…he…it…." He pushed his own chair back, and stood unsteadily. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't be like him. I don't want to be like him…taking pleasure in the death of someone else." He trembled a little, but looked at Don defiantly. "This way," he finished in a stronger voice, "this way he's punished and I don't have to testify. Re-live everything."

Don's anger shot out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He nodded, slowly. "I can see that," he finally said. "And you shouldn't be sorry you're not like him. You should be proud."

Charlie sighed, and looked at the plate of spaghetti on the table. The parmesan was congealing on the top now, and he felt his stomach lurch. "It doesn't matter anyway," he said tonelessly, starting to turn away from his dinner. "Killing him wouldn't bring her back."

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Yuri stood in front of the warden's big wooden desk, speechless and confused. While he had not been convicted of all the crimes he had committed over the years, he knew he had been found guilty of enough. "I do not understand," he said at last. "There are many years left in this sentence." He frowned. "You search for another Rubinov, perhaps?"

The warden stood, having spent too much of his day on this already. "You have influential friends in many countries," he answered. "There are Americans involved, but it is one of your own countrymen who offers you the job. The Chilean government has agreed to commute your sentence if you accept the position." He smiled, a little coldly. "The musician is touring Europe for the next two years, so you will no longer be our problem, should you return to your…former career."

Americans? A Russian? Musician? Yuri risked the warden's further displeasure, speaking again. "But I know nothing of music…."

"Silence!" The warden looked over Rubinov's shoulder, toward the door. "That is not my concern. I know only that you use valuable space and resources here; and that considerable cooperation is taking place among at least three countries. This comes to me from far over my head." There was a brief rap on this door. "Ah. Your employer arrives. Do you wish to meet him?

Yuri scratched his head, turning slightly. Surely the musician misunderstood who he was. In the end, another prisoner would be released into his employ. His stomach growled and he nodded, impatient to get this over with and get back to the main population in time for lunch. "Yes."

"Enter," the warden called. Yuri focused first on the long, almost delicate fingers wrapped around the doorknob. Then he raised his eyes up the man's arms, past the lined, apprehensive face to the unkempt bushel of dark curls that cascaded from the top of his head. He gasped, letting himself remember, for just a moment.

Then he shook himself out of his stupor, and looked insolently directly at the Russian. They were baiting him, he was certain. This man was like the other – he only looked like Andre. "I am sure there has been a mistake," he stated. "I would like to return to the cell block."

A flash of – pain? -- crossed the younger man's face before he answered in a soft, yet sure, voice. "There has been no mistake, Yuri. I am Andre, and I have come to take you with me."

Yuri stared at him, his heart filling, and silence descended. And in it, the years and the sins melted away, and they were boys again. He rose, his eyes misting. "Andre -," he said, then stopped, as Andre stepped forward and put his arms around him. Yuri's heart swelled, almost painfully, as he embraced him, and dimly he wondered how this had happened – who had set him free. It didn't matter though, he knew, as he felt his brother's embrace. Finally, after all of the years of hardship and heartbreak, Yuri Rubinov was going home.

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Marshall sat chained to the prisoner next to him, a rather humongous, robust individual who apparently had no passing familiarity with the concept of showers. He tried to distract himself from the aroma – which was entirely too pungent to stem from any one person, so maybe none of them understood personal hygiene – by congratulating himself thoroughly. Yes, he was unfortunately headed for Leavenworth, there was that. BUT, at least it wasn't a South American death row – or even an American one, for that matter. He had managed to deal his way to life. He had no doubt that once the warden of this establishment discovered his genius, Marshall Penfield would be teaching again. Running the library. Hell, he'd be that guy from Shawshank Redemption within the week.

He was pulled rudely from his thoughts when the brute next to him leaned in his direction, wafting an odiferous affront. Marshall tried to lean further away, but he sat next to the window, and the glass eventually stopped him.

His seatmate belched loudly. Penfield pursed his lips and squeezed shut his eyes. Apparently the picture was too much for the other man. "Sweetheart," came a breathy growl in his ear, and Marshall's eyes popped back open.

"I beg your pardon?" he huffed, lifting his manacled wrists off his lap.

His new friend grinned, revealing a smile missing several teeth. "Ah, honey," he moaned. "I been waiting for you my whole life."

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Months later, Charlie sat on the bench facing the koi pond, his eyes closed. His face was tilted to the setting sun, and a warm early-spring breeze gently danced in his curls. He had healed, for the most part. He could walk without a limp, his rift with his brother had mended; the horrible dreams had faded. He was whole again, except for one thing.

The breeze kissed him again, and he could almost believe that the soft wind was actually Amita's fingers. He could almost feel her sitting next to him on the bench. He could almost hear her laughter in the quiet gurgling of the pond.

Sitting there, he could remember everything – from the mundane to the magnificent – and he reveled in the memories. Once stolen from him, and now, thankfully, wholly his own again. They had come back to him as Don had predicted they would, after he had time to grieve, to really mourn her. Charlie thanked the Lord of the Universe for the memories, every day.

Memories were all he had left.

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The End

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A/N: Oh, you have made The Raccoons so happy. We are delighted that so many of you enjoyed our small tale. Some questions, however, remain. For instance: How did Macedo piss off Marlita so badly? Did Macedo truly die when the plane went down? Will Marshall marry in prison? Will he and Charlie ever face each other again? Will Alan get fed up with the whole thing and run away with Minerva? Most importantly, can the Rabid Raccoons smell a sequel?