Title: Surfacing
Author: Zubeneschamali
Rating: T (violence)
Summary: Alan's new clients might have connections to terrorist activity in an FBI case that strikes a little too close to home.

Timeline: Takes place after "Convergence" and ignores anything that came after it, particularly "Bones of Contention."

Author's notes: This is the product of my attempt at NaNoWriMo last November, which is why it unintentionally repeats the B-plot of "Bones of Contention." Also, some aspects of Southern California's geography have been altered for purposes of this story. Thanks to Becky for beta reading, and to Lady Shelley for maintaining "Running the NUMB3RS"!

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16 million residents
2 suspected terrorists
56 potentially toxic chemicals
2 poisoned wells

oooooooooooooooo

Prologue
Saturday, November 26, 2005
9:45 P.M.
Eppes house

Alan knew he would always remember the look on Don's face, standing before the open front door, his gun extended in front of him and aiming at a spot just over Alan's right shoulder. It wasn't an expression he associated with his son. It was cold and unrelenting, but also full of unwavering strength in the face of a terrible situation. It showed the courage that he always knew his boy had, but had never seen displayed quite like this. It showed him he had been right all those years ago when he had acceded to Don's wishes and sent him off to Quantico instead of spring training.

At the moment, though, it was as terrifying an expression as any he had ever seen. And the words that his son was speaking were just as frightening to hear.

"There's no way you're going to walk out of here with those files," he was saying to the man standing behind Alan. The one whose pistol was poking into Alan's side as he stood there with the stack of folders retrieved from upstairs cradled in his hands.

The gun dug a little more deeply into his side, but Alan fought to keep his expression calm and his eyes steady on Don's face. "You will let me go by," the man behind him growled, "or I will pull this trigger. You know that I will."

Don's expression still didn't change, and Alan's admiration for his son grew even more. His voice like steel, he repeated, "I will not let you walk out of here." His gaze flickered to Alan's for just a second, and Alan gave him the slightest of nods. 'I'm with you,' he tried to convey with his expression. He thought Don understood, but he wasn't sure.

The gun moved to his temple. "Last chance, Eppes. Let me by, or you're out a family member."

Alan inhaled a shaky breath. Don's professional mask had slipped, and rage was now gleaming in his eyes. But his aim stayed steady, so that Alan was not quite looking down the barrel of his gun, but slightly to the side. He wondered, not for the first time that night, what his odds of surviving this were. If Don shot the gunman behind him, would his finger have time to pull the trigger of the weapon resting against Alan's head? Charlie would know, he thought, and that brought him a wave of gratitude that at least one of the three of them wasn't caught in this mess.

Then there was a loud click as the gunman released the safety on his pistol, and Alan didn't need a mathematician to tell him his odds had just gone way down. It was in Don's slightly widened eyes, something that would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone else, but that was as clear as an open-mouthed face of shock to him. They'd already stalled their way out of one such confrontation tonight. But now that the gunman had what he wanted, he really didn't need Alan Eppes any more.

Alan closed his eyes for a moment and said a prayer in an inner voice rusty from disuse. When it came down to it, his life didn't matter right now, not compared to the possible consequences if his captor got away with the documents he held. All that mattered were those files. He hadn't had much hope of escape ever since this night started, but at least now there was the hope that justice would be served, and that the innocent would not be harmed.

So he took a deep breath and prepared to do what might be the last thing he would ever do in this life. He caught his son's eye and broke the tense silence in a surprisingly calm voice. "You do what you have to," he said quietly, not sure if he meant it as a command or an explanation. He saw Don's eyes widen a fraction as he processed the words.

And then he made his move.

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 1
Monday, November 14 (twelve days earlier)
5:40 P.M.
Eppes house

"Charlie, are there still some leftovers in the fridge?" Alan poked his head into the garage, then paused at the sight that met his eyes. His younger son was bobbing his head in time to some inaudible beat, his hand moving rapidly across the chalkboard as the chalk made quick clicking and scraping noises on the green surface. He could see the twin white cords trailing from Charlie's ears down to the iPod that must be stashed in a pocket. He watched as Charlie paused, picked up an eraser, and rubbed out all that he'd written while Alan had been standing there watching him.

Alan let out an exclamation of surprise at seeing all of that work disappear. It must have been louder then he intended, because Charlie halted in his movements, and then gave the white cords a tug so the earplugs came tumbling out of his ears as he turned around. "Dad! How long have you been there? Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"Oh, that's all right." Alan folded his arms and leaned against the side of the doorway. "I didn't want to disturb you in case you were in the middle of a train of thought." Not that anything short of taking the chalk out of his hand and turning off his music would get his attention when he was really intent on his work. If that.

"No, it's okay. I kind of hit a dead end anyway. What's up?"

"I just got home, and I was wondering if there were still enough leftovers in the fridge, or if I was going to have to prepare dinner. Stan Carter is coming over, and I don't want to have to call out for pizza."

Charlie chuckled. "I think there's still some of that hamburger pie I made earlier in the week. But Dad, are you sure you want to feed your boss leftovers?"

"Just because his name comes first in the name of our business doesn't mean he's the boss. We're partners, fifty-fifty. Besides, you do work for Don; do you think of him as your boss?"

Charlie rolled his eyes and laid the chalk and eraser down on the rail of the chalkboard. "Give me a break. You know I don't. Don't let Don hear you say that, though, or it might give him some ideas."

It was Alan's turn to chuckle, and he took a step back and extended his arm towards the house. "You ready to come in?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I could use the break."

"You working on something for Don?" Alan asked as they crossed the backyard. The sky was prematurely darkening, and it seemed like the rain that the weatherman had predicted was on its way.

"No, it's actually my own work, for once." Charlie shook his head. "I guess you could say Marshall Penfield actually inspired me."

"Well, you already know I think you do too much for other people, Charlie. You come up with equations for Larry, you solve cases for your brother, you help Amita with her work…I know you have tenure, and you certainly don't need to prove yourself to your colleagues. But it's important to have your own career and not just be doing things for others."

Charlie gave him a shrewd look as he opened the back door. "Is that why you're working with Stan? Or is it because you're doing something for others?"

"It's because I'd go crazy here in the house all day by myself, that's why." Alan climbed the few steps to the back door and entered as Charlie held the door open. "And it's nice to be able to put my skills to work on something I'm interested in without worrying about the politics of whether it's actually going to be implemented or not."

"Did that happen a lot when you worked for the city?" Charlie shut the door and followed him into the kitchen. "Where something you worked on got abandoned for political reasons?"

"Oh, sure, all the time. Don't you remember me ranting about it when you were growing up?"

He shrugged. "I remember you complaining about work sometimes, but I don't remember exactly what the problem was."

Alan looked at him, wondering if Charlie had been too wrapped up in his own little world to notice, or if Margaret had always managed to soothe his ruffled feathers enough that neither of the boys noticed. "Well, I had my share of projects go up on the shelf in a black binder, never to be seen again. There's nothing more frustrating than putting your heart into a piece of work for months, and then knowing that nothing's going to come of it and no one's ever going to read it."

"You know that with most of the papers I publish, I would be happy if more than a dozen people ever read them."

He stared. "Larry's told me about people who have contacted you from around the world to get copies of your papers."

Charlie waved a hand as if to say that wasn't the point. "Yeah, but most of my articles are a lot more obscure. And that's okay, that's just the nature of mathematics. But I guess that's different than a job where you're expecting to make a difference to the public."

"Yeah, it is." Alan reflected for a moment. Of course, he'd accomplished a lot in his time as a city planner for Pasadena, from affordable housing regulations to helping to revitalize downtown. But a lot of what he'd wanted to do had been shot down for one reason or another, leaving him increasingly frustrated. Margaret had encouraged him to focus on the positive things he had done and to let go of the things he couldn't change. That helped a lot, at least in terms of his mental state.

Now that he wasn't a regular employee, but a paid consultant, it was even easier to take a step back from city and state politics. He was providing information, that was all. If someone else chose to use it, that was great. If not, he still collected his fee. Of course he still cared about the results of his work, and he enjoyed seeing the tangible results when a building was erected or a park was dedicated, but he'd learned over the years to take a more pragmatic approach and not take his work so personally.

"So what are you and Stan working on?" Charlie opened the refrigerator and took out the casserole dish. "And when is he coming by?"

"He's supposed to be here at six." Alan checked his watch and saw that it was a quarter till. "And I don't know what the project is; that's what he's going to tell me about. Some kind of collaboration with Pasadena Water and Power, I think, but I'm not sure."

"Huh." Charlie put the casserole dish on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. "Sounds interesting," he said.

The doorbell rang, and Charlie moved to get it. "No, I'll get it," Alan said. "It's probably Stan."

As he crossed through the living room, he thought for a moment about what Charlie had said. He supposed he wasn't really doing this work for himself, although it was nice to still have a source of income. Not that he had to worry about money; Charlie's cash purchase of the house had ensured that he would be taken care of for many years to come, not even counting his pension from the city. And his volunteer work, both at the shelter and occasionally at the local elementary school, certainly did give him something to do with his days. As did golf, bowling, and all those other sorts of things that you got to enjoy once you were retired. But it was nice to still feel like he was useful, like he could still help.

And he was looking forward to working with Stan again. They had both worked for the city of Pasadena back in the '80s, and had both been on the planning commission at the same time before Stan chose to transfer to the L.A. Parks Department. Something about wanting to be outside more often, Alan remembered. But they'd kept in touch, always joking that whoever retired first would be hired by the other as a consultant. When they'd decided to retire in the same month, it was clear that going into business together was the logical thing to do, and Carter and Eppes had been born. They'd had a few small projects so far, but he had the feeling that this was something bigger. Whatever it was, he was looking forward to getting involved. His sons weren't the only Eppes who wanted to feel like they were making a difference in the world.

"Stan, nice to see you," Alan said when he opened the door. "Come on in."

The short, stocky man shook out his umbrella and entered the house, neatly laying the wet umbrella down on the mat just inside the door. "It's raining cats and dogs out there, Alan. That your son's bike in the driveway?"

Alan heard a muffled exclamation from behind him, and a moment later, Charlie was hurrying past Stan after exchanging brief hellos to get his bicycle under cover. "That boy hasn't changed since he was a kid," Stan said as he followed Alan towards the dining room.

"Oh, yes he has." Alan thought briefly about the conversation he'd had with his son the other night. Charlie's frustration about his old rival had led him to realize that he needed to do his own work and be his own person. Alan had told him that he wasn't wasting his time with his FBI consulting, and that he should work on whatever made him happy, but he knew his boy. Years ago, Don couldn't have dragged Charlie away from his chalkboards with a team of wild horses. Now, Charlie was not only interested in his numbers, but in what they meant out in the real world. It was a change Alan had enjoyed watching happen.

"Sorry it's nothing fancy," he said as he ushered his old friend to a seat at the table. "Maybe next time I'll have a little more warning before you invite yourself over for dinner, hmm?"

Stan barked a short laugh. "You're the one who made it a dinner invitation, Eppes." He reached for the plate of bread from the plate Charlie had set on the table on his way out the door.

"Uh huh," Alan threw over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. "That's why you asked to come over at 6 P.M., right?"

Half an hour later, the three men had finished eating, during which time Charlie had peppered them both with questions about their new business. "Charlie, we've only had a few clients – there isn't a whole lot to tell," Alan had pointed out, but his son still wanted to know about their office space (on the second story of a building on Colorado Boulevard), their expected clients (old contacts in various city agencies, at least for starters), and the focus of their work (urban infrastructure planning). At some point, Alan's suspicions began to rise that Charlie was walking them through a series of questions designed to make sure that they knew what they were getting themselves into, but he shook it off. His son might be a brilliant mathematician, but he was sure he didn't have any experience in running a business of his own.

Not that Alan did, either, but he tried not to think about that.

Stan pushed back his plate with a contented sigh. "Good meal, Charlie. I guess I was wrong – you have changed since you were a kid. Don't think you cooked so well growing up."

Charlie ducked his head as he picked up the plates to carry them into the kitchen. "Thanks, Stan. I didn't have much opportunity; Mom was always such a good cook."

"That she was," Alan sighed. His eyes flickered, as they often did when her name came up, to the photographs of Margaret Eppes hanging on the wall.

"So, uh, why don't we get started?" Stan's voice cut into his thoughts, and he noticed his friend looking slightly uncomfortable as he pulled a stack of paper out of the backpack he had brought with him. Alan understood. Stan had lost his own wife about five years ago in a car accident, and he didn't like talking about her or anything related to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Margaret and Nancy had been as close as their husbands were, and it was hard for Stan when his wife's best friend had passed away, leaving him without that one last link to his dead wife.

"Sure." Alan pushed aside the plates and glasses, clearing a space on the table for the files. "What've you got there, my friend?"

"Well, I got a call from some environmental group that wants to restore the L.A. River to a free-flowing, natural stream. Not likely that's going to happen, considering the need for flood control around here, but anyway. They've heard about the contamination problem up by JPL, and they want to know how likely it is that the stuff could get down into the river. So they asked around, and they called this afternoon to hire us."

Alan sat back in his chair for a moment. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory, a NASA facility that was run by CalSci, was at the very northern edge of the city, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a beautiful setting, but any chemicals that seeped into the ground could easily run downhill and contaminate the wells that the city relied on for its water supplies. There had been a few incidents over the past decade where chemicals associated with rocket fuel had been found in the nearby wells that supplied the city's drinking water. NASA had been good about cleaning things up, but he could see how private citizens might be concerned about the potential for future, more dangerous events. "This isn't exactly the kind of work I was thinking of taking on. We're not hydrologists, Stan."

"No, but you've dealt with groundwater contamination before, haven't you? You know a lot about the water system in Pasadena, and that's where any of that crap would have to pass through before it got to the river, right? Besides, I figure you just ask your old friends at the city for a little information, and we're all set. Not too many billable hours, but hey, we gotta start somewhere."

He frowned. "How much did they offer to pay?" He certainly wasn't opposed to working with a non-profit organization, but he had envisioned making money off this little venture, not carrying out analyses for organizations too poor to do it themselves.

"The going rate that we agreed on. Don't worry, it's not pro bono or anything."

His eyebrows raised. "What, is this one of those environmental groups run by Hollywood types?"

"You charging high-end prices, Dad?" Charlie paused in his clearing of the table, a teasing tone in his voice. "Trying to price out the non-profits to get to where the real money is?"

"No, we're charging a reasonable rate based on what other firms in the area charge. I'm just surprised that a group I've never heard of is able to hire a private consultant to answer a question that they could just go to the city and ask themselves."

"They said they did." Stan leaned back and gave him a knowing look. "Got some kind of rigmarole about restricted information and being off-limits to the public. They did some looking around, found that one of us has connections to the city, and thought we might be able to help them out."

Great, Alan thought. Our client is hiring us because they think I can bend the law for them. "So they just want a copy of this report?"

Stan looked through his notes. "That, and, I quote, 'an expert analysis as to the amount of the substance it would take to contaminate the L.A. River and our valuable drinking water supplies.' In case NASA hasn't already done it, that is."

"Well, I'm sure they haven't. They only asked the city to close down the two closest wells, and they don't seem to be concerned about anything downstream."

Stan leaned slightly forward. "Ah, maybe that's just what they want you to think," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "File it away with your magic bullet, Eppes."

Alan rolled his eyes. Stan loved making fun of conspiracy theories, including his own particular fascination with Kennedy's assassination. "Okay, I think we can handle that."

"Good. You can impress 'em right off the bat. They're expecting a call by the end of the week."

"I can impress them? I thought you were the one taking the lead on this."

"I would, but this isn't really my thing. You know I'm more the outdoors and public space kind of guy. Besides, you're the one with the contacts, and I'm still finishing up that report for Glendale." He leaned forward in his chair with a conspiratorial look. "And I ran into an old friend the other day who thinks he can get us some work on that mall they're proposing for downtown."

"Is that right? Something else on top of this groundwater project? Don't start overloading us, my friend."

Stan waved a hand. "I know how much work we're capable of, and I won't exceed it. Until we have a good enough income to hire some staff, that is."

"Now you're being ambitious," Alan muttered. He was a little worried that Stan was treating their new business more as a place for experimentation than as, well, a business. He'd always been better at getting new projects started than finishing up the old ones. And if Alan was going to be the one doing the work while Stan was bringing in the clients…that could lead to an imbalance in the workload pretty quickly.

"Nothing wrong with being ambitious." He must have seen the look on Alan's face, because he paused. "Hey, you know I'm gonna pass everything by you before I take on any work, okay? We can still turn this project down if you don't think we're up for it."

Alan shook his head. "No, you told them we would do it, and we have to stick to that. We don't want to get stuck with a bad reputation."

"All right." Stan cocked his head. "Look, I'm sorry if I overreached here. I'm just trying to get us off the ground, you know? By this time next year, I want Carter and Eppes to be the best new planning firm in the city!"

"Well, I'd settle for being solvent a year from now," Alan responded dryly. He held up a hand and went on, "You know me, Stan. I'm just showing my practical side."

"That's why we're gonna be great together," Stan grinned. "Optimism and practicality—what more could you want in a business partnership?"