Chapter 10

The chipmunk scurried through the pine needles, which lay dappled by the early morning sunshine. It approached the tent, its nose quivering, eyes bright, and made its way to just inside the entrance by fits and starts, darting and stopping. It paused for a moment, taking in the inanimate pale form, and when it saw no movement, it crept inward, nosing its way into the pack. It nibbled its way through plastic into a granola bar, and sat quietly feeding, as the pine trees sighed softly above it.

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Don sat in the waiting room of Dr. Bradford's office, as the doctor pushed in from the hallway, running late, breathing a little heavily. He eyed Don dourly as he passed him to unlock the door of his office. "You'd better have a good reason for dragging me out on a Sunday morning," he groused.

"If you would have answered the messages your service left you, we could have met yesterday afternoon," Don shot back, rising to his feet. He followed Bradford in, and paced with pent up energy.

Bradford indicated chairs, and they sat. "What is the issue here? Charlie can't come in to talk to me himself?" He eyed Don with an acerbic smile. "Or does this have more to do with the fact that Charlie is seeing me as well?"

"Don't start that," Don said, his jaw set angrily. "Charlie's missing. What in the hell did you say to him, anyway?"

Bradford frowned. "Missing? When?"

"He left in the middle of the night sometime, early Saturday morning. Dad was up with him at a little before one, trying to wake him up from a nightmare. He stayed with him until he fell asleep, around two a.m. He was gone when Dad got up in the morning."

Bradford's eyes narrowed. "Do you know if he took any sleeping pills?"

"No, we don't think so. He took his car, clothes and his wallet, and he left a note."

"The note didn't tell you anything?"

Don handed it to him. "Read it yourself. We were hoping you could tell us."

Bradford read it, forehead furrowed in concentration. "Yes, I do remember saying something to him about getting back on the horse. I can't give you the details of our conversation, you understand. I used it as a figure of speech. He reacted it to it when I said it; it looked like it struck a chord with him somehow."

Don felt a pang of disappointment. "That's it? No talk about a place, about going anywhere specific?"

Bradford shook his head. "He might have taken me literally, but I'm afraid I have no clue as to where he would go. Maybe you should just give him a little space."

Don sighed. "That was my first reaction too. Dad's worried though." He looked up, his brows knit. "He thought that Charlie said something that sounded like a reference to suicide."

Bradford frowned. "Sounded like?"

"When he woke up from the nightmare, he said something on the order of "I can't take this anymore." Dad told him he had to, he didn't have a choice."

"That was it?"

Don shook his head slowly. "Charlie told him, 'yes, I do.' I know, the words themselves don't mean much; but Dad said that the way he delivered them – well, I guess it rattled him. He's pretty upset."

Bradford frowned and rubbed his forehead. A slight feeling of unease settled in his stomach. "One of the medications that Charlie is on, the SSRI, has been documented as sometimes causing increased thoughts of suicide. It seems to have more of that effect on children, but there have been rare instances in adults."

Don paled. He had been hoping for some reassurance from Bradford, and instead he was hearing this.

Bradford continued. "I need to talk to Charlie directly. If he has had any thoughts along those lines, we should think of switching to a different SSRI, fluoxetine, for example." He paused and looked at Don. "I have to admit, it does surprise me a little to hear this. Charlie's main symptoms have had to do with anxiety, not depression. However, sometimes extreme cases of anxiety can lead to depression. The brain can only take such intense levels of stress for so long."

Don cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that had settled there. "So you're advising me we should try to find him." He already had started looking, but he wanted to hear it from Bradford.

Bradford regarded him levelly. "After hearing this, I think it would be wise, yes." He watched as Don closed his eyes; then opened them slowly. The concern in his face was real, Bradford realized. Contrary to what Charlie thought, his brother obviously cared a lot about him. Not that Don Eppes would do a good job expressing those feelings. Lack of communication, issues from childhood – the two of them certainly had a lot to wade through, and both of them seemed intent on burying it. "Not what you wanted to hear."

Don grimaced. "I was just trying to figure out what to tell my Dad."

"How about the truth? Being open? I suspect that your father would be better off knowing what's happening rather than trying to keep him in the dark to spare him from worry. A worry, I might add, that would most likely increase if you kept him uninformed. This is an area that both you and your brother need to work on."

Don scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bradford sighed. "It shouldn't come as a surprise that you and your brother have some issues to work out. Do you ever talk about anything that's not work-related?"

Don looked at him defensively. "Hey, we're not a demonstrative kind of family, all right? We do okay." 'What in the heck did Charlie say to him?' Don wondered. He glowered at Bradford and lobbied a shot of his own. "I can't say how much good therapy is doing either one of us. Charlie wouldn't be off somewhere now, if it hadn't been for something you two talked about."

Bradford eyed him levelly. "You could be right," he said calmly. "But from what you're telling me, he could have been somewhere a lot worse."

They glowered at each other in silence for a moment, antagonism thickening the atmosphere. Don rose; his jaw set in anger, and picked up Charlie's note from Bradford's desk. "Trust me; I am going to find him. It would probably go a lot faster if you decided to help."

Bradford sighed at his patient. Now was not the time to try and work through Don's control issues. He looked up at the agent and met his eyes. "That's what I'm here for, believe it or not."

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Charlie slowly opened his eyes. The morning light made shadows dance on the thin fabric of the tiny tent, and he watched them for just a moment, mesmerized. Thoughts of the night before stole into his mind, creeping like cold fingers, making him shudder involuntarily. He had come so close…Somehow he had summoned the will to put the cap back on the bottle; to put it back in his pack. He had fallen back into a fitful sleep, riddled with dreams. Each time he woke from them, he was aware of the presence of bottle in his pack, sitting, beckoning him, but he never took it out again. He had fought off the temptation; somehow he had made it until morning.

The realization of where he was; what he had just done, suddenly seized him and he smiled; an amazed, incredulous smile. He was still here. He had made it. He had faced the worst that Mansour had to offer, and he was still standing, or lying anyway, looking at sunlight, drinking in fresh air. A laugh was wrenched out of his gut, pulled from him without permission, and then he was laughing and crying at the same time, uncontrollably.

The outburst sobered him a little and he crawled awkwardly to his knees, still smiling, almost quivering with emotion. The feeling of joy, of relief, was a little too intense, and he plowed into his backpack, and pulled out the lorazepam, staring at the bottle for just a moment. It was just a bottle, just pills, he told himself. He was in control. He shook two tablets into his palm and closed the bottle firmly, then downed them and followed them with his daily SSRI dose.

It didn't occur to him, at least not consciously, that he had just taken a double dose of the lorazepam again. Somewhere along the line, he had gone from one to two; twice the dose was now the norm. He felt the welcome little dizzying dip that he got when the medication hit, and then the feeling of calm that spread throughout his system like a blanket. He had done it. For just a moment, he felt invincible.

He crawled from his tent, and the sight of the canyon brought back a tendril of anxiety. He forced it to the back of his mind; he wouldn't let it ruin the moment. He still had work to do, he knew, but this was a start. It was a start.

Moments later, he was packed, and pushing through the pine thicket. He pulled out a granola bar as he hit the trail, letting his feet take him where they would. He felt without doubt that he was at the start of a journey – he had no idea how long it would take or where it would lead him. For now, though, he was moving, progressing; he was back on the horse, and that was enough.

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Don stepped into the office, and felt a surge of gratitude as he saw his team stationed at their desks. Fresh off the assignment, they had come back in yesterday without missing a beat, and were in again this morning. They really were exceptional, he thought, every one of them – a lead agent's dream team. Not for the first time, it occurred to him how lucky he was to have them. His glance rested on Colby for a second – solid, unflappable Colby. He owed him his life – and he owed all of them for being there for Charlie, during the Mansour case, and now, again.

Megan glanced up as Don approached his desk. "Any luck with Bradford?"

The others looked up as Don answered. "No," he sighed. "He remembers saying the thing about the horse, and he remembered that Charlie reacted to it, but that's it. Bradford said he used it as a figure of speech, but that Charlie may have taken it literally. They didn't talk about anything specific though, so he had no idea what it meant to him – why he reacted that way."

"Well, we've been checking out the literal interpretation," said David. "We've called every stable that offers horseback riding within a three hour radius of Los Angeles, but no luck. Every one of them makes their riders sign a waiver, so if he went to one, we should have picked him up. We're still looking."

"Nothing on the car yet, either," added Colby. "The APB is out for the L.A. area only. We weren't sure if you wanted to extend it or not."

Don knew what Colby was implying. He was already stretching it by putting out a bulletin for what in essence was a personal reason. LAPD was one thing; he and his team had a decent relationship with them, and they wouldn't question it. Extending the bulletin to the rest of the state was another story. Without proof that his brother was in danger, he really couldn't justify it, and there was no guarantee that it would be taken seriously anyway.

He shook his head wearily. "No, don't extend it, at least not for now."

Megan eyed him. "What did Bradford say about it?"

Her reference to Charlie's hint at suicide was unspoken, but Don knew what she meant. "He thinks we ought to try to find him," he answered quietly. "He said that it's possible the medication might be causing Charlie to have those thoughts; he wants to change it."

He looked up, and Megan could see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Quiet settled as they stared uneasily at each other across the desk.

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Charlie stopped for the night at the same place where he had camped with Don and his team the first night out on their hike. Shadows were descending by the time he got there, and he was exhausted. He was profoundly grateful he had taken Bradford's advice and started jogging; he must have gone at least ten miles that day; and the long hike and the lack of sleep had pushed him to the brink. The uneasiness was back as night fell; the specter of dreams hovered, and he tried to push it away.

He used his propane heater to heat water from a small spring, trying to conserve the small amount of bottled water he had brought. He poured some of it into a cup and let it cool, and used the rest to reconstitute one of the freeze-dried dinners. His hands were shaking; he was trying hard to hold off on the lorazepam until bedtime; he had already taken two double doses that day. The wind was picking up, and he pitched his tent hurriedly, while his food soaked up the hot water.

He ate hurriedly and dragged his pack into the tent, and sat cross-legged, hunched in the entrance, looking out over the campsite. Across the trail was the big rock where he had sat with his brother; where they talked about his breakup with Amita. In the dimness he could barely make out the black smudge of cinders that had been their campfire, and beyond it, the tree where Edgerton had leaned with his rifle, keeping watch. There was no Don tonight, no one keeping watch, and as blackness fell, Charlie was keenly aware of his aloneness.

The water in his cup had cooled enough to drink. He had stretched it out long enough. He rummaged in his pack and pulled out the lorazepam, and shook two of the tiny white tablets into his hand. He stared at them; then added another. He didn't want to chance another night like last night, he reasoned. If they kept the nightmares down, three were justified; in fact, considering what he was going through, he deserved three. Once he was through with this, he would taper off the dosage. He tossed them down and chased them with the tepid water, and waited for the chemical calm to spread through his system. Exhausted, he crawled into his sleeping bag, and prayed for oblivion.

The dreams that night were as unrelenting as the night before, one following another. There was one change, however; they were not as bloody. Charlie still dreamed of being pursued through the forest, of Mansour catching him, of the struggle and the beating, but in every case, he woke before they got to the canyon. He would find himself sitting upright, sweating, chest heaving, still fighting raw terror and exhaustion, but compared to the night before, it was manageable. Not unbearable, just nearly so. At least, it was until the storm hit. Los Padres was known for fierce thunderstorms that were brewed from moisture laden coastal air, and when one roared in at 3:00 a.m., all chances of sleep were gone.

The miniscule tent shook in the gusts until Charlie thought it would go airborne, and it wasn't long before everything he had was soaked through, including his sleeping bag and the clothes on his back. He sat and shivered in the darkness, as the lightening struck and the rain pelted around him, clutching the sodden sleeping bag to him in a desperate attempt for warmth.

It finally stopped at around five a.m., and as the light began to rise, Charlie crept from his tent, pulling his pack out with him. He was exhausted and cold, and anxiety and self-doubt were creeping in the corners of his mind. What was he trying to prove with this? He was shaking, and he knew it was from more than cold. He pulled the lorazepam bottle out with trembling hands and shook the pills into his hand.

Three of them landed into his palm, and he looked at the third almost with longing, but he dropped it back into the bottle resolutely. Two for daytime, three for night. He swallowed them, and almost as an afterthought, he took his SSRI. Bundling up his wet things onto his pack, he stepped on to the trail and stood for a moment, pondering. Home was beckoning, but he knew in his heart he wasn't ready. If he were home right now, he knew he would still be unable to fight off the need to retreat to the garage. He turned and headed up the trail, tired but resolute.

A few hours later, he was at the rocky outcropping. He paused for a moment and laid his hand on the huge tree he had been leaning against when Mansour had first taken him. He turned to look at the rock formation. Don had told him how Mansour had dragged his unconscious body up on the rock while the team had passed by unaware, and the thought sent a shudder down his spine. He stared for just a minute, then crossed the trail and began to climb.

At the top, Charlie stood for a moment, just taking in the view, and then sat for a moment. The sun had come out; it was warm, and he decided it was as good a place as any to try to dry out his gear. He spread his sleeping bag out, took off his shirt and his wet socks and shoes, and lay down to soak in the sun. Exhausted from the night before, he was asleep in minutes.

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"Hey, rock dude!"

Charlie started awake at the voice, dreams of Mansour still in his head, and pushed up, backing away crab-like from the two strangers in front of him.

A hand shot out and caught his ankle. "Whoa, dude, you're gonna go over, man."

Charlie flung a glance over his shoulder. He was just a few feet from going over into the crevice, a nasty drop, more than likely un-survivable. He blinked, and focused on the two young men in front of him. Tan, in their early twenties, both with long blonde hair, they grinned at him cheerfully.

One of them held out a joint. "Would you like to partake?"

Charlie pulled himself to a sitting position. Their goofy doped-up smiles almost made him want to grin himself. "No thanks."

He had gotten more offers for drugs in the last few weeks than he ever had in his life. First the gang members on the street, now these two. Not to mention Dr. Bradford. A vision rose in his mind of Bradford as a pusher, decked out in an oversized T-shirt and jewelry, and a bubble of laughter rose inside him – some of it getting out before he could control himself.

The two young men grinned back at him, and one looked at the other. "He's a jolly rock dude." That sent them off in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Charlie rubbed his forehead, trying to stifle a grin of his own.

They got hold of themselves eventually. "I'm Joey, this is Jerry," said one of them, while the other one took a hit. "We're from Santa Barbara."

"Charlie, from Pasadena," said Charlie, eyeing them. They were in their mid-twenties and looked like surfer-boy cliché's, and made even his more obtuse freshmen sound like Einsteins.

"I like Rock Dude better," said Jerry, and that made them snicker again.

"Where you headed?" asked Joey.

Charlie shrugged. "West."

"Us too," said Jerry.

"No, man, we're going east," argued Joey, and that set off a five minute conversation on which way was east, at the end of which Jerry looked still unconvinced. As they talked, Charlie rose stiffly and began to roll up his sleeping bag. He glanced at his watch. It was two in the afternoon; he had slept for four hours. He could feel the shakiness setting in, and as he packed, he surreptitiously slipped out two of his pills and tossed them down, feeling the familiar sensation of calm pervade him.

By the time his pack was back together a few minutes later, Joey and Jerry had finished their joint, and were in the process of devouring a bag of chips. Charlie eased by them, and started down the rock, trying to stifle a grin. "See you later."

"Later, Rock Dude," they chorused together, and dissolved into another fit of snickering.

Charlie clambered down, shaking his head, and headed back onto the trail. 'Thank God, I never got into drugs,' he thought, as he headed into the afternoon sun.

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End Chapter 10