A/N: This is for you, Graham...

Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey

by Rabid Raccoons

Chapter 11: Sinking

…

Audrey Paris took a drag on her joint, and drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.

In the past, a joint would have made her mellow, too mellow to think straight, but these days, it was a necessity. The high and the feeling of power she got from meth had turned into a constant craving; she couldn't function without it, but after days on end of hit after hit, meth-induced anxiety sometimes took over. When that happened, her mind would go into a tailspin, disjointed thoughts darting around in her skull like frightened rats, and she would need something to calm her down enough so that she could think again. Vodka worked, but too well, and she often didn't stop before she was drunk. Pot was better; it quelled the jitters but left her clear-headed enough to plan.

The Plan. It wasn't something that had come to her right away; instead it slowly materialized from the recesses of her mind and the cesspools of hate in her soul. It was a way to get the money that should rightfully have been hers and to have her revenge in the process. The only problem was, she needed help to carry it out, and there was only one man who could help her. Asking him was huge risk; if he put loyalty before his own chance at riches, he might rat her out, and she had no doubt that if that happened, she would be a dead woman. On the other hand, if he determined that being rich was worth the risk on his part, he might decide to play, and they both would win.

She took another hit of the joint, held it for a moment, then exhaled and stared at the prepaid cell phone lying on the table. Yes, there was only one man who could help her, if she dared to pick up the phone and call him. He was the brains of J. Everett Tuttle's enterprises, and his name was Ralph Nardek.

…

Charlie blinked, and rubbed his throbbing forehead. The figures on his computer screen stood out harshly against the background, and seemed to vibrate, making it difficult to focus. He swallowed, trying to quell the ever-present anxiety, not to mention nausea, which had been part of his existence, ever since the day of the barbecue – the day that Don fell, the day he stopped taking his medication.

He heard the front door open and close, and Alan stump in. Don had been released from the hospital after four days to recuperate at home; he'd regained full feeling and function in his legs after only two, much to Charlie's profound relief. He'd hovered anxiously over his brother, as had Alan, during Don's days in the hospital. Alan had been a constant fixture at Don's side, even through the evenings, and Charlie had been there through much of it also, only leaving long enough each day to manage his classes. Unlike Alan, however, Charlie never allowed himself to be in the room alone with Don. He'd made that mistake once, and only once, the day after Don's fall. In spite of being a bit fuzzy-headed from pain medication himself following the surgery on his arm, Don had been sharp enough to take advantage of their relative privacy and had brought up the topic of the pills. Charlie's response had been curt, defensive and immediate. "They're not an issue," he had said. "I'm not taking them anymore."

"I can see that," Don had replied dryly. "Or is sweaty and green a new look for you?" His face had grown somber then, and he continued, "Charlie, you don't have to do it cold turkey – in fact you shouldn't. Shulman's upset with you – he says you're gonna be sicker than hell. I know what you're doing – you're beating yourself up over what happened, and you shouldn't. It was an accident. If anything, it was my fault, for grabbing your arm like that. I shouldn't have been so pushy."

Now, a week later, Charlie grimaced, and rubbed his head again. That was just like Don – he could be demanding, and sometimes argumentative, but it when it came to something really serious, he was understanding – almost too understanding. He'd nearly been paralyzed, for God's sake, and Charlie couldn't shake the conviction that despite what Don had said, it was his fault. If he hadn't been on the pills, hadn't lied to get that extra prescription, their argument at the top of the stairs wouldn't have happened.

Don and Shulman were both right about one thing – he'd gotten sicker than a dog. For the first four days, he groped his way through blinding headaches, and disappeared to the nearest bathroom after every meal, where he vomited repeatedly, violently. He subsisted on crackers, eaten just a few at a time. The third evening, after a bout of vomiting, he'd actually passed out on the bathroom floor, while Amita was at the grocery store and Alan at the hospital – although he'd come to before either of them returned. At least it hadn't happened at school…

Through it all, he tried to act normally. Normal function – it meant that he really hadn't been addicted – he was just experiencing some minor withdrawal symptoms, he had told Shulman, when he ran into him outside the doorway of Don's room. Shulman had looked back at him with an expression that said he wasn't fooled, and just shook his head.

Not addicted, not really. That was Amita's mantra, too – she snapped at any mention of Charlie's condition by Alan. "He's fine," she would retort. "It's understandable that he would have a headache. He's fine." Her reaction only added to Charlie's guilt – that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut that had nothing to do with nausea. Her denial only underscored how Charlie suspected she really felt about addiction – it was obviously something highly disturbing to her; despicable, weak behavior. Something so distasteful that she couldn't acknowledge it, especially not when it came to her fiancé.

Her reaction, his own denial, and a deep sense of guilt had somehow given him a grim, desperate sort of determination that brought him through the week. When he thought about it, there was even something gratifying in the pain – he deserved it. He gritted his teeth grimly, almost welcoming it, welcoming the wretched sickness, immersing himself in a type of self-flagellation. Now at the end of the week, although he was still far from weaned, the headaches were becoming slightly more bearable, the nausea receding enough that he could keep down a light meal.

He kept his head down, his eyes on his computer, as Alan stumped through on the way to the kitchen. His father hadn't been home much; he'd been staying at Don's apartment with him since he'd been released from the hospital. He could hear Alan's voice mingling with Amita's in the kitchen, as he joined her in the preparation of a simple dinner of soup and sandwiches. His father apparently had stopped over while Don napped to pick up a few cooking supplies, spices and condiments that Don didn't keep in his apartment.

Dinner, with Alan there, was just a trifle uncomfortable. Charlie kept his eyes on his plate, and when he joined the conversation, spoke quietly, almost apologetically. He couldn't shake the sense that when his father looked at him now, his gaze held disapproval. He had after all, nearly paralyzed Alan's oldest son, his own brother.

His father's eyes were on him now, keen, assessing. "So, how are you feeling, Charlie?"

"Good," Charlie mumbled. He picked up his soup spoon with a shaking hand, and laid it back down again, playing with a bit of his sandwich. "I'm trying to finish grading some tests, and then I was going to ask Amita to drive me over to see Don."

He glanced up as Alan grunted and spooned up a bit of soup. His father looked exhausted, and definitely out of sorts. Don's injury, coming so soon after their disappearance, had apparently brought Alan to his limit. The realization made Charlie feel even more guilty. His father's next words didn't help.

"It's the least you could do, considering."

Amita put down her spoon, and stared at Alan, bristling. "Considering what?"

Alan looked at her sourly. "Do I need to spell it out?"

Amita stared at him, then at Charlie, then back at Alan, her mouth open. "Are you saying what happened was Charlie's fault?"

Charlie sat silently, miserably, his gut twisting into a knot.

Alan shot Charlie a look, and in it was flash of regret, and sympathy. His face softened. "Not directly," he hedged, and rose, gathering his dishes. "I'm sorry. I need to get back."

Amita wouldn't let it go. "Not directly – and what does that mean?" she snapped, her eyes flashing.

Alan sighed and gestured wearily with his free hand. "Just this whole – tramadol thing."

Amita looked furious, and Charlie tried to interject, quietly. "Amita."

"Don't 'Amita' me," she shot back, and then glared at Alan. "He was perfectly justified in taking a few pain pills," she said sharply, gesturing toward Charlie. "Don blew the whole thing out of proportion – he was the one who started the argument, and wouldn't let Charlie walk away from it. You, too – both of you – you're making that entire pill issue into way more than it needs to be. You make Charlie sound like some kind of pathetic addict."

Charlie winced. He felt a strange sensation inside; as if he were sinking into a hole.

Alan rarely argued with Amita – in fact, they usually got along so well, there had never been much cause, and even in those small discussions, he would always defer to her, ever the gentleman. Now, though, he paused, and looked at Charlie pointedly, then back at her. "Really? Not an issue? Have you really looked at him this week? He's dropped at least five pounds, he's pale, his skin always looks clammy, and his hands shake. I think Don was perfectly justified in calling him on it." He nodded, with exaggerated politeness, and stepped away.

Charlie wasn't sure what made him feel worse – his father practically calling him addict, speaking about him instead of to him, like a child – or Amita's silent stare, and the look of doubt in her eyes.

…..

Mark Vincent sat staring at the computer screen, oblivious to the cursor jumping across it. He was straining his ears, craning to hear as Audrey spoke into a prepaid cell phone just outside the door to the library, his room.

"Listen to me," she said tersely. "Think about it. What does Tuttle offer you that makes him deserve loyalty? Think about how much you know. How long will it be before he thinks of you as a liability? You know he's gotten rid of his own people before – he has no loyalty, himself. For all you know, he could be plotting to get rid of you now. You could make a pre-emptive strike. We could be rich – far richer than you could ever hope to be from working for him, and you would never have to look over your shoulder again."

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost the undertone of urgency, and Mark could hear a purr in it. He could almost see the self-satisfied look on her face. "Very well. This is it. There are still two accounts that were set up under my brother's name in banks in the Caymans that the feds didn't find. I had just requested them prior to their takedown of Illusion, Corp., and it takes three weeks to activate the accounts, so when the feds went looking for Mark's listings, they didn't exist yet. They were put in place after the feds finished their search. They're still there, and the feds don't know about them – they think they found them all, and the information has already been compiled for the case against my hus- Jim – so they won't go looking for them now. You need to siphon off money from Tuttle's holdings into those two accounts – equal amounts. I have power of attorney, and will transfer money from them afterward to new separate accounts in our names instead of my brother's - one will become yours, the other mine."

Another pause, listening, and then she spoke again, sharply. "Tuttle's not going to find out, because he'll be in prison – for murder. We'll beat him at his own game. You will have one of Tuttle's men contract out some hit men, and you will have him tell the men that Tuttle wants them to take out Don and Charlie Eppes. After they do and the Eppes brothers are dead, one of us will send an anonymous tip to the feds, directing them to the hit men. When the feds pick them up, the hit men will implicate Tuttle. He'll go to prison for murder, and we'll walk away with his money. And we get rid of the Eppes brothers in the bargain."

She paused again. "I realize I've taken a risk in telling you this. I realize you could go to Tuttle. I feel confident, however, that you can see the value in my proposition, and oh, just one more thing. I've hired a man of my own. If anything happens to me, Tuttle won't be the only reason you're looking over your shoulder."

There was another pause, and her voice came, silky, syrupy with satisfaction. "Good, then we have an agreement."

There was the light click of a heel, and with a shock, Mark realized that the conversation was over and she was heading toward the door to the room. His mind scrabbling frantically for control, he managed to grab the cursor and shut down the web page he was surfing, bringing up a blank screen with an electronic pen function, with which he'd made some random squiggles. It looked like senseless scratching, which was just what he intended. There was no doubt in his mind now. He couldn't let Audrey know that he could think and interact with the outside world, or he would end up as dead as Don and Charlie Eppes.

Audrey clicked into the room with a smug smile, and made directly for the computer, pausing to smirk at the blank screen with its haphazard marks. "Very good, Markie," she cooed condescendingly. "Pretty soon you'll be up to Tic Tac Toe."

Mark watched over her shoulder as she brought up the file named "Recipes," and as she settled in to view the file contents, he stared at the back of her head. He thought back to their days in high school, of her in her cheerleading outfit, a bright, wholesome girl with a sunny smile. He wondered what had happened to that girl, what had changed her along the way to someone he no longer knew – someone who was sinking into darkness, who swore, who abused drugs and alcohol, who stole. Someone who was about to commit murder.

…..

End, Chapter 11