Disclaimer: see chapter 1

21. Openness and Secrecy

Things were happening at a breakneck speed now. True, they were still hoping that their cover wasn't blown yet, but with the professor back in California, that could change with any second passing. Thus it was clear that they had to go into hiding for a while. Luckily they could work on their project from almost any random place in the world.

The very same day they learned about the professor's new whereabouts, they left the headquarters that had been serving them as a base for almost a year, and the group dissolved. It was better not to be seen together for a while. They knew how to reach one another without blowing up dust, and as soon as one of them would find a solution to their problem, they would gather again someplace else, that was certain. And it was just as certain that none of them would give any information about their project to anybody on the outside; there was too much at risk for each of them.

That raised the question of how things could ever have come so far. They had seen to it that the doctor was being watched at the clinic, precisely in order to avoid the kind of development they were facing now, so what had gone wrong? They had kept themselves informed about his state of health, and his condition had never changed a lot, or in any case never improved. The doctor had remained a nervous wreck and had been so depressive that considering him to continue his job had been out of the question for the foreseeable future.

At least that was what their source had told them. But as it seemed now, their source had been feeding them insufficient, if not wrong information. It was hard to believe, but it seemed to be their best bet right now. They were only lucky that they hadn't fully relied on the nurse, but had left an ace up their sleeve. At least, regularly checking the GPS signal had warned them – hopefully in time –, but they all would have preferred it to be a futile safety measure.

If you think about it, Rosenthal mused, we really got off with a slap on the wrist. The damage seemed reparable. Granted, they first had to find out what was going on at the west coast. Luckily, they had an ally on site who was already taking measures. The situation was tricky, though. The professor's brother was an FBI agent – maybe they were already investigating? But surely they would have heard if that was the case, so maybe there was still time to nip things in the bud. One thing was certain: the professor had to disappear, and depending on what their enemy already knew, they would decide on the how.

In the meantime, they just had to step back and pull the strings from behind the scenes. No matter how things worked out with the professor, there would probably still be a medium-sized scandal, even though the public would probably never learn about what was going on, at least not from official authorities. But someday, as soon as the political situation had changed just slightly, only some changes in the right positions, nobody would care for their past. If their plan worked the way they intended, they could look into the future not merely carefree, but full of expectation.

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Charlie had retreated to the bathroom again and was staring at his reflection. It was early afternoon now and thus it was time for his appointment with Dr. Bradford. Compared to his feelings the previous evening, Charlie's pleasant anticipation had receded vastly. Granted, the mere thought of another session didn't bear anything alarming, on the contrary, but having another session also meant that he had to tell Don that he would rather go there alone.

"Charlie, you coming? We should get going now if we don't wanna be late."

He could hear Don's steps receding downstairs, sighed deeply, sprinkled some water in his pale face and unlocked the door.

"I'd like to go to Dr. Bradford alone today," he informed the two of them when he'd arrived downstairs.

Alan first looked at him, then at Don, and Charlie was relieved. His father apparently didn't consider the sessions his immediate responsibility, and thus at least wasn't opposed to Charlie's request.

Much in contrast to Don. "Alone?" He seemed hurt and completely unable to understand. "Why?"

"Well, Don can at least drive you there, right?" Alan postponed the conversation with a look at the clock. He too wasn't feeling all that comfortable with Charlie's idea, but he was once again reminded of Dr. Andrews' words: time and space. Those were the things Charlie needed most right now, and Alan would do anything to help his son get on his feet and into their lives again. Even if they had to act against common sense for that.

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They had hardly left the house when Charlie realized that he'd approached the subject too soon. This way, Don had the whole ride to the doctor's office at his disposal to bug him about the reasons for his decision.

"Why don't you want me there with you anymore, Charlie?" He hesitated, but Charlie's hope that he would let it go didn't last long. "Don't you trust me anymore?"

"Of course I do," came the quiet reply.

Don was so surprised, albeit delighted by the answer that he almost lost control over his SUV. He managed both to get his head back together and to swallow down a "Really?" before he continued his interrogation. "So why not?"

"Just because. Can we please talk about something else now?"

"I just want to understand you, Charlie. Can't you just tell me why my being there would suddenly bother you?" Again he hesitated, then continued in a lower voice (even though there was nobody there to overhear them), "Are you… did you do something illegal?"

Charlie was silent. He hadn't even considered that. Had he done something illegal? "No," he finally replied. "I don't think so."

"Then why? I mean, if you trust me" – and Don would sure as hell stay content with that statement and not question it ever –, "then why can't I stay during the session? I'm just saying, after what happened last time –"

"Didn't it occur to you that maybe this is because of what happened last time?" Charlie snapped. "Now can we please change the subject?" He turned his head and stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. He was sorry to have reacted in such an irritated manner, but talking about the upcoming session and about how he felt about Don… well, it wasn't all that easy. Maybe the snapping would at least make his brother leave him alone now.

Indeed, Don was rendered silent for some minutes. When he started talking again, he broadly avoided the upcoming session. However, neither of them could miss the fact of how incredibly stiff their conversation was compared to their animated discussion of the previous evening.

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Bradford was surprised, yet pleased when Don remained waiting outside. Charlie seemed to have made that decision on his own, and that not only meant that he was slowly regaining a real identity, but also that they would finally be able to have a real, productive session without Charlie being rendered nervous and secretive by his brother's presence.

"Is there anything specific you'd like to discuss today?" Bradford started.

"No, not really," Charlie replied, though he couldn't look into the therapist's eyes when he said it. Bradford seemed to realize that Charlie was once again not being completely honest, and remained silent.

Eventually, Charlie pulled himself together. He knew that he could only make progress if he gave his doctor the means and opportunity to help him. "There's a… an image, if you can call it that, which… I think it may be causing the nightmares. For the most part."

"Okay. Describe it to me."

"I can't."

"Come on, Charlie. We both know that you can."

Charlie swallowed. "It's Don," he began, wondering how he could ever manage to describe the image with all its horrors, with all the feelings associated with it, with all the tremors it sent down his spine. "He… he's dead."

Charlie was silent for so long that Bradford felt compelled to ask further questions. "How do you know he's dead?"

"He… he's bleeding. He was shot. He's wearing his FBI jacket and you can see the blood on it. And he's lying on the ground and not moving anymore." Charlie noticed his breathing increase again. He just couldn't take it, it couldn't be true, Don was alive, he was dead…

"It's okay, Charlie, just calm down. I'm sure there is a completely logical explanation for why you keep seeing that image. And as you said before, it's just an image from your nightmares which –"

"No!" Charlie contradicted with some force. "It wasn't a nightmare, it was real! I actually saw it, in real life!"

Bradford frowned. "Charlie… are you sure of that?"

"Yes! I mean… I don't know…" Given that he still didn't know whether he'd lost his mind, how could he be sure whether or not he was hallucinating?

"Alright, let's start at the beginning: when did you see that image for the first time?"

"I only saw it once, in reality I mean. When I was kept captive. The other times I only dreamed of it. Then I forgot about it, that is… I still knew that there was something there, but I didn't know what it was. Then, when Don and my Dad came to the clinic, the image was suddenly there again, but then it was gone, and somehow I couldn't even make a connection between the image and Don."

"So since you've been staying at the clinic, you've been dreaming of an event that you witnessed while you were held captive, am I stating this correctly?"

"Yeah – no… that is, maybe I've been dreaming of it even before the clinic, I don't know. But I'm certain I've been dreaming of it since then. Sometimes, the image was slightly different and sometimes it changed during the dream, but that one time, I actually saw it." And I'm never going to forget about it, he silently added and had to swallow again.

"But you remember having been kept captive?"

"Yeah. But I don't know where, or by whom."

Considering Charlie's careful choice of words, Bradford would have liked asking whether his patient could remember the why, but he didn't want to stray too far from the topic. "And how did it come about that you saw Don?"

Charlie thought for a minute. He had even closed his eyes, although that didn't make him look more peaceful, rather on the contrary. "They showed him to me," he finally said. His voice had become much quieter, it was almost a whisper now, and it was trembling slightly. "They led me out of my cell so I could see him. He wasn't moving and there was the blood on his jacket… Then they started… kicking him and then… then they shot him, again. In the head. They wanted to show me beyond a doubt that he was dead." He swallowed again, and his next words were so low they were hardly audible. "They were trying to break me."

And it worked, Bradford noted to himself, but thought it wiser not to verbalize his thoughts towards his patient. Instead, he tried to resolve the image. "How do you know that the body is Don?"

"I recognized him," Charlie said, slightly surprised. That was a weird question to ask. It was obvious it had been Don, it had been clear all along, in fact it seemed to be the only thing that was clear. He'd seen him himself, after all, plus… "They told me it was Don."

Now things might get interesting, Bradford thought. "You are mixing two distinct propositions, Charlie. Did you recognize Don by yourself or did someone tell you it was him? What distance was there between you and the corpse?"

"About… twenty yards, I guess."

"And you recognized him from that distance?" Bradford couldn't help himself, he was reminded of the interrogations of his time as a cop. Just that this time, he was hoping his questions would help his collocutor.

"Yeah well, he's my brother, after all…"

"Did you see his face?"

"No, of course not, he was lying with his back towards me. But the hair and the stature were the same. Besides, he was wearing his FBI clothing."

"Only the clothing? Without the bulletproof vest?"

"No! If he had worn that, he wouldn't…" Charlie had to swallow. "They couldn't have…" He fell silent. He couldn't go on.

For Bradford, the case was clear now. There was only one thing he had to make sure, "You're saying you actually saw that scenario, Charlie? You're sure it wasn't just a nightmare?"

"No! I already told you! The nightmares only came after… after that image." Charlie felt betrayed. He should have known that Bradford wouldn't believe him, he'd just been hoping –

"Alright then, Charlie, I think I know how we can explain the matter. For I think we can agree on the fact that Don isn't dead, but sitting out there in the waiting area."

"But I'm telling you, it wasn't just a nightmare!"

"I'm not arguing about that. But considering in how frail a state your mind must have been at that time, I don't find it hard to believe that you fell victim to an illusion."

"An illusion?" Charlie remained mistrustful; he wasn't sure whether he really wanted to hear the doctor's explanation. An illusion – did Bradford mean a hallucination? Was he crazy after all?

"As you stated yourself, your opponents were trying to weaken you mentally and emotionally. I can't tell you why they chose Don for their plans or how they gathered the necessary knowledge and utensils, but if you ask me, it's beyond a doubt that they put those FBI clothes onto another corpse and made you think it was your brother in order to demoralize you. And I think that Don's presence in my office is rather conclusive evidence for my theory."

Charlie just stared at the therapist, hearing the words, yet not sure whether he was understanding him right, whether his mind was working correctly. It was that easy? Don… he was alive, he'd never been dead? It had just been another corpse?

"But it was Don…" Charlie's protest was weak, but it was there.

"That's what your opponents impressed upon you, Charlie. Given the circumstances, you were bound to believe them, and thus it became an irrefutable truth in your mind. Nonetheless, this 'truth' is false, Charlie. I'll gladly repeat it for you: the dead body you saw was not Don."

Charlie was still having a hard time to fathom that. "But then… then it wasn't my fault?"

"Well, your brother's death certainly wasn't."

"Okay," Charlie said. He still seemed quite overwhelmed. "Okay, then. Um… thanks." He stood.

"You're welcome to stay for another bit, Charlie. We still have some minutes left."

"No." Charlie still seemed a bit confused. "No, I guess I'd rather be alone right now."

Bradford nodded. That was something he could understand and had to accept. Maybe Charlie was right. In his overwhelmed state, there wasn't much Bradford could do for him that Charlie couldn't do, maybe even better, on his own. He did have all the facts now, he just had to grow accustomed to them. And since he needed time to do that, Bradford also refrained from urging his patient to do what he couldn't without infringing doctor-patient confidentiality, namely tell his brother – or anyone in law enforcement – about the dead body. For if there had really been one, a crime had been committed, and the authorities had to be notified. However, Bradford successfully convinced himself that waiting for another weekend didn't make much difference seeing that half a year had already elapsed since the event.

"Alright… in that case I'll see you again next week." Bradford hesitated. Considering the circumstances, he would have liked to postpone today's Friday to a later date. "I would have liked to have another one or two sessions with you during the weekend, but unfortunately, I'll be out of town… I could refer you to one of my colleagues, though."

"No, thanks. I guess it may be a good idea for me to just think about it all on my own for a while."

Whether that reasoning could also be applied to an entire weekend, Bradford wasn't so sure of, but in the end, it was his patient's decision. "Alright, Charlie. Take care until then. Remember you can call me anytime if there's an emergency."

Charlie nodded and left the treatment room. Dr. Bradford's concerned eyes were glued to his back.

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Juan Juarez waited until the old man left the house as well and drove off in his car. True, there was still a car parked in front of the house, a blue Prius, but from his employers, Juan had learned that with all probability, there were currently living only three people in this house, and the other two, the younger men, had left the house roughly an hour ago. Why did three people of the same family need three cars? L.A. would never seize to amaze him.

Juan didn't know much about them, but he had all the facts that were necessary to perform his task. The older man had to be the father, the other two his sons. The younger one of them was the one his friends, his employers, were interested in. It was him that they wanted to spy upon. Why – that was something Juan didn't know. And he didn't care.

The pieces of information they had given him were too scarce to determine where the three men had gone and when they would return. They could have gone to work just as easily as to buy groceries, yes, they might even have gone on a weekend trip, after all, it was Friday.

He sighed. It seemed as though he didn't have a choice, he had to take some risk. He made sure that there were no pedestrians or curious window-nazis to be seen before he slid out of his vehicle which he had parked within sight of the Eppes house, yet not too close, at the opposite side of the street.

His uniform was black and wore the logo of a company that didn't exist. It identified itself as a private parcel delivery enterprise and in Juan's mind, it was an ideal disguise.

He rang the bell. Nobody opened. He refrained from calling out – that might direct the neighbors' attention towards him – and rounded the house as if he was looking for someone. In reality, he was looking for the back door. It was not only easier to crack than the front door (even that one probably wouldn't have been a problem for him), it was also more secluded and shielded from possible glances of curious neighbors. Plus, he probably would have left marks if he had chosen the front door, even if it would have been only tiny scratches. Here, at the back door, he managed to avoid that.

The lock clicked and Juan quietly entered the house. He took a look around and his trained eyes immediately recognized the living room as the center of the house. Therefore, his first bug was put here, behind the clock on the wall. Another bug was pinned into the angle of a leg under the top of the dining room table. Another one disappeared in a hidden corner above a wall cupboard in the kitchen. Kitchens were always a popular place for conversations that shouldn't be overheard by other persons in the house. Well, this way he made sure that they could be overheard by persons outside the house.

Juan took a quick glance upstairs, but there were only single bedrooms here, no place where the probability of conversation was very high. What remained was the phone. Deftly and skillfully, Juan removed the casing and put a fourth bug directly next to the microphone of the receiver before he put the casing back in its place.

He glanced around one last time, scrutinizing. There was no indication he had been here, as though a ghost had entered. Satisfied, he left the house through the back door and was about to return to the street when he saw the car with the two brothers enter the driveway and pulled back quickly.

He pressed his thin body against the wall of the house and hardly dared to breathe. Around the corner, he could hear the two men get out and the car doors fall shut. Apparently they hadn't seen him.

"So can you tell me now what's going on? Why didn't you want me in there with you? I mean, you didn't seem to have a problem with it the last two times."

"Don…" That sounded a bit exasperated. "Look, I'm sorry, I know this must be hard on you and Dad, but… just give me a little time, okay? You can stop worrying about me, I'm confident that everything will go back to normal, I'm just… It's a bit much right now." He paused for the length of a heartbeat. "I'm going to the garage." Steps receded, then halted and the voice sounded again, "Please don't be angry with me. Okay?"

Juan thought the other one would never answer, but then he could barely hear a subdued, "'Course not", before the steps went away for good, away from him, thank G-d.

The other steps approached the front door. A key was turned in the lock, the door opened and fell shut again.

It was only then that Juan dared to take a real, deep breath again. He squatted down and carefully spied around the corner. No, nobody to be seen. The coast was clear.

And as unnoticed at he'd come, Juan disappeared from Pasadena.