Chapter 21

Lori Jeffers had shown up with her lawyer and an attitude. Megan and Colby were in the interrogation room with her, and Don watched from the observation room. Jeffers sat, her arms crossed stubbornly and her eyes suspicious, but Don could see a subtle difference in her from the last time she had been there. She seemed to be fraying at the edges slightly, a hint of fear in her manner.

"Things have changed since we talked to you last," Megan was saying. "Your brother was facing assault and kidnapping charges, and you were facing charges as an accomplice to that. The stakes are higher now. We are talking at minimum attempted murder." She knew she was stretching this a bit, but she could see the fear in Jeffers' face.

"Of whom?" demanded the lawyer snootily. He was a small thin man with a permanent sneer, greasy hair and a bad suit. Colby eyed him with distaste.

"Of Dr. Charles Eppes," replied Megan.

The lawyer sneered. He had been reading the case briefs, and he knew what had happened in Oregon. "Miss Jeffers' brother was not with the group when that occurred."

"Yeah, but he was part of the plan that facilitated the kidnapping," said Colby. "That makes him an accomplice, and that makes you an accomplice." He pointed at Jeffers.

"Dr. Eppes is in the hospital now fighting for his life from an infection that he sustained from a knife wound to the shoulder. Your brother was present when that occurred," Megan went on. She was uncomfortable with what she had to say, knowing that Don was watching. "If he should lose that fight, your brother will be part of the group that will be held responsible for his death." She glanced briefly at the window. At least Don knows this is a stretch, she thought. Charlie is improving.

"That makes you responsible for aiding and abetting," said Colby. "The charges are adding up here." He leaned forward, playing good cop, and spoke softly. "We know you didn't know what you were getting into when you agreed to help him out. I'm sure this is all more than you expected." He was rewarded with a sniff and a slight nod from Jeffers, and went on. "We just need you to tell us where he is. We can tell the DA that you cooperated with the investigation – that will be worth some points. It's not your fault that your brother did what he did – it's his."

Megan jumped in. "He probably doesn't even appreciate what you're doing, does he?" she said sympathetically. Jeffers' face crumpled and she shook her head, hiding her face in her hand.

Her lawyer eyed his client sourly; then turned to Megan. "We would like to talk privately for a moment." Megan nodded, and she and Colby stepped out, just as Don came out of the observation room, and they congregated outside the door.

"She's close," she said, eyeing Don. His face was impassive, but his eyes were hard.

"If that sleaze bucket wasn't in there with her, she would have caved for sure," said Colby. "Maybe she still will." They turned as the door opened, and Jeffers came out wiping her nose, followed by her lawyer. Megan and Colby stepped aside, but Don stayed put, blocking the aisle.

"My client is going to take some time to consider," said Jeffers' lawyer haughtily. Jeffers looked up at Don uncertainly, waiting for him to move. She took one look at his face, and stood transfixed, paling.

Don held her eyes, his own black. He spoke softly, with repressed fury. "It would be best if you didn't take too long."

The lawyer had turned pale too, but spoke sharply. "Are you threatening my client?"

Don kept his eyes on her face. "Just stating a fact," he said quietly.

Megan glanced behind Don. Merrick had come up behind him and was observing the interaction with a frown. "Don," she said softly. Don stood for a moment longer, his eyes boring into Jeffers'; then stepped aside. The lawyer ushered her out with an affronted look.

Merrick spoke from behind. "Agent Eppes, can I talk to you for a moment?" He walked into the conference room. Don walked in behind him, his face a mask.

Merrick examined Don silently for a moment. "Have you gone for your psychiatric exam?"

"Not yet," replied Don evenly.

"You should not be interacting with suspects, then," said Merrick. "You know that."

"It was a chance encounter. I wasn't in the interrogation room."

"I don't need my agents making veiled threats; I don't care what the circumstances are. I want you to get that evaluation done today, or I'm pulling you off this case." Merrick headed for the door, and paused. "Is that understood?"

Don turned, expressionless, eyes hooded. "Understood." Merrick held his gaze for a moment, then turned and headed out through the bullpen.

Megan and Colby had returned to their desks, and Megan watched Don sit down at his own, face still void of emotion, not meeting their gaze. She looked at Colby and he shrugged, his eyebrows raised. She looked back at Don, who had picked up the phone. 'Good, he's calling for his evaluation,' she thought with relief, as she heard him speak. Her attention was diverted back to Colby, who had picked up his own phone.

"Yeah, okay," he was saying. Don hung up his phone and listened. "How are you getting him down here? Okay. Nice work."

Colby hung up and turned excitedly. "That was the border guard. They caught one of them trying to cross into Canada. They'll have him down here by tonight." He grinned at Don.

'Yes! Finally a break,' thought Megan. She turned back to Don with a grin of her own, which faltered when she saw his face, and saw the complete lack of expression.

"Good," was all he said, his face unreadable as he turned back to the papers on his desk. He stared at them, unseeing. The black anger still roiled in his gut, constantly threatening to spill over. He could not let a hint of it show if he was going to get through his evaluation. He needed to keep control, to fight it down. He took a deep breath, and tried to focus.

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Charlie felt panic rising. He couldn't breathe; the noose was around his neck again; he had thought it was gone; why was it back? He began to struggle as his need for air grew, his eyes flew open - suddenly the noose evaporated, and he was in the hospital room again, gasping for air. His insides twisted in fear as he realized that he had done it yet again – had drifted off, only to encounter a recurring nightmare. 'I'm losing it,' he thought, panicked. 'Why won't this go away?'

He took a deep breath, shaking. This was forty-one, he thought with fear. Forty-one times in – how long? There was no clock in the room – he had no way of telling how long he was out each time. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes against a rising tide of dread. The events of the last week lurked in the back of his mind, constantly threatening to spill into his conscious thought and overwhelm him, and he pushed them back hard. Can't think about it, I need to stay in control. The memory of his panic attack was still fresh, the raw horror simmering under the surface. He couldn't go through a repeat of that, not now. He had a horrible suspicion that he might not come out of it if it happened again.

He heard a soft sound next to him, and his eyes flew open to find his father standing by the bedside. "Dad."

"Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry," said his father. "I thought you were sleeping." He looked tired, disappointed.

"No, I'm – I'm having kind of a hard time with that," Charlie said softly. Tears threatened, and he closed his eyes. Can't do that – no emotions – I'll lose it completely. His face contorted with the effort to stay calm, then relaxed into a blank mask, and he opened his eyes. He looked past Alan at the doorway. "Where's Don? Still at work?"

"Yes," said Alan reluctantly. He saw a look of something – sadness, defeat – flash through his youngest son's eyes before they closed again.

Charlie fought back against the feeling of disappointment. Don had left in the middle of his panic attack. I freaked him out, Charlie thought bitterly. I couldn't handle myself, and he's ashamed of me. He swallowed hard. "What time is it?"

"Time for a talk," said Dr. Michaels from the doorway, before Alan could respond. "No, stay," he said, as Alan rose.

Michaels pulled up a chair, and Charlie groaned inwardly. The man's probing questions earlier had threatened to undo him. It was all he could do to fend them off, and he wasn't sure he had the strength to go through it again. "I'm really tired right now. Can we do this later?"

"That's exactly what I want to talk about," said Dr. Michaels. "You may be tired, but there isn't much you can do about it, is there?"

Charlie's jaw worked, and he looked away.

"I want to teach you a couple of techniques to help you fall asleep. It's basically a form of self-hypnosis." Charlie rolled his eyes impatiently, refusing to look at Michaels.

"Come on now, Dr. Eppes. Surely your Cognitive Emergence theories take into account the workings of the mind in the subconscious state." Charlie glanced at him suspiciously, but Michaels had his attention.

"Don't tell me you don't believe in hypnosis. If it makes you feel any better, call it subconscious suggestion." Without waiting for a response, Dr. Michaels launched into a description of the process, which included counting, breathing, and visualization techniques. It was deceptively simple, and Charlie's skepticism increased as he listened.

"You have an hour and a half before your surgery," continued Michaels. "I'm giving you an assignment – I want you to try this while you wait. Don't be surprised if it doesn't work right off the bat – it takes practice to get into the right frame of mind." He paused and waited expectantly. Charlie scowled at his blanket.

"It won't hurt to try it, son," said Alan softly. He looked at Charlie hopefully, and Charlie sighed.

"All right, I'll try it," he agreed reluctantly.

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Dr. Brighton made a pretense of examining his notes, casting a sideways glance at the agent he had just evaluated. He had heard of Agent Eppes and was aware of his reputation, but had not met him before the exam. Eppes' description of the events and responses to his questions were in line with what he had heard from the other agents, and he exhibited icy self control throughout the exam. Still Dr. Brighton was uneasy. The man's brother was involved, after all, and there was something about his behavior that struck him as rehearsed. He couldn't put his finger on anything definite, however; and he certainly couldn't fault the man for lack of control, or for inappropriate responses. Sighing, he finished his overall comments, and signed the release. "Okay, Agent Eppes, you're cleared. I'll file the report – you're good to go."

Don stepped out into the hallway, his heart pounding, and sighed with relief. He had just given the performance of his life. His self control had been stretched to the limit during the discussion. He felt a little guilty, a bit deceptive, but he pushed it aside. The ends justified the means, he reasoned. There was no way he was going to be kept off this case.

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Alan sat in the waiting area, his head in his hands. The events of the past few days were catching up with him, and he was exhausted, tired of waiting, tired of seeing his son in pain, tired of worrying about the mental state of both of his boys. He had come in to see Charlie before his surgery, only to find him on the verge of despair. He apparently had no luck with the self-hypnosis techniques, and although Dr. Michaels encouraged him, the experience had obviously undermined his self-confidence even further. Charlie was pale and withdrawn, and when the time came to administer the sedative, he panicked at the thought of going under, and they had to restrain him while they put him out. The sight of them holding him, the terror in his eyes, and his pleas for them stop had been more than Alan could bear, and he stumbled to the waiting area in a fog of grief. Adding to all of it, he hadn't heard from Don all day, and worry for his eldest percolated under the rest of the emotions.

His eyes were closed, so he didn't realize the subject of his thoughts was standing there until he spoke.

"How is he?" Don asked quietly.

Alan's head jerked up, and he tried to compose himself. "He's in surgery. Where were you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice.

"Just had my psych evaluation."

"Oh," said Alan, feeling a little guilty. "How did it go?"

"Okay. I got released." Don's voice was noncommittal, and he looked at his shoes. He glanced back up at his father. "Did he calm down after I left?"

Alan sighed. "Yeah, but he's struggling. Physically he seems better, but emotionally-," he paused, searching for words. "He spent some time with Dr. Michaels, but so far it's not helping him a lot. The doctor tried to give him some relaxation techniques to try to teach him how to put himself to sleep, but I don't think they're working very well. The doctor said to give it time, to keep trying, but it's going to take him a while." He stopped and looked at Don. "I think it will do him good to see you. They should be done pretty soon." His son nodded, and silence fell. Alan looked at him with concern. He looks so detached. And this conversation seems so difficult. What is happening to him?

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Me? Yeah, sure," said Don. His voice was casual, but he avoided Alan's eyes. They both looked up with relief as Dr. Welsh approached.

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Don had to steel himself to enter Charlie's room. At work, he could push out the visions of his battered brother, he could bury the memory of the pain and terror in his eyes; he could stifle the worry. When confronted with it face to face, it was almost unbearable. His brother did look better physically, but he had withdrawn into a quiet, almost non-communicative shell. The only clue to what was inside were his eyes: dark, quiet, filled with pain. It reminded him uncomfortably of how Charlie had reacted when their mother died; how he had retreated into a world of his own. Don could feel pain and rage rising in him again, and when Amita and Larry had shown up, anxious to finally get to see Charlie, he grabbed the excuse and beat a hasty retreat, hating himself for leaving so quickly, hating the wounded look he saw in his brother's eyes as he left, and hating, raging against the man that had put them in this situation.

When he looked back on it later, he realized he should have known better than to go back into the office at that point. In his current state of mind, the case was like a flame to a moth; the desire to find Tatum consumed him.

He returned to find his group preparing for interrogation of the man they had captured at the border. His name was William Sykes, and he was known as Willy. He had shaved off his mustache, but group recognized him immediately as the one captor without a beard. Sykes already sat in the interrogation room, and mere sight of him incited fury in Don. With a huge effort he controlled himself, and listened as his team briefed him on the details of Sykes' capture.

He assigned himself and David to the interrogation, ignoring Megan's uneasy glance. Unaware that Merrick was on his way down, he and David walked into the room and began reading Sykes his rights. Merrick, Megan and Colby slipped into the observation room together. David was sitting across from Sykes, and Don stood against the wall, arms crossed.

"We need some information," David began. "If you cooperate, you can help yourself out. We want to know where the rest of your group is."

Sykes sneered. "Sure, I can cooperate. I don't know." Don scowled, fighting his fury at the man's tone.

"You were all headed across the border. We know Tatum has a place up there. We also know that you were still together when you hit the OK Truck Stop in Washington. What happened at the truck stop?"

Sykes sat back, insolently. "Tatum and one of the guys got in a little argument."

"Did Tatum shoot him?"

"You'll have to ask him that. I was getting gas. When I went back to pick them up, he was already dead. The rest of us took off."

Don spoke up, coldly. "You just left him there."

"Look, you think I was going to argue? I didn't want shot. I did as I was told."

Don leaned over the table, eyes boring into Sykes. "So where are the rest of them?"

Sykes snorted derisively. "Hell if I know. We split up the next day. Tatum up and left us in some little dump of a town. We had to hitchhike to the border."

"What was he driving?"

"Silver Tahoe."

"Plates?"

"Don't remember," said Sykes derisively.

Don's jaw twitched. "How'd you get the vehicle?"

"Don't remember," sneered Sykes.

His face black, Don reached forward and grabbed him by the shirt. "You'd better think hard, asshole."

"I'm done talkin'," Sykes snapped, trying to pull out of Don's grip. "I want a lawyer."

Don's face was a picture of rage. David, concerned, stood up and pushed him back gently. "Don, back off." Don relinquished his grip slowly, breathing heavily, his eyes still on Sykes' face.

David pulled on Don's arm gently, and he turned, shoulders sagging. They made it as far as the door, when Sykes, sensing victory, gave a parting shot, "How's your little puke of a brother, fed?"

Later, Don would try to recall what happened without success. When the mist of rage cleared, Sykes was on the floor, bleeding, and Colby and David had his arms, wrestling him out of the room. Merrick was shouting, and he heard the words "off the case" and "on leave, effective now!" Stumbling to his desk, he lay down his gun, threw down his badge, and fled the room, rage and pain still scrambling his thoughts. He heard voices behind him; they were still behind him when he reached the parking lot, but he had a jump on them, and the advantage of speed generated by adrenaline. By the time they reached him, he was in his SUV, flying out of the parking lot, tires screeching, into the LA dusk.

-----------------------------End Chapter 21------------------------------------------