Chapter 21

It was late afternoon, and Don sat in a waiting area near the psychiatric ward, Alan beside him. Alan was staring blankly out of the window, and Don regarded him for a moment, then bowed his head and rubbed his face. A short time ago, he had somehow remembered that he was supposed to be on a plane for Houston the next day, and had gone out to the SUV to retrieve his cell phone, which he had left in the vehicle in his haste that morning. He first called Merrick to explain what was happening. Merrick had told him to stay put, and that he would get on the phone with Dugan, to see if Don could delay his testimony.

He then scanned the messages on his phone, most of which were from Megan, and called her. It was somehow more difficult to explain the situation to her, and he wasn't sure that he was quite coherent, but she had seemed to grasp the main points, and agreed to pass on his message to Colby and David. He was thinking back over the conversation, his head bowed, when he suddenly heard her voice, and he looked up to see her approaching, followed by Colby and David.

Megan eyed Don with concern as she drew near. He looked exhausted, stretched thin, and his eyes reflected what had to be indescribable pain. "Don," she said, as he rose wearily. "How is he?"

He shook his head mutely, and then sat, as if his legs couldn't hold his weight. Megan crossed to Alan and put a hand on his shoulder, and he started, coming out of his grim reverie, and looked at her with surprise. "Hey, Alan," she said softly. She leaned over and gave him a hug, which he accepted wordlessly.

She stepped back, and Don finally found his voice. "You didn't need to come." He eyed Colby and David. "Especially you two. I know you need to get ready to leave." His eyes rested on Colby. "I'm sorry. I know you want to put that hearing behind you. Dugan's checking to see when I can-,"

Colby interrupted him gently. "It's okay. Merrick caught us before we left. Dugan thinks that they can get by with submitting your written report, considering the circumstances. Even if they can't, it's not a big deal. They'll just finish it up when you can get to it." He looked around. Megan and David had sat down in some chairs facing Don and Alan, and Colby dragged another one over to the group and joined them.

Megan sat silently for a moment; then looked at Don. "You weren't entirely clear on the phone. What exactly happened?"

Alan rose. "I think I'm going to take a walk," he said quietly.

Don looked at him, concerned, but his father nodded, a brief gesture of reassurance, before he turned. Don began speaking, still eyeing his father as he walked away. "The doctors are telling us that Charlie-," he turned back to face them, then swallowed and looked down, "- has suffered a psychotic break."

He paused, and they waited silently for him to continue. "Apparently some time Monday, Charlie stopped taking his medication – all of it. He was supposed to ramp down gradually, but for some reason, he decided not to. Dad said he was up all of last night with horrible nightmares – the doctors think now that that was the start of the – break. This morning he -," his voice shook, and he stopped and rubbed his face.

With an effort, he continued. "He lost it. He got violent, trashed his room, and while Dad was on the phone with me, he went downstairs and got a knife. He locked himself in my old room. By the time we got the door open, he was –," he paused, trying to find words. "He was mutilating himself."

He could see the shocked look on his agents' faces, and he continued; his voice reflecting the horror of the scene. "He thinks he's Mansour - he was trying to cut-," He felt tears start in his eyes, and suddenly overcome, he stopped, and bowed his head, covering his face with a shaking hand. Megan felt tears sting her own eyes, as she waited for him to collect himself.

After a moment, Don ran a hand over his face and cleared his throat. "We got him to the hospital – he had to go into surgery – he had lost a lot of blood. I guess his heart stopped on the table, but they got it started again. He's stable physically now, but in an intensive care unit in the psych ward. They have him – they have him restrained. They can't sedate him because it could aggravate the imbalance of chemicals."

There was silence for a moment; then David spoke, his brow furrowed. "How do they- ," he searched for a way to say it, "- fix this?"

Don sighed. "They put him back on the medicine. They're hopeful that since it seems to have been caused chemically, that they can reverse it chemically. In fact, they said most of the time, that's the case."

"Most of the time," repeated Colby, unconsciously echoing Don's reaction to that statement earlier.

Don took a deep shaky breath. "In a small percentage of cases, they can't."

They sat quietly for a moment, processing the disturbing information; then Megan asked, "How long does it take to reverse it?"

"Three to four days. They said we should begin to see improvement before then, maybe in a day or two." He stopped, thinking of Charlie writhing in his private hell. Even a day seemed too long. "Right now, we're waiting for a report from the doctors. They saw evidence of pneumonia in his chest X-ray this morning. They were going to run a comparison with the X-rays that were taken in Santa Barbara." His voice was toneless, deadened by too much shock.

"Have you seen him since he got out of surgery?" asked Megan.

Don paused, and she could see the horror in his eyes. "We went in for a minute. He was…screaming. It was pretty hard to take. The doctors don't recommend that we visit."

He bowed his head, and David and Colby exchanged a dismal glance. Megan's attention was captured by a doctor approaching. "Is that his doctor?"

Don turned and saw Dr. McIntire heading their way with a brisk step. He rose, looking around for Alan; then stepped forward to meet the doctor. They spoke briefly and Don returned, looking tired and defeated. "It's definitely pneumonia. They think it looks worse than it did on the first X-rays, and his fever's up. They're going to switch him to a stronger antibiotic."

He didn't tell them that he had learned that Charlie was still raving, still out of his mind. He didn't have the strength. He wasn't sure that he had the strength to tell Alan that his brother's condition was deteriorating.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don stirred and shifted on the waiting room sofa, and winced as his stiff muscles complained at the movement. It was still dark outside, but the incoming hospital staff indicated that it was morning. At around eleven the previous night, he had ferried his father home. Alan concerned him; his father was exhausted, subdued, and barely communicating, adrift in his own world. He hadn't lost the pasty gray look, and Don worried about the toll that the situation was taking on him. He knew that his father had been up all night the previous night, and tried several times to talk him into going home and getting some rest. Finally, late last night, Alan had conceded, and let Don drive him home.

When they got there, Alan had gone up immediately and collapsed on the bed, still dressed. Don gently worked off his shoes, and pulled the covers over him. He stood for a moment, his mind exhausted, spinning without traction, thinking of nothing, at least nothing comprehensible. After a moment, he became aware that he was just standing there, and forced himself to move. He stepped out of the room and paused in the hallway, his eyes straying to the door to his room, remembering the horror of the morning with a shudder. He stepped over to the room and pulled the door shut, quietly, then headed back downstairs, and out of the house, closing the door gently behind him. Someone should be at the hospital, he felt, in case. In case of what, was a question he refused to consider.

Now, apparently, it was morning. He looked again at the window and noticed that blackness outside was beginning to lighten. He pulled himself up slowly to a sitting position, rubbed his face, and stood, preparing to go in search of coffee. He would get his sluggish brain moving again, and then get an update on Charlie's condition.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan had awoken with a start, and then an overwhelming feeling of dread, at a few minutes before nine. His mind was flooded with the images of the day before, and he jumped out of bed, consumed with the need to find out how Charlie was doing. Glancing at the clock, he mentally cursed himself for sleeping so long. He called for Don, and when he got no answer, headed for the shower, haphazardly grabbing clean clothes on the way. He had thought that Don was going to stay at the house, and the fact that his son hadn't both concerned and irked him. Halfway to the shower, he stopped, as sense returned to his sleep-fogged mind, and headed back into his bedroom and picked up the phone, and dialed Don's cell phone.

Don had little news to offer. There had not been much change; none from a mental standpoint, and little from a physical standpoint, except for a slight increase in Charlie's fever. Alan sagged visibly at the news; he had been hoping for improvement in his son's mental state. He showered hurriedly and dressed, and headed for the hospital. He was filled with a new resolve, which strengthened with each minute. He wanted to see his son, and he was going in that room and speaking to him, no matter what it took.

He arrived at the nurse's station in the psychiatric ward to find Don and Bradford standing in the hallway. Bradford looked tired, and Don looked disheveled and exhausted, but a bit of the tension in his face disappeared when he saw Alan.

"Dad," he said, by way of greeting. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," said Alan, thinking to himself that how he felt was a non-issue. He looked at Bradford. "How is Charlie?"

Bradford looked at him, his face drawn with concern and fatigue. "Not much change, I'm afraid. I spoke to McIntire and to Michaels this morning. McIntire is concerned about the pneumonia. It doesn't seem to be responding to the antibiotic, and he said he's preparing to start a different one if he doesn't see improvement by noon. Michaels told me that there is no identifiable improvement in his mental status."

He paused, taking in the look of disappointment on Alan's face, of the fear in his eyes, and continued, with despair and regret in his own. "Mr. Eppes, I want you to know that I hold myself responsible for this -," Alan began to protest, but Bradford held up his hand, and spoke over his objections.

"I should have outlined for Charlie the risks of not following instructions concerning the medicine. I told him he needed to ramp down gradually, but I never told him why, what the consequences might be. After his impulsive trip to Los Padres, and his push to try to make himself heal faster, I should have considered that he might try to speed up the withdrawal. I also should have taken into account the fact that he has not been himself; he has not been thinking rationally. I'm sure he figured that stopping cold turkey might be uncomfortable, but he never realized that it could be so dangerous."

Alan looked at him, and felt sympathy stir amidst his own pain as he saw the tortured look on Bradford's face. "The bottom line," Alan said quietly, "was that Charlie didn't follow the instructions you gave him. You didn't mislead him."

His words did nothing to alleviate the pain in Bradford's eyes. "I know. I should have been more explicit, however. No matter how this turns out, I just don't want you to blame your son."

'No matter how this turns out.' The words echoed in Alan's mind. 'He doesn't think Charlie will pull out of this. He's trying to prepare us.' He could see from the anguished look on Don's face that he had come to the same conclusion. Alan fought down rising fear. Bradford was wrong. Charlie was going to make it, and Alan was going to do everything in his power to help.

He looked at Bradford, and spoke steadily. "I appreciate that. However, I blame no one; not you, and not Charlie. And now, if it can be arranged, I would like to see him."

He saw a look of concern flash over Don's face, but Bradford regarded him levelly, and then nodded. "Very well." He turned and stepped over to the nurse's station.

A few moments later, they stood outside the doorway with an intern in attendance. Don stepped closer to his father and murmured quietly. "Dad, are you sure you want to do this?"

Alan shot him a glance, calm and full of purpose. "It's not a question of what I want to do, Donnie. It's what I need to do. I realize that it may not help him, but if there is even a slight chance that it will, then I need to be with him." He nodded, and the intern opened the door.

Alan stepped into the room. He had tried to prepare himself, but the sight of his son still made his breath catch. Charlie's eyes were bright with fever, and he looked pale and exhausted, but he still writhed weakly against his bonds, crying out in a hoarse voice. Don took one look, and the sight hit him with the force of physical blow. He stepped backward, wordlessly, involuntarily, and the door shut in his face.

Alan stood still for a moment. Charlie was twisting his head from side to side, crying out; screaming the word 'no' with each rotation of his head. He suddenly stopped moving his head and addressed his screams to the ceiling, an agonized plea in his voice. "Make it stop! Please, make it stop!" The scream ended in a choked sob, and tears began streaming down his face as the sobs continued, deep wracking cries of agony that brought tears to Alan's own eyes.

He stepped forward, and clasped his son's hand, and Charlie gripped him convulsively, so hard that it hurt. "Charlie," he said gently, his voice breaking, his face contorted with pain.

Charlie didn't respond to his voice. Instead he continued to sob, his tortured eyes on the ceiling. "Make it stop," he pleaded again, and the words stabbed at Alan's heart. He would give anything in the world to make it stop, and the knowledge that he couldn't filled him with despair.

Don stood outside the doorway, his mind reeling. He felt he should be inside with his father, but he could not physically bring himself to move, to go inside. The sight of his brother was too painful. The door opened again as the intern stepped out, and Don caught an image that would remain with him for the rest of his life. His brother lay sobbing in his restraints, and Alan stood, his profile to Don, helplessly holding Charlie's hand, tears streaming down his grief-stricken face. The door closed again, and Don stood for a moment, the heartbreaking image seared into his brain. He turned mindlessly, automatically, and made his way blindly down the hall, headed nowhere, headed anywhere but there.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 21