Title: High Society

Chapter 36: I Know What You Are

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie awoke to bright lights and masked faces peering down at him. He was lying on his back on the emergency room examining table, but he was struggling to maintain consciousness, and the faces and voices alternately blurred and sharpened, coming into focus with sudden bursts of partial clarity. It was during one of those episodes that he felt the hands on his body, probing, touching… God, he couldn't take anymore. He thrashed weakly, attempting to get away, pushing feebly at hands that came down to restrain him. "Please, stop…"

He heard voices, snatches of conversation floating through the fog of his half-consciousness. "…can't get him to relax…Calm down, sir!... he could have some fractures, here…ow! – damn, gonna need to sedate him…"

He could see the flash of the needle in the bright lamps, and a fragment of his brain remembered, remembered he needed to avoid the syringes…"No," he moaned, as strong but gentle arms pinned him down, and he felt the prick of the needle. "Nooo…"

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Don strode across the parking lot of the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, flanked by Colby. The entire medical facility had been rebuilt, and had just re-opened in mid-2008, but its impressive modern brick and glass structure went entirely unnoticed by him, with the exception of the doorway. The doorway would get him inside, and get him to Charlie.

He was now through the doors, and as he made his way through the entranceway of the emergency room, the waiting area came into the view – and along with it his father, Larry, Amita, and Robin, who all turned their heads as he and Colby approached. His steps slowed and faltered. How in God's name was he going to tell them what they'd found – what had been done to Charlie? And what on earth would he tell them - did he really even know the extent of it? He suddenly wished he were somewhere else – anywhere else but here.

"Donny – thank goodness!" exclaimed Alan, relief flooding his face. "I was worried when I didn't hear from you – I thought – oh, I don't know what I thought, I'm just glad you're here."

"Yeah, sorry I didn't call," murmured Don. "Things were a little crazy." His eyes traveled over the faces in front of him, searching for clues. "Did you hear anything?"

Alan shook his head, his eyes locked on Don's face. "No – he's here, that's all we know. They informed us when he arrived and said they were taking him to an exam room. They said they'd give us an update as soon as they could." His eyes were relentless, like search beams, and Don shifted his gaze to Robin, as Alan continued anxiously, "He was okay, then, when you found him? Was he hurt badly?"

Don looked back at him reluctantly. He could feel the weight of all their eyes now, and he murmured evasively, "I don't know, Dad, he was pretty beat up."

He could see their faces fall as he turned away, and his eyes met Colby's gaze. He looked as uncomfortable as Don was, and he shuffled his feet aimlessly for a moment; then headed off to some chairs against the wall.

Don felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Robin next to him. She slid her arm through his in a gesture of comfort. "You look upset," she said softly. "You can relax now – he's here. You found him alive – you should be grateful for that." She studied him for a moment, frowning, and lowered her voice. "How bad is he?"

Don shot a glance over his shoulder. His father, Larry, and Amita had all moved toward the group of seats they had been occupying, more than likely to give him and Robin some privacy and he had the opportunity to reply, to say what was on his mind. Somehow, though, he couldn't. 'You could be wrong,' a part of his mind kept saying, 'there might not have been a sexual assault – you don't know that for sure. You just assumed…you're wrong; you've got to be wrong. He was beaten up, that's all…'

"I don't know," he murmured back. "When we found him, he was on the floor, nude, his wrists in restraints. He'd been beaten up -," his voice shook, and he stopped for a moment and ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. "I don't think they were feeding him – or not much anyway. He looked thin, bruised – he was pretty out of it. He said my name, though – he knew who I was."

She was staring at him, her eyes dark with concern. "You said he was in restraints, and nude? Don, he might have been -,"

"You don't know that," he interrupted, roughly, his eyes flashing, pulling his arm from hers.

She shot a quick look behind her, and spoke again, urgently, but kept her voice down. "Don, you know as well as I do the sick crowd we're dealing with, here. He needs to be examined -,"

Don had half turned from her, and he whipped his head back around. "He's being examined."

"You know what I mean," she shot back. Alan was looking their way, quizzically, and she stepped closer to Don, and rested a hand on his shoulder to calm him, to short-circuit the argument that had almost started. "Anyway, they'll check – it's standard procedure with an assault victim." She shook her head, gently, concerned and bemused by his reaction. "You need to take a deep breath," she said. "You did everything you could, and you brought him back. It's not like this was your fault."

He'd turned his head away, so she missed the wince that came with her last words.

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It was the longest hour that Alan could remember. He tried to sit quietly, but he fidgeted, and he found that his eyes kept straying to Don and his agents, or to Amita and Larry. There were odd undercurrents in the room that he couldn't put his finger on – as if all of them knew something he didn't. That was nonsense, he told himself, but he felt it, just the same. When the doctor finally appeared in the entrance, he was out of his chair before his feet had a chance to be planted on the floor, and when they were, they propelled him immediately to the man's side. Around him clustered the rest of the group.

The doctor's eyes roved over them as he spoke. "I'm Dr. Keller," he said. "I have a report on Charles Eppes. We've finished the exam, and moved him to a room. He is resting, and he's stable. I have more, but I can only give the details to family members. Are there any of them here?"

Don spoke, his voice brittle with tension. "I'm his brother."

"And I'm his father," said Alan. He sent a glance toward Amita. "Amita is his fiancée," he told the doctor. He opened his mouth to continue, to propose that she be included, but Larry interjected, suddenly, with a pleasant expression, but an odd glint in his eyes.

"Actually, I don't believe you've even set a date yet, have you dear?" he said, with a tight smile. "Not exactly family."

The rest of them gaped at him, but Amita flushed to the roots of her hair. "It's all right," she said, stammering, "I'll wait out here." She brushed at an imaginary lock of hair with a flustered hand, trying to hide suddenly bright eyes, and turned away.

Alan looked at Don as if for an explanation, but Don looked as dumbfounded as he was. Alan realized suddenly that Don hadn't even taken note that Larry had arrived in town; the events must have rattled him to such a degree that he wasn't thinking straight. The doctor had turned and was heading for the door that separated the waiting room from the exam rooms, and so Alan followed, with one last bewildered look at Larry, who was settling into a chair, with one hand nervously plastered to his chin.

Alan thought later that had he not been so distracted by Larry's odd behavior, he would have noticed some of the non-verbal clues as he took a seat in the small private office. Don's tension, the doctor's sympathetic expression, the fact that they were, undeniably, in a private office. Or perhaps he wouldn't have – it wasn't news a man expected to hear about his son.

Dr. Keller cleared his throat, and consulted his notes. "We were given to understand that Dr. Eppes was held captive for several days, nearly a week. He is dehydrated, and malnourished. He was also obviously beaten; in fact some of his cuts and bruises are indicative of torture." Alan made a faint sound of dismay; and the doctor's eyes darted to the safety of his notes, and again he cleared his throat.

"He has two broken ribs, and a broken finger. Although most of his injuries aren't severe, they are extensive – that many injuries will take some time to heal." He paused, looked down at his notes, then up, then down again; and then finally looked up at them with a regretful expression. "We also found evidence of needle marks, and repeated sexual assault."

Had he leapt on top of the desk and danced a jig, Alan couldn't have looked more astounded. "Wh –what?" he stammered, and looked at Don as if for assistance. There was none coming from that quarter; Don had one elbow propped on the chair, his hand over his eyes, leaning into it as if he needed the support. A sudden revelation hit Alan, and he stared at his older son. "Donny? You knew?"

Don dropped his hand and looked at Alan with misery in his eyes, misery tinged with anger, and remorse. "I wasn't certain – but when we found him – yeah, Dad, we suspected."

The doctor broke in, and they both looked at him. "Of course," he said, his voice dripping with nervous sympathy, "there are – ah – the requisite tests in such a case. For STDs, and so forth, although it will take a few days for those results to come back. We are running blood work now to check for evidence of drugs in his system. We had to do some sutures – the assault was apparently quite rough, and -,"

Alan suddenly shot blindly out of his chair, so fast that it turned over. "That's enough," he said, his voice shaking, and he turned and groped for the door, kicking the prone chair on the way. "I can't hear any more." He stumbled out, banging the door shut behind him, and the doctor looked at Don.

"Go ahead," said Don, his voice quiet, deadly.

Dr. Keller took one look at the cold menace that was forming in the other man's eyes. "Th-that's okay, I really was finished. He was disoriented and combative – we had to give him a sedative to calm him down. He's still out from that, but you can go up to his room whenever you wish. We'll be lining up rape counseling for him, as soon as he's coherent." He jotted down the room number, and slid it across the desk.

Don took it, and rose. "Thank you," he said, and the simple words sent a chill down the doctor's spine. He held his breath until the agent left the room, let it out in a shaky sigh, and shuddered.

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Two hours later, Alan sat, gazing at the still unresponsive form in the hospital bed. He had a vague recollection of stumbling from the doctor's office and making his way out to the waiting room, which turned out to be a mistake, because there he faced the rest of them. They were looking at him for information, and he suddenly realized that he had to give voice to something that he didn't even want to acknowledge yet. In fact, he didn't end up saying anything – he just sank into a chair, and seconds later, Don's arrival diverted their attention. His older son had shed the stressed, semi-shocked expression he'd worn when he'd arrived, and assumed a look that Alan didn't like much better – the efficient, cool demeanor of a seasoned agent, but with a cold edge, a look in his eye that was frightening.

It was Don who told the rest of them the news, breaking it quietly, emotionlessly, simply, without any attempt to soften the blow. Colby and Robin took it with regret although without surprise, but Larry and Amita looked as shocked as Alan felt. Amita especially, looked stricken; she wobbled on legs that abruptly seemed to have lost their strength, and Colby had to help her into a chair. Alan had sat there, stupid with shock, until Don had pulled him aside to take him up to Charlie's room.

Alan's first look at Charlie, who lay there in sedation-induced unconsciousness, broke through the numbness – a wall of indefinable emotions hit him – sorrow, anger, pity among them. Charlie had definitely lost more weight than he could afford – Alan could see the deprivation in his face, in a thin wrist lying slackly on the bed, an IV trailing from his hand. He looked different, and it took Alan a few moments to get past the bruises, the swollen eye, and determine what it was. His nose had changed – it had always had a curve to it; and although the difference was slight, now it was straighter, more like his brother's. It made him look younger, and that made him seem even more vulnerable.

At one point, about an hour into Alan's vigil, Charlie had stirred, his eyes opening slightly, but even that slight opening gave Alan a peek into the pain and shock inside. He had spoken Charlie's name, and the eyes had turned toward him. He'd seen a flash of recognition, and a soft scratchy sound that he interpreted as 'Dad,' the single word filled with all the agony a half-whisper could convey. For a moment, they stared at each other, and the horrific weight of what had happened hung in the air between them. Then Charlie had closed his eyes and drifted off again.

Now, another hour after that brief awakening, a footstep behind him made Alan turn, and he saw Don, hesitating, in the doorway. "Where were you?" Alan whispered, trying not to sound accusatory. "Amita was here for an hour and a half, but your brother didn't wake up; she finally let Robin take her home. Larry was here too, but I just sent him back to the house to get some clothes for Charlie. What took you two hours?"

"I ran over to LAPD HQ," said Don. His face was closed, hard, unreadable. "I was meeting with A.D. Wright, the DEA agents, and Lieutenant Walker. This thing is getting big, in a hurry."

Alan had risen, and was stepping toward him, with a quick backward glance at Charlie, and Don moved backward out into the hallway. "What thing?" asked Alan, as he stepped out to join him. The initial shock had worn off enough for his brain to begin functioning again, and he wanted answers. He still didn't know who had done this to Charlie.

"The takedown of Fantasy. It's nearly more than they can handle. There are several perps to be dealt with – the people who ran it. There are at least four dozen performers – victims themselves. We think that most of them were abducted when they were young – they've been held there, drugged and brainwashed into believing they were at some kind of school, or something. Then there are the patrons – the people who attended the parties. The government will want their testimony at minimum, and there will be investigations into each of them, to see if they participated in the prostitution or illegal gambling, or bought drugs there. Some of those names are big, Dad – all of them wealthy, some pillars of L.A. society, some Hollywood. The media's going to eat it up, and it's going to take weeks to sort all of it out."

Alan scowled at him. "I don't care about all of that – what about Charlie? Do they know who did this to him? What's happening to them?"

A nasty look flitted across Don's face. "We know who did this to him, all right. We're getting DNA testing to confirm it, and I've already applied for a search warrant for his property. It's J.T. Morrison."

Alan gaped at him. "What?!" The word came out louder than he intended, and he shot a quick glance through the door at Charlie, still motionless in the bed, then back at Don. "I don't believe it."

"Think about it, Dad," said Don, his voice flat, deadly. "Think about Morrison's interest in Charlie from the start. That sick bastard planned this – maybe not exactly the way it turned out, but he had something in mind. They've already started to interrogate the man who was holding Charlie – the man who ran Fantasy, and he's claiming no responsibility when it comes to Charlie's injuries. He said he held Charlie at Morrison's request – that Morrison visited him nearly every day since Charlie went missing – that it was Morrison who was responsible for the assaults."

Alan felt his stomach lurch. He'd spoken with Morrison, attended a ballgame as his guest, been utterly convinced by him – and all along, the man had had designs on Charlie… "God," he said, shakily, looking at Don. "This is a nightmare. We trusted him – Charlie trusted him…" He broke off, looking at the figure in the bed, who was beginning to stir.

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The memories came back first, before he even opened his eyes. The beatings, the torture, the mind-bending humiliation and degradation of the sexual assaults – Charlie knew them, they were there before he was fully conscious. Still in shock, half-awake, he willed the memories to go away with all his might, but they hung there, twisting in his mind like a corpse on a rope. They consumed him, and as consciousness returned they advanced, and he retreated.

He was dimly aware of voices, his father's and Don's, and he wasn't sure yet if they were real, or part of the lurid dreams that had floated through the last hour of sedation. He had a vague notion that his father was next to him, and he raised heavy lids to look for him, only to see him crossing the room toward him. Don was there, too, in the background, by the doorway, looking at him, and Charlie flushed with shame. He wanted so badly to be held, comforted, but he knew he was dirty – he couldn't bear for his father to touch him, and be defiled. His father didn't know, obviously, he was reaching for him, and Charlie shied away. "Don't touch me."

His father stopped in mid-reach, a bewildered look on his face. He didn't know, yet. Don did, though. Don knew what he was. 'Miserable, sick, disgusting pig...' His brother's words, the look of revulsion on his face at the compound, floated through Charlie's memory. Even now, Don stood at the doorway, his face dark, refusing to come any closer. 'I know what you are,' his expression said.

Charlie turned away from them, curled on his side, and stared in numb misery at the window.

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End, Chapter 36