Perception Deception

A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: Please refer to Chapter One

Chapter 36: Another One?

Charlie was screaming.

Alan, who had fallen asleep on top of one of the double beds, was jerked to a full and upright position by the sound of Don's service weapon discharging. He stared dumbly at the muted television, his heart pounding, unsure what had awakened him; something on the news? By the time his head cleared enough for him to realize that the news was over, and the television screen was filled by the jack-o-lantern grins of Pat Sajack and Vanna White, his ears had picked up another sound: Charlie was screaming.

Alan didn't stop to put on his shoes. Truth be told, he didn't waste any time on thinking, either. Charlie's screams had a direct connection to his heart; something was wrong with his baby, and that was all he needed to know. In seconds he was across the motel room, jerking open the door. His sock-clad feet thudded on the hot cement sidewalk that separated his room from Charlie's. Some part of his brain registered Don's cell phone, lying in two separate pieces between the rented van and the motel. The door to Charlie's room stood open, and Alan almost lost his footing as he skidded around the corner – but his hand grabbed at the casing, and steadied him.

That turned out to be fortuitous, since the first thing he really registered seeing was Amita's berry-red nipple, peeking out from behind her long…wet?...hair. She kneeled with her bare back to the wall, on the floor just a few feet from the bed. She was rocking a little, cradling Charlie in her lap; his son had both hands clamped over one side of his face, and the most God-awful keening sound that Alan had ever heard seemed to be emitting from his mouth.

At the end of the bed, Don knelt over a complete stranger. For some reason, Don had yanked the spread off the motel bed, and was pressing a corner of it into the stranger's stomach. Alan glanced at his eldest son quickly, to make sure he had the upper hand in whatever altercation was going on, before he half-staggered, half-ran, to Charlie and Amita. Before he hit his own knees, something possessed him to lean down and grab Amita's crumpled towel off the floor. When he arrived at Charlie's side, he thrust the towel at her without a word, speaking instead to his boy. "Son! Charlie, what is it? What's happened?"

Amita was trying to wrap the towel around herself with one hand and hold onto Charlie with the other, but at the sound of Alan's voice, Charlie writhed toward him. "God!" was all he could say before his voice broke off in a whimper of pain. Alan was reaching for Charlie when his son scared the life out of him by apparently passing out, his head falling back onto Amita's lap.

In the sudden silence, Alan clearly heard a growl he almost didn't recognize as Don's voice. "You're gut-shot, you son of a bitch," the voice coldly announced. "Bleeding out; you know it, too. You're a dead man. Tell me who the hell sent you after us. Tuttle?"

If Alan had dared to turn his head away from Charlie, he would have seen bubbles of blood coming from the stranger's mouth. There was a definite gurgling sound accompanying the breathless reply. "Mmmm," gasped the assailant, his hands failing at his sides as his eyes slipped closed. "Mmmontague."

The last three-quarters of an hour had been the longest 45 minutes of Don's life.

It had taken over 15 minutes for the first of two paramedic units to arrive. Years of hosting the rodeo had taught the city that it was wise to keep most on-duty paramedics lurking near the arena, so medical assistance was pretty far from the motel when a frantic Alan dialed 9-1-1. While they waited, Charlie regained consciousness long enough to mumble something about being shot in the eye; Amita brushed back his hair and caught a glimpse of the bloodshot orb, and believed that he was right. She was sobbing silently, her tears dropping onto Charlie's face and mixing with his, when Alan spotted the bullet hole in the drywall just over Charlie's head. Charlie was unconscious again by the time Alan convinced her that the bullet was in the wall, and not Charlie's brain.

Don kept glancing toward the group, fairly aching to join them -- but he was nothing, if not responsible. He did not regret shooting anyone who was trying to harm his brother -- it was a choice between the apparent hit man and Charlie, which was no choice at all -- but the obligation of authority was solidly ingrained in Don. As long as the would-be assassin was alive, first aid must be administered. In addition, Don wasn't convinced by the man's naming of Montague as his employer, deathbed confession or not, as much as he doubted the man's real name was Bill Edmunds. The agent still suspected Tuttle's involvement, and he needed Edmunds - or whatever his real name was - to live long enough to change his statement.

When EMTs finally began to arrive, he was relieved of his duties and started to move toward Charlie; a second set of EMTs arrived soon after the first, however, and asked everyone to clear room around the professor. One of the paramedics who had been first on the scene was female. She and her partner worked on Edmunds until uniformed police officers arrived. The patient had lost a massive amount of blood, evident from the sodden bedspread and stained carpet around his body. The EMTs tried several times, unsuccessfully, to defibrillate him -- but it was obvious to them upon their arrival that he was gone.

Finally, he was declared DOA, and the paramedics turned to see if help was needed with Charlie -- who was awake and whimpering in pain, again. While her partner helped with Charlie, the female EMT stood between Amita and the tableau on the floor, disrupting Amita's line of sight, and spoke gently with her until she managed to persuade the distraught fiancé to take some clothes into the bathroom and get dressed. The EMT made an educated guess, based on what she had seen so far. "Your man will need you at the hospital," she pointed out. "You need to get dressed and pull yourself together, or you'll be no help to him at all."

Amita seemed to digest the words, then lifted her chin slightly and brushed a hand over the tears drying on her cheek. "I'll take care of it," she promised. "I'll take care of him." After one last glance in Charlie's direction, she crossed the room to her suitcase, grabbed a handful of mismatched clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Around this time, Don was taken aside by the ranking police officer on the scene, for a preliminary statement. Don had to show his FBI credentials to keep from being arrested; even then, a round-robin of communication was instigated with the officer's CO, Assistant Director Wright in LA, and Albuquerque's district attorney's office. One of the other officers had appeared after a search of Edmunds' room down the hall, and had found another set of ID that appeared to be legitimate, that identified the man as Joe Soames.

There was only room in the ambulance for one person to accompany Charlie to the hospital. When he was strapped to the gurney and ready to transport, Amita was still in the bathroom -- and Don was still dealing with the police. Alan hurried to follow his son's gurney into the ambulance, trusting that Don would get himself and Amita to the hospital as soon as possible. So now, 45 minutes after Soames' wild bullet had plunked into the van -- which was being held as evidence -- Don sat in the back of a police cruiser, a silent Amita beside him, at last en route to the hospital.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and looked at her. Amita was wearing a pair of hot pink capris, an almost fluorescent-orange tank top, one sandal, and one flip-flop. She held her hands in her lap, one wringing the other, as she stared out the window. Don hesitated, then reached out and took one of her small hands into his. "He'll be fine," he tried to assure her. "The bullet is in the wall; he wasn't hit."

She tried to jerk her hand away. "Well, something happened to him," she huffed. "I've never seen Charlie in so much agony...he was passing out from pain!"

Don didn't let go of her hand. "I know," he murmured, then decided that this was as good a time as any; they could both use the distraction. He squeezed her hand. "Amita, I want to apologize."

She glanced at him, confusion apparent on her face. "What?"

"I've been angry with you," Don confessed. "I was afraid Tuttle found us because you didn't honor Charlie's request not to tell anyone where we were." She blushed, and he hurried on. "It's none of my business -- and Charlie sure never seemed to hold a grudge about it; he trusts your judgment. It's just that..." He swallowed, then forged ahead. "Well...all the time we were gone...he missed you so much. He loves you so much, Amita...he trusted you, and trust doesn't come easily for Chuck. I felt like you betrayed him."

A fat tear squeezed out of one of Amita's already-tear-swollen eyes, and Don felt terrible. "I guess I did," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand again. "No, no, Amita -- that's why I'm apologizing. You made a judgment call -- and it turned out to be a good one. If you hadn't trusted Colby and A.D. Wright, Charlie and I would both be dead right now." Another tear followed the first, and Don leaned toward her a little, lowering his voice. "We put you in a terrible position, and you saved our lives. Charlie is right to trust you."

Amita finally squeezed his hand in return. "And you are right to watch out for him," she said. "To feel protective...I'm so glad the two of you had each other's backs, so happy that you've become close. It's what he's always wanted, you know."

Now Don was dangerously close to crying. "He's a keeper," he said, trying to lighten the moment.

Amita smiled. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, he certainly is."

They found Alan sitting forlornly in a waiting area of the University of New Mexico's hospital trauma center. Don saw him first, and he grabbed Amita's hand and dragged her back to Alan. "Why aren't you with Charlie?" he demanded.

Amita slipped her hand from Don's grasp and leaned to embrace Alan, who had seen them approaching and was now on his feet. "They won't let you back there?" she murmured quietly.

Alan shook his head miserably. "They let me stay for a few minutes..." he began.

Don interrupted him, placing one solid hand on Alan's back and running the other through his hair, which was longer than it had ever been in his life. "I remember," he said. "They kicked me out, back in Chicago; something about a special ophthalmological exam..." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to sound so abrupt."

Alan smiled fondly at his son, and seemed to think for a moment. "I understand," he answered. "Don...you're not on the run, anymore. Are you going to shave, and cut your hair?"

Don's eyes widened and he looked a little surprised. One hand crept to his chin. "Huh," he muttered. "Guess I finally got used to it."

Amita joined the conversation. "I've always loved Charlie's hair on the long side, but last night I almost cut that pony tail off while he was sleeping."

Don and Alan both chuckled. "Let me know if you need some scissors," remarked Alan as he sat, again. He gestured to the empty chairs on either side of him. "Please. I saved your places."

Amita smiled and sank down next to him, taking one of his hands and holding it between her own in her lap. Don sat on the other side, draping his arm around the back of Alan's chair. Alan's eyes anxiously sought out the clock high on the wall; then he turned his head to say something to Amita, noticing for the first time her unusual attire. His gaze traveled all the way to her feet, then back up to her face. "Sweetheart," he finally said gently. "You should have worn the towel."

Three hours later, Don had been to the triage desk four times, and stepped outside to call Robin twice; the first time had gone to voice mail. He was just about to make his fifth trip to the desk when a scrub-clad man appeared at the entrance to the waiting area. "Family for Charles Eppes?"

All three of them jumped to their feet, practically tripping over each other in their haste to reach the person who had news about Charlie. "We're here!" Alan announced somewhat breathlessly as the distance between them narrowed. "I'm his father; Alan. This is my other son, Don, and this is Amita. She's engaged to Charlie."

The man smiled and nodded toward Amita. "Ah. The lovely Dr. Ramanujan."

Amita felt Alan and Don both looking at her in surprise, but she had no idea what was going on, herself. "Excuse me?" she finally asked.

"I'm Dr. Tylock," the man informed the group. "Charles had the presence of mind to ask about signing a HIPA waiver before we happied him up with morphine; he requested that you be kept in the medical loop, Dr. Ramanujan." He yawned, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Excuse me; I'm working on my 20th hour, here. If you'll all come with me, I'll take us to a private consultation area where we can talk."

Don found himself in the unusual position of not knowing what to think. Charlie was conscious, and clear-headed enough to ask about the waiver; that was good, right? Plus, this doctor did not carry a sense of urgency and bad news with him; definitely good. On the other hand, morphine was involved; that had to be bad, along with the need for a private consultation room. His tennis shoes were soundless in the wide, bright, hall as he followed the group; but his mind was talking so loudly, he probably wouldn't have heard the clack of stilettos.

The doctor turned into a small, tastefully decorated alcove. He sank with a barely repressed exhausted sigh into an overstuffed chair, and waited for the Eppes to follow suit. The room contained three such chairs, as well as a sofa, shoved against the far wall; one straight-back chair; and a small table, upon which rested several magazines, and a box of facial tissue. Dr. Tylock waited for the group to settle, but they each perched on the edge of a chair and leaned slightly toward him; the body language of anxiety -- something he recognized all too easily.

He smiled reassuringly. "Relax," he counseled. "I come bearing glad tidings."

Don had no interest in this guy's quirky personality. "Just spit it out," he ordered. "What happened to Charlie?"

Dr. Tylock met his glare unflinchingly, and continued to smile. "Your brother warned me about you," he remarked. "When I told him I would be coming out to talk to you while the nurse administered some morphine, Charlie told me to watch my back."

Alan's face wreathed in a smile and he leaned back in his chair, laughing out loud. "That's my boy," he announced proudly.

Don's face was darkening with impatience, and Dr. Tylock figured he'd pushed his luck as far as he wanted to. "Your brother will be fine. We'll keep him overnight as a precaution, but I'd say you can continue your journey home tomorrow -- with a few adjustments."

Don and Amita spoke at the same time. "What adjustments?" he asked. "Why was he in so much pain?" Amita wondered.

The doctor straightened a little in his chair and answered them both -- ladies first. "Charles suffered a choroidal detachment," he began.

Don groaned. "More surgery?"

"Not in this case," responded the doctor. "These choroidal detachments are actually a fairly common side effect of the retinal detachment surgery; it could have happened at any time. But, in Charlie's case, a hemorrhagic detachment was caused by trauma. I understand there was a physical struggle of some sort?"

'Yeah," answered Don tightly. "Get on with it."

Alan glanced at his son disapprovingly, but the doctor wasn't fazed at all; he'd dealt with family members a great deal more distraught than this. "Well. With this sort of detachment, the pain is instant and excruciating; far worse than the original retinal detachment and the broken arm put together. There is also an immediate loss of vision; I'm not surprised that your brother thought he'd been shot in the eye."

"Is the loss of vision permanent?" Alan asked.

Dr. Tylock turned his attention to the father. "Not necessarily." The response was not very reassuring, and Alan frowned. The doctor tried again. "Vision impairment is always a possibility, with both his original injury, and this newest one. Frankly, it's doubtful that he will regain all that he's lost...but there are ways to deal with that. I wear reading glasses myself, and I see the telltale indentions around your own nose, Mr. Eppes."

Alan smiled. "Yes...I've worn reading glasses for years." He tried to catch Amita's eye. "If Charlie ends up with glasses, he'll look more like a professor, won't he dear?"

She nodded, and repeated Don's earlier question. "The 'adjustments' you spoke about?"

The doctor continued. "Oh. Yes. The gas bubble in Charlie's right eye was still large enough that when a tiny tear accompanied this latest detachment, there was some leakage of vitreous fluid -- but the bubble served to 'plug the hole', if you will. He's actually very lucky that this happened in his right eye; the bubble in his left eye is much smaller. You may have noticed that he's been able to see out of his left eye better than his right. Anyway, choroidal detachments that don't require surgical intervention heal themselves within a few days...two weeks, at the most." The friendly expression of his face took on some earnestness for the first time. "All of which is not to say that Charlie is home-free; he's had a couple of very serious injuries to that eye. Before he leaves tomorrow, I will refer him to a specialist in LA -- and the staff here will make an appointment for the afternoon of your arrival in three days' time. Don't even go to your homes, first; drive directly to the specialist's office -- he will take Charlie in whenever you arrive. It's imperative to make sure that healing is on-track, and there is no infection. Of course, at the first sign of anything amiss, you must find a hospital immediately."

He waited for nods of understanding before he continued. "Charlie will also leave with four new eye drops and at least one oral medication; corticosteroids, cycloplegics, mydriatics, aqueous suppressants. You'll have to stop frequently so that all medications are administered on time."

"What about the pain?" Don had become silent and brooding, but Alan still had questions.

"Once the gas bubble moved to block the tear, the pain level became much better," said the doctor. "We can't use any anticoagulants like aspirin, so we gave him a hit of the good stuff to help him sleep, tonight." The doctor suddenly laughed. "That may backfire for the whole trauma center, however. When last I saw your son, he was trying to sing Van Halen's Hot for Teacher." He smiled directly at Amita, who blushed and looked at her mismatched feet. The doctor followed her gaze and momentarily lost his train of thought.

"Charlie doesn't do morphine very well," chuckled Alan, yanking the physician's attention away from Amita's flip-flop.

"You... I'll... tramadol," Dr. Tylock finally managed. "I'll send along some Ultram. I considered something with codeine, when I read the records faxed by the hospital in Chicago; codeine suppresses coughing, which could be an issue with pneumonia. Ordinarily, we encourage coughing, but I'm reluctant to do that, because of his eyes."

"He's been doing the breathing treatments," Amita offered helpfully.

The doctor nodded. "I could tell; a chest x-ray here looked almost clear. Has he been coughing, much?" Amita glanced at Alan, then, Don, and finally back to the doctor. She shook her head no. "Then I think I will go with the tramadol," he said, making up his mind. "It's our hottest new wonder drug on the pain front. Also, we've covered Charlie's right eye with a protective eye cup, and that should be covered with an eye patch 24/7. You can remove both to administer the eye drops, of course -- preferably in a shady location out of direct sunlight -- but be sure to put the eye cup back in place until you see the specialist in LA." He could see that Alan and Amita were beginning to look a little shell-shocked. "A discharge planner will go over everything again in the morning," he assured them.

Don suddenly stood, and spoke for the first time in over five minutes. "I want to see my brother."

Dr. Tylock looked up at him. "I thought that you would all like to spend a few minutes with him, even though he's strung out on happy juice. Just a few minutes; then you all need to get your rest, so you can help him finish the trip home."

Don emitted a sarcastic snicker. "Amita's motel room is a crime scene."

She jumped to her own feet. "I'll stay here," she insisted. "You and Dad can share the driving, tomorrow; I'll be fine." She looked pleadingly at the doctor. "Please?"

Dr. Tylock climbed tiredly to his feet and sighed. "Only because there's a rodeo in town, and I know you won't be able to get another room. Now, if you'll all follow me, I'll take you to Charlie."

Alan stood and started to follow, but Amita's hand on his arm held him back. "Dad?" she whispered.

He smiled at his future daughter-in-law. "Dear?"

She lowered her voice even more. "When you come back in the morning...don't forget my clothes."

End, Chapter 36