Chapter Twelve January 21

Terry Lake stood back a bit from the door to Charlie's hospital room. She was close enough that she could observe the occupant, but not close enough to be seen. Charlie was sitting up as much as was possible for him and Terry guessed it was in anticipation of her visit. Even though it had been five days since the youngest member of the team had been attacked, he still looked like hell. The bruises that covered most of his face had turned a grotesque shade of purplish black, as had the ones on his arms. She could only imagine that the rest of his body looked as bad. IV lines still snaked into the back of his good hand and a small narcotic pump attached to one of them allowed him to dispense painkillers as needed.

Her eyes were drawn to the bruises around his neck. There was no mistaking that the marks were from hands, hands that intended to kill. Terry swallowed, unconsciously imagining how painful it still must be. Still, she needed to turn her thoughts from the morbid truth of what brought Charlie here to the reason she was here. She was trying to get some idea why Charlie might want to see her alone. And if there was any hint to be gleaned from his behaviour, she would be glad for it.

She had had Don Eppes figured out from the day she met him. He wasn't that deep of a read when you knew what you were looking for. And throughout her life, Terry had learned the hard way that a good initial read saved you from a lot of miserable endings. It wasn't that Don was shallow or uncomplicated, because he wasn't. She knew many people who swore they would never figure him out, that he buried everything deep. Terry had to smile at that. It wasn't buried that deeply. You just had to read between the lines.

The problem with Don was that he valued honesty above all else. Well, not that that was a problem, but for most people it was certainly a handicap. In a world where false faces, false bodies and false credentials were the way to the top, someone like Don was an unknown element. If you were square with him, you had no trouble figuring him out. But if you played him false, you discovered real quick that he didn't suffer fools. It was one of the reasons he was a great agent.

The other was that Don was incredibly intuitive when it came to crime. He could reconstruct a crime in his head with amazing accuracy. Terry thought that it was because, in the moment of crime, even if you were a twisted psycho, you left an honest imprint of yourself. Disguised, hidden, unseen, it didn't matter. What you did spoke of who you were and what drove you. Again, it all came back down to honesty. And she always played it straight with Don. She had from the start. And she knew he found that very, very attractive. Too bad they were partnered in the same office. It might have been something.

Charlie, on the other hand, was – a bit different. You always knew what he was thinking. Or, at least, you thought you did. Those amazingly expressive eyes of his were truly windows to his soul. She often wondered, not in any romantic sense, what it would be like to just spend some time looking into those dark depths. She wondered what she might see that he was hiding in there. For Terry was certain Charlie had secrets and consulting for the NSA was the least of them. And while she thought she could read him fairly well, Charlie was also a master at closing himself off. Especially when it came to subjects he felt ill equipped to deal with logically. Subjects like emotions, or feelings. Press him too closely about something he didn't feel he could expound on with a logical progression of ideas and known factors and the shutters on his eyes would slam down faster than you could blink. One second Charlie could be open and engaging and the next he was as approachable as stone.

His genius was his crowning glory and Achilles' heel in one complicated package. His brilliance set him apart and he was acutely aware of it. And while Charlie didn't seem to mind letting his amazing mind define who he was, he didn't want to be defined solely by his amazing mind. It was a difficult dichotomy to balance. Charlie was part classic artist – tortured by his emotions, unable to express in words what he was feeling, escaping into the inner realms of his psyche when things became too much for him; part mad scientist – passionate about his field, intense in his beliefs, completely caught up in the religion that was mathematics; and part absent minded professor – spending hours at a chalkboard working on an equation with no thought to sleep or food, forgetting appointments when in the midst of a breakthrough, living life in a state of half-awareness of the events going around him.

But she also knew that, despite what his brother often thought, Charlie was deeply aware of the things that happened around him. And they affected him deeply. It wasn't his fault that his brilliant mind couldn't always process the realities of life. There probably wasn't any room in his head for them. And while Don thought that Charlie needed to get a grip and see life as it truly was, Terry knew that he already did. She didn't agree with Don that Charlie needed to be dragged kicking and screaming into the real world. Too many people were here already. She felt that Charlie, and others like him, should be left alone to live the lives that everyone else wished they could live – free from the constraints and horror of life in these times. That he willingly consulted with them on cases was amazing to her. And she wondered how he dealt with it all. She suspected that maybe he didn't. And maybe that's why he needed her.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So, what do you think Charlie wants to talk to Terry about?" Alan threw out the question casually as he tossed salad.

Don huffed and swallowed a mouthful of beer. "I wish I knew. You know, sometimes, just when I think I have him all figured out …"

"He does something that makes you rethink the equation?" his father offered.

"Yeah, something like that." Don thought about that for a moment then, without really meaning to, spoke aloud. "Does anybody actually know Charlie? I mean, how do you ever find out what's going through that brain of his? How do you ever … how do you understand him? I don't … understand him." He stopped, and looked at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I shouldn't have said that out loud."

"No, it's okay. Believe me. I used to say the same things to your mother. She understood him, you know. I used to think she was the only one who could. But I know that's not true. Not anymore."

"He… I can't stop seeing him like some kid, Dad," he continued, not really hearing his father's words. "I know he's grown up but, man! He just … he acts like a kid half the time. He just sees the world … I don't know how he sees the world but it sure as hell isn't the world I see, that everybody else sees. I just don't understand how he can be the way he is. How he can just tune out reality and … I don't know … always be so sure about everything, so positive, so naive. Why can't he be … different, more like …"

"More like you, maybe?"

"Well, more adult I was going to say. Act his age, be more mature."

"I'm going to tell you something, Don, something that happened a long time ago. You were in high school, and it was shortly after Charlie had started going there for classes. You were ignoring him at school." Alan waved off Don's comment before it could leave his lips. "We didn't blame you, you were sixteen and we knew it was difficult. Anyway, he was telling your mother and I that it bothered him sometimes. Your mother asked if he wished you were different. Do you know what he said? He said, 'If Don were different, then he wouldn't be Don, and then he wouldn't be my brother.' So I want to ask you now, Don, do you really want Charlie to be different? Think about what that means."

He left off for a moment to let Don think, then he continued, softly, as if to underscore Don's thoughts. "Charlie sometimes does seem more like a child than a grown man. But that aspect of his personality is what drives him, it's what makes him an excellent teacher. You call it being naïve, but I believe it's innocence, Don. An innocence that, no matter how harsh the world can be, keeps Charlie hopeful that there's a better one out there. One that maybe he can help discover. And think about this – it might be the child in Charlie that motivates some of the things he does, but the driving force behind the results is the man he has become."

Alan left Don leaning against the kitchen counter and headed for the dining room. Eventually, his son followed and sat down.

"I just wish I understood him better, Dad. I wish I knew him better."

Alan put down the bowls he was carrying and sat down across from his eldest son. "I'm not an expert on your brother, not even close, but I'll be happy to help if I can." He watched as Don wrestled with something. He could see on his face that it wasn't something he wanted to admit to, and it was taking him a moment to work up his courage. When he saw that his son's resolution to get it off his chest won out over his reluctance to say anything, Alan leaned forward and braced his arms on the table.

Don saw by his father's body language that he was ready to listen, and not to judge. But it was still hard to say it. "Why didn't Charlie want to talk to me? Or you?" he blurted out. "What does he have to say that he can't say to us? And why Terry? Why not …" Don stopped there, suddenly aware that there really wasn't anyone else Charlie could have asked to speak to. "A psychiatrist?" he ventured after a moment.

"Hm. Tell me something, if you had gone through what Charlie had gone through, would you want to talk to a psychiatrist?"

Involuntarily, Don shuddered. "No. Definitely not. Psychiatrists aren't really my thing."

"Who would you want to talk to?" Alan asked, trying to keep the conversation on his end light and non-accusatory.

"Well, someone who knew something about the case, I guess. That way I wouldn't have to go into a lot of extraneous details. Someone who I thought could help me sort it out."

"Oh. You would come to me then. I know a lot about this case," Alan stated casually.

"No. I mean, no offense Dad, but you'd be too close emotionally to be able to give me any perspective on… now I know why he wanted to talk to Terry."

Alan saluted his son with his wine glass. "I think that is a very reasonable deduction." Feeling the tension of the moment pass, Alan began to dish up dinner. "Terry is a very wise young woman. I think that she has a lot to offer."

"I'm sure she'll be able to help him…" Don agreed.

"I wasn't talking about Charlie."

Don sighed heavily. "Dad, I told you, Terry and I aren't involved like that anymore."

Alan shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I think that she can help you with your feelings about this case."

"What feelings? I don't have any feelings about this case. I'm fine."

"Fine. Yes, I can see that you're fine," his father informed him without much conviction. "We're all fine. Your brother is almost murdered by a psychotic serial killer and we're fine."

"Dad, Charlie is going to be fine. All the doctors have said so."

"I am not worried about Charlie. I am worried about you. You have been sitting on this thing for over a week, and you were dealing with it for months before that. I know because you told me. You can't keep it inside, Don. You need to talk about it, too."

"Talk about what?" Don decided that perhaps by playing dumb, he could avoid this conversation. He should have known better.

Alan leaned forward, intent. "Look, Don, I know you better than anyone. I know that this whole thing is tearing you up inside. You think I don't know you don't sleep? I can see it in your face. You," he pointed a finger at his son, "are blaming yourself for what happened to your brother, even though you know it is not your fault."

"How is it not my fault, Dad?" Don countered passionately. "I promised him I'd take care of him and I didn't. He had to take care of himself and because of that he has to deal with the fact that he almost died! Not to mention that fact that he had to practically kill a man to do it! I failed him. Me! His big brother! I'm the one who's supposed to look out for him."

"Said who?"

"Said Mom, that's who!" Throughout this entire exchange, Don's voice had been rising. These last words were shouted at a volume that almost shook the walls. It took Don a moment to realize that he'd screamed his answer so loudly. And when he did, and when he realized what he'd said, the man collapsed bonelessly into his chair and buried his head in his hands.

"Oh, God, Dad," Don whispered brokenly, "I promised her I'd look out for Charlie. It was the only thing she asked of me and I …" His voice broke and his father heard him take in a hitching breath.

Alan held his ground across the table for the moment. This was what Don needed. He needed to release what was pent up inside of him and sympathy wasn't going to help. There would be time for comfort later.

"You feel like you failed her," he supplied. "You feel like you broke your promise to your mother."

Don didn't answer, only nodded.

"Well let me tell you something, Don, I made your mother the same promise. I promised her I'd look after the both of you and I failed in that. Charlie's in the hospital, you're a wreck. So I, too, failed my wife, the mother of my children, in her last request."

His oldest son raised his head at that. "No, Dad, no. You can't feel that way. There wasn't anything you could do in this case. There wasn't anything you could beyond what you did for Charlie here at home."

"Well then, what about you? You certainly could have done more. I mean, why didn't you put a twenty-four guard on your brother?"

"I did."

"What about Carlson then? You could have…I don't know… done background checks on all the people in your office."

"That's already done when they come to work for the FBI. The Bureau doesn't usually hire psychos."

"Well, then, why didn't you teach your brother self-defense? You know, a kid like that could use some good lessons in how to win a fight from his big brother. Even if you have to teach him to fight dirty."

"I did … Dad I did all that."

"Well, then, what else could you have done?"

"I could have …" Don stopped. What else could he have done? There had to be something. "I could have … stayed with him myself."

"Oh. So you would have been the one conked on the head instead of Keith. How would that have helped your brother?"

Don didn't have an answer. "There had to have been something," he whispered softly.

Alan shook his head sagely. "Sometimes there's not. You know, when your mother was diagnosed, I felt the same way. I should have noticed she was sick sooner. I should have made her go to the doctor sooner. I should have tried harder to find a treatment."

"No, Dad, you … you did everything you could for Mom."

"I know that now. But then … then I wasn't so sure. I confessed that to your mother one night. Do you know what she said? She said that it didn't matter what I may or may not have done. We were dealing with an unknown; an unknown that would have gotten to her in the end anyway. And the same is true about Charlie. No matter what precautions you might have put in place, you didn't know about Carlson. And he would have done what he did eventually, and the outcome could have been far worse. You have to accept that you did what you could, Don. You did what you felt was right and best and second-guessing yourself will do you nor your brother any good."

Don shoved the palms of his hands against his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. "But I feel so helpless, Dad. I mean, he's… God forgive me, but I see him as a kid still. And he's alone and hurting and …"

Alan did move then. He went to his son and put firm hands on his shoulders. "Charlie is not alone, he has us. But I want you to listen to me, Don, very carefully. Your brother is not a child. He's a grown man, a strong man, stronger than we ever thought. And he will come through this. We all will. We're a family, Don. And that means more than anything else."

The elder Eppes watched as Don digested this information. He knew his son would realize he was right eventually; it was just a matter of how long it would take him to admit it. Several minutes passed and he watched Don absorb the conversation and take in all the things that were said. Finally, his shoulders heaved under Alan's hands as a deep, heavy sigh gusted through him.

"You're right," Don agreed tiredly.

"I know. I'm the father. I'm always right. And right now I say we need to eat. After dinner, we'll go and see Charlie. He should be done with Terry by then. Okay?"

"Sure. Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't … you know. I don't want to Charlie to know that I …I promised him I wouldn't blame myself and I don't want him to find out I…"

"That you what?" Alan asked with complete innocence. "Now, what kind of dressing you do want on your salad?"