Manipulation Part 15
By Ecri
The Scotch was the finest money could buy, more than he could afford, but Mason only drank it on special occasions. This was certainly special, but more in the "unique" sense of the word. It certainly wasn't a happy occasion. He poured a third shot of the stuff and downed it fast savoring the artificial warmth it provided.
His confrontation with Alan Eppes had the odd, undeniably ironic qualities of being both expected and unexpected. Mason had thought Alan would have said those things to him years ago. How the man had waited he would never know, but perhaps Mason had been fooling himself. It was completely possible, though he'd never considered it so, that, had Buchmann not created this latest drama, Alan might have held his tongue in perpetuity.
He hadn't been exactly silent when last they'd met, but he'd been unwilling to expound on his animosity for his former supervisor with his son nearby.
Don Eppes had been a new recruit then, and Alan had surprised Mason by following his eldest to Quantico. Don had been unaware of it all of course, which perhaps could explain Alan's reticence to be caught on the grounds speaking to an Academy Instructor.
Alan had been solemn, even reserved, yet Mason had known the man too long not to recognize the hint of something else in his eyes. It was unnerving.
"You've got one of my boys here," he gestured with a display of disgust to their surroundings, "in your playground. He's a good boy. He's good at whatever he tries his hand at, and he'll be good at this." There was no braggadocio here, just an acceptance of fact, of inevitability. "He'll be one of your top agents one day." He'd taken a step closer to Mason then, and Mason was hard-pressed to hold his ground. "But if anything from our past," and he gestured once more, but this time taking in only himself and Mason, "comes back to haunt him, I'll make sure you pay for it."
Mason had been convinced then that Alan would make good on his threat, but he had left Quantico quickly. He'd flown in and flown back out all within 24 hours. Don had never known, likely still didn't know, about it.
Mason poured yet another shot and held the glass up to the light letting it play across the amber liquid. Remembering Alan's words about knowing who Buchman was, he smiled. After downing the Scotch, he began to laugh. "Ah, Alan, old friend, you don't have a clue how wrong you are."
Several days later
Don stared at the walls sighing heavily. The enforced rest was not going well. All he could think about was getting out and getting back to work. He was pleased Charlie was well and back at CalSci, and his father was visiting frequently, but something nagged at him.
It all came down to manipulation. Nothing about any of this was at it seemed. Terry insisted that was why he had a hard time believing it was over, but he thought it was more than that.
The information on Buchmann seemed complete, but then again...he'd mentioned to Terry during her last visit that it seemed too superficial to him.
"How do you mean," she'd asked.
"Buchmann's holdings, his life over the last twenty odd years, seems to be an open book, but if you look too closely, you see it really isn't.
Terry shook her head. "I'm not following you, Don. He's been in prison, he's been running a multi-national corporation,..."
"Yes, but..." he'd have thrown something if there was anything nearby that might have made a satisfactory enough noise on impact. "It feels wrong."
Terry had smirked, and he knew what she was thinking. "I know. I need hard evidence, but my gut says we're missing something obvious."
She'd frowned then. "I've always been one to trust your gut, Don, so I'll dig around and see what I can find.
Don almost wished that she'd just show up and hand him a laptop so he could do it himself. He was going mad with the enforced down time.
Mentally, he reviewed the case. There were so many details, it was easy to imagine there was so much more that he and his time might have overlooked. Still, it was Buchmann himself that troubled Don. If there was one his life in law enforcement—especially at the Federal level—had taught him, it was that you had to follow your hunch. Don's hunch told him there was something there...beneath the carefully planted "official" story of Buchmann's life. It was too early to guess what that might be, but Don had plenty of time on his hands.
It was late spring, Charlie had always felt a bit melancholy about late spring. Classes would be finished soon. Summer sessions were still weeks away. He's missed too much of the semester and felt he'd somehow cheated his students...or perhaps been cheated himself of the time he treasured...a time when the students would begin to blossom and truly understand, or not, what he was teaching. Instead, he's spent his time...
Charlie shook his head almost violently. He had promised himself he wouldn't dwell on the past. It was over. He had to move on.
He was heading to his first class since being released. The college had reinstated him, but had left the choice of whether he should come back now or wait until next semester. It had been an easy choice. Waiting would only make it more difficult. His father had tried to persuade him to wait, but Charlie just couldn't. He'd missed so much already.
The leisurely stroll toward his class from his office passed almost without notice, indeed, might have done entirely except for two things. One, he'd been so long away, he was trying to soak in every nuance of the walk. Two, there was little to soak. His anticipatory smile, soon turned to a look of puzzlement as he realized there wasn't a lot of activity on campus today. The math building seemed deserted.
He began to look into the classrooms he was passing. Empty. They were empty. Panic welled up inside as he mentally reviewed his schedule, wondering if he'd forgotten a holiday or had the time of the class wrong. He silently cursed the panic, sure he wouldn't have felt nearly so insecure about this before what Larry referred to just the other day as his "unfortunate incarceration"...and if this scenario were not so similar to an anxiety induced dream he'd been having since high school.
Reaching his own classroom, he peered in through the door, seeing the lights were out. He flipped them on in frustration and nearly fell over at the solid wall of sound that greeted him as students, teachers, and other university staff cheering and laughing.
The room was packed, and it was one of the larger auditoriums on campus. Charlie recognized his students—those from this semester and those from previous semesters. Front and center were Larry and Amita.
Charlie waited for the applause and laughter to die down before trying to speak.
" 'Unexpected' is an understatement. Thank you." He was saved having to think of anything else to say when Larry stepped forward.
"Charles, we could think of no other way to express to you how glad we are to have you back where you belong."
The cheering began again, and Charlie soaked it in.
Weeks later
Don glanced at his watch relieved to see it was actually passed 6:00 PM. His third day back on the job after the shooting, and he was glad to see the week more than half over. He was on desk duty until the doctors and the department psychiatrists all declared him fit for duty. Reluctant to admit that he wasn't quite up to speed, he had other reasons for appreciating the time he was putting in behind his desk.
Catching up on paperwork was something he did periodically, so there wasn't as much for him to do as he led others to believe. It allowed him the time to ask certain questions and use certain resources he might not otherwise be able to do.
Three days into his sideline investigation, he realized that what he'd previously believed (hoped?) were drug-induce paranoid delusions were quickly becoming reasonable, well-constructed, if somewhat farfetched, theories.
He'd reconstructed some likely events and some not so likely. He'd questioned Terry and David and even Pierce about the investigation from angles with which he'd had either indirect involvement or no involvement.
He shut a file and leaned back in his desk chair, stretching as much as he was able without aggravating his still-healing injury.
He'd disliked the time in the hospital for many reasons, some more obvious than others, and now he was wishing even more fervently that he hadn't been shot. He'd wasted precious time in recovery. Time better used in pursuing the true end to these most bizarre events. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and wondered, not for the first time, if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.
He'd often enough heard from Charlie how people tend to see patterns that don't exist and while not seeing what should be obvious. He smiled, suppressing a laugh. Of course, what he considered obvious and what Charlie considered obvious were often light years from each other.
Don picked up the file he'd been collecting and slipped it into his briefcase. He wanted to run it by one more person. He checked his watch again and decided CalSci was a better bet than the house.
Charlie sat staring at the chalkboard. The equations weren't what had his attention, however. He found himself mesmerized by the swirl of minute particles of chalk dust swirling in the shaft of light from the setting sun. It was a sight he'd often watched before, once even calculating the eddies and swirls until the sun disappeared and the sky darkened. Now, there were no equations, no calculations, no numbers. Now, he was more fascinated by the normalcy of it, by the dichotomy of this moment. It was at once as though no time had passed between that time and this, and yet it was also so far removed from that last time...that time before he'd ever seen the inside of a prison, that this seemed unreal. Surreal. Not real. Not possible. Not true. Not.
A voice should have startled him, but somehow he'd been aware of Larry's entry though his one time professor and long time friend had been uncharacteristically quiet. "It's an odd sensation, isn't it, Charles?"
Charlie smiled, but didn't turn around to look at his friend. "What's that?"
"The here and now clashing with the there and then. The sudden return of your life after the horror you must have been through...I'm so sorry."
Now, Charlie did turn around. "Sorry? For what?"
"I wish I'd been more of a help to you."
"Larry, you were...you did!"
"Ah, but my form of help is more research and..."
Charlie laughed. "You wanted to ride in on a white horse, or bust through the prison walls with your bare hands sporting a cape and tights!"
"Well, sans the cape and tights, my young friend, but in a word, yes. It's incalcuably frustrating to be incapable of heroics."
Charlie shook his head. "Heroics, like Beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder. No other person could have helped the way that you did. If for no other reason than that only you would really understand my message, and only you would think the way that you do and drag my class into it all." He stood and closed the space between the two. "Sometimes hero is spelled f-r-i-e-n-d."
Larry nodded. "Corny, but accurate."
They both laughed and that was how Don found them.
"Hey, Don! What are you doing here?" Charlie asked surprised, yet pleased to see him.
"I wanted to run some things by you. No, stay, Larry," Don insisted as Larry began to excuse himself.
Don gestured to the table with a file he was holding, and the two sat down, as he tossed it lightly to the table.
"What's this?" Charlie asked.
"I've been working on...the case."
Charlie's eyes snapped up and locked with Don's. "It's not solved?"
Don made a vague gesture with his hand as he pulled up a chair and sat across from Larry and Charlie. "It is..."
"But you're not happy." Larry offered.
"Take a look. Tell me I'm not crazy."
Charlie slid the file closer to him and placed it between himself and Larry and the two geniuses began to read.
"You know..." Larry began.
"You're not crazy." Charlie finished.
Alan had dinner nearly ready. The brisket was keeping warm in the oven and the table was set. He'd sliced the fresh bread he'd bought at the bakery a few blocks over, and he had Don's favorite beer chilling in the fridge. It was only a matter of moments, he was sure, before his boys came home.
He heard the door opening. There they were. "Charlie? Don? Perfect timing...I'll just get the brisket..."
He froze as he realized the face staring back at him wasn't either of his sons.
"How'd you get in here?"
Mason smiled. "It was easy enough. Always was."
Alan took half a step backwards. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Alan, I'm disappointed in you. How'd you not know what was going on?"
"What?" Alan wasn't sure what to say, because things were just now becoming blatantly obvious.
Mason stepped closer to Alan and gestured to a chair, offering Alan a seat in his own son's house. "You would have made an excellent operative."
"Op...you...I told your boss I wasn't interested."
Mason nodded. "It was unfortunate, but it forced me to keep a careful watch on you. I'd hoped there'd be a chance to convince you otherwise." He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "If I hadn't watched you so carefully, perhaps I wouldn't have thought to recruit your sons."
Alan just stared incredulously at the man seated across from him. "Recruit them...you recruited Charlie?"
Mason nodded. "After getting Don to join the F.B. I., it was obvious Charlie would be a profitable addition to the team..."
"You were trying to get Don and Charlie to join your group." It wasn't a question. Alan knew it with certainty. He'd known all along that Mason had recruited Don. He'd just been grateful that it had been for the F.B. I., and not for that clandestine of all governmental agencies. "Don would never work for them."
Mason laughed. "Don't be so sure. If my plan with Buchmann had gone as I'd intended, he'd be too far gone to return by now."
"Your plan...Buchmann..." Alan swallowed. "You were manipulating Buchmann?"
Mason nodded. "My final revenge would have been to rip your sons away from you."
"Why?" The question slipped out before he could ask himself if he could handle the answer.
"To defeat you, of course, Alan."
Alan shook his head once and closed his eyes, unable to fathom that the man's hatred for him went so far as this.
To Be continued