Mind Games

Chapter 25

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: thanks for the reviews, all. No double life here, Patty. I'm just a businesswoman with a husband and two kids. Mwa ha ha...

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Mike Tate, the CIA operative, walked into the lobby of the FBI building, flashed his badge at the security officer, and signed in as requested, using an alias. He nodded at the officer, then proceeded down the main hallway and turned to a side hall just past the elevators. About halfway down the hall, he stepped into the men's restroom, entered a stall, and removed his suit, revealing a security uniform underneath. He folded the suit, and making sure that no one else was watching, stepped out of the stall, and lifted the lid from a trash receptacle. Pulling the plastic liner away from the side, he deposited the suit underneath it, for later retrieval, if necessary. The he readjusted the liner and replaced the triangular top of the can, and stepped back out into the side hallway. He moved down to where it joined the main hallway, but stayed at the corner, out of sight of the security guard down at the front entrance, still sitting at his desk. He knew the man was due to go off duty in fifteen minutes, and his replacement would not realize that Mike was the same man who had just walked in, wearing a suit instead of a security uniform.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the man that Allman had directed him to call, Agent Ziegler. "I'm in place. If he comes this way, I'll be ready."

Then he tucked his phone away and waited.

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Ziegler looked at his watch. It was about six-thirty L.A. time, and from the FBI camera feed, he could see the two agents and Reeves returning to the office, bearing takeout bags containing dinner. The office had cleared out for the evening, and other than Granger, Sinclair, Reeves, a woman agent and A. D. Wright, the bullpen was empty. Just enough of an audience, he thought. He watched as Granger, Sinclair and Reeves walked down the hall to one of the smaller conference rooms, which they appeared to be using as a war room for the case, and the other agent, a woman with dark curly hair whom they called Nikki, joined them. The assistant director of the L.A. office, Wright, was already in the conference room – Ziegler couldn't have collected a better group to witness the killing if he'd tried. Now, the trick would be to get Charlie Eppes to run to them.

Ziegler glanced at the other monitors, which showed Charlie in the kitchen, and Don in the living room of the Craftsman. He looked at the Team B members. "Okay, let's get this rolling."

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Charlie jumped as the door to the kitchen swung open with a bang, and turned quickly, too quickly; the pain in his rib cage made him gasp. Don swaggered through the doorway, his body tight, like a coiled spring.

"So, you said you wanted to talk?" he said. He was smiling, but his eyes were menacing.

Charlie stared at him, startled. Don had barely spoken to him all day, and now here he was, abruptly looking for conversation. The countertop pressed into his lower back and he realized that he had backed up against it. "Okay," he said trying to keep his voice even. "Let's go sit down in the living room."

Don shrugged, and pushed out back through the door. It appeared as though he was heading for the sofa, but as soon as they were through the door, he swung around suddenly, and Charlie stopped abruptly, facing him. They were in almost the same spot where they'd started the argument the last evening. Charlie caught his breath. Don's face was transformed; the cool impassive expression was gone, and his face was twisted as it had been the night before, pure hatred glinting from his eyes.

Don lifted a finger, jabbing it in his direction. "I'll bet you want to talk," he snarled. He winced suddenly, as if his head hurt, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and he continued as if it hadn't happened. "That's right up your alley – talk your way out of things, talk people into giving you your way – you've done it for years. You and your passive-aggressive, bullshit manipulation."

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"…passive-aggressive, bullshit manipulation." Jamison's voice floated through the speakers from the soundproof booth in the control room, and Ziegler nodded in approval. "He's pretty good."

"He's the best," said Wilkes succinctly. "He starts with knowledge of common sources of contention between subjects – with a spouse, it could be money, with siblings, natural feelings of competition. Then he researches the subjects, finds out all he can, and then finds out still more during the programming process. We run the initial sessions like psychotherapy – get the subject we're trying to program to talk about his relationship with others, and gradually home in on the person that we want him to eliminate. Jamison takes bits and pieces of fact, and twists them into something more negative – he's a genius."

"I'm done with it, Charlie!" Jamison was saying.

Wilkes spoke to Korb. "Take his decision centers down to about halfway, and start ramping up the rage."

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"I'm done with it, Charlie!" Don spat, and took a step forward. His fists clenched. The blackness inside was growing, consuming him…

Charlie backed up a step and raised his hands. This was so familiar, just like the night before, and yet, he couldn't shake a feeling of disbelief. Something was so horribly wrong – this couldn't be his brother speaking to him, it couldn't be. He was suddenly certain he needed to convince Don to get back to a hospital. Maybe they hadn't fixed the bleed in his brain correctly, he told himself; maybe there was pressure building inside Don's head, causing him to act strangely. "I don't want to fight with you," he said, taking another step backward.

Don's lip curled in a snarl. "You wouldn't, you little slime-ball. You'd rather weasel your way out, once again, with words. Just once, just once I'd like to see you stand up and fight like a man."

He lunged suddenly, but this time Charlie was ready for him, and feinted left, then dodged right, bringing his left arm up under Don's forearm, pushing it up and away enough to dart sideways. At the same time, he lunged, himself, planting his left foot behind Don's, and then suddenly reversed direction and pushed into his brother's upper body. Don's left foot was trapped, and his body tilted backwards. Charlie let him go, let him stumble back, arms windmilling. He'd learned the move in his FBI self-defense courses, and it was enough to give him a second or two, a brief expanse of daylight. He ran for the stairs, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, glancing back only once, to see Don totter into the sofa, and catch himself on the back of it.

He flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time, running down the hallway to his room and slamming the door, suddenly feeling ridiculous as a memory surfaced – Don playing monster as a kid, chasing him up the stairs. He'd barge into the room, delighting in Charlie's squeals and his hysterical laughter as he grabbed his younger brother and tickled him. Charlie paused for minute behind his door, breathing heavily – he could hear nothing, and he felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his face. He'd run like a child, fearing the worst.

Still, a lurking panic resonated in the back of his head, and he darted over to his desk and shuffled papers, looking for his cell phone. Megan. She was at the FBI offices tonight, and she'd told him he could call her – she'd give him advice; maybe she could even help him talk Don into getting a check-up. He spied the phone and snatched it, scrolling to her number in the directory just as the door banged open behind him.

Charlie whirled, going chalk-white as he saw Don's face, infused with fury. His brother crossed the room with two strides and tore the phone from Charlie's hand, as he stood there paralyzed with momentary, unreasonable terror. The monster had chased him up the stairs, and into his room.

"Who're you calling, Chuck?" Don rasped. His head jerked in an odd, involuntary spasm, and Charlie swallowed hard, not daring to respond. Don glanced down at the phone and the name and number on the display. "Megan? You calling Megan?" His voice rose and he advanced, tossing the phone on the desk, his eyes fixed on Charlie's, glaring. "You're trying to turn my own friends against me?!"

Charlie began to back up, but his foot caught in a section of comforter that drooped onto the floor from his unmade bed, and as he stumbled and glanced downward involuntarily, Don lurched forward and grabbed him, one hand finding his Charlie's arm, the other his shirt. They fell together onto the bed, bouncing off that onto the floor, and Charlie's head swam as his injured rib cage was jolted by the contact.

He gasped for air; it turned out to be fortuitous, because suddenly Don's hands were around his throat, his brother's face, ugly with rage, inches from his own, muttering curses, as his fingers cut off Charlie's air supply. Charlie grasped Don's wrists, pried at his fingers, trying to get him to release his grip, his efforts growing more frantic as oxygen in his body dwindled. Wild realization burst into his head – Don wasn't kidding, wasn't just trying to scare him – he was intent on murder. Charlie's head was reeling; his lungs were going to explode, and with his last bit of strength, he looked up into his brother's eyes with an unspoken prayer. Oh God, please, Don, please don't…

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Alan slid out of the Grand Cherokee, his feet crunching as they hit the snow, and looked around. To his right a massive log lodge loomed, and as fascinated as he knew he would be by the architecture of the place, his attention was riveted by the landscape. Stan and their client, the businessman from Juneau named Rory Lannerman, stood for a moment in the sharp cold air, taking in the sight, their breath rising in plumes in the Arctic twilight.

In front of them stretched a lake surrounded by pines, the entire landscape covered with snow, blue in the fading light; and beyond it, the sun had just set, leaving a red glow on the horizon that faded to rose, then peach, then lemon. It was breathtaking, and they stood in silence, savoring it. "Look there," Lannerman said, pointing to their right, beyond the edge of the lodge, and they looked north to see fingers of colored light reaching into the sky.

"Aurora borealis," breathed Alan. "I've never seen it before."

Stan grinned beside him. "We're lucky we can see sky in L.A."

It was a magical world, hushed and beautiful, and Alan could fee the peace seeping into his soul. That sense of peace, the impression of being in another world, stayed with him as he tromped behind Stan into the lodge.

Lannerman had modestly called it a cabin, but it was a truly an architectural marvel, with vaulted ceilings and huge windows. A chandelier fashioned out of elk antlers hung from the cathedral ceiling over the great room, which looked out through enormous picture windows onto the lake. It was filled with comfortable furniture – leather sofas, deep armchairs. They looked inviting; the trip to get there had been exhausting, and included a bumpy flight in a small propeller plan for several hours. It had landed at a tiny airport with one rough landing strip near the tiny town of Berner, and then they'd had a four-hour ride in the Grand Cherokee, some of it over unpaved road. They were truly out in the middle of nowhere.

"I'll rustle up some brandy," said Lannerman. "We'll relax tonight, and start to hit the design concepts tomorrow. It's amazing how much work you can get done out here, without the normal interruptions. Trust me, a few days of this and you won't miss the television or the phone."

Alan grunted affirmation; he was certain he could get used to this. He sighed contentedly, and looked out the window at the last dying vestiges of sunlight – a faint strip of red lay like a pool of blood on the dark horizon.

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"Back it off!" yelled Wilkes, as Korb's hands flew over the dials.

Jamison's voice came over the speakers. "STOP! Not yet, not yet! Think – you need to do this right. Let him go – go to your room, get the knife."

The four men watched the screen, filled with tension, willing Don's hands to release their grip.

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Charlie could feel darkness starting to encroach upon the edges of his vision and his struggles were fading, when Don suddenly relinquished his grip and sat back on his heels, a dazed look on his face. Charlie gasped for air, his lungs burning, and the pain made him close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Don was standing, with a cold expression on his face. He jabbed a finger at Charlie. "I'm not done with you yet," he growled, and grabbing Charlie's cell phone and the handset for the house phone, he stalked out of the room.

For a moment, Charlie could do nothing but breathe – his oxygen-starved limbs were incapable of moving. After a few breaths, however, mobility returned, and he scrambled to his feet, staggering into the bed as he regained them. He pushed off the bed and stumbled for the door, pain and terror and heartbreak all churning inside him, threatening to steal coherent thought. Instinct took over and urged him out into the hall – he had to get out of there, had to get away. Megan, he thought. Megan and Colby and David would know what to do. He couldn't tell anyone else – who knew what they would do to Don if they found out how he was behaving?

He reeled down the hallway, bouncing off the wall, and stopped outside Don's room as a movement inside caught his eye. Don had put on his denim jacket, and was resting his foot on the bed and was strapping a sheath to his leg. Charlie could see the handle of what looked like a knife protruding from it, and for a moment, he wavered, torn between self-preservation and concern for Don, for what he might do. If he harmed someone, it would mean prison. Almost at the same instant, however, he realized that if Don harmed anyone it would be him, and the best thing he could do for both of them would be to get out of there. Don straightened, his head began to turn towards him, and Charlie waited no longer – he headed for the stairs at a run.

He flew down them, breath ragged in his aching throat, somehow keeping his feet as he took the stairs two and three at a time, and as he crossed the living room, he heard Don calling out his name. He didn't stop – he headed right for the front door, and burst through it to the outside.

It was growing dark, and for a split second he paused, wondering where to go. The SUV parked at the curb answered his question – he remembered Rogan saying that it would show up after six, and the men inside would be in charge. Rogan had given him a name – it began with a "T" – he couldn't remember. He sprinted towards it as the two men inside jumped out of the vehicle, and he met them at the passenger side.

"I need to get to the FBI offices," he gasped, throwing a fearful look over his shoulder.

One of the men had already drawn his service weapon and had moved between Charlie and the house, his eyes roving the front of it for possible threats. The other, an NSA agent named Thorn, looked at him. "Calm down, Dr. Eppes," he said. "Why do you need to go there? You're not supposed to leave the house, unless it's an emergency."

"It is an emergency," Charlie pleaded. "I need to get out of here, now. I can explain later. If you don't take me, I'll drive myself."

The two men looked at each other. "I'll take him," said Thorn. "You stay here, find out what's going on, and call it in to Masters."

He started around the front of the vehicle, but all three of them turned as Don emerged from the house, yelling, "Charlie, wait!"

A look of pure panic washed over Charlie's face, and he wrenched open the passenger door and jumped in the vehicle. "Hurry!" he commanded. "Don't wait for him!"

Thorn gave him a disconcerted look, but darted around the far end of the vehicle to the driver's side, and yelled to his partner, "Take care of him, Cooperman!" with a jerk of his head toward Don. Then he jumped in and started the vehicle, and pulled away from the curb. He had no idea what was happening, but from the look on Dr. Eppes' face, he was mortally afraid of something, and it was the agent's job to keep him safe. Better to get him away, and ask questions later.

Don immediately swerved to his left, dashing toward the driveway and his own SUV, and the second man holstered his pistol and ran after him. Some of the other members of the surveillance unit had appeared from their hiding spots, and stood standing uncertainly at the front of the house. The man yelled after Don, "Hold on, Eppes – I need to go with you!" and Don turned and looked at him blankly for a moment. The agent caught up to him, and laid a calming hand on his arm.

"I need to go after my brother," said Don, his brows drawn. The words sounded strange, robotic.

"I'm Agent Cooperman," said the man, panting from the dash across the lawn. "We can take your vehicle, but I'll drive you – I know where he's going."

'Let him drive you,' said the voice inside Don's head. 'It will be easier when you get there – you won't have to deal with the vehicle. Tell him to hurry.' Don nodded at Cooperman, and pulled his keys from his pocket. "Okay, but hurry."

"You can tell me what in the hell's happening on the way," said Cooperman. He flung a command over his shoulder to the men as he trotted around the SUV toward the driver's side. "Secure the house, and call this in to Masters. Tell him we're on our way to the FBI offices."

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Hundreds of miles away in the control booth, Team B and Ziegler watched the video feed from the button in Don's jacket, and heard the exchange.

Ziegler smiled. "The FBI offices. Now isn't that just perfect?" He pulled out his cell phone. "I'm calling Agent Tate at the office building, and letting him know that they're heading his way. Everyone understand what to do?" The statement was made to all of them, but Ziegler trained his eyes on Wilkes, who nodded.

"Yeah, we're ready," he said. Wilkes, Korb, and Jamison turned their eyes back to the monitor. Don and the agent had gotten in the vehicle, and the monitor in Don's jacket picked up the view through the windshield, streetlights flashing by as the SUV sped off into the night.

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End, Chapter 25