Mind Games
Chapter 27
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews . Just some reference points – I finished this story last week. In case you were curious – it is 68 chapters, which means lots more heartbreak, angst, multiple whumps, brother moments, and action ahead. The chapters you are reading right now were actually written last fall, and I've had that glass conference room scene in my head for months before that. At this point, I should offer another heartfelt thank you to FraidyCat, who has kindly beta'd the entire thing, and thanks again to all of you – I really love writing for you…
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Colby watched anxiously as the paramedics loaded the gurney into the ambulance, and then turned to the group behind him – agents Cooperman and Thorn, A.D. Wright, and Megan. LAPD officers had arrived, and David had gone with them to escort Don to LAPD headquarters. "I'll ride with Charlie, if it's okay with you," said Colby, looking at Thorn. "He should have someone he knows with him right now."
Thorn nodded, his face still registering the vestiges of shock and dismay. "Cooperman and I will meet you there," he said. "Bill Masters and Brian Rogan are on their way."
Wright looked at him; his face grim. "I'll meet you there, too. I want an accounting of this from you before I call in to report to the Director."
Thorn and Cooperman nodded miserably, and the group watched as Colby climbed in the rear of the ambulance behind the medics, and the doors swung shut. There was a short blast of a siren, and the ambulance pulled off into the night, its lights flashing.
Inside, Colby leaned over Charlie. Charlie was covered with blood; the knife handle was still protruding from his chest, at least what Colby could see of it - the medics had packed layers of bandages around it. He was still conscious; Colby could not imagine how, but he wanted him to stay that way, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. If Charlie went, they would not only lose him – they would lose Don, too. Colby knew that if Charlie died, Don could end up on death row, or at the very least, in a facility for the criminally insane. "Hey, Charlie," he breathed softly, firmly grasping the young man's hand. It felt cold, and already lifeless.
Charlie's face was twisted in agony, and he looked up at Colby, fear, pain, and deep despair written in his expression, along with an unspoken question. Tears glittered in his eyes, and two escaped, streaking down the sides of his face. Colby, heartsick, watched them go, and for the first time noticed the marks on Charlie's neck. They were unmistakable – bruises from fingers; he'd seen them before. Were they from Don, too? The medic next to Charlie gently lifted his head, and slipped on an oxygen mask. Charlie's breaths were short, painful, there was not enough air for speech, but Colby could read the question on his face as clearly as if he had spoken it. Why?
"I don't know, Charlie," Colby said sadly, answering the silent query. He looked into Charlie's eyes intently, almost fiercely. "But you have to hang on, man, do you understand me? For you – and for Don. Something's wrong with him – he's not right – but maybe they can help him. You need to make sure you hang in there, okay?"
Even as he spoke, Charlie's eyelids were drifting shut, and Colby tightened his grip on Charlie's hand. The horrible reality was sinking in – this was not just another victim – this was Charlie. He blurted out a plea, panic in his voice. "Charlie, please! Stay with me!"
With an effort, Charlie opened his eyes, but in spite of Colby's repeated entreaties, they kept drifting shut. His body hurt, his heart ached with anguish like none he'd ever known before; the despair was so absolute that he no longer had the will to live. He was tired, so tired…
They were nearly to the hospital when Charlie's eyes closed, and didn't open again.
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Bill Masters and Brian Rogan waited outside the operating room, Masters pacing impatiently. A chastised Thorn and Cooperman stood guard at the doors, their faces grim and miserable after the tongue-lashing they'd received from Masters.
Rogan eyed Masters as he passed. "You were a little hard on them. No one could have predicted this."
"They should never have let Dr. Eppes leave the house," snapped Masters. "They knew something was up – they should have called it in, right away."
"It probably wouldn't have made a difference," said Rogan. "If Don Eppes was going to kill him, he could have done it at the house just as easily."
Masters paused, and dragged a hand over his face. "Where is that doctor? He told us he'd have an update for us by now. We're due to report in." He had no sooner spoken than the doors to the operating room opened, and the doctor in question pushed through them. Masters strode forward and put a hand on the man's arm, hurriedly guiding him toward a small office. "In here."
The surgeon gave him a look, but allowed himself to be ushered into the room. Rogan followed them in, and shut the door. Masters swung around and faced the doctor, impatiently.
"I would never have believed it, but I think he's going to make it," said the doctor, and both agents let out silent breaths. "Whoever stabbed him didn't know what he was doing, obviously. Ordinarily, someone with experience would angle the knife upward in that region of the chest, to be sure of hitting the heart. The main strike went straight in, and in fact angled slightly downward. In addition, the blade was turned vertically, so it minimized the damage. Still, the patient was extremely lucky. The blade actually grazed the pericardium, and ended up sliding between the lung and the heart, but with no real damage to either. The other knife wounds were relatively superficial, although this didn't appear to be the first assault – he had bruising and two broken ribs, which looked as though he'd received them earlier. The main risk to the patient now is blood loss, which was significant, but we're continuing to stitch up the wounds, and will continue transfusions. Unless he crashes from the shock, I'm predicting a full recovery."
"Good," breathed Masters. "That's good." He paused for a moment, thinking; then looked the doctor in the eye. "We've already impressed on you that this man is a government witness in a very sensitive case. I want you to do something for me. For his protection, I need people – and by that I mean everyone but us, and as few of your staff as possible - to believe he died on the table. We'll transfer him somewhere else for recovery. Can you arrange that?"
The surgeon looked at him doubtfully. "It's possible, but I would need to include a few of my staff to make it believable, and we need to run it by the administrator. I can shoo out the interns and some of the others in the room, but I can't call a death without at least one other person there – it wouldn't be protocol – or be believable to those who weren't there. And we'd need to clue in someone in the morgue, and whoever will attend him post op."
"See if you can arrange it. Maybe they can send up a John Doe from the morgue – you can put a sheet over him and tag him as Dr. Eppes, make a show of taking him back down to the morgue. It's important that you don't let anyone else know, including the guards outside the door, the feds, anybody, unless you get permission from myself or Agent Rogan, here. Is that clear?"
The surgeon looked at him as if he were not quite right, but nodded. "In that case, I need to get moving – I need to start the requests and get back in there."
Masters' eyes bored into his. "Do not take this lightly. This is a matter of national security. You can go." The skeptical look on the surgeon's face faded, and he swallowed and gave a brief nod. As he departed, Masters punched a speed dial number into his cell phone, and glanced at Rogan. "What do you think?"
"Good," grunted Rogan, as CIA Director Conaghan's voice came on the line.
"Masters? I've got FBI Director Maxwell here with me. What's the status?"
"Rogan's here with me," replied Bill Masters. "We just got a report from the doctor. He says the professor's gonna make it. It sounds like he's one lucky son of a bitch – the knife passed between his heart and his lung, but didn't damage either of them. He lost a lot of blood, but the doctor thinks it's under control. Rogan and I told him we wanted him to stage something for us – to make it look like Eppes died on the table, for his own protection. We'll move him somewhere else to recover."
"Good thinking," came Conaghan's voice. "Dave Maxwell and I agree; something about this stinks, and we're going to look into it from our end."
"I can bring in the proper people in my organization out of the LA office," said Maxwell. "I'll limit it, of course."
"With all due respect, sir," said Rogan, "I don't think we should let any one else in on this, including your people, until we get a chance to find out what happened."
"I can't believe that they had anything to do with it," snapped Maxwell.
"And you wouldn't have believed Don Eppes would try to kill his own brother, either," retorted Conaghan. "Rogan is right. We need to limit this to need-to-know personnel, only, until we find out what is going on."
There was silence for a moment; then Maxwell's disgruntled but resigned voice came over the line. "All right. Temporarily, I'll agree with that. But as soon as they're cleared, I want them clued in."
"Good," said Conaghan. "All right gentlemen – we'll let you go – you have work to do. Keep us informed. You can reach us at any time, but at the least we expect an update at six a.m. our time. You can call this number again."
"Right, thank you, sir," said Masters. He flipped the phone shut and looked at Rogan. "Okay, as soon as the doctor gives the go-ahead, we'll get this charade on the road. Where are the feds?"
"They're waiting downstairs, in the ER waiting room," said Rogan. "As soon as the doctor calls the death, I'll tell them."
"We'll need to figure out how to handle family notification. We need to delay somehow, maybe stage a fake cremation. Eppes' father is still in Alaska. We could work that to our advantage."
Rogan looked doubtful. "Yeah – although we could ask Conaghan to let him in on it."
Masters shook his head. "No – we've got our marching orders. For Dr. Eppes' safety, we need to keep everyone in the dark, until he gets a chance to testify. It'll only be a couple of weeks – maybe a little longer depending on how long it takes the doctor to recuperate."
Rogan ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. We're gonna put his dad through hell."
"We're not," retorted Masters. "Don Eppes already took care of that."
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Megan looked up as a figure stepped into the room, and put a hand on Colby's arm as she recognized Agent Rogan heading towards them. A.D. Wright and Nikki had seen him too, and the group rose to their feet as Brian Rogan stopped in front of them.
"I'm sorry," said Rogan, simply and without preamble. "Dr. Eppes passed away a few moments ago, on the operating table." His face a mask of respect, he watched for reactions, taking in disbelief on each of the faces, and despair on the faces of Granger and Reeves, who knew the professor best. He could discern nothing other than genuine emotion – if any of this group was involved in what had happened at the office, they were masters of deception.
"Oh my God," whispered Megan, and she sank back into a chair with a shaking hand to her face. Nikki looked at her uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot, and then reached out and patted Megan's shoulder awkwardly. She didn't know Charlie that well yet, and she was admittedly lousy at empathizing, but the grief on Granger's and Reeves' faces, even on A.D. Wright's, couldn't help but hit home, even to her street-toughened psyche. What disturbed her more was the fact that her SAC had carried out the attack – in her short time there, she'd already grown to respect him.
Wright cleared his throat, his voice husky with emotion. "The agents tell me that Charlie's father is in Alaska. His girlfriend is in Europe. I'll try to locate them – let them know."
"No, that won't be necessary – we'll handle it," said Rogan smoothly. "We already have people on it. In fact, we would ask you not to let anyone know, including acquaintances. If there is anyone that needs to be notified, please tell us, and we'll do it. We are still dealing with a highly sensitive issue, and we need to control who knows what. I'll let you notify the prosecutor and LAPD – this will have a bearing on the charges against Don Eppes." He looked around at the group with genuine sympathy. "My condolences to all of you," he said, and walked away, leaving them silent and motionless.
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Lieutenant Gary Walker burst through the doorway into the hall outside the interrogation room at LAPD headquarters and stopped short at the observation window, next to David Sinclair. Through the window, he could see Don Eppes hunched in a chair, staring at a table in front of him, his shirt bloodstained, and across from him sat two LAPD detectives. Walker appeared to be fighting down anger as he looked at David. "Did you hear anything from the hospital yet?"
"No – nothing other than that Charlie's in surgery. I called you as soon as they took Don in," said David. His voice was quiet, almost hushed, as if all the fight had been knocked out of him. "I told them he should just be held until the FBI had a chance to organize an internal investigation, but they wouldn't listen. They've been questioning him, but he won't talk – he seems to be in shock."
Walker's face was a mixture of outrage and disbelief. He didn't respond, instead, he pushed through the door into the room and faced the detectives, furiously. "What in the hell's going on here?"
They both looked up, surprise on their faces. Don sat silently, still staring at the table, as if no one else was in the room. "We read him his Miranda rights," said one, defensively.
"Screw that. The man is in shock," snapped Walker. "You have no business questioning him right now – he obviously isn't even capable of calling for an attorney. Now get your asses out of here, before I kick them out!"
The men exchanged a dumbfounded glance, but moved – quickly - scooting past Walker, who held the door for David and beckoned him to enter. "Did he say anything at all?" he asked him quietly, as David slipped past the retreating detectives. David shook his head, but didn't reply – his eyes were on Don, who was suddenly beginning to stir.
Don groaned and put a hand to his face, then pulled it away and stared at the dried blood on it, as if trying to comprehend how it had gotten there. He sat up abruptly and looked down at his bloodstained shirt, grasping it and pulling it away from his body, as if it was contaminated, and then looked up at David and Lieutenant Walker, staggering to his feet. "David -," he managed; then paused. His face was a study in confusion and fear. "What happened? I'm dreaming, right? I'm…"
He looked back down at his hands and shirt again, his chest heaving, and David exchanged a troubled look with Walker, and then moved over to him. "Sit down, Don," he murmured, and put a gentle hand on Don's arm to guide him to his seat, but Don resisted, and remained standing, looking into David's eyes, with growing terror on his face.
He grasped David's arms, and Walker moved toward them, eyeing Don warily. "What happened?" demanded Don, his voice rising.
David could feel Don's fingers digging into his arms like steel probes, but he remained motionless, maintained eye contact. "What do you remember?"
Don stared at him, gaping, as if still trying to comprehend the situation. "I – I must have blacked out, or something. I was having a dream -," he broke off, swallowed. "I dreamed that I attacked Charlie, but that's crazy - ," His voice trailed away as he looked at David's face, and the desperation returned to his voice. "I was dreaming, right? Or hallucinating – or – or something."
David glanced again at Walker; his face infused with pain, then looked back at Don and shook his head. "You didn't dream it, Don."
Don stared at him, stricken, beginning to tremble as comprehension dawned. "Oh, God – oh God," he whispered, and then sat suddenly, his legs failing him. "Oh, God." He grabbed one of David's arms again, desperation in his face, his voice rising. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
"They took him to the hospital," said David. He looked at Don miserably. "Don – why? Can you tell us why? What happened?"
Don's gaze had shifted to the floor, and he stared at it dazedly, still clutching David's arm. Tears were forming in his eyes, and when he looked up at David, the agent could feel the impact of the despair and confusion on his face. "I don't know," Don whispered, and then abruptly released David's arm and ran a shaking hand over his face. "There were these voices – in my head…," He slumped forward suddenly and buried his face in his hands, shaking, and a moan broke from his throat. "God, no. Charlie…"
David's cell phone vibrated, and he looked at Walker as he pulled it out. He glanced at the number. "I need to take this," he said quietly, and Walker gave him a somber nod as David stepped out into the hallway.
He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear. "Yeah, Colby." Then he was silent, just breathing, his chest rising and falling with suppressed emotion. "Okay," he finally said, with a leaden voice, and flipped the phone shut. He put a hand over stinging eyes, and just stood there for a moment, overcome, then he dropped his hand and turned back into the interrogation room, his shoulders slumped.
Don looked up as he came in, his eyes searching David's face, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. Walker shot David a sharp look, as the agent stopped in front of Don and put a hand on his arm.
"I need to see him," Don choked, finally finding his voice, his chest heaving with emotion. "I need to tell him-"
"Don," David said, and his voice cracked. He tightened his grip on Don's arm, and tried again, deep misery in his eyes. "Don – I'm sorry – he didn't make it. Charlie's dead."
Don stared at him, his mouth open slightly, and he shook his head, as if denial would make David's statement untrue. "No," he rasped, his voice hoarse and shaking, and David could hear the heartbreak in it. Don trailed off, his eyes moving blankly toward the floor, and without warning toppled forward, and pitched into David's arms.
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End Chapter 27
A/N: Our poor boys – man, I am so mean. Don's facing some serious psychological whumping - H/C ahead. And yes, Don fans, more physical whumping ahead too. I'm not done with Charlie yet, either...