Mind Games
Chapter 33
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. This one's a bit longer...
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Charlie cowered in the corner, dark eyes huge in his child's face. Tears streamed down his cheeks – he was shaking as Don advanced, inexorably. "Please Donnie," he entreated, tremulously. "I'm sorry, please – don't…"
Don sat up in his cell with a gasp, beads of sweat on his forehead. The dream was relentless; he couldn't escape it - it appeared every time he slept. Sometimes, it took this form – Charlie as a child, trapped in a corner of the garage, and sometimes, it was an adult Charlie who occupied the nightmares – Charlie in the glass-walled conference room at the FBI office, vainly trying to fend off a stabbing. Both versions were unbearable, and Don's sleep had been fitful, broken, as a result. He was exhausted, at the end of his limits physically and mentally.
The buzzer sounded for the door at the end of his cellblock, and he rubbed his face to clear the visions and sat up. He was the only one in the block, so if the door opened, it was someone for him. As Brian Rogan appeared in front of his cell along with a guard, he frowned in confusion. Hadn't they just been there with his father? Was he losing track of the days now, too?
Rogan looked at him through the bars, and Don could see a trace of something that looked like sympathy in his face. "Agent, I need you to come with me. We have some things we need to discuss – we're going to a conference room on the premises." As he spoke, the guard signaled toward a camera, and the cell door clicked. The guard pushed it open, and Don rose, casting another glance at Rogan, looking for more information.
None was forthcoming; instead, he was led out of the block down a hall, and down another to an elevator. It let out into a short hallway one floor down that accessed two private conference rooms, used for prisoners to meet in confidence with their lawyers. Rogan held open one of the doors, and as Don entered, he saw his father and other familiar faces – Bill Masters, Ian Edgerton, and the man who had treated him in Louisiana after his head injury – what was his name? Don couldn't quite remember – it was as if something was in the way…
"Sit down, Don," said Bill Masters, quietly, and Don realized that he'd simply been standing there, frowning. The door had closed behind him, leaving the guard outside. Edgerton's eyes were narrowed; he was studying Don appraisingly, and Don got the impression that he didn't like what he saw. Understandable – he was looking at a man who'd killed his innocent brother in an insane fit of fury. With a grimace of self-loathing, Don sat. For the first time, he noticed the other occupant of the room, a trim man with sandy hair, in his mid-forties. Rogan introduced him as Dr. Janovic, a neurosurgeon.
"Don," continued Masters, indicating the man from Louisiana, "do you remember this man?"
Don's eyes flickered back to the man in the corner. "I -," Don began; then stopped. He looked at Alan as if for help, but his father appeared as confused as Don felt. Don turned his eyes back to Masters. "I remember him -," he stopped and looked at the man. "You treated me after the car accident – I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."
The man spoke up, quietly. "Jonathan Wilkes. You wouldn't remember my name, Don, you were programmed not to."
"What is this?" Alan demanded, suddenly. "Does he need a lawyer?"
Masters shook his head. "No – we aren't here to question him, Mr. Eppes. You're both here because we owe you some answers."
"I'll take it from here," said Wilkes. "Don, I'm part of a special team that works at Cypress Institute, where you were taken after the accident. Much of the work at Cypress is unclassified, and supports medical research. There is a group of us there, however, who do highly classified work for the government. On occasion, we do assignments for special interests, people who have a need for what is rather archaically termed as brainwashing."
"Brainwashing!" exclaimed Alan.
Don said nothing; he just stared at the man, but somewhere, in the grief-fogged depths of his brain, something stirred. His gut told him that whatever this man was about to tell him, it was related to Charlie's death.
Wilkes kept a steady gaze on Don's face. "Do you remember going through surgery after the accident?"
Don nodded, slowly. "Yes. The doctor there -," He stopped, frowning.
"Dr. Allman," prompted Wilkes.
Don's face cleared. "Yes, Dr. Allman did the surgery. He told me I had a very small bleed that needed to be taken care of."
Wilkes shook his head gently. "That is what you were told. There was no bleed; the fact is, we had been instructed to reprogram you. Part of that reprogramming consisted of placing wiring in your brain – it's very similar to surgery done to correct tremors in Parkinson's patients, although the leads are routed to other areas of the brain – namely those that control decision-making and emotional response." He paused for reactions, but there were none – both men sat, their gazes riveted, confusion on their faces, and waited for him to proceed. Ian Edgerton, who hadn't been told what they'd done to Don, sat in the corner, eyes narrowed, with just a hint of comprehension dawning on his face, but he too, was silent.
Wilkes took a deep breath. "Along with the wires, we implanted a device in your head that is attached to your auditory nerve. Through it, you can receive instructions – they're transmitted directly through that nerve into your brain. To you, it would have sounded like someone was speaking to you – which they were."
Don's eyes flickered with recognition. "The voices," he said, in a half-whisper.
Wilkes nodded. "Yes. No one else, however, could hear it." Don's eyes had dropped; he had a distant look in his eyes, as if dredging up some long-ago memory. Wilkes kept his eyes on him, and continued. "By applying electrical current to the wires, we could control your emotions, your ability to make decisions, and we could instruct you through the device in your head. We coupled all of that hardware with two intensive weeks of brainwashing. The equipment shortens the brainwashing process, and makes it much more effective."
Alan interjected, sputtering. "You expect us to believe this – this – science fiction? You're trying to get him to say something he shouldn't."
Wilkes held out his hands with a placating gesture. "Trust me, I wish I didn't have to be here to tell you this. If you want physical evidence, just feel gently inside your collarbone, Don – either side. That's where the batteries sit that provide the electrical impulses."
Don looked at him, then at Alan, then back at Wilkes, and finally raised a hand toward his collarbone, then dropped it. "I can't."
Wilkes' face twitched with a grim half-smile. "Yes, you can. You don't want to, because we programmed you that way. Go ahead, it's okay."
Don's brow furrowed and he raised his hand again, feeling under the collar of the jumpsuit. As he did so, an odd look crossed his face, and he nodded faintly at Alan; then faced Wilkes, anger starting to dawn on his face. "So what was the purpose of this – brainwashing? Was it part of the operation that Charlie and I were working on?"
Alan spoke before Wilkes had a chance to answer, his voice shaking with grief. "This is why – isn't it? What you did to Donnie backfired, drove him insane. That's why he attacked Charlie."
Wilkes exchanged a glance with Rogan and Masters, and when he replied his voice was heavy. "Not exactly. Don isn't insane, and the programming worked as planned. He did precisely what we wanted him to – we programmed him to kill his brother."
For a moment, there was an unearthly silence in the room; then suddenly, Don erupted from his chair, lunging for Wilkes. "You son of a bitch!" he roared, reaching for Wilkes' throat. Rogan and Masters were immediately on him, restraining him, but they could barely hold him; he was thrashing like a madman. Wilkes had leapt to his feet and backpedaled quickly, out of range of Don's grasping hands.
"Don, stop!" came Alan's voice from behind him.
"You – you -," Don gasped, his face contorted in fury, still intent on reaching Wilkes, dragging Rogan and Masters with him. Ian Edgerton had risen to his feet, behind Wilkes.
"Donnie, stop!" commanded Alan again, louder this time. "That won't bring him back."
The words, ragged with grief, were like a cold burst of ice water, and Don sagged suddenly in Rogan and Masters' grip. Wilkes shook his head, sadly, his eyes still fixed on Don. "I'm sorry, Agent, those were our orders. We think now that Joe Bishop planned the whole thing – he must have been part of the smuggling plot, was probably working for Aswad Shar'e, the terrorist group behind it all. We think Bishop was the one who gave Dr. Allman the orders."
Rogan and Masters guided Don back into his seat, and he collapsed there, as Ian Edgerton spoke for the first time. "You think Bishop gave him the orders. You don't know?"
Masters responded. "Dr. Allman was found murdered a few days ago, and the bullet in him matches a gun found by the side of a riverbank about three miles away, along with Joe Bishop's cell phone. The gun bore Bishop's prints. Unfortunately, Dr. Allman was the only one who could tell us who gave him his orders. Bishop himself is AWOL."
Edgerton's face clouded with suspicion. "I worked with Bishop for weeks on the assignment, and so did the Eppes brothers. I waited with him at Cypress Institute for two more weeks while Don Eppes was being – programmed. I knew nothing about it, and I'm sure Bishop didn't either. If he did, he's the best damned actor I've ever seen. And if he's that bright, he wouldn't have left his gun and his cell phone where it could be found."
Masters shrugged. "Who knows why he ditched them that way? Maybe he was about to be pulled over for a driving infraction, and had to get rid of them in a hurry. The fact remains, he disappeared at the same time, and you have to admit that is highly suspicious."
Edgerton looked unconvinced. "He was our handler – he could have taken care of the three of us at any time. Why would he wait?"
"They needed Charlie's programming," returned Masters. "They needed to be sure that the clients from Aswad Shar'e would accept it." He shot a meaningful glance at Alan, who, desperate for answers, was drinking in every word. "Mr. Eppes, I'm sorry, but we can't go into all the details of their assignment – it's classified. We just wanted you and Don to know that what happened to Charlie wasn't Don's fault."
Don was staring at the floor, miserably. "It was my fault. I should have fought it."
"You did," said Wilkes, quietly. "You need to understand – you had no other options. Everything was being controlled, even the choice of weapon. A gunshot might have been perceived as an accident, that's why we went with a knife; we had planned for you take the fall, so there could be no question that it was murder." Don winced at that, and Wilkes paused. "We orchestrated it all, including the site, and the audience. You should know that you fought it harder than anyone I've ever seen. The mind control is impossible to overcome, agent, but if it's any consolation, you came closer to doing that than anyone ever has before. And based on your reaction now, I have high hopes that your de-programming will be complete."
"There's a chance it wouldn't be? Complete, I mean," asked Alan worriedly. "I don't understand."
Don had looked up at the last statement, and Wilkes faced him, resolutely, as he answered Alan's question. "There is always a risk that someone who has been brainwashed might not be able to be deprogrammed completely, even when the wiring has been removed. There may be permanent changes to your brain's circuitry. Plus, while the wiring still in place, there is continued risk – you are at the mercy of anyone who has access to the controls. For that reason, Dr. Janovic, here, has scheduled you for surgery within the week to remove them. In addition, however, you will need to go through therapy sessions to unlearn what we taught you."
"In short, I can't be trusted," Don replied bitterly.
Wilkes shook his head and sighed. "Unfortunately, no. Not yet. Although, once the wiring is removed, and even now, while it is inactive, you are no threat to anyone else – your programming was focused entirely on Charlie."
Masters spoke up, his eyes boring into Don's. "I realize this is difficult to hear, Agent Eppes, but there is still something you can do to avenge the attack on your brother. During the next few days while you are waiting for your surgery, if you begin to hear the voices again, it will mean that someone is trying to contact you, to assert control. If you encounter that, you need to tell us immediately, before that person can exert too much influence over you. If you do that, we may have a shot at catching Bishop, or whomever he might be working with. We would also like you to testify at the hearings, concerning what you know about the smuggling scheme, and about Montreaux's cocaine operation." He looked at Alan, and back at Don. "Obviously, none of this can leave this room. Assistant Director Wright, Megan Reeves, and agents Granger, Bentancourt, and Sinclair have all been briefed on what happened to you. Other than them, the people in this room, and Directors Maxwell and Conaghan, no one knows the real story, and we intend to keep it that way, for your own safety."
"What about Robin Brooks?" asked Don.
Masters shook his head. "She doesn't know yet. She has asked to see you, but we haven't allowed her to visit, at least so far – we're trying to keep this to as few people as possible. It's only for a short time, until after the hearings, and then we'll give her clearance, and you'll be able to brief her on what happened. You should understand that no charges will be pressed against you, but until the hearings, we need to pretend that you are in custody, awaiting a grand jury hearing for Charlie's murder."
Don grimaced at the last statement, and swallowed, but nodded. "I understand," he said hoarsely. He looked up, his eyes haunted. "I'll do whatever it takes to catch the people responsible for this. You can count on that."
Masters nodded. "Good. I knew we could."
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Alan sat silently in Rogan's car on the way back to the Craftsman, and Brian left him to his thoughts until they had pulled up in the driveway. "I realize this is a lot to handle," he said, quietly.
Alan was jolted out of his thoughts, and for a moment, he looked at Rogan as if he wasn't sure how the man had gotten there. Then he sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "I didn't have the heart to ask Don," he said, "but this undercover operation – whose idea was it? Who could have thought that putting Charlie - an untrained person - in the middle of this was a good idea?"
"The U.S. government," replied Rogan, wryly. "We needed someone with Charlie's skills and clearance, and there were just not that many to pick from. We thought that by putting Don in undercover with him we would help protect him. If it means anything, Don was against it from the start. I'm afraid we did a good job of convincing Charlie it was the right thing to do. For our country's sake, even in retrospect, it was still the right thing to do."
"This – this Aswad Shar'e – they're a terrorist group?"
Rogan nodded. "Yes. They were, and still are, I imagine, trying to smuggle advanced weapons technology and equipment to Iran. This will be a serious setback for them; it might derail their plans entirely. None of this will have been in vain." He was silent for a moment; then said, "I have one more thing to ask of you. We have already pulled in more people than we care to, on this. We understand that Charlie's girlfriend and colleague are in Europe right now, with plans to return the day after the hearings are over. It is best, and safest for them and for Don, if they stay there until that time. Perhaps you can delay Charlie's memorial service until then, and minimize contact with them – in fact, avoiding their calls might be best. If Charlie had told them about your Alaska trip, they might believe that you're still there- maybe they won't bother to call you, if they don't know what happened."
Alan looked at him, and Rogan could see fresh sadness in his eyes. "Amita -," he broke off suddenly, and put a shaking hand over his face. "God." After a moment, he managed to get enough control to say. "They were very close. I think Charlie was contemplating proposing." He cleared his throat and looked at Rogan. "I can do what you say, but I would think that they would begin to ask questions when they couldn't get hold of Charlie."
Rogan looked back at him steadily. "Let us handle that. Thank you, Mr. Eppes."
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Charlie woke to a gentle knock on the door, and for a moment, had no idea where he was; the strange room, the pain medication had left him disoriented. In the seconds it took for the door to gently open, the memories returned, bringing fresh despair with them. One of the agents who had traveled with him to the cabin was looking at him around the edge of the door, and Charlie struggled to sit up, painfully.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Eppes, but the chopper is leaving, and I needed to brief you on one more thing before I left." He entered the room, and held out a small but bulky yellow envelope. As Charlie took it from him, he said, "That's a new cell phone. We couldn't be sure that your old one wouldn't be traced, so we had to get you a new one. As you might expect, your friends in Europe have been trying to reach you – they've left several messages on your old phone during the past few days. We would like you to contact them, and assure them that everything is fine – that you merely lost your old phone and were too busy to get a new one. It sounds as though they still believe you to be in Washington, D.C., working on the course. We understand that they have plans to return the day after the hearings conclude. It would be best for their own safety if they stuck to that plan – if you didn't tell them what happened until afterward. Can you do that for us?"
Charlie had taken the cell phone out, and was staring at it, blankly. "Yes – I guess – I mean, I can."
"Your father has been contacted, and is making sure that your brother is being cared for. I know this will be difficult, but you must promise us, for your safety, and especially for your father's, that you have no contact with him until after the hearings. We have told him the need for that, and he agrees and understands. It will only be for a couple of weeks."
Charlie stared at him, and then down at the phone, stricken. His father. He suddenly wished for nothing more than to be with him, to hold him and be held; to feel the contact of someone he loved, of someone who loved him. But then, how could he know how his father really felt about him? Perhaps Alan would blame him for pushing Don to the edge. It might be that he really was an insufferable jerk, and didn't know it. He'd assumed that Don had cared for him, when nothing could be further from the truth. Maybe he was wrong about his father, too. Maybe he was wrong about everyone.
The agent spoke again, earnestly. "I don't need to tell you how dangerous these people are. Don't give them any reason to go after your father. Can I have your word that you will not contact him?"
Charlie blinked, and looked back at him. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "You have my word."
The agent nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Eppes. Tom and Martha will be attending to your needs – please listen to Martha; she is an excellent physician. You need to work on healing, and preparing for the trial. As it draws closer, we'll send some people out to brief you on your testimony." He bobbed his head in farewell, and walked out the door.
Charlie gazed after him, dazedly, and then looked down at the cell phone in his lap. He longed to hear a friendly voice, longed to hear Amita's voice, but he hated the thought of lying to her. This was not about what he wanted anymore, however. He had to find the strength to get through this, to testify, to do his duty, and if lying to Larry and Amita for a few more weeks for their own safety and for the good of the mission was necessary, then he would have to do it. The truth was; the thought of getting through the hearings, of finishing the assignment, was the only thing that was keeping him afloat. That sense of duty was something that reminded him of Don, the way he was before... Somehow, he had to find the will to get through the trial, and he clung grimly to the thought, like a life preserver. It was something to occupy his mind, to keep him from remembering.
He couldn't think about what had happened; it was too fresh, too horrible, too painful. The brother whom he loved so much wanted him dead – he could feel the weight of it on his soul.
He glanced down at the phone again, still stupid with pain and grief, and realized as he saw the digital time display that it was late afternoon. It was the middle of the night where Amita was. He would wait a few hours; then call her, he told himself. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again; clutching the phone like a child clutches a treasure, and in his dreams, he felt his father's soft touch on his forehead, heard his soothing voice.
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Alan stood in the living room, the early evening twilight seeping through the windows. The lacquer box sat before him on the table, and he bent and picked it up with hands that shook a little, then shuffled over to the sofa, and sank onto it.
The entire situation weighed on his mind – sitting there, waiting to be assimilated, but too large, too strange to fathom. The news that Don was a victim rather than a criminal had brought relief in one sense, although he ached for Don, for what he must be going through. Relief in one area, however, made way for clarity in another; his grief was coalescing now, condensing, coming in to focus on the loss of Charlie. His youngest occupied his thoughts now, visions of a brilliant smile, intelligent dark eyes and tousled curls filled his mind, until the grief filled him, completely and entirely.
He stroked the lid of the lacquered box with a thumb, and a snatch of a song came to him, weaving through his anguish-filled mind. It was from another faith, but somehow, it seemed appropriate. He trailed a gentle finger across the box, and whispered,
Go to sleep my son
Go and chase your dreams
This world can wait for one more moment
Go and sleep in peace
He caught his breath in a sob, and the tears finally came, spilling out, bathing the lid of the box. The drops glittered in the twilight like diamonds, beautiful, ethereal, like the life that had been snatched away.
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End, Chapter 33
Verse from Joseph's Lullaby, on MercyMe's Christmas CD