Mind Games

Chapter 37

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all.

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"Relax, Dad, it'll be okay," said Don quietly as they waited for him to be called to be prepped for surgery. They were in a waiting area for pre-surgery patients, but had a segment of seating to themselves – it was early, and the waiting areas hadn't begun to fill with patients and their families yet. There were two agents with them, but they were stationed down the hallway, within view, but not within earshot.

Janovic had decided to move Don's surgery prior to others he had that day; it was no secret to the group that he was nervous, and anxious to finish the surgery and get his family out of town. Don eyed Alan, who sat twisting his hands fretfully. "He's not even touching my head, Dad – the batteries are just inside my collarbones, remember? All he has to do is make a small incision on either side, and attach the devices to the wires just above the batteries."

Alan sighed, and glanced behind him before he spoke. "I know. I just would feel better if all of it was coming out, altogether."

"They're going to have people with us, Dad, twenty-four seven."

"They had people on you and Charlie, too," Alan retorted, then stopped, aghast, as he saw the look on Don's face. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean – it's just they should have been able to stop you, and they didn't."

Don's face was dark with self-recrimination. "I should have been able to stop myself."

"You know that's not true," said Alan, with quiet intensity. "Haven't they proven that to you yet?"

Don sat silently for a moment, then pulled a folded paper out of his jeans pocket, and carefully opened it. He looked at it for a moment; then passed it to Alan. "That's their profile of my mind – how I perceived Charlie before they began the brainwashing. If you look under each bar, it tells you what it is. I had negative thoughts about him, Dad, before they even started – envy, and that short bar over hate means there was some dislike."

"A tiny bit," agreed Alan. He was looking at the chart with interest, and seemed unperturbed by the negative bars. "Look at the large bar over 'love,'" he pointed out. "It far outweighs the other side. And respect, and trust." He looked up at Don. "It's very natural to have some negative feelings toward one's family members, Donnie, and I have to believe even more so when siblings are involved. I imagine Charlie's chart might have looked very much like yours."

Don snorted in disbelief. "What would he have to be envious about? He was the genius."

Alan smiled wistfully. "He looked up to you, Don, in every other way. You were the sports star, the popular one, and when he started working with you, he always felt keenly that you were in charge. He told me once that you 'let him' work for you, as if he felt you were doing him a favor. If you don't think he was ever envious of you, you're wrong."

He handed the paper back, and Don stared at it for a moment. "Anyway, this isn't even what my profile looks like, now. It's worse," he said quietly. "Wilkes is trying to get me back to this point. He's trying to undo the brainwashing, and he's using this as a baseline to measure my progress."

"Oh," asked Alan faintly. "And how is it going?"

Don raised haunted eyes to his. "Not good enough."

Alan stared back, and for just a moment, could see the depths of hell in his son's eyes. "It's only been three days," he said, gently. "You must have made some progress."

"Yeah," conceded Don, his shoulders drooping. "Some." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if praying for guidance from above, then opened them and looked down, his face full of agony. "I still can't believe he's gone," he said, his voice cracking. "It's like a bad dream. I keep waking up, thinking he'll be there…" His voice thickened, and Alan, through a blurry wall of moisture, could see tears forming in Don's eyes.

"Don't think about it right now," Alan urged. "It's not a good time. You shouldn't go into surgery like this."

"Don Eppes!" A woman's voice came from across the room; she was holding a clipboard, standing at the door to the preparation area for surgery and Don straightened and stood, running a hand over his face. Alan stood with him and gave him a quick hug, and watched, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with helplessness, as Don walked toward the door.

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J. Scott Marsh knew when Don Eppes entered surgery, and he knew when he awoke. The portable vest monitor told him.

He had no idea of the timing of the surgery – Tate had just told him the day, so he took up a post outside the hospital entrance two hours before scheduled surgeries generally began, which he'd determined by a phone call to the hospital information desk. To his surprise, he'd only been there five minutes when he saw Don Eppes and his father arrive. They were driven by two agents, dropped off at the door, and accompanied by one of them inside. The other went to park the car, and entered a few minutes later. Marsh knew that they were probably there for protection, not to prevent Don Eppes' escape. If they knew about the wiring, then they knew that the attack hadn't been Eppes' fault. Marsh surmised that following the surgery, Don Eppes would be released, a free man.

Not that Marsh could take advantage of Eppes' status, at the moment. He had originally only planned to stay in L.A. long enough to take care of Tate and get his hands on the denim jacket, and his flight back left that evening, via Vegas. His manager was expecting him back at the office, and Marsh didn't want to arouse suspicion. Plus, he had two weeks to take care of Eppes before the hearings – there was no rush. Therefore, in spite of the news that the government now knew about the wiring in Eppes' head, he'd decided to stick to his travel plans. When he got back to D.C., he would work a few days, then ask for leave to visit his sister again – he would make the excuse that she was starting chemo, and needed a family member with her. During his brief return to Washington, he would formulate his plan, and when he returned to L.A., he would lure Eppes out, away from his protection, and finish him. The government already had no witness for the weapons smuggling charges, with Charles Eppes gone. Without Don Eppes as a witness to the drug deals, the Montreaux cousins would go free, and so would end the last threat to Marsh's freedom. Once Jack and Pierre Montreaux were liberated they would have no reason to deal, no reason to turn his name over to the authorities, even if they were foolhardy enough to do so. Marsh had actually considered trying to get to them, too, but had finally deemed it too risky. It would be easier to get rid of Eppes, and remove any reason for them to talk.

His thoughts turned to his flight that evening. He would stop in Vegas and actually see his sister, and tell her that if anyone called and asked if she had cancer, she should tell them 'yes.' She'd covered for him before, on other, legitimate missions – she doted on him, and was completely impressed by his occupation. It wasn't proper for him to ask, but she didn't know that; she was excited to be a part of the action, to play at spy, no matter how minimal her involvement. Yes, she'd lie for him. After a two-hour layover, he would fly home to Washington. Really, the only thing he had to do before he left was to make sure Dr. Janovic had kept his word, and left the wiring intact in Don Eppes' brain.

Therefore, he sat outside the hospital with the monitoring vest, and watched as the bars went completely flat. They were never flat, he'd found, even when Eppes was sleeping, so that had to mean that Eppes was under sedation. After an appropriate amount of time, about an hour and a half, they came to life again, flickering at first, then stronger. Eppes was undoubtedly regaining consciousness after the fake procedure. It was fascinating to watch them, Marsh had found; he'd stared at the monitor for an hour last night. The bars had been primarily neutral, but they were constantly changing, at least slightly, growing and receding, brightly colored evidence of Don Eppes' thoughts and feelings.

Marsh grunted in approval now as Don Eppes regained consciousness, and the bars started to move again. That movement meant the wiring was still in his head – if the doctor had removed it, the bars would have remained flat. Janovic had done what he'd been told. Now Marsh only had two more things to do before he caught his flight. One was to return the control vest to the gym locker, to wait for his return in a few days. He would hold onto it for the rest of the day, and make sure that the bars were still active at the end before he put it away. The other was to leave the denim jacket with a mail service, packaged and addressed to Don Eppes, with instructions to hold it until he gave them word to send it.

He took one more glance at the monitor screen in the vest, then flipped it shut, closed the pocket, and put his car into gear. The sun was out; after he dropped the denim vest at the mail service, perhaps he would drive down to Santa Monica Pier, and go for a nice walk.

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Don was in the hospital for two days – longer than necessary for the surgery he'd had, but an appropriate recovery time for his fake surgery – the supposed procedure to remove the wires from his head. They had to make it look good, Masters said, so, even though the surgery to implant the devices in his collarbone could have been done as an outpatient, Don was forced to stay for forty-eight hours. He spent the time working with Wilkes, trying to undo the changes to his brain that had occurred as a result of the brainwashing. Dr. Janovic had even faked some sutures, covered with Steri-strips, at the sites of his original incisions. They still weren't sure how Bishop had found out about the surgery, and so they were taking every effort to make the operation appear real, in case Bishop had a spy inside the hospital.

One unfortunate effect of the surgery was that the new devices modified the signals that were sent to Wilkes' monitoring equipment. The new readings were higher, amplified by the devices, and they could no longer compare those readings to Don's original perception of Charlie. Still, he kept the printout, creased and dog-eared as it was. It was his link to the past, before all this had started. As soon as they captured Bishop and he could remove the wiring for good, he hoped the readings would at least somewhat match the paper that he now kept in a small, clear plastic envelope on a string. He had taken to wearing it over his heart, under his clothing, as a reminder. Wilkes told him that gesture in itself was a good sign. As he changed out of his hospital gown into his clothing the morning of his release, he made sure it was there, hanging under a shirt that was now a little too loose.

The ride to the Craftsman with Alan and their two bodyguards made him wish he had a monitor – with the tides of emotions running through him, he was sure the bars would be putting on quite a show. The Craftsman was more than just a house – it was his boyhood home, Charlie's house, and filled with memories of his brother. He couldn't wait to get there, and dreaded it at the same time. One look at Alan's face, who was seated in the rear seat of the vehicle beside him, convinced him that at least one good thing would come of it – his father, he knew, was pathetically grateful to have him come home. The chance for them to be together would provide healing for both of them.

So, as he stepped through the front door of the house with his father – mercifully, by themselves; their surveillance was stationed discreetly outside – he felt sadness, nostalgia, but also a sense of purpose. He could support his father through this ordeal, at least. He walked slowly through the living room, Alan hovering beside him, looking around the room as if with new eyes. He could feel something deep inside, something uncomfortable and so powerful it didn't even have a name, something too strong to recognize, and he tried desperately to divert his attention, hoping it would go away, his gaze wandering, finally lighting on a lacquered box on the coffee table. He bent to touch it. "What's that? It wasn't here-," his eyes fell on the small gold plaque on the side and read, 'Charles Eppes.' He jerked his hand back as if stung. "Oh, God."

"I didn't get a chance to get the dates engraved on it yet -," Alan began sadly, but Don barely heard him. In the prison, in the hospital, he had felt grief, but it was dampened by the different surroundings, distorted by the reality of adjusting to life in a strange setting, his memories warped by what had been done to his brain. Here, at home, he could feel Charlie's presence, and he now recognized that the strange feeling deep inside was grief – a wall of blinding, excruciating grief. The box was final evidence – he would never walk in this house and see the dark curly head bent over his latest analysis, never see the quiet smile that always welcomed him when Charlie would look up and see him, pleasure and warmth in his dark eyes…

He was barely conscious of stumbling backwards, a ragged, broken, senseless exclamation coming from his throat as he reeled and ran from the room, caroming off the kitchen doorway in his desperate attempt to flee the pain. He staggered outside, starting to head toward the yard when the sight of the startled agent on guard stopped him, and he veered instead for the privacy of the garage and stumbled inside, lurching into a chalkboard in the darkness. It came crashing down in a cloud of chalk dust, and as the familiar smell hit his senses, he gasped, gulping a great lungful of air, feeling as though his chest would explode with agony. Charlie was everywhere, in the house, in the scent of the chalk…

The garage light flicked on and he could hear his father's voice beside him as the gasps segued into an unearthly moan. He doubled over as if in pain, then Alan's arms were around him, supporting him as he sank to his knees, pulling his head to his chest as Don broke. He'd always kept tight rein on his emotions, and even now, in pain too deep to describe, he held himself rigid in his father's arms, his tears running hot down his face, silently fighting the crushing sorrow.

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Late that night Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes met with CIA Director Conaghan, and FBI Director Dave Maxwell in their tiny conference room, via phone.

"I don't like it," Masters said. "We know Bishop is in L.A. – it's been three days since they found Tate. I would think he would have tried to contact Eppes by now."

"Maybe he just doesn't have the controller," said Maxwell.

"Maybe, but the fact that the denim jacket can't be found is suspicious. If he has the jacket, I'm betting he has a controller."

"What is the possibility that Eppes is lying to us, and he has been contacted? Maybe he's being manipulated already," growled Conaghan.

"I'd say that's highly unlikely," said Wilkes. "It's not impossible – with those new devices in his head, I'm having a tough time getting true readings as to what's going on in there. But I don't see any evidence that he's trying to hide anything in our sessions."

There was silence for a moment; then Conaghan spoke. "You're right, Bill, I don't like it either. We need to get the hearings moved up to this Monday, instead of next. Is Charlie Eppes strong enough to testify yet?"

"When I talked to Dr. Bodman this morning, she said he's up and moving around the cabin. I can hook her into the conversation, if you want."

"Do that, we'll wait."

Rogan punched at the phone, and a ring tone was heard over the speaker. Martha's voice came on the line. "Yes?"

"This is the Save the Owl foundation. Is this client 547?"

"No, it's client 929. What can I do for you, Mr. Rogan?" she asked pleasantly.

"Dr. Bodman, I have you on speaker with our usual crew, plus Directors Conaghan and Maxwell."

"Hello, gentlemen."

Conaghan spoke. "Good evening doctor. We're sorry to disturb you, but we have a question. We'd like to know if Dr. Eppes would be strong enough to testify at the hearings next week."

"Next week? Oh, no, I don't think so. He's still very weak." She sounded oddly defensive. "I thought the hearings weren't until the following week."

"You said this morning he was getting around the cabin," Rogan reminded her.

"Yes, he is, but -,"

"Tell me, doctor," said Conaghan, "If he were in a hospital, would you have discharged him by now?"

Her voice sounded disapproving. "I probably would have been forced to, with the insurance companies the way they are. But I would have discharged him to his home, and prescribed rest, and I wouldn't have done it any sooner than today. If you absolutely must, he can be ready in four days – by Wednesday. That's provided you don't need him more than a couple of days. As soon as he's done, he should be taken home to rest."

"Good. We'll arrange to fly him out on Tuesday, for a Wednesday court appearance. The sooner he testifies, the sooner he'll be out of danger."

"He's in no danger here," she retorted.

"Really, doctor, don't you think he'd rather have this over with, and be recuperating at home?"

She was silent, and Conaghan took her silence as acquiescence. "Very well. We'll have a chopper out there Tuesday morning. Thank you, doctor – I'm sure he wouldn't be doing so well if it weren't for your exceptional care."

Martha Bodman murmured a polite 'good-bye,' but Rogan was sure he heard a skeptical sniff as the line disconnected. "I'll make some calls, and try to pull some strings to start this on Wednesday," said Conaghan. "The grand jury was selected this week; we can have them report a few days early. You need to make arrangement to fly Don Eppes out."

"Wait." Wilkes spoke up for the first time. "They're not going to be together, right?"

Masters looked at him. "Why? Don't you think Don's ready?"

Wilkes shrugged, a gesture of exasperation. "I told you, I'm not sure what his status is now – the devices alter his responses. He's made progress, but enough? I don't know."

"It doesn't matter," said Conaghan. "We can keep them apart – they won't even know the other is there. We won't take any chances until after Charlie testifies."

"Oh, and then it's okay, whether Don Eppes is ready or not?" shot back Masters.

"I didn't say that," said Conaghan quietly, in a tone that suggested that Masters had better remember to whom he was talking. Masters shut his mouth uncomfortably, and earned a grin from Rogan. "As I was saying," continued Conaghan, "it's an easy matter to keep them apart. The hearings cover two different topics – we'll bring Don in to testify about the drug dealings, and Charlie in separately to testify to the treason charges, the weapons smuggling. Even if they have to appear on the same day, the courthouse is large enough that we can keep them apart. I'll make arrangements for Dr. Eppes – you, agents, are responsible for getting Don there safely. That's all."

The line disconnected, and Rogan's grin widened as he looked at Masters. "I told you that you were turning into an old softie."

Wilkes was grinning now too, and Masters scowled at them both. "Shut the hell up."

He got up and walked out of the room, and Rogan followed, shooting Wilkes a conspiratorial wink.

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End Chapter 37

A/N: Hmm, everyone seems to be converging on Washington, D.C. …