Mind Games

Chapter 40

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Many thanks for the reviews.

Late in the morning on Friday, Wilkes slouched in a hotel room chair, frowning. The hotel room was Charlie's and was actually more of a suite, with a sitting room and separate bedroom. Wilkes, Masters, and Rogan were in the sitting room, and in the bedroom beyond, the two Eppes brothers sat, each of them on one of the double beds, talking quietly. Both of them had finished with their testimony, and the lawyers were wrapping up their presentations at the courthouse. Rogan and Masters had instructions to keep the Eppes men available in case there were questions, but none were anticipated, so they'd camped out at the hotel, waiting for word from the courthouse that it was over, and they could head for the private jet that would take them to L.A. Against Wilkes' better judgment, Don and Charlie, supported by Rogan and Masters, had convinced Wilkes that they could spend the time reconnecting.

Don's penitent behavior the day before had given Wilkes no good reason to insist otherwise, so he reluctantly agreed, with some guidelines – Don had to keep his distance, and they had to remain in sight while they talked. The hotel suite was a perfect place for it – they could see the brothers in the other room, each sitting on a double bed, but the television in the sitting room drowned them out, so they had privacy for their conversation. At least some privacy – Wilkes was a skilled observer of body language and expressions, and he watched their interaction with a mixture of concern and interest.

"I think we're taking this too fast," he muttered.

Masters lifted an eyebrow and shot a glance into the next room. "They look okay to me," he said. "You worry too much. You saw Don yesterday – if that wasn't genuine regret, then I don't what is."

"Oh, I'm sure it was genuine regret," returned Wilkes, as Rogan turned away from the television to listen to him. "The problem is, while the deprogramming process is going on, the subject's emotions can be all over the map, and are extremely unpredictable. Don is no exception to that. The guilt and remorse he showed yesterday were overpowering any other emotions at the time – it doesn't mean he's going to exhibit the same feelings today. In fact, he looks edgy to me – he keeps getting off the bed and pacing, and he fidgets while he's sitting. He's got something pent up inside."

Masters watched them for a moment. "So go look at your controls. You've got them with you, right?"

Wilkes nodded. "Yeah – they're in the guard's room across the hall, but they're packed in their cases. I don't know if I can trust what they say, anyway - the dampening devices we implanted in him skew the outputs and make him hard to read. I can't get a good grip on where he really is."

Rogan shrugged. "I don't know – it looks like they're getting along okay to me. I think they're doing pretty well, considering."

"Too well," grumped Wilkes. "From my work with Don previously, I got that they didn't communicate a whole lot when it came to personal matters - they worked together, but they didn't have heart-to-heart chats, by any means. There were some issues there, even before Don's programming, but today they seem to be conversing easily. I think Don Eppes is trying his best to suppress any negative feelings he's having, which isn't necessarily healthy. And Dr. Eppes…," he trailed off for a moment studying him. "Look at his body language – his expression. He's hanging on Don's every word – I haven't had a chance to profile him, but just looking at him, my guess is he'd follow him anywhere, do anything he asked. He should be acting reserved, or pissed, but he's not. Look at his face. What would you call that expression?"

Masters studied him. "He looks like he's happy to be here."

Wilkes nodded. "Pathetically grateful, is what I'd call it. Oh, he's still suffering from the effects of the attack – he's afraid, he tenses when Don gets up from the bed, but I can see him almost physically shake it off, every time that happens. He's so damn glad to have his brother back; he'll do anything to look the other way if Don behaves irrationally."

"So what's wrong with that?" asked Rogan. "If Don Eppes is going to get over this, won't it be easier if Charlie is forgiving?"

"Yes, it will," admitted Wilkes. "And I'd be all for it except for two things. One, we're not sure we can trust Eppes, yet, but Charlie seems determined to, in spite of any lingering fear – it's going to make him more susceptible, leave him unprepared if something does happen. And two – I think they're both camouflaging their feelings. It isn't healthy for Charlie to deny feelings of anger or fear that he might be experiencing, and it isn't healthy for Don to try to bury his remaining anger – to ignore feelings that might be still left by the programming. If he denies them, it's going to impede his progress."

They watched as Don got to his feet again, pacing, and averted their gazes as he swung around toward them. Watching him, but not watching.

"Damn," said Rogan. "Now you've got me worrying – and I was feeling pretty good about this."

Jack Montreaux sat in his cell on the edge of his cot, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees, waiting for word to come from the courthouse. He and Pierre weren't required to be present in court today – the lawyers were going through their last statements, and then the jury would be dismissed to deliberate, to decide whether or not to indict – to send them on to a trial. There was no question in Jack's mind – Charles Eppes had erased any doubt. This was going to trial. He was facing court proceedings for treason.

They had gotten word through their lawyer several days prior that Charles Eppes had been killed, and so the news that he was alive – which they'd received one day before the hearings – had come as a complete shock. If the prosecution could have, they would have sprung it on them in the courtroom, but the law dictated that they had to provide the list of witnesses whom they intended to call. The Attorney General's representative made the excuse that they didn't know themselves that Dr. Eppes would be well enough to testify until the last minute, but Montreaux's lawyer secretly scoffed at that, and argued with the judge that they should have had more time to prepare than one day. In fact, upon hearing that Charles Eppes was alive, Pierre was so rattled that he passed word to Jack that evening through their lawyer that he wanted cooperate. They hadn't even had a chance to discuss it yet, when a dark skinned guard had visited each of their cells, surreptitiously passing them a message with their meal trays. The message said to keep quiet, that all would be taken care of after the hearing, well before the trial.

It was a cryptic message, but it was enough to keep the Montreaux cousins calm and silent. It was difficult, though, sitting through the grand jury hearing and listening to the evidence stack up against them. Both of the Eppes brothers had done well with their testimony; the professor had looked weak and ill, but that only engendered sympathy for him among the jurors. The prosecution explained his condition by saying he was the victim of a knife attack – by whom, they didn't say, and that they asserted that the people behind it were trying to silence him so he couldn't testify. Locked away, the Montreaux cousins had little access to the news, even their lawyer didn't know much, and Jack wondered how the attack had occurred, and who was behind it. It had to be Khalid, or J. Scott Marsh, Jack reasoned. Judging from the Middle Eastern appearance of the guard who had passed them the note, possibly Khalid. It figured, he thought dourly. Marsh was out of this, as long as they kept their mouths shut – he probably was playing innocent. It was unlikely he'd put himself out to try to take care of Eppes. Yes, it had to be Khalid.

And now, the last day of the hearings, the Middle Eastern guard was back. Jack saw him pass by, but the man spared him barely a glance. He didn't work their cell block, so Jack presumed that he was here to slip them another message, probably stopping first at Pierre's cell, three down from Jack's, and on the opposite side. Just seconds later, he heard the scream – a wild angry torrent of Arabic – and jumped to his feet, just as the gunshot sounded.

Don sprang up from the bed again, wincing as he saw Charlie recoil – ever so slightly, but it was there, along with the momentary flash of fear. Remorse shot through Don, and behind it, just as quickly, irritation. He was a seething cauldron of emotions; being in the same room with Charlie was far more difficult than he'd thought it would be. He was edgy, jumpy – one minute he wanted to dash across the room and hug Charlie, and the next, he wanted to bolt from the room, as one confusing sensation after the other flashed through him, like pictures in a slide show.

It was nothing less than torture. Granted, he was overjoyed that Charlie was here, alive, safe – and more than that, that he seemed to want to be there - Charlie seemed, incredibly, to have forgiven him. That joy was offset by anxiety; however – the cascade of emotions was extremely unsettling, and Don wondered if Wilkes was right – that perhaps it was too soon for this. The more he experienced the dizzying sensations, the less in control he felt, and the more anxious he became. That led to a feeling of irritation – damn it, couldn't he just sit with his brother in a room and talk? What in the hell had they taken from him?

He caught the anger ratcheting up before it got out of control, jumping off the bed to pace it off, his gut in a clutch of fear. He worried that maybe one flash would come along that was more intense than the others, and he would flip out – do something horrible again. That was when he caught Charlie's start of fear, and a whole other sensation washed through him – guilt, and sorrow. Damn, he was a mess. He refused to leave, however; he was determined to stick it out. He was sure he'd come farther in one hour in the room with Charlie than he had in three sessions with Wilkes. The faster he could deprogram himself, the better.

He paused in his pacing and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, wiping away a trickle of sweat. Charlie was eyeing him soberly, and Don tried to smile. "So," he said, "you were talking about the people who took care of you – where was it?"

Charlie was as quiet and calm as Don was jumpy. Subdued – no, more than that – he was exhausted, Don realized. He sat slightly hunched on his double bed, one arm held across his midsection protectively. He was wearing a tweed jacket today, over a t-shirt that did little to hide how thin he was. He'd been to hell and back – they both had, and for what? For an undercover operation that they shouldn't have undertaken to begin with.

Charlie was hesitating, watching him, and Don pushed down the wayward jolt of irritation that had overtaken him, and sat down on his bed again, positioning himself to listen.

"Their names were Tom and Martha Bodman – at least, that's what they went by," Charlie said quietly. "I don't know where we were – they flew me out in a chopper – somewhere in the mountains. Colorado maybe, or Montana or Wyoming. I don't even remember how long the flight was – I was pretty out of it. Martha was a doctor."

A doctor. Of course, he'd need a doctor. Don remembered the details attack only dimly – he'd stabbed him more than once, he was sure – three times maybe? Four? There was a line on Charlie's hand, the thin pink-purple scar of a healing gash. He'd raised his hands to defend himself…

Charlie was looking at him anxiously, and Don blinked, and rubbed his face. "It was hard," Don said, his voice suddenly cracking, his eyes stinging with tears, as sorrow washed through him. He broke off, and ran a hand over his face, then tilted his face up toward the ceiling, fighting to compose his features. He could hear Charlie's voice.

"When did they tell you?"

Don blinked, and lowered his gaze to look at Charlie. "Tell me about the wiring? A couple of days later, I guess – I'm not sure now. It seemed like forever. I thought I was going crazy. Before the – attack - I could hear a voice through the receiver in my head, and I thought – well, that I was cracking up. It was a relief, I guess, especially for Dad, to find out about it."

Charlie's face cleared a little. "They told Dad?"

Don nodded. "And my immediate team – Megan was there still – they told her, and Nikki, Colby, and David, and Wright knows – and Robin. Other than that, they kept it quiet. Of course, it didn't help much –," he looked away, his mouth quirked in a sad, odd little expression. "Nothing helped much, when we thought you were gone."

Charlie's brow knit in confusion. "I was gone – I was convalescing-," he broke off suddenly, his eyes widening. "Gone – as in dead – that gone?"

Don nodded, looking equally puzzled. "You didn't know?"

"That they told you I was dead?" Charlie looked stunned. "I mean, I knew that was the story they'd put out for most people for my protection, but I assumed they would have explained to the rest of you - ," he stopped and looked at Don. "How long before they told you?"

Don shook his head sadly. "They didn't, Charlie. I didn't find out until yesterday. Dad still doesn't know – they wouldn't let me use the phone. Afraid the call could be traced to this hotel somehow, I guess." As if to mock his words, a cell phone buzzed in the other room, and he could hear Masters answer it, his voice sharp. Don felt suddenly anxious again, and rose from the bed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Charlie stared at Don, horrified. "They told me not to call Dad – said it was for his own safety – oh, God." He jumped up from the bed, wincing at the too-quick movement. "We'd better call him now."

"No time for that," Masters said briskly as he strode into the room. "Conaghan just called – we need to get moving. The jet's waiting."

Don frowned. "Why, what's going on?"

Rogan stood in the doorway, his face troubled. "We're not sure, but Conaghan doesn't want to take any chances. Someone just hit the Montreaux brothers – it was a guard at the prison, of Middle Eastern descent. They're both dead. The guard came into their block, screamed something in Arabic, shot them, then turned the gun on himself. Your testimony is finished, and Conaghan wants you both out of town until we figure out what's happening. We're going to get you back home, get a protection detail on you."

"I need to pack," Charlie stammered, snatching at a toiletry case that contained his medicine.

"Forget it," said Masters, pulling him by the arm toward the door. "Those clothes we got didn't fit you anyway, and there weren't that many of them." He glanced at Don. "Rogan said you're already packed and checked out. Let's move."

Don smiled at him coldly. "No problem – just take your hand off his arm."

Masters looked down at his hand, realized he was still clutching Charlie's arm, and caught the expression of pain on Charlie's face. Masters dropped his arm quickly, but muttered under his breath as they stepped out of the room. "You're a fine one to talk."

Wilkes caught the exchange, and the black look in Don's eyes as they stepped out into the hallway made the hair rise on the back of his neck. It might have been coincidence, or simply a bad angle, but he could swear that Don Eppes was directing that malevolent look at his brother, and not at Bill Masters.

End Chapter 40