Mind Games

Chapter 41

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Ask and ye shall receive...

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J. Scott Marsh glanced up from his desk at a quick knock at the door. It eased open, and his supervisor, Mark Lewis, slipped into the room. "Hey, Scott."

Marsh raised an eyebrow, trying not to look surprised. He got along well with his boss, but Lewis wasn't one inclined to indulge in idle chitchat. He was here for something, and Marsh suspected it was about the hearing – Lewis had promised him he'd keep him updated.

He was right. Lewis leaned against a bookcase, and said, "You know your old buddy, Montreaux?"

Marsh made a face. "I told you, I barely knew the guy, and liked him less."

Lewis' face twisted, wryly. "Well, that's good then, because the son of a bitch is dead."

Marsh's mouth dropped open, and he felt his gut clench. "Dead?"

Lewis nodded. "The hit just went down, about an hour ago. Apparently, they had a guard on the inside – he was born in this country, but his parents were Egyptian. He made a suicide run – shot both Pierre and Jack Montreaux in their cells, and then shot himself. At the same time, the two other men on trial – Iranians, killed themselves. Poison – delivered by the guard, apparently, before he went to the Montreaux cellblock. Someone is going through a lot of trouble to make sure that none of this gets back to them."

Marsh shook his head, truly bewildered. "But why do that?"

Lewis shook his head. "The only thing we can think of is that they decided the hearing went in the prosecution's favor – which it did, and they were afraid the Montreaux cousins would decide to deal, to save their own skins." He stared at the floor, bemusedly, and then straightened and shrugged. "I guess it saves us the cost of a trial."

"Hmm," murmured Marsh, still trying to get his mind around the news. "I guess so."

He waited a half hour after Lewis had gone, and then left the building, pulling out his cell phone when he thought he'd driven far enough away. When Khalid's voice came on the other end, he said, "Marsh here. What in the hell gives? I said I would take care of it."

Khalid's voice was dry. "Oh, you'll need to take care of things – for your own sake. When I heard that Dr. Eppes was still alive, it brought another dimension of concern to the situation."

Marsh nearly rear-ended a vehicle that had stopped in front of him, and he maneuvered, trying to pull off the road into a nearby parking lot. "Charles Eppes is alive?" he managed.

"Yes. You didn't know? That provides a particularly sticky problem, doesn't it? He is the only one who has seen you and me – the only one who can connect us with the case. Apparently, your experts in coercion didn't carry out their task as required – or Don Eppes simply failed to do their bidding. Yes, you will need to take care of things – of both of them, now. However, I couldn't afford another surprise. I decided to act. Now the Montreaux cousins will not be a problem, and three of my soldiers have claimed glorious deaths for Allah. All that remains is to deal with the Eppes brothers – that bit I have left for you, since you seem to have plans, at least for Don Eppes. Or perhaps you are not up for the task?"

Marsh was beginning to recover from his surprise, and a nasty surge of impatience and anger shot through him. "I said I would take care of it, and I will. What you staged at the prison was not necessary, and will only make it harder to get to them."

Khalid sounded unconcerned. "That, my friend, is your issue. It was in my control to deal with Montreaux, so I did. My source tells me that the Eppes men were taken to the airport this morning, and departed on a private jet. You should take care of this as soon as possible, so we can move on with our plans before my sources of funding dry up."

The line went dead, and Marsh stared through the windshield with unseeing eyes, his mind already on the problem. The basic premise – using the controls to draw Don Eppes out and kill him, was still viable. So was the first idea – using Don Eppes to get to his own brother. Marsh just needed to figure out how to tie the two plans together. More than likely, the Eppes men had been flown back home, although that would be easy to verify. It was time for a trip to L.A.

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Charlie roused as the noise of the jet engines increased and the private jet began to bank for landing. He'd tried hard to stay awake, but midway through the flight he'd passed out from exhaustion. He was still in pain, still so tired.

It was bearable now, though – anything was bearable now that he knew the truth. Don hadn't really hated him; Charlie still had no idea of how his brother felt about him under normal circumstances, but he had been fairly certain it wasn't hate. Maybe not love, he thought ruefully, but at least his brother didn't detest him so much he wanted him dead. Of course, from the sounds of it, it would take Don awhile to get back to his old self, and he had seemed edgy at the hotel, but it was almost – normal - when Charlie had thought that nothing would be normal again. And now, he was landing, nearly home.

He closed his eyes; he could imagine the Craftsman – his father… He'd wanted to call him, had asked again when they were preparing for takeoff, but Masters refused, saying he'd see him in a few hours anyway. He could almost feel his father's arms around him, and he sighed and opened his eyes. This horrible journey was almost over; healing could begin.

He twisted in his seat to look for Don, and met his brother's gaze over the seat tops. Don was seated further back in the jet, in a row of seats facing the other way – Wilkes had insisted on it. Don's head was turned now too, facing him, and as Charlie turned to look at him, Don's face softened. Not quite a smile, but a good sign. Charlie sent him a small smile himself, and turned back around. Yes, it might take awhile, but healing was already beginning.

He refused to consider the alternative, of which Wilkes had informed him in no uncertain terms - the possibility that Don was still dangerous for him to be around, and might never get back to his original feelings for Charlie – whatever they were. If not closeness, Charlie had liked to think that there was at least a little affection there, maybe some respect. He'd been unsatisfied with their relationship before, wishing they were closer, but now he'd happily take that if he could get it. Who knew? Maybe their relationship would even deepen as a result. Wilkes could warn and conjecture all he wanted – Charlie had his brother back, and he wasn't going to listen to anyone who said otherwise.

The seat in front of him dipped oddly in a way that had nothing to do with the descending plane, and Charlie gripped the armrest until his vision cleared. In spite of the nap on the plane, the stress of traveling and the hearing had taxed his healing body, and he was reaching his limits. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, stiffening slightly as the jet bounced lightly on the runway.

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Don caught sight of his father's car in the driveway of the Craftsman, and shook his head slightly in exasperation. Alan was here, after all. Don hadn't been able to reach him on the phone - neither his house phone nor his cell phone.

They'd finally gotten permission to proceed to call him upon landing, and Don had volunteered, saying it would be less of a shock for his father to hear him explain things than it would be for him to hear Charlie's voice over the phone. Besides, Charlie looked dead tired, and Don figured he could sleep on the way there - in a separate vehicle. Charlie was traveling in an SUV with Rogan and Masters, and Don was in another vehicle with Wilkes and a taciturn agent – from what agency, Don could only guess. The separate vehicles were Wilkes' doing, Don was sure – the man seemed determined to keep them apart.

The fact was; Don was a little relieved. The emotional rollercoaster he experienced while in Charlie's presence was draining. He'd calmed down on the plane – seated with his back to Charlie, but his stomach flip-flopped strangely as they disembarked and he got a good look at his brother again. His feelings of the moment were centered around pity and concern – Charlie looked wiped out - and a searing, almost painful sensation of love and gratitude to have him back. They were all good emotions, Don knew, but so stark, so sharp they were almost unbearable. He felt on the verge of tears, and couldn't wait to see his father and his brother together in the Craftsman, although he wondered if the poignancy of the moment was going to be more than he could handle in his current state. As he had been all day, he was aware of other darker, nastier emotions, but he was starting to get better at suppressing them, and only allowing the good ones to surface in his consciousness. He was going to lick this; he didn't care what Wilkes thought.

His vehicle pulled up in front of the Craftsman, and the SUV pulled into the drive behind Alan's vehicle, putting Charlie a little closer to the house. Don's heart swelled again, painfully, as he saw the slight figure slide from the vehicle, a little shakily. Charlie was home. God, and to think that just a little over 24 hours ago, he thought he'd never see him again…

In spite of Charlie's several-step head start, Don easily passed him as he crossed the lawn. "I wasn't able to get Dad on the phone. Let me go in first, Buddy," he said, and he saw Charlie's head come up at the nickname, and a look in his dark eyes that made Don's eyes sting yet again with gratitude. God, he was an emotional mess, Don thought, but it felt good to feel something positive – he wasn't going to fight it. He knocked to give Alan a heads-up that someone was at the door, and opened it, without waiting for a response.

Alan pushed out through the kitchen door to answer the knock as Don stepped over the threshold. It was late afternoon but the sky was cloudy, and the kitchen and living room lights were on, spilling a warm light into the Craftsman. Don loved the house at night, especially; it looked homey, cozy and warm with the soft interior lighting, and he could smell something delicious wafting out from the kitchen. Home. They were home.

"Donnie," his father's face creased with a smile of surprise and pleasure. "I didn't expect you back until tomorrow."

"Dad -," Don began, trying to figure out how to tell him quickly, with Charlie just a few steps behind him. "Dad - I brought someone with me."

He had barely gotten the statement out, when he heard a step behind him, and he saw Alan's face go blank, stunned, as he caught sight of the slight figure in the doorway.

Don turned to look at Charlie – his dark eyes were focused on his father, his face full of emotion – too much for words. Alan stared at him, then at Don, and then back at Charlie, as his feet suddenly started moving. "Charlie-,"

Alan crossed the room to Charlie in a few long strides, his arms held out, a dishtowel draped forgotten over one of them, his face twisting with disbelief and tears. Charlie staggered a bit as Alan embraced him, fiercely, but returned the hug just as tightly, burying his face in his father's shoulder. Don couldn't take the surge of emotion; he had to look away for a moment, fighting for control. When he looked back, Alan had taken a slight step backward, but he obviously couldn't bear to release Charlie – he held him at arms' length and looked into Charlie's face, as if he could read the answers to his questions in it.

Tears were glistening in Alan's eyes, and he looked at Don dazedly, with just a fleeting glance at Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes who were quietly filing through the open doorway. "What-," began Alan, and choked on his bewilderment. He turned back to Charlie, as if still trying to comprehend what he was seeing, and Charlie, whose eyes were shining with a few tears of his own, gave him a quiet smile.

Masters took it upon himself to explain, stepping forward a bit warily, and keeping an eye on Alan's hands while he did. The Eppes men tended to answer shocking news with their fists. "We thought it in Charlie's best interest to let others think he was dead, sir, while he was recuperating and waiting to testify. I'm sorry to put you through that – it was for his own protection."

Alan gaped at him, then suddenly released Charlie and rushed toward him; and Masters took a quick defensive step back, bumping into Rogan. He was raising his hands to ward off the punch he knew was coming, when he found himself enveloped instead by a big hug, and Alan threw back his head and laughed with pure joy. "You brought back both of my sons, and you're apologizing?" Masters rubbed his head, embarrassed, as Alan released him, moved back toward Charlie, and gave him another heartfelt embrace, then looked into his face, searchingly. "How are you, son?"

"Good." Charlie lied. His legs were beginning to shake, and he was feeling dizzy. He would not ruin this moment by passing out, he told himself fiercely, and swallowed and smiled. "Glad to be home."

Alan looked at Charlie with concern. "You'd better sit down before you fall down." He took Charlie by the arm, and as they turned, Don reached out, and took Charlie's opposite arm. He was aware of the others' eyes on him, watching his every move, but he didn't care. He could feel Charlie's arm, thin, sinewy under his jacket, and the touch sent a jolt of something uncomfortable through him – he wondered if Charlie felt discomfort, too. He kept his grip, however, until they had Charlie safely established on the sofa. Alan stood back and just stared at his youngest for a moment – he was clearly still having a hard time processing this, and Don watched as Charlie's eyes met his father's, and they gazed at each other – the moment obviously too deep, too surreal for words. Alan roused himself suddenly, and said, apropos of nothing, "I'm making lasagna. I was going to freeze it, but we now have a houseful to eat it. You're all welcome to stay for dinner." With that, he rushed off suddenly for the kitchen.

Don found him there a minute later, leaning over the sink, sobbing into his dishtowel, and he laid a gentle hand on Alan's shoulder. "Dad, are you okay?"

"Yes." The word was watery, wavering. "I just -," he wiped his face and swallowed. "I'm just glad – it was quite a shock – I'm just having a hard time handling all the emotions, that's all."

Don was silent for a moment, his face sobering. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know what you mean."

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End Chapter 41