Mind Games

Chapter 43

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Your reviews are much appreciated. This is a long one…

After leaving Charlie's room, Don slowly walked down the hallway, pausing just briefly at his bedroom door. A memory, razor-sharp, flashed into his brain. He was standing, with one foot on the bed, strapping a knife sheath to his leg… He shuddered, and moved toward the stairs.

The emotions were still rampaging through him. When Charlie had nearly collapsed at the sofa, he'd charged forward with a feeling of protectiveness so strong that when Colby grabbed Charlie, too, Don had to fight the urge to deck the junior agent. That feeling, and a sensation of deep concern, went with him as he helped his father escort Charlie upstairs, but as soon as they were in the room other feelings intruded. Vivid memories surfaced – the last time he was in Charlie's room, he'd tried to choke him to death. The memory had been murky until he was actually in the bedroom, but the familiar setting brought it into stark clarity so powerfully that he could feel the sensations of rage beginning to surface. He'd backed toward the door, just as Charlie asked him – no, begged him - to stay in his own room. Charlie, it seemed, was as desperate for things to be normal again as Don was. The problem was, Wilkes was right, Don wasn't normal – not yet.

His desire for normalcy was as strong as Charlie's was, maybe even more so, and so was the need to prove himself. He could do this, he told himself. In spite of Wilkes' warnings, he'd spent a whole day with his brother, without incident. Nighttime should be easy compared to that; he would be in a different room, and oblivious to the world. There was really no reason why he shouldn't spend it in the comfort of his old bed.

He found the others - minus Colby and David, who had gone - huddled in the living room around Rogan's cell phone, and he could hear Conaghan's voice coming through the speaker. "I hear what you're saying, Agent Masters, and I feel the same way. It bugs the hell out of me that we haven't been able to identify the man that Charlie saw at the Montreaux estate. We'll leave surveillance on for now, certainly – although this may be over. The hit at the prison had all the earmarks of a terrorist connection, including the Middle Eastern plant who carried it out. My guess is it was Khalid, trying to cover his tracks."

FBI Director Dave Maxwell's voice floated out of the speaker. "I have to agree with that. If Khalid can ascertain that anyone who could testify against him was dead, then he'll be free to move about the rest of the world without fear that some other government would hand him over to us - there will be no solid charge against him. Besides Khalid, the only other people that we would need to account for would be our mystery man and Joe Bishop. Agent Edgerton, any progress on Bishop?"

"None, sir. If he did kill Agent Tate, he's made himself scarce since then. I'm still on it."

"How's Agent Eppes doing?" Maxwell spoke again, obviously unaware that Don had joined the group.

"I'm fine, sir, thanks for asking," Don replied.

"Good, glad to hear it," Maxwell responded, just a trifle too heartily. "And Charlie?"

"He's good – he's pretty worn out, we just helped him up to bed, but he seems okay."

Conaghan's voice came over the phone. "Agent Eppes, how do you feel about keeping that hardware in your head for a little while longer? Maybe another few weeks, just to be certain that they don't try to contact you? I think the chances of that are getting less as time goes on, but I have to admit, I was sure Bishop would try something. Why else would he have gone to the risk of threatening your surgeon and his family?"

"I agree, sir," Don replied levelly. "I want to catch the bastard as much as anybody, and if leaving the equipment in place will help, I'm all for it." As he spoke, he could sense Wilkes' gaze, ever-present, appraising, judging.

"Good," said Conaghan. "All right, gentlemen, you have your marching orders - surveillance on the Eppes family until further notice. Charlie Eppes is the most at risk – you are to limit his excursions outside the house. I'm sure he's still recuperating, anyway."

Maxwell spoke up. "Don, you too - you're allowed at the office, but you need to travel with protection. You have permission to work the Bishop case with Ian, but you will not return to your regular assignments until the wiring is removed. Is that clear?"

'In other words, you don't have a problem using me, but you still don't trust me,' Don thought sourly. He didn't care, though – at this particular point in time, his one goal in life was to get to Bishop and whoever else might be behind this, and they were allowing him to participate in that part of it. His voice was expressionless. "Yes, sir, that's clear."

"Good," Conaghan spoke. "Agents Rogan and Masters, Dave Maxwell and I want a daily update, even if there's nothing to report. Agents Wilkes and Edgerton, you can join them."

Conaghan didn't specify, but there was only one reason for Wilkes to join the meeting, Don knew, and that was to report on him – on his progress. He pushed the thought aside, and listened as Conaghan continued. "Ian, you're to get us word directly if you make any progress on the Bishop case. We'll talk tomorrow evening." He signed off, and silence settled.

Don felt suddenly exhausted – he wasn't in the mood to talk about the case, and was so tired, he couldn't even think straight. He could feel a throbbing headache starting, and he rose, wearily. "I think I'm heading up," he said, and turned and made for the staircase before anyone could say anything.

He was expecting a protest from Wilkes, but the man just let him go, calling after him, "I'll be downstairs here tonight, if you need me." His voice was mild, friendly, almost, but Don could feel his eyes on his back, all the way up the stairs.

The blackness came to Don in the middle of the night. Hatred came seeping, curling into the corners of his soul like black smoke. Along with it came rage, so potent and poisonous that it made him sit upright in bed, panting. All he could think of was Charlie, lying in the room next to him, still alive, when he should be dead. He should have strangled him the first time, he realized, instead of listening to the voices. If he'd choked him to death instead of trying to stab him, he'd be gone already. He could strangle him now, creep quietly into his room, and finally end his miserable life. He'd spent a whole day pandering to him, trying to stifle the disgust in his heart, and he could bear it no longer. The time had come – he didn't care what happened to him afterward, as long as he was free of that curly-headed blight.

The floor felt cool on his feet, as he padded quietly across his room and slipped out the door. There he stood for a moment, swaying slightly in the darkness, like a cobra ready to strike, waiting, listening. The house was dark and silent, and he moved down the hallway, clenching and unclenching his fists. Charlie's door opened smoothly with the almost nonexistent whisper of oiled hinges, and he eased inside and approached the bed. Charlie was lying there soundly asleep, on his back, positioned as if waiting for him. Don stood there for a moment as the emotions swirled inside him, and then with a single swift movement, straddled his brother's body and put his hands around his throat.

Charlie jerked and his whole body went rigid, his eyes flying open, black pits of darkness discernable even in the dimness of the room. Slivers of silver moonlight seeped around the edges of the shades, enough so that Don could see the oddly satisfying look of panic on his brother's face, as he tightened his grip. He could feel his fingers on the cordlike muscles in the back of Charlie's neck, feel his thumbs pressing over the Adam's apple, feel Charlie's windpipe caving in, crushing under the pressure as he bore down with his thumbs with all his might. And Charlie's body, flailing helplessly underneath him, spasms racking it as he lived the agony of his final moments…

"You okay?"

He heard Wilkes' voice behind him, and Don jerked and blinked, trying to orient himself. He was standing in the dark hallway outside his room, bathed in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, and he could feel the sharp sensation of panic surge through him. Dear God, what had he done? He'd been dreaming – just dreaming, he told himself desperately, but then why was he standing out here? Had he really done it – or had he been on his way to Charlie's room? The dream flashed luridly through his mind, and he could feel nausea rising inside him. "I don't feel all that great," he muttered. 'Charlie,' he thought desperately, 'need to get him to check on Charlie. Need to make sure he's okay…' "I was on my way to the bathroom, and I thought I heard Charlie," he said, and his voice cracked on the name.

He heard his father's door open as he spoke, and then Alan's voice, calm and steady, floated through the dark hallway. "I'll check on him," said Alan. "I was planning on checking on him periodically anyway – I'm still worrying that he has a fever."

Don nodded, even though no one could see it in the darkness, and stepped forward on rubbery knees for the bathroom. He closed the door, but left it ajar about six inches so he could hear, and turned on the cold water, splashing his face. He shuddered at the sensation, but kept dashing the icy wetness against his face, as if self-flagellating. "Please, God," he whispered, "let him be all right."

He heard Alan's voice in the hallway, just outside his door. "He's okay," he said, "but I think he's running a slight fever. He was moaning in his sleep – that's probably what you heard, Donnie. He woke up when I spoke to him, and he answered back - he's fine."

"Okay," choked Don, and grabbed a hand towel, burying his face in it as hot tears stung his eyes. He wasn't normal, he was anything but normal… He heard Alan talking softly to Wilkes about getting a doctor to make a house call in the morning, and when Don heard him shuffle to his room and shut the door, he wiped his face one last time, and slipped out of the bathroom.

He could hear Wilkes descending the stairs as he went into his room, but Don didn't pause; he went straight for his bed and grabbed the comforter and his pillow, and headed downstairs after him.

Wilkes was lying on a cot in the living room, and he propped himself up on one elbow, watching as Don made for the sofa and collapsed onto it, pulling the comforter over him. "Are you okay?" Wilkes asked again, his eyes glinting in the half-light, and Don shuddered.

"Just don't let me go upstairs," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Don woke as the first light of dawn filtered into the living room. The remainder of his night had been filled with conflicting dreams, most of them involving Charlie. In one, he'd frantically driven a stabbed and bleeding Charlie to the hospital, in another, he'd chased him through the trees. It was that one which woke him – they were in a forest filled with gray mist, and Charlie was running from him. Don was chasing him, running as fast as he could, desperate to catch him, although he wasn't sure why. As he woke to the grayness in the room, which seemed to reflect the setting of his dream, he probed his thoughts, trying to figure out whether he'd been chasing Charlie to hurt him, or to help him.

"So what happened last night?"

Wilkes was lying there on the cot, looking at him, his face bland and eyes watchful, and Don thought, 'Damn it, doesn't he ever stop?' but he said, "I think I was dreaming."

He turned his head, and stared up at the ceiling, avoiding Wilkes' gaze. "Must have been a good one," said Wilkes, "to chase you downstairs."

Don felt his eyes sting again, as fear and frustration rose inside him. "I dreamed I choked him to death," he blurted, his voice sounding strangled itself. "When I woke up, I was standing in the hallway; I didn't know if I had dreamed it or not."

"And how did you feel, in the dream, while you were doing it?"

Don closed his eyes. "I wanted him dead," he whispered. "It was like before – I hated him so much, I didn't care what happened afterward."

There was a split second of silence as Wilkes processed that, and then he said, "You might not want to believe this, but that's a perfectly normal reaction to yesterday. You spent the whole day – and it was a long one – suppressing any negative emotions you had concerning your brother, and only allowing the good ones to surface. What happened last night was backlash – as soon as you fell asleep, your subconscious took over, and spewed out all those pent up feelings. It probably didn't help, being in this house, being in his bedroom, when the last thing you did there before yesterday was try to strangle him."

Don blinked, and frowned. "You knew I tried to do that?"

Wilkes nodded. "We saw everything. You not only had the camera in your jacket, remember, we had cameras put in the house." He paused. "Don, I know that last night was frightening, and it's one of the reasons I've been warning you not to push this. You have tremendous strength of will, and you've had a lot of practice at suppressing your feelings. That makes you extremely hard to read and your actions hard to predict – even for you. I recommend that you spend some time with Charlie each day, but just a little to start, and gradually work up to more as we work on reversing your programming. If you'd done that to begin with, you probably wouldn't have experienced a dream like last night's – at least not one so intense."

Don nodded. Suddenly, Wilkes' advice sounded right – he needed to get out of there, he needed to get away – and before Charlie woke up. He was suddenly afraid to face him – afraid of what he might think or do when he saw him. He rose and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. "Yeah, let's go. I'll go back to my apartment, get a shower – maybe go into the office for a while."

Wilkes sat up on his cot. "You can probably get a shower here, and then go straight to the office," he said. "It would make it easier on the surveillance team."

Don shook his head. "No. I want to go. Now." He headed for the stairs. "I'm going to run up and grab my shoes – I'll be right back down."

Wilkes watched him go, with a speculative frown on his face.

Charlie stirred and moaned in his sleep. Had there been anyone in the room with him, they would have seen him twitch and writhe slightly. His breath was rapid, shallow, and under his lids, his eyes darted back and forth so fast, they appeared to be vibrating. With a sudden deep gasp, he jerked, and blinked awake, panting, staring at the ceiling in his bedroom. Early morning light sifted around the sides of the window shades, and he coughed, then winced, as he tried to orient himself. He'd been dreaming – it was dim, foggy, and there were trees around him – it reminded him of the swamp in Louisiana. He'd been running from something, running for his life through the trees, and he could dimly remember Don's voice behind him. Almost immediately, a conscious memory intruded – of Don in this very room, his face twisted with hate, choking the life out of him.

He remembered Wilkes saying something about manipulating them both, getting him to run to the FBI offices so the murder could be carried out in public, and it made him realize that they had probably stopped Don from choking him that night so he could run – and made him wonder what would have happened if they hadn't. He shuddered, and pushed the thought out of his mind. It was over, done. History. It wouldn't do either of them any good to think about things like that.

And yet, in this weak moment, he did. In spite of Wilkes saying how hard Don had fought the programming, he also mentioned that he knew that Charlie and Don had "issues." How would he have known that, if Don hadn't admitted it? Charlie had never felt very secure about their relationship to begin with, and if they'd turned Don so completely… maybe it hadn't been as difficult as Wilkes thought – maybe there was real hatred under Don's everyday demeanor. His brother played his emotions so close to the vest, Charlie never knew what he really thought, what he really felt. Add to that the fact that Charlie probably had irreparably damaged what there was of their relationship by insisting on taking the undercover assignment, and …oh, hell, there was more than that, Charlie realized suddenly. He'd never gotten the chance to tell Don about the party at the Montreaux estate, and what he'd found out from Charlotte afterward – that he hadn't slept with her, hadn't even snorted cocaine. Don went into the programming already disgusted and angry with him, Charlie was sure. Maybe the behavior they'd provoked hadn't been such a stretch.

The fact was, he'd always felt at a disadvantage in the relationship, always felt as though he were pursing something he couldn't quite reach. He remembered telling his father once that Don 'let him' work on cases – he could have been describing their relationship. Don only 'let him' get close when he wanted, on his terms – and Charlie kept hoping for those moments. It was frustrating and irritating, and left Charlie, who normally had a healthy sense of self-confidence, always feeling unsure, at least in that aspect of his life. Now Wilkes was saying that he could probably reverse the programming. Probably. And even if he did, Charlie still didn't know what that meant.

Still, he was desperate for things to get back to the way they were – at least to seem normal, even if he didn't know how Don really felt, inside. That desperation had made him hang on Don's every statement the day before, every gesture, every inflection in a tone, every nuance in a choice of words. Searching, searching for what? Some shred of evidence that his brother still cared, or at least, had once cared; some bit of hope that would start to mend his shattered psyche – that would erase the horrible pictures in his mind. Now that he was beginning to heal physically, and was coming out of the fog of pain and painkillers, those pictures were re-asserting themselves – the horror of those moments were growing fresher, rather than dimmer, and they left him feeling uncertain, afraid, his confidence in pieces. That shred of hope that Don was coming back to them was the only thing holding him together, right now.

He ran a tongue over dry, cracked lips, and tried to take a deep breath, grimacing, coughing yet again as he did so. He felt horrible – weak, dizzy, hot. His head ached, and his chest complained at every movement. He needed aspirin, he thought, or acetaminophen, or ibuprofen – something to ease the pain without making him groggy. He had stronger stuff with him – Martha had sent it with him to Washington, along with antibiotics that he hadn't taken for two days. He should probably take those, he thought, but he didn't want the painkillers. He wanted to have a clear head, to be able to talk to Don if Don wanted to talk…

He sat up and pushed the covers aside, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He'd get some aspirin and an antibiotic, and go see if Don was up. The room spun crazily as he stood, and he leaned back against the bed for support for a moment. Then he tottered for the door.

"Charlie!" Alan looked in shock at the apparition the doorway. Charlie truly looked frightening – a skinny pale scarecrow with dark stubble and wild hair, his eyes glassy with dark smudges underneath. He raised a hand to rub his temple, and in the daylight, Alan could see marks on the underside of his arm, two thin pink lines, and with a shock and a wave of nausea, he realized they were healing stab wounds. "Charlie, you shouldn't be out of bed," he admonished, heading toward him, taking his arm, and steering him back out to the sofa. "I have a doctor coming to the house – and you look terrible. Come here, lie down."

He situated Charlie on the sofa and his son didn't complain; in fact, he looked shaky, and grateful to lie down. Alan wondered how much effort it had taken for him to make it downstairs, as he watched Charlie frown and finger the comforter that he'd pulled over him.

"This is Don's comforter, right?" he said. "I thought he was still in bed. His door was shut."

Alan shook his head. "No, he left early – went to his apartment to shower and change, and then he's going into work. In fact, I didn't even see him – he left a note. Wilkes went with him, and so did Agent Masters."

Charlie looked deflated, disappointment evident in his face. He craned his neck to look at the cot, and then frowned again at the comforter. "He didn't sleep in his room last night?"

Alan shook his head. "I don't know. He started out there, but he must have come down here at some point. Wilkes was down here, sleeping on the cot. I put Rogan and Masters up in the solarium." That suspicion had disturbed him too, as had finding Don and Wilkes out in the hallway last night, but he'd set it aside. No sense worrying until he talked to them and found out what had happened. More than likely Don had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and Wilkes, as paranoid as he was, had gone up to check on the noise. Or maybe, Wilkes simply needed to use the bathroom himself. There were any number of explanations.

His thoughts were diverted by the doorbell, and when he went to open the front door, he found a graying, middle-aged man with a bag on the doorstep. "Dr. Penn," he said, holding out his hand. As Alan took it, Penn said, "The agency sent me. I've already been cleared." Behind him, one of the protection detail gave Alan a brief nod, and faded away around the corner of the house.

"Come in," said Alan, "he's right here."

Charlie was struggling to sit up as Dr. Penn approached, and the man smiled reassuringly. "Dr. Eppes – how are you today?"

"Okay," said Charlie. His dark eyes were an odd mix of frustration and resignation – as if he was both dreading and irritated by the pending examination. "I could use some ibuprofen."

"Let's get a temp first," Penn said, inserting a thermometer in his ear. Alan watched the man's face; it was expressionless as he announced, "One hundred and one point four."

He flipped open a chart and made a note, then read for second or two. "It says here that you were prescribed an antibiotic by Dr. Martha Bodman. Have you been taking it?"

Charlie flushed a little, guiltily. "Actually, I was, up until two days ago. I was pretty busy – just forgot."

The doctor raised his brows. "You need to follow the recommended dosage. I want you to finish the medication, and we'll check you again. If that doesn't work, I'll need to put you on a different antibiotic, but I need you to finish what you have, first. If you would remove your shirt, please, I'd like to listen to your chest."

Charlie shot an apprehensive look at Alan, and hesitated, briefly, before dropping his eyes, and slowly pulling off his T-shirt. Alan recognized immediately that his son was uncomfortable and began to turn toward the kitchen to give him some privacy, but not fast enough. As his eyes caught sight of Charlie's chest, his breath hitched. Based on his look at Charlie's arm, he'd expected a stab wound or two, but not so many of them. At least a half-dozen marks dotted his chest, and the location of the worst looking scar was directly over his son's heart, a deep purple scar, not yet faded, that stared back like a malevolent eye. Alan felt a sudden roaring in his ears as an unbidden picture came to his mind – how the event must have transpired - the knife slashing, again and again. 'How on earth could anyone survive that?' he wondered dimly, and at the same time, tried to stifle the horrific vision of his eldest, wielding the knife. As Charlie lifted his head to look at him, Alan realized belatedly that he was just standing there, staring. Charlie's gaze met his, and Alan knew that the horror in his expression must have been evident; their eyes locked for just a moment, shared pain screaming in the silence, and then Charlie looked away.

End Chapter 43

A/N: I originally had Don's dream positioned as a cliff-hanger, but rethought that – it sounded too real, and even I wasn't mean enough to do that to you. :) So I took out a chapter break and redid things. It made for one less chapter in the story, and a couple of longer chapters in this section. Someone asked how long the story was – although I took out a chapter, I discovered I had duplicated the numbers in two places. Originally, I thought it was 68, the two extra would have brought it to 70, but the removal took it back to sixty-nine. I still have some editing to do in upcoming chapters, but I think the 69 number will hold.

Yes, it was just a dream - not that the threat is over, by any means...