Mind Games
Chapter 45
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: This is another longer one...
Moses Jackson stepped along the banks of the Mississippi, his bent arthritic form protesting every move. He shuffled through the clumps of moonlit brush, ducking under tree limbs, here and there approaching the river's edge and reaching down to test a trotline. They were big lines, thick weighted cords flung far out into the murky water, with baited hooks dangling along their length. Big lines for big fish – he'd hauled in channel catfish weighing close to 200 pounds. One last check of the lines, and then he'd go home for the night, and come back to check them in the morning.
He stepped over a log and bent one creaking knee to pull on his biggest rig. It contained just two hooks, both baited with skinned rabbits. He hadn't caught anything on that line in over a year – it was rigged for only the biggest cats – the rare monster that lurked the depths – but he put it out every time, just the same. A man just never knew when those big ones would come along. He pulled, and grunted in surprise. The line felt surprisingly heavy.
He brought his left leg over the log and positioned himself, testing the line again with a slow steady pull. "Damn," he muttered. There was definitely something heavy on it, but there was no pull back, no resistance. If a big cat had hooked itself, it would fight him. He pulled harder, with all his strength, and he felt something give. The resistance had decreased a bit, but the line still felt extremely heavy, and he hauled it in, hand over hand. It might be a huge snapping turtle after the bait, he thought to himself. Beads of sweat popped on his dark wrinkled brow, and he grunted with the effort, but he knew for sure it wasn't a big fish; he'd never be able to pull one that size in by himself. "Damn turtles," he mumbled. "Stealin' my damn bait. Prob'ly a big, nasty muthahfuckah."
By the time his load neared shore, he was beginning to wonder if he had a turtle. Granted, some of the snappers were huge, but this seemed so damned heavy… He brightened a little. A good-sized turtle brought ten dollars per pound in the market. Panting, he heard his load break water; saw a bit of it, a dim black spot darker than the black water, and at the same time, a stench hit his nose. He wrinkled it in disgust – he had snagged something dead, and big – maybe a dead deer. "Shit," he gasped, disappointed, and straining his wiry muscles, pushed backwards with his legs, hauling the load toward the water's edge. He was gagging now; the smell was horrific, but he couldn't afford another line this size – he needed to cut it free.
He fumbled for a rag in his pocket and put it over his nose and mouth; it was dirty and smelled like stink bait, but it was better than the reek that was coming from the object on the shoreline. He fumbled for a pocketknife with his other hand, stepping forward, and as he reached the carcass, he stopped, peering at it in the dappled moonlight. It was bloated, rotting, clumps of it torn away, but it was unmistakably human. Moses stumbled backwards. "Sweet Jesus!"
He stared at it for a moment, then bent down and wrapped the line around a stump, securing it so the body wouldn't float away, and then turned and stumbled for his pickup. The nearest phone was at least two miles away.
J. Scott Marsh sat in his darkened study, considering his options. Upon learning that Charles Eppes was alive, two days prior, his first inclination had been to hop a plane to Los Angeles. Reason, however, prevailed, and he forced himself to wait, to sit and think. In the meantime, he'd hired a man based in L.A. – a Latino with affiliations to gangs, and a history of service as a sniper in Afghanistan, who had a reputation as a hit man. There was a chance that Marsh wouldn't need to travel at all; he could direct a hit on Dr. Eppes while he sat in Washington, D.C. with an unimpeachable alibi.
He'd just gotten off the phone with his man, however, and the news wasn't good. There was tight surveillance around Dr. Eppes' Craftsman home, and no good way to get to him. Marsh could wait, and in the meantime, he had told the assassin to make an attempt if he saw an opportunity, but he was growing more uncomfortable as time progressed. With the death of the Montreaux cousins, the trial had been cancelled and he no longer had a deadline, but the longer Eppes was alive, the greater the chance that they would uncover something. He assumed that they'd had Charlie Eppes going through photos, although he knew it was unlikely that those photos would contain shots of high-ranking government agents like himself. If they stumbled on something that pointed them that way somehow, however, and had him start looking through agency photos… He couldn't afford to take the chance.
The other thing that was driving his need for expediency was Don Eppes himself. Even if no one knew that Eppes still had the wiring in his head, Marsh imagined they would start to work on deprogramming him in psychotherapy sessions. His man had told him that Don was staying in his own apartment, so that was good; it meant that they were probably limiting his exposure to Charlie – perhaps they even still considered Don a danger to the professor. If it came down to using Don Eppes again to get to his brother, Marsh wanted to strike while he was still under the effects of the brainwashing. The controls Marsh possessed, still waiting in the vest in the L.A. health club locker room, would probably be enough to get Don to do the job, but the less time they had for deprogramming him, the better.
In light of that, Marsh had made arrangements that morning. He'd called his boss and told him that his sister was starting chemotherapy in a few days and that he was taking some leave, and followed that by booking a flight to Vegas. Then he'd called and booked another from Vegas to L.A. under an alias – but not one of his many CIA covers; he needed to make sure that this one couldn't be traced. His assassin would have a few more days to get to Charlie Eppes, before Marsh stepped in and took care of things himself.
The following evening, Don stepped through the front door of the Craftsman, fighting back a feeling of trepidation. He'd followed Robin's advice and listened to Wilkes, spending a long morning in a deprogramming session, and the afternoon at the office.
Wilkes had given him the option of visiting Charlie, but Masters had taken away his ability to choose; he told Don that they needed to meet with Charlie and with CIA Director Conaghan that evening. They were going to tie in by secure cell phone with the director from the Craftsman. Now Don was here, where he both wished and feared to be.
He tensed as he saw Charlie seated on the sofa, holding his breath as his younger brother turned his head and their eyes met. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but as his heart rate settled, he let out a breath. He'd felt an odd little surge of mixed irritation and something else – something more positive; pleasure perhaps, nothing more. He apparently wasn't going to fall apart and go into attack mode.
Still, he kept some space between them, closing to reasonable speaking distance across from Charlie before sinking into a chair, while the others filed into the room. Charlie hadn't taken his gaze off him since he entered; his dark eyes somber, watchful. Was Charlie still as afraid of him as Don was of himself?
"How are you feeling?" Don asked, and he realized with surprise that he was truly interested in the answer.
"Good," Charlie answered quietly. "Much better actually." He smiled ruefully. "I started taking my antibiotic again – should have known better." He cocked his head a little. "Missed you yesterday." The statement was delivered in a flat tone – Charlie either didn't mean what he'd just said, or he was being careful not to let emotion creep into the phrase; Don wasn't sure which.
Don rubbed the back of his head, and looked away. "Yeah, well, I got tied up at Robin's last night, and it was late when I got out."
Charlie studied his face for a moment, then nodded and looked away. As he did so, Don caught the flash of something – disappointment, maybe? – in his eyes. Suddenly it occurred to him – against all odds, Charlie wanted him here. He was still cautious, still afraid, but he wanted Don around. The thought elicited a wave of emotion so gut-wrenching, for a moment, Don neither heard nor saw anything that was going on around him. Hope and guilt collided inside him like rogue waves, making his head spin, until he took a deep breath, and managed to collect himself. One thing was certain - he'd found it out the first day he'd spent with Charlie since the attack - Don's emotions went into overdrive every time he was around him. Some of them were positive, some were negative, but they all were powerful. He needed to talk to Wilkes about that, he decided. He needed to figure out how to continue to feel, but stay in control. Charlie was apparently willing to trust him enough to try to mend the rift between them. Whatever he did, he couldn't violate that trust.
They moved to the dining room to conduct the meeting, and Don found himself in a seat away from Charlie – not next to him, not facing him. Rogan had sat between them, and Don wondered if Wilkes had told Rogan to do that to separate them– or perhaps, he was simply being paranoid. Alan joined the group and took a seat in the corner of the room; his father wasn't about to be left out any proceedings that involved his sons, apparently. As he sat, his eyes connected with Don's; they were warm, sympathetic, worried. Charlie wanted him here, and his father was worried about him. Don felt a stab of guilt-tinged thankfulness at the thought.
Along with Rogan and Charlie, Masters, Wilkes, and Ian Edgerton were seated at the table, and Masters put his cell phone on speaker. There was a ring on the other end, and then the CIA Director's voice came on. "Conaghan."
"Good evening, sir," said Masters. "I've got everyone you asked for, here."
"Director Maxwell is on the line with me," Conaghan replied. "First of all, I should ask whether there is anything new to report on your end."
Seven pairs of eyes lifted and met, and then Masters said, "Nothing here, sir. It's been pretty quiet."
"Very well," said Conaghan. "We have a development on this end that you need to know about. We got a call from New Orleans yesterday. Apparently, a fisherman in a rural parish pulled a body out of the Mississippi River last night. It was badly decomposed, but there was a driver's license with the body that was laminated. It had degraded somewhat, but the plastic protected it enough that they were able to make out the print. The name on the ID is Joseph Bishop."
"Shit," swore Masters softly, and the group at the table stared at each other.
Conaghan continued, "We are conducting DNA testing to make sure that it is actually Bishop, and the coroner is investigating the cause of death. We think the body was weighted, however, which would point to homicide."
Rogan frowned. "You think it was weighted?"
"The feet were missing," said Conaghan. "As I said, the body was badly decomposed; we think that when the fisherman pulled him up the feet were held by whatever bound them to the weight, and they separated from the body."
Don snuck a sidelong peek at Charlie, who had turned slightly green at that statement, his complexion matching their father's, across the room. Ian was frowning, and he glanced at Don, as Masters said, "If it is Bishop and he was murdered, then we've been after the wrong man all along. The question is; who is behind the murders? The Iranians? Our mystery man? Someone else?"
"More to the point," said Rogan, "are they, or is he, finished?"
Dave Maxwell's voice floated out from the phone. "Those questions are related. It's tough to know without understanding the extent of Bishop's involvement. Either Bishop was innocent and they simply set him up to take the fall; or he was involved, and they thought they needed to eliminate him to cover their tracks. My personal opinion is that the answer to whether or not they are finished is tied to the mystery man. We discussed this before. If that man is of no consequence, he's probably dead, himself. If, on the other hand, he is powerful enough to be calling the shots, we still have a problem. We can't take surveillance off the Eppes family until we know for sure."
"We're still surmising Bishop was involved," said Conaghan. "Why else would he book a flight to Mobile the night he disappeared? And if someone decided that he was expendable, then that someone had some power. Charlie, I'm guessing the unknown man you saw was someone high level – perhaps the middleman between the Iranians and Montreaux. I know we've had you looking through photos, but we need to step up those efforts and expand the search."
"I can do that," Charlie said, slowly. "I have some issues for which I need your guidance, however. First of all, the time we set aside for the cover assignment will be up in a little over two weeks, and Cal Sci will be expecting me back. I'm surprised Mildred Finch hasn't called me yet."
"That's because we already talked to her, and to the Dean," said Masters. "As far as your colleagues on campus go, they still think you're on the cover assignment at Quantico. However, we told the Dean and Professor Finch that you and Don were actually on an undercover assignment, although we didn't tell them what it was, and requested their discretion and patience. I agree, though, we probably need to touch base with them again and let them know you may be away longer."
Charlie set his jaw stubbornly. "I can agree to another couple of weeks, but you can't expect me to stay holed up in this house indefinitely."
Conaghan's voice came from the phone. "Dr. Eppes, you don't appear to understand the gravity of this situation. If we can't get to this man, we may need to put you into witness protection. You may not be going back to Cal Sci."
There was dead silence. Don felt his heart twist as he looked at Charlie's face; his brother sat there dumbfounded, his lips parted as though he were going to reply but couldn't find the words. Don could imagine what he was thinking – that he'd have to leave home and family, probably Amita… his career, his life as he knew it would be gone. Don had a vision of him, tucked away in some secret government think tank for the rest of his days, and the thought made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Dave Maxwell's voice broke the quiet. "We have another issue that will resurface in two days. Your friends come back from Europe then, if I'm not mistaken."
Charlie managed to find his voice enough to answer. "Yes."
"The less people know about these doings the better," Maxwell went on. "Over two weeks ago, while you were at the L.A safe house, before -," he paused here, and studiously avoided looking at Don, "the attack, you told them that you and Don had been in a car accident. Actually, as I recall, Agent Reeves cornered you into that admission, and then she called them and told them."
"Yes," said Charlie again. His voice was husky, quiet, and Don knew he was trying hold back his emotions; keep the disappointment and anxiety out of his voice. "They still believe we took a break from Quantico to heal up from the accident, and when I went out to testify, I told them we went back to run a demo class."
"Good," said Maxwell. "Let them think that. A car accident will also explain any visible scars. We'll need to figure out what to tell them as to why you didn't go back to campus yet. It is nearly two months into the term; maybe we can get an agreement from Dr. Finch to state that it's too late for you to return this session, and that she asked that you be back for the fall term, perhaps even the summer, if we can resolve this by then. Maybe you can do some consulting from home – both to keep yourself busy and as a cover story."
Charlie sat silently, with his shoulders slumped, but he sent a look of dismay toward Alan, who was sitting, frowning in the corner. Don felt a sudden, surprising urge to throw an arm around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and if he'd been sitting next to him, he might well have. Instead, he spoke gruffly toward the phone. "We need to pull out all the stops on this investigation," he said curtly. "Charlie didn't sign up for this thinking he'd end up in witness protection. That's not an option – we need to resolve this."
Conaghan spoke, forced patience in his voice. "And we're trying our best to do that. This isn't confined to your brother, agent. You are also at risk. We have every intention of getting to the bottom of this. It may take some time, that's all. In the meantime, we need to be patient, and discreet. Agent Edgerton, I expect you to factor this new information into your investigation. For now, operate under the assumption that the man found in the river is Bishop, and when we get confirmed DNA results, we'll get them back to you."
"I could use some assistance on this," Ian replied. "I'd like to bring in Agents Granger and Sinclair. They're both already cleared for the information in this case."
"Very well," Maxwell agreed. "I'll call A.D. Wright and let him know he has my permission. They will report to you."
The meeting broke up shortly afterward, and Don found himself hesitating, hanging back, as Wilkes and Masters headed toward the door. The Craftsman seemed warm and inviting; he hadn't wanted to come, but now that he was there, he wanted to stay. It helped to know that he could face Charlie without going off the deep end; in fact, he felt a sense of warmth and concern when he looked at his younger brother's face. There was, however, a niggling sensation of irritation still; the thought in the back of his mind that they wouldn't be in this situation if Charlie hadn't pushed to take the undercover assignment. He shied away from the thought like a skittish horse; he questioned every negative thought, every negative emotion now.
"You ready to go?" Wilkes asked quietly, and Don took a breath and nodded. The visit had gone relatively well; it was better to get out while the going was good. He turned back to say good-bye, only to be faced with Charlie, who had stepped up next to him.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said quietly, his face filled with regret and anxiety. "I never thought that the assignment would end up like this – that it would cause any long-term problems."
Charlie's proximity and the volatile subject prompted an immediate reaction. Emotion burst, flooding Don's gut – hope, love, irritation, anger, anxiety – so strong, he had to fight to control himself, and his response as a result was terse, gruff. "It is what it is, Charlie. We have to fix it, that's all. Don't worry, we'll get him."
Then he walked out, rigidly, sweat trickling down his neck, leaving Charlie staring after him.
Jorge Cazares shifted the rifle in his hands and peered through the scope. He was only two houses away from the Craftsman; not directly across the street, but in a house on the street over, that backed up to a home across the street from the Craftsman. The house was for sale, abandoned, and had been for a while. In the economic downturn, no one was buying homes up quickly, not even in this desirable neighborhood. It wasn't optimal for a stakeout; it was further away than he liked, although he could see most of the front of the Craftsman between the two houses behind his hideout if he positioned himself in the back bedroom. It was as good as he could do, however. He didn't dare get any closer; the professor's house was surrounded by agents, who lurked in the shrubbery, and crouched behind the large planters at the front of the house.
Jorge's job was made more complicated by the fact that to his knowledge, the professor never left the house. He had a picture and a description of Charlie Eppes; he knew the professor would be smaller and slighter than most of the other men who came and went from the home, although until that night, he had yet to get a clear look at him. Usually the drapes were drawn on the living room picture window, but the material was sheer, and if he looked through the scope, he could make out figures passing back and forth behind them; dim, cloudy through the filmy fabric. Earlier that evening, before the group of men had arrived, the drapes had been open – a rare occurrence - and he'd finally gotten a clear look at the subject. The professor had passed in front of the window in plain view, and Jorge had taken in his size, his posture, his manner of moving, the silhouette of the curly head. It still had been light out then; he couldn't risk a shot or he would have been too easily apprehended. He needed to wait for darkness. He could afford to be patient, however; he now knew enough of how the professor looked and moved that he would be able to distinguish his figure from others, even if the sheers were drawn. Darkness would actually improve his view; at night, the soft light emanating from the house illuminated the figures inside. Yes, he could be patient, but not too patient; he had until the end of this week, no more, to get the job done.
End Chapter 45
A/N: Next up, Charlie begins to show evidence of the psychological effects of his ordeal… and for those who are wondering, there is much whumping ahead for both boys, and we are drawing inexorably closer to whump time.