Mind Games

Chapter 49

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. Just for you, here's 49.

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'You're alone now, it's safe. Pick up the package, and open it.'

Don froze, his mind racing furiously. He had to be under surveillance somehow, otherwise, how would they, or he, know that Don was in his apartment – alone in his apartment? He had to play along; until he could get to where he could safely tell Masters or Rogan what was happening. Even as he thought that, he could feel uncomfortable sensations starting to rise inside him, a low-level sense of irritation, subdued dark feelings of hatred and anger. His heart gave an uncomfortable leap as he realized that his controller was sending current through his brain, ramping up the negative emotions. He could feel them clearly, but they were manageable. The devices that Dr. Janovic had attached near the batteries in his collarbone were apparently doing their job; keeping the current levels low enough so that Don could stay in control. Still, it was a disturbing sensation.

He reached for the package and tore off the wrapping, his heart lurching yet again as he pulled the familiar denim jacket from the box. This was proof; this was his jacket, and it had come from the slain CIA agent Mike Tate – the man they thought had been killed by Joe Bishop. Not Bishop, as they knew now, but the unknown conspirator – the man who Charlie had seen. Don thought to himself that he should have known that the jacket was in the vicinity as soon as he heard the voice and felt the current; he remembered Wilkes telling him that the jacket contained signal boosters for the signals coming from the controller. If the jacket and its boosters were not within 100 miles of him, the controller wouldn't work.

'Too bad about Charlie,' the voice said, 'too bad he wasn't taken care of, tonight. Of course, you'll fix that, won't you?' Don listened, wondering how the man knew about the hit, and the fact that Charlie had survived it. Whether he ordered the attempted hit or actually was the shooter, the man could not possibly have known for sure whether the bullet had found its mark. Then it came to him; he would not be here at his apartment if Charlie had been hurt, or killed. He would still be at the hospital, or at home with his father at the Craftsman if Charlie had died. The fact that he wandered nonchalantly into his apartment had told the man the result of the attack, even if he hadn't known some other way. The man had probably even heard Masters in the doorway, calmly discussing the meeting the next morning at Charlie's house.

He glanced surreptitiously around the room, wondering again how the man could see him. He'd thought all the cameras had been removed from his apartment, from Charlie's house. Granted, there was one in the jacket, he knew, but the man had known he was there before he'd even taken the jacket out of the package. There had to be a camera somewhere in the apartment. His gut tightened. Maybe there was still a camera at the Craftsman, too. Maybe the man had been listening to all their meetings…

'You still hate him, you know you do. You've always hated the conceited little bastard. Now you need to finish it. You want to finish it, don't you? Say it out loud.' Before he'd known about the wiring and the auditory device, Don had assumed that the voice in his head was his own. Even now that he knew, it was hard to discern the voice from his own thoughts. He had to think about the actual content of the words, had to analyze which came from him and which from the controller. It wasn't too difficult; he knew as soon as he made the analysis. This man wasn't as skilled as the man who had spoken to him before; he wasn't as good at making the words sound like something that Don might have used himself. Still, he had to think for a split second; it was an extra step, additional reasoning, and it slowed his reactions. "Yes," he whispered, because he knew it was what the controller wanted to hear. "I hate him."

His own words made him want to vomit; he could feel fear clawing its way up his insides. What if Wilkes was wrong and the dampening devices couldn't hold down his emotions well enough?

'What are you afraid of?' the voice asked him, and Don's heart dropped as he realized that the man was reading his true emotional state. Of course he was; he held the controls. If Don were going to be believable, he would need to fight back the fear, and force the feelings of hatred and anger. Fighting down the fear would be tough, but hatred and anger would come easily – all Don had to do would be to think of this bastard behind the controls, the man who wanted to kill his brother. 'What are you afraid of? Say it out loud; it will help clarify your thoughts.'

"I'm afraid to die," Don lied, to answer him. "He's surrounded by agents; any attempt to kill him would be suicidal."

'Tonight will change that,' said the voice. 'They will want to get him away, and you can be the one to suggest it. You will tell them that you want to take him on a trip. They can make sure that you get safely out of town, but then you will take him somewhere, just the two of you.'

"They'll never agree to that," said Don slowly. He could feel the emotions simmering in his gut, a toxic brew of anger, fear, and hatred.

'You need to make them agree,' said the voice. 'There is no alternative. Have you given them any reason not to trust you, to trust that you have recovered? After all, the wiring was removed from your head.'

He was playing with him now, Don thought. The controller knew full well that he had tried to coerce Dr. Janovic into leaving the wiring in, but he didn't know that Janovic had told them about the threat. He would be under the impression that Don and everyone else other than Janovic thought that the wiring had been removed.

"They trust me," Don said aloud. "I haven't done anything since the attack to make them not trust me." That wasn't true, he knew; Wilkes didn't trust him yet, and Charlie… Charlie was still obviously scared to death of him.

'Then there should be no problem,' the voice said. 'Do you have a firearm at your disposal?'

Don purposely made his voice sound flat, mechanical – which wasn't a stretch; he felt like a robot. Even at the low level of current, it was easier to behave the way his controller wanted than to fight it. "They've taken away my service revolver and back-up piece until my reprogramming is complete." There was a brief pause; then the voice spoke again.

'There is someone who will help you, someone interested, as you are, in removing Charles Eppes, a threat to our country. He will help you get the weapons you need. Tomorrow, you will get up and go speak to the people in charge of your brother's protection detail. Tell them that you want to take him away for his own safety for a few days, while they investigate the attack. You will suggest a hiking trip in the Angeles National Forest, just north of here, beginning the day after tomorrow. You will need to convince the others to let the two of you make the trip alone. They will probably insist that they at least make arrangements to get you out of the area, so they can assure that you are not followed. That is fine; you can agree to any of their restrictions, as long as they do not accompany you on the hike itself. In the meantime, you will hide the jacket until further notice. Now, you will get on your computer, and plan your trip. Once you have the details, you can sleep.'

Don moved to his computer, his mind turning frantically. Whoever the controller was, he had no grasp of the real situation. There was no way in hell that Masters, Rogan, or Wilkes would allow a trip like that to happen – even if Charlie would agree to go. It was obvious, the man wanted them out alone, either to have Don finish off Charlie, or to make it feasible for the man to do it himself, maybe kill both of them.

He could feel an almost unconscious urge to walk to his computer, and he knew that the man was applying current that was depressing his decision centers, making him open to suggestion. If the devices in his collarbones were not present to reduce that current, Don knew from what Wilkes had told him that he would be at the mercy of the controller – he would have done anything the man asked. To be believable, he had to follow instructions. Well aware that eyes were on him, he sank into the seat at his desk, booted up his laptop, and called up information on the Angeles National Forest.

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J. Scott Marsh watched the dark head bent over the computer screen with a grim smile. The controls worked better than he'd imagined; he'd applied a moderately high current to the decision center of the brain, and it had immediate effects. Don Eppes appeared to take his instructions without question. Marsh imagined that the fact that Eppes had been programmed previously made it easier – apparently, there would be no break-in period; Eppes did not appear to be fighting his commands at all. That was reassuring, because once Eppes was out of his apartment; Marsh would not be able to see him. It would have been good to be able to use the denim jacket and its hidden camera, but Marsh suspected that the other agents already knew about the jacket and its purpose, and he was afraid to let them see it – it would be vital later. It was better to have Eppes pack it away, and only take it out once he and the professor were alone. Marsh would have to trust that the current settings and his instructions would do the job.

Marsh knew he might regret the attempted hit on the professor; it would probably make the agents tighten security even further. However, it had already been too tight before the attempt for anyone to get close. Don Eppes was right; the agents might not allow them to take a trip alone together, and if that were the case, Marsh would have to make other plans. There was a chance they might agree, however, just to get the professor out of the area.

He fiddled with a dial in the vest pocket and locked in the current setting for the decision center. From now until the end of this, Don Eppes would be under its influence, and at the mercy of Marsh's suggestions. In addition, tonight, while he slept, Marsh would bombard Don's subconscious with propaganda, aimed at undoing any deprogramming that had been done so far; aimed at assuring he was turned against Dr. Eppes.

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Jonathan Wilkes eyed the figure slumped on the sofa, then moved to an armchair across from him and sat. Charlie Eppes was staring vacantly at the floor; he hadn't seemed right all evening, and immediately after the shooting had experienced an episode of some kind, a panic attack, or worse. Other than a heavy security detail outside, everyone was gone for the night except Alan Eppes, who at a murmured word from Wilkes, had stepped out to the kitchen on the pretext of dealing with pizza leftovers to allow them to talk in privacy. Now, Wilkes looked at Charlie and asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. "Are you all right?"

Charlie's gaze flickered toward him, then back to the floor. His voice was low and unsteady. "I don't know."

"Something happened," said Wilkes reasonably. "It's obvious. You were extremely uncomfortable around Don tonight, and for a moment after the shooting, you weren't yourself. I don't know where you were or what you were thinking, but it wasn't here, and it wasn't good. You can't keep burying what happened, Charlie; I've told you that already. I have a feeling you're starting to see some of the effects of that."

Charlie looked up at him again, and Wilkes could see a myriad of expressions in his eyes, none of them positive. Dejection, fear, helplessness…. Charlie hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his words uncertain, halting. "I – I've started having these - flashbacks. I keep – keep thinking that Don …." Another pause, but Wilkes kept silent, waiting for him to continue. Charlie looked downward, and after a moment, spoke again, his eyes directed on the floor. "The first one happened this morning in the hallway. I came out of my room and he was there – I – I wasn't expecting to see him. It startled me, I guess. I just –freaked out – for a minute, I really believed I was somewhere else, I was at the FBI offices, and it was happening again – he was coming to kill me. Then tonight, when he pulled me down during the shooting, I did it again. I thought I was in my bedroom on the floor, and he was strangling me… I was so afraid of him; I didn't even realize I was being shot at."

His voice cracked and his face contorted suddenly, and he lowered his head and rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand to hide the expression. Wilkes watched him for a moment, then said, "I know it's frightening, but flashbacks are a normal, although extreme, symptom of post traumatic stress disorder, which is treatable. It's something that you may be able to eliminate with time and therapy, and if necessary, medication can be prescribed that will help. My recommendation would be to start with therapy."

Charlie looked at him, miserably. "What if I can't get rid of it? What if Don goes through all this -," he waved his hand vaguely, "goes through all his deprogramming and gets back to normal, and I'm the one who's screwed up?" He closed his eyes and whispered. "I just want things to be normal again."

"And what was normal?" asked Wilkes gently. "Were you satisfied with normal?"

Charlie opened his eyes and snorted, a short, bitter laugh. "As compared to this? You're kidding, right?"

"So you were happy with your relationship with your brother?"

"It wasn't perfect, but we got along okay. We've been working together for five years, and it had been getting better." Charlie sounded a bit defensive.

"The word 'better' would imply that the relationship left something to be desired. Tell me, what would 'better' consist of?"

Charlie shrugged, and looked back at the floor, obviously reluctant to talk. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Closer."

"And what does 'closer' mean to you?"

The shrug became impatient. "I don't know," Charlie said again, with a hint of exasperation at the relentless questioning. "We'd do more stuff together, I guess, outside of work. We'd talk more, about things – things that mean something." He shook his head. "I don't know if Don would want all of that, anyway. I'd just be happy to get back to where we were."

Wilkes was silent for a moment. "Would you be surprised to find that your brother feels the same way? Or at least did, before his programming. I think he can get back to where he was before, Charlie, and I think you'll be able to also, if you start being honest with yourself, and get started on some therapy. In fact, if you both get that far, I think there's a good possibility that you'll wind up even closer after all this is over."

Charlie sighed. "You're right; I need to get my own head on straight. I've been telling myself since this morning that Don wouldn't hurt me now – there's no reason for me to be feeling this way."

Wilkes shook his head. "There you go again – denying. Charlie, there is a reason that you feel that way, a good reason. For one, there's the emotional trauma you suffered; you can't keep burying that. Number two, and I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you sense it, subconsciously – your brother isn't fully deprogrammed yet. He's doing better, but there's a good reason that you subconsciously don't trust him – he's not the Don that you knew, yet. You're pushing too hard for things to be as they were, Charlie – and in the meantime, you're denying the reality of the situation. You need to deal with it, not ignore it, and you need to be patient. If you do that, things will start to turn around."

Charlie looked up at him, anxiously. "How long? And how can I be sure I won't have another flashback? If he knew what I was thinking – that I didn't trust him - I know it would hurt him, maybe even set him back."

Wilkes shook his head. "There are no guarantees, Charlie, and no set time limits. If you have another flashback, we'll just have to deal with it, and Don will, too." He looked at Charlie gravely. "It's important to have hope, Charlie, but I don't want to mislead you. There is a chance he may never get back to where he was before. Looking at his progress so far, I'm optimistic, but nothing in this life is certain, especially the behavior of the human mind. We need to deal with reality, but we need to have faith, too." He rose. "Now I suggest you get some sleep. Don't forget, we're meeting in the morning to discuss what actions to take next."

Charlie watched Wilkes let himself out, then let his head fall back on the sofa back and closed his eyes. Wilkes had to be kidding. How could anyone sleep after that? He was exhausted, though, he could feel it all the way down to his bones.

It was less than fifteen minutes later when Alan came back into the room and found him, completely out. He sank into a chair himself, and sat there studying his youngest. Even in slumber, Charlie wore a slight frown. Alan could sense that he was struggling, that both his sons were struggling with what had happened, but he didn't know how to help them. His heart was heavy with worry, and he, like his boys, was exhausted. He was glad that Charlie was sleeping now; it hadn't come easily to him for the last several nights, Alan knew.

His eyes strayed over to the china cabinet, where he'd hastily tucked the lacquered box of ashes when the boys had returned, planning to get rid of it later. He could see it now, sitting behind the glass with Margaret's collectibles and china, and it occurred to him that he'd never had a chance to ask the agents what was really inside, if not Charlie's ashes. The sight of it called to mind the profound grief he'd felt, only days ago. The memory of that grief was now fading, but in its place, a deep-seated anxiety had taken root. As much as Charlie chafed at his confinement, Alan had to admit, a part of him wanted to keep him here, safe and sound. After thinking he'd lost him, he didn't want to let him out of his sight again. He worried about Don too, but he could hardly argue if Don felt he needed space. God only knew, they had to let Don work through this, take the time he needed to get his head right again. They couldn't afford to push him before he was ready, and cause another - episode. That would be disastrous for both of his sons, and for him.

He heard Charlie stir, and turned his head, to see his son blinking at him, sleepily. Alan smiled softly. "You should go to bed, son."

Charlie didn't reply; he just regarded him somberly for a moment, his eyes still glazed by fatigue. "Do you think Don ever loved me?" he asked suddenly.

Alan face dropped with surprise. "Of course, he did. He's your brother." Too late, he realized he used past tense.

Charlie made a wry expression. "Dad, you and I both know that doesn't mean anything. Family members don't always love each other; they don't even necessarily like each other.

Alan frowned. "What brought this on?"

"Something Wilkes said. I said I would have liked to have been closer to Don, and he told me that Don wanted the same thing, or at least he did before they – programmed him. I know it seemed like we were getting along better, but I just was never sure. Do you think so? That he wanted that?"

Alan nodded, sagely. "Yes, Charlie, I think so. Don isn't one to say much about how he feels, but I know he loved you. In fact, there's hard proof – Wilkes took a printout of how he felt about you before the brainwashing. Don showed it to me – it was a bunch of colored bars, one for each type of emotion, positive and negative. There were a lot of conflicting feelings on that printout – which Wilkes told me is perfectly normal with siblings, but I can tell you the biggest bar on the page was the one over 'love.'"

Charlie's face was wistful. "It's nice to know – that he at least felt that way once."

"He'll get back there again, Charlie," Alan said firmly, but Charlie just rose and turned for the stairs, and in the set of his shoulders was a weary sense of capitulation.

"I don't know, Dad," he said uncertainly. "I hope so. I know he's trying, but I'm not sure if he will. He's trying to hide it, but I think he still hates me."

He moved toward the stairs, and Alan watched him go, defeat in every line of his son's body. The horrible thing was, he feared, deep in his heart, that Charlie was right. There'd been a moment earlier that evening after Don had dove to save Charlie from the bullet, a moment when Don was on top of him, holding him down. Wilkes had yelled at Don to get off, and as Alan had turned stunned eyes toward them, he had realized why. There was an odd, ugly light in his older son's eyes, and although it was hard to tell what his hands were doing – he could have been merely trying to calm Charlie's frantic struggles – it seemed as though they were trying to work their way toward Charlie's neck.

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End Chapter 49