Mind Games
Chapter 52
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews.
J. Scott Marsh narrowed his eyes and looked through his binoculars, scanning the trail behind him. He knew the Eppes men were on the trail, the camera told him that, but he didn't expect to see them yet - he was at least four hours in, and they had started out two hours ago. No, he wasn't looking for them; he was looking for signs of other hikers, or of any sign that the Eppes brothers had company. He'd left his car at a motel in a small nearby town called Three Points, and hitched a ride through the park to the trailhead. He didn't want to chance leaving his vehicle at the parking area, or any other trailhead nearby. So far, he had seen only one other hiker on the trail; the man was traveling alone and had already hiked on past, oblivious to Marsh's presence as he sat tucked up in some rocks on a ridge. The man appeared to be geared for overnight hiking, and was moving at a good clip. Chances were good he was doing the Mountain-to-Sea trail, and would be long gone before the Eppes brothers made an appearance. For now, it appeared they had the trail to themselves, which boded well. Marsh really was in no hurry, however. It would be best for his plans to unroll a day or two into the hike, and preferably not on a day with such exceptional visibility. There was a bank of fog sitting off the coast, threatening to move inland. If it did, it would give him cover, or he could make his move at night, in the darkness.
Marsh smiled and lifted the collar of his vest with its imbedded microphone closer to his lips and, glancing down at the papers in front of him, began to speak into it. Dr. Allman had tucked notes in the vest – not just information concerning how to use it, but also Jonathan Wilkes' notes from the brainwashing sessions. They contained a good deal of personal information, including some of Don's private thoughts concerning his brother, and stories from their past. It was excellent material for playing with Don Eppes' head, and Marsh took advantage of it whenever he had the opportunity; in fact, he rather enjoyed it. He knew Don Eppes had fought the commands to kill his brother, originally, and he suspected that he might resist again. That was why he was here, himself, to make sure that this time Don sealed the deal. Marsh would kill them himself, if he had to, but it would be much better for it to look like a murder-suicide. He spoke softly into the microphone, and watched the colored bars on the screen flicker at the sound of his voice.
Three figures in camouflage crept to the top of the ridgeline, and scanned the valley and the winding trail below. Ian Edgerton squinted into the afternoon sun through his field glasses, surveying the trail, and paused. "There they are," he said. "About ten o'clock."
Colby and David raised their own sets of binoculars, focusing in on a section of trail winding along the left side of the valley, picking up Charlie first, who was several yards behind Don. David made a rueful face. "It looks like Charlie's already dragging a little."
"I was afraid of that," Ian replied softly. "He didn't look up to this, yet." He pulled down his glasses. "We each need to pick a man. If things are quiet, we can all spend time on general surveillance, and on looking for the perp. If something starts to happen, however, we each need to focus on one person in case they split up, especially if they happen to be moving quickly, or we'll lose them. Granger, why don't you take Charlie, and Sinclair, you can take Don. I'll back you up until the suspect shows up." They nodded, and Ian lifted his binoculars back to his face.
He swung his glasses in a slow arc, scanning the surrounding valley. "No sign of our boy, yet. For Charlie's sake, we'd better hope he shows up sooner, rather than later."
Alan surveyed the new window in the living room, and gave the installer a nod. "Yes, it looks fine. Thank you." He signed the paper on the clipboard the man had given him, and the installer ducked his head in return and loped out the door, pausing to help his assistant collect equipment. As Alan gazed absently out the window, a car pulled into view, and he groaned, inwardly. Amita. Ordinarily, he would be happy to see her, but she didn't know the details of Don and Charlie's trip, only that they were away for their own safety until the unknown man was caught, and he hated to lie to her. More to the point, he was afraid he couldn't; he was a bundle of nerves, and he feared she would notice his distress.
He reluctantly moved to the front door, and opened it as she approached the stoop. "Oh, hi, Alan," she said, breathlessly. She was asking questions before she even got inside. "Any word from Don or Charlie?"
"No," said Alan, turning from her toward the kitchen. "They said they would be out of contact for a while. Would you like some tea?"
"Yes," she sighed, as she trailed him into the kitchen. "I know Charlie said that, but I was hoping maybe one of them would get a chance to call, occasionally. I figured you'd be the best bet. This whole thing makes me so nervous – I don't know what we're going to do, if they don't find that man."
Alan filled the teapot at the tap, hoping she didn't see his shaking hands. Better to skip the tea, himself; he'd never get the cup to his lips. Her last statement echoed in his head. He was afraid they would find the man, and was terrified of what would happen when they did.
Don paused for the twentieth time, and looked back along the trail. He could see Charlie several yards below him, plodding up the incline, struggling for air. The voice played in Don's head, a relentless stream of vitriol. 'Look at him, the worthless piece of scum. He was never as good as you, especially at anything physical. The only thing he excelled at was flaunting his superior intellect. Well, that will be over soon. Who's the smart one now?' Charlie stumbled a little on the trail below, and Don felt a surge of impatience.
"Come on, Charlie."
Charlie's head came up, and Don realized with a sudden shock that he'd said that out loud, that he'd actually felt irritation, when Charlie was obviously struggling. The constant stream of hateful words and the ever-present flow of current were twisting his mind – it was happening again. The realization and the resulting fright made his gut flip, and cleared his head for a moment. For the first time, he could see things clearly, if only for a few seconds, and he feared he'd made a huge mistake by coming here, and bringing Charlie with him.
"Shit," he whispered, and then realized the man could hear him, could probably see his fear on the monitor. He bent his mind, trying to turn it into anger; it wasn't such a stretch, when he was feeling so frustrated with the situation. He'd better add some cross words, too, so the man didn't misconstrue his cursing. Charlie had come up to him, panting, and Don scowled, putting on a show for the tormentor in his head. The man couldn't see his face, but the camera would pick up Charlie's reaction to his expression and his sharp words. "We're never going to make the camp site at this rate."
"I'm sorry," Charlie panted. He was wheezing, and Don shifted uncomfortably at the sound, at the whiteness around his brother's lips. "I guess – I'm not – back to full – strength." The words were punctuated by gasps for air, and Charlie looked decidedly distressed at Don's words. No, 'distressed' wasn't the word for it. He appeared shocked, and more than a little afraid. Don knew that he probably looked and sounded mean, ugly. The man was playing with Don's mind - and with Charlie's too, by extension. He had to hope that Charlie understood that his sharp words were only for show. It was for show, wasn't it? Swallowing a sense of spiraling panic, fighting back the fear of loss of control, Don turned on the trail and trudged onward. They were here, now. There was no turning back.
Charlie collapsed on the ground at the campsite, his eyes stinging with tears of relief. The hike had started out all right; the initial section was downhill, but the first significant climb had drained him. After that, it had gotten progressively worse; each uphill was excruciating, and by the end, even the downhill sections were taxing what was left of his strength. All he had on his back was his own backpack and his sleeping bag; Don was trundling his own gear and the small tent they'd brought, plus the cooking utensils and most of the food and water. In spite of the fact that he had a much lighter load, Charlie could barely keep up, and he could see the annoyance on Don's face. He'd been an idiot to think he could do this; he should never have agreed to come. If anything happened, he would be next to useless.
He shrugged off his backpack and rolled shakily to his feet, tottering off to the edge of the campsite to help Don gather kindling. Don shot him a glance, but said nothing, and moved off into the woods to get some bigger branches. Charlie shuffled back to the center of the campsite where there was a fire pit, and deposited his armful of kindling. A sign was posted at the edge of the site that stated when fires were allowed, and he trudged over to read it. Fires were forbidden during most of the late summer and fall months, but according to the current posting, they were allowed now; there had been enough rain recently. Casting a glance around the woods, which seemed unusually silent except for the sounds of Don quietly moving through the brush, Charlie moved to the edge of the clearing again, and began gathering another handful of sticks.
His body ached, and he longed to crawl into his sleeping bag. Now that he wasn't exerting as much energy, he was starting to feel chilled, and he had a suspicion that fatigue wasn't the entire problem. He felt like he had when he'd gotten back home from Washington, when he'd been fighting an infection. He'd finished his antibiotic two days ago, and wondered uncomfortably if it hadn't been enough to kick what had ailed him. That would be all they needed – for him to get sick. He moved stiffly back to the fire pit, and deposited his second bundle of sticks.
"That's enough," said Don, behind him, and Charlie sank gratefully onto the ground, leaning against a nearby log.
He woke an hour later with a start, wondering how he managed to fall asleep – curled on his side next to the log, no less – he didn't even remember lying down. The shadows were lengthening, and a fire crackled in the pit a few feet away. The small tent had been erected, and Don sat across from him, watching a pot of water that was propped on a rock in the pit, flames licking at its sides. Charlie shivered and sat up, scooting closer to the fire, facing Don across it. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"You apparently needed it." Don's voice was dry, but Charlie could see sympathy in his eyes for just a moment, then his face closed again.
'He has to keep his head,' thought Charlie. 'He has to constantly govern his emotions, or the controller will see them.' The idea made him feel a little better; Don's gruff behavior probably had a lot to do with the internal emotional front he was trying to maintain. Deep inside, however, his fear still simmered; the fear that a different Don was submerged in the body across from him, a Don filled with hatred and anger, controlled by another. Charlie pushed it out of his mind. 'Don wouldn't be here if he didn't think he could control himself,' he thought resolutely. 'He would never have come.'
They ate; freeze-dried mystery food reconstituted in tinny-tasting boiled water. Charlie had little appetite, but he ate anyway, to keep up his strength and for the warmth the food provided. Night descended, and the shadows and firelight played on Don's face, making it look stern and forbidding. The silence stretched; Charlie was well aware that the controller could see him, could hear their conversation, and he wished suddenly, mightily, that the situation was different. They hadn't had a chance to talk alone about everything that had happened, just the two of them, since Don had come back from Cypress Institute, and under different circumstances, this would have been the perfect opportunity to do that - to clear the air, or at least begin to, between them.
He could feel a sense of impending dread creeping over him, and the thought that this could be the last time he might speak to his brother crossed his mind. He tried to push it aside, but it hung there, refusing to leave. Oddly, the thought of dying scared him less, somehow, than leaving things unresolved between them. He couldn't bear that, and he felt a sudden need to speak, to say what was on his mind, regardless of the man listening in on their conversation. After all, the man believed that Charlie didn't know he was there. Don didn't need to respond if he felt he couldn't; he could simply listen. Charlie knew exactly where he would start – it was something that had bothered him since it happened, in New Orleans.
"I never got the chance to tell you," Charlie began, and Don jerked at the sound of his voice; then sat very still. "I wanted you to know – the thing that happened in New Orleans, well, I didn't sleep with – that woman." Charlie caught himself just in time; he didn't want give the mystery man Charlotte Sumner's name, even if it had been a cover. "I spent the night in her room, but we didn't do anything. I also didn't snort cocaine – it was a prescription drug called Adderall. We – I – used it as a cover." Don was silent, and Charlie flushed a little. "I just didn't want you to think -," he broke off, as Don rose suddenly, and paced away from him.
"I really don't care, Charlie," Don said gruffly, as he picked up another stick and threw it on the fire. He looked angry and impatient, and he picked up another stick and poked at the flames, savagely. "Why don't you get to bed, instead of sitting here yakking? Maybe if you get a little rest, you can keep up tomorrow."
Charlie stared at him, trying to squelch the surge of hurt and disappointment inside him. Granted, Don couldn't indulge in a heart-to-heart because of the camera, but he could have listened; he didn't need to snipe. The sense of hurt gave way to uncertainty, and a rising sense of unease. He rose stiffly, and grabbed his sleeping bag and crawled into the tent, without another word.
Shivering, he slid into the sleeping bag and lay on one side of the two-man tent, his eyes on the figure outside, sitting near the fire. The uneasiness rolled around inside him, making him shift uncomfortably. He couldn't understand why Don was behaving this way; obviously he needed to put on a show for the man, but the camera couldn't see his face. Surely, Don could give him some kind of sign – a wink, something, to let him know that he wasn't serious, that he wasn't really that irritated, that angry. Unless he really was…
With an abrupt jolt, it came to him. Maybe Don wasn't acting; maybe he really felt that way. Maybe the real act had been for Don to hide his feelings of hatred – not just tonight, but for the last few weeks. It was possible that he truly was still under the man's control, and had been - not just for a day, but for longer than that, perhaps ever since Washington, when the word had gotten out that Charlie was still alive.
'It's not true,' he told himself, resolutely. He couldn't believe that, couldn't afford to believe that, not now. Still Don's strange behavior sat in a corner of his brain, and was with him as exhaustion won, and he drifted off to sleep.
Don sat by the fire and watched the flickering flames. Ordinarily, he would have found a campfire relaxing, but tonight, the flames hissed evilly, the coals burned the color of blood. He shot a glance toward the tent, where Charlie lay, probably asleep, thank God. It was so hard to be near him, and listen to the constant barrage of hateful innuendo bouncing off the confines of his skull. Today, he had felt concern for Charlie as he struggled on the trail, and tonight, when Charlie had thrown aside his own fear of being overheard and started to confide in him, Don had felt those most taboo of emotions, sympathy, and love. He couldn't afford those feelings now; couldn't let the controller know he was faking – the devices near his collarbone amplified every emotion coming out of him, bad or good.
He'd heard of actors immersing themselves in a role so completely that they lived the character's every emotion – that's what he needed to do now. He had to keep a constant current of hatred going back to the controller, and today, every time Charlie had gotten to him, every time he felt something positive, he'd responded with sarcasm or anger, trying to keep control, trying desperately to stifle any good feelings he might be sending to the man. The frightening part was, he was now willing himself to hate, strengthening the negative currents in his brain. His struggle for control was forcing him to feel what the man wanted him to feel, hatred and anger, and more than once, he'd found those feelings directed toward Charlie. He was slipping, little by little, back into his programmed state. He could only hope this went down quickly, while he still had control of his mind.
He sighed, and stood. He needed rest too; lack of sleep would only make his fight harder. He'd been putting off going to bed; the sleeping arrangements evoked memories of happier days, when he and Charlie had camped out in the backyard in a little tent much like this one. He closed his mind to the pleasant memories and instead summoned the darkest emotions he could muster, and dragged them into the tent with him.
End Chapter 52
A/N: I feel a whump coming on, starting… next chapter.