Mind Games

Chapter 57

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: This is a longer one, actually the longest so far…

J. Scott Marsh staggered over to a boulder, removed his ski mask and sat, panting heavily. The attack on Eppes had been a disaster; Marsh hadn't expected such fierce resistance. He'd hoped to knock him down, maybe even out, and get a shot to his head that would leave some residue; a suicide shot had to be close range. He'd had the advantage of size and surprise, and had thought that it would be an easy matter. He hadn't counted on the determination and skill of the agent, hadn't counted on the look of naked hatred in the other man's eyes, a hatred that seemed to give him unnatural strength. In the end, Marsh panicked and fled, just grateful to get away. He now was without his gun, and without the control vest. He could hear the distant sound of a chopper, and he realized that they were looking for him.

Yes, there was no doubt; he'd been duped. Don Eppes had clearly been able to resist his instructions – he wasn't sure how. He obviously still had the wiring in his head – otherwise his emotional readings wouldn't have shown on the monitor – but they must have incapacitated it somehow. That meant that this had been a set-up that involved more than just the Eppes brothers, and whoever had set it up would have men out searching for him. There was still a chance he could get out of the park undetected, but he needed to come up with some damage control if they found him. Thanks to the ski mask, no one had seen his face yet other than Charlie Eppes, and if the professor was dead, Marsh still might have a chance.

If he were caught, the story, he decided, would necessarily have to match the one he had given his supervisor - he was visiting his sister in Vegas. He would tell them he decided to get away for a hike for a few days while she rested after her chemo treatment. While hiking, he'd encountered a man in a green ski mask, who had jumped him. They struggled; the man shot him in the shoulder during the struggle, and then had run off. Ballistics wouldn't be a problem – there was no bullet in the wound in his shoulder. He wondered if Eppes had found his gun, or if it was still somewhere in the bushes beside the trail. If it were still there, he would need to retrieve it and fire another shot so it would match his story, and then leave it for them to find. If his story were to hold water, the gun needed to have two shots fired; one round in Charlie Eppes, one round shot at himself – an unsuspecting hiker. He would need to ditch the ski mask, his gloves, and his false paperwork. He had flown into Vegas as J. Scott Marsh, but he had flown in L.A. as Robert Miller, and had rented the car under that name – he couldn't afford for them to find anything with that name on it.

Damn, the rental car. It was sitting at a hotel a few miles from there – that was all right; it was conceivable that it belonged to the mysterious Robert Miller, but Marsh would need a story as to how he got to the Angeles National Forest from Vegas. He couldn't tell them he'd flown there and rented a car, there would be no record of it under his real name. He had another rental car that he'd gotten in Vegas under his own name; it was sitting at his sister's apartment. He thought for a moment; then pulled out his satellite phone. It was a black market phone, stolen and unregistered, like the guns. A normal cell phone wouldn't work in most of the park, but his satellite phone had a signal. He was carrying both phones; he couldn't afford to make calls to his contacts on his CIA-issued cell phone.

He punched in the number for his sister. "Hey, Lori. It's Scott. Listen, I need a favor. This is extremely important, and you can't tell anyone. Yes, it's related to a mission that I'm on. Look, this isn't dangerous, but it's vital. I need you to drive my rental car to the north side of Los Angeles, and park it at a hotel called 'The Pines,' in a small town called Three Points in the Angeles National Forest. There are tour buses that go through there a few times a day to ferry hikers back and forth – after you drop off the car, take the tour bus to Santa Clarita. From there, you'll be able to pick up a Greyhound bus back to Vegas. Make sure you pay for your bus tickets with cash, and I'll reimburse you. Can you do that for me? Okay, it'll take you about four hours to get to Three Points, you'd better get moving. You may hear something about me concerning a criminal proceeding – if you do, don't worry; it's not what it seems. Yeah, I love you too."

He shut the satellite phone, thought for a moment, then pulled out his legitimate phone, officially issued through the agency. It showed that there was no signal, but he dialed anyway, and placed a call to 911. If he didn't manage to escape, he would want them to find that phone, and pull up the record of calls. A man who had just been attacked would conceivably dial for help. He tucked the phone away, flipped his unregistered satellite phone open, and dialed again. It was early evening where Khalid most likely was. He had to let Khalid know that if he heard that Marsh had been apprehended, not to worry – he had things under control. The last thing he needed was for Khalid to direct another prison hit – on him. The call was answered after two rings.

"Yes?"

"I'm having some issues on this end," said Marsh. "I believe that I may have taken care of Dr. Eppes, but I need to verify that. If you hear that I have been taken into custody, you do not need to worry. I will get you word somehow if I need your help."

"You are too late for anyone but yourself," came Khalid's voice coldly. "Apparently Dr. Eppes has identified me from a picture. They have issued an international warrant for me, and a request to extradite me in every Western country. It has essentially destroyed my mobility and forced me, and the members of Aswad Shar'e, into hiding. I will have to redirect our efforts, put new contacts in place. This situation has set us back years. Do not contact me again – we are finished."

Marsh's heart dropped – he stood to lose millions if he lost this deal, not to mention credibility as an inside man for other opportunities. "I can make sure the issue is removed," he protested. "I can assure that Dr. Eppes will no longer be a factor – that must be worth something."

"It no longer matters to me whether he lives or dies," snapped Khalid. "As far as I am concerned, the damage is done. His death will only benefit you, now. This is over. Do not call me again."

The line went dead, and Marsh stared blankly at his phone for a moment. The loss of the proposed project was stunning, but he couldn't afford to think about that at the moment. His continued freedom was at stake. He deleted everything from the satellite phone, stomped on it and ground it into the rock, and threw the pieces into the underbrush. He couldn't afford to be caught with that phone – they could trace his calls from it. Then he stepped over to a large rock and squatted, putting his good shoulder against it and raising it with a grunt at the effort, and slipped the ski mask and gloves underneath it.

As plans went, he knew this was shaky. If he could cast enough doubt, however, if he were caught at least it wouldn't be an open-and-shut case. There would be enough of a question that there might be another man involved, that a jury would have a hard time convicting him. In addition, if he made it back out of the woods without them catching him, he'd have a chance to escape cleanly, and an escape route – his car, which, thanks to his sister, would be waiting for him in Three Points. Now there was one more thing to do – he needed to go back along the trail to where he ambushed Eppes, find the gun, and fire one more round to complete the picture. It would be risky to fire a shot, but not unduly risky in the fog. Then he would leave the gun for them to find. He only hoped that Eppes hadn't found it first, or worse yet, was still in the area. The agent was looking for an excuse to kill him; he was sure.

Half a world away, in Tehran, Khalid snapped his phone shut, and sat thinking silently for a moment. He had been forced to leave Spain, leave a cover that took years to build, that of a businessman in Madrid. He was not even welcome in Tehran – the Iranian government, once an Aswad Shar'e supporter, wanted nothing to do with the group now that their scheme had been discovered by the U.S. government. He was hiding in the home of a friend temporarily, before he and members of his group would set out for the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan. They would try to train new recruits; people who could carry on their work, but it would take years to come back from this.

The door pushed open and he rose from his bed, expecting to see his benefactor, Mahmed. Instead, two men with black bandannas over their faces wearing Iranian soldier fatigues stood in the doorway, holding automatic weapons. Khalid's heart jerked with terror, and he had only time to look toward his pistol on the nightstand before the bullets shredded his body.

Colby and David paused at the clearing where Charlie had been shot and examined the site for a moment, and Colby's eye caught something. He trotted over to a large tree and bent behind it; then straightened, lifting a pack, with a sleeping bag rolled up underneath it. "It looks like our perp left a backpack."

David moved over to him as Colby squatted and unzipped it, and plowed through the contents. "Nothing in here but clothes and gear," said Colby. "No weapons, no ID." He sighed. "This could be anybody's, as far as evidence goes."

David was silent, and Colby looked up at him. David's eyes were roving absently over the bloodstain on the ground. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," replied David quietly. "I'm just looking at the evidence to see how it matches up."

Colby frowned. "Matches up? You mean with Don's story? You don't believe him?"

"I want to," replied David. "But we need to do our job. If Don is telling the truth, the evidence should back him up."

Colby scowled and stood. "He's telling the truth. I don't agree with some of his decisions as far as this trip went, but even he admitted that he wasn't thinking straight. I don't think he's guilty of anything worse than that."

David sighed, and a bit of relief flashed across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that. That's what I thought, too -," he broke off as the report of a gun sounded. They both froze, trying to determine the source, the thickening fog made it difficult to determine direction.

"That way," said Colby tersely, indicating the trail at the edge of the clearing. "Down that trail that Don told us to take." He headed toward it at a jog. "Fog distorts sound, but I'll bet that was only about a klick away."

They ran down the trail until they had traveled what Colby determined to be a kilometer; then slowed, proceeding more quietly. The fog dampened vision and skewed sound, but it also provided cover. They had gone only another hundred yards, when they heard rustling up ahead, and Colby, who was in the lead, held up his hand. The sound stopped abruptly, but they headed on cat feet toward where they'd heard it last – a clump of bushes near the trail. They skirted them, nearly silent; then David motioned to Colby and stepped quickly around a large tree, barking, "Hands up where I can see them!"

Colby rounded the tree to see a good-looking man in his middle forties. His right shoulder was drenched with blood, and he looked pale, but composed. In fact, as the man spied the 'FBI' emblazoned on their navy T-shirts, relief washed across his face. "Agents," he said, "thank God. I thought he was coming back."

He started to lower his hands, but Colby snarled, "Keep those hands up! Place them on the tree in front of you." He and David proceed with a quick search, patting him down, and then stepped back from him and turned him around to face them.

The man seemed unperturbed. "My name is J. Scott Marsh – I'm a senior analyst for the CIA. I was hiking in the area, and a man in a ski mask ambushed me. He jumped me and we struggled, and then he broke away, took a quick shot at me, and ran off. He looked as though he'd been in a fight; his shoulder was bleeding. He was about my height, gloves, dark green ski mask, light eyes – Caucasian. He was in a big hurry. It happened just a few minutes ago – he can't be far."

David was eyeing him suspiciously. "I don't think he is far – I think he's standing right here. Hands behind your back."

Marsh stared back at him, scowling, but he slowly complied and turned to give them access to his wrists. "You're making a big mistake, agent. The man you want is getting away, and you're harassing an innocent citizen – an injured innocent citizen."

"An injured citizen who just happens to have the exact same injury as the perp we're tracking," growled Colby, as he applied handcuffs. "Let's walk, Marsh – or whatever your name is."

Charlie blinked heavy lids, and uttered a soft moan as the world flickered into focus again. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and 'out' was decidedly better than 'in.' Even when conscious, he was only dimly aware of the world around him, of Don's anxious face hovering over his own. Don seemed to be floating, his face suspended in the fog above him; everything had a strange, surreal quality to it. Voices sounded distant; vision blurred, each sense was distorted by pain and by an increasing, almost unbearable sense of thirst. He could hear Ian on the radio, talking with Masters and someone else – Ian and Masters seemed to be giving the person directions. All the while, Don hovered over him.

The voices wavered and grew dim; Charlie could see Don's lips moving, but he couldn't hear him anymore. There was a strange rushing sound in his ears, and then the darkness began to creep back around the edges of his vision. The last thing he remembered was the gentle touch of his brother's hand on his face, and then he was floating again, off into blackness.

J. Scott Marsh breathed deeply, trying to fight down the sense of panic that the cuffs unexpectedly produced in him. They had crossed the creek and were coming along a small trail, and he could hear voices on the hill above them and more voices in front of them. They rounded a bend in the trail, and Marsh's gut contracted as he saw Don Eppes, kneeling over a figure next to the trail. As his heart pounded, he inhaled deeply again and willed himself to calm, reminding himself that Don hadn't seen him without the ski mask. He recognized the other man, too – he'd seen him at Cypress Institute, although he'd been careful not to let the man see him. That man had been going by Ian Crocker, but Marsh had no idea whether that was his real name or not. They both came to their feet, staring, as the two muscular FBI agents propelled Marsh toward them.

There were other voices up on the hill, a quick glance upward told Marsh that there were rescue workers making their way down the steep slope, trundling a stretcher. It was the figure on the ground, however, that made him the most uncomfortable. That stretcher was undoubtedly for Charlie Eppes, and Marsh swallowed as he looked toward him. The professor's eyes were closed – that was good. He looked terrible, near death, and that was even better. Marsh took a deep breath of relief, and straightened. This just might work.

The black agent was speaking to Ian and Don Eppes, giving them Marsh's story. "He says he was attacked and shot by a man in a ski mask," he was saying, and Marsh saw Don Eppes' dark eyes narrow with fury.

"Bullshit!" he exploded, and came towards Marsh, but Ian grabbed him and held him back. It wasn't until then that Marsh realized that Don Eppes was in handcuffs, and he had to fight down an urge to smile. Apparently, Ian didn't trust Eppes any more than he trusted Marsh – that meant they didn't have all the facts, which meant that Marsh had an even better chance than he'd hoped of getting out of this, despite his capture. He only needed two things, he thought to himself, as his eyes strayed to the figure on the ground. A good lawyer, and for Charles Eppes to die before he regained consciousness. From the looks of it, he was going to get everything he wanted.

Don only dimly remembered the trek up the hill and over the ridge to the helicopter. Flares surrounded it – they'd thrown them down on the flat rocky area to help the chopper land in the fog. They shone in the mist eerily, ghostly lights the color of blood. There was a brief moment while they worked out the logistics of transporting all of them – it was a big military chopper and there was room, but the crew wasn't keen on taking two suspects with them, especially when their most critical patient had been shot by one of them. Ian and the chopper pilot squared off, each maintaining that he was in command. For a heart-stopping moment, Don had thought they were going to leave him and Marsh behind under the guard of Ian, David, and Colby, but the pilot took one look at Edgerton's cold eyes, and thought better of his stance. He relented, and they all piled into the helicopter.

Don was aware of the man sitting calmly across from them – according to Colby and David, he called himself J. Scott Marsh, and Don knew that Ian had already phoned the name into Masters, and Masters was on the phone to D.C. Don was certain that Marsh and man in the ski mask were one and the same – he was wearing the same clothing as the man he had encountered, he had the identical injury, and the same gray eyes. Yes, it was him; Don was sure of it. If he hadn't been so completely consumed with watching Charlie, he would have had a hard time containing himself; he was certain he would be across the chopper hold, trying to get his cuffed hands around the man's throat. The guy had balls, he had to admit. His story was so brazen that it might even ring true with a jury, or at least make them doubt the evidence enough to let the man off. He wasn't going to get off, though, Don kept reminding himself. Charlie could identify him. Charlie would identify him, when he recovered. When, not if…

It had been a strange experience, roaring up out of the fog into sunlight in the chopper, and the light reminded Don that it was daytime, and he glanced absently at his watch. Eleven-ten a.m. It couldn't be – he and Charlie had broken camp and hit the trail at around eight-thirty. It seemed like a lifetime ago, not less than three hours.

The medic monitoring Charlie's vitals was frowning, and Don glanced anxiously at the monitors, while another medic bandaged his arm. Ian sat next to him, and Don yelled over the din at him, "Where are they taking him?"

"UCLA Medical Center!" Ian shouted back. In spite of the volume of their conversation, they could barely hear each other – the words were whisked away by the thrum of the chopper blades. "You're all getting treated there! It has a big enough chopper pad for this size bird!" Don nodded, his eyes roving back to Charlie's inert form, and Ian shouted again, "Masters said he'd call your dad!"

Don looked at him, and saw an unusual sight – a flicker of sympathy in Ian's usually hooded eyes. It didn't make him feel any better – in fact, it scared the hell out of him.

Alan strode through the emergency room entrance at UCLA Medical Center, through the waiting area, and kept going. He went by so fast that the clerk at the admitting window missed him; she'd turned to get paperwork, and by the time she turned back around, he was through the automated sliding doors. If she'd seen him, she'd have tried to stop him; non-patients weren't necessarily admitted to the ER area unless they had an okay from the doctor. She didn't know it, but it was a good thing she'd avoided the confrontation – there was no way Alan was taking 'no,' for an answer.

Frankly, he wished he had some answers. Masters had been cryptic over the phone, stating only that they did have a suspect in custody, but that Don and Charlie had been injured and were being taken for treatment to UCLA Medical Center. Beyond that, Alan had nothing - Masters said he hadn't seen them and refused to comment on their injuries. As he strode through the automatic doors, he could see David standing outside a door at the end of the hallway talking to an LAPD officer, and he made directly for him.

"David."

David looked up at the sound of his voice, and Alan's heart sank at the grim look on his face. "Alan," he returned by way of greeting, and nodded.

"Where are they?" Alan asked, breathlessly. "What happened? Masters wouldn't give me any details."

David hesitated for a moment, and his words came out slowly, reluctantly. "They took Charlie straight to surgery," he said quietly. "He's in there now. He has a gunshot wound, just inside his left hip, and a broken leg."

Alan blanched. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't something that serious. "W-what? How?"

"Something went wrong," David said, evasively. "We aren't quite sure of the circumstances yet."

Even through a sense of panic, Alan could sense that there was something that David wasn't telling him, but he had other questions. "And Don?"

"Don was shot, also, but it's a graze in his upper arm – pretty nasty gash, actually, but he should be okay."

"Where is he?"

David glanced at the guard, and then at the doorway of the exam room they were standing near. "He's in there – Colby's with him."

Alan turned without a further question and pushed through the door, ignoring David as he said, "Alan-," with protest and warning in his voice. He stepped inside, to find Don seated on an exam table and Colby in the corner. The doctor obviously hadn't been in to seen Don yet; his son was still in his jeans and a black hiking shirt. His arm had been wrapped with a bandage, but it was oozing blood; Alan could see that it had seeped through the dressing. Something was seriously wrong, Alan realized. Don was looking at him with despair and guilt in his face, and with the mussed hair and the mud on his face, he reminded Alan strikingly of Don as a teenager, miserably confessing that he'd gotten in a brawl with a kid at school and had given him a black eye. As Alan took in his appearance, he realized with shock that his son was in handcuffs, and suddenly it all made sense – Masters and David's reluctance to talk about what happened, the presence of a guard outside the door, Don's guilty face and the handcuffs… "Oh, God," he whispered, and looked at Don with sadness and reproach.

He said nothing else; he couldn't – couldn't stand to think that it had happened again, couldn't stand to be there and face that awful reality, and he abruptly turned and walked out the door.

Colby's heart contracted as he heard Don's voice crack. "Dad-," he said, but Alan just turned his broad back and walked out. Don's shoulders slumped in defeat, he lowered his head, and Colby felt a flash of impatience.

"This is not right," he muttered, and pushed out the door after Alan. Alan was walking away – he didn't appear to be headed anywhere in particular, except away, and Colby hurried past David and the guard. "Alan, wait."

Alan kept going, and Colby had to take him by the arm to get him to stop and face him. "Alan, listen -," he began, but Alan cut him off, his face and voice filled with grief.

"Don was doing better – I thought he could be trusted," he said, his voice cracking. "Wilkes didn't want them to go – he said they weren't ready, and he was right. We should have listened to him."

"Listen, Alan, we don't know who shot Charlie – it might not have been Don."

"Might not have been?" Alan's voice was tinged with bitterness. "Just the fact that you're considering the possibility is enough, isn't it?"

"No, Alan it's not," said Colby firmly. "Ian made the call to put cuffs on him as a precaution, simply because he couldn't trust what someone else might have had Don do, with that wiring in his head. Don and the perp were both there with Charlie, but Don maintains he shot at the perp, and the perp must have shot Charlie."

A look of confusion crossed Alan's face. "Who shot Don, then – the perp?"

Colby grimaced, knowing how incriminating his answer would sound. "No – Ian did. He saw it go down from a distance through his scope. Charlie was down and Don and the perp were both there, pointing their guns at him, and Ian just assumed -," he broke off at the horrified look on Alan's face, and hurried on. "The bottom line is; Don says he was pretending to go along with the man until he could position himself to get a good shot at him. He shot at the perp at the same moment Ian shot at him, and Don maintains the man reacted by shooting at Charlie. The ballistics will confirm it, but I believe him. I think you should, too. He's beating himself up over this, Alan, for taking Charlie out there to begin with. Now that the current has been turned off in his head, he's thinking more rationally, and he's blaming himself for all of it."

He could see that he almost had him; Alan looked hesitant, uncertain as he weighed Colby's words. Colby spoke again, a plea in his voice. "He needs you now."

Alan's eyes dropped. "Charlie needs me now, too." His words were gruff, but he made no move to walk away.

"Charlie's in surgery – you can't see him now anyway," entreated Colby, his voice rising. "Even if Don did do it, it would have been because he couldn't help himself – he was still being manipulated by the controller. If you could have seen him with Charlie, afterward, and on the trip here – Alan, I just don't think he did it. You know in your heart that it wasn't his fault. He needs someone to believe in him, without waiting for a goddamn ballistics report."

Alan looked at him, then swallowed and nodded. "You're right," he said quietly, and turned and headed back down the hallway toward Don's room. Colby took a deep breath, and hurried after him.

Alan didn't wait for him, and the door to the exam room was closing in Colby's face as he rounded the corner. Colby hesitated just a moment, catching the question in David's eyes, then pushed the door open, intending to step in.

What he saw stopped him on the threshold. Don was still seated on the table, his head bowed, a cuffed hand over his face, the other hand hanging helplessly underneath, and Alan's arm was around him as he murmured words of encouragement in Don's ear. The small room was brimming with emotion, no less powerful because it was quiet, subdued.

Colby took a deep breath and stepped back out, and quietly closed the door.

End Chapter 57