Mind Games

Chapter 59

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Many thanks to my faithful reviewers. Here's 59…

……………………………………………………………..

Don shuffled into Charlie's ICU and sat heavily in a chair. It was early evening, and he was exhausted from the events of the day. His body was telling him he needed food and rest, but his mind refused to consider something so trivial, when Charlie was fighting for his life.

He'd let Alan and Amita spend time with him first. Robin had arrived, and Don sat with her while he waited, pathetically grateful for her presence. She'd shown nothing but faith in him since the start of this, and someday, somehow, he would have to let her know how much that meant. The ICU staff appeared to be relaxing their restrictions somewhat – they were letting one person stay in the room at all times, only asking the visitor to step out briefly when they periodically checked the patient. Although they weren't limiting visiting hours, they were keeping visitors in the room to one at a time, and they were holding the total number of visitors on the floor to three or four at once. The people not in Charlie's room were asked to retire to the waiting area, except for the guard outside the door.

Amita and Larry were still in the dark concerning Don's involvement in what had happened to Charlie, and Conaghan wanted to keep it that way. There was a good chance they'd never be told, but that didn't make Don feel any better. They looked at him as they always had, with trust on their faces, not knowing the horrible things he'd done. Granted, he hadn't been under his own control at the time, but he still felt responsible somehow. How could anyone forgive him? How could Charlie ever look at him again and not remember that horrible night in the conference room, and the events that had just transpired in the park? Add the fact that he'd talked Charlie into the circumstances that put him where he was in now, and he was sure, if Amita and Larry knew, they would hate him.

He looked at Charlie sadly. He was still out, his pale face half-covered by an oxygen mask, his leg swathed in a brace and layers of bandages that made it look impossibly huge, elevated at what looked like a uncomfortable angle, if Charlie had been awake to realize it. Tubes ran in and out of him, delivering fluids, medicine and blood, and taking away blood-tinged fluid from his surgical site. He looked so frail, so helpless, so – human. Don swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. 'Please, whatever happens; please let him get through this.'

There was only one bright spot – they had Marsh. If Charlie made it, he wouldn't have to worry about witness protection – but WP suddenly didn't seem like such a bad option, compared to this. Marsh, that bastard – Don's hands clenched into fists at the thought of him coldly giving direction from behind the tree, firing the bullet that now threatened Charlie's life.

His gut twisted as a thought occurred to him out of nowhere – he wondered if Charlie even knew who had shot him. His eyes had been closed, his face turned away as he'd been hit – did he think that Don had done it? A memory of Charlie lying there, begging him to end it, flashed into his mind, and brought with a stab of new anguish. Of course, Charlie must have thought that – he had to, based on his reaction. What if Charlie didn't make it; what if he died thinking Don had turned on him again at the end? The thought produced such a painful contraction in Don's chest that he could hardly breathe, and he leaned forward slightly in his chair, fighting the pain and despair that threatened to choke him. He was sure he looked like his father had, when Alan had left the ICU a few moments ago.

His father – God, what they'd put him through. What they were still putting him through - and despite Alan's support, no matter what he said, Don knew the truth – it was his fault. Charlie may have talked them into taking the original assignment, it was true, but Don had returned the favor, and persuaded Charlie into going on an assignment that didn't merely hold the possibility of peril; it had been blatantly dangerous. He'd been too sure of himself, too confident that he could control the situation, too filled with hatred, too eager to put away the bastard behind all of this. He'd vowed to watch over Charlie, for God's sake. Now, he wished mightily that Charlie had told him to go to hell.

Charlie stirred slightly, his breath quickening, and a soft moan came from under the oxygen mask. Even with the large doses of medication, he was still in pain. Don reached out for his hand, holding on as if he'd never let go. "It's okay, Charlie, I'm here," he murmured softly. His voice trembled; so did his hand. Maybe he shouldn't speak, he told himself. Maybe the sound of his voice was the last thing Charlie wanted to hear.

He lowered his head and sat silently, still clutching his brother's hand, wishing he knew how to pray properly. When this was over, he vowed to himself, he would learn how. For now, he'd do the best that he could. 'Please God, let him stay. Please don't take him…please…'

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan sat in the waiting area and ran a weary hand over his face as Amita walked toward him. She looked pale and tired, and so did Larry, seated beside him. Robin had gone when Don went in to see Charlie, but David and Colby had stopped up too – at five, they were pushing the limit of people the ICU staff allowed on the floor, but there was no one else in the waiting area but them. At least for the time being, none of the ICU staff seemed to be holding them to the four they had given them as a maximum, as long as they went in to see Charlie one at a time. Amita had just finished her turn, and Don had disappeared around the corner toward Charlie's room. As Amita appeared, Colby rose to his feet. "I think I'm gonna go talk to the guard," he said quietly. "I think I know the guy."

He didn't fool Alan – he knew that Colby, in spite of his declarations that he believed Don to be innocent, was going back to help the guard keep an eye on Don. When it came down to it, no one really trusted Don yet, at least not until he had the wiring removed from his head. The lurking fear remained that someone might be still be out there with the ability to control him.

Alan patted Amita's shoulder gently as she eased into a chair next to him; she looked shell-shocked, and he was sure he probably looked the same. He had a horrible feeling in his gut, the fear that Charlie might not make it through this, and as he began to get over his initial shock and come to grips with what had happened, fear was slowly being replaced by anger. His sons had been pulled into something so deep and dark that even the CIA refused to acknowledge it, and when Alan thought about how the government had used his sons – disregarding any thought to their safety so that they could achieve their ends – it infuriated him. Even if Charlie lived, who knew what residual effects that both he and Don would suffer as a result of this? Those thoughts were rolling through his brain when the elevator doors opened, and Wilkes, Rogan, and Masters stepped out.

Wilkes, Alan could tolerate. The man seemed to be genuinely concerned about his sons, genuinely regretful of the part he'd played in Don's brainwashing. Masters and Rogan were a different matter. They looked exhausted, concerned, and apologetic as they stepped forward, but to Alan, they represented the agencies that had coerced his sons into this assignment, used them, and spit them out. They didn't know it, but they were walking lightning rods for his anger, and he rose as they came toward him, his eyes flashing and his jaw set pugnaciously. "You're not welcome, here," he growled, and they stopped short where they were.

"We need to talk, Mr. Eppes," said Masters quietly. He looked appropriately chagrined, which was saying something; Alan had to admit. Bill Masters didn't seem to be the type to apologize to anyone. "First, we wanted to ask how Charlie and Don are doing."

Alan could sense the others rising behind him, Amita, Larry, and David – all of them aware of the uneasy tension in the room. "What do you care?" Alan shot back. "You set them up for this harebrained venture, and let them think they were covered. It was poorly planned, and you know it. I don't care what you do, going forward, you're going to stay the hell away from my sons."

He was seething, furious, and he could sense the group looking at him, nonplussed by his rare display of anger. Both of his sons had a temper, and they didn't get it from their mother. Masters looked disconcerted, and Wilkes stepped in, trying to moderate. He looked at Amita and Larry, and said, "If you'll excuse us, professors."

They looked back at him, and for a moment, Alan thought that they were going to insist that they be allowed to stay, but then Larry capitulated. "Amita, I think you need to take some sustenance; you haven't eaten all day. Why don't we go down to the cafeteria?" She hesitated; then nodded, and they sidled around the agents and pushed the button for the elevator.

Wilkes waited until the elevator doors closed; then spoke quietly. "We're not trying to ask your sons to do anything more, Alan," he said. "We think we have the right man in custody – which we had to do if we wanted to make sure they were safe – you know that. It didn't go as planned, that's true. We underestimated the effect that even reduced current would have on Don's ability to make decisions, and we didn't plan for fog to hamper our pursuit team's ability to keep visual contact. We also didn't factor in the possibility that Charlie would bolt like he did."

Alan glanced at Wilkes. "You didn't want them to go – I'm not holding this against you. You were against it from the start." He glared at Rogan and Masters, leaving no doubt as to whom he thought was accountable.

Wilkes lifted a shoulder in acknowledgment. "That's water under the bridge now. What we came here to tell you is that the three of us, and Conaghan, all agree that Don needs to get the wiring removed from his head as soon as possible. Dr. Janovic, the surgeon who put in the dampening devices, has surgical rights at this hospital and he said he could be available tomorrow. We need you to help us to convince Don that he needs to get this done. It's a much shorter surgery to remove the wiring than it is to put it in – only about two hours, and he needs only a day of recovery before we can let him move around – he can see Charlie then."

Alan hesitated, torn between the wish for the surgery and the need for Don to spend time with Charlie, in case the unthinkable happened. David, who had been listening silently, gave voice to his thoughts. "They said the first twenty-four hours would be the most critical for Charlie. Maybe you'd have a better chance of convincing Don if you waited until late afternoon tomorrow to do the surgery."

"We can do that," Wilkes replied. "Alan?"

Alan sighed deeply, and nodded. "Yes. I'll try to convince him."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Amita sank into the chair at Charlie's bedside the next morning and took his hand. The night had been endless; and sadly there seemed to be no change – Charlie seemed to be barely holding his own. The contact and the sight of him made sudden tears rise to her eyes, and she bowed her head, still clinging to him with one hand, and wiping away tears with the other. She was bewildered, shocked, and frightened by the recent events; it seemed as though she had stepped into a nightmare since she returned from Europe. That nightmare had started for Charlie while she was gone, and seemed to have no end. She couldn't even deal with it properly, because she didn't know the details, didn't understand what was happening, or why. All she knew was that the man she loved was lying here near death, and she was powerless to do anything but sit and hold his hand.

She blinked away tears and took a deep shaky breath as she looked at him. The bruise on his cheek had darkened since the day before, but other than that, his face was pale, sickly and stark against the dark stubble on his cheeks. There was one thing that was abundantly clear to her now, if it hadn't been before – she loved him, more than anything in her life. The recent events had brought that home like nothing else could.

Her eyes traced over his profile, the closed lids. His face seemed so innocent in sleep – for that matter, he looked guileless when awake, and it seemed inconceivable that he was hiding secrets – things he had kept from her for weeks. Last night, when the agents had come up to talk to Alan, she'd almost insisted that she be allowed to stay, to finally get the story, but Larry had talked her into leaving them. He was probably right, she thought wearily – some things were better left alone. She knew though, that if – no, when – Charlie recovered, she'd never look at him the same way. For one, he would now forever have a sense of mystery about him. For another, she knew now without a doubt how very much she loved him – enough to trust him, to stay by his side, no matter what secrets he held. She would live with anything, as long as he made it through this.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

It was early afternoon the day after they'd arrived at the hospital, and Don sat, facing Wilkes and Dr. Janovic in the tiny office they'd borrowed for the conversation. Wilkes looked at him; Don looked exhausted, and frankly not in the best shape for surgery, but he didn't want to wait any longer. "It's been twenty-four hours since Charlie was admitted," he said. "You can have the surgery, and see Charlie as early as tomorrow."

"And Charlie hasn't improved at all," Don said, stubbornly. "He's still critical."

"But he hasn't declined, either," Wilkes countered. "You can get this done, and you'll be healed up in time to help him when he needs it, when he goes home."

Don was silent for so long that Wilkes thought he was going to refuse, but finally he said, "I'll do it on one condition. You take out the dampening devices so you can get some clear readings, and do one more monitoring session with me. I want to see how far I've come before you take out the wiring. I need to know how much farther I still have to go."

Janovic looked troubled. "It would be easier on you if I did this all at once."

Don shook his head, stubbornly. "You only have to remove one device – the one on the right is already damaged or disconnected. You can give me a local anesthetic, take out the device on the left side, and just put a clamp on the incision or something. That's the deal, take it or leave it." He looked at Wilkes. "You owe me the chance to find out where I stand."

Wilkes studied him a moment, then nodded. "Okay." He looked at Janovic. "It won't take long – he's right, you can put a clamp or a temporary dressing on his collarbone, and when we're done, take him in for the remainder of the surgery."

"If I'm up to it later, I want to see Charlie," Don added.

"We'll see about that one," Janovic said firmly. "If I let you do this, then you have to abide by my recommendations afterward."

Don pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay. It's a deal." He stood, impatiently. "Let's hurry up and get on with it, then."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan stood in the doorway of Charlie's room and watched as the doctors consulted. There were three of them – Charlie's general surgeon, Dr. Johanssen, his orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Boyle, and another doctor, who Alan hadn't met yet. They were speaking quietly, frowning with concern, and Alan felt his stomach slowly contract, as fingers of fear eased around it, squeezing. He waited until they finished speaking and headed toward him, and he backed out into the hallway to give them room.

"Mr. Eppes, this is Doctor Safak, our infectious disease specialist," said Johanssen, indicating the slight, dark skinned man at his side. "We're seeing some signs of infection – your son's temperature is elevated, and has been rising slowly all day. There is a good deal of swelling in his abdominal area, which is normal, but it does put pressure on the arteries going to his leg, and with the swelling there, we're concerned about reduced circulation. We're going to remove the dressings and check his leg, and Dr. Safak is going to run some blood work – lab tests, to see if we can determine what and where the infection is."

Safak took in Alan's alarmed expression. "There's no need to panic – we've been watching him closely and are catching this early. Can you tell me – did he have any problems after the knife attack?" His voice was kind, and slightly accented.

Alan nodded, trying to reply, and his voice came out hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "He was treated for infection – twice, I believe, once right afterward, and then it reoccurred later when he was home, and they gave him an antibiotic."

Safak frowned and exchanged a quick glance with his colleagues, which sent Alan's anxiety up another notch. "I'll need to look at those records," he murmured quietly, then turned to Alan. "All right, thank you, Mr. Eppes. We'll let you know what we find."

They turned and walked down the hall, and Alan watched them go, his heart in his throat.

Amita came around the corner and walked past them; she was coming to sit with Charlie while Alan went down to be with Don during his surgery. She looked at him questioningly. "Alan – is everything okay?"

He pulled himself together – no need to frighten her, too. "Yes – they just said they were going to check his leg and run some tests. Did you eat, dear?"

She nodded, and touched his arm. "Yes. You should too."

He forced a smile and shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll be back." He leaned forward and planted a light kiss on her cheek, then made off down the hall, before his expression gave him away.

As he neared the corner that led to the waiting area and the elevators, he heard the voices of the doctors, as they stood waiting for the elevator doors to open. He stopped; he recognized the accented voice of Safak. "…a concern," he was saying. "If the infection is in his lower pelvis, it could be aggravating the swelling, putting pressure on the femoral artery, reducing circulation in his leg. If it is in the leg itself, it could increase the existing swelling and retard healing. Either condition could mean loss of the leg. On the other hand, if the infection is systemic, in his bloodstream, we have an even greater problem. If it is systemic, it could be complications from the bowel perforation, or, based on what his father just told us, it might be something else – something drug-resistant."

The elevator doors opened, and Johanssen's reply was garbled by the sound of shuffling feet and the rattle of closing doors. It didn't matter; Alan had heard enough. He waited for the elevator doors to close and somehow, he forced his feet to move around the corner, in case Amita was watching him. He stood there in front of the elevator for five long minutes before he could make himself push the button.

Down on the surgical floor, he found the room where Don was sitting, waiting to be called in to be prepped for surgery. He carefully composed his features.

"Hey, Dad," said Don, his face softening as Alan stepped in.

"Donnie," Alan replied by way of greeting. 'Don't let on to him about Charlie,' he told himself. 'If he knows, he'll cancel his surgery.' He swallowed the lump in his throat. "They're getting ready to take you now?"

"Yeah. They're going to take out the dampening device on the left side, and then Wilkes is going to get a reading to see where I stand before they take the wiring out."

He was trying to look upbeat, Alan realized, but he could see the tension in Don's eyes, his body. It would be the first time in days that they'd been able to get a reading on how his deprogramming was going, and Alan watched as Don looked down, fingering a clear plastic envelope, attached to a string. In it, Alan could see a folded piece of paper, and he knew it was Don's last printout of his feelings for Charlie, taken many days ago, before they'd put the devices in place. His son had apparently been wearing it around his neck ever since, and the gesture touched him. Don was worried, Alan knew, not about his impending surgery, but about the results of his session with Wilkes. He tried to push down the ugly fear that it might not make a difference in the end, if Charlie didn't make it. He couldn't think that way, he scolded himself. He forced a smile to his face that he hoped was reassuring. "I'm sure you'll do fine," he said softly.

Don sighed, and nodded. He looked up at Alan. "How's Charlie?"

"Okay," Alan lied. "About the same. You just worry about yourself for today – you'll see him tomorrow."

Don nodded again, and his gaze drifted back down to his paper. The lie had come out so easily, thought Alan. The whole venture, from the beginning, had been filled with lies – from the moment the boys lied to him about going to Quantico, weeks ago, and all the twisted falsehoods, shifting statements, and half truths ever since. Now he had joined them – lying to Don while his brother lay dying - forced into playing games like the rest of them. Games of distortion, games of deceit, mind games…

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 59

A/N: No, Marsh isn't done yet, in case you were wondering. In this chapter, I make a reference to Don learning how to pray. It gives you an indication of how long this story has been in the making – when I started writing it, the episodes dealing with Don's search for his faith hadn't been aired yet. This story takes place at a point in time prior to that – although I couldn't resist putting in a line or two that hint at it in the future.