Chapter 60

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks again for the reviews.

Ian Edgerton, A. D. Wright, Bill Masters, Brian Rogan, and Robin Brooks stood outside the interrogation room at the FBI headquarters, eyeing J. Scott Marsh and his lawyer through the one-way glass. "Any progress?" asked Wright.

Ian grimaced. "He's saying the same thing as yesterday. He maintains that he drove out to the Angeles from Vegas. He says he's been in Vegas visiting his sister, who is battling cancer, and she told him he needed to get away for a couple of days. We called the sister and she confirmed his story. He left his rental car, which was rented in Vegas, at the Pines Motel in Three Points – we found it there, so that part of his story checks out. The motel owner said he wasn't registered there, but that's not unusual; hikers often leave their cars there and catch a bus or another ride to a trailhead. The owner lets them do it – sometimes he'll get a booking for a night or two when they get back off the trail."

He glanced through window, and continued. "Marsh's round trip plane tickets – D.C. to Vegas - are under his name. There's nothing to indicate that he tried to hide the trip. In addition, while our people were at the Pines, the owner indicated another rental car that had been there overnight, that didn't belong to any of his guests. It had been rented at LAX, by a Robert Miller. Robert Miller flew in from Vegas to L.A. a couple of days ago, with a return ticket for tomorrow. He rented a hotel room in Burbank for two nights, and checked out early yesterday. We ran a picture past the clerk at the Burbank hotel – he's sure that Miller and Marsh are the same man."

Brian Rogan spoke up. "We ran some checks on Marsh for other key time periods. During the time that Charlie saw him at Montreaux's estate, he was supposedly in Pensacola on vacation, which is about three hours away, within easy driving distance of New Orleans. Just prior to the date that Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop were murdered, Marsh had flown back down to Pensacola. He gave us an alibi for that trip – a visit to a girl he allegedly stayed with at a condominium in Pensacola on the night of the murders. We're in the process of getting her story. He also established that he knew Jack Montreaux – they were boyhood friends, although he claims he hadn't seen him for years. He admitted the fact freely to his supervisor, who had mentioned the Montreaux hearings to him. His lawyer says that's proof that he has nothing to hide."

Bill Masters frowned. "What we don't have is any proof of his connection to Montreaux or Khalid. We have found no ID on him, or with his things, that says he's Robert Miller. Also, no ski mask, or gloves, which Don Eppes told us he was wearing. We found a cell phone on him, with a call to 911 around the time of the attack – although he probably knew he wouldn't get a response, that he had no cell phone service – so he could have made the call for appearance's sake. Our people are running through his call records over the last several months to look for anything suspicious, but so far, there is nothing – no contact with Khalid, no contact with Montreaux. We suspect another cell phone, but we haven't been able to find one. We did find the gun – it was close to where Colby and David apprehended him, but there were no fingerprints on it. It's a street piece, untraceable, like the Beretta he sent Eppes. It produced ballistics that match the bullet taken from Charlie Eppes. There was no gunshot residue on Marsh's hands and no fingerprints on the gun or the control vest, but there wouldn't be if was wearing gloves."

"So all we can establish is opportunity – that he was in the general area of all of these events," said Wright. "No proof of motive, no proof that he was actually in New Orleans instead of Pensacola. No proof, other than the hotel clerk's ID, that he and Robert Miller are the same person. If he flew in here as Robert Miller, how in the hell did his car get here from Vegas? Did we check Miller's car for prints?"

"Yes," said Ian. "There were prints in it, but not his. The door handle and steering wheel had been wiped down. He's a careful son of a bitch, but we also have Don's ID. Don says the location of Marsh's bullet wound is identical to the one in the man he shot, and that Marsh was wearing the same clothes – jeans and a navy shirt. His size and eye color is the same as the man Don encountered. Plus, we have his blood on the control vest, or we're assuming we do. We're running it through DNA now."

Wright turned to Robin. The U.S. District Attorney would handle the case, but they had called Robin in for a professional assessment. "What do you think?"

She shook her head. "Mind you, it's just my opinion – I won't be prosecuting this case, obviously, but I don't think you have enough. Your one ID was made by a hotel clerk from a picture. If you tried to have that same man pick Marsh out of a line-up, the judge probably wouldn't allow it, and if he did, the defense would tear it apart. They'd say you biased the clerk by showing him a picture – of course he would pick Marsh out of a lineup after that. The defense could say that Marsh being in the general area of the Angeles National Forest, or near New Orleans, was merely coincidence, and the evidence would point to the presence of another man in the park – where did the gloves and ski mask go, if there wasn't another man? Even if you managed to find them, you wouldn't have proof that another man didn't leave them there. The blood on the vest is good, but Marsh maintains that the man jumped him, and he was shot while they struggled. The defense could argue that Marsh's blood got on the man's vest during the struggle. There's really only one way to seal this - Charlie's testimony that he saw Marsh in New Orleans. He's still the only one who can put Marsh in the middle of this – who can put him away for sure."

They were silent for a moment, and Wright pursed his lips. "How's he doing? Any improvement?"

Robin lifted a shoulder. "I'm not sure – I'm on my way over there right now. Don's going through surgery in a half hour. I'll call you with an update when I get there."

Don sat in the wheelchair, waiting while Jonathan Wilkes adjusted his monitoring equipment. He had just had the dampening device removed from his left collarbone, and had been wheeled into an adjoining room in his hospital gown. He felt no pain – the local anesthetic they'd given him for the small incision had taken care of that. In fact, the healing gunshot wound in his upper arm hurt more than the surgery site. He toyed with the plastic sleeve containing his original printout, and realized he'd nervously twisted the string attached to it in a ball. He released it, his fingers twitching, as Wilkes said, "Okay, I'm set up. Are you ready?"

Don cleared his throat. "Yeah."

Wilkes looked at him. "I'm going to use the same picture of Charlie that I used during your programming sessions. I want you to close your eyes and clear your mind, and when I tell you to open them, you'll see his picture projected on the wall across from you. Just look at it until I tell you to stop."

"Okay."

"Close your eyes."

Don closed his eyes and waited, his hands clenched.

"Open them."

He opened his eyes to find a familiar picture – the publicity shot they'd used of Charlie during his programming. He stared at it, taking in the smile, the intense dark eyes, until Wilkes said, "Okay, we're done."

The picture disappeared, and for a brief instant, Don had the urge to ask him to put it back up. After hours of staring at his brother, bruised, broken, and unconscious, the smiling image made him feel – what? he wondered. Nostalgic for life before all of this? How did he feel about Charlie now? The noise of a printer broke into his thoughts and he realized that he was about to find out.

Wilkes examined the printout, and Don tried hard to read his expression, to no avail. Wilkes could be as circumspect as Edgerton when he wished. After a second, Wilkes held the page out to him, face down, and Don stared at it. He was suddenly seized with a great reluctance to look at it. This would be his last reading, his last baseline. After this, he could still work on his deprogramming, but he would never again have the chance to know precisely how he felt, or if the deprogramming was helping. The only thing he would ever know for certain was how he had felt at this particular point in time. He reached out and took the printout, then folded in quarters without looking at it, and tucked it into the plastic sleeve with his original printout.

Wilkes looked at him quizzically. "You don't want to see it?"

Don shook his head. "Not now. I'll look at it later." He handed Wiles the plastic envelope, the string hanging in spirals from being twisted. "Can you hold it for me? They won't let me take this into surgery."

Wilkes was staring at him oddly, but he nodded, and took the printouts from him. "No problem. We can discuss the results later. I think Dr. Janovic would like to get going anyway. I'll go let them know you're ready."

Don nodded, and sat silently while Wilkes exited. He knew what he was afraid of – that after weeks of deprogramming sessions, and after days of being with and conversing with Charlie, which was deprogramming in itself - that he might have made no progress. If that were the case, he knew, then he would have stalled out, and he would probably not make any more progress no matter how many deprogramming sessions he went through. He was afraid that whatever that printout said, that was how he would view Charlie for the rest of their lives. If it did show progress, then it would give him hope, but if it didn't – maybe it was better not to look.

The door pushed open, and he looked up expecting to see Wilkes or an orderly, but instead Robin came through it, and he could see his father out in the hallway behind her. The door closed, and she moved forward and bent to kiss him. Her lips felt soft, warm, and for a brief moment, he had another brief flash of memory, of life before all of this. She straightened, and smiled at him. "Good luck," she said softly.

He smiled back, crookedly, the feeling of her lips still lingering on his. "Thanks. I guess I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Her smile deepened. "Without the excess hardware."

He grinned at her, just a little – God, it had seemed so long since he had smiled. Alan pushed through the door with a smile of his own on his face, but his eyes looked strange – as if he'd been crying. Don peered at him, trying to read him, but Alan's smile just deepened, as he stepped forward to squeeze his arm. "Good luck, son. We'll be waiting for you."

"Thanks, Dad," Don began, intending to ask him if he was all right, but the orderly was there to take him to the surgical prep area, and Alan stepped out the door. By the time the orderly got him out of the room, Alan was halfway down the hall. Robin gave him a wave and a smile, and Don relaxed, as the orderly turned and wheeled him the other way. If there was something wrong, he would have seen it in Robin's face also, he told himself. His father was probably simply exhausted. He took a deep breath. 'This is almost over,' he told himself, and the words ran through his head like a mantra, all the way through the prep and the administration of the anesthesia, until they faded out with his consciousness.

Alan sat, gazing at Charlie, his eyes locked on his son's face. He'd come back up after seeing Don being taken into surgery, knowing there was nothing he could do for Don for the two hours it would take for them to remove the wiring from his head. Wilkes and Robin waited in the area outside the OR; they knew where to find him if he was needed. In the meantime, he knew he needed to spend whatever time he could with Charlie.

Charlie had gone from pale to flushed, and his breathing had quickened. From time to time he'd stiffen or stir weakly, but he never opened his eyes. Alan was praying for that, to see his son look him in the eye again, praying that Safak was wrong. "You fight it, Charlie," he whispered, fiercely. "Don's coming to see you tomorrow – you need to fight it."

A slight knock sounded on the door behind him, and his heart lurched as he turned to see Doctor Safak. He rose as the doctor motioned at him, and moved out into the hallway. He could see Amita moving toward them down the hallway, and Dr. Safak said quietly, "Perhaps she should hear this also. She is his fiancée?"

Alan wasn't about to pick at details at the moment, and he could barely speak, anyway, so he simply said, "Yes."

Safak motioned to Amita to join them and she did, with puzzled concern in her eyes, as Safak began to speak, addressing Alan.

"We have run several quick tests, and are running more, but I need to tell you that your son is suffering from a systemic infection, from a type of bacteria that is apparently resistant to antibiotics. We are trying to pinpoint what it is, exactly, so we can tailor treatment. I need to tell you, however, that this development is quite serious, considering his condition."

"How serious?' Alan's voice sounded strange, tight, reedy. Amita had turned pale, eyes wide and staring.

Safak hesitated. "It is difficult to tell. I am not telling you to give up hope, by any means, because we may find an antibiotic to combat this. You should know, however, that it increases the chances he will lose his leg, at minimum, and it could be life-threatening. Doctor Johanssen will make some other adjustments in his medications to help improve circulation and reduce swelling, and I will make an immediate change to a different antibiotic, and may make another change once our tests are complete. We will do everything we can, but perhaps you should notify those who wish to see him, to make plans to come tonight or tomorrow." He looked at Amita, whose face was beginning to crumple with tears, and patted her arm. "Have faith, little one. I have a feeling that he is a fighter."

He turned and walked away, and Alan gathered Amita into his arms as she dissolved into tears, sobbing helplessly against his jacket. His own eyes, strangely, were dry, burning from tears shed earlier, in the privacy of the men's room on the surgical floor. He'd known the truth then, even before Safak had told him. He'd felt it; an aura of death lurking around his son.

Don stirred, and blinked at the voice, the sound of a woman speaking to him. "Mr. Eppes, wake up now. Open your eyes. How do you feel?"

He felt groggy, out of it. "'Kay. Ssleepy."

"The anesthesia is wearing off. I want you to take some deep breaths for me. Are you comfortable?"

He blinked, taking an inventory. Actually, his arm hurt more than his head. "Hurts a little by my ear," he managed. The woman had been joined by Janovic; his face came into focus, and Don recognized his eyes over the mask.

Janovic nodded. "That's normal. That was the most difficult piece to remove – the auditory device. Still, the incision is small, and so are the ones on the top of your scalp. We didn't even have to remove much hair; in a couple of weeks, it will be hard to tell you had surgery. You're in recovery now – we'll move you to a room soon. Pain shouldn't much of an issue; your scalp may feel a little sore at the incision sites, but you shouldn't need anything stronger than what you're taking for your arm injury. Everything went as planned; we took a portable X-ray beforehand and also after we were done. When you get set up in your room, I'll come and show them to you."

Don still had a floating sensation that wasn't unpleasant, and it hampered his ability to tell how much time had really passed, but in what seemed like a short time, he was wheeled down to a room. Moments later, Robin was at the door, and stepped in with a smile. "Wow, that was fast," she said. "It only took a little over two hours. Your dad went up to see Charlie; he hasn't even come back down yet." She stepped forward and squeezed his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," he said. Almost too good – he couldn't quite believe that Janovic had done what he was supposed to do. As if in answer to his thoughts, Janovic appeared at the door, and behind him were Jonathan Wilkes and A.D. Wright. Robin moved toward the door, but Wilkes stopped her. "You can hear this, Ms. Brooks."

Wilkes looked at Don. "There has been a lot uncertainty throughout this whole ordeal, and I wanted you to have no doubt that you're back to normal. A.D. Wright had stopped by, and I asked him to witness the surgery with me, and the X-rays before and after, so there would be no question that the work was done." He looked at Janovic. "No offense intended."

"None taken," said Janovic affably. He held up an X-ray, and Robin moved next to Don's side to view it. "This is the 'before' shot of your collarbone area. You can clearly see the batteries and wiring, and on the right side you can see the damaged dampening device, attached just above the battery. Of course, we removed the one on the left side earlier." He held up another X-ray. "This is your head before surgery. You can see wiring leading up from the batteries under your skin and into the top of the skull, and the leads that were implanted in your brain. Over here, near your left ear, you can also see the auditory device." Don shot an apprehensive glance at Robin, expecting a look of … what? Distaste? Revulsion? Her face was composed; however, her gaze calm and intent.

Janovic held up two more X-rays. "These are the 'after' X-rays, taken just moments ago, under the scrutiny of Mr. Wright and Mr. Wilkes. As you can see, they are clear of any foreign wiring or devices. The surgery went well, with no complications." He glanced at Robin. "It would probably be good to give him a chance to rest for a bit."

Don looked up at her again, and he could see her beaming with relief. "Of course," she said, and she looked at him, steadily. "I'll be here; I called off for the rest of the afternoon. I'll stop in later, and I'll let your dad know you're out." With a squeeze of his arm, she walked out, and Janovic laid the X-rays on the table next to Don's bed. "You may want to look at these again. I believe Mr. Wilkes is going to file them away somewhere when you're done."

Wilkes was looking down at him with a smile, and he laid the clear plastic envelope with the printouts on top of the X-rays. "You might want to look at these, also," he said. "Welcome back, Don Eppes."

They were all smiling at him, and Don realized he was staring at them. "Thank you," he managed, and they Wright nodded at him as they turned and filed out of the room.

He sat there for a moment, trying to pinpoint the strange feelings inside of him. He felt adrift, unanchored – and he realized suddenly what a burden it had been, how horrible, crushing, terrifying it had been to know that at any moment, his mind was subject to another person's whims. He could feel the weight lifting – he was free, and as the enormity of it hit him, unexpected tears came, flowing down his face. He bent his head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs of relief. He was free…

He finally got hold of himself and ran a hand over his face, surprised at and a little abashed by the rush of emotion. He was entitled to it, he supposed, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had gained an ability to feel that he hadn't had before, or perhaps, hadn't recognized. He'd been so accustomed to burying his emotions, not analyzing them. He lay there for a moment, then turned his head and looked at the table. The clear plastic envelope with the printouts sat there on top of the X-rays, and he slowly reached out and picked it up, and just stared at it for a moment. 'You're going to have to look at it sometime,' he told himself.

He carefully pulled out the two pieces of folded paper. Even if they hadn't been dated, it was easy to see which was which; the one from weeks ago was dog-eared and worn on the edges, the printout from earlier that day was still crisp. He opened the old one first and studied it for a moment, then picked up the new one, took a breath, and carefully unfolded it. A smile crept across his face and he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as the smile broadened into a huge grin. A soft, incredulous laugh burst from him, and a few more tears of relief streaked the sides of his face.

"Wait until I show this to Charlie," he whispered to himself, still smiling. He shook his head slightly in amazement and laughed again, and then closed his eyes with a deep sigh. He fell asleep that way, still clutching the papers to his chest.

End Chapter 60