Mind Games

Chapter 64

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all - it's good to be back.

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At around nine p.m., Bill Masters and Brian Rogan leaned back wearily against the chairs in the FBI conference room that A.D. Wright had provided for their use, and Masters shook his head slowly, with a grin, just as the door opened. "I'd say he's shit out of luck."

Colby Granger had poked his head in, and followed it with his body. "Don't you guys ever go home?"

"We could ask the same thing of you," retorted Rogan.

"We're ordering pizza – you want some?" asked Colby and at their nod, said curiously, "Who's shit out of luck?"

Masters hesitated, just briefly. Granger was cleared on this case, but they wanted to keep the news to themselves for the time being. "Come in and close the door." Colby raised his eyebrows but complied, and Masters continued. "This is confidential; don't spread it around. We just got off the phone with Conaghan. Remember the Iranian that Charlie identified, the one who made it out of the country?"

Colby nodded. "Khalid, the Aswad Shar'e leader."

"We got a solid report from one of our operatives that he was assassinated in Tehran a couple of weeks ago. The government came out and denounced his death publicly today, but our people think the government was behind the hit. Apparently, word got out that we were planning to extradite Khalid as soon as he showed up in a country that would honor extradition proceedings. We think the Iranian government deemed him a liability, and got rid of him. Our intel is that what was left of Aswad Shar'e has disbanded."

A gleam appeared in Colby's eyes. "So he's no longer a threat to the Eppes."

Rogan nodded. "Yeah. It's a tremendous, perhaps fatal blow to Aswad Shar'e. In addition, it means that Marsh is probably on his own now, with no outside help. As soon as Dr. Eppes can ID him, we can send him on to Washington, and apart from testifying at his trial, they can put this behind them."

Masters grinned. "Marsh is sweating it. We've found a number of inconsistencies in his story. First, his alibi in Pensacola. He stated that he got into Pensacola at eight on the evening of the murders of Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop, and that he was at a bar in Florida at eleven and left with a girl named Jodi Seavers at midnight. Jodi confirmed that, although she admitted she was a little hazy on the time they left – apparently she was pretty intoxicated. Eight to midnight is four hours – it takes six just to drive back and forth to New Orleans, so Marsh and his attorney are maintaining that he could never have gotten there and back the evening of the murders. Jodi came to the bar that night with a girlfriend, however, and the girlfriend thinks it was a lot later, more like after three in the morning, when Jodi left the bar with Marsh. The girlfriend was apparently pretty out of it, too, so her testimony is far from solid, but it does cast some doubt on Marsh's story. Her version gives him enough time to get to New Orleans, commit the murders and return."

"Second is Marsh's statement immediately after he was apprehended, and the evidence in the woods. When you and Sinclair found him, he stated that the man had just shot him and had run off. He changed that story almost immediately - by the time we got him here for questioning, I think he realized that his version left some loose ends – namely, the trail of blood leading along the trail and back, and his blood on the vest, which by that time was already in our possession – although when he made the statement to you and Sinclair, he had no way of knowing that. When we got him in the room here, he said he thinks he passed out right after the attack, and then maybe wandered for a while in shock. When he woke up, he found himself sitting against the tree where you found him, and was vaguely aware of hearing a shot – that's why he thought it had just happened."

Colby's face darkened. "That's bullshit! And it doesn't jive with the rest of his story. If he maintains that the man shot Charlie, then shot him, and then fired a third shot for some unknown reason, then the gun that we found should have had three shots fired from it, and there were only two."

Masters nodded, with a grim smile. "Yeah – and as far as that supposed third shot goes, what was the guy shooting at, anyway? They don't have a good explanation for that. Of course, Marsh and his attorney maintain that the man must have had another gun, and that perhaps he came back to try to finish Marsh off, took a shot and missed, and that you and Sinclair arrived and scared him off. It's a story that will be difficult to disprove, but at least we can show that that Marsh's first statement was inconsistent. By the time Charlie gets on the stand to make his ID, we'll have already poked some holes in Marsh's credibility."

He grinned, a little evilly. "Marsh's attorney told him that Charlie was released from the hospital, and now they're making noises like they want to deal – I think Marsh realizes he's in deep shit. Problem is, he doesn't have anything to deal with, now. With Khalid gone, the only people he could give us are all dead." His grinned broadened. "I'm just enjoying the hell out of this. I can't wait for that son of a bitch to get what's coming to him."

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Later that evening, Alan ran a frustrated hand across his face, and glanced sideways. Jonathan Wilkes and Charlie were sitting in the living room, and Alan stepped away toward the dining room to speak into the phone at his ear. "I'm sorry, Stan, I know – I'm gone at the worst possible time. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you shouldering the entire project in my absence. I know it's not good – just do the best you can, and email what you can down to me. I can't leave, but I do have some time to look things over. Okay. Yeah. Bye."

He turned off the phone and headed through the kitchen door, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. He'd held up well during the whole ordeal, but now that things seemed to be calming at home, the stress was belatedly catching up with him. Stan had called him to tell him that their project in Juneau, which was at a critical stage, was in jeopardy; there just weren't enough hours in the day for Stan to examine and approve everything that needed his oversight. It would be a challenging job at this juncture for two of them, and Alan was in L.A., miles away. He knew that having both of his sons home, alive and if not completely well, then at least healing, was the most important thing on the earth, but at the moment, he could feel himself succumbing to stress and fatigue. He found himself leaning over the sink, shoulders slumped, as the door pushed open behind him, quietly.

"Problems?" Wilkes asked.

Alan sighed and straightened a bit, but didn't turn. "Yes," he said wearily. "My partner's up to his neck in problems related to our project in Juneau." He turned, and forced a tired smile. "We'll just have to deal with it, somehow. I can't leave Charlie."

An odd gleam flashed into the other man's eyes, a look that smacked of sudden inspiration. "And why not?" asked Wilkes.

Alan stared at him, and repeated incredulously, "'Why not?' He can barely get into and out of his wheelchair without help. He can't be here by himself."

"Maybe not here, but what about somewhere on a single level, a smaller place, where the bathroom isn't so far away?"

Alan shook his head in bewilderment. "Like where?"

"Don's apartment." Alan gave him a skeptical look and started to shake his head again, but Wilkes went on, enthusiastically. "Hear me out. You and I both agree they need to spend some time together. If you left and Charlie had to stay at Don's apartment, it would make that happen. We'd have to have help to get him up the stairs, but once he's up there it's a small enough place that Charlie could probably manage on crutches. He could fend for himself during the day while Don was at work, even, as long as Don made it easy for him to get something to eat. They'd get some time apart in the daytime, but they'd have a few hours together in the evening to reconnect. And if there was an emergency and Charlie needed help while Don was out, there's a man stationed right outside – we still have a person on protection detail."

"I don't know," Alan said doubtfully. "Are you sure they're ready for that?"

Wilkes smiled. "I'm the guy who's been saying all along they weren't ready, remember? I think they are ready now – in fact, I think if they let this slide now and take the easy way out, it will get harder for them to resolve this as time progresses, not easier."

Alan hesitated, and Wilkes pressed, gently, "I know you don't want to leave Charlie right now, but it could be the best thing for him – and for Don. I can keep tabs on them, and if it doesn't work for some reason, I can help them make other arrangements."

Alan studied him curiously, noting the earnestness in his expression. "Why do you care so much?"

Wilkes grinned disarmingly. "Because my boss, Conaghan, told me I need to clean this up, and I can't go back to my new job until I do." His grin faded as he said more quietly, "I was responsible for this, remember? For what happened to Don, and to Charlie. I know I was following orders, but it doesn't mean I feel good about it. Call it a mission, if you like. I at least want to get them back to some semblance of normal – although it would be even better for them if they resolved some old issues along the way."

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Don pulled up to the Craftsman, and grimaced. Even in the darkness, he spotted the rental car across the street. He wasn't sure whose it was, but he had a sneaking suspicion it belonged to Wilkes. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and debating whether he should go in, until a faint movement along the house made him realize that he was arousing the suspicion of one Charlie's surveillance team members. He sighed and removed his keys from the ignition, and slid out of his SUV.

He trudged up to the front door in the darkness; no one stopped him – the surveillance team apparently recognized him once he was out of the vehicle. There were only a couple of them now, he knew; the threat to Charlie was deemed to be reduced since they had Marsh in custody. There was a man on his apartment, too, he knew, outside, watching the entrances to the building, and he would be until Charlie made the official identification of Marsh on Thursday.

He stood at the door for a moment, gathering his resolve. Wilkes' words had stung, and he still wasn't convinced the man was right – that Charlie was ready or wanted to see him. Still, guilt had driven him over to see Charlie after Wilkes had gone, guilt and hope, a hope that maybe Wilkes was correct, that Charlie would be receptive to not only repairing their relationship, but strengthening it. Wilkes was certainly right about one thing - for some reason, the thought of pursuing this was terrifying. Was he really that afraid of Charlie's possible rejection? Was he a control freak when it came to their relationship, as Wilkes had insinuated? "That's a load of crap," he muttered to himself, pushing the thoughts aside impatiently. He wasn't afraid, and he would prove it.

He knocked lightly on the door before letting himself in; before all this, he hardly ever knocked, unless he knew that Charlie and Amita were alone in the house, and then, as now, he simply knocked to give them warning he was entering. As he pushed open the door he saw Charlie, who was sitting with his legs propped on the sofa cushions, turn his head and freeze, his eyes widening.

They just stared at each other for a moment, then Charlie carefully composed his features, and Don took a breath and shut the door behind him.

"Hi," said Charlie. He raised an eyebrow. "You're out late. Come on in."

Don found his feet and moved into the room, forcing himself to head over to the chair opposite the sofa. "Yeah. Just thought I'd stop by and see how things were going." He paused awkwardly. "See if, uh, Dad needed any help or anything."

Charlie's eyes looked large, dark, somber in his pale face, but his gaze was steady, his face calm. Maybe too calm – was it forced? Don's eyes drifted to Charlie's hands. They were curled defensively; one tightly clutching the coverlet that laid over him, and the fingers of the other not clenched but rigid; the thumb rubbing the side of Charlie's index finger, nervously. Don could see the tension in the thin forearms, in Charlie's shoulders. Damn, this was a mistake, coming here, he knew it.

The kitchen door pushed open and his father entered, surprise crossing his features as he saw Don. "You're out late," he said, unconsciously echoing Charlie. Over his shoulder, Don caught Wilkes pushing out through the door behind his father, and saw his father exchange a glance with Wilkes before continuing. "I'm glad you're here, actually. I have a situation I need to discuss with the two of you."

Alan moved forward and took the other chair, and as Wilkes made as if to move toward the front door, he waved a hand. "No, you might as well hear this, too, Jon."

'Jon?' thought Don. 'Great, now Dad's on a first-name basis with the guy.' His eyes drifted back toward Charlie, wondering if Charlie was, too.

"Stan and I are having some issues with our project in Juneau," Alan continued. "It's reached a critical stage; there's a lot going on and Stan really needs my help. I was wondering what you boys would think about me heading up there, and Charlie staying at your place for a week or two, Don."

Don stared at him; whatever he'd been expecting Alan to say, it wasn't that. He looked at Charlie, and realized that he probably had the same expression on his face as his brother; eyes wide, mouth hanging open slightly. Charlie managed to shut his mouth at the same time as Don, and shot him a nervous glance. They were all looking at him, Don realized. "I, uh, you know I won't be there during the day," he stammered. "I mean, I can probably take a day off or so, but a week – well, you know, I just got back to work and -,"

Alan mercifully cut off his rambling. "Your place is one level, and small enough that I think Charlie could probably navigate on his own during the day, don't you think, son?"

He looked at Charlie, who appeared just as uncomfortable as Don did at the prospect. He shot Don a glance, and then looked away again. "I – yeah, sure. I mean, I'd probably need some help getting up there, but once I was there, I'm sure I could, uh, manage." He swallowed and looked at Don. "Although I might be in the way at night."

Don could feel Wilkes looking at him, and he knew, with sudden certainty, that Wilkes had put his father up to this. He sent Wilkes a direct look with narrowed eyes, and Wilkes gazed back, steadily. He was issuing him a challenge, Don thought to himself, and his jaw tightened slightly. Okay, then, if that was the game, he was up for it. He'd show Wilkes that he wasn't afraid of this. His father was saying something about easier access to the shower in Don's apartment, and Don looked at him. "Yeah, Dad, it'll actually be fine. Charlie can have my bed, and I'll use the sleeper sofa. It's not a problem."

Alan stopped short, surprised by Don's quick acceptance, and then recovered himself, with a glance at Charlie. "Charlie? What do you think?"

Charlie was staring at him again, uncertainly, and as Don turned to look at him, he averted his eyes again, quickly. 'He can't even look at me,' thought Don. 'Shit, maybe this isn't a good idea. What if he freaks out – has a panic attack or something?'

Charlie was hesitating, and Wilkes spoke up. "I think you're both more than ready for this, if either of you has any doubts."

Charlie swallowed and nodded. "Well, if Don doesn't mind dealing with an invalid -," he trailed off.

Don replied levelly, his eyes flicking back to Wilkes. "Not at all." He turned his gaze on Charlie and sent him a small smile. "As long as you don't mind frozen pizza and chicken."

Charlie stared back; his face relaxed a bit, and he smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile. "Okay, then." He looked at Alan. "When are you leaving?"

Alan took a deep breath, and forced a smile of his own. "Tomorrow or the day after," he said, "- as soon as I can get a flight."

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They moved Charlie in the next evening; Tuesday after work. Colby and David showed up to help Charlie get up the stairs, and Alan and Don carried his suitcase and laptop, Amita and Larry following them with boxes full of prepared dinners. Alan had spent the majority of the day cooking, as if horrified by Don's 'frozen chicken and pizza' threat. Getting Charlie up the stairs with his bulky cast was a problem, and David and Colby finally resorted to picking him up, Charlie's arms over their shoulders, and their free hands supporting his legs. By the time they got him up the stairs and onto Don's sofa, Charlie's face was flushed with humiliation and pinched with pain, and Don heard him mutter under his breath to Amita, "This was a big mistake. How am I supposed to get back down on Thursday?"

"I'm sure you and Don will figure it out," Amita soothed matter-of-factly, and Don lost the rest of the conversation as he picked up the box of dinners she had set on his coffee table, and carried it into the kitchen. He was beginning to think Charlie was right; his brother was nearly helpless between his weak condition and the cast, and apparently didn't want to be here. This was a big mistake.

It took all the freezer space he had, and he still had to put a couple of dinners in the refrigerator before he emptied the boxes. Alan had headed for the bedroom with Charlie's suitcase to unpack for him, and the others had all taken their leave, except Amita, who sat talking quietly to Charlie, and looked up a bit guiltily as Don stepped out of the kitchen. She rose. "I'll stop by to say 'hi' tomorrow at lunchtime, if that's okay," she said. "I can check on Charlie and help him get lunch."

Don nodded; he realized that he was frowning just a bit, and wiped the expression off his face, softening it with a smile. "Sure, Amita, that would be great."

She leaned over and gave Charlie a quick peck on the lips. "I have to go – I'll see you tomorrow."

Alan appeared from the hallway to the bedroom as she straightened. "I have to go, too," he said. "My flight's at 6:15 tomorrow morning and I have to pack yet."

Don couldn't help but notice the slightly panicked look in Charlie's eyes as he realized that they were both leaving so quickly. "Okay, Dad," said Don, trying to sound confident as he clapped a hand on his father's shoulder. "We'll be fine. Have a good trip."

"Bye," mumbled Charlie, as Amita waved at him on her way out the door.

Alan was right behind her; he turned and pointed a finger at them saying, "And you two eat; you both need to put on some weight – especially you, Charlie. I'll call you when I get to Juneau." With that, they were gone.

Don looked at Charlie, slumped on the sofa, and Charlie looked up at him, and a dead silence settled. Don stood there for a moment, wondering what to say. Charlie looked uneasy, and Don realized that the silence had to be unnerving him. 'Act normally,' he told himself. We have two whole weeks to talk. We don't need to dive right into it.' Don forced a grin on his face and headed for the kitchen. "How about dinner? Whatever Dad made smells delicious."

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Dinner was served in front of the television, which served as a convenient excuse for avoiding conversation, but also seemed to lend a little normalcy to the situation. Don could see that Charlie was relaxing a bit, although he poked at his beef stroganoff. With his intestines on the mend, Charlie still couldn't eat anything with a lot of fiber or spice in it, and as a result, Don had a freezer full of comfort food – beef stroganoff with noodles, turkey and rice, chicken a la king.

"You'd better eat some of that," Don managed around a mouthful. "Dad'll kill me if you don't put on some weight these next two weeks."

Charlie managed a wan smile and sent him the briefest of glances, before diverting his eyes back to the television. He did start to eat, however, and a few moments of silence passed as they caught the evening news broadcast. It was drawing to a close, and Don got up to bring their plates to the kitchen. He rinsed them quickly and set them in the sink, deciding to wash them later. He'd turn off the television, he thought; maybe take a stab at conversation. He winced at the choice of words, and turned grimly for the living room, only to find that Charlie was standing, balancing on one leg, reaching for his crutches beside the sofa.

"I'm pretty tired," he said. "Dad said he set my laptop up by the bed – I'm gonna turn in for the night."

Don was struck silent for a moment, taken aback. Charlie had been there less than an hour, and already he was retreating. Not only did he not want to talk, he didn't even want to be in Don's presence, apparently. "Uh, yeah, sure – just let me get some clothes out for tomorrow," Don mumbled and strode into the bedroom, where he grabbed some clean clothes for work.

He came out holding them and stood aside as Charlie crutched slowly past. Charlie's arms were shaking with the effort, but Don let him go, for two reasons. First, Charlie was going to be there by himself the next day, and Don wanted to be sure that he could really get around by himself. Second, he was afraid to make physical contact, afraid it would unnerve Charlie, maybe even send him into a panic attack. The moment passed in silence and supreme awkwardness. "'Night," called Don softly. "Let me know if you need anything."

"'Night," returned Charlie. He didn't bother, or was unable, to turn his head; he just kept crutching slowly down the short hallway that led past the bathroom to the bedroom. "Thanks, okay, I will."

Don watched him go, a sinking feeling of disappointment in his heart.

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End Chapter 64