Mind Games

Chapter 66

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

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Don's heart lurched, and his limbs with it. He was disoriented, and didn't quite remember where he was. As a result of that and the frantic attempt to gain his feet, he missed his footing and went down hard on his hip on the floor next to the sofa. The pain jolted him awake, and with a muttered oath, he scrambled up and dashed back toward the bedroom, from which had come a second cry. As he entered, in the faint light he could see Charlie thrashing violently on the bed, and his first thought was that he was going to hurt himself; the second was that maybe he was ill. Both thoughts propelled him to the bed, and he grabbed Charlie's shoulder, gently but firmly, trying to still his frantic movements. "Charlie – Charlie -,"

He didn't get another word out; Charlie flipped suddenly; a wild twisted conglomeration of skinny limbs, cast, and blankets launched itself toward the side of the bed and Don lunged forward, trying to keep him from going over the edge. Charlie had too much momentum, however, and Don couldn't get a good grip; the blanket was sliding like a boa constrictor. Charlie's knee caught him in the gut, and with an 'oof,' Don went down again, hard, on the same hip he'd hit in the living room, with Charlie on top of him. "Damn – Charlie, Charlie!"

The thrashing stilled suddenly, and Charlie froze. It was dark and they were prone on the floor, twisted in the blankets, but as far as Don could tell, Charlie was half sitting, half lying, his weight on one hip, his torso turned toward the floor. He appeared to be supporting himself on his elbows and his head was down, his face hidden by a mass of dark curls. His legs lay across Don's, and through them, he could feel Charlie shaking; or maybe not – it was an odd rhythmic movement. It took him a moment to realize that Charlie was crying, silently; trying to hold it in; his shoulders shaking with the effort.

He started to reach for Charlie then stopped himself, thinking that physical contact, at least from him, might disturb Charlie even more, and he sat there for a moment, one hand extended over his brother's back, as if he was pronouncing a benediction. "Aw, hell," he muttered to himself, then reached out and pulled Charlie upright, towards him, with one arm around the skinny shoulders. He was tired of dancing around, trying to avoid contact. Charlie obviously needed some reassurance; he just had to hope he'd take it that way.

One of Charlie's hands went up to his face, wiping tears away; he obviously was struggling mightily to get himself under control. As Don pulled him upright, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

They sat there for a minute, Don's arm around his shoulders, then Don said, "Don't be sorry – it's okay." His arm was tense, ready to pull away if the contact spooked Charlie, but then suddenly Charlie, who was in an awkward position due to his entangled legs and the cumbersome cast, sagged against him, leaning into Don's chest. Don blinked in surprise, then eased his arms around him, supporting his weight. In an ordinary situation, he'd never consider holding him like this, and Charlie probably would never have let him. In fact, Don was shocked that Charlie was allowing it now, but through the shock crept a warm feeling, a feeling that maybe, somehow, Charlie was trying to reach out, that perhaps everything wasn't lost after all. He cleared his throat and asked quietly, "Nightmare?"

Charlie was still trying to choke down the watery after-effects of his meltdown, and he swallowed before answering huskily, "Yeah."

Don felt him stiffen slightly, and his heart dropped. No doubt, he'd been the cause of Charlie's terror; the fact that Charlie was leaning against him wasn't due to acceptance, it was due to weakness on Charlie's part; that was all. The contact had been only momentary while Charlie shifted his weight; he was now trying to pull away. Don didn't want to know, but something made him ask the question. "Me?"

"What?" Charlie was still shifting, trying to get his good leg and the cast untwisted from the blanket.

Don felt his throat contracting, and he had to force the words out. "Was it me in your nightmare?"

Charlie had managed to get upright into a sitting position, and Don sensed him as he froze; could feel his brother's eyes on him in the darkness. "No." He sounded taken aback, then a little shaken as he answered. "Marsh – it's always Marsh. You're in the dream sometimes, but you never -," he broke off, and repeated earnestly. "It was Marsh. Lately, if I dream about it – it's always him."

They sat silently for a moment, Don could sense Charlie's head turned toward him, his eyes trained his direction, and he felt a hard pit of fear and disappointment deep inside begin to thaw, ever so slightly. "We need to talk," Don said, and his voice sounded odd, thick with emotion. "Tomorrow, after you put that son of a bitch away for good, we're going to sit down and talk."

There was faint movement but no verbal response; Don hoped it was the nod of Charlie's head.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you back in bed."

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Don woke to the sound of the alarm in his cell phone, and blinked stupidly for a moment. It took one split second to remember that he wasn't going in to work that morning, and another for the realization to dawn that this was the morning Charlie went to identify Marsh. Following that was the memory of the night before; it almost seemed like a dream. Maybe it had been a dream, he thought, frowning, as he went to start the coffee maker. Maybe it had been wishful thinking on his part, a sublimated yearning for resolution in their relationship that had manifested itself in his sleep.

He trudged back toward the bedroom, treading slowly, more carefully, as he stepped through the door. Charlie was lying on his hip, his arms under the pillow and his face turned partially into it, so that little was showing of his head other than a wild mess of dark hair. The blankets were askew, and as Don eyed the sprawled figure, he had a sudden flashback to high school, and of going into Charlie's bedroom to wake him for school. The thought made him smile. "Wake up, Chuck."

Charlie's head lifted with a start, and he gazed groggily at the headboard for a second before rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. Don half-expected him to keep his eyes averted, to avoid his gaze, but Charlie looked up at him directly; although his expression was somber and already filled with tension. Don sat on the bed, next to him. "Look, Charlie, it's going to be okay. It'll be very quick, and you'll be out of there before you know it."

Charlie's crutches were tucked between the bed and the nightstand, leaning against the wall, and Don leaned forward, grabbed them, and handed them to Charlie. "Why don't you come on out and get a cup of coffee, while I get a shower?"

Charlie took the crutches but he didn't move. Instead, he said in a shaky voice, "What if I screw this up?"

Don stared at him, disconcerted. "What do you mean? You aren't going to screw this up, Charlie; you've seen him twice, and once recently. You'll know him when you see him. There's nothing to screw up."

Charlie nodded silently and slid off the bed, transferring his weight to the crutches. "Sorry about last night," he mumbled, as he crutched off toward the kitchen. Don watched him maneuver out the door before he rose to follow him. It hadn't been a dream, then, he thought to himself, and the thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. It faded as Charlie's last question echoed in his head – the lack of confidence was so unlike Charlie, and was disturbing in itself. Don frowned, and followed him through the door.

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The morning turned out to be an ordeal. Don managed to coerce Charlie into eating breakfast, only for Charlie to lose it moments later on the bedroom floor. Getting Charlie dressed flummoxed both of them; he still had to wear snap up track pants because of the cast, and his hair needed to be tamed. Colby and David arrived while Don was cleaning up the mess on the bedroom floor; they managed to get Charlie downstairs, but all three of them nearly took a tumble in the process. Traffic was terrible, and they arrived five minutes late. Don pinched his thumb, drawing blood, as he tried to open Charlie's wheelchair. They finally arrived in the viewing room, somewhat flustered and out of breath. Charlie sat in his chair, silent, pale, and appeared nearly ready to pass out, and Don eyed him anxiously. What if he did mess this up, he wondered? What if Charlie was so rattled that he tagged the wrong man?

Masters, Wilkes, and Rogan were all present, and so were A.D. Wright, Robin, and others, including representatives from the U.S. Attorney General's office and from the law offices representing Marsh. The lawyers from both sides eyed Charlie curiously, he would be the key witness at the trial, and Don had to wonder at the impression, or lack of it, that his brother was making. His clothing was an odd mixture; track pants and a tweed jacket, and his hair was long and unruly, even by Charlie's standards. He looked thin and scared, hunched in his seat in the wheelchair. Don could see Wilkes frowning at his appearance, and he had the inclination to sidle next to him and mutter, "I told you so," but he squelched it. The truth was, he was beginning to hope that Wilkes had made the right call – that it had been a good thing for him and Charlie to spend time alone together.

They were holding the line-up at LAPD headquarters, and Lieutenant Walker did the honors and went over the standard speech, explaining to Charlie and the assembled group that the curtain would be pulled, that the men lined up inside could not see them, and that Charlie was to take the time he needed to make an identification. As an officer drew the curtain, Don stepped forward and helped Charlie to his feet, or rather, foot, and put an arm around him to support him, as Charlie stood, his weight on his good leg. Don caught a flash of approval in Wilkes' eyes as he waited patiently for Charlie to examine the men.

Don picked Marsh out immediately - he'd spent plenty of time in the past days going over interrogation video - even though the group all contained men of similar appearance, dark-haired, within an inch or two of Marsh's height. He was wearing the number four, and his face was expressionless, although Don detected a slight twitch in his face, along his jaw line. 'That's right, you asshole, sweat it,' Don thought darkly, anger coursing through him at the mere sight of the man.

The silence stretched, and he shot an anxious glance at Charlie, who was staring, body vibrating with tension, his face chalk-pale, his dark eyes unreadable. His gaze was fixed on a single point, and Don tried to follow his eyes, to see if he was staring at Marsh. The pause was becoming uncomfortable; everyone in the room was looking at Charlie, and Walker cleared his throat. "Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie blinked, and seemed to regain his focus. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "He put us through a lot, and I got caught up in my thoughts. He's number four; and for the record, I picked him out immediately. He's the man I saw in New Orleans in Montreaux's study, and the man I saw in the Angeles National Forest."

The prosecuting group breathed a collective sigh of relief. Marsh's lawyers didn't react; one of them was taking notes, but otherwise they were stony-faced, and as the curtain was drawn they filed out of the room, one of them murmuring to one of the prosecuting attorneys on the way out. The prosecutors conferred quietly with Masters, Rogan, and Wright as Don eased Charlie back down into his seat, and then Rogan and Masters came toward them. Brian Rogan clapped him on the shoulder and pumped his hand. "Dr. Eppes; it's good to see you. Great job."

Bill Masters beamed. "We've already got a meeting lined up with Marsh and his lawyers. They apparently were anticipating this; and one of them requested an immediate consult. My guess is that they want to cut a deal."

One of the men from the Attorney General's office lifted his lip in a mocking smile. "They can ask for a deal, but they won't get one. He has nothing to offer us." He inclined his head toward Charlie. "Thank you, professor. We appreciate you making the identification while you're still convalescing. The trial won't occur for weeks; we'll be in touch with you before then." He turned and headed out, the contingent of support staff filing after him, and Masters, Rogan, Wright, and Walker followed them, on their way to meet with Marsh's attorneys. The group was dwindling; Colby and David sidled over to Charlie and got in a pat on the back and offered congratulations and large satisfied grins, and Robin leaned over and whispered something in Charlie's ear. He had been sitting there, still pale and quiet, but her words finally brought a slight smile to his face.

"Hey, a bunch of us were thinking of going out later, after work, to celebrate," said Colby, looking from Don to Charlie. "You guys up for that?"

Charlie hesitated, then, with a reluctant glance at Don, said, "I'm not sure if I am. I'd better take a rain check."

Don could feel the others' eyes on him, but he didn't respond; he was watching Charlie. The brief smile had vanished when Charlie looked at him; the pale face closed again. Don heard Robin say, "Yeah, I'm tied up, too. Don't let us stop you from going out, but maybe we'll hold off on celebrating until they feel up to it."

He could hear the rest of them talking in the background, but the sound barely permeated the unexpected sense of disappointment he felt. The moment should have been a celebration, it should have meant closure, but it was oddly anticlimactic. Marsh might have been dealt with, but their future as brothers wasn't, and based on Charlie's reactions the past few days, might never be.

He was sidetracked by his musings as they moved out in the hallway, but he was drawn out of his thoughts as a lean figure detached itself from where it was propped against a wall, and approached. "Hey, Don," said Ian Edgerton quietly. "Got a minute?"

David overheard the request, looked at Don, and said, "Colby and I will get Charlie out to the SUV. We'll meet you out there."

Don nodded at him and glanced quickly at Charlie, catching just a brief glimpse of dark unreadable eyes before he turned to face Ian. The rest of the group moved down the hallway, leaving him and Edgerton in relative privacy. "How's your arm?" asked Ian.

Don flexed his shoulder to demonstrate. "Good," he said. "Pretty much healed up."

"I'm heading out today," said Ian. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you since we were in the Angeles, and I wanted to apologize. I should have had more trust in you."

Don grimaced, wryly. "No apology needed, Ian. You were doing your job." He looked at Ian, his dark eyes reflecting a hint of pain. "I thought I had my head on pretty straight, but once I got out there, there were times I wasn't sure of myself. After what happened, I don't blame anyone for not trusting me." Especially Charlie…

The last words were unspoken, but the thought must have been apparent, because Ian said, as if prompted, "How's Charlie doing?"

Don's eyes followed the group at the far end of the hallway, catching sight of the slight figure in the wheelchair just before it turned the corner. "Okay." His words were quiet, without conviction. "It'll just take some time, that's all."

Ian was studying him, and Don had the feeling that he wasn't fooling him, but Edgerton merely nodded. "Good. They're tapping me to testify at Marsh's trial along with both of you, so I'll probably see you in Washington in a few weeks."

It was a good-bye, and Don turned down the hallway, nodding. "Okay – we'll see you then."

"And Eppes," Ian added, as he turned the opposite direction, and Don stopped and looked back at him, "maybe it's time to worry less about being trusted, and instead, to have trust in someone else."

He strode off down the hallway, and Don stood there for a long moment, before he turned and walked away.

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End Chapter 66

A/N: Marsh is so not out of it. Only three chapters to go – do I have you guessing? Am I posting these too fast?