"I'd have paid money to see that!"
Rodgers' laugh died as she saw the look on Ross' face.
"It's not funny, Elizabeth. I've got Falacci on the verge of blowing the place up, Eames throwing about two hundred pound men like they were rag dolls, the press are sniffing around and what am I doing?"
Before she could answer, Ross continued.
"I'm stuck in my office in the grip of one premonition after another. And the times between, I'm too disorientated to focus or I'm wading through Jess' reports trying to make some sense of it all before someone dies."
He stepped a little closer to Rodgers and laid his forehead on her shoulder. Rodgers' hands were full of viscera so she couldn't give him the hug he so obviously needed. She made do with resting her head on his. Thankfully they were alone so there were no witnesses to this softer side of the usually intimidating M.E.
"Are they getting worse?"
"Yes, and there's no common link – just this awful sense of doom. One minute I'm looking at a baseball spinning in the air, then at that kid Logan and Eames rescued. Which is odd because he's safe now. Then there's all these numbers swarming around, bodies dropping on Wall Street and to cap it all, everything's tinted orange. How the hell am I supposed to make sense of it?"
Ross stepped back and wiped his face with his hand.
"Orange, you say?"
Ross nodded.
"Come take a look at this."
Rodgers parked the organs in a metal dish and stripped off her bloody gloves. Taking care not to touch the corpse, she sidestepped around it and made her way towards the cold store. Ross followed, puzzled, and watched as she pulled back the blue cloth covering a body on one of the trolleys. An orange body.
"Came in yesterday - Logan and Falacci's case. I haven't got to it yet 'cos of a rush job from the two-seven, and Logan didn't want any other ME on it. It's first on my list tomorrow. "
Ross grimaced at the sight of the orangeade-coloured corpse and the way strings of slime had clung to the sheet as Rodgers pulled it back.
"If he's dead, why am I still seeing orange? It's like that kid... Oh, hell. I need a drink. Join me after..?"
Ross waved his hand in the general direction from which they'd come. Rodgers agreed; silently resolving to do the fastest autopsy she could get away with.
Donovan's Bar tried to evoke an 'olde worlde' feel with its dark polished wood, shining brass accents and studded red leatherette seating. The interior was dim, despite the late afternoon sun, and there were few customers. The atmosphere was quiet but not quiet enough for Goren, sat at the bar with one foot resting on the brass rail. He was working on remedying the situation by consuming Glenlivet as fast as the bartender would pour it. Alcohol muted what he could hear and by the time six o'clock rolled around the thoughts of the few other occupants in the bar were drowned out by a rather pleasant buzz.
Eames paused, her hand still on the smooth curved brass door handle of the bar. After a curt message left for the captain advising him she was taking some personal time, she'd fled for the refuge of her sister's house. Playing with Nate had eased her tension and during his afternoon nap, the earnest conversation with Liz had helped clarify the jumbled thoughts and feelings that had kept her awake last night. Hard truths, harder decisions and now the hardest thing of all. Eames braced her shoulders and wrenched open the bar door.
Several streets away and light years in tone, flashing red neon lights proclaimed "BAR – POOL- SPORTS ." Inside, a crowd cheered in response to the touchdown being shown on the widescreen TV. A rock anthem blared from the juke box and Nigel Tiggs had to raise his voice to be heard.
"Do this, do that. Never a please or thank you. They only ever notice me when they want something done."
He paused to take a swig of beer.
"And I'm the one who had to move. I had a quiet little office but no, everyone has to be in the same room. Except Rodgers – not enough money to move her stuff. 'Course, sleeping with the boss doesn't hurt."
The sports fans shouted for a fresh round and the bartender seized the opportunity to escape. Tiggs fell silent and began to pick at the label on the beer bottle as numbers swam around him.
... 12 fl oz... 5% alcohol... 145 calories...
He didn't need to read the label to know such things. The bartender returned to fill several mugs with draft lager, trying to avoid catching Tigg's eye. More numbers:
...5'11"... 15"collar... 32" inside leg... 347-555-0734...
... social security number, bank card number, PIN number – Tiggs knew every number linked to the guy, and if he chose to, for everyone in the room. He'd know the alarm code for the bar's security systems and the combination to the safe in the back office if he cared to look. Everything except the damned lottery numbers that Logan kept on about - they were not integral, fixed or programmed.
Tiggs had always loved numbers. He loved their patterns and predictability. But things had changed since the storm, since he'd been wrenched from his cosy safe little life of just him and his mom and his quiet little office. He tried to cope with the sheer volume of data that surrounded him by recording and cataloguing the numbers.
He had to admit he'd been naive; it wasn't until his mom's hypochondria had extended to include several 'illnesses' that the insurance refused to cover that he realised what a goldmine he was sitting on... It had only been a little bit here and there at first, from people or places who could afford it but his mom's 'treatments' were getting more and more expensive. His resentment and guilt coupled with the fear of being caught, especially when Goren was about, was giving him an ulcer.
The barman was back and trapped within earshot by the need to empty the dishwasher.
"They don't get it. I could take them down, every last one of them. I could clean them out. See 'em try and ignore me then. See 'em try to push ME about."
Tiggs' ears had gone red and he was on the verge of shouting, his words a little slurred due to the unaccustomed effect of the beer. He didn't pay any attention to the man shrouded in cigar smoke who was thoughtfully playing with a baseball in his hand as he listened. This time the baseball did not smash into the TV, tempting though it was as the favourites were playing so badly. No, this time the man laid the baseball on the bar and gave it a little push.
Tiggs watched, slightly bemused, as the baseball rolled along the bar towards him. Without thinking, he held out a hand to catch it. The owner of the ball slid off his stool and came over. Gently he took the ball from Tiggs' hand and smiled.
"Seems like you're under-appreciated, son. Let's talk – I think we've got mutual interests."
Tiggs looked into grey-blue eyes full of fatherly kindness and trust and felt a sudden swell of emotion. Here's a man who knew, a man who recognised his worth, a man he could depend upon. He stood a little straighter and puffed up his chest. An intense feeling of loyalty washed over him. He'd do anything for this man, he'd lay down his life for him...
A grin of satisfaction spread across the man's face. He slapped Tiggs on the back, chomped down on his cigar and hollered at the barman.
"Scotch, please – and another beer for my good friend here!"