Camouflage

Chapter 36

Don stared for a moment. Charlie's eyes were open, but they looked dull; unfocused, and were not directed at him or at Alan, who was still asleep in the recliner, but at a spot somewhere past the foot of his bed. Don darted closer to the bedside, trying to get into his field of vision before his eyes closed. "Charlie? Can you hear me?"

No change in facial expression; Charlie's features remained slack, and the breathing tube made it impossible for him to try to speak. The eyes drifted toward Don, however, and seemed to be looking at him. Don's exclamation had woken Alan, and Don could hear the recliner footrest come down behind him with a loud thump. Charlie blinked.

"Charlie, if you can hear me; blink again, once," said Don, urgently, because Charlie's eyelids were beginning to drift shut again. He seemed very groggy, but he directed his eyes toward Don and blinked once, then closed his eyes again, just as Alan came up to Don's side.

Alan stared at his younger son. "Charlie?" Then he looked at Don, excitement and disappointment mingling in his face. "He opened his eyes?"

"Yes, you didn't see it?"

"I couldn't see around you." Alan kept glancing down at Charlie, hopefully. "When you asked him to blink, did he do it?"

Don nodded. "Yes. He blinked once before that, so I wasn't sure if it was because I told him to, but he did look at me." Charlie's response could be significant, he thought, with a sudden surge of hope. If he had been willfully responding to Don's requests, maybe there was no brain damage...

Alan took a big uneven sigh, and then bent his head, and covered his face with a shaky hand, suddenly overcome. Even Superman had his moments, thought Don, and he put his arm around him and gave him a squeeze. "He's gonna make it through this, Dad," he said gently, with a conviction that he didn't yet quite feel. "Look – I brought you a breakfast sandwich – eat something and then go home and get a shower and get a nap in a real bed. I'll camp out here – I brought my computer and I can work from here."

Alan sighed and reluctantly accepted, loath to miss out on anything, especially if Charlie was coming around. He stepped out in the hallway to get coffee and eat his breakfast, and a nurse came in for one of the never-ending blood sample checks.

"He opened his eyes," said Don, as he watched her.

"Really?" She reached for Charlie's chart to document the occurrence, but she didn't seem excited. "What time?"

"About five minutes ago," said Don. "I asked him to blink once if he heard me, and he did. He also looked toward me when I spoke."

The nurse seemed unimpressed, but her voice was gentle as she said, "That is a good sign, but you need to be aware, that can happen sometimes, and may or may not indicated a return to consciousness, or a conscious ability to follow your orders. It may just be a reflexive response. I don't want to disappoint you, but you should be aware – it may or may not mean something. Can you do us a favor and let us know if it happens again? We can get someone from the staff in to observe. I'll let the doctor know."

She left, and shortly after that, so did Alan. Don plugged in his laptop and settled into the recliner. An hour passed, and Larry and Amita showed up to visit. They were overjoyed to hear that Charlie had opened his eyes, and Amita was still dabbing at tears of happiness when they left, an hour later. The nurses came in and out, and a technician came and made some adjustments to Charlie's IV; apparently his insulin levels were dropping now, just as Donna Bainbridge had said they would, and adjustments needed to be made to make sure his blood glucose stayed in the normal range. Then Schilling came in to check on Charlie, and he verified that the fact that the insulin levels were now dropping meant that the antidote had completed its work, and that there was likely no more of the toxin left in Charlie's system. Another reason to be hopeful.

Don got a draft version of his report done, but it was slow going – he kept stopping to glance at Charlie. As the hours passed, the excitement he'd felt that morning waned. Charlie seemed to be completely out again, and longer he remained in that coma-like state, the more Don's anxiety began to rise. Was the nurse right? Had Charlie's brief moment of consciousness been a fluke – just a manifestation of a mindless reflex to stimuli?

"Come on, Charlie," he whispered. "Do it again. Open your eyes."

Deondre walked into the Warrior's locker room on Sunday at his usual time, a few hours before game time. Several players were already there, and they tossed out greetings. He looked at Jack Worth; their eyes met, and they looked away. Another player grinned and threw Deondre a fist-bump. "Today's the day, baby – playoffs – one more win; one more step to the Superbowl!"

Deondre flashed a quiet grin and fist-bumped back. "You know it," he said. His teammates were as yet oblivious to what would undoubtedly happen when the test results came back on the syringes he and the other five had turned in to the commissioner, containing the stuff they called Magic. This could very well be his last game this year – maybe ever, depending on the severity of the commissioner's sanctions and the actions of the team management. If all six of them were banned from playing next week by the commissioner, the Warrior's team would be severely compromised. Even if they won today, they wouldn't win next week – not with backups in for six key players. What would all these players around him do when they found out? There would be anger – no, fury – and contempt. No more camaraderie, no more working as a unit. No more trust, no more hope for the season.

The thought was depressing and unsettling. So was the lack of 'snap' – the feeling he got after he injected, normally done prior to the game. He was going into the biggest game he'd ever played, with nothing in the tank – physically or emotionally.

He was still sitting in the locker room when the team went out at game time. He felt down; despondent – he didn't even want to run down through the tunnel, which he loved doing every Sunday during the season – it was the greatest thrill of his life, and all he had ever wanted to do. He stood finally, and it was not his teammates or the sound of the crowd outside that brought him to his feet – it was a vision of his mother's face. She always expected him to do his best no matter what the circumstances, and if he didn't get fired up to play, he would be letting her down, which would be untenable. He would go and play the game of his life – for her.

He ran out of the tunnel, and the roar from the stands became deafening as the fans saw him. He was well-aware that he was a crowd favorite. He raised his arms to them and let their cheers feed his resolve. He was a Warrior.

The game was close. All of them – Joey, Freddie, Leshawn, Worth, and Reese – were having decent games, but not great ones. There were small mistakes here and there, and a fumble by one of the other receivers, and the other team was also in the playoffs because they were damned good, and they capitalized on every error. By the end of the game, the Warriors were trailing by four points, and had less than two minutes to get the football down the field to score, but they had possession of the ball. It had to be a touchdown – a field goal was only worth three points and wouldn't get the job done. The roar was nearly the deafening – fans were screaming with excitement.

The drive was a good one – mostly short passes and just a few run plays, because they ate up too much clock. The plays got them down the field to the twelve yard line, but there they stalled. First down was a pass thrown away to avoid a sack. Second down was one short toss to a tight end that got them seven yards, but not enough for either a touchdown or first down – and a first down wouldn't have mattered much, because the clock was running out. There were twenty seconds left. They were actually in real danger of losing, Deondre thought with alarm, and then it hit him. Losing was their way out. If they lost today, they would be eliminated from the playoffs. If they were banned next week, it wouldn't matter. If they had already lost, any bans or suspensions would have no effect – the team would be out anyway – legitimately.

They were close enough to the goal line for a run play now, and Joey Cancetta got the ball. The blockers made a mighty surge with Joey behind them, but he was stopped on the one yard line. It was enough for a first down, so they got four more attempts, but no score. Joey got up from the pile and his gaze met Deondre's, and Deondre could see it – the calm acceptance in his eyes– Joey had realized it, too. Losing might actually be the best thing for them, and perhaps for the fans and for the team.

They had one timeout left, and Coach Ruby called it with five seconds left on the clock, and motioned the team to the bench for a conference. They would go for a pass play, the Coach decided; the other team was expecting them to run with only one yard to the goal line. They'd put a couple of receivers in the end zone, and execute a short toss. If they got it off quickly enough they might get a second chance if it failed. An incomplete pass would stop the clock – they might have enough time for a run play after this one, even if this attempt went awry.

Deondre was one of the two receivers designated for the play; he knew the ball might very well be coming to him, as the star receiver on the team. It would be easy to throw the game if he were the only receiver called for the play – just move a little more slowly, fail to get open. However, since there was another receiver involved, there would be a chance that the quarterback would throw to the other man instead if he looked more open. If that happened, the fate of the game would be out of Deondre's hands. If he really wanted to control the outcome, he had to get open and get the ball thrown to him – and then botch the catch.

He walked to the line and took his position, and for a moment, his eyes lifted to the roaring stands. His mother was up there, watching. She would be horrified to know what he was contemplating. He couldn't look her in the eye again, ever, he knew; if he purposely threw the game. He shook himself; he couldn't do it, he decided. He should go for it all, go for the win, and take the consequences next week like a man.

The play was called, and he sprang into his route, deking and dodging his way into the end zone. It took the play a second or two longer to develop than it should have done, so this would be it – there would be no run play after this, no second chance. The ball was aloft, soaring toward him, and Deondre leapt.

It was a catch he'd made several times that season, and he'd always been able to get the height he needed to bring the ball down, but not today – the ball grazed the very tips of his fingers, and continued on its path, out of the back of the end zone. Had it been thrown too high, or was he losing physical capability now that the Magic was gone? Or perhaps, a more unsettling thought – had he allowed it to happen, subconsciously? One thing was certain – their season was over.

The crowd's roar immediately dropped decibels, as disappointed Warriors fans fell silent. The much lesser rumble of noise from the opposing fans lingered on, as the other team members leapt with joy and bounded together in rowdy huddle. Deondre and Joey headed toward the bench and the six of them gravitated towards each other, and grouped together. They looked at each other and at Deondre, and in their eyes, Deondre could read relief, and thanks. They thought, perhaps, that he had done it on purpose. He felt other teammates' hands clapping his back, offering encouragement to him in spite of their bitter disappointment. They would hate him if they knew.

"Great season, man," said one of the other receivers, assuming Deondre's long face was because of the dropped ball. "We'll get it next year."

Deondre managed a small smile, but he knew they wouldn't. Even if he and the other five weren't banned next season, the Magic was gone.

Don stepped into Charlie's room that evening. Alan had come back late in the afternoon, and Don had gone into the office to download and file his report. It was a relatively brief visit; the report was basically finished on his laptop, and he just had to do some cutting and pasting to get it into the proper format, and send it via email to Merrick, who had already left for the day. As soon as he was done, he headed back to the hospital.

When he walked in, Alan had the small television mounted up on the wall turned on, and he pointed to the screen. There were some announcers doing-post game coverage of the Warriors playoff game. "They lost," said Alan simply. Don glanced up at the television; what had been of consuming interest a few days ago didn't seem to matter much now. He reflected briefly that the loss would take a lot of the heat off of the Warriors side of the investigation and then looked at Charlie, who had been propped with pillows, partially on his side, partially on his back.

"They rotated him to keep from getting bedsores," explained Alan, following his gaze, "and they said his incision would also drain a little better in that position."

Don wasn't sure whether he should be disturbed that Charlie was being arranged like a sack of potatoes, or encouraged that they were taking the time to prevent a longer term issue like bedsores. He sat down in the straight-backed chair and ran a hand through his hair. "Why don't you go take a break, maybe grab something to eat," he said. "I'll sit with him."

"Did you eat?" asked Alan.

"No, but I'm not hungry right now. Go ahead. I'll get something later."

He sat there, reflecting over the aspects of the case, wondering if it was okay to tell LAPD to remove the guard from Charlie's room. Murciano was still on the loose, but two of his henchmen were dead and the third was in custody. Don doubted that the man did his own dirty work, so he was probably no threat – but he could call in reinforcements. Dellarocco and Jackie Gruselli were both from back east, with ties to the mob…

The soft blip-blip of one of the machines quickened ever so slightly, and Don glanced over at Charlie – and was arrested by the sight of his brother looking back at him, for the second time that day. He was on his feet and over at the bedside immediately. "Charlie? Can you hear me? Blink – no – tap your finger once if you can understand me."

Charlie did both – he blinked, and tried to tap. His uninjured hand was lying on the bed, and a forefinger lifted – barely clearing the sheet – and dropped back into place. More of a lift-and-drop than a real tap, but it was enough. Don reached for his hand, and squeezed it gently, his eyes stinging. "Welcome back, Charlie. Welcome back."

During the rest of Sunday and continuing into Monday, Charlie was beginning to have brief moments of consciousness. He couldn't speak because of the tube in his throat, and seemed too weak to move at all. Alan wondered how much he could comprehend; there were moments when he seemed to be all there, and others when Alan wasn't sure. His condition was still extremely critical, the doctors said; but to Alan, Charlie's increasing episodes of consciousness were encouraging.

Monday morning, Schilling asked Alan and Don to meet him in his office, along with doctor Sanders and Donna Bainbridge. He invited them to sit down, and said without preamble, "I'm afraid we are losing Charlie."

Alan felt his heart drop. Charlie had regained conscious; Alan had thought it was a sign he was improving. He had expected Schilling had called them in to discuss Charlie's continued recovery. He couldn't speak.

Don voiced his shock and confusion for him. "He woke up, though – isn't that progress?"

Sanders spoke up. "We are starting to see signs that other systems in his body are under a lot of stress. Charlie's damaged pancreas is pouring destructive enzymes into his body. He is very malnourished, and was underweight and very ill going into the surgery. In his extremely weakened state, his body just cannot sustain him long enough for his pancreas to heal. When the body's systems start to fail, the slide is inevitable once it passes a certain point, which is likely only a few days away, and he needs at least two weeks for the pancreas to get back into a functional state. His body won't hold out that long."

"We have seen this many times," added Schilling, "this slide into system failure. Blood chemicals begin to deteriorate, kidney function declines, along with other systemic failures. Once the decline reaches a tipping point; it is very difficult to stop. He is not there yet – but the signs are beginning. We would like to try something rather radical and untested as a last resort, if you are willing to sign off on it. We have been consulting with Doctor Bainbridge, and there is something we would like to try, to see if we can speed up the healing process in his pancreas. It involves a combination of pancreatic cells created in the lab from stem cells, along with Doctor Bainbridge's drug, Camouflage. We would like to deliver that combination to Charlie intravenously. The hope is that new pancreatic cells will speed up the healing process in his pancreas, and make it become functional more quickly."

Alan frowned. "Isn't that drug how he got into this situation?"

Donna Bainbridge spoke up. "What Charlie was given was a first version of the drug, which was flawed. The latest version does what it is supposed to do - deliver medication – or in this case, stem cells, to the targeted site, without the harmful side effects. You do need to understand that it is not FDA approved or tested yet – but I know it will do what Doctor Sanders would like it to do, and that is to safely deliver stem cells to the pancreas. There are two reasons we need your approval - and the fact that the drug is experimental is one of them."

Alan looked at them. "And the other?"

Schilling said, "The stem cells themselves. Some people have a moral aversion to using stem cell therapy. I would like to assure you that the stem cells in question here were harvested from the umbilical cords of safely-delivered babies."

Alan pondered that and said, "Why can't you just inject the cells right into the pancreas?"

Sanders shook his head. "The pancreas is a very delicate organ. Injections can't be used with a relatively healthy pancreas, much less one in Charlie's condition. The cells need to be delivered intravenously, with an agent designed to deliver them through the bloodstream. There has been other research done along these lines – what we are proposing isn't exactly new. However, none of the delivery mechanisms or agents are as advanced as Doctor's Bainbridge's development. I have looked at the trials of the latest version, and I think it is safe, and the best alternative. The goal is to get his pancreas at least moderately healed in three or four days, rather than two weeks. If we don't speed it up, he won't make it."

Alan was silent for a moment, then looked at Don, who said quietly, "Dad, we need to do this."

Alan sighed, and looked at Schilling. "I agree with Don. But don't we need to get Charlie's approval somehow?"

Sanders and Schilling looked at each other, then Schilling spoke. "We have deemed that the patient is incapable of speaking for himself at this point. In that case, we need to get the approval of a family member."

Alan took a deep breath. "Then, yes. Where do I sign?"

End, Chapter 36