Author's note: Sorry this took so long to post. Document Manager wouldn't let me upload for more than twenty four hours. To make up for that, this is a long section! Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews you've been giving me, and I hope that this chapter satisfies a lot of hopes. OughtaKnowBetter
"Come on, Belker," Tyler coaxed. "He's not down there in that ravine. We checked, dumb dog. See if you can pick up the trail somewhere else."
Naw. More fun to play in the leaves. I'm a dog; I don't need light to find my way around like you poor humans. Wanna play fetch? I'm real good at it.
"You're a blood hound," Tyler told the dog sternly. "Act like it! Put your nose to the ground and hunt down that man. You want me to tell Natalie that you couldn't find one lost guy on a mountain that you've spent your life exploring? Natalie's my niece," he confided to Don and Robin. "She's only eight, but she can get this mutt to do anything she wants. They adore each other. Belker'd do anything for her."
Whatever. Charlie was out there, cold and sick, and if it helped by reminding the dog that he had a little girl waiting for him along with a T-bone steak, then Don was all for it. He hitched up his backpack higher onto to his shoulders and peered down the slope. Surely downhill was the direction that Charlie had gone. There were several crevices that he could see as darker shadows in the night, any one of which Charlie could have fallen into. Belker gave a mournful woof as if to reproach Tyler for cheating by bringing Natalie's name into the mess and got back to work. The dog tested the higher air, sniffing deeply, then cast around for the scent on the ground. He moved forward, then back, then found it—and was off.
It was warm inside the vehicle but it was also intellectually dis-stimulating. At the moment Dr. Fleinhardt found his own thoughts to be inadequate company. And as for warmth, that too was debatable. The engine off, heat was no longer being emitted for the elevation of ambient air within the vehicle, and passive transfer of caloric energy down the gradient ensured a slow but steady reduction of the afore-mentioned energy in the surrounding gaseous molecules.
In other words, Larry Fleinhardt was getting cold and bored.
Time to remedy both.
He exited the car, approaching the local constable that Police Chief Tyler had left at the way station. He suspected that this particular specimen had been left behind for good reason, but testing that hypothesis would be more entertaining than Larry's own disheartening thoughts as to the disposition of his erstwhile companion. He poked his head into the police car window that the officer rolled down. "Good evening."
Grunt.
"Have you heard anything from the others?"
"Nope."
Clearly not the scintillating conversationalist that Larry had hoped for. Still, there was at least the change in immediate scenery. The physicist looked up into the sky. "Beautiful night. No clouds to mar the view of the sky."
The flashlight that the officer held tilted upward as if the man thought he could pinpoint the beam onto one of the stars. Grunt.
"I find the constellations fascinating," Larry continued. If participation by the other man was not forthcoming, Larry would hold up both ends of the conversation by himself. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it. He tugged his coat closer. "Cassiopeia, and there's Cygnus, the Swan. Orion's belt, of course, but—what's that?"
"What's what?" The flashlight nervously popped up in the general direction that Larry was looking. That direction was not up into the sky but rather into the dark and foreboding trees. Something large and bulky had moved in the night.
"There. Do you see it? A large shape—"
"Probably a bear. We got 'em in these parts. Leave it alone."
Egads, an entire discussion. "No, it was too small for a member of the Ursinus family."
"Probably a cub."
Back to monosyllabic phrases. "I find that hypothesis to be doubtful. Members of the black bear family are traditionally birthed in the dead of winter; any immature member would have had nearly a year to acquire additional growth—"
"Go check it out if you want. I'm stayin' here." Now truculent; clearly the constable did not wish to encounter a bear of any age. Nor did the man, unpossessed of any intellectual curiosity whatsoever, wish to stir from his wind-sheltered position inside the police vehicle.
Larry considered the offer. Outside of the vehicle the air was considerably colder with the added detriment of a stiff breeze stealing away what little heat was left. That breeze rustled through the drying leaves, persuading some of them to drift to the ground, and there was the noise of a substantial creek not far in the distance. A bird chirped; something rustled in the bushes. However, the night was dark and unrewarding to his scholarly prowess and his mind required something upon which to fasten. The death of his colleague was one such option, and Dr. Fleinhardt would far rather explore the origins of the shadowy forest denizen in preference to the contemplation of that morbid possibility. He approached the trees.
"Hey, wha' cha doin'?"
"As you suggested, officer, I am attempting to determine the perpetrator of the shadow that I saw—"
"I didn't mean it! Get back here! You crazy, going out where a bear could get you?"
"Officer, I highly doubt that what I observed was an ursine visitor to this part of the woods. Its configuration—"
"I don't care what that bear's got. You don't go into the woods in the dark without a bunch of people and a bunch of dogs and a bunch of guns, and that's final! Hey! Aren't you listening to me?"
The man finally deigns to speak, and it has to be this. Is there no justice in the world? Larry's curiosity was more than peaked, it was perturbed. The shadow that he saw so briefly was clearly not that of a bear; it seemed to have an astounding resemblance to a man, though it propelled itself forward unlike any man Larry had ever seen. Men walked upright; this shadow had staggered from tree trunk to tree trunk. And since the legend of Bigfoot had not permeated this particular area to any great extent, and since there were a number of searchers wandering around less than two hours hiking distance from here… Larry wanted to take a look. He advanced. "If it is a bear, it will remove itself from this area in an expeditious fashion," he reasoned aloud.
"Says you. It could be that guy the FBI's after. You stay back."
"It could, indeed. To tell the truth, I rather hope so." Larry took another few steps forward.
"Stay back!" the officer commanded. "He could have a gun. It's a bear!" he insisted. "Either that, or it's that guy your people are after!"
"It is not a bear," Larry insisted. How could this man be so foolish? "He's coming toward us. Charles?" he called.
"Down!" the officer commanded, his voice shaking. He pulled his hand gun out; what the constable expected to do with that against a bear, Dr. Fleinhardt had no idea. Make it angry, perhaps. Not that Dr. Fleinhardt was an expert in the behavioral habits of undomesticated North American mammals, but his omnivorous reading habits led him to believe that a single shot from that small a caliber weapon would be less than effective in subduing a creature as large as the black bear. The police officer took shaky aim. "I'm going to shoot it!"
"Don't do that—!"
Bang!
The shot echoed. Dirt sprang into the air, visible even through the dark starlit night. Whatever he was aiming at, the officer missed. Or so Larry hoped. Devoutly hoped.
A shout followed the sharp sound of the gunshot. And a splash.
"Charles!" Dr. Fleinhardt immediately identified not only the shadow-maker, but the owner of the voice. "You idiot!" he yelled at the officer, his temper finally gone under the onslaught of stupidity. "That's who we've been searching for! Charles!" he called again. "Charles, where are you?" For the shadow had vanished. And the sounds of desperate splashing cut through the rustle of the leaves. "Charles!"
"You know this guy?" The officer was getting even more scared than when he'd shot at the 'bear'.
"Yes, of course I know 'this guy'" Dr. Fleinhardt was furious. "For whom do you think we have all been searching?"
"I thought…Drug lord…Plane went down…" Stammering. Terrified.
Heaven help us, why didn't Don and his colleagues share their knowledge with the rest of these people? Larry could only hope that this man was as inept with his gun as he was with his mind. "I'm going after him. Not you," he added. "Stay here and notify the others. Have them return as quickly as possible! Call them now!"
"But you… the woods…"
"Call them!" Dr. Fleinhardt dashed off into the darkness, leaving the befuddled officer behind.
They were getting pretty far down the mountain. Another twenty minutes and they'd be back at the way station where they'd left Larry and Tyler's man. Don was getting nervous; had Belker gone off on the wrong scent? It was the second time that Charlie had made the trek; he supposed it was possible that the dog was following the older scent. They should have found Charlie by now.
It was getting colder out as well. Don could tell by the way that Robin kept looking nervously at her watch that time was growing short. No matter what, if Charlie was out in this weather, sick and hurt, he might not be sick and hurt. He might be dead. Don would be grieving the loss of a brother. Robin? She'd be unhappy at not meeting the world famous Dr. Charles Eppes in person but even more, she let him know, she'd be worried about a corpse riddled with super-sized bacteria where anyone could stumble over it. She didn't mean to be harsh, but the priorities were clear and Don couldn't disagree with her. The infection had to be contained here and now. They had to find Charlie or a lot more people would be grieving the loss of not only brothers but sisters, mothers, fathers, kids...
Don tried not to think about what his brother was going through…
Stumbling through the woods, driven by the need for water as the plague-induced thirst forced him onward. Eyes scarcely able to see in the dark, falling down and barely able to pick himself back up. Fever racking that body, trembling as the chills seized him. Dark curls plastered against his forehead with sweat that stole heat to give to the unforgiving mountain.
Then the final tumble to the ground. The sighing breath, the realization that crawling back onto his feet again wasn't going to happen. That all the times that Don had been there for him, defending him against bullies five years older than he, helping him cope with a world designed for adults when the mind was ready but the body and soul were not: this time Don wasn't going to be there. Wasn't going to come. The one time that his brother was going to let him down. Not in time…
A shot rang out. What the hell…?
"Tyler?" Don's voice came out harshly.
"Don't know. Shouldn't be any hunters, not at night. Belker, heel, boy!" Tyler yanked back on the leash. Belker snarled, not at the man but at circumstances: dammit, I have the scent, and you want to stop now? "Let me call in." He fumbled with his radio. "Ralph? You there? That shot came from your direction. What's going on?"
"Joe!" came out the radio frantically. "Joe, you gotta get back here! The guy's going crazy! He's going into the woods after a bear, and he won't stop! You gotta get back here, Joe!"
"Larry?" Don looked alarmed. Dr. Larry Fleinhardt, dashing into the woods at night by himself, after a bear?
"That doesn't sound like Larry," was Megan's opinion.
"No, it doesn't," David agreed. "Don?"
"Let's hustle, folks." Don had a pretty good idea that it wasn't a bear that Larry was after. He picked up the pace, his team after him, wanting to run but unable to in the dark. The night wasn't black by a long shot, not with the stars out and the moon a full three-quarters shining down on them, but it was dusky enough that it would be easy to trip over a root or turn an ankle in a hole left by some indignant ground dweller.
"Ralph, you put that gun away," Tyler instructed over the airwaves, trying to hold onto the dog and his gun and his radio at the same time while running after the FBI team. He fumbled with everything, jiggling one against the other. "You hear me? Put the damn gun away before I shoot you myself." He gave up; something had to give. He couldn't hold everything. Chief Tyler dropped the leash as the least of the evils.
With a mighty woof, Belker sprang away. Now he'd show these silly two-legged slow idiots how to follow a trail! Didn't they understand that if they didn't hurry, the quarry would run away? Your prey did that. It ran away. You had to hurry. Belker hustled; he'd tree the quarry and harass it himself until Tyler arrived to shoot it.
"Belker! Get back here, you stupid mutt!"
Yeah, right, boss. Go teach your grandma how to shoot chickens in a barrel. I've got a trail to follow.
"Damn dog," Tyler growled under his breath, unable to spare more oxygen while running. "Behaves just as well as Natalie."
At the moment, Don didn't care how well-behaved Natalie was, or Belker. Ralph was a little more concerning; if the officer was shooting blindly into the woods then he might hit Larry Fleinhardt or whoever Larry was chasing. Because as odd as the physicist might be, lack of self-preservation was not in the man's make-up. Larry would not chase off into the woods after a bear.
He would, however, go after a certain mathematician who, against all odds, had made it back to the way station. Don spared a glance for Robin who was distinguishing herself by keeping up with the FBI team. The doctor's face was worried, not just with fear for Charlie but for what might happen. Unprotected contact with an infected Charlie could result in a nation-wide plague if they weren't lucky. Quarantining fifty percent of the local police force would be considered well within the parameters of this mission. Treating the entire town that relied on that creek for their water needs would get expensive and filled with hassles and nation-wide panic.
There were just so many ways that this situation could go wrong! Don steadied Robin over a root that stretched up to trip them both, grabbing onto another tree branch to prevent them both from going down. He listened, hoping to hear something up ahead.
"We're almost at the way station," Tyler huffed, working to catch his breath. Ahead they could hear Belker baying at his quarry.
A shout—not Charlie's. Don strained to identify the sound, the perpetrator of the yell of astonishment and horror: Larry! More barking, more yelling—had Larry really been going after a bear? Had Belker caught up with the physicist and engaged the powerful beast in an effort to protect the smaller man? Had—?
"Get this animal off me!"
Don burst into the clear, trailed by the others. He stopped short.
Larry Fleinhardt was on the ground. Dr. Fleinhardt was flat on his back on the cold hard ground because Belker, in an excess of jubilation, had leaped upon the man and knocked him over.
Belker licked Larry's face: a big, wet, sloppy canine kiss. The dog looked up for approval. See? I got 'im.
"Belker!" Tyler growled. "Git over here, you dumb mutt."
Not the one you wanted, boss?
"Don!" Larry struggled to his feet once one hundred and twenty pounds of bloodhound allowed it. One step, and the physicist proved that Newton's First Law was still intact: he fell back down onto the ground. He grabbed at his foot. "Dammit, my ankle!"
Larry, cursing? Clearly a first. Don hadn't been certain that the man was capable of it. But Larry struggled back to his feet, swatting at the bloodhound. Belker gave him a reproachful look: don't you love me anymore?
I never did, you mangy example of a domesticated flea-shedding bulldozer!
But—"Don, I saw Charlie! That way! Hurry!"
Better than a bloodhound is the mighty physicist. Don dashed off in the direction that Larry pointed, the others hustling behind. "Charlie! Charlie, answer me!"
"Don?"
It came from over that way. Don angled in the direction from which his brother's voice came, barely audible over the rippling of the mountain creek. Splashing—was the bear after Charlie? Don remembered Tyler telling them that the bears left the humans strictly alone. Didn't this one follow the rules? He dodged another tree. "Charlie!"
More splashing. Couldn't be good; Don didn't need Robin to tell him that a dip in mountain-cold creek water would be the worst thing for a man infected with C-NO4. Hypothermia would be the least of Charlie's troubles. He ran toward the sound of the splashing, Robin on his heels and David and Megan close behind.
He headed downhill, figuring that whatever was going on, Charlie would be carried downstream by the rushing water. Tyler was left behind to a) share a word or two—or thirty-six well-chosen expletives!—with Ralph and b) pick up another length of rope that he was certain that they'd need from the police Rover. Trees got in Don's way, trying to trip him with roots as he dashed past. But the splashing continued, and Don followed the sound with the others trailing him as fast as they could travel.
There it was, a creek with delusions of being a river. Tall trees lined both banks and rocks dotted the scenery with foreboding chunks of black. Don searched frantically for the perpetrator of the splashing, sounds that had already died away. All he could hear was the swiftly flowing water slamming against the boulders in the creek, boulders that were being pounded into silt one sand particle at a time. Charlie could estimate just how many particles that would be, Don had no doubt.
"Where is he?" David dashed up beside Don, playing his high-powered flash over the water. The photons got sucked up in the dark as though drowning in the water themselves.
"I can't see him! Charlie!" Don yelled.
"He must be getting swept downstream," Megan panted.
Pretty wide for a creek. Must be fed by an underground stream, Don thought, searching through the water. He aimed his own flash at black spots, hoping to see a dark head with wet hair plastered to it. Dammit, where was he?
"There!" Megan shouted. "There! Charlie!"
"Where?" Don swung his own flash to where Megan was pointing.
"There!" Now both David and Megan were targeting the boulder. Don saw him, his brother clinging to the boulder, trying to keep from being carried further downstream. Even in the dark Don saw another wave crest over Charlie's head.
"Rope!" Don demanded. Shoes: too heavy. Off they came. The heavy coat, too—not all that heavy, but Don anticipated needed something dry and warm after what he was planning.
"Don?"
"He won't be able to hang onto any rope that we throw to him," Don said grimly. "I'm going in after him."
No one objected. No one disagreed.
"Charlie!" Megan called out to the dark blob in the center of the creek. "Don's coming to get you! Hang on!"
No response. No sign that Charlie had heard them. Robin surveyed the figure with concern. "It's cold out there in that water. He's getting hypothermic, and fast. You have to hurry, Don. He won't be able to hang on, and he'll be swept away. We'll lose him in minutes."
"I'm hurrying." Don tied the rope around his waist, trying not to let haste slow him down.
"Be careful." Megan fed out the line as Don waded in, David acting as the anchor for the lifeline.
It was only his feet, but the frigid water still came as a shock. So cold it hurts! But the figure clinging to the boulder in the middle of the water still wasn't moving. Bad sign. Hadn't lost his grip: good sign. "Charlie!" he yelled.
A wave slammed up against him, and Don went down. He came up spluttering, hearing the others yelling from the shore. "Don't pull me back!" he shouted back, maneuvering for one of the boulders to shelter himself from the powerful flow, latching on for a moment to regain his balance.
Twice more he went down, twice more hauling himself back to his feet, standing wide-spraddled to stay upright. Don kept his eyes on the prize, his brother still a black lump against an equally black boulder, praying that the rough water wouldn't tear Charlie loose from his perch.
Then he had him. "Give me more slack," he yelled to the people on shore, looping the additional rope around his brother's waist. "Charlie, wake up!"
"Don?"
Yes! "Getting you out of here, buddy." Don secured the rope under Charlie's arms, keeping them both roped together, hoping that the two of them together would be enough weight to keep them firmly anchored to the bottom of the creek despite the tug of the water. Don could barely feel his feet, and his toes were a lost cause. Good thing Robin brought trauma gear, he thought. Frostbite's gonna be on tonight's menu. "You see any bears?"
"Bears?" Charlie sounded drunk. "Someone was shooting at me."
Right. Way to go, Ralph. "Haul us in," Don directed at the top of his lungs, trying to call over the noise of the creek. He was scared; Charlie's skin felt icy cold to his fingers, and hypothermia was a real possibility for a man lost in the woods for hours in the near winter weather and then dunked in a frigid bath.
The long trek began. Twenty yards had never seemed so far. White water pulled at them, threatening to topple them over repeatedly, nearly dunking them more than once. Charlie stumbled; Don could feel the man's boots still on his feet. Good; protect him from the stones on the creek bottom that are—ouch!—killing my own feet.
Hands grabbed them, pulled Charlie from his grasp. Don automatically tried to resist, then realized that he'd gotten them back to shore.
"Don! Don, it's all right! You got him back. Let us take him."
Megan. And Robin. Don gratefully allowed them to grab onto his brother, sensing more than feeling David haul them both up the riverbank to dry land. Trophy fish, playing the line, he thought tiredly. They reeled us in like a prize rainbow trout. Don tried to let go of Charlie, but his hands refused to cooperate. They had been hanging onto his brother in the cold for too long.
"It's all right. We've got him." David's voice was reassuring. "You brought him in." Warm hands grabbing Don's own arms, hoisting him forward. Yes. Don went to his knees on the cold and hard ground, catching his breath and cursing the now ice-engendering breeze, dripping fat droplets of creek water onto the shoreline. His brother was found, alive. Sick, but Don'd have to take a step back on that one. He didn't have Robin's expertise, didn't have her medical knowledge. All he had was a background as a damn fine FBI agent who'd brought his brother in as a consultant into a plague-ridden building so that he could be stricken by bioterrorism. Way to go, Eppes. They can add that to your personnel file: murdered own brother through sheer stupidity. He struggled back to a sitting position, resisting the arms around him until he realized that they were trying to help and not hinder him. "Charlie…"
"Robin's with him," Megan said reassuringly. "She's got him." Megan pulledthe shirt off of Don, the fresh and icy air less than welcome against his bare skin. "Sit for a minute. We've got to get these wet clothes off of you. You'll go hypothermic yourself in a heartbeat." She fumbled at the buttons. "David, get him a blanket."
"Charlie…" He could hear his brother arguing drunkenly with Robin a few yards away. The shivers had already started, interfering with his fingers that tried to unbutton the shirt to remove the wet clothing. But getting a fresh sweat shirt on, a dry one, helped immensely, as did the heavy jacket that he'd doffed before going for his midnight swim. David handed him a hot cup of coffee and Don sipped at it gratefully, savoring the heat that threatened to burn his tongue. Megan pulled the hypothermia blanket around him. The shivering abated enough for him to pay attention to his brother and Dr. Arthur.
"Dr. Eppes—"
"Call me Charlie. You're Robin, right? Nice to finally meet you in person, but I feel fine." Would've sounded better if Charlie's teeth weren't chattering with the cold. To Don's ear, his brother sounded drunk. "What are you doing up here? It's dangerous. There's somebody shooting at people around here."
"You are not fine, Charlie. You're hypothermic and suffering from exposure, and there's a very good chance that you've contracted the same illness that the terrorists used," Robin told him. Charlie sounded drunk, and Robin's voice was muffled. "You were exposed."
Charlie blinked. "I was not. I left before it started." More teeth chattering. "Hey, stop that," he argued as Robin tried to pull off the sodden sweatshirt that he was wearing. "It's cold. Those gloves feel funny on you." He blinked again. "Hi, Larry. What're you doing here?"
"Looking for you, Charles. What on earth occurred?" Larry staggered up, leaning on Tyler, favoring his bad ankle.
"You were exposed, Charlie," Robin contradicted in no uncertain terms. "Agent Granger confirmed it. You both drank coffee from plastic cups the morning of the first meeting to discuss this crisis."
That sobered Charlie. Sense started to sink in past the confusion. Another blink, a slower one this time. "How is Colby?"
"Better, but still very sick. Going to cooperate?"
Charlie set his lips into a thin line. Even through the dark night Don could see the hypothermically-induced lethargy starting to settle over his brotherlike a down-filled comforter. "Yes."
"Good." Robin raised her voice. "I need some hypothermia blankets over here right now. Let's get these wet clothes off of you."
"Here? In front of everyone?"
"They'll turn their backs." Robin went for the buttons on Charlie's shirt, cursing the gloves that interfered with dexterity. Charlie was no better, the shivering preventing him from unfastening his own clothing and generally getting in her way.
Don went to help, replacing thegloves on his handsat Robin's glare. The wet clothing came off and was deposited into a red biohazard bag—"not my favorite shirt, Don. You're not going to burn it? It's the comfortable one."—and silvery blankets were wrapped around and over his head. Don extended his hand to his brother to help him up off the leaf-covered ground. It was a good thing, because when Charlie went to stand, he nearly toppled over, trembling in the cold. Robin grabbed one side, Don the other.
"Now will you cooperate?" Robin asked. It wasn't clear whether annoyance or mirth would gain the upper hand. It really didn't matter; Robin knew that Charlie would go down in three steps or less. All she had to do was wait, and she'd have a totally cooperative—and probably unconscious—victim to deal with. "Cooperation would be nice."
Charlie staggered. "Yeah," he agreed. He stood still for a minute, hoping that the Moebius Strip whirling in his brain would stop.
"It's the hypothermia," Robin told him.
"Oh, good. I'd hate to think that I really was seeing those pink polka dotted butterflies over there." Charlie listed to one side, knees buckling. Don took a firmer hold, and Charlie had no choice but to accept the support.
"Hypothermia, right? Not this plague thing?" Don held his breath.
"We'll see. I'll run tests as soon as we get back to L.A. Could be both."
Which would take too long, in Don's admittedly inexpert medical opinion. There was the two hour drive back to civilization and a make-shift landing site for the choppers at Tyler's police headquarters. He helped Robin stash Charlie into Tyler's police Rover, grabbing his brother close at her direction for the body heat to be drawn into the shivering victim. Robin, over Charlie's protests, placed an oxygen mask onto his face. All too quickly Charlie shut down, still shivering. The drunken chatter died away. The discussion about astronomical pattern variance, in which Larry couldn't get a word in edgewise, petered off into incoherent mumbling to be replaced by slack-jawed silence. And then Don couldn't wake him.
"Robin?"
"Hypothermia, Don. Lethargic. Don't go panicking yet. I'll tell you when." Robin arranged another hypothermia blanket over the pair of them to keep additional heat available for her subthermic patient. "Hold him close. The body heat will help."
Whatever. This was scary.
Another minor crisis before setting out downhill: Larry Fleinhardt.
"You're coming with us," Robin directed.
"Me?" Dr. Fleinhardt was taken aback. "Dr. Arthur, I assure you, I suffered nothing more serious than a bout of influenza and now a sprained ankle, courtesy—or rather, lack thereof—of a certain canine whose name I don't know and don't choose to know. I'm quite well now, thank you."
"You were exposed to Dr. Eppes, in close quarters, for several hours. By your own admission you were ill with a viral infection noted for immuno-suppression. Dr. Fleinhardt, we will be placing you in quarantine for twenty-four hours."
"Don?" Larry turned to Charlie's brother, horrified. "Don, I have this data to correlate. I can't waste time in quarantine."
But Don only shrugged, his arms around Charlie, feeling his brother still shivering. It would have been better if the shivering were a little more violent, if Charlie had had the energy with which to shake. "Sorry, Larry. She's the doc. The medical doc, I mean," he clarified.
David leaned over to whisper in Megan's ear. "Ever get the feeling that you're spending way too much time with smart people?"
"You should talk, genius. You keep up with Charlie better than most of us."
"I'm just better at pretending I understand. I'm a better actor."
The ride down the mountain was less than amusing for Don. Charlie couldn't keep his eyes open, and looked like a giant foil-wrapped candy bar in Robin's silvery hypothermia blankets. Don could barely see his brother's face under the blankets and behind the oxygen mask. Police Chief Tyler, at the wheel, was told not to dawdle and he didn't: they felt every bump and wallow that he ignored in the road beneath them.
Not that the rest of his team had it any better. Don detailed David and Megan to escort Larry in the other car and meet them at the police headquarters to transfer Larry to the chopper where he'd be air-lifted along with Charlie and Robin to the make-shift hospital ward in the FBI building. David and Megan would bring the car back to L.A. at a more leisurely pace.
"Don, is this really necessary—"
"Yes, it is." Don cut Larry off.
"I never had these problems as a graduate student," Larry muttered under his breath. "Outwitted casinos, bedeviled review boards over articles being published, but never was placed in quarantine. I'm a physicist, for heaven's sake! This was supposed to be astronomical research, not biological warfare!"
Let David and Megan put up with the complaints, Don had more important things on his mind. Charlie's eyes were closed, and he only muttered with sleepy indignation when Robin checked his pulse, listening with a stethoscope that she pulled out of her coat pocket.
"Robin?"
"Classic hypothermia symptoms," she said. "Lethargy, bradycardia—"
"Enough medical lingo. He's going to be okay?"
"Let's get him to the chopper," Robin temporized.
"Robin?"
Robin took pity on him. "I can treat the hypothermia, better once I have more equipment. The oxygen I've giving him is heated. We need to warm up his core temperature."
That brought back memories of survival skills that Don had been required to learn and, occasionally, practice. "He doesn't need the oxygen, but he does need the heat."
"Exactly." Robin beamed. At that moment, Don thought, she looked remarkably like his brother when Don and his team finally understood whatever crazy concept Charlie was trying to get across. Light bulb time. "As soon as we get to the chopper, I'll start an intravenous with heated saline. This shouldn't be too bad. The dip in the water was what took most of his body heat, and he was only immersed for a short time. Long enough to cause a moderate hypothermia, but not more than that."
"Good. And the C-NO4?"
Robin wouldn't meet his gaze. "Let's hold off discussing that, okay?"