Chapter 2
Tag
Not so long ago I shared with you my personal take on the whole fate/destiny thing, and it sort of went along the lines of: If we follow our instincts we can prepare for those little surprises that get thrown at us every now and then. Well, I stand corrected, cause recently my life has taken so many unexpected twists and turns, that I'm starting to get the feeling that somebody up there is determined to make me pay big time for those words.
It's not that I don't expect some form of payback for my less than salubrious law-breaking past, but just when I'm starting to think that the old straight and narrow path I've been treading might be enough to get me a decent break once in awhile, something… nasty… comes along to remind me that assumption can often be the mother of all fuck ups
And what, I hear you ask, can they possibly throw at the poor schmuck this time that's any worse than life's recent dire offerings?
The answer to that, my friends, would be…obsession. And with the brand of crazies who populate my world these days, you know that we're definitely not talking about some casual infatuation here either.
When author John Irving wrote: You've got to get obsessed and stay obsessed - it's almost as if he had some insight into what and who was coming my way, cause what I was about to experience - in all it's terrifying glory - was the all-consuming, festering brand of obsession that can only mean a whole heap of trouble for me and mine.
Crap!
The Agency - Evening.
Bobby Hobbes exited the elevator and walked briskly down the dimly lit basement corridor towards Lab 3. Transferring the brown paper bag he held from one arm to the other, he glanced at his watch and muttered a curse under his breath. He was running late and he hated to be late for anything, but especially when he was on his way to spend some 'quality' time with his partner, Darien Fawkes.
The Official had him working double shifts at the moment to compensate for the loss - and Bobby prayed it was just temporary - of The Agency's 17 million dollar Invisible Man. Darien was sick, and the really frustrating thing of it was that no-one really knew what was wrong. The only conclusion the so-called experts, including Claire, had come up with over the past few weeks - and one which frankly terrified everyone - was that the Quicksilver Gland was malfunctioning…possibly dying… and taking its human host with it. And since it had made itself at home so completely within Darien's cerebral cortex, extracting it to potentially save his life just wasn't a viable option. Claire kept telling Bobby that they just had to wait and hope…and pray.
They had all been doing a lot of that lately.
So even though Bobby felt like he could probably sleep for an entire week, there was no way that a little thing like crippling exhaustion would ever be enough to prevent him from this nightly ritual. Over the last two and a half years, the tall ex-thief had come to mean much more to him than just a partner…a fellow colleague at Fish and Game. Darien also happened to be his best friend and the person Bobby was closest to in the entire world., a man he would gladly have given his own life for if the situation called for it. And he knew without a doubt that if their roles were reversed, Darien would readily do the same for him. But on this occasion there were no speeding bullets for him to throw himself in front of, no megalomaniac or mad scientist hell bent on world domination.
And that was the hardest part for Bobby; knowing there wasn't a damned thing he could do.
The heavy steel door to Lab 3 swished open just as he was about to pass his key card through the lock and a tall blond woman came out, and with her attention still distracted by something or someone behind her she walked straight into him.
"Whoa! Hold up there, Keepie." Bobby held out his free hand to try to halt the collision, a hint of amusement in his tone until the edge of the metal surgical tray she was carrying rammed solidly into his chest.
Dr. Claire Keeply, head scientist of the QS-9300 Project, flashed him her best apologetic smile with a slight blush coloring her lovely face. "Sorry, Bobby. Are you okay?"
"Yeah.. No long term harm done," he coughed out, returning her smile with a pained one of his own. 'How's Fawkesy?" he asked quickly, mostly to alleviate her obvious embarrassment.
Claire took another rueful glance back into the room she'd just left. "As obstinate as ever."
"Good!"
From the puzzled look on her face, Bobby realized she'd misinterpreted his quick response the moment he'd said it, so he acted quickly to reassure her. "I mean 'good' in that it's good he's being difficult." He could see by Claire's frown that he was just digging himself a deeper hole. ""Cause if he's back to being a pain in the ass, then maybe Fawksey's on the mend is what I mean. No disrespect intended."
"And none taken," she responded sweetly, sincerely wishing she had some good news for him. But, if anything Darien's condition was getting worse. "He's not had a very good day Bobby,. so try not to stay too long.."
A quick peck on the cheek later and she finally moved around him and down the corridor, disappearing into the Keep.
On entering the Lab, currently equipped better than any modern hospital, Hobbes crept quietly towards the bed doing his best not to disturb the seemingly sleeping figure. But as he neared the man shifted and cracked one eye open warily, a relieved grin forming the minute Darien realized it was Hobbes and not his Keeper or one of the nurses coming back to poke, prod or generally piss him off.
"Hey Hobbesy. How's it hangin', man?" Darien tried to push himself weakly upright on the pillows with Bobby rushing to help, feeling an intense sadness at the increasing evidence of his best friend's deteriorating condition. He'd been sick more or less ever since his return from the DoD, with mild seizures bouts of crippling nausea and vertigo, and his condition had deteriorated dramatically over the last couple of weeks to the point where he was now practically confined to bed - when Claire could keep him there. Recently though, he'd even stopped whining about it…which was a very bad sign.
The Francesca Casati incident had also taken its toll, and Hobbes knew his friend was struggling to come to terms with his enforced separation from the young woman, not to mention his concern over her safety.
Hobbes hung his jacket over the back of a chair, and then carefully began unloading the contents of the brown paper bag and depositing them on the nightstand.
When the Fat Man didn't have him running around on some half-assed assignment, he tended to spend as much of his spare time here as possible to keep Darien's spirits from sagging. A key part of their nightly ritual was for Hobbes to turn up with an assortment of contraband provisions; oatmeal cookies, bagels and even the occasional bacon cheeseburger - much to Claire's voiced disapproval - and despite the fact that it had been several days now since his friend had been able to take solid food, Bobby still kept up the routine.
Darien's grin widened in amusement as he glimpsed the take-out cartons and he rolled his eyes towards the IV line trailing into his arm, jiggling it a little for emphasis. "Tempting bro', but I've already got mine."
Hobbes snorted in mock disgust. "A tank full of unleaded might be okay for you hotshot, but Bobby Hobbes prefers the real deal…like this." With a flourish he produced another large carton of Chinese food, inhaling the delicious aroma and sighing appreciatively. "Mr. Woo sends his regards by the way. Says to tell ya business has taken a dive since you stopped taking out his take-out."
Darien chuckled, even though the smell of Hobbes' dinner from their favorite Chinese restaurant was making his stomach churn slightly; not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
Bobby delicately peeled back the lid of the carton and had just taken his second mouthful of delicious chicken noodles when the lab door slid open. He glanced up guiltily like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, expecting Claire to enter in full Darien protection mode. Instead Albert Eberts took a hesitant step into the room, smiling warmly in Darien's direction and then focusing his attention back to Bobby.
"Robert, The Official wants to see you in his office on a matter of some urgency."
Bobby stuffed another huge portion of food into his mouth. "Aw c'mon Eberts," he grouched, indicating the food carton and then with his eyes towards Darien's IV line, "Can't ya see me and Fawkesy are having some dinner here."
The young assistant shifted uncomfortably. "I'm truly sorry to disturb you both. But He wouldn't have sent me down here to personally deliver the message if it wasn't important."
Bobby sighed and glanced sideways at his friend, but Darien actually looked just about ready to crash again, his eyelids slowly drooping shut even as he mumbled through a yawn to Hobbes, "Better not keep old fatso waiting."
Staring down at the now sleeping man, Bobby felt a surge of emotion and for some reason knew that he really didn't want to leave him at that moment, but then Eberts was clearing his throat to draw Bobby's attention. With a heavy sigh he gently patted the back of Darien's hand, grabbed up his jacket and followed Eberts up to the Fish's office.
"Escaped, what do you mean escaped?" asked Bobby incredulously, his voice rising several octaves. He stared from The Official to Eberts to Alex Monroe, waiting for one of them to confirm what he thought he'd just heard, 'cause what he thought he'd heard was just about the worst news ever!
"Wasn't she supposed to be locked away in some high security women's prison or somethin'?" Suddenly he wasn't all that hungry, eyeing his half eaten carton of Chinese with distaste before tossing it into the trash can at the side of the Fish's desk.
Borden shifted his sizeable bulk in his chair and stared across at his agents.
"We just got the call," he confirmed, looking just about as pissed off as Bobby felt. "It happened earlier today. Eberts can fill us in on the specifics… Eberts?"
All three of them turned their attention to the Fish's right hand man, who handed them each a manila folder, opening the one he was holding to relay what was known about the escape.
"Ex-agent Craven had allegedly been extremely ill for some considerable time, and she was being transferred earlier this afternoon to a hospital that could cater for her condition and…uh…special needs."
"Sick or not, that bitch doesn't deserve any special care," Bobby hissed. "They should have locked her up and thrown away the key."
Eberts waited for the older man to settle before continuing.
"Because of the serious nature of her illness, she was no longer considered a risk and her security status had been downgraded. That's why only one nurse and one prison guard accompanied her in the private ambulance… along with a Doctor James Ferguson, her Oncologist. The bodies of the nurse and guard were discovered in a ditch at the side of a highway several miles from the prison. There's no sign of the ambulance and its crew, or of Ella Craven and the mysterious Dr. Ferguson."
Eberts closed his file with a flourish, which Bobby took as some sort of signal to head straight for the door.
"And where the hell do you think you're going?" The Official snapped at his retreating agent's back..
"To check on Fawkesy, Chief. There's no way Cru-Ella's getting anywhere near him while he's sick. And we all know she's gonna try." Bobby fidgeted in the open doorway eager to get back down to the basement.
Borden rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighed wearily.
"Well get back here, we're not finished." Surprisingly this came out as more of a request than an order, and Bobby shuffled reluctantly back into the office.
Borden waited until his agent was settled again before explaining.
"Because of our previous involvement with Craven, we've been asked to investigate this escape. So I want you and Monroe out at the prison first thing in the morning. Find out what you can about this Dr. Ferguson, he's obviously the key to all of this."
"And who's gonna be watching my partner's back while we're all the way out in the middle of nowheresville?" Bobby grouched.
"The protection team around Darien has already been doubled, Robert," Eberts assured.
With a nod of approval in his assistant's direction and a grim smile creasing his podgy features, Borden added, "Don't worry, Darien's perfectly safe. Unless Craven has suddenly developed the ability to walk through walls, she won't get anywhere near him this time."
California Correctional Institute for Women
Hobbes was tired and his muscles were sore from spending the night on a fold away cot in his partner's room, and when he was tired he got cranky. His mood wasn't being helped any by the attitude of some of the staff at the prison, who while cooperating with them, made it abundantly clear that they could in no way be held accountable for the breach of security leading to Ella Craven's escape.
The Warden, Milton O'Neal, in particular was just about the biggest jerk Bobby had ever met; and he'd met some pretty big jerks in his time. He was a large man; Alex Monroe had muttered to Hobbes that he looked like the Fish's evil twin which had Bobby trying to suppress a smirk for the first few minutes of their meeting. .
It was obvious that O'Neal was in deep shit for this and was looking to pass the buck to some other poor sap on his staff, which is why Doctor Georges Menendez had now been summoned to join the group in the Warden's office. The difference between Menendez and Warden O'Neal was that Hobbes and Monroe immediately liked the doctor, who did his best to answer all of their questions, minus the surly attitude of O'Neal and some of his guards.
O'Neal was also resentful of the fact that the two agent's had more or less commandeered his office for the interviews, with him relegated to the sidelines as an observer. The second time he had tried to butt in and snap a question at Menendez, Monroe had approached the big man and leaned in to whisper something to him. After that he'd noticeably paled, but stayed silent.
Hobbes was now perched on the edge of the Warden's desk staring down at Doctor Menendez, who had just recounted the specifics of Ella Craven's illness.
"So, lemme get this straight," Bobby cut in. "Cru…Craven was diagnosed with a cute mylewhatnot Leukemia a month after she arrived here?"
"Acute Myelogenous Leukemia," Menendez corrected. "That's right Agent Hobbes. And her condition deteriorated surprisingly fast." Something in that statement nagged at Hobbes' but he filed it for later, his attention focused on Menendez for the moment, who continued, "Even though our medical facilities here are good, we don't have the expertise to treat the more serious illnesses which is why call in outside help when needed."
"Outside help like this mysterious Dr. Ferguson, you mean?" asked Monroe and Menendez nodded.
"He came very highly recommended," Warden O'Neal added, cowering down in his seat slightly when Monroe narrowed her eyes in his direction.
"I just bet he did,." the female agent muttered caustically.
"Recommended by whom, exactly?" Hobbes ignored the Warden and directed his question to Menendez.
"You know, I'm not actually that sure," he admitted casting a curious glance at O'Neal. Hobbes and Monroe also turned to stare at the big man, who squirmed a little in his chair and then realized he'd better say something before the scary female agent got pissed with him again.
"We've called in a Dr. Roland Hayes on a number of occasions in the past when we've had to deal with similar cases, cancers and the like. But the poor man met with an unfortunate accident just before Craven was diagnosed…"
"How inconvenient," Monroe cut in arching an eyebrow for Hobbes' benefit.
"That was when one of his colleagues made contact with me to recommend Dr. Ferguson," O'Neal explained.
"Did you run a check on him?" Hobbes asked.
O'Neal's face reddened. "Of course we did," he blustered. "Do you think we're complete idiots here?"
"You said it buddy," came the muttered response, and O'Neal's face grew thunderous.
"His qualifications and references were second to none. We were grateful to have him on board."
"Well pal." Hobbes was getting angry now as well, and he knew it wouldn't do to lose his cool. "Do you wanna know what our security check came up with on Doctor James Ferguson? Zilch, zero, de nada., bupkas is what! The man doesn't exist."
"That's impossible..."
"Agent Hobbes is right though," Monroe added. "If you had just made the effort to dig a little deeper you'd have found out that everything about the man was a big fat fake."
O'Neal looked stunned.
"We'll need to review your security footage for the past month," Monroe told the big man who mutely agreed. "I assume it's all logged and stored?" He nodded again.
"Good." Bobby stated. "Let's take a look and see if we can id this mother."
TBC
