Chapter 10
The news in Alan's room was not as good.
Charlie stood just inside the door, shocked at the sight of his father. An IV line entered his hand, just as one did his brother's. A blood pressure cuff was loose around one upper arm, and a thin sheen of sweat stood out on his fever-flushed face. An oxygen canula was perched in his nostrils. His eyes were closed, but he was moving restlessly in the bed. Twice while Charlie stood there, he heard him moan.
Charlie finally got his feet to move and crossed to the bed. He stood uncertainly over it. "Dad?" His voice was barely a whisper, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Daddy?" He almost jumped at the echo of the word in the room. Daddy? He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't said that since he was — what — 10?
Alan opened his eyes and looked at him. They were glazed, and he seemed to be having trouble focusing. He licked his lips. "Hmphf," he managed. "Aren't you late for school, boy?"
Charlie shifted nervously. "I'm not teaching today, Dad. Can I get you anything?"
Alan closed his eyes again. "Of course you're not teaching, Don, you're only in eighth grade. Tell your mother I need coffee this morning. I have a headache."
The door opened behind him and Charlie turned his head desperately, relieved beyond measure to see a nurse. "What's wrong with him?"
The RN smiled gently and stepped to the head of the bed to check Alan's IV and take his temperature. "He has a very high fever," the man said. "We're monitoring his BP very carefully. Would you like to speak with his doctor?"
Alan opened his eyes again, disturbed by all the fuss in the general vicinity. He saw the male nurse standing nearest him. "Charlie," he said, "I like your haircut. Did you feed the koi? No allowance until your chores are done, you know the rule."
The real Charlie suddenly felt weak in the knees. "I think I'd better," he said.
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Half an hour later, Charlie was headed for Larry's room, head down, thinking about what the doctor had said.
The broad spectrum antibiotics weren't working, and Dr. Stevenson — he hoped he could keep all these guys straight — was afraid the septicemia was headed for septic shock. Septic shock had a mortality rate of over 50 percent in his father's age group. Charlie had nearly stopped breathing himself when the doctor said that.
Alan's fever was high enough, and had been that way long enough, that he was delirious. During the 15 minutes Charlie spent with him while he was waiting for the doctor, and the 10 minutes he had been there after, Alan had never recognized him. Once, he had called him "Spot", and whistled at him as if he were a dog.
Charlie took it as long as he could — which he admitted was not very long — and then he had headed for Larry's room, and hopefully more news as good as Don's had been.
Still distracted, watching his feet, he pushed open the door to the sound of harsh coughing. He jerked his head up, and saw Larry holding an oxygen mask off his face a few inches, then dropping it back when he was finished. He turned watery eyes to Charlie and tried to smile behind the mask, but it didn't even come close.
Charlie stared at him. More IV lines. Another sweaty forehead. He looked around the room for Megan, and felt as if the walls were closing in around him.
Larry had lifted the mask, again. "Charles," he whispered, sounding as if he had laryngitis, "Come here."
Charlie's legs obeyed, but he couldn't make himself speak when he got to the bed. He just looked at Larry sadly.
Larry watched him. "Pneumonia," he whispered. "Antibiotics not working."
"Put the mask back on." Charlie finally found his voice and wondered if this hospital had a single antibiotic in its aresenal that was worth a damn.
Larry did and sluggishly reached for a notepad and pen on the bedside table. Charlie saw his intention and handed the items to him. Larry scribbled for a bit, then handed the notepad to Charlie:
Megan told me. Don. Alan. So sorry. OK?
Charlie handed the pad back and looked at him. Larry looked exhausted, worried, terrible. "Don's doing well," he offered finally, "but I haven't seen him awake, yet. And I was…just with Dad. He's on this same floor. He said he wanted some coffee." There. That was all true.
Larry scribbled again, and passed he notepad back:
M, D, C called to c scene. Said you should call.
Charlie leaned over to read the words and nodded. He straightened again and finally just asked. "Do you feel as bad as you look?"
Larry turned a page and scribbled again. His hands were beginning to sag with the effort, and this time Charlie took the pad and the pen:
Hard to breathe. Tired.
Charlie read the words and placed the pad and pen back on the bedside table. He dug deep within himself, thought of chalk dust and fishing and everything he loved, and found a genuine smile for Larry. "You should rest," he said. "I'll go see if Don is awake. If you need anything, have someone page me — I'll be in the hospital somewhere!"
The corners of Larry's mouth turned up and his eyes began to droop down. Charlie leaned over and spoke to his friend quietly. "Hey, Larry, one more thing. You'll like this. I hung up on Randlebaum this morning. He was still talking."
Larry's eyes widened for a moment, and his lips parted in a real smile. He lifted his hand to the oxygen mask and removed it again. "Thank you," he whispered.
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Dr. Headson was frowning when Charlie found him next to Don's bed. The professor honestly didn't know how much more bad news he could take. "What is it? What's wrong?"
The Dr. looked at him. "Your brother has not awakened again since that first time early this morning. His blood pressure is a little elevated, too. I'm afraid he may be slipping into a coma."
Thankfully, one of the agents had left a chair near the bed and Charlie sat down in it hard. "You said he was all right."
"He is, technically. There's no medical reason we know of for this to happen. I've ordered an MRI. It will show us more than the CT scan." As if summoned by his words, a pair of orderlies pushed through the door with a gurney then, and took positions at Don's bed. Charlie pushed himself to his feet, amazed that his legs would hold him, and watched his brother being transferred onto the gurney and then pushed out of the room. "I'll let you know what we find," the doctor promised, following them.
Charlie stood in the empty room. There was nowhere to go, no place was safe. He began to pace, finally stopping to pick up a remote off the bedside table and flick on the television. He hated television most of the time, unless he was watching with his father and brother — a game, or something — and he didn't even know why he did it. He watched the screen absently, surfing, never registering anything until he heard a female announcer. Something about "dramatic footage". He forced himself to focus.
"…caught on video just moments ago, by a tourist whose intention was to film his granddaughter doing a cartwheel. Our technicians have zoomed in on the background, and if you'll watch carefully you'll see two people we now know to be FBI agents approach the vehicle…"
Charlie did watch carefully, and he recognized Megan approaching the passenger side of a dark blue pick-up, Colby the driver's side. For just a second, he thought he could see David even further back, talking to someone on the sidewalk. Charlie watched closely, no longer hearing the announcer, and he easily spotted the shotgun when it came out the driver's open window. It was not a challenge at all to see Colby take a round in the chest at close range, and fly backwards out of camera range.
What Charlie didn't see was the aftermath, Megan and David emptying their weapons into the vehicle and the driver slumping limply halfway out the window. Charlie didn't see that, because he was unconscious himself, passed out on the floor of Don's empty hospital room.