Chapter 5
Colby, Megan and David sat around the end of a conference table, pouring over manila file folders and computer print-outs, passing them to each other for double-checking. Colby dropped a folder heavily on the table and leaned back in his chair. "I'm telling you, all these people are clean. The bank teller in charge of the ATM, the armored car service employees…" He looked at David. "We must have missed something. Are you sure the bomb was in the ATM?"
David sighed, dropping the print-out he had been studying. "That's what the CSI guys said on scene. They traced back through the impact zone, and they found scorched pieces of the ATM that indicated it wasn't just blown apart in the blast, it was torn apart at the base of the detonation."
Both men turned to Megan, who was still studying a print-out intently. Colby sat up a little in his chair. "What? Got something?"
She shook her head a little. "I don't know. I think I recognize this string of hydrocarbons, the long chains formed from smaller units."
David and Colby looked at each other. "What the hell did she say?", Colby asked, and David shrugged.
Megan raised her eyes to them. "So I enjoyed high school chemistry," she said, reaching for the phone in the middle of their papers. She punched in a few numbers, and waited.
"Trevor. Hey, it's Agent Reeves, in the bullpen. Listen, I'm looking at this report of what you found on that section of twisted ATM, from the bombing this morning. I almost recognize the chemical make-up, but…" she nodded mutely for a moment, listening. She laid the print-out on the table and started to scribble on it. "What's that called? 'Addition polymerization', got it. Uh…why would you do that? What did this substance used to be?" Her eyes widened, and she looked at Colby. "I see. Thank you, yes, that could change everything. I appreciate the rush on this, Trevor."
She replaced the receiver and smiled broadly. "I think I have a new line on suspects."
David was good with that. The current batch was getting them nowhere. "What did you get?"
"According to Trevor in the lab, the sticky stuff found on part of the ATM used to be a rubber trash can. He said it's possible the bomb was actually in the trash can – you know, the small ones usually found near the ATM so people can throw away their receipts."
"Idiots," put in Granger. "They should take them home and shred them."
Megan looked at him, momentarily distracted. She concentrated again on David. "Anyway, if the trash container had been shoved up under the ATM, when the bomb detonated it would have virtually destroyed the polymer and thrust up through the machine, making it appear as though it was actually planted inside."
David allowed himself a smile. "The ATM was in a sheltered alcove that was actually part of the building. Carpet, and everything."
Megan gave him a tiny smile in return. "Right. Granted, anyone off the street could have had access to that."
Colby suddenly stood. "We should eliminate the obvious, first. The bank has a cleaning service that comes in every night, right? They would empty the trash, clean the alcove…"
David and Megan both smiled at him. "Never fails, Granger," teased Megan. "You always catch up with us sooner or later."
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When Larry came back bearing coffee, Don accepted one and spoke to no-one in general. "So how long is this supposed to take?"
Alan sipped his coffee and checked his watch. "It's been less than three hours…so maybe five more?"
Don almost dropped his cup. "This is an eight-hour surgery?"
Larry, pawing through some magazines on a table, glanced at him. "Oh my, yes, Don. At minimum. Revascularization microsurgery is an incredible thing, a very intricate procedure. The mind reels, thinking of those minute, tiny, blood vessels, all that is involved in a replantation…"
"Larry!" Alan spoke sharply, watching Don turn a little green. "Please don't reel our minds anymore right now."
Larry reddened a little, chose a magazine and reclaimed his chair on the other side of Alan. "Do forgive me," he said, quietly. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."
Alan threw a tiny smile in his direction. "No, Larry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have barked like that. I know that…there will be things we'll need to know. I…I guess I'm just not ready to hear everything, yet. One piece at a time, you know?"
Don heard the expression, and of course it made him think of the pieces of Charlie surgeons were now trying to unite, the pieces of Charlie lying on the sidewalk, the pieces of Charlie that didn't make sense, in pieces. His stomach rebelled again and he gagged on his coffee. His father pounded him on the back, and he managed to keep from redecorating the waiting room. He leaned forward a little and set the coffee down on a table. He stayed in that position, and dropped his head into his hands. "I want to kill someone," he stated, matter-of-fact. The words bounced off the walls, and while he was surprised that he had actually said that out loud, he wasn't surprised to know that it was true.
Alan left his hand on Don's back, and he started rubbing slow circles, the way he used to when the boys were children, and they were sick, or had nightmares. He stared at his own coffee. "Yes," he finally acknowledged. "Yes, son, I can see that you do."
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At hour four, Larry and Alan left for a walk around the grounds. Cell phones were not permitted in the hospital, but there was a landline in the waiting room, and Don used it while they were gone to call Megan. He learned that while bank and armored car employees were still being processed, the focus of the investigation had widened to include employees of the bank's cleaning service. She assured him that forensics was on top of things, informed him that Merrick had assigned another team to work with them on the case, reassured him that the bombing was top priority. Don understood, hanging up, that some part of the conversation should make him happy; at least satisfy a part of him. He also understood that instead, it had made him feel worse. He resented not being able to help. His hands had been effectively tied behind his back by Merrick.
And the second that cliché passed through his mind, he held his own hands up in front of him, flexed his fingers, and wondered if Charlie would ever do that again.
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Around hour five, a nurse came and informed them that surgery was going well. It was only half over. All three of them wilted when she said that, and she offered Alan a small pager. "You've been here for hours," she noted. "You all need something to eat. Take a break, go to the cafeteria — we can reach you with this pager, if we need to."
Alan looked at his watch. Charlie's surgery had begun around 1, and although the minutes had dragged like hours, he was still surprised to realize that it was dinner time. He started to tell Don and Larry to go and bring something back for him, but he knew as soon as he looked at Don there was no hope of prying him off that chair as long as Alan was didn't move. He reminded himself that both sons needed him, now, and he could actually do something for this one.
So Alan stood creakily, and led them all to dinner; a dinner largely ignored by Don, who finally got a milk shake to settle his stomach and sat back a few feet from the table, carefully not looking at Alan's soup or Larry's meatloaf. Alan watched him, concerned, even wondered if the poor man had to contend with the flu on top of all this. Don hadn't been right since that morning. Alan was about to ask him about it, when it occurred to him – nothing had been right since that morning.
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During hour six — just before hour seven — Alan left the waiting room again for a solo walk. There was no television in the room, and he would not have turned it on if there was, but he soon found a more general waiting area, where there was one. He stood in front of it, careful not to block anyone's view, and he watched the top story on the local 7 o' clock news: footage from the bombing.
First a still-shot of the bank was shown, and then film of what remained. The film was from directly after the bombing; people were still running frantically, smoke arose from various piles of rubble, chaos ensued. While the lens focused on the reporter in the foreground, Alan could just make out Don, kneeling on the sidewalk, almost out of camera range to the left. There were EMTs next to him, and Alan knew what they all must be looking at.
His stomach flipped, and he turned sharply on his heel to walk to the very back of the waiting room, away from the television. He sat down and made himself breathe, made himself remember that they were alive, they were both alive…and then he prayed, for the souls of those who weren't.
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By hour nine, they had all begun to pace the small family waiting room. Passing Larry at a corner, Don thought they must look liked caged tigers. Pausing to let Don around him, Alan was sure they looked like expectant fathers. Right hand holding onto his right ear as he approached the door again, Larry almost smiled to think of what Charlie could tell them about the pattern of their walking.
Eventually they stood in an awkward triangle near their chairs, too tired to walk anymore, too sore to sit any longer, too worried to make polite conversation. Alan rubbed a hand over his mouth. Don, lack of food having given him a headache, pushed at his eyes. Larry still clutched at his ear. They were in these positions when the nurse came back just before hour 10, and she started at the sight, suddenly reminded of the plush "See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil" monkeys she had played with as a girl.
She looked so startled that Alan almost panicked. He dropped his hand. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
She rushed to reassure him. "No, no, everything is fine. Your son is being transferred to recovery now. The doctor will be in soon with more details."
The three men looked at each other, then melted wordlessly into their chairs, and didn't even notice when the nurse left. While they did not speak, while they waited for the doctor, Don did reach over and squeeze his father's hand for a moment. Alan smiled tentatively at him, soon distracted by the weary entrance of the surgeon. "This is Dr. Trendell," Alan supplied. He touched Don's knee, then left his hand there. "My son, Don — and our friend, Larry."
The doctor nodded at them and dropped into a chair, exhausted. "Please don't take my lack of enthusiasm as indicative of anything," he began. "I worked an 8-hour-day before Charlie showed up. The surgery went quite well. It took a little longer than expected because we were able to repair more than we anticipated. Charlie's fingers were receiving good blood flow before we finished closing."
Alan smiled, patted Don's knee. "It was successful then, the replan- the replan-"
"Replantation," offered Larry.
The doctor smiled, a little. "We have great hope for this case. I don't expect any limb rejection, and as long as we can avoid infections, things look good." He leaned forward a little and used one hand to indicate a position about and inch-and-a-half above his other wrist. "From the site of the original amputation to the tip of Charlie's longest finger is almost 10 inches. Nerves grow at the rate of about an inch a month. It will be 10 months before we're prepared to state with certainty how much use of his hand Charlie will have."
The word "amputation" had slammed into Don like a fist. "It will never be normal," he mumbled. His father looked at him quickly and took his hand off his knee.
Dr. Trendell tilted his head. "No. He will never regain full use of that hand, you're correct. We consider anything above 60 percent an excellent outcome." He looked specifically at Don. "As I told your father earlier, the patient's attitude can make a big difference in these cases. Your brother will need positive influences around him."
Beyond tired, beyond heartbroken, beyond all reason, Don considered for one long moment how long it would take him to close the gap between them and pummel the pompous ass into the floor. What the hell did this guy know about what Charlie needed? He'd spent maybe five minutes with a conscious, concussed, confused Charlie. A low growl sounded in his throat, and Don felt his father's steadying hand on the back of his neck, massaging gently. At least the doctor was smart enough to look away. He picked Larry, since Alan was sitting too close to Don.
"He'll be in recovery several hours. As you know, he was under a long time. I'm sure he'll be out the rest of the night. You should all go home and get some rest yourselves."
No-one leapt from the chair — they never did — so he sighed and tried again. "Look, Charlie isn't going to know what hit him, when he wakes up. He barely regained consciousness, and he never really understood what his injury was. Trust me on this — you will need some reserves of your own to draw on tomorrow. Now, I can inform him before you come back in the morning…"
"No!" said three voices at once. The two younger men yielded the floor to Alan. "Thank-you, Dr. Trendell, but I think Charlie should hear about this from us. Later, you can give him details…" Alan actually smiled, the ghost of a smile. "Believe me, Charlie will want details." Larry smiled with him, imagining his friend letting loose with all the questions he could come up with, and even Don had to suppress a grin, thinking of the ways Charlie would find to drive this guy crazy.
The doctor nodded, then stood. "Very well," he said, and waited until the three of them were standing with him. "That's our deal. You all go home tonight, and I will let you talk to Charlie first in the morning. We'll let you in at 7, and not a second before."
Don frowned, staring at the floor.
He wasn't sure, but he felt as if they had just made a deal with the devil.