Part 17

Walter stared at the glowing, fluorescent tubing above his bed. In the corners of the housing, small, grey cobwebs billowed gently against the air vents. They were like curtains ushering in a lifetime of memories playing before radiantly white, narrow screens.

"Skyler?" His wife's eyes were half closed as she lay in the constricted hospital bed, their newborn cradled in her arms. She was humming softly to him, an old lullaby she couldn't find the words to. Walt Jr., pink and fresh and so new, was disturbingly quiet, even in the very beginning. The hospital staff had, in the end, dressed him in the soft, fluffed linen clothes they had brought, his feet in the so small, blue and white socks, on his head a little cotton, purple and white cap that Marie had taught herself to knit. Skyler's sister said she unwound and knitted that cap so many times, Walt Jr. should have had 50 of them by the time she was done. The soft, new baby couldn't seem to move his arms or legs well, they lay limply in his wife's embrace. He didn't try to suck his thumb, or move his hands in slow circles in front of his face, blindly exploring and caressing a brand new world and wonder before him. He did incline his head to her as she continued the soothing tune, and that, for now, was enough. There were tears on Skyler's cheek, she was so happy they brought him back to her.

"Is he sleeping, Skyler?"

She shook her head, new tears falling, lost to the blankets below. "He's been like this since they brought him to me."

He touched the small collar of his baby's shirt, gently pulled it back, stroked the back of his fingers against the buttons along the front. Their baby did not react, did not move his head at the touch or acknowledge the looming hands near his face. Walter was hesitate to touch his lightly pink cheek, felt as if this delicate creature was a gift he did not deserve, a gift he had already, somehow, shattered. Instead, he brushed a dark lock of his baby's hair, held it between his rougher fingers, felt its unearthly, frail silkiness. He felt the sting of tears as well, but didn't want her to see them.

"I love my boy, Skyler. Thank you." He kissed her tenderly on the forehead as she began quietly sobbing.

It's never going to work out as enough time. White was getting sleepy again. They had given him a light tranquilizer, in part to control him, in part to truly calm him.

So here I am now, he thought, once more. I don't know why I never planned this far ahead.

…

"Sooo, doc, how was it possible that he fell outta his bed?" The doctor in charge of Walter White looked over some new tests, examined an iodine kidney scan he had ordered that morning. The CT hadn't come back yet, but he doubted it would reveal much about the goings on in Walter's head.

"It does seem rather, miraculous," the doctor mumbled. There was acute swelling where the bullet entered and exited the organ, a red, hot spot surrounding the immediate area, but it looked like it was functioning fairly well, given the circumstances.

"Think there'll be other miracles in the near future, doc?"

"Yeah, maybe Schrader will show his ugly face out of the blue here as well, whaddaya think Artie?"

"Could be a possibility, given the other things happening. But we shouldn't be talking about the suspected dead in such an ill manner, should we?"

"What, this coming from you? You always disliked the guy."

"Dislike is a weak word. I liked his wife, though. She was too young and pretty for that bald, fat, crude bruiser. He was a lucky guy and never respected that."

"Alright, I think we should stop about him. You never know who's listening." Scott scratched at his cheap, regulation haircut. Shut it, now, the gesture said.

"Let them listen. He always thought he was some hot shot, could go around all the rules, getting his partners in his mess. I'm betting you that's what got him in trouble. That's how we should be approaching this investigation, instead of treating him like some faultless hero. That's what everyone's been doing ever since he got himself shot. He's not some innocent in all this. There's too many connections. You'll see I'm right."

The doctor interjected. "Gentlemen, I really have more important concerns about my patient than listening to your inside political bickering. Do either of you have anything important to do with me and my time?"

Artie responded. "Yeah, doc, how come the near dead guy was able to get up from his deathbed? We all could've gotten in real trouble if he just walked out of the hospital, especially after all the fuss you doctors' made about handcuffing him to the bed or sending out a detail to watch over him. You said it would disturb your ward too much, and upset the patients."

"He would have never walked out of the hospital, gentlemen. That was an impossibility." The doctor would not back down from his stance, though he was embarrassed by his patient's seemingly speedy and unpredictable recovery.

"Yeah, yeah, like you said before, and then it happened."

"He's a very sick man. I have copies of his past scans and med. history, will be talking to his old doctors soon. We have time now to do more extensive tests, but unless you all plan to pay for his treatments, you better lightly tread about how you will take care of this. If he expires under your custody, I think, at this point, that would be much worse than if he merely did walk out of the hospital."

"Well, we lost track of him once and look at all he managed to do."

"Oh, you're crying over the methamphetamine distributors lost at that weird, nazi lab in the desert? Yes, I try to find out the circumstances under which my patients were injured. What the hell was all that about anyway?" Dr. Casler looked at them both piercingly. Now he could be the one asking pertinent questions.

"What d'ya mean, doc?" Artie and Scott gave each other such innocent looks, gestured the dismissive, "we're the last to know" hand wave.

"That was an awfully big hole in White, and, you know, the coroner's a good associate of mine. An M-60? I feel so safe knowing you guys run our Homeland Security. Those sorts of guns come up pretty often around here? Shouldn't heavy artillery like that be under your radar, someone's radar?"

Artie and Scott shrugged in unison. "So, what else you want to know that might help out your patient, doctor?"

"Okay, how about this. Why was there a torture pit in the middle of a warehouse complex? Now, does that turn up often in industrial blueprints, 'place torture compartment here?' You don't have storage underground like that with an open metal grate, exposing chemical barrels to air. You don't have a windowless bunker underground unless there's an escape exit that leads somewhere. That was planned quite a while ago, probably been well used. It was clear, especially when Frank saw all the stains and other remnants, what it was. Why, gentlemen, did they build it? What were they planning? Did they have bigger plans than you think?"

Artie and Scott looked at each other.

"You really should be looking for a great deal of missing persons' bodies out in that immediate desert. You might be surprised who turns up."

…

Marie Schrader was playing around with the compartments of her fashionable, beige and black, Burberry handbag. She frustratingly realized there was no way she could merely sneak her handgun inside the oversized purse past the new security system put up at the entrance to White's hospital wing. They didn't want to alarm, or alert, the other patrons, called all the new procedures in his area a test for future homeland security options. She couldn't just depend on the others being familiar with her, possibly letting her go by without screenings or searches, there would also be FBI and other agents around who didn't know her. She would have to think of something else. That meant she would have to get very close to him, be able to touch him, and that would need something much faster and more dangerous than a bullet. And, she also realized, she had only one chance to do this. That was no problem for her. She never, in her wildest martyrdoms, plus Hank's stories in her head, planned to ever go to jail.