Title: Shall We Play A Game?
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: per diem
A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. Enter at your own risk. Feel free not to enter at all.
Meanwhile…The Rest Of Us Are Having Fun…
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Chapter Five: Bernie's, Boxers and Brucella
Don was too exhausted to sample Charlie's ice cream -- plus, he was morally opposed. He knew that strawberry was Charlie's favorite but that his brother seldom chose that flavor, since Alan despised it. If he had wanted some badly enough to bring it home, Don was not about to dip into it. Besides, Charlie would need the ice cream to soothe his sore throat, when the hospital finally released him. So, after checking on his father, who was sleeping soundly, just as Colby had reported, Don stripped down to his boxers and dropped onto his childhood bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
Unfortunately, slumber kept abandoning him. He woke up several times during the night to check on Alan. At one point his father's fever must have spiked, for Don found the bed in wild disarray. Alan had struggled out of his sleep shirt, which lay rumpled on the floor, and attempted to remove the comfortable old pair of sweats he had worn to bed. In the moonlight that entered through the bedroom window, Don could see the fleece pants dangling from one ankle. Alan was coverless on the top of the bed, wearing only his own boxers. Don carefully approached and removed the sweats, tossing them onto the chair on the other side of the bed. Then he laid the back of one hand lightly across Alan's forehead. He was relieved beyond measure to contact cool skin -- the fever must have broken. He wrestled with the sheets and blankets pouring off the end of the bed for a moment, eventually managing to cover Alan again. Then he noticed that the glass on the bedside table was empty; so, he stepped quietly into his father's bathroom and filled it again. He carried the water back to the table and gave the room one last survey before he padded barefoot down the hallway to his own room.
He tried to go back to sleep, but finally picked up his cell and called the Bureau, informing the duty officer that he wouldn't be coming in, and was taking a personal day. Then he had Directory Assistance connect him to the hospital. At length he was put through to a nurse on Charlie's floor. Don was lying on his back in the dark, but he sat up and frowned when she reported that his brother's temperature had increased. Charlie had become delirious and ripped out his IV. Currently they were using ice packs to lower the fever. "Can I come and see him?" Don asked, wondering what he would do with his father if she said yes. In the end, he didn't have to make that decision. She assured him that everything that could be done, was being done, that Charlie needed his rest; and informed him gently that he would not be admitted until visiting hours began at 9 a.m.
Don sighed, disconnected and settled back in the bed -- more wide-awake than before. He tossed and turned and worried, and watched the old digital clock. Somewhere between 3 and 4 a.m., he actually fell asleep again -- but it was short-lived. He had been lying awake for quite some time when he heard the morning newspaper thump against the front door around 5:15. He yawned and lay there a few more minutes before he gave up. At 5:30, groaning quietly, he levered himself up. He would check on Alan once more and then head downstairs to retrieve the paper. He didn't bother dressing, fully intending to snatch the paper off the porch in the dawn's early light and bring it back upstairs.
When he pulled open the front door five minutes later, Colby was just starting to straighten, newspaper in hand. The junior agent found himself in the uncomfortable position of looking his team leader directly in the crotch. It took a few seconds for him to focus on the words, but eventually he figured out that 'Lethal Weapon' was emblazoned across the front of Don's white boxers. Colby jerked back so quickly he fell off the edge of the front stoop, landing on his rear in the dewey grass. He lifted shocked eyes to meet shocked eyes. "That is just… so...wrong...", he said quietly.
Don glanced down at his shorts and reddened furiously, lowering his hands to cover himself while he contemplated Colby. "Shut-up," he growled. "Robin gave these to me. Right before she left last week for her sister's." He turned away from the door abruptly and jogged into the living room, grabbing a decorative pillow off the end of the couch. By the time he got back to the front door, holding the pillow strategically, Colby was back up and brushing the back of his jeans with one hand. "What the hell are you doing out here at this hour anyway?" Don demanded.
Colby looked at the pillow, then the porch light, and finally the sky. "Um...I couldn't sleep? And I think I have some information."
Don backed toward the stairs. "Well come in, then," he responded grudgingly. He thought longingly of his bedroom. "Go on out to the kitchen and start some coffee," he suggested. "I'm gonna...run up and get dressed..."
Colby regarded his feet as he slithered past Don. "Yeah. Thanks for that."
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Sarah stood bored, her arms crossed over the chest of her pastel pink uniform. She and Bernie had been preparing the diner to open for the breakfast crowd when he discovered the lack of milk. It was with effort now that she refrained from rolling her eyes – or smiling – as he raged at her in the kitchen. "You know I count on you for an accurate inventory!" he yelled. "Your resume claims that you have management experience in food service!"
She shifted, moving one hand to a hip and poking him in his broad chest with the index finger of the other. "You checked my references!" she answered. "It's your own damn fault – I'm exhausted! You're too cheap to hire enough help, and you've had me here from sun-up to closing for a solid month!"
For a big man, his rapid, snake-like movements always surprised her. A beefy hand shot up to wrap around her finger. The pressure grew painful as his upper lip curled in a snarl. "You begged me for overtime, you little bitch," he countered. "You're lucky I don't fire your ass."
She brought one knee up hard, connecting solidly with his most prized anatomy. His hand released her finger as a grunt of pain escaped him and he attempted to double over – his beer gut prohibited much success in that area. She placed one hand on either side of his neck and pushed, smiling when he lost his balance and an inevitable gravity pulled his bulk to the cheap linoleum. "Don't bother," she huffed, jerking the order pad from her pocket and tossing it to the floor near his head. "I quit."
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Colby was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning, when Don pushed through the swinging door. Although he had regained some composure while changing into his black jeans and black polo, Don was still uncomfortable enough to head directly for the brewing coffee. The pot was obviously not finished yet, but this way he could keep his back to Colby while he waited for it.
After a few seconds, he heard the rattling of the newspaper; then, Colby's low voice. "Don. I think we've got a problem."
That sounded a lot worse than an embarrassing pair of boxers, and captured Don's attention immediately. He turned slowly to face Colby and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his torso. He arched an eyebrow. "What?"
Colby shoved the first section of the newspaper across the table, and Don pushed himself off the counter, letting his arms drop to his sides. He crossed the few feet the the table and leaned over slightly, bracing his hands on the polished wood surface. The 120-point headline hit him first: "PLANET GREEN LAUNCHES BIOTERRORIST ATTACK ON L.A." Don leaned over a little further, and read the story:
Just before deadline yesterday evening, this newspaper received a communicade from the fringe eco-terrorist coalition that calls itself 'Planet Green'. Established in the late 1990s by several UC-Davis drop-outs, the group uses various modes of violence to promote its alleged tenets of living in peace and harmony with our natural environment. Planet Green, heretofore best-known for a botched attempted robbery at the Presidio armory two years ago, in which several key members were killed, claims to have released a bioterroristic agent into the Los Angeles area.
"The time has come to cull the herd," the statement says in part (see A7 for the complete text). It continues, "For years Planet Green has tried to show you the danger of your way of life. We have tried to make you see that you are killing us all. As you die, you will wish that you had listened." The group does not name the agent released, but claims responsibility for a recent outbreak in the L.A.-area of flulike symptoms. Calls to area hospitals and the Orange County Health Department confirm a sudden influx of influenza cases.
Planet Green makes no clear demands, and the statement concludes by declaring that a second round of the bacteria was being released "somewhere in L.A.", last night.
Don raised his head to look at Colby, pulling out a chair at the end of the table and sitting heavily. "Shit," he commented. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than for Charlie to have the flu, and he tried to talk himself into it. "There might not be anything to it," he said. "These guys are flakes. They practically telegraphed us date, time and location when they tried to hit the armory. They probably just heard about the outbreak and decided to take credit."
Colby tilted his head, still frowning. "I don't know, Don. That's what I came to tell you – when I went back to the hospital last night I overheard several people talking about eating at Bernie's Diner, on the South side. Your Dad said Charlie's been going there a lot, and took him there for breakfast not long ago. Plus there's some ice cream from Bernie's in your freezer." He paled suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh, damn. Did you eat any?" Don shook his head, and Colby swallowed. "I did," he whispered.
The legs of the chair scraped the floor as Don stood again, running his hand over his head. "Salmonella?" he guessed. "Like the tomatoes, or peppers, or whatever?"
Colby shook his head. "I don't think so – the symptoms aren't right."
Don peered at Colby closely. "How do you feel?"
Colby considered. "Okay. Tired, but I've been up all night." His voice took on a hopeful note. "Maybe there's an incubation period?"
Don nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, sure."
Colby cleared his throat and resumed a businesslike demeanor. "Whatever it is, I think it was released at Bernie's."
Don started to walk towards the swinging door, and paused to smile grimly at Colby. "Help yourself to some coffee," he offered. "I'm going to find Charlie's laptop. We need to get the CDC in on this, and I'm pretty sure he has Havercamp's direct line in his address book."
He took another step, but Colby called after him. "Should we call Wright, first?"
"Call him, and David. Tell them to meet us at the office in half-an-hour," Don ordered, and then swore when he remembered Alan. "Shit! What am I gonna do about Dad?"
The door swung open again, and Colby turned to see Alan entering. His eyes were drawn first to the fuzzy slippers, then the knobby knees, and finally the open robe – boxers covered with smiley faces showed plainly through the gap. "What about me?" asked Alan.
"Ah, geez," moaned Colby, turning quickly away and dropping his head into his hands. "What is it with you people?"
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Ian Edgarton was silent as he carefully folded the newspaper and shoved it gently to the side. His fingers drummed on the table as he remembered.
Planet Green.
Yes, he remembered. Sure, he was an F.B.I. sniper. His job was to pick off the bad guy – more often that not, that involved a kill shot. Most of the time, he was able to distance himself from it. But this one had been ugly. The kids were so young – 24, 25 and 26. Their deaths had been so unnecessary. It had…affected him. Unable to sleep for days after the shooting, he had even gone to the morgue. He had thought seeing them would help him lay it to rest.
There had been a woman there. Draped over the body of one of the perps, screaming in a primal keening agony that Ian still heard in his nightmares. Ian had been about to leave when she pulled herself off the body. She had stared at his F.B.I. windbreaker a long time, and then she had walked up to him slowly.
"You murder," she had said quietly. "And thou shalt not. Thou shalt not."
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