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.

And Now, Back To Our Tale…

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Chapter Eight: Connect the Dots

Don gave CalSci's Division Chair of Physics, Mathematics, and Astronomy an assignment: Contact Alan's primary care physician and secure bloodwork. Remembering the difficulty Charlie encountered trying to convince Millie he was too busy to chair the PhD admissions committee, Don was fairly certain that she would not be taking "no" for an answer.

He also ordered Colby to get to the office and brief David, A.D. Wright, and anyone else Wright thought should be brought into the investigation. Before Agent Granger left, Don reminded him to get his own blood drawn as soon as possible. He paused at the door as they were both leaving the Craftsman and looked worriedly at Colby. "You still feeling all right?"

Colby grinned. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, I could get freaked out about every little ache that comes my way, but what's the point? We don't know enough about this yet to pin any symptoms on it – but we do know that I haven't slept in almost 30 hours. Plus, you people keep subjecting me to your underwear; that's gotta induce just a little nausea, don't you think?"

Don smiled and pushed Colby the rest of the way out the door. "You don't need to tell the others that part."

Colby waggled his eyebrows. "But Don," he proclaimed innocently. "It's a briefing!"

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Amita stood in the bathroom of the hotel and contemplated herself in the mirror. She shivered. She felt absolutely horrible, and didn't look much better.

She had not been feeling all that great when she and Larry left for Palomar – she had let him drive, as well as dominate the conversation ever since they had arrived. She was sure the CalTech people were starting to regret inviting her. She certainly hadn't offered much to the research effort.

The thought of meeting Larry downstairs for breakfast almost made her cry. She wasn't exactly nauseous – but she certainly wasn't hungry, either. She arched her back, trying to stretch the kinks away, and recalled that Charlie had not been feeling very well the last couple of days himself. One of them must have given the other one the flu.

She wondered briefly if she could write an algorithim that proved it was his fault, then decided she was in no condition to try.

She sighed and decided to ease her sore muscles with a hot shower. She was really thirsty, even if she wasn't hungry, so she would stick with something simple – maybe oatmeal, or just toast – and mainline the water and juice. Hopefully the combination of all of the above and the rest of the aspirin she had in her purse would get her through the morning's work. She and Larry planned to leave for L.A. by 2 at the latest.

Thank the Good Lord.

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It was just before 8 when Don arrived at the hospital. Still an hour before visiting hours – but his federal I.D. and the morning edition of the newspaper took care of that. He had no trouble at all getting in to see Charlie.

A hospital employee was just delivering a tray of liquids when Don pushed through the door. She looked at him and smiled. "I'm reluctant to wake him," she shared. "I understand he had a difficult night; he probably hasn't been asleep that long."

Don nodded – and noticed with satisfaction that there was no sign of any ice packed around Charlie's body. "That's what I hear," he answered, walking to the head of the bed and brushing Charlie's curls out of the way so he could lay a hand on his forehead. Warm – definitely warm – but it had been worse last evening while they waited in the ER. He smiled again and turned back toward the young woman. "Just leave it; I'll give him a few more minutes and then wake him, okay?"

"That's fine," she agreed, and hurried out to deliver the remainder of her breakfast trays.

Don ran his hand through his hair and glanced up at Charlie's IV; then he felt his forehead, again. He paced around the perimeter of the room three times and then returned to the bed. This time he lifted the covers, peeking underneath to make sure there was no ice. Charlie's low protest surprised him. "Hey," rasped his brother. "Most people pay good money for that view."

Don dropped the covers and jerked, staggering back half a step. "Shit, Charlie," he breathed, peering at his brother. "You're supposed to be sleeping!"

The youngest Eppes yawned, turning his head slightly away from Don while he did. "That's what I think," he grumbled, turning his head again on the pillow. "They won't leave me alone for five minutes."

Don grinned, resting a hand on the bed rail. "Yeah; I heard you had to be kept on ice last night. That's what I was looking for."

"Ummm," responded Charlie, his eyes drifting closed. "I guess it worked. They took it away, but then somebody came and took a whole gallon of blood." He cracked his eyes and regarded Don with confusion. "Why would they do that?"

Don hoped he could distract his brother until he fell asleep again. "What was your temp the last time they took it?"

"That's another thing," complained Charlie, shifting a little in the bed and closing his eyes again. "They keep coming in here to stick that thing in my ear."

Don waited a few moments but no more information was forthcoming. "Well?" he prodded.

Charlie's eyes opened again, with obvious effort. "I'm tired," he whined, and Don suddenly connected the dots. Charlie was talking -- complaining, whining, bitchy -- he must be feeling better! "102, I think," Charlie finally concluded, and Don's heart fell. Apparently, not that much better.

Charlie's eyes were drifting shut again, and he was fighting the pull of the sleep he so desperately needed. "How's Dad?" he asked, forcing his eyes open a little wider and focusing them on Don.

Don moved a hand to Charlie's shoulder, and started kneading sore muscles gently. "He's feeling better," he was happy to report. "Not exactly 100 percent yet -- Millie's going to spend the day with him."

It was a testament to Charlie's state of being that he didn't even question that. Ordinarily Millie's taking a day off from CalSci would have flummoxed him, Don was sure. Now, he just nodded sloppily. "Guh," he mumbled, and Don interpreted that as "good".

He massaged Charlie's shoulder a few more times and then patted him softly on his stubbled cheek. "Get some sleep, Charlie." Later, he would have to come back -- perhaps with Lee Havercamp. Charlie would have to be told about the almost-certain bioterrorism, and it was a conversation Don did not happily anticipate. He watched his brother for a few more moments and started to leave, convinced he had finally been lulled to sleep.

He was surprised again when Charlie suddenly reached up and made contact with his arm, his hand flopping lethargically onto the bed. "Hey," Charlie said, eyes at half-mast and glued on Don once more. "Was Colby here last night?"

Don frowned. "He was in the ER waiting room with us for awhile, before he took Dad home -- why?"

Charlie managed to shrug even while lying flat on his back. "I had the strangest dreams about him..."

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Sarah stood across the street from Bernie's and chewed a fingernail nervously. She had gone back to bat her eyelashes a few times and get her job back; surely that would make Cracker happy. It was imperative that Cracker let her back into the group, back into leadership. She had renounced her Midwestern roots almost six years ago, when she had started living exclusively with Joe and the others. Planet Green was her family, now. These people were all she had, and Cracker simply could not take take away from her.

The scenario that had greeted her, as she rounded the last corner before the diner, was indeed disturbing. Yes, the press release had hit the streets several hours before, and was already being picked up by national wires. But how on earth had they connected the outbreak to Bernie's, already? The diner was swarming with masked and gloved, jumpsuited men and women who were obviously searching for something dangerous. Bernie, the fat slob, stood in front of the large picture window, his attention morbidly locked on the activity inside. Despite his girth, Sarah didn't see him for a moment – he was almost blocked by a large haz mat van from the county.

She wasn't attracting any undue attention – there were several people on the street, watching, speaking in hushed whispers – but still she backed into the doorway of a flower shop that was still closed. She fumbled in her purse for her prepaid cell phone, and entered the number for Cracker's. When there was no answer, she tried Dawn; then Marcus, and Aaron. Had they all left the loft already? Had they slithered underground without her, as Cracker had said they would?

A mix of emotions swelled within her. At once she wanted to sound a warning, and lead the F.B.I. to them herself. She had nowhere to go; her home was with the group, in whatever safe house they were currently occupying. They had deserted her, stranded her, after all she had done for them. After her years of sacrifice.

And they refused to avenge Joe. Sweet, loyal Joe, whose politics were the purest she had ever known. After his murder, she and Cracker and Dawn had conducted extensive research into the pigs responsible for his death. For two years, she had waited impatiently for Planet Green to exact retribution. But now, it seemed that Cracker no longer cared about Joe. He had deserted Joe as certainly as he had abandoned Sarah.

She didn't know what to do, until God intervened. A black sedan eased up to the curb, and she shrunk back into the doorway further. She didn't even have to look at the plates to tell that this was a government vehicle. Sure enough, doors began to open – both in the front, one in the rear – and windbreaker-clad agents began to emerge. The driver was stocky, white, muscular; he reminded her of a football player. Getting out of the vehicle nearest her was a thinner, bald black man.

Her eyes widened and she almost made a sound when she recognized the dark exotic features of the man who stepped out of the back seat. He turned his head toward the white man and said something. The black man crossed in front of the car and the three held up their badges to halt traffic, and began to jog across the street.

She would know his face anywhere. She had even been this close to him once before; he had come to the morgue, to gloat over Joe's carcass. God had just dropped the murdering Ian Edgarton into her lap, and suddenly all her decisions were made.

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A/N: How did Amita get sick? Has she been exposed, or is she just pregnant? What will Sarah do now? Is it possible for The Cat to single-whump, or will Charlie develop complications?