Title: Shall We Play A Game?
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind.
A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever.
And Now, Back To Our Tale…
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Chapter Ten: The Second Whump
Don smiled with more conviction than he actually felt and casually placed Charlie's laptop on the bedside table, along with a stack of files. "On the contrary, Bro," he started, "now that we know what we're dealing with, we can fix it." He looked meaningfully at Lee Havercamp. "Right, Doc?"
She was staring so intently at Charlie that she had to drag her gaze away from him for a moment to look at Don, and then returned her attention to Charlie, smiling. "It certainly helps," she answered – not exactly the commitment Don was looking for. His heart rate increased at her next words. "Are you having difficulty breathing, Dr. Eppes?"
Charlie's left hand fumbled around on the bed and came up holding oxygen tubing. "I was a little short of breath and they turned on the O2," he answered, not looking at either of them. Don started to tell him it would probably work better if Charlie actually left it on, but Charlie started a pre-emptive mutter before he could speak. "I felt better, so I took it off. It makes my nose itch."
Havercamp shook her head and started to push the chair near Charlie's bed around so that she could sit and face him. "Here, I'll get that," insisted Don. After he made sure that the lieutenant was comfortable, he perched on the end of Charlie's bed.
The doctor simply raised an eyebrow and didn't say a word. Charlie interpreted the expression and sullenly situated the oxygen on his face again, inserting the nasal canula and hooking the tubing over his ears. "Tell me," he ordered, staring at Don.
Don tossed a folded section of newspaper at Charlie gently. "There was a statement in the Times this morning. Planet Green is claiming responsibility for releasing a bioterroristic agent in Los Angeles."
"I knew it wasn't good," Charlie interspersed, shaking open the paper and beginning to read. "Go on," he instructed.
Havercamp took over. "Your brother can fill in all the blanks later. Blood tests on…blood tests have confirmed that we are dealing with the bacteria Brucella. The symptoms of Brucellosis are very similar to influenza, but can become more severe, according to the amount of the bacteria ingested, length of exposure, the individual's unique immune system…"
Charlie put the paper down and Don could see that he had paled a little. "Did someone die?" he asked, and Don grimaced. Trust the genius to pick up on the unsaid.
Lee Havercamp tried to put a positive spin on things. "Yes, but as I indicated, they were extreme cases. One was in very poor condition, both physically and mentally; the other just lost her spleen after an automobile accident eight months ago – she simply did not have the immune system to fight this off." She leaned forward a little, and looked at Charlie seriously. "Neither situation applies to you. I've already spoken with your physicians, as well as the doctors caring for other patients with similar symptoms. The CDC monitors Brucella, and we have protocol in place. You'll be started on an antibiotic cocktail of doxycycline and rifampin right away. Treatment should be complete within six weeks."
Charlie made a sound of distress and pushed his head back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling. He swallowed. "Dad," he whispered. "The elderly…"
Don patted the leg under the covers and reassured him. "We've got good news there, Buddy. Dad's bloodwork showed an elevated white blood cell count, but no Brucella. I talked to him five minutes ago, and he sounds a little better than he did this morning; looks like he's just got the flu!"
Charlie closed his eyes. "Thank God," he breathed.
Don smiled. "I hear ya. Of course, having the flu means that he can't come and visit you, so he's not very happy!"
Charlie's mouth twitched, but he didn't quite manage a smile. Opening his eyes again, he inhaled deeply, which caused a brief coughing attack. Lee Havercamp offered him a drink from the water pitcher on his table, which he gratefully received. When Charlie was able, he began speaking again. "Where did I get it? How is it spread? Should you be here?"
"There's little chance of human-to-human transmission," answered Havercamp. She smiled and sat back in her chair. "There is a three-day window for sexual transmission, but even that is relatively rare. Your brother's team has been able to verify the source – a diner on the South side. We suspect that someone from Planet Green was working there and infiltrating the milk supply. We're certain that the ice cream supply was contaminated."
Charlie looked at Don. His breathing was growing more ragged, even with the oxygen. "The ice cream?" he asked. "Bernie's?"
Don nodded, and started with the good news first. "If you hadn't had some at home in the freezer, we wouldn't know that much – all the ice cream and milk was gone this morning when Bernie opened up, so we didn't actually find anything on site. At least not in the food – some of the utensils and equipment are still being tested." He sighed, knowing there was no way to make the next part sound any better than it was. "Unfortunately, Colby ate some of your ice cream last night when he took Dad home. His blood shows the bacteria."
Charlie's eyes widened and he looked at Havercamp. "Oh, no!"
She lifted a hand to calm him. "He'll be fine. He cannot spread it to others, so he can even continue working while he takes prophylactic antibiotics – a three-week course should prevent any severe symptoms from developing."
What remaining color there was suddenly drained from Charlie's face, and he looked desperately at Don. "Oh, my God."
Don's brow furrowed. "What? You heard Lee, Colby will be fine."
"I…I…" Charlie glanced almost guiltily at Lee. "Would you get me…get me…" – he seemed to be racking his brain to come up with something, and growing more upset by the second.
Lt. Havercamp took pity on him and stood. "I need to speak with your nurse. I'd like to see your last set of vitals," she said. "I'll see about getting you put on a regular diet, as well."
"Yes!" gasped Charlie. "Okay, yes. That's what I meant."
Don exchanged a quick glance with Havercamp as she passed by him; he had no idea what was freaking Charlie out so much. He waited until Lee had left the room and then put his hand on Charlie's leg again. "What the hell?"
Charlie looked like he was going to cry. "Donny, you've got to find Amita."
Don relaxed marginally. "Is that all? Geez, Chuck, hold your horses. She and Larry should be starting back any time. She'll be able to visit tonight."
Charlie reached out a hand and barely brushed Don's arm before it flopped back to the bed. "No," he moaned, "no…"
He started to wrestle with the oxygen tubing on his face and Don stood quickly, moving to the head of the bed. He grabbed Charlie's hand in both of his own. "Hey, knock it off. What's wrong with you, anyway?"
Charlie's color was coming back; in fact, Don thought he might be blushing. "Donny," Charlie whispered, looking at him beseechingly and then quickly away, at nothing. "Sh- she said th-that I could in-infect…"
Don suddenly knew what Charlie was trying to say, and was torn between laughing and…laughing harder. "Charlie," he snickered, dropping his brother's hand, "Lt. Havercamp said that hardly ever happens. There's only a three-day window. Since you ate at Bernie's a lot, we don't really know exactly when you were exposed…" Don made another connection and paused, his smile disappearing. "Did Amita ever go to the diner with you?"
He didn't think Charlie's face could get any redder or look any more miserable. "No," his brother answered, shaking his head a little. He looked at the wall opposite Don as he continued to speak. "But we…every day. Sometimes…twice…"
His head was turned and he was speaking quietly, but still Don heard. He stood stunned. Was Charlie saying he and Amita engaged in sexual relations every day? Sometimes twice? Apparently, his little brother had a lethal weapon of his own. Don felt his own face growing red. "Twice?" he squeaked.
Charlie shuddered and one hand fluttered to his chest, which he began rubbing absently. "You've got to test Amita," he repeated, finally looking at Don. He thrashed in the bed a little, finally managing to stick one ankle out the side, as if trying to get up.
Don cleared his throat and pulled himself together. "Yeah," he said, staring at Charlie's ankle, "okay. Okay. I'll…take care of it." He frowned. "Your ankle's swollen."
Charlie shrugged. "I know. They wouldn't let me get up because…ow…"
Don took his eyes off Charlie's ankle and looked at his face. Charlie's eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was on his chest again. "Chuck?"
Charlie's breathing was becoming more erratic. "Like an elephant…" he said, patting his own chest lightly.
Don pressed the call button for the nurse and let his hand drop onto Charlie's shoulder. He squeezed affectionately. "Just take it easy, Buddy. Take it easy." Charlie tried to curl onto his side, and Don pushed the call button again.
Where the hell was everybody?
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The bowling alley was large, and popular with the younger crowd. There was a big room near the rear of the building full of lockers that were rented out. Sarah was relatively certain that other people left bowling balls, shoes, maybe team shirts, in theirs. Her bag contained a few hundred in emergency cash – hopefully supplemented by Andi – as well as a change of clothing, a black wig, and a pair of cheap reading glasses she had picked up in a pharmacy.
When Cracker had cut her loose, she had a small amount of cash in her bag; she was paid the day before, and had intended to put the money in the communal kitty. Instead, she used it to tail Ian Edgarton for a few hours. It was awkward, and expensive. Tailing someone in a cab was not as easy as they made it look in the movies. If you were too frantic in your bids to make one stop for you, it drew unwanted attention. Since she had recognized him, she had to assume that he would also recognize her, from their brief meeting two years ago over Joe's dead body. She did not yet have a disguise, and was loathe to tip him off by jumping up and down in the street, waving her arms and screaming.
At length, she got lucky. A taxi rolled to a stop not far from her hiding place in the flower shop doorway, managing to snag a parking place just a few car lengths behind the feds' vehicle. At first the driver told her he was there to pick someone up already, but the hundred she flashed in his face convinced him to flip the "In Use" sign. She paid him almost a hundred more to just sit and wait for something to happen. Finally, something simultaneously good -- and bad -- happened. The stocky white man and his bald partner began to jog across the street to their car – but the murderer she wanted to follow took off on foot down the street, in the company of another fed who had arrived later.
The cab had to execute a u-turn to follow the Chevrolet Suburban, and she slunk low in the back seat so as not to be noticed. Both F.B.I. vehicles returned to the Wilshire Blvd. field office and disappeared into the parking garage. She paid her driver and exited the cab, moving to sit on a secluded bench where she could watch both the front of the building and the parking garage exit. She wasn't sure exactly what she was waiting for – but subterfuge and preemptive research had long been a way of life.
She and Cracker had found out a few things about this man already. They had not openly attended Joe's funeral, suspecting that feds would be watching, but they had perched on a hillside with a direct view of the cemetery and watched the graveside service through binoculars. There had been the expected men in black; but this one was there also. He was leaning against a car at least half a mile away from the service, in jeans and a t-shirt, his dark hair blowing in the dry wind that Sarah thought idly might be coming from her heart. Cracker had shouldered his old Nikon, with its telephoto lens, and snapped his picture.
Ed-something. He was a sniper, and not assigned to any one office. A specialist, brought in to murder legally, brutally. Remembering that now, Sarah knew that the L.A. field office had called him in to kill the rest of Planet Green. She sat, and seethed. Eventually, the Suburban exited the parking garage again; she knew it was the same one, for she had memorized the plate -- 4PC1086. This time Edding…Edgar…Edgarton! was not inside with the dark-haired driver, so she let it go. She rose from the bench and paced a little, finally deciding that she needed to get inside. She had to discover where the killer was located in the building; had to find out if there were any obvious security holes. To do that, she needed her disguise, and Andi's money.
She boarded the next bus, which was traveling in the wrong direction for the bowling alley – but that was good, in case there was a camera somewhere taking pictures. She transferred three times, and walked the last mile. She could have taken the final bus all the way – but she wanted to think.
Sarah had plans to make.
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A flurry of activity ended with Charlie sitting up at an almost 45-degree angle, on increased oxygen flow. His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in pain. Dr. Havercamp leaned to speak in a quiet voice directly into his ear, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. She turned and almost stepped on Don, who was right behind her.
She lifted a brow. "Sitting up will ease the pain," she informed him quietly.
Don frowned. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Lt. Havercamp didn't smile, which was not a good sign. "It looks like pericarditis," she answered. "A bacterial infection of the lining of the heart – the pericardium."
Don swallowed, glanced at Charlie and stepped a little father away from the bed. Havercamp came with him. "But now that they know, and have him on the meds, it'll get better – right?"
Lee reached up to lightly touch Don's arm and guide him toward the door. "We should let him try to sleep," she said.
Don balanced his weight over his feet and stubbornly refused to move until she answered him. He rephrased the question. "In a few hours the meds will kick in and he'll start to improve?"
Lt. Lee Havercamp raised and lowered one shoulder in an almost-helpless gesture. "I hope so."