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.

A/N #2: "Reader Traffic" is at once a wonderful and a horrendous thing. For instance, I would like to say "vitayu!", and "diakuyu tobi/vam" to my lone reader in the Ukraine. (Mini-disclaimer: Any and all translation insults are unintentional and the sole responsibility of the Internet.) On the horrendous side, we have that tell-tale graph, which shows a daily decline in readership for this story. Are you boring yourselves? Are you sulking when your idea is not chosen right away? These are the possibilities I contemplate in the wee hours of the morn.

And Now, Back To Our Tale…

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Chapter Eleven: It's All In the Details

Don waited until he and Lt. Havercamp were six inches outside Charlie's room. The door stood slightly ajar, so he spoke quietly, but with feeling. "You said he wasn't in a high risk category," he started accusingly.

Lee placed a hand on his arm and encouraged him to step with her a few feet farther down the hallway. "There could be any number of explanations for this. If he has eaten in the diner frequently, in addition to taking the ice cream home, he may have ingested a large amount of the bacteria. Also, the Charles Eppes with whom I am familiar burns the candle at both ends; he rarely gets enough sleep or is careful about his diet. Yes?" Don nodded glumly, dragging his feet slowly down the corridor. Havercamp questioned him gently. "Does your father still live with Dr. Eppes?"

Don's brow wrinkled as he looked at her. "Yes…what does that have to do with anything?"

She had successfully maneuvered him almost twenty feet, but he stopped when they came to a turn in the hall. She spoke plainly, almost as if explaining to a child. "We've established that your father most likely has some sort of viral infection; 'the flu'. If they are occupying the same space, Charlie may have a touch of that in addition to Brucellosis."

Don sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "So what now? Is there some kind of wonder drug, or is this thing treated just by turning Charlie into a pretzel?"

Lee smiled. "The original wonder drug – rest. The pain and inflammation will most likely be dealt with by using an NSAID."

Don looked at the doctor. "Huh?"

Havercamp barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "Ibuprofen, Naproxen; maybe even aspirin. You'll need to speak directly to Charlie's physician to find out which course of action he takes."

Don's expression was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "That's all?"

"Acute episodes of pericarditis typically last from one to three weeks. There can be complications, of course; especially with the bacteria still rampant in his system." He opened his mouth and Havercamp anticipated his question. "Cardiac tamponade, in which too much fluid collects in the pericardium, creating pressure on the heart, not allowing it to fill properly. Should that happen, Charlie would have to undergo pericardiocentesis to drain the fluid. You really need to discuss all of this with his doctor."

Don stood helpless in the hospital corridor. He needed to find Charlie's doctor; he needed to talk to Amita; he needed to locate Planet Green and/or the location of the second bacteria release; he needed to check on his father; he needed to take a piss; and he needed to do it all at once. A beeper secluded in Dr. Havercamp's pocket suddenly chimed and he started, looking back quickly toward Charlie's room.

She brought the beeper out of her pocket and turned it off. "It's not your brother," she assured him. "I believe Agents Sinclair and Granger are out in the parking lot, delivering a federal vehicle." Don seemed unconvinced, still looking towards Charlie's room, so she went on. "I asked the receptionist downstairs to page me when they arrived. I have several other area hospitals to visit."

Don finally nodded, and made a decision. "I'd walk you down," he apologized, "but I gotta take a leak."

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Ian pushed into the interrogation room and dropped another armload of mug books onto the table. Bernie slammed shut the cover of the book he had been perusing and groaned. "Not more! How many of them things you guys gonna bring in here, anyway?"

Edgarton picked up two empty soda cans and several paper candy bar wrappers. "As many as you want," he answered dryly.

Bernie wiped the sweat from his florid face with his pudgy hand. "Why you mixin' em all up this way? I coulda found her a long time ago iffen you'd just shown me them colored people!"

Ian paused near the corner trash receptacle, where he had just dropped the remnants of a pastrami and swiss – Bernie had left the wrapping, and that was about it. "Colored?" he repeated, his eyebrows drawing together in the center of his forehead.

Bernie nodded his head vigorously, dragging another mug book toward himself, over the top of a vending-machine cookie and dangerously close to a half-full can of soda. As the can tipped, he seemed to remember it suddenly and fisted it in a mighty paw. He drained the soda in one swallow and banged the can back to the table. "You know," he started, then stopped for a belch. He grunted and then sighed a little, leaning back so far in the chair Ian was sure it would collapse from his weight. "Them Chartreuse Globe folks. I need another soda."

Edgarton crossed to the end of the table, and perched on the edge. "You mean 'Planet Green'? And I think you already emptied the machine on this floor. All of them."

Bernie grinned. "Green. Chartreuse. Whatever. Can you run to another floor, then? I'm a sick man, you know," he whined. "I tested positive for that bacteria."

Ian lowered his head to his chest and breathed deeply a few times before he stood and looked at Bernie again. "I'm sure the lipids and triglycerides will kill you first," he muttered. A slow smile spread over his face. "Or me. I am a sniper."

Bernie quickly opened the cover of the book. "I'm just saying this could be easier," he defended. He lowered his voice, talking mainly to himself. "Have to go and mix 'em in with all the other riff-raff. Like I don't have nuthin' else to do. Like my business is ever gonna come back, after this. Like…"

He stopped talking abruptly, and Ian watched him stop and focus on one photo. He came to stand behind Bernie and look over his shoulder. "Got something?"

Bernie shrugged. "I think this 'un lived in my apartment building last year."

Ian made a noise of disgust and stormed for the door. "I'll get your damn soda. Same thing?"

Bernie smiled at the table. "Maybe diet, this time. I'm tryin' to lose weight. And some more chips."

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Don was relieved when the call didn't go directly to voice mail. "Larry," he almost sighed, sagging a little into the plush leather of the SUV. "Don. Where are you guys?"

"Amita and I just left the Palomar Observatory twenty minutes ago," answered the physicist. "Why do you ask, if I may be so bold?"

Don narrowed his eyes. "Are you driving?"

Larry answered proudly. "As a matter of fact, Agent, I am."

"Pull over," Don ordered, "or give the cell to Amita." Personally, he hoped Larry picked the first option. Don had called him, rather than Amita, because he wasn't sure he could talk to her after Charlie's revelation.

He heard a slight huff. "There's a roadside diner just ahead…I'm pulling off. Amita is sleeping. The poor dear has not been feeling at all well, I'm afraid."

Don's blood froze in his veins. "What? What's wrong with her?"

Larry caught the slightly frantic tone and his own voice projected confusion when he answered. "She's sure it's just the flu, Don. She said Charles…." Although he did not have his friend's genius for numbers, Larry put two + two together rather quickly. "Is Charles ill as well? Amita said neither of them has felt up to par this week."

Don just pelted him with more questions. "Body aches? Fever? Headache? Weakness?"

Larry glanced at the woman sleeping beside him, her head leaning against the passenger window. "I see perspiration on her upper lip," he observed. "Should I wake her? Is something wrong with Charles?"

Don spoke as clearly and succinctly as he could, remembering his audience. "Larry, listen to me. Don't talk. Just listen. A bacteria has been released in L.A., and Charlie is in the hospital. The CDC is here and on it already. Amita needs to have her blood tested. Right away."

"Oh, dear," Larry breathed. "Oh, my word. We…we can be in L.A. within two hours. Should we come directly to the hospital?"

Don thought. Amita had been showing symptoms as long as Charlie had, according to Larry. "Don't wait that long," he decided. "Find a hospital in Oceanside. I'm sure they've got a copy of the L.A. Times there; it's on the front page. If they give you any trouble, have them call Lee Havercamp of the CDC. I'll give you her private cell number."

Stop in Oceanside? "It's that serious?" Larry asked. "How was this bacteria released? Was it accidental?"

Don hurried him on. "No. Larry, read the paper, Turn on the damn radio – it's all over the news. Tell the ER docs to test for Brucella."

"My goodness," Larry responded. "I don't mean to draw attention away from my ill friends, Don – but I have been working closely with Amita for days. Perhaps I should be tested as well?"

Don couldn't stop a snicker. "I doubt if you've been close enough."

"I beg your pardon?"

Don lowered his head to rest on the steering wheel. "Sure, Larry. Have them test your blood, too. Brucella. You got that?" Larry assured Don that he did, and Don relayed Havercamp's number, insisting that Larry write it down and repeat it back twice. "It's an ugly little bacteria – but a simple blood test," he said. "It should only take a few hours – the hospital in Oceanside shouldn't have the long lines all the hospitals here are dealing with."

True fear entered Larry's voice for the first time. "Lines?" he repeated. "How extensive is this?"

Don wanted to spare him – but he also wanted to make sure Larry understood how important his mission was. "There have been fatalities," he said quietly. "Call me, as soon as you have results."

Larry swiveled his head to look again at Amita. "Of course," he promised. "You can count on me."

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Ian took a break for a few minutes, letting Bernie sweat it out while he waited for his diet soda. Edgarton drank a cold bottle of water in the lunch room. Then he checked in with Sinclair and found out that he and Granger were on their way back to the field office. Ian used the restroom. Finally, he strolled to the machine back in the lunch area and bought Bernie another soda. When he felt ready to face the slob again, he returned to the interrogation room.

Bernie was standing, facing the door and waiting for him. He smiled widely when Edgarton stepped inside. "I found her!" he crowed, pointing at the open mug book on the table. "This is the bitch who poisoned us all, and ruined my business! Her hair's longer now, and styled different – but I'm sure. Same cold eyes. That's Sarah."

Ian crossed quickly to the table after shoving the soda at Bernie. He looked down, and recognized the woman from the morgue. He knew Bernie was right – this was one of the close cadre of Planet Green leadership. According to his own research, the name she was using two years ago was Linda – but he wouldn't expect her to use the same name for very long. "Sarah."

There was a hiss as Bernie opened the can of soda, and then a sloppy slurp. "Yeah," Bernie reiterated, gesturing with his can. "If you can get me back in my own restaurant, I probably still have her application and references in my office somewheres."

Edgarton turned flashing dark eyes to Bernie and smiled grimly. "Drink up," he advised. "We're about to take a field trip."

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A/N #3: Okey-dokey. Perhaps that sparked your interest a little. I do not know if I will be able to post for a few days. I may finish another chapter before I leave (depending upon your input, of course), but in a few days I am heading for the coast to spend my 50th birthday contemplating life…and pericarditis.