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. Ditto the "downtown Y".
A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.
A/N #2: Thank you so much for playing along. Many of your suggestions intrigue me, and may germinate other tales. In the end, you may believe either of two things: (1) The Cat will do what she wants anyway; or (2) The Cat endeavors to keep our little story from growing completely out of control, and thereby becoming an AU caricature. (We have all worked too hard to now become the laughingstock of fanfic!)
Read on, MacBeth…
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Chapter Fourteen: Absolutely Cell-licious
It sucked, the fact that she had virtually no female friends.
Sure, she was "friendly" with many women. Other faculty, Millie, students. She and Charlie had double-dated with Don and Liz a few times, but the female agent had always held herself slightly aloof. She was a small woman – almost delicate in the right light – and Amita had decided that Liz been forced to develop a tough outer shell and a certain reserve, in order to do the job she did. Megan was not really that way – and Amita probably felt closer to her than any other woman. But, perhaps her very honesty and vulnerability was why she was no longer in the Bureau. Amita sighed, missing Megan probably at least as much as Larry did, at that moment.
After Amita had sipped some of the water he brought her in the hospital, the two professors had found a nearby Day's Inn with vacancies. Fleinhardt, bless his heart, assumed she was still under-the-weather. Amita had allowed him to carry her bag into her room and fetch a bucket of ice – but she had drawn the line at drawing her bath. The physicist had finally decided to walk a few blocks to a restaurant, where he would dine; promising to bring her some take-out soup, perhaps a grilled cheese.
She had wanted him to go, but now that he had been gone for almost 10 minutes and she had discovered the draught of female companionship in her life, she wished he would come back. She had stood in the bathroom for awhile, studying her own face in the mirror. Then she had circled the room, stopping to perch on the edge of the double bed for all of 45 seconds. In the end, she crossed the few feet to the small, round table in the corner. She sat down in the room's single chair, contemplated the telephone sitting on top of the table, and wondered idly why they even bothered to put those in motel rooms, these days. Then she pulled her purse toward her, and took out her cell.
She scrolled through the contact list until she found the number. She didn't call enough to add the contact to speed dial – she actually hadn't even been sure she had ever programmed the number at all. She hesitated a brief moment, then hit the send button. She pressed the phone to her ear with one hand, and twirled a long strand of her dark hair with the other.
"Hello?"
"I thought I was pregnant." She nearly groaned aloud when the words popped out. Way to work your way up to it, Amita.
She counted five seconds of silence. "Who is this?"
Great. She had found a way to feel even worse. "Amita," she whispered.
Three seconds, this time, then a matter-of-fact, "Oh." Two more seconds. "Did you want to be?"
She should have called Megan. Who the hell cared what time it was in D.C.? "I guess not," she responded. "At least, not until I thought I might be." Clear as mud, that.
"There are two issues, here – at least. Have you been tested for Brucellosis yet?"
Amita's eyes widened, and she let go of her hair, dropping her hand to the top of the table. "You know about that?"
"I've talked to Don a few times today. He just called a few minutes ago. I wish I could be there to help him with Charlie and Alan, but my sister is due any day."
Oh, shit. She had completely forgotten – Robin was in Spokane, with her very pregnant sister. Oh, shit. "Please don't tell Don."
"I won't. This is your news, to share or not share with whomever you choose. The test?"
Amita began to drum her fingers on the table. "I had my blood drawn, but we're in a motel in Oceanside waiting for results in the morning."
The attorney was nothing if not practical. "We'll hope for the best, of course. But if you are infected, you certainly don't want to also be pregnant. Who knows what could happen to the fetus?"
Without warning and much to her own chagrin, Amita began to cry. "Donchoo think I know that?" she wailed.
Robin's voice took on a different, more gentle tone. "You haven't thought about it before."
Amita sniffed. "I'm on..only in my s-second year of teaching!"
"Don and I are discussing eliminating birth control right now," Robin shared. "That's confidential, of course."
Confidential or not, it served to stop the flow of waterworks. "But…you're both at the height of your careers!"
She could almost see Robin shrug. "Neither Lady Justice nor the F.B.I. will visit us in an assisted living facility when we're old. And even before then, right now -- we want family picnics, family vacations, back-to-school minutia – and we want that before we're too old to enjoy it."
Amita considered that. "Charlie said he's ready to talk about it whenever I am," she said at length.
"Ask yourself this," Robin counseled. "Were you relieved, or disappointed?"
"Both," Amita answered right away.
"Then start talking now. Maybe the two of you will come up with a timeline – it doesn't have to be immediate."
Amita almost smiled. "You make it sound so simple."
Robin laughed. "Believe me, I know that it's not. Don and I are talking, but we haven't decided anything, yet." She laughed again. "I think being in the delivery room with my sister may bring discussions to a halt."
This time Amita did smile. "I imagined the baby," she said quietly. "A little boy, with curly hair and big brown eyes full of wonder and love – just like his daddy."
"I'm sorry for the part of you that's disappointed," Robin said warmly. "Right now I honestly don't know what the hell any of us are waiting for."
Amita giggled, and wiped her eye. "Neither does Alan."
A snort of laughter. "That's another thing. We want to have babies soon enough that they can enjoy their grandfather."
Amita nodded. "When Charlie is better…when this is all over…"
Robin suddenly changed the subject. "Amita? Why did you call me?"
Amita felt herself blushing. "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have. I know we're not close. I just kept thinking, who else would understand wanting part of an Eppes' for their very own, forever, and ever…"
"I'm glad you called," Robin responded. "Maybe this is a first step for us, and we will be very close soon. I'd like that."
"It's probably a good idea," Amita teased. "After all, our kids will be cousins."
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When the murdering Pig had pulled over to the curb in front of the diner, Sarah had instructed the cab driver to keep going. Obviously, Bernie was just catching a ride back to his business. She needed to think. Find a place to stay for the evening and think.
She had to stop reacting, and start acting – as she had been trained. Sarah wanted to punish him, for killing Joe – and it was important that he know why he was being punished. She could probably get into one of the storage caches Planet Green had hidden all over the city, and get one of the weapons she had helped Joe stash herself. Then, she could stalk Edgarton again, shooting him like the dog he was, on the street. But that was not good enough. Or bad enough. He had to know why.
She had the cab take her to the edge of East L.A. After she had paid the driver, she only had a few hundred left. She would walk to one of the seediest, by-the-hour hotels that she could find, lay low for the night, and plan. Maybe there was a way to kill the Pig and pay back Cracker at the same time.
She was startled when the prepaid cell in her backpack rang. Only the coalition had her number – had Cracker reconsidered? She quickly veered to the inside edge of the sidewalk, in the shadow of a tenement building, and dropped to her knees, digging frantically in her pack. Breathlessly, she brought the phone to her ear. "Cracker?"
"Sarah, it's me. Aaron."
Sarah sighed and sagged back toward the brick façade. "Does Cracker want to see me?"
Aaron let a beat pass before he answered. "No, Sarah. But I do."
She narrowed her eyes. "This is a trick. Cracker's setting me up."
Aaron protested. "I swear on Joe's memory, that's not true. Please, we can meet wherever you want – someplace open, around people, whatever." His voice took on a desperate tinge even as it lowered. "Sarah, he's going after kids. He's gonna kill kids."
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Lee Havercamp sat at the small table in the St. Michael's cafeteria and frowned. Her notes were spread out before her, and she was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. A pair of black jeans entered her peripheral vision about the time she heard Don Eppes speak.
"How's it goin'?" He sounded exhausted.
Havercamp sighed, and indicated the chair on the other side of the table. She waited until Eppes took a seat before she answered. "You look as bad as you sound," she observed. "When's the last time you had any sleep?"
Don shrugged, and idly placed his hand on top of one of the papers. "What's this?"
She shook her head tolerantly. "Stats from UCLA Medical Center," she answered. She used her cup to indicate other piles. "Cedars-Sinai; Huntington; County General."
Don read the displeasure on her face. "And?"
She indicated another stack, the one closest to her. "This is St. Michael's. Since we discovered the Brucella 12 hours ago and started aggressive treatment, patients at other hospitals are leveling-off; some are even improving slightly already."
Don felt a familiar knot in his gut and knew he wasn't going to like this. "Not here?"
She shook her head. "On the contrary, Brucellosis patients seem to be growing worse. In fact, the entire general population has steadily weakened today, regardless of diagnosis. There's been another Brucellosis fatality, as well."
Don frowned. "You're using the same treatment?"
She nodded. "It makes no sense," she murmured.
Don watched her sip her coffee and contemplate her notes, and wondered why one hospital would have such different results from all of the other hospitals in the area. According to Havercamp, treatment was the same. Conditions? "Has St. Michael's failed any inspections recently?"
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Very good, agent – but I thought of that." She sat down her cup and fingered the St. Michael's stack of stats. "I have three years' worth of reports here, and there were no problems noted. Last year the inspector even raved about the hospital's attention to cleanliness. Besides, it's not like weakened patients are succumbing to other things, like staph. Whatever diagnosis landed them here is worsening; the patients are not rallying."
"Oh, my God," Don suddenly breathed. "They released it here."
Comprehension quickly followed by revulsion travelled Havercamp's face. "The threat Planet Green made about having released a second dose of the bacteria – you think it could be here?"
Don started to answer but was interrupted by the chirp of his cell. He fished the phone from his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Eppes," he answered impatiently.
Havercamp was scribbling on her notepad – notify HazMat, test all hospital patients, personnel and visitors for Brucella – when she looked up and saw the color drain from Don's face. "I'm here right now," he said into the phone. "Downstairs in the cafeteria." Don's knuckles were white, he was clutching the phone so tightly, and despair rolled off him in waves. "My God," he said. "Can I come up?"
He was standing as he spoke, and Havercamp began to gather all the papers, shoving them haphazardly in her briefcase. "I'm on the way," Don said, disconnecting the call and shoving the cell back into the pocket of his jeans. Havercamp stood as well, and waited. Don ran a shaking hand over his head and regarded her with fear. "Ch…Charlie's…there's some kind of emergency."
She stepped around the table and touched him on the arm. "What?"
"Cardiac tamponade," he repeated from the telephone conversation. "They're doing some…some…"
"Pericariocentesis?" she guessed, and he nodded vigorously. Havercamp began to push against the arm she was gripping, steering Don toward the cafeteria exit. "Come on," she ordered. "We're going to your brother's room."
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