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: Aw…my mind was made up, it really was. If this were my story, I would not do what I am thinking of doing. Alas, you all crawl around my head and plant the most ridiculous, delicious ideas…
Read on, MacBeth…
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Chapter Fifteen: The Red Light Hotel
Don would have ripped up all five flights of stairs, but he needed Havercamp – so he impatiently rode up in the elevator with the CDC physician. "I want him out of here," he snarled after he jabbed the button for his brother's floor. "Now, tonight. I don't want them doing any damn 'emergency' procedure; there could be Brucella all over whatever equipment they intend to use!" He stopped pacing the small box long enough look at her pleadingly. "Pull rank – transfer him. Please."
She kept her voice level and modulated. "If what you suspect is true, Agent Eppes, all of these patients need to be transferred somewhere. It's an overwhelming possibility."
He started pacing again. "But Charlie's getting worse…"
She agreed. "So it would seem." He glared in her direction and she held up a calming hand. "It's unlikely he can wait for the procedure, Don. I'm sure they wouldn't be performing a pericardiocentesis at 8 o'clock at night if it was something that could wait. You may have to allow this – but improvement is usually immediate once the fluid is drained from the pericardium. He should be stable enough to transport by morning."
The elevator jolted to a stop and Don pushed ahead of the doctor so he could encourage the doors to open faster. "He's got good insurance through CalSci," he informed Havercamp as the two of them started toward Charlie's room. "You can probably get him into a private hospital or clinic. You're right, we're going to have to move – how many?"
"Hundreds," responded Lee quietly. "St. Michael's is at 90 percent capacity right now. Unfortunately, so are most of the other hospitals in the area. This is a logistical nightmare."
Don shook his head and opened his mouth to answer when hospital personnel began exploding from the door of his brother's room, which was just coming into view. Two orderlies were pushing Charlie on a gurney between them, quickly, while a nurse followed pushing a portable crash cart. Charlie's IV swung lazily over his head; a small canister of oxygen was lying next to Charlie on the gurney. The entire parade was headed in the opposite direction from the public elevators, toward the faster hospital-use-only lift about fifty feet from Charlie's room.
Don took off in a run, not caring how many patients he was frightening with his bellow down the hall. "HEY! Hey, where are you taking him! CHARLIE!"
The group didn't even slow down, or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Instead, he crashed headlong into Charlie's doctor, who was the last to exit the hospital room. The physician oomphed in impacted surprise, the clipboard he was holding flying in one direction while he and Don flew in another. They careened off the corner of the door and crashed to the floor. The pen with which the doctor had been making notations in the chart glanced off Don's forearm hard enough to scratch and draw blood, but the agent didn't even notice.
He pushed off the doctor far enough to lean over him menacingly, as if he had tackled him on purpose. "Where the hell are you taking my brother?" he growled.
The startled physician regarded him with round eyes. "Th-the nurse t-told me she c-called you…" he stammered.
Havercamp finally caught up with Don and stood over the doorway sprawl. She clucked ominously. "Agent Eppes," she started, pulling at the back of Don's t-shirt. "Get on your feet this instant."
Her presence seemed to instill the floored doctor with some bravado, and he pushed against Don as well. As the two men regained their feet, the doctor noticed the bleeding scratch on Don's arm. He had been working up a righteous lather, but now his caretaking side kicked in. He reached toward Don – tentatively. "You're hurt," he said quietly.
Don glanced down at his arm. "It's nothing," he answered brusquely, but the man's concern served to help him bring it down a notch. "Look, that was an accident. I was trying to catch up with my brother. Where are they taking him?"
Again confusion passed over the physician's features. "To the OR, for the pericardiocentesis. I understood that you had been informed."
Don whirled to face Lee Havercamp. "I thought…can't they do it here, in his room?"
"It's not impossible," Havercamp responded, "but ideally the doctor will use an echocardiogram during the procedure to ensure placement of the needle. An OR-suite is more conducive to such equipment."
"Absolutely," agreed Charlie's doctor. "Pericardiocenteseis is hardly ever performed 'blind', anymore."
Don whipped his head back to address him. "Shouldn't you get up there, then?" An unwelcome thought occurred to him and he began to look the physician over more carefully. "I didn't hurt you? You'll be all right to do the procedure?"
The doctor smiled and shook his head. "I'm sure I'll be a little sore in the morning, but I'll live. I'm not doing the procedure, however. As soon as Charlie began exhibiting signs of pericarditis, I brought in Dr. Linton, a cardiologist, to consult on the case. He has much more experience with this sort of thing, and he'll be performing the procedure." Don lifted his arm to run his hand over his head, and the doctor noticed the scratch again. He looked at Dr. Havercamp. "Stop at the nurses' station and slap a little antibiotic cream and a bandage on that – they're in OR-7." He included Don in a stern gaze. "It has an observation theater. By the time you get to the 8th floor, things should be well underway." He was going to add the fact that Havercamp's I.D. would get her into any area of the hospital, but Don was already halfway to the nurses' station.
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Sarah had met Aaron on the busy street just outside of the Red Light Hotel. He was nervous, and a guilty cloud seemed to hang over his head. At first she was afraid it was because he was helping to set her up. She and Aaron had been close in the coalition. When Joe had first recruited him from UC-Davis and brought him into the communal living arrangement, the three of them shared their space – and each other – more often than not. Oh, Sarah didn't love him the same way she loved Joe. Everyone around her knew that Joe was all that mattered. But Aaron was nice; a gentle boy, who had tried to comfort her when Joe was murdered, and he truly believed in their cause. It had hurt, that morning, when Cracker had cut her loose – and Aaron did not defend her.
After talking quietly together on the street outside the hotel, Sarah began to feel that the guilt she perceived was because Aaron had let Cracker remove her from Planet Green without a battle. She told herself that if Cracker had meant to kill her, he would have done it that morning, and eventually she led Aaron up the stairs to the tiny room she had rented.
The room contained only an old, iron-framed, squeaky double bed. There was no table, chair, telephone. All the rooms on the floor shared one filthy bathroom out in the hall. They perched cautiously on the edge of the bed – unsure it would hold their weight – and Aaron looked around with growing distate and despair. "God, Sarah," he finally said. "This is awful."
She bristled. "And where else do I have to go? I just gave my paycheck to the coalition yesterday – I had to hit Andi for some money."
He dug around the pocket of his jeans and brought out a fistful of 20s, which he offered her. "I took this from the kitty," he said.
Sarah regarded the money with temptation, but did not accept it. "You'll be punished. Cracker knows how much should be in there."
Aaron sighed, peeled one twenty off and shoved the rest back into his pocket. "At least take this much. He has a general idea, but I can convince him we used a little in the relocation. Or something."
Sarah smiled and accepted the bill. "Thank-you." She played with the money, running it through her fingers. "Is this why you wanted to see me? What did you mean, 'he's targeting kids'?"
Aaron's face became the picture of desolation. "He and Dawn went to the cache. The one where Joe hid the blasting caps, and the C-4. They brought some back to the loft; he says our next action has to bump it up a notch. Sarah, they want to blow up the daycare center at the downtown-Y!"
A chill ran through her, but she feigned indifference. "Why do you think I would disagree with that? I fed contaminated milk to children for two weeks."
Aaron looked away, at the peeling wallpaper, and swallowed thickly. "It's not the same," he finally responded lamely, looking back at her. "You fed the same milk to every customer who ordered it; we didn't specifically target children. Plus, brucellosis is rarely fatal in a developed country. When Planet Green instigated the brucella action, we knew it would stand society on its ear for a few weeks while they figured out what was going on. Once they understood our power, they would take us, and our cause, more seriously. The only fatalities have been as we predicted – those who for one reason or another were too weak to fight the infection off."
Sarah stiffened. "There have been fatalities already?"
Aaron brushed off her concern. "An acceptable loss," he insisted. "Not unexpected." He leaned forward a little. "Sarah, no-one will survive the amount of C-4 they're planning to set off inside that daycare center. I checked – the enrollment is almost 150 children between 1 and 5. Nearly 40 staff. The blast will be so big, I think there could be fatalities in the main building, as well. Cracker says that we must target children to get the attention of the parents." He snickered, leaning back a little. "This will get their attention, all right. They will hate Planet Green and everything we represent. This will not bring adherence to our cause – it will annilihate us all."
Sarah forced herself to think like the general she had been, just that morning. Aaron was right. This was not the way to insure compliance. Cracker had turned; the taste of blood had ignited the darkness in his soul and pushed him over the edge. Dawn, Patty and the others were following the charismatic leader like the lemmings they were. "You need to go back, and appear to support the action," she decided.
Aaron nodded. "I thought you would say that. I have to leak you the details – when, and how." His brow furrowed. "But then what are you going to do about it? You can hardly stop this by yourself, from the Red Light Hotel!"
A plan began to take shape in Sarah's heart, and she smiled. "Aaron, what can you get me from one of the other caches?"
He remained confused. "Why? What do you want?"
This time she leaned forward, and whispered conspiratorily. "He's here. The one who murdered Joe, and the others. I can use him, to derail Cracker. When he thinks it's all over, and L.A. is safe again – I want to take him out."
Aaron missed Joe almost as much as Sarah did. His eyes gleamed. "A gun?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Too much security." They both thought for a moment, and then she patted his crossed knees happily, leaning in to kiss him thoroughly on the mouth. Leaving him slightly breathless, she pulled back just enough to whisper, "The grenades. Can you get to the grenades?"
"Oh, God, yes," Aaron moaned, pulling her toward him.
And the bed began to squeak in earnest, at the Red Light Hotel.
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Don stood 15 feet over Charlie, peering at his brother through the glass partition. "Why are his eyes closed?" he demanded of Havercamp. "I thought you said they used a local for this."
She stood next to him and watched a nurse shave a crop circle in the center of Charlie's chest, directly over his breastbone. "He may have lost consciousness due to hypotension," she hypothesized. "A sudden drop in BP is one of the symptoms of cardiac tamponade."
"Why?" Don wanted – needed – to know everything.
"When there is a rapid increase of fluid in the pericardium, it elevates the pressure on the heart. It prevents proper filling of the ventricles, and there is ineffective pumping of the blood."
Don watched the almost-artful placing of sterile drapes and shuddered. Maybe he didn't want to know everything. "I didn't expect him to be sitting up like that," he shared.
Havercamp nodded. "The patient is kept at a 35 to 40-degree angle during a pericardiocentesis. It helps with breathing – he'll likely be sitting up like this for the next several days – and also with drainage of the pericardial fluid."
Don stiffened when Dr. Linton placed two gloved fingers of one hand in the center of
Charlie's chest, and picked up the biggest needle he had ever seen with the other. "That's gotta be four inches long!" he breathed.
"Probably," Havercamp agreed, which did nothing to make him feel better. He closed his eyes and swayed almost imperceptively when the needle entered his brother's chest.
Lee Havercamp pretended not to notice and quietly narrated. "The doctor will use the echo to check for proper placement of the needle. If Charlie were awake, he would feel some pressure – but he's been feeling that from the build-up of fluid, anyway. When the needle is in the right location, it will be removed and replaced with a catheter. They'll remove as much fluid as they can right now, and then suture the drainage tube in place. A drainage bag will be left in place for a few days, and then all will be removed."
Don opened his eyes again and frowned. "Can this happen again? Why did it happen at all?"
"In this case," answered Havercamp, "we already know that there is a bacterial infection. That is already being addressed with antibiotics. She glanced sideways at Don. "But yes, it would not unusual for this to happen again. Recuperation can take up to three months, and pericarditis and its complications can reoccur."
"Great," mumbled Don, moving a little closer to the glass. "What do we do about shutting down St. Michael's?"
She sighed. "The administrator and chief-of-staff are on their way in to meet with me right now. At this point, all we have is suspicion of a secondary brucella release. It could take us days, if not weeks, to confirm that with HazMat testing."
Don dragged his eyes away from Charlie long enough to look at her. "You're the CDC, dammit – shut them down while you're looking!"
Havercamp tilted her head. "I have an idea that might lend me some authority in that arena." Don raised an eyebrow and she continued. "St. Michael's has a transplant program. I was checking the census and there are patients who have been here for six weeks or longer – that means they could not have been infected through Bernie's Diner or his ice cream. If I can find brucella in their blood tests, it will prove that it has been released here in the hospital. I've already ordered the testing of those four patients."
Don grinned and turned back to the window. "Way to think like an investigator," he congratulated. "Hey," he interrupted himself. "Charlie's moving around."
Havercamp moved a little closer to the glass. "That's good – and bad," she commented. "There is often remarkable improvement with the removal of even 50 ml of fluid, so I'm not surprised he regained consciousness. On the other hand, this is not the best time to do that. The catheter is still draining, and the tube has not been sutured into place yet…"
Don swore under his breath. "He's probably freaking out," he said. "What a place to suddenly wake up – he's gotta be scared to…" – he started to search the perimeter of the observation theater – "…is there a speaker or something in here? Can I talk to him?"
"There," Havercamp pointed, and Don finally saw the intercom on the wall not two feet from where he was standing. He moved to it quickly. Havercamp was right behind him, reaching around to depress a recessed button he had not even been able to see.
"Now," she urged quietly.
"Charlie." Don spoke into the intercom but kept his eye on the window. He saw several people glance up toward the observation room. He spoke a little more loudly, in his best Team Leader voice – a voice he had originally developed with years of experience as Big Brother. "Charlie, calm down. Calm down; you're fine. I'm right here, buddy. It's almost finished." He saw someone bend down to speak into Charlie's ear, pointing up to the observation room. Other personnel stepped out of the way to clear Charlie's line of vision, and soon Don saw his brother looking up at him, his eyes terrified.
Don smiled, and lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey, Buddy," he soothed. Charlie tried to lift his own hand, but a nurse grabbed it to prevent him from moving. Even through the window Don recognized the frustration in Charlie's eyes. "Stop giving them a hard time, Chuck," he teased. "Just relax, and I'll see you soon." Charlie started to shake his head. A nurse clamped a hand on either side, and his eyes grew almost black with fear.
"Hey," Don said into the speaker. "Hey, listen, Charlie. Do..do you remember, when Dad decided to teach us to swim?" He lifted his palm to lie flat against the glass, almost as if he was visiting Charlie in prison. "He and Mom took us to that little lake about an hour outside of L.A. Remember?" Charlie blinked, and Don kept rambling. "It was a great day, wasn't it? I was about ten, so you were only five – Mom kept telling Dad you were too young. She didn't know one of your tutors already taught you to swim in his pool, with his kids. She was standing on the dock, arguing with Dad, and none of us noticed that you were slipping away. She screamed like a little girl when we all heard the splash – you just trotted to the end of the dock and hopped in the water. Mom and Dad were about to jump in after you when you popped up and started doing the backstroke. 'Come on, Donny,' you yelled. 'It's fun!'" He heard Havercamp chuckle beside him and Charlie's eyes began to calm, and then droop. Encouraged, Don went on. "That's it, Buddy – just close your eyes and think about that day. Mom had fried a chicken to bring along, and made some of that great potato salad of hers. After, we all hiked around the lake and picked wild blackberries, eating them right off the vine; you were such a mess Dad dipped you in the lake again to wash you off. By the time we got all the way around the lake, and back to our picnic blanket, we were all exhausted. We laid down on top of each other and took a nap – remember?" Don watched Charlie's eyes drift all the way closed. "Just sleep for awhile, Buddy," he advised quietly, "take a nap like we did on that picnic. I'll be here when you wake up – just like I was then. Like I always will be."
Don felt Havercamp pat him on the back and paused, looking down on Charlie. His brother's eyes remained closed, and Dr. Linton turned around to look up at the observation theater. He lifted one hand, thumb-up. His eyes crinkled, and Don thought he might be smiling behind his mask.
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A/N #3: Well, I didn't get that far anyway; so now I can think about it a little longer…