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", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.

A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.

Meanwhile, back on The Farm…

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Chapter 18: Lost in Brucella-land

At first Sarah smiled as Aaron prepared to take her picture with the cell phone. Then she thought better of it. The idea was for the murderer to recognize her photo from the one time they had met – over Joe's dead body – and she had definitely not been smiling then.

The two had been up half the night preparing the text. The other half of the night was occupied in other activities. In the morning they had both been starving. They had walked to the nearest bus stop, gone into downtown L.A. and bought the prepaid phone. It was expensive, as a camera model, consuming most of the cash Sarah had left – but it had to be done. Short of presenting herself in person at the F.B.I.'s Wilshire Blvd. headquarters – a mistake that would no doubt lead to her own murder – there was no other way to insure Edgarton's cooperation. There was just enough cash remaining to purchase a second, baseline cell. Sarah still had some time on her other one, but everyone in leadership knew that number. She needed a phone known only to Aaron – and soon, the F.B.I.

The two had walked from the 24-hour convenience store to a nearby McDonald's®. There they shared a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage – Aaron could only afford one meal, if he hoped to leave Sarah with at least bus fare for the day. Now, they were huddled behind the building, near the dumpster. Sarah had removed her wig and glasses; Aaron had to snap her photo and make his delivery to the F.B.I. quickly. He needed to get back to coalition leadership, explain his 12-hour absence and see what was what.

He would use the bus ride to the loft in south L.A. to figure out how to get a few grenades.

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Don hadn't risen to the position of Team Leader because he was stupid. He stood behind the interrogation room window and flexed his forearm in an effort to work out the soreness. He looked away from the trio on the other side of the window – Sinclair and Granger had brought Andi Sommerfield in, knowing the intimidating atmosphere of the box would no doubt elicit more information than a sidewalk café – and glanced at the bandage on his arm. The scratch extended below the covering; Havercamp had centered the bandage over the section that had been bleeding. Now, the tail of the scratch was puffy, and red. The borders of the bandage were all breached by the inflammation of the skin below. He knew without the solid proof of fingers on skin that the area would be warm to the touch. He sighed, and brought his other hand to his forehead, to rub at a headache. His fingers slipped a little in perspiration when they made contact. Great, he thought. Perfect time for an infection. From a stupid scratch!

He lowered his hand and clutched at the base of the window, slightly unbalanced. An even more unwelcome thought occurred to him as he recalled exactly where he had received both the scratch and its treatment. A feeling of dread began to clog his chest, and he tried to calm himself with rationality. Brucella was supposed to incubate for two weeks, even if he had been exposed; the scratch was only 14, maybe 15, hours old. It was an open wound, the devil on his shoulder whispered into his ear immediately. Perhaps that makes a difference…

Disgusted with himself, Don tried to tune back into the conversation on the other side of the wall. Lee had already told him to stop by the Bureau's clinic for a blood test, since he had been a frequent visitor at St. Michael's. When he got a chance, later, he would – and he'd have them look at the scratch while he was at it.

He glanced at his watch. He was due soon at LAPD's Parker Center, where personnel from every conceivable agency was gathering to help in the St. Michael's debacle. He had been hoping that Ian would be able to come along to help with the briefing, but the sniper hadn't shown up in the bullpen yet that morning. He had called to say that he was stopping to visit Charlie, and then going to interview Trenton Samuelson's grandmother. It was a long shot; Trenton had been one of the three killed at the Presidio two years before. His grandmother, who had raised him right there in L.A., had shown up at the inquest and informed the shell-shocked Edgarton that she forgave him. She was still a viable woman herself – Trenton had been 19 two years ago, and Grandma barely qualified for AARP. She worked and lived in Los Angeles, and Ian thought it was possible she had maintained some kind of contact with Planet Green. Even if she hadn't, maybe she knew something that would still help them. Locations of PG's hidden "safe houses", or something. Don didn't object, although he doubted that Ian would get much from the woman. For one thing, he was a sniper, not an investigator. He rarely asked questions, in his line of work. He wasn't really "on the clock" with the rest of them, though, so Don didn't have a lot of say in the matter.

He sighed, realizing he had missed most of the last ten minutes of the interrogation, and wobbled off in the direction of the break room, in search of water.

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Cracker and Dawn were careful to observe the YMCA unobtrusively from their position on the bus stop bench across the street. Their photos had been in the newspaper that morning, along with Patty's and Sarah's. Aaron and Marcus had escaped association with Planet Green, which was good. Marcus was out now buying hair dye and other items that would help them disguise themselves enough to breach the daycare center. Aaron had been gone when they fell asleep, still gone when they woke up – but he had stumbled in around an hour before they left, an obvious hickey on his neck and a silly grin on his face. Cracker had lectured him sternly. This was not the time to be out chasing skirts. Aaron had apologized, and gone right back out again; this time to one of their lockers at the Greyhound® bus station, to bring back a duffle bag full of wigs, funky establishment clothes; cash. He had helped the two of them dress themselves; had even offered to case the Y himself. Cracker had almost taken him up on it, but this was an important job. He needed first-hand information. So he ordered Aaron to wait in the loft with Patty; sent Marcus out to the drugstore; grabbed his now raven-haired beauty by the hand; and did it himself.

There was a reason he was the voice of the coalition, after all. He alone had the stamina, the courage, to take them all the way.

And he would.

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Amita was so quiet on the way back, Larry feared she was feeling ill again. "Are you quite certain you're all right?" he asked, keeping his attention on the freeway as the vehicle hurtled toward Los Angeles. "It would seem entirely probable that you had contracted influenza, like poor Alan."

She snapped at him. "I told you, my white blood cell count is fine. Do you honestly believe I would expose Charlie to something right now? Besides," she muttered darkly, "I'm pretty sure I caught this from him."

Larry paused a beat, finally deciding to ignore that. He demurred. "I know you would never intentionally place Charles in harm's way." He shot a quick sideways glance her way. "I didn't realize that you had discussed the white…."

The snap turned into a growl as she interrupted him. "Naturally I asked about it!" she huffed. "I want to see Charlie as soon as possible, but I need to know that it's a safe decision. The doctor at Oceanside even called Dr. Havercamp and read some test results over the phone; she assured me that I can see Charlie immediately."

Larry sighed, tightening his grip a little on the wheel. "That is a comfort," he murmured. "I'm afraid that I'm in the same boat as Alan, for the time-being. As long as Charles has the open drain, and there is active Brucella within my system, I'll have to stay away." He sighed again. "I take relief in the knowledge that you can be with him. I'm sure he will, as well."

Larry nearly ran the car off the road when Amita suddenly, without warning, burst into tears, dropping her face into her hands. Startled, he pulled over as far as he could into the shoulder. "Amita!" he cried, turning in the seat to face her. His hand fluttered around the back of her bowed head, not-quite touching. "There, there," he soothed, at a loss. Thankfully, Megan had not been a woman prone to tears. Until this moment, Amita had not been either. "Are you quite well, my dear?"

She sobbed on, her voice an odd, hiccupping echo bouncing off her cupped hands. "I'm s-s-sorry," she answered miserably. "Y-y-you're trying to b-be n-nice, and I'm biting y-y-your HEAD OFF!" The last two words were a wail, and she brought her head up abruptly, trapping Larry's hand between her hair and the seatback. She wiped angrily at her face. "D-d-damn it."

Stunned, Larry tried to remember if he had ever heard Amita swear, before. He tugged gently on his hand, trying not to pull her hair. "It's quite understandable," he offered. "I'm sure the news of Charles' setback has been difficult to assimilate."

She shuddered slightly and inhaled deeply, wiping at her eye with one hand. She bent slightly, to lift her purse from the floorboard and bring it to her lap, to search for a tissue. Larry's hand popped free of its trap and wandered like a homing pigeon to his ear. "Is there something I can do?" he almost whispered, half-afraid of Amita's next incarnation. She shook her head miserably and he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look more fully into the rear-view mirror and saw that a CHP vehicle had pulled over behind him, lights flashing. "Oh, dear," he worried, watching a state trooper approach the driver's side of his own automobile. He pushed the button that would lower the power window. "I certainly can't be speeding!"Amita, still sniffing, nevertheless followed Larry's lead, first glancing in the mirror and then turning her head toward the lowering window.

The trooper stopped a few feet behind the open window, and Larry stuck his head outside, smiling nervously. "May I help you, officer?"

It was difficult to ascertain exactly at whom the policeman was looking; his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. One hand was hooked behind his belt, while the other rested almost casually on the butt of the gun in his holster. "You havin' car trouble?" he asked. " 'Gainst the law to park on the shoulder of a freeway."

Larry began to shake his head. "No, no, we're not parking. My colleague…became upset…"

The officer smacked a wad of gum loudly. He left his gun hand where it was and motioned with his other. "Put both hands on the wheel where I can see 'em, please."

Larry glanced at Amita, who was staring back at him with wide, damp, kewpie-doll eyes, and did as he was told, placing his hands in the "10" and "2" positions.

The officer came closer to the window, then, leaning slightly to thoroughly eye the interior of the vehicle. "Put the bag on the floorboard please, ma'am." Amita jumped slightly, and the bag actually slid off her lap, dumping its contents on the way down to the carpeted mat. She made a squeak of distress. The officer leaned into the car a little. "This fella been hurtin' you any, ma'am?"

Larry protested immediately. "My heavens, no!", he informed the trooper who was now six inches away from his face. "My friend has been feeling poorly for several days. I fear we started back to L.A. too soon; she could be having a relapse."

The statie ignored him. "Ma'am?" he asked again.

Amita blew her nose loudly in the tissue she had found just before she dumped her purse, and leaned back into the seat. "I'm fine," she assured both men. "Larry hasn't abused me, and I'm not too sick to go home. I want to go home."

The trooper backed out of the window and Larry continued to argue with her as if the man wasn't there at all. "Amita, Charles would want me to care for you to the best of my ability. I'm sure he is anxious to see you as well, but if you are still unwell…"

Amita interrupted him with a sigh. "Larry, you're an idiot." His abrupt silence encouraged her to look at him quickly. "A sweet idiot."

The policeman had not told him he could move his hands yet, so Larry left them where they were and drew his brows together. "Pardon?"

Amita sighed again. "I'm not sick," she stated with conviction. "I'm just pregnant."

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Charlie was dozing when the two orderlies hurried into his room. "Man," vented one, flexing his arm, "that tech up in the lab damn near bled me dry. How much blood they need, anyway?"

The other snorted. "Vampira? She takes the extra home. I hear she sleeps in a coffin." He led the way to Charlie's bed. "Where's this one going?"

The first orderly shrugged. "Nurse gave you the paperwork," he pointed out.

The other orderly glared at him and raised his voice. "She did not! Just told me to move 312 and 314 – some dude named Eppes has got private transport waitin' downstairs. The other guy is..." -- he closed his eyes and thought so hard it nearly hurt -- "Simpson!" he declared happily, eyes popping open again. "Dan, or Don, or something – he's supposed to go to the basement to get in line for public transfer. They must already have the paperwork down there."

The first man regarded the patient, who was blinking at them groggily, having been awakened by the conversation. He glanced at the small white board attached to the wall, but it only contained the names of the nurse and aide on duty. He shrugged and looked back at the patient. "Who are you?" he asked. "What's your name?"

Charlie tried to shift in the bed to get a better look at the man standing nearly out of his line of sight, at the head of the bed. The one talking to him was bald, and black – like David – but the question didn't make any sense, and everything was still blurry from the second shot of Demoral he had been given right after Ian left. He tilted his head back a little, still trying to focus on the man at the head of his bed. "Don?" he asked, his voice a whisper. He cleared his throat and winced, closing his eyes. "Don. Can I have a drink?"

The first orderly had been just about to reach for Charlie's wrist, to read his bracelet, but he grunted when the patient provided his name. "Cool," he said instead. He started for the water pitcher, but could tell the patient had fallen asleep again, so he unlocked the wheels of the bed and tilted his chin at his partner. "Let's just take him downstairs," he suggested. "If he wakes up again, they can give him some water. Come on, we still gotta move Eppes and then get up to four."

The darker man nodded, pushing the bedside table out of the way. "Right," he agreed. "Let's get this show on the road."

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A/N: Oh, no…Charlie is drugged and lost in Brucella-land! Don's scratch is making him wobble! Amita and the trooper will probably have to give Larry CPR! What next??