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: Lo and behold… "choose your own adventure"/interactive stories are a violation of the TOS of this site. The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin. (Oops…wrong fandom…)
We Continue…
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Chapter Nineteen: Chasing Tail
Ian Edgarton paused at the security desk in the lobby of the Wilshire Blvd. building and presented his F.B.I. identification. He waited for the officer to scan his thumbprint and offer him the clip-on badge that would gain him access to the rest of the Bureau. The mindless task did not require much of his attention, so he was busy replaying the interview with Trenton Samuelson's grandmother. She had spent most of the morning trying to save his soul and convert him to her own rather peculiar brand of Christianity, and didn't have anything to offer that would really help on this case. Still, he organized his thoughts for a verbal report to Eppes, concentrating hard, and making certain he hadn't missed anything. He was frowning slightly and didn't realize the security officer was talking to him until the other man nudged his hand, which was resting on the countertop, patiently awaiting the return of his identification.
Ian started, and refocused his attention. "Excuse me?"
The officer was trying to hand him his original I.D., the access badge and a cell phone with a piece of notebook paper wrapped around it. "I said," he repeated a little impatiently, "some guy was here a couple of hours ago and left this for you. Wouldn't leave a name. Said somebody paid him to drop it off."
Ian accepted the bundle, automatically searching the perimeter even though he had been told the phone had been dropped off hours before. All he saw was that a line had formed behind him at the security desk, explaining the officer's impatience. "Thanks," he muttered, moving to the public seating area located on one side of the lobby. He settled in an overstuffed leather chair, clipped the badge on his shirt in full view, and regarded the phone. Maybe he was a sniper, and not used to dealing with this kind-of thing, but it seemed suspicious to him -- he had no idea why someone would deliver this. Therefore, he should probably be concerned about prints. He stood back up, was waved through the weapons detection station when security there saw his employee access badge, and gingerly carried the phone, pinched between thumb and forefinger, all the way up the elevator to the bullpen.
When he arrived, he couldn't find anyone he wanted. Neither Eppes nor any of his team was in sight. Edgarton sighed, and sat at Don's desk. He placed the wrapped phone gently on the desktop, and started opening desk drawers. In the bottom one, he found what he was looking for -- a box of latex gloves. He quickly extracted two, put them on, and began to work on the phone bundle.
The surrounding note paper -- which, when unfolded, appeared to be about half of a sheet ripped from a spiral notebook somewhere -- contained only five words: "Read me" was printed in block letters on one line; "Look At Me" was printed directly below. Ian picked up the phone with his left hand, flipping it open. As he held the instrument, he used the index finger of his right hand to navigate through the menu. He started with the gallery, ignoring the photos that were shipped with the cell and moving directly to "custom". He selected the only picture listed there: "Sarah". It was enough of a clue that he recognized her immediately when her face filled the screen. Her hair might be longer, but it was her -- the woman he had seen at the morgue; the one he had later confirmed was a card-carrying member of Planet Green; the one identified by bulbous Bernie just yesterday -- their primary Brucella release suspect.
He sensed movement behind him and looked up at Colby Granger. "She's kind-of hot," the agent noted. "Girlfriend?"
Ian sneered. This was one of Eppes' best guys? "Yeah, Granger; I always wear latex gloves when I look at my girlfriend's picture on my cell phone. I like to pretend I'm wearing a condom."
Colby reddened but let the shot sail over his head. "What, then?" he asked.
Sinclair was approaching from the direction of the breakroom, two bottles of water clutched in one hand, and Edgarton waited until he joined them, passing one of the bottles to Colby. "I don't know yet," Ian finally admitted. "Somebody left the phone downstairs for me. It was wrapped in this." He indicated the scrap of notebook paper and began navigating the menu again, this time finding one message in the text message "inbox". Three heads bent low over the desk, reading:
"Will give u PG. Planin sumthin bad. Deal. U only. 555-890-4321 4 pm."
Colby emitted a low whistle and straightened. "Ain't no way Don's gonna let that happen," he predicted.
Ian glanced at Sinclair. "You got something to copy down the number? I want to take this to the lab, see what they can pull."
David extracted his notebook and pen from his pocket and began scribbling. "Colby's right," he said, just for the record.
Ian leaned back a little in Don's chair. "I won't be alone -- I can call her from here. Where is Eppes, anyway? You guys get something from Sommerfield?"
David had copied the number twice; now, he ripped off the top sheet of paper and placed it on Don's desk. "He had a briefing at Parker Center. He called about ten minutes ago and he's on his way back. Andi gave us some drop locations where she sometimes leaves money or other supplies for Planet Green. She's pretty sure they're maintaining a cache of something in an old garden shed behind a condemned house in East L.A., too. She gave Joe Wallis and several suspicious duffles a ride there just before the Presidio incident, and six months ago she transported some other PG members to a location just a few blocks away, in the middle of the night. She thinks maybe they've been using the house as a kind of "safe" location for soldiers who were too hot for public consumption. We're waiting for Don to decide who's going to check out what."
Ian nodded and pushed the chair back so that he could stand, forcing Colby back a few feet. He reached to the desktop to grab the piece of paper in a forceps-like grip. "I'm in," he stated. "I got nothing from Granny, anyway. I'll get this to the lab -- tell Eppes I'll ride with him."
"Right," retorted Granger. "I tell Don what to do all the time."
Edgarton grinned at his sour tone. "No need to hold a grudge, Agent Granger. Make yourself useful and try to trace that number before Eppes gets here. Maybe we'll get a location to add to our afternoon jaunt."
David suppressed a smile as Colby snatched the number from Don's desk and strode, muttering, towards his own. "Who died and made him Team Leader?"
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Dan Simpson was not a happy man. If it hadn't been for that stupid Planet Dweeb and their stupid bacteria, he could have stretched this hospital stay out another day; he was certain of it. He had ended his high-speed chase last week with LAPD with a roll-over bang; a concussion, three cracked ribs and internal bleeding. The county didn't want him in its lock-up until he was deemed well enough at least for the infirmary. Speeding and eluding a police officer didn't qualify him for a guard at the hospital, either. So, he'd been milking his injuries for all they were worth. For one thing, the accommodations beat county lock-up – even the food was better. For another, if he could stall until he could move a little better, it would be a piece of cake to walk right out of here and disappear. He'd never even be arraigned.
Thanks to Planet Idiot, though, he was now slated for early release. All the hospitals in the area were overrun with their own patients and the St. Michael's transfers. The doc had come in that morning, taken at least a quart of his blood for some test, and informed him he'd send the results on to the jail.
Ab-so-fuckin'-lutely perfect.
After a few minutes of sulking, Simpson levered himself painfully out of bed, tottered with tiny, hunched, measured steps to the door, and peeked out into the hallway. Foot traffic was unbelievable; nurses and orderlies and EMTs were pushing gurneys and hospital beds all over the place. He smiled, scooting back and pushing the door shut. He moved toward the closet in the corner. This might work out after all. No-one would notice. He would get dressed, and…
He cursed, staring at the empty closet that had been lurking behind the door. Bastards had taken his clothes, his shoes; he didn't even have one of those flimsy hospital robes. Even on a day like today, someone was bound to take notice of a man who could barely walk, stumbling bare-ass and bare-foot out the front door.
He was still considering his options when he was nearly knocked over by the entrance of two orderlies, who pushed through the door as if the room was on fire, or something. He swore and staggered back a step, automatically clutching at his chest. "Whoa," said the bigger of the two. "Sorry, dude. You should be in bed."
His partner chimed in. "Hop back in, pronto. Your private ride is here. We've gotta take you downstairs."
Simpson sighed, a little surprised that his "private ride" didn't just come up to get him. Damn lazy cops.
The door opened again and a harried nurse poked her head inside. "Demetrius," she begged the bigger man, "I need some help subduing the guy in 307."
He shot his partner a glance. "Be right back," he promised, and the other orderly nodded. No-one helped Dan back into the bed, and he was pretty P.O.d about it until the orderly reached for the bathroom door. "You got anything in here, Eppes?" he called, going inside the small room to search for errant toothbrushes. His voice floated out to Simpson's ears. "I don't know how you rated Laurel Heights, man. Best damn private rehab in the city, Eppes."
Carefully, painfully, Dan turned away from the bathroom, burying his head in the pillow. It was obvious these clowns had mixed him up with someone else, and were sending him somewhere much preferable to county lock-up. As unobtrusively as possible, he brought his left hand up, and rested it between the pillow and his head. By the time the orderly came out of the bathroom and started banging around in the closet, Simpson was doing his best imitation of a beaver – chewing off his I.D.
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The pressure in his chest was nothing new. What had awakened Charlie was pressure somewhere else. He blinked groggily, reclining at his 30-degree angle, taking in all of the activity around him. A few careful turns of his head, and it became clear to him that he was no longer in his room. In fact, this looked suspiciously like a hospital corridor.
A very busy hospital corridor. His bed was pushed up against one wall, a small portable oxygen canister nestled between his knees. Hospital personnel streamed past without even looking at him. Most unexpected, there were literally dozens of other patients in the hall, as far as the eye could see. Beds were pushed against one wall in a steady chain, headboard-to-footboard. Close to the opposite wall, several people sat in wheelchairs. IVs swung from poles attached to the beds, or rolling stands sitting next to the chairs.
Charlie felt the unwelcome pressure again, and he moved a little in the bed. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice plaintive and largely ignored in the furious bustle.
An old man in a wheelchair on the other side of the hall shot a toothless grin his way. "Bout time you woke up, young'un. They must have you on some good stuff, to sleep through all this."
Charlie shifted again. He was going to have to get up soon, or regret it forever. "Where am I?" he repeated.
"Downstairs," the old man replied briefly, looking away again.
Charlie tried to think, to remember. Had he been taken to X-ray again? Was it "downstairs", and should this many people be waiting in line? "I have to go," he semi-moaned, ripping the oxygen canula from his nose and roping the tubing over his head.
His new friend looked back at him. "We're all going, son."
Charlie shook his head and started fiddling with the rail on the bed. "Bathroom," he whispered, embarrassed.
If he'd been less frantic, he would have been surprised when the old man pushed up on the arms of his wheelchair and stood. The geezer wobbled for a moment, waiting for a jogging orderly to pass, and then worked his way slowly across the space that separated them. "Could try to get one of these people to stop and help you," he offered as he drew closer, "but I wouldn't place no bets on that. Just got back, myself – I tried to flag someone down for 'near 20 minutes."
He had reached Charlie's bedside now, and he deftly lowered the side rail. Already in a semi-sitting position, it wasn't as difficult for Charlie to swing his legs over the side as it might have been otherwise. "Thank-you," he murmured, fisting the mattress with both hands and preparing to push himself off the bed.
The old man shrugged. "T'aint nuthin. There's a men's room not 15 feet down that way." He pointed, then looked at Charlie again, a little doubtfully. "You able to walk that far, young man?"
Charlie possessed the motivation of a full bladder. "God, yes," he grunted. He barely even noticed the cold linoleum on his bare feet as he lurched off down the hall.
His savior watched him until Charlie turned into the restroom, then turned and eyed his wheelchair across the hall. The short trip had taken more out of him than he had thought possible. "Gonna have to put the rail up again when he gets back," he reasoned. "Ain't safe, not havin' the rail up." He perched gently on the side of the bed, deciding to wait until Charlie returned.
He really intended just to sit there on the edge.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, riding the bed at break-neck speed down the hall. He tried to sit up and protest, but the orderly at the head of the bed called out to him. "Just go back to sleep, Mr. Simmons. You'll be at county in no time."
He stopped mid-sentence, confused. Simmons was his name, all right; he must have had some kind of black-out again. "Where's that young man?" he asked, feeble and frightened, and regretting every last drunken weekend of his life.
"Go back to sleep," the orderly suggested again. "Maybe you'll dream about him again."
"This…this is all a dream?" Simmons asked, befuddled.
"Gotta be," responded the overworked orderly. "Either that, or a nightmare."
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Millie disconnected her cell phone and laid it on the kitchen table. She picked up her mug of hot tea and smiled at Alan. "It's all set," she assured him. "You're sure you don't mind if Larry stays here instead of going directly back to the monestary?"
"Of course not," Alan answered, ignoring his own mug. "We can distract each other; I'm sure he's anxious to see Charlie himself."
Millie chuckled. "Talk Colby into staying a few more days and you'll have quite the dormitory going."
"That would be fine with me," he retorted. "The more the merrier." He winked at Millie. "You're invited, of course."
She laughed aloud at that. "I think not, Mr. Eppes. Perhaps the next time you're here alone…"
Alan smiled at her teasing tone. "Larry's going to help cover Charlie's classes, then?"
She nodded. "He assures me that he feels absolutely fine; no symptoms whatsoever."
"Good," nodded Alan, relieved. "We'll keep a close eye on him, just the same."
"Of course," Millie agreed, checking her watch. "They should be here in about half-an-hour. Larry will just come directly here. I'll give Amita time to freshen up, and then she and I will go to Laurel Heights. Charlie should be settled in by then."
"I can't thank you enough for helping me with this," Alan said sincerely. Millie smiled at him, but his expression grew doubtful. "Are you sure it's wise for Amita to go? I know she doesn't have Brucella, but didn't Larry say she'd been ill? Perhaps she has the same thing I've had."
Millie shuddered slightly and shook her head. "Whatever you do, don't say that to her," she advised. "She nearly took my head off when I said nearly the same thing. She went on for a couple of minutes about her right to see Charlie – Larry finally took the phone away from her! Even he assured me that she has complete medical clearance, from Dr. Havercamp as well as the Oceanside doctor."
"That's odd," Alan observed, frowning slightly. "That doesn't sound like her at all."
"No, it doesn't," agreed Millie. "If I didn't know better, I'd think…" She stopped suddenly, blushed a furious red and buried her face in her cup of tea.
"What?" asked Alan, slightly alarmed. " 'If you didn't know better' what?"
Millie took her face out of her tea and shook her head. "Nothing," she answered. "Impossible. It's probably just been making her crazy to hear all this news long-distance and not be able to be with Charlie."
Alan nodded, relieved. "I'm sure you're right," he said.
Dr. Mildred Finch, CalSci's Division Chair of Physics, Mathematics, and Astronomy, remained silent. She studied the tea leaves – and did the math.
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A/N: Will Charlie be the last to know? How will he react, all befuzzled, when he realizes he has lost his bed? Will his insurance pay for Dan Simpson's stay at Laurel Heights?