A/N: yep, two chapters in one weekend as a thank you to you reviewers. Don't get too used to it! ;)

That Radium Glow

Chapter 5

I'd never liked hospitals, and Cook County was no exception. It loomed over Harrison Street, the gray stone and yellow brick façade looking sick and sinister slicked with rain. Water dripped from the stonework wreaths that gaped like panting mouths above the windows. Only some of them had bars.

I gritted my teeth and gamely followed Steve Rogers while a nurse led us through the busy corridors, our wet shoes squeaking in protest on the tiredly gleaming floors. The tang of antiseptic with an emphatic note of bleach was enough to get my heart pounding, even without the unsettling whiff of death below. It took me back to bloodstained days made gauzy with pain and morphine and more pain and more morphine. My scar twinged and I rubbed it without thought.

It wasn't until we were standing outside the steel-clad doors of the closed ward, waiting for an orderly to determine that we were indeed allowed to be there, that I noticed Rogers running the brim of his hat through his fingers. He gave a little bounce on the balls of his feet every time he completed a circuit. He noticed me looking after a moment and raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. Least I wasn't the only one nervous. "Nothing," I said innocently.

Rogers shot me an exasperated look, but the heavy door swung open before he had a chance to reply. We both put our lawman faces back on and stepped inside. I managed not to jump out of my skin when the door slammed shut behind us.

"If you'll follow me," an orderly said behind us. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and his white clothes were gone a little dingy with age. He looked like he could take care of himself. I supposed they all did, even the nurses.

The closed ward was quieter than I expected, though the occasional peal of keening laughter made the little hairs rise on the back of my neck. I tried not to think about how all the windows were barred, or how we'd never find out way out of this warren without the orderly's help. Rogers moved stiffly at my side. He carried himself a little differently, pushing his elbow out to give clearer access to his shoulder holster. I wondered if he knew he was doing it.

A couple of Chicago boys in police blue were loafing to either side of a heavy door with a curious little knob in it at about eye height. One of them was sporting one hell of a shiner and a set of scratches along the side of his neck. The other was Lt. Talbot, though it took me a moment to recognize him with what had been his nose smeared all over his face.

"You walk into a door or something?" I asked.

"Nuts to you, Barton," Talbot scowled, and I grinned. He reached up to touch a piece of tape across the bridge of his nose. His eyes flicked to Rogers. "I been a cop for sixteen years," he said sourly. "Sixteen years, and I ain't seen nothing like it. There's two more guys downstairs getting stitched up as we speak."

"Banner did all this?" Rogers asked incredulously. I managed not to snort. The idea of Bruce Banner summoning the gumption to punch anyone, let alone beat the hell out of four cops, was absurd. "He was in handcuffs!"

"Was in handcuffs," Talbot said darkly. That gave me pause. Breaking out of handcuffs was no mean feat.

"I worked a couple psycho cases," the other cop said, nodding sagely. Rogers' eyes flashed at the description, but he didn't say anything. "I seen it before. They got strength you can't even imagine."

Talbot twiddled a cigarette he wasn't allowed to light between his fingers. "Took four guys to hold him down 'til someone could knock him out. Ain't seen nothing like it. Polite as pie one minute, beating Stacy with a chair leg the next."

Rogers and I exchanged a look. Absurd as their story sounded, their injuries made me think it wasn't all just some excuse to give Banner a harder time. I approached the door and used the knob to slide a little panel to one side so I could see in.

I recognized Banner by his tousled curls, slumped against one of the padded walls of the cell and looking thoroughly pathetic pinioned in a stained canvas jacket that had once been white. I could see the edge of a leather strap and the hint of a metal buckle where his hands would have been, firmly behind his back. My stomach twisted and I quickly closed the panel.

"May I help you?" a new voice said, and Rogers and I both turned.

A man in a pristine white coat approached us with a confident, graceful stride from a side passage. Right away I could see he was tall, a little taller than Rogers, and his black hair was combed neatly back from his forehead with the assistance of pomade. An impeccably cut black suit clung to his long, thin limbs beneath the white coat, and he wore a dark green tie.

"We'd like to speak with Dr. Banner," Rogers said. The words were polite, but an edge had crept into his voice. He nudged me and we both held up our badges. "I'm Agent Rogers, and this is Agent Barton."

He leaned forward to study our badges carefully, intelligent green eyes flicking upward to compare our faces with our photographs. Finally, he straightened and offered me a hand. He had long fingers to match his long limbs, and a good grip, though his skin was cold. "Dr. Leonard Samson. I am the psychiatrist attending to Dr. Banner."

His voice was cool, with a trace of Oxford or Cambridge or some such place. An opulent voice, untouched by air raids and rationing. Alarm bells rang in my head, and for some reason the name sounded familiar. I couldn't place it. He fit Natasha's description, sure enough, though he struck me as too well-heeled for the Black Widow's usual clientele. I decided to sit on that until I could speak to Rogers privately.

Lt. Talbot and his nameless companion lurked nearby. I gave them my steeliest glare and they wandered a discreet distance down the corridor.

"Do you know what happened, Doctor?" Rogers asked, as soon as they were more-or-less out of earshot.

"As near as I can tell, Agent Rogers, Dr. Banner suffered from some kind of psychotic episode. The onset was sudden and the result violent," Samson said. He paused to study his fingernails for a moment before replying, clearly weighing his words. "I myself was witness only to the very end of this episode, when he was brought in and sedated."

I knew the feeling of straps and a cold needle in the arm. Sweat beaded on the back of my neck, and I had to remind myself that the musty smell in the air was mildew and not jungle loam. I didn't mince words. "Any idea what might have caused it?"

Samson studied me. He had the best damn poker face I had ever seen. "If you are asking for a diagnosis, Agent Barton, I am afraid you shall be disappointed. Nor will I compromise a patient by hazarding a mere guess for the sake of your investigation. The fact of the matter is that I simply need more time."

Rogers' eyes narrowed a little. "Dr. Samson," he said firmly. "Dr. Banner is under suspicion of murder. If his mental state could have played into that in any way, we need to know."

"Is he faking it, you mean?" Samson retorted, with a humorless little laugh that showed all his teeth. He had a predatory smile that sent a chill down my spine I couldn't explain. "Again, I should need more time to be completely accurate. But my initial instinct is no. His symptoms appear to be very real, Agent Rogers."

"Would he remember anything he did during these episodes?" I asked.

Samson shrugged elegantly. "I would say it would be unlikely. But it is possible. He seemed unaware that this last episode had occurred when I spoke to him."

"May we speak to him, now?" Rogers asked.

"I see no harm in it," Samson said, moving to unlock the door to Banner's cell. "So long as you are brief. I warn you, he may not yet be fully coherent."

"I'll risk it," I told him, and slipped past him inside. Rogers stayed near the doorway, ready to act in case Banner lost it again.

The smell hit me like a two-by-four to the face. The pungent aroma of sweat and worse mingled in the stuffy air. I stepped forward onto the stained canvas-covered padding, hating how it compressed under my shoe.

Banner looked up fearfully at the sound of the door, but he seemed unable or unwilling to lever himself away from the padded wall. His face crumpled with relief when he recognized me. "Agent Barton?" he asked in a dazed, shaky voice. "Where am I?"

I frowned a little. Samson had given me the impression this conversation had already taken place, and I didn't like that Banner couldn't remember it. My heart sank. He was in no fit state to answer questions about Richards and Pym. I forced a slight smile anyway. I took a few steps closer and crouched, so I could look him in the eye. He blinked, too slowly for my taste, and his dark eyes were still glazed from whatever drugs Samson had shot him with.

"You're in the psych ward at Cook County," I explained slowly. "You sort of….lost it, Doc. You attacked some policemen."

Banner's eyes closed briefly and he swallowed. I could tell it was taking everything he had left to keep it together. "Did-did I hurt anyone?"

"Nothing they haven't all had before, and worse," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "No real harm done."

Banner shuddered and slumped with shame. His hair hung over his face, obscuring my view of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I-I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"Dr. Banner," I said. He did not respond. "Bruce," I said sharply, and he looked up with those glazed eyes. A chill went down my spine. "Do you remember anything about the, uh, attack?"

Banner shook his head as much as he could without removing his cheek from the padded wall. He slowly licked dry lips. "The last thing I remember is talking to you, A-Agent Barton. You gave me a drink."

I glanced at Rogers over my shoulder. His face was inscrutable under his lawman expression, but his eyes were troubled. This was the second time in four days that Bruce Banner had long gaps in his memory, and he'd now proven he could mete out some serious violence during those blank periods. Regardless of my gut, it wasn't looking good for Banner.

I turned back to Banner and forced another smile. "We found your pills," I said, standing to leave. "I'll leave them with Dr. Samson. And we'll be back, when you're feeling more up to it."

"Thank you," he said listlessly.

I suppressed a shudder and got the hell out of there. Samson shut the door behind me. I heard a key scraping in a lock as I ran a hand through my damp hair. Rogers handed Samson the pill bottle. We had taken a few out as evidence, but he didn't need to know that. In turn, Samson handed Rogers a card. There was an Edgewater telephone number scribbled in a fine hand on the back of it.

Rogers cocked his head slightly and looked up at Samson. "This is a Reno address."

Samson nodded. "Yes, my main practice is in Reno. I am only temporarily in Chicago. I've come to help instruct the psychiatric residents for a few months. Call it a sabbatical."

"I see," Rogers said neutrally, tucking the card into his coat. "Thanks for your time, Doctor. We'll be in touch."

Samson touched a button on the wall, and a moment later, a white-clad orderly appeared to show us out.

"It's looking pretty grim for Banner," Rogers mused, while we drove back to the Federal Building. "Given what he did to those cops, Barton, he could have easily killed that girl. He might not have even known he was doing it."

I had nothing to say to that. He had a point, and we both knew it. I didn't like it, though.

"What'd you think about Samson?" I asked, wishing I could light a cigarette while I drove. There was too much traffic out now to risk it, and I knew without asking that Rogers wouldn't do it for me. "You hear his accent?"

Rogers shrugged. "Fits the description we got from Ms. Romanoff," he said. "Doesn't seem the nightclub type, though."

I frowned a little and scratched my chin, thinking. "Check him out," I told Rogers. "I'm going to try Stark again. He ought to be able to help us with these Pym and Richards guys, at least."

I dropped Rogers at the office and called Stark's private line from a telephone booth on Clark. It wasn't strictly protocol, but I didn't want to be overheard by anyone. To my surprise, Miss Potts answered after two rings. Mr. Stark was hosting a dinner at the Drake Hotel and would not return until late that night, but I could speak with him there. She would telephone ahead to inform him that I was coming. I thanked her and we hung up.

I wasn't dressed for dinner at the Drake, but my badge ensured the cooperation of the snooty maître d', and a smile and a compliment or two won over the hostess. Stark's party was in the bar, which was paneled in leather and half the Black Forest and more masculine than a group of grunts showing off for their best girls. The hostess ensconced me in a little room off to one side, so I'd be out of the way, and more importantly, out of sight, until Stark could get away. It wouldn't do for the beautiful people to see Anthony Stark, chairman of Stark Industries, in the company of a Fed.

Inside the room were several large leather armchairs, pleasantly worn, and a couple of smoking stands. There were decanters of amber liquid on the stands, and the tang of old cigar smoke in the air. I lit a cigarette because it seemed appropriate and watched Stark through the cracked door.

This was the Tony Stark I knew from the newspapers and gossip rags. He was a study in charm as he worked the room; a masterwork of charisma, if some Old Master had worked in limelight and five-hundred-dollar tuxes instead of silks and oils. Here, his dazzling smile, there, a friendly touch on the arm or a playful smack on a hand. He cracked jokes with some, and helped others laugh at their own. He kept up the act and his easy saunter all the way across the bar, until he could peel himself away and into the smoking room.

I pulled the door shut behind Stark, and he let out a very faint sigh of relief. He dropped into one of the leather chairs and loosened his bowtie. Now that the blinding aura of charm had faded, I could see lines of fatigue around his eyes and the tired flush of alcohol in his cheeks. Stark touched the center of his chest briefly, but dropped his hand when he noticed my glance. He reached over to pour a couple drinks and handed me one. I took a grateful swallow.

"What can you tell me about this?" I asked him, pulling the photograph from Banner's office out of my pocket and tossing it casually onto the table. Stark's brow furrowed slightly as he studied it. He looked up at me warily. "Keep it general. I don't want the D.O.D. coming down on my ass."

Stark let out a snort of laughter at my informality. "Our working group, from the war," he told me. "Experimental weapons design and development." At my quizzical look, he added: "How to make a bigger bomb." Stark pointed to each face in turn. "Me, Banner, Reed Richards, and Hank Pym."

"So I gathered," I said. I indicated Richards. "What can you tell me about him?"

Stark eyed me suspiciously. I couldn't blame him for his caution; most of what he knew was Top Secret at minimum. "Richards? Why?"

"Banner was last seen with a tall, dark-haired man," I said with a shrug. "This Richards fits that description. He in town?"

Stark snorted again. "It wasn't Reed Richards."

"Sure?"

"Pretty sure," Stark drawled, studying his fingernails. "He's been dead for over a year."

There was a flicker of pain under the nonchalance in his voice, and I winced. Good one, Barton. "Sorry," I apologized.

Stark shrugged. "Cancer. Hazard of our line of work. The atom bites back."

"What did Richards do, exactly?" I asked.

"Theoretical physics," Stark replied, taking a long swallow of his scotch. He studied me for a moment, clearly weighing his words. Apparently he liked what he saw, because he continued. "Same as Banner, though Banner's more of a specialist. They figured out what was possible." Stark set down his glass and tapped Pym. "Pym's a materials guy; he developed whatever they needed to make the gadget work."

"What did you do?"

Stark grinned. "Engineer. I put it all together."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," I told him, "but Pym's dead. They pulled him out of Lake Mead a couple days ago."

His smile faded. "Christ," Stark sighed. He reached up and rubbed his temples. The tired lines around his eyes deepened. "Foul play?"

"Unclear," I said, thinking of the vague telegram.

"Christ," Stark sighed again. He lowered his hand and looked at me. "I'd heard he was missing, but… I knew he'd had some trouble in the past. I guess it finally caught up with him."

Pym was missing when he died? This was new, and I didn't like it. I raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Pym was always a little…unstable. Far as I know, he got worse after the war. Only guy I knew who hated Nazis more than I did."

After two years in a Nazi prison camp, that was saying something. Still, Stark seemed a little vague about a guy he'd worked in such close quarters with for so long. "Far as you know?" I asked skeptically.

Stark bristled a little. "Unlike everyone, I got on better with Richards than Pym. We were never close."

He didn't have any particular reason to lie, so far as I could tell, so fair enough. "When did you last see him?"

"Richards or Pym?"

"Both."

Stark frowned slightly. "Pym was out at Berkeley. Last I saw him was probably at Richards' funeral, about a year ago. Banner was there, too. I hadn't seen Richards since '46, when he left for APL."

"Where's that?"

"Near Baltimore," Stark said. He fell silent for a moment. "I tried to see him, you know. Before the end. But by then he wouldn't see anyone, not even Sue."

"Sue?"

"His wife," Stark explained. "She told me he'd been out west for some experimental treatment. It didn't work." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "You know, I think Pym's wife is from Chicago. Janet. I didn't know her well. She'd know more about him."

I made a note to track down Janet Pym. It might be nothing, but then again, it might not. "Thanks. And I'm sorry about Pym and Richards."

Stark shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "The real question," he mused, "is what all this has to do with Bruce Banner." I didn't volunteer anything, but I could feel Stark's intelligent dark eyes boring into me. "You found him, didn't you?"

I nodded.

"He's in trouble, isn't he?" Stark asked. He picked up his glass and drained it.

I nodded again.

Stark sighed. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were troubled. His voice was quiet and worried. "What kind of trouble?"

I took another drink of my own scotch, rolling it around a little on my tongue to taste the quality before replying. I decided to try to shock Stark, to see if he would drop something he might not necessarily want me to know about Banner. "The kind that ends with a dead girl," I said, "And a ride to the psych ward."

Stark's eyes went wide. "What?" he snapped.

"You mentioned Pym was unstable," I observed. "Did Banner ever show any unstable tendencies?"

"Banner?" Stark exclaimed incredulously. "He's the sanest guy I know."

I believed him, but I raised my eyebrows questioningly anyway.

"Sure, he's got a temper, but Bruce would never hurt anyone," Stark hastily elaborated. He looked shaken, more shaken than I had expected. "I only saw it once or twice, and only when someone took dangerous shortcuts during experiments. I never even saw him drunk, except for after Nagasaki."

I set my glass down on the smoking stand and picked up my hat. "One last thing," I said. "Were you ever given any pills? For radiation, I mean."

Stark blinked, seemingly a little surprised by the non sequitur. "Sure. We all got them. Some kind of iodine compound, I think. Never bothered to take them."

This surprised me, especially with what he'd told me about Richards' death. "Why not?"

Stark laughed hollowly. He tapped the center of his chest. It clicked metallically. "Chances are, Agent Barton, that this thing will kill me first."

I thanked him for his assistance, but he wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were distant as he poured himself another scotch. I left him to drink his liquid courage before facing his guests again, and headed out into the rain.