Who: Bart and Chuck (via phone) What: Father and son are finally on the same page Where: Bart's BI office in midtown and the Table D'Hote on East 92nd. When: After midnight, Thursday (the same night as the attack)
This entire week had felt like an unending nightmare, but hearing his son’s strained voicemail had plunged Bart into a new state of panic. He had been busy in a tense phone conversation with his contact at the Health Department, still spending every waking moment trying to keep the part that Bass Industries had inadvertently played in this disaster under wraps. Money was no longer proving enough, he had had to use his personal contacts and the information he held over them to see any results.
Placing the phone heavily in its carrier, he had paused for a moment to recollect his thoughts before his next call when he glanced briefly at his personal cell phone. The missed message light blinked insistently and with a frown Bart pushed it closer with an impatient sweep of his hand across the desk. A few quick moves of his fingers, and it was Charles’ name that was displayed. His frown deepening, Bart brought the phone to his ear and pushed the play button. His heart seemed to stop beating entirely for a long minute as he listened, before it resumed at a new, frantic pace.
“Karen!” Bart shouted into the intercom, his finger pushing the button with enough force to cause the tip to turn white. “I need a car to pick up Charles… address is East 92nd. Some French place... Table D'Hote. And they need to get there now, fucking right now.”
Even as he barked the order, his head was bent over his cell, pushing the contact number for his son. His other hand was flattened against the polished mahogany of the desk, the tense muscles straining against the skin.
“Charles?” Bart demanded urgently when the phone stopped ringing. “Are you there?”