A Touch of Fever

CHAPTER
13

FAIRFIELD

Pete felt like crap. His body was burning up. Hot and sweaty, he kicked off his covers in a vain attempt to cool down. The sudden movement proved to be a mistake. A pounding headache was dialed up to eleven. Excruciating cramps twisted his guts. He coughed violently, the jarring convulsions just torturing him more. He fell back against his pillow, gasping. “Take it easy there.” Vanessa Calder hurried over to straighten out his blankets. She gently probed his distended abdomen with her fingers. “How does that feel?” A pained wince was all the answer she needed. “The herbal treatments don’t seem to be working,” She fiddled with the IV. “I’m increasing the dosage on the painkillers. That should give you a little relief.” At least for a while. He appreciated her bedside manner, but he could tell from her worried expression that she was fighting a losing battle. He hadn’t felt this bad since the time that Saracen scorpion thingie attached itself to his spine. That had nearly fried his entire nervous system before Myka figured out a way to get it off him. He could only hope she and the others were hot on the trail of another last-minute save.

“Crap!” His fist clenched in frustration. He hated being helpless like this, especially with so much at stake. He had always prided himself on being an active, take-charge kind of guy. Being stuck in bed, unable to fight for his own life, was killing him. In more ways than one. “Hey, look what I found.” Myka entered the room, bearing an armload of comic books. She joined the doctor at his bedside.

“Something to help you pass the time.” Grimacing, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. Vanessa helped by elevating the bed behind him, but the effort left him breathless and panting. Shaky hands accepted the comics, which turned out to be multiple back issues of The Iron Shadow. His favorite. “You’ve probably read most of them before,” Myka said apologetically, “but I didn’t know what else to get you.” “Don’t matter,” he croaked hoarsely. Despite the IV, his mouth felt as dry as the desert over Warehouse 2. He flipped through the brightly colored comics, getting a nostalgic charge from the familiar covers. There was even a copy of the classic summer annual featuring the return of the Iron Shadow’s archnemesis, the Oxidizer. He remembered reading it at summer camp when he was a kid. “These are great. Thanks.” She bit her lip, visibly struggling to hold it together. “Who knew there was a comics shop just a few blocks away?” She nibbled on a piece of red licorice from a vending machine. Pete knew her sweet tooth acted up whenever she was stressed out. “Well, okay, Claudia knew. She found it on the Internet.” “That’s our Claudia,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Have Google, will travel.” Myka looked anxiously at Vanessa. “How’s he doing?” “Let’s talk outside,” the doctor suggested, clearly reluctant to discuss his chances right in front of him. “So Pete can enjoy his new reading material in peace.” Taking Myka by the arm, she guided her out into the hall, where the two women conferred in hushed tones. Pete observed them discreetly. He couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but he caught phrases like “already in stage two,”

“enlarged spleen,” “high fever,” and “distinct possibility of delirium.” And what the heck were “bronchial rhonchi”? Myka fretfully tied her licorice stick into knots. “But there must be something you can do.” “I’ve tried everything,” Vanessa said. “All I can do is treat his symptoms now.” She placed a comforting hand on Myka’s shoulder, then headed off to check on the latest test results. Myka took a moment to compose herself before rejoining Pete in the room. Her eyes were damp. “So, the Iron Shadow save the world yet?” He knew she was just trying to keep his spirits up, but there was no reason she had to shoulder this burden alone. “You do remember that I can read lips, right?” “Oh my God.” Aghast, she looked back over her shoulder at the hall where she and Vanessa had just been talking. “How much did you…?” “I got the gist of it.” His sister was deaf. He had learned to read lips ages ago, in support of her. It came in handy sometimes. “It’s okay,” he assured Myka. “I’m a big boy. I can handle the truth.” She sat down beside him and took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Pete. We’re working around the clock to find Nadia’s glove, but Vanessa says your condition is progressing even faster than expected.

We’re running low on time.” He valued her honesty. “Thanks for being straight for me.” He flipped through one of the comics. “And for actually setting foot in a comic-book shop again. I know that’s not exactly your comfort zone.” “Hey, don’t forget: I was a superhero myself once, for about ten minutes in Detroit that one time.” A vivid flashback, of Myka blasting energy bolts from a pair of high-tech gauntlets while wearing a skintight latex suit, drew a chuckle from his lips. “Trust me, that’s burned into my memory forever.” “I’ll bet.” Her wry tone gave way to a more somber expression. “Pete,” she said tentatively, as though uncomfortable with what she was about say.

She twirled a lock of her hair, a nervous habit he often teased her about. “Speaking of reading lips, do you want me to call your sister?

I’m sure Artie and Mrs. Frederic can arrange to bring her here. Just in case.” He shook his head. “I’m not ready to go there yet.” He and Myka lived dangerous lives, constantly placing themselves in jeopardy.

He had already written his sister a letter, to be delivered to her someday when his luck finally ran out. That would have to be enough.

“I’m not giving up. Just like we didn’t give up on you when you were dying of old age thanks to that freaky camera.” “Don’t remind me,” she said. “I still cringe whenever I think I’ve found a gray hair.” Pete remembered Myka lying on her deathbed, just like he was now, Man Ray’s camera having artificially aged her to the point of extinction. “The point is, we found a way to reverse the process. Just like you found a way to get that electro-scorpion off me way back when.” This wasn’t the first time one or both of them had faced death. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be the last. He flipped through another comic. A two-page spread depicted the Iron Shadow breaking free from a supposedly escape-proof death trap. With a little help from his allies, of course. “Artie and Claudia will figure something out. They always do, right?” WAREHOUSE 13 “Got him!” Artie leaned back in his office chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He contemplated the computer monitor in front of him with grim satisfaction. Now we’re making headway, he thought. Finally. “Him who?” Claudia scurried over from her own desk. She and Artie had pulled an all-nighter trying to track down one or both of Clara Barton’s gloves. She peered over his shoulder. “Who him?” “Our mystery man, the one who infected Pete in Fairfield.” He nodded at the screen, which displayed an enlarged driver’s license photo of a gaunt, bald-headed fellow with sunken eyes and a sour expression. Ashen, waxy skin was stretched tight over a skull-like visage. He appeared much older than his birth date implied.

“Meet Calvin Worrall, of the Palm Beach Worralls.” “Jeepers!” Claudia recoiled from the photo on the screen. Her face curdled in disgust.

“Dude looks like Nosferatu’s kid brother. On a bad day.” Artie couldn’t disagree. Granted, DMV photos were seldom flattering, but Worrall’s bloodless, haggard visage was enough to give small children nightmares. More important, he also matched Pete and Myka’s description of the stranger who had assailed them outside the high school gymnasium. The one who was apparently in possession of Clara Barton’s left glove. “We’ll need to transmit this photo to Myka for confirmation,” he stated, “but I’m pretty sure Calvin’s our guy. He fits the profile perfectly.” Artie kicked himself for not thinking of Worrall earlier. “I should have realized it was him.” Claudia gave him a quizzical look. “You know this guy?” “I know of him,” Artie clarified. “He’s a collector of rare curios, particularly those associated with healers and healing. I try to keep to keep tabs on various ‘amateur’ enthusiasts, just in case they stumble onto something dangerous. Worrall’s been in the game for a few years now.

He once nearly outbid me on Rasputin’s prayer rope.” The object in question currently resided on Level 5 of the Warehouse, after being re-neutralized several weeks ago. “But I’d always chalked him up as a dilettante, with more money than expertise. He seemed harmless enough.

More of an occasional nuisance than anything else.” “Tell that to Pete,” Claudia said. “Indeed. It seems I underestimated Calvin. Looks like he’s somehow managed to get his hands on a genuine artifact.”

Artie scratched his beard. “I wonder where he found it.” “Not sure that matters anymore,” Claudia said. “We need to find this guy, pronto.” She had her priorities straight, Artie conceded. Myka’s most recent update from the hospital suggested that Pete was declining fast. Tracing the provenance of the gloves could wait. Right now they needed to find them and neutralize them. He forwarded Worrall’s file over to Claudia’s computer. “Do a complete search on Calvin. Credit cards, secondary residences, magazine subscriptions… anything that might tell us where he is now.” “You got it, chief!” She practically dived back into her seat at the other desk. Her nimble fingers danced over the keyboard. “I’m on this like wasabi on sushi.”

Artie was tempted to supervise, but resisted the impulse. Claudia could handle this. After all, she had managed to track down Warehouse 13 by herself, with only a little covert assistance from MacPherson.

If anything, her investigative skills had only grown sharper since then. Don’t be a backseat driver, he scolded himself. Let her take the wheel. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly six in the morning, which meant that it wasn’t even eight a.m. in Connecticut.

Probably too early to run Worrall’s photo by Myka. She’d had a long night. He didn’t want to wake her if she was actually managing to get some sleep. ID’ing the photo could wait another hour or so. Hopefully, they would have some solid leads for her by then. He poured himself a cup of coffee. A plate of leftover donuts served as breakfast. Where are you, Calvin? What are you up to? While Claudia searched online, Artie stared at the photo on the screen, trying to get into their quarry’s head. According to Myka, Worrall had been after Nadia’s glove as well, but why? Simply to complete his collection, or was there more to it than that? Reviewing the man’s file, he encountered a mother lode of old medical records and prescription refills. That’s right, he recalled. Calvin had always been a veritable catalog of ailments and infirmities. No wonder he was so obsessed with healing talismans. Did he think Clara Barton’s right glove could cure him for good? Probably.

But why was Worrall making people ill in the meantime? He rested his chin on his knuckles, mulling it over. Artifacts had their own peculiar logic. You simply had to figure it out. Fortunately, he’d had plenty of practice at that. “Hold on,” he muttered. “Didn’t Pete and Myka say that they thought that healing people was making Nadia sick?”

Claudia looked up from her computer. “Yeah, I think so.” “Suppose the other glove does just the opposite? Healing Worrall by making other people ill?” “You may be onto something there, Marcus Welby,” she replied. “Sounds just twisted enough to be right.” She rolled her eyes. “And the fact that it makes sense to me just proves that I’ve been working here too long.” “Just wait until you’re my age.” He ambled over to her desk. “Any progress?” “Already?” She snorted.

“Impatient much?” “You have complete access to every database on the planet.” He glanced again at his watch, wondering if he should wake Myka to debrief her. He wanted to know if Worrall had looked healthier after he infected Pete. “How hard can it be to find one walking epidemic?” “Harder than it sounds, actually,” she admitted, a trifle sheepishly. “He’s gone off the grid in a major way. From what I can tell, he withdrew a large sum of money a while ago and dropped out of sight. He hasn’t used his credit cards for months.” Artie frowned.

“What about his cell phone?” “No recent calls. To be honest, I get the impression this guy isn’t much of a people person. He’s not even on Facebook.” She stubbornly bounced around the Internet, surfing from Web site to Web site. “He’s probably relying on disposable phones, if he’s talking to anyone at all.” “Sounds like he’s being very careful,”

Artie deduced, “which means he’s worried about being tracked or being linked to that chain of typhoid fever outbreaks.” He gave Worrall points for paranoia. “Very clever, Calvin. I should have been paying more attention to you.” “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Claudia said.

“It’s not like you haven’t been distracted lately, first by MacPherson, then by H. G. Wells. Not to mention the usual Warehouse wackiness.” He refused to let himself off so lightly. “No excuses. Not when it might cost Pete his life.” In his stint at the Warehouse, Artie had outlived most every other agent. He had seen far too many good men and women killed, driven insane, petrified, bifurcated, lost in space/time, or worse, all in the line of duty. Their diversely tragic fates weighed on him. He was in no hurry to add Pete to the Warehouse’s long list of casualties. “You know,” Claudia said, “I have to ask: Don’t we have something on the shelves that might be able to fix Pete? Maybe Louis Pasteur’s milk bottle or something?” Artie shook his head. “Too dangerous. Using one artifact to counteract another is never a good idea. Mixing their energies can produce random, wildly unpredictable results, like that time the disco ball accidentally triggered Lewis Carroll’s mirror. We could easily make Pete even worse.” “Really?” Claudia asked. “I hate to say it, but I’m not sure he’s got a lot to lose.” Artie gave her his sternest look. He couldn’t blame Claudia for grasping at straws, but this was something she needed to understand, especially if she was ever going take his or Mrs. Frederic’s place running the Warehouse. “There was an agent once,” he said gravely, “who tried to keep his bones from dissolving by ingesting a rare vial of powdered ivory.” “And?” Claudia prompted.

“You’ve heard of the Elephant Man?” She looked appropriately appalled.

“Oh. Ick.” “Ick indeed.” He trusted he’d made his point. “We have enough on our hands with Clara Barton’s gloves, no pun intended. The last thing we-or Pete-needs is to throw another artifact at him.”

“Okay,” she said. “Message received, loud and clear. No shortcuts.

It’s the gloves or nothing.” She reapplied herself to the search, zipping through cyberspace almost faster than Artie could follow.

Passport applications, tax returns, SAT scores, and library late notices flashed across the screen, one after another. Separate windows, each containing a different document or JPEG, fanned across the screen like playing cards dealt by a quick-fingered stage magician. She even called up a third-grade essay on how Worrall spent his summer vacation (getting his appendix removed, apparently). But all she found was dead ends. “Frell!” she cursed in geek. She threw up her hands. “In the immortal words of the Shat, this guy needs to get a life. How am I supposed to find him unless he surfaces sometime soon?

He’s a ghost!” He shared her frustration. Every minute that passed decreased Pete’s odds of survival. “What about typhoid fever? When was the last outbreak?” She had the answer at her fingertips-literally. “A football game in New Jersey, yesterday evening. A whole squadron of ambulances had to be dispatched.” “Who exactly was infected?” Artie asked. “The audience or the team?” “Both. Everybody.” She scanned the emergency dispatches and news bulletins. “Even the cheerleaders aren’t so cheery anymore.” Artie was troubled by the reports, which he read over Claudia’s shoulder. “This is not good. The infection rate is escalating, as is the list of fatalities. Hospitals all along Worrall’s route are filling up with dying fever patients, none of whom are responding to treatment. Worrall could be approaching plague proportions soon.” “Plague?” She made a face. “I’m guessing we want to avoid that?” “By all means,” he stated. As much as they were all understandably worried about Pete, he couldn’t lose sight of the bigger picture. Worrall and the left-hand glove were a menace, and exactly the kind of threat Warehouse 13 was meant to contain. “Any clue as to where he’s heading next?” “Nada,” she replied. “Nobody even remembers seeing him there. I think they’re all too busy groaning and puking their guts out.” Artie lost his appetite. “Thanks for that visual.” He put away what was left of his donut before pacing back and forth behind Claudia. “Maybe we’re going at this the wrong way.” “How do you mean?” “We know the gloves are being drawn together, and that Worrall is after Nadia’s glove. So perhaps we should focus our efforts on finding her?” Claudia connected the dots. “Because where Nadia is, Worrall is sure to follow.” “With the glove that made Pete sick.”

Artie wasn’t sure which glove they actually needed to cure Pete, but maybe it didn’t matter. “Forget Worrall for now. Concentrate on finding Nadia.” “And then?” she asked. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Find me Nadia-and that glove.” “Sounds like a plan, Stan.” She cleared her screen and started over. A blinking cursor awaited her direction. “Let’s see, if I was mystical healer with delusions of grandeur, where would I be this weekend?” “Don’t forget,” he coached her. “She may be using a new alias or stage name.” “Well, duh. Like I wasn’t going to think of that?” He backed off to give her a little space. Breathing down Claudia’s neck was not going to find an answer any faster, or at least he didn’t think so. He stretched his weary limbs. His creaking muscles and joints reminded him of just how long he had been at this. He envied Claudia’s youth and enthusiasm.

She was going to be a great agent someday-if she lasted that long.

“Okay, now. That’s more like it!” Her infectious grin boded well. New Age music tinkled from her computer’s speakers. He rushed back over to her desk. “What is it? What did you find?” “Take a gander at this, old man.” She gestured smugly at the monitor, which now displayed a Web site advertising a large psychic fair being held later today in New York’s Central Park. OVER 150 PSYCHICS,

MYSTICS, SEERS, HEALERS, AND VENDORS! the site proclaimed. AURA READINGS, CHANNELING WORKSHOPS, ANGEL GUIDES, CHAKRA IMAGING, DIVINATION, YOGA, MEDIUMS, AND PAST-LIFE REGRESSION. AN ENLIGHTENING AND SPIRITUALLY UPLIFTING EXPERIENCE FOR ALL OF MOTHER EARTH’S CHILDREN!

More like plenty of careless amateurs meddling in things that should be left alone, Artie thought crankily.

He had cleaned up too many messes caused up by well-meaning people tampering with the preternatural. Not everybody knew how to handle their gifts like Leena. “It says here that thousands of people are expected to attend,” Claudia said. “Including a certain up-and-coming psychic healer?” “Possibly.” Artie was impressed by her discovery.

This was a promising lead. He skimmed the Web site, perusing the fine print. “Any mention of Nadia or Princess Nefertiti?” “Not by name,” she conceded. “But c’mon, how can she resist a woo-woo-palooza like this? Think of all the people she could heal.” “Yes,” he added soberly. “And all the people Calvin Worrall can infect.” The prospect of the gloves converging in Central Park of all places filled Artie with apprehension. This was bigger than just Pete and what might happen to him. This was a potential catastrophe in the making. Artie’s Farnsworth rested on a nearby bookshelf. He snatched it up. To hell with what time it was on the East Coast. He needed to get hold of Myka. Before New York City turned into a plague zone.