A Touch of Fever

CHAPTER
21

EN ROUTE

Ten thousand feet above the eastern half of the United States, the scarlet triplane flew toward New York at speeds unimaginable to the flying aces of the First World War. In theory, a Fokker DR-1 could achieve only 115 miles per hour tops, but the Red Baron’s fabled fighter wasn’t any ordinary triplane, at least not anymore. Fierce winds buffeted Claudia’s face and goggles, forcing her to bury her face against Artie’s back. Her scarf came loose and went flying off into the sky. She considered stealing Artie’s. The Fokker’s flimsy wood-and-canvas construction rattled alarmingly. Its whirring propeller spun too fast to be seen. Scorched and shredded wings still bore the scars of the plane’s heated dogfight with the predatory thunderbird. Artifacts tended to be supernaturally durable, Claudia reminded herself, but she couldn’t help wondering if they were pushing the old warbird too hard. What if the primitive aircraft came apart under the strain? “Maybe you should ease up on the throttle?” “Huh?”

Artie’s hands clutched the stick, working it like a pro. Or, more likely, the stick was working him. “What did you say?” She shouted above the wind and engine. Her teeth chattered. “You think you should slow down?” “No time,” he barked. “The psychic fair has started, Pete’s sick, the gloves are in play, and Myka needs backup, ASAP. We may already be too late!” “Well, when you put it that way…” She resigned herself to a bumpy ride. “Explain to me again: How exactly are we getting this old bird to go jet speed?” “I’ve souped up its engine over the years,” he divulged, “using parts salvaged from one of Robert Goddard’s experimental rockets.” Goddard, a pioneering inventor, had been the father of modern rocketry. Flames shot from the Fokker’s exhaust pipe. A sudden burst of acceleration pressed Claudia against the back of the cockpit. “I always thought it might come in handy someday!” “And that’s safe?” “In theory,” Artie said, less authoritatively than she would have liked. “This is the Red Baron’s triplane. It’s never crashed before!” There’s always a first time, Claudia mused, but kept the thought to herself. “Tell that to Snoopy.”

The New York skyline appeared on the horizon. Claudia glimpsed the shamelessly phallic outline of the Empire State Building. No giant gorillas were in evidence, thank goodness. Triplane or not, she didn’t feel like re-enacting the last act of King Kong. That bloodthirsty totem pole had been enough for one day. Plus, they still had those darn gloves to deal with. “Look for someplace to land,” Artie shouted.

“Preferably out of the way…” She scanned the terrain below, searching for an empty field, a deserted parking lot, or the grounds of an abandoned factory. The view gave her vertigo. It was a long way down. “You do know how to land this thing, right?” “No,” he admitted.

“But hopefully the plane does.” A sonic boom rattled New Jersey.

CENTRAL PARK “Gather round, everyone. Sister Clara will be ready again in a moment.” Jim addressed the crowd while Nadia gathered her strength. Their “stage” consisted of a used Persian carpet they had rolled out atop the lawn. A red velvet sheet was draped over an aluminum lawn chair at the center of the rug, giving her someplace to rest between shows. Sessions, she corrected herself. A sturdy red box was set up in front of a microphone facing the audience. Twin poles, driven into the ground, supported a hand-painted white backdrop bearing a large red cross in honor of Clara Barton. Nadia had been reading up on the legendary nurse ever since those Secret Service agents had mentioned her back in Fairfield. She had felt an immediate kinship, a sense of connection, to Clara Barton, who had been everything Nadia wanted to become. She didn’t understand how it was possible, but she felt convinced now that her healing gifts came from Clara. Had the miraculous glove once belonged to the real Clara Barton? In her heart, Nadia knew it had to be so. I need to live up to her example, she thought. Even if it kills me. A starched white nurse’s uniform, several decades out of fashion, served as her latest costume. A blond wig helped to disguise her identity, or so she hoped.

Jim had wanted her to lay low for a while, after that close call outside the gymnasium, but she had found her calling; she couldn’t turn away from it if she tried. There were too many sick and injured people in the world, waiting to be healed. The moment she’d heard about this fair, she’d known it was where she belonged, no matter what. Where else could so many needy souls be able to find her, especially now that she was afraid to advertise online? It hadn’t been easy, but grateful supporters and benefactors had worked their connections to get her booked into the fair at the last minute, albeit under an assumed name. She couldn’t disappoint them. Despite their rudimentary setup, which had been thrown together on the run, a growing crowd surrounded the carpet, waiting for her to begin again.

Hushed voices murmured excitedly about the miracles they had already seen “Sister Clara” perform. Curious skeptics waited to be convinced.

After initially drawing only a handful of spectators, the throng had grown until it stretched across a large portion of the busy meadow, cannibalizing the audiences outside neighboring booths and stages.

There were hundreds of people, maybe even a thousand, waiting for her now. The most eager and hopeful jostled to get to the front of the crowd, but no fights had broken out, she was glad to see. Everybody seemed to be behaving so far, although, in the future, she would probably have to think seriously about arranging for crowd control.

The sheer size of the mob was more than a little intimidating. Could she really heal so many people in one day? Was it even safe to try?

Jim seemed to read her mind. “You’re already looking wasted,” he whispered. “Maybe you should call it a day?” She shook her head. “No way.” To be honest, she was seriously exhausted, but Jim didn’t need to know that. Clara Barton had risked her life to help wounded soldiers on the battlefield. She had spent her entire life doing good.

How can I do less? She sipped an energy drink to keep going. Maybe it would help. “Don’t be crazy.” Jim kept his voice low, but there was no mistaking how worried he was. “You’ve done enough for today.” He was wasting his breath. She hated to put him through this, but it wasn’t his decision. “We’ve talked about this before. I have to do this. The glove chose me.” She scratched at her right palm, which was starting to itch again. “If you really love me, you’ll accept that.” “You know I love you. That’s why I don’t want to lose you.” She didn’t doubt it.

“I love you too. But this is what I was born to do.” She finished off the energy drink and handed him the empty aluminum can. “I wish you could understand that.” “All right,” he grumbled. His fist crushed the can with more force than was necessary. Scowling, he scanned the hopeful horde awaiting her. “But if I catch even a glimpse of those Feds, or that creepy bald dude, we’re out of here, okay?” “We’ll see.”

Nervous fingers checked to make sure her wig was still in place. She didn’t want to get ambushed again, either, but that had been hundreds of miles from here, in a whole other state. There was no way those Secret Service types could find them here, was there? Amidst all these thousands of people? I didn’t even know I was going to be here until a few days ago. “‘We’ll see’?” Jim echoed unhappily. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She searched the crowd herself, but didn’t spot either the agents or the sinister intruder who had accosted them. All she saw was a legion of pilgrims longing to be healed by her gift.

Hundreds of expectant faces and fragile, fallible bodies called out to the glove, called out to her. She couldn’t keep them waiting any longer. “Shush,” she told Jim, raising a gloved finger to her lips.

Before he could object once more, she rose to her feet. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her legs threatened to give out, but she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and the moment passed. She still felt feverish and light-headed, yet she thought she could manage, at least for a little while longer. After that… well, maybe Jim had a point. Just one more healing session, she promised herself, then I’ll get some rest. Maybe. Stepping away from the chair, she walked slowly toward the audience. Jim helped her up onto the box so that the people in the back could see her. She took the mike from its stand and, with her left hand, held it to her lips. Her amplified voice rang out over the meadow. “Thank you for your patience,” she began, “and for joining us at this wonderful celebration of spirituality and the healing arts.” Her voice was a little shaky at first, but grew stronger as she felt a familiar compulsion grip her.

“I look forward to sharing my gift with all who need it.” The susurrus of hundreds of individual conversations fell silent. The crowd surged forward in anticipation, and for a terrifying moment she feared that she might be swept away by a tidal wave of suffering humanity, but she held up her hand like a traffic cop and the tsunami receded. The crowd halted at the edge of the carpet, hanging on her every word. Anxious parents thrust their children forward. Senior citizens were supported by younger, more able-bodied relatives. A young woman in a wheelchair waved her arm, desperate to be heard. A chorus of voices competed for her attention. “Help me, please!” “Are you for real? This isn’t just an act?” “Me first! Me first!” She couldn’t begin to count them all.

Healing each of them individually would take forever. Thankfully, that wasn’t necessary anymore. “Don’t worry,” she assured them. “There’s no need to push ahead. No one is going to miss out, not even those of you way in the back.” She perched on her tiptoes in hopes that all could see her. A sea of heads bobbed before her. “Just a word of warning before we begin. Some of you, those most in need of healing, with the most dire afflictions, may experience a momentary shock. You might even faint. So be prepared and look out for each other. I promise, it’s just a temporary side effect. You’ll all feel amazingly better afterwards.” She waited a moment or so to see if anyone wanted to change their mind about experiencing her gift, but nobody looked like they wanted to leave. If anything, the crowd seemed to be expanding by the minute. Nadia was deeply moved by their trust. She couldn’t wait to get started again. “All right,” she declared. “Brace yourselves.”

Without any further preliminaries, she raised her right hand in benediction. The audience gasped as a phosphorescent blue glow emanated from the glove. Nadia’s stomach turned over queasily, but she couldn’t stop now if she wanted to. Her gift was growing stronger. She didn’t need to touch people one by one anymore. She just had to let the healing power of the glove flow out of her. “Fear not! Let the light bathe you-and banish all your afflictions!” Sparking azure beams radiated outward, spreading over the crowd like a laser light display.

The audience oohed and aahed before succumbing to its restorative effect. People swooned throughout the crowd, often sagging into the arms of friends and loved ones. Not everyone collapsed, however.

Others merely moaned or sighed as minor aches and pains were washed away by the unearthly effulgence. Mere spectators, drawn only by curiosity or ailing companions, gaped in wonder. There was a smattering of applause. A few overwhelmed people sobbed in joy. Don’t thank me, Nadia thought. Thank Clara’s glove! She basked in the moment. An overpowering sense of exhilaration allowed her to ignore the nausea churning in her belly. She swayed atop her makeshift podium, a dreamy expression on her face, as she held her right hand aloft. The azure light grew brighter and brighter, outshining the sun.

All her doubts dissolved into the light. Forget the glove’s occasionally unpleasant side effects: this was the greatest moment in her life. She could die happy now… if she had to. Jim came up beside her, ready to catch her if she slipped. “New York City, babe,” he whispered proudly. She could tell he was making an effort to overcome his fears long enough to share this moment with her. “You’ve hit the big time.” Spoken like a born showman. She smiled indulgently. You can take the boy out of the sideshow, but you can’t take- A disturbance in the distance cut off her thought. There seemed to be something going on at the rear of the crowd, several yards away from the stage. Agitated shouts and exclamations reached her ears, contrasting sharply with the grateful sighs of the people nearer the front. People started racing madly away on the outskirts of the mob.

They looked scared. I don’t understand, Nadia thought. What’s happening? She peered over the heads of the swooning pilgrims, but there were too many people in the way. She couldn’t make out what the problem was. Had somebody had a scary reaction to the light? People often collapsed after being healed, but they had always recovered quickly before, and without any lingering effects. Maybe someone was just panicking prematurely? “It will be all right,” she called out in a calming tone. “If anybody’s feeling faint, just give them air.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise.” But the cries grew louder and more frightened, like something was seriously wrong. The commotion was impossible to ignore. The rest of the audience started looking around anxiously. Jim tugged on her arm. “Screw it!” he blurted. “I knew this was a bad idea. We need to get out of here!” “I can’t!”

Nadia resisted his pull. “These people trusted me. I can’t just leave them!” The glowing glove flickered, then flared up even more brightly than before. Her palm itched like crazy. She fought an urge to scratch it. Her heart was pounding and her legs felt like rubber. She wiped her brow with her free hand. Had this ever happened to Clara? The crowd parted before her, starting at the outer fringes but working its way toward the front. People started collapsing down the middle of the audience while the folks at the sides ran away in fear, forming a wedge-shaped gap pointed at the stage. Terrified men and women trampled over each other in their haste to escape. A wheelchair was knocked over, spilling a young paraplegic woman onto the grass. Newly healed, she sprang to her feet and joined the frantic exodus. A desperate father clutched a crying toddler to his chest as he shoved and shouted his way past the panicked people blocking his path. Right behind him, a family of four dropped to the ground in unison. They hadn’t gotten away quickly enough. Is this my fault? Nadia wondered.

Am I doing this? Her audience fell away, revealing the source of the tumult. A solitary figure wearing a tan trench coat strode down the center of the wedge. A swirling gray fog accompanied him, wafting about him like a misty aura. Oily tendrils spread outward from his presence, rolling across the meadow, close to the ground. Nadia recognized his gaunt face and baleful gray eyes at once. So did Jim.

“Crap! It’s that freak from before!” You could literally see the sickness fuming off him. The noisome vapors reeked of rot and disease.

The contaminated air rippled around him as though burning up with fever. A familiar-looking white leather glove resided on his left hand. It pulled on her like a magnet. He’s come for me, she realized.

For my glove. The stranger cut a swath through what was left of her audience, infecting people left and right. He swept his left arm before him to clear a path to the stage. Like her, he didn’t need to touch anyone to get to them. Fog billowed from his glove, throwing off infection with every wave of his hand. The plague felled all it touched. People dropped like flies, convulsing upon the ground. They coughed and moaned. Some even vomited. “This is effed-up!” Jim tried to drag her away. “Come on! We can still get away!” “No!” She yanked her arm free. “You go! I can help them!” She had to undo whatever the stranger was doing. Her face wrinkled in concentration as she called upon the full power of the glove. Help me, Clara! The spectral nimbus enveloping her hand intensified. Blazing blue light shone through the noxious gray mist, driving it back. The stranger was slowed as well.

He staggered backward, as though repelled by the light, but quickly regained his footing. “Very well.” A sardonic smile played upon his thin lips. He threw out his left hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got!” A battle of wills ensued. Left versus right. Sickness versus health.

Blue against gray. Caught in the middle, hundreds of innocent victims thrashed in agony upon the grass, their bodies and souls pummeled by conflicting waves of infection and relief. Nadia tried to heal them all, over and over again, even as the stranger spread his disease like wildfire. The luckiest souls, farther away from the conflict and as yet untouched by the fog, ran screaming from the meadow. Their headlong flight threw the entire fair into an uproar. Thousands of confused and frightened people, most not even knowing what had started the panic, started running as well. Pandemonium emptied the park, except for those who were already too ill to escape. They flailed about in torture. This is a nightmare, Nadia thought, her heart breaking. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I only wanted to help people! The weather was going wrong too. Angry black clouds came charging in from nowhere, hiding the sun. They clotted thickly overhead. Howling winds tore through the abandoned fair, blowing over deserted tents and booths. New Age pamphlets and trinkets flew about wildly. Fallen leaves swirled like red, yellow, and brown dust devils.

The temperature dropped to freezing. What had been a beautiful fall afternoon turned bleak and wintry. Just like in Fairfield. Clara Barton’s gloves, separated by time and fate, yearned for each other.

Nadia felt the other glove pulling on her. Her palm itched like an entire colony of ants had burrowed beneath the glove and were chewing voraciously on her flesh. His arm outstretched, the stranger marched toward her, callously stepping over and around the convulsing bodies strewn in his path. Despite herself, Nadia stepped off the box. She lurched toward him. “Wait! Where are you going?” Jim grabbed her around the waist, holding on to her like a lifeline. The irresistible force surprised him. “Son of a bitch! It’s sucking on you!” “Run!” she urged him. “Don’t let him get you!” “Not a chance!” He strained against the pull until they were leaning at nearly a forty-five-degree angle. Veins and tendons bulged on his neck. He grunted through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to let you go!” “You have to!” She tilted forward, dragging him behind her. Both of his arms were wrapped around her. Callused fingers, strengthened by years of knife practice, dug into her side. “Please, Jim. Save yourself!” “Not without you!”

They were fighting a losing battle, but she couldn’t give up. While Jim pulled with all his might, she kept trying to dispel the contagion spreading from the other glove. It was getting harder, though. She had never before healed so many people, so horribly sickened, and she had already felt wasted before the dreadful stranger had crashed her party. Now the strain was killing her. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and dripped into her eyes. Her head felt like it was going to explode. She was sick to her stomach. This was worse than ever before.

Despite the cold, she felt like she was burning up. But she couldn’t surrender. Too many innocent pilgrims were depending on her. I can do this, she thought, even as she shivered uncontrollably. My glove is just as strong as his. But was she? The stranger moved toward her decisively. His once ashen face was pink with health. A triumphant grin mocked her efforts. “What’s the matter?” he heckled her. “Feeling a little under the weather, are we?” It wasn’t fair. He seemed to be getting stronger even as she got weaker. The blue light began to dim.

A fetid gray fog bank rolled toward her. Ferocious winds assailed the stage from all directions. The painted backdrop tore loose from one post and flapped noisily behind her. It cracked like a gunshot. The red fabric draped over her seat blew away, exposing the folding aluminum lawn chair underneath. The chair tumbled across the carpet.

The air was full of flying debris. Dry leaves and litter smacked against her face. “Holy crap!” Jim yelled over the wailing winds. He shifted his grip around her waist, struggling to hold on. “Watch out!”

The overturned chair took flight. It came zooming at her head like a missile and he spun her around, shielding her with his own body. The chair clipped him in the side of the head. Airborne metal collided with flesh and bone, yielding a nauseating thunk. He grunted in pain.

“Aaagh!” “Jim?” The chair bounced away. Nadia twisted her head to look behind her. “Jim! Ohmigod, Jim!” Blood dripped from his scalp. His arms slipped away from her waist. He reeled backward, clutching his head. His fingers came away stained with red. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said weakly. “I promised to take care of you…” He collapsed onto the carpet. “Jim!” She wanted to go to him, heal him, but the gloves chose otherwise. Without Jim to anchor her, she was yanked off her feet in the opposite direction. She stumbled helplessly toward the stranger. The Fever Man. “At last we meet.” His bony face held an arrogant smirk. “You may not know it, but I’ve been following your career for some time now.” They came together at the edge of the stage. He seized her throat with his right hand while his gloved left hand grabbed onto her right. Thunder boomed overhead as the two gloves met. A sudden shock jolted Nadia. The ghastly fog swirled about their ankles. Her palm stopped itching. “Let go of me!” She struggled to get away, but he was stronger, healthier. She was too sick to fight back.

Her limbs felt like lead weights; she could barely lift them. The world spun dizzily around her. She couldn’t catch her breath.

“Who… who are you?” He tightened his grip on her throat. “Under the circumstances, I hardly think introductions are required.” Busy fingers unbuttoned her glove at the wrist. He tugged on the precious relic. “I’m not interested in you, only this miraculous glove.” “No, don’t!” Her heart sank as she felt the cozy leather slide off her fingers. “It’s mine!” “Not anymore.” Spittle sprayed from his lips.

His sour breath made her gorge rise. “You have no idea how long I’ve been searching for this particular item. My whole life, really.” The glove came away from her fingers, leaving her. He shoved her away and she tumbled to the ground, where she joined the hundreds of other quaking bodies strewn across the meadow. The fog surrounded her, seeping into her bones and invading her lungs. Too weak to get up again, she choked on the fumes. Chills and fever ravaged her prostrate form. She clawed feebly at the ground, trying to get away. The nausea was overpowering. She threw up in her mouth. “Clara Barton’s gloves,” the Fever Man gloated. He stood amidst a field of agonized victims, like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. He caressed the stolen glove reverently. “You never deserved this. You could never appreciate how much I needed it. It always belonged with me.” The gloves were a perfect match. “They belong together.” He stepped away from the false healer. She didn’t matter anymore. Even before he put it on, he could feel the power of the glove. It called to him like a drug. Fumbling with excitement, barely able to contain himself, he slipped it onto his naked right hand. White kid leather magically stretched to accommodate him. Eager fingers wiggled into the glove. He couldn’t don it fast enough. Finally! For the first time in generations, the gloves were reunited. Worrall stiffened in shock as their power met and merged within him. He stretched out his arms. Silver lightning arced between the matching gloves before blinking out of sight. His bloodshot eyes cleared. Constricting veins receded beneath his skin. A ruddy pink glow tinted his cheeks. Every last trace of fatigue and illness vanished from his body. He had never felt so alive, so powerful. He flexed his fingers. At long last, he held both life and death in his hands. Surging clouds circled above him, heralding his long-delayed apotheosis. An icy wind lifted the corners of his coat.

No longer caught in the crossfire of his duel with the girl, the anonymous masses littering the meadow stopped convulsing. Devastated by their ordeal, they sprawled comatose upon the ground. Their still and silent forms surrounded him like a garden of cadavers. Let them sleep, he thought coldly. They were just getting in my way before. He sneered at the girl on the carpet. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” “Who are you?” she whimpered, too weak to lift herself. Her bare right hand reached futilely for the stolen glove.

Anguished eyes filled with tears. “What are you going to do with them?” “Whatever I feel like, I suppose.” To be honest, he hadn’t given it much thought. He had always been too intent on finding the glove-and healing himself-to worry much about what came next. But now that he felt the power of both gloves coursing through his veins and sinews, all sorts of intoxicating possibilities flooded his imagination. “I’ve wasted too much of my life being sick and miserable. It’s about time I enjoyed myself and lived life to the fullest.” He held up his hands, admiring the gloves. They fit perfectly, as though custom-made. “These treasures are the key to my success.” “No,” she moaned. “You don’t understand. The glove is a gift. You need to use it to help people, like I did…” “And look where that brought you.” Her pathetic state was an unwelcome reminder of all the hours he’d spent sick in bed, too wretched to go anywhere or do anything. Years of envy and resentment demanded expression and he kicked her in the ribs, punishing her for hoarding his glove for so long. She rolled away from him, clutching her side. Worrall relished her misery. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. With these gloves, I alone will choose who will live and who will die.” He gazed out over the stricken rabble spilled across the meadow. The sight of so many helpless victims, all lying pitifully at his feet, only fueled his fantasies. His voice rose in exultation. “Heads of state and titans of industry will plead for my favor and fear my wrath. I’ll sicken entire nations if I feel like it, and bestow my blessings only on those who pledge allegiance to me…” “Yeah, right,” a female voice intruded. “Like we’re going to let that happen.”