Greg Cox - A Touch of Fever

Heading out, he took a parting shot at Myka. “Next time, just let me know when you’re pursuing an investigation in my county. As a matter of professional courtesy.” Myka bit her tongue. With any luck, there wouldn’t be a next time. The sheriff departed, leaving the two women in a bustling corridor outside Pete’s hospital room. Following Pete’s collapse at the high school, Pitts had at least had the decency to rush them both to the nearest hospital instead of a jail cell, even if he had insisted on treating Myka like a felon throughout. She doubted that he had been serious about locking her up; he had simply wanted to give Nadia and Jim plenty of time to make a clean escape-with Clara Barton’s right glove. “Thank you for bailing me out,” Myka said. “I still can’t believe that jerk pretended to think I was an impostor!”

“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Frederic replied. An enigma in pearls, she had personally recruited both Pete and Myka and kept a close watch over all things related to Warehouse 13. Nobody really knew how old she was. Even Artie was intimidated by her. “I couldn’t afford to have you hamstrung by the local constabulary, not when there are more urgent matters at hand.” Like Pete. Pushing the sheriff’s infuriating conduct out of her mind, Myka hurried into Pete’s room. She tried not to react at the sight of her partner lying sick in bed. An IV was hooked up to his arm. Blinking medical apparatuses monitored his vital signs, which appeared distressingly weak. His face was chalky and drenched in sweat. Rosy splotches blemished his exposed neck and collar. He was running a fever. Wet, raspy breaths whistled from his lungs. His eyes were lidded. He appeared only semiconscious. Myka hated seeing him like this. A blond woman was leaning over him, applying acupressure to his face and chest. It didn’t seem to be helping. He groaned in discomfort. Mrs. Frederic followed Myka into the room. “How is he faring, Doctor?” “Not good, I’m afraid.” Vanessa Calder turned away from her patient. An attractive woman in her late fifties, she wore a stylish blue jacket and turquoise necklace. Wavy yellow hair fell to her shoulders. She had personally doctored Warehouse agents and the Regents for many years now. Myka didn’t know her well, but she knew that Pete was in good hands. “How so?” Mrs. Frederic asked. Before Vanessa could answer, a portly physician wearing a white lab coat stormed into the room. His florid complexion and potbelly did not exactly set a healthy example for his patients. He yanked Pete’s chart away from Vanessa. “Excuse me,” he demanded, “what are you doing with this patient? I don’t believe you have privileges at this hospital.”

Vanessa retained her composure. “And you are…?” “Dr. William Vertue,” he huffed. “I’m in charge of this hospital-and this patient.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” She extended her hand. “Dr. Vanessa Calder, Centers for Disease Control. My apologies for not consulting you earlier, but we have an urgent situation here.” Her calm authority, and supposed affiliation, took the wind out of his sails.

“The CDC?” “Agent Lattimer here is Patient Zero,” she declared ominously, lowing her voice. “We need to establish an immediate quarantine. Nobody is to be allowed in this room except with my express permission.” She clucked at him. “To be honest, I was rather alarmed to discover that such measures had not already been implemented.” Vertue went on the defensive. “Well, um, we were still assessing the situation.” He glanced worriedly at Pete. “Patient Zero?

Quarantine? What precisely are we dealing with here?” “It’s best that we keep that under wraps for now.” She gestured at Myka, who made a production of closing the door to discourage eavesdroppers. “I cannot stress too highly the importance of keeping this case out of the press, in order to avoid a national panic. I trust we can count on your full cooperation-and discretion.” “Yes, yes. Of course.” He tugged at his collar. Without being too obvious about it, he sidled away from Pete’s bed, putting more distance between himself and the infected agent. “My lips are sealed.” “Thank you.” Vanessa gave him an approving nod. “I’ll be sure to mention your help to the surgeon general.” The funny thing was, Myka didn’t know whether Vanessa was conning the other doctor or not. The Regents had all sorts of connections and resources. For all Myka knew, Vanessa really did have pull with the CDC and the surgeon general. “Now, then, if you could see to that quarantine, I need to attend to my patient.” “Certainly.”

He handed the chart back to Vanessa. “This hospital is at your disposal.” He shut the door behind him on his way out. “Nicely handled,” Mrs. Frederic complimented Vanessa. “So, you were saying about Agent Lattimer?” Vanessa beckoned the other women away from Pete’s bedside. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said in a hushed tone. “Pete appears to have come down with some strange, exceptionally virulent version of typhoid fever.” “Typhoid?” Myka echoed. “Of course.” Mrs. Frederic sounded unsurprised by the diagnosis. “One of the greatest killers of the Civil War.” She shook her head before turning to Myka. “It’s vital that we locate that other glove, Agent Bering. Clara Barton was a remarkable woman.” She spoke almost as though she had known her personally. “She would not want her legacy to bring pain and suffering to the present.” At the moment Myka was more interested in preserving Pete’s future. She looked anxiously at Vanessa. “Can’t you do anything for him?” “I wish I could,” the doctor said. “Nowadays typhoid is treatable by antibiotics and rehydration therapy. But so far Pete’s fever is resisting both conventional and alternative treatments. The disease also appears to be progressing at a preternaturally accelerated rate.” She did not mince words. “If it can’t be halted, he’ll die soon of fever and peritonitis.” Myka couldn’t keep from gasping. Her hand went to her mouth. Mrs. Frederic appeared troubled as well. Myka wondered if she blamed herself for recruiting Pete in the first place. “Is he contagious, Doctor?” “Not excessively so. Under ordinary circumstances, typhoid is spread by food and water that has been handled by carriers of the disease.” “Like Typhoid Mary,” Myka recalled. “She was a cook. That’s how she managed to infect so many people.” “Exactly,” Vanessa confirmed. “As long as Pete refrains from cooking for us and takes a few reasonable precautions, we should be okay.” She glanced at the door. “That ‘quarantine’ business was to keep Dr. Vertue out of our hair-and this whole situation under wraps.”

Mrs. Frederic nodded. “What about Agent Lattimer? How long does he have?” “I’ll do what I can,” Vanessa promised. “But… days. Three or four at best.” Myka refused to accept that. “We need to find Nadia’s glove. The one that heals people. It might be able to save him.” “Possibly,” Mrs. Frederic said. “But at what cost?” Myka didn’t know how to answer that.

TRENTON, NEW JERSEY

Worrall kept an eye on his speedometer as he drove north. The last thing he needed was to get caught by some local speed trap. That had been a close call back at the high school. Too close. As far as he knew, the police were not looking for his car, but why press his luck? He had come too far, and been traveling too long, to risk running afoul of the law now. Not when he was so close. How long had this endless quest been going on? For years, really. Born to wealth, his body had always been his enemy. Weak and sickly, he had spent much of his childhood in bed or at doctors’ offices. While the rest of the world went about its business, enjoying life, he had been lucky to be able to function at all. Migraines. Ulcers. Allergies.