Greg Cox - A Touch of Fever

“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.