Greg Cox - A Touch of Fever

Only the fact that he was already dying anyway, despite all of Vanessa’s best efforts, had allowed him to get his way in the end.

Myka did not find that terribly reassuring. “Forget it.” He hobbled past her into the park. “You coming or what?” She briefly considered knocking him out with the Tesla, but wasn’t sure he would survive the shock. Leaving the sidewalk behind, she caught up with him. Central Park was a king-size oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle.

Skyscrapers, visible even through the trees, enclosed the park, which stretched for blocks above and below them. Myka took a moment to orient herself. According to Artie, the psychic fair was being held in the Sheep Meadow, slightly northwest of here. At least Pete wouldn’t have to walk too far. In an eerie coincidence, a Civil War monument was installed on a grassy rise a few yards away. A solitary Union soldier posed atop a tall pedestal, his bronzed hands resting vigilantly upon his rifle. An inscription on the pedestal dedicated the statue to the honored dead of the Seventh Regiment, who had given their lives to defend the Union. The memorial reminded Myka of the death and carnage that Clara Barton had witnessed over a hundred years ago. A chill ran down her spine. She caught Pete eyeing the statue as well. They exchanged a wordless look. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both had to be thinking the same thing. The Civil War was over. Clara Barton’s gloves needed to be retired. No more reenactments, she thought. No more fever. “Come on,” Pete said. He turned his back on the monument. “We can play tourist later.” They headed west along a paved walkway. Bare branches testified to the changing of the season. Fallen leaves littered the grounds. Myka resisted an urge to take Pete by the arm. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. However, that didn’t stop her from casting frequent, anxious glances in his direction. He was looking worse than ever. His face was drawn. His hands were shaking. His lips were cracked and dry.

Although he tried not to show it, he grimaced with every step. He bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound, but didn’t always succeed. His hollow cheeks, in need of a shave, hinted at how much weight he had lost just in the last forty-eight hours. A jacket and sweatshirt hung loosely on his shrunken frame, like they no longer fit him. Purple shadows haunted his eyes. The haggard, halting figure bore little resemblance to the gung ho, hyperactive Pete she was used to.

The contrast was so heartbreaking Myka had to look away. She couldn’t bear seeing him like this. I can’t lose another partner, she thought.

I can’t. As it turned out, locating the fair was not an issue. Throngs of people were converging on the meadow, carrying the two agents along with them. Myka let the crowd herd them in the right direction, even as she fretted at the size of the turnout. If what Artie surmised was true, and Worrall was growing more and more infectious every day, all of these people could be in danger. Typhoid fever had killed at least thirty thousand soldiers in the Civil War. For all they knew, Worrall was just getting warmed up. Her eyes searched the people around them, but didn’t see their target anywhere. Nadia was nowhere in sight, either. Myka hoped this wasn’t a wild-goose chase. They have to be here, she agonized. Pete can’t last much longer. An irresistible current of humanity swept them to their destination. An open, fifteen-acre lawn near the center of the park, the Sheep Meadow had a long history of hosting large public gatherings. Over the years, it had attracted numerous outdoor concerts and shows, political demonstrations of every stripe and persuasion, love-ins, bed-ins, fireworks displays, dog shows, “star parties,”and even the world’s biggest water-pistol fight back in 2008. Myka remembered visiting the meadow as a child during a vacation to Manhattan. She had been disappointed to discover that sheep no longer grazed there. The 2011 Psychic Exposition had taken over the meadow in a big way. Row after row of tents and booths and stages filled the lawn to capacity, while hordes of people crowded between them. Flapping banners advertised everything from tarot readings to ancient Atlantean spirit guides. New Age music blared from loudspeakers, competing with the hubbub of thousands of excited conversations, lectures, and sales pitches. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. The crowd was a diverse one, typical of NYC. Along with the hippieish New Age sorts Myka had expected, sporting ponytails, tie-dye, and beads, there were also well-groomed yuppies, college kids, senior citizens, Goths, punks, wannabe rappers, and families pushing strollers. People sat on park benches, tapping on their laptops, or meeting up with friends. Trash bins overflowed with discarded coffee cups, newspapers, and fast-food wrappers. Every other person seemed to have a cell phone or Bluetooth surgically melded to their ears, and was stubbornly attempting to conduct a conversation amidst the buzzing chatter. It was an eavesdropper’s paradise. “Oh my God.” Myka was overwhelmed by the enormity of the crowd. She had thought that carnival back in West Haven was packed, but that was nothing compared to the vast extravaganza enveloping them. There had to be at least fifteen thousand people squeezed into the meadow, if not more. “It’s like Woodstock.” “But without the sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll.” Pete gaped at the mob. “So why bother?” They wandered randomly through booths hawking crystals, massages, and Native American dream catchers. The fair expanded across the length and breadth of the entire meadow, spilling over into adjacent fields and clearings. Crowd control was a lost cause. Innumerable strangers bumped against them. Myka closed ranks with Pete to avoid losing him in the crush. “It’s so huge,” she said “I don’t even know where to begin.” “You and me both.” Pete paused to observe a Reiki exhibition, where a small troupe of enthusiastic practitioners, wearing matching yellow kimonos, were laying their hands on volunteers from the audience. A painted backdrop illustrated the placement of various key chakras. “Trying to find a specific psychic healer at this place is like looking for a Klingon at a Star Trek convention. They’re everywhere.” He wasn’t wrong. Myka tried to figure out some way to narrow the search. How were they supposed to find Nadia-or Calvin Worrall-in a mob this size? “Even if they’re here, we could roam all day without spotting either of them.” Pete leaned on his cane. He sucked in air. “Not really sure I’m up to that, Mykes.” “I know.” That Pete was even willing to admit that he was nearing the end of his rope meant that he was in seriously bad shape. The end couldn’t be far away. Myka discreetly took hold of his arm and started looking around for someplace he could sit down. Perhaps inside one of the tent shows? “Do you need to rest for a moment? Maybe a drink of water?” He licked his cracked lips. “I don’t suppose I can get a corn dog?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Not that kind of fair, I’m afraid. This looks more like a green tea and macrobiotic tofu kind of place.” “In that case, I’ll pass.” Pete’s face twisted and he clutched his stomach. “Probably couldn’t keep it down anyway.” A sudden cramp struck him. He doubled over, gasping in pain. A racking cough shook his body. He placed a hand over his mouth. A crimson mist sprayed between his fingers. “Oh, God, Pete! You’re coughing up blood!” “I’ll be okay,” he moaned unconvincingly. His white knuckles gripped the cane, which, along with Myka’s arm, seemed to be the only things holding him up. “Just need a sec…” He needed a lot more than that, she realized. And time was running short. “That’s it,” she insisted. “We’re getting you to a hospital now.” Her photographic memory called up a map of upper Manhattan. Where was the nearest emergency room? St. Luke’s? New York Presbyterian? “N-no!” Pete struggled to straighten up. It killed her not to help him up. “Not until we find those gloves-and the bastard that did this to me.” Myka appreciated the sentiment, but had to face facts. “You’re too sick.