Greg Cox: A Touch of Fever

“Back to the Warehouse for you,” he muttered. “Safely away from any fault zones.” He peeked at his watch. They needed to keep an eye on the time. Mrs. Frederic could keep the area contained for the present, citing “national security,” but they shouldn’t linger. The sooner he and the others relocated to a more secure location, the better.

Fortunately, the Regents had long ago arranged for a safe house down in the Village, tucked away inside the old Northern Dispensary building. They could camp out there before heading back to South Dakota with the gloves. Where to shelve them? he wondered, thinking ahead. In the Civil War wing, next to Harriet Tubman’s thimble, John Brown’s body, and the original grapes of wrath? Or in the medical aisle, alongside the Hippocrates and Florence Nightingale collections?

There was always the Dark Vault, of course, but that was getting a bit crowded… A bitter voice interrupted his ruminations. “Who are you people anyway?” Worrall demanded. His hands cuffed behind his back, he had been propped up against a convenient tree trunk. Dried goo caked his face and clothes. He strained impotently against his bonds. “This is none of your business!” “You couldn’t be more wrong about that, actually.” Artie ambled over to check on their prisoner.

He eyed Worrall curiously. “How’s your head, Calvin? The migraines still bothering you?” The question took Worrall by surprise. “How do you know…?” “I know all sorts of things, Calvin. That’s my job.”

He removed a magnifying glass from his leather satchel and examined the veins beneath Worrall’s hairless scalp. They didn’t look particularly swollen. “Anyway, about your head?” “It’s fine,” Worrall said sourly. He twisted away from Artie’s examination. “What do you care?” “Just testing a hypothesis. And your ulcer?” “My ulcer?”

Worrall paused. A puzzled look came over his face, as though he had just noticed something. “It’s not bothering me.” A note of wonderment crept into his voice. “Not at all. I feel fine.” He tugged on the cuffs. “All things considered.” Interesting, Artie thought. Just as I theorized. “Ironically enough, Calvin, I suspect that wearing both gloves actually cured you of your various ailments. You can probably look forward to a long and healthy life… in federal custody.”

Worrall frowned. “What do you intend to do with me?” That was for the Regents to decide. Now that Worrall had been stripped of the infectious left glove, he no longer posed an active threat to humanity, but his ruthless actions required some manner of retribution. Artie doubted if the Regents would have Worrall bronzed alive, as had been done to many of the most dangerous individuals in history, including MacPherson and H. G. Wells, but Worrall was going to need to be kept under wraps from now on. There were other hazardous artifacts still at large in the world, after all, and Calvin had already demonstrated a reckless desire to wield them. They couldn’t risk him getting his hands on something comparable to Clara Barton’s gloves-or maybe even worse. “Let us worry about that,” Artie said.

“You just stay put while we clean up your mess.” “But you can’t simply hold me like this!” He squirmed indignantly, rattling his cuffs. His once pallid face turned an apoplectic shade of purple. “I demand to call my lawyer!” Artie chuckled at the notion. “I’m afraid you have us confused with the FBI. We don’t work that way.” He turned his back on the renegade collector. “Enjoy your migraine-free life, Calvin. At least you got something for your trouble. And ours.” Worrall cursed Artie vociferously as the agent walked away. Artie tuned him out.

Calvin was just a minor detail to be disposed of now. What really mattered was Clara Barton’s gloves, now safely residing inside a neutralizer bag within his satchel. They had come a long way from the bloody battlefields and disease-ridden infirmaries of the Civil War, but their wanderings, both together and apart, were nearing their end.

He peeked inside the satchel to make sure they weren’t acting up. “No more touring for you,” he said. “And no more sideshows.” Their next stop was a permanent engagement at Warehouse 13.

LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST

“Of course!” Myka finally finished that crossword puzzle she had been working on before. “A six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’ is… ‘gloves.’” She triumphantly filled in the final square. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”

Breakfast was on the patio again. The B amp;B’s grounds and gardens were nowhere near as expansive as Central Park’s, but she wouldn’t have traded them for all the buried treasures in the Warehouse. It was good to be home. Coffee, croissants, and fresh-squeezed orange juice were laid out atop the table, alongside the morning papers. Pete wolfed down pastries like there was no tomorrow, clearly making up for lost time. He had already gained back much of the weight he had lost in the hospital. Myka took his healthy appetite as proof that his fever had passed for good. That’s our Pete, she thought, claiming a croissant before they all disappeared. She looked forward to him annoying her for years to come. Pete wasn’t the only person who was recovering.

According to Vanessa Calder, those afflicted by Calvin Worrall were now responding to conventional treatment. Neutralizing the gloves had not cured Worrall’s victims, but now their fevers could be treated by antibiotics and other forms of modern medicine, unavailable in Clara Barton’s time. Vanessa expected them all to make a full recovery.

“This is such a waste of my talents,” Claudia grumbled as she clipped out newspaper articles for Artie’s files. “Doesn’t he know print is passe? Digital is where it’s at.” “Think of it as a hard copy backup,”

Myka advised. She suspected that Artie just wanted to keep Claudia too busy to cause any more havoc in the Warehouse. Apparently, there had been an incident concerning a totem pole? “Indulge him.” “Easy for you to say.” Claudia worked her scissors like she was digging ditches. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re not stuck scrapbooking like a suburban hausfrau…” “Maybe you’ll get time off for good behavior.” Pete stole a copy of the New York Times from Claudia’s pile. “Hey, check this out,” he mumbled through a mouthful of buttery pastry. “Says here that a freak earthquake in Central Park resulted in an episode of mass hysteria.” He squinted dubiously at the front page. “You really think anyone’s going to buy that?” “As opposed to believing that Clara Barton’s cursed gloves nearly gave everybody typhoid fever?” Myka assumed that Mrs. Frederic or the Regents had somehow planted that story-and covered up what had really taken place.

“People want sane, rational explanations. I know I did… before.”

“Yeah, not even our next door neighbors can handle the truth.” Claudia slid a newly excised clipping across the table. “According to the Univille Unquirer, a spectacular ‘air show’ at the street fair this weekend was rained out by an unexpected storm. They’re blaming global warming.” She took a break from scrapbook duty to pour herself a fresh glass of OJ. “Apparently, somebody vandalized a sculpture in the park too.” “Bummer,” Pete said. “I always liked that thing. It was totally tubular.” “Oh, really?” Myka looked askance. “Since when have you been interested in modern art? Your idea of high culture is a Jersey Shore marathon.” “Hey, don’t diss The Situation” He patted his abs. “Can I help it if you have no idea what cool is?” Before Myka could fire back with the ideal retort, the screen doors opened and Leena joined them on the patio. She brought a bowl of ripe strawberries to go with the croissants. She smiled wryly at the agents’ friendly bickering.