Wednesday, October 8, 2:13 p.m. Red-Shirted
"Grace?"
The dark-haired woman looked up from the cup of coffee she was pouring. She took in the other woman's coat and the purse slung over her shoulder and groaned. "Not another one already? I haven't finished the work-up on the last one yet."
"Oh, no," Sam reassured her hastily. "No new bodies. I'm going to pick up Chloe. The school just called and they think she has the chicken pox."
"Poor kid. That's awful."
"Yeah. And just think, now you too have all the joys of childhood illness to look forward to." Both women smiled.
"I can hardly wait."
"Anyway, Angel's in Memphis until the end of the week, so I'm not sure when I'll be in again. I just wanted to ask if you could you fax your analysis to the firehouse when you finish?"
"Sure, Sam. No problem. And tell Chloe I hope she feels better soon." She frowned slightly. "You know it's been a while since I checked, but I seem to recall that people usually contract chicken pox about a week or so before they start showing symptoms. Do you know where she picked it up?"
"Not really." Sam shrugged. "There haven't been any other cases in her class lately."
"Well, did she, by any chance, do anything with John in the last couple of weeks?"
"He took her ice-skating at Parkaire last weekend." It took her a moment to realize where Grace was aiming. "I'm sure he's had the chicken pox before."
"How sure?"
Sam turned to see where Grace was staring. John sat slumped at his desk on the far side of the open office scratching distractedly at his wrist. After a moment he used his pen to rub at a spot behind his right ear. With barely a pause he tugged at the collar of his shirt and scratched his shoulder. By the time Sam and Grace had crossed the office he had started at his wrist again.
"John?" Sam began hesitantly. She had already interpreted his slightly vacant stare as an unfavorable sign. "Have you ever … had the chicken pox?"
He frowned in attempted concentration. "I suppose… Maybe… I don't know."
Sam exchanged a worried glance with Grace, as he didn't even express enough curiosity to wonder why she was asking. She pulled back the cuff of his sleeve to reveal tiny bumps that he had already scratched raw as Grace put a professional hand to his forehead.
"At least a hundred," Grace said. He had closed his eyes wearily at her touch.
"Does that mean I have an excuse for going home early?"
**************** Friday, October 10, 11:27 a.m.
Sam looked up from the paperwork scattered across her kitchen table as the phone rang. She glanced over at her calamine-coated daughter tossing fitfully on the sofa before she answered.
"Sam, we really need you to come in."
"But, Bailey," she protested in what she hoped was a reasonable-sounding tone, "you know I can't. Angel won't be back for the rest of the week and there's no one else I can ask to look after Chloe."
"Ask John," Bailey said. "He can't come in to work and there's nothing else Chloe can do to him. We need you, Sam."
Ask John. Now that she thought about it, it seemed almost logical.
Sam sat through Bailey's briefing with divided attention. Half of her mind listened to and absorbed his words. The other half was focused on the small monitor from the firehouse that was currently displaying an image of John and Chloe on the floor of the living room going through Chloe's video collection. At Bailey's suggestion she had called John, who had readily agreed. After only a day and a half at home he already had cabin fever. When he arrived at the firehouse it occurred to Sam that he could use a little looking-after himself. Being an adult, the illness had hit him harder than it had Chloe. She guessed that he was still running a low fever and was on the verge of dehydration. She had reluctantly left the two invalids with calamine and orange juice and had tuned in the monitor as soon as she arrived at the office.
****************** Friday, 2:20 p.m.
Lewis Carroll had to have been on something, John thought as he watched Alice and several other characters dancing around a giant teapot. He had an odd flash of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and decided that watching this particular Disney video probably wasn't such a great choice for people who were already ill. Tripped out caterpillars and talking rabbits weren't really helping his headache at all. He looked down at Chloe, who was curled up beside him asleep. The Benadryl he had given her had wiped the poor kid out. John desperately wished the drug would do the same for him, but he wasn't so lucky. Combined with the movie, it just made his head swim. Lack of any solid food for the past two days merely compounded the problem. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping his body would take the hint. When he opened them again Chloe had turned into a dog.
He stared at the animal for a long minute. He had never been particularly fond of dogs and the fact that this one was staring back at him was rather disconcerting. The dog seemed to decide that John was suddenly no longer interesting and lay its head back down in his lap.
"Denzel's not supposed to be on the furniture," Chloe's voice said from somewhere behind him. Relieved to discover both that his young charge had not been transmogrified and that he had apparently managed to catch at least a couple minutes of sleep he sat up. Chloe sat at the table with her drawing pad and some colored pencils.
"If you're feeling well enough to do that," he said, "how about you take a whack at some of that homework?"
***************** Friday, 11:46 p.m.
It was late when she returned home. Chloe was already in bed. John was dozing on the sofa. He opened his eyes wearily as she came in.
"Long day," he observed. "Tell me you solved all our open cases."
"I'm sorry," she said. "This new case is just so…"
"I know. And worrying about Chloe can't be helping your concentration." He smiled weakly. "Don't worry so much. We're doing okay."
"I really appreciate this, John."
"No problem. It's not like I have anything else to do. I should be getting home, though. We doing this again tomorrow?"
"I hate to impose…" she began.
"Impose. Please. I'll die of boredom if you don't."
She had to smile at his exaggerated expression of horror. "But you're still sick, too. I don't want to wear you out."
"I am a little tired," he admitted. "But really, I'd rather be here and tired than home… by myself," he added softly.
She studied him carefully. He was unusually pale beneath the pink spots of lotion that dotted his neck and arms. His eyes were red and losing focus. As she watched they slowly closed. She gently reached to touch his hot forehead and his eyes fluttered open again.
"You are in no shape to look after anyone."
"I'm fine," he protested.
"You can't even stay awake through an entire conversation." She frowned at him and came to a decision. "You can't possibly drive home tonight in this condition."
He started to protest again then sighed instead. "I'm sorry, Sam. I would argue… but I don't have the energy. Give me another five minutes and I'll be asleep right here."
Doubting it would take that long she shook her head. "I don't think that sleeping on a sofa will do much to speed your recovery. Let's get you into a real bed, then I'll figure out what to do with you in the morning."
"You're aiming for some kind of sainthood, aren't you?"
She was glad that she had insisted he stay. He was so weak that he probably would have passed out in the elevator, she thought as she led him down the hall. He was shaking badly but trying to hide it by the time he dropped onto the bed.
"You don't think Angel will mind if I borrow her room?" he asked.
"I'm sure it will be fine." She pulled the blanket over him and resisted the urge to pat his head. "I would tell you to get some sleep, but I don't think I could stop you if I wanted to."
John smiled at her words but his eyes were already closed.
******************
on to part two