Chapter Ten: Fever

---1---

It wasn't the mysteriously broken window that made Charlie lose his lunch. It was the panic, he reasoned, and everything piling up and dragging him down, like Dad had said.

Later, the actual cause of his swirling stomach came to light.

The broken window in question was one at the rear door of his home which looked over the garden, the one by which he'd planned to set the armillary sphere. He was already indoors before he saw the shattered glass and pulled a fast 180, bolting out through the front, afraid someone was in the house. He summoned police, voice wound up like a spring, and remained outdoors to wait. The officers investigated, combing the premises, upstairs and down, and cleared it. No burglars, but the lock on the back door may have been tampered with, they said; it was scratched.

When they left, Charlie inspected the lock, ran his fingertips over its roughness. Had it always had these marks? No, it hadn't. He concluded that it had been an attempted break-in and if Reylott had reappeared, this was his calling card; it fit his MO. Although the madman was partial to showy crimes such as killing koi, he also enjoyed toying with your psyche like he had when he'd tampered with Don's boots by the tent, spying on them prior to making his move.

Charlie's feet crunched over glass shards and he swore he heard a thump from upstairs.With his back against the wall, he crouched down to make himself smaller but panic superseded his best efforts at bravery and he hurried to the kitchen. There he obtained a knife and wandered through the rooms to prove to himself it was unoccupied. Heartbeats pulsated in his ears and his hands shook but the last thing he wanted was to hyperventilate—or actually run into anyone—and he cupped apalm over his mouth periodically. When he got to the bathroom, he locked the door, dropped the knife on the sink and knelt, nauseated.

With an emptied belly, he headed to the place he felt most safe: his garage study, carrying extra blankets. He was freezing, hounded by chills. Securing the door against threat, he reclined on the old green couch under the blankets, turning to his side, lethargic and woozy. He couldn't keep his eyes from closing.

The nightmares were brisk. He awoke perspiring, dumped the blankets to the floor and lay sprawled and hot, a leg over the side, arm limp and hung over the edge. The fever had arrived full force and in his jeans pocket, the cell phone was ringing.

He swept a hand across his forehead, brought it down wet. On fire in Charlieland. His back ached on either side of his spine and even the cushions were like wood against it. He swallowed. Something new: throat's sore. Add to pain in rest of torso, the hammering in my head. God, it's a furnace. Water.

---2---

"Charles?"

Larry? Charlie cracked his eyes to confirm. "You're here," he said, hushed.

"Of course—I'm aware of where you hide the key, although I would predict any half-witted criminal would be able to ascertain that the gray resin toad sitting in the plantar is the first place to inspect." He picked a blanket up from the floor, examined Charlie's face. "You're ill."

"Go away. You'll catch it."

"I don't think so," Larry said. "I've always been gifted with a sort of metaphysical—yes, even uber-physical—resistance to common viruses. My father was likewise a person of supernatural stamina although his appearance gave the impression he could never lift anything over ten pounds." He placed three fingers on Charlie's forehead. "I would guess you have the latest incarnation of influenza as the season has begun in earnest. I've had an increase in absences this week."

Charlie nodded a dim response.

Larry piled the blankets on the desk, glancing at the chalkboard drawings. "Where is your father?" he said.

"He…" Charlie rubbed his throat. "At Don's."

"I'm sorry, my manners—is there something I can retrieve for you?

He mimed a drink and Larry disappeared, fetching a glass of water and aspirin. Charlie sat up slightly and gulped them down.

"I see you have a broken window," Larry said. "Shame."

Trying to focus, Charlie explained the eventful afternoon.

"This has been a difficult week for you, Charles. I stopped by to mend our differences, encourage you to accept that it's crucial you go to campus and explain yourself to Dr. Weeks and…never mind. You get well first. Ignore me. Don't concern yourself with any of what I just said."

He acknowledged with a grunt, indicating with a wave his need for a blanket.

Larry brought one, laid it over him then wandered to the chalkboard nearest the couch. "Your father's told me you and Don aren't speaking."

The aspirin was taking effect, taming the intensity of Charlie's aches. "We've been arguing, in excess."

"This will make a beautiful addition to the house," he said, studying Charlie's rendering of the sundial. "Things will work out between you and Don. You two are like two circles on a sphere." He traced a finger slowly round the outer ring of the sundial. "Your lives have crossed at one point, now they have no other way to go but to cross back again at a second point. It's inevitable."

Charlie scrunched the blanket under his chin. "Don't go. Lock the door—burglars."

He looked at him, silent for a short while. "I won't go. Not until your father arrives."

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