“Already better,” he claimed, but obeyed, downing some ginger ale before sliding blissfully into bed.

She tucked and fussed, laid a hand on his brow. “You’re definitely running a fever. I’m going to get the thermometer.”

“Later,” he said. “Give me a couple hours down first.”

“I’ll be right downstairs.”

He closed his eyes, sighed. “Just need a little sleep in my own bed.”

She went downstairs, got some chicken, along with a carcass she’d bagged, out of the freezer, and began the task of running it under cool water to speed up the defrosting. She’d make a big pot of chicken soup, her cure for everything. She could use some herself, as she was dog-tired and had already sneaked a couple of meds behind Ross’s back for her own sore throat.

No need to worry him when he was feeling so low. Besides, she’d always had a tougher constitution than Ross, and would probably kick it before it took serious hold.

While she worked she put her phone on speaker and called her daughter, Katie. They chatted happily while Angie ran the cold water and made herself some tea.

“Is Dad around? I want to say hi.”

“He’s sleeping. He came down with something on New Year’s.”

“Oh no!”

“Don’t worry. I’m making chicken soup. He’ll be fine by Saturday when we come to dinner. We can’t wait to see you and Tony. Oh, Katie, I got the most adorable little outfits for the babies! Okay, a few adorable little outfits. Wait until you see. But I’ve got to go.” Talking was playing hell with her sore throat. “We’ll see you in a couple days. Now don’t come by here, Katie, and I mean it. Your dad’s probably contagious.”

“Tell him I hope he feels better, and to call me when he wakes up.”

“I will. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you back.”

Angie switched on the kitchen TV for company, decided a glass of wine might do her more good than the tea. Into the pot with the chicken, the carcass, then a quick run upstairs to look in on her husband. Reassured, since he was snoring lightly, she went back down to peel potatoes and carrots, chop celery.

She concentrated on the task, let the bright chatter of the TV wash over her, and stubbornly ignored the headache beginning to brew behind her eyes.

If Ross felt better—and that fever he had went down—she’d let him move from the bedroom to the family room. And by God, she’d get into her own pajamas because she felt fairly crappy herself, and they’d snuggle up, eat chicken soup, and watch TV.

She went through the process of making the soup on automatic, disposing of the carcass now that it had done its work, cutting the chicken meat into generous chunks, adding the vegetables, herbs, spices, and her own chicken stock.

She turned it on low, went back upstairs, looked in on Ross again. Not wanting to disturb him, but wanting to stay close, she went into what had been her daughter’s room and now served as a room for visiting grandchildren. Then dashed to the guest bath to vomit up the pasta she’d had on the plane.

“Damn it, Ross, what did you catch?”

She got the thermometer, turned it on, put the tip in her ear. And when it beeped stared at the readout in dismay: 101.3.

“That settles it, chicken soup on trays in bed for both of us.”

But for the moment, she took a couple of Advil, went down to pour herself a glass of ginger ale over ice. After sneaking quietly into their bedroom, she pulled out a sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pants—adding thick socks because she felt chills coming on. Back in the second bedroom she changed, lay down on the bed, pulled around her the pretty throw that had been folded at the foot of the bed, and almost immediately fell asleep.

And into dreams about black lightning and black birds, a river that ran with bubbling red water.

She woke with a jolt, her throat on fire, her head pounding. Had she heard a cry, a shout? Even as she fumbled to untangle herself from the throw, she heard a thud.

“Ross!” The room spun when she leaped up. Hissing out an oath, she raced to the bedroom, let out her own cry.

He was on the floor by the bed, convulsing. A pool of vomit, another of watery excrement, and she could see the blood in both.

“Oh God, God.” She ran to him, tried to turn him on his side—weren’t you supposed to do that? She didn’t know, not for sure. She grabbed his phone off the nightstand, hit nine-one-one.

“I need an ambulance. I need help. God.” She rattled off the address. “My husband, my husband. He’s having a seizure. He’s burning up, just burning up. He’s vomited. There’s blood in it.”

“Help’s on the way, ma’am.”

“Hurry. Please hurry.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jonah Vorhies, a thirty-three-year-old paramedic, smelled the soup cooking and turned off the burner before he and his partner, Patti Ann, rolled MacLeod out of the house and loaded him into the ambulance.

His partner jumped in the front, hit the sirens as he stayed in the back, working to stabilize the patient while the wife looked on.

And held on, Jonah thought. No hysterics. He could almost hear her willing her husband to wake up.

But Jonah knew death when he saw it. Sometimes he could feel it. He tried not to—it could get in the way of the work—tried to block out that knowing. Like, sometimes he knew that some guy who brushed by him on the street had cancer. Or some kid running by would fall off his bike that very afternoon and end up with a greenstick fracture of his right wrist.

Sometimes he even knew the kid’s name, his age, where he lived.

It could be that specific, so he’d made it a kind of game for a while. But it spooked him, so he stopped.

With MacLeod, the knowing came on fast and strong, wouldn’t let him block it out. Worse, this came with something new. A seeing. The seizure had stopped by the time he and Patti Ann had arrived but, as he worked and called out details for Patti Ann to radio in, Jonah could see the patient in bed, rolling over, vomiting on the floor. Calling for help before he fell out of bed and began to convulse.

He could see the wife rushing in, hear her voice as she cried out. He could hear it, see it all as if watching it on a big screen.

And he didn’t fucking like it.

When they rolled up to the ambulance bay, he did his best to turn off that screen, to do whatever he could to help save the life he knew was already gone.

He rattled off vitals, the details of symptoms, of emergency treatment given so far, as Dr. Rachel Hopman (he had a pretty serious crush on the doc) and her team double-timed the patient toward a treatment room.

Once there, he took the wife’s arm before she could push through those double doors. And released it as if burned because he’d seen she was dead, too.

She said, “Ross,” and put a hand on the door to push it open.

“Ma’am. Mrs. MacLeod, you need to stay out here. Dr. Hopman’s the best. She’s going to do everything she can do for your husband.”

And for you, pretty soon now, for you. But it won’t be enough.

“Ross. I need to—”

“How about you sit down? You want some coffee?”

“I—no.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “No, thanks. No. What’s wrong with him? What happened?”

“Dr. Hopman’s going to find out. Is there someone we can call for you?”

“Our son’s in London. He won’t be home for a couple of days. My daughter … But she’s pregnant, with twins. She shouldn’t be upset. This will upset her. My friend Marjorie.”

“Do you want me to call Marjorie?”

“I…” She looked down at the purse she clutched, the one she’d grabbed automatically, just as she’d grabbed her coat, yanked on shoes. “I have my phone.”

She took it out, then just stared at it.

Jonah stepped away, snagged a nurse. “Somebody needs to look after her.” He gestured toward Mrs. MacLeod. “Her husband’s in there, and it’s bad. I think she’s sick, too.”

“There’s a lot of sick going on around here, Jonah.”

“She’s running a fever. I can’t tell you how high.” He could: 101.3 and rising. “The patient’s running one. I have to get back on the roll.”