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door he saw that Cerveros' face had blanched almost white.
    ***

CHAPTER SIX
    "Close Call"
    Beadles sat Whitfield down on the shaded stoop and used his cell phone to call campus police. It was against policy to admit anyone to the collection not personally approved by the department head but that never occurred to him. Within five minutes a new Chevy Impala with Creighton University Police on the door pulled up on the sidewalk in front of the hall. The officer got out and walked around the car. He was an older man with a belly and a walrus mustache wearing the beige university police uniform and a ball cap.
    "What's the problem, Professor?" he said looking at the seated Whitfield.
    "Hello, Phil. We've got to get Rob to the ER. He was just bitten by a scorpion."
    The cop's bushy eyebrows hunched. "A scorpion?"
    "Long story. It came in a pot."
    Together they eased Rob into the backseat. He seemed dazed and his arm had begun to swell. The cop switched on the lights and took the shortest route back to Storrow Drive which wound through the campus. Once on the road he hit the siren. University Hospital was seven minutes away. They pulled up in front of the ER behind an ambulance. An orderly in a green smock saw them helping Rob from the back seat and wheeled a chair toward them through the automatic doors.
    "Scorpion sting," Beadles explained as they wheeled him inside. The orderly motioned for a lady doctor to come over. She wore a white lab jacket and catseye glasses, her blond hair pulled back in a severe bun.
    "He was bitten by a scorpion that crawled out of a pot," Beadles said.
    "Oh my," the nurse said. "Let's get him back there and see what we can do. Sir, are you a relative?"
    "I'm his professor," Beadles said. "His name is Rob Whitfield. I think he's from Paducah."
    "You'll have to stay here," the doctor said. Her label said Musgrove. "Would you notify his next-of-kin if you think it's appropriate?"
    "He's not going to die, is he?"
    The nurse checked Whitfield's pulse. The patient's eyes followed her fearfully.
    "I doubt it but the quicker we act the better chance he'll have."
    Beadles watched them wheel Whitfield through the automatic doors into the interior. What did he do now? He had work to do but it didn't seem appropriate to simply abandon Whitfield while he went about his business. He checked his Razr. Betty had called. He called her back.
    "Vaughan, what are we going to do about a baby-sitter? Cathy can't make it and the Burkes are out of town."
    The department party was the following night and their son Lars was two years old.
    "Relax. There's a pool of students registered at the union looking for baby-sitter work. I'll find one of my students."
    "Please let me know as soon as possible."
    "Don't worry about it Betty baby. My students love me. I have a couple in mind."
    "When will you be home? I'm making lasagna."
    Beadles debated whether to tell her about Whitfield. Better not. Betty was a worrier, an obsessive/compulsive perfectionist. It had made her a star at the mortgage title company where she worked but she could be difficult when fixated. Like a terrier with a bone.
    "I'll be home by five, snookums."
    "Love you."
    "Love you."
    Beadles checked his stock portfolio and his Facebook page. He had twenty-two comments, mostly on scholarly matters. He sat in a plastic chair and made notes on a lecture he planned to give on the Azuma. A young Hispanic mother dozed fretfully in another chair while her five-year-old played with plastic toys from a box.
    Forty minutes later Musgrove came out the sliding doors. "He's sitting up. He's asking for you."
    Beadles stood. "How's he doing?"
    "Fine. We got some anti-venom serum into him, basically the same stuff we use for allergic reactions and he seems to be responding. His pulse is back to normal and so is his body temperature."
    "Thank God," Beadles said with such conviction the doctor glanced. He followed her back through the medicinal-smelling halls to a room. Inside