Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

  “Unlikely. Mary Mallon never healed anyone, and she didn’t wear gloves, although she probably should have.” He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course! How could I have missed it before? Clara Barton!”

  Claudia didn’t get it. “Can I have the bonus commentary, please?”

  “Clarissa Harlowe Barton, ‘the Angel of the Battlefield.’” He pulled a heavy tome from the bookshelf. It landed with a thud onto the desk. “During the Civil War, she nursed thousands of wounded and dying soldiers, her tireless efforts bringing her to many of the war’s bloodiest battlefields. Fredericksburg. Richmond. Bull Run. Antietam.”

  Artie blew a thick layer of dust off the book’s cover. Claudia coughed and fanned the cloud away with her hand. He flipped through the pages until he came to a sepia-toned photo of a somber, matronly-looking woman wearing a Red Cross medallion around her neck. An army tent formed the backdrop for the photo. Artie rummaged atop the desk until he found a magnifying glass. He held the glass over the photo, then beckoned to Claudia. She peered through the lens at a pair of elegant white leather gloves—just like the one Pete and Myka had described.

  “Along the way, her gloves must have absorbed both the blessing of healing . . . and the deadly curse of the war. During which, it should be noted, disease and infection killed far more soldiers than bullets ever did.”

  “Diseases like typhoid fever?” Claudia asked, catching on.

  Artie nodded. “Nadia is healing people with Clara Barton’s right glove. I’m sure of it.”

  Claudia took his word for it. She glanced back at her computer screen, where the red line continued to pulse ominously. Over two dozen people had already died of fever, and who knew how many others were on the verge of death?

  “So who has the bad glove?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Artie said grimly. “After we bring Pete and Myka up to speed.”

  He reached for his Farnsworth.

  Drip, drip . . .

  Cider trickled from John Chapman’s pot, raining gently on the artifact one shelf below: an ornate marble bathtub whose claw feet resembled demonic talons. Reinforced steel rods supported the weight of the tub, which had once belonged to Elizabeth Báthory, the infamous Blood Countess of Hungary. Over four hundred years ago, the countess had bathed in the blood of hundreds of murdered young women in the belief that such sanguinary cosmetic treatments would preserve her youth. Walled up inside her own castle for her crimes, Elizabeth had been outlived by her tub. Ancient brown stains discolored the once-pristine marble.

  Drop by drop, the cider filled the bottom of the tub. The spicy amber juice grew saltier, and began to take on a disturbing crimson hue. . . .

  Artie was pacing again. Claudia didn’t stop him. She figured he could use the exercise.

  “All right,” he said, thinking aloud. “We have two gloves, both in the wind. How do we track down Nadia Malinovich . . . and the other glove?”

  Claudia leaned back in her chair, the heels of her sneakers resting on the desk. She spitballed ideas off the exposed brick walls, while chewing distractedly on a ballpoint pen. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some way we can take advantage of the fact that the gloves are being drawn back to each other?”

  “Hmm. Not a bad idea.” He crossed the office to the large roll-down maps hanging on one wall. He pulled down a map of the eastern seaboard, covering the world map underneath. Working from memory, he charted the converging paths Claudia had plotted before. An easy-erase grease pencil defaced the map.

  “You know, you could just use my computer,” she suggested.

  “Quiet,” he shushed her. “I think better this way.” After marking up the map, he stepped back to absorb the picture. “Let’s see. The right glove is heading south. The left glove is traveling north.” He applied the marker once more, connecting the dots. “From the looks of things, they’re due to come together somewhere around . . .”

  Claudia raced him on the computer.

  “Fairfield, Connecticut,” they said in unison.

  Artie shot her a bemused look. “All right, genius. Where in Fairfield? And when?”

  “Already on it.” She fired up multiple search engines, all of which came back with the same answer. A rush of adrenaline woke her up faster than caffeine. “Eureka!”

  “The town?”

  “No. You having a senior moment or something? Stay with me.” She gloated over her discovery. “Wanna take a wild guess where a ‘celebrated psychic healer’ is appearing tomorrow evening?”

  Artie hurried over to check out the links. “Fairfield?”

  “Bingo. Give the old guy a prize.”

  “I’ll take Nadia’s glove,” he said, “now that we know where she’s going to be.”

  And where one glove was, could the other be far behind?

  CHAPTER

  10

  FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT

  “Okay, this could be a problem.”

  A large crowd had turned out for Nadia’s latest public appearance, which had taken over a local high school gym for the evening. The bleachers were packed with people who had found out about the event from announcements on the Internet. Pete thought he recognized a few faces from the audience at the carnival. According to Claudia, “Princess Nefertiti” already had several fan Web sites devoted to her. Her abilities and appearances were much buzzed about in chat rooms and message boards—which made the agents’ job both easier and harder.

  Easier because Nadia’s growing fame made her easier to locate. Harder because they were obviously not the only ones eager to see her.

  “And then some,” Myka agreed. “How are we going to get to her with all these people around?”

  The agents lurked at the rear of the gym, trying to keep a low profile. A stage had been erected at the opposite end of the gym. Pete spotted Jim Doherty peeking out through a curtain at the crowd. He guessed that Nadia was waiting backstage for her introduction. The strong man, Atlas, stood guard near the base of the stage. Having shed his leopard-print trunks for a tight gray T-shirt and slacks, he looked more like a bodyguard or bouncer than a sideshow attraction. Arms crossed atop his chest, he scanned the crowd for any potential troublemakers.

  Pete made sure to keep out of the strong man’s line of sight. His ribs were still sore from that bear hug back at the carnival. “We can’t just rush in without a plan,” he said. “The big guy there isn’t going to give Nadia up without a fight. And he’s not the only one who isn’t going to take kindly to us barging in. We try to confront Nadia in front of her fan club here, we could be talking a riot.” His face remained bruised from the free-for-all at the carnival and ensuing car crash. “Personally, I’d prefer a little less excitement this time around.”

  Myka considered their options. “I suppose we could wait until after the show and try to catch her when she leaves?”

  “Nah,” Pete said. It was tempting to let Nadia heal a few more people before they shut her down, but they still didn’t know enough about what the glove was doing to her. Or where the mysterious second glove fit in. “Artie’s right. We need to get that glove out of commission as soon as possible, if only so we can concentrate on finding the other one.”

  He inspected the audience. Was the second glove already here? According to the gang back at the Warehouse, it was heading this way.

  “All right,” Myka said. “So what’s our game plan?”

  Pete scoped out their surroundings. He spied a fire alarm mounted to a wall by the front entrance. Exit signs glowed at both ends of the gym. There was even one over by the stage.

  He pointed it out to Myka. “Head around back and be ready. I’ll be right with you.”

  She nodded and headed for the door. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Make it six, just to be safe.”

  The alarm switch was only a few yards away. He casually eased toward it while she exited the gym, squeezing past the latecomers pouring into the facility. Reaching the alarm, he leaned against
the wall and waited for Myka to get into position. Minutes ticked by.

  The lights dimmed, signaling that the show was about to begin. Dozens of murmured conversations fell silent. A local dignitary whose name Pete didn’t catch walked onto the stage and approached a microphone.

  “Welcome, friends and neighbors,” the emcee greeted the crowd. A squawk of feedback interrupted her remarks and she paused to adjust the mike. “Thank you all for showing up on such short notice, and thanks to the good folks at Mohegan High School for generously allowing us to rent this facility for the evening. I suspect that most of you have already heard something of our guest’s astounding gifts, or you wouldn’t be here, but perhaps there are some skeptics in the audience too?” A handful of people hesitantly raised their hands. “Well, I’m here to assure you that everything you’ve heard is true . . . as you are about to discover for yourself.” She gestured grandly toward the curtain behind her. “You may know her as Princess Nefertiti, but tonight you will meet the real woman behind the miracles that have brought relief and wellness to so many people. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to . . . Nadia!”

  An enthusiastic round of applause greeted the healer, who appeared to have shed her sideshow trappings and stage name for this slightly more dignified venue. The former carnie wore a tailored beige dress suit and skirt that nicely matched her gloves. Her makeup was more conservative too. Tastefully applied eyeliner and mascara had replaced the exotic kohl-eyed look she had sported before. No ruby baubles adorned her forehead. She was ready for prime time.

  Not if I can help it, Pete thought.

  All eyes were on Nadia, giving him the anonymity he needed. With no one looking, he seized the handle on the fire alarm and yanked it down.

  An ear-piercing siren blared, cutting off the applause. Confusion and anxiety shot through the audience. People scrambled to their feet and started heading for the doors. Up on the stage, Nadia froze in bewilderment, interrupted before she could say a single word. Jim rushed out from behind the curtain and herded her toward the nearest exit—just as Pete had hoped. Atlas followed closely behind them.

  “Everybody out!” Pete shouted above the siren. “Nice and orderly!”

  Beating the exodus to the front door, he dashed out of the gym and raced around to the back, where he found Myka waiting for him. His partner was staked out in a courtyard behind the gymnasium, facing a rear door that, if Pete’s mental geography was correct, corresponded to the fire exit behind the stage. It was early evening, and the stars were just starting to come out. A clear sky promised perfect weather for artifact snagging. Twilight painted the horizon in shades of red and purple Elevated lamp poles lit up the paved yard. There was no way Nadia could slip past them unseen.

  The agents didn’t have to wait long. The back door swung open. Nadia, Jim, and Atlas hurried out of the gym—to find themselves face-to-face with Pete and Myka.

  “End of the line, kids.”

  Jim reached beneath his jacket for a knife, but Pete already had the drop on him.

  “Uh-uh.” He kept his Tesla aimed at the trio. “No sideshow tricks this time. Hands up in the air.”

  “And keep that glove where we can see it,” Myka added.

  Atlas shoved his way in front of his two young charges. “You again?” he rumbled. Loyalty to his fellow carnies, or perhaps steroids, overcame his sense of self-preservation. He charged at Pete like an enraged bull. “I going to cram that toy ray-gun up your—”

  A galvanic bolt turned him into the Amazing Electric Man. He hit the pavement like a slab of meat. Pete was inclined to leave him there. Moving him would probably require a forklift.

  “So much for Atlas the Mighty,” Pete said. He turned the gun back toward Nadia and Jim. “I’m hoping you two are smarter than Mister Muscle here. Don’t make me use up all my batteries.”

  In fact, the Tesla was going to need some time to recharge after downing Atlas, but Jim and Nadia didn’t know that. And Pete wasn’t about to tell them.

  “Now, then,” Myka said. “Where were we?”

  She approached Nadia warily, not wanting a replay of last time’s electroshock treatment. Pete covered her as she donned a pair of purple gloves and held out her hand. “You remember the drill. Give me the glove, Nadia. Slowly.”

  “I don’t believe this!” Jim glared furiously at the agents. He, too, had ditched his carnival garb for more casual attire. His fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t you people have better things to do than hassle innocent people?”

  “Can it, easy rider. We’ve heard it all before.” Pete made a mental note to have Myka frisk Jim for knives after she was done with Nadia. “And hey, thanks for the flat tires the other night. Nothing I like more than crashing my car into a ditch. I’m fine, by the way.”

  Jim spit at the ground. “Too bad.”

  Pete reminded himself that the kid was just defending his girlfriend. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, chum.” He brandished the spent Tesla like it still had some juice in it. “Or I might forget I’m a professional.”

  Nadia was giving Myka a hard time too. “Please, not again.” Tears leaked from her eyes, smearing her makeup. “You don’t understand. This is my calling. It’s what I was meant to do.”

  Pete could tell she meant it. A shame that didn’t make a bit of difference.

  “This isn’t up for discussion,” Myka said firmly. “The glove, Nadia. Now.”

  “No! You can’t have it!”

  The girl lunged forward, hoping to “heal” Myka, again, but the agent was ready for her this time. Myka deftly sidestepped the attack, spinning into a roundhouse kick that swept Nadia’s legs out from under her. The young woman fell forward onto the pavement. Before she even knew what was happening, Myka had her wrists pinned.

  “Sorry about that,” the agent said. She knelt on top of the prone healer. Her knee dug into Nadia’s back, holding her down. She twisted Nadia’s right arm behind her back. “Did I mention that my ankle is much better now?”

  The expert takedown knocked the wind out of Nadia, or maybe she just realized she was hopelessly outmatched. She put up little resistance as Myka forcibly pried the glove from the girl’s right hand, then rose to her feet.

  “Got it,” she informed Pete. “Finally.”

  “That’s one down.” He relaxed a little. “Now we just need to find the other one.”

  She placed the glove in a silver bag for safekeeping. Once again the goo visibly failed to neutralize it. She stepped away from Nadia, freeing the girl to get off the pavement. Myka glanced at the lights of the city, visible beyond the parking lot. “In theory, it should be on its way here.”

  Pete started thinking ahead. “Maybe we can use this glove as a compass . . . or bait?”

  “Worth a try,” Myka said. ‘I’ll bet Claudia has some ideas along those lines.”

  Sobbing gently, Nadia climbed slowly to her feet and sought refuge in her boyfriend’s arms. She stared with naked longing at the bag holding the confiscated glove. Pete half expected her to start mumbling about “her precious,” like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings.

  Jim spoke up instead. “Other glove?”

  Pete didn’t bother to explain. He wondered if it was worth interrogating the couple, or if he and Myka should just let them go. He didn’t see any point in handing them over to the authorities. There were no laws against using rare historical artifacts to heal people, at least as far as he knew.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about Clara Barton?”

  Before either Jim or Nadia could answer, a hoarse, raspy voice interrupted.