He frowned at the memory. Worry aggravated his ulcer, causing acid to eat away at his stomach lining. He searched his pocket for some Tums.
Where had those gun-toting agents come from anyway? Running into them outside the gymnasium, where they had apparently been trying to take custody of the glove, had been an unpleasant surprise. Who else was after Clara Barton’s glove? Granted, he had already taken care of the man, but that female agent was still out there, along with whomever she worked for.
That complicated matters. He didn’t like having competition.
The mounting pressure on his skull made it hard to think. Bile curdled at the back of his throat. He was already getting nauseous.
Time for another rest stop.
A community park offered the perfect solution. Dozens of people were crowded into the bleachers of an open-air football stadium, cheering on the local team. They rose to their feet, bellowing like baboons, as some disgustingly fit small-town hero scored another touchdown. Their full-throated cheers could be heard even through the rolled-up windows of the Lincoln. Worrall admired their spirit.
Too bad it couldn’t last. . . .
WAREHOUSE 13
The shrunken head awoke with a ravenous hunger. The blood dripping down on it from Elizabeth Báthory’s tub was not enough. Beady crimson eyes fixed on an electrical cable affixed to one of the shelves’ sturdy vertical supports. Jaws snapping, it scooted across the shelf and started gnawing on the insulated cable. A warning label posted next to the cord read DANGER. HIGH VOLTAGE.
Sadly, English was not the head’s native tongue.
Razor-sharp fangs sliced through the rubber insulation. Sparks erupted between the head’s clenched jaws. Its wild black mane stood up straight. Its red eyes rolled in their sockets. Smoke rose from its shriveled scalp. Its bloody lips sizzled and flaked off. An aroma not unlike fried bacon mixed with the smell of burnt hair. The shrunken head vibrated like a jumping bean.
A final jolt of electricity flung the charred head across the room. It knocked over Groucho Marx’s honorary Oscar before crashing to the floor several shelves below. Blackened and smoking, it landed at the foot of a tall metal vault. The head twitched a few more times, then stopped moving. It was scorched inside and out. All the blood in the world couldn’t reactivate it now.
But the damage had already been done. The chewed-up wire sputtered and short-circuited. The aisle lights flickered on and off. A digital display on the steel vault blinked out and its locking mechanism disengaged. Rusty gears squeaked loudly as the vault door swung open, releasing a gust of stale air. Erratic lighting exposed the contents of the vault.
A Native American totem pole faced the aisle. Over twenty feet tall, the pole consisted of three carved wooden beasts stacked on top of each other. A grizzly bear, poised upon its hind legs, formed the base of the pole. A mountain lion, with chiseled fangs and claws, rested atop the bear, while a fierce-looking thunderbird crowned the pole, which had been painted according to tradition. Large black eyes gazed out from the vault. Bright red mouths and a jagged beak added splashes of color to the weathered timber pole, as did the streaked black and red feathers on the thunderbird’s wings. The entire pole had been carved from a single huge log. At least two thousand pounds, it filled the entire vault.
At first, the pole stood still and silent, like every other totem pole on display throughout the country. But then the flickering overhead lights seemed to create the illusion of animation, as though the timber limbs and jaws were gradually stirring. Any visitor observing the pole could be forgiven for assuming that its apparent movements were just a trick of the light.
But they would be wrong.
The bear growled.
The lion gnashed its fangs.
The thunderbird spread its wings. . . .
CHAPTER
13
FAIRFIELD
Pete felt like crap.
His body was burning up. Hot and sweaty, he kicked off his covers in a vain attempt to cool down. The sudden movement proved to be a mistake. A pounding headache was dialed up to eleven. Excruciating cramps twisted his guts. He coughed violently, the jarring convulsions just torturing him more. He fell back against his pillow, gasping.
“Take it easy there.” Vanessa Calder hurried over to straighten out his blankets. She gently probed his distended abdomen with her fingers. “How does that feel?”
A pained wince was all the answer she needed. “The herbal treatments don’t seem to be working,” She fiddled with the IV. “I’m increasing the dosage on the painkillers. That should give you a little relief.”
At least for a while. He appreciated her bedside manner, but he could tell from her worried expression that she was fighting a losing battle. He hadn’t felt this bad since the time that Saracen scorpion thingie attached itself to his spine. That had nearly fried his entire nervous system before Myka figured out a way to get it off him. He could only hope she and the others were hot on the trail of another last-minute save.
“Crap!” His fist clenched in frustration. He hated being helpless like this, especially with so much at stake. He had always prided himself on being an active, take-charge kind of guy. Being stuck in bed, unable to fight for his own life, was killing him.
In more ways than one.
“Hey, look what I found.” Myka entered the room, bearing an armload of comic books. She joined the doctor at his bedside. “Something to help you pass the time.”
Grimacing, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. Vanessa helped by elevating the bed behind him, but the effort left him breathless and panting. Shaky hands accepted the comics, which turned out to be multiple back issues of The Iron Shadow.
His favorite.
“You’ve probably read most of them before,” Myka said apologetically, “but I didn’t know what else to get you.”
“Don’t matter,” he croaked hoarsely. Despite the IV, his mouth felt as dry as the desert over Warehouse 2. He flipped through the brightly colored comics, getting a nostalgic charge from the familiar covers. There was even a copy of the classic summer annual featuring the return of the Iron Shadow’s archnemesis, the Oxidizer. He remembered reading it at summer camp when he was a kid. “These are great. Thanks.”
She bit her lip, visibly struggling to hold it together. “Who knew there was a comics shop just a few blocks away?” She nibbled on a piece of red licorice from a vending machine. Pete knew her sweet tooth acted up whenever she was stressed out. “Well, okay, Claudia knew. She found it on the Internet.”
“That’s our Claudia,” he said, forcing a smile. “Have Google, will travel.”
Myka looked anxiously at Vanessa. “How’s he doing?”
“Let’s talk outside,” the doctor suggested, clearly reluctant to discuss his chances right in front of him. “So Pete can enjoy his new reading material in peace.”
Taking Myka by the arm, she guided her out into the hall, where the two women conferred in hushed tones. Pete observed them discreetly. He couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but he caught phrases like “already in stage two,” “enlarged spleen,” “high fever,” and “distinct possibility of delirium.” And what the heck were “bronchial rhonchi”?
Myka fretfully tied her licorice stick into knots. “But there must be something you can do.”
“I’ve tried everything,” Vanessa said. “All I can do is treat his symptoms now.”
She placed a comforting hand on Myka’s shoulder, then headed off to check on the latest test results. Myka took a moment to compose herself before rejoining Pete in the room. Her eyes were damp. “So, the Iron Shadow save the world yet?”
He knew she was just trying to keep his spirits up, but there was no reason she had to shoulder this burden alone. “You do remember that I can read lips, right?”
“Oh my God.” Aghast, she looked back over her shoulder at the hall where she and Vanessa had just been talking. “How much did you . . . ?”
“I got the gist of
it.”
His sister was deaf. He had learned to read lips ages ago, in support of her. It came in handy sometimes.
“It’s okay,” he assured Myka. “I’m a big boy. I can handle the truth.”
She sat down beside him and took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Pete. We’re working around the clock to find Nadia’s glove, but Vanessa says your condition is progressing even faster than expected. We’re running low on time.”
He valued her honesty. “Thanks for being straight for me.” He flipped through one of the comics. “And for actually setting foot in a comic-book shop again. I know that’s not exactly your comfort zone.”
“Hey, don’t forget: I was a superhero myself once, for about ten minutes in Detroit that one time.”
A vivid flashback, of Myka blasting energy bolts from a pair of high-tech gauntlets while wearing a skintight latex suit, drew a chuckle from his lips. “Trust me, that’s burned into my memory forever.”
“I’ll bet.” Her wry tone gave way to a more somber expression. “Pete,” she said tentatively, as though uncomfortable with what she was about say. She twirled a lock of her hair, a nervous habit he often teased her about. “Speaking of reading lips, do you want me to call your sister? I’m sure Artie and Mrs. Frederic can arrange to bring her here. Just in case.”
He shook his head. “I’m not ready to go there yet.” He and Myka lived dangerous lives, constantly placing themselves in jeopardy. He had already written his sister a letter, to be delivered to her someday when his luck finally ran out. That would have to be enough. “I’m not giving up. Just like we didn’t give up on you when you were dying of old age thanks to that freaky camera.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “I still cringe whenever I think I’ve found a gray hair.”
Pete remembered Myka lying on her deathbed, just like he was now, Man Ray’s camera having artificially aged her to the point of extinction. “The point is, we found a way to reverse the process. Just like you found a way to get that electro-scorpion off me way back when.”
This wasn’t the first time one or both of them had faced death. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be the last.
He flipped through another comic. A two-page spread depicted the Iron Shadow breaking free from a supposedly escape-proof death trap. With a little help from his allies, of course.
“Artie and Claudia will figure something out. They always do, right?”
WAREHOUSE 13
“Got him!”
Artie leaned back in his office chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He contemplated the computer monitor in front of him with grim satisfaction. Now we’re making headway, he thought. Finally.
“Him who?” Claudia scurried over from her own desk. She and Artie had pulled an all-nighter trying to track down one or both of Clara Barton’s gloves. She peered over his shoulder.
“Who him?”
“Our mystery man, the one who infected Pete in Fairfield.” He nodded at the screen, which displayed an enlarged driver’s license photo of a gaunt, bald-headed fellow with sunken eyes and a sour expression. Ashen, waxy skin was stretched tight over a skull-like visage. He appeared much older than his birth date implied. “Meet Calvin Worrall, of the Palm Beach Worralls.”
“Jeepers!” Claudia recoiled from the photo on the screen. Her face curdled in disgust. “Dude looks like Nosferatu’s kid brother. On a bad day.”
Artie couldn’t disagree. Granted, DMV photos were seldom flattering, but Worrall’s bloodless, haggard visage was enough to give small children nightmares. More important, he also matched Pete and Myka’s description of the stranger who had assailed them outside the high school gymnasium. The one who was apparently in possession of Clara Barton’s left glove.
“We’ll need to transmit this photo to Myka for confirmation,” he stated, “but I’m pretty sure Calvin’s our guy. He fits the profile perfectly.” Artie kicked himself for not thinking of Worrall earlier. “I should have realized it was him.”
Claudia gave him a quizzical look. “You know this guy?”
“I know of him,” Artie clarified. “He’s a collector of rare curios, particularly those associated with healers and healing. I try to keep to keep tabs on various ‘amateur’ enthusiasts, just in case they stumble onto something dangerous. Worrall’s been in the game for a few years now. He once nearly outbid me on Rasputin’s prayer rope.” The object in question currently resided on Level 5 of the Warehouse, after being re-neutralized several weeks ago. “But I’d always chalked him up as a dilettante, with more money than expertise. He seemed harmless enough. More of an occasional nuisance than anything else.”
“Tell that to Pete,” Claudia said.
“Indeed. It seems I underestimated Calvin. Looks like he’s somehow managed to get his hands on a genuine artifact.” Artie scratched his beard. “I wonder where he found it.”
“Not sure that matters anymore,” Claudia said. “We need to find this guy, pronto.”
She had her priorities straight, Artie conceded. Myka’s most recent update from the hospital suggested that Pete was declining fast. Tracing the provenance of the gloves could wait. Right now they needed to find them and neutralize them.
He forwarded Worrall’s file over to Claudia’s computer. “Do a complete search on Calvin. Credit cards, secondary residences, magazine subscriptions . . . anything that might tell us where he is now.”
“You got it, chief!” She practically dived back into her seat at the other desk. Her nimble fingers danced over the keyboard. “I’m on this like wasabi on sushi.”
Artie was tempted to supervise, but resisted the impulse. Claudia could handle this. After all, she had managed to track down Warehouse 13 by herself, with only a little covert assistance from MacPherson. If anything, her investigative skills had only grown sharper since then.
Don’t be a backseat driver, he scolded himself. Let her take the wheel.
He glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly six in the morning, which meant that it wasn’t even eight a.m. in Connecticut. Probably too early to run Worrall’s photo by Myka. She’d had a long night. He didn’t want to wake her if she was actually managing to get some sleep. ID’ing the photo could wait another hour or so. Hopefully, they would have some solid leads for her by then.
He poured himself a cup of coffee. A plate of leftover donuts served as breakfast.
Where are you, Calvin? What are you up to?
While Claudia searched online, Artie stared at the photo on the screen, trying to get into their quarry’s head. According to Myka, Worrall had been after Nadia’s glove as well, but why? Simply to complete his collection, or was there more to it than that? Reviewing the man’s file, he encountered a mother lode of old medical records and prescription refills. That’s right, he recalled. Calvin had always been a veritable catalog of ailments and infirmities. No wonder he was so obsessed with healing talismans. Did he think Clara Barton’s right glove could cure him for good?
Probably. But why was Worrall making people ill in the meantime?
He rested his chin on his knuckles, mulling it over. Artifacts had their own peculiar logic. You simply had to figure it out.
Fortunately, he’d had plenty of practice at that.
“Hold on,” he muttered. “Didn’t Pete and Myka say that they thought that healing people was making Nadia sick?”
Claudia looked up from her computer. “Yeah, I think so.”