Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (29 page)

Four hundred rounds a minute tore into the totem’s wing. Wood chips trailed from the wing, bouncing off the Fokker’s spinning propeller. Sparks ignited where the neutralizer clashed with the artifact’s energies. High-caliber surgery amputated the thunderbird’s right wing, which went flying off into the sky. Squawking in pain or fury, the mutilated totem went into a death spiral. It plunged out of control into the storm below.

“Yes!” Claudia hugged Artie. “You really got it this time!”

“Maybe.” He still wasn’t going to count his chickens—or a thunderbird—until it was cooked for sure. “We need to verify the kill.”

The Fokker dived through the clouds after its victim. Sizzling lightning bolts threatened to set the triplane ablaze again, but for once luck was with them and they managed to get through the tempest relatively unsinged. The plane emerged from the clouds into the rain and hail.

“Where?” he asked anxiously. “Where is it?”

“Going down.” Claudia pointed below. “Next stop: Univille Park!”

Sure enough, the crippled thunderbird crashed into the park—right on top of Wilhelm Reich’s cloudbuster. In a perverse twist of fate, the totem smashed the rainmaker to smithereens. A blinding flash of light consumed both artifacts as their arcane energies were discharged in a spectacular display. A pillar of golden fire shot into the sky.

“Artie!”

“I know!” This wasn’t the first time he’d seen an artifact or two go pyrotechnic. “You don’t need to shout!”

He banked hard to the left, evading the towering fountain of flame. The pillar glittered brightly for a moment, then dissolved into drifting sparks. All at once, the rain stopped and the hail ceased falling. The sun broke through the clouds as the storm came apart.

So much for the cloudbuster,
Artie thought ruefully.
Sorry, Wilhelm.

Still, the artifact had served its purpose. Univille was safe.

He circled over the park once more to be certain. Nothing but a smoking crater remained where the totem had bombed the so-called sculpture. Charred pieces of wood were impaled on lengths of twisted metal. All the water in the reflecting pool had steamed away. Bits of cracked mosaic tile had been fused together by the heat of the explosion. The bottom of the crater had a glassy sheen, like the aftermath of a nuclear blast.

“Talk about a waste of time,” Artie grumped. He mourned the loss of the artifacts. It was a shame they’d had to destroy two-thirds of the totem pole, but at least the bear was still intact. He’d have to make sure it was put back in stasis . . . eventually.

First things first,
he thought. They still needed to get Clara Barton’s gloves—and cure Pete before it was too late. “You up for a trip to New York?”

Claudia contemplated the snazzy red plane. “How fast can this bird go anyway?”

“Funny you should ask.”

He turned the throttle all the way up.

20

CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK CITY

A taxi dropped them off at Sixty-fifth and Central Park West. The nearest available parking spot had been several blocks away, so they’d been forced to take a cab the rest of the way, since Pete was in no shape to navigate the subways, let alone several hectic city blocks. Heavy uptown traffic crawled past them. Horns honked at every intersection. Myka tried to help Pete out of the cab, but he stubbornly rejected her assistance.

“I can manage, okay?” A strained expression belied his words. He thrust a handful of bills at the driver. “You don’t need to baby me.”

“Then don’t act like one.” She didn’t take his grumpy attitude personally. She could only guess how hard this was on him, both physically and mentally. Frankly, she was amazed that he was even standing. He had to be getting by on sheer cussedness, as her dad would have put it. “At least let me take your cane.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever.”

The walking stick in question was a polished hickory cane topped by a miniature silver elephant. A steel tip shod the bottom of the cane. Claudia had shipped it to the hospital at Pete’s request yesterday, before they found out about the fair.

Probably not a bad idea. He looked like he needed it.

She held on to the cane while he painfully hauled himself out of the cab. The effort left him breathless and sweating, despite the cool autumn weather. The sun was still high in the sky and the sidewalk was filled with both locals walking at a brisk New York pace and wide-eyed tourists slowing them down. A horse-drawn carriage trotted by, offering a leisurely tour of the park. Myka admired the old-fashioned hansom cab as she handed the cane back to Pete. He leaned heavily on it as he caught his breath.

A park bench beckoned several yards away, beneath some shady trees. The leaves were already turning colors. “Maybe you should wait here,” she suggested, “while I scope out the park.”

She still wasn’t convinced that bringing Pete along was a good idea. He belonged in a hospital, not traipsing through Central Park in search of two renegade artifacts. Vanessa Calder had objected strenuously to his departure, but had finally relented in the face of his pigheaded refusal to listen to the doctor. Only the fact that he was already dying anyway, despite all of Vanessa’s best efforts, had allowed him to get his way in the end.

Myka did not find that terribly reassuring.

“Forget it.” He hobbled past her into the park. “You coming or what?”

She briefly considered knocking him out with the Tesla, but wasn’t sure he would survive the shock. Leaving the sidewalk behind, she caught up with him.

Central Park was a king-size oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle. Skyscrapers, visible even through the trees, enclosed the park, which stretched for blocks above and below them. Myka took a moment to orient herself. According to Artie, the psychic fair was being held in the Sheep Meadow, slightly northwest of here. At least Pete wouldn’t have to walk too far.

In an eerie coincidence, a Civil War monument was installed on a grassy rise a few yards away. A solitary Union soldier posed atop a tall pedestal, his bronzed hands resting vigilantly upon his rifle. An inscription on the pedestal dedicated the statue to the honored dead of the Seventh Regiment, who had given their lives to defend the Union. The memorial reminded Myka of the death and carnage that Clara Barton had witnessed over a hundred years ago. A chill ran down her spine.

She caught Pete eyeing the statue as well. They exchanged a wordless look. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both had to be thinking the same thing.

The Civil War was over. Clara Barton’s gloves needed to be retired.

No more reenactments,
she thought.
No more fever.

“Come on,” Pete said. He turned his back on the monument. “We can play tourist later.”

They headed west along a paved walkway. Bare branches testified to the changing of the season. Fallen leaves littered the grounds. Myka resisted an urge to take Pete by the arm. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. However, that didn’t stop her from casting frequent, anxious glances in his direction.

He was looking worse than ever. His face was drawn. His hands were shaking. His lips were cracked and dry. Although he tried not to show it, he grimaced with every step. He bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound, but didn’t always succeed. His hollow cheeks, in need of a shave, hinted at how much weight he had lost just in the last forty-eight hours. A jacket and sweatshirt hung loosely on his shrunken frame, like they no longer fit him. Purple shadows haunted his eyes. The haggard, halting figure bore little resemblance to the gung ho, hyperactive Pete she was used to. The contrast was so heartbreaking Myka had to look away. She couldn’t bear seeing him like this.

I can’t lose another partner,
she thought.
I can’t.

As it turned out, locating the fair was not an issue. Throngs of people were converging on the meadow, carrying the two agents along with them. Myka let the crowd herd them in the right direction, even as she fretted at the size of the turnout. If what Artie surmised was true, and Worrall was growing more and more infectious every day, all of these people could be in danger. Typhoid fever had killed at least thirty thousand soldiers in the Civil War. For all they knew, Worrall was just getting warmed up.

Her eyes searched the people around them, but didn’t see their target anywhere. Nadia was nowhere in sight, either. Myka hoped this wasn’t a wild-goose chase.

They have to be here,
she agonized.
Pete can’t last much longer.

An irresistible current of humanity swept them to their destination. An open, fifteen-acre lawn near the center of the park, the Sheep Meadow had a long history of hosting large public gatherings. Over the years, it had attracted numerous outdoor concerts and shows, political demonstrations of every stripe and persuasion, love-ins, bed-ins, fireworks displays, dog shows, “star parties,”and even the world’s biggest water-pistol fight back in 2008. Myka remembered visiting the meadow as a child during a vacation to Manhattan. She had been disappointed to discover that sheep no longer grazed there.

The 2011 Psychic Exposition had taken over the meadow in a big way. Row after row of tents and booths and stages filled the lawn to capacity, while hordes of people crowded between them. Flapping banners advertised everything from tarot readings to ancient Atlantean spirit guides. New Age music blared from loudspeakers, competing with the hubbub of thousands of excited conversations, lectures, and sales pitches. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze.

The crowd was a diverse one, typical of NYC. Along with the hippieish New Age sorts Myka had expected, sporting ponytails, tie-dye, and beads, there were also well-groomed yuppies, college kids, senior citizens, Goths, punks, wannabe rappers, and families pushing strollers. People sat on park benches, tapping on their laptops, or meeting up with friends. Trash bins overflowed with discarded coffee cups, newspapers, and fast-food wrappers. Every other person seemed to have a cell phone or Bluetooth surgically melded to their ears, and was stubbornly attempting to conduct a conversation amidst the buzzing chatter. It was an eavesdropper’s paradise.

“Oh my God.” Myka was overwhelmed by the enormity of the crowd. She had thought that carnival back in West Haven was packed, but that was nothing compared to the vast extravaganza enveloping them. There had to be at least fifteen thousand people squeezed into the meadow, if not more. “It’s like Woodstock.”

“But without the sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll.” Pete gaped at the mob. “So why bother?”

They wandered randomly through booths hawking crystals, massages, and Native American dream catchers. The fair expanded across the length and breadth of the entire meadow, spilling over into adjacent fields and clearings. Crowd control was a lost cause. Innumerable strangers bumped against them. Myka closed ranks with Pete to avoid losing him in the crush.

“It’s so huge,” she said “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You and me both.” Pete paused to observe a Reiki exhibition, where a small troupe of enthusiastic practitioners, wearing matching yellow kimonos, were laying their hands on volunteers from the audience. A painted backdrop illustrated the placement of various key chakras. “Trying to find a specific psychic healer at this place is like looking for a Klingon at a
Star Trek
convention. They’re everywhere.”

He wasn’t wrong. Myka tried to figure out some way to narrow the search. How were they supposed to find Nadia—or Calvin Worrall—in a mob this size? “Even if they’re here, we could roam all day without spotting either of them.”

Pete leaned on his cane. He sucked in air. “Not really sure I’m up to that, Mykes.”

“I know.”

That Pete was even willing to admit that he was nearing the end of his rope meant that he was in seriously bad shape. The end couldn’t be far away. Myka discreetly took hold of his arm and started looking around for someplace he could sit down. Perhaps inside one of the tent shows? “Do you need to rest for a moment? Maybe a drink of water?”