Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (30 page)

He licked his cracked lips. “I don’t suppose I can get a corn dog?”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Not that kind of fair, I’m afraid. This looks more like a green tea and macrobiotic tofu kind of place.”

“In that case, I’ll pass.” Pete’s face twisted and he clutched his stomach. “Probably couldn’t keep it down anyway.”

A sudden cramp struck him. He doubled over, gasping in pain. A racking cough shook his body. He placed a hand over his mouth. A crimson mist sprayed between his fingers.

“Oh, God, Pete! You’re coughing up blood!”

“I’ll be okay,” he moaned unconvincingly. His white knuckles gripped the cane, which, along with Myka’s arm, seemed to be the only things holding him up. “Just need a sec. . . .”

He needed a lot more than that, she realized. And time was running short.

“That’s it,” she insisted. “We’re getting you to a hospital now.” Her photographic memory called up a map of upper Manhattan. Where was the nearest emergency room? St. Luke’s? New York Presbyterian?

“N-no!” Pete struggled to straighten up. It killed her not to help him up. “Not until we find those gloves—and the bastard that did this to me.”

Myka appreciated the sentiment, but had to face facts. “You’re too sick. It’s not possible.”

“Then forget about me.” He shoved her away. “Find Worrall. Don’t let him do this to anyone else.”

She knew he was right—that her top priority had to be stopping Worrall from unleashing a plague on New York City. “But I can’t just leave you here!”

“You have to! This is bigger than just me. We both know that.” He hunched over the cane. His voice, although shaky, was just as obstinate as ever. “Let me take a bullet for the team. That’s what we were trained to do.”

She didn’t know what to do. Duty called, but every part of her rebelled at the thought of abandoning Pete. Hell, she didn’t even know for sure that Worrall was here, or how to find him if he was. What if Pete died alone while she was running around in circles?

I’m not sure I could live with myself if that happened. . . .

Another spasm did him in. His face twisted and his knees buckled. She grabbed on to his sagging body before he could hit the pavement. His head lolled backward and his eyes lost focus. For a second she thought he was going to pass out. He mumbled deliriously, or at least semi-so. “I think I need a cookie. . . .”

“Whoa, man!” a young black man wearing an NYU sweatshirt and glasses noticed Pete’s distress. “You look like you’re in pretty bad shape.” He hurried over to them. “You folks need any help?”

She was grateful for his assistance. Placing her arm around Pete’s shoulders, she tried to steer him away from the fair. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“No.” Pete shook his head. “Won’t do any good anyway.”

“He’s right, you know.” Their Good Samaritan gestured around them. “Screw the modern medical establishment. You want a healer, you’ve come to the right place.”

Myka was in no mood for a lecture on alternative medicine. “I don’t think any crystals or copper bracelets are going to do him any good.”

“I’m not talking trinkets,” the student insisted. “You wouldn’t believe the healer they’ve got here today. She’s the real deal. Everyone’s talking about her.”

That got Myka’s attention. “‘She’?”

“Yeah. Some young chick, calls herself Sister Clara.” His bright eyes glowed with enthusiasm, like they’d just seen the light of a genuine miracle. He was a true believer. “She’s astounding. Trust me, if anybody can fix your boyfriend, she can.”

“Not her boyfriend,” Pete murmured. “Although I was inside her body once . . . .”

“TMI, dude,” the young man said. “Not cool.”

Myka ignored Pete’s rambling. Hope flared inside her, brighter than an artifact being neutralized. He had to be talking about Nadia. Who else could it be?

“Where?” she demanded. “Where is she?”

The boy tilted his head toward the northern end of the field. “Just follow the crowd. You can’t miss her.”

She saw what he meant. Distracted by Pete’s near collapse, she had failed to notice a sudden surge of traffic in the direction her new friend had indicated. Excited voices spread the word about the phenomenal new healing sensation. “You have to see her!” somebody exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

I’ll bet I have,
Myka thought.
At a sideshow in Connecticut.

But if Nadia was here, where was Worrall?

“You haven’t heard about anybody getting sick, have you?” she interrogated the helpful college kid. “Like my friend?”

“No.” He seemed puzzled by the questions. “Why do you ask?”

She took his confusion as a good sign. Maybe Worrall wasn’t here yet. In which case, she could get to Nadia and her glove before Worrall did, which had to be easier than dealing with both halves of the artifact at once.
First things first,
she thought. Perhaps the right glove would be enough to heal Pete on its own. Once Pete was cured, they could concentrate on stopping Worrall before he hurt anyone else.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn things around.

She debated leaving Pete behind with the student while she went after Nadia, but decided against it. She was in the market for a healer right now, and the sooner she got Pete to her, the better. He looked like he already had one foot in the grave. Every minute mattered.

“What’s your name?” she asked their anonymous helper.

“Robbie,” the boy supplied.

“Okay, Robbie. I”m going to need your help getting my friend to this astounding healer.” She looked him over. “You up to it?”

“Sure.” He helped her hoist Pete to his feet. “Just wait until you see her. You’re not going to regret this.”

I hope not,
she thought. But at least they seemed to be one step ahead of the epidemic at the moment. That was something. “Hang on, Pete. It’s almost over.”

Or so she thought.

Frantic screams erupted from the other end of the fair. The sky darkened abruptly, just as it had outside that gym in Fairfield. Violent gusts whipped through the fair, causing banners and pennants to flap wildly before tearing loose from their moorings. Wind chimes pealed in alarm. The temperature dropped like Myka’s hopes. She had seen this before.

Damnit,
she realized.
We’re too late.

The crowd, which had been funneling toward Nadia, suddenly reversed direction. Panicked people, fleeing the screams, rushed from the park. Myka and Robbie scrambled out of the way, dragging Pete with them, to avoid getting trampled. They flattened themselves against the back of a fair trade coffee stand as a human tsunami flooded past them, stomping over everything in their path. Tents and booths were knocked over in the chaos. Myka drew her Tesla. Pete clung to the elephant-headed cane. Robbie stared at the madness in shock.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s happening?”

He was better off not knowing. “Go!” she ordered. He had done enough already. He didn’t need to risk getting infected by Worrall too. “Get out of here, while you still can!”

The boy hesitated, until he saw the antique ray gun in Myka’s grip. That was enough to convince him that he was in way over his head. He wisely bolted from the scene, joining the fear-crazed exodus around them. Myka watched for a second, to make sure he got away safely, but quickly lost sight of him in the crowd. She hoped he’d be okay.

Even though nobody was really safe as long as Clara Barton’s gloves were causing havoc.

I need to do something about that.

The commotion roused Pete from his delirium. He sagged against her, gripping his cane.

“Hey,” he wheezed “Remember that time a job went easier than we expected?”

“No,” Myka replied.

“Yeah, me neither.”

21

EN ROUTE

Ten thousand feet above the eastern half of the United States, the scarlet triplane flew toward New York at speeds unimaginable to the flying aces of the First World War. In theory, a Fokker DR-1 could achieve only 115 miles per hour tops, but the Red Baron’s fabled fighter wasn’t any ordinary triplane, at least not anymore. Fierce winds buffeted Claudia’s face and goggles, forcing her to bury her face against Artie’s back. Her scarf came loose and went flying off into the sky.

She considered stealing Artie’s.

The Fokker’s flimsy wood-and-canvas construction rattled alarmingly. Its whirring propeller spun too fast to be seen. Scorched and shredded wings still bore the scars of the plane’s heated dogfight with the predatory thunderbird. Artifacts tended to be supernaturally durable, Claudia reminded herself, but she couldn’t help wondering if they were pushing the old warbird too hard. What if the primitive aircraft came apart under the strain?

“Maybe you should ease up on the throttle?”

“Huh?” Artie’s hands clutched the stick, working it like a pro. Or, more likely, the stick was working him. “What did you say?”

She shouted above the wind and engine. Her teeth chattered. “You think you should slow down?”

“No time,” he barked. “The psychic fair has started, Pete’s sick, the gloves are in play, and Myka needs backup, ASAP. We may already be too late!”

“Well, when you put it that way. . . .” She resigned herself to a bumpy ride. “Explain to me again: How exactly are we getting this old bird to go jet speed?”

“I’ve souped up its engine over the years,” he divulged, “using parts salvaged from one of Robert Goddard’s experimental rockets.” Goddard, a pioneering inventor, had been the father of modern rocketry. Flames shot from the Fokker’s exhaust pipe. A sudden burst of acceleration pressed Claudia against the back of the cockpit. “I always thought it might come in handy someday!”

“And that’s safe?”

“In theory,” Artie said, less authoritatively than she would have liked. “This is the Red Baron’s triplane. It’s never crashed before!”

There’s always a first time,
Claudia mused, but kept the thought to herself. “Tell that to Snoopy.”

The New York skyline appeared on the horizon. Claudia glimpsed the shamelessly phallic outline of the Empire State Building. No giant gorillas were in evidence, thank goodness. Triplane or not, she didn’t feel like re-enacting the last act of
King Kong.
That bloodthirsty totem pole had been enough for one day. Plus, they still had those darn gloves to deal with.

“Look for someplace to land,” Artie shouted. “Preferably out of the way. . . .”

She scanned the terrain below, searching for an empty field, a deserted parking lot, or the grounds of an abandoned factory. The view gave her vertigo. It was a long way down. “You do know how to land this thing, right?”

“No,” he admitted. “But hopefully the plane does.”

A sonic boom rattled New Jersey.

CENTRAL PARK

“Gather round, everyone. Sister Clara will be ready again in a moment.”

Jim addressed the crowd while Nadia gathered her strength. Their “stage” consisted of a used Persian carpet they had rolled out atop the lawn. A red velvet sheet was draped over an aluminum lawn chair at the center of the rug, giving her someplace to rest between shows.
Sessions,
she corrected herself. A sturdy red box was set up in front of a microphone facing the audience. Twin poles, driven into the ground, supported a hand-painted white backdrop bearing a large red cross in honor of Clara Barton. Nadia had been reading up on the legendary nurse ever since those Secret Service agents had mentioned her back in Fairfield. She had felt an immediate kinship, a sense of connection, to Clara Barton, who had been everything Nadia wanted to become. She didn’t understand how it was possible, but she felt convinced now that her healing gifts came from Clara. Had the miraculous glove once belonged to the real Clara Barton? In her heart, Nadia knew it had to be so.