Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (36 page)

“Wow,” he mumbled. “My whole mouth tastes like fudge.”

Myka gasped in relief. Joyful tears streamed down her face. Dropping to his side, she hugged him as hard as she could. “Ohmigod, Pete . . .”

“Hey, not so tight!” he griped. “I’m trying to breathe here.”

She let go and punched him in the shoulder instead.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, you jerk!”

24

CENTRAL PARK

“How’s he doing?” Pete asked.

Nadia cradled Jim’s head in her lap as her battered boyfriend came to. A fresh bandage, courtesy of Artie’s satchel, had been applied to his brow. Nadia pressed gently on the compress. “His head’s stopped bleeding. I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Nadia?” Jim looked up at her. “What . . . what happened?”

“It’s all right,” she shushed him. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“But that man?” He shuddered, remembering Worrall’s attack. He clutched Nadia’s hand. “Are you all right?”

“It’s okay, man,” Pete said. “Everything’s under control. Just take it easy.” He gave Nadia a reassuring nod. “Head wounds can be tricky,” he told her. “Lots of time they look a lot worse than they are.” From what he’d seen, he doubted if Jim would even need stitches. “You probably ought to have him checked out for a concussion, though.”

Nadia contemplated her naked right hand. “I don’t suppose . . . ,” she asked him tentatively. “Just once more?”

Pete shook his head. The gloves remained on his hands, just in case they needed a little more time to fix him, but he wasn’t tempted to use them. They had caused enough trouble already. “Let’s not push our luck, okay?”

Calm had finally descended on the Sheep Meadow, which they had all to themselves for the time being. Worrall’s panicked victims had all fled the scene. Chances were, they would have only foggy memories of what had happened to them. The local authorities were staying away as well. Pete wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Mrs. Frederic had quietly pulled strings to arrange for a temporary quarantine, just to give the agents a chance to take care of any loose ends. She was good at that kind of thing. After all, she had been doing it since who knew when.

One of these days,
Pete thought,
I really want to find out what her story is.

For the moment, however, he was just happy to be alive. The storm clouds had all dispersed, leaving behind a beautiful fall afternoon. Pete took a deep breath, filling his lungs. He was still a little wobbly, but he was definitely starting to feel like his old self again.

Thanks to Myka and Artie and Claudia.

“Hey, partner.” Myka strolled over to join him, after returning Artie’s first-aid kit to his bag. She looked Pete over. “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly, I’m starving for something beside hospital food.” He patted his stomach. “I feel like I could eat a horse.”

The brown nag lifted its head over by the carriage. Pete shrugged apologetically.

“Present company excluded, of course.”

The horse whinnied indignantly. Its passengers were still out cold. Pete figured the tourists and the carriage driver would be pretty confused when they finally woke up. Not that they’d actually remember anything. The Tesla blast would have done a number on their memories.

And speaking of loose ends . . .

Pete held up his hands, showing off Clara Barton’s gloves. “How about we finally neutralize these puppies?”

“Already?” Worry creased her brow. “Maybe you should keep them on a little longer? Just in case they’re . . . well, keeping you alive.”

“I feel fine,” he insisted. “Anything they’re going to do, I think they’ve done.” He did his best to alleviate her anxiety. “Honestly, Mykes, I want to get these things off me.” He scratched at the back of his hand. “They’re starting to itch.”

Myka nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.” She took out a silver retrieval bag and held it open. “Any time you’re ready.”

She didn’t need to ask twice. He unbuttoned the gloves and peeled them off. Into the bag they went without a second thought. Golden sparks erupted the minute the gloves hit the goo inside. A pyrotechnic flash left his eyes watering—just like usual.

“All right.” He punched the air triumphantly. “Now, that’s what I call a proper neutralization.”

“And none too soon.” Myka sealed the bag shut. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to declare this case closed.”

“You and me both,” Pete agreed.

Seated on the carpet a few feet away, Nadia sighed ruefully as she watched Myka put the bag away. “It was nice while it lasted, I guess.” She gazed at her empty hands. “I should have known it was too good to be true.”

Pete didn’t want to leave her feeling like she had lost something irreplaceable. “Look, there are still plenty of ways you can help people if you really want to. Do volunteer work, become a doctor, a teacher, a Secret Service agent, whatever. You don’t need some spooky Civil War gloves to do good, just a big heart and a willingness to go the extra yard for folks who can use a helping hand.” He smiled down at Nadia and Jim. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve already got plenty of both.”

She looked at him hopefully. “You really think so?”

“I know it. Just don’t make yourself sick this time, okay?”

Jim squeezed her hand. “Trust me, I’ll take good care of her.”

“Take care of each other,” Myka stressed. “You’ll be okay as long as you have someone watching your back.” She punched Pete again. “Even if they scare you to death sometimes.”

“Ouch!” Pete said. “Stop doing that!”

“Ah. There you are.”

Artie found Brigadier General Laverlong’s cane lying not far from where Pete had dropped it. To his relief, the artifact did not appear to have been damaged in its travels. He had been uneasy about shipping the elephant cross-country. Past attempts to transport artifacts by post or special delivery had not always turned out well, as in the case of Philo Farnsworth’s 3-D TV projector. Handling the cane carefully, he tucked it under his arm. “Back to the Warehouse for you,” he muttered. “Safely away from any fault zones.”

He peeked at his watch. They needed to keep an eye on the time. Mrs. Frederic could keep the area contained for the present, citing “national security,” but they shouldn’t linger. The sooner he and the others relocated to a more secure location, the better. Fortunately, the Regents had long ago arranged for a safe house down in the Village, tucked away inside the old Northern Dispensary building. They could camp out there before heading back to South Dakota with the gloves.

Where to shelve them?
he wondered, thinking ahead. In the Civil War wing, next to Harriet Tubman’s thimble, John Brown’s body, and the original grapes of wrath? Or in the medical aisle, alongside the Hippocrates and Florence Nightingale collections? There was always the Dark Vault, of course, but that was getting a bit crowded. . . .

A bitter voice interrupted his ruminations.

“Who are you people anyway?” Worrall demanded. His hands cuffed behind his back, he had been propped up against a convenient tree trunk. Dried goo caked his face and clothes. He strained impotently against his bonds. “This is none of your business!”

“You couldn’t be more wrong about that, actually.” Artie ambled over to check on their prisoner. He eyed Worrall curiously. “How’s your head, Calvin? The migraines still bothering you?”

The question took Worrall by surprise. “How do you know . . . ?”

“I know all sorts of things, Calvin. That’s my job.” He removed a magnifying glass from his leather satchel and examined the veins beneath Worrall’s hairless scalp. They didn’t look particularly swollen. “Anyway, about your head?”

“It’s fine,” Worrall said sourly. He twisted away from Artie’s examination. “What do you care?”

“Just testing a hypothesis. And your ulcer?”

“My ulcer?” Worrall paused. A puzzled look came over his face, as though he had just noticed something. “It’s not bothering me.” A note of wonderment crept into his voice. “Not at all. I feel fine.” He tugged on the cuffs. “All things considered.”

Interesting,
Artie thought.
Just as I theorized.

“Ironically enough, Calvin, I suspect that wearing both gloves actually cured you of your various ailments. You can probably look forward to a long and healthy life . . . in federal custody.”

Worrall frowned. “What do you intend to do with me?”

That was for the Regents to decide. Now that Worrall had been stripped of the infectious left glove, he no longer posed an active threat to humanity, but his ruthless actions required some manner of retribution. Artie doubted if the Regents would have Worrall bronzed alive, as had been done to many of the most dangerous individuals in history, including MacPherson and H. G. Wells, but Worrall was going to need to be kept under wraps from now on. There were other hazardous artifacts still at large in the world, after all, and Calvin had already demonstrated a reckless desire to wield them. They couldn’t risk him getting his hands on something comparable to Clara Barton’s gloves—or maybe even worse.

“Let us worry about that,” Artie said. “You just stay put while we clean up your mess.”

“But you can’t simply hold me like this!” He squirmed indignantly, rattling his cuffs. His once pallid face turned an apoplectic shade of purple. “I demand to call my lawyer!”

Artie chuckled at the notion. “I’m afraid you have us confused with the FBI. We don’t work that way.” He turned his back on the renegade collector. “Enjoy your migraine-free life, Calvin. At least you got something for your trouble. And ours.”

Worrall cursed Artie vociferously as the agent walked away. Artie tuned him out. Calvin was just a minor detail to be disposed of now. What really mattered was Clara Barton’s gloves, now safely residing inside a neutralizer bag within his satchel. They had come a long way from the bloody battlefields and disease-ridden infirmaries of the Civil War, but their wanderings, both together and apart, were nearing their end.

He peeked inside the satchel to make sure they weren’t acting up.

“No more touring for you,” he said. “And no more sideshows.”

Their next stop was a permanent engagement at Warehouse 13.

25

LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST

“Of course!” Myka finally finished that crossword puzzle she had been working on before. “A six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’ is . . . ‘gloves.’” She triumphantly filled in the final square. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”

Breakfast was on the patio again. The B&B’s grounds and gardens were nowhere near as expansive as Central Park’s, but she wouldn’t have traded them for all the buried treasures in the Warehouse. It was good to be home.

Coffee, croissants, and fresh-squeezed orange juice were laid out atop the table, alongside the morning papers. Pete wolfed down pastries like there was no tomorrow, clearly making up for lost time. He had already gained back much of the weight he had lost in the hospital. Myka took his healthy appetite as proof that his fever had passed for good.
That’s our Pete,
she thought, claiming a croissant before they all disappeared. She looked forward to him annoying her for years to come.

Pete wasn’t the only person who was recovering. According to Vanessa Calder, those afflicted by Calvin Worrall were now responding to conventional treatment. Neutralizing the gloves had not cured Worrall’s victims, but now their fevers could be treated by antibiotics and other forms of modern medicine, unavailable in Clara Barton’s time. Vanessa expected them all to make a full recovery.