Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (5 page)

“Yeah, Artie.” Pete lowered the funny pages. “You got something for us?”

“Possibly.” Artie finished off his scone before launching into today’s briefing. “I got a ping regarding a string of supposedly ‘miraculous’ healings associated with a traveling carnival that’s working small towns along the eastern seaboard.”

Rummaging through the folder, he extracted a garishly colored flyer promising
Rides! Games! Amazing Acts and Performers!
Clowns, carousel horses, and grinning children crowded the artwork, beneath the image of a towering Ferris wheel.
Fun for All Ages! The Whitman Bros. Family Carnival!
A bright golden starburst that looked as though it had been recently added to the design of the flyer extolled
The Magical Touch of Princess Nefertiti, the World’s Greatest Psychic Healer!

Myka had never heard of her.

Princess who?

Artie slid the flyer across the table toward Myka and Pete. “Every one of the healings took place at this carnival sometime over the last three months.”

“I don’t know, Artie.” Myka peered dubiously at the paper, which reminded her of any number of colorful circus and carnival posters she had seen displayed on telephone poles and barbershop windows over the years, each touting some fly-by-night caravan of thrill rides, rigged games, and greasy food. This just looked like more of the same. “Sideshow charlatans and snake-oil peddlers are a dime a dozen,” she said, playing devil’s advocate. “How can we be certain there’s an artifact involved?”

“Right,” Pete agreed. “Maybe the whole thing’s just hype? Or a hoax?”

“Or perhaps there’s some kind of placebo effect involved,” she suggested. “People feel better because they
think
they’ve been healed.”

Artie shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’ve looked into this and the claims appear to be legitimate.” He pulled more documentation out of the folder, including copies of confidential medical records and insurance claims. “We’re talking broken limbs healed in record time, tumors disappearing, incurable illnesses reversing themselves . . . even at least one case of an Alzheimer’s victim who suddenly regained her faculties.” He held an X-ray up to the light. “I’m seeing all sorts of red flags here.”

That was good enough for Myka. Artie had been doing this for a long time. His hunches almost always paid off.

“All right,” she said. “If you think you’re onto something, we need to check it out.”

“Yes! It’s carnival time.” Pete punched the air, clearly psyched at the prospect. “And you know what that means? Funnel cakes!”

“I’m more of a caramel apple girl myself,” Claudia chimed in. “But to each their own. Maybe we can squeeze in a couple rounds of dart tossing? I’m warning you, I have ‘mad skillz’ when it comes to popping balloons. . . .”

“You’re on,” Pete said, accepting the challenge. “Loser has to carry the giant stuffed panda . . . and buy the winner a ride on the Ferris wheel.”

Artie cut short the playful banter. “Sorry, you’re not going anywhere,” he informed Claudia, popping her balloon more effectively than any feathered dart. “Those inventory reports are not going to update themselves. Well, technically, they could—but that’s never a good idea.”

“But, Artie . . . !” Claudia protested. “I never get to go on any of the really fun jaunts.”

“This isn’t about having fun,” Artie said sternly. “It’s about tracking down a possible artifact whose true nature and potential remain unknown. There are way too many variables here, and I’m not sending you into the field when I have no idea what sort of jeopardy might be waiting. This is a job for Myka and Pete, not a bored teenager.” His gruff voice softened somewhat. “Trust me, it’s for your own good.”

Claudia got the message, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Party pooper.”

“Tough luck, little buckaroo,” Pete consoled her. “I’ll bring you back a goldfish or something.”

“Just watch out for those midway games,” Artie grumped. “They’re all rigged.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Myka promised. “So where is this carnival’s next stop?”

“West Haven, Connecticut.” Artie starting tucking the evidence back into his folder. Myka made a mental note to review the files during the flight to the East Coast. Artie wrapped up the briefing by looking gravely at both Pete and Myka. “Just be careful, you two. As I was saying before, we don’t know what exactly we’re dealing with here.”

“Do we ever?” Myka quipped.

4

WEST HAVEN, CONNECTICUT

The Whitman Bros. Carnival had set up shop in a vacant field outside town. A galaxy of twinkling electric lights lit up the night, washing out the starry sky overhead. High-pitched squeals and laughter competed with raucous calliope music. Excited throngs crowded the midway, scoping out the gaudy attractions. Tattooed carnies urged gullible visitors to try their luck at the ring toss and water gun race. Shrieking men, women, and children rode the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Matterhorn, and bumper cars. The humid August night smelled of popcorn, cotton candy, and fried-dough pizza.

Pete’s mouth was already watering.

“Man,” he exclaimed, eagerly soaking in the festive sights, sounds, and atmosphere. “Does this ever take me back.” He tilted his neck back to check out the glittering Ferris wheel rotating above the other rides. “I can’t remember the last time I rode one of those.”

“Focus,” Myka said. “We’re on the job, remember.”

They strolled down the midway. Dating couples, happy families, and packs of roving teens packed the carnival, impeding the agents’ progress. Sawdust muffled their footsteps. A cow mooed over by the petting zoo. Pete didn’t know where to look first.

“I know,” he replied. “But c’mon, you have to admit this is pretty cool. Didn’t you ever want to run away to the circus when you were a kid?”

“Sure. But let’s think about taking a spin on the merry-go-round later,
after
we’ve located and neutralized whatever artifact might be lurking in the vicinity.”

“If there’s even one to be found,” he pointed out. “We don’t know that for sure.”

On the surface, the small-time carnival, with its slightly seedy glitz and glamour, seemed unlikely to be hiding a genuine historical artifact, let alone one of supernatural power, yet he knew better than to jump to any assumptions. Experience had taught him that dangerous relics could be found almost anywhere. A construction site, a prison, a New York fashion show, a Las Vegas casino . . . you never knew where the next artifact might turn up.

Maybe even a carnival sideshow?

“Let’s find out,” Myka said. “Then maybe you can win Claudia a prize . . . if I don’t beat you to it.”

“Fair enough.” He was amused, but not too surprised, to see that his partner was not entirely immune to the lure of the midway. When he and Myka had first started working together, she had struck him as a real by-the-book type, with a stick the size of the Washington Monument up her butt. But she had loosened up a lot since then, revealing the real Myka Bering: a smart, funny, resourceful woman he could always count on to watch his back, no matter what. He couldn’t ask for a better partner. “You ready to check out the world-famous Princess Nefertiti?”

“Lead the way.”

Bypassing the rides, games, and concession stands (for now), they made their way to the sideshow at the far end of the midway. A striped canvas tent about the size of a merry-go-round was set up in front of a caravan of parked trucks and trailers. Garishly painted banners festooned the tent, the lurid illustrations promising a variety of human oddities and performers: the Fat Lady, the Strong Man, the Sword Swallower, the Alligator Boy, and so on. The usual carnival staples. But one attraction clearly took star billing. A huge banner, larger and less faded than the others, was stretched above the entrance to the tent, where nobody could miss it.

Now Appearing!! PRINCESS NEFERTITI, Healer Extraordinaire!!

Unlike the other performers, there was no portrait of Nefertiti outside the tent. To create an aura of mystery about her? Or was her name alone enough to draw an audience?

It seemed to be working. A long line was snaking into the tent, egged on by the barker, who called out to the crowd from his podium. Greasy muttonchops blended with his five o’clock shadow. He had the ruddy, veined nose of a hard drinker.

There but for the grace of AA,
Pete thought.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Don’t miss your chance to see six of the most amazing acts ever assembled beneath a single tent! All for the price of a single ticket! You can’t see anything like this on TV, folks. It’s all real . . . including the incomparable Princess Nefertiti, whose miraculous gifts are truly a blessing in these troubled times.” He lowered his voice before adding the obligatory disclaimer. “Presented purely for entertainment purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka echoed, a skeptical expression on her face. She scanned the line before them. “Say, Pete, is it just me, or does this crowd look better suited to a hospital than a sideshow?”

Looking more closely, he saw what she meant. Many of the ticket buyers appeared to be suffering from some sort of ailment or infirmity. An older gentleman in a wheelchair sucked on bottled oxygen. A teenage jock wearing a maroon football jersey hobbled forward on crutches. Concerned friends and relatives assisted sick people who seemed too weak to make it on their own. Skullcaps and obvious wigs hinted at the ravages of chemotherapy. Drawn, anxious faces contrasted sharply with the carefree crowds patronizing the rest of the carnival. Unlike the folks riding the carousel, these people didn’t appear to be out for a good time.

“It’s not just you,” he confirmed. “Looks like Princess Nefertiti’s reputation precedes her.”

“I spotted a lot of out-of-state license plates in the parking lot, too,” Myka noted, observant as ever. “You think these people came all this way just to check out a sideshow healer?”

“Why not? We did.”

An elderly woman, dressed rather too warmly for the temperature, approached the barker. “Is it true?” she asked urgently. A telltale tremor in her limbs suggested that she was afflicted with Parkinson’s. “Can Princess Nefertiti really heal the sick? Even when doctors can’t?”

“See for yourself, madam.” The barker steered her toward the growing line. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

Pete found himself hoping that the healer was the real deal, if only for the sake of all these ill and disabled people. It would be a crime to raise their hopes like this and not deliver. If this was just a scam, he might need to have words with these carnies. “For entertainment purposes only, my ass.”

Making their way to the front of the line, he bought tickets for both him and Myka. Pete asked for a receipt, so he could expense it later, but the sallow-faced carnie manning the entrance just snorted in derision. “Seriously, dude. A receipt? At a sideshow?”

“Never mind.”

Sorry, Artie,
he thought.
I tried.

They stepped past a drawn canvas flap into the stuffy interior of the tent. Bleachers, erected on both sides of a central walkway, faced a low wooden stage. Curtains at the rear of the stage provided a backdrop for the performers. A single white bulb, hanging overhead, was supplemented by lambent footlights. Canned music played from a pair of loudspeakers. Sawdust carpeted the floor.

“Don’t say I never take you anywhere classy,” Pete joked.

“Tell me about it,” she replied. “From the looks of things, people are practically dying to get in here.”

The bleachers were packed, and a veritable obstacle course of wheelchairs and walkers was parked in front of the stage, but the two agents managed to find a couple of seats in the back row. The show, which appeared to be on a continuous loop, was already in progress. A young knife thrower, identified by a wooden sandwich board as the Dazzling Dmitri, demonstrated his eagle eye by hurling shining silver blades at a spinning star-shaped target while the
William Tell Overture
played tinnily in the background. A wiry youth with wavy blond hair, he wore a spangled gold tunic and tight blue trousers. A crimson sash girded his slender waist. The crowd clapped politely as, one by one, he planted a knife at each tip of the star, plus one more in the bull’s-eye.