Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (13 page)

“Gloves . . . gloves.” Artie muttered to himself. A neglected mug of herbal tea went cold. He repeated the refrain like an incantation, as though trying to summon up some stray scrap of knowledge from his voluminous memory. Frustrated, he slammed shut yet another volume. “But
whose
gloves? That’s the question. If we can just pinpoint their origin, we might be able to predict where they will turn up next.”

“Not sure I can help you there,” Claudia said. “But I might be onto something.”

“What is it?” His interest piqued, he rolled his chair across the office to join her. “Anything interesting?”

She scooted over to give him a better look at the computer screen. “I was prowling hospital and emergency databases, looking for more cases of people being cured inexplicably,” she explained. “Just in case there really is another glove out there.”

“And did you find any?”

“Just the opposite, actually.” She nodded at the glowing monitor. “There’s been a chain of freakishly sudden, unexplained illnesses popping up all along the East Coast, more or less in sync with Nadia’s recent spate of healings. We’re talking perfectly healthy people suddenly coming down with typhoid fever of all things . . . for no apparent reason. Several people have died already, and the rest are still hospitalized. The last outbreak was a few hours ago, at a wedding in Pennsylvania. The whole production—bride, groom, guests, et cetera—had to be hospitalized before they even got to the cake.”

Artie lifted his glasses to squint at the screen. His eyes weren’t what they used to be. “Typhoid?”

“Yeah. Weird, right? And that’s not all.” Her fingers danced over the keyboard, calling up a map of the eastern seaboard. “I plotted the epidemic’s vector against Nadia’s magical mystery tour.” She stabbed a macro key. “Check this out.”

On the map, a green line charted the southward progression of the Whitman Bros. Carnival as it made its way from Rhode Island to Connecticut. Blinking dots marked documented healings along the route. A red line, connecting each of the bizarre fever outbreaks, meandered north from Florida to Pennsylvania.

“They’re on an intercept course,” Artie realized. A theory instantly formulated in his brain. “The two gloves, separated for who knows how long, are being drawn back to each other.”

The same notion had crossed Claudia’s mind. “But are we sure there’s a connection? Maybe these two patterns are unconnected?”

“Not on your life,” he said confidently. “There’s no such thing as coincidence where artifacts are concerned. This is all starting to make sense now.”

At least by Warehouse standards,
Claudia thought. “So how does this work, then? One glove heals people, the other one makes them sick?”

“Exactly! Complementary forces. Yin and yang. Left and right. Sickness and health . . .” The words came tumbling out of his mouth excitedly. Claudia could tell he was onto something. He lurched from his chair and started pacing back and forth across the carpet. “Healing, disease . . . typhoid fever . . .”

“Maybe Typhoid Mary?” she suggested.

“Unlikely. Mary Mallon never healed anyone, and she didn’t wear gloves, although she probably should have.” He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course! How could I have missed it before? Clara Barton!”

Claudia didn’t get it. “Can I have the bonus commentary, please?”

“Clarissa Harlowe Barton, ‘the Angel of the Battlefield.’” He pulled a heavy tome from the bookshelf. It landed with a thud onto the desk. “During the Civil War, she nursed thousands of wounded and dying soldiers, her tireless efforts bringing her to many of the war’s bloodiest battlefields. Fredericksburg. Richmond. Bull Run. Antietam.”

Artie blew a thick layer of dust off the book’s cover. Claudia coughed and fanned the cloud away with her hand. He flipped through the pages until he came to a sepia-toned photo of a somber, matronly-looking woman wearing a Red Cross medallion around her neck. An army tent formed the backdrop for the photo. Artie rummaged atop the desk until he found a magnifying glass. He held the glass over the photo, then beckoned to Claudia. She peered through the lens at a pair of elegant white leather gloves—just like the one Pete and Myka had described.

“Along the way, her gloves must have absorbed both the blessing of healing . . . and the deadly curse of the war. During which, it should be noted, disease and infection killed far more soldiers than bullets ever did.”

“Diseases like typhoid fever?” Claudia asked, catching on.

Artie nodded. “Nadia is healing people with Clara Barton’s right glove. I’m sure of it.”

Claudia took his word for it. She glanced back at her computer screen, where the red line continued to pulse ominously. Over two dozen people had already died of fever, and who knew how many others were on the verge of death?

“So who has the bad glove?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Artie said grimly. “After we bring Pete and Myka up to speed.”

He reached for his Farnsworth.

Drip, drip
 . . .

Cider trickled from John Chapman’s pot, raining gently on the artifact one shelf below: an ornate marble bathtub whose claw feet resembled demonic talons. Reinforced steel rods supported the weight of the tub, which had once belonged to Elizabeth Báthory, the infamous Blood Countess of Hungary. Over four hundred years ago, the countess had bathed in the blood of hundreds of murdered young women in the belief that such sanguinary cosmetic treatments would preserve her youth. Walled up inside her own castle for her crimes, Elizabeth had been outlived by her tub. Ancient brown stains discolored the once-pristine marble.

Drop by drop, the cider filled the bottom of the tub. The spicy amber juice grew saltier, and began to take on a disturbing crimson hue. . . .

Artie was pacing again. Claudia didn’t stop him. She figured he could use the exercise.

“All right,” he said, thinking aloud. “We have two gloves, both in the wind. How do we track down Nadia Malinovich . . . and the other glove?”

Claudia leaned back in her chair, the heels of her sneakers resting on the desk. She spitballed ideas off the exposed brick walls, while chewing distractedly on a ballpoint pen. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some way we can take advantage of the fact that the gloves are being drawn back to each other?”

“Hmm. Not a bad idea.” He crossed the office to the large roll-down maps hanging on one wall. He pulled down a map of the eastern seaboard, covering the world map underneath. Working from memory, he charted the converging paths Claudia had plotted before. An easy-erase grease pencil defaced the map.

“You know, you could just use my computer,” she suggested.

“Quiet,” he shushed her. “I think better this way.” After marking up the map, he stepped back to absorb the picture. “Let’s see. The right glove is heading south. The left glove is traveling north.” He applied the marker once more, connecting the dots. “From the looks of things, they’re due to come together somewhere around . . .”

Claudia raced him on the computer.

“Fairfield, Connecticut,” they said in unison.

Artie shot her a bemused look. “All right, genius. Where in Fairfield? And when?”

“Already on it.” She fired up multiple search engines, all of which came back with the same answer. A rush of adrenaline woke her up faster than caffeine. “Eureka!”

“The town?”

“No. You having a senior moment or something? Stay with me.” She gloated over her discovery. “Wanna take a wild guess where a ‘celebrated psychic healer’ is appearing tomorrow evening?”

Artie hurried over to check out the links. “Fairfield?”

“Bingo. Give the old guy a prize.”

“I’ll take Nadia’s glove,” he said, “now that we know where she’s going to be.”

And where one glove was, could the other be far behind?

10

FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT

“Okay, this could be a problem.”

A large crowd had turned out for Nadia’s latest public appearance, which had taken over a local high school gym for the evening. The bleachers were packed with people who had found out about the event from announcements on the Internet. Pete thought he recognized a few faces from the audience at the carnival. According to Claudia, “Princess Nefertiti” already had several fan Web sites devoted to her. Her abilities and appearances were much buzzed about in chat rooms and message boards—which made the agents’ job both easier and harder.

Easier because Nadia’s growing fame made her easier to locate. Harder because they were obviously not the only ones eager to see her.

“And then some,” Myka agreed. “How are we going to get to her with all these people around?”

The agents lurked at the rear of the gym, trying to keep a low profile. A stage had been erected at the opposite end of the gym. Pete spotted Jim Doherty peeking out through a curtain at the crowd. He guessed that Nadia was waiting backstage for her introduction. The strong man, Atlas, stood guard near the base of the stage. Having shed his leopard-print trunks for a tight gray T-shirt and slacks, he looked more like a bodyguard or bouncer than a sideshow attraction. Arms crossed atop his chest, he scanned the crowd for any potential troublemakers.

Pete made sure to keep out of the strong man’s line of sight. His ribs were still sore from that bear hug back at the carnival. “We can’t just rush in without a plan,” he said. “The big guy there isn’t going to give Nadia up without a fight. And he’s not the only one who isn’t going to take kindly to us barging in. We try to confront Nadia in front of her fan club here, we could be talking a riot.” His face remained bruised from the free-for-all at the carnival and ensuing car crash. “Personally, I’d prefer a little less excitement this time around.”

Myka considered their options. “I suppose we could wait until after the show and try to catch her when she leaves?”

“Nah,” Pete said. It was tempting to let Nadia heal a few more people before they shut her down, but they still didn’t know enough about what the glove was doing to her. Or where the mysterious second glove fit in. “Artie’s right. We need to get that glove out of commission as soon as possible, if only so we can concentrate on finding the other one.”

He inspected the audience. Was the second glove already here? According to the gang back at the Warehouse, it was heading this way.

“All right,” Myka said. “So what’s our game plan?”

Pete scoped out their surroundings. He spied a fire alarm mounted to a wall by the front entrance. Exit signs glowed at both ends of the gym. There was even one over by the stage.

He pointed it out to Myka. “Head around back and be ready. I’ll be right with you.”

She nodded and headed for the door. “Give me five minutes.”

“Make it six, just to be safe.”

The alarm switch was only a few yards away. He casually eased toward it while she exited the gym, squeezing past the latecomers pouring into the facility. Reaching the alarm, he leaned against the wall and waited for Myka to get into position. Minutes ticked by.

The lights dimmed, signaling that the show was about to begin. Dozens of murmured conversations fell silent. A local dignitary whose name Pete didn’t catch walked onto the stage and approached a microphone.

“Welcome, friends and neighbors,” the emcee greeted the crowd. A squawk of feedback interrupted her remarks and she paused to adjust the mike. “Thank you all for showing up on such short notice, and thanks to the good folks at Mohegan High School for generously allowing us to rent this facility for the evening. I suspect that most of you have already heard something of our guest’s astounding gifts, or you wouldn’t be here, but perhaps there are some skeptics in the audience too?” A handful of people hesitantly raised their hands. “Well, I’m here to assure you that everything you’ve heard is true . . . as you are about to discover for yourself.” She gestured grandly toward the curtain behind her. “You may know her as Princess Nefertiti, but tonight you will meet the real woman behind the miracles that have brought relief and wellness to so many people. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to . . . Nadia!”