by Greg Cox
“I think so.” Claudia lowered her feet onto a metal rung, which felt reassuringly solid compared to empty air. She let go of the shelf. Her aching fingers thanked her. “You?”
“Just a little dusty.” Leena smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress. She had worked at the Warehouse longer than any of them except Artie. It took a lot to rattle her. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Claudia scrambled down the ladder, grateful to set foot on the floor again. Her heart was still pounding from her near brush with electrocution. She was too young to go to the great chat room in the sky just yet. Ozone lingered in the air, along with a faint aftertaste of fudge. That soda back in Artie’s office was sounding better and better.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I think I’m ready to call it a day.”
Leena didn’t disagree. “After all that, I think we deserve a break.” She recovered her clipboard from the floor. “We can tackle the rest of this section tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” She glanced down the long corridor, which held enough relics, curios, and knickknacks to crash eBay for good. No way was she up to taking on another mile of shelves right now. “It’s not like all this junk is going anywhere.”
“Knock on wood,” Leena teased.
Claudia rapped a shelf before they headed back toward the office.
The women’s footsteps receded into the distance. Forgotten in the confusion, and toppled by the violent shaking, John Chapman’s pot lay on its side several shelves above the floor. Apple cider crept toward the lip of the pot, then began to spill onto the shelf. A small puddle slowly formed and cider started to seep through the wooden slats. Cider dripped onto the shelf directly below, but no one was around to notice.
Drip, drip, drip . . .
CHAPTER
8
FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT
“Thank you so much for taking us in like this.”
“Oh, please.” Their hostess waved away Nadia’s gratitude. “It’s the least I can do after the way you cured my arthritis. I should be thanking you for finally giving me a chance to repay you.”
Nadia sat at a kitchen table in a comfortable suburban home. Jim sat beside her, digging into a home-cooked meal. They had changed out of their carnival garb into fresh clothes provided by their benefactor, a retired high school principal named Judith Noggle. A steaming mug of coffee was cupped between Nadia’s palms. Although she had discarded the rest of her costume, she still had on her gloves. After nearly losing the glove to those Secret Service agents, she couldn’t bear to be parted with it again.
“Just the same, we really appreciate this. Especially on such short notice.”
She and Jim had literally e-mailed Judith from the road after ditching those Feds yesterday. The older woman was just one of several grateful “patients” who had expressed a fervent desire to do whatever they could for Nadia someday, pressing their business cards and contact information upon her after being healed. Nadia had an entire shoe box full of cards and thank-you notes back at the carnival. Some, like Judith, had even friended her online. Nadia had used Jim’s phone to reach Judith after they went on the run. Thankfully, her home was only a short drive from West Haven.
A doorbell rang.
“That must be them,” Judith announced. “I’ll go let them in.” She patted Nadia on the shoulder. “Feel free to finish your coffee, dear. There’s no rush.”
She exited the kitchen, leaving Nadia alone with Jim. He took advantage of the momentary privacy to check on her. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay enough.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m feeling a lot better now.”
He looked her over, obviously concerned. “You positive about that?” He scowled. “I don’t like this. I mean, now we’ve got the government after you? Maybe it’s time to get a new act.”
“It’s not just an act!” she blurted, more vehemently than she intended. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that . . . this means a lot to me, you know?”
How could she make him understand? She’d spent her whole life conning rubes with carnie tricks, or risking her neck doing acrobatic stunts. Carrying on the Malinovich family tradition. But now she was finally doing something important with her life. Something real. She wasn’t just putting on a show. She was helping people.
How could she give that up?
“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled, trying to sympathize. “But it’s making you sick. We both know that. Hell, even those Feds could see it.”
“It doesn’t last,” she insisted. “I just feel a little shaky afterwards, that’s all.”
“Really? ’Cause it seems like it’s getting worse the more you do it.”
She looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes. Deep down inside, she was afraid he might be right. What had that woman, Agent Bering, said before? That power like this came with a hefty price tag? What if she and her partner knew what they were talking about? To be completely honest, sure, she had her own doubts sometimes about where the glove came from and what it was doing to her—not that she ever wanted to admit that to Jim. He already worried about her too much.
Which was sweet, really. But she couldn’t let that stop her from doing what she was meant to. What she had to do.
“I can handle it, okay?” She smiled and squeezed his hand again. “Trust me on this.”
Jim knew better than to argue with her. “All right. But I still think we should head for Canada first chance we get. We need to put a border between you and those Feds.”
“No.” They had already discussed this. “That’s . . . the wrong direction.”
“Wrong how? I don’t understand.”
Neither do I, she admitted silently. She couldn’t explain it. It was like there was an invisible force pulling on her . . . or the glove. Her palm itched and she scratched at it through the soft white leather. “I just want to keep heading south, like we were before.”
“But why? What difference does it make?”
Judith’s return spared Nadia from confessing that she had no idea. “Excuse me, dear. They’re ready for you now.”
“Of course.” Nadia got up from the table, grateful for the interruption. Jim frowned. Clearly this conversation wasn’t over, but right now she’d settle for an intermission. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Judith led them into a tastefully decorated living room, where a middle-aged Asian couple was waiting for her. Nadia could tell right away the wife was the sick one: she looked frail and haggard. According to Judith, Linda Ogawa had been fighting leukemia for years. Obviously nervous, the couple eyed her with a familiar mixture of hope and apprehension. Nadia didn’t blame them for their doubts.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have believed in me, either.
“Nadia, these are my friends the Ogawas. I’ve told them all about you.”
They weren’t the only ones. A steady stream of pilgrims had been flocking to the house since Nadia had arrived, lured by Judith’s enthusiastic endorsement. There was even talk of staging some sort of public event at a local high school later this week. The former principal had missed her calling, Nadia reflected wryly. She should have been an agent or carnival barker.
“Is it true?” Ken Ogawa asked. “Can you really help my wife?”
The naked desperation in his eyes and voice tugged at her heart. He clung anxiously to Linda’s hand. How could she possibly disappoint them?
Jim came up beside her and whispered in her ear. “You sure you’re up to this?”
Absolutely, she thought. Her fingers flexed within the glove, eager to begin. All her doubts and fears evaporated. Those scary government agents were wrong. There was a reason the glove had come into her life. This was always meant to be.
“Please,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She held out her hand.
PENNSYLVANIA
Worrall followed the road north. Clouds drifted across the horizon.
; Today had been a good day so far. His head wasn’t torturing him. His gut was not on fire. He’d even managed to get a decent night’s sleep in a motel last night. By his own pathetic standards, he actually felt halfway healthy.
Too bad the same couldn’t be said of those unlucky souls he had run across at the diner the other night. He’d left them sprawled on the tile floor, moaning pitifully. By now they knew what he’d been going through all these years.
Tough. He couldn’t afford to feel sorry for them. Making other people sick was the only thing that made him feel better, if only temporarily. If strangers had to suffer to ease his misery, so be it. Why should their well-being be more valuable than mine?
He wasn’t concerned about getting caught. He’d done this before. Plenty of times. Past experience had taught him that they would all be too dazed to remember exactly what had happened to them. Their memories had been scrambled by the awesome power of his glove. Chances were, they would blame the diner’s greasy food.
For however long they survived.
Just one thing worried him. It used to be that infecting just one person would give him relief for days, but lately it seemed as though he needed to afflict more and more people to get the same effect. It was like an addiction.
Just the one glove wasn’t enough. He needed the other one too. The one that could cure him forever. No matter what the cost.
The road called to him. “Aïda” sang from the speakers. Mile after mile fell behind him. His left hand itched.
He was getting closer.
The sky cleared up ahead, letting more of the sun through. The light reflected off the blacktop before him, hurting his eyes. He put on his shades, but it was too late. That same damn pressure started building in his temples. His eyes watered. Nausea twisted his stomach in knots. His jaw clenched. Shaking hands gripped the wheel.
Damnit, he cursed. It’s too soon.
There was nothing to be done about it, though. Except find someone to share his misery with.
Or, better yet, several someones.
The outskirts of a small farming town struck him as a promising hunting ground. Worrall’s throbbing eyes searched for a likely venue. Scorching bile climbed up his throat. He retrieved a roll of antacids from his pocket and chewed down on several of them. The chalky tablets provided only minimal relief. Fairly soon, he knew, he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down at all. Medication couldn’t help him.
But he knew what could.
A modest-size church appeared alongside the road up ahead. The parking lot out front was full. Visitors bearing gifts flocked toward the church entrance. They had all dressed up for the occasion. Ushers in rented tuxes greeted people at the door. A sign at the curb read: Congratulations, Nick and Shelly!
It seemed a wedding was in progress.
Worrall smirked at his good fortune. He pulled over to the side of the road.
Checking himself in the mirror, he straightened his clothing and joined the procession toward the church. A few curious looks were cast his way, but nobody challenged him. He forced himself to maintain a smiling countenance, despite the pain and nausea driving him onward. His swollen veins pulsed horribly. His teeth ground together.
Worrall entered the church, gratified to discover aisles of unsuspecting people. The bride and groom were not yet in evidence, but he had no doubt that they were nearby. He had his own gift to bestow on the happy couple.
A helpful usher who couldn’t have been more than seventeen approached him. “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”
“All of the above,” Worrall said.
CHAPTER
9
WAREHOUSE 13
Claudia and Artie were in full search mode.
Scattered notes, files, and printouts were strewn across their respective desks as well as large portions of the floor. A whirring fan rustled the documents, which were held down by assorted oddball paperweights. Claudia was glued to her keyboard, scouring the Internet, while Artie went old-school, leafing through various dog-eared dossiers, catalogs, and history books in search of some clue to the glove’s provenance—and Nadia’s possible whereabouts. They had been going at it all day without a break. Leena had headed back into town to check on the B&B. Claudia figured she’d catch up with her later. Right now, the game was on.
“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.