by Greg Cox
“I’ll say,” she agreed. A basket of fresh vegetables from the farmer’s market hung from her elbow. “I couldn’t ask for a nicer day.”
The sun shone down on Main Street. Elm trees shaded the wide sidewalks. Patriotic flags and bunting added color to the storefronts. Cars were parked on the curb. People wandered in and out of the various shops and offices. Leena was happy to see that her neighbors’ auras all seemed to be in alignment today. She had known most of them for years.
“How’s things at the B&B?” Bert put away his push broom and wiped his hands on his apron. “Those IRS goons giving you any trouble?”
As far as the townspeople knew, Pete and Myka and Claudia all worked for the Internal Revenue Service, and the Warehouse itself stockpiled every tax return ever filed. Alas, while this cover story served to discourage any locals from looking too closely at what went on at the Warehouse, it hadn’t exactly endeared the agents (and apprentice) to their neighbors. Most of the folks in Univille wanted as little to do with them as possible.
“They’re nice people, Bert. Really.”
She had it easier than the others. Nobody knew she worked for the Warehouse. They just thought she put them up at her bed-and-breakfast.
“Sure they are,” he said dubiously, “until you find yourself being audited to the last dime.” He shrugged. “I guess their money’s as good as anyone else’s, and I’m sure you appreciate their business, times being what they are. But me? I’m not sure I’d be comfortable sleeping under the same roof as the IR-fricking-S.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, smiling. “I sleep just fine.”
Except, perhaps, when Pete or Myka or the entire world was in danger.
“Well, better you than me.” He changed the subject. “You coming to the big bash this weekend?”
A canvas banner stretched above Main Street hyped the town’s annual “UnFounders Day” celebration, which was being held on Saturday. Leena was looking forward to it.
“Of course. You know me: I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Great. See you there.” He headed back inside his store. “You take care, Leena.”
“You, too, Bert.”
She continued on her way, exchanging more greetings with old friends and neighbors. Old Mrs. Lozenko was out walking her dog. Dr. Stevens, the dentist, was picking up his dry cleaning. The Brubaker twins were racing their bikes down the sidewalk. Claire and Janice, who ran the coffee shop, were pushing a baby stroller. Deputy Joe was checking the parking meters. Dave the UPS guy was dropping off a package at the thrift store. Crazy Vic was sleeping it off on a bench. Leena smiled at them all. She petted the dog.
“Hello, Lola. You enjoying your walk?”
A warm breeze rustled her hair. She took a moment to appreciate the relative peace and normalcy of the town, especially compared to the frequent crises and craziness of Warehouse 13. She had lived in Univille for years and years now. It was more than just her base of operations. It was her home. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
“Be careful not to overexert yourself,” she advised Mrs. Lozenko, whose aura was shading weak. “Just a short walk today. And don’t forget to take your vitamins.”
“I will,” the old woman promised. “It’s so nice of you to care.”
Bidding good-bye to the dog and its owner, Leena cut across a small park near the center of town. An unusual-looking modern sculpture consisting of several hollow metal tubes pointing at the sky had been installed over a small reflecting pool. A flexible rubber hose connected the tube array to the pool. A robin perched on top of the artwork.
She paused to admired the sculpture, which had been donated to the town by an anonymous benefactor many years ago. A private joke lifted her lips.
If only that bird knew what the “sculpture” could really do . . .
She checked her to-do list. Most of her errands had been taken care of, but she still needed to swing by the pet store to pick up some ferret chow for Myka. Humming to herself, she started to cross the park when her cell phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out and held it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Leena?” Artie’s somber tone immediately alerted her that something was wrong. She didn’t need to read his aura to know that he was calling with bad news.
“It’s Pete,” he said. “He’s sick.”
FAIRFIELD
The sheriff unlocked Myka’s handcuffs. “Sorry for the misunderstanding, Agent Bering.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” She didn’t buy his phony apology a bit. Massaging her chafed wrists, she resisted the temptation to arrest him for obstruction of justice. Instead she simply took back her badge and Tesla. “Now that Nadia is long gone, along with the suspect who assaulted my partner.”
“That’s too bad what happened to him,” Pitts allowed. “Maybe you can explain exactly what went on back—”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Mrs. Frederic interrupted. A stern black woman whose braided brown hair was stacked in an old-fashioned beehive, she had arrived at the hospital via a chauffeured limousine. A tailored wool business suit gave her a conservative, professional appearance. She peered at Pitts over the rims of her glasses. Her inscrutable expression made the Sphinx seemed like a chatterbox. “We’ll let you get back to your duties now.”
Her imposing presence was practically a force of nature. Just by showing up, she had turned the sheriff’s hostile attitude around and gotten the charges against her agents dropped. Myka could tell that Pitts still had plenty of unanswered questions, but he knew when he was being dismissed . . . and that Mrs. Frederic was not somebody to be crossed.
“All right, ma’am. I hope your man comes through okay.” Heading out, he took a parting shot at Myka. “Next time, just let me know when you’re pursuing an investigation in my county. As a matter of professional courtesy.”
Myka bit her tongue. With any luck, there wouldn’t be a next time.
The sheriff departed, leaving the two women in a bustling corridor outside Pete’s hospital room. Following Pete’s collapse at the high school, Pitts had at least had the decency to rush them both to the nearest hospital instead of a jail cell, even if he had insisted on treating Myka like a felon throughout. She doubted that he had been serious about locking her up; he had simply wanted to give Nadia and Jim plenty of time to make a clean escape—with Clara Barton’s right glove.
“Thank you for bailing me out,” Myka said. “I still can’t believe that jerk pretended to think I was an impostor!”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Frederic replied. An enigma in pearls, she had personally recruited both Pete and Myka and kept a close watch over all things related to Warehouse 13. Nobody really knew how old she was. Even Artie was intimidated by her. “I couldn’t afford to have you hamstrung by the local constabulary, not when there are more urgent matters at hand.”
Like Pete.
Pushing the sheriff’s infuriating conduct out of her mind, Myka hurried into Pete’s room. She tried not to react at the sight of her partner lying sick in bed. An IV was hooked up to his arm. Blinking medical apparatuses monitored his vital signs, which appeared distressingly weak. His face was chalky and drenched in sweat. Rosy splotches blemished his exposed neck and collar. He was running a fever. Wet, raspy breaths whistled from his lungs. His eyes were lidded. He appeared only semiconscious. Myka hated seeing him like this.
A blond woman was leaning over him, applying acupressure to his face and chest. It didn’t seem to be helping. He groaned in discomfort.
Mrs. Frederic followed Myka into the room. “How is he faring, Doctor?”
“Not good, I’m afraid.”
Vanessa Calder turned away from her patient. An attractive woman in her late fifties, she wore a stylish blue jacket and turquoise necklace. Wavy yellow hair fell to her shoulders. She had personally doctored Warehouse agents and the Regents for many years now. Myka didn’t know her well, but she knew that Pete was in good hands.
“How
so?” Mrs. Frederic asked.
Before Vanessa could answer, a portly physician wearing a white lab coat stormed into the room. His florid complexion and potbelly did not exactly set a healthy example for his patients. He yanked Pete’s chart away from Vanessa.
“Excuse me,” he demanded, “what are you doing with this patient? I don’t believe you have privileges at this hospital.”
Vanessa retained her composure. “And you are . . . ?”
“Dr. William Vertue,” he huffed. “I’m in charge of this hospital—and this patient.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” She extended her hand. “Dr. Vanessa Calder, Centers for Disease Control. My apologies for not consulting you earlier, but we have an urgent situation here.”
Her calm authority, and supposed affiliation, took the wind out of his sails. “The CDC?”
“Agent Lattimer here is Patient Zero,” she declared ominously, lowing her voice. “We need to establish an immediate quarantine. Nobody is to be allowed in this room except with my express permission.” She clucked at him. “To be honest, I was rather alarmed to discover that such measures had not already been implemented.”
Vertue went on the defensive. “Well, um, we were still assessing the situation.” He glanced worriedly at Pete. “Patient Zero? Quarantine? What precisely are we dealing with here?”
“It’s best that we keep that under wraps for now.” She gestured at Myka, who made a production of closing the door to discourage eavesdroppers. “I cannot stress too highly the importance of keeping this case out of the press, in order to avoid a national panic. I trust we can count on your full cooperation—and discretion.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” He tugged at his collar. Without being too obvious about it, he sidled away from Pete’s bed, putting more distance between himself and the infected agent. “My lips are sealed.”
“Thank you.” Vanessa gave him an approving nod. “I’ll be sure to mention your help to the surgeon general.”
The funny thing was, Myka didn’t know whether Vanessa was conning the other doctor or not. The Regents had all sorts of connections and resources. For all Myka knew, Vanessa really did have pull with the CDC and the surgeon general.
“Now, then, if you could see to that quarantine, I need to attend to my patient.”
“Certainly.” He handed the chart back to Vanessa. “This hospital is at your disposal.”
He shut the door behind him on his way out.
“Nicely handled,” Mrs. Frederic complimented Vanessa. “So, you were saying about Agent Lattimer?”
Vanessa beckoned the other women away from Pete’s bedside. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said in a hushed tone. “Pete appears to have come down with some strange, exceptionally virulent version of typhoid fever.”
“Typhoid?” Myka echoed.
“Of course.” Mrs. Frederic sounded unsurprised by the diagnosis. “One of the greatest killers of the Civil War.” She shook her head before turning to Myka. “It’s vital that we locate that other glove, Agent Bering. Clara Barton was a remarkable woman.” She spoke almost as though she had known her personally. “She would not want her legacy to bring pain and suffering to the present.”
At the moment Myka was more interested in preserving Pete’s future. She looked anxiously at Vanessa. “Can’t you do anything for him?”
“I wish I could,” the doctor said. “Nowadays typhoid is treatable by antibiotics and rehydration therapy. But so far Pete’s fever is resisting both conventional and alternative treatments. The disease also appears to be progressing at a preternaturally accelerated rate.” She did not mince words. “If it can’t be halted, he’ll die soon of fever and peritonitis.”
Myka couldn’t keep from gasping. Her hand went to her mouth.
Mrs. Frederic appeared troubled as well. Myka wondered if she blamed herself for recruiting Pete in the first place. “Is he contagious, Doctor?”
“Not excessively so. Under ordinary circumstances, typhoid is spread by food and water that has been handled by carriers of the disease.”
“Like Typhoid Mary,” Myka recalled. “She was a cook. That’s how she managed to infect so many people.”
“Exactly,” Vanessa confirmed. “As long as Pete refrains from cooking for us and takes a few reasonable precautions, we should be okay.” She glanced at the door. “That ‘quarantine’ business was to keep Dr. Vertue out of our hair—and this whole situation under wraps.”
Mrs. Frederic nodded. “What about Agent Lattimer? How long does he have?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Vanessa promised. “But . . . days. Three or four at best.”
Myka refused to accept that. “We need to find Nadia’s glove. The one that heals people. It might be able to save him.”
“Possibly,” Mrs. Frederic said. “But at what cost?”
Myka didn’t know how to answer that.
CHAPTER
12
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY
Worrall kept an eye on his speedometer as he drove north. The last thing he needed was to get caught by some local speed trap. That had been a close call back at the high school. Too close. As far as he knew, the police were not looking for his car, but why press his luck? He had come too far, and been traveling too long, to risk running afoul of the law now.
Not when he was so close.
How long had this endless quest been going on? For years, really. Born to wealth, his body had always been his enemy. Weak and sickly, he had spent much of his childhood in bed or at doctors’ offices. While the rest of the world went about its business, enjoying life, he had been lucky to be able to function at all. Migraines. Ulcers. Allergies. Insomnia. His so-called life was a never-ending litany of discomfort and affliction. An intolerable situation, to say the least.
He had even been too sick to attend his parents’ funeral after that car accident. Not that he had been too broken up about their untimely passing. It was their damn genes that were responsible for his misery. A three-car pileup on the highway served them right.
Besides, he had his own problems to worry about.
Modern medicine had always let him down, so over time he had been forced to look elsewhere. Over the years, he had squandered much of his inheritance acquiring rare objects and talismans reputed to possess miraculous healing properties. Imported water from Lourdes. A silver grail that had supposedly once belonged to Prester John. Potions derived from bits and pieces of dozens of endangered species. Even a scrap from Florence Nightingale’s handkerchief.
But nothing had worked. They had all been fakes or disappointments.
Until one of his suppliers got a line on Clara Barton’s glove. It had cost him a fortune, but he still remembered the surge of excitement he had felt when he had first slipped the glove onto his left hand. A tingling sensation had raced like blood poisoning from his fingers to his brain. The smell of black powder had tantalized his nostrils while the echoes of bygone cannons had reverberated in his ears. He had known at once that it was the real thing.
It was only later that he’d realized that it was the wrong glove.
He had been searching for the good glove, the healing glove, ever since. It had been a long, exhausting search, but at last he knew where it was. That stupid girl had it.
But not for long . . .
His hand itched and he scratched at it irritably. He was stiff and sore from driving all day. A vein throbbed behind his ear. He could feel another sick headache coming on. Waylaying that federal agent at the high school had only eased his pain for a brief spell. If only there had been time to infect those other people as well. Maybe he should have tried to sicken the whole lot of them, cops and firefighters as well. Or would that have been too risky?