Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

by Greg Cox

  “A certain amount of disorientation is normal,” Nefertiti explained. She placed Brian back on his own feet. “How do you feel now, Brian? Breathe for me.”

  “Mommy?”

  His voice already sounded stronger. He didn’t seem to be wheezing anymore.

  “Go ahead, baby,” his mom pleaded. “Breathe for Mommy.”

  “Okay.” Hesitantly at first, he inhaled. His eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath, perhaps his first in who knew how long. A delighted grin broke out across his face. “Mommy, Mommy, I can breathe! Listen!”

  “I hear you, baby!” Overcome with emotion, Brian’s mom dropped to her knees and hugged her child. Tears of joy flooded her cheeks. She gazed adoringly at Nefertiti. “I can’t thank you enough!”

  Pete’s throat tightened. He couldn’t help being touched by the joyous scene. Glancing at Myka, he saw her dab at her eyes.

  Nefertiti appeared to be the real deal, and doing nothing but good.

  “I don’t get it,” he whispered. “Where’s the downside?”

  CHAPTER

  5

  LANCASTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

  Calvin Worrall kept off the main roads.

  Behind the wheel of a luxury Lincoln Town Car, he drove north past miles of moonlit countryside. Acres of cornfields and leafy tobacco plants provided most of the scenery. Amish farms advertised fresh eggs and homemade root beer, but not on Sunday. A horse-drawn buggy, trotting slowly along the shoulder of the road, forced the car to slow to twenty miles an hour. Worrall sighed impatiently but reminded himself that this sort of delay was to be expected, given the route he had selected. The main highway would have been faster, true, but there were good reasons to stick to the back roads.

  More privacy. Fewer witnesses.

  Gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. Despite the humid weather, the windows were rolled up and he wore a dark turtleneck sweater to keep warm. He was pushing thirty, but he looked much older. His gaunt face was pale and drawn. Swollen veins wormed beneath his shaved scalp. Sunken gray eyes were streaked with red. Classical music emanated from an expensive sound system. He drove alone, the backseat of the car filled with luggage. He had been on the road for weeks now, covering hundreds of miles a day. Home was a fading memory. He glanced at his watch. It was already after eight. Soon he would have to start looking for another motel, unless he felt like driving all through the night, which he was doing more and more often, health permitting. The northbound road called to him like a drug.

  He was getting closer. He could feel it.

  An open straightaway gave him a chance to pass the buggy. Hitting the gas, he left the clip-clopping horse and its burden behind. About time, he thought. Maybe now he could finally make some progress toward . . .

  Where?

  Ah, that was the rub. He had no idea where his final destination was, only that he was getting closer with every mile. Soon, very soon, his search would be over.

  I know it’s out there, he thought. It’s pulling on me.

  A billboard advertised a roadside diner a few miles ahead. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for hours. He scowled at the inconvenience. The last thing he wanted to do was stop driving, not when he could feel his prize somewhere up ahead, but apparently his treacherous body had another idea. What’s more, he could feel a headache coming on. Acid churned in his gut. His jaw clenched.

  All right, he groused. Maybe just a quick stop.

  The diner was a low steel structure that resembled a boxcar. A neon sign promised All-American Eats. Only a handful of vehicles were parked out front. The Lincoln pulled in beside them.

  He stepped out of the car into the cool night air. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He had to admit, it felt good to stretch his legs after all that driving. But then the migraine caught up with him, just like it always did. Pressure started building in his temples, squeezing his skull like a vise. Throbbing eyes felt hard as marbles. A sudden wave of nausea swept over him.

  Already? he thought. Again?

  A queasy stomach drove all thought of food from his mind, but he didn’t get back in the car. There was no point. Pretty soon he would be too sick to drive anyway.

  Unless . . .

  He dragged himself toward the diner.

  An annoying bell announced his arrival. He winced at the chime. Bright interior lighting stabbed his eyes and he hastily put on a pair of designer sunglasses. “Seat yourself,” a solitary waitress called out to him. “Be with you in a jiff.”

  He glanced around the diner, which was decorated in nostalgic 1950s kitsch. A jukebox, mercifully silent, occupied one corner. Vintage Coca-Cola signs were mounted on pink walls the color of Pepto-Bismol. A transparent display case held slices of fresh shoofly pie. A jar by the cash register collected change for the March of Dimes. Seating was available at the counter or in booths with molded plastic seats. Only one of the booths was occupied, by a family enjoying a night out. A trio of high school girls were seated at the counter. They whispered and giggled amongst themselves. Everyone seemed to be happy, healthy.

  Damn them.

  Their carefree chatter grated on his nerves. These stupid people had no idea how lucky they were. They took their sound, healthy bodies for granted. They hadn’t spent their whole lives sick and miserable.

  It’s not fair, he thought bitterly. Why should I be the only one to suffer?

  Invisible ice picks jabbed his brain. Resentment bubbled over inside him, like the acid climbing up his throat. He choked on the reflux, coughing violently into his right fist. The noise drew anxious looks from the other customers. A teenager spun around on her stool. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The parents in the booth turned their heads and covered their mouths to keep from catching anything.

  Like that was going to do them any good.

  He dropped into the nearest empty booth. Ragged breaths shook his bony form. He massaged his temples, but the trembling fingers brought little in the way of relief. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting. Even the slightest movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through his aching head. He considered taking a pill, but why bother? It wouldn’t do any good. It never did.

  Only one thing helped.

  The waitress, a middle-aged floozy wearing an apron, approached him. A plastic name badge pegged her as Marjorie. She handed him a menu. “You okay, hon? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

  He could believe it. There was no turning back now.

  “I will be,” he rasped. “At least for a while.”

  He seized her arm with his left hand. An oily gray haze flowed from his fingertips. Misty tendrils seemed to sink into Marjorie’s skin. A sour, gangrenous odor clung to the haze.

  She swooned and grabbed onto the seat to keep from falling. Her order pad slipped from her fingers. All the color bled from her face. Her lips took on a grayish tint.

  “W-what did you do to me?” she stammered weakly. “I feel sick. . . .”

  She fainted onto the floor.

  “That’s odd,” he said archly. “I’m starting to feel much better.”

  One of the teenagers screamed out loud. Over at the other booth, the mom and dad put their arms protectively around their kids. They gaped at Worrall. “Listen, mister,” the father began, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but . . .”

  Worrall ignored the man’s pointless babbling. He rose from the booth, moving less painfully than before. His head was still pounding, but not for much longer. He stood in the aisle, blocking the exit. He coughed again to clear his throat, then raised his arm like a conductor facing an orchestra. A grayish fog spread throughout the diner.

  The lights flickered overhead. A chorus of groans and coughs greeted his ears.

  His stomach began to settle. The pain in his temples receded.

  He made a mental note to grab a slice of pie for the road.

  WEST HAVEN

  Little Brian, formerly Squeaky, was just the beginning. From the bleacher
s, Pete and Myka watched as, one by one, members of the audience came forward to experience Princess Nefertiti’s healing touch. The football player, previously suffering from a potentially career-ending knee injury, tossed away his crutches. Disfiguring scars and burns faded away, leaving smooth, unblemished skin behind. Wheelchairs and walkers were abandoned. Pained expressions gave way to tears of joy. A fudge-like aroma overpowered the incense.

  Okay, Pete thought, consider me impressed.

  The old lady with Parkinson’s was finally getting her turn on the stage. “Let this gentle woman be healed,” Nefertiti proclaimed as she laid her hands on the shaking senior citizen. Pete couldn’t be sure, but he thought the healer’s voice sounded slightly weaker than before. Dmitri, doing double duty as Nefertiti’s assistant, stood close by. “Take away her trembling.”

  Cobalt sparks flashed once more, jolting the elderly woman. Dmitri caught her before she crumpled onto the stage. Judging from his smooth move, he’d had plenty of practice.

  Nefertiti seemed to need an assist as well. She tottered unsteadily on her feet, almost as though she were on the verge of collapsing. She was breathing hard. Sweat beaded her brow. She coughed and clutched her chest.

  “Looks like all this healing is taking its toll,” Myka observed. “A side effect of the artifact?”

  “Probably,” Pete guessed. There was almost always a cost to using an artifact. That was a big reason they needed to be taken out of circulation. He’d seen too many people get themselves into serious trouble because they thought they could control an artifact’s powers.

  Like Princess Nefertiti?

  The healer’s debilitated state did not escape her assistant’s notice. “That’s enough for tonight!” After escorting the dazed old woman back to her seat, Dmitri bounded back onto the stage. He threw a protective arm around her shoulders. “Princess Nefertiti needs her rest.”

  Disappointed cries and protests erupted from the audience.

  Nefertiti wavered, clearly reluctant to let down her petitioners. “Perhaps just one more?”

  “No.” Dmitri was emphatic. He hustled her back toward the curtain while shushing the crowd. “Show’s over, folks. Please come back tomorrow!”

  For a moment Pete feared a riot, but the audience proved more civilized than that. Perhaps the touching scenes they had witnessed had brought out the better angels of their natures? Or was it just that the grumblers were too sick to make a fuss? Or unwilling to risk offending the healer? In any event, the crowd shuffled out of the tent, leaving Pete and Myka alone on the bleachers. They waited until the audience had entirely cleared out before heading backstage. Pete drew back the curtains.

  They found themselves in a small prep area crammed with props, seating, and a cooler full of iced drinks. A sturdy wooden pole, driven through a hole in the stage, held up the tent. Dmitri was fretting over Nefertiti, who had collapsed into a folding director’s chair. He handed her a bottle of water while shaking his head. “You shouldn’t push yourself like this. You’re making yourself sick.”

  “It will pass,” she assured him. The English accent had vanished with the audience, replaced by the less elevated cadences of New Jersey or Long Island. Her voice was hoarse. “It always does.”

  Pete cleared his throat to get their attention.

  Dmitri noticed the intruders for the first time. He scowled and stepped in front of Nefertiti. “Didn’t you hear me before? The show’s over . . . and this area is off-limits. No townies allowed.”

  “I’ve got a backstage pass.” Pete flashed his badge and ID. “Secret Service.”

  The badge caught them both by surprise. Nefertiti sat up straight. “Secret Service?” She blinked in confusion. “Is the president coming here?”

  You wish, Pete thought. That would be pretty good publicity for your little tent show.

  Not that he would let the POTUS come within a hundred miles of a suspected artifact.

  “I’m afraid not,” Myka clarified. “We’re here on a different assignment.” She presented her own ID. “My name is Myka Bering. This is my partner, Agent Lattimer.” She eyed the young healer skeptically. “And I’m guessing your name isn’t really Princess Nefertiti, is it?”

  “Nadia Malinovich,” the girl confessed. “From Long Island.”

  Backstage, without all stage dressing and ballyhoo, she seemed a lot less mystical and more like a worried young woman wondering what had brought the Feds to her door. She nervously fingered the ankh around her neck.

  “And all that business about being descended from a long line of healers?”

  “Just patter. Although my mom and pop used to do a mind-reading act back in the eighties.” She shrugged. “I’m third-generation carnie.”

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” Dmitri demanded. “Why are you bothering her?”

  Pete got the distinct impression that the young knife thrower was more than just Nadia’s assistant. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Jim Doherty,” he divulged. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “We watched your act,” Pete said. “We want to know how you managed to heal all those people.”

  “Why?” Jim protested. “She’s not hurting anyone.”

  “Except maybe herself.” Myka squeezed past Jim to speak to Nadia directly. “Is that it, Nadia? Does healing others make you sick?”

  “It’s a gift,” the girl insisted. “I just want to heal people. What’s wrong with that?”

  A fair question, Pete admitted. Nadia struck him as sincere.

  Myka tried to explain. “It may not seem obvious to you now, but trust me on this, what you’re doing is not safe. There are bound to be negative consequences down the road. Serious ones. My partner and I have dealt with this kind of thing before. Power like this always comes with a heavy price tag. More than you may want to pay.”

  “Stop harassing her,” Jim said. “Do you know how many people she’s helped?”

  Like little Brian and everybody else tonight? Pete recalled all the heartwarming moments he had just beheld. He couldn’t deny that Nadia had made a lot of people’s lives better. Artifact or not, she seemed to be doing more good than harm. Just ask Brian and his mom.

  He felt uncomfortable cracking down on Nadia. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. James MacPherson, Artie’s former partner, had once tried to convince Pete that some artifacts were too valuable to be locked away in the Warehouse, where they couldn’t do the world any good. MacPherson had been a murderous creep, of course, but maybe, just maybe, he’d had a point?

  He pushed the doubts out of his head in order to get the job done. “My partner is right,” he said, backing Myka up. “You need to tell us how you’re doing this.”

  Nadia kept toying with the ankh. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  His spider-sense tingled. “I’m getting a real vibe here,” he informed Myka. He looked pointedly at the ankh. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Myka nodded. She slipped on a pair of purple gloves. “Hand over the ankh, please.”

  “Why?” Nadia asked. “It’s just a prop. I picked it up at a dollar store.”

  Myka held out her hand. “Then there’s no harm in showing it to me, is there?”