Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

by Greg Cox

  Bear lumbered to the left.

  Lion bounded to the right.

  Bird circled above the intersection once more before soaring straight ahead.

  It was a race now.

  Winner take all.

  CHAPTER

  16

  FAIRFIELD HOSPITAL

  “Psychic Fair. Central Park. Got it.” Myka peeked at her watch. “If I hurry, I can be there in a couple of hours. Maybe less if the traffic’s not too bad.”

  “Good,” Artie replied. His grizzled visage filled the screen of her Farnsworth. “But watch out for Worrall. I can’t stress enough how dangerous he’s becoming.”

  “You don’t need to remind me of that.”

  She had been sitting at Pete’s bedside all night. Vanessa had offered to give her a break, and Mrs. Frederic had even reserved a room for Myka at a nearby hotel, but she had been unable to tear herself away from the quarantined hospital room. He was her partner. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone at a time like this. She knew he’d do the same for her.

  “No, I suppose I don’t.” Artie tried to peer past Myka via the Farnsworth. He lowered his voice. “How is he doing?”

  Her throat tightened. “Not good.”

  Pete stirred restlessly in the hospital bed. He had already sweated through several sets of sheets. A damp compress, laid across his brow, failed to ameliorate his fever, which was still well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Frequent saline infusions fought a losing battle against dehydration. His pulse rate was erratic. There was no sign of internal hemorrhaging yet, but, according to Vanessa, that was only a matter of time. . . .

  “I see.” Artie didn’t press her for details. “Then you had better get on your way. Claudia and I will be in touch if we find out anything more.” He glanced around his office like he was looking for someone. “What’s taking her, anyway?”

  Myka wasn’t sure where Claudia was supposed to be, but that was hardly her top concern at the moment. She’d let Artie wrangle his apparently wayward apprentice.

  “Thanks for the lead,” she told him. At least she finally had a name to go with Calvin Worrall’s pallid face, and a new place to start looking for the gloves. That was something. “I knew I could count on you and Claudia.”

  “Just find those gloves.” Artie looked as worried as she had ever seen him. “Before Worrall infects thousands of innocent people.”

  No pressure there, Myka thought. But she was up to the challenge. She had once been responsible for protecting the life of the president of the United States. High stakes had never daunted her.

  Especially not when Pete’s life was also on the line.

  She had already lost one partner in her life. Sam Martino had been killed in a shoot-out in Denver a few years ago, while attempting to apprehend a would-be presidential assassin. Myka had blamed herself for Sam’s death for a long time. She’d be damned if she’d let another partner die on her watch.

  “Sorry, Pete,” she whispered as she rose to her feet. Her back was sore from sitting in the chair all night. She put the Farnsworth away. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Not without me,” he said hoarsely.

  His voice startled her. She had thought he was out cold. He had been murmuring deliriously just a few hours ago. Mostly about his ex-girlfriend Kelly . . . and cookies.

  “Pete?”

  His eyes fluttered open. They were sunken and bloodshot, reminding her far too much of Worrall’s ghoulish orbs. Flinching, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He clutched his stomach in pain. The blinking monitors reported an elevated heart rate. His lips were gray.

  “You heard Artie,” he grunted. “We’ve got a psychic fair to crash.”

  Had he been listening in on Artie’s briefing? “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough.” He fumbled clumsily with the metal rail around his bed. Stubble carpeted his jaw. “Nadia’s likely to make a surprise appearance at Central Park, which means that this Worrall dude’s bound to be there too. Good. I owe that freak some serious payback.”

  Lowering the rail, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The effort exhausted him and he teetered precariously. Myka rushed forward to catch him before he fell.

  “Pete?” She propped him up and looked urgently into his eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You need to lie down and let me handle this.”

  “Not going to happen, Myka.” He inhaled deeply, trying to rally whatever strength he had left. An outgoing breath wheezed from his lungs. “No way am I missing this shindig.”

  “But you’re sick,” she protested. “You have stage three typhoid fever. You want to do something, I understand that, but please, you’ve got to be reasonable.”

  “Says who?” He managed a pained smile. “This is me you’re talking to, remember? Since when have I ever been reasonable?”

  Granted, that was not a word one often used to describe Pete. She liked to think of herself as the reasonable one . . . which was why she had to talk some sense into him.

  “Let me call Vanessa,” she volunteered. “Maybe she can explain why you need to stay in the hospital.”

  She reached for the call button, but he grabbed her wrist. His hand was hot and clammy.

  “Vanessa can’t help me. We both know that. Only the gloves can.”

  “I can get the gloves,” she pleaded. “I promise.”

  “They won’t do me any good if you’re hundreds of miles away and can’t get back to me in time. I need to be there when you find them. Otherwise, it might be too late.”

  He had a point. Pete was running out of time and Central Park was hours away. What if she couldn’t get back to Fairfield fast enough?

  “But you’re in no shape to take on Worrall or Nadia, let alone both of them. It’s too dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “Beats lying around waiting to die.” He tugged the IV from his arm. A thin stream of saline sprayed onto the sheets before he clipped off the flow. “C’mon, Myka. Give me a fighting chance.”

  Was that just his pride talking, or did he deserve a chance to go out swinging? It was true that he didn’t have much to lose.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted.

  “Look,” he said, “you know me. If you don’t take me with you, I’m going to find a way to get there on my own. So what’s it going to be, Mykes? You going to force a sick man to hitchhike to NYC on his lonesome?”

  The scary thing was, she could actually see him trying.

  She wavered. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Just try to keep up.”

  Myka realized that his mind was made up. She gave in reluctantly. “Okay, but I’m driving. No arguments.”

  “Deal.” He looked down at his flimsy hospital gown. “So, I got a change of clothes around here anywhere? I don’t exactly feel like saving the world with my butt hanging out.”

  She smiled despite herself. That was Pete all right.

  “I think Central Park would just as soon avoid that too.” She headed over to the closet, where his suit was hanging. “Let me see what I can do.”

  There was a hesitant knock at the door. It didn’t sound like Vanessa returning. Myka went to the door and opened it. “Hello?”

  A male orderly stood outside, holding a long rectangular box. A surgical mask covered his face. Goggles protected his eyes. The rest of his body was tucked inside some hermetically sealed blue scrubs, the better to brave the quarantine zone. He fidgeted nervously, like he was anxious to move on, and declined to actually step into the room. The paper mask muffled his voice.

  “Package for Agent Lattimer.”

  A puzzled expression furrowed her brow. She eyed the box curiously. It was postmarked South Dakota.

  Funny, she thought. Artie didn’t say anything about a package.

  “That’s for me,” Pete called from the bed. A coughing jag momentarily delayed his explanation. “Something I ordered from the Warehouse. Just in case.”

  WAREHOUSE 13

 
; “Claudia?”

  Artie stuck his head out the back door of his office. He peered impatiently at his watch. What on earth was taking so long? She should have taken care of that alert and gotten back to the office at least half an hour ago. Myka and Pete were already en route to Central Park. Now was no time for Claudia to go wandering off. Didn’t she realize how serious the situation was?

  Exasperated, he shut the door and retrieved his Farnsworth from his desk. Had she remembered to take hers as instructed? A quick rummage around her work area didn’t turn it up, but that was less than conclusive. Their efforts to track down Clara Barton’s gloves and their current owners had left the office even more littered with notes and documents than usual. Claudia’s Farns-worth—the original, he reminded himself—could well be buried beneath the clutter. And the girl herself could hardly be counted on to follow his directions, no matter how sensible they were.

  “She never listens to me,” he muttered irritably.

  He switched on his own Farnsworth and tuned it to her frequency. The screen remained blank, and after about a dozen buzzes he gave up. If she did have Philo’s prototype on her person, she wasn’t answering. Who knew why. He had no idea what went through her head sometimes.

  All right, then. There was always the PA system. He didn’t often resort to it, but it had been installed for a reason. In theory, she should be within earshot of one of the mounted loudspeakers, which were mostly used for recorded announcements in the event of emergencies. Like a possible meltdown, for instance.

  An open Yellow Book was lying on top of the intercom. He nudged it aside and leaned over the mike. His index finger jabbed the SPEAK button.

  “Paging Claudia Donovan.” His impatient voice boomed throughout the Warehouse. “Please check in immediately—if you’re not too busy, that is!”

  Staying up all night, searching for leads, had left him cranky and irritable. Yawning, he wished he had time for a quick nap. Was that what had happened to Claudia? Had she dozed off somewhere? He frowned.

  She had better not be catching forty winks in the Procrustean Bed. . . .

  “Claudia?” He turned up the volume on the PA system. “Yoo-hoo, Claudia? This is your boss speaking!”

  There was no response, by Farnsworth, phone, or any other means.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” he grumbled. “Of all times for her to pull a vanishing act . . .”

  Apparently there was nothing to be done but to go looking for her, as if he didn’t have better things to do. He slogged over to her computer and checked on the alert himself. To his dismay, multiple red icons flashed upon the screen, which meant that the motion detectors were going crazy all over Sector Delta 373. Claudia had placed the security program on mute, probably to keep it from bothering him in her absence, but when he restarted it, a chorus of agitated beeps assaulted his ears. The Warehouse was unhappy.

  Maybe this was more serious than he thought?

  A worried look displaced his irritated scowl. Claudia could be surprisingly resourceful for her age, but what if she had run into something she couldn’t handle? The Warehouse was not without hazards, as he knew better than anyone else. Or at least, anyone still in one piece.

  Silencing the alarms once more, he rushed out onto the gallery. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be any commotion on the main floor of the Warehouse, but who knew what might be transpiring in its innumerable nooks and crannies. He noticed at once that the zip line had been deployed, presumably by Claudia on her way out to investigate the disturbance. He briefly considered retracting the pulley and using it himself, but decided against it. It had been a long night and he didn’t feel like emulating Tarzan on zero sleep. Which reminds me, he thought, I need to follow up on Johnny Weissmuller’s original loincloth when this is all over. Rumor was, it was going to auction soon.

  Choosing an alternative means of transportation, he scurried down several flights of stairs to where a one-of-a-kind vehicle was parked. Thomas Edison’s electric automobile resembled an antique luggage cart with seating for four. A pair of padded benches rested atop a stripped-down, rudimentary chassis minus any sort of exterior body. Brass handrails faced the seats. One of the original architects of the current Warehouse, Edison had built the prototype for Henry Ford but had donated it to the Warehouse after Ford decided to stick with the internal combustion engine. Not for the first time, Artie regretted Ford’s lack of foresight. The polar ice caps would be in much better shape today if the auto tycoon had only listened to the Wizard of Menlo Park.

  Artie climbed into the backseat behind the steering wheel. Ideally, the old-time flivver could be powered by the bioelectric energy of at least two passengers, whose vital spark was channeled into the auto’s transmission by gripping the front handrail. One person alone, however, did not provide enough juice to get the wheels turning. For solo excursions, a regular car battery was required. Conveniently, one was already hooked up.

  Yellow hard hats hung on pegs near the auto. Artie put one on for safety’s sake.

  Considering its age, the electric cart warmed up with admirable ease. He steered it in the direction indicated by the alerts. He had barely needed to consult the map before. After forty years, he knew the basic layout of the Warehouse like the back of his hand, although, like his hand, the Warehouse kept developing new and unexpected wrinkles.

  Driving at top speed—which, alas, was only about fifty miles an hour—he headed across the Warehouse. As he did so, he instinctively scanned the shelves to see if anything was awry. He was relieved to see that the Red Velvet Swing was not swinging at the moment, and that Keats’s Grecian urn was right where it belonged, ensuring the safety of grandmothers everywhere. Sealed crates and banker’s boxes appeared undisturbed. A pencil sharpener, an iron trivet, and a souvenir ashtray were reassuringly inert, as was a rocking chair that had once belonged to Whistler’s mother. The Oaxaca Piñata remained unbroken. The final square on a turn-of-the-century, Currier & Ives Advent calender had not been opened.

  Thank heavens!

  He started to relax, easing his grip on the wheel. Maybe nothing was seriously wrong and Claudia was simply taking her own sweet time. He had thought she appreciated the urgency of the situation, but not everyone could be as focused as he had to be. Even Pete and Myka were relatively inexperienced by his standards. “Kids these days,” he muttered. “If you want something done right . . .”

  He neared the sector in question. The missing apprentice was nowhere to be seen.

  “Claudia!” He cupped a hand around his mouth to form a megaphone. “Answer me if you can. I’m not getting any younger!”

  A low growl responded. It did not sound remotely like Claudia.

  “Oh, no,” Artie murmured. A menagerie of dreadful possibilities stampeded through his imagination before a large ursine shape lumbered into view. The creature reared up on hind legs carved from the base of a massive log. Red eyes and jaws painted a bestial portrait. Jagged fore claws slashed the air. Artie swallowed hard. “How did you . . . ?”

  He recognized the beast at once, naturally. It was the infamous Nisqually Totem Pole, or at least its bottom third. The artifact’s gruesome history came back to him. The sacred pole, enraged at the slaughter of its tribe by white prospectors, had massacred an entire frontier settlement back in 1848. . . .

  But what was it doing on the loose in the Warehouse in this day and age? It was supposed to be locked up safely in its vault.

  Only a few rows away from here.