Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (34 page)

Pete was not about to satisfy the bad guy’s curiosity. “You’d be surprised. . . .”

“Fine,” Worrall answered, sounding slightly peeved. “Take your classified secrets to the grave. I’ll soon have influence enough to find out whatever I want.”

He bent to pick up the cane.

Pete got ready to be turned into a fault zone. He wondered if they’d be able to feel the tremor all the way in South Dakota.

Bye, Artie. Bye, Claudia,
he thought.
Sorry I let you down.

At least he was dying sober. That had to count for something.

But before Worrall could grasp the cane, a pounding vibration startled both men. For a moment Pete thought it was some sort of aftershock, but then he recognized the sound, which was probably the last thing he had ever expected to hear in the middle of Manhattan.

The thunder of racing hooves.

23

CENTRAL PARK

“Giddy-yap!” Claudia yelped.

A horse-drawn carriage, commandeered by her and Artie, came galloping across the meadow like the cavalry. Perched in the driver’s seat behind a wild-eyed brown horse, Artie worked the reins while Claudia rode shotgun—literally: a Super Soaker squirt gun, roughly the size of a bazooka, was clutched to her chest. Purple neutralizer goo sloshed inside the squirt gun’s ample reservoir. A spare tank of goo rested in the open passenger compartment behind her, alongside the carriage’s actual driver, who was snoring off the effect of Artie’s Tesla next to a trio of unconscious Japanese tourists. After some debate, she and Artie had decided to cart the whole party along, rather than leave them defenseless on a New York City sidewalk, where they would have likely been trampled by the panicked mob fleeing the park. The frantic crowd had been their first indication that Pete and Myka were in trouble. Claudia glanced back at the sleeping driver. She hoped they weren’t taking the poor driver and tourists straight from the frying pan into the fire.

And the horse too.

The situation sure looked craptastic enough. Myka and Pete were both down for the count, surrounded by oodles of wiped-out civilians. The Psychic Fair was a shambles, with overturned tents and booths catering to absolutely no one. Discarded pamphlets, crystals, and candles had been ground into the lawn by thousands of racing shoes, boots, and sandals. A homemade Red Cross had fallen over. Loose tarot cards blew about in the wind.

Yikes,
Claudia thought.
Talk about bad karma. . . .

She spotted Worrall at once. His driver’s license portrait hardly did him justice. The contagious culprit looked even more malevolent in real life. Claudia shuddered at the sight of him—and cried out when she spotted Worrall going for the earthshaking elephant-head cane, only a few paces away from Pete. A mental image, of a freak tremor flipping the speeding carriage over with bone-shattering results, played before her mind’s eye with Blu-ray clarity.

“Artie! There he is! He’s after the cane!”

“I know, I know! I’m not blind!” Artie cracked a whip above the horse’s head, spurring it on. The driver’s seat bounced uncomfortably beneath Claudia, adding to the bruises she had sustained while evading the angry totem pole. Her teeth rattled and she struggled to hold on to the goo-filled squirt gun, which, let it be noted, had been her brilliant idea, just in case anyone was wondering. The horse’s hooves tore up the lawn, sending clumps of sod flying up behind it. Steam shot from its nostrils. Artie tugged on the reins, steering the runaway carriage right toward Worrall. “Not so fast, Calvin!” he shouted. “Those gloves and that cane are property of the U.S. government!”

Worrall’s jaw dropped. He froze, momentarily transfixed by the unexpected sight of an old-fashioned hansom cab charging toward him. “What the devil?”

Abandoning the cane, he dived out of the way just in time to avoid being run over. “Whoa!” Artie hollered, pulling up on the reins. Overexcited, the horse kept on going, galloping between Worrall and Pete, effectively cutting the felon off from both Pete and the cane. “Whoa, whoa!” Artie repeated, and not in the Keanu sense. “Slow down, you deranged nag, before I have you stuffed alongside Trigger!” He fought to bring the crazed equine under control while also circling Worrall, who had clambered to his feet and was now looking like he wanted to make a break for it.

“This is insane,” he protested. “Who are you people?”

“Who are you calling crazy, Looney Tunes?” Claudia shot back. “There’s a blackened pot back at home base that would like to have a word with you.”

Artie nudged her with his elbow. “What are you waiting for?” he groused impatiently. “Take the shot!”

“Slow down first!” The way the carriage was careening across the lawn, she could barely hold on to the squirt rifle. Artie expected her to take aim and fire too? “Who do you think I am, Annie Oakley?”

“Actually, the real Annie Oakley, a.k.a. Phoebe Ann Mosley, visited the Warehouse back in 1915,” Artie said pedantically. “She and Buffalo Bill were close friends of Thomas Edison, who featured them in some of his early kinetoscopes. . . .”

“That was a rhetorical question!” she exclaimed, cutting off a typically Artie-ish digression. The seat rocked beneath her and she had to grab onto a rail to keep from tumbling off the carriage. That hair-raising dogfight in the Fokker was starting to seem like a leisurely sightseeing tour by comparison. She wished she’d thought to hang on to her crash helmet. “Not really a good time for a history lesson!”

“I suppose not,”Artie conceded. He glanced at the squirt gun. “So are you going to fire that thing or not?”

“Okay, okay!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a noodge.”

Down on the ground, Worrall darted from side to side, searching for some way to evade the carriage and its drivers. Finding himself trapped without a horse of his own, he threw out his left hand. A hazy gray mist began to manifest from his fingers.

“You asked for this!” he snarled. “You have no idea who—or what—you’re dealing with!”

“
Au contraire,
fever freak,” Claudia replied. “This is what we do.”

Exhausted, the horse began to slow to a trot.
That’s more like it,
Claudia thought. Taking aim, she let loose with the Super Soaker. A thick purple spray shot from its muzzle, reminding her of the emergency hose back at the Warehouse. The spray arced through the air before dousing Worrall in a grape-colored cascade. Both gloves briefly lit up like all ten fingers were wearing Benjamin Franklin’s electric ring (which Claudia sometimes used to explore murky conduits back at the Warehouse). A blinding flash brought tears to Claudia’s eyes. Worrall’s own eyes were protected by a heavy layer of goo.

“Bull’s-eye!” She pumped the squirt gun and gave him a second blast for luck. This time she hit him square in the chest. “You’ve been slimed, dude!”

Artie nodded approvingly. The carriage slowed to a stop in front of her target. “Nice shot.”

“I’ll say!” she agreed. “Did you see that? Do I get a gold star or what?”

“How many times do I have tell you? We don’t do stars.”

“Maybe it’s time to reconsider that policy?” Claudia suggested. “Personally, I’m feeling very starworthy right now.”

The Super Soaker had lived up to its name—and then some. Worrall looked like he’d been dipped in a vat of purple sludge. Neutralizer dripped from his hair, face, and clothing. Claudia knew the feeling. Her own clothes were still sticky. She couldn’t wait to change into some clean duds if and when they saved the day.

“What—” Worrall sputtered, spitting goo from his lips. He was smart enough not to swallow any of it. Wiping the gunk from his eyes, he gazed down in bewilderment at the slimy, drippy mess he had become. He glowered at Claudia and her squirt gun. “Are you serious?” He sounded seriously pissed off. “Do you think this is some sort of silly slapstick comedy?”

Clearly, he had no idea what the neutralizer was for.

“I don’t who you are,” he fumed, “but that’s the last imbecilic prank you’re ever going to play.” He shook his left fist at Claudia and Artie. “Prepare to choke to death on your own phlegm and bile!”

Ick,
Claudia thought. Despite her surprisingly expert marksmanship, she experienced a moment of anxiety. The neutralizer was
mucho
effective, most of the time, but it didn’t
always
work. Defanging artifacts was not an exact science. What if the gloves still had a little mojo left? She tried squirting Worrall again, just to be safe, but only a few last drops dribbled from the muzzle. That last mega-blast had emptied the gun.
Remind me to bring a backup soaker next time,
she thought. If
there’s a next time.

Worrall’s gaunt face grimaced in concentration. He clenched his left fist. Claudia nervously felt her forehead to see if she was running a fever, but her brow seemed to be just normal body temperature, at least as far as she could tell. A sideways glance at Artie didn’t find him keeling over, either.

She crossed her fingers. “Looking good so far.”

“Damnit!” Worrall stared in anger and confusion at his gooey glove. Whatever he was trying to do wasn’t happening. The gloves sparked briefly before fizzling out entirely. A tiny wisp of gray mist issued from the left glove, then dissipated. The right glove couldn’t even muster a glow. He smacked the gloves together, trying to get them to work. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?”

Claudia grinned at Artie. “Looks to me like the fever has broken.”

“My diagnosis as well, Nurse Donovan.”

“‘Nurse’?” She feigned indignation. “Sexist much?”

“Well, I’m not going to be the nurse,” Artie replied. “I can’t even stand the sight of blood.”

“Wimpazoid.”

Their banter was wasted on Worrall. His angry expression was overwritten by panic as he realized that the gloves were out of commission. Abandoning the cane as well, he bolted from the stalled carriage. A stand of elm trees at the west end of the meadow offered cover, and he made for it on foot. No doubt he hoped to escape the park altogether and lose himself in the teeming streets of Manhattan.

He didn’t get far.

Myka blocked his escape. A bit rumpled and battered-looking, she didn’t look disposed to go easy on him.

“Let’s try this again,” she said.

Unlike Worrall, her Tesla still had plenty of juice left. Artificial lightning leaped from the gun to Worrall, who could no longer heal himself or shrug off the powerful electrical jolt. Scorched goo sizzled and he toppled backward onto the lawn. In the distance, the bronze Union soldier looked on from atop his granite pedestal. The sun came out, forming a halo around the Civil War monument. A trick of the light made it seem like the statue was smiling.

Myka threw the solder a salute before hurrying to check on Worrall. She approached the supine figure cautiously, just in case he was playing possum, and nudged him sharply with the toe of her boot. He didn’t stir. It appeared that he was out cold for real. His eyes were shut. His body was limp. The smell of singed neutralizer rose from his motionless form.

“About time,” she muttered.

Taking no chances, she cuffed his wrists before peeling the gloves from his hands. They were covered with goo, but she didn’t care. Purple gloves protected her own hands from whatever power might still be lurking in Clara Barton’s corrupted hand wear. Worrall whimpered in his sleep, and tried to yank his hands away from her, but Myka didn’t let that slow her down. Every minute counted.

“Hang on, Pete. I’m coming.”

Claiming both gloves, she left Worrall sprawled on the grass and sprinted back to where Pete lay dying. Claudia and Artie were already attending to him while the carriage horse grazed on the lawn a few yards away. The animal’s flanks were drenched with sweat. Myka didn’t give the horse a second glance.