Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (6 page)

“Not bad,” Pete commented. “Reminds me of a would-be assassin I tackled in Portland once. Of course, her target was breathing.”

“The audience doesn’t seem all that impressed,” Myka observed. “Or interested.”

She was right again. All around them, audience members squirmed with varying degrees of impatience, as they waited for the star attraction.

“Enough with this bullshit!” a grumpy-looking dude in the front row exclaimed. His florid complexion made Pete wonder just how high the man’s blood pressure was. “We want Nefertiti!”

Others in the bleachers took up the chant.

“Nefertiti! Nefertiti! Nefertiti!”

They stomped their feet in rhythm with the chant, shaking the bleachers. Pete’s seat vibrated beneath his butt. He hoped the bleachers were solidly constructed.

“Uh-oh,” Myka said. “Looks like the natives are getting restless.”

Pete whistled. “Talk about a tough crowd. You’ve got to be pretty nervy to heckle a knife thrower.”

“Or desperate.”

In any event, the Dazzling Dmitri got the message. He hastily wrapped up his act, took a bow, and retreated from the stage. A stagehand dragged the knife-studded target away. A moment later Dmitri reemerged from behind the curtain. A chorus of boos started up, but the young performer raised his voice to be heard over the protests.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve been waiting for.” He gestured dramatically at the curtain behind him, which rustled provocatively. “Without further ado . . . Princess Nefertiti!”

A hush fell over the crowd. They leaned forward expectantly. Pete caught himself doing the same. Forget the Sword Swallower and the Alligator Boy.
This
was what they were all really here for.

The music switched tracks. An ethereal, faintly Middle Eastern air emanated from the speakers. Incense wafted from the wings. The footlights dimmed, the curtains parted, and a petite figure stepped onto the stage. Her hooded white robe was belted at the waist by a delicate silver chain. The shimmering fabric seemed to glow in the footlights. Her head was bowed, hiding her face. Gloved hands were tented before her as though in prayer. Wide sleeves drooped beneath them. Her sandaled feet strode gracefully across the stage. A gleaming silver ankh hung conspicuously from a chain around her neck.

Pete’s eyes zeroed in on the ankh. “What do you think?” he whispered to Myka. “A souvenir from King Tut’s tomb? Or Cleopatra’s favorite bit of bling?”

“Maybe not Cleopatra. Her pet asp is already preserved in a jar on Level 12, Aisle 343, of the Warehouse.” She playfully punched him in the shoulder. “You really need to familiarize yourself with the inventory more.”

Pete had heard it before. “So you keep telling me. But give me a break. I could study night and day for a year and still not make a dent in the inventory. We’re talking over two thousand years of wacky knickknacks, you know.” A mental image of the Warehouse’s endless aisles and shelves flashed across his mind. “Besides, there’s no rule that a person can’t produce more than one artifact. Cleo probably had enough mojo to power a whole wardrobe of artifacts. I mean, look at how many movies she’s inspired.”

“I suppose,” Myka conceded as Princess Nefertiti’s show got under way.

After a dramatic pause, the supposed healer raised her head. Her gloved hands reached up and drew back the hood, revealing the bronzed face of an attractive young woman who looked barely out of her teens. Kohl shadowed a pair of striking green eyes. Her black hair was cut short, Theda Bara style. A ruby was glued to the center of her forehead like a third eye. A serene expression conveyed a seriousness and wisdom far beyond her years.

“Welcome, brothers and sisters,” she intoned in a posh English accent. “Blessings upon you all, and on the celestial providence that brings us all together this fine evening. Before we begin, let me tell you something of myself—and from whence my humble gifts derive.”

“This ought to be good,” Myka muttered.

“I am descended from a long line of healers, medicine men, and wise women dating back to the bygone days of the pharaohs. It is my privilege and my sacred calling to ease the suffering of my fellow travelers, as much as it is within my ability to do so.” She gazed out at the rapt audience. “Now, then, who among you is in need of healing?”

Hands shot up like a Whac-A-Mole. Anxious voices cried out, competing to be heard.

“Over here! Please!”

“Me! Me first!”

“Help me! Help my baby!”

Pete couldn’t be sure, but he thought Nefertiti looked a little overwhelmed by the vehemence of the crowd’s reaction. She faltered slightly, taking an involuntary step back, before regaining her composure. She held out her arms to quiet the throng.

“Please! One at a time. I promise, I’ll do my best to minister to as many of you as I can.” She waited for the audience to settle down before singling out a little boy near the front. “You there, the handsome young man in the
Iron Shadow
T-shirt. Come forward, child.”

Overcome with shyness, the boy hesitated until his mother took his hand and led him from the bleachers. No more than ten years old, he looked winded just stepping onto the stage. His tiny fingers clutched a plastic inhaler. In the hushed atmosphere of the tent, Pete could hear the kid wheezing all the way in the back. His pale skin suggested that he didn’t get outdoors much. You didn’t need a medical degree to diagnose his problem.

“Asthma?” Nefertiti guessed.

The mother nodded. Worry lines and puffy violet pouches under her eye testified to sleepless nights. “We’ve tried everything, but it just keeps getting worse. You’re our last hope.”

“I understand.” Nefertiti knelt before the boy so that she could look him in the eyes. “What is your name, sweet child?”

“Brian,” he wheezed. “But the kids at school call me Squeaky, ’cause of the way I breathe.”

“Not anymore they won’t.” She raised her eyes to the heavens. Her voice took on a more imperious tone. “Now, by the sacred blood that flows within me, let this innocent child breathe freely once more!”

Taking a deep breath, she laid her hands upon Brian’s trembling shoulders. Bright blue sparks crackled around her fingertips, and Brian stiffened as though zapped by a Tesla gun. Tiny hairs stood along the back of Pete’s neck. Suddenly the atmosphere inside the tent seemed charged with static electricity. He sniffed the air. A cloying sweetness invaded his nostrils.

He nudged Myka. “Do you smell that?”

“Yep,” she verified. “Fudge.”

The chocolaty aroma was often associated with artifact activity. Nobody had ever really been able to explain why.

Looks like Artie was right on target,
he thought.
As usual.

Down on the stage, Brian gasped and collapsed against Nefertiti, who deftly caught him before he fell. “Brian!” his mother cried out in alarm. “Baby!”

“Fear not,” Nefertiti assured her. “All is well.” She cradled the boy in her arms. “He’ll be all right in a moment.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later Brian lifted his head from the healer’s shoulder. “Mommy?” He looked around in confusion. “Where am I? What happened?”

“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?”

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.