Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (15 page)

“Not on your life!” Myka said, even as she clutched the rebellious bag with all her strength. It flapped frantically in her grip, hanging parallel to the ground. Straining against the pull, she managed to take a few steps backward, putting more distance between her and the stranger. “What did you do to my partner?”

A sneer curled his lip. “Let me show you.”

Before he could get any closer to her, however, blaring sirens raised a deafening racket. Fire trucks and police cars, their lights flashing brightly, zoomed toward the courtyard. They were only moments away from arriving.

“Damnit!” the stranger cursed. His gaze darted back and forth between Myka and the oncoming emergency vehicles. He hesitated, obviously torn between his lust for the other glove and the need to escape the authorities. Greedy fingers clutched at empty air. “Not now!”

A squad car speeding into the yard made up his mind for him. Swearing, he turned his back on Myka and rushed past Nadia and Jim, who scrambled to get out of his way. He raced from the scene, taking the other glove with him. Within seconds he had disappeared into the shadows beyond the gym.

“I don’t understand,” Nadia gasped. “Who was that?”

Myka wished she knew. She let out a sigh of relief. The silver bag went limp in her grasp, and she briefly considered chasing after the stranger but decided to cut her losses instead. Pete was leaning against a lamppost, gasping for breath. She needed to make sure he was okay before pursuing the fugitive. They could track down the second glove later. Right now, her partner took priority.

At least we have Nadia’s glove,
she thought.
That’s a start.

“Pete?” She started toward him. “Are you all right?”

More cars and trucks zoomed into the yard. Spinning gumball lights strobed the scene. The lead patrol car squealed to a stop. Its door slammed open and a middle-aged police officer stomped toward them. A graying crew cut hinted at a military background. His unsmiling face was deeply furrowed. A star-shaped badge identified him as the county sheriff. His name, Pitts, was inscribed on the star. His expression darkened further at the sight of Atlas lying sprawled upon the pavement. He knelt to make sure the strong man was just unconscious before rising to confront Myka and the others.

“All right,” he demanded gruffly. “Somebody tell me just what’s going on here.”

Other officers provided backup. Firefighters in full gear hurried to check on the gym, while a paramedic attended to Atlas. The weird weather settled down abruptly. Overhead, turbulent clouds dispersed almost as quickly as they appeared. The frenzied winds quieted. Myka figured that meant that the stranger was long gone. Nature, it seemed, was much happier with the gloves apart.

Not that she expected the sheriff to understand that.

“Agent Bering, Secret Service,” she identified herself, presenting her badge. “Sorry for the excitement.”

He squinted suspiciously at the badge, then turned to Nadia and Jim. “You two okay?” His voice softened. “These strangers giving you trouble?”

“Can’t you see? They shot my bodyguard!” Nadia dragged Jim toward the sheriff while pointing accusingly at Myka. “And she stole my glove!”

Pitts scowled at the female agent. “Is that true?”

Huh?
Myka was slightly taken aback by the sheriff’s tone. What was this all about? She didn’t get vibes the way Pete did, but even she could tell that something was off here. Why was this guy treating her like a suspect?

“Excuse me, Sheriff.” She tried again to take charge of the situation. “These individuals are persons of interest in a federal investigation. My partner and I will be happy to brief you later,” she lied, “but right now I would appreciate your full cooperation.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” He sneered at her badge. “How do I know that thing’s not a fake?” A smirk lifted the corners of his lips. “You know, now that I think of it, that looks plenty counterfeit to me.”

Myka couldn’t believe this. “Seriously?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her growing exasperation. Local authorities frequently gave her and Pete a hard time about invading their turf, and questioned the agents’ involvement in whatever bizarre occurrences were going on, but she wasn’t often accused of impersonating a Secret Service agent. She reached into her pocket and offered Pitts a business card bearing a Washington phone number that was routed directly to the Warehouse. “Feel free to contact my superiors if you don’t believe me, but right now I don’t have time for this.” She started to push past the sheriff and the other cops. “I need to check on my partner.”

“Not so fast.” He blocked her path. “You’re not going anywhere until we sort this out.”

Myka found herself facing not just Pitts but several of his officers. Behind her, the alarms in the gym fell silent. A fireman approached the sheriff. “Looks like a false alarm, sir,” the man said. “No sign of an actual fire.”

“A false alarm, eh? That’s a criminal offense.” He looked Myka over. “You have anything to do with that?”

“It was all a trick,” Jim piped up, “to lure us into an ambush!”

“Is that so?” Pitts made up his mind. “I think you and your partner need to come down to the station with me. We take false alarms, and armed robbery, pretty seriously around here.”

Myka didn’t back down. “Sheriff, you are making a serious mistake. You have no idea what’s going on here.”

“Listen.” Pitts placed a protective arm around Nadia’s shoulders. “All I know is that this special young lady has helped plenty of good people, including my own boy. That gives her the benefit of the doubt in my book.” He stepped forward and confiscated the silver bag from Myka. “And I’m sure as hell going to believe her before I take orders from a couple of so-called Secret Service agents.”

“We’re for real and you know it,” Myka said coldly, although she knew she was wasting her breath. This whole encounter made sense now. Just their luck: the sheriff was another member of Nadia’s growing fan club. “You’re obstructing federal agents in the line of duty.”

“Oh, yeah? Last I heard, the Secret Service didn’t go around robbing innocent people at gunpoint.” He handed the bag over to Nadia. “Here you go, princess. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got this under control.”

Nadia acted positively overjoyed to be reunited with her glove. “Thank you so much, Sheriff George!” she squealed, the familiarity making it crystal-clear that this was not the first time they had crossed paths. She tore open the containment bag like a crazed toddler on Christmas morning. Traces of purple goo clung to the glove, but she eagerly pulled it back onto her hand anyway. Her fingers flexed inside the glove. She choked up. “Oh, God, that was close. I was afraid I’d lost you forever.”

Jim tugged on her arm again. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before anything else crazy happens.” He appealed to Pitts. “Is it okay if we take off, Sheriff?”

“Go ahead. I’ve got this covered.”

Nadia gave Pitts a grateful hug before finally letting her boyfriend drag her away. Myka experienced a fully explainable case of déjà vu as she helplessly watched Clara Barton’s glove elude them one more time. Fuming silently, she longed to snatch it back, and even flirted with the notion of going for her gun, but she was frustrated, not crazy. Assaulting several legitimate police officers and firefighters singlehandedly was not really a viable plan. Not even Pete would try something so reckless.

Pete . . .

“Pete?” She peered past the phalanx of uniformed police types between her and her partner. From what she could see, he was still on his feet but holding on to the lamppost for support. Maybe whatever that stranger had done to him was wearing off already? He put up no fight as a wary cop relieved him of his Tesla. Myka called out to him. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

Pitts had other things on his mind. “That’s enough. You two can hold each other’s hands back at the station.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Now, are you going to come quietly, or do I have to break out the handcuffs?”

Disgusted, Myka reached into her pocket and took out her own cuffs. “Here. Have mine.” She tried to squeeze past the cops again. “
Now
will you let me check on my partner?”

Pitts didn’t have a chance to answer. Pete let go of the lamppost and staggered toward Myka unsteadily. A recovered alcoholic, he hadn’t touched a drop in years (at least, not in his own body), but he wobbled like a drunk on a bender. His face was gray. He clutched his gut, grimacing in pain. His agonized groan tore at Myka’s heart. He gasped for breath. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Myka? I don’t feel so good.”

He collapsed onto the pavement.

11

WAREHOUSE 13

Drip, drip, drip . . .

In the lonely aisle, observed only by its fellow artifacts, Elizabeth Báthory’s bathtub began to overflow. The crimson spillover, which no longer bore the slightest resemblance to apple cider, streamed down the smooth marble sides of the tub. Viscous red droplets slipped through the metal rods supporting the artifact. Blood fell like rain.

A shrunken head rested on the shelf below the tub. Its shriveled features were dry and leathery, like old beef jerky. A mop of wild black hair clung to its scalp. Its sooty eyelids were squeezed tightly shut. The protruding lips were tightly pursed. Tiny beads were strung in its hair. A bone pierced its nose.

A warm red shower pelted the hideous relic. The first few drops of blood seeped between its lips. At first the head did not react, but then the dark, mummified flesh twitched. Stirring upon the shelf, the head rocked backward, turning its grotesque face up toward the falling droplets. It licked its lips. Its eyes opened. Blazing bloodred orbs gazed out at the Warehouse.

Shrunken lips parted. Piranha-like fangs caught the light.

The head smiled.

“UNIVILLE”

“Howdy, Leena. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

Bert the grocer greeted her warmly as he swept the sidewalk in front of his store. Downtown consisted of a single broad avenue that was home to pretty much all of the local businesses. Bert’s groceries shared the main drag with the barbershop, the hardware store, a Chinese restaurant, the drugstore, the bank, the florist’s, a video rental place, a bakery, a doctor’s office, and other small-town fixtures. All were locally owned: the big chains had yet to discover “Univille,” possibly because they didn’t even know it existed.

“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.”