A Touch of Fever (warehouse 13) Page 2

  Preceded by a burst of static, the face of a grizzled older man appeared on the miniature TV screen. Bushy black eyebrows that looked like they were on steroids bristled above a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Gray hairs infiltrated his frizzy black hair and beard. Artie Nielsen shoved his face forward. A fish-eye lens distorted the black-and-white image slightly, giving it the look of a funhouse mirror. A brusque voice emanated from the Farnsworth. “Did you get it?” “We’re fine, thanks for asking,” Pete replied. Artie could get a bit curmudgeonly where bagging artifacts was concerned. After being cooped up in the Warehouse for nearly four decades, his phone manners had grown rusty. “But, yep, we got it.” “Thank goodness.” Artie sighed in relief. He relaxed visibly. “Run into any problems?” Pete glanced around at the trashed museum. Calico Jack was nothing but shavings.

  The figurehead was kindling. Lainie Evers was sprawled upon the floor.

  Pete’s best shirt hung in tatters, exposing his hairy chest. He carefully angled the Farnsworth so that his ventilated clothing was not visible. “Nah,” he answered. “Just the usual.” The funny thing was, he wasn’t lying. Compared to some of their investigations, this had been a walk in the park. Nobody had blown up, spontaneously combusted, imploded, turned into glass, walked through walls, gone invisible, or been transported to another dimension. That kind of thing could really spoil your day. Chances were, Lainie Evers wouldn’t even remember what had happened here tonight. The Tesla tended to scramble people’s short-term memories. “Good.” Artie didn’t ask for details. He’d review their reports later. “Now get that cutlass back here as soon as you can. But by coach, remember. Not first class. The Regents are on my case about the budget.” Pete bit his lip. You’d think a top-secret organization whose origins stretched back to antiquity wouldn’t hold on to its purse strings quite so tightly, but by now he was used to Artie’s chronic frugality. Coach it was. Pete’s long legs cramped in anticipation. Maybe there would be a good in-flight movie? “Okay, Artie. See you soon. Say hello to Claudia and Leena for me.” “You can do that yourself, once you deliver that cutlass.” The transmission cut off abruptly. Pete put away the Farnsworth and took the silver bag off Myka’s hands. The cutlass weighed it down. A gust of air-conditioning rustled the sliced-up shirt. He picked at the butchered fabric. “Aw, man…” Myka smirked. “Maybe we can find you a souvenir T-shirt in the gift shop.

  Perhaps one with Anne Bonny on it?” “Very funny,” Pete said. “Next time, you search the Hall of Infamy.” Myka let him vent. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  THE BADLANDS, SOUTH DAKOTA

  Once a vast prehistoric ocean had covered the Great Plains, but that had dried up long before anyone was around to watch it gradually evolve into desert. Now the desolate scenery resembled a barren lunar landscape. Erosion had carved out thousands of acres of craggy hills, canyons, and cliffs. Gnarled rock formations cast weird, unearthly shadows upon the arid soil. Streaks of diversely colored stone laid bare the geologic history of the region, with each distinctive shade and hue serving as petrified evidence of a bygone era. Yucca, juniper, and other desert flora stubbornly set down roots. Patches of grass sprouted here and there.

  The Sioux Indians had named this place mako sica, or “bad land.”

  Warehouse 13 called it home. It had taken Myka a while to appreciate the unique natural beauty of the Badlands. When she had first been reassigned here two years ago, she couldn’t believe that she had been banished to some godforsaken wasteland in the middle of nowhere. But over time she had come to find the endless ochre hills and valleys both grand and comforting. She relaxed into the passenger seat of a black SUV as she and Pete drove past the familiar landmarks. It had been a long trip, but soon they-and Anne Bonny’s cutlass-would be back where they belonged. “Here we are,” Pete said from behind the wheel.

  “Home sweet home.” Warehouse 13 was located at the end of a long dirt road past several swinging metal gates. An enormous hangar-like structure built into the base of a secluded hillside, it had the entire valley to itself. No other buildings were in sight. The nearest town was miles away and didn’t even have a name. No signs or markers pointed to the Warehouse. Even if you knew it existed, you might have trouble finding it. Which was the whole idea. Several stories high, the Warehouse’s rusty facade loomed over the desert. Riveted steel plates, deceptively dilapidated in appearance, guarded its contents.

  Iron beams and girders, anchored by sturdy concrete foundations, buttressed the towering walls. Satellite disks pulled down data from the heavens. Angled tin roofs gave the building a roughly triangular shape, but what you saw from outside was only the tip of the iceberg.

  The Warehouse extended deep into the hills as well as several levels beneath the ground. Myka had worked here for nearly two years now, but she still had trouble grasping just how big the Warehouse really was.

  You could fit the Javits Center, the Louvre, and the entire Smithsonian inside the building and still have acres of room to spare.

  There were entire levels, galleries, and annexes she had yet to explore. She wondered where exactly the cutlass would end up. A cherry-red Jaguar roadster and a vintage El Camino pickup truck were parked in front of the Warehouse. “Looks like everybody’s home,” Pete observed. Braking to a stop beside the other cars, he killed the engine. His stomach grumbled audibly. “You think Artie’s made cookies?” “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Myka smiled at her partner. Pete’s appetite was practically supernatural in its own right. “Remind me again how you keep your girlish figure?” “Clean living, what else? Plus, lots of running for my life.” They stepped out of the car into the blinding glare of a hot August afternoon. The scorching heat came as a shock after the air-conditioned comfort of the car. Sunlight reflected off the Warehouse’s tarnished metal walls.

  Myka was grateful for her tinted sunglasses, which were a necessity in this part of the country. It felt good to stretch her legs. A solitary cow, grazing on a measly patch of grass, lowed in welcome. A hot breeze carried with it the distinctive aroma of a large heap of manure piled high a few yards away. Myka had once mistaken the heap for a small hill. She hadn’t made that mistake again. “Right back at you,”

  Pete addressed the cow. He retrieved the cutlass, still securely bagged, from the rear of the SUV. They approached the Warehouse. The front door was the same rusty metal color as the oxidized steel sheets around it, so that it blended in almost as though camouflaged. Myka clicked a button on a compact handheld remote. Ancient hinges creaked as it swung open. “After you,” Pete said. Myka strolled inside.

  Compared to the Warehouse’s weather-beaten facade, the sterile white umbilicus looked like something designed by NASA. A flexible metal tube, barely wide enough to allow two people to pass through side by side, accordioned ahead of her for fifty yards or so. Fluorescent lights lit up the tunnel, which wobbled slightly beneath their tread like an enormous slinky. Explosive charges, mounted at both ends of the umbilicus, could be detonated if the Warehouse needed to be sealed off in a hurry. Myka wished the bombs weren’t quite so visible. She had already seen them in action once. She knew how much firepower they packed. Thank heavens nobody had died the last time the bombs went off. At least, not permanently. The tube led to a locked white door. A metal box was attached to the wall next to the door. She opened its lid to expose a glowing blue retinal scanner. Myka positioned her right eye in front of the scanner. By now, the elaborate security measures were second nature to her. An electronic chip confirmed that she was indeed herself. The door swung open. “We’re back,” she called out. Beyond the umbilicus was a cluttered office that resembled a cross between a musty old antique shop and the back room of a museum.

  Wooden file cabinets, shelves, and bookcases were crammed against the exposed brickwork. A bulletin board was covered with tacked-up index cards, photos, and newspaper clippings. A pull-down map of the world occupied one wall, not far from an antique harpsichord. Overstuffed shelves and disp
lay cases sagged beneath the weight of various exotic relics and curios, including a Viking helmet, a fossilized dinosaur skull, a crystal ball, a gold record, a vintage Roy Rogers lunch box, a bedpan, and a monkey’s paw. A suit of armor, that had once belonged to Richard the Lion-Hearted, stood guard in a corner. A news ticker, like the one in Times Square, offered an endlessly scrolling update on world events. Hanging lamps cast a warm glow over the office. A ratty Persian rug protected the floor. Shuttered windows at the far end of the office blocked her view of the mezzanine beyond, which looked out over the main floor of the Warehouse. A spiral staircase led to Artie’s private quarters one floor up. Paperwork was piled high on the desks, which boasted a jarring mixture of high-tech computer screens and antiquated, retro-looking keypads. A souvenir snow globe was being used as a paperweight. Frost coated the outside of the globe. A micro-blizzard swirled inside it. Myka barely noticed the eclectic decor, which was old hat to her. She looked instead to see who was waiting for her. Her smile widened as she saw that the whole gang was present. “Hey! America’s best-kept secret agents return!” Claudia Donovan sprang from an upholstered wingback chair, nearly spilling her laptop onto the floor. The teenage whiz kid was ten years younger than Myka, as evidenced by her funkier attire and style. Bobbed red hair was accented by a dyed blue swoop. A vintage biker vest was layered over her blue tank top. Novelty pins and buttons added flair to the vest. Her slim legs were tucked into a pair of skinny black jeans. She carelessly tossed the laptop onto the chair before rushing over to greet Myka. “What’s up, girlfriend? How was ye olde pirate museum?”

  “The staff was a little overly enthusiastic, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” Myka grinned back at Claudia before addressing the rest of her colleagues. “Hi, Leena, Artie.” “Welcome back.” A slender young woman turned away from the card catalog, where she had been re-alphabetizing the files. A floral sun dress flattered her figure. A voluminous head of frizzy brown hair crowned her like a halo. Smooth skin was the color of caramel. Quieter and more composed than Claudia, she radiated a certain otherworldly serenity. Knowing brown eyes squinted at Myka, seeing more than just her physical appearance. “You look well,” Leena said. “You, too, Pete.” “Just glad to be back.” He followed Myka into the office, lugging the silver containment bag. The door clicked shut behind him. “Anybody order a bona fide pirate pigsticker?” “Is that it?” Artie asked urgently. The grizzled agent looked up from his desk, which was strewn with index cards and yellow legal pads. A tan corduroy jacket was draped over his short, stocky frame. His rumpled black shirt needed ironing. His feet, in well-worn sneakers, rested flat on the floor. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, shrewd brown eyes lit up like those of a kid in a candy store. “Was it damaged in any way?” Ideally, they preferred to deliver the artifacts to the Warehouse in one piece, but, sadly, that wasn’t always possible. More than once, they’d had to sacrifice some precious historical relic in order to save innocent lives. Fortunately, that hadn’t been the case this time around. “It’s fine,” Pete assured him.

  “See for yourself.” He cleared off a space on the desk, then unsealed the bag. The cutlass spilled onto the desk, landing with a thud on the clear glass desktop. Leena, Claudia, and Artie moved in for a closer look. “Anne Bonny’s cutlass,” Artie whispered in a hushed tone. “We’ve been looking for this ever since Anne escaped the gallows back in 1720 by pleading her belly-” “Come again?” Claudia interrupted. “Pleading her whatsit?” “She was pregnant,” Myka translated. She had read all about Anne’s infamous career while growing up in her father’s bookstore. “With Calico Jack’s child. The court delayed her execution until the baby could be born.” Claudia smirked. “That’s one way to beat the rap, I guess. Better knocked-up than hung.” “Yeah,” Pete added. “But your reprieve is only good for nine months, tops.” “As far as we know, the execution never took place,” Artie said, picking up the story. “Some say her father, a wealthy merchant, managed to buy her freedom. Anne, her baby, and the cutlass all disappeared from history… until now.” He gazed reverently at the sword. For all its insidious properties, the cutlass was a genuine piece of history.

  Myka couldn’t blame Artie for being excited to add it to the Warehouse’s collection at last. He was a natural-born curator and historian, which made him the ideal person to manage Warehouse 13.

  Nobody knew the value of the artifacts, and just how much havoc they could cause, better than Artie Nielsen. He had devoted the better part of his adult life to the vital work of tracking down every weird and unnatural object that threatened to ruin the world’s day. The first Warehouse had been established by order of Alexander the Great, way back in the Bronze Age. Even then, it had been obvious that certain potent relics and talismans were too dangerous and unpredictable to be at large in the world; better for all concerned that they be kept locked away until such time, if ever, that their mysterious attributes could be fully understood and controlled. Subsequent Warehouses, in ancient Egypt, Rome, Mongolia, and elsewhere, had continued Alexander’s work, hiding their preternatural prizes from those who might abuse their power. The current Warehouse, number thirteen, had gone into operation back in 1914. Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and M.

  C. Escher had all contributed to its design. Artie himself had been recruited as an agent over forty years ago. By Warehouse standards, that was a remarkably long run. Most never lasted that long…

  Leena viewed the cutlass with distaste. “It has a very violent aura.”

  She shivered and hugged herself. “Perhaps it belongs in the Dark Vault?” The Dark Vault was the Warehouse’s own Hall of Infamy, where the most sinister and dangerous artifacts were kept. Like an Aztec bloodstone, or Sylvia Plath’s typewriter. The latter had nearly drained Pete’s will to live last year. Anne Bonny’s cutlass would fit right in. Artie wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know. Pretty much all the artifacts are dangerous to some extent, or they wouldn’t be here. And we can’t keep everything in the Dark Vault. There are budget issues.

  Do you know how much it costs to maintain those high-intensity neutralizing fields?” “More than our lives?” Myka asked. “Let’s try it out in the main collection first,” Artie decided. “If it acts up, we can always move it to a more secure location later.” Leena frowned, but did not argue the point. Neither did Myka. She was too tired to discuss it further. It had been a long trip. Which Claudia wanted to hear all about. “C’mon, dudes. Spill.” She bounced around them like a hyperactive elf. “How was your latest road trip? Artie’s had me cooped up here for days now, double-checking the inventory. I’m going stir-crazy.” “Maintaining an accurate inventory is vitally important,”

  Artie began. “We’ve all seen what can happen when an artifact goes astray…” “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the lecture, Captain Bligh.”

  Claudia had heard it all before. “Enough with the bagging and tagging.

  I want in on some primo snagging action.” “You’re not a full agent yet,” Artie reminded her. “Just an apprentice.” “But I’ve helped out in the field before!” She looked to Myka and Pete for backup. “Tell ’em, guys. Remember that time in Detroit? Or when Myka and I checked out that wrestling team in California?” “You mean the time you fell into a vat of supercharged energy drink?” Artie said. “And almost spontaneously combusted?” “That wasn’t my fault. I was pushed.” Pete’s stomach growled again. It sounded like a saber-tooth tiger newly escaped from the La Brea tar pits. A sound that, oddly enough, Myka was actually familiar with. “Maybe we can table this discussion for later?” Pete suggested. “I’ve been driving for hours and I’m famished.” He looked around hopefully. “Are there any cookies left in the pantry?” As ever, Artie was on top of things. “I whipped up a fresh batch of snickerdoodles this morning.” He glanced at Leena. “If you don’t mind…” “I’ll go get them,” she said, smiling warmly.

  Among other things, Leena ran a bed-and-breakfast in a nearby town.

  Hospitality was her speciality. “Be right back
.” Myka settled into a comfy chair. A yawn escaped her. Pete could have his cookies, but she was more interested in calling it a day. Now that they had successfully delivered the cutlass to Artie, she just wanted to head over to the B amp;B and unwind with a good book. Until their next investigation.

  CHAPTER

  3

  LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST “UNNAMED UNICORPORATED SETTLEMENT”

  “What’s a six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’?” Myka squinted at a half-finished crossword puzzle as she and Pete enjoyed a relaxing brunch on the patio. A plate of fresh scones with raspberry jam rested on the elegant wrought-iron table between them, alongside a pitcher of hot coffee. Elm trees, their leaves already changing colors, offered shade from the sun. Graceful white columns framed the patio. Potted plants and flower boxes added life to the setting. A rose garden offered a fragrant bouquet. The morning paper was dismembered atop the table. As usual, Myka had claimed dibs on the crossword, while Pete chuckled over the comic pages. Her pencil was poised above the empty squares of the puzzle. She was not so arrogant as to use a pen. “Beats me,” Pete mumbled through a mouthful of scone. His eyes remained glued to the funnies. “Okay, so why is it that Dilbert can’t find a better job?” Myka assumed that was a rhetorical question. A trace of jam leaked from the corner of his mouth. She resisted an urge to reach out and wipe it away with a napkin. Maybe later. She took a moment to enjoy the morning. Leena’s bed-and-breakfast was an oasis of tranquillity in their often tumultuous lives. The elegant Victorian Gothic edifice was located in “Univille,” the officially unnamed township just down the road from the Warehouse. Painted white walls and a pitched blue roof gave the B amp;B a much tidier appearance than the seemingly ramshackle Warehouse. Steep gables crowned the arched windows. Ivy climbed the walls. A widow’s walk topped the uppermost turret. Myka, Pete, and Claudia all had rooms at Leena’s place, giving them someplace cozy to go home to at the end of the day. Only Artie preferred to bunk down at the Warehouse full-time. He didn’t know what he was missing. Or maybe he did. A back door banged open and Claudia rushed breathlessly onto the patio. “Sorry I’m late, amigos, but I was up late kicking butt on the intertubes. Would you believe some troll actually thought he knew more about quantum processing and fuzzy logic than yours truly?” She snorted at the very idea before her gaze alighted on the remaining scones and jam. “Ooh! Raspberry goodness!”