for hours now, but had yet to find anything out of place or missing. Claudia fought a yawn. If it were up to her, she’d be on the road with Pete and Myka rather than stuck here doing scut work, but Artie had been insistent. Given recent security breaches by the likes of MacPherson and H. G. Wells, he wanted to make sure everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. A reasonable precaution, she had to admit, even if that didn’t make the job any less mind-numbingly tedious. “Sigmund Freud’s cigar.” Claudia paused.
“What does that do?” Leena made a face. “You don’t want to know.”
“Okaaay. Moving on…” It was hot, thirsty work, especially since there was no air-conditioning on the main floor of the Warehouse (which, granted, would be a budget buster). The musty, dusty atmosphere seemed unusually stuffy today, like she was stuck in the world’s biggest sweatshop. Her mouth was dry and she kicked herself for not bringing along a can of soda. There was a small fridge back in Artie’s lair, but that was umpteen aisles, half a dozen stories, and at least a thirty-minute hike away. Maybe after they finished this shelf? She tried to focus on the task at hand. Leaving the skeevy cigar behind, she checked out the next item: a battered tin pot resting right side up. A faded paper label identified it as once belonging to John Chapman (1774-1845), a.k.a. “Johnny Appleseed.”
Right, she thought. A storybook illustration of a scruffy, barefoot wanderer planting an orchard in the wilderness popped from her memory banks. Dude used to wear his pot as a hat. Talk about a bold fashion choice! But that wasn’t all the pot was good for. Intrigued by the description pinned to the shelf beneath it, Claudia couldn’t resist lifting the pot from its perch. As she brought it toward her face, the interior of the pot magically filled with swirling golden-brown liquid. The enticing aroma of fresh apple cider tickled her nose. Her mouth watered. She licked her lips. She lifted the pot to her lips.
One little sip couldn’t hurt, right? It was just like using the snow globe to cool her drinks back at the office… “Claudia?” Leena called out from below. “Everything okay up there?” She blushed guiltily. On second thought, maybe she should pass on the cider.
Messing with artifacts was seldom a good idea. Look what happened that time she tried to use Volta’s lab coat to change a lightbulb…
“We’re copacetic,” she assured Leena, a little too quickly. She lowered the pot from her lips, hoping that Leena hadn’t seen.
“Strictly professional all the way.” She started to put the pot back where it belonged. Just then, a burst of azure energy flashed into existence farther down the aisle. Crackling like ball lighting, the thunderous discharge threw off spidery blasts of electricity as it came racing toward her. “Holy moley!” She had seen this before.
Sometimes the sheer accumulation of tangential energy in the Warehouse kicked up a little static, as Artie liked to put it, which could be extremely hazardous to your health. “Duck and cover!” The roiling electrical storm rattled the shelves. The metal ladder turned into an elevated lightning rod. Grasping the danger just in time, Claudia leaped off a rung and grabbed onto the edge of the nearest shelf right before the energy bolt struck the ladder, sending it spinning across the aisle away from her. Sparks cascaded down the ladder’s length as the grounded energy dispersed into the floor. Within seconds the crisis was over. Except, of course, that Claudia now found herself dangling some ten feet above the floor, hanging on by her fingertips.
Her feet searched for purchase but couldn’t quite reach one of the lower shelves. Gravity tugged on her legs. Not for the first time, she wished she were a few inches taller. “Er, Leena? A hand, please?” The other woman had thrown herself facedown onto the floor, her hands over her head. She lifted her eyes cautiously and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Then she jumped to her feet and ran over to the displaced ladder. Playing it safe, she pulled on a pair of protective purple gloves before taking hold of the ladder and wheeling it back under Claudia. “Here you go,” she said. “You okay?” “I think so.” Claudia lowered her feet onto a metal rung, which felt reassuringly solid compared to empty air. She let go of the shelf. Her aching fingers thanked her. “You?” “Just a little dusty.” Leena smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress. She had worked at the Warehouse longer than any of them except Artie. It took a lot to rattle her. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Claudia scrambled down the ladder, grateful to set foot on the floor again. Her heart was still pounding from her near brush with electrocution. She was too young to go to the great chat room in the sky just yet. Ozone lingered in the air, along with a faint aftertaste of fudge. That soda back in Artie’s office was sounding better and better. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I think I’m ready to call it a day.” Leena didn’t disagree. “After all that, I think we deserve a break.” She recovered her clipboard from the floor. “We can tackle the rest of this section tomorrow.” “That’s what I’m saying.” She glanced down the long corridor, which held enough relics, curios, and knickknacks to crash eBay for good. No way was she up to taking on another mile of shelves right now. “It’s not like all this junk is going anywhere.” “Knock on wood,” Leena teased. Claudia rapped a shelf before they headed back toward the office. The women’s footsteps receded into the distance.
Forgotten in the confusion, and toppled by the violent shaking, John Chapman’s pot lay on its side several shelves above the floor. Apple cider crept toward the lip of the pot, then began to spill onto the shelf. A small puddle slowly formed and cider started to seep through the wooden slats. Cider dripped onto the shelf directly below, but no one was around to notice. Drip, drip, drip…
CHAPTER
8
FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT
“Thank you so much for taking us in like this.” “Oh, please.” Their hostess waved away Nadia’s gratitude. “It’s the least I can do after the way you cured my arthritis. I should be thanking you for finally giving me a chance to repay you.” Nadia sat at a kitchen table in a comfortable suburban home. Jim sat beside her, digging into a home-cooked meal. They had changed out of their carnival garb into fresh clothes provided by their benefactor, a retired high school principal named Judith Noggle. A steaming mug of coffee was cupped between Nadia’s palms. Although she had discarded the rest of her costume, she still had on her gloves. After nearly losing the glove to those Secret Service agents, she couldn’t bear to be parted with it again. “Just the same, we really appreciate this.
Especially on such short notice.” She and Jim had literally e-mailed Judith from the road after ditching those Feds yesterday. The older woman was just one of several grateful “patients” who had expressed a fervent desire to do whatever they could for Nadia someday, pressing their business cards and contact information upon her after being healed. Nadia had an entire shoe box full of cards and thank-you notes back at the carnival. Some, like Judith, had even friended her online.
Nadia had used Jim’s phone to reach Judith after they went on the run.
Thankfully, her home was only a short drive from West Haven. A doorbell rang. “That must be them,” Judith announced. “I’ll go let them in.” She patted Nadia on the shoulder. “Feel free to finish your coffee, dear. There’s no rush.” She exited the kitchen, leaving Nadia alone with Jim. He took advantage of the momentary privacy to check on her. “How are you holding up?” “Okay enough.” She squeezed his hand.
“I’m feeling a lot better now.” He looked her over, obviously concerned. “You positive about that?” He scowled. “I don’t like this.
I mean, now we’ve got the government after you? Maybe it’s time to get a new act.” “It’s not just an act!” she blurted, more vehemently than she intended. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that… this means a lot to me, you know?” How could she make him understand? She’d spent her whole life conning rubes with carnie tricks, or risking her neck doing acrobatic stunts. Carrying on the Malinovich family tradition. But now she was finally doing something important with her life. Something real. She wasn’t just putting on a show. She was helping people. How could she give that up? “Yeah, I know,” he grumbled, trying to sympathize. “But it’s making you sick.
We both know that. Hell, even those Feds could see it.” “It doesn’t last,” she insisted. “I just feel a little shaky afterwards, that’s all.” “Really? ’Cause it seems like it’s getting worse the more you do it.” She looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes. Deep down inside, she was afraid he might be right. What had that woman, Agent Bering, said before? That power like this came with a hefty price tag?
What if she and her partner knew what they were talking about? To be completely honest, sure, she had her
