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.
CHAPTER
11
WAREHOUSE 13
Drip, drip, drip… In the lonely aisle, observed only by its fellow artifacts, Elizabeth Bathory’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 amp;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.” “Don’t worry about me,” she said, smiling. “I sleep just fine.” Except, perhaps, when Pete or Myka or the entire world was in danger. “Well, better you than me.” He changed the subject. “You coming to the big bash this weekend?” A canvas banner stretched above Main Street hyped the town’s annual “UnFounders Day” celebration, which was being held on Saturday. Leena was looking forward to it. “Of course. You know me: I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” “Great. See you there.” He headed back inside his store. “You take care, Leena.” “You, too, Bert.” She continued on her way, exchanging more greetings with old friends and neighbors. Old Mrs.
Lozenko was out walking her dog. Dr. Stevens, the dentist, was picking up his dry cleaning. The Brubaker twins were racing their bikes down the sidewalk. Claire and Janice, who ran the coffee shop, were pushing a baby stroller. Deputy Joe was checking the parking meters. Dave the UPS guy was dropping off a package at the thrift store. Crazy Vic was sleeping it off on a bench. Leena smiled at them all. She petted the dog. “Hello, Lola. You enjoying your walk?” A warm breeze rustled her hair. She took a moment to appreciate the relative peace and normalcy of the town, especially compared to the frequent crises and craziness of Warehouse 13. She had lived in Univille for years and years now. It was more than just her base of operations. It was her home. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. “Be careful not to overexert yourself,” she advised Mrs. Lozenko, whose aura was shading weak.
“Just a short walk today. And don’t forget to take your vitamins.” “I will,” the old woman promised. “It’s so nice of you to care.” Bidding good-bye to the dog and its owner, Leena cut across a small park near the center of town. An unusual-looking modern sculpture consisting of several hollow metal tubes pointing at the sky had been installed over a small reflecting pool. A flexible rubber hose connected the tube array to the pool. A robin perched on top of the artwork. She paused to admired the sculpture, which had been donated to the town by an anonymous benefactor many years ago. A private joke lifted her lips.
If only that bird knew what the “sculpture” could really do… She checked her to-do list. Most of her errands had been taken care of, but she still needed to swing by the pet store to pick up some ferret chow for Myka. Humming to herself, she started to cross the park when her cell phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out and held it to her ear. “Hello?” “Leena?” Artie’s somber tone immediately alerted her that something was wrong. She didn’t need to read his aura to know that he was calling with bad news. “It’s Pete,” he said. “He’s sick.”
FAIRFIELD The sheriff unlocked Myka’s handcuffs. “Sorry for the misunderstanding, Agent Bering.” “Yeah, I’ll bet.” She didn’t buy his phony apology a bit. Massaging her chafed wrists, she resisted the temptation to arrest him for obstruction of justice. Instead she simply took back her badge and Tesla. “Now that Nadia is long gone, along with the suspect who assaulted my partner.” “That’s too bad what happened to him,” Pitts allowed. “Maybe you can explain exactly what went on back-” “Thank you, Sheriff,” Mrs. Frederic interrupted. A stern black woman whose braided brown hair was stacked in an old-fashioned beehive, she had arrived at the hospital via a chauffeured limousine. A tailored wool business suit gave her a conservative, professional appearance. She peered at Pitts over the rims of her glasses. Her inscrutable expression made the Sphinx seemed like a chatterbox. “We’ll let you get back to your duties now.” Her imposing presence was practically a force of nature. Just by showing up, she had turned the sheriff’s hostile attitude around and gotten the charges against her agents dropped. Myka could tell that Pitts still had plenty of unanswered questions, but he knew when he was being dismissed… and that Mrs. Frederic was not somebody to be crossed. “All right, ma’am. I hope your man comes through okay.”
Heading out, he took a parting shot at Myka. “Next time, just let me know when you’re pursuing an investigation in my county. As a matter of professional courtesy.” Myka bit her tongue. With any luck, there wouldn’t be a next time. The sheriff departed, leaving the two women in a bustling corridor outside Pete’s hospital room. Following Pete’s collapse at the high school, Pitts had at least had the decency to rush them both to the nearest hospital instead of a jail cell, even if he had insisted on treating Myka like a felon throughout. She doubted that he had been serious about locking her up; he had simply wanted to give Nadia and Jim plenty of time to make a clean escape-with Clara Barton’s right glove. “Thank you for bailing me out,” Myka said. “I still can’t believe that jerk pretended to think I was an impostor!”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Frederic replied. An enigma in pearls, she had personally recruited both Pete and Myka and kept a close watch over all things related to Warehouse 13. Nobody really knew how old she was. Even Artie was intimidated by her. “I couldn’t afford to have you hamstrung by the local constabulary, not when there are more urgent matters at hand.” Like Pete. Pushing the sheriff’s infuriating conduct out of her mind, Myka hurried into Pete’s room. She tried not to react at the sight of her partner lying sick in bed. An IV was hooked up to his arm. Blinking medical apparatuses monitored his vital signs, which appeared distressingly weak. His face was chalky and drenched in sweat. Rosy splotches blemished his exposed neck and collar. He was running a fever. Wet, raspy breaths whistled from his lungs. His eyes were lidded. He appeared only semiconscious. Myka hated seeing him like this. A blond woman was leaning over him, applying acupressure to his face and chest. It didn’t seem to be helping.
