He groaned in discomfort. Mrs. Frederic followed Myka into the room. “How is he faring, Doctor?” “Not good, I’m afraid.” Vanessa Calder turned away from her patient. An attractive woman in her late fifties, she wore a stylish blue jacket and turquoise necklace. Wavy yellow hair fell to her shoulders. She had personally doctored Warehouse agents and the Regents for many years now. Myka didn’t know her well, but she knew that Pete was in good hands. “How so?” Mrs. Frederic asked. Before Vanessa could answer, a portly physician wearing a white lab coat stormed into the room. His florid complexion and potbelly did not exactly set a healthy example for his patients. He yanked Pete’s chart away from Vanessa. “Excuse me,” he demanded, “what are you doing with this patient? I don’t believe you have privileges at this hospital.”
Vanessa retained her composure. “And you are…?” “Dr. William Vertue,” he huffed. “I’m in charge of this hospital-and this patient.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” She extended her hand. “Dr. Vanessa Calder, Centers for Disease Control. My apologies for not consulting you earlier, but we have an urgent situation here.” Her calm authority, and supposed affiliation, took the wind out of his sails.
“The CDC?” “Agent Lattimer here is Patient Zero,” she declared ominously, lowing her voice. “We need to establish an immediate quarantine. Nobody is to be allowed in this room except with my express permission.” She clucked at him. “To be honest, I was rather alarmed to discover that such measures had not already been implemented.” Vertue went on the defensive. “Well, um, we were still assessing the situation.” He glanced worriedly at Pete. “Patient Zero?
Quarantine? What precisely are we dealing with here?” “It’s best that we keep that under wraps for now.” She gestured at Myka, who made a production of closing the door to discourage eavesdroppers. “I cannot stress too highly the importance of keeping this case out of the press, in order to avoid a national panic. I trust we can count on your full cooperation-and discretion.” “Yes, yes. Of course.” He tugged at his collar. Without being too obvious about it, he sidled away from Pete’s bed, putting more distance between himself and the infected agent. “My lips are sealed.” “Thank you.” Vanessa gave him an approving nod. “I’ll be sure to mention your help to the surgeon general.” The funny thing was, Myka didn’t know whether Vanessa was conning the other doctor or not. The Regents had all sorts of connections and resources. For all Myka knew, Vanessa really did have pull with the CDC and the surgeon general. “Now, then, if you could see to that quarantine, I need to attend to my patient.” “Certainly.”
He handed the chart back to Vanessa. “This hospital is at your disposal.” He shut the door behind him on his way out. “Nicely handled,” Mrs. Frederic complimented Vanessa. “So, you were saying about Agent Lattimer?” Vanessa beckoned the other women away from Pete’s bedside. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said in a hushed tone. “Pete appears to have come down with some strange, exceptionally virulent version of typhoid fever.” “Typhoid?” Myka echoed. “Of course.” Mrs. Frederic sounded unsurprised by the diagnosis. “One of the greatest killers of the Civil War.” She shook her head before turning to Myka. “It’s vital that we locate that other glove, Agent Bering. Clara Barton was a remarkable woman.” She spoke almost as though she had known her personally. “She would not want her legacy to bring pain and suffering to the present.” At the moment Myka was more interested in preserving Pete’s future. She looked anxiously at Vanessa. “Can’t you do anything for him?” “I wish I could,” the doctor said. “Nowadays typhoid is treatable by antibiotics and rehydration therapy. But so far Pete’s fever is resisting both conventional and alternative treatments. The disease also appears to be progressing at a preternaturally accelerated rate.” She did not mince words. “If it can’t be halted, he’ll die soon of fever and peritonitis.” Myka couldn’t keep from gasping. Her hand went to her mouth. Mrs. Frederic appeared troubled as well. Myka wondered if she blamed herself for recruiting Pete in the first place. “Is he contagious, Doctor?” “Not excessively so. Under ordinary circumstances, typhoid is spread by food and water that has been handled by carriers of the disease.” “Like Typhoid Mary,” Myka recalled. “She was a cook. That’s how she managed to infect so many people.” “Exactly,” Vanessa confirmed. “As long as Pete refrains from cooking for us and takes a few reasonable precautions, we should be okay.” She glanced at the door. “That ‘quarantine’ business was to keep Dr. Vertue out of our hair-and this whole situation under wraps.”
Mrs. Frederic nodded. “What about Agent Lattimer? How long does he have?” “I’ll do what I can,” Vanessa promised. “But… days. Three or four at best.” Myka refused to accept that. “We need to find Nadia’s glove. The one that heals people. It might be able to save him.” “Possibly,” Mrs. Frederic said. “But at what cost?” Myka didn’t know how to answer that.
CHAPTER
12
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY
Worrall kept an eye on his speedometer as he drove north. The last thing he needed was to get caught by some local speed trap. That had been a close call back at the high school. Too close. As far as he knew, the police were not looking for his car, but why press his luck? He had come too far, and been traveling too long, to risk running afoul of the law now. Not when he was so close. How long had this endless quest been going on? For years, really. Born to wealth, his body had always been his enemy. Weak and sickly, he had spent much of his childhood in bed or at doctors’ offices. While the rest of the world went about its business, enjoying life, he had been lucky to be able to function at all. Migraines. Ulcers. Allergies.
Insomnia. His so-called life was a never-ending litany of discomfort and affliction. An intolerable situation, to say the least. He had even been too sick to attend his parents’ funeral after that car accident. Not that he had been too broken up about their untimely passing. It was their damn genes that were responsible for his misery.
A three-car pileup on the highway served them right. Besides, he had his own problems to worry about. Modern medicine had always let him down, so over time he had been forced to look elsewhere. Over the years, he had squandered much of his inheritance acquiring rare objects and talismans reputed to possess miraculous healing properties. Imported water from Lourdes. A silver grail that had supposedly once belonged to Prester John. Potions derived from bits and pieces of dozens of endangered species. Even a scrap from Florence Nightingale’s handkerchief. But nothing had worked. They had all been fakes or disappointments. Until one of his suppliers got a line on Clara Barton’s glove. It had cost him a fortune, but he still remembered the surge of excitement he had felt when he had first slipped the glove onto his left hand. A tingling sensation had raced like blood poisoning from his fingers to his brain. The smell of black powder had tantalized his nostrils while the echoes of bygone cannons had reverberated in his ears. He had known at once that it was the real thing. It was only later that he’d realized that it was the wrong glove. He had been searching for the good glove, the healing glove, ever since. It had been a long, exhausting search, but at last he knew where it was. That stupid girl had it. But not for long… His hand itched and he scratched at it irritably. He was stiff and sore from driving all day. A vein throbbed behind his ear. He could feel another sick headache coming on. Waylaying that federal agent at the high school had only eased his pain for a brief spell. If only there had been time to infect those other people as well. Maybe he should have tried to sicken the whole lot of them, cops and firefighters as well.
Or would that have been too risky? He frowned at the memory. Worry aggravated his ulcer, causing acid to eat away at his stomach lining.
He searched his pocket for some Tums. Where had those gun-toting agents come from anyway? Running into them outside the gymnasium, where they had apparently been trying to take custody of the glove, had been an unpleasant surprise. Who else was after Clara Barton’s glove? Granted, he had already taken care of the man, but that female agent was still out there, along with whomever she worked for. That complicated matters. He didn’t like having competition. The mounting pressure on his skull made it hard to think. Bile curdled at the back of his throat. He was already getting nauseous. Time for another rest stop. A community park offered the perfect solution. Dozens of people were crowded into the bleachers of an open-air football stadium, cheering on the local team. They rose to their feet, bellowing like baboons, as some disgustingly fit small-town hero scored another touchdown. Their full-throated cheers could be heard even through the rolled-up windows of the Lincoln. Worrall admired their spirit. Too bad it couldn’t last… WAREHOUSE 13 The shrunken head awoke with a ravenous hunger. The blood dripping down on it from Elizabeth Bathory’s tub was not enough. Beady crimson eyes fixed on an electrical cable affixed to one of the shelves’ sturdy vertical supports. Jaws snapping, it scooted across the shelf and started gnawing on the
