lawyer!” Artie chuckled at the notion. “I’m afraid you have us confused with the FBI. We don’t work that way.” He turned his back on the renegade collector. “Enjoy your migraine-free life, Calvin. At least you got something for your trouble. And ours.” Worrall cursed Artie vociferously as the agent walked away. Artie tuned him out.
Calvin was just a minor detail to be disposed of now. What really mattered was Clara Barton’s gloves, now safely residing inside a neutralizer bag within his satchel. They had come a long way from the bloody battlefields and disease-ridden infirmaries of the Civil War, but their wanderings, both together and apart, were nearing their end.
He peeked inside the satchel to make sure they weren’t acting up. “No more touring for you,” he said. “And no more sideshows.” Their next stop was a permanent engagement at Warehouse 13.
CHAPTER
25
LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST
“Of course!” Myka finally finished that crossword puzzle she had been working on before. “A six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’ is… ‘gloves.’” She triumphantly filled in the final square. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”
Breakfast was on the patio again. The B amp;B’s grounds and gardens were nowhere near as expansive as Central Park’s, but she wouldn’t have traded them for all the buried treasures in the Warehouse. It was good to be home. Coffee, croissants, and fresh-squeezed orange juice were laid out atop the table, alongside the morning papers. Pete wolfed down pastries like there was no tomorrow, clearly making up for lost time. He had already gained back much of the weight he had lost in the hospital. Myka took his healthy appetite as proof that his fever had passed for good. That’s our Pete, she thought, claiming a croissant before they all disappeared. She looked forward to him annoying her for years to come. Pete wasn’t the only person who was recovering.
According to Vanessa Calder, those afflicted by Calvin Worrall were now responding to conventional treatment. Neutralizing the gloves had not cured Worrall’s victims, but now their fevers could be treated by antibiotics and other forms of modern medicine, unavailable in Clara Barton’s time. Vanessa expected them all to make a full recovery.
“This is such a waste of my talents,” Claudia grumbled as she clipped out newspaper articles for Artie’s files. “Doesn’t he know print is passe? Digital is where it’s at.” “Think of it as a hard copy backup,”
Myka advised. She suspected that Artie just wanted to keep Claudia too busy to cause any more havoc in the Warehouse. Apparently, there had been an incident concerning a totem pole? “Indulge him.” “Easy for you to say.” Claudia worked her scissors like she was digging ditches. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re not stuck scrapbooking like a suburban hausfrau…” “Maybe you’ll get time off for good behavior.” Pete stole a copy of the New York Times from Claudia’s pile. “Hey, check this out,” he mumbled through a mouthful of buttery pastry. “Says here that a freak earthquake in Central Park resulted in an episode of mass hysteria.” He squinted dubiously at the front page. “You really think anyone’s going to buy that?” “As opposed to believing that Clara Barton’s cursed gloves nearly gave everybody typhoid fever?” Myka assumed that Mrs. Frederic or the Regents had somehow planted that story-and covered up what had really taken place.
“People want sane, rational explanations. I know I did… before.”
“Yeah, not even our next door neighbors can handle the truth.” Claudia slid a newly excised clipping across the table. “According to the Univille Unquirer, a spectacular ‘air show’ at the street fair this weekend was rained out by an unexpected storm. They’re blaming global warming.” She took a break from scrapbook duty to pour herself a fresh glass of OJ. “Apparently, somebody vandalized a sculpture in the park too.” “Bummer,” Pete said. “I always liked that thing. It was totally tubular.” “Oh, really?” Myka looked askance. “Since when have you been interested in modern art? Your idea of high culture is a Jersey Shore marathon.” “Hey, don’t diss The Situation” He patted his abs. “Can I help it if you have no idea what cool is?” Before Myka could fire back with the ideal retort, the screen doors opened and Leena joined them on the patio. She brought a bowl of ripe strawberries to go with the croissants. She smiled wryly at the agents’ friendly bickering.
“Sounds to me like everyone is back to normal.” “Whatever that means around here.” Claudia leafed through the local paper. “Hey, guess what? There’s a circus coming to town.” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “We should so check that out!” Pete lobbed a strawberry at her head. “Or not,” she amended. She ducked the fruity missile which flew past her head just as Artie strolled through the door. It splattered at his feet. He heaved a world-weary sigh. “A nursery. I’m running a nursery.” “Sorry, chief,” Claudia said sheepishly. She pointed at Pete. “He started it!” “Snitch!” Pete accused her. “That’s it. I’m not letting you win at Halo anymore.” “Right.” Claudia snorted. “Like you ever had a chance…” Artie held up his hand to forestall any further discussion. “That’s enough, both of you.”
Plopping himself down in an empty chair, he opened his satchel and pulled out a bulging accordion file. “We have work to do.” His gaze alighted on the breakfast spread. “Ooh, croissants!” “Just one,” Leena advised. “Remember your triglycerides.” Myka was intrigued by the file. “What do you have for us, Artie?” “A ping if I ever saw one.”
Artie helped himself to a single croissant. “Seems the dead are rising in New Orleans…” That got everyone’s attention. “Marie Laveau’s voodoo doll?” Claudia guessed. “So it would seem.” Artie handed Pete and Myka a pair of plane tickets. “Your flight is in an hour.” Myka gulped down the last of her coffee. She nodded at Pete. “Flip you for the Tesla.” “You’re on.” He grabbed a croissant for the road. “The Big Easy, here we come.” Myka grinned in anticipation. “The beignets are on me.”
