throat, then raised his arm like a conductor facing an orchestra. A grayish fog spread throughout the diner. The lights flickered overhead. A chorus of groans and coughs greeted his ears. His stomach began to settle. The pain in his temples receded. He made a mental note to grab a slice of pie for the road. WEST HAVEN Little Brian, formerly Squeaky, was just the beginning. From the bleachers, Pete and Myka watched as, one by one, members of the audience came forward to experience Princess Nefertiti’s healing touch. The football player, previously suffering from a potentially career-ending knee injury, tossed away his crutches. Disfiguring scars and burns faded away, leaving smooth, unblemished skin behind. Wheelchairs and walkers were abandoned. Pained expressions gave way to tears of joy. A fudge-like aroma overpowered the incense. Okay, Pete thought, consider me impressed. The old lady with Parkinson’s was finally getting her turn on the stage. “Let this gentle woman be healed,” Nefertiti proclaimed as she laid her hands on the shaking senior citizen. Pete couldn’t be sure, but he thought the healer’s voice sounded slightly weaker than before. Dmitri, doing double duty as Nefertiti’s assistant, stood close by. “Take away her trembling.” Cobalt sparks flashed once more, jolting the elderly woman. Dmitri caught her before she crumpled onto the stage. Judging from his smooth move, he’d had plenty of practice.
Nefertiti seemed to need an assist as well. She tottered unsteadily on her feet, almost as though she were on the verge of collapsing. She was breathing hard. Sweat beaded her brow. She coughed and clutched her chest. “Looks like all this healing is taking its toll,” Myka observed. “A side effect of the artifact?” “Probably,” Pete guessed.
There was almost always a cost to using an artifact. That was a big reason they needed to be taken out of circulation. He’d seen too many people get themselves into serious trouble because they thought they could control an artifact’s powers. Like Princess Nefertiti? The healer’s debilitated state did not escape her assistant’s notice.
“That’s enough for tonight!” After escorting the dazed old woman back to her seat, Dmitri bounded back onto the stage. He threw a protective arm around her shoulders. “Princess Nefertiti needs her rest.”
Disappointed cries and protests erupted from the audience. Nefertiti wavered, clearly reluctant to let down her petitioners. “Perhaps just one more?” “No.” Dmitri was emphatic. He hustled her back toward the curtain while shushing the crowd. “Show’s over, folks. Please come back tomorrow!” For a moment Pete feared a riot, but the audience proved more civilized than that. Perhaps the touching scenes they had witnessed had brought out the better angels of their natures? Or was it just that the grumblers were too sick to make a fuss? Or unwilling to risk offending the healer? In any event, the crowd shuffled out of the tent, leaving Pete and Myka alone on the bleachers. They waited until the audience had entirely cleared out before heading backstage.
Pete drew back the curtains. They found themselves in a small prep area crammed with props, seating, and a cooler full of iced drinks. A sturdy wooden pole, driven through a hole in the stage, held up the tent. Dmitri was fretting over Nefertiti, who had collapsed into a folding director’s chair. He handed her a bottle of water while shaking his head. “You shouldn’t push yourself like this. You’re making yourself sick.” “It will pass,” she assured him. The English accent had vanished with the audience, replaced by the less elevated cadences of New Jersey or Long Island. Her voice was hoarse. “It always does.” Pete cleared his throat to get their attention. Dmitri noticed the intruders for the first time. He scowled and stepped in front of Nefertiti. “Didn’t you hear me before? The show’s over… and this area is off-limits. No townies allowed.” “I’ve got a backstage pass.” Pete flashed his badge and ID. “Secret Service.” The badge caught them both by surprise. Nefertiti sat up straight. “Secret Service?” She blinked in confusion. “Is the president coming here?”
You wish, Pete thought. That would be pretty good publicity for your little tent show. Not that he would let the POTUS come within a hundred miles of a suspected artifact. “I’m afraid not,” Myka clarified. “We’re here on a different assignment.” She presented her own ID. “My name is Myka Bering. This is my partner, Agent Lattimer.”
She eyed the young healer skeptically. “And I’m guessing your name isn’t really Princess Nefertiti, is it?” “Nadia Malinovich,” the girl confessed. “From Long Island.” Backstage, without all stage dressing and ballyhoo, she seemed a lot less mystical and more like a worried young woman wondering what had brought the Feds to her door. She nervously fingered the ankh around her neck. “And all that business about being descended from a long line of healers?” “Just patter.
Although my mom and pop used to do a mind-reading act back in the eighties.” She shrugged. “I’m third- generation carnie.” “What’s this all about, anyway?” Dmitri demanded. “Why are you bothering her?” Pete got the distinct impression that the young knife thrower was more than just Nadia’s assistant. “And you are…?” “Jim Doherty,” he divulged. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?” “We watched your act,” Pete said. “We want to know how you managed to heal all those people.” “Why?” Jim protested. “She’s not hurting anyone.” “Except maybe herself.” Myka squeezed past Jim to speak to Nadia directly. “Is that it, Nadia? Does healing others make you sick?” “It’s a gift,” the girl insisted. “I just want to heal people. What’s wrong with that?” A fair question, Pete admitted. Nadia struck him as sincere. Myka tried to explain. “It may not seem obvious to you now, but trust me on this, what you’re doing is not safe. There are bound to be negative consequences down the road. Serious ones. My partner and I have dealt with this kind of thing before. Power like this always comes with a heavy price tag. More than you may want to pay.” “Stop harassing her,” Jim said. “Do you know how many people she’s helped?” Like little Brian and everybody else tonight? Pete recalled all the heartwarming moments he had just beheld. He couldn’t deny that Nadia had made a lot of people’s lives better. Artifact or not, she seemed to be doing more good than harm. Just ask Brian and his mom. He felt uncomfortable cracking down on Nadia. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. James MacPherson, Artie’s former partner, had once tried to convince Pete that some artifacts were too valuable to be locked away in the Warehouse, where they couldn’t do the world any good. MacPherson had been a murderous creep, of course, but maybe, just maybe, he’d had a point? He pushed the doubts out of his head in order to get the job done. “My partner is right,” he said, backing Myka up. “You need to tell us how you’re doing this.” Nadia kept toying with the ankh. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” His spider-sense tingled. “I’m getting a real vibe here,” he informed Myka. He looked pointedly at the ankh. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Myka nodded. She slipped on a pair of purple gloves. “Hand over the ankh, please.” “Why?” Nadia asked. “It’s just a prop. I picked it up at a dollar store.” Myka held out her hand. “Then there’s no harm in showing it to me, is there?” Jim pushed forward. “You can’t do this. You have no right!” “Easy, buster!” Pete got between Jim and the women. He had a few inches and about twenty pounds of muscle on the younger man. “Don’t make us do this the hard way.” “It’s all right, Jim,” Nadia called out. “It’s no big deal.” She removed the ankh and handed it over to Myka. “I’m not sure why you want this.” Was she truly unaware of the ankh’s special properties? Pete couldn’t be sure. “Keep back,” he warned Jim before fishing a silver bag from his pocket. He held it open for Myka, then turned his head away. “Bombs away.” Myka dropped the ankh into the goo. Pete braced himself for the usual fireworks. But nothing happened. Not even a fizzle. “What the heck?” He shared a surprised look with Myka. “Did I miss something?”
She plucked the ankh from the bag and wiped it clean with a tissue.
Holding it up to her eyes, she squinted at the small hooped cross.
“False alarm,” she declared. “Look at this.” She held up the ankh for his inspection. He spotted a tiny inscription: Made in China. Oops!
Nadia and Jim stared at the agents in bewilderment. “Is that it?” he asked. “Are you happy now?” “Not really, no.” Pete scratched his head.
“Okay, so if it’s not the ankh, what is it?” He looked Nadia over. The bright red gemstone on her forehead caught his eye. “Maybe that ruby thingie?” “It’s just a cheap piece of costume jewelry,” Nadia insisted. She peeled it off her brow and tossed it to Pete. “Take it.”
He caught it reflexively, then held it up to the light. On close inspection, he had to admit it didn’t look all that impressive.
Polished glass, maybe, or crystal. Then again, that didn’t mean much.
Sometimes the most innocuous of objects could turn out to be artifacts. Like a rubber dodgeball or an old can of tuna fish. “What do you think?” he asked Myka. His partner had another idea. “Her gloves,” Myka said, giving Nadia’s hands wear a closer look. “I was distracted by the ankh before, but those gloves don’t really go with the rest of her costume. They don’t fit with the whole ‘Egyptian high priestess’ look she’s going for.” Pete looked at the gloves. They were wrist-length and made of white kid leather. Decorative stitching adorned their backs. Delicate ivory buttons held them tight about her wrist. “Good call.” He tended to defer to Myka on matters on women’s fashion, but he saw what she meant. Unlike the rest of Nadia’s outfit, the gloves looked better suited to Queen Victoria than Cleopatra. “And it’s not exactly cold in here.” Myka made up her mind. “Let me see the gloves.” “No!”
