A Touch of Fever

CHAPTER
3

LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST “UNNAMED UNICORPORATED SETTLEMENT”

“What’s a six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’?” Myka squinted at a half-finished crossword puzzle as she and Pete enjoyed a relaxing brunch on the patio. A plate of fresh scones with raspberry jam rested on the elegant wrought-iron table between them, alongside a pitcher of hot coffee. Elm trees, their leaves already changing colors, offered shade from the sun. Graceful white columns framed the patio. Potted plants and flower boxes added life to the setting. A rose garden offered a fragrant bouquet. The morning paper was dismembered atop the table. As usual, Myka had claimed dibs on the crossword, while Pete chuckled over the comic pages. Her pencil was poised above the empty squares of the puzzle. She was not so arrogant as to use a pen. “Beats me,” Pete mumbled through a mouthful of scone. His eyes remained glued to the funnies. “Okay, so why is it that Dilbert can’t find a better job?” Myka assumed that was a rhetorical question. A trace of jam leaked from the corner of his mouth. She resisted an urge to reach out and wipe it away with a napkin. Maybe later. She took a moment to enjoy the morning. Leena’s bed-and-breakfast was an oasis of tranquillity in their often tumultuous lives. The elegant Victorian Gothic edifice was located in “Univille,” the officially unnamed township just down the road from the Warehouse. Painted white walls and a pitched blue roof gave the B amp;B a much tidier appearance than the seemingly ramshackle Warehouse. Steep gables crowned the arched windows. Ivy climbed the walls. A widow’s walk topped the uppermost turret. Myka, Pete, and Claudia all had rooms at Leena’s place, giving them someplace cozy to go home to at the end of the day. Only Artie preferred to bunk down at the Warehouse full-time. He didn’t know what he was missing. Or maybe he did. A back door banged open and Claudia rushed breathlessly onto the patio. “Sorry I’m late, amigos, but I was up late kicking butt on the intertubes. Would you believe some troll actually thought he knew more about quantum processing and fuzzy logic than yours truly?” She snorted at the very idea before her gaze alighted on the remaining scones and jam. “Ooh! Raspberry goodness!”

She plopped herself into an empty chair and helped herself. Artie arrived a few minutes later, about ten after twelve. A brown accordion folder, stuffed with notes, was tucked under his arm. Myka guessed that the folder held the details of their next assignment. She put aside her unfinished puzzle. She couldn’t wait to find out what sort of bizarre, unearthly mystery Artie had turned up now. “Good morning,” he greeted them, then consulted his wristwatch. “My mistake: Make that ‘Good afternoon.’” He placed the bulging folder down on top of the open newspaper. His eyes were also captivated by the tempting spread Leena had provided. “Are those scones?” Claudia shot him a warning look. “Go easy on the jam and butter, old man. Just because the universe is expanding doesn’t mean you have to.” “Devil child.” He peeked sheepishly at his slight paunch before joining them at the table. Under Claudia’s watchful gaze, he applied just a dollop of jam to a scone. “Just wait until your own metabolism slows down.” “Not going to happen, gramps. My candle burns at both ends, you know.”

“Actually, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s candle was snuffed by a Warehouse agent decades ago,” Artie informed them. “Heaven help us if either end is ever lighted again.” He was a font of arcane lore and history, with a tendency to ramble on sometimes. “An interesting woman. Did you know she went by the name ‘Vincent’ in her early years, and also wrote prose as ‘Nancy Boyd’? But it was her poetry that really stirred things up…” Myka saw a lengthy digression coming on and tried to head it off. She nodded at the folder. “What’s up, Artie?” The older agent made a habit of scanning news reports, police bulletins, government databases, classified ads, advice columns, human interest stories, auction listings, obituaries, scientific journals, book reviews, message boards, blogs, and other ephemera in search of freak events and patterns that might indicate the influence of a rogue artifact. Specialized computer filters and algorithms helped sort through the ceaseless flurry of data, but could never truly replace the keen eye of a veteran Warehouse employee. Tracking down artifacts was an art, not a science, and Artie was the reigning maestro. “Yeah, Artie.” Pete lowered the funny pages. “You got something for us?”

“Possibly.” Artie finished off his scone before launching into today’s briefing. “I got a ping regarding a string of supposedly ‘miraculous’ healings associated with a traveling carnival that’s working small towns along the eastern seaboard.” Rummaging through the folder, he extracted a garishly colored flyer promising Rides! Games! Amazing Acts and Performers! Clowns, carousel horses, and grinning children crowded the artwork, beneath the image of a towering Ferris wheel. Fun for All Ages! The Whitman Bros. Family Carnival! A bright golden starburst that looked as though it had been recently added to the design of the flyer extolled The Magical Touch of Princess Nefertiti, the World’s Greatest Psychic Healer! Myka had never heard of her.

Princess who? Artie slid the flyer across the table toward Myka and Pete. “Every one of the healings took place at this carnival sometime over the last three months.” “I don’t know, Artie.” Myka peered dubiously at the paper, which reminded her of any number of colorful circus and carnival posters she had seen displayed on telephone poles and barbershop windows over the years, each touting some fly-by-night caravan of thrill rides, rigged games, and greasy food. This just looked like more of the same. “Sideshow charlatans and snake-oil peddlers are a dime a dozen,” she said, playing devil’s advocate. “How can we be certain there’s an artifact involved?” “Right,” Pete agreed.

“Maybe the whole thing’s just hype? Or a hoax?” “Or perhaps there’s some kind of placebo effect involved,” she suggested. “People feel better because they think they’ve been healed.” Artie shook his head.

“No, that’s not it. I’ve looked into this and the claims appear to be legitimate.” He pulled more documentation out of the folder, including copies of confidential medical records and insurance claims. “We’re talking broken limbs healed in record time, tumors disappearing, incurable illnesses reversing themselves… even at least one case of an Alzheimer’s victim who suddenly regained her faculties.” He held an X-ray up to the light. “I’m seeing all sorts of red flags here.”

That was good enough for Myka. Artie had been doing this for a long time. His hunches almost always paid off. “All right,” she said. “If you think you’re onto something, we need to check it out.” “Yes! It’s carnival time.” Pete punched the air, clearly psyched at the prospect.

“And you know what that means? Funnel cakes!” “I’m more of a caramel apple girl myself,” Claudia chimed in. “But to each their own. Maybe we can squeeze in a couple rounds of dart tossing? I’m warning you, I have ‘mad skillz’ when it comes to popping balloons…” “You’re on,” Pete said, accepting the challenge. “Loser has to carry the giant stuffed panda… and buy the winner a ride on the Ferris wheel.”

Artie cut short the playful banter. “Sorry, you’re not going anywhere,” he informed Claudia, popping her balloon more effectively than any feathered dart. “Those inventory reports are not going to update themselves. Well, technically, they could-but that’s never a good idea.” “But, Artie…!” Claudia protested. “I never get to go on any of the really fun jaunts.” “This isn’t about having fun,” Artie said sternly. “It’s about tracking down a possible artifact whose true nature and potential remain unknown. There are way too many variables here, and I’m not sending you into the field when I have no idea what sort of jeopardy might be waiting. This is a job for Myka and Pete, not a bored teenager.” His gruff voice softened somewhat. “Trust me, it’s for your own good.” Claudia got the message, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Party pooper.” “Tough luck, little buckaroo,” Pete consoled her. “I’ll bring you back a goldfish or something.” “Just watch out for those midway games,” Artie grumped. “They’re all rigged.” “We’ll keep that in mind,” Myka promised. “So where is this carnival’s next stop?” “West Haven, Connecticut.” Artie starting tucking the evidence back into his folder. Myka made a mental note to review the files during the flight to the East Coast. Artie wrapped up the briefing by looking gravely at both Pete and Myka. “Just be careful, you two. As I was saying before, we don’t know what exactly we’re dealing with here.” “Do we ever?” Myka quipped.