CHAPTER
20
CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK CITY
A taxi dropped them off at Sixty-fifth and Central Park West. The nearest available parking spot had been several blocks away, so they’d been forced to take a cab the rest of the way, since Pete was in no shape to navigate the subways, let alone several hectic city blocks. Heavy uptown traffic crawled past them. Horns honked at every intersection. Myka tried to help Pete out of the cab, but he stubbornly rejected her assistance.
“I can manage, okay?” A strained expression belied his words. He thrust a handful of bills at the driver. “You don’t need to baby me.”
“Then don’t act like one.” She didn’t take his grumpy attitude personally. She could only guess how hard this was on him, both physically and mentally. Frankly, she was amazed that he was even standing. He had to be getting by on sheer cussedness, as her dad would have put it. “At least let me take your cane.”
“Okay, okay. Whatever.”
The walking stick in question was a polished hickory cane topped by a miniature silver elephant. A steel tip shod the bottom of the cane. Claudia had shipped it to the hospital at Pete’s request yesterday, before they found out about the fair.
Probably not a bad idea. He looked like he needed it.
She held on to the cane while he painfully hauled himself out of the cab. The effort left him breathless and sweating, despite the cool autumn weather. The sun was still high in the sky and the sidewalk was filled with both locals walking at a brisk New York pace and wide-eyed tourists slowing them down. A horse-drawn carriage trotted by, offering a leisurely tour of the park. Myka admired the old-fashioned hansom cab as she handed the cane back to Pete. He leaned heavily on it as he caught his breath.
A park bench beckoned several yards away, beneath some shady trees. The leaves were already turning colors. “Maybe you should wait here,” she suggested, “while I scope out the park.”
She still wasn’t convinced that bringing Pete along was a good idea. He belonged in a hospital, not traipsing through Central Park in search of two renegade artifacts. Vanessa Calder had objected strenuously to his departure, but had finally relented in the face of his pigheaded refusal to listen to the doctor. Only the fact that he was already dying anyway, despite all of Vanessa’s best efforts, had allowed him to get his way in the end.
Myka did not find that terribly reassuring.
“Forget it.” He hobbled past her into the park. “You coming or what?”
She briefly considered knocking him out with the Tesla, but wasn’t sure he would survive the shock. Leaving the sidewalk behind, she caught up with him.
Central Park was a king-size oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle. Skyscrapers, visible even through the trees, enclosed the park, which stretched for blocks above and below them. Myka took a moment to orient herself. According to Artie, the psychic fair was being held in the Sheep Meadow, slightly northwest of here. At least Pete wouldn’t have to walk too far.
In an eerie coincidence, a Civil War monument was installed on a grassy rise a few yards away. A solitary Union soldier posed atop a tall pedestal, his bronzed hands resting vigilantly upon his rifle. An inscription on the pedestal dedicated the statue to the honored dead of the Seventh Regiment, who had given their lives to defend the Union. The memorial reminded Myka of the death and carnage that Clara Barton had witnessed over a hundred years ago. A chill ran down her spine.
She caught Pete eyeing the statue as well. They exchanged a wordless look. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both had to be thinking the same thing.
The Civil War was over. Clara Barton’s gloves needed to be retired.
No more reenactments, she thought. No more fever.
“Come on,” Pete said. He turned his back on the monument. “We can play tourist later.”
They headed west along a paved walkway. Bare branches testified to the changing of the season. Fallen leaves littered the grounds. Myka resisted an urge to take Pete by the arm. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. However, that didn’t stop her from casting frequent, anxious glances in his direction.
He was looking worse than ever. His face was drawn. His hands were shaking. His lips were cracked and dry. Although he tried not to show it, he grimaced with every step. He bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound, but didn’t always succeed. His hollow cheeks, in need of a shave, hinted at how much weight he had lost just in the last forty-eight hours. A jacket and sweatshirt hung loosely on his shrunken frame, like they no longer fit him. Purple shadows haunted his eyes. The haggard, halting figure bore little resemblance to the gung ho, hyperactive Pete she was used to. The contrast was so heartbreaking Myka had to look away. She couldn’t bear seeing him like this.
I can’t lose another partner, she thought. I can’t.
As it turned out, locating the fair was not an issue. Throngs of people were converging on the meadow, carrying the two agents along with them. Myka let the crowd herd them in the right direction, even as she fretted at the size of the turnout. If what Artie surmised was true, and Worrall was growing more and more infectious every day, all of these people could be in danger. Typhoid fever had killed at least thirty thousand soldiers in the Civil War. For all they knew, Worrall was just getting warmed up.
Her eyes searched the people around them, but didn’t see their target anywhere. Nadia was nowhere in sight, either. Myka hoped this wasn’t a wild-goose chase.
They have to be here, she agonized. Pete can’t last much longer.
An irresistible current of humanity swept them to their destination. An open, fifteen-acre lawn near the center of the park, the Sheep Meadow had a long history of hosting large public gatherings. Over the years, it had attracted numerous outdoor concerts and shows, political demonstrations of every stripe and persuasion, love-ins, bed-ins, fireworks displays, dog shows, “star parties,”and even the world’s biggest water-pistol fight back in 2008. Myka remembered visiting the meadow as a child during a vacation to Manhattan. She had been disappointed to discover that sheep no longer grazed there.
The 2011 Psychic Exposition had taken over the meadow in a big way. Row after row of tents and booths and stages filled the lawn to capacity, while hordes of people crowded between them. Flapping banners advertised everything from tarot readings to ancient Atlantean spirit guides. New Age music blared from loudspeakers, competing with the hubbub of thousands of excited conversations, lectures, and sales pitches. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze.
The crowd was a diverse one, typical of NYC. Along with the hippieish New Age sorts Myka had expected, sporting ponytails, tie-dye, and beads, there were also well-groomed yuppies, college kids, senior citizens, Goths, punks, wannabe rappers, and families pushing strollers. People sat on park benches, tapping on their laptops, or meeting up with friends. Trash bins overflowed with discarded coffee cups, newspapers, and fast-food wrappers. Every other person seemed to have a cell phone or Bluetooth surgically melded to their ears, and was stubbornly attempting to conduct a conversation amidst the buzzing chatter. It was an eavesdropper’s paradise.
“Oh my God.” Myka was overwhelmed by the enormity of the crowd. She had thought that carnival back in West Haven was packed, but that was nothing compared to the vast extravaganza enveloping them. There had to be at least fifteen thousand people squeezed into the meadow, if not more. “It’s like Woodstock.”
“But without the sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll.” Pete gaped at the mob. “So why bother?”
They wandered randomly through booths hawking crystals, massages, and Native American dream catchers. The fair expanded across the length and breadth of the entire meadow, spilling over into adjacent fields and clearings. Crowd control was a lost cause. Innumerable strangers bumped against them. Myka closed ranks with Pete to avoid losing him in the crush.
“It’s so huge,” she said “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“You and me both.” Pete paused to observe a Reiki exhibition, wher
e a small troupe of enthusiastic practitioners, wearing matching yellow kimonos, were laying their hands on volunteers from the audience. A painted backdrop illustrated the placement of various key chakras. “Trying to find a specific psychic healer at this place is like looking for a Klingon at a Star Trek convention. They’re everywhere.”
He wasn’t wrong. Myka tried to figure out some way to narrow the search. How were they supposed to find Nadia—or Calvin Worrall—in a mob this size? “Even if they’re here, we could roam all day without spotting either of them.”
Pete leaned on his cane. He sucked in air. “Not really sure I’m up to that, Mykes.”
“I know.”
That Pete was even willing to admit that he was nearing the end of his rope meant that he was in seriously bad shape. The end couldn’t be far away. Myka discreetly took hold of his arm and started looking around for someplace he could sit down. Perhaps inside one of the tent shows? “Do you need to rest for a moment? Maybe a drink of water?”
He licked his cracked lips. “I don’t suppose I can get a corn dog?”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Not that kind of fair, I’m afraid. This looks more like a green tea and macrobiotic tofu kind of place.”
“In that case, I’ll pass.” Pete’s face twisted and he clutched his stomach. “Probably couldn’t keep it down anyway.”
A sudden cramp struck him. He doubled over, gasping in pain. A racking cough shook his body. He placed a hand over his mouth. A crimson mist sprayed between his fingers.
“Oh, God, Pete! You’re coughing up blood!”
“I’ll be okay,” he moaned unconvincingly. His white knuckles gripped the cane, which, along with Myka’s arm, seemed to be the only things holding him up. “Just need a sec. . . .”
He needed a lot more than that, she realized. And time was running short.
“That’s it,” she insisted. “We’re getting you to a hospital now.” Her photographic memory called up a map of upper Manhattan. Where was the nearest emergency room? St. Luke’s? New York Presbyterian?
“N-no!” Pete struggled to straighten up. It killed her not to help him up. “Not until we find those gloves—and the bastard that did this to me.”
Myka appreciated the sentiment, but had to face facts. “You’re too sick. It’s not possible.”
“Then forget about me.” He shoved her away. “Find Worrall. Don’t let him do this to anyone else.”
She knew he was right—that her top priority had to be stopping Worrall from unleashing a plague on New York City. “But I can’t just leave you here!”
“You have to! This is bigger than just me. We both know that.” He hunched over the cane. His voice, although shaky, was just as obstinate as ever. “Let me take a bullet for the team. That’s what we were trained to do.”
She didn’t know what to do. Duty called, but every part of her rebelled at the thought of abandoning Pete. Hell, she didn’t even know for sure that Worrall was here, or how to find him if he was. What if Pete died alone while she was running around in circles?
I’m not sure I could live with myself if that happened. . . .
Another spasm did him in. His face twisted and his knees buckled. She grabbed on to his sagging body before he could hit the pavement. His head lolled backward and his eyes lost focus. For a second she thought he was going to pass out. He mumbled deliriously, or at least semi-so. “I think I need a cookie. . . .”
“Whoa, man!” a young black man wearing an NYU sweatshirt and glasses noticed Pete’s distress. “You look like you’re in pretty bad shape.” He hurried over to them. “You folks need any help?”
She was grateful for his assistance. Placing her arm around Pete’s shoulders, she tried to steer him away from the fair. “We need to get him to a hospital.”
“No.” Pete shook his head. “Won’t do any good anyway.”
“He’s right, you know.” Their Good Samaritan gestured around them. “Screw the modern medical establishment. You want a healer, you’ve come to the right place.”
Myka was in no mood for a lecture on alternative medicine. “I don’t think any crystals or copper bracelets are going to do him any good.”
“I’m not talking trinkets,” the student insisted. “You wouldn’t believe the healer they’ve got here today. She’s the real deal. Everyone’s talking about her.”
That got Myka’s attention. “‘She’?”
“Yeah. Some young chick, calls herself Sister Clara.” His bright eyes glowed with enthusiasm, like they’d just seen the light of a genuine miracle. He was a true believer. “She’s astounding. Trust me, if anybody can fix your boyfriend, she can.”
“Not her boyfriend,” Pete murmured. “Although I was inside her body once . . . .”
“TMI, dude,” the young man said. “Not cool.”
Myka ignored Pete’s rambling. Hope flared inside her, brighter than an artifact being neutralized. He had to be talking about Nadia. Who else could it be?
“Where?” she demanded. “Where is she?”
The boy tilted his head toward the northern end of the field. “Just follow the crowd. You can’t miss her.”
She saw what he meant. Distracted by Pete’s near collapse, she had failed to notice a sudden surge of traffic in the direction her new friend had indicated. Excited voices spread the word about the phenomenal new healing sensation. “You have to see her!” somebody exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
I’ll bet I have, Myka thought. At a sideshow in Connecticut.
But if Nadia was here, where was Worrall?
“You haven’t heard about anybody getting sick, have you?” she interrogated the helpful college kid. “Like my friend?”
“No.” He seemed puzzled by the questions. “Why do you ask?”
She took his confusion as a good sign. Maybe Worrall wasn’t here yet. In which case, she could get to Nadia and her glove before Worrall did, which had to be easier than dealing with both halves of the artifact at once. First things first, she thought. Perhaps the right glove would be enough to heal Pete on its own. Once Pete was cured, they could concentrate on stopping Worrall before he hurt anyone else.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn things around.
She debated leaving Pete behind with the student while she went after Nadia, but decided against it. She was in the market for a healer right now, and the sooner she got Pete to her, the better. He looked like he already had one foot in the grave. Every minute mattered.
“What’s your name?” she asked their anonymous helper.
“Robbie,” the boy supplied.
“Okay, Robbie. I”m going to need your help getting my friend to this astounding healer.” She looked him over. “You up to it?”
“Sure.” He helped her hoist Pete to his feet. “Just wait until you see her. You’re not going to regret this.”
I hope not, she thought. But at least they seemed to be one step ahead of the epidemic at the moment. That was something. “Hang on, Pete. It’s almost over.”
Or so she thought.
Frantic screams erupted from the other end of the fair. The sky darkened abruptly, just as it had outside that gym in Fairfield. Violent gusts whipped through the fair, causing banners and pennants to flap wildly before tearing loose from their moorings. Wind chimes pealed in alarm. The temperature dropped like Myka’s hopes. She had seen this before.
Damnit, she realized. We’re too late.
The crowd, which had been funneling toward Nadia, suddenly reversed direction. Panicked people, fleeing the screams, rushed from the park. Myka and Robbie scrambled out of the way, dragging Pete with them, to avoid getting trampled. They flattened themselves against the back of a fair trade coffee stand as a human tsunami flooded past them, stomping over everything in their path. Tents and booths were knocked over in the chaos. Myka drew her Tesla. Pete clung to the elephant-headed cane. Robbie stared at the madness in shock.