Warehouse standards, Claudia thought. “So how does this work, then? One glove heals people, the other one makes them sick?”
“Exactly! Complementary forces. Yin and yang. Left and right. Sickness and health . . .” The words came tumbling out of his mouth excitedly. Claudia could tell he was onto something. He lurched from his chair and started pacing back and forth across the carpet. “Healing, disease . . . typhoid fever . . .”
“Maybe Typhoid Mary?” she suggested.
“Unlikely. Mary Mallon never healed anyone, and she didn’t wear gloves, although she probably should have.” He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course! How could I have missed it before? Clara Barton!”
Claudia didn’t get it. “Can I have the bonus commentary, please?”
“Clarissa Harlowe Barton, ‘the Angel of the Battlefield.’” He pulled a heavy tome from the bookshelf. It landed with a thud onto the desk. “During the Civil War, she nursed thousands of wounded and dying soldiers, her tireless efforts bringing her to many of the war’s bloodiest battlefields. Fredericksburg. Richmond. Bull Run. Antietam.”
Artie blew a thick layer of dust off the book’s cover. Claudia coughed and fanned the cloud away with her hand. He flipped through the pages until he came to a sepia-toned photo of a somber, matronly-looking woman wearing a Red Cross medallion around her neck. An army tent formed the backdrop for the photo. Artie rummaged atop the desk until he found a magnifying glass. He held the glass over the photo, then beckoned to Claudia. She peered through the lens at a pair of elegant white leather gloves—just like the one Pete and Myka had described.
“Along the way, her gloves must have absorbed both the blessing of healing . . . and the deadly curse of the war. During which, it should be noted, disease and infection killed far more soldiers than bullets ever did.”
“Diseases like typhoid fever?” Claudia asked, catching on.
Artie nodded. “Nadia is healing people with Clara Barton’s right glove. I’m sure of it.”
Claudia took his word for it. She glanced back at her computer screen, where the red line continued to pulse ominously. Over two dozen people had already died of fever, and who knew how many others were on the verge of death?
“So who has the bad glove?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Artie said grimly. “After we bring Pete and Myka up to speed.”
He reached for his Farnsworth.
Drip, drip . . .
Cider trickled from John Chapman’s pot, raining gently on the artifact one shelf below: an ornate marble bathtub whose claw feet resembled demonic talons. Reinforced steel rods supported the weight of the tub, which had once belonged to Elizabeth Báthory, the infamous Blood Countess of Hungary. Over four hundred years ago, the countess had bathed in the blood of hundreds of murdered young women in the belief that such sanguinary cosmetic treatments would preserve her youth. Walled up inside her own castle for her crimes, Elizabeth had been outlived by her tub. Ancient brown stains discolored the once-pristine marble.
Drop by drop, the cider filled the bottom of the tub. The spicy amber juice grew saltier, and began to take on a disturbing crimson hue. . . .
Artie was pacing again. Claudia didn’t stop him. She figured he could use the exercise.
“All right,” he said, thinking aloud. “We have two gloves, both in the wind. How do we track down Nadia Malinovich . . . and the other glove?”
Claudia leaned back in her chair, the heels of her sneakers resting on the desk. She spitballed ideas off the exposed brick walls, while chewing distractedly on a ballpoint pen. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some way we can take advantage of the fact that the gloves are being drawn back to each other?”
“Hmm. Not a bad idea.” He crossed the office to the large roll-down maps hanging on one wall. He pulled down a map of the eastern seaboard, covering the world map
“Exactly! Complementary forces. Yin and yang. Left and right. Sickness and health . . .” The words came tumbling out of his mouth excitedly. Claudia could tell he was onto something. He lurched from his chair and started pacing back and forth across the carpet. “Healing, disease . . . typhoid fever . . .”
“Maybe Typhoid Mary?” she suggested.
“Unlikely. Mary Mallon never healed anyone, and she didn’t wear gloves, although she probably should have.” He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course! How could I have missed it before? Clara Barton!”
Claudia didn’t get it. “Can I have the bonus commentary, please?”
“Clarissa Harlowe Barton, ‘the Angel of the Battlefield.’” He pulled a heavy tome from the bookshelf. It landed with a thud onto the desk. “During the Civil War, she nursed thousands of wounded and dying soldiers, her tireless efforts bringing her to many of the war’s bloodiest battlefields. Fredericksburg. Richmond. Bull Run. Antietam.”
Artie blew a thick layer of dust off the book’s cover. Claudia coughed and fanned the cloud away with her hand. He flipped through the pages until he came to a sepia-toned photo of a somber, matronly-looking woman wearing a Red Cross medallion around her neck. An army tent formed the backdrop for the photo. Artie rummaged atop the desk until he found a magnifying glass. He held the glass over the photo, then beckoned to Claudia. She peered through the lens at a pair of elegant white leather gloves—just like the one Pete and Myka had described.
“Along the way, her gloves must have absorbed both the blessing of healing . . . and the deadly curse of the war. During which, it should be noted, disease and infection killed far more soldiers than bullets ever did.”
“Diseases like typhoid fever?” Claudia asked, catching on.
Artie nodded. “Nadia is healing people with Clara Barton’s right glove. I’m sure of it.”
Claudia took his word for it. She glanced back at her computer screen, where the red line continued to pulse ominously. Over two dozen people had already died of fever, and who knew how many others were on the verge of death?
“So who has the bad glove?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Artie said grimly. “After we bring Pete and Myka up to speed.”
He reached for his Farnsworth.
Drip, drip . . .
Cider trickled from John Chapman’s pot, raining gently on the artifact one shelf below: an ornate marble bathtub whose claw feet resembled demonic talons. Reinforced steel rods supported the weight of the tub, which had once belonged to Elizabeth Báthory, the infamous Blood Countess of Hungary. Over four hundred years ago, the countess had bathed in the blood of hundreds of murdered young women in the belief that such sanguinary cosmetic treatments would preserve her youth. Walled up inside her own castle for her crimes, Elizabeth had been outlived by her tub. Ancient brown stains discolored the once-pristine marble.
Drop by drop, the cider filled the bottom of the tub. The spicy amber juice grew saltier, and began to take on a disturbing crimson hue. . . .
Artie was pacing again. Claudia didn’t stop him. She figured he could use the exercise.
“All right,” he said, thinking aloud. “We have two gloves, both in the wind. How do we track down Nadia Malinovich . . . and the other glove?”
Claudia leaned back in her chair, the heels of her sneakers resting on the desk. She spitballed ideas off the exposed brick walls, while chewing distractedly on a ballpoint pen. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some way we can take advantage of the fact that the gloves are being drawn back to each other?”
“Hmm. Not a bad idea.” He crossed the office to the large roll-down maps hanging on one wall. He pulled down a map of the eastern seaboard, covering the world map
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