Greg Cox: A Touch of Fever

You could fit the Javits Center, the Louvre, and the entire Smithsonian inside the building and still have acres of room to spare.

There were entire levels, galleries, and annexes she had yet to explore. She wondered where exactly the cutlass would end up. A cherry-red Jaguar roadster and a vintage El Camino pickup truck were parked in front of the Warehouse. “Looks like everybody’s home,” Pete observed. Braking to a stop beside the other cars, he killed the engine. His stomach grumbled audibly. “You think Artie’s made cookies?” “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Myka smiled at her partner. Pete’s appetite was practically supernatural in its own right. “Remind me again how you keep your girlish figure?” “Clean living, what else? Plus, lots of running for my life.” They stepped out of the car into the blinding glare of a hot August afternoon. The scorching heat came as a shock after the air-conditioned comfort of the car. Sunlight reflected off the Warehouse’s tarnished metal walls.

Myka was grateful for her tinted sunglasses, which were a necessity in this part of the country. It felt good to stretch her legs. A solitary cow, grazing on a measly patch of grass, lowed in welcome. A hot breeze carried with it the distinctive aroma of a large heap of manure piled high a few yards away. Myka had once mistaken the heap for a small hill. She hadn’t made that mistake again. “Right back at you,”

Pete addressed the cow. He retrieved the cutlass, still securely bagged, from the rear of the SUV. They approached the Warehouse. The front door was the same rusty metal color as the oxidized steel sheets around it, so that it blended in almost as though camouflaged. Myka clicked a button on a compact handheld remote. Ancient hinges creaked as it swung open. “After you,” Pete said. Myka strolled inside.

Compared to the Warehouse’s weather-beaten facade, the sterile white umbilicus looked like something designed by NASA. A flexible metal tube, barely wide enough to allow two people to pass through side by side, accordioned ahead of her for fifty yards or so. Fluorescent lights lit up the tunnel, which wobbled slightly beneath their tread like an enormous slinky. Explosive charges, mounted at both ends of the umbilicus, could be detonated if the Warehouse needed to be sealed off in a hurry. Myka wished the bombs weren’t quite so visible. She had already seen them in action once. She knew how much firepower they packed. Thank heavens nobody had died the last time the bombs went off. At least, not permanently. The tube led to a locked white door. A metal box was attached to the wall next to the door. She opened its lid to expose a glowing blue retinal scanner. Myka positioned her right eye in front of the scanner. By now, the elaborate security measures were second nature to her. An electronic chip confirmed that she was indeed herself. The door swung open. “We’re back,” she called out. Beyond the umbilicus was a cluttered office that resembled a cross between a musty old antique shop and the back room of a museum.

Wooden file cabinets, shelves, and bookcases were crammed against the exposed brickwork. A bulletin board was covered with tacked-up index cards, photos, and newspaper clippings. A pull-down map of the world occupied one wall, not far from an antique harpsichord. Overstuffed shelves and display cases sagged beneath the weight of various exotic relics and curios, including a Viking helmet, a fossilized dinosaur skull, a crystal ball, a gold record, a vintage Roy Rogers lunch box, a bedpan, and a monkey’s paw. A suit of armor, that had once belonged to Richard the Lion-Hearted, stood guard in a corner. A news ticker, like the one in Times Square, offered an endlessly scrolling update on world events. Hanging lamps cast a warm glow over the office. A ratty Persian rug protected the floor. Shuttered windows at the far end of the office blocked her view of the mezzanine beyond, which looked out over the main floor of the Warehouse. A spiral staircase led to Artie’s private quarters one floor up. Paperwork was piled high on the desks, which boasted a jarring mixture of high-tech computer screens and antiquated, retro-looking keypads. A souvenir snow globe was being used as a paperweight. Frost coated the outside of the globe. A micro-blizzard swirled inside it. Myka barely noticed the eclectic decor, which was old hat to her. She looked instead to see who was waiting for her. Her smile widened as she saw that the whole gang was present. “Hey! America’s best-kept secret agents return!” Claudia Donovan sprang from an upholstered wingback chair, nearly spilling her laptop onto the floor. The teenage whiz kid was ten years younger than Myka, as evidenced by her funkier attire and style. Bobbed red hair was accented by a dyed blue swoop. A vintage biker vest was layered over her blue tank top. Novelty pins and buttons added flair to the vest. Her slim legs were tucked into a pair of skinny black jeans. She carelessly tossed the laptop onto the chair before rushing over to greet Myka. “What’s up, girlfriend? How was ye olde pirate museum?”

“The staff was a little overly enthusiastic, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” Myka grinned back at Claudia before addressing the rest of her colleagues. “Hi, Leena, Artie.” “Welcome back.” A slender young woman turned away from the card catalog, where she had been re-alphabetizing the files. A floral sun dress flattered her figure. A voluminous head of frizzy brown hair crowned her like a halo. Smooth skin was the color of caramel. Quieter and more composed than Claudia, she radiated a certain otherworldly serenity. Knowing brown eyes squinted at Myka, seeing more than just her physical appearance. “You look well,” Leena said. “You, too, Pete.” “Just glad to be back.” He followed Myka into the office, lugging the silver containment bag. The door clicked shut behind him. “Anybody order a bona fide pirate pigsticker?” “Is that it?” Artie asked urgently. The grizzled agent looked up from his desk, which was strewn with index cards and yellow legal pads. A tan corduroy jacket was draped over his short, stocky frame. His rumpled black shirt needed ironing. His feet, in well-worn sneakers, rested flat on the floor. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, shrewd brown eyes lit up like those of a kid in a candy store. “Was it damaged in any way?” Ideally, they preferred to deliver the artifacts to the Warehouse in one piece, but, sadly, that wasn’t always possible. More than once, they’d had to sacrifice some precious historical relic in order to save innocent lives. Fortunately, that hadn’t been the case this time around. “It’s fine,” Pete assured him.

“See for yourself.” He cleared off a space on the desk, then unsealed the bag. The cutlass spilled onto the desk, landing with a thud on the clear glass desktop. Leena, Claudia, and Artie moved in for a closer look. “Anne Bonny’s cutlass,” Artie whispered in a hushed tone. “We’ve been looking for this ever since Anne escaped the gallows back in 1720 by pleading her belly-” “Come again?” Claudia interrupted. “Pleading her whatsit?” “She was pregnant,” Myka translated. She had read all about Anne’s infamous career while growing up in her father’s bookstore. “With Calico Jack’s child. The court delayed her execution until the baby could be born.” Claudia smirked. “That’s one way to beat the rap, I guess. Better knocked-up than hung.” “Yeah,” Pete added. “But your reprieve is only good for nine months, tops.” “As far as we know, the execution never took place,” Artie said, picking up the story. “Some say her father, a wealthy merchant, managed to buy her freedom. Anne, her baby, and the cutlass all disappeared from history… until now.” He gazed reverently at the sword. For all its insidious properties, the cutlass was a genuine piece of history.