on the right track. He stuck the phony ruby in his pocket, although it was probably worthless, just like Nadia had said. The gloves had moved to the top of their to-do list. “Sorry. I think those gloves are coming with us.”
“Please.” Nadia held her hands tightly to her breast, one over the other. “You can’t—”
“Leave her alone!” Jim lunged to her defense. “I won’t let you—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Pete grabbed the young carnie by the shoulders and roughly steered him away from Nadia. Jim struggled to break free, but Pete had years of Secret Service training on his side. He strong-armed Jim toward the curtain. “I know you’re just trying to stick up for your girl, pal, but it’s time for you to clear out of here. This is between us and those gloves.”
He shoved Jim out of the backstage area, then waited to see if the carnie was going to come back swinging. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to zap Jim with the Tesla. He felt enough like a storm trooper as it was. Too bad the artifact wasn’t being misused by some crook. That always made this easier.
Surprisingly, Jim got the hint. Pete heard the youth storm out of the tent. “That’s better.” He turned away from the curtain and joined Myka in front of Nadia. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“But you can’t just take them,” the girl begged. “They belong to me.”
“Sorry,” Pete apologized again. Her pleas stung his conscience, even though he knew they were doing the right thing. “Believe it or not, this is for your own good.”
“Who are you to decide that?” Nadia asked bitterly. “What gives you the right?”
“The U.S. government,” Myka said, simplifying things somewhat. In truth, the agents answered to a secretive board of Regents whose relationship to the federal government was . . . complicated. But that was more than Nadia needed to know. “This is our job.”
“Just give us the gloves, Nadia,” Pete said. “We’re not leaving until we get them.”
Outnumbered and overwhelmed, Nadia finally gave in. She pulled off the gloves and practically threw them in Myka’s face. “Fine. Do what you have to do.”
“Thank you.” Myka politely ignored the attitude. She quickly examined the gloves, just to avoid another embarrassing “Made in China” moment, then beckoned to Pete. “Shall we try this again?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Pete recycled the silver retrieval bag. “Go for it.”
Into the bag went the gloves. This time he kept his eye on the reaction, which was only marginally more pyrotechnic than before. The goo fizzed a little, and he caught a glimpse of a few flickering sparks, but it was hardly the usual blinding flash.
“Okay,” he commented, “I don’t think that was fully neutralized.”
“Didn’t seem like it,” Myka agreed. Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle it out. “Maybe we’re dealing with another two-part artifact, like Poe’s quill and journal, or Robert Louis Stevenson’s bookends? In that case, we’d need both items to neutralize them.”
No surprise that she recalled those incidents. Poe’s notebook had nearly killed Myka’s father, before they had managed to track down the quill as well.
“But don’t we already have both gloves?”
“Maybe not.” She rescued the gloves from the bag and gave them another once-over. “Hmm. The stitching on the left glove looks a little too uniform, almost like it was done by a modern sewing machine. The stitching on the right glove seems like it was done by hand.” She turned toward the gloves’ owner. “Nadia?”
“The left glove is a copy,” the girl admitted. “I had a costumer whip it up to match the right glove.”
“Which came from where?” Pete asked.
“A thrift store near Gettysburg. It was just lying there, in a bin of mismatched items. I guess somebody must have cleaned out an attic or something.” She paused, remembering. “I don’t know what it was about the glove, but it just . . .
“Please.” Nadia held her hands tightly to her breast, one over the other. “You can’t—”
“Leave her alone!” Jim lunged to her defense. “I won’t let you—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Pete grabbed the young carnie by the shoulders and roughly steered him away from Nadia. Jim struggled to break free, but Pete had years of Secret Service training on his side. He strong-armed Jim toward the curtain. “I know you’re just trying to stick up for your girl, pal, but it’s time for you to clear out of here. This is between us and those gloves.”
He shoved Jim out of the backstage area, then waited to see if the carnie was going to come back swinging. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to zap Jim with the Tesla. He felt enough like a storm trooper as it was. Too bad the artifact wasn’t being misused by some crook. That always made this easier.
Surprisingly, Jim got the hint. Pete heard the youth storm out of the tent. “That’s better.” He turned away from the curtain and joined Myka in front of Nadia. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“But you can’t just take them,” the girl begged. “They belong to me.”
“Sorry,” Pete apologized again. Her pleas stung his conscience, even though he knew they were doing the right thing. “Believe it or not, this is for your own good.”
“Who are you to decide that?” Nadia asked bitterly. “What gives you the right?”
“The U.S. government,” Myka said, simplifying things somewhat. In truth, the agents answered to a secretive board of Regents whose relationship to the federal government was . . . complicated. But that was more than Nadia needed to know. “This is our job.”
“Just give us the gloves, Nadia,” Pete said. “We’re not leaving until we get them.”
Outnumbered and overwhelmed, Nadia finally gave in. She pulled off the gloves and practically threw them in Myka’s face. “Fine. Do what you have to do.”
“Thank you.” Myka politely ignored the attitude. She quickly examined the gloves, just to avoid another embarrassing “Made in China” moment, then beckoned to Pete. “Shall we try this again?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Pete recycled the silver retrieval bag. “Go for it.”
Into the bag went the gloves. This time he kept his eye on the reaction, which was only marginally more pyrotechnic than before. The goo fizzed a little, and he caught a glimpse of a few flickering sparks, but it was hardly the usual blinding flash.
“Okay,” he commented, “I don’t think that was fully neutralized.”
“Didn’t seem like it,” Myka agreed. Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle it out. “Maybe we’re dealing with another two-part artifact, like Poe’s quill and journal, or Robert Louis Stevenson’s bookends? In that case, we’d need both items to neutralize them.”
No surprise that she recalled those incidents. Poe’s notebook had nearly killed Myka’s father, before they had managed to track down the quill as well.
“But don’t we already have both gloves?”
“Maybe not.” She rescued the gloves from the bag and gave them another once-over. “Hmm. The stitching on the left glove looks a little too uniform, almost like it was done by a modern sewing machine. The stitching on the right glove seems like it was done by hand.” She turned toward the gloves’ owner. “Nadia?”
“The left glove is a copy,” the girl admitted. “I had a costumer whip it up to match the right glove.”
“Which came from where?” Pete asked.
“A thrift store near Gettysburg. It was just lying there, in a bin of mismatched items. I guess somebody must have cleaned out an attic or something.” She paused, remembering. “I don’t know what it was about the glove, but it just . . .
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