She pulled her hand away and turned it over for him to see.
His eyes widened. The rash had purpled in the few minutes since it appeared, but it was still distinguishable as two adjoined, unnatural sickle shapes. For once in his life, Augie was speechless.
“Bugs,” Neva whispered, displaying the mark on her other hand. “Hundreds of them. They fell on me while I was dancing, then disappeared as fast as they came. I can still feel them.” She glanced down to be sure nothing was creeping toward her. But there were no insects in sight. Just feet and trash.
“God in Heaven.” Augie bit his lip as he studied the rashes. “And they did that? Those look like brands.”
She nodded. The thought had occurred to her as well; their mother had been a slave before the Civil War.
Augie took Neva’s hand again, careful not to touch the rash. “Let’s get you tended. I’ll have Wahib call a doctor while I find some balm. Then I’ll see about getting the theatre scoured for pests. This is unacceptable.”
“Neva!”
She recognized the voice without turning around: it was the guard’s. “Augie, that man coming toward us ...”
“The Columbian Guard?”
“He found me after the bugs. He wants me to report this to Administration.”
“Why?”
“... There was something else on stage.”
The guard approached, breathing easily despite his brisk jog; admission to the Columbian Guard was contingent on meeting strict physical requirements. A small pouch dangled from his right hand. “Neva, please hear me out.”
She tried not to look at the bag as tourists streamed around them.
“I know you’re hurt. I know you’re frightened—”
“She’s fine now,” Augie interrupted, letting go of Neva’s palm so he could put his arm around her shoulder.
The guard glanced at him. “You’re her brother?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know she’s in terrible danger. Those marks on her hands ...” Despite the surrounding din, the guard lowered his voice. “People are dying with them.”
Neva couldn’t help herself: her eyes went to the pouch.
Augie snorted. “Come off it.”
“Five bodies in eight days. It’s no jest.”
“In the Fair?”
“On the grounds and in Chicago.”
Augie snorted again. “We’d have heard something.”
“Not likely. Director Burnham and Mayor Harrison want it kept as quiet as possible. I’m risking my post by telling you.”
“So we’re supposed to just take your word?”
Neva held her hand out toward the pouch. “May I see?”
The guard blinked. “Are you sure?”
“It’s proof, isn’t it?”
He hesitated, then offered her the pouch. “Just a peek. Don’t take it out.”
Neva nodded and opened the pouch in such a way that only she and Augie could glimpse what lay inside: the thumb, the four-fingered hand, and on the back of the hand, a rash in the form of two adjoined crescents.
Augie pulled back in shock. “Is that ...?”
“Part of the fifth victim,” the guard said flatly. “Or the fourth—neither was intact when we found them.”
“It was on the stage,” Neva whispered as she returned the pouch. “In the rafters.”
“Of course, this could also mean there’s a sixth victim. They’re coming fast.”
Augie blanched. “God in Heaven.”
The guard closed the pouch, then motioned to the Fair’s center. “We’ll have to search the theatre, but first I really must insist that you come to the main guard station in Administration. Commandant Rice is leading the investigation from there, and we can talk to him about what you saw and how to secure your safety.”
Neva opened her mouth to agree, but her stomach started throbbing.
“She’s not going alone,” Augie said as she pressed her hands to her belly. “I’m coming too.”
“Of course,” the guard replied.
“Let me just fetch my things.” He pointed at the Ferris Wheel—his bag of props still lay next to the line.
“Hurry,” Neva whispered, pressing harder against her navel.
Augie gave her a concerned look.
Grimacing, she lowered her hands so he could see the sickle shapes rising on either side of her belly button, the shapes she’d been trying in vain to keep down. “I need to go.”
The guard drew a breath in through his teeth; a passerby raised her eyebrows and hurried on.
Augie stared at the marks a second longer before darting towards the Ferris Wheel. “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
Neva watched him until the guard doffed his cap, revealing a matted tangle of brown curls. “I’m Wiley.”
She studied him for a moment. He seemed decent enough, despite his many hours of staring at her. “Thank you, Wiley.”
“It’s nothing. Your English is excellent, by the way.”
“I’m not Algerian.”
“Ja? I thought—”
A scream preempted Wiley’s next question.
Neva turned in time to see a man faint to the ground as a woman—the screamer—tried to pull him away from something. They were near the line for the Ferris Wheel. Was it Augie?
No. As the crowd parted around the pair, it became clear they were reacting to a second swarm of crescent-marked insects, this one already dispersing. In their wake, the bugs left lines of ooze, a drizzle of blood, and a lonely prop bag.
Augie was gone.
Chapter Three
NEVA RUSHED TO THE still-shrieking woman, whose thin frame was draped in a blue dress. “What did you see?”
The woman stopped screaming and started whimpering. Her man lay unresponsive, mere inches from the remaining cluster of insects. The rest were burrowing, flying, or crawling away in all directions, causing the crowd to recoil in fascinated horror and murmur about the “shiny marks” on the pests’ backs, as if they were another exhibit.
“Ma’am, listen to me. Did you see a colored man about my height, dressed in a fashion similar to mine?” Neva looked at the crowd. “Did anyone? He was performing here not five minutes ago.”
No one said anything. The woman continued whimpering. Neva gripped her by the shoulders to give her a gentle shake.
Only then did anyone respond.
“Here, now!” someone called.
“Did that Negress just accost her?” someone else asked.
“Move along please, everyone,” Wiley ordered as he strode to Neva’s side. “The Columbian Guard will handle this.”
No one budged, except for a lanky fellow wearing a stylish hat. “Sergeant?” he asked, stepping forward.
Wiley nodded to him. “Slashing timing, Private Pierce. Can you see to the gawkers?”
Pierce tipped his hat, took out a badge, and started ushering tourists toward the Moorish Palace, recommending its hall of mirrors and “hideously life-like” wax museum.
“Plainclothesman,” Wiley explained to Neva. “Part of the Fair’s Secret Service.” He turned to the white woman. “My apologies for the misunderstanding, but Neva here was bitten by pests such as those.” He motioned at the ground, where a few cockroaches and ants lingered. “She’s worried her brother was similarly beset.”
The woman regarded Wiley, the wildness receding from her eyes. Then she lurched forward and began stomping the last insects. Not until they were all dead or fled did she drawl a response to Neva’s initial question. “I saw no Negro. Just vermin flooding over my Abram.”
Wiley considered the man. “Did they bite him?”
The woman knelt next to her husband and ran her hands over his exposed skin. “It doesn’t appear so ...” She rose and tapped her cheekbones, where the puncture marks on Neva were particularly thick. “They seem to enjoy muddier blood. You’ll deal with her impudence?”
Wiley coughed but said only, “We’re on our
way to the central guard station now. I’m sorry about the fright.”
The woman gave him a nod of thanks, shot a searing look Neva’s way, and crouched beside Abram again, cooing softly in his ear as she stroked his hair. Pierce reappeared in time to see her reach out and crush a stray ant, tears streaming down her face.
“Would you like me to report this, sir?” he asked Wiley. “Or would you prefer to?”
“I’ll escort the dancer to Administration. Call an ambulance for this fellow and see to him and his wife. The boys in Station M can give you a hand.”
“Yes, sir.” Pierce lowered to say something gentle sounding to the woman, then jogged to the guard station by the Old Vienna complex.
Neva felt Wiley tap her on the shoulder, but she didn’t stop scanning the passing crowd, spinning like a slow-moving top as she looked in all directions.
“Neva ...”
“We have to find Augie.”
Wiley pursed his lips. “He’s gone.”
“But he’s hurt. You saw the blood. And he wouldn’t just leave me. Something happened to him.”
“Perhaps, but—Neva!”
She’d darted to the prop bag. Snatching it up, she scanned the crowd again and ... saw only strangers. There was no sign of Augie or any indication of where he’d gone.
Wiley put his whole hand on her shoulder this time. “We can leave a message for him at the theatre, but we have to go to Administration. Please. For your own safety.”
Neva considered bending her shoulder blade away from Wiley’s grip, but a pulsing warmth on her back suggested the formation of another rash. Another mark; another brand.
Damn him, but Wiley was right.
Taking a last look around, she nodded at him and headed into the theatre. After entrusting Wahib with the prop bag and a message for Augie and concealing her rashes with gloves, shoes, and a jacket, she let the guard guide her to his superiors.
It was a long walk.
The distance was only part of it. The Algerian and Tunisian Village lay near the far end of the Midway Plaisance, the Fair’s mile-long strip of amusements. As she and Wiley passed the rest—the German Village, the Javanese Settlement, the South Sea and Samoan Islander encampments, and on and on—persuaders called to her from almost every exhibit. But they weren’t imploring her to enter: they knew her well from months of mingling after the Midway closed at eleven each night.
They also knew Augie—several asked after him. Neva just waved in response; it was a relief when she and Wiley finally entered the Fair proper.
Six hundred acres of marvels opened before them: lavish buildings from foreign countries and every state in the union, specialty structures like the Aquarium and the Moving Sidewalk, and over sixty-five thousand exhibits about anything and everything. Lake Michigan provided the perfect backdrop to the east, and the grounds were further enhanced by the canals Frederick Olmstead, the Fair’s landscape architect, had ordered dredged for the occasion. Poetically placed foliage and inspiring statues completed the enchanting vista.
But Neva had already seen it all. She’d worked her way through the exhibits during her Sundays off. With Augie. Where was he?
The sound of crying turned her head: a boy of no more than ten leaned against the Women’s Building, sniffling and casting about with anxious eyes.
Just as she was.
“Are you lost?” she asked, crouching down.
He clamped his mouth shut, perhaps reluctant to speak to a colored stranger.
“Neva,” Wiley began, “I thought you were in a—”
“Hush. Where are your parents?”
The boy’s lips trembled. “I can’t find my ma!”
Neva took his hand. “I’m looking for someone too. What’s your ma’s name?”
“Rena Barrot.”
“And yours?”
“Dob. I mean, Robert. But everyone calls me Dob.”
She forced herself to smile. “And I’m Genevieve, but everyone calls me Neva. Don’t worry, Dob. We’ll find your ma.” She turned to Wiley. “Won’t we?”
He cleared his throat. “Where did you last see her?”
“In the big building.”
“Manufactures and Liberal Arts?”
Dob nodded. “By the Clock Tower.” He yanked an intricately patterned white handkerchief from his pocket but fumbled and dropped the cloth before he could blow his nose.
“Here,” Neva said, picking the handkerchief up by a corner and avoiding the rest—its colorful tessellations showed signs of heavy use that morning. “It’s a beautiful design.”
The boy accepted the handkerchief gratefully and blew his nose. “Thanks. My ma made it.”
Wiley gave Neva a skeptical look. “Manufactures is the largest structure in history; we’ll never find her there. Our best bet is to drop him at the daycare in the Children’s Building, then leave a note at Administration, in case his mother tries the Information Center first. And any guard she asks will tell her to go to the daycare. This happens a few times a week, but all the wayward little ones have been claimed so far.”
Neva grit her teeth. She’d much rather help Dob look for his mother—while searching for Augie at the same time—but her rashes still throbbed, and Wiley was right. Again, damn him.
“I have to do something first,” she told Dob, “so we’re going to take you to a safe place where you can play. But I’ll come see you after, all right? And we’ll make sure you find your ma.”
His soft little “All right” nearly broke her heart.
“I intend to keep that promise,” she informed Wiley after they’d checked Dob into the daycare. “To find his mother while we look for Augie. I expect you to do the same.”
“Certainly. Once we’re finished at Administration.”
“Thank you. Can we go through the island?”
Wiley swept his arm before him, indicating she should lead the way.
In front of the Horticulture Building, they crossed one of the delicately curved bridges that connected the main grounds to the Wooded Island Olmstead had raised in his Central Lagoon. Meant as a respite for weary visitors, the island was filled with trees and flowers, empty of any structure save the peaceful Japanese Ho-o-den gracing the northern end. Even with the leaves thinned by the lateness of the season, the mini-oasis was still Neva’s favorite part of the Fair.
“So remarkable,” Wiley said as they stepped off the bridge, his words ruining the tranquility before she had a chance to absorb it. “To think that all this was built in two years, on a swamp. And a mere two decades after Chicago rebuilt itself from the Great Fire ... like a phoenix rising from the ashes and giving birth to an even more beautiful child.” He glanced at her, probably to gauge her reaction to his imagery.
But Neva just watched an electric launch hum past a gondola in the lagoon. Each vessel carried two ostentatiously blissful tourists.
“I meant it when I said your English was excellent. You speak more eloquently than half the guard.”
Men—they never took the first hint. “You mean I talk pretty for a Negro?”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“I was fortunate enough to receive a white girl’s education. Your English sounds odd.”
Wiley chuckled. “You didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
She shrugged and kept walking.
“You’re probably hearing vestiges of Afrikaans. I’m from the South Africa Republic originally.”
“So you’re a bore?”
“A Boer, yes. I emigrated after we won our war for freedom.”
“I see.”
“I fought in it—the war.”
“Bravely, I’m sure. Did you kill many Zulus?”
He laughed, but it sounded strained. “Just Brits.”
Neva reminded herself that this man was doing his best to help her. “I’m sorry ... I’m not usually this prickly.”
“Please—no need to apologize. I know you must be frightened and worried about your brother. The Gua
rd isn’t without its flaws, but Commandant Rice is a good man; he led men at Gettysburg. He’ll see you’re protected.”
She suppressed the urge to remove her gloves and pick at the rashes on her hands. “Then let’s go meet him.”
A few silent minutes later, they crossed the island’s southern bridge, passed between the Mines and Electricity Buildings, and emerged into the Court of Honor. Its focal point was another small lake: the Grand Basin, flanked by the majestic Columbian Fountain on the west end and the 65-foot-tall Statue of the Republic on the east. Just beyond the statue, on the shore of Lake Michigan, rose the Peristyle, an elevated promenade whose supporting columns lent a Greco-Roman feel to each sunrise.
The Court of Honor’s immense buildings continued the theme. Their architecture varied in particulars. But except for Transportation, they were unified by a neoclassical style highlighted by a white coloring that reflected the lake in the morning and sunsets in the evening. This combination of style and size caused many first-time visitors, invariably dressed in their finest clothes, to adopt a somber manner as they moved about the Court—the heart of the White City. On their way to the domed Administration Building, Neva noted a gentleman with wet eyes. His tears of wonder weren’t unusual.
“Oh, hello, Wiley,” the receptionist at the Columbian Guard pavilion said in a throaty voice when they approached the front desk.
He tipped his cap. “Morning, Cassie. Is Commandant Rice in? This woman has information concerning the matter of the ‘purple tattoos.’”
“Oh,” Cassie said again, much less flirtatiously. “He’s in room two with Mr. Bonfield. Just a moment.”
As the receptionist knocked on the door to one of the backrooms and conducted a whispered exchange with someone inside, Neva studied Wiley: he seemed vaguely displeased. Was it the presence of this Bonfield fellow? Or Cassie’s greeting?
“They’ll see you now,” she said, returning to her desk. “Through there.” She gestured to the backroom.
Inside waited three old men. The oldest wore a mustache and a frown; with a start, Neva recognized him from the papers as Mr. John Bonfield, Chicago’s Police Inspector during the infamous riot between anarchists and police some years back in Haymarket Square. The second man had a military air that suggested he was Commandant Rice. The third was completely unremarkable—perhaps one of the plainclothesmen?
Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Page 2
