And whistling.
Neva heard the first windy notes as she staggered towards the Basin. Initially, the whistling didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary. By this point in the evening, new fairgoers had usually overcome their awe of the Court of Honor and transitioned to a state of festive carousing. But as she brushed against a near-skipping elderly white man, the warbling tune clarified in her ears, growing in volume and allure.
Still, Neva didn’t understand how taken she was with the melody until she stopped a few feet short of the South Canal and changed direction.
The whistling was coming from beyond the Obelisk—no, beyond the Stock Pavilion. Further, even: following the wordless song took her past the outdoor agricultural exhibits and into the Stock Exhibit itself, a maze of aisles and stalls, mostly empty now except for the animal inhabitants and their odors. As she passed a set of prize steers, Neva wondered why no one else chased the music with her. She couldn’t be the only one to find it so enchanting. So simple, so lovely, so ...
Bewitching.
She’d been bewitched. Her fever receded for a moment as the realization struck. She’d been called like a dog, summoned by a sound no one else could hear and led to this vacant stall at the east—or was it west?—end of the Stock Exhibit. But why?
Her answer emerged from the stall as she drew close to it: a hooded figure in a long coat, face shadowed except for his pursed, whistling lips.
Leather Apron, piping her to her doom.
Chapter Twenty
IT WASN’T ACTUALLY Jack the Ripper—it couldn’t be. Even if he was the spitting image of the mannequin Neva had seen presiding over the White Chapel Club, cloaked as much in darkness and foreboding as he was cloth.
But whoever the stranger was, he had far more control over her than any man had a right to.
She didn’t have the strength to turn her steps away from the stall, or the ability to keep from walking inside and lowering her head next to the halter lashed to the far wall. Even when the stranger strapped her in, leisurely shortening the crownpiece and tightening the throatlatch, Neva didn’t resist. She couldn’t: he kept whistling, kept filling her with his languorous, anesthetizing music as a tendril of crescent-backed insects erupted from the floor and scrambled up her leg.
Then he drew a knife.
The blade glided out of a sheath hidden inside his jacket—God help her, maybe he was Leather Apron. The knife wasn’t long, but it gleamed despite the dim light.
Yet Neva still couldn’t move. Not with the stranger continuing to whistle as he lifted a lock of her hair and let it fall, raised her arm and considered a finger, only to let it drop as well. Was he toying with her? Deciding where to make his first cut? Both? And Jesus in Heaven, why couldn’t she do anything about it?
The stranger cupped her chin and tilted her head back, forcing her to trade gazes with him. His face remained obscured, a pit of charcoal distinguished only by lips and eyes. But she could see enough to tell when his expression changed from anticipation to confusion.
Why, she couldn’t say. When his whistling faltered a moment later, however, Neva seized the opportunity and spasmed into motion.
A minor distortion helped her cast off the bugs and wriggle free of the halter.
A quick sidestep saw her beside the stranger and out from under his knife.
A backward slash of her hand sank her sharpening fingertips into ...
Nothing.
His music was still in her, sloshing back and forth, unbalancing her to the point that her momentum took her crashing into the opposite wall—the swipe she’d aimed at his throat missed by an inch.
So she kicked instead.
Daggering the toes of her right foot, Neva punched its elongated nails through her shoe and into the stranger’s calf, felling him like a tree while she clapped her hands to her ears. But he caught the next kick and threw her leg up so violently that she flipped over and spun about, her arms spreading wide and her face landing just outside the stall, teeth-deep in the aisle’s neatly packed dirt.
“Help!” she sputtered before the stranger began whistling again and his notes reinfected her faculties. A cow brayed in response, perhaps unsettled by the scent of blood as the stranger limped up behind her.
Breath coming in gulps, she closed her eyes and waited for the blade to fall. Her hair had parted to either side. Would the stranger end matters quickly by striking the exposed skin above her collar? Or revenge the cut she’d given him and slice her leg in the same spot? From there, he could go anywhere, everywhere—had it been able to, her whole body would have quivered with dread.
She didn’t have to wait long: the blow came quickly.
But not against her. The stranger dropped the knife on the floor, the impact muffled by the dirt. Then he staggered down the aisle, turned, and vanished from view, stray insects trailing in his wake. The whistling continued for several minutes, growing fainter and fainter until fading to nothing.
Leaving her free—completely free. Free of fever (but not the subsequent chills), free and unharmed, free to move.
And free to wonder.
“NEVA, SOMETHING HAPPENED in—what are you doing?”
She whipped her right hand behind her back, restoring her fingers to normal length by picturing a cat retracting its claws. But there was no putting back the blood: the undersides of each nail dripped red where the bone had jutted through. At one point, five drops fell on her left calf in near-perfect unison. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Horseshit,” Augie said, his favorite curse since they’d turned thirteen a few weeks ago and judged themselves old enough to swear. “You tore your skin again, didn’t you?”
She clenched her hand into a fist, pressing her fingers tight against her palm to staunch the bleeding. “Not on purpose.”
“Horseshit,” he repeated. “Neva, you’re not some wax doll. Not all of you, anyway. You might be able to melt your bones and reform them, but the rest of you ... If you’re not careful, you’ll tear a muscle, or bleed to death, or—God in Heaven, will you just show me?”
She bit her lip and moved her hand into view.
Augie studied it a moment before motioning for her to follow him out of the DeBell’s garden. His voice was flecked with flint: “You need to see something.”
“We have chores to do ...”
“The DeBells will be out for hours yet. No one will miss us. Come on.”
Slowly, she trailed him into the street and, after several minutes of walking, out of the Gold Coast and into the less-opulent neighborhood of Old Town. “Where are we going?” she tried again. “What is it you want me to see?”
He answered only with “It’s important,” as he had every other time she’d asked.
Finally, he led her into a deserted park and pointed at a towering elm tree.
“Augie, why are we—”
“Look up.”
She did, and immediately looked back down.
If his voice had been stony before, it was an avalanche now, each word hurtling like a boulder: “Look up, Neva.”
She shook her head, but raised it anyway, forcing herself to take in the colored corpse dangling above her. The swollen face. The lolling tongue. The flies in the eyes, and the ears, and ... “I can’t.”
“Then remember it,” Augie whispered, his tone softening. “This is what happens to ordinary Negroes when they do more than they’re supposed to. But if you are caught, even for something small—bending in a way you shouldn’t while you hang the wash; marking yourself with freakish scars—what do you think they’ll do to you?”
He took her hand. “Promise me, Neva. Not your skin. And only for emergencies.”
She tried to pull away, but he held fast.
“Neva, this is important! What I do isn’t as visible, but I’ll stop too. We can’t risk—”
“Only for emergencies,” she said softly. “And dancing. That’s when it feels natural.”
“And dancing,” Augie said aft
er a moment. “As long as you’re careful. Thank you.”
She pulled away again, and this time he let go.
DEREK CALLED HER NAME and knocked on the door again.
Clearing her mind of dreams and questions as best she could, Neva swung herself out of her bed, trying not to dwell on its empty twin on the other side of the (very small) room. She’d thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep last night. But after she’d hurried back to the Algerian and Tunisian Village and told Wahib she’d be expecting a visitor in the morning, her pillow had beckoned, and she’d been out within seconds of lying down.
“Coming,” she said. When she opened the door, she found that Derek hadn’t been the only one waiting for her to rouse: Wiley stood a step behind him.
Tension crackled between the men like flickers of Derek’s electricity. They must have exchanged words; her brother’s jaw was set, and the Boer’s arms were crossed. But while Derek only looked at her with concern, Wiley’s expression was ... uncertain.
As well it might be—she’d left his meeting in a bit of a state.
“You’re all right, then,” he said tentatively.
“More or less. Better than last night; I’m sorry about going like I did. The fever ... It just came on me so fast.”
“Did you go to the Hospital? I stepped out shortly after you did, but I couldn’t find you.”
Should she tell him about the Leather Apron encounter (in a way that left out the implausible bits)? But what could Wiley do against that whistling? And if he knew she’d been attacked, he might never leave her side again.
Of course, she’d promised to let him stay close. Would that be so bad?
“What happened?” asked Derek.
Perhaps a half-truth would suffice. “The brands,” she said, pointing to her rashes. “They made me ill again. And the Court of Honor was too crowded, so I wandered the Stockyards until I cooled down. Then I came back here to sleep.”
Wiley tugged one end of his mustache. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I wish you’d waited for me. Or left word about where you were going.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t well.”
Derek frowned but said only, “Do you still want to go north this morning?”
“Yes. It would be good to speak to Lucretia together.”
“Then we should hurry. Another train will be along momentarily.”
They arrived at the Terminal Station in time to catch an express. Few passengers were aboard this early; the three of them had their pick of seats. Derek sat next to Neva. Wiley chose a bench a few rows back.
“He said he’s been ordered not to let you out of his sight,” Derek noted quietly.
“I know. I’m sorry—I’m sure he’ll be civil.”
Her brother’s exhalation wasn’t loud enough to qualify as a scoff, but it was close. “I’ll settle for him waiting outside when we get to the house.”
“I’m sure he’ll do that as well.”
Derek glanced out the window as the train left the fairgrounds. “The fever—is it getting worse?”
“No.” Neva’s fingers slid over her cheeks, feeling the bug bites: almost healed. But she knew without peeling off her gloves that the rashes remained. No longer raw, but still purple and disfiguring. “The first bout was the worst. Brin said it gets better. Eventually.”
Speaking of the Irish anarchist ... “Wiley?” asked Neva, turning to face him. “How did the rest of the meeting go? I hope I didn’t disrupt things too badly.”
He glanced at Derek, a clear signal that only carefully picked words would be forthcoming. “Your monologue made an impression, but not everyone’s convinced. I’d like to reconvene tonight—if you’re feeling up to it.”
Translation: Quill still wanted to “emancipate” the damn Wheel. She doubted more argument would sway him. On the other hand, it would be good to talk to Brin. To warn her, if nothing else. “All right,” Neva decided. “I’ll come if I can.”
The train slowed for the next stop. A frilly woman started to board, saw Neva, and huffed. “Northern madness,” the woman announced in a Southern drawl. “Sharing railcars with Negroes.” She stepped back onto the platform, and the train pulled away.
Derek looked apologetically at Neva. She just shrugged.
He turned to Wiley. “So you believe there’s another killer out there?”
“Sadly.”
“And you think further involving Neva will help you catch him?”
With conspicuous casualness, Wiley rested his head on his hands and reclined on his bench. “She offered her help, and ja—I happen to think it might be of use. In the process, she’ll be far safer than she would on her own. Or with a Pullman designer, for that matter.”
Neva braced for another round of male stupidity.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, taking the bait. “How many people have died so far?”
Wiley sat up, but he wasn’t angry at Derek—the Boer was glaring at her. “Convince her to leave, then. That’s been the smart play all along: leave the Fair and get out of Chicago.”
She felt her eyes mirroring the heat in his. “And go where?”
“You worked for Barnum & Bailey, didn’t you? Get on with them again. A traveling circus might be the safest place for you right now.”
The idea had crossed her mind, but she wasn’t ready to quit. And she wasn’t sure she could go back there without Augie. “So you’d rather I was away?”
The words were calculated to wound, and they did: Wiley’s flinch was unmistakable. But he kept to his script. Perhaps he’d borrowed a page from Copeland. “Yes, I’d rather you were far from here. The Fair isn’t safe.”
Derek nodded. “You could come to Pullman Town. I have an extra room ... It’s not out of Chicago, but at least it’s away from the Fair.”
“You might as well send her to a plantation,” Wiley said before Neva could decline.
“Do you hear yourself?” asked Derek. “Mr. Pullman is operating at a loss to retain jobs through the downturn. He cares about his workers.”
“But he still cut wages, didn’t he? Without cutting rents? And once the Fair is over, and the orders for new cars to carry tourists dry up—what then?”
“Stop it,” Neva interrupted as Derek searched for a response. “Both of you. That’s not why we’re here.”
Wiley looked like he wanted to ask more about why they were here, but he let it go. So did Derek. After a wordless rest of the ride, they got off at the station closest to the Gold Coast.
The walk to the DeBells’ revitalized them: the neighborhood glistened with sun-sparkled dew, and the air blew briskly without biting. No one attempted another conversation, but the quiet felt increasingly comfortable.
Until they turned the corner onto the DeBells’ street and saw Copeland exiting the front door. Then the quiet became silence again. Dreadful, anticipatory silence. But only long enough for another man—a police officer, by the look of his uniform—to follow Copeland out of the house.
“Kanters?” called Wiley, apparently recognizing the officer.
Copeland regarded Wiley for a moment, but it was Neva he spoke to as they drew close. “Rather far from the Fair this morning, aren’t you Ms. Freeman? Did you decide to leave it after all?”
“Morning, Wiley,” Kanters added. “You here about the note as well?”
Copeland glanced at the police officer in irritation, but Wiley had already seized the opening. “What note?” he demanded. “That scrap in the unidentified’s pocket?”
“The same,” Kanters answered, oblivious to Copeland’s disapproval. “Union Stockyard stationary, it turns out. One of the Pinkertons made the match; he did some work for them a few years back. The telltale bit was ripped off, but he recognized the color.”
The police officer said something else, about how they’d gone to the Yards and asked around to see if anyone was missing, but Neva missed most of it—she was too busy pushing past Copeland, sprinting up the DeBells’ front steps, and darting t
hrough the main door.
Lucretia was in the drawing-room, attended by Hatty. Both women seemed shaken. And on the table ...
On the table was a flashy hat, a bedraggled coat, and a torn piece of paper, its remaining third covered in familiar handwriting. Most of it had been crossed out or washed away by a water stain. Yet the first few lines were legible: Derek, my son. I should have told you this long ago ...
Lucretia met Neva’s horrified gaze without flinching, but her former employer’s voice was hoarse. “I’m afraid you weren’t my first caller today, either. They’ve found Edward.”
Chapter Twenty-One
MR. DEBELL’S BODY HAD been located near the Stockyards a week and a half ago, lower half lying in the corrupted waters of Bubbly Creek, face battered beyond recognition, and personal effects stolen except for the scrap of what looked to be a draft of his confession about Neva and Augie’s parentage. But “Derek” was the only name mentioned in the surviving text, most of which was just anguished preamble. So the police had been at loose ends until the Pinkertons identified the letter’s company of origin. From there, a second round of questions at the Yards had revealed Mr. DeBell’s by-then-lengthy absence, and Mrs. DeBell had confirmed that the hat, coat, and handwriting belonged to her husband.
Or so she told Neva as Hatty served tea.
Derek held his cup in both hands but didn’t drink. “I wish there were a more delicate way to put this, but do they need one of us—need me—to go to the morgue and ...?”
“No.” Mrs. DeBell smiled sadly at him. She’d sent messages to Jasper and Abiah, but while she waited for her natural children to arrive, she seemed content to have her foster family with her. “Thank you. But no. They said there was no purpose in it. That we wouldn’t be able to know him ... Oh, God.”
Neva looked away as Mrs. DeBell succumbed to the reality of her widowhood. What had it taken for this woman—how hard must it have been—to accept three bastard babes into her home?
Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Page 16