Neva considered him afresh. His clothes were an uncharacteristic shamble: ill-fitting castoffs he must have scavenged after waking from his extended blackout. The cloak she’d seen him in the night before was on the floor, jumbled next to his right leg ... which was caked with blood; his pants were too short, and she could see the red crust on his exposed lower calf. “Can you walk?”
“What?” He looked down. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Mr. DeBell seemed set to refuse. But his face grew flushed, and seeing the color rise in his skin brought warmth to her own.
“No,” Neva hissed. “Fight it. You can control the fever if you try.” She proved it by swallowing her rage and hate before they could overwhelm her, funneling them down her legs and out her toes, like a tree flushing bad water through its roots. The insects’ venom wasn’t truly gone—she knew the infection still lingered—but the visualization helped her navigate her emotions.
Mr. DeBell had a harder time of it.
His face was purpling and his fingers pulsed with the need to grab and tear. Slowly, as if overcoming an invisible binding, his lips began to pucker. He’d be whistling any second now.
Neva could have hit him first or sealed the sides of her skull to close her ears—she was ready this time. But she did neither of those things, or anything that approached an act of self-preservation. She simply stepped forward and hugged him.
Initially, it seemed like a terrible mistake. Her fever flared again at the contact, and his seemed to as well. But after a few teetering seconds, she felt the tension ebb out of him, receding almost as quickly as her own.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked as Mr. DeBell’s arms came up to return her embrace.
“Tell you what?”
“About you and ... my mother.”
He stiffened all over again, but only for a moment. “Because I’m a coward, Neva. A proud, stupid coward.”
“But it’s true? You are ...?”
“Your father, yes. And Augie’s.”
She shuddered against his chest at the mention of her brother. Yet she said nothing as he gently stroked her hair and pulled away. That news could wait.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Mr. DeBell said, sitting heavily on the drunk tank’s bench. “Shouldn’t have been able to get in and shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you. Let’s go.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me, but I belong in here, or wherever else they want to put me. You don’t. You should go.”
“But it’s not your fault!” Neva used one hand to tap the rash on the other. “It’s the insects’ bite. It maddens your blood, makes you do things that ...” She trailed off as Mr. DeBell clasped his own hands, drawing her eyes to their pale skin.
Dirt crusted his knuckles and darkened the undersides of his fingernails. Otherwise, his hands were unblemished.
“Where are ... Where are your rashes?” she stammered. “Were you not bitten?”
He squeezed his hands tighter. “I belong in here,” he repeated. “You should go.”
But even if she’d been willing to leave, she wouldn’t have been able to: the door to the room burst open, revealing Copeland, the wiry guard, and two revolvers—one in each of the men’s right hands, and both pointed at Mr. DeBell.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE PINKERTON AND THE Columbian Guard weren’t dressed with the dignity their roles required. A wrap swaddled the wiry guard’s head, crossing over his ears several times. Copeland wore earmuffs whose thick fur looked comically out of season.
Neither man seemed amused, however. The guard sported a snarl that would have made a hyena proud, and Copeland’s gaze was frosted steel. But they hesitated at the sight of Neva, pausing long enough to allow a third person to enter the room: Wiley.
“Bog!” he called to his fellow guard as he hurried through the doorway. “Take that nonsense off your head and listen to ... Neva?” Wiley’s eyes took in her near-naked body, then went to the cell door, no doubt noting that she was on the wrong side of it, behind bars with Mr. DeBell.
Or so it would appear.
Wiley whirled back to the other guard. “Bog!” he shouted again. “What’s the meaning of this? And Copeland, lower your weapon, for God’s sake. Get her OUT OF THERE!”
But the Pinkerton shook his head and fired.
Bog squeezed his trigger too, though less accurately: while Copeland’s shot took Mr. DeBell squarely in the chest, the wiry guard’s bullet winged one of the bars and deflected into Neva’s thigh.
She gasped twice, first in shock at the blood spilling from her father’s wound, then at the agony sprouting from her own. Mr. DeBell merely grunted at the impact and nodded at his would-be executioners.
Until he saw Neva’s injury. Then he whistled.
Wiley succumbed to the tune almost immediately, slamming into the wiry guard and knocking the pistol from his hands.
“He’s doing it again!” yelled Bog. “Blast the piper in the mouth!”
Copeland tried, but his next shot went wide, grazing Mr. DeBell’s ear as he slumped to the side.
Wiley tore off Bog’s wrap, exposing the wiry guard’s ears. The two men were on Copeland a second later, Wiley reaching for the Pinkerton’s weapon and Bog for his muffs. Both succeeded, but not before the pistol went off against Wiley’s side, spattering everyone in the room with blood and flinging a fleck of bone into Mr. DeBell’s already ruined chest.
“No!” screamed Neva, contorting her way through the bars. Yet her arms refused to reach out and catch Wiley. The chaos and pain had taken her by surprise, and she’d failed to plug her ears before Mr. DeBell’s implacable whistling compelled her to go, to let Wiley crumple to the floor while she limped out of the drunk tank and towards the Exposition Hospital.
Mr. DeBell’s tune was warbling, though, growing bubbly. His control remained complete enough to force Neva to exit the room, but not to prevent her from turning her head and witnessing the rest of the tragedy: Bog was kneeling in front of Copeland now, handing him the pistol Wiley had batted away moments earlier and trembling. Copeland, wearing an expression of dread (instead of earmuffs), accepted the gun and shot Bog through the temple.
Still whistling, Mr. DeBell dragged himself forward, leaving a crimson smear behind him. Upon reaching the bars, he nodded at Copeland and closed his eyes. He looked ... ready.
The Pinkerton did not. His brow was sweaty, and his mouth hung open—he appeared to be trying to scream. But nothing came out as he pressed both guns against Mr. DeBell’s chest and blazed away until the chambers clicked empty, dry-firing into the sudden silence.
The whistling had stopped.
Its notes echoed in Neva’s ears for a few more beats, long enough to direct her the rest of the way down the hallway, out of the Administration Building, and into the Court of Honor. There she collapsed, as she’d seen Copeland do amidst the jumble of bodies on the drunk tank’s red floor. Without the whistling to sustain her, she couldn’t rise, couldn’t take another step. All she could do was look at the picture Mr. DeBell had drawn—that she somehow still held—and think of him. And Wiley. And Augie.
And weep: she could weep perfectly well. So she did, violently, until Brin and Quill scooped her up and rushed her into Machinery.
PIETER WAS A SURPRISINGLY adept physician.
The pudgy anarchist turned out to have extensive knowledge, deft hands, and—in the Machinery Hall’s storage room—a carefully packed bag of surgical tools and bandages. “Stashed these for just such an emergency,” he explained while directing Brin and Quill to set Neva on the table. “Roland, I’ll need whiskey for the wound.”
Roland opened his mouth, but Quill cut him off. “If you so much as grumble about this,” he hissed, “once Pieter gets the ball out of Neva, I’ll load it back into a gun and shoot you in the goddamn head with it.”
Roland shook his head. “A scrap’s different. I don’t leave no one b
ehind.” He jabbed a thick finger at Pieter. “Pulled you out of the muck at Homestead, didn’t I?”
“That you did,” Pieter agreed absently as he laid a variety of implements on the two closest chairs. “The whiskey?”
“Yeah, I’ll fetch it.”
“Wiley’s still in there,” Neva said through gritted teeth. “He was shot too—worse than me. You should be helping him.”
Brin pulled another chair around for Pieter. “We weren’t the only ones who heard the gunshots: a storm of Pinkertons, police, and guards pounded over from the Lagoon right after we found you. They’ll see to Wiley. You need to lie back. You’ve lost too much blood to do anything else.”
“Be still,” Pieter agreed. “There’s a good girl. It’s all right—I just need to see it.” He’d had her press her hands against the wound; now he eased them away, made a quick examination, and applied a temporary bandage he asked Brin to hold.
“I won’t ask why you decided to boycott your clothes,” he said as he reached again into his bag of supplies, “but it’s well you did; there’s no chance of cloth being carried into the flesh. We’ll get you fixed up—I dealt with worse in the war.” He pulled a pair of tongs from the bag. “Quill, Roland: hold her, if you please.”
The two anarchists took up positions at either end of the table, Quill grasping her arms and Roland her shins. Neither seemed to want to look directly at her. Aside from her near-nudity, her smallclothes were stained dark and growing darker, and the rashes on her legs acted as blood catchers, their ridges dripping crimson.
Pieter uncorked the flask of whiskey and lowered its mouth to Neva’s. “For courage.”
Gagging at the smell, she started to wave away the flask, only to realize she still clutched the cowry necklace by its cord. It was a miracle she hadn’t dropped it. Mr. DeBell’s beautiful drawing was gone, but she had the shells, and the whiskey could cover her use of them. Nodding, she took a sip, breathed heavily, and motioned for more.
While the anarchists watched this show, Neva wriggled her wrist through the shells’ cord and pulled them to her skin. Wearing the cowries as a bracelet worked much the same as donning them as a necklace—at the instant of contact, her body surged with flexible energy, a loose strength that gave her what she needed to form her thigh bone around the bullet and force it out the other side, causing a new, smaller hole: an exit wound.
“Fuck all,” breathed Roland as the shot clattered on the table.
“Must have been about to fall out,” Brin suggested wryly as Neva slipped the necklace off her wrist and let it dangle from her fingers again. “Perhaps you missed it in all the blood.”
“Perhaps,” Pieter said doubtfully. “Saves us the trouble, anyway. Now we can close her up.”
He poured the whiskey on her thigh. It burned—burned terribly, causing a hurt so intense it seared through the emotional numbness that had started to weigh on her like a blanket. She thrashed wildly, writhing from anguish as much as pain. Pieter yelled something to Roland and Quill about firming their grips, and Brin joined them in trying to pin her. But Neva flailed and fought all through the pudgy anarchist’s determined effort to stitch and wrap her wounds.
Then, mercifully, he was done, and the fury went out of her.
Later—how much, she wasn’t sure—Brin, Quill, and Roland left to see what they could learn about matters at Administration.
“Pieter,” Neva whispered, opening her eyes. “Did Wiley love a Zulu girl?”
The Boer—but not her Boer—stopped cleaning his instruments for a moment, then shrugged. “We both did. She only had it for him, though.”
“Was it ... forbidden?”
Pieter grunted. “Let’s just say his family wasn’t put out when she disappeared before Majuba Hill.”
“I see.” Neva closed her eyes again. “And that’s why he—and you—came to America after your war with England? Because his family disapproved?”
Pieter wiped the tongs and returned them to his bag. “That was part of it. Them dying of malaria was the other.”
“That’s awful.”
“It was. But you shouldn’t dwell on it—just sleep.”
“All right ...” She listened to him pack a few more items. “Pieter?”
“Last question, Neva,” he said gently. “And keep those eyes shut.”
“What was her name?”
She heard him set something else in his bag, zip it, and sigh. “Anele,” he murmured eventually.
“Anele,” Neva repeated. “Thank you.”
“Sure. Now sleep.”
She did, almost immediately.
But not peacefully.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MR. DEBELL STOOD FACING the window, arms behind his back and the fingers of his right hand tapping in turn against those of his left, running up and down them as if playing a lonely piano scale.
“Excuse me?” said Neva. She and Augie had approached quietly, stopping a few steps inside the door to his study—a room they’d never been in but long wondered about.
Mr. DeBell turned. “Ah, yes. Thank you for coming. Please, sit.” He gestured at two impressively stuffed leather chairs flanking a towering bookshelf.
Augie and Neva barely hesitated before hurrying into the chairs—they looked so comfortable. And they were: she sank further into hers than she had into any seat ever.
“They’re motion chairs,” Mr. DeBell said, amusement dancing in his eyes like frolicking sprites. “Pull the lever on the side and the back will recline.”
She and Augie did so at almost the same time, giggling as the tops of the chairs lowered until they were nearly horizontal.
Mr. DeBell grinned. “Marvelous, aren’t they?” Then he cleared his throat, and it was such a sober sound that Neva sat up to look at him. Augie followed suit a second later.
“You’re what now?” asked Mr. DeBell. “Five?”
“Six,” Neva corrected.
“Right, right—it’s October already, isn’t it?” Mr. DeBell put his hands behind him again, the twitching of his left forearm suggesting he was playing those lonely scales again. “Either way, you’re old enough to know the truth.”
After the ensuing pause dragged on, Augie pushed his lever to its original position and came forward with a jerk, nearly falling out of the motion chair as the top rushed back to vertical.
Neva didn’t laugh. Mr. DeBell had grown far too serious for that.
“The truth about your parents,” he finally continued.
“Are they coming back?” asked Augie. “From Africa?”
Mr. DeBell’s right arm twitched now; perhaps his other hand had started playing scales. “That’s the thing,” he said after another pause. “I know Hatty’s always told you they were away—”
“Helping the Wattara,” Augie supplied helpfully. “My father’s a soldier, and my mother serves the queen.”
“Yes, well ...” Mr. DeBell swallowed once, then again. “The truth is your parents died in the Great Fire.”
Augie breathed in a squeaky gasp. Neva blinked.
“Nat perished in the blaze, trying to reach your mother from across town—because she was in labor. But it was so hot, and when she heard about him ...” Mr. DeBell shook his head.
“She died having us?” asked Neva, after it became clear he wouldn’t go on unprompted.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Mr. DeBell said immediately. “And you’ll always have a place here. Your parents earned it. Nat fought for me in the War, and Betty—” His voice caught, and when he continued, it was in a near-whisper. “She served us loyally for many years.”
Augie plucked at his sleeve. “They’re not coming back?”
“I’m sorry, children. I should have told you before now, but ... you were so young. Just know you’ll always have a place here. This is your home.” Mr. DeBell nodded at the chairs. “And those are part of it: you can sit in them as much as you’d like.”
He walked towards the door, right hand still playing s
cales. “Don’t worry about the rest of your tasks today—I’ll speak to Lucretia. Just ... enjoy.”
They didn’t move after he left, though. Not until some minutes later, when Augie slid off his chair and climbed up next to Neva on hers.
Then they just sat there. Quiet. Still.
Alone.
MONDAY MORNING, THOUGH—THE morning of Chicago Day—Neva had company: Brin. The Irishwoman was sitting beside her when she woke in the back of the storage room, lying atop the anarchists’ makeshift mattress. They said a muted hello, and then ...
“Mr. DeBell’s dead, love,” Brin whispered.
Neva winced but nodded. Her father’s end had been abundantly clear after Copeland finished firing—Mr. DeBell’s ribs had been showing in too many places for things to be different. Others’ fates were less clear, though. “And Wiley?” She spoke the words evenly, yet her stomach clenched as if bracing for a blow.
It hit hard.
“They got him to the hospital,” Brin said, squeezing her hand. “But that late, there was only a skeleton staff, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. Maybe Kezzie could have, but ... I’m sorry, Neva. He’s gone too.”
Neva shuddered and closed her eyes. But the Boer kept falling in her mind—falling to the floor as Mr. DeBell’s warbling notes compelled her to walk by. Wiley fell, she moved to catch him, he kept falling. It was like losing Augie all over again. Except she’d been right there, easily within reach. And he’d gone down anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Brin repeated, her words partially muffled as clangs and bangs started emanating from outside the storage room—the Irishwoman had already explained that it was early morning on Monday, which meant the Fair was coming to life after being closed all day Sunday, per the usual schedule. While Neva slept, the authorities had used the break to clean up the Administration Building, finish dragging the Lagoon (unsuccessfully), and hush up Saturday night’s events as thoroughly as possible. The anarchists had spent the time finalizing their plans. “We’ll avenge him today.”
Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Page 20