Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1), Nick Wisseman [best novels for students .TXT] 📗

Copeland worked her over with his eyes another few seconds. “No, it doesn’t explain your actions. Or why you seem intent on refusing the Guard’s protection.” He glanced at Wiley, who raised his hands, as if to show how helpless he’d been to prevent her from eluding him.

Copeland shook his head in a way that indicated he didn’t hold Wiley blameless—clearly, they’d discussed the subject and probably would again. “But it would be in your best interests to keep a lower profile and stay under our care.” The Pinkerton leaned back and tapped a report on his side of the table. “The case isn’t over yet: two more bodies surfaced today.”

Wiley straightened in his chair; Neva wanted to slump in hers.

“Where?” he asked.

Copeland pointed to a map of Chicago pinned against the closest wall. Someone had marked eight X’s at various points: five in and around the Fair, one in Bridgeport, and two in the Levee. Six of the marks had been made with thick strokes. The seventh and eighth had lighter lines. Neva had a sinking feeling they were the most recent.

She was right.

“The latest victim turned up in an alley off 21st Street,” Copeland said. “But we think the place of death was Gaffney’s Saloon on 22nd—there was a brawl there yesterday, more vicious than usual. One of the barmaids confirmed the victim’s involvement, but she wouldn’t say anything more.”

“I imagine that’s not the first patron Gaffney’s dragged out of his saloon and stashed around the block,” Wiley said. “This one had the rashes, though?”

“Several. But no signs of cannibalism or dismemberment. Just beat to hell—he’s a little fellow, and someone did quite the number on him.”

Neva forced herself to breathe. It was the small man she’d fought at the saloon ... But he’d been alive when she left him. Unconscious and bleeding, but alive. Had his injuries been worse than they looked? Or had whoever knocked him out while she was struggling to control herself damaged him past the point of recovery? Maybe Ink—

No.

No, she couldn’t put this on someone else. This was her crime, of intent if not execution. She’d wanted to kill the man, and he’d died. It didn’t matter that the rashes had been behind her rage (and his). The responsibility was hers. She had to accept it.

Just not in front of Copeland.

“What about the other new victim?” she asked quietly, dreading this answer almost as much. “Is this it?” She pointed to the lightly drawn X crisscrossing the outskirts of the Fair.

“Youngish woman,” he confirmed. “Partially mutilated, but it seems more rushed.”

“So there’s a second killer,” Wiley mused.

“At least,” Copeland said. “We’re still looking into the White Chapel Club, but we haven’t been able to connect them to the porter yet. That’s where I’m hoping Miss Freeman can help.”

Breathe, Neva reminded herself as the Pinkerton reached for a piece of paper and spun it around to face her. Inhale, exhale, and be.

“Does this look like him?” asked Copeland. Sketched on the paper was a recreation of that terrible moment when the porter had closed his eyes and lapped up the Civil War veteran’s blood. But the artist—no doubt having gleaned the details from the accounts of terrified onlookers—had worked evil into the porter’s every line, distorting his face in subtle but significant ways. The result wasn’t as cartoonish as the depictions Neva had seen in the newspapers, but it wasn’t much better.

And it didn’t look a thing like Augie.

“Yes, that’s the porter,” she said. “As best I can remember.”

“And you don’t recognize him from anywhere else? You didn’t see him at some other point during the Fair?”

Once again, she was tempted to retort that colored people weren’t all acquainted with one another; once again, she thought better of it. “Sorry. Before this all happened, I spent most of my time at the Theatre.”

Copeland’s eyes radiated incredulity, but she was starting to suspect they always looked mistrustful. After a moment, he grunted, pulled the sketch back, and spun another around in its place. “Does she look familiar?”

This drawing showed an alluring woman in a low-cut dress. The shading about her cleavage suggested the artist—likely the same one who’d drawn the porter—found the exposed flesh particularly important. Her inviting smile was similarly emphasized: she was supposed to look wanton ... like a prostitute. Was this Brin’s Kezzie? “I’ve never seen her before,” Neva said truthfully. “Was she one of the victims?”

Copeland grunted affirmatively. “The first we found. What about these names?” He put a third piece of paper in front of Neva. It contained only text: Kezzie’s formal name, as well as four more, including the other two that had featured in the Tribune the day before, and—

Rena Barrot.

“Oh, God,” Neva whispered, the fear conjured by Copeland’s description of a “youngish woman” now realized. “That’s Dob’s mother.”

“Ah. And how do you know her?”

Wiley stepped in when Neva didn’t—couldn’t—answer, explaining how they’d come upon Dob and taken him to the Daycare.

“I see,” Copeland replied. “I’ll make sure the family is notified.” He pulled his list back and slid it into a stack of other notes. “I may have to call on you again once we identify the other victims ... Unless you’d prefer to leave the Fair altogether?”

Wiley shot her a sidelong look. Did he want her to go too? On the face of things, it was certainly the wisest course of action. But that had been true for days, and she still didn’t know who—if anyone—had set the insects to injecting their awful venom. “I’ll stay,” Neva said after a short pause.

Copeland nodded. “Stay close to Wiley this time. It’s in your best interest.” He consulted another sheet of notes. “No sign of your brother?”

She allowed a tremor into her voice. It didn’t take much acting. None at all, really; she had more than enough emotion to draw from. “Not yet, but I’m still looking. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing at all.” He gestured at