Neva’s first impulse had taken her several steps toward the veteran, but he’d already stopped moving. And while most of her wanted nothing more than to flee like everyone else, the porter was pulling something out of his pocket, a bit of cloth trimmed in white and patterned by a colorful, repeating tessellation.
A design that looked very like the one adorning the handkerchief Dob had blown his nose with by the Women’s Building.
The porter used the cloth to dab his lips and beard. When his eyes opened, they were wide with ecstasy. But his expression rapidly changed to wariness, and then ... recognition.
He’d seen Neva.
Before she could react, the porter turned and ran toward the ferry, cut back, hurdled the fence separating the east- and westbound portions of the Sidewalk, and raced past on the fast belt. To her surprise, she followed.
It felt foolish from the first footfall, and even more so with each subsequent stride. Why hop a fence to chase someone who had the strength to dismember a man and the savagery to taste his spurting blood? But that handkerchief was either Dob’s or a perfect match—maybe his mother’s? And if either were true, perhaps the porter was also responsible for Augie’s disappearance. Or so Neva rationalized as she tailed the killer off the Sidewalk, past the Casino, and into the Court of Honor, where refugees from the Pier were sparking a general panic.
“Murder on the Pier!” bellowed a man sprinting into the Court.
“They’re eating people!” shrieked a woman close behind.
Many people thought this some sort of performance. Others understood the fear as genuine. Some froze, and some shouted questions, but a goodly number spooked faster than a herd of cattle, stampeding away from the lake and toward the Terminal Railway Station at the end of the court.
The scene became even more surreal when the lights switched on.
White bulbs lined all the great buildings, and every night, they flared to life at the same time, a brilliance accented by the inner illumination of the Columbian Fountain and the appearance of roving, colored spotlights. Normally the crowd reacted with delight—for many, the Fair was their first experience with electricity. Tonight, the sudden radiance just highlighted how quickly wonder had turned to terror.
Neva could see it to either side of her as she splashed through the Basin and shouldered her way past the Administration Building. On her right, a young man moved to catch his fainting sweetheart, only to miss her when a family of four burst between them, holding hands and charging hard. On Neva’s left, a cluster of women bowled over two Columbian Guards trying to restore order. Straight ahead, scores of fairgoers swarmed the Terminal Station and overwhelmed its turnstiles.
Details had yet to spread, however. No one took special notice of the porter or Neva as they slipped behind the Station. But the tumult made others unremarkable as well—she had no notion Wiley was running beside her until he put his hand on her shoulder.
“Come with me,” the Boer panted, his accent thickened by exertion.
She veered away before he could tighten his grip.
“Neva!” he yelled as he closed the distance between them again. “It’s not safe!”
Still running, she pointed ahead of her with one hand while fending off Wiley with the other. “There!” The porter had just passed the Hygeia Cooling Plant. “There’s your killer!”
Wiley shook his head and reached for her again.
She stopped long enough to let him lunge in front of her, then pushed him farther forward. “It’s him! He tore a man’s leg off!”
The porter glanced back at the same instant a rose spotlight swept across him, shading the blood staining his beard and hand a deeper, shinier crimson. Upon seeing Wiley—and Wiley’s uniform—he darted into the nearest building: Cold Storage.
Neva gave Wiley another shove. “It’s Leather Apron!” She sprang ahead again, only to be pulled back.
“Stay here,” Wiley ordered before sprinting toward Cold Storage’s entrance.
She followed anyway. He might mean well, but it wasn’t his brother that was missing.
Cold Storage’s ice rink wasn’t as crowded as it had been during the summer. But there were still plenty of tourists for Wiley and Neva to thread through as they chased the porter past the skate-rental booth and onto the ice. He didn’t seem to need skates—even dodging gliding fairgoers, he ran almost as fast as he had through the Court of Honor, never slipping.
Wiley wasn’t so lucky.
A girl skating at reckless speed clipped him after his first two steps, and in trying to steady himself, he nearly dragged down two thoroughly disgruntled gentlemen. Neva trusted to her dancer’s training to keep her balanced while she focused on the porter: he was already across the rink, yanking open a door marked “Fair Personnel Only” and shooting through it.
Neva did the same moments later, rushing inside what turned out to be a cavernous boiler room open all the way to the building’s sixth story. Three immense machines dominated the space, all banging away—probably to power the refrigeration units. The porter had begun climbing a ladder on the far side.
“Neva!” shouted Wiley as he entered behind her, the frost on his elbows and knees melting quickly in the intense heat. “What are you doing?”
She pointed to the ladder and bounded towards it. “Up there!”
But Wiley’s hands found purchase on her shoulders again. “If he is who you say he is, you shouldn’t be chasing him!”
Neva clenched her jaw against the coming pain and bent her shoulder bones, flattening their ridges to a snake-like smoothness. Wiley’s fingers fell away as she slithered free and sprinted to the ladder. “He might
