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 Guard 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?
“Sergeant,” Rice said to Wiley as he and Neva entered. “Close the door, if you please.”
He did so briskly and then stood next to her, opposite the table the three older men sat behind.
“What do you have to report about the tattoos?”
Wiley nodded at Neva, who hesitated before removing her gloves. “She has them, sir. They were brought on by the bites of insects.”
The three other men stood to get a better look. Rice swore, and Bonfield bellowed, but the plainclothesman asked the first question: “What type of insect?”
Wiley motioned for Neva to answer.
“All kinds,” she murmured, slipping her glove back on. “A swarm of them. Marked with these sickle shapes on their backs.”
“You saw this?” Bonfield asked Wiley.
“Not the ones that assaulted her, sir. But I witnessed a later incident. And the evidence is on her skin.”
“Clearly,” Rice said, peering at the bite marks peppering Neva’s face and neck. “What other incident?”
“Her brother was attacked as well, a few minutes later.”
“Augie Freeman,” Neva added quickly. “Now he’s missing.”
Bonfield nodded absently and gestured at the pouch Wiley still held, away from his body and clutched only by thumb and forefinger. “Did you catch some of the bugs?”
“No. But this was in the Algerian Theatre, above the stage.” He slid the pouch across the table.
Rice looked inside, swore, and passed the pouch to Bonfield, who swore louder and handed it to the plainclothesman. Frowning, he pulled the drawstring tight. “Perhaps they’re inducing the insects somehow,” he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Using some sort of strange chemistry that frenzies the vermin and reacts with their venom to form the rash.”
Wiley furrowed his brow. “They?”
The plainclothesman didn’t reply, but Bonfield did: “This is Miles Copeland, Pinkerton detective and our liaison with the Chicago Police Department.”
Was it Neva’s imagination, or had Wiley grown tenser? True, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency had devolved into something of a mercenary outfit. But wouldn’t its experience with providing security only help in this situation?
Oblivious, Bonfield continued: “I know Miles well. Good man. He’s been helping me oversee the Secret Service. We suspect the White Chapel Club of—”
“John,” Rice interrupted, glancing significantly at Neva.
Bonfield grunted. “Pardon.” He turned to her and frowned, as if she were a servant and he’d only now remembered her presence. “Miss—I’m sorry, Sergeant, what was her name?”
“Neva Freeman, sir.”
“Miss Freeman, I hope we can count on your discretion
