Tempest in the White City (2 page)

They turned to him, the Syrian sweeping him from forelock to hoof, the American gal turning as red as could be.

“Ladies.” He moved away from the doorway and leaned against the corridor wall.

What the blazes was happening? He’d been bitten by a rattler, thrown off a horse, and shot clean through, but he’d never experienced anything like this. Something had had his stomach in a noose for all these many days. And whatever it was, it was beginning to tighten even further, each pull more torturous than the last.

His breath came in spurts. His head swam. His legs weakened.

Was God fixing to pull his picket pin? Right here? While he was guarding a bunch of feminine frippery?

Don’t You dare,
he thought.

His reputation would be ruined. What would they put on his gravestone?
Here lies Hunter Scott, a fellow capable of grinding the sights off a six-shooter with his teeth, dropped unceremoniously dead in the Woman’s Building.

The
Woman’s
Building. He’d be hanged before he let that happen.

Slipping a watch from his pocket, he checked the dial. Fifteen more minutes. Shifts were short and sweet at the Fair. Four hours on, four hours off for the day fellows. A continuous eight for the night ones.

Pushing himself off the wall, he made his way toward the Assembly Room like some stall-fed tenderfoot. The women would be doing one of their demonstrations. If he took a seat in the back row, he’d at least be able to keep from hitting the ground. Then, when the replacement guard reported for duty, he’d walk straight out of here and go die somewhere else.

A wave of nausea climbed up his esophagus. Clamping his teeth, he forced it down.

It was standing room only in the Assembly Room. Every blasted chair was filled, except for a few in the front row. He wasn’t about to sit in one of those.

Propping himself up in the back corner, he scanned the room out of habit. Big, airy chamber with electric lights hanging from the rafters. Two sets of doors at the back, leading to a model kitchen with all the latest appliances. Windows facing north. Rows of wooden chairs filled with hundreds of women, every species of bird in America sitting stuffed and wired to their hats.

Three men. One snoring. One ogling a gal two rows ahead of him. One held captive by the speaker at the front of the room.

Best as he could tell, they were being taught how to beat an egg. The matron on stage wore a crisp apron over her ample frame, everything a-jiggling as she whipped that thing like a barber preparing shaving cream.

His gut rumbled and gave the sort of protest he normally encountered on the trail when he’d eaten nothing but beans. But he wasn’t on the trail. He was in a room full of ladies.

Tightening every muscle in his body, he tried to distract himself by listening to the lengthy discourse.

“Once you’ve made the egg whites foamy by swishing your whisk back and forth, start beating in a circular motion, lifting your whisk up and out of the whites.”

He’d never realized how long it took to beat egg whites. But she didn’t break a sweat, nor did she switch arms. ’Course, her arm was almost as big as his. Still, his had a lot more zig than zag.

“Egg whites are good for more than making meringue,” she continued. “They are also the very best substance to be used in clarifying jelly. Since they’re nearly pure albumen, you can put them into any muddy liquid. The albumen coagulates in a flocculent manner, entangling with it the impurities. It then rises to the surface as scum—or sinks to the bottom, depending on the weight.”

A murmur of surprise and admiration rustled about the room.

He blinked. She sure did use some decorated words. Pulling out his watch, he checked the time. Five more minutes. Maybe he should start heading downstairs. No telling how many times he’d have to stop between here and there.

“The critical moment has arrived.” The woman scooped the now-spongy whites onto a dessert of some sort.

The ladies in the back stood. Keeping close to the wall, he inched toward the side entrance, forcing his legs to support him.

“I must take a moment to denounce the practice of cleaning out implements by the use of the forefinger.” Her voice took on a severe tone. “A good cook would never do any such thing.”

Soft applause covered his stumbling exit.

Once he made good his escape, he headed toward the stairs, tempted to let the beans—or whatever it was—have their way, but Mrs. Duke approached the landing, her face lighting with recognition.

Blast. She’d need help down, one step at a time. Then again, it would be the perfect excuse to go down slowly. He just wasn’t sure he could keep himself vertical that long.

“You finished touring?” he managed to ask.

“I’m quite fatigued, I’m afraid.”

He thought to direct her to the cooking class, but he’d have to escort her all the way back and then down to the front row. Besides, it sounded as if they were wrapping things up.

“Can I interest you in an elevator ride?” He nodded toward a boxed-in compartment a few feet away. “It will take you down to the ground floor quick as a wink.”

Her eyes widened. “Is it safe?”

“Absolutely. Made and installed by the Otis brothers themselves.”

“How much does it cost to ride?”

“Not a thing.”

She glanced at it. “But isn’t it electric?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He held out his arm, his body swaying a bit to the left. “How about I ride down with you?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, if you think it’s safe.”

Instead of answering, he used all his faculties to usher her to the elevator. The effort took every bit of slack out of his rope.

The elevator attendant offered his stool to Mrs. Duke. Hunter propped himself up in the corner.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

The question hung in the air as Hunter looked at the attendant, pretending he was the one she’d addressed.

She squinted. “Are you sick, Mr. Scott?”

“No, ma’am.” It was all he could manage.

“You’re white as a sheet.”

“Must be these electric lights.”

How much longer?
he thought. He’d never had reason to ride one of these things. Had no idea it was so slow. He could’ve been down the stairs two times over by now.

“I’ve birthed sixteen children and buried a good many of them, along with six husbands. I think I ought to know a sick man when I see one.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you are sick?”

“No, ma’am.”

Clearing his throat, the elevator attendant leaned slightly toward Mrs. Duke. “Some people become a little nervous their first time.”

“You insinuating I’m afraid?” Hunter drilled the man with his gaze. He may be dying, but he hadn’t hung up his spurs just yet.

A bell chimed, and the car bounced to an abrupt stop. Hunter’s knees buckled under the sudden jarring. Pressing his hands against the wall, he caught himself halfway down. His belly curled up like barbs on a barbed wire fence, doubling him over.

“Go get help.” Mrs. Duke prodded the elevator man’s back.

“I’m not allowed to leave my post.”

Somebody moaned. It took him a minute to realize it had been him.

“Do not argue with me, sir.” Frail as she was, that tone was a force to be reckoned with. The elevator man pulled the accordion door open and scurried to do her bidding.

Hunter grasped the side of the opening. “I’m fine.” But for the life of him, he couldn’t straighten up.

She patted his back, her hand knobby. “It’s all right. You go ahead and sit down now. Help will be here soon.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” He would not, could not die in this godforsaken building. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He stumbled, half-crouched, to the
Primitive Woman
fresco, teetered to the right, and knocked two paintings off the wall in a bid to catch himself.

Bile rushed up his throat. He was going to cast up his accounts, right here on the polished wooden floor of the Woman’s Building, and offend every sensibility these ladies had.

He pressed a fist to his mouth. His ears began to ring.

The sound of heavy, running footfalls galloped toward him. What had the attendant done, call the fire brigade?

But instead, polished black boots and blue trousers with a familiar red stripe appeared in his vision. Eddie Carlisle. The relief guard.

Squatting down, Carlisle grabbed Hunter’s arm. “What the blazes happened?”

“Get me outta here.” He had to push the words through gritted teeth, for the bile still threatened.

“Were you stabbed? Shot? Shoved? Did you break something? Where does it hurt?”

“Stomach.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.” But when he tried to straighten, his legs again turned to jelly.

Carlisle caught him. “Okay, pal. I’m going to carry you. Don’t fight me, all right?”

You can’t.
But even as Hunter thought it, Carlisle grabbed his wrist and slipped an arm between his legs. Once he had Hunter’s torso across his shoulders, Carlisle stood, bearing all two-hundred-plus pounds of Hunter’s six-foot bulk.

Wheezing, Carlisle staggered for a second. “Die and be doomed. What’d you eat for breakfast? A grizzly?”

But Hunter wasn’t fooled. The Columbian Guards—named for the World’s Columbian Exposition—had been handpicked from thousands of applicants for their height, physique, ability, and character. They had to be between twenty-one and thirty-five, at least five-foot-eight, and competent in their ability to serve and protect.

Carlisle was ex-army, with a craw full of sand and fighting tallow. A year younger than Hunter’s twenty-seven, he spoke three languages and had pummeled Hunter with questions about life as a Ranger. It had been an honor to serve beside him—even if it was in the Woman’s Building.

“This way,” a female voice whispered, dainty heels clipping along in front of them.

The floor rushed by in a blur. He held on to consciousness, refusing to close his eyes, not wanting to chance succumbing to the pain until he was across the threshold and on the gravel walkway.

But instead of emerging into sunshine, he was carried sideways through a narrow doorway and into an apartment of some kind.

No,
he thought,
you’re going the wrong way. The front door. Go to the front door.

A succession of cabinets with glass-fronted doors held multitudes of vials, jars, and boxed medicines. He groaned. The infirmary. Carlisle had taken him to the blasted infirmary.

“Get me out of here.” His voice had a raspy quality he wasn’t accustomed to.

Another door. A female voice. A flash of white.

Carlisle bent his knees, then did a thrust, tossing Hunter up and over. He landed with a
thunk
on a cot.

Oooph
. Hunter grabbed a fistful of Carlisle’s jacket. “I don’t want to die . . . in an infirmary . . . in the Woman’s Building.”

Carlisle didn’t so much as flinch. “Then get up and walk out.”

Hunter tried to rise. Pain sliced across his gut.

Carlisle pushed him down with two fingers.

Why was Carlisle doing this? Doctors were the enemy. They tortured people. Killed them, even.

Still, Hunter didn’t say anything. He was a Ranger first, a Columbian Guard second. If he fell into the hands of the enemy, he wouldn’t do it with his eyes bulging out like a tromped-on toad.

He looked at his friend. “Go on. Save yourself.”

A touch of humor flashed across Carlisle’s face. “I’m going to go make the rounds. I’ll check on you after a while.”

I’ll be dead
. But before he could voice the thought, the pain in his stomach spread up his back and wrapped around his chest. Much as he wanted to curl up, he didn’t move or make a sound.

A nurse with flaxen hair and large blue eyes took Carlisle’s place beside the bed and put a cool hand against Hunter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

At least she wasn’t the one he’d stopped on the steps. He wouldn’t have wanted his insistence on safety to come back and bite him now.

Unscrewing a cylindrical case on her chatelaine, she removed a thermometer and shook down the mercury. “Open up.”

“Just call in the doc and let’s get this over with.”

“The doctor needs to know your temperature.”

“Knowing my temperature isn’t going to change a thing.” He was dying. He knew that, and was ready to meet his Maker. He might be too incapacitated to do anything about his location, but he sure could do something about what occurred his final moments on earth. And if it was the last thing he did, he was going to die with a little dignity.

The gas he’d been holding made a fierce, noisy, involuntary exit.

The nurse’s eyes widened.

His face went from feverish to scalding. “Get out.”

Her expression softened. “Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed—”

“Out,” he barked.

She stumbled back. “You needn’t—”

“Out!”

Whirling about, she fled.

The minute the door closed behind her, he let the rest of it loose. He knew the doc wouldn’t mind. Those fellows had seen and smelled a lot worse.

The expulsion offered a tiny bit of relief. Not enough to sit up, but enough to turn his head. His cot stood higher than normal, with an invalid’s table on his left. A rack along one wall held bandages made of all sorts of materials. Below them were surgical instruments, syringes, ligatures, and scissors.

A framed diploma on the wall caught his attention. It was from the University of Michigan. That was something, at least. The doc was trained. Didn’t make him trustworthy, but it offered a tiny measure of reassurance.

The name had been written in fancy script. Billy . . . He squinted. Billy Jack Tate. Funny, he didn’t recall any man entering the Woman’s Building on a consistent basis. Nurses, yes. Doctors, no. Still, the fair had only been open for a month. Perhaps he’d been making rounds inside when the doc came and went. Or maybe the doc worked during Carlisle’s shift.

The door opened. It was the hat-pin lady. A stethoscope curled about her neck like a winter scarf, a tiny megaphone-looking thing on one end, earpieces on the other. If the odor in the room affected her, she gave no indication of it.