• • •
Another train ride, alone, on the way to an uncertain future. The car swayed gently, but I couldn’t rest. I hadn’t been back to Baltimore since the events before Lincoln’s inauguration. Tim had been with me then, but we hadn’t known that we were wasting time not loving each other. There was so much we hadn’t known.
I felt a pang when I rode past the abandoned cabin on my way into the city. I told myself that I would visit, thinking of Tim, once Mortenson was in custody. But I didn’t know if I would survive the next few days, and if I admitted the truth to myself, my plans for Mortenson didn’t involve custody at all.
Carl Hudson’s row house was tidy and empty. I knocked on the door, and hearing no answer, I picked the lock and entered. Each small room was easy to take in at a glance, and when I stood in the last room, the kitchen, it was clear I would not find Mortenson here. I thought about searching the rooms for the money, which would prove his guilt, but it wasn’t the money I wanted.
I knew he was nearby. It sounds odd, but I recognized the smell of him. Even after all the years that had passed, I knew he had been there. I weighed my options—Wait for him to return? Call the local authorities?—and then I realized it was time for the noon meal. There was no food in the house’s kitchen, and it had clearly not been used in months. Therefore, it was likely that he frequented the nearest saloon for his meals.
And indeed, I found him two blocks away, in a good-sized saloon called the Tender Heart, just steps from bustling Commerce Street. He sat alone at a table with a mug of beer and a ham sandwich. I almost laughed. It was as if he were any man, any normal person, and not a killer and a fiend.
The years had changed him. He was less pale, having clearly spent enough time in the sun to tan his skin a darker shade. But he was more wiry, less flesh and more bone, so even more like a skeleton than he had ever been. My body convulsed at the sight of him. Seeing him was the most welcome and most unwelcome sight possible, all at once. I was finally face-to-face with the person responsible for Tim’s death, and the knowledge sang through every muscle, demanding action, demanding justice.
A smart woman would have called the police, but I would not wait. I strode over to his table and sat down across from him. He started—who wouldn’t?—but quickly covered his shock with an ugly, oily grin.
“It’s you,” he said. “The girl.”
“It’s you,” I said. “The traitor.”
“I was faithful to my country. My country isn’t the same as yours.” His accent was stronger now, far more pronounced, a sharp Kentucky twang. He had stopped trying to hide who he was, who he wanted to be.
“Beyond that. You were a traitor to Pinkerton,” I said.
“I should have venerated him for what? Was he loyal to me, when he kicked me out in the street?”
“You deserved that.”
He laughed and took a long drink from his mug of beer before answering. Because he was sitting down, I couldn’t be sure whether he was wearing a gun under his jacket. His hands were on the table, so I knew whatever happened, I could reach mine first.
As if it were unimportant, as if our conversation were just mere conversation, he mused, “Does anyone get what they deserve? Is that what you think?”
“Yes.”
“Then I hope you sleep well at night on your lovely pillow of self-righteousness.”
“I sleep fine,” I lied.
“Without either Tim Bellamy or Allan Pinkerton in your bed?”
“Appalling, still,” I said. “You don’t know the first thing about my private life.”
“Only that you’re a whore.” His voice grew more intent, colder. “And you never were a good agent.”
I gestured at our surroundings. “Good enough to catch you.”
“Ah, but have you caught me?”
“It would seem so.”
With one long, slender finger, he pointed over my shoulder at the door to the outside. “I can see the exit. I’m faster and bigger than you. What are you going to do to stop me?”
In answer, I rose and brought my gun out of the folds of my skirt with both hands, pointing it straight at his heart. I’d never had to shoot a man in the line of duty, but I’d kept in practice. I’d also set aside the Deringer for a lightweight Colt Baby Dragoon, figuring that if things got so desperate that I had to shoot, I’d better have the option to shoot more than once.
The look on his face did not soften. If anything, he looked more defiant, not less.
Someone at the next table stood so quickly that their chair overturned. I could hear murmurings. It would have been better to corner him alone, but I couldn’t take the chance at losing him.
He said, “That’s a very small gun.”
“The bullets are big enough.”
He rose—seeming taller than I remembered—and backed away, edging past the table toward the open floor. I thought I saw the outline of a holster on his hip but couldn’t be sure.
The crowd surged and swam around us, buzzing like a hive. For a moment, there was nothing but empty space between us, but there were too many people behind him, and I didn’t have a clear shot. I should have waited. I hadn’t waited. Now, one way or the other, we’d have our reckoning.
The crowd was thinning quickly as the inhabitants of the saloon stood and ran. A few ran between us, and I stepped forward to keep my eye trained on Mortenson. He grabbed at a woman running near him and missed, cursing as she slipped his grasp. Soundlessly, she kept running, and I cheered her just as silently as she escaped. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Only my quarry. Only he deserved to suffer for what he’d done.
In what seemed like the space of a minute, it was just the two of us facing each other.
“You took that ring, didn’t you?” It wasn’t really a question.
He didn’t have to ask which ring. He had tried to discredit me, to discourage me, so many years ago. Our vendetta had begun then; I just hadn’t realized it. I wondered whether he had, when he took the snake ring from me on the streets of Chicago and slipped it back into the safe two days later, hoping to turn Pinkerton against me. It hadn’t worked. At least on that front, I had won.
“Why does that matter?” he asked.
“Everything matters. You should know that, as a former detective.”
“Former? Ah, Kate. You’re such a fool sometimes. Once a detective, always a detective.”
I let his words hang in the air, unanswered. We were done playing. Everything behind us was unimportant now. What mattered was that one of us would survive the confrontation, and it was time to settle which one.
“You won’t shoot me,” he said. “Whatever else you are, you’re a lady.”
His hand was on its way down to his holster when my first bullet caught him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. The recoil stung, but I forced my hand back up into position for a second shot while he struggled to right himself, his gun in his hand. He got a shot off in my direction, and with no time to aim, my second shot went wild. I heard his gun click in the silence, out of bullets. We both took a breath. Then he hunched low, clutching his shoulder, scurrying behind tables and between chairs toward the exit.
I went to take a step forward and fell. Only then did I realize my right leg wasn’t working quite right. I looked down to confirm it. I should not have. Through the many layers of my skirting, I couldn’t see the wound, but the blood was spreading quickly, and the fabric was already heavy with it. The stain radiated out from my thigh. The leg was numb now, but I knew the pain would come quickly, and I couldn’t get ahead of it, no matter what I did.
I cursed angrily, loudly. I’d come so far; there was no chance I would let him get away.
I fired from where I was. My third shot missed. My fourth one buried itself in his back, and he fell. But then he was up again, faster than I was, and out in the street.
I ignored the fire in my right leg and hauled myself up on my left, hobbling as fast as I could, panting. I had one bullet left. I prayed for the chance to use it.
He was waiting for me at the door and flung his body onto mine. We landed in the dirt with a shared grunt. My pistol skidded away.
The crowd held itself back, watching, as we scuffled our way into the street. Both of our guns were lost. He was bigger and stronger than I was, but he was losing blood faster too—at least, so far. He raised a fist to punch me, but I twisted my head away in a flash, and his knuckles pounded straight into the earth, stunning him for a moment. I thought I heard bones crack.
Then I looked around us, knowing that unless I did something, the next fist would take me out. Passersby stood gawking, not inclined to pick a side but willing to watch the scrum. I saw nothing within reach that I could grab to defend myself.
Only one thing stood out. I heard it before I saw it. We lay in the center of the road, people and animals surging in all directions, the bustle unceasing. A high-stepping horse, pulling a black wagon of heaped-up goods, was speeding in our direction, likely to pass close by us on the right side. I made the fastest decision of my life. I knew a weapon when I saw one.
I kneed Mortenson between the legs, wrapped my arms around him, and began to roll us both into the horse’s path. He rolled with me, not knowing what I intended. How could he?
I heard the driver yell. I heard the horse whinny and rear. I heard the iron wheels of the carriage rattle and thump.
Then they were upon us, and I heard nothing after that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Investigation
I opened my eyes to the pockmarked ceiling of a hospital room, the second time in my life I had done so. My broken body lay on stiff white sheets again. I felt my losses more keenly this time, knowing exactly who and what I had lost and when. I’d been barely more than a child myself when I lost my child, but that was not the only difference. I wanted to feel relief and joy. I’d succeeded in the hardest chase of my life. But mostly, I felt pain. Unrelenting, sharp, and persistent, everywhere.
“Kate.”
I turned my head slowly, carefully, toward the voice. It felt like it took a year.
Pinkerton was sitting next to my bed, his chin propped and resting on one fist, as still as I had ever seen him. He was like a statue. When I stirred, a soft groan escaping my dry lips, he immediately turned his attention to me.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No need.”
“You did what no one else could.”
I let myself drift a bit. Was it true? It might be. I wanted it to be.
His voice brought me back again. “I want to tell you—Warne, you’re the best operative I have.”
“Tim was the best.”
He waited a moment before responding. “I miss him too.”
I appreciated that the man was letting himself show emotion, but it was still an order of magnitude less than I knew I felt, deep down. Whatever satisfaction I’d achieved by hunting down Mortenson, the pain of losing Tim was still just as acute.
“But you—you have always been something special.”
“Thank you.”
“And we need you back.”
“What?”
“Please. Come back. Work for me—work with me.”
“It might take a while,” I joked and would have gestured to my bandages if I could have moved.
“When you get better.”
My brain was muddled. I wasn’t sure whether the horse had stomped on it directly or whether the pain there was due to blood loss, ether, or other injury. Still, the answer came quickly to my lips. “To do what? I’m done spying. I can’t, Boss.”
“When the war is over, then. I’m going to need brilliant operatives of all kinds, and you’ll be the star in the firmament. If you want to run an office, you can. If you want to start up the Ladies’ Bureau again, train all my female operatives, you can. But I need you. This will be your legacy.”
His use of the word stopped me short. I had been about to protest, but I didn’t. Because I remembered what my mother had said, that a woman’s family was her legacy. I had no family, but I did have a legacy. I had something else I could do with my life to make it worth living. In that case, I would be proud of what I left behind. And yet…
“I’ve done terrible things,” I blurted.
He seemed to take it in stride. “Are you dead yet?”
“Boss?”
“Are you dead yet?”
I flicked my eyes down at my hospital bed and said, “It’s not entirely clear.”
“Warne,” he said.
This time, I knew he was serious, so I answered, “No. Not yet.”
“Then the balance of your soul hasn’t been weighed. Yes, you’ve done bad things. We all have.”
“Have you killed anyone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And do you feel bad about it? Does it weigh down your soul?”
He considered this, rubbing his chin with one hand, thoughtful. “All the things I’ve done, good and bad, honest and dishonest, they stay with me. Always with me. But do I feel bad about them? It depends on the day.”
It seemed a fair answer. I couldn’t ask for much more.
He continued, “And you’ve done good things too. Saved lives. Brought justice. Come back to the agency. And do more good, for more of the world.”
“Let me think about it,” I said.
“Take all the time you need. The day the war ends, I want you to come to me and tell me your answer.”
“All right.”
He reached out for my hand. This is how I found out both of my hands were broken, swathed in white bandages. I shook my head a little, as best I could, and said, “Thanks anyway, Boss.”
He laid his hand on my head like a benediction. His palm was warm and heavy. “Thank you, Kate.”
• • •
Recovery was easier said than done. The physical injuries were bad enough: broken ribs, broken hands, a galaxy of scrapes and bruises everywhere the doctors looked. My attempt at sacrificing my life to take Mortenson’s was noble, I told myself, but I should have been more thorough in the execution. This way, I was only half dead. Some days, it felt like more than half.
Even as the bruises faded and my bones began to slowly knit themselves back together under the skin, I lacked the spirit to move forward, a reason to get up and tackle each day. My first and last thought every day was how much I missed Tim, how large a hole he’d left in the world. Mortenson was dead, yes, but it changed nothing. Greenhow had slipped beyond my grasp; she had run the blockade to England and published a book about her adventures, raising money for her cause. I supposed I could write a book too, but there were so many things I never wanted anyone to know, I hardly saw how there would be anything left to write about.
Once I had the use of my hands again and the worst of the fog had cleared from my brain, I read many books while I lay in the hospital recovering. Hers was not one of them.
I’d hoped for a visit from Hattie or DeForest, but they were both on assignment. The war still raged on, though I could not see it from my bed. From time to time, I got a letter from one or the other. I could only tell which by the handwriting. Both sent highly creative letters—fake love letters sometimes, or a chatty missive as if from a gossipy aunt, all in code to keep things secret. One of Hattie’s letters, full of atrocious doggerel written as if from a half-literate soldier to his unfaithful shopgirl, made me laugh so hard, I reinjured a rib. Those days were the best days. Unfortunately, the light always seemed to slip too quickly from the sky, my tiny window fading to blackness, abandoning me to the interminable nights.
I thought a lot about Tim, and I wondered what would have happened had he lived. Would we have burned bright or burned out? If I told him I w
ould never bear children, nor would I ever walk away from my position as an operative willingly, would he still have wanted to marry me? I had no way of knowing the answers. There was no world where those things had happened, only the world where they hadn’t. And I had to remind myself, every day, that I needed to be grateful I’d had his love as long as I had, even as short a time as it was.
Once I was able to walk again and to think without my head feeling like it was caving in on itself, I came to a decision. I would be a detective again, but this time, for myself. I would find my parents and make sure they could never hurt me. How I would guarantee that I didn’t know. Life generally held no such guarantees. But I had shrunk my whole life from confronting them, and now that I was lost and alone, perhaps the best thing I could do with my Pinkerton training was to hunt down where I’d come from and the people who made me who I was.
They were easier than I thought to find. They were buried, side by side, in Charleston. The sun fought its way through the gnarled oaks to cast a dappled shadow over them.
There would be no reckoning, no confrontation. I had been cheated of it. The wounds Mortenson gave me in our final battle had mostly healed, but the wounds my parents had given me would be with me for life.
I moved back to Chicago. The city had settled a little in my absence and felt not quite so wild. The raising was complete, and the sewers worked well. The stink off the river seemed diminished. I selected a new boardinghouse and a new identity. Hattie had finished her assignments on the front and was based in Chicago again—a good sign both for the war and the agency. She offered to room together, and I was sorely tempted to have a friend so close by. But I had been on my own so long, I worried I wouldn’t be suited for a closer living situation, so I told Hattie we would visit frequently, and she agreed.
I was glad for my privacy in October. Strangely, I didn’t even remember how the shocking news reached me. Did I come across it in a newspaper? Overhear it in a shop? I only knew that my reaction to it was not at all what I would have expected.
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