Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  “I saw you draw your gun. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she yelled as though everyone were as hard of hearing as she was. “The blast made me go deaf.” She turned and looked down at Smitty lying on the floor, his jaw shattered and distorted and blood creeping its way down both nostrils and his right ear. “I’m sorry, but nobody holds a gun to my head. Nobody.”

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for. He’d have shot you at the door, anyway,” Tom agreed by shouting once more. “I’m sure of it.”

  “So am I,” Abigail bellowed back. “I couldn’t let him get me there.” She looked down at her assailant’s crumpled body once more. “He’s still alive. See to him, Tom. You’re a doctor. I’m fine. I just need to sit down.”

  She teetered her way over to the back office once more, wobbling though the gate, and headed for a seat. The whirling in her stomach surprised her as she was normally a great deal more stoic than this. Honeybun rushed to assist her, taking her arm and conducting a voiceless conversation into her ringing ear. Abigail gave him a watery smile and shook her head. “The blast. I’m sorry, I can’t hear. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “Coffee!” the inspector hollered in her face. “Or some water. You look a little peaked—”

  She never heard him finish the sentence. The tintinnabulation in her ears grew louder, her head spun and her stomach flipped over in the most peculiar fashion. Everything went black. She never even felt the wooden floor as she face-planted on it right in front of Honeybun’s feet.

  “Oh, Lordy, what now? Patrick, go get Doc Bishop. He’s in the cells dealin’ with a drunk with a broken arm.” He gathered Abigail unceremoniously under the arms. “Eric, get her feet. There’s a couch in the chief’s office. We’ll put her in there.”

  ♦◊♦

  Abigail’s dark eyes flickered open to the cigar smoke-stained ceiling and the face of a man with mutton chops swam into view. “I’m Dr. Bishop, the police surgeon. How are you feeling?”

  At least her hearing seemed to be back to normal. She laid a hand on her forehead and didn’t attempt to move. “Fine, I think. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not the fainting kind.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Not at all.” Abigail looked down to see that her feet were propped on the arm of the sofa. Her scrambled senses reassembled themselves with each deep breath and she relaxed into the couch, allowing herself to gather her faculties as the doctor continued to talk.

  “Have you been feeling well recently? No periods of tiredness or nausea?”

  “I’ve been working very hard and doing irregular hours.” She shrugged. “It’s been a stressful time. You go through all that when you eat and sleep irregularly.”

  “I cleaned you up while you were out. The blood on your ear wasn’t yours, but you do have some powder burns on your ear and neck. They’ll heal in a couple of weeks, just keep them clean. You’ll also have a bruise on your cheek from hitting the floor face first.” He pulled up a chair. “What’s your name?”

  “Abigail.” She pushed herself upright. “I’m feeling much better now. Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Good, I expect all that was a bit of a shock to you out there. You’re not used to such drama, after all.”

  She pulled her feet around and sat fully upright. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s not an everyday occurrence, but we do train for it.”

  Dr. Bishop fixed her with a genial stare. “As I thought.” He reached out and took her hand and stared down at the palm. “Do you drink alcohol, Abigail? Tell me the truth.”

  “Palm reading? Is this a joke? I’m a modern woman and I don’t subscribe to such nonsense.” Her mouth firmed in indignation. “I drink socially at parties or gatherings. Maybe the odd glass of wine or sherry. If you are implying that I’m—”

  He cut her off. “No. I’m not implying anything of the kind. I’m merely eliminating another cause for a symptom I recognize. I’m a police surgeon and I subscribe to the methods used by men like Ploucquet. I use logic and observations, and I notice that you have Palmar Erythema. There can be a number of causes, but I wanted to eliminate the most common one. This isn’t so much about palm reading as palm reddening.”

  “Palmar Erythema?” she frowned.

  “Red palms. It’s nothing to worry about. We see it in patients for various reasons. Are you married?”

  “My marital status is irrelevant.” The dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. “They’ve been a little itchy. It’s nothing to worry about. Why do you need to know?”

  “Well, because it might make the news I’m about to give you somewhat happier.” Dr. Bishop ran his fingers over her palm. “You have Palmar Erythema. You have just suffered a vasovagal syncope—that’s a fainting attack to you—when you state that’s not normal for you. Women in the early stages of pregnancy are prone to both, especially when they’ve just had a shock.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened as a ball of lead seemed to form in her gullet. “Pregnant?”

  “Is there a possibility that you could be pregnant, madam? Are your menses late?”

  “I—” Her mind’s eye filled with visions of that night back at Ghost Canyon and Nat’s eyes burning through the darkness as he stared into her soul. She could feel the electric touch of his silken fingers and the simple primal humanity of skin on skin. The memory filled her nostrils with the scent of his musk as her voice caught with a ragged rasp. “Yes. It is possible.”

  The doctor’s brow met in consternation. “Are you unmarried?”

  She braced herself and looked the man in the eye. She didn’t need scandal, but she could tell the truth about this. “I married seven years ago.”

  “And you work? What is your husband thinking?” He frowned. “This is a shock to you.”

  “I was told I could never have another after I lost my son some years ago. He was stillborn. The thought of going through that again is daunting.”

  The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I can see that was devastating for you. These things happen. The good Lord has a way of making things work when you’re ready and He’s given you some time to heal.” One hirsute brow arched. “Where is your husband?”

  “Strictly speaking, I’m not working right now. I am employed by the Pinkerton Agency, but I’m on leave so I could retrieve my sister who ran away to enter an unsuitable marriage. That man is in the cells.” She paused, her cautious mind balancing the loyalty a doctor would feel toward a loose woman over what he might say to her colleague who was a fellow medical professional. She needed to get this man on her side to stop him from blabbing to Tom Bartlett. Any indication that she and Nat had ever been lovers would be the end of both of them. “My husband has a bad heart and it prevents him from holding down a steady job. He’s a lawyer and does bits and pieces when he can. I do what I can to keep the household running. Of course that will have to end now.” She placed a tense knuckle to her lips, the news still sinking in. “Are you certain, Doctor?”

  He shook his head, his tightening mouth indicating ambivalence. “Not completely, but the signs are there. Are you late? And are you normally quite regular?”

  “Yes, to both.” She sighed. “This is a lot to take in.”

  “I could examine you to see if the cervix is closed. That would confirm it.”

  Abigail shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll wait and let nature disclose its secrets in due course.”

  “I understand.” He stood. “Congratulations, Mrs.—”

  “Mrs. Stewart. I work under my maiden name of MacKay as a professional alias. May I ask an indulgence? Please don’t mention this to my colleague. He’s a doctor too, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m leaving before I tell Mr. Pinkerton himself. It would be extremely discourteous. And there’s always the possibility that I’m not pregnant at all.”

  “Of course.” Dr. Bishop stood, “I’ll be surprised if you aren’t. I’d take things easy though, just in case.”

  “Thank you. I need to
take my sister home to Brooklyn now that her husband has been arrested. It looks like I’ll be staying out there if you’re correct.” She rose and shook his hand. “Goodness, Dr. Bishop. My heart is trying to decide whether to be excited or scared. Right now, it’s whirling between both. You really have given me a lot to think about on my journey home.” She paused. “The man I shot—is he—”

  “Dead? No, not yet. He won’t live, though. He’ll be lucky to survive the night. Your colleague has gone with him to the hospital. You did well there, Mrs. Stewart. We’re all agreed he’d have killed you.”

  Her pensive dark eyes swam with worry as she delivered a curt nod of assent. Abigail stood and walked over to the door. “Thank you for all your help, Doctor. You’ve been marvelous.”

  She wandered out into the back office, still in chaos, her gaze falling on the familiar face of Inspector Honeybun.

  “Ah, good to see you up and about, ma’am. Your colleague’s gone to the hospital with George, or should I say Dewees? Are you all right? Shall I get someone to escort you home?”

  She shook her head. “You wanted a statement and I’m ready to give you one, Inspector. Before I do, I need to update Mr. Pinkerton on what’s gone on here. You have a telegram in the station. May I use it?”

  “Sure.” He glanced around. “I’ll get the lad who knows how to use it. Where’s he gone?”

  “No need for that. I’m trained in Morse code and in telegraph use. Just point me at it and I’ll do it myself. I don’t want to be any more bother than I have been. I just need the register with the addresses of the receiving stations and I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  Chapter 21

  “Are you sure we should be leavin’? We ain’t even said goodbye to Abi.” Jake’s questioning eyes turned on his nephew. “Have you two had words, or somethin’?”

  Nat looked up from the bedroll he was tying off, his genuine appearance restored once more. He thrust a shirt into the saddle bag and stared around the little apartment in South Street. “Nope. We prearranged this. If there was a point when a bunch of Pinkertons turned up, we were to get out of here real fast and pretend to have nothing to do with her. Doing anything else is too risky for everyone.”

  “So you ain’t even goin’ to see her?”

  “We’re logical people. We can’t let emotions get in the way.” Nat glanced up and snatched the book from the shelf. “That one’s mine. Leave all the library books. We’ve basically got to leave the place looking like nobody but Abi’s been here.”

  “Best grab that razor strap, too. Unless she’s taken up shavin’.” Jake grinned. “Anyway, what do you mean logical? You two are about a logical as a honey badger in a schoolhouse. Who are you tryin’ to kid?”

  “Everyone. Got everything?” Nat crouched and lifted the tablecloth to check under the table. “Let’s have one more look around.” He straightened. “Check outside to make sure it’s safe, will ya?”

  Jake pulled back the curtain and stared at the street. “And she’s fine with us leavin’ Maddie on her own?”

  “Maddie’s sound asleep. Her biggest danger is her terrible taste in men. We get a break from that until she wakes up and finds you around.” Nat’s grin didn’t miss its mark as he hooked his uncle with a meaningful glint.

  “If you’re talkin’ about her speakin’ fondly about me, her appreciation of a decent man has improved in the last few weeks.”

  “Improved? Decent?” snorted Nat. “She’s gone from a murderer to one of the most wanted men in the country. You’ve got two kids, too. You’re a worried mama’s idea of an invasion of her home.”

  “Shut yer big bazoo. I treated her like a lady. Maybe she’ll learn to appreciate men who won’t take any crap.” Jake pulled back the curtain and glanced about the street. “The coast looks clear. There’s nobody out there.”

  Nat’s dimple deepened. “Are you really thinking about disappointing her? Why not take her to bed and make sure. That’s driven the rest away.”

  Jake continued to peer through the glass. “You got far too many teeth for a smart mouth like yours. Keep it up and I’ll sort that out for ya.”

  “Hah.” Nat slipped his hat on and chuckled. “I fight far too dirty for you to whip me and you know it. Ready?”

  “Sure am, but I’m serious. Surely you’re goin’ to leave a note? Ain’t you gonna do anythin’?”

  “Nope.” Nat slung his saddle bags over his shoulder and headed for the door. “Someone else might find it. We go. I agreed that with Abi, and it’s the only sensible thing to do.”

  “Cold. Real cold.” Jake shook his head. “I got it into my head you two were runnin’ off together. I guess I was wrong.”

  “Yup, there’s all kindsa wrong going on right now.” Nat felt the coolness of the brass doorknob he cupped in his palm. “And you’d better get used to it, ’cause there’s more on the way.”

  ♦◊♦

  The Pinkerton smiled as Abigail opened the door and welcomed Tom Bartlett inside her little apartment. “They let you rent this as a single woman? This must be a real rookery.”

  “No, of course not. Only loose houses allow single women in mixed blocks.” She closed the door and her skirts swished along behind as she followed him. “They think they rented to an old man and his daughter.” A smile tugged at her full lips. “They never saw us together, though.”

  “Yeah, I think I worked with him once. Short fella about your height? Scottish accent?” He hesitated, his grin fading. “Smitty died this morning. He never recovered consciousness.”

  Waves of mixed emotions crashed around her heart as she tried to establish how this made her feel. Her primary emotion was an intense empty sadness at the waste of human life this man left in his wake. “I’m sorry, I suppose.” She paused. “For his victims and their families, mostly. He was dangerous. I saw that in his eyes at the police station.”

  “Yeah, another spoiled rich boy who thought he could have anything he wanted, huh? The whole thing was unnecessary. All over a woman, too.”

  “A woman?” Abigail’s smooth brow lined as her brows arched in surprise.

  “Yes.” Tom’s shrewd examination searched for even the tiniest reaction to news about Nat Quinn. “I questioned his friends. His vendetta against Nat Quinn started over a prostitute at some high end brothel. Smitty fancied himself in love with some doxy, but a rival constantly outbid him for her services. He was sure the stranger was doing it on purpose because of the way he grinned at him. He told his friends it was like the guy was goading him, and it went on for weeks.” He paused. Abigail’s brows remained raised. There was no sign of jealousy—but she was very good at adopting a role. It was her job, after all.

  “Goading?” Abigail nodded. “Yes, that sounds just like Quinn.”

  “The fool won’t be the first rich boy to fall for a whore and he won’t be the last. By the time Smitty found out it was Quinn, he was fit to be tied. Someone told him who was stealing his woman and it drove Smitty mad to think he was doing it with money stolen from his own inheritance. He decided to do whatever it took to get rid of his rival, but Quinn was too slippery. When the woman made off with a musician, it didn’t take long before Smitty’s obsession switched from her to his rival, blaming him for getting in the way. He was arrogant enough to think she’d have found him irresistible if she’d only gotten to know him. He’d been trying to turn in Quinn for a year-and-a-half before he gave up trying to do it himself and hired the fake gang to set him up for a capital charge. Smitty lived lurching from one obsession to another. It was his nature. That woman wasn’t the first, and his folks covered up for him for stabbing another rival when he was twenty-one.”

  Abigail nodded. “That sounds like Nat Quinn right enough. He can be really annoying, but did Nat even know? When I asked him, he had no idea why anyone might have a vendetta out against him. He seemed genuine enough. It must have been inconsequential to him.”

  Tom shrugged. “Only Quinn can answer that one. It could be t
hat what was a trivial irritation intended to provoke a conceited prig might have underestimated the all-consuming pride and puppy love. It could have been nothing to Quinn, but meant everything to Dewees. By all accounts, Smitty hated losing. Always had.”

  “Even going to the lengths of paying someone to kill innocent people to set Nat Quinn up for a murder charge?” mused Abigail. “What a stupid reason to get innocent people killed. All Smitty had to do was offer to marry the girl or set her up in a place.”

  “Nope.” Tom shook his head. “The Dewees family would never have accepted that, and his father controlled his purse strings. From what I’ve been told the girl didn’t exactly return his affections. She couldn’t stand him. Frankie Atchinson used to frequent the same place. He had a theory she was probably using Quinn as one of the few people she knew who could outbid Dewees.”

  Abigail arched her brows. “It fits Nat Quinn even better. He’d so do that.”

  A muscle flinched in his jaw before he gazed around the bare habitation examining the rickety table, the library books on the shelf, and the chair by the window beside the folded telescope on the ledge which had obviously been used as a vantage point. He scanned the spines noting how much research Abigail had done.

  “How did you come to think of electricity?” he asked as she disappeared into the next room.

  Abigail’s voice drifted out of the open bedroom door, becoming alternately louder and more distant as she moved around, packing her gargantuan trunk. “Bartholemew worked with radio waves and electromagnetism, but I really narrowed it down after eliminating lots of poisons and gases. Someone mentioned cows in a wet field that died without a mark despite a lightning strike, and it all started to come together. Father Neri at St. Ignatius was the turning point. He’s a veritable sage on the subject of electricity. If he doesn’t know the answer, he’ll know someone who does. Who knew San Francisco had one of the country’s leading experts? He was invaluable. You need to get up there and speak to him, Tom. The agency needs information like this so pathologists know what to look for.”