The wounded man moaned, shifting his weight, and tried to raise himself to address me. I saw his fingers curl in a fist.
“Sweet Lord,” came an interjection from behind me, and Bellamy stepped directly between us. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back from the bloody desk. “Not now, Warne,” he hissed.
I wrenched my hand out of his grasp.
He didn’t flinch. Instead, he said, “Look, no one died.”
“A miracle.”
“Let’s save him first. Blame later.”
He was right, of course. “Fine,” I said. I beckoned to Hattie to stand off to the side, but I needn’t have. She had gone into her shocked silence again. She pressed her back against the wall as if her weight were necessary to hold it up.
Then I huddled with the other agents to solve the more urgent problem. A hospital was out of the question. Dilloway was chosen to conduct the surgery when someone remembered that his mother had been a seamstress, but they were still tussling over whose liquor would be sacrificed to numb the patient. I pointed out that we had enough laudanum in the cabinet to ease him out of consciousness, and finally, things began to move.
While Bellamy fetched and administered the laudanum with sure hands, I stepped away, turning my attention back to Hattie.
“Tell me. What did he do that you didn’t ask him to?”
There was a little more color in her cheeks now, though her hands were still twisted in her bloody skirt. “I could have handled it. The suit grabbed me—”
“What suit?”
“The one in charge, the heavy one. Watkins. Demanded we drink with him.”
I glanced over at the still form of Mortenson, Dilloway hovering over him. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and started to work. The room had fallen silent at last, so Mortenson’s unconscious moan when the tongs touched his flesh seemed remarkably loud.
Hattie flinched. I turned her away from the scene with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Go on.”
“Mortenson was matching him glass for glass. When Watkins was good and tight, he said the least I could do was grace his lap, and he yanked me down to sit.”
“And what did you do?”
“I sat.”
“And what did he do?”
“Put his hand up my dress.”
Her voice was no longer trembling, and I saw a spine of steel in her that I hadn’t before. It gave me hope.
Dilloway had located the bullet and fished it out, and we heard the sharp clang as he dropped it neatly into a metal dish. He poured Dalessandro’s brandy over the wound and helped himself to a swig. Then he brandished his needle and thread, setting to the next gruesome task, beginning to stitch up the unconscious man’s flesh.
I looked at Hattie. She gave a tight smile that was more like a grimace. “Then Mortenson grabs me, hauls me off the fat man’s lap, and yells, ‘Hands off the lady,’ and it all went downhill from there.”
“I’ll say. Who shot first?”
She inclined her head toward Mortenson. Dilloway was still sewing. Dalessandro’s purloined flask was now making the rounds among the spectators.
“Good Lord,” I said. “You’re lucky either of you made it out.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she said. “The fat man might’ve killed him if I hadn’t jostled his elbow.”
“That was good thinking.”
“Wasn’t fast enough,” she said.
“No one died,” I said, echoing Bellamy, though there was little else to celebrate.
Now that the surgery was complete, I could see that Mortenson’s leg wound was just above the knee. A bad place to get shot, but far better than the meaty part of the thigh a few inches higher, which would likely have been fatal. The wound might still fester, and it would be weeks before we knew whether the patient was truly out of the woods. But at least he would make it through the first day with some blood still in him.
Once Mortenson had been lifted off his makeshift surgical table and was resting on a couch in Taylor’s office, I let myself breathe for a moment. I heard the men on either side of me, including our erstwhile surgeon, do so as well. But there was no time to feel relief. The fallout of the botched operation had to be dealt with.
“Someone’s got to tell the boss,” said Dilloway, wiping his hands on what looked like the last clean rag in the office.
Dead silence followed.
Irritated but certain, I spoke up. “I’ll do it. Where is he?”
“Home.”
“Come on,” I said to Hattie, and she followed.
The night was cold, but the fresh air felt like a wonder after the bloody stink of the office. We moved quickly to keep warm. After a few blocks, I said, “It wasn’t your fault. Next time, you’ll do better.”
She looked over with moist eyes.
“Yes, I said next time. But I have to ask you one question, and I need you to be absolutely honest.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Did you do anything to encourage Mortenson? Before this happened? Do the two of you have some kind of…special relationship?”
Her footfalls were the only sound for a few moments, but when she spoke, she did so clearly. “No, ma’am. Not at all. Frankly, he always gave me the creeps.”
I didn’t smile, though in some part, I wanted to, hearing her echo my own sentiments. I realized I had assumed the worst of her, and I was deeply ashamed, knowing how furious I’d been when men were quick to assume the worst of me. I was accustomed to thinking the worst of people and the best of myself. There was value in switching those around from time to time.
We walked in silence the rest of the way.
In front of Pinkerton’s house, I paused and said to Hattie, “Off home with you. We’ll start early tomorrow. Six o’clock. You’ll be ready?”
“I will, Chief.” She took her leave quickly, without giving me a chance to change my mind.
I knocked on the door and was surprised when the man himself answered it. I could hear the noise of children running, which gave me a moment’s pause.