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.”
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