Sons of an Ancient Glory (52 page)

Twice he had asked her to marry him. Twice she had refused. He had loved her then…and he loved her now, but as a sister and a friend. She was a part of his past…his youth…his heart.

Oh, Nora…Nora Ellen…you can't be dying…we won't have it…we won't let you die, do you hear?
We
won't let you!

Michael's throat tightened, and his eyes burned with a rush of tears. He got up, turning his back on Evan for a moment until he could regain his composure.

Finally he faced him again. “What can we do to help, Evan? Sara and I—what can we do?”

Evan wiped a hand over his eyes briefly, making an obvious effort to steady himself. “Well…you can p-pray for us, of course. Moreover, if you would speak to Sara about helping m-me to find a girl for the house, I'd greatly appreciate it. We m-must find someone as soon as possible, you understand.”

Michael nodded, forcing himself to smile. “It's as good as done, man. You know Sara—she won't rest until she finds the very girl you need. Now, what's this you were saying when you came in, about needing help for the little Hogan lad? What's happened to Billy?”

By the time Evan finished relaying his concern and suspicions about Billy Hogan, rage had emptied into the flood of Michael's other emotions. He was already halfway around the desk before Evan asked for help in finding the missing boy.

“We'll go at once,” said Michael. Suddenly alert to Evan's exhausted appearance and ashen skin, he stopped. “Why don't you stay here? I'll take one of the men with me. We'll make Sorley Dolan talk, I'll guarantee it.”

Evan shook his head, pushing himself up from the chair. “N-no. I want to go with you. I can't rest until the b-boy is found.”

“All right, then,” Michael agreed reluctantly. “But we'll be taking another man along. Stay here and rest until I see who's available.”

Denny Price, fuming and impatient, approached the Franklin Street entrance of the Hall of Justice, pulling a mulish Quinn O'Shea along beside him.

“Will you let
go
?” she demanded. “I'm not one of your drunks to haul about however you please!”

“I told you, we'll be going to the station so you can tell your story to the captain! A formal complaint is needed before we can get an investigation under way.” Denny attempted to tighten his grip on her arm.

“And I told
you
,” she snarled, yanking her arm away from him, “that I'll not be talking to anyone else this night! I need a place to stay and a job, before I can go worrying about that sour old Ethelda Crane and her Shelter house!”

Denny turned, hoping to put out her fiery defiance with his sternest glare, but it had no more effect on her than an icicle on a firestorm.

Hardheaded!

“I'll be giving you a place to stay in the lockup if you don't cease your foolishness! And wasn't it yourself who said you wanted justice done? Well, the place to start is with a complaint—in writing.”

The blood pounding in his ears, Denny reached again to grab her arm.

Fending him off, she stood her ground. “Perhaps I don't write,” she said. Preening like a duchess, she gave her immense mane of hair a toss.

Watching her, Denny tried not to think about how small and young she looked. Just a wee thing, she was, appearing half-starved in that disgraceful sack of a dress. She had hair enough for two lasses—an odd color, like sand—and a thin band of freckles, not much darker than her hair, running across her nose. The enormous brown eyes were flecked with gold, like a cat's, and Denny suddenly realized what she had reminded him of all along: a scrawny, wee kitten, set out in the cold on its own keeping. Now here she was, bravely prowling about in search of the means to survive—too wounded to trust, too proud to beg.

“It strikes me,” he said, careful to keep the slightest note of pity out of his voice, “that any
girsha
with such a saucy mouth would be clever enough to write her name. Now, will you come along like a good lass? After we tend to business, I promise I'll help you find a place to stay.”

For a moment he saw the flint in her eyes spark, the defiance blaze up. Ah, she didn't like being obligated, that was clear.

Pulling herself up to her full height—which was not all that impressive—she regarded him with a look that took his measure. “And will you promise as well to help me find my friend, Bobby Dempsey?”

A wave of remembrance, followed by sympathy for the girl, hit Denny hard. As if she hadn't had enough, he was now about to increase her troubles. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, lass, but your friend—well, I'm afraid there was an accident. Your friend, Bobby Dempsey, is dead.”

She stared at him as if he had struck her. “Bobby? Bobby Dempsey is dead?” she finally choked out. “But, how—”

“'Twas an accident on the docks, lass,” Denny said gently. “I doubt he ever knew what hit him.”

She stood, unmoving, staring down at the street for a long time. Denny tensed, anticipating a bout of tears, and altogether uncertain as to how he would go about comforting this strange lass with the wounded eyes.

“There's no justice,” she said in a low voice. “None at all. Bobby, he never hurt a soul. He would have risked his hide to save a wee bird. He was a good, simple soul, and what does he get for it?”

She looked at Denny, and he flinched at the mixture of pain and anger in those startling eyes. But then she surprised him by motioning to the doors, saying, “Well, then, let's have it done with. Let's be seeing to your formal complaint.”

Denny followed after her, trying not to notice the faint slump to her thin shoulders as she walked through the doors of the Hall of Justice.

Inside, Quinn's sorrow for the loss of Bobby Dempsey was quickly crowded out by a fresh wave of apprehension. “The Tombs,” as Sergeant Price referred to the place, was a huge, mausoleum of a building, daunting in its very size and stateliness.

Quinn was keenly aware that this was a
police station.
It would have a gaol—a large one, from the looks of the place—where criminal offenders were incarcerated.

She knew an instant of panic. This was the very thing she was running from—first in Ireland, and most recently the Shelter, which to her way of thinking was as much a prison as any gaolhouse.

She had entered of her own volition—but for
what
? Something called
justice
? She was mad entirely! What had she ever known of justice back home? Growing up in Ireland, a body didn't see much in the way of justice, other than the relentless cruel hand of the Brits grinding the Irish into the bogs. Had she really thought to find anything better here in the States?

“Come along, lass. We'll see if the captain's still here.”

The sergeant moved as if to take her arm, but Quinn jerked away, shaking her head. “I've changed my mind,” she said, still backing off toward the door.

“Ah, no, and you can't!” protested the sergeant. “Now come along. Everything's going to work out all right—”

Quinn darted a glance over her shoulder, gauging the distance to the door. Bitterly, she realized that if she could only have found one of the ladies from the mission society before now, she might not be in such a fix. That Mrs. Burke, for example—the one who claimed to be married to an Irish policeman—had appeared more than kind. If only she had come back!

“There's someone else I want to talk to,” she said abruptly, facing the sergeant. “A lady.”

He eyed her with suspicion. “A lady, is it? And just how would you be knowin' a lady?”

Quinn stiffened, a queer heaviness settling over her chest at his words. Did he think her such a slattern, then, that a lady would avoid her altogether? Involuntarily, she glanced down over herself, feeling wretched at the sight of the wrinkled brown dress, hanging loose as a horse blanket over her frame.

She shook the feeling away, resisting the wave of shame that threatened to sweep over her. It wasn't her fault, now was it, that she had lost her clothes in the river, and later her one remaining dress to Ethelda Crane's greedy hands!

Lifting her chin, she leveled her frostiest look directly at the policeman. “How I'm knowing her is none of your affair. As I said, I will speak with Mrs. Burke or no one at all.”

“Mrs. Burke?” The man stared at her as if she'd said something most peculiar.

Quinn nodded, curious as to what accounted for his startled expression.

“The lady you're asking to speak with is Mrs.
Burke
?”

“Didn't I just say as much?” Quinn snapped, impatient with his thick-headedness.

For a moment the sergeant said nothing, but merely stood there, regarding her with an odd expression. Now that she'd had a long look at him in the light, Quinn grudgingly admitted that perhaps the man didn't appear quite as simple as she'd first thought. His face was pleasant enough, bronzed and wind-whipped, with a slightly arrogant jaw and unusual gray eyes, with lashes as thick as any woman's.

He might have appeared to be a good-natured man if only he wasn't so insolent. But, him being a policeman, no doubt he thought he had a
right
to be insolent.

“I don't suppose you'd happen to know this…Mrs. Burke's…given name?” he asked her abruptly.

“I don't,” Quinn replied.

“I see.” Still watching her, the sergeant raked a hand over his chin, then glanced back at another policeman coming out of the office across the room. “And what did she look like, your Mrs. Burke?” he asked.

Thoroughly annoyed with him, Quinn frowned. “She looked like a
lady.
She was dressed grand and had kind eyes.” She hesitated, then added less sharply, “I believe she limped a bit.”

The other policeman walked up to them, and Quinn said no more. She had had more than enough of the sergeant's insolent questions for one night. Besides, it was perfectly obvious he didn't believe anything she had told him about Mrs. Burke.

Ignoring her entirely, Sergeant Price turned to the other policeman. “Mike—Captain,” he said with a grin.

The other policeman arched one eyebrow, then nodded. He barely glanced at Quinn. He was a big, handsome man, taller than Sergeant Price, though perhaps not quite so brawny. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he sported a roguish black mustache. He looked, Quinn decided with a shiver of misgiving, like a man who could be very dangerous. He also looked very angry.

“Evan Whittaker is in my office,” he said shortly. “He needs help.”

Sergeant Price's expression quickly sobered. “He's still looking for the little Hogan lad, is he?”

The other gave a curt nod. “I'm going back to Five Points with him.”

Abruptly, he turned to look at Quinn, then back to the sergeant, as if expecting an explanation.

“Captain Burke,” the sergeant said, also turning to eyeball Quinn, “this is Miss Quinn O'Shea. She hails from the Chatham Charity Women's Shelter.” He paused. “It would seem that she has urgent business with your wife.”