“Please, God,” the woman kept repeating through her sobs.
Then the boy’s lungs sucked. After a soft rattle in the throat, he stilled.
“I am so sorry,” Doc told them. “He’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” the woman pleaded, peering anxiously at him through reddened eyes. “Cain’t ye do sump’thin?”
“Ma’am, I…”
She turned on her husband, crying, “You kilt him! You big stupid Swede! I told you not to let him stand on the seat! You … You worthless…”
“He be all right,” the man whispered, eyes unfocused. “Ja, sure. You’ll see. Arnie, he’s a tough sprout for sure.”
“It’s no one’s fault,” Doc said in his soothing voice. “People are run over by wagons all the time. Kicked by horses. Maybe it’s just the slip of a knife. A gun goes off by accident. The world is a dangerous place.”
The woman was still staring daggers at her husband. He had worked his hat into a cylinder of tight felt.
Doc took a deep breath, reached down and lifted the boy’s body. “Do you want him delivered to anyone in particular? Perhaps the undertaker? Or will you be taking Arnie with you?”
The man blinked, instinctively extending his arms as Doc offered the boy’s deadweight. Urine was spreading in the boy’s crotch now that the muscles had let loose.
“Ja, I take him,” the man said woodenly.
The woman watched, mute, eyes disbelieving.
“Again,” Doc told them. “I am so sorry.”
Bridget looked up with somber eyes as Doc led the bereaved parents out into the office and opened the door to the street. Closing it behind them, he sighed.
“Didn’t charge them?” Bridget asked, her thoughtful look rearranging her scars.
“Figured they had enough hardship for the day. I can make up twenty-five cents’ worth of chloroform from someone whose world didn’t just collapse.” He paused. “Dear Lord, I hope she gets over this enough to stop blaming her husband. If not, their misery is just starting.”
“God takes people when their time comes, Philip.”
He walked over to the stove and poured a cup of stale coffee. “Does He? I’ve looked for His hand on the battlefield, in prison camp, among the displaced from the war, and among the poor line girls. I’ve looked for it among the just and righteous … and among the fallen and discarded. And then you see a little boy like that, just dead from a slip and fall?”
Doc sucked at his lukewarm coffee. “That notion that God knows when every sparrow falls? Something’s wrong with the entire premise. If He’s in charge of everything? Running the whole shebang? I’ve seen no proof of divine will, no rhyme nor reason in the way things work out. Life’s nothing more than a random madness of events and endings. God’s either a piss-poor steward, or He’s a capricious and callous bastard.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Philip. It’s dangerous.” She fingered the scars on her face. “In the end there’s always punishment for our sins and transgressions.”
“Tell me what possible sin that little boy had time to commit? Or that little newborn girl I went to treat last night? Dead of the bloody flux. If she had time to commit sin—weak as she’s been since I delivered her—she’s wickeder than black-hearted Charlie Harrison was on his worst day? Old Charlie just shot down innocents, beat his wife to death, and garroted honest folks in the alley behind his bar. But he’s still alive and kicking.”
He shook his head. “No, my dear, I’ve been in misery’s front-row seat, and I don’t see God’s hand in any of it. Just random living and dying. Sure, the hard cases tend to die quicker than the rich and prominent, but they associate with a rougher and more dangerous company in the process.”
“When you get in these black moods, I wish I could cheer you.”
“You do, my dear. More than I could ever tell you. If it weren’t for you, I’d crucify myself. Go mad with guilt for driving Butler away. God, I worry about him.”
She stood. “Come. It’s time to lock up. I need you to hurry home and change into your good clothes. I’ll meet you at the Angel’s Lair.”
“This must be some dress you’ve got stashed away.”
She stepped up, straightening his lapels, a sly smile on her scarred face. “I don’t know how Sarah managed to find it, let alone in my size. The dressmaker has just finished with the alterations. I want you stunned and astounded, though I’m sure Sarah will steal the evening.”
“And I finally get to meet your mysterious partner? Discover if the goddess of rumor is really just a mortal woman?”
Bridget studied him thoughtfully. “You really don’t approve, do you?”
“Bridget, I understand that you’re just a partner. I realize that the house will cater to a higher standard of client. It’s just … Well…”
“A whorehouse is a whorehouse?” She arched a scar-lined eyebrow.
“No. Um … Hell, I don’t know. I want you home safe with me. Remember what I just said about the company people keep? I don’t like the odds.”
She remained thoughtful. “Do you ever dwell on it, Philip? Perhaps in the middle of the night, during the hour of the wolf? Does it bother you that I was with so many men?”
“A little, I suppose. I always wish I could have been there on that New York street.”
“Ah yes. What a weight we put on a man’s shoulders. The old, desperate ‘if only’ of the male savior. If I’d never chosen the houses, I would never have ended up in your bed, my darling. Now, go on with you. I’ll see you at half past six.” She turned in the door, flashing her red-blond hair as she donned her veil. “Oh, and don’t forget to lock up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She blew him a kiss and was gone.
Doc chugged the last of his coffee
