Chapter 8
Brooklyn, October, 1903
Spot Conlon had long ago learned how to steel himself against some of the worst sights he might encounter on the streets of New York—bloody fights, stabbed victims in alleyways, children found frozen to death following the coldest of nights. So many tragedies were so frequently befalling the city's most vulnerable—the young, the unwed mothers, and the poor—that from an early age he had been forced to compartmentalize the pain and injustice surrounding him if only to ensure his own survival.
But even with years of experience in swallowing the most horrible of what an apathetic society had to offer, he still hadn't been properly prepared for the shocking wave of sickness that washed over his body when he saw Katherine Moore's limp form within Jack's hold as he met them in the street behind the lodging house.
The darkness surrounding them and the blanket wrapped about her body did some to shield Spot from what he knew were the worst of her injuries, but her labored breathing and the sheer look of terror on Jack Sullivan's face as he paused to catch his breath were evidence enough of how dire things must be.
"Kate," Spot breathed as he rushed to her, placing a hand gently upon her pale cheek. However, the iciness of her skin as well as her continued stillness at his touch and voice made Spot's stomach twist in building dread.
His eyes widened as he looked first to Jack and then to the crumpled girl lying in his friend's arms. "Is she—is she going to—"
"She—she ain't right, Spot. She ain't doin' well," Jack managed to mutter, his gaze darting down sadly. "I got here as quick as I could."
Spot nodded, finding it hard to speak. His eyes traced over Kate's unmoving outline against Jack's chest, his hand following the same path as his mind raced with a multitude of frightening thoughts. He had known it would be bad. That she would be hurt and wanting. But this—this stillness—this absolute void of life in front of him was something far beyond anything he had allowed himself to imagine.
Then her raspy breathing broke through his panic, reminding him that she was still very much trying to survive—still fighting to stay that way.
And in desperate need of his help.
"She needs a doctor, Spot," Jack said weakly. "I know you don't wanna involve nobody else, but she needs someone to look over her. Blink said he's pretty sure she's got a broken arm, an' she ain't breathin' right. And that's probably the least of it."
Spot ran a hand down his face, realizing that her injuries were clearly far more prolific than he was used to dealing with on his own. And then a following pang of guilt pulsed within his chest as it became evident what his next move had to be. Jack was right. He hadn't wanted this at all. The less people involved, the better—if only to ensure their ability to deny any contribution in the unlikely case that whoever took Kate came back looking for her, alive.
But, at this point, there appeared to be no other option.
"Let's bring her into the apartment. I'm gonna go wake up Mary."
Jack nodded shortly, looking wholly relieved at the addendum to their plan. And without a further word, Spot turned swiftly and led Jack within the back entrance of the lodging house, up the stairs and quietly into the darkened apartment unit on the left.
"Bring her into my room and lay her on the bed," Spot muttered as he turned into the hallway ahead of them.
He saw Jack quickly amble into the first door as he stood in front of the second, hesitating momentarily before knocking twice. "Mary, sorry to disturb you. But," he breathed deeply, "I need your help."
A several moments pause followed his request. But just as Spot was about to raise his knuckles to the door once more, he heard the creak of her metal bedframe in response. And after several more sounds of hurried rustling, her door opened.
"What's happened?" she asked as she finished tying her robe about her, seeming slightly flustered at having been so suddenly awakened.
And even though Spot did feel a fair amount of guilt at having to disturb her slumber, he also knew that her twenty years as proprietor of the Brooklyn newsboys lodging house had often been filled with nights like this. It just so happened that unlike other boarding house owners, Mary O'Connell had the added benefit of also being a trained midwife and healer. And she had always prided herself on taking excellent care of whomever it was that needed her medical expertise whilst under her roof.
"Where's the boy?"
Spot's eyes jerked to Mary's form, realizing she was already halfway down the hallway.
"In my room," he answered automatically, registering too late the incorrect assumption Mary had made.
He saw her quickly wander into his open threshold as he hurried after her, saying, "Wait, Mary, it's not—"
"Jack Sullivan. You seem to be well enough, but—" she turned to Spot, the rest of his explanation dying on his lips when her light green eyes met his in clear confusion and apprehension. "Who is she?"
But before Spot could speedily summarize the complicated situation that had brought Jack and Kate to his bedroom at past one in the morning, he and Mary both turned at the sound of a sharp, distressed moan.
"Kate," Spot said panickedly as he rushed past Mary to kneel beside the girl who had begun to tremble on the bed.
The gas lamp he had left on in his room radiated ominously over her form, giving him a much clearer view of the damage done. Spot inhaled sharply, taking in the deep black and purple bruising covering her right eye and swelling through the entirety of her right forehead and jaw. She was dressed in only her chemise, which was ripped and stained by what he assumed to be her own blood. Her left arm was curled at a strange angle against her chest, the rest of her exposed skin covered in angry looking cuts, bruises, and unhealed burns.
"God in heaven, what has been done to this poor child?"
Mary's voice was not above a whisper, her tone, however, was laced with a fury Spot had very rarely heard from her. She looked down upon Kate with only momentary pity before her eyes filled with purposeful determination. She turned to Jack.
"Go to the hall closet and fetch all the towels you can find, then fill the basin in the bathroom with water. Thomas, go to my room and find a clean nightshirt and grab my medical kit from under the bed. Quickly."
The two men jumped to their tasks immediately as Mary set to look Kate over and assess the extent of all her injuries. However, Jack stopped Spot in the hallway, catching his arm and looking meaningfully at him.
"I wanted to make sure you knew, it went off without a hitch. All of it. I doubt anything'll be suspected as long as Blink lays low for a while and I'm back in 'Hattan tonight."
Spot nodded. "You oughta head out after you get this stuff for Mary. And Jack," Spot paused, looking for the right words to relay his feelings of immense gratitude, finally settling on, "Thank you. For everything."
Jack smiled sadly. "Well, we got her outa that hell, an' that's what matters. But it ain't over yet, Spot—not even close."
"I know," Spot quietly replied as he turned toward Mary's bedroom, the image of Kate's broken body making him feel a disturbing mixture of sorrow and rage.
Several minutes later, when the supplies had been collected and they had met back in the room, Spot had presented his friend with one more sincere offering of gratitude, shaking his hand as Jack had promised to check in within the week.
But when Spot turned his attention back to the scene by his bed, he felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of Kate's more erratic cries and movements of distress. She lay tensely on her back, shaking her head side to side as tears dripped out of the corners of her half-opened eyes. She appeared disoriented and afraid, her movements slow and disorganized.
"No…no…please…don't…" she rasped as she weakly pushed against Mary's hand gently hovering over her abdomen. "Don't look…please…don't…"
"I have to see what needs fixing, love," Mary murmured lightly in response. "You must let me see."
Spot made his way next to Mary placing the night shirt and kit on the ground at her feet before kneeling and gently taking Kate's cold hand. "Katherine? Kate? Can you hear me?"
She attempted to pull away, but he held fast to her, continuing, "Kate, it's Spot. You're in Brooklyn now, okay? No one here is gonna hurt you."
Kate's wandering eyes seemed to momentarily focus on his face as she blinked slowly. "Spot Conlon?" her hand laxed slightly within his hold and a strange, but familiar comfort spread throughout his arm, then slowly through his chest. "The man—the man that came—and—and—cut the rope—he said—" she paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "He said it was you, but—I didn't know—I didn't—"
Spot nodded, feeling a pang of guilt resonate within him. "Kate, don't worry about that right now. I need you to let Mary look you over and get you patched up, okay? Can you do that for me?"
Kate clenched her good eye closed momentarily, her fingers gently tensing against his, radiating another wave of warmth throughout his body. But his eyebrows knitted together in concern as he noticed several tears slowly traveling down her cheek. "Please…please don't. Please."
"Don't what? Don't look?" Spot gently encouraged.
She nodded as more tears spilled down her cheeks, intermingling with traces of dirt and dried blood, but Spot didn't hesitate to lightly wipe the wetness away with his free hand. "You have to let Mary look so we can help you."
A choked sob escaped her throat as she shook her head, turning away from him, murmuring, "If—if you see—what—what he did. You'll—you'll—hate me—never want to see me—never—"
"No," he cut in firmly, squeezing her hand as a cold wave of regret passed over him. Because he knew the fear—the distrust—in her pained words had been his doing.
He stared earnestly at her, willing her to understand. "I didn't—what I said the other night, I didn't mean it. None of it. I promise—I promise I won't do that, ok?"
But Kate's attention seemed to fade slightly, her eyes rolling upward as she whimpered and cringed away from him. "No…no…" she moaned toward the wall, her body beginning to shake uncontrollably. Spot stood, alarmed when she cried out even louder in pain.
"Thomas, I don't know how much she's understanding right now," Mary said softly from behind Spot as he ran his hands frustratedly through his hair. "I think our best bet is to give her something for her pain and her nerves and then patch her up from there."
Spot nodded in agreement, his eyes constricting emotionally as he watched Kate's body contract again in distress. "Alright."
Spot Conlon's hand shook as he brought his cigarette up to his lips, his other arm leaning tensely out of his room's open window. All was quiet now as Kate slept soundlessly behind him, but it had been nothing short of a nightmare two hours prior.
He clenched his jaw at the too recent memory of having to force her mouth open while Mary poured in a full dose of laudanum. The terror in her eyes and the feral way she had attempted to scratch at him with her good hand painted a small, but disturbing, picture of what her time away had looked like. And clearly, the man keeping her was not above drugging her to take what he wanted.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the horrors he had inflicted upon her body. Spot shuddered, the images of the blackened areas on her back, chest and abdomen flashing before his eyes. Mary could feel that at least one rib had been cracked, but all they could do was wrap her torso tightly and try to keep her still to let them heal. The multitude of cigarette burns and cuts littering her skin were other issues that were addressed with salve and bandages. Her left arm was indeed painfully broken and so had been wrapped and placed in a constricting sling about her shoulder. And strangely, Spot had noticed that her once long, beautiful hair had been cut somewhat unevenly to almost her chin.
But there had been one piece that Mary had not allowed him to stay in the room for. Wounds, she said, that had not yet been attended to. So he had waited anxiously in the kitchen area for the thirty minutes it took Mary to confirm that some of the worst of what he had feared had happened.
"It was so far beyond taking her body against her will," Mary said as she sat at the table with Spot afterward, her eyes distant and disturbed. "It was a history of repetitive, cruel punishment—a destruction that she was not meant to recover from."
"Will she?" Spot whispered, his chest tight in emotional apprehension.
Mary met his gaze evenly, considering his question for a moment. "I think her body will heal in time. But everything else? That depends on who she is and who she has."
Spot nodded slowly when Mary paused, knowing what was coming next. "So, the most pressing question right now is who does Katherine have?"
"She has me," Spot said in immediate response.
Mary stared steadily at him, saying, "This is not a commitment you can make thoughtlessly. It will require an immense amount of patience, care, and endurance."
Spot did not blink as he stated, "I don't make promises I don't intend to keep."
Mary nodded, satisfied. "Then she has me and my home as well."
"Thank you, Mary," Spot murmured, squinting at her meaningfully.
Spot flicked his cigarette out of his window, clicking It closed as the memory of he and Mary's conversation from an hour earlier faded slowly away. It had been a long night, a long eleven days since Kate had first gone missing. And here she now lay in his room, battered and broken, but still here with him regardless.
He walked over to her unmoving form, her eyebrows knitted in concern even in sleep. Pulling the blankets further up over her shoulders, he thought on the promise Mary had made him say aloud. Perhaps he should have been insulted that she had such little faith in his ability to maintain long term commitments, but he knew better than to feign outrage. He had habitually avoided obligations and pledges his entire life, especially when it came to being present and open in relationships with others. And Mary had been a prime witness to his more notorious episodes of apathy.
But from the moment she had been taken, something within him had known that he wanted to be the one to step up. Something within him had needed to be that for her—had needed to prove to both Kate and himself that he could.
He knew he most likely would have moments where he would falter. He knew that there was still so much he had to learn, so much he needed her to tell him. So much to apologize for. But there was never a doubt in his mind that it would be him standing by her side in the aftermath of whatever hell she had managed to survive.
Kate stirred somewhat in the bed, and he gently clasped her hand in his own, running his thumb over her knuckles in comfort.
"Tom," she whispered, almost inaudibly, her eyes still closed. "I missed you."
Spot felt a lump fill his throat as he pulsed her hand lightly. "I missed you too, Kate. So much."