The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (35 page)

“Yes, I’m Nurse Kennedy.”

“I’m Inspector Byrnes.  Thomas Byrnes.”  He gestured toward the other man.  “That’s Detective Sergeant Doyle.” 

Eve’s fingers formed fists—an animal instinct—not that fighting the man made any sense.  She’d heard about Inspector Byrnes from Albert Harringshaw and Patrick, as well as from others at the boarding house.  Inspector Byrnes’ brutal questioning of suspected criminals popularized the term “the third degree,” which was apparently coined by Byrnes.  It was widely known that Byrnes used a combination of physical and psychological torture on his suspects.  Eve also knew from Patrick that Albert Harringshaw donated generous amounts of money to certain of Byrnes’ personal causes in exchange for favors.

Inspector Byrnes glanced over at Patrick, who was twisting and mumbling in a semiconscious state.

“We’ve come to see Detective Sergeant Gantly.  How is he, Nurse?”

Eve swallowed back nerves.  “He’s… well, he’s not improving.”

The men exchanged knowing glances and jerked nods.

The fat one spoke in a pure Irish accent.  “It’s too bad.  Patrick’s a good man.  A fine man.  We were partners for a time, you know.  A good policeman, he is.”

Inspector Byrnes walked to Patrick’s bed and looked down at him.

“You’ve got to admire a man who gives up his life for another, especially when it’s done in the line of duty.  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends, the good book says.”

Eve thought,
Albert Harringshaw was no friend of Patrick’s
.  Out loud, she said firmly, “He’s not dead yet.”

Inspector Byrnes cocked his head to one side as if to get a closer look at Patrick. 

“It isn’t the bullet that kills a man like Detective Sergeant Gantly, Nurse.  It’s the blood poison.  Let’s face it Nurse, you need to call a priest.  He needs to make it right with Almighty God while he still can.  From the looks of him, he’s already heading down the coal shoot.”

“Honestly said, Inspector Byrnes,” the fat man said.  “Did you know my brother was a priest?  He was a good priest, he was, who worked with the poor and the needy.  He died two years ago from the fever.  Patrick knew him.  Now God is calling the good Detective Sergeant Gantly home as well.”

Eve stood resolutely, with her head up.  “Patrick is very strong.  He could still survive.”

Inspector Byrnes’ sardonic eyebrow shot up again.  “Patrick is it?  You call him Patrick, Nurse Kennedy?  That’s not so respectful to Detective Sergeant Gantly, Nurse.  You need to give a man his proper respect, woman, especially a dying man.  And, Nurse Kennedy, Detective Sergeant Gantly
is
dying, make no mistake about that.  Banish any fool romantic notion that he’ll survive this, Nurse.  I know from my vast experience that he is a dead man.  Best to face it now and get him a priest.  Do you hear me, Nurse?”

Eve saw the real threat in the Inspector’s eyes, daring her to challenge him.  She saw the brutal eyes of a predator. 

The man was a nut case, Eve thought.  She also sensed—no, she knew—that these two men
wanted
Patrick to die.  Why?  Because Albert Harringshaw wanted it? 

Someone who had attended the Harringshaw ball the night of the shooting had leaked a true account of the shooting to the newspapers, and they had enthusiastically expanded on it.  Detective Sergeant Gantly was being portrayed as a hero—an honest cop who had performed his duty and was dying because “
He had laid down his life for another man
.”

Dr. Long had even been interviewed by several reporters about Patrick’s condition.  And in the past few days, two songs had hastily been written about Detective Gantly, celebrating his selfless courage and his dedication to the poor as well as the rich.  These songs were being performed in some of the downtown theatres “
to wild applause and to many a lady’s anguished tears
” as had been reported by
The New York Herald
. 

Albert Harringshaw, on the other hand, had been relegated to the back pages and, if he was mentioned at all, it was with regard to his questionable courage, considering he was supposed to be a gentleman.

So did these powerful men want Patrick dead?  Probably.  Once he was out of the way, his popularity would fade, he would be quickly forgotten and business would go on as usual for Albert Harringshaw and Inspector Byrnes. 

Eve wished, for the hundredth time, that Patrick had let Helen Price shoot Albert Harringshaw.  She wished she could go back in time once more so she could somehow personally arrange it.  Yes, she would play God, judge and jury.  She would stop Patrick from catching the bullet and let it strike Albert Harringshaw instead, and the world would be a better place for it.

Eve lowered her head.  Now she was more determined than ever to get that lantern and get her and Patrick away from this evil.

“Have you heard me?” Inspector Byrnes said, sharply.  “Get him a priest today.  I know what I’m talking about.”

Eve dropped her voice to a contrite whisper.  “I’m sure you know best, Inspector Byrnes,” she said, in a pseudo unworthy manner.  “Men always know best, don’t they?”

But she quickly saw that Inspector Byrnes was no fool.  He wasn’t taken in by her sudden, sarcastic capitulation.  The inspector was enraged, feeling patronized by a silly woman.

He stepped to her, glaring down coldly.  His voice was low, filled with an acid threat.

“You have respect, woman, do you hear me?  You have respect or you’ll find yourself down in the Tombs where women learn respect, if they don’t disappear completely from this world.”

Eve felt ice thickening in her stomach.

After they left, Eve began to shiver.  She turned toward Patrick and, for the first time in a very long time, she began to cry.  Once she started, she couldn’t stop the flow.  The tears gushed out and ran down her hot cheeks.  She buried her face in her hands and sobbed out the weeks of stress, the days of struggle, and the endless hours of exhaustion she had spent caring for Patrick. 

Eve doubled over in pain, slowly falling to her knees, unable anymore to resist her sorrow, to think, or to reason.  She wept, holding her stomach, her body a spasm of anguish.  She wept until she fell exhausted into a deep sleep.

Hours later she awoke, still lying on the floor, cold and stiff.  She sat up, kinked her neck, and massaged her stiff, cold arms.  Her eyes were swollen and sticky from crying, her face felt puffy.  With effort, she struggled to her feet, holding herself for warmth, and blundered over to the window, parting the curtains.  It was still dark but she saw a thin line of crimson on the horizon.  Early morning?  What time was it?  Suddenly, she snapped back to reality, whirling around toward Patrick.

He was lying dead still, his breath erratic.  Eve rushed to his bedside and checked his pulse.  She sighed with relief.  It was faint but still there, a weak little drum beat.  He was still fighting.  She took a fresh cloth, mopped his brow, and then washed his neck and face.  She managed to get him to drink some water and then she changed his pillow case, the old one being damp with perspiration.

She had to go see Mrs. Sharland, now!  Just as she was about to leave, Patrick’s eyes popped open.  She flinched and rushed to his bedside.

“Patrick?  Patrick?”

He stared, blankly, and then there was a wildness in his stare.  “Remember…”

“Remember what?  What, Patrick?”

His voice was low and raspy.  He struggled to wheeze out a word.  “Remember… me, Eve.  Remember…”

“Of course I’ll remember you, Patrick.”

“I…love…love you.”

And then he was out again.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, but Eve wiped them away.  Her shoulders sank and she slumped down in the chair, staring at him. 

A nurse entered with some warm broth and Eve got up and took the tray, gratefully.  The two nurses didn’t talk.  There was no need.  Both knew Patrick was dying. 

Eve touched his mouth and gently opened his lips to ladle in the warm liquid.  She spoke to him while she worked.

“You’re not going to die, Patrick.  Do you hear me?  You are not going to die!”

He was silent.  He wouldn’t take the soup.  Frustrated, Eve placed the bowl on the tray and heaved out a sigh.

She stood there observing him, studying him, his every facial feature, his thick neck, his shadow of beard, his curly hair damp from fever, and then she flashed back to the day of their first meeting:  his vivid, intelligent, blue eyes, his chiseled, handsome face with a heavy shadow of a beard, his prominent nose, his full lips.  She’d boldly walked up to him, spoiling for a fight. 

He’d lowered his newspaper and looked at her with a cocky, flirtatious grin that had completely disarmed her and made her weak in the knees.  A lightning strike of sudden desire had frozen her in place.

Over the weeks and days, she’d tried to push Patrick away, but he wouldn’t go.  He was always nearby.  He had protected her and given her money when she was desperate; he had somehow procured a nursing diploma; and he’d helped her transport Evelyn from Hoboken to the hospital.  How many other ways had he watched over her when she wasn’t even aware of it?  And after he’d been taken off her case— reassigned shortly after a second detective reported his suspicions to Albert Harringshaw that Patrick and Eve were becoming romantically involved (Millie had heard them talking on the front stairs of Helen’s brownstone)—he’d offered to take her to San Francisco as his wife, so they could both escape Albert Harringshaw’s clutches. 

Weak morning light began to creep into the room, but Eve stayed with her thoughts, lost in introspection and memory, recollecting the panorama of her life, both in the 21st century and in the 19
^th
century. 

Hers had not been a particularly remarkable life.  In fact, it had been quite ordinary, until a few weeks ago when she’d found herself in 1885.  Her childhood had been normal enough.  She’d done well in school—she’d had friends and was respected by colleagues.  She’d met Blake and they’d married.  They were going to start a family, but it never happened.  No, there was no family and there never would be with Blake. 

That was when everything had changed.  Blake’s lies and infidelity had affected her on every level, almost imperceptibly, like the slow freezing of a stream.  Eve recognized that fact now, in a way she hadn’t before. 

Eve lowered herself into the chair and, as she did so, she had a kind of epiphany—a new understanding.  It was as if the sun broke through dark heavy clouds.

When she’d learned that Blake was having an affair with another woman—a married woman, with two children—Eve had felt like she’d been stabbed in the gut.  It hurt so badly that she’d gone down the traditional road of suppressing, drinking, taking sleeping pills and hooking up with the occasional sex partner.  She’d slowly begun to despise, blame and hate herself, and hate and despise every man she met, convinced that they were all selfish cheaters.  She didn’t trust them or even like them.  Finally, she’d stopped dating altogether.  What was the point? 
Who needs them?
had been her motto.

When her divorce was final, she swore she’d focus only on her career and never—not ever—consider, not for one burning moment, marrying again.  She would never be willing to step back into all that gut-wrenching emotional pain.

Now, as she sat there, remembering, feeling, trembling, she woke up, keenly aware that she had been falling in love with Patrick from the very beginning.  Patrick was a man she could trust; a man she admired; a man she could open up to and share anything with, which, of course, she would have to do when he recovered.  And besides all that, she was wildly attracted to him.  Eve laughed a little.  To think, she had to go all the way back to 1885 to find her one true love.

With her warmly affectionate eyes on him, her heart thrummed and opened, and in that inexpressible pang of love that no one fully understands, her heart blossomed.  Her invisible arms reached out for him and embraced him. 

And then there was a melting of anger and betrayal, and a thawing of old hurts, which ran off into splashing streams of happiness and joy.  In that inexpressible and timeless moment, Eve felt truly good and soft again, and most of all, she felt an enthralling attraction and singing love for Patrick. 

And at this moment, she knew, without any doubt, that Patrick’s love for her was an always love; a love that would bridge any universe, any world or any time; a love that was eternal and rich and fragrant with possibilities, whether they moved to San Francisco in the 1880s or they managed to return to New York in the 21st century.

With moist eyes of gratitude, Eve pushed up, leaned over and kissed Patrick’s moving, mumbling lips.  He didn’t stir.

Maybe it had all begun when Eve first read John Allister’s Christmas Eve letter.  She recalled again how loving it was, how it had stirred her emotions, making her sad that their love had ended so tragically.  Yes, maybe it was the letter that had first begun to open her heart and launch her into a new beginning and a new possibility of falling in love.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she said to Patrick.  “It’s going to be okay, darling.  Everything’s going to be okay.  Believe in love.”

CHAPTER 31

Later that Monday morning, December 14
^th
, the cab stopped at the curb of 232 East 9th Street and Eve emerged.  She paid the driver and watched as the cab retreated along the cobblestones, soon lost in a foggy snowfall.  The breath of the wind was like ice blowing across her determined face, and there were snow flurries falling, adding little to the four inches of snow already on the ground from a snowfall the night before.

Eve looked about vigilantly at the forlorn neighborhood, with its stacked and aging gray tenement row houses and cast-iron commercial factories, looking even more desolate and forgotten under the heavy gray metal sky.

Children hovered in doorways, their hollow-cheeked faces whipped up red by the cold, their sniffles heard five feet away.  They stared back at her with a wary curiosity, their meager coats not up to the task of keeping them warm.  As Eve advanced toward the front door, two dark-spirited men on the corner, wearing bowler hats and thread-bare coats, puffed cigars and measured her every step.