Away in a Manger by Rhys Bowen

you’re looking for Captain Sullivan, he’s not here,” I said.
    â€œYou have to come right away, Mrs. Sullivan.” He gasped out the words. “There’s been a shooting. Captain Sullivan has been shot.”

 
    Eleven
    The world stood still.
    â€œHe’s been shot?” I forced out the words. “Where is he? What happened?”
    â€œIt was not too far from police headquarters on Mulberry Street. One of the new guys thought he’d go and arrest one of the big shots in the Cosa Nostra—the Italian gang, you know?”
    â€œI know,” I snapped, fear and frustration boiling over.
    â€œAnd the captain heard about it and went to stop him. And there was shooting…” He looked as if he might burst into tears himself.
    â€œIs he dead?”
    â€œI don’t know, ma’am. I saw them putting him into an ambulance. He wasn’t moving and there was a lot of blood, and I came running to get you. I knew you’d want to be with him.”
    â€œWhere have they taken him?”
    â€œSt. Vincent’s, ma’am.”
    â€œThen I must go to him.”
    I looked at Sid. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll keep the children with us. You go.”
    â€œI don’t think we’ll find a hansom cab,” I said. “It’s probably quicker on foot. At least it’s not too far from here.”
    â€œI’d like to come with you, Mrs. Sullivan, but I’m on duty. I shouldn’t have left in the first place, but the captain has been good to me and I knew you’d want to know straight away.”
    â€œThat’s all right, Constable. I can find my own way to St. Vincent’s,” I said. “You were good to tell me. I just hope … I just pray … he’s still alive when I get there.”
    â€œThe captain—he’s tough, ma’am. He’ll pull through if anyone can.”
    He went to say something more, then took off, half running, half slithering, back along the snowy sidewalk. Sid was already shepherding the two children down Patchin Place. I picked up my skirts and headed up Greenwich Avenue. My numb and frozen feet burned within my boots. The icy wind stung my cheeks. I found it hard to breathe but I didn’t stop. “Must get there in time,” I chanted over and over, mixed with the prayer, “Holy Mother of God, please let him live. Please let him live.”
    The hulking building of St. Vincent’s Hospital loomed ahead of me as I turned onto Seventh Avenue. I staggered in through the main door and was met by a sister in a crisply starched veil and uniform.
    â€œWhere are you going, my dear?” she asked in broader Irish than my own, grabbing my sleeve as I went to push past her.
    â€œMy husband. Where is he?” I asked. “Where have they taken him?”
    â€œYour husband? What’s his name, my dear? Brought into casualty, was he?”
    â€œCaptain Sullivan. A policeman. He was just shot. They were taking him here.”
    â€œWe’ve nobody just arrived who has been shot,” she said. “Maybe he’s still on his way. It’s not easy for an ambulance to get through in this snow, you know.” She took my arm and started to lead me. “You look as if you’re about to pass out. Come on in and I’ll get you a cup of tea.” She led me through to a plain scrubbed kitchen and sat me at a bench while she poured me tea. I took a grateful sip, realizing that my hands were shaking. What would I do without him, I thought. How would I survive? I’d be like that poor woman who brought her two children to America because she had nobody to turn to in London. Then I made myself calm down and see sense. I did have people who cared for me. I had Sid and Gus and Daniel’s mother … it wouldn’t be the same for me at all. It was just that I couldn’t bear to think of life without him.
    The Italian gang.