He had no idea how to use such a weapon, but some instinct told him his finding it had been no accident. That same instinct told him to keep it. Something was going on. He had little doubt that, even now, the Pinkertons were watching him.
Feeling a little paranoid, he pocketed the amazing device and headed out toward Broadway. Soon he was on a southbound streetcar, careening along at over twenty miles per hour. Called the electric underground, the cars got power from a buried cable. But what powered the baton?
By the time he reached the South Street piers, the sight of tall-masted clippers docked beside huge, steam-powered ocean liners drove any concerns from his mind. Relaxed, he wove among dockworkers, arriving immigrants and passengers. The city was his home. No one could follow him if he didn’t want them to.
At the tip of Manhattan Island, the Ellis Island ferry was arriving. A ship’s wake made the old steam workhorse rise and fall. As it dipped, scores of arriving men, women and children, gaping at their new home, stumbled forward. When it rose, they all leaned back. They looked so bewildered. Carver’s father might’ve stepped off the same ferry. What had he been thinking back then?
When the ferry pulled back out, Carver was on it. After a choppy ride, it steered into a split in the rectangular Ellis Island, pulling up practically in front of the four-spired Federal Immigration Station. A half mile beyond, a giant blue-green arm and head poked above the water—the Statue of Liberty.
Inside, the mass of humanity would’ve been overwhelming if the space weren’t so vast. Dozens of languages mingled in a constant roar. Officials were scattered throughout, shouting the same commands over and over about which lines to stand in. Behind one counter, three uniformed men struggled to answer questions. After a long wait, Carver was at last waved by a perpetually upset, stocky man.
When Carver explained why he was there, the man pointed toward the far end of the hall. “You’ll want the stairs of Separation.”
Seeing his perplexed expression, the official pointed. “Stairs of Separation. Center staircase means you’re approved to stay; right or left means you’re being detained. Take the right. At the first landing there’s a door to the basement. Don’t be shy about pushing. No one in that line’s in much of a hurry.”
As Carver made his way, the space, if possible, grew thicker with people. He angled right, earning glares as he moved ahead of the waiting. Most said nothing, but halfway down the steps, a stout man, dark stubble covering his head, grabbed his arm.
When the man opened his mouth, as if to speak, Carver hoped he spoke English, so Carver could explain. Instead, he let loose a blast of wet, fetid air and started coughing. Carver held his breath and furiously pulled himself free.
Frightened, Carver moved quickly down the stairs, where he found the basement door. He made his way down into a clean but desolate hallway, his breathing heavy, his heart beating fast.
The first door was a thick, metal affair, the faint smell of charcoal wafting from a crack at the bottom. The knob was stuck, but with some effort he pulled it open. The mess at Hawking’s was nothing compared to what greeted his eyes. The room was so cluttered, he couldn’t tell how big it was. It was lined with shelves and tables, piles of paper on each, all burnt to one extent or another—the source of the smell.
The piles weren’t the strangest thing. That would be the strings. Countless, multicolored, frayed and rotting, they led from the stacks toward an odd mound in a dark corner. Together, they resembled a filthy rainbow spiderweb.
The mound moved, making the strings wobble. Instinctively, Carver reached for the baton, wondering how he would respond if he was forced to use it. It was a man, unshaven, like Hawking, his clothes so unclean they were a uniform gray. He had no glasses, but his eyes were wide, as if he had trouble focusing.
“What?” he said, as if it were hello.
“Are you Counter?” Carver asked.
The man’s face scrunched, turning the lines on it into a second web. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen. I was sent by…”
“Birthday? Height? Weight?”
“Sorry?”
“They’re numbers, aren’t they? You have to keep count, or everything…” He swept his arm, strings fluttering as he moved. “Everything gets lost.”
“All right,” Carver said. He rattled off his height, weight and birthday, but more questions came: Shoe size? How many teeth? Carver did his best until, eventually, the man was satisfied enough for him to explain why he was there and who sent him.
“Hawking,” Counter said. “Number one in my book. What year is this record?”
“Uh… 1889.”
“New immigrant.” The man’s long fingers crawled along the strings. He hooked some on bent fingers and let others drop.
“New?” Carver asked.
“Before 1870, most immigrants were Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, except the Irish, same as the people already here. After that, folks started coming from eastern and southern Europe, Catholics, Russian Jews, Asians, different ideas, new immigrants.”
“How many people do you think came here in 1889?”
Without a beat, Counter answered, “333,207.”
Carver’s shoulders slumped at the huge number. The Counter chuckled. “Sounds big, don’t it? That number’s a lion. Let’s see if we can tame him. Country of origin?”
“England. London.”
Counter dropped several strings. “60,552. Not so big. Just a bobcat. Month?”
“Um… November.” That was the date on the letter, he remembered.
“5,046. A pussycat. Man or a woman?”
“Man.”
More strings fell. “3,279.”
“Traveling alone or with family?”
Carver doubted his father had a family. “Alone.”
“Good. That’s rare. 522. Just a kitten now. Skilled or unskilled?”
The letter mentioned knives. He could be a butcher. He had a boss, too, so he definitely had a job. “Skilled.”
“316. Did he have money with him? Do you know his age?” Counter tugged gently at the line as if teasing a fish with bait.
Carver shrugged. “That’s all. That’s all I know.”
The man nodded toward the six strings in his hand. “Follow the strings.”
Excited, he overcame his repulsion and took the strings. The threads were hard to follow, but whenever Carver lost track, the Counter gave each one a little tug to show him the way. The strings led to a small pile of ship manifests, some too brittle to move, others too blackened to read.
Carver stared uneasily at the pile. “How many records from that year survived?”
“108,” Counter said. “Puts your chances at about one in three.”
Gingerly, Carver sifted through. He easily skipped any lighter writing, or the X’s of the illiterate, searching for his father’s distinct, heavy scrawl. He must have been there an hour and was about to give up when one rough signature made his heart leap into his throat. The writing was unmistakable. On a charred sheet, half-burned away, the ink practically glowing, was his father’s signature, his father’s name… Jay Cusack.
It didn’t sound English. Was it Irish? Jay Cusack. How hard could it be to find him now?
The Counter’s voice pulled him back into the room. “Got what you need?”
“Yes! Thank you!”
Counter nodded, sending a ripple through the strings. “Good luck to you, then. My best to Mr. Hawking. Without him I’d still be in that asylum. And kid, whatever you’re doing, make sure it counts.”
20
JAY CUSACK. Jay Cusack. That meant he was… Carver Cusack?
Upon his return to the South Street pier, Carver rolled the name around on his tongue. Not an easy sound, but what did that matter? He still knew so little. Was Carver born here or in England? Why did his father think he was dead?
Realizing he was hungry, Carver had absently whirled toward a fruit vendor when he thought he saw a dark figure slip around the corner. Wa
s he being followed? Was this whole chase just a game to the Pinkertons? It could’ve been the shadow of a store awning bulging from the wind, but…
He walked to the corner and peered down the block. The late-afternoon sun was nearly behind the buildings. But, other than the long shadows it cast on the vendors, workers and businessmen, there was nothing.
Real or not, the encounter made Carver wary, but not enough to keep him from spending the rest of the return journey trying to figure out what his next step would be. New York was huge, but even so, how many Jay Cusacks could there be?
He arrived back on Warren Street and let himself into the headquarters. If anyone from the New Pinkertons had followed him, he saw no sign of it. In fact, as the subway glided up to the platform and Carver stepped off, they seemed barely aware he was there. A push of the curved door let in the sounds of a lively discussion between Tudd and some agents.
“Still lost?” Tudd was saying. “That prototype was invaluable! It took a full year to develop that weapon!”
They were talking about the baton. Should Carver tell them he’d found it? Before he even had a chance, Tudd saw him, brightened, and started asking questions.
“So tell us how it went,” he said. “Tell us everything.”
Tudd was so genial, Carver’s sense of guilt kicked in. When he finished reporting what he’d learned, he was about to bring up the baton, but the older man quickly asked, “The sheet, the sheet with the signature, did you bring it?”
He seemed awfully excited about it. Carver’s sense of distrust kicked in again, but rather than ask why, he handed over the envelope.
Tudd slipped the burnt sheet out and looked at the signature. “It does, it does look similar.”
Noticing the way he grasped the browning paper, Carver felt suddenly protective. “It’s brittle. You can’t put it in a tube like the other. I’ll take it to your expert if you like.”
“No, no,” Tudd said. “I’ll take it there myself, with the utmost care.”
Carver stared at him. “Can I go with you? I’d like to see them side by side.”
Tudd shook his head. “Sorry, son. Patience. It has only been a day. You’ve done well though.”
Without another word, Tudd hurried off, Carver annoyed at being called son. Much as Tudd seemed friendly, he’d now taken the second clue to his father’s identity. Carver forced himself to remember Tudd had shown him nothing but kindness, given him nothing but opportunities. At the same time he was no longer quite so eager to return the baton.
Even without the sheet, he could still look up the name. On his way to the athenaeum, Jackson and Emeril ran up. Apparently, they’d somehow already heard of his success.
“Wonderful!”
“What luck! And we could sure use some of that around here!”
“Cusack? Isn’t that Polish?” Jackson ventured.
“Norman,” Emeril corrected. “Still used in England, mostly Irish, French before that.” Explaining to Carver, he added, “Surnames are part of my studies.”
“That and everything else,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes.
Despite enjoying their company, Carver didn’t quite trust them anymore either. He nodded toward the door. “I’ve only got an hour or so before I have to head back to Blackwell. I’d like to try to find an address by then.”
They laughed so hard, he had to ask. “Is it that funny?”
“Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s not as though you can use the analytical engine. And even then…”
Remembering the huge device, Carver asked, “What is that? What’s it do?”
“Not much since Beckley can’t abide the noise.” Jackson chuckled. “He almost quit over it. Tudd knows the nuts and bolts. He’s the first to get one working.”
Emeril interrupted. “But to answer the question, it was invented by Charles Babbage, fellow who created the difference engine, a mechanical calculator. The analytical engine is more general purpose. Using data coded into punched cards, it can sort them and answer questions. Say you wanted a list of whoever’s related to the person currently living at 375 Park Avenue. Put the question on a punch card, start the engine, in an hour or so, it spits out the answer.”
Carver went wide-eyed. “Really? Could I use it to find my father?”
Jackson shook his head. “First, Beckley hates the thing. Second, it keeps breaking down. Third, the cards only cover the city’s current upper class. Your dad’s more likely working class, don’t you think? I suppose if you eliminate your other options and beg, Beckley might give in. Until then, it’s the old-fashioned method. Frankly, you’ll be lucky to have the directories stacked on a table by the time you have to leave.”
As it turned out, Jackson was wrong. Carver not only stacked all the city directories from 1889 on, he also flipped through four, listing addresses for anyone named Jay Cusack.
By the time he had to leave, he’d accumulated fifty-seven Jay Cusacks. Fifty-seven. Worse, halfway through the fifth book he realized he should’ve listed all the Cusacks, in case a family member knew how to reach him.
On his way out, he longingly eyed the analytical engine. As if reading his mind, Beckley shook his head and proceeded to not only suggest ten more directories, but also to check the major newspaper archives, police reports and hospital records.
Daunted, Carver felt his shoulders slump as he left. Head buzzing with all the lists he’d have to go through, when he stepped out of the elevator onto Warren Street, he barely heard a familiar voice shriek his name.
“Carver!”
He looked up. A hansom cab was at the curb, a pretty girl leaning excitedly out the window. The smart new clothes were utterly unfamiliar, but the black hair and freckled face were unmistakable.
“Delia!” he shouted, trotting up.
“How wonderful!” she said. “I was just over at the New York Times Building. It’s the most amazing place! I saw the archives, the news desk, everything!”
Of course. The Times was on Park Row, part of Newspaper Row, just a few blocks away.
“Great!” Carver said.
“We’re heading home—West Franklin Street, number twenty-seven. Jerrik’s uncle rents them a lovely Queen Anne Victorian with a grand oak right outside my window. Haven’t had a chance yet, but it looks like an easy climb. What about you? Shopping Devlin’s for some new clothes, I hope?”
Right. Here was Delia dressed to the nines and he, still in his threadbare Ellis Orphanage clothes. Embarrassing as that was, he couldn’t tell her what he was doing. Not only had he just stepped out of a secret headquarters, but she was now the ward of reporters.
“Just… heading home,” he said.
“So you found someone to adopt you! Was it that old detective?”
Yes, and I’m living in an insane asylum with him, he wanted to say. Instead, he half-mumbled, “No, not him.”
“Oh…,” Delia said. She looked as if she didn’t believe him. “Who, then?”
“Someone—else,” Carver stammered.
“Do they have a name?” Delia asked patiently.
The awkward silence lasted until the woman sharing Delia’s cab leaned forward. It was Anne Ribe. He recognized her from Prospective Parents Night. Her eyes glowed with an intelligence that, even though they weren’t related, reminded Carver of Delia.
She extended a white-gloved hand. “The mysterious Carver Young! Delia’s told us so much about you… and yet so little.”
Really? That was a surprise. And Delia looked uncomfortable to hear it. Carver was taken aback but remembered to shake her hand. “Not that much to tell, really.”
“Can we give you a ride? I’m sure Delia would love to catch up.”
“No!” Carver said. His answer was loud enough to make Anne Ribe blink and twist her lips into a suspicious half smile. “Thank you, but I really should be walking.”
“Where?” Delia asked. She pushed closer and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” Carver mouthed back.
“It’s not that simple,” Carver added.
“Seems simple enough,” she said, pulling herself back inside. She sat flat against the seat, leaving her barely visible.
“Well, nice meeting you!” Anne Ribe said. And the cab rolled off.
Carver watched it go, confused and distraught. Delia had always been a challenge, pushing him, but she’d also been part of his life forever. He thought of calling out, chasing the cab, telling her everything, but he couldn’t. He had an entirely new life to deal with now.
And fifty-seven Jay Cusacks. So far.
21
LIKE THE ferry prow as it rose and collapsed on the choppy gray waters, seeing Delia had lifted Carver’s spirits just high enough to send them crashing down. Returning to the dreary island didn’t improve his mood, nor did seeing Simpson slam his head into the wall. Thud, thud, thud. Carver almost wanted to join him.
As he trudged up the long circular stairs, he hoped against hope that his mentor would ignore him so he could throw himself onto his new bed and collapse.
The typewriter was silent, but the pile of papers beside it had grown. Hawking was at the table, peering through a magnifying glass mounted on an adjustable stand. Intricate brass items had been strewn across an oily cloth. One was held in a vise, and the retired detective was hard at work using his good left hand to polish it.
He didn’t bother looking up. “Your housework inspired me, boy.”
“What is that?” Carver asked.
“A gadget. Call me a hypocrite, but I’ve a fondness for trains. Not the silent type, the cranky old steam variety. This is a piece of old railway equipment, once used for uncoupling cars and switching tracks. Should still work on our elevated system. I find the mechanics fascinating. Almost relaxing.”
Hawking lifted his head, revealing his intense, steady eyes. “You look like you’ve had quite the day.”
Carver mumbled noncommittally.
Hawking tossed the cloth into the center of the table. “Shall we play at Holmes and have me guess?”
“I thought you didn’t like Holmes,” Carver said.
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