Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  “What’s it like? Where do you live?”

  Before he could deliver his prepared response, she turned back to the window. “Hold on. Another wagon’s pulling up. Come watch.”

  She pulled at him to join her. “We can both squeeze in. It’ll be like listening at the vents back at Ellis.”

  Soon their faces were pressed against the glass. Her cheek wasn’t all that much warmer in the carriage, feeling icy against his, but he found he enjoyed it.

  “See the man in the Stetson hat?” she asked. “That’s Jerrik. And the wagon… must be from the coroner’s office. They’ve got a stretcher. Oh. They’re finally going to move the body.”

  A rough blanket was placed over Jane Ingraham. Two men prepared to lift her onto the stretcher. Before they did, Roosevelt barked an order, muffled by the closed cab door. At once, everyone on the steps removed their hats, clasped their hands and bowed their heads for a moment of silence.

  Delia, who’d removed her woolen hat, nudged Carver and glanced at his soggy cap. He pulled it off and looked solemnly downward.

  The moment over, the two men lifted the stretcher and carried it to a wagon marked City Morgue.

  By now their faces had caused the glass to fog a bit. Delia pulled her sweater sleeve up so it covered the heel of her hand and wiped the window clean.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it? The most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Me too.”

  “But I don’t feel it, you know? Maybe I will later when it’s had a chance to sink in. Jerrik was afraid I’d burst into tears or become hysterical, but I didn’t. I guess it would bother me more if she looked like a person. But with all the snow and the light, she doesn’t, does she? Do you think that makes me heartless?”

  Delia and Carver turned to each other at the same time, finding themselves nose to nose.

  “No,” Carver managed. “I don’t think you’re heartless.”

  Not heartless at all, he added in his head.

  30

  CARVER woke to pitch darkness, mind throbbing with the remnants of arc-lit dreams, full of snow and blood. When he’d finally returned to the New Pinkertons’ headquarters, even Beckley was on his way home. The librarian had stayed long enough to help Carver find a cot, folded in the corner of a windowless, box-filled storeroom. Exhausted, Carver collapsed onto it and quickly fell asleep.

  He awoke in the morning to a weak septic odor. Hawking mentioned the place was under a sewer. This little room probably shared a wall or floor with it. Sewers reminded him of the alley rat; the rat reminded him of the killer. For a moment he felt as if the caped stalker were hovering over him, seething, dark as the night.

  He shook his head and rolled gingerly off the cot, careful not to upset its rickety frame, then fumbled for his clothes. Hoping he’d put them back on correctly, he found the doorknob and stepped out. In the outer hall, sunlight filtered down from unseen skylights in the high brick ceiling.

  Beckley warned that everyone would be at their undercover posts, collecting details about the murder, so Carver wasn’t surprised to find the place empty. He did wish he knew where they kept the food. His stomach was growling. Absently he poked around, checking doors. Most were locked, but that wasn’t really an issue. He still had his set of nails.

  And he was alone.

  That presented interesting possibilities. He could sneak into Tudd’s office, read all those files on his desk, maybe find out if—and why—they’d been tailing him. He could even unearth the man’s theory about the killer and see why Hawking held it in such disdain.

  Passing the laboratory area, Carver couldn’t resist having a look around. All the devices he’d seen there during the day had been locked away. One metal cabinet was easy enough to pick. Heavy with hanging rifles, the door swung open, revealing a stock of weapons.

  Some were familiar, but many not. Two shelves held about ten odd pistols, each mounted on even odder metal stands. The stands had six jointed legs, several gears and spring-wound motors. The guns might be loaded, so he decided to leave them alone. But his eyes shortly lighted on something that looked like a folding knife.

  Thinking it less dangerous, he picked it up. When he flipped out what he thought would be the blade, instead an intricate set of thin pieces of metal jutted from the top in the shape of a key. As he turned a dial at the bottom of the handle, the “key” changed size and shape.

  Was it some sort of lock pick?

  Deciding to try it out, he closed the cabinet door, then inserted the weird tool into the lock. He rotated the dial until he heard a click and was thrilled to discover he could lock the door with a simple twist of his hand. Excited, he withdrew the tool and tried again.

  This time, the lock didn’t budge. Worse, the device seemed stuck in the door. Carver shook and yanked it, rattling the cabinet before realizing all he had to do was turn the dial back a little. It slipped out easily, pulling the door open again.

  What an amazing contraption! Much better than the nails. With this, he could go anywhere. But could he just… take it? It was different from the stun baton. That he’d simply found. Realizing it had saved his life, he was glad he hadn’t returned it. But what about this? It seemed such a small thing among the wonders of the place. Hadn’t Hawking said something about Benjamin Franklin breaking laws and becoming like a thief to be able to catch one? His mentor was a great detective, after all.

  He slipped it into his pocket, next to the baton. A guilty pang hit him, and he heard his own voice, full of hatred, calling Finn “Thief!”

  But this wasn’t a gold locket, a child’s only possession. Besides, he was only borrowing it long enough to get into Tudd’s office and find out what was going on.

  Mind made up, he closed the door to the cabinet a little too hard. Suddenly, there was a loud crack! as a bullet flew through the metal. A mechanical whirring followed. As Carver sprang back, the mounted pistols, moving of their own accord, crawled from the shelf, spider-like. As they tumbled to the ground, another shot was fired.

  Carver ducked behind a heavy table. As the whirring continued, he stuck his head out and watched in awe and fear as the pistols righted themselves and began crawling around the room. He pulled back, worried that they might somehow be able to see him.

  For many breathless moments, the whirring continued, but no more shots were fired. What were they? Some sort of mechanical guns you could send in after the crooks? How would they know when to fire?

  Ulp. He was about to find out. One rounded the table and crawled toward him, its little legs moving in sequence, like an insect. Carver squirmed back but didn’t want to be in sight of the other guns, either. How many were there? Eight?

  Closer and closer it crawled… and then stopped.

  Soon, the whirring of the other spring-driven motors died down as well. He got behind the one nearest him and examined it. There was a timer on the back, this one set to zero. He reasoned you could set the timer, wind the spring engine, send the gun in to some dangerous spot, and it would fire when the timer reached zero.

  At least that meant they couldn’t see. Slowly, he checked them all. None of the timers were set. Jarring the cabinet had probably set off the first shot; the fall to the ground set off the other. Gingerly, he returned them all to the cabinet but left the door ajar. Praying they’d think the gun had gone off on its own (it practically had, hadn’t it?), Carver decided that any further skulking around the headquarters was probably not the wisest thing to do.

  Unless he wanted to get shot.

  31

  OUTSIDE, the sun made Carver wince. The air was warmer; the colors had returned. The sidewalk had a clear path, though each corner held a huge snow hill. The slick gray of the cobblestones already dominated the white on Broadway. People, wagons, carriages and streetcars all moved about as if there’d been no storm at all.

  “Horrid murder!” a pleasant young voice called. “Savage mutilations! Body at the Tombs!”

  People crowded around the ne
wsboy. He held up a fresh copy of the Daily Herald, its headline reading TOMBS KILLING. The happy boy could barely keep up with sales.

  Carver checked his money. He had more than enough for something decent to eat and the ferry ride back to Blackwell. He thought about getting a paper but felt he owed Delia some loyalty and should find a copy of the Times.

  First, though, he bought himself a baked potato from one of the vendors lining City Hall Park. As the steam from its white center soothed his face, he listened in on passing conversations. Everyone was talking about the second murder.

  Near the marble fountain at the park’s center he found a newsboy selling the Times. Reaching an empty bench, he swatted the soggy snow off and sat down to finish breakfast and read the paper.

  Not a usual Times reader, Carver was surprised it didn’t have the same glaring headline as the Herald. The murder wasn’t even front and center. It was on the first page but on the far right, next to a larger article about the storm, with a quiet headline—SOCIALITE’S BODY DISCOVERED—followed by, in smaller type, Police Flummoxed by Killer’s Daring, then, in even smaller type, by Jerrik Ribe.

  There was a photograph of the Echolses, posing with Finn, captioned with a note about the stalwart district attorney, well known for his strong hand in dealing with crime and his compassion toward the city’s orphans. Finn looked good in his suit, if not particularly happy.

  Carver already knew most of the murder details, having been there. The guard who’d found the body saw a set of footprints, but the storm covered them by the time the investigation was in full swing. That and a lack of blood led the police to believe the killer had murdered her elsewhere, then carried her body to the Tombs, just as Hawking said.

  They also assumed he was “a singularly powerful man.”

  Carver’s caped stalker certainly fit that bill. Then again, so did Carver’s father and, as Hawking said, thousands of other men.

  His father. He wanted to go back to Leonard Street to follow up the lead, but Hawking had forbidden that. Was this Raphael Trone really his father, or could he know how to find him? A violent man, strong. Wolfish, the cat lady had called him. Carver remembered the predatory sensation he felt in the presence of the stalker.

  His mind stopped short. He’d been lost in thought so long, the potato was cold. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t hungry anymore. He looked up. The New York Times Building was right across the street. After it was first built, there’d been a competition. The Tribune had built a taller one, and then in 1889 the Times decided to top it. Eight at the time, Carver used to sneak out of Ellis to watch the construction. The giant printing presses were actually kept in place and the new thirteen-story building constructed as the old one was demolished.

  He counted the windows to the fifth floor, where Delia worked. The thought of visiting tickled him, but he was filthy, his clothes crumpled, and he was still very much afraid of meeting her adoptive father, knowing he’d have to lie about the secret agency, not knowing if he could.

  What should he do next? He could head back to headquarters, hope no one noticed the damage he’d done and try to find more Raphael Trones. Even if they caught him, Carver suspected Hawking wouldn’t be very angry. As for Tudd, Carver found himself caring less and less what he thought. Maybe he could try to get his father’s letter and signature back.

  He crumpled the foil around his baked potato, tossed the remains in a trash can and made his way. He was practically at the fountain when he again had the sensation he was being followed. It wasn’t as thick and heavy as it had been during the storm, but it was enough to make him pause and have a good look around.

  Women in wool dresses and scarves, men in coats with fur collars and bowlers walked leisurely about, enjoying the early winter scene. Children threw clumps of snow. Vendors hawked food; street rats sold the papers. Nothing suspicious, but after yesterday, he really should pay more attention to his instincts.

  He walked across Broadway backward, searching the park for anyone who might be watching him. After nearly being hit by a carriage, he decided to face the direction he was walking.

  When he reached the brass pipe that unlocked the elevator, he hesitated, standing there awhile, hoping if someone were watching, they might dare come closer. If he waited for just the right moment and snapped around quickly, he might catch them. The feeling along his spine grew, as real as it ever had been.

  He counted to himself, one… two…

  And whirled.

  He was right! These was someone there. “Delia?”

  She wore the same hat as the night before, but the thick wool dress was green. A mismatched scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck. “Hello,” she said, flustered.

  “You’re following me?” Carver said, stepping toward her.

  “Investigating you. If you can practice being a detective, why can’t I practice being a reporter?”

  Carver narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m joking, mostly,” she said, coming nearer. “I saw you on the bench from the window, but by the time I got there, you were headed through the park.”

  “You could have called my name,” Carver said.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted your attention.”

  Carver felt oddly hurt. “Why?”

  She exhaled slowly. “There’s something I found out… well, something Jerrik found out, and he told Anne and she told me, and I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Yet I really thought that you, of all people, should know.”

  “Delia, what are you talking about?”

  She made a face as if deciding something. “Okay, then, here it is. This morning a letter was sent to Commissioner Roosevelt through the Times. They think it’s from the killer.”

  His eyes went wide. “What did it say?”

  “That’s the reason I thought you should know. It was very short. Four words, but they reminded me of… well, they reminded me of the letter you found in the attic.”

  He frowned. That couldn’t be. She wasn’t making sense. “Reminded you? How? What did it say?”

  She swallowed hard before answering. “Dear Boss, Me again.”

  “‘Boss’? Like the letter from my father?”

  She nodded.

  Carver felt a sickly feeling come over him, as if he were trapped, a cleaver dangling over his head, ready to fall.

  Only this was much, much worse.

  32

  CARVER was tumbling, down, down—so far down it seemed he’d always be falling. Was this the abyss Hawking had warned about?

  He was barely aware of his legs buckling, barely aware of Delia grabbing his elbow, trying to guide him to a gentler landing on the sidewalk. “Carver! Carver!” she said over and over.

  He blinked and looked at her. “My father is the library killer.”

  Her green wool skirt pooled on the concrete as she sat beside him. She looked as if she’d accidentally stabbed him to death. “No! It might not even be from the killer. It could just be a prank. Last week we received a lovely note from Abraham Lincoln, just writing to say hello. And, really, just because your father’s letter used the word boss… doesn’t mean anything by itself. A lot of people use the word. Most everyone has one, you know. I just thought… because of the coincidence… that I should tell you.”

  “It’s not just the one word,” Carver said. “The cat woman said he was violent, like a wolf. His letter talks about his knives. His work… is killing people. And I thought he was a butcher…”

  He filled her in on what he’d learned.

  “It still may not be true. I understand you’re scared, but you’re jumping to conclusions,” she said, searching his eyes. She was trying to give him some hope. He wished she could. He furrowed his brow, scrunched his face and beat at his forehead with the palms of his hands.

  Don’t theorize until you have all the facts. But how many facts did he need?

  “Are you thinking or just beating yourself?” she asked. “What are you thinking about? Carver?”

/>   “Some way to know, some way to prove it, one way or another,” he said miserably. “Delia, the letter, was it handwritten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s locked in Mr. Overton’s office. He’s the news editor. There’s a big fight going on about whether or not to publish it. Roosevelt’s pressuring them not to, saying it will cause a needless panic. See? Even he doesn’t think it’s real.”

  “I’ve got to see it. I have to see if the handwriting matches.”

  “Why not bring your letter to Jerrik? I’m sure he’s seen it,” she offered.

  Carver sighed. “I… don’t have it anymore.”

  It was Delia’s turn for brow-furrowing. “You’d never give up that letter.”

  He nearly explained, but caught himself before blurting out that twenty-one feet below them lay the most sophisticated crime laboratory in the world. If only they could get their hands on the new letter.

  Wait a minute. Tudd worked with Roosevelt. He might have already seen it. Carver’s answer could already be waiting for him down below.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you where it is.”

  She exhaled, exasperated. “One of the many secrets you keep for Mr. Hawking?”

  “Yes. No. In a way. I’d tell you if I could!”

  She moved closer. “I swear, Carver, I’d never tell a soul, not even Jerrik or Anne.”

  Considering it, he looked around. People were pausing to stare at the two youths plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk, atop an off-color patch of concrete. Carver stood, wiped his pants and offered Delia a shaky hand to help her to her feet.

  “I will tell you all about it,” he whispered. “I swear, but first I have to see that letter. Can you trust me? Can you help me?”

  “Another deal, like back at Ellis, with you offering the bargain?” she said. She thought about it. “There’s a gathering tonight at the Times, but it’s really just an excuse for the editor to speak with Roosevelt informally. There’ll be lots of people in the building. I could get you in. Even if we did get caught, we could say we were lost. But the office will be locked.”