Carver hit the stairs, where the only thing to glare at was the blur of his own feet.
Delia raced alongside him. “Carver Young, you promised you’d tell me what’s going on if I helped you. I’ve helped you, so tell me.”
“That’s not even my real last name,” Carver said.
“You promised. I took a terrific risk…,” she said, exasperated.
He stopped. “Septimus Tudd? The man whose name is on the letter? He only pretends he works for Roosevelt. He’s actually the head of a secret group of detectives. Tudd snatched my letter from the police, then invited me in as a junior agent just to get my father’s note.” He looked heavenward but saw only the steel of the staircase above him. “He had to have made the connection to my father. He used me. And right now, he’s downstairs at that party.”
“You don’t expect us to believe that cock and bull…,” Finn said.
Delia’s face twisted, the way it sometimes did when she was puzzling something out. She seemed to be thinking deeply, wrestling with impossible ideas on a day full of them.
Coming out of her daze, Delia interrupted him. “No, Finn. He’s not lying. It makes sense.”
At the fourth floor, the sounds of the party murmured like river water. Carver slowed, thinking to warn his fellow orphans. He looked at both of them. “Don’t follow me, understand? Get back to the party some other way. I’ll say I broke into the office by myself.”
“What are you going to do?” Delia said.
Carver didn’t answer. Instead, he strode into the party.
As the filthy, foul-smelling boy invaded the soiree, all conversation ceased. He felt the stares of the rich and famous but kept his eyes dead ahead. He moved so quickly that by the time anyone thought to do something about him, he’d already reached Tudd.
Tudd still had his back to the teen and was talking to Roosevelt. It was the commissioner’s ever-darting eyes that caught sight of Carver first. Not knowing what to make of Carver, Roosevelt adjusted his pince-nez glasses and narrowed his gaze.
Not caring, Carver grabbed the heavyset leader of the New Pinkertons by the elbow and spun him around. Taken fully by surprise, Tudd nearly fell. He quickly caught his balance, anchoring himself as if ready for a battle.
“You knew,” Carver said, his gaze boring into the man. “You used me.”
If Tudd was shocked, he didn’t show it. He spoke carefully, softly, as if hoping to exclude all the watching partygoers, especially Roosevelt, from his words.
“If you care anything about your future,” he said, “all the work you’ve done, the progress you’ve made, you will walk out of this party with me immediately.”
The words puzzled Carver. He didn’t think he had any future. Before he could respond, Roosevelt pushed his barrel chest between them.
“Who is this fierce indigent, Tudd? If he’s hungry, give him some food and send him on his way. We’re not done talking.”
Tudd kept his eyes on Carver. “This is… my nephew, Commissioner. He’s having some personal difficulties regarding his father but knows better than to come here to complain to me about it. I apologize for the interruption. He’ll leave with me right now.”
“Nephew?” Roosevelt said. “And you let him walk about in rags? No wonder he’s so full of beans. You should be ashamed, Septimus, as should you, young man, for not showing yourself enough respect to…”
Moving quickly, Tudd dragged Carver back toward the stairs. Carver wanted to put up a fight, but he was confused now. What had Tudd meant?
The entire floor was watching, whispering. Roosevelt cried loudly, “I don’t generally support corporal punishment for the young, Tudd, but in that boy’s case, see to it you make an exception!”
Several partygoers laughed. A few applauded.
At the archway, Tudd tightened his grip. They passed a gaping Delia and Finn and walked down the steps wordlessly, until they reached the empty lobby.
There, Carver yanked his arm away.
“I saw the letter to the Times. I read the notes about your request to Scotland Yard in August, right after you saw my father’s letter!”
Tudd straightened his jacket. “So I gathered. Hawking was right about you. Clearly I was wrong to underestimate you. The water damage proves that much. You should have heard Hawking cackle.”
Carver ignored the comment. “You knew all along.”
“I suspected,” Tudd said, a bare hint of remorse in his voice. “From the moment your letter arrived at Mulberry Street. And what can I tell you now? Seven years ago, a certain killer in London wrote to the police. The tone, the grammar, all matched the letter from your father. The wounds from the library killing matched his method of operation. But when I summoned my friend, the brilliant Mr. Hawking, for support, he called me a fool in front of all my agents! What could I do then? Waltz you in and tell you I suspected your father was a monster? I wouldn’t say that to my worst enemy without proof. And what would you have done? Run off? Given us away to the police? My hands were tied.”
“And when you saw the letter from my father?”
Tudd shrugged guiltily. Briefly, the stout man seemed somehow smaller. “I should have gone straight to the police? I admit the thought of capturing the killer without them may have blinded me, but there were other concerns. I was convinced. Not Hawking. So, I chose to wait for Scotland Yard. When the letter arrived at the Times, of course I knew. But then, how could I explain to Roosevelt I’d stumbled on such explosive evidence without giving the New Pinkertons away? As for you, I’d hoped Hawking would arrive while you were in our custody and tell you all this himself.”
“Hawking,” Carver said, realizing it for the first time. “He knew, too?”
“Only that I was an idiot,” Tudd said, softening further. “When he read your note… he did take an interest in you. We struck a deal. He’d take you under his wing while I waited to hear from Scotland Yard. I thought your little investigation was just a way to keep you busy. I never imagined you’d make progress.”
“But you were happy to use the information I found,” Carver said.
Tudd stiffened. “I wish things could be different, but here we are now. You don’t even realize what we’re up against. A savage killer like your father doesn’t control his demons, he’s driven by them. That, and his own self-loathing. At the same time, he’s obviously interested in you, or he’d never have sent that letter. In fact, I suspect you wouldn’t be making progress without your father’s help. It’s like some sort of game he’s playing, and you’re our only link.”
“Why shouldn’t I just go to the police?” Carver said.
Tudd’s kindly demeanor faded slightly as he gritted his teeth. He was losing patience. “Putting aside my hopes for myself and the agency, the story would leak. The media circus could drive your father away from you and on to more killings. You must trust me. I can catch him, I need that chance, I deserve it!”
“Trust you? How?” Carver said.
Tudd started shouting. “You owe me more than trust! I’ve saved you from being a street rat, given you the best teacher in the world. In exchange you flood the headquarters and nearly ruin my life’s work, all because you’re ashamed of Daddy!”
If Tudd realized he’d gone too far, he didn’t get the chance to say so.
Schick! Carver held the stun baton out, the copper tip humming with electrical energy.
“So you’re a criminal,” Tudd said, stiffening. “Stealing from us. I may have misjudged your heart, too. What else runs in your blood? How much more are you like your father?”
Carver jutted the tip forward, but, wet from the sewer water, it crackled and went dead.
Fuming at the sight of his broken prototype, Tudd shook his head. “Stupid child! You’ve no idea…”
The angry expression on his face was shattered by Carver’s fist. As Tudd’s jaw snapped to the right, Carver followed with a left to his gut.
The older man crumpled to the ground. Carver watched him drop.
It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. Carver’s hand, where it had connected with Tudd’s jaw, was throbbing. His breath came in ragged gasps; his vision clouded with rage. He was suddenly ashamed, deeply embarrassed.
And worse, a familiar voice snapped him around. “C-Carver?”
It was Delia, staring at him, her eyes filled with disgust. She’d seen it then, seen his savage attack.
A moan from Tudd turned her toward his crumpled form. “You better go,” Delia said, choking back a tear.
“Delia, I…”
“Go!” she shouted, eyes red.
Carver nodded. In a daze, he stumbled onto the streets and ran.
His head soon ached as badly as his hand. What had he done? Why? He’d never attacked anyone like that before. Tudd wasn’t evil. In a way, he’d been trying to protect him. But when he’d said Daddy, Carver found himself filled with an alien fury. He’d wanted to kill him. And the way Delia looked at him.
Was he… like his father?
39
“YOU LIED,” Carver said.
He stood in the center of the octagonal room. Hawking’s old overcoat, far more beaten and muddied than it’d been two days ago, was slung over his arm.
“Hang the coat and pull up a chair,” Hawking said. “You know where the door is, boy. I promise I won’t lock you in.”
Carver hesitated to let go of his rage, but from what Tudd said, Hawking had seen something worth molding in Carver. He put the coat on a hook and sat across from his mentor. On the table, the brass pieces, all polished now, were spread out between them like a massive picture puzzle. A whiskey glass held scores of tiny screws.
“I just didn’t tell you everything. I didn’t want you distracted by nonsense. I haven’t made a secret of my opinion of Tudd’s theory, have I? And I didn’t lie about my plans for you.”
It wasn’t what Carver expected. “You can’t still think Tudd’s wrong, can you? You can’t believe the killer isn’t my father?”
Hawking sighed and pursed his lips. “No, but it was more a lucky guess than a theory, and the facts aren’t all in yet. I assume if there’d been a response from Scotland Yard, Tudd wouldn’t be keeping it to himself. If you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself, you’d see that.”
“But my father…”
Hawking held up his clawed hand. “I didn’t say it was unreasonable for you to be wrapped up in yourself.” Out of nowhere, he cackled. “And you brought the whole sewer down on them! Ha! The whole sewer!” When Carver failed to join him in the laugh, he stopped, but the smile didn’t fade from his face. “It could be worse, you know.”
Carver slammed his fist on the table so hard that two of the tiny screws flew from the glass and rolled off to the floor.
“How?” Carver shouted. “How could it be worse?”
Hawking didn’t move, but his smile faded. “I’ll let that go, but mind your tone. You say you want to be a detective. If your father is the killer, you’re in a unique position to catch him. Who better to get in the mind of the father than the son?”
“You’re saying I’m like him?” Carver asked.
“Of course you’re like him, boy! He’s your father!” Hawking barked. “Probably have the same hair color, eye color, gait… unless you take after your mother.”
Carver’s hands shook visibly. When Hawking saw this, he clamped them together with his own, pressing his strong hand into Carver’s knuckles, bracing it with his wounded claw, making them still.
“Young men are so good at eating themselves up from the inside,” his mentor said quietly. “I’d like to say the older are wiser, but the fact is, we just lack the energy to twist ourselves into such tight knots. I didn’t say you were exactly like him.”
“I don’t want to be like him at all,” Carver said.
“You don’t want to breathe air or have two arms, two legs? First rule of detective work—be more specific. In what ways don’t you want to be like him? I assume you’re not worried about inheriting his grammar. You speak well enough.”
Carver stated the painfully obvious. “I don’t want to be a killer.”
But of course that wasn’t enough for Hawking. “Soldiers kill, police kill. Detectives sometimes kill, to protect themselves or others. A man who kills a killer is a hero. Wouldn’t you kill someone who was threatening to kill a child?”
“Yes, but… the way I beat Tudd…”
“Beat Tudd? Ha! Well, I daresay he deserved it. He lied to you, used you, locked you up, and I’m sure, as night follows day, that he said something stupid to set you off. Are the killer’s victims, as far as we know, people who used or hurt him?”
Carver shook his head. “No. He just… attacked them. They were innocent as far as anyone knows.”
“Do you want to murder innocent women?”
“No!”
Hawking blew air from his lips, as if he didn’t believe him. “Really? Never thought about it in your idle time? Chatting with your black-haired reporter girl, the idea never popped into your head?”
Carver was repulsed. “No! Never!”
Hawking let go of Carver’s hands and opened his good palm triumphantly. “Then why on earth do you think it’s something you’d ever do?”
“What if I can’t help myself? Tudd said the killer can’t control himself, that he’s driven by demons and self-loathing.”
Hawking snickered. “Say it with me, Tudd is an ass! You’ve read the letters. Does the author strike you as full of self-loathing?”
Carver furrowed his brow, recalling the terse phrasing, the energy behind the pen strokes. “No. I think he likes it. He likes it a lot.”
Hawking rubbed the index finger and thumb of his good hand together, as if he rolled a tiny hard kernel of truth between them. “That’s the key to him—and to you. He does, you don’t. He enjoys himself immensely, every aspect, from the killing to the letters to the clues. He’s not hiding behind some thin veneer of civilization. He’s living his desires to the fullest, unadorned and unafraid. Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires. Remember? That’s William Blake, boy, Proverbs of Hell. Study that one if you ever want to catch anything other than a cold.”
Hawking’s usually steady eyes scanned left and right, losing focus. “Your father is no simple driven beast. He dropped the second body exactly where it would cause the biggest stir, to be sure that everyone, especially you, would know about it. It’s like some sort of intricate game. He’s very cunning,” Hawking said, as if admiring him. “Perhaps brilliant, strong, dedicated, all qualities one might be proud to possess.”
“B-but…,” Carver stammered, “he’s also evil.”
Hawking turned his intense gaze on Carver. “And no one wants to hear good things about the devil, eh?”
40
AT FIRST Carver thought the scream was his own, left over from a nightmare he couldn’t quite recall, but the muffled, pitiful wail came from below. Simpson was resisting his treatment again.
Carver showered, ate, and patched his overcoat, but still couldn’t clear his head. Too many bad thoughts were colliding in his mind. He craved reassurance.
“Are you going to get involved in the case?” Carver asked his mentor.
“No.”
“But…”
“No. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”
“What should I… ?”
“It’s your life, not mine. You’ll have to figure out what to do with yourself next.”
Carver had no idea, not in the least. With Hawking constantly cursing as he fidgeted with the tiny screws, he felt as if he’d soon explode. Desperate, he begged to be allowed to go to the city.
“Why?”
“I have to get out of here. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“What better place for it? But I understand your point.” Hawking grumbled slightly, then said, “If your father wanted to find you, he could have done so years ago. As long as you’re not looking for him, you should be safe.
And stay away from Tudd, too. For the moment at least. You will have to deal with both of them eventually, though.”
“I know,” Carver said.
By mid-afternoon, he found himself on the corner of 14th and Broadway, staring at his old home, Ellis Orphanage. At the time, his life there had seemed awful, mostly because of Finn. Yet in comparison, it had been carefree. Now the windows and doors were boarded up. A sign proudly announced that the new owners were preparing to demolish the eyesore and replace it with something new and wondrous. He wished he could do the same with his life. The look on Delia’s face the last time she saw him still hovered in his head, gargoyle-like.
Delia. Finn. What had happened to them? Had they been found out? He had a responsibility, even if it was partly toward his former tormentor. Trying to live up to it would make him different from his father, wouldn’t it?
It was Saturday. If they weren’t in jail, they’d be home. Delia had mentioned her address only once, but he remembered it. 27 West Franklin Street was a good, long walk from Ellis, but the release of energy would do him good.
Along the way, he passed many newsboys shouting headlines, but not one had a word to say about a break-in at the Times. That was a good sign. Finn’s new parents were wealthy and influential; Delia’s were employees. Roosevelt didn’t want the letter’s existence made public. A lot of people had an interest in keeping things quiet.
When he reached Franklin Street, his hopes faded. The block was full of town houses, newer and in better repair than those on Warren Street. None stood out more than the Victorian at number 27, with its nearly carrot-orange bricks and the gray-brown gables. Carver would’ve liked the place if it weren’t for the carriage parked directly outside, marked Metropolitan Police.
Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any worse, he did. Had Delia been arrested?
He wanted to know, but if he walked up, the carriage driver would spot him. Delia had mentioned an oak tree at her window. There weren’t any out front. Could it be in the back?
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