Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  “Miss Kelly, Mayor Strong for Commissioner Roosevelt.”

  As he waited, sweat beaded on his forehead. Seconds passed. He eyed the door, wondering how much time he had left.

  “Roosevelt here, Mr. Mayor.” The voice’s forceful quality was unhindered by the tinny speaker.

  “He’s waiting. I’ll connect you,” Carver said, forgetting to raise his voice. He connected the commissioner’s line to Tudd’s.

  The first words the man heard from his assistant were, “Roosevelt has no reason to suspect me of anything. I’ve been careful. He thinks I’m completely loyal. There isn’t a shred of evidence to connect me…”

  “Tudd?!” Roosevelt bellowed.

  “Commissioner… ?”

  “No need to come to my office, Tudd. I had a good strong extension wire put in last week so I could pace while on the phone. At this moment, I’m standing right outside your locked door. Open it at once!”

  It was done.

  A funny taste filled Carver’s mouth as his body shed some anxiety. He pulled the lines free, leaving them as he found them, opened the door and walked out. The group still admiring Miss Lupton’s flowers was large enough for him to have to squeeze past.

  As he did, she recognized him. With yet another “Oh!” she forced a nickel into his hand, a tip, then smiled so widely, he felt he’d done at least one good thing today.

  Hoping no one saw the sweat on his brow, he headed past the stomach-scratching desk sergeant, out the front entrance, down the steep stone steps and into the chill of the city, never happier to disappear.

  47

  AS HE ran along the fog-shrouded streets, Carver knew it was a dream. The buildings were too misshapen, the fog too thick. He reached out to touch it. He scooped some into his hand. It swirled like living smoke in his palm.

  The screaming still disturbed him, high-pitched, pained. Knowing it was all unreal, he didn’t run. Instead, he walked through the narrow alley. For some reason, it ended not in a filthy open area, but the phone room of Mulberry Street. The switching station was in the center, surrounded by flowers. There was a body on the floor, a top-hatted figure hovering above it. For a moment, the body was Delia’s, but then, all of a sudden, it was Tudd’s.

  His blood-smeared belly quivered as his chest heaved, taking in its final breath.

  Carver was no longer watching; he was participating. It was he who hovered over Tudd. He could feel the hat tight on his head, the folds of the black cape around his shoulders, the cool knife in his hand. The warm blood spattered on his fingers was so thick, it dripped.

  But the thing that made it a nightmare wasn’t the death or the body. It was the fact that Carver was happy about what he’d done. It was so much better, so much more satisfying than beating the man with his fists.

  He woke with a start, sitting up in his bed, sweat on his brow. His right hand, the hand that, in the dream, held the killing knife, had fallen outside the protection of the blanket and grown cold.

  The more his mind kicked in, the more nausea roiled his belly. A voice whispered in his head, mixing with the moaning of the patients, scratching at him like an insistent insect: It was your idea. You are a killer’s son.

  He looked around the octagonal room. Distant lights slapped at the dark, but the shadows held sway, thick as the dream fog. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he?

  He took some comfort that Hawking was near. He knew it was the right thing. Thorny as he was, there was something strong about his mentor’s certainty, his conviction. It steadied Carver.

  But… where was the sound of his snoring? He heard a thud from the floor below and assumed it was Simpson. More moans followed. The inmates were unusually active for so late. But if he could hear them, why not Hawking’s breath?

  A childish fear took him, probably because he was still so close to the dream. What if Hawking were dead? What if he had a weak heart or his old wounds had claimed him while he slept?

  Carver rose, unsteady on his feet, and tried to peer into the nest of blankets across the room, the spot where his benefactor slept. It was hard to separate what might be blankets and what might be body, but everything seemed so still.

  “Mr. Hawking, sir?” he whispered.

  There was no answer, but he knew he was being silly. It was like when he was five years old and used to panic when Miss Petty was late coming back, fearing she’d died in some accident. But she always came back. He was surprised his mentor could evoke the same reaction.

  But what if he had died? How could Carver be sure of anything, then?

  More moans and thuds crept up from below. Fear seeped into his skin. He stepped closer. “Mr. Hawking?”

  He was being ridiculous. The man would be furious if he woke him. But for some reason, even being yelled at would be comforting right now.

  Carver hovered near Hawking’s bed. He still couldn’t make out his form. The pile seemed too flat. Heading for the window, he twisted a half-hung sheet, aiming the light from outside. The scant glow crept up the bed, over the rumpled blankets.

  It was empty. Hawking was gone.

  The sound came again from below. It wasn’t Simpson. It was footsteps.

  48

  CARVER pushed open the door and peered down the asylum tower’s spiral stairs. Faded light sliced the dark, but the tiled floor below remained cloaked in black.

  The thuds came again, the moans and more. Scrapes and a crunch reached his ears, echoing through the halls. Carver held his breath and strained to hear just as the front doors squeaked open, followed by a whisper of wind.

  And then, far below, one of the shadows moved.

  It loped across the open area and made for the base of the stairs.

  Someone was down there, but who? The possibilities flooded his mind. Was Tudd coming after him, looking for revenge? Was it a New Pinkerton agent, angry at the betrayal? But how would they even know about it? Hawking was certain Tudd would never… Where was Hawking?

  The distant creak of a wooden stair. A gray blur with a glint of silver slid along the railing, a hand. The hackles rose on Carver’s back. His father? Had his father found him? The facts flashed in his mind. His father knew he was at Ellis Orphanage; he’d sent the letter there. They’d met on Leonard Street. How hard would it be to stalk Carver, watch him and his mentor board the ferry, ask the returning captain a few questions and learn his son was here?

  The steps creaked again, but the hand was gone. Carver had no way of knowing which floor the figure had reached. Barefoot, he padded down the steps, hoping to see before being seen. He thought about the stun baton, remembered how sad Tudd looked when he realized it was broken. Feeling naked without it, he looked around for anything to defend himself with. Through the windows, a pinkish ring hugging Manhattan told him dawn was near. The dull light reflected a metal cart on the landing below. A blade lay atop it. A scalpel. Well, it was something at least.

  Staying close to the curved wall, he reached the landing, grabbed the knife, then waited. He tried to listen, but the pounding of his heart flooded his ears. When nothing happened for a time, it slowed and he had to wonder if he was imagining it all, or maybe still dreaming.

  Summoning his courage, he peered down the lonely hallway. It seemed empty, nothing out of place.

  Wait. There was. The narrow “mystery” door he’d seen Hawking use once. Usually, it made such a neat line with the wall it was practically invisible. Now it looked like it was jutting out, ajar.

  A bit of relief warmed Carver. His mentor could be in there, and at least his fear had given him an excuse to look inside. He headed for it, nearly reached it, but a cool wind from the open entrance blew it shut. With a click, its edge disappeared.

  Worse, he realized he wasn’t alone. The figure was there with him, on the same floor. At least his back was to Carver as he walked deeper down the hall. Its direction confused him. If it was his father, wouldn’t he go straight up the stairs? No. Not knowing where his son slept, he’d have to search th
e building.

  Carver pressed himself against the door until the figure slipped into a room. He heard papers rustling, a metal cabinet opening. The intruder was in a nurse’s station, probably hoping to find some paperwork to lead him to Carver. He had to find Hawking.

  Praying he was right about his mentor’s location, he took the scalpel to the lock on the narrow door. It was unwieldy, thin but wide, more difficult to use than his nails, but it would have to do. With much wriggling, the latch pushed inward and the door came free, creaking as he pulled it. Beyond it was a steep set of tiny stairs, each step so small it seemed made for a child.

  Terrified the creaking would alert the stalker, Carver left the door open as he crept up, trying not to slip. At the top, he reached a wider hall that ran the length of the patient rooms. One side had a series of angled windows, each looking down on a different patient. Must be some sort of observation area, for the doctors to spy on the inmates in secret.

  It looked empty now, but there was an open area ahead, some sort of office. Perhaps Hawking was in there? Less worried about being seen or heard up here, he hurried along, only to freeze when he came upon the window that looked down into the nurse’s station.

  The glass reflected the dawning sunlight, making it difficult to see, but the stalker was definitely there, hunched over a file cabinet. This was no dream, no hallucination born out of fear.

  Crouching, Carver moved past, then entered the office space. The clutter, mere chaos to some, had a kind of personality all its own that told him at once the space belonged to his teacher. There was a desk, half-buried in typewritten notes. A quick glance confirmed they were from Hawking. All, as far as he could tell, were either about various patients or the stupidity of particular doctors, idiot being the word that appeared most often.

  There were a few recent train schedules in the pile, but before he could begin to puzzle over their presence, something else caught his eye, a second typewriter. Near as he could tell, it was identical to the one kept upstairs. An explanation was obvious enough. Hawking probably kept it there so he wouldn’t have to lug the other around. But something about it still seemed odd to Carver, even if he couldn’t say why. Maybe he was just disappointed at the lack of mystery. Otherwise, the space was empty.

  Now what? The intruder was still below, and he was alone. Before Carver could decide his next step, a sudden pounding, less than a yard behind him, nearly made him scream.

  “Got to get through!” a male voice said. “Got to get through!”

  Carver whirled. Simpson. He’d somehow gotten out of his room and wandered up here. Now he was banging his head against the glass wall. Thud! Thud! Thud!

  “Shh!” Carver hissed. He had to quiet him down.

  Simpson, suddenly alerted to Carver’s presence, banged his head faster and harder.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  “Got to get through! Got to get through!” he screamed. Thud! Thud! Thud!

  If the figure below hadn’t already heard him, it must have by now. Shoving past Simpson, Carver looked through the window in time to see the shadowy blur race from the nurse’s station.

  Footsteps rushed down the hall. The door creaked. He’d be here any second. There was no way out, no place to hide. Carver held out the scalpel and braced himself.

  Black and terrifying, the figure appeared at the end of the hall and came forward.

  “Go back to hell!” Carver screamed.

  “Huh?” the figure said.

  As it approached, Carver saw it was the wrong size and shape for his father. Beneath a heavy coat, a white uniform was visible. An attendant!

  “What the devil?” he said. “Hawking’s kid? What are you doing here screaming like a maniac?”

  “It was Simpson. It sounded like you’d broken in,” Carver said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Got to get through!” Simpson said. “Got to!”

  The man scowled. “Some of the patients are on a new regimen, medicine every four hours, and I’m the lucky dope who has to give it to them. I’m so half-asleep, I must’ve forgotten to lock Simpson’s cell. They could fire me for that. Would you mind keeping it quiet? I mean, no harm done.”

  “Sure,” Carver said. “No harm done.”

  Making a quick exit, Carver could see that the pink ring outside had expanded. The dull light creeping through the windows did nothing to make the asylum seem less dismal, but it did make it seem less dangerous. By the time he made it back to the upper room, there was enough light for him to spot something he hadn’t seen earlier.

  Reading Hawking’s words, as usual, made him feel even more foolish:

  Had to get to NP. No news. Join me after you’ve had breakfast.

  “Sure,” Carver repeated. “No harm done.”

  49

  “It’s m-madness, Carver,” stammered a pale John Emeril on the subway platform. “Somehow, Tudd was found out and Roosevelt’s tossed him in jail!”

  “Jail?” Carver’s jaw dropped.

  Emeril tossed his hands up. “Thinks he’s part of some street gang! Wants to make an example of him!”

  As Hawking had instructed, Carver had returned to New Pinkerton headquarters. Of course, he was supposed to say nothing about what they’d done. To avoid looking Emeril in the eye, he looked around, surprised how quickly things had changed. Many of the open areas were empty.

  Emeril went on. “We’re losing people left and right. Jackson was one of the first to quit. He was loyal to Tudd, but others are worried that if he reveals our existence, we’ll all be arrested, too.”

  “Everyone?” Carver said.

  Emeril patted him on the shoulder. “Easy, there. I know Mr. Tudd. He won’t talk. He spent years building this place. He won’t give it up.”

  Carver felt a lump in his throat. “Is… is Mr. Hawking here?”

  Emeril pointed to a lonely corner where the old detective sat at a desk with a typewriter, speaking somberly to an agent. “He’s stepped in to keep things from devolving into total chaos. Technically, I’m in charge, but he’s giving all the orders. Frankly, I’m relieved to have him.”

  Feeling too guilty to say another word to Emeril, Carver headed for Hawking.

  “Don’t worry,” Emeril called after him. “Things will sort themselves out.”

  Poking one key at a time, the hunched detective cursed with great inventiveness. “Damn this infernal contraption!” he muttered as Carver neared. “I’m not used to it.”

  “Mr. Hawking, the place is…”

  “Shedding deadweight,” Hawking said. “Did you know Tudd had three of those electric carriages ordered? Thank heavens I was able to cancel the other two.” He looked up from his work and scanned Carver’s face. “What is it?”

  Carver lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mr. Tudd in jail. And I feel like I’ve destroyed the place.”

  “Ridiculous. We’ve saved it, for the moment. And now you’re free to tell Roosevelt all about the letter and your father. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Life isn’t about easy choices. Even those who seek to do good do damage. Learn to live with it, or you won’t survive the week.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carver said. “Do you know where Mr. Tudd was keeping my father’s letter and the immigration sheet?”

  Hawking shook his head. “Another mystery. Mr. Tudd, thinking himself clever, decided to hide them.”

  “But Roosevelt thinks I’m his crazy nephew, or worse, a spy like Tudd!”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  “Without that letter…”

  “The only way to convince him would be to bring him down here,” Hawking said. “Well, if that’s what you decide, I won’t stop you. I should warn the agents, though. Some of them, anyway.” He cackled, amused.

  “I have to stop my father,” Carver said.

  “Yes, yes. I detest repetition, but I’ll say it again: life isn’t about easy choices. What are your other options?”

  “L
ook for the letter.”

  “Start with Tudd’s office. We’ll be staying the night later, I’m sure, so I’ve had a bed set up for you there. What else?”

  Carver racked his brain, but nothing came to him.

  “Come on, boy! Use that soggy melon on top of your neck.”

  “I don’t know!” Carver snapped back. “It was a long day.”

  “Oh, the nights will get longer, even if winter nears. Trust me. Guilt is slowing you down. Get rid of it. Use the Pinkertons…”

  “Follow leads,” Carver said. “27 Leonard Street.”

  Hawking clapped slowly. “Yes. Speaking of, I had Emeril speak with the building owner by phone, a Mrs. Rowena Parker. She remembers Raphael Trone quite well. The woman’s a night owl but agreed to meet us tomorrow, at what she called the ‘unforgivable’ hour of ten a.m. Emeril planned to go with several agents. You and I will now accompany them, Detective Young.”

  “Detective?”

  “Oh yes,” Hawking said. “We can do that now, too.” He opened a drawer in the tiny desk, withdrew a leather billfold and tossed it to Carver. Inside was a gold badge with a number and his name. Carver’s eyes went wide.

  “Utterly useless,” Hawking said. “Except to identify yourself to other agents, but I know how fond you are of shiny things. Good enough, Detective Young?”

  Detective Young.

  “Yes,” Carver said. Then he added, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hawking grunted. He went back to his typing, pecking out a letter at a time. Carver eyed him a moment, realizing that despite his mentor’s thorny exterior, he was actually growing fond of the man.

  50

  HOURS OF searching proved fruitless. Tudd’s office had thousands of files and papers. All he’d have to do to hide the letter forever would be to slip it into the middle of a particular stack. He did manage to locate the lock-picking device he’d taken earlier and this time kept it, with Hawking’s approval.