Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  As Carver complied, Roosevelt unbuttoned his jacket and put his hands on his hips. “What I am asking you is something different. I want to know why I should believe in you. I knew you first as a deluded street waif with a treacherous uncle, then as protégé to a poser. Today, you’re a valiant rescuer who knows more about this case than my own detectives. That’s a lot of identities for one person. It doesn’t breed trust.”

  When Carver said nothing, Roosevelt added, “I’m not unsympathetic. I’ve had many identities myself.”

  Carver choked. “I… don’t know how to answer, sir.”

  “I see,” Roosevelt said. He pulled out another high-back chair, placed it in front of Carver and sat down in it himself. “Men know each other through their words and deeds. You’ve come to warn me, a fine deed. Now I want words. We’ll start off simple. What do you think of… Mr. Albert Hawking?”

  “That’s a simple question?” Carver asked, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes he seems brilliant, sometimes… insane.”

  “The Ripper, the man you believe is your father, what do you make of him?”

  Carver reared back in the chair. “He sickens me. My life’s been a nightmare since I found out who he was. And all these clues seem as if they were left to taunt me.”

  “Something we have in common. He sickens and taunts me as well,” Roosevelt said. “This threat on Alice, any idea how soon?”

  Carver shook his head again.

  “Do you think he might strike tonight?”

  Carver thought about it, tried to imagine how his father was thinking. “We hurt him on the roof. He’s angry. I don’t think he’ll wait long.”

  Roosevelt slapped Carver on the knee. “Bully! That flash in your eyes when you were thinking. I see you in there. You have a storm going on in your head, son, but your gut is good. Your father, my heavens, I’ve no idea how I’d deal with a devil’s blood in my veins.”

  Carver looked at him helplessly. “Neither do I.”

  Roosevelt nodded. “How could you? A young man needs someone to instill him with ideals, pride and courage. That kind of gap isn’t easily repaired.” He seemed to ponder the question a moment, then said, “I can’t give you a new father, but perhaps I can loan you mine. Hasn’t been a decision I’ve made where I don’t ask myself what he’d have done. My own childhood was often dismal, for very different reasons than yours. I suffered from asthma, dreamt of a werewolf attacking me in my bedroom. Life felt like a nightmare for me then, too. And my father said to me, don’t dwell on the darkness within, reach out and act. That’s how I’ve tried to lead my life ever since.”

  Carver was stunned. “You’re giving me advice?”

  “Yes. How do you like it?” Roosevelt said.

  “It’s… good,” Carver answered.

  Roosevelt gave him a toothy grin. “Of course!”

  A knock came at the door. One of the detectives leaned in and nodded.

  The commissioner rose. “Alice is ready to be taken home. I have to go.”

  Carver was relieved to think his job was done, but Roosevelt waved him along. “I’d like you to join us. Time to stop lurking in the shadows and come out into the light, don’t you think, Young?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carver said, rising. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to have you sit next to Alice!”

  75

  THE EARLIER drizzle had turned to fog. It was so gray that the great lights of the city, electric and gas, were visible only as blurry patches. It was so thick, it swirled as men strode through it. The world looked enough like a dream to fill Carver with dread.

  Alice, terribly nonplussed, sat in a fine carriage at the rear of City Hall. Her ride was flanked by two large police carriages each full of armed detectives and uniformed buttons.

  Roosevelt marched toward her, pausing to take in the gloomy scene. “This,” he said, putting his boot on the carriage step, “is what they call suicide weather. Mr. Young, get in on the other side.”

  “But, Father, I don’t want to…,” a surprisingly meek voice said from within the carriage.

  “It’s been decided, Alice. Edith, your brothers and sisters are already on their way to meet us. You’ll be free to wreak as much havoc as you like at Sagamore Hill.” He climbed in and pulled the door shut.

  Carver hurried to the other side, but the seat was made only for two. With Roosevelt a wide man and Alice in a flowing gown, there was much shifting and shuffling to squeeze him in.

  Alice blinked and sighed. His shoulders at an odd angle, Roosevelt said in a fatherly tone, “Thank the young man for possibly saving your life, Alice.”

  “Thank you for possibly saving my life,” Alice intoned.

  “Now, I suggest we all try to enjoy the fog.”

  He rapped his hand on the roof and the three carriages rolled onto Broadway. With the party in full swing, the crowd had thinned, and the traffic was moving again. Roosevelt tried to settle but only managed to look more uncomfortable.

  They’d traveled barely half a block when the cab rattled as if something heavy had hit it. Roosevelt snapped forward to see what had happened, in the process knocking Alice into Carver. At once, the carriage picked up speed, throwing them all backward.

  “What the devil?” He looked out the window. “Where’s the escort? There should be police on either side of us!”

  Roosevelt had no intention of waiting for an answer. Despite their increasing speed, he pushed open the carriage door and leaned out into the cold gray air.

  “Are you drunk, you fool? Pull this carriage over at once!” he shouted.

  The carriage twisted side to side as the driver wove through the traffic. Roosevelt looked up at the driver and then shouted to Carver.

  “Young, get Alice out of here, now!”

  Carver was about to grab Alice, but his attention snapped back to the open door. In a flash, Roosevelt, for all his courage and strength, was gone, kicked off by powerful legs that swung down from the roof.

  Alice screamed.

  “The Ripper,” Carver said.

  Praying he could move fast enough, he hooked one arm under Alice’s shoulder and tried to throw open his door. Before he could, a shadow appeared in the space Roosevelt had occupied and slipped in next to them. His hair, peeking from beneath his hat, was dark as a panther, his black eyes more monstrous than any werewolf.

  This time Alice didn’t scream. Using Carver, who held her, as a brace, she kicked the heels of her fine shoes into the intruder over and over again, her feet flailing wildly. One blow caught the Ripper’s tall hat and sent it flying out into the night. There was a wide bruise on his forehead where Carver had hit him with the brick.

  “His right knee! Kick it!” Carver shouted, recalling where Finn had kicked him.

  But when she took a moment to aim, the Ripper grabbed her calves and growled.

  Feeling the tug as the Ripper pulled Alice, Carver finally pushed his door open. The murky ground whizzed by. The Ripper must have tied the reins and left the horses to run dead ahead. Carver knew he had no choice. He pulled on Alice as hard as he could, trying to drag them both into the blur of fog and cobblestones.

  The killer had Alice’s legs, and for a time they were locked in a bizarre tug-of-war. When Alice screamed again, Carver didn’t know if it was terror or if all the yanking was hurting her.

  He pulled again, surprised how easily she came forward. Had she kicked herself free from the killer? They were halfway out. He had only to jump and they’d both be on the street.

  But then Alice was yanked back and thrust forward so quickly, Carver lost his grip. He flew from the carriage, alone. As he slammed into the cobblestones, he realized his father had used her body to shove him out.

  Galloping horse hooves directly behind him, Carver pushed himself onto his knees and barely ducked the first of the pursuing police carriages. Instead of chasing after Alice, it turned and came to a halt.

  A horrified Theodore
Roosevelt was half a block away but coming up quickly. He ran full tilt down the middle of the street, traffic veering to avoid him.

  “Alice! Alice!” Roosevelt cried.

  But even his booming voice was muffled by the fog as the carriage with his daughter and the killer disappeared into the thick gray wall of the night.

  76

  THE SECOND police carriage careened after the Ripper. Roosevelt wheeled toward the first. Rather than climbing aboard, he frantically undid the harness.

  “Call ahead! Block the street! I want this city shut down, do you hear me?” he shouted.

  “Commissioner, what are you doing, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Getting myself a horse, man!” Roosevelt said. He pulled the chestnut-brown mare away from the carriage, stripped off his overcoat and jacket and tossed them to the ground. “I’ve ridden bareback a thousand times. It’ll be the only way to catch that fiend!”

  Hearing those words, Carver thought of another way. He raced toward Warren Street.

  “Hyahh!” he heard Roosevelt cry. His horse reared and galloped forward.

  Carver, meanwhile, ran to the garage alongside Devlin’s, where Emeril and Jackson had left the electric carriage. Excited to see it still there, he threw off the horse blankets and climbed into the driver’s seat. His hand on the bar he’d seen Emeril steer with, he flipped switches and pressed buttons until one produced a hum and a lurch. The electric carriage rolled forward, pushed the gates open and barreled onto the street.

  Emeril had driven it slowly. Carver was already moving fast, but the vehicle still picked up speed. He’d have to be even faster to catch up, but when he moved the steering stick to make the turn onto Broadway, the carriage nearly flipped.

  Pulling back one of the levers slowed him in mid-turn. He could see the stares of the city detectives, stranded by their own horseless carriage.

  Once moving straight again, he pushed the lever as far as it would go. His chest lurched backward. The cold fog rushed by at a dizzying rate. He easily passed hansom cabs, the pursuing police carriage and even a streetcar. Ahead, he saw the silhouette of a man on horseback.

  He came up alongside Roosevelt. Despite his visible panic, the commissioner gave him a huge grin.

  “Splendid!” he called.

  Carver waved him over. “Climb on!”

  Roosevelt tried to bring his horse closer, but the frightened mare kept veering away.

  “Forget it! I’ll move ahead!” Carver said.

  “The devil you will!” Roosevelt answered. Bringing the chestnut horse as near as it would go, he leapt the remaining distance, landing in the passenger seat. The electric carriage wobbled, but Carver managed to right it.

  “I think I’m beginning to believe in your underground detective agency!” Roosevelt called as he leaned forward to peer into the fog. “Can we catch that devil?”

  “Not only that, it’ll scare the hell out of his horses!”

  Carver pushed the lever all the way again, making the carriage zoom forward.

  “Yii-hiie!” Roosevelt cried. “We’re coming, Alice!”

  Carver realized at once he was being too optimistic. All the Ripper had to do to lose them was turn down a side street. As they sped past Prince Street, though, Roosevelt pointed east and cried, “There!”

  Without questioning, Carver slowed for the turn. As he did, down the wide avenue he saw it, first in fog-shrouded wisps and then in its entirety, a dark carriage, bobbing madly as its tall driver tried to control both the horses and a struggling figure by his side.

  “Hurry!” Roosevelt said. It seemed more a plea than a command.

  Carver pushed the lever down.

  As they sped up, Roosevelt stood. “Just get close enough; I’ll jump for it.”

  “Wait!” Carver said. He wanted to explain he could pass the Ripper and drive the horses to the sidewalk, but Roosevelt had already climbed to the front of the electric taxi.

  Once they were within a yard, Roosevelt leapt again, this time grabbing the back of the fine carriage with one hand. Without much of a hold, the force of his jump threatened to throw him.

  As Roosevelt struggled, Carver came up alongside. His seat wasn’t quite as high as his father’s, but they were close enough to exchange glances. The wild grin and flared, fearsome eyes were no less terrifying, but his missing top hat made him seem vulnerable. Again Carver sensed something familiar about that face.

  Alice struggled mightily, but the Ripper held her firmly in one arm, the other grasping the reins. His flapping cape revealed his long butcher blade. Carver realized with a gulp that if the Ripper didn’t have to steer, Alice would be dead by now.

  He turned the steering stick, bringing his carriage forward and nearer, not to the Ripper, but the horses. At the sight of the weird, unnatural vehicle, they whinnied and lurched.

  The wicked grin vanished from the Ripper’s face. He kept control, but barely.

  Roosevelt, meanwhile, was atop the carriage now, crawling across its roof. He’d pried off one of the storage holds and prepared to use it as a club.

  Again, Carver edged his carriage near the horses. Again, the mares shivered and shifted. Their pounding hooves and frightened snorts almost drowned the sounds of the Ripper’s curses.

  Roosevelt was on his knees, ready to swing, but the Ripper spotted him, reached deftly for his knife and swung. Carver veered again, this time striking the carriage. The horses whinnied and rushed onto the sidewalk, taking the carriage with them. The rear axle snapped, throwing Roosevelt backward.

  Carver couldn’t slow down in time to keep from hurtling past the scene. By the time he’d stopped the vehicle and executed a U-turn, the Ripper had lifted Alice, climbed from the broken carriage and limped into an alleyway. His right knee, it seemed, was still hurting.

  Roosevelt, bruised from his fall, grabbed a long wooden shard from the broken wagon and rushed after him. Carver, back in pursuit, rode to the head of the alley. There stood the Ripper, his long knife held to Alice’s throat.

  Roosevelt advanced, holding his piece of wood as if it were a sword. “Let her go!” he commanded.

  “I don’t want you,” the killer bellowed in his impossibly deep voice.

  “You won’t have Alice!” Roosevelt snarled.

  “I don’t want her either! I want the boy!”

  In that moment, Alice put her mouth forward and bit deeply into the Ripper’s wrist. When he cried out, she pulled away and raced behind her father.

  “Stand back, Alice,” Roosevelt said. He came forward, swinging the wood.

  The Ripper parried, using his knife like a sword. It sliced a neat piece from the timber, but not enough to render it useless. He limped deeper into the alley.

  Roosevelt pressed his advantage, swinging, pushing the Ripper until the killer’s back hit a brick wall beneath a fire escape. Roosevelt straightened, thinking he’d won.

  But then the Ripper laughed.

  As Carver watched, his father reached up and grabbed the fire escape’s lowest rung. Lifting himself, he kicked Roosevelt square in the chest. With a loud thud, his back hit the ground.

  Roosevelt down, the Ripper raised his knife to stab.

  “Stop!” Carver cried from his perch on the carriage.

  The Ripper looked up. They both knew that by the time he climbed off the carriage, Roosevelt would be dead. Instinctively, Carver drew the baton.

  Schick!

  The Ripper eyed its tip, remembering the shock he’d received. “That’s a child’s weapon,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t even kill.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Carver said. When his father moved to strike, Carver hurled it like a javelin, aiming for the flat of the blade. The two metals made contact. There was a small bamf and a flash. The Ripper howled, dropping the blade, grabbing his wrist.

  But again, somehow shaking off the charge, he snatched up the still-smoking knife and glared at Carver.

  “Now what?” the Ripper said. “Anything
left to throw? No?”

  The Ripper dove for the prone commissioner. With no other choice, Carver pushed the lever as far down as it would go. The vehicle flew forward. Carver prayed the carriage wheels were high enough to avoid hitting Roosevelt.

  At the moment he hit, he couldn’t quite see what happened but knew he’d caught his father in the torso and slammed him into the brick wall. Then he felt himself flying, out of the carriage, through the air and into the same brick wall.

  After that, there was nothing at all.

  77

  THERE WERE flashes of light, hums, hollow rumbles, as if Carver had been forced inside the electric carriage’s mysterious engine. At first nothing hurt, but when the pain came, that’s all there was. It felt like the pieces of his chest no longer fit together. Something sharp, like the end of a broken stick, stabbed into his lungs.

  He woke to the smell of flowers and the feel of a wintry wind. Opening his eyes, he decided he was dreaming. How else could he be in Hawking’s hospital room, lying in his bed, surrounded by tables full of flowers and piled newspapers?

  Head hurting too much to move, Carver strained his eyes to make out a headline:

  YOUNGEST PINKERTON SAVES

  COMMISSIONER’S DAUGHTER.

  So, it was a dream. No one knew about the New Pinkertons. Besides, it was too cold for a hospital. Was he still in the alley? Was Alice all right?

  The coarse sheets felt real, and damp, too, soaked with sweat. Even his hair felt wet. Turning his eyes toward the breeze, he saw the cause: an electric fan by an open window. On the ledge it looked like… snow?

  “You’re awake!”

  The voice came from a spare, cheerful man in a white doctor’s coat. The warm palm he put to Carver’s forehead sent a sickly shiver down his spine. Carver felt like he was dying.

  The doctor seemed pleased. “Fever’s broken. Wonderful.” He unplugged the fan and closed the window. “You were near 106. Another hour, I’d have used an ice bath. Had to break that temperature somehow.”