Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  He propped his good arm on one knee. “No, but if I’m to talk to you, I have to speak whatever simplistic tongue you best understand. Could be worse, could be nursery rhymes.”

  Pupils black as coal scrutinized Carver. He felt as if his mind were being prodded by a physical thing. “Shoulders slumped, face wan, expression twitchy. You’re far too sad to have failed completely. I’m guessing you had some success, but it didn’t mean what you thought it would.”

  Being easily read only added to Carver’s discomfort. “Yes.”

  Hawking scrunched his face, as if extending his gaze deeper into an unseen crystal ball. “You heard my message, made it to Ellis Island. The Counter helped you. You found a name.”

  “Wow. How do you know all that?” Carver asked, surprised.

  Hawking cackled. “You’re so easy to fool. There’s a phone in the office here. I spoke with Tudd half an hour ago. What did you find in the athenaeum that depressed you?”

  “Fifty-seven Jay Cusacks,” Carver explained. “And I’ve looked through only four directories.”

  Hawking rubbed his chin. “I’d have hoped the Counter would have taught you something about numbers. Maybe you weren’t listening. Do you know how many people currently reside in this city?”

  “Not exactly. A lot.”

  “A million and a half, give or take. In one day, one day, you narrowed the field from a million and a half to less than a hundred, and you’re complaining? Have you always been the sort who sees the light at the end of the tunnel and thinks it an oncoming train? Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!”

  Hawking set another brass piece in the vise. “Your dime novels show only the tiniest fraction of detective work, the brilliant crime, the tantalizing clues, the dramatic chase, the final battle atop a lofty peak with ocean waves crashing down below, and then… justice served! If they wrote about the real world, four-fifths of the story would consist of the hero sitting in a library for months and following false leads. But no one would pay a nickel for that, let alone a dime.”

  He paused to look at the new piece, giving it the same scrutiny he’d just given Carver. “Thinking, reading, walking, riding, waiting. That’s most of it. There are chases, undercover work and… gun battles, but they are completely unromantic and few and far between. Still want to be a detective?”

  “Yes,” Carver answered.

  Hawking grinned. “But not as much as you did a week ago?”

  Carver shrugged. “I don’t mind the work. I was just… surprised.”

  “Wait until a month passes and your list grows longer rather than shorter.” He stopped to look at Carver again. “There’s something else, isn’t there? A girl?”

  That was too much. How could he possibly know about Delia? “So there was someone following me?”

  “Eh?” Hawking said. He shrugged. “Not that Tudd mentioned, though I wouldn’t put it past him. That much I actually did read on your face. Women are a difficult subject. I won’t be much help to you there, except perhaps to say if they’re guilty of something or not. And everyone’s guilty of something, so the answer’s always yes.”

  But Carver had to talk to someone about Delia. He wasn’t sure about the New Pinkertons anymore, and that left Hawking. “It’s not that sort of thing. I ran into a friend from the orphanage. I wanted to tell her what was going on but couldn’t.”

  Hawking nodded. “You were embarrassed to be living in a nuthouse, so you probably mumbled some sad, ill-conceived lie. A waste of good creativity. Say whatever you like about me, boy. It’s not as though I care what the damnable mass of humanity thinks.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s the Pinkertons. I’m not allowed to tell anyone about them,” Carver said.

  “Ah. Well, you don’t have to lie about it. A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent. That’s Blake. He also said, Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires, but we’ll leave that for another day. As for the bauble-enchanted Tudd and the Pinkertons, tell her you’ve been asked not to discuss the work you’re doing for me. That sounds mysterious and romantic, doesn’t it? Some women enjoy that sort of thing. If you prefer to gain her sympathies, tell her I beat you. Which I will, by the way, unless you head down to the kitchen and bring back some dinner.”

  Somehow, Carver didn’t think that would impress Delia.

  He turned and made his way to the kitchen.

  22

  IN THE weeks that followed, the list reached nearly a hundred names. Carver’s days were filled with such mundane and tiring tasks that even the wonders of the secret headquarters grew dull. But, dutifully, doggedly, he made the trek from Blackwell to Manhattan, visiting address after address, finally grasping the true vastness of a city he thought he knew well.

  Most addresses led to tenements, where he spoke to blind beggars and women ragpickers. One suggested Carver try Potter’s Field, where the nameless poor were buried with numbers instead of names. He visited families of six or seven living in two rooms, crowded around a table making artificial flowers to sell for food.

  Two Cusacks were cigar makers; one a foreman in a necktie workshop; three were butchers, raising his hopes, but none had sent a letter to Ellis Orphanage. A rare few Cusacks held more prestigious jobs—a banker, a lawyer. But whenever he traveled north among the upper-class homes, he was nearly arrested for loitering. His threadbare, increasingly ill-fitting clothes were now laundered in lye by the Octagon staff and gave off an unpleasant smell that marked him as poor. Worse, each visit to the athenaeum gave him two more Cusacks for each he’d scratched off. Beckley was no closer to even considering the use of the analytical engine, though he did see an agent oiling it once.

  “Sounds about right,” Jackson or Emeril would say.

  Tudd was too busy to even say that. Whenever Carver asked about the handwriting analysis, Tudd only shook his head.

  At night the young detective in training was so tired, he could almost ignore Hawking’s trying lectures. He could not yet ignore the moaning patients.

  The only vaguely exciting thing happened one evening when he returned to Blackwell early. As Carver entered the Octagon, he saw Hawking emerge from a slender door on one of the patients’ floors. The door fit so neatly into the wall, it was practically invisible when closed. Where on earth could it lead?

  Spotting Carver, Hawking quickly closed it, then spat, “None of your concern.”

  Curious as he was, Carver didn’t dare ask, but he kept the door in mind, imagining it held some mystery, one that might be easier to solve than his father’s identity—if he could ever work up the nerve to disobey his mentor.

  By October the weather turned colder. Sky, trees and even the buildings seemed to grow grayer. When Carver learned that a street vendor named Jim Cusack worked along Newspaper Row, the short walk from Devlin’s took him to the front of the New York Times Building. He stared up at the first building in the city devoted solely to a newspaper, hoping he might spy Delia at one of the windows.

  Some days the only thing that kept him going was the thought that all this work was yet another test from Hawking, and if he lasted long enough, the detective would offer some great insight that would speed Carver along. But, aside from sardonic quotes, trying conversations that often made little sense and an odd book or two tossed across the room at him with great force, Hawking offered no specific guidance. His only comment on finding Carver’s father was, “Sooner or later, boy, you’ll either give up or you’ll find something. I’ve no idea which it will be.”

  Neither did Carver.

  23

  ONE MORNING the temperature dipped below freezing, prompting Hawking to force an old moth-eaten overcoat on Carver. “I won’t have you bringing back any diseases, boy. If you want me dead, you’ll have to kill me yourself.”

  Any objections Carver had vanished during the ferry ride. The wind was numbing. For the first time, he abandoned the top deck and huddled with the passengers below.

&n
bsp; The day before, Beckley had presented him with an addendum to an 1889 directory. In it, he’d found a listing for a J. Cusack on Edgar Street. He scoured a map for an hour before spotting a tiny line connecting Trinity Place and Greenwich.

  It was so cold, Carver decided to splurge and take the elevated train along Greenwich. Despite the billowing steam from the compact locomotive and a sweaty, red-faced engineer, the cars were frigid.

  Edgar Street looked smaller than it had on the map. It was fifty-five feet long at most. There were no doors, either, just the walls of buildings that opened elsewhere. Another dead end.

  Back on Greenwich, he asked a policeman, “Were there ever any apartments on Edgar Street?”

  “Boarded over and sold five years back.”

  Carver made his usual plea. “My father may have lived there. Jay Cusack?”

  “Cusack, Cusack. Tip of my tongue, but I can’t shake it loose.”

  Understanding, Carver dug into his pocket and produced the few coins he had. Seeing the paltry bribe, the officer rolled his eyes.

  “Keep your pocket change. You’ll want to talk to Katie Miller. Two blocks south, hang a left, second door on the right. Just listen for the cats.”

  Ignoring the odd comment, Carver followed his directions. At the head of the street, an acrid animal scent mixed with the more constant smells of horse, coal and street.

  The odor grew stronger at the second door, where a muffled chorus of mewing came to his ears. It wasn’t unusual to have a few pets, he told himself. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped. The mewing was joined by a whisper of slippered feet.

  The door creaked open, releasing a blast of hot cat smell mixed with a sharp chemical odor. Wide-set blue eyes stared at him from a wrinkled face. If the woman’s nose were hooked, she’d resemble a witch.

  “Katie Miller?”

  The woman blinked in response. Carver took it to mean yes. “Did you own the apartments that used to be on Edgar Street?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you ever have a tenant named Jay Cusack?”

  Her eyes flared. “Him? Long, long time ago. Must be six years.” The mewing grew more agitated. “Quiet, dearies! You’ll have your rest soon, I promise!”

  She looked back at Carver. “I meant to take care of them last night, but I was too tired. What would you want with Cusack? If he owes you money, forget it. You don’t want to tangle with him.”

  “I think he may be my father.”

  He’d said it so often, the words no longer filled him with anticipation.

  He was surprised, though, that the woman seemed so taken aback.

  “A son to that beast? You… do look like him, around the jaw, shape of the skull, but there’s something fairer in you. Your mother?”

  Beast? What did she mean? Did she really know his father? Carver tried to keep calm. “I don’t know. I was raised an orphan.”

  “I know all about orphans,” she said. “I collect them.”

  She opened the door and for the first time smiled at Carver. “Come in.”

  Inside, the smell was so strong, he had to hold his breath. Cats were everywhere, big toms, calicos, kittens, even feral alley dwellers that raised their back hairs and hissed on seeing him. Some had name tags embossed with their owners’ addresses.

  How were they orphans?

  A couch near two closed windows was piled with the animals, but the woman tossed them off as if they were pillows. As Carver moved to sit, he nodded toward the windows.

  “Could we open one, please? It’s a little… stuffy.”

  “Oh, no, no, no! They’d all race off! They know when it’s coming.”

  “It?”

  “The sleep,” Katie said, settling into a chair opposite him. “Every creature fears its end.”

  “You… kill them?”

  “Out of kindness,” she said calmly. “Thousands roam the streets, homeless and starving.” She grabbed a big white female, plopped it on her lap and rubbed her hands along its back to warm her fingers. “There was a group of us once, the Midnight Band of Mercy, but it’s been nearly two years since they convicted poor Mrs. Edwards because of that ridiculous ASPCA.” She paused a moment to look at him again and crooked a gnarled finger. “You do look like him.”

  Trying to forget the cats, Carver asked, “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “No. He didn’t stay long. Big man. Dark, like there was a cloud followed him. Chasing someone, being chased, no idea.” Her blue eyes grew wide. “I’ve seen his look in animals. Not cats so much as dogs. And what are dogs but demoted wolves? Wolfish. He was wolfish. A predator, you know? I remember him mostly because of the piano.”

  “He played?”

  “No. He… threw it. It belonged to a piano teacher who died. Two of the wheels snapped off, so it was abandoned in the hall, blocking the stairs, so you’d have to squeeze around. Mr. Cusack wouldn’t have it. He was always in a rush. He offered to move it, but I said he’d need at least two more men to budge the thing. But he… shoved it. Sent it twenty feet. Pushed it out, down the stoop, smashed it and then piled the pieces. I was afraid of him after that.”

  Could that be his father? Stunned, he sat back, his head hitting something warm and furry that writhed and leapt away. He felt dizzy, unsure if it was the lack of fresh air or the news that his father might be an angry, violent man.

  He almost forgot to ask. “Is there anything else you remember?”

  “Well, there was that package he received. I say he, but his name wasn’t on it. He grabbed it out of my hands, said it had to do with some institution.”

  “Ellis Orphanage?” Carver asked, not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

  “Maybe,” Katie said. “I don’t remember. I do remember the name on it. Raphael Trone. Wrote it down in case the police came after Mr. Cusack for stealing and they wanted a witness. No offense, but he struck me as that sort.”

  “A criminal?”

  She shook her head. “More a man who didn’t care. A crook if it suited him, a hero if that’s what he felt like. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.”

  The sound of crashing glass from deeper in the home interrupted the nursery rhyme. Kate stood, the white cat in her lap tumbling off. “Not the chloroform again! Last time they knocked that over, I was out cold for three days! I’ll just be a minute.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll let myself out,” Carver said.

  But she wasn’t listening. She called down the hall, “Time to sleep, my pretties.”

  Once she was out of sight, Carver shot to his feet. He was eager to get out, to find a place to think and breathe somewhere far away from the old woman and her scores of condemned animals.

  His father, a violent man? He thought of the letter’s reference to knives, then flashed to Hawking’s warning about the “abyss.” He didn’t know who his father was. What had he expected?

  One thing was simple at least. Before leaving, he threw open both windows. Out on the sidewalk, as he reveled in the embrace of cold, clean air, he looked back to see a rainfall of cats flowing from the house.

  Like them, he ran, and kept running.

  24

  HAWKING looked up from a thick, dusty book with the word Railroad in the title and said, “Keep pacing like that, I’ll have you transferred to one of the cells below!”

  Even that threat couldn’t keep Carver still as he rambled through the details of his encounter with Katie Miller. He changed direction with every sentence, one second facing the East River, distant buildings and stars, the next, a black wall of books.

  Eventually, Hawking took his cane and slipped its length between Carver’s legs, sending him sprawling to the floor. He pointed the tip at Carver’s nose and issued a one-word command: “Sit.”

  “I am sitting… now,” Carver said.

  “At the table. I’ll let the sass pass this time, but mind your tone when you speak to me next. Now bring what’s boiling inside that b
oy brain of yours down to a few short questions and we’ll talk when you think you’re able.” With that, he went back to his reading.

  Heart hammering, Carver rose. The man might be brilliant, but he was just as irritating.

  “What if I can’t sort it out? What if it’s all too much?”

  Hawking flipped a page with his good hand. “Pretend it’s not about your father. Pretend it’s not about you. Pretend you’re a king, the president, Nick Neverseen, Roosevelt for all I care. Tell yourself you’re helping an old cowboy chum from the Dakota badlands find his father. You like the fellow, but not that much, and certainly not enough to go mad.”

  Despite its nasal, airy quality, Hawking’s voice had an intensity similar to his gaze. The effect wasn’t immediate, but Carver tried. Soon the whirlpool of his feelings slowed.

  “All right,” Carver said when he was ready.

  Hawking put a bookmark on the page he was reading.

  “Could my fath—… this man… could he be a violent criminal?”

  “Anything’s possible. Why do you think that?”

  Carver motioned with his hands as if to say it was obvious. “The cat lady’s description of him, wolfish, dark, strong, violent. He shoved a piano out of the building.”

  Hawking smirked. “Wasn’t it just weeks ago you were upset at how many names you had? Didn’t that teach you anything? First, how do you know this man is your father?”

  “She said I looked like him.”

  “A woman surrounded by cats and chloroform and you trust whatever she says? It’s a lead worth following, same as the rest of your list. But wolfish, violent and strong? Shall I send you to the dockyards tomorrow to see how many men match that description? What else?”

  Carver was chastened, but not convinced. “My father’s letter said he worked with knives.”

  “So you conclude he cuts up people?”

  Carver shrugged. “No, but… some do. That killer H. H. Holmes did. And whoever murdered that woman in the library.”

  “Serves you right for peeking at Tudd’s photos. Off the top of my head, I’ll name eight fairly low-skilled professions that work with knives—meat packers, butchers, fishermen, garment cutters, cigar makers, bakers, cooks, barbers. If you want to reach up the social ladder, you can include doctors and surgeons; that’s ten,” Hawking said. “Your father and H. H. Holmes also both breathed air, probably had two eyes, two arms, two legs.”