Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  Thinking of the lock pick in his pocket, Carver smiled for the first time since she’d given him her news. “I never met a door I couldn’t open.”

  “Then hope this isn’t the first, and meet me at the side entrance at seven p.m.”

  He resisted a powerful urge to hug her. “Thank you, Delia. Now, please. I’ve got to do something… alone. I’ll see you tonight.”

  She looked about to object but frowned, nodded and walked back toward the park. Midway, she stopped and turned back to him.

  “There is one more thing you should know,” she called back.

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever turns out to be true, you’ll still be Carver Young,” she said.

  Carver wished her comment had been uplifting, but instead it only made him wonder who Carver Young was to begin with.

  33

  IN THE headquarters, deserted only a few hours ago, Carver was surprised to find scores of agents scurrying about the open plaza as the train glided toward the platform. Tables were lined up, covered with the daily papers, files and photographs. The huge map from Tudd’s office had been moved out here, mounted on twin easels, different-colored circles drawn on the city streets.

  An exhausted Tudd stood in the center, holding a clipboard, waving his arms as if directing traffic. The subway was so well designed, Carver couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but judging by the movement of his lips, it seemed to be something along the lines of, “Find it!” or, “Find him!”

  Feeling their panic mix with his, he yanked open the oval door. The first word he heard from Tudd was a triumphant, “There!” He was pointing at Carver.

  Good. It must mean Tudd had made the connection between his father’s letter and the killer’s note. Thinking he’d get some answers, Carver rushed across the platform to the plaza. Heart pounding, he called out, “Mr. Tudd! Mr. Tudd!”

  “I’m sorry it had to come to this, son,” Tudd said. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Jackson! Emeril!” Then he stormed off in the opposite direction.

  “Wait!” Carver cried. He tried to follow, only to find himself cut off by the muscular Jackson. Emeril rushed up behind him.

  “Whoa, there!” Jackson said. Irritated, Carver tried to continue, but Jackson put his hands on his chest.

  “I have to talk to Mr. Tudd,” Carver said. “My father—”

  “Can’t now,” Jackson said.

  “He’s insanely busy,” Emeril said. “And doesn’t have time to talk to a thief.”

  The word hit him like a bullet. They knew.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that, but it’s incredibly important,” Carver said. “They’ve received a letter at the Times.”

  “We know,” Jackson said, guiding him toward a corridor on the plaza’s left side.

  “It says boss like the letter from my father,” he blurted.

  “We know that, too,” Emeril said. They hooked Carver’s arms and dragged him along.

  Carver looked back over his shoulder, glimpsing Tudd’s back as he vanished.

  “Please, just tell me if he’s seen the handwriting on the letter to the Times. Has anyone?”

  “Not yet,” Jackson said. “The morning’s been hectic, what with half of us scouring every block near the murder scene, looking for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because Mr. Hawking told Tudd about your encounter last night,” Emeril said. “Tudd’s convinced you ran into the killer, and for the first time I know of, Hawking didn’t disagree. When Tudd found you gone this morning, bullet holes in the lab and a certain device missing, he thought you were off looking for your father. And now we all know who he might be.”

  “I wasn’t! I was just getting breakfast.”

  “Well, whether he is or isn’t, if he lives in the neighborhood and spots you again, he might try to take care of any witnesses.”

  He held out his hand expectantly. Carver reached into his pocket and produced the lock pick.

  Jackson coughed into his fist. Sighing, Carver was about to return the stun baton, but Jackson said, “There’s also the touchy issue of your friend from the Times. Cute girl, but you practically brought her here.”

  “We’re friends from the orphanage. She told me about the letter.”

  “Secrecy’s a big thing with Tudd. And that chat with your girl did not look good. He’s feeling a bit… betrayed.”

  Carver realized he’d been led to the hall that held the box-filled storage room he’d spent the night in.

  “Between that and wanting to keep you alive…” Emeril waved Carver inside.

  Vibrating with a mixture of guilt and agitation, he stepped in, wrinkling his nose at the slight septic odor. At least someone had put a lamp in the room so there was some light.

  The agents remained at the door. Emeril’s hand was on the knob, a key in the lock.

  “You’re keeping me prisoner?”

  Jackson shrugged. “You’re being protected, until we’ve more of a handle on the investigation.”

  “I can’t stay here! I’ve got to…” His voice trailed off. They were already worried about Delia. How could he mention his meeting with her?

  “A date?” Jackson said. “We’ll have your secretary clear your social calendar.”

  The glib remark made Carver angry. “Take me to a phone. I want to call Blackwell.”

  Jackson looked at Emeril. “Didn’t Tudd say that Mr. Hawking already knows about all this?”

  “I think he did say that,” Emeril said. “Either way, the phones are tied up. You’ll have to sit tight.”

  “No!” Carver said. He rushed forward. His sudden speed startled Emeril, but Jackson grabbed him by the shoulders and gave Carver a steady look.

  “We’re not the enemy. We understand. We’re sorry. But this is how it is. We’ll try to get you a desk, some grub and something to read, but you will stay here until Mr. Tudd says otherwise. Understand?”

  Gritting his teeth, Carver nodded and stepped back toward the cot.

  “Be back as soon as we’re allowed a breather. Promise,” Emeril said as he pulled the door shut.

  The clicking lock echoed in Carver’s chest, but he knew he didn’t need their little gadget to get out. He waited until their footsteps vanished, then slipped his trusty nails from his pocket. He unlocked the door in a heartbeat. But when he turned the handle and pushed, it still wouldn’t move.

  They’d braced it from the outside.

  Carver slumped onto the cot. Unprepared for the sudden weight, the frame collapsed. Carver fell to the floor. It was cold, but at least the sewer odor was a little weaker.

  How did they know about Delia? Idiot! They’d been right in front of the elevator, exactly where Tudd’s viewing glass was. He’d seen them talking, seen Carver get upset.

  And now he was a prisoner. A criminal.

  34

  CARVER paced, trying to plot his escape, if not from the room, at least from his own mind. He had to see that letter, he had to. After ten minutes, though, his only new revelation was that the sewer smell was stronger in one corner. More specifically, it came from the ceiling.

  With nothing else to do, he piled some of the stronger-looking boxes for a better look. Standing on them, he pressed his hand against the smooth, hard-finished plaster. It was frigid and slightly damp. The sewer was probably right above that spot. His life was now literally lower than a sewer.

  Was it possible to get in?

  He pushed. The moist plaster gave a little and a fine powder drizzled around him. It was weak. Why? He put his hand in the air and felt a wave of rising warmth from the hissing radiator. The sewer above cooled the plaster. The radiator heated it. Between the two, they were constantly shrinking and expanding the plaster, weakening it.

  He might be able to dig through, at least get past the ceiling. But the New Pinkertons wanted him here. Hawking, too, apparently. Escaping would be worse than “borrowing.” How desperate was he? Hawking had promised him an incredible fut
ure. Was he willing to risk it for the sake of some answers? Yes.

  He pounded his fist into the plaster. The first blow brought down a few thick chips. The next did little more. If he kept it up, they’d hear him. It’d be faster and quieter with a tool, but he didn’t have any. Not exactly, anyway. He’d ruin his nails trying to scratch through.

  Could he make something else?

  He jumped down and snapped off a sharp piece of the broken cot frame. He set to work with it, stabbing, digging, prying off larger and larger chunks, until the plaster’s whiteness mixed with dark earth. When he poked the sharp end of the stick up through the earth, half its length disappeared, but then it hit something flat and hard.

  Abandoning the wood for his hands, Carver pulled away enough dirt and plaster to reveal a rough two-foot square of cold, moist bricks, slightly curved. It was the sewer’s underbelly. All his effort had been ridiculous. He’d need a hammer and chisel to get through that.

  But he was in a storage room, after all. Who knew what might be in all the boxes? Ransacking them, he found mostly office supplies, but, among them, were six pairs of scissors and an unassembled paper guillotine with a heavy iron handle. Not quite a hammer and chisel, but maybe close enough.

  He placed a scissor blade into a crack between bricks and whacked it with the iron handle. The blade chipped a bit, but a few chunks of mortar fell. It was a start, at least.

  After he’d pounded away awhile, a few drops of water seeped out. Of course there’d be water in the sewer, probably quite a bit. If it covered the floor and seeped under the door before the hole was big enough for him to escape, they’d catch him.

  He rolled up the cot’s canvas, pushed it against the doorsill and piled a few boxes on it to keep it in place. He went back to the bricks, working in earnest, chipping away at the mortar. More drops fell. Carver moved his efforts from brick to brick, hoping one would prove a weak link.

  Soon, all but the last scissor blade had broken, and the iron handle held a series of gouges that threatened to crack it in half. Carver’s clothes and skin were littered with sweat, dirt and flecks of mortar, but the bricks remained in place.

  He shoved the last blade into the deepest crack and swung. The handle missed, slamming the blade sideways, snapping it in two.

  No!

  The only thing that kept him from screaming out loud as his last hope clattered to the floor was that someone might come in. Furious, he swung the broken handle at the brick, beating it, until the crack in the iron lengthened and it, like the blade, broke in half.

  Carver barely ducked in time to avoid being clocked on the head. Hands on knees, head down, Carver panted. He was done. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and prayed that all of his life would simply vanish.

  Something wet rolled down on his cheek. Was he crying? He imagined Jackson and Emeril returning with some magazines only to discover their “junior” agent sobbing in the middle of the mess he’d made, like a toddler having a tantrum.

  He felt another drop, thick and cold, then a little stream. A glistening line had appeared at the long end of one of the bricks. Water from above pooled and dripped.

  Carver pushed at the brick. The little stream thickened. Thrilled, he grabbed the broken handle and used its jagged edge to claw at the loose brick. It lurched down and tilted. Icy water flowed from the gap as if from a spigot. Carver waited, expecting it to stop, but it didn’t. It kept coming, thicker and faster, rolling off the boxes in a series of tiny waterfalls, carrying the mortar down to the floor.

  Some water, he’d expected some, but…

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Carver pushed the broken handle through the stream, hooked the edge of the loose brick and pulled. Six bricks, all loosened by his efforts, crashed down, followed by a torrent of water.

  The freezing sensation forced him to inhale. The force knocked him backward. As his shoulders hit the floor, the gushing water pushed him sideways. By the time he struggled to his feet, the water was above his ankles and rising. If he didn’t get out quickly, he’d drown. His feet and legs were already going numb.

  For all his sharp thinking, it hadn’t occurred to Carver that all the sewers in the city, even the one above him, would be full of melted snow.

  35

  THE WATER lapped up toward Carver’s knees, the sensation more like burning than cold.

  Could he make it through the hole? The flow from the ceiling wasn’t quite as thick as when it began. It also had direction, pouring toward the door. There was a slight gap on one side, where the bricks seemed loose and eager to fall.

  Carver sloshed toward the waterfall, unable to feel anything beneath his knees. Controlling his legs was like dragging dead wood. Teeth chattering, he pushed what soggy boxes he could into a new pile. As he worked, he noticed his fingers turning blue.

  That was the last thing he saw.

  Pop! The light went out, the lamp shorted by the water.

  Clawing in the dark, he scrabbled up the wet cardboard. The boxes tore as he went. By the time he could touch the ceiling, the rising water still covered his feet. He tore at the bricks, hoping to pull himself up onto his knees, but instead only yanked more bricks free. The larger hole brought more rushing water.

  An animal desperation kicked in. Widening the hole was his only hope. He pulled down as many bricks as he could. One scraped his side, another whacked him on the head, but he kept going. As the hole grew, so did the gap, but whenever he touched the icy stream, it felt as sharp as a killer’s knife. The water was nearing the top of the piled boxes. There wasn’t much time left.

  Forcing his hands into the gap, Carver felt slick wet stones above. He wheedled his fingertips into the first narrow depression he could feel, put his back to the streaming water and lifted.

  The thick flow of glacial sewer bit into his spine. A wild chill rode up into his head and skull. The bruise where the brick hit him throbbed, but he couldn’t let go. His moaning lost in the rush of water, he pulled himself higher and finally felt the deadweight of his legs rise into the air.

  He inched forward with his left hand, aching to find another hold. When he did, he pulled again, half-lifting himself into the sewer, where a stinging dampness drenched his chest.

  He’d almost made it, but something pulled him back. He looked down. His legs were in the stream, being tugged by the water. They were so numb, he hadn’t even realized it. He was so close now, he couldn’t give up. It wasn’t about his father anymore, his past or his future. It was about staying alive.

  In the end the drag of the water was not enough to stop him from pulling himself fully into the sewer. Lying down, face half submerged, he yearned to rest, but a deathly feeling creeping up his legs told him he shouldn’t, not yet. He crawled along the curved floor until he reached a drier spot, above the water, and lay there, just breathing.

  In time, his eyes adjusted. It wasn’t completely dark. Light drizzled in from grates above.

  The sewer was a little like the brick sections of the subway tunnel, only taller. A river of water ran down the center, leaving the sides dank, but relatively dry. The smell, while not pleasant, was no worse than it was in the storage room, probably because most of the water was from melting snow.

  In the gloom, he spotted a wide wooden board lying across the flowing water. It must be a bridge used by the workers who came down to check for leaks. With some effort, Carver crawled over and managed to drag it over the hole he’d made. Water rushed over it, holding it in place. Maybe the entire headquarters wouldn’t be flooded now.

  An image flashed in his head—the look on Emeril and Jackson’s faces when they opened the door to see what was causing the leak. They’d be coming for him soon. He forced himself to stand and walk. As more feeling returned to his legs, he began to limp.

  He came upon a ladder, climbed it and pushed the manhole cover at its top. As he slid the iron circle aside, some snow on it slopped off into his face. If he weren’t freezing already, it might’ve bothered
him. Dripping wet, he pulled himself out into the late-afternoon light, then slid the cover back into place.

  He was on Newspaper Row, not as far from the New Pinkertons’ headquarters as he’d like, but also not far from the Times. He was also soaked and freezing. A street clock told him it wasn’t even four yet. Far too early to meet Delia. Nearby, he spotted a newsboy lodging. One of the poor quarters where he’d once considered living.

  A few moments later, panting, he stood in its open doorway, eyeing the iron stove that sat against the wall. The younger boys played cards and dice. An older kid lay on a makeshift nest of old clothes, reading a dime novel whose cover Carver did not know.

  Along with the others, he looked up at Carver, angry at first at the intrusion. When he saw how pathetic Carver was, how wet and shivering, the scowl faded. Not wanting to appear weak, the older boy snapped himself back into a grimace. “What do you want?”

  “Just to warm myself for a few hours, dry my clothes.”

  “Where you been? The sewers?” a young voice sneered.

  “Matter of fact, yes,” Carver said. “I was escaping some kidnappers. They were holding me in a basement room and I dug my way out.”

  A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.

  Trying to appear uninterested, the older boy said, “Make yourself at home, then.”

  36

  MAYBE IT was because he’d nearly died, but hours later, when Delia met him at the side entrance to the New York Times Building, Carver had never seen her more striking. Her party dress, with stylishly wide sleeves over black, was tied in the center by a snug dark ribbon that showed off the shape of her body. He’d always thought she was pretty. Now she was beautiful.

  He was about to tell her so when she wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell? Couldn’t you have changed your clothes at least?”

  He’d managed to dry them, but there’d been no way to clean them or him.