“Easier than making you a new set of keys,” his mentor mused.
Carver used it to enter the area devoted to handwriting analysis, but the space was even larger than Tudd’s office, even more filled with papers. With the document expert nowhere in sight, it was a dead end.
During lunch, Carver had his one success. He’d brought along the stun baton, thinking he might somehow fix it. Though he couldn’t make heads or tails of the thing and was too afraid of getting shocked to try to pry it apart, he did learn that the thick end had a little latch, and a short space behind it that had an oddly familiar shape.
On a hunch, he put the lock pick in it, thinking it might open the thing safely. Instead, it slipped into place with a loud click. Seconds later, the baton hummed. Carver had no idea how or why, maybe it’d just jarred a loose wire, but the lock pick had somehow fixed the thing. Who knew what else it might do?
By nine o’clock, the place was all but empty. His mentor was asleep on a cot on the plaza, to make his eventual exit easier. Carver was left alone in the dark of Tudd’s office, surrounded by reminders of the man who’d betrayed him and the man he’d betrayed. At times, thinking of the badge in his pocket, he felt like he’d won something, at times he felt guilty, wondering what sort of cell the former agency head was sleeping in.
With the light off, Carver found he missed his asylum bed. The moans were unpleasant, but the total silence here was suffocating. Worse, the blackness kept shifting, first into something that looked like Tudd and then into the shape of a caped, top-hatted man. And to think, he’d once considered the darkness a friend.
Carver was exhausted. He dozed on and off, but each time he roused, his senses stretched into the void, hungry for something to see or listen to that wasn’t his agitated imagination. Even a vague vibration in the mattress beneath him made him snap his eyes open and ask, “What was that?”
It was no use. He was too wound up to sleep. Thinking he might as well turn on the light and look for the letter again, he rolled from the bed and let his feet feel the cool oilcloth that covered the floor.
The vibration came again.
It was faint, but real. He remembered his stupid mistake at Blackwell, but this was no psychiatric hospital. It was a secret base, supposedly empty. Stilling his breath, he made out a slight, regular hum. It was the fan, the giant machine that powered the elevator and the subway.
Was someone using the train?
Slipping on his clothes, he crept into the hall. Pale moonlight dribbled from the high skylights, allowing him to make out the platform, the railing and the elegant curve of the car. It was still there, then, but the hum was louder. The fan was definitely on, and it shouldn’t have been.
As he walked farther down the hall, Hawking’s bed came into view. Empty. Suddenly worried, he picked up speed, but by the time he reached the platform, the car was silently receding into the tunnel.
Where was his mentor going at this hour?
He lowered himself onto the tracks and headed into the round tunnel. Compared to the sewers, the clean brickwork and constant tug of air was very pleasant. Ahead, the light from the receding car grew dimmer. As he walked in the gloom, every yard he stubbed his toe or nearly tripped on one of the rails. By the time he reached the frescoed walls and goldfish fountain at the other end, the car was empty.
Carver sprinted to the elevator, but it wouldn’t respond to the call button. The air had gone still. The steady hum was gone. Hawking had turned off the fan. He didn’t want to be followed.
Carver had never had to turn it on directly before. The pipes above switched it on automatically, as did the lever in the subway. If he returned to the car to start it up, the door would seal him in for the return trip.
He was losing precious time. Hawking already had a sizable head start on him. He headed across the hall and examined the huge fan. A hand lever was mounted on the top half of the shaft’s metal covering, but pulling and pushing it did nothing. He kept searching until he discovered a small bank of switches and metallic buttons. Of the largest two, a red one was depressed, and a green one sat above it. Thinking it the obvious choice, Carver pressed the green button.
After a click, the massive fan groaned into motion, pulling Carver’s hair toward it. Across the way, the elevator door opened. He’d done it.
Minutes later, he was out on Broadway, searching the length of the street for his mentor’s hobbling shape. He had to relax. He told himself Mr. Hawking knew what he was doing, but a sense of dread wouldn’t let him go. When he again wondered where the detective would go, an unsettling answer came to mind: 27 Leonard Street.
Could he be heading there to meet the “night owl” who remembered Raphael Trone? Tudd wanted to catch the killer himself. Had the old detective lied for similar reasons? No. If anything, he’d be trying to protect Carver, in case the killer was watching. But who would protect Hawking?
Ignoring the cold, Carver ran the six blocks up Broadway, turned and rushed up the block. A bright light from the apothecary’s second-floor windows told him he was right. Finding the door ajar, he pushed it open, causing a bell above the door frame to ring with an oddly cheerful sound.
“Hello?” he called. “Mr. Hawking? Sir?”
No response. He stepped along the aisles of tinctures and powders to the narrow staircase at the rear. The light was brighter above, and he trotted up the steps.
“Mr. Hawking?”
A door at the top of the stairs was open. Reaching the landing, he peered in. What he saw inside made him wonder if he’d ever woken up.
Hawking lay crumpled on the floor, like an old lion felled with a single shot. His head was twisted. A dark spot began on his forehead and extended past the hairline. Blood pooled near him, the edge of it just above his fingertips. It wasn’t all Hawking’s blood. Most belonged to the woman who lay lifeless on the center of an oval rug, the wounds around her neck and in her abdomen horrifically familiar.
Her expensive hat, once a delicate thing with ostrich feathers, had tumbled to the side, looking as if it had been crushed underfoot in a struggle. One of the huge feathers had come loose and floated in the blood.
Unlike at the Tombs, the colors weren’t burned into unreality by arc lamps. The woman’s wounds weren’t blurred by wind and storm. It didn’t look like a theater play.
“Help,” Carver said. It came out as barely a whisper.
He stumbled out, down the stairs, crashing into shelves. Tinctures fell and crashed; powders scattered.
“Help,” he said again, louder, but not nearly loud enough.
He fell into the door, nearly cracking the glass in it. He reached the street and sucked in the air. It filled every winding turn of his lungs with cold fire.
Now at last he had the breath he needed to scream, over and over again.
51
AS CARVER stood in the middle of Leonard Street, screaming, disturbed sleepers called from open windows.
“What’s that racket?”
“Shut yer trap, street rat!”
A brawny woman, hair stuffed in a net, eyes half-open, hurled a milk bottle. Luckily her aim was so bad, the shattering glass came nowhere near him.
A policeman, compact, earnest, trotted down from the Tombs. When he saw the sweat on Carver’s brow, the anger on his face vanished.
“Are ye sick, boyo?” he asked in a thick brogue.
Carver pointed to the apothecary. “In there.”
“Closed, lad,” the roundsman said. “Why not come inside with me now?”
Carver shook his head, trying to tear the words free from his throat. “Upstairs. M-m-murder.”
The officer twisted his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. He looked and saw the light from the upstairs room spilling out the door and onto the sidewalk. He drew his billy club, though Carver wondered if his gun would be a better choice.
“Stay here,” he said as he walked toward the door.
“What the devil’s it about, Mike?” the brawny
woman called.
“Don’t know yet, Annie, but make sure this one doesn’t leave.”
She gave him a soldierly nod, then eyed Carver menacingly. “I only missed because I wanted to.”
Seconds later, the policeman flew out the front door, face white. The screech of his whistle sounded like the death cry of some giant bird. A hawk.
Hawking. Carver was crazy to leave him alone up there. If he wasn’t dead, he might be dying. Shivering, he took a few mechanical steps toward the store. “Mike” stopped whistling and blocked his path.
“My… father…,” Carver said. “Mr. Hawking needs my help.”
“I’ll see he gets it, but no one goes in there, boyo.”
“My father,” Carver said again.
“Yes, help’s on the way for your dad.”
“No, my real father… he did this.”
Real father. He used the words, but was that really the case? It was Hawking who’d done so much for him, who’d believed in him.
The officer eyed him, decided that whatever was going on was beyond his ability to sort, then blew into his whistle again. More police streamed from the Tombs. In time, carriages arrived. The onlookers from the windows came into the streets, dressed in bathrobes. Carver still didn’t move.
When the ambulance attendants brought Hawking out on a stretcher, he was ashen and limp. The side of his head was horribly swollen. Blood marred his scraggly hair. Carver had no idea if he was alive.
“Where are they taking him?”
“St. Vincent’s,” Patrolman Mike said, holding Carver back. “But you’ll be staying here, boyo. A lot of people will want to talk to you.”
“No!” Carver gasped. He couldn’t talk to anyone now. He’d have to lie to preserve the secrets of the New Pinkertons, and he didn’t think he’d be able. Yet, if Hawking were dead, what did any of that matter?
A quarter block from the scene, a hansom cab clattered to a halt and a bleary-eyed Jerrik Ribe clambered out. Still half-asleep, the narrow-faced man had trouble righting himself. Spotting Carver, he straightened. Even at the distance, Carver saw his reporter face ripple through several emotions: confusion, concern, opportunity.
Ribe strode toward him, his quick left and right glances again recalling the movements of a ferret. Thinking he’d rather speak to Jerrik Ribe than the police, Carver moved to meet him. A firm hand yanked him back.
“Orders are to keep you from the press,” Patrolman Mike said.
“I know him,” Carver said.
“He your father, too, then?”
Before Ribe could reach them, several officers interceded. “Get out of my way,” Ribe said. “I know the boy. Is he under arrest? Is he a witness?”
A younger man in a trench coat stepped from the pack and moved toward Carver, blocking his view of Ribe. Carver was upset until he recognized Emeril’s thin mustache. He was about to shout his name when a swift shake of the man’s head indicated Carver should keep quiet.
Emeril took Carver by the elbow. “I’ve got him now… Jennings, isn’t it?”
Patrolman Mike furrowed his brow. “Yes, sir. Found him screaming in the street. Says it’s his father did this. And it’s his father who was attacked and taken to the hospital. Next thing, he’ll be calling me his father. Boy doesn’t make much sense.”
Emeril nodded. “Indeed he doesn’t. Good work. Put it in your report and have it sent to me within an hour. I’ve got things covered here.”
Mike Jennings’s eyes narrowed even more. “Aren’t you junior detective on staff… sir?”
Emeril nodded. “I’m also the only one awake. I’m sure someone suitably important will be here by the time everything’s sorted out. For now, though, I’m in charge.”
Satisfied, Jennings nodded. “Make it look like I’m being rough with you,” Emeril whispered before pushing him toward a quieter spot.
Once a reasonable distance away, Emeril spoke quickly. “He took a bad blow to the head, a concussion. The ambulance attendants said there were no other wounds.”
“But the blood…”
“None of it was his,” Emeril said, clearly relieved himself. “Lucky for him, not so lucky for Mrs. Parker. Old Hawking must have stumbled onto the killer in the act. But the only thing that’s really clear is that Hawking was holding out on me. What was he doing here to begin with?”
Carver’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t know? This was the last address I found for my father. Mr. Hawking said he’d talked to you, that we’d all go in the morning.”
Emeril scrunched his face. “He certainly didn’t mention it to me. Tudd always thought he was half-mad. Dear Lord. Maybe the old lion wanted a final hunt for himself.”
Seeing Carver’s reaction to the word final, Emeril punched him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Man with a skull that thick has got to pull through.”
Someone called, “Detective,” from the crowd. Emeril waved, indicating he’d be there soon, then turned back to Carver. “They want you at Mulberry Street, but I’ll take you to the hospital. I can argue it would be inhumane to drag you from the side of your adoptive father. I will have to take your statement, though.”
“I want to tell them everything,” Carver said flatly.
Emeril winced. “Can’t blame you for that, but the situation’s sticky. Think about this: when Roosevelt sees you, he’s likely to have you locked up like Mr. Tudd. Could be days before you get anyone to listen. Why not wait at least until we see how Hawking’s doing?”
Something twisted in his gut. It sounded reasonable, yet another delay didn’t feel right.
Emeril read his mind. “Carver, your statement will contain the truth, or most of it. You were adopted by a retired Pinkerton agent and studying the case as an exercise. Mr. Hawking took it on himself to visit an address he believed the killer may have lived at. You followed and saw what you saw. It is up to you.”
With that, he hustled Carver into a police carriage. Hawking’s words rattled in Carver’s head in tune with the clattering wheels:
A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.
52
THE NEXT morning at St. Vincent’s, newspapers lay in a staggered pile on a small metal table next to Hawking’s bed. The headlines were visible at a glance.
The New York Times allowed itself an unusually sensational headline:
KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.
The Sun had the more poetic:
FEAR STALKS OUR STREETS.
The Tribune, the mysterious:
WHO IS THE LIBRARY KILLER?
But the Journal outdid them all with just three words that took up the entire page:
DEVIL IN MANHATTAN!
Hawking’s clothes hung from a hook by the door, gray as his skin. A black wall clock signaled noon was near. The only color Carver saw was a fallen rose petal on the floor, looking like a splotch of blood.
The bouquet it was from belonged to an older woman, one of six patients moved when Emeril ordered the room be made private. Hawking’s sudden fame as the only witness to the killer’s work had also earned him police guards and a mob of reporters. Emeril explained he was also keenly worried about exposing Hawking to the cholera and typhoid common here. By and large, hospitals were charitable places serving the poor. Anyone who could afford it had physicians attend them at home.
The privacy and protection would soon end, though. The doctors made it clear Hawking could wake anytime over the next twenty-four hours. Since then, the senior detectives took to arguing over who’d question Carver first. Emeril would return soon to tell Carver who’d won.
While he waited, he stared at his unconscious mentor and the thick bandage wrapped around his forehead. He thought back to his first meeting with the gruff man, how his personality seemed as mangled as his body. A gnome, Carver considered him. But, father?
Hawking seemed to make what they owed each other feel like entries in an accounting ledger. Yet Carver was bereft imagining Hawking was hurt. The man had c
hanged him, given him something solid to hold onto, something to replace his dime-novel fantasies. Almost like a…
Like a real father.
The idea of not having him around felt suddenly unbearable.
The door opened and Emeril stepped back in. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he said as he quickly closed the door, sealing off what seemed a crowded hallway. “Two detectives are to take you to a carriage out back, then to Mulberry Street. The commissioner has insisted on being present for questioning. They’re trying to keep the press in the lobby, though your Mr. Ribe has already tried to sneak up the fire escape twice.”
“Roosevelt will lock me up?” Carver said. “Unless I show him the agency?”
“Without that letter, most likely,” Emeril said. “Eventually they’d add things up and realize Tudd knew more about the murders than he let on, but no telling how long that will take. Either way, I suppose that’ll be that for the New Pinkertons, eh?”
Emeril gave Carver’s shoulder a light punch. “Not your fault. There are three dead now. Keeping secrets always seemed silly to me; now it’s downright dangerous. If anyone, Tudd ruined things by keeping your father’s letter from them to begin with. I’ve got every agent looking, but we still can’t find the thing.”
Carver shook his head. “At least Mr. Hawking has a good excuse for his odd behavior.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on Tudd. The way I heard it, he was once in line for Roosevelt’s position. Instead, he toiled in secret. Catching your dad himself might have made up for it, in his mind. Not an excuse, mind you…,” Emeril said.
Carver sighed. “At least once I bring the police down to the headquarters, Mr. Tudd will have no reason not to turn over the letter.”
“Expect to find it empty. And keep in mind you really don’t have to remember anyone’s name. Bad enough that instead of heroes, we’ll look like a bunch of bumbling fools blocking a police investigation into the crime of the century.”
“I don’t think you’re fools, for what it’s worth,” Carver said. “Emeril, do you think by doing this, I’ll actually help catch him?”
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