Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  Numbly, he nodded.

  Didn’t he even care? Carver knew Finn was unhappy, but did he hate his adoptive parents so much that part of him might prefer to see them dead?

  But when she finished, Finn rose, his head blocking Carver’s view of the moon and chimney. “She’s here. I’ll tell her. I don’t know if she’ll believe me, though. Then again, they might think it’d be a great way to get some more photos in the papers.”

  “Phineas,” Delia began. Remembering her promise, she corrected herself. “Finn, do you want us to go with you?”

  “No,” he said, eyeing Carver. “You should just go.”

  They stood awkwardly.

  “Maybe we could help,” Carver said. “They know I’m Hawking’s student.”

  “No!” Finn barked, but he didn’t look angry, he looked… ashamed. For the first time, Carver realized how stupid the Echolses made the bully feel. After years of being top dog at Ellis, he didn’t like appearing weak. Carver felt the same way around Hawking, even more so lately. Were they so different?

  “Finn, listen, back at the lawyer’s office, you were trying to help. I was… being stupid.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Finn said.

  Carver sighed. “I’m trying to say I really am sorry. I’m sorry for getting angry. I’m sorry for hitting you. I’m trying to tell you, I know how it feels, in a way. My real father aside, I’ve got my own problems with Mr. Hawking.”

  Finn recognized the peace offering but didn’t know what to make of it. “I didn’t steal the necklace.”

  Carver fought an urge to roll his eyes. Worried he’d say something that would get them fighting again, he looked up, then noticed the odd chimney. It wasn’t just odd; its edges were wavering in the wind, as if it wasn’t a chimney at all.

  And then it vanished.

  69

  “THE RIPPER!” Carver said, pointing. “He’s on the roof!” He raced for the glass doors. His father had been watching all along, listening, waiting to be seen.

  “Where’s your mother?” Delia asked Finn, voice tinged with panic.

  “She’s not my… Upstairs, in her bedroom.” Finn sounded surprised by the sudden commotion, as if the danger hadn’t dawned on him yet. Carver once made fun of the bully’s slower thought process, but now he pitied him. Whatever the three of them did in the next few minutes could change all their lives forever.

  His hand on the gilded knob, Carver realized he wasn’t thinking fast enough himself. He turned back to Finn. “What’s the fastest way up there?”

  “Not that way,” he answered. Picking up on their urgent tone, he ran, not toward any door or window, but at one of the thirty-foot stone columns.

  “What the… ?” Carver said.

  Less than a yard away, Finn leapt, wrapping his arms and legs around the cold cylinder. Without so much as a beat, he began shinnying up to the roof.

  “Finn, don’t!” Carver warned. “Not alone!”

  “Done it a hundred times,” Finn called back. He was ten feet up and rising.

  But Carver wasn’t worried about him falling. Finn was strong, but the Ripper was beyond human. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Carver dashed for the nearest column. He pulled his chest into the cold surface and pushed at it with his feet. He wasn’t nearly as fast as Finn, but he was moving.

  At his back he heard a helpless cry from Delia. “I can’t climb that!”

  “Get help,” Carver called. At least one of them should do the intelligent thing.

  Hearing nothing else from her, he assumed she was doing as he asked. Now his attention was torn between climbing and watching Finn. By the time Carver was at the halfway mark, Finn was at the gutter, clambering over the ledge. He crawled across the roof’s six feet of angled terra-cotta like a huge red-haired spider, then disappeared onto the flat middle.

  It would take Carver less than a minute to get up there, but how long did it take to kill someone?

  His hands reached the gutter, but when he pulled, it nearly tore free. He stretched his arm for a stronger handhold, found one and dragged himself onto the shingles. Somewhere above he heard scuffling and a groan.

  He wanted to pick his head up to look but had to stay flat to keep from rolling off the roof. Quick as he could, he clawed and kicked, cracking the ceramic shingles, then heaved himself onto the flat black tar-pitch.

  He rolled onto his feet, pulled out the baton and pressed the single button.

  Schick!

  The weighted feel of it humming in his hand might have made him more confident if he were facing anyone else. As it was, between the exertion and the fear, Carver was so out of breath he felt dizzy. His gaze darted around. Away from the window lights, the stars were brilliant, the moon bright. Everything else was shadow.

  “Carver,” Finn moaned from somewhere.

  Holding the crackling copper tip out in front of him, he peered among the silhouettes. “Finn, are you all right? Did he cut you?”

  “No,” Finn said weakly. “But I think he broke my arm. I can’t… can’t move it. Hurts…”

  “Where is he?” Carver said.

  Hearing footsteps against the tar paper, he whipped the cane to the left and the right. “Finn,” he said again. “Where is he?”

  Two thick rectangles stood about four yards away, one on each side of the flat roof. Their brickwork glinting in the moonlight told him they were definitely chimneys.

  A hunched shadow moved from behind one of the chimneys.

  Before Carver could react, the killer appeared. A single step had brought his tall body within a single stride of the fallen bully. He faced Carver.

  My father.

  He was tall and straight, draped in a black cape, a top hat on his head. As if a magician performing a trick, he withdrew a long, sharp butcher’s knife. It sang, like a sword drawn from a scabbard, and then seemed to float in the air, the only glowing thing in a world of blacks and grays.

  Then he pivoted and lunged toward Finn.

  “No!” Carver screamed. He raced ahead, stabbing the killer in the shoulder.

  Kzt!

  The man let loose a weird howl. Carver expected him to fall, but he didn’t. Instead, he batted the stun baton out of Carver’s hand. It went flying. He was weaponless. But knowing if he gave up now, Finn would die, Carver barreled forward and slammed into the killer’s side. His father might as well have been made of stone for all the good Carver did. With a slight grunt, the killer wrapped his left arm around Carver’s chest, then threw him.

  Carver’s right shoulder took the brunt of the fall, landing on a fallen chimney brick with a sickly crack. A rough hand flipped him on his back, sending waves of agony through him.

  The figure towered over him. For the first time, Carver could clearly see his face, so gleeful, so hungry, so aflame. No nightmare could do it justice. It was long and strong, almost the way he’d imagined Sherlock Holmes would look but younger, with thicker, curly hair and a twisted demonic grin. His eyes were wide circles filled with a sort of joyful fury. Adding to the terror, Carver saw something hauntingly familiar in the visage, something he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, place, maybe because it reminded him of his own.

  Finn moaned pitifully.

  “Run!” Carver called. “Get out of here!”

  The Ripper shook his head slowly and said, “No.”

  Carver knew what he meant. Finn would not be running. Not anymore.

  Holding his blade high, the killer turned back to the helpless figure, the boy who’d once, long, long ago, been the thing Carver feared most in the world.

  With no time to hunt the darkness for the baton, he used his good left hand to grab the brick he’d fallen on. Screaming loud and long, as if he were a beast himself, Carver rose and rammed the brick as hard as he could into the side of his father’s skull.

  WHACK!

  “Aghhhh!”

  The Ripper wasn’t off his feet, not by any means. His grin replaced by fury, he stagg
ered. He’d been hurt. A thick blob of glistening liquid made its way down from his dark hairline.

  “What are you going to do now?” Carver asked. “Kill your own son?”

  Carver would never find out. Finn, from the ground, unleashed a powerful kick at the Ripper’s right knee. Carver swore he heard a bone crack, though it might have been the sound the dropped blade made when it hit the roof.

  Favoring his other leg, the Ripper snatched up his weapon. By then, Finn was on his feet, stepping back but clenching his fist, ready to strike.

  The figure looked from one boy to the other. He moved forward, testing the distance, but when his leg nearly buckled, he turned and seemed to leap off the roof.

  Carver and Finn looked briefly at each other, then raced to the roof’s edge in time to see the Ripper clamber down the outer wall. He’d been shocked, then wounded twice, but still climbed twice as fast as Finn. He even leapt the last five feet, scurried down the street and lost himself among the shadows.

  When they were sure he was gone, when the only sound was their panting, Finn turned to Carver and said, “You saved my life.”

  “You saved mine,” Carver answered.

  70

  UPON HEARING the story, Mrs. Echols looked more as if she’d had too much tea to drink rather than nearly faced death. Mr. Echols wanted to contact the press before the police, but after Carver pointed out how bad that would look, he had his butler call Mulberry Street. Neither expressed the slightest bit of gratitude toward the trio.

  Instead of Emeril, only one detective was sent, a squat man with green-gray eyes that were glassy from either a lack of sleep or too much drink. As he and several officers tromped through, Mr. Echols did insist that any questioning take place as speedily as possible. Delia thought he was being kind until Finn assured her he only wanted to clear the house for the photographers. Carver was only glad he’d managed to find the stun baton.

  From the tone and content of the detective’s questions, Carver understood the damage Hawking had done by changing the agency’s combination earlier. The detective clearly thought it was some sort of hoax, too. Delia wasn’t even questioned. Instead, she had to content herself with trying to reach her parents on the busy phone lines, something she was allowed to do only after she told the Echolses they were with the Times.

  In less than an hour, the detective flipped his notebook closed.

  “That’s it?” Carver asked.

  The man raised a caterpillar eyebrow. “The reporters will be happy to talk to you. That’s what you wanted, innit?”

  “No! This was real!” Finn objected.

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t, but it was dark, right? Could’ve been anyone, right? But he’s gone now, isn’t he? I’ve got another call, and the owner of the home wants us out fast, so…”

  He headed for the door.

  Then, with Carver’s shoulder still aching and Finn’s arm possibly broken, they posed for photographs as Mr. Echols answered questions from the few reporters he’d managed to summon. To Delia’s chagrin, the Times wasn’t even represented. She hadn’t gotten through to the Ribes and the dispatch editor probably concluded, like the police, that it had been one of many hoaxes they were following up.

  The press gone, the Echolses vanished. A weary Carver, feeling much older than fourteen, and a sullen Finn soon found themselves in a larger parlor, lying on matching pink chaise lounges, where their wounds were at last tended by a doctor. Finding nothing broken, he prescribed a pain reliever and left the boys alone.

  After a lengthy silence, Finn asked, “What was that thing you stuck him with?”

  Carver pulled the baton out and held it up. “Stun baton. It’s got some kind of battery in it.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I… stole it,” Carver said. Finn looked shocked for an instant, then started laughing. Carver laughed, too.

  When they stopped, Finn’s face grew serious. “I really didn’t take the necklace.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It was Bulldog.”

  Carver stared. “You were covering for Bulldog?”

  Finn shrugged. “He nicked things all the time, mostly from stores. It was like he couldn’t help himself. When I heard Madeline’s necklace was gone, I knew it was him. The only way to get him to give it up was by promising to return it myself.”

  “Finn,” Carver said, aghast, “that was… noble. I always thought…”

  “I know what you thought. It’s not like you ever shut up about what you think. Sticks and stones, yeah, but you’ve got a mouth like a knife and you don’t even know it.”

  “Bulldog. Bulldog’s a thief.”

  “Not anymore. Last week, while I was stuck here, he nicked the wrong man’s wallet, had his jaw broken and then got thrown in jail. Mr. and Mrs. Echols won’t help. They won’t even let me visit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carver said.

  Finn shrugged. “I barely saw him to begin with. It’s not like they let me have the guys over. I don’t have many friends anymore. Not since Ellis.”

  He dared a glance at Carver, who managed a stoic, “Me neither.”

  A girlish laugh turned them toward the door. Delia stood there. She’d been crying recently, her face stained with dried tears, but now she covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “I’m so sorry. I know this is serious,” she said, trying to contain herself. “I hope you’re not hurt badly… It’s just… the two of you… on those pink…”

  Carver lifted an empty teacup, pinky extended, and pretended to sip daintily.

  “One lump or two?” Finn said, raising the sugar bowl.

  “Neither, please!”

  Delia howled, until a loud voice outside made her stop to listen. The doors, open since her arrival, gave them a view of the entrance hall. There, a decidedly agitated Echols barked commands at an unseen assistant.

  “Under no circumstances will Roosevelt be allowed on my property! I don’t care if he has an arrest warrant,” Echols said.

  “Sir,” a weaker voice responded. “He only wanted…”

  “Enough. The man just wants his name in the papers next to mine. Where’s Hawking?”

  “There’s still no answer at his residence.”

  Echols slapped himself on the head. “What am I paying him for? He should have been here to talk to the reporters. Did you see how they thought we were making this up? Those policemen were talking before they rushed off. I saw you listening in. What were they talking about?”

  When the assistant lowered his voice to a whisper, the three orphans craned their heads to hear.

  “Another body was found.”

  Echols’s eyes widened with excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me at once? Get the press back here! I’ll have to prepare a statement…”

  “Sir, the victim was Amelia Edwin. She was… butchered, like the others.”

  Echols’s demeanor suddenly changed. He stiffened, then reached for something to steady himself with. “We play bridge with the Edwins… I saw Millie just yesterday…”

  Seeing the open doors, a decidedly pale Echols closed them. The last words they heard were, “I… don’t want Samantha to know yet. My wife… she could have been killed?”

  The news drained all joy from the trio.

  Carver spoke first. “He found himself another E. Amelia Edwin probably has some connection to Miller’s Court as well.”

  “I already know what it is,” Delia said. “He called her Millie. It’s a little different, but he probably had to improvise after you drove him away.”

  “But it’s over now, isn’t it?” Finn said. “He’s done. You said there were five original Ripper victims, right? Amelia Edwin makes five.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Delia said, her voice almost a whisper. “Something very important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He still needs an R.”

  71

  THE SOUR-FACED BUTLER who’d tried to turn the
m away informed Delia and Carver they were to stay the night, “In case the press returns.”

  Carver was taken to a room the size of an Ellis Orphanage classroom, with a four-poster bed and a small fireplace. He wanted to stay awake, to sort the night’s details, but after a few hazy thoughts about the Ripper’s most recent letter, the next thing he knew, bright sunlight warmed his face. A yawn brought the smell of eggs and toast. A silver breakfast tray was laid out on a table.

  He rolled out of bed, but when he tried to stretch, a sharp pain in his shoulder reminded him of the worst of his sprains. It didn’t keep him from eating greedily. The Echolses weren’t the kindest people, but the food was great.

  Halfway through the meal, a knock came at the door. “Come in,” he said.

  It was the butler, holding a tray. Carver hoped it was more food, but it held a phone.

  “Good to see you awake, young master,” the butler said. “Your friends are eating breakfast in their rooms. Your clothing is being cleaned, but I’ve left some of Master Phineas’s things in the wardrobe closet, the smallest I could find. Meanwhile, the master of the house has a request.”

  Carver shrugged. “Mr. Echols? What is it?”

  “He’s having difficulty reaching your… Mr. Hawking.” He stepped over, placed the tray on an end table and plugged the phone’s cord into a wall socket. “He would appreciate it if you’d inform him in no uncertain terms that he should speak with Mr. Echols immediately.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Carver said. He had a few things to say to Hawking himself.

  The butler spun and exited. Carver picked up the phone and asked for Blackwell Asylum. After a few moments, an unfamiliar female voice said, “Yes?”

  “This is Carver Young. Could you please bring Mr. Hawking to the phone?”

  There was no pause before the response. “Carver Young?”

  “Yes. Who is this, please?”

  “My name is Thomasine Bond,” she said in an English accent. “It’s my first day. Mr. Hawking isn’t here, but he left a message for you. I’m sorry, but first, he’s asked that I make sure it’s really you. It’s just a question he’s written. A moment… Who is… no, wait, I’m sorry, the typing is smudged; who should be your favorite detective?”