Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  Carver managed only a dry moan in response.

  “Don’t try to speak. You broke two ribs. One splintered, so I had to operate to remove the shards. And, well, there was an infection. There’ll still be pain for a few weeks, but you’ll feel much more alert in a few hours,” the doctor said. “I’ll tell the Roosevelts at once that our newest hero will pull through.”

  Carver pointed weakly at the newspaper headline. “Alice?”

  “She’s fine. Rest. All is well.” Then he exited.

  It was good to hear about Alice, but he also wanted to know what happened to his father. It would have to wait. As if obeying the doctor, a wave of exhaustion took his body. He fell asleep again.

  The next thing Carver felt was a soft caress against his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw Delia’s freckled face above him. She moved her fingers across his forehead, brushing some hair away, just as she had in City Hall. Half-asleep, he grabbed her hand, feeling her soft knuckles against his palm. Moving didn’t hurt as much anymore, and the sheets, he noticed, were soft and dry.

  Delia, who hadn’t bothered taking off her winter coat, sat sideways on the bed.

  “Carver,” she said. “I thought you were going to die… They said you might, but you’re not, are you? I feel so… so…”

  She leaned forward impulsively and pressed her lips into his. While the doctor’s touch had brought shivers, the kiss made his whole body warm. After lingering briefly, she pulled back, but Carver, finding more energy, raised his head to keep their lips together. She obliged. They stayed that way until a cough from deeper in the room stopped them.

  Delia sat up, smiling. “Finn wants to say hello, too.”

  “Just a handshake, though,” he said, stepping up behind Delia. “How are you?”

  Carver had to think about it. There was a thick bandage wrapped around his rib cage, but the twinges weren’t too bad. The doctor was right: most of his discomfort was from the fever. A rumbling in his stomach gave him the short answer: “Hungry.”

  “You must be starving,” Delia said. “You’ve been out a week.”

  Finn looked around. “I think there’s a food tray here somewhere.”

  “A week?” Carver pulled himself up higher onto the pillows. “What happened?”

  “Depends on which paper you read,” Delia said with a wry smile. “According to the Sun, Roosevelt chased Jack the Ripper riding bareback and you cornered him in an alley using some sort of electric carriage!”

  “Uh… actually… that’s true,” Carver said.

  Delia made a face, uncertain if he were kidding. “Well, they all say you’re a hero. Drove off the killer, rescued the damsel.”

  But Carver wasn’t thinking about Alice. “My father. Did they catch him? Is he… ?”

  Delia frowned. “There was a lot of blood, but no body.”

  Carver’s thudding heart pressed against his bandages. “Has there been another killing? A different R?”

  “That’s the thing. There hasn’t been,” Delia said quickly. “They think he either crawled off somewhere and died or is so wounded he can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  Carver shook his head. “He’s strong, Delia.”

  Finn nodded. “You haven’t seen him. He’s just licking his wounds.”

  Delia rolled her eyes. “He’s not a bogeyman, and you did hurt him badly. The entire city is different; you can feel the relief in the air. That’s why the papers are playing up your story so much, with Roosevelt’s blessing.”

  Finn found a tray with fresh fruit and a sandwich. Carver grabbed the apple while Finn took the sandwich and nodded at the papers. “How do you like being famous?” Finn asked. “I know I never did.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Carver said with a shrug. “I’ve been unconscious. But what’s this about me being a Pinkerton?”

  “Because you’re Hawking’s assistant,” Delia said. “He worked with Pinkerton and the press picked up on it.”

  “Mr. Hawking. Where’s he? Has he been here?”

  “I don’t know,” Delia said. “The doctor said you’ve had a few visitors. Maybe he was one.”

  “Finn, has Echols seen him?” Carver asked. The thought of how his onetime mentor had abandoned him still hurt, somehow deeper than his splintered rib.

  “No, and he’s furious. Said he’d have to hire a detective to find his detective.”

  “Should we check the get-well notes?” Delia suggested.

  Carver frowned. “He was never exactly the sentimental type. Unless there’s a one-word typewritten note in there somewhere.”

  The three spent the rest of their visit sorting through the well-wishes. Most were from people Carver didn’t even know. He was pleased to see a package of books from Miss Petty, but nothing from his mentor. Might he be off hunting the Ripper, or had his eccentric behavior grown so extreme he’d become one of the asylum’s patients?

  Still weak, he had Delia call the Octagon. Thomasine Bond assured her Hawking still wasn’t there.

  “As soon as I’m released, I’m heading over there. He must have left a clue, a note, something!” Carver said.

  “We’ll go with you,” Delia said.

  In a day, Carver was on his feet; in two, he felt almost completely his old self despite the pain in his ribs. But the doctor still wouldn’t release him. As more days passed, in addition to frequent visits from Delia and Finn, Emeril dropped by, telling him he’d “taken care” of the electric carriage. Carver gave Jerrik Ribe a lengthy, exclusive interview, during which he made no mention of the New Pinkertons and insisted the horseless carriage was just someone’s wild imagination, born of reading too many dime novels.

  It was easier to lie than he’d thought.

  Very early one morning, to avoid the press, Commissioner Roosevelt appeared. His gratitude seemed boundless. With the same boyish enthusiasm he brought to all the facets of his life, he talked about sending Carver to college, setting him up in politics, or, “If you insist, as a detective. You seem to have the knack.”

  He presented Carver with freshly typed pages from a book he’d been writing and a handwritten letter from Alice complaining about how bored she was and hoping he’d come visit soon. Recalling Carver’s fondness for gadgets, he’d even brought along a prototype for a new type of handcuff, from Bean Manufacturers. He’d intended only to show them but, seeing how much Carver liked them, decided to let him keep them.

  As Carver tested the lock and the strength of the cuffs, Roosevelt rubbed his hands in an uncharacteristically self-conscious fashion. “Mr. Young, if you’re willing to show it to me, I’m eager to see this headquarters of yours. Mr. Tudd died to protect its secrets, so I give you my word that despite my position, I will guard them as well.”

  “You’re not… angry? After what you said about vigilantism?”

  “Angry? I’m furious, furious that the corruption in this city ran so deep Allan Pinkerton felt a secret force was necessary. But he was right. My work is far from done, and I can’t help but feel regret about Tudd. I don’t know how I could have done different. I wish the man had trusted me. I could’ve used the help. Still can. Perhaps in time you can revive the organization.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. I’m striving to make our police a more organized force, like the army. When we hire now, we seek men of resolute temper, sober, self-respecting and self-reliant, with a strong wish to improve themselves. You fit all that and more. In addition, you are bright, eager and possess a secure moral compass. Who better?”

  It seemed Carver’s dream, and Hawking’s plans might be fulfilled after all.

  The next morning, the bandage was removed and his ribs didn’t hurt at all. Tomorrow, the doctor told him, he could go. Carver was feeling so good that when Delia was ready to leave after her afternoon visit, he dared to take her in his arms and squeeze until she laughed and pushed him away.

  “I can’t breathe!” she said. Her cheeks blushed as bright a red as the day he saw her in the Ellis lau
ndry room so long ago. Embarrassed by her feelings, she rushed for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, with Finn,” she said. “He’s taking us to some fancy restaurant, courtesy of the Echolses. Maybe Delmonico’s!”

  “After we go to Blackwell,” Carver said.

  “Of course.”

  Long after the door closed, the feel of her body against his tingled in his memory.

  There’d been no further word from the Ripper. Maybe his father really had crawled off to die; maybe the nightmare was over.

  As night fell, he settled down with Roosevelt’s manuscript. Carver had so much energy, he read for hours before finally turning off the light and falling into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

  He’d no way of knowing how long he’d been out when the faint click of the door stirred him. Drowsy, he turned to his side and saw a dark figure by the door, a familiar hunched shape, wavering slightly as he supported himself on his cane.

  “So what do you think of my lessons, boy?” Albert Hawking said.

  78

  “MR. HAWKING!” Carver said. At first he was pleased and relieved, but then, realizing his mentor looked as healthy as ever, his anger returned. “You abandoned me.”

  The old detective moved closer, stepping into a streetlight glow from the window. “Nonsense. I taught you to fly, something you’d never do if I were there to hold you up.”

  “There were lives at stake,” Carver said grimly. “Mrs. Echols’s, Alice’s… mine.”

  “They’re both fine, no? As for you, sometimes scars make the man. I know you find it difficult to admire him, but you have your father’s stamina to thank, I think, and your own resourcefulness. Even used a few gadgets, from what I understand. You did well. So, are they taking better care of you in this cesspool? Are you well?”

  Carver felt a swirl of pride and his anger fade. Hawking cared about him after all. He nodded. “They’re releasing me in the morning.”

  Hawking grunted. “That fool surgeon almost killed you. Now, no doubt, he’ll try to take credit for your body’s own ability to heal.”

  It was another surprise. “You’ve been keeping track.”

  Nearer now, he looked at Carver. His gaze didn’t seem quite as cold as it usually did. Putting his clawed hand on his cane, he reached over with his left and touched Carver’s forehead. “Every move.”

  Carver had no idea how to react. Hawking patted him, leaned back and, with difficulty, carefully poured some water from a pitcher into the glass.

  “Where have you been?” Carver asked.

  Holding the glass in his clawed right hand, he offered it to Carver. “Drink, you sound hoarse.”

  Though half-full, the glass trembled so much, the water threatened to spill. Obediently, Carver took the glass, put it to his lips and swallowed. His throat was dry.

  “I still want an answer,” Carver said.

  “So, you’re the master now?” Hawking said with a chuckle. He put the pitcher down, maneuvered himself sideways and half-fell into the steel chair.

  “My student,” he said, half to the air, “is now as famous a detective as any dime-novel hero. He has an extremely powerful family in his debt and knows the combination to the finest crime lab in the world. But is he grateful? No. He still wants more.”

  “Of course I’m grateful, but…”

  “There is more. Echols’s money is now in an account in your name. You’ll find the papers back at Blackwell. Not me, though. I’ll be taking my leave for real this time.”

  Carver’s mind grew dizzy. He had trouble trying to sort his words. “I don’t understand. Where are you going? You still haven’t said where you’ve been.”

  “And you still have a habit of asking questions right before you’re about to hear the answer! I’ve been checking loose ends, making sure everything works to its best advantage. Now I’m all but done, and there’s something else I have to do. My business, not yours. The lessons are over, so I’ll ask again, what did you think of them, boy?”

  Carver felt the prick of tears behind his eyes, but he held them back. Instead, he glared. “You showed up just to run off again?”

  “Don’t give me such a look, boy, or that tone. Are you some babe in swaddling clothes that needs me to change his diapers?”

  Hawking put his cane against the floor and stood. He wavered more than usual, and for the first time, Carver realized his face looked even more ragged. “I am proud. And I’m glad to have seen you again.”

  His unusually emotional tone filled Carver with worry. “Are you all right, Mr. Hawking? Won’t you please tell me where you’re going?”

  Hawking hesitated. “I’ve had some news. Someone I thought was dead may still be alive. I have to find out one way or another. It will require some traveling.”

  “My father?” Carver asked. “Are you hunting my father?”

  Hawking eyed him. “Don’t worry. There will be no further Ripper slayings in New York City. I’ll make sure of it.”

  What did he mean? Was Hawking planning to kill the Ripper? But he seemed so weak. Something was wrong, insanely wrong. The room was spinning. He put his hand out to the table to steady himself.

  “I don’t feel well,” Carver said.

  “That will be the chloral hydrate I put in your water,” Hawking said. “Knockout drops. Maybe I’m getting sentimental, but I wanted to see you before I left and had to make sure you didn’t follow. You’ll never catch me saying this again, but I may have taught you too well, and this was the only way.”

  79

  “CARVER! Carver!”

  The back of his head ached as if he’d been smacked with a blackjack. Someone shook him by the shoulders, trying to wake him, but the movement only made the pain worse.

  He flailed with his hands. “Stop!”

  Delia and Finn were in front of him. Early-morning light came through the windows.

  “Were you having a nightmare?” Delia asked.

  Carver sprang up. “It was Hawking! He drugged me.”

  “Why?” Finn asked.

  “I think he’s found my father,” Carver said. He stood and started pacing. “I think he’s going to kill him.”

  “What?” Delia said. “That’s mad!”

  The doctor stepped in. “Everything okay in here?”

  “I’m fine,” Carver said. “Really. Just a bad dream.”

  The doctor studied him. “Good. It’s almost time to check out. There’ll be some papers to sign, and I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Once the doctor was gone, Carver began ripping off his hospital gown, pausing only long enough for Delia to turn her back while he dressed. “The doctor will want to march me in front of the press, but I’ve got to get to Blackwell Asylum. There must be some clue there, some research. What time is it? When’s the next ferry?”

  Delia grabbed a newspaper. “I’ll check the schedule.”

  Finn rushed for the door. “I’ll get a cab and meet you out back.”

  Almost as an afterthought, Carver snatched the handcuffs Roosevelt had given him.

  Before the doctor could return, Delia and Carver headed down a side stairwell, found the service corridor and emerged in the rear alley. Finn had the cab waiting.

  As they rode to the ferry, Carver kept talking. “He’s going to face him himself, I know it. Maybe he sees this as his last great battle. Even if no one else knows, he’ll know he was the one who caught Jack the Ripper.”

  “I thought my parents were strange,” Finn said.

  In his rush to dress, Carver brought the stun baton and his lock pick, but forgot his new overcoat. It wasn’t terribly cold in the cab, but as the wind whipped off the East River onto the bobbing ferry, he thought he’d freeze. He huddled with Delia, but it didn’t help as much as he’d hoped.

  At the Octagon, a guard warned them to slow down, but when Carver ignored him, the man didn’t seem interested in making any effort to stop them. Carver rushed for the circular stairs, pulling himself along with the railing. Strangel
y, the door at the top was locked. Carver had never been given a key; there was no need. His pick made quick work of it.

  The large octagonal room was a mess, almost a photograph of what it looked like before Hawking forced Carver to clean it. Carver’s bed was barely visible beneath the fallen boxes and books. The desk was littered with refuse. He knew in a flash that Hawking had been here, working all along.

  Delia and Finn came up from behind, panting, as Carver scanned the room. He tried to sense what had gone on here. How could he find the man’s trail? He had to put himself in Hawking’s place. What was important to his mentor?

  The typewriter was gone. The brass railway gadget also came to mind. Carver rushed over to the table and spotted a few small screws on the floor. It was gone, too. So were Hawking’s clothes.

  “He’s moved out,” Carver said. “Delia, head downstairs and see if you can find a woman named Thomasine Bond. She’s English, probably one of the nurses.”

  Still panting, she said, “You want me to run down the stairs now?”

  “Please. Remind her we spoke on the phone. Tell her I know he was up here these last few weeks. Ask what his tone was like when he talked to her, if he went out often. It’s important. Hurry.”

  Delia nodded, then headed back down the stairs.

  “What can I do?” Finn asked.

  Carver paced. “Make piles. Get the furniture back in place. Put the papers together. If you find a book open to a page, don’t close it. Stack it with the binding open.”

  “Okay. What am I looking for?”

  Carver shrugged. “I don’t know. Notes about Jack the Ripper. Notes about… traveling.”

  Finn set to work, moving the heaviest boxes into place with ease. Carver kept pacing, glancing at an open book or two. He saw the old overcoat Hawking had loaned him, hanging lonely on the coatrack, watched his bed slowly uncovered as Finn worked.

  “Carver,” Finn said, holding up a long piece of paper. “You said travel.”

  It was a map of Manhattan’s elevated railway lines, including the suburban trains that led out of the city from Grand Central. There was a schedule attached. He’d seen it once before but didn’t remember where.