Ripper (10 page)

Carver frowned. “But we hadn’t met yet.”

Tudd gave him a smile. “He seemed certain you would. Further, the message was to be played only after you inquired about Ellis Island. He insisted it would take you less than an hour. I thought it would take at least that long for you to familiarize yourself with the athenaeum.” He pointed a thick finger at the gramophone. “Now, the sound is recorded through the vibration of a tiny needle, or stylus, which makes marks on a clay cylinder. Edison considered using a disc, but the cylinder provides a more constant velocity. When the clay dries, the same needle runs along the grooves, re-creating the sound, which is amplified by the horn. All
you
have to do is turn the handle.”

Looking boy-like in his eagerness, Tudd waved his hand at Carver, telling him to go ahead. Carver wasn’t sure if they were excited about the machine or about finally hearing what Hawking had recorded. Thrilled at the thought of both, he gripped the
wooden handle and turned. The cylinder rotated, the small stylus rose and fell. A voice, tinny and distant, came through the horn.

“You know the letter came from London, and, given the date, you’ll want to see if there’s anything left of the passenger manifest from Castle Clinton for that year. Once you’re at Ellis, ask for the Counter. That’s his name—Counter. He’s a friend. Well, a former asylum inmate, actually, but don’t worry, I don’t believe he’ll bite. Mention my name and he’ll help you try to get you what you need.”

The sound ended, but Carver kept turning, hoping there was more.

After several seconds of wordless scratches, Tudd said, “I think you can stop now.”

“The Counter, eh?” Emeril said.

“Probably a raving maniac,” Tudd said with a chuckle. “Like Hawking.”

“That’s it?” Carver asked.

Tudd shrugged. “What else do you need? It’s on to the next puzzle. Go on, son. Get going. Report back if you learn anything.”

All eyes on him, Carver rose and headed for the door. The idea of seeking out a former Octagon inmate wasn’t comforting, but given that Hawking had made the recording weeks ago, it occurred to him for the first time that Hawking might be both brilliant
and
insane.

CARVER
entered the subway and kicked the lever. His mind was racing. How could Hawking have known they would meet? He felt oddly like a pawn in someone else’s game.
On to the next puzzle,
Tudd had said. They were testing him, just like Hawking.

A shadow made him jump. His foot sent a dark metal cylinder rolling across the car. Curious, he picked it up. It looked like a baton. It was cool to the touch, heavy, but pocket-sized, a single button on the side. Without bothering to think what it might do, Carver pressed it.

Schick!

The cylinder expanded so quickly, he jumped again. Now the thing looked like a short black cane, only it tapered to a dull copper point. Carver swung it a few times. It moved easily through the air, as though balanced.

But when his last swing scraped the metal wall, a horrific series of sparks crackled from the cane. Terrified, he dropped the thing and it hit the floor. Thin curls of smoke rose from the spot on the wall where it touched. A weapon, definitely a weapon.

Gingerly, he poked it with his finger. When nothing happened, he pressed the button again.
Schick!
It collapsed back into its original form.

He had no idea how to use such a weapon, but some instinct told him his finding it had been no accident. That same instinct told him to keep it. Something was going on. He had little doubt that, even now, the Pinkertons were watching him.

Feeling a little paranoid, he pocketed the amazing device and headed out toward Broadway. Soon he was on a southbound streetcar, careening along at over twenty miles per hour. Called the
electric underground,
the cars got power from a buried cable. But what powered the baton?

By the time he reached the South Street piers, the sight of tall-masted clippers docked beside huge, steam-powered ocean liners drove any concerns from his mind. Relaxed, he wove among dockworkers, arriving immigrants and passengers. The city was his home.
No one
could follow him if he didn’t want them to.

At the tip of Manhattan Island, the Ellis Island ferry was arriving. A ship’s wake made the old steam workhorse rise and fall. As it dipped, scores of arriving men, women and children, gaping at their new home, stumbled forward. When it rose, they all leaned back. They looked so bewildered. Carver’s father might’ve stepped off the same ferry. What had
he
been thinking back then?

When the ferry pulled back out, Carver was on it. After a choppy ride, it steered into a split in the rectangular Ellis Island, pulling up practically in front of the four-spired Federal Immigration
Station. A half mile beyond, a giant blue-green arm and head poked above the water—the Statue of Liberty.

Inside, the mass of humanity would’ve been overwhelming if the space weren’t so vast. Dozens of languages mingled in a constant roar. Officials were scattered throughout, shouting the same commands over and over about which lines to stand in. Behind one counter, three uniformed men struggled to answer questions. After a long wait, Carver was at last waved by a perpetually upset, stocky man.

When Carver explained why he was there, the man pointed toward the far end of the hall. “You’ll want the stairs of Separation.”

Seeing his perplexed expression, the official pointed. “Stairs of Separation. Center staircase means you’re approved to stay; right or left means you’re being detained. Take the right. At the first landing there’s a door to the basement. Don’t be shy about pushing. No one in that line’s in much of a hurry.”

As Carver made his way, the space, if possible, grew thicker with people. He angled right, earning glares as he moved ahead of the waiting. Most said nothing, but halfway down the steps, a stout man, dark stubble covering his head, grabbed his arm.

When the man opened his mouth, as if to speak, Carver hoped he spoke English, so Carver could explain. Instead, he let loose a blast of wet, fetid air and started coughing. Carver held his breath and furiously pulled himself free.

Frightened, Carver moved quickly down the stairs, where he found the basement door. He made his way down into a clean but desolate hallway, his breathing heavy, his heart beating fast.

The first door was a thick, metal affair, the faint smell of charcoal wafting from a crack at the bottom. The knob was stuck, but with some effort he pulled it open. The mess at Hawking’s
was nothing compared to what greeted his eyes. The room was so cluttered, he couldn’t tell how big it was. It was lined with shelves and tables, piles of paper on each, all burnt to one extent or another—the source of the smell.

The piles weren’t the strangest thing. That would be the strings. Countless, multicolored, frayed and rotting, they led from the stacks toward an odd mound in a dark corner. Together, they resembled a filthy rainbow spiderweb.

The mound moved, making the strings wobble. Instinctively, Carver reached for the baton, wondering how he would respond if he was forced to use it. It was a man, unshaven, like Hawking, his clothes so unclean they were a uniform gray. He had no glasses, but his eyes were wide, as if he had trouble focusing.

“What?” he said, as if it were
hello.

“Are you Counter?” Carver asked.

The man’s face scrunched, turning the lines on it into a second web. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen. I was sent by…”

“Birthday? Height? Weight?”

“Sorry?”

“They’re numbers, aren’t they? You have to keep count, or everything…” He swept his arm, strings fluttering as he moved. “
Everything
gets lost.”

“All right,” Carver said. He rattled off his height, weight and birthday, but more questions came: Shoe size? How many teeth? Carver did his best until, eventually, the man was satisfied enough for him to explain why he was there and who sent him.

“Hawking,” Counter said. “Number one in my book. What year is this record?”

“Uh… 1889.”

“New immigrant.” The man’s long fingers crawled along the strings. He hooked some on bent fingers and let others drop.

“New?” Carver asked.

“Before 1870, most immigrants were Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, except the Irish, same as the people already here. After that, folks started coming from eastern and southern Europe, Catholics, Russian Jews, Asians, different ideas,
new
immigrants.”

“How many people do you think came here in 1889?”

Without a beat, Counter answered, “333,207.”

Carver’s shoulders slumped at the huge number. The Counter chuckled. “Sounds big, don’t it? That number’s a lion. Let’s see if we can tame him. Country of origin?”

“England. London.”

Counter dropped several strings. “60,552. Not so big. Just a bobcat. Month?”

“Um… November.” That was the date on the letter, he remembered.

“5,046. A pussycat. Man or a woman?”

“Man.”

More strings fell. “3,279.”

“Traveling alone or with family?”

Carver doubted his father had a family. “Alone.”

“Good. That’s rare. 522. Just a kitten now. Skilled or unskilled?”

The letter mentioned knives. He could be a butcher. He had a boss, too, so he definitely had a job. “Skilled.”

“316. Did he have money with him? Do you know his age?” Counter tugged gently at the line as if teasing a fish with bait.

Carver shrugged. “That’s all. That’s all I know.”

The man nodded toward the six strings in his hand. “Follow the strings.”

Excited, he overcame his repulsion and took the strings. The threads were hard to follow, but whenever Carver lost track, the Counter gave each one a little tug to show him the way. The strings led to a small pile of ship manifests, some too brittle to move, others too blackened to read.

Carver stared uneasily at the pile. “How many records from that year survived?”

“108,” Counter said. “Puts your chances at about one in three.”

Gingerly, Carver sifted through. He easily skipped any lighter writing, or the
X
’s of the illiterate, searching for his father’s distinct, heavy scrawl. He must have been there an hour and was about to give up when one rough signature made his heart leap into his throat. The writing was unmistakable. On a charred sheet, half-burned away, the ink practically glowing, was his father’s signature, his father’s
name
… Jay Cusack.

It didn’t sound English. Was it Irish? Jay Cusack. How hard could it be to find him now?

The Counter’s voice pulled him back into the room. “Got what you need?”

“Yes! Thank you!”

Counter nodded, sending a ripple through the strings. “Good luck to you, then. My best to Mr. Hawking. Without him I’d still be in that asylum. And kid, whatever you’re doing, make sure it counts.”

JAY CUSACK.
Jay Cusack.
That meant he was…
Carver Cusack
?

Upon his return to the South Street pier, Carver rolled the name around on his tongue. Not an easy sound, but what did that matter? He still knew so little. Was Carver born here or in England?
Why
did his father think he was dead?

Realizing he was hungry, Carver had absently whirled toward a fruit vendor when he thought he saw a dark figure slip around the corner. Was he being followed? Was this whole chase just a game to the Pinkertons? It could’ve been the shadow of a store awning bulging from the wind, but…

He walked to the corner and peered down the block. The late-afternoon sun was nearly behind the
buildings. But, other than the long shadows it cast on the vendors, workers and businessmen, there was nothing.

Real or not, the encounter made Carver wary, but not enough to keep him from spending the rest of the return journey trying to figure out what his next step would be. New York was huge, but even so, how many Jay Cusacks could there be?

He arrived back on Warren Street and let himself into the headquarters. If anyone from the New Pinkertons had followed him, he saw no sign of it. In fact, as the subway glided up to the platform and Carver stepped off, they seemed barely aware he was there. A push of the curved door let in the sounds of a lively discussion between Tudd and some agents.

“Still
lost
?” Tudd was saying. “That prototype was invaluable! It took a full year to develop that weapon!”

They were talking about the baton. Should Carver tell them he’d found it? Before he even had a chance, Tudd saw him, brightened, and started asking questions.

“So tell us how it went,” he said. “Tell us
everything.
”

Tudd was so genial, Carver’s sense of guilt kicked in. When he finished reporting what he’d learned, he was about to bring up the baton, but the older man quickly asked, “The sheet, the sheet with the signature, did you bring it?”

He seemed
awfully
excited about it. Carver’s sense of distrust kicked in again, but rather than ask why, he handed over the envelope.

Tudd slipped the burnt sheet out and looked at the signature. “It does, it
does
look similar.”

Noticing the way he grasped the browning paper, Carver felt suddenly protective. “It’s brittle. You can’t put it in a tube like the other. I’ll take it to your expert if you like.”

“No, no,” Tudd said. “I’ll take it there myself, with the utmost care.”

Carver stared at him. “Can I go with you? I’d like to see them side by side.”

Tudd shook his head. “Sorry, son. Patience. It
has
only been a day. You’ve done well though.”

Without another word, Tudd hurried off, Carver annoyed at being called
son.
Much as Tudd seemed friendly, he’d now taken the
second
clue to his father’s identity. Carver forced himself to remember Tudd had shown him nothing but kindness, given him nothing but opportunities. At the same time he was no longer quite so eager to return the baton.

Even without the sheet, he could still look up the name. On his way to the athenaeum, Jackson and Emeril ran up. Apparently, they’d somehow already heard of his success.