Ripper (12 page)

By October the weather turned colder. Sky, trees and even the buildings seemed to grow grayer. When Carver learned that a street vendor named Jim Cusack worked along Newspaper Row,
the short walk from Devlin’s took him to the front of the New York Times Building. He stared up at the first building in the city devoted solely to a newspaper, hoping he might spy Delia at one of the windows.

Some days the only thing that kept him going was the thought that all this work was yet another test from Hawking, and if he lasted long enough, the detective would offer some great insight that would speed Carver along. But, aside from sardonic quotes, trying conversations that often made little sense and an odd book or two tossed across the room at him with great force, Hawking offered no specific guidance. His only comment on finding Carver’s father was, “Sooner or later, boy, you’ll either give up or you’ll find something. I’ve no idea which it will be.”

Neither did Carver.

ONE MORNING
the temperature dipped below freezing, prompting Hawking to force an old moth-eaten overcoat on Carver. “I won’t have you bringing back any diseases, boy. If you want me dead, you’ll have to kill me yourself.”

Any objections Carver had vanished during the ferry ride. The wind was numbing. For the first time, he abandoned the top deck and huddled with the passengers below.

The day before, Beckley had presented him with an addendum to an 1889 directory. In it, he’d found a listing for a J. Cusack on Edgar Street. He scoured a map for an hour before spotting a tiny line connecting Trinity Place and Greenwich.

It was so cold, Carver decided to splurge and take the elevated train along Greenwich. Despite the billowing steam from the compact locomotive and a sweaty, red-faced engineer, the cars were frigid.

Edgar Street looked smaller than it had on the map. It was fifty-five feet long at most. There were no doors, either, just the walls of buildings that opened elsewhere. Another dead end.

Back on Greenwich, he asked a policeman, “Were there ever any apartments on Edgar Street?”

“Boarded over and sold five years back.”

Carver made his usual plea. “My father may have lived there. Jay Cusack?”

“Cusack, Cusack. Tip of my tongue, but I can’t shake it loose.”

Understanding, Carver dug into his pocket and produced the few coins he had. Seeing the paltry bribe, the officer rolled his eyes.

“Keep your pocket change. You’ll want to talk to Katie Miller. Two blocks south, hang a left, second door on the right. Just listen for the cats.”

Ignoring the odd comment, Carver followed his directions. At the head of the street, an acrid animal scent mixed with the more constant smells of horse, coal and street.

The odor grew stronger at the second door, where a muffled chorus of mewing came to his ears. It wasn’t unusual to have a few pets, he told himself. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped. The mewing was joined by a whisper of slippered feet.

The door creaked open, releasing a blast of hot cat smell mixed with a sharp chemical odor. Wide-set blue eyes stared at him from a wrinkled face. If the woman’s nose were hooked, she’d resemble a witch.

“Katie Miller?”

The woman blinked in response. Carver took it to mean yes. “Did you own the apartments that used to be on Edgar Street?”

“What about it?”

“Did you ever have a tenant named Jay Cusack?”

Her eyes flared. “Him? Long, long time ago. Must be six years.” The mewing grew more agitated. “Quiet, dearies! You’ll have your rest soon, I promise!”

She looked back at Carver. “I meant to take care of them last night, but I was too tired. What would you want with Cusack? If he owes you money, forget it. You don’t want to tangle with him.”

“I think he may be my father.”

He’d said it so often, the words no longer filled him with anticipation.

He was surprised, though, that the woman seemed so taken aback.

“A son to that beast? You… do look like him, around the jaw, shape of the skull, but there’s something fairer in you. Your mother?”

Beast? What did she mean? Did she really know his father? Carver tried to keep calm. “I don’t know. I was raised an orphan.”

“I know all about orphans,” she said. “I collect them.”

She opened the door and for the first time smiled at Carver. “Come in.”

Inside, the smell was so strong, he had to hold his breath. Cats were everywhere, big toms, calicos, kittens, even feral alley dwellers that raised their back hairs and hissed on seeing him. Some had name tags embossed with their owners’ addresses.

How were they orphans?

A couch near two closed windows was piled with the animals, but the woman tossed them off as if they were pillows. As Carver moved to sit, he nodded toward the windows.

“Could we open one, please? It’s a little… stuffy.”

“Oh, no, no, no! They’d all race off! They know when it’s coming.”

“It?”

“The
sleep,
” Katie said, settling into a chair opposite him. “Every creature fears its end.”

“You… kill them?”

“Out of kindness,” she said calmly. “Thousands roam the streets, homeless and starving.” She grabbed a big white female, plopped it on her lap and rubbed her hands along its back to warm her fingers. “There was a group of us once, the Midnight Band of Mercy, but it’s been nearly two years since they convicted poor Mrs. Edwards because of that ridiculous ASPCA.” She paused a moment to look at him again and crooked a gnarled finger. “You do look like him.”

Trying to forget the cats, Carver asked, “Do you know where I can find him?”

“No. He didn’t stay long. Big man. Dark, like there was a cloud followed him. Chasing someone, being chased, no idea.” Her blue eyes grew wide. “I’ve seen his look in animals. Not cats so much as dogs. And what are dogs but demoted wolves? Wolfish. He was wolfish. A predator, you know? I remember him mostly because of the piano.”

“He played?”

“No. He… threw it. It belonged to a piano teacher who died. Two of the wheels snapped off, so it was abandoned in the hall, blocking the stairs, so you’d have to squeeze around. Mr. Cusack wouldn’t have it. He was always in a rush. He offered to move it, but I said he’d need at least two more men to budge the thing. But he… shoved it. Sent it twenty feet. Pushed it out, down the stoop, smashed it and then piled the pieces. I was afraid of him after that.”

Could that be his father? Stunned, he sat back, his head hitting
something warm and furry that writhed and leapt away. He felt dizzy, unsure if it was the lack of fresh air or the news that his father might be an angry, violent man.

He almost forgot to ask. “Is there anything else you remember?”

“Well, there was that package he received. I say
he,
but his name wasn’t on it. He grabbed it out of my hands, said it had to do with some institution.”

“Ellis Orphanage?” Carver asked, not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

“Maybe,” Katie said. “I don’t remember. I do remember the name on it. Raphael Trone. Wrote it down in case the police came after Mr. Cusack for stealing and they wanted a witness. No offense, but he struck me as that sort.”

“A criminal?”

She shook her head. “More a man who didn’t care. A crook if it suited him, a hero if that’s what he felt like. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.”

The sound of crashing glass from deeper in the home interrupted the nursery rhyme. Kate stood, the white cat in her lap tumbling off. “Not the chloroform again! Last time they knocked that over, I was out cold for three days! I’ll just be a minute.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let myself out,” Carver said.

But she wasn’t listening. She called down the hall, “Time to sleep, my pretties.”

Once she was out of sight, Carver shot to his feet. He was eager to get out, to find a place to think and breathe somewhere far away from the old woman and her scores of condemned animals.

His father, a violent man? He thought of the letter’s reference
to knives, then flashed to Hawking’s warning about the “abyss.” He didn’t know who his father was. What had he expected?

One thing was simple at least. Before leaving, he threw open both windows. Out on the sidewalk, as he reveled in the embrace of cold, clean air, he looked back to see a rainfall of cats flowing from the house.

Like them, he ran, and kept running.

HAWKING
looked up from a thick, dusty book with the word
Railroad
in the title and said, “Keep pacing like that, I’ll have you transferred to one of the cells below!”

Even that threat couldn’t keep Carver still as he rambled through the details of his encounter with Katie Miller. He changed direction with every sentence, one second facing the East River, distant buildings and stars, the next, a black wall of books.

Eventually, Hawking took his cane and slipped its length between Carver’s legs, sending him sprawling to the floor. He pointed the tip at Carver’s nose and issued a one-word command: “Sit.”

“I
am
sitting… now,” Carver said.

“At the table. I’ll let the sass pass this time, but mind your tone when you speak to me next. Now
bring what’s boiling inside that boy brain of yours down to a few short questions and we’ll talk when you think you’re able.” With that, he went back to his reading.

Heart hammering, Carver rose. The man might be brilliant, but he was just as irritating.

“What if I can’t sort it out? What if it’s all too much?”

Hawking flipped a page with his good hand. “Pretend it’s
not
about your father. Pretend it’s not about you. Pretend you’re a king, the president, Nick Neverseen, Roosevelt for all I care. Tell yourself you’re helping an old cowboy chum from the Dakota badlands find
his
father. You like the fellow, but not that much, and certainly not enough to go mad.”

Despite its nasal, airy quality, Hawking’s voice had an intensity similar to his gaze. The effect wasn’t immediate, but Carver tried. Soon the whirlpool of his feelings slowed.

“All right,” Carver said when he was ready.

Hawking put a bookmark on the page he was reading.

“Could my fath—… this man… could he be a violent criminal?”

“Anything’s possible. Why do you think that?”

Carver motioned with his hands as if to say it was obvious. “The cat lady’s description of him, wolfish, dark, strong, violent. He shoved a piano out of the building.”

Hawking smirked. “Wasn’t it just weeks ago you were upset at how many names you had? Didn’t that teach you anything? First, how do you
know
this man is your father?”

“She said I looked like him.”

“A woman surrounded by cats and chloroform and you trust whatever she says? It’s a lead worth following, same as the rest of your list. But wolfish, violent and strong? Shall I send you to the
dockyards tomorrow to see how many men match
that
description? What else?”

Carver was chastened, but not convinced. “My father’s letter said he worked with knives.”

“So you conclude he cuts up
people
?”

Carver shrugged. “No, but… some do. That killer H. H. Holmes did. And whoever murdered that woman in the library.”

“Serves you right for peeking at Tudd’s photos. Off the top of my head, I’ll name eight fairly low-skilled professions that work with knives—meat packers, butchers, fishermen, garment cutters, cigar makers, bakers, cooks, barbers. If you want to reach up the social ladder, you can include doctors and surgeons; that’s ten,” Hawking said. “Your father and H. H. Holmes also both breathed air, probably had two eyes, two arms, two legs.”

Maybe Hawking was right. “But it’s the
first
thing I found out about him.”

“Then you clearly need to find out more.”

“But…”

“Do you know what your friend Sherlock would say about it?” Hawking said. “
It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.
Recognize it?”

Carver nodded. “It’s from
A Study in Scarlet.
”

“Your memory serves you better than your wits. Do you understand what it means?”

As usual during their chats, Carver felt foolish. “Yes. You end up trying to fit the facts to the theory.” That reminded him of something. “Tudd has a theory about the library killer, doesn’t he? What is it?”

Hawking slammed his hand down on the table. “Tudd! I’d
rather have the cat killer running the place! All he wants is a single, magic solution. Catch the library killer and the New Pinkertons can appear as angels on high, winning fame, admiration and a swath of cases in one fell swoop. His theories are drivel! I never should have…”

He slowed, rubbed the claw of his right hand with his left and sighed. “I’ve my own plan to save our agency, boy, slower, steadier, no magic involved. Well, it might
seem
magic…”

Momentarily torn from his own problems, Carver asked, “What’s your plan?”

“Ha. You.”

“Me?”

Hawking stuck out his good hand. “Give me that list of names you’re always carrying.”

Recalling what happened to his father’s letter and signature, Carver hesitated, but ultimately complied.

Hawking flattened it on the table. “Handwriting leaves a bit to be desired, but I’m not one to talk on that score. Ah, here we go. One Cusack who had the same eye and hair color as you do was crossed off your list because he already had a large family, but here’s another in the same situation with a question mark. Why?”

Hawking spun the paper so Carver could see. He shrugged. “The first family was near starving. I couldn’t imagine he’d quit his job and put them all at risk to come overseas after one missing boy. The second was a little better off and his wife kept screaming at him. That made me think if he missed his first wife, he might take a risk to find their child.”

Hawking nodded. “Wonder why you’ve been working so long without any guidance?”

Carver nodded.

“Because you’re not doing anything wrong. I don’t know if I misjudged those books of yours or if there’s something lurking in your blood, but you’re a diamond in the rough. I intend to cut and polish you. You’ll never be better than me, but I will make you better than Tudd and his gadgets.”