Ripper (13 page)

Carver and Hawking locked eyes. Detecting a hint of admiration in those coal-black pupils, Carver found he wasn’t quite so afraid of the eccentric man anymore.

Hawking slapped his hand on the table again. “But back to the issue at hand. For all your diligence, all your intuition, all your clear thinking and dazzling brilliance, there’s a blaring fact you now possess that leads to a simple conclusion. It’s something even Tudd would spot in a second, but you’ve yet to notice.”

Carver furrowed his brow. “The package?”

Hawking shook his head. “No. The man to whom it was addressed.”

“Raphael Trone? My father knew him, so he must know my father?”

Hawking sighed. “Perhaps, but that’s not what I’m getting at. I think you’re due for a little hint. Listen carefully. The less I have to tell you, the less disappointed I’ll be. Raphael is clearly Italian. Trone… it’s Spanish, maybe French. Odd combination, isn’t it? Not impossible, but very, very odd.”

“He’s from a mixed marriage?”

“Don’t be so banal. What did Mrs. Miller’s tenant say about the package?”

Carver searched his memory. “Only that it was his.”

Hawking said nothing. Carver stared at him until he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t make me reconsider my plans for you, boy,” Hawking said as he pulled his book out again.

The answer came in a flash. “It could be an alias! Jay Cusack could
be
Raphael Trone. The package
was
his.”

“And,” Hawking added, “I imagine tracking down a name like Raphael Trone will be much easier than Jay Cusack.”

THE NEXT
morning, the skies above Blackwell, gray and swollen, stifled the sunlight and threatened a fierce, historically early snow. Carver rushed to catch the first ferry, now pleased to be wearing Hawking’s coat. It wasn’t just because of the weather. Having heard his mentor’s plans for him, the flea-bitten rag felt like a badge of honor. The old detective had even awarded him a small, dingy mirror, to use in case he thought he was being “tailed” again.

When Carver stepped off into the city, the captain warned there might not be a return trip until tomorrow because of the storm. He was within a block of Devlin’s when the stark white flakes began to fall. Most were so heavy, they plummeted rather than drifted. Only the most stalwart of folks were determined to travel, the usual crowds absent. Even the
New Pinkerton headquarters was nearly empty. An agent he didn’t know was working alone in an open laboratory section, studying an assembly guide for electric carriages.

“Where is everyone?” Carver asked her.

“At their undercover positions, called in because of the storm,” she said. “It’s twenty-nine degrees. Second-coldest October on record.”

“Mr. Beckley in?”

“Always,” she said. She was so riveted by the manual, Carver left it at that and headed for the athenaeum, eager to try the new name.

He began with the same 1889 addendum that gave him the address on Edgar Street. Luck was with him again. There was a listing, just one, for Raphael Trone, at number 27 Leonard Street, only seven blocks away. Thinking this would be his only chance to do any traveling today, Carver headed back out.

He couldn’t have been inside for more than half an hour, but the difference was staggering. Sheets of white hung everywhere. Ledges and tree branches were thick with snow. Carriage drivers pulled off to the safety of side streets, and there wasn’t a cable car in sight.

Carver was seven when the blizzard of 1888 knocked down electric lines, covered streets and paralyzed New York, but he still remembered being fascinated that the great big city could be brought to a standstill. Today, the city had the same magical look. The wind from the storm had even driven the smell of horse and coal from the air, and how rare a thing was that?

After a few blocks, things became less exciting and more tiring. He could no longer feel the tips of his toes and was spending less time walking and more trying to blink the cold flakes from
his eyes. He kept trudging on, though, until a funny sensation made him stop and catch his bearings.

At first he thought it was a shiver caused by the wind, but as he surveyed his surroundings, the feeling stayed with him. Amazing. There’d still been some people on Broadway, but here, the sole trail stretching out in the snow behind him was his own. Ahead, not a single footprint marked the white.

He was alone but felt, just as he had on his journey to Ellis Island, as if he were being
watched.
It was ridiculous. There weren’t even any New Pinkerton agents on duty today. Still, he studied the empty doorways, gazed up at the rows of blank windows, tilting his head higher and higher, until his view was washed clean by white and sky.

Nothing.

Nothing to worry about, anyway. A few more blocks, a knock on a door, and he’d head back to the athenaeum. But the feeling would not release him. Was it excitement about the new name? Fear of the violent man the cat lady described? Then why hadn’t he felt it earlier?

He made his way down Leonard Street, occasionally stamping his feet to get some feeling back. There were storefronts ahead, with apartments above them. Unless number 27 had been razed, his destination was among them.

A sudden wind shift brought a faint sulfurous smell. Past the storefronts he saw what looked like the columns of an ancient temple. It was the Tombs, the city’s biggest jail, so called because its design was based on an engraving of an Egyptian mausoleum. It had been built atop a drained swamp, the foul smell still there.

After Hawking’s lecture, he wanted to avoid jumping to conclusions, but with a jail so close, the possibility that his father was
a violent criminal returned. Then again, Carver told himself, he could have gotten a job as a guard. That made sense for an angry, powerful man. That sort of put them in the same line of work, father and son.

The storm was so thick that, even up close, Carver had to squint to read the building numbers, slowing his pace even more. At last, he found a door numbered 27. It belonged to a shop. An array of thick glass bottles and more were visible through the windows: tinctures and powders, packaged medicines, like wild cherry tonic,
good for all nervous disorders.
It was an apothecary, dark and closed.

Any apartments above would have to be reached through the store. His pressed his face to the glass and made out a staircase at the back of the aisles. Unwilling to give up just yet, he knocked on the glass. Hand heavy from the cold, he worried it might break and switched to rapping on the door’s wooden frame.

After a few moments, light drifted down from the staircase. A stout man with stringy hair and spectacles, wrapped in a pale bathrobe, peered down from the higher steps.

“Closed! There’s a storm! The pharmacist is out!”

“I only want to ask a question!” Carver called.

The man took another step down. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Carver said, “I just—”

The man cut him off. “Come back tomorrow!” He walked back up the stairs.

Carver banged three more times, but the man would not return. Oh well. He’d have a better chance of finding out about the tenants if he didn’t make a nuisance of himself. The cold had crept through the old coat to his skin. Time to start the trek back.

He turned, making an arc in the snow, then stopped short.
There was something strange about the sidewalk. His instincts had caught it before he did.

Down the block, his were no longer the only footprints. There was a second set, bigger, heavier. They ran parallel to his path but, mid-block, veered off into an alley.

He
was
being followed.

CARVER
pressed his back to the shop and held his breath. He kept his eyes on the alley the footsteps led into, straining to hear any movement. A minute passed with nothing but the sound of the wind cupping the edges of his ears and the steady whisper of settling snow.

Turning red, he gasped and exhaled, puffing clouds of vapor.

Laughter from the other direction turned him toward the prison. Along the edge of the grim, massive building, a ramshackle gang with snow shovels was having a snowball fight. Leonard was still empty, but near the Tombs several carriages struggled to move through the snow.

At least he wasn’t alone. If he shouted for help, he’d be heard.

The tingling sensation on his back snapped his
head toward the alley. A tall, thick shadow wavered at the head before slipping back inside. Feeling vaguely safer with people near and remembering the stun baton was still in his pocket, the question became, who would be following him, if not the New Pinkertons?

He doubted he could just walk up and ask. He couldn’t stand here freezing forever, either, though. He thought of the mirror Hawking had given him and had an idea. When Nick Neverseen realized he was being followed once, he secretly doubled back and came up behind his pursuer.

Most alleys on a given block were connected. He could walk around the corner, wait for his tail to follow, then slip into another alley, find his way back to Leonard Street and come from behind. He might get a better look, even follow him back to wherever he came from.

He headed in the direction of the Tombs, then turned the corner. There, he quickly pressed himself close to a wall, withdrew the small mirror and held it out to give himself a view of Leonard Street. He worried the biting temperature might give his fingers frostbite, but didn’t have long to wait.

As he watched the reflection, a man emerged from the alley. He was tall, wearing a top hat. A formal black cape swirled behind him. He looked almost comical, as if a nefarious villain had stepped off the cover of
Detective Library.
His hair seemed dark, but before Carver could get a clear view of his face, snowflakes covered the glass.

Time to move. Carver ran for the end of the building, kicking snow up behind him. As he’d hoped, the alley there seemed to head back to Leonard Street, but it was so narrow that even the snow had trouble gathering inside. Having little choice, he turned
sideways and shimmied along the slick, coal-soot-covered bricks. His slow progress, coupled with the fact that he couldn’t even put his hands in front of him, made him feel trapped.

He kept moving, until a hiss made him look down. A rat, nearly as wide as the space, rose on its haunches a few feet before him. Carver kicked at it, sending some snow flying at the creature. Startled by the wet cold, it folded over itself like a sideshow contortionist and scurried away.

After a few more yards, Carver reached a rickety fence. Beyond it was the same alley his pursuer had hidden in. If he got back out onto the street here, he’d be
behind
the top-hatted man.

His adrenaline rising at the thought of turning the tables, he grabbed the fence boards with his bare hands and pulled. Carver had some arm strength but never mastered chin-ups the way Finn did. Unable to bend his legs, he forced his frozen toes against the boards and half-pulled, half-pushed. With one shoulder over, he went sideways and dragged the rest of his body over the edge. The wood was sharp, splintery, but Hawking’s coat absorbed most of the damage.

Lacking even the rat’s grace, his feet hit the alley heels first, then slid out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back. He forced himself up to his shoulders, thinking he’d have to hurry to catch up with the man.

But as he looked ahead, he realized his clever plan hadn’t worked. Just as Carver had seen his footprints, the top-hatted stalker must have seen Carver’s. Realizing what he was up to, he’d doubled back.

And here he was.

A statue centered in the alley, he stood there, looking far bigger than he had in the mirror. His face was still obscured by
shadow and snow, but the hair was definitely black, and his face bore thick muttonchops, the sort an upper-class gentleman might wear.

Not knowing whether to be embarrassed or afraid, Carver struggled to his feet. The fence had torn a gash in the old coat. As wind and snow ripped through him, he held it closed by hand.

“So you caught me,” Carver said.

There was no answer. The man’s wide shoulders didn’t even waver to indicate whether he was breathing or not.

“Are you an agent?” Carver asked.

Nothing.

Was it a game, like the ones Hawking played? Did this man want Carver to figure it out for himself?

“Did Mr. Tudd ask you to follow me?”

The only answer came from Carver’s own body. It came in the form of an abrupt, overwhelming feeling, the feeling he was in the presence of a powerful predator.

Fear pelted Carver like the icy flakes that stung his face. If the temperature had any effect on the man, he didn’t show it.

Carver reached into the pocket that held his stun baton. He had no idea how to use it, but if ever there was a time to figure it out, that time was now.

Empty. It must have fallen out when the fence tore his coat.

All at once, the man blasted some air through his nose. The thick lips beneath a full mustache parted. No words came out, just a low, animal growl.

Carver thought of crying out to the workers in front of the Tombs, but they’d never reach him before the stalker did. He’d have to run, but there wasn’t enough room to dodge past the figure into the street. With no going forward, Carver spun, grabbed
the top of the fence, barely noticing the wooden shards that stabbed his hands, and pulled himself over. What had been difficult before was now effortless, fueled by adrenaline. Insane terror helped him scrabble into the narrow gap. Landing, he felt something hard beneath his feet. The baton.

He scooped it up, but there wasn’t enough space to open it. He rushed along sideways, hitting one wall, then the other, earning scrapes and bruises.

Carver didn’t hear anyone behind him but didn’t dare look. The street ahead was a thin vertical strip of swirling white and vague shapes. He thought he’d never live to reach it, but it grew steadily until, with a final sideways lunge, he found himself back out on the sidewalk.