Ripper (16 page)

Not a usual
Times
reader, Carver was surprised it didn’t have the same glaring headline as the
Herald.
The murder wasn’t even front and center. It was on the first page but on the far right, next to a larger article about the storm, with a quiet headline—
SOCIALITE’S BODY DISCOVERED
—followed by, in smaller type,
Police Flummoxed by Killer’s Daring
, then, in even smaller type,
by Jerrik Ribe.

There was a photograph of the Echolses, posing with Finn, captioned with a note about the stalwart district attorney, well known for his strong hand in dealing with crime and his compassion toward the city’s orphans. Finn looked good in his suit, if not particularly happy.

Carver already knew most of the murder details, having been there. The guard who’d found the body saw a set of footprints, but the storm covered them by the time the investigation was in full swing. That and a lack of blood led the police to believe the killer had murdered her elsewhere, then carried her body to the Tombs, just as Hawking said.

They also assumed he was “a singularly powerful man.”

Carver’s caped stalker certainly fit that bill. Then again, so did Carver’s father and, as Hawking said, thousands of other men.

His father. He wanted to go back to Leonard Street to follow up the lead, but Hawking had forbidden that. Was this Raphael Trone really his father, or could he know how to find him? A
violent man, strong. Wolfish, the cat lady had called him. Carver remembered the predatory sensation he felt in the presence of the stalker.

His mind stopped short. He’d been lost in thought so long, the potato was cold. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t hungry anymore. He looked up. The New York Times Building was right across the street. After it was first built, there’d been a competition. The
Tribune
had built a taller one, and then in 1889 the
Times
decided to top it. Eight at the time, Carver used to sneak out of Ellis to watch the construction. The giant printing presses were actually kept in place and the new thirteen-story building constructed as the old one was demolished.

He counted the windows to the fifth floor, where Delia worked. The thought of visiting tickled him, but he was filthy, his clothes crumpled, and he was still very much afraid of meeting her adoptive father, knowing he’d have to lie about the secret agency, not knowing if he could.

What should he do next? He could head back to headquarters, hope no one noticed the damage he’d done and try to find more Raphael Trones. Even if they caught him, Carver suspected Hawking wouldn’t be very angry. As for Tudd, Carver found himself caring less and less what he thought. Maybe he could try to get his father’s letter and signature back.

He crumpled the foil around his baked potato, tossed the remains in a trash can and made his way. He was practically at the fountain when he again had the sensation he was being followed. It wasn’t as thick and heavy as it had been during the storm, but it was enough to make him pause and have a good look around.

Women in wool dresses and scarves, men in coats with fur collars and bowlers walked leisurely about, enjoying the early winter scene. Children threw clumps of snow. Vendors hawked
food; street rats sold the papers. Nothing suspicious, but after yesterday, he really should pay more attention to his instincts.

He walked across Broadway backward, searching the park for anyone who might be watching him. After nearly being hit by a carriage, he decided to face the direction he was walking.

When he reached the brass pipe that unlocked the elevator, he hesitated, standing there awhile, hoping if someone were watching, they might dare come closer. If he waited for just the right moment and snapped around quickly, he might catch them. The feeling along his spine grew, as real as it ever had been.

He counted to himself, one… two…

And whirled.

He was right! These was someone there. “Delia?”

She wore the same hat as the night before, but the thick wool dress was green. A mismatched scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck. “Hello,” she said, flustered.

“You’re following me?” Carver said, stepping toward her.

“
Investigating
you. If you can practice being a detective, why can’t I practice being a reporter?”

Carver narrowed his eyes.

“I’m joking, mostly,” she said, coming nearer. “I saw you on the bench from the window, but by the time I got there, you were headed through the park.”

“You could have called my name,” Carver said.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted your attention.”

Carver felt oddly hurt. “Why?”

She exhaled slowly. “There’s something I found out… well, something
Jerrik
found out, and he told Anne and she told me, and I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Yet I really thought that you, of all people, should know.”

“Delia, what are you talking about?”

She made a face as if deciding something. “Okay, then, here it is. This morning a letter was sent to Commissioner Roosevelt through the
Times.
They think it’s from the killer.”

His eyes went wide. “What did it say?”

“That’s the reason I thought you should know. It was very short. Four words, but they reminded me of… well, they reminded me of the letter you found in the attic.”

He frowned. That couldn’t be. She wasn’t making sense. “Reminded you? How? What did it say?”

She swallowed hard before answering.
“Dear Boss, Me again.”

“‘Boss’? Like the letter from my father?”

She nodded.

Carver felt a sickly feeling come over him, as if he were trapped, a cleaver dangling over his head, ready to fall.

Only this was much, much worse.

CARVER
was tumbling, down, down—so far down it seemed he’d always be falling. Was this the abyss Hawking had warned about?

He was barely aware of his legs buckling, barely aware of Delia grabbing his elbow, trying to guide him to a gentler landing on the sidewalk. “Carver! Carver!” she said over and over.

He blinked and looked at her. “My
father
is the library killer.”

Her green wool skirt pooled on the concrete as she sat beside him. She looked as if she’d accidentally stabbed him to death. “No! It might not even
be
from the killer. It could just be a prank. Last week we received a lovely note from Abraham Lincoln, just writing to say hello. And, really, just because your father’s letter used the word
boss
… doesn’t mean anything by itself. A lot of people use the word. Most
everyone
has
one, you know. I just thought… because of the coincidence… that I should tell you.”

“It’s not just the one word,” Carver said. “The cat woman said he was violent, like a wolf. His letter talks about his knives. His work… is killing people. And I thought he was a butcher…”

He filled her in on what he’d learned.

“It still may not be true. I understand you’re scared, but you’re jumping to conclusions,” she said, searching his eyes. She was trying to give him some hope. He wished she could. He furrowed his brow, scrunched his face and beat at his forehead with the palms of his hands.

Don’t theorize until you have all the facts.
But how many facts did he need?

“Are you thinking or just beating yourself?” she asked. “What are you thinking about? Carver?”

“Some way to know, some way to prove it, one way or another,” he said miserably. “Delia, the letter, was it handwritten?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see it?”

She shook her head. “It’s locked in Mr. Overton’s office. He’s the news editor. There’s a big fight going on about whether or not to publish it. Roosevelt’s pressuring them not to, saying it will cause a needless panic. See? Even he doesn’t think it’s real.”

“I’ve got to see it. I have to see if the handwriting matches.”

“Why not bring your letter to Jerrik? I’m sure
he’s
seen it,” she offered.

Carver sighed. “I… don’t have it anymore.”

It was Delia’s turn for brow-furrowing. “You’d never give up that letter.”

He nearly explained, but caught himself before blurting out
that twenty-one feet below them lay the most sophisticated crime laboratory in the world. If only
they
could get their hands on the new letter.

Wait a minute. Tudd worked with Roosevelt. He might have already seen it. Carver’s answer could already be waiting for him down below.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you where it is.”

She exhaled, exasperated. “One of the many secrets you keep for Mr. Hawking?”

“Yes. No. In a way. I’d tell you if I could!”

She moved closer. “I swear, Carver, I’d never tell a soul, not even Jerrik or Anne.”

Considering it, he looked around. People were pausing to stare at the two youths plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk, atop an off-color patch of concrete. Carver stood, wiped his pants and offered Delia a shaky hand to help her to her feet.

“I
will
tell you all about it,” he whispered. “I swear, but first I have to see that letter. Can you trust me? Can you help me?”

“Another deal, like back at Ellis, with you offering the bargain?” she said. She thought about it. “There’s a gathering tonight at the
Times,
but it’s really just an excuse for the editor to speak with Roosevelt informally. There’ll be lots of people in the building. I could get you in. Even if we did get caught, we could say we were lost. But the office will be locked.”

Thinking of the lock pick in his pocket, Carver smiled for the first time since she’d given him her news. “I never met a door I couldn’t open.”

“Then hope this isn’t the first, and meet me at the side entrance at seven p.m.”

He resisted a powerful urge to hug her. “Thank you, Delia.
Now, please. I’ve got to do something… alone. I’ll see you tonight.”

She looked about to object but frowned, nodded and walked back toward the park. Midway, she stopped and turned back to him.

“There is one more thing you should know,” she called back.

“What’s that?”

“Whatever turns out to be true, you’ll still be Carver Young,” she said.

Carver wished her comment had been uplifting, but instead it only made him wonder who Carver Young was to begin with.

IN THE
headquarters, deserted only a few hours ago, Carver was surprised to find scores of agents scurrying about the open plaza as the train glided toward the platform. Tables were lined up, covered with the daily papers, files and photographs. The huge map from Tudd’s office had been moved out here, mounted on twin easels, different-colored circles drawn on the city streets.

An exhausted Tudd stood in the center, holding a clipboard, waving his arms as if directing traffic. The subway was so well designed, Carver couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but judging by the movement of his lips, it seemed to be something along the lines of, “Find it!” or, “Find
him
!”

Feeling their panic mix with his, he yanked open the oval door. The first word he heard from Tudd was a triumphant, “There!” He was pointing at Carver.

Good. It must mean Tudd had made the connection between his father’s letter and the killer’s note. Thinking he’d get some answers, Carver rushed across the platform to the plaza. Heart pounding, he called out, “Mr. Tudd! Mr. Tudd!”

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, son,” Tudd said. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Jackson! Emeril!” Then he stormed off in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Carver cried. He tried to follow, only to find himself cut off by the muscular Jackson. Emeril rushed up behind him.

“Whoa, there!” Jackson said. Irritated, Carver tried to continue, but Jackson put his hands on his chest.

“I have to talk to Mr. Tudd,” Carver said. “My father—”

“Can’t now,” Jackson said.

“He’s insanely busy,” Emeril said. “And doesn’t have time to talk to a thief.”

The word hit him like a bullet. They knew.

“Look, I’m sorry about that, but it’s
incredibly
important,” Carver said. “They’ve received a letter at the
Times.
”

“We know,” Jackson said, guiding him toward a corridor on the plaza’s left side.

“It says
boss
like the letter from my father,” he blurted.

“We know that, too,” Emeril said. They hooked Carver’s arms and dragged him along.

Carver looked back over his shoulder, glimpsing Tudd’s back as he vanished.

“Please, just tell me if he’s seen the handwriting on the letter to the
Times.
Has anyone?”

“Not yet,” Jackson said. “The morning’s been hectic, what with half of us scouring every block near the murder scene, looking for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because Mr. Hawking told Tudd about your encounter last night,” Emeril said. “Tudd’s convinced you ran into the killer, and for the first time I know of, Hawking didn’t disagree. When Tudd found you gone this morning, bullet holes in the lab and a certain device missing, he thought you were off looking for your father. And now we all know who he might be.”

“I wasn’t! I was just getting breakfast.”

“Well, whether he is or isn’t, if he lives in the neighborhood and spots you again, he might try to take care of any witnesses.”

He held out his hand expectantly. Carver reached into his pocket and produced the lock pick.

Jackson coughed into his fist. Sighing, Carver was about to return the stun baton, but Jackson said, “There’s also the touchy issue of your friend from the
Times.
Cute girl, but you practically brought her here.”

“We’re friends from the orphanage. She told me about the letter.”

“Secrecy’s a big thing with Tudd. And that chat with your girl did not look good. He’s feeling a bit… betrayed.”

Carver realized he’d been led to the hall that held the box-filled storage room he’d spent the night in.

“Between that and wanting to keep you alive…” Emeril waved Carver inside.