Ripper (20 page)

Carver slammed his fist on the table so hard that two of the tiny screws flew from the glass and rolled off to the floor.

“How?” Carver shouted. “How could it be
worse
?”

Hawking didn’t move, but his smile faded. “I’ll let that go, but mind your tone. You say you want to be a detective. If your father is the killer, you’re in a unique position to catch him. Who better to get in the mind of the father than the son?”

“You’re saying I’m like him?” Carver asked.

“Of course you’re like him, boy! He’s your father!” Hawking barked. “Probably have the same hair color, eye color, gait… unless you take after your mother.”

Carver’s hands shook visibly. When Hawking saw this, he clamped them together with his own, pressing his strong hand into Carver’s knuckles, bracing it with his wounded claw, making them still.

“Young men are so good at eating themselves up from the inside,” his mentor said quietly. “I’d like to say the older are wiser,
but the fact is, we just lack the energy to twist ourselves into such tight knots. I didn’t say you were
exactly
like him.”

“I don’t want to be like him at all,” Carver said.

“You don’t want to breathe air or have two arms, two legs? First rule of detective work—be more specific. In what
ways
don’t you want to be like him? I assume you’re not worried about inheriting his grammar. You speak well enough.”

Carver stated the painfully obvious. “I don’t want to be a killer.”

But of course that wasn’t enough for Hawking. “Soldiers kill, police kill. Detectives sometimes kill, to protect themselves or others. A man who kills a killer is a hero. Wouldn’t you kill someone who was threatening to kill a child?”

“Yes, but… the way I beat Tudd…”

“Beat Tudd? Ha! Well, I daresay he deserved it. He lied to you, used you, locked you up, and I’m sure, as night follows day, that he said something stupid to set you off. Are the killer’s victims, as far as we know, people who used or hurt him?”

Carver shook his head. “No. He just… attacked them. They were innocent as far as anyone knows.”

“Do
you
want to murder innocent women?”

“No!”

Hawking blew air from his lips, as if he didn’t believe him. “Really? Never thought about it in your idle time? Chatting with your black-haired reporter girl, the idea never popped into your head?”

Carver was repulsed. “No! Never!”

Hawking let go of Carver’s hands and opened his good palm triumphantly. “Then why on earth do you think it’s something you’d ever do?”

“What if I can’t help myself? Tudd said the killer can’t control himself, that he’s driven by demons and self-loathing.”

Hawking snickered. “Say it with me, Tudd is an ass! You’ve read the letters. Does the author strike you as full of self-loathing?”

Carver furrowed his brow, recalling the terse phrasing, the energy behind the pen strokes. “No. I think he likes it. He likes it a lot.”

Hawking rubbed the index finger and thumb of his good hand together, as if he rolled a tiny hard kernel of truth between them. “That’s the key to him—and to you. He does, you don’t. He enjoys himself immensely, every aspect, from the killing to the letters to the clues. He’s not hiding behind some thin veneer of civilization. He’s living his desires to the fullest, unadorned and unafraid.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Remember? That’s William Blake, boy, Proverbs of Hell. Study that one if you ever want to catch anything other than a cold.”

Hawking’s usually steady eyes scanned left and right, losing focus. “Your father is no simple driven beast. He dropped the second body exactly where it would cause the biggest stir, to be sure that everyone, especially
you,
would know about it. It’s like some sort of intricate game. He’s very cunning,” Hawking said, as if admiring him. “Perhaps brilliant, strong, dedicated, all qualities one might be
proud
to possess.”

“B-but…,” Carver stammered, “he’s also evil.”

Hawking turned his intense gaze on Carver. “And no one wants to hear good things about the devil, eh?”

AT FIRST
Carver thought the scream was his own, left over from a nightmare he couldn’t quite recall, but the muffled, pitiful wail came from below. Simpson was resisting his treatment again.

Carver showered, ate, and patched his overcoat, but still couldn’t clear his head. Too many bad thoughts were colliding in his mind. He craved reassurance.

“Are you going to get involved in the case?” Carver asked his mentor.

“No.”

“But…”

“No. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

“What should I… ?”

“It’s your life, not mine. You’ll have to figure out what to do with yourself next.”

Carver had no idea, not in the least. With Hawking
constantly cursing as he fidgeted with the tiny screws, he felt as if he’d soon explode. Desperate, he begged to be allowed to go to the city.

“Why?”

“I have to get out of here. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What better place for it? But I understand your point.” Hawking grumbled slightly, then said, “If your father wanted to find you, he could have done so years ago. As long as you’re not looking for him, you should be safe. And stay away from Tudd, too. For the moment at least. You will have to deal with both of them eventually, though.”

“I know,” Carver said.

By mid-afternoon, he found himself on the corner of 14th and Broadway, staring at his old home, Ellis Orphanage. At the time, his life there had seemed awful, mostly because of Finn. Yet in comparison, it had been carefree. Now the windows and doors were boarded up. A sign proudly announced that the new owners were preparing to demolish the eyesore and replace it with something new and wondrous. He wished he could do the same with his life. The look on Delia’s face the last time she saw him still hovered in his head, gargoyle-like.

Delia. Finn. What had happened to them? Had they been found out? He had a responsibility, even if it was partly toward his former tormentor. Trying to live up to it would make him different from his father, wouldn’t it?

It was Saturday. If they weren’t in jail, they’d be home. Delia had mentioned her address only once, but he remembered it. 27 West Franklin Street was a good, long walk from Ellis, but the release of energy would do him good.

Along the way, he passed many newsboys shouting headlines,
but not one had a word to say about a break-in at the
Times.
That was a good sign. Finn’s new parents were wealthy and influential; Delia’s were employees. Roosevelt didn’t want the letter’s existence made public. A lot of people had an interest in keeping things quiet.

When he reached Franklin Street, his hopes faded. The block was full of town houses, newer and in better repair than those on Warren Street. None stood out more than the Victorian at number 27, with its nearly carrot-orange bricks and the gray-brown gables. Carver would’ve liked the place if it weren’t for the carriage parked directly outside, marked
Metropolitan Police.

Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any worse, he did. Had Delia been arrested?

He wanted to know, but if he walked up, the carriage driver would spot him. Delia had mentioned an oak tree at her window. There weren’t any out front. Could it be in the back?

He doubled back to Varick Street and snuck through the yard of the property abutting the Ribes’ Victorian. There, a thick, majestic oak rose along the brickwork. Beyond the roof, white clouds glowed in a darkening sky, nearly as orange as the bricks. It seemed like such a… home. It brought an ache he couldn’t place.

Shaking it off, he slipped to the base of the tree and peered through a first-floor window. Mostly, he saw an empty hallway, but a little of the front parlor was visible, as well as some people in it. The Ribes were seated, listening to a stocky man who paced around, gesticulating with familiar energy. Roosevelt. That wasn’t good.

Seeing a light on at the third-floor window, Carver shinnied up the tree trunk. As he climbed, loose threads kept catching on
the rough bark, forcing him to yank the coat free and undo his patching. Once among the branches, he almost slipped on the lingering snow.

Hadn’t Delia said this was an easy climb? By the time he made it to the window, he was out of breath. The lamp glowed beyond a thin curtain that made everything inside blurry. Some shapes looked like furniture, but he was guessing. Only Delia was instantly recognizable, sitting near what looked like white drapes.

Carver rapped on the glass. Oddly, Delia gave the drapes a quick glance before coming over. When she parted the thin curtain and saw him, the relief that swept her face brought a smile to his lips.

She pulled open the window. “Carver!” she said in a strained hush. She took a step back, as if afraid of him, but then pulled herself together. “I was worried. Are you all right?”

“I’m… still here,” he said. “And… Delia, when you saw me… I…”

He thought he was whispering, but she put a finger to her lips. “Shh! Roosevelt’s here and…”

He nodded. “I know. Is he here for you?”

“Me? Of course not.”

Carver breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened after I left?”

“Well, I tried to help that poor man up, but he pushed me away and raced into the street, trying to find you, I imagine.”

“So then why—”

He was about to ask why Roosevelt was here when what Carver thought was a window drape appeared behind Delia, revealing itself to be a girl.

She was wearing a white coat and a feathered hat wider than
her shoulders. Despite the formal attire appropriate to a woman, she seemed younger than Delia.

“Do you often talk to windows?” the girl said with calm, practiced confidence. Seeing Carver, her smooth face filled with obvious pleasure. “Oh, a boy! Shouldn’t we invite him in?”

“I JUST
adore secret meetings,” the girl said. “Though I’m far too young to have had any myself.” Somewhere between child and young woman, she spoke and carried herself as if she were royalty. Carver couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her bright manner was so different from his personal gloom.

Still tentative, Delia held his arm as he struggled to put a leg over the sill. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Home,” he said.

“You mean the…,” she said, catching herself in mid-sentence.

“
The?
Where’s
the
? Is
the
a pleasant place to live?” the girl asked cheerfully. “Is it near
a
or
an
?”

Who was she? A neighbor? The daughter of a wealthy family member? To answer Delia, he quickly said, “No, not there.”

“Where, then?” Delia asked.

He nodded toward the girl in white.

She cleared her throat and announced, “It doesn’t take much to see that you two have a lot to talk about, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll listen in from back here.”

She floated over to Delia’s bed, pulling the length of her elegant white coat aside as she sat. “Do continue.”

Delia pulled a little harder on him, as if trying to get his attention back.

“Blackwell Asylum,” he said, in a low whisper.

“Asylum?” Delia repeated.

“It’s where Mr. Hawking lives.” He was about to explain how his mentor studied the criminally insane when he stumbled through the open window, his feet landing loudly on the floor.

“Quiet!” Delia hissed. “They’ll hear you downstairs.”

The girl spoke up again, smiling widely at Carver. “Pardon me, but I’m sure such a stealthy climber would have no concerns about evading mere policemen.”

He wasn’t sure how to react to her. Wanting to say something witty in response but having only Hawking to emulate, Carver grinned and said, “Roosevelt? That silk-stockinged cowboy?”

“Carver…,” Delia warned in a whisper.

“He’s probably so busy listening to
himself
…”

“Carver,”
Delia hissed.

“…he wouldn’t hear an
elephant
stampeding behind him.”

Delia sighed and swept her hand toward the girl. “Carver Young, meet Alice Roosevelt. The commissioner’s eldest
daughter.
”

“Oh. Uh…,” Carver said. “I…”

Her precocious smile remained. “Oh, it’s all right. If you don’t have anything nice to say about anyone, come sit next to me.” She patted the bedcover beside her.

Carver was speechless. As far as he could tell, she was not at all offended and, if anything, delighted by his embarrassment.

“I
know
Daddy’s a blowhard,” Alice said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But if you’re going to do anything, why not do it as hard as you’re able? You’re mistaken about that elephant, though.
Any
creature attempting to sneak up on him would be felled with a single shot, even if he were listening to himself at the time. I do promise I won’t repeat a word of anything I’ve heard, or might hear, provided it remains entertaining.”

“Oh,” was all Carver could think to say.

Delia cleared her throat pointedly. “They’re talking about the murders. When the
Times
agreed not to publish the letter, Jerrik was given a limited exclusive and—”

Alice interrupted. “I was brought along to make it look like a social visit. Wouldn’t talk about such grisly things in front of a c
hild,
after all,” she said, accenting the word with obvious derision. “I have, as you can see, been relegated to the upper floors.”

Now Delia was the one staring at Alice, but with an expression more akin to dislike. She turned back to Carver and tried again. “The coroner report confirmed that the wounds on the new body were similar to those inflicted in the library killings, and…”

“London?” Carver added.

Delia shrugged somberly. “I’m sorry, that’s all I heard before I was sent up here to keep an eye on…”

“Call me Alice!”

“Can we get closer?” Carver asked. “Listen in?”

Alice answered for Delia. “No need. When Father gets going, we’ll hear him clearly enough.”