Ripper (26 page)

Hawking winced. “Fine, bring her with you. At least she’ll keep your mind off your inner gloom long enough to focus on what you’ll say to the silk cowboy. But if you’re wrong, our headquarters will be on the front page of the
Times
tomorrow. I hope you appreciate how much I’m sacrificing for you, boy.”

“I think I do,” Carver said. It was the first sincere compliment he’d paid the man.

Hawking grumbled, not sure what to do with it. “Yes, well… you’re welcome, I suppose. Now get going! I’m already late.”

“Late?”

“Go!”

ANY JOY
at seeing Hawking healthy swept away by a mix of adrenaline and confusion, Carver headed out, surprised how successfully Emeril had cleared the hall. It was empty except for the pudgy, deeply bored guard leaning against the wall, reading a copy of
Police Gazette.

“I need a bathroom,” Carver explained.

Grudgingly, he escorted Carver, as Hawking predicted, to the bathroom far down the hall. White remained by the sinks as Carver entered a stall. As the man talked about his back pains, Carver put an ear to the cold tile wall. He heard Hawking’s distinct shuffling walk, a closing door, then a steadier, more distinct tromping. That would be the detectives.

Carver flushed and rushed out.

“Here’s our boy,” an enormous man with ash-blond hair and green eyes said. A second fellow, with
matted red hair, nodded gruffly. Both wore brown three-piece suits and bowler hats, marking them as New York detectives.

They dismissed the police guard and escorted Carver to the service elevator. Under the command of its white-haired operator, it crawled down with the speed and grace of a sleepy turtle, making Carver sigh to recall the elegant pneumatic version. Eventually, the doors opened on a small hall. An exit door opened to a rear alley, a carriage visible outside. They were about to leave when a hubbub arose from the lobby.

Curious, the detectives inched toward the commotion. Carver followed, until they all had a view of the lobby. Scores of reporters were was fixed on a hatchet-faced man in an expensive black suit—Alexander Echols, district attorney, the man Hawking had once described as a lizard.

As Echols cleared his throat, among the crowd, Carver spotted Emeril. At nearly the same time, Emeril spotted him. Eyes wide, the junior detective made his way toward the rear hall.

Echols smiled, basking in the camera flashes. “I believe our police commissioner is more concerned with investigating police officers than murderers. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to use
my own funds
to hire the only man in this city who
has
shown some success in hunting this savage killer…”

Echols motioned toward someone at his side, but Carver’s view was blocked. As he moved for a better view, Emeril reached him and immediately tried to pull him back down the hall.

“What the devil’s wrong with you? Get out of sight!” he hissed.

Echols put his arm around his unseen companion. “He has a singular reputation and was a star employee of Allan Pinkerton himself.”

Hearing the description snapped them both around. Standing beside Echols was a familiar figure, listing slightly as he supported himself on his cane and trying to shield his eyes from the flashbulbs.

“Mr. Albert Hawking.”

“Well, he’s full of surprises, isn’t he?” Emeril muttered.

After a moment’s silence, a torrent of questions filled the air.

“Did you see the killer?”

“Do you want Roosevelt fired?”

“Will you be working with the police?”

After straining to hear the wispy-voiced Echols, everyone moved back at the powerful sound that boomed from the hunched figure. “No! I did not see the killer. But he did see me. If you’ll all kindly
shut up,
I’ll save you some time and answer the obvious questions. I do
not
think Commissioner Roosevelt is incompetent. I simply do not believe he is as competent as I am.”

A chuckle made its way through the crowd.

Jerrik Ribe called out, “What exactly did you see at 27 Leonard Street?”

As Hawking turned in Ribe’s direction, he spotted Carver. Before answering, he whispered something to Echols, who nodded and snapped his fingers. “When I arrived, Mrs. Parker was already on the floor. From the nature and extent of the wounds, it was easy to see she was either dead or well beyond medical assistance. Moments later, I was struck from behind and would have almost certainly been killed had not my brilliant protégé taken it upon himself to follow me against my instructions—”

“Protégé? What’s his name?”

“Carver Young. With a
c.
”

“The kid they’re holding as a witness?”

Carver didn’t hear the rest. An energetic man with a head of bushy chestnut hair and a trimmed goatee grabbed him and was rushing him back toward the service exit. Though also carrying a thin walking stick and a bundle of papers, the man moved so quickly, they were nearing the rear exit before Emeril and the detectives caught up.

“Hey, you!” one shouted. “He’s in police custody.”

The man pivoted gracefully, yanked off one white glove and extended his hand.

“Armando J. Sabatier, attorney. I’ve been retained by Mr. Echols to represent this young man. Are there charges against him?”

The detective was taken aback, as if by the brightness of the man’s white teeth. “He’s a witness and he’s cooperating!” He turned to Carver. “You are cooperating, aren’t you?”

The wiry man’s smile vanished in a flash. He turned to Carver and shook his head, no. Though Carver had no idea what game Hawking was playing, he felt obliged to say, “I… guess not.”

“You can’t just take him. You’ll have to wait for the commissioner.”

“It’s the other way round.
You
can’t just hold him,” Sabatier said plainly.

A white business card appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he handed it to Emeril. “The commissioner may contact me anytime to arrange a suitable time to discuss the case. We will cooperate fully, but I must insist on a far less conspicuous location than police headquarters. And I, of course, will be present during any questioning. Good day!”

Before another word could be uttered, Sabatier swept Carver into the alley.

CARVER
and his new attorney shared a seat as the carriage wheels clacked east back toward Broadway. Sabatier remained pleasant, but not talkative. Carver wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Thanks,” he ventured.

“You are welcome,” Sabatier responded.

“So Commissioner Roosevelt will be in touch?”

“Of that, you can be certain.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid that beyond what I’ve already told the detectives, I do not know more. So, no, I cannot.” He flashed his white smile. “I’m paid very well to know only what I am told.”

Carver nodded and settled back in his seat. The leather was so much more comfortable than the steel hospital chair, he nearly fell asleep. Given what Hawking had promised, he wasn’t surprised when the carriage stopped alongside Devlin’s.

“I’m to drop you here,” Sabatier said, tipping his hat. “And no, I do not know why.”

“That’s okay, I do,” Carver said, exiting.

Once the carriage was out of view, he descended into the headquarters. If it’d seemed lonely when he was here last, now it felt utterly desolate. He walked along the plaza, eyeing Hawking’s cot. It looked so comfortable, and Carver hadn’t slept in at least a day. He wanted to call Delia and get started, but she’d be at work, unable to leave until later. Surely a little nap wouldn’t hurt.

He tested the frame and lay down, thinking he’d close his eyes for a few minutes. Before he knew it, he’d drifted off to a deep, deep sleep, swallowed by the strangest dream.

Gone were all the buildings he loved so dearly, gone were the cobblestone streets, the asphalt sidewalks, the iron girders, the masses. Instead, he was all alone in an unrelenting field of dead, yellowed grass.

He shared the barren terrain with only one other living thing: a large, ugly-looking ostrich. After staring at Carver a moment, it thumped its heavy beak into his shoulder, over and over.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

He couldn’t even raise his hands to block the blows.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Stop it!” Carver shouted. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

The great bird reared back its head and hissed, “Wake up, boy!”

Carver opened his eyes. Hawking was standing by the cot, prodding his shoulder with his cane.

“I thought I’d have to draw blood to rouse you,” he said.

“You said you wouldn’t be here,” Carver said, getting up. “That you’d be busy. Not that I’m unhappy to see you…”

Hawking slumped into chair, a strange expression on his face. Strange at least, for Hawking. He looked full of emotion,
sad.

“There’s been a change in plan,” he said grimly.

“What sort of change?” Carver asked.

“Septimus…,” Hawking said. He was having trouble with the words. “Septimus Tudd. He’s… dead.”

Carver jumped to his feet. “Dead? But he was in jail!”

Hawking kept his steely eyes on the ground. “There’s no law saying you can’t die in a jail. Happens quite often. In this case, there was a riot. His body was found afterward. Strangled. My guess is he tried to help the police.”

Guilt rattled Carver’s body. “It’s as good as if we’d killed him.”

Hawking’s cane slammed into Carver’s shin.

“Ow!”

“No! Boy, it’s
not.
I should know,
I’ve
killed. With guns, knives, even my own hands.
You
haven’t, not yet, anyway. Believe me when I say I’m far more responsible for this than you. But Tudd made his own decisions, decided his own fate. He could have given Roosevelt that letter at
any
moment, stubborn old fool! And sorry as I am about what happened, this is
not
time to lose sight of our goals. Your father is still out there, remember? His next intended victim is still out there, too,
alive
as far as we know.
They
can be saved. That’s where your energy must go. Understand?”

Carver rubbed his shin. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Hawking grimaced, getting himself together. “The question facing you now is, what are you willing to do about it?”

“What do you mean? The nap? I was so tired…”

“No, not the nap,” Hawking said. He exhaled, then took another breath before explaining. “What did I tell you about your father’s letter?”

“That Tudd probably kept it on him, maybe sewed into the lining of his coat… ?”

Hawking wiped his lips. “His body is in the prison morgue.
It’s already wearing the clothes he was arrested in. That little device you have should handle all the doors.”

Carver stopped rubbing his leg. “Excuse me, sir?”

Hawking twirled his cane, looking down, and muttered, “Steal to catch a thief, kill to catch a killer.” He looked back up at Carver, sadness still in his eyes. “I never said it would be easy, but right now you have to ask yourself, how far, exactly, are you willing to go to catch your father?”

“You’re asking me… to search Tudd’s dead body?”

“The letter is evidence,” Hawking said. “Keeping it from the police has been the real crime here. You said so yourself. Here’s your chance.”

“No!” Carver said. “Can’t we just tell Roosevelt to look for it?”

“If I’m wrong, you’d lose your credibility with him forever. It’s a body, boy, a hunk of flesh. My old partner is gone, enjoying whatever rewards the afterlife has to offer, if there is one.” He looked at Carver. “Time to see what you’re made of. Trust me, it’s never a pleasant process for anyone.”

OUTSIDE,
it was still daylight. “Shouldn’t we wait until nightfall?” Carver asked.

“There’s no time for that,” Hawking said, moving at a surprising clip. “The attendant has the next hour off. After that, they’ll be transferring the body to a funeral home for cremation, and I don’t know the address.”

Carver, carrying a bundled stack of afternoon papers, struggled to keep up. “How do you know all that?”

“Emeril found out what he could.”

“He’s in on this? It doesn’t bother him?”

“He knows it’s necessary.”

They paused on Varick Street and looked toward the Tombs. “Aside from all that,” Hawking said, “we are close to your father’s last murder, and I don’t think he’d risk an attack in broad daylight.”

The sight of the street put a chill in Carver’s bones. The feeling grew as they passed where he’d seen his father, the apothecary where Hawking nearly died.

They crossed over to the Tombs, the air thick with sulfur, then walked past it to a smaller three-story building surrounded by an iron fence. Rows of curved half windows indicated the basement level. Hawking counted as they passed.

“Five… six… seven… there.” He stopped and put his back to the fence. “Try not to make it seem that you’re looking, but the morgue is right behind me. Tudd will be out on a slab, ready to be transported. I assume you remember what he looked like.” He motioned with his cane down the block. “There’s a side entrance twenty yards to my left. Once you’re inside, you’re a paperboy making a delivery who got lost.”

“Mr. Hawking,” Carver said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Neither do I,” said his mentor. “But we’re about to find out.”

Carver shifted his burden and walked off. He had the lock pick already out and under the newspapers, so when he walked down the two steps to a basement side door, he unlocked it so quickly, it looked as if it’d been left open for him.

Inside, he caught the door with the back of his heel so it wouldn’t slam. After the police station and his earlier adventures, breaking into buildings was getting to be easy. The hard part lay ahead, beyond the double doors marked
Morgue.

Exhaling, he pushed into them with the bundled newspapers. The wide room was cool, wide and lit by afternoon sun coming in through the half-circle windows. A chemical smell hit his nose. It was so strong, it made him want to retch. Embalming fluid. One wall held a series of small wooden doors with metal handles. The freezers where they kept the bodies.