Ripper (19 page)

Delia stopped and looked at Carver. In her hand was a file labeled
Tombs Murder.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” she asked.

Carver nodded. “I have to know.”

“Wait a minute. Why does
he
have to be sure about anything?” Finn huffed.

Delia handed Carver the file, then put her hand on Finn’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, Finn. I’ll tell you sometime over a soda, if you’d like to buy me one.”

Too concerned with what he had in his hands to be jealous, Carver put the file on the desk and opened it. There was a sheet of notes and a letter addressed to the
New York Times.
Carver snatched at the letter.

The moment he saw the heavy scrawled address, he knew, but he opened the envelope just to make sure. Four words, as Delia described,
Dear Boss, Me again,
were written on a single white sheet of paper. The handwriting was identical to his father’s brutish scrawl.

Carver shook. He put his hands on the desk for support. No, no. No.

“Oh, Carver,” Delia said. She tried to put her arm around him, but he pulled away and sank into Overton’s chair.

“It’s true,” he muttered.

Delia knelt by his side, wrapped her hands around his and rubbed them. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hey! What’s going on?” Finn said.

Delia explained. “The
Times
received a letter from the Tombs Killer this morning. The handwriting matches a letter Carver believes is from his father.”

The bully’s face swam with a variety of expressions. “His… Carver’s dad… that’s…”

Delia turned back to Carver. “You have to tell Commissioner Roosevelt. It doesn’t matter what sort of promises you made. Your letter is evidence. You should tell him right now.”

Carver looked into her clear blue eyes, surprised how sad she seemed for his sake. He was about to agree, about to tell her all
about the New Pinkertons, when his eyes fell on the sheet of notes accompanying the letter. A name popped out at him: Septimus Tudd.

Roosevelt had apparently shared some details of the investigation, mentioning Tudd had written to Scotland Yard in London back in August, regarding similar killings, but hadn’t heard back yet. In any case, Roosevelt considered any connection to the London killings a long shot at best.

London? August?
That was a week after Carver had written to the police. Tudd
knew
about the connection to his father. He knew all along!

“HEY, WHERE’RE
you going?” Finn asked.

“Carver?” Delia called.

Swept away by feelings of shame and massive betrayal, he ignored them. Hawking was right, the world was a madhouse. He’d been nothing but a fool dazzled by gadgets. How could he think Tudd would pick an orphan to help Hawking just because he’d written a good letter? Now he knew exactly what Tudd saw in him—a clue, a lead in a case, a way to find a killer and save their failing agency.

By the time he reached the door, Finn blocked his way.

“Carver, wait!” Delia called.

Finn held up a single strong hand and warned, “Don’t.”

Wordless, Carver grabbed the sleek material of
Finn’s shirt and shoved him aside. Finn, either exhausted from his effort at the door or, worse, feeling sorry for Carver, didn’t put up any resistance.

Carver hit the stairs, where the only thing to glare at was the blur of his own feet.

Delia raced alongside him. “Carver Young, you promised you’d tell me what’s going on if I helped you. I’ve helped you, so tell me.”

“That’s not even my real last name,” Carver said.

“You promised. I took a terrific risk…,” she said, exasperated.

He stopped. “Septimus Tudd? The man whose name is on the letter? He only pretends he works for Roosevelt. He’s actually the head of a secret group of detectives. Tudd snatched my letter from the police, then invited me in as a junior agent just to get my father’s note.” He looked heavenward but saw only the steel of the staircase above him. “He
had
to have made the connection to my father. He
used
me. And right now, he’s downstairs at that party.”

“You don’t expect us to believe that cock and bull…,” Finn said.

Delia’s face twisted, the way it sometimes did when she was puzzling something out. She seemed to be thinking deeply, wrestling with impossible ideas on a day full of them.

Coming out of her daze, Delia interrupted him. “No, Finn. He’s not lying. It makes sense.”

At the fourth floor, the sounds of the party murmured like river water. Carver slowed, thinking to warn his fellow orphans. He looked at both of them. “Don’t follow me, understand? Get back to the party some other way. I’ll say
I
broke into the office by myself.”

“What are you going to do?” Delia said.

Carver didn’t answer. Instead, he strode into the party.

As the filthy, foul-smelling boy invaded the soiree, all conversation ceased. He felt the stares of the rich and famous but kept his eyes dead ahead. He moved so quickly that by the time anyone thought to do something about him, he’d already reached Tudd.

Tudd still had his back to the teen and was talking to Roosevelt. It was the commissioner’s ever-darting eyes that caught sight of Carver first. Not knowing what to make of Carver, Roosevelt adjusted his pince-nez glasses and narrowed his gaze.

Not caring, Carver grabbed the heavyset leader of the New Pinkertons by the elbow and spun him around. Taken fully by surprise, Tudd nearly fell. He quickly caught his balance, anchoring himself as if ready for a battle.

“You
knew,
” Carver said, his gaze boring into the man. “You used me.”

If Tudd was shocked, he didn’t show it. He spoke carefully, softly, as if hoping to exclude all the watching partygoers, especially Roosevelt, from his words.

“If you care
anything
about your future,” he said, “all the work you’ve done, the progress you’ve made, you will walk out of this party with me immediately.”

The words puzzled Carver. He didn’t think he
had
any future. Before he could respond, Roosevelt pushed his barrel chest between them.

“Who is this fierce indigent, Tudd? If he’s hungry, give him some food and send him on his way. We’re not done talking.”

Tudd kept his eyes on Carver. “This is… my nephew, Commissioner. He’s having some personal difficulties regarding his father but knows better than to come here to complain to me
about it. I apologize for the interruption. He’ll leave with me right now.”

“Nephew?” Roosevelt said. “And you let him walk about in rags? No wonder he’s so full of beans. You should be ashamed, Septimus, as should you, young man, for not showing yourself enough respect to…”

Moving quickly, Tudd dragged Carver back toward the stairs. Carver wanted to put up a fight, but he was confused now. What had Tudd meant?

The entire floor was watching, whispering. Roosevelt cried loudly, “I don’t generally support corporal punishment for the young, Tudd, but in that boy’s case, see to it you make an exception!”

Several partygoers laughed. A few applauded.

At the archway, Tudd tightened his grip. They passed a gaping Delia and Finn and walked down the steps wordlessly, until they reached the empty lobby.

There, Carver yanked his arm away.

“I
saw
the letter to the
Times.
I read the notes about your request to Scotland Yard in August, right after you saw my father’s letter!”

Tudd straightened his jacket. “So I gathered. Hawking was right about you. Clearly I was wrong to underestimate you. The water damage proves that much. You should have heard Hawking cackle.”

Carver ignored the comment. “You knew all along.”

“I
suspected,
” Tudd said, a bare hint of remorse in his voice. “From the moment your letter arrived at Mulberry Street. And what can I tell you now? Seven years ago, a certain killer in London wrote to the police. The tone, the grammar, all matched the
letter from your father. The wounds from the library killing matched his method of operation. But when I summoned my friend, the brilliant Mr. Hawking, for support, he called me a fool in front of all my agents! What could I do then? Waltz you in and tell you I suspected your father was a monster? I wouldn’t say that to my worst enemy without proof. And what would you have done? Run off? Given us away to the police? My hands were tied.”

“And when you
saw
the letter from my father?”

Tudd shrugged guiltily. Briefly, the stout man seemed somehow smaller. “I should have gone straight to the police? I admit the thought of capturing the killer without them may have blinded me, but there were other concerns.
I
was convinced. Not Hawking. So, I chose to wait for Scotland Yard. When the letter arrived at the
Times,
of course I knew. But then, how could I explain to Roosevelt I’d stumbled on such explosive evidence without giving the New Pinkertons away? As for you, I’d hoped Hawking would arrive while you were in our custody and tell you all this himself.”

“Hawking,” Carver said, realizing it for the first time. “He knew, too?”

“Only that I was an idiot,” Tudd said, softening further. “When he read your note… he
did
take an interest in you. We struck a deal. He’d take you under his wing while I waited to hear from Scotland Yard. I thought your little investigation was just a way to keep you busy. I never imagined you’d make progress.”

“But you were happy to use the information I found,” Carver said.

Tudd stiffened. “I wish things could be different, but here we are now. You don’t even realize what we’re up against. A savage
killer like your father doesn’t control his demons, he’s
driven
by them. That, and his own self-loathing. At the same time, he’s obviously interested in you, or he’d never have sent that letter. In fact, I suspect you
wouldn’t
be making progress without your father’s help. It’s like some sort of game he’s playing, and
you’re
our only link.”

“Why shouldn’t
I
just go to the police
?
” Carver said.

Tudd’s kindly demeanor faded slightly as he gritted his teeth. He was losing patience. “Putting aside my hopes for myself and the agency, the story would leak. The media circus could drive your father away from you and on to more killings. You must trust me. I can catch him, I need that chance, I
deserve
it!”

“Trust you? How?” Carver said.

Tudd started shouting. “You owe me more than trust! I’ve saved you from being a street rat, given you the best teacher in the world. In exchange you flood the headquarters and nearly ruin my life’s work, all because you’re ashamed of Daddy!”

If Tudd realized he’d gone too far, he didn’t get the chance to say so.

Schick!
Carver held the stun baton out, the copper tip humming with electrical energy.

“So you’re a criminal,” Tudd said, stiffening. “Stealing from us. I may have misjudged your heart, too. What else runs in your blood? How much more are you like your father?”

Carver jutted the tip forward, but, wet from the sewer water, it crackled and went dead.

Fuming at the sight of his broken prototype, Tudd shook his head. “Stupid child! You’ve no idea…”

The angry expression on his face was shattered by Carver’s fist. As Tudd’s jaw snapped to the right, Carver followed with a left to his gut.

The older man crumpled to the ground. Carver watched him drop. It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. Carver’s hand, where it had connected with Tudd’s jaw, was throbbing. His breath came in ragged gasps; his vision clouded with rage. He was suddenly ashamed, deeply embarrassed.

And worse, a familiar voice snapped him around. “C-Carver?”

It was Delia, staring at him, her eyes filled with disgust. She’d seen it then, seen his savage attack.

A moan from Tudd turned her toward his crumpled form. “You better go,” Delia said, choking back a tear.

“Delia, I…”

“Go!” she shouted, eyes red.

Carver nodded. In a daze, he stumbled onto the streets and ran.

His head soon ached as badly as his hand. What had he done? Why? He’d never attacked anyone like that before. Tudd wasn’t evil. In a way, he’d been trying to protect him. But when he’d said
Daddy,
Carver found himself filled with an alien fury. He’d wanted to kill him. And the way Delia looked at him.

Was he… like his father?

“YOU LIED,”
Carver said.

He stood in the center of the octagonal room. Hawking’s old overcoat, far more beaten and muddied than it’d been two days ago, was slung over his arm.

“Hang the coat and pull up a chair,” Hawking said. “You know where the door is, boy. I promise I won’t lock you in.”

Carver hesitated to let go of his rage, but from what Tudd said, Hawking
had
seen something worth molding in Carver. He put the coat on a hook and sat across from his mentor. On the table, the brass pieces, all polished now, were spread out between them like a massive picture puzzle. A whiskey glass held scores of tiny screws.

“I just didn’t tell you everything. I didn’t want you distracted by nonsense. I haven’t made a secret of my opinion of Tudd’s theory, have I? And I didn’t lie about my plans for you.”

It wasn’t what Carver expected. “You can’t
still
think Tudd’s wrong, can you? You can’t believe the killer
isn’t
my father?”

Hawking sighed and pursed his lips. “No, but it was more a lucky guess than a theory, and the facts aren’t all in yet. I assume if there’d been a response from Scotland Yard, Tudd wouldn’t be keeping it to himself. If you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself, you’d see that.”

“But my father…”

Hawking held up his clawed hand. “I didn’t say it was unreasonable for you to be wrapped up in yourself.” Out of nowhere, he cackled. “
And
you brought the whole sewer down on them! Ha! The whole sewer!” When Carver failed to join him in the laugh, he stopped, but the smile didn’t fade from his face. “It could be worse, you know.”