Ripper (25 page)

The officer eyed him, decided that whatever was going on was beyond his ability to sort, then blew into his whistle again. More police streamed from the Tombs. In time, carriages arrived. The onlookers from the windows came into the streets, dressed in bathrobes. Carver still didn’t move.

When the ambulance attendants brought Hawking out on a stretcher, he was ashen and limp. The side of his head was horribly swollen. Blood marred his scraggly hair. Carver had no idea if he was alive.

“Where are they taking him?”

“St. Vincent’s,” Patrolman Mike said, holding Carver back. “But you’ll be staying here, boyo. A lot of people will want to talk to you.”

“No!” Carver gasped. He couldn’t talk to anyone now. He’d have to lie to preserve the secrets of the New Pinkertons, and he didn’t think he’d be able. Yet, if Hawking were dead, what did any of that matter?

A quarter block from the scene, a hansom cab clattered to a halt and a bleary-eyed Jerrik Ribe clambered out. Still half-asleep, the narrow-faced man had trouble righting himself. Spotting Carver, he straightened. Even at the distance, Carver saw his reporter face ripple through several emotions: confusion, concern, opportunity.

Ribe strode toward him, his quick left and right glances again recalling the movements of a ferret. Thinking he’d rather speak to Jerrik Ribe than the police, Carver moved to meet him. A firm hand yanked him back.

“Orders are to keep you from the press,” Patrolman Mike said.

“I know him,” Carver said.

“He your father, too, then?”

Before Ribe could reach them, several officers interceded. “Get out of my way,” Ribe said. “I know the boy. Is he under arrest? Is he a witness?”

A younger man in a trench coat stepped from the pack and moved toward Carver, blocking his view of Ribe. Carver was
upset until he recognized Emeril’s thin mustache. He was about to shout his name when a swift shake of the man’s head indicated Carver should keep quiet.

Emeril took Carver by the elbow. “I’ve got him now… Jennings, isn’t it?”

Patrolman Mike furrowed his brow. “Yes, sir. Found him screaming in the street. Says it’s his father did this.
And
it’s his father who was attacked and taken to the hospital. Next thing, he’ll be calling
me
his father. Boy doesn’t make much sense.”

Emeril nodded. “Indeed he doesn’t. Good work. Put it in your report and have it sent to me within an hour. I’ve got things covered here.”

Mike Jennings’s eyes narrowed even more. “Aren’t you junior detective on staff… sir?”

Emeril nodded. “I’m also the only one awake. I’m sure someone suitably important will be here by the time everything’s sorted out. For now, though, I’m in charge.”

Satisfied, Jennings nodded. “Make it look like I’m being rough with you,” Emeril whispered before pushing him toward a quieter spot.

Once a reasonable distance away, Emeril spoke quickly. “He took a bad blow to the head, a concussion. The ambulance attendants said there were no other wounds.”

“But the blood…”

“None of it was his,” Emeril said, clearly relieved himself. “Lucky for him, not so lucky for Mrs. Parker. Old Hawking must have stumbled onto the killer in the act. But the only thing that’s really clear is that Hawking was holding out on me. What was he doing here to begin with?”

Carver’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t know? This was the last
address I found for my father. Mr. Hawking said he’d talked to you, that we’d all go in the morning.”

Emeril scrunched his face. “He certainly didn’t mention it to me. Tudd always thought he was half-mad. Dear Lord. Maybe the old lion wanted a final hunt for himself.”

Seeing Carver’s reaction to the word
final,
Emeril punched him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Man with a skull that thick has got to pull through.”

Someone called, “Detective,” from the crowd. Emeril waved, indicating he’d be there soon, then turned back to Carver. “They want you at Mulberry Street, but I’ll take you to the hospital. I can argue it would be inhumane to drag you from the side of your adoptive father. I will have to take your statement, though.”

“I want to tell them everything,” Carver said flatly.

Emeril winced. “Can’t blame you for that, but the situation’s sticky. Think about this: when Roosevelt sees you, he’s likely to have you locked up like Mr. Tudd. Could be days before you get anyone to listen. Why not wait at least until we see how Hawking’s doing?”

Something twisted in his gut. It sounded reasonable, yet another delay didn’t feel right.

Emeril read his mind. “Carver, your statement will contain the truth, or most of it. You were adopted by a retired Pinkerton agent and studying the case as an exercise. Mr. Hawking took it on himself to visit an address he believed the killer may have lived at. You followed and saw what you saw. It is up to you.”

With that, he hustled Carver into a police carriage. Hawking’s words rattled in Carver’s head in tune with the clattering wheels:

A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.

THE NEXT
morning at St. Vincent’s, newspapers lay in a staggered pile on a small metal table next to Hawking’s bed. The headlines were visible at a glance.

The
New York Times
allowed itself an unusually sensational headline:

KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.

The
Sun
had the more poetic:

FEAR STALKS OUR STREETS.

The
Tribune,
the mysterious:

WHO IS THE LIBRARY KILLER?

But the
Journal
outdid them all with just three words that took up the entire page:

DEVIL IN MANHATTAN!

Hawking’s clothes hung from a hook by the door, gray as his skin. A black wall clock signaled noon was
near. The only color Carver saw was a fallen rose petal on the floor, looking like a splotch of blood.

The bouquet it was from belonged to an older woman, one of six patients moved when Emeril ordered the room be made private. Hawking’s sudden fame as the only witness to the killer’s work had also earned him police guards and a mob of reporters. Emeril explained he was also keenly worried about exposing Hawking to the cholera and typhoid common here. By and large, hospitals were charitable places serving the poor. Anyone who could afford it had physicians attend them at home.

The privacy and protection would soon end, though. The doctors made it clear Hawking could wake anytime over the next twenty-four hours. Since then, the senior detectives took to arguing over who’d question Carver first. Emeril would return soon to tell Carver who’d won.

While he waited, he stared at his unconscious mentor and the thick bandage wrapped around his forehead. He thought back to his first meeting with the gruff man, how his personality seemed as mangled as his body. A gnome, Carver considered him. But,
father
?

Hawking seemed to make what they owed each other feel like entries in an accounting ledger. Yet Carver was bereft imagining Hawking was hurt. The man had changed him, given him something solid to hold onto, something to replace his dime-novel fantasies. Almost like a…

Like a real father.

The idea of not having him around felt suddenly unbearable.

The door opened and Emeril stepped back in. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he said as he quickly closed the door, sealing off what seemed a crowded hallway. “Two detectives are to take you to a
carriage out back, then to Mulberry Street. The commissioner has insisted on being present for questioning. They’re trying to keep the press in the lobby, though your Mr. Ribe has already tried to sneak up the fire escape twice.”

“Roosevelt will lock me up?” Carver said. “Unless I show him the agency?”

“Without that letter, most likely,” Emeril said. “Eventually they’d add things up and realize Tudd knew more about the murders than he let on, but no telling how long that will take. Either way, I suppose that’ll be that for the New Pinkertons, eh?”

Emeril gave Carver’s shoulder a light punch. “Not your fault. There are three dead now. Keeping secrets always seemed silly to me; now it’s downright dangerous. If anyone, Tudd ruined things by keeping your father’s letter from them to begin with. I’ve got every agent looking, but we still can’t find the thing.”

Carver shook his head. “At least Mr. Hawking has a good excuse for his odd behavior.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on Tudd. The way I heard it, he was once in line for Roosevelt’s position. Instead, he toiled in secret. Catching your dad himself might have made up for it, in his mind. Not an excuse, mind you…,” Emeril said.

Carver sighed. “At least once I bring the police down to the headquarters, Mr. Tudd will have no reason
not
to turn over the letter.”

“Expect to find it empty. And keep in mind you really don’t have to remember anyone’s
name.
Bad enough that instead of heroes, we’ll look like a bunch of bumbling fools blocking a police investigation into the crime of the century.”

“I don’t think you’re fools, for what it’s worth,” Carver said. “Emeril, do you think by doing this, I’ll actually help catch him?”

Emeril nodded. “We’ll have a better shot. At last count, five people have confessed to the killings, one of whom has been on death row for a year. Men are lining up just to be the center of attention. They need the real story badly.”

He headed to the door. “I’ve got to go help clear the floor. The detectives will be with you shortly. An officer has been stationed right outside the door if you need anything.”

Emeril put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Carver Young. Just remember, even if you can’t pick your parents, maybe you can pick your future.”

“Thanks,” Carver said.

“Nice to be running things for a few days anyway,” Emeril said. He raised his eyebrows, inhaled and headed out the door.

Carver glanced at Hawking’s still form, wondering what he’d have to say. On the wall, the clock’s minute and hour hands lined up at twelve. The windows were closed, but Carver could clearly make out the bells from the nearby church. He counted the tolls.

Somewhere around the tenth, Albert Hawking opened his eyes.

CARVER
yelped and nearly fell from his seat.

When Hawking tried to sit, Carver moved to stop him. “You should rest…”

Surprisingly strong, his mentor swatted him away. “Don’t ever use the word
should
in the context of my behavior. Help me up, not down! I have to reach the lobby before the police realize I’m awake.”

Carver’s eyes narrowed. “You were awake all this time? Why didn’t you tell Emeril?”

“He has enough problems; besides you heard what he said about secrets. Why complicate things for him?” Hawking rolled to the side and put his feet to the floor. “Get me my clothes!”

Carver didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry. “Are you planning to escape? You can’t…”

“Not escaping,” Hawking said with annoyance. “Taking charge. Don’t dawdle.” He motioned for the clothes hanging on hooks by the door. “
Obey,
boy. Obey! Once I’m out of this infernal hospital gown, you’ll have White or whoever it is escort you to the bathroom for a pee. I’ll do the rest.”

“But, Mr. Hawking…,” Carver said as he moved to get his clothes.

“No questions,” Hawking snapped. “There’s no time.”

Clothes in hand, Carver halted in his tracks. “No.”

His mentor glared. “
What
did you say to me?”

Carver held his ground. “I’ve been sitting by your side like a mourner! I thought you were dead! I want to know what’s going on. At least tell me what happened on Leonard Street. Was it my father who attacked you?”

Hawking pursed his lips as if struggling with himself. “You’re lucky I’m in a hurry. I was at Leonard Street to protect you. I didn’t see much of anything before I was knocked out.”

Carver narrowed his gaze in disbelief. “Protect me? You said we were going together, with agents, but you hadn’t even told Emeril.”

Hawking waved his bad hand in the air. “Fine, I
lied
about Emeril because I didn’t want you to suspect what I was up to. I was the one in touch with the late Mrs. Parker. She had business in the morning but was free that night. She agreed to meet with
me,
not a bunch of strange secret detectives, so I decided to go alone. I didn’t want to put you at any risk, understand? There, you have your explanation. Clothes. Now!”

Barely satisfied, Carver handed them over. Once dressed, Hawking took his cane and tested his feet, wincing as he managed a small circle. “When they wheeled me in, I noticed the
closest bathroom was under repair. White will have to take you down the hall, leaving the path to the stairs clear. Take your time about it, but keep an ear out for those two detectives Emeril named. Meet them in the hall if you can. If we’re lucky, they won’t even bother checking my room.”

“What do I do then?”

“I’m getting to it! If things go as planned, in a few hours you’ll be back at our gilded headquarters. But don’t bother searching for your letter anymore. I think I know where it might be.”

“Where?”

“I should have guessed sooner. Remember when Tudd asked if you’d brought the letter along and I told him you’d keep something so precious on your person?”

“So you think Tudd did the same?”

“Exactly. Probably sewed it into the lining of his coat, or they’d have found it when he put on his prison suit. The point is, for now, you may as well consider it lost, though I’m sure that won’t stop you from going to Roosevelt. Once you’re back, take the time to put your notes together and
then
go to him. I suspect, if you’ve the mind to do it that way, you can even set him on the right path
without
revealing the Pinkertons.”

“How? Will you be there to help?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’ll be very busy. But you’ll need someone to keep your head focused. That reporter girl, do you trust her?”

“Delia?” Carver said. “She’s never lied to me.”