Ripper (39 page)

Had he broken his own hand to escape?

Ahead, the track tunnel that would bring the train into Grand
Central swelled like a monster’s gaping maw. Small blurs of motion that Carver took for people were scurrying and leaping out of the way. He made his way to the door his father had left open. The moment the train careened into darkness, he leapt out, having no idea where he would land.

CARVER
didn’t hit the tracks so much as skimmed them, skipping back into the air like a stone on a pond. He rose once, twice, and then a third time before settling into a sideways roll. He heard a crash as the locomotive hit the end of the track, tore the concrete stop from its foundations and kept going.

It was the first of several ear-shattering sounds he would hear.

Carver raised his head in time to see the locomotive dive off the end of the track, pulling the passenger car behind it. Then came the second, louder crash, a sound like thunder, as the locomotive’s prow slammed into the marble floor of the terminal below.

By the time the passenger car rolled over the track edge, people were screaming. The car didn’t completely disappear from view. Instead, after a third, lesser crash, it halted, remaining tilted at the track’s
end. Carver could only imagine it had somehow hit the rear of the fallen locomotive.

The fourth and final sound was the most terrible. The locomotive’s boiler, weakened first by the pressure, then by the crash and lastly by the passenger car, exploded. It was a huge rolling boom, a single beat on a vast drum, followed by a rush of hot air and billowing smoke and flame.

To Carver it looked as if his father, in a final act of spite, had opened up the mouth of hell.

THERE WERE
forty-seven wounded but, miraculously, no deaths. Carver earned several gashes and colorful bruises, but nothing that required bed rest. Timothy Walsh, the hapless train engineer, suffered only a broken wrist. When Carver visited him to return his pistol, he cheerily said he’d gained more than he lost. Now he had a grand adventure story he could tell again and again.

A week later Carver sat with Delia, Finn and Commissioner Roosevelt on the plaza of the vacant New Pinkertons headquarters. The smell from the analytical engine’s smoke had long cleared, the air relatively fresh. It was Roosevelt and Finn’s first visit, and even now, an hour after arriving, they both kept glancing back at the pneumatic subway car that sat quietly at the platform.

Carver had pulled Tudd’s plush, comfortable chair
onto the plaza for Roosevelt, but the commissioner preferred to strut around, jacket open, thumbs hooked in his pants. “It
is
a good place, Mr. Young, quite fine and very quiet,” Roosevelt said. “Even now, though, I still hear the rumble of Mulberry Street, much the way one hears the ocean roar when putting a shell to the ear. Duty calls, and we should get to it.”

He tapped a file on the table and pushed it toward Carver. “As I told you, I got in touch with the Pinkerton Agency to see what they could tell us about Mr. Hawking. I did not, as you requested, mention the money Allan Pinkerton bequeathed to found this place.”

Carver grabbed the file and flipped eagerly through the pages. Delia wanted to peer over his shoulder but instead asked the commissioner, “What did you find out?”

Roosevelt shrugged. “Hints, Miss Stephens, echoes. Hawking was no stranger to the double life. The Pinkertons used undercover agents in the Civil War, against outlaw gangs and, as the agency spread, against criminal gangs in New York. In the late 1870s Hawking was asked to infiltrate one such group responsible for kidnappings and violence to women. He was in deep for years, living among them, acting like one of them, tipping off the agency to the worst of their crimes. As time passed, against the advice of Pinkerton himself, he married. In 1881, the leader of the gang discovered Hawking’s identity.”

Carver tensed. “The year I was born.”

Roosevelt softened his tone. “According to the file it was also the same year Hawking’s wife was brutally murdered. She was pregnant at the time.”

“My mother,” Carver said. “Hawking said they somehow convinced him
he’d
done it.”

“If he believed himself the murderer, he did not confess. The
record does show that he became erratic, eccentric, but still remained a brilliant detective. Other than what you’ve told me about his founding the New Pinkertons and the final gunfight that left him wounded, that is all we know.” Roosevelt paused to think a moment. “Were I a betting man, I’d guess the death of his wife nearly destroyed him, but that final battle pushed him over the edge and turned him into a callous killer.” He looked at Carver purposefully. “But when dealing with something so important as the identity of the world’s most hated murderer, it is not appropriate to bet.”

“No, it’s not,” Carver agreed. “There has to be more to it.”

Hoping he’d see something new, Carver quickly scrawled a time line:

He stared at what he’d written, but unlike the clues his father had left for him, nothing sprang immediately to mind.

“We’ll have to content ourselves with this for now. His purpose accomplished, perhaps Hawking will vanish as promised. But my people tell me that this sort of savagery cannot contain
itself for long. He will eventually find reason to kill again. But should he do so within this city, we will be here to stop him, armed with courage, allies and information.”

“I have to track him down,” Carver said.

“I understand the desire, but I don’t see how to manage it. Seeing as we have no inkling to his whereabouts, the next move, I’m afraid, is his. Until he makes it, I advise you stay put, learn and grow,” Roosevelt said. He looked admiringly at Carver. “You may be young, but there is much of a man in you already.”

He pulled out his pocket watch. “I must be getting back. Once I’ve left, you may begin contacting any of the people who worked here that you deem trustworthy. Though their identities can and should remain secret from me, you will keep me apprised of their activities.”

“Yes, sir.” Carver nodded.

“Bully!” Roosevelt said. He shook Carver’s hand firmly. “It will be good to be able to call upon such a force. Mr. Hawking aside, the corruption in this city remains vast, varied and as determined to destroy us as we are to destroy it. Now I say with greater confidence than ever, it is fighting the losing battle!”

With that, the thick-shouldered commissioner strutted over to the subway. “Remember, Mr. Young. Do not dwell on the darkness within. Act!”

With a wave, he stepped inside the car and closed the door.

A few moments later, the door opened again. Roosevelt stuck his square head back out. “I just press that lever under the seat and it takes me back?”

“Yes, sir,” Carver said with a smile.

“Excellent! Alice sends her regards,” Roosevelt said. Delia winced at the sound of the name.

Moments later the car moved off into the round tunnel, silent as the gentle air that propelled it.

“He should run for president,” Finn said. He turned back to Carver. “Sorry about your mother.”

Carver shrugged. “I don’t even know how to feel about that. I never knew her.”

When Carver fell into a silent brood, Delia nodded for Finn to do something.

Obliging, the larger youth punched him on the arm.

“Ow!” Carver said. “What was that for?”

“Nothing. How’s it feel being in charge?”

Carver looked around. “I won’t really be in charge. I’ll be more of a liaison between the new Pinkertons and Roosevelt. I’d have no idea how to run this place.”

“Yet,” Delia added. Sitting next to him, she began idly running her hands over the worn coat Carver had left hanging on the back of his chair.

Carver shook himself back into the moment. “Let’s start with Emeril.
He’s
the one who should be in charge. Then Mr. Beckley.
Someone
has to clean the athenaeum.”

He shuddered to think of the mess he and Delia had left it in.

Delia ran her fingers along the tears in the old coat. “I’m still not sure how I feel about lying to the Ribes about all this. But it
is
important.” Her index finger found a large hole. “Carver, why
are
you still wearing this old thing?”

“It was his,” Carver said. “It’s a reminder.”

She rolled the fabric through her hands. “It’s falling apart. It stinks of coal. Do you want me to mend some of the…” She stopped and looked up at Carver.

“What?” he said.

“There’s something in the lining.”

He grabbed it and spread it out on the table. As he pressed against the cloth, a rectangular outline became visible. Unwilling to wait for a knife or scissors, Carver ripped at the seam and withdrew a wrapped package.

“I don’t believe it,” Carver said.

“Should we check it for fingerprints?” Delia asked, but by then Carver had torn it open. Inside was
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,
by Arthur Conan Doyle.

“The newest collection,” Carver said, puzzled. “He left me a present?”

As he flipped idly through the pages, three sheets fell out. One was the letter Carver had found at Ellis. Another was a facsimile of the
Dear Boss
letter from London, but this copy seemed to have been ripped from a book. The third was new, but written in the same scrawl.

Finn and Delia crowded near as he read.

Carver took a long look. “My father.”

“…is totally crazy,” Finn said.

Delia nodded toward the file Roosevelt left. “At least now you know he was a good man once.”

“I think that’s what worries me most of all,” Carver said. “If he can change so much, what’s to say I can’t?”

“Because you won’t,” Delia said. “No matter what else happens, you’ll still be Carver Young.”

The following article was in fact printed by

The New York Times

on January 20, 1889:

Hey,
lots
of fiction authors take liberties with history for the sake of an exciting story. We’ll change details about famous people, invent new technologies, imagine wars, aliens, monsters or whatever, all to keep the reader glued to the page.

And while your humble author is guilty as charged, in researching
Ripper,
more often than not, I found the truth pretty fascinating in its own right. As a result, many of the gadgets, as well as details regarding the historical people appearing in the novel, are historically accurate. What was real and what wasn’t? Some of the answers may surprise you!

Jack the Ripper

Yep, the world’s first internationally famous serial killer did indeed exist, was never caught, and his identity remains a mystery that has fueled many books, novels and films. The details regarding his heinous crimes in London are all true, including the theoretical sixth victim, Alice McKenzie. Two of the letters the killer supposedly wrote appear in the novel verbatim. The New York City murders are entirely fictitious, but in 1895 Jack was still very much on everyone’s mind. More than one newspaper article from the period wonders if some grisly killing was actually old Jack in action, and the July 20, 1889, letter published by the
New York Times
did, in fact, exist. As far as anyone knows, however, he did not have a son, and
given his attitude toward women, I think it unlikely. Was the Ripper ever in New York? Maybe. One suspect, Francis Tumblety, returned there after the Whitechapel murders, and, at Scotland Yard’s request, the police kept him under surveillance.

Allan Pinkerton