Текст книги "Riptide"

Автор книги: Michael Prescott

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

twenty-one

Caller ID wasn’t displaying any information. He must have used star-67 to shield his number. He could be calling from anywhere.

“Richard,” she repeated slowly, “it’s really good to hear from you.”

“Save it. I saw you tonight. At the rally.”

“You were there? I didn’t see you.”

“I was in disguise.” A motorcycle rumbled through the background of the call. She heard voices, the honk of a horn. “Nobody sees me when I don’t want them to. I’m the invisible man.”

The thought struck her that Jack the Ripper must have felt exactly the same way.

“Why did you need a disguise?” she asked.

“As if you don’t know. You’re working with her.”

“With who?”

“That busybody, that bitch. I saw you talking to her.”

“Sandra Price? So what if I talked to her?”

“I know what she’s up to. She’s after me.”

“Why would she be after you? You haven’t done anything. Have you?”

“Who knows what I’ve done?”

“You’ve been going out at night. Late at night. Where do you go?”

“You’d like to know. But I’ll never tell.”

“Richard, I’m afraid for you.”

“You should be afraid of me.”

“Why? Would you hurt me?” There was no answer. “Have you hurt other people?”

“You always hurt the ones you love.”

“Who have you hurt, Richard?”

“Ask your friend Sandra.”

“She doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

“Oh, she knows. I see the posters she puts all over the neighborhood. Posters with my picture on them.”

Jennifer had seen those posters, printed by C.A.S.T. They featured a computer-generated sketch of the suspect in a series of robberies. The picture was generic enough to look like almost anybody. It bore no particular resemblance to Richard, except in his mind.

“That’s not you,” she said. “That’s somebody else.”

“I know my own goddamned face.”

“Richard, you need to get back on your medication.”

“Sure, I know what that’s about. Keep me doped up so I won’t suspect what’s going on.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“You’re trying to frame me. You and Sandra Price. You want to put me in jail.”

“I don’t want you in jail.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve gone by your place a couple of times, and you’re never there. Why don’t you go home?”

“I am home. I’m home right now.”

“I hear traffic. You’re at a pay phone.”

“Guess I can’t put one over one you, can I?”

“You can’t stay out on the street. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m safe as long as you can’t find me. You and Sandra Price.”

“Richard, you’re smarter than this. You know you’re not thinking clearly.”

“All I know is what I saw tonight. You and Sandy, best pals. It explains a lot. You helped her put up those pictures of me. I’ll bet it was your idea. But I’m on to you now.”

Hearing him talk like this—it broke her heart. Once again she tried to get an answer to her question. “What do you do at night?”

“I walk. I ride the bus.”

That was responsive, at least. “Where do you go?”

“I get around.”

“Where?”

“Around and around and around...”

“Have you been to mom and dad’s graves?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Did you see me there this morning? Did you leave something on my car?”

“Like bird shit?”

“Did you leave a note?”

“Yes, it was C minor.”

“Richard, I want to know if you left a note on my windshield.”

“You ask stupid questions. You’ve always been stupid and useless. I was the smart one. I’m the real doctor. I’m an M.D.”

“Just tell me if you were at the graveyard today.”

“So you can track my movements? Put a homing beacon on me?”

“How about my house? Have you been here? Have you been inside the house?”

“It’s not your house. It’s mine. It should have been mine.”

“Did you break in? Did you come here after the rally—”

“Serves you right if I did. You shouldn’t be mixed up with her. She’s against me. If she’s your friend, it means you’re against me too.”

“Richard, I want you to listen to me. The posters don’t have your picture on them. Nobody is looking for you because of any crimes. I’m not working with Sandra Price.”

“I saw you with her. Who am I supposed to believe, you or my own eyes? You want me put away, and you want my money. You want the money I inherited from Mom.”

“There’s hardly any money left.”

“And the family papers too. The family papers you care about so much.”

“Have you looked through those papers? Have you read them?”

“I can read. I’m an M.D.”

“How much do you know about our family? Our father?”

“He’s the father of lies.”

“What does that mean?”

“The devil is the father of lies.”

“Was our father the devil?”

“He killed himself. And not just himself.”

“Who else did he kill?”

“You and me. And Mom. He killed us all.”

“Anyone else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Richard, please trust me. I’m on your side.”

“Lying bitch.”

“You saved me in San Francisco.” She gripped her left arm, feeling the scar. “Remember that? Now I’m trying to save you.”

“Save yourself.”

“I’m not the one in trouble.”

“Yes, you are, big sister. Yes, you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re part of this family. You can’t escape.” He sucked in a breath. “I’ll be going now. Got places to be.”

“Richard!” Her voice broke. “Don’t hang up, please don’t—”

Click, and he was gone.

She sank to the floor, her head down, her body numb. She’d lost him. He might never call again.

twenty-two

In a corner of the darkness he lay curled in a fetal ball, rocking slowly back and forth, hugging his knees.

Like a fetus in the womb, awaiting birth.

Or rebirth, possibly.

At times he thought—was almost sure—that he had been born once before, as old Jack. And now, though he was a new man, he was still the old one.

At other times he thought this was a snare and a delusion, that old Jack was dead and he was only who and what he was.

But what he was—that was the true miracle. His calling, his destiny was unique in the world.

For years he’d fought against it, waging a lonely, secret battle.

At last he had yielded, and by yielding, he had won.

Now he was free. He contended against himself no longer.

It was illness that liberated him. His weakness was his strength.

People looked at him as a sad freak, a ruined shell. They pointed and mocked. But he was stronger than they knew.

Take what he had done tonight, for instance. Following little Jennifer to the gymnasium, watching her from the bleachers, in plain view of everyone, but unseen, because he wanted to be unseen.

And afterward, while she lingered over supper with that whore Sandra Price, he had returned to the house, slipping in so easily through the window.

He’d thought for sure he could find the diary. Take it from her, away from her unworthy eyes.

But it was nowhere. Nowhere.

She was a clever bitch. She’d hidden the treasure. Hidden it so craftily he could not find it.

He could have waited for her to return. Could have made her show it to him. But then he would have had to kill her. And he wasn't sure he was prepared to do that.

Not quite yet.

Soon, perhaps. His patience was great, but not inexhaustible. And he would weary of their telephone games eventually.

When he was ready, he would do it.

And he would make old Red Jack proud.

1902

It was springtime in Denver, and Edward Hare was getting married.

He stood before the dark and wavy mirror over his dresser, adjusting the knot of his tie. He had been barbered and bathed and beautified, and he was pleased with the reflection in the glass.

Though he was in middle age now, forty-two years old, he had the bearing of a younger man. Hard living had kept him fit, and the mountain air had cleaned the soot from his lungs. He had even forsaken smoking, convinced that cigarettes left him winded.

Nothing must abbreviate his life. There was yet much work to do.

Satisfied with his necktie, he checked his pocket watch and found himself with an hour to spare before he was needed at the chapel. He poured a whiskey and reclined in his favorite armchair with yesterday’s Post, which he had not had time to read. The usual controversies over pastureland and water rights took up the headlines. But on an inside page he discovered an item of greater interest.

A wire-service story datelined Albany, New York, reported that Governor Benjamin B. Odell had commuted the sentence of Ameer Ben Ali, now believed to have been wrongly convicted in the murder of Carrie Brown.

Certain industrious journalists had pursued the matter for years, insisting that the telltale trail of blood to Ali’s hotel room had not been present when they first visited the scene. One of them had sworn out an affidavit to this effect.

And then there was the farmer’s tale. A Mr. George Damon of Cranford, New Jersey, had come forward to claim that a Danish immigrant in his employ was out of the house on the night of the whore’s murder. A few days later the Dane vanished for good, allegedly leaving behind a bloody shirt and a key from the East River Hotel, its label reading 31, the murdered woman’s room number.

“Danish,” Hare muttered. “I knew it was some continental jabber.”

He had no doubt that this Cranford hireling was the blond foreigner who should have been framed for the crime. It was sheer bad luck the man had gotten away, though this misfortune had been offset by the apprehension and speedy conviction of the Algerian, Ali.

Now Ali was in the clear—en route back to Algeria, the story said. The case was once again officially unsolved, but the authorities would never concern themselves with it. They had more pressing business. Besides, he could not be tracked down here, or tied to an event of eleven years ago. He had a new name, a new life. He was a prosperous and respected businessman, a pillar of the community.

He checked his watch again. It was nearly time to go. He decided to leave early, if only to escape the sudden closeness of his room.

At the doorway he paused, key in hand. When next he saw these quarters, he would be a married man, the last brick in the edifice of his respectability set firmly in place.

And he would have a woman—the thought prickled him with disquiet and strange anticipation—a woman all his own.

***

The ceremony was brief and solemn, the minister first asking Hare if he would love, cherish, and protect his wife, then asking her if she would love, honor, and obey her husband. Each affirmed, “I will.”

Smiling fiercely, Hare kissed the bride.

He did love her, which was to say, he loved possessing her. He enjoyed dangling her before other men like an expensive bauble on a chain. He relished their envy, thrived on their salacious jokes. With the approach of his wedding day—and more particularly his wedding night—such jests had been increasingly frequent. What the jesters did not know was that the prospect of conjugal relations repulsed him. Though he had known women with his knife, he had never explored their questionable charms with a lover’s hand. He supposed he must simply shut his eyes and do his duty. The bedroom would be dark, and he could make it quick.

Maddie was good breeding stock, at least—long-boned, wide-hipped, healthy, strong, and twenty years his junior. His years among ranchers had not been wasted. He was a fair judge of cattle.

She would bear him sons—the prospect of daughters never entered his mind—and in his sons, his blood would live on. His blood and, he believed, his mission.

The wedding feast followed the ceremony. In a sunlit hall, the long tables were decked with flowers and starched napkins, platters of flesh and fowl, bowls of cabbage, piles of bread. Whiskey was poured. Cigars were lit. Speeches were made. In a corner of the room, a trio of musicians played fife and fiddle and dulcimer.

Over and over he was informed of his great good fortune in choosing such a splendid wife. He accepted the compliments, the hard claps on the back, the manly winks and nods.

“How’d you ever charm her papa? You must be the very devil himself.”

“You’re a regular lady-killer, old man.”

“Got to hand it to you, chum. You do know the way to a woman’s heart.”

Indeed he did. His knife had mapped that territory many times.

He traded quips and pledges, relaxing in the warmth of conviviality. He had never been a social man, but today he saw why people took pleasure in one another’s company.

Madeleine’s father approached him. The man was only a year or two older than Hare, but luxury and self-indulgence had taken their toll. With his white beard and flushed cheeks and his stomach overspilling his belt, he might have been old Saint Nick. And he was sotted.

“Congratulations, my boy, congratulations. It’s a great day, a great day.” He had the habit of repeating his words. “You’ll make my daughter very happy, very happy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hare promised.

“Know you will, know you will. I must say”—he leaned closer, speaking confidentially—“I never doubted you a bit. Always saw you as a man of affairs, a man to reckon with.” His shaggy head nodded. “To reckon with. Yes. And I’m proud—proud to call you my son.”

Hare pumped the man’s hand, which was greasy and hot. He thought Maddie’s father was an imbecile.

Her mother, however, was a different story. A sharp one, she was. From the start she had looked askance at the man courting her only child. Her clear, cool gaze had studied him in a manner that was distinctly unsettling.

When Hare glanced down the length of the table, he saw that she was studying him now.

He felt he ought to say something. Mend fences, as the saying went. He walked over to her and lightly took her hand. She was younger than himself by several years, and it seemed odd to think of her as his mother-in-law.

“Evelyn,” he said courteously, “believe me when I tell you that your daughter is all the world to me.”

“Is she?” Those watchful eyes would not look away. “I had not imagined there was room in your world for anyone besides yourself.”

He bristled. Here he was assaying diplomacy, and she would have none of it. Well, he knew a way to wound her.

“You wrong me,” he said with fawning sincerity. “For me, the world is only Madeleine. She is my sunrise and my sunset, and will ever be, no matter how far we travel.”

She picked up on the last word. “Travel...down the road of life, you mean?”

“We have in mind more definite travel plans than that.”

She stiffened in her chair. For the first time he saw anxiety in her face. “What are you saying? You’re not taking her away?”

“Sadly, I must pursue my business opportunities wherever they lead. They are taking me to California, and your daughter with me.”

“California?”

He might as well have said the moons of Mars. “That is where we are headed, she and I. We have already discussed it. She is most eager to go. She has never seen the ocean. And”—he could not resist a twist of the knife—“she is weary of these parts. The provincial life chafes her.”

Evelyn’s face was taut. “You mean she regards us as rubes.”

“I would never use such a word.”

“You filled her head with these thoughts. You turned her against us. Against her family.”

Hare smiled. It was a smile of genuine pleasure. “I am her family now..”

“Where in California are you taking her?” she asked bleakly. “San Francisco?”

“Los Angeles. Now there’s a town that’s growing fast. They’ve two hundred thousand people there at last count.”

“It’s so far away.”

“Now, now, Evelyn. I’m sure you’ll visit us someday. And think of the lovely postcards you’ll receive.”

He withdrew, returning to his seat. When he looked her way again, he saw that she was weeping.

No one else noticed. It was natural for a mother to weep on her daughter’s wedding day.

***

When plates were empty and bellies were full, the tables were carried out of the room to make space for dancing. Hare and his wife shared the first waltz. Some among the guests chuckled at his missteps, but for once he didn’t mind being laughed at.

He remembered his first night on American soil, alone in a flophouse, his head in his hands as he mourned the life he’d lost. Never could he have imagined the triumphs that awaited him. His success had taken him by surprise even as it unfolded. He had seen no reason for it.

But latterly, he had understood. He knew why he had risen in business. He possessed the very traits of character required of the successful competitor. He was ruthless, unscrupulous, and when necessary, savage. The men who came up against him might fancy themselves sharp operators, but none of them had ever sunk a steel blade into a whore’s belly.

He disarmed them with his charm, his becoming modesty. He recited poetry. He attended church. He allowed himself to be rated a fop and a naïf. Only after he had outmaneuvered his rivals and driven their enterprises into bankruptcy did they understand with whom—with what—they had been dealing. By then it was too late.

His financial success was gratifying. But it was the blood sport that fascinated him. He savored the game. In Iowa he harried a man to suicide after taking his business and his home. No one thought less of him for it. On the contrary, he was respected all the more. He embodied the prevailing ethic, the domination of the weak by the strong. A society that coddled weakness would encourage its own degeneracy. This, at least, was the substance of countless editorials and stump speeches and even the occasional sermon.

It was the one moral lesson in which Hare needed no instruction. He was, by nature, a man who knew how to get ahead in life. Americans honored such men. They were an uncouth people, easily impressed by an English accent and a smattering of erudition, and still more impressed by riches and the will to increase them. Hare could have been their king, their god. Had he not been of foreign origin, he might have been their president.

Jack the Ripper in the White House. The thought made him smile.

“Darling, where are you?”

It was Maddie, gazing at him as she swayed in his arms. “Right here, my love.”

“I don’t think so. You seem so distant. And your expression—I don’t know whether it was a grin or a grimace.”

“A smile, I assure you. There will be only smiles for you.”

“You wouldn’t keep secrets from me?”

“Never.”

“Promise?”

“From you, Maddie, there will be no secrets, ever. No secrets and no lies.”

The answer satisfied her. She believed him implicitly. She was such a fool.

***

By ten o’clock, though the party continued, Hare knew it was time to bed his bride.

His bride. Of all women before Madeleine, only Kitty had come close to earning that appellation. It had been a near thing with Kitty, but he had escaped her thrall. Wiser now, he had selected a companion whose chastity could not be doubted.

Even so, he did not want to leave the festivities. Far better to while away the night in revelry, dancing quadrilles and singing sentimental songs. But he knew what was expected of him.

He found Maddie at the center of a gaggle of female friends and drew her away while the geese tittered and clucked.

“Shall we?” he asked simply.

He expected shyness from her and was bemused—and a trifle alarmed—by her upraised face and frank expression. “Of course, darling.”

Boarding a hired motorcar, they left in a hail of salutations. They said little as they rode through the streets. The moon was big and nearly full, and the snowy peaks of the Rockies gleamed like chalk. He was very far from London, from the congested slum courts, the vagrants huddled under railway arches, the bobbies with their bull’s-eye lanterns, the clop of hooves on cobblestones.

Their driver chauffeured them to the Brown Palace Hotel, the city’s finest. The bridal suite was more than satisfactory. Hare tipped the bellman, and then he was alone with his wife.

“Well,” he said, “here we are.”

“It’s lovely. So romantic.”

“Yes, well,” he said, then stopped, at a lack for words.

She smiled at him. “I shall make myself ready.” She disappeared into the bedchamber.

He sat in his armchair. A long time passed. Hare drummed his knee.

He thought of Whitechapel.

Whores.

Kitty, so pristine in the garden of her cottage, concealing her sinful past. A pious masquerade, a whitewashed sepulcher.

He really should have killed her. Forbearance had been a weakness on his part.

“Darling.” A seductive whisper from the next room. “I’m ready now.”

He stood. His balance was unsteady. There was a peculiar heaving in his gut. He thought perhaps he had overindulged in food and drink.

It didn’t matter. He need only do his duty.

He took a step toward the bedroom. The narrow doorway became the gate to a fenced backyard, stinking with trash, the yard where he killed Annie Chapman. He remembered pulling her backward against the fence as he throttled her from behind—the thump of their bodies against the rotten wood. Later the papers reported that a man on the other side of that fence heard the noise but lacked the curiosity to investigate. He had run a grave risk, killing her in such a public place, and yet he’d felt no fear.

But now...

Now he was afraid.

“Dearest?” Maddie’s voice.

He straightened his shoulders. Fear would not unman him. He had carved up whores; surely he could bed one. No, that was all wrong—not a whore—she wasn’t a whore. She was his wife, and a virgin. Or so he had assumed. But the way she had looked at him tonight, so boldly...

Perhaps not a virgin.

How would he know? They said if the woman bled on her wedding night, then she was chaste.

If she bled...

But they always bled. Chapman and Kelly and Brown, and the others. Always there was blood and more blood; it was all women were made of, it seemed; they bled with the cycles of the moon; they bled in childbirth; they bled when he gutted them with his fine, sharp blade...

He reached the doorway of the bedchamber. The room was dark. In the shadows Maddie was a dim, pale shape amid the bedclothes.

The image flickered, and it was Mary Kelly he saw, her face stripped away. Shapes shifted, and now it was Carrie Brown, Old Shakespeare, legs spread wide, dress hitched up over her hips.

“Darling? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. He stared into the darkness, seeing other women on other nights. Different names, different faces. Yet all the same. Peel away their disguises, and they were all whores, every one.

“You disgust me,” he whispered.

She sat up. “What?”

His voice was low and firm, and he felt no more fear, only a deliriously righteous certainty. “You are an abomination. I would not sully myself with your touch.”

“You—you can’t mean that...”

“I mean every word.”

He left her. As he returned to the parlor, he heard her quiet sobs. She was the second woman he’d reduced to tears tonight.

Without undressing, he stretched out on the divan. He would sleep here until they departed for California. In their new home they would have separate bedrooms. He need never share a pillow with her. She might protest, but it would make no difference .

He was her master now.