Текст книги "Riptide"

Автор книги: Michael Prescott

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

twenty-seven

It was one o’clock when Jennifer boarded the elevator with Maura and descended to the parking garage.

“Heading home?” Jennifer asked. They had taken separate cars to Hollywood. It wasn’t safe to leave a vehicle parked in Dogtown for too long.

Maura shook her head without answering. She had said little since Sirk’s outburst.

Jennifer tried to get the conversation started. “Got plans?”

“I’m going downtown.” Maura looked away. “Business stuff.”

She seemed to be hiding something, but Jennifer couldn’t imagine what.

They got off at the garage level. A few steps from the elevator, Maura stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For hooking you up with Harrison. I didn’t know—I never saw that side of him—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. But I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Never mind. I just will. And you need to call the cops.”

“So far I have nothing but suspicions.”

“So report your suspicions.”

“Not yet.”

“Damn. You are the stubborn one.” Unexpectedly she gave Jennifer a hug. “Take care of yourself, kiddo. And remember, there are wolves in the woods.”

Jennifer watched her walk away, her flat-soled shoes echoing on the concrete floor. In the past, she’d resented Maura for abandoning Richard. It had never occurred to her that Maura was the aggrieved party. And she had stayed quiet about Richard’s transgressions, preferring not to sully his image in the eyes of his sister. There was nobility in her tactfulness, and simple kindness that was rare anywhere—perhaps especially so in Los Angeles, a city with a warm climate and a cold heart.

She arrived home by two P.M. and went immediately to the back of the house. Her laptop had been left on; so far there had been no reply by Abberline to her instant message. It wasn’t her highest priority now.

What she’d seen when she looked at Sirk’s news clippings was more than a hunch, less than proof. But the proof might be waiting here, in her study.

She took out the loose pages of her notes from the meeting with Sandra Price. She arranged the four crimes—two homicides, one assault, one disappearance—in chronological order, then wrote three lists.

First, the Ripper’s five initial victims in London.

Mary Ann (Polly) Nichols

Annie Chapman

Elizabeth Stride

Catharine Eddowes

Mary Jane Kelly

Then four of the missing women in Venice a hundred years ago.

Marianne Sorenson

Annette Thurmond

Kathleen Wright

Mary Hatton

Finally, the local women who had been attacked or who had disappeared within the past eighteen months.

Mary Ellison—eighteen months ago

Ann Powell—twelve months ago

Elizabeth Custer—seven months ago

Chatty Cathy—three months ago

The first victim in each sequence was Mary Ann, Marianne, or Mary. The second was Annie, Annette, or Ann. The third was Elizabeth Stride in 1888 and Elizabeth Custer recently; there was no corresponding name in the old news accounts Sirk’s people had dug up, but that point in the chronology matched the reported disappearances of “three or four” anonymous women of low repute. One of them could easily have been Elizabeth or Liz or Beth.

Fourth came Catharine or Kathleen or Cathy. Fifth, Mary Jane in 1888, Mary in 1911. There hadn’t been a fifth homicide in the newest series. Not yet.

The police wouldn’t have seen it, of course—not in the early 1900s, and not today. In neither instance would they have been looking for the parallels.

According to his diary, Hare had not known his victims’ names in London until after the fact. But once in Venice, years older, he must have recreated the glories of his youth, deliberately targeting women with the same—or similar—names. As a lark? More likely, it was a message for the future, a code to be deciphered. He hadn’t wanted his work to be uncredited and unappreciated for all time. He must have hoped that someone, someday, would see the pattern—perhaps after finding the crypt and the diary, his secret time capsule.

If so, she was doing only what he had wanted her to do. She was his puppet, her strings pulled by a dead man.

She wondered if the Devil’s Henchman had repeated the pattern. Somehow she would find the details. But even if that case didn’t fit, it made no difference. The new killer—the nameless modern-day Ripper—was clearly emulating his forebear. And no one would guess. No one would see.

Richard would have counted on that.

It had to be Richard. Who else could it be?

Sirk was right about the parallels between the Ripper case and the Devil’s Henchman murders. The diary was the connection. It linked Aldrich Silence to the Ripper. It implied a taste for blood that had persisted across generations—and persisted today.

She had uncovered an ongoing series of murders committed by her own brother.

In London, Hare left his victims in the open; in Venice, he hid them in a cellar. The first method brought him notoriety but advertised his activities to the police. The second method allowed him to keep a low profile, but cheated him of the fame he thought he deserved. Richard had found a third way. Some victims were found, while others went missing. His approach varied so the crimes could not be linked.

He had learned from his father’s mistakes, which had made Aldrich a suspect and driven him to suicide. Richard, it seemed, would outdo his father. Perhaps he meant to outdo Jack himself.

He had always been ambitious. Always proud of his cleverness, his brains.

Her head hurt. It was all too much. She was caught up in a sequence of events driving her to a conclusion she hated—caught in a riptide that was entangling her in her brother’s crimes, as surely as another current had borne Marilyn Diaz into the fishing lines under the Venice Pier.

Ever since finding the bodies and reading the diary, she had been rationalizing, fearful of reaching this moment. Now that she had, she was faced with a choice. She could turn Richard over to the police, and let him go to prison or maybe die.

Or she could do...nothing.

Run away, leave the city, leave the state—and let him go on killing.

Impossible. She couldn’t do that. Or could she? The people he murdered...she didn’t know them. She owed them nothing. She owed Richard—she touched her arm—everything.

Maybe she could let him go. His victims were only strangers. And he...

“He’s family,” she whispered, eyes shut against tears.

Her laptop pinged, announcing an instant message.

She gathered herself. Opened the dialogue box. It was Abberline, responding to the message she’d sent this morning. The trap she’d laid.

I decided I was being unfair, she’d written. So I put some digital pix online. Part of my doc. I can send you a link.

His reply glimmered on the screen: I am eager to see it.

“I’ll bet you are,” she said.

From memory she entered an URL she’d used before—a dummy link, a Web address that went nowhere.

For ten dollars a month, she subscribed to a tracking service that could pinpoint the origin of e-mails and instant messages. Instant messages did not carry routing information, and e-mails could have their routing info disguised or removed. But the sender could be tricked into revealing his location by opening a dummy link maintained by the tracking service. As soon as he clicked on the link, his IP address would be sent to their servers. Once the IP address was known, his whereabouts could be determined—sometimes only within a certain ZIP code, but other times narrowed down to a city block or even a particular building.

She waited. Within sixty seconds her e-mail program notified her of incoming mail. It was a message from the tracking service, and it included a link to the traceroute results.

She followed the link. Abberline’s IP address was associated with the domain name SMPL.org.

According to the WHOIS database, the domain was registered to the Santa Monica Public Library at 601 Santa Monica Boulevard, Santa Monica, California.

He was using a public computer at the library, less than four miles from her house.

She remembered the overdue library books in Richard’s apartment.

He was Abberline.

Just another of his games.

She shut off the laptop so any new instant messages would be forwarded to her cell phone. She ran for her car. Luckily she hadn’t bothered to close the garage door, making it easier to make a quick exit. She shot down a side street to Venice Boulevard and headed east, then took a left onto Abbot Kinney Boulevard and a right onto California Avenue. At Lincoln Boulevard she went north.

Lincoln was always crowded, but it was the main thoroughfare in the neighborhood, and she would just have to hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.

She remembered her first online conversation with Abberline, which ended just before nine PM. The library’s main branch remained open until nine on weeknights. He must have stayed at the terminal until almost the last minute.

She was crossing Rose Avenue when her phone rang. Not an SMS alert. This was an incoming call. Caller ID showed Maura’s cell.

She couldn’t talk to Maura now. She let voicemail take the call. As she reached Ocean Park Boulevard a text came through.

Link did not work. Tried several times.

She braced the steering wheel between her elbows, freeing her hands to type a reply. Her phone, in T9 mode, allowed her to tap out words quickly, with word completion and letter prediction.

Maybe I uploaded the file wrong. Let me check.

That would buy some time. She passed Pico Boulevard and sped over the freeway. Getting close.

She couldn’t wait any longer or he might suspect something. OK fixed it. Try again.

The traffic in downtown Santa Monica was snarled. She was stuck at the intersection of Lincoln and Colorado for two minutes. Her dashboard clock clicked past 2:30.

Still no success, he wrote.

I don’t understand.

Perhaps if you explain the nature of this document?

I’d rather you see for yourself.

As would I.

Traffic was moving again. She was across Broadway, nearing Santa Monica Boulevard.

You wouldn’t be toying with me? he asked.

No.

I dislike games.

Me too.

You are a poor liar.

Turning west onto Santa Monica Boulevard. The library ahead.

I’m not lying. Why would you say that?

Around the corner. Behind the big new library complex. Praying for a place to park on the street because the underground garage would take too long.

Whores lie. And you are a whore.

She swung into a lot on the street and parked illegally in a handicapped space.

Don’t call me that, she typed. She was out of the car, ignoring the parking meter as she ran, the phone in her hand.

The library was a modernistic pile, shiny and new. She sprinted into the lobby, her shoes clacking on the glossy tile floor.

You are all whores. You and the others.

What others?

You know.

The terminals were on the second story. She took the stairs because the elevator would be too slow.

I’m down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them.

She recognized the quotation from one of the Ripper’s letters.

He was still on the computer. He had to be here. She ran toward the periodicals room. In front of it was a line of tables arrayed with flat-screen monitors and keyboards. A handful of people sat using the machines.

Richard wasn’t one of them.

Are you there yet? Abberline asked.

Am I where?

Library.

He knew.

The link was clever. You traced me through it. I knew it was a trap.

He had left the library. Was using another computer. Somewhere in the neighborhood, undoubtedly. He hadn’t had time to go far.

But there were Internet cafés and WiFi hotspots all over, and copy stores that rented computer time. She wouldn’t find him.

Unless she could convince him to give up.

Richard, she typed, is that you?

Not my name.

Who are you?

CALL ME JACK.

The words blazed. She stared at them for a long moment, then wrote, You need help.

Doing fine without. Having the time of my life.

Please turn yourself in.

Never.

Please.

Catch me when you can.

Another quotation, this one from the letter datelined “from Hell,” which had come with Catharine Eddowes’ kidney.

She texted him again and again, but there was no response. The conversation was over.

He must have moved on as soon as he figured out what she was doing.

Unless he hadn’t. He might have lingered here. Not using a computer. Texting on a cell phone, as she was.

He would have wanted a computer to view and perhaps print out the file she claimed to have uploaded. But to continue the conversation, a cell phone would have been all he needed.

She approached a librarian and pulled out her photo of Richard, asking if he had been here today.

“Yes, I saw him. He hangs out here a lot.”

“Did you see where he went?”

“He went into the stacks.” The woman pointed to the labyrinth of books. “He looked kind of agitated. But, well...”

“He always does.” Jennifer understood. “How long ago was this?”

“A few minutes, that’s all. He’s not dangerous, is he?”

“No. Not dangerous. Thanks for your help.”

She headed into the stacks. Richard could have left since then, but there was a chance he was still here.

She moved from aisle to aisle, pausing to study every patron, even the homeless man in camo fatigues stretched out on the carpet and emitting a stench of body odor. He wasn’t Richard.

Toward the rear of the stacks there were fewer people. One of the overhead fluorescents had gone out, and another was winking fitfully. If Richard were hiding, he would probably be back here, in the solitude and the uncertain light.

She explored the darkest corner of the maze. No one was there. Yet she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was close. She could almost sense his eyes on her.

“Richard?” she whispered.

He could be hiding in one of the nearby aisles, watching her through gaps in the rows of books. But if she went chasing around aimlessly, he would stay one step ahead. He had been one step ahead all along.

Unless he wasn’t in the stacks. There was another possibility.

In the corner, under the defective light panel, was a closed door marked Employees Only. Probably it was kept locked, but Richard might be able to get in.

She approached the door. With her hand on the knob she hesitated. Suppose he was inside. He would be cornered, trapped. No telling how he would react.

But he wouldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t.

Anyway, she had to take the chance. Maura would say she was crazy.

But, hell...he was her brother.

She turned the knob, noting without surprise that the door was unlocked. It swung open, revealing a small storage closet, mops and brooms, dust pans, a vacuum cleaner, nothing else.

He wasn’t there. The closet was empty.

She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Probably it had been foolhardy to risk entry. Probably she should be glad—

A noise. Rustle of clothing.

Behind her.

She started to turn but it was already too late.

twenty-eight

She had no idea how long she was out. She came to without confusion or grogginess—a snap into consciousness and she was back, fully alert, remembering everything except the blow to her head. She knew about that only because the back of her skull still pounded in time with her pulse.

She could see only darkness and a pale horizontal glimmer at the lower periphery of her vision. Blindfolded, a little light seeping in from below.

Bound, too. Her wrists were lashed behind her back with electrical cord. There was something in her mouth, stiff and foul-tasting like a bundle of rags. She might be able to spit it out....

She heard the tread of a step.

He was with her, in a small, enclosed space—she could feel the nearness of the walls. The supply closet.

She wanted to talk to him, but even if she could spit out the gag, she knew he wouldn’t listen. Any words she found would only make him angry.

She heard his low, quick breathing. Smelled his sweat, cloying and close.

He paced before the door. Restless, trying to decide what to do with her. Whether to add her name to the roster of victims.

She remembered feeling sorry for him, wanting to help him, but that was all behind her now, and there was only the furious demand of self-preservation. She would have shot him if she could. Later she might have regretted it, even hated herself, but not now.

She was seated on the floor, her back to a wall, knees drawn up. She tried shifting her legs to prevent a cramp, and her shoe nudged something, a pail or a bucket, which slid with a low grating sound.

Instantly he was crouching beside her, breathing in her ear.

He knew she was awake. And he knew—must know—that she wanted him to speak, to say something. He kept silent, simply to torture her. He was cruel. From what Maura had told her, he had always been cruel. It wasn’t just his illness. It was who he was, and she hadn’t seen it because she hadn’t wanted to see.

Blind. Willfully blind.

Now she was going to die here, in a closet in a public building, a place not so different from the utility room where, years ago, she’d curled up to bleed out from an open wound.

She’d been rescued then. No salvation this time.

The breathing in her ear was fierce, hot, a tiger’s breath. She wanted to scream at him to get it over with, but the gag was still in place and she lacked the strength to work it free.

Then the blindfold was stripped off her face, and she was staring into his eyes from inches away.

It was her brother, but she had never seen him like this. His eyes were wider than she’d thought possible, his mouth twisted in a humorless smile. He was shaking all over as he knelt by her, his face level with hers.

“Stupid bitch.” The breath issuing from between his teeth was foul. “What the hell were you trying to prove?”

A gleam of metal in his hand. She had no chance to see what it was, but she felt it against her neck. The subtlest tickle, the lightest kiss.

A knife, teasing her throat.

The blade passed slowly over her skin, testing its suppleness, pressing down for an instant, then easing up.

Another of his games. She swallowed and felt the knife more keenly against the sudden gulping motion.

“Following me,” he said. “Spying on me. You couldn’t leave me alone.”

She wanted to pivot away from him, protect herself, but she knew it would be no use. He would only grab her by the hair and pull her head back, the better to slice open her neck. He would enjoy the struggle, and she wouldn’t give him that pleasure.

Slowly the knife traveled lower, its tip probing the hollow at the base of her throat. It pushed in deep, pinching like a needle, drawing blood. She bit back a gasp, not of pain but of fear.

It had started. He was cutting her.

He thought he was Jack the Ripper and he would kill her—not in an alley but in a supply closet, where she would be found not by a patrolling constable but by a janitor on the night crew.

“You want me arrested. There’s family loyalty for you. First you steal the house and then you come after me.”

The knife climbed her neck, tracing her jawline, the blade’s touch feather soft. He would open the carotids at the sides of her neck—it wouldn’t be hard—a little nick would do it.

“Should’ve killed you years ago. You’ve always been against me.”

The hiss of his breath, the lilting craziness of his voice.

“And now what’s stopping me? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing can stop me.”

Then do it, she thought with hopeless desperation. Do it already.

“I ought to,” he said as if reading her mind. “I damn well should.”

The knife hesitated, then withdrew.

“But...not yet.”

There it was again, that twisted smile, so much like a wince of pain. There were dark depths in his eyes she’d never seen before. It was like staring into an abyss.

He held her gaze for a breath or two, then sprang to his feet, pocketing the knife. The door shut behind him as he made his exit.

Only when he’d left did she start to shake. A swarm of tremors traveled through her, microcosmic earthquakes shifting her inner landscape. She let the shaking subside in its own time, not fighting it.

He hadn’t killed her. Maybe there was some hope for him, then.

But she knew that was nonsense. There could be no hope, not anymore.

She coughed out the gag. If she yelled for help, someone was sure to hear. But then there would be chaos and wasted time. And it was already too late to apprehend him. He would be long gone.

She set to work wriggling free of the cord that bound her hands. Once untied, she would drive to the police station and file an official report.

Catch me when you can, he’d written.

“I will, Richard,” she whispered. “I promise you, I will.”