Michael Prescott - Riptide

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 cafes 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?