Michael Prescott - Riptide

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.

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.”