Riptide (29 page)

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.

twenty-nine

It took her an hour to tell the story to Draper and Casey. She kept her voice even, her face expressionless.

They listened, asking few questions. Draper sat on the edge of the desk, in a sport jacket and denim pants. Casey, in uniform, occupied the desk chair in the watch commander’s office.

Jennifer stood, her body rigid, her emotions held in check. This was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she wouldn’t let it break her, and she wouldn’t let them see.

By the time she finished talking, it was four P.M., and her throat was sore. She had been speaking almost continuously since three.

“He attacked you with a knife?” Draper asked.

“After knocking me out, yes. He put the knife to my throat. Even pricked me a little—here.” She pointed to a dab of blood near her collarbone.

“And he said, ’Not yet’? Any idea why he—well, why he didn’t go through with it then and there?”

“I’d like to think he still has some small emotional connection with me.”

Casey gave her a sharp look. “
Is
that what you think?”

“Not really, no. I think he’s just confused and irrational. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He thinks he’s Jack the Ripper.”

“We don’t know that,” Draper said.

“It’s obvious. The four victims—their first names...”

Casey shrugged. “Those are pretty common names.”

“It’s not
just
the names. They’re in the correct chronological order, and there are other details that match. The Ripper’s second victim, Annie Chapman, was attacked in a fenced-in backyard, and so was Ann Powell—the woman who was lured outside when her dog went missing. Catharine Eddowes was a street person, just like the bag lady, Chatty Cathy. There may be other parallels. If you let me see the files—”

Draper shook his head. “You’re not seeing any files.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too worked up about this as it is. You need to calm down and get some perspective.”

“I
have
perspective.”

“What you have are some similar names.” His fingers drummed the desk. “Very common names, as the sergeant said. If you go through enough crimes, you’ll find all sorts of apparent patterns that don’t mean anything.”

“You don’t get it. You’re not
listening
. He was on a Ripper site because he’s obsessed with Jack the Ripper. He wrote,
Call me Jack
. He quoted from the Ripper’s letters. Said he was ‘down on whores’ and wouldn’t stop killing them.”

Draper frowned. “None of the local women you mentioned was a prostitute.”

“He told me
all
women are whores.”

“Do you have a record of this conversation?”

“No, I was texting. My phone doesn’t store the messages. You think I’m making it up?” She could hear the thin leading edge of hysteria in her voice.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Draper soothed. “It would be useful to read the transcript, that’s all. You’re a document analyst. You know that.”

“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just—there’s not a lot of time. The intervals between the attacks have been getting shorter. Six months between Mary Ann Ellison and Ann Powell. Five months between Powell and Elizabeth Custer. Three months between Custer and Chatty Cathy. And three months have passed since then. He’s due—he’s overdue—to strike. He nearly killed me. And now he’s run off somewhere in an acute phase of his illness. He’s preparing to kill again.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Draper said. “You’re adding two plus two and getting five.”

“You mean you don’t believe me?”

“I believe you about what happened in the library. Your brother is dangerous. He has to be picked up. Whether or not he’s connected with any of these other cases remains to be seen.”

She almost argued the point, then realized it didn’t matter. The only priority was to get Richard off the street. The details would come out later.

“All right,” she said. “As long as you’re going after him.”

“Naturally we’re going after him. He held you at knifepoint. That’s enough for now.”

“He have a car?” Casey asked.

“Not unless he’s stolen one. Otherwise he walks or takes the bus.”

“Since he was at the library, it’s a safe bet he’s still local. You think he’ll stay close to home even now that he knows you’re on to him?”

“The library is as far as he’ll go, I think. Mostly he’ll stay in Venice. It’s his home turf. “

“Have you got a photo of him?”

Her hand was trembling as she removed the picture from her wallet. “This is the most recent one.”

Draper studied it, then passed it to Casey. “I’ll make copies,” Casey said, “and have them circulated at roll call. We can put out a BOLO for units in the field right now.”

“I don’t want him hurt,” she whispered. “I mean—even with everything that’s happened, and everything I suspect, I still...”

Casey understood. “I’ll tell all units that if anyone spots him, they’re to contact me immediately before taking any action. I’ll personally supervise, all right? I’ll make sure things don’t get out of hand.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Draper was staring out the window into the squad room, the neat maze of cubicles with waist-high partitions. “How much of this did you tell Sandra Price?”

The question surprised her. “None of it, really. I just said I had concerns about someone close to me.”

“Good. We don’t need any vigilantes looking for your brother.”

“She’s not a vigilante.”

“She’s not a cop, either. This is a job for law enforcement, not community activists.”

She wanted to say that maybe if they chose to work with Sandra Price instead of against her... But now was the wrong time.

“Anyone else know about this?” Casey asked.

“Well, there’s a friend of mine, Maura Lowell. She dated Richard for a while, before he started showing symptoms. She’s worried about him, too.”

“We’ll need contact information for her, as well as your brother’s address. For the time being, you shouldn’t go home. You can stay with a friend or—”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting right here until you find him.”

“That could be hours. Or days.”

“Then I’ll wait hours. Or days. Casey, he’s my
brother
.” She nearly lost her composure as she said it.

Casey looked away too quickly, and she knew he had read the expression on her face.

thirty

Jennifer sat in the detectives’ squad room amid the ringing telephones and the clatter of footsteps. Casey and Draper had left on separate missions more than an hour ago. She had no one to talk to, no one to share her fears with. Fears of what Richard might be planning to do when the sun went down. Or sooner.

She remembered missing Maura’s call. There were no messages on her voicemail. She tried Maura’s cell, then her home phone. No answer. Probably showing a house, not taking calls.

It seemed unfair. The one time when she needed companionship and reassurance, and she was alone.

She felt a presence beside her and looked up. Draper was there.

“News?” she asked, rising.

“I went to the library. Richard’s card was used on one of the computers during the appropriate time frame. And a patron found a cell phone in the stacks, turned it in to lost-and-found.”

“Richard’s phone?”

“Probably, but don’t get too excited. It’s one of those cheap throwaways with prepaid minutes that you can buy in any drugstore. No calling plan, no way to trace the owner.”

“Why would he leave it behind?”

“He was probably afraid we could identify the phone from your cell records and then zero in on his GPS signal.”

“Yes, he’s smart enough to think of that. How about the patrol units?”

“No sightings yet. Like Casey said, it could take days. Your brother could be anywhere. Living in an alley or on the beach—”

She remembered. “The beach.”

“What about it?”

“This morning I ran into a homeless man in a tent city on the beach. He claimed he’d seen Richard around, but he wouldn’t tell me where. Of course, he could’ve been shining me on.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Even better—I can point him out to you, if he’s still there.”

“I don’t normally bring along a civilian when I’m questioning a witness.”