Riptide

thirty-three

That had been close. He’d never thought the persistent little bitch would spot him in the crowd, much less give chase. After what had happened in the library, he would have thought she’d show more sense.

He still wasn’t sure how she’d noticed him. He’d been wearing his cloak of invisibility. That was how he thought of the hooded sweatshirt with the long, loose, baggy sleeves. The garment covered his head and hands, made him a faceless thing-like Abberline, or like old Jack. Of course an observer might still see his face up close, but that was the wonder of it. No one ever got close. They saw him in his hood, bopping to the music in his head, and they assumed he was crazy. No one made eye contact with a crazy person. No one wanted to see him, or even to acknowledge his existence. In his cloak of invisibility he was anonymous, blending with his surroundings as seamlessly as a chameleon, safe from any threat.

But she had seen him. Almost caught him, too.

What was worse, in the chase he’d dropped his souvenir. He’d wanted it. Maura had died so nicely, and the aftermath had been so fine. He never danced, not anymore, but in her living room, awash in the slippery muck, he had danced like a shaman, danced naked, as Jack himself must have danced in Mary Kelly’s flat.

Mary then. Maura now. Perfect.

He wished now that he had disemboweled the others. It would not have been practical, given the circumstances-outdoors, in public places, where anyone might come along. And it would have set the authorities on his trail much sooner. Yes, there were sound logical and logistical reasons not to have done it, but irrationally he wished he had, because-well, because it was so goddamned much fun.

Jennifer would never understand that kind of fun. She had no soul, that one.

But she did have courage. To come after him, into the stacks, was bold enough. To pursue again, even after her ordeal in the supply closet…

He almost respected her for it. But he respected no one. Except Edward Hare.

He didn’t underestimate her, though. That was why he’d burned the family papers, torching them methodically in the flaming pyre of a metal wastebasket. There was information in those papers that might have helped a clever, crafty, sly little trollop like her.

He burned it all, the entire contents of the file cabinet, with one exception. He kept a newspaper clipping from a few years ago, a yellowed scrap torn from a local rag. Under the small black-and-white photo ran the caption: “Local Realtor Maura Lowell and Dr. Richard Silence were among the attendees at the Venice Historical Society’s charity ball.”

Two smiling faces. A long time ago.

The scrap of newspaper had gone into his pocket, but all the rest had been fed to the flames. A shrewd move. It had bought him time. But now the hounds were baying. His revels were nearly done.

One more adventure, one more ritual of predation and purgation, was all he would be allowed.

Until now he had paid homage to his ancestor, re-creating the crimes as closely as he dared. Parallel names, similar locations. But he was through with all that. His last murder would be his original creation. His days as an apprentice were over. Now he was a full-fledged master of his art, ready to carve his magnum opus and emblazon his signature across an appalled world.

It would be Jennifer, of course. Who else could it be?

He would take her and he would kill her, but in this one case he would do it slowly. It would not be a dissection, but a vivisection. She would be alive and aware as he turned her inside out and sliced and diced her and left her obscenely exposed. She would feel it, every last plunge of the knife, every excision of her vital parts, until the glorious climax when he wrested the seat of life itself from her chest and left her lifeless and hollow.

He had lost Maura’s bracelet, but soon he would have a new and better token.

Soon he would have Jennifer’s heart.