“You think the Ripper can scale buildings?” she asked.
“Just being cautious. The prevailing theory is that the victims know him and invite him in.”
“And if he’s disguised as a woman the way we think he was at the institute, and they recognize her as someone they saw with Julian Rhoades at a book signing, they might invite her in.”
“That’s a strong possibility. Women don’t usually feel threatened by other women. But I’m not ruling out anything. Maybe he got in some other way. Max is depending on us—all of us—to keep you safe. That means you have to do your part. That’s why I’m going to give you this.” He pulled a small handgun out of his pocket and laid it on the table next to her glass of wine. “I want you to carry that with you. It’s loaded, but it won’t discharge unless you flip the safety off. In a minute, I’ll teach you how to shoot it.”
Neely swallowed hard as she stared at the gun.
“Unless you think you can’t shoot a man.”
She thought of her trips to London—of the blood she’d smelled in Mitre Square, of the body she’d seen in Buck’s Row and of the knife plunging into Elena’s shoulder. Her eyes were steady when they met Sam’s. “I can shoot him.”
Sam nodded. “Good girl. Max said you had guts. You’re going to need them. Take a drink of that wine.”
“Why?” But she lifted the glass and took a healthy swallow as fear pierced the emptiness in her heart. “Did something happen to Max?”
He sat down then and covered her hand with his. “I’m sure he’s just fine. For all we know, he’s lifted prints off that knife and they’re arresting the Ripper right now. Take another drink.”
She didn’t. Instead, she set down her glass and met his eyes. “What is it that you’ve got me swilling wine for? You might as well spill it.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. “I got an e-mail from my friend at Scotland Yard, and the news isn’t good.”
Neely changed her mind and took another sip of wine.
“He traced Sir Justin Rathbone. In 1888, he was in his nineties, childless and living on his estate several hundred miles north of London.”
“So who was the man who impregnated Elena?”
“Exactly.”
She reached for the wine and took a sip. “So my theory about Justin Rathbone being an alias for the Ripper isn’t such a leap, after all.”
“We can’t verify it. Only the Ripper knows for sure. The only thing we do know is that the Justin Rathbone who impregnated Elena was an impostor.”
Linc walked into the kitchen, checking windows and doors.
“You’d better check the upstairs windows, too,” Sam said.
“Got it.”
“What did your friend find out about Elena?” Neely asked as soon as Linc left.
“He searched through birth records nine months out from November, 1888. An Elena Sheffield died in childbirth at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Mead. She had no living relatives. Her aunt had died seven months previously in a carriage accident. Her son Angus was taken to a nearby orphanage when no one came to claim him.”
Neely closed her hand around the locket. “So Elena Sheffield was my great-great-great-grandmother.” She didn’t voice the other possibility that her great-great-great-grandfather might be Jack the Ripper.
Sam held her gaze steadily as he nodded. “If your hunch about the Ripper using Justin Rathbone as an alias is correct, it could explain how you and Angus and your grandmother got your ability to psychically travel through time.”
Neely swallowed hard.
Sam patted her hand. “Just remember, you saved her life—and your own. Now I’m going to teach you how to aim and shoot that gun.”
14
ALL NEELY COULD DO was watch as flames shot out of the windows of Mabel Parish’s brownstone. Black smoke billowed up from the roof, blocking out moonlight and permeating the night air with its acrid scent. Up and down 35th Street, neighbors had filed out to sit on their stoops and watch the drama as firefighters battled the blaze. Just as flames were beaten back at one window, they shot out through another.Because of the location of Mabel’s house, more than half a block away, Bookends wasn’t in danger. But the buildings to the side and behind Mabel’s had been evacuated, and firefighters were still wetting them down. Following Sam’s orders, Neely sat on the top step of her stoop. She’d convinced Sam to let her come out, telling him that she would sense the Ripper if he was near. She pulled her jacket more tightly around her. Even though the heat from the fire was considerable, she felt chilled to the bone.
Two steps below, Linc had his arm draped around Sally. Sam and Mabel stood, hand in hand, on the sidewalk as close as they could get to the barrier the fire department had put up. She could only imagine what Mabel must be feeling. She’d been born and raised in that brownstone. Neely didn’t even want to think about what it would feel like to watch Bookends burn.
The fire had happened so quickly. Except for Sam, they’d all been playing Scrabble when they heard the sound of shattering glass a little after 1:00 a.m. Then there’d been a series of pops, like the sound of a string of firecrackers going off.
It was Sam who’d called 911, and by the time they’d joined him out on the front stoop, flames were already greedily shooting out of Mabel’s first- and second-floor windows.
What had caused the fire? How could it have happened? Neely had a very bad feeling about that, and she knew Sam shared it. He’d given her strict orders that if she sensed anything at all out of the ordinary, she was to go back into the house, reset the alarm and be prepared to use her gun. She was carrying it the way he’d shown her, tucked into the back waistband of her jeans.
When one of the firefighters approached Sam, Linc and Sally moved down the steps to join them. The news wasn’t good. Neely could tell when Sam drew Mabel closer and she rested her head on his shoulder. Neely’s throat tightened.
A sudden gust of wind had her momentarily blinded and blinking back tears. The grip on her arm was a band of steel, the voice in her ear barely audible. “Not a word unless you want me to kill you right here.”
The Ripper. Terror paralyzed her. She hadn’t sensed him at all.
“We’re going to get up slowly and go into the house.”
Pushing down hard on the panic, she tried to focus. A sideways glance told her that he was using his psychic power to make himself invisible. When Sam looked back at her, he saw no one, and the prick at the back of her neck discouraged her from calling out.
“Let’s go.” The voice, that same hoarse whisper she’d heard in the London alley, made her blood run cold. The moment she rose, Sam turned in her direction again. But he didn’t move. Of course not. Why should he? She was only following his orders by going inside if she felt the Ripper’s presence.
Once they were in the bookstore, she said, “Sam will come in to check on me.”
“We won’t be here,” he said, dragging her through the kitchen. It was only a matter of seconds before they were in the backyard, then cutting through an alleyway where a car was waiting with its engine running—a white limo with black windows. She tried to think of a way to stall, but the knife pricked at her throat again.
“Open the door and get in, or I’ll finish it here.”
The clipped orders were beginning to annoy her. She once again felt the coldness she’d sensed at the lecture hall, but the rage was there, also—lurking beneath that icy surface. For now, she followed orders, reminding herself that she had a few tricks up her sleeve—and perhaps more importantly, a very big trick in the back waistband of her jeans.
She was not going to allow this man to make her one of his victims. Max would return and somehow he would find her. She knew that in every fiber of her being. Maybe he was here right now. In her mind, she reached out for him, and for just a moment, she thought she felt the connection. Then it was broken.
Once inside the limo, she slid as far as she could along the seat. To her great relief, he didn’t follow her. But she still couldn’t tell exactly where he was.
“Are you too much of a coward to become visible?”
“I’m not a coward.”
She found the annoyance and the trace of anger in his tone reassuring. And it allowed her to hone in on exactly where he was—directly across from her. She folded her arms across her chest. “Prove it. Let me see you.”
Then she watched in fascination as a woman appeared on the seat. It was dark inside the limo, but in the intermittent flash of streetlights, Neely took in the flowered dress, the blond hair swept back into a chignon. He wasn’t wearing the straw hat that he’d worn at the Psychic Institute, but Neely still recognized the woman who had been handing Julian Rhoades books to sign. This close, Neely could see that although he was taller than average, his slender frame and almost delicate bone structure allowed for an effective masquerade. She also noted some kind of clear wrapping on his right wrist. A little present from Max—and something she might use to her advantage.
When they stopped at an intersection, light fell directly on the Ripper’s face. Looking into his eyes, she was barely able to prevent a shudder. She was sitting across from a madman. And in spite of the dress and the hairdo, she recognized him as one of the suspects Max had shown her on his palm unit.