The Ripper's Daughter

by B Anders

  “You know, an attitude like that wins you shackles from now on,” Colby winked. “If you’re gonna be a little Houdini, I’ve got to take precautions.”

  “You always know how to show a girl a good time, Officer Willis,” Jessie replied smugly. “But, what makes you think a chain is going to be so much harder for me to slip out of. A girl learns to take care of herself on the inside.”

  “Oh, tsk tsk, we have a challenge. I’ll just have to make sure I take extra steps. Now, get up and hit the bath, time to get clean.”

  Without saying a word, Jessie stood up, stripped out of her grubby scrubs and walked to the bathroom stark naked. She left the door wide open as she reached over the tub to turn the water on. The motion was slow, deliberate, and calculated to give Detective Colby Willis a long, hard look at what had always made Jessie Walsh a walking wet dream for the guys back at the squad room.

  Tearing her eyes away, Colby grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt out of her bag, before reaching into the zippered side pocket and pulling out a pair of ankle shackles. Whistling a happy tune, she strolled over to the night stand to retrieve the clock radio. She crossed the room still whistling and knocked loudly before entering the bathroom. She placed her stash on the closed toilet seat as Jessie looked up bemused at her.

  The chains went on first. Colby reached into the hot water and pulled Jessie’s left foot up. A cuff was fastened around the ankle. Then the other end locked securely to the hot water pipe for the sink. Jessie chuckled, clearly unimpressed by Colby’s action and playfully attempted to squirt water at her. Colby smiled back and picked up the radio. Jessie stopped laughing and watched as Colby plugged the device into an empty socket. Any trace of humor left Jessie’s face. Colby set the radio to a classical station before placing it on the floor out of arm’s reach from the tub.

  “Please, Colby … don’t,” Jessie stammered as she tried unsuccessful to claw her way out of the tub. Gently pushing her back into the water, Colby leaned in close and whispered in Jessie’s ear.

  “I recommend you stay right where you are and enjoy the hot water and the soft music until I get back. If you break the water pipe and flood the room, you’ll probably electrocute yourself. If you splash around too much, you’ll probably electrocute yourself. If you try to reach the radio to unplug it, you’ll probably electrocute yourself. Nope, I’d strongly recommend you stay right where you are until I get back.”

  ***

  Slamming the hotel room door behind her, Colby limped down the hall towards the deserted lobby. She was sick of looking at Jessie Walsh. Just being around that woman was giving Colby the shakes and the beginning of a migraine that started from that damned spot just behind her left eyeball. Colby needed to be alone. She needed to be dead drunk and soon, and to get there she needed a drink.

  Jessie Walsh was trouble, Colby knew from the first day they met. But for Colby, Jessie was something far worse. Jessie Walsh was forbidden fruit. The kind she had to stay as far away as possible until she could drown the demons screaming in her skull with a bottle of Jack. Scuttling down the dimly lit corridor like a crab, Colby hadn’t realized she left her wallet behind on the bedside table until she reached the front lobby.

  “No wheels, no cash,” she groaned. “No credit. I’m fucked!”

  Colby could feel her belly flip and her hands go clammy at the thought she would have to go it dry tonight. Heading back to the fuckin’ room to face Jessie without a shot of something potent under her belt was not an option. And there certainly was no way in hell she was going to score a drink from the bar back at the mall with her bum leg, no cash, and no gold shield. She would have to deal with the burning itch down her throat the best way she could.

  “Shit, I’m gonna be swillin’ friggin’ aftershave like some squash rot cunt, if I don’t get a drink soon.”

  Colby muttered in frustration as she paced the lobby. She was ready to let loose a string of curses until she saw the small neon sign beckon to her from across the empty parking lot.

  “O friggin’ Flannery’s! Now, we’re talking,” Colby’s face lit up with a cocky grin as she headed out for the darkened bar.

  The front door was padlocked and chained, but Colby managed to loosen the catch on the cellar entrance around the back. It popped open like a virgin’s cherry with a little pressure from her switchblade. It was a skill she picked up on the mean streets as a kid. Like riding a bike, it was something you never forgot.

  She pushed hard against the half rotten door, muttering a curse under her breath as the door swung wide knocking an old empty paint can over. The lid rolled across the cement floor. It spun tight before losing energy and settling on the floor with a gentle tink.

  "E#," Colby did not realize she had spoken out loud.

  The place smelled damp and moldy, filled with the lingering ghosts of too many cold beers and cheap microwave dinners. O’Flannery’s Bar and Grill started out as a sweet tribute to Ireland as bright as the American dream. Catering to a host of travelers over the years it saw its fair share of fights, Elvis sightings, and in one instance a knifing in the parking lot. Now well beyond its twilight, it was a shuttered little bar full of someone else’s memories fading away like the smoke stained wallpaper.

  Feeling her way along the wall in the dark, Colby eventually located a sole light switch at the far corner of the room and tried her luck. The switch on the wall only illuminated the inlaid bulbs beneath the smoked glass bar top, but it was enough for what Colby had in mind. The mirrored back looked twice as empty without a single bottle in sight. Colby’s heart began to race. Some tight-ass had done the right thing and cleared out the stock before locking up the place for good to deter break-ins. She hated it when that happened.

  “Can’t a cop catch a break around here?” she grumbled.

  Driven by an insane craving for alcohol, Colby hurried behind the bar. Quickly she opened and systematically emptied the half dozen cabinets under the counter. Her search yielding nothing of promise, a bottle opener, a shot glass or two, a few bags of expired peanuts, until in the last place she looked, she found a half empty bottle of what she needed.

  “Ah there you are, my good old friend JD.”

  She grabbed the bottle and headed for a stool. Planting her ass on the worn wooden seat, she unscrewed the top and took a long, deep swig from the dusty bottle. The amber elixir burned its way down her parched throat. She could feel its familiar warmth filling her.

  Lulled into a stupor, her eyes drifted closed and for a moment, everything became painfully clear, free of all the lies and the hiding and the fear. It was the profound perfection of despair—a scream lost in the pain filled silence of an amber sky.

  It took the unmistakable thunk of a shot glass hitting the bar top to startle her out of her self-pity. Jumping off the stool, Colby gagged on the Jack, throwing it up all over the front of her last clean shirt.

  “I taught you better manners than that, girl. Use a glass.”

  “Marty!”

  Marty stood smiling behind the bar, one hand on a shot glass and the other clutching the dark wetness soaking through the front of his crisp white shirt. Black pants riding high over his roundish belly. The beer gut that grows when a fit man stops exercising and starts spending Friday nights in bars. His starched long sleeves were fastened at the cuffs with gold links, out of place anywhere but a funeral home. Sparse brown hair ringing the sides and back of his slightly oversized head, eye brows creased in permanent distress over pale grey eyes and cheeks devoid of laugh lines. His expression as tightly synched as his black leather belt with the highly polished gold buckle.

  “And, stop spilling the good stuff. If you can’t hold your liquor then stop drinking.”

  “Marty, you’re dead,” Colby tried not to stammer but failed miserably.

  Marty rolled his eyes, “I’m goddamned sick of you telling me that, kiddo. Sure, I’m dead. I got myself cut open by some psycho. Took on more than I could handle and you’re lying on your
back on the fuckin’ floor back at that El-Crapo-Helltell taken’ a fit.”

  Colby started to turn to look but quickly turned her head back. The floor behind was dimly lit, and she was afraid of what she might see. Afraid that the dead man standing in front of her just might be right.

  “What’re you looking at kiddo? There’s nothing to see there, just lots of dust bunnies hiding in the corners. They won’t hurt you. Relax, have a drink. It’s on the house.”

  Colby watched him ease the bottle out from between her trembling hands and pour out a shot into the waiting glass. His hand was colder than ice.

  “What are doing here, Marty? Why you haunting me? Does this have anything to do with Jessie? I wasn’t going to hurt her. I just needed to get some air that’s all. You know how crazy she makes me.”

  Frowning Marty pushed the glass over to her with the bottle’s long neck. She could see the slash that ran down from his left ear down into his shirt. It must have damn near decapitated him. When in the dying did the killer inflict the grisly neck wound? Why couldn't she remember seeing it before?

  “Shit, if I was a friggin’ Indian or a yoga screwball you’d think I was your personal spirit guide. But I’m just a fat, dead Irish cop so I’m haunting you. Thanks for the support … and I know you would never hurt my baby girl. Take a bit of advice from a dead man and quit being so hard on yourself. I remember the time she sent you out for ice cream. Only you didn’t know she wanted a flavor they didn’t make anymore. You came back with every single flavor they stocked. Jessie plays you because she knows she can. You care too much, that’s your problem kiddo. You just don’t know when to fold your cards and walk away.”

  Colby couldn’t hold back the smirk, it was pure Marty. He always tried to make her laugh when he knew she was scared stupid. She made a small effort at amends.

  “Sorry, oh wise dead spirit guide. What have you come to tell me? The winning State lottery numbers would be nice. I could do with a couple million bucks. Maybe buy my own tropical island. Maybe you got me a name for the Ripper’s Daughter? An address or a driver's license would do fine.”

  “Funny. Ha. Ha. Ha. Nope, you were right the first time. I’m just haunting you, but I’d like the same presumption of mystical powers you’d give any old new age crack pot, that’s all.”

  Colby swallowed hard and fired back the shot. “Hey buddy; can I buy you a round?” She quipped as she set the glass back down.

  “Nope,” Marty grimaced as he refilled her glass. “No booze allowed in hell, girl.”

  “You’re in hell, Marty?” Colby whispered unable to swallow back her terror.

  “Where did you think I’d end up with all the drinking and whoring? Florida? I lied and I cheated. I made my own goddamned hell bit by bit.”

  Marty waited while Colby fired back another drink, then refilled it and watched dispassionately as she tossed it back again.

  “So, why are you haunting me?”

  “You’re a dead woman, Colby. You just don’t know it yet. Now, pay attention or you’re gonna be working as my bar back before the week is out!”

  Colby’s temper flared, “I suppose you’re gonna take me on a tour to the great beyond then. Show me the errors of my ways. Tell me I’m nothing but a washed up has been, that I need to clean up or ship out like the fuckin’ Captain. Thought once they let you into hell you don’t get a hall pass back to the land of the living. What? You get good behavior furlough?”

  He growled at her, “I ain’t here to tell you nothing you don’t already know.”

  “Go fuck yourself with the cryptic eight ball shit!”

  “You saw him the night I got sliced, you stupid shit! Think! It’s time to remember! Now wake the fuck up!”

  Colby groaned. Her pants were soaking wet. She was lying flat on her back on the floor of the motel lobby and everything felt horribly wrong.

  *****

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, March 15th

  She was dead; limbs bound tight in cotton wraps, eyes glued shut against the light. She opened her mouth to scream but her tongue had dried up and withered away to dust. Was this how his victims felt in the end after he finished with them? After he made them his grotesque masterpieces?

  She found herself grasping at snatches of memories that made no sense. Trying to focus against the torrent of sensations in order to tease out the bits of reality which still made a difference to her was like trying to grab a fistful of water.

  The stink of mildew, the soaking wet clothes, the hardness of the concrete underneath her, her pounding head, they all conspired to push her further and further away—back down under a tide of darkness. If she stopped struggling, she would sink and it would be over.

  Reality was slowly but finally edging back into her consciousness. She was lying on the floor. She had an attack. She wet herself. That was it. No other coherent memory voluntarily surrendered itself. She would need to hunt for her own answers.

  Willing her sluggish brain to remember, she painfully retraced her steps from now to then and back again. Her seizure left her lying on her back on the filthy carpet in the lobby of a deserted motel. She meant to call out, seek help because something was wrong—very, very wrong. But her world spun out of control, before she could even open her mouth to utter a cry.

  She felt herself falling. The seizure dragged her along like a broken doll towards the gaping maw of an open sewer. She flailed out blindly but there was no one she could reach out to, no one to save her before the darkness came and swallowed her whole.

  Then she heard it, a sound piercing through the darkness. The thin voice calling out in perfect timing to the sound of metal clanging against metal. A voice calling out the names of the dead. She listened for her own among the multitude named, ever aware of the futility of her struggles. Only this time, she was not among them. Colby Willis remained among the living for now. The realization left her gasping for air as she surfaced from beneath the veil of darkness.

  “What the fuck?” Colby cried out as the cotton sheet finally ripped apart and she slammed her elbow against the nightstand.

  Her head pounded in time with the angry buzzing voice echoing from the bathroom. It was someone shouting for attention. The bed spread was twisted around her sweaty body several times like a python, trapping her within its many cotton layers. The shouting only made her shaky efforts to free herself more frustrating. Losing her temper, Colby kicked the nightstand sending the wood crashing against the wall. The shouting stopped.

  Colby looked around the room to get her bearings. She was sprawled fully clothed on a double bed in an old motel room. Her clothes and the bedding were soiled and reeking of dried urine and sweat. She wondered if the stench was hers or someone else’s. Was there someone else in the room with her? Someone she knew?

  Her shoes and socks were nowhere in sight and her vision was blurred. She guessed one of her eyes was swollen shut. Had she been in a fight? Attacked? Vague memories began to wander back into her cloudy mind like travelers arriving at a bus station just opened for the morning commute. Her first thoughts were the usual—alcohol. Generally she would assume she blacked out in a drunken stupor, but it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. There was no booze last night. She was certain she did not touch a single drop.

  Colby slid herself to the edge of the bed and pulled up into a semi standing position. Whatever happened to her would have to wait. There was something in the bathroom that needed seeing to. There was something important in there. It was the one thing she was sure of.

  Once her head stopped swimming enough so she could stand, she began to make her way across the room to the open bathroom door. On the last step before crossing the threshold, her bare foot squished in a water stain on the ancient carpet.

  “How the fuck did I piss all the way over here?” Colby wondered silently as she leaned on the battered door frame to catch her breath.

  “Jesus You look like shit. How much did you drink last night?” The hoarse voice questione
d. It was a woman. There was a woman in the bathroom.

  Colby glanced up and frowned. “You. Forgot about you.”

  Colby managed to drop her pants and sit on the toilet bowl without keeling over. As she painfully released her bladder, the urine streamed out in a long foul rush, brown water against the pale yellow of the aging porcelain. If she didn’t know any better she would have just said it was another morning after she’d been on an all-night bender. But no morning after ever felt as bad as this. Leaning over she rested her feverish forehead in her hands, her elbows propped awkwardly on her thighs. She was exhausted like she just spent the night running laps around the Common.

  “What the fuck happened last night?” She muttered out loud not expecting an answer, unable to shake off the ominous feeling something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.