by Jean Rabe
“Mister,” he said, resuming my haircut. “If you’re crazy, then you’d do well to keep it to yourself. People around here don’t much like anything that’s different.”
Outside, a mule skinner’s wagon raised a fresh cloud of dust as it rumbled past. The doc reached out with one leg and toed his door shut. He went back to work on my hair.
I sighed. This way I live feels normal to me because it’s been going on for so long. Or has it? I guess I’m either full-bore crazy or not at all. I choose to think I’m not. Small comfort. It’s as if I’ve been forgotten. I bet that the woman in the memory could tell me everything I wish I knew. I didn’t know much about her, but I couldn’t get rid of her, either. She was lodged in my gizzard like a hunk of cheap steak that I can’t swallow or bring back up. Stuck, that’s what she is, and me, too.
“There. Never have I seen such a fine tonsorial treatment.” The doc stood behind me, hands resting on his girthy middle, looking at my head in the mirror the way a farmer might a prize cabbage. I pushed up out of the chair and rummaged in my vest pocket for money. Then something in the corner, hanging from a peg, caught my eye. I tossed the coins on the little counter and snatched the thing down. It was a white coat.
“What’s this?” I said, stretching out the sleeves and admiring it as if it were the latest fashion I might like to buy.
“That’s my doctorin’ coat. We all got one when we graduated from the Kingsley Medical Program in Providence, Rhode Island.”
“You ever known any women doctors?”
He snorted a laugh that tailed off like a sneeze. “Mister, you are off your rocker.” He took the coat from me and draped it over his arm, smoothed it.
“There wasn’t anything there.” I nodded at the coat and pointed to the side of my own chest. “On the coat, I mean.”
“What would you expect to see? A badge? I’m a doctor, not a lawman.”
But that was all I heard. I think he kept talking, and I know he called for the sheriff, because a few minutes later a man with a star marched me down the street, prodding me with his pistol and telling me he didn’t have time for troublemakers in his town. I didn’t care much. As long as the cell was empty it would give me the time I needed to think. And time was the one thing I guess I had more of than anything else. Besides, they could hold me there overnight but I wouldn’t wake up there, that much I knew.
The door squawked and clanked shut behind me and I made my way to the bunk. No one was in the cell with me. I leaned back against the log wall and concentrated on the woman in the white coat.
Then I had a thought: what if I’ve been doing the same thing forever? What if this is all there is or ever will be to my life? What if I’m being forced somehow to be the same person doing the same things, thinking the same thoughts, over and over, and a thousand more overs besides?
It’s as if I’m caught in something that keeps spinning and can’t stop. And the worst of it is that I have a strong hunch that it never will stop. Like a pup that’s caught his tail and keeps on spinning with that thing in his teeth. Except even dogs will grow bored and chase a rabbit instead. That’s what bothers me the most—knowing that if I can’t ever gain an edge on this thing, I won’t ever grow older, and that means I won’t ever die. And I guess that even writing in my little diary won’t help me because whatever I write, whatever I learn, will all disappear come tomorrow, and I’ll be back where I am right now.
All of that is truly bad, worse than a main-street showdown with a sore loser at five card stud, because at least with him you stand a chance of dyin’. And wouldn’t that be a blessed relief. But I don’t believe I’m quite there yet. There’s still some figuring left to do on this problem.
No, the worst part is that the only thing that keeps me doing this day after day after day, for what could well be thousands or by now millions of years (or is it just one day so far?) is that I still have hope. But what if hope should leave me? I guess then I could kill myself. I snapped my eyes open and sat up again, my knuckles pushing into the rough blanket. But what if I come to find out that death is not even possible?
The cell’s grown darker now; the deputy is snoring lightly in the front room. Soon it will be night and I’ll drift off, and then wake up in a hotel in an uncomfortable shuck bed with a lumpy pillow, a thunder pot on the floor beside my flopped boots. It ain’t much, but it’s something, I reckon.
I stretch out full length on the plank cot and try to relax. Before too long I think of the woman in the coat, the woman with short red-brown hair, big glasses, and the gold name tag on her chest that reads: DR. JENNIFER KAPLAN, with TIMESHARES in smaller letters underneath.
I almost open my eyes to . . . do what? Write it down in the diary? Has that ever done any good? I relax and watch her face, and even as she speaks I seem to recall what it is she’s telling me. So much information to remember, I think to myself, right before I am once again lost in her words. Once again.
Her smile stretches wide and she says, “No sir, Mr. Barr, there’s no need to worry. I can assure you everything has been repaired and tested, and it’s perfectly safe now. You’ll have the ideal trip.” She looks me up and down, leans closer, and says, in a whisper, “You look just like a real cowboy.” She winks, the smile again, then louder, “This journey to the Old West will be the trip of a lifetime for you, Mr. Barr. You’ll wish you never have to leave. Timeshares guarantees it. Now just relax while we perform our last minute checks.”
Her face disappears, a steel door clunks shut, the bright ceiling lights dim. I can just make out faces staring at me through a glass window set into the wall by the door. She is there, standing beside others, a man and a woman, also in white coats. Above the table where I’m strapped down there are metal rods pulsing with lights, others tipped with points, cables and wire coiled all around me. Everything in here seems to be making a sound, each piece rising to a pitch all its own, then something buzzes, lights on the wall above the window flash from red to green. She is still smiling. Then something explodes.
It sounds like a safe door being ripped off its hinges by too big a charge of dynamite. Arms of blue light reach toward me. I cannot move. Something else rips apart and I hear a woman’s screams as if from far away, from behind thick glass. She shrieks, “No, not again! You said it was fixed—”
A man shouts, “Get him out of there! Now!”
I try to scream, try to howl loud enough to tell them yes, yes, get me out of here. I try to wake the deputy snoring in his tipped back chair in the next room.
I try, over and over, I try . . .
Unsolved Histories
Greg Cox
Greg Cox is a New York Times bestselling author of numerous books and short stories. He has written the official novelizations of such films as Daredevil, Ghost Rider, and the Underworld trilogy. In addition, he has written books and stories based on such popular series as Alias, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, CSI, Farscape, The 4400, Roswell, Star Trek, Terminator, Xena, and Zorro, as well as various DC and Marvel comics. He recently won a Scribe Award from the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He has traced Jack the Ripper’s path through Whitechapel, but only in the twentieth century.
His official Web site is www.gregcox-author.com.
The damp, foggy weather reminded her of Seattle.
The gaslights and hansom cabs did not.
“Welcome to the West End of London, heart of the city’s flourishing theater district,” the tour guide announced. Kenneth Ramsey’s bristling red muttonchops and thick walrus mustache fit the era perfectly, as did his formal black attire, white tie, and top hat. A gilded watch chain dangled from his vest pocket. His plummy British accent certainly sounded authentic. “Home to Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Oscar Wilde, and other luminaries of the Victorian stage.”
His lips barely moved as he subvocalized into the miniaturized microphone concealed in his impeccably knotted silk tie. His spiel was instantly transmitted to tiny receivers discreetly hidden in the
ears of the small party of time tourists surrounding him on the sidewalk in front of the legendary Lyceum Theatre. Eager theatergoers dressed to the nines milled past them, necessitating such technological legerdemain. It wouldn’t do for the natives of this bygone age to overhear them.
Pretty slick, Celeste thought. Timeshares seemed to have thought of everything. Her earpiece itched, however, and she resisted an urge to fiddle with it. She also felt slightly queasy, apparently a routine side effect of temporal dislocation. Ramsey had assured her the timesickness would pass. It had better. I have big plans for this evening, and they don’t involve me puking all over the nineteenth century.
She contemplated her fellow tourists, who included a middle-aged couple from Ohio, their bored- looking teenage son, and a somewhat nerdy-looking young man wearing a deerstalker cap in emulation of his idol, Sherlock Holmes. All were dressed in formal period attire, provided by Timeshares for a nominal fee. Their package deal included three nights in Victorian England, including meals, accommodations in a luxury hotel, and entertainment. Even as a group excursion, it was a pricy trip, but if everything went according to her plan, it would pay off big time.
Or so Celeste hoped.
For now, though, she just needed to play along and pretend to be merely another time-traveling sightseer. A slender woman pushing forty, she found her elaborate Victorian getup less comfortable than her usual sweatpants and T-shirt. Along with the others, she took in the deliciously old-time atmosphere, gawking openly like out of towners. Horse-drawn carriages disgorged a steady stream of elegantly bedecked gentlemen and ladies who braved the drizzly autumn weather for a night at the theater. Flower girls, straight out of My Fair Lady, hawked posies to their betters. Liveried coachmen held open doors. Mist fogged the spacious avenue, adding a nostalgic haze to the scene. The lambent glow of the gaslights shone through fog like fairy nimbuses. Towering marble columns supported the Lyceum’s imposing portico. A hubbub of voices competed with the clop clop of the horse’s hooves. A stocky bearded Irishman stood atop the steps leading to the Lyceum’s grand entrance, fulsomely greeting each dignitary. Celeste realized with a start that it was Bram Stoker, the theater’s acting manager. Had he written Dracula yet? No, that was still nine years away. . . .
“I can’t believe it,” half of the married couple murmured in awe. What was his name again? Brian? Ryan? He hesitantly touched the base of a nearby streetlight, as though expecting it to pop like a soap bubble upon contact. “It’s so real.”
“It is real,” Ramsey insisted. “This is no theme park or VR simulation. It’s actually November 8, 1888.” He rapped a marble column with his knuckles. “You’re really in London during the reign of Queen Victoria, when the sun never set on the British Empire.” The fading light belied his words. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The fanboy in the deerstalker hat raised his hand. “Aren’t the Jack the Ripper murders going on now?” Watery eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know it’s not on the itinerary, but any chance we can squeeze in a trip to Whitechapel?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Moskowitz,” Ramsey replied. “The East End of London is too dangerous at this point in history. Never mind the Ripper; nineteenth-century Whitechapel is a lawless slum where violent crime is commonplace. Maybe someday, if there’s sufficient demand, Timeshares can figure out a way to ensure our clientele’s safety on such an excursion. But for now liability and insurance issues preclude any detours to the bad part of town.”
“Oh,” Moskowitz said, obviously disappointed. The teenager, whom had visibly perked up at the mention of the grisly murders, slipped back into sullen adolescence. Moskowitz dabbed at a runny nose with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Darn allergies,” he muttered. “This fog is wreaking havoc with my sinuses.” He blew his nose loudly. “You sure we can’t sneak in just a peek at the Ripper’s hunting grounds? I promise not to sue anybody.”
“Sorry,” Ramsey demurred. “It’s out of my hands.”
Celeste repressed a sigh of relief. She had her own plans regarding the Ripper, and she didn’t want any amateur sleuths or murder buffs horning in on them. There was too much at stake. Namely, my career.
The tour guide went back to hyping tonight’s activities. “Still, if it’s chills and thrills you’re after, I think we can oblige you with some of the fictional variety.” He gestured grandly at the ornate theater. “Tonight we have front row seats to Jekyll and Hyde, starring the great Victorian actor Richard Mansfield. This celebrated production, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal classic, has been playing to sold-out audiences for months now. Believe me, it took no little effort to secure some tickets, but at Timeshares we spare no expense to make your vacations literally historic.”
And charge an arm and a leg for it, too, Celeste thought. But it would be worth the expense if she succeeded in what she had really signed onto this tour for. Forget Richard Mansfield, Jekyll and Hyde, and the rest of this whole “Gaslight & Greasepaint” enterprise. She was out to solve one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.
Who was Jack the Ripper?
The show, and Mansfield’s performance, proved entertaining enough. Despite her impatience to get down to business, she had almost been disappointed when the cast took their final curtain calls.
Almost.
Big Ben tolled midnight as she gratefully shed her cumbersome Victorian finery in the privacy of the hotel room Timeshares had booked for her at the Carlton. In theory, the rest of the tour party had retired for the night in anticipation of tomorrow’s busy itinerary, which included a matinee showing of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeoman of the Guard with the original cast. With any luck, she’d know the Ripper’s identity by then and be fast on her way to fame and fortune.
Corset, bustle, stays, and petticoats hit the floor. On went the men’s attire she had stowed in a hidden compartment in her luggage. A dark Ulster coat helped disguise her already boyish figure. She tucked her short blond curls under a bowler hat. Chances were it would be easier—not to mention safer—to navigate the sordid back alleys of Whitechapel as a man. And the trousers would be lot easier to run in if something went amiss. Ramsey had not been exaggerating when he’d described the East End as the most dangerous part of London, and she was heading right into its most murderous depths.
Did she really want to do this?
Now that the moment was at hand, second thoughts assailed her. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. Her timesickness had passed, just as Ramsey had promised, but her stomach was still tied up in knots. She shivered at the prospect of venturing out into the foggy night on her own.
What other choice do I have? Sales of her true-crime books had been slipping for years now; royalties and downloads were drying up. Not that it was her fault. Could she help it if there were no truly great murder mysteries in her own time, when most any crime could be solved by matching DNA samples? Where was the drama in that? There were times she wanted to travel back in time just to kick Watson and Crick in their double helixes.
Thank heaven there were still great crimes—and great criminals—lurking in the past. Jack the Ripper was her ticket back to the top of the bestseller list, provided Timeshares didn’t get wind of what she was up to and pull the plug on tonight’s expedition. Fortunately, she had been able to book the tour under her real name, Celeste Jordan, instead of her pen name, Jordan Pinkerton, so as to avoid raising any red flags with the time-travel agency. If all went well, she could return to the twenty-first century with the Ripper’s true identity and no one would be the wiser—until her new book went on sale.
It was the perfect scheme, as long as she didn’t lose her nerve.
“No guts, no glory.” She had come too far, geographically and chronologically, to turn back now. Tucking an umbrella under her arm, she took a moment to inspect her disguise in a full-length mirror. “Not bad.” In the murky gaslight and fog, she would probably pass as a man. “Whitechapel, here I come.”
The East End was e
ven worse than she had imagined. Only a short carriage ride had separated her ritzy accommodations from Whitechapel, yet she might as well as have taken a starship to another world. Celeste had memorized every book ever written about the Ripper and knew just how bad this neighborhood was supposed to be in Queen Victoria’s time, but it was one thing to read about the squalid conditions online, in the comfort of her air-conditioned condo in Seattle, and something else altogether to experience it for real.
A clammy fog, reeking of smoke and fouler odors, wafted through a daunting labyrinth of grimy streets and alleys. Hundreds of thousands of the city’s poorest and most desperate inhabitants were crowded into a pestilential slum where disease, crime, poverty, and ignorance blighted the lives of anyone unlucky enough to live here. Immigrant families were crammed into overcrowded tenements and sweatshops. Doss-houses offered flea-infested cots to homeless wretches for just a few pennies a night. Raucous laughter, tinny music, and angry voices poured out of the pubs and brothels that proliferated on nearly every block. Gin was mother’s milk in these parts, anesthetizing the hopeless populace from the brutish reality of their short, miserable lives. A sickening effluvia filled the gutters. The swirling miasma left every surface greasy to the touch. Celeste gagged on the smell.
How could people live like this?
A door banged open behind her, and a drunken brawl spilled into the streets. Celeste scurried away, her heart pounding louder than Big Ben. She clutched her bumbershoot to her chest. All at once, she regretted leaving her emergency locator beacon back at the hotel. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, though; the last thing she wanted was for Timeshares to yank her back to her own era before she was finished here. What if Ramsey or someone else noticed that she wasn’t where she belonged?
You don’t need the locator, she thought. You know what you’re doing.
Nevertheless, as she hurried through the dimly lit maze of streets and alleys, doubts chased after her. Maybe she should have gone for Lizzie Borden instead? Fall River, Massachusetts, would have been cleaner and a lot less intimidating. But how would she have explained to Timeshares why she wanted to visit Fall River in the summer of 1892? Their lawyers would surely have vetoed any attempt to get the real scoop on an ax murderer. . . .
