by Jean Rabe
She saw her opportunity and took it. A spinning kick knocked the blade from his grip. The knife skidded across the floor several feet away.
“Hey!” His befuddled expression was a joy to behold. “You can’t do that!”
Celeste followed up the kick with a roundhouse punch to his jaw. “Here’s the thing, dummy. You’re not facing a tipsy nineteenth-century whore this time. I’ve studied kickboxing, Krav Maga, and taken way too many self-defense courses!”
“Nosy bitch!” Ramsey dived for the knife, but Celeste was faster. She leaped past him and snatched up the fireplace poker. He lunged for her only to get smacked in the arm by the swinging poker. Bone shattered audibly and he dropped to his knees, whimpering in pain. A second blow across the back of his head left him sprawled face down on the floor. Not taking any chances, she prodded him with the poker to make sure he wasn’t going to be getting up again anytime soon.
“That’s for Mary Jane Kelly,” she gasped. “And Polly Nichols, Liz Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Annie Chapman!”
Ramsey seemed to be out cold, but she held onto the poker just in case. She had seen too many horror movies to turn her back on the downed monster. Crouching beside the prone Ripper, she claimed his locator button. A second sneeze reminded her that they were not alone. She peered curiously at the bed. “Hello?”
“I-is it safe?” a feeble voice stammered.
Celeste stood up. “I think so. Who is that?”
To her surprise, Bernard Moskowitz crawled out from beneath the flimsy wooden bedstead. His Sherlock Holmes outfit was a study in scarlet. His scrawny face was white as a sheet.
“You?” she blurted in surprise. The other tourist was supposed to be safely tucked away at the Carlton. Just like me.
“I . . . I couldn’t resist,” he confessed. “I just had to find out who Jack the Ripper was.” His shell-shocked gaze fell upon the morsels of flesh laid out atop the table. He looked away from the carved-up carcass upon the bed. “Oh God . . .”
Celeste realized that the poor kid had been under the bed the whole time. Guess we both had the same idea.
Thank heaven.
A pocket watch informed her that it was nearly five-thirty. In approximately five hours, one Thomas Bowyer would be dropping by to hit Mary up for thirty-five shillings of overdue rent money. He was in for the shock of his life, but Celeste wasn’t inclined to stick around to see.
“You ready to get out of here?” she asked Moskowitz.
He nodded weakly. “Please.”
She pressed the locator button.
“My sincere apologies for this unfortunate business.” Rolf Jacobsen, founder and president of Timeshares, sat across from her. “But I’m sure you understand how we would like to keep this embarrassing incident our little secret.” He slid a notarized document across the top of his antique mahogany desk, which had once belonged to Thomas Alva Edison. “Mr. Moskowitz has already signed this confidentiality agreement in exchange for a free pass to the time and location of his choosing.” He flashed Celeste an oily smile. “I believe he’s requested a tryst with Mata Hari . . .”
“Uh-uh.” Celeste didn’t even look at the proffered document. “You’re not going to buy me off so easily. That maniac could have killed me!”
“Again, my apologies.” He handed her a fountain pen. “Clearly, we need to do a more thorough psychological screening of our employees, both before and after their trips to the past.” He shrugged. “It’s possible we underestimated the long-term cognitive effects of regular temporal dislocation, but I assure you that we are already putting new procedures in place to ensure that such an aberration never happens again.”
“An ‘aberration,’ is that what you call it?” Celeste was offended by the blandly corporate euphemism. “At least five women were killed and mutilated.”
“Those tragedies are a matter of historical record,” he pointed out. “We couldn’t have prevented them if we wanted to.”
“Even though one of your tour guides was responsible?” A horrible suspicion gripped her. “You knew, didn’t you? You suspected that Ramsey was the Ripper, but you kept on sending him back to 1888!”
Jacobsen was unruffled by her accusation. “History is history, Ms. Jordan. What happened happens.” He pressed the confidentiality agreement on her again. “Now then, how can we convince you to leave this unpleasantness where it belongs—in the past?”
“Don’t even try.” She got up to go. “I already have everything I need. I know the true identity of Jack the Ripper. That’s a gold mine.”
“More like a single nugget.” Jacobsen gestured for her to sit down again. “Don’t be too hasty, Ms. Jordan. You’re obviously a shrewd woman . . . and a fine author.” He called up one of her books on the monitor of his computer. “Perhaps we can come to a different sort of arrangement.”
She eyed him warily. “Like what?”
He tore up the confidentiality agreement. “Suppose you forgo the Ripper in exchange for unlimited access to a host of equally famous mysteries: D. B. Cooper, the Lindbergh kidnapping, the Black Dahlia, the Princes in the Tower . . .”
“Lizzie Borden?”
“Of course. That’s a perfect example.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “As a matter of fact, we’ve been thinking of licensing a line of publishing spin-offs under the Timeshares umbrella. You seem like exactly the kind of ambitious, enterprising author we’ve been looking for, one who can take full advantage of everything we can offer. Think about it. You would have all of history at your disposal. The possibilities are endless.”
“Except Jack the Ripper.”
He nodded. “That particular mystery is probably best left unsolved. Do we understand each other?”
Celeste’s mind boggled at the prospect. Jacobsen was offering her not just a single bestseller, but a franchise. Countless millennia of unsolved histories, from the extinction of the dinosaurs to the heat death of the universe.
“Mr. Jacobsen,” she replied, “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”
Limited Time Offer
Dean Leggett
Dean Alan Leggett has enjoyed the topic and mystery of time travel since junior high school. While serving in the United States Air Force the debates of time travel paradoxes would last longer than games of Titan. He has since returned to his home state of Wisconsin where he lives with his wonderful wife, Annette. When Dean isn’t working in the IT world of virtualization “time shares” he writes about different types of Timeshares.
Peeking through the tiny mailbox window I see an envelope. My heart jumps. Maybe Penny is finally returning my letters. My keychain bangs on the metal and glass wall as old Mrs. Mildred scowls at me from down the hall. My shoulders slump as I see it is just another piece of junk mail. On the back side it reads: “Adventure isn’t going to wait for you—act now!” It is hard to believe folks actually fall for this crap.
I stick the fairly thick envelope in my mouth and search through the long string of keys. I swear the key for the deadbolt and the key for the handle are on opposite sides again. How does that keep happening? I never remember moving them around. The rusted hinges give a high-pitched squeak. I slip inside, shutting the door quickly before Mrs. McNosey asks if I have found a new job yet.
I toss the keys on the counter, along with the sole piece of mail, and pull open the fridge. The single light bulb hums at me angrily as I search for anything not yet expired. Damn it! I know I just went to the grocery store Wednesday. How can everything be spoiled already? You would think that by putting the bread in the fridge it would keep longer, but no. Harry’s Bakery lives up to its name again. I grab a beer and slam the door.
I crack the edge of the bottle on the counter, sending the cap flying across the room. I grab the sales pitch and head the three steps into the living room and try to relax. The TV stand proudly displays a dust outline. Sipping on my nectar of sanity, I tear open the envelope and read the form letter.
“Mr
. Lynch, how would you like to get away from your current life and experience the wonders Timeshares can offer?”
I pause as foam almost shoots out my nose.
“Wouldn’t you like to travel back to the lands of your ancestors and meet long-lost relatives? We have a custom travel package ready for you. Stop in for a free consultation and leave your worries at home.”
I tipped back to get the last drops.
The letter went on with the sales pitch, but what caught my eye was the last paragraph.
“Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for your convenience, Mr. Lynch. Don’t worry about payment arrangements; we have a plan that will work even for you.”
I would like to see what type of payment plan they have for me and my overdrawn bank account. I do need to pick up more bread and maybe some cheap beer. I wonder if bottle caps are the type of payment plan they have in mind. I decide to take the bottle cap along—for good luck if nothing else. I wouldn’t want the roaches to carry it off.
The Timeshares office is on a small side street just down the block, fittingly enough next to a small all-night diner. The office appears dark, but there is a small light glowing from the back. A flip sign hanging from the inside window reads: OPEN. The diner calls to me louder.
My stomach is rumbling, and the fresh smell of bacon only amplifies my hunger. Surprisingly, there are quite a few folks even at this time of night. It is well past 11 P.M. as I pull open the door and head inside.
The bells announce me. Of the fifteen or so customers, only one seems to take notice. An older man in the back; he smiles and raises a cup. The waitress scowls at him and refills his cup before he brings it back down to the counter. The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee hits me. I take the closest stool I find.
The waitress pours me a cup of coffee and hands me a menu. The scent of frying bacon and an endless selection of breakfast, lunch, and dinner options enthralls me. I don’t notice the bells or the tall, dark-haired woman dressed in what appeared to be a Renaissance fair costume until she swings her skirt over on the stool next to me. Her laced corset and ample build makes for quite a sight. Trying to look politely elsewhere, I glance around the diner. I notice not many really seem to pay any attention to her. It is then I notice many of the patrons are dressed very strangely. Older styles of shirts and odd cuts of suit coats are all around.
I decide on a short stack and a side of bacon. I don’t know why the waitress bothers to write it down, as she shouts my order as soon as she takes the menu from my fingers. My hands fidget with the salt shaker and I try not to glance too often at the flouncy woman to my right. As if noticing my discomfort, she speaks to me, but I don’t catch all of it.
Judging by the look on my face, she repeats herself. “How are you today?”
I do my best to fix my eyes on hers.
“Fine. How are you?” I smile and do my best to act calm. It looks like she could fall out of her dress if she turned wrong.
She gives a heavy sigh and doesn’t answer.
Thankfully, my order arrives.
I focus on my meal as if it were my last. If I don’t find work soon, it just might be. The bacon is the best I have ever tasted and the cakes sure hit the spot. I pull a ten out of my now empty wallet and give a shout of thanks to the cook. I stumble toward the door.
I intend to head home, but think, what the hell, I might as well give this travel shop a look. If they go to the trouble of being open all night, it couldn’t hurt to stop in. If nothing else, it might give me a clue to the assortment of oddly dressed people in the diner. I pull on the door, half expecting it to be locked. It opens easily.
Not wishing to startle anyone, I call, “Hello? Are you still open?”
“Mr. Lynch!” A voice rings out from the back, causing me to jump. “Come in, come in, we were expecting you.” A short stocky man in his early sixties comes forward. A few more lights flicker and then pop on. “Have a seat over here while we get your file together.” He gestures to a chair in front of an old wooden desk, gathers some papers and a few folders, and sets them on the desk in front of him. “Well, Mr. Lynch it shows here you wish to journey into the past to take some photographs for us.”
“I don’t think so. I received your flyer offering travel on a budget I could afford. But I can’t afford anything.”
I stare at him, trying to puzzle out how he knows my name. This whole thing isn’t making much sense. I try to get a look at some of the papers hanging out of the folders—no success.
“I used to take photographs for a college newspaper,” I tell him. “But that was years ago.”
“Oh, so sorry, Lisa hasn’t finish sorting your file yet.” He flips through some more papers before glancing up. “Here it is. We would like to offer you a free trip near the Sea of Meezee. All we ask in return is for you to take some photos for us. You will be in disguise. We need photos both inside the Chefuncte village and especially inside a certain hut.” He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. “Oh, and you will need to sign this disclaimer.”
The form has more than a hundred lines of text in a tiny font. I look it over quickly, noting my name. It has tomorrow’s date already filled in. “Why would I sign this and where is this Meezee place?”
“Sorry Mr. Lynch, it isn’t a where, but more of a when. Apparel, footwear, and supplies will be provided.” As he speaks, he looks to be checking off some boxes from a form attached to a clipboard. “You already ate; good, good . . . Everything seems to be set, just sign and we will get you ready for your journey. Sorry to give you no warning for this, but our regular photographer . . . is no longer available. We needed him replaced right now.”
I think about just getting up and leaving, but the notion of returning to my empty apartment is just too much. It is time to take a chance. I pick up the pen and sign my name. Glancing at the clock, it reads 12:17. The little man grabs the signed sheet, tucks it into the folder, and waddles back down the hall. He turns back briefly, “Come on Kyle, time to get you on your way.”
I spend the next few hours being measured and fitted into various animal pelts. They have a strong but not unpleasant smell. At first, I resist asking, “Why me?” among countless other minor questions. In the end I just stand there. My thoughts of leaving vanish when the dark-haired woman from the diner enters the room. She is out of her corset and wearing a set of animal skins. The skins are mismatched, ranging from fur to bare leather, and stitched with a thick coarse thread. Her multipiece outfit moves with her as she stuffs smaller pieces of hide into a large pack. The native look fits her perfectly; I on the other hand imagine I appear very silly.
She looks at me a few times and smiles.
“I bet this is funny to you,” I say. “Why didn’t you warn me about this in the diner?”
She walks toward me. “Be happy you didn’t get the letter last week. You could have joined me in ole England, and somehow you don’t seem like the tights and ruffles type.”
Her smile is disarming.
She speaks in a language I don’t recognize to the old man. He glances up at me as he responds. “His job is to take photos. Yours, Becca, is to keep him out of trouble and teach him to fit in. You know the drill. I think he will fit in nicely with these folk.”
She waits until she has my full attention. “Mr. Lynch, you will be known as Penobscot. Repeat it a few times to yourself so you can get the feel for it. Whenever you hear that name, you will respond. It doesn’t matter what you say, they will not understand your language. I will translate for you.” Stuffing the last of the leathers into the pack, she flips the thick flap over and ties it shut. “Well, he isn’t as scrawny as he looked before, what with his new clothes. His scraggy red-brown hair will mark him as a Northern, I think.”
The old man finishes stitching the leather of my left shoe. “There you go, Mr. Lynch. You are almost ready. I will get your camera, it should be finished charging.” With that he turns and heads out of the room. I wondered why all the
work on the disguise only to walk in with an anachronistic camera hanging around my neck.
Becca inspects my costume. Still standing on the tailor platform, at least I have a height advantage. “So Becca, you will be my guide, huh? Can I call you Becca? Or do you have a strange name I should use for our cover?” I smile as my heart begins to race. I feel like a spy in a sci-fi movie. Time travel, strange lands, and animal skin clothing from The Land of the Lost make for a major change of direction.
Becca takes a step closer and leans into me. The bead work in her hair rattles. “Penobscot, you are about to earn your ‘free trip.’ You are traveling to a land where cats don’t rub against your leg, they gnaw it off. There are bears that stand over fifteen feet tall, and I have seen one crush the skull of a hardened warrior in its jaws. I have seen insects draw the life blood out of rabbits in less than a minute. Travel to the past may not be the picnic you may envision. We are heading to a place where humans were tested and only the worthy survived. The people you will meet during the next few weeks fight daily to feed and protect their families.” With that, she turns and heads down the hall.
OK, what am I getting myself into? A free trip to the past to take photos is one thing, but meeting cats that eat legs is something completely different. I look around for my jeans—I’m outta here!
“Mr. Lynch!” The short man sneaks up behind me while reaching for my boots. He holds a seven- foot high wooden staff, about two inches in diameter, polished smooth with feathers and crystals hanging from thick strings near the top. “Mr. Lynch, pull yourself together! You wanted to get away from your sad, miserable life and go on an adventure. Well, here’s your chance. You can follow me, or you can return home and hope you can find another job before they kick you out on the street. Look inside yourself, Mr. Lynch. We are not meant to just trudge through life or sit on our collective asses watching reruns of reality shows. This is your chance. Take it!”
He thrusts the staff at me, causing the crystals to rattle. Knowing the little man is right, I grab the staff proudly. “Count me in! Let’s get going, Becca!”
