Bloodline

by Jill Jones

  Jonathan was glad he had been here for her when she learned the awful truth. He couldn’t believe her mother would tell her something that earthshaking over the telephone, instead of in person. But he surmised Victoria was not close to her parents. Maybe this was the only way they communicated.

  At any rate, he was relieved that she finally had the answer that had eluded her for seven long years. Maybe now she could begin to heal from that terrible trauma. “Want some hot tea?” he asked after her sobs subsided.

  She shook her head. “No. I only want you, Jonathan. Please,” she said, looking into his eyes, “will you just hold me and make all this go away?”

  Thursday morning dawned crisp and bright, with the reds and oranges of the autumn foliage stirring in the light breeze, their colors brilliant against a sapphire blue sky. It was the most sensational fall leaf color Victoria could remember in years. She was up early, mainly because she had slept so fitfully. She’d dressed quietly so as not to awaken Jonathan, then brought a cup of coffee outside onto the deck at the back of the cottage, seeking an elusive tranquility. She could hear the trickle of the nearby creek as it worked its way toward the river. In the distance, a woodpecker drilled for breakfast. Overhead, a flock of birds headed south in formation. Everything seemed peaceful. In order. As it should be.

  Except it wasn’t.

  She inhaled deeply of the fresh air, scented with the tart perfume of autumn, and tried to relax. She should feel some relief, she thought, some sense of satisfaction that at last they knew what had happened to Meghan. It was tragic and sordid, but over with at last. Grizzell must be relieved, she thought bitterly. Time, and Matthew Ferguson’s guilt, had done his job for him. Now he could officially close the books, and no one would be the wiser about his gross incompetence.

  Victoria sipped her coffee, turning everything over in her mind, as she had done for most of the night. Something about it didn’t feel right to her. Maybe she was just in denial that her baby sister could have been involved in such an affair. But Meghan had been young and rebellious. What better way to get back at her strict and self-righteous parents than to have an affair with a married man? It didn’t excuse her sister, but it was an explanation Victoria could understand.

  She made a mental note to learn more about the young man who had committed suicide only a few days before. What had Matthew Ferguson been like? He must have been a charmer to get Meghan’s attention. He’d been a liar for certain. Had he cheated before? Did he abuse his wife? Another question came to mind. Had he killed other women? Would his death resolve any other unsolved crimes in the area? Most importantly, was he the kind of man who could take a knife and butcher a woman as he had Meghan?

  Killers were killers. They all took life. But some were more fastidious than others, preferring the distance and impersonality of a gun. To those killers, strangulation was too intimate and the knife a messy thing. Not every killer could do what Meghan’s murderer had done to her.

  Hearing the door open behind her, Victoria turned and saw Jonathan step out onto the deck carrying a cup of coffee. His hair was wet from the shower, and his shirt was not fully buttoned. The sight of him quickened her pulse and cheered her as nothing else could.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly, coming to her chair and taking her fingers in his.

  “Good morning.” She kissed the skin of his knuckles.

  “Need a refill?” He indicated her nearly empty cup.

  She shook her head. “Not right now. Thanks.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Are you all right? You look as if you didn’t sleep much last night.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “I’m all right. Not great, but all right. Mother’s news was quite a shock, and I’m having difficulty getting used to it, that’s all. I hope I didn’t keep you awake with all my tossing and turning.”

  He shook his head. “No. I guess my jet lag was better than a sleeping pill. But I’m worried about you. You need some rest. Some quality sleep.”

  It warmed her that he was so concerned about her. “I know. But please don’t worry about me. I’ll get to it soon. Right now, I have other things on my mind, like how to stop all the other Matthew Fergusons of the world.”

  “You can’t stop them all, Victoria.”

  “I can try.” The image of Meghan welled in her mind. No one deserved to die like that. “I have to try.”

  “It’s a crusade with you, isn’t it?”

  “I…I suppose so.” She didn’t want to pursue his line of thinking. She stood up, looking at her watch. “I’d better call Mosier and let him know where we are.”

  “I already told him.”

  She jerked her head up sharply. “You talked to Mosier? When?”

  “Just now. I knew you weren’t in the best of spirits, so I called him to check in. So far there haven’t been any reports of another similar murder. Mike said he’ll get back to us if anything earthshaking turns up. I told him we’d see him in the morning.”

  Victoria didn’t have the energy to be angry with him for interfering. “Did you tell him where we were?”

  “He already knew. Apparently he had a tail on us from the start, just for good measure.”

  She laughed. “I should have known. He doesn’t trust me to do his bidding sometimes.”

  “I’m so surprised,” Jonathan said, kissing her forehead. “What if his bidding comes in the form of real orders? He is your boss, you know.”

  “Then I follow them. But this wasn’t the same and you know it. Mike didn’t really care if I stayed at the safe house. He just didn’t want me to go to my apartment. And I didn’t. Nobody knows where I am, except Mother and Mike, and the poor agent in the car at the end of the driveway.”

  Victoria went upstairs to make the bed, leaving Jonathan busying himself in the kitchen. Only minutes later, tantalizing aromas wafted up the stairs, causing her mouth to water. I could get used to this, she thought, but put the temptation out of her head. She mustn’t get used to it. There was no future for them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  London

  Thirtieth September 1888

  My plan for regaining power over Eddy has succeeded far beyond my dreams. By instilling in him the lust for the blood of whores, I have discovered a lure powerful enough to overcome his intimidation by those at Windsor who would keep him from me. He has of his own accord arranged with Lord Somerset to secure a coach whenever he is able to steal away at night, and he has come to me more frequently than he has since leaving Cambridge.

  We must be more careful than we were on tonight’s hunt, however, for we had a witness and barely managed to escape detection. Eddy had scarcely got the whore to the pavement when a man approached. I called out “Lipski,” our prearranged warning, and Eddy heeded the alert, running away into the night. Such was my rage at being interrupted, I chased after the man, who unfortunately eluded me. I fear he might have seen too much and be able to identify Eddy.

  When I realized my pursuit was in vain, I gave up the chase and began to look for Eddy. I worried that he was lost in that filthy maze, perhaps bloodied and thus vulnerable should he be accosted by a constable or vigilante. The thought terrified me, and I searched in near panic until I came upon him, hatless and shivering in a hidden corner of Mitre Square. He shook, but not from fear. He begged we try again, for the business was unfinished, and his need had not been satisfied.

  We found our next prey nearby, a whore so far gone with drink she facilitated the job by passing out on the pavement. We decorated her in her own intestines, and I took her kidney as a souvenir. We were only a few short blocks away when we heard the police whistles. We were the hunted now, not the hunters. I had devised a ruse to throw them off our trail, but it entailed remaining in the area, a dangerous risk after our double event. Still, I considered it worth the effort. I reached into the pocket of my coat for the chalk I had brought along for this express purpose, and on the face of the black bricks edging a nearby doorway, I inscribed:
r />   The Juwes are

  The men That

  Will not

  be Blamed

  for nothing.

  Ha. Ha. Let them figure that one! Leather Apron is a Jew. There are hundreds of Jews in that sewer. I want them to believe that Jack the Ripper is also Jack the Juwe!

  He got off the plane in Denver and went straight to a news stand. Surely they would have figured it out by now, that the series of brilliant murders all across the country was the work of one man. He’d been keeping an eye on the papers as he went along, and tuned in to CNN every night, but so far, there had been no mention of him as a serial killer.

  The vendor sold papers from major metro areas in the west. He picked up one from Seattle and was gratified that at least he’d made the front page. Gratified until he read that the police were holding the woman’s fiancé, considering him to be the prime suspect. He swore silently. He should have thought of that. Damn it. He tossed the paper roughly back onto the shelf. Of course they would think it was that asshole. It was his boat. He’d had a fight with the girl. Shit!

  The idea of someone else getting credit for his work infuriated him. He was the master behind the murder, not the dumb bastard who’d thrown the girl away.

  A new sense of urgency burned in his belly. He was the one who had planned it all so carefully. He’d been the one who had orchestrated the entire tour with such brilliant precision. He would not allow someone else the glory. He would be, like the master, the most famous killer on earth.

  Before renting a car, he purchased some stationery and a pen, and sitting with a cappuccino in the high-tech Denver airport, he wrote a note that should set things straight.

  The rumble of thunder awakened Victoria from a sound sleep, and she rolled over and looked at the clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon. She frowned and got out of bed. She hadn’t meant to sleep so long. It had cost her precious hours of what she believed would be her last private time with Jonathan.

  She washed her face and brushed her teeth, wishing the picnic by the river they’d attempted hadn’t been rained out. She had taken him to a place she’d often gone as a child, a secret grove just above the river, where she’d hoped they might share more than the picnic lunch. But the storm had abruptly changed their plans, and after their mad dash back to the cottage, her fatigue had nearly overwhelmed her. At Jonathan’s insistence, she had gone to bed for a little nap, making him promise not to let her sleep too long.

  Obviously, he had not kept his promise.

  Turning off the water, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Instinctively she reached for her robe, but let it drop when she saw Jonathan enter the room. He carried an armload of firewood.

  “I see Sleeping Beauty’s awake,” Jonathan said, his gaze sweeping slowly over the length of her body.

  “You weren’t supposed to let me sleep so long.”

  “You needed it.” He laid the fire and lit it. The flames rose eagerly as the smoke trailed up the chimney, and warmth began to spread into the room. “I thought it was chilly up here. I didn’t want you to be cold.”

  She crossed the room and leaned into his arms. “I know another way you can warm me up.”

  Their lovemaking began as a tender exploration, but like the fire, soon blazed with a heat that threatened to consume them. “Jonathan.” Victoria breathed out his name, and on the intake, inhaled deeply of his scent, storing it in her soul. Her fingers roamed every inch of his skin, memorizing his body, never to be forgotten. Her tongue tasted him, savoring the slightly salty tang on her lips. A feeling akin to desperation overwhelmed her as she drew him inside of her. He completed her. He was part of her. And she never wanted to let him go.

  She clung to him as together they rode the wave to its crescendo, and fought back tears when sometime later she returned to earth.

  She had never known love could hurt this much.

  Later, she heard the rain let up, and a stray ray of sunlight fell briefly across the bed where they lay entwined, holding onto each other and to the present moment, even as the clock ticked inexorably toward the end of their time together. A deep growl emitted from Victoria’s stomach, and she laughed. “That wasn’t very sexy, was it?”

  “I see we’ve worked up an appetite.” He grinned and kissed her, then rolled toward the edge of the bed. Reluctantly, she allowed him from her embrace, but to her surprise, he didn’t leave the bed. Instead, he reached for something nearby, and when he turned to her, she was astonished to see he held the picnic hamper in one hand.

  “Shall we finish what we started?”

  She laughed and sat up. “Here?”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me throw on a robe.”

  He touched her shoulder. “No. Don’t.”

  Victoria pulled the sheet up to her breasts, suddenly and irrationally self-conscious. “We’re going to eat…naked?”

  “Sure, why not. We’ll have our picnic in front of the fire instead of by the river. It’s warmer, and a whole lot drier.”

  Before she could protest further, he spread the laminated tablecloth over the bedspread, then brought out the sandwiches he had made earlier, along with fruit, some cheeses, a bottle of Merlot and two wine stems. “I’m surprised the glasses didn’t get broken when we had to make a run for it,” he remarked as casually as if they were fully clothed and seated across a table from one another.

  Victoria shook her head and laughed softly. “Jonathan Blake, you are the most amazing man.”

  “Glad you aren’t a prude.”

  “Me, too.”

  Opening the wine, he poured them each a glass and handed one to her. He raised his and clinked it against hers. “Here’s to rainy days.”

  The wine was soft and mellow. Delicious. But when she bit into the thick chicken salad sandwiches he’d prepared, she forgot the wine.

  “This is wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never had chicken salad like this. What’s in it?”

  “I found some tarragon on the spice rack and some almonds in the freezer. I just chopped some of that celery we brought with us last night and threw in some mayonnaise.”

  Just.

  “You just did that.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “If I’d been making lunch, you would have had two pieces of cold chicken between two slices of bread. You’d have been lucky if I remembered the mayo at all.”

  “Then you’d better let me be in charge of our kitchen.”

  His words landed between them with an almost audible thud. “Our kitchen?” She turned to look at him. “Are we going to have a kitchen, Jonathan?”

  To her surprise, he blushed. “That…just sort of slipped out.”

  He didn’t take it any further, and Victoria swallowed her disappointment along with the bite of chicken salad. She knew theirs wasn’t destined to be a long-term relationship, but God in heaven, she couldn’t help it, a part of her longed for more.

  She didn’t have time to brood on it, however. Just as she was about to bite into an apple, she heard the front door open, and a familiar voice called, “Victoria? Victoria, are you here?”

  “Oh, crap,” she uttered, jumping off the bed and scrambling for a bathrobe.

  Jonathan immediately worked into his jeans and shirt. “Who is it?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “Mother.”

  Victoria looked down to see Barbara Wentworth Thomas, as always elegantly dressed and adorned with expensive gold jewelry, standing in the foyer of the cottage, her expression a mixture of confusion and apprehension. She did not see her daughter when Victoria came out into the upper hall, clad only in a white terry robe. Victoria stared at her mother for a long moment, dreading the scene that was bound to ensue when she learned that Jonathan was staying here with her. Maybe she could find a way to prevent her from learning the full truth.

  “Hello, Mother,” she said. “What brings you out here?” Victoria came down the stairs and stiffly embraced her mother, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  “Victoria, what i
s going on here?” Her mother’s eyes were darker than Victoria’s, and right now, they held a glint of anger. “I came all the way out here in the rain to make sure you were all right, and that man at the front gate almost wouldn’t let me onto my own property! Who is he, and what is he doing here?”

  “Don’t know who got stuck with that assignment, Mother. One of our agents. And just to remind you, it’s my property now.”

  Barbara sniffed and walked into the living area to the left of the stairs. “It’s family property. Why is that man there?” She said it as if “that man” were a leper.

  Her disdainful attitude toward those she considered beneath her never failed to annoy Victoria, and she lashed out without thinking, “Oh, he’s just somebody who’s trying to save my life.”

  Her mother whirled around to face her. “What do you mean?”

  Victoria saw the alarm in her mother’s eyes and wished she hadn’t been so cruel. She softened and gave Barbara a small smile. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m not in any immediate danger. Mike just wanted me to stay out of sight until we can get a handle on this creep who might be after me. I thought the cottage would be as safe a place as any. And,” she added, bracing for the worst, “I’m not here alone. Besides the man at the gate, I have a…bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard?” From the tone of her mother’s voice, she could tell that Barbara Wentworth Thomas was thoroughly mortified at the notion. “Where?”

  “Upstairs. I told him to give us a few minutes alone.”

  Barbara shifted her eyes to the landing, then looked at Victoria with a disapproving frown. “Why aren’t you dressed? He isn’t…I mean, are you sure it’s safe for you to be alone…with a strange man?”

  Victoria worked at controlling the blush that threatened to bloom on her cheeks. She didn’t want to lie to her mother, but there was no need to tell her everything. After all, her relationship with Jonathan was only temporary.