by Jill Jones
To her right, lounging against a low wall just outside the open car door, Billy Ray gazed complacently at her. His arms were crossed in front of his bulky chest, looking like meaty cudgels.
Victoria’s heart sank. How could this have happened? Where were Jonathan and Grady and the rest? They should be on this guy’s ass right now.
And then she remembered. The monitor. She’d forgotten all about it. She’d broken the rules one too many times, and now, it appeared she was about to pay the price.
“Uhhhhhumnnh.” She tried to speak, but the gag only cut tighter.
Billy Ray laughed, his lips twisting in a cruel smile. “You won’t have the last word this time, miss big shot FBI agent. Miss Rich Bitch. Miss Know-It-All.”
Victoria looked into his eyes, refusing to show the fear she felt shooting through every nerve in her body. She knew those eyes. She’d seen those eyes before, on someone else.
He pulled a long hunting knife from a scabbard on his belt and flashed it in the sunlight.
“I’m gonna use this on you, bitch. And I’m gonna go real slow, so you’ll know what it feels like to die.”
“Mmmghrump.”
Go to hell. She struggled to speak, but her words were drowned by a mouthful of cotton.
“You want to talk, bitch? Well, maybe in a little while. Let’s you and me go for a walk first.”
He pulled her roughly from the car and held her by both arms until she got her balance. She glanced around. They seemed to be in some kind of a park. She could hear the sound of running water in the distance. But there were no people in sight.
Victoria didn’t want to take a walk. Not here. Not anywhere with this creep. Visions of the crime scene photos of his handiwork rose in her mind, and she wondered wildly what sick joke he had in mind to leave with her body when he was finished with her.
Another vision came to mind. Her mother and father. Oh, dear God, how would they endure losing both their children to violent killers like Matthew Ferguson and Billy Ray? She felt a sudden pang of remorse for putting herself in this position, not for her own sake, but for them. Her decision to join the FBI and catch all the bad guys had been purely selfish, driven by anger and a need to avenge Meghan’s death. She’d never thought that as a consequence, she might cause her parents even more grief.
But then, she’d never thought she would fall into the hands of a killer like Billy Ray. She wasn’t that damned stupid.
But she had been.
“Walk,” he commanded, pointing down a leaf-strewn path. She felt the needle of the knifepoint between her shoulder blades.
Victoria did as he said, her mind now racing furiously, groping for some kind of strategy that would set her free. She could use her martial arts skills, but she’d only be able to use her feet. With her hands tied securely, the chances of overpowering him were slim. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was stocky and muscular. And he had a knife.
She stumbled, and Billy Ray jerked her up. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not going to carry you. You’re going to walk to your death, just like he’s going to soon, and all because of you.”
He? What was he talking about? Then Victoria remembered the message that had been left on her machine. She was sure it was the same voice. You are going to die for taking him away. But she had no idea what he meant.
They reached a cliff overlooking a river that raged below them. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, or how far they’d driven, but this place seemed familiar. She guessed they were somewhere along the Potomac above DC.
At the cliff’s edge, she turned and glared at him, unafraid and wanting to know why she was going to die.
“Garupmpghp!”
Billy Ray blinked, startled at her boldness. “What?”
“Garupmpghp!” she repeated. Untie me, you asshole.
“You’re a pushy broad,” he snapped. “I’m going to loosen your gag, but only because I want to hear you beg.” He touched the knife to her neck. “You scream and you’re dead meat.”
“I’m dead meat anyway,” she said when he removed the filthy kerchief and she regained use of her voice. She quivered, but more with anger than fear. “Why are you doing this?”
He slid the knife blade ever so lightly across her throat, raising the hair on her arms and neck. “I’m going to pay you back for taking my old man away. He is innocent.”
“What are you talking about?”
But Billy Ray grew silent. He stared at her intently. “You think you’re so damned smart, but I’m smarter,” he said at last. “I know all about you, Ms. Victoria Thomas. I know where you live, what you eat, practically when you go to the bathroom. I know your email address and have hacked into your computer almost daily for the past six months. That’s how I knew you were going to London. I followed you there, thinking I would kill you then, but I wasn’t ready. I…I had to wait.”
“Why?” She meant, why was he going to kill her, but he told her why he had to wait to do so.
“I didn’t know my way around there. It was safer to wait until you got home.” He gave her a menacing smile. “But I’m glad I spent the money to go there. I learned a lot. I’m going to use what I learned to kill you and slice you all up, just like Jack the Ripper did to the whores he killed. They’ll find your body all cut to pieces, just like your sister’s.”
Some of Victoria’s courage deserted her at the mention of Meghan. “How do you know about my sister?”
He smirked. “Like I told you before, I know all about you, and I follow all the big murder cases. They never found the guy, did they? Just like they’ll never find me.”
“You’re wrong, Billy. They did find him.” Well, sort of, very after the fact, she thought grimly. “They’ll find you, too. And you’ll pay for what you’ve done. But I want to know what I’ve done to piss you off.”
Without warning, he backhanded her across the cheek with a blow so hard it knocked her to the ground. “Cunt!” he screamed, leaning over her. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that.”
Victoria’s head rang again in pain, and her jaw throbbed fiercely. She was certain she didn’t have much time left before he came in for the kill. She must think of something. If her profile of this guy was right, he had likely grown up with a domineering mother, someone who had reproved him at every turn, belittling him, emasculating him. She decided to become his mother figure. It was a dangerous move, because if he’d killed all those other women in an effort to kill Mother, her taunting might likely invite the knife sooner. But it could also be that he’d killed those women because he couldn’t kill his mother. If she became his mother, then he couldn’t kill her.
“That’s right, Billy Ray,” she said, leaning on one elbow and raising her head haughtily. “Your mother always said that nice girls don’t talk like that.”
He hovered over her, breathing hard. “What do you know about my mother?”
Good. She’d gotten his attention. “Your mother loves you, Billy. She wants to be proud of you. But she won’t be proud if you kill me.”
“Fuck my mother!” His face was nearly purple with fury. “I hate my mother. It was her fault my old man went away.”
“I thought that was my fault.” Victoria didn’t know where her nerve was coming from, but she was ready to push Billy Ray to the limits, even if it cost her her life. Like he’d said, she was dead meat already. Maybe, just maybe, by yanking his chain, she’d get him to make a mistake.
“It is your fault. You sent him to death row. But my mother sent him away, caused him to do all those bad things.”
“Who’s your father, Billy?”
He was panting, and she could see large beads of sweat ringing his forehead, despite the autumn cool. “William Coleman,” he hissed. “My old man is William Raymond Coleman. You were the one who convinced the judge he ought to die.”
William Raymond Coleman. Billy Ray…Coleman.
Good God. She looked into the eyes of the man standing over her, and she knew wh
ere she’d seen them before. Like his father’s eyes, they were filled with hatred and rage. And like his father, Billy Ray wanted to kill her. Would kill her, if she let him. She had to force his hand.
“Your father is a cold-blooded murderer, and he deserves to die. I suppose you’re trying to fill his shoes now. Well, good luck, sonny boy. You’re just a two-bit Jack the Ripper wannabe. You’re no good, Billy Ray. You’ll never be famous like Jack the Ripper. You won’t even be as famous as your father. I’ll see to that. I’ll make sure your picture never gets in another newspaper. Certainly not on CNN.”
She watched his fury mount, and she was ready when he roared out and lunged at her. She rolled onto her back, feet in the air, and met his midsection with the soles of her shoes. The momentum of his attack and his weight pushed her painfully back onto her neck but took Billy Ray on over her head. She heard him scream and jumped to her feet, ready to do whatever she could to kick away the knife. She crouched, but Billy Ray was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, my God,” she uttered, realizing that in front of her, the terrain dropped straight down to the rocks and the river below. She scrambled to the edge of the precipice, and her breath caught in her throat.
Below, thirty feet or more, Billy Ray Coleman lay crumpled on the rocks.
Jonathan was beside himself with guilt and worry. He should never have gone to Victoria’s bed last night. He had allowed his personal interests to override his professionalism, and it might have cost Victoria her life.
He paced the floor of her small apartment, his gut churning. They’d found her bicycle and a box of spilled donuts about four blocks away, just a short distance from the shop where she’d purchased the sweets. There was no blood at the scene, but it was obvious she’d been hit by a car. Grief sliced through him like a laser, made worse by his overwhelming sense of helplessness. She was in the hands of a killer, and he could do nothing.
Nothing but follow orders and stay put. Mosier had insisted that Jonathan remain at Victoria’s apartment, in case she somehow managed to escape and called for help. He prayed for that miracle, but his heart was like lead. The owner of the donut shop had told Grady that he’d seen a small, rather beat up blue Toyota sedan drive by slowly as Victoria had peddled away. The description he’d given of the driver had fit that of Billy Ray.
At ten-fifty seven, the telephone rang. Jonathan jumped, spilling his fifth cup of coffee, and ran to answer it, hoping Mike Mosier had some news. Some good news. “Hello.”
Her voice was weak, and she sounded on the verge of tears, but he recognized Victoria immediately. “Jonathan, it’s me, Victoria. I’m okay.”
Relief flooded him, and his heart pounded. “Where are you? I’ll come for you.”
“No. I’ve already called Mike. I’m at a state park north of DC. The police should be here shortly. I’ll need to finish things up with them before I can leave.”
“What things?” Terrible images ran through his mind. Images of Victoria having been raped, nearly murdered. Still in danger.
“I think Billy Ray is dead.”
“You think?” He listened as she told him what had taken place on a high cliff overlooking a raging river, and his stomach turned to a rock. He could not picture the petite woman who had agreed to become his wife in a life and death struggle with a man much larger than she, and winning.
“I have to go now,” she said. “The police are here.”
“Victoria…”
“I love you, Jonathan,” she said, and hung up, leaving him staring at the receiver. She was alive; she sounded shaken but she was in one piece. But again he was helpless. He had no way to go to her, even if he knew where she was. Damn it to hell.
He hit the disconnect button and got a dial tone, then feverishly pressed the numbers he’d written earlier on the pad by the phone. “Grady. Blake here. Have you heard…”
“Just got the call from Mosier. We’re on our way.”
“Not without me.”
“Be ready in two minutes.”
The remote park was decked in the bright leaves of fall, or what was left that had not already filtered to the forest floor. A police car was blocking the road to normal traffic, and a helicopter had just landed on the highway about a block away. Several police cars with lights flashing were parked at the ranger station, alongside an ambulance. Jonathan was out the door almost before the car came to a halt. “Where’s Victoria?” he demanded of a police officer who was standing near the ambulance. “Is she okay?”
“I presume you’re speaking of Special Agent Thomas?” Jonathan turned and looked into the worried face of Mike Mosier, who had just arrived on the scene via the helicopter. The FBI agent flashed his badge at the police officer. “Where is she?”
The officer pointed down a narrow lane. “Hop in. I’ll drive you. It’s a ways.”
Another pack of police cars and a second ambulance were parked about a mile down the lane, at the head of a secluded path. “He fell down a cliff at the end of this path,” the officer said, letting them out of the car. Jonathan tore off at a run, followed closely by Mike Mosier. Around a slight curve in the path, he saw figures ahead.
“Victoria!” He called her name before he even saw her. The clutch of police officers that stood in the clearing moved aside, and a small, mud-smeared woman in jeans and a sweatshirt looked up. Her face broke into the most beautiful smile Jonathan had ever seen, and she ran into his arms.
“Oh, God, thank God,” he cried, holding her for dear life, tears burning his eyes. “If anything had happened…”
“It did, Jonathan,” she said with a slight sob.
Her words stabbed him in the gut. “Did he…hurt you?”
“Only a bump on the head and some bruises.”
“Then what happened?”
“We got him, Jonathan. We got our man.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
King’s College, Cambridge
One January 1889
I am filled with despair and have not left these rooms at the Devil’s house for the majority of the holiday season. Anxiety and fear have become my constant companions, although it seems doubtful that Eddy has told anyone of our activities in Whitechapel. Otherwise, I would already be a dead man. I have heard nothing from Eddy, and have lost hope that I will unless by some miracle he manages to escape Gull’s clutches once again.
My brother Harry has tried often to rouse me from my melancholy, but I am unable to find any spirit. Then today he came bearing the news that our friend Montague John Druitt was found drowned in the Thames yesterday at Chiswick. The private word is that Druitt was fired from his teaching position at Blackheath for becoming involved with one of the boys, and overcome with despair, threw himself in the river with his pockets full of rocks. But Harry does not believe that, for he learned there was a return ticket from Chiswick on his body that would indicate he had planned to return to London, and not via the Thames.
Harry then told me he had learned the police considered Druitt a primary suspect in the Ripper murders. Why, I wondered? Why Druitt? And then it came to me. Druitt looks like Eddy! He was slender in build, with large, heavy-lidded eyes, and a mustache styled in the same fashion. Had he been accused of the murders by someone who had actually seen Eddy instead? Did he take his own life, knowing how keen the public is to punish the killer? Did he prefer drowning to the humiliation of a public trial, followed by an engagement with the hangman?
Whatever happened, this ends it neatly enough for the real Jack, whose bloodlust after the last hunt seems sated, at least for the moment. Perhaps it is best to end it here, for without Eddy, there is no joy in life, no reason to go on. I shall let Druitt take the blame, and for now, let Jack lie. I am drained of desire, filled with dark despondency, and without my beloved Prince, I have no energy to pursue the game further.
The time she had dreaded was upon them, and as she maneuvered her car through traffic, headed for Dulles, Victoria worked at controlling the tears that threatened.
Several days had passed since she had been abducted by Billy Ray, and during that time, they had learned much about the young man who had tried to kill her. Although he didn’t fit the profile as precisely as she’d thought, mainly because he didn’t appear to be well-financed, the rest was close enough to suit her.
It bothered her, however, that he couldn’t be traced to the cities where he’d murdered those women. Somehow, he’d managed to completely cover his trail. The task force was still scratching its head over that one. He must have created a new identity for each plane ticket he purchased, for they had not found the name of Billy Ray Coleman, or any consistent alias, on the airline records.
But it was clear that Billy Ray suffered from low self-esteem at the hands of a domineering woman. Victoria and Jonathan had interviewed Mrs. William Coleman, Billy’s mother, who had proven to be a most malignant woman with delusions of grandeur despite the meager conditions in which she lived. She was not unlovely, if rather painted, and she greeted Victoria and Jonathan at the door to her rundown trailer wearing a long, dramatic dressing gown and gaudy jewelry. The tiny living quarters were covered with magazines about the rich and famous.
Sally Coleman was rude, haughty, and showed not a hint of grief over her son’s tragedy. “He was no good, just like his daddy,” she said, spitting the words with venom. “Never did like him. A pig of a boy.” Ironically, the only room in the small apartment that was not cluttered and filthy was the bedroom Billy Ray had occupied. It was neat as a pin, with his computer still running. The only filth surrounding him was on the porn sites bookmarked on his Internet software.
They confiscated the computer and other items of Billy Ray’s effects as evidence, for they’d quickly found files that proved he had stalked Victoria and had carefully planned her murder. She was chilled, but as they left the mobile home, she glanced at Sally Coleman, and a part of Victoria felt deeply sorry for the tormented young man.
