Tales of Jack the Ripper

by Laird Barron

  The last of the cruise ships migrated from Eagle Talon on Saturday. The Princess Wing blared klaxons and horns and sloshed up the channel in a shower of streamers and confetti, its running lights blazing holes through the mist. A few hardy passengers in red and yellow slickers braved the drizzle to perch along the rails. Some waved to the dockworkers. Others cheered over the rumble of the diesels. Seagulls bobbed aloft, dark scraps and tatters against the low clouds that always curtain this place.

  You mingled with the people on the dock and smiled at the birds, enjoying their faint screams. Only animals seem to recognize what you are. You hate them too. That’s why you smile, really. Hate keeps you warm come the freeze.

  Ice will soon clog the harbor. Jagged mountains encircle the village on three sides in a slack-jawed Ouroboros. The other route out of town is a two-mile tunnel that opens onto the Seward Highway. This tunnel is known as the Throat. Anchorage lies eighty miles north, as the gull flies. Might as well be the moon when winter storms come crashing in on you. Long-range forecasts call for heavy snow and lots of wind. There will come a day when all roads and ways shall be impassable.

  You’ve watched. You’ve waited. Salivated.

  You’ll retreat into the Estate with the sheep. It’s a dirty white concrete superstructure plonked in the shadow of a glacier. Bailey Frazier & Sons built the Frazier Estate Apartments in 1952 along with the Frazier Tower that same year. History books claim these were the largest buildings in Alaska for nearly three decades, and outside of the post office, cop shop, library, little red schoolhouse, the Caribou Tavern, and a few warehouses, that’s it for the village proper. Both were heavily damaged by the ’64 quake and subsequent tsunami. Thirteen villagers were swept away on the wave. Four more got crushed in falling debris. The Tower stands empty and ruined to this day, but the Estate is mostly functional; a secure, if decrepit, bulwark against the wilderness.

  You are an earthquake, a tidal wave, a mountain of collapsing stone, waiting to happen. You are the implacable wilderness personified. What is in you is ancient as the black tar between stars. A void that howls in hunger and mindless antipathy against the heat of the living.

  Meanwhile, this winter will be business as usual. Snowbirds flee south to California and Florida while the hardcore few hunker in dim apartments like animals in burrows and play cribbage or video games, or gnaw yourselves bloody with regret. You’ll read, and drink, and fuck. Emmitt Snodgrass will throw his annual winter gala. More drinking and even more fucking, but with the sanction of costume and that soul-warping hash Bobby Aickman passes around. By spring, the survivors will emerge, pale as moles, voracious for light as you are for the dark.

  With the official close of tourist season, Eagle Talon population stands at one hundred and eighty-nine full-time residents. Three may be subtracted from that number, subtracted from the face of the earth, in fact, although nobody besides the unlucky trio and you know anything about that.

  Dolly Sammerdyke. Regis and Thora Lugar. And the Lugars’ cat, Frenchy. The cat died hardest of them all. Nearly took out your eye. Maybe that will come back to haunt you. The devil’s in the…

  Elam Newcastle is interviewed by the FBI at Providence Hospital. He has survived the Frazier Estate inferno with second degree burns and frostbite of his left hand. Two fingers may have to be amputated and the flesh of his neck and back possess the texture of melted wax. In total, a small price to pay considering the hell-on-Earth-scenario he’s escaped. His New Year’s vow is to find a better trade than digging ditches.

  He tells the suit what he knows as the King of Pop hovers in the background, partially hidden by curtains and shadows. This phantom, or figment, has shown up regularly since the evening of the massacre at the Estate. Elam is not a fan and doesn’t understand why he’s having this hallucination of the singer grinning and gesticulating with that infamous rhinestone-studded glove. It is rather disturbing. Doubly disturbing since it’s impossible to attribute it to the codeine.

  The investigator blandly reveals how the local authorities have recently found Elam’s twin brother deceased in the Frazier Tower. It was, according to the account, a gruesome spectacle, even by police standards. The investigator describes the scene in brief, albeit vivid, detail.

  Elam takes in this information, one eye on the moonwalking apparition behind the FBI agent. Finally, he says, “Whaddaya mean they stole his hat?”

  Scenes from an apocalypse:

  Viewed from the harbor, Eagle Talon is an inkblot with a steadily brightening dot of flame at its heart. The Frazier Estate Apartments have been set ablaze. Meanwhile, the worst blizzard to hit Alaska since 1947 rages on. Flames leap from the upper stories, whipped by the wind. Window glass shatters. Fire, smoke, and driving snow boil off into outer darkness. That faint keening is either the shrieks of the damned as they roast in the penthouse, or metal dissolving like Styrofoam as the inferno licks it to ash. Or both.

  Men and women in capes and masks, gossamer wings and top hats, mill in the icy courtyard. Their shadows caper in the bloody glare. They are the congregants of a frigid circle of Hell, summoned to the Wendigo’s altar. They join hands and begin to waltz. Flakes of snow and ash cover them, bury them.

  The angry fire is snapping yellow. Pull farther out into the cold and the dark and fire becomes red through the filter of the blizzard, then shivers to black. Keep pulling back until there are no stars, no fire, no light of any kind. Only the snow sifting upward from the void to fill the world with silence and sleep.

  We make love with the lights off. The last time, I figure. She calls me Jack when she comes and probably has no idea. Jackson Bane died on the Bering Sea two winters gone. His ghost makes itself known. He knocks stuff over to demonstrate he’s unhappy, like when I’m fucking his former girlfriend. Not hard to imagine him raving impotently behind the wall of sleep, working himself toward a splendorous vengeance. Perhaps that makes him more of a revenant.

  My name is Nathan Custer. I fear the sea. Summertime sees me guiding tours on the glacier for Emmitt Snodgrass. Winter, I lie low and collect unemployment. Cash most of those checks down at the Caribou. Laphroaig is my scotch of choice and it’s a choice I make every livelong day, and twice a day once snow flies. Hell of an existence. I fought with Jack at Emmitt Snodgrass’ annual winter party in ’07. Blacked his eye and demolished a coffee table. Don’t even recall what precipitated the brawl. I only recall Jessica in a white tee and cotton shorts standing there with a bottle of Lowenbrau in her hand. Snodgrass forgave me the mess. We never patched it up, Jack and I.

  Too late, now. Baby, it’s too late.

  While Jessica showers, I prowl her apartment naked, peering into cupboards and out the window at snowflakes reflected in a shaft of illumination pitched by the twin lamps over the lobby foyer. Ten feet beyond the Estate wall lies a slate of nothingness. Depending on the direction, it’s either sea ice and, eventually, open black water, or mountains. This is five-oh-something in the P.M., December. Sun has been down for half an hour.

  “What are you doing?” Jessica, head wrapped in a towel, strikes a Venus pose in the bathroom doorway. The back-lighting lends her a halo. She’s probably concerned about the butcher knife I pulled from the cutlery block. Wasn’t quick enough to hide it behind my leg. Naked guy with a knife presents an environmental hazard even if you don’t suspect him of being a homicidal maniac, which she might.

  “Getting ready for the party,” I say, disingenuous as ever.

  “Yeah, you look ready.” She folds her arms. She thinks I’ve been using again; it’s in her posture. “What the hell, Nate?”

  Unfortunately for everyone, I’m not an outwardly articulate man. I’m my father’s son. Mom didn’t hate his guts because he slapped her at the ’88 Alaska State Fair; she hated him because he refused to argue. When the going got shouty, Dad was a walker-awayer. I realize, here in my incipient middle age, that his tendency to clam up under stress wasn’t from disrespect. He simply lost his ability to address the women
in his life coherently.

  “Uh,” is what I come up with. Instead of, Baby, I heard a noise. Somebody was trying the door. Swear to God, I saw the knob jiggle. I don’t have the facility to ask her, If I was jacked up, wouldn’t you have noticed it while we were in bed? More than anything, I want to tell her of my suspicions. Something is terribly wrong in our enclave. People are missing. Strange shadows are on the move and I have a feeling the end is near for some of us.

  “Jesus. Cal’s right. He’s right. The bastard is right. My god.”

  “Cal’s right? He’s not right. What did he say?” Add Building Superintendent Calvin Wannamaker to my little black book of hate. I grip the knife harder, am conscious of my oversized knuckles and their immediate ache. Arthritis, that harbinger of old age and death, nips at me.

  “Hit the road, Jack.” She points the Finger of Doom, illustrating where I should go. Presumably Hell lies in that general direction.

  Maybe I can bulldoze through this scene. “That makes twice you called me Jack today. We have to get ready for the party. Where the hell are my pants?” I look everywhere but directly into the sun that is her gaze.

  “You’ve lost your damned mind,” she says in a tone of wonderment, as if waking from a long, violent dream and seeing everything for how it really is. “You need to leave.”

  “The party. My pants.”

  “Find another pair. Goodbye. And put that back. It was a present. From Jack!” She’s hollering now.

  “Wait a second… Are you and Cal—”

  “Shut your mouth and go.”

  I put the cleaver in the block, mightily struggling to conjure the magic words to reverse the course of this shipwreck. This isn’t love, but it’s the best thing I’ve had in recent memory. No dice. Naked guy hurled from the nest by his naked girlfriend. This is trailer park drama. Julie Vellum will cream over the details once the gossip train gets chugging. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll throw a fuck into her. Ah, sweet revenge, hey? The prospect doesn’t thrill me, for some reason. I walk into the hall and lurk there awhile, completely at a loss. I press the buzzer twice. Give up when there’s no answer, and start the long, shameful trudge to my apartment.

  The corridors of the Estate are gloomy. Tan-paneled walls and muddy recessed lights spaced far enough apart it feels like you’re walking along the bottom of a lake. The effect is heightened due to the tears in my eyes. By the time I get to the elevator, I’m freezing. The super keeps this joint about three degrees above an ice-locker.

  “Nate!” The whisper is muted and sexless. A shadow materializes from behind the wooden statue of McKinley Frazier that haunts this end of the fifth floor. It’s particularly murky here because the overhead has been busted. A splinter of glass stabs my bare foot. I’m hopping around, trying to cover my balls and also act naturally.

  “Nate, hold still, pal.” Still whispering. Whoever it is, they’re in all black and they’ve got a hammer.

  Oh, wait, I recognize this person. I’m convinced it’s impossible that this could be happening to me for the second time in twenty years. This isn’t even connected to that infamous Moose Valley slaughter. It’s like winning top prize in a sweepstakes twice in one’s lifetime. Why me, oh gods above and below? I’m such a likeable guy. Kurt Russell wishes he was as handsome as I am. So much to live for. Living looks to be all done for me.

  The hammer catches the faint light. It gleams and levitates.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I say. It’s a rhetorical question.

  Jessica Mace can’t actually speak when the feds interview her. She’s still eating through tubes. The wound at her neck missed severing the carotid by a millimeter. She scribbles curt responses to their interrogation on a portable whiteboard. Her rage is palpable, scarcely blunted by exhaustion and painkillers.

  Ma’am, after this individual assaulted you in bed, what happened?

  Came to. Choking on blood. Alive. Grabbed gun. Heard noises from living room. The killer had someone in a chair and was torturing them.

  Who was in the chair?

  Nate Custer.

  Nathan Custer?

  I think so. Yes.

  Did you see the suspect’s face?

  No.

  Approximately how tall was the suspect?

  I don’t know. Was dark. Was bleeding out. Confused.

  Right. But you saw something. And you discharged your firearm.

  Yes. It was him. I’m sure.

  Him?

  Him, her. The killer. My vision was blurry. They were a big, fuzzy shadow.

  Are you admitting that you fired your weapon multiple times at… at a shadow?

  No. I shot a goddamned psycho five times and killed him dead. You’re welcome.

  How can you be certain, Ms. Mace?

  Maybe I can’t. Killer could’ve been anyone. Could be anyone. The doctor. The nurse. Maybe it was you. YOU look fucking suspicious.

  Calvin Wannamaker and his major domo Hendricks are bellied up to the bar at the Caribou Tavern for their weekly confab. They’ve already downed several rounds.

  DeForrest is polishing glasses and watching the new waitress’s skirt cling in exactly the right places as she leans over table No. 9 to flirt with big Luke Tucker. Tucker is a longshoreman married to a cute young stay-at-home mom named Gladys. Morphine is playing “Thursday” on the jukebox while the village’s resident Hell’s Angel, Vince Diamond, shoots pool against himself. VD got paroled from Goose Bay Correctional Facility last month. He has spent nineteen of his forty-eight years in various prisons. His is the face of an axe murderer. His left cheek is marred by a savage gash, freshly scabbed. Claims he got the wound in a fight with his newest old lady. Deputy Newcastle has been over to their apartment three times to make peace.

  The bar is otherwise unoccupied.

  “Found a dead cat in the bin.” Wannamaker lights a cigarette. A Winston. It’s the brand that he thinks best suits his Alaska image. He prefers Kools, alas. “Neck was broke, eyes buggin’ out. Gruesome.” The super loves cats. He keeps three Persians in his suite on the first floor. He’s short and thin and wears a round bushy beard and plaid sweaters, or if it’s a special occasion, black turtlenecks. Hendricks started calling him “Cat Piss Man’ behind his back and the name kind of stuck. Neither man was born in Alaska. Wannamaker comes from New York, Hendricks from Illinois. They’ve never adjusted to life on the frontier. They behave like uneasy foreigners in their own land.

  “Oh, yeah?” Hendricks says with a patent couldn’t-give-a-shit less tone. No cat lover, Hendricks. Don’t like cats, love pussy, he’s been quoted time and again. He’s taller than Wannamaker, and broad-shouldered. Legend says he worked for the Chicago Outfit before he got exiled to Alaska. Everyone considers him a goon and that’s a fairly accurate assessment.

  “Floyd found it, I guess is what I mean,” Wannamaker says.

  Floyd is the chief custodian and handyman for the Estate. He was also a train-hopping hobo for three decades prior to landing the Estate gig.

  “The hell was Floyd doing in the bin?”

  “Makin’ a nest. Divin’ for pearls. I dunno. He found a dead cat is all I know. Thinks it belonged to the Lugars. They split ten days ago. Must a been in a rush, cause they locked their doors and dropped the keys in my box without so much as a by your leave. Earlier and earlier every year, you know that? I don’t get why they even make the trip anymore. I get three or four calls a day, people looking for an apartment. At least.”

  Hendricks sips his beer. He doesn’t say anything. He too is checking out the posterior of Tammy, the new girl.

  “Yeah, exactly.” Wannamaker nods wisely in response to some ghost of a comment. “I hate snowbirds. Hate. Too cheap to pack their old cat and ship him to Florida. What’s Lugar do? Snaps the poor critter’s neck and dumps him in the garbage. Bah. Tell you what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna file a report with Newcastle. Sic the ever lovin’ law on that sick jerk. Shouldn’t have a cat. If he didn’t own his apartment I’d yank h
is lease faster than you can spit.”

  Hendricks pushes his bottle aside. “That’s a weird story.”

  “Lugar’s a weird dude. He sells inflatable dolls and whatcha call ’em, body pillows.”

  “Is that what he does?”

  “Oh, yeah, man. He flies to Japan every so often and wines and dines a bunch of CEOs in Tokyo. They’re nuts for that stuff over there.”

  “Huh. I figured he’d be retired. Guy’s gotta be pushing seventy.”

  “I guess when you love what you do it ain’t work.”

  Words to live by.

  Last words of Mark Ferro, aged thirty-three as he is executed by lethal injection for a homicide unrelated to the Frazier Estate Massacre: “It was meeeeeee!”

  You’ve exercised a certain amount of restraint prior to the blizzard. That’s over. Now, matters will escalate. While everybody else has gathered upstairs for Snodgrass’ annual bash, you sneak away to share a special moment with Nathan Custer.

  Does it hurt when I do this? It’s a rhetorical question.

  You don’t expect Custer can hear you after you popped his eardrums with a slot screwdriver. Can’t see you either. Blood pumps from the crack in his skull. Smack from a ball peen hammer took the starch right out of our hero. He coughs bubbles. Don’t need tongue or teeth to blow bubbles, though it helps.

  It may not even be Custer under that mask of gore. Could be Deputy Newcastle or Hendricks. Shit, could be that arrogant little prick Wannamaker at this rate. True story, you’ve fantasized about killing each of them so often that the lines might well be erased.

  Except, haven’t you wanted to end your existence? Sure you have. You’d love nothing more than to take your own miserable head off with a cleaver, string your own guts over the tree the way those cheap Victorian saps strung popcorn before Christmas went electric.

  This is where it gets very, very confusing.

  For a lunatic moment you’re convinced it’s you, slumped there, mewling like a kitten, soul floating free and formless while an angel of vengeance goes to work on your body with hammer and tongs. Yeah, maybe it’s you in the chair and Custer, or Newcastle, or Wannamaker, has been the killer all along. It ain’t pretty, having one’s mind blown like this.