Chapter 109

THE SOULS OF HIS ENEMIES

The New Ripper, Don Wilks, pulled on his mask, and the thrill rippled through him. He strapped the mouthpiece in place and clipped the restraints over his scalp. The hood tickled his skin. It made him blink, and the coarse material scraped his lips. But it was beautiful. His heart swelled. He was home again.

Through the eyeholes, he looked at Jack the Ripper. Or the one who’d been called by that name.

“You’ve been waiting for me,” said Wilks.

“For you, Donald. For you,” Jack said.

“How . . . how did you know?”

“I know everything. From my caged world I’ve sought out a disciple—a true disciple—all these years. I found you as a child. Your interest in the savagery of what was done all those years ago drew me. It drew me like a siren lures a sailor. It was heavenly.”

“Who was Jack? I have to know.”

“I was Jack.”

“Who did the killings for you? Who was me?”

Jack told him.

“Frederick Abberline,” repeated Wilks.

“They sent him to America. They wouldn’t hang him or jail him. He knew too much. He was part of the Establishment, see. So they exiled him. Far away from me. I just couldn’t reach him there. Couldn’t reach him to finish the job. To kill a fifth and free me.”

Wilks looked over at Tash Hanbury. She was tied to the old, rusty bed frame. She cried and struggled. Probably panicking, he thought. No idea how she got here.

But then neither did Wilks. He just followed the voice in his head. Followed it until it became loud. Followed it no matter what stood in his way. Followed it beyond the real world, the rational, followed it and found it somewhere dark and lost.

He scanned the room. It was grim. Everything was decayed, so old and broken. Everything twisted, like his soul. There was a chair and a table and the bed and not much else. But the smell of death hung in the air. And blood stained the walls. Dark, dried blood.

He asked, “Is . . . is she the fifth?”

Jack nodded. “A woman of Moab and Midian. They are not to be spared, Donald. God orders it. Moses told his soldiers to kill them all. You should do God’s work, just like Moses did.”

Wilks looked over at Hallam Buck and said, “Who’s that? Couldn’t he have done it for you?”

“He’s my eunuch. My gelded angel. You’re my king, Donald. You’re my Ripper. My Abberline. First, you have something for me? The satchel?”

Wilks laid the bag on the table and removed from it a large, plastic container. “I didn’t know what they were, but I knew they would be important. I thought I’d want to kill more after I started, but . . . but it didn’t seem to be the right time.”

Jack salivated. He shoved Wilks out of the way and flipped open the container. Four golden orbs shimmered in the gloom of Mary Kelly’s slaughterhouse.

Like a hungry animal, Jack scooped the four orbs into his mouth. He chewed. Golden liquid oozed down his face and chest. He swallowed and smacked his lips. Gold filled his mouth. The gold of four souls. The souls of his enemies.

“This is the right time, isn’t it,” said Wilks.

“Rip her open and take it out of her,” Jack said, still salivating. “Rip her so I can be free. So you can be king. Rip her, Donald.”

From his pocket, Don Wilks took a butcher’s knife. He’d used it to kill his four victims fifteen years before. Now he would use it to kill Tash Hanbury. He crossed to the bed, and she screamed.