“They—whoever they are—must think Lamed Vavnik’s can come back from Heaven after they die. They must think one day one of us will die, or get killed I guess, and come back with whatever book they want. I think Nora was right. They want the same book the angels are looking for—some kind of lost book from Heaven, or in Heaven.”
“Wow,” Quinn said again.
“And you know what?” Daphna said, her ire rising. “If they’re watching all of us, then they watched the others get murdered one by one and did nothing about it.”
“Why not kill you themselves?”
“Well, if they believe in Heaven, they probably don’t want to sacrifice their chances of winding up there by committing murder. Though I can’t imagine watching people get murdered without doing anything about it wouldn’t keep you out.”
“Seems like it should,” Quinn said.
“I guess there’s a room full of files for Evelyn’s life somewhere,” Daphna said. “Which would mean they had to know she was Eve, or at least that she seemed to be living forever. Who are these people? You know what?” Daphna suddenly said. “I don’t care who they are. They clearly don’t interfere.” She grabbed the drapes to drag them closed. “Let’s go down to the—Is it ninety-nine degrees?”
There was a thermometer stuck on a plunger to the front window. Daphna leaned closer to see if she’d read it right. She had.
“Daphna!” Quinn cried.
There was no point in darting away. There was no point in lamenting the stupidity of opening the drapes in the first place, let alone of standing there so long.
Branwen was standing right across the street with five boys. She was sporting a new outfit—jeans shorts and a sleeveless chiffon top. She looked fully refreshed, and fully insane. Her stunning eyes were positively crazed, and they were locked on Daphna’s.
CHAPTER 20
spines
Sweat dripped from Dexter’s hair down his temple and into the corner of his eye, but he dared not move to wipe it. It was ghastly hot under the pile and difficult to breathe. Nora, he realized, was still under him. He could hear her praying. Their faces, it seemed, were mashed, cheek-to-cheek. Their hearts pounded together, hard enough, he was certain, to shake the entire pile of books right off of them.
Dex tried to calm himself by taking long, slow breaths. He tried to remember where he was and what circumstances required his immediate attention, but the ability to think had utterly deserted him.
The pile moved. It pressed down on him a bit, and this finally brought him back to his senses. Jons was walking on the books, evidently very slowly. Was he looking for this diary? He couldn’t possibly expect to fish it out. He probably couldn’t even see very much of the—”
Oh, no, Dex thought. The flashlight.
“Emerge, Mason,” Jons said, not very far from their sweltering spot, “or I will drop a match in this hole and send you to the place you surely serve.”
“No, Daddy! No!” Nora cried, panicking. She shook herself out from under Dexter. Books slid into the hole she created as she pushed and clawed her way up to the surface.
Dex was still buried, so he stayed put. But, no, he couldn’t let her face this alone. He forced his way up as well, shedding books like scales, and in a few moments both he and Nora stood atop the pile, facing Pastor Jons, whose jowls shook with a rage he couldn’t seem to put into words.
“Please, Daddy, let me explain!” Nora begged.
“Explain?” Jons howled. “Explain what, you weak-willed little harlot? Explain how you allowed yourself to be seduced by this—this—!”
Jons suddenly ceased his rant, and it took only a moment for Dex to see why. The pastor was looking down, his eyes wide to popping, at a particular book sitting on the heaping pile. Nora saw it, too.
It looked pretty much like most of the other books, cream-colored old leather, but it was obvious what it must be. The book was just lying there equidistant from the three of them. Jons took a step toward it, but stopped and clutched his lower back, wincing in pain.
Nora stepped forward on the shifting pile and picked it up.
“I am not a Mason,” she said. “Dexter is not Mason. He’s just—”
“YOU WILL OBEY YOUR FATHER, CHILD! GIVE ME THAT BOOK!”
Nora didn’t reply this time. She seemed incapable of deciding what to do.
“Please,” Dex said, “he can’t stop us both. He can hardly move! Let’s take the book out of here. We’ll figure out what’s going on and fix things. We’ll fix everything. She hasn’t dishonored you,” he said to Jons.
“Has he told you fantastic stories?” Jons asked, his voice going low and wicked. “Did he show you magic? You must confess everything.”
Dexter could almost literally see Nora’s will crumbling.
“Please,” Dex implored her, “you have to trust—”
“GIVE ME THAT BOOK,” Jons boomed, “OR RISK DAMNING YOUR SOUL FOREVER!”
“You—you mean,” Nora stuttered, broken, “it’s not too late?”
“No, child,” Jons promised, his voice suddenly soft and promising. He seemed to have a variety of voices. “It is never too late to repent so that you may regain the good graces of God. It is never too late to be forgiven, but you must make proper amends with me right now.”
Nora stood still, just holding the book, turned into herself.
“Do you forgive me?” she asked.
“I do, child. I do. Repent and give me the book right now. And then I will absolve you of your sins. You must do it right now.”
Dex tensed. He knew what was coming, and when Nora held the book out to her father, he lunged for it.
“No!” Nora cried.
She had a surprisingly strong grip. Dex got his hands on it, but could not pull the book away. The two grappled in a tug-of-war.
“Unhand that book!” Jons commanded, but he did not interfere.
The corner of the binding was cutting into Dex’s palm, and he could feel that it was loose to begin with. He didn’t have a hold on any actual pages, which made him fear the cover was going to rip right off.
And his heart was not in the struggle.
Nora was fighting for her soul, so Dex decided to give it to her.
But before he let go, there was a ripping sound, and then Dexter and Nora fell in opposite directions onto the books.
From his back, Dex watched Jons hobble over to his daughter, bend down painfully, and snatch the book from her. Then, grunting and moaning, he limped to the ladder with the pages in his hand. Dex found only the cover in his own.
“Daddy!” Nora cried. “Absolve me! Before it’s too late!”
Jons paused at the bottom of the ladder. His face was fully lit by light from the kitchen.
“Later,” he said. “If there’s time.” Then he hauled himself onto the ladder and grunted his way up and into the kitchen.
“Daddy, please!”
Dex didn’t give chase. Instead, he crawled over to Nora, who was sobbing.
“Are you okay?” he whispered when the front door slammed upstairs. Jons had left his daughter there, the life of her immortal soul hanging in the balance, with a Mason.
“I don’t understand,” Nora choked, sitting up. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay,” Dex said. What else was there to say? “He’s desperate to help the Pope. It’s not every day the Pope asks for a favor. He’ll come to his senses. It’s going to be okay.”
Nora abruptly stopped crying and looked at Dex with full, round eyes.
“You’re—you’re defending him?” she asked.
“I—” Dex said, unsure how to explain. But then the answer produced itself: “I’m defending you.” He had a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss Nora just then, but he fought it off.
“I’m sorry,” Nora said, looking down. “I’m sorry about the book. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“It’s fine,” Dex promised again. “I understand. I’d have done the same thing if I were you. And you were jus
t obeying the commandments, right? How can that be bad? Let’s get out of here. Can you make it up the ladder?”
“Yes,” Nora said, pulling herself together. “I’m fine.” She got up and headed right for it.
Dex was about to toss the book’s cover away when Nora said, “Don’t! Maybe there’s some useful information on it.”
“Right!” Dex said. Nora climbed up the ladder, sniffling a bit. He followed her up and into the kitchen, and then he gave it to her to examine.
She turned the cover sideways and read the spine: “The Diary of Sir William Gull. Ever heard of him?”
“No,” said Dex. “Anything on the back?”
Nora looked at the back. There was nothing printed on it at all.
“What’s that?” Dex asked.
“What?”
Dex approached and took the cover back. “Look,” he said, bending it over backward. Some kind of paper, just a strip it seemed, was jutting out of what appeared to be a sleeve or slot inside the spine cover. Nora’s eyes went wide as he slipped it out. It was long, as long as the spine itself.
“This must be the secret!” Dex cried. “Ha!” he exulted, feeling as if justice, for once, had been served. “Can you read it?”
It was a half sheet of paper—old and yellowed and folded over itself like a fan. Dex handed it to Nora, who took it to the main room, which was now buried ankle-deep in fallen candles and crosses. She waded through them to a small desk, where she sat and smoothed the paper flat. Dex stood and listened as she read aloud:
Monday ,1 October ,1888
I shambled through the fog last night like some kind of wounded wraith, chilled by the sound of my own boots clacking along the cracked cobblestones. The darkness was otherwise mute. Perhaps it feared having its tongue ripped out at the roots like the rest of us. An intolerable insult to be given such an assignment at my age--and in my condition! I could easily have suffered another stroke! With no more crusty old Dr. Gull to order about, who would do their dirty work? But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t derive a certain satisfaction at the sight of all the shuttered tenement windows, bolted to the last against the nightmare claiming dominion over London’s nights, a nightmare in which unsuspecting women get murdered—worse, mutilated—in the streets. They’ve named it, too, this nightmare: Jack the Ripper. Wonderful, that name. Terrifying and wonderful! And there I was, their nightmare in the flesh, struggling just to walk without falling on my face. I considered abandoning the errand, but I dared not defy the Brotherhood.
At one forty-five I heard the Constable’s men shouting in Mitre Square, so I knew they’d found the second body, the Eddowes woman. It had been dumped there after its visit to my slab, minus a kidney and most of its uterus. I’m quite certain this “investigation” is a waste of time—stuff and nonsense all of it—and no doubt it will bring someone of prominence to ruin. Still, corpses are hard to come by for study, so even Jewish bodies will do. How they identified these low women, who evidently do not know their own race, is beyond me, but like so much, it is none of my business. I can only assume they do not wish this connection between them to be discerned, at least not by the authorities.
Speaking of the authorities, the shouting grew louder. I had to act quickly, before the opportunity was lost. Sweating as I wheezed along, I nearly wiped my face with the bloody fabric clenched in my fist, the piece I’d torn from the woman’s apron and dipped in her blood. I am becoming an absent-minded fool!
I turned on Goulston Street, chose a random stairwell, and tossed the fragment of cloth onto it. Then I produced a stub of white chalk from my pocket. I suspect the message will never make the papers. If it does, it will no doubt be recorded incorrectly. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing carries more weight than a mysterious secret, and secrets are never kept by outsiders. It’s the crucial difference between the Brotherhood and everyone else. And this is why I will have to destroy this entry, lest I jeopardize what little time I have left of this life. No, I will conceal it! One day someone will discover it, and I will defy them in all their arrogance from my grave! My tongue will be long gone, but my backbone will endure! And now I know just where to hide it…
With a steady hand that still does my bidding despite the ravages of age and disease, I scrawled the phrase on the doorjamb over the bloody cloth:
The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.
Obscure enough to spread far and wide, I’m sure, but clear enough to its intended audience: Give up the book or we will not stop persecuting you. We will not stop killing you until we discover your secret and expose it to the world.
Hurried footfalls sounded along with the clamoring voices, so I dropped the chalk back into my pocket and moved off as quickly as I could.
Despite my infirmity, by the time the men arrived, the murk of the night had reduced me to naught but shadow. I fear it won’t be long before history does the same.
“Ah—wow,” Dex said when Nora looked up at him. “Did we just learn who Jack the Ripper was—a broken-down old doctor?”
“I—I think so,” Nora agreed.
“That piece of paper must be worth a fortune.”
“Those murders last year, all around the world,” Nora said, “the ones you and Daphna were talking about. My dad said the papers were calling the killer—”
“Jack the Tripper.”
“So, those killings more than a hundred years ago are connected to—all this?”
Dex had to think about it, but not for long.
“Yes,” he said. “I guess the Masons—they must be the Brotherhood mentioned in there—I guess they found some women who didn’t know they were Jewish, women it seems no one would care too much about, and killed them and cut them up. They pretended a serial killer was murdering them so no one would know what was really going on.”
“But, why? Did they think they were—I’m sorry, I don’t remember the word—”
“Lamed Vavniks. I don’t think so, or not exactly. They couldn’t have thought these random women in that one area of London were Lamed Vavniks, I don’t think, and this Gull guy didn’t seem to know what he was looking for, not specifically, anyway. They obviously didn’t know about the extra ribs, but I think they suspected there was some secret biological difference some Jews have—or all Jews, maybe—so they could use the discovery to force them to give over some book.”
“And Quinn’s book—with all the names?”
“Could be it,” Dex said. “Must be it. We’ve got to figure out what it is. Are you okay?” Dex could see how fragile Nora still looked. “I’m really sorry your dad—”
“Is God really gone?” Nora suddenly asked.
This caught Dex up short. No one had made any comment when Daphna had described God’s decision to remove himself from the world to provide mankind with genuine free will.
“Ah, yes,” Dex fumbled, wishing he could say something—anything—else. “He didn’t tell Adam and Eve where he was going,” he managed, “but he’s somewhere. I’m sure he hears your prayers.”
“Are—are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m absolutely sure. And he sees everything.” Dex chose not to mention the Eye, the Great Eye he’d glimpsed in the Aleph. Even remembering it was too much.
“Okay,” Nora said, bucking up. “We’ll solve all this, and my father will have to understand.”
“And then he’ll be asking you for forgiveness.”
Nora smiled.
“So,” she said, standing up, “let’s just do what Daphna suggested.”
“What’s that?”
“Go next door and ask the Jews what secret book they’ve been hiding from the world.”
CHAPTER 21
definitely it
“What should we do?” Quinn cried, spinning around, scanning the room for an idea.
“Basement!” Daphna yelled, finally tearing herself away from the horrifying but hypnotic pull of Branwen’s lunatic eyes. Those eyes weren’t entirely her own anymore—that was o
bvious.
“But we don’t know if he’s got a tunnel down there or not,” Quinn protested. “We could get cornered!”
Daphna shot a wild look around the room. She didn’t know what to do, where to go. Branwen and her flunkies were there now, banging on the door. Daphna’s brain felt like that painting of scrambled lines, hopelessly tangled thoughts, a thousand paths leading no—
“That’s it!” Daphna cried, fumbling the page from the book of Portland tunnels out of her back pocket. She unfolded it and held it shakily up in front of the painting over the fireplace. The squiggles on the page matched some of the squiggles on the painting—the black ones that touched the blue streaks.
Which were the river.
They were banging on the front window now.
Daphna leapt to the hearth, tore the frame off the wall and smashed it on the mantel.
“The basement!” she cried, pulling the map out.
“This way!” Quinn called, catching on. He bolted for the kitchen.
There were two doors. The back door had a semi-circular window revealing a little deck and garden outside. Just as Daphna reached it, a boy’s face appeared in the glass with an expression twisted grotesquely by the desire for violence. Daphna screamed as he jerked on the knob. Quinn, rushing past her, tore open the second door just as something shattered a window in the front of the house.
“We’re going to kill you!” Branwen screeched through it. “Do you hear me! We’re going to kill you!”
Daphna rushed down the steps Quinn had revealed. He slammed the door behind him after letting her pass, leaving them in the dark.
“Light! I need light!” he cried. But he evidently found a switch because some exposed bulbs lit up dimly around the basement.
Glass shattered in the kitchen.
“Can you lock it?” Daphna cried. She’d nearly taken a header down the steps, but now at the bottom and still upright, she turned to see Quinn at the door frantically looking for a way to do exactly that.
Book of Names Page 13