Ripper (Event Group Thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  “Why have you stopped searching, what is—?”

  The question died in the colonel’s mouth as he saw the two severed heads sitting on either side of the staircase banister. They had been viciously jammed onto the twin railings with such brute force that the wood had been shoved through the top of their heads. One was a bearded man in his early twenties and the other a woman, complete with tattered hat still on her head with the wooden post sticking through its top.

  “Colonel,” the sergeant major said holding out a piece of paper. “This was nailed into the head of the man.”

  Abberline was shocked to see a nail still protruding from the forehead of the bearded victim. Without investigation he knew the young man to be one of his men. He had to turn away as the colonel took the note.

  “What does it say?” Abberline asked, finally feeling that the heavy-caliber Webley was not such a burden after all.

  Colonel Stanley, instead of answering the question, gestured for ten men to move to the far side of the building and use the wooden staircase at that end. He then handed the note over to the chief inspector and then quickly started taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Chief Inspector?” Washington said as he watched the blood drain from Abberline’s face. Instead of answering, he too handed over the note, not wanting to utter the written words aloud. Washington read the note as his boss followed the soldiers up the stairs. The words were scrawled as if they were written by an untrained, brutish hand.

  Colonel Stanley, if I may presume this is who the ministry of defense has chosen to terminate my contract, please join me in the laboratory at the head of the stairs. I am available for a demonstration of the work I was so well compensated for. It is shameful that I am not allowed to complete my assignment, but tonight you can have the results as promised.

  —A

  Washington was as confused as ever as he allowed the note to fall from his hand. He went up the stairs, but not as enthusiastically as the rest.

  Abberline heard the men on the upper floor as they moved about. He gained the uppermost floors and then looked out onto the warehouse. Half the building had a second floor; the other half was a high roof with the new skylighting used for the greenhouse. Abberline aimed his pistol ahead of him. The building lacked the gas lighting of the more modern warehouses that lined the river, so in every corner and underneath every table, chair, and barrel, he saw moving shadows. He finally spied Stanley as he kicked over a small table that held beakers and glass tubes of every shape and size. He seized the colonel’s arm.

  “We must leave the building and surround it with more men. This is a trap and we’re walking right into it.”

  “My orders are to kill this maniac, and that is exactly what we are going to do. If you have doubts as to our abilities, perhaps it is a good time to leave.” Stanley shook Abberline’s hand free of his arm. “But you can also expect a visit from the palace as to why you refused to assist Her Majesty in this apprehension.”

  Abberline was about to explode. Now Stanley was even veiling his threat with word games—it was real; they would kill him and Washington and think nothing less of themselves. He opened his mouth to speak, but a thickened, rich, booming voice froze every man on the second floor.

  “Your men seem to need some of the fire I could have provided them and the Defense Ministry paid for if I had not been betrayed by those very same men, Colonel Stanley.”

  The voice echoed in the almost-empty building. Abberline was sure that it emanated from a megaphone at the very least. It swirled and then settled upon the twenty-three men as the fog had done outside.

  “This was supposed to end many months ago; you gave your word to the ministry. Now come Professor Ambrose, let’s finish this business.”

  “Very well, but allow me my medicinal interlude.”

  Abberline jumped when the sound of breaking glass broke the silence after the words were spoken. As he looked he saw the vial in pieces on the floor at the colonel’s booted feet. He watched as Stanley went to a knee to examine the broken glass. He reached out and retrieved a small piece of the shattered vial. He sniffed and then he stood so suddenly that his men jumped.

  “Professor, you did not drink the whole of this did you?”

  Silence.

  “It will not avail you, tonight you die.”

  It seemed every man saw the shadow as it fell from the rafters above their heads. The darkened mass hit the floor and then vanished into the blackness at the far end of the warehouse. Three shots rang out from the nervous soldiers to Abberline’s left. Washington stepped forward and stood by the chief inspector.

  Suddenly the sergeant major and two men skirted the colonel and ran forward on the right at Stanley’s direction. Then he motioned again and another two ran forward on the right. Again there were more gunshots. A loud explosion announced that one of the American shotguns had discharged. Then something flew out of the darkness and struck the wooden floor. It was one of Stanley’s men. His torso had been torn in two with the upper half missing. Then several shouts were heard and men started moving quickly.

  “There!” Stanley shouted and fired his Webley at a large shadow that moved quickly through the darkened end of the large room.

  Abberline heard the heaving grunting and the horrifying chuckle that announced that the Ripper was no longer in hiding. The sound made the experienced inspector freeze in terror. Then he saw the enormous shadow rise up in between two large tables with test tubes, beakers, and jars on its top. The shadow grabbed the first table and held it before it just as several large-caliber rounds struck the wood. The shield allowed none of the bullets to pass through. Several men rushed the large and quickly advancing shadow. The first was knocked across the room as something large and club-like struck him, sending him through a large window. The second was stomped upon with brutal force as more bullets struck the thick, wooden table. Then the sound came that froze every one of the professional soldiers and also the two policemen in their tracks—a roar, not like the sound of a wild animal, but more of a purposeful act to scare everyone who heard it. More screams, more shots, and then the sound of breaking, tearing, and the horrid screams of men as the Ripper waded into them.

  Abberline grabbed Washington and the two men skirted to the left as gunfire erupted from all over the second floor. The large table was finally thrown and that afforded Abberline his first look at the man Robert Louis Stevenson had dubbed Mr. Hyde, but he and his men knew as Jack the Ripper.

  “My God!” Washington said as his feet froze at the sight.

  The clothing had been ripped and shredded. Tatters of a once-white shirt hung along the beast’s long arms as they swung at two men who charged him. The soldiers were immediately broken and lifeless as they slammed into the far wall. Abberline saw the face of the man he had chased for nearly two years. The face was crevassed and lined. Dark fissures were deep and dingy where there wasn’t muscle supporting the skin. The beard was thick and an inch long. The eyes were wild and the forehead massive. The teeth were large and misshapen and the man was clearly ten sizes too large for the clothing that covered his body. The beast standing before the remaining men was no less than seven feet tall.

  Several bullets hit the man before he could move, but they seemed to have no effect.

  “The head—shoot for the head!” Stanley shouted as he tried to get to a better location in the darkness for a clear shot. Before he reached his spot he tripped and fell, and that was when he looked over and saw that the club that had been used against his men had been the remains of the sergeant major. He lay headless and lifeless beside him. Colonel Stanley scowled and then with a shout he stood and charged the creature that could not possibly exist. He started firing the Webley as he ran toward the large beast. Then just as the bullets struck in the shoulder and chest, the Ripper moved. It was like a large cat that maneuvered for the kill. It quickly seized the colonel by the neck and pulled him up and in front of it. The Ripper was now using Stanley as a shield.<
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  More bullets hit the beast from behind, but still the Ripper elicited no sound other than the loud grunting and snarling of a large predator. It was as though the thing standing before Abberline and Washington had lost the ability of speech. There was no scream of pain and no words. Stanley tried to raise the pistol, but the hand was taken and the fingers slowly crushed until the large weapon fell free. Abberline charged, firing his own weapon. Two bullets hit the Ripper in the side and one actually clipped Colonel Stanley as he was dangled and shaken like a small doll before a cruel child. Suddenly a fist struck out and hit Abberline in the chest and he flew five feet backward. As Washington ran to the chief inspector’s side he saw Stanley released. The Ripper lifted a large and bare foot over the prone and stunned Stanley and then raised its misshapen head to the rafters. This time it was indeed an animalistic roar of triumph that shook the very building.

  Inspector Washington slid to the floor to assist Abberline. The chief inspector had been slammed into a table and then to the floor, knocking free an oil lamp that had burst open, and its now freed flame had engulfed Abberline’s left leg. Washington quickly slapped at the burning material until the yellow flames were snuffed out. He kicked away the tin container that held the oil so it wouldn’t again engulf Abberline. As Washington raised his head he saw the large foot come down as even more bullets struck the Ripper from the front, back, and rear. One of the bullets struck the beast above the left eye and the thickened bone produced a ping as if the large round had struck thick plate. The Ripper then turned toward the two prone men. It charged.

  “Oh,” was all Washington could utter as he tried in vain to pull Abberline free of the Ripper’s speedy attack. Young Washington knew it was too late, but instead of waiting for the death that came at them, he quickly reached out and took the shattered oil lamp’s base and threw it at the altered man that came at them. The oil hit and then spread on the once-formal shirt of the Ripper. As Abberline started to awaken he saw the young inspector reach his sleeved hand into the burning fuel that was still blazing brightly in front of them. As his hand and arms caught fire, he stood and actually ran at the beast. He struck and the world erupted before the chief inspector’s eyes like a lightning bolt. Washington rebounded and then fell to the floor as the flames coursing up his arm spread.

  The Ripper roared as the flames erupted over its entire body. He slashed and spun, knocking over tables and chairs, breaking laboratory equipment as it tried in vain to extinguish the burning fuel.

  “Open fire, damn you!” Abberline shouted at the remaining soldiers.

  Ten, fifteen, twenty shots were heard as the beast spun in circles, sending pieces of flaming clothing in every direction. Then it suddenly stopped and ran for the windows fronting the river. With the massive body still flaming, the Ripper smashed the many paned window and vanished into the night’s fog.

  Abberline slid quickly across the floor and started slapping and cursing at the flames that were now covering the body of young Washington. His whole left side was ablaze as he tried desperately to roll on the flaming floor. Abberline reached up and pulled a large barrel marked water over onto the inspector that had saved his own life just a moment before. The water and barrel hit Washington and the flames quickly vanished. Abberline reached the inspector and turned him over. He was still alive but in much pain.

  “Easy boy, we’ll get you out of here,” he shouted as he stood and ran for the smashed window. As he looked into the thick fog all he could see was the swirling whiteness that was just now starting to thin.

  As he turned away from the window he prayed that the Ripper had been too badly hurt to survive his burns, much less the fall to the river below.

  As he faced the destruction that had been reaped in less than two minutes from beginning to end, he saw the body of Colonel Stanley lying next to that of the sergeant major. His head was no longer there. The large foot had smashed it into pulp. Abberline turned and looked down at his feet while bracing himself against the sill of the large window. Everywhere men lay dead and broken.

  Chief Inspector Abberline ordered four of the surviving soldiers to get young Washington down to the remaining wagon, and then he turned to stare out into the lifting fog. He heard the river far below, but that was the only sound in this night of horrors.

  * * *

  The large coal-fired scamp eased to shore along the Thames River. A tall and very thin man stepped from the small wheelhouse as the river pilot held the little boat steady. The man with the blue turban waited at the railing. He turned and noted the secured barrels holding the seedlings and the ten thousand dried plants grown in the warehouse and nodded his head, satisfied they were safe.

  After a few minutes he heard the noise emanating from the fast-flowing river. He saw the shaking, burned hand reach out of the water and take hold of the thick, wooden rail. The turbaned man gestured for several of the small boat’s deckhands to assist the man out of the Thames River a full mile from the East End docks.

  A few minutes later the boat turned back south toward the sea where a large cutter waited offshore, its destination—America.

  * * *

  The Jack the Ripper case would be closed the following day and the death of the Black Watch soldiers and their colonel would go unread in any newspaper.

  Young inspector Washington survived his severe burns and led a productive life in the Metropolitan Police force. He would be killed in the Battle of the Somme twenty-seven years later during the Great War, and would go to his grave never uttering a single thing about that night in the East End of London. And if the world knew the truth, he was all the happier for being as quiet as he had been for seventeen nightmare-filled years, and taking that night with him in death.

  Frederick Abberline would eventually leave the London constabulary and head the office of the American-owned Pinkerton Detective Agency. And for years after that night in 1889 he would check the newspapers from around the world only to see if Dr. Jekyll had released his Mr. Hyde and Jack the Ripper had once more reared his ugly head in another country, for his nightmares always told the chief inspector that Jack was still out there somewhere.

  Frederick George Abberline died in 1929, age eighty-six, at his home without muttering a single word about that long-ago night by the River Thames. He allowed speculation to flourish that Queen Victoria had been in on a cover-up of massive proportions to protect one of her relatives. Abberline didn’t have any sympathy for the monarchy—after all, it was on her orders that Jack the Ripper came to the shores of the British Empire. They deserved the dark rumor and innuendo that would hound her to her own death in January 1901.

  Chief Inspector Abberline received one last letter that had not been intercepted by the government. It was a coded letter from a Mr. Steve Hanson and he had written it from, of all places, India. Abberline knew it was the last he would ever hear from the man as the only words written inside the envelope were these: “Our mutual friend owns quite a lot of property in South Texas and across the border in Mexico—if that should interest you.” It was signed Steve Hanson, but Abberline didn’t have to be much of an inspector to know it was from Stevenson. Robert Louis Stevenson. Abberline could only pray that if the Ripper was alive, he would be nothing more than a burnt-out hulk of a man. Robert Louis Stevenson died in September of 1894 at the age of forty-four years. He went to his grave never telling anyone the truth about his fictional characters being copied from the most brutal mass murderer in British history—Jack the Ripper.

  It would take over 114 years for the world to receive the answer that Frederick Abberline feared most of all in his long life after the case had been shunted aside—that indeed, Jack is back.

  LAREDO, TEXAS

  AUGUST 23, 1916

  A thick and rolling sea of fog came off the Rio Grande and partially hid the ninety-six men of B Company of the 8th United States Cavalry regiment. Sound was confusing inside the white gauze of mist as horses and men awaited the order to cross into Mexico. Bird
songs and insect noises became one cacophony of blended night elements that added to nervousness among the troopers.

  On a small rise above the northern side of the Rio Grande River an armored car sat motionless as men and horses awaited the command to move across the river. The large detailed map was stretched out on the hood of the car and was held in place by an old oil lantern as a medium-sized man placed an index finger on a small rectangular mark south of the border.

  “Your target area, Lieutenant, is this compound.”

  The taller and far-younger first lieutenant stood confused as he studied the map in the light of the small lamp. “General, have we received intelligence other than our earlier reports that say Villa is two hundred miles to the south and nowhere near this hacienda?”

  General John Joseph “Black Jack” Pershing kept his eyes on the map and didn’t look up at the man standing to his left. He nodded his head and then took a breath.

  “Pancho Villa is not our task here this morning, Lieutenant.” Pershing finally looked up and into the cold eyes of the blonde-haired First Lieutenant George S. Patton. The aide held his ground as the general waited for the inevitable question.

  “We’re using the president’s official mandate to cross into Mexico, and the capture of Pancho Villa is not in the directive? May I ask the general what the objective is?”

  Pershing finally reached out his hand, and one of his aides that had been standing off to the side filled it with a large manila envelope. The general held the envelope with both hands a moment and then as if he had drifted away in thought and body looked around him slowly as if he were looking at something deep inside the fog bank.

  “Reminds me of the morning just before the fight at San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Pershing said as he glanced skyward.

  Patton could see the general not only looking at the fog surrounding them but also looking back at his days as a young lieutenant in the 10th all-Negro cavalry, thus his moniker—Black Jack.