“Mattie.” He stood up. “Just, just calm down. I know you’re passionate about this. You’ve been working on it from the beginning, but there’s more to reporting than just the story. There are politics involved.”
“That’s your job. Keep the crooks and the politicians away from us, so we can report the truth.”
“Do not put the police in a poor light. I’ll edit it out. They’re working overtime to find the killer.”
“Some are,” she said. “But some seem to be overly concerned of what we’re going to report, before we’ve reported it. Doesn’t that cause you concern?”
He didn’t answer, instead choosing to sit down and hide behind his desk. “You have a new contact in the Vic PD for the case. His name is David Yates. Stuart Hellman will no longer be your advisor.”
She shrugged, but inside she steamed and worried why Sergeant Montgomery would do this. “I have no issue with that.”
“So, I have your agreement you will not write anything that puts a shade of doubt on the police investigation?”
“Did I not already answer that question?”
“Submit your article an hour earlier each day.”
Bastard. “Certainly.”
Five hours later, she’d added the notes from Kelly Yonders, the latest victim, to her data sheets. Double checked her entries because her emotions still had its hands around Bart’s neck, squeezing until his head popped off.
Happy that her newest entries were correct, she stared at them. Something stared back at her, but she couldn’t see it. The killer would make a mistake eventually. And eventually, it would be his downfall. She refused to believe the murders in Victoria would emulate the Whitechapel murders with the killer never being caught.
Flicking a pencil back and forth between her pointer finger and her thumb, the eraser end struck her head with each revolution. She needed a miracle. She needed evidence. She needed the damn killer to jump out in front of her and yell, “It’s me.”
The pencil sprang off the cubicle’s back wall when Mattie tossed it at the holder. With a harsh poke of her finger, the desktop on her computer monitor shrunk to a black pinhole. Too many fractured thoughts about killing her boss made it useless to focus on the case.
She needed a damn drink.
Chapter Five
Mattie placed her laptop on a small corner table tucked against the dark panelled wall near the entrance of the Irish Times pub. Shrugging the wool jacket from her shoulders, she hung it on the back of the chair. The murders had taken a toll on businesses in the downtown core, but tonight there weren’t a lot of empty seats. The Irish weren’t as frightened as the rest of the locals. Her mom had been born in Ireland, but her grandparents immigrated to Canada in the sixties. Mattie’s brothers inherited her mother’s fiery personality and deep auburn hair. Never holding back, her mother’s sharp tongue snapped a verbal lickin’ if Dad ticked her off. As kids, they’d all scatter if she got that look in her eye.
Unzipping the side pocket of her bag, she pulled a pair of buds and stuffed one in her ear. She didn’t mind the boisterous one-man Irish band on stage, but she wanted to concentrate on her data and drink. With one plug still dangling against her chest, she ordered a whiskey from the waitress, then muted the sing-along by placing the other bud in her ear.
The crowd in the popular pub consisted mostly of the over fifty gang. A few younger couples with their chairs tucked together, lost in each other’s eyes, made her mood dip lower. If anyone ever stared at her like that, she’d probably shy away. She flipped up her laptop lid and waited for it to boot up and connect to the WIFI while watching the customers. When the Ripper was apprehended, and she had no doubt he would be, she’d book a ticket to Hawaii to de-stress. Her pale Irish skin with too many freckles didn’t like the sun, but that’s why someone invented sixty block sunscreen.
With a “whoa horsey” her eyes skidded to a full four-hoof stop, landing on a man across the room. Some guy who’d had a few too many shots staggered backwards and blocked her view. She almost yelled at him to get the hell out of the way, but soon enough he stepped closer to his girlfriend, and Mattie inconspicuously glanced toward the swarthy heartthrob tucked in a dark corner. Men like him didn’t exist in real life, and they certainly didn’t hang out in Irish pubs. He had to be a tourist. Her lust thumped hard with attraction.
He hadn’t looked her way which gave her a little ogling time at his jet black hair and rugged profile. Every contour of his face had a sharp, dangerous edge. Broad shoulders flowed into arms made of steel, bulging at the sleeves of his dark blue t-shirt. Her x-ray vision must have heated him internally because his head turned, and he fixed his stare on her. Locked into stunned silence. More than deer in the headlights. Far past facing a train in a tunnel, his features shouted rock star, movie star or model. Who the hell was this guy?
She flicked her attention back to her laptop, and her heart rate dropped a little. She didn’t want to see his gorgeous wife or date sit down across from him. Concentrating on her work turned into a chore, but a little Irish kicked in, and her stubborn streak kept her eyes on the screen.
When the waitress brought her drink, Mattie’s inquisitive nature one-upped her Irish. Sure enough, a woman in a leather coat, ass-hugging jeans and knee-high boots lingered next to his table talking to him. Mattie didn’t look for long, because over the girl’s shoulder he glanced her way. His seductive eyes and full lips had a moral-busting sensual reaction.
She sighed and turned her chair a little to stop herself from weakening and sneaking an easy glance. The sing-a-longs got louder as the pints of beer were quaffed and time passed. Every hour had sixty minutes, but quarterly, she turned to snag one more look. Sometimes, he was alone, watching the crowd. Other times a girl hovered at his table, but none of them sat down.
Two hours later, she had to use the restroom. To quench her curiosity, she stole another look. She didn’t expect him to be at his table when she returned. Least that was her excuse. He didn’t smile, but the slightest of head tilts made her pulse run like a short distance sprinter. She offered a quick smile before darting for the bathroom with finish line speed. When she returned to her seat, he was being hunted by another beautiful woman.
The big old clock behind the bar said it was nearing two-thirty when she sat back and blinked her burning eyes. The pub would be closing soon. The bodies jammed together, blocked her view of the mystery man. Didn’t matter. He’d probably already left. Pushing through the thick crowd that had slowly seeped in during the evening, she made her way to the ladies room. When she returned, a fresh drink sat on her table. She looked around but he was gone. The waitress flew by, and she tapped her on the arm.
“I didn’t order this drink,” she said loudly to be heard over the music.
“The guy sitting over there bought it for you.”
“Did he say anything?”
She leaned in. “No, he just said ‘I’d like to buy that beautiful woman a drink.’ He paid for it and left a minute ago.”
Mattie sat down and picked up the glass, swishing the amber liquid inside. He hadn’t ventured over, and she certainly didn’t have the guts to approach a man like him. Especially since she wasn’t the jump-into-bed-at-first-sight kind of girl, but there was always the exception, and he’d been sitting twenty feet away from her all night.
She sighed and downed the whiskey in one gulp. The guy on stage sang his last song and thanked the audience who jumped to their feet with a standing ovation, attempting to entice him into one more. The entertainer obliged.
Mattie packed her laptop and sat back in the chair, watching the customers filter out the front door. Whoever the handsome mystery man had been, more than likely he was passing through Victoria. One of those close encounters or lost chances, whichever way she decided to look at it.
She hefted the strap of her bag over a shoulder and walked out of the bar and around the corner to where she’d parked her car in an open lot, intent on going home and hopefull
y dreaming of a very tall, dark and ruggedly handsome man she’d never see again.
* * * *
Diana’s fear paralyzed her as her captor slowed the car to a stop. She concentrated on holding onto a wisp of faith.
Would he let her go?
Unlikely.
She’d begged too many times already. He turned in his seat and smiled at her. The smile of the devil himself. A man she thought she could trust had tortured her for days. Her body ached with every bruise and chafe she’d earned by disobeying him.
“We’re going for a walk,” he stated.
Diana waited until the door opened, and he yanked on her bound hands. The clock on the dash showed the early morning hour. In the heart of Victoria, close to pubs and late night eateries, someone would hear her scream.
He guided her toward the back entrance of Market Square, and a sob of fear made him scowl. The other women, the victims of the Victoria Ripper, were left downtown in historic sites. Through four days of sexual abuse and torture, she kept herself sane by believing someone would find her. Feeling utterly helpless, she convinced herself to take each minute as another chance for her to live. Do what he wanted, and he’d let her go. His heart-clenching smile hid a monster. Deceived for so long by him, she’d never seen his darkness. Never believed in a million years the darkness that lived inside of him.
Opposing his pull, she stumbled, her strength no match for his. Tears of relief slid down her cheek, seeing the black wrought-iron-gate at the square closed and locked. He surveyed the area. The emptiness scared her. He scared her.
When he dug in his pocket, he revealed a key, then slotted it into the lock and twisted. Her hope dwindled to acceptance. She was going to die. With a screech of old hinges, he pushed one side open and yanked her through behind him.
The restaurants sat dark and vacant of customers. The tourist shops empty. With one last effort, she pulled away from him, but he quickly snatched her arm with a biting grip.
“I wish you could have stayed longer with me, but you were a disappointment, Diana.” He sighed. “A real disappointment and a lousy Sub.”
She jumped back and bumped into one of the visitor benches in the square. “Don’t.” She raised her hands, clasped together with a twist tie. “I know doctors who can help you.”
His expression softened. “I don’t need help. I know you’re scared, and I love you, but you didn’t obey me. That’s the only reason we’re here.”
“This isn’t who you are. You’re not a cold-blooded killer.”
“Diana, I’m not cold-blooded. I’m flawless, and I need a flawless woman. You didn’t understand me at all. My needs are simple.”
“Let me go.” His silent friend, who’d accompanied them, simply stared. He never spoke during the short drive in the car. “Please, you’re not like him.” She pleaded with every cell in her body. Both of them were handsome. Evil and handsome. A deceitful lure to women. “You’re a leader. You protect people. Why?”
The man the city had named the Ripper smiled down at her. “I thought about it tonight. Went for a drink. Enjoyed the scenery, and decided I needed to move on. You’re not the one,” he whispered against her ear. “You could never take her place. Never give me what she gave me. But tonight, I might have finally found her.”
His grip on her shoulders buckled her legs with pain as her knees cracked on the cement. “You bastard. I trusted you. How could you deceive so many people?”
The knife came from behind his back, gripped loosely in his palm. “I’m not insane. I know what I’ve done. And I’m free to keep doing it, and I will, until I’m sure I’ve found her.”
“The woman you love, who doesn’t love you back. Does she know what you are?” Her voice trembled worse than her body.
“She’s the only woman who knows me. She kept my secret all these years.” The Ripper licked his lips and stared into the dark corner of the square. “I told you. I lost her, but she’ll be mine again. One day, she’ll be mine again.”
With a rush of his large frame, he descended on her, tearing into her throat with a sickening sound. The last sound before death.
* * * *
Sunday afternoon, and the clock on Mattie’s computer registered a thought. She should have slept in instead of coming in early and staying this late. The extra-large coffee from Tim Horton’s didn’t help her burning eyeballs, but it did a number on her acid reflux.
Rapists. Murderers. Her gaze darted down the monitor. Serial killers of the 1800’s.
“That’s it.”
She shifted her glasses up her nose and leaned closer. Clicking on the site, she sat back in her chair, waiting for the page to load. A glance around the dimly lit, abandoned office told her it was past four p.m. From the hallway, she could hear the squeaky wheel on the cart the janitor used to clean the offices of the staff at the New Victoria Times Colonist.
Mattie clocked more time than any other journalist on the paper. Her roommate didn’t mind her working into the wee hours or the weekends. Mary’s nightly sexcapades had her boyfriend moaning, swearing, and more than once found their coupling to be a very religious experience, which tugged on Mattie’s nerves having to endure the symphony of lust coming from her best friend’s bedroom. Now that Mary was seeing Brandon on a steady basis, it had gotten worse.
This morning, Diana’s murder scene called out about twenty cops, but Stuart wasn’t one of them. She’d collected as much information as Constable Yates had been willing to give, but he was the type of cop who thought she was a pain in the ass. He’d barely given her a cursory look, and most of the time it was with mildly hidden disdain.
The dating scene and her future in journalism sucked Rocky Mountain-sized ass in Victoria, and the thought that once the Ripper case was over it was time to move, began to harden like cement in her mind. She couldn’t handle working for Bart much longer.
“Mattilda.”
Aw shit.
Before looking his way, she said, “Hey, Edgar. What’re you doing here at this hour?”
He stood in the doorway of his office, looking across the aisle at her. The rest of the journalists, worked in five by seven cubicles. Edgar had investigated and nailed a couple big stories, which garnered him an office. One day she’d have her own walls. She’d grown up in Victoria. Wet her ankles in news reporting for the Colonist, but eventually she wanted out. If she could help solve the Ripper case, she’d have a big shiny kudo and probably a one-way ticket to the Toronto Star.
“How about we grab some dinner?”
She twirled in her chair. “I’m not going on a date with you, Edgar. We’ve discussed this.” Edgar had the skinny, nerdy version of Clark Kent nailed down without the hope of ever becoming Superman. Being five ten, she had a thing about dating shorter men, especially those she could throw over her shoulder and run a quarter-mile dash. Besides, he always called her Mattilda instead of Mattie. Only her mom got away with that.
“It’s not a date,” he argued.
She chuckled. “Nice try.”
“What’re you working on?”
“Tomorrow’s submission.”
As if she’d tell him the truth. She’d put months into investigating her story and maybe solving the case which the Victoria Police couldn’t. The tourist, slash military, slash yuppie, slash oatmeal munching, tree hugging activists were up in arms. In other words, the entire eclectic mix of people living in or around Victoria. The Ripper had torn seven women to pieces and left them in spots reminiscent of Whitechapel. If she could reveal the Ripper’s identity, the victims would be vindicated. Their families would have justice. And the fall-out for her was recognition by the right people. Edgar just might have to share his moss-colored walls and shove his enchanted Tofino cedar painting aside.
She logged off her computer and turned off the monitor, then yanked her purse out of her bottom drawer. “Besides, I’ve got a date and I’m late.” Nudging the drawer closed with her foot, she gave him a fleeting smile.
�
��New guy?” Edgar asked.
He stood blocking the entrance to her space. When she glared at him, he stepped aside. For some reason, Edgar thought her love life equated with her roommate.
“Sort of. See ya.” She hustled her way to the exit.
Date would be stretching it, more like she was headed to the Vancouver Island Regional Corrections facility on Wilkinson Road. She’d barely make it before visiting hours ended. A Lieutenant Commander of the exalted JTF2, the Canadian military’s Joint Task Force, had agreed to talk with her. Diana had been his girlfriend until recently. Slaughtered and left in Market Square, Diana made the seventh victim. The police pegged the Canadian Special Op hero as the prime suspect.
Mattie had a few questions of her own and one hell of a story if he would talk with her. Finally, the Ripper had been caught. It didn’t surprise her that he was Special Forces. He’d slaughtered the women without leaving much of himself behind except his brutal violence. He was probably one of those head shaven, gorilla types who thought women were worthless. He’d been away on deployment until recently. That would explain why the Ripper had been silent for a few months. He came home, but hadn’t left his blood lust on the war front. He’d brought it back.
To say she was a little scared would be an understatement. Lieutenant Commander or not, this man had no soul, and facing off with him would take all her nerve. He’d probably lie to her, but she’d play it cool. Use all her professional experience to tell his story, if he had one to tell. As far as her research went, these guys loved to play a game involving media attention. It worked for both of them, but she was glad there would be security around when she spoke with him.
Right now, he was only under suspicion and being held, which meant no bars between them. Nothing between them, and that frightened her. She’d concentrate on her questions versus the monstrosities he’d committed.
Edgar caught up to her as she entered the elevator. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Don’t think we have to worry about the Ripper anymore,” she said, leaning against the faux wood wallboard.
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