The Requiem Collection: The Book of Jubilees, More Anger than Sorrow & Calling Babel: Novel Set

by Eric Black

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll kill you here. It makes no difference to me.”

  He’s old. I’m younger, Jack said to himself. If I can distract him, I can take him out. It will be self-defense.

  Phillips noticed Jack’s hesitation and smiled as he read his thoughts. “You might think it’s been twenty years for me as well. That’s not true. I arrived here the same way you did.” Wilson pulled the device from the back of his ear and showed it to Jack. “I’m not as old or as slow as you think I am.”

  Jack recognized the device. He didn’t know how Phillips acquired the device and honestly it didn’t matter. He had it. He could travel through time.

  “Come with me,” Phillips said firmer. “You wouldn’t want any of your new friends to get hurt.”

  Jack set down his cup of coffee and rose to his feet. He walked across the porch to Phillips. Phillips stepped back giving Jack space so he wouldn’t get too close. Jack noticed and admired the move. “Where are we going?” Jack asked.

  “I’d like to see the Potomac.”

  “It stinks.”

  “I’ve smelled worse. Now get moving.”

  They walked towards the river and Phillips questioned him as they walked. The questions were all about the Ripper murders. Phillips wanted the answers that had eluded him. Jack, to his own surprise, was eager to talk about it. He had held in the guilt and shame of what he had done and it felt good to release it. Several times the tears nearly came but he held them back. He wouldn’t give Phillips a false sense of satisfaction that he was breaking down in the end.

  When they reached the river, Jack turned and looked at Phillips. “Now what?”

  Phillips answered by raising the gun and shooting Jack in the chest. Jack fell backwards and sprawled onto the ground on his back. Blood spurted from his chest where the bullet had nicked his heart. Jack looked up at Phillips in disbelief. He tried to talk but only blood bubbles came from his lips.

  In a moment, he would be dead. Jack had killed enough people to know the symptoms at the end of life. He was displaying all of them. He looked up at Phillips once more and saw Phillips raising the gun. He watched Phillips squeeze the trigger. Then, there was nothing else for Jack.

  Phillips shot Jack in the head for good measure and then rolled Jack’s body into the river. With Jack dead, he touched the device behind his ear. He thought of his home in Cardiff and disappeared.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Washington, D.C. – November 1921

  “We don’t have much time,” Wilson said, gazing intently across the table. “Jack was killed and it’s only a matter of time before they track him back to us.” The morning newspaper had included a photo of a body found in the river. Body Found in the Potomac was the headline. The swollen face in the photo belonged to Jack.

  “How can you be sure of that?” Vincent asked. “He won’t have identification.”

  “His photo is in the newspaper,” Wilson replied, “and the people who live in this neighborhood will recognize him. Jack was very public while he was here. He sat on the front porch every morning waving at anyone who came by. There’s no way he won’t be identified. And the question is – what do we do then?”

  Vincent shook his head.

  “And to make things worse,” Wilson continued, “not only do we have to answer how a murdered man last seen with us ended up in the river, we also have to assume that at some point Jack will be discovered to be the murderer of President Libby Williams.”

  Vincent looked up. “What makes you say that?”

  “The White House has video cameras that can be turned on for surveillance doesn’t it?”

  Vincent started to ask how Wilson knew that when he remembered that in another line of history, Wilson had been the President and although it had not actually happened, Wilson still had the memories. Vincent nodded instead of speaking.

  “Those cameras would have begun filming once the alarm was sounded and they would have caught Jack taking Libby.” Wilson started to move on with the conversation but then he remembered to whom he was talking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Yes, you’re right. Jack will have been caught on film. And that means they’ll know he is the one killed my wife, just as you said. I can guess who their primary suspect will be in his murder.”

  “Since you’ve been seen with him here, you,” Wilson answered, pausing for effect. “So that leads us back to the first question. What do we do now? We can’t just leave. We’d be admitting guilt and seen as running from the crime before we were caught.”

  Vincent pounded his fist on the table. “I just don’t get it. How could Jack have been killed given the causality paradox?”

  “Maybe the person who killed him was historically supposed to kill him. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of correcting what was previously changed. I wish I could go back and see what happened.”

  To Vincent’s surprise, Wilson disappeared.

  A moment later he was back. “I just traveled! What about you? Does yours work?”

  Vincent was happy for Wilson but the discovery did not benefit him. “I can’t do what you can. I’ve never been able to. I came back to this time but I don’t know how it happened.”

  Wilson looked at Vincent. “You’re sure that you’ve never traveled through time before coming here?”

  “I’m sure. Other than an occasional sense of déjà vu, I ‘ve always lived in the same line of history.”

  Wilson looked at Vincent and smiled. “I’ll be right back.” Wilson disappeared. He returned swiftly, almost as if he hadn’t left. “Here,” he said holding out his hand to Vincent, “this is for you.”

  “What is it?” Vincent asked looking at the small round object in Wilson’s hand.

  “This device is how I travel through time. This one’s for you.” He showed Vincent where to place the device and explained how it worked.

  They discussed time travel and how it worked for the next thirty minutes, when Wilson realized what he had forgotten to tell Vincent about Jack. “I saw Jack’s death. I went back to when he was killed and I saw him led away at gunpoint and then shot and thrown into the river.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t recognize the man. I have no doubt it was someone who Jack had come across throughout his travels. I’m sure the death was warranted.”

  “Why don’t we go back to that moment in time and stop it from happening?” Vincent suggested, not believing what he was saying.

  “Do you realize what you’re asking? We’re better off with Jack dead. The world is better with him dead.”

  “I know that. He murdered my wife. I know it as well as anyone. But I don’t see a way out of this for us, do you?”

  Wilson considered Vincent’s idea. “I think we should continue to look at our options.”

  “I know what you’re feeling. Finding out that Jack was dead was a kind of closure for me in the death of my wife. Every day I looked at him and all I could think of was my wife suffering at his hands. I’ve wanted to kill him every day since I found out he is the one who did it.

  “Believe me, if there was any other way, I would say let’s take it. I’m not willing to start running. The main reason is that history would remember me as a murderer and I’m not willing to let Libby’s place in history be darkened by what others thought I had done.”

  “So what you’re suggesting,” Wilson returned, “is that we go back and save Jack from being killed. And how would we do this? Kill the man who killed Jack before he actually kills him?”

  Vincent nodded.

  Wilson continued, “And what if the universe won’t let us kill him?”

  “Then I guess we’ll know.”

  Wilson considered Vincent’s comments for several moments. Finally he spoke. “I don’t like it but I agree with you. We need to at least try this.”

  Over the next two weeks (which only amounted to a matter o
f seconds in their original timeframe), they made preparations. Vincent learned how to travel and became very proficient at arriving at exact times and destinations.

  Over that two week time, he also learned how he had come back in time originally. He traveled to that day in Belgium multiple times and observed a man bumping into him and him going into a coma. He knew the man had to be the one who caused him to go back in time. He just didn’t know how.

  He did some research on why the man would be there in the first place. His first thought was that the man was there for Jack. It turned out he was right. History showed the man to be Bagster Phillips who was involved with the Jack the Ripper investigation.

  Vincent returned to Belgium again and watched Libby speak on stage. Seeing her alive again brought him to tears.

  He watched as Jack shot Libby (something he hadn’t known and that inflamed his rage again). He cried out helplessly. Jack was taken to the ground, beaten and then taken to a car. He watched as Jack disappeared in front of a group of stunned Secret Service agents. Then, he watched Phillips disappear.

  Vincent went back several times to try to save Libby but each time the causality paradox stopped him. At first, he was deeply depressed. But then, he decided to redirect his feelings and use the anger to drive him to determine what he could do about the man who had sent him back in time. If he could stop him, then perhaps he could keep Libby from going back as well. Then she would live.

  He couldn’t clarify how Phillips had brought him back in time but he did know that the coma had to be part of the process that caused his time travel. There was no other explanation.

  He observed the scene over and over and detailed all to Wilson. He was hoping he would be able to shed light on how the coma had actually been induced and how it sent him back into time. He had a theory but no concrete evidence on how something like that would occur based on his experiences.

  After much talk on the subject, they decided to leave it where it was.

  “We’ll deal with all of that later,” Wilson decided. “At the present, we still need to go back and fix Jack’s death. The one thing we do know is that the same man who caused you to travel back in time is the same man who killed Jack.”

  Vincent looked at him surprised. “How do you know that?”

  “I traveled back and saw Jack get killed, remember? The man you described as Phillips is the man I saw leading Jack away and who shot Jack and shoved his body in the river.”

  Vincent thought on this. “So what does this mean?”

  “It means Jack is dead. Our only way to save ourselves is to save him, just as we planned.”

  “So who will do the killing? Neither of us are killers.”

  “But both of us have killed before. It was self-defense for me and you killed during war.”

  Vincent inhaled deeply. “I’ll do it,” he said calmly.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. The war did something to me. I’m not the man I was before, that’s for sure. I killed Hitler in cold blood. There’s no reason I can’t do it again.”

  Wilson looked closely at Vincent. “Would you do this if you were the only one on the hook here?”

  “Yes. But I’m also doing this for you.”

  “That’s selfish of me don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not asking for your blessing. I’m doing this. Besides, if anyone is going to kill Jack, it’s going to be me. Not someone from another time who has an issue with him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Wilson replied.

  “Thanks,” Vincent agreed. “So when would you like to go back?”

  “How about now?” Wilson suggested. “Every minute we spend in the present time brings us closer to being confronted by someone looking into Jack’s death. Perhaps that will end up being one of the neighbors. Either way, it won’t end well.”

  “So we’re agreed?” Vincent asked.

  Wilson nodded. A moment later, the kitchen table around which they were sitting was empty.

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Passchendaele, Belgium – November 1917

  He stood back in the shadows of the trench, watching. Hitler was not his visual target; his target was Jack.

  He listened for the shot and grunt that would signal the end of Hitler and watched as Jack made his way to Hitler’s side, just in time to watch him die. He could have changed that moment but there was no reason for it. Hitler was a small, despicable man and he was glad he was dead.

  He watched the medical unit haul the body of Hitler away. He knew the next morning, Jack would go out into No Man’s Land and challenge the other side. The Allies would refuse to send a man, having suffered much loss to their Howitzer unit and not being in much of a mood to entertain. Jack would leave soon after the unanswered contest.

  That’s what he did know. What he didn’t know was how or when those who wanted to save Jack’s life (he still had a hard time accepting that) would actually make the move. He knew who they were; he just had to stop them. One advantage he had was that they didn’t know who he was. Plus, they had no idea that he was trying to stop them.

  It wasn’t personal. In fact, even though he had much reason to want Jack dead, it wasn’t personal with him either. It was just that Jack no longer had a place in the world.

  Satisfied that nothing had changed, he prepared to leave. But before he did, he took a good look around at the mud and death around him. His breath turned to vapor as he exhaled and the cleanness of that act was deceptive. The vapor was clear and pure, although the lungs that had just exhumed that vapor were filled with smoke caused by burning flesh. The smell of dead men combined with the reek of dead horses. Men and animal alike drowned in the mire of mud and rain and those bodies were blackened by exploding mortars.

  All around him he could hear men screaming. Men were still on the battlefield, begging to be taken to the hospital. Men screamed in the hospital as their legs and arms were amputated. Men lay on gurneys holding in their intestines as the doctors watched, waiting for their death so they could move the dead bodies out to make room for the hundreds of wounded.

  The rain fell as men stuck in the mud tried to rise but were not successful. One man looked over at his arm that had been severed by a mortar. The man tried in vain to move through the thick mud to reach his arm before he died. He bled to death on the battlefield before he could capture his lost limb.

  Other men around him retched as the smell became too much. The sight of their friends tore to pieces before them impaired their ability to control their stomachs as they vomited their last meager meal.

  He took all of this in before he left. He had once been a man who was interested in curing death. Now he was a man who relished it. He inhaled and took in everything. The smells were wretched but they add to the ambience of death staged in the war theater.

  He smiled. Now that he had his fill of true human sacrifice, he was content. The urge to kill was settled, at least for the moment. He wanted to save the executioner that lived within him until he came face to face with those who wanted to save Jack and thus supplant his own place in history.

  Satisfied, he thought of his next move. He had no need to follow Jack as he knew all of Jack’s moves going forward. What he needed to do was protect the man who would kill Jack. That meant going back to when Bagster Phillips was still working for Scotland Yard in London. That would be the most likely time that those who wanted to kill Phillips would take him out.

  Phillips had gained the ability to travel in time. He knew that and he knew that the others knew it as well. None of them, himself included, were sure when Phillips had gained that ability. The only way to be safe was to go back when Phillips was working the Ripper case. He knew if Phillips had the ability to travel during that time, he would have followed Jack’s patterns, killed Jack and the investigation would have been closed. That led him to the conclusion that Phillips would be unaware of time travel during the murders of Jack the Ripper and that would be the best
time for him to be approached by the others to conclude his life.

  With one final inhale, he disappeared from the shadows of the trench. It was as if he had never been there.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  London, England – October 1888

  Phillips sorted through the personal belongings of Liz Stride. The murder scene had been horrific and he shuddered at the recollection. Her items were spread out across the table so he could take another look.

  He turned his back only for a moment, walking across the filing room to get a pencil and piece of paper from the desk but when he turned back around, he saw something he was not expecting: one moment, there was only a table with the belongings of Liz; the next moment, two men appeared next to the table. Phillips didn’t recognize either of them.

  Phillips started forward but as he did, another man appeared. The two men were obviously not expecting him.

  Phillips watched as the new man raised his hand and in the dim light of the room, metal glinted. The man had a blade.

  The man drove his hands forward twice; Phillips had never seen anyone move that fast. The room exploded with blood as the man’s blade pierced the throat of the white-haired man. He fell to the floor and his warm blood began spreading across the floorboards.

  The man then turned on the remaining man. With his blade hand he swung at the remaining man. (Blood from the dead white-haired man splattered on the table as the blade moved through the air.) The remaining man threw up his forearm, intercepting the blow before the blade could strike.

  The two men wrestled for possession as Phillips watched, stunned. Only moments before the room had been quiet and still; now it bustled with rage.

  Then, the companion of the white-haired man disappeared.

  The man with the blade stepped back in surprise before turning to look at Phillips. Phillips wasn’t sure of the man’s intentions and he reached for the wooden club he kept in the room with him (he was a man who put away criminals after all and one could never be too careful).