A rip through time, p.36
A Rip Through Time, page 36
“We need a distraction,” I whisper. “Get Findlay away from her without making him think someone’s in the apartment. I can do that. When he opens the door, you’ll be waiting—”
I stop. My gaze swings to the door. A moment ago, the imposter had been interrogating Isla. But now he’s stopped.
I take one cautious step toward the door, holding my breath as I listen, tensed for the muffled sound of pain. Instead, the knob turns.
I backpedal, my arms going out to shield Gray. He’s a layperson, and it’s like one of those video games where cops have to take out the shooters without killing any bystanders. The principle is hammered into my brain. Protect the bystander.
This works much better if the bystander is willing to be protected. I fall back, arms going up, knife in hand, and suddenly there is no one behind me. For a guy of Gray’s size, he moves like a damned ghost. That knob turns and somehow, he’s in front of me, and I’m backpedaling into shadow like a helpless maiden.
Findlay steps out. He’s heard a noise, right? Our whispering must have been louder than I thought. That’s the obvious answer. But no, Findlay strolls out, the door opening to block the big guy lunging toward him, and there’s a near-comical moment where I think it’s going to smack Gray in the face. It doesn’t. Because that’s when Findlay hears or senses something. He glances over, almost nonchalantly. And he sees Gray.
FORTY-TWO
This is the moment. This is where the imposter will falter in shock, and Gray will save the day by the sheer virtue of being a big looming shape in the darkness. It seems to happen exactly like that. The imposter falls back, eyes widening. Gray grabs him by the shirtfront and hauls him off his feet … and the imposter flinches, head ducking as if to ward off a blow. Then the imposter swings. I see the glint of metal at the last second. A hammer swinging straight for Gray’s temple. Before I can open my mouth, it smashes into his forehead.
Gray crumples. And what do I do? Nothing. I stay exactly where I am, and that is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
The attack happened so fast that I didn’t have time to burst from the shadows. I’m right where I started, backed up into the darkness, knife in hand, and when Gray goes down, I brace myself to fly out and attack. But I don’t get that chance. Gray collapses, and in the next heartbeat, the imposter is behind the open door, shielded from me.
I could still rush forward. That’s the hard part—that I choose not to. The imposter hasn’t seen me. I’m not invisible. Compared to Gray, though, I am. That’s all he saw—Gray lunging at him—and between the shock of that and the relief and delight of outsmarting him, he never thought to look for anyone else.
Now the imposter is behind the door, and he has Gray by the shoulders, and I stay in the shadows as he drags Gray into the room.
“Look who came to your rescue,” Findlay calls to Isla. “It’s your lucky day. I don’t need to torture you after all. Let’s see if you’ll talk when your brother is the one in pain.”
The door is closing slowly. So slowly that I have time to dart to the other side and catch it with my boot toe. I wait for Findlay to notice.
Come on, asshole. You already missed a second person in the hall. You can’t also miss the fact that this door isn’t shutting.
I want him to see it. I have my knife ready. He’ll walk over to check the door, and I’ll give him an even bigger shock than Gray did.
He doesn’t check the door. If he notices it didn’t quite shut, he doesn’t care. He’s riding high on his success and chortling at having leverage over Isla, leverage that may mean he doesn’t need to resort to torture, which really isn’t his thing. I don’t want to know what he’d planned to do with that hammer, but he must have left looking for something to use it for—maybe splints under the fingernails again.
Now he’s talking to Isla about how he’s going to torture Gray and make her watch, and the glee in his voice could be mistaken for sadism, but I know better. His glee comes from knowing he’s going to get what he wants without torture. Describing it will be enough for her to cave.
“Where should I start?” he says. “For a doctor, the hands are the obvious choice, but I get the feeling Dr. Gray values his brain more. That was quite a blow to his head. What if…?”
“Stop,” Isla says. “Please.”
She overdoes her sniffles, but Findlay buys it. After all, she’s a poor Victorian widow. It’s a wonder she hasn’t fainted by now.
I crack the door open. Then I angle myself until I can see inside. The sliver of a view is enough. Gray is unconscious on the floor. Findlay is on one knee beside him, hammer lifted to hit Gray in the head again. I can only see Isla’s skirts—she seems to be on a chair just out of sight.
“Tell me what happened at tea today,” Findlay says. “What does McCreadie know? What did that little cow tell him?”
Little cow? Is that me? Huh.
“Catriona knows nothing,” Isla says.
Findlay lifts the hammer. My breath catches, but he only holds it above Gray’s head.
“You seem to be doubting whether I’ll go through with this,” he says. “That’s unfortunate. See, the thing about repeated blows to the head is that they’re unpredictable. Your brother would tell you that, if he could. If I hit him in the same spot again, it will certainly cause brain damage. It could also kill him. And I don’t care. Is that clear, Isla? I don’t care if he dies. Just another body to add to my count.”
“Detective McCreadie has a lead on Archie Evans,” Isla blurts. “On why he may have been tortured.”
“Tortured? Who said he was tortured?”
Isla stops. Shit. How little did McCreadie share with his constable?
“I-I do not know,” Isla says. “There must have been some evidence—”
“It was her, wasn’t it? Catriona?”
“Our housemaid?” Isla voice rises in convincing incredulity.
“She’s been helping him. I know he escorted her as she played detective.”
“Perhaps, but as I said, Catriona has nothing to do with any of this.”
The hammer swings down. I see it swinging, too fast to be a feigned blow, and I throw open the door and charge at Findlay. He falls back. He might be faking it again. I don’t really care. All that matters is that his hammer is no longer on a collision course with Gray’s skull.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I say as he scrambles to his feet.
He snarls an oath.
“Is that a no?” I say, brandishing the knife. “I could swear I heard my name. Well, something like it, at least.”
He shakes off his anger, finding a sneer instead. “Typical American. I’m surprised you didn’t yell yippee-ki-yay, too.”
“I’m not American,” I say. “Didn’t you hear me apologizing for spilling that coffee? I might as well have had a maple leaf tattooed on my forehead.”
We’re in a standoff. He’s five feet away. Gray is on my one side, Isla on my other. Gray is unconscious. Isla’s bound to a chair and wisely staying quiet. Either of them makes a target, which is why I ran between the two. The imposter has his hammer, and while it isn’t a gun, I’m not about to get in its path.
“You seem eager to talk to me,” I say. “Well, to talk about me at least. A little obsessive. Kinda creepy, really. But that’s you, I’m guessing. Kinda creepy.”
I’m blathering, assessing and distracting, but something there hits an unexpected mark as he blanches. Okay, then.
“Textbook serial-killer behavior patterns,” I continue. “I’d hoped for better. More interesting, at least. Please tell me you didn’t wet the bed and torture small animals.”
That swing goes wide, as his face relaxes, sneer returning.
“So you are a police officer?” His laughter rings hyena-like with mockery. “I thought so, from the way you handled that body, all your talk about scanning the crowd for the killer.”
Shit. I forgot that. He’d been watching me so intently that day. Not confused by my actions. Studying them. That’s why he’s been questioning Isla about me. He realized I was a cop. A modern cop. That made me dangerous.
He smirks. “That must have been so embarrassing for you. A police officer murdered by a serial killer. You weren’t even chasing me. Just out for a jog. Got yourself jumped like any silly cow.”
“You know what’s really embarrassing? A time-traveling serial killer taken down by a teenage girl in this dress.” I wave at myself. “You try fighting crime as a nineteen-year-old Victorian housemaid. Way tougher than killing people as a Victorian constable. You had the inside scoop, and you still screwed up.”
He whips the hammer at me.
Isla shouts a warning, but I’m already diving out of the way. The hammer still glances off my shoulder, spinning me around. Then a shot fires. I think I’m mishearing. I must be mishearing. The bullet hole in the wall says I am not.
The imposter curses, and I wheel to see him with a revolver. It’s an antique—or it will be, in my day. Right now, it’s probably state-of-the-art. He lifts it again, reloaded, and I run, dodging and ducking, not giving him a clear shot.
“Not such a smart-mouthed little cow now, are you?” he calls as his footsteps tromp after me. “Not so brave either.”
I run past the exit door as I veer into another room. I need to get him away from Isla and Gray, easy targets for his pistol and his rage.
And then what? I’ve brought a knife to a gunfight. Damn it, where the hell did he get a gun? Wherever he could, because he’s a modern killer. He’ll arm himself with the best weapon, which is going to be a gun. I didn’t expect it, and that’s on me.
I duck around the corner. He’s taking his time, each footfall thudding as he walks into the hall.
“You didn’t run out the door?” he calls. “You really are pathetic. Let’s see. Which room could you be in? How about this one?”
He swings into the room where I’m hiding. “Now, if I were cowering in here, where would I be?”
He stops and chuckles. “I can see your boot.”
He strides into the room, heading for an old settee, where my discarded boot peeks out. I crouch behind a chair, knife in hand. One chance. I will get a split second before he realizes the trick. I tense, watching him step into the room. Another step. Just two more—
A shadow looms behind him. A sudden movement. It’s Gray, swinging the hammer with all of his might, but he’s still dazed, and he puts too much into the swing, and it hits the imposter in the shoulder instead.
The smaller man staggers, but stays on his feet, gun barrel flying up, a point-blank shot that he cannot miss. His finger is on the trigger, Gray at the other end of that barrel.
I fly from my hiding place. I stab the imposter in the back, and I aim for the heart. One chance. That’s all I’ll get. The knife slides between his ribs. I let go and grab his arm before he can fire the gun. I don’t know if he tries, but he doesn’t manage it, and the gun falls as Gray slams him backward.
The imposter starts to fall. I dive out of the way, and he goes down, thudding onto the knife handle, the knife driving through his chest. He hits the floor, his face contorted in a snarl. Then his entire body convulses, as if with a seizure. He jerks once and goes still for a moment. When his eyes open, I’m on the floor, pinning him, in case that stab wound isn’t as lethal as I expect.
He stares at me. His mouth opens.
“Catriona?”
My own heart stutters. It’s the same voice; but it is not the same person.
“Colin,” I say.
“You—you have killed me?” he says.
I lean over him. “You tried to do the same to me.”
“I-I—” His face spasms in pain, and he shudders. “It was Archie’s idea. All Archie’s. He said we had to scare you. Knock you out. Bring you to a basement near my rooms. Frighten you. Punish you.”
“You are an officer of the law,” I say. “You bring criminals to justice. You don’t deliver it yourself.”
“Archie hit you, and you did not pass out. You attacked me. I had to defend myself.”
“By strangling me?” I swallow my rage and force myself to say, “I am sorry for what I did to you, Colin, but it did not deserve that.”
“Do you forgive me?” he says, his voice an almost inaudible rasp. “You must forgive me.”
I don’t want to. But the terror in his eyes makes me grind out the words. “I understand that you did what you thought you needed to.”
His mouth opens, and I don’t hear what he says, as I suddenly realize there’s an answer here. An answer I desperately need.
“Colin?” I say. “Where were you?”
“Gone,” he whispers. “I was gone.”
“Gone to another time? Another world? Were you another person? Where did you—?”
Before I can finish, he exhales, and then he is truly gone, taking my answer with him.
FORTY-THREE
We’re home now. It’s two in the morning. Isla and I are in her quarters sharing a tea tray that Mrs. Wallace dropped off, along with worried glances at Isla and accusing glares at me. She has no idea what has happened, except that her mistress came home with a dirty gown and a shock-slackened face, having endured some ordeal that has me wild-haired and blood-spattered, and Isla insisting that all is fine, that I have saved her life. Maybe so, but Mrs. Wallace is certain Isla’s life wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t been with me.
She isn’t wrong about that.
Gray had insisted we go straight home, leaving Findlay dead and the crime scene unguarded. It’s a testament to my own shock that I let him do that. There wasn’t another option, really. We were bloodied and battered and had to get home before anyone saw us and suspected Gray murdered Findlay. It wasn’t as if he could ring McCreadie and summon him to the scene.
Everyone had been quiet on the walk. Isla and I were in shock, and Gray was still muddled from the blow, occasionally stopping on a corner as if uncertain which way to go. He’d rallied by the time we got to the town house and told us he’d let McCreadie know that Findlay was the raven killer but that he seemed to be “not in his right mind.” He will suggest that McCreadie have him posthumously accused only of kidnapping Isla and attacking us when we came to her rescue.
That means McCreadie is left with two murders he’ll never officially solve. That will be a stain on his career. What would be a worse one? Admitting that his own constable committed the murders he’d been investigating.
There isn’t enough evidence to pin the murders of Archie Evans and Rose Wright on Colin Findlay. McCreadie’s options are a career stain or career obliteration. He deserves better than either, but the first will have to do.
As for Findlay being “not in his right mind,” that’s Gray’s presumption. Earlier, I’d longed to tell him the truth. Now the case has been solved without that. He was unconscious and heard none of the conversation between myself and the imposter.
Do I still tell him about myself? I want to, but I’m not sure if that’s for his benefit or mine. I’ll need to discuss it with Isla.
I didn’t get one answer I wanted—to know where Findlay went, which would tell me whether Catriona was in my body. Did the killer return to his body? Did I kill Findlay only to return the true killer to the other side, where he can continue his work?
I don’t know. I may have gotten another answer, though.
How do I get home? I need to die in this world.
If Catriona dies, I can go home. Or that’s the theory. Unless the killer didn’t return to his body at all. Unless his consciousness is trapped between forms somewhere.
It hurts to think about that. Hurts my head and hurts my soul.
I went to the spot where I crossed into this world, and I am still here.
I found Catriona’s attacker, killed him even, and I am still here.
Now the answer seems to be to kill Catriona so I’m free to leap into my own body, my own time? I can’t do that. I don’t care what she’s done—as I told Findlay, it didn’t justify killing her. I cannot kill her. Does that mean I’m stuck here, never to see my family again?
Please don’t let that be the answer.
Please.
“I must apologize,” Isla says as she sips her tea while I sit, lost in my panic and grief. We haven’t spoken since we got here. She asked me to her room and accepted Mrs. Wallace’s insistence on preparing a tea tray, and then we fell silent.
“You warned me,” she says. “I did not listen.”
I force my thoughts back on track. “I didn’t warn you enough. I was going to, and I chickened out.”
“Chickened out?”
“Turned coward. I told myself that I needed to warn you, for your own safety, but then I put it off. Made excuses. Promised I’d get to it later.” I look over at her. “I understood that everyone is always telling you that you must not, and I didn’t want to be another person putting up walls. I needed to figure out how to explain the danger without alienating you. That’s an explanation, but it’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “It was an untenable situation. You were pointing out traps on the path, and I was seeing walls. I told myself that I knew it was dangerous and that I was sensible enough to be cautious. After all, I was standing in the open on a respectable street. What could possibly go wrong?”
She shudders, and her voice drops as she says, “It happened so fast. I should have done something, and I am ashamed that I did not.”
“Stop. Seriously. You have no reason to be ashamed. I’m the cop who was strangled by a serial killer. Same thing. I knew what I was doing, but it happened so fast.”
“You still stopped him.”
I make a face. “After he murdered two people, then kidnapped and tortured you.”
“My pride was the only thing truly injured.”
I meet her gaze. “That’s not true. You’re going to have nightmares. You’re going to have trauma. Even if he didn’t do any lasting damage to your body, he did up here.” I tap my head.
