Part 14 (2/2)

So I hurried down below again, and this time I didn't knock or call her name or give myself time to lose my nerve. I just swung the door open wide and looked in.

Even though I'd seen Whittle's work on Mary, it didn't make me ready for this.

With a yell, I spun around and heeled it, in such a lather to get away that I stumbled as I raced up the companionway stairs and barked a s.h.i.+n. I gave Michael a last look, and allowed he was lucky to be dead.

Then I dashed along the deck to the prow and jumped.

The beach knocked my legs out from under me. I landed on damp, cold sand, picked myself up quick and took just a few running strides toward the distant trees. Then I stopped.

Instead of rus.h.i.+ng inland, I headed to the right.

Toward the area where Whittle must've landed his skiff.

All along, I'd reckoned it would take a miracle to survive the voyage. If the ocean didn't kill me, Whittle would do the job with his knife. Now I was clear of them both. Safe on land in America.

But Whittle was here, too.

Much as I wanted to be shut of him forever, it was me who had brought him aboard the True D. Light True D. Light, me who had gotten Michael and the father murdered, me who had failed to save Trudy.

Walking brisk along that beach, leaving the yacht behind with its horrid cargo, I knew it was me who had to track down Jack the Ripper and put an end to him.

PART TWO.

The General and His Ladies

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

The House in the Snow.

I hadn't walked far before snow started coming down. Not much at first, but soon the night was just thick with big white flakes so I couldn't see more than a few yards in front of me.

It seemed like a good thing. If Whittle was lurking about, up ahead, he wouldn't have much luck at spotting me through the heavy downfall. Maybe I could sneak up on him.

I grabbed a chunk of driftwood to use for a club, and shoved a few rocks into the pockets of my coat. They didn't amount to much as weapons go. They'd do just dandy, though, if I could catch him by surprise.

Having such things gave me a sense of power that made me realize just how helpless I'd felt during those weeks on the yacht.

It sank in that I was actually free. Not a prisoner trapped aboard a boat. Not a lackey who had to obey orders and watch my step, always worried Whittle would punish Trudy if I didn't behave.

He couldn't hurt her now. He'd done his worst to her. As horrible as that was, it had taken away his only hold on me.

So I wasn't his slave any more. I was myself again, Trevor Wellington Bentley. Free. If I had a mind to do so, I could walk away and likely never set eyes on Whittle again.

If I had a mind to. Which I didn't.

The end of my slavery meant I was free to be a hunter. That was all I cared to be-a hunter of Whittle. I figured I'd stalk him forever, if that's how long it took.

By and by, I got to hoping hoping he'd hung around the sh.o.r.e and seen me beach the he'd hung around the sh.o.r.e and seen me beach the True D. Light. True D. Light. I hoped he'd decided to lay for me. I hoped he might come leaping at me through the falling snow. Just let him. He would catch a couple of rocks in the face for his trouble, and once he was down, I'd bash his head to pudding. I hoped he'd decided to lay for me. I hoped he might come leaping at me through the falling snow. Just let him. He would catch a couple of rocks in the face for his trouble, and once he was down, I'd bash his head to pudding.

All my eagerness for that skipped out on me, though, when I came to the skiff. The sight of it turned me cold and trembly. I filled my right hand with a rock and twisted around in circles, scared to death he might jump me, wis.h.i.+ng the snow would let up so I could see him coming.

When nothing happened, I settled down some and gave the skiff a study. It had been dragged up the sand a few yards beyond the reach of the waves. It was empty except for the oars and a puddle of water that had collected near the stern. The puddle looked black. The snowflakes melted away when they fell on it, but otherwise the bottom of the boat, the bench seats and the tops of the oars all wore smooth, pale mats of snow.

I circled the skiff, looking for footprints. The only ones I found were my own. This near the water, the sand was stiff and hard, so Whittle wouldn't have left much in the way of impressions and what there might've been was hidden under an inch or more of snow.

As he'd left no tracks for me to follow, I put myself in his place and reckoned he had likely headed straight inland. He would want to put distance between himself and the bay, figuring the yacht might be found at daylight. What with the bodies on board, things could get hot for strangers in the area.

That goes for me, too, I realized.

It wasn't a comforting notion.

I put my back to the bay and started to march. Trekking over the dunes, my night in Whitechapel came back to me as clear as if it had been yesterday. The part about getting chased by the mob that mistook me for the Ripper. That had been an awful dicey time, and it had only been luck, mostly, that saved me. Well, I didn't need much imagination to see how I could find myself blamed for the killing of Trudy and Michael.

What if they grabbed me for it? How could I prove it was Whittle, and not me, who'd done such foul deeds? Maybe I'd end up swinging at the end of a rope.

When all that sank in, I allowed I had plenty more to worry about than tracking down Whittle.

The trick was to keep clear of everyone, at least until I could put some miles between me and the True D. Light. True D. Light.

It seemed like a mighty fine plan, but it flew all to smash the moment I came upon the house.

What I found, first, wasn't the house but a low stone wall that blocked my way. It stretched out in front of me for as far as I could see through the snowfall. My first thought was to pick one direction or the other and hike around it.

After all, the wall hadn't just grown out of the ground by itself. Someone had built it, and that meant there must be people nearby. I'd aimed to avoid people.

Then I figured that if Whittle'd come this way, he might've seen things different. What if he saw the wall as a sign that a house was close, and went looking for it? Maybe a house was just what he wanted-a place to get out of the weather and warm himself up, maybe have himself a good meal and a sleep. Maybe have himself a high time butchering whoever lived there.

Well, I climbed to the other side of the wall and went searching. I kept an eye out for footprints, but didn't find any. What with the darkness and the heavy falling snow, there wasn't much to see at all. Besides, Whittle'd likely had a good head start on me. He might've pa.s.sed through here before the snow'd hardly commenced to fall.

And everybody in the house-if there was was a house and folks inside it-might be dead by the time I got there. a house and folks inside it-might be dead by the time I got there.

By and by, I figured there had to be a house. The area was planted with trees and shrubs, some of which gave me an awful start when they sort of loomed up and I took them for Whittle. There were some sheds, too. And a gazebo. And a walkway that only showed because some overhanging limbs kept the snow off its flagstones.

Finally, the house turned up. It looked to be made of stone, and maybe a couple of stories tall. Standing at the foot of the porch stairs, I could only see as high as an upstairs window, and that was dark. There didn't seem to be any light at all coming from this side of the house. The corners of its wall were out of sight.

I checked the porch stairs. The snow on them was thick and smooth, trackless.

I climbed three stairs, then got a sudden case of the fantods, so I backed down.

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