Jaclyn the Ripper (27 page)

She looked over at H.G. and realized that he'd been gazing at her the whole time, a smile on his face that was a thousandfold more loving than he knew—because if he did know, he would've deliberately covered it up. Her heart surged, and she forgot about telling him to leave. In fact, she wanted to rush over and throw herself at him again, then stopped herself and bolted upright. “If you know how to get in touch with Amy, how come you haven't called?”

“It's too early.”

“Too
early
?”

He nodded and checked his pocket watch just to make sure.

“Aren't we being a little cavalier with Amy's life?”

“Not at all.” He explained, “If we call now, we risk stopping her from whatever she was doing—I believe she was on a bike ride—hence we change the course of events and will not have a chance to stop Stephenson.”

“Huh?”

“If we
don't
call her till the same time as before, then we know where she will be—which happens to be in Franklin Canyon. And if we know where she is, then we can rescue her.” He paused, beaming. “Whereas, if we call her now, she'll be somewhere else. . . . Hence, so will the Ripper.”

“I don't know,” she said skeptically. “Kind of makes sense. . . . So what time do we leave?”

“We'll give ourselves an extra fifteen minutes.”

“Ha!” She snorted. “Then you better go online and check the traffic.” She had no idea that taking the 405 the first time probably had cost Amy her life.

“Traffic?” It had been the furthest thing from his mind.

“Welcome to L.A. the second time around.” She went looking for her purse. “I think we ought to get there early and wait.”

The elevator doors opened. They crossed the underground parking lot to her car, stopped short when they saw a faded green Toyota Corolla parked illegally, blocking in Amber's Milan and her neighbor's Prius, and H.G. remembered a tow truck leaving from the time before. His heart sank.

The neighbor was pacing alongside the Corolla, peering inside, then checking his cell phone. He saw Amber and H.G. and shrugged. “I called the manager and the tow-away people should be here anytime.” Disgusted, he gestured at the Corolla. “What an idiot, huh?”

H.G. couldn't stand to look and turned away from the scene—as if that would make the tow truck get there faster. He was cursed for knowing what was going to happen and being helpless in the face of it. He couldn't hold back that grim little déjà vu from before. It chortled inside and he felt sick. His pocket watch read 5:03
P.M
. They were still ahead of themselves, but he realized they wouldn't be for long. He shouted at Amber, “I think we should call a cab!”

She took out her phone, opened it, shook her head at H.G. “Can't. . . . I don't have any reception.”

“
He
called!” said H.G., pointing at the neighbor.

“Bertie! Everybody's phone is different, that's just—”

“Well, then, let's use his bloody phone!” he said, hating the magical little devices the world had become so dependent on.

He was striding toward the neighbor when the tow truck came down the ramp, its growl reverberating through the parking structure. Fuming, H.G. watched as the driver exchanged words with the neighbor, gave him a clipboard to sign, then started hooking up the Corolla.

 

“See?” said Amber as they drove up the ramp twenty-two minutes later.

“That didn't take very long.”

“
Don't
patronize me,” he said, buried in the map book, having trouble reading it, though it was an inch from his face.

As before, she paused at the street. H.G. looked at his watch again. 5:25
P.M
. He glanced at Amber, saw her entering Kevin and Elizabeth Robbins's address from the Post-it note into the GPS. “Forget that,” he snapped. “Go east on Ocean Park, then—”

“
Excuse
me. This tells us how to get there.”

“If you insist on using this electronic box for morons,” he said, seething, we're going TO GET IN A BLOODY MOTOR-CAR ACCIDENT!”

“Okay, okay,” she said, frightened. “Jeez Louise!”

She pulled out, stood on the gas, and her car swung across traffic and lurched into the far right lane.

“You'll run into West Pico Boulevard, then turn left on Sepulveda . . . turn right on Santa Monica Boulevard . . . go north on North Beverly Drive, and pray that everybody else in this blasted city isn't driving somewhere!”

“Good fucking luck.”

“You will
not
get on the bloody freeways!”

“The GPS has a setting for shortest time!”

Not listening, he shouted, “I have no intention of seeing my wife murdered twice!”

“You don't have to get so pissed off!” she cried, weaving through traffic, checking the rearview mirror for cops. She half-hoped she'd get stopped for speeding, then hated herself for the thought. She had to bite her lip to stop from crying. “You're the one who's playing this stupid game with free will and determinism!”

“It's Fate, 'Dusa,” he said as if she were a schoolgirl. “F-A-T-E.”

“So what?” she said, screeching left on Sepulveda against the light, bringing on an irate chorus of horns. “You've got the special key. If we don't make it, go back to your damned time machine and try again!”

“Right. And come back missing an arm or a leg.”

“If you don't want reformulation errors,” she said blithely, “fix the stupid machine!”

“Fix the fourth dimension is more like it.”

“No problem,” she said sarcastically, “you can do that, can't you?”

“I'm not God.”

“Ha!” she said triumphantly. “You're admitting you're not perfect!”

“You're worse than your robot, 'Dusa,” he replied, irritated.

“What?!”

“Please shut up.”

Racing east on Santa Monica, she couldn't hold back anymore and burst out crying. She gazed at him forlornly and put one hand on his leg. “Oh, Bertie . . . ! I don't want to fight with you. Let's not do this. Please . . . ?”

He was about to apologize, but something made him glance at the street ahead. He gasped. They were hurtling toward cars waiting for the light at Avenue of the Stars.

“ 'Dusa!”

She hit the brakes and hung on. The Milan fishtailed and locked up, tires screeching, brakes smoking, jolted to a stop inches before the undercarriage of a giant SUV. H.G. slammed back in the seat and stared straight ahead, stunned.

“I'm sorry!”

He couldn't hold back a strangled laugh. “I think she knows we're here.”

Amber looked at him quizzically.

“Fate. . . .”

 

They sped up Beverly, H.G. gripping the seat, rocking back and forth as if that would make the car go faster. He remembered that they'd gotten in the accident at 5:52
P.M
., and calculated if they got to where Coldwater Canyon forked off to the right a few minutes earlier, they would have a chance. He checked his watch: 5:41
P.M
.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he muttered.

“For Christ's sake, why don't you call and warn her?!”

Amber tossed her phone into his lap, swerved around local traffic, caromed over the speed humps near Elevado, bringing glares from drivers and pedestrians.

“Or is it too early?” she added sarcastically. “I mean, God forbid you should scare the Ripper off, huh?”

He glared at her. “God forbid you should live to regret that.”

Mortified by her remark, she started crying. “I'm sorry,” she cried, “I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean that!”

He didn't acknowledge her. He was dialing.

They flashed across Sunset Boulevard against the light, bringing on another cacophony of horns.

“Amy . . . ? Oh, dear God, Amy.” He sighed with relief, slumped in the seat, closed his eyes, didn't hear Amber's lovesick sobs. “Yes, I called your mother and—Yes, the boys are fine, they're all right,” he said impatiently. “Where am I . . . ? Well, according to—”

He straightened up and leaned forward. “
Amy!
Listen to me! Turn around and start back the way you've come . . . ! Yes, yes, I know where you are—don't ask me how—just please, for the love of God, turn around
now
!”

Amber pulled hard on the wheel, and—tires squealing—the car lurched across Coldwater Canyon into oncoming traffic, but she was minutes earlier this time, the drivers were different—more reasonable perhaps—Fate was somewhere else, and Amber missed them all.
Though she hadn't been here before, she felt a surge of triumph and accelerated hard up Beverly for Franklin Canyon Drive.

“No! No!” H.G. screamed into the phone. “Don't get off the bike . . . !” He listened, was horrified. “
What?
You're walking down a hill?! GOOD BLOODY CHRIST, AMY! STEPHENSON'S COMING FOR YOU! WATCH OUT FOR STEPHENSON! WE'RE ALMOST THERE!”

Amber red-lined the Milan up into Franklin Canyon, the speedometer shooting past seventy where the narrow, two-lane road curved, the speed drying her tears like an emotional wind. Up ahead, a silver Mercedes idled on the shoulder, but when Amber angled to pass, it suddenly pulled out. She cursed, leaned on her horn, hit the brakes, swerved out of the way. Unmindful, the Mercedes went up to the fork at Lake Drive, U-turned and came back toward them, but then H.G. was pointing at a shiny-red road bike on the shoulder.

“Stop the car! Stop! That's it!”

Amber hit the brakes again and pulled off the road, and H.G. was out the door before the car had stopped, running through chaparral toward his petite Amy in a powder-blue top and shorts. From afar, Amber thought she looked like a little girl in a commercial who had found her dreams, and when Amy threw herself into H.G.'s arms, Amber started crying again.
God, they look beautiful together, and this—this is awful. I'm supposed to be all relieved and happy, and yet I feel like I'm watching my, my only love hooking up with the reincarnation of Shirley Temple. Why can't this head-over-heels kind of stuff ever happen to me? I mean, what's so great about her?
Amber blew her nose, dabbed at her face with
a Kleenex, checked her hair, then got out. She stopped.
So much for nailing Jack the Ripper.
H.G. had left his new Beretta on the backseat. She picked it up and walked around the car.

A beautiful dark-haired woman in a sweater and a frilly, floral-print dress had climbed from the Mercedes and now was standing near the bike, smiling nervously as H.G. and Amy came back up the hill hand-in-hand.

“Did you see him?” H.G. called.

“No,” said Amber, shaking her head.

“We were too blasted early. We frightened him off.”

“See who?” said Amy.

Jaclyn hesitated when she saw the gun in Amber's hand. Instinctively, she stepped back and wrung her hands, spoke in a cultured British accent reminiscent of BBC television. “Excuse me, but I'm lost.”

Amber stuffed the gun in her jeans and glanced at H.G. He had seen Jaclyn as well, and Amber caught a glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but then it was gone, and she wondered if he'd seen her from “already today” or if the recognition was from a much earlier time.

“Have you seen anyone else in the vicinity?” H.G. said to Jaclyn as he rushed forward. “I realize that you've been in your motor car, but did you see
anyone
? I must know!”

Jaclyn backed away—as if frightened by his urgency. “No. No, I'm sorry. I haven't. In fact, I'm a tourist, and I happen to be hopelessly lost.”

Frustrated, H.G. sighed, the scanned the terrain through his ridiculous glasses as Jaclyn went on.

“You see, I have friends in Franklin Canyon, and I've been driving up and down this road Lord knows how many times, and I can't find any houses, let alone house numbers.” She emitted a jittery laugh. “I have a phone in the car, but I'm not even sure if I have their number.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Amy.

“Are you from the UK?” Jaclyn asked suddenly.

“Not me,” said Amber, reminding them that she was there. “I'm from la-la land.”

They all ignored her.

“I thought I heard a bit of an accent,” said Jaclyn to Amy.

“Why, yes,” said Amy, pleasantly surprised, “we live near Kent, on the shore. How about you?”

“Highland Heath.”

“Lovely,” said Amy. “If you have to be near the city.”

“Are you staying in L.A.?”

Amy looked to H.G., and he nodded, seemed to relax. Even relent.

“Yes, we're staying in L.A.”

“We should get together,” said Jaclyn. “Maybe do the City Walk and one of those studio tours, have dinner, perhaps.”

“How marvelous,” said Amy.

“Where are you staying?” asked Jaclyn.

Amy looked to her husband again and prompted him with a whisper. “Sara says the Four Seasons is the best.”

“The Four Seasons,” he repeated.

“Splendid!” said Jaclyn, starting for the Mercedes. “I'm looking forward to it.”

“Oh, by the way, I'm Amy,” said Amy, following and extending her hand. “Amy Wells.”

“Jaclyn,” she replied, shaking Amy's hand. “Jaclyn Smythe.”

She drove away with smiles and a little flutter wave, the Mercedes descending from the canyon into the muted warm glow of Beverly Hills at twilight.

“That was nice,” said Amy.

“I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you,” murmured H.G. He was so happy to have Amy in his arms it never occurred to him that Jaclyn was any more—or less—than she appeared. He buried his face in Amy's hair. “Please don't leave me like that again.”