Justice Incarnate (14 page)

The door prevented her from even trying to reply. She turned her attention to Brian. "What's the hurry, Sheriff?"

He stopped at the next landing and used his grip to spin her around to face him. The motion carried her into his chest. She didn't care for his strong-arm tactics or her body's response.

"I've been patient. Now I want answers."

"Yes, sir."

He shoved the small-framed portrait at her. "What sick game are you playing?"

"Release me."

"No."

"No?" With little effort she could kill him in seconds.

"I could kill you just as easily. And be happier for it, I'm sure."

Had she spoken aloud?

"The fury's all over your face," he continued, startling her more. "Answers. Why commission something like this?"

She tried to put herself in his place. Bizarre didn't begin to cover it. She sighed. "It's not a fake or a fluke. Or an ancestor. That's me about two hundred years ago."

The bare truth earned her release as his hands fell to his sides and his jaw dropped open.

"I found it in an online estate sale. The dated signature puts it about a week before you hanged me for murder."

Brian's mouth moved, but nothing intelligible came out.

She couldn't blame him for slipping into a stupor. It was hardly fair for him to be cheated of even a few sketchy facts when she, and probably Albertson, had nearly full recall. After all, he was an integral character in their recurring drama. He alone was denied the 'gift' of awareness. Whatever the reason, it was a cruel twist of their intertwined fates.

"You. You called me sheriff."

She barely made out his graveled whisper. Tucking the portrait into her pocket, she linked her hand with his. "Never again." She guided him, one slow step at a time. "I promise."

What else could she offer but inadequate words? She knew she was promising an end to more than a bad nickname. She intended, one way or another, to be sure they never relived this cycle again.

From Brian's back pocket, the cell card chirped the arrival of a text message. He surprised her by recouping enough to read aloud the three words on display. "Maria is missing."

Chapter Eight

A statement by the Rev. J. Horsley, chaplain at Clerkenwell to W.T. Stead of the Pall Mall Gazette, July 1885:

"There is a monster now walking about who acts as clerk in a highly respectable establishment. He is fifty years of age. For years it has been his villainous amusement to decoy and ruin children. A very short time ago sixteen cases were proved against him before a magistrate on the Surrey side of the river.

The children were all fearfully injured, possibly for life. Fourteen of the girls were thirteen years old, and were therefore beyond the protected age and it could not be proved that they were not consenting parties.

The wife of the scoundrel told the officer who had the case in charge that it was her opinion that her husband ought to be burned. Yet, by the English law we cannot touch this monster of depravity, or so much as inflict a small fine on him."

–
Article found in the diary of Gabriella Stamford.

Chicago:2096

Micky jumped on them the moment they entered the warehouse. "Following her was your idea!"

Jaden only nodded. The fighting spirit completely vacant from her eyes.

"And she vanishes into thin air."

"Naturally," Brian agreed.

Micky turned a violent shade of red. "She carries two grand in pure Columbian caffeine and you lost her. Get the hell out."

Brian smothered Jaden's mumbled consent with a vehement denial. "We are staying. One setback has you giving up? Some smuggler," Brian scoffed. "A crisis on the street, one likely connected to this whole mess, detained us. We made a choice, but we also made a commitment." He sent Jaden his best smile. "Class in the morning?"

"Sure."

Brian glanced back to Micky. "Tell your girls to be ready at eight." He strode off, Jaden in tow, before Micky could muster a contradiction.

"That's better," Jaden said when the door closed behind them. "Thanks."

"Hold that thought." Brian considered it a triumph that he didn't just flay her on the spot. Now he set his temper free. "Let me see that portrait."

He studied every nuance of her as she pulled it from her pocket. Steady hands, steady gaze, not a twitch or a sigh. She was good.

He indulged his curiosity with a long look into the picture of those same intense green eyes, the high, elegant cheekbones and the full lips. Then he tossed it onto the table. "It has to be fake. Just admit it and we'll move on."

Her only answer was a silent caress of the polished frame.

"Enough, Jaden! Or whoever you are. Why bring me into whatever this is?"

With a sad smile, she stood and moved to the kitchen, giving the photo a place of honor on a shelf on the way. He watched her rinse dishes, load the dishwasher and then program it to run.

Gathering her sandals and his watch, she went to the bedroom, returning after a moment with a small, worn book. The woman's calm efficiency was infuriating.

The initial shock of her story had burned away with the long walk and Micky's absurd reaction about Maria. Like the man hadn't been losing mules fast enough on his own.

Brian wanted answers, real answers. He wanted to argue, to sink his teeth into a real fight. Instead she sat there reading as if she didn't have a care in the world.

"Just talk to me," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "You dragged me into it and I'm not going anywhere till it's finished."

"What is 'it'?"

His mouth opened for a swift reply, but the words dried up. "I don't know," he confessed.

"And that bothers you most of all."

So she did see straight through him. He suppressed the urge to shift under his crawling skin. "Yes."

"What will convince you?"

"Tell you what," he countered. "You start at the beginning and I'll tell you when I'm sold."

"Which beginning?"

He came to his feet, shoving hands into his back pockets and filling his chest with air. "Pick a beginning."

"Once upon a time?" She put what appeared to be a diary into his hands. "You can read it yourself. When you're done I'll explain the picture."

He could hardly argue, especially since she'd already left the room. Against his better judgment, he squashed the idea that they were wasting time and began to read through the entries of a young lady clearly in love.

The tale wasn't so different from others he'd heard from the period, except that this was headed for a tragic ending for the star-crossed lovers.

The bastard wasn't worth her time, Brian decided reading how the young military officer refused to accept the lady's version of events.

Brian could sympathize with her disgrace and commend the lady's efforts on behalf of those less fortunate. He supposed he understood why she'd chosen to help prostitutes when she bore a similar, though unjustified, label herself.

Then the dates hit him. Jack the Ripper had been running tame on those very streets.

Brian was well versed in criminal history. Even now, experts examined the DNA and diaries like this one from the period trying to close those unsolved crimes. The lady of this diary was a true hero, committing her resources to save women no one reputable would be concerned about.

A particularly poignant passage jumped out. She'd seen her love in Vauxhall and come home in tears for what never could be. That's when recognition dawned.

Brian dropped the diary, scrambling to pull the opal from hiding. He flipped it over and read the inscription.

To my beloved Gabriella, My heart is ever yours, Byron

The opal pendant and the diary were from the same couple. And both must've been in the museum that night.

"Jaden?" he roared, turning. Then jolted to find her watching him from the couch.

"You've figured it out?"

"You can't be serious. Reincarnation is impossible. A hoax proved in...in..."

"In 2030, I believe. Some scientist came up with a theory."

"Based on DNA combinations and the creation story."

"Oh, that's right. The first time the Bible was credited in a scientific study." She waved a hand in a dismissive, feminine, manner. He might've smiled if he'd found any humor in this.

"Boil it down Jaden." He slumped into the couch, keeping a cushion-width between them. "Just tell me what I need to know."

Her smile bloomed across her face and she toyed with several loose pages. "Finish the diary first."

"But the whole concept's impossible."

He turned the page, read about a murder plot and was quickly lost in the period and the lady's plight once more. Though, he couldn't help but commiserate with the victim.

Sure Gabriella had reason to despise the man who'd ruined her life, but Brian disapproved of vigilantes. And that's all she was–a well-bred English lady lost to the madness of grief and sorrow.

"She had no proof he assaulted other women." The look and sigh made him feel like a failing schoolboy. "Only the vague descriptions."

"Not vague. Each description matched the others. You have to see –" Her temper flashed and he silently commended her for controlling it this time. "I'm not the one who's blind, Brian," she said at last. "Read through those last loose pages."

He did. And it made sense, finally. This was an analogy of their current situation. That woman had wanted her lover to believe her, had been crushed, emotionally, socially, when he hadn't. He and Jaden weren't lovers but this was an effective way to lure him to her side, to her cause. But–

"I never wrote this."

"Of course you did." She stood, slipping back into the best cure for her nerves: movement. "It's your handwriting, right?"

"It can't be. It's a forgery." He clung to the denial.

She paused, mid-stretch, and he could practically see her clever mind working over his statement. "Okay, we'll go with that for a moment. What does it mean that your best bud put a museum exhibit together full of fraudulent pieces?"

"That necklace is real. The museum staff authenticates everything."

She nodded, much too calmly. "And the names match those of the diary, correct?"

The hair on the back of his neck came to attention.

"I didn't write this."

"Then your pal made a pay off to get the diary in?"

"No."

She was laughing at him. It didn't show anywhere but her eyes. "Then what do you come up with?"

"It's a mistake. A misunderstanding."

"We agree there." She turned, bending at the waist, her golden braid brushing the floor. "Your mistake."

His mind fogged with how that flexible body would feel wrapped around him. Then he realized it must be a calculated part of her game. "No," he managed.

"Okay. I'll bite." She came upright with a cocky toss of her head. "What's your explanation?"

"Forgery isn't a new concept."

"So everything before your eyes, in your hands, is false?"

Damn her for making him sound like a fool. Even to himself. "What you're proposing is impossible."

"Used to be impossible to walk on the moon. Or the ceiling. Yet with the right equipment, neither is out of reach today."

"So how are you equipped, Jaden?" He was almost sorry he asked when the myriad expressions swept her face. He recognized humor and sorrow. And something fleeting he didn't want to label.

"I'm not sure how it works, and I don't know why–not entirely. I only know that every 'first' time he molests me I remember the others. Even before he strikes, I'm usually plagued with odd dreams and a sense of unrest. Never really fitting in. Then, when he attacks, I know." She tapped her fingers over her heart. "In here. The pieces fall into place and I know it's my job to stop the pain he causes."

"By killing him."

"I always try going through the justice system. He always circumvents it. And now he is the judge, with the police chief in his pocket."

He came to his feet to pace. The suite was too small, the air too thin, his chest too tight.

"I'm not in his pocket. I didn't know you before a few days ago. If I recall, we met over two dead bodies in your apartment."

"We met on the street for an evening of robbery," she said, pinning him with a sharp look. "And just why was that?"

He reluctantly considered the possibility that he'd been sent, used, that night. The whip-crack of self-doubt looked for a scapegoat and Jaden made a neat and nearby target.

"I'm beginning to believe part of your story," he confessed. At her single arched brow he finished, "The part where I put you out of my misery."

"Would you like to clarify that, Mr. Thomas?"

If looks were lethal, he'd be sitting in the hot seat of judgment about now. But this was the fight he'd been after. Angry, she might provide more truth than fairy tales. Angry, she might distract him from the gnawing fear that he had cause to buy into her story.