Ripped (52 page)

Chapter Sixty

Once a Wish, Twice a Kiss, Thrice a Letter, Four Times Something Better

D
i
zziness.
Searing hot pain.

Katie tugged her finger out of the fissure in the London Stone and made a dive for her backpack on the floor.

Had she done it?

Had she changed things back to the way they were?

She tore open the nylon flap at the top of her backpack and rummaged frantically through the contents, then unzipped the front pocket and finally found it. Her cell phone. She tried to scroll through her contacts, but her palms were so sweaty, the phone kept sliding through her fingers like a bar of soap.

Get a grip!

She spied the empty water bottle in the mesh side pocket of her backpack. Her mouth was cotton-wool dry, her throat parched, her hands sweaty.
I
'
d kill for a mocha Frappuccino!

Kneeling on the cold tile floor, Katie tried again to scroll down her list of favorite contacts.

And there it was! Courtney's cell number.

Katie let out a giant sigh of relief and raised her hand to high-five the air.
My sister
'
s alive!
But an image of her parents' car crash popped into her head, and her throat closed up. She gasped hard, trying to fill her lungs with air, sputtering and coughing. When she was finally able to take a normal breath, she glanced around. There was no smell of gas fumes in the air, only the musty, mothball odor of the museum.

The hard right over the easy wrong
reverberated in her head.

Katie hoisted herself to her feet.

Her feet.

She looked down.

No longer laced into stiff, bone-crunching, ankle boots, but soft, red, high-topped sneakers, Katie wiggled her toes.
I
'
m home . . .

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and hurried from the glass-enclosed room, not even bothering to glance back at the London Stone.

I never want to see that stupid rock again!

When she'd left Victorian England, the Duke of Twyford had been busy planning Collin's wedding to Prudence Farthington. Major Brown was alive and pledging his troth to Lady Beatrix. And Toby had vowed to make sure Collin didn't murder any more girls.

After laying all the facts at Toby's feet and convincing him that Collin was Jack the Ripper, Katie had helped Toby hatch a plan to ensure that after producing an heir, Collin would meet with a fatal accident on the windswept moors near Bovey Castle.

At the thought of Toby's sending Collin to his death a
second
time, Katie shivered. Toby was on his own.

But
now
was the future, and that was the past.

Had he succeeded?
Katie wondered.
Had he managed to make Collin
'
s death appear an unfortunate accident and save Lady Beatrix and the others?

There was one way to find out.

Katie shot down the hall toward the bank of elevators that gleamed like stainless-steel refrigerators. Sweeping past The Old Curiosity Gift Shop, where a girl stood in the doorway wearing combat boots and earrings the size of Hula-Hoops, Katie turned the corner and raced toward the Chamber of Horrors.

As she approached, she could see electric candles flickering on either side of the archway, but couldn't make out the neon sign above. A slow-moving line of elderly people shuffled toward the entrance with an air of courtesy alongside a faster-moving gaggle of children pushing and shoving with clumsy anticipation.

Katie lifted her gaze. And there it was. The sign above the exhibit:

Jack the Ripper.
The most notorious murderer in British history.
Enter If You Dare!

Ignoring the disdainful glances as she cut the queue, Katie elbowed her way into the exhibit hall, shrill and noisy as a toy store. A row of waxwork people dressed in Victorian costumes stood in arched niches up and down the walls on either side of the room. She hurried into the gallery and stopped midway. She stood very still.
What if he didn
'
t do it? What if Toby couldn
'
t save those girls?

Katie remembered the expression on Toby's face when he'd kissed her just minutes ago. They had been standing in the churchyard of St. Swithin's saying good-bye. Knowing the identity of Jack the Ripper and the task set before him, Toby's face had looked cold and hard and determined.

Until he kissed her.

I
'
ll never forget you, lass. And in my heart, I
'
ll always love you . . .

That's when his tongue probed hers, and she tasted the tart sweetness of apples on his breath, smelled the rich essence of him—like salt sea air and saddle leather.

There had been a soft lurch as his body pressed against hers and he guided her finger into the fissure of the London Stone. The last thing Katie saw before hurtling through time and space was Toby's face in profile: the crooked line of his broken nose, the strong jaw, the muscular, ropy neck. He looked so composed. But she could feel the beat of his heart, see color burning on the crest of his cheekbones. And at that exact instant, Katie felt a strange sort of grief, persistent and overwhelming, as if she were drowning. Their eyes met, and a moment later Katie was hurtling through time and space . . . until she landed with a thunk in the musty, mothball smelling world of Madame Tussauds.

Katie opened her eyes and peered around at the crowd. Adults and children, pushing and pointing, shoving and laughing. The long gallery was illuminated by low-hanging chandeliers giving off a fluorescent, neon-yellow glare. Extending down the middle of the room was a flat, glass-topped display case with Jack the Ripper memorabilia.

Katie inched closer.

Nestled in velvet in the case nearest to her, lay a Bible with a gold clasp.
Reverend Pinker
'
s?
And there were the opera glasses!
Lady Beatrix
'
s opera glasses
.

Katie peered into the case and read the inscription:

Replica of the opera glasses believed to have been found upon the first victim, Mary Ann Nichols,
Later Pawned by a Market Porter Boy Named Georgie Cross. Initials in the Handle,
Bft
,
Unknown.

No mention of Lady Beatrix
, Katie thought. She studied the replica of the rose-gold opera glasses. The tiny faux rubies and diamonds, the mother of pearl handle with the initials.

The case also held an artist's anatomy sketch book.

Collin
'
s?

Katie hurried toward a group of people waiting in line to view the first victim. Each waxwork figure was positioned well back in an arched niche along the far wall. But in order to fully see the display you had to stand directly in front of the alcove, sunk deep into the wall.

When it was her turn, Katie hastened to the first wax statue. Larger than life and with a realistic expression painted on her face, Mary Ann Nichols had green marble eyes that glistened with reflected light from the chandeliers above.

Mary Ann Nichols. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,
August 31, 1888, in Buck
'
s Row, Whitechapel

Wearing a feathered hat and clutching a parasol, with a red petticoat peeking out from below her brown skirt, Mary Ann Nichols seemed to be smiling down at Katie.

Katie swallowed hard and continued along the line to the next waxwork victim.

Annie Chapman.
Dark Annie
. Tall, thin, and high-shouldered, Dark Annie's eyes held a measure of realistic fear. Katie forced herself to study the wax face. The artist had captured her angular, frail features and pale skin with blue veins showing through. With an embroidered cap, lacy shawl, and long, white gown, she looked like a frightened bride.

Annie Chapman. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,
September 8, 1888, on Hanbury Street, Spitalfields

Katie shuddered, remembering how Dark Annie had tried to protect poor Georgie Cross.
This was a mistake
, Katie thought.
It
'
s too painful. I knew this woman!

She forced herself to move on.

The next two victims were standing side by side on a double pedestal.
Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes
.

Elizabeth Stride. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,
September 30, 1888, on Berner Street, Whitechapel
Catherine Eddowes. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,
September 30, 1888, in Mitre Square, Aldgate

The caption below hailed their deaths as a despicable double murder. They had died on the same night. Katie blinked up at the wax figures, trying to be impartial and detached. But one look at Catherine Eddowes and Katie couldn't help but feel overwhelming anger at the brutality of her death.

The artist had captured Catherine's face and buxom figure so realistically, Katie's breath caught in her throat. The wide-spaced eyes, sensual mouth, enormous white-powdered cleavage.
It
'
s as if she
'
s alive!
Katie thought. Any minute now, Catherine Eddowes would step off the raised platform, coyly flash her pantalooned calves, and start belting out the lusty lyrics of “Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!”

Katie forced herself to continue.

The next Ripper victim was Mary Jane Kelly. The waxwork face showed how strikingly beautiful she was. With delicate hands pressed to her cheeks, and lips forming a perfect, round “O,” Mary Jane Kelly looked like a heraldic angel.

Mary Jane Kelly. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,
November 9, 1888, in Miller
'
s Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields

Toby obviously hadn't been able to save her. Katie quickly moved on.

And froze.

She blinked. And blinked again.

At first Katie showed no outward reaction, but when the prickles of unease at the back of her neck slowly died away, she fisted the air over her head, jumped up and down, and hooted, “He did it!” Her knees felt like jelly. She had to stop jumping. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Emotions swirled inside her, a whiplash of joy and triumph.
He did it!

The Ripper had taken only five victims
:
Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly.

Toby saved Lady Beatrix, Dora Fowler, and the pregnant Molly Potter.

“You are the man!” Katie whispered under her breath. “You are
my
man,” she cried aloud.

“Who's your man?” came a low, masculine voice from behind her.

Katie spun around and saw Toby striding toward her—
the twenty-first century Toby
—his duster coat rippling in his wake.

“We did it, Toby!” Katie shouted. “We did it! Your great-great-grandfather—”

“Do I know you, luv?”

His words drove into her like nails.

Oh, no! What have I done now?
Katie cast her mind back trying to think what she'd done wrong. Had she forgotten to tell Toby—
the other Toby
—something important? Katie's nerves were blazing. Her eyes swept over the crowd, frantically searching for a thatch of red hair.

Toby grinned. “S'right, Katie. I know who you are. Just having a bit of a rum 'n' coke.”

Katie whirled on him. “You jerk! You idiot! I could rip your head off! Don't ever scare me like that again.”

“Can't a bloke have a bit of a leg-pull with a beautiful twist 'n' swirl?” He was laughing, grinning from ear to ear. “You should see your face, Katie. Like a wet hen about to peck my eyes out. Sorry, ham shank. I couldn't resist.”

“Where's Collin?” Katie demanded, glaring at him.

“Round here somewhere. Look, Katie. Let me make it up to you. There's a teashop downstairs with soupy little biscuits. Care to join—”

A vibrating ping rang out.

“Hold up, luv—” Toby tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and glanced down. “Text message.” He quickly thumbed a reply and shoved the phone back into his pocket. “He's a bit of a wonk, but he's the only tartan plaid I've got.”

“Tartan plaid? Dad?”

“Tha's right. Now about those soupy little biscuits and—”

“Your father's alive?”

Toby looked startled. “Wasn't brown bread last I looked.”

“He didn't fall off a scaffolding painting a house?”

“Huh?”

“He's a house painter, right?”