Savage. Part 14

Right quick, I scurried under my covers and pulled the shoes in with me. I shut my eyes, letting on to be asleep.

The door b.u.mped shut. "Rise up, maties," Whittle said, just as cheery as you please. "The time has come for my departure."

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. "Is it morning?" I asked, though I knew it wasn't.

"Why wait any longer? I'm eager to be on my way."

Whittle stood with his back to the door. He wore his overcoat. It hung open. There was no blood on his sweater or trousers, nor on his face or hands. Both the knives in his belt had clean handles. I took all that for a good sign. It gave me hope, for just a bit, but then I figured he would've stripped naked for the butchery like he'd done that night in Mary's room. He always kept drinking water in the cabin, too, so he might've used it for was.h.i.+ng. That sank my hopes some.

Michael sat up and looked at the door.

"Trudy's fast asleep," Whittle said. "Her a.s.sistance won't be necessary." With a smile, he added, "I rather imagine she'll be quite overjoyed when she awakens and learns of my departure. If we're very quiet about the preparations, perhaps we won't disturb her."

I wished I could believe him.

He hadn't locked the door after coming out, but he stayed in front of it as Michael and I climbed out of our beds. I'd untied my shoe laces while he was talking, so he didn't catch on that they'd been laced together. I brought them out from under the covers with me, and put them on.

He kept his post at the door and ordered us about, his voice low as if he was being careful not to wake Trudy.

Earlier in the day, he'd loaded a large valise, filling it with clothes and loot. The clothes were mostly Michael's, as he was about the same size as Whittle and the father's duds were too big. The loot was all the money and jewels he'd found aboard the yacht, which was considerable. Michael, Trudy and her father, they'd been rich from the father's hotel business in New York City. They'd brought along tons of money, not to mention a scad of necklaces and earrings and brooches and bracelets and such so Trudy could fix herself up splendid for dress-up affairs. Whittle, he'd spent some spare time during the voyage hunting around for all the valuables. After finding what he could, he'd asked Trudy about hiding places where there might be more, and she'd obliged him by opening up some secret compartments. So he probably had every bit of it, now, in his valise.

Following his orders, Michael carried the case topside and I went up after him, empty-handed. He had Michael set it down by the stern. Then the three of us made our way forward.

It was a calm night, but mighty cold. Not another boat was in sight. A few lights glowed along the sh.o.r.e and inland. I sure wished I was there among them, and judged this might be as good a time as any for a swim.

But I held off, concerned about Trudy. Maybe Whittle hadn't killed her yet.

Maybe, instead of abandoning s.h.i.+p, I ought to have a go at throwing Whittle overboard.

I glanced back at him. He had a knife in his right hand. Not hankering to catch it in my belly, I went on after Michael to where the skiff was secured. Whittle used his knife to cut the ropes. Then he stood back and watched while Michael and I turned the skiff right-side up. We worked at it slowly, being careful not to raise any sound. Trudy was just beneath the deck from us, after all. Being quiet with the skiff seemed like a way to trick our minds into thinking she was only asleep.

We lowered the skiff over the side. Whittle walking in front of me, Michael behind, I towed the skiff by its bow line to the stern.

Whittle told me to tie it. While I did that, he told Michael to pick up the valise. I thought he aimed to have Michael climb down and load it into the skiff for him. But when Michael bent over to grab the handle, Whittle stepped in quick and slashed a knife across his throat. Michael straightened up quick and stood rigid, his mouth wide like he was mighty surprised. Blood squirted out of his ripped neck. Whittle danced out of its way and whirled toward me.

Well, I flung myself backward. The bulwark caught me behind the knees. As I pitched over the side, Whittle reached and clutched the front of my sweater. He tugged at it, trying to pull me up. But the sweater only just stretched, and I kept falling. So he shoved the knife into my belly. Or tried. Its point jabbed the back of my forearm, instead. I gave out a yell and kicked at him and he let got and I dropped headfirst.

My head missed the skiff. But my shoulder fetched it a hard thump that sent it scooting. I plunged down into the cold water between it and the starboard side of the yacht.

I was mighty shocked at how sudden he'd killed Michael and made his play for me. My shoulder hurt like it had gotten clubbed by a cricket bat. My arm hurt, too. And the water plain froze me. In spite of all that, I felt a trifle thrilled that I'd made it overboard alive. I'd gotten clear of Whittle, and that was what counted the most.

The ticket, now, was to stay stay clear of him. clear of him.

So instead of popping up for air, I swam underwater to where I thought the yacht ought to be. I got my shoes off, then let myself rise, arms overhead. Sure enough, my fingers met the bottom of the hull. It was all slimy, and rough with barnacles. I kept under there, feeling my way around. When I found the rudder, it told me which way to go. I turned myself around and headed the other way.

Whittle likely figured he hadn't killed me. He'd be up there, waiting. So it didn't seem smart to surface where he might spot me.

I worked my way toward the bow, walking my hands along the hull and kicking a bit. The True D. Light True D. Light had seemed awful tiny when we were out in the ocean getting knocked about by giant waves. Underneath it, though, with my air running out, it felt ten miles long. I reckoned my chest might explode before I got to the front of it. had seemed awful tiny when we were out in the ocean getting knocked about by giant waves. Underneath it, though, with my air running out, it felt ten miles long. I reckoned my chest might explode before I got to the front of it.

Finally, though, the hull narrowed down to its prow. I let my head come out of the water on the port side, gave a quick look around and didn't see either Whittle or the skiff. After breathing for a spell, I went down again and hid under the hull for as long as I could stand it. Then I came up for another breath and went down again. I must've done that twenty times, till once when I was up for air I heard the splash of oars nearby. Over on the other side of the prow. Well, I ducked under and held my breath forever.

Down there, I couldn't hear the oars. But I judged that Whittle was in the skiff, circling the yacht, scouting for me. Finally, I judged he must've had time to pa.s.s the bow, so I scooted over to the starboard side before bobbing up for air. He wasn't in sight.

No sound of oars, either.

I hung there for a while, then peeked around the end of the bow.

There was Whittle, a hundred feet off, rowing for sh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

On My Own Whittle was almost to sh.o.r.e when I climbed the anchor chain and crawled onto the deck. If the water'd been cold, the air felt twice as bad. I didn't linger, but scurried along to the stern, keeping low in case Whittle might have an eye on the yacht.

Michael, he was sprawled out and still. Nothing to do for him. He was in the hands of Providence, now. So after a quick look to make sure Whittle hadn't turned around, I hurried below.

The heater was on, but it didn't give off enough warmth to stop my shudders. Real quick, I stripped off my duds and grabbed a towel out of a storage compartment. While I rubbed myself dry, I kept looking at the shut door to the forward cabin. I didn't want to see what was on the other side of it.

With a strip of sheet from my bunk, I bandaged my forearm. Then I put on some dry clothes. Didn't they feel just fine! They were the father's, and awful big on me, but I'd gotten used to wearing the dead man's things for I'd worn this or that of his almost every day of the voyage. I cinched in the trousers with a belt, and turned the cuffs up the way I'd always done. Then I got into his best shoes. Whittle had taken all Michael's spares, except the pair I'd had on when I went overboard. Those were at the bottom of the bay, and I didn't relish the notion of stealing the shoes off his body. So these would have to do, even though they fit loose.

Last, I put on the father's heavy coat.

That took care of getting myself dry and warm. There was nothing left but only to check on Trudy.

All tight and sick inside, I went to the door. I knocked on it. She didn't answer, so I rapped harder. Then I called her name a few times.

Nothing.

Well, I took hold of the door handle and tried to make myself turn it. I just couldn't, though. Pretty soon, I gave up.

Topside, I searched the dark waters for Whittle and his skiff. They were nowhere to be seen.

So what I did, I raised the anchor and set the mainsail. No easy job, but it beat taking a swim. At the helm, I steered for a piece of sh.o.r.e far away from where Whittle'd been headed.

I picked a long stretch of beach that didn't have any lights nearby. It took a spell to get there, but by and by I ran the True D. Light True D. Light straight up onto the sand. She sc.r.a.ped along and stopped with a rough jolt. straight up onto the sand. She sc.r.a.ped along and stopped with a rough jolt.

Well, I rushed to the prow, all set to leap off and skedaddle before somebody might show up.

But then I got to thinking about Trudy.

I knew she was dead. But I didn't know for sure. for sure.

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.