What had drawn James's remark was what he saw against the far left wall.
I walk toward it, amazed. The wall is covered, ceiling to floor, with life-size professional diagrams of the human body. All precisely labeled, starting first with the exterior, a fully fleshed body. Then skin removed, showing the muscular system, followed by more diagrams showing the internal organs in detail.
I move closer to this wall, and in doing so notice a far wall, which had been obscured by the bad lighting. What I see on that other wall sends a jolt through my system.
"Everyone," I say, "look at this."
This wall had been painted white, so as to emphasize the black of the lettering on it:
The Commandments of the Ripper:
1. Most of humanity are cattle. You are of the ancient predators, the orig- inal hunters. Never let the morality of the cattle deter you from the mission.
2. It is never a sin to kill a whore. They are the spawn of the devil, and a boil upon the skin of society.
3. When you kill a whore, and you have moved from the shadows, kill her in the most ghastly way possible, as a lesson to her fellow whores. 4. Feel no guilt if you exult in the murder of a whore. You are from the ancient line, and you are a meat-eater. Your bloodlust is natural. 5. All women have it in them to become whores. Take a woman only to pass on the line. Never allow them to confuse your mind or heart. They are breeders, nothing more.
6. If the teachings are passed on, they may be passed on only to a son, NEVER a daughter.
7. Each Ripper must find his own Abberline. You must be hunted if you are to keep your senses honed, your skills sharp. 8. Until you find your Abberline, you must keep your work hidden from view.
9. Die rather than be caged.
10. The descendants of the Shadow Man are fearless. They satiate their needs without hesitation or compunction. Always strive to exem- plify this. To seek out the calculated risk, the gamble that makes your blood sing.
11. Never forget that you descend from him--the Shadow Man.
"God damn," Don whispers.
I'm inclined to agree.
"Look over here," Alan says.
There are three rows of shelving in the room.
"More anatomy. All kinds of texts on Jack the Ripper." He peers closer, pulls something off one of the shelves, opens it up. "I thought so." He looks at me. "Journals." He flips through the pages, stopping at one. He holds it out for me to see.
Taped inside are a series of black-and-white photographs, stretched out over a number of pages. They show a young woman bound to a table and gagged. The walls in the photo look like this room. I stop for a moment, walk around the shelves.
"Alan," I say. He moves to me and I point to the table in front of us, then to the photo.
"Damn," he says, his face tightening. "That's right here."
The series of pictures show the rape, torture, and evisceration of the young woman. They all have a ghastly "how to" look to them. As though the masked man in the photographs is delivering a seminar on suffering and depravity.
"Jesus," I say. "How many of these are there?"
"Close to a hundred, I'd guess."
I flip past the pictures to one of the written entries. Peter is showing himself to be of the line, even at eight. He watched as I murdered the whore, taking photos and asking intelligent questions throughout. He was especially interested in the mechanics of the eviscera- tion. I am happy to note that his vomiting problem, which has been gone for a year now, shows no signs of resurfacing. I move along to another entry.
I brought Peter along on the hunt this time. It wasn't a school night, and I feel it's important that he begin to be more personally involved. He is ten, after all. I was pleased. He is gifted. Side note--he was embarrassed when I stripped the whore down and he noticed that his penis had gotten hard. I explained the mechanics of this to him and forced the whore to pleasure him with her hand. He was fascinated and seemed to enjoy this. He thanked me afterward. And more:
Peter asked me today how old I was when I killed my first whore. I hesitated to tell him the full truth of it. He is so filled with the strength of our line, I was afraid of revealing my father's weakness to him. I feared he might begin to doubt the nobility of our blood. In the end, I told him alclass="underline" How my father had hidden the secret of our lineage from me. How I had only discovered the truth through my own research of our genealogy. About my father's weak denials when I confronted him with what I had found. How he and my mother had attempted to make me think I was crazy. I needn't have worried about Peter. The look of adoration he gave me when I told him my tale of perseverance, of my search for truth and of the vengeance I exacted on my father, is something I will cherish forever.
"Christ," Alan mutters. "It's just like Patricia said. He started warping the kid early."
"Never had a chance," James remarks. "Not that it matters now. It's been too long. He's unsalvageable."
I don't respond. My ears are filled with a roaring noise, and I am dizzy. Electric shocks dance through my body. I have flipped to the last page in the book, and the signature I see there has my mind spinning in terror, rage, disbelief, shame, and betrayal.
Maybe it's just a coincidence, I think to myself.
I know it's not.
I look up at the commandments painted on the wall, reading num ber seven again: 7. Each Ripper must find his own Abberline. You must be hunted if you are to keep your senses honed, your skills sharp.
"Smoky?" Alan's voice is sharp, concerned. "What's the matter?"
I don't say anything. Just hand him the journal, pointing at the sig nature I had seen. Keith Hillstead, it was signed. Hillstead.
Son Peter.
I knew who Jack Jr. was. And he knew me.
Intimately.
55
MONSTERS WEARING HUMAN masks, and acting their parts to perfection.
Peter Hillstead has fooled everyone, including me. Worse, he has been with me in my moments of greatest vulnerability. But there is something even more terrible, something that makes me want to vomit as I realize it. He has not only fooled me, used me, and violated me--he has also helped me. To his own ends, true, but still . . . The thought that some part of me is better for having met him makes me want to scream and puke and shower for a year.
"I know who he is," I say, answering Alan's question. Shocked silence, followed by a babble of voices. Alan shushes them all.
"What are you talking about?"
I point at the signature on the final page of the journal. "Keith Hillstead. His son's name is Peter. My shrink's name is Peter Hillstead."
Alan looks doubtful. "That could be pure coincidence, Smoky."
"No. I can be a hundred percent certain if I can see photos of Keith and Peter Hillstead. But the ages match up."
"God damn," James mutters.
I head toward the stairs. "Come on."
Patricia is still in the living room. "Ms. Connolly? Do you have a picture somewhere of Keith Hillstead? And of your son?"
She tilts her head, looking into my eyes. "You've found something, haven't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. But if I could see pictures of Keith and Peter, I could be sure."
She lifts herself out of her chair. "I found out after he left that Peter had taken all the photos I had of him. I do have one of Keith. It's buried at the bottom of a drawer, but I kept it to remind me what evil looks like. Hold on for a moment."