A Rip Through Time(100)
“Meaning he likes other men, not pretty housemaids.”
“Yes. He was, as you say, friends with Catriona. I saw no hint of anything more.”
I ask more questions. Did Catriona and Simon have a recent falling-out? Argue? Not that Isla knows of, but she’d been gone for a month, and Gray rarely notices domestic drama.
Does Simon seem any different? Ilsa describes him as quiet, which is not the guy I’ve been talking to. To her, he seems like himself, but they’ve had little contact. He interacts more with Gray, who is not the most observant guy when it comes to his employees.
At that point, I need to tell Isla everything, which means we circle the block around the town house twice. The first time, I’m explaining that I think the killer is the guy who attacked me in the twenty-first century, who was thrown into the body of Catriona’s attacker … and I think that attacker—and body—is Simon. The second circle is spent in silence as she works that through.
“It makes sense,” she says slowly, as we steer to add an extra block onto our walk. “The inciting event is the attack happening in two periods. Two women attacked by two men in a similar manner on the same spot. If you jumped into Catriona, it is logical that your attacker could have jumped into hers.”
I don’t answer. She’s working it through, and we’re to the next corner before she says, “Do you know anything of the man who attacked you in your time?”
“I saw his face, but that doesn’t help. He was a serial killer who’d murdered two people. Strangled them with a rope, like he’d used on me. I’d seen him earlier that day in a coffee shop. I spilled coffee on him.”
Her brows shoot up.
“It was my fault. I was distracted, trying to do too many things at once, and I bumped into him. I apologized—I felt terrible—but he brushed me off and then stalked me and tried to murder me.”
“That seems excessive.”
“In my world, people have been drawn and quartered for less.” I glance over at her. “Kidding, obviously. It wasn’t an overreaction to the coffee spill as much as an excuse. Some serial killers murder indiscriminately, because it’s about the act, not the victim. For others, it’s about the victims—picking people who remind them of Mommy or the girl who turned them down or whatever. With this guy, it was a game. He let his victims self-select, so to speak. If someone pisses him off, in a very ordinary way, can he track and kill them?”
“Cerebral,” she murmurs. “That’s what you and Duncan called the murder of Archie Evans. Methodical and cerebral, lacking passion or bloodlust.”
“If I were to speculate, based on the murders in my time and here, I’d say that we’re dealing with a guy who thinks he’s clever. His driving force is ego. He wants to get away with it, and because he’s not compelled to kill in a specific way, he can avoid patterns and connections that would get him caught. Then he arrives here, before the golden age of serial killers.”
“The golden…?” She shakes her head. “I don’t even want to know what that means. Presumably, they become more common.”
“To many people in our time, the first serial killer doesn’t strike for another twenty years. He wasn’t the first, but he’s still the most famous. This guy comes here and thinks he can steal his thunder. Be clever and memorable. Except no one cares. So he goes another route. Replicate those murders. Out-ripper the Ripper.”
“The…?” Another head shake. “I definitely don’t want to ask about that.”
“You do not. The point is that he replicated a future famous murder and will undoubtedly continue on with the rest of the killing spree, meaning we need to stop him before he does.”
“Agreed.”
“We recognized each other in that attack,” I say. “I believe he knows who I am, and I know who he was. It’s the ‘was’ part that’s a problem. He has the advantage.”
“And you think he’s now Simon?”
“I’m theorizing that he could be Simon. What I need from you is either proof that the guy in Simon’s body is Simon or additional support for the idea that it might not be.”
“I honestly can’t say either way, Mallory. I haven’t had enough contact with him in these last few days.”
“Then the next step for me is finding proof. I’m not going to approach him directly—that’s dangerous if he’s the killer, because the killer realizes I’m not Catriona either. Would Mrs. Wallace know Simon better than you?”
“Yes, but she is not … fond of Catriona.”
“Oh, I know it. I can work around that. I’ll talk to her, and maybe talk to Dr. Gray if I can, and then, when I have a better idea either way, I’m going to ask you to send Simon on an errand so I can search his room. Can you do that?”
“Easily.”
“Good.”
THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve been in the house for an hour and haven’t spoken to Mrs. Wallace yet. First, I told myself I needed to come up with subtle questions. Then, I decided I should do some housework, so she won’t grumble about me shirking my duties. The truth is that I want time to think, because I don’t like this solution to the puzzle.
It fits. I know my twenty-first-century killer inhabits the body of Catriona’s nineteenth-century one. I know he tortured Archie Evans for something, and I could be wrong about what, but I am not wrong that Evans was investigating Catriona on behalf of someone who might have been angry enough to kill her.