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Chapter 15: Come, Armageddon! Come!

            “How old are you?” Irene said. 

            The girl was cold, her torn and frayed coat barely protecting her against the cutting wind.  She pulled the lapels close to her neck.  “About twenty, mum,” she said. 

            Irene nodded.  “How long have you been working like this?”

            “Since last spring.  Me ol’ Tom lost his job and started drinkin’.  We had Abbie by then, an’ no money for our doss.  Tom sent me out to earn money.”

            “Where’s Tom now?”

            “He left, mum,” she said.  “One mornin’ I came home an’ he was gone.  Abbie was covered in filth in her crib, screamin’ her eyes out.  No Tom.”

            Irene nodded, looking over the girl’s shoulder.  A young child played in the alleyway behind us, picking food out of garbage.  She picked up a dirty apple core and began eating it.

            “Don’t let her eat that!” I said.

            Irene hissed, pushing me back.  The girl frowned at me, turning her back and walking over to the child.  The child screamed as her mother took the rotted fruit away from her, flicking away the bugs and grime of the street.  She handed it back to the child, who sucked it eagerly.  “We don’t get much,” the girl said, looking down. 

            “What about work?” I said.  “Surely there’s-“

            The girl laughed, “Work?  I’d be lucky to get a job gluing matchboxes together, workin’ seven fourteen hours a day, all to earn seven and a ‘alf shillings fer the week.  We can’ live on tha’.” 

               I could no longer watch Abbie without feeling the need to do something.  I left Irene to her interview, and went off in search of a store.  Bars littered the streets of Whitechapel, full even at this early hour.  At every alleyway a woman, much like the one Irene was speaking with, called out to me.  “Care for a toss, sir?” they said as I approached.

            “You don’t like girls?” they said as I continued on.

            One simply bent over as I walked by, hiking up her skirt, calling out her price.  I found a small market, but as I tried to enter, the door was locked.  I saw people within, and knocked loudly. 

            “You have money?” the shopkeeper said through the door.

            “Of course,” I said.

            “Show it.”

            I dug into my pocket for several coins, holding them up to the window.  “Is that quite enough to be let in?” I said. 

            The shopkeeper quickly unlocked the door, grinning as I came through.  “I humbly apologize, sir, it’s just, so many scoundrels steal us blind.  I’m forced to keep my doors locked.”

            I picked up a selection of fruit and bread, with a few sweets thrown in for Abbie.  I carried them over to the counter, paid the man, and left. 

            Nearly a dozen starving children were standing huddled around the door as I left.  They all called out to me.  Their calls brought more children. 

            I handed out the food that I’d bought, and returned inside the store to buy as much as I could afford. 

            “Abbie?” I said, holding up my bag.  “Here you go, my love.  Put that dirty thing down and eat this instead.”  The child came over to me eagerly when I held up the lolli.  Her smile seemed to fill the whole world as she took it from me and began devouring it. 

            I stood up, feeling very satisfied.  Both Irene and the girl’s mother stared at me.  “I’m sorry,” I said, “Did you not want the child to eat properly?  Maybe it’s better that she go back to picking through the garbage?”

            “It’s fine, sir,” the girl said, looking down at Abbie.  “I guess in Whitechapel a girl is never too young to learn to depend on the kindness of a strange man to feed her.”

 

            “What do you think of these women, Watson?” Irene said.

            “I think none of them compares to you,” I said, leaning toward her cheek to kiss her.

            She pushed me away.  “None of that,” she said.  She didn’t say it in a cute way, nor a flirting way.  It was more harsh.  More definite. 

            “Did I do something wrong?” I said.

            “No,” she said.  “First, we have a job to do here, and second,” she paused, “last night was really just what I said it was.  Something to remind us we are alive.  Nothing more.  I don’t expect it will happen again,” she said.

            “Ah,” I said, staring intently at the bricks forming the walls of Whitechapel.  I cursed my foolish imagination.  I’d thought there was a chance for she and I to be more. 

            Irene stopped suddenly.  “How does that make you feel, Watson?”

            I continued on.  “It’s nothing, really.”

            “Stop!” she said, running after me.  “Stop, I’m serious!  How does that make you feel?  Are you angry with me?”

            I turned, seeing the wild glee in her eyes.  I pulled away from her away, “Get away from me.”

            “You hate me, don’t you!  I’ve rejected you, and you are very, very angry about it!”

            “Leave me alone,” I said.  “Get the hell away from me.”

            “Or what?” she said, grabbing me, yanking my shoulder to face her.  “What is it you are thinking?  Maybe I was using you, or maybe I was trying to hurt Holmes, or maybe I liked you up until we made love and I thought you had a small-“

            I pushed Irene to the ground, lifting my hand.  “You dirty whore, if you don’t get away from me right this second, I will-“

            “What?” Irene said.  “Kill me?”

            “Got to hell,” I said. 

            “Don’t you see, Watson?” Irene said, getting to her feet.  “That anger you feel.  The violence.  Even the word, ‘whore.’  It is the same as his.”

            “Whose?”

            “Jack’s.”

            Irene and I sat apart from one another on the steps to Christ Church in Spitalfields, not far from where Annie Chapman’s body was found, her lower intestines cut from her belly.  No, not cut.  Ripped.

            “Is this all some amusing little game to you, Irene?  Why toy with me in the process?”

            “I’m sorry, Watson.  I didn’t mean any of the things I said earlier.  I’m getting desperate, I suppose.  It seemed worth the risk, and I still think so, because I feel we are somehow closer to Jack.”

            “You think he was rejected by a woman, and now he’s cutting up the prostitutes of Whitechapel?” I said.

            “Hmmm,” she said.  “No.  It can’t be that.  If it were one woman, he’d kill her.  I’ve reviewed most of the previous murders that have been in the papers, at least for the last year or so.  Most of the domestic murders were solved.  None were this extreme.”

            “So what woman could have rejected him strongly enough for him to want to take such revenge on these girls, but not her?” 

            “That’s quite simple, really,” Irene said.  “His mother.”

            “This is a terrible, terrible idea, Irene,” I said. 

            “Oh stop, Watson.  It’s not so bad.  You’ll be right near me at all times.  I’ll be well protected.”

            “No!” I said.  “It’s too dangerous.  Anyway, there’s over a thousand women whoring in Whitechapel every night.  What makes you think he’ll approach you?”

            Irene shrugged, pulling on a ragged looking coat.  “Damn,” she said.  “I don’t smell bad enough.  I’ll need to find some garbage to roll around in.”

            I started laughing, “This is insane!  I won’t let you do this.”

            Irene smiled, patting me gently on the cheek.  “You don’t have a choice, my dear.  Besides, I am not without defenses,” she said, pulling her coat away to reveal my revolver stuck in her waistband.  “Tonight, we hunt The Ripper!”

Chapter 14: The One Who Searches and Destroys

     Fists flew, legs flailed. They grunted and cursed, slamming into the sides of the elevator, rocking it back and forth.  Bond jammed a thumb into the eye of the man biting his sleeve, jabbing as hard and quick as he could, trying to crush the weeping orb.   

    The other man’s arm was wrapped around Bond’s throat, pulling him from his feet.  Bond kicked backwards wildly, trying to connect with knee or shin. 

    “My eye!” the man screamed, finally releasing his bite and trying to stem the flow of blood and fluid from his socket.  Bond punished him with several quick punches to his other eye, trying to blind him completely. 

    “That’s enough of this crap,” the one behind him grunted.  He let go with one hand, fishing in his coat pocket for a weapon.   

    Bond grabbed the handle of the Beretta in his armpit.  He found the trigger guard of the holster and wedged his finger inside, squirming for purchase, trying to shift enough so that he didn’t blow a hole in his own ribs. 

            THWIP TWHIP, the Beretta whispered.  Bond felt the gunshots more than heard them.  His armpit was scorched, and the back of his shirt was smoldering.  The grip on Bond’s neck grew slack and the man behind him fell lifeless on the elevator floor. 

            “You son of a bitch!  I can’t see!”

            Bond caught his breath.  He pulled his smoking shirt off and threw it at the blind man, who instantly started punching and tearing it.  “Get off of me, get off of me, I’ll kill you!” 

            The other one twitched slightly, blood leaking from the two holes in his heart.  A perfect hit, Bond mused.  I couldn’t have done any better if I were aiming.  “Hey?  Stop knocking around and listen for a second.”

            “Go to hell!”

            “Shut your mouth for a moment so I can talk,” Bond said.

            “Blow-“  THWIP THWIP.  Bond squeezed off two quick rounds into the man’s kneecaps, knocking him to the floor.  “AUGHHHHHH!!!” the man screamed.  “Jesus Christ, stop!”

            “Are you going to listen?” Bond said.

            The man sobbed, grabbing both of his knees, head hanging limp.  “Yes,” he sputtered.

            “How did you intend to dispose of my body?”

            “We weren’t going to kill you,I swear!  I swear it on the lives of my-" 

            Bond cocked the hammer back on the Beretta.  “Stop, stop!  All right, there’s a grey Ford parked in the basement garage.  It’s right near the elevator exit.  Frankie has the keys.  Frankie?  Frankie!  Oh god, is he dead?  You bastard.”

 “How many men are in the car?”

            “N-none,” the man said.  “My knees,” he said.  “Get me to a doctor.” 

            “You’ll be fine in just a moment,” Bond said, “As long as you answer my questions.  Who sent you to kill me?”

            “I don’t know,” the man said.  Bond sniffed sharply, and the man raised his head, “I swear it!  Me and Frankie got a call from our capo telling us to get over to the Sheraton and take care of you.   That was all we got.”

            “How did you know who I was?”

            “When we picked up the car, there was photographs and stuff.  It’s in the glovebox.  Okay?  Can you just-“ THWIP THWIP.

            Bond stood up, holstering the Beretta.  The barrel was burning hot against his skin through the thin tee-shirt.  Bond lit a cigarette and took a long drag.  He popped the empty magazine out of the Beretta, replacing it with the loaded one in his pants pocket.  He tossed the empty into his bag, putting two more loaded clips in either pants pocket.  Bond made a quick search of both corpses, finding less than a hundred dollars on either.  He took the money, both to add the possibility of robbery as a motive for their murder when the police found them, and to keep himself funded once his access to Her Majesty’s Secret bank accounts was shut off. 

            Blood stained both of the dead men’s shirts.  Bond decided neither were suitable to wear.  He flipped the emergency switch for the elevator.  It began descending.

            Bond finished his cigarette, flicking it out the elevator as the doors opened.  He stepped out, turning toward the grey Ford, parked immediately in front of the elevator doors.  He was about to open it when he heard a cigarette hit the pavement behind him.

            “Holy Jesus!” 

            Bond spun, ripping the Beretta out of the holster.  The man, who’d been waiting off to the side of the elevator raced forward, pulling on the front door to the Ford, trying to grab the .357 revolver sitting on the front seat.  Bond slammed the butt of the pistol against the tiny portion of the man’s skull connecting it to his spinal column, dropping him instantly. 

           

        “Wakey, wakey,” Bond said, tapping Alfredo’s cheek.  Bond had searched him prior to putting him in the trunk with the two dead bodies, finding a permit to carry, a billfold of $200, a driver’s license identifying the man as ALFREDO SCANTIATTI and a phone number. 

            Alfredo squirmed, eyes blinking rapidly.  He shifted around, realizing that he was shoved in a trunk on top of two other people.  Both bleeding profusely.  Both dead.  “Ahhhh, Jesus.  Frankie?  Buggy?  Get me the hell out of here!” 

            Bond shoved Alfredo back into the trunk and lifted the .357.  He cocked the hammer back, making the cylinder rotate.  He liked the chunky feel of the gun, the loud sounds it made.  It was a distinctly American gun, lacking all of the finesse of the European models Bond was used to carrying, but packing an elephant gun’s worth of firepower.  “What the hell do you want?” Alfredo said.

            Bond lifted the packet of information he’d found in the glove compartment.  He pulled out two surveillance photos showing arrival at the airport.  “I look at these photos and I know that they could only have been taken by CIA.  Who do you work for, Alfredo?  Are you with the CIA?”

            “We’re with the Giancana family.  I don’t know nothing about no CIA.” 

            “Who were you supposed to call once I was dead?”

            “What?”

            Bond whacked him on the head with the barrel of the gun.  “The number you were supposed to call!  The one I found in your pocket!”

            Alfredo rubbed the lump forming on his temple.  “I was supposed to call that number after you was in the river.  Don’t kill me, man.  It was nothing personal, I swear!”

            “Who were you calling?”

            “They don’t tell me nothin’, okay?  I’m just a foot soldier.  I ain’t had my button more than a year.” 

            Bond hesitated.  There was no other course of action left to take for Alfredo.  He took a deep breath, letting the cold, calculating course of action form in his mind.  Alfredo was a liability. 

            “I swear on the eyes of my mother, if you let me go, I won’t tell anybody.  I’ll call the number.  I’ll tell them you’re dead!” 

            “What phone were you supposed to call them from?” Bond said.

            “The Hess station, right after you get off the Delaware Memorial Bridge.  They gave me a code word,” Alfredo said quickly.  “If I don’t say it, they’ll know something went wrong.  You have to keep me alive or else I’m not giving you the code word.”

 

            Bond dialed the number.  Someone picked up.  “It’s done,” Bond said, affecting his best Italian-American dialect.

            “Good,” Regis said.  “Quick question.  If you were a bird, what bird would you be?”

            “A dodo,” Bond said.  He glanced at the trunk, hoping Alfredo had been good to his word. 

            “Sounds right,” Regis said, hanging up the phone. 

            Bond felt rage building within.  He got back into the car and began driving quickly up the interstate.  “Hey!” Alfredo said, banging on the front seat.  “Hey?  Did it work?  I gave you the right word, right?  It worked just like I said, and you is gonna let me out, right?”

            Bond curbed the Ford around a bend, the waters of the Delware river far below.  He accelerated, calculating the distance between the edge of the cliff and the speed of the car.  No cars were coming in either direction. 

            “Hey!  Slow down!  You said you wasn’t gonna kill me right?” Alfredo shouted.

            “I won’t!” Bond shouted, opening the door.  Bond bailed out of the driver’s side door, hitting the road so hard he bounced and skidded across the asphalt.  Chunks of rock and concrete ripped into his skin.  The Ford careened toward the cliff, it’s frontside tipping over the edge and the rear snapping into the air.  The car rocketed straight down.  “But the fall might,” Bond said, hearing the explosion far below.  

    

             

           

Quick Interlude

Hi folks.  Just taking a quick second to ask you to take note of some new things here on ye olde EB.  The new Enemy Poetry Page is up and fully featured.  If you missed any previous poetry posts, click that link and you'll be escorted into a world of lyrical content featuring spurned love, erotic encounters, and ...Genetically Modified Organisms????  Yeah well, just click the link, and you'll see what I'm talking about.  I will update it periodically, always putting new material at the top, so check it out from time to time. 

Also, I gave the Men in Hat's story it's own page.  I plan on doing the same with the current book that I'm in the midst of here, (the one I'm about to stop screwing around on the EB and get back to writing.) and post it in sequential order.  In other "Current Book" news, I think I have a tentative title for it.  It's alot easier to actually HAVE a title than to keep calling it my "Sherlock Holmes vs. Jack the Ripper vs. James Bond story.  It's kind of like those old horror movies I loved as a kid.  (Why, oh why, don't they show kung fu movies on Saturday mornings anymore, followed by old black and white horror movies?  If I had millions of dollars, I'd buy a television channel and show nothing but that kind of stuff.  Enemy TV...it's got a nice ring to it.)

Hope you're all enjoying the new look of the page.   

The last thing I wanted to draw your attention to was the Thumb This Up button.  Do me a favor and click it when you visit the EB. 

Chapter 13: Did You See Me Make My Midnight Call?

    I woke up in my bedroom at 221B Baker Street.  Light came in gently through the shutters.  Mrs. Hudson was cooking, for I could hear meat sizzling in her large pan.  "Come an' eat, Doctor Watson," she called out.  "Meats almost finished."

    I entered the living room, where Holmes sat smoking his pipe.  He looked wonderfully healthy, smiling at me as I entered. 

    Mrs. Hudson began setting the table.  She poured steaming hot coffee into my mug, telling me to sit.  She lifted a large carving knife and began slicing.   

    "That smells delicious, Mrs. Hudson," I said.

    "It should," she said, "It's fresh kill."

    "Wonderful!" I said.

    Holmes sighed, tapping his pipe.  "Really Watson, not to be a bother, but you are getting blood all over the floor." 

    I looked down, realizing my entire nightshirt was wet with blood.  It dripped from the shirt onto my feet, pooling between my toes.  "I do apologize, my good man.  Here," I said, removing the shirt and rolling it into a ball.

    "Ahem," Holmes said, "Into the fire.  Don't you know anything about disposing of evidence?"

    "Of course," I said, tossing it into the flames. 

    Naked, I turned to Mrs. Hudson.  Blood dripped from my body as I moved closer to her, lifting a knife from the table, holding it tight. 

    Mrs. Hudson turned to me with her finger raised, "Tut, tut, Doctor!" she said, lifting the cover from the silver tray in her hands, "No playing until after you've eaten your meat."  

    Irene's severed head lay on the tray, her eyes staring at me gently.  Her lips were open in a soft expression of passion.  "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, taking the plate.  I sat across from Holmes.  

    His expression turned cruel.  

    "Don't be jealous, old boy," I said, touching Irene's lips with my fingers.  "You had your chance."  I lifted my knife. 

    "You'll damage it," Holmes said. 

    "I've removed bullets from the lungs of wounded soldiers in the battlefields of Africa, sir.  I can manage this damned-"

    "John?" Irene said, shaking me. 

    I cried out, 221B collapsing all around me.  

    "John!" 

    I cursed, suddenly disgusted by the filth and gore covering me, trying desperately to wipe it away.  "Get it off!  Get it off!" I shouted, as Irene shook me until I finally sat up, holding her tightly. 

    She wiped a cool cloth over my face.  "You're sweating terribly," she said.  "You woke me with your thrashing about." 

    Her suite was very cold, but I was soaked through my clothes.  She threw a blanket around my shoulders, but I shook it off, trying to catch my breath.  "Keep it on," Irene said, "You'll catch a chill."  She put the blanket back on me, keeping it firmly in place.  My breathing slowed, steadied.  "Do you want to talk about it?" 

    "No," I said.  

    "All right," she said.  "You actually woke me from my own dream.  I'm grateful you did.  It was horrid.  

    "What was it about?" I said. 

    "Death," Irene said.  She looked at me, eyes shining in the dark, focused on me so intently that I tried to turn away, afraid she would see the monsterous thoughts roaming in my mind as I slept.  "Death, everywhere I looked, everywhere I turned," Irene said.  "I want to feel alive.  Come with me, John." 

    Irene stood, taking my hand, her thin nightgown barely covering her skin beneath the light of the moon.  "Life, John.  In the face of death."  

    "I can't, Irene.  There's a girl, her name's-"

    Irene kissed my fingers, kissed my knuckles, kissed my wrist. 

    "Mary, she's to be my wife."

    Irene wrapped her arm around my waist, kissing my neck, kissing my chin, kissing my cheek. 

    I resisted.  Oh, how I resisted.  Until I succumbed. 

    Irene slept soundly next to me, her naked body cuddled close to mine.  Madness, I thought.  The madness of The Ripper has gripped us all.  It is as if now that he has come into our lives, we cannot extricate him.

    His thoughts, his words, his murders, his reality.  It owns us.  We are held in thrall, waiting excitedly for when he will descend on us again.  Before, I thought that The Ripper is chaos.

    I was wrong.  He is armageddon.  These are the end times.  The time of Jack.

    A piece of apron was found on Goulston Street the night of the Eddowes and Stride murders.  It was identified as being torn from the one worn by Catherine Eddowes that night. 

    It was found wet with blood and fecal matter in a stairwell.  The edge of the doorway above the apron had, written in chalk, "THE JUWES ARE THE MEN WHO SHALL NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING."

    Or, so they say.

    Scotland Yard's Chief Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, had the writing removed before it could be photographed.  I cannot help but wonder what clues Sherlock Holmes might have gleaned just from that stairwell alone.  But we are the Children of The Ripper now, and the Great Detective has abandoned us. 

    On October 1st, Central News received a postcard from "Saucy Jack."  It was again addressed to the one The Ripper calls "Boss." 

    By the 10th of the month, The Ripper letters were declared hoaxes.  Hundreds more letters began to arrive, all claiming to be written by Jack himself.  In Bradford, a housewife was arrested for writing several letters that she signed, "Jack the Ripper."

    On the 16th of October, my old friend George Lusk received an unusual parcel.  It contained a letter from The Ripper, and half a human kidney.  He claimed to have fried and eaten the other half.

    The letter was addressed "From Hell."

    The Police Gazette has begun publishing the names of local citizens, telling the officers to "Pay Attention" to these "Dangerous Persons."  I have appeared as the subjects of these memos no less than five times. 

    By the end of October, over eighty people had been detained for questioning, and over 300 investigated. 

   At that time, Jack the Ripper, or Saucy Jack, if you prefer, or Leather Apron, or even Jill the Ripper, appeared to have vanished, leaving only four messy corpses in his wake. 

    And then, November 9th.

    A landlord on Dorset Street decided it was time to collect rent from his wayward, albeit lovely, tenant, Mary Kelly.  The door was locked.  The landlord peered through the window and saw Kelly's horribly mutilated corpse laying on the bed. 

    One of her breasts was placed under her head.  A pillow, along with her uterus and kidney.  The other breast was found beside her right foot. 

    Frustratingly simple questions are left unanswered.  If Kelly's door was locked, how the hell did the killer leave?  If he had a key, how did he come to have it? 

    In truth, it is not The Ripper killings that terrify me.  He is but one man.  One murder.  One who can be caught, imprisoned, and punished. 

    I fear the people.  The ones I see slobbering over the newest headlines, cackling as they read of Bloody Jack's latest.  The children I see chasing each other down the street, pretending to have knives, pretending to be The Ripper.

    Jack the Ripper is a condition of the human mind, now loosed on us forever.  And I see him in everyone I pass.

    

    I lay beside Irene, thinking these thoughts, touching her bare skin.  My hand travels down her chin, her neck, cupping her breasts.  Who would want to do the things that Jack has done? 

    It would be simple to call him a monster.  To write him off as merely evil.  Possessed. 

    Sherlock Holmes would not let me use such simplified reasoning, though.  He would tell me to first seek to understand the killer, his motives, his wants and needs.  From there, one can discern his actions. 

    Yet, I am fearful of the idea of allowing The Ripper to enter my mind, even if only to smoke him out.  What if, when I desire to be free of him, he refuses to leave?

Chapter 12: A Black Elevator Going Down

    "May I help you, sir?"

    "Emily Watson, please."

    The secretary checked the file folder.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I don't see her name on my list.  Are you sure she's in this office?"

    Bond nodded.  "Check with Chuck Regis."

    "Who shall I say is asking, sir?"

    "Bond," he said.  "James Bond."  The secretary lifted her phone and quietly spoke Bond's name into it.  Bond tried not to smile, hearing the loud cursing on the other end.

    The office door opened behind her.  A tall, thin man with bright silver hair exited, looking Bond over.  "Can I help you, sir?"

    "Commander James Bond, British Intelligence," Bond said.  "It's my understanding that you are holding a British citizen in custody, in violation of Her Majesty's treaty with your government.  I demand to see her at once."

    "Limey son of a bitch!" shouted Regis from down the hall.  He walked so quickly that he began to suck wind.  "What the hell are you doing here?  I told you to beat it back to England!"

    "You also told me that Emily Watson never arrived in this country."

    Regis snarled, puffing his chest out at Bond, "Well excuse the piss out of me if I don't drop my drawers the second you show up, you-"

    "That's enough, Charles,"  the tall man said.  Regis's eyes were wide with hatred, but he backed away from Bond.  "I'm Paul Grimley, Division Chief.  Let's go into my office and sort this whole thing out."

    Grimley sat in a large leather seat, surrounded by rows of text books.  Bond was seated across from the desk, musing that every intelligence director must read the same manual on office decoration.  Regis stood, pacing, arms folded, glaring at Bond.

    "Why is Watson in custody, Charles?"

    "National security, Chief.  She's a verified threat connected to a terrorist organization." 

    "I see."  Grimley nodded toward Bond, "Surely you can understand our interest in confidentiality in this matter, Mr. Bond.  Agent Regis wasn't being deceptive with you, per se.  He was doing his duty."

    "How the hell did you find out Watson was here, Bond?" Regis said.

    Bond ignored Regis and turned to Grimley, "I can appreciate that, Chief.  I just think alot of this could have been avoided if handled properly."

    "Go to hell," Regis said.

    "Gentlemen," Grimley said.  "Commander, what is your interest in this matter, exactly?"

    "As I see it, Chief, you are in treaty violation for failing to notify the British embassy of Watson's arrest.  I could very easily make an issue out of this and have your whole office swarming with UN Inspectors," Bond said.

    Regis lifted the telephone receiver off of Grimley's desk.  "Here.  Make the call.  I'll dial it myself."

    Grimley took his phone back and folded his hands, leaning forward.  Bond wondered if the man ever played cards.  He had the posture and demeanor of a seasoned gambler.  "I am assuming you have an alternative suggestion in mind, Mr. Bond?"

    "Let me see her.  Speak to her.  I'll verify that she is well-cared for, and swear out a statement that will protect you if she files a false complaint."

    Grimley sat back, tapping his fingers together.  "I don't see a problem with that."

    "I do," Regis said.  "Who the hell is this guy, coming into our office, in our country, trying to act like a big shot, boss?"

    "Do me a favor, Charles?" Grimley said.  "Wait outside for Mr. Bond."

    Regis stormed out of the office, slamming the door so hard that that books on the shelves shook.  "He's a bit of a live wire, James.  Don't hold it against him though.  He's damn good in a tight spot."

    Bond shrugged.  "I can't blame his being angry with me, Chief.  He was a good friend of Felix's.  They went to the academy together."

    Grimley frowned.  "Leiter?  The Texan?"  When Bond nodded, Grimley smiled gently.  "I don't know who told you that, James, but Felix was down in the Keys five years before Regis started working for us." 

    "My mistake, then," Bond said. 

    "I want you to shoot straight with me, though, James.  Why all the fuss over this Watson woman, anyway?  If she's as bad as you think, we're doing you and Her Majesty a favor by keeping her neutralized."

    "It's simply a matter of personal interest, Chief."    

    "She's right down here, Jimmy," Regis said, waving his hand down the hall.  "Listen, I'm sorry, all right?  I came on too strong.  It was unprofessional of me."

    Bond nodded, "No harm was done, Chuck."

    Regis massaged his temples and sighed.  "I'm just still pretty messed up over Felix, I guess.  Haven't been sleeping much.  We square?"  Regis held out his hand and Bond shook it firmly.  "She's in there.  Listen, she's been saying all sorts of crazy stuff.  Conspiracy theories that would fill a book.  It's all garbage, Jimmy.  Don't you listen to a word of it."

    "Obviously," Bond said. 

    Regis opened the door and Emily spat at him, hissing like a wild animal, yanking on the handcuffs pinning her arms behind her back.  Suddenly she saw Bond and shrieked.  "My God!  James!  James!  Thank God!"  Tears spilled down Emily's cheeks.  "Please help me."

    "Sit down and shut up," Regis said, shoving Emily back into her chair. 

    "How is this possible?" Emily said.  "I don't care.  Thank God you came!"

    "I said shut up!" Reigs said.

    Bond cleared his throat.  "Can I speak to her privately?"

    "No.  Absolutely not."

    "Very well.  Emily, who is The Arsenal?"

    "I don't know," Emily said, sobbing.  "Why are you asking me stupid questions?  You have to get me out of here!  We have to get to Pittsburgh!"

    "We're not going to Pittsburgh," Bond said.  "Don't lie to me, Emily.  I found your cipher. The Beekeepers are sending either you or The Arsenal to tamper with Jonas Salk's polio vaccine.  Who is The Arsenal?  If he's an agent, tell me who he is so I can stop him in time."

    Emily stared in disbelief at Bond.  Her mouth fell slack as she trembled.  "You bloody fool," she whispered.  "You awful bloody ignorant fool.  Jonas Salk is a Beekeeper!  The vaccine is scheduled for testing at the Arsenal Elementary School and the Watson Home for Children, you idiot!" 

    "That's enough," Regis said, standing up.  "We're done."

    "These bastards are going to substitute the vaccine to perform and MKULTRA experiment!" Emily shouted.  "You have to stop them!" 

    Regis slapped Emily across the face so fiercely that her lips burst open.  Blood splattered the white wall next to her.  "Shut your filthy mouth!" Regis said, wiping blood off of the ring on his hand with a handkerchief.  "I told you to stop lying, you little bitch.  I warned you."

    Emily looked up at Bond, her eyes already swelling from the blow.  "Get to Pittsburgh, James.  Find Jonas." 

    Regis pushed Bond out the door and into the hallway.  "I'm sorry you had to see that, Jimmy.  Listen, I need a drink.  You want to go grab a drink?"

    Bond felt dazed, as if he were moving through water.  "Um, I can't just now, Chuck.  I don't feel very well.  I have to go lie down before I fly home."

    "Okay," Regis said.  "That's probably for the best.  Go home, forget this craziness."  Regis called out to Bond, already walking quickly down the hall, "Listen, you ever need anything, don't hesitate, okay Jimmy?  Okay?"

    Bond hit the door hard, heading toward his car, about to be ill.

    "Put M on the phone," Bond said.

    "James?  Is that you?" Moneypenny said.  "Why on earth are you-"

    "Put M on the damn phone," Bond said.  Bond lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips, drinking a mouthful. 

    "007?  What's the meaning of this?  Why aren't you using-"

    "To hell with Universal Export, sir.  I have a serious situation here."

    "What is it?"

    "The package we delivered to the local suppliers wasn't tainted after all, sir.  But they intend to ship an altered product anyway."

    "Why in the blazes would they do that?"

    Bond paused.  MKULTRA.  The word terrified him.  Only in the darkest corners of the intelligence field was it even whispered about.  Rumors passed during drunken nights that the Americans were conducting experimental research on their own citizens. 

    In 1945, the Americans had initiated Operation Paperclip, a program to recruit Nazi's who'd specialized in torture and brain washing.  Some had already been identified as war criminals during the Nuremberg Trials.  Bond had done his best to kill every Nazi he could find during the war, and it turned his stomach to know that the Americans were harboring them. 

    But MKULTRA was worse. 

    LSD, heroin, morphine, sodium pentathol, hypnosis, and more.  There were rumors of MKULTRA experiments being conducted on members of the US Military.  Groups of prison inmantes.  Pregnant women. 

    And now, if Emily Watson was correct, nearly two million children depending on a vaccine that could save their lives.  Bond held the phone reciever close and said, "They're conducting market research, sir."

    M was silent for a very long time. Finally, he said, "You are to return home immediately, 007.  Take no further action.  I want you in my office by noon tomorrow." 

    James Bond was a creature of duty. 

    He's lied, cheated, and killed, all in the name of Queen and Country.  He'd never asked why.  Bond knew that it was not only his duty to return in accordance with M's orders, it was his duty to protect his beloved Britain from harm.  In the end, what were a few schoolchildren compared to the face of an entire nation? 

    Regis will kill Emily, Bond thought.  They'll disgrace Jonas Salk and all his efforts, blaming him for whatever adverse effects come over the children.  Polio will never be cured. 

    And if I interefere?  Prison, if I'm lucky.  Most likely, they'll charge me for tampering with the serum and I'll go to the gas chamber, despised as a terrorist. 

    For Bond, the experienced gambler, it was easy to take a look at the odds and see that they were so incomprehensibly stacked against him that it was suicidal madness to consider anything other than getting on the next plane back to London. 

    "It was a tricky situation, 007," M would say tomorrow, "But it simply had to be done.  I know you wanted to stay.  You should take some time off.  Go on a holiday."

    Bond thought of Felix.  He thought of Felix being fed to the thrashing teeth of The Robber's shark.  Bond thought of Felix smiling, a grin as wide as Texas, as Bond slid the Beretta into his shoulder holster.  Bond tossed the airline ticket into the trash. 

    The hallways of the Sheraton were empty.  Bond walked quickly toward the stairwell, already plotting his route.  He knew he'd have to take a different car.  Paying for the one Bond would leave in the Sheraton parking garage would be the least of M's concerns.  Just another reason to fire me, Bond thought.  I'll make it easy for them. 

    He opened the door to the stairs, but heard voices coming up.  Bond shut the door, checking both ways at the elevator.  He pressed the down button several times, watching the numbers above the sliding doors begin to light up. 

    Bond got into the elevator, pressing the button for the garage quickly, trying to get the doors to shut.  They began closing, and Bond exhaled, stepping to the rear of the elevator, finally feeling relaxed. 

    A hand suddenly struck between the closing doors, forcing them to re-open.  Two men got onto the elevator with Bond.  Both wore long coats.  Both wore hats.  Both were distinctly italian. 

    The elevator doors closed and they began descending, passing the sixth floor, the fifth, the forth, nearing the basement.  One of the men nodded to the other, who reached out and pulled the emergency stop switch. 

     Bond started swinging. 

 

  (Dr. Sidney Gottleib, head of the CIA's infamous MK-ULTRA)

Chapter 11: You Raise the Blade, You Make the Change

            No matter what, remember this was all done out of a deep, unselfish love.

            They are like angels.  Beautiful, fragile.  Yet I see deep sickness within them.  Syphilis.  Tuberculosis.  Alcoholism.  Each of them, like angels, but ones cast out of heaven, now walking the cobblestone streets of Whitechapel.  The gaslit streets of hell.

            What kind of world lets angels whore in dark alleyways just so they can earn enough money to eat?  What kind of species sits idly by while the weakest of us, the most sacred of us, those chosen to create life, are fed into the great gnawing beast of peccansy?

            God is merciful.  God spared the wretches of Sodom and the whores of Gomorrah from having to live in such misery by cleansing both cities with fire. 

            I am merciful as well.

            They stare at me, so hungry.  I am nothing more than a finely dressed gentleman.  A bit of short, grunting labor in a dark alley.  Some see my fancy clothes and begin to calculate the various ways they could exploit me.  They are predatory animals constantly seeking fresh meat.  I understand, my lovelies.  Truly, I do.

            They eye the box in my left hand, some measuring their steps toward me to steal it, no doubt.  But it is not for them. 

            None of them catch my eye until she comes toward me down Thrawl Street.  I now stare at her, hungry.  Openly wanton.  She smiles softly, coming closer.  I smell the perfume in her hair.  “Hello, sir.  Lovely evening for early November, isn’t it?”

            I cannot speak.  I reach out and run my fingers through the golden strands of her hair.  I rub my thumb across her pale cheek.  “You are a gorgeous creature,” I say.  “Perfect.”

            “I am?” she says.  “Does that mean I’m worth spending the thruppence, then?”

            “Oh,” I say, lost in the cool blue waters of her eyes, “I think much more than that shall be spent before our time together is finished.” 

            “All right,” she says, laughing. 

            “When I look at you, I see light inside, burning you from within.”  I pressed closer to her.  “I want to be inside you, to see and feel that light for myself.”

            She nodded.  “I’m not so sure about any lights within me,” she said, “but a few have told me there’s heaven between my thighs.”

            I shook my head no, casting off such crude remarks.  “Light!” I said, grabbing her by the shoulders.  She suddenly looked scared.  I let her go, taking a deep breath.  “You will be all right for what I’ve told you.  Never forget it.” 

            She took my hand, leading me down Dorsett.  “It’s dangerous in Whitecastle, sir,” she said.  “But, I feel like I’ll be safe with you.”  She kissed me on the cheek gently.  “And you will be more than comfortable.”

           

            Mary, she said, was her name.  She lifted the red handkerchief I’d given her as a small token of my affection, holding it up to her face.  Her long white shirt was open, revealing an ample bosom.  Mary’s hips began to sway as she peeked out at me from behind the kerchief. 

            I sat very still on the chair.  The heat of the fire did not warm me. 

            Mary began to sing, “When down in the meadow in childhood I would roam/ no one's left to cheer me now within that good old home”

            I lifted the box into my lap, playing with the edge of the lid.  “What is in the box, darling?” she said.

            “Something very special,” I said.  “Something for you.”

            “Oh?” she said, smiling widely.  “I love presents.”  She ran the handkerchief across her shoulders, and down between her breasts.

            I could not wait any longer.  I stood, holding the box out before me as if I were carrying a gift to the Queen.  My stomach filled with quivering anticipation. 

            “Should I open it?” Mary said.

            “Yes,” I said.

            Mary giggled and lifted the lid from the box, already making a noise of excitement as she peered down into it.  “What?” she said, seeing the blade inside.

            “It’s for you, Mary,” I said.

            “No, no, no,” she said.  “This is a sick joke, right?”

            “It’s no joke,” I said, taking the blade out.  “I am going to fill the whole world with your light.”

            “Help!” she screamed.  “Murder!  Murder!”

            “Murder?” I said, thrusting the tip of the blade into her throat, severing the larynx as I ripped it sideways.  Blood sprayed me in the face, blinding me momentarily.  I tasted it, like copper in my mouth.  Mary spun frantically, crashing around the room as her life gushed out. 

            I grabbed her, pulling her to my chest, rocking her back and forth as she struggled less and less.  “Mary, Mary, Mary,” I said softly, “It isn’t murder.  It’s salvation.” 

           

            Once she was dead, I laid her on her bed and began to work.  I cut away all of the pieces of her that had been infected.  I removed all of her impurities so that as she reached heaven, she would be pure. 

            If an eye has sinned, pluck it out, so the bible says. 

            I removed the breasts men had suckled.  I removed the heart that had been broken by the world.  I removed the uterus that would never bear children.  I removed the kidneys that processed her alcohol.  I removed lengths of her intestines because they held the waste of her body.

            I took with me a chunk of her cheek, and a long fillet from her right thigh. 

            Her body was nearly perfect.  I searched it carefully for any blemish, cutting them away.  By the time I was finished, Mary was as beautiful as I’d imagined she would be.  She was pure.    

 

(Illustration of Mary Jane Kelly, November 9, 1888, as she was found in her apartment at 13 Miller's Court.)

Notes on Book One: The Story So Far

     Hi folks.  It's been a little while since I addressed you directly, so I figured I'd take a breather now that the first act of the book is finished.  We can catch up this way, chit chat, sit down, all that good stuff.  In fact, the last time I wrote was for the Enemy State of the Union, and I don't know if anyone ELSE thought that Barack Obama's acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention echoed it, but I sure did.  Actually, to be honest, his blew mine away.  But that's a good thing.

    Another odd coincidence: Today I was the King of Prussia mall, and my girlfriend found a coffee mug with the quote "What Would You Try If You Could Not Fail?" on it, or something like that.  The quote was attibuted to "Unknown."  Bullshit, I say!  Attribute that to The Enemy Blog.  Bastards. 

    I would like to take a second to TRULY thank everyone who has been reading, commenting, and emailing.  Some of you (You know who you are) are very important to the story as it develops, and have gone a long way toward keeping me honest to certain characters.

    I realize that not EVERYTHING in the story may be dead-on as far as cannon is concerned for both Bond and Holmes and the various characters associated with them, but they are true to MY vision of them, and the story as I see it.  I've had some conversations with folks who have disagreed with particiular choices, such as Irene knocking "politely" (Hi Babs), but I had to write it as I saw it.  She's a lady.  She knocks politely.  I'm certain if they hadn't answered, she'd have kicked the door in, but that's another story...

    One thing I treasure is when any storyteller, be they author or director, takes the time to interweave details into their work that can be enjoyed on multiple levels.  If I told you to watch the Godfather, you'd enjoy it.  If I told you to watch the Godfather bearing in mind that oranges represent evil, or chaos, you'd enjoy it on another level.  (That's true by the way.  Go check it out.)

    The only real rules I had when I decided to begin this project was to keep it within the confines of the time the stories took place, and be as true to the characters as possible.

    The idea of Sherlock Holmes going after Jack the Ripper is not new.  While it never took place during the Arthur Conan Doyle years, several films and books have been done on the subject.  In my defense, I've never read any of them, or seen any of the movies.  But, it is not a new idea.  The reason is pretty obvious.  Take the most celebrated criminal of the era and factor in the most celebrated detective, and you've got yourself a story.

    I'm trying to make it work within the actual events that took place.  I've used several references that are a million times better researched than I could ever hope to, including Alan Moore's From Hell, the Jack the Ripper Casebook, and the incredible, amazing, fantastic Wikipedia. 

    For Bond, I had to take a hard look at the original novels, of which I've read about six.  The idea with Bond is that he exists in whatever timeframe the story is told in.  If you're watching a 2008 movie about Bond, it takes place in 2008.  If you're reading a 1954 novel about Bond, it takes place in '54. 

    When I first wrote that Jonas Salk's polio vacci