watch Rudi being conquered on the sports network—
But— poof! —those imaginary screens went blank when the call came in from Central Control.
Sighing, Rudi raised that magnificent ass off the chair and left the station to stroll to Room 13 of Ash 2.
The Ripper’s psychosis was still in a florid state, but the killer was no longer locked away in the seclusion ward. This being a hospital, not a jail, the madman was back in his regular room. Rudi glanced in through the oblong judas window in the door, and there the Ripper lay on his back beside the left-hand wall.
In one palm, the Ripper held something he was eating. Whatever it was, the imaginary delicacy bestowed upon him more gourmand pleasure than any real food offered at FPH could ever give.
In his other hand, he seemed to grip a bottle. From the way he winced each time he guzzled a phantom swig to wash down his repast, Rudi surmised the liquid in the non-bottle was strong booze.
He’s time-traveling, Rudi thought as he swung open the door, and his eyes followed the wormhole tunnel through the series of collages that ran from the math calculations beside the Ripper’s head, spiraling around to the occult symbols on the far wall and ending up at the tarot cards and photos of Jack the Ripper’s hapless victims snapped during London’s autumn of terror in 1888.
“You have a visitor,” Rudi said.
THE KEY
They met in the same interview room at the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital out on Colony Farm where they had conspired four days earlier to commit bloody murder. The Goth was already seated on one of the two chairs flanking the bare table in the austere, antiseptic cubicle when Rudi ushered in the florid psychotic from Ash 2’s Room 13. Like before, the Ripper was dressed in a dark navy-blue sweatsuit and Velcro runners. Again, his eyes were black holes that seemed not only to suck the flesh of his face into his skull, but also to tug the Goth out of the here and now and into the occult realm. Once more, an odor of rancid cheese permeated the claustrophobic nook.
The door closed.
The Ripper sat.
The psychos faced each other.
The one the Mounties knew about.
And the one they didn’t.
The Ripper set the tiny hourglass down on the table between them so the sand of time could flow from the past to the future. Stacking the twenty-two cards of his Major Arcana facedown beside the egg timer, he pushed the deck toward the Goth and said, “Pick a card.”
“I picked a card last time.”
“Yes, the Hanged Man.”
“That’s my significator. I don’t want another one.”
“You have no say in the matter. The Magick is in the cards. If you are truly chosen, the Tarot will say so.”
The Goth picked a card randomly from the deck.
“Turn it over.”
The Goth obeyed.
What stared up at them from the table was the Hanged Man.
“Study your card,” the Ripper said. “What number do you see at the top?”
“The number twelve. In Roman numerals.”
“How many signs are there in the zodiac?”
“Twelve,” the Goth said.
“That’s why the Hanged Man is the most important card in a tarot deck. The twelve symbolizes a complete cycle of occult manifestation in the here and now of our reality.”
“The number of my significator.”
“Yes, chosen one.”
“Yours too?”
“I thought so. But then I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“I saw one too many occult symbols in the card.”
Using the index finger of his left hand—the Devil’s hand—the Ripper outlined three hidden symbols on the face-up card. In the mind’s eye of the Goth, the Hanged Man looked like this:
“One leg is bent across the other to form a human cross. The cross—or tetrad—signifies the number four. There are four points to the cross. You see that symbol in the Hanged Man?”
The Goth nodded.
“That’s why I ripped the first four whores where I did in London. Back in 1888, when I was Jack the Ripper. Plot the sites on a map of the East End and
But— poof! —those imaginary screens went blank when the call came in from Central Control.
Sighing, Rudi raised that magnificent ass off the chair and left the station to stroll to Room 13 of Ash 2.
The Ripper’s psychosis was still in a florid state, but the killer was no longer locked away in the seclusion ward. This being a hospital, not a jail, the madman was back in his regular room. Rudi glanced in through the oblong judas window in the door, and there the Ripper lay on his back beside the left-hand wall.
In one palm, the Ripper held something he was eating. Whatever it was, the imaginary delicacy bestowed upon him more gourmand pleasure than any real food offered at FPH could ever give.
In his other hand, he seemed to grip a bottle. From the way he winced each time he guzzled a phantom swig to wash down his repast, Rudi surmised the liquid in the non-bottle was strong booze.
He’s time-traveling, Rudi thought as he swung open the door, and his eyes followed the wormhole tunnel through the series of collages that ran from the math calculations beside the Ripper’s head, spiraling around to the occult symbols on the far wall and ending up at the tarot cards and photos of Jack the Ripper’s hapless victims snapped during London’s autumn of terror in 1888.
“You have a visitor,” Rudi said.
THE KEY
They met in the same interview room at the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital out on Colony Farm where they had conspired four days earlier to commit bloody murder. The Goth was already seated on one of the two chairs flanking the bare table in the austere, antiseptic cubicle when Rudi ushered in the florid psychotic from Ash 2’s Room 13. Like before, the Ripper was dressed in a dark navy-blue sweatsuit and Velcro runners. Again, his eyes were black holes that seemed not only to suck the flesh of his face into his skull, but also to tug the Goth out of the here and now and into the occult realm. Once more, an odor of rancid cheese permeated the claustrophobic nook.
The door closed.
The Ripper sat.
The psychos faced each other.
The one the Mounties knew about.
And the one they didn’t.
The Ripper set the tiny hourglass down on the table between them so the sand of time could flow from the past to the future. Stacking the twenty-two cards of his Major Arcana facedown beside the egg timer, he pushed the deck toward the Goth and said, “Pick a card.”
“I picked a card last time.”
“Yes, the Hanged Man.”
“That’s my significator. I don’t want another one.”
“You have no say in the matter. The Magick is in the cards. If you are truly chosen, the Tarot will say so.”
The Goth picked a card randomly from the deck.
“Turn it over.”
The Goth obeyed.
What stared up at them from the table was the Hanged Man.
“Study your card,” the Ripper said. “What number do you see at the top?”
“The number twelve. In Roman numerals.”
“How many signs are there in the zodiac?”
“Twelve,” the Goth said.
“That’s why the Hanged Man is the most important card in a tarot deck. The twelve symbolizes a complete cycle of occult manifestation in the here and now of our reality.”
“The number of my significator.”
“Yes, chosen one.”
“Yours too?”
“I thought so. But then I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“I saw one too many occult symbols in the card.”
Using the index finger of his left hand—the Devil’s hand—the Ripper outlined three hidden symbols on the face-up card. In the mind’s eye of the Goth, the Hanged Man looked like this:
“One leg is bent across the other to form a human cross. The cross—or tetrad—signifies the number four. There are four points to the cross. You see that symbol in the Hanged Man?”
The Goth nodded.
“That’s why I ripped the first four whores where I did in London. Back in 1888, when I was Jack the Ripper. Plot the sites on a map of the East End and
Similar Books
