A Sexy Time of It

Before she talked to Dr. Rhoades tomorrow, she intended to gather more evidence by seeing if she could travel again to London, to the scene of the Ripper’s first murder. Once in her bedroom, Neely changed into dark jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt. Then she tucked her hair into a cap. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she felt an onslaught of doubt. Did she actually believe that she was going to psychically travel back through time?

Neely met her eyes in the mirror. Yes. She did. Pressing both hands against the legion of butterflies in her stomach, she checked her reflection one last time, and decided that she could pass for a boy—if it was dark enough. If she was going to wander the streets alone at night in Victorian London, it was much safer to appear male. Finally, she made sure the pepper spray was in her pocket. Then she crossed to the chair next to her bed and sat down.

Before she fell asleep, she was going to review in her mind the story of Jack the Ripper’s first victim—Mary Ann Nichols—who was killed on August 31, 1888. Mary Ann’s body had been found in Buck’s Row in front of a stable entrance. Neely had discovered a detailed sketch of the scene in one of the books she’d located for her armchair detectives. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and brought the gate into focus. Next, she pictured the time in her mind as if it were the readout on a digital clock: 11:00 p.m. Hopefully, that would be early enough. She might not have been able to save Catherine Eddowes, but if she got there in time, maybe she could save Mary Ann.

If this worked—well, she was going to have a lot of questions for Dr. Rhoades tomorrow.

2

August 1, 2128,

San Diego

MAX GALE PUSHED his way onto the glass-and-steel elevator that would eventually lift him to the one hundredth floor of the Trans Global Security Enforcement Building. Trans Global Security or TGS was a privately owned company that handled security for the entire planet. TGS had offices in several major cities, including Hong Kong, London, New York and Buenos Aires, and each specialized in a specific branch of security enforcement. The home office was located in Paris, and its new director, Lance Shaw, oversaw all the branches. The San Diego branch handled Psychic Time Travel Security Enforcement.

Nearly all of the fifty or so passengers surrounding him wore a uniform that either by color or emblem denoted their rank in TGS. Those in red handled background checks on all who applied for time travel permits. Those in blue handled personal interviews and psychic evaluations. His own one-piece black suit, and the silver badge on his arm, identified Max as a three-star inspector. His job for the past five years had been to track down and arrest anyone who violated the laws regulating psychic time travel.

The elevator slid to a stop on the second floor and the “blues” exited. The telecom screen to his left came to life, displaying a red “breaking news” banner with what had become a too-familiar headline: The Ripper Strikes Again. The video feed scrolled through shots taken at a crime scene that morning while a pleasant female voice informed viewers that the latest victim of the serial killer the media had dubbed the Ripper was a twenty-two-year-old student at San Diego State University. The girl’s body had been discovered outside a popular nightclub.

Every enforcement officer in the elevator car now had his or her eyes glued to the screen. Everyone except Max. He’d just come from viewing the body in person. Lucy Brightstone was the fifth victim of the Ripper in the last six months. All of them had been young, beautiful, and they’d each been stabbed to death, their bodies mutilated and then discarded somewhere near the university. Max had viewed each one of the bodies. The third one—Suzanna Gale—had been his sister. She’d been killed on June 1, and like the other victims, she’d been a student at San Diego State.

Since then, Max’s one goal in life had been to catch the Ripper.

As the elevator crept upward, Max looked through the glass wall at the San Diego Bay area. The bridge to Coronado was used only by pedestrians. No vehicles had driven over it since the turn of the century when solar-powered hover vehicles had become affordable to the masses.

Max shifted to allow three female enforcement sergeants to exit the car on floor 48. He’d been surprised when Assistant Director Deirdre Mason had contacted him at six-thirty this morning and asked him to come in. She’d had his proposed plan of action for less than twelve hours. What he wanted to do had been controversial enough that he’d expected her to take a few days to consider the plan. When he’d heard about the latest victim he’d understood. The fact that the Ripper had struck again might just pressure the assistant director into approving his proposal, and while he didn’t want to be grateful to the coldhearted bastard who’d brutally murdered another woman, he needed all the help he could get.

When the elevator door opened on the hundredth floor, Xavier, Assistant Director Mason’s administrative assistant, was waiting for him.

“She’s ready for you. This way.” The tall black man led Max down a short hallway. Xavier had been with Assistant Director Mason for as long as Max could remember. The man was well over six feet, muscular and broad shouldered. He shaved his head, used one name and wore a gold hoop in his left ear. Xavier had never smiled at him.

Deirdre Mason stood with her back to him studying a screen that filled nearly one wall of her office. On it were images of the Ripper’s five San Diego victims. Max looked at each one of them, and as his gaze moved over his sister’s photograph, pain took his breath away. Clenching his hands into fists, he pushed down his emotions. But his gaze didn’t waver from the photo.

He’d taken it himself six months ago, on a day that they’d gone sailing. It had been one of the last times they’d spent together before they’d become estranged. Suzanna had been eighteen, ten years his junior, and too young to die. It had been two months since her mutilated body was found, but he could still see her every time he closed his eyes, the images of the crime scene were forever burned into his mind. Deirdre was the one who’d called to give him the news, and he’d arrived just in time to watch them put what was left of his sister in a body bag. There’d been so much blood…

“Close the door, Xavier.”

As the door snicked shut, Max brought his thoughts back to the present.

Deirdre turned. “He has to be stopped.”

Max drew in a deep breath and willed his pain away. “Agreed. If you approve my proposal, I’ll do just that.”

She ran a hand through her short blond hair and turned to face him. “How sure are you that our Ripper is the same one who terrorized London in 1888 and Manhattan in 2008?”

“Positive.”

She let out a laugh. “You’re always so damn sure of yourself.”

For a moment neither of them spoke; they merely faced each other across Deirdre’s desk. He’d known her from the time they’d been at the TGS Academy together. They’d even had a brief affair during their first year. It had been pleasurable, but they’d learned quickly that they were too much alike and too competitive to be a couple. However, they’d managed to remain friends. His knowledge of Deirdre Mason was a point in his favor. Her corresponding knowledge of him might not be. She knew that he didn’t like all the rules and that he’d bent some on occasion. And one of the unwritten rules of TGS was that an inspector wasn’t supposed to be assigned to a case involving a family member.

Max sank into a chair. “The man who killed my sister and the other women is not a Jack the Ripper copycat. He’s a psychic time traveler, Dee. He’s not just killing here. He’s killing in other times. I’d stake my life on it. There’s a chance he’s from the future, but my gut feeling is that he’s from this time, and he’s found a way to beat the security system.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Deirdre sat down, pressed a button and brought his proposal up on the screen. “And I’m well aware of the accuracy of your gut feelings. They’re what make you one of the best agents at TGS. But I’ve got questions—several of them. They’re the kinds of questions that Director Shaw will have for me if I approve this.”

Max’s brows shot up. “The new director intimidates you, does he?”

“Strictly speaking, he’s not so new. He’s been on the job for nearly a year. And he doesn’t intimidate me at all. But Lance Shaw doesn’t suffer fools gladly. So I won’t have you making me look like one.”

“Fair enough. Ask your questions.” Max lifted his gaze to the first part of his proposal, which she’d highlighted. There were some things that he’d purposely left out because he’d wanted to be present when she heard them. Speech was always more effective than the written word when it came to persuasion. “You want to know how he gets past our security measures.”

“Yes. The ability to psychically travel into the past runs in families…the gene lies dormant in one generation and becomes active in the next. Less than one-half of one percent of the population carries the gene. We have records, and anyone born with the active gene is implanted with a tracking device at birth. There are no exceptions.”

“No exceptions that we know of. If he’s from the future, the security rules might have changed.”

Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “I was hoping that you weren’t going to say that.”

So she had thought of the possibility of a time traveler. It shouldn’t surprise him. Deirdre Mason was one of the smartest women he’d ever met.

“I don’t believe he’s from the future. Everything that I am as a security agent tells me he’s from our time. This is his home. I also believe that he’s established identities in each time where he’s killing.”

“Why?”

Max shrugged. “I figure he needs a base of operations and an identity in other times, also. The profilers who’ve written about the other Rippers agree they’re planners. For the most part, they selected their victims. That requires a familiarity with the times. And I believe this kind of killer would want to be able to live in the time period and enjoy his notoriety.”

“If you’re right about the killer being the same man, there might be some significance to the cities he’s choosing. Or the time span—exactly 120 years.”

Max said nothing. She’d been giving his ideas some thought. He took that to be a good sign.

She raised one hand. “Okay. I prefer your gut instinct to the theory that this bastard is from the future. But if he’s found a way around our security, how are you going to catch him in another time?”

“I’m going to discover the identity he’s using in 2008.”

This time the noise she made was a snort. “The size of your ego always amazes me. I’m concerned about rules, namely, our Prime Directive. You can’t change anything he’s done in the past or you run the risk of changing the future.” She waved a hand toward the panoramic view of San Diego. “Of destroying the present as we know it. You’ve taken an oath to follow the Prime Directive.”

“I understand that.” Nothing the Ripper had done in any of the times he’d killed in could be altered. If even one of his victims survived in 1888, 2008 or 2128, ripples of change would occur that could affect the present. That was the fear that the Prime Directive was based on.

“I’ve never broken the rules,” Max said.

“We both know that you’ve skirted around them on occasion.”

He tried to control his impatience. “I’ve gotten the job done.”

This time she didn’t laugh or snort, she merely met his eyes very directly. “The problem is that you’re still beating yourself up for not finding a way around them when you arrested your sister six months ago.”

Max said nothing as pain and regret tightened his chest. He had tried to bend the rules a bit for Suzanna. When he’d learned that his sister and a group of her friends were traveling without any authorization, he hadn’t waited to be assigned the case. He’d just gone after her. He’d wanted to bring her back and hire legal counsel. But she’d refused. She wouldn’t desert her friends.

She’d been eighteen, a freshman in college. This type of illegal time traveling happened fairly regularly. Eighteen was the age at which citizens with the time travel gene could apply for a license to travel. But that was the same age at which students often adopted very idealistic causes. Suzanna and her friends had been studying the bloody tribal wars that had raged through the continent of Africa in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, and they’d decided to travel there with the goal of saving lives. A laudable objective but totally against the Prime Directive.