Ripper by Amy Carol Reeves Read Free Book Online Page A

him off.
    Calmly, William spoke. “Sir, you have to leave. Now . She is under our protection.”
    â€œI will not leave! Rose, you can’t just run away and think that I won’t find you. Two days away is too much! Get up, now!”
    He lunged at her again, this time to grab her out of
the bed.
    I stood.
    William once again tried to pull Jess away from us, but the big man swung at William, who ducked instantly, barely avoiding the blow.
    â€œGet out of my way!” I felt spittle hit my face when Jess shouted at me.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAbbie!” William hissed from behind the enraged man. Then, through clenched teeth, he mouthed, “ Don’t be foolish .”
    Jess swung at me, and I ducked. Before he could swing again, I sent the heel of my hand into his lower jaw. The jaw cracked and he fell backwards onto the floor.
    Constables Barry and John had finally arrived, rushing forward to arrest him, but then they saw that he was unconscious.
    Everyone in the scene around us moved quickly—the nurses attended to Rose, and another young physician tried to revive Jess. He would need medical attention before he could be arrested. Curious children crowded close to see the excitement.
    Only William stood frozen, staring at me—a delighted bewilderment marked his expression.
    â€œ Where did you learn that?”
    â€œDublin.”
    I had made an impression upon William, and, strangely, I did not care. It was time to leave. I took off my apron and placed it on a nearby peg.

Six
    A s I stepped outside the hospital, I saw Dr. Bartlett’s carriage approaching from far down Whitechapel Road. My heart still beat wildly from my confrontation with Jess, and I could not stand still. I decided to walk down the street to meet the carriage.
    I walked rapidly, stepping over puddles of water, broken glass. Remembering my chase with the pickpocket, I clutched my bag close to me.
    Although I tried to stay focused upon my surroundings, I also thought about my nightmare. I had dreamt it early in the hours of Friday morning—the same time that the murder had happened. It had been vivid, lacking the fuzziness of other dreams. I had smelled and felt everything around me so clearly. Though the crawling man’s face had been hidden in the shadows, I remember hearing his fingernails scrape on the gritty bricked front of the hospital. I had felt his breath on my neck. Even now I shivered thinking of it, and I clung to the hope that the timing of my nightmare had been mere coincidence.
    Remembering Mother’s episodes, those moments when she seemed trancelike, I wondered again whether she had seen visions. I had never been superstitious, and now I felt odd even considering the possibility that she might have had the “third eye,” as I had heard some call it in Dublin. The vision I had experienced with the pickpocket, of the strange ritual, had jolted me, but the nightmare—the coincidental timing of this dream with the murder—frightened me into thinking that perhaps my visions might be rooted in real happenings.
    Someone slammed into me so hard that I almost fell into the busy street.
    â€œGet out of my shop, girl!” a grocer shouted at a young woman. He had just shoved her out of his shop into the street. “I will call the police if I catch you in here again!”
    â€œSorry, miss.” As the girl apologized to me, she brushed some dirt off her skirt. I saw lumpy, heavy objects in her pockets—apples or plums. Her eyes narrowed at me when she saw that I had noticed her loot.
    â€œYes, I did just steal. But don’t judge me. I haven’t eaten in three days and that grocer and his porky wife can spare a few apples.”
    â€œI’m not judging you.” I turned to resume my walk.
    I heard her sniff. “Whatever.”
    I stopped as my own stomach growled. The girl seemed like a caustic tart, but I could not help feeling badly for her. Finding food was