The Butcher of Whitechapel? Here in Colorado?
Harry continues his incantation, and a chill runs up my spine.If this fellow isn’t Saucy Jack then he’s doing a fine impression of him. Andisn’t a sick, violent man as bad as the actual criminal himself—if he trulybelieves he’s the Ripper? I squeeze Anna’s arm and point in Harry’s direction.
“What’s that?” she asks, still puzzled by my gestures. “Oh! Howlong has Harry been here?”
Isabelle puts her cup down and burps daintily. “Just a week. Heattacked a soiled dove in Ironwood City and pulled a knife. Crazy enough toscare the town jailer so they brought him to the asylum after hours.”
Anna clears her throat. “Don’t be afraid, Hester. Between thetwo of us, we’ll keep you safe.”
“That we will,” Isabelle agrees.
The meal is strangely tense after this exchange, and Iunderstand why. No one can keep that sort of promise. Not in Ironwood.
After considering all the staff at the asylum, I finallyselect Hershel Watts as the perfect candidate for bribery. A night watchman, heis unpopular among the other guards with his rotund figure, slowness of speech,and fondness for chewing tobacco. Anna says that he couldn’t hit the broad sideof a barn when he’s ready to spit. Best of all, he’s fallen on hard timesfinancially. Hershel might end up in debtor’s prison if his creditors haveanything to say about it. Hence, he’s primed for a good palm-greasing, and Icouldn’t be more delighted. Mama’s jewelry should pay for my freedom withsufficient left over for Anna and Isabelle.
At supper, Anna and I ponder how to go about enlisting Hershel Watts.“I could deliver the message,” she says. “I’ll leave it for him when I cleanthe guard’s rooms.”
I unfold the paper and wonder if Titus or Roy are watching me.Careful, Hester. Keep your head down.
The envelope smells like tapioca, like Anna. GOOD IDEA, Iwrite.
She erases the message after reading it, saying nothing morefor several minutes. I touch her arm, and feel her muscles tense. Taking thepaper and pencil back, I write again.
IT WILL WORK, ANNA.
She swivels around, glances across the dining room briefly, anderases my words. “Let’s see what Isabelle thinks.”
I follow her toward the counter where the dishes are piled upafter meals and deposit my plate. Another inmate shoves his way between us andI stumble, pitching into a stout male figure. Did it have to be Titus? Helaughs and shoves me in the opposite direction, toward the side of the roomI’ve been instructed to avoid. Someone else passes me further along, and I feelan assortment of groping hands making free with my person. I slam my knee intothe male groin at my right and rip out a chunk of hair belonging to the fellowon the left. Bloody perverts.
“No!” Anna screams. “Let her alone!”
A distinctive voice cuts through the noise, and I identify theman standing a few feet away. He shakes the chains girding him to the table,and the other men release me.
“Tell me yer name, luvvie,” Harry Swinton asks, a true EastLondoner.
The smell of his rotting teeth makes me want to retch so I turnmy face away. Harry reaches out, caresses my cheek, and screams bloody murder asecond later. I feel a strange fatigue creep over me, as though our connectionis siphoning strength from my body. He jumps back and drops to the floor. Ihear him writhing there, bucking against the wood, chains clattering loudly.
My head pounds with the noise, but no vision is prompted by ourphysical contact, just an overwhelming sense of evil. Calculating,highly-intelligent, possessing a hatred of all things feminine, Harry is moredeadly than the crazed Faust because, unlike the doctor, he is compos mentis.Or at least more sane than many of the patients here. To him, killing is anexercise, a game.
“Damn witch!” he rages in Cockney. “Burned me fingers!”
Everyone in the room is yelling now. I try to remain calm anddecide what I should do next when a huge form steps up. Turning in fear, Imeasure its height in my head. Seven feet? Seven? I must be wrong, but Iknow I am not. The walking mountain puts his body between Harry Swinton and me.
“Nuffink to do wiv you, Lazarus,” Harry sputters, standing up.“Move on.”
My shield stands his ground. “You move first.”
“What ’appens if I don’t?”
“I’ll snap your neck, and you’ll be dead,” says the deep voice.
“Thee can always try, Frankenstein. ’Ave a go.”
“Hester!” Anna calls, and I turn my face in her direction.
Harry laughs in triumph at the sound of my name. He recites thelist of murder victims again, adding me in at the last as a future casualty.“Put ‘er to the knife, lads, and she’ll wear red ribbons like the rest.”
Then Lazarus picks me up, his hands big as serving bowls. Myfeet dangle above the ground as the behemoth carries me away, and I am pinionedagainst his massive chest. Reaching up, I touch him, knowing his entire life ina flash.
Originally named after the archangel Gabriel, he is now calledLazarus. His glorious cerulean eyes are the only reminder of his ruined beauty,although his intelligence remains intact. Deep scars run across his foreheadand down both cheeks to the strong chin and lips. One side of his face hangslower than the other, a result of shoddy reconstructive surgery. I see the carriageaccident that caused his wounds. He was a magnificent fellow, barely out of lawschool, when the vehicle rolled, tossing him to the ground in time for thespinning wheel to grind his flawless features into pulp. His appearance becamethe stuff of legend in the little hamlet where he lived. Even his parentscouldn’t bear the sight of him, and he lashed out in frustration, becoming thecreature they all feared.
Deep down, you aren’t Frankenstein though, are you? Or Lazarus.Inside, you’re still Gabriel the archangel.
I reach around his neck and embrace him. I know
