someone’s door.
Tom spun in the other direction, searching for Albert and Jack.
Jack had vanished. Bert was on the floor, his chest soaked with blood.
Roy was kneeling next to him, gun in hand.
“Where’s the perp?” Tom yelled.
“Ran down the stairs. Go!”
Roy pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance, or back-up, or both. Tom took off down the hallway. He reached the door to the stairs and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Tom looked down and saw the wicked knife blade jammed underneath it like a doorstop. Exercising bad judgment, Tom kicked at the blade, neatly severing a large flap of rubber from the bottom of his shoe.
He jogged back down the hall. Roy had taken off his tie and was holding it tight under Bert’s chin.
“Door’s jammed. They got away.”
“Kilpatrick again?”
“Yeah. Plus a friend.”
Bert gasped. “Tourniquet. Tie a tourniquet.”
“He okay?”
“Nasty cut to the chin, nothing fatal.”
“I’m bleeding to death. Tie a tourniquet.”
“Buddy, if I tie a tourniquet around your neck, it’ll strangle you.”
He turned to Tom. “What in the hell is going on here, Tommy?”
“It’s a long story. But I think I know the guy who cut Bert.”
“Did you see that knife? I come out of the elevator and he was waving it around through the air like Jack the freaking Ripper.”
“Got it in one, Roy.”
“Got what?”
Tom pursed his lips, eyes intent. “I think that was Jack the Ripper.”
----
Chapter 8
Chicago
“I have to get my lures.”
Bert sat in the back seat of the Mustang, petulant. Five stitches in the chin did little to calm his resolve.
“I spoke to the hotel. They’re keeping your things for you.”
“You don’t understand. There’s, well, a lot of money invested in those. I want them by my side.”
Roy turned around and faced him. “They set a trap for you. They knew you were there. If I didn’t come out of that elevator when I did, you’d be on the slab waiting for an autopsy.”
Bert folded his arms. “I need my lures. I won’t say another word to you until I have my lures.”
“Bert...”
“I want my lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer. You’re not under arrest.”
“Then let me out right here.”
“Dammit, Bert.”
Bert leaned forward, his hands on their headrests. “Get me my lures, and I’ll tell you how Jessup figured it all out.”
“Figured what out? Tom, you know what he’s talking about?”
Bert tapped Tom’s shoulder. “You haven’t told him you’re Thomas Jefferson?”
Roy made a face. “Thomas—what?”
“This may take a while.” Tom turned up the heat and gave Roy the quick version, telling him about the handwriting and the Jefferson book and the cloning. Roy was less than impressed.
“Maybe, just maybe, I could see you as Jefferson. But this guy is definitely not Einstein.”
“I’ll tell you the rest of it, but we have to get my lures.”
Tom blew out a long breath and made a U-turn at the intersection, heading back towards the Hyatt.
“Okay.” Bert let out a long breath and visibly relaxed. “Jessup first contacted me by email. Said he knew about the tattoo on my foot and what it meant.”
“You knew you were adopted?” Tom asked.
Bert nodded. “I found out when I was a teenager.”
“Let me guess. Mysterious man dropped you off, along with fifty grand?”
“How did you know?”
Tom ignored the question. “How did you meet Jessup?”
“Emailed me. Said that he knew about the tattoo, he had some amazing stuff to tell me, and he wanted to meet. I thought he was nuts, of course. But he sent me a picture of a thirty-year-old Einstein. Black and white. Looked just like me, except it was old and the clothes were out of date. So I agreed to meet with him in Chicago. The convention was coming up, so I figured I’d be here anyway.”
Tom honked at some bozo ahead of him doing the speed limit.
The guy merged into the right lane and Tom passed.
“So then he did the
Tom spun in the other direction, searching for Albert and Jack.
Jack had vanished. Bert was on the floor, his chest soaked with blood.
Roy was kneeling next to him, gun in hand.
“Where’s the perp?” Tom yelled.
“Ran down the stairs. Go!”
Roy pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance, or back-up, or both. Tom took off down the hallway. He reached the door to the stairs and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Tom looked down and saw the wicked knife blade jammed underneath it like a doorstop. Exercising bad judgment, Tom kicked at the blade, neatly severing a large flap of rubber from the bottom of his shoe.
He jogged back down the hall. Roy had taken off his tie and was holding it tight under Bert’s chin.
“Door’s jammed. They got away.”
“Kilpatrick again?”
“Yeah. Plus a friend.”
Bert gasped. “Tourniquet. Tie a tourniquet.”
“He okay?”
“Nasty cut to the chin, nothing fatal.”
“I’m bleeding to death. Tie a tourniquet.”
“Buddy, if I tie a tourniquet around your neck, it’ll strangle you.”
He turned to Tom. “What in the hell is going on here, Tommy?”
“It’s a long story. But I think I know the guy who cut Bert.”
“Did you see that knife? I come out of the elevator and he was waving it around through the air like Jack the freaking Ripper.”
“Got it in one, Roy.”
“Got what?”
Tom pursed his lips, eyes intent. “I think that was Jack the Ripper.”
----
Chapter 8
Chicago
“I have to get my lures.”
Bert sat in the back seat of the Mustang, petulant. Five stitches in the chin did little to calm his resolve.
“I spoke to the hotel. They’re keeping your things for you.”
“You don’t understand. There’s, well, a lot of money invested in those. I want them by my side.”
Roy turned around and faced him. “They set a trap for you. They knew you were there. If I didn’t come out of that elevator when I did, you’d be on the slab waiting for an autopsy.”
Bert folded his arms. “I need my lures. I won’t say another word to you until I have my lures.”
“Bert...”
“I want my lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer. You’re not under arrest.”
“Then let me out right here.”
“Dammit, Bert.”
Bert leaned forward, his hands on their headrests. “Get me my lures, and I’ll tell you how Jessup figured it all out.”
“Figured what out? Tom, you know what he’s talking about?”
Bert tapped Tom’s shoulder. “You haven’t told him you’re Thomas Jefferson?”
Roy made a face. “Thomas—what?”
“This may take a while.” Tom turned up the heat and gave Roy the quick version, telling him about the handwriting and the Jefferson book and the cloning. Roy was less than impressed.
“Maybe, just maybe, I could see you as Jefferson. But this guy is definitely not Einstein.”
“I’ll tell you the rest of it, but we have to get my lures.”
Tom blew out a long breath and made a U-turn at the intersection, heading back towards the Hyatt.
“Okay.” Bert let out a long breath and visibly relaxed. “Jessup first contacted me by email. Said he knew about the tattoo on my foot and what it meant.”
“You knew you were adopted?” Tom asked.
Bert nodded. “I found out when I was a teenager.”
“Let me guess. Mysterious man dropped you off, along with fifty grand?”
“How did you know?”
Tom ignored the question. “How did you meet Jessup?”
“Emailed me. Said that he knew about the tattoo, he had some amazing stuff to tell me, and he wanted to meet. I thought he was nuts, of course. But he sent me a picture of a thirty-year-old Einstein. Black and white. Looked just like me, except it was old and the clothes were out of date. So I agreed to meet with him in Chicago. The convention was coming up, so I figured I’d be here anyway.”
Tom honked at some bozo ahead of him doing the speed limit.
The guy merged into the right lane and Tom passed.
“So then he did the
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