The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [114]
“There,” I said. “You have it. I told you.”
“So you did,” he said.
I had no idea what came next, and I’m not sure he did either. He stared at the terminus in shock. There was blood coming out of a gash on Charlotte’s head. I had no idea if she was alive. Newman watched the news for a moment, mesmerized by the footage of the police cars trolling the streets, still looking for him.
“We’re left with a situation, aren’t we?” he said. “Our agreement was I got the terminus, and your friend Stephen was allowed to live. I’ve honored that. But I’ve started a project—a great project—and that project needs to be completed. Saucy Jack must finish his work.”
“But . . .”
“Aurora,” he said patiently, “it’s much too good a show to end. And really, you always knew. You didn’t run from me—you faced me. We were always going to finish this.”
This didn’t upset me as much as it should have. It felt more like a dream. I knew precisely what he meant. Maybe we were always going to finish this. Maybe he was the person I’d always imagined by my side in England—a star-crossed pair, the slayer and the victim, tied together by fate. Or maybe I was just tired of running from him, tired of feeling that knife.
“Why?” Boo said.
“Why?” Newman said. “Because I can.”
“But what will it do?”
Newman pointed to the television behind him.
“This story,” he said, “it’s captured imaginations. I chose Jack the Ripper for a very specific reason. Fear. Jack the Ripper is one of the most feared figures in history. Look at all of these people obsessed with him. It’s been over a hundred years, and people are still trying to figure out who he is. He’s every figure in the dark. He’s every killer that got away. He’s the one who kills and never explains why. In the grand scheme of things, he didn’t even kill that many people. You know what I think it is? I think it’s the name. And he didn’t even come up with it—a newspaper did, based on a fake letter.”
“The name of the Star,” I said.
He smiled and nodded, looking genuinely pleased.
“The name of the Star,” he repeated. “Very good! The Star newspaper. Of course now, there are much more effective means of delivering news—constant news, instantly updated. I am the story. I am the star. I am in control.”
Newman had never seemed crazy to me before that moment, but something had peeled away, revealing the raw energy underneath. He had what he wanted, and he had nothing left to fear.
He was going to kill me.
I experienced a kind of tunnel vision, a hollow sound in my ears. I could see only him. He was flicking the knife, casually slicing into the top of one of the chairs.
“Will you at least leave Wexford?” I asked.
“It’s a reasonable request.” He shrugged.
“Rory!” Boo said. She tried to wheel over to me, but I put up my hand.
“Not here,” I said. “Please. Not in front of her.”
“Where then?”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall.”
I was saying these words as though they made sense.
“As good a place as any,” he said. “I’ll follow you this time.”
There was no point in saying good-bye to Boo. I just nodded and walked out of the room and into the hall. I couldn’t hear Newman behind me, but I could feel his presence. I opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. He followed and locked it behind us.
The slash came as soon as I turned around to face him. It was so fast that I didn’t even have time enough to look down and see what the knife was doing to me. My shirt instantly filled with blood. I didn’t feel anything. I just stared at the increasingly large red stain all over my front. I watched it lengthen and widen. I couldn’t feel any pain, which seemed odd.
Standing up was suddenly an issue. My body was cold all over and my legs shook. I started to slide down the wall. As I sank down, my new angle provided me with a very good view of the blood pooling in my clothes, so I resolved not to look at that ever again. I focused on Newman, on the studious calm of his face.
“I’ll tell you something interesting,” he said, tapping the tip of the knife against the sink. “You changed my plan.