In a few short weeks, Jaspierre would be twenty-eight. She didn't have a child. She didn't have anything to show for her life at this point. The water sloshed softly against her skin while she floated. Not like Mother. Mother had experiments brewing and bubbling, and parties, and men, and her pharmaceutical company was flourishing. Jasp closed her eyes and felt the weight of the empty house. Who would she even invite if she had a party?
Twenty-eight. She didn't have a family anymore. Her father was gone – or dead. Hard to tell. Jasper was dead. Pierre was gone. One of them was her father. Not that Mother would agree. She said both were her father. Severina had held them captive for years, experimenting on them and trying to combine them into a perfect man. At least, Jaspierre thought that was the plan. Jaspierre closed her eyes and let herself sink into the pool. Hell, maybe it was just combining them because it interested her. That would have been enough for Mother. Most of the time, Jaspierre didn't mind being alone. It was preferable to the attentions of men and all that nonsense. But sometimes; sometimes, she simply wanted someone to love her. She had been loved once.
Lucas loved her. Hell if she knew why. She had locked him in those same cells in which Mother had locked her fathers. Jasp had always intended to kill him, but she just couldn't seem to do it. It was a shameful thing to be unable to take action. Instead of slaughtering, she simply waited. When she finally let him out, the most beautiful thing happened. He loved her. She loved him too, she supposed. Maybe that was why she never got around to killing him. Mother would have never understood that. Mother never knew love. She knew pain.
Jaspierre longed for a family. If Lucas had managed to keep his brains in his skull, no doubt they'd have started one. He'd have made an excellent father. She didn't have any grandparents. Well, none she had ever met. There was nobody to ask about such things. How could she have a family now? Stretched out in the water she almost floated under her waterfall, and kicked her feet quickly to avoid waterboarding her face.
Jaspierre's only remaining friends were her cats. Her big, beautiful cats. But, right now, she couldn't stand them. They seemed so needy and, on top of it all, they stunk terribly. They were painfully fragrant. Puberty maybe? They seemed too old for that. Maybe they were old. Old people smelled weird; perhaps that happened to cats too. She looked at the two cats sleeping on the cargo net. The waterfall poured from one side with their little jumping cliff. The other side of the pool crawled under the glass pane and into an outdoor swimming area. This was her only family. She had nobody else left. Not even a maid anymore.
Jaspierre wondered briefly what would happen to them if she got caught. She hadn't made much effort to hide Baldy. Of course, why would she even be a suspect?
Mother had always been so vibrant. So terrifying. She doubted Mother ever worried about getting caught. Jaspierre didn't often think about it either, but she was always wary. She had begun concealing who she was long before she herself even knew. Now she knew. She was a bad person. She was like Mother. That was why she had to hide. Be aware, the world will snare. She kicked her feet, pushing her body towards the side of the pool.
As she walked to the stairs, she noticed a spider web growing on the chandelier. She sighed. She would have to get a maid again soon. She climbed the stairs, her dripping wet body leaving a little trail up each step. She paused, looking into the workout room. It was way too big and unnecessary. She used to train some, learning to swish a sword with ease. It wasn't hard to win a fight. Almost everyone she picked a fight with was so unprepared a kid could have killed them. People were just big chickens. Scared of a little confrontation. Rarely had she even done hand-to-hand combat, especially not with someone who was skilled in combat. A drunken oaf was easy to dice up. Chance was another story. He could have killed her. What was the point of any training now? She didn't have any enemies left, any prisoners in the basement, or anything else. She had nothing and nobody.
She turned on the shower and lathered herself up, rinsing off and getting back out. She stared at her short brown hair with gray sideburns and was discouraged. All she saw was wrinkles and fat rolls and gray hair. She was such an embarrassment. Mother would be ashamed.
It seemed she couldn't stop thinking about Mother. Mother never seemed to struggle with guilt the way Jaspierre did. Mother was smart and terrifying. She'd just do whatever the hell she wanted, damn the consequences. If she wanted to see what was inside that dog, she'd just cut him open. Jaspierre couldn't seem to quite do it. She wasn't able to control her emotions like that. She seemed to be stunted by guilt. She was twenty-eight and murdering people still bothered her. Someday, she'd learn to shake it off like Mother did. Maybe it was just lack of experience. If only she had started out younger and been more consistent. Mother did say that she was dreadfully behind. A stupid, weak child. Was this all she would become?
She leaned to the cupboard to grab a towel and, somehow, she knocked the medkit out of the cabinet. The contents spilled all over the bathroom floor. Rubbing alcohol, wound spray, several boxes of antibiotics, tampons, and pads went sliding across the floor in a big clatter. She stared at the box of antibiotics and found herself sobbing. Those were for Lucas. Why did he have to die? She didn't want to be alone. Why? She punched the box and let herself cry until she had no more tears. Lucas was the only good thing she had ever had. The only good person she had ever met.
And now he was dead. The image of his face exploding next to hers played through her head. She opened her eyes, trying to avoid the memory; his proposal and her acceptance, his brains exploding on her face. Fuck Chance. He ruined her life. She shoved the contents back into the box and she paused as Baldy's words burned into her ears. "Oh look; the stupid pregnant chick..." Her hand hovered over a tampon. When the hell had she last used one?
Terror and excitement rushed through her. What if they were...? She whispered, "Lucas, we might be pregnant."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
After his house burned down, Chance decided it was time to lay low and recuperate a bit. He scratched his balls through his underwear. He found a whore who was more than willing to invite him into her house, and he had been staying there. It was a small, lousy, one-bedroom apartment. The kitchen was tiny, but the shower was wet.
"Inviting" might not have been the right term. She wasn't real excited to go back to her place, but he managed to convince her. It only took a few broken fingers until she relented. She wasn't real feisty; in fact, she turned out to be a real bummer in the bedroom. Not worth a dime, but price was right since he didn't pay a damn dime.
Chance had not made any attempt to go back to work. Surely the dead bodies in his house had been found; no way he could pin them on Jaspierre. The original plan might have worked if he had been able to dump the bodies at her house. He stirred the can of tomato soup he was heating on the stove. He wasn't mad, though. Jaspierre always was a bright spot in his life. They had a beautiful give and take relationship. She was a keeper, that was for sure. He'd never felt such admiration for another human being. Most people were such worthless shit. He'd be happy to be in charge of reducing the surface population. In fact, in some ways, he considered it his American duty. Certainly plenty of women were only useful as a warm hole. Not Jaspierre; she was a real woman. Worth every bit of trouble. Who else would keep him on his toes? What other purpose was there for him? His nose wrinkled in annoyance. The only thing he didn't get was why did she say yes to that asshole's proposal when they had just gotten back together. Not that it mattered; pulling that trigger was so satisfying, brains on her pretty face. Damn fine moment.
He left the soup and went to the bathroom. As he pissed, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was naked except for dirty white socks and grey underwear. His flesh was still hot pink. The burn marks would become permanent scars. The skin was bubbled up on the left half of his face. On his cheek, a quarter-sized mark had burned deeper, to the third degree, the top half of the skin burned off completely. It was raw, bloody, pink, and gruesome. H
is left arm was about the same; blistered from his shoulder down to his pinky. A large chunk off the back of his arm was red and missing. It oozed. He probably needed a skin graft. His right thigh had been burned badly too. Most of the skin was blistered. Damn fire. A dollar-bill sized area near his butt was completely missing. He swore he could almost see the muscle moving underneath the raw. His veins stuck out and throbbed when he watched. He couldn't decide if he hated it or liked it. Yes, it did make him look more true to himself. But it also felt so revealing. Anyone could look at him and know what he was. The fear of the people around him pleased him, the few times he went out.
It was fantastic. And yet, he mused, it wasn't helpful to him. It made doing anything in public much more difficult. He'd have to soften it with a hat, sunglasses, a walker; things like that. For those sweet moments when he wanted to blend in. No harder than wearing his cop uniform.
He washed his hands and went back to his can of Campbell's. It had started to boil, so he grabbed a spoon and blew on it before he tasted it. Eh, too hot.
The room was filthy with trash and clothing and dirty dishes littered around it. The couch had one cushion cleared for sitting. The rest was littered. Chance had never seen much point in being tidy. He walked over to the bedroom and stared at the naked lady on the bed. Her eyes were wide open, like her legs. The pillow beneath her head was smeared brown from her recent hair dye. She vacantly stared at the ceiling, her jaw hanging. He wondered, briefly, if a corpse could give you head. Well, he did need to wait for his soup to cool. He went to find out.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Edward read the case files again. Twelve dead women. They had things in common: most of them had brown hair or had their hair dyed brown. Some of them had their hair dyed brown post mortem. Chance was obsessed with brunettes. Many were of a similar shorter height, with larger breasts.
He had a type. Was he trying to replicate someone? His mother perhaps? It seemed like many crazy people were obsessed with their mothers.
He searched for Chance's birth records. His mother's name was Jennifer Despoil, his father was listed as Mickey Despoil. A quick search of both of their names found a news article. It turned out Mickey had shot her, shot Chance, and then shot himself. Chance survived, the bullet grazing his ribcage. If that bullet had landed where Mickey had intended, how many women would still be alive?
The picture was in black and white, Jennifer standing with Chance in front of her. He was four years old. Her hair was dark, and Edward incorrectly guessed that it was brown. Chance was then placed with his aunt – her name was Liddy Sakal; she was Jennifer's sister and barely nineteen when she took custody. Liddy married a man when she was twenty-three. Chance would have been seven. By the time he was ten, she went missing. Her husband, Jack, continued to raise Chance on his own until he turned fifteen. At that point, Jack turned him over to social services. He bounced around those last three years and then started working on the police force. His first job was in Scooner County, three states away.
Scooner was a large county with one medium-sized city, a lot of farmland, and a bit of mountain lands. He worked there from age nineteen to twenty-nine and then moved back here. Back to what? He had no family left here besides Jack. Would he want to visit a man that dumped him off in foster care as soon as the going got rough?
Edward thought about this a bit. The only reason Chance would want to visit would not be a good one. A few minutes of researching showed Jack still lived in the same mobile home park that he, Chance, and Liddy all lived in. Better pay him a visit.
An hour later, Edward drove up to the shoddy mobile home. It had probably been white at some point, but was coated in dirt and spider webs. He knocked loudly on the old yellow door. No answer. It was times like these that he was frustrated by the law. He couldn't just break in and see if Jack was lying dead in a pool of blood. He didn't have a warrant, and he couldn't get a warrant. A sick knot in his stomach turned.
"Hey! Whatcha doin' there?" a little lady yelled. She was sitting in a pink and white flowered dress that looked like a fat poncho. Pajamas, he guessed.
"I was looking for Jack. I had a few questions for him. Do you know where he might be?" Edward said.
"I reckon he's at work."
"Ah, yes." He should have considered that. He seemed to be getting a little caught up in his serial killer theories. "Do you know where he works?"
"I think he's painting houses, or he's helping with that baseball team. I don't know where he'd be," she said.
"Alright. Thanks."
"Is he in some sort of trouble? We don't see too many cops come 'round. We're more retirement park than anything," she said.
"No, not at all. I just had some questions about an old case."
"You mean his wife? Didja find her?" she said.
He hesitated. If he hinted that he found his wife, would Jack call back faster? Probably, but that was a pretty awful thing to do, and he was an honorable man. He tried to be vague. "I'm not allowed to discuss that, but I'm gonna leave him a card, and I'll give you one too. If you could call me when he's home, I'd appreciate it." He tucked one card into the doorjamb and handed another to the lady in the pink and white flowered sack dress that was probably pajamas.
He headed back to the office and got the idea that maybe Jennifer wasn't Chance's obsession; maybe it was Liddy. He pulled up both their driver's licenses. Both of them had red hair, not brown, but worse, they were tall. Nearly six feet each. Edward chewed his fingernail thoughtfully. Who the hell was Chance so obsessed with?
Chapter
Three
Jaspierre stood in her bathroom. The floor was littered with pregnancy tests. She was sitting and waiting with a cup of urine in her hand and a test soaking. She watched as the urine ran up the stick and into the tester. She stared as the line appeared.
She was having his baby. Everything in life made sense again. She knew her cats weren't satisfying because she was pregnant. She understood killing Baldy didn't work because she was pregnant. Pregnancy hormones. It explained everything. She felt downright giddy. And for the first time in the last three months, things were going right.
But they weren't right. They were wrong. They were all wrong. A baby with no daddy. No daddy at all, and worse, no family.
Jaspierre paused. This baby was like her. She had no daddy. And of course Mother wasn't much of a mommy. Jasp would be an excellent mommy. She could cuddle. She'd never hit her child. It would be different.
But still. Jaspierre longed for her daddy. Pierre seemed like he would have done an excellent job. Why did he leave? Mother. Most certainly it was Mother.
But Mother had been gone a long time. It was time to find her father. Then they would be a family. Baby, Jasp, and her own dad. They could play ball, or whatever it was you did with your dad when he was growing old and you were an adult.
Jaspierre frowned when she realized what that meant. She would have to go through Mother's room. If she was gonna find Daddy, she would have to face Mother. Even find Mother. She stepped out of the bathroom and into her massive closet. She paused at the full-length mirror. She ran her hands down her soft blue t-shirt dress, holding her round stomach. How long until she could see it?
She found herself humming pleasantly as she stepped into the hallway. Ikali and Tessa both sat outside her bedroom door. Tessa continued to lick herself without looking up. Ikali let out a concerned meow. She reached down and gave him sweet caresses. It was the first time in weeks she had actually given him anything other than a plate of food or a door slammed on his nose.
He purred and she ran her hands all over him. She kissed him. Jasp held him close and tickled under his chin until he purred at her. "We're having a baby. And I'm gonna go get my dad."
Ikali purred again. Tessa stopped licking herself and looked up suspiciously. When she saw the sweet, affectionate petting, she stood and stretched. She pressed her body between Jasp and Ikali, demanding attention. Jasp giggled and kissed her large fel
ine. She caressed her kitties and told them she loved them. Jasp looked down the hall. She stared at the last door in the hallway. Soon she shooed the cats away and went to the door.
She hadn't been in there in years. She never wanted to go in there. But there could be clues. Clues! What was Pierre's last name? Where was he from? Where would he have gone?
She stared at the door. Then she turned back to her room and reappeared a moment later with her keys. She walked down the gorgeous hall and unlocked the door. The door creaked open.
Inside was a room three times larger than Jaspierre's. The bed was huge and dusty. Cobwebs covered the entire room. Jaspierre turned on the light and a cobweb sparked and lit on fire. It shriveled and fell to the ground, out as fast as it lit. The room was fairly sparse; a large bathroom stood to the right, makeup still sitting on the dusty counter. A huge mirror with an expensive, large white dresser. The dresser was hand-carved wood, painted and glossed. The mirror was decoratively carved, flowers and swirls – very elegant. The fine headboard matched the dresser – oversized and grand, each detail carved to perfection. There was a set of large double doors that led to her closet.
Jaspierre stared at the white dusty dresser. She couldn't imagine Mother would put anything important in her dresser. Sex toys and lingerie, probably a lot of nude pictures of herself.
She turned to the closet. The doors slid open effortlessly like the day they were installed. The closet was huge. Mother's dusty dresses hung from tired hangers. After hundreds of dresses was a handful of pantsuits and jeans, and then a longer stretch of lingerie and robes. There were a few shelves of dusty white scrubs. Jaspierre cringed when she saw them. Lucas somehow could haunt her even here. Behind the clothes used to be a door leading down to the little three-room prison that her mother had made. Jaspierre had changed it in the remodel, though, and that door no longer existed.
Jaspierre's Descent (Jaspierre Trilogy Book 2) Page 2