But most of the time, he just moved forward. Shake it off, step forward. He ran Pop's Toys, his grandfather's toyshop. He hand carved most of the toys, and when he couldn't seem to get them done in a timely manner, he hired a few kids to help out. Most of the toys were simple, but sometimes, he'd get caught up and make a masterpiece. A little wooden jack-in-the-box with tiny wooden gears sold for three hundred euros or more. Little rattles, like the one he was carving today, sold for five euros. Pop's Toys, located in Paris, France, might have seemed a bit like an odd name. Pop once said he thought that tourists would love an exotic name. Up until that moment they had called him grand-papa, but once the store existed he was Pops.
He didn't mind the work; in fact, it was a nice way to sit and reflect. He made plenty to pay his bills and a little to sock away for retirement. He loved watching the little children show up with their big, wide eyes.
As he finished carving the kitten's ear, he felt a hot wave of recognition. This one; this one looked exactly like the one he made little Jaspierre all those years before. He couldn't bear to call her that, Jaspierre, so he called her "Kitten." Sweet little Kitten.
He made her bottles, changed her diapers, and stayed up with her all night. He told her stories and tried to keep her happy. She was one of the few reasons he hadn't broken. He was still himself; a good man, a man of substance. Jasper hadn't fared as well; he'd gone crazy down there in that prison cell. Now the only things Jasper had alive were chunks of his skin and a few fingers.
He set down the little carving knife and massaged his aching hands. Little Kitten, where are you now? His biggest regret was leaving her behind. How could he have possibly taken her with him, though? Running for his life from Severina, the woman he had hoped to marry, the monster that tore him apart. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he thought about that little girl. That tiny baby.
He had tried to report all the crimes when he got back to Paris. Pops was still around and after he had been seen by many doctors, they talked with the police, with lawyers, with everyone. But it was too hard. It was too hard to prosecute her when she was in America, and he was here in Paris. Eventually, he gave up. He didn't want to fight her anyway; he never had wanted to fight her. Fighting her would give her even more opportunities to win.
It was one of the few things he clung to when he was down there. He was better than her. He was kind and good, and he didn't have to kill her. Murder was something Severina did without any reason at all, it seemed. Pierre was stronger than that. He watched for escape, and sometimes, he felt like it would never happen. But he waited and hoped that he could return, still proud of himself for being the better person.
After all that, he still ended up murdering Jasper. He could never forgive himself for that. It was Severina's fault for destroying the man so completely. He was consumed with hate. Pierre helplessly watched as he tried to kill that kitten.
Beautiful Jaspierre, strangled by the man she tried to set free. Jasper didn't want out. He wanted revenge.
Pierre ran his fingers through his hair and waited for the memory to pass. It was over now. He was here, making beautiful toys for happy, safe children. Severina was never going to see him again. He was safe. He hoped little Kitten was safe too; by now, she had grown into a woman, and surely had gotten free. Often, he'd sit at his desk and plan to Google them, Severina and Jaspierre. Likely they'd have made the news for something, good or bad. But he was never brave enough.
What if Kitten had been killed that very night? He tucked her in her bed, and then Severina slit her throat? He couldn't bear it. It was better not to know.
Chapter
Five
Jaspierre picked up Mother's skull and set it in the wheelbarrow. Mother's head sat in her own lap as it was wheeled towards the house. The brick steps were a pain in the ass to go up, but there were only a few of them. The path after the first set of stairs wasn't difficult at all, and soon she was rounding the final bend.
Jasp made it to the front of the house. She stood between her two large serval bushes at the bottom of the marble staircase. The columns at the top of the stairs seemed far away. After considerable effort to get the wheelbarrow up the stairs, she finally pushed through the front door. Then through the kitchen into her office. The two carved servals on the fireplace were white as snow. She dumped her mother's body in the gigantic fireplace. Ikali and Tessa came by, sniffing and scouting it out with great interest. They were shooed away. Jasp piled wood around her mother's tiny, shriveled corpse.
Her stomach hurt. All this lifting didn't seem to be good for the baby. She dumped lighter fluid on the wood, opening the dampers so the worst of the smoke would head outside. She reached for the matches and held them in her hand.
"Mother, you were a terrible person. I loved you very much. I am sorry you died." With that short eulogy, Mother went up in flames. The fire roared and, after about two minutes, Jaspierre realized she needed more wood. It took a lot of wood and a lot of heat to burn a body. Jasp should have known by now.
She unceremoniously dumped log after log on the body, letting each armful catch before she tossed more on. The fireplace was massive, but she managed to fill it with fire. The heat was incredible. She stared at the flames for a moment and noted the stink was less potent on an aged corpse.
She lifted the wheelbarrow up and trudged it back. Probably because the skin is much more fragrant than the bones. And the meat. Meat and skin smelled when you cooked. Of course, upon further reflection, she couldn't remember any other times she had cooked bones, be they human or otherwise. With this thought, she suddenly hurled in the grass. This must have been how morning sickness worked. Things that never much bothered her before now sent vomit to her feet.
Once back at the barn, she continued her search of Mother's office. It was much less intimidating now. The desk and files were full to the brim with experiment after experiment. There was an entire file drawer on Jasper. Pierre had only two large file folders. Jaspierre wondered how much longer Jasper had been in captivity than Pierre.
The notes on Pierre were short and not terribly useful. "Subject B keeps pleading to see the baby. I gave him a cat skeleton and he sobbed. What a fun prank. It only took him an hour to figure it out, though." It was dated for two months after Jasp's birth. Five years later, the file got interesting. "Subject BA is handling transplants well. It looks like he might grow furrier than I was expecting."
Subject BA. This must have been when she swapped and combined them. Jasper's hairy skin was being stitched to Pierre. Even after reading the whole file, there was no more information on who Pierre was. Subject B and Subject BA didn't indicate where he would have gone, or where he was from.
Jasp closed his file and sat a moment. She could read Jasper's file next, but a book caught her eye. She dug in the desk and found two old diaries from Mother. This looked much more promising. She took both of them and a caffeine headache called her name. She closed up the barn and walked back to the house. She went up the stairs holding the books with one hand and her head with the other.
Mother burning still seemed so light compared to the dark stench of a full corpse. Nausea hit her, and she retched properly in a sink this time. Her head was now throbbing. It was hard to quit caffeine! For the sake of the baby, she would do it, though. She carried a few more logs to the fire and sat in her chair and watched for a bit. She needed to hire a new maid. Mother had a hiring website for those special people with the ability to be discreet: Viscardine. Jaspierre considered listing for a maid, maybe even a chef. A sparring partner might be nice. She didn't want her skills with a blade getting even worse. She sighed thoughtfully.
She shook her head, trying to shake off the ache. Her fingers pressed tight into her temples, begging for a bit of relief. Hiring people was so unpleasant. It seemed as the years went on, she wanted less and less people to be in her immediate life, meddling about. But now she was about to have a baby. Babies needed people. She'd need a nanny too, and all sorts of staff.
She clutched her mother's worn leather diary in her hand. Two books. The aching pressure behind her eyes grew strong. Hopefully, one of these held the secrets of Pierre. Or at least would guide her on what to do next with her life. What did Mother do when she found out she was pregnant with me?
Screw it, she'd quit caffeine tomorrow. She popped open a coke and started reading.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Look for the hookers. Edward stood staring at the body on the bed. She had been dead at least a month. Could be longer. She had been used for sexual pleasure long after she had been decaying.
She had been found because her body had stunk so badly the neighbors put in a call. This had to be Chance; it fit his typical victim pool (hookers) and his particular type (large breasts, recently dyed brown hair). Although he had the most obvious two clues that it was Chance, her toes had been cut off, her right arm was broken, and also her fingers.
Her phone was sitting on her nightstand. She had more missed calls than her phone could even count. Three numbers stood out.
Mother.
Candi.
Unknown.
These three numbers had the most missed calls listed on them. Edward dialed the first one. "Hello, ma'am, I am Detective Edward Darbonne. Are you," he paused to look at a bill sitting on the counter, "Lisa's mother?"
"What's she done now? I am not liable for that child."
"Ma'am you might like to sit down; your daughter appears to have been murdered."
"No shit. She's dead. I figured," the woman spat out hatefully.
"Was someone out to get your daughter?"
"Probably. Not like I'd know. We talk on Tuesdays, but she missed the last eight. I was hoping she was avoiding me."
"Why didn't you call the police?"
"Why the hell would I? We aren't always on good terms. That dumb girl. I knew she would get murdered. I told her that she couldn't keep living like this or she would get herself killed. It's not a shock to me. One of her bastard clients, or her pimp, or her crack dealer, or whatever the fuck else. I knew this would happen. One of them would get her and kill her." Tight, angry tears started to fall. "Fuck. It's not like I want to be right. I've got to tell her father." Click.
Edward dialed the next number. Before he could say hello:
"Oh my goodness, girl! I have been trying to reach you for like months now! You are not gonna believe what happened! Where have you been? You still 'sick' or is it a pregnancy? It's been ages, girl!"
"Ma'am."
"That reminds me! I got to tell you that..."
"Ma'am."
"You ain't Lisa. Where is Lisa? How the fuck did you get her phone!"
"Ma'am, I am a police officer. We would like to talk to you about Lisa." Click.
Dammit.
Unknown number.
Probably her pimp. He dropped the phone into an evidence bag and took off his gloves. Hookers who got killed were hard to get information on. Their friends were all crooks; none of them wanted to talk to the cops. Their families were angry; they didn't want to talk to a cop. It made it almost impossible to get the information that he needed. He looked around at the room. The cabinets were nearly empty. All the canned stuff had been eaten or taken. Open, half-eaten cans of beans and soup littered the floor. Food wrappers were piled everywhere. She was nearly out of food. A sheet torn into long strips had been used as bandages. The used, bloody rags littered the floor too. Her medicine cabinet was littered all over the apartment, aspirin bottle on the couch, ibuprofen sitting on the bed, an empty bottle of Xanax sitting in the kitchen.
Chance had holed up here, at this chick's place; the timeline held up. His house was burned, he hid out for a week or two – who the hell knows where – but then he got this hooker to take him back to her place. Killed her, raped her, broke her fingers, snipped her toes, and waited for himself to heal. He dyed her hair. But it seemed like, with this many bandages scattered about, he was not healed enough to get back to regular business yet. If his skin looked anything like his badly charred house, he had a lot of healing to do. He probably realized she smelled too much and he'd have to move along. Where would he go? He didn't own any other properties around here. He probably had another hostage situation going on. The man was starting to crack. He didn't even bother wiping the place of fingerprints. He didn't give a shit if he got caught at this point. This did not bode well for when they caught up with him.
As Edward drove back to the office, he considered the idea that Chance had no desire to go to prison. He'd rather have a shootout. From everything that Edward had learned, Chance was going to be a problem. Men who didn't give a shit were the scariest, most unpredictable criminals to capture. Still, he had to find a way.
"Hey, Jessi?"
She looked up from her desk. "Yeah?" she said.
"Any luck on finding Jack and that kid, Peter? Any leads at all?"
"Well, we found his car at a pawn shop. But that's been it so far. It's not really looking very good. Mrs. Mirabella is beside herself. We aren't even sure where to look at this point. He's on the run with the kid or holed up somewhere."
He let out a sigh. "Dammit, I'm about the same. Bodies keep piling up, but I don't know where the hell Chance might be. If I could find him, it'd be easy to nail him; he left so much evidence at the last scene. Once the fingerprints and blood comes back, I can at least confirm it's him, but I'm already convinced. Have you tried talking to that old lady? She seemed to be pretty interested in Jack."
Her eyes perked up. "What old lady?"
"Well, when I went there, the neighbor lady talked with me about Jack. She thought he might be at work painting houses. I gave her my card."
"Let's go give her another chat," she said. They rode together in her cop car and stopped at the white house. There was a yellow police tape strewn across the front door now.
"When we searched the place, we found plenty of pedophile porn, but nothing to show where they might have gone. He had nudes of almost every kid on that baseball team," she said disgustedly.
"We'll catch him." Catching the horrible rapists, murderers, and child molesters was what kept Ed in this business.
They knocked on the old lady's door, and Edward regretted not getting her name. She opened the door a small crack and peered out at them. "What?"
She was in those same pink and white flowered sack pajamas. Edward said, "Well, have you seen Jack since the last time we talked?"
"No. Go away; I'm watching Wheel of Fortune," she snapped and started to shut the door.
"Ma'am, please, I just wanted to see if you know anything helpful. It appears he's taken a small boy. We just want to find him," he said.
Her eyes grew wide and she froze with her mouth gaping open. Suddenly, she slumped forward and fell on top of Edward. A knife was protruding from her back. A red stain was spreading quickly across those tent pajamas. Her blood flooded the pink and white flowers. "What the hell?" Edward shouted. Both cops froze, bewildered.
"They're running out the back!" Jessi shouted, turning to run. She pulled her gun, but they were too late. Jack was already climbing on a motorcycle with a little blond boy, squealing off before they could stop him.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chance's arms were sore from all the digging. He had managed to make the small cubby cellar deep enough that he could finally stand up in it. It wasn't quite big enough yet, just a few steps in any direction, but he wanted to make sure his bride would be comfortable. He filled up three five-gallon buckets he found and then would dump them outside. It was slow going. He didn't have a ladder, so he made himself two steps out of dirt. He pissed on them and stomped them into shape every time he had to urinate. They were becoming pretty compacted, although the cellar was a little stinky. They weren't the easiest thing to climb up and down. Two steps wasn't really enough, but fuck if he was going to make ten. He slowly filled the last bucket and set it on the step. His arms ached at the effort.
Probably just another foot or two would
be enough, then he'd need to build some sort of restraint. He'd been thinking he'd just tie her to the floor joists, hands held high above her head, mouth gagged. But how could she birth their children like that? He had to think it through a little bit more. Did women need to be lying down to have a baby? It seemed important. Of course, that'd be quite a few months away. First, he had to catch her, then he had to knock her up. Marriage the ol' fashioned way, caveman style.
He chuckled. This place did seem like a cave. He certainly did plan to pull her hair down here.
He stretched and his back creaked and ached. Once the buckets were pulled out of the cellar, he cracked open a beer. Guzzling it as quickly as he could, he cracked another. He took his time and showered, carefully washing the open wounds still on his face and leg. His arm was finally starting to close. He wished they would get better soon. He didn't like having to wait for his body to grow skin.
Better go kill himself a deer. Provisions would be light until he caught something big enough to feed him for a week or two. There was a nice meat-hanging locker outside in the shed. He imagined he could catch at least four deer and hang 'em. It'd be awful nice to stock up before guests started showing up. He went out and sat in a tree blind he found. He carried both the rifle and the crossbow. He'd never used a crossbow before, but he sure couldn't wait to try.
Chapter
Six
It was strange to realize how little Jaspierre knew about her own mother. Her memories of her being beautiful and dangerous were terribly spot on. But it was fascinating. She, according to her notes, once killed a man for passing the salt too slowly. Severina rarely fired anyone, instead preferring for them to have wretched accidents. Many times, this meant that she had to pay severance to their families, but she still preferred it to firing.
Jaspierre's Descent (Jaspierre Trilogy Book 2) Page 4