Mother loved sex. As far as Jasp could tell, she had sex with anything and everything. Much of her diaries were details of her sexual experiments. Will this fit? (It seemed almost everything did.) How many women can she make orgasm in a night? (Six) How many men can she ride in a single day? (Fourteen) How many species could she give head to? (Thirty-five)
At some point, those experiments became less prominent, and they soon focused on other things. Jasp wondered if something happened to quell her incessant libido, or if she grew bored with calling sex an experiment.
The rest was much more morbid. Her mother had become obsessed with portmanteaus. Combining words and things to make new things. She detailed her incessant attempts to combine animals. Rabbits and puppies. She called it a ruppie. Jaspierre had even helped to make a few of them. She remembered standing in the operating theater, handing her mother tools. Watching her snip, snip away at flesh.
"Ruppie attempt number 53. Day 1. This time, the legs appeared to have adhered quite well. Started using a vibratory table to increase blood-flow. Already started with antibiotics and saline to try to stall rejection. Day 2. I knifed it. Not scientific. But the back leg already died and the damn bitch bit me."
Jasp stared at the number. 53. Fifty-three. That was a lot of dismantled puppies and rabbits. She wasn't sure how to feel about it. None of them had even survived. Mother certainly didn't feel sorry for them, but Jaspierre felt a pang of guilt.
Mother wanted to take it further. Her list was simple. Ruppie, cameleopard, and sheeple. Three combinations. But she hadn't even succeeded with one. Well, actually, her attempts to combine Jasper and Pierre seemed to have gone moderately well. Was Jasper's insanity considered a side effect? What if Pierre had gone insane?
Jasp wondered if the reason Mother bought her a serval all those years ago was to use its babies in the cameleopard experiments.
She never succeeded at a ruppie, though. Jaspierre felt a pang of guilt she hadn't followed in Mother's footsteps and finished her work. She did seem like she was awfully close. If Jaspierre never finished it, all those dogs and rabbits died in vain. For nothing, for an unfinished experiment.
Jaspierre bit her fingernail, considering. She could complete Mother's work. What would it be like if Mother was proud of her? It would be a way to stay close. A little piece of family. What if this baby in her belly had her own pet ruppie? This beautiful baby would have a piece of Mother, a good piece, a happy cute pet, as a reminder of the grandmother that would never exist.
She shook off the feeling and tried to stay focused. Where was Pierre? She flipped through the pages.
Where were all the useful clues? This was hopeless. She slammed the book shut and walked to her room. She crawled into bed and her kitties leapt up with her. Angrily, she pouted, wondering what the hell she was going to do next. Tessa and Ikali both purred loudly, until their comfort drowned out her worries. But Mother and the possibility of a ruppie lingered in her mind.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Pierre set the little kitten rattle in a drawer. He started to work on a small music box. This one had a little bear in a tutu pop up and a small windup key for the music. It played Pachelbel's Cannon. The tinny music rang and he glanced at the drawer. He started to adjust the latch so that it would turn on right as the box was opened, but found his mind wandering to that kitten rattle.
He shook his head and stared at the little peg that started the box. Ten minutes later, and it was perfectly adjusted. The little bear popped up, and the song started just as the lid was barely cracked. The bear in the tutu spun smoothly. It was beautiful. He glanced back over at the drawer. Finally, he reached in and held the wooden kitten. Its face was just the same as the one he had made her. He flipped his sign closed and sat back in his office.
He remembered sitting in his cell carefully carving that little rattle, holding Kitten while she cried. Feeding her bottles one at a time. Changing her little bottom. It was terrifying. That was what he remembered most. Severina sometimes didn't bring more bottles, and he'd hold that sobbing, scared, hungry baby. He sang her the only song he could remember.
A stupid song about bells.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at the rattle in his hands. He had made so many of these, it seemed impossible that one would strike him so strongly. Something about this very one, the way the ears were carved so smoothly, and the way the eyes slanted just so. All it was missing was her tiny little teeth marks. He just left her there. He ran away from Severina, the most terrifying woman in the world, and he left his daughter. Why did he do that? She was just a little girl!
He covered his face with his hands while he cried. He was wrong. After all this time, Severina had still managed to turn him into a monster. He left Jaspierre because he thought it would keep him safer. Severina might not chase him, but she sure as hell would chase him if he took that child. It was the most selfish, horrible thing he had ever done in his life. Leaving that defenseless little girl behind. Letting her feel the wrath of Severina alone. Just a little girl. Just a kitten.
He could go look on the internet and see what had become of her. He should do it. She'd be a grown woman by now, if she hadn't been murdered. Or tortured. Or sliced and diced. Did she own her own fingers? Or had Severina taken them from her too? Little Jaspierre Kyller. What had become of her?
He turned his computer on, and then unplugged it. No. He needed to move on. Stop thinking about this little girl. Just stop. She wasn't a baby. It wasn't his fault. Severina was insane. Nothing she did was his fault. He didn't make her lock them up, or hurt them, or torture each other. She was the monster. He stared at his hands. His missing ring finger on his left hand. The finger that was supposed to hold a wedding band. She took his love and spit it out. How could he ever move on or marry? He couldn't even wear a ring. He had been dismantled and dissected. Severina was the monster. Even when he knew it to be true, guilt still haunted him. Guilt; he didn't struggle so much with the anger. It was the guilt that kept his nights sleepless and his love life empty. Guilt terrorized him. If only he could have loved Severina more, or convinced her or helped her. Instead, his words, his body, his attempts to help her to be a better person failed. And he left that little girl.
He threw the rattle back into the drawer and went home. Tonight, there would be no sleep, for his demons were restless.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chance briefly considered bringing a lady home to the cabin. It would ease his boredom for sure. But he didn't need another corpse rotting away. He didn't have time for all that anyway; he had things to do. The cellar was completely dug out now and fitted with a little hole for an outhouse. He also had thought ahead to give her a little chair and some sturdy chains threaded through the floor joists.
He spent long hours doing push-ups and staring at himself in the mirror. He was completely enamored with his new burned skin. His face on the left side was sagging and white, with open blood-red sections. The skin was twisting into jagged lines as it healed. It was hard to smile on that side, and his eyelid struggled to do its job. It was beautiful. His face looked like him. It was more real and more intense than he had ever expected. He felt more alive than ever before. More human. He wanted more. If he thought he could survive it, he'd burn more of his face and skin. It was too fucking painful to do that, though.
All he could think about was Jasp. She clearly liked her men fit, put together, strong. Somebody she could look up to. Hell, he was all those things and more. His body had slimmed down considerably in the last few months. No diet had ever made him lose weight so fast. Burning most of his body had taken its toll.
Suddenly, it came to him; what he needed was a tattoo. That would enhance this new look of his without the tedious healing required by more actual burns.
He had dumped the hooker's car deep in the woods. An old red truck sat at the back of the cabin; the keys were in the glovebox. He drove it to town and found a nice tattoo parlor. He was planning on tattooing
her name across his chest and asking about enhancing his scars. Make those suckers pop. When he was young, he thought coating his body in tattoos would make him a badass, but he knew he couldn't do that if he wanted to be a cop. But now, he was already coated in scars, so why the fuck shouldn't he add pictures?
"Holy frick, man, what happened to you?" The receptionist stepped backwards and looked like she would run off like a scared deer.
"House fire," he said with a big grin. He was thinking about how her breasts were almost the same size as Jaspierre's. He was leering, but he didn't care. He pointed the rifle at her. In his other hand, he held a case of beer. "Call your tattoo guy."
She trembled. "Rick, get out here. Now. Rick." She stared at the rifle, frozen in fear.
A few minutes later, a man came out. He had tattoos covering every inch of his body, it seemed. "What the hell is going on here?" He spotted the gun and raised his hands.
"I need a tattoo."
"Come on back and let's talk about it." Rick nodded to the girl. She'd call the cops as soon as they left the room.
"Anyone else here?"
"Not today; just us," Rick said. He was calm and collected, like he wasn't afraid.
"Well, she's fucking coming along, then," Chance said. "I've got this girlfriend. I wanna tattoo her name across my chest."
"How long you two been together?"
"Like, fucking forever. Also, do you think you can do something about these burns?" Chance said.
"You want me to cover them? It's too early to tattoo them," Rick said, staring at the rifle pointed at him. His voice sounded nervous, even as he tried to play it cool.
"Cover them? Hell no."
The tattoo man looked over Chance's face. "You like 'em?"
"Hell yeah! Jasp gave me these as a reuniting present."
The man paused. "She burned you?"
"Sparks fly with this one!" Chance burst out into laughter. "Damn, we're freaky, but that's how I know we're made for each other."
"You know, I have this idea. If you like them, I could trace them with white ink and black ink, and then they'd pop. Not where it is still open, of course. I can't tattoo where it's open, and it's gonna hurt like hell. But I bet you'd look like a real bastard." His voice trembled, even though the words he said seemed friendly, and his eyes never left the gun.
Chance grinned so hard, his skin tore. "Hell yeah. Let's do it." The girl sat quietly in the corner while Rick worked on Chance. He held the gun on her the whole time Rick worked. "So, I figure, if you don't do a good job, I'll shoot her in the leg. And then the head if I have to. You got me? I won't be shooting you unless you make me. I'd hate to fuck up your art."
He worked in silence, the girl sniffling in the corner. Jaspierre was tattooed in his chest in a blood red. Rick was talented; he made it look like it was sliced into his skin. Chance was impressed; he couldn't have made it look more realistic unless he razored it into his chest.
Chance drank beer after beer and tried to ignore his constant boner while the man worked. Finally, he was ready to work on his face. Even as drunk as he was, the skin fucking hurt. His finger hovered on the trigger, trembling with the pain. "Hurry the fuck up." Rick tried to go as fast as possible.
"This would be way easier if you'd set that gun down."
"I bet it would be easier. It'd be a whole fucking lot easier to shoot her. I bet you'd get this shit done faster."
Rick hurried and worked on his face. The pain was incredible, much worse than the fire. The fire hadn't lasted as long. That fucking buzzing hurt like hell. Finally, Rick said he was done.
Chance looked in the mirror. It was perfection. He looked like a real fucking asshole. Someone who could control his woman. Someone everyone should watch the fuck out for.
He looked like himself.
He shot them both in the head and left them in the back room. He grabbed her keys and locked the door on the way out.
Chapter
Seven
Jaspierre idly sat at the head of the boardroom. She was having a hard time paying attention. All she could think about was her pregnancy and her father. She had no real leads. It was discouraging. Maybe it was time to hire a detective. Of course, then she'd have to explain to the detective that she was looking for a man her mother had held hostage, mutilated, took apart, and rebuilt. Ugh. That didn't seem like it would be a smart idea. Was anyone on Viscardine an investigator? Somehow, she doubted it. That place was more about keeping secrets than finding them.
The board was discussing the future of the company. What was the next big thing for pharmaceutical companies? She couldn't seem to find any reason to care. She had more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. This baby could soon be the heir to this awesome job. She wouldn't make her start so early, not five, but maybe around ten or so. Maybe she'd even let her wait until thirteen before she had to head up any meetings. The board had a job to do, and that was to make lots of money, so she sat and listened to their boring ideas.
"The thing is, if they can print body parts, then they will need more anti-rejection medications because many more organs will soon be readily available." One of the men was talking.
"But that is stupid! If they are made out of their own DNA, then they won't need rejection meds. I think we should be backing out of them, not adding more!"
Jaspierre snapped to attention. "Did you say they can print body parts?" Her mind was whirling. Maybe she couldn't find her father, but maybe she could impress Mother. Printing body parts. What was the world coming to!
"There is this new technology. They can print a new leg with your own DNA or an organ or whatever you want. It's new, but it looks like it will be readily available in the next ten years."
"I want one," Jaspierre blurted out.
Surprised silence filled the room.
"Buying one of these machines is so costly, and what even would you do with it? We don't sell machinery; we only sell medicines. Besides that, it sounds stupid. It's the exact opposite of where we should be going! We don't want printed body parts. They won't help our bottom line," he told her.
"Oh really?" Jaspierre clicked a pen. "I believe it's time to let you go." He was escorted out of the building with a crappy severance package within ten minutes. She was so much kinder than Mother. Mother would have just had him fall from a ladder or get crushed underneath a forklift. Maybe she should have done it Mother's way. The staff here were all hired from Viscardine, a special type of people trained to look the other way. "Okay, so," she continued as though nothing had happened. "I want one. I want to play with it and see how it works. Send it to my house. This machine sounds like a game changer." She leaned in close; the board was intensely listening, terrified. "We are going to sell them." A roar of applause broke out. "Let's make it happen. This is the next big thing, and we are the next big thing. First person to sell twenty units gets a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. We're adding medical equipment to our repertoire this year."
The meeting roared to a close, phone calls were made, and chattering excitement broke out. They sold two hundred fifty units before the end of the week. Jasp had hers delivered to the operating theater in the barn. It was bigger than she expected, about the size of a large refrigerator. A fancy computer sat next to it with a handful of other, smaller pieces of equipment. Mother would be proud of her. She was going to finally get her ruppie.
Maybe the hunt for Father was the wrong thing after all. Maybe what she really needed was something from Mother for her new baby. That was the kind of family she was used to anyway, just Mama and child, and dog/rabbit creation. Pierre was practically a ruppie anyway, with his skin and fingers swapped and changed. This was a better thing to focus on; finding Pierre was like searching for a needle in a haystack. It wasn't exactly likely to happen. Making a ruppie was just within reach. She better get started. Her fingertips lingered on the large machine as she examined its shape. She picked up the overly large instruction manual and started to read, glancing up occasionally,
and wondering if printed limbs grew fur.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Edward was looking through his files on the bodies in Chance's house. There wasn't enough of the man with no toes to do facial recognition. He had been blasted in the head. Even the woman, who still had a skull, didn't have many leads. The woman, though, she probably was the victim in the car.
The license plate the cop wrote down when he got to the scene led to people named Hinkleberry. Follow-up phone calls revealed they didn't own a black Lexus, and they still had their plates on their current vehicles. So, somehow, the Lexus had their plate without stealing it. Perhaps it had been forged? The car itself had been towed from the lake, then was picked up by a male who paid cash. Edward couldn't get any further. The VIN number had not been recorded, possibly was scratched off, or neglected on the paperwork. After all, when they towed the car, nobody thought there was a crime scene. Chance had reported he was giving the driver a ride home, and the investigation ended.
The car crashed into the lake had been reported as a black Lexus. There were no missing persons' reports of an owner with a black Lexus. Three women had been reported missing around the time of the accident. One had been found dead already. Both of the other ladies were still missing, but only one of them wore dentures. This was likely the victim. Her husband was seventy-eight. He stopped in once a week to ask if they had found her. Edward still didn't know what to tell him. Just because he suspected that Helen was found in Chance's house didn't mean that he could prove it. Hell, he couldn't even get the DNA test without another, stronger piece of evidence pointing her direction. With no further evidence, it would be difficult to prove this was her.
She didn't drive a black Lexus; she drove a green Oldsmobile. They might have found her, but they couldn't explain any of the circumstances. They didn't know where her Oldsmobile was, or how she was involved with a black Lexus, or why it had the license plate of a couple named Hinkleberry. They didn't have any record of who picked up the Lexus at the impound lot, or who it belonged to. Her body had been tortured, toes snipped off, arm broken, and set on fire. He couldn't present Helen to her husband if he wasn't sure it was her.
Jaspierre's Descent (Jaspierre Trilogy Book 2) Page 5