Jaspierre's Descent (Jaspierre Trilogy Book 2)

by Mixi J Applebottom

  He belched and chugged his beer can. The stupid foam cover he had slid on it to hide the alcoholic contents to anyone passing by was sliding around uncomfortably. As he started to adjust it, he noticed for the first time his arms had grown bigger. The pants he wore tightened around his waist. All the weight that fell off him from the full body burns had been building back up. His arms and back were stronger than they had been in years. Digging out the cellar had done him good. The sun was shining, and he was almost ready to pick her up and take her home. A few more supply runs and it would be time. Today, he wanted to lay eyes on her.

  Come along, Jaspierre. Little bit of eye candy for your big man.

  She drove up in a dark pink Corvette, tossing the keys to the valet. It was warm today and she wasn't wearing a coat. Her dress hugged her ass. She turned to wave at the valet and Chance spit his beer. Holy shit. He stepped out of the truck and walked down the sidewalk to her, his heart pounding. Holy fucking shit.

  She turned and he could see clearer. Her blood-red dress stretched tight against her belly. Her pregnant belly. They were fucking pregnant! He threw his hat and sunglasses as he stormed into traffic to her. How could she have kept this from him? They were having their first-born child and she hadn't even told him. A car honked and swerved around the angry man. Jaspierre turned around and her eyes grew wide. One hand protectively covered her stomach.

  Chance held his hands out as if to hug her, still standing in the street. Happy tears ran. "Pregnant!" he shouted. The sun shone brightly through the clouds for a moment. Jaspierre stood frozen, one hand holding her lips, the other holding her belly.

  A black car honked repeatedly, brakes squealing, and smashed into Chance. He rolled up onto the windshield, crushing it with his large body. Traffic squealed and braked, swerving around them. Chance lay on the hood, his head throbbing. He was gonna be a dad even sooner than he thought. He caught his breath. Drivers crawled out of vehicles, asking each other if they were okay. A crowd formed around the man on the hood. Chance rolled off the vehicle, taking his time. His chest hurt like hell. He staggered to his feet.

  "Hey, dude, you gotta sit down. You've been in an accident. You're in shock." A man grabbed Chance's arm. Chance shot him in the belly. People screamed and ran.

  "I'm gonna be a motherfucking father," Chance whispered to himself as he limped to his car, waving his gun at anyone who looked at him. "A mother-fucking father." He climbed into the truck.

  "We're having a baby!" He punched the ceiling of the truck and pressed the gas, squealing away.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  The room was spinning. Jaspierre's blood rushed to her head. A deep throbbing in her temples grew to unrelenting thumps. She was standing in the foyer of her office building. Someone was asking her something, but her ears couldn't make the sounds into words. Chance. This was a nightmare. A vision or hallucination. He was hideous. His face was covered in gnarled scars from the burns. They were exaggerated, as if he had drawn on them to make them more graphic.

  More terrifying.

  He was charging across traffic when the car hit him. The tires squealed.

  Her hands trembled, heart beating faster and faster. Air couldn't make its way into her lungs. She was gasping. The secretary grabbed her elbow and tried to pull her to a chair. "I think you're having a panic attack..." she whispered in Jaspierre's ear.

  Jasp doubled over as pain filled her core. Her belly grew tight as a vise crushing her.

  "Jaspierre? Are you okay?" The lady kept talking. Shut up shut up. Jaspierre grasped for her incoherent thoughts to come back together. She could hear sirens. That couldn't have been Chance.

  Her stomach tightened again and Jasp hurled. A steady ache in her belly pushed harder and harder. "I think you're in labor!" The secretary with her stupid yapping yapper. She placed her hand on the offending belly and watched the time. "You're only five minutes apart. Time for the hospital. Do you need me to call the father?"

  Jaspierre mentally severed her head. Leave me alone. I'm trying to think! Lucas was dead. Chance was alive. The valet pulled up with her pink Corvette and she climbed into the passenger seat.

  Did Chance yell she was pregnant?

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Chance spent the rest of the day sleeping in the cabin. At around midnight, he awoke. His body ached from head to toe. He took a handful of whichever painkiller was sitting in the medicine cabinet and washed it down with a beer. He had never felt so alive. His ribs were bruised and broken, and his left buttocks was purple and sore. He'd have to heal up a bit. Jasp shouldn't have to see him like this on their honeymoon.

  That said, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Her big round baby belly. Oh god, she'd have milk soon. He was so aroused, he thought about getting him a woman to get him through the next week or two. A warm-bodied sex toy. He spent an hour getting off so he could concentrate on a plan.

  Afterwards, he just wanted more. His body hurt like hell and all he wanted was to see his baby-making mama. He could at least send her a present. Even though he wasn't in good enough shape to physically go down there and bring her back and bang her until she couldn't move...

  No, that wasn't right. He wanted her to keep moving. Bang her until he was satisfied, not dead. Corpses couldn't have babies or make milk. It would be fun to learn to hold back. From inside the freezer, he took out the blue Tiffany box and packed it in a cooler with ice. He drove down to the grocery store and bought a small piece of dry ice. He'd hate for it to thaw before she saw it. He put the dry ice in the blue tissue and took his time arranging it. Then he closed it up, sealed it with tape, and stopped by the florist.

  "What's the biggest bouquet you've got?" He grinned, his tattooed scars snarling on his face.

  "It's $250; it's mostly roses. Pretty big, though, for a funeral centerpiece," the lady behind the counter said. She stepped backwards from the counter, instinctively afraid.

  "That sounds perfect. Make me one. I'll take it right now."

  "Oh, um, most of these are pre-ordered. It'll take me an hour to make it," she said nervously.

  He stared at her body, wondering if she'd ever made milk. "I'll be back." He stepped out and walked down the street to a little donut shop. He sat with a cup of black coffee. It was nice to be out in full glory today. Sitting in the corner of the coffee booth, watching the world cringe when they looked at him. He sat and watched as time flew by. He stepped out of the shop to leave when he saw his red truck being towed. Fucking fuck fuckers.

  A cop stood on the side of the street, talking to the people around him. Chance slipped into the flower shop, flipped the sign to closed, and locked the door. The lady at the counter came from the back room.

  "Hey, are my flowers done?"

  "Almost," she said nervously.

  "Can I come back and watch you do the last bit?" he said with a boyish grin.

  "No, customers can't come back there."

  "Pretty please?" He stepped forward, and she cringed and stepped backwards.

  "No." She could say it all she wanted. He needed to hide out for an hour or two until the cop left. Besides, she was warm and could keep him busy that long. She whimpered as he dragged her into the back.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Pierre handed the ticket to the teller. He was pale and terrified. He had made his decision, but he didn't feel good about it. He got on the airplane and sat in his seat. Next to him was a sullen, sleeping teenager. Thank goodness he wouldn't have to make small talk.

  He stared at his hands as he sat, waiting for the plane to take off. He was missing the ring finger on his left hand. The tips of both pinkies had been amputated, and the tip of his right ring finger was missing. He didn't miss them much anymore, even though they never functioned as well as they should. But flying in a plane made him remember.

  When he flew home all those years ago, all his fingers were still on him. The tips were black, and the ring finger on his left hand was completely dead. He w
ore gloves. That finger fell off his hand before the flight even landed. Rejected. He rejected the fingers she had put on his hands. After he talked with his pop, they went to the hospital. The doctor insisted on amputating the ruined pieces of his hands. Jasper's hairy skin patched into his was healthy in many places, so they left it. They carefully replaced the rotting pieces with skin grafts. The rejected.

  Before he purchased his ticket he finally sat down at the computer and allowed himself to search. The articles he had found said she had been missing. That Jaspierre was alone and Severina was missing. Not dead, missing. He lingered on that thought over and over again. Missing. Not dead.

  Was the girl as broken as he was? He'd know in about fifteen hours.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Edward called the hospital to check on Jessi, but he was too late. She was already dead. Jack's fucking shots had killed her. And for what? Peter was still missing. Chance hadn't yet been found. What had Jessi traded her life for?

  He sat at his desk discouraged, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. Jessi was a good person; she didn't deserve this. This felt like his fucking fault. He wanted to find that kid, find Jack, find Chance. If they hadn't gone chasing after Jack, maybe Peter would not have been snatched. If they hadn't gone chasing after Jack, he wouldn't have killed Jessi.

  If they had found Peter, then at least it would seem like she died an honorable death saving a kid. But they hadn't found Peter; he was lost forever in the woods. Or already sold as a sex slave, or some other terrible fate. They couldn't find the kid, Jack was dead, Jessi was dead. Where was the justice? Chance might have murdered his stepmother. Jack had probably molested Chance. Chance had killed people. These were all things he knew, but not things he could use, unless he found the bastard.

  And that kid. He couldn't imagine what it was like to be lost in the woods alone. A small, terrified child, stolen from his family, and then lost. Or sold, or locked up, or left. He hoped his imagination of the most terrible, frightening things that this boy could have had happen to him were the worse than any real event happening to him. Who fucking knew?

  Jessi was dead.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Jaspierre lay in her hospital bed. Contraction after contraction pulsed through her body. They were monitoring her, but this was the worst time to have a baby. The absolute worst.

  That couldn't have been Chance. Chance was dead. She'd poured the fuel, lit the match, and heard his screams. He was dead, dammit. She couldn't allow her hormone-fueled fears to rule her mind. It was a hallucination. Chance was dead.

  Nothing could go right for Jaspierre. She didn't find Father; she might finish Mother's work, but letting Dru in the house was a becoming a huge problem. He touched her belly! He was up to something terrible, and she didn't want to know what. These men were dangerous. What was she thinking? She had Ikali and Tessa to think about. And now this beautiful baby. Terror rushed over her. What had she done? Who would bring a child into this insanity? Chance was dead. Basel was locked in the basement. She couldn't even trust him with her cats, much less around the baby. What if he poisoned her sweet little infant? She had to get them out of her house. Screw the ruppie. Screw Mother. Completing Mother's work wouldn't bring her back or make her love Jaspierre. It wouldn't fix her broken childhood. It wouldn't give her family. Ruppies were so fucking useless. She wanted her dad, her mom, and Lucas. She needed a real, dependable family.

  She was desperate, grasping at straws, trying to fix these terrible mistakes. Her whole life was one giant train wreck. She deserved everything she got. Chance was dead. Her stomach tightened again and tears poured out of her eyes. Alone. Alone in this clinical room. Nobody loved Jaspierre. This baby might love her if she didn't screw it up. But she would screw it up; she couldn't help herself.

  "Honey, is your husband coming soon?" said the nurse. "It might be nice to have someone with you."

  "He's dead," she said. Lucas is dead. Chance is dead. I lit the match.

  "Oh." The nurse turned around, flustered, and quickly exited the room.

  How could she protect this little person? She could not protect herself, even. Chance had to be dead. What kind of person was she to be a single mom? Dru was destroying her life; nothing was safe anymore. Danger and death lurked around every corner, and even though she had been trying so hard to build a beautiful, safe, happy family for this baby, all she was ending up with was a nightmare.

  The contractions started to slow, five minutes apart, ten minutes apart, twenty minutes apart. The further they spread, the happier Jaspierre was. She could go home, grab her stuff, grab her cats, and get the hell out. It seemed like this was the only real solution she had right now. I lit the match. Giving birth to a baby alone was terrifying. I heard his screams. The giving birth to a baby alone while three dangerous men lived in her house was deadly. Chance was dead. Get the hell out.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The girl was cold and stiff by the time he was ready to leave the florist. Chance took the bouquet she had made and a card. He spent about thirty minutes thinking up and writing a note to Jaspierre. He searched the chick's purse for keys and hit the jackpot. This girl drove a black Hummer, his kind a car.

  He took her credit cards and all the cash he found in the store, then got in her Hummer. He had to adjust the seat back quite a ways because she was a tiny woman. Shame he couldn't let her scream much. That was always so fun. He drove down to Jaspierre's office, keeping his eyes peeled in case he saw her car. He didn't see her. He pulled his hat down low and turned his collar up, trying to make his scars, burns, and tattoos more subtle. The Hummer thankfully had a pair of sunglasses sitting inside. He slipped these on to complete the look.

  He felt a tiny bit nervous slipping into the glass doors. "Can you give these to Jaspierre?" He held out the flowers and the tiffany box to the secretary.

  "You know, she might prefer to get her flowers at the hospital. She just left. Looks like that baby is coming today!" The bubbly little secretary barely looked at him, already nose deep in the flowers. He snatched them back.

  "Okay." And he quickly left, holding the flowers up to his face to help obscure it from the inevitable cameras.

  He drove to a payphone down the street and called the hospital. "Is Jaspierre Kyller still there? Has she been discharged?"

  "Alright, let me check. It appears to be that she is still in labor and delivery. Would you like me to ring her room?"

  "No, no thanks. I, I just wasn't sure where to send the flowers." He hung up with a swift click. Now he just had to decide where to wait and watch for her. How should he deliver the flowers? Would it be best to wait down the road? Would it be better to wait in the hospital? Decisions.

  He got back in the Hummer and zipped down the road to the cabin. He drove up cautiously; no cop cars. He grabbed all the important stuff – porn, beer, guns, bullets – and stuffed it in the Hummer. Then he drove into the woods and waited to see if they would come. They had the truck. They might know where this cabin was. Damn shame. He made that room especially for Jaspierre.

  He found a decent spot to wait, and once he saw her leaving the hospital, he drove on ahead and set the Tiffany box and the flowers in front of her gate. Enjoy, my love. And then he parked in a subtle spot nearby so he could watch her pick them up.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Edward found the body of the florist. The security footage showed Chance. He didn't look like any of the pictures they had. But it was him. Fingerprinting didn't lie. Hell, the murder scene practically screamed his name. Serial killer Chance didn't give a shit, killed in broad daylight, thought he was untouchable. He was getting sloppier.

  Edward assumed that once they cornered him, there would be a rain of gunfire. Chance wouldn't go down without a fight. Suicide by cop. Or plain suicide. He'd shoot himself before he would ever get locked up. Even fucked up cops didn't fare well in prison. When Edward got back to the office, he had a stack of paperwork
sitting on his desk.

  He squished into his chair. Two reports were most pertinent. The truck was a red Ford. The VIN number had been scratched up. But Chance hadn't done a great job. They had collected about half the numbers and were running it through a program to help narrow it down. It was pretty likely that once they knew where the truck was from, they'd find his current hiding place.

  The dental records for the man at the lake had come through. He was here on a business trip from a couple of states away. The wife had stated he loved to drink and probably got killed in a bar fight. She didn't seem to have much love left for the man; even the clinical report of her statement screeched her anger. He had a picture of the man; he was fat and bald. His name was Tom Dickerson.

  Meanwhile, Edward got a ping on Mr. Dickerson's car. It had recently been towed from a nearby bar. He took the picture of Mr. Dickerson and stopped in to talk to the staff. A fit tall bartender recognized the photo. "That's the asshole who was threatening one of the waitresses. I threw him out."

  "When was that?"

  "Probably around the seventeenth. Let me check the schedule. Yeah, Jen was working on the seventeenth, so that's my guess."

  "Do you think he went with anyone? He was murdered shortly after leaving this bar."

  "You know, I bet that was his car in the parking lot I had towed a week later. The bar wasn't real busy. Maybe Jen remembers something."

  Edward found Jen smoking in the parking lot.

  "Yeah, I remember him. He's an asshole. Less men in the country like that guy ain't a bad thing." She puffed a few times. "The chick he left with was driving a nice car. It was black and had one of those... spoilers. You know, a sports car. It looked fast and shiny."

  "Do you think it was a Lexus?" Edward's heart pounded with excitement. It was the girl.