Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3)

by John L. Monk

  “Dammit,” I said. “They must be where he’s staying … was staying. Even dead, the guy’s a menace.”

  “Well, he must have bought them somewhere,” Rose said.

  “That’s right! I saw a Walmart on the way in. Do you want to come with me?”

  Rose said, “Sure.”

  I scanned the parking lot for Andre’s car. Seconds later, a siren went off. Rose held up her keys, clicked a button, and it stopped. She smiled shyly.

  On impulse, I reached over and hugged her.

  “What’s that for?” she said.

  “Because I’m sorry. And sometimes people need hugs.”

  Rose blinked quickly and hugged me back.

  “Rose?” I said, taking the opportunity to tease out another question.

  “Hmm?”

  “How is it possible that, of all the billions of people in the world, you and I appeared in the same room and found each other?”

  “Because we find each other, that’s how.”

  “That’s not really an answer,” I said.

  “It took me thirty-five years to run into my first hopper. How long did it take you?”

  Hopper…?

  “Twenty,” I said. “What’s a hopper?”

  “We are. These are our skins, we’re hoppers, and we find each other. Nobody knows why, but it’s special when it happens. Now you know you’re not alone. Be happy with that.”

  “Are there a lot of them … us?”

  “Depends on what you’d call a lot or a little,” she said. “A hundred? Less? I’m just as in the dark as you. We all are, until we’ve proven ourselves.”

  In the dark.

  “What was that weird darkness in your eyes. When you first…”

  She had me feeling self-conscious.

  “Hopped,” Rose said. “It’s okay, you can say it. The darkness is a stasis field somewhere in outer space. Who understands aliens?”

  “Got it.”

  Still in the dark.

  Rachael Anderson owned a Honda with no frills. Not even a rental. Considering Rachael was a district attorney, I wondered if using her own car and not flying down meant something. A show of frugality from a distinguished official. With political types, everything they did could be used against them in the court of public opinion.

  Rose declined to drive when I asked her preference, but she seemed a lot happier now.

  “So…” I said, wondering how best to ask my next question.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering: how long have you been doing this? When did you first die?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. “Have you ever been to prison?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Horrible place. Can’t recommend it.”

  “What’s the first rule of prison?”

  Don’t help the guards? Don’t steal from other prisoners? Make friends and stay in a group? Find the biggest guy and punch his lights out?

  There were a lot of rules, and none of them…

  “Ah,” I said. “Everyone serves their own time.” A moment later, I added, “Sorry for prying.”

  Rose reached over and patted my leg.

  It was interesting how quickly we’d become friends. Pre-suicide, making friends had never come easily. With Rose, it was like we were the last two people in the world, so of course we’d be friends.

  I was working up the nerve to ask another question, but we’d arrived. Then I had to pay attention to all the cars and people pushing baskets.

  After I parked, Rose said, “Don’t forget to pick up some hacksaws.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was joking.

  “I’m not getting hacksaws,” I said. “Just suitcases. One for Ricky, one for the maid.”

  “Tell me more about Ricky.”

  “A mobster,” I said. “Rachael’s a district attorney, and a mob boss named Lenny wants her dead.”

  “It’s always something,” she said and started walking.

  I stared at her a second, shook my head, and followed.

  It took me ten minutes walking around and backtracking down aisles to find what I was looking for. They didn’t have suitcases large enough for my needs, but I did find some big plastic tubs with lids, on wheels.

  After adding a roll of duct tape from the hardware section—and a hacksaw, just in case—I headed to checkout. When I got in line, I noticed Rose standing in an express lane a few registers down.

  “Big ones, huh?” the checkout clerk said.

  He came around the counter to scan one of the tubs.

  “Yep,” I said, angling to see what Rose was doing. She worried me. Frequently.

  “Storing stuff, huh?”

  “Dead bodies,” I said.

  The clerk laughed.

  When I went to pay, the clerk called a manager over to look at the hundred dollar bill I gave him. That lasted a while.

  Rose walked past carrying a small plastic bag. Was it me, or had she added more sway to her hips than normal? Rose looked back to see if I was watching, smiled, and kept going. I felt another twinge of guilt over her ride, considering what Rose and I had done last night. Then I felt worse because it was only a twinge.

  After paying, I nodded at the nice employee waving at everyone and wheeled the tubs outside into the humid Georgia heat. Rose wasn’t by the car when I got there. I looked around and saw her next to a concrete outdoor ashtray with a lit cigarette in her hand, coughing. I went over.

  “Hey there, Smokey,” I said, setting the tubs down.

  Looking a bit green, Rose said, “Terrible habit.”

  “I’ve heard. But is it Rachael’s habit?”

  In response, she took another drag—then coughed again several times before giving up and stubbing it out. Her face was shiny from sweat, and not because of the heat.

  “Ready to go?” I said. “Or do we need to go back in for some chewin’ tobacco?”

  “Now that’s disgusting,” Rose said and headed back to the car.

  Chapter Nine

  When we pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I noticed were six police cars with their lights flashing in front of the big hotel, and two ambulances.

  “Just curious,” I said. “But did you remember to put the sign on the door?”

  “You were the last one there.” Her tone was detached, almost like she didn’t care.

  “Doesn’t mean someone walked in,” I said, mostly to myself. “Could just be a fight broke out at the convention.”

  “At the lawyer convention?”

  She had a point.

  “If we go in there,” I said, “and they’ve found the bodies, you need to say I kidnapped you and threatened to kill you. Then—”

  Rose said, “Just drive away. I know a place we can go. Why go back?”

  Why indeed?

  I found a spot and parked. We got out.

  I said, “If we can get out of this without the police messing up Rachael’s life, we should try.”

  “So she can go back to cheating on her husband? Did you know she has two kids? Carries both their pictures. What’s she doing down here with condoms in her purse if she has a husband and two kids?”

  A news van pulled into the lot, and the gathered crowd turned as one to look at it. We needed to do something soon.

  “Could be she’s a widow,” I said. “Still wears the ring.”

  Rose snorted. “When you were buying your stuff, her husband called to say he loved me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t love you,” she said, laughing.

  I gave her a flat look. “What did you say to him?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Rose…”

  “How long have you been doing this again? You act like you were reborn yesterday.”

  I felt embarrassed, as if I needed to defend myself. “Long enough to know our rides are never what they seem.”

  Rose whistled. “That long, huh? Go in if you have to. Just be careful. I’
ll be here trying to smoke.”

  I peered over the car to the one, two … seven cop cars. Maybe it was nothing.

  Feeling like a thousand eyes were watching me, I strolled casually through the sliding front doors and found the lobby occupied with cops talking to hotel staff and guests.

  I sidled up to an older guy wearing a conference badge and said, “What happened here?”

  “Heard somebody got shot,” the man said. “Hope it wasn’t one of ours.”

  “Just one person?”

  “Beats me,” he said and turned away.

  Across the lobby, the man who’d pestered me during Spongebob was speaking with a cop. Quickly, before he saw me, I turned around and headed back into the stinky Savannah heat.

  Rose stood leaning against the car, puffing away.

  “Quick, get in,” I said.

  “What happened?”

  “They found the bodies, now let’s go.”

  I took off before she could buckle up. More police cars were arriving as we left, all with their lights flashing. None of them slowed to look at us.

  “Pull up to that light and hang a left,” Rose said.

  “I know where I’m going. If I can get to I-16, we’re home free.”

  “Or you can turn left up there and go to my house.”

  Did she say her house?

  I was so dumbstruck by the absurd statement I missed both turns.

  Rose sighed. “Pull into that gas station and turn around. Do you want me to drive?”

  “What do you mean your house?” I said, making for the gas station.

  “Stop the car, Dan.”

  Mystified, I did what she said.

  Rose got out, came around, and opened the door. I got out reluctantly and switched with her. Then we set off.

  “What do you mean your house?” I said again.

  Flicking me an irritated glance, she said, “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  * * *

  We exited old town Savannah, crossed the Savannah River, and drove for thirty minutes down backroads, over swamps, and through large tracts of land overgrown with deciduous trees. Occasional clumps of ramshackle houses sprang up and disappeared.

  Consulting my mental map of the region, I decided Rose was purposely taking us into the middle of nowhere. At least we were safe from the cops. For now.

  “What’s this about a house?” I said for the tenth time.

  “Just be patient,” she said in a clipped tone that conveyed, Now shut up.

  On a country road in the middle of nowhere, we arrived at a T intersection. Ahead was more of the same. To the left, the road passed through what looked like farmland, though I didn’t see any crops. And though there wasn’t a stop sign, Rose stopped. She looked off across the farmland and took a deep breath. The muscles in her jaw bunched and relaxed again and again.

  “Everything okay?” I said.

  Rose ignored me and turned left.

  Five minutes later, we pulled onto a gravel drive blocked by a rusty gate with a chain looped over a stout fence post. In the distance, a large plantation-style house appeared out of the unkempt scenery like a scene in a child’s popup book. Unlike the landscaping, which looked to have been mowed and shaped sometime during the Civil War, the two-story house was brilliant white and in good repair. Each floor sported floor-to-ceiling windows, with a wraparound porch and a faux balcony beneath the top central window. For all I knew, it could have been a historical residence.

  I opened the gate. Rose drove through and parked just beyond it.

  She got out and said, “What do you think?”

  “There was a land of cavaliers and cotton fields called the Old South,” I quoted from Gone With The Wind.

  Rose pursed her lips. “Here in this pretty world, gallantry took its last bow.”

  I scratched my head. “You said this is your house? What did you mean by that?”

  “I grew up here. When I’m nearby, this is where I stay.”

  Before I could ask something else, she was moving toward the front door. I shut my mouth and followed.

  The house had a metal box affixed to the wall beside the door. Rose popped it open to reveal an electronic keypad. I tried to watch her fingers, but couldn’t see through the shadow she cast. Then the front door beeped and clicked.

  Rose closed the metal flap and glanced back at me. I must have been gaping at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “I’m just impressed, is all. I haven’t had a place to call home in a long time.”

  “It helps to have something,” she said.

  When she opened the door, I blinked in surprise at the video camera hanging from the ceiling in the grand foyer, pointing at us.

  Rose went in and I moved to follow.

  “Hold on,” she said, stopping me. “I need you to wait here a minute.”

  I angled my head for a better look inside. “What for?”

  “Because that’s one of the rules,” she said, shoving me backwards and closing the door.

  I heard her throw the deadbolt. With nothing to do but wait, that’s what I did. Surprisingly more difficult than waiting in the Great Wherever.

  Five minutes later, Rose came back.

  “Clothes on the floor?” I said. “Dishes in the sink?”

  She stepped out of the way. “Something like that.”

  “Speaking of clothes, we didn’t bring our suitcases.”

  “There’s clothes in all sizes up in the rooms.”

  That was odd. “Are you serious? Why?”

  “It’s one of the perks.”

  “Kind of an odd perk.” I walked in and had a closer look at the ceiling camera. There was an angry red light on the front, so it was definitely powered on. “What’s the camera for?”

  “Security. Welcome to my home, Dan. Want a tour?”

  I nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Hardwood floors spanned wall-to-wall on the main floor, with area rugs everywhere but the tiled kitchen. The house may have been old-styled, but the furniture and other features were not. Whoever furnished it had chosen comfort over fashion. The living room had La-Z-Boy recliners and a big comfy upholstered couch patterned in flowers and falling leaves. But all I cared about was the big screen television and entertainment equipment. I grinned at the rack of DVDs standing against the wall.

  “Yeah,” Rose said, “about those…”

  Too late, I pulled one out and looked at it—and blinked in surprise at the lurid pornographic scene on the cover.

  “Okay…” I said and put it back. I took out another video from a different section. Angry Bitches In Heat 5. It, too, was pornographic. I browsed the spines, looking for an inoffensive title. Eventually I found a normal movie. Kindergarten Cop.

  “I love that one,” Rose said, smiling. “Those others aren’t mine. The landlord … he rents the place out for … oh, parties, that kind of thing. They must have forgotten to pack these up after the last one.”

  “Parties?” I said, looking around. “And how does that work, exactly? When you say this is your house, what does that mean?”

  “Don’t you have someone out there who knows who you really are, what’s happened to you?”

  I nodded. “A few people, but I only talk to one of them. He’s a pain in the ass.”

  Rose leaned back on a recliner and crossed her ankles. I sat on the sofa.

  “What if that person was rich,” she said, “and bought you a house to stay in sometimes?”

  “He’d still be a pain in the ass.”

  She frowned. “The landlord … he has his moments. But he did buy me this house, so I owe him. And the parties and all this”—she indicated the DVDs—“are a small price to pay.”

  I thought about that. It sounded like a good deal. Something stable she could rely on, provided she caught a ride … skin … near Georgia. Still, there was something about it that bugged me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I had it.

  Carefully I said, “Do
you have to … um, do anything?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, of course not. Well, actually wait, yeah, but it’s not what you think.” She grinned. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Dan, and follow me.”

  I followed her through the kitchen—spectacular, with modern appliances everywhere—and into a utility room of sorts filled with equipment and tools. Rose examined a tank with pipes coming out of it.

  “Can’t have water without a pump,” she said and flicked a switch on the wall. Then came a thrumming sound and the hiss of air through empty pipes, followed shortly by water filling a tank. “Now for the water pressure.” She flipped another switch. “When the tank fills up, you can take a shower.” She frowned. “Guests are instructed to bleed the tank and turn off the pump before they leave.” She pointed at a sheet of instructions taped to the wall. “Usually they just leave it on. Every time I come home, I’m surprised the place isn’t flooded.”

  Rose left the room and took me to the dining room.

  “I rarely eat in here,” she said. “A little too formal. I usually eat in the living room, unless the house is full of…”

  “Party animals?”

  It seemed odd that anyone would come to the middle of nowhere to watch porn and bake soufflés. With the camera in the foyer, the place felt more like a CIA safe house than anything else.

  “Guests,” Rose said.

  We took the stairs to the upper level. Wherever there was bare wood, the floor was dusty, as if nobody bothered to clean beyond doing the dishes or throwing out the trash.

  She smiled. “Sometimes when I arrive, the house is trashed. This time it’s not so bad.”

  We were in one of the spacious bedrooms.

  “Your landlord—he makes you clean and take care of the place?”

  “Nobody makes me do anything,” she said. “It’s a fair trade. And I enjoy it. This is my house, you know, even if you don’t believe me.”

  “I never said that. So who’s this landlord person?”

  Rose snorted.

  “What?”

  “Let’s just say the less we have to do with that man, the better.” She stepped close and ran a finger down my chest. “Feeling frisky?” Her finger traced down, down, down. “Nothing wrong with this pump…”

  I wanted to ask more about her landlord friend—where he was, how long she’d known him—but Rose took my hand in hers and kissed me. It seemed rude to ask questions just then, as well as silly and difficult with her tongue poking around everywhere. Then she pulled me down on the bed and I forgot my train of thought.