Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3)

by John L. Monk

  Chapter Ten

  Rose wasn’t kidding about free clothing. The drawers upstairs were packed with socks, shirts, and shorts in all sizes. There were even brand-new packs of underwear and panties, never opened. The closet had shoes and jackets and even more shirts and pants. I wondered what kind of rental house would do that. Maybe it was also a halfway house? But if that were the case, where was the person in charge?

  So naturally I asked Rose about it.

  Patiently, as if talking to a very slow child, she said, “The landlord also rents to a bunch of extreme fitness organizations. Surely you’ve heard of Cramp Camp? Grind Masters? The Mud & Blooders?”

  I shook my head, No, three times.

  “Great bunch of people,” she said. “They provide clothes as part of the package. Lots of slogging through mud and running around the woods.”

  At the time, it made perfect sense.

  I spent most of the day following Rose around and helping her clean. It gave me something to do while I tried to work out what I was experiencing. Not only had I met someone like me, but Rose seemed to be doing a lot better with her situation than I ever had. She had a house, for crying out loud. No sleeping on the streets for her, or dealing with the ragged ends of a failed marriage. Provided her various rides owned cars, she’d always have a place to come back to. For her entire three weeks, she could stay here and not worry about anyone or anything.

  Which was sort of a problem.

  What were we here for, in the bodies of awful people, if not to atone for our sins by making the world a better place? I almost asked her that … and then lost my nerve. I was afraid of what she’d say. The truth could set me free, but maybe I didn’t want to be free. Maybe I needed something more to live for, and any answer other than “I’m here to protect the world from evil just like you, Dan” was too much nihilism for me to handle just now.

  Also, I liked the way she made me feel and didn’t want to ruin it.

  Before my suicide, I’d never had a girlfriend except for Sandra, in college, and I’d made a mess of that. I wasn’t boyfriend material, and it wasn’t like Rose was offering anything long term. But we shared a collection of experiences that made what Sandra and I had look like a kindergarten crush. I was tired of being alone all the time, and I worried my desperation would push her away.

  Rose seemed oblivious to my surgical silence as she padded around polishing wood, dusting shelves, and washing linen. As the day dragged on, I stopped trying to help her and watched TV—Man of the Year—but she’d still ask me to do things.

  “Can you get me the green bucket from the pump room?” she said.

  I got her the bucket.

  “Can you help me move this couch so I can get behind it?”

  I did that too.

  Lunchtime came and I checked the refrigerator. I’d half-feared a terrible stench from rotting food, but it was cold and completely empty.

  I visited the back porch and smiled at the view over a wide and overgrown field. Rose was sweeping leaves and other debris off the side and humming quietly to herself.

  “Sorry to intrude on your good housekeeping,” I said.

  She stopped humming. “You’re not gonna ask me more questions, are you? I don’t know anything else.”

  “Do you know what we’re supposed to eat?”

  If I thought that would stop her, it didn’t. She continued sweeping, then started humming again.

  I waited.

  When she finished, she leaned the broom against the wall and said, “There’s a general store about two miles down. They close at six, so you have plenty of time. Probably a bad idea for me to go.”

  “They’re just as likely to be looking for me as you,” I said.

  Rose smiled. “So you’ll have to be extra careful, won’t you?”

  I sighed, went back inside, and got the car keys.

  The store was exactly two miles down the road, just as she’d said. I parked next to a beat up blue Chevy truck and went inside. The place only had one shopping cart, but I was the only shopper.

  Quickly, I went up and down the aisles grabbing enough food to last three weeks: loaves of bread, boxes of pastries, stacks of prepackaged cold cuts, condiments, several packs of bacon, three cartons of eggs, boxes of spaghetti and jars of sauce, cookies and milk, pancake mix with syrup and butter, all the pork chops in the little freezer they had, and a big package of Kool-Aid in two delicious flavors.

  There was a middle-aged black woman at the register who stared at me like she’d never seen a fugitive from justice before—which is to say she didn’t recognize me. Later on, after the news, or tomorrow after looking in the paper, who could say?

  “You’re sure doing some shopping now, ain’t you?” she said, ringing up each item.

  “Sure am,” I said, suppressing my inner Jenkins so as not to leave a favorable or strange or obnoxious impression behind.

  “Must get hungry, big as you are.”

  “At least several times a day.”

  She cast me an appraising glance, still ringing up purchases. “You staying up at the rental house?”

  “The uh, what?”

  “The big white house,” she said, nodding her head back the way I’d come.

  “What? Oh … uh, nope. Just driving through.”

  “I can always tell when someone’s staying there,” she said. “Some kind of club, I figure, but I mind my business. You not as rude as some of them others. That’ll be three hundred twenty-six dollars and thirty cents.”

  I blinked, trying to keep up with her. Then I got out my wallet.

  “Just driving through.”

  “Picking up a snack,” she said with a smirk.

  I made a noncommittal sound and waited while she bagged everything.

  “You come again, now.”

  “Just driving through,” I said again.

  Way to keep a low profile, Dan.

  When I got back to the house, Rose was gone.

  * * *

  Upon opening the pantry to put away the non-perishable groceries, I found a box on the floor with a sign taped to it reading, Donations.

  What kind of rental house had a donation box? In an empty pantry? Maybe it was for charity. Odd for a rental business, what with people getting sued for every little thing these days. One time, I’d gone begging at a fast food restaurant on one of my less fortunate rides, only to get turned away. Later that night, one of the workers came out to dump the day’s uneaten food. I’d crept from the shadows and asked if I could have some, and the worker said he wasn’t allowed. Then he’d padlocked the dumpster.

  I waited the rest of the afternoon and into the evening for Rose to show up. Several times, I found myself getting up to go after her—only to sit back down again for lack of a good cardinal direction. She didn’t have a car, just her feet, and she knew the area. But I had two things going for me that she didn’t: milk and cookies.

  The house had satellite TV with all the fixin’s, so there was plenty to watch. CNN was covering the story of the missing Queens district attorney and her apparent kidnapper/conspirator, Andre Murphy, known associate and suspected hitman for the Carpino Crime Syndicate. Police were on a statewide manhunt for both of us. We were considered armed and dangerous.

  “Thanks for that too, Ricky,” I said and got up for more cookies.

  Sometime around eight I heard activity at the back of the house. I went to investigate and found Rose standing in the mudroom with a guilty look on her face.

  “Where the heck have you been?” I said, flexing my moral superiority.

  “I felt bad sending you shopping, so I got us some dinner. Come on.”

  She left through the back with me trailing behind her. Immediately, the smell of fish hit me.

  “You went fishing?” I said.

  Rose shook her head. “Fishing is what you do when you’re trying to catch fish. We have a pond on the property. That’s where I caught all these catfish. Take a look.”

  Sh
e opened a medium-sized cooler. Sure enough, full of catfish—some of them pretty big.

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “You actually went fishing without me. I thought we were friends.”

  Rose sighed. “Maybe I would have asked if you weren’t so annoying. All those questions. It’s tiring, is all. I died, you died, I’m here, you’re here. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Did you at least commit suicide? Because that’s what I did.”

  “I don’t care what you did!” Rose shouted, slamming the cooler lid and storming into the house.

  Conveniently leaving me with a bunch of stinky fish to clean.

  “Way to go, Danny Boy,” I said.

  After cleaning the fish to merit badge perfection, I carried them in on a platter I’d snagged from a china cabinet. I patted down all but two of the fish with a paper towel, stuffed them individually into some ziplock bags I’d found in a drawer, and put them in the freezer. Then I put on the overhead fan, cracked a window, and fried the remaining two in a pan with butter. When they were done, I put them on a plate and covered them with a lid.

  “Rose?” I shouted up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!”

  I waited about a minute, climbed the stairs, and found her in one of the rooms passed out on the bed.

  “Rose?” I said and nudged her shoulder. Beside her on the bed was a bottle of pills with the cap on it. I had a look: Percocet, more than three years old, and not prescribed to Rachael Anderson.

  I tapped her face gently—then harder when she didn’t move.

  “Hey, wake up!” I shouted. The bottle was nearly empty. Hard to tell how many she’d taken. I dragged her out of bed and onto the floor, then jammed my finger down her throat.

  Rose started to thrash.

  “Ow!” I screamed and pulled my hand back. She’d bitten me.

  “What the hell, Dan?” she rasped, then began coughing and hacking, hand on her chest.

  “Are you okay?” I said. “How many pills did you take?”

  “I’m fine, Christ!”

  “How many?”

  “I dunno! Three, okay? What do you care? Just leave me alone…”

  Rose got up and crawled back into bed.

  “But I made fish,” I said helplessly.

  She didn’t reply.

  “How do you feel?”

  She made a sound of disgust. “Your precious Rachael is fine, now go away.”

  Feeling like an idiot, ashamed for getting caught caring more for her ride than her, I went back downstairs.

  Where the hell did she get that bottle?

  In the kitchen, I got some tupperware from a lower cabinet and washed it out. I sealed her portion of the fish and put it in the refrigerator. Tomorrow, she could have it for lunch.

  A few hours later, the news was still talking about District Attorney Rachael Anderson and her alleged accomplice, Andre Murphy. They also talked about the dead maid, and “one other body believed to be Ricardo Spilotro, nephew of suspected mob boss Lenny Carpino.” Viewers also got to see the maid’s grieving family crying in the hotel lobby four times an hour. The news didn’t show anyone crying for Ricky.

  I thought I heard the creaking of floorboards above. Quietly, I climbed the stairs and listened at the landing. She’d switched rooms. I heard her say something, but couldn’t make it out. I tiptoed over to the door and listened.

  “I know the cops are looking for us,” she said.

  Several seconds passed where she didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Nobody knows we’re here.”

  More silence.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s not like the others.”

  More silence. Then, about a minute later: “You wouldn’t dare!”

  She sounded angry, possibly frightened. I wondered what in the world could frighten an immortal like Rose.

  The sound of her slamming down the phone carried loudly into the hall, causing me to flinch.

  Quickly, I tiptoed away, cursing the squeaky floors, then turned at the last second and faced the room as if that’s where I’d been headed.

  “Hey, Rose,” I said when she came out. “I thought I heard you up and about.”

  Rose gasped in surprise, but recovered quickly. “I was just … um, checking to see if you were in there.” She pointed behind her.

  “I was just coming to check on you.”

  Rose affected an embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry about that … snapping at you earlier. And your poor hand. You surprised me is all.”

  “My ride’s German-Irish,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Rose declined dinner again and wished me a good night, then shut the bedroom door behind her.

  When I came up for bed later, sometime after midnight, I noticed Rose had hogged all the covers and pillows. I happen to be a big fan of covers and pillows, so I chose another room. Before turning in for the night, I ducked into the room where she’d assured someone I wasn’t like the others. A study or a library, or perhaps a reading room. Comfortable chair, bookcases with old novels lined up, a desk with a computer and printer, and a house phone next to it. I wondered if the internet worked, and turned the computer on to find out. It booted up, and wonder of all wonders, it brought me to a desktop with no password.

  When I clicked the browser, it opened to an updated news site. Briefly, I checked my free email account, which I’d managed to regain through a recovery process a few rides back. After deleting the accumulated spam that had slipped past the default filters, I clicked a note the minister had sent the day before. More stuff on the Book of Enoch, with links to various Internet sources proving I was “almost certainly a demon.”

  Between the minister slowly losing his mind and Rose whispering behind my back with people she probably thought were aliens, I’d never felt so alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day, Rose got up before I did. When I arrived downstairs, it was to the scene of a hearty breakfast in the making.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “You too,” she said, mixing pancake batter in a bowl. “Have a seat.”

  Impulsively, I came around and tried to give her a kiss on the cheek. Rose turned away.

  Still mixing, she said, “About that. Um … I’m sorry, Dan. You’re a nice guy and all, but let’s just be friends, okay?”

  Wow…

  Somehow, after all I’d been through, the rejection still stung.

  Time to dust off the ol’ teflon exterior.

  “Does that mean my fishing privileges have been restored?”

  Rose didn’t reply. She finished the pancakes, stacked them up high, and sat down across the table from me.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I said, reaching for the syrup.

  “Nope.”

  That was surprising, considering the way she’d demolished her meal yesterday at the hotel.

  “You said someone knows who you are,” Rose said quietly. “Someone who isn’t drifting, like us. You said he was a pain in the ass.”

  “A minister I know. What about him?”

  She watched my face intently. “Is he a close friend?”

  A good question. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s hard to define.”

  “Tell me more about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know more about you if we’re going to be friends.” She smiled mechanically, as if remembering to be friendly. “Personal stuff.”

  It felt odd, her sudden interest in my experiences. Until now, she’d masterfully deflected my every attempt to learn more about her and others like us. Then came that secret phone call—with me as the topic—and lo and behold, meaningful conversation was back on the table again. She didn’t seem happy about it, either. Or rather, she didn’t seem happy in general. Gone was the Devil-may-care Rose who’d taken Sam the comedian lawyer down a peg and sent him packing. Her eyes had been happy then, sparkling with bratty fun. Now it seemed as if any moment they’
d spill over in tears. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell why.

  I took another bite of my pancakes, washed it down with milk, and said, “It was my strangest ride ever … hop ever. Whatever you call it.”

  Rose nodded, not smiling at my word choice. The giggle factor, it seemed, had finally worn off.

  I told her the story of my ride as Nate Cantrell, the overly good-looking lotto winner and his gold-digging fiancée, Erika.

  When I mentioned how Nate had been a good guy, Rose said, “I almost never get good ones. When that happens, I never know what to do.” A second later, she added, “But I don’t kill them.”

  “What do you do when they’re monsters?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said in a tight voice. “Finish what you were saying.”

  I summarized the rest: how the minister realized what I was by touching me, and how he could kick me out if he wanted to.

  “Then what happened?” Rose said, leaning forward. “With the minister, not the woman.”

  “He said he was interested in learning about me—sort of like you, right now.”

  Rose blanked her face, not giving an inch.

  “I wrote something up and sent it to him in an email. About my experiences.”

  “What, like an essay? Do you still have it? Can I see it?”

  “Bigger than an essay.”

  “I’d love to read it sometime.”

  There were so many questions I had about my strange cycle of life and death. But every time I’d tried asking her, she’d shut me down or deflected the question. How old was she? What was her Great Wherever like? Had she ever kicked herself out on purpose, the way I’d once done? And probably the most important question: had she also committed suicide? Deep down, I still harbored this idea I was being punished for that.

  “If I let you read what I sent him,” I said, “would you finally open up to me a little?”