by John L. Monk
“How so?”
He held my gaze longer than could be considered comfortable. “I’ll tell you what I know, but you won’t be satisfied.”
I stayed quiet and waited.
“I’ve met thirty others like us in person,” he said, “and know of more than sixty. Not the landlord—his voice never changes. All the hoppers I’ve met committed suicide, became trapped in a void, and then began returning to life. I have no reason to doubt your experience was any different.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the same,” I said.
“Our skins belong to unsavory types,” he said. “They’re our own personal playgrounds for about three weeks’ time.”
Again, he waited to see if I disagreed.
I didn’t.
“We only hop to places we’ve visited before we first died, up to a few hundred miles or so.”
I nodded. “The other hopper I met said that. Is this some sort of tribal knowledge?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He opened his little bottle and popped a pill into his mouth. Then he reached over, grabbed my juice, and took a sip. “We worked the pattern out long ago. How many places have you hopped?”
“Almost every state,” I said. “Never out of the country, though. I’ve always wondered why. I thought maybe it was like with ghosts, how they can’t cross water.”
“I pop up in the U.K. all the time,” Stephen said. “Usually in London. There’s always something to do in London. So there you go—now you know something you didn’t before.”
As great as it was to have confirmation of what Rose had said, I needed more.
“What about God?”
“What about her?”
I smiled. “Do you get the sense that you’re driven? When the two types of portals come, don’t you feel there’s something strange going on? An intelligence behind which one shows up?”
Stephen looked annoyed. “Whatever are you talking about, Dan-Dan? A portal’s a portal. Anyone who says otherwise is lying to you.”
Even Rose had agreed there were occasional good rides. I started to tell him about the one-offs I’d encountered, but then the phone rang.
Stephen got up and answered it. “Hopper House, how may I direct your call?”
He paused while whoever it was talked.
“Just having a little chat,” Stephen said and threw me a big wink. “He’s rather new. Must have thought he was the only one, the poor dear.”
Stephen listened some more. I assumed it was the landlord and wondered what he wanted. At one point, Stephen rolled his eyes, held up his hand, and made like someone was talking too much.
Then his face grew stern.
“I’ve warned you in the past not to push me,” Stephen said in a low voice, the closest to a serious tone I’d heard from him yet. “Yes, I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” He waited some more. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. You can probably shut up now—that’s a good chap.”
He ended the call.
“What an ass,” he said. “Wants us to get him money, of course. If it weren’t for these wonderful houses, I’d have nothing to do with him.”
Rose had acted much the same. She put up with the landlord because, per his title, he was the landlord. He could throw her out. Which he might actually do, based on what he’d told me.
I didn’t want Rose losing her house because of me, but the place was too connected to her sad life as Nancy the dognapper. If I got a chance, I’d talk to her again, see if I could get her to move on, or at the very least stop stacking bodies up on the property. That kind of crazy the world didn’t need, and it had to be miserable for her.
“What’s the matter with you?” Stephen said, peering at me closely. “You seem even more repressed than usual. It couldn’t be my pancakes. I used butter, not that oily margarine crap.”
“It’s not the food,” I said. “How much do you know about him?”
“The landlord? Not a whole lot. I know he set up all this.” Stephen indicated the house around us. “Likes to record us when we play. I don’t care, myself, but it rubs some of the others the wrong way.”
I looked around nervously and whispered, “What about audio?”
He looked briefly puzzled, then barked a laugh. “He wouldn’t dare! There’d be open revolt if he tried. Though I suppose he could lip read … If that worries you, just stay in the common areas where he can’t see you. And don’t use the internet unless you want him to see what you type. You can borrow my phone later to get online. Stick with the carrier and stay off the WiFi and you’ll be fine.”
I shook my head. Rose must have known all this, but she’d said nothing.
“He seemed particularly interested in you,” Stephen said. “Have you spoken to him since you arrived?”
I nodded.
Stephen’s voice dipped into that serious tone he’d used on the phone. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Mostly I just listened.”
He held my gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Don’t tell him anything personal, if you can help it. He’s an uncomfortable parasite when he gets his hooks in you.”
“I’ve heard.”
Impishly, he said, “Did he tell you his ridiculous theory about cosmic rays?”
It must have shown on my face because he snickered.
“I knew it! He tells everyone who will listen. Thinks it’ll get us to bring in more money. All for his little research project. He never lets on, but it’s obvious he’s trying to become a hopper.”
“I thought that, too.”
“He’s obsessed,” Stephen said. “If everyone could do it, we’d run out of skins in no time.”
We were quiet for a while. I ate more and tried to think up my next line of questioning.
Dealing with a ride’s money was always a puzzle and sometimes a joy for me. Usually I gave it to charity—after I finished spending it on myself. The thought of giving it to this skeevy landlord bothered me.
I shook my head. “Why give him money at all? Why not keep whatever’s in your pocket and get a hotel or something?”
Stephen’s smile was patient. “Because this is our home, don’t you see? Something definite in the world. The anchor our borrowed skins never can be. That’s why we can’t let the bastard twist the screws like he does to your friend Rose.”
“Wait,” I said, “you know Rose?”
“Everyone knows Rose,” he said. “Tough little farm girl, never leaves her home, won’t let the landlord keep his pervy mirrored ceilings and bedroom cameras. We talk sometimes on the forum. Sometimes I stay at her house when I’m down that way. She sure took a shine to you. For her, that’s something. She tried to keep you out. When she didn’t give you the number for the hotline, I thought she’d succeeded. I’m guessing the landlord called and gave it himself. Am I right?”
I nodded. Then I smiled.
Rose took a shine to me.
Something occurred to me. “Wait a minute—why didn’t you say something when we first met?”
Stephen grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and said, “Two reasons. One, I wanted to form my own opinion of you, and I’ve done that.”
“What was the other reason?”
He grabbed me suddenly and kissed me noisily on the cheek.
“I wanted to get laid!”
Laughing merrily, he put on his jacket and went outside. A minute later, feeling a bit stunned, I shook my head and followed him.
Chapter Twenty
It was a cloudless day, windy and cold. Colder than yesterday. When I asked what day it was, Stephen said Friday.
“Brrrr,” I said after getting in the car.
“It’s not that bad. Where’s your coat?”
Remembering Trevor’s ratty jacket, I said, “Shut in the laundry room where it can’t crawl out looking for us.”
“There are spares in the closets.”
“I’ll be fine in a minute.”
While he waited for the car to warm up, I explained the sorry state in which I’d found Trevor, and the circumstances of my return.
Stephen shook his head sadly and backed down the driveway. “I’ve always liked Mormons. So easy to talk to, and joyfully corruptible.”
Stephen drove for about fifteen minutes before taking the interstate toward Seattle. We weren’t stopping there, he explained. Our destination was farther north.
I put on an eighties satellite station and closed my eyes.
I’d been to Seattle as a child, vacationing cross-country with my parents in a rented RV trailer. Gas was much cheaper back then, and with our portable hibachi, food was too. That was a fun trip. Dad took me up the Space Needle while Mom babysat Jane, who’d thrown a fit and refused to get on the elevator. Because Jane hates fun.
“How much money does your ride have?” I said at one point.
“Sorry,” Stephen said. “My what?”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “Your new body.”
I still hated the new word.
Stephen giggled. “Why do you call them rides? They’re skins, Dan. Didn’t Rose tell you? As for his finances, that’s a surprise.”
With all the giggling and good cheer going on, I asked if any hopper ever remained more than three weeks.
“Not that I know of,” he said. Then he perked up. “I did hear there’s one who only gets a week. Must be maddening.”
I asked if he thought God was in charge of the whole thing, and he cast me a withering glance.
“That’s a definite no, Dan-Dan.”
Remembering how Rose treated her rides before she was kicked, I asked how he dealt with them.
Testily, Stephen said, “I get kicked bloody well out, that’s what.”
As shocking an admission as that was—leaving them free to harm others—I didn’t feel I could push him more without losing his good will. He’d admitted back at the house that all his rides were bad guys. He didn’t need to stack them up like firewood, but he could at least do something about them.
Stephen shook his head. Definitely irritated.
Time to lighten the mood.
“Are you British?”
“Bloody good guess, mate.”
“Pretty cool,” I said. “Funny how our accents switch. You said you go to London sometimes, but how many states do you pop up in?”
Stephen sighed. “Rose forgot to mention how persistent you are. And annoying.”
“I’m bloomin’ sixes and sevens is what I am, love. Bob’s your uncle. Top of the morning, governor!”
“We don’t say top of the morning, Dan.”
He’d taken an exit, so I held off asking what his favorite torture devices were.
We were in a jumbled section in the town of Everett, thirty miles north of Seattle, near a used car lot and a drive-thru restaurant. There were office buildings on one side of the street, single family homes on the other, and a Community Mountain Bank perched on the corner. Moderate traffic, and the air smelled faintly of burgers and fry oil.
“There’s my bank,” Stephen said, pointing out the window.
“How much are you withdrawing?”
“As much as I can,” he said and pulled into the lot. “I’ll be just a moment. Mind taking the wheel?”
“Said the actress to the bishop!”
Stephen rolled his eyes and went in.
I sat in the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirrors and seat the way I liked them. Safety first. A Cindy Lauper song came on, so I turned off the radio. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a car backfiring carried, and maybe two minutes later, a glance in the rearview mirror showed Stephen walking briskly out of the bank.
He opened the door and threw a bag into the back, then buckled up.
“That’s a bank bag, Stephen,” I said, staring at it.
“I know.”
“Did you just rob a bank?”
“No,” he said. “We did. Now go.”
Not one to argue, I pulled out, ran the red light, and floored it back to the interstate. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard sirens somewhere behind us. I cracked the window an inch, but couldn’t hear anything.
“We’re clear,” Stephen said, peering behind us through the seats.
“Did you shoot someone?”
He paused briefly before answering. “What if I did?”
I thought about that and looked at his face. Way too calm to have shot anyone.
“No, Dan,” he said at last. “I shot the ceiling to show I meant business. That way they wouldn’t load me down with any of those blasted ink packets.”
I felt myself relax.
“Not to tell you what to do,” I said, “and not like I’m the most honest person ever. But I don’t think we should be robbing banks. Especially to give to the landlord.”
Fifteen minutes later, heading toward Seattle, Stephen had me take another exit. He directed me through two turns to a different branch of the same bank.
“Another one?” I said. “You’re not secretly Robin Hood, are you?”
“You’re getting annoying again. Now pull over there.”
This time I kept the motor running with the car facing the exit. I used the little joystick to move the mirror all the way over to watch the door.
Stephen went in.
A minute later, I heard a bunch of pops again—Stephen, shooting up the ceiling, making a point.
These hoppers did what they pleased, without regard for traditional moral conventions. If any more proof was needed that God didn’t exist, here it was. I shook my head. All those years rebuffing women who’d thrown themselves at me, worrying about bad guys instead of relaxing. What a waste.
Stephen exited the bank carrying another bag.
I wondered how much fun it would be to rob a bank. How was it any worse than breaking into houses looking for food or weapons? Here, at least, the money was federally insured. The bank’s biggest expense would be fixing the holes in the ceiling.
“How many quid did you get?” I said when Stephen got in carrying a semi-automatic pistol, and not the revolver from the donation box.
“They’re called dollars, Dan, now let’s go.” He took some loose rounds from his pocket and began topping off the magazine. “Two more banks and then we’re done.”
On the way to the next score I said, “What are those pills you were taking?”
“Oxy. Why?”
“Can I have one? I’m feeling dangerous.”
Stephen laughed, dug out his bottle, and handed it to me. I opened it, shook two pills into my hand, and swallowed them dry. A ceremony, of sorts: we were now officially partners in crime.
“You coming in this time?” Stephen said when we got to the next bank.
“Um…”
“Get out of your pram, cropper,” he said in a fake British accent—which was weird because he was actually British. “We’re both bent as nine bob notes!”
I parked the car near the entrance so as not to alert any blue meanies in the area. Then we went in. Nice little bank—had that new bank smell. There was a big display with kids’ photographs pinned all over it, their faces painted in every shot. Apparently the bank had hosted a community thank you event and wasn’t letting anyone forget it.
“Okay, Stephen,” I said, rubbing my hands. “What do we do?”
Stephen’s eyes got a little wild. He streaked to the teller booth, cutting past four people in line. Raising his gun, he pointed it at the old man working the till and shot him in the head. Then he shot the old lady working the drive-thru.
A young woman, rushing to get to one of the offices, fell with a bullet in her leg. An old man with a cane who’d been standing in line got it next—another head shot. The rest of the customers hit the ground, covering their heads, screaming or begging or praying.
The shots had been very loud, and my ears were ringing, but I could still hear Stephen—whistling Yankee Doodle as he scrounged behind the booth, popping open cash drawe
rs and emptying them into a bag.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Ready for the next one?” Stephen said when we got in the car.
“What?”
“Hit it now, while the cops are scrambling?”
I blinked stupidly. He wanted to rob another bank. “We uh … no. Let’s just go. Okay?”
Stephen grabbed me and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Whatever you say, Dan. But first, something to eat. Near the house, not around here.”
The pills were kicking in. A good thing, all considered.
I got back on the interstate in the direction of Tacoma and the hopper house on the coast. I wondered what the water looked like during the day. Then I giggled.
Wet…
“Easy in your lane,” Stephen said, grabbing the wheel and righting the car. “Take that exit there and let’s get a bite.”
Homeless Trevor was obviously a lightweight. Of all the murderous homeless people I could have hopped into, I’d picked one who said no to drugs.
“Get it to go,” Stephen said. “Best not push our luck.”
I navigated the enormous automobile into the tiny little space in front of the big glowing menu and rolled down the window. Dutifully, I rattled off Stephen’s order, then kept reading down the menu until Stephen nudged me.
“Slow down, mate. Save some for next year.”
I slowed down, saving some for next year, then drove up to the window. I paid in cash and handed the greasy bags to Stephen, then pulled back onto the freeway high as a kite, driving under the influence in a world without consequence.
Somehow we made it back to the house without killing anyone else.
“Leave the money,” Stephen said and got out carrying the three bags of fast food.
There was a package waiting for us, propped against the door. An overnight delivery. I reached down, picked it up, and went inside. Stephen took the food to the dining room. He put his gun and the food on the table, and I dropped the package there, too.
“What’s all that?” Stephen said, pointing at it.
“Mail.”
Stephen grunted and tucked into the food like he had a grudge against it. I sat there watching him. He’d seemed like such a nice guy.