Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3) (5 page)

W
hen 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.”

W
e 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.

R
ose 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.

U
pon 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.”

She 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.