Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3) (19 page)

I
woke
up in a hospital connected to tubes and beeping machines and the sounds of staff and visitors walking just outside my door. I felt pretty good. Morphine does that to you.

The busy nurses and staff breezed over my questions, except for the most basic ones. They said I’d been in a coma for a week after getting shot up pretty bad. Nothing about who’d brought me here.

A day later, a nice detective named Randy Wilson showed up.

“How did you get shot?” he said, not bothering with chitchat.

“I don’t know,” I said, scratching my head with the arm I could still move. The other was strapped across my body. “It’s all a blank.”

“What’s all a blank?”

“It.”

“And what’s
it?
”

“Anything can be an
it
,” I said. “That’s what makes
it
special.”

The humorless Detective Wilson and I went back and forth like that for a while. I told him I’d seen a white light back in Seattle, it felt great, and then I woke up in the hospital—my best guess of what George might say if Nate’s experience was universal.

“How did you get here?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

The detective said they’d found me lying on the sidewalk outside a jewelry shop with a tourniquet around my arm and my chest packed with gauze. Whoever left me there had thrown a rock through the store window to set off the alarm.

No way the minister had come up with a shady idea like that. My guess was Karen—a mutual friend of Rose, apparently, just like Stephen. I just wish I’d told her my real name up front. Maybe she wouldn’t have ratted us out.

Throughout the interrogation, I kept hoping my doctor would come in and order the detective to leave like they always did in the movies, but he didn’t. I’d only seen him once. He’d slipped in and out quickly, talking nonstop so I couldn’t ask any questions.

“Who’s Nathan Cantrell?” the detective said at one point.

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s paying your hospital bills. You sure you don’t know him?”

I continued to claim ignorance and said I hoped they found whoever shot me. I expected the detective to get mad, but he didn’t seem to care all that much. Almost like he was going through the motions. After ten more minutes, he got up, thanked me, and left.

Soon after my first kick, a week after talking with the detective, someone else showed up.

“I’m Allen Franco,” a short, fat, balding man said, shaking my good hand carefully. “I’ve been hired by Nathan Cantrell to advise you.”

“You don’t say.”

“You’re not in any trouble yet, so that’s all I’m going to do: advise. I was asked to bring you this.” He removed a small video camera from a briefcase and handed it to me. “It’s my sister’s, so don’t mess it up. Mr. Cantrell said you’d know what to do with it. If you agree to my help, I’ll need you to sign a few things. Everything you say is strictly confidential, of course.”

I nodded, and yeah I knew what to do with it.

After signing the papers, I said, “This’ll probably sound weird. Just roll with it, okay?”

“I roll with everything, Mr. Connolly.”

I asked him to shut the door and he did.

“Hello, George,” I said into the camera after pushing the
Record
button. “You may have gone somewhere strange, and maybe it only lasted a few seconds, or possibly longer. Here are the basic facts…”

For the next five minutes, I told the real George where he’d gone to, how he’d been shot, and that I—someone named Dan—had taken possession of his body. I told him if he needed any legal help to work with Allen, and that Nate would pay his bills until he could get back on his feet.

When I stopped recording, Allen had a strangely embarrassed look on his face.

“How’s the rollin’ goin’, Allen?”

He swallowed. “I may have rolled to a dead stop, George … Dan, whoever you think you are.” He shook his head. “I wondered why Mr. Cantrell offered me so much money. Now I know.”

“You still on board?”

Allen nodded.

“Sometime tomorrow or the next day,” I said, “I’ll forget everything we’ve talked about. And don’t bother thinking it’s an act, because it isn’t. Just show me that video and do your best in a difficult situation. If you don’t believe it’s real, that’s fine, just play along and earn good money for it.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

After packing the camera and papers into his briefcase, Allen left.

With the cops handled and George squared away, I lay back and enjoyed the good things in life: morphine, a redheaded nurse who walked by my room every five minutes, and as little hospital food as possible.

Two more kicks came and went, and I was kicked out for good in the middle of a nap.

W
ell
, that’s a good sign.

The Great Wherever was back to normal. No gray world with snake things chasing me and swallowing my memories. No winged beings rushing around bumping into each other. Stillness and thought and nothing else.

One thing I’d hoped for was the return of my memories, but that didn’t happen. My guess was they were gone for good. The lesson was clear—I could choose my time of exit from a ride, but there was a terrible price to pay.

Thanks to Karen, the landlord knew I’d trespassed in another of his houses. He’d sent gunmen there to kill me and the minister. At this point, no amount of money would placate him.

After what felt like a week spent hovering in the Great Wherever, I sensed a portal in the void.

I reached.

“
F
uck you
, you sick son of a bitch!” someone shouted behind me through a wall of sound coming from everywhere at once.

It was nighttime, and I was on a boat. A large one, under power.

The boat rocked and shuddered, and gravity pressed me down on a foam cushion. Then the world got light and fluffy, and I felt an uncomfortable tickle in my stomach as if I were falling. When the boat smashed back down again, briny water sprayed into the air and onto the windshield, but I still got wet.

Sometimes my rides owned boats, and it was always a blast tooling around in them. This was a fishing boat, with holders for multiple rods spread out, all of them currently empty. I was sitting up top in a pilot area with the wheel and other controls. Open air gaped behind me and a ladder led down to the deck. A man was lashed to one of the safety rails that ran around the back compartment where people normally fished and drank beer. He was bloody and bruised from bouncing off the fiberglass deck, and the floor of the boat was a disgusting mix of blood and vomit.

“Vinnie, if you’re gonna kill me just fucking do it!” he shouted.

I pulled back the throttle and the boat slowed its wave-pounding assault on what looked like moderately high seas. The coast was a golden glow of beautiful lights outlining the Manhattan skyline. In the morning, it’d look like a bunch of dirty buildings poking up from muddy brown water, but sometimes the truth was ugly.

I let the motor idle and checked the fuel gauge. The needle was on
Full
. I could go anywhere I wanted. Instead of that, I climbed down the ladder and had a look at my prisoner.

T
he man was
about fifty years old, a little overweight, and his formerly white shirt was now torn and stained with blood. One of his shoes was missing.

For the first time, I realized it was cold out. Not frostbite freezing, but edging into uncomfortable. My adventures as Trevor and then George had been in January, so it could still be winter, or possibly early spring.

“What’s the date today?” I said.

“What?” he said, watching me warily. “It’s fucking Monday. What the fuck?”

“No, the
full
date. Month, day of month, year, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

I leaned down in front of him and stared in his eyes. “Do you want to get out of this alive?”

“You’re a twisted son of a bitch, Vinnie. Just fucking kill me and get it over with.”

I thought for a second. “Let’s try something else. How many people have you killed?”

“Don’t know,” he said.

“But you
have
killed people.”

He smirked. “Same as you.”

I doubted that, but let it pass.

“Ever kill any children?” I said.

“No.”

“Is that your code?”

He shook his head. “Just never had to, that’s all. Why?”

“If you had to kill a kid,” I said, “would you?”

Whoever he was stared at me for several seconds—probably hoping I’d let him off, but worried it was an elaborate joke at his expense.

“No. I’m not like you. I got fucking class.”

That was interesting. Did it mean my ride was a kid killer? Or was my prisoner simply being belligerent? I guess it didn’t matter. After meeting Stephen and witnessing firsthand his own special code—old people only—I was fresh out of tolerance for creative hypocrisy. The man was a killer, and that’s what mattered.

“Tell me your name,” I said.

“Jesus…”

“I doubt that—try again.”

The man laughed. “You’re a real riot, asshole.”

“Here’s the deal, Jesus. I’m going to ask you a bunch of really stupid-sounding questions. Stuff I already know. If you put up with it for a little bit, answer them honestly, I promise I’ll stop hurting you. You have my word.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Everyone said you were a sick fuck.”

“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Swear word. Family boat.”

The man shook his head and looked away.

“First question: why are you tied up?”

“What is this, some kind of psychological torture? I’m pretty good at that too, you know.”

I leaned forward. “You are? In what way?”

He spit in my face.

Disgusted and shocked, I stood up and wiped my face as best I could with my sleeve.

“Eew!” I said, still wiping. “That’s totally gross. No wonder people tie you up.” He’d gotten me in the eye, dammit. “What kinda guy spits on people?”

The man smiled bravely through clenched teeth, body tensed as if ready for a bullet.

I leaned way out over the rail, scooped up cold ocean water from a swell, and splashed my face clean. Thank goodness my mouth had been closed. I cupped some more and rinsed anyway. No cooties in saltwater.

When I finished, I stood out of range against the aluminum ladder and said, “Let’s try again. Other than being a foul-mouthed Spitty McSpitter, why are you tied up like this?”

Several seconds passed with him staring at me sideways in confusion. Then he laughed.

“What, you’re wearing a wire? I’ve seen it all—Vinnie Carpino turned snitch.”

“Aha!” I said, pointing at him. “You just said
Carpino
. I work for Lenny Carpino. Is that right?”

“Yeah—like a fucking dog, asshole. Fuck you, and fuck Lenny!”

He tensed up again, waiting for me to beat him or whack him or offer him fishes he couldn’t refuse. Mob stuff.

From my jacket, a cellphone chimed a standard ringtone. I went to answer it and found two phones. One was a prepaid model like you’d buy in a drugstore, and the other was expensive.

“One second,” I said, and climbed back up to the pilot’s area for privacy.

“Is it done?” Lenny said when I answered the cheap one. The same way he’d asked me when I was Andre the hitman after dumping that body at the transfer station.

“Yeah, it’s done.”

“You make him suffer like I said?”

I looked down at the guy: sitting miserably in his mess, staring at me in hatred. Probably planning his next spit attack.

“Yep. Just like you said.”

Lenny said, “Good,” and hung up.

I climbed back down. “Boss says it’s good that you suffered before I killed you. Now what do you say: you ready to go home?”

B
efore setting out again
, I learned my prisoner’s name: Paul Scalzitti from Oceanside, New York. It was written on some papers in a cubby in the pilot’s compartment, and when I said his name he looked at me in recognition.

Gazing across the water, I marveled that I was back in New York again. A quick check of my license showed my ride’s name was Vinnie Carpino. The Great Whomever was tugging the strings pretty hard this time.

If I could find a nearby marina and park the boat, I could call a cab and go wherever home was.

Paul said, “Where the hell you taking me?”

“I’m letting you go. Don’t bother arguing—I’m not killing you no matter how much you beg.”

Paul stared sullenly at me from his tether. His arms were lashed behind him, corded up to his armpits and around his neck creating a straitjacket effect.

I eased the boat forward and puzzled on what to do. Paul got up and steadied himself by hooking his lashed arms backwards over the rail.

“If you’re fucking serious, the fucking marina is fucking that way,” he said, motioning
that way
with his head.

I’d never heard so much profanity before from one guy.

“
The foolish and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing,
” I said, “
is a vice so mean and low, without any temptation, that every man of sense and character detests and despises it.
”

“Fuck you,” Paul said.

“That was a George Washington quote.”

“Fuck George Washington.”

“You sure this is the way to the marina?” I said after five minutes going in the direction he’d indicated.

I thought Paul might insult me again, but he didn’t.

“You see that red light there in the water? Keep going that way, and keep it on your right.”

“I don’t see it.”

Paul made a sound of disgust. “Why you take my boat for, you don’t know how to drive it? Point with your hand.”

I pointed along the coastline until he said to stop, then we headed that way.

“You need to turn more to port … your fucking
left,
asshole. Low on the water. Don’t look at any other lights for a minute. Christ…”

I’d followed all his instructions to the letter and still didn’t see it. Maybe he was pulling my leg, trying to beach us on a reef. Were there even reefs in New York? Wait—there it was. At least I
thought
that was a red light and not a reflection off the water.

“I think that’s it,” I said, and took us toward it.

There were more lights and other floating landmarks to follow after that, and pretty soon marinas were everywhere. We didn’t see any other pleasure traffic on the water. Too cold, and too late at night.

“Why we stopped?” Paul called from a seat he’d managed to unfold from the bulkhead.

“For very mysterious reasons,” I said.

Vinnie’s flashy gold watch put the time at one in the morning. It also showed the date. To my alarm, an entire month had passed since my last ride. After the machine gun assault, I’d been worried sick about my mother and sister. Karen had blabbed my name to the landlord, so he knew I was involved. Was the money enough to forgive what I’d done to his men?

That’s right:
his men. I didn’t think they were hoppers. There was something organized about their approach that night, and their weapons weren’t the kind you’d find at the bottom of a hopper house donation box. That made the landlord both more and less dangerous. More, because he had fricking mercenaries at his disposal. Less, because he had to pay them, and at the end of the day, Nate’s money was mercenary-paying money.

I figured Vinnie used the prepaid phone to talk securely with people. Desperate for information, I used it to call Nate.

“
N
ate
, old buddy,” I said. “How’s it hanging?”

In a groggy, confused voice, Nate said, “Huh?”

See how I put him at ease by establishing familiarity? Very psychological.

“Who is this?” he said, voice hoarse from sleeping.

“Dan the Man,” I said. “Not too late, is it? I thought you wouldn’t mind, considering it was me. Not because you owe me your life, either. I hate guys like that, always bringing up people’s eternal debt whenever they need a favor.”

I heard Tara’s sleepy voice in the background.

“You sound different,” Nate said.

“Think about it.”

He paused for several seconds. “Oh. Right. I’m tired, okay? Hold on.”

He said something to Tara that sounded like
flufafoobla mu mulo
, then came back and said, “I’m taking the phone downstairs.”

“Everything okay?”

He didn’t reply.

A minute later, he said, “Sorry … listen, a lot’s changed since you were here.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s Father Hendricks. He’s found some new … uh, person. One of those hoppers or whatever it is you are. He’s going around exorcising people all over the country.”

“
What?
” I shouted.

From down below, Paul shouted, “What the fuck now?”

Nate said, “Who was that?”

“Nobody. Why is he still messing with them? The guy who owns them sent gunmen last time! I got shot. He knows it was me.”

The minister was either stupid or he just didn’t care.

“Father Hendricks mentioned the gunfight,” Nate said. “From me to you, that’s kind of badass, you taking them out like that. Anyway, him and that woman are out there doing the work of the Lord. She got kicked out once and he had to pick her up in the next body.” He paused a second. “Wild stuff, man. He’s a priest, so I guess that’s what they do. But hey, listen, there’s something you need to know, and I’m not sure how to tell you.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want to hear any more. A sinking feeling, as they say, and I had one.

“Tell me you sent the money.”

Nate said, “Yeah, I did. But the guy … he’s got your mom, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“He kidnapped your mom. He sent a picture of her to Tara’s house by Fed-Ex. She’s okay though. It said so in the note, and I believe it.”

I banged the console in frustration. The minister was a menace, and Nate was just as bad.

If the landlord had kidnapped my mother, it was because he knew he could get that information to me through Nate. I’d
specifically told
the minister to tell Nate
not
to add his return address when sending the money, and to only use cash.

“Did you send him a check?” I said.

“No, man, I used cash.”

“Did you put Tara’s address anywhere when you sent the money?”

“What?” he said. “Uh …
oh
. Crap. Tara’s got these pre-printed envelopes with her address on them, and I guess I didn’t think. I’m really sorry, man.”

I shook my head. “What did the note say?”

“Hold on, I’ll read it to you.” I heard his chin scrape the receiver. “Here goes:
Tell Dan Jenkins he should have listened to me. I know about the raids, the murder of my staff, and the damage to my property. I have his mother, Cheryl Jenkins. Involve the police and nobody will find her body. Tell him to call me when he’s back. I just want to talk.”

Between the minister’s stupid mouth and Nate’s crappy extortion-paying skills, my mother never stood a chance.

“Did it say anything else?”

“No,” he said. “The private eye looked into it. Sure enough, there’s a missing persons out on Cheryl Jenkins. Your sister reported it.”

I slammed the wheel again and swore.

Paul said, “What the—”

“
Would you shut the fuck up?
” I shouted at him.

Paul closed his mouth and stared at me stoically.

Nate said, “You all right, man?”

“Yep. Keep talking.”

“After the letter came, I got my PI to look into that one address, in Dover. That’s the headquarters. He couldn’t tell if your mom was there, but he got a bunch of information. Photographs, patrol times—”

“Patrols?”

“Yeah,” Nate said, “with armed guards. You don’t wanna try sneaking in there, if that’s what you’re thinking. Look man … don’t worry about the money. I have more than I need, and if it keeps this guy from … you know … I’ll pay him whatever he wants. I feel like I’m responsible.”

I closed my eyes and calmed my breathing. I needed to think.

“It’s not your fault,” I said, even though it partially was. “You and Tara should leave for a while. Take her mom on a trip or something. At the very least get Tara to show you where Scott’s gun is.”

“She already did.”

“Does she know about any of this?”

“Heck no.”

“Great,” I said. “Look, I gotta wrap something up. But I need that information, and soon—as much as you have. Can you get it to me in the morning?”

“I’ll call my guy. Should be no problem, but it’s mainly pictures. You got an email account?”

Not after the snakes had sliced it away, but I didn’t tell him that.

“No. Can I borrow yours? If you send yourself an email, I can log into your account and read it.”

“Sure,” Nate said, and told me his hosting site, his username, and his password.

“freebird777?” I said.

He chuckled. “I love that song. So what you gonna do about your mom?”

Down below, Paul struggled in vain to eavesdrop over the idling engine.

“The landlord wants to talk,” I said, “so we’ll talk. If you can send what you have before noon, that’d be great.”

“I’ll call my guy first thing. Be careful, man. You know?”

I thanked him, hung up, and considered the best way to do just that.