by Red Hammond
“She had a French boyfriend back when she was a freshman. Hardly anybody knows. It was hot and heavy. Even after she dumped him, they’ve stayed pretty close, call and emails and such. He was the first one she called.”
Hopper nearly crumpled to the floor. “Jesus. That’s where she’s going?”
Villeponteaux looked at his watch. “Already on the plane. Probably left a couple hours ago, five more to go.”
“Jesus.”
The old man coughed/laughed and pretended to reel in a fish. “Hooked.”
Hopper stood and stepped backwards, bumped into a couple of hipsters. Villeponteaux waved and called out, “Keep in touch. I’ll be waiting for you.”
It didn’t take Hopper long to make it to Violet’s. He called ahead, said it was urgent. She had gotten over being angry, was expecting this sort of backtracking from him, so she said the front door would be open and he could find her in bed.
That was exactly where he found her—the candles, the DVD paused on a edge-of-your-seat moment in a bad horror flick, Sister in bed, red teddy, purple sheets, her hair wet from the shower. She’d showered for him. Hopper was surprised.
He sat on the edge of the bed at her waist, rubbed the blanket over her thigh, and she gave him a sleepy yawning smile. “Hey, you.”
Hopper held up a bottle of Diet Coke he’d picked up at a convenience store around the corner. “Got you something.”
“Thank you. That was sweet.” She sat up, and Hopper had a better look at her face, the swollen lip and the bruised cheek. He twisted the cap off the Coke and handed it to her.
“Ouch. Looks like it hurts. I’m so sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. Let it be a lesson to you.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“I know you won’t.” She took a drink. On her bedside table were two half-finished bottles, probably from the last two nights. She never finished one.
Hopper said, “I was wrong the other night. It was all the grief, me me me. You were right.”
She patted his hand and said, “Hey, that’s why I’m forgiving you so easily. I understand, believe me. It hurts to be in love that much and have it not returned.”
“How’s the rest of you doing? Everything a-okay?”
“A little sore. A little ill. In the mornings. Maybe that’s psychosomatic.”
Hopper nodded, all his attention on the paused DVD screen. He had watched this movie with her before, knew that the scared blonde on the screen was about to be hacked up by some supernatural killer. Sister hated the movie and only watched it over and over again because of the comfortable scorn she felt. Knowing she was a better writer, a better craftswoman, a stronger person than the people who made this film helped Violet to sleep at night.
“I was thinking,” Hopper said. “You know, about going back to school. At first I wasn’t thrilled with it. But now…”
“See? I do know what’s best for you. I’m not out to ruin your life.”
“Let me ask you though.” He turned to face her. “How would you feel about leaving New Orleans for it? Maybe Baton Rouge, or Mississippi, like Ole Miss. Or, you know, I’ve always wanted to see Alaska.”
“Wow, that’s some big dreaming.”
“Is there anything really keeping us here except each other? I mean, Colin’s gone so much—”
Sister filled her cheeks with Coke and tried not to laugh. After swallowing, she said, “He’s not a problem. I don’t see that lasting much longer. I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me with his supervisor’s wife.”
“No, come on. He’s not.”
“Oh, yeah, he really is. Anyway, I’ll think about it. I can write from anywhere. What about North Carolina? I went to a conference there once and fell in love with Raleigh.”
“You know, that’s a good one. I can look into that.” Hopper was thirsty. He reached for one of the older Cokes on the nightstand.
“Here, have a sip of the cold one,” she said.
“No, I’m fine. Just need a little. The cold one is all for you.”
She said, “Awwww,” in a babydoll voice and took another drink.
Hopper didn’t want any because he’d also bought a box of those drowsy-making allergy pills that helped him sleep. He’d crushed up most of them and poured them into his Sister’s drink.
Pregnant or not, whatever Villeponteaux did to her would end her life while he found out. Hopper would make sure to get the info on Divinity first. If he really knew about Hopper and Violet, then his offer was custom designed to give Hopper an irresistible lure—as the sick bastard had said, a way to solve a couple of problems at once.
Too bad she was being the perfect older sister/maternal figure tonight. Hopper felt only a little bit bad about doing this to her. Most nights involved animal sex that he couldn’t refuse, hated himself for, so fuck her for being good at heart sometimes. Fuck that. Fuck it.
She yawned and smacked her lips. “I don’t like this Coke. It must have Splenda in it. That stuff tastes awful.”
“Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, it’s your fault. You put the crappy sweetener in it. Jesus, Hopper, why don’t you stop apologizing so much and stand up for yourself.”
He grunted and said, “Maybe I will.”
Another yawn, a very sleepy, “That’s my boooooy.” She reached for his hand. “Going to be a good man someday.”
He sat quietly holding his sister’s hand as she drifted off, hopefully into a coma.
She didn’t wake up as he carried her out to his car and laid her across the backseat.
He held her more affectionately than ever on the walkway to Villeponteaux’s front door. Something about her soft face and breath when sleeping, how gentle it felt against his cheek—no, the stakes were too high to let sentimentality fuck it up.
True love versus Whatever This Was with Violet.
Easy.
Hopper rang the doorbell and waited. Sister’s legs were cold. Hopper thought he should’ve brought a quilt along to cover them. She made a few comfortable noises, but was deep asleep and unaware.
The old man opened the door, a grin on his face. He stepped out of the way as Hopper carried Sister over the threshold.
“I knew you’d do me a solid,” Villeponteaux said.
“Where?”
“The kitchen.”
He had wrapped the kitchen table in plastic wrap, rigged some homemade stirrups out of chains and leather belts, with arm and chest restraints screwed into the wood. A tray full of surgical tools, more like dentist’s tools, was on the counter, soaked in water that smelled like bleach. Villeponteaux snapped latex gloves over his hands, shuffled around while Hopper carefully lowered Sister to the table. She didn’t react when his strong arms gave way to the hard surface. He stroked her hair and leaned close to her face, trying not to cry.
Yeah, she was a monster. She needed to be put out of business or she would keep this up. What would she do to her own child if she were willing to screw around with her brother? This was an incurable illness. Many predators like Sister expressed relief at their executions. Thanking the warden and the prosecutors for stopping them from committing more unspeakable acts.
A mental disorder. The good things she had done, the times she was so sweet and generous and sensible, couldn’t make up for the defective part of her brain.
That’s what Hopper had to tell himself in order to go through with it. Villeponteaux was like an angel that way—he had stepped in to right the wrong, which Hopper could not do. The fact that it took two more wrongs, well, enough with the brain drain.
Villeponteaux stood on the other side of the table and buckled her wrist into the restraint. He lifted her leg on that side and fit it into the stirrup. It swung and squeaked, her leg corpselike.
“Whoa, she’s a beauty. I couldn’t tell from a distance. I think she’s got what they call a handsome face.”
“Hey—”
“And the body, a
little worn down, but I can see why you got all incestuous with her.”
“It wasn’t like that. I…can’t explain it.”
Villeponteaux pointed to Hopper’s side of the table. “Do you mind? Help me out.”
Hopper strapped her in, half-hearted. He didn’t want to watch, didn’t know if Villeponteaux expected him to. Lifted her goose-bumped leg into the stirrup. He looked up to see the old cop air-snipping with a huge pair of scissors. Looked like a mad scientist. He slid the scissors between Sister’s skin and red teddy, and snipped it off right down the middle off her chest. When he reached the hem, he yanked the teddy off. Sister did not stir. She was naked.
Villeponteaux wolf-whistled. “Hubba hubba. And she’s got a little fur downtown. A traditionalist.”
Hopper’s face felt hot. If the man wanted to harvest this thing in her womb and then ease her into the afterlife, fine. But Hopper didn’t like him sizing her up like a porn actress. “Would you mind?”
“All right, don’t get all jealous.”
Jealous? That was the word. Goddamn, he was right.
“Let me ask you,” Hopper said. “You know for certain that she’s pregnant?”
Villeponteaux smiled. He shuffled down to the end of the table, sat in the chair between Sister’s legs, and pointed towards his tray of tools.
Hopper brought those over and set them on a TV tray next to the old man, who answered, “Three doctor’s visits in two weeks, one to a gynecologist. Plus, I saw the chart myself.”
“How do you—”
“You already asked that in the bar. None of your goddamned business. By the way, she told them the boyfriend was the father. That’s to be expected. Sooner or later, though, it would’ve smelled funny. Speaking of smelling funny.” Villeponteaux leaned towards Sister’s vagina and took a deep sniff. “Whoa, boy, are you sure you want to give this up? I think I need a little taste myself.”
“Come on.”
“No, really.” The old man stood up. He started unbuckling his pants. “I took a Viagra just in case. I can’t let this one get away. I’m thinking after I take care of the embryo, I’m going to give her a lobotomy and keep her around for a while, a kinky little sex slave.”
Hopper launched a hand and grabbed Villeponteaux around the throat, knocked the chair behind him over and kept him moving backwards until they slammed into the sink.
“That’s not the deal! The deal is you kill her when this is done. And you do it painlessly. Give her an injection. That’s how this ends.”
Villeponteaux jabbed at Hopper’s stomach with the scissors. He hopped back in time, but still took a hard gash. A circle of blood spread on his shirt. The old man held the scissors like a dagger, yet another ten years gone as he crouched, ready for anything. Hopper did the same, ten feet away.
“I’ll tell you what the deal is. It is what I say it is, and you shut the hell up.”
“I’m not letting you fuck her.”
“Of course not! You’re her brother. It’s your job to protect her.” His lips curled saying that. “Well, my job is to do anything I want to her in exchange for what you want. A street address for a small town in France. Whoops. Did I reveal too much?”
Hopper dropped his fists, stood straight. He looked over at Sister, then the floor.
“Well?”
“Tell me.”
He got laughed at.
“Now? That would be stupid of me, the way you reacted. I’ll tell you what—go away until morning. Come back at sunrise and I’ll write it down for you. Clean slate, no one owing anyone.”
Hopper pointed at Violet. “And she’ll be dead? The way I said to do it? I have to see the body.”
The humor in Villeponteaux drained. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to kill you. Then I’ll do whatever I want with your sister. The only other option for you is to leave until sunrise, come back and get your address. You won’t see Violet ever again, and what’ll become of her is something you’re better off not thinking about.”
Hopper hesitated. Didn’t they deserve each other? Wasn’t it some kind of payback for Sister to be violated and tortured by an even greater monster?
If Villeponteaux wanted to kill him, could Hopper really stop him anyway?
True love…
Sister was peaceful, pale, as if she had been born ready for the grave.
Hopper said, “Sunrise. You’d better have it.”
Villeponteaux wagged a finger. “Don’t lecture me. You’re a bossy little bitch for a guy who’s getting rid of the biggest weight he’s ever carried.”
“What?”
The old man spread his hands in Violet’s direction. “Think of me as a priest, absolving your sin.”
Hopper closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Mental snapshots of Divinity in the darkness. All smiles, all bounce. And then, the last one, huddled in a ball on her bed.
He opened his eyes. “Sunrise.” Then he headed for the front door.
Villeponteaux waited until Hopper was nearly gone to shout, “Lock it on the way out. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Hopper sat in his car, unwilling to leave. He dialed up an AM station, some crazy preacher instead of the usual retro-lounge stuff he’d come across by accident one night. The preacher didn’t help his nerves.
“Hear the marching footsteps, all those lost souls marching into hell.” Thump, thump, thump. Must have been the preacher hitting the console. “You hear them? A parade of souls. Worst of all, they don’t even realize where they’re headed. A lake of fire set in everlasting darkness.
“Already been there,” Hopper said aloud.
He had four or five hours until sunrise, which he knew would feel like a week. Where else could he go? He had a lump in his throat, couldn’t get rid of it. Kept burping. Felt like he was about to get caught red-handed.
Sister. Naked. Comatose.
Villeponteaux. Licking his lips. Dropping his pants.
Hopper considered driving to see Emily to apologize for what happened earlier in the day. Maybe she’d hear him out. He’d been under so much stress, what with Divinity and his sister and his whole rotten existence. Maybe Emily would invite him into her bed, would take over and do anything she could to make him feel better. Anything to take his mind off what was going on in Villeponteaux’s kitchen.
He imagined Emily, in her glasses, riding him.
He couldn’t concentrate.
It was something about Divinity, telling her everything he had to go through in order to find her. Winning her back by just showing up.
Only to have her say, “You sold your sister to a sadist killer for my French address?”
The preacher on the radio had wrapped up and was telling his listeners how to order a tape of the sermon. “You tell the operator you want ‘A Place Called Hell’ and we’ll get it to you on tape or on CD.”
Hopper continued his imaginary conversation with Divinity.
“What’s wrong?”
Hands on her hips. “After all we went through, you’d be as mean as they were to us?”
“Hey, you know I’ve got issues with my sister.”
“You’re better than that. You’re a forgiver. You believe in love. That’s why you’re going to come try to win me back.”
“If Sister is still around, that’s only going to make things more complicated, especially if she keeps the baby.”
Fake D grabbed Fake Hopper’s shoulders and shook him. “You big, stupid, simple man. Who cares? Complicated is the best we’ve got, so let’s deal with it. Deal with the drama instead of running from it. And yes, that’s going to suck sometimes.”
She gently kissed his lips. “But it’ll never be boring, and sometimes better than great.”
“Okay. Promise you’ll come back to me, though.”
“Of course I will. I’m a figment of your imagination. The real girl, you’ve got a coin flip there. I need you to promise me that you won’t change who you are.”
“Okay.”
&
nbsp; “Okay.”
He stepped out of the Pontiac with his blood-stained baseball bat and headed toward the house.
The door caved easily after two big kicks. Hopper beelined towards the kitchen, almost didn’t catch a naked Villeponteaux standing at the edge of the kitchen pointing his sawed-off shotgun at Hopper.
“I figured you’d come back.”
A goddamn explosion.
Hopper dropped to the floor, felt the heat pass over him, stray pellets searing into his scalp and shoulders. Lightning pain. Hopper heard the slide rack, then rolled to the side of the archway to the kitchen.
The second blast took out a piece of the wall, more stray pellets impacting Hopper’s forearm. He shook his hands like they were on fire, but the burning wouldn’t stop. Fuck it, then. Hard grip on the bat, Hopper got ready to pounce.
The old man said, “Just when I was getting a good rhythm with the bitch. I won’t miss this time.”
Rack slide.
Hopper took a wild guess at where it was coming from and launched into the kitchen, rolled, saw Villeponteaux’s legs. He gave those knees a mighty thwack and watched the old man fall on top of him. The gun bounced, discharged into the ceiling, and fell under the table.
“Son of a bitch!” Villeponteaux was all bad angles and writhing. He had his scissors in his hand, swiping at Hopper beneath him. Slicing skin. Getting close to the artery in his neck. Hopper lifted up, all the dead weight on his back, an animal roar growing louder with the strain, as Villeponteaux fell and cracked his head on the linoleum. Hopper reached down and grabbed the man’s scissors, took them away.
He caught his breath. Villeponteaux wasn’t moving below the waist. His arms tried to find something stable, waved like he was spacewalking. Drool pooled on the floor, and the dent on his head was deep. His eyes were filling with blood.
“Goddamn…wasn’t what I expected.” The old man wheezed between every word. “Your boss….thought….you was….pussy. Never make it. Muscles don’t….make…..the…..”
Several deep rattling breaths. Then:
“Man.”
Hopper stepped over to Violet. Still unconscious. Her mouth was open, tongue out, slick with saliva. Hopper guessed the old man had tried to kiss her.
