Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Book list
Jaspierre's Last Chance Excerpt
Jaspierre's Descent
Mixi J Applebottom
Copyright © 2015 by Mixi J Applebottom
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2015
ISBN 978-0-692-59992-1
www.MixiJApplebottom.com
Life is crazy.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter
One
Jaspierre sat sullenly by her pool deck. She ran the sword down the sharpening block. A thin, determined sneer sat upon her lips. The metal squealed delightfully as it sharpened.
Chance was dead and gone. The blade let out a cry as the block rubbed tightly against it. Lucas was dead and gone. What was left for her? It had been three months. The edge squealed.
Mother would know what to do next. Mother would have created something new. A new experiment. A new love. Anything. Mother would never wallow. But Jaspierre was different; try as she had, she couldn't stay as cold and calculated as Mother always was. Mother never got caught up in guilt or love or misery. She just did whatever she wanted.
Jaspierre didn't want anything new. She wanted the old things. Her heart ached and screamed every moment she thought of the sweet, delicious man she had locked away. She had only been down there once since Lucas had been murdered. It was so heartbreaking. Her blade screamed as loud as her broken heart. It was so empty. His empty white cell, with his empty white bed. Her experiments with her cats were over. No more playing find-the-rabbit. The squeal of metal scraping metal grew faster and more furious. Lucas was gone. His head had been blown off his neck.
Chance had done it. Chance had taken him from her. She regretted setting him on fire in his house. She should have savored his death.
But it was too late now. Savoring was an impossibility. Ikali meowed tentatively. She ignored him. She had completely lost interest in her cats. The big, tall serval growled and lay down by her feet. He was hungry but willing to wait for her.
Jaspierre burst to her feet. "I should have diced up Chance. I should have saved Lucas. Why didn't I leave him in the car! Why!"
Tears flew as she swung the sword harder, chopping into the innocent wooden stool. Her swings were fierce and unwavering. Furious love and hate poured out of the blade and into the wood. Soon it was kindling.
She dropped the sword in the crumbled mess and stood, still panting. She didn't feel better. Nothing made her better anymore. She did need Chance. She needed vengeance. Again. A second time.
She didn't have Chance. If I work it out with someone who looked like him... Wouldn't Mother be happy?
She walked up the big, marble staircase into her room. Her short brown hair with a hint of silver on the sides was transformed by a long, dark red wig. She darkened her lips to a deep dirty red, and painted her eyes a dashing emerald color.
She dropped her long t-shirt dress into the laundry chute and stared at her closet. Hung in perfect color-coordinated rows were shirts and shoes and dresses. She ran her fingers along a few until she found the skirt she wanted. It was knee length, soft, and flowy. Who would even expect a blade to be under there? The dark swirling pattern was part of an expensive dress suit. She didn't bother picking up the matching jacket and instead slipped on a cream-colored shirt. Her breasts were almost too big for it and pressed tightly against the fabric.
She stared into the mirror. Her stomach seemed to be so round and lumpy. She frowned. Well, she was out to kill a dumb schmuck, so if it stuck out, it stuck out, she supposed. Her ass looked huge and round, and her boobies were so big, nobody would have time to notice how flabby she was.
Besides. They'd be too busy noticing the sword slicing up their skin. She laced up long, brown boots. They were fascinatingly tall and she didn't mind one bit.
She took a dark green purse with a sparkling gold chain. Nice to have a backup way to strangle someone if necessary. This would surely be a plan Mother would approve. She'd go out, move on, and find something else to think about. And once she had sliced up a poor Chance substitute, she would be back to her normal self and everything would be fine.
She clicked her heels down the steps and to the grand front doorway. Tessa sat in front of the door and glared at her.
Jasp almost shooed her away but rolled her eyes. "Fine." She clicked crisply away to the kitchen to open the four matching cans of cat food. She plated them and set them on the stand for the cats to eat. Ikali and Tessa hustled over and vigorously munched down.
Jaspierre hated the kitchen. Hated it. Everything she remembered here had to do with Lucas. The first time she met him, chased him, and locked him in the basement. The last time, when he retched at the sight of her maid's mouth gaping open from a blade. The times he cooked for her. That moment when he made her a salad. Ha, as if she ate salads.
Chance had killed him. The only person who ever loved her. Fury rose within her. She needed to go unleash it so she could move on.
She clicked to the door in a hurry. The door swung open and slammed shut behind her. She walked to the garage and wondered which car to take. There were many makes and models to choose from, and she stared a moment before choosing her black Lexus. It was still one of her favorites. The one she had crashed into the lake had been sold, but this one, the one Lucas had driven, still called her name. It felt like they were a tiny bit closer, her sitting where he once sat. The door slipped into place and the engine purred like butter. Her sleek boot pressed into the pedal and away she flew.
The black sports car purred down the road like a hummingbird. She let the car go, skidding playfully around each slow, boring car with delightful pleasure. She knew where to go. She revved up the engine, letting the tires skid into place as she slid into the parking spot.
Today was her day. Today, she would find a way to get past all this. She walked confidently into the bar, and sat down on a large stool at the front, and ordered a drink. She turned casually and stared at the men in the room. Somebody who felt like Chance. Or looked like Chance. Or stunk like him. A surrogate.
She sat and waited. Nobody struck her as useful.
Idly, she twirled her straw into her drink and watched. There was a chunky bald man sitting in the corner. But he looked too much like a weakling.
She glanced at the bikers playing pool. Chance was not really a biker-type; he preferred big trucks to small mot
orcycles. She looked over at the young men sitting and laughing together. Screw that; they were practically babies.
Thomas, the bartender always had good advice, and she could ask him, but he probably didn't want to partake in a murder selection. She had purchased the bar a few years ago and paid him a little extra to be helpful whenever she needed. Usually, that meant swapping vodka for water when she was playing darts for cash. Never before had it meant choosing a man who didn't particularly need to live another day.
The chunky, bald man in the corner cursed at the waitress. Drunkenly, he slammed his fist into the table. Well now, this is quite promising.
"You bitch! You brought me light beer. Motherfucking light beer. Do you think I'm a goddamn teenage girl?" Baldy--that's what Jaspierre decided to call him--was quite the asshole. The room grew quiet as everyone turned to watch. The bouncy-breasted waitress stuttered and stepped back, but he reached out and grabbed her arm. "Get me the fucking real stuff."
Thomas, the tall, charming bartender, looked much less charming as he picked up a bat and walked over to the table. "Do we have a problem here, sir?"
The waitress looked bewildered and frightened as she tried to pull her arm away before the scuffle started. His hand gripped her forearm tightly, though. Baldy stared at the bat and then turned and looked at the breasts in front of him, then turned back to the bat.
"Go ahead and hit her. I'm holding her still." His sloppy drunken grin stared up at the tall bartender holding the bat.
"Let her go." The bartender was cool and calm, tapping the bat in his hand. "Let her go."
"Why the hell would you get the bat, then! This girl needs to be taught a lesson. It was light beer!" His voice rang out across the bar.
"Let her go now." The tip of the bat pressed against Baldy's forehead and his grip let up. The waitress scrambled away. Baldy's eyes grew wide as he connected the dots. His hands went up.
"I wasn't gonna hurt her."
"Get out." The bartender stepped back and dramatically swung the bat, pointing it at the door. "Pay your bill and get out."
Baldy dropped a twenty on the table and stood up. He flipped off the bartender and stomped out. Jaspierre stuffed a hundred-dollar bill under her untasted drink and walked out after him. Baldy was cursing and kicked a trashcan. His face was red and sweat trickled off his nose. She wondered how to approach him when he saw her.
"Oh look; the stupid pregnant chick came out to stare at the drunk old man. You want this?" He grabbed his crotch. "Fuck you. I won't be your damn baby daddy."
Jaspierre felt her face grow startlingly hot. As if he was one to talk with his fat, short body. "You want a ride?" She clicked the keys and her sparkling black Lexus flickered its lights and let out a soft beep.
"Is that your motherfucking...? Your car?" Dumbfounded, the man stumbled over and petted the black hood with his big meaty hands.
"Let's ride." She opened her door and got in, and they zoomed down the road. She drove fast and dangerous, skidding past cars and around turns. She glanced at Baldy, who appeared to be trying hard to keep his beer in his belly. She grinned and went faster. Soon, she saw it--that sparkling hint of a lake. She pulled up close to the beach. It was tempting to smash into the water like she did last time. It seemed hard to believe it was a mere three months earlier.
She parked and Baldy opened the door and vomited. "You drive like a man." Then he threw up again.
"Get out of the car if you're gonna be puking."
He obliged and stepped out. She got out and slid out her blade.
She desperately tried to take her time, but it seemed to be over so fast. She stood there, dripping with his blood on her body and her sword and found herself full of frustration. Why isn't it working? She halfheartedly hacked at his corpse a bit more. When would she be normal again? She should have taken him home and locked him up. Her stomach turned at the idea of this filthy, hideous man in Lucas's sweet prison cell. She rinsed herself off in the lake, leaving his body exposed for the wolves or whatever would find him palatable.
She changed into the outfit in her trunk: a soft white t-shirt dress with a dark black cropped wig. She slipped on flip-flops and dropped the blood-soaked skirt, shirt, and heels into a bag in the trunk. While she was behind the car, she clicked the license plate changer so every minute, one number or letter would change. Disappointment crept in. She had been feeling off for quite a while now.
How many men would Jaspierre have to kill to feel better?
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Edward sat at his desk, frowning. His brown hair fell into his eyes as he sat with his fingertips pressed together. It seemed they had a problem.
There were scores of bodies.
And a suspect.
This was, in Edward's opinion, the worst thing he had ever had to work on. He sat at his desk, ignoring the bustling police station around him. What if it hadn't gotten so out of hand? A house burned with multiple victims inside. What if he kept murdering so sneakily? Would he have ever been caught? Edward had to face facts. This was a serial killer.
A serial killer.
Chance Mickey Despoil, a cop who was or is a serial killer.
It was hard to tell how far down the rabbit hole it went. Who else had known? How long had they known? What had been covered up? At least a dozen hookers, by his last count. Edward never would have figured it out without that fire. Male victim sitting on the couch, head blown out. Female victim tied to a table, toes snipped off. Her arm had been broken. Everything else had burned. It was likely she had been raped, but who could tell? She was impossible to identify. Her dentures had melted in her mouth.
All of this taking place in a cop's house, in Chance's house. Chance was nowhere to be found. He had only been working at this police station for one year by the time his house burned down with two victims inside. It was unlikely anyone here had covered much up, yet. Chance's last employers had to have known, though. He worked there a full ten years. The body count must have been massive. He was averaging a murder or more every month, as far as Edward could tell.
Edward's boss did not appreciate transferring a murderous cop to his precinct. Edward wanted to nail that cop to the wall. More than that, it was his duty to nail that cop to the wall. But the Chief wanted this whole embarrassing affair to go away. A serial killer cop did nothing to promote the image the Chief wanted, and it certainly didn't make him look like he had a grip on his workforce. Close this case, get it over with, sweep it under the rug. His point of view was Chance was likely dead anyway, so no need to humiliate the force any more than necessary. Close the case. Get it done.
Edward was frustrated with the push to close the case quickly. Ed needed to find out what happened and how many women Chance had strangled and beaten to death. He wanted to do his job right, every detail; everybody accounted for. This wasn't a normal situation. This one was big time. Not just a cop who stole drug money, or traded a blowjob to a streetwalker instead of a ticket. This was a serial killer. He slaughtered. Diced. Mutilated. Tortured. He was smart. He used his position as an officer to hide evidence and point the blame in other directions. He wore his badge when he raped women and terrified them into silence. How could Edward rush this investigation? Too many layers. It would take time to peel them apart. Without a significantly larger investigation team, they would never know if Chance was the only serial killer. It blurred the lines of who he murdered and who someone else did.
When Chance's profile was on the news, hundreds of phone calls came in, but only two seemed pertinent. One was a streetwalker who explained she knew him. Chance had raped her and many of the other girls. He would pin them in a street alley, handcuff them, and toss them in his police car. She said nobody would ever admit it, but just about all the ladies had been attacked. She was glad to see him on the news. Pin that rat. That was what she had said.
The second phone call, Edward thought it might be Chance himself. A male voice said, "I saw him driving to Mexico." Almost certainly a
lie, but interesting that Chance was watching the investigation.
The rest of the phone calls were complaints about Chance's behavior as a member of the force. This wasn't shocking, knowing Chance often used his badge as a tool to facilitate his behavior. However, Edward realized there were only two filed complaints against him. Two in the past year. That seemed shockingly low for this man, if he was the man Ed believed him to be. He called the precinct where Chance had previously worked. They reluctantly faxed over all of Chance's formal complaints. He had eight. Eight in ten years. There had to be another paper trail.
Edward called back and asked if they had any documents on dismissed complaints. Jackpot.
They were extremely reluctant, and it took three phone calls and a written letter from the Chief for the files to be sent over. Ten boxes of dismissed complaints arrived a few days later in the mail. Ten boxes. It was obvious the files had been rifled through and large sections were missing. It didn't matter; these complaints were beyond the scope of normal police complaints. It wasn't just "too rough when arrested." Instead, it was "Forced himself in my anus, broke my fingers on both my hands." These were the types of complaints that had been withdrawn. Hundreds upon hundreds more sat in the boxes. What could be worse than raping and injuring detained civilians? Murder, probably. The murders must have been taken out. A full week of searching, and he found one extremely violent complaint resulting in death that hadn't been removed. "Niece had been detained for jaywalking; her left breast had been ripped from her body. She had been raped from every orifice over the course of several weeks. She did not survive. Complaint withdrawn."
It was time for justice. Chance had one hell of a head start, but Edward was gonna catch him.
Chapter
Two
Jaspierre lay in her pool, staring at the plastered ceiling. She had been thinking about Mother a lot. Too much. Mother was gone when Jaspierre was a seven-year-old. Mother was twenty-eight years old when she left.
Jaspierre's Descent (Jaspierre Trilogy Book 2) Page 1
