Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3)

by John L. Monk

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.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The 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?”

  * * *

  Before 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 di
dn’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.

  * * *

  “Nate, 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.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  With Paul’s help, I guided the boat past fishing boats, expensive white yachts with wraparound windows, all manner of sailboats, and even the occasional houseboat.

  “Pull in there,” Paul said, motioning at an empty slip. “How many times we been fishing, you don’t remember?”

  I wondered what our relationship was, that Vinnie and Paul had been fishing buddies.

  “Guess my memory’s not what it used to be.”

  “Uh huh. You really gonna let me go? After bouncing me off my own fucking boat like that? I don’t get it. It’s not the smart move.”

  “One second.”

  I’d piloted boats before, even nice ones like this, so I pulled easily into the slip and jumped out to tie us off.

  My new ride had a gun tucked under his shirt, which I’d noticed while leaning against the ladder. I took it out and stared at it. Vinnie’s gun was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. The barrel width was huge, maybe fifty caliber, and the muzzle appeared sawed off.

  Who saws off a pistol?

  “You know where you can stick that tranq gun,” Paul said. “Where the fuck you get something like that anyway?”

  “Tranq gun?” I said. “You mean like tranquilizers?”

  Paul watched me with a curious expression. For once, he didn’t say anything back.

  I figured out how to open it and scoped the barrel. Nothing chambered, and there was a small CO2 canister where you’d expect to find a magazine. I patted myself down, looking for a more conventional weapon, and found a hard plastic case in my jacket. I opened it and whistled. Inside were brackets holding several four-inch darts, each with clear plastic shafts marked with little measurement lines. Orange fletching like the bristles of a shaving brush fluffed from the ends, and each vial was filled with differing volumes of liquid. Flying syringes, and one of them was empty.

  I closed the case, put it in my pocket, and thought for a second.

  “Paul,” I said. “Just curious—”

  “I told you never call me Paul. My name’s fucking Paulie, asshole.”