XXX Shamus (22 page)
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.”
“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.
Villeponteaux sucked in air and said, “So now what? They’ll catch you.”
“They never caught you.”
“I’m……(wheeze)……
better
.”
“You don’t have as much to lose.”
The old man grinned. Teeth showed. He looked dead already. “Maybe so.”
Hopper took his time. He wrapped Violet in a blanket and set her on the couch, then went back to arrange the kitchen, first getting rid of the plastic wrap on the table, the homemade stirrups. Surveyed the rest: Bleached tools, blood, shotgun holes. Well…how could he make it look like an old man had simply fallen and broken his neck?
Hopper found cleaning supplies in the hall closet—more bleach, Pine Sol, sink cleanser, a bucket, a mop. That would do. He scrubbed down the counters, the sink, the stovetop, poured Pine Sol all over the floor, and splashed some bleach around.
He placed the mop in Villeponteaux’s hand. The old man couldn’t move, but he still had enough in him for a few more words. “One favor. One more.”
“I think we’re square.”
“No, I mean, end it before you do what I know you’re going to do. Please. Not that.”
“You mean kill you before I set this place on fire?”
“I’d do it for you.”
Hopper watched the old man’s eyes, fully red, still sparkling.
“C’mon, boy. Put that bat to good use. Make your bosses proud.”
Instead, Hopper stared at the old man a long time before saying, “You don’t deserve that sort of kindness.”
While Villeponteaux made sounds no other man should have to hear, Hopper took his chemical-soaked rags and set them on the eyes of the stove, spun all the dials on high. The rags caught immediately, flames spreading along the counters and down to the floor faster than Hopper expected. He backtracked out of the kitchen, choking on fumes.
Lifted Sister like she was a child, held her close, and started out the door. The kitchen was already crackling, waves of heat broiling Hopper’s back. He needed to get out of there before anyone noticed.
He carried her to the car with a smile on his face. Villeponteaux hadn’t given him specifics about Divinity’s location, but Hopper was a good detective. It was plenty enough to get started. All he had to do was nurse his sister back to health first, hope that she hadn’t registered any of this. She’d wake up in a few days thinking she’d been hit with the flu or something. Hopper would comfort her, feed her, help her bathe, whatever it took to keep the monster at bay.
After that, a flight to France, armed with his instincts and a map and some research on small towns along the country’s coastlines. A no-brainer—this was all part of the same test that he thought began with Emily. If he found Divinity, he passed, and everything would be fine.
After all, Hopper was great when it came to finding missing girls.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Red Hammond was a lifelong Pentecostal minister who, on his sixtieth birthday, quit preaching, left his wife, disowned his kids, and moved to L.A. so he could write porno scripts. Once there, however, he was told over and over that his scripts were too dark even for *that* sort of porn. So he wrote a novel, and once he was done, it left him in a coma from which he still hasn’t recovered. This is that novel…
Although rumor has it that he’s really just this boring guy who lives in Minnesota with a dog.
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