Chapter Twenty-One – Carter

 

“Oh my God,” Lucy said from where she was seated on the passenger side of my Jeep. “I think I’m going to die of a heart attack just watching you suck those things down.”

I took another bite of my swiftly disappearing sausage and egg sandwich, my fourth one, and carefully chewed it before swallowing and washing it down with a sip of water. “I need the calories.”

“Couldn’t you have picked some healthy ones, though? That’s just grease and fat. Where are the veggies?”

“We didn’t exactly have time to roast a whole chicken, and do all the fixings, before we left,” I replied, letting what remained of the greasy, salty sandwich hover right in front of my mouth before I took the last bite.

Back when I was over in Afghanistan, tramping through the mountains hunting down Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and the Haqqani Network, I’d eaten nearly five thousand calories a day. With the MREs, or meals ready to eat, issued to us as part of our kit, that was easy. About four of those in a day would fill out all my caloric and nutritional needs.

Here, as I sat behind the wheel of my Jeep just down the block from the Marten residence in this upscale neighborhood, I had to come up with dietary sources that were a little less balanced.

“At least you’re chewing with your mouth closed.”

“Well, there is a lady present, after all.” I lifted the nearly empty bag of sandwiches from my lap. “Sure you don’t want another one? I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach.”

She’d only had the one, but waved off my offer. “Still fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” I replied, crumpling my wrapper and stuffing it into the brown paper bag the sandwiches had come in. I carefully placed it in back before reaching into my center console and grabbing my sidearm, double-checking the safety before I popped the magazine out of habit to make sure my rounds were topped off before I slid it back into its holster. “An investigator investigates with his stomach.”

“I don’t think that’s how that phrase goes.”

“Pretty sure it’s something like that,” I replied as I opened my door and went to get out. On the street, I slipped the sidearm and its holster back onto my belt

“No,” Lucy said, with a little chuckle as she pushed open the passenger side door and hopped down to the street, “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure it’s not.”

“Well,” I said as I came around and joined her at the front of my Jeep, “it’s close.”

She cocked out a hip and planted a fist on it as she looked up at me. “How about we just stick to investigating demonic possessions, and not debate your bad phrasing?” She sighed, turned towards the Marten house, and started to head down the street with me walking after her. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

All around us was evidence of autumn. Yellowing lawns with leaves spread over them like rice in front of a church after a wedding, to which all the bushes and trees had shown up clad in their brightest oranges and reds. The smell of spice and everything nice filled the cool, sharp air, and everything seemed to conceal a secret tension about the possible approach of snow. I hugged the light wool coat I’d had buried in the back of the Jeep more tightly around me, silently cursing the fact that I’d lost my heavier one back at the hotel.

We came to a stop in front of the Marten residence, and I eyed it carefully. Leaves piled up in the yard, the trees blown bare of foliage.

“Did they have any children?” I asked, looking over at the two Lexuses parked in the driveway, the rear windows and bumpers devoid of any stickers or markings.

Lucy shook her head. “Nope. Just the two of them. Doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it? An innocent victim is still an innocent victim.”

“I don’t think any of us are really innocent,” I replied as I looked at the empty windows of the one story brick house, picturing what it would be like to live in a place like this. Surrounded by people on all sides, in a nice, cozy little neighborhood, in a nice, cozy little suburb. “But, that doesn’t change the fact that he was a victim. Does it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it does. How do we want to play this?”

“You ask questions; I’ll take a look around. Possessions and spells are normally done with some kind of focus nearby. An object that opens people up to the entities. If we can find that, we can maybe track it back to its source. Assuming, of course, they haven’t removed it from the premises.”

“Got it. You ready?”

I took a deep breath, trying to smell if anything was off in the surrounding area. To see if there was any other evidence, like a lingering smell of sulfur or some other strange scent. Nothing. Just Lucy’s intoxicating raspberry that seemed to make my mouth water every time I thought too much about it.

I nodded. “Yeah. Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Hanging back, I let Lucy take the lead as we walked up to the front door, with its dark stain and distorted glass window that dominated the center of the upper half. This was, after all, still her investigation into the fire deaths of the citizens she worked for. I was just trying to help her make sense of everything and put a stop to it before things got worse. She stepped up and rang the chime on the wall of the little enclosed porch, before stepping back from the door so we’d both be in full view when Ms. Elaine Marten arrived to answer the door.

“Think she’s home?” Lucy asked when there wasn’t an immediate response from within.

“Two cars in the driveway,” I replied, tilting my head to the side. “And I can hear someone inside.”

“I’m going to start to get annoyed with that, aren’t I?”

“With what?”

“The whole being able to hear and smell things before me.”

“You mean you’re not already? I’m still annoyed at Ryder for being able to climb trees, and Kris and Hunter for being able to breathe fire.”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open as she gave me a look. “Breathe fire?”

Before I could respond, a shape darkened the window as who I assumed was Ms. Marten arrived. She unlocked the deadbolt on the door and pulled it open, peering out at us through bleary eyes despite how late it was in the morning. “Hello?” she asked in a tired-sounding voice, her eyes flickering back and forth between me and Lucy. “Can I help you?”

Ms. Marten wasn’t unattractive, even if she looked exhausted and worn, with circles under her eyes, and her short blonde hair disheveled. It was clear that, at some point in the recent past, she’d tried to keep in shape and take care of herself.

Now, though, things had begun to slip. She wore an oversized University of Texas t-shirt that seemed to engulf her small frame in burnt orange. I remembered from the file on Kent Marten that he’d graduated from their business school, and I was willing to bet that was his old shirt.

“Ms. Marten? I’m Lucy Skinner, and this is my associate Carter Grant. You and I first spoke a few weeks ago after your husband’s passing. May we come in for a few minutes? If you have the time, I’d like to talk with you again about your husband’s incident.”

“Incident,” she whispered in reply. A long sigh as she shook her head, stepped back, and opened the front door far enough for Lucy and me to step through. “Yes. I suppose so. Please, come in.”

I followed Lucy into the foyer, and the smell of old food hit my nose as soon as we walked in. Like someone had forgotten how to do the dishes, or just plain old left their unfinished meals on the counter.

“Forgive the mess,” Ms. Marten said, running a tired hand back through her hair as she hugged herself with one arm, “please.” On closer inspection, it was clear she hadn’t changed her husband’s shirt in what seemed like days. Maybe weeks. Bits and pieces of old food clung to the cotton like it was a child’s bib.

She turned and led us to a side dining room. At one point it had been formal, with decorative wallpaper, an expensive-looking modern chandelier made up of geometric shapes which hung over an imposing table that would comfortably seat eight or so in comfortable-looking tasteful chairs made of hardwood. Now, though, empty foam takeout containers and cardboard pizza boxes littered its surface, obscuring the tabletop beneath.

Lucy and I stopped in the entryway, took it all in as Ms. Marten walked around the table. “Like I said earlier,” she said, “excuse the mess. I haven’t done much cleaning since the funeral.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Lucy said as she went into the room and pulled out a chair, took a seat.

“Actually,” I said, walking up and putting a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, “do you mind if I use the restroom, Ms. Kent?”

“Elaine, please,” she said, going to rise. “And, here, let me—”

“No, no,” I said, smiling a little as I gently squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “I can get myself there. Sooner you answer Inspector Skinner’s questions, sooner we can get out of here. I can find my own way if you just point me in the right direction.”

Elaine was already settling back down into her seat, nodding. “Down the hall on your left. Can’t miss it.”

I nodded and took off down the hall. I of course had no intention of using the restroom, but I didn’t want to tell Elaine Marten that. She’d no doubt disapprove of my snooping around her home, no matter how honorable my intentions were.

A demonic focus, the likes of which would have been needed to put a hex on Kent Marten, would be constructed from bone and catgut from some small animal. Chickens were the most common source, but I’d seen both dog and cat before. Once, I’d even seen human. Around this little bone-work effigy would be a piece of the victim’s hair, maybe even some clippings of his nails. Whatever the source, it was important that they be personal to him, and no one else. That’s what was needed to ensure the focus was effective.

And, finally, there’d be that hint of brimstone, of rotten eggs. The same as what I’d smelled at the Stop & Shop the night before, just as Phillip Winters got the drop on me.

As I moved through the house, I kept my eyes peeled and my nose open for anything that looked like it might be the culprit. If I could find it, I knew a simple spell that Tabitha had taught me which could lead me to the personal responsible. Assuming, of course, that it hadn’t been moved already by whoever had done this to Kent Marten.

I eased myself down the hall, went right past the bathroom’s open door, and entered the living room. The space was large and decorated tastefully, with functional-looking furniture, which still had a sense of modern style to it. Actual paintings hung on the walls, not prints behind glass, and a nice big fireplace was nestled against the outer wall. The mantel over the hearth was lined with pictures of the Martens. I stepped over to the fireplace, which looked to have been cleaned out sometime between last season and this, and leaned down to look inside.

Nothing but ashes and memories.

I straightened up and looked down at the framed images, the fragments of time captured with nothing more than a mirror and a lens. A string of moments that seemed to stretch down through the years, connecting our present with their past. Looking at them was like looking into a time capsule, a procession of disconnected memories connected together only by the smiling man and woman.

Sometimes hugging, sometimes kissing, sometimes in a group with friends, or maybe family.

But always within arm’s reach of one another.

Clearly, he’d loved her.

And, just as clearly, she still loved him.

I picked up one of the pictures, flipping the frame around in my hands. Nothing. I checked behind all the pictures. Still nothing. I put the picture back as close to exactly as I could as, back in the other room, I heard Lucy going through her questions about the events of the day. About what Kent had been doing right before he burst into flames in that little smoothie shop.

I glanced back over my shoulder, at a hallway that led off the living room in the general direction of the east wing of the house. Quietly, I headed that way, hoping I’d find her bedroom. Not so I could sneak a look in her drawers, or anything, but so I could maybe get an idea of Kent’s side of the bed. Windows on my right side faced out onto the backyard, allowing cool fall light to illuminate the thick carpet and neutral walls.

Halfway down, I stopped in front of a set of closed French doors. On the other side of the windows was a small office, complete with a desk, bookshelves, and more pictures. Kent Marten’s office, maybe?

I glanced back over my shoulder, made sure the coast was still clear, and let myself in.

More pictures of him and Elaine. One on his wall with his wife hugging him, his graying hair freshly shaved with a set of clippers, titled “St. Baldrick’s” and dated a few years ago. I was familiar with the organization. They got people to auction off the shaving of their hair, and donated all the proceeds to cancer charities.

Then I looked right, to the frames covering the wall directly in front of the deceased’s desk. Frames only he would have seen on a regular basis. Ones that a guest in his office would have had to turn and look for.

Awards given by the Shamrock Small Business Association for outstanding philanthropic contributions. Another beside that given by Anne & Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago for money he and his colleagues had raised just last year. And more.

Idly, I scratched my beard as I looked over award after award after award on the wall.

All put in an unassuming place, so he could remind himself of what he was capable of. Certainly, not to boast. If he’d wanted to do that, he could have put them in the living room, or even in a spot that a visitor wouldn’t have missed. Something other than hiding his light under a bushel. Anything other than this.

“Who the hell could want you dead, Kent?” I asked the empty room, my own reflection staring back at me questioningly from the glass of a dozen or so frames. “Because, for the life of me, you seem like you were a pretty decent guy.”

I took a moment, looked through his office drawers, poked around and tried to find something. Anything that might give me a clue about Kent Marten, and who might have wanted to hurt him.

But, still, nothing.

All I could do was hope Lucy was having better luck on her end. Because I had nothing, here.