by Greg Enslen
“It’s a good thing--the Martin’s are broke.” Frank scanned the rest of the file. The woman had managed to “sense” that the young boy in San Antonio was being kept in an underground location. Not an off-the-wall or particularly brave prediction to make, considering local law enforcement had been searching every structure in the county for three weeks. But the little boy had been recovered, and Meredith had come out of it looking like a star.
Shortly afterward, she’d moved to Los Angeles. For a while, she’d worked for something called the “Psychic Counselors Hotline,” doling out Tarot card readings and other predictions by phone. After a year of that, word of her spread, and she grew her following into a small retail shop and a stage show in a local theater. People evidently came from all over to hear her speak. There was even talk of a television show in the works.
They arrived at the Martin house. A large van, markedly different from the TV trucks and news vans parked on Hyatt, sat in the driveway. This new van had California license plates and dark windows. Frank had half-expected it to be purple in color and feature a large, airbrushed drawing of a crystal ball on the side of the van. Instead, it was just black, with no markings of any kind to give it away other than the out-of-state vanity plates. Frank smiled at King, as they headed inside.
Walking through the door, Frank was hit by the smell of incense. He and King walked through to the kitchen and living room, but there was no one there.
“Hello?” King called out.
“We’re up here,” the voice of Nick Martin came from upstairs.
They climbed the wide, sweeping staircase and followed the sounds of people, coming to what had to be Charlie Martin’s room. Frank could see posters of animals and brightly-colored furniture and pink decorations everywhere from where he and King stopped, just outside the room.
Nick Martin rolled his eyes and came out of the room. Sergeant Graves joined them as well.
“Sorry we’re late,” King said.
“But it’s okay,” Frank smirked. “She’s psychic, so she probably knew we were going to be late.”
“This is pointless,” Graves whispered, keeping his voice low, but not low enough--a young man with dark mascara inside the bedroom shot him a disapproving look.
Nick agreed. “I understand that Glenda wants to explore--”
King put up his hand.
“It will only take a few minutes, and it’s worth it, if it keeps your wife’s head in the game. And it can’t hurt--”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t agree. It’s false hope.”
The Chief shook his head and stepped into the room, followed by Frank. Nick and Graves stood in the doorway, watching the spectacle.
Inside, Glenda Martin was sitting on the bed and, next to her, a small plate of incense burned on the Dora the Explorer bedspread. Next to the plate, an older woman wearing far too much makeup waved the smoke into her face slowly, using both hands, and mumbled to Glenda.
The two women seemed to be ignoring the other people standing in the room--the four of them by the door, along with Detective Barnes and the young man Frank didn’t recognize. The young man must have arrived with the psychic. He was very thin, with jet black hair, dark mascara under his eyes, and too many piercings in his ears and above his eyebrows to count. He reminded Frank of that young girl who’d been in the Tip Top Diner with her angry father and his shit-kicking boots. The young man was holding a notepad, taking notes with a pen with a long fuzzy tail of brightly-colored feathers sticking out of the top.
“I can feel her presence,” the psychic said.
“Sorry we’re late,” Chief King said, directing it to Glenda. Frank could see that she had been crying.
They stood quietly and listened for a few minutes, as Meredith went through the particulars of the case, asking Glenda questions about her daughter, the route to the school, and her daughter’s friends. Frank knew it was a waste of time, but if King was going to let it happen, Frank would hold his tongue.
“Was she close to her friends?” the psychic asked Glenda.
“That’s why they’re called ‘friends’,” Sergeant Graves commented quietly from the doorway. King shot him a look.
“Yes, they were,” Glenda answered, drying her eyes. “They walked together to school, all the time, but not that day. I just wish I had walked with them.”
Meredith looked down at the mother.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened, Glenda,” she said, stroking the mother’s hand gently. “I sense that you did everything that you could to keep her safe,” she said. Glenda nodded.
Meredith stood and walked around the room, picking up things and touching them. The scented smoke of the incense wafted around them as Meredith interacted with Charlie’s possessions, rubbing the young girl’s toys between her palms and closing her eyes.
Frank smirked.
“Looks like she’s trying to start a fire,” Frank said quietly to Graves, who smiled and nodded.
“I’m trying to get a sense of the room, Mr. Harper,” Meredith said loudly, not opening her eyes. “Your negative energy isn’t helping.”
Chief King looked at Frank, but Frank ignored him. It was more difficult to ignore the pained look on Glenda’s face, but Frank plowed on. He didn’t have time for this shit.
“I’m glad everyone else is enjoying the show,” Frank said, loudly. “But this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
The mousy assistant spoke up. “You should stay silent--Lady Meredith needs to work.”
Frank shook his head. “No, I need to work. And it’s ‘Lady’ Meredith now? I thought it was Meredith Black--or is it Peterson? I can’t keep track.”
The woman opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment. She peered at him as one would notice a small animal, unworthy of attention. He held her gaze, staring back.
“Yes, I changed my name,” she said quietly, her eyes boring into him. “The cases I solved in Texas were very traumatic and took their toll, so I moved and changed my name. I was looking for a fresh start. But you know all about fresh starts, right, Mr. Harper? And trauma. Still enjoying your bourbon?”
Frank looked at her. He felt his hand go cold.
“That’s not relevant,” Frank barked.
“Isn’t it?” she countered, holding his gaze. “I think the only relevant thing about you is the possibility that you’re drunk. Right now,” she said, smiling.
Frank shook his head. “You can say whatever you want, but this is a waste of time,” Frank said, looking at the psychic. “We, the ACTUAL investigators, need to be out there, looking at leads and interviewing people. Not listening to you blather on about ‘auras’ and the same hokey bullshit that every pandering ‘psychic’ has been selling for two hundred years.”
She stood quietly, taking in his rant, enjoying it, reveling in it. She looked like she’d heard it all a thousand times before. It washed over her like a gentle rain.
As Frank spoke, she slowly smiled and waited for him to finish.
“Done?” she asked, smiling.
“No,” Frank said. “Not by a long shot.”
Chief King put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “OK, Frank, let’s not get all worked up...”
Meredith ignored Chief King and stepped closer to Frank, looking up into his eyes. She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes playing over his face and hair. She reached up slowly and placed a hand gently on his chest.
“Don’t touch me,” he said.
She looked into his eyes.
“Do you still think about drowning?”
Frank felt his insides drop. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “What?”
Meredith smiled.
“You heard me, Mr. Harper,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet everyone in the room could hear it. “I speak with perfect clarity, whether those around me have the capacity to hear me or not. I asked if you still think about what happened. In St. Bartholomew’s.”
Frank was flabber
gasted. She’d been through the files, obviously, but had somehow found the one thing that would cut him to the quick. Of course he thought about it--too much--
“That...that happened a long time ago,” he stammered. Frank felt this stomach reeling, twisting up inside of him. He backed away. Last night’s bourbon surged in his belly, a wave of dark water, like the splashing, murky water in St. Barts. The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer.
“The water was rising, wasn’t it?” she said quietly, smiling, enjoying her new toy. He was not the cat anymore--he was the ball of yarn. She leaned closer, her voice almost inaudible. “They left you behind, didn’t they? And you were hurt, and the water just kept coming. And coming,” she said. She reached down and touched the long scar than ran up his arm and disappeared under his shirt. “And there was no help for you.”
Frank backed away, bumping into Chief King. “I’m leaving,” he said, louder than he had planned. Frank struggled to keep his wits about him, but all he could think about was the rising tide of water, full of floating bandages and syringes. And the bodies.
Some part of his mind spoke up, trying to keep him tethered to reality by informing him that it was all public knowledge. Anyone who wanted to could find out what had happened. Frank glanced at the young man with the greasy black hair--the kid was wearing a wicked grin.
“Good,” Meredith said, smiling. “Please go. Your presence isn’t required.”
Frank started to say something else, but nothing came to mind. His mind was already stuffed full of memories he despised, memories he’d worked for years to push down into the darkest recesses of him.
Frank backed through the door, his eyes still on “Lady” Meredith.
Chief King left with him.
“Don’t worry about it,” King said. “Let it go.”
Frank held his tongue, something he wasn’t used to, and turned and stormed off, trailing the others in his wake.
Chapter 37
George carried both trays back down the stairs again, negotiating the two bags George had gathered for their trip. Why Chastity had piled his things on the stairs, instead of where he’d had it by the door, he had no idea.
Charlie had eaten most of her food--she was in better spirits today, despite the fact that she’d been zip tied to a bed for ten days. George thought that maybe the little girl had decided to stop fighting the situation and just deal with it, much like he’d long ago decided to stop fight Chastity on every single issue. Sometimes it was just better to agree, especially when Chastity was yelling at him or, even worse, when she started in with that barn-owl screeching that put George’s nerves on edge.
The other tray was nearly full.
He was worried about Maya, the little Mexican girl. She cried all the time, rarely stopping, and didn’t eat much of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and other food that George had carried upstairs. She had certainly not accepted the situation. Every time he came into the room, she shouted at him in a mixture of English and Spanish and fought his every command. Getting her untied and to the bathroom and back was always a fight, but over the past few days she had gotten even more combative. Kicking, hitting, punching. Today, she’d caught him under the chin with a knee and almost knocked him off the bed. He’d explained, over and over, that they would be released when the ordeal was over, but either the little girl didn’t understand him, or she didn’t believe him.
Either way, caring for the girls had become an exercise in opposites. And keeping Chastity calm just added to the drama.
But it was nearly over.
The boss had called again last night, explaining about the second ransom and how some of that money was for George and Chastity and their extra time, money for them to start a new life somewhere else. And the boss had said again that everything would be square. Chastity had seemed pleased with the news, but she was still on the fence about just taking off. George would have agreed with her if it weren’t for the girls.
George carried the trays into the kitchen and set them on the counter, which was still piled up with dishes and old plates. Chastity was supposed to be in charge of keeping up the house. That had been her “rent,” they’d agreed, and George would take care of the house itself and all of the chores and work assigned by the boss--but she was slacking off. George knew she’d been getting high a lot more than usual, and he’d assumed it was stress. He rolled up his sleeves and started washing.
When the dishes were done, he went to look for Chastity. Sometimes she went upstairs to their bedroom to get high and forgot to come back downstairs. Sometimes she went walking out in the marijuana field. One time, he’d found her wandering the field at night, stark naked. Other times, he would find her at the dining room table, playing with the golden sewing kit from her mother that she held so dear. She would take everything out of the sewing kit, lay it out on the table or bedspread or wherever she happened to be, and then slowly put it all away. Sometimes, when she was finished, she would start over, packing and repacking the sewing kit over and over. He felt sad for her, and a little worried. Sometimes he just didn’t understand what was running through her mind.
He looked through the house and outside, but didn’t find her until he went into the barn.
She was asleep in the rusting Corolla.
She really wanted to leave. He knew it, but he’d been putting her off for days. The boss had said it was almost over, and George was torn. He needed to keep her happy, but he’d also promised the boss he’d see this through to the end.
And he was worried about the girls. He hadn’t told anyone yet, but George wanted to wait until the very end, after the money had come in. Once he figured the boss was coming for the girls, George would act.
George planned to put the girls in his car and let them go outside of Cooper’s Mill. It would mean defying his boss, but George and Chastity would be leaving the state with their part of the ransom money anyway, heading for California. If George could save the girls, he could afford to piss off his boss one more time.
George looked into the car to check on Chastity. She was sound asleep, her bag on her lap. Her arms were folded on top of her bags, and, in one hand, she clenched her mom’s sewing kit. Suddenly, George felt sorry for her.
Chapter 38
Hours later, Frank was still shook up from the encounter with the psychic.
Chief King hadn’t said anything about it on the drive back to the police station. Once there, Frank had gathered up some files and headed out--he needed to drive, alone, to clear his head and follow up on a couple of out-of-town leads.
First, he’d driven down to Dayton and met with a pair of banker types in a very slick conference room. Nick Martin had invested in a condominium development near Dragon’s Field, a beautiful ball diamond in the downtown area and home to the local minor league team. The conference room looked out over the grassy infield. As Frank and the others met, he could see a team of groundskeepers far below working on the sandy infield, flattening it and smoothing out the dirt with rakes and brooms.
Frank had been impressed with the plans. The field had been built in a run-down part of town, surrounded by old factories and manufacturing buildings. Investors in the project were buying up the old buildings and converting them to apartments and condos. Frank found the project impressive and completely above board. He thanked the men for meeting with him and left.
Now he was headed north again, passing through Cooper’s Mill and heading east out of town to New Stanton, a town a few miles to the east of Cooper’s Mill.
Frank was driving to meet with a friend of Glenda’s. The woman had been friends with the Martins for years and had agreed to meet Frank to talk about their relationship.
In the past twenty-four hours, Frank had worked up three competing theories about the case.
Theory number one went with the idea that whoever was behind the kidnapping was out to punish the Martin’s, either by bankrupting them or “bringing them down” to the level of the normal folks. He’d be
en working from that assumption yesterday and interviewed everyone he could find that might be negatively affected by Nick Martin’s fiscal decisions on the City Council or by layoffs and cutbacks in Martin’s construction company.
Nothing.
No one was happy with Nick Martin, that was for sure. But Frank couldn’t find anyone that even remotely fit the profile of taking it to the extreme and kidnapping Nick’s daughter.
Frank’s second theory was a little weak, but it never hurt to investigate the time-honored tradition of marital infidelity. It was stunning how many crimes could be laid at the feet of this go-to problem: cheaters and the cheated-upon. In this case, there had been some rumors that the marriage wasn’t stable and that Glenda might be stepping out on Nick. Frank was on his way to meet with Glenda’s friend to look into that situation.
The third theory had popped into his head late on Thursday night, after the bourbon and five hours of going through all the files again.
The case might be dirty.
It was never good to leap to that conclusion too early. If a kidnapper or other criminal involved with the case had an inside source, it did answer a lot of the outstanding issues, not the least of which that every single lead that came along seemed to dry up with frightening speed.
But Frank was going to hold off on that theory for a while. Going down that path was a one-way trip. Frank had only been on the case since Wednesday. It was too soon to start burning bridges.
So he was working theory #2 for the moment. Others had mentioned that something else was going on in the Martin’s marriage, based on a few clues that he’d gotten over the last few days. King had said something off the cuff after they left the psychic. And Frank had noticed that the Martins almost never stood together when talking to the police, and rarely looked at each other or comforted each other. Frank had never seen them hold hands.
When the second ransom call had come in, Nick had joined the policemen in the kitchen to review the call again, but Glenda had stayed away, content to nurse her drink and listen to the conversation from the next room. She’d not gotten involved until she’d decided to come into the kitchen to let everyone know that the psychic would be arriving.