Caterpillar, a Paranormal Romance With a Touch of Horror (7 page)

Her demeanor was a little cooler than I would’ve expected, though when I heard what she had to say I understood.  “Talk to Carter, Cat.  Find out what, if anything, he knows about my baby.  Make him tell you, Cat.  Make him tell you what he knows.  I have to know. 
I have to know.”

I stood, rooted to the spot, astonished and confused as much by her plea as by her nearly accusing tone.  She obviously thought Carter had something to do with what had happened to Mistee.

“I don’t know why Carter would know anything about what happened, Linda.  I—”

“Mistee was supposed to meet him and one of her friends at a club in Atlanta Friday night.  She wouldn’t tell me which one.  She knew I’d disapprove,” Linda explained, her voice cracking on a sob.  “Mistee didn’t have to tell me the Lord was no longer the main focus of her life anymore.  She was struggling with her dedication, torn between her love of God and her desire for more…
worldly
things.  She had fallen in with the wrong crowd and it ended up getting her killed.”  The way she looked at me left no doubt who she thought constituted the “wrong crowd”.  Carter.  And, probably through genetic association, me.

“I’ll talk to Carter, but I seriously doubt he knows anything.”

“Don’t be so sure, Cat,” she said coldly.  Her husband located her just then.  He came down the steps, wrapped his arms around her and steered her back toward the church.  He didn’t even spare me a glance.

I quickly made way to my SUV.   I had a call to make.

Having been expecting my call to learn what Mistee had to say, Carter answered on the first ring. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you had made plans to meet Mistee?”  I began without preamble.

After a long pause, Carter answered.  “Because she stood me up.  Said she was trying to keep one of her friends out of trouble.  Some girl she worked with at that soup kitchen.  Supposedly she was going there to talk to her.  She never showed up.  That’s why I wanted you to talk to her, see what she said.  What
did
she say?”

“What soup kitchen?”

“Ephesus something or other.  What’d she say, Cat?”

“What was the friend’s name?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t remember.  Wha’d she say?”  Carter snapped, losing his patience. 

“Think, Carter.  What was her name?”

“Chasity or Cassie.  Maybe Cassidy.  Yeah, I think that’s it.  Cassidy.  Why don’t you just ask Mistee?”

“She’s dead, Carter,” I said. 

Silence hung on the line, like a heavy curtain between us.  Finally I heard a small voice, little more than a whisper, ask, “What?’ 

“I found her, Carter.  There were body parts at the house I was showing Friday.  I didn’t know it was her, but it was.  It was Mistee.  She’s dead.  She’s
dead
.”  I could feel the emotion that I’d thought had been missing threatening to make its first appearance.

“I’ve got to go,” he said quietly.

“Wait.  What was the name of the club you were meeting at?”  I was met with such quiet, I thought for a minute Carter had already hung up. “Carter!”

“Feral,” he said softly then I heard the click.  He was gone.

Carter’s reaction wasn’t entirely out of character.  He was a runner.  When things got tough, he ran.  When he got scared, he ran.  When he got emotional, he ran.  I knew it was just a matter of time before he did it again.  Only running wouldn’t solve
this
kind of trouble.  He was already a suspect in someone’s eyes.  We needed to clear his name before that became the common consensus.

I sat staring into space for another minute before shaking myself back to the present.  I knew our best course of action would be to locate Mistee’s friend and talk to her.  On my Blackberry, I Googled shelters in the Atlanta area that had the word Ephesus in the name.  Turns out there was only one so I dialed that number.  Unfortunately, no one knew of a Cassidy or any variation of that name who might have worked there. 

The only other thread we had was the club.  We needed to find that girl before someone else did.  A chill ran down my spine at the thought that, at that very moment, another person might be experiencing what Mistee had seen in the last hours of her life.

Within minutes, I had a plan, but I decided to wait and spring it on Carter later.  I had other things to attend to today, like my first showing. 

During the trip to the house, I distracted myself by going over elements of the brick colonial home that would appeal to my young, jet-set clients, rehearsing them over and over.

It seemed only a few short minutes until I was passing through the elegant wrought iron gate, making my way up the driveway to the house.  It hadn’t been shown in over two weeks so I wanted to air it out.  No candle in the world could combat the odor of stagnation and it was murder on sales.  People tended to equate “vacant” with “disrepair” or “abandoned”, neither of which painted a pleasing picture to a potential buyer.

When I opened the door, a fetid stench assailed me.  It smelled like someone had started cooking pork and then forgot about it.  For a week.  Maybe two.

My first thought was of squatters.  My second thought wasn’t so pleasant.  An image from Friday’s showing-that-didn’t-happen flitted through my head as a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach.  It
did
occur to me that the prudent action would be to go back to Yota, my 4-Runner, and call 911, but my stubborn legs were already carrying me onward.

Cautiously, I made my way through the foyer and into the kitchen, which was the only room I figured could produce a smell like that.  As I walked, I tried to be observant, to use all my senses. 

All the wooden blinds were drawn and, even though the heat wasn’t cut on in the vacant home, the air inside was warm and balmy.  It had an almost greasy quality, like it was sticking to my skin.  The heat was emanating from the kitchen, wafting past me toward the open front door.

Again I thought of what a smart person would do, but my legs refused to cooperate.

As I rounded the corner into the gourmet kitchen, I got an eyeful of the picture that went with the smell.  Another dead body, only this one was cooked.

Chapter Six

The remains of my breakfast slammed into reverse, making their way onto the floor.  When my stomach was empty, I tried to straighten, but my body was still heaving.  I squeezed my watering eyes shut.  Against the black backdrop of my lids I could still see, with disturbing clarity, the gruesome scene I’d stumbled upon.  Again.

An image like that one, even after such a brief look, was forever burned into your memory, every gory detail.  Even with my eyes shut, I could still see the blood spatter.  It looked as if ten pigs had been slaughtered in there.  And there were tools, bloody tools, strewn across the island. 

On the solid white tile floor was a large circular pattern drawn in blood, like the vortex I’d seen at Mistee’s scene.  In the center of the symbol was some sort of torture rack that held a human body upright with arms and legs stretched wide in spread-eagle fashion.  The size of the remains suggested to me the victim was a man, but I couldn’t be sure. 

There were two large lights trained on the person.  They must’ve been on for some time.  The body had been burned to a crisp, the skin blackened in some places, angry red and blistered in others.  Apparently the power tools had been used on the flesh
before
it had been cooked. There was a gaping hole where the heart should’ve been and the edges of the wound were burnt and curling away from the cavity.

Putting one foot behind the other, I started backing up.  Eyes still closed, I let the cool air at my back guide me toward the front door.  Once there, I turned and found my way to the grass, where I continued to dry heave until my ribs ached.   

I called the police, a strangely familiar experience, and then called the office.  It was open seven days a week.  The Realtor on phone duty agreed to call my clients and give them the bad news.  She also agreed to replace me at my next showing. 

Why me?  Why
my
listings? Why now?
The thoughts ran on a loop through my mind, but I had no answers.  Then another thought broke the repetition. 
Could this have anything to do with Aunt Jillian’s letter?

I knew right then I was going to have to pay a visit to Pastor Mike.  Soon.

In a nightmarish déjà vu, I watched as the scene unfolded in an almost identical replica of Friday:  first the deputies, then the yellow tape, then the crime scene unit.  Finally, exactly as the previous time, two detectives arrived to do the serious questioning—the exact same two detectives that had been working on Friday.    

Just when I thought I had stepped into a bad rerun, I saw a familiar face bobbing a few inches above the crowd, one I hadn’t seen at the last scene:  Detective S. Tegan.  And he was making his way toward me. 

Among the unimaginable feelings I was trying to sort through and despite my ire with him after our last conversation, a tiny bud of relief blossomed in my chest.  I tried not to notice how strapping he was, how capable-looking and handsome.  Instead, I focused on the comfort of seeing a familiar face. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, his expression clearly stating he saw no humor in my presence.  He stopped in front of me.  “You’re never going to sell a house at this rate.”

“Tell me about it,” I said coolly.

“How are you doing?”

“Just peachy,” I said, unable to contain my sarcasm. 

Tegan seemed oblivious to my irritation.  “Why don’t I take you home and we can talk on the way.  I’m sure you’re ready to get out of here.”

“Ya think?”

“I’ll drive you and a patrolman can follow in your car if that’s alright.” 

“I can drive myself, I—”

“I need to ask you a few questions.” 

“Fine,” I said, giving in with very little grace and too strung out to hide it.

After Tegan had talked to a patrolman and given him my keys, we set off across the yard.  As we walked, I became more aware of the cold.  At some point, a uniformed person had brought me a scratchy gray blanket that smelled like feet.  I pulled it tighter around my shoulders, suddenly very appreciative of the mystery person’s thoughtfulness.  I mean, it
was
cool, but I was shivering like it was fifteen below zero.  It was as if the chill had penetrated my very bones. 

Tegan must’ve noticed my trembling. When we were further down the drive, away from the crowd, he draped his arm across my shoulders and pulled me into the curve of his side.

I stopped and pushed him away.  His comments from the party still stung and my pride wasn’t completely asleep. 

“Don’t be childish.  You’re freezing.”

“I’m not being—,” I began indignantly, but he cut me off.

“Yes, you are.  You need warmth.  I have warmth.  If you weren’t being childish, you’d just accept it for what it is.”

When put that way, I had no choice.

“Fine,” I said again, resuming our walk.

He made it seem like a casual, almost clinical gesture, but, despite my aggravation, I was all too aware of Tegan at my side.  I could feel his thigh brushing mine as we walked.  I could smell his intoxicating scent over the foot odor of the blanket and the cooked pork smell of my hair.  His warmth was seeping through the blanket, thawing my bones and starting a warm glow in my belly.  

I followed Detective Tegan to a solid black Lincoln Navigator.  He helped me in then shut the door once I was inside. 

“Being a detective must pay better than what I thought,” I said, feeling the need to lash out in some way.