Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
brETT
Jane Evangeline: Entry #2
Masks. Phantoms, Reapers, and Disposers.
The words have been running through my mind all week, though I’m no closer to infiltrating the mysterious crime syndicate operating out of Moriton.
Maverick told me all he could about it, and I have no reason to doubt him.
What he said so far seems to check out—the Sanctum is basically Atlantis. No one wants to talk about it, and the ones who do insist it’s some kind of conspiracy.
But I know it’s real—and I’m getting close.
Jim pulls into the driveway of Martha Gore's residence. At first glance, it looks abandoned, but the tufts of smoke billowing from the crumbling brick chimney tell me someone still calls this place home. Jim gives a disgruntled huff as he takes in the state of the front lawn. Piles of garbage and spare parts litter the barren landscape, and off to the left, a semicircle of lawn chairs is arranged around what seems to be an altar of trash. The strangest part, though, is the demented garden gnomes scattered across the lawn and front porch. Their eyes and mouths are crossed out with black Sharpie, changing their merry faces into something out of a nightmare.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Jim murmurs, letting loose a shudder as he takes in the gnome perched in the grass right beside his door. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”
I nod, pulling on the door as a shudder of my own runs through me. There’s something in the air of this place. Like something’s just not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I decide I don’t want to figure it out. “I’m with you. We’ll get what we need and then get the hell out.”
Jim nods, testing the first step of the porch and cringing at the awful creaking coming from the termite-infested wood. “Fuck it,” he murmurs, bypassing all three stairs with his massive stride. “Come on, Brett. I’ll help you up.”
I shake my head at his outstretched palm. “I weigh less than you. I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” Jim shrugs, looking a tad disappointed as he turns and knocks hard on the front door. “FBI! Open up!”
I hurry onto the landing next to Jim as a shuffling noise sounds behind the thin door. Several scrapes and clicks sound before the door is thrown open, revealing the house's owner. I have to stifle a gasp as I take in the gaunt features of a woman who’s supposed to be in her early fifties. Her skin appears to be melting off her very bones, made worse by the many sores arranged across her neck and face like a horrifying constellation of sickness.
“What do you want?” the raspy smoker's voice snarls in our direction. “Don’t you know what time it is? Some people are trying to sleep.”
It’s well past noon, but I’m certainly not going to argue with the woman. “Are you Martha Gore?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
The woman looks suspiciously from mine to Jim’s face, then over his shoulder at the house across the street. “I told that motherfucker to leave my babies alone. You guys don’t have anything better to do than to harass an old woman?” Spit flies from her mouth the more enraged she becomes, and I have to force myself not to take a step back.
“I’m sorry… babies?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Martha throws her arms to the side, causing her braless chest to swing wildly from side to side. “Yes! My gnomies! That bastard Rick has been trying to get rid of them for the past year. WELL, IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, RICK!” she yells across the street.
Jim takes a step closer, holding his hands up in a protective stance. “Ms. Gore, we’re not here about your gnom—babies,” Jim says, quickly switching his wording at the murderous glare Martha cuts him. “We’re here about your son. Your biological, human son,” he adds, shifting his eyes toward the gnome perched on the porch rail.
At the word son, Martha’s face goes white. “Son? I don’t have a son.” She closes the door, and I stick my boot out, stopping it before she has a chance to lock us out.
“Ms. Gore, we have your hospital records. We know you gave birth to a boy at Moriton Memorial thirty-six years ago. Please, we need your help.”
At my mention of it, the woman’s gaze softens and seems to clear for a moment. In the next, the shutters come back down, and her scowl is right back in place. “Like I said, I don’t have a son. Never have, never will.”
“Ms. Gore.” Jim places his hand on the door and pulls it open with ease. “I’m afraid if you don’t comply, we’ll have to take you to the station.”
“For what?” She sneers, placing her hands on her nightgown-laden hips.
“For obstructing an investigation. Now, either we can hold you down at the station while we search the entirety of your apartment or you can let us inside, let us ask our questions, and we’ll be out of your hair.” Jim gives her his no-nonsense expression, and Martha breaks.
“Fine,” she spits, releasing the door handle and waving us inside. “Ask whatever you want.”
If I thought the outside of Martha Gore’s house was creepy, I had no idea what horrors awaited me on the inside. Piles and piles of porcelain dolls litter every corner of the house. Some are sitting on chairs, and some are strewn haphazardly across the floor as if in a fit of rage.
Martha is in the process of clearing the couch of some life-sized horrors when Jim clears his throat. “That’s okay, ma’am. We won’t be here that long. ”
At his tone, Martha sighs, dropping the dolls carelessly from her arms onto the floor and shuffling toward the kitchen. “Suit yourself. Anyone want a drink?”
Before Jim or I have the chance to answer, Martha returns with a massive bottle of gin. Flicking the cap onto the ground with all the others, she takes a swig directly from the mouth of the bottle. Jim and I give each other matching looks as she plops down on her stained armchair, taking another sip as if it’s water.
“So what d’you wanna know?” she asks, her words already starting to slur.
Jim clears his throat. “When’s the last time you were in contact with your son?”
Martha shrugs, seemingly more interested in inspecting her dirt-caked fingernails—at least I hope it's dirt—than answering our questions about her son. “A while.”
“How long is a while?”
She brings a finger up and taps her chin thoughtfully. “I can’t remember.”
Jim sighs, his jaw clenching—a clear sign he’s losing his patience. “Do you know what your son has been doing this past decade?”
Martha shakes her head, her eyes taking on a glassy, disinterested sheen again. “Couldn’t care less.”
Jim huffs again, deciding to redirect his line of questioning. “Do you remember the last time you saw your son?”
As Martha takes up that same tapping motion again, my eyes wander around the room as Jim’s and Martha’s voices fade into the background. My eyes catch something gleaming on the mantel, and I cross the room in a daze.
“What are you doing? Put that down!” Martha’s screeching voice causes me to fumble the silver baby rattle, and it tinkles lightly as it crashes to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, crouching to pick it up. Martha is quicker, snatching the rattle out from under me and holding it greedily to her chest.
“You can’t just go around touching things that aren’t yours!” she spits, her eyes growing misty despite the snarl curling her lips. “Who do you think you are?”
My chest squeezes as I take in her posture. “Ms. Gore… did that rattle belong to your son?”
Her gaze clears for a beat, and she locks eyes with me, nodding her head once. “Yes,” she whispers, a tear tracking a line down her greasy cheek. “Yes, it did. ”
Jim takes a step toward us, but I catch his eye and shake my head forcefully before turning back to Martha.
“Martha…” I begin, keeping my voice as soft as possible. “Do you know what happened to your son?”
She nods, her thin lips wobbling as more tears follow that first. “I didn’t want to—I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing…”
My stomach clenches as I take in that haunted gleam in her eyes. What did she do?
“I need to know what happened to him, Martha. I need your help. Please,” I whisper, my heart picking up speed. “You’re not in trouble, but I need to find him. He’s done some terrible, awful things, and we need to stop him. Do you understand?”
Martha nods, dropping her eyes to the ground.
“Will you help me?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She raises her eyes to mine, and I nearly gasp at the pain swirling in their depths. “I can’t help you because I haven’t seen my son in thirty years.” Her eyes pin me, and my stomach flips at the regret swirling in those cloudy pools.
“I sold him.”