Madisonville Murder, Part 3

Clues from a Grieving Mother

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All of our other rings had been disrupted, so I tried to set a new circle around the red glow using my mixture of St. John’s wort and black cohosh. But the glow slipped away before I could close the circle. There was no way I was was going to be able to imprison it now.

Alma pursued a different strategy. “If you’re here, Satan, show yourself! Or are you just the same coward you’ve always been?”

The red glow expanded, and in its center, a shadowy figure with horns and a pitchfork began to take shape.

“Come on,” said Alma. “Show yourself—or is this piddling manifestation all you’re capable of?”

I’d never imagined that taunting the Devil was a particularly good idea, but the manifestation in front of us twisted. It seemed to be struggling to expand.

“Gavin, I need you to join in,” said Alma.

Gavin had fought demons with knuckles and baseball bats when they became physical enough. But he’d never tried shouting at one and looked profoundly skeptical. Nonetheless, he gave the approach a try.

“You don’t scare me! Surely, you’ve got more planned than just a light show.”

“Christopher!”

Oh, good—Satan now recognized me on sight.

The voice echoed in the room in a way that told me it was in my head rather than being a physical sound.

“Christopher!”

“What do you want?” I asked, trying to sound belligerent. Unlike Alma and Gavin, I didn’t quite pull it off.

“You know what I want,” he replied. Despite myself, his voice chilled the blood in my veins.

“Well, you’re not going to get it.” My defiant words sounded hollow, even to me.

I wasn’t going to get what I wanted, either. I wanted to free Cynthia from Satan, if it wasn’t already too late. But I didn’t see any obvious way of doing that. I didn’t even see how I was going to prove him responsible for her death.

“You want Cynthia? Come to the Eternal Rest Cemetery by yourself, and I will let you talk to her as much as you want,”

“You are not welcome in this house!” yelled Alma so loudly that I wondered why her neighbors didn’t come running. “Begone!”

Satan chuckled. At least, that’s what I thought he did. The sound was more like the rustling of ancient parchment.

“You cannot banish me, woman!”

“I can wear you down,” she replied, taking a step forward. “You see, I took the precaution of having this house blessed by a priest some time ago. That’s why you’re having such difficulty manifesting—in case you were having trouble figuring that out on your own.

“You have nothing to gain here. Begone!”

Was it my imagination, or did the red glow look paler? Satan was undeniably powerful, but he was also thinly spread across the whole world. Energy he spent struggling here was energy he couldn’t use elsewhere.

I’d seen Satan’s demons retreat before. It wasn’t out of the question that he might.

“Christopher, what say you to my offer? Refuse me, and you could hold a thousand seances without being able to call up Cynthia once.”

“I’ll be there,” I said without thinking.

The sound of Satan’s dry chuckle filled my ears. But then the red glow shrunk until it vanished completely.

Satan had left the building.

In the confusion, so had the thug, who must have regained consciousness sooner than we expected and slipped out while we were occupied with Satan. I can’t say I was sorry to discover he was gone. I wasn’t sure how the police would react to my being at two crime scenes in the same day.

“Quickly, put the table and the chairs back where they were,” said Alma. “I doubt he’ll return right away, but we need to close the channel we opened for the seance. Something else might come through it at any time.”

We got the furniture back where it should be and sat down. It only took Alma a minute or two to satisfy herself that the channel was now closed.

Once that was done, Gavin, never shy about expressing his opinion, gave me an earful.

“You’re not going to the cemetery alone. I’ll tie you up and throw you in the trunk of my car before I let that happen.”

“That’s…disturbingly specific,” I said, trying to smile.

“It’s not funny,” said Gavin, his volume rising rapidly. “You know you’d be walking into a trap. And you know Satan never gives anything without getting more in return.”

“He’s right,” said Alma. “I’d expect someone who was used to dealing with Satan to know better. Even a verbal agreement to meet with him compromises you, gives him more ability to intervene in your life.”

“I know that wasn’t a smart move,” I replied. “But in my own defense, do I really have a choice?”

“What if you can’t save her?” asked Gavin. “You know you can’t save everyone in the whole world, right?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

Gavin was right, of course, and I knew it. But I didn’t want to yield an inch to Satan if I didn’t have to.

“Look, I can tell there’s a backstory of some kind,” said Alma. “Perhaps I could offer better advice if I knew what it was. Why don’t I make us some tea, and you can tell me what’s really going on—everything, and I mean everything. Oh, and clean up in here while I make the tea. There are cleaning supplies in the hall closet.”

Without waiting for an answer, Alma bustled off to the kitchen. Gavin checked the hall closet and came back with a broom, dust pan, cleaning rags, and floor polish.

The only real problem was the sage, which, since it was burning, had left black marks on the hardwood floor. I swept up what little was left of the sage, after which Gavin went to work with the polish. I didn’t see how he was going to fix burn marks that way, but, much to my surprise, he polished them out.

“Superficial,” he said. “There was already a layer of polish on the floor. That seems to have been what burned, not the wood itself.”

“And it’s a good thing,” said Alma, returning with the tea tray. “If those burns had been serious, I would have charged you for floor repairs.”

We sat back down, and Alma served us the tea—peppermint tea, by the smell of it.

“I would have gone with sage, but I figured we’d all had enough of that for one day,” she said. “Now, the story—and it had better be complete.”

I’d only met Alma that day, but for some reason, I felt as if I could trust her. At least, she wouldn’t think I was insane. After all, she talked to ghosts and had just had Satan manifest himself in her dining room.

It took me a while, but I told her everything I could think of, from the accidental sale of my own soul and my encounter with the Satan-bound Amanda to my later attempts to keep people from getting ensnared by Satan. I even told her what had happened earlier in the day.

“In other words, you do your best to keep poking Satan in the eye whenever you can, and then you’re surprised when he pops up or sends his minions after you,” said Alma when I was finally done. “And you brought all of this into my home without telling me any of it upfront.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking down at the tabletop, which I noticed had a knife nick in it.

Alma sighed. “What’s done is done. All of us are unharmed, which is the important thing. I imagine the intruder picked my front door lock, so I might have to replace that—at your expense, of course. But on the whole, things could have gone much worse.

“As far as visiting the cemetery is concerned, your friend is right—you can’t go there alone. Based on what I’ve seen, Satan will trick you somehow. If not, maybe he’ll have half a dozen people under his thumb murder you.”

I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Satan couldn’t have half a dozen willing instruments in Madisonville—could he?

“Then…then what do I do about Cynthia?” I asked.

Alma shook her head. “You mean, what do we do about Cynthia? It’s obvious you need some adult supervision.”

“I’m eighteen,” I said, sounding more defensive than I wanted to.

“Yes, and the part of your brain that controls impulsive behavior won’t be fully formed until you’re twenty-five.”

“Uh, Gavin, help me out here.”

Gavin looked at me sadly. “She’s not wrong. You have a tendency to run recklessly into danger. Now you want to go meet Satan alone in a cemetery at midnight—because what could possibly go wrong with a plan like that?”

He wasn’t wrong, either. But admitting that left me with a huge dilemma.

“Are you saying I can’t do anything to help Cynthia?”

“Not necessarily,” said Alma slowly. “There is one other possibility I can think of. It’s not as dangerous—but it could be hard.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I replied.

“Maybe you should hear what it is first,” said Alma. “Cynthia’s mother goes to the same church I do, so I know her. She’s not…a fan of my gift, but we are on speaking terms. I know she’s still grieving, so talking to her about Cynthia will be difficult. But her grief has kept her from cleaning out Cynthia’s room, which is pretty much as she left it. You might conceivably find some clues there—if her mother will let us take a look.”

“We might just be reopening old wounds,” said Gavin. “Are you sure it’s worth it?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “If I can pry her loose from Satan, yes.”

---

The Jenkins house looked a lot like a smaller, one-story version of my parents’ house. Madisonville had started out with tract housing and included only a few different patterns.

But little details set the two houses apart. All the curtains were closed at the Jenkins house. The paint looked chipped in a few spots. The lawn had been mowed recently, but weeds had sprouted in all the visible flowerbeds.

“One of the neighborhood boys mows the lawn for her,” said Alma. “But otherwise, home maintenance hasn’t been her priority, as you can imagine.”

Two years seemed a long time to be grieving so intensely, but I’d never been in Mrs. Jenkins’ position, so I knew I shouldn’t judge.

“She’s not going to be particularly receptive,” said Alma. “Let me do the talking.”

The doorbell didn’t seem to work. Alma knocked briskly. The sound of her knock echoed inside as if the house was empty.

I figured Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t home, but then I heard hesitant footsteps, and the door creaked open a crack.

“Oh, Alma,” said a quiet voice, somewhat hoarse—perhaps from lack of use. The door opened somewhat wider.

From a distance, Mrs. Jenkins would have looked all right. Up close, I could see that her brown hair, quickly pulled back into a bun, seemed to want to escape from it. Several strands hung loose. She had put on a little lipstick, but otherwise wore no make-up. Her pants looked one size too big—had she lost weight? She’d missed a button when putting on the light green sweater that she wore.

Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes narrowed. “Who are these two…young men?” She said young men in a tone that sounded more the way most people would say, “hooligans.”

“I’m Christopher Patrick Murphy,” I said, holding out my hand. I figured throwing in the extra saint’s name wouldn’t hurt, and for once, I was glad that I looked relatively non-threatening.

Mrs. Jenkins took my hand reluctantly. Her fingers were cold, and her hand shook slightly.

If Alma hadn’t been here, she would never have opened the door for us.

“I’m Gavin Johnson.” Gavin, who had more charm in his little finger than I had in my whole body, hit Mrs. Jenkins with one of his toothpaste-commercial quality smiles. She let go of my hand and took his somewhat more firmly.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “But why are you here?”

“That’s…complicated, Claudia,” said Alma. “You might prefer to sit down for this conversation.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Mrs. Jenkins, though she did move out of the doorway, allowing us to enter.

The interior hadn’t been totally neglected, but the housecleaning had gotten what my what my grandmother would have called, “a lick and a promise.” The higher traffic areas had been vacuumed, but the corners and out-of-the-way places were dusty. Most surfaces had been cleaned—but not as often or as recently as my mom would have felt necessary.

After we were seated in the living room, Mrs. Jenkins slid into a chair and watched us, though whether with expectation or dread, I couldn’t really tell.

“This is a hard subject,” said Alma. “But we believe that Cynthia’s death may not have been a suicide.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” said Mrs. Jenkins with surprising firmness. “I never believed that story. My daughter couldn’t possibly have done such a thing. And where would she even have gotten those drugs? The whole thing was…”

We waited expectantly for her to finish, but she said no more.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” said Alma. “You’ve never mentioned it to me.”

“I did mention it to some people, back when my Cynthia first…passed away. I gave the police an earful, demanded a better investigation. But they claimed not be be able to find any evidence that her death wasn’t suicide. And so…and so now, everyone except me believes that my daughter committed a mortal sin.”

Mrs. Jenkins wiped her eyes. I expected her to break down completely, but somehow, she held on to her composure.

“Not everyone,” said Alma gently. “We believe she didn’t commit suicide. Would you like to help up prove she didn’t?”

“How?” she asked.

“Could there be something in Cynthia’s room that might help?” asked Gavin.

“I’ve looked—but I suppose a fresh pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Let me show you where it is.”

Because I’d never met Mrs. Jenkins before, I probably shouldn’t have been suspicious of her, but during her search, she might have gotten rid of anything that she didn’t want others to see—like evidence connecting her daughter to Satan. I had to hope I was wrong, or at least, that she might have missed something significant.

Mrs. Jenkins led us down the hallway to a room at the back of the house and then excused herself, which I thought was a little odd. Unlike the rest of the place, which looked as if it might have missed a cleaning day or two, Cynthia’s room looked as it if had been cleaned every day, so Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t have found it that hard to go into it. Her bed was neatly made. Every book was carefully shelved. Every garment was carefully hung in the closet or folded in a dresser drawer.

I’d hoped to find something at her desk, but I was disappointed. The computer, if there had been one, was gone. The desk drawers contained a few papers—schoolwork, mostly.

“Well, if she’d been sucked in by Satan somehow, there’s no evidence of it here,” I said.

“Not superficially—but you know what there’s also no evidence of?” asked Gavin. “Personality. I suppose we could deduce something from the clothing styles. But there’s no knickknacks, no keepsakes, no pictures—though these days, I suppose her photos could all be digitized. Oh, but there isn’t a cell phone, either. She must have had one.

“If you ask me, this place is like a carefully curated museum display—the way her mother wants to remember her, perhaps. But there’s no way a typical teenager girl lived like this.”

“Maybe she was atypical,” said Alma. “Not everyone decorates her bedroom the same way.”

“But any teenage girl I’ve ever known has decorated in some way,” said Gavin.

I was pretty sure that the teenage girls he’d known would have been a statistically significant sample, but given the seriousness of the situation, I decided against taking the opportunity for a joke.

“Guys, too,” Gavin continued. “Don’t we all make our living spaces our own in some way? I’ve seen more personality in some furniture store displays than I do here.”

“I can see Mrs. Jenkins purging anything that suggested a connection to Satan,” I said. “But why would she remove anything else—particularly if she was going to keep the room as is? That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t remove anything,” said Mrs. Jenkins, who must have come back and decided to eavesdrop. I jumped despite myself.

“I’m sorry,” I began. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re trying to help,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “And I should have been more open with you. Cynthia took out a lot of things herself—two days before…she passed away.

“I wouldn’t let her throw anything away, though. There’s a box in the garage. I’ll get it for you.”

Without waiting for a response, she walked quickly away from the room, turned, and headed toward the back door.

“Not the reaction I would have expected,” said Alma. “She’s…more open than I thought she’d be. As I mentioned, she doesn’t approve of my seances. And she never asked how we could know anything about Cynthia’s death.”

“Maybe she’s changed,” said Gavin. “She’s been brooding over the circumstances of her daughter’s death for two years. Maybe she’s a little more…open now.”

Given the way I’d been caught by surprise before, I was careful not to miss the sound of the back door opening and closing again.

“Come to the dining room,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “There’s more room to spread out.”

Given how similar the floor plan was to that of some of my friend’s houses, I knew where the dining room was.

The table was a little larger than the one at Alma’s house. It probably seemed too big for Mrs. Jenkins now that she was all alone. But at least, the surface of the table gave her room to spread out the contents of the box.

At first, we found nothing earthshattering. Cynthia’s laptop and her cellphone—neither of which Mrs. Jenkins had the passwords for—more papers, and a date book. Since most teenagers who had cellphones tended to keep their calendars there, I wondered about the date book.

It had a fancy, pseudo leather cover—again, overkill for any teenager I’d known. If someone needed a paper calendar for some reason, he or she would certainly get something cheap and generic.

I opened the date book and thumbed through the pages. Cynthia hadn’t written anything inside, though some of the lines looked smudged.

“She had gotten that just a few days earlier,” said Mrs. Jenkins, her voice sounding distant. “I don’t think she ever had a chance to use it.”

“Then why be so anxious to get rid of it?” asked Gavin. “Or any of this…stuff, for that matter?”

It was more typical in cases of suicide for people to try to give away their prized possessions. I’d never heard of someone throwing away their memorabilia before a suicide, much less trying trashing their electronics.

Unless, of course, Satan had told her to do that for some reason. But why?

On impulse, I ran my hand over one of the pages in the date book. It felt rough, not smooth like one would expect a sheet of paper to feel. The rough areas were the same places where the smudging occurred.

“There’s something on this page,” I said, handing the date book to Gavin.

“On several pages, he replied, thumbing through and feeling the paper. “My guess—invisible ink. I’ve see a recipe online for using baking soda to write invisible messages. Grape juice can be used to reveal them.”

“That’s the oddest thing,” said Mrs. Jenkins, still sounding distant. “One time, I couldn’t find my baking soda. But it reappeared later in the day. It didn’t occur to me…that Cynthia might have it.

“Do you have any grape juice?” asked Alma.

“Oh, yes, I think so. I’ll bring some—and a brush, too, I take it.”

“Yes, excellent,” replied Alma. Her tone sounded skeptical to me.

“What’s up?” I muttered as soon as Mrs. Jenkins had left the room.

“I’ve seen Claudia on and off for the last five years. She’s not herself at all today. She’s still not happy, but lighter somehow. I can’t see any reason for it.”

Unfortunately, I could. Demonic possession—if the demon was extraordinarily sophisticated—might explain the change. Satan was manipulating us through Mrs. Jenkins. Or perhaps a demon had simply assumed her form. The real Mrs. Jenkins was probably unconscious—or worse—somewhere nearby.

I could see possible objections to that theory without even having to ask Alma or or Gavin. There were crucifixes in practically every room of the house. If Mrs. Jenkins was a woman of faith, demons would have had a hard time finding a way into the house. And if she had been deep enough in despair to abandon her faith, Alma, who apparently visited reasonably often, might have noticed.

Mrs. Jenkins returned with a half-full bottle of grape juice and a small paint brush. At the risk of acting impulsively, I had to ask her a question.

“Thanks, Mrs. Jenkins. I have to say, you seem…a lot more accommodating than I’d be if strangers showed up claiming to know something about a loved one’s…passing.”

Alma glared at me, but Mrs. Jenkins took the statement in stride, even attempting to smile. “I’d never have let you in, even with Alma vouching for you, but—oh, you’re going to think I’m silly.”

“I promise we won’t,” I said.

“Well, last night I had a dream—or that’s what I thought it was, anyway. An angel came to me and told me to expect a friend and two strangers, who would have a way to help Cynthia. When I woke up, I thought the dream was just the product of wishful thinking. Then you three showed up. I figured that I should at least give you a chance. I have nothing to lose, anyway.”

I could see the pain in her eyes and knew that she meant what she said. I was also pretty sure that I was talking to the real Mrs. Jenkins, not some demon impersonator or possessor.

Were angels even real? Since demons were, the notion was certainly worth considering. But I’d save my religious reflections for later, when I had more time.

I had Gavin lay the book down on the table. Then I wet the brush with grape juice and was about to apply it to the first page when I realized I could feel writing on the inside cover of the book, so I started there. The writing was large and awkward, but it was readable.

“I added this warning while Satan wasn’t watching. If you value your life and soul, do not read beyond this point.”

“That’s sounds pretty definitive,” said Gavin.

“But Cynthia was probably expecting the book to be picked up by an ordinary person, not necessarily someone protected by rowan bark and dill seed. And I’ve got you guys. Anyway, we don’t have enough yet to prove that Cynthia didn’t kill herself nor any way to reach her. I have to keep reading.”

“Test it first,” he insisted. “Put a little agrimony on it and see what happens.”

“That won’t prove anything in this case. We already know Satan is somehow involved with this date book. We just don’t know how. A few drops of agrimony won’t tell us that.”

I brushed the first page next.

“If you are reading this book, you have renounced any protection and allowed Satan or any of his demons to enter you.”

At that point, Gavin snatched the book away from me. “This is a dead end. There’s no point taking any chances with it.”

He didn’t realize that he was already too late. I could feel Satan’s claws digging into me.

---

Madisonville Murder is related to the Soul Salvager trilogy. (The action falls between the prologue and chapter one of the first book.)

(All three books are on sale during the month of October.)

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