Martin Misunderstood
Read Martin Misunderstood Online
Authors: Karin Slaughter
- About the Author
- Praise for Karin Slaughter
- By the Same Author
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Martin Explained, or How Martin Unwittingly Became a Person of Interest
- We Meet Martin's Co-Workers, or the Hell That is Martin's Working Life
- What Martin Really Did That Night, or All That Glitters is to Goad
- Martin's Unique Problem, or An's Mary Ever-After
- Martin's Lethal Injection, or Be Steel My Heart
- Extract: Fractured
- ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW
misunderstood
Karin Slaughter grew up in a small south Georgia town
and has been writing short stories and novels since she
was a child. She is the author of the Grant County series
of international bestsellers
Blindsighted, Kisscut, A Faint
Cold Fear, Indelible, Faithless
and
Skin Privilege
, and
the bestselling thrillers set in Atlanta,
Triptych
and
Fractured
. She is also the editor of
Like A Charm
, a
collaboration of British and American crime fiction
writers. She lives in Atlanta.
Praise for Karin Slaughter
'Without doubt an accomplished, compelling and complex
tale, with page-turning power aplenty'
Daily Express
'No one does American small-town evil more chillingly . . .
Slaughter tells a dark story that grips and doesn't let go'
The Times
'A great read . . . crime fiction at its finest' M
ICHAEL
C
ONNELLY
'Slaughter deftly turns all assumptions on their head . . . Her
ability to make you buy into one reality, then another, means
that the surprises – and the violent scenes – keep coming'
Time Out
'A fast-paced and unsettling story . . . A compelling and
fluid read'
Daily Telegraph
'Criminally spectacular'
OK!
'Slaughter's plotting is relentless, piling on surprises and
twists . . . A good read that should come with a psychological
health warning'
Guardian
'Slaughter knows exactly when to ratchet up the menace, and
when to loiter on the more personal and emotional aspects of
the victims. Thoroughly gripping, yet thoroughly gruesome
stuff'
Daily Mirror
'The writing is lean and mean, and the climax will blow
you away'
Independent
'Karin Slaughter is a fearless writer. She takes us to the deep,
dark places other novelists don't dare to go . . . one of the
boldest thriller writers working today' T
ESS
G
ERRITSEN
'Brilliantly chilling'
heat
'Confirms her at the summit of the school of writers
specialising in forensic medicine and terror . . . Slaughter's
characters talk in believable dialogue. She's excellent at
portraying the undertones and claustrophobia of
communities where everyone knows everyone else's business,
and even better at creating an atmosphere of lurking evil'
The Times
'A salutary reminder that Slaughter is one of the most riveting
writers in the field today'
Sunday Express
'Don't read this alone. Don't read this after dark. But do
read it'
Daily Mirror
'With
Blindsighted
, Karin Slaughter left a great many mystery
writers looking anxiously over their shoulders. With
Kisscut
,
she leaves most of them behind' J
OHN
C
ONNOLLY
'Brilliant plotting and subtle characterisation make for a
gruesomely gripping read'
Woman & Home
'Unsparing, exciting, genuinely alarming . . . excellent
handling of densely woven plot, rich in interactions, well
characterised and as subtle as it is shrewd'
Literary Review
'Energetic, suspenseful writing from Slaughter, who spares no
detail in this bloody account of violent sexual crime but also
brings compassion and righteous anger to it'
Manchester Evening News
'It's not easy to transcend a model like Patricia Cornwell, but
Slaughter does so in a thriller whose breakneck plotting and
not-for-the-squeamish forensics provide grim manifestations
of a deeper evil her mystery trumpets without ever quite
containing'
Kirkus Reviews
'Slaughter has created a ferociously taut and terrifying story
which is, at the same time, compassionate and real. I defy
anyone to read it in more than three sittings' D
ENISE
M
INA
'Wildly readable . . . [Slaughter] has been compared to
Thomas Harris and Patricia Cornwell, and for once the hype
is justified . . . deftly crafted, damnably suspenseful and, in
the end, deadly serious. Slaughter's plotting is brilliant, her
suspense relentless'
Washington Post
Also by Karin Slaughter
Blindsighted
Kisscut
A Faint Cold Fear
Indelible
Faithless
Triptych
Skin Privilege
Fractured
Like a Charm (Ed.)
Karin
Slaughter
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407005416
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2008
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Karin Slaughter 2008
Karin Slaughter has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
Extract from THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald by permission
of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated. Copyright 1925 by Charles Scribner's
Sons, Copyright renewed 1953 by Frances Scott Fitzgerald Lanahan
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of
the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be
found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781407005416
Version 1.0
To Georgina, the unsung hero
Person of Interest
Martin Reed had decided long ago that he was
born into the wrong body. He often wondered
how different his fate would have been if that
amorphous lump that stared vacantly from his
first photograph at the hospital had shown even
the slightest bit of potential. But, no, it was
clearly not meant to be. The picture of baby
Martin, thrusting himself into the air like a
bloated seal, wet, pink lips parted, chin sliding
into his neck even then, and – perhaps worst
of all – the words 'Mama's Little Angel'
emblazoned over his grayish, hairless head,
would be one that would haunt him throughout
his entire life.
It wasn't that Martin was a dreamer. He did
not think, for instance, that George Clooney had
gotten his true face. Nor did he see Brad Pitt's
physique and spit bitter 'if only' vitriol. He would
have been fine with an average man's body,
something his many hours on his Chuck Norris
Total Gym system could exploit into the
semblance of muscle tone instead of a lateral
realignment of flab. Even Will Ferrell's physique
would have sufficed. The cruel truth of the
matter was that Martin's body more closely
resembled Jodie Foster's during her Yale years.
Add in his weak chin, his hawkish nose and the
C-shaped curve to his shoulders, and the root of
his displeasure (and that of many blind dates)
became painfully apparent.
His life was just the sort of pathetic life you
would expect of Jodie Foster's estranged, less
attractive fraternal twin. Working as a senior
accountant at Southern Toilet Supply for the last
sixteen years, he had become somewhat resigned
to the small-town Georgia life into which he had
been born. The bullies with whom he had
attended high school had become the jerks with
whom he worked. The cheerleading captain who
had spurned his attention continued to do so, but
this time from behind a desk instead of behind
pom-poms. Norton Shaw, his Geometry Team
nemesis, had been promoted to his direct
supervisor. Even the security guard was the same
man who had walked the halls of Tucker High
School; he had been fired for stalking one of the
cafeteria ladies, a crime which, apparently, did
not bother the denizens of Southern Toilet
Supply.
Upon reflection, Martin's life was typical in
that it had not changed much after leaving high
school. But then for Martin, life seldom proved
atypical. Striving for normalcy had been his
elusive life goal. He was of average height,
average intelligence, average weight – so why
was it that he came across as so blatantly below
average? Fortunately, he had other things to
recommend himself: A steady job. A Toyota
Camry that was almost paid for. An intricate
knowledge of the toilet-supply industry.
It must be said that, for most of his life, Martin
had tried to make changes. A lifelong reader, he
had at first turned to books for help. He had read
Chicken Soup
for every type of soul.
The Power
of Positive Thinking
had left him thoroughly
depressed. To his horror, he'd discovered that he
shared more characteristics with people from
Venus than from Mars.
The Secret
had arrived
around the time that a series of disasters befell
him: pinkeye, an incident on a faulty escalator,
'twat' being keyed into his car. Martin had
cuddled up with the book, a warm washcloth
over one eye, and soon discovered that it was
entirely his own fault.
Martin's mother was equally dissatisfied with
her son – perhaps more so. Often, she would look
at him over the breakfast table (of course he still
lived with his mother) and make grand pronouncements
about his shortcomings.
'Goodness, I think you lost more hair last
night.'
'My, you should see how that roll of fat hangs
over your belt.'
'You know, there are women you can pay for
companionship.'
Evelyn Reed, on first glance, was the quintessential
sweet old lady. Until she opened her
mouth. Like Martin, she was an outsider, the sort
of person who did not easily make friends. Unlike
Martin, she assumed the blame lay with others
and was not a direct result of her abhorrent
personality. Most days, he thought of her as
some awful troll who refused to allow him to
cross the bridge into a new, more exciting life.
Other days, he felt more generous and only saw
her as an old woman who, hopefully, would soon
die so that he could lead a new, more exciting
life.
Many of the recurrent dreams in Martin's head
ended happily with his mother passing on to
some great ether. As he chewed his turkey bacon
or drank his prune juice, Martin would imagine
himself a character in a book; some kind of broad
comedy with murderous undertones.
Case
Histories
, but without the happy ending. His
words would be in quotation marks. His
thoughts in italics.
'Mother, can you pass the butter knife?'
Would you please jam it into your chest first?
Evie Reed had been an attractive woman at
some point in her life, a point which,
surprisingly, had gone wholly undocumented.
There were no pictures that captured this great
beauty, no witnesses to back up her statements. It
strained credulity to see her now, with her gray
hair expertly bunned and a large mole at the center
of her forehead that always conjured up the
phrase, 'hairy eyeball'. Likemany pronouncements
his mother made, the listener was supposed to
believe them without any supporting proof, as if
the chain-smoking, bird-thin, gutter-mouthed
woman sitting with her spindly legs tightly
crossed as she read the newspaper, had at some
point in time rivaled Jean Harlow. She was the
'Mission Accomplished' of her time.
'I'll tell you what, Martin.' Evie switched her
cigarette to the side of her mouth. It bobbed as
she talked, a thin line of smoke snaking from her
blackened, right nostril. 'I was fucking gorgeous
in my day.'
'I bet you were.'
By 'day' you must mean the
Mesozoic era.
She sniffed the air, as if her sense of smell had
not been burned away by forty years of Kool
Lights. 'You haven't been drinking, have you?'
He took a deep breath and slowly let it go
before answering. 'No, Mother. I haven't been
drinking.'
She looked disappointed, as he had known she
would. Having been banned from her church
group for causing a split in the Ladies' Hospital
Auxiliary, ('Like their shit don't smell!') she had
lately taken to perusing the personal ads in hopes
of finding some new group to which she could
belong. She was desperate to have Martin come
down with a horrible disease or become addicted
to a substance – illegal or otherwise – which had
a support group, preferably something close by
because she wasn't allowed to drive at night. She
had started leaving her various medications out
on the kitchen counter, as if to tempt him.
'Look here,' she said, pointing to an ad.
'There's a PFLAG meeting on Lawrenceville
Highway.' She looked at him over the paper,
eyebrow raised in hopeful expectation.
Martin felt his soul wither like a biodegradable
packing peanut in a puddle of water.
PFLAG was a support group for parents and
friends of gays and lesbians.
'Says here that they serve refreshments.' Her
eyes began to sparkle. 'Do you think that means
snack foods, too?' She cackled at a thought. 'I bet
you they have lady fingers.'
Martin summoned an ounce of dignity from
some deep, secret place. 'I am not gay, Mother.'
She stared at him, as if in challenge.
'No.'
She snapped a crease out of the paper. 'Very
well,' she quipped. 'What would it matter? It's
not like you've been laid in the last ten years.'
Martin spread a thin layer of cholesterollowering
fake butter on to his waffle. It floated
on the top of the ridges like lotion on a dead man.
To someone not intimate with Martin's
private life (and in all honesty, but for Evie, that
meant everyone), the fact that he knew what
lotion looked like on a dead man would have
seemed an odd detail needing further explanation.
But Martin was late for work, and he did
not like to think about his father because it only
brought out the spinning spool of 'what ifs' that,
quite quickly, tied him up in knots.
What if his father had been around during
Martin's formative years to take the brunt of
Evie's hounding?
What if his father had been there to talk to
Martin about puberty, instead of Evie tossing
him a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care and
telling him not to get it on the couch?
What if his father's death had been ruled an
accident?
Martin considered these things as he retrieved
his briefcase and car keys from the hall table. He
checked his tie in the mirror, straightening the
knot, trying not to notice the way his chin
wattled. He gave in, checking over his shoulder
to make sure Evie was still in the kitchen before
pinching back the skin on either side, pulling it
toward his ears to tighten it up against the
jawbone. He studied himself, his turkey giblet
gone, and wondered if anyone would ever be able
to see past his myriad flaws and know the real
Martin – the gentle soul, the book lover, the
accountant with stunning accuracy who
possessed an unnatural talent for explicating
actuarial data.
'Are you still here?' his mother bellowed.
Are you still breathing?
'I'm leaving now,' Martin answered, dropping
the skin, watching it settle back into a pouch
reminiscent of a seagull's. He rummaged in the
closet for a jacket, trying to find one that did not
smell of his mother – an olfaction of cigarettes
and White Diamonds perfume with a yeasty
undertone of string cheese. He held each to his
nose and picked the less offensive pea coat. As he
buttoned himself up, Martin glanced back at the
mirror, catching his profile.
He had not been altogether honest when he'd
claimed not to covet all things George Clooney.
He could not have the man's grace or charm, but
through the magic of plastic surgery, he had
managed to swipe his nose. Three years ago,
Martin had sprung for a nose job with the plan of
addressing his chin in a follow-up operation. The
rhinoplasty had proved successful; however, the
reaction he had gotten at work was disastrous.
His old schoolmates had grown up with Martin
and his nose. He had not been called 'Beak' his
entire life for nothing. The fact that the beak in
question was no longer there seemed to make the
nickname even more appropriate. The taunting
had gotten worse after the bandages came off,
and though he had insisted the operation was to
correct a deviated septum, no one had believed
him. Chin surgery seemed an invitation to further
ridicule after that.
But Martin would be late for work if he took
the time to count the many travesties of his life.
He locked the front door after him and walked
down the porch stairs. His Camry was parked by
the mailbox, the 'twat' scratched into the
passenger's side door glinting with morning dew.
The insurance adjuster had said the paperwork
for repairing the paint would take time to
process. Ben Sabatini, the adjuster, had been one
of Martin's chief tormentors in high school.
Martin was under the impression that the man
was deliberately taking his time.
The vandalism had occurred last week. Martin
had left the house, much as he was doing this
morning, only to find his car had been defiled.
Evie's laughter still gurgled in his ear as he
thought about the incident.
The policeman who took the report had stated,
'Obviously, this was done by someone who
knows you.'
Martin switched his briefcase to his other hand
as he walked down the driveway. A light rain
started to fall, tickling the end of his nose. He
looked at the flowers in the yard – strangely, Evie
was an excellent gardener. The front lawn was
bordered by all kinds of exotic blooms. Before
the gardening club had asked her to leave, then
kicked her out, Evie had been the top ribbonholder
in the state for her colorful peonies.
Martin used his key to unlock the Camry by
hand (he had read somewhere that remote-key
unlocking caused testicular cancer) and tossed
his briefcase into the back seat. He was halfway
in the car when he noticed that something was
wrong with the front end. Slowly, he walked
round and saw that the bumper had practically
been ripped off.
'Damn,' he mumbled. He glanced back at the
house and saw the curtain twitch in the front
room. Unbidden, Evie's laughter filled his ears.
'Of course it was done by someone who knows
him,' she had told the cop who had taken the
report. 'Have you ever seen a bigger twat in your
life?'
He was not up for another humiliating police
report and Ben Sabatini had stopped returning
his calls on the 'twat'. There was no reason to
believe this time would be any different. With
both hands, Martin pulled on the plastic bumper,
bending the hanging piece back and forth until it
snapped in two. He did not notice the blood on
his hands until he put the damaged bumper in the
trunk. Thin lines, almost like paper cuts, crisscrossed
his palms. Martin took his handkerchief
out of his pocket and wiped his hands. He did not
need to look at the house to know that his
mother was watching.
Had he not read Tom Clancy shortly after rereading
Fatal Vision
, the blood on Martin's
hands might have triggered the memory that
Jeffrey MacDonald, the subject of that true-crime
classic, had been convicted of massacring his
entire family based on the blood evidence found
at the scene of the crime. Instead, his mind was
filled with visions of Clancy hero Jack Ryan
assassinating the more than likely drunken hood
who had slammed into the front bumper of
Martin's Camry.
