Martin Misunderstood Read online

  Table of Contents

  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 Title

  PROLOGUE

  ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW Triptych Karin Slaughter

  Skin Privilege Karin Slaughter

  Faithless Karin Slaughter

  Indelible Karin Slaughter

  martin

  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' MICHAEL CONNELLY

  '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' TESS GERRITSEN

  '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' JOHN CONNOLLY

  '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' DENISE MINA

  '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

  martin misunderstood

  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

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  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

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  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: 978140700541
6

  Version 1.0

  To Georgina, the unsung hero

  Martin Explained, or How Martin Unwittingly Became a

  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.