Caged: A Nathaniel Caron Mystery (#1)

By Christine Morgan

His business cards read: "Nathaniel Caron, Psychic Advisor." Gifted (or cursed) with the ability to perceive emotional energies, he's something of a loner more by necessity than choice. Aside from a few close friends and a string of failed or on-again/off-again relationships, it's pretty much him and his big fuzzy bastard of a cat. Even in his quirky neighborhood, he's regarded as something of a curiosity. A harmless weirdo, according to some. A con artist taking advantage of gullible old ladies, according to others. He makes his living doing spiritual readings and counseling, with the occasional missing persons or lost pets case thrown in.

Several years ago, though, Nathaniel helped track down a monster. A human monster, a child-abductor, Warren Sigmund. He'd take his victims to an old barn, lock them in cages, do terrible things. One of the children he seized was Tina Pascal, daughter of Nathaniel's closest friend, police officer Jack Pascal. On an awful day ending with gunfire, Warren Sigmund was shot twice. Brain-dead, in a coma, confined to a care facility ever since, Sigmund was no longer believed to be any kind of a threat. His recently reported death would certainly seem to confirm that. It'd be impossible for Warren Sigmund to be up and around.

Yet, now Tina insists she's that seen 'the bad stranger' she remembers from when she was little. The care facility appears to be hiding something. Other patients there have had strange experiences, talking about hauntings and malevolent forces. Nathaniel's never been 100% sure either way about ghosts, but the more he looks into it, the more he has to admit, the impossible's starting to seem pretty possible after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sabledrake Enterprises
• Release date: Nov 22, 2018

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CAGED

A Nathaniel Caron Mystery (#1)

Copyright © 2018 Christine Morgan

https://christinemariemorgan.wordpress.com/

All rights reserved

1st Edition – Autumn, 2018

Cover Design by KH Koehler Copyright © 2018

Published by Sabledrake Enterprises

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

* * * * * SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * *

Thank you for downloading this ebook. Kindly observe that stories and poems contained herein are copyright of their respective creators as indicated and are reproduced here with their permission. They may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the respective author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

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* * *

CAGED

A Nathaniel Caron Mystery

by Christine Morgan

From the simplicity of a child’s observation at a funfair, right through to the disturbing questions raised by the final scenes, Christine Morgan builds a first-rate psychic thriller. A reluctant, all too human hero who struggles to understand the nature of the evil he faces, strong characterization, and an appealing, unaffected style combine to make this a most satisfying read. I look forward to finding out where Nathaniel Caron goes next. John Linwood Grant, author of The Assassin’s Coin; editor of Occult Detective Quarterly

Chapter One

It may say Nathaniel Caron, Psychic Advisor on my business cards, but I didn't need any paranormal abilities to know what the girl on my porch step wanted.

I opened the door and there she was, with a sheet of paper in her hands, nervous apprehension on her face, and tremulous hope in her big green eyes.

A couple older kids, boys maybe twelve or so, lurked behind her. Big Brother and Big Brother's Best Bud, I deduced. Big Brother shared the girl's carrot-colored hair and freckles. Best Bud, a short and stocky blond, aimed a narrow glint of suspicion in my direction.

Mister Caron? Little Sis bit her lower lip. I … um … I wonder … um …

I gave her my most reassuring smile as her anxious gaze flitted past me to inspect the entryway. It, like the rest of the house, was dim but not spooky, with just enough eccentricity to the décor to add the right touch of atmosphere. I suppose the same could be said about me.

This is about your missing kitten, I said.

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Yeah! Cupcake!

Even the boys looked impressed, but before they could get too excited, I nodded toward the flier the girl held. I've seen those posted around the neighborhood.

Best Bud did the kind of elaborate scoffing snort that is the sole province of smartass pre-teens, posture declaring he knew it all along, hadn't been fooled for one second. Big Brother didn't seem quite so convinced.

I took the paper as she handed it to me.

LOST KITTY! in big letters, above a picture of a Siamese fluffball curled up in a baby stroller. Smaller text informing the reader that Cupcake went missing on such-and-such a date and was this many weeks old, please call, reward, we love her, etc.

She's been gone three whole days, Little Sis said, and I really want her to come home. My friend Tina at school, she told me you could help.

Tina Pascal?

Uh-huh. She told me you found her when the bad-stranger stole her that time.

I stood silent for a few seconds, not sure how to respond, a distinct and unpleasant shiver running up and down my spine. When I trusted my voice again, I said, Tina told you about the bad-stranger?

Even Jack and Paula Pascal, Tina's own parents, were convinced she'd forgotten. After the initial solid month of nightmares following the abduction, that is. It wasn't a topic of conversation they were likely to raise, not the sort of thing a family would want to reminisce over. Jack and Paula were cops – or at least, Paula was currently a cop and Jack used to be one – and they knew all too well the horrors their precious daughter could have faced if I hadn't been able to track her down.

Her and the creep in the old yellow station wagon.

The creep in the barn.

The bad-stranger.

Warren Sigmund.

A name I would have been just as happy to never hear or think of again.

The shiver crawled all the way up my spine to the nape of my neck and burrowed into my skull. I remembered Tina crying, clinging to me like she might never let go. The bad-stranger grabbed her, she'd said. Stole her. Put her in the doggy cage and wouldn't let her out.

Clearly, Tina had not forgotten after all.

Did Jack know? Did Paula? If anybody had more reason than me to not want to be reminded of Warren Sigmund, it was them … them, and, of course, the other parents … the ones whose children hadn't been so lucky.

This little girl, Tina's friend, nodded in answer to my question. "Tina told me how you found her that time, so we thought you could find Cupcake too. Please, Mr. Caron. She's my kitty. She sleeps on my bed, and …" Her breath hitched, tears welling up.

The boys got that half-embarrassed, half-scornful expression boys get when some girl is commencing with the waterworks. Stupid sissy crybaby. Wouldn't see a boy blubbering over some dumb cat. Spite and superiority all but zinged off them like the tones of a tuning fork.

And something else, something I couldn't quite pinpoint with my mind occupied by other thoughts.

Had someone mentioned that years-ago incident to Tina, reminded her of it? I couldn't imagine who would have. Like this girl, Tina had an older brother … but, unlike this girl, Tina's brother was a stand-up good guy, defender of the underdog and downtrodden, just as his father had been when we were kids. Which had worked out well for me, being very much of the downtrodden underdog type myself back then.

I have my ‘llowance, she went on, digging into her pocket and pulling out a wrinkled wad of bills with a few coins mixed in. And the rest of my birthday money. I know it isn't lots but it's all I have.

What's your name, sweetie? I asked, ignoring the cash she pushed at me.

Brianna Keegan.

Brianna, I couldn't take your allowance or your birthday money.

But she's only a kitty, and she must be so lost and so scared, and hungry, and cold!

Or hit by a car, one of the boys said.

Shut up! Brianna whirled, scattering quarters down my steps. You just shut up Tommy DeWitt!

Big Brother looked like he wished he could melt straight into the concrete, but didn't tell his pal to knock it off. Josh Pascal would have. Then again, Josh wouldn't have been pals with a bully like this one.

Or chomped by a dog, he continued, grinning.

His taunts crackled with cruel, mocking energy. I felt them snapping and spitting like sparks against my skin.

Sean, make him stop!

Hey, c'mon, mumbled Big Brother, scuffing his foot on a faded chalk mark.

I started to set a hand on Brianna's shoulder, but caught myself. In this day and age a lot of people take exception to any unrelated man – and for that matter, plenty of related ones – having much in the way of physical contact with a child.

And that was for normal people. For someone like me? In a neighborhood cluttered with oddball characters, I was considered high on the list of local kooks. That guy who didn't go out much, probably agoraphobic, some kind of recluse, hardly ever leaving the house, most likely harmless but maybe – just maybe – had a chainsaw collection and body parts in his freezer.

Most of which was, of course, largely inaccurate. I could and did go out. I just needed to do so while practicing proper precautions. I also wasn't the chainsaw or frozen body parts type.

Still, touching could cause its own problems from my end, even with helpful talismans in my pockets. I pulled back my hand and spoke the girl's name instead.

She turned to face me, chin quivering and tear-tracks on her cheeks.

I'd be happy to help you, if I can, I said.

For … for sixteen dollars? And seventy-nine cents except I dropped some? Once again, she pushed the money toward me. If it's not enough, I get more ‘llowance on Friday, and --

Tina's dad is my best friend, I said. Which was putting it mildly; Jack Pascal and I had grown up together. In an orphanage, even; how Dickensian could you get? Keep your money. But can you bring me something of Cupcake's? A favorite toy, something like that?

Her catnip mousie? She loves her catnip mousie.

That sounds perfect.

Oh yeah right, said Tommy, with a big snort. Like this whack-job can find your dumb ol' cat using a dumb ol' catnip mouse.

Brianna jammed her fists on her hips. You don't know anything!

I know you're crazy if you think any of this psychic junk is for real.

I shifted my attention to him, fixing him with the full-intensity stare. The one I've been told makes a person feel as if I'm piercing all the way down to the soul.

It works pretty well, even on swaggering bullies. Tommy tried to edge behind Sean without letting it be obvious. Sean did a sideways sidle of his own.

Hey, c'mon, Sean said. Again. Just as mumbly, and just as ineffectual.

"Muh-muh-my dad, Tommy said, getting it out with an effort as he writhed under my dark gaze, says you're a charlemagne."

That broke my moment. "I'm a what?"

A charlemagne, he repeated, allowing the ‘duh!' inflection to seep in. You know. A phony.

Charlatan, I said, managing not to laugh aloud. The word is charlatan.

And he is not! Brianna stomped her foot. I'm going home to get Cupcake's mousie, anyways, so ... She stuck her tongue out at the boys. Come on, Sean.

Forget this, let's just go to the Funway instead, said Tommy.

You guuuyys, whined Sean, as if for a change of pace. His mood grated on me like nails on a blackboard. I had to force myself not to wince, and I'm no true empath in the classic sense. I can't. I --

"Mom said he has to help me look for Cupcake. It was his fault she got out. The glare Brianna directed at her brother would have cut a Green Beret down to size. But you can leave if you want. We'll go get the catnip mousie."

Nuh-unh, I wanna be there when you figure out this guy's a scam. My dad says he takes money from old ladies who don't know any better, and it's all made-up bullcrap.

Your dad must be Chuck DeWitt, I said, another deduction which required no special abilities. To men like Chuck and his buddies – Budweiser-drinking voted-for-Dubya types – I could only have been more outrageous if I'd been a drag queen.

"Anybody could guess that, when Brianna Bigmouth told you my name!"

I am not a bigmouth!

You are so.

Well, you're a meanie poopie-head!

Guyyyyys!

The three kids argued their way down the block in a lazy slant of late-afternoon sun, its buttery-bronze light trying lend a serene and magical quality to our quirky corner of the world. The light was in for something of a losing battle. We were sandwiched between Prewett's sleazy strip and Pine's beginnings of suburbia, a sort of transition zone not unlike a brackish river delta where fresh and salt water mixed.

At this time of day, quite a few people were out and about. Cooking smells and car exhaust hung in the air. I did the smile-and-nod thing to those passers-by I knew, and got the same in return.

Jack Pascal – former cop, husband of Paula, father of Tina and Josh, childhood friend of one Nathaniel Caron – claimed that living here must be like being at a big, amiable, dysfunctional family reunion.

You have your daffy old folks, he'd said, your bossy aunties, your creepy uncles, your bored young folks, your obnoxious kids and troublemakers, and a few other closet-skeletons and black sheep and freakazoids thrown in.

Freakazoids? I'd given him the sardonic eyebrow. Like me, you mean?

Absolutely.

And what would you know what a family reunion is like, dysfunctional or otherwise?

Hey, Jack had said, grinning, "I wasn't abandoned at the orphanage as a baby in a basket. I was eight. Besides, I watch television. I read. And if that's still not enough to prove my qualifications, I've been to Paula's family reunions. Talk about dysfunctional? They invented it."

You win, I'd said.

My house – which I'd inherited from a client; Chuck DeWitt probably had plenty to say on that point as well, my not only taking money from little old ladies who didn't know better but getting myself written into their wills – was a small two-story affair of odd-shaped rooms and mismatched furniture. Its primary function seemed to be as a place to warehouse my collection of keepsakes, which were random enough to make people suspect I was only a few steps short of being a hoarder.

I also shared it with a kitty of my own, souvenir of a failed relationship. That had been with Sondra, who decided she wasn't ready for any sort of commitment, so first she dumped the cat in my care and then she dumped me altogether.

His coat was mottled brown, black, rust, ochre and orange. At his last checkup, he'd tipped the scales at sixteen pounds, at least three of which was fur. He had a pushed-in nose and one crooked ear, a snaggle tooth on the left side of his mouth, and extra toes.

Clients invariably asked his name, and I invariably lied.

Mephistopheles, I'd say. They always told me how fitting that was, and I always smiled and thanked them.

We had our images to maintain, Mittens and I.

He was a crotchety old bastard, but I liked him. Maybe that was why I agreed to help with Cupcake. Expand my resume and repertoire a little. Nathaniel Caron, finder of missing persons and lost pets.

I figured it would take Brianna at least twenty minutes to return with the catnip mousie, so I went inside to make sure I was prepared for the outing as well as my evening's appointments.

I had Mrs. Amundson coming at seven, and Miss Whateley at nine-thirty. A lively widow and a saintly spinster. Chuck DeWitt might've been wrong about a lot of things, but not so much when it came to the demographic of my clientele. For many of them, I was just another part of their weekly routine. Bridge club, beauty parlor, bingo night, and me.

I used the den for work, and it was there I kept most of the props, bits of stage setting, and other tools of the trade that people seemed to expect. Shelves that had once displayed ceramic knickknacks now held crystal balls, funerary jars, tarnished silver cups, intricately carved wooden boxes, and dozens of other occult-looking items. Where needlepoint samplers and family photos had hung, I'd put up zodiac charts, diagrams of astrological and alchemical symbols, and a framed front-page newspaper clipping.

I'm not exactly wild about that last one. The headline's bold lettering. The picture. My face too pale, my eyes burning like coals in my head, my mouth twisted into an expression of agonized concentration, my hair wild.

The pale face and the wild hair, I can blame on the weather. It had been a blustery winter day down at the lakefront, clouds scudding across a slate-colored sky, the wind slicing in off the whitecapped water like a knifeblade.

The rest of it …?

The rest of it is just the way I look when I'm trying to do what I do.

I don't mean I look that way when I do my regular job. If I did, I doubt I'd get many repeat customers. I'd scare the hell out of them and they'd never come back.

Luckily for me, and thanks to my many precautions, I can keep a fairly normal face on most of the time. I'm told that it's a nice face, too. I'm told that I look not unlike Johnny Depp in his less-scruffy days.

This, I credit for being one of the main reasons I'm not always single. If a guy's got to look like someone famous, he could do a hell of a lot worse.

There are plenty of people – Chuck DeWitt among them, I'm sure – who claim it's also why I do a good business. That the women who come to see me do so not because they are particularly interested in psychic advice, but in having me hold their hands, gaze into their eyes, murmur to them.

What can I say? I give good murmur. My voice is low, not a deep bass thunder but low enough. It's slightly husky and slightly smooth at the same time. Not an easy trick. An ex once told me I purr like a leopard … whatever that means.

So, Chuck and his pals may well have a point. I may be getting fifty bucks an hour as a sort of daydream gigolo. A charlemagne, indeed.

As for the newspaper clipping, I leave it on the wall because my clients seem to expect that sort of thing. I also keep a scrapbook, though it's a small one, as I've been lucky to stay pretty well out of the spotlight.

Mittens appeared as I was stocking my pockets with a carefully-chosen arrangement of small items for my upcoming journey out into the unshielded wider world. He paused with his front paws over the study's threshold and his back paws in the hall, raising heavy-lidded amber eyes to me. The plumed brush of his tail swept grandly back and forth.

What do you think? I asked. Will I be able to track down Cupcake?

He gave a leisurely stretch, back bowed and butt in the air. His claws extended, hooking into the rug, snagging up loops of fiber.

Hey, I warned.

The cat yawned. Widely. Extravagantly. Showing his snaggle-tooth. His tail swished.

You'd like me to try and stop you, wouldn't you? I said.

He flopped onto his side in the doorway – I swear the house shook – and rolled to expose his fuzzy, multicolored tummy. Daring me to try and rub it. Just daring me to.

No, thanks. I stepped over him.

His body convulsed with the speed of a striking snake, paws and jaws clamping on in an effort to disembowel the side of my shoe. Then he sprang up with a grace that belied his ungainly size, and sauntered away down the hall, tail flicking like a victory banner.

Bastard, I said to his retreating rear.

The tail gave a final triumphant flick, the feline equivalent of shooting me the bird, and he vanished around the corner into the living room. Just then, the doorbell rang again. The Case of the Missing Kitty. Nathaniel Caron, Finder of Lost Pets.

Was it W.C. Fields who'd said to never work with children or animals? He'd meant in show business, but it applied well enough to other situations too. Yet here I was, doing both at once.

I heard them still arguing as I approached the door, felt their prickling energies, agitation like over-carbonated soda, a sour-grapefruit tang of apprehension, hope's warm candle-glow scent.

-- say this is stupid.

You don't have to stay!

C'mon, you guys, quit fighting already!

They did at least stop when the door opened, though the various other sensory emanations they gave off all took a spike-jump. I pressed the comforting weight of objects in my jacket pocket, recognizing them more by their intangible signals than by their actual contours.

Brianna stepped forward. I brought it, she said, holding up a toy that was still recognizable as mouse-shaped, unlike the raggedy scraps and shreds of stuffing Mittens left in his wake.

I extended a hand. She solemnly dropped it into my cupped palm. I curled my fingers loosely around it to find out what I could.

I once met a guy who could touch an object and learn all sorts of details about it, from history to handlers. I'd watched him pick up a knife that had been found at a murder scene – a murder scene