Who Kissed Charlie Fine?

Chapter 12

Charlie looked out of his uncle's window at the late summer morning, the time still of visiting butterflies and not yet of frenzied wasps, and felt his sense of well-being momentarily restored. The week was not turning out the way he thought it would, and he had begun to feel a gloom of both anger and unexpected attachment that distracted him as much as a shadow moving independently of the man who cast it would.

He was deeply upset for Claire. Her faith in her father and her belief that he'd met his end either by accident or foul play diminished, though not eliminated, the more welcome probability of his only other early-stages theory that Cleave might have sought to save her inheritance by committing some kind of insurance fraud. What could be done with his theories anyway? How involved did he have the power to be?

He also knew he had yet to process his full feelings towards Cherie's horrible death, but there was a humbling sense that the Grand Upper Hand was still pointing to the event as something more than just a reminder that unpleasant surprises could not always be spared by preparedness. Eric's manipulation of Mary confounded him as much as those who permitted it did, and now the facts of Calvin's marital mess were enough to make him want to call his quest for closure a fool's errand and leave while some good opinion of his hometown was still intact. But how he hated unfinished business, even if it wasn't any of his.

He wondered if it was fair to judge the town based on the slice of life he was sampling as an adult this time. It seemed a claustrophobic, domino-like design where the actions and events in any one life greatly affected the rest whether one wanted it to or not. Would a diorama of his own day-to-dayness seem as chaotic to a visitor allowed a glimpse? Would the anonymity of a big city which he found so liberating appear to others to be conversely isolating and confining? He was always grateful for his good fortune and at times it seemed his only limits were those handed down by the laws of physics. It was a decent life of freedom and comfort and dignity, but he conceded it was arrogant to think it was better if no one, other than Martin, remembered it when he was gone. That desire, perhaps, was being too greedy.

Oh well, you can't have it all.

He sipped the last of his coffee and heeded the rumbles of his stomach hurrying him to retrieve his friend from the Jailhouse Hotel for breakfast. He always thought better after a good meal and was far less inclined to make rash decisions.

The desk sergeant Charlie was directed to speak with at the station accidently drew a line across his temple while shoving a pen behind his ear. He was clearly aware of who Martin was before he finished typing his name. "It's before the customary fourteen hours but considering there are no charges, he's free to go." He called to a passing officer. "Don, can you get Shields, Martin in 4.

He bade Charlie take a seat on a splintery bench against a crowded wall. Some minutes later, Officer Don came out alone and said something discreetly to the sergeant who rolled his eyes and worked his jaw before making eye contact with Charlie. "He wants to see you."

"Martin? What's wrong with him?" Charlie asked impatiently.

"I'm not going to touch that," the sergeant said with a long exhale.

"You do know he's not even supposed to be here."

The sergeant raised a file folder. "Soon as I can get him to sign this, he never was."

Charlie was led through a set of double doors before being shown down a corridor of holding cells to where Martin was curled up in his cot.

"Martin, what is it? Are you okay?"

"Can you come back in an hour?" his friend yawned.

"Seriously?"

"What's the big deal?" Martin whined sleepily, his words garbling in a long body stretch. "I said I'd want to sleep in."