Houses of the Holy (Marigny St., New Orleans)

"Just a means to an end..." he said to himself, palm resting on the steering wheel. The Volvo idled at a light three blocks away from his home on Marigny, his mysterious guest riding shotgun. Fourchette, the man rather large, had little trouble fitting into the sedan despite his size. He carried himself quite at ease, Owen noted from the corner of his eye. A single errant hand tapped a rhythm only he could hear into the armrest between them.

Fourchette, watching passersby from the open window, turned at Owen's audible aside. "What ya say, son?"

"Nothing," Owen replied, finger stabbing the sound system which roared to life.

"...There's an angel on my shoulder.
In my hand a sword of gold.
Let me wander in your garden.
And the seeds of love I'll sow.
You know..."

He hardly believed he was ferrying some strange freak to his house, on nothing but his word that he'd divine the meaning of the marks left there. Owen shook his head; he knew who had placed them--at least, he thought he did. He doubted that the gargantuan man seated beside him had anything to add which he didn't already know. Still, Katherine's lead pointed them to Fourchette. They say things happen for a reason. Owen disagreed.

"...So the world is spinning faster.
Are you dizzy when you stall?
Let the music be your master.
Will you heed the master's call?

Satan and man..."

The ex-marine checked his phone for anything from the petite Catbite, but no such luck. He hoped to see her clunker Dart there just around the corner on this last turn, but... the street was bare. Squinting, he pulled the Volvo into his driveway.

"We're here," he announced unceremoniously. After the pair passed the threshold, Owen led Fourchette to the kitchen through the living room. Stooping, he pulled back the large rug to expose the mark torn in the linoleum. "There, and there are four more."

Fourchette appeared to be thinking, his thumbnail at his lips.

"Well?" Owen asked.