A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1)

by Dallas Mullican

  He stumbled ahead, each step a labor, as if trudging over a floor coated with tar. Max passed a room on his left. Within, a pulsating mass grew from the far wall—fleshy, yet black with rot and pierced through with a myriad of tubes and wires. The mass undulated, convulsed, and burst, spewing a torrent of vile fluids on the floor. An overwhelming stench of decay engulfed him. Heart monitors blared; straight lines ran across their screens. He staggered back. The warning buzz and hum joined, exploding into a thunderous cacophony of metallic ringing—like a million brass cymbals all clanging at once, struggling for a unison they could not find.

  Max raised an arm to his face, hiding his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow. He stumbled away from the ghastly sight. The second room held a sea of corpses, each in various stages of decay, laid out on cold steel gurneys. The nearest stood and faced him, beckoning him closer with spindly arms, pale and venous. His emaciated body appeared too thin and fragile to remain erect.

  “Brother,” rasped the corpse, reaching, pleading.

  Max screamed, but the sound existed only in his mind. He recoiled, managing an uncoordinated sprint for a few places before falling to a hopeless stride along the hallway’s endless journey. Three figures came out of the murk in the distance, standing abreast, two smaller than the other. He longed to stand with them. A deep yearning threatened to sap his strength. All his will bent toward reaching them, yet each step forward pushed them further away.

  He walked the hall for a thousand lifetimes, never drawing nearer to those distant shapes. Those he loved and needed, he had lost forever. The cold gray embraced him. The hall elongated and constricted. On hands and knees rubbed raw, he crawled on, praying for an end.

  * * *

  Max snapped awake. Sweat soaked his shirt and the bed sheets. He glanced at the clock.

  Fifteen minutes? I only slept fifteen minutes?

  He felt as though he’d spent hours trapped in that hallway. He understood most of it, deciphering the dream’s images did not require one to be Sigmund Freud. Max had to get a grip on his fear, or it might drive him crazy before the cancer could kill him.

  After waking from the nightmare, he abandoned further attempts at sleep as futile. Max rose and went to the computer. He usually stayed away from self-diagnosis by internet, or looking up any illnesses online. A bit of a hypochondriac by his own admission, surfing the web for possible ailments was like pouring gas on a fire. He was unable to watch a television program about a disease without feeling every symptom. Ironically, he loathed doctors and refused to see one unless deathly ill.

  Max read over the papers the doctor sent home with him and typed in the term for his cancer. Clicking on the first link, The Mayo Clinic, his fears were confirmed.

  Glioblastoma multiforme—a grade four cancer, the most common malignant primary brain tumor. Standard prognosis with treatment is six months to a year. Survival rate after one year 42%, after eighteen months 17%, after two years 4%.

  Great. Just freaking great.

  Max wondered when the countdown started. How long were the tumors infesting his brain before discovered? He might be a month or more into his six-month expiration date already. Those estimates said with treatment. What if the treatment proved ineffective? Did that shorten the prognosis?

  As he read, each described symptom needled at some part of his body. His vision seemed to blur. Max’s hands trembled, which might mean the onset of a seizure. He scrutinized his reflection in the mirror above the computer. Yes, his gums looked a little white, could be anemia.

  The room rotated. The walls waved back and forth. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  I’m going to throw up.

  He dashed to the bathroom, his pulse thundering in his temples and chest.

  I’m having a heart attack. Is that something that can happen with this?

  Everything around him closed in, squeezing, he could not breathe. He huddled in a corner, knees pressed to his stomach.

  It’s a panic attack. Settle down. Let it pass. Oh my God, I’m really going to die.

  He needed to talk to someone. He felt so alone, terrified. Maggie was out of the question. He could not tell any of his friends. They were all Maggie’s friends as well. Out of concern they would talk, and it would get back to her.

  Max dug through his jeans pockets and found the crumpled card—Patient Counseling Services. He carried the card across the room in two hands and set it by the phone. First thing in the morning, he would make the call.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Becca’s hands shook. Hot coffee splashed near the cup’s rim with each step. The porcelain-on-porcelain rattle of cup on saucer set her nerves further on edge. Michael had woken in a foul mood this morning. Out late drinking with his friends, he now nursed a nasty hangover. His discomfort usually found a way of becoming her discomfort.

  Her movements slow and deliberate, Becca eased forward to where he sat on the sofa. His scowl did little to encourage confidence. One step away, her hand slipped and the cup tumbled into the air. It crashed down to the carpet, spilling onto Michael’s shoe and pants leg.

  “Goddammit, you stupid bitch. Can’t you do the simplest thing without fucking it up?” Quick as a cat, his fist flew out, punching Becca in the stomach. She doubled over with a whoosh of expelled air, tears stinging her eyes. “That’s a taste of what you’re going to get if that shit stains my carpet. Now I have to change. You stupid bitch. I swear you don’t have the sense God gave a rock.”

  He started to walk away, but turned and backhanded her across the chest, sending her onto her rear. Becca gasped for breath, her breasts throbbing madly. He grunted with disgust and continued toward the stairs. His cussing dwindled to indistinct grumbling as he moved out of earshot.

  Becca angrily wiped the tears from her cheeks. Not angry with Michael, she expected his actions; the abuse had stopped shocking her years ago. No, she was angry at her own weakness—the timid mouse, so afraid. Each time, and the episodes became more frequent with each passing month, she hated herself for allowing it. Thinking back, she could not remember how it started. Why hadn’t she walked out the first time?

  The story sounded so clichéd as to be sickening. Michael hit her, she threatened to leave, he cried and begged, promised never to do it again…and she believed him. How stupid.

  He didn’t bother to cry or beg anymore. Well-conditioned as she’d become, his threats were now enough to keep her cowered and afraid to leave. Ironically, the more vicious the situation became, the less she considered fleeing. Fear could be a powerful motivator, but also an equally powerful restraint.

  Maybe she suffered from a version of Stockholm Syndrome. In those cases, the victim developed a strong attachment to their captor and often viewed them with positive feelings. Becca felt nothing for Michael—not love, not even hatred.

  Even in the beginning, she had not believed in him as much as in the dream. The dream of how things were meant to be. Love at first sight, leading to a beautiful, white gown in a picture-perfect wedding. A house with a picket fence, complete with two happy kids. They would grow old together, still in love after all those years, reclining in rocking chairs, basking in the warmth of the sun.

  Giving up on the dream meant killing a part of herself, the part that believed in things such as love and happily-ever-after. Too late, she recognized the dream for a lie. When she woke, the walls rose up around her. The cage door slammed shut, a captive unable and unwilling to break free.

  Becca went to the bathroom, pulled her long, dark hair into a ponytail, and rubbed ointment onto her sore abdomen. She swallowed a couple of Advil and appraised the newest token of Michael’s affection. A large purple bruise ached and overlapped his last gift, marring a shapely figure. It hurt to lift her arms as she readied for work. She brushed her teeth and dabbed makeup onto dark circles under eyes, normally brilliant blue, but today, bloodshot and dull.

  She waited for the front door to bang closed and proceeded to the bedroom to dres
s. Numbness set in after a while. The bruises rarely faded before new ones took their place. It surprised her what a person could accept over time. The horrible became commonplace, its horror lost in the repetition.

  This did not mean she no longer feared the next punch or the next kick. Nor did it mean she did not yearn to escape the abuse. No, it simply meant she accepted there was no way out. Michael had effectively clipped her wings. She could sit at the open window, staring out onto a world full of promise, yet remain unable to fly free.

  Rebecca Drenning, this is your life…for bad and worse.

  Once in her Volvo, she felt a little better. Becca’s car remained her one sanctuary from Michael…from everything. Her mother had bought it for her to take to college more than a decade ago, and she still loved it. Memories of happier times felt infused into the upholstery. Old songs playing from the stereo filled the interior with the pleasant past.

  Becca popped Tori Amos into the CD player, took a deep breath, and drove away. The music and the vibration of the road always soothed her, like an irritable infant lulled to sleep by gentle motion. She wanted to keep driving. Drive until the wheels fell off, or until she found a place hidden from the world, whichever came first.

  She arrived at work already dreading the return home. Becca wanted the day to last forever. She wanted to lose herself in the daily routine, lose herself in others’ problems and ignore her own, at least for a little while. The simple act of sliding on her long white coat caused her chin to lift a little higher, the slouch in her shoulders to rise a fraction.

  “Good morning, Rachel,” said Becca as she arrived at the nurses’ station and took her clipboard in hand.

  “Good morning, Doc.” Rachel, Becca’s head nurse and general do-everything sidekick, looked up from typing notes into the computer. Fifty-five, with the body of a linebacker and the face of a cherub, Rachel could intimidate or enliven with the subtlest change in posture. Rust-red hair in a bob cut framed kind eyes and a mischievous mouth.

  Rachel had been with her since they started the practice, her knowledge and skill managing to keep Becca sane in those early days. She’d needed someone experienced and smart to see her through the learning process of starting a new business. Despite being brilliant in her field, she had been a complete novice in matters pertaining to operating an office.

  Rachel stood, stepped close, and placed the back of her hand to Becca’s forehead. “You feeling okay? No fever, but you look a bit peaked.”

  “I’m fine, rushed to get ready this morning.” Becca looked away and attempted to avoid Rachel’s scrutinizing stare.

  “Michael again, right?” Rachel also served as Becca’s confidant and best friend. She knew about Becca’s marriage and about what she endured.

  “Let’s not talk about it now. What’s on the schedule?” Becca perused her clipboard.

  “Full day. We’re booked up. Your first appointment is a referral from Dr. Curtis.”

  Dr. Curtis, a neurologist, often sent patients to Becca for counseling. Many of those under his care displayed great difficulty accepting or even understanding the nature of their afflictions. He referred patients with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia, as well as head trauma cases.

  “Okay, let’s get to it,” said Becca. “Show him in.”

  Becca took a seat in her leather chair and waited for Rachel to escort in the patient. She read over his file as she waited—early onset dementia. Only sixty years old, yet suffering substantial memory loss with episodes of erratic behavior.

  “Mr. Clemons, please have a seat.” Mr. Clemons was currently undergoing inpatient treatment for a fall, a fractured left ulna. Dr. Curtis hoped this visit might assist with his emotional stability.

  “I think I’m lost. I must have taken a wrong turn. Can you direct me to the foreman’s office? I’m here about the job opening.” He shambled into the room holding his injured arm as if the covering cast might prove adequate protection, while aiming a distracted smile nowhere in particular. Blankness swam in his eyes.

  “Mr. Clemons, I’m Dr. Drenning. You’re in the hospital. Dr. Curtis asked me to meet with you.” She kept her voice calm and even. Perhaps a key word would bring him around.

  “Did Clare come with you?” Clare, his oldest daughter, brought him in and visited every day. Hopefully, the mention of her name would trigger recognition.

  “Clare? Clare’s away at college. I miss her, but she’ll be home for Christmas.” He brightened at the sound of her name, but the look of confusion returned.

  “Clare brought you to the hospital. Remember, Clare visited yesterday?”

  “I…uh…yes, Clare…” He searched the photos on the walls, trying to find anything familiar. He turned toward Becca, staring.

  “Who are you? What am I doing here? My arm hurts. I want to see my doctor.”

  “If you’ll sit down, I’d like to talk to you. I understand you’ve been having some trouble remembering things?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to go back to my room.” Mr. Clemons, obviously agitated, tugged at the neck of his shirt as if it choked him.

  “We’ll take you back to your room right after you and I have a little talk, okay?”

  “No, I want to go now. You can’t keep me here. I want to go.” He screamed at Becca and advanced in her direction, shaking a fist. He was addled and panicked; the situation escalated toward dangerous.

  “Mr. Clemons,” said Becca sharply, “sit down this instant.”

  The tone and volume of her voice froze Mr. Clemons in his tracks. Lucidity filtered back into to his eyes.

  “What? Where…oh. I’m…sorry doctor.” He slouched into the seat. “I’m so scared. I know what I’m hearing and seeing, but my mind won’t accept it. It’s like I’m not me anymore.”

  “I understand. We’re going to help you, I promise.” Becca sat across from him, her voice soft and soothing now.

  Over the next half hour, she guided Mr. Clemons through some mental exercises and key words that would help anchor his mind and encourage memory recall. As the session concluded, he thanked her profusely and seemed more confident in himself. Becca felt the same sense of satisfaction she always felt after a successful session. Most often, results were not so obvious, but each small step for a patient was a victory for her as well.

  The remainder of the day passed without incident. Most of the sessions were follow-ups, which always went smoother, Becca having previously developed a report with the patient. Finally came her last appointment of the day, a new patient recently diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor.

  Rachel came to the door and ushered in a defeated-looking man. “Doctor, this is Max Bannon.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bannon, I’m Dr. Drenning. Please, have a seat. How are you feeling today?”

  The man moved as if he were already dead. Shuffled steps, head down, he sat in the chair, keeping his eyes on the floor. Becca could tell at a glance, this would be a challenge. Max Bannon considered his end a done deal.

  She rose from behind her desk, took the seat opposite her patient, and waited, uncertain if he had heard the question. Only recently diagnosed, she assumed the knowledge still overwhelmed him. He could not accept his situation, or worse, accepted it too readily—the certain finality of it.

  “May I call you Max?” Becca asked. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Max, I know this feels insurmountable, but it isn’t. I’ve seen many with your condition live for years.”

  “What kind of life?” he asked without looking up.

  “Okay, straight talk. Yes, the percentages are against you. Denying the severity of your condition can mean giving up as much as making it unbeatable. You have to find a middle ground. Come to grips with the possibility you may indeed die. Come to peace with it. Yet, don’t give up. If ten percent of people with your type of cancer live, why can’t you be among the ten percent?”

  “I can’t find the middle ground. I can’t find any ground. Wherever I try to stand, I just keep falling
down.”

  “I see you’re married with two sons. Surrounding yourself with those who love you is a powerful medicine. You’ll fight for them and for yourself.

  “My wife left me and took my boys.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Max.” Becca needed to pivot the discussion. “You still see your sons though, right? The old adage, out of sight out of mind, is true. Without them around, you feel more alone. The need to fight lessens. If no one cares, if no one is there …why bother? You need to stay in close contact with your sons. Maybe you can evenreconcile with your wife.”

  Max shook his head while tapping his fingers distractedly against his blue jeans. “No, I don’t think so. But what you said, that’s how I feel. Why bother? No one will miss me. My death will only improve their lives.”

  “That’s the fear and depression talking, Max. You obviously love your family very much in spite of any problems in your marriage.”

  His knuckles whitened as he clutched the edge of the seat. “I do, more than anything.”

  “Do this for me. Think of a memory, your fondest memory involving your family.”

  Max sat stone still. Becca waited for a time. “Is there—”

  “I remember baseball,” he said.

  “Baseball? Okay, what about baseball?”

  “Cody played. He wasn’t very good, couldn’t hit the ball. He always swung before the ball got close enough. One of the other fathers lived vicariously through their sons—you know the type—took it all so seriously. He screamed at the boys from the bleachers—harsh things, too harsh for little kids.” Max scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, Cody struck out for the third time, and this father went off on him.”

  Becca nodded, taking notes.

  “‘Park him on the bench. God he sucks. He’s killing us,’ the guy yells. Cody was devastated, everyone in the ballpark heard. I walked up to the man and said, ‘Hey, they’re only kids.’ So he gets in my face, yelling. ‘Kids? What the hell are we teaching them? What the hell is going on these days? Everyone gets to play; everyone gets a trophy. It doesn’t matter if they did nothing to help win. We got to teach them early, winning matters, being the best matters.’”