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

by Dallas Mullican

  “Come on,” he said to Athena, opening her pen. She grunted a happy greeting and followed Gabriel to the barn. Entering the building still filled him with an odd sensation. Each time he ventured inside, he half expected to see his father lying against the wall, the remains of his fragile mind upon the hay and dirt. Gabriel never recoiled from the feeling. Though he missed his father, this place harbored an attachment to his memory. He found it comforting, an oasis from the burden his life had become.

  He sat between two hay bales and opened his copy of the Aeneid, Athena sprawled at his feet, content in his company.

  Surely as the divine powers take note of the dutiful, surely as there is any justice anywhere and a mind recognizing in itself what is right, may the gods bring you your earned rewards.

  Gabriel prayed the passage contained more than ancient tenets belonging only to a long gone age. He lived in a hope always somewhere a day, a week, a year removed. Dreams of other places, cities filled with beautiful sights and sounds, teased his desire.

  His mother’s voice, screaming, broke the silence. He rushed out of the barn, Athena at his heels, to find Elisabeth kneeling in the dirt wearing only her nightgown. She tore at the thin weeds growing there, pressing reed and root into her hair.

  “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n,” she screamed at someone no one but she could see.

  “Mother.” Gabriel ran to her side.

  “Ease would recant vows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”

  “I don’t understand. Tell me what I can do.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. Fear mingled with disgust, concern with shame. He shook her, attempting to raise Elisabeth from whatever depths now drowned her.

  She lifted her eyes to the sky and, in a voice torn from the deepest pits of her despair, yelled, “Only in destroying I find ease to my relentless thoughts.”

  “Mother, it’s me. It’s Gabriel, please look at me.”

  She sat quiet and still for a long moment as if paralyzed. Then her gaze slowly turned toward him. “Gabriel? Oh, Gabriel, my angel.”

  “Yes, mother, I’m here.” He took her into a tight embrace. His arms sought to reassure her, to make her believe everything would be all right.

  “Nor love thy life, nor hate; but while thou livest live well—how long, or short, permit to Heaven.” Her shoulders slumped, her spirit broken, the words seemed a prayer lifted up by the dying.

  “I will. I promise. Now let me get you inside. You must lie down.” He helped her to her feet and guided her into the house. Once in her bed, she lay curled on her side, staring into nothingness.

  Gabriel’s hands trembled. The worst episode yet. He feared the time quickly approached when he could no longer care for her. What would he do then? There was no choice but to do his best to keep her safe. Safe from the demons that sought to claim her mind, safe from the calamity that was herself.

  The next morning, a night removed from his mother’s outburst, found his fear and frustration diminished. A warm day for a change, the sun rode a clear, cloudless sky.

  “Athena,” he called out. She seemed more dog than pig and might believe herself human if her haughty attitude were any indication. At Gabriel’s call, she always came and waited, snout pressed to the pen’s gate. Today, however, when he reached the gate she was not there. He scanned the pen, but she did not appear amongst the other hogs. Perhaps she had rooted out again, and he would find her eating herself sick on the chickens’ feed.

  He walked around to the coop, but found no Athena. A shriek carried on the breeze coming from the forest. The silly girl went and got herself caught in a briar patch. He smiled, and began the long stroll across the pasture. Naomi and Ruth, the two remaining milk cows, eyed him for a moment, and then continued grazing on a hay bale.

  Now several yards into the forest, Athena’s squeal repeated. Her cry sounded muffled and faint. He could not tell if the distance or perhaps the trees and foliage gave the sound its subdued quality, but feared Athena’s condition muted her call. Gabriel ran toward the sound as fast as his feet would carry him. Tearing through the brush, low branches slapping against him, he listened, trying to pinpoint her location.

  Closer now, she must be over the next hill. Frantic with worry, Gabriel did not see the steep embankment. He stumbled and fell, tumbling head over heels. His downhill slide dumped him into a gully where Athena lay on her side a few paces away—one leg caught in a metal trap, her free legs feebly kicking at the air. The area around her was stained black, browned leaves and dirt saturated in her blood.

  Although the land belonged to his family, they rarely came this far from their cleared farmland. Hunters often encroached into the forest to shoot deer, squirrels, and rabbits. Gabriel occasionally heard the echo of a gunshot, but he had not known about the traps.

  Predators had come in the night, gouging large chunks of flesh from Athena’s flanks. The horror dawned on him; he forgot to put her in the pen after attending to his mother. This was his fault. Gabriel fell to his knees, tears flowing.

  Athena suffered in so much pain. Her squeals gathered new strength seeing Gabriel close. He thought to carry her home where he might do something, anything, to help her. Leaning over the trap, Gabriel attempted to separate the closed teeth. Athena thrashed furiously, summoned what strength remained in her, and let out a piercing, agonizing screech.

  Gabriel could open the trap no more than an inch or two, not enough to free her captured leg. He could not save her; the damage inflicted was too severe. Kneeling beside her, he stroked her coarse hide. The heartache of her impending loss crashed down on him. Gabriel stared into her eyes, pleading with her to get up, to be well again.

  His fingers felt on fire, his head squeezed by an invisible vice, a crushing force blinded him. Cold pressure clenched his stomach as he clawed the ground, fighting the feeling. Urgency built within him, bubbling and boiling, seeking release.

  He heard whispers drift through his mind. Voices rose like a Gregorian chant in some beautiful language he did not know. The feeling seemed to merge with the chorus, coalescing into a tangible symphony. Louder now, insistent, filling him.

  Gabriel dove onto Athena, the knife Mason had given him as a birthday gift clutched in his hand. He drove the blade into her over and over. Rising and falling, it plunged into her body until his strength failed. Finally, he collapsed in exhaustion.

  Athena appeared so peaceful. Her cries silenced, her eyes shut as if in a deep sleep. Reaching out, he touched her bristly skin, already growing cool. Gabriel thought he felt her spirit soar. He had released her—set her soul free from its pain-riddled flesh. A smile came to his lips.

  Gabriel trembled with the power of the memory. He had not thought of that day for a very long time. It was the first time he felt the feeling. No…the blessing.

  After that day with Athena, the blessing came many times. A deer, wounded by a gunshot to its hind leg, wandered out of the forest. A dog hit by a car on the road staggered into his mercy.

  The young prostitute was the first time he experienced the blessing with a person. It frightened him, but soon an exhilaration filled him. He understood his purpose. His calling.

  The gods called him to be their mortal instrument. They showered the blessing on him, demanding it pass through him and onto the chosen—those crying out for release from the pain of suffering an unwanted life.

  The man in the nice suit and fancy car offered him a ride. A man who should have avoided him, ignored him, but instead gave him a ride and allowed Gabriel to guide him to the abandoned area out near the Furnaces. What more proof was required to prove the hand of Providence directed him?

  Even so, those two were sloppy and crude, so much blood. Most unbecoming of the gods’ work, a matter he soon rectified with the grieving mother. A grand display to Their glory, for Their worship, and for the salvation of the chosen.

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  The memories lingered over the next days, hovering him like halo. Elation filled Gabriel when at last he again felt the divine touch. A new chosen one. He sat on the edge of the bed stroking the woman’s hair, nudging a lock from her face. She appeared angelic in the moonlight streaming through an open window. Peaceful, serene, free.

  “Do not fear, your pain is gone now. Soon you will walk the fields of Elysium. The gods heard your pleas, took notice of your suffering, and deemed you righteous. You go now to a better place to live a blessed and happy life free from the woes of this world.”

  Her skin, the color of porcelain, seemed to glow—a new life born in the cold rigidity of death. He cut the last suture, admiring how neat the crisscrossed threads appeared. His art, his worship, showed practice, each stage of the design now steady and elegant in its construction. A beautiful arrayal.

  “O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?” Gabriel placed the cross on her neck.

  “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” He set the coins upon her eyes.

  Gabriel stood, gathered his tools, and started for the door. Reaching for the knob, he stopped, and walked back into the room. He leaned down and pressed his forefinger into the bisected heart, coating it in blood, and stepped to the wall behind the bed where he wrote one word.

  CHAPTER

  12

  More than two dozen detectives and subordinates sat in the briefing room. The lieutenant had ordered the whole department to drop whatever they were doing. Commotion filled the air as the group offered their varied opinions as to the meeting’s purpose. All present were well aware of the latest Seraphim murder, but how that changed the investigation’s parameters remained anyone’s guess.

  Marlowe entered, followed by Lieutenant McCann and Spence. As everyone took their seats, Marlowe moved to the lectern. He nodded to Dr. Koopman, who attended the briefing with his assistant in tow. Jonas seemed more out of place here than in the morgue, eyes flitting from one person to the next as if encountering aliens on some strange planet.

  “Okay, we have our first good lead. It appears Seraphim’s targeting people who are depressed—very depressed, suicidal,” said Marlowe.

  “You’re kidding, right? That’s half the city. Everyone’s on Prozac and in therapy. The economy’s in the shitter, unemployment rates at all-time highs. We’d have a tougher time finding people who aren’t depressed,” said Detective Marty Vines, a slight man with a snub nose and sunken eyes.

  “And anyway, how would the killer know?” asked Officer Kirkpatrick.

  “Patience, young Skywalker,” said Spence.

  “We’re not talking stressed out or a case of the blues here. These people are at the cliff’s edge ready to take the dive. They’ve reached the point where they believe death is preferable to living.”

  “Still,” said Kirkpatrick, “I don’t see how anyone could know that.”

  “I’m about to tell you,” said Marlow. He pointed to the first photo on the board behind him. “The first victim, Nikki Baker—street kid, prostitute, junkie. Multiple counts of solicitation and a couple of busts for possession. The ER treated her for an overdose…twice. We can safely assume her life wasn’t peachy.”

  “Quite a leap from overdose to suicidal. Hell, what junkie hasn’t overdosed at least once?” said Bateman.

  “By itself, maybe. In total with the other victims, not so much,” said Spence.

  Marlowe moved to the next photo. “Matthew Young lost a ton of his clients’ money and all of his own when he fell in deep with some nasty characters. He was looking at a career in ruins, bookies coming to take their pound of flesh, and probable jail time. His coworkers said he seemed ready to jump out his 22nd floor window.

  “Melissa Turner’s son died of leukemia. Her bedroom contained a pharmacy of sedatives and antidepressants. Her sister believed she was suicidal. We contacted the prescribing doctors, and they indicated she suffered from severe depression.”

  Finally, Marlowe pointed to the last picture tacked onto the far end of the board. “Now, Seraphim himself has given us the knot tying it all together. The latest crime scene included a new signature. The word Anticlea—written in the victim’s blood on the wall above the bed.”

  “What the hell is that? Sounds like a venereal disease,” said Vines, to snickers from the group.

  Marlowe ignored it and continued. “Anticlea, Odysseus’ mother in Greek Mythology. She committed suicide while grieving for her son away at war.”

  “Okay, and…” said Kirkpatrick.

  “Patricia Wilton is the latest victim. Her son was killed serving in Afghanistan,” Marlowe waited for this information to sink in. “Based on the religious symbolism Seraphim leaves in his rituals, it’s my guess he believes he’s saving the souls of his victims—keeping them from committing suicide. In Christian theology, to some at least, suicide means a straight trip to Hell. Or, it could mean he believes he is ending their pain and sending them to a better place. Either way, there’s obviously a religious/suicide link.”

  “Okay, maybe there’s a link, but I still don’t see how he could know,” said Vines.

  “I’m getting to it. All these victims have something in common, unless Seraphim truly does have God on his shoulder pointing them out. In which case Vines is right, he can’t possibly know their emotional state. I don’t think God or anything supernatural is guiding the killer, do you?” Marlowe asked the group. Some shook their heads, most averted their eyes from Marlowe’s stare.

  “So, there’s a doctor, shrink, pastor, someone somewhere who counseled all our victims. A staff member, custodian, member of a congregation, someone who overheard them and is targeting them with this knowledge.”

  “How the hell do we find them? Might as well toss a rock in the ocean and hope it doesn’t get wet,” said Bateman.

  “Glad you asked. We’re going through each victim’s background with a fine-toothed comb to find where each went for treatment, counseling, or comfort. Might be they have a common friend they talked to, or maybe they all called the same help line,” said Marlowe.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.” Kirkpatrick threw up his hands.

  “Leave no stone unturned. Think outside the box on this one. Consider anything along these lines that they might have in common. It’s there, people, and we’re going to find it.”

  “Jesus, Gentry, there could be hundreds of people for each victim.” Bateman echoed Kirkpatrick’s concern and looked none too happy with the prospect of this particular task.

  “Yep, and we will look at every one of them. Seraphim is hitting his stride. He’s confident, and worst of all, he believes in what he’s doing. Find the link, folks,” said Marlowe, scanning the room, making eye contact with each person. Satisfied there were no more questions or complaints, he waved at the door. “Okay, get to it.”

  As the room emptied and a grumbling police force began work on the intensive undertaking assigned them, Spence, Koop, and the lieutenant stepped up to Marlowe.

  “Nice speech,” said Spence.

  “That’s a ton of manhours, not that I’m complaining. We’ve got a blank check on overtime. You really think this will lead us to Seraphim?” asked McCann.

  “I do. I don’t believe he’s psychic or divinely guided. He’s finding his victims in a more mundane way.”

  “Some people believe in that shit. I hear there are psychics who work with the police sometimes,” said Spence. “Locating missing persons, bodies…”

  “Urban myth,” said McCann.

  “I saw it on…” began Spence, but pulled up short at a scowl from the lieutenant. “Fine, they don’t.”

  “Suicidal persons,” said Koop, rubbing his chin. “Interesting. I once considered suicide, but lacked the patience for the seven day waiting period.”

  “No one would let you have a gun with a hundred year waiting period,” said Spence.

  “We should listen to the resident exper
t on suicides. Our friend Spencer has caused many of them,” shot back Koop.

  “Would you two shut up? For Christ’s sake, you’re like little kids,” said McCann.

  “Am not,” said Spence.

  “Are too,” said Koop.

  The lieutenant’s face went red. He grunted and turned to Marlowe. “What’s your next step?”

  “While the team checks backgrounds, Spence and I will head to Westside and try to run down info on Nikki Baker. We struck out with Young; no one saw anyone with him when he left work. No luck locating any stops he made. The Furnaces are out in the boondocks, so no witnesses on that end either. I’m hoping for better results with the girl. Signs point to her being the first victim. There was no trace of ritual involved. My theory is he took her on impulse. He didn’t plan it, at least not like these last two, so maybe someone saw something.”

  “Uniforms have been all over the area,” said McCann.

  “Yeah. Still, we need to give it another pass. I have a tough time believing no one knows anything. The girl lived in the area, someone saw her that day. We need to jog some memories.” Marlowe tapped his temple with an index finger.

  “Folks in that area aren’t keen on talking to cops. Uniforms aren’t always brimming with tact. Maybe, they’ll be more talkative with us,” said Spence.

  “Sure, those of us in suits are the picture of sensitivity. Okay, keep me in the loop,” said McCann, walking away.

  “The lieutenant should really see someone about his condition,” said Spence.

  “Condition?” asked Koop.

  “The stick up his ass. Seems chronic.”

  “He does suffer from a pain in his posterior region, but it is not a stick.” Koop gave Spence an impish look.

  “Koop, don’t you have some bodies to carve up or something?” asked Marlowe.