“Gentry…”
“What?” Marlowe turned, eyeing Raze with a stare that brooked no arguments.
“After this, we good, right?”
“We’ll see, Raze,” said Marlowe, with a subtle grin.
CHAPTER
21
Max could no longer hold down more than small bites of food. The pain in his head and belly grew daily, threatening to rip his body and psyche apart. He could taste colors and see sounds. Sometimes, scenes burst into a million shards of light before his red swollen eyes—walls, furniture, entire rooms exploded like a universe of stars. Reality blurred and became less certain. He saw things…horrible things.
The worst of it had begun a few days earlier. Max woke near noon feeling lethargic, his mind unable to grasp even simple tasks such as feeding or dressing himself. The house felt confining, too hot; he needed fresh air. The crisp, cool winter breeze might clear his head.
Still in pajamas, he walked outside. A narrow path ran through the woods behind his house leading to Gooseneck Creek. Max had explored these woods a thousand times over the years, following the rabbit trails darting in and out of the trees.
He and the boys often made their way to the creek. Max wanted to teach them about nature and share his love for the forest with them. Cody enjoyed wading into the water and catching crawdads. Unfortunately, he also delighted in chasing his brother with the creatures, trying to pinch him with their claws. Austin, of course, liked that part of the excursion far less.
Max labored into the forest on shaky legs. He should get a cane; two legs no longer seemed to do the trick. He might pick one up the next time he went into town. One with a wolf’s head on the pommel like the old German guy in that movie—Max Von something or other. He played chess with Death. No, same guy different movie.
Yeah, that would be fitting. A silver wolf’s head on a black cane. Even though I suck at chess.
Once upon a time, Max knew every tree, leaf, and stone in these woods. He found it a peaceful place and came here to think and find solitude when life grew too confusing or hectic. He had always loved these woods. He knew them, and they knew him. One of the few constants in his life—a place that always welcomed him.
Within minutes of entering the forest, Max was hopelessly lost.
He scanned his surroundings, trying to fix his location. The woods. Yes, the woods behind the house. But how far had he come? Was the house further back this way or in the other direction? Fear tightened his throat and rolled in his gut. Sobbing like an infant, he fell to the ground.
The trees swayed, bowing toward him, yet only a mild breeze wafted through the forest. Dry leaves, brown and orange, swirled and coalesced into disturbing shapes. On his knees, Max tore at his hair. He closed his eyes tightly and refused to see what ghosts rose to haunt him.
He heard a rustling in the trees. Steeling himself, he mustered the courage to search out the sound. A small dog came trotting out of the undergrowth. An ugly mutt, wiry fur patched in black and gray, it sniffed Max’s extended hand and tasted it with its tongue. The dog growled deep in its throat and retreated several steps.
“It’s okay, boy. I won’t hurt you.”
Pawing at the ground, the dog bared its teeth and shook its head back and forth as if playing a game of tug-o-war. Its head split in two, eyes rolling on thin, spindly stalks. The beady orbs ogled Max from skull halves flapping to each side. A muscular protrusion shot out from the center of the gory mass and latched onto his arm. He screamed, struggling to disengage the hideous tentacle.
Wisps of white, wormy strands erupted from the dog’s body, whipping violently like streamers in a gale wind. Blood welled and ran from the wound the tentacle inflicted. A thick, syrupy venom dripped from the translucent protrusion into Max’s arm and coursed upward toward his shoulder. His veins rose to the surface of his skin and turned the same scarlet as the venom. His chest quaked as the poison plunged into his heart.
Rain came—lightly at first, turning to a downpour in under a minute. The droplets hit his skin, fizzling and hissing with wisps of acidic smoke issuing from the contact. Half-dollar-sized blisters rose on his arms, face, and legs. The boils cracked under the deluge, breaking open, seeping a vile-smelling pus.
The downpour intensified. The ground soaked into a mire, bogging his legs until he could not move. The mud pulled at him, sucking him downward. Further and further into the earth Max descended, until he could no longer see the surface. The trees extended their roots from the pit’s walls, finding his every orifice, seeking to drain him of life.
Such unbelievable agony washed over him; his body shook with vicious tremors. Max clawed at the slick walls of the pit, but could find no purchase. Deeper and deeper he sank, mud congealing with the venom and roots, filling him, ripping him apart.
He crossed his arms over his face in a feeble effort to protect it, and screamed his lungs empty.
All sound ceased, the world went stone still—no pit, no dog’s growl, no breeze, no rustle of leaves. Max looked around, all seemed returned to normal. No, not returned, the same as it had always been. Max fell on his chest, panting, delirious with terror.
How long he lay there, he did not know. When he finally pushed himself upright, the sun was setting; an eerie orange-purple glow bled from the horizon. Max fought for balance, unsteady, trying to hold himself upright. His clothes and the ground around him were bone dry. He did not see a dog, or any sign one had been there. The leaves lay motionless on the ground, undisturbed.
Max stepped through a slow turn, looking around at the woods. His gaze found a trail; he looked along the length, spotting his home no more than a hundred yards away. He examined his arm and found no wounds or discolored veins. His chest felt smooth and warm with no signs of injury, and no blisters scarred him.
He stumbled home, wanting only the safety of locked doors between himself and the world. His desire to ever step outside again remained in serious doubt. Once inside, he checked the locks on all the doors and windows. Winded after his adventure, Max changed into a shirt and jeans and staggered into the living room, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Maggie waiting. She stood in the center of the room, her back to him, perusing old photos propped on the mantle. After a moment, she turned toward him, an unreadable expression on her face.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“M-Maggie? I didn’t know you were coming,” said a surprised Max, his voice apprehensive, but hopeful.
“I never loved you, Max.” She said it as though reading a soup can label. Max blanched, not certain he heard correctly. Why would she come here now to tell him such a hateful thing? “The boys don’t love you either. You embarrass them. They don’t want their friends to know you’re their father. I don’t want anyone knowing I married you. I mean really. What the hell was I thinking? You’ve always been a loser.”
Maggie stopped in front of the fireplace, a cradle full of cold, dead embers. “You couldn’t please your father—a poor athlete and a worse student. Dear Mommy hated the sight of you. A disappointment, that’s all you ever were to them.”
Max stared at her, his mouth gaping open.
“You’re nothing but a failure,” Maggie said. “You failed as a husband. You failed as a father. Look at you. You can’t even die without making a big to-do of it. What…pills? How hard could that be? Just swallow and die, even you should be able to do something that easy.”
“Why are you saying this? Why are you doing this to me? I tried, Maggie. You know I always tried.” Max placed his palms over his ears. He did not want to hear any more…no more.
“Oh, poor Max. It’s all about you isn’t it? I’ve got cancer. Feel sorry for me. Well, guess what? No one feels sorry for you. We all want you gone. The sooner the better.”
“But I didn’t tell you. You can’t know. I was protecting you…you and the boys. I didn’t want you to see me waste away. I didn’t want you to have to take care of me.”
“Aren’t you mi
ster thoughtful?” Maggie scoffed. “Some of that thoughtfulness would’ve been nice when I worked double shifts just to buy food. Where was it when you were out drinking while your family sat home? Huh? Don’t fool yourself. You’re only thinking about Max, like always. You didn’t want to suffer the feelings that came with us being here—seeing our disgust and pity. Your ego’s what this is really all about. So don’t sit there and try to say you’re doing anything for us.”
“That’s not true. I love you. I love my sons. I don’t want you to go through this.” He felt the humiliation of his begging, but could not stop.
“So, we walk in and find you dead one day, or some stranger calls to tell us. Yeah, brilliant plan. Your sons wouldn’t have any problem with discovering dear ol’ Dad blue and stiff as a board.”
“No, that’s not how I meant it. You don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve moved on. I’ve found a great man already. Without you around it wasn’t hard to find a decent guy. He takes care of us and the boys worship him.” Maggie sighed, a look of contentment washing over her face. “And the way he fucks me. You could never make me feel so good. I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“Shut up. Please, shut up. Leave. I want you to leave.” Max shut his eyes tight, but could still feel her there before him, staring with pure hatred.
“How can I leave, Max?” Her voice took on an ephemeral, echoing quality. “I’m not even here.”
When he opened his eyes, she was gone. Gone? No, she was never here. Part of him felt relief—relief that she did not say those terrible things, not really. But part of him still hurt. Her words stung too deep, touching him where he would never heal. He knew he imagined it all. So why did it hurt so badly? The accusations, the spite and hatred, felt real and did not dissipate in the hours that followed.
He could not sleep. In light or dark, visions came—a monstrous dog, acid rain, a sinking pit…and Maggie. Max did not sleep for the next two days. Afraid to go outside, afraid to go downstairs, he lay in bed with the covers tight around him. Receding into a second childhood where terrors hid under the bed and in the closets, he prayed for death over and over.
On the third day, Max slept twenty hours straight. He wanted to believe the visions were no more than nightmares suffered during that long sleep. Time, day and night, meant little anymore. Now only the waiting remained. He waited for the next symptom, the next horrible episode of nausea, headaches, or seizures, waited until he could take more pills and ease the edge off the pain, waited for it all to finally end.
A rushing sound emanated from downstairs. Fear pushed bile into his mouth.
Nothing. Just the house shifting.
A moment later, the noise came again. A swooshing rise and fall like waves against the shore.
My imagination. My mind playing tricks like always. Another hallucination. It’ll stop, wait it out.
It did not stop, but grew incrementally louder from faint to insistent. Not a particularly threatening sound in and of itself, but the strangeness of it, and his inability to discern its source or cause, unnerved him. Still, even in his fear, a soothing quality accompanied the sound. Like turning on a fan to help him sleep, it dispelled the haunting quiet. The dichotomy made him laugh and question his sanity for the millionth time.
Curiosity joined with fear. The sound would drive him yet madder. Its unrelenting pulse bored into his skull. He pushed himself from the bed, slung on his robe, and inched toward the bedroom door. Once into the hall above the stairs, the sound took on a ringing note, like a bird’s call or a flute.
Max eased down the stairs, placing each foot deliberately on the step as though it might decide to fly out from under him. The photos of his family along the hallway seemed to glower hatefully as he passed. His eyes darted about, trying to see around corners and through walls.
What is that sound? In my mind…or…
The closer he drew to the source, the more recognizable it became. Somewhere in his jarred and fractured mind, he knew that noise. Tiny bees buzzing? The amplified din of a million ants scurrying across the hardwood floor?
He edged around the corner and into the living room. Relief flooded through him…the television. Max must have left it on. The station had gone offline and now static white noise hissed from the speakers. He allowed himself a narrow, haggard smile.
Max fell back into his recliner, grabbed for the remote control and changed the channel. A two-level house with dozens of reporters and police roaming about came on the screen, an attractive female reporter in the center of the frame.
WRZK has learned an intended victim of the Seraphim escaped an attack last evening. Dr. Rebecca Drenning is now the only known person to survive this killer….
Dr. Drenning? His Dr. Drenning? The station showed a photo of the doctor dressed in her white coat, posed in her office.
I just saw her on Thursday.
He could only imagine how terrified she must feel, narrowly escaping a brutal killer. Dr. Drenning understood his situation better than most. He liked her. She seemed genuinely to care about him, about all her patients, he assumed.
Max pushed himself from the chair and went into the kitchen. He poured a glass of tea and turned as the female voice changed. The white noise returned, only much louder than before. He moved toward the living room, more puzzled than afraid.
The television showed the photo of Dr. Drenning, but the audio had resumed the static buzz. Max retrieved the remote. Pressing button after button, he tried to switch the channels, but all displayed the same image of Dr. Drenning, accompanied by the same noise.
The dead logs lying cold in the fireplace sprang to life. Flames blazed, casting off an incredible heat. Max tripped over the coffee table, toppling onto the floor. Propped on his elbows, he sought to retreat further, backpedaling like a crab. His legs went stiff. He couldn’t move.
Billowing flames leapt from the fireplace, stretching upward to the ceiling and taking on vague shape. Max whined, raising an arm to shield his eyes. Orange became yellow; the brightest patches of fire exuded liquid gold, which defined a human figure, molded of bronze. Angelic wings unfurled, their span reaching from wall to wall across the room.
Do not fear me.
“This isn’t happening. Only in my mind. It’s all in my mind.”
Do not fear me.
“Who…who are you? What are you? What do you what with me?”
You know me. I am your salvation. I am the end to your suffering.
Max felt the creature’s warmth. A comforting sensation spread out from its extended hands. Palms up, it beckoned, promising deliverance. All Max’s fear fled into that warmth. No longer afraid, he desired only to please the angel…to do its will.
“What do I have to do?”
The woman. Will you stand for her?
“Dr. Drenning? Stand for her?”
Will you offer your life for hers?
“Yes.”
She is your test. Are you worthy?
Max wept. “I am. I know I am.”
Succeed and all of your pain and fear will end. You will find your place in the heavens. No more suffering—only perfect peace and joy.
“Yes…please. I want that…please”
I will return for her. Stand for her.
The room went cold. No fire burned; no angel hovered before him, yet, Max felt a sense of euphoria. He laughed until he could not catch his breath. Gasping on hands and knees, he offered up prayers of thanks through hacking coughs.
He understood. The angel touched his mind and showed him…truth. Dr. Drenning did not escape Seraphim. Seraphim released her to allow Max this one chance at redemption—an opportunity to erase so many mistakes and failures. Soon, Seraphim would return for the doctor, and Max would be there.
To stand for her.
CHAPTER
22
“Knew I’d find you down here. You’ve got to quit doing this to yourself,” said Spence.
Marlowe sat in t
he basement of Birmingham Metro, the Churchill Murders files laid out on the table before him. His red-tinged eyes struggled to adjust when he looked up, making Spence appear blurred. Marlowe thought it a slight improvement.
“Bateman said you’re down here every night.”
“Need to get a bead on Seraphim,” said Marlowe, none too happy with Spence’s interruption.
“Bullshit. You aren’t going to find anything about Seraphim in those files. This is self-flagellation, plain and simple. I don’t need to be a shrink to know you’re punishing yourself. Do you enjoy the hell you put yourself through? Get some kind of masochistic pleasure from it? When are you going to give yourself a break?”
“Flagellation? Masochistic? Did you run face first into a dictionary?”
“I’m not joking here.”
Spence would not take the bait. Fine. No need for Marlowe to play nice.
“Back off, Spence.”
“You’ve been doing it for years, but now…Jesus, Marlowe, enough’s enough. You’re losing it, bro. This case has dug up a big, black pile of shit in you. I’m worried, the lieutenant’s worried.”
“Well don’t be. And the lot of you, mind your own goddamned business. I’m doing my job.”
“That what you call it? Seraphim’s out there, genius. The only thing you’ll find down here in the dark is misery and bad vision. You’ve got more than you need of one, come back up to the land of the living before you have a case of the other.”
Marlowe doubted Spence meant that remark the way he took it. The land of the living did not seem to have a place for him anymore. He walked, and talked, and breathed, but as for living—a concept he no longer understood.
Spence’s attempt at an intervention did little to improve his mood, or his fixation with these files. He found a sick kind of comfort in them. A closeness to Katy he attained nowhere else. He did not expect Spence to understand. Marlowe questioned whether he understood himself. He didn’t much want to go home either. Seeing Paige in her emotionless trance tormented and mocked him, reminded him he failed. Why couldn’t she talk? Did she hate him so much? The gun under his arm felt heavier. How close had he come? How often? If not for having a daughter who needed him…but did she? Might she be better off without seeing the reason Katy was dead every day?
A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1) Page 22
