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

by Dallas Mullican

  “Yeah, but I’ve aged better.” Spence puffed out his chest.

  “Wanting to punch you rarely needs a reason, but I might have gotten a tad carried away.”

  “A tad,” said Spence. “No one can blame you, though. I’d be modeling a straightjacket in the funny farm after seeing all you have. I’m impressed you didn’t go in guns blazing on that Max guy.”

  “I wanted to kill him. I wanted it so badly I could taste it. When I entered the house, my mind was set. He was Seraphim, and he deserved to die.” Marlowe shook his head. “Becca wound up talking us both away from that cliff. I saw the guy standing there—the pain and confusion written all over his face…I couldn’t do it. Maybe there’s a little humanity still in here someplace.” Marlowe tapped his chest.

  “Never left. What could be more human than suffering? Than grief?”

  Marlowe chuckled. “Never figured you for a philosopher.”

  “I’m smart as Einstein, bro. Just don’t show it. Show it, and people start expecting stuff from you.” Spence grinned and ran a hand over his top of his head.

  “Hmm. Still, it was touch and go the whole time. I admit I was rooting for Max. Everyone should be able to come back, you know? No matter what’s happened, or how far you’ve fallen, you should have a chance to come back.”

  “Well, I’m rooting for you. I see a change in you…another one. Something in your eyes. Hell, you’re like that chick with all the personalities. Sylvia?”

  “Sybil,” said Marlowe with a grin. “And that was a hoax.”

  “Whatever. Listen to what I mean, not what I say. Anyway, you seem less distant now. More…optimistic? I don’t know. Different. In a good way.”

  “A work in progress. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like I might get there. I might make it back to something near my old self. Paige pulled me out of deep, dark hole…and maybe…maybe, you had a tiny bit to do with it, too.”

  Marlowe expected another off-handed quip from Spence; instead, he turned with a serious expression. “I care about you. You’re my partner and my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I hope you know that.”

  “I do. You’re a great cop Spence, but a better friend than you? There isn’t one.”

  “What to hug or something?” said Spence.

  “Not a chance.”

  * * *

  Becca volunteered to give Maggie and her sons the news. Not normal police protocol, of course—the victim informing the assailant’s family of his death—but her experience with Max, and her dogged insistence, swayed the argument.

  She did not relish facing them. Though Max tried to kill her, she felt nothing but pity for him. On some level, she even understood. His mind, turned to mush, incorporated all his fears and delusions into a horrible reality.

  He could not live, and he could not die. Trapped in a hellish netherworld between the two, his mind created a savior. One who could do for him what he could not do for himself. He envisioned a way his pain might end, and his family might see him as a hero. Insanity delivered gaping holes in logic, but Max could not see the discrepancies, the rips in the design.

  On the drive toward Maggie’s sister’s house, Becca rehearsed what she would say a thousand times. She dealt with the suffering and the grieving every day, and now, her words lacked the significance of the moment. Where were the grand axioms to comfort? The psychological brilliance to dispel the anguish of loss?

  The tactics she employed daily seemed paltry things. She felt certain she would be a better therapist as a byproduct of Max’s death. No more simply going through the motions, saying the words some book prescribed. The wall her training taught her to erect between herself and her patients must come down. For only through the prism of her own experiences could she understand theirs. They needed to know this person counseling them was not some sterile, static machine, but a living person with their same fears. These were the lessons Max taught her. Lessons she would put to good use from here on out.

  She parked by a white mailbox and walked to the porch. It took a moment and three breaths to summon the nerve to push the bell.

  “Yes? Can I help you,” said the woman who answered the door.

  “My name is Dr. Rebecca Drenning. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  “Oh, yes. I…pictured someone older. Come on in. Please have a seat in the living room, I’ll get Maggie.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman left, and Becca sat on the sofa, appraising the house. Quaint. Nothing fancy, but nice. She noticed a family photo on the mantle. A dozen people stood in front of a Christmas tree, Max among them. He appeared so healthy and alive, a wide smiled stretched across his face, eyes bright, seeming to see a future full of promise.

  Becca felt a weight settle in the pit of her stomach. She felt cheated that she never had the opportunity to know that Max. Becca remembered a line from Hamlet, something about the fear of death making cowards of us all. It could also drive a person to desperation and even madness.

  Children’s laughter accompanied the sound of feet stomping on hardwood. Becca shook the morose thoughts from her mind as two boys came dashing around the corner.

  “Hello,” said Becca, smiling.

  “Who are you?” asked the smaller of the two, rather bluntly.

  “I’m Dr. Drenning. Who might you be?”

  The boy blanched and took a step back, “Doctor? You going to give us a shot?

  Becca laughed. “I’m not that kind of doctor, and no, I’m not going to give you a shot.”

  “Oh, good. I’m Austin.”

  “I’m Cody,” said the older boy.

  “Handsome men,” said Becca. The boys blushed, shoved one another, and darted out of the room.

  “No running in the house, you two,” said a pretty brunette, entering the room behind the boys. “And close the door if you’re going outside.”

  She turned to Becca, an embarrassed smile on her face, “Sorry about them. Wild animals.”

  “It’s okay, they’re adorable.” Becca stood and shook Maggie’s hand.

  “My sister said you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about Max.”

  “Max?” The woman stiffened. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so. Sit with me, won’t you?”

  Maggie, hesitant, sat beside Becca. “Laura said you’re a doctor. Is Max sick?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this.” She placed a hand on Maggie’s knee. “Max died yesterday.”

  “What? No, no, I don’t believe you.” Maggie shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Max was very sick. Brain cancer. There wasn’t anything the doctors could do. He was too sick by the time they found it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me? Cody and Austin, oh my God, how do I tell them?” Through her tears, anger flared. “This is so like him. So selfish. His sons didn’t even get to say goodbye…I didn’t…”

  Maggie collapsed into Becca’s arms. Becca decided then, they did not need to know how Max died. He died of cancer. That was enough.

  “Listen to me, Maggie. I counseled Max during his treatment. Let me tell you, he did not do this out of selfishness. He loved you and his sons. Max knew if he told you, you would try to care for him out of obligation. He couldn’t bear you and the boys seeing him waste away.”

  “I couldn’t be with him any longer, but it didn’t mean I stopped caring about him. Families…they’re there for each other.” Maggie dug her fingers into her thighs.

  “That’s hindsight speaking. You’re here with your sister. If Max left you, if the situations were reversed, would you want your estranged husband taking care of you as you withered away to skin and bone?”

  “No, no I wouldn’t.” Maggie’s hands stilled and she gave a slight nod. A thousand thoughts raced past Maggie’s eyes.

  “The cancer attacked his mind. Max wasn’t himself anymore. You and the boys didn’t need to see that. Let them,
and you, remember Max healthy and strong. Most of all, I want you to know that in the end, he died heroic. His death was self-sacrifice. Nothing would have pleased him more than to have his family around him, but out of love, he chose to die alone.”

  Becca understood the doubt and regret. Maggie could not stem the flow of her tears. She would hate herself for a time, question every decision, and find no solace. Eventually, Becca hoped Maggie could come to grips with Max’s death. Perhaps, someday, Maggie would realize no one was at fault.

  * * *

  Marlowe leaned back in his chair, smiling at an eight-by-ten of Paige, a speck of pancake on her chin. Wonderful things, these new color laser printers. He’d taken the picture that morning. Let McCann say a word about “misuse of department resources.”

  “Detectives,” said Officer English, “Seraphim hit again.”

  “Where?” Marlowe looked up.

  “Westside.”

  “Hmm, no shortage of down-on-your-luck types out there. Who’s on scene?”

  “Everyone. Well, pretty much. The lieutenant wants Dr. Koopman and you two out there ASAP. S.W.A.T. and a dozen patrols already present.”

  “S.W.A.T.?” said Spence. “And a dozen patrols for a dead body? Seems overkill to me. How do we know it was a Seraphim attack?”

  “Apartment building’s super found the vic. Scared the shit out of him. He didn’t stick around, but said he saw some creepy symbols on the floor. Said the guy was cut open, blood everywhere. Lieutenant was apprised of the call and told the EMTs to hold back until we check it out.”

  “The victim was on the floor? Not the bed? And blood everywhere?” Marlowe stood. “Sounds like the super interrupted the ritual.” His eyes went wide. “Jesus, let’s go, Spence. Seraphim’s still in the vicinity!”

  * * *

  Police had surrounded the building by the time Marlowe and Spence arrived. A couple of S.W.A.T. snipers observed from the roof across the street. A horde of onlookers, including a few dozen reporters, pushed against a barricade.

  Lieutenant McCann had pulled out all the stops. Along with S.W.A.T. and the regular patrol cruisers, he’d brought in armored vehicles and officers in body armor carrying assault weapons. If Seraphim got away, it would not be on his feet.

  The lieutenant waved them over as soon as he spotted them. “We have the place locked down. S.W.A.T.’s cleared the premises. Teams are coming out. Finished up door-to-door searches and all apartments are clean. No sign of Seraphim. I want you two in there. Marquez, Kirkpatrick, and Bateman will back you up, just in case. Koop and his team are with you. Doc, you and your people stay to the rear.”

  “No need to tell me,” said Koop. “I abhor violence.”

  “No one but you three go into that room.” McCann pointed to Marlowe, Spence and Koop. “Once they have a handle on things, Koop, your team can go in. This is the closest we’ve been. The bastard is going down this time.”

  “He’s out of the building? What time did the super make the call? What’s the perimeter?” asked Marlowe, a thousand questions whirling through his head. He knew the lieutenant would have every contingency covered, but Marlowe’s anxiety soared. He did not want this maniac slipping through.

  “I’ve set a six-block perimeter. All our resources are in, and County sent everything they have. Seraphim isn’t getting out of the net.”

  Marlowe and Spence strapped on their vests and waited for S.W.A.T. to restore power. With the team on their heels, they proceeded into the building. The flicker of the florescent lights overhead set nerves further on edge, blinking out for an instant every few seconds.

  McCann said all the apartments had been cleared, but that did not keep the team from staring at every door and hallway they passed. Nor did it ease Marlowe’s white-knuckle grip on his Glock. Kirkpatrick and Bateman carried AR-15 rifles. Marquez, a Mossberg 590 assault shotgun. Spence followed as few steps in front of Koop, his own Sig Sauer 9mm at the ready. Overkill with the weaponry seemed preferable to getting killed.

  Once onto the third floor, the team slowed their progress, tension growing with each step closer to the target apartment. A sudden bang and a door flew open. Weapons raised in unison, all trained on the entrance. A boy of no more than ten came barreling out and ran headlong into Kirkpatrick’s leg.

  “Shit,” said Bateman. “I almost…”

  “We all did,” whispered Marlowe. “But we didn’t. So, hold it together. The kid must have hid somewhere during the search. Marquez, get him outside.”

  Marquez escorted the child down the hall as the others steadied themselves. At the door to apartment 311, Marlowe directed Kirkpatrick and Bateman into positions on the opposite side. Spence moved in on Marlowe’s back while Koop remained several feet further down the hall, out of harm’s way.

  Marlowe raised a hand and counted one…two…three. He shoved the door open, took a quick peek inside, and pivoted into the room, followed by Spence. Kirkpatrick and Bates held guns ready in the doorway.

  The victim lay on the floor, a bloody mess. His torso and abdomen slit open, entrails overflowed his belly like grotesque cords of rope. Kirkpatrick doubled over and backed into the hall.

  “Jesus Christ,” breathed Bateman.

  “Get Koop in here, but you two stay out there. Spence, take a look around.” Marlowe circled his finger in the air.

  The small apartment looked as if a tornado had torn through. Pages from a half dozen books lay strewn across the room. The bed leaned against one wall, toppled onto its side. Moonlight peeked through sheer curtains, setting a gloss to the congealing blood pooled around the corpse. Arterial spray splattered the floor and walls.

  Marlowe moved to a small desk near the solitary window, sifting through the paltry stash of objects. Spence crept to the bathroom, behind his gun. After an inspection revealed nothing threatening, he examined the rear area of the room.

  Koop knelt beside the corpse, looking over the victim’s wounds. A few minutes later, he took a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped it across his forehead. His head rose, confusion written in his eyes. “I don’t think they will be catching the killer out there.”

  “No, we’ll get him. Have a little faith, Doc,” said Spence.

  “You misunderstand me. I believe…well, I’m reasonably certain…this is the killer.”

  Marlowe and Spence stopped in their tracks, both wearing expressions of disbelief.

  “What?” asked Spence. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “You did. This man killed himself.”

  “You’re telling me this guy cut himself open and pulled his own insides out?” asked Marlowe, his eyes wide.

  “And more. It appears he tried to cut his sternum with the cutters there—same as with Seraphim’s other victims. When that failed, he attempted to pull his own ribcage apart with his hands. Look at these marks here on the bones, and the blood saturation on his hands.”

  “Probably from trying to stanch the blood flow,” said Marlowe, still unable to accept Koop’s explanation.

  “No, look at the breaks on the ribs. Pulled apart, not snipped with the tool. Also, the trail of blood droplets from his hand to the symbols. This is the killer.”

  “How…” Marlowe cringed. “Nobody could’ve stayed conscious long enough to do that.”

  “Marlowe, I think he’s right,” said Spence. “Got a bag here, full of tools. We’ve got a bolt gun.”

  Marlowe’s mind refused to process what he heard. It seemed impossible. He searched for answers written on the wall. A scrap of yellow drew his eyes to a vase of flowers—the same flowers found in the victims’ body cavities. On a small desk sat a mason jar filled with familiar halfpennies. Dozens of small metal bars and copper wire such as Seraphim used to fashion his crosses filled a desk drawer.

  There could be no doubt. Seraphim did not bring all his supplies, far more than one crime scene would have required, and leave them in a rush when the super surprised him. No, the Seraphim lay right there with his body to
rn open.

  “This fellow did not possess the full complement of mental faculties.” Koop’s bewildered tone did not match his humor.

  “What the hell? This makes no fucking sense,” said Spence. “Any idea what’s going on here?”

  Marlowe paced, rubbing at his brow. The wheels inside his head turned, trying to lock into place. He stared around the small apartment. Each item flew into his mind and took position in a mental jigsaw puzzle. Every nuance filled in the space that formed like pixels in a digital mosaic. He thought back to Paige trying to force the piece in where it didn’t belong.

  Finally, Marlowe shook his head and stared down at the crimson-coated body. “A guess, though with this guy, who knows. We’ll probably never know…not for certain.”

  “And your guess?” asked Koop, kneeling beside the corpse.

  “He tried to duplicate his ritual on himself. Seraphim thought he brought peace to people who could no longer endure their suffering. He intervened on behalf of those ready to die. I think…maybe he discovered he was one of them.”

  “Or simply very, very insane,” said Koop.

  “Then there’s that,” said Marlowe.

  “Un-freaking-believable,” said Spence. “So what now?”

  “Get the teams in here. Process everything, clean it up,” said Marlowe, making for the door.

  “Where are you going?” asked Spence.

  “The beach.”

  And next in the chilling Marlowe Gentry series,

  THE DARK AGE

  Coming soon from Scarlet Galleon Publications

  “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

  - Matthew 27:46

  The Heretic knows they lied.

  Now, he will make them confess.

  The first murder, a small town pastor burned at the stake, seems personal; an act of rage committed on impulse. But when a second victim is found brutally tortured to death, Detective Marlowe Gentry realizes he’s dealing with a serial killer who is drawing inspiration from the Inquisition. The killer’s methods grow more gruesome with each victim. He’s escalating, racing toward an endgame. How far will The Heretic go to punish those who betrayed him? And can Marlowe stop him before the ultimate trial?