October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  Stories have gone around these parts forever about Bigfoot, chupacabra, and the like. Us kids used to scare the shit outta one another with them, but I don’t think I really believed any of it. Still don’t, but something was out there. What I did see made me think of a shadow man. Not that I’ve ever seen a shadow man, even so, that’s what I thought. I could see right through it. Had smoke looking stuff coming off it like waving a hot ember around. I swore my imagination was messing with me and laughed it off once I got safe and sound back to the house. All the same, I didn’t venture into those woods again for months.

  My headaches started getting worse about that same time. Nightmares, too. Same one most nights. I dreamt I was back in Afghanistan, standing at the top of that dune with those towelheads beside me. They looked just like they did that day the world went to hell, smoky and indistinct, shimmering in the sun. From below, my buddies crawled toward me up the hill. Legs and arms blown off, faces missing. Rico was the worst. He tried to speak to me, but his bottom jaw hung loose, holding on by a thin piece of muscle. One eye still dangling down, he stared at me. I knew he needed my help. He was scared, and I was scared for him. Then all the guys scrambled up real close, and I could tell they blamed me—either for them dying or me living. They grabbed me, fell on me, like those zombie movies. Even as I woke up, the teeth and fingernails still seemed to grind and rip into my flesh.

  A nightmare never killed anyone, so once daylight and coffee chased the willies away, I didn’t sweat it too much. Along with the headaches and seeing things, just more reason to assume my mind played tricks on me. I could’ve ignored it all if that was the extent of it. If things didn’t get worse, which they did. They always do.

  I woke one night with someone screaming to wake the dead. I bolted upright. Took a minute to realize it was me doing the yelling. Terrified Daisy something awful.

  “Honey, baby, wake up.” She shook me, her eyes wide.

  “I-I’m alright.” Wasn’t even sure it was my voice, it sounded so childlike.

  “You’re not. It’s getting worse. Baby, you’ve got to see someone.”

  I shook my head. “Naw, I’m fine. Really.”

  “But…”

  “Back off, Daisy. I said there’s nothing wrong.” A bit harsh, that last. I felt bad about it right away, but a marching band had taken to conducting formations in my head. I couldn’t handle her pestering.

  Both of us sat there on the edge of the bed shaking like leaves in a storm. Pop had noticed, too. Apparently, a nightly adventure, though that one was the worst. The two of them put their heads together and tag teamed me. I didn’t stand a chance. They insisted I see a doctor. I hate doctors. Who doesn’t? Bastards don’t know what’s what. Probably why they call it medical practice, and I had no desire to be their guinea pig.

  I put it off ‘til one day I drew baby duty. Didn’t mind the job a bit. I could sit and hold Munchkin, that’s what I took to calling her, for hours. Usually needed to pry her from my arms. Well, guess I wandered off and left her lying on a blanket in the middle of the living room. I don’t recall leaving her. One second, me and her played with the gym I bought her, it hung over her with little animals drooping down. She’d lay on her back and swat at them, then giggle. Anyway, next thing I know I’m in the yard with no idea how I got there. Weirdest thing. Scared me and petrified Daisy once she realized something was wrong and got passed being pissed at me.

  No choice but to head to the VA for a checkup. I called and made an appointment. They took my information and set me up with a time, no problems. But I get there and they say I’m not covered. I bickered with them for an hour before storming out wanting to punch someone. Back home, I phoned the Veterans’ Affairs Admin who transferred me a dozen times, finally landing with some bored sounding fella. He apologizes for the mix up and says he can get me in to see a doctor in two months. Two fucking months? I don’t have insurance, so can’t see a regular doc. I argue with him ‘til I’m near hoarse and slam the phone down.

  Fucking government. Bastards send me over there, let me watch my buddies blown to smithereens, kick me out, and now act like I don’t exist or my problems don’t matter. They’ll just fit me in whenever they please, nevermind the effects it’s having on my family and me. What could I do? There’s no winning against Uncle Sam. It’s like squabbling with a stop sign.

  Dad’s not taking his pain meds as much, so I swipe some from time to time, just when things get rough. Manages the headaches okay, and I sleep better, but the blackouts keep on happening, though I think less often and for not so long. Daisy says otherwise, but she worries and tends to exaggerate.

  Rather than spinning my wheels on stuff I can’t do anything about, I focused on the work needed doing. Talked with Dad a few more times about buying the place. I think he’s having second thoughts, always puts me off. Puts off doing any work around the farm, too. Maybe giving up ownership makes him feel old or not needed. I’ll stay on him. I’d like to have the place. It’d feel like I’ve accomplished something and have a future. All mental really and doesn’t matter much one way or the other.

  No matter what, when I hold my daughter in my arms, the bad shit melts away. Standing in the rain on a hot summer day wouldn’t feel as nice. She’s everything to me. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Marlowe commandeered Amanda’s office, much to her chagrin. He did suffer a twinge of guilt, but nowhere else allowed him an escape from her constant nagging. She had not let up since he walked into the station that morning, chomping at the bit for another run at Sam Ewell, certain she could force a confession out of him. Marlowe had been at this longer, and perhaps his assumptions were unfair, but he doubted Amanda’s technique matched her enthusiasm. Little need for intense questioning of suspects in Rosser County, a place where the most notorious criminal mastermind stole Jack-O-Lanterns from porches on Halloween.

  Her first attempt with Ewell lacked any sense of nuance or finesse. Marlowe weighed tactics through a prism of experience. Interrogations, generally, went one of two ways. One, with hardened criminals, tough guys, long periods of questioning could wear them down, make them slip up and change their stories. Two, the nervous types, like Sam, trepidation coupled with time alone stewing in a cell could be more effective than hours of harsh cross-examination. With a healthy fear of the police, a lack of knowledge as to their rights and what Marlowe could and could not do, their minds would dream up possibilities well beyond any he could actually employ. It did work the other way around sometimes, the two groups responding best to the opposite tactic, but Marlowe felt he had a good read on Sam. Pushing too hard would send him further into himself. He would clam up tight. Still, no way to explain this logic to Amanda without coming off as condescending and adding yet another infraction to a long list drawing the stink eye from her.

  Paper-thin walls allowed the tap-tap-tap of fingers on keyboards, ringing phones, and clamorous voices to serenade him with an annoying cacophony, and oddly, remind him of Amanda’s stare boring into the side of his head from outside the office window. He understood—lack of patience, sense of urgency, demand for justice—still, overplaying their hand now could set them back rather than propel the case forward. Losing time in either direction was not a desirable option. Minimizing the loss with calculated risks seemed the best way to proceed.

  Into the third day, hope for finding the girls alive diminished by the hour. How much longer they could field a sizeable search force and devote resources to the effort without a breakthrough was a question Marlowe avoided asking himself. Amanda’s desire and his good intentions could not fuel the investigation forever.

  The intercom on the desk buzzed, snapping Marlowe from his reverie.

  “Lieutenant Gentry. Call from Sheriff Newton in Washington County. Line one.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  Marlowe wheeled his chair close to the window and rapped on it with his knuckles. Amanda sat reviewing repo
rts. She glanced up, her eyes narrowed. He waved her over, and she offered a grim nod. He hoped keeping her in the loop, his right-hand so to speak, might lessen some of the tension between them. Once she entered the office, closed the door, and took a seat opposite him, Marlowe hit the button.

  “Sheriff Newton. Lieutenant Gentry, Serial Violent Crimes Unit, and Sheriff Beacher here. You have something for us?”

  “Good Morning. I believe I do. We received the photo you sent out. I think we know the guy. Real name’s Samuel Ewing. No priors, clean as a whistle. Not so much as a traffic citation. We show one incident, though no fault of Ewing’s. Five years ago, he picked up his daughter from school, seven-year-old in the first grade, and a drunk driver plowed into them. Hit ‘em dead center on the passenger door. Killed the girl instantly and bashed up Ewing’s head good. I think he’s a bit simple afterward.” The sheriff’s voice dropped with the weight of the recitation. “I asked around, seems he and his wife didn’t deal with it well. Who the hell would? She divorced him six months later. Six months after that, his car was found abandoned and out of gas off I-59 outside Tuscaloosa.”

  “Washington County. You’re down around Mobile right?” asked Marlowe.

  “Yes sir. I’m looking at a map here. Looks like Ewing drove until the tank went empty, left the car where it sat, and walked or hitched to Red Weed. Decided to stay there I guess. Who knows why.”

  “Yep, looks like,” agreed Marlowe. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Not my place to say, but I doubt this is your guy.” He paused. “Though I guess a thing like this could knock some screws loose. Who knows?”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. We appreciate the information.” Marlowe reached toward the phone.

  “One second, Sheriff,” said Amanda. “You said this happened five years ago. What month?”

  “Hmm, let’s see here…October. October 12th.”

  “Thanks.” Amanda could barely contain her elation. Her lips curled in a frightening snarl.

  Marlowe clicked the line dead. “Hang on. I know what you’re thinking. A year before Tommy. But this guy’s one tick above brain dead, quasi-catatonic, in and out, shuffling around like an automaton with the wiring fried. Do you really think he’s cable of kidnapping and murder? I’ve got to tell you, Amanda, I don’t see it.”

  Her grimace intensified, and Marlowe feared extended claws would soon follow.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Ewell—Ewing has motivation. He lost his daughter and now he wants others to feel the same pain. I bet you anything, search deeper and we’ll find two more missing kids between Tommy and Sarah Harmon.” Amanda stood and paced the floor, wringing her hands at her waist.

  “Spence and Lori haven’t found anything to tie the Harmon girl to this. And Tommy? I-I’m sorry Amanda, but there’s nothing to suggest it wasn’t an accident. Besides, this doesn’t change anything. We still can’t place him anywhere near the house.”

  “Goddammit, Marlowe. This is enough to take a real run at him. Push him hard. If this is associated with his daughter, believe me, he’ll break if you press the right buttons.”

  Marlowe remained adamant, his course offered the best chance of getting something out of Ewing, but this did

  throw a wrench into the works. It gave Amanda ammunition. And even though it was still his call, he could not pacify her easily. Probably not at all.

  A knock sounded on the office door.

  “Come in,” said Marlowe, thankful for the momentary reprieve.

  Preston walked in carrying an evidence bag. “Dogs sniffed this out.”

  “What is it?” asked Amanda.

  “A piece of fabric. I figured you’d want it checked, so I sent it to the lab already. Didn’t take them long. Just got it back.” Preston bounced in his shoes, barely containing his excitement. “Matches our suspect’s jacket. Identical material and color. Plus, fits like a puzzle piece where his jacket is ripped at the tail.”

  “Where did they find it?” asked Amanda.

  “At the edge of the woods, right behind the Baldwins’ place.” Preston smiled as though he found the cloth himself.

  Marlowe shot out of his chair. Amanda’s grin returned with smug satisfaction, and he was glad the desk separated them. He would never strike a woman, but her ‘I told you so’ expression tested his resolve.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go talk to Ewing.”

  * * *

  Sam stared at the tabletop, refusing to lift his head. Marlowe sat across from him, weighing his approach while Amanda leaned against the back wall with a smirk on her face. She reminded Marlowe of Sylvester camped out below Tweety Bird’s cage. Something told him Tweety was in a world of trouble this time. He allowed her to join him, but insisted she keep quiet, though he doubted the order would hold.

  “Sam, we know about your daughter. I’m sorry. There’s nothing harder than losing a child. Is that why you took the girls? Maybe you just wanted to be around them?” Marlowe spoke softly and kept his posture relaxed.

  Sam shook his head, but did not look up. “I didn’t hurt them. I swear. I told you what happened.”

  “I need you to be honest with me. I want to help you, but you have to help me. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt them. Was there some kind of accident? It’s okay, talk to me, we’ll work it out together.”

  “No, no, no. I didn’t.” Sam thumped his palms on the table,

  “Alright, settle down. We’re just talking here.”

  Marlowe popped the top and slid a soft drink across to Sam. “Have a drink. There’s nothing to worry about, okay. We know you followed the girls. You watched them go into the house.”

  “No. I didn’t go nowhere. I swear.”

  Marlowe placed the strip of fabric on the table. “Sam, we found this near the house. It’s from your jacket. Come on now, don’t lie to me.”

  Sam’s fingers inched toward the fabric and withdrew without touching the plastic bag. “I-I, yes, I remember. I wanted to make sure they got home safe.”

  “Good. That’s good. You went into the house didn’t you?”

  “No. I watched from the woods. They went inside, and I went…home.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Amanda stormed forward. “You know what you did, you piece of shit. Now admit it!”

  “Sheriff!” snapped Marlowe. “Wait outside. Please.”

  Amanda glared at Sam. Her gaze turned to Marlowe, maintaining the same venomous ire as she stalked out. The door slamming shut vibrated the one-way mirror and increased Sam’s terrified quaking.

  “As you can see, you don’t have any friends here. I’m the only one on your side, Sam. Help me. Tell me what happened.” Marlowe eased forward in the seat.

  Sam clasped his hands behind his head, rocking back and forth. “I didn’t hurt those girls. I didn’t.”

  “You took them to keep them safe, right? Something happened you didn’t count on. An accident? I understand. It wasn’t your fault. What happened, Sam?”

  “I didn’t hurt them. Please, let me go. I wanna go.” Back and forth, he rocked, more frantic.

  “Tell me what happened out there. It’s the only way I can help you. The only way you’re leaving here.”

  “I wanna go. Wanna go…” Sam repeated the words like a mantra. Quieter and quieter, until his lips moved but no sound issued.

  Marlowe sighed and pushed up from the table. Amanda waited in the hall when he exited the interrogation room. He pushed past her, in no mood for a chastising.

  “That’s it? That’s all you have?” she asked.

  “Leave it, Amanda.” He waved a dismissive hand and marched down the corridor, Amanda hot on his heels like a yapping dog.

  “Leave it? Those girls are out there, this fucker knows where, and you pussy foot around him. I’m going in there. He’s going to talk or so help me God…” She pivoted toward the exam room.

  Marlowe grabbed her arm. “Or what? What do you think you can do?” He stepped close, his face flushed with anger. �
��You called me, remember? This is my case. But if you want it, fine. I’ll pack up and go home. Think you can handle it without me? Without the SVCU? Be my guest.”

  Amanda recoiled, tugging her arm free, collected herself, and thundered back into the fray. “The guy’s playing you. This pitiful act, all down in the mouth. Oh poor, poor me. He’s lied every step of the way. He didn’t go into the clearing. Then he did. He didn’t follow the children to the house. Then he did. What more do you fucking need?”

  Marlowe let the tension go, releasing his fists and taking a deep breath. “You’re pissed, Amanda. I get that. But think it through. No DA is going to trial with what we have. It’s probably not enough to even get a plea-bargain. We still can’t put him in the house, no prints, no fibers, and no murder weapon. More so, if he did it, he’s doing us no good sitting in a cell.” Marlowe placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s cut him loose and keep eyes on him. If he did take the girls, it’s our best chance. He’ll lead us to them.”

  Amanda shrugged away from his touch. After a moment, she huffed. “Like you said, it’s your call. But if this goes sideways, if he ditches us and skips town… Or worse, kills those kids. It’s on your head.”

  “Understood. I take full responsibility.” He tried to offer a conciliatory smile, but could not muster one.

  She curled her lip, did an about-face, and stormed down the hall. Marlowe hated to step on her toes, but her feelings rode her sleeve and impaired her reasoning. He could relate. The Seraphim offered himself up as an easy surrogate for Marlowe’s rage not so long ago. Cutting corners, ransacking victims’ homes, threatening to toss a suspect out of a four-story window, all seemed acceptable at the time. Amanda walled herself off in the same vacuum, every clue incompatible with her certainty, promptly jettisoned from her thinking. There was little mystery in her attitude or reasoning. She tied the cases together from the first instant and would see Tommy’s killer in every suspect. A mother’s grief and anger coupled with a sheriff’s authority made for a dangerous combination.