October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  Deputy Marks, obviously privy to the conversation, stepped around the corner. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. Just how she gets sometimes.” He shrugged. “I promise you, though, there’s no one I’d rather have standing beside me. She’s never let one of us down. And I know from personal experience, she’ll have your back through thick and thin.”

  “No need to defend her to me, Deputy. We’ve known each other for a long time. She’s one of my closest friends.” Marlowe averted his eyes and his voice dropped. “For my part anyway.”

  “Yeah, she told me. Which is why I mentioned it. She’s not the same person you knew. Hell, she isn’t the same person I started with. I’ve watched her change, and if anything, she is more determined than ever.”

  “That’s what worries me. I don’t question Amanda’s loyalty or determination, it’s her judgment that concerns me. She’s wound tight, and this case hits too close to home. I’ve been there. She’s trying to make these kidnappings a substitute for Tommy’s death. It doesn’t work that way, believe me.” Marlowe patted the deputy on the shoulder, a touch of envy swelling as his hand bounced off rock-hard muscle. He needed to get back into the gym. “I guess you heard we’re cutting Sam loose. Pick your best people and keep eyes on this guy. Don’t lose him, but give him some space.”

  “Understood. Think he’s stupid enough to go to the children? He must know we’re watching.”

  Marlowe scoffed. “I doubt Sam Ewing’s mind can comprehend guile. If he has the girls, he’ll lead us to them eventually.” He paused. “And deputy…keep an eye on Amanda.”

  Deputy Marks offered a pensive grin. “I always do.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  Amanda followed Banks and Preston as they escorted Ewing to the patrol car. They would drop him off in Red Weed and take up a position to keep him under surveillance. Two more of her deputies would support the effort, the four switching out with others every six hours. She did not like this one little bit. Her stomach crawled, a wave a nausea hitting her and making the world teeter on its axis. At least she could fall back on ‘I was only following orders.’ Even so, if things went bad, the people of Rosser County would not blame Marlowe or the SVCU. No, they would find a scapegoat closer to home. Amanda would find herself in a sea of shit, hanging onto her job secondary to the black mark her name would carry from then on out, a pariah in her own town with a thousand furtive glances saying ‘There she is, the sheriff who let a child killer get away.’

  The black and white pulled out from the station. Amanda fought the urge to flag them down, grab Sam by the nape of the neck, and throw his ass back into a cell. Fuck Marlowe and his high-and-mighty superiority. Maybe she did not need him after all. She could not see he had done anything her department would not have gotten around to…eventually. His forensics guy—Koop, what kind of name was that?—pointed out the obvious. She already guessed the Harmon investigation would turn up nil. A year had a way of erasing evidence. Tommy, no one had ever believed her on that one. Perhaps Marlowe’s influence and connections got the word out across the state, but how did knowing Ewing’s background help them? Aside from confirming the theory she voiced at the beginning? Granted, Koop and his team got test results much faster than she could, and she did not have the manpower to look into the Harmon case, if something did turn up there. Marlowe brought the entire state’s resources to bear, which any number of things could arise making them essential. Okay, so she needed him, and that took the say-so right out of her hands. The tug-o-war tearing her apart yanked hard and she stumbled.

  Bad news traveled fast. She barely sat down at her desk before Mary buzzed in.

  “Darren Sorrel, Sheriff.”

  Shit. Marlowe had left the building. Any justice in the world would have seen him fielding this call.

  “I’ve got it.” She sighed and picked up the phone. “Sheriff Beacher.”

  “You want to tell me why, Sheriff? Why you let that monster go?” His voice, filled with anger, carried days of anxious worry, cracking underneath hinted at hours of recent tears.

  “Settle down, Mr. Sorrel. We fully investigated the suspect and found no reason to hold him.” The lie twisted her intestines into knots.

  “I’ve heard all about him. He’s practically a pedophile, watching kids, following them around. Can you tell me how you’re so sure he didn’t take my girls?” Sorrel grasped for straws. He needed to believe her, but he also wanted someone to blame.

  “None of his actions are in themselves a crime. I understand how it looks, but you need to trust we are doing everything we can.” Amanda considered a career in politics might suit her—deflect and evade difficult questions. “Right now, the best thing you can do is be there for your wife. Help with the search if you feel up to it, but leave the police work to us. We’re going to find your daughters, Mr. Sorrel. Don’t give up hope.”

  “I-I don’t know what to do.” Sobs broke his voice. He sniffled, trying to regain composure. “I’m sorry, I just…”

  “No need to apologize.” Amanda clenched her fists, forcing out the next sentence. “It’s going to be okay…I promise.”

  “Alright. Thank you for speaking with me.”

  His contrition and helplessness seeping through the line staggered her. Though sitting, she braced, clutching the armrests. She told him what he needed to hear, the only thing she could tell him. So, why did she feel like shit? Half-truths and outright lies. She fed him the sustenance he craved knowing it would not stay down. Not for long.

  “You okay? You look like you ran over a puppy.” Troy entered the office, a sympathetic expression contradicting any humor.

  “I hate this job sometimes.” Amanda leaned back in her chair, resignation oozing from her pores.

  “Listen. No matter what happens, no one could have done more.”

  “Past tense? You giving up?”

  “No, just being realistic. Three days now, you know the odds.”

  “I can’t, Troy. I can’t go there yet.”

  “Don’t then, but prepare yourself. I don’t want to see you taking this on like it’s your failure. I don’t want to see you slip any…” He bit down on the words.

  “Further?” She narrowed her eyes on him and scoffed. “I know Marlowe thinks I’m jumping the gun, trying to force Ewing into the role. Everyone probably does. But I feel it.” She touched her heart. “Right here. I look at Sam Ewing and there’s not a doubt in my mind. I’ll play by the rules and follow orders like a good soldier, but mark my words…that son of a bitch did this, and I’m going to prove it. Somehow.”

  “Well, try to keep both hands on the wheel. I don’t want to be the one scraping you off the pavement.” He attempted a smile, the weak effort rewarded with a sneer from Amanda.

  “You doubt me, too?”

  “I don’t. Not really. I know your heart’s in the right place…” His words trailed off and he looked away.

  “But? But what?”

  “After your dad died, we all pushed you into what amounted to interim sheriff. Election was coming up and everyone figured you were a placeholder. Ken Wood’s daughter or not, Ian Henman, sheriff over in Reform was sure to get the job. You didn’t expect to keep it. Doubt you cared much at that time.”

  “Not really. Like everyone else, I felt I was too young,” said Amanda.

  “Not long before the election, call came in an elderly woman got attacked by a dog. Me and you were in the area, so we headed over. Ms. Staley took a nasty bite on her leg, and the dog ran off toward the pond over the hill from her house. Hot as hell that summer, the pond dried up to ankle deep, but still the mud would sink up to your thighs. Somehow that dog, a chow mix if I remember right, made its way to a little knoll in the middle of the pond. Cory Taylor was there, had his rifle. Easy shot, he could’ve put one through the thing’s head from the bank, but you said no. You waded out there with a pack of honey-baked ham you had stashed in your lunch cooler and spent an hour coaxing that mean ass mutt to trust you. Once
it did, you carried it to the bank. Well, someone snapped a picture of you holding that mangy dog, you covered in mud head-to-toe. The photo showed up in the paper. Most likely got you elected.”

  “I was there, Troy. I remember it fine. Do you have a point in here somewhere?” She tapped her pen impatiently on the desk.

  “You refused to believe the worst about the dog, even though you had plenty of reason. And you didn’t save it so folks would think good of you. You did it ‘cause it was the right thing to do.”

  “The dog’s name was Gigi according to its collar, though no phone number or address, and we never found the owner. Tommy wanted us to take it in, but it was too damn mean. If not for the ham I stuffed down its muzzle, the thing would’ve taken my arm most likely.” Amanda’s grin slid into a sneer, and she shook her head. “No, I hate to dash your glowing opinion of me, but if it happened again today, I’d shoot that mutt myself.” She mimed a shot and blew on her fingers.

  “Come on now. You know you wouldn’t.” Troy scoffed at the assertion.

  “I would. You know why? Saving the dog worked out. One in a hundred though. A stupid thing for me to do. More likely, the thing bites me, or I save it and later attacks someone else. What if I had taken it in and it had hurt Tommy? Maybe mauls another child bad or something. The blood would’ve been on my hands. Say, I take it out of that pond only for it to spend weeks in a shelter and get put down in the end anyway. I bucked the averages, but exceptions are exceptions for a reason. They don’t happen often.” Amanda tossed her pen into the air. It fell to the desktop with a clatter. “Not worth the chance. Taking chances gets people hurt…killed. I don’t take chances anymore, Troy. I can’t.”

  “This isn’t you, Amanda. I know losing Tommy cost you something. More than I can ever understand, but—”

  “You’re right, you can’t understand.” Her glare caused Troy to flinch. “Enough of this. Get out to Red Weed and supervise the surveillance. And Troy, I’m holding you responsible. If Ewing gets away, don’t bother coming back.”

  Troy’s face dropped. The image of that sad wet dog sprung to Amanda’s mind. She saved one and now crushed another. Guilt stabbed, but she ignored it, and stared at the reports on her desk. She could feel his hurt, taking the place of the puppy he accused her of running over, his gaze lingering on her a moment before he lurched out of the office.

  Shit.

  Amanda placed her elbows on the desk, head in hands, feeling two inches tall. She should not take her frustrations out on Troy, but she was so sick and tired of him and her deputies, Gary, even Marlowe, though he did not say so, his face conveyed the same pity as the others, they all believed in a better version of Amanda. If they could say the right thing, she would snap back—the return of the sunny optimist they had known and loved. She wished they would give up. Give up just as she had…long ago. The Amanda they remembered died with Tommy, and she did not lament the loss of that aspect of herself. Hope, the most dangerous of virtues. Promise dangled in front of her nose, only to be yanked away. Better to accept the inevitable end. Prepare for it, steel the will against a false god teasing with good tidings, yet in the end, ripping it all to shreds.

  With her concentration sucked into a black hole of self-loathing, Amanda closed the files on the desk and left her office. Mary pulled the phone away from her ear as Amanda walked past, headed to the front entrance.

  “I’m going to grab some dinner—” began Amanda.

  Mary pointed at the receiver. “This is Jack Downing out at Velma’s Bar. Says Darren Sorrel’s there with a group of men. They’re getting pretty worked up. Jack’s afraid they’re going to do something stupid.”

  “Great.” She threw up her hands in exasperation.

  “Want me to call Jerrod? He’s out that way.”

  “No, I’ll handle it myself. Tell Jack to hold tight. I’ll be there quick as I can.”

  “Sure you don’t want Jerrod there too?” asked Mary.

  Amanda glared. Why did everyone think they could second-guess her lately? Mary shied, Amanda’s expression the only answer she needed, or would get. Mary’s voice, relaying the information to Jack, followed Amanda out the door. She drove toward Red Weed, blue light spinning, urging vehicles onto the road’s shoulder as she sped past, and siren blaring to drown out unwanted thoughts still plaguing her mind. She focused on the center-line zipping past the left front tire, counting the dashes like sheep, not to usher in sleep, but tick off the miles without succumbing to conscious thoughts.

  Velma’s, a small bar outside Red Weed, barely a quarter mile across the county line, dated back to when Rosser was a dry county. Finally going wet a few years earlier, the citizens still seemed to consider a bar in town paramount to sacrilege. Even so, they did not mind the short drive to grab a beer with friends after work or party on the weekends. The bar entertained a wide cross-section of clientele. The wealthier folks drank elbow to elbow with the lower classes—people they would ignore on the streets.

  Amanda pulled into the parking lot, scanning the array of vehicles. A Mercedes sat next to an ancient VW van, an older model Corvette next to a station wagon. To one side of the front entrance, she noticed Darren Sorrel’s Dakota alongside a four by four Chevy pickup with a confederate flag jutting up from the bed and a bumper sticker reading Don’t blame me, I voted for Jefferson Davis.

  Great, the Pitts brothers.

  The Pitts brothers met every definition of the redneck, racist stereotype. If trouble brewed in Red Weed, likely those two had some hand in the planning and execution. Worse still, they were never alone, followed by a dozen or so men every bit as mean. Amanda had no doubt their instigation would ratchet up any friction developing inside.

  Under dim lighting, a Waylon Jennings song played on the jukebox. Raucous laughter and voices mingled with cigar and cigarette smoke, the sizzle of meat on the grill, and the clack of pool balls struck and seeking a safe pocket stabbed at Amanda’s temples and turned her stomach. Jack glanced up from wiping down shot glasses and nodded toward the back of the room. A dozen men congregated near two pinball machines, all with drinks in hand and surly expressions on their faces.

  Darren Sorrel stood to one side, his head down, lost in sorrow. The Pitts brothers spoke loudly to their buddies about what they would do to Sam once they found him. Another man, one she did not expect to find here, gave her hope she might reason with this fired up posse.

  “Buddy. What’s going on here?” Amanda addressed Buddy Harmon, the obvious leader. Perhaps his history and friendship with her father, and more recently herself, would make for an ally.

  “Doing what needs to be done, Sheriff.” He threw back the last swallow of his beer, his expression dashing her optimism.

  “And what’s that? Exactly?” Amanda arched a brow.

  “Those detectives said my Sarah wasn’t part of this, but they wouldn’t ask about her now otherwise. I’m not stupid. Hell, I hear your own son’s death is wrapped up with it. So, you tell me, why aren’t you seeing justice done and finding those little girls? Letting these outsiders call the shots? This is our town, and it’s your job to protect it.” He placed his hands on his hips, nose in the air with righteous bravado.

  “I am, Buddy. You need to trust me. Whatever you’re planning won’t help. We’re going to find the children, but we have to follow the law—”

  “The law?” Darren Sorrel’s voice, barely audible, hushed the others. The entire bar fell still. Even Waylon seemed shamed to silence. “What about God’s law? An eye for an eye.” He slowly turned, bloodshot eyes locking on Amanda. “Three days this animal’s had my babies. Can you imagine the horrors my mind shows me? What he’s done to them? I hear them crying for me. Daddy, daddy. Do you have any idea? You should. You of all people should.” He staggered zombie-like to her, his hands touching her shoulders. “The only law I know is a father’s law. Don’t fuck with my children.”

  “Damn straight, Darren. What do ya say boys? Let’s go find this bastard and make
him talk.” Buddy Harmon led the charge, the others quick to fall in line.

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  The group marched forward as one.

  “Out of the way, sheriff. You can’t stop all of us.” A young man in a wife-beater tank top, ripped jeans, and cowboy boots stomped ahead. His baseball cap pulled tight on his head, the bill perched over mean beady eyes. He shook his finger at her.

  “Randall Pitts, get your finger out of my face before I break it off. All of you get back.” Amanda’s hand instinctively went to her holster.

  Randall’s eyes popped wide. He and the lynch mob retreated a step. Amanda’s chest swelled, her shoulders thrust back.

  That’s right shitheads. Don’t test me.

  The men’s eyes were not on her, however, or even her gun, but over her left shoulder. She rotated her head. Troy stood a foot away.

  “Problem here?” He stared down Randall and his brother Percy before scanning the others, one by one, with a hardened gaze. His biceps twitched, his fists opening and closing in a menacing fashion.

  “N-no, problem, Troy.” Randall backpedaled into the throng of men.

  “Deputy. We’re going to do what we have to. We have a right to protect ourselves and our families.” Buddy Harmon, his salesman voice now dominant, gave Troy a fatherly glance.

  Troy did not buy it. “What you have to do is go home and leave this to us. You wanna help? Keep joining the searches. But I catch anyone of you near Sam, I’ll throw your asses in a cell. And I won’t be gentle about it.” He nodded to the men. “You got me? Am I clear enough?”

  “Yeah, sure. We got it.” Randall tried to retain his macho bluster, but his words wavered with obvious fear of the big man.

  Amanda and Troy escorted the men outside and watched them leave.

  “What the hell were you thinking? Going in there alone?” asked Troy.