October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “What’re we looking for?” asked Preston.

  “Any place he might hole up. Lots of crevices and caves in the rocks, maybe a dugout somewhere along the river.”

  “He could’ve just been roaming around, going nowhere special,” said Troy. “Didn’t he say he went to the Bend to scavenge for supplies?”

  “Maybe. But did you see the gaping holes in the roof of his shack? Floor was an inch deep in rainwater, and it didn’t look like he had been there in days. I’m betting he has a nice dry place to go when it rains.”

  “You heard the Sheriff. Start looking,” said Troy.

  * * *

  “What happened to Ewing?” Marlowe scanned the area, noting the disturbed area on the ground. Deputy Falkner had led him into the forest, but remained tight-lipped, saying she did not know much of what happened.

  “Dunno, must have fallen on the rocks.” Amanda was not a great liar. Marlowe furled his brows at her, but she refused to glance his way. “I’ve called a few volunteers over from the search for the girls. It’s lagging, most half-assing it. Lost cause seems the growing opinion of most. Anyway, a dozen joined my deputies. If Ewing has a home away from home around here, we’ll find it.”

  Marlowe registered the change in subject, but knew better than to pursue it. Thankfully, he’d worn his boots today with jeans, a blue sweater, and his heavy jacket, his suit still at the local cleaners from his last trek through the mud. The rain held its place behind dark grey clouds, as the sun radiated its final rays above the horizon, turning the sky sickly shades of brown and red.

  The searchers worked their way north, half near the cliff faces, the remainder scattered through the forest and along the banks. The hounds’ barked unceasingly as they sniffed their way over the ground, the sound bouncing off the rock walls to Marlowe’s left, blending with the rush of the white water on his right. He questioned the approach, but did not feel it worth bucking Amanda again. His method would have employed fewer people and a more cautious search. Any evidence had long ago been trampled underfoot. If Ewing buried the bodies close, they might well erase any sign. Even so, he understood the urgency. He too felt the ‘lost cause’ mentality infecting the deputies and volunteers and had to guard against succumbing to it himself.

  “Sheriff, think we found something.” Preston’s voice issued from the radio.

  “Where?” asked Amanda.

  “Two hundred yards straight up. Just follow the cliff face.”

  Marlowe followed Amanda as they tromped through the weeds and mire. The hounds had moved well out of earshot, and only the whisper the river’s current filled the forest, the quiet unnerving. Preston waited with another deputy, Townes, near the rock wall.

  “Found this. Almost missed it. Not much to it up close, but from a distance pretty effective,” said Preston.

  A bundle of saplings and branches were tied together with vines, strips of cloth, and fishing line, covered with pine straw, moss, and dead leaves. Preston was correct, from a distance it looked like no more than a pile of forest debris against the rock, perhaps blown there by strong winds whipping through. When removed, it revealed a sizeable cave feeding back into the cliff.

  Now past twilight, Marlowe shone his flashlight into the cave’s interior. Darkness clung to its walls and hid everything beyond the circle of the light’s beam.

  “Let’s get some lanterns in here,” said Marlowe.

  Preston and Townes vanished into the night and returned a short time later with four Coleman lamps, which lit up the cave and cast an eerie glow into the forest. Ewing’s makeshift home reminded Marlowe of the Neanderthal dwellings depicted on National Geographic. The remains of a fire lay in the center—a collection of stones arranged in a circle, dead embers cradled between them. A myriad of chalky drawings covered the walls, childlike, reminiscent of hieroglyphs or mad ravings in some ancient tongue.

  Further in, the trappings became distinctly modern and…disturbing. A doll, white as porcelain, in a frilly dress, shiny black shoes, and hair meticulously combed and arranged sat near the back of the cave wrapped in clear plastic. In a box beside her, Marlowe found a dozen toy horses in bright colors, with brighter neon manes—My Little Ponies if he remembered Paige’s collection correctly.

  “Still have doubts?” A smug expression mingled with bitter loathing as Amanda surveyed the child belongings.

  “I’m coming around.” An icy chill laced his words.

  Marlowe knelt and picked up a photo propped against the toy box. Sam Ewing with his wife and daughter, all smiling and posed with a man-sized Mickey Mouse, a castle in the background. Marlowe’s own memories of a similar scene, the beach with Paige and Katy, pounded into his mind. He staggered and the doubts returned.

  “Get forensics in here. We’re looking for anything to suggest he held the girls here.”

  “You mean other than the doll and toys?”

  Amanda’s sarcastic tone bit deep, but Marlowe’s attention remained locked on the photo.

  “Hair, fibers, prints. You know the drill.”

  His stomach churned, and he felt lightheaded. He needed out of the confined space, into the open night air. A sparkle caught his eye from some object buried in the dirt beneath where the photo lay. Dust scattered under his fingers as he brushed away soft earth. His eyes narrowed on the object, and the ebb and flow of doubt-jettisoned reservations, and once again tilted toward Sam’s guilt. Buried in the ground, a gold band, possibly belonging to Ewing, he was married once upon a time, but a sinking feeling in his gut told Marlowe otherwise. This wedding ring came from the hand of Jeff Baldwin.

  CHAPTER

  19

  A pretty, young woman, about twenty, answered the door wearing tight black yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She gave Lori and Spence a sweet, albeit confused, smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Agent Kline. This is Sergeant Murray. Are you Emily Harmon?” Lori could feel Spence checking out the young woman with less than professional tact.

  At the mention of their titles, her smile faltered with unease. “No, I’m Linda, Emily’s, uh, roommate.”

  “Is Emily home? We’d like to ask her a few questions.” Spence flashed his most charming, devilish grin.

  Linda smirked ever so slightly. “Sure, come on in.”

  Lori elbowed Spence in the ribs as he passed. He grunted, the grin not leaving his face, his eyes locked onto the backside of the yoga pants. The apartment, nothing fancy, but quintessentially feminine in a college-age girls sort of way, sported quotes from Sylvia Plath and Toni Morrison on the walls, beside posters of Eva Peron, John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and Gloria Steinem. Figures and models fixed in modern art poses sat on tables and shelves. Lori found one of a black ballerina, nude, her body arched in a half-moon shape, particularly captivating.

  Positioned within walking distance of the campus, the apartment complex home mostly to students, the thump of hip-hop music pounded steady against the ceiling from the apartment above. Linda shrugged it off, though noticeably discomfited, and led them down the hall into a small den. Emily Harmon sat on the sofa reading a book. Lori noticed the title, A Room of One’s Own. Even without Buddy’s tirade, Lori would have picked up on the vibe almost immediately, the décor and atmosphere held little subtlety. Spence, however, ogled both attractive young women, oblivious to the contradiction.

  “Em, these detectives need to speak to you?” said Linda.

  Emily glanced up, apprehension in her eyes.

  “Just a few questions,” said Lori, attempting to reassure her. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  Linda placed a hand on Emily shoulder. “You need anything, Hon?”

  Emily shook her head. “No, I’m okay.”

  Linda smiled, leaned down, and pecked her on the lips. Lori heard a soft intake of breath from Spence and barely stifled a giggle. He had either forgotten their conversation with Buddy, did not believe it, or suffered temporary amnesia at the sight of yoga pants and attractive young women.
Lori and Spence took a seat on a pair of cushy chairs opposite Emily. She put a bookmark in the crease of her novel and placed it on the sofa next to her, delicate hands folded in her lap.

  “You go to the University?” asked Spence.

  “Linda does. She’s an art major. I plan to, when I can. Right now I work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a waitress at Denny’s.” Emily shied with embarrassment. “And work at a…club some.” The embarrassment deepened. “Just wait tables there, too.”

  “Well, nice place you have here.” Spence waved a hand.

  Emily offered a less than genuine smile. She peeked up, as though too frightened to make direct eye contact. “This about Sarah?”

  “It is. Have you heard about what’s going on in Red Weed?” asked Lori.

  “Only bits on the news. You think Sarah’s disappearance is part of it?”

  “Probably not, but could be. Some of Sarah’s friends thought she might have been heading here, to you.”

  “I told her to come here. It’s my fault.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I wanted her to get away…”

  “Get away from what? Your father?” Lori watched keenly, unnecessarily, the reaction was not subtle.

  Emily’s head shot up. “What do you mean?”

  “Your father said he kicked you out of the house for being—” Lori glanced around the room. “A lesbian.”

  “He would.” Emily scoffed, anger and hatred flashing in her eyes, pain written on her face. “I’d never been with a woman until after. I met Linda once I moved here. She’s my first lover. Female, I mean.”

  “Any idea why he would lie?” asked Spence.

  Emily shrugged, but her discomfort spilled out in waves, shame washing over her features.

  Lori leaned forward. “Emily, you can talk to us.”

  Emily returned Lori’s gaze and something passed between them. An unspoken understanding. Thoughts flitted past Emily’s eyes, horrible memories. She reluctantly reached out, grasped them in trembling fingers, and took a deep breath.

  “It started when I was nine. Dad has a cabin up in the hills, above the river. He’d take me up there to fish and hike. I loved it there...at first. Things changed. He took pictures. Made me pose with stuffed animals, naked. As time went on, that didn’t satisfy him anymore. I still feel his hands on me. I feel him…inside me.” She broke down, shaky hands and fingers kneading at her thighs. Lori allowed her the time she needed. “A couple of weekends a month, every month, until I finally left. Not sure how I got the courage to leave, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Short lived though. Once I was on my own, I wanted to die. I would’ve, too, if Linda hadn’t found me. She saved me. I guess I convinced myself it would just be me. That Sarah would be okay, and Summer. I wanted to forget…” Her voice trailed off, lost in hellish memories and a world of shame and regret.

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?” Spence kept his voice low and gentle.

  Emily huffed. “Who? He’s respected by everyone. Friends with the police. Who would’ve believed me?”

  “You never tried to get Sarah away from him?”

  “We tried. He always caught us. Said if I came around again, he’d have me locked up. Probably could’ve. I believed him anyway. I hoped Sarah could sneak out on her own, get somewhere far from the house and call me.” She picked up her book, apparently for no reason other than to occupy her hands.

  “Do you think your father might have hurt Sarah?” asked Lori.

  Emily shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He really thought he loved me, was showing his love in his twisted fucked up way. Dad gave me about anything I wanted until all I wanted was to get away from him.” She paused, the tears flowing freely. Emily sniffled, wiping her hand across her eyes. “It’s my fault. I should have gone back for Sarah. I should have done whatever it took to get her away from him. She ran away, but she was younger than me, and more messed up. You know, in her head. Something happened to her, and it’s my fault.”

  “No. No it’s not.” Lori squeezed Emily’s hand.

  Emily looked up, taken aback by the venom in Lori’s tone.

  Lori stared at the young woman. “Listen to me. You did nothing wrong.”

  * * *

  When Lori and Uncle Joe arrived home from their swim, they found Lori’s mom in a tizzy. She dropped a small suitcase at the front door as they stepped through and rushed down the hall toward her bedroom. Drawers opened and closed, objects knocked about, sounded from the rear of the house. Uncle Joe grinned at Lori and shrugged. A moment later, her mom dashed around the corner and headed into the kitchen, her voice muffled by obstructing walls.

  “Your grandma fell. Hurt her arm and leg. I’m going to take care of her for a day or two, ‘til she’s up and feeling better. Your father’ll be home tomorrow.” She returned to the foyer carrying two more bags. She looked to have packed for a cross-country trip rather than a couple days across town. “Joe, you don’t mind watching Lori do you?”

  “I guess not. If I have to.” He winked at Lori, and she giggled.

  Joe helped Lori’s mom with her luggage. Once her car disappeared over the hill, he turned to Lori. “So what we gonna do?”

  An inside joke, Lori always wanted to do the same thing when Uncle Joe drew babysitting duty. Her parent’s prohibition against horror movies meant she rarely got to watch them. Joe was a push over and yielded to her pouty lips and puppy dog eyes. Usually they could find a Jason or Michael movie playing. Lori favored those most. The masks and creepy music scared the bejeebies out of her, in a good way. She loved the thrill, the feeling in her tummy whenever the monster stalked some unsuspecting co-ed. Still, normal TV cut the best bits out. Problem solved. Her father recently had a new satellite installed, a big one that sat in the yard and needed rotating to access different channels. It would allow them to view the uncut movies with all the blood and gore intact.

  They popped popcorn, got a soda each, and headed to the sofa. Uncle Joe twisted the top off his drink and flipped it across the living room using his thumb and forefinger. Lori attempted to emulate the act, but her top went straight down and rolled along the carpet. They laughed, leaving the tops where they landed. With their feet propped, a cushion tight to Lori’s chest, her back against Uncle Joes arm, the movie began. The first Friday the 13th, the one where the mother committed the murders, Lori knew it well, but was looking forward to witnessing the grisly parts, determined not to cover her eyes a single time.

  She thought she handled the first kills pretty well. Uncle Joe tickled her whenever the chi chi chi ha ha ha played. Lori would squeal and jump near to the ceiling, before giggling and punching him. A half hour into the movie, a guy and girl—Uncle Joe said his name was something Bacon, which Lori thought was funny and made pig oinks while pushing up her nose—entered an empty cabin. Lori had seen people kiss plenty of times, but these two were taking their clothes off. Either they cut this part from normal TV, or maybe Uncle Joe covered her eyes before, or skipped it all together. This time, he let it play. The boy lay on top of the girl, wiggling his body. The girl moaned.

  “Is he hurting her?” Lori looked up at Uncle Joe, her nose wrinkled.

  “Ha. No. You remember how the water felt when we swam without suits? Well, their skin touching feels even better.” He gazed down on her. “What they’re doing, that’s how people who love each other show it. Not like moms and dads show you, but a different kind of love, more special.”

  Lori did not understand. Kisses and hugs felt good. Mom or Dad held her hand sometimes, she liked that. But whatever these people were doing, she had never experienced before. A sense of excitement and fear mingled inside her, more disquieting than pleasant. It felt…wrong.

  “Here, let me show you.” He slid his pants down, underwear and all. “See? My little soldier is already standing at attention.” He chuckled, but his expression grew serious. “Touch it.”

  “I-I don’t want to.” Lori’s skin crawled. S
he backed deep into the sofa.

  “You want me to feel good don’t you? Want me to know how much you love me? I’ll show you too.” Uncle Joe inched closer to her. “You do love me don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Tears filmed her eyes for reasons she could not comprehend. Uncle Joe would never intend to make her feel frightened or uncomfortable. It must be her fault. He wanted to show her grown up stuff, and she was being a little baby.

  “Well, show me then. Touch it.” He nodded to his crotch.

  She reached out, her fingers trembling. His soldier seemed to extend to meet her hand, throbbing like an urgent pulse. Uncle Joe inhaled deeply as her palm hovered over him.

  “Lori.”

  Her name sounded like a low growl emanating from the doorway behind them. Uncle Joe leapt to his feet, yanking his pants up.

  “Chris. It’s not what it looks like.” Joe made a slow backpedal until he butted against the fireplace.

  Christopher Kline glared at his brother. “Lori, wait outside.”

  She crept around the sofa and to the doorway, pausing to gaze up at her father with tear filled eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Wait outside, Honey.”

  Lori sat on the porch steps with her hands over her ears, trying to block out the tumult inside the house. Crashes, objects breaking, yowls of pain, she stiffened at each thundering boom and covered her ears. A window shattered, shards exploding outward, falling in a xylophone crescendo onto wood. An arm cut on the glass poured blood down the sill. Lori panted, labored breaths seeking escape passed her sobs.

  The noises stilled, and the house grew quiet. A moment later, her father stormed out with one hand clutching Uncle Joe’s long hair, the other at his belt. Her uncle’s appearance mirrored the maimed and brutalized bodies of Jason’s victims in the movie—one eye swollen shut, his nose crooked at a disgusting angle, blood flowing from it and his lips, and a nasty gash on his forehead. His left arm dangled free, flopping in sickening, unnatural fashion. Her father led Joe to the edge of the porch and flung him out over the yard. Joe hit the ground, groaned, and clutched his ribs. Her dad followed. Joe worked onto elbows and knees, crawling to get away from the menace bearing down on him. Lori’s father darted forward and kicked his brother hard in the ass, sending him onto his broken face. Giving him no time to recover, her father again grabbed Joe by the hair and dragged him across the grass. He dropped him next to Joe’s blue Camaro, opened the door, and shoved him inside. Lori could just make out the harsh vehemence of her father’s voice.