October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  The officer, a chubby man with a baby face, far less intimidating up close, pushed off his cruiser and sauntered over. He too wore a shamed expression and refused to look me in the eyes. “Sorry, guy.” He handed me an envelope and stepped back.

  As if wrangling a rattlesnake from a pillowcase, I eased the enclosed documents from the manila packet. The heading leaped out and slapped me in the face. I stumbled backward, butting against Ol’ Betsy, and stared down at the papers, disbelieving.

  Notice of Eviction and Foreclosure.

  “What the hell?” I glared at Mr. Benjamin. “I don’t understand. Y-you can’t do this. The farm’s been in my family for generations.”

  Benjamin nodded, his lips pressed together in a grim manner. “Yes, but your father took out a loan against the property two years ago.”

  For the cancer treatment? The farm has to be worth half a million dollars. Maybe more. How much does treatment fucking cost?

  “I’m afraid he was eight months behind when he passed,” said Benjamin.

  I couldn’t get my head around it. “But he didn’t say anything. I haven’t gotten any calls or seen any letters.”

  “We called daily and sent letters weekly. Why you are not aware, I can’t say.” There was no malice in Mr. Benjamin’s words; instead, an obvious hesitancy in his voice. He sounded as if he read cue cards held behind me by unseen hands. He didn’t relish doing this, being the bearer of bad news, but it took none of the sting out for me. All I could think was Dad hid the letters some place and made certain he answered the phone. That failed to explain why I received no notice in the weeks since his death. Regardless, no argument would work. I had no leverage here. Nothing I could do or say. I couldn’t afford a lawyer.

  Fucked. One hundred percent truly and completely fucked.

  “The farm’s mine now. I had the deed changed over and everything.” I started toward the trunk to retrieve the paperwork. “Can’t you give me some time, you know, to catch up the payments?” I knew I sounded pathetic, begging.

  “I’m afraid not. We’ve gone well beyond any further extensions.” He smoothed his jacket, still not looking me in the eye.

  I pivoted, abandoning my search for the deed. “You’re telling me I’m losing my family’s farm, and there’s nothing I can do about it?” My mind reeled, trying to think of any possible way I could buy some time to figure something out. “Let me sell off some acreage. I can pay. I know I can.”

  “I’m really sorry…” Benjamin’s voice changed, the pitch modulated low and garbled. His face angled downward and then rose slowly to grin at me. His next words were unintelligible, more a growl or a maniacal chuckle.

  My mouth dropped open and piss ran down my leg. Benjamin’s eyes had turned black as night, his teeth revealed in an evil smile, just as black. One of the possessed, here to take my home and family.

  Terror fused with anger, fear, and survival instinct. I sprang forward off Ol’ Betsy’s fender and took the man by the throat, squeezing with all my strength. Those hideous ebony orbs bulged in their sockets as his mouth widened in a silent scream and spat tarry sickness onto my face. He didn’t fight back, but instead cried out an unearthly bellow as his arms oscillated in the air.

  Two fleshy claws clamped down on my shoulders from behind, and an instant later, I flew through the air, landing several yards away on my stomach, dirt in my mouth. Before I could roll over, a knee the size of my head pressed hard into the small of my back.

  “Just settle down now, hoss.” The deputy jerked my arms behind me and handcuffs clinked into place around my wrists, cold metal pinching my skin. “Let’s take this down to the station.” He picked me up and placed me on my feet as though I weighed nothing and glanced over to Mr. Benjamin. “You okay to drive?”

  Benjamin rubbed his neck, red streaks already rising in welts the shape of my fingers. “Yes, yes. I’ll follow you.” He nodded to the deputy and gave me a hateful glare before heading to his car. His eyes had returned to normal, no blackness at all. His lips still quivered in distress, but showed no signs of the inky substance.

  We drove in silence back to the Sheriff’s Department where the deputy placed me in a dingy, confined cell. At first, I paced along the bars like a caged animal, frightened and alone, but after an hour wait, my legs grew tired, my patience of no concern to my captors. I plopped onto the bunk, a spring poking me in the ass, and surveyed my prison. Profanity from the walls assured me I was a dick-gobbling faggot and my mother a whore. A host of unfamiliar names etched into the concrete blocks proclaimed proudly they were here once upon a time while the smell of old piss and fresh Lysol stung my nose and made my eyes water. From the enclosure next door came whispered protestations, pitiful whimpers—someone certain they were falsely locked up. Slurred speech implied he occupied the drunk tank.

  In spite of a misspent youth, doing my fair share of stupid shit and getting into trouble of one kind or another most weekends, I’d never been in jail. Claustrophobia, isolation, coupled with the strange and terrifying things I experienced throughout the day made me wonder if I had gone truly insane.

  Mr. Benjamin, the big deputy, and another policeman, taller and thinner than his partner, exited a room not far up the corridor.

  “You sure you don’t want to press charges?” asked the big deputy.

  “No, the young man’s been through enough. His father died, now he’s lost his family farm.” Benjamin rubbed his neck again. “I think I might have reacted the same way.”

  “Sure you just don’t want it getting out you evicted a war vet?” asked the thin deputy. Mr. Benjamin huffed, but gave no reply. “What should we do with him? Send him to the hospital for an eval?”

  “Hell no. Too much paperwork. He seems fine now. Let him cool off over night, and we’ll run him home in the morning,” said big deputy.

  They didn’t notice, or else didn’t care, that I could hear them. Only Mr. Benjamin gave me a glance laced with pity and loathing as they exited a door at the far end of the hall. My mind whirled, no single thought able to stick. I couldn’t sleep; the food they brought in the evening I left sitting on the floor.

  Later that night, once the drunk next door fell asleep, putting an end to his constant whining, and a cloud covered the lance of moonlight stabbing through a barred window high in the wall, I found myself finally able to corral my thoughts. Much still made no sense, but a few things I knew now for certain—the smoke men were real and not my imagination. I knew this in my gut, pragmatism and common sense be damned. No smoke creature or tracer attacked Mr. Benjamin before his change. He simply transformed, which meant anyone might be possessed. I couldn’t trust anyone. Only I seemed able to see them, and worse, they knew I could see them. Whatever they were, whatever their intentions, I knew they would never allow me to run around freely with knowledge of them. They would come for me, and for my family.

  I needed to prepare. They were coming. When and where, I couldn’t guess. But one thing for sure above all else, no way would I let them hurt my girls. No fucking way.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Marlowe reclined on a park bench outside the hospital—the one place he had found close to the police station and Koop’s forensics team where he could steal a few minutes of peace and quiet. From time to time someone would wander through, start to take a seat on the adjacent bench, notice Marlowe’s scowl, and keep walking. Leaves in red, gold, and brown drifted down from overhead branches to light on the seat beside him or gather around his feet, the only company he could tolerate. He craned his head back, basking in the warm sun as it mingled with a cool breeze caressing his face and neck.

  Just a few minutes of peace and quiet.

  On cue, sirens blared, shattering Marlowe’s recreation. A patrol car sped out from the station parking lot down the hill, followed by an ambulance exiting the Emergency Room lane behind him.

  No peace. Not for this place. Not now, maybe not for a long time.

  The county held its brea
th in foreboding dread. Were those little girls dead? Was a monster hiding in the area, right under everyone’s noses, waiting to snatch another innocent child? A few miles from where Marlowe rested the Sorrels huddled in tears and prayers, begging God to bring their daughters home safe and sound. Or perhaps anguish had already given way to acceptance and grief, turned to anger released in shouts of blame, a marriage in the first stages of dissolution. And what of Elle Baldwin? Only six years old and likely witnessed her parents murdered. If she still lived, what kind of life awaited her? The trauma all three girls experienced would prove difficult to overcome, but for Elle, perhaps impossible.

  Marlowe had seen it all a thousand times in a thousand different cases. That was the job, to wade through pain, atrocity, and a world of shit, so why did this one hit him so hard?

  No great mystery there.

  He glanced down at the phone lying in his upturned palm. The display read: Ginger Cummings (205) 559-1256. Marlowe’s finger hovered over the Call button, refusing to press it. For the umpteenth time, he deleted the number and smacked the cell phone hard against his thigh. He could not talk to her; everything he might say would sound like a lie, even to him.

  How did it come to this? Again, no great mystery. The timeline representing Marlowe Gentry’s life was separated into two epochs:

  Life Before Katy Died…

  “I think my parents love you more than they do me.” Katy rolled over onto her side, the bed offering a muted creak, and gave Marlowe a playful shove.

  “More than their little princess? Not a chance.”

  “I think Dad wants to take you out back and play catch.” She snickered. “You’re the son they never had.” Katy seemed to notice the pensive set to his lips, the downward cast to his eyes. She cupped his face in her hands and tilted his head up, demanding his attention. “Listen to me, you have a real family now.”

  Marlowe could not believe he and Katy were knocking on the door to their first wedding anniversary. Time flew by while simultaneously standing still, his whole world enveloped in a love he never thought possible. More so, he never imagined her parents would practically adopt him and make him an intricate part of their family. A feeling both wonderful and strange—wonderful for its inclusion, the close-knit unit mutual love and affection created, but also strange because as Marlowe became the son they never had, they had turned into the parents he never knew.

  His parents never wanted children, but an abortion or putting him up for adoption would not sit well with their social circle if ever discovered, so Richard and Marianne Gentry worked around the dilemma by hiring nannies to raise Marlowe and later sending him off to boarding schools. He had little interaction with his parents. Only when forced did they include him, usually a brief holiday photo and dinner, and always for nothing more than public approval.

  Soon after Marlowe turned seventeen, his father had been caught red-handed embezzling client funds. A conviction appeared inevitable, the prosecuting attorney in no mood to plea it down. Richard Gentry walked off a bridge, a hundred feet up, to avoid incarceration and the accompanying humiliation. Bank accounts and property seizures, along with a mountain of debt, left Marianne with few assets. With spending her husband’s money her only real skill, she found herself living off charity, government assistance, and waitressing jobs. Marlowe finished high school in the local public school and bolted the first chance he got. Fortunately, scholarships allowed him to complete his under graduate degrees, and his grandparents set aside a savings account for him that paid for law school. He had not seen or spoken to his mother in twenty years.

  Katy snuggled close, her head resting on Marlowe’s shoulder. “And Mom and Dad are going to love you even more when they find out about the grandbaby?” She drew back, a sly grin on her lips.

  It took a moment to register, the confession working behind Marlowe’s eyes until at last they popped wide, and he burst into laughter, hugging Katy tightly.

  “Easy there, tiger, you’ll smush the baby.”

  “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry,” said Marlowe, jerking away.

  “I’m kidding, you dolt.” Katy giggled and pulled him close. “Come here.”

  They held each other late into the night, talking in whispers, making plans, and dreaming of family.

  * * *

  Marlowe held Paige in his arms. So tiny, her little fingers clutching at the air, mouth moving as if speaking to him in some inaudible language. Eyes blurred with tears of joy, he strolled around the hospital room, bouncing her gently and making cooing sounds.

  “You’re going to make an amazing father,” said Ginger.

  “I hope so. It scares me. Afraid I’ll screw it up. I didn’t have much in the way of role models.”

  Ginger placed her hand on his arm. “Don’t you even think that. You are like a son to me and John, and there is no one we would trust more with our girls.” She smiled and tugged Paige’s blanket tighter around her. “We know they are safe with you, and you’d do anything to protect them and make them happy. Don’t doubt yourself, we certainly don’t. We have all the faith in the world in you.”

  And Life After Katy Died…

  Marlowe knew every person who attended Katy’s funeral—family and friends, close and distant—but as each stepped up to hug him and offer their deepest condolences, he could not recall a single face or name. He felt numb. The chilled breeze, the light drizzle, the tearful embraces, nothing registered. On the car ride away from the cemetery, Ginger took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The contact wormed past the numbness; it disgusted Marlowe, her warm flesh pressed against his own cold and dead. He died with Katy, and now the living repulsed him. He yanked his hand away, thrusting it into his lap. If the gesture offended her, Ginger showed it only by turning her head and aiming a mournful stare out the vehicle’s window. Raindrops hit and slid down the glass like tears as the miles rolled by, leaving more than a corpse behind.

  * * *

  A red light blinked at the base of the phone as Marlowe entered the house. He ignored the messages for the moment, making a beeline to the liquor cabinet. After empting three fingers of Jim Beam into a glass with ice, he swallowed down the drink and poured another. Marlowe sat in his recliner, not bothering to turn on a light, allowing shadows to dance like ghosts in the darkness. The place no longer resembled a home, but a tomb, empty and cold.

  He always felt worse after visiting Paige, which he did most days. Six months since Katy’s murder, and Paige still had not spoken. She sat in her hospital room, a zombie, unmoving and unfeeling. Marlowe’s own emotions had returned sometime the night following his wife’s funeral, intense pain only copious amounts of alcohol could quiet.

  He pressed a button on the answering machine:

  Marlowe, it’s Ginger. Please pick up. You’re scaring us. You never answer the phone or call us back. I’ve spoken with the hospital, checking on Paige. I know her condition hasn’t improved, and you visit her every day. It seems the only way I can find out anything about how you are. Please don’t shut us out. We’re family, Marlowe, that will never change. We have to help each other through this. Katy wouldn’t want you to deal with this alone. Please…

  * * *

  A darkness was born within Marlowe the day Katy died. Meeting Becca, and Paige’s return to health, pushed it into a locked room somewhere in the back of his mind, but it still dwelled there. Often, a quiet knocking or a threatening whisper, yet other times, it slammed against the door as a violent need. The love of his family replaced alcohol in sedating the darkness. Marlowe clung to them, and lived in fear—fear of losing them, fear the barrier would crumble and set his monsters free. And this time, he knew with certainty, he would fall into a hell, never to return.

  Marlowe deleted Ginger’s number from the display, clenched the phone so tight it cracked in his grip, and finally shoved it into his pocket. He wanted to hit something, someone—to wrap his fingers around a neck and squeeze until eyes bulged in their sockets. He pushed off the bench and
bounded down the hill toward the station.

  Time to question Sam Ewing again. And this time, Marlowe would get his answers. One way or another.

  * * *

  Exhausted. Amanda had not slept more than a couple of hours in days. Even the early morning, vodka-induced naps were brief and restless. The map on her desk, its grids colored to mark search areas, blurred beneath heavy eyelids, concentration all but gone. She leaned back in her chair, fighting an impulse to retrieve the bottle tucked away in the bottom drawer. Marlowe would be around in a few hours to take another run at Sam, and Amanda needed a clear head. With the wedding ring, they had all the leverage they were likely to get unless the gun turned up, which did not seem probable, not in time anyway.

  She rolled her jacket up and tucked it behind her head.

  I’ll rest my eyes. Just for a minute…

  Amanda floated high above the ground, incorporeal, a consciousness unable to control the world she created. A dream realm rendered more terrifying by its triviality. No sky painted in vibrant glistening oils, no malevolent forest alive with twisting limbs and snaking roots, no monsters formed from tar creeping across the landscape seeking to devour innocence. The scene below her lacked the nightmare qualities that had haunted her for years. Instead, an unnerving normality—a bright sun, its warmth dulled in brisk October air, a home and yard conjuring familial emotions and sweet nostalgia—juxtaposed against a disembodied mind containing sure knowledge of a lurking menace lying in wait, a precognizant fear of what was yet to come.

  Two figures materialized below. Amanda recognized the people and this place they inhabited, and a yearning to join them swirled within her ethereal form—a child, static in an ever-recurring past, a sister whose smile impugned the coming of the needle and fists. Pulled close, unseen tethers guided her and feelings long inert swelled and churned.

  “Vroom, vroom.” Tommy pushed his cars and trucks over the browned autumn grass, along tracks through carefully manufactured Lego buildings.