The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

“Marlowe?” The man tilted his head with an amused gaze.

  “Wayne.” Marlowe, relief washing over him, offered an embarrassed lop-sided grin.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Past midnight and Evan stood at the door to Brother Weaver’s home. He didn’t remember the drive, or even deciding to come, but he knew he had to talk to someone. His mind, his soul, spun in anguish. Everything he believed teetered near collapse. The God he had worshipped all his life remained silent and the absence haunted Evan, the unrelenting doubt crushing. Over and over for ten minutes, his hand rose to knock, but his will lagged, his muscles refusing to obey.

  “Go back home. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow,” said one voice in his head.

  “You need help. You’re losing it. Next thing you know, you’ll have a rope around your neck,” said another.

  The voices had chattered non-stop for hours—a constant ebb and flow, soft to loud, nonsensical and maddening. High-pitched laughter like a hyena’s bored into the darkness of his mind. Concreteness of the nightmare had diminished, leaving behind a sickness. A fever seized him in a talon grasp. Remnants of pain belonging to someone else stabbed deep, offering a symbiotic skin, allowing him to feel every evil cruelty. Images of fire, demonic visages, and his most precious loves trapped in tortuous defilement flashed incessantly behind his eyes. He braced against the door, fingernails digging into the wood with his forehead knocking where his knuckles would not.

  Help, I need help. I can’t take this anymore. Please, dear Lord, help me.

  The hollow tap of bone on wood drifted to his ears, but he did not feel the impact on his hands. A slight vibration inched into his wrist as it fell to his side. Evan slumped in the doorway, no strength left in him.

  “Evan, what are you doing here so late?” Brother Weaver answered the door, surprise registering on his face, which shifted to concern when he got a good look at Evan in the light. “Dear heavens. Are you okay? You’re about ready to fall right over. Come in and sit down.” The old pastor guided him to the sofa and placed a cushion behind his head. “Let me get you some water. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  Brother Weaver returned, set the glass down in front of Evan, and took a seat across from him. Evan stared at the water, unsure of its purpose. He watched tiny beads of condensation trail down the glass, his own reflection twisting beneath the snaking streams. Why did he come here? He had a reason, some need, but it drifted from his grasp, comprehension evasive.

  God? Yes, God. And why.

  “I’m not doing well, Brother Weaver. I don’t understand why this happened. Why God killed my family and now ignores my prayers.” His voice, quiet and timid, carried heartbreak and defeat rising from depths swimming with hopelessness.

  “Son, God didn’t kill your family. God is good; you know this. Sometimes in life, things happen we don’t understand. We have to keep our faith and trust in God’s plan.” The pastor leaned forward and touched Evan’s knee; the light weight gouged into his leg.

  “How can we credit God the good without blaming Him for the bad?”

  “Evil’s a part of this world. The result of the fall, the first sin, you know all the theology as well as I do, but it’s not the kind of answer you’re searching for right now.” Brother Weaver took the glass from Evan’s shaking hands and placed it on the coffee table. “You’re trying to find relief from the pain, but you have to allow yourself time to grieve and feel the loss. Don’t blame God, Evan. Trust God is with you, even if you can’t feel Him through your sorrow.” The old pastor sighed. “Recall the story of the disciples on the sea? A storm came up and they were terrified. Where was Jesus, their Lord? He slept below deck. Jesus was with them in the midst of the wind and waves, but they couldn’t see him. Sometimes it feels like He’s not with us, like we’re alone in our troubles, but Jesus is there even when you can’t feel him. He doesn’t want His children to suffer, but the world contains evil that affects us all. Even so, He’s with you now and always.”

  “God couldn’t save my family? Is He so powerless?”

  “He could, but sometimes it’s not His way. He allows our faith to be tested to make us stronger and prepare us for the next world. You have to remember, God’s promises are aimed toward Heaven. Oh, he does help us in this life, but His promises are to reassure us, to let us know anything we endure here’s only temporary and a better place waits for us.”

  “I see a child playing in the road and a car bearing down, if I have time to save the child, but stand back and do nothing, letting the car hit the child, am I not as guilty as if I had placed the child in front of the car?” Evan glared at the pastor, demanding an answer.

  Brother Weaver did not appear to have a ready-made reply. “What about Job? His entire life upended. His family, wealth, and health, all taken from him—but God gave him so much more.”

  “A new life as recompense for the one He stole. Murder a family to show a man his place and the higher ways of God. Do not question, trust and have faith.” Venomous anger crept into Evan’s voice, and he noticed Brother Weaver’s head snap back as if struck, his face pale. “My wife and child died to teach me a lesson? Pawns in the hands of a merciless, cruel God.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things, Evan. I know you are hurting and angry, but your grief puts you at risk. Satan will try to use your confusion and pain to turn you from God. You have to remain strong. Trust in God’s plan. I’ve known you a long time, and you’re one of the most devout men I’ve ever met. Rely on the reservoir you’ve built up over years of prayer and study. Remember who you are and the awesome power and grace of God.”

  “I-I don’t know if I can.” Evan’s head tilted to the floor, tears trickling from the tip of his nose. “I want them back.”

  “Of course you do, son. I lost my wife to cancer, but you know that. Anyway, after she was gone, I didn’t want to live without her. I longed to join her. But God eased my grief and reminded me this life’s only a blink of an eye. Someday soon, I’ll see her again, and until then He still has work for me to do. He still has much for you to do, too.”

  “See them again?” The bite returned to Evan’s tone. “I saw them, Brother Weaver, I saw my wife and my daughter, tortured beyond imagination, suffering in agony.”

  “Saw them? In a dream?”

  “In Hell.”

  Brother Weaver shook his head. “No, son, it’s your pain playing with your mind. I didn’t know Julie, and I didn’t have much interaction with Jenny, but I’m sure with you guiding them, they must’ve been close to God. I believe the Bible teaches once saved always saved. If they believed in Jesus and took him as their savior, nothing can change that or take it away. If you have doubts, trust in the sure knowledge God’s love never fails. His mercy and forgiveness encompass all our sins. Remember what Paul tells us in Romans: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” The preacher smiled. “You see, they’re waiting for you. It’s us, the living, we should feel sorry for. They know no more pain or suffering, but us, those left behind, must endure a while longer.”

  “I know what I saw…what I felt. It was real.” Evan locked eyes with the pastor. “What if they never believed? They went to church, prayed the prayers, and sang the hymns only because I made them. They acted the part, but never took it into their hearts. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Brother Weaver shied from Evan’s gaze. “Possible? Yes, of course, but I don’t believe it. My heart tells me they’re with our God in paradise right now.” He smiled again, but unease showed on his face.

  “No, no, no.” Evan yanked at his hair. “They were good. Holy. And our God sent them to everlasting torment.” His voice and eyes grew harder with each word. “They did love Him. They served Him with all their hearts. I know it. But He didn’t care.
He’s abandoned us all.”

  “It’s going to take time, Evan. You aren’t going to receive the peace you seek in a day or a week; your pain is too deep. Pray. I promise God’s with you and hears you. When your heart’s ready, He will ease the hurt you feel.”

  Evan shook his head. “And the pain Julie and Jenny feel? Will always feel? How do I live with the knowledge? Where is God’s mercy for them?”

  The old preacher stood and paced the floor, deep in thought, hands wringing in consternation. “Listen to me, son. If Julie and Jenny were unbelievers, you can’t blame yourself. I know, and God knows, you did all you could to guide them in righteousness. If they turned away, it was not your fault. We can’t make anyone accept the truth, not even our loved ones. It’s the crux of free will. Each of us must decide within our own hearts. It’s not your fault.”

  Unbelievers? No, they loved God. Did all he required of them. Brother Weaver was lying, trying to deceive him. Trick him into believing his wife and daughter deserved their fate. Liar. If this one thing were such a blatant lie, what of all the rest?

  “I am Job. I am Jonah languishing in the belly of the great fish though I never strayed from God’s will. He punishes me anyway. I am Christ, forsaken on the cross, suffering for sins I didn’t commit. Where’s God’s mercy? Where’s His justice?”

  Evan rocked front to back, gaining intensity, banging against the sofa. Brother Weaver rushed to him and tried to still him, but could not. Evan thrust forward with an ear-shattering scream. His hands pressed to his head, tearing at his hair, ripping free bloody black clumps. The white noise rose, voices chattering, a cacophony of garbled sounds filling him. And underneath it all, faint, a single line along a barely audible frequency…God’s laughter. The din fell toward the back of his mind as the laughter increased, passing like locomotives headed in opposite directions at great speed, a clamorous deluge raining down.

  “Evan? Evan!” shouted Brother Weaver. “Hold on. I’m calling an ambulance.”

  The preacher’s voice fell away as only the insidious laughter remained, bouncing off the bone of his skull. In seconds, it too died, emotion and pain scorched away. Evan had passed through the fire, but did not come out the other side shining like gold; he emerged with his heart charred and black. A wooden statue of Christ on the cross, a foot tall, sat on the coffee table. Evan picked it up and glared down at the God he had served with all his devotion.

  “Yes. This is Robert Weaver of Hillcrest Drive. I need an ambulance. A friend is having some sort of seizure. Yes. Please hurry.” Brother Weaver hung up the phone and turned toward Evan. “They’re on the way…”

  The cross hit the pastor on the temple with a thud. He dropped to the ground, motionless.

  * * *

  A hush fell over the woods as if the world held its breath. Not even the chirp of crickets spoiled the stillness. An almost imperceptible breeze drifted through the dense branches, tickling leaves. The cloudless sky bathed the trees and brush in near complete darkness. Only the faint illumination coming from the church and pastor’s house across the field pricked through the tall pines, elms, and oaks.

  Evan stooped, gathering loose twigs and straw. He rose, resituated the heap stacked with dried leaves and branches in his arms, carried them into the clearing, and placed them with the pile at Brother Weaver’s feet. The old pastor was coming around. Disoriented, pained groans emanated from his slouched form. He wiggled against the rope holding him fast to the trunk of a rotting oak tree.

  He blinked several times, his vision adjusting to the dark, and stared in horror as his predicament dawned on him. “Evan, what is this? What are you doing?”

  Evan clicked on a camp lantern and retrieved the tire iron he’d left lying in the grass. He wrapped its length in shop rags before rolling the whole thing in duct tape. He patted the iron against his palm and marched to the pastor.

  “Confess.”

  “I-I…don’t understand.” Perspiration beaded on Brother Weaver’s forehead in the coolness of the early morning air.

  Whap.

  The iron struck the old preacher hard on his left cheek, an angry red welt rising in its wake. Brother Weaver struggled at his bonds while attempting to turn his head and avoid another strike.

  “Evan, please. Stop this. I know you’re hurting, but this is wrong. I don’t understand what you what from me.”

  “Confess.” Evan’s voice, dead and emotionless, drove into the old man even as the iron descended in another blow.

  Brother Weaver spit out blood, his eyes rolling in helpless terror. “Confess to what? I’ve done nothing but try to help you.”

  Whap. Whap.

  Evan bashed him on the jaw and caught his opposite ear with a following backswing. After several more strikes, Brother Weaver’s entire face bloomed swollen and purple.

  “I confess. I confess,” the preacher cried, tears and snot running over his lips. “I don’t know what you want, but I confess. I confess to everything.” He screamed at Evan in fear and panic.

  The iron hit him again and again until he slumped on the rope, his head dangling. “I confess,” he whimpered.

  Evan pushed the pastor’s head erect with the iron and gazed into his eyes. After a moment, he leaned forward and withdrew a limb from the pile. Using the duct tape, he fixed pages of newspaper to one end and lit it on fire. The flames of Hell soared in his imagination. Screams sang to him from somewhere far away. Julie…Jenny.

  “I condemn you.” Evan dropped the branch onto the pile beneath Brother Weaver.

  The kindling crackled as the flame caught and danced higher. When the first tongues licked the preacher’s feet and calves, a shriek tore from him, filled the forest, and sent nesting birds and ground animals scurrying in fear. Evan watched until the fire climbed up the tree and snaked around Brother Weaver’s waist and abdomen. The old man’s agonized wails followed him all the way back to his truck.

  * * *

  Evan stumbled into the house, weak, his mind in a fog. He gathered numerous photos of Julie and Jenny, propped them on the coffee table, collapsed onto the sofa, and wept. He stared at the images, perhaps expecting them to speak or move. For the first time since learning of Jenny’s death, he felt God’s presence. A haunting apparition hovered aloof, unseen and dimly felt, not painful, but nor was it pleasant. His God did not instruct nor admonish, but waited in a dark corner, inscrutable.

  His deep-seated faith would not die so easily. To destroy belief meant stamping out every icon and memento that lent it life. He knew them. They did not hide, but stood proud in their falsehood, proclaiming lies to unsuspecting worshipers. If God would not come to him, if He would not receive judgment, Evan would hunt Him down. Soon, there would come a reckoning.

  Evan packed a bag and loaded up all his tools and portable equipment into the truck. He glanced once more at his home, doubtful he would ever return. Something had begun this night, something he must see through to the end. A coyote howled in the distance, a lonely haunted sound. The voices had fallen silent, and only a hint of the laughter remained. Evan gritted his teeth, twisted cold hands on the wheel, and drove away.

  CHAPTER

  8

  “I’ll be damned. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” The big man embraced Marlowe in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground.

  “Jesus, Hercules, ease up. I think you cracked a rib or two, and my jaunt through the jungle already has me wounded and weary.” Marlowe massaged his ribcage and glanced to the other men looking on with bemused expressions.

  “Boys, meet our employer, Marlowe Gentry,” said Wayne.

  Each man stepped forward to shake his hand and introduce himself, the names jetting out of his memory as soon as spoken. Once inside, he recalled a Rob or Bob, and a Karl, but none of the others. After they entered the house, Becca gave the men a pensive smile and offered them something to drink. Mable demanded they keep their voices down and not wake Paige.

  “How long’s it been?” asked Marlowe. “
Three years?”

  “Four and change,” said Wayne, taking a seat across from Marlowe on the sofa.

  “That long? Time flies, I guess.”

  “Sure does. It’s good to see you, but I wish it was to drink suds and talk about old times.” Wayne grimaced and shook his head. “On second thought, not many of those old times we’d want to talk about.”

  Marlowe took a swig from his beer and swished it around, allowing his taste buds to soak in the amber liquid. He smiled at his friend, craned his head back, and gazed up at the ceiling, his mind drifting to those old times.

  * * *

  Tragedy had brought them together. Cory Manning raped and murdered Wayne’s wife and promptly got off on a technicality, some fuck up in the DA’s office, clerical error or something mundane, but costly nonetheless. Wayne lost his marbles and drank too much, to deal with the loss. A beat cop, the brass didn’t have a lot of patience with his absenteeism, and even less for his showing up to work inebriated. His sergeant went to bat for him and procured bereavement leave on the condition he visit with the department shrink twice a week. At the time, Marlowe was also under mandated counseling after Katy’s murder. The two men began to talk while passing time in the psychiatrist’s waiting room―only so many times one could read the same copy of Sports Illustrated―and became fast friends.

  Wayne returned to the job a week after Marlowe. Their paths rarely crossed, but they spoke on occasion, a chance passing in the hallway or a department-wide briefing. Wayne stayed off the booze, though Marlowe couldn’t say the same, and both men managed to avoid eating a bullet, either self-inflicted or from some scumbag on the street. After six months, they returned to active duty and fate decided to throw them together.

  The discovery of a murdered pimp down by the Furnaces had sent Marlowe out to question a possible witness/suspect. Wayne, back on patrol, responded to a domestic abuse call at the same address. Marlowe arrived to find the cruiser, siren off but blue lights flashing in the darkness, parked next to 323 Iron Trail, one of many shoddy mobile homes in the trailer lot.