The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “What’s Maggie complaining about?” he asked with a grin.

  “She wants to draw on the wall like we do at home.” Paige sat on her heels, a bored expression on her face.

  “Sweetie, I know you don’t have all your toys here, and you can’t do some of the things you do at home, but it won’t be much longer.” Marlowe knelt and cupped her face in one hand.

  “I can’t do anything here. It’s no fun.” She pouted, sucking on her bottom lip.

  “I was thinking we might go to the toy store and see what new stuff they have,” said Marlowe.

  Paige perked up at that. “Can I get something?”

  “I think we can arrange it.” He mussed her hair and smiled.

  The generic tone from his phone chirped. He had never bothered to find a ringtone, so the factory setting still signaled a call.

  “Dammit.” Paige reddened.

  “Paige.” Marlowe gave her reproachful look while suppressing a chuckle. “We’ll talk about your language in a minute.” He drew the phone from his pocket and placed it to his ear. “Yeah, Gentry…Got it. Can you swing by 1123 Emerald Lane and pick me up? Great. Oh, and grab Bateman, Spence is out of town on a personal matter. See ya in a few.” He lifted Paige into his arms and sat her on the bed. “I promise we’ll go as soon as I get back. We’ll get you whatever you want. Some ice cream too. Okay?”

  Paige said nothing, but laid down and rolled her back to him. Marlowe sighed, leaned over, and kissed her on the head. She grunted and wiggled away from him.

  Great, now I feel like shit.

  * * *

  “Sweet mother of God.” Bateman gagged and backed out of the entryway. “Gimme a minute, I’ll be right in.”

  The rest of the team made their way up the center aisle of Bethany Baptist Church in Redwine. Marlowe sympathized with Bateman and wouldn’t give him grief; even from a distance, the overwhelming stench churned his belly. With a mere glimpse of the horror at the front of the auditorium, his heart sank with certain knowledge. Another bat shit crazy serial. What the hell had polluted the water these days? Mad gunmen shooting up schools, riots in the streets, religious psychos ripping bodies apart. Marlowe subscribed to no faith, but this would make the most ardent skeptic question whether the end of days drew nigh.

  The grounds outside crawled with media and gawkers. No chance of keeping this one quiet. An investigation had yet to take place and already connections to Walnut Grove littered the morning reports. Marlowe had touched base with the local authorities, who remained outside, keeping the throng back and wanting no part of what they found inside the church. Clichés such as ‘never seen anything like it’ actually seemed apropos in this case.

  Fucking hell. Not what I need right now.

  “Unfortunate Spence isn’t here. A plethora of stick up the ass jokes come to mind.” Koop didn’t grin or snicker, but grimaced at the grisly sight before them.

  Brother Mark sat on the floor with a good two feet of wooden stake jutting from his mouth, his head twisted at a severe angle, the floor around his body covered in blood and shit. Nasty, raw rope burns marred his wrists and ankles. An image of Christ gazed down from a cross affixed to the podium. A pastor naked and skewered at the feet of his Lord, an inverted crucifix cut into his forehead, struck even atheist Marlowe as blasphemous.

  “The killer impaled him.” Kline scanned the scene, seeming to absorb every nuance. “This took some knowhow…and patience. He either knew no one would enter the building, or didn’t care. Hard to say if he’s reckless or arrogant. Perhaps he had some previous knowledge of the church and pastor.” She cocked her head to one side. “The stake is fastened to the floor. How did he get the victim on it?”

  “A Judas Cradle.” Koop circled the body, his glasses perched on the tip of a hawkish nose.

  “A what?” asked Bateman, finally joining them, a pallid tint to his face and a handkerchief over his mouth.

  Koop pointed to the floor and to the crossbeam overhead. “With the pole fixed to the floor, in order to impale the victim the killer needed to hoist him up and lower him onto the stake. This is a variation of a medieval torture technique called a Judas Cradle.” He stood, rubbing his lower back.

  “Like the other preacher—burned at the stake—both tortured with medieval devices.” Marlowe paced around the area at the front of the church.

  “Yes,” said Koop. “A definite correlation, I’d say.”

  “You said this is a variation.” Kline scribbled in a notepad and glanced up at Koop.

  “The medieval method used a pyramid-shaped cap set atop a tripod frame. Pointed, but not intended to deeply penetrate the accused. Inserted into the anus or vagina, the victim was then lowered. Intense pressure and stretching of the orifice caused excruciating pain, as you can imagine. The intent was to extract a confession, not to kill. Even so, tears in muscle tissue often turned septic and the accused later died from infection.”

  Kline stared at Koop, her eyes narrowed.

  Koop blushed and dipped his head. “In medical school I took a class on the history of surgical techniques. It touched on medieval practices. Some of those early techniques, such as those developed by the Romans, remained superior to our own beyond the Civil War. Quite amazing, really.” Koop tucked his penlight into his coat pocket and glanced back to the hideous display. “I eventually became fascinated with medieval torture methods, those used in the Inquisition, and all throughout history.” He shrugged. “I do have odd interests.”

  “Should we be investigating you?” asked Bateman, trying to lighten the air.

  “My interests are purely theoretical. I abhor violence, as you know.” Koop scoffed and brushed a hand down his sleeve to dismiss the topic.

  “Focus, people.” Marlowe stared up at the crossbeams. “So, the killer has escalated. This one wasn’t impulse, but meticulously planned. He hung a harness over the beam and lowered the victim onto the pole, which required heavy-duty ropes, maybe even a winch to hold the weight up for any length of time. The tip of the stake wasn’t whittled with a pocketknife; he used something to plane the wood and smooth it. Bolted the holder to the floor, too. He needed a lot of tools and a safe place to work.” Marlowe scratched at the two-day-old stubble dotting his chin. “Both murders bear hallmarks of medieval torture, the upside-down crosses, along with a slew of other similarities, so we’ll work both cases and assume the same killer.” He looked over at Kline. “Want to take a stab at motive?”

  “The victims, both clergy, and the method of execution closely tied to religious practices.” She scrutinized her notepad as though the answer might leap off the paper. “Confession keeps coming up as one of the historical functions for these torture techniques. We suspected Weaver might have been involved in something shady, or at least the killer might have believed so. Maybe the killer wants the victims to admit to something. Torture’s other primary purpose was punishment. Perhaps both. With two victims, an affair or molestation seem less likely. The pastors represent something. They are surrogates for whatever, or whoever, the killer wants to punish.”

  Marlowe nodded. “We need to determine why these victims would warrant punishment or confession in the killer’s mind. What is it he’s after? Let’s get backgrounds on both pastors, everything there is to know. Cross-reference all members of Trinity and Bethany. We know the killer knew the first victim, so good chance he knew this one as well. Find anyone who attended both churches, and if we get a hit, I want to know their life story from birth to tomorrow.”

  “You think the killer is on a mission of some kind? Taking out pastors he’s familiar with?” asked Kline.

  “Yes, but it could jump once he finishes with familiar targets. Others could become symbols of whatever has this guy pissed off.” Marlowe ran his fingers through his hair. “If we can get a match from church records and learn his identity, maybe we can head him off before he does it again. This level of rage isn’t going away any time soon. It’ll continue to build and killing’s the onl
y thing that will relieve it. He’ll keep at it until he gets whatever he wants out of his victims.”

  Teams in Hazmat suits moved in to claim the body and clean up the mess. Stains would demand new carpeting, and the stench would linger for quite some time. Marlowe didn’t envy the men and women the task. They laid the victim down and one held the pole steady as two more grabbed an arm each and tugged. A crunch and a sound like ripping Velcro accompanied the extraction of the pastor from the staff. Bateman’s hand flew to his mouth again, and he hurried outdoors followed by the others.

  Marlowe surveyed the parking lot and yard. The horde of reporters still pressed against the barricades, shouting questions and demanding comments. He ignored them and regarded the other onlookers. Most were in tears, presumably members of Brother Mark Grayson’s congregation. Soon, if not already, they would learn every gut-wrenching detail of what happened inside the church. A return to worshipping in the building with such knowledge crawling around their minds would make joy and blessing difficult to come by. How could they gaze on the image of their savior knowing the floor beneath Him had drunk the body fluids of their shepherd? Would every song and sermon forever be tainted by the memory? He suspected they might choose to raze the building, a new start the only recourse.

  Apart from the media and the church members, cops roamed the grounds, keeping everyone back. Once the body of the pastor was removed and taken away, other officers and personnel traveled from building to vans with evidence. The cops who had witnessed the sickening display were easy to spot. Each stood alone, away from others, with pained expressions on ashen faces, tears leaking from wide, horrified eyes. The images would haunt their nightmares for a long time. He had seen his share of brutality and understood how it seeped inside, never truly gone. Professional detachment only took one so far.

  These men had likely never experienced anything close to this. For them, the shock would become numbing in time, and there was danger in that. A switch could get flipped, emotions turned off, becoming desensitized to the horror preferable to the paralyzing fear. To avoid a repeat of the pain and disgust, the mind chose not to feel anything at all. The result could damage relationships and health. Many good cops had lost their moral sense and ability to relate to others in such a way. The stress brought on heart problems, excessive drinking, even drug abuse. Marlowe knew well; he had been one of them. Trepidation wormed inside. The disturbing sights morphed into ever-present apparitions, wearing the face of one’s self or loved ones, and that terror demanded acceptance or cutting off empathy, so never to ask the question ‘what if.’

  Marlowe made a point of visiting with each one to briefly check on them and offer what consolation and strength he could. He knew it wouldn’t be enough, but they all knew what he had gone through. Perhaps that knowledge would provide some small measure of insight. If he could survive, so could they. Wishful thinking, but what else could he do?

  He left Redwine feeling defeated. Something had begun in Walnut Grove, which continued here, and the next stage promised more horror for him, and others. If they didn’t find the killer, death and pain awaited someone who today walked, talked, and lived, unaware a monster stalked them, seeking to end all their tomorrows.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Damn. More fucking bugs.

  Spence slapped his neck and shoved past prickly limbs and plants, each suspiciously similar to poison ivy or poison oak. Every stick and leaf disturbed as he trekked through the woods signaled a possible snake coiled to strike at his ankles. The canopy overhead hid the sun, but did not lessen the heat. It seemed to trap the humidity in close and squeeze. Alone in the great outdoors, yet he felt something sinister watched from behind every tree. Living in the city for so long had robbed him of all affinity for country life. In truth, he’d never enjoyed it that much to begin with. Traipsing through the woods had always been Charlie’s thing. Spence would have lived in front of the television with cartoons and Nintendo if not for his older brother. To be close to Charlie, however, Spence would have taken up spelunking.

  Spence had idolized Charlie for as long as he could remember. Smart, handsome, and driven to succeed in everything he did, Charlie possessed all the values Spence did not. Well, Spence might exceed him in attractiveness now, and he was smart about things he cared to learn, but he’d never enjoyed Charlie’s robust interest for anything but football. His siblings’ staunch oversight got him through school. The edict no football if you don’t keep your grades up always proved sufficient to maintain a marginally studious nature. Stace made certain he didn’t wear the same clothes a week at a stretch and kept him groomed after their mother no longer seemed to care. But it was Charlie who taught him how to be a man. Lessons, which didn’t register until years later, came from simple tasks and outings at Charlie’s side.

  He made his way to the river and followed it south to the spot where he and Charlie had camped and fished a thousand times. Big Rock, they named it, or Spence did. Not terribly creative, but at maybe six years old, his lexicon didn’t include clever monikers, and the bulbous outcropping across the river was in fact a big rock. A small pit still held charred logs from his brother’s last visit. Spence walked the area, scanning the ground. The indentations from a tent’s stakes showed in the dirt to one side. An old trout line dangled in the water, rusty hooks fixed to its length. Charlie didn’t believe the lines were sporting. They may have cut the line themselves at some point long ago. Always the same campsite. Charlie was nothing if not habitual, much of what made him good at most things. The simple act of standing there felt like treading on hallowed ground. Memories came unbidden.

  An eight-year-old Spence made the mistake of getting in the way of the class bully Bobby Crimp, which earned him a black eye from a brawny right jab and a bruised ass from the subsequent crash to the playground dirt. Spence cried while Bobby and his friends laughed, inflicting the greatest injury. The last bell of the day rang minutes later, the only fortunate element of the beat down. Spence ran as fast as his little legs would carry him home and past, into the woods, to the river, and to Big Rock. He crouched at the water’s edge, his tears mingling with the gentle flow downstream.

  “Stace said you had a tough day, Champ.” Charlie stepped up behind him and placed his hands on Spence’s shoulders.

  Spence spun and buried his face into Charlie’s stomach. “I hate them. I hope they die. I’m never going back to school. Please don’t make me.” He tilted his head to look up at Charlie, his tears and snot leaving a Rorschach impression on his brother’s shirt.

  “Come on now, you’re stronger than that.” Charlie smiled down at him, but Spence didn’t feel strong. He felt weak and afraid.

  “I’m not. Bobby’s too big. And he’s got friends.” Spence sniffled and wiped a hand beneath his nose. “I don’t have any friends.”

  “You have plenty of friends, and you know it. It’s just they’re scared, too.” Charlie skipped a flat stone across the water. “If you don’t show you’re afraid and stand up for yourself, you might be surprised how many stand with you.”

  “But if they don’t, I’ll get hit again.” Spence rubbed at his eye, below the swelling.

  “Don’t go looking for it, but when you can’t avoid it…” Charlie mimed a punch into the air and smiled.

  Spence grinned too and threw his own right hook at an invisible Bobby.

  “Bobby, and guys like him, don’t want to mess with someone who’ll fight back. They want easy targets they can push around to make themselves look tough. If you make it hard on him, he’ll move on to someone who doesn’t put up a fight. Of course, after you do, run very fast in the opposite direction.” He gave Spence a playful shove. “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Spence head-butted Charlie’s arm and grinned.

  “Good, come here. Wanna show you something.”

  He guided Spence toward a massive oak on the far side of the clearing, crouched and removed a clutter of sticks and brush to reveal a holl
ow at the base of the tree’s trunk. Charlie retrieved a metal box and wiped debris from it with a sleeve.

  “What’s that?” asked Spence, wide-eyed.

  “Know what a sanctuary is?” Charlie arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Y-yeah.” Spence shifted his gaze. Charlie squinted at him with pursed lips. “Well…no.”

  “A sanctuary’s a safe place where nothing can hurt you. This is my sanctuary. Big Rock.” Charlie waved his hand to encompass the area. “And now it’s yours, too.”

  “But what’s the box for?” Spence’s curiosity locked on the small container.

  “Can’t have a sanctuary without a secret treasure chest.” He smiled and opened the box—an old tackle box with the interior trays removed.

  “There ain’t no treasure.” Spence craned his head to examine the contents. “Looks like a bunch of junk.”

  “Blasphemy.” Charlie drew out a few items. “Everything in here’s priceless. This is the trophy from my year of Little League. Well…the player that was on top of it before I broke it.” He grinned and handed the small figurine to Spence for inspection. “Here, now this is special.”

  Spence stared at the object, but noticed nothing extraordinary about it. “It’s only a pipe, and you don’t smoke.”

  “Yeah, but it was Dad’s.”

  A cold tendril crept up Spence’s spine. He frowned at the pipe. “I wouldn’t want nothing from him. Sure wouldn’t call it special.”

  “The memories are what’re special. You didn’t know him, and you’ve only heard the bad stuff, toward the end. When I was young, he was different. He’s the one that first showed me this place. Memories can hurt if you focus on the bad things, but if you remember the good stuff, even loss can’t take the good feelings away. I hated Dad by the end, and I know you hate him for never being around. But I let my mind skip over all the bad stuff and remember the good parts. The stuff that makes me feel good.” Charlie replaced the items in the box and returned them to the tree, covering the opening.