The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “Fresh brewed, wanna partake?” He grinned and extended a cup. “Looks like you got lucky in more ways than one last night.”

  Marlowe flipped him the bird and took the coffee. He blew steam away and sipped the precious, hot elixir. The scent alone widened his eyes a smidgeon.

  “What time is it?” he asked while picking crust from the corner of his eye.

  “Six a.m.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “Shit. Becca left the damn curtains open. I could’ve slept another couple of hours. What’re you doing back so early?”

  “House is fully fumigated. Owners will come home to a nice, tidy, insect-free domicile,” he said with a smirk. “Sent the boys packing, but wanted to say goodbye before I took off.”

  “Do I wanna know what happened to Caesar and his men?” Marlowe furled his brows at the big man.

  “Nope. You don’t.” With a rather unsettling grin, he scratched at his beard as though a small animal nested within.

  Marlowe drank down the last mouthful of coffee and poured a second cup. Whatever Becca bought, it was almost as good as his Dunkin Donuts Dark. He followed Wayne into the living room and claimed the recliner. Wayne took a seat on the sofa, mug in hand. He didn’t look to have slept a wink. Back in the clothes he wore before donning his commando getup, the slacks showed a multitude of wrinkles. His black t-shirt exuded a faint odor of gun smoke, and his beard looked shaggier than usual. With Marlowe safe, Wayne seemed more at ease than at any time since arriving, though obviously exhausted. Wayne’s concern for him was touching, and again he felt grateful for the circle of loyal, devoted friends he had somehow managed to cultivate in spite of often being a hard-to-deal-with prick.

  “Thanks, brother. For everything.” Marlowe kicked the chair back, propping his feet in front of him.

  “We’re nowhere close to even. But it’s a start.” Wayne gave him a sly wink.

  “Bullshit. You don’t owe me anything.”

  Wayne leaned forward and hardened his gaze. “Yeah. I do. Always will.”

  Marlowe knew better than to argue with that look. “Well, in the meantime, keep sending me those postcards. I do live vicariously through you, ya know?”

  “Ha. Will do.”

  “When you heading out?”

  Wayne drank his coffee and shrugged. “Now, I reckon. Plan to take my time, see some sights on the way. Do the whole scenic route thing.”

  “Keep it between the ditches. And be careful on those bodyguard jobs.” Marlowe tilted his head to peek over the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes sir.” Wayne’s hand rose to his temple in a mock salute. He snapped it down and set his cup on the coffee table. “Well, I’m outta here. You back on the job today?”

  “Yep, headed to Lee in a few. Gotta catch a bad guy.”

  “Good luck, and you be safe too.”

  Marlowe walked Wayne outside, gave him a less than manly embrace while fighting back a tear, and watched until his truck disappeared beyond a line of houses. Karma. Who would have thought a single deed done on impulse for a wounded friend years earlier would eventually save his family? Maybe everyone did deserve a second chance. Maybe no one ever fell so far they couldn’t climb up again. Could Caesar? He had left Marlowe no choice, but what of Jake Gibbs? Had Marlowe snuffed out a life that might have turned around in time? No, he wouldn’t walk the path of arbiter again. High moral ground be damned. Taking the high road came at too great a price. Never again would he lose someone he loved in the slim hope everyone could find redemption. He would not wear the cloaks of judge, jury, and executioner, but neither would he hesitate or turn away, allowing a killer another chance to kill. Not everyone could be saved. And more, he wasn’t certain everyone should be.

  The team waited; no more time for daydreaming. He suspected none of them would greet the plan formulating in his mind with enthusiasm. Hell, he wasn’t keen on it himself. It put a lot of innocent people at risk, as well as himself and his team, but he saw no other way. Best-case scenario, they spotted Marshall before he entered the building. Marlowe doubted that would happen. Marshall knew cops were plastered all over and would surely take great pains to avoid detection. Still, with all the entrances covered, they had at least an outside shot. Marlowe’s inner optimist grew quieter with each passing year. Plan for the worst and hope for the best, his new motto.

  * * *

  Saturday evening, a full moon splotched in brown-red rose high into the night sky. Evan ignored the irritated squeaks of bats darting in and out of the loft overhead. He had slept for a couple of hours among the left-over tools and hay bales in Chester Cray’s barn, but it had been a restless sleep, fraught with nightmares he couldn’t recall, leaving only unease in their wake. His head thumped with a dull ache, whispers and faint laughter ever-present. They mocked him, but he would have the last triumphant laugh—a laugh into the face of a deity. The thought made him smile, and warmth spread through him. Tomorrow would bring an end to the reign of a merciless god.

  The source snuffed out.

  He placed a five-gallon container filled with kerosene in the bed of the Chevy. Two bags of plastic ties sat on the passenger seat with several flares and a .45 caliber pistol. Evan wasn’t adept with guns, but in close quarters his aim wouldn’t require precision, and he hoped it would serve as no more than a scare tactic. The stereotypical mass shooting didn’t suit his grand scheme. No, nothing so mundane would garner God’s attention. He must compel attendance. Evan’s plan would cleanse the world, every trace of a malevolent force erased.

  A pang of regret stung deep inside. Evan would not see the aftermath. He would never know the world he birthed on tomorrow’s Sabbath—a world free from enslavement, free of a tyrannical god…free. With the robes of God clutched in his hands, he would drag the Creator into the hell He had prepared for those who opposed Him. Poetic and final. A true sacrifice for the salvation of humankind. They would not understand, not at first, but in time, they would speak Evan’s name with reverence and thanks. His family could find peace. He would know peace…at last.

  He drove the Chevy up the long grassy trail and headed northeast on County Road 27. Increased patrols and roadblocks dictated he take a circuitous route, winding along sparsely traveled dirt roads and cutting over deserted logging trails. The fifty or so miles to Lee would take a couple of hours, but it beat getting caught in a police checkpoint, which would certainly see him arrested.

  Twenty minutes outside Walnut Grove, Evan passed through a tiny area called Mulberry Fork. A single Wavaho gas station served the few residents of the community and came into sight on his right. A black-and-white Blount County Sheriff’s car sat nose to the road, about to pull onto the highway. Evan slowed, hoping to allow the squad car to enter the highway ahead of him, but it didn’t move. He couldn’t decrease speed further, already going a mere forty mph, and with no turnoff available, any deviation would surely draw the cop’s attention. Seeing no alternatives, he kept straight, not glancing at the policeman as he passed.

  The cop pulled out behind him, and Evan’s grip tightened on the wheel. He took the first road he came to, CR 18. The cop turned as well. Sweat beaded on Evan’s forehead, his knees shook, his heartrate quickened pace. It couldn’t end this way; he wouldn’t allow it. When the police vehicle continued to follow at the next detour, Evan’s hand crept to clutch the .45 on the seat beside him. He didn’t want this. It did not serve his purpose. It tainted it. He represented good. A savior. Not some murderous criminal.

  Blue lights lit up in his rearview mirror, and his breath caught in his throat, terror squeezing his bowels. He slowed and brought the gun into his lap, hand on the window knob, preparing to roll it down. Could he kill this person? A cop? In cold blood and not in keeping with his noble mission? No other way. It was too important. Did not innocents suffer in war? Collateral damage.

  Evan cocked the hammer on the .45, steeled his will, and pulled onto the road’s shoulder. Seconds ticking by seemed eternal. Another glance into the mirro
r. The cop peeled around, paused with the car positioned sideways in the road, and sped off in the opposite direction. Evan’s breath exploded from his lungs, and he panted with relief. He braced his forehead against the wheel, the pistol heavy in his lap. After releasing the hammer, he fought a temptation to fling the thing across the cab in disgust.

  It took the remainder of the drive to Lee for his nerves to settle, and yet his eyes still flashed to the mirrors every few seconds with anticipation, expecting to see a dozen patrol cars bearing down on him. The roads remained deserted, all good Southern folk in bed by this time of night, well after one a.m. As with Redwine, plenty of trails and paths snaked through the woods, and luckily, the one he hoped to use remained accessible, granting a backdoor approach to the church. The old Chevy bounced over the rough terrain, squeaking and groaning in protest.

  A mile out from Lee Fellowship Baptist, the trail ended. The debris from a storm long ago had left a dam of fallen timber in the path, and every direction circumventing the obstacle lay covered in trees and thick foliage. Evan grabbed his duffle bag, containing a clean pair of slacks and a blue button-down, and tossed in the plastic ties and flares. The .45 he tucked into his waistband. After retrieving the kerosene, he headed off due west through the forest.

  The moon guided his way, lighting up the woods in a haunting silver-green glow. Woodland animals hissed and squawked at his intrusion as though they disapproved of his intentions. Within sight of the church, he crouched and crept to the forest edge, scanning the grounds and parking lot. An unmarked dark sedan sat on the street, another to the far side of the building. Unsurprising. He’d expected the police to keep watch on the church. Evan had made no great effort to mask his pattern—a singular mission, with specific targets—so discerning his intent would not have proven difficult. Stopping him, however, would.

  Evan gazed into the sky where clouds drifted lazily over the face of the moon. He waited for a voluminous billow to dim the celestial orb and darted to the back wall of the building. A small area at his feet lay distinct from the ground around it. He grinned. Still there, but hidden under years of weeds and growth, a storm shelter built into the base of the church, leading down into a spacious area with an entry into the church proper on the other end. The shelter, built in the ‘50s, served to protect the congregation in the event of a tornado or nuclear strike, Cold War fears very much a part of daily life at the time. Later converted into a basement with access from the main building above, the old cellar door was forgotten, unlocked and fastened with a simple latch. Evan eased the door open and crept inside. He stumbled over wooden chairs in the pitch black, catching each to keep them from falling noisily to the concrete floor, but stayed on a straight line and found the exit some fifty strides in.

  The interior of the church had not changed much in twenty-plus years. Evan navigated the corridors, passing rooms where he had spent so much time, memories flooding back in a torrential rush—surrounded by other children, Ms. Crimshaw telling stories in her gentle tone, Grandma smiling and calling him a good boy, Brother Cecil extolling his knowledge. Each image carried equal parts pride and resentment. Evan shoved them down, narrowed his eyes, and kept moving.

  He found the spot he sought, a utility closet in a short hallway that led to the sanctuary. Once inside, he set the container to one side and unzipped the bag. He frowned at the clothes he had brought along. For Sunday morning services, men normally wore suits. Most of the congregation lacked wealth, and some would dress down, even in blue jeans, but the greater number came in their finest. Women and girls wore dresses, boys some variation of slacks and dress shirts. Doubtful anyone would glance at his attire twice, but anything that might draw attention concerned him. The chance, however slim, someone might take notice and through close scrutiny, recognize him, needed to be avoided.

  An idea occurred to him. He slipped out of the closet and down the hall to the pastor’s study. Simple, with a desk and rows of bookshelves containing a wide selection of commentaries and study guides, the office served as a place for the preacher to prepare his sermons and ready for services. Evan went to the closet. Two suits, one charcoal, the other a dark brown, hung with an assortment of ties, a rain slick, and a heavy wool coat. He had guessed correctly. The pastor would keep at least one spare suit here. One never knew when they might spill coffee on themselves, or get caught in a sudden rain shower. The charcoal struck his fancy. He removed it from the hanger with a maroon tie. No extra shoes in the closet. His loafers hardly completed the ensemble in style, but with luck, no one would notice.

  Evan returned to the utility closet and settled in. Four a.m. It wouldn’t do to oversleep, so he spent the hours rehearsing in his mind. Every step gained life and flowed in perfect succession. A symphony with Evan as the conductor—strings, brass, timpani drums all rising to a crescendo. Wagner perhaps, or Tchaikovsky. A sexual excitement overtook him, and he fought the urge to masturbate. So long since he had known physical gratification without guilt, he entertained the thought of touching himself. No, not now. Soon he would feel a euphoric release no carnal act could equal. Delay meant heightening the inevitable eruption.

  Eventually, daybreak peeked in beneath the door.

  Not much longer….

  CHAPTER

  31

  “Okay, let’s review one more time.” Marlowe stood to the left of the screen, an overhead view of the church and grounds projected onto the canvas.

  Kline, Bateman, and Koop sat front and center with the entire Lee County Police Department anxious in metal folding chairs and stretching to the back of the briefing room. As expected, no one seemed thrilled with his plan, dampening his own confidence, which was sorely lacking to begin with.

  “Three exits—the main entrance and a door on each side of the building near the rear. Bateman, you take a squad and monitor the left. Kline, you the right. Sheriff, I’d like you to position the rest of your people out front in the parking lot. We want to wait until the congregation is in the building before deploying to positions.” He glanced around the room, noting questions and concerns on many faces. “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “Why wait for Marshall to enter the building? We’ll have a tough time controlling the situation. Can’t we stop vehicles before they enter the parking lot or once parked?” asked a young officer near the back.

  “If he spots us, he’s gone,” said Marlowe. “We have one advantage…he doesn’t know we’re coming.”

  “Frisk and check folks at the door,” said Bateman.

  “And if he’s got a bomb strapped to him? He would likely panic and detonate the thing, killing who knows how many,” said another officer.

  “He could do that inside. Casualties would be a lot higher, too,” said Bateman.

  “Listen, I know there’s all kinds of holes in this plan. Tons of risk. But if we spook Marshall, we have no way to predict where or when he might strike next. Does he wait a week, a month, a year, and hit the church again? Does he disregard the church and start picking off victims at random? Maybe he flies the coop and we lose him altogether.” Marlowe sighed, exasperated by both the consternation in his subordinates, but also the validity of their reservations. “Today, we have our best shot. We know with reasonable certainty where Marshall is going to be, and we have the manpower in one place to contain him and bring him in. I don’t like the loose variables any more than you do … it’s our best shot.”

  “You’ll be inside, I take it?” asked Koop.

  “Yep, alone. I hope to spot him before he makes his move. If I can take him down, good. If not, I’ll try to work him close to a window for a safe shot from outside. I’ll wear a wire, so you all can listen in. But unless you hear shots fired, do not breach until I give the word. We get one chance at this.”

  “The windows are stained glass. We can’t see inside,” said a middle-aged Hispanic officer.

  “I’ll direct you to which one to target. Aim high so you don’t shoot a civilian. You don’t need to hit him, ju
st distract him. Give me an opening,” said Marlowe.

  “I do understand the merits of your plan, but that seems beyond the pale, even for you,” said Koop.

  “It sure as hell does. Why not pack the place with our people?” asked the sheriff, an obese man, sweating and kneading his thighs with chubby hands.

  “We don’t know Marshall’s level of familiarity with your force or the church members. He may know any number of your guys. Or, he may know some of the congregation. If he picks up on our presence, all hell could break loose.” Marlowe shifted his gaze from the sheriff to Koop. “It needs to be one-on-one. Less chance he reacts to a single threat. He wants to complete his insane mission, so he’ll be reluctant to blow his fuse early. So to speak.”

  Koop nodded, which easily might have been a scoff.

  “No way we can slip someone in the rear of the church? Cover the auditorium from front and back?” asked Bateman. “If you have to engage Marshall, someone will be close enough to get a shot at him.”

  “No, the doors are too close to the sanctuary. I assume he will lock them. Any noise that alerts him could set things off.” Marlowe pointed to each side of the building.

  “This scares the shit outta me,” said the sheriff, wiping his forehead. “A hundred or so of my people are going be in there with this lunatic.”

  “I understand. I do. I expect Marshall to stick to his MO. He’ll want something grand, probably in keeping with his penchant for medieval punishment. I’m banking on his need to prepare, and his elaborate methods, to give us time, an opening,” said Marlowe.

  “That’s a lot of hoping and praying with a hundred lives on the line,” said the sheriff.

  “If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.” He held the derision from his tone, his invitation sincere. Marlowe would love to hear a good alternative. The sheriff shook his head. “Anyone?” Marlowe asked the assembly.