A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  “These vics did have some fucked up lives. Not saying it’s right, but I can see how they wanted to check out. Like you said, they didn’t have a bad day and get down in the dumps. They were dealing with some major league heartache. What I don’t understand is why they didn’t do the deed themselves if they were so depressed. What were they waiting for?”

  Marlowe paused, his mind filled with the image of Paige’s emotionless face. “Hope.”

  They took the stairs and exited the back of the building into the car lot. Winter refused to give up the ghost and blasted the city with another round of sub-freezing temperatures. Spence, wearing a navy pea coat over a sweater and jeans, pulled the collar tight around his neck and blew out a stream of breath visible in the cold air. Marlowe, in his topcoat, button-down, and dark slacks, was comfortable with the chill, showing no sign he registered the sudden forty-degree drop since stepping outdoors.

  “Say again?” said Spence, puzzled by Marlowe’s answer.

  “People in their emotional state are standing right on the line between swallowing the pills or pulling the trigger, and trying again to find a reason to live, to keep going. The line is hope. If they can find something in the future more powerful and promising than the pain of the past and present, they’ll step back from the line. If they can’t, they jump across.”

  “Sounds like you understand them a little too well, brother.”

  “You’ve never been there? Never hit a spot where the present felt unbearable, and you had trouble seeing the future improving matters?” Marlowe took his seat behind the wheel of the Explorer and cranked the engine.

  “No. I mean, of course I’ve had bad shit happen. I was all set to play football for the Tide and broke a femur. It didn’t heal right, so no more scholarship. For a while, it felt like life was over. Football had always been my dream, all I wanted to do. But down deep, I always believed it would pass, sooner or later.”

  “You’re lucky then. We can sit back and tell someone all day long how things will get better, but for some, they just can’t see it. And for some, it won’t ever get better. Maybe Nikki would have found a way off the streets eventually, but we both know the odds were against her. Likely she would have overdosed, gotten some disease, or a john would have killed her. Melissa Turner, you think she would have ever learned to live with the loss of her son? Perhaps, but it’s the moment that matters. These people can’t see the future. Same with Matthew Young.”

  “I get what you’re saying, but others have gone through the same or worse and pulled out of it,” said Spence, reaching down to crank the heat up another notch.

  “Pain is relative, I guess. My pain is the worst in the world, because its mine. I can’t feel your suffering or you mine. We can sympathize with each other’s pain, but not experience it.”

  “Yeah, I had a friend whose mom died around the same time I broke my leg. Losing a mother is way worse than losing a football scholarship, but I focused on my own misery, what I lost. I wasn’t there for him.”

  “Exactly. In the moment, the future doesn’t exist and hope is elusive. Hope is only part of it, though. There’s a big difference between wanting to die and actually killing yourself.”

  “True, everyone fears pain. Plus, what if they botch it? That would scare the shit out of me,” said Spence. “Keep me from doing it—the possibility of ending up a vegetable or something. I guess I can see how a killer who will do for you what you can’t do for yourself might be appealing to people in their situation.”

  They traveled over the cobbled street of Morris Avenue and turned left toward Westside. The inner defrost had yet to completely clear the windshield, forcing Marlowe to scrunch forward and peer through the lower half. He rubbed his sleeves against the glass and grunted irritation when it did little good.

  “That’s what worries me,” Marlowe said, sitting back at a red light. “We don’t have a Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy here. We have a Dr. Kevorkian. If we don’t paint this picture right, he could turn into a sympathetic actor. People hear about what he’s doing to the victims, but they don’t see it. They can’t wrap their minds around it. A man saving people from hell or assisting them to commit suicide, some crackpots will actually think it’s okay, even admirable.”

  “We live in one screwed up world, my friend. There’s always people who idolize these monsters. Even the ones with no sympathetic intentions. Hell, Charles Manson got married in prison I think. Bundy had scores of admirers. Regardless, there are these psycho groupies out there,” said Spence. He poured out two cups of coffee from his thermos and handed one to Marlowe.

  “True, and Seraphim is just the kind of killer they love to emulate. I’m surprised we haven’t seen a copycat or two yet. Or someone thinking they are in league with him. The tag Seraphim, all the religious symbolism, begs for some kind of sick disciple.”

  “Jesus, that’s all we need.”

  “You mentioned Manson. He talked his family into killing for him. Four devotees butchered a pregnant Sharon Tate, then Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. Manson wasn’t even there to encourage them. They worshiped the guy, did whatever he said.” Marlowe shook his head. “Then you have people like those who drank the Flavor Aid on the command of Jim Jones. Happened again with the Hale Bopp Comet group—the Heaven’s Gate cult. The list goes on and on.”

  “Why do you know this shit? It’ll rot your mind.” Spence cut his eyes at Marlowe from the passenger seat while sipping gingerly from his coffee mug.

  “I took several classes on abnormal psychology, and I’ve read pretty much every book on serial killers written.”

  “Not the smartest idea with what you’ve gone through, is it?”

  Marlowe nodded and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I needed to understand…or try to. Anyway, imagine you’re one of these suicidal types. Maybe you believe committing suicide lands you in hell, or you just can’t do the deed yourself for some reason. Now, you learn there’s an angel out there granting salvation or release…whatever. What would you do to gain said angel’s attention?”

  “Great, like I wasn’t already having nightmares over this thing. You know, I really hate you and your big brain sometimes.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bannon.” The doctor closed the file and peered across his desk. “The malignancy isn’t responding to treatment, and with the metastasis into the liver and lungs, I believe at this point, continuing will only cause discomfort without benefit.”

  Max felt a cold hand grip his heart and squeeze. Why so surprised? He had expected it. Still, during the treatment and his sessions with Dr. Drenning, Max had held tight to a sliver of hope. Now, he felt that sliver evaporate.

  What now? Sit back and wait to die, he supposed. Or worse, sit back and wait for the pain to become excruciating. Wait for his mind to turn to mush.

  “Aren’t there some experimental treatments you can try? Clinical trials, maybe?” Funny, he had been so afraid of the chemo and radiation, and now Max would give anything for another round if it would help.

  “No, I’m sorry. We’ve exhausted our treatment options.”

  “What about alternative treatments? I’ve seen those on the internet.”

  “I could not recommend any non-medical treatments. I’m unaware of any that have proven more successful than traditional methods. Chances are good they would only be a waste of your time and money. However, if attempting some other form of treatment will give you comfort and the strength to cope, then by all means.”

  “What do I do now?” Max asked in a hollow voice.

  “You’ll be more comfortable at home. Surround yourself with loved ones and try to value the time you have left with them. I’ve notified hospice. Someone will contact you to come by and show you how to use the morphine, as well as the proper regimen to control any pain.”

  “There’s nothing else I can do? Just wait to die?” asked Max, hoping against hope the doctor might suddenly change his mind.

/>   “I encourage you to continue your sessions with Dr. Drenning. She may have techniques to help with managing your fears.”

  Max left the doctor’s office feeling more defeated than ever. Silly to hold out hope, he had read the percentages and knew there was little chance of remission. Still, he did not want to die. More so, he did not want to live in pain and dementia.

  In the hospital parking lot, a crisp coolness accompanied the afternoon breeze. Winter began its slow march toward spring. Birds perched on low limbs sang, hastening its approach. Max yearned for winter to linger a while longer. It seemed more fitting. A time when things died, and the world fell silent in sleep, waiting for rebirth.

  His legs felt weak, all strength sapped dry. He sat on a bench and watched the groundskeepers work. Max would miss the simple joy of working with his hands, feeling the dirt between his fingers. Connecting all those wires and circuits, watching the lights come on and knowing he had a part in illuminating this home or that building, one little corner of the world.

  He told himself again that he should not drive, should not have driven for weeks now, but spending money on a cab seemed such a waste. His money needed to stretch a little longer—not much longer. He drove toward home, keeping it under the speed limit. Safety first.

  Home safe and mostly sound, Max went to the fridge, grabbed a soda, and sat on the sofa. The house felt strange, too quiet. It was never quiet with the boys around. The little demons tore through constantly, voices raised, accusations flying of something or other. Max actually missed it. He even missed Maggie’s nagging.

  He set the drink on the arm table and closed his eyes. He might nap for a minute or two—just a short one to get his strength back.

  * * *

  The smell of fresh pine filled his nostrils. Encased in wood, the tight fit pressed against his prone body on all sides, the hard surface raking his hair and his toes, the lid an inch from touching his nose. Max panicked.

  Barely able to lift his hands, he placed his palms to the lid and pushed with all his strength. Dirt dribbled in around the pried cover, falling into his eyes and mouth. He gagged and shoved, a scream of desperation escaping with the exertion. The lid gave, bursting upward.

  He sat up, gasping for air. No more than a foot of earth had covered the coffin. Two shovels lay beside a mound, the diggers having decided filling the hole not worth the effort.

  He climbed from the grave and stood staring in disbelief. This could not be real. A dream…a nightmare, surely. No preacher presided over this funeral; no tombstone marked the place of rest; no flowers or footprints evidenced where mourners came to pay last respects.

  “Pretty shabby turnout,” said a raspy voice.

  He looked up toward the sound and saw a large crow gazing down, a amused aspect in its black, probing eyes.

  “What?” said Max, questioning his senses. “Did you speak?”

  “Wasn’t the wind, bright boy.”

  “What is this? Why am I here?”

  “You’re dead. Well dead and not dead. Mostly dead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Humans, you are a slow bunch aren’t you? Your heart stopped beating, they put you in the hole, but your spirit ain’t quite flown the coop yet,” the crow said with as much of a sneer as a crow could sneer.

  “What happens now? What do you have to do with this?”

  “I’m a guide of sorts. I’m here to take you to the next plane. You’re moving on up.”

  “But I can’t. I’m not ready.”

  “No? What’s left? Nothing. You had nothing, you got nothing.”

  “That’s not true. I have to fix things with Maggie. I have to raise my boys. They need me.”

  “Hmm, let me enlighten you. Maggie marries a dentist, pretty well off—definite upgrade, no offense. Cody becomes a successful contractor, more or less a chip off the ol’ block, should make you happy. Austin becomes a decent professional golfer—dentist dad’s a member of a country club. So, no worries. Everything turns out peachy, see?”

  Max clenched his hands. “No. I don’t believe you. They need me. I know they do.”

  “This is already starting to bore me. You going or staying?”

  “I have to stay.”

  “Your call, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The crow took flight, disappearing after a time beyond the distant horizon. Max sat on the loose dirt, unsure of what to do. He did not know this place, did not know where he could go. The crow’s words stung deep. Part of him wanted to crawl back into the grave.

  “I’m pleased you decided to stay,” said a different voice, gurgled, as if spoken under water.

  Max turned to see a monstrosity. It appeared vaguely human, but moved like liquid. Black and oily, it flowed across the ground.

  He grabbed a rock, and flung it hard at the thing. The stone passed through the figure, concentric ripples spanning out from where it struck.

  “Now, now, no need for hostilities.”

  “Who are you?” Max backpedaled. “I thought I would return to my life.”

  “You will live what life remained to you. The final months of an insidious disease await you. As for me, I have many names. You will call me Pain.”

  Wires, barbed with razors, shot up from the ground, entwining Max’s arms and legs, pulling tight and anchoring him in place. He struggled to break the binds, but the sharpened tips only dug in deeper. Max screamed in torment. Pain drifted forward, a shadowy hand reaching out to touch Max’s forehead…and all went black.

  When he opened his eyes, Max found himself strapped to wooden beams in the shape of an X—legs spread, arms upraised. Pain stood near the far wall, placing instruments on a table. Terror filled Max, he tried to cry out, but no sound would come. Agony hit him. The stump of his tongue lolled about the back of his throat; He gagged on the vile, coppery slime sliding down his throat. Thick, dried blood caked his chin and his chest.

  Pain approached, holding a bucket sloshing with water, droplets splashing over the edge. He placed light fingers along Max’s abdomen. Seeming pleased with the spot, he reached into the bucket and pulled out a slender eel-like creature more than six feet long. The thing thrashed viciously as it swung inverted from Pain’s hand.

  Pain held it up for Max to admire. It possessed no eyes, only two rows of needle-like teeth set in a large, oval mouth. One row of teeth turned one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise, the other, the same degree of rotation counter-clockwise. Max’s imagination could not help but picture the wounds such a bite would inflict—penetrating, tearing.

  Pain unsheathed a curved blade, set the tip against Max’s skin, and drew it downward. At the scent of fresh blood, the eel-thing gyrated madly. Pain shoved the ferocious creature into the open wound and grunted with satisfaction. Trapped in silence, Max’s inaudible scream ripped through the ether, sending monsters and gods hiding their heads in fear of such terrible agony.

  For a thousand years, Pain entertained Max with his tricks and delights. Each time Max felt certain there could be no worse torture, nothing more heinous to imagine, Pain proved him wrong.

  One day Max found Pain gone and his restraints loosened. Leaning forward slightly dumped him onto his face. The open door seemed a million miles away, and the silver light beyond an appalling lie. He dragged himself toward the door, fingernails raking the floor for purchase. Outside, he erupted into maniacal laughter. Under the full moon, surrounded by a forest he knew well, bloody and broken…Max wept.

  * * *

  He woke with tears dried upon his face, his shirt still damp, lying naked in the backyard of his home. Tall pines stretched into the night sky, a full moon hovering above. Wide slashes covered his body; his fingernails were stained with blood. The memory of the nightmare slammed into his consciousness. Every sight, smell, sound, and feeling seemed the remnants of an actual occurrence.

  He stood, staggered into the house, and made it to his bedroom. Max picked up the bottle of pills from the bedside
table. After pouring the capsules into his palm, he counted twenty pills. He hoped it was enough as he slapped them into his mouth. Max did not recall what the pills were intended to treat, or what they were called. He washed them down with the glass of lukewarm water that remained on the table from the previous night.

  He knew now, he could not face what was to come. He did not fear dying so much, but the dying process…this dying process. Max sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing to do now but wait…it was over.

  What if it doesn’t work? What if it makes things worse?

  How can things possibly get any worse?

  What if I go into a coma? They’ll call Maggie and the kids. They’d be forced to care for a vegetable. They don’t even want to be around me. My kids will see me wither away—shitting on myself, my brain nothing but soup.

  Max stood on wobbling legs.

  Not too late, please don’t let it be too late.

  He lurched into the bathroom, fell to his knees, placed two fingers down his throat, and threw up into the toilet. Nothing. Again, he gagged and vomited.

  There they were. Small plastic orbs floated on the surface of the water. Frantically, he counted. One…two…did he miss one? No…twenty, there were twenty.

  Thank God, oh thank sweet Jesus.

  Max collapsed against the bathtub. He had never felt so exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. So tired. Max Bannon, the most pathetic person to have ever lived. Dying, wanting to end it, and not having the balls.

  In that moment of perfect silence, a voice came from the bedroom television: Sources within the department say the Seraphim is targeting people who are deeply depressed or suicidal. Police have not yet determined how the killer becomes aware of his victims’ mental and emotional conditions, but many healthcare officials are concerned those in need may forego care out of fear. More on this story as it develops. Now let’s get a first check on weather with meteorologist….

  The television voices melted into a clutter of meaningless sound.