“…and Moses guided his people through the Red Sea with walls of water high overhead on each side. Once the Hebrews safely passed, the pharaoh led his chariots after them. The sea fell on them, washing them away. Every soldier drowned.” Grandma closed the Bible and smiled. “Did you like that story?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Evan had heard The Parting of the Red Sea story more than once, but he loved them all. In his mind, he could see the waves crash down and the Egyptians flounder in the wake. “Grandma…”
“Yes, dear?”
“God protects us if we love him and do what he says?” Evan peered up, an anxious glint in his eyes.
His grandmother placed a hand on his chest and sighed. “You’ve suffered more than any child should. I blame myself for letting your mother stray from the Lord’s path. So headstrong and defiant. She wouldn’t listen. If I could’ve gotten you away from her and that husband of hers, I would have.” She pulled the covers up over his chest. “But yes, God does watch over us, His children. And He isn’t like your parents; He’s faithful and always keeps His promises.”
“God won’t let anything bad happen?” Evan scrunched up higher in the bed, his back to the headrest, and stared at her.
“Bad things can happen, but God always turns them into something good. Paul wrote ‘…all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose.’ You see? If you keep your heart pure and trust in the Lord, nothing bad can happen. But if it does, you know something good’s going to come out of it.” She kissed him on the forehead and ran delicate fingers through his hair. “God took the evil of your parents and blessed us. He brought us together. Now we have each other to count on. That’s a good thing.”
“God wouldn’t let anything happen to you, would he?” Fear flushed his face and made his hands tremble. The thought of being alone, the one person he trusted and loved taken from him, was an ever-present worry.
“I’ll die someday, and when I do, I’ll be happy about it. I’ll go to live with Jesus in Heaven.” She grinned. “But not for a long time yet, so don’t you worry yourself.”
“Are Mommy and Daddy in Heaven?”
His grandmother averted her eyes for a moment, seemed to steel herself, and locked her gaze on him. “I don’t know, son. God punishes the wicked. I hope, here in my heart, I’m wrong. I pray your mother, and even your dad, knew the Lord and had slipped away from Him. But …”
“They’re in Hell, aren’t they?” No fear or sadness accompanied the question, his voice steady.
Grandma shook her head. “Not for us to say. God judges.” She pulled him to her. “Always stay close to the Lord, Evan. Don’t let this world lead you off His righteous path. It’s so easy for young’uns to get involved in bad things. Promise me you’ll always keep to your faith and obey God.”
“I promise, Grandma.”
She hugged him. He slid down in the bed and rested his head on the pillow while she tucked him in.
“Say your prayers and sleep tight.” She walked out and drew the door closed.
“Grandma!” shouted Evan.
She poked her head into the room, a concerned expression wrinkling her face. “What’s wrong?”
“The door,” said Evan, pointing. “Leave it open please.”
* * *
The memories faded as he drove back toward town, but the lies remained. So many lies told by those who knew them false, and those like his grandmother who were fooled and suckered in by deceit. Evan didn’t blame her; she’d bought the fiction as so many others did. When she died, he was happy for her. He too, believed the lies, looking forward to the day he would see her again. Heaven, a promise. A lottery ticket not worth the print or paper. Now, the lies made themselves plain. God did not protect anyone. Things did not work together for good. Only pain and suffering. Lies.
He drove through Lee, the bitter residue of the memories tainting his thoughts, until his next destination came into view. All communal activity in the tiny town took place in one of two locations—the high school and Lee Fellowship Baptist Church. As with most towns in the south, football was a religion unto itself. Every Friday saw the greater portion of the residents in the bleachers cheering on their beloved Yellow Jackets. On Sundays, that same bulk filed into the church. A few dared to attend the Methodist church beyond the north end of town, or worse, heathens who shunned worship all together, but most were good true Southern Baptists.
Evan pulled into the lot beside the church and got out. It was Sunday afternoon, so the crowd had gone home, but would return soon for the evening service. He shied from glimpsing the church building, yet its presence loomed like an ominous shadow at his back. The parsonage sat next door, a small home with dark gray siding, white shutters and trim. Evan stepped to the front door and knocked. After a moment, a woman in her forties, plump with short red hair, opened and offered him a puzzled smile.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I hope so. I grew up here in Lee. Went to this church for the better part of twenty years.” Evan pointed toward the building behind him. “I was close to a lot of folks here, but there’s two I would really like to see again—Brother Cecil and Ms. Teresa Crimshaw. Any idea if they’re still around. Still…”
“Alive? Yep, both still kicking.” She grinned. “My husband took over for Brother Cecil when he retired ‘bout five years ago. He’s doing good from what I hear. Lives out on Martin Lake. Ms. Crimshaw…” She smiled at the name. “Miss her so much. Such a sweet lady. She suffered a stroke a couple of years ago. Her son and daughter thought it best to move her to the assisted living home down in Rockford. She recovered pretty well, and still goes to church every Sunday. Lee’s too far though. She can’t travel on her own, so stays down there.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the information.” Evan turned to leave.
“I just know they’ll both be tickled to see you.”
Evan nodded and smiled. On the walk back to the pickup, his eyes betrayed him and rose to the church that seemed to stare down on him, red brick and trimmed in white. Four large columns dared his approach. The building breathed with life and exuded contempt for him and all he had done. Again, doubt surged inside him. Faces frozen in screams and bodies writhing in pain cast dark shadows over his heart. He squinted into the sun, a cry of anguish churning in his gut. Forgiveness lay beyond him now. There could be no turning back. Not for Evan Marshall. Only one way to quiet the voices, the laughter. When his gaze fell, it had hardened, the anguish changed into something icy cold.
Two more.
CHAPTER
15
Marlowe hung up the phone with a sigh. Becca and Paige had had it out again this morning over a figurine, apparently priceless in some nostalgic way to Becca, and an obvious toy to Paige. He assured Becca that Super Glue would fix it right up. If things continued on their present course, those two would break everything belonging to the other. Still no sighting of Caesar or his crew, one mercy in a hectic week. Marlowe was thankful to have Wayne keeping an eye on things. No way could he focus on this case with the threat of a cartel boss and his goons lurking. Marlowe had hoped his time away might cull the growing resentments with Becca, but with strangers in her home and constant unease with Paige, she construed his absence as emotional as well as physical.
The squad room was quieter than normal. Vines and Dean drew extra cases with Marlowe and the team working what had earned the moniker ‘The Heretic’ and Spence on personal leave. The overtime did little to compensate for their lack of sleep. They had drained the coffee pot and each gave Marlowe a surly nod as they passed him in the hall on their way to the elevator. A small alcove next to the briefing room partitioned off from the rest of the room served as a workstation for the Heretic case. Marlowe stepped around the plastic slides and into the cramped area, the paltry evidence thus far discovered stuck to a pressboard with multi-colored tacks. Two victims, both clergy, and both killed with medieval torture techniques. Not much to go on. In
furiatingly, the killer made no attempt to cover his tracks, yet no witnesses or hard evidence had turned up.
“Want some good news?” Bateman stepped around the partition, an open file in his hand.
Marlowe glanced away from the board of gruesome photos. “I would love some good news.”
“We got a match on a member of both churches.” Bateman trailed his finger down the page. “Name’s Evan Marshall. He attended Bethany in Redwine for over ten years. When you switch churches, you move your Letter of Membership. Marshall moved his to Trinity about four years ago.”
Marlowe stepped to the board and wrote Evan Marshall underscored by a thick red line. “Looks like we have a suspect. Get an APB out. I want this guy’s face sent to every department state wide…and the media. Let’s make hiding hard for this son of a bitch.”
“Will do.” Bateman jotted down notes. “There’s more.”
Marlowe arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“You remember the raid last week? Jose Ramirez?”
“How could I forget? What about it?”
“The OD you found in the back bedroom. Wanna take a guess at who her father is?”
Marlowe’s eyes popped wide. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Marshall?”
“Yep. Jenny Marshall, eighteen-year-old daughter of Evan and Julie.”
Kline and Koop rounded the partition. Koop took a seat at the table opposite Marlowe, Kline stood at his shoulder.
“Are we interrupting something?” asked Koop.
“We have a suspect,” said Bateman.
“Good news usually doesn’t come with such long faces.” Koop glanced at Marlowe, the question hanging in the air.
“Turns out the suspect, Evan Marshall—we found his daughter dead of an overdose in a drug house last week.” Marlowe rocked back in his chair, a hand to his forehead.
“Instigating cause,” said Kline.
“Do what?” Bateman scrunched his nose and stared at the agent.
“Many psychopaths don’t show overt hostile acts or signs for long periods. In such cases, physical symptoms are the only indications of illness—hearing voices, headaches, delusions. Some trigger is required to induce a full psychotic break. It can be something as simple as a certain smell, sound or sight, or something more dramatic like this sort of trauma.” Kline massaged the back of her neck and strode around the table. “I recall one case where the break occurred in the man’s sixties after attending his wife’s funeral. The scent of a particular flower triggered a memory from his childhood, some terrible event. He lost it. Luckily, no one was harmed, but the man ended up confined to an institution for the rest of his life. Turned out he had suffered minor symptoms for years.”
“I don’t get it,” said Bateman. “If his kid died from drugs, running with scum like Ramirez, why target preachers?”
“Could be he blames them for not saving her, or turning her from a dangerous path,” said Koop.
Marlowe stood and moved to the board, scrutinizing the evidence pinned row after row. He looked over at Bateman. “You said Marshall attended Bethany for ten years and Trinity for four…fourteen total. The daughter was eighteen, so that leaves four years possibly unaccounted for.”
“If he blames pastors who had dealings with, or familiarity with, his daughter, you think he might have another target?” Kline, following Marlowe’s train of thought, paused her march around the room.
“Seems likely. Appears he’s moving backward through time. Where was this guy before Redwine?” asked Marlowe.
Bateman scanned the file. “College for five years. Oakwood College. Got a Master’s degree in History.”
“Send someone up there to find out where he went to church, and if the pastor is still there. We don’t know if it’s the individual pastors he blames or some attachment to the buildings.” Marlowe scribbled Oakwood onto the board. “Before Oakwood?”
“We have a bit of a problem there,” said Bateman. “The guy never had a driver’s license until arriving at Oakwood, and Social Security doesn’t show a number for an Evan Marshall. At least not matching his age, race, etc. No other records.”
Marlowe grabbed his coat and circled a finger in the air. “Shit. Let’s get out to Walnut Grove and Redwine. We need to know more about this guy…and fast.”
* * *
“I can’t believe it. Evan? Such a dear man. Why I remember him fixing up my bathroom after a pipe burst—new cabinets, floor, everything. I’m on a fixed income and insurance ran me around in circles, putting me through the mill. Evan wouldn’t charge me a cent.” Ms. Werner, a demure elderly woman, sat sipping tea in Walnut Grove’s single diner. Her friend, Ms. Dent, a younger woman in her upper seventies, nodded agreement after each sentence.
“His wife died in a terrible accident, you know. Evan, such a strong Christian man, his only concern was taking care of his daughter.” Ms. Dent spooned pudding into her mouth between syllables and clacked false teeth.
“Tsk. That daughter of his, what a handful,” said Ms. Werner.
“How so?” Marlowe blew on his coffee and gazed across the table at the two women.
So far, everyone the team spoke to offered the same glowing account of Evan Marshall—a Godly man with no obvious turpitudes, no skeletons in the closet. Bundy fooled everyone, too. All American guy, no one had suspected a thing. Something, however, seemed different with Marshall. Marlowe’s mind kept going back to what Kline had said about repressed psychosis. Of the records found so far, Evan Marshall didn’t show so much as a traffic ticket. A twinge of guilt needled into Marlowe’s side. Had he inadvertently unleashed this monster? The girl died of an overdose, Marlowe had nothing to do with it, but Caesar Ramirez didn’t seem to care about the small discrepancy, and it appeared Evan Marshall didn’t either.
“A wild one, that girl. Always in some kind of trouble,” said Ms. Dent.
Ms. Werner glanced furtively around the diner. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I hear she was loose. You know? Got on with a lot of boys. Drugs and that devil music, too.”
“We aren’t finding any family in the area. Do you ladies know of any family or friends, people close to the Marshalls?” asked Marlowe.
“Never heard Evan talk about any family aside from his wife and daughter. Seemed a loner, spent his time working and with Jenny.” Ms. Dent held up her bowl and tapped a spoon against the side. An attractive middle-aged waitress smiled and nodded.
“I think he mentioned once his wife had a sister in Redwine. Not sure where she lives, but bet you can ask around,” said Ms. Werner.
“Thank you so much, ladies, you’ve been very helpful.”
The women blushed, and he could feel their eyes follow him out the glass doors at the entrance. Koop waited in the SUV while Kline and Bateman questioned others in the sparse business district. Once the group joined up, they compared notes and settled on a drive to Redwine to speak with the sister.
“The guy sounds like a fucking saint,” said Bateman as they drove Highway 431 north through a string of small towns with names that sounded like an all-female pop group—Kimberly, Madison, Beverly.
The state had provided a GMC Yukon for their use: brand spanking new and more luxurious than his Explorer. Marlowe felt as though he committed adultery. The old Ford and he had been through a lot together, over a decade of times both good and bad. Bateman had taken Spence’s seat next to Koop in the back. The absence of normal repartee between Spence and Koop made the hour drive seem longer. Marlowe never imagined he would miss those two badgering each other. He made a mental note to check with his partner, update him on the Redwine murder, and find out what was going on down in Jackson City.
Marlowe obtained the address for Julie’s sister, Jessica Mallory, through dispatch. She lived in a new subdivision with her husband, Jack, who worked at the arsenal in Huntsville, and two sons, Jonathan and Eric. Jessica hustled the boys outdoors to play before leading Marlowe and crew into a spacious den. In her late thirties, Jessica c
arried a few extra pounds, but with confidence and self-esteem. Dirty blonde hair curled around her face and green eyes darted like a laser beam at every yelp and shout coming from the back yard. She shook her head at some antic one or the other of her sons displayed beyond a bay window and took a seat next to Kline on the sofa.
“An odd bird, Evan. Always knew something seemed off about the guy.” Jessica, a stay-at-home mom, had met them at the door with little surprise. News about her former brother-in-law had made the mid-day news and she’d expected a visit from the police at some point.
“How so? From everything we’ve heard, he sounds like the second coming of the Christ,” said Bateman.
Jessica scoffed and pushed back on the cushion. “He’s certainly religious. Can’t argue with you there. Nothing came outta the man’s mouth that didn’t involve God, Jesus, or the Bible in some sort of way. And that’s part of it, too fanatical about the whole thing for my taste. We go to church, I’m as much a believer as anyone, but time and place, you know? Evan couldn’t cut it off for a second.”
“They lived here in Redwine for ten years before moving to Walnut Grove. Did your sister meet Evan in college? Out at Oakwood?” asked Marlowe.
“Not sure where you’re getting your information, but you have it all wrong.” Jessica popped the tab on a Diet Coke and took deep swig. “Julie was married to a real scumbag before Evan. Bastard got her all strung out, into God knows what. Got himself busted selling meth. That poison’s big around here. After he went to prison, like a lot do after a tough spell, Julie found religion and started going to Bethany. She met Evan there.”
Marlowe gave Bateman a ‘take this down’ nod. Bateman drew out a notepad and began furiously scribbling. Koop stood at the window watching the boys play, apparently oblivious to the discussion, but Marlowe knew the old doctor didn’t miss much.
The Dark Age: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Marlowe Gentry Thriller Series Book 2) Page 14
