The Dark Age: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Marlowe Gentry Thriller Series Book 2)

by Dallas Mullican

  Dawn peeked through bare windows, piercing the small room with a dozen brilliant lances amidst floating dust. Evan had worked the night through and still needed to create one last item. The implement would be a crude approximation of the original, but again, function trumped style under present circumstances. The finished instrument resembled a pear, hence its name Pear of Anguish. Its four metal leaves separated from each other as a screw on the end turned.

  Reports on the radio informed him the police knew his identity, and he had no doubt his face was a fixture on every news broadcast and newspaper’s front page. They wouldn’t know about the Chevy, still believing he drove the Ford, but even so, he needed to do something about his appearance. He cut his thick, dark hair with a pair of tin snips, and shaved his head smooth with a razor, managing only a few nicks. With his reading glasses on and more than a week’s beard growth, he hardly recognized himself. He had lost considerable weight since Jenny died as well.

  Evan stepped onto the front porch and inhaled the morning air. Sunday looked to be a beautiful day. With everything prepared, perhaps now he could sneak in an hour or two of sleep before making the drive to Rockford…and Ms. Crimshaw.

  CHAPTER

  18

  “I’m walking on eggshells. I can’t be in the same room with Paige without a fight starting.”

  Marlowe drew the phone from his ear and tapped one end against his forehead. The exasperation in Becca’s voice equaled his own frustration. He didn’t need this right now. Worried about Spence, Evan Marshall still at large, and no telling what Caesar Ramirez had planned, he needed Becca to understand and work with him. Managing the fits and desires of an eleven-year-old shouldn’t require the National Guard.

  “Mom’s out of town,” said Becca. “I’m going to stay at her place. You guys can use my house until you sort everything out.”

  “No. I can’t make you do that. Please, stay. Give me a few more days. Things are quieting down, and I’ll feel better with you there. Mable knows how to deal with Paige. Pass her off to Mable when she gets riled up. You shouldn’t need to, and I’m sorry. It’s your house. We’re guests, and you shouldn’t have to make allowances for us or tiptoe around. A few more days, okay?”

  Becca sighed on the other end. “I-I don’t know…Things are…”

  “I need you. I know things are strained between us, but don’t give up. Not yet.”

  Silence for a long moment.

  “O-okay. But Marlowe…”

  “Yeah, Babe.”

  “Paige needs a father, not just a friend. She’s been through hell, I know, but if you don’t guide her, rein her in…”

  “I agree. I do. It’s hard is all. I look at her and I see Katy. I see those last moments and hear Paige crying. It’s always in my head. You’ve helped me so much to get past it, but it’s still there.” Marlowe gazed out the window, his vision focused on nothing.

  “It’ll always be there. And not only for you, but for Paige too. She won’t remember it, not clearly, but it’ll stay with her. She needs you to show her how to move on. Paige needs discipline. She can’t run with her negative emotions. She’s testing you all the time.”

  And I’m failing.

  “I know,” Marlowe said in a whisper.

  “I’ll be here when you get home.”

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  The line clicked dead and triggered guilt in his gut. He was making a mess of things. Too lenient with Paige, but who wouldn’t be after what she had gone through? Still, Becca was right. A child needed boundaries and guidance. Marlowe couldn’t continue to treat her with kid gloves. His relationship with Becca teetered on a tightrope, balance shakier by the day. Confusion crept in as to whether he wanted her to stay out of love, need, or simply the thought of having someone and not being alone. He feared losing her, and he feared staying with her. The inevitable end stared at him from down a dark road, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

  Everything doesn’t have to end. Give it a chance.

  Loving someone again the way he had Katy terrified him. If something happened with Becca, he wasn’t sure he could handle it. Better to end it on his terms, before attachment created a bond that could shatter them both once it cracked. Everything did end at some point. Whether they broke up, or she died from some accident or disease, a million possibilities. He didn’t want to live life always fearing the worst, avoiding relationships and intimacy because tomorrow might bring an end. A year ago, he believed he had come through the worst of it and let much of the pain go, but now, with the cold distance growing between them, dread crept in and with it…doubt.

  “Nothing on Marshall. News reports are running nonstop, so if he’s stayed in state, gonna get really hot for him.” Bateman plopped down at Spence’s desk.

  “Find anything on where he lived prior to college?” Marlowe didn’t look up, his stare still locked on the phone lying in front of him.

  “Nope, not yet. State’s slow as hell, as usual, but we’re staying on them.”

  Marlowe nodded and leaned back in his chair. “All quiet out at Oakwood?”

  “Yep. Not a peep.”

  “Good…I guess. Might be fortunate for him to try something there since we have the place blanketed.”

  Bateman chewed on a pen and removed it from one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. But either way, only a matter of time.”

  “All right, I’m headed home. Let me know if anything comes up.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Marlowe touched base with Kline and Koop before leaving the building, neither with any new information to offer. The sun still baked the world, ninety degrees in the shade. He suffered the stifling heat until the A/C finally cooled the interior of the SUV to bearable. An old Sisters of Mercy song played on the radio and brought a smile to his lips.

  Haven’t heard this band in years.

  Lost in the music, the dark blue sedan pulling out from a side street behind him barely registered. Not until two turns later and a screech of tires as the car ran a yellow light to stay with him did it occur to him he was being followed. The tail appeared inept at the task if they were trying not to get spotted. Marlowe mentally chided himself. He had expected it and noticed suspicious cars in his rearview mirror over the previous few days, but today his mind wandered and he had let his guard down. Thanks to the amateur efforts of his current shadow, his lack of vigilance might prove less costly.

  Marlowe turned onto 4th Avenue, waited for the car to enter the street behind him, and rounded the SUV in a U-turn. The sedan, an older model Taurus, slammed on its brakes, skidded in reverse, and sped in the opposite direction. Marlowe pressed down on the gas pedal and pursued.

  He debated calling it in. The help would give him a better chance of overtaking the car, but would rob him of the tactics needed to squeeze any useful info out of them. Unless something inside the vehicle tied the occupants to Ramirez, speeding and reckless driving wouldn’t allow the intense questioning Marlowe planned. The Taurus rocketed forward, narrowly missing a half-dozen pedestrians at a crosswalk. At this rate, Marlowe wouldn’t need to call it in, their flight bound to pull in half the force.

  The car swerved hard on to 21st Street, a one-way that traveled the full length of the city from Northside to Southside. If they stayed on this route, it would lead the chase into the congestion of downtown and beyond, the winding roads of residential areas. Marlowe hoped they didn’t know the city and would remain on their current course. It would be tough to outrun him in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  Shit.

  The Taurus took a right at speed, bounced over a set of railroad tracks, throwing sparks and losing the muffler, and jetted down Airport Highway. On the straight wide four-lane populated with less traffic, the sedan weaved in and out of vehicles. Past 41st Street, the car jumped the median, slamming fenders onto the tires, and slid onto 1st Avenue North.

  No choice now.

  “I’m in pursuit of a dark blue Taurus, heading east on 1st Avenue
North. Request backup and a roadblock set up at 35th and 1st.”

  Nothing. Only static, no reply.

  What the hell?

  He switched channels and tried again. Still no response. Marlowe pounded his hand on the dashboard. Busted fuse or some malfunction with the radio. Perfect timing.

  Where’s the fucking help? This is a goddamn cliché, no cops around when you need them.

  One bit of luck, he had gained on them now since they took a main artery toward Westside. They raced through Woodlawn and into Roebuck past Eastlake Park. Neighboring cars blared horns or skidded out of the way. A clash of steel on steel to his right, screeching tires and a booming collision. He glanced in the side mirror to see a red Camaro sandwiched between a Fresh Day Breads delivery truck and a pink Caddy with Mary Kaye Cosmetics on the rear windshield.

  Marlowe gunned the Yukon past the last car separating him from the Taurus. An old lady in an ancient Crown Victoria shot him the bird. No more side streets for about two hundred yards. He had to make a move now or risk losing them in another detour. A hundred yards…fifty…down to two car lengths.

  Yes. Got you now, scumbag.

  He yanked the wheel into the right-hand lane and pulled alongside the Taurus. A dark, tinted window slid down and the muzzle of a submachine gun stuck out. Marlowe slammed on the brakes, throwing himself against the door panel. After an instant to curse and regain his bearing, the SUV rocketed forward, billowing white smoke from screaming rubber on the pavement.

  Inches from the Taurus’s bumper, Marlowe accelerated, hoping to nudge the car into a spin. Before his ploy could work, Submachine Gun Guy leaned out the window and popped off a quick burst. Four holes appeared in Marlowe’s windshield. He swerved into the oncoming lane and barely avoided a head on impact with a redneck in an orange 4 x 4, a Confederate flag tag looming large in his field of vision.

  Okay, asshole, you’re pissing me off.

  Marlowe veered back across the yellow line and edged up on the Taurus’s driver’s side, attempting to keep an obstacle between himself and Submachine Gun Guy. The gunman, not easily dissuaded, climbed out the window to sit on the doorframe, the gun braced against the top of the car. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Three more shots shattered the glass, another couple punching through the door and lodged deep in the passenger seat. Marlowe ducked below the dash. When he braved a peek, the Taurus had pushed its lead. With his Glock in hand, Marlowe sped after it.

  1st Avenue North came to a dead-end at Highway 11 about a quarter-mile ahead. The Taurus would have to slow or risk plowing straight across and into a series of buildings. Marlowe lost sight of the car for a few seconds as it rounded a curve. As he skirted the bend, the Taurus sat sideways in the road…waiting.

  Submachine Gun Guy unloaded his magazine, riddling the SUV. Marlowe crouched and jerked hard on the wheel. Speeding forward blind, he braced for a certain impact. When it came, the shock of the force thrust his head into the armrest and twisted his body around. The squeal of tires sounding the Taurus’s escape stung most of all.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Gentry, there’s no way I can issue a warrant based on this.”

  Marlowe sat across from Judge James “Jim” Brady with a scowl on his face. In the history of shitty days, today ranked eighth, just behind the seven plagues. His body ached head to toe. The doctor said he had suffered a mild concussion and a sprained left wrist. Lieutenant McCann chewed his ass for an hour, adding two sore buttocks to the list. Although no one was hurt in the cross-town chase—eight vehicles damaged, three of which were totaled—someone would surely sue the city over the mess and McCann appeared ready to burst a blood vessel. And now, Judge Brady refused to grant a warrant for Caesar Ramirez’s rental estate.

  Ricky said the old man had taken up residence in a fancy spread out in Greystone, the go to place in Birmingham for the rich and famous, or in this case, infamous. Marlowe badly wanted to get a look around the place and have a little chat with Caesar.

  “Maybe they were two-bit criminals who happened to be going the same way as you, and when you wheeled on them, they panicked,” said Judge Brady.

  “Come on, Judge. You can’t seriously believe that.” Marlowe stared across the immense oak desk, incredulous.

  Brady shook his head. “No, I guess not. But you are a detective, Marlowe. You’re responsible for a ton of bad guys going to jail. You’ve made more than one enemy. Could’ve been anyone with a grudge following you.”

  “Ramirez’s son dies with me as lead, he threatens me and my family, shows up at my house … and now this. You really think it’s all a coincidence, Jim?” Marlowe’s voice rose, louder than intended, met by a glare from the judge.

  “Judge. Or Your Honor. Remember who you’re talking to, Detective Gentry.” The last carried the same rebuke as a mother using her kid’s full name. “I like you, but don’t push it.”

  Marlowe had known Jim Brady since the latter was a mere pup in the DA’s office. He made a name for himself as an assistant district attorney, procuring convictions in a couple of high profile cases, gained an appointment to fill a seat for a judge who died of a heart attack, and subsequently won re-election. Marlowe had worked with him on more cases than either cared to count.

  “A veiled threat…at best, a car at your house that might have been the same one Caesar rode in, and now this.” Judge Brady rocked back in a plush leather chair. “Nothing here connects. Circumstantial is a stretch.” He stood and rounded the desk, propping on the edge near Marlowe. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’d love to see this bastard behind bars as much as you. But if I issue a warrant based on what you’ve given me, and it goes south, it won’t be only your ass in a sling.”

  Marlowe wanted to storm out of the judge’s office, but his exit carried more sulk than bite. He had known it was a long shot going in, but anger, still shaking nerves … and more anger, convinced him he could twist Brady’s friendship into a warrant. Nothing connected Ramirez to the Taurus. Marlowe didn’t get a clear look at the gunman and not so much as a glimpse of the driver. A warrant in all likelihood, unless they were stupid enough to park the Taurus at the Greystone mansion, would have yielded nothing.

  Still half-pissed and half-dejected, Marlowe entered Vice looking for Ricky King. Short, stocky, and loud, Ricky wasn’t difficult to find. He stood in a small kitchenette, waiting on his roast beef sandwich to heat up in the microwave and telling some story about the monster bass he caught on the lake last weekend. As Marlowe turned the corner, Ricky glanced over, his cheery smile drooping to a frown.

  “Hey bud, you okay?”

  Marlowe rubbed his shoulder, the mere mention of the wreck causing his muscles to tighten. “I’ll live. Any word?”

  “Found the Taurus abandoned a few miles up from where they lost you. Stolen, of course. No prints. The thing was clean as a whistle.” Ricky retrieved his sandwich and continued talking while squirting on a packet of sauce. “The Feds are keeping us in the loop … to a point. They’ve tapped the landlines out at the Greystone mansion, but no chance Caesar uses the house phone. No luck on getting a bug inside the house. He’s obviously sweeping for them, and maintaining close watch on his guys.”

  Ricky grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge and offered it to Marlowe, but he waved it away. Ricky popped the tab and swigged down half the twelve ounces in one long gulp.

  “Any luck getting a tail on him?” asked Marlowe.

  “Nope. No one’s coming or going. A few deliveries from local stores, but none of his crew has moved. He’s using guys on the outside.” Ricky took a chomp off his sandwich, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

  “Shit. Can’t trace his cell calls?”

  “If the Feds have managed it, they ain’t sharing. But I’m thinking not. Caesar’s been at this a long time. Knows all the angles. He won’t slip up with something like that.”

  Marlowe thumped the edge of his hand against the counter. “So I’m back to playing the waiting game.”

 
“Bit o’ good news, though,” said Ricky, crumbs dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re gonna release Jose’s body in the next few days. Caesar will return to Miami for the funeral I assume. Doesn’t mean he won’t leave some muscle behind, or come back after, but with what I know about him, I’m betting he’ll want to be around for whatever he might have planned for you. Buys you a little time.”

  “That’s comforting.” Marlowe huffed and worried at his temples with a middle finger and thumb.

  “Hang in there, man. Something’ll break…sooner or later.” Ricky tried to muster a reassuring grin…and failed miserably.

  Marlowe left Metro, a thousand worries racing through his mind. Before, Caesar annoyed him and maybe even frightened him a little. Now, however, he had soared to the tippy top of Marlowe’s shit list.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Evan pulled the Chevy along the sidewalk a hundred yards beyond the church in Rockford and waited. Every person walking past seemed to stare…and recognize him—widening eyes, mouths agape. Apprehension dug in and twisted his bowels. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and shoved the anxiety away. At a quarter past noon, the church doors opened and the first of the congregation exited. One after the other, men, women, and children dressed in their Sunday finest gathered in the parking lot, exchanging handshakes and hugs with smiles and laughter. Evan envied them almost as much as he despised them. Sheep. Followers of the Lie. That he was ever one of them stoked the rage to a boil inside him.

  So many old people. Evan had not seen Ms. Crimshaw in over twenty-five years. Would he recognize her? He scanned the crowd as they made their way to their vehicles. With luck, not too many elderly ladies would be walking home. The retirement home sat a few blocks north, so she would have to pass right by him. That should cut down on the possibilities.

  A full hour after arriving in Rockford, a woman in her eighties began making her way toward the Chevy. She favored her left side a fraction, a slight tick to her gait, a slump at the shoulder. A possible result of the minor stroke the pastor’s wife had mentioned. As she drew closer, Evan examined her face, looking for similarities, features he remembered. They were present—kind eyes, a mouth perpetually upturned in a smile. Ms. Crimshaw, no doubt in his mind. He waited for her to come within a few strides, got out of the truck, and met her on the sidewalk.