The Dark Age
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Praise for Dallas Mullican’s Debut Novel
A COIN FOR CHARON – A Marlowe Gentry Thriller
In A Coin for Charon, Dallas Mullican has created a gritty contemporary thriller with overtones of the paranormal. The author delves so deep into the head of the killer that the reader is right there with him, never quite sure if this is a madman or someone truly doing the work of God. As a delusion, it is portrayed with enough depth to the point of being indistinguishable from reality. Perhaps Gabriel really is doing the work of a divine agency?
- Matthew Cox, author of the Division Zero and Awakened series
A Coin for Charon is Dallas Mullican’s debut novel, a psychological thriller detailing the lives of four people and how they intertwine. An exciting and well-paced page-turner, the first novel in Mullican’s Marlowe Gentry series is heavy thematically. Suicide, hope, and how our past experiences have molded us, are all present in a story that packs enough emotional punch to knock the wind out of any reader.
- Nathan Crazybear, Horror Novel Reviews
Serial killer…or angel of mercy? Sadistic, murderous butchery, or divinely-guided release from suffering? The mixes of theologies and mythologies worked well, I like the way the killer’s selection of targets is handled, and his back story. Good descriptions, some touching moments and a lot of compassion and tension throughout, leading to some surprises and a satisfying conclusion.
- Christine , The Horror Fiction Review
A dark psychological thriller, well-paced with excellent characterization and a brilliant ending. A stunning debut.
- Adrian Shotbolton, Hot Shotbold Reviews
An absolutely stunning debut! Seraphim is the latest serial killer on the loose. His real name though is Gabriel. Gabriel believes he is killing to save his victims and finally set them free. The law and Detective Marlowe would dispute this.
- Confessions of a Reviewer
Are they better off dead? Gabriel will decide. A Coin for Charon is about a very unique serial killer and the hard-bitten, embittered detective who is tasked to track him down. Quite a few page-turners have been written in this sub-genre of detective fiction, perhaps most notably Thomas Harris' books about Hannibal Lector and The Red Dragon. What sets A Coin for Charon apart from the rank and file crime novel, is the subtlety and brilliance of the characterization and the literary quality of the writing.
- Amazon Reader
Dallas Mullican hit a bullseye with his debut novel. If the [next book] is anything like this one, Dallas has a hit series on his hands.
- Shaun Hupp, Author
TITLES BY DALLAS MULLICAN
Marlowe Gentry Thriller Series
A Coin for Charon
The Dark Age
October’s Children *
Aamon’s War Trilogy
Blood for the Dancer *
The Sun at Night *
Song of the Unspoken *
Stand-Alone Novels
The Music of Midnight *
* forthcoming
THE DARK AGE (A Marlowe Gentry Thriller)
Published by Scarlet Galleon Publications
www.scarletgalleonpublications.com
ASIN: B075R3Z3NM
Copyright © 2017 Dallas Mullican
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, not by recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design and interior graphics by David Mickolas. All Rights Reserved.
DEDICATION
This one is for Melea Mullican
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Margie and Alan England, Matthew Cox, Rick Pieters, Al Campo, Malina Roos, Tina Marie, and all my friends for your continued support.
Special thanks to Scarlet Galleon Publications, and Mark Parker, for giving this work a
beautiful life.
A girl’s abduction . . .
A father’s torment . . .
He paled at the sight of dark red smearing the walls and staining the floor. His Jenny, his little girl, had lived here? He could not fathom the idea. How had she fallen so low? Those bastards took her. On her way to church, they had abducted his baby and coerced her to abandon chastity and virtue. Evil bled from the floor and walls like a tangible presence—leering, grinning. How could she resist, alone among lions seeking to devour her innocence? But they, too, were dead now. He felt no joy or relief, no sense of vengeance quelled.
Evan staggered down the hallway—the smell of blood and a host of other pungent odors making him sick, causing his head to spin. An inexorable force seemed to draw him onward. He merely glanced at two bedrooms and a foul bathroom, fetid water in the tub and toilet adding to the stench.
In the last room he came to, Evan broke down, bawling and tearing at his hair. A soiled mattress lay on the floor, droplets of dried blood tarnishing the dingy white sheet. Wedged into the corner at the top of the bed, a ragged brown teddy bear glowered at him. How did she get it? She didn’t leave the house with it. Jenny must have returned to retrieve clothes when he was not home and took the stuffed animal with her. On his knees, he undulated in manic rhythm. The voices howled in his mind and echoed off the walls of his skull, the static background crackling like countless bristles sweeping across his thoughts.
“My God, why have you forsaken me?”
CHAPTER
1
Mangled steel walled the narrow lane on both sides. Detective Marlowe Gentry pushed through a wave of claustrophobia squeezing tight around his lungs and made his way among rows of crushed vehicles stacked one atop another. He envisioned them as bodies broken in a mechanical massacre from some post-apocalyptic movie. The reek of oil and gasoline permeated the air, accompanied by creaks and groans as tons of compacted metal eased into the earth.
Midway down the lane, a monstrous pit bull lunged from a recess and jerked to a halt at the end of a taut leash. Drool flew from powerful jaws with every deep-throated bark. Marlowe's heart nearly stopped, a hand darting to the Glock 21 in his shoulder holster. He caught his breath a second later and cursed the beast with a flea infestation. The light staccato rhythm of raindrops on old steel overcame his pounding heartbeat, and he shook his head in irritation.
The single bright spot in what was shaping up to be a shitty day, the rain had managed to dampen the oppressive heat of a late August afternoon. Beyond that one mercy, the world seemed to conspire against Marlowe’s comfort. The drizzle’s wet tinks added their soft cadence to the surrounding din and set his nerves further on edge. Annoyance merged with discomfort and sent his mood plummeting. A blue button-down shirt clung to him, his coat long ago discarded to the backseat of his Ford Explorer, and dark brown loafers sucked against the mud with each step. If he had to investigate a crime scene today, why couldn’t they kill each other indoors? Preferably in a building with air conditioning.
A dozen uniformed officers milled about an open area at the far end of the rows, appearing at a loss for what to do. Except for the owner of Marvin’s Salvage, no other civilians occupied the grounds, rendering crowd control moot. One man, presumably Marvin himself, pale and shaking, leaned against the wall of a singlewide trailer under an “Office” sign. A forensic team surveyed the scene, hunched and grumbling in the muck. Chief Medic
al Examiner Dr. Fredrick “Koop” Koopman directed members here and there, seeming oblivious to the inclement weather. The doctor ran aged fingers through his thick gray hair and twitched a bushy eyebrow at Marlowe as he stepped up alongside him. Marlowe’s partner, Spencer Murray, slogged through the mud muttering a string of profanities to join them.
“Nothing,” said Spence, frowning into the rain. “Guy was keying in orders for parts and didn’t see the perps enter. The dog barks at its own shadow, so he didn’t pay any attention.”
“Employ a dog to alert you to trouble and ignore said dog when it raises a ruckus.” Koop chuckled. “Brilliant.”
“When the shooting started, he hid under the desk.” Spence shook moisture from his sleeves and tried to wedge in under a bumper jutting out overhead. “Fucking rain is going to ruin my clothes.”
“This isn’t Miami Vice, you know. Tubbs may want his clothes back.” Koop smirked at Spence’s burgundy suit as he cleaned his eyeglasses on the tail of his Metro Police Forensics jacket.
“Tubbs? Why not Sonny? ‘Cause I’m black? You racist.” Spence paused, considering a moment. “No, come to think of it, Tubbs did dress better.”
“Glad to see some things never change.” Marlowe shook his head with a grin. “What’s it look like, Koop?”
“No great enigma. A waste of my talents, truth be told.” Koop waved them along and moved to the far side of the open area. A machine shop housed in a tin building at the very rear of the property contained miscellaneous equipment, a car crusher twenty yards to its right. A large circular magnet swayed overhead, suspended from the crane’s arm like a yoyo dangling from a child’s finger. “Two shooters took positions here and here.” Koop indicated the spot where he stood and another a few feet away, behind the severed rear half of a pickup truck.
“Nine millimeter casings…and a bunch of them. Tec-9, maybe. See some of those with the gangbangers,” Spence said.
Koop rubbed his chin. “Their targets remained in the open, without cover.”
Marlowe strolled to the victims lying prone in the mud—two African-American men in their twenties, dressed in do-rags and gold chains. A handful of shells littered the ground near their bodies, a Lorcin .380 and a Colt 1911 inches from limp hands. Blood from multiple wounds streamed into congealing pools in halos around them.
“Shit, how am I supposed to escape the ‘scary black man’ stares when these assholes keep plugging holes in each other?” Spence huffed and kicked caked mud from a pair of expensive wingtips.
“Doesn’t look like they got off much return fire. Must’ve been an ambush,” Marlowe said.
“What’s your guess?” asked Spence.
“Good spot for a drug deal. Secluded with no through traffic…and the right neighborhood. I’m betting the owner knows more than he’s saying. He lets them do their business here, turns a blind eye, and gets a cut. No chance he’ll admit to it though.” Marlowe ran a hand down his face and flicked the water away.
“Detectives,” shouted someone from behind.
Marlowe eyed the young officer who hurried up to them—a rookie he didn’t recognize. “Catch your breath. What is it?”
The officer braced, hands on knees, and tilted his head up at them, a flop of golden hair plastered to his forehead. “We questioned everyone in the neighborhood. Not many buildings nearby, but an old lady at the end of the street claims she saw a car speed away. Got a plate.”
“Great. Good work, Officer,” said Marlowe.
Excited, the officer straightened too quickly and slipped. He flailed, trying to regain balance, and nearly flipped into a puddle at his feet. Marlowe barely contained his laughter. The young man reddened, but smiled, pleased with the compliment, and handed Marlowe a notepad.
“Red Mustang, black racing stripes on the hood.” Marlowe said.
“Only few thousand of those around,” Spence commented.
“PAKNHE8,” read Marlowe with a laugh.
The officer stared at them, puzzled.
“Packing Heat. Though a bit of a stretch on the heat,” Spence said.
Koop said, “Thank heavens for quality Alabama education.”
“Sergeant.” Marlowe waved a slight, short officer over. The man had a distaste for the ‘suits’ and always gave them terse replies and resentful glares. Marlowe assumed the fifty-year-old cop wasn’t happy he had not climbed the ladder another rung. “Run these plates, make and model on the vehicle.”
The sergeant stormed away, righteous indignation oozing over a tight-lipped smile. Koop returned to overseeing his team gather evidence as Marlowe and Spence made their way to the exit. Once in the Explorer, Marlowe started the engine, and Spence cranked the A/C up to high. A blast of hot air hit them, and Spence hastily turned the dial down a notch. The rookie officer came rushing through the salvage yard gates and flagged them down a second after the SUV started to pull away. Marlowe hit the lever and lowered the window.
“Got a hit on the plates. They belong to a Mustang fitting the description. And there’s more. Prints from the shell casings match the owner of the car.”
“That was fast,” said Spence. “Got a name?”
“Jose Ramirez,” said the officer.
“Shit.” Spence blew noisily through his lips. “No wonder it was fast.”
“You know him?” asked the rookie.
“Yeah. Low-level dealer—heroin and coke. We had him for another murder, but he stashed the gun on one of his guys, made him take the fall,” said Marlowe.
Spence scoffed. “With friends like these…”
“Give me the address. I know he has a list of priors longer than Koop’s bucket list, so don’t bother reciting the litany.” Marlowe reached out the window, took the officer’s notepad, and tore the page free, placing it on the dash. “Thanks, Officer, hmm.” Marlowe glanced at the rookie’s nametag. “Reid.” Marlowe pulled away with Officer Reid gazing after them with puppy dog eyes.
“Spence, get a tactical unit out to 3867 38th Street, 14th Avenue West.” Marlowe set his cop-light on the dashboard, made a quick U-turn, and headed toward Westside.
While Spence called it in, Marlowe drove toward the far end of the city in no particular hurry. Jose Ramirez would be at the address or he wouldn’t. If they arrived in a minute or a month, it wouldn’t make any difference. Jose had skated on the murder rap and served less than five years total on a slew of trafficking and possession charges. Thinking himself the Teflon Don, he wouldn’t run. No, he would trust the system to fuck up again. Marlowe feared he might be right. Jose could claim someone stole his gun, and he had simply visited the salvage yard one day searching for parts. Any explanation would be a stretch, and a blatant lie, but with no witnesses, it still added up to circumstantial unless they could recover the gun and match the shells with ballistics. Marlowe stewed on the dilemma until Spence’s ringtone broke his concentration, followed by an exasperated huff.
“Your sister again?” Marlowe asked.
“Hell yeah. She’s driving me bonkers.” Spence hit ignore and shoved the phone into his coat pocket. “You’d think after fifteen years she’d give it a rest.”
“Been that long since you were home?”
“Pretty much. No reason to go back. Sis visits me here and nothing in Jackson City I wanna see again. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I do my part. I pay for half of Mom’s nursing home. They take good care of her. There’s nothing I can do for her, and she wouldn’t know me if I did visit.”
Spence had been a surprise baby. Ten years separated him from his older brother, Charles, and eight from his sister, Stacy. His mother, seventy-five, suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, her days of lucidity long gone. No mother of the year even before the illness, booze and drugs had alienated her from the family and left Spence with little desire to see her.
He raked his palms along his pants’ legs, irritation evident in his voice. “She keeps bugging me to make up with Charlie. Jesus H. Christ, it’s a dead horse, quit beating it.”
“I know, but it ain’t gonna happen. Not in this life.” Spence grumbled and dismissed the topic with a wag of his hand. “How about you? Paige and Becca bonded yet?”
It was Marlowe’s turn to scoff. “No, oil and water those two.”
“Still fighting?”
Marlowe shook his head. “They don’t fight much. Not unless Becca insists on Paige doing something she doesn’t want to do. Usually she doesn’t want to simply because Becca is insisting. Mostly, she hides in her room when Becca’s over. If I make her come down, or take her to Becca’s place with me, she won’t say a word.”
“Maybe she’s still in her shell a bit. I mean, mute for two years after seeing Katy die, it’s gonna take a while to bounce all the way back,” Spence said.
“No, with anyone else she’s a chatterbox.”
“Can’t Becca use her psychology mumbo jumbo on her?” asked Spence with a grin.
“Different kind of psychology. Becca deals with the terminally ill and their families. She isn’t a child psychologist. But still, she does try. Frustrates me to watch, I’m sure it’s driving her crazy.” Marlowe turned left on 14th Avenue and slowed the Explorer, scanning the street.
“How about you and Becca? Still going good?”
Marlowe offered a pensive frown over pouting lips. “I don’t know. Seems the further her wacko husband and the Seraphim Killer get behind us, the less of a connection we have.”
“It’ll work out in the wash.” Spence gave him a light punch on the arm.
Marlowe grunted, unsure if in agreement or not. They rounded a bend and rolled up a slight grade to find a S.W.A.T van parked across the street from the red Mustang, three patrol cars blocking the street in both directions. Men in black armor and helmets, sporting an arsenal suited for martial law, swarmed the area.
A low-rent neighborhood with near identical houses lined the street in various states of disrepair. A horde of mangy dogs yowled from behind chain-link fences, reminding Marlowe of the pit bull and making him grimace. Only a handful of vehicles dated post twenty-first century, so the glossy red Mustang stood out like a diamond on a coal mound. He gazed at #3867 over dead, yellowed grass. Rickety shutters, painted in a nauseating lime green and covered in grime, flapped against the siding, knocking flakes free. The slender specks drifted to join their fallen mates in a mass grave below the windowsill.