The Dark Age

by Dallas Mullican

  Marlowe smirked. “I don’t know. Time will tell.”

  “Mr. Sunny Day Sunshine, aren’t you?” Spence rocked his head on his neck. “I need a massage.”

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “You never treat me nice anymore.”

  Spence led the way to a squad room humming with ringing phones and hectic conversations. Detectives and support personnel worked from two rows of desks, half-panel walls with glass panes on top enclosing the room on two sides. A drop ceiling with florescent lights at six-foot intervals buzzed faintly overhead. Marlowe glanced toward the briefing room. All but two cases listed on the ‘big board’ had gone from red to black, meaning solved or closed. One, a tricky drive-by shooting with no witnesses, would likely remain unsolved, but regardless, Vines and Deason drew it, so not Marlowe’s problem. The other case simply awaited paperwork from the District Attorney’s office in order to go from red to black, Department brass anal about such things. Ridiculous. The case was a slam-dunk. Still, a clerical error had torpedoed more than one good bust.

  Assigned the latter case, a double homicide at a fitness center, Marlowe and Spence tagged the husband for the murders right off the bat. The killer entered the gym after hours, found the instructor banging one Mrs. Nicole Shoemaker, and bashed both their heads in with a twenty-five-pound dumbbell. They brought in the husband, Adam Shoemaker, for a routine spouse interview. Mr. Shoemaker did a nice impression of a collapsing Jenga tower in less than three questions, confessing in detail. He had suspected his wife of infidelity, and soon discovered Clive Bartle, her personal trainer, was her lover. He followed her to the center and hid inside the men’s locker room. After a few hours, he found them training in the nude, lunges and thrusts apparently, and did the deed. Not even a less than stellar DA’s office should be able to screw this one up.

  Marlowe sat down at his desk, moved a clutter of paperwork to the side, and caught bits of the conversation going on across the aisle. Miles Fanning, an attorney with the Public Defender’s Office, appeared near tears as he begged Detective Marty Vines to reconsider charging his client. Apparently, his client had confessed to sticking a fork in his wife’s ass after calling her a fat pig, but Fanning insisted the man had no way of knowing she would fall on the utensil and sever an artery. And yes, perhaps he could have called an ambulance in time to save her, but he slipped on her blood and broke their only cellphone. Surely, Vines could consider the mitigating circumstances. Vines grunted and told him to take it up with the DA.

  “What ya think about this SVCU business?” asked Spence from his desk butted face to face with Marlowe’s.

  “Guess you and the lieutenant have it about right. Governor’s earning votes with the election a few months away.” Marlowe pulled up a spreadsheet on his computer. Metro finally had bitten the bullet and switched to a department-wide data filing system. He preferred the old method—scribble it down on paper and let someone else key it in. His chicken-pecking style of typing took ages and cramped the back of his hands.

  “Yeah. Bump in pay would be nice, but not if it comes with a psycho.” Spence propped his feet up on his desk and watched lazily as Marlowe did all the work.

  “Sure. Plus getting to order McCann around.” Marlowe grinned. “Don’t see it happening. Like I said, last serial before this occurred almost thirty years ago. Most states get a crazy every decade or two. Complete fluke we had three so close together. It’ll be another decade or more before we see another one. SVCU will never see the light of day.”

  Spence shot out of his seat. “Oh, hell no. You didn’t just say never.”

  Marlowe snickered. “Come on, Spence. Because your family came from the bayou way back when, doesn’t make you a voodoo priest. You really need to relax on the superstitious bullshit.”

  “Make fun if you want, but every single time someone says ‘never,’ bam, it happens.”

  Marlowe shook his head and flipped off the terminal. “I’m going home. Light some incense and sacrifice a goat if it’ll make you feel better.”

  Spence wasn’t listening, too busy crossing himself and riffling through desk drawers for his salt stash.

  * * *

  Outside the Metro building, Marlowe squinted into the sun’s brutal glare and sauntered toward the Explorer. Scorching heat burned away the morning cloud cover and reflected the sun’s rays off vehicles and pavement, turning the world bright white. In seconds, uncomfortable empathy with a fried egg made him wince and wish for an ice-cold beer in his hand and shade over his head. With fingers laced under the door latch, a voice from behind brought his head around.

  “Detective Gentry, isn’t it?” A tall, slim Latino man in an expensive tailored tan suit moseyed up to him with a disconcerting ease. His mirrored sunglasses cast twin sunbursts from each lens’ top right corner, and gaudy rings on three fingers of both hands sparkled with an ostentatious shine. In his late fifties or early sixties, a neatly trimmed goatee set off a devilish grin. The man’s entire deportment seethed with menace.

  “Yes. Can I help you?” Marlowe eyed the man, alarm bells sounding in the back of his mind.

  “I wanted to put a face to the name.” The man perused him up and down, a nonchalant smirk on his lips.

  Marlowe noticed another Latino man standing next to the open door of a black Mercedes. Big, at least six-foot-six and two-fifty if a pound, he didn’t move a muscle, and any twitch from those cannons would make his entire glossy gray jacket bounce. His eyes hid behind wraparound black sunglasses, but weren’t needed to convey intimidation.

  “You need something, friend?” asked Marlowe, his suspicion working into his own muscles, drawing them taut.

  “Actually, you do have something I want. But that can wait.” He nodded and wagged a jewel-laden hand in the air. “Talk soon, Detective. Have a pleasant day.”

  The man strolled away, whistling a tune Marlowe couldn’t place. A tiny stenographer inside Marlowe’s head recorded every minute detail about him, his driver, the car, and filed the tape away for safekeeping. Meathead stepped around the front of the Mercedes like a valet or a trained monkey and escorted Don Corleone to the rear passenger-side door, shut it quietly behind him, and returned to the driver’s seat, never glancing Marlowe’s way. His cocky gait seemed aimed at assuring Marlowe he was beneath the huge man’s concern.

  A hand nudged Marlowe’s arm, making him jump. He spun to find a short, stocky man at his elbow.

  “Shit, Ricky, don’t do that.”

  Ricky King, a detective with Vice, and a former partner from Marlowe’s uniform days, who’d helped him see Michael Drenning off to prison, stared at the sleek, black car.

  “Sorry, mate. You sure do keep strange friends.” Ricky motioned toward the Mercedes pulling out of the parking lot.

  “You know him?”

  “Huh, yeah. Caesar Ramirez, cartel bigwig. Runs a slice of Miami. Most of it actually.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see him here.” Marlowe blanched. “Oh shit…Ramirez.”

  “Yep, Jose’s pop.”

  Ricky’s grave expression did nothing to lessen Marlowe’s growing dread. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t know he’s in town. We had Jose under surveillance, hoping Caesar or some other high-level goon might get involved in his shitty little business, but never did. Seems Jose and the ol’ man had a falling out. Kid wanted to prove he could make it on his own, or some such bullshit. Why Birmingham? Who knows?” Ricky retrieved a yellow and black bandana from his hip pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Your little house raid took us by surprise. No time for me to give you a head’s up. We didn’t find out about it until after and Jose was already in the fridge.”

  “Do I have trouble here?” Marlowe shifted his stance, the hairs on the back of his neck standing erect as though someone watched unseen.

  “Caesar’s record is clean, at least for a decade or more. A real terror in his younger days, whole mess of busts—assault, possession, B&E. Suspected
in a pile of murders, gangland hits. Always managed to avoid a trip up the river. Rose through the ranks quick, now he has Don-type status, and not a pimple on his ass. Doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore.” Ricky shuffled his feet and shrugged. “Can call in all the muscle he needs, though. I’d have a set of eyes installed in the back of my head if I was you.”

  “Gee, thanks. Guess he blames me for Jose, but I didn’t shoot the kid.”

  Ricky followed Marlowe to the Explorer. Marlowe glanced back to the parking entrance gates every other step. Not even a psycho would try something at Metro’s front door, but the knowledge did little to ease his nerves.

  “No, but you were in charge. And you have a famous name. A trophy to go with his revenge,” said Ricky.

  “You aren’t helping here.” Marlowe gave him an irritated frown. “Any suggestions?”

  “Honestly, I think he’s trying to spook you.”

  Marlowe grunted. “Doing a splendid job of it, too.”

  Ricky nodded. “The feds are all over him, waiting for him to slip up. He tries to kill a cop and the whole world will fall on his head. Even if it’s a hired gun, now that he’s shown himself, won’t matter. He’s managed to operate for years without doing time, so I doubt he’s that stupid. Keep your eyes peeled, but I wouldn’t get my panties in too much of a bunch.”

  The seriousness in his tone belied his attempt at a reassuring grin. A cold chill trickled down Marlowe’s spine. Quite a day, he’d earned command of an elite investigative unit, cleared his portion of the big board, and received a veiled death threat. What more could happen?

  He heard Spence’s gasp in the back of his mind.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Three dozen mourners crowded around the casket, all members of the church who had known Jenny only in passing. A few of her high school classmates attended, popping chewing gum and looking bored. Memories were short, and with Jenny gone for over a year, even her friends seemed to have lost attachment. Black dresses and suits shuffled at the graveside, surrounded by green grass and majestic oaks. A mound of loose soil gave off a musty scent from behind the onlookers, awaiting its solemn call to duty.

  Encircled by people, Evan had never felt so alone. He looked to the sky for some sign God gazed down and knew his grief. The world itself felt disconnected from the melancholy of the occasion. The sun blazed hot, tickling sweat from the nape of his neck, slicking his forehead and palms. Not a single puff of white cloud blemished a clear blue sky filled with brightly colored birds engaged in cheerful songs. It didn’t feel right. Ominous dark skies should hover overhead, weeping buckets of salty tears onto the grave. Thunder should roll in the heavens, lightning strobing on the horizon. All wrong, the whole thing…all wrong.

  Brother Weaver droned on about the dearly departed, wings like eagles, a table prepared in Heaven. Evan heard the words, faint and from a great distance. Sniffles and sobs drifted around him from hollow bodies that had no right to claim pain or loss. Facsimiles of real people with painted-on concern and sadness. Unfair, he supposed. They did care about him, and lamented his suffering, standing at his side out of simple devotion. He could not blame them for not knowing Jenny well, and he did appreciate the sympathy they offered. Jenny, however, was not concerned with the unfamiliarity of the crowd gathered, the sultry weather, or the hillside view. She knew nothing, felt nothing. No, only the living could experience the world around them. Only Evan remained to feel…anything.

  Brother Weaver read from the Book of Matthew: “And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world…Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels…And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal. And 1 Corinthians: Death is swallowed up in victory. Where, O death is your victory? Where, O death is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Slivers of verses fell on Evan’s mind, expanding to crush down. Jenny…sinner, unbeliever? Where was she now? Hell? A prisoner in some hideous purgatory?

  No, she loved God. Why this doubt?

  The pastor concluded the service and led the mourners in a stanza of Amazing Grace. Every word and hymn meant to comfort added to Evan’s distress and to the turmoil swirling in his soul. Gazing down on the casket, he envisioned his only child beneath the polished wood as she had appeared on the cold, steel gurney in the morgue. Stiff and grey, trapped forever in a lifeless sleep never to wake, no chance for redemption or reconciliation for either of them.

  “I’m so sorry, Evan. She was such a lovely girl.” Mrs. Watts waddled to him on shaky old legs, hugged him, and wiped a tear from her eye with a black lace handkerchief. “If anyone is strong enough to endure this, it’s you. You are closer to God than anyone I know. Your strength will be an example to us all.”

  Marty Franklin, a slim, frail man from Evan’s Sunday school class, took his hand and squeezed with a fragile pressure. “Your girl’s with her mother now. They’re wrapped up snug in God’s love. You know that, Evan. It hurts right now, Lord I know. Lost too many loved ones myself, but time heals, as they say. Chin up, and keep your faith in God.”

  Each person, friends and fellow believers all, embraced Evan and assured him he would be in their prayers. Their words, meant to comfort, slid beneath his skin like a blade with every pat on the back and tender touch. The platitudes stabbed deep, slicing through long-held beliefs to merge with doubt and fear, boiling in a cauldron of caustic emotion. Faith held; its tenacious grasp wrestled with confusion. How to reconcile the love of God with the pain, the evil of Jenny’s death? Evan sank under the wave, sucking in putrid waters…drowning.

  * * *

  For three days and nights, Evan prayed and fasted. He ate only bread, drank only water. His knees bled from days spent kneeling. Sweat poured down his torso and face as he undulated before a blazing fire in the hearth, his skin blistered and raw. Though the daytime temperatures soared above ninety degrees, he practiced a sort of self-flagellation, the heat scorching his body even as a torrent of memories tormented his mind.

  Julie, in a beautiful white wedding gown, smiled at him and said I do. Jenny followed him like a little shadow, wanting always to be near him. The three of them on a picnic by the river, laughter mingled with the gentle ripples and bird chirps, forming a sweet melody. The life of his dreams, God had blessed him and honored His promises, rewarding Evan’s lifetime of devotion and adherence to His word.

  But the valley waited, dark and foreboding. Over the years, they stuck fast to God with strict obedience to Christ’s teachings, never straying from the righteous path. He did all God commanded, guiding his family toward holiness, a servant to both them and the holy commandments. Wasn’t that what the Bible decreed? And Jenny…didn’t the Bible also say ‘Train your child in the ways of the Lord, and they will not depart from it?’ It all went wrong. God withheld His light and nothing but the pitch-black cold remained. Inches from a roaring fire, Evan shivered.

  So weak, he could barely hold himself erect. He swayed now not in rhythmic prayer but from lethargy. The heat washed in waves over his face. Dancing flames writhed like red-orange serpents before his bleary eyes; vision blurred and faded in the onslaught of brilliant colors. Evan’s head slumped forward and the world went black.

  When he opened his eyes, the fire was no longer contained to the hearth in front of him, but had engulfed him. At first, he thought the house had caught fire. He wanted to laugh—a fitting end to a wretched existence. God had removed His hand from his shoulder and denied him His love. This life held no meaning for Evan any longer. He yearned for a place in the grave with Jenny and Julie.

  The flames parted and revealed a path leading through t
he inferno. Evan struggled to his feet and found himself naked, standing on coals glowing red. Massive structures in their millions rose high along the narrow lane, glinting onyx monoliths veined in streams of molten lava that flowed into bubbling pools at their bases. Jagged mountains encircled the realm in fanged peaks, arching overhead and obscuring all but a sliver of blood-colored sky. Agonized wails filled the rank, heavy air—some high-pitched screeches, others guttural moans.

  Evan crept along the path, the heat pressing against him like a tangible force. A few hundred yards into the hellish domain, the pools coalesced into a river and snaked its way to a vast sea. Flame tongues licked high amidst popping bubbles of magma. Islands of rocks jutted up from the lava, each home to a demon and its charge. Torture techniques unimagined in the darkest recesses of a depraved mind acted out before Evan’s eyes. He staggered forward, vomiting, sour drool sizzling as it hit the cinders at his feet. A silent prayer played on his lips, begging for the sights and sounds to vanish, for this nightmare to end.

  With eyes shut tight, he refused to look, to see the horrors all around him, until a familiar voice drifted to his hearing. He squinted into the distance, scanning the islands and urging his vision not to linger on the demons and those they tormented. An obscured shape took form on the horizon, dim through an opaque fog. The longer he stared, the clearer and closer the image drew until he stood within a good leap’s width from a slate floating on the molten sea. A huge devil grinned from a mouth framed in hand-length fangs. Plumes of smoke snorted from pits along its jaws and curled upward with a sulfuric stench. Three massive horns protruded from a misshapen brow, crowning small golden eyes, pupils slit like a serpent’s. Standing well over ten-feet tall, the monster’s muscles rippled along a body hued scarlet.

  A block of stone sat before the demon, draped with a human woman. She lay chained face down over the rock, her naked back and buttocks exposed to the beast’s leering gaze. A face frozen in terror turned and wide eyes pleaded with Evan…Julie! Bile churned in his belly as he fell to his knees, unmindful of the shearing pain greeting his legs and lancing up his body.