The Dark Age

by Dallas Mullican

  “They’ll get him, Detective. The cigarettes will see to it,” said the coroner.

  “Cigarettes? What are you talking about?” Spence trembled head to toe, the room vacillating in his vision.

  “You don’t know? They found a grave. Butts scattered around inside. Cheap ones, you know, like you roll yourself.”

  Spence stiffened, an instant rush of fury clearing his mind, a lethal stare popping the coroner’s mouth agape. Incoherent words formed on the man’s lips, but Spence pivoted and hurried out the door before he could utter another sound.

  In a blind rage, Spence stormed out the hospital doors. The images of Charlie torn in half burrowed through his mind and ate away any semblance of rational thought. He wanted blood. An overwhelming desire to place a gun barrel in Jake Gibbs’ mouth and blow his fucking brains out consumed him. Charlie’s cries and pleas for mercy echoed off the bone of his skull. Fury alone couldn’t quell the pain eating him up inside. He needed a release, some way to rid the guilt and heartache. One way…only one.

  Tamara followed on his heels, her voice an irritating buzz in his ears. She hadn’t seen the remains and couldn’t understand even if she had. Fifteen years he stayed away, over some bullshit. Fucking pride. A chance to say sorry, to know the love of a brother again…lost forever.

  “Spence, please stop. Take a second. I know what you’re planning. You can’t do this.” Tamara pulled at his arm. “Let the other officers handle it.”

  “No fucking way. You didn’t see…you didn’t see what he did to him.” Spence couldn’t contain the anger. “Let go of me!”

  He jerked his arm free and glared at her, fighting the impulse to lash out. Tamara stepped back, visibly shaken by the vehemence in his eyes.

  Spence bounded into the Explorer and slammed the door, rattling the glass. He yanked the SUV into gear and thrust his foot onto the gas pedal. The passenger door flew open and the force of the vehicle darting forward almost tore Tamara from her feet.

  He stopped, his anger shifting behind concern. Once assured he hadn’t hurt her, he said, “Stay here, or find a way home.”

  “I’m going with you. You can’t stop me.” Tamara climbed in beside him. The petulant pout of her lips and defiant cross of her arms made clear he would lose this argument.

  “Fine. But you stay in the car. If I’m trying to protect you, I’ll get us both killed.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then don’t do it. Don’t do this, Spence. You’ll lose your job. You could lose…everything.”

  “I have to. Don’t you understand?” The leather of the steering wheel squeaked as his hands twisted.

  “I understand you’re hurting. But this isn’t what Charlie would want…you ruining your life for vengeance.”

  “I haven’t done anything right by him, or anyone, in a long time. I gotta do this.”

  He wouldn’t look at her, her gaze on the side of his face enough to create doubt. If he allowed himself so much as a glance into those eyes, he knew he would cave.

  “Arrest him. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”

  “The fucker deserves to die. I’m not letting some slick-talking lawyer get ‘im off. No fucking way.” With renewed fury, Spence sped up, racing over the county highway.

  Tamara clutched the dashboard with one hand and the armrest with the other, a gasp escaping her lips. The world flew by, but Spence saw none of it, his vision consumed with carnage and retribution. As they turned onto Fulton Hill Road, he barely slowed and the Explorer skidded onto a grassy shoulder. At that moment, Tamara leaned in and jerked the wheel toward her. Spence fought to maintain control, spinning through a ditch and screeching to a halt an instant before colliding with a roadside barrier.

  “Goddammit, Tamara! What the hell are you doing?” Livid, Spence spat the words at her.

  “I won’t let you, Spence. Not now. Not after…” Tears gathered in her eyes and leaked onto her cheeks.

  The sight of her crying, and him the cause, diminished some of his anger. “What? Tell me.”

  “I love you, Spencer Murray. Maybe it’s crazy, but I never stopped. We were only kids, I know. I never stopped. I can’t lose you again…not now.” The tears streamed freely, impending loss etching her face in sorrow.

  He took her into his arms. Tamara’s admission had struck him like a slap in the face and brought with it certain knowledge that he, too, loved her. Spence didn’t want to lose what they had rekindled, but he refused to allow anyone else to deal with Gibbs. This was his duty…his obligation and recompense. It must be him.

  Spence eased her away and gazed into her eyes. “I’ll arrest him.”

  “You…you promise.” Tamara wiped her face and gazed at him with childlike hope.

  “I promise. But I have to handle it myself. Can you understand that?”

  She dropped her head a moment before looking up. “I can. Promise me nothing will happen to you.”

  Alarm bells went off in the hyper-superstitious quadrant of Spence’s brain, but he said it anyway. He mustered a smile and said what she needed to hear.

  “I promise.”

  He pulled the SUV into the drive of Lot #12, checked the magazine in the Sig Sauer, kissed Tamara, and got out.

  “Spence …”

  “I will.” He grinned, though his heart pounded against his chest.

  Now settled a bit and his anger simmering low, he questioned this move. The smart play was to wait on backup. Word of the matching prints and DNA would spread like wildfire and bring a horde of cops in minutes. He shook his head.

  No. Has to be me. Alone.

  Spence eased onto the porch and worked his back against the wall beside the front door. With the back of his hand, he rapped hard. Sounds from inside, then nothing, all quiet. He waited a few seconds and knocked again. The door creaked open and Laticia’s voice issued from the interior.

  “Go away.”

  Spence gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, his pulse racing. “Laticia, where’s Jake? Tell him to come out with his hands high. I’m taking him in.”

  “He ain’t here. I told ya ta go away.” Her voice trembled with fear.

  “I’m coming in. You stay where I can see you, Laticia. I mean it, no sudden moves.”

  Spence grabbed the screen door latch and slid his body around to face Laticia, who stood in the center of the living room area. No sight of Jake, but the rear section of the home wasn’t visible from where he stood. He eased the door open, leading with the 9 mm. Movement in his periphery spun his head around. Jake stepped out from the corner of the trailer, a shotgun posed on his shoulder. Spence backed onto the porch and brought up the Sig Sauer. Too late. The blast hit him in the chest with a vicious punch and sent his body soaring out over the yard. He crashed down amidst grass, dirt, and gravel, his lungs on fire, an invisible vice squeezing all the air from them.

  Tamara screamed from somewhere close. After a moment, her hands touched his chest and pressed against the blood pumping through a dozen small wounds. His breaths panted out in chaotic rhythm, hands quivering, body quaking. Spence had never known this kind of fear. It snaked through every part of him, slithering here and there to find every weakness. His life did not pass before his eyes. Only the faces. Charlie and his mother looked on with disappointment, Stacy and Tamara with abandonment, Marlowe and Koop with loss and regret. A hundred faces drifted past his mind’s screen displaying hurt, longing, rejection. So many he’d failed, or used, or shunned.

  His pain faded, only the cold remained. Tamara’s voice grew distant and muffled in his ears and finally ceased altogether. I’m sorry was all he could think to say, but the words would not come, and he had no certainty to whom they were intended. Charlie? Mom? Stacy and Tamara? Everyone.

  Spence coughed and gasped.

  His world blinked out.

  CHAPTER

  25

  As Marlowe pulled the SUV to a halt, he noticed four county deputy sheriffs huddled in the small yard adjacen
t to Lot #12. He knew in his gut what he was seeing before exiting the vehicle. A pretty black woman rocked on knees beside a prone form, hysterical, as a young uniformed officer attempted to console her and urge her away from the body. She fought free of his grip and he gave up. Marlowe’s heart leapt with a cry that fought past his constricted throat.

  No. Oh God, no. Not Spence.

  “Out of my way. Out of my way, I said.” Koop rushed across the distance and bullied the cops aside. He knelt down, placed two fingers to Spence’s neck, and looked up at Marlowe. “The pulse is faint, but he’s alive.”

  “Paramedics are en route. Ten minutes,” said a brawny uniform looking on with an ashen countenance.

  “What the hell happened?” asked Marlowe.

  Brawny, or Parris by his nametag, wiped his forehead with the back of one massive hand. “The detective arrived before us. Seems he went to the door and the shooter came around the trailer, there…” He nodded toward the far end of the mobile home. “Never saw it, I’m betting. Took buckshot to the chest.”

  A sizeable group of onlookers had gathered and pushed in close around the yard. Marlowe glared them down.

  “Where?” he asked, his voice harsh.

  A dozen arms rose to point and several voices said in unison, “There. The woods.”

  “You two stay here with Dr. Koopman.” Marlowe eyed the remaining deputies—both young, early twenties, but they’d have to do. “You two, with us. Kline …”

  Kline and the two cops fell in behind Marlowe. After a hurried stop at their vehicles to suit up in vests and grab extra ammo, they dashed for the thicket beyond the trailer complex. Tall pines congregated in dense meandering rows and allowed little visibility further into the forest. The group moved cautiously as they navigated over a floor of needles and scones, every crunch notching heart rates up a few ticks.

  Once through the pines, a grade elevated toward a steep ridge dotted with oak, mulberry, and birch trees. Rocky terrain offered less slippery, but still treacherous footing. About to make the trek upward, a blast sent the group scattering and ducking low. Bark exploded on nearby trunks and showered the air.

  “Shit,” said one deputy, appearing ready to piss his pants.

  Marlowe peeked over the rock he hid behind. A cluster of logs and boulders lined the ridge, obscuring the summit and offering the shooter plenty of cover. The path upward drew in as a natural funnel, making their way up like shooting fish in a barrel. He needed a plan.

  “Either of you carrying canisters?” he asked.

  “I am. Got two on me. Tear gas.”

  “That’ll do. When I give the word, toss them as close to the ridge as possible. Stay here and give us cover fire. Pop off a round every few seconds and keep the bastard’s attention on you. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Both were terrified, shaking in their boots. Most likely their first duty under fire.

  “Keep your heads down. You’ll be fine.”

  They nodded and screwed on brave faces.

  Marlowe motioned Kline to him. “When the gas goes off, head up the left side and try to take his flank. I’ll go right. Hopefully, we can bottle this fucker up.”

  She nodded and appeared all business as she moved away and took up a position on the far side of the two deputies. Marlowe crouched, his Glock clutched tight in his hand.

  “Now.” Marlowe flicked a finger toward the ridge.

  A pair of aluminum-hulled cans flew through the air, tumbling end over end, bouncing along the rocks and foliage before finally coming to rest three-quarters of the distance between Marlowe and the ridgeline. An instant later, they detonated with a crack and spewed thick grey smoke into the air. Marlowe and Kline darted from concealment and up the incline. The gas would have no effect in the open area, and would dissipate rapidly, but they only needed a few seconds to camouflage their ascent.

  Two shots rang out in quick succession from down the hill, followed by a boom from the shotgun returning fire. Marlowe kept moving, at times on hands and knees scampering over loose rock and leaves. As he drew close to the top, he paused behind a tree and waited for more shots before darting to the next closest cover. Almost there. He’d lost sight of Kline not long after leaving the deputies. Marlowe didn’t have a great degree of trust in anyone apart from Spence, but as a former FBI field agent, surely she knew her stuff.

  Marlowe gained the hilltop and continued along the flat ground another twenty yards before moving toward the shooter’s perch. He glimpsed Kline creep up on the opposite side and hunch down behind a mesh of tangled vines. Two pistol shots followed by another blast from the shotgun, and Marlowe dashed forward into the bowl where Gibbs squatted.

  “Don’t move a muscle, asshole.” Marlowe halted a few yards from the man, staring him down.

  Gibbs ignored the command, spun, and fired. His surprise caused the shot to go wide, but put Marlowe on his belly. Marlowe kept his eyes glued on the other man and spat a leaf and dirt from his mouth. Gibbs bolted from the depression and sprinted away from Marlowe, straight toward Kline. She rose and stepped into his path, her .38 trained on his chest. The fat man lumbered along with an ancient double-barreled shotgun. He fired once at the deputies and seconds after at Marlowe. He was dry.

  Take him down, Kline.

  She froze. Her hands shook, her eyes wide and wild. Gibbs rammed right through her. Kline spun from the force into Marlowe’s line of sight, blocking any shot at the fleeing man. Her momentum took her to the ground.

  Goddammit.

  Marlowe pushed to his feet and rushed forward. He paused at Kline, who sat on her backside, disoriented.

  “You okay?” No reply. “Kline, are you okay?”

  “Yeah…yeah. Twisted my ankle.” She rubbed her leg and seemed to regain herself. “Go on. Go.”

  Marlowe scanned ahead and spotted Gibbs veer off the narrow trail into the brush. Gibbs had all the advantages here. He knew the area and could wait in ambush anywhere. Every flitter of a bird in the weeds or bark of a squirrel from the trees made Marlowe jump and train his Glock in one direction then another. His heartbeat thundered in his temples; sweat slicked his forehead and palms. Rays of sunlight pierced down through the canopy and created a myriad of shadows fluttering in a gentle breeze.

  The snap of a branch and movement to his right. Marlowe eased through the underbrush, boots placed in slow deliberation, cognizant of every twig. The flat ground ended against another ridgeline that fell off some twenty feet at a steep angle to a dry creek bed below. He spotted Gibbs, with an ample beer gut lending a load of extra weight and appearing unaccustomed to any exertion greater than a walk to the mailbox, laboring along the precipice a short distance ahead.

  “Give it up. Nowhere to go,” shouted Marlowe.

  The big man glanced back, but kept moving. Marlowe had no idea where they were headed, and could lose Gibbs at any time. Marlowe waited for him to appear beyond a cluster of thin, gangly trees and fired. The bullet struck in the left thigh. Gibbs bellowed and tumbled down the embankment, crashing through an old beaver dam. A long, sharp branch protruded through a calf as he clutched his leg in agony.

  “Goddamn you, pig. I’ll kill you. You hear me? I’ll kill you.”

  Marlowe noticed the shotgun had fallen a few feet to Gibbs’s left, out of reach. “Yeah, I hear you.”

  He eased his way into the creek bed and eyed the fat man with heated loathing. Everything about this chase broke the rules of pursuit and engagement. Marlowe should have waited after Kline went down and initiated a search once backup arrived. But he hadn’t. The image of his best friend lying in a pool of blood urged him on; no turning back. Gibbs was losing a lot of blood—pants saturated, the wood clutter around him wet and crimson, his face pale. Marlowe could leave him here. Easy thing to claim he’d lost him after the shot. With any luck, the bastard would bleed out before help arrived.

  Gibbs was an ornery son of a bitch, Marlowe had to give him that much. He wrenched the branch from his le
g with a nasty yank, and on elbows, crawled for the shotgun. Marlowe watched him with a sneer on his face.

  “You’re fucking dead. I’m gonna kill you.” Gibbs inched close to the weapon, his fingers working over the butt of the gun.

  Marlowe’s moral code kicked at his belly, but he stoked his fury with visions of a tombstone, Spencer Murray chiseled into the stone. Gibbs clutched the shotgun and weakly raised it a foot off the ground. Drained of strength, vision dimming, contorting his body to target Marlowe was all but impossible. The gun’s barrel aimed a good ten feet to Marlowe’s left.

  “Close enough.” Marlowe put two slugs into the man’s chest, another between his eyes.

  As the first of Marlowe’s shots slammed into Gibbs, his finger depressed the shotgun’s trigger and a deafening blast echoed through the ravine. Clean. There would be no questions. Marlowe had no regrets.

  * * *

  The waiting room outside the ICU carried an oppressive dread. Fear covered each face, impending grief heavy in the air. Marlowe paced the hall, unable to sit for more than a few seconds. Stacy came down the corridor carrying two paper cups and offered one to Marlowe.

  “Looks like you could use a drink. Sorry, only coffee.” She tried to muster a grin and failed. Her red, puffy eyes and raw nose showed the hours of intermittent crying.

  “How you holding up?” Marlowe took the coffee and touched her arm.

  “I’m terrified. I lost Charlie, and news of what happened to him gets worse and worse. I can’t lose Spence, too.” Tears welled anew in her eyes, and Marlowe stepped close to embrace her.

  “Spence is the toughest son of a bitch I know. He’ll pull through.”

  Stacy nodded and sipped her coffee.

  “Who’s the woman in the waiting room? Young, pretty. I saw her at the scene.”

  “Oh, that’s Tamara,” said Stacy.

  “The Tamara?” Marlowe’s eyes widened. He should have guessed, Spence had mentioned her more than a few thousand times over the years.

  “Yeah, the love of Spence’s life. He never got over her.”

  “I know.”

  Tamara noticed their attention and ambled into the hallway. Her gait and posture made her appear more a patient than visitor. The same bloodshot eyes and frozen look of fear and sorrow Stacy wore, colored her features in a morose veil.