Early praise for Dallas Mullican’s Debut Novel
A COIN FOR CHARON
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
A COIN FOR CHARON (A Marlowe Gentry Thriller)
Published by Scarlet Galleon Publications, LLC
www.scarletgalleonpublications.com
ASIN: B074NW8NQQ
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
In memory of my father, William Dallas Mullican, Sr.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Melea Mullican, daughter, inspiration, best friend.
Margie and Alan England for their unwavering support.
Melissa Grinder, Tonya Loveless, and Natalie Wright, for their valuable insights.
Elizabeth Rubio, Rick Pieters, and Matthew Cox, for their expertise and guidance.
And to Scarlet Galleon Publications, and Mark Parker, for giving this work a
beautiful life.
When he opened his eyes, Max found himself strapped to wooden beams in the shape of an X—legs spread, arms upraised.
Pain stood near the far wall, placing instruments on a table. Terror filled Max. He tried to cry out, but no sound would come. Agony hit him. The stump of his tongue lolled about the back of his mouth. He gagged on the vile, coppery slime sliding down his throat. Thick, dried blood caked his chin and his chest.
Pain approached, holding a bucket sloshing with water, droplets splashing over the edge. He placed light fingers along Max’s abdomen. Seeming pleased with the spot, he reached into the bucket and pulled out a slender eel-like creature more than six feet long. The thing thrashed viciously as it swung inverted from Pain’s hand.
Pain held it up for Max to admire. It possessed no eyes, only two rows of needle-like teeth set in a large, oval mouth. One row of teeth turned one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise, the other, the same degree of rotation counter-clockwise. Max’s imagination could not help but picture the wounds such a bite would inflict—penetrating, tearing.
Pain unsheathed a curved blade, set the tip against Max’s skin, and drew it downward. At the scent of fresh blood, the eel-thing gyrated madly. Pain shoved the ferocious creature into the open wound and grunted with satisfaction. Trapped in silence, Max’s inaudible scream ripped through the ether, sending monsters and gods hiding their heads in fear of such terrible agony.
For a thousand years, Pain entertained Max with his tricks and delights. Each time Max felt certain there could be no worse torture, nothing more heinous to imagine, Pain proved him wrong.
One day Max found Pain gone and his restraints loosened. Leaning forward slightly dumped him onto his face. The open door seemed a million miles away, and the silver light beyond an appalling lie. He dragged himself toward the door, fingernails raking the floor for purchase. Outside, he erupted into maniacal laughter. Under the full moon, surrounded by a forest he knew well, bloody and broken, Max wept.
CHAPTER
1
Gabriel knelt low, watching her struggle to breathe. The air, elusive, rattled in her throat, interspersed with pitiful moans. Her heart raced, pounding against his outstretched palm. Eyes filled with terror pleaded for the pain to end. A familiar feeling came over him—fingers tingled, stomach tightened, his head thumped with a dull ache.
He drew the Buck knife from his pocket and flicked it open. Boasting a five-inch blade, walnut handle with brass bolsters, and sharpened to a razor’s edge, the metal glinted with the slightest turn. Gabriel admired the knife, relishing its weight in his hand and remembering the day his father had offered the gift, his tenth birthday—a relic from a discarded life.
Tracing his hand along her side, he located the spot between two ribs and positioned the tip. A quick thrust slid the blade into her heart. She died without another sound, only a shudder, and lay still. His hands numbed as the feeling released, and the tightness in his stomach relaxed, a pleasant light-headedness replacing the throb in his
head.
His fingers raked the dog’s thick, matted fur as a tear streamed down his cheek. No one would mourn a dead mutt in a city teeming with strays; only Gabriel grieved for her. Her distended belly and swollen teats marked recent births. He wondered if the pups would meet her same fate without a mother to provide sustenance and protection. Did they search for her now in vain?
He took her gently into his arms, eased her body into a bag, and sealed it. Hefting the bag onto his shoulder, he trudged to the alley’s trash bin and lowered her inside. Gabriel gazed down on the black plastic and the lifeless form within. His thoughts wandered, indistinct and frayed, memories stalking the edge of remembrance, memories better forgotten.
He craned his head back, staring into a late afternoon sky darkened to deep purple and streaked through with crimson slashes. A crow, perched atop a telephone line, cawed out an eerie greeting to the approaching night. The haunting ambiance suited Gabriel’s mood and offered an appropriate eulogy.
Rundown buildings stretched high toward the ominous heavens, blocking out the final rays of a waning sun. The gangly structures held a rank and heavy air that squeezed the life from these back streets. Windows set into the crumbling facades peered down like apathetic eyes on the people cowering below, watching over a domain in ruins.
Gabriel rolled his head on his shoulders, hearing his neck creak and pop. He wiped a tear from his face with a sleeve and entered the store. Henry leaned over the counter, a plump cheek balanced in one palm, elbows resting on the wooden surface. Years of hard work caused the big man to hunch a little and his ample belly to peek from beneath his t-shirt. Henry owned the grocery store, selling food while giving away the area’s juicier tidbits of gossip.
“Go okay?” asked Henry.
“She is at peace.” Gabriel spoke with reverence, as if losing a dear friend rather than a sick dog that had wandered into the alley to die.
Henry arched one bushy, gray eyebrow at the severity in his voice. “Yeah…well, I’m glad you were here and knew what to do. The thing’s groaning gave me the heebie jeebies. Planned to call Animal Control, but who knows if they would’ve showed. I pay my taxes, should buy a little dependability, but no, can’t count on anything in this damned city.”
Gabriel kept silent. It was never a good idea to interrupt one of Henry’s rants. Most things perturbed Henry in one way or another. He had opinions and loved to express them with a touch of victimization and vitriol. On his best days, he could out hyperbole any politician’s filibuster.
Henry slammed a hand down on the counter. “My store’s been broken into four times in a year. Four times. Think they catch anybody or recover any of my merchandise? Hell no. But let me go a single mile per hour over the speed limit, and a whole mess of cops are there to give me a ticket. Dirty bastards.” He huffed with disgust. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have any idea how to put down an animal, not without hurting the poor thing worse.”
“A mercy. No creature should suffer needlessly.”
“True, too true. So how did you know what to do? Not something you pick up on the fly.”
Gabriel stiffened and looked away. “I…I spent some time working with animals.”
“Can’t say I envy you the chore, don’t think I could handle the job. Not if I had to kill ’em. I’m probably the only hick in the South don’t even like to hunt. Hell fire, I feel guilty ’nuff cuttin’ into a rare ribeye. Still eat it, mind you, but feel a little bad about it. I couldn’t ever work in one of those slaughterhouses. Don’t see how anyone could get used to it.”
“Everything can become acceptable with repetition,” said Gabriel, unable to mask a bitter tone.
“You got a stronger constitution than me. Where’d you pick up such knowhow?”
Gabriel reddened further. “I-I t-traveled, saved my money, looked for a place to settle, and took work where I could. Farms always needed extra help.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Must say, I didn’t figure you for a farmhand. Can’t see you busting broncos or milking cows. I mean with the way you talk, and the way you carry yourself. I thought…hell, I don’t know what I thought. Saw you as some sort of college boy, I reckon. Anyways, I wondered how someone like you ended up here. We got former bankers and lawyers living right out there on these streets though, so nothing should surprise me.”
Gabriel’s gaze turned downcast. He absently tapped one shoe against the floor and rubbed sweaty palms along the sleeves of a blue, checkered button-down.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just you talk all proper, and the way you act.… Well, you don’t seem like the normal drifter.”
“No, it is all right. I discovered early on how different my speech and mannerisms appear to others. I am striving to speak and act normally, but doing a thing a certain way for so long is difficult to change.”
“You know, when you first came to the neighborhood…what was it, a year ago now? You were a fish outta water. Honestly, we didn’t know quite what to make of you. I’ll tell you though, wasn’t you changing none made us think so highly of you, getting to know you’s what did the trick.” Henry stepped around the counter and placed a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “You never got a bad word to say about anyone, and help everyone around here whether they ask or not.”
“It is the least I can do. All of you have been good to me,” said Gabriel, uncomfortable with the compliments.
“Maybe so, but you’ve gone above and beyond the call. Hell, you’ve fixed everything in this store, run errands, and now put down a sick dog for me. You’re a godsend.”
“Thank you, Henry. It is good to hear.” Gabriel’s shoulders lifted.
“As for changing, don’t you change one little bit. Normal’s overrated if you ask me. What’s normal anyhow? Anything makes you different from the scum around here’s a good thing in my book. Stay exactly the way you are, I say.”
Gabriel appreciated the sentiment. He still felt out of place in the city. A year was too short to alter a lifetime of isolation. Fortune had led him to Henry and a handful of others like him, but the city could be cruel and unwelcoming.
To some, Gabriel remained invisible. In the streets or stores, they might stroll right through him like a ghostly image if he did not step aside. To others, his strange speech and behavior gained a contemptuous glare or a snicker. To all but these few, he was insignificant.
“Must say, you chose a hell of a place to park it. Satan’s bunghole, this place,” said Henry.
“It is not so bad.”
Henry exhaled through fluttering lips. “Good Lord. I don’t wanna know where you’ve been if this place ain’t so bad. Anyway, glad you’re here now. I’m pretty fit for sixty-five, if I do say so myself, but managing this place ain’t as easy as it used to be. Sure’s nice havin’ a strong lad around to lend a hand.”
“I am happy to assist in any way I can.”
“I do wish you’d let me pay you something for all you do around here. It’d cost me minimum wage at least to hire someone. Feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” Henry knocked the dust from a rag and wiped down the counter for the third time in as many minutes.
Gabriel browsed through the magazines on a display rack. “You helped me to gain employment. More than enough repayment for anything I have done for you.”
“Not much of a job though. Think I got the better end of the bargain. You gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn to work outside in this cold all day, Christ on a stick. When summer comes you won’t be thanking me none.”
“I do not mind the work or the hours. My past jobs often required I wake at daybreak and work until after dusk. When there are fields to tend, animals to feed, stalls and pens to clean, it matters little if the weather is inclement or pleasant.”
Henry grunted in agreement. “A bit of luck my cousin owed me a favor. Act of God, he actually delivered on it. How’s he treating you out at the hospital anyway?”
“Well. I have grown quite fond of Paul and the cr
ew.”
“Really? You’re the only one. Never saw eye to eye on much, Paul and me. Always thought him a bit of a prick to tell you the truth. We once duked it out at a family reunion, no clue what about, both drunk most like. Paul’s got one of them mugs just makes you wanna punch it.” Henry laughed and mimed a jab in the air. “So anyways, now you mentioned it, I’m more than a little curious how you went from growing up in the sticks to becoming all educated and classy like. Always did wanna ask.”
The chime above the front entrance rang out its unmistakable note, a sound like a bird’s chirp, albeit a sick one. Gabriel slouched with relief. The answer to Henry’s question would require a lengthy story, and not one he cared to share. He had walked away from the past and hoped to leave it far behind him.
Wanda Felton waddled down one of the aisles. Her dress, a delicate lavender, swished back and forth, and a cloth handbag thumped against her thigh. She paused between canned goods and soft drinks to tsk at some item’s price. Still spry for eighty years old, her eyes gleamed with intelligence and wit.
Once she came within earshot, Henry said, “Don’t be coming in here busting my chops today. I’m in no mood for your sass.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were in the mood. I’m way outta your league,” she said.
“And what league you in? The League of Extraordinary Pain in the Asses?”
Wanda shook her handbag at Henry. “I’ll have you know this is loaded, and I know how to use it. You got my groceries ready, or you going to stand there ogling me all day?”
“Might already be blind from catching sight of you as it is. I got your groceries—just hold your taters. All but the cold stuff, anyway. Started to wonder if you’d show, feared they’d go bad, so put ’em back in the fridge.”
“My appointment at the beauty salon ran a bit long.” Wanda preened and puffed up a freshly sculpted blue-gray beehive with one hand.
“Beauty salon? Ha! More like construction site.”
Wanda swung her purse toward him. Henry flinched as the projectile narrowly missed making contact.
A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1) Page 1