Who in this job had not seen their share of horrific shit? Everyone lived with some kind of nightmare the past refused to swallow. The lieutenant, more than most, should understand. Vietnam vet like him, probably hiding a little post-traumatic stress disorder in his closet somewhere.
McCann put up with Marlowe’s moodiness and reclusiveness, but he probably figured this case would get too big to cut corners with a head case. Marlowe’s best guess was he needed reassurance there would be no going off the deep end again. The lieutenant had picked the perfect time to walk by, catching that spell back there, which likely strained his confidence in Marlowe’s mental stability.
Marlowe’s immediate concern, however, lay in discerning any possible pattern in this crime scene. He possessed an uncanny knack for seeing links and connections others missed—the minute details and discrepancies that at a glance seemed inconsequential. For all his training and natural acumen, so far nothing jumped out.
The ritual appeared finely detailed, meticulous in its planning and execution. He noted a few signs of inexperience, but overall, a clever and determined mind lay behind the murder. Marlowe held a begrudging admiration for this type of killer. They displayed a certain sick artistry. He also knew a sad story usually lurked in the background of such psychopaths, minds fractured by terrible abuse. Even so, nothing mitigated his hatred for what they became—or his desire to put a bullet in them.
Marlowe could not avoid the lieutenant forever; putting it off only delayed the inevitable. After another twenty minutes of staring at a bloody room, he knew he could do nothing more with the case until Koop completed the autopsy and lab tests. Plus, he needed more information on the victim, which would take time. He despised waiting—patience not among his paltry supply of virtues.
Out of excuses, Marlowe climbed into his SUV and headed toward what promised to be an epic ass chewing.
CHAPTER
3
The image on the screen resembled a cross-section of cauliflower, stained with colored dyes. The doctor droned on, directing attention to areas on the display with a laser pointer. Max Bannon’s eyes followed the pointer, but his mind registered little. The little red dot darting across the screen made him think of cats.
“All four lobes are compromised. The nexus of the malignant cluster is here at the cerebrum midline, encroaching on both the temporal and frontal lobes. Additional lesions appear on the occipital and parietal lobes. Glioblastoma multiforme—which has metastasized throughout the brain topography.” The doctor sounded as if he were reading a bicycle assembly manual.
Blah blah malignant blah blah lesions blah blah metastasized—he heard the words floating around him, echoing off tin walls. Two weeks from his thirty-fourth birthday, and Max was dying. Not how he’d planned for his life to turn out. Obviously, someone forgot to give God the memo.
The doctor continued spouting terms Max had never heard, could not pronounce, and would not remember. He thought of all the plans he had for the future—restoring his ’70 Mustang, coaching the boys in Little League, taking Maggie on that cruise she wanted so badly.
Maggie. How can I tell Maggie with things so hard already? This will shatter the kids.
“How long?” he asked the doctor. “How long do I have?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. The invasiveness of the malignancy rules out surgery, but I want to get you on chemo and radiation immediately. We need to attack this with an aggressive treatment plan.”
“How will it affect me?” Anxiety caused Max’s hands to tremble.
“The cancer itself may produce some debilitating effects, such as progressively worsening headaches, seizures, anemia, personality changes, vision impairment, possibly even hallucinations, among others. We’ll need to keep a close eye on your symptoms. The chemo and medications can have some noticeable side-effects as well.”
“How bad?”
In many ways, the idea of chemotherapy and radiation frightened him more than the actual cancer. No one enjoyed vomiting constantly, but Max had a particularly severe aversion to it. A sympathetic vomitter, just hearing about someone throwing up made him gag.
He didn’t consider himself a Calvin Klein model to begin with—too thin, with thick, uncontrollable brown hair that always seemed to have a cowlick somewhere, narrow, dull brown eyes, an unsightly mole on his left cheek—the prospect of hair loss did not strike him as appealing. Some guys could pull off the bald look, Max had a strong suspicion he would not be one of them. His head seemed shaped like an egg now that he thought about it.
“Effects can range from non-existent, to mild, to pretty nasty. It depends on the patient. Most commonly, we see fatigue and nausea. Kidney infections and other related problems can occur. I’ll send you home with some information outlining what to expect and complications to watch out for.”
The doctor reviewed the file before him. “I see you’re married. Good. You’ll need to have someone with you around the clock. If you don’t have someone at certain times of the day, I can recommend a few agencies with very good attendants to supplement your supervision.”
“I need constant babysitters?” asked Max, dismayed.
“I wouldn’t look at it that way, but yes, you need someone with you. As we discussed, the effects of the cancer and the medications can cause a number of reactions. We don’t want you to harm yourself by falling or suffering any other accidents.”
“This is all…a bit overwhelming,” said Max. He possessed a gift for understatement.
“I know it is, but you’re not alone, Mr. Bannon. Engage your support system—doctors, family and friends, clergy. Which brings me to one final recommendation, and I can’t stress enough how valuable this is. Your emotional state is going to be as important during your treatment as the physical. We have a wonderful program here run by an excellent psychologist. Please consider utilizing their services. Here is a card with their information.”
Max took the card and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. Some doctor guiding him through self-affirming bullshit, not a chance. What good could it really do? He might as well take up yoga or tai chi.
“Maintaining a positive attitude is essential, Mr. Bannon. I’ll have the nurse get you some literature on the way out. The more you understand the process, the less fear you may have.”
Yeah, right.
Max left the hospital feeling numb. He sped through the denial stage headed toward the why me phase. He did not understand. No smoking since his early twenties, and then only for a couple of years. Not a great diet, too much junk food, but he exercised. Maybe not running or aerobics, but he was not a couch potato. He worked in the yard and took hikes through the woods. No beer gut or love handles yet.
All because of a little headache, a migraine or something. Not goddamned cancer.
Granted, the headaches had increased to the point he felt his skull would crack open. His regular doctor recommended seeing a specialist, who sent him to the oncologist. No easy chore keeping all the doctors’ visits secret from Maggie. She suspected he stayed out drinking, and normally he did just that after an appointment. Without insurance, he could not afford the prescribed painkillers, so Max substituted copious amounts of alcohol to dull the pain.
Maggie. Their marriage held on by a slender thread at present. He asked himself again, how could he tell her? He came up with the same answer…he couldn’t. Even so, he did not see how he could hide frequent trips to the hospital for chemo, blood tests, and check-ups. And when the effects started showing?
Max could not go home, not yet. His head hurt, and his apprehension of facing Maggie tied his stomach in knots. A couple of beers might dampen the ache and lend a little liquid courage. He thought of Maggie again and decided a couple of shots might be better.
He stopped at his usual haunt. A place where everyone knew his name, or at least the bartender did. They would probably dedicate a stool in his honor—a memorial to his devoted patronage. Convenient the bar was so close to home.
Wouldn’t want to die in a car wreck while driving under the influence, now would I?
Max’s humor grew darker right along with his life expectancy. His face must have conveyed his mood, as the bartender sat a drink on the counter before Max took his seat.
“Tough day?” asked Bob. Bob the bartender, imagine that.
“Tough life.” Max dragged a stool to the counter.
“In that case, first one’s on the house. Second costs double though. Then they go back to regular pricing.”
“You’re a freaking riot, Bob.”
“Don’t I know it. So, what’s got you so down in the dumps?”
“Ever have one of those days when God looks down and decides to take a piss right where you’re standing?”
“Been there. Except it wasn’t God—three ex-wives,” said Bob, wiping the counter in slow circles.
“I hear ya.” Max flicked at a peanut on the counter and watched it spin.
“Look at the bright side.”
Max looked up, curious to hear about this supposed bright side.
“You don’t have cancer.”
“You’re a real pick-me-up, Bob.”
“What I’m here for.”
Bob went about his business and left Max to nurse his drink in peace. As he stared at his disjointed reflection in the shot glass, thoughts whirled by at light speed. A thousand fears fought for dominance, each more terrifying than the last.
The alcohol helped the headache, but did nothing to alleviate the dread of dealing with Maggie. Even driving under the speed limit, the trip home passed far too quickly. Part of him wanted nothing more than to keep going right on past. Just drive until he ran out of road and then keep on driving.
If he had not lost his job, or if he could find another one, maybe things would be different. If a frog possessed wings, it wouldn’t bump its ass every time it hopped. Ifs and buts, the sad story of his life.
He pulled into The Bannon Stead, as Max liked to think of it, a one-level home sitting on two acres. Nothing fancy, but he loved it. A creek ran along the edge of the property and disappeared into a forest behind the house. The large backyard provided plenty of room for the boys to play and Maggie to keep a small flower garden. Max enjoyed sitting out on the deck with a cold beer, watching the sunset. His castle, all he’d ever wanted within its boundaries.
Cody and Austin played outside and came running at the sound of his truck pulling into the driveway. At least they appeared happy to see him. The two best things he had ever done, or would ever do. Cody, ten, looked like his mother: the same deep, brown eyes—eyes that melted Max’s heart whenever in pain or begging for some desired toy. Austin, six, was more like his pop. Unfortunate, that; God willing he would grow out of it.
“Hey champs,” said Max.
“Dad, Cody won’t let me on the tire swing,” said a petulant Austin.
“He won’t get off if I let him. Austin doesn’t take turns right,” said Cody.
“You guys have to share. The swing isn’t going anywhere. You have all the time in the world.” The last statement meant more to Max than to his sons. His face dropped. Catching himself, he forced a smile. “Maybe we can put up a second swing later in the week.”
“What did you bring us?” asked Austin with excitement and attempted to rummage through Max’s jacket pockets.
“A big hug,” said Max, arms held wide.
“Aww, I wanted a candy bar. Come on Austin, race you to the treehouse,” said Cody as the two boys turned and dashed toward the backyard. No hugs given.
Max watched them go. His mind saw them as infants, so tiny in his arms. He imagined the grown men they would become—grown men with wives and kids of their own. He hoped they were better fathers and husbands and did not make his same mistakes.
Max stepped through the front door to a cyclone.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Maggie, her voice several decibels above normal.
“Needed some hoses for the truck.” He tried to move past and avoid the inevitable confrontation.
“They sell hoses at the bar? I smell the liquor on you.” Maggie picked up a handful of papers and waved them in his direction. Betty Boop on her sweatshirt jumped up and down.
“You know what I’ve been doing? Fighting with the power company, trying to keep our electricity on. We have two dozen bill collectors leaving message after message on the phone. I’ve stopped answering it because I don’t know what to tell them. They’re calling me at work now.” Her face turned red as a beet; steam might come gushing from her ears at any moment.
“Try to understand. I need you to support me right now.” Max pinched his face into a well-practiced expression of discouragement, which never worked.
“Support you? You need some support, do you?” Max realized too late he had said the wrong thing. Maggie stormed forward, one pointed finger wagging inches from his nose. “I’m working my ass off to keep crumbs on our table. I’m raising two boys practically alone while you’re out doing God knows what. I bathe in cold water and live in a cold house. I’m so stressed all the time I feel like I’m losing my mind. And you…you need support? I need support, Max. I need some goddamned help.”
“I’m trying. I put applications in every day. I go door to door to every business. The job postings on the internet never reply, or send me form rejections. I search all day long.”
“Do you? You say you do, but how do I know?” Maggie stood glaring at him, hands on hips.
“You calling me a liar? You think this is easy for me? I’ve never been out of work this long in my life, and now I can’t even get a job at McDonald’s. I’m a journeyman electrician with over ten years of experience, and I can’t get a job flipping burgers.”
“It’s been more than a year. The news says the unemployment rate is falling and businesses are hiring. Maybe you can’t get another electrician job right now, but there must be something.”
“No one in construction is hiring, you know that. The housing market is still way down. I’m not qualified for office jobs—no college. Low paying jobs won’t hire me because they see my resume and think I’ll only be there until I find something in my field…and they’re right. So they hire the kid who will work there for a while, can’t blame them.”
“I don’t blame them. I blame you. Be a man. Take care of your family. You think I can pay our bills with what I make at Denny’s? Two bucks an hour and tips, give me a break.”
“I guess I’m not a man. Maybe you should find one.”
“Self-pity now? Jesus, Max, this is all so predictable. It’s not about you. It’s about your family, those two boys out there. Do you know Austin didn’t eat lunch at school because he thought we couldn’t afford it? He’s been saving his money so he could help us pay the bills.”
Max felt like someone kicked him in the gut; an ant could piss on his head he sank so low. His sons going without, his wife stressed to her breaking point. Some father and husband he’d turned out to be. And now…not even enough life insurance for a funeral. They should just toss him into the river.
“I’ll talk to him, both of them. I’m sorry, Maggie. I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are, but sorry isn’t enough anymore.”
“Believe what you want, but I am doing the best I can. You don’t understand what it’s like for me. I’m the man of the house. Everyone is looking at me. They all see me as a loser.”
“No one matters except us. You and your goddamned male ego. That’s why you don’t take a job at McDonald’s, too damned proud. Well, pride doesn’t pay the bills. ”
“That’s not true. I’ll do whatever I have to, dig ditches, anything.” Max tried to ignore her glare. Her disappointment in him killed something inside.
“What about you? You’re on me all the time. Think your hounding me helps?”
For a long moment, she glared at him, fists shaking. Max thought she might hit him for that one.
“God, we’ve done this so many time
s it sounds like a recording. I can’t do it anymore.”
Most times Maggie would be in tears by now. The anger bled from her face. She had moved past being upset toward not caring at all. He needed to defuse this fight before it got out of hand, if it had not already. “Me either. Let’s give it a rest until we’ve cooled off. We’ll work it out, we always do.”
“No, you still don’t get it. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m taking the kids to stay with my sister. At least I’ll know they’re fed and have electricity.”
“Maggie, no.” He said it on reflex, but truthfully, he thought her leaving for the best. If he told her about the cancer now, she would stay out of pity and obligation. He couldn’t take that. It would be better for them to leave. He did not want his sons to see him waste away. He did not want Maggie taking care of him when he started shitting his pants and vomiting all over himself. She could barely stand to look at him now. Max couldn’t stomach the thought of pity and disgust in her eyes.
“My mind is made up, Max. If you get a job, we can talk and see where things stand, but I can’t make any promises. We’ve done a lot of damage. I don’t know if we can fix it.”
That night, Max slept in Cody’s room while Cody slept with Austin. Cody protested, but little Austin seemed thrilled. He planned to build a fort from boxes and bed sheets for them to camp out. Maggie intended to leave the following day. She instructed Max to move into their bedroom in the morning and stay there until she and the boys were gone.
His concern should center on Maggie and the kids, on the possibility of losing them, but he could not shake the terrors his imagination threw up behind his eyelids. Besides, it appeared a near certainty he would lose his family, one way or the other. Sparing them his descent seemed the only mercy he could provide.
As Max tossed and turned in a bed too small and unfamiliar, Cody’s soldiers and cowboys seemed to stare at him with contempt from the shelves. Shadows moved through the room, ghastly shapes creeping along the walls. When sleep came, it did not come alone.
* * *
A long hallway, gray and sterile, stretched out before him. Seconds of silence gave way to a soft hum vibrating in the back of his skull. The sound rose and fell in sync with the flicker of overhead lights.
A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1) Page 4