“Spoken like a true disenchanted tax payer.”
“I’m just saying. How many breaks does a person need?”
“Work a lot of hard, manual labor in the freezing cold, do you?”
“Ruins my manicures.” Spence held up one hand and admired his nails. “Anyway, I’m thinking…”
“Does it hurt?” asked Marlowe with an evil grin.
“Screw you. As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, we have a prostitute and a gambler. I’m thinking this could be a mob thing. Granted, substantial gambling debt and a ghetto hooker don’t seem to go together, but the mob is known to be involved in gambling and prostitution, along with drugs.”
“I very much doubt it. Still, worth looking into all the same. Melissa Turner liked her prescription drugs. The sister said she threw a lot out, but Turner always kept a bountiful supply. Might fit the mob angle.”
Spence shook his head. “Only thing is, the mob isn’t a big player in Birmingham.”
“Not directly, but some of the gangs may work with them. We’ll check with the Feds, and Vice might have some information. From what I know, the mob doesn’t do this level of ritualized killing. This is very personal. Kap called it an act of love. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“Act of love? Jesus, I’ve had some crazy exes. I’ve heard of jealous wives lopping off the husband’s fun rod, but this degree of love is something else all together.” Spence unconsciously covered his crotch.
“Anything can be twisted by a deranged mind—love, religion—you name it. The thing is, the suicide bomber killing for religion, or the serial killer murdering out of some twisted version of love, they all believe in what they are doing. For them, the faith is real; the love is real. Thinking of them as simply crazy is a mistake. And Seraphim isn’t going to stop unless we catch him.”
“How do you know? Maybe once he accomplishes whatever wacked out mission he’s on, he’ll just disappear.”
“If God came down, in person, and told you to do something, would you do it?” asked Marlowe, an eyebrow raised.
“Yikes, good point. What else did your friend Kap have to say?”
“I filled you in on most of it. The one question he couldn’t answer was the mixing of Greek and Christian mythologies. After Christians moved into the Mediterranean area, a lot of crossover occurred, with Christian beliefs becoming dominant. Our killer seems unable to separate one from the other. The mythologies are blended into one system.”
“All this religion stuff spins my noggin. Give me a simple passion murder or gang shootout any day,” said Spence.
“I’m not certain the religion/mythology angle isn’t chasing our tails anyway. The victims are the key. Hopefully, something in Young’s home will give us a clue as to why Seraphim picked him.”
“I know you want there to be a link, but what if he is choosing them randomly? Could be simple opportunity.”
“The hooker may be, but Turner, a shut-in living in a nice neighborhood? And now Young, a high-end investor? No, my gut says Seraphim killed them for a particular reason.”
“You’re the expert. I’m just here for moral support.”
At last, the freeway congestion broke up, and they rounded the off-ramp into the suburb of Hoover. Young’s home, a nice single-level modern, sat sandwiched between dozens of near identical houses on a tree-lined street, all screaming yuppie.
Marlowe and Spence crossed the yellow crime scene tape and entered the front door. The interior was decorated in a nauseating mix of Boca do Lobo, probably knock-offs, and Ikea. Clearly, Matthew Young defined himself by his place in a social pecking order. Keeping up with the Joneses and scaling the corporate ladder may well have led him to cutting corners in order to feed his ambition.
“Wife and kid are staying with family. I’ll start at the back of the house,” said Spence, and moved down the hall.
Marlowe perused the living room area. He walked to a rack of glass shelving near the TV that held various knickknacks—a crystal oval inscribed with Top Investor 2nd Quarter, two blue ribbons affixed to a 4H badge, and several photos. One photo depicted Young, his wife, and his daughter posed on a beach, framed by the ocean and sun.
Katy sat beside him, digging her bare feet beneath the heated sand. Paige tiptoed into the water, squealing and running whenever the waves lapped over her feet.
“We have the perfect life,” said Katy, her dark glasses reflecting the sun and surf from under a wide-brimmed hat.
“Perfect,” said Marlowe, watching Paige like a hawk. The little daredevil was bound to try deep sea diving if not kept under close watch.
“It’s only beginning. Before long, Paige will be in school. She’ll get all A’s and graduate valedictorian. She’ll excel in college, where she’ll meet a great guy, get married, and have beautiful children. You’ll be Grandpa.”
“Slow down there,” said Marlowe. “Let’s get her through preschool first.”
“You just don’t like the idea of grandpa.”
“Actually, I do,” he said with a smile.
“Once Paige is off on her own, we’ll retire and buy a big RV. One with a kitchen, shower, big bed—the works. We’ll travel around the country staying at all those cute bed and breakfast places. Then one day we’ll come right back here, sit on this beach, and remember how we saw it all, all those years ago.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He leaned over and kissed her neck.
Darkness. A hallway formed in his memory.
Marlowe heard Paige crying from somewhere up ahead. He entered the kitchen to find Katy clutching a man’s hairy forearm pressed against her neck. Her stomach convulsed with heavy panicked breaths. Paige’s sobs grew louder, overshadowed by laughter.
Marlowe swiped his hand hard across the shelves, sending the photos and trophies flying and the display case crashing to the floor. Picking up a lamp, he slung it against the television set, shattering the screen. He tore around the room, upending furniture, breaking vases, and throwing a clock through the glass of a coffee table.
Images, crimson and wet, assaulted his mind. He could not make them stop. They bled together into scenes filled with torturous emotions, overwhelming in their intensity. Marlowe’s mouth opened in a silent scream.
Spent, breath coming in gasps, he collapsed onto the sofa, his palms pressed tightly against his eye sockets.
Hold it together, goddammit.
Spence came rushing in and halted at the doorway as his eyes tried to make sense of the devastation strewn across the room.
“What the hell? Marlowe, you okay?” he asked, worried, and more than a little stunned. “Jesus man, what did you do? This isn’t a narco raid.”
Marlowe did not answer. Raising his head, he stared at Spence as if he might attack him. Spence took a step back, surprised by the violence in his stare.
“Marlowe, it’s me, snap out of it. You’re worrying me, bro.” Spence inched forward and squatted down to eye level with Marlowe.
Marlowe shook the torrent from his mind. He gazed at the broken glass and fractured objects. Kneeling, he started absently picking up the debris, then stopped and plopped back into the seat.
“I know what you’re going through. Well, I don’t, but I understand it. You’re my partner. I’ve been with you since all that shit went down, and watched you caught in this spiral. You live in a dark pit. It breaks my heart that I don’t know how to help you, but you’ve got to hold it together. We need you on this one. Whatever I can do for you, you know I will, but you’ve got to stay in the game. Stay in the present, nothing you can do about the past.”
Marlowe nodded. “Reading fortune cookies again?” He smiled weakly. “I’ll handle it. This thing is pulling up memories I’ve tried damned hard to bury. I’ll be strong, don’t worry.”
Spence did not appear placated. He stared at Marlowe, concern etched across his face. “You really are scaring me.”
“Listen, if I’m going to cash it in, you’ll be the first to kn
ow. After all, you’re singing at my funeral, right?”
“Not funny. And I’m dancing, not singing,” said Spence, obviously feeling some relief.
Marlowe gently shoved his partner toward the front door. “Let’s get outta here.”
* * *
That evening, an anxious feeling followed Marlowe home. Rage and pain had ambushed him at Young’s home and now clung to him like a resistant infection. An insidious disease wormed through his flesh and bones, sapping his strength and will.
He paused on the porch, one hand raised in the robotic motion of inserting the key in the door. Painful memories stiffened his body as he plodded into the house. They exhausted him. So tired—tired of the haunted past, the thorny present, the hopeless future.
Marlowe thought of Paige. He knew he would not be up for any Father of the Year awards, but getting through to her on any level seemed beyond anyone’s expertise. An army of doctors had failed; how could he do anything? How could a damaged man fix a damaged little girl?
A strangled sob leaked from his lips. He needed to spend time with her and feel something other than anger and hate. She represented the last remnant of anything good still hiding within him. So unfair, he knew, to expect a despondent child to serve as the instrument keeping his humanity alive. Marlowe stumbled along a treacherous path toward a precipice, each step led closer to the void.
He stepped into Paige’s room. She sat on the floor, placing jumbo jigsaw pieces into a puzzle—an image of a white horse pranced on the box. Paige peered up as he knelt down, and then averted her gaze back to the puzzle.
“Honey? How ya doing, Babes?” said Marlowe in a soft voice.
Paige did not respond, oblivious to him as she attempted to set a piece into puzzle. The piece was ill-shaped to fit where she wanted to it go. Marlowe gently took the cardboard cutout from her tiny fingers and inserted it into the proper spot.
Paige paused, stone still. She leaned forward and retrieved the piece. She stared at it for a moment before repeating her attempt to place it where it did not belong.
“Honey, Daddy really needs you to talk.” Tears coated Marlowe’s eyes as he raked his fingers through her long, blonde hair. She looked so much like her mother. “Please…tell me how to help you.”
Paige withdrew her hands and rested them in her lap. Marlowe choked back tears that would not fall. After minutes of silence, he took Paige into his arms and carried her to the bed.
“Okay, Pumpkin, time for bed.” He tugged the covers up to her chin. “I love you so much, Baby Girl.” He leaned in to kiss her atop the head. Paige stared at him, no recognition in her eyes.
Marlowe sat at her bedside long into the night, long after she fell asleep.
CHAPTER
11
Gabriel walked down 21st street headed toward his lunch date with Wanda. A pleasant day, cold, but with blue skies and the sun shining, the brisk stroll felt good. In a cheerful mood, he looked forward to his friend’s company; not to mention, he had not eaten since yesterday.
Approaching Wanda’s building, Gabriel noticed a rather rotund man standing at the entrance. He wore a red cap turned sideways on his Neanderthal-shaped brow, and a thick, gold chain around his neck.
As Gabriel came near, the man offered a crooked tooth grin. “Hey dude, need a pick me up?”
He pulled a small, clear bag from his jacket containing what looked like tiny crystals. Gabriel tried to sidestep him, but the man moved into his path.
“No thank you. I am visiting a friend. If you would kindly step aside and allow me to proceed.”
“If you would kindly step aside and allow me to proceed.” Red Cap laughed and mocked Gabriel’s speech. “What the hell are you supposed to be? Some kind of robot?”
Gabriel’s face darkened. The man’s words conjured another memory from long ago, and triggered the feelings that encounter had stirred—anger, guilt, shame. He squeezed his fists tight, something cold swirling inside him.
Red Cap seemed to sense the change, and after a moment of indecision, hardened. Lumbering forward, he taunted Gabriel, pounding one meaty hand against his chest.
“Go ahead shithead…jump,” said Red Cap.
“You leave him alone,” called Wanda from the doorway. “I’ve told you to stay away. You don’t belong here. I don’t want you peddling your drugs outside my home.”
“I do what I want, bitch. Ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.”
“I can call the police,” replied Wanda, refusing to be bullied.
“Police don’t do shit. Call ’em. See if I care.”
“I will.” Wanda shot a belligerent glare at the big man and took out her phone.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, old lady. You don’t wanna mess with me.” Red Cap retained his intimidating posture, but unease flitted across his eyes.
“Yes, this is Wanda Felton, I live at…”
“Fine, I’m going, but you done fucked up, bitch. This ain’t over.” He lumbered away, casting the occasional menacing glare over his shoulder, implying he did not fear Wanda or the police. His leaving indicated otherwise.
“Gabriel? Gabriel.” Wanda shook his arm. “Are you alright?”
He remained fixed in place, his scowl burning a hole in Red Cap’s back. The man disappeared around the corner with Gabriel still glowering after him. Finally, feeling Wanda jostle him, he blinked a few times as if waking.
“Sorry milady, what?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes…yes, fine.” Gabriel tried to cast off the raw emotions.
“Don’t worry about that scum.”
“I…I should have defended you. Defended your honor, but…”
“No, don’t you worry about it. You’re a gentle soul, Gabriel, not a mean bone in your body. You stay the way you are. There’s too much hate and hostility in the world already,” she said with a sweet smile. “Well, come on in, lunch is getting cold.”
After their meal, they sat in her small living room sipping iced tea. Throughout lunch, Wanda continually cast furtive glances toward Gabriel, as if trying to discern some hidden secret. Her scrutiny made him uncomfortable, so finally he asked, “Is there something wrong, milady?”
“See that box on the shelf there? Get it for me will you?” She seemed to have been waiting for the question.
Gabriel retrieved the box and handed it to Wanda. She opened it and removed a ring—silver with an opal stone. She held it up between two spindly fingers; pretty, albeit cheap, he liked the glint of the gem.
“I gave this ring to my husband when he came home from Korea.” Her head turned downward, a sadness creeping into her voice. “I made a big mistake once, Gabriel. While my husband was away at war, I got so lonely. I thought he would never come home. Another man showed me attention, and I needed someone.…”
Gabriel remained quiet. He could tell this confession was not easy for her, but, for some reason he did not understand, important for her to share.
“It only happened the one time, but it ate at me all the many months my husband was away. When he returned, I gave him this ring and begged his forgiveness. I guess I wanted him to scream at me, threaten to leave me. I thought I deserved punishment. He didn’t, though. Just smiled…actually smiled and said he understood. Said he still loved me, nothing had changed.”
“A good man, your husband.”
“Yes…yes he was,” said Wanda, unconsciously smoothing her dress. “It took a long time for me to forgive myself. Before he died, he placed that ring in my hand and told me it could absorb all my regret. He told me to hold it tight, remember he loved me, and let my guilt seep into the ring. Let it take away my shame and pain.”
“A pleasant thought, if only such things were possible.”
“But they are. Maybe not really, but it’s a symbol, a symbol of giving up the darkness inside you. The ring reminds you—reminds you that the darkness is gone.”
Gabriel stared at the ring. Puzzled, he did not understand what
Wanda needed him to comprehend. “There’s goodness in you Gabriel, but also a lot of hurt. I saw it the first day I met you. Pain like yours is from either loss or regret, and I think you have plenty of both.”
She reached over, placed the ring into his palm, and closed his fingers around it. “I want you to have it. Let it take your pain. I don’t know what you’re dealing with, I don’t want to know, but that kind of guilt will eat you up. Believe me, I know too well. Let it go, Gabriel. Forgive yourself.”
“Thank you, milady. I will treasure it always.”
“No, it isn’t meant to be an always thing. Give it your regret, forgive yourself, and when the time comes, give it to someone who needs it more than you.”
* * *
Gabriel left Wanda’s disturbed by their conversation. He worked so hard at shutting out the past, but now her guidance stirred thoughts he did not want to contemplate. A life left behind, yet one refusing to remain locked away, constantly pounded at the door, demanding release. The cage he built within his mind could no longer contain it. The memories flooded in.
“Mother?” said Gabriel.
“This ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant,” said Elisabeth. “O, never shall sun that morrow see.”
Since Mason’s death, Elisabeth steadily slid into insanity, her days of rationality almost nonexistent. Strange that a deaf, dumb, and dim-witted man could provide the slender thread tying her to reality. She slept more hours than spent awake. The world she resided in seemed filled with ghosts, none of which Gabriel could see or understand.
The full responsibility of running the farm now fell to him. He worked morning and night, trying his best to keep the garden tended, the animals fed, and everything in good repair. Only sixteen, he found himself thrust into manhood and faced with decisions he lacked the experience to make. Bills fell behind, crops rotted unsold, and several animals succumbed to illnesses.
The outdoor chores were only a portion of his daily tasks. Elisabeth no longer cooked or cleaned. Gabriel prepared her meals and often fed her—many days she would not eat on her own. He felt guilty, but in truth, his duties outside the house were a blessing. They removed him from her constant need and her ravings.
A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1) Page 12