October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  Goddammit.

  She struggled to her feet. The room spun in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors, joining the din in her head, and rendered legs soggy noodles. After stumbling to the kitchen, she craned her head under the faucet and swallowed down a river of lukewarm water. Seeing the running stream brought the dream to mind, vivid and eternally seared onto her retinas. The pain it beckoned, she ignored. At some point, agony became too much to feel anymore. All the nerves burned away. Just another layer of sediment piling on endless hurt.

  Two cups of instant coffee later, her eyes could tolerate the light, and the world slowed to a listless rotation. She found herself standing before a hundred faces, most smiling atop the word Missing. Amanda stared at each one in turn. She knew them all—their names, heights, weights and ages on the day some evil took them from their parents’ loving care—everything about them resided in the library of her mind. The Halls of the Lost.

  She had never mourned or allowed herself to grieve. Every ounce of pain had turned bitter. Amanda would not encourage sorrow, but instead, spent her waking and dreaming moments feeding rage. The man who had taken Tommy was out there…somewhere. She would find him if it took the rest of her life. And on that day, she would smile, whisper her dead son’s name, and put a bullet between the fucker’s eyes.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “I’d like to take a look at the park and clearing and then speak with the Sorrels,” said Marlowe.

  “It’s your show boss.” With a frigid tone, Amanda kept her gaze straight-ahead.

  Marlowe noticed the less than subtle acrimony. He cast a furtive glance to the passenger seat. Her uniform looked slept in, a heavy coat of makeup masked dark circles under her eyes, and chewing gum covered the smell of liquor. Marlowe knew the signs, he had practiced most of them himself, save for the makeup. He also knew he could do nothing to help her, only Paige and Becca brought him back from the brink. What would work for Amanda was anyone’s guess. His psychology degree did not offer much in the way of counseling the kind of grief plaguing his friend. Though, he understood her sorrow and suffering, the lessons he had learned, unfortunately, were non-transferable. She needed to want healing, a desire that usually came only after hitting rock bottom. Like it had for Marlowe, the job gave her something to focus on, but he knew the quiet moments alone were the worst. Amanda dangled at the end of her rope. He just hoped it did not choke all the life from her before something could save her.

  Mountain Oaks Estates sat off State Highway 14, north of Red Weed, laid out in the shape of a teapot. A dozen homes lined each side of the main street with an open field nestled in the center. The playground nudged against the inside of the ‘spout’, a dead-end off lane, the forest about a hundred yards distant in a wide semi-circle. Marlowe pulled the Escalade in next to the playground.

  “What’s the neighborhood like?” He strolled past the swing-set and monkey bars before pausing to brace with one hand on the slide and stared out across the field.

  “Mostly white. One black family and one Asian, maybe Korean, not sure. Lower middle class. Almost everyone works either at the Mercedes or Honda plants. Matthew and Lois Clanton run the diner in town.” Amanda pointed to one house and then another.

  “Low crime?” asked Marlowe.

  Amanda scoffed. “No crime. Only time I can remember a call out here was a year or so ago. One of the kids had what loosely met the definition of a band. Parents went out and he decided to have practice at his place. I think they normally played in a shed behind one of the other kid’s houses. Anyway, two minutes into their set, the neighbors start calling us. My guys said they’d heard cats in heat with a better sense of melody.”

  Marlowe chuckled. “Only kids from this subdivision use the playground?”

  “I imagine so. Some children live along the highway. There’s a small apartment complex up the road a ways. I suppose some of them might play here.”

  “Town’s to the south. What’s that way?” Marlowe nodded to the west.

  “The river. Beyond it, nothing much but forest until it opens up around Elda.” Amanda pointed east. “The clearing is down that way, the Baldwins’ home on the other side of the hill.”

  “Let’s take a look at the clearing.” Marlowe button up his coat and trekked off toward the woodline.

  The field retained moisture from the previous days’ rain and by the time they hit the forest rim Marlowe’s shoes were coated in mud and his pants legs damp to mid-calf. A bright morning sun cast down warmth through the canopy, and a host of birds chirped as Marlowe and Amanda made their way along the trail—a nice outing under different circumstances. A thousand things he wanted to say, should say, fought with discretion in his mind. Broaching the subject now might not be the best idea, but the longer it hung in the air, the longer it would divide his focus.

  “I thought about you often, you know?” He eased into the subject as they stepped into the clearing. “I just wasn’t in any shape to help. You were there for me. Or you tried to be. I’m sorry.”

  Amanda’s face did not change from the stoic expression she had worn since he arrived. She glanced over. “There’s a lot we should have done. I don’t blame you for anything. I understood. I really did.” A flash of…regret? Sympathy? “The past’s the past. Let it stay there.”

  Marlowe opened his mouth to say more, but shut it on second thought. If it truly remained in the past, he would happily forget it, but every time he looked at her, he knew the past clung to her like a second skin. He remembered how he loathed anyone mentioning Katy to him. How one more platitude might have resulted with his fist in someone’s mug. Now, he stood on the other side of that chasm and understood how his friends and family must have felt—the powerlessness, wanting so much to help and not knowing how. Standing on this side, he found, was as hard in its own way.

  Amanda filled the hole inside her with anger and closed herself off to the world. Any touch or attempt at closeness resulted in cold loneliness, a reaction like magnets repelling one another, confirmation of her inability to reintegrate with family and friends. She was a near perfect reflection of the person Marlowe saw in the mirror every day for years after Katy. How could he make Amanda understand she had not filled the hole? It would always be there. Healing lay in allowing it to exist, allowing it a place inside. Acceptance. And beyond that, finding something—love, purpose—to lessen the pull of that gaping expanse.

  He swallowed down a lump in his throat and sighed. “You found the stuffed animal and rock here, right?”

  “Yeah, there, and over there.” Amanda indicated the spots.

  “How far up is the Baldwin house?”

  “The grade slants up about fifty yards then levels off. Their place is a good half-mile through the forest.” Amanda held a hand to her brow in a salute, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, a beam annoyingly aimed through the tree limbs right into her face.

  “Quite a hike for a six-year-old alone. Plus, she must have a good sense of direction.”

  Amanda shook her head. “True, about the hike, but a trail at the top leads near her house. You can see it from the forest’s edge.”

  Marlowe scanned the area. “Doubtful the guy waited in the woods. Unless he saw them in the playground and guessed which way they might head, complete luck to intercept them here.”

  Amanda knelt down to examine something at her feet. She wiped a nickel clean on her sleeve and stuck it into her pocket. “I think he watched the playground for an opportunity, got lucky when the girls trekked out of sight of the neighborhood, and followed them. He’s looking to take a child. What better place to case?”

  “Possible,” agreed Marlowe. “Let’s talk to the Sorrels. See if they can give us a lead.”

  The short walk back to Mountain Oaks Estates felt much longer than the trip into the forest. Marlowe had hoped clearing the air would lessen the tension between them, but Amanda seemed, if anything, more distant. Maybe he should have kept quiet. Did he say it to make
her feel better or himself? Easy answer to that one, and it did not work.

  Marsha Sorrel met them at the door. In her late twenties, wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt, long auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, attractiveness hid beneath red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. Likely, she had not stopped crying since the girls went missing. After offering them coffee or tea, which they politely refused, Marsha took a seat across from them, wringing delicate hands in her lap.

  “We really hate to put you through this, but any information might help us.” Amanda acted well and fell right into her role.

  “Y-yeah, anything I can do,” said Marsha. “Darren’s out with the search. He can’t sit still for a second. It’s killing me, waiting for the phone to ring, terrified of what they might find.”

  Marlowe flipped open his notebook. “What does your husband do for a living?”

  “He works in maintenance at the Mercedes plant.” She arranged a half dozen stuff animals her daughters left on the sofa and coffee table, seemingly embarrassed by the disarray in spite of the dire circumstances.

  “And you?”

  “Before the twins were born, I worked as a paralegal, but quit to stay home with the girls until they started elementary school. They’ll be in first grade next fall.” Tears sprang into the corners of her eyes.

  “Any investments, savings, or inheritance someone might know about?” Marlowe wrote in the notebook, never glancing up at Marsha.

  “Some savings. Just Darren’s 401k as far as investments. Why? You think the girls were kidnapped for money? We don’t have anything. We barely get by.” The tears leaked down her cheeks.

  Amanda reached out and touched Marsha’s knee. “Just questions. We need to cover everything.”

  “I don’t think it’s a ransom type thing. I’d expect communication by now if it were the case,” said Marlowe. “Like the sheriff said, we’re looking at every possibility.”

  “I-I understand.” Marsha plucked a Kleenex from the end table and dabbed it to her eyes.

  “Did you know the Baldwin family?” asked Marlowe.

  “Not at all. I’d never heard the name until this happened.”

  “You’d never seen the Baldwin girl at the playground before?” asked Amanda.

  “No. I wouldn’t know her if I saw her. They didn’t attend our church, and the girl wasn’t in the twins’ kindergarten.” Marsha demurely blew her nose.

  “Try to tell us everything you can remember about the day they went missing,” said Marlowe.

  Marsha nodded and took a sip from her glass. “The twins went down to the playground after lunch. They do that most days.”

  “Do they usually go without you?” Marlowe sat back and crossed his legs, an intrusive hint to his tone.

  Marsha narrowed her eyes. “This is a safe neighborhood. Nothing bad has ever happened here and everyone watches out for each other. Other kids are usually at the playground or riding bikes on the street.” Her cheeks flushed crimson. “I’m a good mother. I don’t let my girls run around unsupervised.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying anything.” Marlowe screwed on his most reassuring face, and Marsha appeared to relax a little. “Please continue.”

  “I can see the playground from the kitchen window. I checked in on them every few minutes. Well, I went down to do the laundry and heard the rain hitting the roof. Even though they both wore their raincoats, I didn’t want them getting wet. Hard enough to keep down the coughs and sniffles with kids. I stepped onto the porch and called out for them to come home. When I didn’t see them, and they didn’t answer, I went straight down.” Her hands trembled as she moved further into the recollection.

  “You didn’t see the Baldwin girl at any time when you ‘checked in on them’?”

  “No. Johnny Carpenter, he lives next door, was there for a bit. He rode his bike off maybe fifteen minutes before the rain started. Only the twins were there after he left.”

  “Did you see any adults? Particularly anyone you didn’t know?” asked Marlowe.

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. And I recognized all the cars that passed through. Only two. Ms. Deavers who delivers the mail, and Diana Lee, lives two houses up.” Marsha, unable to settle, kneaded at her legs with stiff fingers. “I called Darren home. We went around to all the neighbors, searched down the road and the forest. I phoned the police right after.”

  “Would the girls walk off with a stranger?” asked Amanda.

  Marsha’s lips quivered. “They are so sweet and trusting. We try to teach them the dangers and never to talk to strangers. But…I just don’t know.” Her face fell into her hands, pitiful whimpers escaping between her palms.

  Amanda moved to sit next to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. Marsha leaned into her, the sobs gaining intensity until her body shook head to toe. Marlowe could see the discomfort in Amanda’s expression. Empathy was not her strong suit, and the act tested her range.

  Marlowe waited for Marsha to collect herself and asked, “Can I get a recent photo of the twins?”

  “I’ll get one.” Marsha stood, teetering on shaky legs. After a moment, she steadied and left the room.

  “You’re bedside manner sucks,” said Amanda.

  “I needed to get a reaction.” Marlowe glanced around the room. Amanda’s description of ‘lower middle-class’ seemed apt—most of the décor likely bought from Wal-Mart, but they did not appear lacking any amenities. A large wide-screen TV, a cheaper brand, probably 45 inch, mounted on the wall above a stereo system with an assortment of CDs and DVDs on adjacent shelves. The furniture, comfortable if not elegant, a matching set in cloth upholstery.

  “You think she or the husband’s involved?”

  Marlowe tossed the idea around in his head. “No, not really, but you know as well as I do, the first suspects in any case are the family. Next up—neighbors, acquaintances, workers in the area. We’ll need to take a close look into the Baldwin family as well.”

  Amanda huffed. “You don’t think this is a serial do you? Feels like you’re trying to make it something else.”

  “I don’t know yet. And I’m not trying to make it anything. I promise I’ll follow wherever the leads take us, but I’m not going to force it into a box and miss something vital. The prospect of finding missing children will sit well with the governor’s office. He’ll look good in the press and gain points with the voters. I don’t see any problem with staying on a few days. Don’t worry, you’ll have what you need.” Marlowe’s reassurances seemed to mollify her. She nodded, but kept the severity in her eyes. “Regardless, we don’t have a lot of time. Hunting for random ex-cons would take longer than we have. If an obvious family angle—marital problems, an affair—showed up, it could save us a lot of leg work.”

  Amanda considered the explanation and finally shrugged in agreement.

  “Check the Sorrels’ backgrounds. Find any red flags. We should have their finances examined. The works. Same with the Baldwins,” said Marlowe.

  “Okay. I suppose it does make sense.”

  Marsha returned with a photo of the twins and offered it to Marlowe. He glanced at it—cute towheads, smiling, blue eyes beaming, dressed in their Sunday best—and stuck the picture in his pocket.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sorrel. We’re going to do everything we can to find your daughters. If you think of anything, or have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact either of us.” On the front porch, Marlowe handed Marsha his card.

  “Please, find my babies.” Again, the tears rolled down her face. She sniffled, pressed a hand over her mouth, and hurried into the house.

  No sooner had Marlowe and Amanda sat down in the Escalade than Preston’s voice came over the radio. “Sheriff. We might have a witness.”

  “Might?” said Amanda. “Either you do or you don’t.”

  “It’s Ms. Headly,” said Preston.

  Amanda glanced at Marlowe. “Shit.”

  “Who’s Ms. Headly?” asked Marlowe.

  “Town c
rank. She calls us once a week to bitch about something—kids in her yard, music too loud, someone driving too fast through the neighborhood. She lives right beside the playground, so she would’ve had a good view. Question is, is she wanting attention or did she really see something?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Marlowe pointed forward.

  They walked the short distance to Ms. Headly’s house. A young Hispanic boy mowed the lawn while an older man, Marlowe assumed the father, pulled weeds from a small flower garden complete with a collection of gnomes. The little bastards always creeped Marlowe out for reasons he could not explain. Amanda rapped on the front door. No answer. She waited a minute and knocked harder.

  “I’m coming. Keep your britches on,” called a raspy voice from inside.

  The woman who opened the door could have passed for Methuselah’s older sister. Beady, dark eyes glared out from beneath bushy brows. The skin of her face and neck, in serious need of ironing, sagged in folds down her cheeks and drooped below her three chins like a grotesque foreskin.

  “What you want?” Amanda’s uniform seemed to register, and the woman brightened. “Oh, you finally here about my mailbox?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Amanda.

  “My mailbox. Little cretins broke it. Tore the flag right off. How am I supposed to mail my letters now?” Ms. Headly appeared somewhat cross-eyed, so Marlowe could not quite tell to whom she aimed the question.

  “No ma’am, we wanted to speak with you about the missing children,” said Marlowe.

  She scoffed, disappointed, and waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Too many of the things around here anyways. Keep tromping through my yard, messing up my garden. No loss to me if a few turn up gone.”