October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  Lori did not get a chance to answer. Some old R&B song she could not place sounded from Spence’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the display.

  “It’s Marlowe.” He hit speaker and placed the phone on the dashboard.

  “What’s up, bossman?” said Spence.

  “Checking in. Found anything?” asked Marlowe.

  “So far it looks like the prelim report got it right. We want to tie up a couple of loose ends, but should close the book on this one in a day or so. How’re things going on your end?” Lori cranked the vehicle, avoided the horde of teens, and pulled out onto the highway.

  “We have a suspect. Name’s Sam Ewell. He’s a step away from the looney bin, no doubt about that. Still, it doesn’t make him a killer or kidnapper,” said Marlowe.

  “Doesn’t sound like your convinced he’s our guy.” Spence reclined in his seat, sipping on a Diet Coke.

  “Not yet. Too many holes, but he’s our best lead for now. See if the Harmons know anything about him.”

  “Will do.” Lori clicked the call dead and dialed up Buddy Harmon. “Mr. Harmon, Agent Kline. Do you have some time today? We’d like to run a few things by you?”

  “Sure thing. I’m at my dealership in Carrolton. I’ll be here for a couple of hours.” Lori now cringed at the overly pleasant affectations that seemed Harmon’s default demeanor.

  “Great. We’re in town now. We’ll stop in. About fifteen minutes?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Once the called ended, Spence said, “What do you make of the sister? Emily? Two daughters run off. A bit strange.”

  “It is. I noticed family photos in the Harmon’s house. I thought something seemed odd about them. Now I know.” Lori wrestled the SUV into a U-turn, headed toward the sales lot.

  “What’s that?”

  “Emily wasn’t in any of them. And not just absent, but I think they removed her image.”

  “Like Photoshop or something?” Spence raised a brow.

  “Exactly. Not by a professional either. Pretty obvious.”

  “Even stranger.”

  Lori nodded. “There’s more going on here than we thought. The Harmons have some secrets. Let’s see if we can find out what they are.”

  When they arrived on the lot at Harmon Cadillac of Carrolton, Buddy played the part of salesman to an elderly couple.

  “Check other dealerships, by all means, but you know me Harold, I would never steer you wrong. You won’t find a better price anywhere. As the top seller in the state, I can offer you the best package of price, warranty, and service. I guarantee it.” Buddy’s saccharine smile never faltered.

  “You’ve sold me, Buddy. You know I trust you. Let me and the missus talk it over. I promise, when we buy, it’ll be from you.” The old man, cowered by Buddy’s overpowering persona, shook his hand with eyes down.

  “Great. I’m here for you, whenever you’re ready.” Buddy noticed Lori and Spence standing close and mouthed be right with you.

  Once the couple walked away, Buddy led Lori and Spence into his office. Again, his football past was on full display—photos of himself with the Bear, Gene Stallings, and Nick Saban on the wall behind his desk. Top dealership plaques lined the adjacent walls.

  “So, what can I do for you today, detectives?”

  Dealing with criminals, attorneys, and a host of unsavory characters, Lori learned long ago to keep her reactions neutral and never allow anyone to fluster her. Buddy came closer than most to tipping her mask. She could not explain her distaste for the man beyond the perception of disingenuousness, but she found herself increasingly fighting an urge to slap the smugness from his face.

  Lori took a deep breath. “Are you familiar with a Sam Ewell?”

  Buddy considered the name, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. After a moment, his brows rose and a light lit behind his eyes. “That homeless guy in Red Weed? Well, not homeless, but close enough. The house he lives in’s about to fall over.”

  “Did you ever see him around Sarah?” asked Lori.

  “Come to think of it, I did. Never thought anything about it. I’d see him around the school sometimes. Seemed to watch the kids arriving or leaving, maybe playing in the playground when there was a lot of them outside. Can’t say he watched Sarah in particular.” Buddy touched an index finger to his lips. “Except once. I saw him walking through the neighborhood right at the time when Sarah and the other kids were getting off the bus. I remember it because Sarah asked me about the strange man.”

  “Did he ever approach her? Try to talk to her or other kids?” Spence jotted notes in a small notebook.

  “Not that I know of, but could’ve. You think he took those girls? Maybe had something to do with Sarah’s disappearance?” Buddy rose from his desk, wringing his hands, anxiety showing on his face and in his stance. The guy could act for his customers, but could he fake this level of agitation and concern?

  “Police questioned and released him, so let’s not jump to conclusions. We only ask because others mentioned seeing him around the school, watching the kids. Nothing right now suggests he’s involved.” Lori fudged a bit on the specifics, but no need to send an upset father on a vendetta.

  Buddy calmed and sat back down. “I see. You never know about these people. Red Weed is good folks, no one would hurt a child. This Sam, he’s not one of us. No idea where he came from. He could’ve done this sort of thing before. In other places.”

  “I stress, Mr. Harmon, there’s no reason to think Sam Ewell is in any way involved. We simply needed to ask you.” Spence attempted to put a kibosh on Buddy’s line of thinking, with questionable success. One look at the man’s face revealed a thousand thoughts swirled behind his eyes.

  “Something else we want to ask you about, your daughter Emily.” Buddy’s head shot up, and Lori barely kept from jumping in her chair.

  “I don’t want to talk about her.” His eyes grew hard and cold.

  “You have to admit, two daughters running away raises questions,” said Spence.

  “Emily didn’t run away. Everyone knows that. She’s in Tuscaloosa.”

  “So we gathered, but why did she leave?” Lori crossed her legs and pivoted toward Buddy.

  “Listen, I’ll explain this once, and then don’t mention her to me again.” He tilted his head forward, an austere gaze down the bridge of his nose.

  “Fair enough,” said Lori.

  “I’m a Christian. And not one of those liberal types, trying to explain away the parts they don’t like. I take the Bible as it reads. I don’t dilute it. The Bible says homosexuals are an abomination to God. There’s no gray area, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. We’re not to tolerate them. Emily is a…lesbian.” Buddy spat out the word as though it were rotten meat souring in his mouth. “I told her to change her ways and do what God says, but she wouldn’t. I couldn’t have her in my house. God judges parents on how we raise our kids. Letting her stay, just the same as saying it was okay.”

  “When was this?” asked Spence.

  “Five years ago, or close enough it doesn’t matter.” Buddy waved a dismissive hand.

  “Have you had any contact with her since then?”

  Lori, content to let Spence handle the questions, watched Harmon’s facial tics for indications he was lying or hiding something. A difficult man to read, he had practiced his gregarious persona so long it became a second skin.

  “No, none. I told her not to call or come back until she renounced her sinful lifestyle.” Buddy’s air of indignation remained, present in stiffness of stance and a bite to his tone.

  “You never considered Sarah might have gone to live with her.”

  “Yeah, I did. My first thought, actually. I checked through the firm I hired.”

  “The poetry book you said Sarah’s aunt gave her. We understand Emily was the one who gave it to her.”

  “I don’t talk about Emily.” Buddy averted his eyes.

  “So that makes it okay to lie?
Doesn’t the Bible say something about not lying too?” Spence could not hide his sneer.

  Buddy’s gaze rose in a glare aimed at Spence, but he did not reply. Externally, Lori shot Spence a disapproving glance. Internally, she laughed her ass off.

  “That’s all we needed, Mr. Harmon. Sorry to upset you, but these are questions we have to ask. You understand, I’m sure.” Spence smiled, flashing his pearly whites.

  “I do. Just hit a sore spot is all.”

  “I think we can wrap it up now. Sarah’s disappearance is likely not linked with the present case,” said Lori, rising from her seat.

  “I knew Sarah ran off, but I admit you had me worried. Believing she’s out there somewhere, okay, is a lot better than thinking some sicko took her to do God knows what.”

  “We’re sorry we had to dig all this up for you and your family again.”

  “Yeah, just when we thought it was over, it comes up again. Miranda’s a wreck, reliving it.”

  “We’re really sorry. Please pass along our apologies to your wife.”

  Buddy walked them out of the building. Once on the lot, he seemed to forget they existed, veering away to swoop in on a man gazing into the window of an ATS coupe. “Best car on the lot my friend. Trust me.”

  * * *

  Lori bounced once and landed in Uncle Joe’s arms. “You came back!”

  “Of course I did, kiddo. You know you can always trust me.” He gave her a peck on the forehead. “You ready for that swing? I wanna see a perfect dive.”

  She grinned. “I bet I can do a flip.”

  “Let’s not go crazy. If you break something, your folks’ll kill me.”

  They loaded up Joe’s Mustang with floats, towels, and a picnic basket containing sandwiches and soft drinks compliments of Lori’s mother. On the thirty-minute drive to Lake Tombigbee, they sang songs played on the oldies station and snacked on potato chips. Uncle Joe kept her laughing with silly jokes and making faces at the cars they passed.

  As they trekked over a bridge, Lori gazed out at the lake gleaming below. Dozens of fishing and ski boats sped across the water, stirring white-topped wakes or floating idle near the banks with lines bobbing on the ripples. Uncle Joe took a left onto a narrow dirt road marked with a no trespassing sign. The Mustang bounced and jerked over ruts in the seldom used path, growth in the median scraping against the undercarriage.

  “I don’t remember this way.” Lori gazed out the window, her nose scrunched in confusion, watching the forest crawl past.

  “I thought we’d try a different spot. No people, so we won’t have to worry with a crowd,” said Uncle Joe with a smile.

  The Tombigbee came into view, the smooth water a second sun, tinted green and spread out to the far horizon. Uncle Joe pulled the car to a halt and Lori helped gather their things from the back seat. The location Joe had chosen was pristine and beautiful. A large oak tree sat atop a hill, its thick majestic branches craning out over the lake. The hill sloped to a wooden pier and a sanded area. They laid out a blanket and placed the picnic basket to one side. Lori gazed up and down the near bank, her attention locking on the tree.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo?” asked Uncle Joe.

  “There’s no swing here.” Her shoulders slumped in dejection.

  “Not yet there isn’t.” Joe tousled her hair. “Follow me.”

  He popped the truck and retrieved a fat rope, perhaps twenty feet long, and made his way to the oak. After shimming his way up the truck, he edged out onto a branch overhanging the lake, and tied the rope around its base. The rope fell toward the water, a metal triangle fixed to the end. Uncle Joe worked his way back to the ground, a broad smile on his face.

  “Voila,” he said, taking a bow.

  Lori jumped up and down, clapping with delight. Uncle Joe was not finished. He pounded a nail into the tree’s trunk, screwed two long pieces of aluminum together, a hook on one end, and grasped the swing, drawing it to him, finally looping the triangle over the nail.

  “See? Now it’ll be ready whenever we come here,” he said. “You wanna try it out.”

  “You don’t have your swimsuit on.” Lori furled her brows.

  Uncle Joe grinned. “Sure I do. Right under my clothes. The best kind of swimsuit, the one God gave me.” He undressed, throwing his clothes this way and that in a flamboyant show. After a moment, he stood before her buck-naked.

  Lori giggled and averted her eyes. She had caught glimpses of her father on occasion as he rushed from bathroom to bedroom, but never anything like this. Uncle Joe’s ‘thingy’ looked like a turtle sticking its head from its shell.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. Plus the water feels so much better,” said Uncle Joe. “You try it.”

  Lori shook her head, not looking up.

  “Chicken. Cluck cluck.” Joe strutted in a circle, wagging his arms and bobbing his head.

  “Am not.” She crossed her arm, a defiant set to her mouth.

  “I dare ya.”

  She and Uncle Joe had a long-standing tradition of never letting a dare go unanswered. Lori considered it. Joe did not seem bothered. He strolled about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Fine, she was not a chicken. She stripped off her swimsuit. Self-conscious at first, she kept her arms crossed and her back to him.

  “There ya go. We’re jaygie birds!” Uncle Joe spread his arms and twirled around. Soon, Lori joined in, both of them dancing on the hill.

  “Okay, let’s christen this swing. Wanna do the honors?” Uncle Joe grabbed the triangle and held it out for Lori.

  She clutched the metal handle, took a deep breath, and ran off the precipice of the hill. The swing vaulted her up and out over the water. At the apex of her swing, she let go with a cry of delight. Hitting the water sent a pleasant shock through her body. Lori had to admit the cool current against her bare skin did feel good, so much better than with her one-piece suit on. They took turns, swinging a half dozen times each.

  “Come over here.” Uncle Joe had swam near the pier where he could stand on the lake floor, his stomach and chest above the surface.

  Lori paddled to him. He placed his hand on her bottom, working her into a seated position. “Ready for that dive?”

  “Yep.” She held her arms toward the sky.

  “Okay. One, two…” Uncle Joe bounced her up and down in rhythm with the count down. “Three!” He vaulted her into the air.

  Lori aimed her head and outstretched arms down and dove into the water. She broke the surface with a proud smile. “Do it again.”

  They swam, swung, and played for a good hour before Uncle declared it lunchtime. Once on the sandy shore, Lori noticed Uncle Joe’s thingy no long resembled a turtle. Now it reminded her of a small forearm and fist. Joe saw her looking.

  “We woke up my little soldier.” He placed his hands on his hips and thrust forward. “See? He’s saluting you.” Joe doubled over laughing.

  His laughter, contagious, soon had Lori giggling. They wrapped up in towels and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches under the bright mid-day sun. One of the best days Lori could remember, she did not want it to end. After lunch, they swam a while longer and made the trip home. Worn out from her swim, she slept the whole way, dreaming of lakes and turtles.

  * * *

  “I finally figured it out,” said Spence.

  “What’s that?” asked Lori.

  “Who Harmon reminds me of—my brother, Charlie. Well, a certain stage of Charlie anyway.”

  Lori arched an eyebrow.

  “Charlie started preaching at about twenty. He knew the Bible back to front, but had no comfort level with public speaking. Scared him shitless. At first, he mimicked pastors he idolized. Black preachers, and some white ones too, but most black preachers have this way of preaching where they seem to put an exclamation point after every other word.” Spence chuckled. “Didn’t suit Charlie. After a while, he found his own voice. More genuine. Buddy Harmon has that same way about him. He seems sincere, but it feels l
ike he’s always trying to sell you something.”

  Lori nodded with a grin. “But are we buying what he’s selling?”

  “His reasons sound plausible. I know tons of folks in the South, hell, probably all over, but especially in the South, who feel the way he does about gay people.”

  “But his daughter? Would he just disown her like that?”

  Spence rubbed the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t surprise me. We investigated a homicide once, two boys killed each other, pact suicide, because they believed they were going to hell for being gay. Their parents seemed more disturbed by the kids’ homosexuality than the fact they died. People can get pretty hardcore about religion.”

  “True. Still, I’d like to hear Emily’s side of the story.”

  Spence pointed forward. “Me too. Onward partner.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Amanda grabbed the Grey Goose from the freezer and chugged gulps straight from the bottle. She plopped down on the sofa, put her feet- up on the coffee table, and stared at a blank television screen, lacking the enthusiasm required to locate the remote. After leaving Marlow in the corridor at the station, she had returned to her office and spent an hour watching words scurry about the pages of reports. The print danced over the paper in a blur of chaotic symbols, her focus non-existent. The whisper of the heated air flowing from a vent to her right, and the hum of the florescent lights overhead, merged to create an unnerving din.

  Amanda assumed her headache was now perpetual and trying to ignore the clamor and a dull thump at her temples proved fruitless. She left her office and wandered aimlessly in a mental fugue until finding herself in the holding cells. The throbbing reached a crescendo when she dragged a metal folding chair across the concrete floor. She clenched her teeth against the screech and pain it induced and glared at the man sleeping behind the bars. Sam Ewell slept like the dead—as though the stone-hard cot beneath him was the most comfortable bed he had known in years. His seeming contentment incensed Amanda. She demanded he suffer the same nightmares she endured every time her eyes shut—tossing, turning, slapping at unseen apparitions born of grief and guilt. But no, he snored, a faint smile on his lips. Clenching her fists, she bolted from the chair and kicked it against the bars, a metallic ring echoing down the hall and through the cells. Sam moaned softly and rolled over, but did not wake.