* * *
Megan Casey’s office was not what Marlowe expected for the top family law attorney in the city. Located in one of the older brownstones on Southside, the façade chipped and flaked, the building did not imbue confidence in the lawyer’s acumen or proficiency. A receptionist greeted him inside the front entrance. Sixty-something, with thick glasses akin to oversized magnifiers on her face, she beamed a smile, but seemed to focus over his left shoulder. Marlowe fought the impulse to glance backward. She ushered him straight into Casey’s office. The attorney wasn’t one for law and order apparently—books stacked in high columns and scattered haphazardly along shelves, papers piled high on the desk, causing Casey to peek around them to welcome him.
“Detective Gentry? Good to meet you. Please have a seat. Just put that box on the floor anywhere.” She waved her hand.
Marlowe hefted a banker’s box off the chair’s cushion. He scanned the room, unimpressed. Aside from the office’s disorder, the window offered a view of the alley and a slum apartment complex next door. Casey noticed his concern.
“Sorry about the décor, or lack thereof. I’m not much on affectations. I hope my work speaks for itself. I don’t use paralegals or a staff, just my secretary and a freelance investigator. I like to do the lion’s share myself, which means I don’t take as many clients as bigger firms.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Marlowe shrugged apologetically.
“Think nothing of it. Same reaction as most.” She shoved files aside, giving Marlowe his first clear glimpse of her. In her upper-fifties, she wore her jet-black hair long. It fell across her shoulders and down her back. Her plain white dress, with dainty blue paisley designs, reminded him of his grandmother, the one who had dragged him to her Pentecostal church once—speaking in tongues, dancing in the aisles, it had scared the shit out of him. This was not off to a confidence endearing start.
“I’ve been looking over your records. Good job by the way, getting those so quickly. Usually takes weeks.”
“A badge and not taking no for an answer works wonders.”
“I can imagine.” Casey flipped through the pages in front of her. “Your financials look good, no problems there. Your physical health is great. You must stay in shape.”
“I try.” Marlowe self-consciously smoothed his suit’s sleeves.
Her expression turned grim. “Your department history, however…”
“I’ve been in a few scrapes, but nothing more than most cops.”
“I seriously doubt that. This reads like a John Sandford novel with more than a touch of Thomas Harris throw in. I do enjoy my crime fiction.” Her attempt at levity fell flat due to the constipated expression on her face. “Anyway, this presents us with some problems.”
“How so? I do my job, but I take care of my daughter.” Marlowe’s blood rose, his face flushed.
“Years ago, and not too distant, it was near impossible to remove a child from their biological parents. Hell, I’ve witnessed crack addicts retain custody. But things have changed dramatically in recent years. The child’s welfare is paramount. Depending on the judge—no juries in these matters, generally speaking—it could go either way in the best of circumstances.”
“You’re saying they could really take my daughter from me?” His heart sank, a sheen of sweat slicking his palms.
“We’re going to do everything possible to see that doesn’t happen. Still, I need to make you aware of what’s at stake.” Casey drew a sheet from the file and waved it at Marlowe. “This is our biggest concern. The department did a shoddy job with your release back to work after your wife died. The psychiatrist really flubbed it up, probably pressured by your superiors. They wanted you back on the job.”
“I pushed too, and I wasn’t a model patient.”
“Cops never are in those situations, but it doesn’t matter. They had a responsibility to you, the department, the public, and now, to your family. I’d be tempted to seek a suit against them.”
“No. I don’t want that.” Marlowe stiffened and edged forward in his chair.
“Not my area, but something to consider.” Casey dismissed the notion with a flick of her hand.
“So what now?”
“I’ll continue to review your records, and I’ll issue subpoenas for your in-law’s documents. At their ages, possible health issues could damage their claim. Perhaps, debts and whatnot. I would expect their attorney to file for a psych evaluation of both you and your daughter.”
“What? I won’t allow it.” Marlowe clutched the chair’s armrests with such force, they cracked, a snap sounding through the room.
Casey frowned, but did not remark on his outburst, or her damaged chair. “It isn’t up to you. And prepare yourself, a judge could grant temporary custody to the Cummings, or even place your daughter into foster care, pending the evaluation, which could take a day or months, depending…”
“Paige isn’t going to some strangers’ home. This is insane.” Marlowe rose and stalked across the floor. He paused and exhaled, trying to calm himself. “You said depending? On whether I’m nuts? On whether my daughter measures up to their standards? How hard will it be to paint either of us damaged after all we’ve gone through?”
“It’s my job to mitigate those factors. And I will. I will also find every nasty little tidbit hidden away in your former in-laws closets. This will get most unpleasant I’m afraid. No way around it.”
“Is that absolutely necessary? They are good people. Just, misguided on this.” Marlowe, embarrassed by his plaintive tone, sat back down, his shoulders pushed back, and crossed his legs.
Casey pressed her glasses along the ridge of her nose. “I understand. And your view is admirable, but may not be realistic.”
Marlowe’s face slid downward as if sloughing off with despair. “How long? How long will it take?”
“I can delay some, but they’ll fight me on everything. Again, when it comes to children, the courts are under a great deal of public scrutiny. With all cases, come to think of it. If they allow a child to stay in an unhealthy situation and something happens, it could cost a judge reelection. That’s what it all comes down to now days.” Casey shook her head. “I know I sound cynical, all doom and gloom, but I don’t want you to have any illusions about the seriousness of this matter. I’m good at what I do, and I will fight tooth and nail for you, but in the end it boils down to who the judge believes and how he or she interprets the evidence.” She stood and stepped around the desk. “Nothing’s going to happen immediately, so try not to worry, as difficult as it may be. I’ll let you know as soon as I have any information.”
Marlowe lurched from the office in a daze, a thousand fearful eventualities whirling in his mind. Outside the entrance, Becca stood beside his SUV, a sad smile on her face. Tears seeped into his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“What did she say?” asked Becca, her voice tentative.
“It’s not good.”
As soon as they sat down and shut the doors, Marlowe lost it. No longer able to hold back the tears, he fell into Becca. She held him, her own tears dripping onto his neck. They cried together in a helpless embrace, time standing still or zipping past, the moment inescapable.
“It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this,” said Becca, drawing back.
“How? Everything Ginger said is true. I have no argument against any of it. My job is dangerous. Dangerous to me, to Paige, to you. I can’t know what madman I hunt will decide to hurt me through my family. Look at all the damage I’ve caused already. My job led Frank Brumbeloe to my wife and child. It led Caesar Ramirez to kidnap Paige. Only pure luck has kept me from being killed more times than I can count.” Marlowe slapped at the wetness on his cheeks. “How long before it happens again? How selfish am I to keep Paige, you, in such a situation. Maybe the best thing is to let her go so she’ll be safe. I can’t bear the thought of her afraid all the time. That’s no kind of life for a child.”
&nb
sp; “She lost her mother, she can’t lose her father. They don’t understand the harm it could do.”
“More harm than a psycho could do? If something happened to her because of me, my job, I couldn’t live with it.”
“Your job saves lives, it doesn’t take them. The monsters you hunt are solely to blame for any death. And how many people would have died without you? How much longer would they go on killing without you there to stop them?” Becca stroked his arm with a gentle caress.
Marlowe grew reflective; his shoulders slumped in defeat. “For so long I’ve defined myself as a cop. It’s all I know. But you and Paige, if I lose you.” He gazed at Becca with heart breaking sadness.
“You won’t. We’ll beat this. We will.” Her voice ticked up a decibel with a defiant set to her jaw.
“In spite of all that’s happened, I’ve always explained it away. Putting my duty above everything else. Seemed worth it, you know? The threats defeated, the bad guys dead or in prison. Now, people who love her, who claim to love me, are trying to do what those monsters couldn’t—take Paige away from me. Is this the justice I deserve for my own crimes?”
“What crimes? You are a great father.” Becca leaned back, surprised.
“Pride, selfishness.”
“Give yourself some time to process everything. It’s hit you out of the blue, a major shock to the system. Let Casey do her thing, and we’ll find a way through this. Maybe, now that you know how serious Ginger and John are, you guys can talk, and work something out.”
Marlowe shot her a hateful glare, but one not aimed at her. The mere thought of sitting the same room with the Cummings made him feel sick. He didn’t have much faith in his ability to restrain himself. One smug look, one wrong word, could sever their relationship forever. But honestly, hadn’t they done that already? How could they recover any semblance of affection for one another after this? More death and loss, just figuratively this time.
“I know you’re angry with them, but if you think you’re guilty of pride and selfishness, perhaps this is a good time to swallow it down and do what you have to do.”
He managed a weak smile. “Low blow. But you’re right. If I have to grovel to keep Paige, I will.”
“Good. And you’re very sexy when you beg.” She leaned over and kissed him.
Becca had a point. Perhaps this doom and gloom was a bit overly dramatic. Maybe he could talk to Ginger. They had always been close before, maybe… Okay, he felt slightly better. The panic eased, his stomach unknotted, and his breathing returned to something approximating normal.
“Let’s go get Paige and do something fun. Get your mind off this for a little while. Can you put off heading back to Red Weed for a couple of hours?” asked Becca.
“I’d like that. And God knows I need it.” On cue, Marlowe’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Marlowe…” Amanda’s voice issued from the radio. “Ewing’s on the move.”
“Goddammit,” said Marlowe.
CHAPTER
18
Amanda parked her cruiser and made the long walk across the field below Harper’s Bend. A narrow trail, accessed by hunters and those headed to the Bend to fish, led in a snaking contour toward the forest. The rain had let up again to a drizzle—the previous storms’ fall seeped into the ground. A viscid layer of muck, inches deep, covered the lane, making the route impassable to all except four-wheel drive vehicles, of which three sat near the treeline, blue lights flashing in the dusk. A dozen of her deputies waited, anxiousness evident in their shifting stances, checking and rechecking their weapons.
“Goddamn this rain. Feels like it hasn’t stopped for more than a blink in weeks.” Amanda stepped into the center of the group, mud smearing her pants up to the knees. “How long since Ewing went in?” She pointed to the forest.
“Twenty minutes maybe,” said Banks, and nodded. “Went in right about here.”
“And our other friends?”
“Up toward the Bend a ways. A good ten minutes behind Sam.”
“Okay. Preston, Banks, and Troy, you guys with me. The rest of you, fan out along the treeline and make sure he doesn’t slip past us,” said Amanda. “Let’s do this.”
Tracking Sam proved relatively easy with the wet ground, fresh footprints sunk into the spongy forest floor. No attempt at stealth or evasion apparent, he stuck to a deer path winding through the trees. A few hundred yards in, rock formations rose overhead, creating walls between the river and the forest beyond. On the ridge above, trees and foliage grew before the hill descended, a recurrent topography of rolling mounds for miles.
“Jerrod, you and Preston head up. Work your way around to the other side and flank him.” Amanda nodded to the rocks.
Banks removed his hat and scratched his head, eyeing the treacherous incline. “Shit, Sheriff, in this wet we’re liable to break our necks.”
“Take it slow, you’ll be fine.” She patted him on the shoulder.
“Will take forever,” added Preston, none happier with the prospective climb than Banks.
“You have your orders, do it.” She regretted snapping at them and softened. “Be careful, okay?”
The two men glanced at Troy, hoping for an intervention. He shrugged, but said nothing. Amanda watched Banks and Preston negotiate the cliff until satisfied a swan dive appeared unlikely, and continued to walk along the trail, following the shoe prints, Troy a step behind.
Thud, thud.
The noise came from up ahead, ricocheting off rock and wood, the source obscured by a dense cropping of pines. Amanda eased tree to tree while watching her footing and avoiding fallen limbs and twigs. A snap or misstep could give away their approach.
Closer now, whack whack, followed by a pitiful moan. The cadence repeated like a scratched record, the needle skipping back to play the same notes over and over again. Amanda tilted her head to Troy, directing him a few yards to her left. Figures swayed just ahead. She could make out Buddy Harmon, a head taller than the others. Darren Sorrel stood at his side, looking on with dead eyes, no expression on his face—the countenance of a man who had given up, this retribution failing to salve deep, never-healing wounds.
Randall Pitts and his brother Percy took turns striking Sam who huddled on the ground, curled up in a ball, guarding against the next hit. Randall kicked the man hard in the knees, which he had pulled tight to his chest for protection. Percy clubbed him from behind with a sturdy oak branch. Sam whimpered and weakly clawed at the air around his face.
Troy marched forward, but Amanda headed him off and took him by the arm.
“Wait,” she said, not taking her eyes off the melee.
She could not move, so transfixed on the beating. Every kick tightened her own leg at impact; every swing of the cudgel vibrated her arms. The man’s pain tasted sweet on her tongue, she did not want it to end. Somewhere deep the voice of duty and honor whispered urgently. Amanda tried to ignore it and embrace the blood lust swirling inside her.
Troy glanced at her sideways. “We can’t let this go on. They’ll kill him.”
Amanda clenched her fists, desire fighting against obligation. She forced the words out, the person speaking them only one aspect of herself. “Okay, boys. That’s enough.”
All but Darren Sorrel, who stared at Sam with those vacuous eyes, and the Pitts brothers who continued their assault, looked over at her. Some stepped back, hands up saying ‘I didn’t do it’.
“Randall, Percy. Enough!” shouted Amanda.
They ignored her. Buddy moved around the group, his attention on Amanda. “He killed my daughter, Sheriff. No doubt about it. He’s gonna tell us where he has those girls if we have to break every bone in his body. Stay out of it.”
Randall and Percy breathed heavy with exertion as their blows continued to fall in swift succession. Amanda drew her .38 and fired into the air. The brothers leapt back. Eight heads ducked with curses and yelps.
“I said, enough.” She stormed into the brawl and took a position
between the men and Sam. He muttered incoherently at her heels.
“Sheriff? Sheriff? What happened? You need us?” Michelle Falkner, one of the deputies left on watch at the edge of the field—her voice cracked with panic.
Amanda pulled the receiver on her shoulder close to her mouth, not taking her eyes off the men. “We’re fine. Bring Lieutenant Gentry in when he gets here. Send everyone else due north along the river.”
No real need for concern over this motley crew, they stood frozen, their eyes locked on the gun aimed at them.
She hesitated only an instant before waving the pistol toward the river. “Go on. Get out of here.”
“Amanda,” Troy whispered, his voice coarse and insistent. “You can’t…”
She spun on him. “If you think I’m going to lock up a bunch of upset, frightened parents after I let this son of a bitch go free you’re crazy.” She narrowed her eyes on him. “You backing me on this or not?”
Troy broke under her glower and nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
Amanda’s heated gaze paused on each man. “I see you anywhere around this man again, I’ll feed you your balls. You got me? Now go, the way you came.”
Even the Pitts brothers appeared intimidated. The group dropped their heads and shuffled away. Seconds later, Preston and Banks lumbered through the trees, sounding like a heard of buffalo, panting with a collection of nicks and cuts on their hands and faces. The rest of her deputies arrived soon after.
“Banks, you and Sims take Sam to the ER. Get him patched up. The rest of you, he wasn’t out here for nothing. Find wherever he was headed.”
October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 16