October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “If you ever come here again… If I ever hear of you around Lori again… I will kill you. Do you understand?” Her father slammed the door shut and leaned against the car’s open window, one hand inside squeezing Joe’s throat. “Do you understand me?” Joe croaked an inarticulate reply. “Get out of here.”

  Her dad waited until Joe cranked the car and somehow managed to point it down the driveway. He joined Lori on the steps, put his arm around her, and they watched Uncle Joe’s car drive away.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to.” Her fear and horror drained away, replaced by shame. The tears returned, gushing down her cheeks.

  “No, Honey.” He rotated to face her. “Listen to me now. You did nothing wrong. Joe took advantage of you. You trusted him, loved him. There’s some kind of monster living in my brother.” Her father sighed, his anger-filled muscles relaxing a bit. “I knew he was a bad influence on you. I’ve always known he manipulated people, used people. But I never imagined… If I hadn’t have come home early—”

  Lori had never seen her dad cry before. In its way, it frightened her more than his anger. She pressed her little body against his chest, and he enfolded her in protective arms.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. No child should have this happen.” He drew back and cupped her face in his hand. “If anyone ever tries to force you to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable, you know you can talk to me. I will always protect you.” Her father sighed, a whirlwind of thoughts behind his eyes. “There are a lot of sick people in this world. Some will try to hurt you, but others will hide their bad intentions. They’ll fool you with sweet sounding words and being nice to you. Don’t worry, I’m going to do a better job of teaching you how to spot them. I should have already, but I guess we were both too trusting. Or I just didn’t want to go there. Not yet. I wanted you to stay my little girl forever and never find out about those kinds of bad stuff.” He smiled—a weak, half-hearted smile. “But don’t worry, most folks are still good. You don’t have to live afraid all the time. We’ll just learn to be careful, right?”

  Lori returned his smile and nodded. “Right.”

  “Want to help me clean up inside? I think I made a mess,” He stood and offered her his hand. “Oh, when your mom gets home, we’re going to have a long talk about the birds and the bees.”

  She furled her brows. “I know about birds and bees, Dad.”

  “Not these you don’t. But I’m not tackling that one without your mom.” He tousled her hair and led her into the house.”

  * * *

  “Well?” Spence eased in to the SUV, slid the seat back, and cracked his knuckles.

  “I’ve thought so since we first talked with him, but now I’m sure, Buddy Harmon isn’t a pleasant man.” Lori, both her voice and eyes distant, gazed toward Emily’s apartment building, a sick feeling churning her stomach.

  Spence chuckled.

  Lori glanced at him sideways, brows raised in surprise. “You disagree?”

  “Hell no. I just think you have a gift for understatement. The guy is a twisted fuck who needs to rot away in a cage. Maybe a big ass brother named Marcellus for a cellmate.”

  Lori nodded. Her jaws ached from clenching her teeth in anger. “If he molested Emily and Sarah, Summer will be next. We have to stop him.”

  “No arguments from me. What’s the plan?”

  She pounded her palm on the steering wheel. “We have a problem.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Right now, it’s he said she said.” Lori contemplated the thought for a moment. “We need to get into that cabin.”

  “Doubtful a judge will grant a warrant on what we have, which is nothing but Emily’s word and a lot of suspicions. It’d be generous to call the evidence we have circumstantial.”

  Lori glanced over, a sly grin on her face. “Buddy doesn’t know that.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m betting Buddy’s the kind of sicko who likes to keep souvenirs. Those photos Emily mentioned are probably still there.” Lori smoothed her hair along the right side. “If, for some reason, he thought we could get a warrant and planned to search his cabin…”

  “He might make a mad dash to destroy said evidence.” Spence now wore a grin of his own. “Agent Kline, I like the way you think.” He shook his index finger at the windshield. “Tally-ho.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Hours after returning from Sam Ewing’s cave, his home away from home, Marlowe paced a lonely corridor in the basement of Calvary Methodist Hospital and tried to wrap his mind around this case, figure out how this new development fit in. Finding the toys and ring had turned his theories upside down. How could he have gotten it so wrong? His chief talent, on which he relied heavily, had failed him. An innate ability to see patterns, connect the dots, and he missed it, or chose not to see it. Perhaps pity for Sam lent to his doubts, or maybe his frustration and fear over the present predicament with Paige and her grandparents clouded his judgment. Even now, with overwhelming evidence staring him in the face, he still could not make sense of it. Marlowe could not see Sam as a killer or a child abductor. For one, Sam did not seem to possess the ability—weak, frightened—putting a gun to two people’s heads and pulling the trigger took more than desire. It required something Marlowe had thought Sam lacked…malice. The man wandered through life aimless, like a ghost, unseen by even himself, the only emotions apparent behind Sam’s dull eyes, hopelessness and sorrow.

  Marlowe had wanted to cross Sam Ewing off the list and move on. His main reason for pursuing Sam, aside from his being their only real lead, a hope he might point them in the right direction. After all, he admitted to following the girls, and something told Marlowe he knew more than he was saying, but he did not imagine Sam lied, at least not to cover his own crimes. Now, Marlowe feared he wasted precious time not pressing Sam hard from the start. Amanda was right all along. Marlowe should have listened rather than trusting his ‘gift’ as infallible, his pride—a nail in those little girls’ coffins.

  Ego, or an inability to accept the obvious, needled at Marlowe. A feeling, which in spite of what he knew now would not let go. He needed confirmation, ironclad proof to dispel these lingering doubts and explain the inconsistencies. While doctors continued to attend to Sam’s injuries a floor above, all minor, though the poor man’s face and torso appeared painted black and blue, Marlowe ceased his back and forth pacing and headed to the far end of the hall. Koop and his forensics team had taken over a storage room adjacent to the morgue—Koop more at home there than at the station. Regardless, the station lacked the space required for the team members and their equipment. Three tables sat end to end along one wall where a dozen men and women stared at laptop computers, each equipped with state of the art analytical software and wired to machines displaying enough meters and numbers to make Marlowe’s head spin. On a table set against the opposite wall, the evidence so far recovered lay enclosed in plastic bags and sealed with chain of custody tape.

  “Damnation.” Koop swayed in his seat, eyes fixed on the computer screen, fingers pecking on the keyboard. He glanced up as Marlowe entered the room and reddened with an embarrassed grin. “Whoever made murdering these damn animated fruit people so frustrating should be flogged.” He clicked off the game and rotated his chair.

  “Shouldn’t you be supervising or something?” asked Marlowe with a smirk.

  “And allow evil fruit people to take over Fruitopia? Never. Beside my minions know I have eyes in the back of my head. None dare goof off.”

  “Like you’re doing?” Marlowe nodded to the computer.

  “Pff, do you require something or simply here to ridicule my harmless diversions?”

  “I need to know what you’ve found on the evidence recovered from the cave.”

  In truth, Marlowe could have waited for Koop to phone him with his findings, but he wanted to know before Amanda. Wound tight already, the cave had only served to bolster her certainty of
Sam’s guilt. Upon surveying the toys and dolls, her eyes lit up like a hyena’s fixed on a wounded gazelle, saliva practically dripping from her fangs. If Koop’s team found anything pointing away from Sam’s involvement, Marlowe wanted to know before facing her again. Any disagreement would need an arsenal of facts to stand a chance of dissuading her.

  “Matching prints and fibers against the databases will take more time, but we have compared the new evidence to fibers and prints belonging to the missing girls and their parents. No matches. Fibers only match Ewing’s clothing, and prints are either his or unidentified.”

  “What about the ring?” asked Marlowe.

  Koop’s grin returned. “Ah, another matter entirely. Ewing’s prints of course, but several partials as well. The handling of the ring, and its placement in the dirt, obscured most.”

  “Most?” Marlowe arched an eyebrow.

  “We were able to pull one. An eight point match with Jeff Baldwin.” Koop nodded. “Furthermore, the composition and the style match Mrs. Baldwin’s band.”

  “Eight points won’t stand up in court. Need sixteen minimum. And I’m guessing the bands aren’t unique.”

  “Correct. However, the print, the composition and style of the ring, place the likelihood of the ring belonging to Jeff Baldwin in the high ninetieth percentile.”

  Marlowe stared at the old man, mouth agape. “You’re certain?”

  “Checked and rechecked,” Koop smiled with satisfaction.

  “That puts Ewing inside the house. With all the circumstantial evidence we have, looks like a slam dunk.”

  “I would say so,” said Koop. “We’ve gotten convictions with far less.”

  “Now to convince Sam Ewing ten to fifteen years for kidnapping is preferable to the electric chair if those girls die, or God forbid, are already dead.”

  “Seems a rather clear-cut choice for any reasonable, rational person,” said Koop with a smirk.

  Marlowe scoffed in agreement. “True. I’m not sure reasonable or rational are among Ewing’s skill set.” His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

  Koop waved a hand toward the sound. “That’s my cue. If you’ll excuse me, I have an evil banana to kill.”

  Marlowe grinned at the old man, removed the phone, and glanced at the screen- Becca Calling. “Hey babe, everything alright?”

  “Well…”

  “Great. I haven’t gotten any bad news in at least ten minutes. What’s happened?”

  A sigh on the other end. “Ginger called. She wanted to check on Paige—”

  “Is Paige okay? Did Ginger upset her?” Marlowe interrupted.

  “No, no. I told her Paige was taking a nap, but it won’t put her off for long. You haven’t spoken with her yet, have you?”

  Marlowe inhaled, tempted to count to ten, a frustrated scream simmering at the bottom of his throat. “No, I’m working up to it. Not so much my courage, but trying to figure out what the hell I can possibly say to sway her.”

  “Just be your charming self.”

  He chuckled. “My charm isn’t warming too many hearts lately.”

  “It did mine. Win her over like you did me,” said Becca.

  “I saved you from a terminally ill man with homicidal delusions.”

  “Okay, maybe don’t go that far.” Becca laughed, and then her tone grew quiet and serious. “It’s going to be okay. You know that right?”

  “You still have enough faith for both of us?” asked Marlowe, surprised by how much he needed to hear the answer.

  “Always.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Marlowe tucked his phone away. A member of the forensics team entered, smiled at him as she passed, and took a seat at a computer terminal near the back of the room. He nodded to the young woman, the slight gesture sending a twinge of pain down the back of his neck. Long days and restless nights took their toll. Each morning, getting out of bed felt akin to going ten rounds with Mike Tyson. He rubbed the sudden ache, which only managed to constrict the muscles tighter.

  He stepped over to the evidence tables. Everything recovered from Sam’s cave sat in neat rows along the far left side, but his attention focused on one item in particular. Marlowe raked his fingertips along the plastic, scrutinizing the toy underneath. Its vibrant blue body had faded, and the neon purple mane now closer to pink.

  My Little Pony.

  Marlowe tilted his head downward, closed his eyes, and let the memories come.

  * * *

  Paige’s horsey phase escalated to near obsession. At its height, her collection numbered over a hundred. Most were miniatures of real breeds—Appaloosas, Arabians, Clydesdales, and a host of others. Every evening at bath time, an army of four-legged sentries lined the tub’s rim, with the exception of those floating in the water or involved in whatever game Paige decide they must take part in. At mealtime, two or three surrounded her plate, often with muzzles coated in mashed potatoes or pudding, which always made her giggle. She loved all of her horses, but by far her favorites were the two dozen or so My Little Ponies. A toy box positioned beneath the window in Paige’s room held the bulk of her herd when not called to duty, but not the Ponies. No, they stood prominently along two shelves on her bookcase, a dizzying display of brilliant neon colors.

  Marlowe peeked into Paige’s bedroom. She and her mother sat cross-legged on the floor, several ponies between them and each holding another.

  “Take the three strands, cross them one over the other. Again. And once more. Now give it a twist and band it.” Katy displayed the pony, appearing rather proud of herself. “And that’s how you do a French braid. Now you try.”

  “I think I need to brush Mr. Pinky’s mane first. His tail, too. They’re all tangley,” said Paige, trying to rake her fingers through the horse’s purple hair.

  “Tangley?” Katy laughed.

  Paige looked up at her, little nose scrunched in confusion at what was so funny.

  “Yes, I suppose he is pretty tangley. Better give him a good brushing,” said Katy.

  Paige combed the pony until she appeared satisfied and performed the braid with minimal assistance from her mother. “Okay, I think we’re ready. Time to head to the castle.”

  Marlowe bounded into the room. “I wanna play.”

  “You can’t,” said Paige, one hand against her hip.

  “And why not?” asked Marlowe with faux hurt.

  “Daaad, you’re a boy.” Incredulous, she could not seem to believe he would ask such a silly question.

  “You aren’t going to the Pony Palace without me.” Marlowe lifted Paige and twirled her around, the room filled with the sound of a family’s laughter…

  …laughter…changing…slowing…becoming animalistic, like a puppy’s whine…or a child’s sobs.

  Marlowe sat on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth, Paige’s face buried against his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt. He placed a hand to one side of her head in an attempt to shield her view. It mattered not; she had witnessed everything, the images sheared into memory for all of time.

  Katy’s body sprawled out a few feet away in a pool of congealing blood. Nickel-sized burns marked dotted her torso, abdomen, and thighs. A cigar, the instrument of Frank Brumbeloe’s sadistic torture, jutted from a gash under her chin, a slash stretching across her throat ear-to-ear. Frank had called it her second smile.

  Frank lay at Marlowe’s back, his chest and stomach riddled with wounds that mimicked Katy’s. A cigar did not inflict these injuries, but instead, hollow points from a Glock 21. Marlowe unloaded his magazine, reloaded, and emptied it into the man’s corpse. He continued to pull the trigger long after the last shot fired. Click, click, click.

  Now he sat on the floor, holding his child, staring at his brutalized dead wife, and rocking back and forth…

  Back and forth, the rocking chair’s runners gently clicked against the floor. Paige sat on his lap, turned away from him. This was his first visit to see her since they admitted her to the children’s psyc
hiatric ward two months ago. Oh, he did not remain away peacefully. His tirade upon hearing he could not stay with her came close to having him forcibly removed from the hospital.

  “Detective Gentry, please calm down.” Dr. Fisher, an African-American woman with a stern demeanor and commanding presence, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You must understand, anything associated with the trauma could cause Paige to relive the event. You were present at the time, she may link you with those memories. Likely does, can’t be helped, really. Let her adjust. Give the treatments a few weeks, and we’ll determine where we are, okay?”

  Marlowe grudgingly acquiesced. In the meantime, he buried the love of his life, his wife and best friend, and made a new one—Jim Beam. Not a heavy drinker before, he surprised himself by how quickly he acclimated and built up a tolerance, soon downing a fifth almost daily. The pain and grief, coupled with worry and powerlessness, overwhelmed him, and eventually shock turned to numbness.

  When he received the call he could visit Paige, mixed emotions roiled in his belly and pushed his hand to the bottle. He longed to see her, to hold her in his arms, but the memories for each of them sullied contact. Could they even exist in close proximity anymore? Simply gazing at her picture, the photo he had loved so much, the three of them smiling in the sunlight on a golden beach, triggered flashes of blood, burnt flesh, and an abyss of pain.

  Once at the hospital, the doctor’s diagnosis, and the reason for his visit, compounded feelings of despondency.