October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  A temperate day, April had acquiesced to Tommy’s pleas to play outdoors. They lay a blanket down in the yard where April busied herself reading and kept a watchful eye on her precocious nephew.

  After a few minutes of sirens, crashes, and shouts of ‘freeze or I’ll shoot’, Tommy said, “Look Aunt April, I caught the bad guys.”

  April looked up from her book, “You sure did. We’ll have to tell your mom there’s a new sheriff in town.” Tommy beamed a smile. “Speaking of your mom, I’m surprised she hasn’t called to check on us yet.” April glanced around for her phone, smoothing the blanket and searching on all fours. “Oh crap, I left my phone inside. Stay put, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  Tommy barely acknowledged her departure already well on his way to capturing Lego City’s next supervillain. So engrossed in play, he did not notice the movement behind him.

  Yip, yip.

  His head spun toward the high-pitched sound. A man with hair raking his shoulders, a scraggly beard, and dressed in a faded army jacket over worn jeans and boots, strolled across the yard, up from the sidewalk. The man was not what held Tommy’s interest, however, but instead, a beagle pup, less than a year old, a bouncing ball of energy colored brown, black, and white. The little dog tugged and pulled on its leash and made a beeline straight toward the staring boy.

  “Hi there,” said the man. “What cha doin’?”

  “Playing,” said Tommy shyly without taking his eyes off the dog.

  The man noticed. “You can pet her if you want. She won’t bite.”

  Tommy nodded, and the man released the leash. The pup bounded onto the boy, licking his face and neck to delighted giggles. “What’s her name?”

  “Gigi, and I’m Sam. What’s your name?”

  “Tommy.” He could barely speak for his laughter and Gigi’s unrelenting attack.

  “I think she likes you,” said Sam. “Hey, we’re cutting through the woods here. That trail,” He pointed to a gap in the woodline, “leads to a clearing at the river. You know the spot?”

  “Yeah. We camp and fish there.”

  Sam grinned. “I’m thinking we might wade in a bit and skip some stones if you wanna come along.”

  No, Tommy. Please baby, don’t go with him.

  Gigi had relaxed and cuddled in Tommy’s lap. Tommy bit his lip in consternation. “My Aunt April wouldn’t let me.”

  Sam frowned down at him. “Hmm. Too bad. Bet you can’t skip a rock anyway.”

  “I can so.” Tommy’s chin rose in a defiant pose.

  “Really? How many? One? Two skips?”

  “Four,” said Tommy proudly.

  “Four? No way. You can’t skip a stone four times. I’d have to see that to believe it.” Sam waited, but though Tommy obviously wanted to tag along, he held his ground, disappointment raising tears in the corners of his eyes. “Well, maybe next time. Nice to meet you, Tommy.”

  The boy watched Sam and Gigi track off toward the woods. His gaze oscillated back at forth from the pup growing smaller in the distance to April who paced in front of the window, phone to her ear and waving her arms in an animated conversation.

  Tommy was losing the battle with his conscience. Honestly, an unfair fight with an adorable puppy thrown into the mix.

  No, Tommy. Go and get April.

  Tommy rose to his feet.

  Please don’t, baby.

  Even as she screamed the inaudible thought, Amanda knew he would follow. The scene had played out a million times in her nightmares. God of this dreamscape, yet powerless to change or amend what would happen. An impotent deity to have created this life with love and hope only to watch it succumb to evil—the destruction of a thousand possible futures.

  “Hey! Wait for me,” said Tommy.

  He caught up to Sam and Gigi just as they entered the forest. They wandered amongst trees filled with bird songs, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and warm sunshine raining through a multi-colored canopy overhead. Sam let Tommy hold Gigi’s leash, and she tugged him along, his little legs pounding the ground to keep up. Entering the clearing, Tommy dashed to the riverbank, found a nice flat rock, and flung it across the water’s surface.

  “Four skips! I told ya.” Tommy bounced in a circle with hands in the air. Gigi hopped up and down beside him, her yips resounding through the woods.

  “You sure did,” said Sam. “I bet if we wade in a little ways, you can get a fiver. The rocks skip better when your throwing arm is closer to the water.”

  Tommy and Sam removed socks and shoes and rolled pants’ legs over their knees. Gigi eased into the water first. She dipped her muzzle into the water, once, twice, and then pounced on a minnow swimming in the shallows. Tommy thought this the funniest thing he had ever seen and broke into uproarious laughter.

  “Come on in. It ain’t too cold.” Sam had waded a short distance from the bank. He waved Tommy to follow.

  No. Please, no.

  “Yikes,” yelled Tommy as he tiptoed in. “It is too cold. It’s freezing.”

  “Oh, don’t be a baby,” teased Sam with a grin. “You’ll get used to it in a second.”

  Sam leaned down and picked up a rock. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the stone, slapping it against the water—one, two, three, four, five skips. Tommy clapped his hands as Gigi pranced around his legs.

  “See? Nothing to it,” said Sam. “You give it a try. There’s a good stone there.” Sam pointed a couple of yards in front of Tommy, into deeper water.

  Tommy took two steps, the water brushing against his knees. “I can’t go any further. I’ll get my pants wet.”

  “Just another step or so. Your britches’ll dry in no time. You’re sure to get a bunch of skips with that one.” Sam nodded toward a spot at Tommy’s feet.

  “I don’t see it.” He leaned over, vision seeking to penetrate the water.

  Sam moved close and placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Just there. Reach in right where you’re standing. You’ll feel it.”

  As Tommy bowed forward and sunk his arm into the gentle current, feeling around for the rock, Sam’s hand moved to the boy’s neck. His fingers tightened, veins bulging from muscular constriction. A sudden thrust and Tommy’s head disappeared beneath the frigid water.

  Nooo!

  Tommy’s arms thrashed, legs kicking. His feet and clawed fingers agitated red-brown sediment on the river bottom, raising a murky cloud to envelop his body. Gigi barked wildly, joined by the cries of birds jettisoned from nests and the wails of animals frightened from dens. As Tommy stilled and his life bled away with the chilled current, the little dog’s fury gave way to mournful howls and filled the forest, echoing off rock walls that rose high across the river. Sam shoved Tommy’s body into a cluster of trees fallen into the water, their branches sinking into his flesh to hold him fast.

  Amanda, God of her creation. The Powerless God. The Defeated God. She watched in horror a scene played out over and over, the outcome certain, each and every time. She must again bow to the power of her own Deity—to the superior might of his cruelty, to the callousness of his conscience.

  Sam felt her malignant worship wash over him. He craned his head to the sky, facing the nebulous mind hovering above. His smile began as a timid thing, coy in its slyness. Quivering lips peeled over gums, pale and anemic. Jaws cracked, the bones splitting until the back of his head rested on his neck. His chin fallen onto his chest, revealed a gaping hole alive with writhing strands of gelatinous filth.

  A sound filled Amanda, an alarm rising from the first subdued notes of warning. The myriad tentacles within Sam’s exposed throat gyrated at increased speed, driving the shrill, soul-shattering din, louder…louder.

  Too much. Please. No more. Just let it end. Let it all end.

  Louder still. A cacophony—unnerving, enervating—a symphony of madness, grief, regret, helplessness. Sam’s body shook, head to toe, violent and unrelenting. His chest burst apart, a black, putrid heart pounded within. It beat in sync with the sound generat
ed by those horrid, vile strands slithering up and over his tongue and teeth. Louder, louder…

  * * *

  Amanda woke with the nightmare clutching her lungs, squeezing the air from them, attempting to drag her back into darkness. The sound also followed her into reality, adding a sense of nauseating vertigo to the clamor piercing her psyche. She gradually emerged from the river, returning to the mundane trappings of her office. Only her god’s laughter remained. It rang in her ears like thunder clapping black clouds, fading with the illumination of lightning strikes.

  Will someone stop that goddamn ringing?

  She noticed the light flashing on her phone, her direct line, and realized the source of the noise. Amanda snatched the receiver off its base. “Sheriff Beacher.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  Amanda let out an exasperated sigh. Still reeling from the nightmare and groggy from lack of sleep, this was the last voice she wanted to hear. “Gary, I thought I made it clear, I don’t have time for this right now.”

  “You’re going to make time. I shouldn’t have let it go earlier. You can’t put me off any longer, Amanda.”

  She huffed. “Listen, my patience is gone. I’ve had it up to here with you. Hell, with everyone. You don’t want to do this right now. I promise you.”

  “No, you listen—”

  “You need to back the fuck off, Gary. I’m warning you.” Amanda heard a woman’s voice in the background. An angry voice.

  “Joanna’s pregnant.” Gary went quiet—perhaps waiting on Amanda’s reaction, perhaps unable to continue after the abrupt admission.

  “Say again?” Amanda’s breath caught in her throat as her fists reflexively balled tight.

  “We want to get married. Now, before the baby comes, before Joanna starts showing. She’s been patient and waited on us without interfering. She deserves this.” Again he hesitated, collecting his thoughts. “I want us to move on and put all this behind us. Joanna and I both do. We want all of us to get on with our lives.”

  Amanda tried to keep her voice steady…and failed. “Joanna wants? You want? What about what I want? I want my son back. I want my goddamned life back! I want it all back!” She slammed the phone down and shoved her face into her palms.

  “I want it back,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Marlowe stared down at the monitor, one hand rubbing the stubble dotting his chin. With his energy sapped, he could not summon the reserves for even simple tasks like shaving, all his concentration dedicated to this case, and presently, the man on the screen. Sam had not moved an inch in the time Marlowe watched the video feed. He sat frozen in a pose reminiscent of a Rodin, yet more mournful than thoughtful.

  “You look like shit.” Amanda lurched into the room, a cup of coffee in each hand. She stifled a yawn and offered a cup to Marlowe.

  He glanced over and noticed her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled clothes. “Look who’s talking.” Drawing the cup to his mouth, he inhaled the aroma, and sipped the hot liquid, which pushed his eyelids open a fraction. “Thanks.”

  “What are we watching?” Amanda leaned in beside him.

  “We ran down Sam’s ex-wife. She refuses to get involved, and doesn’t believe Sam could possibly have anything to do with the murders or the missing children. After a bit of cajoling, she emailed some video clips—home movie stuff to give us a better idea of how he was before the accident. I think she believed sending them would help Sam’s case. Our tech guys compiled the clips and added in photos of the Sorrel twins and the Baldwin girl, which pop-up every minute or so. Whole thing is on a loop. I’ve had him in there watching for about an hour.”

  Amanda nodded. “Clever. Think it’ll work?”

  “Difficult to read from here. The guy might as well be a mannequin. Still, he hasn’t slept any more than we have, so it might loosen him up.” Marlowe retrieved a box from a nearby table, stepped into the hallway, Amanda following, and entered the interrogation room.

  The room was brightly lit, the temperature cool, especially considering the chill October air outside, effects aimed at making a suspect uncomfortable and placing them off balance. Marlowe sat across the table from Sam while Amanda circumvented the room and took up a post directly behind him. She fired a venomous stare at the back of Sam’s head.

  For Sam’s part, he did not acknowledge their entrance, but kept his eyes fixed on the TV screen, hands tucked into his lap, an emotionless mask on his face. Marlowe let the video run, pausing it on a shot of Sam with his wife and daughter. Frozen in laughter, a radiant sun behind them, the image belied the horrible future still to come. Without warning, Marlowe slammed the box down onto the tabletop. Sam flinched as if shot. Marlowe removed three photos and slid them one by one in front of Sam: two of the Sorrel twins and one of Elle Baldwin. Sam’s gaze fell to the pictures.

  “You were at the creek with the girls. You’ve admitted as much.” Marlowe picked out the next item, the piece of faded green fabric torn from Sam’s jacket, and thrust it into place just above the photos. “You followed them to the Baldwin home.” He retrieved the final item and dangled a small plastic bag containing the wedding ring between two fingers. “And now we know you went into the house. Game over.”

  Sam’s eyes followed the ring as it swayed back and forth. “I want it back.”

  Marlowe ignored him. “You’re going away for the rest of your life, no way around that. You have one chance to avoid the electric chair, tell us where the girls are.”

  “I want it back,” repeated Sam.

  “Even if we never find the bodies,” Marlowe continued as though Sam had not spoken, “we have enough to convict you for five murders plus kidnapping. This dim-witted, sad sack routine isn’t going to play. You may think you don’t care about dying, but trust me, once you’re strapped into the chair…you’ll care.”

  “I want it back.”

  Marlowe huffed in exasperation. He slammed down the ring, a metallic ping sounding from the table and echoing off the walls, and shoved it in front of Sam. “Talk, you son of a bitch.”

  Sam stared down at the ring, but made no move to touch it. He looked up at Marlowe with tears filming his eyes. Glancing to the image of his family on the screen, the tears fell free and rolled down Sam’s cheeks in glistening trails.

  “I want it back,” he said, just above a whisper.

  And finally, Marlowe understood.

  * * *

  “I want it back.”

  The words struck Amanda like a beastly claw, ripping through her chest and clutching her heart with vicious talons. The words were at once crystal clear and muffled, as if spoken beneath a river’s rapids, each syllable like a stone slapping against the water’s surface. She bent forward, hands gripping her knees.

  “I want it back.” Sam’s voice.

  “I want it back.” Amanda’s voice.

  “I want it back.” Their voices in unison, filled with pain, loss, and guilt. They grew louder, escalating, shredding rational thought, slicing through logic, severed pieces falling to sizzle and burn in a cauldron of churning rage. The words ricocheted off the interior walls of her skull, thunderous…

  Amanda’s mind snapped.

  * * *

  Marlowe caught Amanda’s movement in his peripheral vision—she leaned forward, her hand gripped the butt of her pistol, an animalistic expression warped her features—but her intent did not register until it was too late. She grasped Sam by the back of his head, a fistful of hair twined through her fingers, and pressed the barrel of the .38 beneath his chin.

  “Where are they, you son of a bitch? What have you done with them?” Amanda’s voice sounded inhuman, a guttural growl full of menace.

  Marlowe bolted to his feet, his chair tipping to the floor with a clack that reverberated throughout the room. Unconsciously, he drew his gun and trained it on Amanda.

  “Amanda, holster your weapon and stand down,” he said.

  She did not respond. Her eyes
remained fixed on Sam, eyes completely devoid of sanity. Marlowe crept around the table. Maybe if he could get close enough… Amanda’s finger tightened on the trigger. Marlowe noticed the telltale constriction of the tendons in her wrist. He stopped in this tracks and prepared to fire.

  “Please, Amanda, don’t make me do this.”

  Marlowe was not certain he could follow through. Could he kill a friend who meant so much to him? Simply wounding her did not appear an option—Amanda stooped behind Sam, her mouth to his ear, whispering incoherently.

  No shot. Goddamn it, Amanda. Snap out of it.

  Amanda gave Sam’s head a vicious yank. His eyes, wide, like a frightened animal’s, pled with the ceiling or the sky for salvation. The world seemed to fall into slow motion. A bead of sweat trickled down from Sam’s temple to blend with silvery tears. The veins in Amanda’s hand bulged along with those on her forehead and neck as her fingers turned bright white around the grip of her pistol. Marlowe’s jaw went taut with the grinding of his teeth.

  The moment froze. Life and death rocked back and forth on balances held high by grim circumstance, weighted by loss and sorrow, guilt and regret.

  Then…the balance tilted.

  “Where damn you? Where is my son? Where is Tommy?” Amanda screamed into Sam’s face, her spittle spraying onto his cheeks.

  Words filled with such longing and despair floated heavy in the air. Her son’s name still echoing through the room struck Amanda like a bucket full of frigid water, popping her eyes wide. Shock slid downward to shame as cognizance slowly smoothed her expression. Features contorted by fury transformed to childlike bemusement as she gazed dumbfounded about the room. Once she appeared aware of her surroundings, Amanda released her grasp on Sam, placed her gun at the far end of the table, out of his reach, and stormed into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.

  Marlowe realized he had not taken a breath since the instant Amanda seized Sam. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath and stop his hands from shaking.