A low-rent neighborhood with near identical houses lined the street in various states of disrepair. A horde of mangy dogs yowled from behind chain-link fences, reminding Marlowe of the pit bull and making him grimace. Only a handful of vehicles dated post twenty-first century, so the glossy red Mustang stood out like a diamond on a coal mound. He gazed at #3867 over dead, yellowed grass. Rickety shutters, painted in a nauseating lime green and covered in grime, flapped against the siding, knocking flakes free. The slender specks drifted to join their fallen mates in a mass grave below the windowsill.
“Here we go.” Marlowe pulled to a stop and got out.
He and Spence retrieved their vests from the rear of the SUV and strapped them on. Marlowe rechecked the magazine in his Glock, Spence his Sig Sauer 9mm, both tucking extra mags into their belts. They met Lieutenant Forester, a tall middle-aged man with a prominent nose and hard eyes, in front of the S.W.A.T van.
“What we got?” asked the lieutenant.
“Suspects in a double homicide,” replied Marlowe.
“Low-life dealers,” put in Spence.
“How many perps inside?”
“At least two. I expect Jose to lawyer up right off the bat, but he’s the probable trigger man in three murders we know about, so go cautious,” said Marlowe.
“Waiting on a warrant?” asked Forester.
Marlowe shook his head. “No, he might run, though I doubt it. We have probable cause, so we’ll take him now.”
Forester furled his brow and gave a stern nod. “I have four of my guys around the back, two more on each side of the residence. We’ll breach with a six-man team, two on the ram and two backing. Two in the rear will enter through a sliding-glass door once the front is breached.”
“Officers will cover from here. Another three cruisers are positioned on 39th Street.” Marlowe motioned toward a distant street obscured by homes and trees.
“Let’s do it then.” The lieutenant swirled a finger in the air and his men marched toward the house, ducked behind shields.
Marlowe and Spence dashed across the lawn in a crouch and pressed up tight against the wall. Once the S.W.A.T team moved into place at the entry, Marlowe called out.
“Jose Ramirez. Police. Open up.”
“Fuck you. I haven’t done anything,” shouted an angry voice from inside.
“Open up and we’ll talk about it.” Marlowe waited for a reply.
Nothing. He nodded to the team. Two moved to either side of the front entrance, the other two hoisted the ram. A quick backswing and the cylindrical piece of solid steel hit the door with a boom. Wood splintered as the door crashed inward. The officers working the ram stepped back and allowed the others to spin into the house, AR-15s raised at their shoulders. The rat-ta-tat of automatic gunfire greeted them from inside. One of the S.W.A.T. team staggered from the door and into the yard, blood from a through-and-through wound streaming down his arm and back, indentions from another half dozen slugs scarring his armor at the chest. Metro officers rushed forward and dragged him to safety.
Another burst rang out, cut short and followed by a pained groan. After a moment of silence, Marlowe waved a hand forward and, with Spence on his tail, they crept to the entrance. He started to enter the residence, but froze as the window behind them exploded outward. A shower of glass, wood, and plaster rained down as Jose Ramirez vaulted headfirst through the opening and thumped to the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and darted toward the street.
“Freeze!” shouted Marlowe.
Jose showed no intention of surrendering and raised a Mac 10 toward the line of cops across the street. A dozen policemen leaning over the hoods and trunks of cruisers opened fire. Jose’s body gyrated like a marionette, a hail of bullets punching through his upper torso.
Three more shots echoed from behind the home, along with the unmistakable thuds of slugs penetrating flesh. Everything went quiet, the world caught in a still-photo. The residue of violence vibrated the air, sending a shudder through Marlowe. He stood and steadied himself with a deep breath, fingers trembling, knees quivering. Cautiously moving to Jose, he kept his gun trained on the dying man. Jose coughed blood onto his chin and his head sagged to one side, a defiant glower remaining until his eyes went dark.
“Shit.” Spence tilted forward as if he might vomit. “Intense.”
“I’ll say,” said Marlowe. “Let’s see what stirred them up. The murder weapon still on him might have been enough, but I’m betting we find a nice little stash inside as well.”
“He must have known we’d come. Doesn’t add up. Jose’s brazen, and mean as shit, but never been stupid before.”
Marlowe agreed. “Maybe the deal at the salvage wasn’t an ambush, just went bad at the last second. Only thing I can figure.”
“Yeah, I’ll go with that. Who cares, so long as the asshole’s fini?”
Marlowe and Spence headed into the house, met by the acrid scent of gunpowder and the coppery odor of blood. One of Jose’s posse lay against the kitchen counter, a series of weeping holes in his chest and legs, the curtains behind him sprayed in crimson. The largest big-screen television Marlowe had ever seen hung along the far wall. An Xbox One, PlayStation 4, and monstrous stereo system lined shelves beneath it, with speakers as tall as Marlowe flanking the equipment to each side. All Jose’s cash went toward entertainment, it seemed, the rest of the home a veritable pigsty. Pizza boxes and carryout Chinese cartons littered the room and tables, beer cans and cheap wine bottles strewn all over. A ratty couch butted the wall beneath the street side window, stained in gods’ knew what. The only other furnishing not straight from Goodwill was a leather La-Z-Boy recliner positioned dead center facing the TV.
“Detectives,” called an officer from the end of a hallway. “Got something you need to see here.”
Marlowe and Spence made their way to a rear bedroom. Drug paraphernalia covered the floor: syringes, a square mirror dusted in white powder, several bent spoons and cigarette lighters. Posters of Bruce Lee, and Al Pacino as Scarface, plastered the walls.
On a mattress in the center of the room lay the corpse of a young girl, perhaps eighteen. Her skin shone a slate-grey, her eyes dull and clouded. A short miniskirt hiked high offered a morbid peek at black lace panties, her t-shirt cut strategically to expose the cleavage of small breasts. A foot of rubber hose coiled slack around one arm, the crook covered in nasty purple bruises and puncture marks.
“I guess we know why Jose freaked.” Spence covered his nose against the pungent odor rising from the body—evacuated bowels and bladder, stains covering the mattress.
“Yeah, came home to find this and feared he’d be held responsible.” Marlowe glanced to an officer. “Get her ID’d. Have someone locate her family.”
Marlowe stepped toward the girl’s body, squatted, and picked up a book the size of his hand from the floor below her extended arm. Gold letters embossed The New Testament on the cover. He flipped it open and read the inscription written inside.
“Jenny, know God is always close, and I am always here for you. I love you, Dad.”
“Ouch, that stings,” said Spence. “Glad we don’t have to notify next of kin. Shitty job. I don’t envy the officers who draw the duty.”
Marlowe gave a solemn nod and walked out of the room, the image of the girl burnt onto his retinas. He had always hated notifying next of kin; seeing the pain on the loved ones’ faces recalled his own. And to learn a daughter died here, like this. He hoped the parents were strong people.
CHAPTER
2
Evan Marshall knelt before the altar. He admired the deep brown cherry wood, the soft feel of the crimson cushion spanning its twelve-foot length. A brass cap, engraved with crucifixes at two-foot intervals, gleamed and reflected a disjointed face back at him. Evan secured the last bolt to the floor and pushed himself to his feet. Complete, the altar stretched between two sets of steps on either side of the pulpit. At the end of services, during the invitational, members of th
e congregation would come forward to pray. For years, they had simply knelt on the carpeted floor, but now they would have an elegant altar to rest their knees on and brace against its banister.
As he leaned down to place the drill into his toolbox, a blinding pain shot around the inside of his skull. Crackling static filled his ears—a sound like an AM radio not quite on the station and turned to full volume. Hundreds of garbled voices competed for attention in his mind—gibbering chatter, a maddening clamor pulsing with intense pressure. He teetered and stumbled a pace before a hand caught his elbow and steadied him.
“Evan? You okay?” Brother Weaver stared at him with concern.
The episode receded as quickly as it arose, leaving behind a dull ache at his temples. Evan shook his head and gathered himself. “Yeah, a little dizzy for a second there. I must’ve stood up too fast.”
“Ha, hate it when that happens. Sends the world spinning, doesn’t it?” The pastor edged around him and beamed an infectious smile as he appraised the newly installed altar. “Wonderful craftsmanship. Amazing, really.” A chubby man, past sixty, with a cherubic, youthful face, he gave Evan a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.
“Thank you. I hope everyone’ll like it.” Evan slapped his hands together, a haze of sawdust pluming in the air. He frowned and shrugged; he’d vacuum the area once Brother Weaver left.
“You certainly have a talent for making things. Do you ever miss teaching? Must’ve been quite a switch from history professor to operating your own shop.” The pastor made a pass of the altar, raking his fingertips along the railing and pressing a hand into the velvet cushion.
“Sometimes. I did enjoy it. Only community college, but I’ve always loved history, especially European, and interacting with the students was fulfilling. I love metal and woodwork, too. I enjoy seeing something beautiful come from nothing more than planks of wood or sheets of metal. The potter and clay, you know?” Evan glanced sheepishly at the preacher.
“I understand exactly what you mean. Been known to tinker here and there myself. Whittle a bit, nothing compared to what you can do.” Brother Weaver took a seat on a front row pew.
Evan dropped his hammer through a ring on his tool belt. “I worked at a place during high school, in the summers, making cabinets and such. Not sure how, but I had a knack for it. Continued messing around with it through college, during my off hours, and picked up more things over the years. After Julie died, I wanted to do something that would keep me at home with Jenny. Once we moved here, I had plenty of room on our three acres. No difficult task to start up a shop. I had most of the equipment already.”
“You certainly do have a gift. You’re a Godsend. And your education’s a bonus for me.” Brother Weaver chuckled. “I do love our talks. Not many here about enjoy history or classical music. I remember the day you mentioned Bach. Could’ve hugged you. Think I did, if I remember correctly. You save my sanity, young man.” He laughed with a finger to his temple. “Don’t think I could keep up your pace, though. Your shop stays busy, you teach Sunday school, a Sunday evening class, and Bible study twice a week. I hear you do visitation more often than me. You gunning for my job?” Brother Weaver arched an eyebrow and gave Evan a quizzical look.
Evan blushed and smiled. “No, I just want to serve the Lord to the best of my abilities.”
“And you do, son. I’m glad to have you. How much does the church owe you for this beautiful piece of work?” The pastor drew a checkbook from his pocket.
Evan’s eyes widened, his expression aghast. “No, Brother Weaver, I can’t take the church’s money. I did this for God’s glory and for His people.”
“I know you did, but the materials cost money, and you must’ve spent a lot of time on it. Let me at least pay for your expenses.”
“God will bless me. Seeing His children pray at the altar’s the only payment I need,” said Evan.
“You are a rare soul. And no doubt God will bless you for all you do. Well, work to do myself. See you Sunday.” Brother Weaver embraced him, unmindful of the dust clinging to his clothes, and exited the auditorium through a rear door.
Evan gathered the remainder of his tools, cleaned up the area with a Shop-Vac, and walked to the front entrance. About to exit into the vestibule, he turned for one last glimpse. The altar perfectly suited the dais. Its shining brass, polished wood, and crimson base lay beneath a podium carved with the words “Come Unto Me.” The choir loft sat behind the pulpit, framed by the baptismal, a mural stretching along the front wall over a sheet of Plexiglas and depicting the Jordan River where John the Baptist had sanctified Christ. Eight rows of pews on each side, separated by an aisle down the center, ran the length of the sanctuary. Wide stained-glass windows rose to a vaulted ceiling twenty feet overhead, hanging lights hovering like angels. Evan loved the church, being there in the quiet alone. He knew God remained with him no matter his location, but the Lord’s house made him feel closer. As he gazed on the Jordan River, he imagined the dove descending onto his shoulder, a whisper in his ear: ‘This is my son in whom I am well pleased.’
He arrived home an hour later and pulled his truck up to the shop. Nothing fancy, a sizeable pre-fab building constructed of aluminum. A sign at the end of the driveway read Marshall Metal and Woodworks. Business was always steady, and Evan never lacked for jobs, but his pricing held down profits. He couldn’t bring himself to charge his customers much. Most folks had little to spare, and their projects were often necessities such as replacing losses due to fires or fallen trees. Insurance covered some, though far from all. The rare large job from one of the town’s wealthier residents compensated for his charitable nature. God’s blessings.
Evan hung his tools on the wall, each in its proper place. Immaculate, not a speck of dust or dirt blemished the confines, the concrete floor clean enough to eat off. He slid his hammer onto a rung and glanced over his shoulder at the crunch of a car coming up the drive. Another customer and he was booked solid for weeks. He hated delaying people, knowing their needs felt critical to them. Evan stepped from the building as a police cruiser stopped beside the house, a billow of fine dust hazing the air. Evan smiled. He often did work for the county. Cheap, he was always their first choice.
“Afternoon, Officers.” He raised a hand in greeting. “Hot enough for you?”
Deputy Cardwell wiped his face with a handkerchief, his eyes shifting evasively, and gave Evan a grim smile. Evan’s heart sank. He had dreaded this day for over a year.
“How?” he asked.
Deputy Washburn moved close and placed a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “They found Jenny in some crack house or something. She overdosed. Metro called us a while ago, after they were sure.”
“There’s no doubt then? It’s her?” Cold angst snaked down his spine, turning his legs leaden.
“I’m afraid so. Matched prints. She’d got nabbed for shoplifting a few months back.” Washburn dragged the toe of his boot in the dirt in slow circles.
“You need to identify the body, Evan. And pick up her personal things.” Cardwell could not seem to look him in the eye.
Evan careened side to side, a vacuous expression on his face as though he had not heard.
“Evan…” Cardwell reached out to steady him.
He nodded, a slight bob of his head, almost imperceptible, and lurched toward the house.
“We’re so sorry, Evan,” said Cardwell.
Their sympathetic stares fell on his back. They must wonder if they should stay, what he might do. He waved a hand in the air, requiring all his effort to heave it waist-high and still plod forward. The slam of the patrol car doors startled him into something akin to lucidity.
Evan entered the house and wandered zombie-like to his bedroom. He washed off in the shower and dressed in a blue suit and a black tie sporting images of Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny—a gift from Jenny, his birthday…so long ago.
He moved down the hallway, needing to stop twice to brace against the wall. His head swam, the noise cree
ping back in like tiny insects scratching over his eardrums. At the doorway to Jenny’s room, he paused and tried to will himself past without looking in. He failed. In the next instant, he found himself standing in the middle of her bedroom. A mix of childhood keepsakes and teen idol worship decorated the surroundings. Dolls perched on shelves stared down at him with accusation and pity. Posters of singers and actors he didn’t recognize adorned the walls.
His memory slipped back, the room morphing in bleary vision. Jenny sat on her bed, a plethora of Disney characters dancing on the spread and on the walls behind her. She peered up at him with a smile that always melted his heart.
“What cha doing, Sweet Pea?” he had asked, raking the back of his fingers along her cheek.
“I’m making something for you.” She pivoted so he could not see.
Crayons littered the bedcovers; wadded loose-leaf papers cluttered the floor. Jenny added the final touches and spun toward him, displaying the picture proudly. A man, woman, and little girl—stick figures all—stood in a yard before a house. A green-domed tree shaded a lawn filled with bright yellow flowers, and an orange sun with large blue eyes beamed down. Father held the girl with one hand, a cross in the other. A caption at the top of the page read, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
Evan smiled at the recollection. Jenny had always accepted his instruction with ease. She could recite more Bible verses than any child in her classes or those much older. With Bible in hand, she would tromp off to school, never ashamed of her faith. As she grew older, she somehow managed to retain her innocence in spite of peer pressure from classmates and salacious advertisements everywhere, tempting teens with sex, alcohol, and all manner of debauchery. She never engaged in the perfunctory teenage rebellion—testing boundaries while growing toward adulthood. Evan took his fatherly duty seriously, to keep her on the narrow road, and she received his guidance with gratitude and a gentle spirit.
Their last day together haunted him. He should not have allowed her to go out alone. Her driving had proven exceptional, lack of experience and skill behind the wheel no longer a valid excuse to tag along everywhere she went. Seventeen, and never any reason given to distrust her, she did deserve a certain amount of independence. Only a short trip to the church for a youth meeting, he didn’t think anything could happen. He could still see the gleam in her eyes, the happy shout of glee as he pitched her the car keys.
The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 2