The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “He’s broke pattern,” said Kline, inspecting the chair and surrounding area. “The first woman.”

  “Yeah, and doubtful a pastor. The others were Baptist ministers. Southern Baptists don’t allow women as clergy. At least I don’t think so, though I’m certainly no expert,” said Marlowe.

  “If he wasn’t killing pastors associated with his daughter, and he’s not backtracking through his past, what the hell’s the pattern?” asked Bateman.

  “I think we have to continue working under the assumption he knows his victims, which we know was the case with the first two. He chose her based on previous knowledge and acquaintance. I feel certain,” said Kline.

  “Agreed. Until we know more anyway.” Marlowe’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He removed it and glanced at the incoming call number. His face lit up in spite of the macabre setting. “Gotta take this.”

  Marlowe stepped out onto the rickety porch and almost hit himself in the head as he thrust the phone to his ear. “Spence, where the hell—”

  “They found him, Marlowe. They found Charlie. The son of a bitch tore him in half.” Marlowe could hear the crushing sorrow in his friend and partner’s voice.

  “Settle down. Try to tell me what happened.”

  “The Heretic, he did it. Tied Charlie’s arms to a tree, his legs to the rear of a truck, and pulled him apart.”

  “Jesus, Spence, I’m so sorry. You’re sure it’s the Heretic? The inverted cross signature, did you find it?”

  “Yeah, carved into the tree. It’s him.”

  “Okay, sit tight, we’re on our way.” Marlowe started to hang up. “Spence…”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re gonna get the bastard. I swear to you.”

  The line went dead and Marlowe fought to stand. The pain in Spence’s voice pounded into his mind and threatened to take him to his knees. He steadied himself before entering the shack.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Marlowe. You all right?” asked Koop.

  “S-Spence…They found his brother. Looks like a Heretic victim after all.” Marlowe leaned against the wall, a hand on his forehead.

  “Shit,” breathed Bateman.

  “It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t see how Charlie would’ve had any interactions with Marshall, and it would make him the first victim. Charlie went missing two days before we found Weaver.” Marlowe shoved off the wall and paced the floor. “Bateman, stay here and oversee things. Once you wrap up, get everyone, and I mean everyone, on finding out everything there is to know about this woman.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  “Kline, Koop, let’s go. It’s a long way to Jackson City.”

  * * *

  Not Marlowe’s first, or hundredth, time in a morgue, but Spence’s pain had bled into him and left him reluctant to view this particular corpse. His feet felt leaden as he walked the long corridor in the hospital’s basement. The county coroner met them in the examination room, a middle-aged man, heavyset with a bad comb-over. He munched on what appeared to be a bologna sandwich with thick mayonnaise sliding out between the bread. A fat hand wiped greasy white from his lips and extended it to greet them.

  “Where’s Detective Murray?” asked Marlowe, pushing past him and ignoring the hand.

  “Think being here upset him too much. I was telling him about the cigarettes, and he just bolted.” The coroner, Mike or Mark, Marlowe didn’t catch which, took a bite of his sandwich and spoke while giving a view of tomato and lettuce between chomps.

  “Cigarettes?” asked Kline.

  “Yeah. Turns out the victim had been dead a while, more than a week, maybe two. Found a grave further up the river, dug up. Dumb ass flicked his butts into the grave. Cheap ones he rolled himself. They’ll have prints and DNA all over ‘em.”

  “You’re saying the killer murdered the victim and buried him. A week or two later returned, dug him up, and pulled the corpse in two with a truck?” Koop shook his head, disbelieving.

  “Yep. Looks like.” Mike or Mark took another chomp of his sandwich.

  “Wanna see the body? Pretty messy.”

  The coroner led them to a steel gurney in the center of the room. Two sizable lumps were visible beneath the white sheet. He positioned the overhead light and drew back the cover. The stench of rancid meat flew up from the mangled sections. Kline coughed and covered her nose; Marlowe staggered back as if punched in the gut. Only Koop seemed unaffected. Intestines flowed from the torso like coils of rope, dry and papery. Holes and serrated lines showed on the bowels and putrefied organs where worms had burrowed and insects enjoyed their feast. The arms had been ripped from their sockets, and the skin stretched to obscene proportions. Ribs broken by the torque jutted through grey skin in jagged rows. The bottom half, which began just below the navel, appeared hollowed out.

  “A variation of the rack. One of the most well-known torture techniques. I recall it used in the movie Braveheart, employing a horse to pull the victim. The method’s been depicted thousands of times. No obscure knowledge needed.” Koop leaned in close over the body.

  “Has the press released info on the inverted cross?” asked Marlowe.

  “Days ago. Not much of the MO’s made it past them.” Kline stared at the body over her hand. “Locals did a sorry job of keeping a lid on. And honestly, with the perp’s identity known, it wasn’t considered a big deal to keep quiet.”

  “So, the killer wanted it to look like a Heretic murder, but didn’t know forensics would easily remove the possibility,” said Marlowe.

  Koop had obviously seen all he needed to and stepped away from the table. “We do not appear to be dealing with a rocket scientist here.”

  Marlowe grabbed his phone and called Metro. “Locate Detective Murray, he’s in my Explorer.”

  After a minute, the operator came back on the line. “GPS shows the vehicle at Fulton Hill off Highway 33.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marlowe considered where to go next. Too many irons in the fire. Marshall likely remained north around Redwine, and a corpse that broke pattern with no clue as to her identity. But his best friend was here… and hurting. Protocols said leave this for the locals, but Marlowe couldn’t see himself abandoning the case. The capitol wouldn’t approve, and would forbid any deviation away from the Heretic investigation—looking into Charlie’s murder could take weeks or months. Splitting his time between the two, and keeping an ear out for activity from Caesar, would spread him and the team thin, creating gaps that could let important clues and details slip through. Even so, if their situations were reversed, and it was Spence in his place, Marlowe had no doubt his partner would tear this town apart until he found an answer. Could he do any less for Spence?

  An officer dressed in a brown county uniform burst through the examination room door, saving Marlowe from the difficult decision.

  “Got a match,” he said, out of breath. “Off the cigarettes I mean. Guy’s in the system for DUI, public intoxication, disturbing the peace, and domestic. Real winner named Jake Gibbs. Patrols are headed out to Fulton Hill now.”

  Marlowe’s head shot around. “Fulton Hill? That’s where this guy lives?”

  “Yeah. Why?” The officer raised a brow.

  “Shit,” breathed Marlowe.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Miguel “Caesar” Ramirez stood on the balcony of the rented mansion in Greystone. He gazed on the lavish estate grounds—the crystal azure of the pool, the lush greens of the lawn, a clear cyan sky—yet none of what he viewed eased his wrath. Sparrows flitted about the eaves, chirping in play. He wanted to clutch them and crush them in his hands. Feel the tiny bones crunch and their gooey contents ooze between this fingers. Immune to such rage for decades, he enjoyed the warmth in his belly. Not since fighting his way up from the streets, taking down every adversary who stood in his path, had he known this taste for blood. For so long, he stood above the dirty little things, his hands clean, his mind undisturbed. His empire ran li
ke a well-oiled machine, none within or without dared oppose him. Yes, it was good to feel…something again.

  Caesar huffed and returned indoors where a large cherry-wood table sat centered in the parlor. With legs carved in the likeness of roaring lions, and its delicate ornate detailing around the corners, it suited its purpose well. A master board for a master’s game. Three dozen photos of Detective Marlowe Gentry lay strewn across the table’s surface, press clippings from the man’s valorous past deeds. A mere glance at that face made Caesar feel sick and want to spit the acidic tang from his mouth, but he forced himself to stare and memorize each subtle feature.

  Jose, his only child, snuffed out, and for so little. Caesar relished the one mercy; Daniella did not live to see it. Perhaps he had been too hard on their son after she passed. A boy needed his mother to temper the father’s ambition for him—a tender shoulder to cry on, a soft hand to caress away the tears. Caesar regretted nothing. He had done what was necessary, and Jose would have understood in time…In time.

  Caesar recalled the boy, so much like his mother. He had a way about him easily mistaken for weakness. Jose would rather read a book, paint, or fiddle with one musical instrument or another than play at fighting or sports like the other boys. He possessed a keen intelligence, absorbing text and memorizing complete poems, able to perfectly duplicate works by masters from Van Gogh to Dali. In the early years, Caesar held no small amount of pride for his son’s talents, but when the time came to put away trivial pursuits and rise to the mantle secured for him, Jose’s reluctance and defiance grew frustrating. Their arguments rapidly devolved into hostile shouts and words they could not take back. Daniella stood between them, but always supported Jose in the end.

  “He’s only a boy, allow him a childhood. Let him pursue his dreams. There’s time enough.”

  Caesar always relented. Over the years, however, he began to resent the closeness of mother and son. She encouraged the boy’s every whim and defied Caesar’s wishes at every turn. Jose looked like her and acted like her. Any trace of his father seemed so faint, unrecognizable. Every father craved a son. Someone to carry on the family name, the family business, and here, Daniella undermined all his efforts to teach his son. She sneered at his attempts to live vicariously through Jose, and demanded he leave their boy to his own devices and desires. Each day, Jose grew bolder and more defiant with her encouragement.

  “Jose is fifteen. I’ve indulged him long enough. No more. From this point forward, he will do as I say. There is so much he needs to learn. So many dangers to face. Police constantly watch, everywhere, all the time, and our enemies are too numerous to count. They want what I have built. A single mistake, and it comes crashing down. My son will take my place, and see it grow. First, he must learn how,” Caesar had said.

  “He doesn’t want it. Can’t you see that? You have plenty of competent men, with the…traits needed to succeed you. Our son is a gentle soul. He doesn’t have in him what it would take. Teach one of your men and leave Jose alone.” Daniella’s admonishment carried no hint of supplication, but rather a self-assurance that angered Caesar. How dare she speak to him this way? “He is truly talented. You have seen what he can do. He has an amazing future ahead of him, if you will only support him and have faith in him. Someday, you’ll see, his work will adorn museum walls, or perhaps he’ll perform for thousands. Is your business worth such a loss?” The bite in her words grew more venomous. She no longer made any attempt to hide her contempt for what he did, all he had worked a lifetime to achieve.

  “We had nothing, do you remember? When we came to this country? The clothes on our backs…and dreams. Where did they take us? Nowhere. I did what I had to, not what I wanted.” Caesar remembered the apathetic expression on her face as he spoke. Her beautiful brown eyes once viewed him as her champion and hero, something near awe in their glint, but now they looked on him with coolness, unmoved by all he had done. “This world respects one thing, and one thing alone…money. Money is power. With my wealth, I’ve provided you everything you have. I alone furnish your needs and desires. You may suspect, but you don’t truly know, what’s been required of me. All the things I’ve sacrificed, so you two, my family, might have a life. Not groveling for handouts, or working fingers to the bone in fields and orchards. All you have is because of me.”

  “A life?” She laughed. “You have given us a prison. I will not let you smother our son, steal all his hopes as you have mine. Money is power?” Daniella waved a hand, indicating their extravagant environment. “All this, and I see only a cell.”

  Daniella, so beautiful—tall, with elegant lines framing her shape, jet black, silken hair hanging to her waist. A single glance at her had always set his pulse fluttering, but now he could find no affection for her…not anymore. Her constant interference and meddling saw to that. Too bold, she forgot her place. He ruled a vast enterprise served by hundreds, plagued by enemies at every turn, yet could not control his own family. Caesar could say to his man, “kill,” and the target would fall. To a powerful city authority, he offered a bribe, and with a handshake owned the person. But his wife? In truth, he could put a stop to it easily enough. If he threatened and demanded with the weight of his title behind him, Daniella would yield. Yet, perhaps not even then. A clever woman, her tactics would simply shift, become more subtle. Regardless, any interference on Caesar’s part would only deepen Jose’s rebellion and alienation from him. So long as Daniella stood at his shoulder, Jose would never relinquish his foolish dreams.

  The day his mother’s body washed up on the beach, Jose screamed and tore at his hair. He locked himself in his room, refusing to speak or eat. Caesar called in doctor after doctor, but nothing would lift his son from despair. In time, as Caesar knew it would, the pain passed and Jose returned to something like his old self, perhaps a touch more distant and introverted, but more pliable. Caesar felt certain soon he would be able to train his son without obstacle.

  He gave Jose space and allowed time for his wounds to heal, but once Jose showed a rise in spirits and again devoted himself to his art, Caesar knew the moment had come. To add to the difficulty of reaching his son, Jose spent long hours on the Internet with some girl—a silly long distance relationship, which could never materialize into more than a fantasy, a childish infatuation. Puppy love, however puerile, remained all too real to the puppies. Breaking Jose free of his artistic pursuits, and a girl he was convinced he loved, tested Caesar’s patience, and mandated severe action.

  “You must grow up and embrace your responsibilities,” Caesar had said on their last day together. “You are heir to my empire, you will be a king, and you’re willing to cast it aside, for what? A girl? You have your pick of any number of beautiful women right here in Miami.”

  “I don’t want some trophy, some shell on my arm. Did you choose Momma to show off to your friends and make you look more successful? You could have, but you didn’t. You loved her.” Jose, too sensitive and insightful for his own good, always knew the right nerve to hit.

  “The Internet.” Caesar scoffed. “You know the girl from the Internet. You’ve never even met her, yet you know you’re in love.” He halted his pensive stalk across the great room floor and took a seat in a plush leather recliner opposite his son. “You will find love here. This is your home. Alabama? A hick place, full of ignorance. You’ll find no happiness there.”

  “I’ll have Jenny, and I’ll have love. I’ll have my music and my art. I can make it on my own.” Jose kicked a foot against a gaudy coffee table, knocking a gold-leafed copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s A Hundred Years of Solitude onto its face, and slammed back into the sofa’s cushions.

  Caesar glanced around the room, filled with ostentatious décor—expensive paintings by Barceló and de Goya, crystal and gold wares from the old country, veined marble gleaming from walls and columns. His castle, set in the heart of his empire, yet what he sought most eluded him—his son’s respect and obedience.

  “You can hire the
best musicians, the best studios, right here. There is plenty of time to pursue your dreams, but you must allot time to learn what you will need to know to succeed me.”

  “Succeed you? Ha. You’re a drug dealer. Not a fucking king.” Jose shoved off the sofa and stormed toward the great room entry.

  “You will come here this instant. I have not dismissed you. My patience is at an end with your childishness.” Caesar fought to control his anger. Losing his temper would be uncouth and beneath him.

  Jose spun on his heels. “That’s all anyone is to you…puppets. You pull our strings and expect us to dance to your tune. Foot soldiers, servants, business lackeys, all of us are nothing more than rose petals for you to walk on…strut around like a peacock. I’m tired of polishing your crown. It won’t fit me, and I don’t want to wear it.”

  “Be careful with your tone. I am still your father.” Caesar’s faced warmed, his eyes narrowing to slits.

  Jose knew enough not to push him too far. “I’m going, Father. You can’t stop me. Lock me in a room, eventually I’ll find a way.”

  Caesar shook his head. “No. I’ve had enough of this. You want to make it on your own and follow this fool’s errand, fine. But you will do it solely on your own, with no assistance from me. I will not support you in this. Go. But go without my blessing or my backing.”

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help.” Jose straightened, thrusting back his shoulders. He again turned to leave.

  “Jose.”

  “What?” Animosity coated his tone.

  “When you grow tired of playing these games, your place will remain here. The door is always open for your return. Never be ashamed to come home.” Caesar’s face had softened, a father’s affection in his eyes.

  Jose could not seem to hold onto his indignation. His words caught in his throat and he simply nodded. That was the last time Caesar would see his son alive. A thousand “should haves” rolled through his mind, the thousand times he had picked up the phone and pride took it from his hand.