A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  As Mason’s health continued to decline, greater responsibility fell upon Gabriel’s young shoulders. His mother’s lucid days came fewer and further between. He made his own meals and performed most of the work around the farm.

  In addition to his regular duties, Gabriel now handled all their dealings with Mr. Hayes, who bought their surplus produce and meat to sell at market. In the past, he had assisted Mason with conducting business, making sure buyers did not take advantage of him.

  Gabriel began to accompany Mr. Hayes to market in his father’s place. Mr. Hayes felt it important he learn how transactions worked and how to negotiate the best prices. On one trip, his abnormal upbringing came into stark view.

  “Okay, let’s set up over there. Yep, a good spot. We’ll catch folks coming both ways—headed to the animal pens and back out toward the parking lots,” said Mr. Hayes, pointing this way and that. “Be sure to put the best-looking goods on the counter.”

  “Yes sir,” said Gabriel, eager to please.

  “Don’t let anyone talk you down. Our prices are more than fair. If anyone gives you a hard time while I’m out of the stall, just tell ’em to take it or leave it.” Mr. Hayes patted him on the back and walked down the path between vendors.

  Gabriel stood behind a makeshift counter, selling bushels of vegetables and baskets of fruit. The crowd buzzed with shoppers. People came from several counties away to seek out the freshest foods for dinner, while farmers appraised livestock divided into neat rows of pens.

  He enjoyed going to market. The sights and sounds of the crowds moving about overwhelmed him at first, but soon, curiosity replaced trepidation. It had not taken long, however, to discover none present quoted Shakespeare or recited Tennyson.

  A boy, about his age, stepped up to Gabriel’s stall with a sneer. “Hey, how’s that crazy family of yours?”

  Gabriel tried to pretend he had not heard. These trips, simply listening and watching, confirmed Gabriel’s life lessons were quite different from those of others. He could not recall his mother ever speaking in a manner similar to those he encountered here. Her words leapt from the pages of his books, a vernacular which had not progressed beyond the eighteenth century.

  Outside the farm, he felt as if he watched a future world from a portal far removed. In order to avoid embarrassment, he allowed Mr. Hayes to do most of the talking, keeping his own interactions limited to handing over purchases.

  “You deaf like you’re ol’ man?” asked the boy. “Y’all are strange, you know that? Your dad’s dumb as a brick. But hey, we always get good deals off him. At least when the other guy ain’t around. Cause your dad can’t add for shit.”

  “Do not speak of my father in that way,” said Gabriel, his face drawn in anger.

  “Do not speak of my father in that way,” mimicked the boy. “What the hell are you? Probably bat shit wacko like your mom.”

  Apparently, his family’s oddities were common knowledge. Gabriel could not guess how the boy knew about his mother, but rumor and gossip found a way of spreading. His eyes tearing, Gabriel hung his head, fists balled tight.

  “Oh, gonna cry, little baby? Man, you’re a real weirdo,” the boy said, walking away.

  A quiet fury burned in Gabriel’s belly, not with the boy as much as with himself. He should not have allowed him to speak of his family so disrespectfully. However uncomfortable he felt with his odd speech and mannerisms, it did not mean he feared danger or confrontation. His books taught him chivalry and courage. So, why had he not defended their honor?

  Shame.

  Gabriel longed to fit in, to be a part of the world and not only a spectator. Yet he could not carry on a simple conversation without his strangeness thrown into his face. He feared his mere appearance gave away his naiveté. Could others see an eccentric mother, a slow-minded father, simply by looking at him?

  On the return trip with Mr. Hayes, Gabriel wanted nothing more than to be home. Surrounded by his animals and his peculiar family, he would ignore the world beyond the fences. No more would he allow foolish dreams or the disparagement of others to taint his love for his life.

  When he arrived home in late afternoon, he did not see his father in the garden or the pens. He needed to find him, spend time with him, and remember. Remember their bond and the devotion they shared. With age, a new perspective crept in, threatening to undermine the life he knew and turn his eyes toward distant horizons. He needed to crush it, banish it from his thoughts. His father was the anchor keeping him steady, a solid foundation on which he could stand. To be like his father must remain enough.

  He did not find Mason in the house, and Elisabeth had not seen him for some time. Gabriel scanned the garden and pasture, finding no sign of his father. As he walked toward the barn, he startled when a thunderous boom echoed across the field. Gabriel dashed toward the barn and flung open the doors.

  Mason lay against one wall, a spray of crimson misting the air. Pieces of skull and brain painted the area above his body. His shotgun rested near a limp hand, the serenity of death frozen on his face, anguish replaced with peace.

  * * *

  “Hey, space cadet, where you at?” said Paul.

  “I am sorry,” said Gabriel, snapping back to the present.

  “You look a little off. Maybe you should take your break.”

  “Thank you, I believe I will.”

  Gabriel sat on a bench beneath one of the oak trees. The image of his father’s face still lingered in his mind.

  Serenity in death, anguish replaced with peace.

  The thought brought with it comfort like a sweet melody.

  Gabriel recalled the young prostitute and the grieving mother; both wore the same expression as his father. Their eyes seemed to see another world, a better world, in those final moments before he placed the gifts for Charon upon them. Gabriel flipped a coin into the air…and smiled.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Marlowe leaned against a wall at the back of the room, watching Professor Kaplan deliver his lecture. His hand struck down in an abbreviated karate chop, driving a point home. A hall full of students sat transfixed by the charismatic presentation. Not an easy thing to do, keeping fifty college students engaged in a lecture on the history of world religions, but the professor seemed to be doing just that.

  Marlowe could not hide his smile. Peter Kaplan, his old college roommate, had majored in theology and world religious history while banging every co-ed at the university and drinking every frat boy under the table. In Peter’s defense, he was not a believer, but simply possessed a keen interest in religions and mythologies. Still, everyone called him Father Kap, whether an insult or a playful moniker depended on who addressed him.

  Dashing would be the best word to describe Kap, that, and a cad. Movie star good looks blemished only by a white scar above his left eye, an old basketball injury suffered when he stepped into an elbow on a box out. Whenever he flashed his devilish grin and batted those bright blue eyes, skirts went up and hearts melted.

  The class concluded and Kap caught sight of Marlowe. He rushed forward and took him in a great bear hug. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “Why? So you could hide all your good liquor?” Marlowe returned his friend’s embrace.

  “From you? Never. Come on, my office is just down here.”

  The two strolled the hall like the bright-eyed students they once were. Marlowe felt a wave of nostalgia. While working toward his degree in psychology, and then law school, he spent the better part of six years on this campus. So many good memories.

  He met Katy here. They spent more hours than he could count on the university’s quad or in the local pubs. Marlowe recalled long nights in the library and longer ones in each other’s dorm rooms. Fond memories.

  Yet everything, every memory, seemed tainted now. All the sights and sounds of campus life conjured competing emotions. One was warm and cherished, but a different feeling, equally strong, drowned the other in grief. Mar
lowe shook the thoughts from his mind and forced a smile.

  “You’ve lost weight,” said Kap as they took seats in his office.

  Marlowe scanned the books, icons, and pictures, always impressed with Kap’s ability to find new places to store his ever-increasing hoard.

  “Yeah, getting into fighting shape.” Marlowe flexed a bicep. Still muscular and fit, he had to admit his pants and jacket were considerably looser than in the past.

  “If you plan on fighting a scarecrow. You need to put some meat on those bones. Why don’t you come over to the house this weekend? Teagan will make you a good home-cooked meal.”

  Teagan, Kap’s latest TA girlfriend. He seemed to find a new one every few semesters.

  “Can she make anything besides Fruit Loops? Is she even old enough to use the stove?”

  Kap laughed. “Screw you. I’ll have you know she makes a mean linguini in a red wine sauce.”

  “Maybe. Right now I’m up to my ass in alligators.”

  “All work and no play, you know? You haven’t always been so serious. Where’s the wild man I roomed with? This new reclusive Marlowe is a real downer. I need the Sundance Kid to my Butch Cassidy.” Kap had an irritating habit of smirking after most sentences, as if some joke hid inside everything he said.

  “I have no idea what you referring to. I’ve always been a standup guy, no clowns in my closet.”

  “No? Shall I refresh your memory?” Kap’s infernal smirk widened. “I seem to recall the matter of a certain video camera placed strategically in the girls’ showers.”

  “Nope, wasn’t me,” said Marlowe with a smirk of his own.

  “You invited me and half a dozen other guys over for beers and viewing entertainment. We hoped to catch a peek at Stacy Phillips in the buff; instead, we got more than we wanted of the only person who used the showers that night…Ms. Potters. Three hundred pounds of rolling wet flesh, boobs sagging to her waist. She found the camera.”

  “Yeah…she couldn’t just take it down.” Marlowe shuddered.

  “No shit.” Kap cackled. “That woman did the nastiest things marginally resembling a dance I’ve ever seen.”

  Marlowe had not laughed so hard in ages. After a moment, he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Jesus, I did forget about it. I couldn’t eat for a week.”

  “You forgot that? I still have nightmares.” Kap struggled to get his own laughter under control. It took him a while to compose himself. “Good to see you laugh. I know you haven’t done much of it in a while.”

  Kap moved his chair closer to Marlowe’s, his voice growing serious. “I hope you know I’m always here for you. I figured you had enough well-wishers around, and I didn’t want to pressure you about talking. Not a day goes by I don’t think about you and Paige.”

  “I appreciate it, Kap. But you were right. Too many people were hounding me. Talking was really the last thing I wanted to do.”

  “I get that. Just know I’m here if you need me. So, I assume you didn’t come all this way to relive Ms. Potters?”

  “Ha, you got me. No, I’m afraid this isn’t entirely a social call. I need your expertise.”

  Kap arched an eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

  “Despite being an egotistical dick, you still know stuff.”

  “Touché.”

  “I need you to take a look at some photos, tell me what you see from a religious point of view.” Marlowe laid out a dozen pictures across Kap’s desk.

  “Shit, Marlowe.” Kap averted his eyes, a hand pressed to his belly. “You can’t show me something like that while I’m still thinking about linguini in wine sauce.”

  “Sorry, I should have mentioned they’re a bit graphic.”

  “A bit?” Kap collected himself and moved one photo free of the others. “Well, right off, placing coins on the eyes of the dead is Greek in origin.”

  “I thought the same.”

  “The original Greek myth asserts the coins were payment to the river boatman Charon in order to grant the dead passage across the river Styx and into the underworld. Doesn’t necessarily peg it though, placing coins or other objects on the eyes of the dead was subsequently employed by many cultures.”

  “But the writing is Greek too, correct? There must be a connection,” said Marlowe, pointing to the symbols.

  Kap examined the three symbols. “Perhaps. The first word positioned by…are those lungs? Christ. Anyway, the first is the Greek word for life. Next is purpose, and finally, death.”

  “The killer obviously knows Greek. Greek ethnicity or ancestry? A scholar wannabe?”

  “Doubtful, these translations are very literal. Anyone could plug the English word into an online translator and get the corresponding Greek word. No real knowledge of language or myths required.”

  “You’re not helping me here, Kap. Show me what your high-priced education bought you.”

  “Hold your taters, amigo. Life. Purpose. Death. It’s ambiguous. It could suggest the progression of life—we’re born, we live, we die.” Kap scratched his head and stared at the photos.

  “Hmm. In Judeo-Christian mythology, God made Adam from the dust of the ground, and breathed life into him. In the Greek, Prometheus shaped man out of mud, and Athena breathed life into his clay figure. So, the word Life next to the lungs could mean birth, Purpose next to the pile of organs could be lived life—the act of living, and of course the heart cut in half…death. Life, Purpose, Death.

  “However, in many Christian belief systems, our purpose is to die. This world, this life, is simply the pathway to true life—the afterlife. Therefore, life’s purpose is death.”

  “Interesting. What else do you see?” asked Marlowe.

  “Well, the wings are likely Christian—angelic. So is the cross, of course. Look here.” Kap pointed to a photo displaying the full totem. “See how it’s positioned facing the window? The arrangement doesn’t appear meant for an interior viewer. It wasn’t placed for you, the police, or anyone in the room to see, but directed for someone observing from outside.”

  Marlowe leaned in and looked over the photo. “But it was on the third floor of the house. There were no homes or buildings nearby tall enough to see into that room. Unless he planned on viewing it from a helicopter, I don’t see it.”

  “God,” said Kap, matter-of-factly.

  “What?”

  “The display is for God, or the gods, to see. The totem is an act of worship. This murder wasn’t committed out of malice or sadism. It was an act of love,” said Kap, lines creased his forehead.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, the coins and the cross are both symbols of blessing. The window is open. Before coroners and mortuaries, the departed lay in state in the home for family and friends to say their goodbyes, pay their respects. They would leave a window open so the soul could leave this world and fly to the heavens. I assume it’s the reason for the wings.”

  “The killer must have known the victim to care so much about them. You don’t love a stranger to this degree.” Marlowe bent over the desk, arms taut against the surface.

  “Love thy neighbor as thyself, ring a bell? But no, I don’t think that’s it. The symbolism suggests universal themes. The love that god or the gods have for their children, their creation.”

  “He sees himself as a god?” asked Marlowe, trying to get a grasp on this new information.

  “No—an instrument carrying out God’s will.” Kap retrieved a book from a shelf, and flipped through the pages. “The mish-mash of Greek and Christian mythologies is perplexing—one polytheistic, one monotheistic. They have many themes in common, but no believer of either would confuse one for the other.”

  Kap pointed to a passage in the book. “See here, widespread practice of worshiping the Greek gods gave way to Christianity around the fourth century with the Emperors Constantine and Theodosius. Of course, Paganism continued even under the threat of execution for a long time. You can still find small pockets of worshipers. The
re’s currently a group petitioning the Greek government for permission to worship the gods at the ancient sites. With the country now primarily Christian, they’re fighting an uphill battle.”

  Kap shook his head. “Sorry, more information than you probably needed. Short answer, I’m not sure why your suspect has married the two mythologies.”

  “No, it’s useful to know. More than likely, we aren’t looking for someone trying to usher in an age of Greek Paganism. Killer prophets…no thanks.”

  “I agree. This murder is strictly personal for the killer. There will be something important about the victims, some reason why there are chosen, but the grand scheme is not for the masses.” Kap closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

  “Flowers were placed inside the body, any idea what that means?”

  “Flowers? I’ll do some research, but nothing comes to mind in Greek or Christian burial rites involving flowers per se. Flowers are common with funerals and have been employed since ancient times. Traditionally, they conveyed hope and sympathy. Also, they served the practical purpose of disguising odors before embalming came into use. Judging by this ritual, the flowers probably have a personal meaning to the killer.”

  “Thanks Kap, most illuminating.” Marlowe slapped his friend on the back.

  “Always happy to help. I’ll bill you.”

  Christ, how Marlowe hated that smirk. “Now how about some of the good stuff I know you have hidden in the bottom drawer.”

  * * *

  Past midnight, Marlowe sat alone in the basement of the police station. A single lamp lit a small area around the wooden table. Its green shade caused an eerie glow to touch the surrounding darkness.

  Hours ago at Paige’s bedtime, he’d called home and asked Mable to put her on the phone. His daughter had said nothing; only her soft breathing came over the phone as he told her how much he loved her and apologized for working late. She stayed on the line until he had wished her a good night’s sleep, and hung up without giving the phone back to the nanny.