A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  Marlowe’s gaze shifted back and forth from the photo to the gun lying beside it. The cold beauty of the gun’s steel matched the radiant beauty of his wife and daughter. Each item held a promise. Photo and gun, in their own way, whispered to him…come with me.

  This isn’t you. You’re better than this.

  The alternating memories reflected his two selves—Better and Worse. Two aspects within one form. The loving husband and father, and the man filled with rage and self-hatred. Both existed inside him. He could deny neither. Experience composed their qualities and need gave them life.

  Every person possessed the two faces. One smiled on family and friends, seeking the good in life—loving, caring, hoping. The other looked on life with hate-filled eyes, loathing the evil and hardness of the world—fearing, suffering, seeking to destroy.

  A war waged within Marlowe’s soul, threatening to rip him apart. Anguish racked his mind. He wanted it to end. An end to this meaningless life.

  The photo of Katy and Paige. The gun. Love and hope verses pain and despair. Two aspects of a man, each demanding sovereignty.

  The question then…which would rule?

  He stared at the gun, trying to get it to leap into his hand by sheer force of will. His arm refused to move. Jim Beam had other plans for him. Marlowe slumped in his chair and passed out. Katy haunted his dreams with blood. The hundredth time she screamed, he woke, his decision made. His hand went to the desktop, fumbling for his gun. Frenzied fingers darted across the surface; pens, papers, and books fell to the floor.

  Where is it?!

  When he couldn’t find it glancing about, Marlowe struggled to his feet and began tearing drawers open, flinging their contents across the room. The clap of objects ricocheting off walls and shelves echoed the thunder pounding in his brain. With nothing else to smash, he hunched in a Quasimodo stance—the sound of his heavy breathing the only mar in the silence.

  “I hid it.”

  Marlowe spun at the sound of a tiny voice in the doorway. Paige stood there in her little, pink nightgown, clutching a doll by its tousled, red hair. She appeared angelic, framed by the hallway’s light.

  His eyes wide, Marlowe fell to his knees. “Baby…” Tears streamed down his face, arms extended to his daughter.

  “I don’t want you to die like Mommy.” Paige ambled into his arms. He held her as though she might evaporate into his dreams. “You tried to save Mommy from the bad man.” She placed her tiny palms against his cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault, Daddy. Please don’t go away.”

  Marlowe collapsed to the floor. Seated with Paige in his lap, he stroked her hair and pressed her body to his chest. Racking sobs tore through him.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Becca stepped out of the shower and leaned forward to gather her hair into a towel wrap. After shrugging on her bathrobe, she strolled into the bedroom, humming some tune she could not seem to get out of her head. She could not remember feeling this good in years. Maybe life was finally breaking her way.

  Gone for only a few days, Michael seemed a distant memory. Becca felt as if she had spent the last ten years asleep, and today awoke to find it had all been a nightmare. It was not true of course. She would never recover all she lost, or completely rid herself of the scars. Even so, a new day dawned full of promise, full of anticipation and hope. The monsters had fled, and, though they were always waiting to crawl forth, for now, she locked them away in a dark corner of her mind.

  Maybe she could have a future with Marlowe. She loved being with him, loved his strength and bullish dedication. Becca felt safe with him. Safe. A concept she had almost forgotten existed. Not afraid—when did she last feel this way? So long ago, she could not even recall it now. Safe and unafraid, she could get used to this.

  Becca plucked her cell phone off the nightstand and opened to the contacts. She hovered over Marlowe’s entry, debating calling him. To hear the sound of his voice would be like a warm blanket around her shoulders. She glanced at the time display. Too late. His daughter would be asleep now. She slipped the phone into the huge pocket on the side of the robe and wandered to the window. The police hadn’t returned. No chance Michael would make bail now. Perhaps they decided to take their time with that “associate” of his.

  She smiled, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath of freedom.

  A sweaty palm clamped over her mouth as someone grabbed her from behind. So preoccupied with meandering thoughts, she hadn’t felt the lurking presence. She struggled, kicking, flailing, and trying to scream. He lifted her off her feet. Becca kicked a lamp over as they went stumbling back and fell on the bed. The arms around her crushed the air from her lungs.

  Oh god, Michael. He’s here. He’s going to kill me.

  The hand covering her mouth slid down to her throat and squeezed. She could not scream, could not breathe.

  I’m going to die. Please don’t let me die.

  “Stop. Stop fighting. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  The voice sounded muffled and distant. Her heart pounded in her skull, threatening to explode. Becca’s vision blurred as the room around her faded to black.

  When consciousness returned, she found herself in the dining room. Her instinctual attempt to clutch her throat made her aware of tight cords around her wrists, binding them to the armrests of the chair, ankles strapped to the legs. Wet hair hung over her face. Her towel was gone, her bathrobe askew. Panic came on with a squirming fit that got her nowhere. A sound emanated from behind her, a click and shuffling steps. She tried to turn her head, to find him.

  What is he going to do to me?

  Frantic, Becca felt her fear escalate, becoming uncontrollable. The chair legs click-clapped against the hardwood as she rocked back and forth, trying to free herself. She tilted and started to tip over sideways, but stalled in midair with the clap of a hand on wood. He pulled her upright, setting the chair back in place.

  “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself,” said a man’s voice. A man’s…but not Michael’s.

  As he stepped into view, fear merged with puzzlement. She did not understand. So certain Michael had returned, her mind fought to accept a quite different reality. Becca knew this man, but the recognition did little to clear her confusion.

  “Max? Max Bannon? I don’t…I don’t understand. Why are you in my house? What are you doing?”

  He leaned close, staring through her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I’m here to save you.”

  “Save me? Save me from what? You’re not making sense, Max. Untie me, we’ll sit down and figure this out together.”

  “I want to, Dr. Drenning. Really, I do. He says you need to stay like this. So you don’t get hurt.” Max checked her restraints to make certain they remained secure.

  “What? Who says? Is someone here with you?” Becca wriggled around, trying to locate anyone else in the house.

  “Yes, but you can’t see him.” His eyes glazed over. “Only I can. Because he picked me.”

  “Who picked you? Picked you for what?”

  “To stand for you.”

  * * *

  A gentle hand nudged Marlowe from a shallow sleep. He rolled over to see Paige standing at his bedside.

  “Can I have pancakes?” she asked in a shy tone.

  Marlowe blinked, afraid to believe he was awake. In a second, he smiled. “Of course you can.”

  She swayed back and forth, biting her lower lip. His head still rang, but he had not felt so alive in a long time. He forced himself to sit up, waited for the room to stop spinning, and stood. Paige took his hand and they made their way down to the kitchen where Mable stood by the sink with her back turned.

  “Good morning, Mable,” said Marlowe.

  The plump nanny jumped at the sound and whirled about with a suspicious squint—he never said good morning, or much of anything to her. Mable spotted Paige and tilted her head.

  “Hi,” said Paige with a narrow smile.

  Mable stumbled into
the counter with one hand pressed to her chest. After a few gasping breaths she burst into tears and shouted at the ceiling. “Thank the Good Lord!” She threw her hands into the air, and rushed over to envelop Paige in a hug. She put the girl down a moment later and regained her composure. “Good morning to the both of you. Coffee’s in the pot.” She knelt down to face level with Paige. “What would you like for breakfast, little angel?”

  “I got this,” said Marlowe.

  Mable grinned and stepped aside.

  Marlowe made pancakes, chocolate chip for Paige. As they ate, he asked Paige questions and tried to blow the dust off some of his old jokes. She offered succinct replies and giggled at his humor. A long way from returning to normality, but it was a start—a good start.

  Marlowe sucked down two cups coffee and poured a third. Ah, Dunkin Donuts Dark—perfection. Nothing sobered him up or cleared his mind quicker. Marlowe left Paige playing with her dolls in the den and went to his study.

  He retrieved the photo from his desk. The feelings remained a dull ache in his chest. The beach, its white sands and the blazing sun in the background, made him squint. He could hear Katy’s laughter and the sound of Paige splashing in the waves.

  His gun, found under the sofa, offered no more allure than a tool. A necessity of the trade. Marlowe tucked it into its holster.

  This isn’t you. You’re better than this.

  The words still haunted him. Along with the memories of that beach, Spence’s words stung, but something else lay underneath. Hope.

  Maybe somewhere inside hid the man Katy and Paige had loved, the man Spence believed still existed. Paige, with two simple sentences, rekindled his hope and woke him from a dark slumber. He shuddered at the realization of how close he’d come to slipping off the edge. Had Paige sensed it?

  Marlowe let the thoughts come, not shying away. He tried to view them objectively, acknowledging the pain, but keeping it at a distance. She spoke... Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. So close, cracks appeared in a wall he had built to remain impenetrable. With Paige, and perhaps Becca, it felt so close.…

  The phone rang, interrupting his meditation.

  “Gentry,” said Marlowe.

  Dead air on the other end. A half-second before Marlowe thumbed the phone off, Becca’s muffled voice said something indistinct.

  “Becca?” Marlowe raised his voice.

  “What was that?” asked an unfamiliar man in the background.

  “Nothing…Probably Bill next door yelling at his son. Please don’t hurt me. Untie me. I can help you.”

  Marlowe’s mouth went dry.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” the man said.

  Feminine grunting and wood creaking accompanied the brushy sound of cloth over a microphone.

  Seraphim? Did he come back?

  It did not make sense. Still, it was the only possible explanation. Maybe Becca did fight him off. Maybe she hurt him badly enough he fled and now returned to finish the job. If so, why the Judas kill first?

  To let the scene cool down, of course. Goddammit. How could I have been so blind?

  Why was Seraphim talking to her? Becca got to him…bought herself time.

  It was happening again. He could not let it happen again. Not again, no fucking way.

  Marlowe snatched Paige into the air, hugging her tight. “Daddy’s gotta work, babes. Be back soon.” He lowered her to the floor and dashed up to his bedroom.

  After dressing hastily, he pounded down to the stairs, two at a time, and headed for the front door.

  “Daddy.” Paige gazed at him. When she caught sight of the gun under his arm, a trace of worry appeared in her eyes.

  Marlowe halted and turned. “Yes, baby?”

  “I love you.”

  Marlowe smiled in spite of his worry; pride and affection swelled his chest. “I love you, too. More than anything.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Be back soon.”

  She smiled.

  Marlowe rushed out the door and jumped into his Explorer. He shoved his cop light onto the dashboard and ran over the trashcans on the way to the street. He floored it, trying to hold the cell to his ear.

  Silence. He pulled the phone back enough to look. The call had dropped.

  “Goddammit. No fucking way. No…”

  * * *

  Becca kept her voice calm. “Explain it to me, Max. Tell me why you’re doing this. What’s this all about?”

  Max paced back and forth, kneading his hands. “I have to, doctor. It’s the only way. I can’t go on like this. It gets worse every day. The pain…I can’t take it anymore. I tried to kill myself, you know. But I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why, I just couldn’t.”

  He scratched his brow with the muzzle of his gun. “Can’t even do that right. This is my chance. Don’t you understand? I can do something important, something big to make up for…everything.”

  Max looked skeletal—thin arms, sunken cheeks. He must have lost fifty pounds since their last session together. His rapid decline shocked her, and she had seen hundreds of patients with similar conditions.

  Most frightening, however, was his descent into madness. She could see it in his eyes. The cancer had wormed into his brain and warped his reality. His mind created a new world. Whatever he saw or believed was real for him. Talking Max down would not be easy, perhaps impossible.

  “He came to me. The Seraphim. He said he would return for you, and I could take your place. I can stand for you.”

  “That’s crazy, Max. Listen to yourself. Seraphim is a brutal killer. A maniac. It’s all in your mind. Your cancer is affecting your thinking, making you hear and see things that aren’t real.”

  He seemed to consider this, and then shook his head. “No, I know the difference. Yeah, I’ve seen things, things that weren’t really there. But this is different. It’s real. He’s real. You know, he came to you. He’s come to others. All that isn’t just in my head.”

  “No, it isn’t. There’s a real killer out there. And yes, he did attack me, but he only kills those who no longer want to live. I wanted to live, that’s why he spared me. He let me go, Max, because I am not suicidal. He isn’t coming back. He has no reason to.”

  “I don’t want to live. He’ll come for me. He promised he would. Maybe what you say is true, about why he didn’t take you, but this is how he wants it. This is where he can find me.”

  “If that’s the case, Max, how did he come to you and give you these instructions? He found you then without a problem. Why would he need you to be here now in order to find you?”

  Max opened his mouth wide, wiggled his jaw, and closed it several times. He stared at the wall. “You’re trying to mess with me. You’re mixing it all up. Seraphim said he would come for you, and I can take your place. He’ll take me with him. Take away all my pain. All my mistakes and failures won’t mean anything anymore.”

  Becca needed to keep him talking. The call had gone through. Max almost heard Marlowe on the other end…a beep told her the phone ran out of battery, and she tried not to lose hope. Marlowe would come, she just needed to keep Max occupied. She was not certain at this point what he intended to do with her, but in his condition, she had no way to know what he might be capable of.

  Max turned away, putting the heels of his palms to his temples. “I’m s-sorry for having to tie you to the chair, but you have to be here for him. Be quiet now, okay. He’ll come soon and it’ll all be over.”

  * * *

  Marlowe turned onto Emerald Lane, slowing only enough not to screech the tires as he stopped in front of Becca’s house. From the foot of her driveway, the silhouette of a man walking around appeared plain as day on the closed blinds. Marlowe thanked whatever lived upstairs that her side windows faced east and let in the morning sun.

  He grabbed the radio and called for backup before jumping out and rushing up to the front door. No sense in subterfuge; Seraphim would know what was up soon enough. Still, kicking his way in might startle him enough t
o hurt Becca. Marlowe edged to the corner of the window. A finger-width slice of glass by the blinds offered only enough of a view to see Becca seated in a chair in a peach-colored bathrobe, wrists bound with black cord. Her attention focused on something out of sight.

  Two quick steps brought him to the door. He tried the knob, finding it locked. He glanced at the small flowerpots and decorative stones on either side of the stoop.

  Maybe…it always works in the movies.

  He lifted the first flowerpot and peered underneath. Nothing.

  Shit. Two more, fingers crossed.

  Nothing under the second, but the third…

  Yes. Gotta love predictability.

  He retrieved the spare key. With a little luck, he might slip in and get a clean shot before Seraphim realized he was there. As quietly as possible, Marlowe slipped the key in the lock and turned. No shots fired—a good start. He moved through the foyer and backed against the wall between the living room and kitchen. He had a partial view of the dining room, but no sight of Becca or Seraphim.

  “You need help,” said Becca, calm and steady. “I can help you. I understand you’re in a scary place now. There’s no need to press charges.”

  Good girl. She was obviously using her skills to keep him pacified and buy some time. Marlowe, gun in hand, slid along the wall to the edge of the hallway. He still couldn’t see into the room without exposing himself to fire. Only one choice: a quick spin into the dining room, acquire the target, and take him down.

  Two hands on his Glock, the cold steel pressed to his chest, Marlowe took a deep breath. As he leapt around the corner, time slowed to a crawl. Seraphim was behind Becca, a small revolver pressed to the back of her head.

  Shit.

  Seraphim stood, she sat. Marlowe had a clear line of sight…a clear shot. Yet, even if he put one right in the man’s eye, a spasmodic muscle contraction could cause Seraphim to fire. With it against her head…

  Marlowe had been here before. He had rounded another corner to see Frank Brumbeloe with his arm around Katy’s waist, his knife at her throat. He broke out in a cold sweat as reality fell away.