A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  Max fell to the ground and slumped forward, clutching the back of the chair to keep from collapsing to the ground. He screamed in agony, his free hand clamped to his temple, pressing hard, trying to crush the ball, to still it. It only spun faster and grew larger. His world faded, black coloring his surroundings.

  A bright light rose above his head. With the little strength remaining in him, Max gazed upward, and in that hovering orb saw a shape. Seraphim had come at last.

  Tears poured down his face, part joy, part pain. Such awesome beauty. The Seraphim leaned down, seeming to embrace him. Arms held wide, his majestic wings spread out behind. Glorious. On his knees, prostrate before the angelic form, Max begged for his reward.

  “I did all you asked. I stand for her. Take me. Wipe away my failures.”

  The doctor needs your help. She must be set free from this life. Kill her.

  “What? That wasn’t the deal. You promised me. You can’t change it now. I won’t do it. I won’t kill her.”

  Your pain can last. The wasting of your body can take a great deal of time before death releases you.

  “No. You wouldn’t. Please. Take me…like you promised.”

  The radiant seraphim dimmed. Inky black streaks exuded from seams in the bronze armor, running like thickening veins over his body and wings until the figure had become pure black. Take her life and all you were promised will be given. Not only will your pain cease, and your loved ones look on you without contempt or pity, and you will join with us. You will find a place at our side.

  Max could not think. He tore at his hair. He rocked back and forth, making the chair creak. What he wanted lay inches away. Maggie stood before him, smiling, hands reaching out to him. His boys ran to him from across a field of the greenest grass, joyous laughter filling the air.

  The Seraphim only came for those ready to die. That’s what the news said. He came for Dr. Drenning, so she must be ready. Max could be an instrument of mercy—ending her pain, and his own, with one gentle squeeze of the trigger. A simple thing. A righteous thing.

  * * *

  Becca tried to hide her terror. She shuddered every time the chair moved, afraid to turn her head to look. Max muttered under his breath, shaking his head side to side. Still on one knee, he shuffled around to her side, sweat pouring down his face. Crisscrossing blood vessels webbed his eyes. His screams tore at her heart, but her fear of him did not diminish. In his condition, he might do anything. As if summoned to life, Becca’s unspoken fears manifested before her.

  Marlowe stared at the revolver. Even in his agony, Max could fire at any moment. The anguish in Marlowe’s eyes tore at her heart. He ached to act, but seemed trapped in his past trauma, and his fear she would be killed.

  Max tilted his head upward, staring at something she could not see—something only he could see. He began speaking, not to her or Marlowe, but to some apparition conjured from his delusions.

  “I did all you asked. I stand for her. Take me. Wipe away my failures.”

  “What? That wasn’t the deal. You promised me. You can’t change it now. I won’t do it. I won’t kill her.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. Please. Take me…like you promised.”

  I won’t kill her? Yes Max, fight it.

  Marlowe crept closer.

  When Max went still and silent, she held her breath and waited. When he stood and turned his gaze toward her, she knew he had lost the fight. His gun rose, the barrel—a gaping black hole she could walk down with both arms held wide—inches from her face.

  “Max, listen to me. Seraphim is not here. It’s all in your mind. You know that. It’s the cancer. It’s making you see and hear things that aren’t real. This isn’t you, Max. You’re not a killer. You’re a good man. Please, don’t do this,” said Becca.

  Her words were getting through. She could see his confusion, the battle still raging within him. She needed him to lower his gun. With it fixed on her, Marlowe could not act. If she could get Max to relax, just for a second, and point that thing somewhere else….

  Keep his attention. I’ve got to give Marlowe an opening.

  * * *

  Marlowe had seen junkies lose it, but never anything like this. He watched Max, and in some way, sympathized with his pain. He recognized the confusion, the self-hatred, his need to find hope in anything, even something fashioned within his own imagination.

  Marlowe, too, knew such a place. He had spent most of the last five years locked inside it. But, the big difference—Marlowe knew it. This guy could not tell up from down. So lost in his nightmare, the darkness engulfing him encompassed his entire world.

  Becca spoke in a soothing voice, attempting to coax Max back to reality. Marlowe thought, for a moment, maybe she could talk him down. Once his gun swung toward her, Marlowe knew this would not end well, not on its own. He had to follow Becca’s lead. He needed an opening.

  “Max,” he said in a sharp voice. Max turned at the sound, but kept his gun on Becca. “I know what you’re going through.”

  “You can’t know. No one can,” said Max, defeated.

  “I do. No, I’m not dying from cancer like you. I hate that for you. It sucks, it really does. But life can suck in a lot of ways. I lost my wife. She was murdered, brutally. I saw it, Max. I saw it happen, and I couldn’t stop it. I live with my failure every day. You have kids, Max?”

  “Two boys. Austin and Cody.” He seemed to picture his sons in his mind. The image brought a sad, thin smile to his lips.

  Marlowe nodded. “My daughter Paige watched it happen too. Eight years old. This Seraphim got into my head too. I thought taking him down would bring some peace. Instead, I became obsessed with catching him. I’ve become someone I don’t want to be. Done things I regret. I’ve become someone my family wouldn’t know and wouldn’t be proud of.”

  Marlowe inched closer as he spoke. “You want your boys to be proud of you, don’t you?”

  Max trembled. “Yes, yes I want that.”

  “If you hurt Dr. Drenning, they won’t be. They’ll be ashamed of you. And worse, you’ll be a killer. Austin and Cody’s dad—a killer. They will never outlive the stain. It will follow them for the rest of their lives.”

  Tears trickled from Max’s eyes. A broken man, struggling within two worlds, unsure which was real. “But…but, I don’t know. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do. It’s right behind me. It wants me to set her free from her pain. B-black wings…”

  “It’s okay. We all get confused sometimes. Put the gun down and we’ll help you. Dr. Drenning and I will get you the help you need.”

  “I don’t want to live like this. I can’t face what my life is becoming. I’m afraid.” Even for a tough, hardened cop like Marlowe, Max’s expression, his utter despair, hit him in the heart. Marlowe had rushed here to save Becca, but now he needed to help this man as well. To know he could come back from this. Redemption took many forms, and Marlowe had focused on the wrong one.

  Marlowe reached out, palm up. “I know. I promise you, we’ll get you the care you need. Medications to make sure you don’t suffer. You can die with dignity. Your boys will know you were a good man with the courage to do the right thing,” said Marlowe.

  Max lowered his gun.

  * * *

  While Max spoke with the man, the Seraphim’s blackness dripped onto the rug, seeping to a puddle of midnight ichor that slithered around his feet. Seraphim roared and blazed anew with crimson flame. The heat radiating from the angel charred the walls, ignited the curtains, and scorched all it touched—and it touched Max, burning away all remaining resolve. Its words flowed into his mind in a language he did not consciously understand.

  As if something, some force, seized control of his body, Max watched in horror as his gun rose in the air. He saw his hand on the grip, his finger against the trigger, his gun pointed at Dr. Drenning.

  The ball fixed with razors resumed its rapid spin. The pain came not in waves, but constant—no pause, no cessation.

 
; The room teetered like a seesaw. The rise and fall accented a perception of the house constricting and expanding. Nausea roiled in his gut. His vision blurred. A dozen versions of the doctor danced before him like a mirage in a desert heat shimmer.

  To Seraphim, he said, “Guide my aim.”

  To Dr. Drenning, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  A knot twisted in Marlowe’s gut as Max’s finger tightened on the trigger. Becca’s scream snapped him out of his fog. Dread took his spine in a cold embrace. He lunged for his Glock, swiping it from the table as he fell on his side. He took a split second to aim…and fired.

  Thunder exploded in the close confines.

  * * *

  Becca held her breath as Marlowe leapt. Max stood no more than a foot away from her. No possibility he could miss at that range. She strained with all her might to break free, but couldn’t move. Deafening blasts erupted around her amid flashes of muzzle fire. The wall behind her, the chair beneath her, erupted in a spray of splinters and plaster.

  * * *

  A bullet struck Max’s left arm and spun him to one side. A second hit him in the chest. He fell into a sideways stagger and collided with the dining room table. The force of his impact shattered the legs. The crack of breaking wood echoed the gunshots, bringing the entire table crashing to the floor.

  He lay there, blood saturating his shirt and pooling at his sides. The Seraphim dissolved into tiny pinpoints of light, flickering out one by one. He reached for them, his hand shaking weakly in the air. He felt cold, but there was no more pain. No more pain. Max let go of the tablecloth and slipped onto the floor.

  He smiled.

  * * *

  Marlowe’s first shot struck Max high on his left arm. The .45 caliber bullet spun him on impact, twisting his body to face Marlowe. His second shot found Max’s chest; bone fragments and blood misted the air. In the tumult, a third and fourth shot fired, and not from Marlowe’s gun. Becca crumbled to the floor in a cloud of smoke and shards.

  No, oh God. Please, no. Not again.

  * * *

  Becca lay on the floor, gulping the air, the odor of gunpowder filling her nostrils. She pawed at her body in a panic, the shattered armrests still tied to her wrists. She was certain the bullet must have gone cleanly through her and into the wall. But no, she appeared unharmed. Somehow, miraculously, Max had aimed wide and low, the bullets striking the seat an inch behind her and the wall beside her. Dumbstruck, she pulled her arms loose from the bits of destroyed chair.

  Marlowe rushed to Becca’s side and untied the bindings from her legs. His expression of unrelenting terror and relief broke her heart. She embraced him as if she might never let go, trying to pull herself into him.

  “Oh god, I was so scared,” she said.

  “I know. Me too.”

  “Is he…?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  Max gurgled. Marlowe pushed Becca behind him and aimed his Glock at Max, who raised a bloodied hand into the air.

  Marlowe edged over and kicked the .38 well out of reach. He knelt and peeled Max’s shirt back. After examining the wound, he glanced back to Becca and shook his head.

  Her hands went to her face. Why did it have to end this way? Why couldn’t Max have just put the goddamned gun down? He didn’t need to die like this.

  It surprised her how attached she felt to him after meeting him for only a few sessions. Becca knew him far less than many of her patients. Nevertheless, he had made an impression. He’d been the one to make her see the truth of her situation.

  Becca didn’t know what she’d expected. Max would have died from his cancer. He was not going to have a long life either way. Maybe she’d hoped he would find some measure of peace before he ran out of time. Selfish, but she’d wanted to believe, no matter the circumstances, things could work out. Not a happily-ever-after maybe, but something better than this.

  Outside, approaching sirens grew louder. She heard Marlowe mutter something.

  Max jerked to life and seized Marlowe’s wrist. How he managed it defied logic. He should not be alive, much less able to muster such strength. Marlowe’s hand darted to his gun. Max mouthed something and tugged Marlowe toward him. Marlowe seemed to relax and leaned down, listening.

  Marlowe gently touched Max’s face and stood, staring down on him. Max coughed once more, blood spitting onto his lips. His body sagged, and he let out his last breath.

  Becca wanted to turn away, but could not take her eyes off the poor man lying dead in her living room. Marlowe turned and embraced her, a tear trailing down his cheek. For a long moment, they said nothing. They held each other, both struggling with a myriad of conflicting thoughts. Noise from the foyer announced the police storming into the house.

  “Clear,” yelled Marlowe. “Suspect down.”

  Becca pulled back and gazed into his eyes. She saw pain there, but also compassion. He wore the countenance of a child who had mended a bird’s broken wing and set it free to fly.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  Marlowe stared at the dead man. “He said thank you.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Arriving home after fleeing the old woman, Gabriel had searched his books for answers, for any consolation. None came. He tore the pages from his beloved books, flinging them until they filled the air like confetti.

  He needed no answers. Gabriel understood all too well. He had failed.

  He failed with his mother all those years ago. The young prostitute was not the first time he experienced the blessing with a person. He had felt it every time he came close to his mother, but denied it. Gabriel placed his revulsion toward killing his mother above her wishes, above the command of the gods.

  The doctor…she was not the test. She was a lesson. No…a warning. The gods in their omnipotence knew what would come. They knew the old woman would be the true test. They offered a foreshadowing to remind him of his failure, his disobedience. A warning—the price of placing his own will above theirs.

  The memories of the boy at the market, Red Cap, and all the people who had ever taunted him merged into one form. Their harsh voices cut through the façade. Their eyes saw the frightened boy and dismantled the man Gabriel had thought to become. They knew him, all he was, all he would ever be.

  Isolation and insecurity rose to the surface of his skin, peeling it back, every nerve exposed. Yet, beneath, a boiling rage screamed at his weakness, his fear. His mother had begged him to spare her the pain, yet he had abandoned her. For all the love she had shown him over the years, when she needed him the most—he ran like a scared little boy. The blessing had come to him. Gabriel had known what he must do, but could not bear the thought of killing his mother. With each moment he ignored the blessing, his own pain grew more intense. He could not endure. Unable to kill her—he had to flee.

  Gabriel sobbed.

  He did not even know if she was still alive. Likely not. The woman could not walk on her own. He left her to a cruel, lonely death.

  Coward.

  There could be no consolation for him. The gods had gone quiet. He could not feel them or hear them.

  Alone. I am alone.

  He fell to his hands and knees and clawed frenziedly at the floor, as if salvation hid beneath the floorboards. He tore at the wood until his fingers bled, his nails ripped from their beds. He collapsed onto his back and yanked at his hair, pulling bloody locks free. With his chest convulsing in spasms, Gabriel fought to breathe. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, but saw so much more.

  A deafening silence overtook him. The buzz of the sign outside the window, the roar of cars on the streets, the voices of people talking, arguing, and laughing, all ceased. He heard nothing except the pounding of his own heart; its frantic pulse thundered against the inside of his skull.

  Images crawled across his mind. Bodies sliced open, organs displayed to the night sky. A river of blood flowed into his eyes, coloring his world crimson. Drowning beneath the fl
ood, he clawed at the torrent, screaming as the sweet, sickly liquid filled him.

  Gabriel floated amidst the congealing waves—a pig cut to pieces, brain matter splattered upon a barn wall, a woman impregnated with a black, rotten mass. Memories, too many memories.

  Stone faces turned toward him. The disappointment in those divine visages ripped through him. All he did, he did for them. He only desired to please the gods, to worship them. Now, with this one failure, this one sin, they exiled him. They reached down and plucked his purpose from him.

  Without it, without his calling, what was he? No one.

  Life. Purpose. Death.

  There could be no life without purpose. Without purpose, only death remained.

  He stumbled into the bathroom. Standing at the sink, he ran water into the basin and dunked his head beneath the frigid stream—once, twice. With arms taut, gripping the cool porcelain, Gabriel raised his head and stared into the mirror.…

  His hands felt pierced by a thousand needles, sudden violent pressure in his head caused blood to trickle from his nose. His stomach churned and contracted, he vomited into the sink.

  The blessing.

  CHAPTER

  31

  “I was out of line,” said Spence. “I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

  “No, you were right…about everything,” said Marlowe.

  Spence blinked. “Uh, could you repeat that? The part about me being right.”

  “Don’t push it, unless you want another pop in the mouth.”

  “No thanks. You’ve got a decent right hook for an old timer.”

  Marlowe’s eyebrows came together. “I’m only two years older than you.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve aged better.” Spence puffed out his chest.

  “Wanting to punch you rarely needs a reason, but I might have gotten a tad carried away.”

  “A tad,” said Spence. “No one can blame you, though. I’d be modeling a straightjacket in the funny farm after seeing all you have. I’m impressed you didn’t go in guns blazing on that Max guy.”