The Dark Age

by Dallas Mullican

  Walnut Grove, a tiny town with one traffic light, a store that doubled as a gas station/grocery, and a strip mall complete with a florist, sandwich shop, and family dentistry, sat just across the Colburn County line. As Marlowe drove up the main road, it appeared every resident in town meandered on the sidewalks hoping to get a peek at whatever transpired in the woods behind Trinity Baptist Church. Though barely dawn, the sun only now poking a sleepy head over the horizon, several dozen townsfolk craned necks or wiped teary eyes.

  Marlowe pulled into the church parking lot where a corpulent sheriff’s deputy wagged a pudgy arm and signaled them to a halt. He stepped to the window, a smug ‘I’m in charge here’ expression on his face, taking his role as gatekeeper a little too seriously.

  “Sorry, no one allowed to the church today. You see this barricade? Should’ve clued you in.” He didn’t grin, but kept a stone face, as though they were beneath him and a waste of his time.

  Marlowe flashed his freshly-minted SVCU badge and gave the officer a warm smile. A tall uniformed man yelled at the deputy from the distant wood line.

  “Perry, let ‘em through, goddammit.”

  The deputy reddened and waved them on, his ample paunch jiggling as he moved out of the way. The Explorer jerked and bounced over the field, waking Spence with a yelp and Koop with a groan. Kline’s eyes scanned the approaching scene with a hawk-like gaze. Marlowe, still unable to get a clear read on the woman, believed she would be an asset. He sensed a single-minded determination and a need to prove herself. Possibly no more than unease and reserve on her part, but he hoped his valuation proved correct.

  He parked near a number of other vehicles—two county black and whites, a paramedic van, a firetruck, and the County Fire Marshal’s red and white Impala. They retrieved their gear and moved to a huddle of men pointing and talking all at once.

  “Shut the hell up, the lot of you.” The tall man pivoted to Marlowe. “You the esteemed SVCU? Never heard of it before, but the powers above say I’m to give you a wide berth, and honestly, I don’t mind one shit. This is fucked up, and your bunch is welcome to it.” He tipped a dark brown Smokey bear hat back on his forehead. “Oh shit, yeah…I’m Sheriff Doughty. This here’s the Fire Marshal, Bill Story. My deputies, Washburn and Cardwell.” He glanced at the EMTs. “Hmm, don’t know their names, but don’t matter.”

  “Sheriff. Marlowe Gentry, I’m the Robin Hood of this merry group.” Marlowe motioned to the others. “Spencer Murray, Lori Kline, and our forensics guru, Dr. Fredrick Koopman.” The sheriff nodded to each in turn. “Want to fill us in?”

  After clasping each extended hand, Sheriff Doughty shook his head. “Fucking mess’s what we got. We’re a small piss ant town where nothing ever happens. And that’s how we like it.” He trudged into the forest, branches and leaves crunching beneath his cowboy boots. “Call came in around midnight. EMTs arrived twenty minutes later, saw the fire, and checked it out. Found the, um, victim a good fifty yards into the woods. Just up here.”

  “Damn bugs.” Spence slapped at his neck and arms as they traipsed through the tangled brush. “Little bastards trying to suck me dry. Bet I get a tick.”

  Koop glanced over. “These are flies, and flies favor defecation.”

  “Then you should be covered in them.” Spence chuckled.

  “I don’t smell like a French whorehouse.”

  “No, you smell like a nursing home.”

  Sheriff Doughty laughed. “I like these two.”

  “You can keep them if you want,” said Marlowe.

  In a clearing, a charred tree trunk stood out from the surrounding forest. With dying embers circled around its base, the gnarled wood seemed positioned for the sole purpose of midnight masses and sacrifices. Birds chirped from high perches as squirrels darted up the neighboring trees. The open area spanned out roughly twenty yards in diameter, floored in spindly weeds, pine straw, and thick grass. A late afternoon shower and the greenery must have contained the fire, or the whole forest might have gone up in the dry August heat.

  Koop stepped over the victim and pulled back the covering tarp. A foot lay still touching the ring of ash, pants burned away with the bottom half of an emerald green polo shirt. Dead eyes stared up at the sky from a face purple and black, swollen beyond recognition. Streaks of crisped black flesh folded back from patches of glistening muscle along the legs and buttocks. The victim’s belly took less damage, cooked to a bright pink and coated in soot.

  The smell of singed hair and flesh lingered in the air. Sheriff Doughty coughed, covered his mouth and nose, and turned his head from the gruesome sight. Marlowe scanned the ground and crouched down to retrieve a scorched fragment of newspaper—Yankees 1, Orioles 0, read beneath smudged smoke residue.

  “Robert Weaver, sixty-nine, pastor at Trinity Baptist Church, just there.” Sheriff Doughty nodded toward the building across the field. “Lived in the house next door.”

  “What did the victim say on the 911 call?” Marlowe stood and wiped the ash and dust from his hands.

  “Said a friend was having a seizure. We did a once through of the house. Found a cross, ‘bout twenty-four inches tall, with blood on one end. I figure the friend whacked him, drug him to a truck, and hauled him out here. Tire tracks lead from the house to the edge of the woods.”

  “What you got, Koop?” asked Marlowe, hovering over the old doctor who knelt next to the body, his head tilting back and forth as he examined the wounds.

  “Second and third degree burns on the legs, more severe at the feet, calves, and thighs.” Koop glanced to the sheriff. “Did the Fire Marshal indicate an accelerant?”

  “No. No, trace residue or lingering fumes.”

  Koop nodded. “The fire burned slow and not terribly hot. It climbed to his abdomen, burnt through the rope and dropped him. Smoke inhalation the likely cause of death. You’ll have to await an autopsy to know for certain, but my best guess.”

  Spence scoffed and craned forward. “If the fire only reached his belly, why does his face look like raw hamburger?”

  “Blunt force trauma. The victim was beaten, judging by the shape and contour of the wounds, with a metal pipe, roughly two inches in diameter. If a branch, I would expect to find lacerations and scratches caused by bark or knots. There are no broken bones, so the pipe would have been wrapped to dull the impact.”

  “Rubber baton, maybe?” asked Spence. “I’ve seen what those things can do.”

  “Yeah, you have.” Marlowe shot Spence a disapproving glare and turned his head down, pacing the clearing.

  “Well, big brain, what’cha thinking?” asked Spence with a cockeyed grin.

  “The killer shows up at the victim’s home in some kind of distress. The pastor knows him, so he lets him in and calls 911. Then whack, lights out. As Sheriff Doughty said, the killer put him in the truck and brought him out here.” Marlowe made a circuit around the charred tree trunk. “I don’t think the killer planned it out. He used whatever he had in his truck.”

  “I agree.” Koop inspected a length of rope. “This thin twine would not have held the victim if not for his injuries and age.”

  “Right.” Marlowe pointed to the ground. “I found fragments of newspaper, too. No sign of an accelerant suggests the killer didn’t plan to burn the pastor, or we would expect to find gasoline or lighter fluid traces. He found this dead tree, tied the victim to it, and beat him, probably with a tire iron or pipe wrapped in the newspaper, a shirt, or something.”

  “But a pastor burned at the stake,” said Spence. “Got to have a religious motive. It’s like Seraphim all over again.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “No, Seraphim saw himself as a savior, ending the suffering of his victims. He never hurt them, went out of his way not to. All the wounds were inflicted post-mortem.”

  “Still…I mean fuck, look at the guy. Not your everyday passion killing.” Spence darted to the side, avoiding the dive bomb of a kamikaze horsefly.

  “What about devil worship?
” Sheriff Doughty pointed to the tree. “Preacher burned like a fucking marshmallow over a fire, and there’s a cross cut into the bark upside down. Gotta be Satanists, or witchcraft…or something.”

  “This is too personal. Seems more about rage than ritual. And most of that shit is pure rural legend. I can’t recall a single substantiated case, come to think of it. Plus, this is a lone actor from all indications. You’d expect multiple assailants if we were looking at some sort of occult murder,” said Marlowe. “I’m guessing devil worshippers, or witches, walk up and knock on the front door, have a chat, and allow their victim to make a 911 call before doing their evil bit.”

  “I agree,” said Koop. “The killer was incensed and wanted to cause a great deal of pain. Burning at the stake is most often associated with the burning of witches in today’s pop culture, but it had other purposes—execution for blasphemers, thieves, heretics, and also as a means to extract confessions from those same sinners and criminals.”

  “You’re thinking the killer wanted to make the victim confess to something. That’s why the beating first?” asked Sheriff Doughty.

  “Right. The late night visit could mean the killer had recently learned about whatever transgression he believed the pastor committed. He went to confront him, anger got out of control, and voila.” Marlowe flourished a hand across the scene.

  An old Gap Band song played from Spence’s pocket, the ringtone of the week on his phone. “Stace, I’m at a crime scene. Jesus, I told you I’d call later. What…” He looked at Marlowe, his eyes wide. “Gotta take this.”

  Marlowe nodded, his brows raised in a question. Spence only shook his head and stepped away from the group.

  “Why the statement?” asked Kline.

  Everyone spun to face her, and she reddened.

  “Shit, sorry, forgot you were back there,” said Sheriff Doughty.

  “Statement?” asked Koop.

  Kline stepped near the tree. “The inverted cross on the tree, and the burning of the pastor, those aren’t simply afterthoughts. The killer is saying something here. If it’s not a ritual like the sheriff suggested, then some other point is being made.”

  “A result of the argument. I think things as escalated, the killer’s rage spurred him to this. But I get your point. The killer was making a statement, but not for the wide world, or even anyone outside this clearing. A nice loud ‘fuck you’ to the pastor for violating some sacred trust.” Marlowe nodded to Koop, who drew the tarp over the victim. “The upside down cross, I believe, is essentially his way of spitting on the man. A show of disrespect.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Violating a sacred trust?” asked Doughty.

  “If I were you, I would start asking around about rumors involving the pastor—an affair, child molestation—something along those lines. Anything that could anger someone enough to do this.”

  “Now, hold on a goddamn minute. Brother Weaver was a good man. Everyone will tell you the same.” The sheriff balled his fists.

  “Irrelevant. The killer believed the preacher did something horrible and wanted to punish him, make him confess.” Marlowe ignored the sheriff’s defensive posture and turned to Kline. “Who are we looking for?”

  Kline straightened, thrusting her shoulders back. “This area of the county is predominantly white, and the strength needed to drag the victim here and fasten him to the tree would likely require a male. Since we believe the victim knew the killer, I would question church members.”

  Marlowe nodded with a faint smile of approval. Kline shied from his gaze and fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket.

  “I assume you took casts of the footprints and tire tracks?” asked Marlowe.

  “Yeah, been done,” said Sheriff Doughty.

  “Set up road blocks on every road in a twenty- to thirty-mile radius. I’ll call in some help from the surrounding counties if you need it. Match the tires, shouldn’t take long to run the killer down. Assuming he hasn’t fled the area.”

  “I think we can handle it. Thanks for coming down. Guess it was a waste of your expertise,” said Doughty.

  “I’m not complaining. Glad we could help out.” Marlowe shook the sheriff’s hand. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  Spence caught up to them at the Explorer, appearing pale and agitated. Marlowe allowed Koop and Kline to store their gear and met Spence out of earshot.

  “What’s up?”

  “Charlie’s missing.”

  “Your brother? How long?”

  Spence flipped his hands in the air. “Charlie loves to camp and fish, goes every chance he gets, always has. Stacy said he left Monday morning and told her he would be back by Tuesday afternoon. When he didn’t show, she figured he stayed over another day. But he missed Wednesday night service. He’s never missed a service, not even sick as a dog.”

  “Do they have a search going?” asked Marlowe.

  “Yeah. They found his campsite, but nothing. No trace of him.”

  Marlowe rubbed his chin. “Hmm, any signs of a struggle?”

  Spence’s breath caught, and he cleared his throat. “No. His stuff was there, nothing disturbed. It rained all day Wednesday and Thursday, so no tracks, and the dogs couldn’t get a scent.” He looked at Marlowe with heartbreaking fear. “You don’t think there’s a chance it’s related to this? I mean two pastors within a couple of days and both Baptist. Too much for a coincidence.”

  Marlowe placed a hand on his friend and partner’s shoulder. “A coincidence is exactly what it is. Charlie will turn up. He may have fallen or something…They’ll find him.”

  “Marlowe, it’s been almost a week.” Spence appeared near tears.

  “Go home, Spence. Find your brother and take care of your family. Our plate at Metro is clean right now. If anything comes up, I’ll use Bateman.” Marlowe motioned to the forest. “And this one isn’t our problem. Take all the time you need.” He squeezed Spence’s shoulder. “You want me to come with you?”

  “No.” His whole body slouched, worry weighing him down. “Shit, I didn’t want to go back on a good day, now I have to go home to this.” A tear pooled in the corner of one eye. “What if he’s dead and I never…”

  “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. You’ll find him. Safe and sound.” Marlowe placed his keys into Spence’s hand. “Take the Explorer. We’ll hitch a ride back with County.”

  “You sure?”

  Marlowe nodded.

  “Thanks. I’ll call from Jackson City.” Spence placed his hand over Marlowe’s, released his grasp with a squeeze, and headed for the SUV.

  Marlowe watched his friend drive away with a heavy heart. Spence’s fear and impending grief crawled up Marlowe’s spine. Though he had expressed the expected reassurances, he had a bad feeling. The disquiet triggered concern for Paige and urged him to check in. With Becca at work, Mable answered and called Paige to the phone.

  “Hey Pumpkin, what’cha doing?”

  “Nothing. I want to go home. I don’t like it here.”

  Marlowe could imagine her pout. “We’ve been through this, Sweetie. A few days, okay?”

  “I guess. I don’t really have a choice.” She sounded more grownup every day.

  “Grin and bear it, okay? Let me talk to Wayne for a second.”

  Wayne assured him everything remained shipshape and nothing out of the ordinary. Marlowe breathed a sigh of relief and his heart rate slowed to normal. With Brother Weaver out of his hands, and nothing pending at Metro, maybe he could find a way to get Caesar Ramirez off his back.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Spence drove south on Highway 280 out of Birmingham. Road crews slowed traffic and the grated pavement vibrated the tires, rattling his bones. A shit brown mini-van complete with soccer mom and a dozen jostling kids merged in from the on ramp and cut him off. Spence laid down on the horn and cursed as if she could actually hear him. The woman waved an apology as he sped past wearing an irate glare. Momentary anger flushed his face and da
mpened the panic shaking his hands, but did little to alleviate the apprehension digging deep into his gut. He cranked up the A/C, found a soul station on the radio playing Marvin Gaye, and tried to focus on the soothing music.

  Charlie…

  Charles, Sr. skipped out on the family the week of Spence’s fourth birthday. He had no memory of the man. Their mother’s mind drowned in a fog of alcohol and drugs well before dementia crept in—a long insidious invasion into her brain. His sister Stacy played the role of doting mother throughout his childhood, but it was Charles, Jr.—Charlie—who held everything together. A minor miracle after such role models as their parents that the lot of them hadn’t ended up in jail or dead. No, not a miracle…Charlie. More father than brother, he kept them fed and clothed, working two and sometimes three jobs at once.

  With their father long gone and their mother unfit to watch over herself much less the children, they spent most of their time at Trinity Baptist Church, which served as a daycare for the poorer families in the area south of town. Spence and Stacy most often played in the playground, but Charlie gravitated to the library. He read every book cover-to-cover and asked questions of the adult supervisors ad nauseam. Much later, while working odd jobs at the church, Reverend Turner engaged him in conversations and soon noticed a surprising theological insight in Charlie, far beyond his years. He took him under his wing, training and teaching him, and by age twenty, Charlie preached regular sermons on Sunday nights and the occasional Sunday morning.

  All the while, Charlie kept Stacy and Spence in line. Whenever one or the other started running with the wrong crowd or veered off the straight and narrow, Charlie yanked them back by an earlobe. Where his sense of responsibility came from was anyone’s guess, perhaps simply a refusal to turn out like their parents. Though life remained difficult, especially when their mother slid so far downhill they had to find the resources to put her into permanent care, the three of them managed and stayed close until Spence’s injury. Then the fights began and worsened each time. Charlie had strong opinions on Spence’s future, but that was the thing he didn’t get—it was Spence’s future, his to screw up or make good on. Spence no longer recalled the final straw. He remembered slamming doors and shouts of anger. He remembered driving away and not looking back. A lifetime ago.