October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Read online

  Enraged by grief…

  A mother’s desperate vow…

  The room spun in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors, joining the din in her head, and rendered her legs soggy noodles. After stumbling to the kitchen, she craned her head under the faucet and swallowed down a river of lukewarm water. Seeing the running stream brought the dream to mind, vivid and eternally seared onto her retinas. The pain it beckoned, she ignored. At some point, agony became too much to feel anymore. All the nerves burned away. Just another layer of sediment piling on endless hurt.

  Two cups of instant coffee later, her eyes could tolerate the light, and the world slowed to a listless rotation. She found herself standing before a hundred faces, most smiling atop the word Missing. She stared at each one in turn. She knew them all—their names, heights, weights, and ages on the day some evil took them from their parents’ loving care—everything about them resided in the library of her mind. The Halls of the Lost.

  She had never mourned or allowed herself to grieve. Every ounce of pain had turned bitter. She would not encourage sorrow, but instead, spent her waking and dreaming moments feeding rage. The man who had taken Tommy was out there…somewhere. She would find him if it took the rest of her life. And on that day, she would smile, whisper her dead son’s name, and put a bullet between the fucker’s eyes.

  OCTOBER’S CHILDREN (A Marlowe Gentry Thriller)

  Copyright © 2018 by Dallas Mullican

  Digital EBook

  ASIN: B07H6YCW8P

  Published by Scarlet Galleon Publications, LLC

  www.scarletgalleonpublications.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, not by recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Cover design and interior graphics by David Mickolas

  DEDICATION

  For mom and papa, for everything, and then some.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thank you to everyone who helped make this book possible:

  Rick Pieters, Matthew Cox, Patricia Statham, Louise Feagans, Tina Marie Beck, Ben Hudgins, Melea Mullican, and Mark Parker

  CHAPTER

  1

  October 2017

  A light drizzle tapped a staccato beat on metal and mud, raindrops stirring concentric ripples as they hit shallow puddles. Sheriff Amanda Beacher gazed out from beneath a wide-brimmed campaign hat. Precipitation pooled and spilled over the lip to join the sticky mire at her feet—drip, drip, like the ticking of a clock. She sighed. Time was not on her side.

  The start to a dreary evening, she hoped it was not an ill omen. A sudden storm flashed out of the east, ending as quickly as it began, and left a stiff breeze in its wake. Fluttering leaves and approaching night chased away the warmth of a late October afternoon and ushered in cool air, while distant thunder and black clouds on the horizon promised more rain. The chill penetrating deep into Amanda’s bones had nothing to do with the weather.

  The gloom of twilight lent a haunting atmosphere to the playground around her. Wind swayed the swings, gently nudging the ghosts of absent children. A pair of seesaws tilted opposite to one another, the crossed planks mimicking a giant X as if marking the spot of some ominous event. Amanda braced with a hand on the railing of the merry-go-round, a battery-powered lantern on its floor lighting a small area with the corner of a survey map wedged under its base. Four men, local volunteers, hovered close. They shuffled their feet and wrung their hands, anxiously awaiting her orders.

  “Clyde, you and Joe take this area west of Maple Creek.” Amanda pointed to a grid on the plastic map. “Rex and Anthony, you head to their left, and everyone move north toward the river. Keep the creek on your right and stay in sight of each other. We don’t need you getting yourselves lost in the dark. I don’t want to have to wrangle up another search party to find you lot.”

  The men chuckled nervously. In their hunting gear—brown or camo jackets, bright orange hats and vests—they seemed at a loss for how to act. Not their accustomed jaunt into the woods for deer or rabbits, and doubtful any had ever participated in a search party, the men swapped lanterns from hand to hand busying themselves (Amanda would not allow them to carry guns). Each nodded before trekking off, their voices drifting back to her with concern over what they feared to find. She understood and shared their apprehension. None of them wanted to stumble across dead bodies, and that the bodies in this case would be six-year-old girls horrified everyone involved.

  Amanda tugged at the collar of a thin, brown windbreaker to shield her neck from the rain. A frigid trail had already made its way down her back, causing her shirt to stick and encumber movement. She shivered and gazed toward the forest a few hundred yards distant. The flicker of flashlight beams darted through the trees like fireflies dancing on the air. Night had arrived without fanfare, bringing only the dread crawling up her spine.

  No, they’re alive. We’ll find them safe and sound. Stop expecting the worst.

  The cold, dank night created a cauldron for dark thoughts. Pessimism and a wide streak of nihilism seemed permanent side effects of a sickness she doubted would ever pass, constant reaffirmations and hoping for the best futile salves that did little to lessen the hurt. Amanda shook the fatalistic thoughts from her mind and tried to focus on the tasks at hand. The wind kissed her cheeks with cold wetness, and a presence approached behind her.

  “Troy,” she said without glancing back.

  “How do you do that?” The big man stepped to her side. Six-foot-four and built like a tractor-trailer, Deputy Troy Marks rubbed his hand over a crew cut of black hair and flicked the rainwater onto Amanda’s pants leg.

  “An elephant stomping around’s hard to miss.” She offered a tight-lipped grin.

  “Haven’t found them yet?” He followed her stare toward the forest.

  “Would I still be out in this soup if we had?” Amanda cocked her head at him with a glare that implied an unspoken ‘you dumb ass.’

  “Good to see the rain hasn’t spoiled your sunny disposition.”

  “Ray of sunshine, that’s me. How’d your little venture go?”

  Troy shook his head and kicked the caked mud and grass from his boots. “Martin’s cows trampled down the fence again. The whole herd decided to park it right in the middle of County Road 15. Had traffic backed up for over an hour.”

  “All three vehicles, huh?” Amanda snickered. “You must have worked hard to keep tempers from flaring in such a pile up.”

  “It was four. Thank you very much. A car, two trucks, and a tractor. Everyday can’t be cops and robbers.”

  Amanda scoffed and rolled her eyes. “What day is? Other than Martin’s cows getting out, and the Pitts brothers growing weed in one field or another, the most excitement we have is setting speed traps to harass out-of-towners.”

  “Until now.” Troy nodded toward the woodline.

  The wind whispered amidst the playground, joining the bay of a dozen dogs riled up at the K-9s tracking through the woods. Amanda shuddered at the mournful sound.

  “Yeah.” She rubbed her temples with a thumb and forefinger. “You remember the Harmon girl? She lived in this neighborhood, right?
”

  “I think so. But she just ran off didn’t she?” asked Troy.

  “That was the story. Both family and friends said so. But she disappears from the same neighborhood, same month, a year ago?”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Probably, but…” Amanda tried the words, but they fumbled over her lips. “…Tommy was in October, too.”

  “Amanda…” Troy pulled up short, chomping down on his tongue.

  She knew what he planned to say. No one believed Tommy was taken. No one but her.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” asked Troy.

  She noticed the hesitancy in his question and appreciated the effort to show concern while not stepping on her authority. Young for a sheriff, thirty-four, and the only female ever to hold the office, Amanda had earned the respect of her peers by working up through the ranks. Following in her father’s footsteps, she joined the force at twenty and proved herself sharp and capable. Still, she must admit the surname Woods went a long way to smoothing a path and putting the badge on her chest. Ken Woods, her dad and a local hero, stopped an armed robbery back in the day, killing the two assailants and saving some lives. In the sparsely populated area of Rosser County, his bravery immortalized him along with the likes of Wyatt Earp. The county elected him sheriff in a landslide, and reelected him for twenty years, before an accident took him and Amanda’s mother. When Amanda sat down in the big chair at twenty-eight none of her fellow deputies offered a single complaint. Up until four years ago, she ran her county with a firm but fair hand and fostered a familial closeness within her force. Most of it still clung to her like a tattered coat, uncomfortable but familiar.

  “I’m fine. Just hope they find them soon. Alive and well.” Amanda wondered if crossing her fingers would help. No praying, she gave up on that long ago.

  “I can handle the search, you know. No need to put yourself through this, at least not until we know for sure.”

  “Thanks. But I’m okay, really.” The residue of lingering grief and anger tightened her cheeks, and she appreciated the darkness masking a futile attempt to hide the nagging emotions.

  “How long they been at it?” Troy pulled his cap from his belt and slapped it onto his head, sending a sheet of water down his face. He grunted and wiped it away with one meaty palm.

  “911 got the call around 3:00 p.m. Banks and Preston checked it out, spoke with the Sorrel girls’ parents, and headed here. Ms. Sorrel said she came down to the park looking for the girls and spotted this hair clasp. Swears it’s Nicole’s. Or Natalie’s. I forget which.” Amanda held a small yellow butterfly to Troy’s view. “Called us right after.”

  “Lots of kids play here. I imagine more than one girl owns a hair clasp like that one.” Doubt furled his brows. “So, the Sorrels knew the twins headed here to play. Why the big surprise if they dropped the clasp and forgot about it?”

  “True enough, but they’re only six, and should have gone running home when the rain started. We put out an Amber alert. The Sorrels are frantic, and I’m up for re-election soon.” Not adept at playing facetious, she was sure Troy caught her grim smirk.

  “You always pad the ballot box anyway.” Troy’s smile remained taut, levity obviously as difficult for him to muster. His fingers did a nervous tap dance along the grip of the .45 in his holster. “Don’t worry just yet. Most likely, those girls are holed up at a friend’s house somewhere waiting for the rain to stop.”

  “You’d think if that were the case, the friend’s parents would’ve let the Sorrels know.” Amanda hated to dash his optimism with dire logic.

  When she sighted Deputy Banks wave them toward the forest, her heart sank, and the trepidation in her stomach bit down with razor teeth.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  With Troy a looming shadow at her side, the two padded across a slick field of calf-high weeds and viscous mud. The flashlights of other searchers appeared as tiny pinpricks of light deeper into the forest. She knew if they had found the twins alive, they would be escorting them out rather than summoning her in. The fear teeth sank deeper, grinding, shredding her intestines.

  “Didn’t find the girls, but we did find something.” Fifty, and the oldest on the force, Jerrod Banks shifted his belt over an ample paunch and motioned for them to follow. “Found it down by the creek, ‘bout two-hundred yards in.”

  They entered the woods, wet foliage and low limbs contesting their passage. Crickets chirped and a watchful owl hooted at their intrusion into its domain. Thick oaks and bristled pines crowded close, snaking their progress. A few yards in, a rabbit darted across the trail, a furry brown blur, making Banks cuss and Amanda jump. Troy chuckled and received a sharp rap on the arm from Amanda.

  The trio worked through trees like a slalom course, until Amanda caught sight of the shadowy outlines of figures ahead. They stepped into a clearing where a creek streamed east to west, a semi-circle of barren earth and tread weeds covering the near bank—a popular location for teenage drinking hangouts and naked twosomes. Rumors swirled, and had for decades or longer, devil worshippers frequented such spots amidst these woods to practice their nefarious rituals. Complete rubbish, but Amanda and her deputies were not about to discourage any tales that kept most of the little delinquents away.

  The forest stood sentinel on three sides, tangled undergrowth flooring the ground beneath a congested maze of trees. Behind the creek, a grade slanted uphill, layered in stones of various shapes and sizes, and acted as a staircase up the opposite slope. Deputy Jay Preston and five volunteers congregated near the water’s edge. They stared down to the ground, speaking in hushed tones laced with consternation. The deputy, noticing their arrival, tilted his head and scratched the back of his neck with a dour expression etched on his face.

  “Look here.” Preston, twenty-two, with a year on the job, waved his hand toward Amanda. A slim young man with a sullen demeanor, he stepped back and allowed her to pass. A stuffed animal, some kind of monkey, lay nestled amongst ferns, sheltered by the broad leaves of a mulberry tree.

  “Anyone touch this?” she asked.

  Seven heads shook in unison.

  A commotion from the nearby brush caused the group to jump and pivot toward the disturbance, the deputies’ hands instinctively darting to their guns. Roger Harley bounded into the open with two massive German Shepherds tugging him along. The giant beasts panted and slavered as they pulled the slight man into the clearing.

  “Keep them back, Roger. Jesus, you scared the shit out of us.” Amanda glared at him.

  “Sorry, the ladies heard you and insisted I join the party.” Roger strained to hold the dogs in check.

  An auxiliary with the force, Roger’s sole function was to care for and handle the K-9s. Near seventy, he had trouble keeping up with the dogs, but they seemed to trust only him. Anyone else risked losing fingers while dealing with the cantankerous animals. With the county situated in the rural backwoods of Alabama, dogs were a necessity to law enforcement here as much so as armored vehicles in urban areas. A new marijuana field sprouted up every other day, and anyone the police attempted to arrest always seemed to bolt straight for the woods. Even so, kids out past dark or someone hunting on land without permission was more the norm.

  Amanda returned her attention to the object lying at her feet. She squatted onto her heels, reached over, and retrieved a fallen branch roughly two feet long. She inserted the stick beneath the plaid scarf around the animal’s neck.

  “Stay back you guys, don’t muck up the area.” She held up one hand like a crosswalk guard signaling halt. Closely inspecting the stuffed toy, she noticed a dark spot on one ear different in color from the mud coating its back.

  Red.

  “Hand me a bag.” Banks gave her a plastic bag. She dropped the monkey inside and sealed it shut. “Fan out. Keep your boots out of the clearing and look for footprints and any other objects.”

  As they examined the area, flashlight beams sweeping the ground, the rain increased to a
steady sprinkle of fat drops, and the clearing liquefied to a glistening mush. Amanda scanned a circle around her feet, finding nothing. In this rain, and the darkness, she would soon need to call it for the night.

  A few more minutes, there have to be tracks.

  “Here,” shouted Banks.

  The group skirted the clearing to avoid marring the area any worse and came to Banks’ side.

  “There. See? And there.” Banks trained his light on three sets of footprints.

  “Three? And all kids,” said Troy.

  “Met a friend at the park and decided to explore?” said Roger with the dogs securely tied to a nearby log.

  Amanda hoped that was the case—a better chance they simply went home with the friend.

  “Got another.” George Bell, a self-employed plumber and the first to volunteer, pointed from a few feet to the group’s right.

  “Male, or very large female. Looks like size eleven.” Banks balanced with one foot over the print, comparing the sizes.

  “Can we get a cast of these?” Amanda removed her hat and pulled up the hood of her parka, the rain now falling in a dense shower.

  “If we had the materials here, sure. We’d need a tent to keep the rain off. Take a couple of hours to get everything and come back. Prints’ll be gone by then.” Banks’ eyes squinted as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Throw our parkas over it,” said Preston.

  “God’s pissing down our backs. This whole area’ll be a swamp in two hours. Can’t cover that with no parka,” said Banks.

  “Shit.” Amanda, livid, chastised herself for not foreseeing this possibility. The one decent piece of evidence they had found, which could help lead to the children, lost due to her shortsightedness.

  “Oh damn. H-here.” Troy’s voice stuttered.

  “What is it?” Amanda’s stomach rose into her throat.

  “Blood…I think.” He scooted his ticket-book beneath a hand-sized rock.

  Amanda edged close, and they examined the stone under the illumination of their flashlights. A smudge smeared one jagged edge.