I disconnect and call him again.
And this time I get him.
“John?” he says in a confused and groggy voice. “You . . . gotta . . . see . . . this. Get down here . . . fast as you can.”
I see Reggie up ahead, not far from the Sunset Coastal Grill. Her vehicle is parked on the side of the road, its emergency lights on.
I pull in behind her and she jumps into the car with me.
“Franklin County deputy at the house says it’s an active crime scene and there’s a letter addressed to you. Let’s go.”
155
The first thing I notice when we pull into Nancy’s small yard is that Jake is okay. He’s standing in a small group of deputies running his mouth—something I’ve never been so glad to see him do.
I hug him when I walk up.
He looks a little embarrassed to be hugged by another man in front of the Franklin County deputies, but gives in and gives me a quick hug back.
“You okay?”
“Just a little loopy,” he says.
“More so than usual?” I ask.
“I was drugged,” he says. “Was out all night and most of the day. I’m fine. You need to get in there and . . .”
I catch up with Reggie near the front of the house, and the Franklin County sheriff, a tall middle-aged man with a potbelly, gives us gloves and leads us in.
The house is empty except for Nancy’s husband Jeff on his hospital bed in the front bedroom.
“Jake said a woman lives here too,” the sheriff says. “No sign of her.”
We walk into the front bedroom after him.
A young female paramedic in navy pants and a white uniform shirt is monitoring his vitals. “He’s stable,” she says. “Just sleeping.”
“Thanks, Margaret. Could you excuse us a minute?”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
She leaves.
On the hospital table next to Jeff’s bed is a sealed envelope with my name on it.
“Why don’t you take a look at that while I bring Sheriff Varney up to speed on what we’re dealing with?” Reggie says.
I nod, reaching for the envelope with my gloved hand while she tells the older man about the Randa Raffield case.
Dear John,
I only realized how that sounds after I wrote it, but it fits. Because this is a breakup letter of sorts. It’s funny, but I really will miss you. Miss this. Miss everyone. Well, almost everyone. Every word I confessed to you on the phone as Jeffrey this morning was true. It just wasn’t my confession to make. It was this man’s, the one in the hospital bed—Jeffrey Dixon Hunter. And he was a hunter. A mean, vicious, prick of a predator. He attacked me like I told you. It happened just like that. I was there to confront Billy LaDuke. That’s all. Had no intention of killing him. Just had to face down the monster, which I did. When I realized that the place where I had my little accident was in walking distance from his construction site, I locked my car, hid for a while, and then walked over there. I knew he slept in a van or a camper on site, but when I got there he was still working. I told him how fucked up I was because of what he had done to me, how much I was hurting others, and how that meant he was still hurting others. I tried to tell him, to share my truth with him, but he went crazy. Started yelling and shaking. And then he hit me. Just punched me hard in the face. Knocked me down. I jumped up. Fought back. But I was no match. Hunter stepped in. I thought he was saving me. He and Billy fought. And he killed him. But he wasn’t saving me. Well, he was, but for himself. He wanted me for his own sick, twisted pleasure. LaDuke is buried under British Bob’s house in Windmark Beach subdivision. Hunter buried him there then pounced on me. He beat me and raped me there but then brought me back to this place and did all kinds of other shit to me. Told me he had just buried Annie Kathryn Harrison in the backyard and I’d soon be in the hole with her. But he underestimated me and my resolve to change myself and my life. When he thought he had beaten me too bloodied and blue to do anything but take more of his worst, I got his knife while he was coming in me for the third time that first night and I used it to turn the tables. I couldn’t save Annie Kathryn, but I could save myself and many other future victims. I could work on changing myself and my life while I made his a living hell. It takes a special strength and discipline, commitment and cold-bloodedness to do what I did, to keep doing it for as long as I have. It’s why I knew you wouldn’t beat me. Why I knew no one would. I used not to be, but I am now the strongest person I know, the strongest I have ever known. I am a victim no more. Speaking of you not beating me . . . Sorry for the braggadocios emails. I was trying to sound like LaDuke or Hunter would. Oh, and by the way, the picture I sent Daniel and Merrick was real. Hunter took it while he was doing what he did to me. Anyway, I’m not a killer, but I have become cold blooded. I was made, not born. It hasn’t been easy. The hardest part was not telling my dad I was okay. I started to several times, but in time even that got easier. So this is what I did. I hobbled Hunter, immobilized him for good, and began drugging him—heavily when people were around, lighter when it was just us and I wanted to make sure he remembered what was happening to him and why and who was behind it. I won’t get into all the details of what I did, but an incredible transformation took place in this little house. It’s not inaccurate to say that Jeffrey Dixon Hunter killed Randa Raffield. He did. What was left of her. What he did and how I responded gave birth to Nancy Drury, the smartest, baddest bitch I know. I’ve had a few friends and lovers over the years—people who felt sorry for the widow whose hit-and-run husband was such a burden. I’ve spent years studying criminal psychology, homicide investigation, missing persons investigation. You name it. Became obsessed with catching evil fuckers like LaDuke and Hunter. And a few years ago I began to do these podcasts about true crime and criminals and I got pretty good at catching them, at helping take them down in one way or another. That’s also how I knew you were good, but I was better. So everything’s going along all nice and fine until some of these little armchair detectives want to solve my case, want to know what happened to me. I listened. I watched. I read. And eventually, I joined the team, I became part of the investigation, the podcast, the phenomenon that was the search for me. I already had the dyed-blond hair and blue contacts. I had already put on a little weight, had already been keeping a little sun on my face, and hell, I had aged over a decade. I was set. I knew I’d have to move along eventually, but until then I’d keep up with the investigation and make all the plans and preparations so that you nor anyone else would ever be able to find me. Not ever. But just to make sure you don’t, I took a little insurance. The nicest, sweetest, gentlest man among y’all, Daniel. So, John, here’s my deal. I just want to be left alone. That’s it. I haven’t killed anybody. I’m not a murderer. So why not just leave me alone? You really think the false imprisonment of a rapist and murderer like Hunter is worth coming after me for? Really? If y’all will leave me be, not come after me, I’ll not only take good care of Daniel but I’ll return him to you safe and unharmed very soon. Providing, of course, he wants to return home. By then, who knows. He’s pretty smitten with me. Oh, and tell your friend, the big black guy, not to waste time feeling bad. Daniel snuck out to meet me. I told him I had to talk to him privately and I needed to do it right then. He climbed out of the master bathroom window. Your friend did nothing wrong. Except maybe underestimate me. Y’all’ve all done that. Just like everybody else in my life. Do we have a deal, John? Will you take the defeat graciously and leave me and Daniel alone? If you do you get him back. Oh, and just know this—I left fairly early last night. I’m already where I’m going and I can’t be traced or tracked or found or extradited. So all you’ll do by trying is to cause poor Sam’s life to get even worse than it already is—which, as I understand it, is because of you to begin with, right? Whatta you say? Have you done enough damage to this couple? Will you let your bruised ego at getting beat by a girl get the better of you, or will you let Daniel live? We shall soon see.
&
nbsp; Bye for now (or is it forever?),
Me
156
Though the letter had been written to me, how to respond to it isn’t my decision. Within seconds of reading it, Sheriff Varney orders roadblocks in Franklin County and Reggie does the same in Gulf. BOLOs are issued. Searches begun.
It’s all pointless. Randa is long gone. And Daniel with her.
She has a fourteen-hour head start. She could be in Cuba. Or Texas or Tennessee. And if they flew, they could be on the other side of the world.
“She’s wrong about your ego, isn’t she?” Reggie says.
It’s much later and we are driving back toward Gulf County together.
“Huh?” I say, rousing out of thought.
I can tell I’m in shock, a dissonant distance between my thoughts and my ability to process them. Disbelief that Daniel is gone.
“You don’t mind the fact that it was a woman who pulled this off,” she says. “No more than a man. She put in her letter that part about you being beaten by a girl.”
“Oh,” I say. “No. And I don’t look at it in terms of winning and losing. It’s not a game to me. I don’t mind that she beat me. To be honest, if she truly hasn’t killed anyone, even with what she did to Hunter—given who he is and what he did to her and Annie Kathryn, I wouldn’t have minded her just disappearing. Wouldn’t have even felt the need to look for her all that hard. What I mind is that I failed Daniel. That’s . . . the . . .”
“You were lead investigator, sure, but we were all working the case. We all failed to find her in time—though you were getting close. You had found the scent. She knew her days were numbered. The failure to protect Daniel is on all of us. But . . . he snuck out. That’s not exactly our failure to protect. Can’t protect someone who doesn’t want to be. Why would he do that? It didn’t seem odd to him that she was asking him to crawl through his window to—”
“He just thought they were keeping their meeting a secret,” I say. “He thought they were just two lonely people with incapacitated spouses who were—”
“Oh,” she says. “Oh.”
“He had no idea what he was walking into.”
“Poor Daniel. Poor Sam. What will happen to her now?”
“Anna and I’ve talked. We’re gonna move her in with us. Until we get Daniel back or she’s able to live on her own again.”
“John, that’s . . . it’s incredible of you guys, but . . . the chances of either of those things happening are . . . so . . . slim. You sure you know what you’re signing up for?”
“We do.”
“You feel responsible for what happened to both of them,” she says. “But you’re not. You’re not.”
I don’t say anything and we ride along in silence for a while.
Up ahead on the highway near the county line, cars are lined up at the roadblock.
“You think we were wrong to set up the roadblocks?” she asks.
“I think she’s long gone—and was before the sun came up this morning.”
“You think she’ll kill him?”
“Not because of roadblocks. I . . . I don’t think she will. I think she likes Daniel. So far as we know she hasn’t killed anyone.”
“What she did to Jeffrey Dixon Hunter was worse than death,” she says. “Think about what she’s done to him and for how long.”
“It shows a metal at her core like I’ve rarely encountered,” I say. “Maybe never. She’s . . . one of the strongest, smartest, most capable people I’ve ever encountered.”
“You admire her?” she asks in surprise. “Tell me she’s not capable of murder.”
“The things she said on the podcast—I think she meant them. I think she has a highly developed sense of justice. I think she cares deeply about victims, that she’s outraged at the wickedness and brutality of criminal depravity inflicted on innocent and unsuspecting victims. I’m not saying she won’t do whatever she feels she has to to survive, but I don’t think she’ll kill Daniel.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says. “You have a higher opinion of her than I do.”
“Merrick spent a lot of time with her,” I say. “See what he thinks.”
“Already have,” she says. “He shares your opinion.”
“We could both be delusional,” I say. “In denial that Daniel could already be dead—or that he might be soon.”
157
“You okay?” Anna asks.
She has just come up behind me on our back patio where I am standing and thinking and looking at the last of the light over Lake Julia.
It’s the middle of October, and the evening is cool, the quality of its light stark. Just behind the pines and cypress trees along the far side of Julia, a low jack-o-lantern-orange glow is fading into nothingness.
“Is it okay if I’m not?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. “Just don’t expect me not to try to make it better.”
It’s been two weeks and no word from Daniel. He is now as missing as any one of the poor vanished young women most of the true crime podcasts are about.
Through the French doors behind us, Sam’s hospital bed is set up in the center of our living room and she’s sleeping peacefully in it. In a few moments, Merrill and Zaire will arrive for dinner, followed a little later by Dad and Verna and Reggie and Merrick.
But I don’t feel like company, have no appetite for food or companionship.
How can I enjoy a meal or the warmth of my friends while Daniel is still out there somewhere, a soul in purgatory, a light, like the one behind the lake before me, going out.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow . . .
A random snippet of Shakespeare surfaces, but I stifle any more.
“What can I do?” Anna asks.
I shrug. “You’re doing it. You’re doing all you can do. Thanks for all you’re doing. I’m sorry I’m . . . It’s just hard to . . . I feel so . . . I’ll get better.”
“And sooner or later we’ll find him,” she says. “Or she’ll return him.”
I try to nod, but can’t quite do it.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“Well, everything. You’re such a generous, incredible partner, but just then I was appreciating you understanding how I feel and not telling me to get over it, to suck it up buttercup.”
She laughs. “I’d never say suck it up buttercup.”
“And thank you for that too.”
“Let me tell you something, John Jordan,” she says. “I believe in you like I’ve never believed in anyone. Ever. If I were out there somewhere, you’re who I’d want looking for me. So you do what you’ve got to do—grieve, process, figure it out—whatever it is, and then you find Daniel for us.”
“’M I interrupting?” Merrill asks as he joins us on the back porch.
“Never,” Anna says, turning and hugging him.
When she lets go of him, he actually steps over and gives me a hug too.
Our hug has an economy and brevity his and hers did not. When he pulls back—something he starts doing the moment the hug begins—he narrows his eyes and nods at me.
“I figure in addition to whatever else you doin’, you lookin’ for the professor,” he says to me.
I nod.
“I’m in,” he says. “I lost him. I should help find him.”
“You certainly should,” I say, nodding vigorously.
“Way I figure it . . . between the four of us—Zaire in on this too—we oughta have Daniel back least by the time Sam firin’ on all eight cylinders again.”
“Helps to have a deadline,” Anna says.
“I is goal oriented,” he says, a broad smile spreading across his face.
“Let’s go eat and discuss how we’re gonna do it,” Anna says.
They turn and head in, but I linger behind and take one more look at Julia.
Standing there, staring into the gloom, I wonder where Daniel is at this moment. Is he scared? Suffering on
e of his panic attacks? Is he drugged? Conscious? Aware? Does he know we’re coming for him? That we won’t stop until we find him?
Surely he does. Surely if he knows anything, he knows that.
Copyright © 2017 by Michael Lister
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Book Edited by Aaron Bearden
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(John Jordan Novels)
Power in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
(Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)
The Body and the Blood
Double Exposure
Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood
Burnt Offerings
Innocent Blood
(Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Money
Blood Moon
Thunder Beach
Blood Cries
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Work
Cold Blood
Blood Betrayal
Blood Shot
Blood Ties
Blood Stone
Blood Trail
(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)
The Big Goodbye
The Big Beyond
The Big Hello
The Big Bout
The Big Blast
True Crime Fiction Page 61