Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “This John Jordan?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is—this is a friend of Sam and Daniel’s.”

  “Thanks so much for calling me.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t call. We never spoke. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’d do anything for Sam, but this is . . .”

  “I understand and I really appreciate it.”

  “Rather than you askin’ me questions, I’m just gonna tell you all we know—because it isn’t much and won’t take but a second.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “The remains were wrapped in a pretty standard blanket from that era. Nothing out of the ordinary about it. But it’s consistent with the 1978 burial date. So is the tent material that is covering it.”

  “So the nylon material around the blanket is from a tent?”

  “Yes. Again, a common tent material from the time. Everything is consistent with a late-seventies burial. But we know the remains were dug up and moved in 2000—and not only because they couldn’t’ve have been where they were found before 2000 but because there are two different types of soil. The soil from the garden where the remains were found is sandy. It was brought in when they were building the memorial park. But based on other soil traces we found, the body was originally buried in soil found in most pastures and yards around the Jackson County area. I can’t tell you why her remains were moved, only that they were—all together with all her belongings inside the tent wrap just like they had been buried.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “For what?” she says. “I didn’t tell you anything. We didn’t even talk.”

  She disconnects the call and I step back over to where Darlene is guarding the perimeter.

  “Sounds like you may have been getting classified information on an official police investigation,” she says.

  “You gonna tell Glenn?”

  “Might feel compelled to if he actually listened to me or had me working on the case, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “You weren’t the only one who didn’t treat me like a fuckin’ leper.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry that’s the case, but I’m glad you won’t be turning me in.”

  “Who were you talkin’ to?” she says.

  “Not who I really need to,” I say.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The ME or someone in his office. It’s funny, I talk to him all the time about my cases in Gulf County, but he won’t talk to me at all about a Jackson County case.”

  The Medical Examiner’s Office for the 14th District covers Bay, Gulf, Holmes, Calhoun, Washington, and Jackson counties, and though we all share the same ME, he won’t share information about our cases with investigators from other counties—investigators he routinely communicates with otherwise.

  “My only hope,” I continue, “was an investigator in the office who’s a friend, but she’s on vacation this week.”

  Darlene nods and purses her lips, a twinkle in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “If only you knew someone who had given one of the young ladies in their office the night of her life.”

  “If only,” I say.

  “If only you knew someone who had just gotten a job with the highway patrol and didn’t give a fuck.”

  “If only,” I say again.

  “It’ll probably mean I’ll have to provide another night of toe-curling ecstasy, but . . . I could be convinced to take one for the team.”

  “Congratulations on getting the job. Happy for you. If it doesn’t work out, there’s always a place for a good cop like you in Gulf County.”

  “What’s the lesbian scene like over there?”

  “Sort of quiet,” I say. “You’d be just the thing to liven it up.”

  A big, broad grin spreads across her face. “Give me just a minute to make a call,” she says, pulling her phone out. Punching in a number, she says, “Hey baby girl, how you been?” as she steps away, back toward the Peace Tree memorial.

  As she talks to Baby Girl, I look at the memorial some more and think about the case, attempting to put the pieces together in some coherent order. I think about the ignorance and hatred and fear and small-minded racism that led to such a beautiful memorial, but also about the hope for change and understanding, compassion and equality it also represents.

  Does Janet’s father being black have something to do with her death? Was it Bundy and someone else who buried her and moved her remains for some reason?

  As I gaze at the powerful work of art, I see an older black man doing the same down the way.

  I walk over to him.

  He’s tall and thin and very light skinned. His narrow frame is bent a little, and he’s dressed more formally than most people you encounter in the rural, casual South. In his left hand he holds a small bouquet of flowers.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “You—”

  “Designed it. Yeah.”

  “You are gifted. It’s . . . a stunning work of art.”

  “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t look at me, just continues staring at his work.

  There is something about him, some familiarity . . . and I realize who he reminds me of. Given the resemblance to Janet and the fact that he’s here with flowers, I can’t help but wonder if he’s her biological father.

  “You from here?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “I’m John Jordan, by the way,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Langston,” he says.

  His hand is bony, the skin rough and dry.

  “You’re a true artist, Langston.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What brings you back out here today?” I say.

  He shrugs. “Just wanted to see . . . it.”

  “Are the flowers for Janet Lester?”

  He looks at them as if he wasn’t aware they were there.

  “Just figured it’s what people were doing. Leaving flowers. But haven’t seen any others.”

  “Yours can be the first,” I say. “I’m sure others will bring some to join yours.”

  He nods, then slowly bends down and places the flowers on the ground in front of the crime scene tape.

  “Do you have a daughter?” I ask. “I see some family resemblance.”

  He shakes his head. “Got no daughter. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”

  “Wait. I just—”

  But he is gone, walking away faster than I would have thought him capable, climbing into his car, and speeding away.

  I’m writing down his plate number when Darlene returns with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

  “Well?” I ask. “What’d she say?”

  “I have a date Friday night.”

  “That’s great, but not what I meant.”

  She laughs. “Oh. Well, it’s all preliminary, and they’ve called in a forensic anthropologist, but she says she doubts they’ll find much more than what they have now. There’s just not much remains that old can tell you. What they do know is that it is her. Dental records confirmed her identity. There’s not much else . . . except there are no broken bones or signs of blunt force trauma that left the skull fractured or anything. Based on the blood in the vehicle and the presence of arterial spray, they believe she was stabbed to death, killed in her car. And there are nicks and scrapes on some of her bones that support that theory. He stabbed her so violently, he scraped and scratched and cut bone. It was a vicious attack.”

  49

  Jack Jordan can tell someone is in the room with him, but he gives no indication. He just goes about his normal routine and appears to collapse into bed the way he had the last time someone was in the room with him.

  Only this time, he gets in a slightly different position, and he quietly and quickly pulls his borrowed gun out.

  So this time when the man climbs on top of him and attemp
ts to pin him down, Jack shoves the barrel of the revolver into the soft skin beneath the man’s chin and thumbs back the hammer.

  “Drop it,” Jack says.

  The man doesn’t move.

  “Drop it now or a round is about to travel over nine hundred miles an hour through your mouth and sinus cavity and into your brain.”

  The man drops the weapon he’s holding onto the bed.

  “Now lace your fingers behind your head.”

  The room is dim but from what Jack can make out, the man does as he’s told.

  “Now very, very slowly, without breaking contact with the barrel of my gun, stand up at the same time I do. But don’t let your chin lose contact with the barrel or I’m just gonna start shooting and call housekeeping to sponge you up.”

  Slowly, awkwardly, the two men push up from the bed to a standing position.

  “Keep your hands laced behind your head but turn around. As you so, I’m gonna keep the barrel pressed to you, coming around the side of your neck to the back of your head. Try anything and I’ll empty the entire cylinder into your neck, face, and head. Maybe you don’t care if I do. You clearly don’t value your sorry life coming into my room like this. But think about your poor mama. ’Cause I promise she won’t be able to identify you.”

  “I’m doin’ everything you say just like you’re sayin’ it. Don’t shoot.”

  He then slowly turns around, actually leaning his neck into the barrel as he does so as not to lose contact with it.

  When he’s completely around, Jack quickly cuffs the man.

  Then grabbing him by the cuffs while keeping the gun barrel at the base of his neck, he pushes him across the room and into the chair beside the small table in front of the window.

  With the man in the chair, Jack steps back and turns on the light switch by the door.

  As if a cat burglar, the man is wearing all black with black gloves and a black ski mask.

  “It’s more’n two months to Halloween,” Jack says. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

  “Clearly I wasn’t,” the man says.

  Jack steps back over to him and pulls off his mask.

  The man is middle-aged, younger than Jack but too old to be doing shit like this.

  Though he doesn’t recognize the man, there is something faintly familiar about him, like a family resemblance to someone he’s seen recently.

  “Who the hell are you?” Jack says.

  The man shakes his head.

  Jack nods, the puts the barrel of his revolver into the man’s forehead. “This may tickle, but don’t move. You so much as twitch, the dingy hotel wall behind you’s gonna know what’s on your mind.”

  Jack then reaches around to the man’s back pocket and wriggles out his wallet.

  “Brad Barnes. I knew you resembled someone I’d seen in the last few days. You’re the sheriff’s older brother, aren’t you? It’s sad to say and it ain’t sayin’ much, but looks like he got the looks and the brains in the family—what little there were. Your brother know you’re here?”

  Brad shakes his head. “Told me to stay away from y’all. Hell, told me to stay away from town for a little while.”

  “Turns out not to have been such bad advice.” Jack stops suddenly as if something has just occurred to him, turns and looks at the weapon the man dropped on the bed. “Did you bring my gun back?”

  The man nods and Jack retrieves his gun from the bed. After admiring it appreciatively for a moment, he sticks it in the holster on his hip and sings very badly and off key, “Reunited and it feels so good.”

  “I was just bringing it back to you,” Brad says. “Felt bad for taking it before.”

  “Let’s say for the sake of argument you weren’t,” Jack says. “What’s another reason you might break into my room and mount me like I’s your prom date?”

  The man shrugs.

  Jack steps back over to Brad and places the barrel of the revolver between his eyes. “Let’s say that I’m dying of cancer. Let’s say I’ve got nothin’ to lose. Let’s say you already broke into my room once and there’s a police report showing it. Let’s say I could punch your ticket right now and call FDLE and tell them what happened and that your brother knew it and is trying to cover up for you. Let’s say that though you dealt this play, I hold all the cards. Let’s say for all those reasons you play along and answer all my questions truthfully—as truthfully as if your life depends on it. Why did you break into my room and—”

  “To scare you. Just to scare you and . . . to get you to . . . drop all this and . . .”

  “You coulda just asked. Hell, if I’d’ve known how bad you wanted me to leave I’d’ve left days ago. Communication is the key, Brad. How can we know what you want if you don’t tell us?”

  Brad looks confused as if he’s not quite sure he’s being fucked with.

  Jack pulls the gun back but keeps it pointed at Brad as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Did you kill her, Brad? That why you want me gone so bad?”

  “No. Wait. Who?”

  “Janet.”

  “Janet Lester? No. No way. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I thought she was . . . I had a crush on her back in the day, but never even told her. Was thinking about it, but then she died. I had nothin’ to do with that. Absolutely nothin’.”

  “Then who?”

  “Who what?”

  “If you didn’t kill Janet, who did you kill?”

  “No one. No one on purpose. Maybe no one at all.”

  “The Jane Doe hit-and-run,” Jack says. “You the one that ran over her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It was my . . . I was on some pretty bad shit back then. But . . . I don’t know for sure. And didn’t want to find out it was me. That’s it. That’s why I wanted y’all to stop lookin’ into it. Glenn said he’d take care of it, but . . . I just wanted to make sure.”

  “Why do you think you might have done it?” Jack asks.

  “I’m clean now. I am.”

  “Well it sure as hell ain’t helping you think any clearer.”

  “But then, I was on some really bad shit. I’s all over the place. Glenn was a deputy, then an investigator. Got me out of more than a few jams. I’d’a been in jail if it wasn’t for him.”

  “Why do you think you may have been the one who hit her?” Jack says again.

  “It was my backhoe. I had my own heavy equipment company. This was just before I lost it. I . . . I was buying drugs rather than making the payments on my equipment. I was doing work for different contractors in the area. Worked on the golf course, the high school, and the Peace Tree thing. A few times I’d wake up on my tractor in the middle of the night not knowing what was going on. Everybody thought my backhoe had been stolen from the golf course that night, but . . . what if my fucked-up ass just thought I was at work? Hard to see a car or even a truck doing what was done to that poor girl. But a tractor . . . She was a transient. What if she was sleepin’ in the garden and I . . .”

  50

  Janet was so excited, felt so alive.

  Her body hummed with electricity and energy and life.

  Could there be a better weekend? Ever?

  It was the perfect time for her and Ben to make love, for them to give themselves to each other utterly and completely, for the Valentine king and queen to consummate their relationship, unite their two kingdoms. Totally time.

  Any doubt and uncertainty she’d had earlier at the dance was now gone.

  Whatever had caused him to act distracted or disinterested or whatever it was had nothing to do with her. And it wasn’t another girl. She could tell. Whatever it was and whatever caused it passed, it was gone as suddenly as it came, and he was back to his normal sweet self. Thoughtful. Attentive. Affectionate. Sweet as strawberry pie—her favorite.

  She was excited, but she was nervous too.

  She knew just the thing to help with that. And, as fate would have it, it was on the way.

  Fate. Was it fate that she won
the pageant and they won king and queen at the ball? Was it fate that she and Ben would make love later? Was it fate that they were together? Were they fated to be together forever, high school sweethearts who would one day celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary together?

  What was her fate? How much say did she have in it? Were we as free as we seemed or was freedom a total illusion?

  She decided she was glad she didn’t know her fate, happy to remain blissfully ignorant—because she couldn’t be any happier, any more blissful. If things were going to work out—her photography and fashion, her relationship with Ben—it couldn’t make her any happier than she already was, and if they weren’t . . . it would ruin a perfectly perfect weekend.

  As she saw the Gulf Station up ahead, looming and lit up in the dark night, she wondered if in addition to getting a little liquid courage for her she should get some condoms—just in case Ben forgot.

  It’s not liquid courage, she thought. I don’t need courage. It’s liquid relaxer. I just want to relax and enjoy every second of it so it can be perfect like everything else this weekend.

  Should she leave the condoms up to Ben? Should she take that chance? Where would she even get some? She was gonna have a hard enough time asking Little Larry for liquor. No way she could ask him if he sold condoms too.

  Wonder if the men’s bathroom in the back has a machine?

  Was she really going to go into a dirty ol’ gas station bathroom to buy condoms?

  No. No I’m not.

  Then what?

  Kathy will have some.

  But borrowing them from her would mean she would know, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that. Sometimes Kathy was so supportive, so . . . just what a best friend should be, but . . . other times she seemed jealous, seemed like she might . . . actually want to . . . Nah, not Kathy.

  51

  Before I left the memorial, Darlene’s shift ended and her replacement showed up and she decided to come with me.

  We are driving down to Chipola Ford to talk to Little Larry Daughtry, the kid who sold Janet a bottle of Dewar’s and gassed up Ted Bundy’s car the night she disappeared. My phone rings.