Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  It’s Dad.

  “Got my gun back,” he says.

  Sounds like that’s not all he got back. His voice is stronger than it’s been in days.

  “How’d you do that?”

  He tells me.

  “Impressive,” I say. “You still got it.”

  “Not quite ready for the rocking chair or the graveyard just yet.”

  “No doubt. So what’d he say?”

  He tells me, and I think about it.

  Before he’s finished, Darlene looks up from her phone and says, “Ronnie Lester was just released.”

  I interrupt Dad and tell him.

  “I’m already on my way over to Verna’s. Just a couple of minutes away.”

  “If he shows up and starts acting stupid call the police,” I say. “He’s not worth the paperwork.”

  “It won’t be a problem.”

  My phone lets me know I’m getting another call. I pull it back from my ear to look at the screen.

  “I’m getting a call from Anna,” I say. “I’ll come by Verna’s a little later.”

  “Take your time. I’m pulling up now. Everything will be five by five over here.”

  I click over to take Anna’s call. “Hey beautiful. How’s my girl?”

  “Just heard back from one of my Classification contacts in Central Office,” she says. “Clyde Wolf was released from Marion CI yesterday. State of Florida bought him a bus ticket back to Marianna. He arrived this morning.”

  Little Larry Daughtry is anything but.

  A huge man in every way, he is some six feet six inches tall with an enormous low-hanging gut, as if his chest and stomach had both slid down to just above his waist.

  “You look like a Mustang driver,” he says. “I’ve got some sweet incentives I can offer you right now. Get you the best deal anywhere.”

  “As much as I’d love a new Mustang, I’m just here to ask you a few questions. I’m John Jordan. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh, yeah. How are you?”

  He shakes my hand and seems genuinely happy to see me—which is probably how he acts with everyone whether he really is or not.

  “I’m good. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Happy to do it. It’s so cool you’re helping your dad with this. I sure hope y’all can finally figure it out and . . . I saw y’all found her body. That’s . . . I mean after all this time. It’s just . . . amazing.”

  I nod. Little Larry seems the type to keep talking with very little prompting, so I just wait.

  “I’ve been thinking about that night ever since we spoke on the phone,” he says. “’Course I’ve thought about that night a lot over the years. Still can’t believe I was that close to Ted Bundy. Dude was a little wired but sure as hell didn’t seem like what he really was. You know?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t know. I was just a kid, but I wish I’d’ve known it was him or . . . Wish I could’ve done something to save Janet. She was a cool girl. Nice. Sweet. Pretty.”

  “Were they there at the same time?” I ask.

  His expression makes him look like a kid in school who has just been asked a question he should know the answer to but doesn’t.

  “I’m . . . just not sure. They could’ve been. If they weren’t, it was close. They were there within minutes of each other if not at the same time. Neither of them were there long. Didn’t take any time to fill up his little car. And she was only there long enough to buy a bottle from me and let me congratulate her and hug her neck.”

  “Congratulate her for winning Miss Valentine?”

  He nods. “Yeah. And Sweethearts’ Ball queen. She was . . . You know she was . . . she was excited, I could tell that. Think she was headed to— Well, I know she was supposed to be headed to that party, so she was excited about that, I guess. So full of life. But more than anything, what she was, was gracious. She was so genuinely touched that I congratulated her and wanted a hug. It’s just the type of person she was. Man, I wish I could’ve saved her.”

  “Do you remember anything else at all? Can you picture them leaving the parking lot? Was he following her? Was he still there when she left? Just pulling in? Did he leave before her?”

  He squints to think about it, seeming to concentrate as hard as he can.

  “Let me see.” He closes his eyes. “She was in that red Monarch . . . on her way to the party. I watched her the whole time she was at the station. Always had a bit of a thing for her, you know? She pulled up to the road. Sat there for a moment, though there was no traffic. Not at that time of night on a Sunday. And . . . wait. Wait just a minute. She . . . she . . . Why didn’t I realize that before?”

  “What’s that?”

  “She went the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She went the wrong way. She was supposed to be going to that party, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well she turned and headed the opposite direction from it. She went the wrong way.”

  52

  Little Larry had given me the final piece of the puzzle, the last bit of missing information I needed.

  The slowing developing image is now visible, is emerging in vivid, tragic color.

  What really happened to Janet the night of her disappearance now unfurls like a flag inside my head, and all I can do is watch it.

  As if present to watch it happen, I see what Janet did, the choices and decisions she made, the action she’d taken that had led to her death. It plays in the movie theater of my mind.

  “What is it?” Darlene asks. “What’re you . . . thinking? Did he say something that made you—”

  I nod.

  “What?”

  “I always thought Janet had either been picked up or followed by someone at the party or intercepted on her way to it—either at the gas station or somewhere on Highway 71 near where her car was found.”

  “We all did.”

  “But now we know she went the opposite direction of the party.”

  “Yeah? Oh shit. You know who did it, don’t you?”

  “I think so. I could be wrong but . . . I think so.”

  “Well let’s hear it. Run it past me and I’ll try to poke holes in it.”

  “Let’s start with . . . she never made it to the party. We’re now pretty certain about that. And let’s say for the moment that Ted Bundy didn’t do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Two questions. Why did she turn in the opposite direction from the party and where did she go?”

  “Was she meeting someone else? Brad maybe.”

  “She bought the bottle to take to the party. She was headed there.”

  “Then what?”

  “She forgot something,” I say.

  “What?”

  “She wrote in her diary she planned to sleep with Ben that night for the first time. I think that’s why she stopped by to get the liquor. But that’s not all she purchased for the occasion. She bought a special negligee to wear when she and Kathy went shopping the week before in Dothan. But sneaking out of the dark house quickly and quietly she forgot it. Her mom said it was still laid out on her bed the next morning.”

  “So she never got it,” Darlene says.

  “Right.”

  “So she was intercepted—only going away from the party and not toward it. She never made it back to her house.”

  “She never made it back inside at least. Remember Ronnie Lester had gambling debts and was already abusing alcohol pretty badly.”

  “Was it someone he owed money to sending him a message?” she asks.

  “He was paranoid and not thinking straight, the way most addicts not in recovery do.”

  “He did it?” she says.

  “In a way,” I say. “He told Ralphie that bad people were trying to hurt them. Asked him to help him guard the house and not to let anyone in. Ralphie is like an obsessive guard dog over his family and his home, a crime-stopping caped crusader—probably d
ressed as Zorro. I don’t know if he was asleep and heard something or if he was already in the yard walking the perimeter, but here comes this car with no lights on creeping down the driveway. And he has a sword. He collects them. All of his canes have swords in them. I saw him threaten to pull one on Ronnie the other night when he attacked Dad. But like I say, he could’ve been dressed as Zorro and the sword was just part of the costume. The sword would explain why there was no physical evidence. He didn’t even get in the car. And why there was so much blood and why the cuts and stabs nicked and scraped bone. There’s no way to know what’s inside Ralphie’s mind—he may have thought Janet was working for the bad guys—but I don’t think he realized it was her until it was too late.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “The poor kid. Poor Janet, of course, and her poor mother, but fuck, poor Ralphie too. If you’re right.”

  “I think either Verna woke up to check on Ralphie and found him gone or he came and got her, but I don’t think Ronnie ever knew anything about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and I’ll get to why in a minute. I think Verna was utterly devastated and in shock and . . . realizing there was nothing she could do about losing one of her children, began to work to make sure she didn’t lose them both. She grabs a blanket and a tent and wraps up Janet and all her things. I noticed a lot of true crime books in their collection—and whether they are hers or Ronnie’s, she had seen somewhere in one of them at some point what a rape-murder kit looks like so she makes one from stuff she can gather up quickly in the house. She then puts something down on the seats and drives the car out to a secluded spot on property they own, and with Ralph’s help digs a grave and buries Janet. She then drives to a field out on 71 on the way to the party and abandons the car, tossing the rape-murder bag, which now has a smear of Janet’s blood on it, into the woods nearby.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “I mean it fits, I guess, but . . . I don’t know. Why don’t you think Ronnie was involved—in the cover-up if nothing else?”

  “Two reasons. The old truck that was stolen.”

  “The what?”

  “The old farm truck that was stolen from a farm not far from where Janet’s car was found.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “When I first heard about it, I thought maybe Janet faked her death and stole the truck to get away, but . . . it was found in town. I think Verna and Ralphie used it to get home after leaving Janet’s car. If Ronnie had been involved, he could have followed in another car and given them a ride home. In fact . . . remember the sheets of plastic found up close to the interstate? I think that’s what Verna used to sit on to drive Janet’s car. I think Verna was taking them home to destroy them and tossed them in the back of the truck when they stole it, but they blew out on their way home.”

  “Wow,” she says, shaking her head. “Wow. It all fits. What’s the second reason you think Ronnie’s not involved?”

  “He wanted to sell the property. Verna didn’t want him to, but—”

  “What property?”

  “The property the new high school is on. He wanted to sell it back in 2000, but she didn’t want him to. She had to let him just so they could survive, but that meant she had to move Janet’s remains. If he had buried Janet out there with her, he’d’ve known why they couldn’t sell it.”

  She nods. “That makes—”

  My phone vibrates and I answer it.

  Someone is already talking before I say hello. Two people. Maybe three. Their voices aren’t directly up to the receiver. It sounds like someone butt dialed me, but then I hear Verna pleading with Ralphie and realize she’s called me on purpose.

  “Ralphie,” she’s saying. “Listen to Mommy. Sheriff Jack is our friend. Don’t you remember? He’s a crime stopper like you.”

  I put the call on speaker so Darlene can hear it and kick the gas pedal, wondering if the last conversation I’d had with Dad would be the last.

  53

  Janet now had her bottle of liquid relaxer and was back in her car wondering if she should start drinking some now or wait ’til she got to the party.

  She didn’t want to be drunk. She had never been drunk. She had only drank twice before and just a little beer both times. So she was an amateur drinker who didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t want to drink so little it had no effect nor too much so that she didn’t remember every detail. How much was that?

  As she sat there trying to decide, she suddenly became aware that someone was staring at her.

  She turned to see the weird, wild-eyed guy in the VW gazing at her and it gave her the creeps.

  Luckily Little Larry was there. That made her feel safer, but it still unnerved her. And it wasn’t that he was looking. She got looked at a lot. Most young girls did. It was the way he was looking . . . totally weirded out and creepy.

  She cranked her car and pulled away from the pumps.

  Forget him. Think about Ben. Think about how amazing it’s going to be.

  As she pulled up to the highway thinking about making love with Ben, picturing it in her mind, she realized she forgot the lingerie she bought just for the occasion.

  Shit. Sneaking out in the dark, she didn’t even see it on the end of her bed.

  Should I go back? I’m already running late.

  You have to. Every single thing about this weekend has been too perfect for this, the most important part of it, not to be to.

  Nodding to herself, she turned right, back toward town and her house, instead of left toward the party.

  Wonder how it’s going to feel? Will it hurt at first?

  She knew Ben would be gentle.

  Would she bleed? How much?

  She had forgotten the lingerie somehow, but not the blanket for them to use. It was in the backseat waiting. Waiting . . . like she had been, like they had been. She hoped her mom wouldn’t miss it, because she didn’t plan on returning it. It was going to be beneath them during their first time and she planned on keeping it forever. Wanted to be able to wrap herself in it anytime she felt sad or lonely.

  The night was dark. No moon or stars visible.

  She had driven faster than she should have through town, but as she approached her driveway, she slowed down drastically and cut her lights.

  Rolling down her window so she could hear how loud her car was on the drive, she listened to the popping and crunching of the little white rocks beneath her tires.

  The drive was long and wooded, her car louder than she would have liked, but she couldn’t go any slower than she was going. It was just going to take a little while. There was nothing to be done about that.

  It’s okay. Ben will wait. And I will make it worth his wait.

  As she neared the house, she decided to park and walk the rest of the way.

  Who was she kidding? She wasn’t going to walk, she was going to run.

  So it’d be quicker and quieter.

  But as she pushed up the gearshift into Park, she heard something.

  Footsteps? Rushing toward her? She didn’t see anyone.

  The sound of someone rushing toward her stopped abruptly, and then she heard another sound. Metal? Metal sliding on . . . what? More metal?

  In the fraction of a second before she felt the first cut, she recognized the sound she had heard so many times before. It was Ralphie’s sword being drawn from his cane.

  54

  Quickly but quietly we enter the house, moving through the foyer and living room to a spot in the kitchen where we can hide behind the island and see into the den.

  Ronnie Lester is on the floor, his throat so severely slit he looks nearly decapitated, a pool of blood expanding around him.

  Dad is seated on the couch, Ralphie behind him with a sword held to his throat.

  Verna stands between Ronnie’s body and Ralphie, pleading for Dad’s life.

  We’re too far away and there’s too little of Ralphie showing and there are too many objects in the way for a clean shot.

&nb
sp; “Please, baby,” Verna is saying. “Listen to Mama.”

  “I’m not Baby. I’m Batman.”

  Like before, Ralphie has his Batman costume on and the handle of the sword he’s holding to Dad’s throat has a silver bat for a handle.

  “You know Sheriff Jack. He’s our friend. He’s a crime-stopper fighter like you.”

  Ralphie shakes his head, seemingly confused.

  “Trust Batmom,” she says. “I wouldn’t lie to Batman. Not to my own son. Please put down the Batsword.”

  The entire scene is sad and surreal, a sickly old man sitting on a couch, a fat Batman in a homemade costume standing behind him holding a sword to his throat, a desperate mother pleading with her son for the life of her former lover, her husband dead on the floor not far from her.

  “Any ideas?” I whisper to Darlene.

  “Can you make the shot?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No. Not with a handgun.”

  “I can.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve won the state law enforcement marksman competition three years in a row.”

  “For real?”

  “I’m very good.”

  “Tell you what. Take aim but don’t shoot unless it looks like he’s about to actually use the sword. Okay?”

  She nods.

  “That’s my dad. Don’t shoot him. Don’t take the shot unless you have to. Don’t take it unless you have it clean.”

  “I won’t. What’re you gonna do?”

  “Try something else. I’ll be back in a second.”

  When I return a few minutes later, I’m wearing Ralphie’s Iron Man costume.

  “I’m gonna see if I can talk him away from Dad. I’ll do my best to stay out of the way of your shot. If I fail and he starts to attack, go for the shoulder of his sword hand.”

  “You look ridiculous,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “It just might work.”

  “About to find out.”

  I stand and walk around the left side of the island and stay to the left side of the doorway as I approach, trying to leave Darlene with a clean shot.