John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice

by Michael Lister

  “If Floyd doesn’t have a daughter,” I said, “who inherits St. Ann’s?”

  “According to his will, his niece and nephew would split the trust, while one got the land and the other the buildings, but if St. Ann’s closes after they’re dead, it—the land, the buildings, and the trust—automatically goes back to the paper company. I mean the Gulf Coast Company.” He shook his head and frowned. “Can’t get used to calling it that.”

  Knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it, I said, “Who’s his niece?”

  “Tammy was,” he said.

  “And the nephew?”

  “Our distinguished chief of police,” he said. “Steve Taylor.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  The Bridgeport courthouse was obviously designed and built in a time when function was elevated above form. It was essentially a two-story square box made of that yellowish brick I associated with the 1970s.

  Inside, I found the clerk of the court’s office almost completely empty. There was nothing on the long counter than ran across the front, and two of the three desks behind it had no folders or stacks of papers on them. The room smelled of fried food and activator.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked the large young black woman behind the counter.

  Her skin was as dark and shiny as her shoulder-length hair, and she wore a formless black dress with white and yellow flowers on it, the front of which was covered in a light dusting of doughnut powder.

  “The other two secretaries are already off for Christmas. The customers waiting to see what the paper company’s gonna do,” she said. “They do what they got planned and land value ‘round here gonna skyrocket, but if they don’t, no one want to be holding a buncha pine trees and sand spurs.”

  “I keep hearing about all these plans,” I said. “I wanna see something.”

  “Honey, you’ve come to the right place,” she said. “Step in here.”

  She held the small swinging door at the end of the counter open for me and I followed her into the enormous vault. It was filled with oversized filing cabinets, computers, and wooden bookshelves, and smelled of old paper, dust, and an industrial air freshener that only made things worse. A framed color drawing of the proposed Gulf Sands Estates hung on the wall to the left of the door.

  “Is that…” I began.

  “The stuff dreams are made of,” she said. “If they pull it off, this place’ll never be the same again. We’ll look like Orlando or Tampa and eventually Miami.”

  The detailed drawing showed a multi-stage development project of large-city proportions. It included golf courses, subdivisions, condominiums, restaurants, schools, a college, and even a theme park.

  It was enormous in scale and scope, with the breadth and depth of an economic empire. The rumors were true. Florida’s Forgotten Coast was about to be discovered, and like the original natives when Columbus landed, we would never be the same again.

  I grew sick to my stomach, the rape of the land I loved so much sending me into a depression.

  “Don’t know nobody happy to see it coming,” she said. “‘Cept maybe the bankers and lawyers and real estate brokers.”

  “I’m surprised more people aren’t protesting,” I said.

  “What good would that do?” she asked. “They gonna do what they want to. Hell, they already had a major highway moved so it would meet their new thoroughfare and give them more beachfront to sell.”

  I looked at the drawing more closely. I couldn’t see how St. Ann’s figured in. They really didn’t need it. As beautiful as it was, it was too far from the Gulf and the rest of the development to even hold a golf course. I had to be missing something, but what was it?

  Touching the spot where St. Ann’s would be on the drawing, I asked, “Do you know what this tract of land has to do with the new development?”

  She squinted at it. “That look like—I think that’s—” she began, then broke off. “Hold on and let me check and see.”

  She withdrew a binder from a nearby bookcase and began to flip through it, nodding to herself as she did. “Mmm-hmm. That’s where the new road’s gonna go.”

  “New road?” I asked.

  Closing the binder with a snap, she replaced it on the bookcase. “If this thing goes through, Highway 98 can’t very well handle all the traffic. Plus, this new road will come directly from the new airport they tryin’ to build in Panama City. And it’ll connect to I-10. Rich bitches from all over the world can fly into Tallahassee or Panama City and be at their fancy resort in twenty or thirty minutes.”

  It was obvious that many of the challenges facing the Gulf Coast Company today were the same ones that faced Floyd Taylor and the Gulf Coast Paper Company when he first began assembling his great green empire—isolation, limited transportation linkages to areas outside northwest Florida, and the rampant poverty of our region. The very nature of the land, with its major river systems, numerous wetlands, and a geography that is on the way to nowhere accounted for much of our region’s socioeconomic failings. It was this that made it possible for Floyd to accumulate so much land here in the first place.

  “And the abbey is right in the middle of it,” I said.

  She looked at it again. “That’s right,” she said, “that is where St. Ann’s is. Well, I guess they gonna have to move it.”

  I knew from recent media coverage of county commissioner meetings and state legislative sessions that the Gulf Coast Company was working on a plan that would use taxpayer money for the estimated ten million dollars per mile it takes to convert our existing two-lane highways to four lanes, and the several billion it would take to build the new regional airport in Bay County, but first they had to get St. Ann’s back.

  “Why can’t they just put the road on either side of it?” I asked.

  “Several reasons,” she said, “but only one that really matters.”

  I waited as she paused for a moment.

  “Wetlands,” she said. “Both sides of that property’s protected by wetlands. Can’t even look at them the wrong way. If the road don’t come through St. Ann’s property, ain’t no road coming through.”

  Wetlands are ecosystems typically found on the transition between terrestrial and aquatic systems. To be classified as a wetland, an area of land must have water on the ground’s surface or in the root zone for at least a portion of the growing season.

  Wetlands support a wide diversity of life. Many organisms depend on them completely for their survival, but even those who live in primarily aquatic or terrestrial habitats may rely on the ecotone border for a portion of the year, or for a portion of their life cycle.

  Before scientists formally identified the values of wetland ecosystems, U.S. policies allowed the draining of wetlands. By the time these policies were overturned, more than half of the original wetlands in the landlocked states had already been drained.

  National wetlands protection was set in motion when President Jimmy Carter issued two executive orders in 1977 that established wetland policies for all federal agencies.

  The Clean Water Act requires a permit for most activities that would dredge or fill any of the nation’s waters, including wetlands. Certain farming, ranching, and forestry activities that do not alter the use of land, as well as some construction and maintenance activities, are exempt from permit requirements. The Gulf Coast Company’s plans for a new highway connecting the new airport they want built with their new development near Bridgeport would not qualify.

  “‘Course that probably won’t even stop ‘em either,” she said. “They do what the hell they want to. It’s their world. We just live here.”

  “But it’s not,” I said. “The earth belongs to all of us. They can’t just do what they want. Not even with the land they own. Ownership isn’t sovereignty. Not even the most radical right wing free-market fundamentalist believes that.”

  “Can if we all just keep letting them.”

  “I should’ve said we belong to the earth, not her to us. I
just meant they can’t—”

  “Have so far. You have any idea how many promises they’ve made, just to break ‘em? How many settlement agreements they’ve violated? How many clearing violations to conservation easements? The impact they having on wildlife habitats, aquatic preserves, and sea grass habitats? They say they gonna set aside such and such acres over here to mitigate the impact over there, but do they? They do what they want and the state and the DEP and the pathetic little county commissioners don’t do a got damn thing. If anything they help them.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  How’s that for a motive? St. Ann’s closes or a multibillion-dollar development deal doesn’t happen.

  I was in my truck driving back toward the abbey. I drove slowly, thinking about what I had just learned, adding it to what I already knew, and trying to figure out who killed Tammy.

  Where the hell was Steve? How could he disappear in the middle of a murder investigation? How could I trust him when he’s the one who benefits the most from St. Ann’s closing?

  Like the cottages on either side of it, the beachfront highway’s traffic was light and sporadic, and I found it difficult to imagine it ever changing.

  I thought about Ralph Reid and how he had acted like he was looking out for Father Thomas, working on his behalf, and all the while—

  Seeing a sign up on the left for Gulf Sands Estates, I stomped on the break pedal and hit my blinker, the teenage girl in the car behind me laying on her horn.

  I turned into the development to find that far more had been developed than I realized. This wasn’t something that might happen, this was something that was happening already.

  The lamppost-lined streets of Gulf Sands were black asphalt with a foot of white cement on either side and cobblestone sidewalks. To the right two golf carts were parked in front of a huge brick home that was being used as the sales office. It was the only finished building on the property, but a host of other homes were under construction.

  Everything about the property looked exclusive and expensive, and it made me angry and nauseous at the same time.

  Wonder how multicultural this neighborhood will be?

  Planted palms joined the indigenous pines and plants that surrounded the marked-off lots, each with a pale green PVC pipe the color of scrubs coming out of the ground in front of it at an angle. Crews worked at tacking up Dupont Tyvek HomeWrap on the frame of two of the mansions.

  It was going to be enormous, and it was only one small part of one phase.

  The land was littered with little orange flags that snapped in the wind and pink ribbons that curled around the wooden stakes that held them.

  I looked at the wooden boardwalks behind each lot that led to the beach and thought about the privileged few who would use them.

  Greed would destroy something sacred––something we’d never get back again. Forget Father Thomas’s exorcism of Tammy. Here was the real devil. True evil was the devastation and destruction, the death and extinction, the rape and pillaging of something far too fragile to be any match for the money motive.

  Feeling sick, I pulled out of the development and back onto the highway. To fight off the dark mood descending, I made myself think about the case some more, starting with suspects and motives. Father Thomas still had to be considered a frontrunner. He was the only one we knew for sure was there, and all the physical evidence pointed to him.

  Then there was Steve, who’d inherit big and who really didn’t have an alibi if Kathryn was sleeping. Of course, even if he had been asleep when he says he was, he still could’ve done it. Before getting me—or even after—he could’ve come upon Father Thomas and Tammy alive in the woods. He could’ve knocked him unconscious and killed her.

  Through the windows of my truck, the day looked deceptively warm. The sun inching toward the Gulf was bright and looked hot as it sparkled on the surface of the water, but the empty beach and the wind waving palm trees and sea oats told a different story.

  Then there was Kathryn. If Steve really was asleep, then she didn’t have an alibi, and she could’ve stolen the tape to protect herself, not Father Thomas.

  Blocking the cold breeze, but allowing the heat of the sun through, the cab of the truck grew too warm for the winter clothes I was wearing, and I reached over and turned on the air conditioner.

  Then there were all the jealous lovers—including, but not limited to, Clyde, Tammy’s dope-dealing boyfriend, Brad Harrison, the hellfire and brimstone handyman, and Keith Richie, the rageaholic rapist.

  It could have been the drug suppliers she and Clyde owed money to. It could have been Russ and his partner. Reid could’ve hired them to do it—or he could’ve done it himself.

  Then there was the demon she was supposedly possessed by. Maybe Father Thomas was telling the truth and what we were witnessing was a mystery that can’t be solved.

  When I got back to the abbey, Steve was standing in front of the chapel. He wore jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, very little of his tanned skinned showing. His blond hair was mostly hidden beneath a black baseball cap with BPD in white across the front. He started toward me the moment he spotted my truck and reached me by the time I was opening my door.

  “Guess who stole the boat?” he asked.

  I got out, closed the door.

  “Guess who has the biggest money motive?” I said.

  I could tell my posture and tone had him confused, but after a moment’s hesitation and the dance of a question across his face, he said, “I asked first.”

  I glanced over at Kathryn’s cabin. The porch light was off and very little illumination came from inside. Was that a message? Leave me alone. Don’t come calling tonight. Was she upset with me for going to the mill, for leaving her? Maybe she was just resting and I was reading too much into the fact that she hadn’t turned on the lights yet. After all, it was just now getting dark.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “Clyde.”

  “Who told you?”

  “No one.”

  “Then how the hell’d you know?”

  “It was just a guess. He was most likely to try to sneak into St. Ann’s.”

  The engine of my small, old truck ticked as it cooled down, and I could smell an unpleasant mixture of burning oil and antifreeze.

  He continued to consider me. “Yeah, I guess he was.”

  “Do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “My men are pickin’ him up right now. Think he’s our guy.”

  He didn’t sound very certain––more like a man trying to convince himself that what he was saying was true––and I wondered if that were true or just my prejudiced perception.

  “I’ll let him sit in a cell overnight and interview him first thing in the morning,” he said. “You wanna be there?”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  He turned and I followed his gaze out toward the lake. I let my eyes wander over the yellowish-brown grass lying limply, on to the gently sloping hill, and down to the choppy grayish waters of the lake. The cold breeze blew the Spanish moss in the cypress trees and waved the straw-colored underbrush, and there was nothing appealing about what, in summer, would be a lush lakeside paradise.

  I could tell I was looking at Steve differently now that I knew how much he stood to inherit, because I was acutely aware of just how expensive his ostrich boots, leather jacket, and aviator sunshades looked.

  “What the hell’s the matter?” Steve asked, turning back to face me. “I figured you’d jump up and down when I told you. It explains what the boat was doing here and it means Father Thomas is likely innocent.”

  I told him about spotting the two men who’d taken the diary, following them back to the mill site, and what Reid had said.

  “I’ll have them picked up and brought in for questioning,” he said. “And to answer your question, the Gulf Coast Company has the biggest money motive.”

  “I meant which individual,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Reid?”

&
nbsp; “You.”

  “Me?”

  He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Only three people stand to inherit the land if St. Ann’s closes,” I said. “Floyd’s daughter—if he even has one, Tammy—who’s now dead, and you.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “You saying you didn’t know?”

  “No, I didn’t know. Floyd has a daughter?”

  “According to John David Dean.”

  “Was he sober when he said it?” he asked.

  “How could you not know you stand to inherit?” I said. “Your uncle owned it—owned the paper company.”

  “I have nothing to do with it. Nothing. Not one single thing. Wouldn’t if they wanted me to. I have no stock in it, no interests whatsoever, and I thought St. Ann’s owned and would always own this land.”

  “It’s a hell of a motive,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m a greedy bastard. It’s why I’m a cop.”

  The sun and the temperature were falling, and as the day came to an end, the buildings of St. Ann’s increasingly became vague black objects.

  “What’d Tammy say?” I asked.

  “Huh? When?”

  “When you went to see what she and Father Thomas were up to and ask her about being the last one seen with Tommy.”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t find her.”

  “You couldn’t find her?”

  “You motherfucker. You really suspect me, don’t you? I went to Father Thomas’s but they weren’t there. I was about to look around when I saw Kathryn. Went to her cabin instead. Wish to God I hadn’t, but that’s the gospel on what happened.”

  “Where’ve you been all day?” I asked.

  “Working my investigation,” he said. “I don’t report to you.”

  “Why couldn’t you be reached?”

  “I was trying to get the lab to put a rush on things. I physically walked some of the evidence through. And then I worked on finding Clyde after the landing operator picked him out of a photo array.”