John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice

by Michael Lister

  “So even if she found out she was Floyd’s daughter…”

  “Wouldn’t do her any good.”

  “If he was so stingy, why’d he give so much to St. Ann’s?”

  She let out a mean, smoke-filled laugh and gave me an elaborate shrug. “Exactly. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  “You have no idea?”

  “None. Well, that’s not true, exactly. I know without really knowing, you know? It’s obvious they had something on him.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone from the abbey.”

  “Blackmailed him for the land and the trust?”

  She nodded.

  “With what?”

  “Don’t know, but it had to be like one of them cookies they got over in the mall. Not just a doozie, but a double doozie.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  “We made a deal with the devil,” Sister Abigail said.

  “And now we’re reaping what we’ve sown,” Father Thomas said.

  We were standing in front of the chapel, the midafternoon sun providing just enough heat to make it bearable. I had confronted them with what I had learned at the courthouse and they seemed not just willing, but eager to unburden themselves.

  “Are you saying you blackmailed Floyd into giving you the land and the trust for the abbey?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t blackmail. It was… an agreement.”

  “It was us agreeing to his terms,” Father Thomas said. “If anything, it was him bribing us.”

  They both seemed older now—especially Father Thomas, whose already weakened physical state seemed now also an outward manifestation of his psychological and emotional fragility. They had been through a lot over the past few days and the cumulative effect on them was palpable.

  “The land and the trust was hush money?” I asked.

  They both seemed to consider that for a moment, before nodding. “I’ve never thought of it that way,” Sister Abigail said, “but that’s exactly what it was.” She shook her head. “Funny how you can justify things.”

  “Rationalize,” he said.

  “It wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Sister Abigail said. “A lot of people would be helped. He wasn’t doing anything better with the land.”

  “We were giving the selfish, bitter old bastard a chance to do something good for once,” Father Thomas added.

  I considered him. He was angry, his face contorting in disgust, and I wondered if it were directed toward himself or Taylor.

  “It wasn’t that hard for us, but the truth is, you can rationalize anything,” Sister Abigail said.

  A cold gust of wind blew in, puffing out Sister’s habit and tossing our hair, but neither of them offered to step inside, and I wondered if on some level they wanted to avoid the chapel, as if their confession would profane it somehow.

  “What exactly were the terms he wanted you to agree to?” I asked.

  Sister Abigail considered me intently. “I’m sure you know,” she said.

  “I have some ideas.”

  “Well, let’s hear them,” she said. “I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  “Why won’t you just tell me?”

  “I’d rather you say it,” she said. “It’s difficult for me.”

  “Is that it or are you just wanting to find out what I know?”

  She smiled a wry smile.

  “He wanted you to take in his daughter,” I said. “Raise her for him and her mother.”

  She nodded. “In a way, he was giving the money to her. She’d have a place to live—a family. She could get a good education, go to college, live here again if she wanted, and if the abbey ever closed, the land would go back to her. No one would ever know he had a daughter.”

  So Kathryn was Floyd Taylor’s daughter. They had confirmed it. No wonder Reid and whoever he was working for in the Gulf Coast Company had tried to kill her.

  “Why go to such lengths to conceal the fact he had a daughter?”

  “He was pretty old by then. It was embarrassing to him—especially considering who the mother was.”

  “A young slightly mentally handicapped girl who worked in one of the fish houses,” Father Thomas said.

  “He didn’t like kids anyway,” Sister Abigail said. “Never wanted any. And the thought that this young piece of white trash, as he called her, would get his money just about killed him. He said he’d rather die than have anyone know.”

  “We thought if we didn’t accept his offer,” Father Thomas said, “he might kill her.”

  “The baby or the mother?” I asked.

  “Both. Though the mother didn’t live long after she gave her baby to us. I think it broke her heart.”

  Sister Abigail shook her head and frowned at him. “She was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “I still think she stepped in front of him on purpose,” Father Thomas said.

  There was something unconvincing about their words and the way they said them—especially Father Thomas. It was as if they were a little too eager to tell me, and though I couldn’t quite believe they were lying, it felt as if the story I was hearing had been rehearsed.

  “Anyway, we know the fact that he might have killed them was just a rationalization, but as rationalizations go, it’s not a bad one.”

  “We’re talking about Grace Taylor, right?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  “When did she change her name to Kathryn Kennedy?”

  Their eyes grew wide and they froze like children caught in an elaborate lie. First, they looked at each other, then at me, then back at each other, all the while not saying a word.

  After a long moment, I started to say something, but Sister Abigail cleared her throat.

  “Actually, she didn’t,” Sister said. “We did it when she was a toddler.”

  “Does she know who her parents were?”

  They shook their heads. “No idea.”

  I nodded and thought about it.

  “I’m gonna get Steve to get a copy of Floyd’s medical records. We’ll be able to prove she’s his daughter. That way, if St. Ann’s ever does close, or the paper company pressures you to relocate, there will be no question who gets the land.”

  Their faces simultaneously grew alarmed.

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?” Sister Abigail asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “May not have a choice.”

  “Don’t do that to her,” Father Thomas pleaded. “Her whole identity would—”

  He broke off as the first of the screams started.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Leaving them behind, I ran toward the screams, which increased in frequency and intensity. Running toward the girl’s dorm, I paused to try to pinpoint exactly where they were coming from. The best I could tell, they were originating from behind the dorm by the Intracoastal Waterway where we had discovered the boat with blood in it.

  As I ran in that direction, the screams, which were now joined by sirens in the distance, seemed to be moving toward me. When I rounded the back corner of the dorm, I collided with Sister Chris, the force of our collision nearly knocking her down. I grabbed her arms and held her up. She continued to scream all the while.

  “What is it?” I asked, holding her at arm’s length. “What happened?”

  She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She had, however, stopped screaming for the moment. Beginning to shake uncontrollably, she crossed herself and fainted, collapsing in my arms.

  By the time I had her lowered to the ground, Kathryn had come up. “Stay with her,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but she doesn’t seem to have any injuries. It must be something she saw. I’m gonna check it out.”

  “Be careful.”

  As I ran down toward the waterway, I caught a glimpse of several others, including Father Thomas and Sister Abigail, nearing Kathryn and Chris. I hoped they would stay with them, but doubted they would.

  I didn’t have to run far to see w
hat had elicited such horror-filled screams from the young nun.

  Down near the water’s edge, on a gray cypress tree with a weathered board nailed up for a crossbeam, a young white guy had been crucified.

  He had long hair and a scraggly beard, and his head hung down like the Spanish moss above him. Pale and extremely thin, his nude body looked unkempt and undernourished. As if a re-creation of the crucifixion of Jesus, his hands and feet had been nailed in place and he had wounds on his face, head, knees, and side.

  Coming up behind me, the trinity of St. Ann’s, Father Thomas, Sister Abigail, and Kathryn all reacted in horror.

  “Oh my dear Lord,” Sister Abigail said, and crossed herself.

  Father Thomas turned away, falling to the ground and throwing up, his frail body lurching forward as he did. Sister Abigail immediately knelt beside him and began to minister to him.

  Beside me, Kathryn stared up in stunned silence, seeming unable to look away.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Who would do such a—”

  “Do you recognize him?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You need to look away.”

  She slung herself around and buried her face in my chest. I put my arm around her and held her tightly.

  Looking down at Father and Sister, who were getting to their feet, I said, “Do either of you recognize him?”

  Without looking at him again, Father Thomas shook his head. Sister Abigail glanced quickly again, then shook her head.

  Looking back at the corner of the dorm, I saw that everyone with the exception of Keith Richie had gathered around Sister Chris, who, conscious again, was being helped up by the others.

  “Why don’t you guys join the others?” I said. “Have someone call Steve. I’ll wait for him here.”

  The two women got on either side of the aging, sickly priest and led him away, but before they reached the others, Steve passed them on his way to me.

  He didn’t say anything to them or me, just stopped beside me, looked up and said, “Jesus Christ.”

  I understood why he said it. Not only was what he saw as shocking as anything he had ever seen, it, in fact, brought Jesus to mind—but it still bothered me to hear Jesus Christ said that way.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hard to imagine anybody here doin’ something like that.”

  “‘Cept maybe Harrison or Richie,” I said.

  “I thought Harrison was all religious?”

  “Whatta you call that?” I asked, nodding toward the young man nailed to the tree.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Good point.”

  “What about Tammy’s boyfriend? Could’ve been him.”

  “Clyde? Know for sure he didn’t do it.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  “Because,” he said, nodding toward the life-size crucifix again, “that’s him on the cross.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The nails holding Clyde to the cross were not spikes and would not hold for long. Though there was very little blood, his numerous wounds looked to have been made with both sides of a hammer. That was just a guess, but there was a bluntness, a lack of precision and crude violence to the wounds that made it at least a possibility.

  The horrific pose exaggerated his naked, emaciated body, making him look puny and pathetic, and I was saddened—not just for him, for no matter what any of us do or become, in the end we’re all stripped in one way or another, exposed for what in some sense we are—dust of the earth.

  “I thought you had him in custody?” I said.

  “We almost did,” Steve said, “but he got away. We found out where he was, but by the time we got there, he was gone.”

  All around us, Steve’s men were securing the crime scene, waiting for FDLE to arrive to process it. Though the midafternoon sun was bright, the air cold, a strong breeze made the world around us seem to dance, and something about the way it rustled Clyde’s hair made him seem alive.

  “Look at him,” Steve said. “He hasn’t been dead for very long. You know what that means?”

  I nodded.

  “Our prime suspect was in custody when this happened,” he continued.

  He was talking about Reid, and he was right. Did this clear Reid or was it unrelated to Tammy’s death and the attempt on Kathryn?

  “I didn’t see this one coming,” he said. “What the hell’s he even doin’ here?”

  I looked from Clyde to the little boat at the end of the dock. “Looks like he stole another boat.”

  “But why come here?”

  I shrugged. “Unfinished business, someone lured him, or maybe he was searching for sanctuary.”

  “I figured him for Tommy Boy and Tammy’s killer if Reid didn’t do it.”

  “Still could be.”

  “Then who the fuck did this?” he asked.

  “Could be retribution. Someone avenging her death.”

  “I guess it could,” he said. “But who here’s capable of something like this?”

  “We already said Richie and Harrison,” I said. “Could be others—maybe a badass cousin with a badge.”

  His eyes intensified, squinting into slits. “So which is it? I killed her or I killed him because he killed her?”

  “How about killed her and him?”

  He shook his head. “You got any other scenarios or is your heart set on me?”

  “We’re pretty sure he was here the night she was killed,” I said. “What if he saw something and the killer’s covering his tracks?”

  He nodded. “Could be. Or the devil could’ve gotten them both.”

  “I think it’s something we’ve at least got to consider.”

  “What?” he asked in shock. “You serious?”

  “We found the tape,” I said. “Watch it and see what you think, but I think she may have been possessed, whatever that means.”

  “You watched it?”

  I nodded.

  “Police evidence?”

  I nodded again.

  He shook his head. “And you think she was possessed?”

  “She was something I can’t explain,” I said.

  “Does it show her death?”

  I shook my head.

  “Could it be an edited copy?”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug, “but it doesn’t seem to be.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “That’s privileged information,” I said.

  “You a lawyer now?”

  “Confessor,” I said. “Counselor. Priest.”

  “You can add son of a bitch to the list too.”

  “Confessor, counselor, priest, son of a bitch. Someone came in during the exorcism and turned off the tape. Someone was in the room with them.”

  He looked up at the cross. “Clyde?”

  “Maybe.”

  I followed his gaze up to the surreal image. What little blood there was around Clyde’s wounds was dry and dark. He seemed to be leaning more forward now, as if the nails were giving and any minute he would come tumbling down.

  “Why is he on a tree?” he asked.

  “A lot of crucifixions have been. There’s a whole tradition that says Jesus was crucified on a living tree. If the killer was aware of it, then it’s significant, and would tend to point to one of the more knowledgeable members of staff, but…”

  “But what?”

  “It may just be because the tree was the easiest to get to, and hidden enough, and the most accessible option.”

  “It wouldn’t have been easy to get him up there,” he said.

  “Hard to see a woman doing it,” I said.

  “Unless she had supernatural demon strength,” he said, and laughed.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Any other possibilities?” he asked.

  “Two people? It’d be difficult even for a man by himself.”

  “But who?
”

  “They both could’ve been killed by the drug dealers they owed money to,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice. I’d really rather it not be someone around here.”

  “How do you think he was killed?”

  Muscle-fat stopped what he was doing, turned to me in disdain, and said, “You don’t have to throw him in the Gulf, he was crucified.”

  I shook my head at him and laughed. “The crucifixion didn’t kill him.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “See how little blood there is?” I said. “How his wounds don’t have much blood coming out of them? His heart wasn’t beating when he was nailed up there. He was already dead.”

  Muscle-fat looked up at Clyde again.

  “Get back to work,” Steve said, “and remember—it’s better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

  He huffed off.

  “How do you think he died?” Steve asked.

  “There’s no signs of violence on the body except the postmortem ones, and he’s young. Best bet is a drug overdose. Although he looks emaciated enough to be malnourished or have AIDS.”

  He nodded. “I’m thinkin’ OD. I’ll try to rush up tox. But if he did die from a drug overdose, why nail him up?”

  “There’s a reason,” I said. “We’ve just got to—”

  Just then, the nails made a high-pitched squeaking sound as they pulled out of the board and tree, and Clyde’s body pitched forward and fell to the ground in a loud, flat thump.

  My stomach lurched, and I swallowed hard.

  “Goddamn,” Steve said, looking down at the crumpled, naked body.

  I knew how he felt. It was disturbing—both to see and to hear.

  We took a few steps farther away from the body and stood in silence for a long moment, all sound but the wind in our ears receding as the cops strained to see Clyde’s new position.

  “Shit. With all this I almost forgot,” he said, shaking his head. “The blood in the boat is human. Same type as Tammy. And… whoever had sex with her before she was killed is a secretor. I’ve got his blood type too.”

  “How long before you’ll have DNA?” I asked.