JJ09 - Blood Moon

by Michael Lister

  Not solving a case was one kind of agony, but solving it and being unable to bring about any kind of justice was a special kind of torture. Daniels was the latter, and that he could be a free man, free to inflict more harm, commit more crime, was particularly difficult for me to take––something that required much prayer, meditation, and letting go. And I had been doing okay with it, but hearing his voice, having him say he knew I would figure out something else––something no doubt duplicitous––he was up to, brought it all back, and made me feel the familiar old frustration that had too often eaten away at my insides over the years.

  “What are you doing, Tom?” I asked.

  “None of your business, John.”

  “I called to see how you were doing,” I said. “To check on Susan. She’s not . . . She went from not answering to changing her number.”

  “She wants nothing to do with you. None of us do. Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t come by. Don’t even think about us. Haven’t you hurt us enough? Leave us the fuck alone.”

  That was so typical of the criminal mentality. He was the one who had done all the damage, the one who had hurt so many people, yet he was blaming someone else for it. A victim until the end, his wounded, paranoid, defensive paradigm would always justify, always blame, and never take responsibility for any of his actions, not even murder.

  “Hurt you enough?” I said.

  “You’re toxic John. Far sicker than even you realize. I’m so glad my little girl got away from you. Probably the only reason she’s alive today.”

  “I met your successor today,” I said.

  “You know how many guys she had to fuck to get that job?” he said. “They call her Rug Burn Rachel. Have you fucked her yet? Y’all are perfect for each other. I’m sure she’ll do just fine for you if you don’t get––”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “If I don’t get what?”

  “Good talk, John. Go fuck yourself. And don’t call back. Susan had the right idea. I’m changing my number too.”

  With that, he hung up, leaving me to sit there with the receiver in my hand, seething.

  “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” I said.

  I was in the chapel alone.

  Lights off, votive candles lit, music playing softly.

  Trying to let go.

  Stop clinging. End your attachment to the outcome. Let go.

  I centered myself, or attempted to, by concentrating on my breathing and repeating the Serenity Prayer over and over.

  “Accept the things I can’t change.”

  Accept. Release. Embrace. Let go.

  “Courage to change the things I can.”

  Yourself. Your thinking. You are all you can change. Let go of all of this, of everything. Anna is all that matters.

  Reminding myself of that helped more than anything else.

  “Does that work?” Rachel asked.

  She had walked into the chapel and up the side aisle and was standing a few feet away.

  “If you work it,” I said without thinking about it.

  “That’s an AA thing, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I said, “but it applies.”

  “And how’s all that working for you?”

  “See previous answer,” I said. “Works well when I work it. It’s all a practice. We get good at what we practice.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  I glanced at the clock on the back wall as I stood up.

  I had intended to go up and have lunch with Carrie Helms, but without realizing it I had spent my entire lunch hour plus a few minutes of the state’s time in here.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I knocked and called out in the hallway.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Lost track of time.”

  “With your practice.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me, but decided if she was, it was only mildly.

  “Yes.”

  “Is part of what you’re processing Hahn Ling’s death?”

  I sat down on the front pew and she joined me.

  “Sure.”

  “What else?”

  “A delightful conversation I had with your predecessor not too long after you left last time.”

  She smiled and nodded. “If anything could give you religion . . . What’d he say about me?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “You’re not supposed to lie.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like a chaplain rule or something. Tell me. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  “He may have insinuated that you got your job by means other than merit.”

  She smiled. “May have insinuated. You’re a gentleman, John Jordan. I’ll give you that. Let me guess . . . Rug Burn Rachel. I get that one a lot.”

  I neither confirmed nor denied.

  “Bet it gives his misogynist ass a special kind of heartburn that a woman has his old job,” she said.

  “It’s called a nontaxable bonus,” I said.

  She laughed out loud at that.

  “I’m gonna be straight with you,” she said. “If I were you, I’d get a lawyer. The outcome of the investigation doesn’t just determine departmental disciplinary actions, but could result in criminal charges as well.”

  Chapter Ten

  End of the work day, and all I could think about was getting home and waiting for the call to come.

  Exhausted. Sleepy. Tired of this nod toward normalcy. Ready to find out what I had to do to get Anna back and start doing it.

  I was locking the chapel when Merrill walked up.

  As usual, his pristine correctional officer uniform curved the contours of his muscles as if it had been tailored to do so, his dark brown skin, roughly the hue of his pants, contrasting nicely with the lighter brown of his shirt.

  I hadn’t seen him today. In truth, I had been avoiding him. If anyone could sense something was wrong, it was this perceptive and insightful man who had been my closest companion and confidant since childhood.

  “’Sup, Chap?” he said, his voice rich with playfulness.

  I pretended to be having trouble with the key to give myself a moment to prepare. As I did, he stood easily, waited patiently, nodding to the end-of-shift staff and officers passing by. His companionship was comfortable in the way only a lifelong friend could be––something that made it even more difficult not to unburden onto him, not to bring him into the confidence he had proven himself worthy of before we were ever out of junior high school. And an infinite number of times since.

  “New IG interview you?” he asked.

  “Started to, then told me to get a lawyer and she’d be back tomorrow.”

  “What I heard, they’s one less lawyer in the world today,” he said.

  He was referring to Chris Taunton. Word of his death was out. Dad had taken care of it.

  “It ain’t the ninety-nine on the bottom of the ocean floor, but it still a good start. Hella good start, you ask me.”

  “He’s probably not who I would’ve hired anyway,” I said.

  “Shoulda let a brotha know you’s gonna take him out. Woulda liked to be in on that. Least let me help you hide the body.”

  I turned from the door to face him for the first time.

  “Didn’t want to risk you gettin’ hit with an accessory-after-the-fact rap.”

  “My nigga. Always thinkin’ of others, ain’t you?”

  We started walking toward the front gate and the daily parole that awaited us there. The compound around us was littered with our coworkers doing the same thing.

  “Anna okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Morning sickness.”

  “Even this late in the PM?”

  “Hope not. Find out in a few.”

  “Be nice not havin’ to deal with Chris in raisin’ the kid,”
he said.

  “Yes it will.”

  We walked a little ways in silence.

  The late afternoon sun suffused everything with a soft golden glow, making even the prison sparkle and shimmer.

  “You ain’t gonna ask what the IG asked me?” he said.

  “Figured you’d tell me anything you thought I needed to know.”

  “Offered me immunity to testify against you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Asked her what you had to do with the tactical team shooting first and finding out what was goin’ on later. Probably still don’t know. She said you were the reason it got to that point. When I ask how the hell she can think that, she said it based on the other testimonies she has. Who you think tellin’ tales?”

  I shrugged. “No tellin’. Take your pick.”

  We reached the sally port and were buzzed into it. Holding our IDs up to the control room window, we were then buzzed through the other gate and into the world again.

  “Don’t seem too worried about it,” he said.

  “Practicing letting go and living the Serenity Prayer.”

  “Oh, ’cause it look like you just don’t give a fuck. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Just tired. Didn’t sleep.”

  “You never sleep.”

  “Upset about Hahn. Utterly and completely spent.”

  He nodded and we continued walking through the employee parking lot toward our vehicles.

  We reached Anna’s Mustang first. I popped the locks and set my briefcase in the passenger seat.

  “Nice ride,” he said. “If it were anybody but Anna I’d ask if you were with her for the car.”

  I attempted a smile.

  “You don’t remember when I was born, do you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I was busy tryin’ to be born myself.”

  “Well, it was night,” he said. “Just not last night. You don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on, but don’t kid yourself that I buy there’s not anything. Chris dead. Anna not here. You so deep inside yourself it like you not there.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Waiting. Again.

  Alone.

  Dark trailer. Quiet night. Sounds of breathing.

  Occasionally, I’d catch myself dozing and shake myself awake.

  Eventually, the call came.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “You did good today,” he said. “Could’ve done better. But it appeared you pulled off a seemingly ordinary day.”

  Did he know about my visit with Chris? Did he know he was alive?

  “I have a few eyes around,” he said. “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you I see your every move or anything like that. I’m counting on your love for your lady to make you do the right thing, but I’m keeping tabs on you too.”

  “Then you know I haven’t said or done anything other than what you instructed me to do.”

  “It appears that way.”

  “How is Anna?”

  “She is fine. She’ll tell you herself in a minute.”

  I didn’t say anything and we were quiet a moment.

  “You said you’d do anything to get the girl back,” he said.

  “Just tell me what.”

  “There’s a young man in your institution,” he said. “His mother is dying. Doesn’t have much time left. She wants to see her son before she . . . His requests for furloughs have been denied. His hardship petition rejected. Higher-ups in the state are friends of the family. They can do nothing. Every available option has been exhausted. The family has hired me to get their son out of your prison, and I’m hiring you.”

  “To break an inmate out of a maximum security prison?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Something many claim is impossible these days.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “What do you say?”

  “It is extremely difficult,” I said. “Nearly impossible.”

  “Nearly? Can you do it? For the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will trade her for him.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked. “When do you want to make the trade and where?”

  “How long will you need?”

  “Depends on who he is,” I said. “His custody level, job assignment. But obviously I’d like to do it as soon as possible.”

  “And you’re sure you can.”

  “What I’m sure of is that I can figure it out.”

  “Without involving anyone else? On your own.”

  “Yes.”

  “We will make the exchange two nights from now, the night of the blood moon. That gives you tomorrow to prepare.”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Too soon. I want you coming up with a great plan that leaves nothing to chance. You’ll need tomorrow to make preparations. Your wife is safe and well taken care of. I assure you. Here. I’ll let her assure you.”

  There was a pause, then some rustling, then her.

  “John?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I really am,” she said. “Bored. Ready to see you. But they’re being really good to me.”

  “I love you. I’m gonna get you back.”

  “I know. I love you. Miss you so much. Need you. Need you to hold me.”

  “How’s the baby? How’re you feeling?”

  “Everything is good. Seriously. It’s a little crazy how well they’re taking care of me. Keeping me comfortable and hydrated and fed and catering to my every need––well every one but you.”

  “What’s my favorite food?” I asked.

  “Pizza.”

  “Let’s get some when we’re back together.”

  “New York pizza with extra cheese. And garlic knots.”

  “Anything you want,” I said.

  The next voice was not hers.

  “Satisfied?” he said. “I am taking better care of her than you do.”

  “Not possible, but keep trying.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow with the details,” he said.

  “I can’t figure out how to do it without knowing who it is.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that at all,” he said, and ended the call.

  Chapter Twelve

  She got off the phone with John feeling reassured and hopeful.

  He had that effect on her.

  God, I miss him. Please let me see him again soon. Don’t let the short time we had together be all we get. Please.

  She thought about what she should do.

  She was blindfolded and had yet to see anything. Should she keep it that way or try to work it off a little, sneak a peek at her captors and this place of captivity.

  What would John do?

  She smiled. WWJJD. What Would John Jordan Do? If she survived this ordeal, she would have bracelets made.

  What would he do or what would he have me do? They’re not necessarily the same thing.

  He’d want me to seize any opportunity I was given, but not try to make any, not yet. He’d want me to do what they say, protect myself. Not worry about getting myself out. Let him do it.

  Listen.

  Someone walked back into the room.

  That’s what you can do. Listen carefully. Hear everything. Make mental notes on every ambient sound, on every word uttered and how they are uttered. Use your hearing to take in everything. Be able to give a full description based on what you hear.

  I can do that.

  Start now.

  Where am I?

  A cabin?

  Why cabin? Why not farm house or just house?

  Feels rustic and isolated.

  It does, doesn’t it? That’s good. What else?

  There’s water nearby. I can feel it more than hear it. Some added moisture in the air. A lake? Maybe, but––no, it’s moving. A river. I’m in a cabin by the river.

  I’m on a bed. An uncomfortable bed. Propped up on pillows. Wrists bound and tied to––what? A headboard? A bedpost?
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  She moved her hands around, her fingers feeling about.

  “Is it too tight?” the younger of the two men asked.

  Actually, it wasn’t. The restraints were padded and loose––long enough so that she could move her arms around some, but not long enough so that she could reach her blindfold and rip it off.

  “Hand was just falling asleep. It’s fine.”

  How closely must they be watching me?

  The headboard was flat so she wasn’t sure what her restraints were tied to, but it was definitely a headboard.

  “Sorry you have to be restrained at all,” he said. “I just don’t want to take a chance on anything going wrong, don’t want anything to happen to prevent this all from going as smoothly as possible. Don’t want you even accidentally seeing me or . . . anyone.”

  She nodded.

  “No mess-ups. No one getting hurt. Everybody getting what they want. You want to go home, right? I want that too. For both of us. I’m just trying to ensure that’s what will happen.”

  She nodded and actually thanked him.

  What was that? You’re not suffering from Stockholm already, are you?

  Of course not. But why did I thank him? I guess I––well, they’re being so good to me, and I guess I believe him, think he really does mean what he said.

  What does he sound like? Listen to his speech patterns, accent, vocabulary. Figure him out by what he says––and what he doesn’t say.

  Young. The one who does most of the talking––and all the talking to John––sounds like a kid. Not a child, but a young man in late adolescence or in his early twenties.

  There’s a quality to his voice, a resonance. Even for as young as he sounds, he speaks with authority, his voice eliciting trust.

  It’s also . . . what . . . professional. As if he could be a radio talk show host or a guy who does voice-over work. Something like that.

  Commit his voice to memory. Don’t forget what he sounds like.

  I never will. Even when I’ll want to, I won’t be able to.

  The other guy rarely speaks. He’s older. How much, I can’t be sure. But I’m pretty sure he is. His voice doesn’t have nearly the richness and resonance of the talker. That’s what I’ll call the younger one––Talker.