Blood Stone

by Michael Lister

  “Drinking and thinking. Thinking and drinking. What are you doing?”

  “Got somebody to cover for me so I could be with you. I was worried about you.”

  “I’m . . . I’ll be all right.”

  She had a large bag or purse or something draped over her shoulder—something I’d never seen her with before.

  “You didn’t tell me y’all got the killer tonight,” she said. “That’s . . . so great. Why can’t that be enough for tonight? Why can’t you lay down with me and try to sleep?”

  I shook my head. “’Cause,” I said, and I could hear the slightest hint of a slur. “’Cause I don’t think he’s the killer. I don’t. I don’t think he is.”

  “Do you know who is?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “You do, don’t you?” she said. “Who? Who is it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. It’s too . . . I suck at this. I can’t be right. It can’t be who I think it is.”

  “Why can’t it?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re so good at this,” she said. “It’s your gift—one of them anyway. You’re just . . . your confidence is shot right now. You’re down on yourself because of the accident tonight and the drinking’s not helping.”

  I tried to focus.

  “Are you listening to me?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Forget about the stupid accident. That has nothing to do with how good you are at figuring out and solving crimes. The one has nothing to do with the other. If I was a great chef and I dropped one of my best dishes before I could serve it, that wouldn’t change what a good chef I am, would it?”

  I shrugged. “Guess not.”

  “Well? Tell me? Who is it?”

  And then it hit me, a solution for testing the veracity of my other possible solution.

  “What if . . . If I took you . . . If you were around him, would you sense that it’s him?”

  “Can’t be positive, but probably, yeah. You want me to test your suspicions? Confirm for you that you’re right . . . Give you the confidence to . . . act. But what if I’m wrong? What if it really is the guy and you’re right and I get it wrong? What then?”

  “I know I’m right,” I said. “It’s the only solution that fits all the evidence. It’s crazy and farfetched, but it’s right.”

  “So tell me and let’s go find him so I can see if I sense anything.”

  “He wears a disguise,” I said. “Pretends to be something that he’s not. It’s how he’s been ahead of us this whole time, how he tricked Daphne, how he set up Patrick Dorsey.”

  “How? Who is it?”

  56

  “He’s dressing up as and pretending to be a woman,” I said. “It’s Erin Newman.”

  “What?”

  “Best disguise ever,” I said. “Not only does he pretend to be a woman, but he’s a cop—has access and knowledge and training and the trust of everyone—the victims and his fellow investigators.”

  “What made you—”

  “What’s your initial response?” I asked.

  She nodded. “You’re right. I’d like to be around him again, just one more time knowing what I know now, but . . . yeah. How’d you . . .”

  “So many things. How plain and masculine Erin is, but how much makeup she wears. How physically strong and resilient she is. Think about the stamina required to run the way she has—night after night. Mile after mile. She’s like a machine. Think of the irony of us using her, a runner like her to catch a runner like him. We knew someone inside the investigation was feeding Daphne Littleton information. I thought it was Walt. He thought it was me. But it was her. She gained her trust—the way she did so many people’s—including mine. And she’s always wearing that damn turtleneck under her uniform. My guess it’s to hide her Adam’s apple.”

  Summer shook her head. “Oh my God. You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  “One of the biggest clues was her saying she saw the killer up on the mountain when Daphne was hanging from the rope. She said she saw part of his arm disappearing behind the boulder into the woods, but he wasn’t up there—no one was. He had rigged it with the blocks of ice so he didn’t have to be up there when she was dangling off the mountain. He did that so he could be with us. What a perfect alibi. Hell, he’s the one who came to our room that morning to get me, remember?”

  “Of course I do. That was the morning after we first made love.”

  “Yes, it was. That was such a—”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “What else?”

  “When Frank offered for her to stop tonight, she said she wanted to go a little longer—because she knew Patrick Dorsey was coming. She also ran on the south side by the old quarry tonight—something she’s never done before. In the interview when she asked Patrick if she made him nervous, he said no. He was telling the truth. Women make him nervous. She’s not a woman. I don’t know what she said to him to get him out there tonight, but he was so confused about what was going on. Called it entrapment. Asked what kind of cops we were. I don’t know if he touched her or what happened, but he shouted You’re a—and I think he was going to say man, but she yelled cop real loud to cover it up, then fired her gun. He ran and she yelled to us that he was armed so we’d shoot him. And if we didn’t, she was going to. I’ll bet you anything she’s the one who hit him in the eye.”

  Summer continued to shake her head.

  “Walt and Bud and the rest of them are always teasing about how she’s stronger and braver and tougher than any man on the force. Even tonight in Frank’s room they were teasing about the size of her balls. On the ride back to her house tonight, she told Bud she was going to quit, or at least take a leave of absence. She had set up Dorsey—I guarantee there are items of clothing from the victims in his house—and she’s going to move on, so the murders will stop here and everyone will think it was Dorsey. And she can start making her sacrifices somewhere else. She even used that term tonight. Sacrifices. It’s just a theory I had. Not many of the other guys have called them that. They keep referring to them as murders, but he couldn’t. He used sacrifices with conviction and certainty because that’s what he’s been making.”

  “Is he a man or a woman or a man trying to be a woman?”

  I shook my head. “Erin is just his cover. It’s a disguise. His way of appearing normal in the world. I bet it’s far easier to play a sane woman than try to keep it together as himself. He’s just playing a part every day.”

  “You’re a genius, John Jordan,” she said. “How are we gonna get close to him so I can confirm you’re right?”

  “I say we drive over to his house right now,” I said.

  “I say that’s the liquor talking, but go on.”

  “I tell him I couldn’t sleep, had a few more questions about what Dorsey did out there in the woods. We stay for just a few minutes, then leave. And either you confirm what I’m thinking or I start over.”

  57

  When the door opened at Erin’s house it wasn’t Erin at all, but the madman who had been making sacrifices on Stone Mountain.

  And he was pointing a sawed-off shotgun at me.

  Summer and I both held our hands up.

  “Come in,” he said, his voice different and deeper than anything that had ever come out of Erin’s mouth before.

  I turned to Summer. “Sorry,” I said. “This was stupid.”

  I couldn’t believe I had brought her here like this. I was even worse at this than I thought I was.

  “I said, come in,” he said, pulling back the hammer on the shotgun.

  We did.

  “What’s your real name?” I asked.

  “Aaron,” he said. “Like Moses’ brother, the priest. I’m the new Aaron, a priest who offers sacrifices to God.”

  “Erin Newman,” I said.

  Summer said, “I can confirm your suspicion. He’s the killer.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Thanks.”

  “Any
thing else you want to know about me or my work before you die?” he asked me.

  I thought about it. “Can’t think of anything,” I said.

  “You couldn’t understand anyway,” he said.

  And then he shot me. Twice.

  As I fell backwards and hit the ground, I saw him grab Summer and drag her away. It was the last thing I saw before everything went dark and I lost consciousness.

  58

  He had time for one more sacrifice before he left. Why not. It’s not like they’re looking for him.

  From what he knew of this one she needed to be offered up as a sin offering to the Most High.

  She wasn’t just a whore—shacking up with John in their hotel room of sin—but she was a witch too, a worshiper of Satan.

  A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.

  He bound her wrists and ankles and taped her mouth shut with a gag, then threw her in the back of his car and covered her with a tarp.

  It was dark. No one was watching the mountain. If he timed it just right he could make his final offering on this sacred site just as the sun was rising in the east.

  This would be both an end and a beginning for him, an alpha and omega on the holy mount of the Lord of Hosts.

  59

  Blinking my eyes open I felt the most intense pain I had ever experienced.

  I was lying in a pool of my own blood.

  It took a while, but I managed to sit up.

  Seeing what looked like the victims’ clothes in a nearby suitcase, I crawled over to it and began using jogging pants and shirts and jackets to make compression wraps for my chest and abdomen in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

  I could tell from the shot pattern that one of the rounds had been birdshot and one had been buckshot. I was bleeding from the myriad pellets imbedded in my chest and arms, but the real damage, severest pain, and greatest blood loss came from the single slug that had ripped through the side of my abdomen. Thankfully, it had actually ripped all the way through me—I could feel blood seeping out of the exit wound in the back. And the fact that I was still here and able to somewhat function, meant it must have missed most or even all of my major organs. Still, the blood loss alone would kill me soon if it wasn’t stopped.

  I scanned the small, cluttered room for a phone.

  There was one on a small table by a chair in the corner.

  Pushing myself up, I fell forward over toward it and snatched up the receiver.

  I couldn’t call Frank. He was still in the hospital. I didn’t know Bud’s number. All I could do was call the dispatcher and tell her what had happened and where I thought Aaron would be taking Summer.

  After I managed that, I stumbled out the door and to my car and drove toward the park, unable to turn my head or upper body as I did.

  I had to save her. I couldn’t let her die the way I had Jordan.

  Driving through the gate at the entrance to the park, I didn’t stop, didn’t really even slow down, but I did yell out my window for the confused and angry attendant to call the police, that it was an emergency.

  I found Aaron’s car parked near the entrance to the walk-up trail and screeched to a stop beside it.

  Climbing out slowly, I willed myself to climb the mountain and save Summer—even if it killed me.

  As I began making my way up the slope I felt supported and encouraged and aided by the clothes tied tightly around my chest, the clothes that had once belonged to Cheryl Carver, Pamela Nichols, Shelly Hepola, and Kathy Dady.

  It was dark and cold.

  I was exhausted and hungover and shot up.

  I had lost a lot of blood and was dizzy and lightheaded.

  Every step hurt.

  My makeshift tourniquet seemed to be working. I didn’t appear to be bleeding as much.

  Of course it could just be that I had less blood left to bleed.

  As I continued my slow and awkward ascent, I either began to loosen up some or learned better how to move to minimize my pain or both, but I was beginning to move better and faster.

  I still expected to get overtaken at any time by other cops and emergency workers responding to my call to the dispatcher or my plea to the gate attendant.

  I couldn’t be sure how far I had climbed, but I was certain it wasn’t nearly as far as it felt.

  Everything in me but the most important thing told me to stop, to rest, to take a short break, but I wasn’t going to stop—not until I reached the top, not until Summer was safe in my arms again.

  I was climbing east, and in the sky before me above the dome of the mountain of stone, the first glow of false dawn shone like a trick of light.

  I continued.

  Slowly.

  Awkwardly.

  Deliriously.

  But steadily.

  Stumbling and tripping, I tried my best not to fall. I was afraid if I did, if I actually went down I wouldn’t be able to get back up again no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I willed my body to do so.

  Time dragged by.

  Step by step.

  Stumble by stumble.

  I made progress.

  As I neared the top, and the eastern horizon broke open its plumb-colored bruise to birth a starburst of bright brilliant orange, I could hear sirens screaming below.

  When I finally reached the top I began searching for any sign of Aaron and Summer.

  There was no sign of them.

  Had I been wrong? Is this not where he brought her? Did he park his car below and then go in a different direction?

  I seriously doubted it. I’d bet my and Summer’s life, and that was what I was doing, that this was where he’d bring her, that he would be powerless not to do so.

  And then out of the corner of my left eye I saw him.

  On the edge of the dome overlooking the north face, he was standing there holding Summer up close to him, saying something to her as he shook her.

  I stumbled toward them.

  When I got close enough, he turned toward me.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.

  Summer looked like someone who knew she was about to die. She moaned beneath the tape covering her mouth, but it was her eyes that showed her true terror and hopeless resignation.

  “What?” I said.

  “To die. To be dead. To know there’s nothing you can do to stop me from ending the life of this woman you care about right in front of you.”

  “Please,” I said. “Show mercy.”

  He shook his head. “There is no such thing. There is only the rod. Only the knife. Only the fire. Only the fall.”

  “Offer me instead. Let her go.”

  “This was written in the great book of life before any of us were ever born,” he said. “She is going to die. You are going to watch. Then you are going to die. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing. This is fate. This is futility. This is what everything comes to in the end. Can you see it?”

  As he talked I continued to edge toward him, easing closer and closer, hoping if nothing else to be able to grab the rope curled up around them.

  “When I do it,” he said, “I’m not going to count to anything. I’m not going to make any pronouncements. I’m just going to do it. One moment she’ll be here, the other she’ll be gone. Dead and gone. And there’s not a thing you can do about it. Tell me. How does that make you feel?”

  “Please,” I said again. “Please let her go. You’ve sacrificed enough.”

  “It’s never enough.”

  “The same Bible that speaks of sacrifice says, ‘For I desired mercy, and not sacrifice; and the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings.’ Hosea six-six. God is a God of compassion. His mercies are new every morning.”

  “That’s true,” he said, nodding and looking contemplative.

  He then flung her off the side of the mountain.

  I dove for the end of the r
ope, but couldn’t reach it.

  As I pushed myself up and reached for the rope again, all I could do was watch it unspool and disappear off the side of the mountain with her.

  He stood there with such a peaceful expression on his face as he watched the last of the rope disappear.

  And then, with full knowledge of what I was doing, I lowered my shoulder and ran at him as hard and fast as I could, feeling something inside my chest tearing and ripping, ramming into him while he was still looking after his last victim, and sending him flying off the side of the mountain like all the young women he had delivered the exact same fate to.

  And in that moment I was as much a murderer as he was.

  Then and for the rest of my life I would have blood on my hands that no amount of scrubbing would ever get off.

  And then I did the only thing left for me to do, the only thing I could do.

  I collapsed and began to cry, waiting to see if I would bleed out and die up here or if help might arrive in time.

  And just then I couldn’t say I truly preferred one eventuality over the other.

  60

  The first time I opened my eyes in the hospital room I was alone.

  The second time a nurse was present.

  She told me there had been people with me around the clock for days and that I just happened to regain consciousness when none of them were here—a true rarity according to her.

  At various times of fading in and out of awareness over the next few days, I saw a variety of people in my room, including Susan, Susan’s aunt Margaret, Merrill, my parents, Frank, Don Paulk and some of my professors from EPI, Bud, Miss Ida and some of the members from the Missing and Murdered Children group.

  One time I thought I saw Anna and her new husband Chris Taunton, but couldn’t be sure about that. Could’ve easily dreamt or hallucinated it.

  During all this time each in his or her own way expressed care and concern, told me how lucky I was to be alive and various facts that had come out or been uncovered about the killer.