The Body and the Blood

by Michael Lister

  My heart hurt, and I felt disconnected, adrift.

  I turned and called after her.

  When she slowly walked back toward me, I said, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded without really looking at me. “Any word from Merrill yet?”

  I shook my head. “I think Howard Hawkins is involved.”

  “I’m worried about him.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Please let me know when you find out anything.”

  “Sure.”

  She nodded, her full lips twisting as she frowned, and began to walk away.

  “Hey,” I said. “We don’t have to ignore each other.”

  She turned around slowly, her head down. “I can’t do this,” she said, lifting her deep brown eyes, wounded and sad, up to meet mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I never meant—”

  “I’ve put in for a transfer.”

  “What?” I asked, loss and longing gripping my heart.

  “Central Office. There’s a position open and they think I can just lateral in. I won’t even have to interview.”

  “But—”

  “It’d make it easier,” she said. “I need a change anyway.”

  “Anna, I never meant—”

  “I’ll miss you,” she said, lifting her hand and touching my cheek, before turning and walking away.

  For a long moment I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I just stood there, the scent of her perfume swirling around me.

  When I was able, I walked over to DeLisa Lopez’s office door and looked inside. Through the narrow pane of glass I could see that she was intently engaged in counseling an inmate. I watched for a moment before walking away. She was obviously a caring and compassionate counselor.

  As I waited, I opened the file folder I was carrying and pulled out the copies I had made of the control room logs from the night of the murder and looked through them again.

  Before, when I had studied the logs, I had concentrated on the ones from G-dorm, but my subconscious must have registered something wrong in the control room logs that my conscious mind, concentrating on G-dorm, missed.

  I found where DeLisa Lopez had been logged in that morning. It was just a few minutes after me. As I followed the list down, I saw the comings and goings of the staff and visitors of the institution.

  Anna and Merrill were logged in just a few minutes after Lopez, Fortner a few minutes after that. In the early afternoon, Tom Daniels was logged in and Merrill was logged out as his shift came to an end. I saw where I was logged out at the normal time and then back in for the PM unit Catholic Mass that night.

  I ran my finger down the page, examining every entry for the entire day and the following morning. I found where Daniels and I had been logged out in the early morning hours after we had secured and processed the crime scene. And then I saw where staff members began to be logged in the next morning. However, what I didn’t see was where DeLisa Lopez had been logged out.

  It wasn’t there.

  She had come into the institution early Wednesday morning and not left it again until the end of her shift on Thursday evening. She had spent thirty-two long hours inside the institution.

  It could go unnoticed easily enough. I wouldn’t have found it had I not been trying to identify the woman who was seen in G-dorm the evening of the murder. There was no other reason to look at the logs. Well over a hundred people entered and exited the institution every day, arriving when one set of officers were in the control room, leaving when there was another. Unless someone was really studying the logs, looking for discrepancies, like I was now, no one would ever know—and, even if someone asked, the person could claim that the control room officer simply failed to log him or her out. I thought about how many times I had worked late, catching up or covering a special program, and how surprised the control room was to see me when I walked through the gate because they had no idea I was still inside the institution.

  The how was easy. What I needed to know was the why? Why, on the night of the murder, had Lisa Lopez never left the institution.

  That’s what I was about to go in and ask her when the officer in the waiting room opened the door and told me I had an emergency telephone call. Rushing down the hall and through the door, I picked up the phone. It was Sharon Hawkins, and in a surprisingly flat, matter-of-fact voice she told me Merrill was in Howard Hawkins’s jail and would not survive the night.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The temperature was falling with the descent of the sun, and the heater in my old Chevy S-10 wasn’t working, but that wasn’t why Sharon Hawkins was shaking.

  “Why’re you doing this?” I asked.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “I’m leaving. They’ll hunt me down and kill me, but I don’t care. It might be different if I had children, but . . .”

  “We won’t let that happen. You can come with me tonight. Merrill and I will look out for you.”

  “For the rest of my life?”

  “For as long as it takes.”

  “I believed in his vision,” she said. “Howard’s. It makes sense, you know? Can’t save the world. We’ve got to take care of our families no matter what. That’s what God wants us to do. But he’s a dictator. He’s building a kingdom and he’s the king. I can’t do it anymore—living in his prison, watching him steal and kill and abuse, and all in the name of God, family, and community.”

  Sharon Hawkins sat rigid in the seat, her right arm outstretched, French-manicured acrylic fingernails drumming on the door. Her hair was a blonde dye job that should’ve been better considering how much money the Hawkins family had. Her makeup was too heavy, thick globs of mascara sticking her eyelashes together. Yet for all her attempts at cosmetic improvement, she was still a very plain looking woman.

  “He didn’t start off being a monster,” she said, still looking out the window at the darkness. “In the beginning, back when I first met them, he was different. His vision seemed pure, but as his power grew, he became a monster.” She turned suddenly and looked at me. “He’s killed four people that I know of. Maybe more. Probably more. Your friend may already be dead.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She laughed again. Her laugh was devoid of humor, full of futility.”What’re you planning to do?”

  “Find out what they’re holding him on, and—”

  She looked at me in astonishment. “What they’re holding him on? They’re not holding him on anything. Jesus. You don’t get it. This isn’t a regular jail. Things aren’t done in a regular way here. He hasn’t been charged with anything. He hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t been arrested. He’s been abducted.”

  I had encountered men like Hawkins before, though not many as extreme—people, usually men, who, in their small realm, had unlimited power and no accountability—people who had lost all touch with reality. All it takes is a lot of wealth or charisma, a little madness, and a total lack of responsibility, and in time you have a monster. The Howard Hawkins of the world, and there are many, are the Saddam Husseins, the David Koreshes, and the Bin Ladens at the local level, whose low profile enables them to remain beneath the radar, inflict damage for decades until they finally self-destruct or draw outside attention to themselves. Otherwise they’re never apprehended. And men like Howard are most often to be found in the small rural areas where their authority goes unquestioned, their power unchallenged, where decent country folks are not equipped to deal with them. I may not understand what Hawkins does or why, but I can’t imagine any of it will come as a surprise.

  “They’re not even keeping him in the jail,” she said. “They’ve got him in the dungeon.”

  “The dungeon?”

  “That’s what they call it. It’s an underground room that was part of the old jail. It has a cell where they keep all the unofficial prisoners. No one’s ever gotten out of it.”

  “Until now.”

  She gave me that same futile laugh I was already weary of hearing.

 
“Why is he doing this?”

  “Why do men like Howard do most of the things they do? If you do whatever the hell you like long enough, you begin to think you’re invincible. Plus he thinks God is on his side, that he’s some special visionary. I can tell you his reasons aren’t based on any logic most people would understand.”

  I thought about how nice it’d be to have Merrill in on what had gone from an information-gathering and bail posting mission to a jailbreak. I could call Dad or Jake, but I didn’t want this to become official yet. We needed to keep everyone in play until we could find out who killed Justin and why, and amass enough evidence to put him away. Still, if the Hawkins clan were as lawless as Sharon suggested, I would need backup. As a compromise, I left a message on Daniels’ voicemail to get backup and come get me out of the Pine County Jail if he didn’t hear from me again within an hour.

  “Any suggestions on the best way to get Merrill out?”

  “Wait ‘til seven. Kevin’ll be on duty by himself. I could distract him.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Fuck him,” she said in a dispassionate monotone.

  “That won’t be—”

  “Do it all the time. Since Mike’s been in prison, Kevin sneaks into my room at least twice a week and does what he wants to me.”

  “By force?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t exactly rape me, but I can’t say no.”

  “Tell you what, just pretend, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. Just get your friend and get the fuck out of this county.”

  “I will, but you’re going with us.”

  To that, she responded with her signature laugh again. It said things were foreordained, resistance was futile, that people like us were merely pawns of the powerful.

  “He sat there and lied to you,” she said. “And you’d never have known it. He’s amazing. The nicest man in the world—on the surface. Only the surface. He told you he hadn’t seen your friend while at that very moment he was being tortured in the basement of his jail.”

  “I didn’t believe him.”

  “I’m not saying you believed him, just that he’s a good liar. And acting like Mike couldn’t have possibly killed that other inmate when that’s what they sent him there to do. He should’ve gotten an Academy Award for that one.”

  “Run that by me again. Who sent Mike in to do what?”

  “Howard. When Mike was arrested, Howard got him sent to PCI so he could keep an eye on Justin Menge. He was inside anyway, so why not?”

  “What’s Mike in on?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “He’s a bad drunk. Wouldn’t be a problem if he’d just stay in Pine County where daddy can fix everything, but he’s got to hotdog all over the place. He’s in on three different third-degree felonies. He got his third DUI, driving with suspended license for the third time, and resisting an officer with violence all at the same time.”

  “And Howard couldn’t help him?”

  “Happened in Bay County. Nothing he could do.”

  “But he got him moved to PCI once he was inside? That wouldn’t be easy.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what he claims. Howard’s crazy, but most people don’t realize it. He’s still got a few friends in power here and there, and he’s got enough money to turn the wheels—that’s what he calls it.”

  I thought about it. I guessed it was possible, and whether it was or not, the fact still remained that Mike and Justin wound up in the same PM quad in the same prison.

  “Justin didn’t touch Kevin’s kids. He put him at PCI so he could kill Justin Menge if it came to that, and soon he’ll be out, coming back to us, to me, to my bed.”

  “Why not just kill him when he was in custody here?” I asked.

  “They couldn’t without drawing a lot of attention from the outside world. He was getting too famous.”

  “So you’re saying they actually sent Mike to PCI so he could kill Justin?”

  She nodded. “If he had to. They were pretty sure he wasn’t going to do anything, but they wanted to make sure.”

  “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

  “Not to extremists. Remember, they don’t think like you and me.”

  “Why wait until now? He’s been in there with him for a while. Why the delay?”

  “He was scared. Told his dad someone threatened him—someone he was truly afraid of.”

  “Any idea who?” I asked.

  She looked up and pursed her lips as she thought about it. Finally, she shook her head. “I’m not positive, but something like Charles or chuck or—”

  “Chris? Was it Chris Sobel?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was his name. Who is he?”

  “The victim’s boyfriend.”

  Her eyebrows arched and she cut her eyes over toward me. “They were in prison together?”

  “They met there.”

  We were quiet a moment, the flat, straight road stretching out before us, its yellow lines seeming to race to meet the beam of my headlights.

  “You willing to testify to all this?” I asked.

  “I won’t live long enough to testify to that or anything else, but I’m willing. I’d love to see Howard’s kingdom crumble.”

  “We just might be able to make a case after all.”

  “Make a case?” she asked in shock. “Haven’t you been listening? We’re not going to make it through the night.”

  Chapter Forty

  Sharon Hawkins had large, natural breasts. They sagged down against her rib cage, flattening out on top as they did.

  I knew this because she had them out showing her brother in-law when I snuck up behind him and slipped a snub-nosed .38 behind his ear.

  “Now you’ve been fucked,” Sharon said with a smile. “How does it feel?”

  “What?” he said. He turned around toward me slowly. “What the fuck?”

  “You’re about to find out,” I said. “Take me to the dungeon.”

  “Dungeon? What? What dungeon? What the hell’re you talkin’ about? Dungeon.”

  As Sharon put on her bra and shirt in no particular hurry, I reached down and removed Kevin’s gun from its holster. He didn’t move to stop me, but I could see in his eyes he thought about it. When I had taken his gun, I slipped it and mine into my coat pockets.

  His eyes widened.

  “One more time,” I said. “And I mean only one more time. Take me to the dungeon.”

  He laughed. “What dungeon? You been listening to this crazy whore?”

  I thought about what Martinez had done to Sarah, what the Hawkins men had done to Sharon, and of all the violence men commit against women all the time, and it made me so angry, so full of rage, so fearful for Susan and Anna I didn’t know what to do.

  I snapped out a hard right jab that popped him right on the nose, and his head jerked back. He yelped and covered his face with his hands, tears filling his eyes.

  “You’re a fuckin’ preacher for God’s sake,” he said, his voice wet and nasally.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “And sometimes I’m just a guy looking for his friend.”

  “You better tell him, Kevin,” Sharon said.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  I popped him again. This time an uppercut that tagged the bottom of his chin. His head snapped back like before, but this time there was choking.

  My hand and wrist hurt, and I could feel my knuckles beginning to swell.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll show you the damn dungeon, but there’s nobody down there. You’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Both of you.” He glared at Sharon. “Your life is so over, bitch.”

  I slapped Kevin hard across the face with my open hand. He grabbed his cheek and stared at me in shock.

  “I’m not crazy about that word,” I said.

  Sharon laughed, this time with real delight. “So he bitch slapped you. Get it?”

  Kevin shook his head at her. “You’re a
dead woman.”

  “You think that scares me anymore? You stupid little bastard, you don’t get it, do you? My life was over the moment I became a Hawkins.”

  “I’m gonna fuck you one last time before I kill you, and it’s gonna hurt.”

  I slapped him hard across the face with my open hand again, and he whipped his head around toward me, eyes blazing with anger.

  “Nobody’s talking to me. I feel left out. Don’t ever threaten her again.”

  “He couldn’t hurt me,” Sharon said, looking at Kevin. “His dick’s too little.”

  “It’s probably hard to tell tonight,” I said, “but I’m basically committed to nonviolence, but if you’d like to slap him, I’d love to let you.”

  She smiled, took a step toward him, and reared back and slapped him so hard his head whipped to the side.

  He made a move toward her ,and I stepped between them.

  “You don’t even have your gun out,” he said.

  “Then now’d be the time to try something.”

  I could see the flicker of thought in his moist eyes, but it quickly died. “The time’ll come. We’ll—”

  “You should take some initiative. Do something on your own. Like you said, I don’t have the gun out.”

  “Yeah,” he said like a sullen child, “but you’ve got it where you can get it.”

  “Take me to Merrill.”

  “All this over a nigger,” he said, shaking his head.

  I drove a hard body punch to his lower abdomen. He fell to his knees, doubling over as he did. On the ground, he attempted to find some air, but there was none to be had.

  “I really don’t like that word.”

  When he could take a breath, he threw up, his body lurching forward in violent heaves. Eventually, he led us to the back of the jail, through a door, into a storage closet, through another door, and down a rusting spiral staircase.

  The dungeon lived up to its name. It was dark and smelled of human suffering. From an unseen corner hidden in the shadows I could hear the constant, mind-numbing sound of water dripping from an open pipe.