John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice (14 page)

My heart beat just a little faster as I pressed the distantly familiar numbers. As I waited for a connection, my throat tightened a bit and my mouth became dry.

I had retrieved my cell phone from my room where it had been charging, and brought it with me down to the lake.

The connection was poor, and I didn’t have any idea what I was going to say, but I was determined. Chances were she wouldn’t answer anyway. I had called her cell, which meant my number would be displayed on her phone. Usually when I called her home line, which didn’t have caller ID, she’d answer but immediately hang up when she heard it was me, but because her cell phone displayed my number she often just didn’t answer. Maybe I’d get her voice mail and be able to say whatever it was I was going to say to it.

“Hello.”

There had only been two rings and I wasn’t prepared—of course there could have been two hundred and I’d have felt the same way.

“Susan?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding hesitant, unsure.

“It’s John.”

She didn’t say anything, and I waited a moment for her to hang up, but she didn’t.

“I’m surprised you answered,” I said.

“I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have answered if I did.”

“Really?”

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice flat and emotionless––cold, not angry.

“Accept my apology,” I said.

“Why? So you can feel better about yourself? So you can complete a step? It doesn’t change anything. Nothing’s ever going to change between us.”

“I just needed to tell you I’m sorry again,” I said. “And that I think I have a better understanding of your decisions and why you made them.”

“You think so, do you? Well, I still don’t know why the hell
you did
what you did to me, to my family, to
our
family, but as long as John Jordan has insight, can apologize and feel good about himself again, that’s all that matters, right?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

We were silent for a long moment.

After a while, I thought she might have ended the call, but then I heard her sigh heavily.

“I wish we had never met,” she said. “And I’m trying to pretend we never did, so if you’re really as sorry as you say you are, you can prove it by never calling me again.”

“Okay,” I said, but I was saying it to myself.

Shutting the phone, I slipped it into my pocket.

“She’s not wrong,” I said aloud.

Looking across the lake, breathing more deeply, I tried to take in as much of the beauty and serenity as I could, allowing the power of this sacred place to help heal me.

For a long moment, I just stood there, praying for forgiveness, for insight and wisdom, for Susan and her family, for Anna and Merrill, for my mom and Father Thomas and St. Ann’s, and for all the people I had wronged or hurt—even unintentionally.

Eventually, the healing began, and I felt connected and nurtured by my surroundings, as if they were a direct conduit to what I needed most.

As I continued to stand there, I tried to open myself to the sacred, to everything, to let down my guard that seemed so necessary for survival at the prison, to wake up and become fully alive to everything—every positive and negative experience, every feeling, every person, every thing.

As I did, I was reminded of the Buddha and the way people came to him in his later years and asked him what he was. Are you a god or an angel or a saint? they would ask. No, he would respond. Then what? they would ask. Merely a man who woke up, he would say.

I wanted to wake up—to be as fully conscious, fully aware of myself, others, the world, God. To awaken from my slumber and become an open receptacle, taking in the fullness of all that life had to offer. I had spent too much of my life avoiding certain experiences, whether through alcohol, violence, religion, another person, investigating. I had continually anesthetized myself against what I thought would be painful or unpleasant, but in doing so, I had been sleeping through some of the most important experiences of my very limited existence.

Before the peace and beauty of the lake and the sacred presence within it, I committed to awaken—awaken to the beauty, to the truth, to the sacred—to more fully experience and embrace every opportunity I was given.

Eventually Kathryn joined me by the lake with a blanket and picnic basket and entreated me to come away with her into the woods. Through her words and desire I could feel the pull of the divine and hear in her words the echo of the
Song of Songs
: “Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away with me. The winter is past; the spring has come. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come. Arise, come, my love, my beautiful one, come with me.”

It wasn’t spring, of course, but it might as well have been, for something was resurrecting in me. I felt more alive, more aware, more open than I had in a long time.

I was waking up to all the possibilities. I was seeing beyond what I could see, perceiving what was beyond. The veil was parting and I was being granted a glimpse of something extraordinary.

I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t realize that part of my experience was simply, perhaps profoundly, infatuation with Kathryn, but it didn’t make the experience any less powerful or persuasive.

I knew too that I was grasping for Kathryn out of loneliness and pain, that at least part of what I was doing was diversion and distraction, but that was something I would investigate later. For as true as that was, it was also true that what I was experiencing, this erotic euphoria, was also an epiphany.

Perhaps it was being at St. Ann’s, so close to the raw enchantment of the earth, or just being away from the prison and the normal demands of life, or maybe it was confessing my secret to Sister Abigail, but something inside me had broken loose. I felt more free, more fully me than I had in many, many years.

As Kathryn and I made love, it was as if she had become an incarnation of the divine, as if God were loving me through her. It was an amazing, even mystical experience that seemed to encompass the enchanted world around us, and I was far more grateful than I could express to her. Many people would live their entire lives without ever having such an encounter—and others, like Tommy and Tammy, would never again be given the opportunity.

“Was that like the best sex you’ve ever had?” Kathryn asked.

We were lying on the blanket beneath a magnolia tree, only partially undressed, becoming cognizant for the first time of how cold it was.

“It was okay,” I said, unable to suppress the silly grin spreading across my face.

She punched me in the arm.

“What?” I said. “You want me to be honest with you, don’t you?”

“I’m not even saying it had anything to do with me.”

“Well, it had
something
to do with you.”

“You were possessed,” she said.

I thought about it. It was an interesting way to put it—especially in light of everything that had happened—but it fit. Maybe I was. Maybe we were. Maybe in another way Tammy had been. Was it so different? So hard to accept? This place was enchanted. Could it not also be haunted?

“It was a religious experience.”

“I knew I was good,” she said. “I didn’t realize I was a revelation.”

When I walked out of my room after having showered and changed, Steve was waiting for me. He was leaning against the hallway wall holding two Styrofoam cups, a small, white wax-coated bag, and a file folder.

“I got the prelim and doughnuts,” he said.

We walked over to the counseling center and into one of the empty classrooms where we sat in desks beside each other. Taking the lid off the cup he handed me, I blew the hot, dark liquid and felt the steam rise. The unused classroom was cold and the heat felt good against my face.

“They’re still warm,” he said, handing me the bag. “The bakery in town makes them fresh twice a day. They don’t have one of those Hot Now signs, but I usually time it just right.”

I set my coffee down and took the bag.

“Always said you were a hell of a detective,” I said.

I withdrew a warm, soft doughnut, its glaze sticking to my fingers, and passed the bag back to him. I then took a big bite that seemed to melt on my tongue before I could chew it.

“You in love?” he asked.

Choking, I coughed and took a sip of coffee. “What?”

“With Kathryn?” he said. “I always had in the back of my mind I’d marry her one day.”

He looked like a man trying not to look sad, and I felt ashamed of my insensitivity and impetuousness.

“We just met,” I said.

“But there’s a spark?”

“There’s something, yeah,” I said. “I didn’t realize you—”

“She’s not interested in having anything serious with me. I’m just carrying a torch for her.”

Few things in life were as pathetic and painful as unrequited love, and the hopelessness of it hit me anew as I thought about it. The person not in love could no more control her feelings than the person who was. I shook my head at the helplessness of the human condition.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I dropped the remainder of the doughnut on a napkin on the desk. I had lost my appetite. I had known he had feelings for her and still I had… done what I had done.

“It’s none of my business,” he said, “but if you don’t see a future, please don’t start anything.”

Unable to speak, I nodded.

His sadness made him look smaller somehow, as if his physical form was merely a projection of his true self.

Finishing up his doughnut and taking a big gulp of coffee, he wiped his hands and mouth.

“Tommy Boy drowned,” he said. “No sign of foul play.”

“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t any,” I said.

“No.”

“It’s what we expected.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but I was hoping for something.”

“What about Tammy?”

“Be a while before we get toxicology and DNA, but we’ve already got a ton of physical evidence against Father Thomas. His blood’s under her nails, hers under his. No surprise there. He was covered in it.”

“We knew he was,” I said. “What about sexual assault? Sorry to have to ask.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. She had definitely had intercourse recently, but it seems to have been consensual. No sign of…”

I nodded. “Have they determined cause of death yet?”

He frowned and shrugged. “Lot of injuries. Can’t say which one of them actually killed her. Coroner called it multi-system trauma. She had a combination of ruptured abdominal organs, broken bones, and brain trauma.”

“What about blood loss?”

“She’d lost a lot—enough to be going into shock—but he’s not sure if any one thing was enough to actually kill her. It was more the cumulative effect. If she had been taken to a hospital in time…”

I shook my head and thought about what he’d said. I also thought about him some more. I seemed to be finding it more difficult to talk about Tammy’s death than he was. I knew what he was doing. I had done it myself. Containment. Everything was in a little compartment—including his feelings for Tammy, including considering her anything other than a homicide victim. He could close the lid on that box and think about his cousin as only a case. He could think of himself as only a cop, only a man with a job to do and a deadline in which to do it.

“I’m not sure he killed her anymore,” he said, “and I think it’s at least possible he’s telling the truth about what happened.”

“Because of the murder weapon?” I asked.

His eyes grew wide. “How’d you know?”

“What else is there?”

“He says for the majority of injuries, he can’t determine what caused them. Says many of them seem more like rips and tears than cuts—what he’d expect to see from bites, but there’s no teeth marks. Says he can’t explain it.”

“Does he know the circumstances of the case and what Father Thomas is claiming?”

He nodded. “You’re saying he was predisposed, but I know this guy—he wouldn’t let something like that cause him to contradict the evidence. And there’s something else. I talked to Father Thomas’s doctor. He confirmed what Sister Abigail told us. Says Father Thomas is too sick and too weak to be able to do what was done to her. Says he would testify to it in court, but won’t have to because Father Thomas won’t live long enough for there to be a trial.”

“But—” I began, but stopped when we heard someone calling for Steve in the hall.

“CHIEF. CHIEF. YOU IN HERE?”

“IN HERE,” Steve yelled.

Muscle-fat opened the door and looked inside.

“We got something,” he said, and waited for Steve to ask what.

“Yeah?” Steve said after a moment.

“A boat,” he said. “Not far from here. And it’s got blood in it.”

We didn’t have to go far to find the boat. It was tied to the end of a floating dock with a yellow nylon rope and part of a cement block at the upper corner of the abbey property in the Intracoastal. The dock—large blocks of Styrofoam encased by weathered wooden planks—was partially hidden by a boathouse and a thick stand of cypress trees.

Steve and I stood near the edge of the dock, looking around, Muscle-fat a few feet away calling FDLE to process the scene.

Up a small slope sat the dormitory opposite the one I was staying in, but the boathouse blocked most of it from our view. We turned and looked down toward the lake. We could only see maybe twenty yards before the hill started sloping downward. Neither the lake nor the cabins were visible, only the back of the dining hall.

“It’s not like anyone could see what was going on at the cabins from here,” Steve said.

“They could’ve already known,” I said, “or seen from up at the abbey.”

“How would they know to go to the clearing? Why not just run after them? The boat would take a lot longer.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. The only reason I can think of for them to take the boat is to avoid being seen.”

He shook his head. “I hate cases like this.”

“No you don’t.”

“No.
You
don’t.
I
do.”

We stepped onto the dock, which sank down with our weight and bounced up and down as we walked toward the end where the old green boat had been haphazardly moored.

“Sure this thing’ll hold both of us?” Steve asked. “‘Course you don’t mind goin’ in the water, do you?”

I thought about what I had done at the pier when Tommy’s body was found and how long ago that seemed now.

The embattled boat was full of nicks and gashes, its hull splintering, its paint fading. Its back sank deeper in the water than its front and held several inches of water. A faded orange life jacket and two paddles were in the front. The middle seat and at least one of the paddles showed obvious traces of blood.

“Could be from someone fishing,” I said. “Could’ve hooked or cut themselves.”

“Hell, could be fish blood,” he said.

“No other signs of fish—scales, slime, guts. We need to know who used this last.”

He yelled for Muscle-fat to go and get Father Thomas or Sister Abigail. Sister Abigail arrived a few minutes later, stopping at the edge of the dock.

“It embarrasses me to admit it,” she said, “but I have a real phobia of water. Would it be too much trouble for us to talk on land?”

Easing back down the dock, we joined her.

“Does this boat belong to the abbey?” Steve asked.

“Not technically,” she said, “but it’s been here many years. Some trespasser left it on the lake and we’ve had it ever since.”

“Who all uses it?”

“Sometimes Kathryn paddles to the middle of the lake in it and writes, but it’s been a while since she has. Keith carried it over here to try to catch some fish over a year ago and it’s never made it back. I guess he’s the only one who uses it, but I can’t be certain. Why?”

“It has blood in it.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Human?”

“We can’t be sure, but it looks like it,” he said.

“You think the killer used it? That would prove Tom really is innocent, right?”

“We won’t know what to think until the lab looks at it,” Steve said.

“Why would someone use the boat?” Doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Not that we’ve been able to figure out,” Steve said.

For a moment, none of us said anything, then Steve looked up at the back windows of her corner room in the dorm.

“You didn’t see anyone down here the night of the murder, did you?”

She followed his gaze to her room, then looked back down at the boat and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I went to bed early and any time I got up—for water or the bathroom—I didn’t look out the window.”

Steve looked at me. “Can you think of anything?”

“When’s the last time you saw the boat down here?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure exactly, but it hasn’t been that long.”

“But not the day before yesterday?”

Her face wrinkled up as she strained to remember. After a moment, she exhaled loudly and shook her head. “I’m just not sure. I may have, but I can’t be certain.”

“Whatta you thinkin’?” Steve asked.

“That the boat could’ve already been down by the clearing and the killer used it to get back to the abbey.”

They both raised their eyebrows at the possibilities.

“It’d make a lot more sense than someone using it to get there from here,” Sister Abigail said.

Just then Muscle-fat walked up with Keith Richie. “Here he is,” he said, as if revealing something to us. “And I just got a call from Suzie. A rental place at Lake Grove Landing had one of their boats stolen.”

“When?” I asked.

He ignored me.

“He asked you a question,” Steve said.

“I didn’t ask. But I’m sure it was the night of the murder. When else could it’ve been?”

“The two guys who stole Tammy’s journal could’ve stolen it yesterday,” I said.

Steve shook his head in disappointment at his officer. “Find out when it was stolen.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and walking a few steps away.

“Are you finished with me for the moment?” Sister Abigail asked.

Steve nodded. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Steve looked at Richie.

“What?” Richie said like a man with a guilty conscience.

“When’s the last time you used the abbey boat?” Steve asked.

“About a week ago,” he said, “but that’s not the abbey’s boat.”

“What?”

“That’s not the abbey boat,” he said again. “I moved it back over to the lake a week ago.”