The Blood
The Redemption Series, Volume 1
Nancy Jackson
Published by Nancy Jackson, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE BLOOD
First edition. December 21, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Nancy Jackson.
ISBN: 978-1386684404
Written by Nancy Jackson.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Authors Note
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Further Reading: The Water
Also By Nancy Jackson
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my family, my husband Rick. And to my children Ben, Lacey, and Kendon, their spouses, my grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. My quiver is truly full!
To my friend Linda who encouraged me to write this book. Thank you for your constant applause and your brutal honesty. For both of those I thank you!
Chapter One
The blood drew her. The richness of the red, the thick fluidity, the touch. She was drawn to the blood.
But the blood never lasted. It changed color and dried up. The feeling faded as the blood faded.
She sat back on her haunches and watched as the blood created a red river running away from the body. The dirt was causing it to weave and wind in an erratic pattern. Amazing how just a grain of sand could disrupt the flow and change its entire course.
It would take a while to dry tonight. It was cold here and the moisture in the air would help keep it hydrated. But it never lasted long enough.
Why did she need the blood? She often thought about this. Why was it that the only thing that helped her feel whole and alive was the blood? It had to be wrong, releasing human blood, but she felt as though her survival depended on it. The need raged deep within her.
She touched the blood and brought her fingers up to look at them. It still felt warm on her skin, but it dried soon after touching it. So she dropped her hand and gazed at the pool on the ground.
The little rivulets had ceased. Soon the blood would separate and the yellow liquid would appear, and that was just not acceptable. She would leave before that happened because she could not bear to see it. She could not bear to see the blood broken and separated. It had to be alive and whole so she would feel alive and whole.
Chapter Two
The rumble of Ike’s 1964 Harley Panhead roared into the parking lot of the Darkside bar. Kicking it into neutral, he let it roll to a stop along the side of the bar near the backdoor.
Ike slung his leg over and off the worn black leather seat of the bike and stood looking around at the neighborhood as he tugged off his fingerless gloves. The instinct to survey his surroundings had been with him since his biker days in Nevada. After thirty years of that life he’d grown jaded and tired and wanted out of the biker club, but the old habits had stayed with him.
Leaving the biker club, he’d come to Oklahoma for asylum and found he liked it here. It was peaceful and quiet and he could work and live without the constant fear of arrest or death.
As usual, it was quiet in the neighborhood, so Ike turned to unlock the backdoor of the tavern. The Darkside Tavern was on the far northeast side of Kachina, Oklahoma and had sprung up in the era of prohibition. A man and a woman named Cantor had lived in the house that was now the bar. It was a stately two story home built with a white clapboard exterior. There was an entrance to their basement at the backside of the house where a hill sloped down at least two stories.
Inside their basement they had creatively built false walls and hallways to a speakeasy that the cops knew existed, but had never found. Patrons had named it Darkside because to get to the speakeasy you had to go to the dark side of the house where there were no lights to guide you to the entrance.
When prohibition ended, the owners moved the establishment to the first floor, and the couple continued to live upstairs. They tried to make it a reputable place with fine dining, a nice bar and entertaining.
But it never caught on. The reputation of the speakeasy held its ground and those with class refused to enter the new establishment even though most any night of the week a year earlier they could have been caught secretly underground. Appearances were everything.
No matter what the couple tried, they could not bring the Darkside to the status they desired. They had changed the name to Cantor’s Fine Dining and Ale but it didn’t matter. Everyone still referred to it as the Darkside.
After several years of trying, the Cantors stopped fighting it and just let it drift back into the Darkside. It was a bar. Just that simple. So be it.
The Cantors had long since died and new owners had taken over. Ownership had changed many times. And it was now Ike’s.
As Ike lifted a crate of liquor from the floor of the back storage room and carried it to the front, he chuckled to himself as he thought about the random mix of clients he had come to know through the years.
There were bikers, cowboys, ranchers, and all sorts of people who had the guts to get a drink and play there. The common thread to the Darkside clientele, was that none of them wanted anyone else to know what they did or where they did it. On that, they could all agree.
It was often the first stop for the occasional down and outers. They would hit on hard times and need to drink away their grief in a dark and dirty hole where no one would know.
The bottles clanked as Ike lifted them from the box and placed them on the glass shelf attached to the mirrored wall behind the bar. Ike himself no longer drank. It was ironic, he thought, but his health had suffered from it and he needed to keep a clear head to run this business and to stay aware of his surroundings.
He had no family left, so he watched over the customers at the Darkside; they were his family now. Many just needed a place to go where they could hide for a while. Others came here to do the things they should not, could not, do anywhere else. Ike didn’t judge. He had no room to judge because he had done it all at one time or another.
Maybe that was why he felt so protective of them. When they were at their lowest point and at their most vulnerable, he was there watching after them and they never even knew it.
It was still early in the day and he had cleaned up the night before; so, once the bottles were all stocked, he went to his office and began working on his bookkeeping. Living in this place was definitely a trade-off. The peace and quiet for a large bankroll.
“Hey, Ike,” a voice rang from around the corner.
“Hey back at ‘ya,” Ike greeted Heather, his part-time employee.
Heather rounded the corner to stand against the doorframe of Ike’s office. “Did you hear about the murder?”
Her words startled Ike. “What murder? Where?” Murder in Kachina had never happened since Ike had lived here and he couldn’t recall anyone ever mentioning there ever being one here.
“Kim, the dispatcher at the police station called me this morning a
nd said that a body had been found over at the old warehouses by the train tracks.”
“Who was it?” Ike asked. His concern caused him to shift his office chair around to face her, fully engaged.
“Don’t know. That’s all Kim knew. A call came in and they headed out to go look. She said she would call me when she knew more.”
Ike’s mind was racing, wondering what it was all about and if any of his slightly colorful customers had anything to do with it.
“Thanks, Heather. Can you let me know when she calls you?” Ike asked.
“Sure thing. I just stopped in this morning to pick up my check. I’ll be back at five o’clock.”
Ike had the check ready and handed it to Heather. When she left, Ike turned back to his bookwork, but his mind couldn’t disengage from the thought of murder here in his small town.
~~~
The clattering of the hairbrush on the wood floor startled Senna’s already jangled nerves. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and willed herself to calm down. When her breathing slowed, she unclenched her fists. With a controlled whoosh of breath, she opened her eyes.
Her upbringing had led her to a life of strict rule-making in order to bring structure and maintain control. But this morning she was late and her anxiety did nothing to help her get back on track.
She was thankful for her daily routine where the night before she would lay out her plain and simple clothing and prepare her lunch. Grabbing lunch out of the fridge the cool rush of air emphasized the hot flush of anxiety she was feeling.
She hurried out the door and turned to look back, assuring herself that her tiny house was in order and that everything was in its place.
The sun was shining, and she could hear the birds with their songs. On any other day she would have enjoyed her walk to work, but the anxiety of being late pushed her forward with intent, as she half walked, half ran to work.
As she reached to open the door to the library, she noticed her watch. She was right on time. Relief replaced the anxiety, and she opened the door, glad to be on time.
“Good morning, Andrea,” Senna greeted her co-worker as she walked through the door. Senna thought to herself, always be sweet and polite, Momma would say.
“On time, but barely,” Andrea teased. “I never thought I would see the day you cut it so close!” Andrea beamed.
Andrea had worked with Senna for three years now. They had met at the local community college, both taking the same English classes.
For Andrea, the position at the library was a low-stress job which provided her time to pursue her dream of becoming a novelist.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought Senna would be comfortable to work the rest of her life at the library.
When Andrea had first met Senna at school, she didn’t know what to make of her. She was quiet and withdrawn, but there was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that drew her to Senna.
Sitting next to her in class day after day, Senna and Andrea had developed a comfortableness, if not a friendship in the traditional sense of the word.
They had never gone shopping or out to eat like girlfriends do, but through time, she and Senna had bonded. Senna always declined offers to go places and do things, but Andrea kept trying.
Andrea thought Senna was sweet, innocent, and endearing and enjoyed being around her. She sensed that Senna must have experienced an abusive childhood which had wounded her to the point that not even she realized just how severe it had been, or her need to overcome it.
“Yes, I know. I didn’t hear the alarm this morning,” she replied. She was embarrassed and ducked her head as she spoke. Familiar shame crept in for almost breaking one of her rules.
“It’s okay. It happens to everyone. We’re all human. You’ve never been late, so if you had been, it wouldn’t have been a big deal.”
Senna nodded and gave a half smile in acknowledgment, but it betrayed what she felt inside. She was scared that she had come close to breaking a rule. It felt useless to try and break free from her father’s words—which had taught Senna that rule breakers were worthless—and she didn’t want to be worthless.
Soon, the routine of the library and the work helped to soothe and comfort her. Senna breathed deeply to take in the familiar smells of the books. She felt at home here.
The library was not a busy place and Senna took comfort knowing she could organize the books and order them without being disturbed. The library was a peaceful place, and Senna yearned for peace of any kind.
Senna loved the books, and she loved reading. The stories would sweep her away into a life she felt she would never know. She loved the feel of the books with their crisp yet subtle pages, and their leather-bound covers.
The new books were so fresh and alive, just beginning their new journeys into the world and into many hands. The old ones, too, with a history that had nothing to do with the story within, but of where they had been and the homes and hands that had held them.
“Miss can you help me find a book?” asked a lady. The voice jarred Senna out of her deep thought.
“Yes ma’am, I certainly can!” she replied. She enjoyed helping others even though personal social interaction often made her uncomfortable. “What book were you looking for?”
“I am doing research on blood and was not sure where to start. Is there a medical section or would it be in a science section?” the lady asked.
“Are you writing a research paper or do you just need general information?”
“Neither. My father is ill and I’m not sure he has been diagnosed correctly. I’ve tried Google, but it was so overwhelming; and, honestly, so much of it seems like utter junk. It’s hard to decide what’s true and what’s not.” Senna noticed the lady’s face was lined with concern for her father. When Senna’s father had died, she had felt almost nothing.
“The medical books are grouped in the science section and they are here. If you don’t find what you need, let me know and I’ll see what else I can find for you.” Senna gave the lady a genuine smile. One thing that always made her feel good was helping people.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” The woman said as she turned to peruse the books on the shelf, her finger already sliding along the titles while she read each one.
Back to sorting and returning books to the shelves, Senna’s mind floated away as she felt the joy of helping the new client fade and sadness creep in. A thought of Mother and Father from out of nowhere caused a pain so severe it plunged through her gut.
The faces she saw when she thought of them were stern and severe. She frequently wondered how they had come to be that way. Mother had a soft side. Father was always stern. There were times when she knew Mother did not agree with what Father had said or done and Senna would see worry and compassion on Mother’s face. But Mother never spoke up.
She thought of how her mother’s softness would take over when they were alone and how she would wrap her arms around Senna making her feel warm and whole. But so often, it was fleeting as her father would come walking back in. He always wanted to make sure Mother wasn’t undoing his stern reprimands by being soft on Senna. The punishment would be severe for them both.
The anguish of working so hard to be good and fearing she would fail, constantly encompassed her as a child. Not only did she feel the need to abide by everything Father demanded of her, but she also felt compelled to anticipate what new rule he would bring down upon her in a moment's notice.
Many of his demands were taken from the Bible, or his twisted version of it. They went to church each Sunday and sat through a long service. Senna remembered her starched dresses itching her as she tried to sit still and feeling the stone cold stare of her father when she didn’t. That stare was always followed with painful punishment later at home.
Senna would often read the words to many of the songs they sang and thought they should bring comfort and hope, joy even, but they were always sung with such a sense of duty and never with joy. If an outsider were to lo
ok in, they might think they were all being forced to this ritual of singing against their will.
The sermons were the worst, Senna thought. They were never about the love of God or His mercy and compassion, which the songs spoke of. They were harsh and were delivered with a fiery fist from the pulpit. Senna often thought the preacher could have been her father delivering those messages because she had seen his fiery fist on many occasions.
In short, her home had been a home of sadness. A sadness that was tinged with an anger that lurked somewhere off in the shadows. It was everywhere.
As Senna finished putting the returned books away, she also pushed away the dark thoughts of her childhood. The woman who had asked about books on blood had chosen a few, and Senna helped her check out. She took a deep breath and worked to ignore her lingering sadness and tried to focus on finding joy in her work.
The lady was about thirty, maybe a bit younger; no, maybe a bit older. Senna couldn’t tell. She didn't recognize the name on her library card either. Senna noticed she was fit and beautiful. Part of Senna longed to be beautiful like her, but plain was safer, it was her comfort zone.
Senna gently slapped the last book closed and handed the stack to her with a smile. “Here you go, they will be due back on the twenty-fifth. You can slide them through the return slot or just bring them in. If you wish to check them out for a longer period, bring them in and I will reset the due date. You are allowed one reset for each book.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile and turned to go.
Senna watched her and noticed that she seemed happy and she wondered what that felt like.
“Did you know that lady?” Andrea asked.
Senna shook her head. still looking toward the door where she had exited. “No, I didn’t. I know it is a small town, but there are still so many people here that I don’t know.”
“I’ve lived here a long time and don’t remember ever seeing her,” said Andrea.
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