Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  Coming out of the stall behind them, I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Merrill said.

  “Not taking any chances, are you?”

  “These are very dangerous men,” he said with a smile.

  Within just a moment, Pete had them cuffed and on their feet, but it had given Malcolm enough time to collect himself.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” he asked me.

  “For assault.”

  “First of all,” he said, “nothing went on here tonight. Second of all, if it had it would have been consentual.”

  Merrill smiled. “Like little slave girls on the plantation, inmates can’t consent,” he said. “They not free to choose.”

  “Not sexual assault,” I said. “Physical. The attack you had him and his friends make on me in the education building and on me and Ms. Rodden in the chapel.”

  “This is absurd,” Malcolm said. “This’ll never stick. You can’t even prove we’ve ever—”

  “Actually,” I said, “we have a used condom, so one of you better be the first to flip and let us know everything—including who helped in the education building attack.”

  They looked at each other suspiciously, and I knew it was only a matter of time before both would spill in hopes of a deal.

  Looking back at me, Malcolm asked, “How’d you know?”

  “When I found out you hadn’t worked with Bunny I knew you had come over here for a different reason,” I said. “Your over-familiarity with your orderlies, your attempt to cover it up by having me attacked—their willingness to do it for you, the used condom, the fact that it was in the visitors bathroom.”

  “Did Nicole see them?” Pete asked. “Is that why they killed her?”

  “Whoa, wait just a minute,” Malcolm said. “I didn’t have anything to do with the death of that little girl. I swear.”

  “Sort of makes you wish we cared and you could afford Johnny Cochran, doesn’t it?” I said.

  44

  When I walked into my trailer, the phone was ringing, and something about hearing the unanswered rings echoing through the emptiness made me sad.

  “Is everything okay?” Susan asked. “The sergeant in the control room said there was an incident in the chapel.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call you back,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “You sure? You sound sad.”

  “Well, I’m not anymore.”

  “Good,” she said, pausing before adding, “How do you feel about phone sex?”

  “I’m in favor of it,” I said.

  She laughed. It was a good laugh. Warm, genuine, slightly seductive.

  “I’d like to see if I could make you come from three hundred miles away,” she said.

  “You just did,” I said with a laugh.

  She laughed again, then said, “I’m serious. Wanna try our hand at it—so to speak. You up for it—or could you be?”

  I laughed again.

  “Well?” she asked.

  I thought about it, another idea occurring to me. We’d miss a little sleep, but I didn’t sleep much anyway.

  “We could,” I said, “or...”

  “Or what?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t like your idea.”

  “But ... ?”

  “But,” I said, “we could both jump in our cars and in two-and-a-half hours meet at a motel in the middle.”

  “Oh,” she sighed. “I like that idea. I like that idea a lot.” She started to say something, but broke off.

  When she hesitated, I said, “But...?”

  “No buts,” she said. “I was just thinking, with cell phones we could try both our ideas—mine on the way, yours when we got there.”

  “I like the way you think, woman,” I said. “And I know what I want you to get me for Christmas.”

  “What?”

  “A cell phone,” I said. “The only one I have belongs to the prison.”

  She laughed. “Honey, after tonight,” she said, “you won’t be able to wait for Christmas. You’ll rush out as soon as you can and buy one for yourself.”

  “And what do I tell them when they ask me why I want the one with the headset?”

  “That you’re a very lucky man,” she said. “Where do you want to meet? Are we really gonna do this—drive all that way just for one sexual experience?”

  “You’re right, that’s ridiculous,” I said. “We better make it six or seven.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your appetite,” she said.

  “No,” I said, “Webster’s still has my picture by the word ‘insatiable.’”

  “Can you wait two-and-a-half hours?” she asked. “I want you hungry.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be starving.”

  Without hesitating, I rushed out of my empty trailer and jumped into my truck, driving as if I hadn’t just gotten a ticket.

  Only a sliver of moon peeked out from behind a smoky cloud, leaving the night dark and shadowless, and I could see just the short distance that my headlights illuminated.

  What all am I not seeing? I wondered.

  Before I could even begin to consider all that question implied, I turned on the radio.

  Tonight’s not the night for contemplation and introspection, I thought, but pleasure and passion.

  And though the second thought set off a little alarm inside my head, I ignored it, concentrating instead on singing with Christopher Cross on the radio and riding like the wind.

  When I arrived in Phoenix City, I found the motel “up on a hill, with a little blue general or admiral or some little soldier thingy on the sign” just like she had described.

  Even better was the fact that I also found her waiting for me.

  When I pulled in beside her, she stepped out of her car, and as quickly as I could jump out of my truck, we were devouring each other. In the small space between my old Chevy and her new Lexus, we kissed and hugged and groped like a couple of teens with no place of our own to go.

  Eventually, she touched my shoulder and I winced.

  “What happened to your arm?” she asked.

  “Got in a little fight,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  As we continued to kiss, she slid along her car. I followed. Before I knew it, we were in her backseat tearing at each other’s clothes.

  “Why waste time checking in?” she asked.

  Beneath her black leather skirt with the off-center slit, I found thong panty style sheer hose—all that stood between me and Eden. Pulling her black sweater off not only tossed her hair in the most seductive of ways, but revealed a sleek black satin Miracle Bra with a gold embroidered heart-shaped cut-out.

  For a long breathless moment, I sat back and drank in her beauty like wine. Forget the bra, she was the miracle, and in no time I was intoxicated.

  She leaned forward, reached back, unhooked her bra, tossing it in the front seat where it landed on the steering wheel.

  “Bon appétit,” she said, then, cupping her hand behind my head, brought me to her breast.

  When we had finished the appetizer, she said, “I brought you something.”

  “That wasn’t it?” I asked. “Because I was thinking you could just give me that again.”

  “I will,” she said. “Again and again and again. As often as you like. I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”

  I smiled. “You are a—” I started, but stopped as my cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice still hoarse with passion.

  “Chaplain Jordan,” the unmistakably smooth voice of Bobby Earl Caldwell said.

  For a long moment after I hung up, I sat there in stunned silence.

  “What is it?” Susan asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bobby Earl Caldwell wants to see me,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Apparently to offer me a job.”

  “Threatening you hasn’t worked,” she said, “so now he’s gonna t
ry bribery?”

  45

  Bobby Earl’s 19th Century plantation home was smaller than a Hollywood sound stage—if you didn’t count the garage—and as gaudy and distasteful as a televangelist’s studio set.

  “I believe God’s children should have the best,” he said, leading me through large, lavishly decorated rooms with ornately hand-painted ceilings and faux marble fireplaces toward his back porch.

  “Obviously,” I said, “but did you ask God how she felt about it?”

  Ignoring me, he said, “I think our prosperity is directly related to our spirituality.”

  The dingy little trailer I called home flashed in my mind, and I thought, you might be right, but then I pictured Mother Teresa, and thought, then again maybe not.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “That God wants what’s best for us,” I said. “Not necessarily for us to have the best.”

  He nodded and looked as if he were intently considering what I had just said. “I like that,” he said. “But couldn’t that be the same thing?”

  “Not often,” I said.

  Taking the day off without explaining why, I had left early, driven fast, and arrived by midmorning.

  Beyond his oversized pool, the sun-dappled back yard, which was canopied by enormous oaks, led down to a bayou whose mossshrouded cypress trees reminded me of home.

  “You’re really a man of God,” he said. “I can tell. And you have a great reputation. Very well respected in Potter County.”

  “Depends on who you talk to,” I said.

  He smiled. “Ah,” he said, “but beware if all men speak well of you.”

  I didn’t say anything. And he didn’t either for a minute. Then, “I wish chaplains made more money. Y’all deserve it. Do such important work.”

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “You do. Don’t be ashamed of what you do.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “If I were, I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Right,” he said. “Integrity. That’s the reason I wanted to talk to you. I’d like for someone with your integrity, deep spirituality, and obvious knowledge of prison chaplaincy to oversee the outreach prison ministry of BECM.”

  “BECM?” I asked.

  “Bobby Earl Caldwell Ministries,” he said, as if I should’ve known. “We send in tapes and books to most of the major institutions. We conduct crusades and healing services, but I want us to do more. And I want you to help.”

  I shook my head.

  “You wouldn’t have to move here,” he said. “Could if you wanted to. Think about how much more good you could do. You’d be reaching so many more souls. You’d have enormous resources at your disposal. You’d be making six times what you make now. And you’d get to work with me.”

  I smiled.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But, no thanks.”

  He was genuinely shocked. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Think about the opportunity I’m offering you. Think of what it could mean for your ministry.”

  “I’m not a prison chaplain at PCI because I don’t have other options,” I said.

  “I can’t tell you how much I respect that,” he said, nodding to himself, then looking off in the distance.

  A white egret at the bank of the bayou stood perfectly still as a sun-baked man with long hair beneath a soiled baseball cap and a Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt glided by in a flat-bottomed boat.

  “You’re right,” Bobby Earl said. “You don’t need to be anywhere other than right where you are. And they’re blessed to have you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I know,” he said in a sudden burst of enlightenment. “How about letting me retain you as a consultant? You could sit on our board. Help us make decisions about our prison ministry. That way you could continue doing what God has called you to do, help us, and supplement your income as well.”

  “I just can’t,” I said. “But thank you.”

  “Think about it for a while,” he said. “The offer stands open. Just pray about it. You can get back with me any time. You could be instrumental in helping so many inmates.”

  “Was there a chaplain who was instrumental in your life?”

  “Actually there was. That’s why I believe in what we’re doing in prisons. My chaplain was truly a man of God.”

  I nodded, and then we were quiet for a moment.

  I had waited to bring up Nicole until now to see if he would. He hadn’t, so I did. “How are you and your wife doing?” I asked.

  “Huh?” he asked, as if somewhere else, his forehead furrowing in incomprehension.

  “Since Nicole died,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Oh,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I accept it as the will of God. I know she’s better off—a lot better off than us, right? But Bunny’s still all broken up about it. She believes in heaven and all, but she still misses her a lot. I do, too. She was such a special child.”

  “Yes, she was,” I said. “We’d like to hold a memorial service at the chapel for her. She meant so much to all the men, all of us.”

  “That’s a very lovely thought,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

  “We’d like for you and Mrs. Caldwell to be there.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we’re way too busy and it’d just be too painful.”

  “Perhaps you’ll feel differently when the time comes. I hope so,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out what happened that night. I was wondering if I could ask you and Mrs. Caldwell some questions?”

  “I’d be happy to answer them,” he said. “But Bunny’s not home right now. And I wouldn’t subject her to that even if she were.”

  “I understand,” I said. “When you finished preaching and Bunny came back out to sing, was that planned?”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “Does she normally come back out and sing at the end?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding his head.

  “Does Nicole usually sing with her?”

  He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I was surprised she didn’t that night. That’s why I went into your office while Bunny was singing. You know, to check on her.”

  “But while Bunny was still singing, you went back out to begin your altar call,” I said, “so for at least ten minutes she was alone in there.”

  “That must be when it happened,” he said, shaking his head.

  “How was she when you went in to check on her?”

  “I don’t know. She was in the small bathroom in your office. I didn’t even see her. I just assumed that’s why she wasn’t with her mother. When I asked Bunny later, she said that Nicole’s stomach had been bothering her.”

  “So you never saw her after she left the stage the first time?” I asked.

  “No,” he said softly, looking down, “I didn’t. I wish I had. Wish I could’ve taken her in my arms just one more time before she woke up in the arms of Jesus.”

  “Did you talk to her?” I asked. “Through the door.”

  He shook his head. “The fan in there was so loud,” he said. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear her, so I just waited for her to come out, but eventually I had to go back out.”

  “It would really help if I could talk to your wife.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “She’s a very fragile woman. It’s too soon.”

  “Do you know who Nicole’s parents are?” I asked.

  He studied me for a very long time, then said, “Before Bunny and I were saved, we were sinners living in the world, committing sins of the flesh. Bunny is Nicole’s mother.... But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  I nodded. “And her father?”

  “To be honest,” he said, “we don’t know. And I almost feel it’s better that way. I became her father. And loved her as much as any father ever loved his child.”

  It was only through years of discipline and training that I kept from laughing at that.

  “How long have you known?” I
asked.

  “About Bunny?” he asked. “She was pregnant when I married her. It was a test from God. I passed. I accepted her, the way Hosea did Gomer, the way God did Israel, his beloved, even when she played the harlot.”

  “Is there a possibility that Nicole’s biological father could’ve been at the service that night?” I asked.

  He tried to act surprised, but didn’t pull it off well. “Like I said, we don’t know who he is.”

  “But he might’ve been?”

  “It’s possible,” he conceded. Then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting and then a prayer luncheon to speak at.”

  “Just a few more questions, please,” I said. “What exactly does DeAndré Stone do for you?”

  “Provides security for and assists Bunny,” he said. “He’s part of our Freeing the Captives program. Sometimes a judge will actually send a troubled young man to us rather than putting him in prison. I have several men on parole and probation working for me—I want prison outreach to be the center of my ministry. God’s given me a heart for them—I am them.”

  “Did you know there are a lot of rumors of criminal activity in your organization?”

  “No, but it doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “You know how people envy and talk about successful people—especially ministers. Besides, as I said, I employ a lot of ex-offenders and parolees. Not all of them are saved. We’re working with them, but they’re still fallen human beings. I’m sure some of them are still in the life. But it really surprises me that you listen to rumors.”

  “Did you know that DeAndré was at the prison this past Monday night?”

  “What?” he asked in what appeared to be genuine shock. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I said. “He attacked Nicole’s father and later, after the Larry King show, me and my wife.”

  “Did he say why?”

  He had flinched when I said ‘Nicole’s father,’ but quickly recovered and apparently wasn’t going to pursue it.

  “I figured he was doing it for you,” I said.

  “Me?” he asked in even greater shock and I was convinced it was authentic. “Why would I—I invited you here to offer you a position on my staff. I really respect you... but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anybody attack anybody—I can’t believe you could think such a thing about me.”