Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  Taylor Price moved in the self-conscious manner of a man being watched. It wasn’t that he was aware that Merrill and I were following him. It was his belief that everyone in his vicinity would want to watch him. He scanned the crowd the way some celebrities do, expecting to be recognized, paid attention to, desired, envied.

  We had been following him for less than two hours and I knew everything I needed to about him except his arrest record—which Dad should be calling with soon.

  As Taylor stepped off the escalator and into the parking garage beneath Governor Square Mall, he was carrying bags from stores that specialized in expensive clothes and the self-indulgent gadgets of the good life.

  When he used his keyless remote to unlock his feminine-looking sports car and pop its small trunk, the noise it made was loud, showy, and annoying.

  “This is going to be fun,” Merrill said. “Five Franklins says he wets his pants before we finish with him.”

  I knew how Merrill felt. The kind of guy who would stalk and harass a woman was only slightly above a child molester on my list of least favorite people, but I wouldn’t take his bet. The Taylor Prices of the world could commit some cruel and inhumane acts on people physically weaker than them, but in a fair fight would fold faster than a good gambler with a bad hand.

  We followed as he sped out of the parking garage, through the mall parking lot, and out onto Apalachee Parkway. Thankfully, we were in Merrill’s truck, not mine, and would have no trouble keeping up.

  As we turned onto Monroe, my phone rang. It was Dad.

  “Christopher Taylor Price, the third, has been arrested for aggravated battery, rape, and assault,” he said, “but he’s never been convicted of so much as a misdemeanor. Somehow witnesses against him change their story or don’t show up for court at all. He’s got a juvenile record, but it’s sealed, so I don’t know what’s in it but I’d bet more of the same.”

  “Thanks.”

  “This the guy bothering Laura?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “Merrill’s with me,” I said, “but this guy’s a—”

  “I meant make sure you have an alibi and don’t leave any evidence,” he said.

  Price pulled into Lake Ella Park, carefully maneuvering his car into a spot as far from the other two vehicles as he could.

  “He loves that car,” Merrill said.

  I nodded, though I suspected Taylor didn’t love anything, that the closest he got to anything resembling love was for himself.

  “I’m gonna fuck it up,” he said.

  Stepping out of his car, Taylor stripped down to his silk boxers, slowly, showing off his time at the health club and tanning salon, and put on his running clothes.

  He then began to prance around the cement sidewalk surrounding the small lake.

  It was a dark night, and it was getting late. Only three other people were on the track—a middle-aged dog walker and two college girls with FSU shorts and sports bras, their ponytails bouncing in sync as they jogged.

  As he made his rounds, Taylor stepped off the track for the two coeds, saying something to them every time they passed, but made the dog walker choose between jumping out of his way or getting run over.

  Merrill and I were beneath a large oak tree near Taylor’s car, watching.

  When the dog walker finally left, he made his move on the coeds, and though they giggled and flirted a bit, they weren’t interested in anything more and told him so. But in Taylor’s world, no means “I want you to make me,” which was what he was beginning to do when Merrill and I lifted up one of the loose parking pavers and tossed it through the windshield of his car, setting off the alarm and bringing Taylor running.

  “What the fuck?” he said as he ran up.

  “We just tossed this paver here through your windshield,” I said. “Turn off your alarm and we’ll tell you why.”

  Behind Taylor and up a small hill sat the Tallahassee Police Station. He turned and glanced in its direction, seeming to calculate whether he could make it.

  By the time he looked back at us, Merrill had closed the distance between them and was ripping the car keys from the side of his shorts where they dangled loosely. Pressing a button on the remote, Merrill stopped the alarm. He then pivoted and drove an uppercut into Taylor’s stomach that doubled him over, dropped him to the ground, and had him making that breath-knocked-out-of-you noise that meant he was doing his best to replace the air that had just been forced out of him, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

  “Taylor,” I said.

  He didn’t look up at me.

  I slapped him across the face, my open hand smacking him hard, stinging his pampered skin.

  He looked up at me.

  “You get off on harassing women,” I said.

  He shook his head.

  I slapped him again, harder this time.

  “It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact,” I said.

  He shook his head again, and I drove my knee into his nose, blood spurting out, covering his face and shirt, my pants leg and shoe.

  I knew when I was sober again, I’d feel guilty about what I was doing—not for doing it to someone like Taylor, but for how much I was enjoying it, and how easy it was for me to betray everything I believed in.

  “You like harassing women?” I asked.

  This time he didn’t shake his head, just continued holding his nose.

  “We’re gonna show you what it’s like for them,” I said.

  Merrill smiled, his bright white teeth lighting up the area around us. “He sayin’ we gonna make you our little bitch,” Merrill said.

  Obviously a slow learner, Taylor shook his head and said, “You some cunt’s boyfriend or somethin’? If your slut strays she should get the beating, not the guy who obliged her with a little cock.”

  “I heard it was little,” Merrill said. “Big of you to admit it.”

  Merrill then kicked Taylor’s balls so hard it had to have driven them up into his body cavity. After a few moments of excruciating pain, Taylor passed out.

  Dragging Taylor down to the lake, we dropped him in the water. When he came to and pulled his head up, gasping and choking, we let him have one quick inhalation and then shoved him back under.

  We repeated the process a few times before letting him up for good. After he finished coughing up water and was breathing again, he began to cry, a long string of snot from his left nostril nearly touching the ground.

  “Taylor, you listening?” I asked. “Do we finally have your attention?”

  He nodded.

  “If you ever harass or force yourself on any woman again or even look in Laura Matthers’s direction, we’ll be back,” I said. “And if we come back, it’ll be to kill you.”

  “No warnings,” Merrill said. “No questions. No chances. No mercy. Just a little noise, searing pain, and lights out.”

  “Understand?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Let me hear you say the words, Taylor,” I said.

  “I understand,” he said.

  We turned and began to walk away.

  “But I never did nothin’ to that Matthers bitch she didn’t want me to,” Taylor said.

  Merrill looked at me. “He tryin’ to set some sort of record?” Glancing back down at Taylor he said, “You really that slow or you one of them masochist motherfuckers?”

  I withdrew the empty .38 from my pocket, stepped over to Taylor, pressed the barrel to his forehead, thumbed back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

  Taylor began to cry again when he realized he heard the dry fire of the empty cylinder. He began to beg, too, pleading and promising and praying, and in the process, he wet his pants.

  “Told you,” Merrill said. “How much you owe me?”

  “Didn’t take the action,” I said. “I knew putting stock in Taylor’s fortitude was a sucker bet if there ever was one.”

  “It won’t misfire next time, Taylor,”
I said. “I promise you that.”

  The next day I was just returning to the chapel from visiting the infirmary, when my phone rang.

  “So far,” Merrill said loudly above the background noise, “Price keepin’ his distance. In fact, I the only bastard been followin’ our favorite delivery girl.”

  “Delivery person,” I corrected.

  He was calling from a cell phone near a highway. I could hear vehicles speeding by, and somewhere in the distance, the warning beeps of a commercial vehicle backing up.

  “Well, whatever she is, she alone.”

  It was his day to follow her. We had been taking turns, but neither of us had yet to spot anyone.

  “You sound disappointed,” I said.

  “Well, I was hoping,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “You think we scared him away?”

  “Oh, we scared him,” he said, “but was he the one doin’ the stalkin’?”

  “Didn’t seem like it, did it?”

  “Hard to tell with these pansy-ass mama’s boys.”

  We were quiet a moment, and I thought about Taylor Price and the likelihood of him having been the one following Laura.

  “Word on the street is you and Jake play a little Cain and Abel at the landin’ the other night.”

  “Uh huh,” I said. “What else is new?”

  “I hear it involved me,” he said. “He tell you why?”

  “No.”

  “I took April out Friday night,” he said.

  “As in his ex-wife, April?” I asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well now,” I said, “that makes it all worthwhile.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said. “’Cause we goin’ out again this weekend. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that everything is everything. The delivery girl, ah, person, is safe.”

  “Never doubted that,” I said.

  “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “She safe from whoever was followin’ her, but I on the case now, so she not safe from me. I one charmin’ motherfucker. I’ve tried to tone it down some, but only so far it can go.”

  “I understand,” I said. “You could tell her about my wonderful qualities. Might deflect some of her attention.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I should. Remind me what they are again.”

  “She knows,” I said. “Why don’t you have her tell you?”

  He turned his mouth away from the phone slightly. “Well, it would appear that Blockbuster now has all they new releases. Time for us to roll up on Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Victoria’s got no secrets left,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m hopin’,” he said, and hung up.

  I opened my door to find Laura holding a package, completely naked except for her FedEx cap.

  “Special delivery,” she said. “For your package.”

  Though mine was the only mobile home in the failed second phase of the Prairie Palm, it was still a brave thing to do, and it made me want her even more.

  I ushered her into my trailer and closed the door behind her.

  Her body was lean and tan—the look on her face somehow innocent and seductive. Her small firm breasts trembled slightly from the force of her beating heart and her belly beneath them looked to have been sculpted by an artistic and meticulous God. And even lower, between two muscular legs, was a dark, thick, triangular garden that promised sweet and tender fruit.

  She handed me the package. The address read: John Jordan, 69 Sex Drive, Pottersville, FL 32412.

  “What’s inside?”

  “A tube of KY,” she said, “but we don’t need it. I’m practically dripping. See.”

  She put two fingers inside herself, moaning as she did, then brought them up to my lips. I kissed her fingertips, took them in my mouth, tasting her, then pulled her to me and kissed her hard and long.

  When we had finished kissing, she dropped to her knees, unzipped my pants and took me in her mouth. I tried to undress, but as I did, her teeth scraped me, and I stopped.

  “Here, let me help,” she said, standing again and undressing me.

  When we were both naked, I led her over to the couch, sat her down, and knelt between her legs. She moaned as I licked along her inner thigh, arching her back and tilting her head toward the ceiling as I made my way up her leg.

  After we made love, I had too much to drink, and we made love again, repeating this process until I blacked out at some point.

  When I regained consciousness, we were lying on the couch together beneath a blanket.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  “How long was I out?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “A while.”

  I didn’t say anything and we were quiet for a long moment.

  “Taylor sent me flowers today,” she said.

  I raised up and looked at her.

  “He apologized for any misunderstanding,” she said. “What’d you do to him?”

  “Just let him know what it’s like to be afraid,” I said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said. “Not anymore. Thanks to you.”

  “I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore,” I said, “but if he comes around again, just call us.”

  I was alone in the chapel praying when the phone rang. The sanctuary was dim and cool, and I didn’t want to leave it but I didn’t have a choice. Most of the calls that came into my office were crises.

  “Chaplain Jordan,” I said.

  “Hey, handsome,” Laura said. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Tryin’ to climb out of the bottle before I drown,” I said.

  “What?”

  “What’re you up to?”

  “Just wanted to see if I could come over and cook dinner for you tonight,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t tonight.”

  “Got a date?”

  I laughed. “With destiny,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to a meeting.”

  “I think you’ve got a good handle on things,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Aren’t you more relaxed?” she asked. “Having more fun? Aren’t you just as good of a chaplain? Can you name one way drinking is detracting from your life?”

  “How many times have I passed out?”

  “Just a few,” she said.

  “That’s a few too many,” I said.

  “Can we get together after your meeting?” she asked.

  “Not tonight,” I said.

  “But—”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said, “but be careful. Don’t mess around and lose me.”

  “You avoiding me?” Laura asked.

  I had nearly a week of sobriety, and I hadn’t seen her within that time.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Just been busy.”

  “I miss you,” she said. “And the things you do to me.”

  “I’m finding that, at least for now, solitude helps me maintain my sobriety.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I just miss you so much. But I’m proud of you and support what you’re doing. Sorry if I wasn’t sensitive before.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot.”

  “Well, I mean it,” she said. “I’m here. Anything you need. And when you feel like we can get together again, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  We were quiet a moment, and I could tell she had something else to say.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, but it wasn’t very convincing.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Really.”

  “Laura,” I said. “It’s okay. Tell me.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot on you,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I really don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m being fo
llowed again,” she said.

  “You let me cap his ass, we wrap this thing up,” Merrill said.

  “It’s not him,” I said.

  “I’s wondering if he that stupid,” he said.

  We were sitting in Merrill’s truck, a black Toyota 4x4, on Pensacola Street in Tallahassee across from Laura’s apartment, watching a man watching her through one of the rear windows. Merrill had called me shortly after I got home and said that, at last, someone was actually following Laura besides us.

  The man who was not Taylor Price was young and thin, and wearing all black. He was standing near a small grouping of Bradford Pear trees near the fence behind her apartment. He’d probably chosen black attire to help conceal his presence, but it had the opposite effect, drawing attention to both the outfit and his pale face.

  “He a stalker or a cat burglar?” Merrill asked.

  I laughed.

  “This his first time followin’ Laura since we started,” he said. “We wouldn’t a missed his ass.”

  “I know.”

  “You think ol’ Taylor was innocent after all?”

  I shook my head. “Nothin’ innocent about him,” I said.

  The young man, though partially hidden by the pear trees and the darkness, was easy to watch. He moved around a lot, as if cold or nervous, and nearly all of his gestures were exaggerated. He appeared to be stretching, as if preparing for a race.

  “Not very good at this, is he?” Merrill said.

  “Stalkin’s harder than it looks,” I said. “He’ll get better.”

  “Less we put his ass in a wheelchair permanently,” he said.

  “Don’t see many of them,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Wheelchair-bound stalkers,” I said.

  “Let’s go talk to his inept ass,” Merrill said, opening his door. “I’m hungry.”

  When we got out, Merrill looped around to the back of the apartment building and came up behind the cat burglar/stalker. The moment Merrill got close, the guy took off, heading straight for me.

  He was quick, his agility showing as he darted through the yard, dodging trees, chairs, and grills. He was fast, too, reaching me far sooner than I expected.

  Now that he was closer, I could see that he wasn’t wearing the outfit of a cat burglar, but an athlete. He wore long, black shorts over black athletic tights, black running shoes, a black sweat shirt and a black beanie with gray skulls and crossbones on it.