Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Entirely possible,” I said.

  “And maybe Chris ran because he knew he was next.”

  I nodded. “That’s as likely as any other scenario we have,” I said. “Good work. You gather great info, make good deductions—you should be a detective.”

  “I just do it to spend time with you.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, and we sat there in silence, the weight of her admission hanging in the small space between us. If I told her I had returned to Pottersville or even considered a job at the prison for the same reason, it would only make what I had to do that much more difficult.

  After a while, I said, “Anything else on Sobel?”

  She shook her head. “Think we’ll ever see him again?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Who killed Menge.”

  She thought about it and nodded.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Back to the ‘but.’ Let’s have it. But?”

  “But,” I said and paused for a moment.

  You can do this, I told myself. Think of your son, of what he deserves, of what his mother deserves, of what you owe her.

  Of course, I didn’t know if Susan would have a boy or a girl, but since my dream, all I could picture was the boy from the beach.

  “I find myself married again,” I continued. “And if I’m going to stay married, I’ve got to give my marriage my very best effort.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  “Thing is . . . my heart still belongs to you. Well, Jesus and you, but Susan can live with being second to Jesus. She just can’t tolerate being third to you.”

  She smiled, but the sadness that had rested on her face remained.

  It broke my heart, and I wondered if perhaps the message I was supposed to receive from the David, Uriah, and Bathsheba story was for my personal life and not the case.

  In the silence, the soft sound of the gentle wind easing through the yellowing and brittle grass echoed through my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just lost here. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “You’re right. It hurts like hell, but it’s right. I understand what you’re saying.”

  “The thing is,” I said, “I don’t know how to do it. It’s not just that you’re in my heart, but that my heart is yours. How can I feel this way? I love Susan. I really do. And I think we stand a chance at . . . at a good marriage.”

  “And I’m in the way.”

  “No,” I said. “Not in the way. It’s nothing you’re doing. It’s me. It’s my . . .”

  She shook her head. “It’s us. We share something that transcends marriage and time and reason.”

  “Merrill said the same thing.”

  “He’s right. I believe that. I believe that somehow, someday we’ll be together. I feel like it’s one of those things that’s meant to be, that will be. That’s why I can stand by and let you become the husband of another woman. Because in the depth of my heart I know that you’ll only be hers in this life, but in another you’ll be mine.”

  In every, I thought. “But what if this is the only life we get?”

  “You’re the theologian. Something you need to tell me? Seriously, this is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “I think so, but there’s no way to know.”

  “Are we willing to gamble that we’ll have another shot at being together?”

  I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I could.

  “What were you going to say to me today?”

  She knew me all too well—knew that I had yet to say what I had come to say.

  In one of the two small ponds down the gentle slope before us, an egret with a bright bill moved in such a way that he appeared to be tiptoeing through the reeds at the edge.

  “What?”

  Should I tell her about Susan’s pregnancy? Would it lessen her pain? Part of the reason I’m doing this is so my child won’t suffer through a divorce the way I had.

  The breeze picked up and swept yellow and rust-colored leaves across the surface of the water before us and gently waved the Spanish moss in the cypress trees above us.

  “You brought me out here to tell me something today,” she said. “Just tell me what you were going to.”

  “Just that if I’m going to do this, to really be with Susan, to be a family, I’ve got to, well, not be around you for a while. It hurts too much. It was bad enough when I thought only you were married. That was torture. This is worse.”

  “Yeah,” she said, tears brimming now. “It is. I had no idea what I had been putting you through.”

  I gave her a helpless expression but didn’t say anything.

  She’ll understand if you just tell her that you and Susan are going to have a baby. It won’t hurt her as badly. Just tell her. But it makes everything seem so final.

  “Go ahead and finish what you were going to say,” she said, her voice breaking, then gaining strength and turning hard. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Just that Susan’s pregnant,” I said, “and that if I don’t come around you as much, it isn’t because I don’t want to.”

  36

  Rows and rows of pine trees stood where once had grown tobacco and before that cotton. They abruptly stopped and opened up into a five-hundred acre farm enclosed by a freshly painted white wooden fence. At the center of the fence that ran along the highway, a gated entrance of cypress and wrought iron with a sign above it reading THE H. H. CORRAL guarded a blacktop driveway lined on each side with royal palms.

  When I turned into the drive, the gate opened. I was expected.

  It was late Tuesday afternoon. Merrill had been missing for two days, and on one, not even Dad and his deputies had been able to turn up anything.

  I had come to Pine County to look for myself.

  Beyond the palms, herds of Black Angus and Holsteins searched the cold ground for something to eat though there were several bales of hay and feed troughs filled with grain in a portable corral at the center of each field.

  At the end of the private drive, in a large pecan grove, beyond a red brick driveway and parking area, sat an enormous Mediterranean home with mahogany balustrades, cypress beams, arches with keystone surrounds, and a variegated barrel tile roof. It was the nicest house I had seen in the panhandle—maybe in the southeast. It was the home of Howard Hawkins and judging by it, the sheriff in Pine County did a whole lot better than the sheriff of Potter County.

  As I got out of my truck and walked toward the door, pecan shells crunching beneath my feet, a middle-aged man with silver hair and red cheeks pulled up in a golf cart. He was a big man, over six feet and about fifty pounds overweight, but he hid it well with good posture and nice clothes.

  “You must be John,” he said, extending his hand to me. “Howard Hawkins. Hop in. I’ve got to go open the feed gates. You can ride with me. When we get back, we’ll have cocktails and dinner with my family.”

  He was charming, confident, and personable, nothing like the redneck right-wing simpleton I had expected. I liked him immediately.

  “Thank you,” I said and climbed into the cart.

  He drove the cart faster than was safe, faster than I thought possible, weaving in and out of trees and bushes and crushing pecans, pine cones, and leaves under the small tires.

  “I met your dad a couple of years ago,” he said. “He’s been the sheriff of Potter for—how long?—twenty years?”

  “Longer,” I said.

  “He’s a hell of a sheriff. Hell of a sheriff. Good man, too. I’ve heard the same about you.”

  He brought the golf cart to a stop in front of the feeding corral I had seen on my way in and hopped out quickly. The moment we pulled up, the cows gathered around. Now that he had opened the gate, they began to pour in, rushing the grain, ignoring the hay.

  The herd was one of the best in the area, their bodies and the coats that covered them thick
and healthy. They were gentle, too, and Hawkins was gentle with them, patting and talking to them as they filed by, calling them by name.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said. “And so gentle.”

  “I’ve raised every one of them since they were born. They’re like my children. Speaking of children . . . should I be worried about my son? I hear an inmate was killed in his dorm.”

  “Everyone in prison’s at risk, but so far I don’t see that your son’s in any real danger. In fact, the other inmates may be in danger from him.”

  He smiled and nodded appreciatively. “That’s my boy.”

  When he looked at me and I wasn’t smiling, he said, “You don’t suspect him, do you?”

  I shrugged. “His name keeps coming up. He’s one of only a handful who could’ve done it, and the murder weapon was found in his cell.”

  “Well, that’s because he’s being set up,” he said, sitting back down behind the wheel. “I’m glad you came to see me. I can see we’ve got a lot to talk about. But let’s save it until we’re back at the house, sitting down over drinks. Who knows? Maybe you can get me drunk, and I’ll do a lot of confessing to you.”

  His smile was broad, his eyes wide, his expression charming. He had the southern politician thing down. Anti-Christ or not, this man could get votes and win elections.

  We sped through the pasture and into another one across the drive, dodging cows and trees and tractors as we did. Two times we actually came off the ground as we bounced over bumps and ditches.

  While he was opening the gates, I said, “This whole place yours?”

  He nodded. “Over six hundred acres. Beautiful, isn’t it? I think when the good Lord comes back he may actually touch down right here.”

  “Are there oil rigs on some part of the property I haven’t seen yet?”

  He smiled again. He did that a lot. Each time he did, the fine smile lines in his face went from wind-chapped red to bloodless white and you could see just how deep they were.

  “You haven’t heard my story? Well, I’ll have to tell it to you over drinks. I try to do everything I can over drinks.”

  “I used to,” I said, and smiled right back at him.

  37

  We had drinks on an interior courtyard that overlooked the heated swimming pool. I knew it was heated because as we were being seated, Sharon Hawkins, Howard’s daughter-in-law and Mike’s wife, jumped out of the pool and apologized to Howard for being in it when he had a guest. He told her it was all right, but there was something that passed between them that let me know it wasn’t.

  The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by the house, tall archways leading to French doors beneath a second-story balcony supported by cypress beams. As it grew dark, small atmospheric lights began popping on in various places to set just the right mood, and I had to keep reminding myself this was a private residence and not an exclusive resort.

  “I own most of Pine County,” he said. “Well, most of it that hasn’t been developed. The rows of pine that fill this beautiful parcel of north Florida all belong to me, and since paper is the primary industry in these parts, I’m a very wealthy man. My great-grandparents first owned it. They grew cotton on it. After the slaves were freed, my grandparents grew tobacco and supported sharecroppers. My parents planted it in pines and now I’m reaping the benefit of their foresight.”

  “It’s quite an inheritance. So why be sheriff?”

  “I’ve got a vision. I’m building a community here. You could say that Pine County is the closest thing to the Kingdom of God on earth there is. Do you know what our homicide rate was last year?”

  I shook my head.

  “Zero.”

  One of your citizens has been murdered now.

  “We have no crime to speak of. I mean a few small things from people passing through or some of the lower class day-workers, but it’s only petty stuff and they’re swiftly and severely punished. We have the best schools in the state. Highest SAT scores. You know how many resource officers we assign to our schools?”

  I shook my head.

  “None. Our kids don’t carry guns to school. They don’t do drugs. They respect their teachers and their peers.”

  “I’m surprised more people aren’t pouring in here,” I said, though I was really wondering what would make someone like Justin Menge move to such a beige and banal place.

  “Oh, they’d like to. Believe me. But we’ve worked too hard to let people who have no idea what we’re all about come in and destroy it. We’ve paid a price to have safe streets and schools. To have happy children who want to contribute to society, to give something back like me, not live on welfare checks or get rich quick by selling their souls.”

  “How can you keep them out?”

  “Told you, I own nearly all of the undeveloped land. And I’m not selling.” He paused for a moment to light a long, thick cigar. He twirled it around in his mouth several times, then puffed vigorously as he held his gold lighter to the other end. “Oh, we let in the occasional family. If we need a doctor or a dentist, but we vet the hell out ‘em first.”

  He walked over behind the wet bar and fixed himself another rum and Coke and me another Cherry Coke. “I distrust a man who doesn’t drink. You sure you won’t join me?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. “I know I have a lot of critics,” he said. “But what man or woman doing something different doesn’t? I’m sure you have critics.”

  “A few,” I said with a smile.

  “Jesus certainly did,” he said. “Anyway, what person wouldn’t want to live in a safe place with good schools and a real sense of community?”

  I didn’t answer. I assumed it was rhetorical.

  “Exactly. Like Jesus or the founders of this country, I take the criticism gladly and am honored to be in such good company.”

  “But Jesus’ vision of the inclusive Kingdom of God was inclusion, filled with drunks, prostitutes, the poor. The Kingdom is built on compassion, not righteousness—and it’s filled with ‘whosoever will.’”

  “Maybe so. But I haven’t figured out how to get everyone in and maintain what we have. Maybe we’re not supposed to until the kingdom finally does come. I’m just trying to take good care of my family and the good people of this great county. If I do that, then I sleep good at night. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to save the world. I just lost that kind of idealism long ago.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Come on. Let’s eat. Then we can talk about Mike.”

  We walked through a foyer with a serpentine staircase crafted of stone, oak, mahogany, and wrought iron. Hanging on the wall behind it were four antique Indian tribal screens with carved teak frames.

  In the Old World kitchen beneath a chandelier of burning candles, we found the Hawkins family: Sharon, Mike’s wife, Julie, Kevin’s wife, Charlotte, Howard’s wife, and Julie’s two pre-schoolers, Sam and Sandy.

  “Kevin’s still on patrol,” Charlotte explained. “He’s sorry he can’t join us.”

  “See,” Howard said. “For everything we enjoy, there’s a sacrifice to be made. Kids today don’t understand that.”

  “They do in Pine County,” Sharon said, and I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “True.”

  Beneath the flicker of the candles, we ate a wonderful southwestern meal and enjoyed lively conversation about everyone’s day. It was something out of Norman Rockwell. Everyone seemed relaxed and genuinely respectful and loving of one another—except for Sharon.

  “How’s my Mike?” Charlotte asked.

  “The chaplain here thinks he may’ve been involved in the murder,” Howard said.

  She shook her head. “Not Mike. He’s not even supposed to be in there. He’s innocent. He’s not violent. And this isn’t just a mother talking. Ask anyone.”

  “You know who the victim was?” I asked, glancing over at Sam and Sandy.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said in a strained voice. “We kn
ow, but Mike wouldn’t’ve done that. They all had a chance to do that when that man was sitting in our jail. And they could’ve easily covered it up then.”

  Sharon made a scoffing sound that made me think they had done something to Justin Menge in their jail. And it probably wasn’t the first time either.

  “Our lives are open books, John,” Howard said. “We’re politicians. We live in a glass house. Feel free to take as close a look as you want to at us. We’re clean. We’re rich and a lot of jealous people start rumors, but being wealthy isn’t a crime.”

  After dessert, Charlotte and Sharon started clearing off the table while Julie took Sam and Sandy upstairs for a bath.

  “You ought to consider moving out here with us,” Hawkins said. “There’s a couple of really nice places available and we’ve been looking for a new pastor for our chapel. I think you’d really like it. Especially if you and Susan are thinking about having kids.”

  An alarm sounded inside me when he used Susan’s name. I hadn’t mentioned her to him. I hadn’t even told him I was married.

  “I’ll think about it. I had a friend who came out here last weekend looking around. Did you happen to see him? Merrill Monroe. He’s a rather large African-American in his mid-thirties.”

  Sharon dropped a plate in the kitchen and it shattered against the tile floor, echoing through the large open room.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “I sure didn’t.”

  “He’s missing now. This was the last place he was known to be.”

  “Was he looking at property?” he asked, his calm demeanor never wavering. “I’d give the local real estate agent a call.”

  “No, just looking.”

  “Well, we’ll keep our eyes open for him. I’ll tell my deputies.”

  “I appreciate it. Thanks for the hospitality—the good company and the delicious meal. You have a lovely family and such a nice place out here beneath the pecan trees.”

  “You come and visit anytime. I’ll walk you to the door.”