Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Come on,” Todd said. “Let’s get him in the boat.”

  They trolled toward me, and when they got close enough to reach down for me, I ducked under the boat, deflated my BC, and tried to find the regulator as I quickly sank toward the bottom.

  Above me, the trolling motor started again, and shotgun pellets began piercing the water around me.

  I was descending too fast without stabilizing, and my head began to hurt from the pressure building inside.

  As I fell, I searched frantically for the regulator, dropping the knife and the light in the process.

  Nearing the bottom again, I kicked my fins and partially inflated my BC. I couldn’t be sure exactly how close I was to the riverbed, but if Shane was still firing, the rounds weren’t making it down to where I was.

  Finally able to find the hose, I pulled the regulator, put it in my mouth and willed myself to take deep, slow breaths.

  When I had begun my quick descent, the mask had been on top of my head, and somewhere along the way, it had been knocked off. In terms of visibility, it was irrelevant, but the river water stung my eyes, and I wished I had it.

  As soon as I was able I began to swim. If Todd and Shane had their dive equipment with them, they’d be suiting up right now and would be down here momentarily.

  I had no idea which direction I was headed in. I was just trying to get as far away from them as fast as possible.

  It occurred to me that if I stopped swimming and let the current carry me, I’d know I was headed down river.

  So I did, eventually swimming with the current for a while then turning and heading toward land.

  Unable to see anything––even my own hands out in front of me, I felt my way forward through the blackness, and I wondered how long it would be before I came in contact with a snake, gator, or turtle, or a log propelled by the oncoming current that would strike me and knock me unconscious, causing me to drown.

  When I realized all Todd and Shane had to do to find me was follow the bubbles pouring from my regulator and popping up on the surface, I took in a deep breath, held it, and then changed directions.

  I went with the current for a while again, then turned back toward shore, only breathing occasionally.

  Now in addition to my head, my lungs and muscles ached, and I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to go on any further, but just as I was about to give out, my hand felt the root system of a downed tree, and I knew I had made it to shore.

  Using the root system for grip and the tree for cover, I came up slowly and quietly, and listened carefully as I wiped the river water from my eyes.

  Suddenly the area around me was illuminated, and they were headed straight toward me in their boat, Shane firing the shotgun all around me.

  They had me.

  I was too close to shore, the water too shallow for me to disappear into it again.

  They were coming at me fast as if they planned to just run over me, and there was nothing I could do.

  Without warning, probably because it was running without lights and Todd and Shane’s engine masked its sound, a boat shot out of nowhere. It rammed Todd and Shane’s boat in the side, knocking them out of it and keeping it from hitting me.

  A hand reached out of the darkness, grabbed my arm, and helped me roll into the boat.

  “Come on, Chaplain,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  57

  Looking up, I could make out the faint outline of Sandy Hartman in the moonlight.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I overheard them talking about taking care of a problem tonight,” he said. “Figured it was me or you.”

  As he gunned the motor and took off, I slipped out of my BC, took my gloves and fins off, and sat up. Behind us, I could see Todd and Shane scrambling to get back in their boat, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until they were coming after us.

  The force of the wind on my wet body was cold and I began to shiver.

  “You better get out of that wetsuit,” he said.

  Unfortunately I didn’t have a whole lot on under it and I’d rather be cold than naked on the river.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Here they come,” he said. “This little boat won’t outrun ’em. We’ll have to find a place to hide.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Not far from here is a slough they call the River Sticks,” he said. “Nobody goes back into it much. It’s shallow and filled with fallen trees and limbs. It used to cut over to the Florida River, but a big oak tree has it completely blocked now.”

  “So if they find us, we’ll be trapped.”

  “Unless we go ashore,” he said.

  “Any other options?”

  “Not around here,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  We did.

  Once in the slough he turned off the motor and began negotiating the narrow, obstacle-filled passage with a paddle and the trolling motor. The moon provided just enough light for me to see how appropriately named this small tributary was. Fallen trees from the banks extended out into the water, their craggy root systems thick and gnarled. Breaking through the surface at various spots throughout, the remnants of deadhead cypress trees were splintered and jagged.

  As we ventured deeper and deeper down the small channel, the swamp on either side of us became thicker and thicker. My sense of claustrophobia increased with every stroke of the paddle or turn of the propeller. The trees, limbs, and roots scraped the sides and bottom of the boat, but never stopped it. With amazing skill and precision, Sandy adroitly steered the craft to safety.

  Bringing the boat to rest against the huge fallen oak completely blocking the path, Sandy cut the trolling motor and we sat in silence, waiting. Within a few minutes we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat approach the entrance of the slough, pass by, and continue down the river.

  “What is it?” Sandy asked.

  “What?”

  “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

  “You mean besides the obvious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You just look . . . you’re looking at me . . .”

  “Where’s Jake?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  It was a risk, but one I had to take. Jake’s life could very well depend on it.

  “In your rape room in the old bunker? Is it close by? Has to be. No way you could have gotten through all those trees in the dark if you hadn’t done it many, many times before.”

  The change that came over him as he sloughed off his public persona reminded me of taped interviews I had watched of people suffering from multiple personality disorder, and it was as if I were instantly, inexplicably with another person.

  “I’ve worked with a lot of people who’ve done some evil things over the years,” I said, “but there’s very few I’d call evil.”

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “Do you have Jake?”

  He shook his head.

  I thought about it.

  “I’m just playing with you,” he said. “I’ve got him.”

  He could be lying but I never believed Jake would leave me out there alone—not unless he was forced to.

  Now that his mask was off and the man beneath could be seen, it was obvious that Sandy Hartman was detached, cold, and arrogant. He sat there patiently as if I posed no threat to him, as if I were completely in his control.

  “Let’s go see him,” I said.

  I wondered where he was, if he was really close by, and what Sandy had done with his boat.

  “Tell me how you knew it was me,” he said.

  “The murders or the rapes?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said. “Start with the sex.”

  “It was brilliant to put the mark on yourself and pretend to be a victim,” I said, “and you played the part to perfection—except for a f
ew mistakes, which made a lot of little things add up for me.”

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything. It was as if we were talking about something that only mildly interested but ultimately had nothing to do with him.

  “You had access to the library and knew right where the Dalí was,” I said. “I’m sure that there’s a book of symbols that has the Mars and Venus and male and female signs as well. Not that you need a book for that.”

  “I wasn’t familiar with the Dalí painting,” he said. “See what you thought of it but it didn’t provide any inspiration for me.”

  I nodded. “And while we’re on the subject of the symbol and the act itself—they both speak of someone with a high degree of androgyny and sexual identity issues. You certainly fit that.”

  “That hurts my feelings,” he said, his voice flat and insincere.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. “Who made you a monster? Dad, step-dad, uncle?”

  “I was born this way. Go back to the mistakes you said I made. What were they?”

  To him this was all just a game—how he had fun—and all he seemed interested in was what he had done to betray himself.

  “During the times you came to counseling with me,” I said, “which I assume you did not only because you found it fun and exciting—and added dimension to the game, but so you could keep up with what we were finding out, you would periodically have toxic leaks.”

  “What?” he asked. “What is that?”

  “The coarseness and profanity that spewed out of you,” I said. “It didn’t fit with the mask you were wearing—even considering what had happened to you. If something had actually happened to you.”

  He nodded and seemed to think about it, as if receiving feedback in an art class.

  “The first day when you were telling me what the rapist had done to you,” I said, “you got carried away. You were trying to gain my sympathy, to make sure I wouldn’t suspect you, but you went too far. You told me after you did everything the rapist made you do, he still raped you.”

  “I knew that was a mistake the moment I did it,” he said, “but I was caught up in the moment and went with it—what can I say? Hazards of the profession.”

  “The profession?”

  “Acting.”

  I nodded.

  “It was smart to use a shank to make it look like an inmate was responsible,” I said, “but you just couldn’t keep yourself from committing these crimes on the outside too.”

  “Didn’t figure anyone on the outside would report it,” he said.

  “And they didn’t.”

  “But of course you found out,” he said.

  “Hiding the shank in Jensen’s duffle wasn’t a bad idea, but there’s no way he’d leave it on the van if he knew it was there, no way he wouldn’t use it in his escape. Speaking of Jensen, after you raped him did you intercept a request to me from him?”

  “The hell you know that?”

  “He and his family mentioned to me about not helping him when he asked for it, but as far as I knew he never asked for it.”

  We were silent a beat.

  “You’re as good as everybody says you are,” he said.

  I shook my head. “If I were,” I said, “my brother wouldn’t be in your rape room and I wouldn’t be out here in the middle of the swamp with you.”

  He laughed.

  We were quiet another moment. In the distance we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat motor. They were headed back in this direction.

  “What about the other?” he asked, as if unable to call them murders.

  “Well once I realized the lynching victim was the pilot from the plane that went down, I figured it had to be you search and rescue guys,” I said. “But once Jake convinced me it wasn’t the whole group, then I got to thinking who it could be. Todd and Shane, even Fred were strong possibilities, but it came down to you for two reasons. The sexual component—you took Junior’s clothes off and tied his hands to expose his genitals, you took the SEALs clothes off and strapped him down in a spread eagle position, and tried to make Turtle’s look like an autoerotic asphyxiation accident—and since you bring your victims down here, it’s possible Turtle or the SEAL died because they saw you doing that or found your bunker and didn’t have anything to do with the plane or finding the money.”

  He nodded.

  Todd and Shane were getting closer.

  “Is Jake still alive?” I asked.

  “I don’t kill my sex partners,” he said.

  “He’s not a partner yet,” I said. “No way you had time to do anything ’cept grab him and hide his boat. Besides, this is different. We’ve seen you. Know you. And I suspect even though you started killing to cover up your other crimes, you’re enjoying it too much to stop.”

  The moonlight glinted dully off his teeth as he smiled. “It’s the most fuckin’ amazing thing ever. Uh oh, was that a toxic leak?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And so fuckin’ easy. You can’t imagine how little it takes to snuff somebody out.”

  I remained quiet.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”

  Todd and Shane had turned onto the River Sticks, and would reach us in a matter of minutes.

  “Why’d you get Junior out of the plane and hang him?” I asked.

  “That the pilot? I went back to see if those redneck cocksuckers had lied about what was inside the plane, and the son of a bitch slipped out and floated to the surface.”

  I nodded.

  “Now come on,” he said. “Time to say goodbye to your brother.”

  58

  As we stood, he swung the paddle around and hit me on the side of the head. The blow was on the opposite side of the one from the butt of the shotgun.

  The paddle had far less mass and much more velocity.

  My ear felt as if it had been knocked off my head, my knees buckled, and I fell out of the boat and into the water, the jagged end of a branch scratching the left side of my body as I did.

  In an instant he was on me, holding my head beneath the surface of the water, choking me.

  I tried to fight back, but after both blows to the head, the dive, and all the swimming, I had nothing left. I would have died right then and there if he had wanted me to.

  But, of course, he had other plans for me, and he wouldn’t kill me until he had finished playing.

  Eventually he pulled me up onto the bank, cuffed my hands with flex cuffs, and taped my mouth shut with duct tape. He then dragged me up on the top of a small ridge and left me there, and when Todd and Shane arrived I knew why.

  I was his audience.

  I moved and struggled against my restraints but couldn’t break free. When I tried to yell it came out as a muffled whimper. Nothing I did got their attention as they pulled up beside Sandy’s boat.

  Finally as a last resort I rolled down the small incline toward them. As soon as they saw me they began firing. Several of the rounds pocked the clay and sand of the bank beside me but all of them managed to miss me.

  When I reached the bottom and stopped rolling, both men took better aim, carefully eyeing down the sites of their barrels at me.

  I tried frantically to signal them with my eyes and muffled grunts, but they didn’t pay any attention—didn’t even pause to wonder why I was bound and gagged, just wanted me dead.

  Todd had a handgun, Shane, a rifle, and as trained, each man took in a small breath, let it out slowly, and began to squeeze the trigger. But before they could, Sandy came up out of the water behind them and shot Shane in the back of the head, grabbed Todd by his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat.

  Shane fell forward, Todd backward, both of them half in and half out on either side of the boat. I closed my eyes, squeezing them hard against the horror I had just seen.

  “Come on,” Sandy said, as he pulled me up. “Let’s go. I’ll clean up this mess later.”

  He pulled me into the swamp, smearing Todd’s blood on the
arm of my wetsuit as he did.

  “See how easy that was,” he said. “Told you.”

  The farther we walked, the thicker the swamp became.

  We had to step over fallen trees, around small tributaries fed by the slough. The soft dive boots I wore were no match for the terrain, and small sticks and thorns began cutting and tearing my feet.

  “Don’t slow down,” he said, jerking my arm. “We’re almost there. Jake’s waiting for you. You won’t believe the things I’ll make him do. Of course it won’t be anything compared to what you’re going to do.”

  In another minute or so he stopped pulling on me and I could see a mound of earth in front of him. Brushing away pine, straw, leaves, and removing propped-up branches, he exposed an old wooden door on two rusted hinges.

  The door creaked as it opened. Turning and grabbing me, he shoved me inside.

  I fell face first onto the muddy floor of a small hollowed-out place in the earth. It was dark but I could tell that it was tiny and I was not alone. I could hear muffled whimpering sounds and I knew that Jake’s mouth was taped shut too.

  Sandy came in with a light and closed the door behind him.

  Jake’s eyes grew wide with fear and he looked over at me, pleading.

  When he saw I was cuffed too all hope drained from his face.

  Jake was facedown on an old wooden table, his hands and feet stretched out by ropes that disappeared beneath it. He was naked, the paleness of his exposed skin adding to his vulnerability and violation.

  Thankfully that was the only violation so far. There was no way Sandy had time to do anything else and get back to pick me up when he did.

  The room wasn’t the torture chamber I had imagined it to be. More than anything it was an empty underground tomb. The boards of the walls were ancient and splintered, the dirt behind them breaking through. The beams holding up the ceiling looked brittle, the boards they were supporting, wet and rotten. It wouldn’t be long before this wasn’t a room at all.