Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon

by Michael Lister

  “Don and I can just go down,” Earl said.

  I shook my head. “I think we should do it just like he said to. There’s no way I can just stay up here. If there’s even a chance to talk to him, to . . . I’ve got to try. We can be extra careful and keep the doors locked until we see him.”

  Bishop Paulk stood, withdrew a key from his desk, and handed it to me. “He wants you at the front door, in the vestibule near the bookstore, me in the back, and Don on the side. Don’t take any chances. Be safe. Don’t open the door until he shows you he’s unarmed. Let’s pray before we go.”

  The three of us joined hands and the bishop prayed for our protection and that we might help the man God was bringing to us tonight.

  I slowly walked down the dark, empty hallway of the K Center toward the front door far more afraid than I could ever remember being before.

  I was inspired by Earl and Don’s bravery, and I was excited about the possibility of confronting one of the killers who had haunted me for so long, but more than anything I was scared. So scared I shook with it.

  The only illumination came from the blood-red glow of the illuminated Exit signs and the power indicator of the emergency backup lights.

  The enormous building, which held thousands for worship services and really did resemble an airplane hanger, felt vacuous, its continuous creaks echoing through the emptiness, reminding me how very alone I was.

  I moved gradually, gripping the key like a weapon, edging toward the front and my fate.

  Who was waiting for me? Was it LaMarcus’s killer? Pelton? Storr? Anthony Alex Williams, Jr? Ralph Alderman? Maybe it really was the killer and maybe I had no idea who he was.

  Up ahead, about another two hundred feet or so, I could see just a bit less dimness, as ambient lighting from outside found its way through the glass doors and into the vestibule.

  As I drew closer, inch by inch, step by step, I felt more and more dread bearing down on me, heavy, oppressive, suffocating.

  When I was less than a hundred feet away, I said a prayer of my own. Please protect me. Don’t let me die just as my life is getting started. Please help me catch LaMarcus’s killer.

  Reaching the vestibule, I reminded myself––the doors are locked. Don’t get too close to them. Stand sideways. Move about. Don’t be an easy target. Keep your eyes wide and unfocused. Alert on movement.

  Passing by the huge staircase that led up to the balcony, I moved toward the doors a little quicker now that there was a little more light.

  When I reached the doors, I checked each one to ensure they were locked. Jerking hard on each one, I confirmed that I was locked inside, that at least glass doors separated me from––

  And then he was on me.

  Coming up from behind, snatching me back, slinging me to the ground, pulling me back into the darkness.

  On top of me now. Weight pressing down. Large hunting knife with serrated blade at my throat.

  “Move a muscle and I’ll slit your fuckin’ throat,” he hissed in a low, mean whisper.

  He wore a transparent plastic mask with female features and big bright makeup––round pink dots on the cheeks, pouty red pucker at the lips, thick blue swaths beneath thick black eyebrows.

  The plastic facade was made all the more frightening for its lack of expression.

  Behind the feminine mask, his masculine features and five o’clock shadow looked eerie and creepy and twisted.

  “See how easy it is for me to get to you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “How easily I could kill you. Right now. With just the slightest flick of my wrist, twist of my blade.”

  I didn't respond.

  “Nod if you know I could kill you quickly, quietly, and easily right now.”

  I nodded, careful not to move my neck too much.

  “Go back to where you came from. Quit dredging up the past. Stay away from us, stay out of shit that’s got nothin’ to do with you. Understand? Next time . . . there won’t be a next time. You’ll just be dead. So will someone you care about. For her sake stop being stupid and move along.”

  Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, Earl Paulk, shoulder lowered, plowed into the man and knocked him off me.

  When the man hit the ground, he rolled, then adroitly jumped up and began running down the opposite hallway from the one I and the bishop had come down.

  He hit Don, who was coming up from that direction, knocking him to the ground.

  Don got up as quickly as he could and gave chase, but came back a little while later, having been unable to catch the man.

  “Y’all okay?” Don asked.

  We nodded.

  “You?” Earl asked.

  He nodded.

  “Guess we both had the idea to come check on you about the same time,” Earl said.

  Don smiled and nodded, then turned to me. “What did he say to you?”

  “Told me how easy it would be for him to kill me and said that’s exactly what he would do if I didn’t go back to where I came from and leave everything here alone.”

  “Any idea who it was?” Earl asked.

  I shook my head. “Not really. If I had to guess––and that’s truly all it is, a guess––I’d say a cop named Larry Moore.”

  39

  A few days later, Martin and I were playing basketball when Bobby Battle sped into the apartment complex in his unmarked car, not slowing down until he reached the parking area nearest the courts.

  Jordan, Martin, and I had fallen into a routine of sorts––Martin and I playing basketball in the afternoon, the three of us getting dinner of some kind, renting a movie at the video store next to the supermarket, and hanging out when Jordan was off and Larry was at work, then, after Martin fell asleep, Jordan and I alone, holding each other through the late, lonely hours of the night.

  We had become something like a family. Maybe even something just like it. And Atlanta was feeling a lot like home. A lot like it.

  “Keep workin’ on your jump shot, buddy,” I said to Martin. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I walked over toward Battle, meeting him about halfway between his car and the courts.

  We were well into September now and the autumnal air was cool and a bit breezy, so unlike my part of Florida this time of year.

  “Thought I told you to get a pager?” Battle said.

  “You did.”

  “Well?”

  “I did.”

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “In my room.”

  “Only works if you have it on you,” he said. “Keep it on you. I’ve been tryin’ to get in touch with you for a hell of a long time.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I will. What’s wrong?”

  “Ray and Vince are in the wind.”

  “What?” I asked, looking around the complex before I realized what I was doing.

  “We’ve been keepin’ tabs on ’em, tryin’ to catch ’em at somethin’ we can come down hard on ’em for . . . and they just vanished.”

  I shook my head. “Shit.”

  “I thought maybe they had you,” he said. “So keep the goddamn pager on you at all times, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re lookin’ for them,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll have ’em soon. But for now . . . lay low and keep your pager on and with you at all times.”

  “I will. Sorry.”

  “Just tryin’ to look out for you. All part of the service.”

  “Were they under surveillance three nights ago?” I asked. “The entire night.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I told him what had happened at the K Center a few nights back.

  “The fuck is wrong with you, John? We had a chance to get him and you didn’t even bother to tell us. Y’all could’ve been killed.”

  “I know. I just . . . I . . . Lettin’ you know wasn’t an option.”

  “You need to pick a side, John,” he said. “I mean . . . goddamn . . . You can’t keep . . .”

  He trailed off and we
were silent a moment.

  “You think it was one of them?” he asked.

  “Wondered if it could’ve been,” I said.

  “Maybe it was,” he said. “Maybe one slipped away while the other made it seem like they were together. I’ll have to check with the surveillance team. You really think it could be one of them?”

  I shrugged. “At the time I thought it was Larry Moore.”

  “What? Seriously? ’Cause you’re fuckin’ his wife? Now ain’t that a whole other cluster fuck. Son, you know how to make some shit complicated, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sleeping with his wife,” I said. “But I notice you’re not sayin’ he’s not capable of somethin’ like that.”

  “What? Tryin’ to scare you away from his pretty little wife? ’Cause I could see his dumb ass doin’ somethin’ like that. It’s over the top and stupid as hell, but . . . What I can’t see him doin’ is actually killin’ you. But . . . fuck . . . let me go see what I can find out.”

  He turned to head back toward his car, then stopped, spun back around. “And John, look how exposed you are out here like this,” he said, sweeping his arm in a broad gesture that encompassed the basketball court. “And with the kid. What’re you thinkin’? You tryin’ to get him killed too?”

  After tucking Martin away safely, I called Jordan to warn her about Ray and Vince, but she wasn’t at Safe Haven and neither was Ida, and all the woman working knew was that they had taken some time off––Jordan all day, Ida only the evening.

  I called Ida’s home next. There was no answer.

  I wondered if I should call Jordan at home. What if Larry answered? What if all I did was make things far worse for her than they already were?

  I thought about it for a long while, eventually reaching the conclusion that with Ray and Vince unaccounted for, I had to take the chance.

  I let the phone ring for a very long time but no one answered.

  And then I . . . I didn’t know what to do.

  What could I do? I was completely powerless. I had no idea where she was or if she was okay. I had no way to contact her, to check on her, to see if Ray and Vince had her at this very moment or if she was just shopping for supplies for Safe Haven with Ida.

  Think, I told myself. There’s got to be something. You’ve got to figure out something. Come on.

  Two things came to mind. I could go to Safe Haven and talk to Ralph. If anyone knew where Ida and Jordan were or were supposed to be, it would be him. Or I could call Bobby Battle.

  I decided to do both.

  First I called Battle.

  “Jordan Moore is not at work and I can’t find her,” I said. “Same for Ida Williams. Is Larry on duty? Can you check on her? Find out discretely if he knows where she is? Do you think Ray and Vince could have her?”

  “I’m on it,” he said, and hung up.

  As I was about to leave for Safe Haven to see if Ralph might be willing to part with any information he might have about the whereabouts of Jordan and Ida, my phone rang.

  Roger Lawson had taken a turn for the worse and was asking to see me.

  Driving far faster than I should on west I-20 toward downtown and Grady, I could only worry about Jordan, only hope she was okay, only hope Bobby Battle would make sure she was.

  Actually, those weren’t the only things I could do.

  I could also pray. I could choose to trust. I could accept the things I couldn’t change. I could change the things I could. I could find peace by acknowledging my powerlessness, serenity by letting go.

  So I did––or tried to, reaching for the random blue Sparrow cassette on the backseat. As if an answer to prayer, it was Steve Camp’s One on One and it was cued up to the beginning of “He’s All You Need,” which helped me find a fragile but very present peace as I sped toward downtown Atlanta.

  40

  I’m scared,” Roger Lawson said, his feeble voice no more than a hoarse, low, whistley whisper.

  I nodded. “I know,” I said. “And it’s okay to be. It’s natural. But you have nothin’ to be afraid of.”

  I was standing beside his bed, holding his hand, leaning over, my face just inches from his.

  “There’s nothing but love waiting on you,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. It’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

  “I don’t want to die, damn it,” he said.

  I nodded. “I know. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Help me. Do something. I can’t . . . this can’t be it.”

  I thought back to my earlier prayer on I-20 and said, “God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change. The courage to change the things we can. And wisdom to know the difference.”

  He squeezed my hand.

  “Say it with me,” I said. “God . . . God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change. The courage to change the things we can. And wisdom to know the difference.”

  We said it several times together, until it became like a mantra, until peace entered the room, until he fell asleep. Peaceful sleep.

  As he slept, I continued to hold his hand and say the prayer, repeating different forms, expanding, repeating.

  “God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed. Courage to change the things that should be changed. And the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace. Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as we would have it be. Trusting that you will make all things right if we surrender to your will. So that we may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with you forever in the next.”

  I continued praying for peace as Roger continued sleeping peacefully, continued until my mouth was dry and my hand ached, until he stopped breathing and the peace he was experiencing went way beyond sleep, beyond mortal, beyond the beyond and into what dreams may come.

  Long after the nurses came, long after the tubes had been removed and the machines turned off, I was still praying the prayer of peace.

  As I walked down the central corridor of the cold, sterile hospital, I felt sad and alone, helpless and hopeless.

  And then I saw Ida and some of the pain and sadness abated.

  In an instant I no longer felt alone, my spirits buoyed a bit before I realized what her presence her must mean.

  “John,” she said. “How’d you hear?”

  “Hear what? What is it? Where’s Jordan?”

  “She’s . . .”

  “What happened? Is she––”

  “She’s . . . Come on. I’ll take you to her.”

  She led me back down the corridor and along another to the emergency room and the small curtained area Jordan was waiting in.

  When she saw me, she burst into tears.

  “Wait here with her while I go get the car,” Ida said. “Had to park in Timbuktu.”

  I rushed over to Jordan’s bed.

  “Oh, John,” she said. “I’m . . . I’m so . . . so glad you’re here. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Start with what happened.”

  Her arm was in a sling, her wrist in a brace. Her face was swollen, red, and puffy around her eyes, one of which was quickly turning black.

  “It’s just sprained, not broken. Doesn’t matter now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

  “Who was it?” I asked. “Who did it?”

  She looked confused.

  “Who?”

  “Larry,” she said. “Who else.”

  “Thought it might have been Ray and Vince.”

  She shook her head. “No, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “He knows about them,” she said. “I don’t know how. But he claims he’s gonna kill them.”

  “What all’d you tell him?”

  “Nothin’. John, I haven’t told him anything about anything. That’s what I got this for. It’s got to be Battle. Brothers in bl
ue and all that shit.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said. “I was so worried and––”

  “Me too. You’re all I’ve been able to think about. I can’t believe you’re here. How are you?”

  I told her.

  “Oh, John,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I am now. Now that I know you are, that I’m with you. You can never go back to him. Never.”

  “I’m not. I won’t. I’m moving in with Mom until I can . . . until things get . . .”

  I nodded.

  “I’m so worried,” she said. “I have such a bad feeling. Larry’s crazy. He’s . . . He’ll do . . . He’s capable of anything. And if Bobby Battle told him about Raymond and Vincent, what else has he told him?”

  “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  “I’ve fallen in love with you, John. Totally and completely. Head over heels. The real deal.”

  “I love you,” I said. “I’m so in love with you.”

  “I’ve already contacted an attorney,” she said. “I’m . . . I’ll be free of him at last. For good. And then . . .”

  “And then,” I said. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Speaking of sounds,” she said, “I know it’s way too early . . . And we’ll probably never live long enough to even . . . And I’m not sayin’ you would even want to . . . even way out there in the future, but . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’ll show you where my mind is. Well . . . I’ve thought about it. I can’t help myself. I did. And . . . I just . . . I can’t be Jordan Jordan.”

  Frank Morgan called me the next morning.

  I tripped over Martin, who was asleep on the floor, on my way over to the phone.

  “Did I wake you?” Morgan asked.

  “No. Not at all. How’s it goin’?”

  “I’ve got meetings this morning and I wanted a chance to talk to you before I got tied up.”

  “I appreciate you callin’.”

  “Only have a few minutes, so here it is . . . Ralph Alderman was forced to leave because of inappropriate behavior––some of it involving kids. The guy’s not right. If somebody had done their damn job back then, he wouldn’t be working around kids now.”