Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon

by Michael Lister

  “You keep referring to Ms. Ling as Hahn. You were intimate with her. Is that correct?”

  “No, it’s not. She was a coworker, a friend. Someone I referred to by her first name––like most of the people I know.”

  “But you had an intimate relationship with her. You dated her.”

  “We weren’t intimate. We went on a few casual dates some six months or more before any of this happened.”

  “You’re not a very typical chaplain, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Not relevant.”

  Before I could press her to say more, my phone rang and I lunged for it.

  “Chaplain Jordan.”

  It was the warden’s secretary saying Rachel Peterson was needed in Admin.

  “Tell her I’ll be up in a few,” she said.

  I did.

  “So––” Rachel began.

  But the moment I placed the receiver on the cradle, the phone began to ring again, and again I snatched it up.

  “Chaplain Jordan,” I said.

  “Can you talk?” the kidnapper asked.

  “Yes. Give me just a second.”

  Rachel stood. “I’ll let you take that, go see what the warden wants. Be back in a few.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I noticed she had removed the recorder from my desk, but wasn’t holding it as she started to leave.

  I stood and walked around the desk, never letting go of the receiver. She had left the recorder on and placed it on the floor at the base of my desk.

  I reached down, snatched it up, and tossed it to her.

  “It must have fallen when I tried to put it in my pocket,” she said.

  “Must have,” I said, my voice revealing far more incredulity than hers had before. “Miraculously, hitting the floor didn’t disengage the recording mechanism.”

  She gave me a wry smile and was out the door.

  “I’m here,” I said to the caller.

  “What am I interrupting?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “No, I mean what were you doing when I called?”

  “Being interviewed by the inspector about my involvement in the death of a staff member that happened here a few days ago,” I said.

  “Is it a problem?”

  “No.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes,” I said, not correcting his assumption.

  He knew how to reach me in the chapel at the prison but didn’t know the new IG was a woman. What else did he know and not know?

  “Have you spoken to anyone about anything?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve done exactly what you’ve told me to. Nothing more. Nothing less. How is Anna?”

  “She’s good. Resting. We’re taking better care of her than you did. I assure you. The only thing that can go wrong with any of this, the only way she gets mistreated or dead, is if you do something I’ve told you not to or fuck up something I’ve told you to do.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I said. “Can I speak to her?”

  “I told you, she’s sleeping. You’ll talk to her again soon. And if you do what I tell you, you’ll see her tomorrow night.”

  “Okay. Who am I bringing you to trade for her?”

  “Last name is Cardigan,” he said. “Like the sweater. First name Ronnie. DC number 745491. You have a little over a day. Make it count.”

  17

  I had a name.

  Now I had to come up with a plan.

  And I had a day to do it.

  The first thing I did was call down to Classification and request Cardigan’s file.

  While waiting for the inmate jacket to arrive, I called around to find out what job and dorm Ronnie was assigned to.

  Previously, everything I was doing now was accomplished with a single phone call to Anna.

  That thought made me even more sad and lonely, and for a moment I was overcome with such intense longing, I couldn’t catch my breath.

  No time for that now. Put it away. No good to her if you don’t.

  I took a moment, gathered myself, and once again returned to the place deep inside, distancing myself from all else.

  Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

  Wordsworth’s line came to mind, and I made myself concentrate on the verse, actually saying it out loud in my empty office.

  “‘Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and its fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give, Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.’”

  That’s where I’ve got to be, to get back to, to stay until I get Anna back––in the place where my thoughts lie too deep for tears.

  The file was delivered to my desk in a stringed state courier envelope by an inmate orderly from Classification before I had finished my calls. I flipped through it while I was on the phone, and by the time Ronnie reached my office, I knew a good bit about him.

  Serving a ridiculous mandatory minimum on a nonviolent possession-with-intent-to-distribute charge, he had been failed by his public defender, and had a lot of time left on his sentence. A model inmate, he was housed in the honor dorm, and worked in the kitchen as a cook. A constant reader, he used the library as much as any inmate on the compound. A devout Catholic, he never missed Mass.

  Cardigan looked like someone who would wear one.

  As if a community college professor instead of a state of Florida inmate, Ronnie Cardigan blinked a lot behind his big glasses and wore his coarse light-brown-going-gray hair as long as the prison would allow, combing it back into a soft, full white man’s low afro. His body was a bit bulky—not fat, but broad and soft.

  “You know why you’re here?” I asked.

  “Oh, God, no. My mom? Please tell me she didn’t die.”

  I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that. Sorry to alarm you.”

  “Oh, thank God. I’m so . . . so relieved. Thank God. Thank you God.”

  “I thought you would know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Why you’re here.”

  “Why would I?” he asked.

  “Have you spoken with your family lately?”

  He shook his head. “Usually call once during the weekends. Missed ’em last weekend. Won’t call again until this one coming up. Do you know why I was denied a furlough? That somethin’ you could help me with? I’m in on a nonviolent charge. I’ve never gotten a single DR. They say the reason I can’t go is I’ve got too much time left on my sentence.”

  I considered him carefully. He seemed genuine, and seemed to genuinely have no idea what was going on. But his big glasses, nearly constant blinking, and his avoidance of eye contact made him difficult to read.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “Just want to see my mom before she . . . before it’s too late.”

  I began to formulate a plan. Tomorrow night one of our volunteers would be in the chapel facilitating a Bible study group. If I could get Ronnie to join the other inmates in attendance . . .

  “How badly do you want to see her?”

  He looked confused. “Bad.”

  If I could get approval for another volunteer to come in . . . One that resembled Ronnie . . .

  “What would you do to get to see her?” I asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “I mean it. Anything.”

  “Serve more time?”

  He nodded. “In a heartbeat. I’m tellin’ you, anything. Sayin’ bye on the phone just isn’t. . . That’s not how I want to . . . say what all I want to say.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “Chaplain, why am I here?”

  “I know you’re Catholic, but I’d like you to attend the Protestant study group tomorrow night.”

  He looked confused, but said, “Okay.”

  “It’s very important. I really need you here.”

  He no
dded. “Okay. But I’m not going to convert.”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “And I want you to call your family before you come. Either tonight or tomorrow but before you come to the study. Okay? It’s important. Both are. Call your family and be here for the study.”

  18

  Which of my volunteers looked the most like Ronnie Cardigan?

  What if none of them resembled him at all?

  To be a chapel volunteer at PCI, you had to undergo an extensive background check, a training program, and be issued a photo ID, which had to be presented to the control room officer upon entering and exiting the institution.

  Did I have anyone who was already approved who looked anything like Cardigan?

  There was a religious professor from FSU who came occasionally who reminded me of Cardigan, but there was very little physical resemblance between them.

  Most of the volunteers we had were senior citizens. The others were either female, ethnic or the wrong race, or just weren’t even close in appearance.

  What if I didn’t use one of our existing volunteers?

  Under certain circumstances for one-time special programs, we could run a background check on a potential volunteer and the warden could approve him or her to enter the institution under the supervision of the chaplain.

  Who did I know who looked like Cardigan?

  If I could find someone . . .

  How would I . . . ?

  If I could find someone who resembled Cardigan, get him approved, bring him into the chapel, drug him, call Cardigan into my office, switch their clothes . . . I’d still have to get past the control room with him, but . . . it might work. But who?

  “You pray a lot,” Rachel Peterson said.

  I turned around to see her standing about halfway down the center aisle.

  “Guilty conscience?”

  “No more than reason,” I said.

  “What does that––”

  “Shakespeare,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “Ready to continue?” I asked.

  “We feel it’s best if you’re placed on nonadministrative leave while we conduct the investigation,” she said.

  Heart raising. Heat emanating. Breath catching.

  A hole opened inside me and everything slid down into it.

  I had just come up with a plan to save Anna that could possibly work, and was now being told I wouldn’t be here to even attempt it.

  “We?” I asked, trying to get my bearings.

  “The warden. Me. The regional chaplain.”

  “I’m the only chaplain on duty,” I said. “I have several services to supervise. I’m in the middle of some very intense crisis counseling situations. I really need to be here.”

  “The warden said he’d call the staff chaplain back in. The regional chaplain said he’d get everything covered or come do it himself if he needed to.”

  “Just to get rid of me,” I said. “Wow. I’ve never been so unwanted anywhere.”

  “Maybe it means you should think about doing something else.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “As far as the investigation you’re conducting . . . I did nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I’m . . . I mean . . . whoever gave the order to fire on the inmate in the quad is responsible for Hahn’s death.”

  “That’s what my investigation will determine,” she said.

  “Appears to be predetermined,” I said.

  “It’s not.”

  “Then answer this for me,” I said. “Who else is being put on administrative leave? The shooter? The response team leader? The inspector?”

  She didn’t say anything but her expression said it all.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  Three men.

  There are three, but are they all men? They are.

  Why do you think that?

  It’s just the sense I get. Like everything else. It’s movement and smell and . . . what . . . intuition.

  Three men taking very good care of me.

  One young. The talker. The early twenties one with the resonate voice.

  One older. The rarely speaks one. The one that smells like . . . what? Some kind of common cologne and . . . gum. Chewing gum. Not bubble gum. Minty old-school chewing gum in the small, inexpensive packs. With foil.

  Something about him reminds her of someone from the prison, but who?

  She thinks about it, but can’t come up with anyone in particular.

  But what about the third one. The one she wasn’t sure existed until now. The silent, distant, shadow one.

  A random refrain of oppressive organ music from the old Shadow radio show echoed through her mind.

  Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

  The Shadow knows.

  I’m gonna know . . . eventually. And so is John.

  Is the Shadow in charge? Calling the shots? Why doesn’t he speak? Is he unable to? Or is he just a man of few words? Are the three equals? In this together?

  Or is the talker in charge? Why do I think he’s not? Because he’s so young? No, there’s something else. What is it?

  Before she could come up with it, he stepped over to her and said, “Here. Take this.”

  He untied one of her wrists and handed her a pill.

  “What is it?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  “A prenatal vitamin.”

  “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”

  “And you don’t have to. But you do have to take it. So . . .”

  She popped the pill into her mouth and he handed her a glass. Tilting her head back, she took a swallow of the liquid––orange juice, actually––and swallowed the pill.

  “It really is a prenatal vitamin,” he said. “We want you and your baby healthy and in perfect condition when we return you to John.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Won’t be long now,” he said. “Unless he fucks it up, won’t be long at all.”

  19

  Now what?

  I had no idea what to do.

  I couldn’t very well get Ronnie Cardigan out of the prison if I couldn’t even get into it.

  I was truly lost.

  Anna’s life was on the line. Time was running out. And the nearly impossible task before me had just become completely impossible.

  When Randy Wayne Davis, the youngish control room sergeant with the bright blue eyes and bright white teeth, buzzed me into the sally port between the first of the two front gates, he motioned me over to the inside control room document tray.

  “How’s it going, Chaplain?”

  Not even the thick glass or the dark tint on it could diminish his bright, wide eyes and infectious smile.

  I nodded without answering, leaned over so that my mouth was closer to the open document tray, and said, “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Hey, I just transferred a call down to the chapel for you. You headed up front? Want me to transfer it to the warden’s office if they call back?”

  I thought about it. I started to tell him what was going on and how to actually handle my calls, but decided it’d be best if he didn’t know––especially if I tried to sneak back into the institution the next night.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You got it.”

  I started to walk away, but he said, “And hey, just wanted to say . . . All the good you do around here––for the staff as well as the inmates––doesn’t go unnoticed.”

  That put a knot in my throat and a sting in my eyes.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Davis. That really––”

  “Randy Wayne, please.”

  I nodded and started to say his name, but the phone in the control room rang and he said, “Hold on a second. Let me see if this is them callin’ back for you.”

  I waited as he answered the phone.

  When it took more than a few seconds I kne
w it wasn’t for me, but after talking to the caller for nearly two minutes, Randy Wayne fed the phone through the document tray for me.

  “Sorry,” he said with a frown.

  “Don’t know what’s taking so long up there,” Rachel Peterson’s voice said across the line, “but I’ve informed the sergeant of your status and told him you need to exit the institution immediately.”

  When I handed Randy Wayne the phone, he shook his head. “That’s not right,” he said. “Everybody knows what happened down there and who’s responsible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait,” he said, his big blue eyes getting even bigger, “I may know someone who might be able to help.”

  I was desperate. I’d take anything.

  “Give me your cell number and I’ll call you after I do a little . . . after I make a few calls.”

  “How are the plans and arrangements coming along?”

  I was out driving around thinking, because I didn’t know what else to do and I loved driving Anna’s Mustang, when the call came.

  “I’m working on them,” I said. “Everything will––”

  “Why aren’t you in your office?”

  How does he know I’m not?

  “Sounds like you’re driving,” he said.

  “I’m working on the plan. Driving around thinking.”

  “Not headed somewhere private to tell the authorities about all this?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Swear?” he said. “On her life? ’Cause that’s what it is. Her life.”

  “I know that.”

  “I told you to keep everything as normal as possible.”

  “I am. I’m on my lunch break. I often drive around and think.”

  “Not today. I want you back at the institution.”

  “Okay, I’ve got to do something first, but then I’ll head back.”

  “What? What do you have to do first? I wouldn’t think you’d be so reckless with your wife’s life.”

  Wife again. Does he really think she is?

  “My mom died last week. I was supposed to have already picked out the image and quote for her headstone. I promised I’d do it no later than today. It won’t take too long but I’ve already promised to meet the guy doing it.”