Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  As I turned to leave, I saw something I had hoped never to.

  With Margaret’s attention at the door and our attention on the phone and each other, Lonnie had reached behind the bar, removed a bottle of bourbon, and was pouring himself drinks and knocking them back as quickly as he could.

  “Lonnie, no,” I said.

  “Can’t take it no more,” he said. “It’s all too much. All of it. I’ll stop drinking when they find that little boy, then I’ll figure out what to do with the rest of my life, but for now I’m gonna drink.”

  45

  I didn’t know what Susan expected from me, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to do it.

  I was an alcoholic college dropout who had gotten the best friend I had in Atlanta shot and maybe killed. I was barely an adult—some would say I wasn’t yet. What could I do?

  I could try.

  I could go over everything again, add in everything new, including little Kenny’s disappearance, and see if anything made any better sense.

  Where was Mickey? Why hadn’t he called back yet?

  As I was pulling everything off my second wall to reexamine and repost, my phone rang.

  It was Susan.

  “Still no word from Mickey,” she said. “Cop took Camille’s statement and has just left. We’ve convinced Lonnie to switch over to coffee, but he was able to pour a lot down in him before we did. We’re all closing early out of respect—but we would’ve had to anyway. Snow’s coming sooner than expected. News is telling everyone to get supplies and get inside and stay there. Get back to work. I’ll keep you updated and have Mickey call you the moment I hear from him.”

  As soon as we hung up, I called Bobby Battle.

  “Figured I’d be hearin’ from you,” he said.

  “You heard?”

  “Yeah, and we’re doubling up our efforts. Because of the snowstorm,” he said. “Not because we believe there’s a serial killer at work. There’s not. Understand? There is no serial killer. Frank didn’t think so either. I gotta get back to work.”

  The line went dead.

  I hung up and returned to my wall.

  Six black boys. All missing. All largely unsupervised, unparented. All with a connection to this area. Now over four years later, and after we start looking into it, another one. What does it mean? Is it even related? How can it not be? It might not be.

  Absentee fathers set up for the abductions. No bodies. No evidence. Ada Baker getting calls from Cedric. No reports of any other mothers receiving calls. What does it mean? Cedric’s dad not having items planted. What does it mean? Maybe Cedric’s case is the anomaly, different from all the rest, the exception that proves the rule, the variation that points to the pattern. If so, what does it mean?

  Why was Cedric running back toward the apartment complex? Who or what was he running from? What or who was he running to? What was his mom really doing during that time?

  Did Daryl Lee Gibbons kill Cedric and or the other boys and bury them in the woods? If he did, why was Kenny taken and who had taken him?

  Where were the bodies?

  I stepped over to my little bookshelves in the corner and withdrew a forensic book and looked up methods of disposing of bodies, as I thought of what Wayne Williams said about how John Wayne Gacy did it.

  My phone rang and I jumped.

  Small voice. Crying. Distraught. Difficult to understand.

  It was Frank’s daughter, Becca.

  “John . . . my daddy’s not waking up. He won’t wake up. Oh, John, I don’t want my daddy to die. Please pray for him. Please help. Please don’t let God take my daddy.”

  “I will,” I said. “I will right now.”

  As soon as we hung up, I dropped to the floor and began to intercede for Frank. Sincerely, fervently, without self-consciousness and with no regard for dignity or decorum.

  “Please heal Frank and return him to his little girl,” I pleaded. “Please help me find Kenny and return him to his mom. Please.”

  Then something about the disposal of bodies resurfaced in my mind. What was it?

  The phone rang again.

  “He had no idea,” Susan said. “He’ll be callin’ you in a minute. We’re closing down here in about a half hour. You need me for anything?”

  “I’ll call you if I do.”

  “It better be in the next thirty minutes. Once I get home I won’t be able to get out again. I’ll be stranded. Everyone will. Whatever you do, do it fast.”

  “You sure there’s nothing else you can tell me about Cedric’s disappearance?”

  “Like what?”

  “Where was he running? Who to? Who from?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve told you.”

  “I need to go,” I said. “Don’t want to miss Mickey’s call.”

  Mickey called a couple of minutes later.

  “John, what the hell’s goin’ on, man?”

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “Don’t be mad. I’ve been following up on some leads. Not far from where Daryl Lee was,” he said. “I’ve got to get on the road to make it back before the storm hits, but I wanted to tell you a couple of things.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not gonna like them.”

  “Tell me anyway and quick.”

  “Did you know Summer Grantham’s been involved in cases like this before? She sort of specializes in missing kids. She’s been a suspect in a couple of them. She’s not right, man. She has what she claims is a daughter, but she’s a runaway—or so they claim. I’m not so sure Grantham didn’t take her. Anyway, she’s not her biological daughter. Grantham’s been quoted in some old newspaper articles I found as saying God put her here on earth to save at-risk kids. I think that’s what she thinks she’s doing, man. And get this—when Cedric and the other boys disappeared, she lived in Memorial Manor.”

  “Why’re you down close to Stockbridge?” I said.

  “On my way back from McDonough. Been tryin’ to find her place. Wanted to be sure before I told you. I think she has Cedric. Maybe the others too. I don’t know. But him for sure.”

  “What makes you think that?” I said.

  “The other thing you’re not gonna like,” he said. “I’ve got a deep undercover journalist buddy of mine. He’s hardcore. Nothing he won’t or can’t do. He specializes in deep background so he doesn’t have to be concerned about whether something’s legal or not. Doesn’t matter. Understand?”

  “Get to the point, Mickey, we’re running out of time here.”

  “I had him bug Ada Baker’s phone when she refused to let the police do it.”

  “You did what?”

  “Yeah. The calls are real man. They’re coming from a kid who sounds like he could be Cedric. The call came from McDonough—where Summer lives. No one was home. Do you think it was because she was there taking Kenny? Should I go back? Kenny, man. What a sweet fuckin’ kid. I mean, fuck.”

  And then it hit me.

  “Summer doesn’t have him,” I said. “But I think I know who does.”

  46

  The night Cedric disappeared,” I said, “he came here.”

  “Snow already comin’ down,” Annie Mae Dozier said, looking past me into the night. “Won’t be long ’til everything grind to a halt.”

  She had just opened her door to my incessant knocking, and was now watching the snow through blinking eyes and big glasses.

  Snow was flurrying and falling, the world outside undergoing a sea change.

  I took a step into her apartment and she had no choice but to back in.

  I closed the door behind me.

  “This is where he came when he was upset,” I said. “This is where he was running to that night.”

  “Sure wouldn’t be to his sorry no-good mama,” she said.

  “But he still calls her,” I said. “After all this time, he still calls her. Why is that?”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders and gave me an expression like she wouldn’t car
e to hazard a guess.

  “He calls her from McDonough,” I said. “Where your daughter the pharmacist who makes good money but can’t have kids lives. Where you yourself will soon be living.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Her small head looked shrunken atop her slumping shoulders, her eyes even more hooded behind her big glasses.

  “He was upset and he came here.”

  “’Cause his mama was out turnin’ a trick for one of the mens who’d touched little Cedric—right out in them there woods like animals. It a wonder Cedric didn’t see them as he ran by.”

  “He’s upset—maybe even more than usual, but more, less, the same, you’ve had enough. No more. Your daughter can take him. She can be a good mama to him, and you a good grandma.”

  “Nobody else linin’ up to do it,” she said. “Tell you that.”

  “You kidnapped a child,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No. He wanted to go. Wanted to be away from all the . . . said would it be all right if he call her sometime. But that all he want with her, just to let her know he okay.”

  “You stayed behind to make sure no one suspected you, but you needn’t have bothered. Cops didn’t do much lookin’ at all.”

  “I gots to sit down,” she said.

  She eased her way over to the sofa and bent a little ways but seemed to be stuck. I stepped over and helped her down.

  She was even thinner and bonier than I realized, and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds.

  “Much ’bliged,” she said.

  I sat down across from her.

  “Why’d you stay so long?”

  “I stay with them lots. Not here much. Just enough. Her old place was small. Wasn’t sure I wanted to move. I got to see him plenty. Still get to be here close to my friends, my gentlemen callers.”

  I smiled. I wanted to do more. Merely smiling showed enormous restraint.

  “Did y’all take all the boys or just Cedric?”

  “What all boys?” she said.

  “Did Laney Mitchell come over here that night?”

  “Who?”

  “Laney Mitchell, co-owner of Scarlett’s, the little bar on the other side of—”

  “Oh, her. No. Why?”

  “She ran after Cedric when she saw him running back here.”

  “Nobody but him. I looked all around. Made sure he wasn’t followed.”

  “Why’re you being so forthcoming?” I asked. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I am surprised.”

  “Your questions were different,” she said. “And the stuff those other womens was sayin’ you said about . . . all that other . . . Knew it just a matter of time ’til you be comin’ back.”

  I waited but she didn’t say anything else.

  “And?”

  “And what? Oh. You can’t prove anything, can’t prove I did anything.”

  I was puzzled.

  “Mickey Davis, a reporter who’s helping me, is in McDonough right now waiting for me to call with your daughter’s address. You can give it to me and he can go get Cedric, or I can call the police and they can go.”

  “Go where?” she said.

  “I just told you.”

  “And I tol’ you we seen you comin’, boy. They long gone—gone and you nor nobody else ain’t never gonna find ’em.”

  “She ran with him?” I said. “Mind giving me the address so Mickey can check it out?”

  “Help yo-self,” she said, and gave me the address.

  “May I borrow your phone?”

  “Be my guest, but you shouldn’t have that poor boy traipsing around down there on a fool’s errand when it about to snow.”

  “Shit, John, I thought I was coming down here to find Cedric and Kenny and the others, and instead I got nothin’ and now I’m stranded down here. I need to be with Camille, need to be helpin’ find Kenny and I’m . . . fuckin’ stuck down here.”

  “No one’s there?”

  “No.”

  “Is it an empty house?”

  “No, it’s a fully furnished home. Got pictures of Ms. Dozier and a woman I’m guessing is her daughter, but no boys. And there’s a note addressed to you on the table.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Can’t make shit like this up.”

  “Do you mind reading it?”

  “Got shit else to do, do I?”

  He opened the letter and began to read.

  “Dear Mr. Jordan. If you’re reading this it means Mom was right. She’s a wily old goat. I’ll give her that. We have vanished and will be extremely difficult if not impossible to find. But I’m asking you not to look. Not to report us to the authorities and not to look yourself. I’m asking this not for me or my mother, but for Cedric. He’s been through so much. Abuse like you can’t imagine. He’s just now beginning to trust and heal and begin to see what he might be able to be. Don’t take that away from him. Please. Think of the pitiful little child, consider the young man he’s becoming. Please pray about it and do the right thing.”

  That was it. A completely unexpected thing.

  “So,” Mickey said, “she only has Cedric. Where is Kenny? Who has Kenny?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m stranded way the fuck down here,” he said. “You’ve got to find him. Please.”

  We ended the call and I looked at Annie Mae Dozier again, this time with a new and greater appreciation.

  “That was impressive,” I said.

  “We been protectin’ that boy for some time now. Learned a thing or two ’bout it.”

  “They’ve gone without you,” I said.

  She shrugged her bony shoulders again, and this time scrunched her face up in a way that seemed to multiply the dark freckles on her face.

  “Too old and slow to run.”

  “You’re giving him up—him and your daughter,” I said.

  “‘Greater love hath no man known than to lay down his life for another,’” she said.

  I had always thought of that Bible verse in terms of dying for someone, but she was right. Laying down her life—what was left of it anyway—was exactly what she was doing, and it was astounding.

  “And you didn’t take the other boys?” I said. “Don’t know what happened to them?”

  “Know nothin’ ’bout no other boys.”

  “Last question,” I said, “and I’ll leave you alone. What was Cedric running from? What was he so upset about?”

  “Didn’t say. Never has said. I got no idea. Maybe he did see his moms out in the woods rutting like an animal. I just know it was bad. Final straw for him and us.”

  47

  I walked back to my apartment in the falling snow, humbled, perhaps even a little humiliated.

  The night air was thin and cold and easy to breathe, the swirling white snow magical somehow.

  Was Kenny, lifeless or otherwise, out in it?

  Where was he? Who had him?

  It was all that mattered right now, and I couldn’t figure it out.

  When I entered my apartment I found a note from Rick saying he had gone to spend his snow day at his girlfriend’s place.

  In my room, I ripped everything off my second wall, scattered it on the floor, and sat in the middle of it.

  Rather than focusing narrowly, I intentionally kept my mind broad and open, flittering randomly from thing to thing like a butterfly drunk on spring.

  This time, don’t just think about the cases. Think about everything you’ve encountered since stepping into this little community.

  As I continued to think, continued to feel the pressure of the clock pounding its time in my head, my mind sped up.

  My butterfly became a bee and I buzzed around from item to item trying to mentally cross-pollinate seemingly disparate bits of information to see what they might produce.

  Nothing came of it.

  It was all too much.

  Kenny was going to die and I couldn’t stop it.

  He’s dead alread
y. So’s Frank.

  I could feel myself beginning to panic, and I wanted a drink in the worst kind of way.

  Stop. Stop it. Breathe. Work yourself up into a frenzy, and you won’t be any good to Kenny or anyone else.

  I’m no good now.

  I took a deep breath and then another and another.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the—”

  My mind hit on something, some connection, then it was gone—too quick for me to grasp.

  What was it?

  It was no good. I couldn’t get it back.

  Get out of your head, back into the moment. Start over.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  You can’t change the circumstances. Stop trying. You can’t control the world. Let go.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  What can you do? You can breathe. You can think. You can do what you can. Nothing more. Nothing else. And it’s enough.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  Cedric was the anomaly. He was different. Why?

  Think about everything. Take it all in. Let go of preconceived notions of what things mean. See them for only what they are. Remove contexts. Remove juxtapositions.

  I thought again about where the bodies could be, then back to what Wayne Williams had said about John Wayne Gacy.

  And then I had it.

  I didn’t like it, but I had it. Or thought I did.

  I rushed outside.

  Raised in Florida, I didn’t have a winter wardrobe, and what I had on now—a button-down over a T-shirt—was inadequate in the extreme. I didn’t care.

  I ran toward the woods. Just like Cedric had.

  Blanketed in white, the silent city was serene.

  I thought about how I just used the Serenity Prayer to calm myself, as a kind of self-talk that would help me deal with the bad patterns in my thinking. I had done the same thing at the hospital while experiencing the guilt over Frank.