Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “Snatched?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like he was pulled?”

  “I guess. At the time I didn’t think much of it. Young man like him. Strong. Fit. I figured he’d come right back up. I feel so ashamed now, but it didn’t occur to me then that something could really be wrong. I mean, I was curious. I actually stepped back over here to get my binoculars, but then my movie came back on and I got into it. I told myself I’d go look again during the next commercial—they have so blame many of them. But then by the next one I had to go to the little girls’ room. By the next break I was asleep and . . . to be honest, I didn’t think about it again until I saw it on the news yesterday. Did I . . . Am I the reason . . . he wasn’t . . . that he died?”

  “No ma’am, you’re not, but what you’re doing now is a tremendous help to us. You’re sure he didn’t just go under? He was pulled?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  Walking back toward the landing, I call Reggie and tell her what Vera her next door neighbor had said.

  “I was gonna go by there on my way home this evening,” she says. “I’m glad you spoke to her.”

  “How well do you know her?” I ask. “How reliable is she?”

  “Don’t know her very well at all, sad to say. I went over and met her when we first moved here. Took her a little Christmas gift during the holidays, but that’s about it. But if she’s right, we’re talking a gator, right?”

  “Seems most likely,” I say, “but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s probably a gator,” I say. “But, and I know this is farfetched, someone could have pulled him under.”

  “That is farfetched but you’re right, it’s at least a possible if not likely scenario based on what she saw.”

  “Or,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Think about the timing of it,” I say. “Megan takes off and he goes under. What if his foot got caught in the bowline of the Jet Ski somehow and it yanked him under when she took off?”

  “Oh my God,” she says.

  “Can you have the techs check the tie rope on the Jet Ski to see if—”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  30

  You still looking for Tommy?” Ralph says.

  I tell him I am. I have just walked back over to the landing from Vera’s and am still juiced by what she told me.

  “He’s on the other side of the river, searching the woods behind the houseboat. You want a ride over there?”

  “Thanks.”

  On the ride across the river in one of Ralph’s search and rescue boats, I realize just how long a swim it was for Shane and Cody. It’s hard to imagine this long, exhausting swim didn’t contribute to what happened to Shane, and maybe it did, but if Vera is right and he was snatched under, it may not have had any impact at all.

  Of course, it could be that when he was pulled under he lacked the strength and energy to break free and resurface.

  Before we reach the other side, I call Sam and let her know what’s going on. She tells me she’s still waiting for the crime scene techs to arrive and will get a ride back to her car with them then head home for the night.

  Ralph steers the bow of the boat up next to the houseboat and I jump onto the porch and then from the porch to the bank beyond.

  I find Tommy up a small path filled with animal tracks near where the owner of the houseboat has his generator chained to a tree.

  “John?”

  He’s happy and a little surprised to see me at first but then grows alarmed.

  “Did they send you to—”

  “No. Sorry. I just came to check on you.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks, man.”

  He takes a few steps back down the trail and we embrace.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  I know it’s a stupid question, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

  “I’m okay. Mostly just sad and tired.”

  I nod and look around.

  “They won’t let me on the water,” he says. “Don’t want me seeing him when they pull him in, so . . . I’m searching everywhere else I can. Every bank I can find, up onto the hill. I searched the houseboat—inside and out, all around it. I’ve walked all over the woods. Searched all the exposed roots of the cypress trees along the banks. They don’t want me to, don’t want me to see him after he’s been . . . in the water this long, and I don’t want to either, but . . . at this point I just want to find him.”

  “I understand. But they will find him. Ralph says they’ve never not found someone. And they won’t quit until they do.”

  He nods. “Told me the same thing. And I get it. ’Course they weren’t even in existence when his brother went missing. He’s never been found. I . . . I just . . . need to do something. But I’m starting to think I need to do something else.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Starting to have crazy thoughts, man,” he says.

  “Like what? Are you okay?”

  “Like thinking someone killed him. There were footprints on this little path and I thought what if someone snuck in from over here, swam over there and killed him?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Just random, crazy stuff. I see footprints and I think stuff like that. I searched the houseboat because I pictured him being dazed and floating over here and climbing in and lying down and passing out or wandering in the woods.”

  “It’s all normal thoughts,” I say. “It’s shock and grief and fatigue and dehydration and lack of sleep.”

  “I know, but the footprints are of bare feet.”

  I nod, feeling overwhelming compassion for him. The footprints are probably those of the houseboat owner walking up to put gas in his generator, but I can understand the leaps of absurdity and futile hope they engender.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “I’m gonna take a little ride up to Fort Benning and tell his friends and talk to them about him. Think it would be cathartic. I know it would do me some good. I was wondering if you’d consider going with me?”

  I didn’t have time, couldn’t get away, had far too many responsibilities with two investigations and my chaplaincy duties and my new family responsibilities, but how could I refuse him anything?

  “Of course,” I say. “Of course I will. It’d be my honor.”

  31

  I find myself with a few extra minutes before having to leave to meet Susan, and decide to stop by to see Megan Stripling on my way out of town.

  The Striplings live in a small wooden house in Blue Gator, not far from the Jehu Cemetery.

  There are no cars in the drive and there doesn’t look to be anyone at home.

  After a long while of knocking, the door opens a fraction and Megan peeks out of the darkness behind it.

  “You here by yourself?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’m here more out of concern for her than anything else, more as a minister than a detective, but since she’s such a young girl at home alone, I press the record button on the digital recorder in my pocket in case our interaction is ever called into question.

  “Would you step out here on the porch and talk to me for just a minute?”

  She slowly opens the door the rest of the way and sort of slinks out onto the porch in wrinkled pajamas. Her hair is matted and her face is puffy.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” I say. “They said you weren’t at school today.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  She has yet to make eye contact with me. Her unfocused eyes just drift about as her head bobbles about slightly.

  “Megan?”

  She stops moving her head but still doesn’t look at me.

  “Megan,” I say louder.

  Her eyes sort of swim over in my direction.

  “Did you take something? What did you take?”

  “I’m not on . . . I haven’t taken anything. I . . . just . . . I’m fuckin’ sad, oka
y? So fuckin’ sad.”

  “Is that why you weren’t at school today?”

  “Nobody understands,” she says. “I loved Shane. I love Shane. Still. I’ll never stop loving him. Not ever. And now . . . he’s gone . . . and I’m all alone. All alone. And everybody thinks I killed him. I didn’t kill him. I loved him. I could never hurt him. Never. I’d die for him. I’d give my life right now to bring him back if I could. I’d rather him live than me.”

  “I’m gonna find out what happened to him,” I say. “If you didn’t do it I’ll make sure everyone knows. Okay? Just hold on a little longer. Be strong for him. Would you like to talk to someone? I can recommend a good counselor who can help.”

  A horn honks as her mother races into the yard, slams on her breaks, slides to a stop, and jumps out.

  “Megan, get inside,” she yells. “And you, you get the fuck out of my yard.”

  Megan looks genuinely afraid and begins to stumble back inside.

  Handing her my card, I say, “I’m here if you want to talk. If not me, talk to somebody.”

  “Hasn’t she been through enough?” her mom says to me. “Not enough that she loses her boyfriend, but y’all make everyone think she killed him.”

  “We haven’t said or done anything that would indicate that,” I say.

  “Bullshit. Just go. And don’t come back without a warrant. And don’t question my child again without her attorney. Understand?”

  “Ma’am, listen to me. I stopped by because I was worried about her. I was concerned when she wasn’t in school today. She’s depressed and in shock and shouldn’t be left alone right now. She should also talk to a counselor who can—”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? Don’t tell me how to raise my own goddamn child. Do you hear me? Now go. Now.”

  She rushes past me, up onto the porch and inside the door, and slams it behind her.

  Back in the car I call Reggie.

  “I’m worried about Megan Stripling,” I say. “Seems as though the court of small-town public opinion has already convicted her.”

  “I’ve heard that’s what’s being said. Lot of people posting about it on Facebook too.”

  “Would you consider making a statement that stresses that we don’t have a suspect yet, that we don’t know that it’s anything other than an accidental drowning at this point, then reach out to her and get a counselor to see her?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  “What if she turns out to have had something to do with what happened to Shane?”

  “Then we will still have acted humanely and with compassion, which is the least we can do in any circumstance and situation.”

  “Think you may be getting your two jobs mixed up,” she says.

  “I might be, but would that be such a bad thing?”

  32

  You mind if we eat while we talk?” Susan asks.

  I shake my head. “Of course not.”

  We are in a booth in the back of the Apalachee in Bristol. The old seafood restaurant, a fixture in this area for as long as I can remember, is mostly empty. Johanna and I are on one side, Susan on the other.

  Partly because of Susan’s erratic behavior, partly because it’s a habit formed from most of my investigative interactions these days, I have the small digital recorder in my pocket recording our conversation.

  I had no way of knowing which Susan I would get, but I didn’t expect this one—warm, friendly, calm.

  Johanna’s in my lap and I find myself unable to stop kissing her head.

  “Your hair smells so good,” I say.

  She is concentrating on coloring the picture on the table in front of her, but says a soft “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Susan smiles at us.

  Who are you?

  She is so different in nearly every way from the last time I saw her that she seems not the same person at all.

  “This is what I always wanted for us,” she says.

  The waitress comes and Susan orders—for all of us, presuming to know what I would want.

  She doesn’t get it right but I don’t contradict her.

  “Sorry again that the filings caught you off guard,” I say. “Just knew I had to prove paternity and petition for a custody hearing and just wanted you to be here so I could.”

  She nods. “I get it. You love your daughter. You’re just trying to make sure you are in her life.”

  I nod.

  “The thing is . . . the way you are with her—” tears glisten in her eyes “—is . . . that’s what . . . that’s the way . . . I’ve always wished my dad was with me.”

  I am overcome with sadness for her. Images of her trying to get her dad’s approval and attention over the years flash in my mind.

  “I can’t keep her from having that, can’t deny her the thing I’ve most wanted my whole life.”

  Johanna stops coloring and looks up.

  “Mommy’s okay,” Susan says. “Just sort of happy and sad at the same time.”

  I hug Johanna and lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  She kisses me back then climbs down, walks over, climbs up into Susan’s lap and hugs her.

  It’s such a perfect act of kindness that it hurts my heart with happiness, and though I want to make sure she never feels like she has to take care of Susan, I also want her always to be moved with compassion for the pain of others.

  “You’re such a sweet girl,” Susan says, “but Mommy is fine. Mommy is mostly happy. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy,” she says. “But I’m gonna stay over here with you for a while.”

  What Susan does next gives me more genuine hope for us, for Johanna, than anything in a long time.

  “Hey, Mommy is really good. Okay? And Daddy doesn’t get to see you nearly as much as he wants to. I really think you should sit with him every chance you get.”

  Johanna looks across the table at me.

  “You miss me a lot, don’t you Daddy?” she says.

  “All the time, baby girl. All the time.”

  “Since Mommy’s okay, I’ll sit with you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Our food comes and I begin to cut up Johanna’s chicken strips to let them cool.

  “You wanna say a blessing, Daddy, or do you want me to?”

  “You,” I say. “You do such good blessings.”

  She folds her small hands and bows her little head and says, “Thank you for the food . . . and the flowers . . . and the sky . . . and Mommy and Daddy. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Susan and I say in unison.

  We eat in comfortable silence.

  After we finish and Johanna is coloring again, Susan says, “We can work this out. On our own. We don’t need the court to get involved.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t have to prove paternity,” she says. “You’re on the birth certificate. You’ve been getting regular visits and paying child support. All we have to do is figure out a visitation schedule we can agree on.”

  “A way to co-parent,” I say. “And to stick with it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want us to make all decisions jointly. All the big ones at least.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want more time,” I say. “I don’t want it to be disruptive, but I think we can do it in a way that isn’t.”

  “I know we can. And we will. But, John, listen to what I want. Okay? Really hear me. I want to move back to Atlanta. I can’t live with my parents one more minute.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish. Listen to me now, I’ve given this a lot of careful thought. Here’s what I propose. You two Skype every single day. You have her most of the summer and most all of any long school breaks. Between now and the fall when she starts kindergarten, we do a week at a time. When she starts kindergarten . . . we do every other weekend, but . . . listen to this . . . the school I want us to put her in is only Monday through Thursday. On your weekends, we meet Thursday and Sunda
y evenings. That way you get Thursday night, Friday, Friday night, Saturday, Saturday night, and most of the day Sunday. What do you think?”

  I can’t help but smile. “I think it’s a very reasonable and generous proposal. And I really think it can work. But I have two concerns. I don’t want this to be too much on her, too disruptive in her little life.”

  “I don’t think it will be,” she says.

  “I’ll want to come up and see her up there. Go to important school events and programs she’s in. As she gets older, I’ll want us to be flexible on which weekends she comes down for because I won’t want her to miss important social functions with her friends. And occasionally I’ll want her to bring a friend or two with her. This will work if we both put her first, truly work together to do what’s best for her.”

  “I agree. And we will. We both love her more than anything. We will do that. I will do it. I promise.”

  “But this past weekend you just showed up and changed everything and took her back early and—”

  “I’m sorry about that. That was a . . . It was a bad time . . . I won’t do that again.”

  “We need a legally binding custody or shared-time agreement—as I think they call it now—filed with and approved by the court.”

  She nods. “I know. I know you have every right to not trust me. So . . . here’s what I was thinking.”

  She removes a file folder from the booth beside her and hands it to me.

  “Here’s a signed and notarized affidavit saying you are her father and me agreeing to everything I’ve just said. You can have Anna draw up the actual custody agreement and file it, but this will serve as some insurance for you in the meantime. And to show even more good faith, if we’re going to do a week at a time, yours can start tonight. I’ve packed her up and brought all her things with us so she can go back with you now. I’ll leave for Atlanta tonight. I’ll go up, get settled in, and be ready for her by the end of the week.”