Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  I pull her even closer to me, hold her even tighter.

  “I’ll be fine by first light,” she says. “And if you want to stay with your dad or get to work on the case, I’ll understand. Just had a little meltdown. I just got you and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere—except on vacation with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. We’re going to have a wonderful time. You deserve a getaway. I just wish it was just us—or us and our girls.”

  “I know. Sorry Johanna can’t be there—and that my folks will be, but . . .”

  “We’ll have a great time. Can’t wait to walk along the Gulf at sunset holding your hand.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  Taylor’s rhythmic breathing coming from the baby monitor changes, and I can feel Anna’s body respond. Lifting her head slightly, tilting her ear toward the monitor, she listens.

  Taylor stirs, makes a sucking sound, and then her breathing returns to how it was before.

  After a few moments, Anna relaxes, the tension draining out of her body, and she lays her head back down.

  “If it’s okay, I’ll bring the murder book and read through it after you guys go to bed.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I might have to come back for part of a day to take Dad to the doctor, but—”

  “Of course,” she says again. “How is he? What’s he . . .”

  I tell her.

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

  I nod, my nose rubbing her cheek as I do. “I’d like to go talk to him before we leave in the morning.”

  “Of course,” she says, then laughs a little. “I keep saying that.”

  “But of course,” I say with a little laugh of my own. “Because you’re so generous and accommodating. Best friend and wife ever. Now, get some sleep so I won’t be the only well-rested one for our vacation.”

  That gets a real laugh from her. “You sleep less than anyone I know,” she says.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not well rested. Quality over quantity.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what it means. You need both and you don’t get much of either. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that big blue binder on your nightstand. You’re gonna return to it after I fall back asleep, aren’t you?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  But that’s all it was—a thought. Nothing more. I may have even fallen asleep before Anna did, because I don’t remember anything else until Dad’s call came early the next morning.

  13

  How far’d you get?” Dad asks.

  “Not even through the background,” I say. “It’s very thorough. Well constructed.”

  “You act like you expect something else,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Not at all. Truth is . . . I had no expectations.”

  Having met at the Corner Café and ordered breakfast, we got it to go and crossed the street to eat at a picnic table in Lake Alice Park.

  As usual, Dad is dressed in what for him has been a type of uniform. Like many old-timers in the area, and several sheriffs in the South and West, an aging and scuffed pair of cowboy boots peek out at the bottom of his simple pressed and pleated tan trousers, and an old straw cowboy hat with a chocolate leather band rests comfortably on the crown of his head. His shirt is a solid cotton button-down, the sleeves of which are never rolled up, even in August.

  North Florida is filled with farms and cattle ranches and was home to the original crackers—cowboys who got their name from cracking their whips to herd cows—and boots and hats and cowboy culture lingers, though far more in Dad’s generation than mine.

  It’s early and quiet. The sun has yet to crest the tree tops and burn off the dew. Everything is damp.

  Alice is peaceful, placid, her still surface a mirror of the morning.

  Though not the Sheol it will soon become, the day is already hot and humid, my shirt clinging to my already sweating body the way the dew-damp seat is to my pants.

  “I was trying to think if I’d ever read one of your murder books before,” I add.

  “Probably not. Can’t be many of them. Past forty years I’ve been a damn politician more than anything else,” he says.

  He picks around at his eggs and takes a bite of toast, but seems to have no appetite. As he does, I study him. He’s lost some weight and has that lean, headed-toward-feeble look thin older men get.

  Pale and frail, he appears weakened and unsteady, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he rakes the fork through his scrambled eggs and holds the slice of brownish buttered wheat toast.

  “You did a great job with the book,” I say. “I’m hooked. I want to know what happened to Janet, who’s responsible for her disappearance, and where she is. But . . .”

  “But?” he says, his eyebrows rising. “There’s a but?”

  “I came to talk about your blood work, what it means, what’s next. We can get to the case later.”

  He shakes his head. “I came to talk about the case. We can get to that other stuff later.”

  “That other stuff is your health.”

  “And it’s not gonna change much while we talk about this case.”

  Raised the way I was, by Jack Jordan, where I was, in the South, I was trained from an early age to respect and defer to elders, especially my dad, so of course that’s what I do—but this time, not without a little bargaining.

  “We can talk about the case first,” I say. “But only if you promise to talk to me about the other stuff afterward.”

  He nods.

  “I have your word?” I say.

  “My word,” he says, still nodding.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sure you have questions for me,” he says, “but my first question for you is are you in? Are you gonna help me investigate it?”

  I nod. “I am. I will. I will have to work it around several other things—including a family vacation that starts today, but yes. I’m in.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot on you,” he says, “but this is important. The clock is ticking.”

  Always pushing. A chief character trait of Jack Jordan is that he pushes. It’s often subtle, often gentle, but it’s always there. He’s always working on something and always pushing it, pushing at it, pushing you to help him with it. This is going to be no exception.

  “The clock has been ticking for forty years,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s about to run out. And I’m not just talking about my . . . the health stuff I’m dealing with. Do you know how many unsolveds in the Panhandle I think might be the work of Bundy?”

  I shake my head.

  “Five that are a very strong likelihood and another four that are at least a possibility. So why am I working this case and not them?”

  “This was your case.”

  He nods. “For a while it was. You’re right. But I plan to eventually work all the cases—and hope to solve them before I’m through.”

  “So why this one first?” I say.

  “It’s not just that this one was my case, it’s that it’s my fault it didn’t get cleared back when it should have. All the suffering of Janet’s family, especially her mom—but of Ben’s family too. All of it. It’s my fault ’cause I didn’t do my job, ’cause I didn’t stick around to close it when I should have.”

  I nod.

  “But that’s not why the clock’s ticking. And it doesn’t have as much to do with my clock ticking as you think. It’s because of the newly elected state’s attorney. She has promised to bring charges in the case. Hell, it was actually part of her campaign platform. She has a mandate to clean house, end corruption and the good ol’ boy network. She’s accusing me of a cover-up, of letting Ben go because his dad was a friend of mine. She plans to file charges against him any day now.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t do it? What made you clear him?”

  “I don’t think he did it, but I’m not as sure now as I
was back then. If he did it, I want to be the one to find out and build the case against him. If he did it, he and his dad made a fool out of me.”

  “What made you clear him?”

  “Why don’t you read the rest of the book first and see what you think, and then we’ll talk about it,” he says.

  I nod. “That’s a good idea. Is it okay if I take it with me to Mexico Beach and read it as I can this week?”

  “Yeah, but I was hoping you could finish it today and we could start working on it tomorrow.”

  “I’ve promised Anna not only to go on this vacation but to be fully present with her while I’m there.”

  “But—”

  “That part is nonnegotiable,” I say. “But, I should have plenty of time to finish the book soon. And I’ll only be a half hour away. Maybe I can get away for an afternoon and we can drive to Jackson County and reinterview some witnesses.”

  He’s obviously not satisfied by that, but he nods his resignation as he frowns and lets out a little sigh.

  “Anything you want to ask me?” he says. “Anything stand out to you at this point? Or do you want to finish the book before we really delve into it?”

  “Tell me about the blood in the car,” I say. “What made y’all think it was Janet’s?”

  “It was AB negative—just like Janet’s. It was female. Which is about all they could tell us back then. Why?”

  “My first question of a supposed murder where there is no body. . .” I say. “Is she really dead? Was it her blood? Did she fake her own death in order to disappear?”

  He nods. “I considered that but maybe not enough. There was nothing in her life and background—at least that I found—that made me think she would want to disappear. I mean nothing.”

  I think about it. We should dig deeper there to make sure that was actually the case.

  “But the real reason I believed then that she was dead and still believe now that she is . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “AB negative is a very, very rare blood type—the rarest—and no one could lose as much blood as was in that car and survive. The ME said so.”

  14

  For my entire life, my dad has been as stable and consistent as anyone I’ve known. He has his quirks and he’s held me at arm’s length, but he’s been constant—an unmoving anchor in our family, a fixed star in the night sky by which I have navigated my life.

  For that to now be changing, shifting beneath my very feet, has me off balance, searching for stability and footing, finding none.

  “What made you go to the doctor in the first place?” I ask.

  We are similar in our avoidance of doctors, hospitals, and medication.

  “Clothes kept growing,” he says. “They were fallin’ off me and I couldn’t figure out why. Was tired all the damn time. Weird swelling in different part of my body—neck, underarms, stomach, and I was keeping a fever. It wouldn’t go away. All that for long enough’ll send anybody to the doctor. Even me.”

  I smile. “Just not as hardheaded as you used to be.”

  “That’s a risk factor,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “Old age. I’m less stubborn ’cause I’m less everything these days. Two main factors for CLL is oldness and whiteness. Tick those two boxes for damn sure.”

  “Did you read the information Brown sent with your blood work?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “You don’t know for sure you even have it.”

  He smirks and gives me a get real expression. “Pretty sure.”

  “He wants to do a bone marrow test to make sure.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t know about that.”

  “What’s not to know?”

  “May just let it run its course. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

  “The literature he sent said depending on a few factors, it can be treatable.”

  “Just not sure I want to spend my final days in a sterile room having poison pumped into my body.”

  “That’s not how it would be. Plus it could give you many more days.”

  “Could.”

  “Yes, could. Could give you more time to work this and other cases. Could give you far more time with your granddaughters.”

  He nods noncommittally. “I’m just so damn tired as it is.”

  “But that’s most likely the leukemia. That will get better once we deal with it.”

  “Maybe,” he says, his mouth twisting into a half frown. “I don’t know. I think I’d just rather get my house in order, finish up what I can—including Janet’s case.”

  “At least have the test and follow-up appointment with Brown so you can make an informed decision. Seems the least you can do for me if I’m going to solve your case for you.”

  His face breaks out into a big smile that makes him look twenty years younger and much less pale and frail.

  “I’ll do you one better,” he says. “You solve this damn case, and I’ll do the damn treatment.”

  15

  I arrive home expecting to find Anna packed and ready to ride, but instead find her cleaning.

  “I figured you’d be in the car waiting,” I say.

  Taylor is in her highchair at the kitchen table eating Cheerios with her small fingers; Anna scrubbing the grout of the tile floor near her.

  She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

  I immediately kneel down beside her.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Mom fell and broke her wrist while she was packing up the car,” she says.

  “Oh no. How is she? Where is she? Does she have to have surgery? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m being silly again. She’s going to be okay. They’re not sure yet whether they’re going to have to operate.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I say. “What do we need to do? Go up there? Do they still plan to go to the beach?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s what I’m most upset about. The damn vacation. I was so looking forward to it. I . . . I just . . .”

  “Need it,” I say.

  “Obviously,” she says. “Look at me. I’m tearily cleaning the freakin’ grout.”

  I smile.

  “At least it’s good news for you,” she says. “Not only do you not have to leave your dad or the case, but you don’t have to spend a week in a beach house with my parents.”

  “Listen to me,” I say. “I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this, how much you need it, deserve it. There’s no way we’re not going. Unless your mom needs you up there, we’re still going.”

  “Really?” she says, a small smile dancing at the corners of her lips.

  “Really.”

  “I figured you’d use this as a chance to get out of going, that you’d be so relieved not to have to go that you’d—”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So we can go?”

  “Unless you’d rather stay and clean the grout.”

  She pretends to consider it, acting as if she’s torn.

  “Do you think we need to go to your folks? If we do, we can—and we’ll turn even that into a vacation all its own. One way or another, you’re getting away and relaxing.”

  “I’ll double check, but she said she’s okay, that there’s nothing we can do. They told us to go ahead and use the cottage, but I didn’t think you’d want to.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “You know I do.”

  “Then you should know I do too.”

  Dropping the small brush she is scrubbing with, she lunges toward me, arms outstretched for an embrace, wrapping me up in a big hug, but I’m unable to keep my balance from my kneeling position and her momentum carries us back. We fall to the floor, her on top of me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I nod. “But I think my skull may have put a chip in the tile.”

  16

  The late afternoon sun splashes bright orange on t
he cumulus clouds above it while all around it the deep plum-colored sky slowly devolves into darkness.

  Stillness. Peace. Breathtaking beauty.

  I’m alone on an empty stretch of beach.

  A weekday toward the end of August, school in, tourists from Alabama and Georgia returned home, nearly all of Mexico Beach is open and uninhabited these days.

  Sitting on sand so white, so soft, so fine it has the consistency of refined sugar without the stickiness, I am mindful of my breathing and my thoughts.

  Before me the green waters of the Gulf roll in and back out again, their crash and splash joining the airy sound of the wind to create an aural tunnel of forceful white noise, pierced intermittently by the screech and squeal of seagulls.

  Closing my eyes momentarily on the elegance and magnificence, I breathe even more slowly. In and out. In and out. Conscious of my breathing. Mindful of my thoughts.

  I’ve come to this secluded section of Mexico Beach to meditate and pray, to recalibrate and reconnect—activities that too often get crowded out by less important endeavors during my days.

  Though I was less than enthusiastic about this retreat from the routine of our daily lives, I need this every bit as much as Anna, and I am grateful to be here.

  Like a child fighting falling asleep—something else I too often do—my life would be far better if I would relax into opportunities like this one instead of fighting against some of the very things that are so good for me.

  Over the course of my life, my spiritual practice has evolved and expanded, shifted and changed, but it has always included this—prayer and meditation in the splendor of North Florida nature.

  Thoughts come and I let them go, observing but not engaging with them.

  I breathe in the beauty.

  I express my gratitude and my love.

  Everything about my experience is restorative and nurturing, and I realize, as I always do, just how much richer and sweeter and deeper my life would be if I would just insist that this be a more consistent part of my daily routine.