Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “Nancy, please don’t hang up. Just listen to me.”

  “Nothing to listen to. Nothing to say. I let go of all that shit years ago. All of it.”

  “I don’t think you did, don’t think you have,” I say. “I’m not talkin’ turning your back on him and home. I’m talkin’ about forgiving him and truly letting it go.”

  “John, he—”

  “Was lonely and unhappy and made a mistake. That’s it. There’s no more to it than that.”

  “A mistake? A mistake?”

  She ends the call again.

  I take a little longer this time, but eventually call her back.

  She doesn’t answer. I get her voicemail.

  Anna and Nancy had been best friends all through school. If she won't talk to me, maybe she’ll talk Anna. I’ll try her one more time. If she still doesn’t answer, I’ll explain everything to Anna and see if she’ll give her a call.

  I wait a little longer, breathe a little more deeply, and try her again.

  She answers.

  “Please don’t hang up again. Just hear me out. Okay?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “At least consider this,” I say. “You wouldn’t be so upset about this, wouldn’t keep hanging up on me, if you had truly let it go and moved on. This is still affecting you. I’m asking you to hear me out, to really forgive him and truly let this go, for you as much as him.”

  “Just say what you have to say, John. I’m listening. I won’t hang up again. No matter how much I may want to.”

  “I was asking you a question when you hung up. I’m not asking it to upset you or make you angry. You don’t even have to give me an answer. Just answer it for yourself. Okay? In all this time . . . in all your relationships . . . are you tellin’ me you’ve never hurt someone, betrayed someone, done someone wrong?”

  She lets out a harsh laugh. “I’m usually the one those things are done to, but yeah. I have. Who hasn’t? But only because of my fucked-up family, my—”

  “If you get to blame it on your family, on your childhood trauma, then so does he. If you’re not responsible for your mistakes, how can you make him responsible for his? You’re making him responsible for his and yours. If he’s responsible, you’re responsible. If your family’s responsible for yours, then his family is responsible for his.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  We are quiet for a long moment.

  Ronnie is in the back of the deputy’s cruiser. Dad and Verna are talking to the deputy on the porch.

  The silence on the other end of the phone goes on so long I think maybe Nancy hung up again.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’m here.”

  I can tell she’s crying.

  “You okay?”

  “Whatta you think? You just told me I’m no better than he is, that . . . I’m . . .”

  “He’s never been in another relationship,” I say. “Not in all this time. He’s still punishing himself, still trying to make it up to you. And you won’t even talk to him.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I know. One other thing. He’s not doing well . . . physically. We’re waiting on some tests to know exactly what we’re dealing with and what the options are, but it looks like it’s cancer.”

  “Goddamn it, John.”

  “Whatever time he has left—which could still be a lot, we just don’t know—would be far better if you paroled him from this prison the two of you have him in.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I look over at Verna and Dad together.

  “He may even still be able to find some sort of happiness,” I add.

  The deputy leaves. Verna and Dad embrace. And he heads over in my direction.

  “He’s walking over here,” I say. “Should I put him on the phone?”

  “Fuck no. I’m not ready.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well . . . okay . . . damn it man . . . put him on.”

  “You sure?”

  When Jack Jordan says “Hello?” he has no idea who’s on the other end of the line.

  “Daddy.”

  At that one word—at who’s saying it and how it’s being said—something inside him breaks.

  It’s Nancy. She hasn’t called him Daddy since childhood. Hasn’t spoken to him since then either.

  Tears sting his eyes and he doesn’t even care.

  “Daddy . . . I’m . . . sorry . . . I’ve been such a—”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he says. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m the selfish bastard who ruined your—”

  “I forgive you,” she says. “I’ve been . . . I’m sorry. I should’ve forgiven you years ago. I was just so young and stupid at the time and I guess I never outgrew it. I forgive you. I understand what you did and why. I really do. I’ve . . . we’ve all done similar shit.”

  He cries even harder as he tries to get it under control and speak so she can understand him.

  She’s crying harder now too.

  “I forgive you,” she says again. “But I need you to forgive yourself and I need you to forgive me for being such a bitch about it all this time. I’ve been so wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “I love you,” he manages to get out. “I love you so much, baby.”

  “I love you, Daddy. I’m gonna come for a visit real soon.”

  “I’d love that,” he says. “I’d love that so much.”

  While Dad talks to Nancy, I step over to the porch to check on Verna.

  “Sorry about all this,” she says. “Ronnie’s . . . He’s been in a bad way for a long time. He’s an addict, which means everything is always someone else’s fault. He does everything obsessively. Drink. Gamble. The whole world is out to get him. Life is less fair for him than anyone else. He’s put our whole family in jeopardy more than once. He’s a user. He uses me. Always has. I’ve covered for him. I’ve enabled him. I’ve put up with . . . more than anybody should. He used Janet. Worked her too hard at his store. Took advantage of her goodness. Even used poor Ralphie like a guard dog, had him watching for loan sharks coming to the house, handed him the phone when debt collectors called. He’s . . . he’s not a nice person anymore. Hasn’t been for some time, but I guess I didn’t realize just how bad he’d gotten.”

  “Are you really apologizing for him?” I ask.

  “For my part. For enabling his behavior so long. For . . .”

  “You’re not responsible for him,” I say.

  “I’m the reason he’s still around,” she says. “I should have . . . left him years ago.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “No, it’s not. And it’s done. I’m done. I’m done with him.”

  We are quiet a moment.

  “Do you have any . . .” she begins. “Do you want to ask me anything about me and your dad? I’m sorry for what happened, sorry that I let it happen. For what it did to your family. I was just in such a bad way, so . . . utterly lost.”

  “You’re not responsible for anything that happened in my family,” I say. “I understand what happened and why it did—for both of you. Dad was so unhappy. He . . .”

  When Dad ends the call with Nancy, he walks over to us and reaches out to hand me the phone—or so I think—but when I step toward him to take it, he grabs me and wraps me up in the biggest hug he’s given me since I’ve been an adult.

  He’s crying and I can feel the moisture from his tears through my shirt.

  I hug him back, holding him almost like a parent would a child—regardless of age—and we remain that way for a long moment.

  “Thank you, John,” he says. “Thank you my amazing son. Thank you so much.”

  40

  We’ve pulled it together and are back behind Sabrina’s mini mansion again, at a table beneath an umbrella on her patio next to her pool.

  When we showed up unannounced at her front door, she asked us to walk around the side of the house to the back like before.<
br />
  By the time we got there she was waiting with lemonade—just like before.

  “I don’t wish to be . . . rude, but please understand the position I’m in now and call before you come by,” she says.

  “Absolutely,” Dad says. “Sorry about that. We’re tracking down a lead we just got and came straight over. It won’t take long. But next time we’ll call.”

  “Hopefully, Sheriff, there won’t be a next time,” she says.

  Today, Sabrina looks even more like a nervous, slightly strung out Patsy Ramsey, and I wonder if for her entire life she’s always tried to look like someone else.

  “Help us out now and maybe there won’t,” he says.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  I withdraw the picture from my pocket and hand it to her.

  She takes it and looks at it.

  “Wow. I look amazing. The light, the way I’m spinning, the way my hair is flying out around my head. Who took it?”

  “So it is you?” I say.

  She nods. “Yeah. Why? Who took it?”

  “I’m not sure. Someone in the farmhouse taking pictures that night.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says. “Am I missing something? I told you I was there for a little while that night.”

  “Whose car is that behind you?” Dad says.

  “I didn’t have a car back then. Didn’t have much of anything. Used to borrow my parents’ car when they’d let me. My aunt, my mother’s sister, was in town that weekend. Came to see me in the Valentine’s pageant. She bought me the dress for it so I didn’t have to wear Goodwill or hand-me-downs. She bought me this outfit too.” She lifts up the picture and waves it back and forth. “I think it was the prettiest I’ve ever felt in my entire life. And she let me borrow her car. For a little while it was the best night of my life.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  She nods. “I felt so . . . I don’t know. It was just a good night, you know? I hadn’t had a lot of them. I felt so grown up, so with it. Hip and sophisticated. Had my own car. I looked the cat’s ass. It was a magic night for me.”

  “You came to the party, but didn’t go inside,” I say. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t stay long, did you?”

  “No. Not long.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Talked to Ben Tillman mostly. He was all sad and . . . He’d been stood up. He’d been drinking and was gettin’ pretty drunk. He was convinced that Janet had gone to meet another guy instead of come to the party. His ego was hurt. I tried to cheer him up.”

  “Who did he think she was with?” I ask.

  She looks away and seems to think about it. “Kathy’s boyfriend maybe or some other guy he thought she had been secretly seeing. An older guy. I’m not sure.”

  “So you talked to Ben for a while and then he left with you,” I say.

  She nods. “He was with me that night,” she says. “I’ve told y’all.”

  “What happened? Where’d you go? What’d you do?”

  “Drove around for a little while. Eventually found a quiet spot to park.”

  “And?”

  “And it was a magic night until . . . He wouldn’t look at me when . . . while we were . . . and then . . . he said her name as he . . . finished.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Wasn’t the last time that happened.”

  “Then I’m really, really sorry.”

  She shrugs. “All’s well that ends well. I’m all good now.” She turns a little to take in her home. “I’ve got everything I always wanted.”

  “Where did you take him after y’all . . . when y’all left the . . .” Dad says.

  “Dropped him off at his house—well, down the block from it.”

  “What time was that?”

  Her eyes narrow and get the accessing-memories look again. “I’m really not sure. It was late, but . . .”

  “Were you late gettin’ to the party?” I ask.

  “A little. Not much.”

  “And you didn’t stay long.”

  “Right.”

  “How long did you ride around? How long did y’all park for?”

  “A while. Couple of hours probably. Why?”

  “Because you provide Ben an alibi for a little while but not nearly the whole night.”

  41

  We spend the next couple of hours tracking down the witnesses from the farmhouse party the night Janet went missing—including Kathy, Charles, Gary, Ann, Valarie, and others.

  Most we see in person. A few we have to talk to via live video—mostly FaceTime, but at least one on Skype.

  We show each of them the picture of Sabrina near her aunt’s car and ask if that’s who they thought was Janet at the party that night.

  Without exception the ones who had said they saw Janet that night say yes, this is the person they believed to be her.

  “So we now know she wasn’t there that night,” Dad says.

  We have just gotten back into his truck after questioning the last witness on our list.

  “Not for sure, but with a relatively high degree of certainty,” I say. “Which argues for it being Bundy instead of Ben.”

  He nods. “Still want to talk to him again.”

  “Let’s do.”

  Unlike the basement bar Ronnie hangs out in, we find Ben at an actual bar. We just have to drive seventeen miles outside of town to do so.

  “Ben wasn’t the one who threatened me in my room,” Dad says.

  “How do you know?”

  “That guy didn’t smell of booze.”

  I smile.

  We walk over to the bar and take a seat on either side of Ben.

  Ben, who is hunched over his drink, looks up briefly, shakes his head slowly, and returns to the previous position.

  The female bartender looks to be in her sixties, but could be younger. She has sun-damaged skin, a smoker’s wrinkles around her mouth, a missing tooth, and wariness.

  “What’ll you have?” she says.

  “Bud Light,” Dad says.

  “Diet Coke and grenadine,” I say.

  “You serve cops in here?” Ben says.

  “Cops and criminals alike,” she says as she withdraws a bottle of Bud from the cooler beneath her, pops the top, and places it in front of Dad.

  “And another one for him,” Dad says, nodding toward Ben.

  She smiles. It’s a good smile. “Oh, I’m sure he’s too principled to take a round from a cop.”

  “Wait just a . . . just a minute there, Sherry Lynn. Not so . . . fast.”

  He turns to Dad. “Take care of my tab and my drinks for the rest of the night and you can . . . and I . . . will . . . talk to you.”

  “You’ll answer all our questions honestly?” I say.

  He turns toward me. “What’d you say Mr. Diet Coke and grenadine?”

  “I bet you have a pretty sporty tab,” I say. “You’ve got to earn it. Answer our questions honestly.”

  “Deal,” he says, nodding. “I have nothing to hide. Hell, I . . . also . . . have . . . nothing.”

  Dad takes out his credit card and hands it to Sherry Lynn. “You can run it for his tab and drinks tonight when we’re done if he answers our questions honestly.”

  She nods, takes the card, turns around, opens her register, puts it in it, and makes a note on a small notepad on the counter beside it.

  “You heard the man, Ben,” she says. “Cooperate with them or . . . I ain’t runnin’ it.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” he says. “I . . . have . . . nothin’ at all anymore. ’Cept a lawnmower my old man bought me.”

  “We know you left the party with Sabrina not Janet that night,” Dad says.

  “Hold up . . . hold up. You’re tryin’ to . . . trick me. That’s not a question. That’s a . . . a . . . the other thing.”

  “A statement,” I offer.

  “It’s just like . . . Junior says,” Ben says. “It’s a . . . it�
�s a . . . a . . . statement. But not . . . the kind . . . that’s like a . . . bill.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you left with Sabrina?” Dad says. “You had an alibi. You wasted our time and resources. Why?”

  “Why?” Ben repeats. “Why? I’ll . . . I’m just drunk enough to tell you why.”

  He pauses to take another swig of his drink.

  “Because . . .” he continues. “Because . . . while my girl was being . . . being killed . . . I was bangin’ some Janet wannabe.”

  He starts crying.

  Dad and I look at Sherry Lynn.

  “Oh, just wait,” she says. “That’s nothin’. Wait ’til he’s had some more and really gets to opening up. He can be one maudlin motherfucker.”

  “I . . . was . . . I was mad,” Ben says. “Thought . . . she stood me up. Thought she was . . . teasing me ’cause she said we were gonna . . . you know . . . for the first time that night. And then she . . . she didn’t show. She . . . I . . . I was fuckin’ Sabrina while she was . . . while Janet was . . . being . . .”

  He has carried around so much guilt for so long it’s a part of his molecular structure now. The grief from losing her would have been difficult enough, but together with the guilt it’s debilitating.

  “Who do you think did it?” I ask. “Who do you think killed her?”

  He looks from me to Dad then back to me, his face a mask of confusion. “Bundy,” he says. “Right? Has to be. He . . . was . . . got her before she . . . She never . . . made it . . . to the . . . party because . . . he . . . I . . . was there when . . .”

  “You were where?” Dad asks.

  “When he . . . when they . . . fried him. I . . . drove down there. Stayed . . . up all night . . . outside the . . . prison. I . . . was there for . . . her when they . . . juiced his balls and short circuited his brainpan. Kicked the shit . . . out of some fuckin’ . . . protestor of the . . . death penalty. Told him . . . about what that . . . son of a bitch Bundy did . . . to my . . . girl.”

  He starts crying again.

  “We . . . wouldn’t . . . we wouldn’t have wound up . . . together. Not . . . not for . . . ever. She was . . . she was too good for . . . me. She was . . . magic. So beautiful . . . so sweet . . . so talented. I worshiped the . . . the ground she . . . walked on.”