When I got home, there was a powder-blue ’66 Ford Mustang parked in my driveway. I was wrong; it was not parked. It was backing out. I pulled up behind and blocked it in. I wanted to know who was at my home when I wasn’t. I honked my horn to keep the car from hitting me. The driver slammed on the brakes, pulled back into the driveway, and got out of the car. It was Laura. I hadn’t recognized her outside of her one-ton FedEx truck.
I backed up and pulled in beside her. The gravel crunched under my tires.
“You scared I was going to leave without saying hello?” she asked when I opened the door of my truck. The sound of her voice was barely audible over the creak of my door.
“Something like that.”
“Where have you been? I called earlier, and since I was out driving anyway, I decided to stop by.”
“Unlike most people, my primary workday is Sunday.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”
“Can you stay for a while, or do I have to block you in again to prevent you from leaving?”
“I am leaving, and that’s why I stopped by, but I can stay for a little while.”
“You’re leaving. That’s sort of sudden. Usually women I’m seeing don’t leave me until at least the second or third date.”
“Relax, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m just going home now.”
“Words cannot describe my embarrassment at having you see this place,” I said when we were seated in my living room, each of us with a tall glass of iced tea.
“Don’t be; it’s your place. It’s a part of who you are, or at least who you are becoming,” she said.
“That is truly a scary thought,” I said.
“Not at all. It says that you’re a survivor. You’ve gone through the most difficult thing that you are likely ever to go through, and you are surviving. Granted, it’s not in good shape, but it’s neat and as clean as you could make it and, in some unique way, homey. It says that you are independent, strong, and resourceful. You could live with other people in better homes, but you do not. You need space—autonomy.”
“This trailer says all that to you?”
“And more.”
“I agree. It is a part of who I am becoming or have become. I got into the ministry to serve God and to help people. I lost sight of that as my church in Atlanta got bigger and bigger. I had to have increasingly nicer clothes, cars, houses, and stuff to keep up with the Joneses—my congregation. I was never about that. And, now that my world has fallen apart, I am a prison chaplain, which, like you said, is for those who can’t make it on the outside. A tin man living in a tin box. But, I’m happier. And, I’m doing what God created me to do.”
“You are anything but a tin man.”
“I’m nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m a thirty-two-year-old virgin who drives a FedEx truck for a living and who has only recently decided what she wants to do when she grows up.”
“You’re a virgin?” I asked, shocked beyond description.
“I have intimacy problems, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“No, I hadn’t noticed,” I said, and we both laughed, which is what we needed to do at the moment. “I would like to know more,” I said.
“Yes, I know you would, and that scares the hell out of me. But I want to tell you more. I want to move forward, but there couldn’t be a more unnatural thing for me to do.”
“I understand,” I said.
“I think you really do. I think I can trust you, but I want to know.”
“You want to know you can trust me?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that you can’t.”
She stood. “I can’t trust you?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“No. Sit down. That’s not what I meant. What I meant was that you can’t know that you can trust me. You can never know that you can trust someone until they have repeatedly kept your trust, which they cannot do until you first give them your trust.”
“So I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”
“You’re damned if you don’t trust somebody, not necessarily me, but someone.”
“I usually trust the wrong people,” she said with an ironic laugh.
“Maybe, but I figure you’ve never completely given your trust to anyone, so in that respect, you’ve never truly trusted the right or the wrong people. But to live is to learn to trust—God, others, yourself.”
“You trust yourself?” she asked with the awe of a child. Gone was her adversarial demeanor and quick-witted verbal cuts.
“I trust me with everything but liquor, but I trust myself not to trust myself where liquor is concerned.”
“I am getting to the place where I can truly trust me, but it will be a while for God and people, men especially. With the possible exception of you.”
“It makes sense to make exceptions for exceptional people,” I said and laughed.
She smiled, but not much. It was not the time for jokes.
“I’m sorry. You’re trying to be intimate, and I’m trying to make it easier for you, and that can’t be done,” I said.
“I appreciate it, but you’re right. It’s hard, and it has to be. It’s no small thing that I’m contemplating. I’ve known you such a short time, but I really do feel like I can trust you. It’s just that my judgment has been so bad before.”
“I know.”
“I want to share who I am with you, and I think I can, but . . .”
“But, what?” I asked.
“I need to know if you feel like we might have something here. I think I can trust you, but if this isn’t going anywhere, then I don’t want to do it.”
We were silent. I tried to take in everything, to be fully present in the moment.
Finally, she said, “Well, what do you think?”
“I think,” I began very slowly—I was walking on eggshells with land mines beneath them, “that you would be a lot of work. You are, to use the words of Jesus, ‘a treasure hidden in a field.’ You are going to . . . We are going to take a lot of work.”
She looked down. I placed my hand under her chin and lifted her head up. I gazed into her eyes and caught a glimpse of her soul.
“You would be a lot of work, but in my estimation, very worth it. You should be encouraged that I don’t have unrealistic expectations going in. It means I will be less likely to become disillusioned later.”
She smiled a wide, full smile. The skin under her chin tightened. I wanted to kiss her, but it was not the time. She had much more that she needed to say. Kissing, while very nice, would hinder true intimacy. I knew that. I had used it for just such a thing many times before.
“I’m trusting you,” she said as she pulled my hand from underneath her chin and held it in her lap, “with my secrets. Which means I am choosing to trust you.”
I nodded my head slowly.
“I’m the child of an alcoholic. My dad is a recovering alcoholic. For as long as I can remember, Dad was an alcoholic. I have not one memory of my dad ever really being with me, like you are right now. I feel your total attention.”
“You have it,” I said.
“I never once felt like my dad was around, even when he was. Most of the time he would get drunk and pass out on the couch, but not always. Sometimes he would get violent, slap Mom around a little, but that didn’t happen very often.”
“I am so sorry,” I said.
She stared off into something I could not see.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked.
“So far so good, but there’s more.”
“There always is,” I said.
“On a few occasions when he was really drunk,” she began, her lower lip quivering as she did, “I’m just no ready. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I said.
She looked deep into my eyes, searching for reassurance. I looked back. When she found what she was looking for, she leaned forward to kiss me. When
she was within an inch of kissing me, she stopped, allowing me to kiss her.
I did.
The kiss was everything it should have been at that moment. It was gentle and powerful, a touch that offered each of us the reassurance we needed. I felt at home in her arms, and I could tell that she felt the same.
After we embraced and kissed and cuddled for a while longer, we cooked dinner together. We also ate together, cleaned up the dishes together, and went for a walk together. Eventually, the evening reached its inevitable conclusion.
She was preparing to leave when I said, “Would you sleep with me tonight?”
She hesitated, considering me intently.
“Before you answer or slap me, let me explain. I was married for nearly ten years, during which time I got used to sleeping with someone. Since that time, for a little over a year now, I’ve not had a good night’s sleep. What I’m asking is for you to sleep in the same bed with me. I am not asking you to make love with me. I just need someone to hold me while I sleep—someone to watch over me. Maybe we can keep each other’s demons at bay tonight.”
“I will” was all she said.
We were lying together in my bed—she propped up on two pillows, I with my head in her lap. She held my head tenderly, as if it were precious to her, and ran her fingers along my cheeks and through my hair. At one point I thought she was going to sing to me.
Instead, she said, “Tonight when you asked me to sleep with you, before I knew what you meant, although I guess I suspected, I seriously considered it, something I’ve never done before. You’re unlike any man I’ve ever met.”
I fell asleep hearing such things and slept like a baby full of mother’s milk, safe in its mother’s arms. I slept better than I had in a long time—until three, when she woke me up to tell me the sheriff was on the phone for me.
Chapter 28
“I thought priests had to sleep alone,” Jake said when I arrived at Russ Maddox’s house. Jake and I were brothers. So were Cain and Abel. He was waiting for me in the driveway, standing with his chest out and his arms hanging wide of his body to make room for his muscles and his gun. He had obviously watched one too many Western movies.
Jake Jordan, two years my junior, also had brown eyes and light-brown hair. Although we were both roughly six feet tall, he outweighed me by almost fifty pounds. His dark green deputy sheriff ’s uniform shirt was at least two sizes too small, and his pants puckered and pulled at the pleats.
“We’re not having this discussion, Jake. But I will say that I let my conscience be my guide.”
“You should know better than to listen to your conscience by now,” he said with a sneer. I noticed part of a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, too tired for another verbal sparring match.
“He’s inside doing what the sheriff is supposed to do when there’s been a crime committed.” Jake rubbed the wooden handle of his pistol with his index finger. The small, tender caresses were those of a lover.
When Jake and I were growing up, we both competed for the approval of our childhood hero, our dad. We both received Dad’s approval; however, I received more and was more like a friend than a son. Jake hated me for it. When I moved away, Jake moved in, and when I left law enforcement to enter the ministry, it seemed as though I was no longer a factor in the dysfunctional equation. However, ever since I had moved back to Pottersville, Jake’s insecurities kicked into overdrive. He perceived me as a threat and was even more obnoxious than usual. Had he possessed the slightest insight, he would’ve known that I was an outsider and would forever remain outside, the prodigal that could never fully return home.
“Why are you out here?” I asked.
“Waiting for you,” he said as if it were obvious. “I needed to talk to you.” He removed the toothpick from his mouth and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.
“How thoughtful, Jake,” I said. “I’m touched.”
“Yeah, in the head,” he said and then began laughing as if the joke were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Anyway,” he pointed the toothpick at me, “I wanted to warn you to be careful. You seem to be doing okay now, and I wouldn’t want you to lose it again. Besides, you’ve embarrassed Dad enough. Think of him. Back off, and play it safe.”
I started walking toward the house.
“Wait,” he said. He put the toothpick back in his mouth and dropped his hand down again where it hung wide of his body. “I’m serious. You’ve been gone a long time. Dad’s getting older now. You don’t realize how much he depends on me. He knows he can count on me.” He began to finger the butt of his gun again. “Anyway, he thinks that you’re a pretty good investigator since you worked on those two big cases in Atlanta. The thing is he doesn’t realize that a lot of people worked on those and that you actually screwed one of them up pretty bad. I want what’s best for Dad. And I don’t want to see you on the sauce again.”
“Thanks for your sincere concern, Bro,” I said. “Now, tell me what’s going on here?”
“Russ is dead,” he said emotionlessly.
“Dead?” I asked. “When?”
“Probably sometime last night,” he said.
“How?”
“Not sure,” he said. “But it looks like he was murdered. It’s neat, but it still feels like murder. Pretty exciting, isn’t it? Two years without a homicide in Potter County, and now we have two in a week.”
I nodded.
“When are you going to see Mom?” he asked.
“This week,” I said. “I’m not exactly sure when. How about you?”
He shook his head. “I just can’t deal with that kind of shit. I mean, I know she’s . . . I think Dad and I are going to ride over together. Maybe next weekend. I don’t know.”
“Does Nancy know?” I asked.
“Dad said he was going to call her tomorrow, but I told him he shouldn’t. Hell, she ain’t even a part of this family any more.”
I waited, but he had nothing else to say. “Well, let’s go in,” I said.
“You think you can handle it?” he asked in disdain. “I know you had two pretty big cases in Atlanta, but one of them didn’t turn out too good, did it? What was the name of that girl you got killed?”
“I realize,” I said, “that I’m not a professional deputy of a big-time sheriff ’s department like you, but I’ll try my best to handle it. Besides, if I can’t, you’re a trained professional. You’ll know what to do.”
Inside, Jack Jordan, looking tired and older than he should have, spoke with the county coroner in hushed tones that reminded me of church. His wrinkled clothes and uncombed hair said that he, too, had been in bed and he, too, lived alone.
The body of Russ Maddox was slumped over in an uncomfortable-looking wingback chair covered in plastic and positioned in front of the television. Like the chair, the entire house looked uncomfortable. If the house were lived in, I couldn’t tell it.
“John,” my dad said when he saw me.
“Dad.” I nodded my head. Neither one of us was what you might call a gabber.
I walked over to the chair where Russ’s obese body sat crumpled. His head hung down, the fat gathering beneath his third chin and in large roles of white blubber around his midsection. He was wearing a white silk robe, which gaped open revealing white silk boxer shorts and a tight white silk T-shirt. He looked like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man. Beside his chair stood an ornately carved wooden TV tray with an open bottle of wine, a wineglass, and a small china plate with caviar and crackers on it.
My eyes widened when I noticed the two long, sharp kitchen knives lying near the plate. The knives seemed to be spaced too far apart from the plate, and they were positioned funny. It was just an impression, but it looked as if they had been added later. I looked back at Maddox. There was no sign of violence or trauma anywhere on his body. In stark contrast to the last death I had witnessed, there was not a single drop of blood.
“That is cav
iar, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” the medical examiner said.
“Is it generally eaten with large carving knives?”
“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked.
“You ever been accused of exaggeration, Roger?” I asked.
He smiled, but did not comment. I looked over at Dad. He just shrugged.
“Any prints?” I asked.
“On the bottle, the glass, the plate, the tray—everything but the knives. They’re clean,” Dad said.
“I did find small traces of the light powder residue that is usually associated with surgical latex gloves,” Roger stated as if he had said that he had found wine in the wine bottle.
“Well, now,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Dad. I could tell we were thinking the same thing.
“Is it okay to look around?” I asked no one in particular.
“Everything has been dusted, if that’s what you mean,” Jake responded. He took his toothpick out of his mouth again and tucked it into the left breast pocket of his deputy’s shirt.
“You can take a look,” Dad said and then gave Jake a look that said back off.
I walked across the sculpted Berber carpet, which covered the entire house, save the mahogany floors in the kitchen, dining, and foyer areas. In the kitchen, brass pots, colanders, and ladles hung over the butcher-block island. Like the counters, there was nothing on it, and it had been cleaned to the point of shining. Expensive wineglasses were suspended under the glassed cabinet housing his fine, and I do mean fine, china.
I walked out of the spotless kitchen into the formal living room, continuing my journey through the showpiece of the Potter County Tour of Homes. Every single piece of upholstered furniture sported carefully placed afghans, as if being preserved for an event yet to come, and every piece of wooden furniture was fitted with a sheet of custom-cut glass to cover the top. In fact, with the exception of the dead body in the living room, the entire house could have been a fine furniture store showroom.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 18
