“Mom,” I whispered when I had rolled up beside her bed.
She didn’t respond. Her back was to me. I sat there and stared at her for a while before I attempted to rouse her again. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was only tied at the top, revealing a backbone and ribs that protruded so far out as to make her look like a sack of bones. She reeked of urine, sweat, drool, and a few other chemicals that were foreign to me.
“Mom,” I said a little louder this time.
She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed. What I wanted to do was to wheel back out of the room and say, “Well, I tried.”
“Mom,” I said even louder and this time directly towards her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.
Her eyes opened, and in them I saw fear—fear of death, fear of life, pure fear. In that moment, all of my rage toward this wounded old woman seemed to melt like the numerous candles I had lit for her. Now, in liquid state, it ran out of me, across the floor, and out the door.
She closed her eyes again. I think the closeness of my eyes to hers made her uncomfortable. She probably needed a drink. I sure did. I rolled the chair back slightly, and this time, when she opened her eyes again, that is how they stayed.
“John, John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober.
“Hey, Mom, how are you?”
“I’m dying,” she said flatly.
Her honesty was so refreshingly simple that I decided to return it. “That’s what I hear. I’m very sorry. I love you.”
“JJ, what happened to you? Why are you in here?”
“I was in a little car accident, but I’m okay. Looks worse than it really is,” I lied.
“John, I’m so sorry.”
“Mom, it’s nothing really.”
“No. I mean for what I’ve put you through. You were always so sensitive. It’s no wonder you turned to the bottle with a mother like me. I just wanted you to know, if I could have stopped, I would have, for you. Hurting you is what hurt the most. God, forgive me.”
“He has,” I said, with as much conviction as I had ever said anything.
“Can you?”
“I have,” I said.
And though that was not the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.
Chapter 37
I was lying on my couch, my head propped on several pillows. It was Saturday afternoon. Anna and Laura had driven me back to Pottersville from the hospital and tripped over each other trying to wait on me once we had arrived. They had already cooked and cleaned in preparation for my homecoming, and my tin house sported a dull shine and the smell of pine. Finally, after nearly three hours, I had convinced them to leave so I could take a nap. They agreed to do so only with the understanding that they would be back and soon.
I attempted to lean forward slightly and sit up some so that I could read the newspaper accounts of what was happening in my life. My entire body was stiff and sore. The pain, like small needles, shot through me in sharp staccato punctures. It took awhile, but when I was finally up, I pulled the papers up towards me, letting them rest in a neat stack on my upper abdomen.
The first story was in Tuesday’s Times. It said I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. It detailed how the accusations concerned things done in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. The report went on to say that although there were no charges filed yet, they were believed to be forthcoming. The article quoted not one source and failed to mention that I had been hospitalized after being beaten by correctional officers.
There were three papers that carried the story on Thursday—the Panama City Tribune, the Potter County Examiner, and the Tallahassee Times. The Tribune repeated what the Times reported the day before, adding only a few minor details, including a quote from some local ministers who said that the Christian community did not need any more scandals and that I was in the hospital in connection with an automobile accident.
The Potter County Examiner, where my uncle was the editor, said that a man is not guilty just because some inmates or their families accused him and that everything the Tribune copies from the Times is not necessarily true. Thank you, Uncle Mike.
The most damaging report of all, however, came out of Thursday’s Tallahassee Times. It detailed the current charges in three paragraphs and then went on to report that the Stone Mountain Home Journal had carried a story nearly two years ago accusing me of sexual misconduct. It highlighted the best parts of the Journal’s articles, including my alcoholism, divorce, and being asked to leave my church. I felt all of the old embarrassment and depression rolling over me like a fog, but the worst was still to come.
Friday’s Times carried an additional article complete with quotes from some of the members of my church in Atlanta and my ex-wife, Susan. The members said how they never would have believed it and still couldn’t. I was, in their opinion, a wonderful pastor and a good man, but they somehow conveyed the impression that theirs was the minority opinion.
Susan said that she knew me better than anyone and that none of this surprised her. She said that, although it was never proven, I was suspected of stealing funds and having an affair with a depressed woman I had been counseling at the time. I was pond scum, she was convinced of it, and soon everyone would know it.
No one mentioned the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.
I sat there in shock. My head was light, and the room was spinning. Thoughts shot through my mind at warp speed, and all of them were as black, cold, and empty as I was. I wanted to run away. I wanted to move to a foreign country where nobody knew any of this stuff and where nobody cared.
Of all of the depressing thoughts that plagued my mind, one turned over and over like clothes tumbling in a dryer. The inmate library at Potter Correctional Institution received daily copies of the Tribune, the Times, and the Potter County Examiner. All of the work I had done to establish trust and confidence with the inmates was being leveled with a wrecking ball known as the free press. I was thinking seriously about having my first drink in two and a half years when I heard a knock on the door.
Like an idiot, I said, “Come in. It’s open.”
A young woman with light-blond hair, pale white skin, and light blue eyes came in. She was wearing a blue business suit roughly the color of her eyes, and I thought I detected a shoulder holster underneath her jacket.
“Reverend Jordan,” she said as she walked in, “I’m Rachel Mills. How are you doing today?”
“How do I look?” I asked.
She laughed. “You do look like somebody got ahold of you.” She seemed nervous and awkward. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“That depends on why you’re here.”
“I’m with FDLE. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Have a seat. I thought you might be here to ask me out, in which case you couldn’t be seated because I’m seeing someone.”
She looked at me as if I had just exposed myself.
“It’s a joke.”
“When one is charged with sexual assault, one should not joke about such matters,” she said in an old maid school mistress tone.
“When one is innocent,” I said, “one should feel free to joke about whatever one wishes. Besides, I thought you were here to ask me about the charges against Matt Skipper. He has been charged, not I. You made the same mistake as the paper by saying that I was charged with sexual assault, when really I’ve only been accused of sexual assault.”
“It’s practically the same thing,” she said.
“If one were more professional,” I said, “one would realize the day-and-night difference between an accusation by a private citizen and a charge by a state or federal agency.”
“I did not come to be insulted by you. I came in search of the truth,” she sa
id defensively.
“Truth is the last thing you’re here for, if you believe that an inmate’s wife’s accusations are practically the same thing as charges from your office.”
“Well,” she huffed, “I happen to be passionate about the rights of inmates and prisoners, and I’m sick of the people who exploit them because they are powerless to defend themselves.”
“It sounds like a good crusade, but if it blinds you to the truth, then it’s evil. Like all inquisitions, crusades, and witch hunts, passion must be tempered with wisdom and an open mind. If you are convinced of something before you investigate it, you will only prove what you already believed.”
“Fair enough. I am in search of the truth, and you are innocent until proven guilty.”
“Or in this case, just plain innocent,” I said.
“I sincerely hope so, of course. The church sure doesn’t need another scandal these days—crooked televangelists, pedophile priests.” She paused for a minute and shook her head slowly. “Well, I really do need to ask you some questions.”
I nodded.
“Where were you last Tuesday night? By the way, do you mind if I tape this?” she asked, pulling out a microcassette recorder.
“No, I don’t mind. And I was in the hospital, I am told. I was unconscious.”
“Oh no, I meant the Tuesday night before that. If you will lead me through all the events of that night.”
“I was at an AA meeting in a Sunday School room of the First Methodist Church of Panama City, Florida, from six until eight. I then went to Applebee’s on Twenty-third Street with two of the members of that group. I then drove home, arriving about twelve forty-five. I read a little and then went to bed . . . alone.”
“Can someone corroborate your story?” she asked.
“AA is anonymous. It would be their choice, but I’ll ask.”
“It’s not that important. The crime was said to have occurred later anyway, but if they’re willing, it wouldn’t hurt. Did you speak to anyone after you got home that night who could confirm your whereabouts?”
“No.”
“Do you know Molly Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve probably spent a sum total of three or four hours with her. Most of that time has been in the visiting park of the institution. I’ve counseled her and her husband during some of their visits together, at their request, of course. They, like most inmate couples, were having some marital problems and wanted my help.”
“Were you able to help them?”
“Apparently not. I thought so at first, but then lately something has happened to Anthony, her husband. He is on a serious downward spiral.”
“Have you ever met with Molly Thomas by herself at or away from the institution?”
“Yes, I have. Last Friday. I mean a week ago last Friday—she called and asked to see me, saying it was an emergency and she was scared to come to the institution. So we met in the pastor’s office of the Methodist church in Pottersville.”
“What was the nature of that meeting?”
“She described what took place the Tuesday night before when she was raped at the institution and asked for my help.”
“Who did she say raped her?”
“Her husband.”
“He’s an inmate. How could he have even seen her?”
“Captain Skipper arranged it, according to her, but interrupted them in the middle and then stalked her that night and tried to break into her home.”
“Why didn’t you come forward with this information?”
“I’ve been in a coma, but my friends turned it in after he assaulted me.”
“Was there anyone present at your meeting with Molly Thomas that Friday?”
“Yes, one of my few rules is that I will not counsel a woman alone. The pastor of that church, the Reverend Dick Clydesdale, was in the next office monitoring the session, and I told Molly that he was.”
“Would you be willing to submit blood and semen samples? If you’re telling the truth, it will clear this up quickly.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, telling the truth does no good and nothing can clear this up quickly. I’m being drawn and quartered in the press. Can you clear that up?”
“If you will submit those samples and they test negative, I will guarantee you front-page coverage of that fact and a chance to tell your story. What do you say?”
“I say, pardon me if I’ve become cynical, but I don’t believe you. However, I will submit the samples, because I am telling the truth.”
“I sincerely hope so. It would be a refreshing change.”
Chapter 38
After reading all the accounts of my alleged misconduct in the papers and talking with Rachel Mills, I was exhausted. I took a nap, but not before praying for my total recovery and for me not to have AIDS.
Please, God, anything but that. I couldn’t handle it; you know that. I’m not nearly strong enough for that.
It was at that moment that a voice inside my head said that God would never put more on us than we can bear.
That’s not what I want to hear right now. I want to hear that there is power in the blood. Power to cleanse me. Power to heal me. Power to kill HIV if it’s in my blood. I want to hear, by his stripes we are healed.
And then I fell asleep and had more bloody nightmares.
I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. Since it was probably a reporter, I decided to let the machine catch it. I nearly broke my neck and reopened all of my wounds trying to get to the phone when I heard Sandy Strickland’s voice.
“Wait, I’m here,” I said, snatching up the receiver.
“I don’t blame you for monitoring your calls today. You’re really in a bad way, aren’t you?”
“Pretty bad.”
“I’ve heard some very disturbing reports about some things you’ve been doing—crimes, I mean, and against women. I was shocked. I was also confused. I thought you were different.”
“Me, too. They’re not true,” I said, but it didn’t sound very convincing.
“Well, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And there’s a lot of damn smoke around here.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. All I ask is that you withhold judgment until all this is cleared up. It won’t be long. Are you back at the prison?” I asked.
“Not officially, and I’m glad. It’s a zoo out here. You’ve made it difficult for all of us.”
Her words and anger stung like slaps.
“Sandy, please listen to me. I didn’t do those things—any of them.”
“You’re lying, you son of a bitch. I hate men like you. I’m glad you have HIV.”
“What?” I whispered as the breath suddenly rushed out of me.
“That’s right,” she said and began to laugh. “What does the Bible say? You reap what you sow.”
“I can’t. I—”
“You do. And it’s called poetic justice,” she said.
And then there was a click. And in a few seconds, a dial tone.
I sat there with the phone still at my ear. I couldn’t move. I was seized by fear. It wasn’t shock. I wasn’t in shock, because she gave me the news I had expected. I knew that I had HIV the moment I had discovered the cut on my leg.
“Well, that’s that,” I said as I hung up the phone.
I now knew that I was going to die—sooner rather than later. Death had come into the room with me and said, “You’re mine.” And he was right. I was his, but not by the cursed blood in my veins, but by a bullet in my head that would let all that bad blood drain out. Or, maybe, the killer would do me the service of cutting me open.
That was it. That killer had done this to me. I was another of his victims. He had killed me, too, probably didn’t even know it. I made a vow, then and there, to find him and make sure he knew that I was one of his victims—find him, so we could die together. I was dying, but before I did, I was going to find the man responsible and wo
e be to that man.
I was climbing on a pale horse to go and track him down, and the name of that horse was death, and hell followed after him. In that moment, I pushed the knowledge of the disease so far down inside me that it became nearly unconscious. I was going to die, but there was no reason to let that rob me of the little life I had left.
And then I broke. I cried for hours. I also searched my house for liquor, but found none. I buried my face into my pillow, baptized by my tears, and fell asleep and dreamed of death. I did, however, wake up. I woke up a new man—a man on a mission.
Chapter 39
There are a few places in Florida that have within them all that Florida has to offer—fields, forests, rivers, lakes, and beaches. Potter County is just such a place. You can stand in the middle of the huge trees of the Apalachicola National Forest and feel as landlocked as if you were in Montana, but a twenty-minute drive brings you to the Gulf of Mexico. Pottersville is home to farmers and fishermen, and I love its duality. Of all of Pottersville’s natural resources, one of the most beautiful and most powerful is the Apalachicola River.
On Sunday afternoon, in record-setting heat, I was lying under a tall bald cypress tree near the bank of the river, my head on Laura’s lap. Her lap was not as comfortable as the soft stack of pillows in the hospital and in my trailer; there were, however, other consolations.
The base of the bald cypress swelled to four times the circumference of the rest of the trunk, and there were cypress knees shooting up all around it. The grayish brown, spiraling base of the tree was normally covered in water, but the summer was dry and the river low.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 24
