Blood Stone (John Jordan Mysteries Book 17)

by Michael Lister

During all this time each in his or her own way expressed care and concern, told me how lucky I was to be alive and various facts that had come out or been uncovered about the killer.

  But I wasn’t interested.

  I wasn’t interested in anything. Usually when a case had reached a conclusion I wanted to know as much as I could, tried to answer all the little questions—like why Patrick Dorsey attended the funeral of one of the victims or if Benton Weston had really been out of the country, or why Stan the Camera Man had acted so suspicious, or why Walt had taken such a dislike to me, and if Erin had been behind it all, but I wasn’t the least bit interested in any of it.

  I had no appetite. Not for anything.

  I had no curiosity. No wonder.

  I had no sense of taste—all the food I consumed during that time, what little there was of it, was all texture and no taste.

  Similarly I had no taste for information about Aaron or how he pulled off what he did or how he had done it before in other locations.

  I didn’t care.

  What did it matter? What would it change?

  I sincerely wished he hadn’t done what he had, that he hadn’t stolen identities and changed names, and offered sacrifices, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

  They told me how his mother had been a sexual sadist who ran a traveling religious theater company, how in addition to torturing her two sons she had taught them how to perform, how to disappear into a role, to become the part they were playing, how to fake everything from fingerprints to the norms of human interaction.

  I remembered asking how he had faked his fingerprints to get the SMPD job and being told the key was stealing the identity of someone who had never been printed before—something true of Aaron himself also.

  They told me how the most popular play his mother’s theater company had performed around the country was that of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah. They told me how his mom had killed his brother and how he had killed his mom, but I truly didn’t care.

  Maybe if I had saved Summer I’d feel differently. Maybe.

  But right now I didn’t care about anything and I had no idea how to change that even if I had cared to, which, of course, I didn’t.

  “Did you love her?” Susan asked. “Sorry. Don’t answer that.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’m gonna go soon,” she said. “Just had to make sure you were going to be okay. Now that you’re awake more and they say you’re gonna recover, I’ll . . . I won’t intrude.”

  I started to say something, but before I could she started speaking again.

  “I know I love you more than you love me—or maybe in a whole different way, but . . . I just want you to know that . . . I’m okay with that. I really am. I figure that’s the way with a whole lot of relationships that seem to work. I mean . . . what are the chances two people could feel the exact same way about each other, right? Anyway, what I’m tryin’ to say is . . . I’m gonna leave you alone now, but if you ever change your mind and want to give us another try . . . I’d be game—even knowing what I know.”

  Hearing her say that broke my busted and bruised heart all over again and made me want to love her the way she deserved.

  I closed my eyes for a moment but it must have been far more because when I opened them again Merrill was sitting where Susan had been.

  “You hear me?” he was saying. “My black ass drove three hundred miles up here to tell you that.”

  “What?” I managed to ask.

  “For you not to give a fuck what anyone says or what the papers print. They can’t know. No one can. Fuck ’em. You the man. You. You did what none of them could ever do.”

  I tried to nod.

  “I know you,” he said. “Sure, you don’t give a damn about anything right now, but you will again—and sooner than you think. You gonna do that thing you do and you gonna care too much, care what was said, care what you did or didn’t do, so what I’m tellin’ you is for then far more than now. Do yourself a favor and give less of a damn. Lock all this shit in a box and bury it somewhere and for fuck sake don’t ever dig it up. You feel me?”

  The next time I opened my eyes, Frank was there talking.

  “None of that matters,” he said. “None of it. But I’ll tell you what does. You put down the madman. You’re one hell of an investigator and you’re going to have an amazing career, but no matter what else you do . . . you’ll always be the man who . . . uncovered the Stone Cold Killer. Always. Not many of the very best and experienced law enforcement officers in the world can say something like that. Doesn’t matter how or . . . Doesn’t matter what happened up there. You’re the only person on the planet that knows and it’s my hope you’ll keep it that way.”

  I nodded and knew in that moment that was exactly what I was going to do.

  “You know how much I . . .” he began. “How much I love my family. They are my . . . everything. Since you’ve been up here . . . several times over the years I . . . I felt like you were part of my . . . You’ve felt like a son to me. My own boy is . . . well, he’s my heart and soul. And I . . . I just want to say—to try to tell you that . . . nothin’ would make me happier than . . . than if he grew up to be just like you.”

  That made me cry in my sleep. I had no idea what I did awake. Thankfully.

  The next time I opened my eyes—or remembered opening them—less cobwebs covered my brain, and I had a mental awareness and clarity I hadn’t had since before I had been shot.

  This time, dressed far more casually than before, Frank was there with his wife, who smiled and attempted to comfort me, though her face was pale, her hair thin and wispy, her body brittle and frail.

  “I’m so glad you’re still with us,” Sylvia said.

  I smiled up at her. “I’m glad we both are.”

  “I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon,” she said. “What about you?”

  I shook my head. “No ma’am. Me either.”

  She reached down with her cold, bony hand and tenderly touched my cheek. “I’m gonna go sit down in the waiting room and read while y’all talk but I had to come in and tell you you’re in my prayers and you can expect some good home cooking when you get out of here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frank saw her to the door then came back and said, “You seem a lot better.”

  I nodded. “I am.”

  “Been pretty foggy,” he said. “What do you remember?”

  “Not much.”

  I tried to sit up some, but the searing pain in my abdomen and side dissuaded me. I could feel my skin going clammy and the contents of my stomach rising up my throat.

  “Do you remember what I told you about the other victim or the killer?”

  I shook my head, swallowing hard against the bile. “What other victim?”

  “You don’t remember any of it?”

  “No. What other victim?”

  “We found another body,” he said. “It had gotten lodged on the carving.”

  “Since when?”

  “About a week.”

  “How long have I been in here?” I asked.

  “Three days.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Young woman who lived in the little town of Stone Mountain,” he said. “Celine Patton. She wasn’t running in the park. We think he picked her up in town. You okay? You look like you might . . . be sick.”

  I nodded. “It’s passing.”

  “Want some ice water?”

  I nodded again. “Thanks.”

  He lifted the small plastic pitcher from the hospital table and poured ice and water into the little plastic cup, the flexible straw twirling around in it as he did.

  He handed me the cup and I drank slowly from the straw, the cool water settling my roiling stomach almost immediately.

  “What about Aaron?” I asked.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said. “When you feel better. I just . . . It’s just that I didn’t want you hearing it from anyon
e else.”

  “What?” I asked. “I’m fine. Tell me.”

  “We found Summer’s body near where we expected it to be,” he said, “but . . . we still haven’t found Aaron’s. Are you sure he went off the side of the mountain?”

  “What? Positive. His body should be very close to where Summer’s was. Are you sure it’s not—”

  “We’re still searching,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe—”

  “You haven’t found him?” I said. “Are you—Did you look in the trees? Maybe he got hung up in the trees like Daphne.”

  “We’ve looked,” he said.

  “He went over too far away from the monument to get caught in it, but what about an outcropping or—”

  “We’ve had rock climbers and helicopters and everything else searching the entire area,” he said. “We’ve been looking for traces of blood or anything—was he injured before going off the mountain?”

  I shook my head.

  “He probably got caught on something,” he said. “We’re still looking. We’ll find him.”

  “He could’ve gotten caught on a boulder or outcropping or something and survived,” I said. “What if he caught himself and climbed back up or . . .”

  “Even if he did, which I doubt it . . . the park is closed. We’ve got the place surrounded, exits blocked, armed search teams combing every inch of the—we’ll find him. I just wanted you to know. But I don’t want you to worry. We’ll find him. And in the meantime we’ve got an officer posted right outside your door, so rest easy. You’re safe.”

  “I don’t care about that,” I said. “I just care about that bastard being off the board. I thought he was.”

  “He is. I’m sure. Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just get better. I’ll come and tell you the minute we find him. Okay?”

  But when I got out four days later, he had not been back to tell me because they still hadn’t found him, and I didn’t know of anyone who seriously believed they still would.

  61

  The moment I opened the door of Scarlett’s, I knew something was wrong.

  A quick glance around told me nothing and everything had changed.

  And it wasn’t just that there wasn’t a single customer in the joint, and I had never seen it when at least a couple of regulars weren’t present, though that was certainly disconcerting.

  I was here looking for Susan.

  When I had been released from the hospital and returned to our old rented farmhouse on Flakes Mill Road, not only was she not there, but none of her things were either.

  Days had passed with no word from her. I had no idea where she was or how to get in touch with her—except of course here at Scarlett’s or through her Aunt Margaret. I had decided to come in person instead of calling.

  I should have called.

  I didn’t recognize the young man behind the bar. And in fact had never seen a man behind the bar before.

  My heart sank a little more into the hollowness of my soul beneath it at not seeing Susan or Margaret.

  I wasn’t even sure what I wanted, didn’t know what I would say, but I longed for connection, to at least reestablish contact and . . . what? See if I couldn’t love Susan like she deserved?

  “What can I getcha?” the young bartender asked.

  “I was looking for Susan,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The other bartender,” I said. “Margaret’s niece.”

  “Oh. I met Margaret. I didn’t meet her niece. Margaret used to own this place. She sold it to my dad last week. Sorry, don’t really know much else besides that. My dad might. He’ll be here tomorrow during the day.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I turned to leave, the door opened.

  In the moment it took for my eyes to adjust I experienced a fraction of a second of hope that it might be Susan or at least Margaret.

  It wasn’t.

  It was Frank Morgan and I was happy to see him.

  “Thought I might find you here,” he said.

  He stopped abruptly and looked around. “What’s different?”

  “Everything,” I said. “Margaret sold the place. They’re gone—Susan, Margaret, all the regulars.”

  “What’re you doing here?” he asked.

  “Looking for them. Just found out.”

  “Damn. That’s got to be a blow. Buy you a cup of coffee?”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  We turned toward the young man behind the bar.

  He shook his head. “No coffee, I’m afraid. Y’all want a beer or something?”

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. “Good luck with this place. If Margaret or Susan come in, please let them know that John Jordan is looking for them.”

  Frank and I stepped outside onto the little porch of the storefront strip mall.

  It was a crisp, cool, clear evening, the headlights of the cars on Memorial Drive beginning to blink on in the expansive gloaming.

  As we stood there together, I thought again about how nearly everyone I was close with was older than me—most by a good bit—and wondered again at what that meant.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’m good.”

  “Sorry again for shooting you.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  I shrugged, keeping my gaze on the passing traffic. “To be honest I don’t feel like myself.”

  “I’m sure you’re still in shock—and not just physically. What you went through . . .” he added, letting it hang there in the cold, dim air between us.

  “I was hoping Susan could help,” I said, “but . . . it’s probably best she wasn’t here. I was already feeling guilty. Don’t want to use her to . . . try to feel . . . something other than . . . what I’m feeling.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Not a lot,” I said, “but . . . never have.”

  “You thinking Aaron might come for you?”

  I shrugged.

  As of two days ago, the searches had been called off and the park had been reopened. No body had been found. I had tried to kill the madman and had failed. Of course, he had tried to kill me and failed too.

  “I wish he would,” I said, and I meant it, but not in the way it sounded. It had nothing to do with bravado and everything to do with wanting this to be over—no matter the final outcome. “But I’m sure he won’t as long as you have agents watching me twenty-four hours a day.”

  He smiled. “Told them to try not to be seen. How long have you known?”

  “They followed me home from the hospital,” I said. “I was looking over my shoulder for Aaron and saw them.”

  “I’d like to catch him, but I sleep better at night knowing you’re safe.”

  I felt something hard inside my chest dissolve a little and I had to blink several times.

  “Thank you, Frank,” I said. “That means . . . a lot.”

  He had asked me repeatedly to move in with him, but I couldn’t put him or his family in danger—especially after what they had been through lately.

  “We’ll have people at Summer’s funeral,” he said. “Just in case he shows.”

  “He won’t,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Well . . . just in case. Sorry to have to have agents at her . . .”

  “She’d like nothing better than to have him caught there,” I said. “But it’s not gonna happen.”

  “You think we’ve heard the last from him?”

  I shook my head again. “For a while, maybe, but not for good.”

  He nodded and twisted his lips into a frown. “Far worse knowing he’s out there and might be coming for us than searching for a nameless, faceless killer in a case, isn’t it?”

  The truth was Aaron wouldn’t be coming for us. He’d be coming for me. And there was no might to it. He would be coming. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But certainly and eventually and the certitude of that eventuality cast a shadow over every aspect of my existence.

&nb
sp; “Yes, it is,” I said. “It most certainly is.”

  Also by Michael Lister

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  Books by Michael Lister

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  www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.

  (John Jordan Novels)

  Power in the Blood

  Blood of the Lamb

  Flesh and Blood

  (Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)

  The Body and the Blood

  Blood Sacrifice

  Rivers to Blood

  Innocent Blood

  (Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)

  Blood Money Blood Moon

  Blood Cries

  Blood Oath

  Blood Work

  Cold Blood

  Blood Betrayal

  Blood Shot

  Blood Ties

  Blood Trail

  (Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)

  The Big Goodbye

  The Big Beyond

  The Big Hello

  The Big Bout

  The Big Blast

  In a Spider’s Web (short story)

  The Big Book of Noir

  (Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)

  Thunder Beach

  A Certain Retribution

  (Remington James Novels)

  Double Exposure

  (includes intro by Michael Connelly)

  Separation Anxiety

  Blood Shot

  (Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)

  Burnt Offerings

  Separation Anxiety

  Blood Oath

  Blood Shot

  (Love Stories)

  Carrie’s Gift

  (Short Story Collections)

  North Florida Noir

  Florida Heat Wave

  Delta Blues

  Another Quiet Night in Desperation

  (The Meaning Series)

  Meaning Every Moment

  The Meaning of Life in Movies

  Sign up for Michael’s newsletter by clicking here or go to

  www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.