“There’s also some business cards from Potter Correctional Institution that say ‘John Jordan, Senior Chaplain’ on them,” he said.
“Okay, men,” the commander said, “stand down.”
They did.
“Sorry about that,” the commander said, “but we’re not used to seeing civilians this far back in the swamp and we’re a little …”
“You Navy SEALs?” I asked.
He nodded. “We train out here because of how close the terrain is to certain countries where we carry out missions.”
“I read something about that in the paper a while back,” I said.
He frowned. “We’re still not sure how that happened. Don’t like to advertise the fact that we’re here.”
As we talked the rest of the men spread out around us, some standing, others sitting on the ground. By their position and posture I could tell some were standing guard.
The canopy of oak trees kept most of the rain off us but we were still getting wet.
No one seemed to notice.
“You have a camp somewhere out here?” I asked.
He patted the large backpack on the ground beside him. “Carry it with us.”
I nodded.
The approaching darkness brought with it a light, wispy fog that rolled in and hovered just above the ground around us.
“What the hell’re you boys doin’ this deep in the swamp?” one of the more Southern-sounding soldiers asked. “Y’all lost?”
“We were chasing an inmate who escaped,” I said.
Their eyes grew wide and they exchanged glances. Those not on watch moved in closer.
“Tell us more about this inmate,” the commander said.
“You seen him?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“He’s a white guy a little shorter than me. Thicker. More muscular. Got a bad inmate haircut—”
“Looks sorta like yours,” Merrill said with a smile.
He didn’t return the smile. No one did. There was a new tension in the air now, its presence as palpable as the fog.
“He had on an inmate uniform at first, but now he’s wearing street clothes,” I said.
“How dangerous is he?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Not sure exactly. But he needs to be treated with extreme caution.”
He shook his head, anger flaring in his eyes, as the muscles in his jaw tightened. “We’ll catch the son of a bitch. Don’t you worry about that.”
“I wasn’t asking you to catch him,” I said. “We have rotating teams from the prison and local law enforcement searching the area.”
“Nobody knows this place like we do,” he said.
“If you happen to see him, let us know, but there’s no need—”
“Oh, we’re gonna catch the little cocksucker,” he said, “and God help him when we do.”
“We want to catch him without anyone getting hurt,” I said. “Including him.”
“I can guarantee no more of my men will get hurt,” he said.
One of the men nearby said, “Same can’t be said for the convict.”
I looked back at the commander. “No more of your men?”
“We’re missing a man,” he said. “And now we know why.”
Chapter Forty-two
“You think the guy who was lynched is their missing man?” Dad asked.
It was later that night.
Showered and changed, Merrill and I had come to Rudy’s to eat, which we were busy doing when Dad had arrived to talk to us about what we had learned on the river.
“Said he was black,” Merrill said.
“If it’s not him we’ve got another victim somewhere out there,” I said.
Dad shook his head and frowned, his eyes narrowing with concern. I knew he never wanted anyone to die, that he took it personally if someone in his county on his watch did, but I also knew that at the moment he was also considering its impact on his chances at reelection.
“He’s coming in tomorrow to see if he can identify him,” I said, “but I doubt it’s him.”
“Why’s that?” Dad asked.
“If our guy had been a SEAL we would’ve gotten a match on his prints.”
Dad’s frown deepened as he nodded absently.
“Unless they really not SEALs,” Merrill said.
Dad’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening.
I nodded. “They could be one of those units that don’t exist.”
“Shadow ops shit?” Merrill said. “Black holes. Secret prisons. Sub-contracted killers.”
I nodded.
“For the sake of the homeland,” he said. “We be takin’ the terror to them.”
Merrill and I sat on opposite sides of the booth, Dad in a chair at the end. The table between us was filled with varying sized plates, all with partially consumed food. We had a full-size plate for waffles and smaller plates for bacon, toast, and hash browns. Merrill was having coffee—and a lot of it. Carla had left the pot so he could refill as often as he liked—which was often. I was drinking Dr. Pepper.
“Of course they might not be government at all,” I said. “They could just as easily be a paramilitary militia of some sort.”
“Oh God, I hope to hell not,” Dad said.
“Hell, they could be the ones doin’ all the killin’,” Merrill said. “Maybe Turtle saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe the other victim wasn’t willing to go along with something they did.”
“If you didn’t find them convincing,” Dad said, “why didn’t you—”
“We found their machine guns very convincing,” Merrill said.
Dad smiled.
Carla was at the counter doing her homework. We were the only people in the place—except for Rudy who was passed out in the back.
“Well we’ll know more tomorrow,” I said.
“If he doesn’t show,” Dad said, “what are the chances we’ll be able to find them again?”
“Merrill and I walked straight to them today.”
“You think Jensen was trying to lead you to them?” Dad asked. “Or them to you?”
I thought about it. It was an interesting proposition. “I guess he could’ve been,” I said. “It hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Think he wanted us to know they’s there,” Merrill said, “or wanted them to shoot us?”
It had stopped raining but the highway out front was still wet, the damp asphalt gleaming dully in passing headlights.
“Least we know he’s still out there,” Dad said. “We can intensify the search now. You think he’s our killer?”
I shrugged. “Can’t rule out the possibility. He’s got a lot of rage.”
“And yet he didn’t kill you.”
“That’s ’cause he heard me coming,” Merrill said with a smile.
And I realized how scarce his smile had been recently.
We were all quiet a moment.
A gust of wind outside scattered some wet leaves and trash around and made the plate glass window beside us creak with the strain.
“Merrill,” Dad said, “did John talk to you about the primary?”
A sharp pang of guilt shot through me and some old familiar feelings of family betrayal rushed to the surface from the suppressed depths where they had been submerged.
“I haven’t had a chance yet,” I said. “I was going to tonight.”
“I need your help,” Dad said to Merrill. “I’m gonna get beat otherwise.”
Merrill didn’t say anything.
“I know one of the candidates is your cousin,” he said, “but …”
“Not sure what I can do,” Merrill said. “Let me think about it.”
“I’m running out of time,” he said. “The primary is Tuesday. Please. John and I really need you.”
I felt uncomfortable and tried to think of a way to change the subject.
“Did John tell you I found out the name of that minister from Marianna, the one you saw, and that he’s still missing?”
>
Merrill nodded.
“We’re gonna find out what happened,” he said. “I promise you that. Once the election is over, we can really—if I’m still sheriff—we can really concentrate on the case.”
Dad was a good, decent, man, and I hated to see him like this. I knew he was just trying to get reelected, that it was a means to an end, but I sat there wishing there could be other means or that he could be less concerned about the end.
We were quiet again, the tension in the air between us apparent.
Finally, Dad stood and said, “Well, I’ve got to go. Please think about what I said. Things could be better in our county, and I’m working on it, but they could be a whole hell of lot worse too. A hell of a lot worse.”
He took a few steps away, then came back. “I know this is going to sound crazy and paranoid, but I can’t help but wonder if what’s happening—the timing and the manner and all—has something to do with the election.”
I thought about it. I was only mildly surprised by Dad’s paranoia. There was a certain egocentric woundedness in him that surfaced from time to time in the form of a kind of victimhood. What he’d just said was a slightly elevated form of that.
What he was saying was farfetched and improbable, but not entirely impossible, not unthinkable. Far stranger things had been done for far lower stakes.
“Anything’s possible,” I said.
“Well, goodnight,” he said.
He patted Carla on the back as he walked past her and dropped money on the counter beside her for our food. He hadn’t eaten.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
Merrill shook his head and waved off my apology.
“I feel so sorry for him,” I said.
He nodded. “I understand,” he said. “He a good man as far as it go.”
I nodded.
“But he also racist,” he said.
I frowned and nodded. “Not nearly as much as many of his generation around here,” I said, “but yeah, he is.”
“If you ask me to campaign for him,” he said, “I will.”
I thought about all my dad had done for me over the years and I was flooded with feelings of gratitude, sadness, and guilt.
I shook my head. “I won’t,” I said. “I can’t. But he’s right. Things could be a hell of a lot worse and I think objectively––at least as objectively as I can be––he’s the best candidate.”
Merrill nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. And John, thanks for not asking.”
“There is something I do want to ask you,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t say anything.
“I feel like I haven’t been a very good friend lately,” I said. “I’ve been worried about you. I can tell something’s wrong. Just wondered what and what I could do.”
He nodded. “Nothing you can do right now.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I can do a lot of shit.”
He smiled and it was nice to see. “I’m sure.”
“You’ll let me know if that changes?”
“I will,” he said. “And John, thanks for asking.”
Chapter Forty-three
As soon as Merrill left, Carla came over to the booth and slid in across from me.
“How’s your mom?” she asked.
I told her, aware I was talking to a young girl who had no idea where her mother was. As I did I was reminded again of just how much parents injure their children. Carla was smart, strong, and beautiful, but she was also insecure, fearful of abandonment, and uncomfortable with true intimacy—and probably would be for the rest of her life. There are some truly scary things in the world but nothing can compare to the damage done by parents in the formative years of their children’s lives. This, more than any other factor, was the reason Anna’s pregnancy meant there was no hope of us ever being together. At least not in this life.
“You think she’ll get a transplant in time?”
I shrugged. “It’s not looking good.”
She nodded and frowned, then looked down. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes and she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I knew she was crying about far more than my mom, and I was glad to see her tears. They were rare—and she was someone with more than her fair share of things to cry about.
The lights of the diner were dim—something Rudy had devised to save a little more money, and as usual, it was cold. If Rudy really wanted to save money all he’d have to do was bump up the thermostat, but, in addition to being overweight and always overheated, he was convinced, or wanted to be, that it generated more coffee sales and kept his daughter awake at night.
Carla and I were alone. The jukebox sat silently by. Except for the occasional vehicle passing on the highway outside, it was as if we were the only two people left in the wide world.
Carla lingered, periodically wiping her eyes and sniffling, and I knew she had something she needed to talk about.
I waited.
She would get to it when she was ready. She always did.
Eventually, she said, “Know how we have stories that circulate around here? Sort of like rural legends?”
I nodded.
She turned and looked over her shoulder out into the darkness, and I couldn’t tell if she was scared or expecting someone.
“There’s a new one a lot of the kids are talking about,” she said. “No one has said it happened to them, but so many are talking about it and they all say the same thing.”
“What are they saying?”
“That a guy is abducting people—teenage boys, I think—drugging them or knocking them out and taking them to a … they call it the dungeon. It’s like a torture chamber.”
She shivered and started to cry again and I thought I knew where this was going.
“After a few days, he drops them off in a secluded place, and they do their best to pretend like it never happened.”
I was skeptical. It sounded more like rural legend than anything else, and I couldn’t imagine something like this wouldn’t get out. I would check with Dad to see of any parents had reported their kids missing, only to get them back later.
“Why haven’t the parents or the school reported it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “The guys it’s happened to are pretty much on their own. And he never keeps them for long. They just act like they spent a few nights with a friend.”
Very slowly and gently, I said, “Do you think this happened to Cody?”
I recalled her saying her boyfriend, Cody Gaskin, had disappeared for three days and not been the same since he got back.
She started crying harder and nodded.
“He’s so different, so angry. He won’t talk to me about where he went or what he did. He just says it’s none of my business and if I ask him again he’s going to … do things to me.”
My empathy for Cody and his experience quickly vanished, my compassion turning to anger, and I was filled with the desire to do a few things to him.
She turned and looked outside again. “He’s supposed to be coming over tonight. Will you talk to him?”
I nodded. “No matter how much you love him,” I said, “or what he may have been through, you can’t let him talk to you that way. You can’t be in a relationship with someone who would abuse you in any way—even verbal threats.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just scared if I break up with him …”
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll encourage him not to do anything stupid.”
She tried to smile, but only partly pulled it off.
“What time is he coming?” I asked.
“He should have already been here,” she said. “He’s probably waiting for you to leave.”
“You want me to park my pimp ride around back?” I asked.
She looked out into the darkness again. “He could be watching us right now,” she said. “Why don’t you drive away—just don’
t go far—then come back when he shows up.”
I did.
When I walked back into Rudy’s ten minutes later, Cody rolled his eyes, stood up from the booth he was sitting in with Carla, and said, “I’m outta here.”
“Sit down, Cody,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“Carla, would you mind fixing us some coffee?”
She stood, and eased past Cody as if she expected him to hit her.
I walked over toward him.
“Sit down,” I said, my voice firm but not menacing. Not yet.
Cody Gaskin was high school football quarterback tough. Beneath his red-and-white letterman jacket was the result of many hours spent in the weight room and taking questionable supplements. He had lived an entitled, indulged life and wasn’t used to being told what to do––especially by a trailer trash convict preacher.
If he’d been abducted and held, his absence would have gone unremarked because he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, coming and going as he liked.
If Carla was right about what had happened to him, then for the first time since infancy, Cody had known what it was like to be powerless. I tried to remind myself of what he had possibly been through to balance the anger I felt toward him.
“I just want to talk to you.”
He turned and glared at Carla but she wasn’t looking at him.
“Cody,” I said, “if you want to glare at someone, glare at me.”
I stepped closer, he dropped into the booth, and I slid in across from him.
Carla brought our coffee, careful not to stand too close to Cody as she placed the cups and saucers on the table. This time he didn’t look at her.
“Carla, why don’t you join us?” I said.
Her eyes widened and she hesitated.
“Cody’s not going to do anything to you,” I said. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Right Cody?”
Cody didn’t say anything.
I stood and Carla slid in on my side of the booth. I sat down beside her.
Cody was looking down at the table, his face tight and red, his lips pursed.
“What happened to you, Cody?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything.
“Were you taken? Held for a while? Assaulted?”
Rivers to Blood Page 14
