Rivers to Blood

by Michael Lister

  As we ventured deeper and deeper down the small channel, the swamp on either side of us became thicker and thicker. My sense of claustrophobia increased with every stroke of the paddle or turn of the propeller. The trees, limbs, and roots scraped the sides and bottom of the boat, but never stopped it. With amazing skill and precision, Sandy adroitly steered the craft to safety.

  Bringing the boat to rest against the huge fallen oak completely blocking the path, Sandy cut the trolling motor and we sat in silence, waiting. Within a few minutes we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat approach the entrance of the slough, pass by, and continue down the river.

  “What is it?” Sandy asked.

  “What?”

  “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

  “You mean besides the obvious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You just look … you’re looking at me …”

  “Where’s Jake?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  It was a risk, but one I had to take. Jake’s life could very well depend on it.

  “In your rape room in the old bunker? Is it close by? Has to be. No way you could have gotten through all those trees in the dark if you hadn’t done it many, many times before.”

  The change that came over him as he sloughed off his public persona reminded me of taped interviews I had watched of people suffering from multiple personality disorder, and it was as if I were instantly, inexplicably with another person.

  “I’ve worked with a lot of people who’ve done some evil things over the years,” I said, “but there’s very few I’d call evil.”

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “Do you have Jake?”

  He shook his head.

  I thought about it.

  “I’m just playing with you,” he said. “I’ve got him.”

  He could be lying but I never believed Jake would leave me out there alone—not unless he was forced to.

  Now that his mask was off and the man beneath could be seen, it was obvious that Sandy Hartman was detached, cold, and arrogant. He sat there patiently as if I posed no threat to him, as if I were completely in his control.

  “Let’s go see him,” I said.

  I wondered where he was, if he was really close by, and what Sandy had done with his boat.

  “Tell me how you knew it was me,” he said.

  “The murders or the rapes?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said. “Start with the sex.”

  “It was brilliant to put the mark on yourself and pretend to be a victim,” I said, “and you played the part to perfection—except for a few mistakes, which made a lot of little things add up for me.”

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything. It was as if we were talking about something that only mildly interested but ultimately had nothing to do with him.

  “You had access to the library and knew right where the Dalí was,” I said. “I’m sure that there’s a book of symbols that has the Mars and Venus and male and female signs as well. Not that you need a book for that.”

  “I wasn’t familiar with the Dalí painting,” he said. “See what you thought of it but it didn’t provide any inspiration for me.”

  I nodded. “And while we’re on the subject of the symbol and the act itself—they both speak of someone with a high degree of androgyny and sexual identity issues. You certainly fit that.”

  “That hurts my feelings,” he said, his voice flat and insincere.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. “Who made you a monster? Dad, step-dad, uncle?”

  “I was born this way. Go back to the mistakes you said I made. What were they?”

  To him this was all just a game—how he had fun—and all he seemed interested in was what he had done to betray himself.

  “During the times you came to counseling with me,” I said, “which I assume you did not only because you found it fun and exciting—and added dimension to the game, but so you could keep up with what we were finding out, you would periodically have toxic leaks.”

  “What?” he asked. “What is that?”

  “The coarseness and profanity that spewed out of you,” I said. “It didn’t fit with the mask you were wearing—even considering what had happened to you. If something had actually happened to you.”

  He nodded and seemed to think about it, as if receiving feedback in an art class.

  “The first day when you were telling me what the rapist had done to you,” I said, “you got carried away. You were trying to gain my sympathy, to make sure I wouldn’t suspect you, but you went too far. You told me after you did everything the rapist made you do, he still raped you.”

  “I knew that was a mistake the moment I did it,” he said, “but I was caught up in the moment and went with it—what can I say? Hazards of the profession.”

  “The profession?”

  “Acting.”

  I nodded.

  “It was smart to use a shank to make it look like an inmate was responsible,” I said, “but you just couldn’t keep yourself from committing these crimes on the outside too.”

  “Didn’t figure anyone on the outside would report it,” he said.

  “And they didn’t.”

  “But of course you found out,” he said.

  “Hiding the shank in Jensen’s duffle wasn’t a bad idea, but there’s no way he’d leave it on the van if he knew it was there, no way he wouldn’t use it in his escape. Speaking of Jensen, after you raped him did you intercept a request to me from him?”

  “The hell you know that?”

  “He and his family mentioned to me about not helping him when he asked for it, but as far as I knew he never asked for it.”

  We were silent a beat.

  “You’re as good as everybody says you are,” he said.

  I shook my head. “If I were,” I said, “my brother wouldn’t be in your rape room and I wouldn’t be out here in the middle of the swamp with you.”

  He laughed.

  We were quiet another moment. In the distance we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat motor. They were headed back in this direction.

  “What about the other?” he asked, as if unable to call them murders.

  “Well once I realized the lynching victim was the pilot from the plane that went down, I figured it had to be you search and rescue guys,” I said. “But once Jake convinced me it wasn’t the whole group, then I got to thinking who it could be. Todd and Shane, even Fred were strong possibilities, but it came down to you for two reasons. The sexual component—you took Junior’s clothes off and tied his hands to expose his genitals, you took the SEALs clothes off and strapped him down in a spread eagle position, and tried to make Turtle’s look like an autoerotic asphyxiation accident—and since you bring your victims down here, it’s possible Turtle or the SEAL died because they saw you doing that or found your bunker and didn’t have anything to do with the plane or finding the money.”

  He nodded.

  Todd and Shane were getting closer.

  “Is Jake still alive?” I asked.

  “I don’t kill my sex partners,” he said.

  “He’s not a partner yet,” I said. “No way you had time to do anything ’cept grab him and hide his boat. Besides, this is different. We’ve seen you. Know you. And I suspect even though you started killing to cover up your other crimes, you’re enjoying it too much to stop.”

  The moonlight glinted dully off his teeth as he smiled. “It’s the most fuckin’ amazing thing ever. Uh oh, was that a toxic leak?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And so fuckin’ easy. You can’t imagine how little it takes to snuff somebody out.”

  I remained quiet.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”

  Todd and Shane had turned onto the River Sticks, and would reach us in a matter of minutes.

  “Why’d you get Junior out of the plane and hang him?” I asked.


  “That the pilot? I went back to see if those redneck cocksuckers had lied about what was inside the plane, and the son of a bitch slipped out and floated to the surface.”

  I nodded.

  “Now come on,” he said. “Time to say goodbye to your brother.”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  As we stood, he swung the paddle around and hit me on the side of the head. The blow was on the opposite side of the one from the butt of the shotgun.

  The paddle had far less mass and much more velocity.

  My ear felt as if it had been knocked off my head, my knees buckled, and I fell out of the boat and into the water, the jagged end of a branch scratching the left side of my body as I did.

  In an instant he was on me, holding my head beneath the surface of the water, choking me.

  I tried to fight back, but after both blows to the head, the dive, and all the swimming, I had nothing left. I would have died right then and there if he had wanted me to.

  But, of course, he had other plans for me, and he wouldn’t kill me until he had finished playing.

  Eventually he pulled me up onto the bank, cuffed my hands with flex cuffs, and taped my mouth shut with duct tape. He then dragged me up on the top of a small ridge and left me there, and when Todd and Shane arrived I knew why.

  I was his audience.

  I moved and struggled against my restraints but couldn’t break free. When I tried to yell it came out as a muffled whimper. Nothing I did got their attention as they pulled up beside Sandy’s boat.

  Finally as a last resort I rolled down the small incline toward them. As soon as they saw me they began firing. Several of the rounds pocked the clay and sand of the bank beside me but all of them managed to miss me.

  When I reached the bottom and stopped rolling, both men took better aim, carefully eyeing down the sites of their barrels at me.

  I tried frantically to signal them with my eyes and muffled grunts, but they didn’t pay any attention—didn’t even pause to wonder why I was bound and gagged, just wanted me dead.

  Todd had a handgun, Shane, a rifle, and as trained, each man took in a small breath, let it out slowly, and began to squeeze the trigger. But before they could, Sandy came up out of the water behind them and shot Shane in the back of the head, grabbed Todd by his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat.

  Shane fell forward, Todd backward, both of them half in and half out on either side of the boat. I closed my eyes, squeezing them hard against the horror I had just seen.

  “Come on,” Sandy said, as he pulled me up. “Let’s go. I’ll clean up this mess later.”

  He pulled me into the swamp, smearing Todd’s blood on the arm of my wetsuit as he did.

  “See how easy that was,” he said. “Told you.”

  The farther we walked, the thicker the swamp became.

  We had to step over fallen trees, around small tributaries fed by the slough. The soft dive boots I wore were no match for the terrain, and small sticks and thorns began cutting and tearing my feet.

  “Don’t slow down,” he said, jerking my arm. “We’re almost there. Jake’s waiting for you. You won’t believe the things I’ll make him do. Of course it won’t be anything compared to what you’re going to do.”

  In another minute or so he stopped pulling on me and I could see a mound of earth in front of him. Brushing away pine, straw, leaves, and removing propped-up branches, he exposed an old wooden door on two rusted hinges.

  The door creaked as it opened. Turning and grabbing me, he shoved me inside.

  I fell face first onto the muddy floor of a small hollowed-out place in the earth. It was dark but I could tell that it was tiny and I was not alone. I could hear muffled whimpering sounds and I knew that Jake’s mouth was taped shut too.

  Sandy came in with a light and closed the door behind him.

  Jake’s eyes grew wide with fear and he looked over at me, pleading.

  When he saw I was cuffed too all hope drained from his face.

  Jake was facedown on an old wooden table, his hands and feet stretched out by ropes that disappeared beneath it. He was naked, the paleness of his exposed skin adding to his vulnerability and violation.

  Thankfully that was the only violation so far. There was no way Sandy had time to do anything else and get back to pick me up when he did.

  The room wasn’t the torture chamber I had imagined it to be. More than anything it was an empty underground tomb. The boards of the walls were ancient and splintered, the dirt behind them breaking through. The beams holding up the ceiling looked brittle, the boards they were supporting, wet and rotten. It wouldn’t be long before this wasn’t a room at all.

  Snatching me up and shoving me into the corner, Sandy bound my feet together at the ankles, then walked over to Jake and untied his right hand.

  “Wakey wakey, Jakey Jakey,” he said in a demented, child-like voice. “Daddy wants to play.”

  Pulling out his gun and knife, Sandy turned to me, held them up, and said, “Which do you think is more menacing?”

  I tried to say something but the tape prevented it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll start with the knife, then switch to the gun if we don’t get the desired results. You’re good at this, John. A real natural.”

  I looked around the room and tried to think about how I might attack him or what I could use for a weapon. There was nothing and as weak as I was, and with my hands and feet bound, I wasn’t much of a threat. Still, I had to try. I crouched there in the damp earth waiting for the best time.

  Sandy leaned over, put the knife to Jake’s throat, and began to whisper in his ear.

  Slowly, Jake moved his hand around back behind him. I slowly eased up, preparing to strike.

  Suddenly, Jake’s free hand shot up and grabbed Sandy’s wrist. I jumped, hopped, and fell as fast and as hard as I could and crashed into Sandy, knocking him away from Jake and onto the floor against the wall, landing on top of him in the process.

  One of the boards in the wall snapped and dirt came pouring in on top of us.

  As I tried to get to my feet, Jake tried to untie himself with his free hand. Neither of us were successful. Unable to stand, I felt around the dirt for the knife Sandy had dropped, but couldn’t find it.

  Pulling his knees up to his chest, he kicked me off of him with both feet and I flew halfway across the room. When he stood up, he was holding the gun. He stepped over to Jake, grabbed his free hand, and shot straight through it.

  Jake screamed so loudly the tape around his mouth couldn’t keep it in.

  Sandy then turned and moved toward me.

  When he reached me he pressed the muzzle of the gun into my forehead, the hot barrel burning my skin. I snatched back.

  “This’ll only hurt a split second,” he said. “I promise. Sorry you can’t stay and play, but it’s obvious you really don’t want to.”

  Before he could pull the trigger, the door opened, and he turned in shock to see who it was.

  No one was there. He turned and stared up through the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Suddenly Michael Jensen flew through the door and tackled Sandy, knocking him to the ground. Sitting on top of him, Jensen brought up his large hunting knife and began a frenzied attack.

  Sandy tried to bring up his gun and fire but wasn’t able. The blows were too severe.

  Jensen stabbed him for a long time—long, long after he was dead.

  Eventually, having slain the dragon, he got up and walked out of the room without saying a word.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  A Pottersville tradition on election day is for the county commissioners to post the results in front of Potter State Bank.

  In the evening, the sun sinking somewhere in the unseen distance, folks gathered and waited to see not just who won but how everyone did.

  Everyone was connected to everyone else in some way, most in many.

  The following evening, the day of the primary,
I pulled into the bank parking lot, got out, and joined the small crowd of onlookers. At the front of the crowd, the county commissioners somehow managed to look imminently important and truly humble as they watched as the votes were tallied and the results written on large dry-marker boards on stands constructed by inmates.

  No one seemed to notice the crime scene tape spread across the bank’s doors.

  Through the crowd I spotted Cody and Carla sitting on his tailgate in the parking lot, and I walked over to them.

  Carla stood up and hugged me as I neared. I hugged her back far more intensely than I normally did. I was happy to see her, thankful to be alive, glad I had awakened from the most recent nightmare.

  When I released her, she gently touched the bruising on my face. “What happened?”

  When she sat back down beside Cody, I said, “The monster is dead.”

  Carla gasped.

  Cody’s eyes grew wide and he looked as if he wanted to believe it were possible but just couldn’t.

  “The guy who …” Cody began.

  I nodded.

  “Who was it?” he asked. “Do I know him?”

  “You’ll hear all about it in a day or two,” I said. “I just wanted you to know now.”

  “And you’re sure?” he asked.

  “Positive,” I said.

  Cody’s eyes moistened and he blinked back tears. Carla took his hand.

  When I turned toward the crowd the sheriff’s race results had been posted and people were congratulating Dad—even those who didn’t vote for him. All he had won was the opportunity to run in the general election, but that was more than he thought he might get a few days ago. He looked relieved.

  After leaving the river the night before I had taken Jake to the emergency room in Panama City. Once the wound in his hand had been treated we went up to Mom’s room and spent several hours with her, during which time I told Mom how much I loved her but that Jake loved her more.