Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery) Read online

  BLOOD OF THE LAMB

  MICHAEL LISTER

  Published by Pulpwood Press,

  P.O. Box 35038,

  Panama City, FL 32412

  Copyright © 2004 by Michael Lister

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing fromthe publisher.

  Published 2004.

  07 06 05 04 03 1 2 3 4 5

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-888146-76-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004100858

  Jacket and book design: Peter Streicher www.shushudesign.com

  Text set in Adobe Garamond

  Printed in the United States of America by McNaughton & Gunn

  eBooks created by eBooksconversion.com

  To my grandmothers:

  Gladys McKnight, who as far as I know,

  never gave up on anyone,

  &

  Fatima Barry, a fellow mystery lover,

  who now knows the greatest mystery of all.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their sustaining support and endless encouragement: Mark Ryan, Cricket Pechstein, Lynn Wallace, Lou Boxer, Kim Ludlam, Margaret Coel, Mike and Judi Lister, Bobbie Palmer, my friends and family of Calhoun and Gulf Correctional Institutions. Very special thanks goes to Micah and Meleah Lister for all the pennies flung in fountains and prayers flung to heaven, Pam Lister for her faith and true faithfulness, Van Willis for compassionate and wise counsel, Bette Powell, my literary mother, for caring for these pages as if they were her own, and my family at Bleak House Books, Kate Fletcher, Julie Kuczynski, Alison Janssen, and especially Blake Stewart and Ben LeRoy for not being afraid of the dark.

  BLOOD OF THE LAMB

  MICHAEL LISTER

  CHAPTER 1

  On the day Nicole Caldwell died, I awoke as if from a night of bad dreams with a nagging sense of dread, which only intensified as I arrived at Potter Correctional Institution and was told to report to the warden’s office.

  When I opened the door to the admin building, I saw long black cables snaking down the hallway and a bright swath of light, both of which spilled out of Edward Stone’s office. I was greeted by Betty Costin, Stone’s secretary, and a young, menacing-looking black man with an expensive suit and perfect teeth, both of whom held a finger to their lips signaling me to be quiet.

  I had never met him, but I recognized the young man as DeAndré Stone, the warden’s nephew. His thuggish posture, expression, and demeanor let everyone know he was hardcore—that no matter where he was or how he dressed, he was never far from the street. Though his designer suit was cut to conceal it, I was sure I detected a holster beneath his arm.

  When I took a closer look, he shifted his weight and turned slightly, but it was too late. I was certain now. DeAndré Stone had a firearm on state prison property—a felony punishable by fines and jail time.

  Beyond Betty’s office, and inside the inner sanctum of Edward Stone’s, a local TV news crew was busy recording an interview with Stone and three people who looked only vaguely familiar. As I listened, I learned that the man was Bobby Earl Caldwell, a televangelist from New Orleans, his wife, Bunny, and their adopted daughter Nicole.

  Bobby Earl and Bunny Caldwell looked like televangelists— flashy clothes, big, perfectly coifed hair, and liberally applied makeup, though that was the only thing liberal about them. They were also white. Nicole, like Stone, was black. Though not as overly made-up as her adoptive parents, it was obvious Nicole had been dressed to be seen, the bow on her ponytail coordinating with her preppy dress and the matching socks folded just above her patent leather shoes.

  I recalled flipping past Bobby Earl on more than one occasion in the solitude of sleepless nights. His message was one of guilt and shame, preached from a pulpit of fear and anger, which was why I was alarmed to hear the reporter announce that he would be conducting a crusade in my chapel later that night.

  Bobby Earl’s anti-intellectual religiosity and sentimental spirituality were shallow and filled with clichés. They were the first things most of the inmates gravitated toward and the last things they really needed.

  I shook my head as I thought these things. I was doing to Bobby Earl what bothered me most about what he did—passing judgement. Maybe we were far more alike than I wanted to believe.

  The reporter had to be mistaken. All religious programs performed at the prison had to be approved and scheduled by me. I had neither approved nor scheduled Bobby Earl Caldwell. And I would never even consider letting a child inside the institution—for any reason. Yet, according to him, Nicole was coming in with them.

  “Do you sing, Nicole?” Nancy Springfield, the reporter asked.

  Nicole was seated on Bunny’s lap, but Bunny barely touched her, and certainly not in any way that could be called nurturing. In fact, the whole family’s interaction looked staged and stilted, more like amateur actors rehearsing a scene than people who loved each other.

  Before Nicole could answer, Bobby Earl said, “Yes, she does. She’s got the voice of an angel. In fact, she and her mother will sing in our service tonight. We’ve found that the men really appreciate the fact that we have an African-American daughter. They appreciate the life we saved her from and can see we’re about breaking down racial walls and setting the captives free.”

  “Mr. Stone,” Springfield said, “tell me what a program like this does for your institution.”

  “Well, first, it gives the offenders something positive to do,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the vest of his three-piece suit gathering as he did, his deep voice and careful enunciation giving authority and weight to his words. “Inmate idleness is a serious concern. But it does far more than fill time. Bobby Earl also gives hope. The men will hear a powerful message of redemption and forgiveness and will see living proof of the real thing—a man of God who practices what he preaches.”

  Nancy thanked them and told her viewers one more time when Bobby Earl’s telecast aired in our area, then rushed out of the room, her crew trailing after her, equipment in tow.

  “Chaplain Jordan,” Stone said, his furrowed brow and squinting eyes parental and chastising. “Where have you been? I wanted you to take part in the interview.”

  “Traffic,” I said, though there wasn’t much to speak of in our little part of Florida’s forgotten coast.

  His brow furrowed even more deeply, his mouth twisting in disbelief, but he decided not to press it. Instead, he introduced me to Bobby Earl, Bunny, and Nicole, who had obviously captured his heart—proof at long last he had one.

  “I want to thank you for allowing this humble preacher and his family into your chapel tonight,” Bobby Earl said.

  I tried not to laugh at his use of the word humble while referring to himself in the third person. He reminded me of a pro athlete who does the same thing—taking all the credit while saying it was a team effort. It seemed my first impression of the man had been accurate.

  “Actually,” I said. “I didn’t know anything about it. In fact, I’d already scheduled a program for tonight—over a month ago.”

  I now had the full gaze of Bunny Caldwell as well, her blue eyes taking me in between the fluttering of her thickly-coated lashes. She moved into my space, which is probably all she usually had to do to get her way. “It would mean so much to the men,” she said, “if they could hear Bobby Earl preach.”

/>   “Cancel it,” Stone said simply to me, then looked at Bunny. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs. Caldwell,” then looking back at me, “but it’s not every day we can welcome the Reverend Bobby Earl Caldwell into our institution. Do you know how many places are on a waiting list to get him to preach?”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “how can I get him in? It takes a minimum of two weeks to complete the FCIC/NCIC checks, obtain authorization, put the clearance paperwork in the control room, and brief security. Not to mention notifying the inmate population of the program. I didn’t know anything about this and haven’t done—”

  Edward Stone lifted his hand, signaling me to be quiet. “I’ve taken care of everything,” he said. “All of this will take place under my authorization. You don’t even have to be here during the program.”

  Nicole Caldwell, the five-year-old little brandy-eyed beauty, had wandered away from our small group and was staring at the crayon drawing hanging on the wall behind Stone’s desk. Her head tilted side to side as she closely examined the drawing of an African-American family. No one in the room seemed even vaguely aware of her, least of all her parents. When her examination of the picture was complete, she nodded her head as in approval.

  Watching Nicole made me again long to have children of my own. Early in our marriage, I had wanted children, but Susan hadn’t. Then when she finally decided she did, more as an attempt to save our marriage than anything else, I was still grieving the death of Martin Fisher (an unsolved that haunts more than any other) and could not imagine bringing a child into a world where such things happened. It wasn’t long before I reconsidered and we began trying to get pregnant. Thankfully, we weren’t successful, because within a year we were filing for divorce.

  “May I speak with you alone for a moment?” I asked.

  Stone shook his head. “Don’t have time. We have a meeting with the secretary, the regional director, and the governor in just a few minutes. Then a luncheon at central office.”

  I shook my head.

  “What is it, Chaplain?” Stone asked angrily.

  “During the interview it was mentioned that Nicole was coming into the institution as a part of the program tonight,” I said. “That can’t be—”

  “It’s all taken care of,” he said. “As soon as Mrs. Caldwell and Nicole have sung their songs, they will go into your office for the remainder of the program. They will stay in there with both doors locked until the inmates have been escorted from the building.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You have nothing to do with it,” Stone said and, turning his back to me, looked at the others. “We’ve got to get going. Can’t keep the governor waiting.”

  Only when it was time to go did Bunny look for Nicole; Bobby Earl not even then. As she gathered Nicole and her things, I noticed bruises on Bunny’s upper arms and wrists. It looked as if she had attempted to cover them with makeup and clothes, but the makeup was wearing off and the clothes shifted as she moved.

  I glanced back at Bobby Earl, wondering if he were responsible. Did he beat his wife?

  They made their way to the door before Stone turned around and said, “Have everything ready when we return. We’ll be on a very tight schedule and they have a plane to catch tonight.”

  I didn’t say anything, only smiled at Nicole. When she smiled back, I knelt down beside her and said, “Hi. I’m John. Do you like that drawing?”

  “Uh huh,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. Her hair had been straightened and put up in a ponytail that bounced as she nodded. “Who drew it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But Mr. Stone can tell you. Do you draw?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’d like to see one of your drawings.” I said.

  “You would?”

  “Uh huh,” I said enthusiastically.

  Her face brightened into a large smile, her dark eyes sparkling as she said, “I’ll color one just for you. Do you want one of Jesus?”

  “I’d love one of Jesus,” I said.

  “Chaplain Jordan, I know we’ll be running on a very tight schedule this afternoon,” Stone said impatiently, “but if we happen to get back early, I want you to sit down with Bobby Earl and discuss some ideas he’s got for your chapel program.”

  I stood up and looked at them, stunned, bristling at even the suggestion.

  “I want to help in any way I can,” Bobby Earl said, then winked at me as they all walked out.

  CHAPTER 2

  After unlocking the chapel and letting Officer Whitfield into the library to listen to some preaching tapes, I met briefly with my inmate orderly, Mr. Smith. Once in my office, I popped in a cassette of Gregorian chants and spent some time in thought and prayer.

  I felt frustrated and angry at my reaction to Bobby Earl and what I suspected his brand of religion would do to the inmate population. Many of the men who attended chapel teetered on the precipice between genuine faith and love, and irresponsibility and over-simplicity. I was afraid the apocalyptic excitement of Bobby Earl’s hellfire and brimstone preaching would cause them to plunge to their spiritual deaths.

  What was a man like Bobby Earl even doing here? There was nothing the inmates could do to expand his television empire.

  I picked up my phone and punched in Anna Rodden’s extension in Classification. It rang several times, but there was no answer. I hung up, and like the unexpected answer to a prayer, Anna walked into my office.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  As I came around my desk, she dropped the envelopes and inmate requests she was carrying into a chair, and we embraced. She was tall and athletic, and our bodies fit together like they were made to. The hug was quick, but the connection immediate and intense, and I had to release her and step back while I still could.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said. “Doin’ time’s not nearly as much fun when you’re not around.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”

  “How was training?”

  “I can think of more fun ways to waste time,” I said.

  And then, for a long moment, we stood there, neither of us seeming able to move.

  On the right side of Anna’s neck, a thin scar ran down at a jagged angle. Slowly, I reached up and gently traced it with my fingertip. I liked to feel the small rise of the scar tissue beneath the skin, the vulnerability of the wound, the power of healing. It was the wound that caused this scar, and the blood it shed, that had saved my life, and had given me the opportunity to save hers.

  She breathed in deeply and swallowed hard.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She shook her head, waving off my apology, and I somehow made it back to my chair and sat down, while she took the empty chair across from my desk.

  After being away from the institution for two weeks in chaplaincy training, I had more to do than I could fathom, but all I wanted was to be with Anna.

  “I had a lot of people ask me about us while you were away this time,” she said.

  “Us?” I asked, instinctively glancing at her ring finger before I realized what I was doing.

  “If we’re having an affair,” she said. “They can’t understand us.”

  I said, “Neither can I.”

  She smiled and her dark brown eyes lit up.

  The faint chant of prayers rising from the chapel drifted through the air like incense—Muslim prayers, prayed to Allah in Arabic.

  Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar… Ash hadu allaa ilaaha ill Allah.

  Tossing back her shoulder-length brown hair, she pulled a small plastic bag from the pile of mail and inmate requests on the chair beside her. “I got you a little something. Two little somethings actually.”

  She handed me a small plastic bag with blue musical notes on it.

  I withdrew two CDs from the bag. The first one was Dan Fogelberg’s latest, which I had picked up along with Jann Arden’s to enjoy on my drive back from central Florida.
/>   “I wanted you to have them the moment you got back,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, as if I didn’t already have them.

  “The other one is Jann Arden, and you’re going to love her. She’s so honest and… well, melancholy, yet with an underlying optimism, or at least hope.”

  I couldn’t have described her better. “I can’t wait to listen to them,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar… Laa ilaaha ill Allah.

  An inmate passed slowly by my office door, lingering near the narrow panel of glass, staring at Anna as he did. A moment later, when he walked back by, I could see that it was Harmless Harry, one of the most notorious rapists the state of Florida had ever known. My fists clenched involuntarily.

  Hayya’ alal Falaah… Qad qaamatis Salaah… Qad qaamatis Salaah.

  I heard the conversation of two Latino inmates from somewhere in the hall. Their Spanish, the Latin of the Gregorian chants, the English we spoke, and the Arabic of the Muslim prayers swirled together into a linguistic potpourri that permeated the air.

  “I did a lot of thinking while I was away,” I said.

  It sounded more ominous than I had intended.

  “Yeah?” she said, tilting her head and raising her thick brown eyebrows. I had her complete attention.

  “I’m not sure I can be an effective chaplain if I’m spending so much time investigating.”

  Her expression encouraged me to continue.“

  Things always get out of control,” I said. “I change… and if I have to choose…”

  “But—”

  “I came very close to taking a drink last summer when I was in the middle of the Ike Johnson case,” I said.

  Her face registered her surprise. “You should’ve said some thing.”

  I didn’t respond.