John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice Page 2

  Standing there, shivering in the cold breeze, hands cuffed behind my back, I felt embarrassed, foolish, and frustrated, all of which were quickly turning to anger.

  “He didn’t float,” Steve said, when no one was able to answer his question, “because he hasn’t been in the water long enough for decomposition to begin and gas to form in his tissue causing him to float up to the surface. So, as our friend from Potter County pointed out, a body in water is not necessarily a floater.”

  “If he hadn’t gotten caught in Eli’s nets…” Muscle-fat said.

  “It would have been a while before we found him,” Steve said. “Gas forms faster in warm water and more slowly in cold water. Ours aren’t as warm as they usually are, but they’re not freezing either, so it would have taken days. All of this helps us establish time and ultimately cause of death. Speaking of which, are we dealing with a homicide, suicide, or accident?”

  When no one in the group gave more than a shrug, he turned to me.

  I shrugged too.

  “You mean you don’t know everything?” Muscle-fat said.

  “I figured you were about ready to reveal the killer’s identity to us by now,” Steve said.

  “With drownings—if that’s what we’re dealing with—it is extremely difficult to determine the cause,” I said. “That’s why it’s so important to do things the right way from the very beginning.”

  “Like tossing the body back into the water?” Muscle-fat asked. “That’s something they never taught us.”

  I didn’t say anything. I deserved that and a lot more, and I would just have to take it.

  “You guys see any signs of lividity on his face or hands?”

  They all strained to look, but there was none to see, so they shook their heads.

  “Why would we expect to see some?” Steve asked me.

  “Because, Professor Taylor,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster with chattering teeth, “when a body is in the water, its extremities hang down toward the bottom.”

  “So the fact that there aren’t any signs of lividity means what?” Steve asked the others.

  “He hasn’t been in the water long,” the female EMT said.

  “Which is what we would expect to see in light of the fact that he wasn’t found floating,” Steve said. “There’s also no signs of violence on the body, and since suicides by drowning are very rare, we’re probably dealing with an accident, but let’s keep an open mind while we investigate and wait for the autopsy report.”

  They all nodded.

  “That okay with you?” Steve asked me.

  I gave him a small smile and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I think his mouth’s frozen shut,” Muscle-fat said.

  “That’s too much to hope for,” Steve said, “but he does look a little blue. Better get him back in the car.”

  This time Muscle-fat himself escorted me to the car and shoved me into it. After slamming the door, he rejoined the others around the body, where they stayed for a long time, talking and laughing and waiting for the medical examiner to arrive.

  Since I had been at St. Ann’s, I had been undergoing counseling with Sister Abigail, and as I sat alone in the backseat of the patrol car, all I could think about was what she would make of all this.

  Chapter Three

  “You did what?” Sister Abigail asked.

  I told her again.

  “And you were arrested?”

  I shook my head. “Steve said something about the embarrassment and humility doing more for me than a night in a jail cell could.”

  I had run into Sister Abigail on the way to my room to change into some warm, dry clothes, and she had insisted I tell her all about it first.

  “Let’s hope he’s right,” she said with a glint in her eye.

  In her midfifties, Sister Abigail’s pale skin, extra weight, and wispy reddish-blond hair made her look older than she was, but her wit and the wicked twinkle she often got in her eyes made her seem much younger.

  “Let’s,” I said.

  “You scaring yourself yet?” she asked.

  “A little,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “Good,” she said. “If you weren’t, you’d be scaring me.”

  Presently, St. Ann’s Abbey was a cross between a spiritual retreat center, a psychiatric treatment facility, and an artists’ community, but it had once been a very exclusive theological seminary and prior to that a Spanish mission.

  Dedicated to art, religion, and psychology, St. Ann’s was operated by Sister Abigail, a wise and witty middle-aged nun who supervised the counseling center, Father Thomas Scott, an earnest, devout middle-aged priest in charge of religious studies and spiritual growth, and the acclaimed young novelist Kathryn Kennedy, who was responsible for artistic studies and conferences.

  Surrounding the small but ornate chapel at its center, St. Ann’s consisted of two dormitories—one on either side—a handful of cabins down by the lake, a cafeteria, a gym, and a conference center with offices.

  The natural beauty of St. Ann’s was nurturing, and I found myself breathing more deeply as my eyes tried to take it all in. The small lake was rimmed with cypress trees, Spanish moss draped from their jagged branches. Enormous spreading oaks and tall, thick pines grew on the gently rising slope coming up from the lake, on the abbey grounds, and for miles and miles in every direction.

  “Lucky for you, this is a slow time for us,” she said. “Why don’t we move our little visits to twice a day?”

  Our “little visits” were actually counseling sessions to help me deal with my divorce, the death of my potential family, and the overall miserable mess I had made of my life.

  It was a slow time at St. Ann’s because it was early December and most everyone was already away for the holidays. Now through March was also off-season, the time when the least amount of visitors came to St. Ann’s, which was what had appealed to me most.

  “You sure seeing me twice a day won’t be too much for you?” I asked.

  “I think I can handle it, but if I have to, I can always call in backup.”

  Continuing past the chapel, we turned toward my dorm. As we did, I caught a glimpse of Kathryn Kennedy down near her cabin. She had her laptop out on the porch and was clicking away between sips of coffee.

  She was a gifted novelist and one of the reasons I had chosen St. Ann’s. Her work had entertained, enlightened, and inspired me, and I kept telling myself it was her writing and not the mysterious figure in the author photo that was the main attraction. I had yet to meet her, but hoped to soon––and to tell her what her books had meant to me.

  “Why doesn’t she wear a habit?” I asked.

  “Kathryn?” she asked, her head still down, and it bothered me that she knew who I was referring to without looking up. “She’s not a nun. She was a novice for a while, but she’s never taken any vows.”

  I nodded and looked away, trying to seem only mildly interested.

  Between our shoes and the sandy soil, fallen pine needles and the exposed roots of the giant trees made the ground slippery and treacherous for someone of Sister’s age and weight, and we walked slowly, my hand lingering near her arm in case she slid or stumbled.

  “She might as well have taken them, though. She lives as cloistered as I do. Such a lovely girl. Shame she’s so lonely.” Stopping suddenly and turning to me, she added, “You’re not the type of man who would take advantage of a lonely young woman like that, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad,” she said.

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “Tell me,” she said, as she started to walk again, “do you think young Tommy drowned accidentally or killed himself?”

  Why had she waited so long to ask about him?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll be happy to look into it for you. With drownings it’s difficult to determine, but I can at least narrow it down to a likely scenario.”

  “Aren’t you here
because of how badly you’ve been affected by the homicide investigations you’ve conducted?”

  “In part, yeah, but—”

  “What do you think getting involved in one now would do to the therapeutic process? Why do you think I was hesitant to even ask you about it?”

  The cry of a loon across the lake drew my attention in time to see Tammy Taylor and Brad Harrison emerging from the tree-covered trail at the water’s edge. The narrow path cutting through the thick woods twisted around the lake and was used for meditative strolls or less lofty pursuits, as in the case of Tammy and Brad.

  One of a handful of troubled teens undergoing both spiritual and psychological counseling, Tammy looked sixteen, though I was told she was at least three years older. Harrison was thirty-something and the abbey’s handyman—and not the only person at St. Ann’s that Tammy wandered into the woods with on a regular basis.

  “What’s the abbey’s policy on sexual relations?” I asked.

  “It’s generally frowned upon,” she said.

  Though the libidinous couple was walking several paces apart, they were still straightening their clothes and arranging their hair—something that brought a disapproving glare from Sister Christine King, a small, boyish young nun near the chapel, and Keith Richie, the much-tattooed cook enjoying a smoke beside the dumpster at the back of the kitchen.

  “I think I can handle it,” I said as we started walking again.

  “Sexual relations?”

  “Looking into Tommy Boy’s death. This isn’t exactly prison. It’s not someone I knew. It’d give me something to—”

  “Take your mind off what you really need to be dealing with?” she asked.

  “But don’t you want to know what happened to him?”

  “Are you the only one who can tell us?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Streaming down through the trees, the midday sun dappled the uneven ground, but couldn’t completely remove the chill from the air.

  “But you think the chances of finding the truth are better if you’re involved?”

  “I do. Is that arrogance or confidence?”

  “Something to think about,” she said.

  “So much to think about.”

  “Father Thomas worked with Tommy for a long time,” she said. “He’s going to be devastated. I don’t think you should work the investigation, but you could help me tell him what’s happened.”

  Chapter Four

  “Do you believe in the devil?” Father Thomas asked.

  While waiting for him, I had begun perusing the vast library in his study, and was flipping through one of the many texts on demon possession, exorcism, and Satan when he walked in.

  The question caught me off guard and I hesitated before responding, trying to come up with something to say. “Looks like you’re the expert on that.”

  “Evasive, but not untrue,” he said.

  Father Thomas Scott was a thin man with receding gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and kind brown eyes that shone with intelligence. His body, like his voice, was soft without being effeminate, and his black suit and Roman collar hung loosely on his narrow frame.

  Turning to see Sister Abigail in the corner when she cleared her throat, he said, “Why Sister, what’re you doing skulking about back there?”

  “We need to talk to you, Tom,” she said, “and not about the devil.”

  Suddenly, there was a chill in the overcrowded, musty room.

  “Sister would have us believe that there’s no such thing as spirits,” he said to me. “That everything’s in our minds. All we have to do is get some counseling and we’ll all be fine.”

  “And Father thinks the devil made us do it,” she said.

  “What do you think?” Father Thomas asked me.

  “That I don’t want to get in the middle of an argument between the two of you.”

  “Evasive, but not unwise,” he said.

  Though there was no visible sign of it, I knew Father Thomas was a pipe smoker. Beneath the musty smell of the dusty books and the mildew odor caused by Florida humidity, the sweet ripe-raisin aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the still air.

  “But she’s a nun.”

  “But not a sixteenth-century one,” she said.

  “So Christ performed exorcisms because he wasn’t as enlightened as you?”

  “Can we not do this right now?” she said.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news,” I said, stepping between them.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m very sorry, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just give it to me,” he said. “No need to soften the blow for me.”

  “Tommy Boy is dead,” Sister said.

  “What?” he asked in shock. “No.”

  He looked over at me and I nodded.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I just saw him.”

  “We’re sure, Tom,” Sister said.

  “When? Where did it happen? How?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” I said. “His body was found in the bay this morning. I’m very sorry.”

  We were all silent for a moment, and I watched as the realization seeped into his face.

  “Do you have any idea what he was doing near the marina?” I asked.

  “We didn’t come to ask questions,” Sister said.

  “No,” Father Thomas said, ignoring her. “None.”

  “Did he strike you as suicidal?”

  He shook his head. “She’s the expert, but I don’t think so.”

  “John,” Sister said, and I felt as if at any minute my knuckles were going to be rapped with a ruler.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this,” Sister said.

  “I’ve got to…” Father Thomas began, as he made his way over behind his desk and dropped into the chair.

  Sister Abigail walked over to a credenza in the corner, opened a cabinet, and withdrew a bottle of Irish whiskey and a tumbler. Walking over to his desk, she placed the glass before him and poured a couple of fingers of Jameson.

  “Here,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s no ice,” she said.

  “Don’t need any,” he said, then turned up the tumbler and took a big gulp.

  I was close enough to smell the whiskey, and I could almost taste it as it went down his throat. Seized with a sudden urge to grab the bottle and take a long pull on it, I took a step back.

  As if reading my mind, Sister screwed the cap back on and said, “Sorry.”

  Of course she didn’t have to read my mind to know what was on it. I had sat for hours letting her probe its dark corners with the bright penetrative light of her insight and intellect.

  “That’s right, you Protestants don’t like alcohol, do you?” Father Thomas said.

  I wasn’t sure I was any more a Protestant than anything else. In fact, I wasn’t sure they had a word for what I was, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

  “Actually, this one likes it too much,” I said.

  He nodded and gave a small appreciative smile.

  “I realize this is difficult, but do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Tommy?”

  He shook his head.

  “John, I must insist you stop right now,” Sister said.

  “Me too,” Steve Taylor said from the doorway.

  We all turned to see him. He was shaking his head at me.

  “Wasn’t it just a few minutes ago you almost got locked up for interfering in an official investigation?”

  “You’d think one day I’d learn,” I said.

  “Why should you be any different?” Sister asked.

  “Don’t tell me people don’t learn from their mistakes, Sister,” Steve said. “That they don’t change. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Come on, John,” Sister said. “Let’s leave these two to their own devices.”

  “I probably should stay
for the questioning,” I said.

  Steve and Sister objected simultaneously.

  As Sister and I started to leave, I turned back to Father Thomas. “I’m very sorry for what’s happened.”

  “But not enough not to come in here and start interrogating him first thing,” Steve said.

  Chapter Five

  When I got back to my room, Tammy Taylor was waiting for me.

  The dorm rooms at St. Ann’s didn’t have locks. They were constructed for young seminarians who supposedly had no need for privacy. Of course, I would think few people needed as much privacy as young, isolated, testosterone-teeming seminarians.

  She was sitting on the edge of my bed, her feet spread apart on the floor, a too-thin cotton dress stretched across her lithe body. Since young seminarians were entering a life of suffering, there was no heating in the dorms, and the cold room revealed that the cotton-clad Miss Taylor wasn’t wearing a bra.

  She gave me a sheepish smile.

  The small room was just barely bigger than a six by nine prison cell, and there was no way for both of us to be in the room without being close to one another. Leaving the door open, I stepped across the bare cement floor and over to the dresser in the corner—the only other piece of furniture besides the twin bed—and began to gather some clean clothes.

  When I was finished and she still hadn’t said anything, I said, “Are you lost?”

  Running her fire-engine-red fingernails through her bottle-blond hair, she said, “Aren’t we all?” in a soft, airy voice. I was surprised to see the quality of her manicure and dye-job and wondered how and when someone like her went to the salon. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “Arguably,” I said—because she was probably right and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Being lost can be fun, though, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She wriggled her ass on the bed slightly. “Is it unsafe to be lost in your room?”

  I shook my head. “Not for you.”

  For a moment, she looked as if she wasn’t quite sure if what I had said was a compliment or a putdown, and her forehead furrowed as she tried to figure it out.