Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Read online

“Can I give you a ride?” I asked.

  “NO,” she exclaimed. “Sorry, but . . . that would be the worst thing. Thank you, but . . . I can’t. And I really shouldn’t talk to you again. I’m sorry. I wish things were different.”

  Before I could say anything else, we reached the others.

  “Good meeting everyone,” Ida said. “See you next week.”

  “So glad you joined us, John,” Rose Lee said.

  A black Trans Am screeched off the street and into the driveway, racing up to where we stood.

  “Oh my God,” Jordan said, moving away from me and over by Ida.

  “It’s okay, Jordan,” Ida said. “You’re okay, baby.”

  “He’s supposed to be at work.”

  “Larry Moore,” Rose Lee whispered to me, “Jordan’s husband.”

  A smallish but muscular man in very short exercise shorts and a tank top tucked into them jumped out of the car.

  His hair was feathered and blown back and he wore a large, flat gold chain around his neck, the bottom of which disappeared into his thick chest hair.

  “What the hell, Jordan?” he said. “Why aren’t you at home?”

  “Our meeting ran a little long,” Ida said. “I was just about to take her.”

  “Get in the car, Jordan,” he said. “Now.”

  She actually shook.

  “I . . . I thought . . . you were at work,” she said. “I . . . wouldn’t’ve stayed for the meeting. I didn’t know.”

  “My wife out to all hours of the night,” he said. “What the hell? Get in the car.”

  He stopped when he saw me.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  Ida started to answer, but I stepped forward. “John Jordan,” I said.

  “You bowing up at me, bitch?” he said.

  I didn’t respond, just stood there.

  “Jordan, get in the fuckin’ car now. And wipe your feet.”

  She moved toward the car. Hesitantly. Slowly. Self-consciously.

  “Come home with me, baby,” Ida said.

  “Stay out of it, Ida,” he said. “She’s coming home with her husband––where she should’ve been hours ago.”

  “She better be at work on time in the morning,” Ida said. “And there better not be a mark on her.”

  Jordan carefully eased into the car, looking like a frightened child.

  “Come on, Mom, you know I wouldn’t do that,” he said to Ida. “I never leave marks.”

  He then jumped into his car and sped away.

  “Lord Jesus, the things that poor child done been through,” Ida said.

  We were walking back toward the building so she could use the phone.

  “I know the scriptures say God won’t put more on a body than they can bear,” she said, “but I don’t see how she’s still gettin’ up of a mornin’.”

  Everyone else in group had gone––including Preston. I guess he concluded I didn’t have the same intentions toward Ida as I did Jordan.

  “Can’t help but think it’s my fault,” she said. “I’m the only mama she ever had, the only family for more’n six years now.”

  “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “Done somethin’ wrong, her with a man like that,” she said.

  Inside, she walked directly to the phone and punched in a number from memory.

  “Sorry to bother you so late, Sergeant,” she said.

  She paused and listened.

  “He just picked her up here at the daycare, yellin’ and cussin’ and showboatin’ in his little vroom vroom car.”

  She paused again.

  “Okay. Thank you. Don’t know what I’d do if he hurt her again. Okay then. Goodnight.”

  She hung up and we locked up again.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s try to go get some sleep. I got to be back here in just a few short hours.”

  “So Jordan’s okay?”

  “That was Larry’s brother, Vince. Said he’d take care of it. I’ve had to call him before. He’s always handled it.”

  “You called him sergeant.”

  “He’s not just Larry’s brother, he’s his commanding officer.”

  “He’s in the military?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Larry’s a cop.”

  17

  I was unable to sleep that night.

  All I could think about was Jordan Moore.

  I saw her when I closed my eyes. I saw her when I opened them.

  Was she okay? How could she be with such a shallow bully loser? Why did he have to be a cop? Why did she have to be so beautiful, so vulnerable, be in such an unbelievably bad situation?

  Where was she right now? Locked in the bathroom, Larry beating down the door? Lying uneasily in the bed beside him? Unconscious? Drugged? In the hospital? Dead?

  I had no way of contacting her. Didn’t know her phone number, address, anything. Nothing I could really do even if I did.

  I felt powerless and pathetic, a kid come to the city to uncover a killer and I couldn’t even help a helpless woman in danger.

  I was so damn helpless myself.

  I laid down and tried to sleep but it was futile.

  The phone rang a few minutes later.

  I answered it in the dark, grabbing the receiver so hurriedly I dropped it, hoping it was Jordan, knowing it couldn’t be.

  “John?”

  It was Anna.

  “Hey.”

  “Did I wake you? I figured you’d be up.”

  “I am. I was. You didn’t wake me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Why?”

  “You sound . . . I don’t know. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m okay. How are you? How is Chris?”

  “I looked for you after graduation, but . . . I can’t believe you moved to Atlanta before I could say goodbye. You Jordans don’t mess around gettin’ out of town, do you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Speaking of,” she said, “you heard anything from Nancy?”

  “Not a word.”

  “She probably doesn’t know how to contact you.”

  “Probably, but she never called when she did, so . . .”

  “Guess that’s true.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “I got your number from your mom.”

  In the darkness of my smallish room there was only the sound of the oscillating fan and Anna’s voice.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked. “Did I do something?”

  “What would you have done?”

  “Nothing to my knowledge.”

  “I better go,” I said. “Thanks for calling.”

  She sighed.

  “You haven’t told me how you like Atlanta, how everything’s goin’, nothin’.”

  “We’ll catch up soon,” I said.

  “I’m worried about you, John.”

  “Don’t be. Really.”

  “Can’t help it. Feel worse now than before I called.”

  “Good night, Anna.”

  “I . . . I love you, John.”

  After a few hours of tossing and turning, worrying and thinking the worst, I pushed my weary body out of the bed and stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen.

  To my surprise, I found Aaron Iris sitting at the rickety old table eating Cap’n Crunch and reading our theology textbook, a tiny trail of milk on the table between the bowl and his mouth.

  “John the Revelator,” he said.

  He was a pudgy, pale-faced freshman with large glasses and strawberry-blond hair, good natured if a bit grating.

  “How’s it goin’ Aaron?”

  “I’m too excited to sleep too,” he said.

  “About?”

  “Being here. Being a part of such an amazing movement, learning Kingdom Theology, preparing to take this fresh revelation to the world.”

  “Oh that,” I said.

  “Whatta you plan to do?” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “
In ministry. With your life. Where are you called? What are you called to do?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Really? I want to be on staff here one day.”

  “You and every other student in the school.”

  “You don’t?”

  I shook my head.

  “But there’s no other place like this in the whole world, no other man of God like the bishop.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “What’re you thinkin’?”

  “Something special is happening here,” I said. “Truly. And so much of what Bishop Paulk is preaching is––”

  “You don’t agree with all of it?” he said. “How can you not agree with all of it? What do you have a problem with?”

  “I’m just . . . Be careful, man. That’s all I’m sayin’. Just be careful not to get so caught up you make idols out of places and people.”

  “Okay, sure, but I want to know what you disagree with.”

  “I agree with far more than I disagree with,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the message of compassion and social justice, community and responsibility.”

  “But?”

  “The message and structure is too authoritarian, too paramilitary in a way,” I said. “And too dogmatic. As much as Bishop Paulk is destroying dogmas from previous traditions, he’s creating new ones. Maybe all men and movements do it. But it’s dangerous.”

  He shook his head. “Why’re you here?”

  “What?”

  “If you think all that. Why are you here?”

  “I guess because the brochure didn’t mention there wasn’t room for dissent and disagreement.”

  When I arrived at Safe Haven the next morning, the same security guard met me at the gate with the same demeanor and disposition.

  “Deja vu,” I said.

  “Huh?” he said, blinking behind his glasses.

  “We did this same thing a few days ago.”

  “Did we?” he asked.

  “Really?”

  “You need to move your car and––”

  “It’s okay, Ralph,” Jordan said, walking up. “He’s expected.”

  Jordan had stopped some ten feet or so back from the gate and I rushed over to where she was standing.

  “Thanks for expecting me.”

  “Sorry about last night,” she said.

  She was as radiant as the morning, her simple, unvarnished beauty gently resting on her like a light dew upon the earth. But she appeared to be weary and a bit frazzled too.

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

  We starting walking back up toward the building.

  Kids were already playing on the playground, their sleepy faces fresh, their drowsy movements measured, less energetic and enthusiastic as they had been when I had seen them before.

  “I don’t want to cause you any more trouble than you already have,” I said, “but I had to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m okay. I’m embarrassed, drained, a little sore, and––”

  “Did he––”

  “Just some shoving and shaking,” she said.

  “Shoving and shaking is not––”

  “Can we not talk about it right now?” she said. “I’m just so happy to see you. Makes everything better. I knew . . . I knew you were the kind . . . I knew you would check on me. I knew I was right about you.”

  “You were right,” I said. “I’m a decent human being.”

  “You’re so much more than that. I can tell.”

  Our eyes locked.

  “Be careful,” she said, “or you’ll restore my hope in the human race.”

  “Whoever killed LaMarcus Williams took him right here from his backyard with his mom close by,” Bobby Battle said. “Wayne Williams never did anything like that. He preyed on street kids who thought they were hustlin’ him.”

  We were standing behind the daycare center in what was once LaMarcus Williams’s backyard.

  It was later that afternoon, hot, humid, the sun beating down on us, the rumble of thunder rolling in the far distance.

  Bobby Battle, the lead detective in the open unsolved, was walking me through the case, explaining why LaMarcus didn’t make the list.

  He was roughly the same age and size of Frank Morgan, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Frank wore comfortable, sensible shoes, Sears slacks, a simple cotton button down, and an out-of-date tie, Bobby was stylish and slick, expensively and smartly dressed, more a Miami Vice cop than an actual working detective.

  “Even still, first thing I did after Williams was arrested was looked at him hard for this,” he said. “And I’m not saying he didn’t do it. I’m just saying it doesn’t fit his pattern.”

  “You could’t rule him out completely?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “He had no alibi and check this out––he did come very close to here that same day.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice rising, pulse quickening.

  “Says he was downtown at the Omni passing out flyers for his band.”

  “He was. I saw him.”

  “Huh?”

  I told him.

  “Wow. So there you go, we know where he was earlier in the day. Said when he got asked to leave there he headed down this way.”

  Did what I had done cause LaMarcus to lose his life?

  “Says he came to pick up a piece of recording equipment from a musician who lived about a mile from here.”

  “Where?”

  “Down off Waldrop,” he said. “Not far from here.”

  I experienced a flutter and feeling of excitement and connection, a new feeling then, but one that would happen more and more often over the years, in ah-ha moments, in moments when the blurry Polaroid that was my mind would finish developing and come into focus, moments when a few individual puzzle pieces would be laid in place, finally revealing the whole.

  “Where Curtis Walker was found three months later,” I said.

  “Fuck me. That’s right. It was the other end but Williams could’ve picked out the spot when he crossed over the bridge, filed it away for later.”

  I nodded.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “That could really be somethin’.”

  “Question is, did he come over this way before or after that and kill LaMarcus?”

  “I just don’t think so. According to the mom, she and her daughter, adopted white girl named––has your last name––Jordan, were keeping an eye on the boy while cooking a meal and wrapping Christmas presents. Swears one of ’em had an eye on him every second, but even if that’s not true, it was a daring abduction.”

  I nodded.

  It was nap time at Safe Haven. All was quiet, still, peaceful.

  The area around the yard was wooded on all three sides.

  “Back behind here there’s a subdivision,” Battle said, pointing with his radio to the trees and undergrowth lining the back of the property. “But when LaMarcus was taken they had just begun the development. Roads and sidewalks were in, a couple of houses under construction, but nobody lived back there.”

  “So if not Williams, a worker on one of the crews sees LaMarcus at some point,” I said. “Starts fixating, fantasizing, planning, watches him from the woods, then snatches him.”

  “That was one theory. We checked everybody out, assuming we actually found everybody, and came up with two suspects––drywall guy named Vincent Storr and painter named Raymond J. Pelton.”

  “And?”

  “Both alibied out. Never even found enough to bring ’em in.”

  “Other suspects?”

  “Looked pretty hard at the dad,” he said. “Well, the kid’s sperm donor. That’s about all he ever did for the kid. Anthony Alex Williams, Jr. Sold and installed car stereos. Was mostly a front for dealing. A lady friend said he was givin’ her little Anthony all afternoon. Always thought she was lying but neve
r could get her to blink.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Neighborhood kid. Carlton Fields. Older kid. Not quite right. Not full retarded but . . . Played with the younger kids, including LaMarcus. Parents wouldn’t really let us at him and I didn’t have any reason to force them to, but . . . I don’t know. Always thought there was somethin’ there.”

  “You kept track of ’em over the years?”

  “The suspects? Not really. Wish I had time. This ain’t the only open unsolved I got, and I got more current cases than I can work effectively.”

  “I really appreciate you takin’ the time to go over it with me.”

  “No problem. Frank says you’re good people. You come up with anything, you bring it to me.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Then let’s take a look at what’s really interesting about this case.”

  18

  So,” Bobby said, “LaMarcus is playing in his backyard. His mom and sister are watching from the windows. The child murders are high profile by now, so everybody’s keepin’ an eye on their kids––’specially somebody like Ida Williams, who’s part of STOP, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s right here where we are,” he said. “Fifteen feet from the window. That puts him some twenty feet or more from the wooded border on each side. And then poof . . . he’s gone. Vanished into thin air.”

  I looked around the yard. It was still exactly as he was describing.

  When I looked at the windows in the back of the house, Ida and Jordan were standing there watching us.

  I gave a small wave and frowned apologetically.

  They both smiled and waved.

  I walked over to the window and Ida opened it.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I said.

  “For trying to find out what happened to my boy?” she said. “Don’t be.”

  “For stirring it up.”

  “It stays stirred up,” Jordan said. “Always. Every single second of every single day.”

  “We appreciate what you’re doing,” Ida said.

  “How long before the kids go out front to play?” I asked.

  “Just a few minutes. Why?”

  “Can y’all have someone watch them for a few minutes and help us with something?”

  “Sure.”

  I turned around and took a few steps back toward Bobby.