Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“I was so disoriented I don’t remember anything else except being in my car about a mile from my house when I saw the bright lights of a truck in my rearview mirror. I sped up, and the truck behind me did, too. When I reached the trailer park, I pulled in quickly, and so did the truck. I parked in front of my trailer, jumped out, and ran toward the door. The truck pulled in behind me, and I heard the truck door open. When I turned around, I saw the big officer in the white shirt running towards me. I dropped my keys, but thankfully I had left the door unlocked. People do that in Pottersville.

“I ran in and locked the door just before he reached it. He tried it. It was locked. Then it hit me-my keys-they were out there on the ground. I put the dead bolt on and the chain. He came back and unlocked the knob, but couldn’t open the door because of the dead bolt. He kicked the door. I could hear him cursing. I ran into the kitchen and called nine-one-one. When I went back, he was gone. When the deputy arrived, I told him that it was a false alarm, but he could tell that I’d been beaten up a little. I think I looked worse than I felt. Anyway, I convinced him that I was okay, and he left. I’ve lived in fear ever since. This is the first time I’ve come out of the house since then.”

“Do you know the name of the officer, the big one in the white shirt?” I asked.

“No. I assumed it was Skipper, but I don’t know. God, he’s a psychopath. You should have heard him laughing at me just before they pulled Tony off me. I wonder how long they were there in the dark watching us.”

“Have you ever seen him before?” I asked.

“No, never. I take it that he is either a captain or a lieutenant because of the color of his shirt, but I couldn’t see his collar.”

“What time did all this take place?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“It’s very important. Was it before or after eleven?”

“Oh, after. It was way after eleven. Why?”

“The shift changes at eleven. So does the shift OIC.”

“While you were at the institution, how many different officers did you see?” I asked.

“There was only one in the control room and then the three in the chapel.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. It was eerily quiet that night.”

“I wonder how many officers saw you.” I said, mainly to myself.

“Four,” she said confidently as if I had asked what two plus two equaled.

“More than four. Certainly the officer in Tower One saw you, even though you didn’t see him or her.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Is it real important?”

“It would give me an idea of how many are involved and how high this goes.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to look into it,” I said.

“What should I do?” she asked like a lost little girl.

“You should stay home as much as possible. I’ll ask the sheriff to assign someone to watch you for a while. As soon as I know something, I’ll be in touch.”

“Can you get the sheriff to assign a deputy to me?” she asked, sounding impressed.

“I think so,” I said confidently.

“You are something else, Chaplain,” she said with a puzzled expression on her face.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m just related to him.”

“Oh, I see. Chaplain,” she said, turning deathly serious, “will you please check on Tony for me? I need to know he’s all right.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” I said.

“But you will,” she said. “I know it.”

“What exactly are we doing here?” Anna asked.

We were sitting at the large conference table in the medical break room designed more for meetings than breaks. In fact, it was a conference room with a Coke machine in the back of the medical building. The corridor leading to it led past the steel doors of the suicide cells on one side and the glass walls of the infirmary on the other. I was drinking a can of “pure Florida orange juice,” she a Diet Pepsi, both produced by the vending machine.

“We’re taking a break,” I said. She looked confused. “You know, a break. We’re state employees; we takes lots of them.”

“Oh, we do?” she asked, raising her left eyebrow to a sharp point.

I called her shortly after returning from my meeting with Molly Thomas. Just prior to calling Anna, I called Tom Daniels and asked him to quietly get the FDLE technicians to examine the chapel floor for trace evidence that might verify Molly’s story. I had no reason to doubt her, but in dealing with inmates and their families I had learned to verify everything. Besides it was an incredible story. I also called Dad and told him about the case and asked him to look out for Molly.

“Okay, so we never do,” I said, “but today we are turning over a new leaf.”

She sipped some more of her Diet Pepsi. Where she’d found a straw, I had no idea.

“You know,” I continued, “I never once saw Susan drink out of a straw. She said it causes wrinkles around the mouth.”

“What?” she asked, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Anna had never liked Susan, which was difficult while we were married, but wonderful now.

I shrugged. “She was always obsessing about something.”

Anna sucked on the straw even harder; her cheeks drew and gulping noises surfaced from the bottom of the can. Like everything she did, this, too, had the unique blend of sensuality and innocence. I’m not saying she didn’t know she was sexy-she was far too confident in it. But just as those raised in wealth are unaware of their privilege, Anna never seemed conscious of her beauty.

“What we’re really doing here,” I whispered, “is looking around for clues.”

Her eyes widened. “Clues? Like real detectives? Am I playing Watson to your Holmes?”

“Being my partner would make you either Curly or Moe, not Watson.”

“I think I’ll be Moe and let Merrill be Curly.”

“Fine by me,” I said. I then grabbed her nose between my first two fingers and brought my other hand down pretending to hit it and said, “Hey, Moe.”

She smiled that smile. For just a moment, time paused. And the Stooges were the furthermost thing from my mind.

“Actually,” she said, “I should be Nancy Drew or your Girl Friday, you sexist pig,” she said with a different smile.

“You know, you’re right. I almost forgot that you are a woman. I’ll be James Bond, and you can be- “

“I will not be a Bond bitch,” she said, cutting me off.

“I think the term is Bond babe,” I said through a laugh.

“Whatever.”

I sat there preparing to talk to her about the letters. It was more difficult than I would have thought, primarily because of what I thought her reaction was going to be.

“I need to talk with you,” I said finally.

“We are talking.”

“We need to have a serious talk. I want you to really listen to what I’m going to say. I’m not joking.”

“Okay, what is it?” she said, tired of the buildup.

“I’ve received a couple of letters threatening someone that I love. I think they’re about you.”

“What did they say?”

I told her.

“It’s not necessarily about me.”

“No, not necessarily, but I think it’s probably about you. I love you more than anyone within miles of this place, and the letters are coming from within the institution.”

“You’re probably right,” she said soberly. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to listen to me. If anything happened to you . . .” The thought just lingered in the air. I regretted saying it.

“Well, then, you’ll just have to stop anything from happening to me.”