Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“What is it?” I asked, resisting the urge to wipe my face.

“I’m just so proud of you. . . . Serving her the way you do agrees with you.” As long as I had known Anna, she had only referred to God in the feminine form. “You’re really doing what you were created to do now.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“ Thank you ,” she said emphatically. “You are a much-needed breath of fresh air around this place. And, I suspect, everywhere you go. You know,” she said in a playful manner with a smile on her soft face, “if I weren’t married . . .”

“If you weren’t married . . .” I said and let it hang there like a dream.

“Are you dating yet? Found anyone special in Potter County?” she asked.

“Yes, to the second question, but she’s married. As to the dating, I’m not quite ready yet, but almost.”

“Don’t rush it. That’s the worst thing you could do. Take care of you for now, and worry about a her later.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve rushed it. If anything, I’ve been dragging my heels.”

“No, I guess you haven’t. Still, you can never be too careful these days. Especially considering what you’ve been through. Probably best to let me pick someone out for you.”

“Could you please? If she won your approval, she would most certainly have mine.”

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open.”

How could such an extraordinary woman work in a prison in a one-horse county? Living in Pottersville, for Anna, had to do with a promise she made to her grandmother just before she died. Working in prison is the result of a promise she made to herself when her younger sister was murdered. Besides, it was temporary. She was in the final stages of finishing her law degree from Florida State University. I had every suspicion that she was going to be the toughest prosecutor that our state would ever see. She was as strong and as tough as she was beautiful. And, though she acted like she needed her husband or me in her life, the truth was she did that for our benefit. I was grateful nonetheless.

“Listen, I’ve got this little problem I need some help with,” I said.

“Name it,” she said, sounding excited at the prospect of helping me.

“Mr. Stone has asked me to look into what happened yesterday. Unofficially, of course.”

Before I had finished my sentence, she was shaking her head rapidly. “No, I won’t help you. You are already doing what you were meant to do. You are called to be a minister, not Father Brown, Bishop Blackie, or Brother Cadfael,” she said, using my favorite fictional ecclesiastical sleuths against me.

“But . . .”

“But, nothing,” she snapped. Her eyes had narrowed and seemed to glow. “Surely you haven’t forgotten what Atlanta was like. Is your sobriety-your serenity-not worth whatever it takes?”

“It is, but I think I’m ready. Besides, this is nothing. Just a simple inquiry, that’s all.” I said it with so much conviction I almost convinced myself.

“I will not help you with something that will really wind up hurting you.”

“I was told not to tell anyone about this. I decided that I had to tell the two people here that I would trust with my own life.”

“Well, if Merrill is the man I think he is, he won’t help you either.”

“What do you suggest I do?” I asked.

“You’re going to tell Stone you can’t do it,” she said without hesitation.

“I can’t do that.”

She was telling me that not only could I do it, but that I must do it, or she would, … when there was a knock at her door. It was Tom Daniels.

“Yes,” she said as he stuck his head in the door.

“Hello. My name is Inspector Daniels.”

“Really? Your mother named you Inspector? How awful,” she said as she sat up in her chair. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. This was going to be good.

“No ma’am. My first name is Tom. I am the chief inspector of DOC. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she said and winked at me. “I’ve heard all about you. What can I do for you?”

Daniels jerked his head toward me like someone suddenly getting a whiff of a foul odor. “It’s a private matter. Can I talk to you alone?”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t. You see, the chaplain and I are having an affair, and since he’s my secret lover, I keep no secrets from him. So, he stays.”

My mouth dropped open-for two reasons really. First, I couldn’t believe that she would say that we were having an affair, just in case he might possibly think she was serious. Secondly, and more importantly, I knew that as the chief inspector he could give her a world of trouble if he wanted to. She was more than just a little confident. And that was more than just a little appealing.

“Whatever,” he said as he came in and took the seat beside me, careful not to look at me. “I’m looking into the death of inmate Ike Johnson. Is he yours?”

“Is he my what?”

“Is he your . . . Are you his classification officer?” he said, obviously frustrated and slightly tongue-tied. Anna’s beauty, along with her confident manner and sharp tongue, was too much for any man and most women.

“Yes, I am.”

“Can you tell me about him?”

“Oh, yes,” she said as if she were going to cooperate, which I knew she was not. “His name is Ike Johnson.”

“And?” he asked.

“And, what else would you like to know?”

“I would like to know whatever in the hell there is to know about the bastard so I can find out why he was trying to escape.”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. I know of no reason why he would attempt to leave our happy little home here. Perhaps you should ask his pimp.”

“His pimp. Who is that, the chaplain?”

“I will speak with you no further if you say another disrespectful thing about the state’s finest chaplain.”

“Okay. Damn it, lady, all I need is a little information. Who is his pimp?”

“What you need are some manners. His pimp is an inmate named Jacobson.”

“What’s Jacobson like?”

“An inmate pimp. He pretends to be crazy, but he’s not,” she said, and then she was silent as she thought about it for a minute. “I say he’s not crazy, but what I mean is that he’s not crazy the way he pretends to be. He pretends to be loony. What he is, is psychotic. He’s dangerous. There are many people who have not lived to regret the fact that they allowed his crazy pretense to make them forget how really dangerous he is.”

“So, I should talk to him?”

“I think so, but then I’m not the chief inspector of Florida state prisons.”

“Did Johnson have any family on the outside?”

“Grandmother who raised him and an aunt that I know of.”

“No girlfriend?”

“He didn’t like girls, never has.”

“Faggot on the outside too?”

“If you are asking, in your own redneck way, if I am aware of a lover he would have tried to escape for, I am not. He did have four visits from a Don Hall when he first got here, but that’s been over a year ago.”

“Is there anything else you can think of I should know?”

“Yes, there is. Something very important.”

“Well, spit it out.”

“My brother, whom I love with all my heart, is gay, and I am offended by your assertion that he or any other gay man should be used for firewood.”

“Firewood? What the hell are you talking about now?”

She looked at me.

“The term faggot ,” I said, “came from a period in time when homosexual men were burned at the stake. It means kindling.”

He stood without comment, withdrew a card from his pocket, and placed it on the desk in front of Anna. “This is an official investigation of a death within this prison. A death in which you are at least partly to blame. When you get tired of your little grab-ass games and want to help me figure out what the hell is going on here, call me. If you continue to refuse to cooperate or try to play more games, I will become a very big pain in your ass.”