Michael Lister - Blood of the Lamb

Before I could answer, the ticket agent came back on the line and said the only flight to New Orleans included a brief stop in Memphis and left at eight.

“You gonna fly over and ask Bobby Earl and Bunny how to make love last so you and Susan get it right this time?”

I laughed.

“They left here too late last night to catch their flight,” I said. “The only other flight to New Orleans leaves at eight tonight. Whatta you say we’re there to see them off?”

When we reached the Bay County/Panama City International Airport, I jumped out and ran inside while Merrill hunted for a place to park.

The ticket counters to my right were quiet and mostly empty, only two agents helping a handful of passengers check their luggage and confirm their seating, but the left side was crowded and noisy. Recent arrivals and those who had come to meet them enthusiastically greeted, embraced, and conversed as they waited for the buzzer to sound and the conveyer belt to come to life.

There was no sign of the Caldwells in the long center corridor that led past the security checkpoint to the departure gates, nor at the small restaurant on the left, but as I turned to the right and peered into the gift shop, I saw Bunny Caldwell standing alone in front of the magazine rack in the back.

As I walked toward her, I realized she wasn’t really looking at the magazines-they just happened to be what were in front of her. She seemed lost and alone, unsure where to go or what to do, so she just stood and stared and saw nothing.

“Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.

When she turned around, she squinted at me for a long moment as if finding it difficult to focus. She only vaguely resembled the overly made-up, seductive young woman I had met the day before.

“Chaplain…” she said, and I could tell she was searching for my name.

“Jordan,” I said. “John.”

She nodded. “Right. What’re you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you,” I said.

Her long, pale face clouded over in incomprehension, then her eyes widened and it contorted into an expression of alarm. “About what?”

“Nicole.”

She tightened her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off tears. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

I nodded.

“It doesn’t seem real,” she said. “I keep looking for her, keep starting to call her. I even started to buy her that.” I followed her gaze over to an aqua bear draped in a small American flag. “She loves all those Beanie things.”

Beyond the bear, out in the terminal near the rental car counters, I saw a small circle of old ladies huddled around Bobby Earl. Like Bunny, he looked dressed for church-or TV, and he was putting his hands on their heads and praying for them.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, turning back to her.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why did it happen?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

“Who?” she said softly, and I wondered if the way she was acting was the result of grief, guilt, or medication.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She shook her head.

Maybe it wasn’t grief, guilt or medication, but shock.

She stared at me for a long moment without saying anything, without seeming to even see me. She looked so helpless, so vulnerable, and I felt bad for what I was about to do.

“What could she have done to make somebody do that to her?” I asked, trying not to let my disgust at the question bleed into my voice.

Forgive me, Nicole, I prayed.

If she or her husband had done it, she had to believe I was on their side, that I would understand. She’d need to justify it.

As usual in these situations, I felt indecent and iniquitous. I was attempting to manipulate someone to whom I should have been ministering.

She glanced over at the bald black man reading a magazine behind the counter. He was the only other person in the shop. If he overheard our conversation, he gave no indication. He looked bored, the magazine a barely adequate distraction.

“She didn’t make anybody do anything,” she said. “She didn’t do anything. She didn’t deserve this.”

“No, I didn’t mean…” I said, but of course I did. “I just meant I know how some children can be.”

“Nicole was an angel,” she said. “An angel.” She then turned her head to the side and looked up as if thinking of something for the first time. “Maybe that’s why God took her-to join the other angels.”

“There’s no doubt she’s with God now,” I said. “And the angels, but God didn’t kill her. Who do you think killed her?”

“She was too good,” she continued, in her own world now, no longer talking to me. “She was just too good for this fallen, sinful world.”

Over the intercom, a pleasant-sounding woman with only a slight southern drawl announced the boarding call for their flight, but Bunny didn’t seem to hear her.

“Bunny,” I said sternly. “Who killed Nicole?”

She looked at me, our eyes locking, as if she were really seeing me for the first time. “We did.”

“You and Bobby Earl?”

She nodded. “We-” She broke off, her eyes growing wide, her face filling with alarm, as she spotted something over my shoulder.

I turned to see Bobby Earl quickly approaching us, DeAndré Stone following behind him at a distance.

“Honey, it’s time for our flight,” Bobby Earl said. “Why, Chaplain Jordan, what’re you doing here?”

“I came to see you two,” I said.

“To minister to us or ask us if we killed our daughter?”

“Both,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “DeAndré, take Bunny to the plane. I’ll join you there in a minute.”

Zombie-like, Bunny stepped forward and DeAndré took her by the arm. When he turned to walk out with her, Merrill was in front of him, blocking the aisle.

“We gonna do this here?” DeAndré asked.

Merrill looked over at me.

I shook my head.

“Guess not,” Merrill said to DeAndré, “but I’d like a rain check on that.”

“Bet on it,” DeAndré said.

Without moving, Merrill relaxed his posture, and DeAndré led Bunny over to another aisle and out of the store.

“I’m sorry again for your loss, Mrs. Caldwell,” I called after her.

“Do you really lack spiritual discernment to such an extent that you suspect me or Bunny of killing our daughter?” Bobby Earl asked.

“When I asked Bunny who killed Nicole, she said, ‘We did.’”

“She meant by taking her into the prison,” he said. “She’s very upset right now, as you can imagine. She feels enormous guilt. It’s unthinkable that you would come and-”

“Whose daughter is she?” I asked. “Is Mrs. Caldwell her biological mother?”

Before he could prevent it, his eyes widened briefly and flickered in confirmation, and he shook his head. “How can you do these things?” he asked. “Talking to another man’s devastated wife when he’s not around, accusing a man of God of murdering the underprivileged little black girl he’s taken in and loved as his own? Sir, I ask you, are you a minister or a… or something else? I have to go now, but I will keep you in my prayers-and the men whose souls you’re meant to shepherd.”

He turned and began walking toward the terminal.

I followed.

“Weren’t you and Bunny the only ones in that locked office with Nicole last night?” I asked.

Without stopping, he said, “Obviously not. She was brutally murdered-and we didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Why did you have her in the prison in the first place?” I asked.

He shook his head, but didn’t answer.

He walked quickly, weaving in and out of slower moving passengers. A few of the stragglers from recently landed planes headed in our direction, recognized Bobby Earl, reacting to him the way most people respond to celebrities-with wide-eyed excitement, pointing him out to others or with attempted nonchalant coolness, undermined by surreptitious glances.