JJ08 - Blood Money (25 page)

We
were quiet a few minutes finishing our food.

With strips of toast, Merrill wiped up the remaining grits and
egg
yolks and ate them. Just as
we
were finishing, Carla served us fresh, hot coffee and
we
drank it black, and it
was
good.

After a while, Carla said, “Could someone be trying to kill Phillips for a reason other than money?”

I nodded. “Could be
anything.”

“Yeah,”
Merrill said. “Reasons to kill a fool numerous as fools
theyselves.”

“And
that,” Anna added, smiling her radiant smile, “is the voice of experience.”

T
hat night Anna and I attended a political debate at the Pottersville Community
Center.

Because of what happened at
Potter
Farm and the rumors about what happened, the place was packed with townspeople and reporters and news organizations.

Each candidate gave brief statements before the debate began.

Hugh Glenn
worked
what had happened at
Potter
Farm into his and questioned how something like that could happen right under the current sheriff
’s
nose.

Dad’s
was brief and included assurances that he would be making an arrest in that case soon.

Ralph Long rambled on mostly about nothin’, but in every single
word
he uttered he was begging to be liked, his neediness and desire to please so palpable it caused an uneasiness and awkwardness to permeate the room.

After bragging about his wisdom, integrity, and impartiality, Judge Richard Cox shared his certainty that the incident at
Potter
Farm was meant to bring embarrassment and shame to the Republican Party of
Potter
County in general and him in particular and was perpetrated by radical homosexuals as part of the gay agenda.

I looked across the room at Richie, who was sitting next to his sister, Diane. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, while next to him
Diane’s
face flushed crimson.

Don Stockton was smug and cocky and the only candidate certain of his reelection.

“I’m not an educated
man,”
Stockton said, “so I’ll
have
to defer to the good
judge’s
opinion on such matters, but in my experience, nine times out of ten the motive for everything comes down to
money.
It’s
what makes the world
go
round.
It’s
what everybody wants and nobody has enough
of.
So whether
it’s
a gay agenda or a straight agenda . . .
it’s
gonna include a green agenda. Promise you that.”

After the formal debate had concluded and the moderator opened it up to questions from the audience, every single question but one was about what had happened at
Potter
Farm and the body of the blonde victim murdered there.

The one question not related to
Potter
Farm was still directed at Dad.

It was asked by Chris
Taunton,
Anna’s
soon-to-be, but not soon enough, ex.

“Sheriff, is it true that your son, a supposed minister of the Gospel, is shackin’ with another
man’s
pregnant wife?” he said.
“And
if
so,
how do you expect voters to reelect a man who
would
raise such an immoral sack of shit hypocrite?”

I took
Anna’s
hand, as the majority of those in attendance turned to glance at
us.

“I’m so
sorry,”
she whispered. “Why?
You
didn’t
do
anything.”

“
I married the motherfucker.”

“We
all do foolish things in our
youth,”
I said. “What I did was far
worse.”

“What’s
that?”

“Left here without
you.”

“That’s
true,” she said. “This is all your fault.”

At the conclusion of the event, my instinct was to duck out the nearest door, but Anna convinced me to stay and face our accusers with our scarlet
A
s displayed
proudly.

When we finally reached the friendly face of Richie Cox, I breathed a little easier.

“Dir,”
he said to his sister, “you remember my friend the supposed minister of the Gospel shackin’ with another
man’s
pregnant wife immoral sack of shit hypocrite,
don’t
you?”

“He looks familiar,” Diane said, “but . . . the
name’s
not ringing any
bells.”

Richie extended his hand to Anna. “Hi I’m Richie Cox. I’m part of the gay agenda trying to destroy the
world
and keep my dad from being reelected.”

“Nice to meet
you,”
she said. “Let me know any
way
I can help you with that.”

“This is his sister, Dirty Diana,” I said. “The one who said you were lucky to be with
me.”

They shook
hands.

I looked at Diane. “Sure you
don’t
want to amend your opinion on the subject?”

She shook her head.
“You
guys are so lucky to
have
each
other.”

“Yes
we
are,”
Anna said. “This was
fun,”
Richie said.

“Wasn’t
it?” Anna said.
“And
to think I almost
didn’t
come.”

“I
love
my
dad,”
Diane said.
“And
I think
he’s
a pretty good judge, but . . . I
don’t
know . . . maybe it
wouldn’t
be the
worst
thing in the
world
if none of them got reelected.”

Richie shook his head. “I’m gonna be honest. I’m not ready for the lifestyle change. The
way
the economy is . . . If the judge
didn’t
supplement
my
income . . . yours too . . .
No,
my gay agenda is to keep his homophobic ass in office.”

Diane looked
over
my shoulder, her eyes widening as she did.

I turned to see Hugh Glenn approaching from one direction and Chris
Taunton
from
another.

Hugh reached us first.

“You
need to reason with your
dad,”
he said to me.
“He’s
making some outlandish
accusations.”

“Such as?”

“Such as me having somethin’ to do with that
girl’s
death in order to win the election.”

“Who was the first person to bring it up tonight?” I said. “In an attempt to win the election.”

“Think about what
you’re
sayin’,”
he said.
“Talk
some sense into your dad.”

“It’s
the father that needs to talk some sense into the
son,”
Chris said as he reached
us.

I turned toward him, stepping in front of Anna.
“You
don’t
have
to protect her from
me,”
he said. I
didn’t
respond.

“That’s
my
wife.”

“I’m not
your
anything,” she said, coming around to stand beside me.
“And
if you
don’t
stop acting so petulant and stop stalking me, I’m gonna make a few public statements of my own. Understand? I’ve guarded your dignity so far, kept your secrets, but you ever pull another juvenile stunt like that again and I’m gonna shine a very bright light on you. Now walk
away
without another
word.”

He thought about it without saying
anything.
She had gotten through to him.

“Walk
away,
Chris,”
she said. And in another moment he did.

M
y mom died the next
day.

I
couldn’t
be sure, but there was no evidence she took her own life. And even if I could know for sure she
didn’t,
it
wouldn’t
mitigate the guilt and regret I felt.

I had gotten so wrapped up in my relationship with Anna and what was going on inside the prison with the Suicide Kings and outside with the missing blonde murder victim, that I had neglected her during her final
days.

Sometimes it seemed as though I was surrounded on all sides by death.
Daily,
I received reminders that long life is an illusion, that our existence, regardless of the length, was but a
vapor,
quickly floating up to vanish into nothingness. Here then gone.

As I drove
over
to meet Dad and
Jake
at her house, I recalled the one time in the last few days I had made it by to see her . . .

It
hadn’t
been late, but Mom was sleeping, waking occasionally for brief exchanges before drifting off again.

I sat by her bed thinking about death and dying, about how very brief our time here
was,
how we lost everything
eventually, inevitably,
and what a tragedy that
was.

Her eyes fluttered open.
“Sorry
I
can’t
wake
up.”

“Don’t
be.”

“I’m just so tired
today.”

“Just
rest,”
I said. “I’m gonna sit here a while. I’ll slip out
later.”

She dozed off again, her breathing labored, her rest fitful, her body constantly twitching and jerking.

I had been watching Mom die for quite a while
now.
Now that she had, it
wasn’t
unexpected, I
wasn’t
shocked or caught off guard, but I also
wasn’t
prepared for it. There was nothing I could’ve done to be, nothing I knew to do
anyway.

“I’m not going
to,”
Mom had said.

Her eyes had been closed and at first I thought she was talking in her sleep.

“If
you’re
worried about . .
.”

She opened her eyes and looked
over
at me, straining to keep her heavy lids from falling shut.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m gonna let things take their natural course . . .

I’m not gonna . . . put an end to this
myself.”

I nodded and smiled and took her hand in mine. “Thank you,
John,”
she said.
“For
everything.
For
all
you’ve
done.
For
. . . everything.”

Those had been the last
words
I would ever hear her
say.

O
ver the next three days of dealing with
Mom’s
death and preparing to officiate her funeral, I only entered the institution twice. Once to meet with Brent Allen. The other to meet with the warden and the chaplain supervisor about my
immorality.

“My granddad?” Brent Allen asked when he walked into my office.

I nodded. “I’m very
sorry.”

I had been called back in to the institution to notify him that his grandfather had died. He had been escorted to my office
by
an officer, who remained in the
hallway.

The officer accompanied him not only because it was dark and the yard was closed, but in case he became crazed or violent. It was standard operating procedure. Inmates receiving death notifications were accompanied by officers whether the yard was open or not. But I
didn’t
expect any behavioral problems from Brent.

“That was fast,” he said, sinking down into one of the chairs across from my desk.

I nodded.

Except for the officer in the
hallway,
we were alone in the chapel—alone in the upper compound except for Medical. Like the compound, the chapel was dark and quiet, the only lights on were in the hallway and my office, the only sounds, the ones
we
were making—and we
weren’t
making any at the moment.

“How are you?” I asked.

He was looking down, seemingly deep in thought, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, hand absently rubbing the back of his head.

He lifted his head and looked at me. “Huh?”

“How are you?”

“I’m
okay.
Been expecting it—not this fast, but . . . I
don’t
know . . .
it’s
. . . to lose someone like him while I’m in here. Makes the rethink all
my
bullshit about suicide and death.”

“Really?”

It seemed sudden, unearned if not exactly insincere, but maybe he really had been shocked into reconsideration.

“It’s
all so . . . out of our control, you know? How can I be so cavalier about my potential death when all he wanted to do was
live
a little longer and there was nothing he could do . . .
Anyway,
gives me something to think about.”

With this last statement, his demeanor changed with his posture. He sat up and perked
up,
even smiling at me.
“Thanks,”
he said.

“You
sure
you’re
okay?” He nodded.

“Not angry? Frustrated?
Don’t
feel the desire to hurt yourself or someone else?”

He smiled. “I’m fine. I really am. I’m . . .
It’s
just that . . . I
didn’t
expect to feel anything at all . . . but—and
it’s
not sadness.
It’s
just . . . I
don’t
know . . . got me
thinking.”