Power in the Blood (36 page)

“Thank you,” she said when I had pulled back from our embrace. Her voice was soft and had a sleepy quality that matched her relaxed mood and heavy, slightly hazy eyes. She was seductive without trying to be, a rare combination of purity and sensuality.

I reached out and ran the back of my fingers across her face and down over her wound. When I reached the wound, I let my hand linger on it lightly while I prayed for her. When I finished praying and opened my eyes, I saw the faint outline of her breasts pressing against the soft cotton of her nightshirt. My hand wanted to continue its journey . . .

I pulled my hand back to safety, but before I had it on the bed beside me again, Anna grabbed it.

Pulling my hand up to her mouth and kissing it gently, she said, “You’re blood’s in my veins.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I can’t quit thinking about that.”

“Me neither.”

We were silent for a long time as we experienced a connection beyond words.

Later, after the moment had passed, an elderly man in a pale blue hospital outfit brought a food tray and set it on the table beside Anna’s bed. When she smiled at him, he blushed, and I could tell he did not want to leave her room. When he left, she asked me about the events that led up to my confrontation with Strickland in the infirmary on Tuesday night.

After I had given her a brief account of what had happened, she said, “You suspected Strickland over the other nurses, even before you saw the tape. Why?”

“There were several reasons,” I said. “She was the first one to appear on the scene that Tuesday morning in the sally port. At first I thought that the medical department had just responded quickly, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew there’s no way they could have gotten there that quickly.”

“Why was she there?”

“I think she was there to make sure that Johnson was dead. If he were just injured, she could finish the job. And that’s exactly what she did. She smashed his windpipe. She was the only one who could have. She climbed on the back of that truck not as a healer, but as a killer.”

Anna was silent as she pondered what I was saying. Then she said, “What else?”

“Julie Anderson could have only done it if she and Jones were connected somehow, and that didn’t seem likely. Also, she really just didn’t seem capable.”

“Exactly how did Strickland it?”

“She had Hardy take Jacobson to confinement so she could drug and dispose of Johnson. She put him in the caustic storage room, then locked it so that Jones couldn’t get in. Then she spilled a urine sample in the exam room and had Anderson supervise Jones cleaning it up. When Shutt pulled up and knocked on the door, she didn’t answer it. When he walked over to laundry she carried the bags out and put them in his truck.”

“My God,” Anna said. “She was so cold-blooded.”

“I kept remembering what Strickland said to Officer Shutt. She said, ‘I am
so
sorry—’ like it was her fault. And it was. She also came to us with her concerns about Skipper at a very convenient time. I just kept wondering why she did it when she did. She had so many other opportunities. And, she was genuinely concerned about Anthony Thomas. That’s what she was doing: asking me to protect him.”

As she nodded, she squinted slightly and I could tell that she was picturing everything I was saying.

“And also, I really had a feeling,” I said. “You know, an impression, that she was involved somehow.”

“That’s not fair. You cannot use divine intervention and expect the criminals to have a fighting chance.”

“Of course, when I saw the video, I knew it had to be her and then I also knew why. And it doesn’t mean as much as it once did, but poison is historically a woman’s method of murder. Both of her victims were poisoned or drugged. The violence was never direct, except, of course, for Anthony Thomas.”

“What about Thomas?”

“Well, I suspected Jones of being involved, too. I knew he had typed the letters to me and Johnson’s request threatening suicide or escape—come to think of it, Strickland could’ve typed the request after she killed him—one of them did it to divert suspicion. Anyway, I knew Strickland hadn’t killed Anthony Thomas. Again, it was direct and brutal violence, the kind she really wasn’t capable of. That night when it all went down, I was just playing them against each other, which is what got Strickland killed.”

“I’d have to disagree with you about Strickland being incapable of direct violence, and so would my neck,” she said, rubbing her bandage gently.

I nodded. “I think she was degenerating fast. She certainly seemed to have had violence planned for Maddox, had the knives out and everything, but Skipper and Thomas banging on the front door scared her off.”

“And John, sin got Strickland killed. The wages of sin are death. She was reaping what she had sown. You didn’t kill her. She killed herself. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, though it would be a while before I did. “You know, you just preached a powerful little sermon with one incredible object lesson.”

“I was just trying to talk in a language you’d listen to.”

“I always listen to you,” I said.

“Then listen to this,” she said gravely. “Take it slow with this thing with Laura Matthers.”

“I will,” I said and mused at her reason for saying it.

“Now, what about Molly Thomas? Who killed her?”

“That’s a good question,” I said. It’s Dad’s case. I personally think Skipper did it, but I can’t prove it.”

“So Skipper had a prostitution ring, sold drugs, had you beaten up, and has maybe murdered someone, and he gets away with it? Why don’t you show Stone and Daniels the tape?”

“I did,” I said. “They’re meeting with him on Monday morn-ing—if he lasts that long. Word’s gotten out about his systematic abuse of power. But, physician, heal thyself. Have you already forgotten the little sermonette you just preached? He’s not getting away with anything. You reap what you sow. The wages of sin is death. There is a justice that is higher than any we can exact. Nobody gets away with anything. Some just get away with it for longer than others. Besides, think of the price he’s paying for his sin right now. He’s not enjoying anything he’s doing. He’s not living at this point; he’s just surviving. And, he probably won’t do that for long.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Do you think Stone or Patterson were involved somehow?”

I shrugged. “No way to know,” I said. “I certainly don’t have any evidence that they were, but I’m going to keep an eye on them. Patterson was away at a pretty convenient time.”

“But how can you wait patiently for Skipper and those other officers to fall after what they’ve done to you?”

“True justice is often too slow to suit me, but it is sure. I also know that injustice is temporary, but justice is for eternity. If I worried about all of the injustice in the world, I wouldn’t be any good to anybody.”

She looked at me like she wasn’t convinced.

“You can’t live the way Skipper’s living for very long,” I said. “Besides, his treatment of inmates has gotten out on the compound. All this will come back to haunt him.”

When we finished talking, I hugged her then stood and walked to the door.

“John,” she said just before I opened the door.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you,” I said.

“Thanks for saving my life,” she said. “It belongs to you now.”

I smiled at her, opened the door, and walked out. I stumbled down the hallway feeling intoxicated, the irony of the situation not lost on me. What she had offered, what I most wanted, was neither hers to give nor mine to take.

“So my uncle was killed by that nurse because they loved the same man?” Laura asked.

We were driving east on I-10 into Tallahassee on Saturday afternoon. Mom’s condition was stable, and she was being sent home to wait—wait for a kidney and undergo a transplant or wait to die. All she could do now was wait. And she wanted to be home to do that.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable calling it love,” I said. “But they were both, ah, involved with the same man.”

“And he was married?”

“The inmate? Yes.”

“So, he’s in prison, and he’s still having a whole hell of a lot more sex than I am,” she said. “What’s wrong with this world?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Maybe that will change soon.” She smiled broadly.

“I know it will,” I said. “He’s dead.”

She punched me in the arm. “Watch it. I don’t know, though. He may have sex in hell.”

“Some might say he already has.”

She shivered slightly.

We rode in silence for a while. The traffic on I-10 seemed slower than usual. Gone were the FSU flags flapping from antennas that would return with the rush of the fall. I was in the slow lane with the cruise control set on sixty. We were in no hurry. We were in Dad’s Explorer—his contribution to Mom’s recovery.

“He was such a creep,” Laura said.

“Who?”

“Uncle Russ. I used to hate going to his house. Of course, we didn’t very much. Mom hated him, too. Now he’s made her rich beyond belief.”

“Family,” I said and shook my head.

“Yeah.” She leaned up and turned on the radio, sat back and listened for a moment, and then leaned up and turned it off.

“What about us?” she asked. “Where do we stand? Where do we go from here?”

I was silent. Contemplating. “Forward, I think.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” she asked with a smile.

“Not and be honest,” I said.

“And you couldn’t lie?”

“Not and be a Boy Scout.”

She shook her head. “You’re not a Boy Scout,” she said. “Saint, maybe, but no Boy Scout.”

I shrugged.

“It’s a tough world for an honest man,” she said.

“I’m finding that out,” I said and continued driving forward.

The following Monday morning, I was standing at the gate looking in his direction when he was killed. Thick clouds had rolled in during the early morning hours replacing the sunny skies of the weekend, the gray day matching the buildings of the institution. In the sally port, Merrill Monroe was busy stabbing trash bags with an iron rod on the back of a flatbed truck. His graceful, fluid motions made him look as if God had created him to stab trash bags. However, God had created him with such strength and beauty that everything he did seemed as if he had been created to do it.

Seeing me at the gate when he had nearly completed his search of the trash, he said, “Somebody say somethin’ ’bout me bein’ a spearchucker . . .” He held up the spear. “I’s show him why we called that.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” I said—and was about to ask how he got this choice assignment, for I had never seen him doing it be-fore—when, in the strongest sense of déjà vu, I froze in midsentence. In stunned silence, I watched as Merrill unsuccessfully attempted to withdraw the spear from the trash bag he had just punctured in the center of the truck. On his second attempt, Merrill snatched the spear free, sending it flying through the air. It struck the fence nearest me, splattering blood on steel and concrete.

Merrill looked at me, slowly shaking his head in disbelief, as the officer in the control room buzzed me through the two gates that separated us. I rushed into the vehicle sally port as in a recurring nightmare and, climbing onto the back of the truck, joined Merrill in a small pool of blood seeping outward from the bag.

“I being set up?” he asked, slightly out of breath, his coal-black face glistening like silk in the sun under a fine sheen of sweat.

I shook my head. For I knew what we were about to discover in the fated green bag.

“I trace the wrong person?” he asked.

“No. Jones was a killer. Strickland, too. They just weren’t the only ones,” I said as I bent over to finish ripping open the bag. Plastic slipped from my grip, and warm blood bathed my fingers as I split open the bag to reveal the lifeless, bloody body of Matthew Skipper. His vacant blue eyes were filled with far more peace in death than they ever had in life.

I looked back at Merrill. His facial expression was a complex mixture—weary of the violence and bloodshed in general, yet deeply satisfied at this violence and bloodshed in particular.

“Inmates?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said.

“Jacobson got out of confinement last Thursday.”

I looked down toward the compound. Beyond the medical and security personnel running toward us, a small group of inmates had gathered in front of the medical building. There in the midst of them, straining to see like the others, was Jacobson, a wide grin seeping across his face like blood from an open wound.

“That look like poetic justice to me,” Merrill whispered as officers and medical staff began flooding the sally port. “What’s it look like to you?”

“Divine justice,” I said and then bowed my head and said a silent prayer for Ike Johnson, Matthew Skipper, Sandy Strickland, Allen Jones, and Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Thomas—all of whom were now sinners in the hands of a merciful God.