JJ08 - Blood Money (33 page)

“Why’d
you kill him?” his dad asked.

“He had an agenda of his
own,”
Richie said. “He
wasn’t
just doin’ it for me. He threatened to
go
public, to make sure you
didn’t
get reelected, to expose the hypocrisy of politicians like you. He recorded you. He was gonna post it on
Youtube.
Share it with the whole
world.
Make a mockery of
you.”

“So you killed him?”

“I tried to talk to
him.”

“
When?”

“While Diane was driving you home. Remember, I followed y’all with your
car.
’Cept I
didn’t
follow right
away.
I tried to talk some sense into
Andy.
I found him down by the lake washing his face. He
wouldn’t
listen so then I tried to get his phone from him so I could destroy the evidence against you, but he ran . . . and I chased him.
We
fought. I
didn’t
mean to kill him. I just . . . I was tryin’ to protect
my
dad.”

“Your
dad?” I said. “Or you
dad’s
job and the money
he’s
paid to do it, the money he
gives
you. See, I think you let your real motive slip at the community center the night of the debate. What was it Diane told you?
Try
living without the assistance he
gives
y’all. I think you did it for
money,
which means if your dad does get reelected, every dime he ever makes will be blood
money.”

Richie reached behind his back and came out with a gun––a small .38 revolver popular for personal protection, the kind I was certain his dad had a
carry
permit
for.

“He
is
gonna be reelected, because no
one’s
ever gonna know what happened,” he said.

He pointed the gun at me. “
Richie
,” Judge
Cox
said.

“I
can’t
let you do this to
us,
John,”
Richie said, ignoring his Dad. “I’m sorry. I like
you.”

“You
liked Andy
too,
didn’t
you?” I said. “So we know that
doesn’t
carry
any weight with
you.”

“
Richie
,” his dad said again. “Put the gun down.
Now.”

“I’ve got to do this, Dad.
For
you.
For us.
This whole mess is
my
fault. I
can’t
let our family fall for some stupid prank I tried to pull on
you.”

“Richie,”
I said, “I’m wearing a wire. Everything that has been said is being recorded by my
dad’s
department.

They’ll be in here as soon as I
give
the signal.
You’ve
got no
play.
Don’t
make things
worse.”

“What’s
the signal?” he said.
“Wait.
Don’t
say it. Show me the wire. I want to see it. I
don’t
believe
you.”

Before I could show him, Dad,
Jake,
and another couple of deputies entered the room, guns drawn.

“It’s
over,
Richie,”
Dad said. “Put the gun
down.”

He nodded. And for a minute he looked like he
was
actually going to do it. But then, in a split second, in far less time than it takes to tell it, he brought the gun up to his temple and pulled the trigger.

His dad screamed. Diane ran into the room.

Dad and the other deputies rushed him.

But there was no use.
We
were the unwitting witnesses of a successful suicide.

A
ll the
way
home I tried to reach Anna, but each time I called, her phone went straight to voicemail.

My heart was
heavy.
More for Hahn than anyone else at the moment. But I felt bad for the
Cox
family
too.

I was beyond exhausted, rawbone
weary,
utterly depleted, finding even the effortless act of driving too much.

I had the urge to drop by
Mom’s
and check on her but it was too late. And then I realized the real reason I couldn’t––and just how too late it really
was.

That made me feel even more disconnected, distant even from myself.

My senses were overwhelmed, overloaded with loss and violence and death.

I continued to
try
Anna, and continued to get her voicemail.

When I reached our solitary trailer in the second phase of the Prairie
Palm
Mobile Home
Community,
I knew
why.

The lights were on inside and out, the front door flung open wide.

Chris
Taunton’s
car was beside
Anna’s
in the yard. I parked and rushed in.

The place was trashed, obvious signs of
struggle
everywhere I looked.

It
didn’t
take long to search the small trailer. Anna
wasn’t
here. Neither was
Chris.

Had he taken her? If he had, it
hadn’t
been
far.
Not without one of their
cars.
Was
he attacking her right now?
Were
they outside?

I ran out the back door, searching the backyard, down toward the
river.

There was no sign they had been out here.

The same was true of the front and side yards and nearly a mile in every direction.

I searched both their vehicles, including their trunks, but they
weren’t
there either.

As I neared the trailer again, a deep sense of dread began to set in.

Where could she be? What had happened? Had she been taken? If
so,
why?

Did Chris
have
something to do with it? If
so,
why
would
he leave his car? Even if he had someone else helping him in another vehicle, why
would
he leave his car here?

Was
it possible Chris had nothing to do with it?
Was
he as much a victim as Anna was? Did he show up at the wrong time? If
so,
why take him too?

It
didn’t
make sense. None of it did. But it
would.
It all would. And I
wouldn’t
stop until it did.

My phone
rang.
I
didn’t
recognize the
number.
“John
Jordan,”
I said.

“I
have
your
wife,”
he said.

I
didn’t
recognize the
voice.
It
wasn’t
Chris.
“She is safe. She is fine. But if you contact the authorities she is dead. If you tell anyone—anyone at all—she is dead. If you do not do exactly what I say when I
say,
she is dead.”

I
didn’t
say
anything.

“Do you understand?” he asked. “I
do.”

“Thank you for not making ridiculous threats and absurd proclamations.
You
are wise. This is going to
run
very
smoothly.
You
do what I say when I say and you’ll
have
her back safe and sound very soon.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“When I call
back,”
he said. “When I
have
her situated.
For
now I just wanted to make sure you
didn’t
contact anyone before you knew exactly what was going
on.”

“I
won’t
call
anyone,”
I said.

“I
have
her ex-husband
too.
He came up as
we
were leaving and tried to be a
hero.
He will turn up dead in the next day or
so.
It will appear to be an accident.
You
will know what I am capable
of.”

“I only care about
Anna,”
I said. “Do what you want to with
Chris,
but
there’s
no need to kill him to convince me of
anything.
I’m convinced.”

I
wasn’t
sure if that was enough to
save
Chris’s
life, but I
wasn’t
sure there was much more I could
do.

“I’ll do anything to get her
back,”
I said.
“That’s
what I’m counting
on.”

There was so much more I wanted to
say,
but I knew
better.

“I’ll call back soon,” he said. “Be
ready.”

Multi-award-winning novelist Michael Lister is a
native
Floridian best known for literary suspense thrillers and mysteries.

The Florida Book Review says that “Vintage Michael Lister is poetic prose, exquisitely set scenes, characters who are damaged and
faulty,”
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Michael grew up in North Florida near the Gulf of Mexico and the Apalachicola River in a small town world famous for tupelo
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In the early 90s, Michael became the youngest chaplain within the Florida Department of Corrections.
For
nearly a decade, he served as a contract, staff, then senior chaplain at three different facilities in the Panhandle of Florida—a unique experience that led to his first novel,
1997’s
critically acclaimed,
POWER
IN THE
BLOOD.
It was the first in a series of popular and celebrated novels featuring ex-cop turned prison chaplain,
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www.WrittenWordsRemain.com
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