The Body and the Blood (22 page)

Chapter Forty-five

I’d driven less than a mile away from the prison when I realized I was being followed. The dark blue LTD had slipped out of the PCI employee parking lot behind me, and with very little traffic on the isolated prison road, had nowhere to hide.

The truth was they didn’t mind being spotted. I could tell. Even on an empty road like this, a good tail could take a lot longer to spot.

I’m supposed to know I’m being followed. It’s a message
.

The dark car had even darker windows—in the front, too, and all I could tell for sure about the men following me was that there were two of them. I suspected it was two federal agents who called themselves Smith and Wesson. I had dealt with them before, but I wasn’t sure which federal agency they worked for. This, of course, was how they wanted it.

I continued driving along, obeying the speed limit, keeping an eye out for children, the offspring of my coworkers, who lived in house trailers near the prison, and thinking about how best to handle the situation.

My old S-10 couldn’t out run them, not even when it was new. Weapons weren’t allowed on prison property, not even when they were secured safely in a locked vehicle, so I didn’t have one—unless you counted the Barry Manilow cassette the previous owner had left in the glove compartment. I found the tape while cleaning it shortly after I bought it. I had left it in there to be ironic, but now it just might come in handy.

Not only were prisons built in rural areas, they were placed in isolated locations. The road I was on wound around for three miles back to the main highway that led into town. On either side of me whispering pines waved in the wind, their green and rust-colored needles falling to the ground like dirty snowflakes.

Occasionally, I passed a trailer or a small house, many of which had school age children playing in the yard, waiting for working parents to come home again.

After I had passed the residential area, I sped up, and when I reached a large curve in the road I was several car links in front of them.

I quickly turned onto a small two-trail logging road and raced down it.

They drove by, but soon realized what I had done, backed up, and pulled onto the road.

Near the dead-end, I pulled off onto an even smaller trail, the bushes and branches scratching the thin layer of paint that was left on my truck.

When they reached the dead-end, I backed down onto the logging road again, trapping them. Before they knew what was happening, I was out of my truck, Barry Manilow tape in hand.

I approached the car carefully and tapped on the driver’s window with the cassette.

When the dark window came down, and I could see that it was indeed Smith and Wesson, I held out the tape and said, “Don’t make me use this.”

Smith and Wesson—which they swore were their actual names and that they were paired because of them—had always been vague about what they wanted and secretive about who they really were. I found them cartoonish and difficult to take seriously—so I didn’t.

“Huh?” Smith, the short round-faced white man in the driver’s seat said.

Wesson, the tall lean black man in the passenger seat, opened his suit coat revealing his holstered .45 and said, “Don’t make
me
use
this
.”

“That might kill, but this,” I shook the cassette, “this provides hours of torture.”

“What is it?” Wesson asked. “
You
doing Kareoke?”

“Barry Manilow,” I said flatly.

Looking at his partner he said, “Do what he says.”

“What?” Smith asked in confusion.

“Seriously,” he said. “I had a girlfriend use that shit on me one time.”

“What happened?”

“Lost my erection.”

“Listen to it enough,” I said, “and you never get it back.”

“We need to talk to you, funny man,” Smith said.

“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to catch up.”

They both got out of the car, Wesson walking around to join me and Smith on the driver’s side. As if committed to perpetuating stereotypes, they each had on dark suits and dark shades. They were clean shaven and had closely cropped hair.

All around us, in the bright afternoon sun and soft breeze, the woods danced and sang. The trees swayed, their green and orange tops waving to the powder blue sky. The hum of honey bees drifted over from nearby hives while the small birds flitting about whistled and cawed.

“You don’t look surprised to see us?”

“If you’re here because you lost Sobel, I’m not.”

“How’d you know about—”

“Dead federal judge issues an order letting him out for the memorial service of his inmate lover. Had to involve people like you.”

“Told you,” Wesson said to Smith, then to me, “He doesn’t give you enough credit.”

Though not exactly a good cop-bad cop routine, Wesson was always far more friendly than his counterpart.

“Which one of you played the part of his brother?” I asked.

“Could hardly be me,” Wesson said.

“Why use a dead judge?”

Smith said, “Whatta we look like? The fuckin’ information bureau?”

“That was an unfortunate mix-up,” Wesson said, then shrugged. “These things happen. We were in a hurry and our guy fucked up. Usually he’s real good about signing the names of judges who actually have a pulse.”

“Sobel part of a witness protection program?”

Wesson shrugged, but his face seemed to confirm it.

“Why have him in a PM unit in a state prison in the first place?”

“Just recently agreed to testify and enter the program,” he said.

“
After
Menge was murdered?”

They paused for a moment, then Wesson nodded.

“It didn’t cross your mind he might be the murderer?”

“Got nothing to do with us. We don’t work with choir boys. Him being a killer’s part of the reason he can help us.”

“So you two got him out to testify and put him in the program?”

They nodded.

“Then lost him?”

They nodded again.

“How?”

“It’s not important.”

“What’s he testifying about?”

“Kidnapping, drug trafficking, and homicide,” Wesson said.

I wasn’t sure I believed their answers, such as they were, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, and who knows, maybe a little of it was actually true. Given my vocation I had to allow for the possibility of miracles.

“Involving who?”

“It’s not relevant.”

“You won’t tell me much of anything, but you want me to help you find him?”

“We understand you’re friends with his, ah, lover’s sister,” Smith said. “We figure he’ll try and contact her.”

“He called me this afternoon,” I said.

“What?” Smith said, standing straighter.

“Why?” Wesson asked.

“Don’t act surprised,” I said. “No way it’s a coincidence that shortly after he reaches out, you do, too.”

Wesson smiled.

“What’d he say?” Smith asked.

“You don’t know?”

“We’re not listening in,” he said. “Other agents do that. We’re what you call field agents. What did he say?”

“He said he wanted me to know he didn’t do it, but I think he wanted to know what I knew.”

“What’d you tell him?” Smith asked.

“Only what he could decipher from the questions I asked.”

“Well, we’ve got to find him,” Wesson said, “so if he contacts you again we’ll be listening in. Try to find out where he is, what he’s doing, what he wants.”

“Could he be our killer?”

“Oh yeah,” Wesson said. “He’s had a lot of practice at it. You don’t get tapped to testify and offered immunity for shit you overhear in Sunday School.”

Chapter Forty-six

“You let me shoot his ass, we save a lot of time,” Merrill said.

“That’s true of a lot of situations,” I said.

It was Friday night. We were sitting in Merrill’s new car—a black BMW with gold trim and rims—in downtown Panama City, parked across the street from a gay bar at the end of Harrison Avenue. Billy Joe Potter had gone in about half an hour ago, and though at least a decade late to even be retro, he was dressed for disco. We were waiting for him to come out. Merrill, still angry from his time in the dungeon, was in an especially mean mood, and I knew any confrontation we would have with Potter would be, among other things, highly entertaining.

“You not gonna let me shoot him, what we gonna do?”

“Watch and await developments.”

“You need a brotha with some time on his hands, you gonna take that approach. I’ve got some white supremacist dungeon masters need loosin’ from they motherfuckin’ mortal coils.”

“You just don’t want to be this close to a gay bar,” I said.

He smiled, and with much of his swelling down, he looked more like himself again. “Don’t you just wanna hit ‘em?”

“Who?” I asked. “People like Potter or homosexuals?”

“Gays. I want to shoot people like Potter.”

“Absolutely not.”

Downtown was dead. Obviously not a nocturnal creature, the revitalized area that had so much life coursing through its arteries during the day was a lifeless shell at night. With no event at the Marina Civic center, only the occasional car passed by on its way to the assisted living towers where an elderly person was returned to their half-life by younger people anxious to get back to their full ones. Beyond the towers, the well-lit marina was mostly motionless with the exception of the random homeless person, duffle bag draped over a shoulder, or a stray kid on a bicycle, fishing pole resting on his handlebars.

“Don’t the thought of it just make you sick?”

I shook my head.

I was familiar with how Merrill felt—witnessed it in the majority of heterosexual males I knew. Good men, who wouldn’t ever utter a racist or sexist word, but didn’t give a second thought to their homophobia. I was familiar with it, but disappointed by it—especially from Merrill, who as an African-American man in a small Southern town knew all too well the hate and prejudice of ignorance and unfounded fear.

“It used to,” he said. “Back in school. Why the change?”

“Wasn’t just one thing. Growing up. Gay friends. Working with AIDS patients when I first moved to Atlanta—which was about the same time I stopped taking the Bible literally.”

“Well, my ass ain’t that enlightened yet.”

It was obvious he was feeling better and wanted to enjoy himself. I went with it.

“Your ass ain’t a lot of things—including bigoted. You’re not gonna hit someone for being different from you.”

“Unless they ass provoke mine.”

“Like locking you in a dungeon. Not for looking on you with desire.”

He smiled again. “Hell, I can’t be goin’ around hittin’
everybody
.”

“True.”

We were quiet a moment, then I told him about Sobel’s call and what Smith and Wesson said about him.

“Why you think Sobel called?” he asked.

“Find out what I know. No other reason for him to call really. He’s free. I think he really wanted me to know he didn’t do it.”

“So you wouldn’t quit looking for who did?”

“And where I wouldn’t think badly of him.”

He nodded and thought about it for a moment. “If he’s not the killer, and if he really did have . . . you know, feelings for Menge, and the feds are right about him, then he probably try to take out whoever
did
kill Menge.”

After a while, the door of the bar opened and Potter and a smaller man stumbled out and began walking up Harrison toward McKenzie Park.

“How we gonna handle this?” he asked.

“Civilly.”

“I’m nothing if not civil.”

We got out quietly and followed them, going behind the bar and entering the park from the opposite side. The park was deserted, its benches and gazebos empty, the sound of its fountains the only noise.

Spotlights on the ground lit the bottoms of enormous oaks, but they were insufficient for the job, giving the trees a foggy look and leaving much of the rest of the park in darkness.

Potter and his companion walked around for a while and then stopped in a particularly dark corner beneath a giant oak tree. In a moment, the little man dropped to his knees in front of Potter and began to unzip his jeans. As he did, Potter glanced around the park. For several moments the little guy did his best with his hand and mouth, but got very little in the way of response from Potter. Eventually, Potter drew back and hit the little guy hard in the face. The little guy fell to the ground and Potter jumped on top of him and began hitting him repeatedly.

We ran up behind them, and with a running uppercut, Merrill knocked Potter off the smaller man and onto the ground a few feet away.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” Merrill said.

When Potter sat up, he straightened and dusted off his shirt before anything else, including rubbing his jaw. He was wearing tight black jeans and a pullover black shirt with long sleeves and a zipper down the middle.

“A zipper?” Merrill asked. “What? You ain’t had time to do any shopping in the last few decades? When did these last go out of style? Early seventies? This shit ain’t dated, it’s carbon-dated. I thought you guys were spiffy dressers?”

“Spiffy?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I ain’t all that experienced with civility.”

“Actually,” I said, “they’ve come back in since then and gone out
again
.”

Helping the other man to his feet, I said, “You okay?”

He had a red welt on his left cheek and he was crying, but I didn’t see any blood. As soon as Potter had jumped him, he had held up his arms in a defensive posture that had blocked most of the blows. Potter wasn’t just inept, he was weak—his bulk that of fat, not muscle—and the few punches that actually got through didn’t seem to do any real damage.

He nodded. “What’s going on?” Turning to Potter, who was still on the ground, “Why did you do that?”

Potter didn’t say anything.

“He hates homosexuals,” I said.

“Oh, you’re one of
those
kind? Just accept who you are and get on with your life.”

“Who the fuck do you think—” Potter began, rising to his feet.

Merrill stepped forward and backhanded him back down to the ground.

“I just want you to know, I didn’t hit you because you’re gay. Now, tell me the truth or I’ll turn your ass out and everybody at PCI will make you their little bitch.”

Potter looked down, but didn’t say anything.

“Got it?” Merrill asked.

Shoulders shaking, tremors running the length of his body, Potter began to cry.

“Ah, shit, man, don’t do that.”

I found myself studying Merrill again. I did it often. He was one the few people on the planet who consistently surprised me. He integrated so many personas, all of which he could slip into with the ease of a veteran actor doing a one-man show.

I started to say something, but froze as Potter reached behind his black zipper shirt and came out with a gun. Getting to his feet, he said, “Now tell me who’s the little bitch?”

“Still you,” Merrill said.

Stepping toward Merrill and pressing the gun into his forehead, he said, “Say goodnight, bitch.”

“Goodnight, bitch,” Merrill said, and bitch slapped Potter so hard his body whipped around with his head.

In the split second I was waiting to see if Potter was going to shoot, I realized he no longer had the gun.

“Gay or not, I just can’t let some chubby cheek redneck motherfucker point a gun at me and not bitch slap his fat ass.”

“And him wearing a zipper shirt,” I said.

“Now, bitch, tell me why you killed Menge. Was it because he wouldn’t go down on you or because he would or because they videoed you working out your sexual frustration on him?”

Potter didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Merrill said. “We seen the movie you starred in.”

Potter’s eyes grew wide and he started to say something, but stopped himself.

“May I go now?” the little guy asked me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of thinking of you as Little Guy, and I may need a statement from you.”

“For the police? No way. You don’t stay in the closet by being in the paper.”

I thought about it. There was no way we could make a case without him, but there was also no way I was going to be responsible for outing him.

“You can go. Just be more careful.”

“And,” Merrill added, “a little more selective about who you blow in an empty park at night.”