JJ09 - Blood Moon (11 page)

He grew very still and quiet and seemed to consider what I had said with great intensity.

I hadn’t foreseen this, couldn’t have predicted his hesitation––not based on what he had told me earlier.

Finally, he shook his head. “I . . . think I’ll wait to see if what I have goin’ can . . . do the same thing but without adding time to my sentence.”

How can I get him out now?

I looked longingly toward the empty chalice peeking out of the small white cloth from the edge of the platform, and felt like Juliet must have felt.

“You won’t get any additional time,” I said. “You won’t serve another day. We’ll get the case against you dismissed. I’ll make sure of it. You’re really innocent, right?”

He was nodding vigorously before I finished. “I am. I really am. I swear it.”

“So?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know . . . What if you can’t?”

“I feel pretty certain I can. I’m pretty good at this. But what do you have to lose?”

“More of my life.”

“A
little
more, maybe, for the chance to see your mom before she . . . before it’s too late. Think about it.”

I can’t believe I’m having to hard sell this.

“Why do you want me to so bad? Why do you even care?”

Think fast.

“Lots of reasons. I told your family I would. My mom just died and I miss her far more than I ever thought was possible. I’ve looked at your case and believe you’re innocent.”

“My family asked you to?”

“It’s why I asked if you had spoken to them.”

“They didn’t say anything.”

“The calls are monitored. They can’t say anything to you about it.”

“Then why’d you want me to talk to them?”

“Thought they might say something to you in code. Something only you’d understand.”

“Wait. They did. Dad did. I didn’t . . . know what . . . he meant at the time, but . . . Okay. Let’s do this. How do we?”

I told him.

“Really?” he said. “That’s it? I don’t know. You really think that’ll work?”

“I do.”

I have to.

“Okay.”

The front door to the chapel opened and inmates started filing into the hallway. Talking Ronnie into this had taken far longer than I thought it would.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go into my office and get you changed.”

I grabbed the communion tray and we quickly ducked into my office.

“Have a seat,” I said, nodding toward one of the chairs across from my desk. “Let me check in with them. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I opened my other office door and stepped into the front hallway.

Inmates pouring through the double doors of the chapel, through the hallway, into the double doors to the sanctuary where Cardigan and I had just been. An officer near the door, his radio squawking. The volunteer shaking my hand and saying hi as he went by.

I waved to the officer and went back into my office.

“I thought you said there was someone here I was swapping places with?” Cardigan asked when I sat down behind my desk across from him.

“There is.”

“Where is he?”

I nodded to the small door in the back corner behind him. “Bathroom.”

Eventually, all the inmates finished filing into the sanctuary and the volunteer began his study, the officer, as usual, observing from the back corner.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get you changed. Take a minute and take some deep breaths, settle and prepare yourself. I’ll get your clothes.”

He nodded.

I stepped over to the small restroom, opened the door just wide enough for me to squeeze through, and closed it behind me.

The small, tiled room was the size of a tiny closet, with only a lidless, tankless toilet and a sink.

Emmitt Emerson was slumped on the toilet in his underwear, unconscious. Confirming again he still had a pulse, I grabbed his clothes and shoes and went back into my office, closing the narrow door behind me.

“Come over here behind my desk and change,” I said.

There was a narrow strip of glass on the door to my office, but the back corner of my desk was partially blocked by the small wall of the sanctuary sound booth.

He did.

“Put on everything,” I said. “T-shirt. Socks. Shoes. Tie. Leave everything in the pockets.”

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said.

Me either.

“What do I do with these?” he asked, holding up his inmate uniform and brogans.

“I’ll take them.” Which I did, and placed them in the bathroom with Emmitt.

“How do I look?”

“A lot like Emmitt Emerson.”

“Who?”

“The guy whose clothes you’re borrowing.”

“That’s good, right?”

I nodded. “That’s great.”

A knock at the door and we both jumped.

I turned to see the officer who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the inmates in the chapel looking through the narrow window of my door.

“Chaplain, can I use your phone for a minute?”

He wanted to make a personal call. Anything institutional and he could’ve used his radio.

I walked over and opened the door only wide enough for my head, which I poked out and in a whisper said, “Someone’s using it right now.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He started to head back toward the chapel, but stopped, turned, and said, “Who’s here? Thought it was just us.”

Us
must have meant me, him, the volunteer leading the service, and the hundred or so inmates.

“Another volunteer. Emmitt Emerson.”

“I didn’t know I had to supervise another service tonight.”

“You don’t. It got canceled. He’s very sick. I’m about to help him get home.”

He nodded. “I’ll walk up to control and get a key for your office so I can use the phone when you leave.”

If he also used the private restroom, which was likely, he’d see the real Emmitt doing his Elvis impersonation on the toilet.

“That’s too long to be away from your post,” I said. “Come with me. You can use the phone in the staff chaplain’s office. Just be quick.”

I led him down the hallway and unlocked the staff chaplain’s office for him.

“Hurry. I’ll watch the inmates until you get back.”

“They’re fine. It’s okay.”

“Words spoken right before every riot, assault, murder, or escape,” I said. “I’m locking the offices before I leave and I’m leaving in five minutes. Make it quick and get back to your post.”

“I don’t take orders from preachers.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ll get the captain to tell you.”

“Fuck man. Just forget it. Jesus.”

He slowly walked past me, mad muggin’ all the way.

“Just wanted to use the fuckin’ phone for five minutes. Shit.”

I closed the door behind him and went back over to my office. Before I went in, I said, “I’ll be back in a little while, but I’m gonna have the OIC drop in and check on things while I’m gone.”

“You ready?” I asked

“Not really,” Cardigan said.

Me either, but . . .

I had just walked back into my office and for a fraction of a second thought I was looking at Emmitt Emerson.

“What happens if I’m recognized or they don’t buy that I’m what’s-his-name Emerson?” Cardigan said.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything. Just go with what I do. You’re so sick you can hardly stand up. You certainly can’t talk.”

“Okay.”

“As we go, lean on me. Let me help you walk. Keep your head down like you’re about to throw up.”

“I probably will be.”

We walked out of the cool chapel into the warm, darkening night and headed toward the front gate.

Pulse elevated, mind racing.

The pale moon above us was big and bright and only partially shadowed so far, its shrinking circumference shimmering in a kind of translucent duskiness.

I half held Cardigan up as we hobbled toward the first of the two gates we had to get through, him with one arm around me and his head hanging down.

“Don’t overdo it,” I said. “You’re sick, not incapacitated.”

If he was too convincing, the control room would send help and maybe even call an ambulance.

He straightened a bit and we moved a little faster toward our fate.

The moon looked like a charcoal drawing sketched in the shimmering sky, streaks and smudges of darkness around the edges, shadings and highlights, powder and pencil dusting the surface.

When we reached the first gate of the pedestrian sally port, I placed my fingers through the chain-link and pulled, rattling the gate a bit––usually all that was required to alert the control room to my presence and be buzzed through.

But nothing happened.

I waited, my heart pounding now, and tried to breathe deeply and calmly.

“What’s wrong?” Cardigan whispered, fear at the ragged edges of his voice.

Tower One loomed above us in the blackening night sky, the armed officer on duty authorized to fire if he suspected what we were doing.

I lowered my head a bit and looked back down the compound.

All was quiet and dark, no officers or response team running toward us.

I rattled the gate again.

And waited.

“Let’s go back to the chapel,” Cardigan said. “Come on. Before it’s too late.”

And waited some more.

“Just a little longer,” I said. “Maybe they haven’t––”

“Chaplain,” someone yelled from behind me.

“
Oh fuck
,” Cardigan said. “
Fuck
.”

I turned to see an officer I recognized but couldn’t name jogging toward us.

Until this moment I had thought about what I might do if I couldn’t get Cardigan out of the institution, but not about what would happen if I got caught trying to get him out and was unable to go to meet the kidnappers at all.

If we’re caught, Anna is dead.

Think. What do I do?

“Chaplain,” the officer said again. “What is it? Everything okay?”

“Sick volunteer,” I said. “Helping him home. Can’t get anyone in the control room to open the gate for us.”

“I’ll radio Sergeant Davis,” he said. “Must be dealing with an incident or on the phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Chaplain’s at the interior gate, Serg,” he said into his radio. “Got a sick volunteer we need to get out of here.”

The lock on the gate popped and we walked in, the officer closing it behind us.

“Thanks again,” I said to him. “I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem,” he said, and headed back over toward the visiting park.

We moved over to the control room window, Cardigan leaning on me, head down.

I unclipped my ID badge and held it up to the window, placing it in the small adhesive frame put there for that reason.

Randy Wayne didn’t even look at it, just waved me through.

“Almost there,” I said to Cardigan. “Hang on. Hold it together.”

The electronic lock popped on the outside gate and it eased open a few inches. I stepped toward it, shoved it open, helped Cardigan through it, and slammed it shut behind us.

We had taken a few steps away, walking toward the admin building and the parking lot beyond, when Randy Wayne opened the document tray and yelled for me.

I slowed and turned back, but kept moving away.

He leaned down and yelled out the window, “You need help?”

“Nah. I’m just gonna drive him home. I’ll be back in a few. Thanks.”

“Everything okay in the chapel? I need to send someone down to help out?”

“It’s all good. I’ll be back by the end of the service to lock up and––”

“Hey, Emmitt,” he yelled. “I thought blood-bought, saved, sanctified, filled-with-the-Holy Ghost faith-healer evangelists didn’t get sick. Especially during a blood moon when the world is ending.”

I smiled and waved to him and continued walking.

Night.

Woods.

Path.

Damp dirt. Warm air. Stillness.

Quietude.

The umbra of earth’s shadow crawled across the moon, darkness spreading like black fog over the pale white surface.

The quiet night had a hushed quality about it, as if the aura of the lunar event was casting something ethereal on the earth, the ephemeral nature of which caused a certain celestial reverence.

I had driven around the long way and parked at Potter Farm.

On the drive, I had taken the small snub-nosed .38 from beneath my seat and slipped it into my pocket.

As expected, Potter Farm was empty, no light or movement in the farmhouse or barn.

We were now traversing the small path that led down to the pond and to the deeper woods beyond, and beyond those to a field beyond which was the prison complex.

The trail was narrow and overgrown, bushes and branches sharp and pointy and thorned, hanging, leaning, looming.

Flashes of a figure in a party dress running, stumbling, tripping, falling down this very path. Not long ago.

Cuts. Scrapes. Abrasions.

Another figure. Chasing. Former friend. Now killer.

Broken heels. Sprained ankle. Adrenaline-juiced heart ricocheting around ribcage.

Anna and I had walked this path before. Down to the pond on our lunch break. Enjoying each other in a seclusion that felt Edenic.

Was she somewhere on this path now?

Would we be together soon?

Or would this path that had once been for us a secret garden become our own personal Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering and blood?

“Where are we meeting them?” Ronnie asked.

“Not sure. Just somewhere along the path. Us walking it gives them a chance to ensure we’re alone.”

“Hope it’s not too much longer,” he said. “Dude’s shoes don’t fit my feet.”

Though strictly speaking not my hostage, I had him walking in front of me, far enough so he couldn’t spin around and attack me without me seeing it coming.

I had to at least consider that he could be feigning ignorance and actually be a part of a plan that included bashing my head in.

We reached a spot on the path where the moon could be seen without obstruction. We both paused and looked up.