The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

“What about the shoe?” I said. “Can you tell me anything more about it?”

“It was a boot, actually, and like I said, size eleven. Tony Lama was the brand, I believe. They knew that because of the logo on the heel. That’s what I believe Blabbermouth said.”

A cowboy boot. I thought about it, then reminded myself that this was Texas; no shortage of those here. But it seemed a lot of coincidences were beginning to stack up, all of them pointing right to the man who called himself Michael Samuels.

I said, “The guy who lost the evidence, this Flint…”

“Flint Newsome.”

“He still around? Can I find him?”

Jackson nodded. “Lives in a trailer up on Highway 72. I’m not sure there’s even a real address. You could probably stop by the Texaco station off the 24 exit, just before Springfield, talk to Judy there. She knows everyone.”

“What about tracking him down at work?”

“He got fired from the sheriff’s department after the whole mess, then became a permanent employee of the state.”

“Doing what?”

“Collecting unemployment, disability, and anything else he could get his hands on. I’ll tell ya’, that boy’s dirtier than tank water.” He shook his head. “A real ne’r-do-well, that one.”

“Ever talk to him about the evidence?”

“No reason to. By the time I got wind of all this, Ronnie had already been executed. Can’t un-ring that bell. What’s done is done, I’m afraid. Besides, the more I find out about this case, the less I like…and then I just get upset all over again.” He picked up a paperclip, bent it in half, then tossed it back onto his desk. “Ronnie’s dead, and he shouldn’t be. That’s the bottom line. It’s a hard pill to swallow, and believe me, I choke on it every single day.”

“One last thing,” I said. “Does the name Michael Samuels mean anything to you?”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Just wondering.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

When I was two, I fell on the playground, hit my head, and left a twenty-foot trail of blood along the concrete. By the time I arrived at the hospital, they pronounced me dead on arrival, and it took a team of doctors to bring me back. Twice. This was what my Uncle Warren told me—it’s how they discovered I had Van Willebrand Disease, the one thing we have in common.

There’s never been much else.

Being a bleeder was my illness, but like everything else, my mother managed to make it all about her. Having a son who was vulnerable, who required medical care, was the perfect springboard for taking her plunge into the pool of self-pity. She complained to me, complained to neighbors, complained to anyone who would stand there and listen. Before I knew it, I was the kid with The Disease, the one everyone had to be careful around. After all, I could bleed to death.

That label spelled social death for me. It didn’t just set me apart from the crowd—it moved me to the other side of the map.

Gym class was out of the question, as were school field trips, and most anything else that was fun. Mr. Jones, the principal, once called my mother to discuss my lack of participation at school, wondering if it was necessary. Of course, she made him regret it.

“Is that so?” she said, her tone rapidly rising to match her indignation. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones. Come talk to me after you’ve had to mop blood off your linoleum floors, after it’s soaked into the bottoms of your shoes. Come see me when your hands are so stained from my child’s blood that all the soap in the world won’t get it out. Come see me after that. And don’t you dare tell me how much ‘more important’ his social development is. What’s more important is keeping my son alive.”

My mother never had to mop up any of my blood, and the only incident I’d ever heard of was the one on the playground. She talked about preserving my life, but really, she kept me from living it. Even worse than that was how she used it to humiliate me.

Spring, my third grade year. An announcement came over the loudspeaker: Summer Little League tryouts were coming up. I wanted to go more than anything but knew if I asked my mother, her answer would be the usual flat-out “No,” followed by, “You’ll bleed.”

But I didn’t care. I longed to be like the other kids, to be in the spotlight, wear a fresh, white uniform on opening day. To have fun and be normal.

So I snuck out of the house and walked over to the playing field. How I figured I’d be able to play the whole season without her knowing was another story. But I was a kid, and I just wanted to play.

I sat in the bleachers, anxiously awaiting my name to be called, the smell of fresh-cut grass filling the air, the sound of bats cracking and parents cheering all around me. I waited for more than an hour, and my excitement grew as each kid stepped up to the plate. Sitting there with everyone felt wonderful. For once, I was just a normal kid enjoying one of life’s typically childlike moments. I was in the moment, and I wanted it to last forever.

And then, a complete reversal.

I glanced toward outer field and saw my mother moving quickly in my direction, scanning the bleachers, with a look on her face that was impossible to misread: she was furious, and I was in big trouble.

Fear and panic struck my gut simultaneously, then twisted through me. I bent my head down quickly, hoping maybe she’d miss me. Then I heard her voice, sharp, loud, and riddled with anger. I looked up to find an expression that matched. With cold, hard eyes, a face as red as blood, she spat her words at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

I was in the spotlight all right, but for all the wrong reasons. An awkward, painful silence fell over the crowd, every head turned toward me, staring and waiting for my response. I wanted to crawl between the bleacher planks, sink into the ground, then bury myself two-thousand feet below the earth’s surface.

“Answer me!” She screamed so loud that it startled me.

I looked at the wide eyes and dropped jaws surrounding me, felt tension thick as mud. Except, that is, for the kids on the field who were laughing, amused by the show.

She circled around for another attack, screaming even louder now. “Answer me, I said! Answer me right now, damn it!”

Her sharp, angry words made me flinch. Throat as dry as field dirt, sweaty palms gripping the bleacher seat, I struggled against my humiliation, my fear, trying to get the words out. With a soft, shaky voice and tears in my eyes, I said, “I just wanted to play.”

“Have you lost your mind? Did you just want to spill your blood all over this field, too? How about that? Did you want to die?”

Actually, I did. Right then, right there.

The kids were laughing louder now, parents watching and whispering to each other as I slowly got up and followed her down the bleachers. I struggled against my tears; they would only humiliate me further, make a bigger mockery out of me.

She yanked me hard by the arm, then paraded me across the playing field. The place I had so wanted to be —the place I now never wanted to see again.

We drove back home in silence. Back to the Hell.

I didn’t sleep at all that night; I just cried.