Blood of the Lamb

“And this case has dredged it all up again?” she asked.

“It’s never very far away,” I said.

“And you’ve been dealing with it all alone?”

I shrugged.

“You are so alone down here, aren’t you?” she asked.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, but I thought, not just here. I had yet to find a place where I really fit.

“And having someone in your life…” she started and then stopped, letting it float between us like a wish tied to a balloon, “wouldn’t change that, would it?”

Having you would change everything, I thought, but said, “No, probably not.”

We fell into a silence pregnant with all that was left unsaid between us.

Eventually, I told her about still being married to Susan.

She shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t she sign them?” she asked.

I told her.

“She trying to manipulate you in some way?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “She really seems different. She came down to Mexico Beach and we went out last night.”

“What?” she asked in shock.

“She’s in an ACOA support group, and-”

“A what?”

“Adult Children Of Alcoholics,” I said.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I couldn’t be more shocked.”

Oh, I bet you could, I thought, but decided not to tell her about sleeping with Susan.

“I have no right to feel the way I do,” she said. “I have no claim on you, but…”

“I could say the same thing,” I said, but we know differently.

We were quiet again, and I began to think about the women in my life, and like a Polaroid image finally coming into focus, I realized how much Susan resembled Anna-physically anyway.

She was the woman in my life. The woman by which all other women were judged, to which none could compare.

My phone rang, breaking the silence, and as I answered it, Anna whispered, “I’m going to the restroom.”

I nodded to her and then said into the receiver, “Good afternoon. Chaplain Jordan.”

“Chaplain Jordan, it’s your wife,” Susan said.

Heart pounding, heat spreading across my face, I felt as if I had been caught cheating, and was glad when Anna stood up and left the room.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because I don’t have one.”

“It’s a long story, but you do.”

“Well, supposing I do,” I said. “How is she?”

“Actually, she’s wonderful,” she said. “She’s still after-glowing.”

“Wow,” I said. “Her husband must really be amazing.”

“He has his moments,” she said.

I heard a noise from the hallway like someone bumping into the wall and then a scream.

“Can I call you back?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, but I was already dropping the phone and running out of the office.

CHAPTER 42

In the hallway, I looked around. No one was there. Nothing was out of place. To the right, through the glass of the double doors, I could see that the sanctuary was dark and still. To my left, the chapel library was dark and empty as well. In front of me, a narrow hallway led to the restrooms, kitchen, and fellowship hall.

I ran down the hall and without stopping, burst into the women’s bathroom. I hit the door hard and it slammed into the wall behind it. I held my gaze wide, trying to take in the whole room, so that any movement, no matter how small would be perceptible. Nothing. I looked around. I still saw nothing.

“Anna,” I called.

No response.

I pushed open the doors to the two stalls and looked inside. They were both empty, but one of them had toilet tissue hanging down from the holder to the floor. I ran out of the bathroom and back into the hallway. I looked around the front door, saw no one, locked it, and decided to search the building room by room, starting with the library.

In the library, blue plastic chairs sat neatly beneath folding tables, books evenly lined the front of wooden shelves, and religious magazines and pamphlets were stacked on wire literature racks. There were only a couple of places to hide-behind the counters or in the storage closet. I started with the counters. I ran over to the counter where Muhammin normally checked out books and tapes and looked behind it. I then rushed over to the other one.

My mind filled with images of Anna bound and gagged, her body trembling with terror. I closed my eyes and shook my head, a feeble attempt at exorcizing the unwelcomed images from my head. I opened my eyes and frantically began searching again as a dark sense of dread descended upon me.

Rushing over to the storage closet, I turned the handle and snatched it open, slamming the door into the wall behind it, the handle puncturing the sheetrock. At first glance, I saw nothing. But in the back behind a large stack of boxes in the center of the floor, I thought I saw movement. I moved toward it, running to the left of the stack without slowing, coming up quickly behind the boxes.

The tower tilted and fell. The top box, full of left-over Christmas and Hanukkah cards, hit me squarely on the back of the neck, scattering a thick mist of dust as it did. I went down, but the moment I hit the floor, I was moving. I bucked the box off my back and crawled around to the other side of the stack. No one was there. I looked back towards the door. No movement. No one.

I sneezed several times before rushing back out of the library, pausing only long enough to shut and lock the door, and then ran across the hall to the extra office I had been using and checked it. It was locked. I unlocked it and looked inside, locked it again and then ran down and rechecked mine. After locking my office door, I searched both bathrooms. I hurriedly locked them behind me and ran into the kitchen, the odor of damp and soiled dishcloths filling my nose.

In the kitchen an island composed of cabinets and a counter top was the only thing that blocked my view. I ran around behind it. When I did, an inmate scurried around the other side on his hands and knees. He was out of the kitchen and moving to the left before I could stop and turn around.

I ran out of the kitchen and followed him into the fellowship hall. When I ran through the door, he swung a metal chair like a baseball bat, two of its legs striking the top of my back and the base of my neck. For the second time within five minutes, I hit the floor. As I attempted to roll over, he hit me again, and sharp streaks of pain bolted along the nerve endings in my back and head, and splotches of bright yellow distorted my vision.

He swung again, and the chair connected with the back of my skull, causing my face to slam into the hard tile floor.

Without thinking, I began rolling toward the inmate. I had no idea where I was, but I rolled. And I rolled into him. Then I rolled through him, knocking his feet out from under him. He went down. I turned. I was face to face with Luther Albright, the inmate orderly who worked for Theo Malcolm.

He reached down into his pocket and brought out a shank, which had once been a toothbrush. The handle had been filed to a sharp point, the brush covered with putty, and two razor blades protruded from it.

He slashed at me. I flung myself back, but not far enough. He sliced both my shirt sleeve and the flesh beneath it with the razors. Then, with the flick of his wrist, he turned it and stabbed at my arm with the sharp spear of the handle. I screamed out as he plunged it into my shoulder.