Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery) by Lister Michael

Author:Lister, Michael [Lister, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Pulpwood Press
Published: 2010-12-07T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

When I got home, Anna was waiting for me (I never lock my doors—I don’t know anyone in Pottersville who does), and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to come home to her every night.

Home for me is an old, dilapidated single-wide mobile home— the only thing I could find when I moved back to Pottersville about a year ago, the only thing I could afford after the divorce. After living a very different life for over thirty years, I had become trailer trash, hurricane bait, downwardly mobile. It was as embarrassing as it was liberating.

“Honey, I’m home,” I said as I walked through the door, and I realized that finding her here was the first time this little tin box ever felt like home.

She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

The new Jann Arden CD she had given me was playing softly in the background, and as I sat down on the couch beside her, I prayed for this moment to last as long as heaven would allow.

Within moments, I had lost myself in the heaven Jann was singing about finding in every breath, under every star, in everything. In the woman sitting next to me.

Anna’s softly sweet scent filled the small room, and I breathed through my nose so I could take it in with every inhalation.

“Good CD, isn’t it?” she said, nodding toward the CD player.

I nodded.

“You must really think so,” she said with a smile. “You have two.”

I smiled.

“How many copies of Dan’s new one do you have?”

“Two, too,” I said. “But I like yours the best.”

She laughed, and we listened to the rest of the song in silence.

The couch we sat on had been left in the trailer by the previous tenants. It was uneven and uncomfortable and had one of those covers that bunched and gathered and slid around every time you moved. There was very little furniture besides it in the room—a small folding table that held a TV and other components, an old leather recliner, its back permanently caught between upright and recline, its leather splitting and tearing, a couple of overcrowded bookshelves that leaned into each other for support. Scattered throughout the room, along the walls mainly, were stacks of books in every shape, size, subject, and genre.

When the song was over, she said, “What’s new in the investigation?”

I told her.

“I would think Bunny could get all the sex she wanted on the street,” she said. “Why run all the risks of having it with inmates inside?”

“Perhaps the risks are what it’s about,” I said. “But you’re right, it’s probably not her. As far as I know the only time she left my office was to sing in the sanctuary.”

“But then how do you explain the condoms and the tampon?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “The tampon could’ve belonged to a female volunteer from an earlier night. The condoms could’ve been brought in by a staff member or an officer.”

She didn’t say anything and I could tell she was thinking about it, the light of intelligence bright in her dark eyes.

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