Rivers to Blood

RIVERS TO BLOOD

a John Jordan Mystery

by Michael Lister

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Books by Michael Lister

(John Jordan novels)

Power in the Blood

Blood of the Lamb

Flesh and Blood

The Body and the Blood

Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood

(Short Story Collections)

North Florida Noir

Florida Heat Wave

Delta Blues

Another Quiet Night in Desparation

(Remington James novels)

Double Exposure

Separation Anxiety

(Merrick McKnight novels)

Thunder Beach

A Certain Retribution

(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley novels)

The Big Goodbye

The Big Beyond
The Big Hello

(Sam Michaels and Daniel Davis Series)

Burnt Offerings

Separation Anxiety

(The Meaning Series)

The Meaning of Jesus

Meaning Every Moment

The Meaning of Life in Movies

The Meaning of Life

_________________

Copyright © 2014 by Michael Lister

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Inquiries should be addressed to:

Pulpwood Press

P.O. Box 35038

Panama City, FL 32412

Lister, Michael.

Rivers to Blood / Michael

Lister.

–—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-888146-39-4 Hardcover

ISBN: 978-1-888146—40-0 Paperback

Book Design by Adam Ake

Printed in the United States

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First Edition

Chapter One

I
was almost home when it happened.

I had taken the day off, and after mowing the grass between downpours had driven into Panama City to spend the afternoon browsing its bookstores. The pollen I stirred while cutting the grass and the dust I dislodged while deshelving the books had kicked my allergies into overdrive, and I felt dizzy and disconnected as I drove down the long, mostly empty stretch of pine-tree-lined highway toward Pottersville.

It was early August in one of the hottest and wettest summers on record. Severe thunderstorms—sometimes several in a day—were followed by a full-on assault of the sun, steam rising from earth and asphalt creating sauna-like conditions, intense and inescapable.

North Florida summers alternate between parched and drenched. There is rarely anything in between.

I was listening to a book on the fabric of the cosmos, straining my allergy-addled brain to understand some of the current concepts, when I passed the van. I didn’t pay much attention to it, but instinctively glanced in my rearview to see if it bore a yellow DC license plate.

It did.

Since becoming the chaplain of Potter Correctional Institution, I had begun to pay close attention to white vans on the highway, knowing the ones with yellow Department of Corrections tags were transporting inmates. Like all activities that took inmates outside the institution, transporting them—whether to the hospital, courthouse, or on funeral furlough—was not only when most escapes were attempted but when most attempted were successful.

It is extremely difficult for inmates to escape from a Florida state prison. There are just too many barriers—too many locked doors and gates, too many staff, too much chain link and razor wire—but once outside, the barriers decrease dramatically.

Four electronically locked gates become one van door. Fifty officers backed up by a riot squad become two officers—only one of which has a gun.

I’m not saying it’s easy for an inmate to escape while on transport—he’s still in cuffs, shackles, and a belly chain connecting the two with a black box covering the lock—just that it’s easier.

When I realized my wandering mind had missed the last several lines of the book, I paused it. As I did, I glanced in my mirror again to see that the van was nearly out of sight.

It had stopped raining for the moment, but my back window was still dotted with raindrops, clouds were blocking out much of the afternoon sun, and a low-lying mist just above the road and ditches made seeing much of anything more than a little challenging.

Yet that’s when I saw it. Or thought I did.

Brake lights. The van swerving. Maybe even running off the road.

It was possible I was being paranoid.

I could’ve just imagined the whole thing, projected what I was looking for onto the faint raindrop-spotted image, but I had to turn around to find out for sure.

I slowed and pulled off onto the soft, soggy shoulder of the road, water sloshing beneath my tires, leaving black tracks in the wet grass behind me as I eased back on the highway heading in the opposite direction.

Depending on an inmate’s custody level, there are different requirements related to transport. Close custody and close management inmates have to be cuffed and shackled and escorted by two armed officers. A single unarmed officer can escort a work camp inmate, and the inmate doesn’t even have to be cuffed.

Most often, however, there were two officers involved. Both sat in the front of the van, separated from the inmate or inmates—there could be as few as one and as many as thirteen—by a metal mesh and plexiglass partition. In the back, inmates were often cuffed and shackled, but never chained to the vehicle. The windows of the van were fitted with expanded metal reinforcements that looked like large blinds, and both the back and side doors were padlocked with hasps welded on the outside.

I raced back down the highway as fast as I could, the frame of my old truck shaking under the strain.

Tall grass and weeds filled the shoulders of the road, the seed heads of Bahia stalks glistening even in the low light of the overcast afternoon. Sprouting out of the shoots periodically, mostly next to signposts, rain-streaked and leaning political signs announced the vast number of Potter county citizens who aspired to public office, while water flowed through the drainage ditches like rushing rivers.

Several of the signs lining the side of the road bore my name, and it was disconcerting to see. I wasn’t the John Jordan running for reelection as Potter County Sheriff, my dad was, and though most if not all citizens knew that, I still felt embarrassed at having my name splattered all over the county.

Squinting, scanning, searching.

Looking for lights, movement, anything.

The only ones I saw were from a vehicle in the distance heading toward me. The bright headlights made it difficult to see anything else, and I had to wait until the gap between us closed and we passed each other before I could start looking for the van again.

There was nothing on the road in front of me now. Not even a random oncoming car. And the long, flat road seemed to stretch out forever.

Then, just ahead, near the entrance to a dirt road that angled back off the highway into the woods, I saw skid marks that continued onto the shoulder, becoming tracks on the narrow, muddy, hole-pocked road.

I followed them.

Chapter Two

T
he narrow dirt road was dark, the thick canopy of branches, leaves, and Spanish moss blocking out what little light the cloudy evening offered.

It wound back through the woods toward the river.

Most likely used for logging many years ago, now the road mostly provided access to the woods for hunters in the winter and to the river for fishermen in the summer.

The skid marks back on the highway could have been made at any time, but with all the water that had washed over the dirt road this afternoon, I knew the tracks I was now following were fresh.

The woods surrounding me on all sides were dense and ropy with a seemingly infinite variety of shades of green, every raindrop-dappled leaf glistening in the glare of my headlights as if freshly formed.

I drove faster than I should have under the current conditions, my truck bouncing through the mud-filled potholes, each bump staining my white truck the color of heavily creamed coffee. Sliding from side to side, the back end fishtailing, I almost lost control of the vehicle several times, but when I saw lights up ahead, I sped up even more.

The road twisted and turned often, sharp curves at odd angles shortening the sight line to nearly nonexistent.

On one particularly tricky turn, I almost drove straight off the road and into the woods, and as I came through it, I realized that’s exactly what the van had done.

And that’s when I did it.

Without thinking, I jerked my foot off the gas and stomped on the brake. The truck began a hydroplane that spun it around several times before it flipped over twice and slammed into the base of a thick-bodied pine tree.

It happened so fast I didn’t fully realize what had happened until I found myself hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt in the overturned truck.

I took a moment to move around as best I could to see if anything hurt. It didn’t. I pressed the seatbelt button and I fell head first onto the roof of my cab. Now it did.

As I carefully crawled over the broken glass and through the passenger window, I could feel tremors beginning to run the length of my body. Stumbling to my feet, I stood for a moment on wobbly legs wishing I had a weapon.

Slowly and stiffly I began to walk back toward the curve and the new path the van had cut into the thicket.

The van had missed the curve, driven some thirty feet into the woods, and smashed into an enormous old oak tree.

The engine was off, but the vehicle’s headlights were still on, their beams refracting a million raindrops, making the sequined forest shimmer and sparkle in a way that seemed almost magical.

All of the van’s doors were closed and there was no movement. I approached from the rear on the driver’s side slowly, looking over my shoulder often, but stopped when I heard a small plane overhead.

The engine of the plane seemed to be straining, alternating between a high-pitched whine and cutting out altogether. It sounded to me as if the aircraft were falling from the sky, though I couldn’t be sure.