John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice by Michael Lister Page B

the fact that it has to be one of us.”
    “Someone at St. Ann’s last night?”
    She nodded.
    “Of those of us who were here, who’s most likely?”
    “Under the right circumstances, we’re all capable,” she said. “I’d be very hesitant to point the finger at one person over another.”
    “What about those having a sexual relationship with the victim? Wouldn’t you agree they’re more likely than—”
    “Those who weren’t, but wanted to?” she asked. “Hardly.”
    “Who wasn’t, but wanted to?” I asked.
    She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. “Rumor has it, Ralph Reid—who not coincidentally works for her family—has always carried a torch for her.”
    “And they’ve never… I didn’t get that she was discriminating.”
    “That’s what added insult to the injury,” she said. “Which, of course, is why she did it. It was a game. Her way of torturing him.”
    “Did you put her diary in my room?” I asked.
    “Her what?” she asked, sitting back in her chair again.
    “Father asked her to keep a journal while she was here,” I said. “Apparently she did, and someone left it in my room last night—or this morning.”
    “I wasn’t aware of its existence. Is it helpful?”
    “I think it will be,” I said. “I haven’t finished it yet. Who besides Reid?”
    “Is a frontrunner?” she asked. “I’m not sure. As you say, perhaps her harem.”
    “What about Keith Richie?” I asked.
    “Why him more than the others?”
    “He’s an ex-offender for starters,” I said.
    “How did you—” she began, “but of course you’d know.”
    “What did he do time for?”
    “I don’t know. Even if I did I doubt I’d tell you. He’s paid his debt. He’s come here for healing—same as you.”
    “I’m not talking about a previous debt,” I said. “I’m looking for a pattern.”
    “Well, I don’t know,” she said, “I really don’t. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “I think I will.”

Chapter Twenty-one
     
    On my way to interview Keith Richie, I called the institution. The coverage was poor, the reception filled with static, and I could barely hear when the control room officer said, “Good morning, Potter Correctional Institution.”
    “Hey, Officer Williams, it’s Chaplain Jordan. How are you?”
    “Where are you? You sick?”
    “On vacation.”
    Shrouded by thick gray clouds, the diffused light of the sun had yet to burn off the low-lying fog or dry up the dew, and the moist air felt wet on my face and caused bits of damp sand and grass blades to cling to my shoes.
    “Well, we miss you,” she said. “Hurry on back.”
    “Thanks. Merrill working today?”
    “Yeah, but he’s on a transport to Liberty CI.”
    “Okay. If you see him, would you ask him to call me? And can I have Classification?”
    “Sure, sugar. Hold on one minute for me.”
    I was on hold for maybe ten seconds before the familiar but unexpected voice answered the phone. “Classification, Anna Rodden.”
    I stopped walking. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
    “Hello?” she said.
    “Anna?”
    She hesitated, then softly said, “John.”
    Several things ran through my mind and I wasn’t sure which one to say.
    “I’m surprised to find you there,” I said.
    “I was surprised to find you gone.”
    “Had to get away for a while,” I said. “What’re you doing there?”
    “I work here.”
    “You do?”
    “For a little while longer anyway,” she said. “I’m still toying with the idea of going back to school full-time. I’m never gonna finish at this rate.”
    I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. I was walking again, though I couldn’t recall making a conscious decision to do so.
    “John?” she asked. “You still there?”
    “I’m here.”
    “You broke up. What’d you say?”
    “I can’t remember,” I said.
    “‘Let me stand here till thou remember it.’”
    I was surprised––not that she knew the quote, but that