Blood Reckoning, page 2
Carla had been a deeply sad but equally strong motherless young woman raised by an absentee, alcoholic father. In many ways, I was all she had, and despite my best intentions and inconsistent efforts I had become just as absent as her father.
It had started when Anna and I had finally gotten together. It had been completed when we moved from Pottersville to Wewa. I told myself I would visit, that I would keep a close eye on her, that I wouldn’t abandon her like everyone else had, but I had unwittingly done just that.
I can tell the guilt and other strong emotions I’m feeling are causing me to think of all this in extreme terms that lack proportion and nuance, but being aware of the fact doesn’t mean I can do anything to change it.
“How worried are you about Carla?” Anna asks.
“I wish she’d answer so I know she’s okay, but . . . I’m not overly worried yet.”
In the end, Anna had decided to ride with me to pick up John Paul. We are in my truck on the Main Street of our little town, passing beneath a canopy of oak tree branches and fog-dimmed street lamps.
It’s the second week of August during one of the hottest and wettest summers we’ve ever had. Of course, in this part of Florida every summer feels like the hottest and wettest, but the number of temperature and rainfall records set this summer means this year it doesn’t just feel that way.
I am grateful to have her with me—not only because I always like being with her but also for her obvious effort toward reconnection.
Our discussion wasn’t all that intense and our disagreements weren’t extreme, but it’s easy to let seemingly small ruptures build up overtime. Repairing them as quickly as possible is absolutely essential to re-establishing intimacy.
I never want us to waste the time we have arguing about how much more time together we wish we had, never want our disagreements to lead to unproductive arguments and building resentment.
I’m worried about Carla, but I’m trying not to jump to conclusions or obsess. I know all too well how many horrible things can happen to a vulnerable young woman, and ordinarily my mind would run to the possible threats and potential crimes she could fall victim to, but I’m trying to do better tending my thoughts and managing my mind.
At this point, I’m thinking this is more likely an act of irresponsibility than an indication of something wrong, though I’m not sure how much longer that will be the case.
I’d be worried more if this weren’t a pattern. I’d be worried less if she had called or texted like she usually does when she’s going to be late picking up John Paul.
“She’s been avoiding us,” Anna says. “Never a good sign.”
Carla has had a series of not nice boyfriends, and her previous one was especially volatile and even violent. Each time she’s in a relationship, she distances herself from us. When she first started seeing the most recent guy, she broke her pattern and not only not came around but brought him too. He seemed different and so did their relationship, but lately she had been fading away from us, which I find troubling.
“True,” I say.
We pull up to the small subsidized-housing apartment complex and park in front of Minnie’s unit.
Minnie and John Paul are on the front porch beneath a circle of dim illumination coming from a single porch lamp with a low-watt light bulb in it. She’s in a wrinkled housecoat sitting in a white plastic chair next to a small matching table with an ashtray full of cigarette butts in it. He’s playing with Sonic the Hedgehog toys on the faded-green faux turf carpet not far from her.
When John Paul sees me, he jumps up, squealing my name and running to me.
“Hey, buddy,” I say. “How’s it goin’?”
“Can I come to your house?”
“Sure. Let’s get your toys and thank Miss Minnie.”
“Do you know where my mommy is?” he asks.
“I’m gonna find her.”
Anna comes up behind us.
“Anna,” he squeals.
I hand him over to her, and she helps him gather his toys and loads him into his carseat in the back of the truck while I speak with Minnie.
“I’m worried, John,” she says. “I am. She’s never not called or texted before. Plenty of times she didn’t make it back when she said she would, but she always calls or texts to let me know she’ll be late.”
“Any idea where she is?”
She shakes her head. “Just said she needed to do a few things, could I keep him ’til dark.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll let you know when I find her. And please let me know if she contacts you.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
With Anna looking after John Paul in the truck, I step over to Carla’s unit.
Lifting the small porcelain Saint Francis statue, I thumb the dials to the correct combination, open the key safe, and remove the key.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” Minnie says. “There’s one under the mat.”
I lift the welcome mat, see the key beneath it, frown, and shake my head. When I had gotten her the Saint Francis statue key safe, I had emphasized the importance of using it exclusively, and she had promised me she would.
It’s so hot my clothes are already damp with my sweat. I wipe at my forehead with my sleeve.
Unlocking and entering her apartment, I step inside and look around.
Beneath the scent of a plug-in air freshener, the small tile-floored unit has that smell most older apartments do—the lingering odors and aromas of previous tenants that never quite go away.
Carla and John Paul’s home is neither clean nor neat. Toys and clothes are strewn about in the living room, bedrooms, and bathroom. Plates with food remnants are on the dining table and next to canned goods and other groceries that fill the kitchen countertops instead of the cupboard.
It’s as bad as I’ve ever seen it, but it’s still not horrible. It’s far more cluttered than it is dirty, and the food left on plates appears to be recent—most likely from earlier today.
I quickly but carefully examine each room.
It’s obvious this is the apartment of someone raised in poverty who had never had much or been taught to care for what she had. She has more of everything than she needs—more clothes and food and furniture and toys and even cleaning supplies that she clearly doesn’t use. It’s as if she fears running out so always gets extra and never says no when someone offers her anything.
It doesn’t take me long to look around the tiny two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment and conclude that there’s no evidence of foul play and no clues as to her whereabouts.
Before leaving, I pause and pull out my phone.
I quickly check the social media sites she uses for any info about where she might be, what she might be doing, and who she might be doing it with.
The only post she has made today is a meme of a young woman in a bathrobe being pampered at a spa with the caption “Sometimes moms need indulging too.”
Going back a few days I see who she has been hanging out with and where she has been. I also see that her new relationship is now Facebook official.
Of the people showing up in her recent feed, I only have the number for one—Bailey Bozeman, a large, loud, irreverent, often obnoxious young woman with thick curly blond hair and lots and lots of it.
I search through my contacts and tap her name.
“New phone, who dis?” is how she answers.
“It’s John Jordan.”
“John fuckin’ Jordan,” she says. “Who died and am I suspect or a witness?”
“I’m lookin’ for Carla,” I say. “Have you seen her?”
“Haven’t seen that hooker in a day or two,” she says. “She’s all Lady Gaga for some new dude. Ain’t got any time for me.”
I assume she’s referring to Mason Hayes, Carla’s recent and now Facebook-official relationship.
“Have any idea where she is?”
“Not the faintest.”
“Would you mind tryin’ to call her and asking around to see if anyone has seen her? Ask her to call me if you get her.”
“Only if you deputize my ass,” she says. “And put me on the pig payroll.”
I wait.
She laughs. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. I’ll track that slut down.”
“And can you send me Mason’s number and those of anyone else she’s been hanging out with lately?”
“I might be persuaded to do something like that . . . if . . . you give me one of those Get Out of Jail Free cards for the next time I get popped by the po-po.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
“Have you heard from Carla lately?” I ask.
I’m in my home office, having stepped away from game night to make a few calls out of earshot of John Paul.
“Not since this mornin’,” Rudy, her dad, says. “Why?”
He’s not slurring his words yet, but there is a thickness to his voice and the slow, careful over-pronunciation of someone trying not to sound impaired.
“Just tryin’ to find her.”
From our living room I can hear intermittent eruptions of laughter, shrieks, and squeals coming from our kids, and I’m anxious to get back in there as quickly as possible.
“She missin’?”
His words sound almost accusatory, as if it would be my fault if she were.
Rudy and I had always had a strained relationship. In addition to the guilt of his alcoholic actions and his non-actions as an absentee father, there’s the perceived threat I represent as a surrogate father figure for Carla. And the strain and hostility only increased and deepened when, during Hurricane Michael, he placed John Paul and my girls in jeopardy.
“She’s runnin’ a little late to pick up John Paul,” I say. “Just tryin’ to make sure she’s okay.”
“Your cop brain makes you paranoid,” he says. “She’s probably just off havin’ a good time. She deserves that occasionally, you know? Stop worryin’ so much. You need me to come get my grandson?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll let you know when I find her.”
I end the call and roll my shoulders, trying to shrug off my anger and annoyance.
I then open Bailey Bozeman’s text and tap Mason Hayes’s contact.
It rings several times then goes to voicemail.
Going back to her text, I look through the other contacts she sent me. Among some of the young women who had popped up in her social media feed is her ex, Easton Stevens, and I wonder why she has included him.
I then call Will Hayes, who is Mason’s dad, my high school classmate, and our town’s dentist.
“Hey, John,” he says. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m great. At a dental conference at UF in Gainesville, which has been very laid back and relaxing. Just what I needed.”
“I’m looking for Mason,” I say. “Haven’t been able to get him to answer his phone. Any idea where he is?”
“No, but I’m sure Beth does. Is something wrong?”
“I’m actually looking for Carla, and I’m hoping he knows where she is.”
“Gotcha. Let me try him and Beth. I’ll have Mason call you ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
I look back through the contacts Bailey sent me and send a few texts identifying myself and asking if any of them knows where Carla is.
I’m about to call Merrill when Will calls back.
“Hey, John. Beth said she thinks Mason is on the river and probably doesn’t have any signal. We both tried him too and couldn’t get him. Carla could be with him and not have any signal either. I wish there was something I could do. I hate that I’m down here and unable to help.”
“Do you know where on the river he is?”
“No, but more than likely at our little cabin. I’m sure I can get someone to go check.”
Will and Beth’s cabin, like most of the camps on the river, is only accessible by boat.
“That’s okay,” I say. “If I don’t hear from her soon, I’ll go check on them.”
“You remember where it is?”
“On the Miccosukee, right?”
“Yeah. Let me know if I can do anything else. I can cut my trip short and come back in the morning if need be.”
“Thanks, Will, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’ll let you know.”
“Please let me know what you find out,” he says. “Just want to know they’re safe.”
“JOHN,” Anna calls from the living room.
“Daddy,” Taylor yells. “COME ON. IT’S YOUR TURN.”
CHAPTER
SIX
As we’re wrapping up game night, Anna leans over and says softly, “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier.”
“Me too,” I say.
“Thanks for making everything work. I’ll take care of baths and bed. You go find Carla.”
It’s getting late, there’s still been no word from her, and the likelihood of something being wrong is increasing with each minute that passes.
“Thank you,” I say.
She turns to the kids. “Who’s ready for a slumber party with John Paul?”
“I get to sleep over?” John Paul says.
“Yes, you do,” Anna says. “We’ll make a pallet in Taylor’s room. But first . . . who wants a bedtime snack?”
“I do. I do.”
I give everyone a hug, tell them I love them, then head toward my truck.
Inside my truck, I try Mason and Easton again. Still no answer.
When we end the call, I check in with Minnie and Bailey via text.
Neither of them have heard anything from Carla.
As I’m responding to them, a call comes in from a number I don’t recognize.
I answer it. “John Jordan.”
“Mr. Jordan, it’s Cedrica Myers.”
Cedrica Myers is a young African-American woman who works at city hall. I played basketball with her dad in high school.
“Hey, Cedrica. How are you?”
“I’m good, sir. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I heard you were looking for Carla Pearson,” she says.
“Sure am.”
“She drives that gray Camry that has her and her son’s initials on the back window and the dent in the back bumper, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I saw her car parked at the end of the road earlier this evening when we was coming off the river. Just thought I should let you know.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very helpful. I sure appreciate it. You have a good night.”
“You too,” she says. “And I hope you find her.”
After finishing with Cedrica, I call Merrill and tell him what’s going on.
“I’ll grab a boat and meet you at the landing,” he says.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The end of the road is the place where Lake Grove Road dead-ends into the Apalachicola River. There’s a large asphalt parking lot, a floating dock, a boat launch, a park with picnic pavilions, and a playground.
There are only a few vehicles in the parking lot. None of them is Carla’s.
While waiting for Merrill, I look around and snap some pics of the vehicles that are in the mostly empty lot, all but one of which are trucks with boat trailers hooked to them.
I wonder if Carla’s car was ever really here or if Cedrica had been mistaken.
I tap Carla’s number, turn my phone on speaker-phone mode, swipe away the phone screen, and search through Carla’s social media accounts again.
The call eventually goes to voicemail, and there are no updates on any of the social media platforms she uses.
When Merrill arrives, I lock my truck and climb in with him.
“If she’s at a camp on the Miccosukee River,” he says, “doesn’t make sense that her vehicle would be here.”
He’s right. If she went to the Hayes’s cabin on the Miccosukee River with Mason, they would’ve launched from Tupelo Creek, which is nearly forty miles from here.
“But . . .” he adds. “Cedrica’s a smart young woman. Don’t really see her sayin’ Carla’s vehicle was there if it wasn’t.”
I nod. “Yeah. They could’ve done what we just did. Met there and left her vehicle. She climbs in with Mason, and they drive to Tupelo Creek together. But if so . . . where is her car now? If she’s back and has already picked it up, why haven’t we heard from her?”
“We can check her place on the way by to see if she’s there.”
We’ll pass her apartment complex on the way to Tupelo Creek and will be able to see if her car is back without even slowing down.
If she’s back, I think I would’ve heard from her or Minnie or one of many people who know I’m looking for her.
“How worried are you?” he asks.
“More than I was a few hours ago.”
He nods but doesn’t offer trite reassurances or false promises.
We ride along in silence for a while, and as we pass Carla’s apartment complex he slows down a little but doesn’t need to. It’s obvious her vehicle isn’t there and her unit is dark.
I text Anna to let her know what we’re doing then try Carla’s number again.
Unlike all the times before, it goes straight to voicemail.
I wait a few moments and try her again and get the same result. After a few minutes I try it again and again, getting the same result, which leads me to conclude that it wasn’t that she was on another call but that her phone has died.
“Her phone’s dead,” I say.
He frowns and nods.
I’ve been trying to decide if and when to make Carla’s disappearance official and report her as missing, and I believe now is the time to get our agency involved. I have three options. I can generate a case myself, I can call dispatch, or I can call the sheriff directly. Since I don’t have my laptop with me and I’m not near the substation, I can’t initiate the report myself. If Reggie was still sheriff, I would’ve already called her, but since it’s Fred Miller I decide to call dispatch.
