Read Online Blood of the Lamb by Michael Lister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Lister
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asking for Isaac’s blood, but for Abraham’s love. In the story God provides a lamb.”
“That reminds me,” he said, opening the center drawer of his desk and withdrawing a page from a coloring book. “This is for you. It was found in your office near… ah, her body. They gathered it with the rest of the evidence.”
Tears stung the edges of my eyes as I took the wrinkled picture from him. The color-crayon image, made blurry by my tears, was of Jesus just as Nicole had promised. It was her rendition of the portrait that hung in the Sunday School rooms of my youth: Jesus, his dark eyes intense, his long dark hair flowing, with a lamb draped across his shoulders. In the bottom corner in red that glistened like blood as one of my tears fell on it, it read: To: Chaplin JJ. From: Nicole.
Images of Jesus praying alone in the Garden of Gethsemane flashed in my mind. I heard his trembling voice begging for his life, and the cold, cruel silence that followed. Where was God then? Where was God now?
Where are you?
“I realize you have a job to protect,” I said. “One that would be in jeopardy if central office finds out what really happened, but why did you let an ex-offender and a minor into the institution without proper background checks and safety procedures?”
“So you know,” he said, shrinking in his chair without any outward movement.
I nodded, waiting, watching, measuring his response.
“You’re right, I did all that, but there’s a good reason. I’ve known Bobby Earl for many years. He’s conducted services in all my institutions.”
“And he’s related to—”
“The regional director,” he said.
“Your boss?”
His nonverbal admission was a few small nods of his head.
I waited for a moment, but instead of saying anything, he took off his glasses, withdrew a silk handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, and slowly wiped them with it. Without his large glasses to cover much of it, I could see more of his face. His skin was dark—not quite the blued-black of a Nigerian, but very black, and shiny, and far more lined than I remembered.
“But your enthusiastic endorsement of him led me to believe that you two—”
“He was incarcerated at Lake Butler when I was the assistant warden there,” he said. “I’ve never seen such a dramatic change in anyone. He made a believer out of me. He’s the real deal.”
“Still,” I said, “it seems more personal than that.”
Stone glanced down at the picture I held in my hands and then turned and looked at the one behind him on the wall. “Bobby Earl helped me and my wife through a very difficult time in our lives.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
Still staring at the picture as though it gave him the strength to be vulnerable, he said, “He’s given my nephew, DeAndré, who became like a son to me when mine died, a place to belong, a purpose. Got him off the streets. Kept him out of prison. I owe Bobby Earl Caldwell more than…”
“I understand,” I said.
“I made a mistake,” he said, as he turned back to face me. “And I don’t want to lose my job, my career, over it. But more than that I want to find and punish the man who did it.”
He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and let out a long sigh. “Will you—”
“I will,” I said. “No matter who it is or how it makes you, me, or this institution look.”
He swallowed hard without saying anything, his nod seeming not one of approval, but of recognition, as if reconciling himself to the statement’s inevitability.
C HAPTER 12
When I got to the chapel, I tried to say my morning prayers, but found I was unable to concentrate on anything except what had happened to Nicole. Leaving the silence of the sanctuary, I walked to the storage closet next to the unoccupied office I was using since mine became a crime scene and grabbed a handful of sharpened pencils and a new legal pad. Back in the small office, I sat down at the desk and began to make
“That reminds me,” he said, opening the center drawer of his desk and withdrawing a page from a coloring book. “This is for you. It was found in your office near… ah, her body. They gathered it with the rest of the evidence.”
Tears stung the edges of my eyes as I took the wrinkled picture from him. The color-crayon image, made blurry by my tears, was of Jesus just as Nicole had promised. It was her rendition of the portrait that hung in the Sunday School rooms of my youth: Jesus, his dark eyes intense, his long dark hair flowing, with a lamb draped across his shoulders. In the bottom corner in red that glistened like blood as one of my tears fell on it, it read: To: Chaplin JJ. From: Nicole.
Images of Jesus praying alone in the Garden of Gethsemane flashed in my mind. I heard his trembling voice begging for his life, and the cold, cruel silence that followed. Where was God then? Where was God now?
Where are you?
“I realize you have a job to protect,” I said. “One that would be in jeopardy if central office finds out what really happened, but why did you let an ex-offender and a minor into the institution without proper background checks and safety procedures?”
“So you know,” he said, shrinking in his chair without any outward movement.
I nodded, waiting, watching, measuring his response.
“You’re right, I did all that, but there’s a good reason. I’ve known Bobby Earl for many years. He’s conducted services in all my institutions.”
“And he’s related to—”
“The regional director,” he said.
“Your boss?”
His nonverbal admission was a few small nods of his head.
I waited for a moment, but instead of saying anything, he took off his glasses, withdrew a silk handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, and slowly wiped them with it. Without his large glasses to cover much of it, I could see more of his face. His skin was dark—not quite the blued-black of a Nigerian, but very black, and shiny, and far more lined than I remembered.
“But your enthusiastic endorsement of him led me to believe that you two—”
“He was incarcerated at Lake Butler when I was the assistant warden there,” he said. “I’ve never seen such a dramatic change in anyone. He made a believer out of me. He’s the real deal.”
“Still,” I said, “it seems more personal than that.”
Stone glanced down at the picture I held in my hands and then turned and looked at the one behind him on the wall. “Bobby Earl helped me and my wife through a very difficult time in our lives.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
Still staring at the picture as though it gave him the strength to be vulnerable, he said, “He’s given my nephew, DeAndré, who became like a son to me when mine died, a place to belong, a purpose. Got him off the streets. Kept him out of prison. I owe Bobby Earl Caldwell more than…”
“I understand,” I said.
“I made a mistake,” he said, as he turned back to face me. “And I don’t want to lose my job, my career, over it. But more than that I want to find and punish the man who did it.”
He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and let out a long sigh. “Will you—”
“I will,” I said. “No matter who it is or how it makes you, me, or this institution look.”
He swallowed hard without saying anything, his nod seeming not one of approval, but of recognition, as if reconciling himself to the statement’s inevitability.
C HAPTER 12
When I got to the chapel, I tried to say my morning prayers, but found I was unable to concentrate on anything except what had happened to Nicole. Leaving the silence of the sanctuary, I walked to the storage closet next to the unoccupied office I was using since mine became a crime scene and grabbed a handful of sharpened pencils and a new legal pad. Back in the small office, I sat down at the desk and began to make
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