I nodded.
“Where were you last Tuesday night? By the way, do you mind if I tape this?” she asked, pulling out a microcassette recorder.
“No, I don’t mind. And I was in the hospital, I am told. I was unconscious.”
“Oh no, I meant the Tuesday night before that. If you will lead me through all the events of that night.”
“I was at an AA meeting in a Sunday School room of the First Methodist Church of Panama City, Florida, from six until eight. I then went to Applebee’s on Twenty-third Street with two of the members of that group. I then drove home, arriving about twelve forty-five. I read a little and then went to bed . . . alone.”
“Can someone corroborate your story?” she asked.
“AA is anonymous. It would be their choice, but I’ll ask.”
“It’s not that important. The crime was said to have occurred later anyway, but if they’re willing, it wouldn’t hurt. Did you speak to anyone after you got home that night who could confirm your whereabouts?”
“No.”
“Do you know Molly Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve probably spent a sum total of three or four hours with her. Most of that time has been in the visiting park of the institution. I’ve counseled her and her husband during some of their visits together, at their request, of course. They, like most inmate couples, were having some marital problems and wanted my help.”
“Were you able to help them?”
“Apparently not. I thought so at first, but then lately something has happened to Anthony, her husband. He is on a serious downward spiral.”
“Have you ever met with Molly Thomas by herself at or away from the institution?”
“Yes, I have. Last Friday. I mean a week ago last Friday-she called and asked to see me, saying it was an emergency and she was scared to come to the institution. So we met in the pastor’s office of the Methodist church in Pottersville.”
“What was the nature of that meeting?”
“She described what took place the Tuesday night before when she was raped at the institution and asked for my help.”
“Who did she say raped her?”
“Her husband.”
“He’s an inmate. How could he have even seen her?”
“Captain Skipper arranged it, according to her, but interrupted them in the middle and then stalked her that night and tried to break into her home.”
“Why didn’t you come forward with this information?”
“I’ve been in a coma, but my friends turned it in after he assaulted me.”
“Was there anyone present at your meeting with Molly Thomas that Friday?”
“Yes, one of my few rules is that I will not counsel a woman alone. The pastor of that church, the Reverend Dick Clydesdale, was in the next office monitoring the session, and I told Molly that he was.”
“Would you be willing to submit blood and semen samples? If you’re telling the truth, it will clear this up quickly.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, telling the truth does no good and nothing can clear this up quickly. I’m being drawn and quartered in the press. Can you clear that up?”
“If you will submit those samples and they test negative, I will guarantee you front-page coverage of that fact and a chance to tell your story. What do you say?”
“I say, pardon me if I’ve become cynical, but I don’t believe you. However, I will submit the samples, because I am telling the truth.”
“I sincerely hope so. It would be a refreshing change.”
Chapter 38
After reading all the accounts of my alleged misconduct in the papers and talking with Rachel Mills, I was exhausted. I took a nap, but not before praying for my total recovery and for me not to have AIDS.
Please, God, anything but that. I couldn’t handle it; you know that. I’m not nearly strong enough for that.
It was at that moment that a voice inside my head said that God would never put more on us than we can bear.
That’s not what I want to hear right now. I want to hear that there is power in the blood. Power to cleanse me. Power to heal me. Power to kill HIV if it’s in my blood. I want to hear, by his stripes we are healed.
And then I fell asleep and had more bloody nightmares.
I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. Since it was probably a reporter, I decided to let the machine catch it. I nearly broke my neck and reopened all of my wounds trying to get to the phone when I heard Sandy Strickland’s voice.
“Wait, I’m here,” I said, snatching up the receiver.
“I don’t blame you for monitoring your calls today. You’re really in a bad way, aren’t you?”
“Pretty bad.”
“I’ve heard some very disturbing reports about some things you’ve been doing-crimes, I mean, and against women. I was shocked. I was also confused. I thought you were different.”
“Me, too. They’re not true,” I said, but it didn’t sound very convincing.
“Well, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And there’s a lot of damn smoke around here.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. All I ask is that you withhold judgment until all this is cleared up. It won’t be long. Are you back at the prison?” I asked.
“Not officially, and I’m glad. It’s a zoo out here. You’ve made it difficult for all of us.”
Her words and anger stung like slaps.
“Sandy, please listen to me. I didn’t do those things-any of them.”
“You’re lying, you son of a bitch. I hate men like you. I’m glad you have HIV.”
“What?” I whispered as the breath suddenly rushed out of me.
“That’s right,” she said and began to laugh. “What does the Bible say? You reap what you sow.”
“I can’t. I-”
“You do. And it’s called poetic justice,” she said.
And then there was a click. And in a few seconds, a dial tone.
I sat there with the phone still at my ear. I couldn’t move. I was seized by fear. It wasn’t shock. I wasn’t in shock, because she gave me the news I had expected. I knew that I had HIV the moment I had discovered the cut on my leg.
“Well, that’s that,” I said as I hung up the phone.
I now knew that I was going to die-sooner rather than later. Death had come into the room with me and said, “You’re mine.” And he was right. I was his, but not by the cursed blood in my veins, but by a bullet in my head that would let all that bad blood drain out. Or, maybe, the killer would do me the service of cutting me open.
That was it. That killer had done this to me. I was another of his victims. He had killed me, too, probably didn’t even know it. I made a vow, then and there, to find him and make sure he knew that I was one of his victims-find him, so we could die together. I was dying, but before I did, I was going to find the man responsible and woe be to that man.
I was climbing on a pale horse to go and track him down, and the name of that horse was death, and hell followed after him. In that moment, I pushed the knowledge of the disease so far down inside me that it became nearly unconscious. I was going to die, but there was no reason to let that rob me of the little life I had left.
And then I broke. I cried for hours. I also searched my house for liquor, but found none. I buried my face into my pillow, baptized by my tears, and fell asleep and dreamed of death. I did, however, wake up. I woke up a new man-a man on a mission.
Chapter 39
There are a few places in Florida that have within them all that Florida has to offer-fields, forests, rivers, lakes, and beaches. Potter County is just such a place. You can stand in the middle of the huge trees of the Apalachicola National Forest and feel as landlocked as if you were in Montana, but a twenty-minute drive brings you to the Gulf of Mexico. Pottersville is home to farmers and fishermen, and I love its duality. Of all of Pottersville’s natural resources, one of the most beautiful and most powerful is the Apalachicola River.