Free John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice by Michael Lister

you should let us see it. Where’s the tape?”
    “In the camera. Corner of the cabin. It may still be recording. I left it running when I ran after Tammy.”
    “It’s not there. We checked.”
    “Someone took my camera? Why would––”
    “Not your camera, just the tape.”
    “I don’t understand. Why would someone take my tape? It proves I’m telling the truth.”
    “Maybe the devil did it,” Steve said.
    “That’s not funny,” Father said. “You shouldn’t tease about powerful things you don’t understand.”
    “Maybe it was taken precisely
because
it proves you’re telling the truth,” Reid said. “Maybe the murderer took it in an attempt to set you up.”

Chapter Fifteen
     
    “Whatta you know about exorcisms?” Steve asked.
    We were standing next to the coffee maker again, taking a short break before we wrapped up the interview, allowing Father Thomas and Ralph Reid to have a little privileged conversation.
    “Not a lot. Studied it a little in seminary—even wrote a paper on it, but have forgotten most of it. Read a few books since then. Seen a documentary.”
    “Well, all I know is what I’ve seen in movies. And I’m not much of a reader. You think you could brush up a little on the subject and give me a Cliff’s Notes version?”
    I nodded.
    “Is what he’s saying even possible?”
    I shrugged. “I’m in the ‘anything’s possible’ business.”
    “You believe in angels and demons and all that shit?”
    “Used to. When I was a kid I believed in them in very literal and concrete ways. As I grew up and learned more, I saw them more as metaphors.”
    “Metaphor didn’t do what was done to my cousin.”
    “I know. And I do believe in a spiritual realm. It’s just far more mysterious and subtle than most religious people seem to think––and that’s especially true of its influence and impact on this realm. I try to remain open, but I’m pretty skeptical.”
    “Could it be mental illness?” he asked.
    I nodded. “And we’ve got to consider drug use as well. Depending on how many drugs she’s really done, and what kind, and if she was under the influence at the time… Toxicology should tell us a lot.”
    He nodded.
    We were silent a moment, sipping our coffee, looking around the dim, empty station. It was neat and orderly, obviously well run, and surprisingly modern and technologically sophisticated.
    “What about the tape?” he asked. “Why would someone take it?”
    “Could be what Reid said.”
    “Or Father Thomas could have taken it because what it really shows contradicts what he’s telling us.”
    “Either way,” I said, “you need to search St. Ann’s.”
    He nodded. “That should be fun.”
    We grew quiet again, each of us stretching and yawning. Steve looked as tired as I felt, the stubbly skin of his washed-out face drawn, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, and stiff, unruly hair in need of washing. I was sure I looked worse.
    “He was covered in her blood,” he said.
    “Yeah?”
    “His hands are bruised and swollen and I guarantee the blood and tissue removed from his nails are hers and vice versa, and he has nicks and scratches on his hands and face that look like she was fighting him off.”
    “Yeah.”
    “He probably did it,” he said. “Probably killed her and all the rest of this hocus pocus shit’s just clouding the issue.”
    “Probably,” I said, “but not necessarily, not definitely, not absolutely, not yet.”
    He frowned and nodded his begrudging agreement. “Come on. Let’s go see if we can turn probably into unequivocally.”
    Walking back down the narrow hall, I said, “Pretty good vocabulary not to be a reader.”
    He laughed. “My mom gave me Word Smart vocabulary-building tapes for Christmas last year. I keep them in my Explorer. Listen to them as I drive around. Tell anybody and I’ll shoot you.”
    “Since for the moment we don’t have the tape, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened inside that cabin and