She was on her side, her back to me. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was tied only at the top.

“Mom,” I said a little louder this time.

She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed.

“Mom,” I said even louder, and this time directly toward her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.

Her eyes opened, and in them I saw misery and confusion and fear.

She closed her eyes.

The closeness of our eyes seemed to make her uncomfortable.

She probably needed a drink. I know I did.

I rolled the chair back slightly. This time when she opened her eyes that’s how they stayed.

“John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober. “What happened to you? What’s wrong?

“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” I said.

“It’s okay, honey.”

“Sorry for how I spoke to you on the phone the other night.”

“I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. You’ve always been such a kind, sensitive young man. Had to be . . . so hard. I see now how . . . Can you . . . Will you forgive me?”

And though it wasn’t the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.

34

I was lying on my couch, propped up on several pillows on Saturday afternoon, reading a stack of newspapers.

My entire body was stiff and sore, every movement bringing about pain and discomfort.

All the area papers reported about the same things—I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. A few added that though I had never been charged, similar allegations of sexual misconduct had occurred when I was pastoring in Atlanta. There was no mention of the Atlanta Child Murders or the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.

I was nearly finished reading the mostly fact-free articles when someone knocked on my door.

“It’s open,” I yelled, not wanting to get up. “Come in.”

A young woman with light blond hair, pale white skin, and light blue eyes came in. She was wearing a blue business suit roughly the color of her eyes, and I thought I detected a shoulder holster beneath her jacket.

“John Jordan,” she said as she walked in, “I’m Rachel Mills, an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”

“Have a seat.”

“I’m looking into the accusations that you sexually assaulted the wife of an inmate in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. I’m just in search of the truth. Not trying to jam you up. Far as I’m concerned you’re absolutely innocent until evidence says otherwise.”

“Then I’ll remain innocent, because there is no evidence.”

She nodded. “Everybody says that. Convince me by answering some questions.”