The Boaz Stranger–Chapter 32

Kyla and Lillian were sitting at opposite ends of the couch when I entered the kitchen. I greeted both and poured a large mug of coffee. “I need some air.” Yesterday morning I’d ventured upstairs to borrow one of Dad’s heavy coats.

“You want some company?” Kyla asked as I walked to the front door.

“No. Not for an hour. I need to think.”

“It’s only seven, but we’ve reached today’s high: a scorching 30 degrees.” Lillian should have been a meteorologist. She tracks the weather like a bloodhound tracks a rabbit.

It felt like ten degrees as I eased down the frost covered steps. I didn’t need another fall. The last one had aggravated my shoulder, but it was Ray’s kick that had kept me awake most of the night. I wondered if he’d broken a rib or two.

I walked to the barn, through the gate, and on to the pond. I opted against the pier. Too frosty, and the two wooden Adirondack chairs sitting at the end would freeze my butt even though I had on two layers. Instead, I started making laps around the half-frozen water.

Yesterday was unbelievable. What had started as hopeful had ended in third level Hell. Good ole Ray had wasted no time. He made a 911 call at 10:08 AM. My co-conspirator and I learned this from the two Boaz police officers who appeared at Kyla’s front door at 3:00 pm. Officer Wilson had announced they were here to arrest Lillian and me on charges of criminal trespassing and assault. After a ride to the Boaz City Jail, it had taken nearly three hours for processing, including Micaden’s intervention to convince the city judge to ignore the city attorney’s no-bail warrants and grant our O.R. (own recognizance) request to avoid bail at any amount. The asshole City Attorney had likely kowtowed to Ray’s instructions, knowing his request was illegal.

Three laps down, and out of coffee, I returned to the gate and headed for the mailbox. Mine and Lillian’s inside look at the criminal justice system had not been yesterday’s last adventure. The call came at 4:30 PM. Unfortunately, I was sitting in a holding cell awaiting news concerning bail. It had been six before our release and the jailer returned my iPhone. During the ride home, thanks to Kyla, I returned the call wholly unconcerned. Sophia had misunderstood my instructions and hadn’t looked in the right place.

My hands and feet were freezing although I had on gloves and a pair of Dad’s insulated boots. I ended my pilgrimage into the cold and returned to Kyla’s toasty den recalling Sophia’s frantic words displaying her worst English, “Mr. Lee, I can’t find the diaries. Please call me.”

Her first words had been all Spanish. She kept saying “robara.” I finally convinced her I didn’t understand. A youthful voice (probably her teenage son) in the background finally said, “ransacked.” After I relayed an imagined scene in Rachel’s library, Sophia calmed down and delivered a reasonably cohesive and coherent accounting of her early afternoon experience. The bottom line, someone had broken into mine and Rachel’s house and stolen her diaries.

I kept standing in front of the gas heater for half an hour, ignoring Kyla and Lillian, and thought there was only one person who could have masterminded the burglary. Hopefully, the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department would cuff Ray Archer for arson before sunset.

***

Ray slept later than normal. The digital clock on his bedside table read 8:21. It was 8:26 when he returned from the bathroom. The thirty-foot round trip was a struggle. Hopefully, the three Tylenol would dull his screaming neck.

After dressing in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, Ray inched to the kitchen using walls and furniture for support. Breakfast comprised a bowl of oatmeal, two slices of dry toast, and a large glass of orange juice. His stomach didn’t feel like coffee.

Ray stared through the back door glass, across the valley below, and remembered yesterday’s invasion. His anger was still raw from what Lillian had done to his neck, but it was the thought that Lee Harding might have been prowling around inside his house that made him want to break things.

Enough of that. For now. It was past time to update the Lodge’s security system. And, as expected, it was a bitch, partially because it was Ray’s first attempt. Before, he relied on the tech-savvy Lillian to reset the codes. Today, it took forty minutes and two calls to ADT support before the system accepted the new eight-digit number/symbol combination, and the three exterior keypads reactivated. The delay had something to do with Ray’s failure to be in ‘programming’ mode. Ray slammed the ADT door panel on the utility room wall and walked to his study. There was another pressing issue he had to address.

Two recent cash withdrawals had ravaged his discretionary account, the one only he and First State Bank of Boaz knew anything about. It was the hundred-grand to Buddy. The other was the hundred and fifty thousand to Lillian. Fire and fucking were getting a tad expensive. The laptop booted up and Ray squirmed in the wooden hand-me-down chair from his father, much too stiff for an aching neck.

Ray opened the bottom right drawer and virtually kicked himself for being so lax. He had, again, left it unlocked. He thought of Lillian, and possibly Lee, inside. Could he believe her excuse for the framed picture? Was that the real reason for her unannounced visit? The bank statement at the front of the file was for September. Ray had made the cash withdrawals in early December. He recognized that he should have the October bank statement. November’s would arrive any day. He checked the next two folders for misfiling. They were correct. After accessing First Bank of Boaz online and replenishing his secret account (from his Real Estate Acquisitions account), Ray brushed aside the thought of Lillian stealing a bank statement or two. The only revelations would be the account name and number and the debit and credit amounts. He never wrote checks, and he never labeled deposits or withdrawals. Ray gave himself a praiseworthy nod, closed the drawer, and logged out of his account.

Ray closed his laptop and retreated to the master and his favorite recliner. Pulling up the footrest, he reminded himself that Lillian was the least of his worries. Although she had seen and heard what had gone on at Ted’s cabin on Friday night, it was only circumstantial evidence. No one had said or done anything that directly linked him to the Hunt House fire, and that was why Ray’s attorney assured him the Judge would have little choice in setting Ray’s bail in the event of arrest. Of course, this ignored the possibility that the DA might squeeze Buddy James enough to make him squeal.

A genuine concern was what his father had told him yesterday morning. Ronald was about to sell his Dogwood Trail farm. He had threatened several times over the years to give the proceeds to Ray’s estranged brother, Roland. The idea the farm’s new owners might discover and reveal long-buried secrets triggered panic and an image of a multi-year stay inside an eight-by-eight prison cell.

The second concern, equally frightening as the first, was Kent Bennett’s quest to avenge the death of his brother. An early Sunday morning email had been short, cogent, and direct. Kent had accused Ray of killing his twin brother, Kyle, and admitted he had evidence that would reopen the cold case. First was that Ray had lied in the statement he had given Detective Darden the day after Kyle disappeared. Kent had not elaborated, but Ray knew immediately what he meant. “Damn you Jackie Frasier,” Ray spouted to himself.

Kent’s second source of evidence was mysterious. He had alleged that Kyle himself left clues pointing to his killer. Kent had asked Ray a question. “Do you remember Kyle writing two essays for you in the Fall of 1970?” Ray recalled Mayor King asking him about this during their ride to the cabin Friday night. Ray wished he’d attended Kyle’s memorial service, where he could have heard exactly what Lee Harding had said.

***

The vibration of his iPhone awakened Ray. It was Ted King, and it was almost 2:00 PM. Ray had been asleep in his recliner for three hours. “Hey.”

“You ready for a ride to Guntersville?” Ted liked to joke. Ray rarely knew when to take him seriously.

“I am if you’re buying. I’m hungry.”

“They say the food’s unique.” Ted paused, dreading the news he had to deliver. “Ray, the DA secured a warrant for your arrest.”

“Oh shit. That was quick. What do you know?” The news wasn’t surprising, but it was unnerving. Ray lowered his footrest and stood wincing from the neck pain. He repeated his question. “What do you know?”

“My source in the Clerk’s office said the District Attorney tried for a warrant yesterday afternoon but someone had alerted Morton. He’d called Judge Broadside and requested an immediate hearing.”

“I know all that. Morton called me last night and said the hearing wasn’t until later this afternoon.” Ray headed for his bedroom.

“It got moved up. Just concluded.” Ted worried little about his own freedom. First, because he had done nothing wrong, or at least nothing he couldn’t explain away. Second, he knew too much dirt on the Judge Broadside.

Ray asked Ted whether he knew if bail was discussed at the hearing. Before he responded, Ray received another call. This time, it was Morton Selvidge. “I’ve got to go. It’s my attorney.”

“What about bail?” Ray asked without greeting. There were several disparate voices in the background. Ray imagined Morton in the Courthouse’s cafeteria. The basement was like the inside of a drum.

“Bad news. Won’t be until Thursday at the earliest.”

“What the fuck?” Ray collapsed onto the foot of his king-sized bed.

“The charges: arson and felony murder. Judge B promised the new DA forty-eight hours to prepare.” Morton’s office was in Huntsville, but he’d driven to Guntersville late Saturday afternoon after receiving Ray’s call and desperate plea.

“Murder?” Even though he’d known about the charred body found inside the Hunt House, he’d naively believed he bore no responsibility. That was on Buddy. Morton’s description of felony murder had fallen on closed ears.

“The news favors the prosecutor.”

Ray interrupted before Morton could continue. “What news?”

“Eric Snyder and Buddy James. They have a history together, not to mention both worked at The Shack.” Ray closed his eyes, confused. How did the DA know about Buddy? Lillian and Lee Harding flashed across his mind. Fuck. 

“Why does this matter?” Ray believed he understood the law. But beliefs aren’t always true.

“You’re tied to Buddy. Buddy’s tied to Eric. That ties you to Eric. Hold on.” Ray heard Morton order a large coffee and more chattering. “Listen, I have to return to Huntsville, but I’ll be ready on Thursday. Just keep your head up and your mouth shut.”

Ray almost yelled a dozen cusses at Morton but didn’t. He needed the man. “Please don’t let me rot in jail.”

Ray ended the call, but not before Morton guaranteed his client’s release from jail no later than Thursday afternoon.

***

The doorbell rang at 4:52 PM. Ray was ready, well, as ready as he could be. He had been watching his driveway through the master bedroom window ever since his phone conversation with Morton. After seeing the two deputies, one male, one female, Ray walked to the front door.

On the second ding, Ray opened the door. “Are you Ray Archer?” the woman, Tammie per her name tag, asked, standing on the narrow front porch beside the much taller Jared.

“I am. Come in out of the cold.” Ray was the master of a unique smarminess.

“Sir, we are Marshall County deputies and have a warrant for your arrest.” Jared said, stepping a foot closer, laying one hand on the giant front door.

“I understand, but come in. Can I grab my coat?” Ray inched backwards, allowing the two officers to enter.

“Whoa, hold on. We must go with you.” Jared said as Tammie slapped a cuff on Ray’s right hand.

Ray had planned this moment. He knew he would panic. The imagined scene, handcuffed, waist-chained, and shackled around the ankles, left him with no option. “Please don’t put me in restraints. Can we make a deal?”

“Sorry sir, its standard procedure. Where’s your coat?” Tammie asked as she pulled Ray’s hands behind his back and secured the other cuff. By now, the three had retreated several feet into the cavernous den with its thirty-foot ceilings, grand rock fireplace, cypress walls, and spiraling staircase.

“Wow, what a place.” Jared said.

Ray was fidgeting and attempting in vain to free his hands. His face turned pallid. “Please, I can’t take this. I’m about to pass out.” Jared and Tammie each grabbed an arm and lowered Ray onto the stairwell’s third tread. “I’ll pay you $500.00 each if you don’t cuff me.”

Jared and Tammie exchanged looks. “I’m sorry, that would be a bribe. Now, where’s your coat?” The two said almost in unison. What Ray didn’t know was he had triggered a negotiation.

Sheriff Wayne Waldrup started the program shortly after being elected in 2016. Technically, the practice was unethical, and Wayne was a highly ethical man. However, budgetary constraints allowed only minimum wage pay for beat deputies, slightly more for supervisory officers, and no room for bonuses. These ‘accommodations,’ as Waldrup called them, were pooled and distributed to every employee to maintain and improve morale.

“I have the cash on my desk.” Ray nodded to his left, sweat popping out across his forehead.

“Not enough for the risk,” Jared said, pulling Ray to his feet while Tammie unlocked one cuff.

“How about a thousand? Each.”

“Can you make it five total?” Tammie asked, easing Ray forward and clutching the hand that was still cuffed.

“I can, but I’ll need to access my safe.” Ray was already feeling better, but he wanted to clarify the deal. “What exactly do I get for the five grand?”

“No cuffs or restraints of any kind until we’re parked outside the jail. Then, I’ll cuff your hands, in front of you, and lead you into the jail. As soon as you’re inside a holding cell, I’ll unlock you.”

Jared walked past the stairs and looked down a short hallway. “Is the safe back here, with your desk?”

“Yes.”

“Bring him Tammie.” The officers followed Ray down the hallway and through the master.

“Can I have some privacy? My safe is hidden.” Ray knew the answer but thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Sorry Mr. Archer. You know we cannot let you out of our sight.” Jared said, trailing behind inside the master and marveling at all the mounted deer heads.

“Okay.” It’s behind the bookshelves.

It took less than ten seconds for the hidden passage to open, Ray to work the spinning combination, and remove five thousand cash, all denominated in hundred-dollar bills. Tammie had the best view, standing closest to Ray. She could see many stacks of cash in the thick walled Mosler. She concluded it was a floor model that had been raised to sit at eye-level on a concrete platform. What she didn’t know was that after Ray had purchased the Lodge, he’d hired a crew from Birmingham to move the Mosler from Wiley Jones’ upstairs study. The out-of-town crew had hidden it inside a newly created room behind a now smaller walk-in closet.

After closing the safe and the sliding bookcase, Ray handed Tammie the five grand and walked to his desk. “Here.” He held out the two five-hundred-dollar bundles toward Jared. “If you’ll make sure I have a private cell and quality food, you can have this as a bonus.” Jared accepted the money. More ‘accommodations’ for higher morale.

The thirty-five-minute drive to Guntersville was uneventful. Just what Ray wanted.