If it hadn’t been for Rob’s funeral, I think I would have struck out for Roanoke the moment I left Rosa and Bridgewood Gardens. I would have driven to Kyla’s for a change of clothes and toothbrush, quasi-argued with Lillian it was unnecessary for us both to go, and settled in for a fourteen-hour plus round-trip journey. Instead, I felt guilty and invoked a weird, maybe unnatural, combination of ease and duty. I’d opted to stay put.
A Southern Baptist funeral is predictable. The First Baptist Church of Christ sanctuary was abuzz with gospel songs, Rob-as-saint eulogies, and an unsurprising evangelistic sermon (including altar call). I’m confident I could have written Pastor T. J. Miller’s script: “Rob is now in a better place, one without pain and sorrow, and you can go there too, if you will believe in the name of Jesus Christ.” A too-long graveside service at Hillside Cemetery was a similar event, albeit with fewer warnings of Hell in the afterlife. Since college, I’d always been skeptical of the Christian story, but Rachel’s nonsensical death had tipped me sideways and triggered an intense search for the truth. So far, my transformation categorized the supernatural as pure conjecture.
I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon and evening at Kyla’s with her, my two children, and the four best grandchildren in the world. It was an enjoyable time and made my heart yearn for Rachel, regardless of everything I’d recently learned.
Things changed again at 9:00 PM. Lyndell and Leah were online looking at Google Maps to determine the best route by car to return to their homes in Exeter, New Hampshire. They discovered a near-certain snow and ice storm headed for the northeast. It was scheduled to hit early Tuesday morning. This news rescheduled their planned departure time to Monday morning. For me, unencumbered by a spouse or children, I opted to leave at 10:00 pm.
After a long game of Monopoly with Jackson and Jasper, I stood on the front porch with all four grands, each rustling for just one more hug. Finally, I retreated down the stairs blowing kisses with my left hand and holding my travel bag with my right. The dominating thought was how strikingly similar Ava and Amelia were to both Rachel and Leah. Climbing inside the Hyundai, I gave one last wave and chuckled out loud at the idea of miracles.
All the way to Collinsville, I contemplated alternative plans for when I would next travel to Exeter to spend time with the most wonderful kids who ever lived.
I filled up with gas at the BP and bought a cup of coffee. At 10:35 PM, I merged onto I-59, intending to drive nonstop to Roanoke other than one or two-bathroom breaks. Hopefully, I can make the 440 miles on one tank.
I had just passed the Hammondville/Valley Head exit sign when Lillian called. A lonely heart now regretted our Friday agreement to act like strangers while Leah, Lyndell, and their families were in town. Subconsciously, I knew my high school girlfriend and I were once again deeply connected. Sooner than later, I needed to share the good news with my dear children. “Hey you.”
“Still mad.” After my meeting with Rosa early this morning, I called Lillian and detailed what I’d learned. She’d agreed this was a huge break in our investigation and we needed to go to Roanoke as soon as possible. I had insisted I go alone since it was going to be a long, hard trip. Also, she and Kyla needed to develop a response to our little snafu at Jane’s house last Friday night.
I was a little surprised by my, “I’m mad at me too. I wish you were here straddling this console” response. We both had a pleasant laugh given my ill-imagined (and described) posture for the sixty-six-year-old beauty. “Will you forgive me?”
“What choice do I have? You forgave me for something far worse.” I paused before responding, asking myself what if I had refused three weeks ago to have anything to do with Lillian? I would have never experienced such joy, happiness, and peace. And all that had happened under the dark, foreboding sky of our current investigation. What might it be when Lillian and I are free to live a normal life, one free of her marriage to the murderous Ray and mine from the mysterious and lying Rachel?
I surprised myself. Again. “I’ve missed you like crazy and cannot wait until all this is over.”
“Good to hear. By the way, will you always try to keep me a secret from Leah and Lyndell?” I could picture exactly where Lillian was. The screen door on her back porch always squeaked when opening and closing.
“Oh, you naïve woman. Secret, what is there to keep secret? You are just one of dozens of gorgeous females stalking and luring me with their tantalizing charms. I certainly cannot tell my children about them all.”
“Dang, you’re in good spirits, albeit a little twisted. At least you’ve admitted I’m gorgeous.” The door squeaked again.
“Lillian, my dear, you know I’m kidding. By the way, what are you doing?”
“Unloading a few groceries and some cleaning supplies. This place is a mess.” I wondered why Lillian had waited until now to spruce up her cabin. She’d already spent two nights there.
“Promise me you’ll return to Kyla’s tomorrow and stay until I return. Agree?” It was the first time we’d been apart overnight since she’d learned Ray was a genuine threat to the two of us.
“Lee, can I ask a serious question?”
“Don’t do that. You know our promise to be fully open.”
“Do you ever consider how this is going to work out?” I heard dinging. Lillian was moving her Aviator.
“You mean Ray and our investigation?” A twinge of guilt ripped through me. This wasn’t what she was talking about.
“Yes, and us, afterwards.”
“I do, I’m ready for it all to be over.” I paused, trying to decipher Lillian’s barely audible words. Something about her garage door remote. “The investigation and your divorce.”
“Shit, my thing-a-ma-ding won’t work. Good thing I have another place to park given the possible snowstorm.”
“Uh?”
“I’m not pressing at all, but just need some hope. I’m interested in your mental wanderings.” Again, I heard the ding from an open door. “Hold on, let me check.” In a minute, she returned. “I can’t raise the door from the outside. Oh well.” The dinging stopped. “Your thoughts?”
“Okay, but first a question.”
“Always.”
“You realize I intend on staying at Yale, that I’m not ready to give up my teaching job?”
“I do, but I also know how difficult a long-distant relationship can be.” Again, the dinging. “Sorry, hold on again. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I merged into I-24. Time and miles were passing quickly. Maybe I’d talk to Lillian the entire trip.
“Shit, it’s locked.”
“What?”
“The roll-up door at the barn. I was going to park inside. That’s odd.”
“I thought it stayed open. At least that’s what I recall. Can’t you park on the other side?”
“I could, but I let Tony Clifton, my neighbor, store a bunch of square bales in there while he and Neva are rebuilding their barn.”
“Idea. Why don’t you go to Kyla’s? Since I’m not there, you won’t blow our cover. You’ll have to leave your Aviator outside, but you’ll be safe and won’t have to worry about moving it in the morning.”
“Thanks darling, but I’m waiting here until you return. I’ll give you three guesses why and the first two don’t count.”
Lillian and I talked all the way to Knoxville. Our discussion was excellent, other than her telling me she had seen Ray at Rob’s funeral. Mostly, we talked about our feelings for each other and the possibility of Lillian moving to New Haven as soon as her divorce was final.
After we hung up, I shook my head in amazement at how easy it was to be so open and intimate with a woman. Not since I’d become an adult had I ever experienced such chemistry. Certainly, Rachel and I had never entered this zone.
This thought, and a dozen more analyzing the possibilities of a life with Lillian, occupied my time until 4:30 AM when I pulled into the driveway of Rob and Rosa’s cabin. I had stopped one time to pee at a Mobil service station in Bull Gap two hundred miles south of Roanoke.
My ultimate destination was located halfway to Mason Cove to the northwest, on a heavily wooded lot at the dead end of Bluebird Lane. It wasn’t close to being a cabin, instead it was a split-level brick. From the outside, it appeared to be at least fifty years old, not decaying, but certainly weathered. The driveway led to a double garage with a walk-through door separating the two bays. I exited the Hyundai, verified these three doors were locked, and walked back to the front and up a steep stairwell leading to the front door.
I used the keys Rosa had given me to unlock the solid wood door that needed a fresh coat of stain and varnish. Inside was diametrically opposite my outside impression. From my viewpoint, inside a large foyer, Rob and Rosa had updated the den to my left and the kitchen farther back. Probably within the past few years.
I walked to the leather Lazy-Boy closest to the fireplace and imagined Rob sitting reading one of the many Christianity Today magazines nestled atop the nearby table. A fire and a nap were tempting, but I rejected the idea and walked into the kitchen, admiring the stainless-steel appliances. I explored three bedrooms at the back of the house, all located six steps higher than the main floor. The wood paneling in all three rooms was gorgeous. I again fought the urge to lie back and rest my eyes.
I kept going. The basement door was beside the laundry room. As I descended the crude stairwell, a damp, musty smell slithered inside my nostrils. It reminded me of the cellar at Harding Hillside and the slimy feeling I always felt when Mom made me fetch a jar of green beans or a half-dozen potatoes.
Rosa’s drawing was spot on. Straight across from the bottom step, maybe eight feet, was a four-foot fence like structure with a hinged door. All of this rested atop a cement wall that was a few inches taller than me.
I found a four-foot ladder and stepped onto the second rung. The deadbolt needed a little WD-40 but quickly surrendered to my initial tug. The faded white door creaked as I swung it towards the stairs. I eased upwards to the third rung and used my iPhone’s flashlight to peer over the cement wall. A section of plastic drainpipe was the only thing Rosa had not denoted. Thankfully, it lay undetached to anything and took little effort to toss onto the plastic ground cover beyond.
I refocused the light and barely caught the edge of a plastic Zip-lock bag. I had to lie across the wooden bottom plate of the door opening and nearly tilted my ladder. Holding my iPhone in my right hand, I had to stretch, but finally grabbed the bag. It took a little tugging, but it finally separated from the surrounding dirt. It was heavy, like steel. The plastic was almost opaque, but not enough to prevent discerning the clear outline of a pistol.
The ladder gave me a little trouble, but after rocking my body backwards enough for my feet to find the third rung, I descended to the second, closed and secured the door, and found solid footing on the concrete floor. I used a shop rag from a workbench at the back of the basement to remove the dirt and grime from the bag. Once clean, I could make out the Smith & Wesson lettering and the pistol’s serial number. I tried to verify the manufacture date, but my cell service was minimal.
I returned upstairs and sat at the breakfast nook table. Relieved, I learned the S & W pistol I was holding was manufactured in 1965. The website described it as “a Model 60, Stainless Steel Chiefs Special Revolver.”
“Surely, this was the weapon Ray Archer had used to kill Kyle.” I continued to sit and ponder, reliving wonderful memories of times spent at his house and along nearby Clear Creek. My thoughts transformed negatively when I recalled the smell of decomposing garbage wafting in through the half-rotted windows. I don’t know how long I dozed before my head jerked upwards, reminding me I needed to leave temptations of chair and beds, and once again continue my journey.
I quickly stood, clutched the plastic and steel package under my arm, and walked to the front porch. After locking the door, I paused to enjoy a moment of satisfaction. I realized I might be fooling myself, yet I felt emboldened. I quasi yelled as I descended the porch stairs: “Kyle, old buddy, I’m coming. I promise I’ll never abandon you again.”
The Pencil Driven Life 