By the time I approached Christiansburg thirty-five miles south, I was running on fumes. My overindulgence of the food that friends and neighbors had brought to Kyla’s after the funeral no longer fueled my energy needs. I exited and pulled into a Citgo. After refilling, I bought a large coffee and two Little Debbie Honey Buns.
The only other stop I made during my return trip was a two-hour layover at the Tennessee Welcome Center in Bristol. My intermittent sleep in the reclined driver’s seat was fitful, but at least I got to rest my eyes.
Once again, from north of Knoxville to just south of Ft. Payne, Lillian was a soothing tonic. This time, I’d called her. We shared our hopes and dreams, our fears and foibles, and our investigative plans for my remaining days in Alabama. I’d driven, and she’d rested under a remarkably warm December sun in an Adirondack at the end of her pier.
I’d just exited at Collinsville when Lillian called again. “Lee, this is odd, and I’m scared.” Her voice, muffled, like she was trying to disappear into a crowd.
“What’s odd? What’s going on?”
“Ray just drove up, acting like he owns the place. He’s turning his Suburban around and backing to the barn.” I heard her footfalls on the wooden deck.
“Go inside and lock your doors. I don’t trust him at all.” I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and raced toward Crossville. Lillian had told me of a shortcut through Rodentown, but I was afraid I’d get lost and take even longer to get to her house.
“Hey Lil, sorry to bother you.” I heard Ray in the background. His voice was friendly.
“He apparently has a key to the big door on the right. This is strange.”
“Lillian, did you hear me?”
“Uh?”
“Don’t approach Ray. Go inside. Now.” It was the safest plan. It was eerily comforting to remember Lillian kept a 32-caliber pistol in her bedroom’s nightstand.
“This is my place. He’s not welcome.” She paused, and I heard her open and shut the gate next to the driveway. “Lee, I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“No, Lillian. Lillian.” But she had already ended her call.
I met a State Trooper halfway up the winding road this side of Crossville. He flashed his blue lights but didn’t turn around. I was at least fifteen minutes, probably twenty, from Lillian’s. I had no choice but to slow to the speed limit.
It was the longest and worst time of my life, even worse than when I’d found Rachel hanging in the basement from an overhead beam. The memory of the tall and strong Ray pushing Lillian backwards onto his garage steps two weeks ago came rocketing across my mind. I shook my head to avoid even worse thoughts.
All the way to Kilpatrick, I tried to call Lillian. No luck. When I turned left on Hwy. 168, I called 911. After several requests, it felt like my pleading had fallen on deaf ears. The throaty sounding woman made no promises other than, “I’ll pass this along to the Sheriff’s Department.”
Based on what I knew about Ray Archer, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect himself, his reputation, and his sordid past.
After twenty terrifying minutes, I rounded the last curve before reaching Alexander Drive. There was no sign of Ray’s Suburban, and Lillian’s SUV was behind the house next to the back porch. I pulled to the far side of the Aviator and ran to the barn. I wasn’t sure why, other than this was the direction I’d imagined Lillian walking when she’d ended our conversation.
The right-side door was raised. I could see deep tire tracks just outside the bay. Lillian had mentioned a flatbed trailer. I went inside, saw nothing, and turned to the left. I loudly announced my presence, realizing the logical first thing to have done was to go inside the house. Why would Lillian still be out here?
I almost collapsed when I entered the room the neighbors had temporarily borrowed. Lillian was sitting upright on the ground, leaning against a tall stack of square bales. Her head slumped to her right.
“Lillian. Baby.” I took three steps and knelt beside her. Her neck revealed a pulse, but it was weak. “Talk to me.” I gently shook both shoulders without response. She was unconscious.
There were no visible signs of injury. Until I saw a pool of blood soaking the loose strands of hay on the barn’s dirt floor.
Struggling, I pulled her forward by her legs, allowing her to lie flat on her back. I lifted the hair on the right side of her head and saw a big gash just above the ear.
I again dialed 911, silently questioning whether I’d made the right decision to move Lillian’s body.
While I waited for the EMTs to arrive, I held my ear to Lillian’s face. Thankfully, she was still breathing, evidenced by the soft puffs emanating from her mouth.
When I heard a siren in the distance, I stood and edged myself through the corridor created by stacks of hay. I raised the overhead door, hoping help was only minutes away. The blue sky was beautiful, as clear as a glass of mountain water. The sky, sun, and temperature were perfect for a leisurely conversation sitting with Lillian at the end of the pier. Yet, reality had struck. Lillian’s coma like condition was no doubt the work of Ray Archer, the man I hated more every day.
The siren grew louder, and the ambulance appeared, rounding the last curve on Cox Gap Road. I walked outside ten feet and started waving both hands over my head.
The two men and one woman were fast and efficient. One man with a large medical bag and a woman followed my pointing while the other man removed a gurney. Within seconds, the woman assessed the situation with a stethoscope, pin light, and blood pressure band. She never looked at me while asking questions and ordering the two men to cradle Lillian into an immobilizing contraption before lifting her onto the gurney. “We’re headed to Marshall Medical Center South. You can follow but speak to Deputy Franklin first.”
An Etowah County Sheriff’s car pulled beside the ambulance as the female EMT walked away. “Miss. How is she? Will she make it?” It was something I had to ask.
The short, stocky redhead opened the van door and was intent on ignoring my question. Before sitting, she paused. I glimpsed a sympathetic eye. “She’s suffered a traumatic brain injury. She’s in a coma. It could go either way.” The redhead closed her door just as the male driver started backing toward the garage. The siren blared as the ambulance raced away. I’ve never felt so alone.
“Sir, I’m Deputy Franklin. This is Deputy Moore. Please tell us what happened and why you think a Mr. Ray Archer is involved.” Apparently, my first call to 911 had made its way to the Sheriff’s Department.
I must have appeared weak or subject to fainting. Deputy Franklin took me by the elbow and walked me to the front fender of his patrol car. He let go as I leaned back. “Had you rather sit?”
“No. This is good.” I had trouble focusing on anything except Lillian. I needed to leave and head to the hospital, but with both deputies staring at me, I had to speak, or I’d be here all afternoon. “Lillian called me, not exactly in a panic but halfway there.”
“Where were you?” Deputy Franklin asked.
“I had just exited I-59 at Collinsville. I was returning from Roanoke, Virginia.”
“What did she say?”
“That Ray Archer had just arrived and was backing his Suburban toward the barn.” I pointed over my shoulder.
“Who is this Archer fellow?” Moore asked.
“He’s Lillian’s husband. They’re separated. He’s a dangerous man.”
“How so?” Franklin asked. I really didn’t want to get into the complete story. I chose my words carefully.
“He’s out on bond, recently charged with arson and murder.”
I was glad Franklin skipped forward in the chronology and took us in a new direction. “What was going on when you arrived?”
“There was no sign of Archer. Or Lillian. I found her collapsed inside the barn. She was barely breathing, unconscious.” I again pointed. This time toward the square bales.
“So, you’re saying you didn’t see Mr. Archer at all, certainly didn’t see him harm Lillian?”
I figuratively shook my head. I knew where this was headed. Either they would think I’d hurt Lillian or that it was an accident. “No, but how else can you explain that gash on her head?” This sounded intellectually silly, even to me.
After pleading for permission to leave, Deputy Franklin said I could and that he and Moore would drop by the hospital for me to sign a statement.
I thanked them, walked an unsteady path to the Hyundai, and headed to Marshall Medical Center South.
Before I reached the four-way stop at Johnson’s Builders, my mind was in a tug-of-war. One side pulled at the practical. On the other side, the emotional.
From a practical standpoint, it was only natural for me, an attorney, to favor a reasoned and logical approach to every issue. The big question, ‘what had happened to Lillian?’ was central. I had conducted a cursory search around Lillian’s body for a weapon, something solid Ray could have used to strike the side of her head. Nothing. I knew Ray was smart. How else could he have gotten away with a murder, maybe two, for over half a century? I then realized he would have taken the weapon with him—be it a pipe wrench, a baseball bat, or a shovel—intent on not leaving a trace of evidence. Turning onto Hwy. 431, I made quick disposal of the idea that Lillian’s condition was accidental.
Instead, my mind slid sideways into an emotional abyss. Lillian was about to die. Just when I had believed I was no longer jinxed and could experience contentment, happiness, even intimacy, fate had intervened (I dared not think it God’s will). Lillian’s death would return me to loneliness. Worse still, I had no one to blame but myself. I was defective. I was wholly incapable of taking care of the ones I loved.
I fought this battle all the way to the Emergency Room, surrendering to the dreadful thought that everyone I loved, Kyla, Leah and Lyndell and their spouses, and my four grandchildren, all were vulnerable, possibly each walking a tightrope above a raging and deadly sea.
Finally, after three hours of pacing the ER waiting room, and receiving repeated “she’s undergoing tests” update, a bulimic looking nurse approached and asked if I was Lillian Archer’s next of kin. I lied and said I was and wondered exactly how they’d determined the last name. The nurse advised me to go outside to the Ambulance entrance and talk with a Dr. Gerald Claburn who, of all things, was on a smoke break.
I did as instructed, thinking the doctor was a Clint Eastwood look-a-like as I approached. “How’s Lillian?” I asked as he gave me a slight head nod, crumbled a short, still-smoking butt into a disposal bin, and removed another cigarette from a pack of Winston’s he’d tucked inside his shirt pocket.
“Stable. She took a wicked lick on the side of her head, but no skull fracture. The CT scan shows no swelling or bleeding on the brain.”
He took a long pull on his cigarette. “Is she conscious?”
The double doors to the ER opened, and the same bulimic nurse motioned for Dr. Claburn. “No, and I do not know when she’ll return to us.” I thought that was a strange way to put it. I guessed the doc was some type of spiritualist.
He started backing towards the door and I followed him asking, “Give me your best guess, please.” I knew my request wasn’t meritorious. My feelings for Lillian now depended on guesswork.
“Doctor, come on.” The nurse announced, her face clearly unhappy.
I appreciated Dr. Claburn stopping and placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’s possible the blow to the head did not cause Lillian’s coma. Other possibilities are stroke or brain tumor. It’s simply too early to tell.”
With that, the doctor walked into the ER. I couldn’t have felt worse if I had fallen headfirst into a dark, heated tunnel.
I don’t know how long I stood blankly staring towards the sliding glass doors. The shrill sound of an approaching ambulance rocketed me to reality.
***
Before returning to the waiting room, I walked to my car and checked the trunk. The plastic-enclosed Chiefs Special was still wedged between a windbreaker and a pair of jeans inside my overnight bag. The sudden sound of a man’s voice behind me asking how I was doing shocked me. A quick turn convinced me he was no threat but a persuasive trigger that I had to deliver the murder weapon to either Micaden or the Marshall County District Attorney.
I chose the former, but not before calling and updating Kyla, and requesting she fill in for me while I ran an errand. She arrived in fifteen minutes and promised to call with any news.
Thankfully, a quick call verified Micaden was in his office, and not with a client. Tina was waiting by the outside door when I arrived and hustled me back to the conference room, where I found my attorney and Connor Ford.
After a head-nodding greeting from each of us, I placed my overnight bag on the table and removed the S & W. I had elected, for now, to stay mum about Lillian’s attack. Connor spoke first: a polite, thorough, and figurative dress-down of me inserting myself, once again, in the investigative role.
Before Connor finished speaking, Micaden was on the phone to the DA, but had to leave a message for her to call. “Assuming this is the pistol that killed Kyle Bennett, what do we have in order to conclude Ray pulled the trigger?”
I sat and said, “Rosa.” Connor held out his hand like a traffic cop. I didn’t heed his warning. “She says Rachel told her everything, including that Ray had shot Kyle, in her presence.”
“Inadmissible.” Connor said, fingering the weapon. Unfortunately, I had to admit to myself that he was probably correct.
“I’m afraid Ray is going to slip through the net once again unless we find Kyle’s body.” Micaden said, walking to the hallway to converse privately with Tina.
I couldn’t disagree with my colleagues. Short of an error by the trial judge (one certainly to be appealed), our evidence against Ray Archer was circumstantial. I felt like I’d been chasing a ghost. Just the moment I thought my hands were around its neck, the damn thing evaporated into thin air.
“Here’s some news.” Micaden said when he returned. “Maybe nothing. Tina’s niece works at The Shack. Seems that Billy and Buddy James didn’t show up for work yesterday or today. According to the niece, neither one has missed a day since the restaurant opened three years ago.”
Connor stood and announced he would deliver the pistol to the DA’s office. He abruptly left the room. I think he doesn’t like me.
“How’s Lillian?” Micaden asked. He obviously saw the confusion on my face. “Scanner.”
I delivered the short version. We spent another ten minutes brainstorming how we might precipitate another arrest of Ray Archer.
In the end, the best we could hope for was for Lillian to come out of her coma and tell us how Ray attacked her.
I returned to the ER and Kyla. The only news was that Lillian was now in the ICU and we could visit her for five minutes each.
Richard L. Fricks 