At 5:00 AM, Ray finally threw the covers back. “Shit, I might as well get up.” He had barely slept. Judge Broadside’s ruling had crawled around Ray’s head all during the night, slithering into two dreams, one involving a drop-by-visit to the aging jurist with a gun-to-the-head threat.

After showering, shaving, and dressing, Ray cooked a large breakfast: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and four slices of crisp bacon. Cooking and eating always settled his nerves. But not this time.

Ray ate at the bar, standing. He removed a cell from his pants pocket. It wasn’t his iPhone. It was a new burner. A twin of the one he’d hidden Friday night inside the mouth of a big fish mounted to the wall of The Shack’s rear hallway.

Ray dialed The Shack. And waited. Six rings. “Kitchen. Buddy.” Ray smiled at his good fortune.

“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.”

“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll look into it.” Buddy knew the routine. It was Ray and Buddy’s way of communicating. And it wasn’t the first time Ray left a burner inside the large-mouth bass.

While waiting for the callback, Ray pondered whether it was time to update his code name. He had used ‘Braxton’ three times already with Buddy, the greaser. It was the same number for the fish reference. Greaser meant fixer, one who slicks things up and makes them work, not a long-haired dumpy little man who liked his ponytail. Although Buddy was that too.

In less than two minutes, Ray’s new burner rang. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.”

“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” The name wasn’t code, but a belief Buddy knew Ray never called unless he’d already packed his sleigh. Ray heard the loud sound of traffic from Highway 431.

Ray drank the last swallow of his orange juice and walked outside onto the Lodge’s rear deck overlooking his outdoor kitchen and attached pavilion. “You got time for a little job before Christmas?”

“Sure boss, as long as it’s safe and worth my time and skills.” Buddy knew he could trust Ray. He was a man of his word, protected his sources, and paid top dollar. It was what Buddy needed since he was still on probation for something not connected to Ray Archer.

“It’s a fire and smoke sortie. Buddy also knew this was code for arson.”

“Local or foreign?”

“Local.”

“High profile?”

“High.”

“Figures?” Money motivated Buddy, especially now. He’d just bought a new camper and the rent was high at Guntersville State Park.

“Mid-fives.” Ray figured $50,000 was cheaper than legal fees. Or offering more to Rob Kern.

“Make it upper fives and I’ll do it, no matter the profile.” An extra twenty or thirty would pay off some old gambling debts, maybe save his hide.

“There’s homework.” Ray needed Buddy’s expertise. The last thing he wanted was a slow-burning fire, especially with Boaz Fire Department close by.

“No doubt. Give me the address and I’ll start my inspection.”

Ray walked down the stairs, across the stone pavers encircling the open-air kitchen, and to a picnic table underneath the pavilion. “309 Thomas Avenue. It’s the Hunt House.”

Without a single pause, Buddy semi-yelled. “Shit man, that is high profile. The risk is God-awful.”

“I’ll make it a hundred grand. You in or not?”

There was more pause this time. “Okay, I’ll do it, but I may need Billy.” Billy was Ray’s other greaser. And Buddy’s brother. The two of them managed the kitchen at The Shack.

“Pay’s the same. You and Billy can split it any way you want.”

“Plus, expenses.”

“Damn, Buddy, you’re pushing it.”

“High profile ain’t cheap.”

“Do your homework and report back.” Ray pressed end and tucked the burner in his shirt pocket.

***

It was almost 6:30 when Ray tapped on the door to room 343 at Bridgewood Gardens, an assisted living facility in Albertville. “Come in.” The voice surprised Ray because it was not his father.

Inside, a young red-haired man was situating a food tray in front of Ronald’s chair. “Morning Pop,” Ray said as he entered. His father’s face, puffy and fleshier than Ray recalled, revealed his anger. Ray knew that look well.

“Who says you can’t feed me? I’m paying a shit-pot full of money for this damn place. It’s a fucking ripoff.”

Stan, per his name tag, remained calm. “Mr. Archer, you agreed to take your meals in the dining room. There’s an extra charge for room service.”

“Hey Dad, let me feed you.” Ray said, circling Stan and kneeling beside his father.

It took five minutes for Ray to convince him he would talk to the administrator and make sure they delivered his meals, and that they fed him if needed.

Seeing his father become an invalid had been wearing on Ray for the past five years. The cause of Ronald’s near incapacitation was a rare form of Parkinson’s disease. Even in Stage Four, he was semi-mobile but had little strength or power. He had the usual tremors but, so far, Bridgewood’s level of service had been adequate. What worried Ray was the medication that caused his father to talk so much. Ray had zero control over what might come out of Ronald Archer’s mouth.

If it hadn’t been for his father, he would be in a dark and dank prison with a cellmate who was barely human.

After a few bites of oatmeal and toast, and a few sips of grape juice, Ray used a napkin to wipe jelly from his father’s chin. “Thanks son.” These words were also rare.

“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” Ray moved the tray out of the way and retreated to an over-sized couch across the narrow room.

“It’s about time I go home.” Ronald was an enigma. It was his idea to move to Bridgewood when Evelyn, his second wife, had died five years ago. Ray could have paid for round-the-clock nurses, but Ronald wouldn’t have it. He was fiercely independent and didn’t want any of Ray’s ‘damn’ money. But Ronald griped everyday he was at Bridgewood.

“Dad, it’s about your will. I think it’s time you made some changes. Lillian and I are in trouble.” Ray was shocked two years ago to learn his father was leaving everything to Lillian. Ray’s problem wasn’t the money, his father wasn’t wealthy by any means. It was the real estate, more particularly, the old Hibbs place. It was the sixty-acre farm off Dogwood Trail that had concealed secrets for half a century.

Ray and his father had rarely spoken about the crimes. But truth was, both men had near perfect memories of every step they took that long ago fateful night.

In a frenzy, with the victim lying beside the pond, Ray had driven to Ronald’s house. He knew that if anyone would know what to do; it was his father.

Ray was right. It had taken several hours, but after dismembering the corpse and digging three graves, his father had given him confidence. Ronald had repeated over and over during the entire ordeal that ‘without a body, they couldn’t convict.’ Ronald still believed that to this day. But now, what worried him was not the body, but the bones.

“Did you ever find the pistol?” From Ronald’s statement, Ray knew his father was confused. He had a right to be given the five decades that had expired since the two murders. Two, not one. But either could spell doom for Ray, since publicity over the one he didn’t commit could lead to the one he did. Ray answered his father’s question.

“No.” Ray knew his father was importing facts from one night to another, from one cover-up to another. For all Ray knew, now in the present, his father could believe his son had killed two people.

“How well did you look? You remember it was my gun?” After the second murder, and after the body disposal, Ronald stayed and searched for the 38 Smith & Wesson. Not so much because he was the owner, but because it was the murder weapon. Ray had shared that the shooter had dropped it to the ground after shooting Kyle. It was only later, after Rachel had returned to China, that she had told him she had returned to the crime scene, located Ronald’s pistol, and had hidden it in a secure place.

“I know that. And I’ve looked for it a dozen times. I still believe it’s somewhere in the Hunt House.” Over the years, Ray had rented all six of Barbara McReynolds’ guest rooms, at least twice each. Ray’s excuse was always that he loved Rachel and the Hunt House (now, the bed-and-breakfast) was the last place he’d seen her. Barbara had believed him.

Ray helped his father go to the bathroom. With Ronald sitting on the commode, Ray turned away. “I’ve wiped your butt a thousand times when you were a kid. You can wipe mine this once.” It was all Ray could do to keep from gagging. He rushed out into the hall and soon found Stan.

Five minutes later with Ronald back in his Lazy Boy and Ray claiming he was late for a meeting, Ronald said, “be careful who you trust and remember what I taught you. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Ray smiled, leaned down and kissed his father’s forehead, and left.

Returning to Boaz, he pondered how lucky he had been, so far, in breaking his father’s guiding business principle.

***

It was almost noon when Spectrum Cable completed their installation. Before moving, Lillian had convinced herself that starting over didn’t require TV cable or Internet service; instead, she could rely strictly on her cell phone. However, all that was before her last-minute decision to install two recording devices inside the Lodge. Lillian had rationalized that the cost of the listening equipment, and the monthly price to receive the transmissions, were simply investments in her future. Hopefully, a future as a divorced woman disentangled from Ray Archer, and comfortably situated with half the man’s estate. Starting over didn’t mean giving up her two favorite past-times: watching Netflix movies, and reading or listening to books either through OverDrive or her Kindle APP.

“Which plan did you choose?” Kyla said, standing inside the kitchen as Lillian palmed the Spectrum installer a tip. Generous to the core, Kyla thought.

Lillian fiddled with the storm door. It wouldn’t shut properly. She gave up and joined Kyla, retreating to the pantry. “Silver. Who needs two hundred channels? Really, I don’t watch that much TV.”

“Let me show you what I’ve done and then I’m heading out.” Kyla was the organizer. That’s why Lillian had delegated the storage closet to her best friend.

For such a small house, the kitchen had a large walk-in pantry lined with multiple shelves on two sides. Lillian looked inside and made a mental note to buy more can goods during her next trip to Walmart. The shelves were almost bare except for a few things contributed by an unaware Ray: three kinds of Campbell’s soup, four bags of beef flavored Ramen Noodles (Lillian preferred chicken), and a bottle of medium spiced salsa. No Tortilla chips. Lillian was pleased. Kyla had spent two-hours installing bright green adhesive shelf liner she’d bought at Dollar General during her ride over earlier this morning.

Kyla encouraged Lillian to consider a pest service given the two bugs and several mice turds she’d seen on the floor inside the pantry. After agreeing and soliciting Kyla’s promise to work together at tomorrow’s community-wide Thanksgiving meal, the friends hugged, and Kyla departed.

Lillian was mildly hungry but didn’t like her options, so she grabbed her laptop and retired to the couch. She checked her email and reread a few old ones, since nothing was new. Lillian then clicked on the ‘Educate Yourself’ icon that was automatically created when she’d downloaded the Spyware APP that came with the two recording devices.

“Click here for today’s lessons.” Lillian liked Spyware’s take on education. She imagined it would be like reading a good mystery. Learning something that helped solve the case.

Lillian clicked Device A, that’s the one she’d placed in a lower kitchen cabinet, hung over a bracket that kept the sink from moving. The first sounds were a voice and name she didn’t recognize: “Kitchen. Buddy.” The clarity impressed Lillian.

“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.” Lillian never doubted it was Ray’s voice; it was clear as blue sky, not disguising his Southern drawl in the least. But why was he pretending to be Braxton? Buddy was another unfamiliar name. Lillian paused the replay to think. After an unsuccessful thirty seconds, she again clicked the Play icon.

“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll investigate it.” Back to the initial voice. Buddy. Kitchen. Fish. It was true Ray was always complaining about something. For years, something had often embarrassed her when the two had gone out to eat. Lillian waited for another minute, but no familiar sounds. She looked closer at her laptop. The tiny red line had scrolled across the screen. This conversation had ended. She X’d the file and clicked on the next one, the last one listed under Device A.

Lillian clicked on the darkened triangle. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.” Ray’s voice.

“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” That must be Buddy.

There was a slight slurping sound. Lillian wondered if it was Ray or Buddy drinking. There was a pause and then, in Ray’s voice, “You got time for a little job before Christmas?” This statement was half as clear as the others. Then, a door slammed. The red line stopped again, far right side of the frame, like it does on YouTube.

Lillian could have kicked herself. She’d opted for the cheaper models. For an extra $250, she could have bought the premiums; their reach was a hundred feet, including most obstructions. All she could visualize was that Ray initially had been in the kitchen, maybe right next to the sink and counter. Then, when the sound grew weaker, he’d walked to the Lodge’s back door, ultimately walking onto the deck and closing the door. That door was always a little hard to close.

Lillian attempted to analyze what she’d heard. If she could believe the words, Buddy must work at a restaurant, one that served breakfast, one that was busy on a weekday morning. Grumpy’s came to mind, but there was also The Shack. Lillian shook her head and breathed aloud, “you dummy, why do you think Buddy works in Boaz?”

She closed her laptop and walked to the bedroom. In ten minutes, she had changed clothes, made a list, and was on her way to Walmart. She’d forgotten her promise to Jane. A sweet potato casserole for tomorrow’s Community Wide Thanksgiving meal was the last thing she wanted to do.

Lillian’s mind returned to the recordings as she passed The Shack on her left. She realized she had no good reason to conclude Buddy worked there, but that didn’t keep her from wondering what type of job Ray needed finished by Christmas.

Four hours of preparation down the drain. That’s the time I’d spent yesterday afternoon and evening pouring through case law while anticipating being on the hot seat presenting my best argument for saving the Hunt House from the greedy hands of Ray Archer and the City of Boaz.

I shook my head in disbelief as I descended the courthouse steps and headed across the street to my Explorer. Why had Judge Broadside demanded my appearance for a sixty-second hearing where I didn’t say a word? Heck, he hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. My aggravation was barely assuaged by the fact Broadside had ruled in my client’s favor.

After the short hearing, I’d wanted to quiz Micaden, but that had to wait. The second the judge called his next case, Micaden leaned toward me, instructed me to meet him at his office in an hour, and quickly disappeared through a door marked ‘Attorney/Witness Rooms.’

Since I had time to kill, I used my iPhone and found Jamoka’s, a great local coffee shop. Lucky for me, it was on East Main Street, less than a block away. For forty minutes, I enjoyed an organic blend, Moka-Java, and responded to a few student emails. At 2:50 PM, I left and drove to Boaz.

As Tina led me into Micaden’s office, he was standing and staring westward through an enormous window. The glass served as an outside wall. The blinds were fully open, allowing the blazing afternoon sun easy entry into a room that was too hot for my liking.

“You can sit.” Tina pointed to two wingback chairs in front of a giant wooden desk. “He’ll be back shortly.” I looked at her, confused. Before I could say anything, she retreated through the doorway into the hall.

It felt like five minutes, but it was probably one. “I remember when I was a kid. I rarely wore a coat, even in weather as clear and cold as today.” The tall and fit Micaden with his unruly shock of salt & pepper hair closed the blinds and sat behind his desk. “But, enough about the past and my aging body.” The two of us had been friends from a distance in high school. He was always cordial, but since he played football, we didn’t share the same social circles.

“I still cannot believe Judge Broadside. Did you have any inkling he would rule against the City?” I asked, still thinking I was in a dream.

Micaden placed a stack of documents inside a folder and laid it on the credenza to his right. “I’ve learned to never be surprised by anything that happens around here. But don’t forget, the Order is conditional.” He was right. Judge Broadside had stated he would reconsider his ruling if the City produced credible evidence Rylan’s would have a significant impact upon the local economy. The deadline was December the 24th.

“Do you think….” Micaden lifted and waved the palms of both hands. I stopped talking.

“Let’s leave the Hunt House for now. You said before we entered the courthouse you wanted to discuss another case after the hearing, one that is rooted in our high school days.” Micaden was more of a no-nonsense, get-to-the-point type of attorney than me. That’s saying a lot.

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got me intrigued, so let’s hear it.” Until yesterday, I had been only vaguely familiar with Micaden’s story. While I was in Charlottesville, Virginia, my freshman year, he had nearly lost his freedom. While Kyla and I unloaded hay, she revealed that a jury had acquitted him in a double-homicide case where two girls from Douglas attended the same high school graduation party as Micaden.

“I appreciate you meeting. First, I must know you don’t have a conflict of interest.” My words sounded elementary, even condescending, given I addressed them to an experienced criminal defense attorney.

“I would be the first to tell you.” Micaden opened his middle desk drawer and removed a yellow legal pad and pencil.

“Let’s start with Ray Archer.” Again, Micaden did his palm thing.

“Done. No conflict. I wouldn’t have associated with you on the Hunt House case if there was.” It was small, but I think Micaden was drawing a barn at the top of his pad.

“Right. What about Rachel, my late wife?”

“No.”

“Kyle Bennett?” I was trying to be terse.

“No. I suspect you can figure out that I wasn’t an attorney when I knew Kyle, and the same for Rachel. And I never saw or talked with her again after she moved away in the tenth grade.” Micaden paused. “Strike that last statement. I saw her at our thirty-year reunion. That was 2002. I cannot remember if I spoke with her, other than maybe saying hello.”

I dropped the bomb and filled in the details as Micaden would allow. “Here’s why I need your help. I believe Ray Archer killed Kyle Bennett.”

Micaden’s response surprised me. “Me too, but believing something, without evidence, is not worth a cup of coffee.” I should have said, ‘Ray Archer killed Kyle Bennett, and here’s why.’

“You’re absolutely correct.” I knew I was taking a risk to bring up conflicts of interest again, but I had to. “Do you know of any reason to end our conversation?”

Micaden continued to doodle for a few seconds and then said, “no, but again, if I sense a potential conflict, I’ll let you know. Can we move along?”

“Okay.”

“Since you are an attorney, I assume you have some proof, something more than a dream that has persuaded you to accuse, albeit privately, Ray Archer of murder?” Micaden laid his pencil down and stared at me.

He let me talk for several minutes. I shared most of what I’d learned from Rachel’s diaries and that I had located the murder weapon. “I’m hoping you have a good connection to have the pistol tested.”

“Tested for what?” At first, I thought Micaden was joking, or at least being condescending. However, he had a valid question.

“I guess I was hoping for fingerprints, Ray’s fingerprints on the Smith & Wesson.”

“Okay, I’ll stipulate.” Micaden was ready to hypothesize and play the devil’s advocate. “I’ll also stipulate it was Ray’s fingerprints that your expert used to conduct his analysis.”

“Okay. I see your point. That wouldn’t be enough for a prosecutor to go forward. Ray and his counsel would pursue several avenues of rebuttal, including that someone had tampered with the pistol, it was his and a present from his father, and the two of them had used it frequently for target practice.”

Micaden added another possibility: “Or, Ray admits the pistol discharged accidentally and killed Kyle Bennett.”

“Right again. The list is almost endless.”

“You mentioned Rachel’s diaries. I’m confident an impartial judge would admit them under a hearsay exception, assuming a proper foundation. But, and here I’m speculating. What if Rachel wrote things the defense could use in their favor? For example, Rachel had mixed in some creative writing. Let’s say, a fictional story about the wind, the sun, a tiger, anything that she personified.”

“Oh my. I agree. Ray’s lawyer could say Rachel was a loony, always making shit up. I can hear him now, ‘Rachel killed herself, that proves she was crazy.’” I hadn’t been down this trail and felt like a dumbass. It felt like I was dull and had never practiced law. Truth was, I hadn’t tried a case in nearly twenty years. Being a professor was nothing like the daily battle of facing opposing counsel figuratively trying to cut your throat.

Micaden nodded in agreement and returned to his drawing, pencil in hand. But then he laid it down. “Sorry I sent us down a rabbit hole. Here’s something we should have already discussed. Why in God’s name would Ray want to kill Kyle Bennett?”

The answer was one reason I was here. Fortunately, I was smart enough to know that the old saying, ‘he who represents himself has a fool for a client,’ is remarkably accurate. Even though I was not here as a criminal defendant, I was personally and deeply embedded in this entire ordeal. I had no choice but to be totally honest. “Ray Archer got Rachel pregnant early in the tenth grade. It seems both wanted to keep it a secret, and at least Ray wanted Rachel to have an abortion. Somehow, Kyle found out about the pregnancy, or the pregnancy and the planned abortion, and tried to extort money from Ray.”

Micaden let me stop when I chose. “At sixty-six, it’s difficult to understand teenagers, but I can imagine a popular teenage boy with a bright future might take risky steps to protect his reputation.” Tina stuck her head in and said she needed to run to the post office and for Micaden to listen for the phone. “Come to think of it, this is prime territory for a father, Ray’s father, to be a heavy influence. I’m not speaking of persuading Ray to kill Kyle, but simply of wanting, maybe needing, Ray to persuade Rachel to get an abortion. To silence the matter forever.”

“I’ve had the same thoughts, but it gets more complicated. Rachel’s diaries are a little confusing, directly conflicting, but my current position is that before she and her family returned to China, around New Year’s Day in the tenth grade, she lied to Ray about having the abortion.”

Micaden drew a rudimentary ocean liner underneath his barn. “Look at it both ways. Rachel had an abortion. Rachel did not have an abortion. Can both be true?”

“That’s easy. No.” I shared how I had a crush on Rachel since I’d first seen her in the ninth grade. I also shared how we met at the University of Virginia during the first semester of our sophomore years. “There was no baby.”

“You want another straightforward answer?” It was sadly refreshing to be discussing these harrowing circumstances with such an experienced and intelligent professional.

“Absolutely. What else could I say?”

“Rachel didn’t have an abortion but gave the child away. Adoption.”

“You may be right, but here’s the rub, the thing that has torn my life apart since discovering the first set of diaries. Rachel took an overdose in April 2019. She almost died. The reason she tried to kill herself, so she said, was her regret over the abortion. She told me about Ray getting her pregnant. One thing she didn’t say was when she got the abortion. Looking back on those conversations, she led me to believe it was before she returned to China.”

“So, Rachel lied to you?” Micaden was polite, but in no way did he coddle.

“I have to say yes. I can’t see it any other way.”

“You’re missing something. I don’t know what it is, but, and you know this, there’s always one more fact we need to know. Especially, at the beginning of a case.”

I almost laughed. “There is, and it’s a good one. I wish, oh how I wish. Let me tell you about last night’s dream.” Micaden returned to his sketching. I think he rolled his eyes when he looked at his notepad. “Kyle Bennett showed up at his memorial service. And, you know who was with him? Rachel. Neither could stop laughing about the biggest punk ever perpetrated.”

Without looking up, Micaden said, “I doubt that’s the missing fact.” I heard the same ding I’d heard when I’d entered the office and when Tina had left to run errands. Micaden continued, “I was leaning more the other way, you know, bad news. Don’t you think it’s time we address the elephant in the room?” I glanced at the notepad. That had to be what he had just drawn.

Without greeting, or verifying whether I was still present, Tina started talking in the hallway a few steps before reaching Micaden’s office. “You need to warn me when you’ve pissed off an entire city.” She walked through the door and next to the desk. “That way I’ll be better prepared.”

“Okay, what happened this time?” Micaden asked, as though this was a daily occurrence.

Tina laid a box at the edge of Micaden’s desk. Based on its size, I guessed it contained a book. I wondered what genre my old classmate liked to read. “Dan Brasher, I like Dan, but he sure likes to talk. His wife, sister, somebody related, works in the Clerk’s office. He said she’s a busybody. I wanted to say, ‘oh please, it must run in the family.’ Apparently, news of Judge Broadside’s ruling has hit the streets and people are mad, including Ray Archer, who’s being pressured to up the ante for the other nine landowners. I don’t know how he knows so much. He said more, including we might want to board up our windows, but you get the drift. I’ve got a hair appointment so I’m out of here.”

Tina left. Micaden paused until he heard the front door ding. “She’s a great secretary and paralegal. Don’t overreact, the locals raising a ruckus are harmless, just looking for a pot to piss in.”

I hoped he was right. Micaden started opening his package while I pondered whether the locals might have more than piss in them. I wondered how they would respond when they discovered the man who was the city’s financial savior was destined for a cross, one he wouldn’t survive.

The book was Grisham’s latest novel, A Time for Mercy. Kyla had a copy lying on her coffee table. I’d read the back copy. The author’s legendary character, Jake Brigance, and Clanton, Mississippi, were back. Micaden grabbed the book from his credenza and tossed it inside his briefcase. “Let’s get back on track. I had asked about the lost and lumbering elephant.”

“Okay, I guess there could be more than one, so where do we start?” I made it appear I didn’t have a clue what Micaden was referring to. But I did.

“Lee, you came to me seeking legal advice and counsel. I’m sure you’re hoping I can bring something positive to the table. You are asking me to use my knowledge, connections, and resources, to assemble enough evidence to present to the DA. Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“How about a hundred dollars an hour? I’ll give you the high-school-friend discount.”

“I agree. Thanks for your generosity. How much for the retainer?” I knew how this worked.

“None, just pay my monthly invoice within ten days of receipt. Cash is welcome.” Micaden laughed. “And no written agreement required.”

“Okay, we have a deal.” I stood and offered my right hand. We shook, and I sat.

“Now, officially, as your attorney, you know I’m required to be a bloodhound after the truth. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, off the table.”

“It has to be this way.” I could almost hear the thunder, feel the wind, and see the lightning from what Micaden was about to say.

“I assume you have given some thought that your deceased wife might be an accessory to the murder?”

It was something I had resisted since the beginning, since I first learned from Rachel’s diaries that Ray had killed Kyle. To me and what I knew about the only woman I’d ever truly loved, there was no way she was a criminal. “I’ve avoided it like the plague. Rachel didn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“You think that. You believe that. But don’t expect me to get on board that boat right now. We must question everything. Remember, all the knowledge you have that implicates Ray Archer comes from Rachel’s diaries. There, she directly admits her knowledge, and indirectly, her involvement.”

I ignored Micaden’s statement. “Can we talk about another elephant in the room?”

“What’s wrong with my elephant? We’ll have to pursue it at some point. The defense won’t let us avoid it. Shit, the DA will ask the same thing.”

“You’re right but help me scope this out. I’m at a standstill, which is obvious since I’m coming to you asking for help. I don’t know what to do next. Last night I almost poured the whole can of beans on Kyla, but I didn’t. Question. Who could I talk to, what could I try to verify? I’m sounding rather ignorant.”

“Join the club, but I have an idea. Attorneys should avoid becoming investigators. You know, becoming a witness in your own case. I suggest we hire a private investigator. Let him do what he does best and let us do the same.” Micaden drew a large P and a large I, then he printed something beside it I couldn’t make out.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Dollar signs streamed across my eyes.

“Connor Ford. He’s across the street.” Micaden pointed his left thumb over his shoulder.

As usual, I had a bag of questions. “Can we trust him? What’s his experience?” I should have expected Micaden’s waving palms.

“We’ll be here until midnight if we play your conflict-of-interest game. Not being condescending, but Connor’s as good as they come. He’s helped me on a dozen or more cases in the four years he’s been here. I guarantee you’ll like him and his work.”

I had no choice but to trust Micaden’s judgment. I had complete confidence in the salt and pepper haired man across the desk. Since I’d called him the first time, I’d done a lot of research, including reading several cases he’d tried. Micaden was unique, a loner who could make a jury dance if he wanted to. And he was not part of the good-old-boy system. I’d characterize him as almost a radical. “Let me know the cost.”

“I will. I’ll talk to him this evening or in the morning. And here’s a big bonus, which might be a starting point. Connor, unlike me, has a good connection with a Marshall County detective, Mark Hale. The two worked together as cops years ago in Dothan. Now, they swap information when it’s legal, but don’t ask me to draw that line. Regardless, I’m thinking Connor might gain access to the initial file. It’s buried somewhere. It must exist. Damn, a young man has been missing for half-a-century.”

“Exactly.” I stood. I’d been here long enough. Micaden had checked something on his iPhone twice in the last fifteen minutes. It might have been the time. “I best go. Kyla is insisting we eat out tonight at a place called The Shack.”

Micaden stood, and the two of us walked into the hallway. He stopped me when I reached for the doorknob that led to the waiting room. “Here’s a final thought for today. You mentioned your reluctance to disclose this story to Kyla. You might rethink that. Isn’t she friends with Ray’s wife? Lillian?” I didn’t know how Micaden knew this, but I suspected it had everything to do with life in a small town.

“Best of friends.” I pondered his suggestion. “Not a bad idea. But she’s recently moved out of what’s called the Lodge.”

“Wiley Jones’ place. Was. Where someone murdered him a year ago. Just think about it. What Lillian might know, from years past, might give us a lead or two.” Micaden reached above my left shoulder and swung the door farther open.

“I will. I removed a business card from my wallet and handed it to Micaden. Other than the law school, you can reach me on my cell. It’s written on the back. Thanks for your time.” I walked across the waiting room and opened the outside door.

“The Corbett place.” I turned back toward Micaden, wondering if his cell had vibrated a call. His hands were empty. “That’s Lillian’s new digs. Ray bought it several years ago and had it remodeled. She moved in last Saturday. By the way, I live about a mile further south on Cox Gap Road.”

I gave a slight nod and left. All the way home, I kept opening and closing my hands, gripping and re-gripping the steering wheel, trying to figure out if I was inside a dream. An image of me standing a few feet from a train that had just arrived at the long-gone Boaz railroad station. Slowly, the passenger train pulled away, leaving me with an unobstructed view of the raised platform attached to the ticket office. There, all alone, was Lillian, clutching a heavy suitcase and looking all around for the person she was supposed to meet.

When I turned left into Kyla’s driveway, I apologized to Rachel for having such thoughts.