My iPhone beeped an email alert. I exited the Hardee’s restroom in Springville, where I’d relieved myself for the second time in twenty-five minutes. My frequent bathroom breaks should be an ongoing reminder I needed to see a urologist.

The email was from Bert Stallings. I settled into my Hyundai and read his response to the one I’d sent before leaving the airport. “The committee has approved your request for emergency leave.” Bert’s terseness reminded me of Micaden. Thankfully, my law school colleague’s words were more forthcoming when dealing with personal matters. Bert’s P.S. expression of care and sympathy for Rob’s health, and for speed and effectiveness in dealing with the Hunt House fire, was heartfelt and welcomed.

So far, the timing has been perfect. The last day of classes and the beginning of the Thanksgiving recess had been the 20th, a week ago today. Beginning next Monday, the students begin a seven-day reading period to prepare for their fall exams. The testing period will end December the 18th.

Thankfully, two of my colleagues, Lea Doherty and Steve Cunningham, had agreed to proctor my exams in Torts I, Appellate Advocacy, and Legal Writing, and overnight them to me for grading. I entered Reminders in Evernote to buy Lea and Steve a delightful Christmas gift, and to book a return flight that will put me in New Haven no later than Friday, January 29th, three days before the beginning of Spring term.

I started the Hyundai and exited Hardee’s parking lot. I’d always favored a tight schedule, knowing it helped occupy my mind and control my curiosity. However, two months seemed laughingly inadequate to alter the trajectory of Ray Archer’s life. In fact, it felt like a noose around my neck. And this said nothing about the time and effort required to grade a hundred and ten bluebooks, and prep for my Spring-term classes.

I called Lillian when I took the Highway 77 exit. She would know the answer to my question. “Hey.”

“Hi, it’s Lee.”

She didn’t pause. “I figured you were over Virginia by now.” Before Lillian finished her statement, I heard three bleats in unison. The goats. I doubted my former girlfriend had twisted into a tomboy and purchased her own Nubians. She had to be at Harding Hillside.

“Are you with Kyla? Outside?” My second question was unnecessary.

“Yes. Kind of. She’s in the barn.” Clear and cohesive speech is rare.

“Lillian, please don’t tell her it’s me. I’m in Attalla and need your help. I’ll tell sis later.”

“Okay. What do you need?” I heard Kyla ask Lillian to turn on a faucet.

“Can you meet at your house in thirty minutes?” I couldn’t imagine a scenario where Kyla didn’t sense it was me. Lillian wasn’t a good liar.

“I can. You didn’t tell me what this is about.”

“A stakeout. Tonight. Ray and Buddy. You know.”

Lillian ended our call with a “Thanks Justin for calling me back so soon. I’ll see you in half an hour.” I didn’t know Justin, but I suspected Lillian did, probably a plumber, an electrician, or a heating and air guy.

***

Lillian was sitting at her kitchen table staring at her open laptop when I walked in. Five minutes ago, she had sent a text telling me where to park and to enter through the back porch.

“Hey. Sit here.” Without greeting, she patted the extra chair positioned next to her own. I sat my duffel on the floor and did as instructed. With barely a glance, Lillian asked, “Do you know Barry and Vanessa Clausen?”

I craned my neck toward the laptop and Google Maps. “No. Never heard of them.” Lillian magnified Google Maps’ satellite view and used a number two pencil to point at a large house with an in-ground swimming pool nestled among a forest of trees. I gave her a confused look: cocked head and squinting eyebrows with creased forehead. I even held both hands palm up.

“Doesn’t matter, but I do. We’ll use their place to access Ted’s cabin.”

“Okay.” After half a century, I’d forgotten Lillian’s take-charge nature. If, and only if, it concerned a mystery. Normal stuff, like ‘the barn’s on fire’ (the girl loved candles in the barn loft) were boring and others (mostly me) could take care of them.

“Vanessa is CEO of Colormasters in Albertville. Her and Barry left Wednesday for Gatlinburg.” I didn’t need to ask how Lillian knew this. I wondered what Barry did for work.

Over the next several minutes, Lillian provided all the context I needed. She started with geography. Bruce Road was the only access to Ted King’s estate. The arched brick entrance and paved driveway led to his grand, sprawling home with two turrets. A gravel road started just beyond an Olympic-sized pool and red metal lawn mower shed and led a quarter mile through a forest of trees to a log cabin Ted had built ten years ago as a ‘boys-night’ hangout. The gravel road ended at the cabin, but the forest continued another half mile to include and surround the Clausen’s home. Access to their place was via a long private driveway off Simpson Road to the north. From Lillian’s pencil pointing, I concluded there was no workable way for us to drive to Ted’s cabin, hide a vehicle, and make a safe getaway if needed. The only logical way for the two of us to witness the midnight meeting was to park at the Clausen’s and hike southward through the woods to the backside of Ted’s cabin. It didn’t sound fun, given the drizzling rain and the declining temperature.

Lillian next introduced me to Julie King, the current principal of Boaz High School. She is Mayor King’s wife. Sort of. Like Lillian, Julie is estranged from her husband. In fact, she is distraught over a failed relationship with a man named Carl Stallings, who married a woman thirty years his junior. They now live in Knoxville, Tennessee. I considered introducing Lillian to Bert Stallings but recognized she had already sidelined our conversation. “Julie lived at the cabin before she shacked up with Carl.”

“That’s helpful.” Lillian’s eyeroll told me to be quiet and listen. The laptop said it was approaching 9:00 p.m.

“Two years ago. Julie’s party became a sleepover. Just us five girls. She showed the hidden key in case any of us ever needed a safe house.” I kept quiet. If Lillian’s words were a book, she’d need an excellent editor. “We need to go inside and hide these.” Lillian reached to her left for two boxes lying on a chair tucked underneath the table. ‘Spyware’ was written across each black and gold box.

The smaller print said they were voice-activated recording and transmission devices. “Leftovers from the Lodge?”

Lillian laid one box on the table and started opening the other. “These came today. Pricier but longer reach.” At that moment, I realized the woman without a college degree had thought out our mission better than me, the seasoned attorney and law professor.

After reading the box, I offered an opinion and a fact: “Those will record voices and sounds, but not visuals, and the only camera I have is my iPhone.” Lillian scooted her chair backwards and whispered, “hold on.” She left the kitchen and returned with an expensive-looking camera.

“Nikon D7500 with a 70-200mm lens. The lens cost more than the camera.” Lillian shared, laying the expensive-looking camera in front of me for my inspection. I knew nothing about photography. My iPhone’s pointing and shooting didn’t count.

“Hobby?” Kyla had said Lillian never finished college. That apparently hadn’t stopped her education or curiosity.

“Mostly.” She then cut short my inspection and moved the Nikon with attached lens next to the Spyware. She untied the rubber band that was holding up her hair and asked, “You want coffee?” I pinched my leg to divert my attention and avoid an instant trip to 1971. Rachel said nothing.

“Not now, maybe later. Do you have a thermos?” I was visualizing cops on stakeouts. They always had coffee.

“I do.” Lillian walked to a pantry in the corner, opened the door, and grabbed a stainless-steel Yeti from an upper shelf. “Here it is.” Women are graceful creatures.

While she made a pot of coffee for the thermos, we discussed Connor Ford. I shared my unsuccessful efforts to reach him and learned he and his wife were also in Gatlinburg.

“Woman,” Lillian corrected me and provided a quick rundown. Connor’s female companion, Camilla, was the best hairdresser at Serenity Salon. She and the private investigator had lived together for several years. Although they were engaged, they’d never officially tied the knot.

“You realize Connor is the one who should conduct this stakeout?” As an attorney, I knew depositing myself inside a case was a thousand times worse than ideal. The legal community frowned upon the lawyer as a boots-on-ground investigator, at least in the United States. Becoming a witness in my case was clearly a duty-divider, as Professor Goff, my law school ethics instructor, had called it. Worse still, it could be dangerous.

“Yeah, probably, but he’s unavailable. What choice do we have?”

Lillian was correct. In a way. “One choice is to do nothing, let the criminal justice system do its thing.” I was back in the classroom with my theoretical argument.

“Like it’s done for Kyle these past fifty years?”

“You have a point. ‘The wheels of justice grind exceedingly slow.’ I think this came from Longfellow, the poet.”

Again, Lillian surprised me. “I think it was Plutarch. In the first century, he said, ‘The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.’ It’s about divine justice.”

As she stood and backed to the kitchen sink, we engaged in a softball argument about God, the afterlife, and the likelihood that evil was ever truly punished. In the end, I learned Lillian was an active reader and had grave doubts about the divine or anything else that could be supernatural. In my experience, those who read broadly, especially fiction, are more open-minded and empathetic.

I was glad she suggested we get going. “You can have the bathroom,” she said, glancing at my duffel. I grabbed my bag and followed her to the short hallway connecting the cabin’s two bedrooms. The bath was squeezed into the middle. For a few seconds, it was like she lost her way. Finally, she turned and walked to the front room containing an oversized bed. I entered the bathroom and closed the door. As I stripped down and climbed into an unmatched insulated bottom and top, a pair of camouflaged pants, and a sweatshirt, my thoughts returned to New Year’s Day 1971 and seeing Lillian naked inside Kyla’s bedroom. The knock on the door confused me. I didn’t remember putting on my boots, my windbreaker, or my toboggan.

“I’m coming.”

***

We left Lillian’s SUV a few minutes before 10:00. Hopefully, this would give us plenty of time to prepare for Ray and Buddy’s arrival.

The Clausen’s place was ultra-secluded, including a quarter-mile gravel driveway off Simpson Road. After our ten-minute trip, I felt I could recognize Barry at a party or at Walmart. However, striking up a conversation wouldn’t be easy. According to Lillian, Barry wasn’t homegrown, but Vanessa was.

Barry was from Dothan, short, bald, and a good forty pounds overweight. He wore thick glasses and had trouble mowing the lawn. He’d retired from the Alabama Department of Revenue and now preferred sitting at his computer, trading stocks, bonds, options, and commodities.

Vanessa was only a year younger than Lillian and me. I couldn’t spin-up a memory. The voluptuous freshman clarinet player was Ray’s first girlfriend after Rachel left town in the middle of tenth grade. The two were on and off during Ray’s senior year but shut down completely when the jock moved to Tuscaloosa. It was several years later that Lillian learned Vanessa and Ray had carried on a torrid affair after he had proposed and during their married-student days. The sex exchange had ended when Ray graduated. Apparently, Barry was Vanessa’s rebound, and after long careers as accountants in Montgomery, the odd couple had returned to her hometown and built this colossal home.

Lillian followed the circular driveway to the rear and pulled into a three-car carport next to a like-new red Alfa Romeo. I was dying to ask how in heck she and Vanessa had become friends. I stayed silent, convincing myself the common denominator had to be Ray Archer. Sergeant Bryant ordered me out of the Aviator and to follow her, pausing briefly to smear black paint on my cheeks. The toboggan-hidden, silky-haired commander had to be a clone of my sister.

We crossed the side yard and were ten feet inside a grove of pines when Lillian stopped me for the second time. She removed her backpack, knelt, and removed two pairs of sophisticated goggles. “Here, wear these.” I bit my lip and did as told.

Although I’d seen Lillian place two flashlights in her bag, she was smart enough to recognize the danger. I wondered how often she used the night vision goggles and why she had two pairs. Again, I chose silence.

The pelting rain and plunging temperature made our long hike through the woods triply difficult. Tracking Lillian was demanding, given her pace, but it still gave me time to ponder the weather and its effect on our plans.

When we reached the creek behind the cabin, I removed my iPhone and checked the time. I’d never seen Lillian move so fast. It was like an attack. She lunged at me, using both hands to engulf my cell. “Lee, think.” I quickly realized what I’d done and jammed the iPhone back inside my pocket. She continued clutching my left hand and stared into my eyes. Hers were bright green, distorted by the goggles. I smelled a luscious lavender as she reached up and touched my cheek, exclaiming via whisper, “this is not a game. Remember who you are dealing with.” At that moment, I thought about Ray and the fact he was a murderer. However, what consumed me was the radical new feelings Lillian had triggered. I accepted them as a portal into a whole new world.

For what seemed like minutes, Kent, me, and the other sixteen attendees acted like mechanical manikins, revolving half a turn one way, then another, raising an arm here and there. It was like the resonating blast had short-circuited everyone’s brain. The explosion was terrible, but seeing the ascending fireball left us all speechless and saddened. I know it did me. Plus, I was torn whether to remain at Old Mill Park in honor of Kyle or rush to the Hunt House to pay tribute to a disintegrating landmark. Either way, I felt the two subjects were hopelessly entangled.

Finally, Kent clutched my forearm. “You need to go. The firefighters may have some questions, plus you might learn something.”

I shook my head sideways. Kyla and Lillian inched forward, one to my right, one to my left. Both placed a hand on my upper back. “No. Not yet. Let’s continue here. You have a speech we all need to hear.” I realized what I was doing. The guilt I’d always felt from leaving Kyle after the Christmas parade was overwhelming. And now, there was no way I’d leave him again.

Kent looked toward Ted King, who was already halfway to his car. “It doesn’t matter. Kyle is gone and long forgotten by this little town. I was wrong to assume the mayor, the council, and two or three hundred citizens would attend.” Kent was clearly in pain, likely feeling a sense of disrespect for his brother. “Folks,” Kent gazed over the dispersing group. “Thanks so much for coming. I’ll never forget.”

 I was thankful Kyla took charge. “Lee, go see what you can find out. I’ll stay and help Kent roll-up Kyle’s banner and finish up here.” She asked Kent if it would be okay to leave the food for the firefighters and the city workers who’d helped set up several hundred chairs. He agreed.

“Sounds like a plan.” Kent patted me on the back and started toward the stage. I kept watching him, wondering what was going through his brilliant mind. I had a feeling he would make another attempt to talk with Jackie Frasier before he returned to Houston. Kent stepped onto the stage and turned. “I’ll send you a copy of my speech. Call me anytime.”

I gave him a nod, returned to my seat for my notebook, and reluctantly headed to the Hunt House.

***

I crossed E. Mann Avenue and walked to the backside of the parking lot to store my notebook and suit jacket inside the Hyundai. As usual, I engaged in some self-talk. Should I move the rental to Piggly Wiggly’s parking lot? Ultimately, I opted against that since I barely felt the fire’s heat given the Hunt House was a good two hundred feet away.

I reopened the back door and tossed in my tie. “Lee. Wait.” The voice came from the direction of Old Mill Park. It was Lillian. I raised my hand, more to acknowledge I’d heard her than as an invitational wave. She was semi-jogging and carrying two bottles of water. “Can I go with you?”

My first thought was Lillian was doing a good job of smothering me. Why I said, “I guess,” and accepted her gift of water probably came from Mother’s undying influence in my life.

We exited the parking lot and walked Whitman Street to Thomas Avenue where a line of wooden blockades demanded we stop. We joined half-a-dozen other spectators staring toward the glowing structure. I thought of a miniature Titanic waging a lopsided battle against nature.

But for now, the Hunt House remained solid and erect. From where I stood, the massive brick and tile structure seemed unharmed. Except for the wild and raging flames erupting from every window on all three floors. Even if the walls remained after the fire expired, the beauty and comfort of the interior vanished forever. I couldn’t help but think of Rosa and Rob, insurance coverage, and Ray Archer’s victory.

“Do you need to call Rosa?” Lillian must have been thinking the same thing. Omitting Rob’s name meant Kyla had told Lillian about his stroke and his admission to Roanoke General.

I think it was the two ladies to my left who caused my turn toward Lillian. It’s funny. Sometimes I hear worthless chatter too well, and life-changing prescriptions barely at all. “Probably.” I said, realizing how out-of-place Lillian looked. For Kyle’s memorial, she’d chosen an all-black outfit: a below-the-knee skirt with matching jacket over a white mid-cut blouse. Her stockings were skin-toned, and her shoes were black, low-heeled. A strand of white beads hung from her neck. The redbird pinned to her label couldn’t be the one I’d given her Christmas 1971. Or could it?

“Lee. Are you okay?” No doubt she caught me staring but couldn’t have known I’d noticed her lack of makeup except for the pale red lipstick.  She’d never worn much makeup. I quickly cocked my head sideways and upwards, capturing two firefighters walking the yard between the Hunt House and Julia Street Methodist Church. That’s when I saw Dan Brasher coming our way.

I pulled out my iPhone, dialed Rosa, and stepped backwards a few yards towards Old Mill Park. Earlier this morning, I’d spoken with Lyndell. Rob still hadn’t awakened from his surgery. Six rings later, I heard Leah’s voice, “hey Dad.”

“Hey baby. How are you?” My mid-thirties daughter looked so much like Rachel, even though adopted.

“Tired and worried about Papa.” Leah was in the cabin. I could hear the grands in the background, maybe in the kitchen having breakfast. “Dad, before I get sidetracked, Rosa wants you to stay in Boaz and take care of the fire.” It was a peculiar way of putting it.

“So, she already knows?” News travels fast in small towns, even when the recipient is multiple states away. I gazed at Lillian, who was deep in conversation with Pastor Brasher.

“Jane called a few minutes ago, right as Rosa got home and headed to bed.”

“I’m not sure what I can do here.” Leah interrupted me before I could continue.

“Dad, since I’m alone, I can tell you. Lyndell spoke privately with Papa’s doctors. They say he’s in a coma. He might never wake up.”

“Oh my, that’s awful.” Lillian motioned for me to return. A firefighter had joined their conversation for a few seconds before walking away. “Honey, I need to go for now. Call me if there’s any change.” I struggled whether to go to Roanoke or stay put.

“Dad, quick, before you go. Mama Rose said to tell you to hire someone to haul off the rubble once the sight’s released.” Sadly, that sounded more like Rob than Rosa.

“Okay,” I said, confused over my mother-in-law’s instruction. I returned to the blockade and a growing crowd of onlookers.

“Lee, you need to hear this.” Lillian said as I saw three fire hoses arching thick streams of water through the upstairs windows. The flames were undeterred.

“Hey Dan,” I said, reaching out and shaking his hand. He nodded and motioned me to walk with him to the sidewalk leading to Dr. Hunt’s long-abandoned office.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.” Dan held out a hand, like a stop sign, as Lillian approached. “Give us a minute.” He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

“What’s that?”

“It may be nothing but since the blast my mind’s grown suspicious.” I almost laughed at Dan’s word picture.

“Okay.”

“First, let me ask you something.” He stared into my eyes, waiting for my response. I gave him an affirmative nod. “Have you recently hired anyone to do work at the Hunt House?”

“No.”

“Now, I’m even more suspicious. Yesterday afternoon I saw an older model van parked in the driveway.” Dan pointed at the Hunt House as though I couldn’t follow his story. “Two men got out and walked to the back door. They stayed fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then left.”

Dan’s story triggered a dozen questions. I started with, “can you describe the van?”

“It was white, off-white, or might have been dirty. The back panel was solid with a sign in blue lettering: ‘Larry’s Electric & Plumbing.’ Funny, the painting or decal, whatever, looked much newer than the van.”

“Why?”

“It was cleaner, bright white.”

“I’m curious. Where were you when you saw this?” Dan’s story was already believable. He is the pastor of Julie Street Methodist.

“I was in my study.” He turned and pointed to the church. “Corner window, second floor.”

Dan turned back to face me. I again nodded. “What time yesterday afternoon?”

“That’s one thing I didn’t peg, but it had to be between 2:45 and 3:15. On Thursdays, I meet my daughter at the library after school.”

I was about to ask my next question when I heard a loud crash. It sounded like breaking glass. When I looked, I saw tile after tile slip from the front side of the roof and land on the ground and sidewalk. “One other question before you go.” I had noticed Dan, twice, looking at an oversized wristwatch.

“Go ahead, but hurry. I have a lunch appointment.”

“Can you describe the two men?” Sometimes, but rarely, I knew the answer before the witness or student responded. The rare occurrence had normally happened in court, but that was nearly twenty years ago. Although it had happened twice in a Torts class.

“Mutt and Jeff. One was tall and thick, the other was short and thick. Both wore uniforms: light blue short-sleeved shirts, darker navy pants, tan-colored hats and work boots.”

“Short sleeves?”

“Yes.”

“Were they carrying anything?”

“The taller man had an over-sized toolbox. From the way he was toting it, I’d guess it was heavy.”

“Okay, thanks for telling me.” Dan looked at his watch for the third time. “You better go.”

This time, he nodded. And walked away.

***

By 2:30 PM, I’d tired of fire watching. For two reasons. The first was the lengthy delay in holding a promised press briefing. To me, after the firefighters extinguished the flames, the firefighters followed a never-ending loop. Like an episodic story, scene after scene repeating the same thing. Two walked inside the Hunt House, stayed a few minutes, exited, and two more followed the same pattern. Things finally made more sense when a firefighter with a megaphone yelled that Chief Beck was waiting on the State’s Fire Marshall to arrive before a briefing could take place.

The second reason was more troubling. The subtle insults from several gawkers had made me angry. And filled me with an emotion I’d classify as ‘isolated.’ Several times over the past few hours I’d heard remarks such as, “the greedy bastards got what they deserved,” and, “I hope the insurance company cancelled their coverage yesterday.” I’d even heard a Boaz police officer mumble a response to a younger man in shorts and a tee-shirt, something like, “God is good.” The young gawker’s response was probably, “All the time,” although I couldn’t make out the words. Walking back to my car, I’m still wondering whether anyone present knew who I was. It probably wouldn’t matter if they did.

At 4:30 PM, I exited Highway 77 in Attalla and pointed my Hyundai south on I-59. I’d spent the past hour and a half alone at Kyla’s, considering whether to cancel my flight. Although my departure time wasn’t until 7:00, I looked forward to reflecting on the day’s events, and considering what awaited me in Roanoke.

***

I took the Springville exit and bought a chicken sandwich and fries at Hardee’s. I hadn’t eaten since Kyla’s scrambled eggs and toast early this morning. After eating inside, I visited the restroom before continuing to Birmingham’s airport.

I’d just merged into traffic when my iPhone vibrated in the seat beside me. It was Micaden Tanner. I’d been eager to speak with him ever since dropping off the pistol Tuesday afternoon. “Hey Micaden.”

“You got a minute?” The salt and pepper haired man was like a stingy book editor, cutting unnecessary words with abandon.

“Yes. I’m driving to the airport.” I chose context and brevity.

“My best to Rob.” Unsurprisingly, Micaden already knew about my father-in-law’s stroke.

“Thanks.”

“Just came from the press conference.” A tractor-trailer rig pulled beside me, muffling Micaden’s voice. “They found a body.”

“What? Hold on, let me get my ear-buds.” I fumbled with the wires, half expecting a state trooper to zoom in behind me. “Okay, you said you attended Chief Beck’s press conference.”

“Don’t add words. Beck was there but didn’t say ten words. State fire Marshall Kendrick and Boaz Police Chief Gaskin did most of the talking. Did you hear me say they found a body?”

“Damn. Let me guess. The man was tall and thick, or short and thick?” I was projecting from Pastor Brasher’s story.

“Don’t know. They’re awaiting an autopsy.” Micaden said goodbye to Tina in the background. “One thing seems certain. There was a gas leak. However, they’re not sure about the ignition.”

“What set it off?” Dumb question.

With no transition, Micaden added, “Connor says the pistol can’t be the murder weapon.” Before I could respond, Kyla called. I ignored her for now, not knowing when I’d have another chance to talk with Micaden.

“Connor Ford, our investigator?”

“Who else? He’s excellent but said a third grader could have figured it out.”

I was feeling stupid but didn’t know why. “How’s that?”

“Serial number. Smith and Wesson’s web page provides this information all the way back to its founding in 1856.”

“So, what year was it manufactured?”

“Between 2015 and 2019.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I felt like such a dumbass.”

“It happens to me sometimes, but usually for a more respectable reason. Just kidding.” Micaden was loosening up.

“Since lately, I’m rather slow, let me summarize. The pistol Rachel led me to is irrelevant to Kyle’s murder, and the Hunt House fire is arson.”

“Your latter point seems certain. Not sure I agree with the former. But, at a minimum, it couldn’t have fired the deadly shot.” I heard a phone ringing. “Hold on, I need to get this.” Our call went mute. After a minute, he returned. “You still there?”

“Yep.”

“That was Connor. Be sure you’re sitting down.”

“I am. Remember, I’m driving to Birmingham.”

“It was a metaphor. Listen to what Joe found.”

“Joe?”

“Connor’s employee. Sidekick. He stumbled over a deed in the Marshall County Probate office. Your father-in-law signed over the Hunt House property to Rylan’s of Boaz three days ago.”

My response was predictable. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Rarely. Since this is confidential, you want to know my theory?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ray Archer bought the Hunt House for two reasons. One is to make a quick buck. The other was to destroy evidence.” Micaden went silent. I imagined his rudimentary pencil sketching. This time of fire raging skyward from the Hunt House’s windows.

“That’s clear as mud.” Maybe Micaden wasn’t so bright after all.

“According to Connor, Ray paid your father-in-law half a million and insured it for $750,000. I admit, this next statement is Connor’s hypothesis. Ray thinks Rachel hid the murder weapon at the Hunt House, and since she is dead, that pistol was the last link to the crime he committed half-a-century ago.”

Ten minutes after Micaden ended his call, a car accident in Roebuck forced all southbound traffic to detour onto Highway 11. In less than a mile, it was bumper to bumper. I activated my iPhone. It was 5:40. When Micaden called, I’d slowed my speed, as though that would help me digest all the bad news he’d relayed. Now, with the detour and snail-paced plodding, I worried if I’d make my flight. Thankfully, I only lost ten minutes. At East Lake Park, a state trooper directing traffic signaled approval to rejoin I-59.

My mind returned to Micaden’s call. And Ray Archer. In law school, I’d learned to ask questions, especially, ‘what does this mean?’ Professor Stern loved analogies, so he’d encourage his students to think of their case as a puzzle, and ask, ‘where does this new piece fit?’

Until the Hunt House fire, and Micaden’s call, I’d thought my puzzle was an old one, that I was on a mission to find the missing pieces that would enable a prosecutor to convict Ray Archer. One mistake I’d made was subconsciously believing Ray Archer’s horrible criminal conduct was in the past. Now, I realized I was in a whole new ball game. If Connor Ford’s hypothesis was true, Ray Archer is just as much a criminal now as he was half-a-century ago. But, with one giant difference. Now, his defense counsel couldn’t argue his client was just a kid and should be granted youthful offender status.

As I exited I-59 to Birmingham-Shuttlesworth airport, I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach, one reminiscent of the day I’d read Rachel’s story of Kyle’s murder. Sweat popped out across my forehead. There was one difference. For the first time, I was afraid. If Ray Archer would risk his financial empire and his freedom to destroy the Hunt House and any incriminating evidence it might contain, what in Hell would stop him from killing me, or anyone else who became a threat to his comfortable life?

I chose Car Park 1 since it was the closest and, I assumed, the safest place to park my Hyundai. Before leaving Kyla’s, I’d read it contained 3,497 spots. I finally found an opening on the fifth floor, remembering it was Thanksgiving weekend. This probably meant the check-in process would be as slow as traffic had been on Highway 11.

I parked, grabbed my carry-on, and headed for the elevator bank. When I exited the parking deck, my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. This time, it was Rosa. Our conversation was quick and pointed, not to mention virtually one-sided.

***

For some strange reason, nothing to do with being hungry, I ate at McDonald’s in Roebuck before I left Birmingham. My decision to stay in Alabama seemed wrong. But Rosa had been so adamant, even pleading, almost begging me to remain in Boaz. “Lee, there’s nothing right now you can do here. I promise I’ll tell you soon, but now I need you. Rob needs you to have the Hunt House mess hauled off.”

It was a strange request. I didn’t have the heart to ask her about the sale to Ray Archer, but I now knew I had to act instead of react.

The dreaded moment came Friday morning a few minutes after 6:00. A few days ago, Kyla had demanded I help vaccinate her five Nubians. I had never liked farm work as a kid, especially if it involved cutting, clipping, ringing, or shooting animals, even if the latter required injection by syringe (I had refused to put a 22-caliber bullet between the eyes of a fattened hog).

Kyla put me on notice last night before she’d gone to bed. “Tomorrow. Early. Goat work. I’ll wake you.” She’d sounded like a Marine sergeant, barking military-terse instructions as she’d ascended the stairs. She disappeared before I could interpret her face or convey my reverse thankfulness. I almost followed her upstairs to beg off, reminding her I didn’t need distraction from my Old Mill Park responsibilities, or that I was two days post-accident. Instead, I stayed glued to the couch with her laptop, making last-minute edits to Kyle’s eulogy.

Unlike my all-night restlessness, the ‘goat work’ wasn’t as bad as expected. Sis, the planner, had found a pair of Dad’s coveralls and work boots, and had kept the five Nubians corralled in the barn’s hallway all night. The only one who put up any resistance to the CDT subcutaneous vaccine was Frank, the lone male. I imagined he was just showing out for Nancy, Bess, Georgia, and Nedra. However, it was Kyla’s rope trick that convinced the viral male to take his medicine.

Walking back to the house, Kyla shared the source of her name choices. As a kid, she’d always loved mysteries, including the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series. Voila, names for five Nubians, although George became Georgia, and Ned became Nedra.

When we reached the front porch, I stripped off Dad’s coveralls and work boots while Kyla opened the storm door and spouted more orders. “Please put Dad’s things on my tailgate.” At least she’d said ‘please.’ Sergeant Harding went inside to shower and cook breakfast. I was halfway to the Silverado when she reopened the front door and said, “Lillian needs to talk.” I left my iPhone beside Kyla’s laptop at 1:30 this morning. I guess sis had heard it vibrate. She raised her eyebrows and smiled as she waited for me to take the phone.

“Hello.”

“Lee, I’m sorry to keep pestering you, but I think it’s important.” Lillian shared that she’d left a voice mail twenty minutes ago.

“Sorry, I was helping Kyla with the goats. What’s up?” It had barely been half a day since we’d talked and made our agreement. I couldn’t help but question my decision.

“I wanted to tell you about my spyware last night, but you were in a hurry to leave.” I closed my eyes and pondered, acknowledging some things that need to remain private.

“Spyware? Is that what you said?” I stared at my iPhone, checking the time. It was 6:34. I’d told Kent I’d meet him at the north entrance to Old Mill Park at 8:30.

“Do you agree we should be open and honest about our detective work?” The attorney in me wanted to discuss Lillian’s adjective. I walked through the den and was two steps inside the hallway when she asked her next question. “Lee, you there?”

“I’m here. And, confidential.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s just say, we need to discuss before any outside disclosure. To anyone.”

“Except Kyla?”

“Okay, except Kyla.” I conveyed my schedule, hoping that would speed things up.

Lillian shared extra details, but the bottom line was she had hidden two recording devices at the Lodge before she’d vacated the premises. Device B was activated late last night. It was a call by Ray to a man named Buddy. Lillian could hear only Ray’s side of the conversation (since he wasn’t using Speaker), but concluded it was about the job he’d hired Buddy to complete. To Lillian, it was a go for today based on Ray’s repeat of what Buddy had said. ‘Today.’ Ray had responded with, ‘Daytime? That’s risky.’ The recording had ended with Ray confirming the time and place he would meet Buddy later tonight. ‘Mayor’s cabin. Midnight.’

“What makes you think this conversation relates to our investigation?” I admit Lillian might be serendipitous, but the job probably was wholly innocuous.

“If it’s the Buddy I’m thinking about, he is an ex-con.” I could hear geese honking in the background. I suspected Lillian was outside, maybe walking or sitting on the long pier I’d seen when she’d turned on the eve light.

“He works at The Shack. Right?” I had put that much together. He’d also been at McDonald’s yesterday afternoon with a much taller man.

“How do you know that?”

I shared my deduction. Lillian said she’d keep me posted and wished me good luck with my eulogy.

“I’ll be with Kyla, so I’ll see you there.” With this, Lillian ended our call.

***

I parked in a once-familiar place off E. Mann Avenue. During my growing-up years, IGA was Mom’s favorite grocery store. It was smaller than Piggly Wiggly but offered coupons in Thursday’s edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter. This provided “extra value,” according to our household’s chief financial officer.

As part of its Old Mill Park project, the City had purchased the property, razed the old building, and constructed a hundred-car parking lot. I pulled to the far side and wedged my Hyundai between Kent’s rental and an older model Impala, although there were 97 other options.

I grabbed my notebook and walked across E. Mann through a gated entrance denoted as “Support Staff Only.” Other than three guys setting up folding chairs in a semi-circle in front of the stage, the only other person I saw was Jane Fordham working behind a row of tables lined up outside the nearest pavilion. Kent had told me the mayor had arranged for Grumpy’s and The Shack to provide food.

Jane waved twice as I approached. “Hey Lee, want some coffee and a cinnamon roll?” The far-left table had a sheet of letter size paper taped to the thin tablecloth. The sign was troubling; it read, “Light Breakfast.” Besides a large aluminum pan full of rolls, there were also several dozen plastic containers of fruit.

“Thanks, maybe some coffee. Black.”

“It’s self-serve.” Jane said, handing me a small Styrofoam cup. “Rosa said Rob’s still sleeping.”

We talked back and forth about my father-in-law’s stroke and how worried Rosa seemed during her and Jane’s early morning conversation. “I’m flying there late afternoon.” I wanted to ask a dozen questions but now didn’t seem the time.

“Here comes Kent.” Jane said, looking to her right. I had already seen him walking our way from the Park’s east side entrance. “He went to Piggly Wiggly to get more tape.”

Kent was still a good fifty feet away. I summoned my courage, realizing now was as good as any. “Jane, would you be open to talking to me about Rachel when I return from Roanoke?”

Her response was instant. “I guess.” The tall and thin redhead (I’m sure the short-cropped hair is a wig) gave me a quick look with her piercing green eyes. It seemed my request was unsettling, but I didn’t know why.

“Good morning, Lee.” Kent said, handing Jane a plastic shopper bag.

“I’ll finish attaching the food signs. More brunch over there.” She looked at Kent and pointed to two larger boxes on a table underneath the pavilion. “Kyla will be here any minute.”

Kent motioned me to follow him toward the stage. Two city workers were struggling to hang a giant banner. The other one continued arranging chairs. “I have a feeling I’ve been too optimistic.”

“Crowd size?” I asked.

“Yes. Three hundred chairs are probably six or seven times too many.” Kent stopped behind the row furthest from the stage, staring at the unfolding banner.

“I like your idea.” From left to right were blowups of Kyle’s class photos, beginning in first grade. The next to the last one on the right was from tenth grade, a short three and a half months before Kyle disappeared. The last photo was a recent one of Kent, relaying the idea this was what Kyle would look like today. If he had lived.

“Thanks, but it was Jane’s creation.” Kent removed his iPhone and checked the time. “Question. Did you know Ray gave Jane a ride home that night?”

“You mean, after the parade, the night Kyle went missing?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve never heard that.” This struck me as odd, especially since Rachel hadn’t mentioned it in her diaries.

“It was news to me. I’m still not sure why she told me, but she did, right after we arrived this morning.” Kent gave a thumbs-up to the two city workers securing Kyle’s banner.

“What exactly did she say?”

“First, I admit it was me who brought up the subject. Like I’d done during each of our conversations while planning the memorial.” I saw Kyla enter through the support staff entrance. She started walking towards Kent and me and I shushed her away with our long-established tradition of flapping a low-reaching hand. “Jane said the four of them, Ray, Rachel, Kyle, and herself, crammed into Ray’s truck at the warehouse. After a quick stop at the church to leave the PA system, Ray dropped Jane off at her house around nine. The plan was for Ray and Rachel to carry Kyle home, and then for the two of them to ‘hang-out’ a couple of hours before reuniting at the Hunt House for Rachel’s all-girl sleepover party.”

“So, now it seems, there were three people and not two who saw Kyle right before he disappeared: Ray, Rachel, and Jane.” I said, looking toward the pavilion at Kyla reading something on her phone.

“I agree. If Jane’s telling the truth.” The city workers turned their attention to checking out the sound system.

“What would make you think otherwise?” Kent, like me, had worn a suit, but he’d shed his coat.

“Seems to me Ray would have dropped Kyle off first since Jane lived further down King Street. At the intersection of Lee Holcomb Road.” How I recall ordinary things from long ago never ceases to amaze me.

“Uh, I’d forgotten that.” Kent said, inserting what I assumed was a receipt, probably from Piggly Wiggly, into his wallet. I mentally scanned Rachel’s diaries. “But it makes sense.” Rachel had written that she and Ray had gone to a farm his father owned down Cox Gap Road. “That supports your conclusion.” Kent focused on the sound volume and interacted with the city workers.

I shared Ray’s most logical travel route. “To me, the four would have left the warehouse after disassembling the PA system. Dropped it off at First Baptist Church of Christ and wound their way back to Highway 168 West. Ray would have turned left at King Street. The first relevant driveway would be yours. Drop Kyle there, continue to Jane’s place, turning left on Lee Holcomb Road. From there, they’d connect with Pleasant Hill Road and turn right on 205. That’s the most logical route if they’re headed to Cox Gap Road.”

“It’s definitely an excellent theory.”

Kent spent until 10:00 a.m. working with the city workers, refining the sound system and instructing them how to operate the three video cameras he had brought.

I helped Kyla place an order-of-service flyer on each of the three-hundred chairs and made two trips to Piggly Wiggly for bagged ice. The only thing I could think about was four tenth graders squeezed inside Ray’s truck with one of them only minutes from death.

***

At 10:00 a.m. on the nose, Kent walked to the stage and asked everyone to take a seat. Although he didn’t show it, I knew the crowd size devastated him. Kyla, Lillian, and I sat alone in the section to Kent’s left.

“Good morning. I appreciate you coming on this warm and beautiful November day.” Kent introduced himself and thanked Mayor King for allowing the use of the park. He also thanked the city workers for their help.

The mayor stood and scanned the small audience. He smiled at a young woman with thick glasses who’d just arrived. An index card sized plastic tag hung from her neck. Kent had said a reporter was coming. “I’m sorry we’re here under these circumstances, but please know the City of Boaz will never forget Kyle Bennett. I hope his case will soon be resolved.” Really? Not a single city councilman was anywhere in sight.

The mayor placed his hands on the shoulders of Kent and Kyle’s mother, who was sitting one row in front of where he stood. He bent down and whispered something in her ear. Kent had said she would be here with several of her friends from Bridgewood Gardens. I counted six older women, three to Mama’s left, three to her right. I hoped none had a story as horrible as the woman who’d always welcomed me into her home.

“Before I forget, I wanted to apologize for the absence of Mountain Top Trio. You may or may not know this band started half-a-century ago and is still performing.” A train engine’s deafening horn announced its arrival a block away. And Jane’s. Kent allowed the sound waves to dissipate. Now, dressed in all black, Jane sat beside Lillian, who, like Kyla, wore the same dark color. “I suspect if Kyle were here, he’d still be Mountain Top’s manager. The group had an accident last night in New Hope. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but, as a precaution, Huntsville Hospital admitted them for observation.”

The train rolled through town, headed to Gadsden and on southward to parts unknown. The rocking and rumbling sounds grew weaker. Kent used the interruption to review his notes and maybe create suspense. I didn’t know.

“I feel I should publicly answer the question local entrepreneur Ray Archer asked me last Sunday morning.” Kent paused and gave a shout-out to Grumpy’s and The Shack for providing food and invited everyone to stay and eat after the memorial.

“Ray asked me, ‘why have a memorial service for Kyle fifty years after he was killed?’” If Kent’s quote was accurate, I questioned Ray’s word choice. ‘Killed’? Why not say, ‘after he died,’ or, better still, ‘after he disappeared’? I almost smiled when I acknowledged how difficult it was to conceal a lie.

Kent continued. “Folks, here’s the reason. I fully believe Kyle’s case is about to bust wide open and the guilty party or parties will be brought to justice. The truth is all around us. We just have to keep looking.”

The thick glasses lady wrote frantically to get down Kent’s every word. I hoped the quote would be in tomorrow’s Sand Mountain Reporter. I felt certain Ray Archer wouldn’t like the attention.

“Okay, I’ll sit for now. After my brother’s best friend presents his eulogy, I’ll return. Lee, come on up.”

***

I stood and edged sideways in front of Kyla, Lillian, and Jane. Sis whispered, “break-a-leg,” and tugged my suit pants behind my right knee. Funny. My stomach did its little queasy dance like it always did before I took center-stage in a courtroom or before a classroom of intellectually gifted students.

“Good morning,” I said immediately after reaching the podium. Saying anything quickly always settled my nerves. “I’m Lee Harding, Kyle’s best friend forever.”

Mama Bennett was already crying. “Kyle and I met in the first grade, Mrs. Gillespie’s class. I hated school, but Kyle loved it and took me under his wing.” I pointed to Kent sitting ten feet from me in an otherwise unoccupied row. “By day two, Kent had connected with Micaden Tanner, who has a law office straight across the railroad tracks.” I pointed diagonally to my right.

“By the end of August 1960, I loved school, and I loved Mrs. Gillespie. It seems her and Kyle teamed-up behind my back and conspired to transform my thinking.”

“Story time after lunch each day became the key to my happiness and determination. I can still hear Mrs. Gillespie after she got all twenty-five of us huddled around her: ‘education is like a train, it can take you anywhere you want to go, but you have to choose a destination, and you have to climb on board.’”

“Although I could already read, I wasn’t in league with Kyle and Kent. From day one, they were the best readers in class. I soon learned why. It was Mama Bennett.” I pointed again. She cried more. “Mama worked long and hard all day but had her own story time routine. During my first overnight visit, the four of us took turns after supper reading a short story, things like ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro’ by Ernest Hemingway. If you’re surprised by the Hemingway choice, you don’t know Mama. Even though he wrote in simple, unadorned prose, his words were not ‘See Spot Run.’ Mama Bennett, intelligent and loving, challenged her twin boys to learn and grow. She knew what they needed to maneuver a tough world.”

I looked at my time. There was no way I could present all my material, all the stories I recalled. I wanted to share mine and Kyle’s fourth-grade winter-time swimming experience in the creek beside his house. I wanted to share stories that emphasized each of his positive character traits, things like his perceptiveness, his alertness, his analytical ability, and his cautiousness. But there was not enough time, so I chose courageousness instead. Because to me, it took place near the end of Kyle’s life, and contained strong hints about his destination, one not of his choosing.

“The last story I want to share with you is about Kyle’s courage. If it hadn’t been for my sister, you wouldn’t be hearing this.”

“After Kent asked me to talk today, I called Kyla and asked her what she remembered about Kyle. At first, she mentioned general stuff like how he enjoyed fishing in our pond and how he and I loved playing at the creek beside his house. Almost as an afterthought, Kyla had said, ‘I wish you had his essay, the one he wrote for Mrs. Smith’s class.’ I’m sorry to say I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Mrs. Linda Smith, Ms. Linda, as she insisted we call her, was our tenth-grade literature teacher. At the first of the year, she’d assigned a project to be turned in anytime we wanted, but no later than the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. The assignment was to write about a challenge we were facing—and what we planned to do about it.”

“You might ask yourself how my memory got refreshed. That’s a straightforward question: I called Ms. Linda. Finding her was the hard part. She had recently moved from Boaz to Eugene, Oregon, to be closer to her son and was still unpacking. She instantly recalled Kyle and his essay as though it had been only a week.”

“Come to find out, Kyle’s was one of ten Ms. Linda had kept from her thirty-year teaching career. And, in somewhat of a surreal way, before moving to Oregon, she’d read all of them. Now, they were in a box somewhere in a storage unit.”

“Now, to Kyle’s essay. I ask you to keep in mind two of his dominating personality traits, one negative, the other, positive. Kyle was a fanatic, meaning he could be intensely devoted to a cause or idea. As we all know, that can turn negative. On the bright side, he was perceptive. Kyle was intuitively observant and insightful.”

“It was only natural for Kyle to respond to his challenge the way he did. And what was his challenge? He was being bullied. By a fellow student named Brute. Of course, this wasn’t his real name. Nor was Babe, Brute’s girlfriend’s name. More on her in a moment.”

“The bullying started at the beginning of ninth grade when Kyle tried out for the football team. He hadn’t made it as a player but won the team’s water-boy position. Brute was big and mean. Kyle was no match physically. At first, Brute demanded Kyle wash his practice uniform every day through the week and his game uniform over the weekend. Once Brute learned Kyle was smart, he had him do his homework. This went on throughout ninth grade, no matter the sport Brute played or the classes he took.”

“While Brute was bullying, Babe was befriending. Kyle hated Brute, but mesmerized Babe. What infatuated Kyle was the irreconcilability of Babe’s intelligence with her devotion to Brute. Somehow, Kyle learned Brute was two-timing Babe with an Albertville Aggie cheerleader. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the girl was pregnant with Brute’s baby.”

“Let’s pause a second and make sure we understand the context. Kyle realized he would have to write Brute’s essay. Even though the two were not in the same literature class, they shared the same personal essay assignment. Oh, one thing I forgot to mention, Ms. Linda promised the essays were for her eyes only given their personal nature.”

“Listen carefully to how Kyle used his brain and his courage to outfox Brute. He first created a plan. He would write two essays for Brute, not one. It would be Brute’s choice which one to submit to Ms. Linda. The first essay was generic. It presented Brute’s response to the challenges of earning a football scholarship to the University of Alabama. The second essay was more revealing. It dealt with Brute’s love life and the problems and challenges he faced having two girlfriends, with one being pregnant with Brute’s baby.”

“After Kyle completed the essays, he presented them to Brute. Of course, Brute chose the innocuous essay, and according to Kyle’s essay, promised two things. To stop bullying Kyle, and to come clean with both girlfriends.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, it took great courage for Kyle to confront Brute, but there’s one thing we need to remember. Danger is the seed of courage. Without the first, there’s no need for the second. Ms. Linda told me all of this. I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. To this day, none of us know what happened to Kyle, and we can only speculate whether the writing assignment had anything to do with Kyle’s disappearance.”

“Thanks for listening to my too-long eulogy. I’ll leave you with this. The world would be a much better place if my best friend had lived and were with us today. I miss you, Kyle.”

***

I closed my notebook and exited the stage as Kent approached. We shook hands and clumsily executed what Rachel called a man hug.

I returned to my seat beside Kyla. We exchanged smiles, and affirmative head nods, our lifelong habit showing agreement. Just as Kent was introducing himself, a deafening noise shook the large speakers set at opposite ends of the stage. The sound originated from the north, the direction I was facing, but the huge banner displaying a collage of Kyle’s photos blocked my view. At first, I thought the noise was a monstrous thunderclap, except there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The eighteen-person crowd remained calm and seated, but each person’s quick head movement and lowered eyebrows revealed a united uncertainty. My second guess was a sonic boom, but a billion-dollar jet flying low altitude at 700 miles per hour over Boaz, Alabama seemed a long shot. When I heard a fire siren, I concluded there had been a giant explosion in the industrial park.

Kent’s puzzled looks and bodily movements showed he had conducted a similar analysis. He finally walked off the stage onto the grass to his right and looked to the north. He yelled ‘fire’ a split second before spinning to face me. With head shaking back and forth, he motioned for me to join him.

Almost in unison, the entire crowd stood and moved toward Kent. Most gasped at something they witnessed. I think I heard one person say, “that’s one way to skin a cat.” Kyla, Lillian, and I were the last to arrive. What I saw was both shocking and sickening. The Hunt House was on fire. Boiling orange flames were already engulfing the surrounding treetops.

I’ll never forget what Kent whispered in my ear as he eased beside me. “That’s a message. I just don’t know what it is.”