I almost turned left at the McVille Road intersection. I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to spend with Kyla before I returned to New Haven.
Instead, I continued straight on Bruce Road, still intent on going the back roads to the little cabin by the pond. I wanted to talk or text with Lillian to share what I’d learned from Rosa. Plus, a nap on her soft but squeaky king bed would hopefully spawn a host of peaceful images of the two of us in New Haven, immersed in our new life.
It was two hours before Lillian responded to my first text. I was semi-dozing on her couch (postponing the king and more serious sleep) and barely heard the notification ping from my iPhone. I’d forgotten to turn up the volume after leaving Rosa’s room.
After returning from a shopping trip to Pigeon Forge, Stella had laid across her bed and was now snoring. Although I’d rather hear Lillian’s voice, out of respect, she’d insisted we stick to digital communications (I wondered why she didn’t simply step out into the hallway). I was glad she promised we’d talk tonight after her and Stella’s dinner at The Peddler. I couldn’t help but wish it was Lillian and me awaiting our reservations at the five-star restaurant.
After an exchange of ‘I miss you,’ and ‘I love you,’ I shared my news, assuming Stella had preferred shopping over revealing secrets. I was wrong. Apparently, the ICU nurse had been in the talking mood during their near bumper-to-bumper return drive from Pigeon Forge to Gatlinburg. I’d only made that trip a handful of times but recall it’s only eight or ten miles. Normally, it takes thirty or forty minutes given the traffic, unless of course, it’s the middle of the night.
Lillian’s simple “what’s Nick been up to?” question was all it had taken.
Although Stella repeatedly prefaced her statements with either, “I don’t know for sure,” or “Nick may change his mind,” she provided a plethora of details concerning the upcoming Sand Mountain Reporter article. They centered it on Nick’s interview with the old and highly respected Jackie Frasier, also known as (at least among the Greasy Monkeys, as the ‘tag thief.’)
Things had happened fast since Jackie’s appearance at the groundbreaking ceremony. Sometime late Friday afternoon, complaining of chest pains, an ambulance transported him to Marshall Medical Center South. Skipping a few sidelines and pit-stops, the near-death experience had prompted Jack to call Nick. Before the sun set, Nick had the makings of a great article, and Jack had the security of the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.
Long story short, years ago and unknown to everyone save employer and employee, Jackie had worked for Roland Archer, Ray’s father. After Rachel had shot and killed Kyle (this was obviously confusing given Rosa’s account), Rob, on Ray’s insistence, had called Roland. A team was assembled, and Kyle’s body was disposed of, leaving not a trace for anyone to discover. Except Kyle’s dog tag. Somehow, it wound up in Jackie’s pocket, unknown to everyone except himself. That is, until a few weeks ago. Possibly prompted by Lillian and my investigative interest, Jackie had given Ray the only piece of evidence he thought could tie him to criminal conduct.
To my surprise, just as I finished typing Lillian a follow-up question, her pretty face appeared on my screen. She was calling.
“Hey dear. Did Stella wake up?” I asked, standing and walking around the den to ward off an expected leg cramp.
“She did. Headed straight for the bathroom. I couldn’t resist calling. I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too. Please promise me you’ll never leave me again.” My words both surprised me and didn’t surprise me. Before coming to Alabama, I was stoic, virtually emotionless. Now, I was transforming into a full-fledged romantic.
“I promise, but we can talk lovey-dovey tonight. Here’s one final tidbit before I have to go.”
“Okay.”
Lillian turned the volume down on the TV. “Ten days ago, Stella was with Jade, conducting her once-per month medical evaluation that’s required by Medicare. To Stella’s surprise, Jade had purchased a new camera. Later, Stella researched the make and model and discovered it sold on Amazon for ten thousand dollars. This was way beyond the reach of someone living at Mt. Vernon Homes.”
Before I could respond, I heard Stella in the background say, “Let’s go ride the tram to the Park, you know, Ober Gatlinburg.”
“Okay, I guess.” Lillian responded to Stella. “Lee, I need to go. I’ll call you tonight, 9:00 o’clock sharp. That’s 8:00 your time. That’s when Stella meets Greg. Love you always and forever. Bye.”
The call ended as my mind contemplated the Greg fellow. Who was he? His appearance in our conversation, heck, his appearance in Stella and Lillian’s entire weekend adventure, seemed odd.
I considered going outside and sitting at the end of the pier. Instead, I chose Lillian’s king and the sweet smell of lavender.
***
After an hour or more of tossing, turning, and imagining Lillian’s reactions to her first visit to the Yale campus, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed. It may have been triggered by our imagined tour of Yale’s mock courtroom on the law school’s fourth floor.
I dreamed I was back in law school, at Harvard. My trial practice class. It was early evening in the middle of the week. I’d just completed my cross-examination of Dale, an auto mechanic. What followed was the worst intimidation I’d ever endured. Alan Dershowitz, my Trial Practice professor, spent half an hour before the entire class, excoriating every mistake I’d made. Although he was an excellent professor, who later became a friend, his dress-down of my cross seemed savagely brutal.
When I heard a bell ringing, I thought I was at the end of classmate Tony Rawling’s redirect examination. The bell was Dershowitz’s way of signaling we were out of time.
Instead, the shrill and repetitive sound was my iPhone. I struggled to escape my dream and grab my cell on the nightstand jammed between the king and the outer wall. The dinging bell was Spytech’s way of telling me my tracker device had been activated. Jane was on the move.
I tossed back the covers and stood. After sliding the notification to the right, I touched OPEN. A Google Maps screen appeared. I saw a blue dot moving north on King Street. If this was happening in real time, Jane would be driving slowly. I glanced at the time at the top of the screen. It was 6:06. I couldn’t believe I’d slept for nearly three hours. I peeked through the blinds. It was midnight dark.
When the blue dot turned left on Highway 168, I guessed Jane was headed to Foodland for some groceries. She hadn’t moved since Friday night. Maybe it was time for milk and bread.
I walked to the den, sat on the couch, and laid my iPhone on the coffee table. Just as the blue dot did what I thought it would do, Kyla called. We spoke for five minutes, a mere one-sixth Dershowitz dress-down, but still unwelcome, all for me forgetting to be at her house ten minutes ago for dinner. I promised I would hurry.
When she ended her call, the Google Maps screen reappeared. The blue dot now was passing through old downtown Boaz, headed toward Highway 431. I slipped the iPhone into my pocket and walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, gargled, and slipped on the sweatshirt I had hung over the shower curtain rod. I reconnoitered the house, locking the front door, turning off lights, and tossing an empty Coke can in the trash.
By the time I locked the back door and exited the porch, I rechecked the Spytech App. The blue dot was turning right onto Bruce Road. This caught my attention. Where was she going?
I quickened my pace to my Hyundai parked outside the detached garage. Jane had gone to Foodland, for food and drink of some sort. Was she headed to a party?
After I backed toward the barn, I reached underneath the seat. It was still there. I liked the feel of the polymer on the frame.
Shortly after Ray assaulted Lillian in his garage, I had purchased the Heckler & Koch VP9 from Sand Mountain Pawn in Boaz. I probably couldn’t have done it without Micaden Tanner’s help. In my concealed permit application, I’d told a white lie about my residency. Micaden’s relationship with the Etowah County Sheriff’s Department and his vouching for my ‘moral character,’ were the deciding factors.
I was adept with guns as a boy growing up in the country—thanks to Dad. Until this purchase, I hadn’t touched a firearm of any type since moving to Virginia and college at age 18. The adage, “it’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget,” seemed à propos given the three or four times I’d practiced firing the 9mm at the C. A. Langford rock quarry west of Guntersville (again, thanks to Micaden’s relationship with the owner).
By the time I reached Highway 431, I answered my question. Jane was headed to Ted King’s place. The blue dot had already passed underneath his arched entranceway and was now past his main house and pool, transitioning from a paved driveway to a winding gravel road. A quarter mile down the deeply forested trail was the dead end and the mayor’s log cabin, the place Lillian and I had visited, and where no doubt Ray had paid Buddy James for burning the Hunt House.
Over the next five minutes, I brainstormed my plan. One thing I knew for sure. I wasn’t about to follow Jane’s path. Following the one-way-in, one-way-out approach wasn’t wise. I only had two choices: either abandon my idea of learning what Jane was up to or repeating what Lillian and I had done during our adventure over seven weeks ago. By the time I reached Bethsaida Road, I’d made my decision. I think the bright moonlight and cool weather caused it. If it had been rainy and cold like the last time, I probably would have made a U-turn and headed to Kyla’s.
Richard L. Fricks 