Month: September 2023

I hit the snooze button twice before crawling out of bed. I blamed Kyla’s, “I’m going to miss you, but you need to get back to your routine.” Other than an “I love you,” this was the last thing I’d heard when I pulled away in the taped windowed Hyundai from Harding Hillside yesterday afternoon a few minutes before 2:00 PM headed to the Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport.

I slipped on underwear and a tee-shirt and canceled my iPhone’s alarm. It was 5:19 AM, plenty of time to reacquaint myself with my old Saturday morning routine. I walked to the master bath, peed, and washed my hands and face. My plan was to drink a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, shower and dress, and then head to Eastwood Cemetery. I wanted to arrive before the sun rose at 7:00. Rachel and I had a lot to discuss.

I flipped on the overhead light as I entered the kitchen. The coffee waiting. For a moment, I felt confused. I had no memory of removing a filter from the overhead cabinet, measuring out four scoops of Maxwell House, pouring in a pot of water, or setting the timer to 5:00 AM. No memory, because I had none. The prepped automatic coffeemaker was just one task among many Sophia had completed a few hours before I’d arrived last night at midnight. I knew from the detailed note she’d left on the kitchen table, plus by the visible cleanliness and orderliness evidenced everywhere I looked.

I poured a large cup and sat in my chair at the table in the breakfast nook. For the millionth time in the past week, I’d tried to think of something other than Lillian’s death. I failed every time. I still had little memory of how I’d driven to Boaz after my mental and physical crash at the medical examiner’s office in Sevierville, Tennessee.

After Dr. Younger had completed his autopsy, he helped arranged the transport of Lillian’s body to McRae’s Funeral Home in Boaz. She had arrived late Monday. It was Thursday before her ashes were ready. “Scatter them along the edge of the pier but wait until the geese are swimming. Just you and my web-footed angels. No one else.” It was something she made me promise after she’d escaped her coma eight weeks ago. The ceremony took place late that afternoon, just before sunset. I’d just finished cleaning out her refrigerator when I walked onto the back porch and saw the geese.

A good-morning text from Kyla brought me back to the present. We both had always been early risers, part of the never-ending competition between us.

I finished my coffee and returned to the bathroom. After showering and dressing, I drove my Tahoe to Eastwood Cemetery (thankful for Lyndell’s two friends who’d returned my trusty steed from Boston Logan Airport last Wednesday).

After the short two-mile drive, I pulled through the rock archway as a hint of sunrise appeared on the eastern horizon. It was enough light to see Gordon placing an assortment of rakes and shovels onto the back of his trailer. He waved. I waved in return, hoping he knew it was me.

I eased my way north on Luke and turned right on Gethsemane. After I stopped beside Rachel’s grave, I sat, alternating my view between her headstone to my left and the rising sun straight ahead. It was nothing but guilt. I felt I was being unfaithful to Lillian, the woman who’d taught me the true meaning of love.

I finally realized why I was here, and it wasn’t to denigrate Rachel. It was to tell her I held no ill will for all the secrets she’d kept, and to say goodbye. Unless I wanted to die, I had no choice but to go forward with the only life I could imagine, one with love and allegiance focused upon the ever present but invisible Lillian. Maybe my sense of duty or fair play was twisted, but I believed I needed to provide the reason I would not return. I analogized it to a lawyer presenting his closing argument at trial, persuading the jury they should see things his way.

I grabbed the Sand Mountain Reporter and my old green thermos and exited the Tahoe. I didn’t feel like sitting, so I didn’t retrieve the lawn chair from the rear hatch.

“Good morning, Rachel Anne.” I said, hearing the rumble of a truck in the distance. “The kids send their love.” I sent both Leah and Lyndell a text last night shortly after my plane touched down in New Haven. Both had asked if I was going to the cemetery this morning, probably knowing that I would.

I used my handkerchief to wipe the dampness from the top of Rachel’s headstone. I laid the newspaper on the cold stone and started opening the thermos. My iPhone rang the moment I removed the lid. The number wasn’t in my contacts, but I recognized it none the same.

“Good morning Gordon, hope you’re well.”

“Same to you Mista Lee. You was gones too long. Glads you’s home.”

“How are you?” I repeated my question, choosing an original phrase. I envied my caretaker friend. His life was so simple. He didn’t have a worry in the world, or so I believed.

Gordon didn’t give me time to realize the extent of my foolishness. Who was I to imagine his life as carefree, even joyous? Without relaying a hint as to his welfare, he said, “UPS leaves you a box.” I stood silent, semi-considering where I was.

“Uh?” I’d subconsciously heard the truck turn into the cemetery and pull to the caretaker’s shed. I hadn’t given it a second’s thought.

“Can’s I bring it?” Gordon’s announcement was surreal. Who sends a package to someone at a cemetery?

“You sure it’s not a bomb?” My stomach had its own announcement. It didn’t like the coffee after hearing this potentially upsetting news. I would put nothing past Ray Archer, even a dead Ray Archer. He had the means and the evil intent to destroy me, no matter where he was right now.

“Don’t know. Maybe’s I leave it here while’s I do my work. You get it when you wants.”

 “No need. You can bring it if it’s not too much trouble.” My statement wasn’t an expression of bravery, but blind curiosity.

“Ons my way.” The call ended, and I screwed the cup back onto my thermos. I returned it to the Tahoe’s driver’s seat and waited.

Gordon came and went, reverentially, like he was entering the Holy of Holies. No words, just a respectful head nod towards Rachel’s grave.

The package had been Priority Mailed yesterday. Whatever was inside, someone had thickly wrapped it with cardboard colored paper and clear tape. It was about a foot long, nine or ten inches wide, maybe three inches deep, and lighter than expected. After seeing the sender was Jane Fordham, my first thought was, “what the hell is she sending?”

I walked to the Tahoe and opened the rear hatch. After moving the lawn chair, I laid the package face up on the carpet and used my iPhone to snap a couple of photos and my penknife to cut through the tape. I tore open the cardboard-like paper and removed what clearly was a book safe. My mind hearkened to Rachel, her basement office and library, and the similar sized containers that had triggered my sad two-month adventure to Boaz.

A Farewell to Arms was inscribed across the safe’s front above a bouquet of pink flowers I didn’t recognize. I knew little about the novel other than it was a wartime love story written by Ernest Hemingway, and it wasn’t the one I’d chosen to read in Mrs. Smith’s tenth grade English class (my choice was To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee). The only difference in the book safes in our basement (I assumed they were still there.) and the one I was holding was the latter did not have a locking mechanism. Without opening it, I returned the safe to the Tahoe’s carpet, closed the hatch, and returned to Rachel’s grave, intending to present my closing statement and read the Obits. I wasn’t interested in a book, even one by a famous author. The story was straightforward to frame. Rachel had long ago loaned the book to Jane. Her guilt and her desire to dampen my hatred had prompted her to return the book to who she believed was its rightful owner. She’d likely enclosed a letter of apology and a wish for my recovery, happiness, and forgiveness.

Before I could verbalize the first paragraph of my closing statement, I realized the package was too light to contain Hemingway’s book. My curiosity got the best of me. Maybe Jane’s guilt had inspired her to confess her role in Lillian’s disappearance and death. I excused myself from Rachel’s grave and returned to the rear of the Tahoe. After reopening the hatch, I opened the book safe. Inside was a handwritten letter from Jane. What I didn’t expect was a birth certificate. Quickly and before reading, I assumed it had to be Elita’s, Rachel’s only biological child. I confirmed my guess when I read Tung Wah Hospital in Hong Kong printed underneath the ‘Place of Birth’ caption. My mind changed when I read the child’s name and date of birth: Leah Ann Packer, May 8, 1986.

Confused, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, so I started reading Jane’s letter. “Lee, I can no longer keep my promise to Rachel, the one I made in 1988 when the two of you adopted Elita’s two-year-old child. Instead, with great reluctance, I now answer the question you asked on Lillian’s pier a few weeks ago: ‘Who adopted Elita’s baby?’ The answer is, you and Rachel.”

I removed and unfolded the lawn chair and sat. I felt like the air in my lungs, and my life, were being sucked out by an infinitely powerful black hole.

I fought back tears and continued to read. “As you can see on the enclosed birth certificate, Elita gave birth on May 8, 1986. She was alone in Hong Kong, self-hidden from her adoptive parents, the Packer’s. Yet, she gave her child her own last name before passing away from complications. Rachel and Elita had kept in touch since her visit to Washington, DC. eight months earlier.”

“I’m sorry for my role in forging documents. The birth certificate you have revealing your baby’s name as Leah Marie Armstrong is a fake (Rachel switched it in 1988). I’m also sorry for my part in helping my dearest friend create the ruse that hid your adopted daughter’s identity and background. Not to minimize my role, but it wasn’t my idea. It was Rachel’s, another one of her reality-altering creations intended to protect you from hurt and heartache.”

I have never been so surprised, so shocked by something I’d learned. If true, it could be the blow that sends me over the edge. I closed my eyes and leaned my head toward my chest, symbolizing my near defeat.

I had meant so little to Rachel. She’d kept me locked out of her life. The two of us were as connected and intimate as I am to the fading importance of Pluto.

I read the final long paragraph that was Jane’s way of asking forgiveness for her many lies. It seemed she blamed most everything on the delusion that Ray Archer had put her under.

Jane signed her name and hand-printed one postscript. I guess she knew I would ask. “Rob and Rosa are the only other people who knew about Elita’s pregnancy and how Leah came to be yours and Rachel’s adopted daughter.”

I stood and returned the book safe and its contents to the Tahoe. I felt abused and helpless but motivated to move the lawn chair and myself back to Rachel’s grave.

I might not be trustworthy for secrets, but Rachel Anne depended on me to read the obits. That was the least I could do for her on the last day of my life, my old life. Monday, I would travel to the law school and tell Bert Stallings and Dean Waters I was retiring. My new life was back home with Lillian, hopefully, somehow, in her cabin by the pond. Unfortunately, my future also included multiple interviews with the DA concerning the events that had led to Ray’s death. I was confident, with Micaden’s help, I would be fully exonerated, but of course, one never knows.

I walked the few steps to Rachel’s grave with lawn chair in hand wondering if law enforcement would ever find Stella Newsome and Alex Mandy, who, as far as I knew, were still on the lamb. That thought brought Ted King to mind. According to a text from Kyla last night at the airport while I hailed a taxi, the local scuttlebutt was the worst thing that would happen to the mayor would be his resignation. He would avoid a criminal indictment since there was no one likely knowledgeable enough or brave enough to testify against him.

For some reason, I was procrastinating. I wasn’t quite ready for the Obits, instead my mind revisited another document Jane had included in the A Farewell to Arms book safe. It was a Last Will & Testament. So, it seems not only had I inherited Lillian’s ten acres and cabin on Cox Gap Road, but possibly Ray’s entire estate. The Will fortuitously states that Lillian will inherit everything if Ray does not survive her by at least ten days. It was a rather odd provision, but they created the Will during the early days of Ray and Lillian’s marriage. Since Ray survived Lillian by only six days, she’d inherited everything. Since I was her sole beneficiary, that put me in the sole position of inheriting over a billion dollars in cash and real estate. Of course, all this depended on the 1974 Will being authenticated, which I fully doubted.

At bottom, it really didn’t matter. I didn’t care about wealth. All I truly wanted was to return to the little cabin where Lillian lived in spirit and spend the rest of my days holding her hand, sharing our fears and fantasies, and reminding each other that ours was and will always be a once-in-life love.

Finally, but semi-reluctantly, I opened The Sand Mountain Reporter to the Obits on page three. “Mary Gail Norris, 89, peacefully passed into our Savior’s arms on Monday, January 25, 2021.” After reading to myself a long paragraph of cherished family memories, including twenty-something items Mary Gail was famous for cooking (I’d never heard of zucchini squash meat sauce), I refolded the newspaper and knelt beside the warming headstone.

Alone, with only a weed-eater or blower’s hum in the distance, I whispered softly but clearly. “Rachel Anne, I hope you are at peace wherever you are, in your Savior’s arms or in that non-existent state you were in before Rob and Rosa conceived you. Just as important, I hope you found the forgiveness you sought before you ended your life.”

“I hold no ill will against you, although I probably should. You kept many secrets. Many I guess I’ll never know. I now believe you truly were trying to protect me. For that, I’m grateful.”

“There’s something else I’m thankful for. And that’s our two children. In your wacky and mixed-up world, although you were never free to love me like I wanted you to, you did what now seems impossible. I’m speaking of Leah. And no, I’ll never disclose that secret.”

Again, I paused, questioning whether somehow Leah knew the truth. Either way, nothing could change how I felt about the sweet two-year-old who’d come into our lives thirty-three years ago. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head sideways, realizing I now had quickly transformed into a secret-keeper.

My left leg started cramping. I stood and hobbled around the headstone. “Rachel Anne today is the last day I’ll be visiting you, maybe forever. See, Lillian and I are back together. She loves me. I love her. We’re going to make a home, hopefully just outside Boaz. You take care. You hear.”

I grabbed the newspaper and stored it, the lawn chair, and the book safe inside the back hatch. I drove around the cemetery twice before I saw Gordon, handed him a hundred-dollar bill I told him I’d found on Gethsemane, and announced I was moving to Alabama.

He shook my hand and shared a toothless grin. “You’s take care. I hear that’s a strange place.”

“It is, and I’m still a stranger, but it’s going to be home.”

THE END

Kyla called late Friday afternoon with another update. She had just gotten off the phone with Connor Ford and had plenty to share. Kyla didn’t know how he’d obtained his information, but assumed it was through his connections to Sheriff’s Detective Mark Hale and the DA’s Chief Investigator Avery Proctor.

Ray died at 10:08 this morning. Although UAB had operated three times to repair internal damages, it was sepsis that caused his death. What started Tuesday as a treatable and controllable staph infection had entered his bloodstream on Wednesday and rocketed into full-blown sepsis by midday yesterday. Ray lost the battle today, two hours before Jane was released from the hospital and three hours before she called DA Pam Garrison to request a meeting.

The news of Ray’s death was unwelcome. I wanted him alive but locked in an 8 x 8-foot jail cell for the next twenty or thirty years.

The better news Kyla shared was that Jane had made a confession. Of sorts. My immediate thought was that Jane’s willingness to talk was prompted by Ray’s death and her knowledge that he was no longer a threat to her survival.

Jane first confessed to helping Ray disable his ankle monitor but swore she did not know what he intended to do. However, what she had witnessed at the entrance to Dogwood Trail convinced her Ray had killed Billy and Buddy James.

Jane then admitted to tipping Ray off prior to the execution of the search warrant that found his safe completely empty.

Kyla’s words, “I almost forgot. Jane had one central excuse for all her actions, even those I’ll share in a minute, that go all the way back to high school.”

I interrupted sis and inserted what I knew would be Jane’s excuse. “She blamed it all on Ray. Probably said she was under his spell and didn’t act of her free will.”

“Yep,” was Kyla’s response.

I then kept my mouth shut and listened. Over the next several minutes, I learned Jane had denied any involvement in Lillian’s disappearance, arguing vehemently that neither she nor Ted had said anything like what I’d included in my written statement to Officer Wilson. I couldn’t help but think my darling Lillian might not be missing if I’d followed my intellect, which had told me Jane was untrustworthy. My entire being yelled that Jane was a mortal enemy. I was at fault for Lillian’s disappearance, like I was for Kyle’s half-a-century ago.

What Jane divulged about Sharon Teague caught me by surprise. So far, this was the strongest threat to Jane’s freedom. She admitted helping Ray and Rachel kidnap the Albertville High School cheerleader and hide her inside Ronald Archer’s barn off Dogwood Trail. Their intent was to scare the girl into keeping her mouth shut about her and Ray’s pregnancy. The threesome intended to release Sharon within a few days once she assured them of her commitment to stay silent.

Two days later, she was dead. Possibly from a heart attack. All three, Ray, Rachel, and Jane, disposed of her body on the back side of the same farm, thinking no one would ever find her. What they didn’t know at the time was Kyle Bennett had followed them to Ronald’s barn during their last trip. From afar, Kyle had watched the trio move and bury the cheerleader’s lifeless body.

This event naturally required Jane to address the disappearance and ultimate death of Kyle. She easily admitted her role, even including her play-acting at King Street, dressed in Kyle’s clothes. She was careful to limit her exposure to what followed by describing that when the three of them, Ray, Rachel, and herself returned to the shed behind the ice plant, Kyle had disappeared. Rachel’s shocking statement, “Daddy, what have you done?” was Jane’s only clue that Rob Kern was the reason Kyle was no longer stripped to his underwear and tied inside the place they’d left him less than an hour earlier.

The bottom-line concerning Kyle was that his death was still a mystery. At least to Jane. Kyla relayed Jane was clear with DA Garrison that she had a belief, but no actual proof. Jane believed it was Rachel’s father who had taken Kyle, killed him, and disposed of his body, but she didn’t know this for a fact. She quickly answered the DA’s question about conversations she later had with her best friend. Jane swore Rachel never breathed a word about that night, at least to her. She believed with all her heart that Rachel carried the truth to her grave.

At 10:00 PM Friday night, I returned to Starbucks to see if I could gain a better perspective from the one I’d pondered inside the four walls of my Day’s Inn room. By midnight, after three cups of strong coffee, my mind was still in turmoil, not even considering the fate of my beautiful Lillian.

I exited Starbucks and started my eight-minute walk back to the hotel. It was raining. It was cold. I figuratively shook my head sideways as my head got soaked. I realized my two-month trip to Alabama hadn’t been fruitful, but one thing I felt confident about was who had kidnapped and killed Kyle. The fact Jane’s confession loosely aligned with Rosa’s brought credibility to my half-century old question. When I turned right on M & O Street, I had a confession of my own. Until Rosa died, I had convinced myself that it was Ray Archer who had ended Kyle’s life. Now, it seemed obvious I had been wrong. It was Rachel and her father. No wonder the woman who had captured my heart that day in Mrs. Stamps English class had killed herself.

I arrived at my room, drenched, and freezing. After a warm shower, I went to bed dreaming of what life with Lillian would have been like if we hadn’t broken up during my freshman year of college.

***

I tossed and turned all night. It was like I was driving a mountainous road, sleepy but knowing that if I dozed for a second or two, I would careen down the rocky hillside into a life-ending abyss.

At 7:30 am while in the bathroom splashing cold water on my face, my cell started ringing. I walked to the nightstand beside the bed. It was Detective Gass. My mind forewarned me with an image of Rachel lying in her casket at McClam Funeral Home in New Haven. “Hello.”

“Lee, this is Detective Gass. You need to sit and brace yourself. I have some bad news.” It’s funny how the mind works, always filling in knowledge gaps, redrafting hopes, and dreams. The most important thing now wasn’t that I’d find Lillian alive, but that she hadn’t suffered.

The only noise I made was long, sorrowful, and like the one I’d made when I’d found Rachel hanging from the basement ceiling: “oh no, please no, God no.”

“I’m so sorry and I apologize for not being there right now.”

I sat on the bed and interrupted Gass. “I made you promise you’d call the moment you had news.” The next few moments were a nightmare. I could feel my body revolting; it wanted to strike out and hit the wall. Something fully prepared to rip Alex Mandy’s heart out with my bare hands. But my mind was waging a uniquely different battle, that of sleep. Somehow, it knew I needed to concentrate on the road ahead, or I would die. The difference now versus my earlier mountain drive was there was a third element. I did want to die, but my mind didn’t know it, or was in its own battle against itself.

“Do you want me to send an officer for you?” Detective Gass asked. I could hear voices in the background. I couldn’t understand a single word. But I could still understand what was going on from the beeping noise. That was an ambulance backing up. Towards Lillian’s body.

“No, just tell me where you are.” Before I finished my statement, I realized the detective hadn’t told me Lillian was dead. “How did she die?” Those were the most painful four words I’d ever said.

“We’re not sure. She may have drowned.”

“Drowned. Again, where are you?”

“Meigs Falls. It’s about half-an-hour from the Day’s Inn.”

Gass said something else, but I didn’t comprehend. I was too busy booting up my laptop. “How did you find her?”

“Two early morning hikers. They had walked from the Meigs Creek Trailhead to the Falls and spotted her body in the water.”

I finally found the location on Google Maps. I don’t know how, but I asked additional questions. Detective Gass was patient and probably would have talked for hours if that was what I needed. I learned a young couple who had illegally camped by the creek a few hundred feet downstream from the Falls had found Lillian’s body two hours earlier. They had gotten up before daylight to disband camp. Seeing a body wedged between two trees a few feet from their pup tent shocked them.

Gass relayed that crime scene investigators theorized that whoever kidnapped Lillian had brought her to this location and may have hidden her body in the cave-like corridor behind where the plunging water meets the creek below.

“Are you sure it’s her?” was the last question I asked, although I knew the answer. Previously, I had sent him several recent photos of Lillian. Two were closeups.

“I am. We are. The coroner is here and agrees, but we need you to provide the ultimate confirmation.”

Detective Gass asked if I wanted an officer to come and drive me to the medical examiner’s office. Again, I declined. He gave me the address and shared his sorrow over my loss.

Somehow, I gathered my things, checked out of the hotel, and made the forty-minute trip through Pigeon Forge and on to Sevierville without hurting or killing myself or anyone else.

It was after nine before the ambulance arrived from Meigs Creek Trailhead and almost 9:30 before the examiner’s staff had Lillian’s body ready for my viewing and identification.

The moment the coroner pulled back the sheet, I saw her angelic face. I lost it and fell headfirst into the abyss.

I ignored the row of rocking chairs and entered the Lodge’s foyer. I approached a young black man—Curtis, per his name tag—at the information desk across the large reception area. He was kind and respectful toward my plight and request but lacked the authority to grant access to the security tapes. Instead, he passed me over to the manager, a Mr. Ogle, who wouldn’t arrive until 6:00 AM. “You’ll like him, and he’ll try to help. He’s the great, grandson of our founder.”

I thanked him and followed a sign pointing to the continental breakfast around the corner. Although my appetite had waned after my camera discovery, I still ate two biscuits with gravy, four slices of bacon, and a heaping portion of scrambled eggs. I think the coffee was the best I’ve ever had. I refilled my Styrofoam cup and walked outside to a stiff, uncomfortable rocking chair to wait until the manager arrived.

At 6:05, I joined Curtis at the front desk. He immediately introduced me to Austin Ogle, a man I guessed to be in his mid-forties. Tall and muscular with an untamed shock of black hair, he reminded me of Randall Radford, a high school classmate and member of the Flaming Five, a superstar team of basketball players who’d broken every record in the books.

“Curtis shared your situation. I’m sorry and want to help any way I can.” This type of empathy was rare in my experience. Rachel would label it as “miraculous.” In less than five minutes, Austin led me to a large conference room beside his office and installed a laptop computer before me. “This is a listing of camera number five’s Sunday recordings, in one-hour increments.” He said, pointing to a column on the left side of the screen. “Just click on the ones you want to watch.” Before leaving, my host shared his cell number and encouraged me to call if I needed help.

I immediately scrolled to the 7:00 to 7:59 PM hour and clicked PLAY. After fast-forwarding to 7:40, I waited. My hope was the Lodge’s camera—camera number five—would capture The Peddler Steakhouse’s parking lot and I could spot the man in a black overcoat who’d joined Lillian in returning to Stella and their back wall table. I knew from the Peddler’s inside camera—thanks to Chief Rickles—the two had entered that view at 7:55. I believed it likely he’d arrived by vehicle a few minutes earlier and, hopefully, parked in plain sight.

I spent the next ten minutes watching five or six couples exit The Peddler and only one couple enter. The shorter man in shorts and hiking boots wore a waist length ski jacket, and the taller woman anchored arm-in-arm at his side wore a snow-white dress my late wife called a jumper.

I lost my train of thought as I pondered why Rachel had appeared twice in my subconscious since I’d arrived at the Lodge. I was alternating between two plausible theories when I saw a tan colored SUV whose size reminded me of Ray’s Suburban pull into the perfect spot from camera five’s viewpoint. A man exited the driver’s side door and donned a black overcoat and matching hat. The passenger doors remained shut. The camera’s timer read, “7:46 PM.”

The man first started walking toward The Peddler’s entrance but suddenly returned to his vehicle. I couldn’t see his face given the hat and the downward angle of his head. Before opening the door, he stopped and scanned the parking lot, spending several seconds looking toward the Lodge’s front entrance. This was my landmark opportunity.

I clicked pause and removed my iPhone from the inside pocket of my jacket. I opened PHOTOS and scrolled to a shot of Alex Mandy Connor Ford had sent me during my twelve-hour nap. He’d somehow finagled it out of either Alex’s wife or Ted King. Connor wasn’t much of a chit-chatter.

I reactivated the recording. The man standing beside the tan SUV removed his hat and glasses (Rachel: “miraculous”) and intensified his stare. It was as though he had spotted the camera in the Lodge’s eve underneath the gabled dormer and wanted to share his identity. I compared his image to the photo on my iPhone. It had to be Alex Mandy.

He re-donned his hat, opened the driver’s door, and removed what had to be a pack of cigarettes since he lit one after re-closing the door. He smoked while ambling toward The Peddler’s front entrance. At 7:51, the man disappeared from the camera’s view. I imagined him taking his last draw and placing his stub in a disposal container all restaurants seemed to have. He would have entered through the giant double front doors, slid on his glasses if he hadn’t already, and walked to the restrooms. Maybe he’d seen Lillian exiting the Ladies restroom, and followed her back to Stella, seated and staring at the creek. I knew ‘Greg’ was Alex Mandy, and he was the key to finding Lillian.

It took five minutes to record on my iPhone what I’d just seen. I sent Austin a thank-you text and announced I’d found invaluable information. In my second text, I begged him to preserve camera five’s Sunday recordings, especially the 7:00 to 7:59 hour. I also disclosed I was leaving and would be in touch after I met with Chief Rickles.

***

It was 8:20 AM when I arrived the second time at the Gatlinburg Police Department. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to call Chief Rickles during my drive. I was sent to voicemail.

The receptionist told me he was in Knoxville on committee assignment planning the upcoming annual conference of the International Association of Chiefs of Police. Thankfully, he had left his apologies and instructions for me to contact Detective Tony Gass if I called or dropped by during his absence.

Gass was also unavailable. Something about a crime scene at a local grocery store. I briefly shared my dilemma with the sweet and kind receptionist and wrote a description of what I’d learned from the Bearskin Lodge, along with my cell number. She promised to relay my message. Like Curtis, she provided a sympathetic ear and a similar declaration: “Detective Gass will return your call and do everything possible to help you find Lillian and those responsible for her disappearance.” I was both disappointed and encouraged when I departed the police station.

Although Detective Gass and I talked multiple times over the next three days, they were ultimately a bust. This didn’t mean there weren’t positive steps taken. The detective used his friendship with The Peddler Steakhouse’s owner to start a newspaper and radio station blitz of Lillian’s disappearance. Austin, from the Lodge, soon joined the effort and offered a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information that led to Lillian’s discovery. Unfortunately, none of the dozens of fantastical stories from locals looking for a quick hundred grand panned into anything helpful.

However, there was one discovery that provided Detective Gass and his team an evidential trail. It was a security camera at Laurel Point Resort, the very place Jane had mentioned at the campfire in describing ‘preacher man’s’ itinerary. The video showed a man who had to be Alex Mandy, entering and exiting the Laurel Point parking lot and exchanging his tan colored SUV for a white Ford Ranger. This had taken place on Sunday night a few minutes before midnight. To me, this was anything but positive. It was a heavy hammer blow to my growing fear and terror, made worse by me being an attorney. The fact pattern my legal mind—a veteran reader of hundreds if not thousands of criminal cases—painted was leading to a horrible conclusion. Regardless of how much I tried, I couldn’t ignore the signals. All pointed to the worst possible outcome.

Equally bad was the delayed news from the Day’s Inn hotel where I was staying and where I was convinced Lillian had been abducted. According to hotel management, their entire security system had shut down Sunday evening at 8:00 PM. They couldn’t explain why or how but believed it was the work of a hacker. I couldn’t help but think about Stella Newsome and Alex Mandy, aka ‘preacher man,’ wondering if they might be responsible for the security breach. How on earth could the pair have simply vanished? Thank goodness, Detective Gass was also working that angle. All this was truly unbelievable. I literally cried to Rachel for a miracle.

From Wednesday through Friday, it felt like I was riding a roller coaster, the fairground ride I’d always hated. Although I talked with Detective Gass multiple times per day, there was never a time I felt anything but fear and terror and desired the nightmare to end. The only relief I discovered, if that’s what you call it, was while sitting at Starbucks in the chair and at the table I imagined Lillian would have sat during our Sunday night 9:00 phone conversation. Assuming things hadn’t gone so tragically wrong.

For thirty minutes, I fought tears and terror, knowing I had to stay focused. Thinking was my only weapon to battle the emotional roller-coaster I was riding.

I tried to create a narrative of what I’d heard at the fire ring. There were two conclusions I could reach. First, Jane’s loyalty is rooted inside Ray’s camp. Second, Lillian’s trip to Gatlinburg had been a setup. It was a scheme to get her away from Boaz and into harm’s way. This was confirmed by Jane and Mandy, the preacher man trailing along, creating what they believed was an impenetrable web of secrecy and distortion given all the car renting and swapping they had done. I knew Ray was behind it all. He had the most to lose, a half-billion dollars and a share of Rylan’s future profits. And this didn’t include the freedom he stood to lose if Lillian and I had our way.

***

I drove another couple of miles and saw the Hammondville/Valley Head exit. This was the area where they found the bodies of Buddy and Billy James. Although I couldn’t prove it, my gut told me Ray was their killer. He had to be. I wondered if greaser Alex Mandy had helped. If I’d heard correctly, this was the area Jane’s Impala was parked, waiting on preacher man’s return from Gatlinburg. I fought the urge to exit and explore.

My iPhone rang. It was Connor. At the police station, I had asked Micaden to call him. “Hello.”

“How are you making it?” I could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“I’m a basket case. I assume Micaden filled you in?”

“Yep. I have a feeling your intuition is right.” I could hear chatter and the rattling of plates in the background.

“Why?” Connor had learned something.

“I just left Sylvia Mandy’s house. Alex wasn’t there.”

“Surprise.” The man was in route from Gatlinburg to Valley Head. “I know you asked about his whereabouts.”

“I did. In fact, I believe she was telling me the truth.”

“Uh?” I could visualize a spouse not being totally open.

“What she believed to be the truth. She said he had preached the first service of a revival in Knoxville and wouldn’t be home until Thursday.”

“So, Mandy’s bullshitting her and she’s totally in the dark?” I couldn’t help but think of Rachel and all her secrets. “What about a cell number?”

“She gave it to me, but he won’t answer.” I heard a server ask Connor for his order. “Hold on Lee, I’m at the Huddle House.” While waiting, Kyla called. I let it go to voicemail. After ordering enough food for three people, Connor returned. “After I eat, I’m headed to Ted King’s house. The bastard denied everything when I called him an hour ago. He’s not getting off that easy.”

“I’d appreciate you keeping me updated.”

“I will. Promise.” I heard a familiar voice asking if he could join Connor. “Hey Lee, I have to go.”

“Okay, talk later.” I ended the call and concluded the voice was that of Officer D. Wilson.

I wanted to call Sylvia Mandy myself and ask her the name of the Knoxville church where her husband was preaching a revival, but I knew that was a lie and a dead end. Instead, I returned Kyla’s call.

***

“Hey brother. How are you?”

“Devastated. Destroyed. Dying. All these things and worse if I don’t find Lillian.” It was far worse than when Rachel killed herself. I loved her, but not like Lillian. The difference was intimacy. And the fact Lillian wanted to live and be together forever.

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, and I cannot imagine what it’s doing to you.” Kyla was serious, but that didn’t ease my pain.

“What have you learned?” As I was at Harding Hillside scrambling to leave for Gatlinburg, I’d shared with Kyla the night’s details, and asked her to go on the offensive, including a visit to the hospital. I knew it was a long shot, but I needed to know how Jane would respond to my accusations that she was a liar and responsible for Lillian’s disappearance.

“Ray’s critical. The hospital airlifted him to UAB. Jane’s in recovery after shoulder surgery. Something about blood vessel damage.”

“So, the bitch is going to live?” I was certain Jane and Ray had plotted the pilfering of his safe and the disappearance of everything she’d discovered.

“Seems that way. A nurse told me I should be able to see her at daylight.” I heard the hospital’s intercom in the background, something about needing housekeeping in the E.R.

“You see any police or deputies?”

“No, not since Ray took off.” Kyla paused. “Lee, here’s something that might be helpful. I’m not sure.”

“What?” Traffic in Chattanooga was terrible even though it was the middle of the night.

“After I arrived, Jane was in the E.R. and attracting a ton of nurses and doctors. I went to see Audrey Creely, you know, my neighbor. She’s been in ICU for several days. After my visit, I asked an ICU nurse if she knew when Stella would return. Her response surprised me.”

“How so?”

“I could tell by the nurse’s tone, short and nippy, she and Stella weren’t the best of friends.”

“Tell me what she said.”

“‘Thankfully, never.’ Her words.”

“What did that mean? Did you ask?”

“Well, of course. Just listen.”

“Just give it to me. Don’t turn this into a script.”

“According to Deidre, Stella’s last day was Friday. She’d worked out her two-week notice. Deidre says there’s a man in the picture. Here’s another quote, ‘Stella seems to ignore two key questions, the man is married, and he’s a preacher.’”

“Deidre said that, exactly?”

“Yes, and, she added a third problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The man said they would travel, and she wouldn’t have to work. Apparently, Deidre has some personal experience with one or more of these issues.”

“Thanks sis, that’s helpful. It probably explains why Stella isn’t returning my calls.” My question of whether she’s involved with Lillian’s disappearance is answered. Or so it seems.

“Lee, I’ve got to go. There’s a police officer, a D. Wilson, wanting to ask me some questions. Keep me posted. Please?”

“I will and you too.”

I fell into a funk as the miles rolled by. I tried at least ten radio stations to dissipate my anger, fear, and depression. Nothing seemed to help.

It was four-thirty AM when I drove into the Day’s Inn. I had made it in four hours, despite a half-hour nap at the Tennessee Welcome Center and slow traffic in Chattanooga.

***

It took less than five minutes to fail my first mission. The desk clerk rejected my request to see Room 239, saying it was a crime scene and off-limits. I didn’t like being told no, so I thanked the thick-glassed woman and retraced my steps to the front doors. At the last minute, I caught sight of the restrooms in the far corner. After pretending for as long as I could, I exited and slinked my way to the stairwell. The clerk never looked away from her computer monitor. On the second floor, I failed just as much. There was a police officer standing in the hallway in front of the entrance to Room 239. He wouldn’t answer the simplest of questions, so I went to find his boss.

During my three-mile drive to the police station, I recalled last night’s call to Micaden and how much I appreciated his availability and willingness to help, even considering his near discourteous nature. Besides suggesting he call Connor Ford, Micaden had promised to call the Gatlinburg Police Department and pave my way. Hopefully to find some genuine answers.

Braden Rickles was the police chief, middle-aged, tall, thin, and sporting a handlebar mustachio. He greeted me personally and welcomed me back to his office without delay. Not thinking, and certainly inconsiderate on my part, I complained about what I’d experienced at the Day’s Inn. The chief apologized for my trouble and revealed that I should have called, and he would have provided clearance. The reason was that the County’s crime scene investigators had already come and gone. Rickles explained: when he received the call from Micaden, he realized the urgency of the situation and decided to take charge of the investigation.

The first thing he’d done was to activate what he called his ‘48-hour plan.’ This was the Gatlinburg P.D.’s procedure in handling missing persons. Rickles directed officers to follow the alleged victim’s (Lillian’s) path while she’d been in Gatlinburg. I was glad I had shared these locations with Micaden. The officers had gone to the Day’s Inn, The Peddler Steakhouse, both the lower and upper parts of Ober Gatlinburg, and the Starbuck’s coffee shop. They had requested security camera footage and were attempting to interview every employee who was on duty during the time Lillian would have been present at their location. Although I didn’t know if Lillian had gone there, I’d also shared with Micaden what I’d heard at the campfire about Laurel Point Resort.

The only thing remotely relevant so far was footage provided by The Peddler Steakhouse. Rickles was quick to respond affirmatively when I asked if I could watch it. He modeled the behavior of a man who was trying his best to put himself in my shoes.

The clip was clear, and from the best angle I could have wanted. Lillian and Stella (I assume it was her but all I could see was the back of her head) sat at a small four-place table along a row of large windows at, what I figured from a brochure Chief Rickles provided, the back of the restaurant. Outside was a beautiful creek running parallel to the row of windows.

For an hour I was alone with my dear Lillian, Rickles having to respond to several officer phone calls. It didn’t appear there was a lot of conversation between the two women. After the server delivered their food, they ate in silence. Stella chewed her food while she stared at the fast-flowing creek.

At 7:44 PM Lillian laid aside her fork, stood, and walked away. I assume to go to the restroom. It was 7:55 before she returned, and she wasn’t alone. Lillian took her seat. The man, dressed in a black overcoat with matching hat, stood to Lillian’s right and Stella’s left. I couldn’t see his face, but in his two-minute presence, I thought I glimpsed a pair of eyeglasses. At 7:58 PM, Stella and the unidentified man exited, leaving Lillian alone. She removed and activated her cell from a bag on the chair beside her. She read for thirty seconds and then sent one, maybe two, texts. It was 8:03 when she moved out of the camera’s view.

Chief Rickles must have been watching me through the one-way glass. He entered and answered my unstated question. They did not capture Lillian on any other camera at The Peddler from 7:30 to 8:30 pm. Although an officer was now reviewing footage of all the places I believed Lillian to have visited, I didn’t expect any good news. If that’s what I would call it.

At 7:15, Chief Rickles suggested I get some rest. I think I would have stayed for an infinite number of hours just to be near Lillian. I’d watched the thirty-minute clip four times. Along with Rickles, but in separate cars, I left for the Day’s Inn with the deeply troubling feeling that I would never see Lillian again.

During my return drive to the hotel, I made my umpteenth attempt to reach Stella by phone. Again, she didn’t answer. This was troubling. Either someone had kidnapped her like Lillian, or she was part of the criminal conspiracy. I doubted if it was anything as innocent and trivial as “my phone battery died.”

The same officer was standing outside Room 239. This time he smiled and stepped aside, relaying he’d spoken with Chief Rickles. He even said, “take your time and, I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

I walked into the small foyer. The bathroom was to my right but what caught my attention was an open suitcase on a low-slung chest of drawers next to a TV across from the room’s second queen-size bed. This one perfectly made up. At first glance, I knew this was Lillian’s suitcase unless Stella had an identical one.

It took five seconds to find out it was Lillian’s. I knew her clothes. And I now knew someone else had rummaged through them since they were tossed about. I removed each piece and laid them on what I assumed was Lillian’s bed. The other one had the bed spread turned down with a rumbled pillow. I assumed that was Stella’s.

Halfway through my suitcase search, I realized there was nothing else in the room. No suitcase for Stella. I walked to the bathroom and found Lillian’s flowery makeup bag she had purchased from Amazon in anticipation of our trip to New Haven.

After a thorough search, I returned to Lillian’s suitcase and realized the Crime Scene team had gone through every item in the room. My mind was in slow gear. I was not thinking sharp and crisp like I normally do. I continued removing Lillian’s clothing and was about to refold and return the items.

That’s when I noticed the message Lillian had left me. At the bottom of the suitcase was her redbird broach, the one I’d given her in high school. I knew she took extraordinary care of what she claimed was her most prized possession.

All I could see in my mind’s eye was someone had abducted her from this room, or something had spooked her into believing she was being followed, or that she was otherwise in fear for her life. She had removed the redbird and tossed it into her suitcase. The Crime Scene person’s pilfering or my own had caused it to tumble to the bottom of Lillian’s suitcase.

I spent a wasted fifteen minutes inspecting every nook and cranny before returning to the front desk and securing a room for myself. I didn’t want to go to sleep, but my body was screaming for rest. And that’s what I did for twelve hours until I awoke at 3:30 AM Tuesday morning hungry as a bear.

***

I quickly showered and dressed. I called the front desk to ask about the hotel’s continental breakfast and was told it started at 6:30. My stomach reminded me that was too long to wait. Since I really didn’t want to drive anywhere, I sat at the small table next to the balcony and did a Google search on my iPhone to find the nearest restaurant open at this early hour.

I soon learned my best option was the Bearskin Lodge. It’s to the right of The Peddler Steakhouse which is directly across from the Day’s Inn. I clicked on the link. A full breakfast buffet started at 5:00 AM. Surely, I could wait an hour. After reviewing a gallery of photos, I decided to walk across the street and sit in one of the rocking chairs outside the Lodge’s entrance.

My direct path to the chairs was diagonally across the left quadrant of The Peddler’s parking lot. I couldn’t help but stare at the front entrance and imagine what had happened to Lillian. After completing her meal, she returned to her room at the Day’s Inn. How else would her Red Bird wind up in her suitcase?

My too-long view of The Peddler’s front entrance caused me to nearly trip as I walked into a narrow band of shrubbery separating the two parking lots. When I regained my balance, I heard a bird flitting about a large bush I guessed was Rhododendron or Mountain Laurel. It started singing. I stopped and spotted it, now higher in a nearby tree. Of all things, it was a redbird, a male, beautifully red and making music in two to three second bursts. It sounded like it was saying “cheer, cheer, cheer,” or “birdie, birdie, birdie.” I imagined this might be a code to warn its nearby mates.

I continued to walk, alternating my gaze between my feet for stability and upwards toward the redbird. After three additional steps, I was in the Lodge’s parking lot. The redbird flew higher to the tiptop corner of a large dormer on the right side of the Lodge’s fifth floor. I stopped, kept staring for several seconds, and froze in place. There was a security camera beneath the eve where the beautiful redbird was sitting. Its view had to include most of the The Peddler’s parking lot. Instantly, I knew my mission.