Author: Richard L. Fricks

If it hadn’t been for Rob’s funeral, I think I would have struck out for Roanoke the moment I left Rosa and Bridgewood Gardens. I would have driven to Kyla’s for a change of clothes and toothbrush, quasi-argued with Lillian it was unnecessary for us both to go, and settled in for a fourteen-hour plus round-trip journey. Instead, I felt guilty and invoked a weird, maybe unnatural, combination of ease and duty. I’d opted to stay put.

A Southern Baptist funeral is predictable. The First Baptist Church of Christ sanctuary was abuzz with gospel songs, Rob-as-saint eulogies, and an unsurprising evangelistic sermon (including altar call). I’m confident I could have written Pastor T. J. Miller’s script: “Rob is now in a better place, one without pain and sorrow, and you can go there too, if you will believe in the name of Jesus Christ.” A too-long graveside service at Hillside Cemetery was a similar event, albeit with fewer warnings of Hell in the afterlife. Since college, I’d always been skeptical of the Christian story, but Rachel’s nonsensical death had tipped me sideways and triggered an intense search for the truth. So far, my transformation categorized the supernatural as pure conjecture.

I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon and evening at Kyla’s with her, my two children, and the four best grandchildren in the world. It was an enjoyable time and made my heart yearn for Rachel, regardless of everything I’d recently learned.

Things changed again at 9:00 PM. Lyndell and Leah were online looking at Google Maps to determine the best route by car to return to their homes in Exeter, New Hampshire. They discovered a near-certain snow and ice storm headed for the northeast. It was scheduled to hit early Tuesday morning. This news rescheduled their planned departure time to Monday morning. For me, unencumbered by a spouse or children, I opted to leave at 10:00 pm.

After a long game of Monopoly with Jackson and Jasper, I stood on the front porch with all four grands, each rustling for just one more hug. Finally, I retreated down the stairs blowing kisses with my left hand and holding my travel bag with my right. The dominating thought was how strikingly similar Ava and Amelia were to both Rachel and Leah. Climbing inside the Hyundai, I gave one last wave and chuckled out loud at the idea of miracles.

All the way to Collinsville, I contemplated alternative plans for when I would next travel to Exeter to spend time with the most wonderful kids who ever lived.

I filled up with gas at the BP and bought a cup of coffee. At 10:35 PM, I merged onto I-59, intending to drive nonstop to Roanoke other than one or two-bathroom breaks. Hopefully, I can make the 440 miles on one tank.

I had just passed the Hammondville/Valley Head exit sign when Lillian called. A lonely heart now regretted our Friday agreement to act like strangers while Leah, Lyndell, and their families were in town. Subconsciously, I knew my high school girlfriend and I were once again deeply connected. Sooner than later, I needed to share the good news with my dear children. “Hey you.”

“Still mad.” After my meeting with Rosa early this morning, I called Lillian and detailed what I’d learned. She’d agreed this was a huge break in our investigation and we needed to go to Roanoke as soon as possible. I had insisted I go alone since it was going to be a long, hard trip. Also, she and Kyla needed to develop a response to our little snafu at Jane’s house last Friday night.

I was a little surprised by my, “I’m mad at me too. I wish you were here straddling this console” response. We both had a pleasant laugh given my ill-imagined (and described) posture for the sixty-six-year-old beauty. “Will you forgive me?”

“What choice do I have? You forgave me for something far worse.” I paused before responding, asking myself what if I had refused three weeks ago to have anything to do with Lillian? I would have never experienced such joy, happiness, and peace. And all that had happened under the dark, foreboding sky of our current investigation. What might it be when Lillian and I are free to live a normal life, one free of her marriage to the murderous Ray and mine from the mysterious and lying Rachel?

I surprised myself. Again. “I’ve missed you like crazy and cannot wait until all this is over.”

“Good to hear. By the way, will you always try to keep me a secret from Leah and Lyndell?” I could picture exactly where Lillian was. The screen door on her back porch always squeaked when opening and closing.

“Oh, you naïve woman. Secret, what is there to keep secret? You are just one of dozens of gorgeous females stalking and luring me with their tantalizing charms. I certainly cannot tell my children about them all.”

“Dang, you’re in good spirits, albeit a little twisted. At least you’ve admitted I’m gorgeous.” The door squeaked again.

“Lillian, my dear, you know I’m kidding. By the way, what are you doing?”

“Unloading a few groceries and some cleaning supplies. This place is a mess.” I wondered why Lillian had waited until now to spruce up her cabin. She’d already spent two nights there.

“Promise me you’ll return to Kyla’s tomorrow and stay until I return. Agree?” It was the first time we’d been apart overnight since she’d learned Ray was a genuine threat to the two of us.

“Lee, can I ask a serious question?”

“Don’t do that. You know our promise to be fully open.”

“Do you ever consider how this is going to work out?” I heard dinging. Lillian was moving her Aviator.

“You mean Ray and our investigation?” A twinge of guilt ripped through me. This wasn’t what she was talking about.

“Yes, and us, afterwards.”

“I do, I’m ready for it all to be over.” I paused, trying to decipher Lillian’s barely audible words. Something about her garage door remote. “The investigation and your divorce.”

“Shit, my thing-a-ma-ding won’t work. Good thing I have another place to park given the possible snowstorm.”

“Uh?”

“I’m not pressing at all, but just need some hope. I’m interested in your mental wanderings.” Again, I heard the ding from an open door. “Hold on, let me check.” In a minute, she returned. “I can’t raise the door from the outside. Oh well.” The dinging stopped. “Your thoughts?”

“Okay, but first a question.”

“Always.”

“You realize I intend on staying at Yale, that I’m not ready to give up my teaching job?”

“I do, but I also know how difficult a long-distant relationship can be.” Again, the dinging. “Sorry, hold on again. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

I merged into I-24. Time and miles were passing quickly. Maybe I’d talk to Lillian the entire trip.

“Shit, it’s locked.”

“What?”

“The roll-up door at the barn. I was going to park inside. That’s odd.”

“I thought it stayed open. At least that’s what I recall. Can’t you park on the other side?”

“I could, but I let Tony Clifton, my neighbor, store a bunch of square bales in there while he and Neva are rebuilding their barn.”

“Idea. Why don’t you go to Kyla’s? Since I’m not there, you won’t blow our cover. You’ll have to leave your Aviator outside, but you’ll be safe and won’t have to worry about moving it in the morning.”

“Thanks darling, but I’m waiting here until you return. I’ll give you three guesses why and the first two don’t count.”

Lillian and I talked all the way to Knoxville. Our discussion was excellent, other than her telling me she had seen Ray at Rob’s funeral. Mostly, we talked about our feelings for each other and the possibility of Lillian moving to New Haven as soon as her divorce was final.

After we hung up, I shook my head in amazement at how easy it was to be so open and intimate with a woman. Not since I’d become an adult had I ever experienced such chemistry. Certainly, Rachel and I had never entered this zone.

This thought, and a dozen more analyzing the possibilities of a life with Lillian, occupied my time until 4:30 AM when I pulled into the driveway of Rob and Rosa’s cabin. I had stopped one time to pee at a Mobil service station in Bull Gap two hundred miles south of Roanoke.

My ultimate destination was located halfway to Mason Cove to the northwest, on a heavily wooded lot at the dead end of Bluebird Lane. It wasn’t close to being a cabin, instead it was a split-level brick. From the outside, it appeared to be at least fifty years old, not decaying, but certainly weathered. The driveway led to a double garage with a walk-through door separating the two bays. I exited the Hyundai, verified these three doors were locked, and walked back to the front and up a steep stairwell leading to the front door.

I used the keys Rosa had given me to unlock the solid wood door that needed a fresh coat of stain and varnish. Inside was diametrically opposite my outside impression. From my viewpoint, inside a large foyer, Rob and Rosa had updated the den to my left and the kitchen farther back. Probably within the past few years.

I walked to the leather Lazy-Boy closest to the fireplace and imagined Rob sitting reading one of the many Christianity Today magazines nestled atop the nearby table. A fire and a nap were tempting, but I rejected the idea and walked into the kitchen, admiring the stainless-steel appliances. I explored three bedrooms at the back of the house, all located six steps higher than the main floor. The wood paneling in all three rooms was gorgeous. I again fought the urge to lie back and rest my eyes.

I kept going. The basement door was beside the laundry room. As I descended the crude stairwell, a damp, musty smell slithered inside my nostrils. It reminded me of the cellar at Harding Hillside and the slimy feeling I always felt when Mom made me fetch a jar of green beans or a half-dozen potatoes.

Rosa’s drawing was spot on. Straight across from the bottom step, maybe eight feet, was a four-foot fence like structure with a hinged door. All of this rested atop a cement wall that was a few inches taller than me.

I found a four-foot ladder and stepped onto the second rung. The deadbolt needed a little WD-40 but quickly surrendered to my initial tug. The faded white door creaked as I swung it towards the stairs. I eased upwards to the third rung and used my iPhone’s flashlight to peer over the cement wall. A section of plastic drainpipe was the only thing Rosa had not denoted. Thankfully, it lay undetached to anything and took little effort to toss onto the plastic ground cover beyond.

I refocused the light and barely caught the edge of a plastic Zip-lock bag. I had to lie across the wooden bottom plate of the door opening and nearly tilted my ladder. Holding my iPhone in my right hand, I had to stretch, but finally grabbed the bag. It took a little tugging, but it finally separated from the surrounding dirt. It was heavy, like steel. The plastic was almost opaque, but not enough to prevent discerning the clear outline of a pistol.

The ladder gave me a little trouble, but after rocking my body backwards enough for my feet to find the third rung, I descended to the second, closed and secured the door, and found solid footing on the concrete floor. I used a shop rag from a workbench at the back of the basement to remove the dirt and grime from the bag. Once clean, I could make out the Smith & Wesson lettering and the pistol’s serial number. I tried to verify the manufacture date, but my cell service was minimal.

I returned upstairs and sat at the breakfast nook table. Relieved, I learned the S & W pistol I was holding was manufactured in 1965. The website described it as “a Model 60, Stainless Steel Chiefs Special Revolver.”

“Surely, this was the weapon Ray Archer had used to kill Kyle.” I continued to sit and ponder, reliving wonderful memories of times spent at his house and along nearby Clear Creek. My thoughts transformed negatively when I recalled the smell of decomposing garbage wafting in through the half-rotted windows. I don’t know how long I dozed before my head jerked upwards, reminding me I needed to leave temptations of chair and beds, and once again continue my journey.

I quickly stood, clutched the plastic and steel package under my arm, and walked to the front porch. After locking the door, I paused to enjoy a moment of satisfaction. I realized I might be fooling myself, yet I felt emboldened. I quasi yelled as I descended the porch stairs: “Kyle, old buddy, I’m coming. I promise I’ll never abandon you again.”

Sunday morning, I was still feeling guilty over what I’d done. Sometimes I talk when I should remain silent.

Rosa, Leah, Lyndell, and the four grands had arrived from Roanoke late Friday afternoon. The normal seven-hour drive had taken nearly ten hours, given Rosa’s urinary incontinence and young Jackson’s inner ear/motion sickness issues.

Yesterday, Leah and Lyndell had driven to the Birmingham airport to pick up their spouses, Dale and Olivia, and allow the females to indulge themselves at the Riverchase Galleria, one of the country’s largest malls.

Fortunately, this had provided a long overdue opportunity to spend time with my four grandchildren: Lyndell’s two boys, Jackson and Jasper, 7 and 6, and Leah’s two daughters, Ava and Amelia, 5 and 3. The five of us spent most of the day walking, talking, fishing, playing with the goats, and wrestling in the hay-filled barn loft. The weather had been warm but sunless, the fast-moving clouds foreboding the incoming rain.

The minute my children and their spouses arrived, I’d excused myself to my bedroom to call Rosa. I had been eager to talk with her ever since Lillian and I discovered Jane’s mystery wall. Proper respect probably required me to wait until after Rob’s funeral before confronting Rosa. But my attorney mind kept asking what respect she’d shown me all these years.

After arriving Friday night, Rosa had insisted on staying at her and Rob’s apartment at Bridgewood Gardens, the assisted living facility the couple had made their home for the past eight years. Unfortunately, Rosa had visitors and could not talk. Thankfully, she had insisted I come this morning.

I exited Woodham Drive into the Gardens’ parking lot at 6:50 AM. I’m not sure why Rosa insisted we meet so early. It probably had something to do with Rob’s 2:00 PM funeral at First Baptist Church of Christ.

There was no one manning the reception counter, but there was a sign on a glass wall requiring all visitors to sign in. The three-ring binder was open to the current page, revealing only one line available. I signed and scanned the other twenty-four names. The third one from the top was Ray Archer. He had been here Friday morning to see Ronald Archer. I assumed it was Ray’s father, but I did not know.

Per Leah’s directions, I walked to the end of a wide hallway and turned right into one much narrower. The cafeteria was on my left. After passing through two intersecting corridors, I turned right. According to a wall map, room 188 was straight ahead, at the dead end of Hallway G.

The door was cracked open three or four inches. I knocked, and Rosa immediately responded. “It’s open, come in.” I complied.

She was sitting in a small den on the far side of a rectangular room. I passed through a quasi-kitchen (a few cabinets, a sink, and a microwave) and ignored her non-verbal instruction to sit on a leather couch opposite her Lazy Boy chair. I eased to her, laid my hand on her shoulder and kissed her forehead. “How are you, Mom?” I had called her this since mine and Rachel’s wedding. Rosa had insisted. I retreated to the couch.

“Seen better days. How are you?” My mother-in-law had always been an elegant woman. She still is. Her graying hair looked like she’d just returned from the beauty shop. She wore a multi-colored silk housecoat. The deep rich red of her house shoes exuded refinement.

“Dreading this conversation.” I might as well be direct.

“Lee, before we jump into the abyss, please consider my love for Rachel, a mother’s love for her only daughter.” I kept listening, anticipating she knew why I was here. “And, just as important, I loved you. Still do.”

“Do you know why I’m here, what I want to talk about?”

“I think so. It’s long overdue and now that you’ve stumbled onto the truth, part of it, we need to air my dirty laundry.” I wanted to probe Rosa’s statement. How did she know I’d discovered the truth, or, as she said, ‘part of it?’

“Mom, I need you to be fully open with me. I need to know the truth.” As an afterthought, I added, “and no matter what it is, I will always love you, just like I will always love Rachel.”

“And I’ll always regret my decision to return to Alabama the summer of 1968. Rob had wanted to stay in China. Rachel and Randy were doing well in school, no indications or forewarning of trouble.” I was glad Rosa was starting at the beginning, even though I’d assumed the eighteen-month sabbatical was mutual with her husband.

My mother-in-law paused and closed the Bible that had been open on her lap. “What changed? I mean, what happened in Alabama?” I felt I knew but needed to hear it from Rosa.

“It was like a switch flipped. One inside Rachel’s head. I could blame it on her maturing puberty or approaching adolescence, but it also had to do with an evolving inquisitiveness about the world, including a rustling rebellion against Christianity, maybe authority.”

“The latter surprises me. Rachel never shared this phase with me.”

Rosa glanced at a digital clock on the table beside her chair. “Randy and Celia will be here between 8:30 and 9:00, but I want to answer all your questions. Since you’re the attorney, why don’t you guide our conversation.”

I smiled and nodded, thankful for Rosa’s apparent willingness to let the floodgates open. I figuratively stood erect and leaned forward into the deep darkness. “Why have the Archer’s, Ronald and Ray, been paying you and Rob all these years?” I’m not sure why I started here instead of with Rachel’s baby.

“Wow, you’ve looked behind the curtains.” Rosa paused again, lowered her footrest, stood, and walked to the back wall. She opened the blinds and stared into an overcast sky. Without turning, she said, “we would have done it without the money.”

“You and Rob?”

“Yes.”

“Done what?” I hoped she’d volunteer more details and transform her responses into an informative narrative.

“Keep our mouths shut.” I stayed silent, hoping Rosa would continue without prompting. Knocking and intrusion of a nurse’s aide delivering a half-dozen pills prolonged the wordless intermission. After we were again alone, Rosa continued. “Kyle’s accident and death came as a shock.”

At first, I thought I’d misheard. Accident? It didn’t take anything but a few seconds to realize Rosa believed a lie, probably a bag of lies. “Accident?” I almost said, ‘Ray murdered Kyle,’ but didn’t.

“Roland convinced me it was just as much Rachel’s fault as Ray’s, so Rob and I went along with the plan.”

“The plan? What plan?” I literally shook my head. Rosa turned in time to see my expression.

“Kyle had fallen and hit his head. He died almost instantly. The problem was that it had taken place during an altercation.”

“You mean a fight?” I didn’t stop for Rosa’s response. “Why not just tell the truth? Maybe it was simply Rachel at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Wouldn’t have worked. They, Ray and Rachel, had just learned what Kyle knew.”

“What was that?” Here comes the story of Rachel’s pregnancy.

“Somehow, Kyle discovered Ray had gotten an Albertville cheerleader pregnant. And, about that girl’s disappearance.” Rosa returned to her Lazy Boy but didn’t raise the footrest.

I might as well be proactive. “Did Kyle also know about Rachel’s pregnancy?”

Rosa didn’t verbally respond, but she did nod affirmatively.

“Tell me about the fight. Where Kyle fell.”

“He was trying to extort money from Ray and threatened to go public if he didn’t pay up. It happened at the creek, besides Kyle’s house.” From what I thought I knew, Rosa’s story was surreal.

“I’m sorry to say this, but there’s something obviously missing. Based on the fight, altercation as you call it, I don’t see a good reason for you and Rob to have stayed silent.” This time, I paused, considering my next thought. “Unless you needed the money, or, sorry to put it this way, were greedy and saw an easy way to line your pockets.”

“Lee, you know Rob and me better than to make that accusation. Please realize how difficult this is for me. I can’t stand speaking ill of my dearest Rachel.”

“Mom, remember, I need the truth.”

“Ronald made us believe it somehow involved Rachel. The disappearance of Sharon Teague.” The enunciation of the girl’s name triggered, at first, the sensation of ingesting a mouthful of spoiled milk, then a feeling of approaching nausea. Rosa knew some truthful facts.

“Did Rachel admit the same?” Rosa’s story seemed fanciful. “How had Ronald Archer been so persuasive?”

“She did but would never provide details. All she would say is, ‘Mom, Dad, I am responsible for Sharon’s death.’”

“Assuming all this was true, it seems more likely that Ronald would ask you and Rob to pay him. Did you not imagine that Ray was criminally at fault in Kyle’s death?” Rosa (and Rob) had either been naïve, or she was still concealing a mountain of relevant facts.

“To be blunt, and reveal our ignorance, we ignored everything but Rachel’s exposure. It wasn’t until later that we learned what Ray had done to Kyle.”

“And what was that?” I felt like a hamster on a treadmill.

“Ray had shot and killed Kyle. Intentionally.” I almost interrupted, but Rosa held out her hand. “To make matters worse, Rachel told us she had hidden the murder weapon.”

Another knock at the door provided an opportunity to frame my response. A tall and skinny young red-headed boy, maybe twenty, entered bearing Rosa’s breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal, a slice of unbuttered toast, an orange, a banana, a pint of milk, and a glass of what I assume was cranberry juice. Tad, per his name tag, set the tray on a TV stand and positioned it in front of Rosa. He left after wishing us both a nice day.

While Rosa ate, I talked, choosing my words carefully. I shared how Rachel had told me the reason she attempted suicide the first time was because of her abortion.

“She never had an abortion.” Rosa said without looking at me.

“I know that now, but before we talk about Elita Ann Kern…” This time, Rosa looked straight at me, her eyes distant. “Rachel wrote in her diary what happened the night of December 11, 1969.” I shared how she led me to believe she had hidden the murder weapon, a Smith & Wesson 38 caliber pistol, in an upstairs wall at the Hunt House. Rosa continued to eat as I summarized how I’d found a similar pistol, but it could not have been the murder weapon.

This is when everything changed. “Rachel moved it to the cabin. In Roanoke.” I thought of the ‘38 to friend’ note scribbled inside Rosa’s favorite book, The Cost of Discipleship.

My words failed. My mouth was like cotton. I stood and walked to the sink and ran a glass of water and drank half of it. On my way back to the couch, I finally spoke. “When did Rachel do that?”

“Before she killed herself.” At first, I thought Rosa was attempting some dark humor. “I mean during the six months before she hung herself.”

I had a dozen questions, including how Rachel could have pulled off this two-thousand-mile trip, and where she would have gotten the newer S&W she stuffed inside the Hunt House wall replacing the actual murder weapon. I silently laughed to myself, realizing I was citing facts I didn’t know were true. There was at least one thing I needed Rosa to answer. “How do you know the pistol in Roanoke is the murder weapon, the gun that Ray used to kill Kyle?” I was still making a couple of assumptions, but my awkward sentence generated a quick response.

“Rob. I always thought he would have made a better lawyer or detective than a missionary.”

“What did he do?” I was hoping Rosa would say Rob had someway engaged an expert who tied it via ballistics or fingerprints to Ray Archer. I was dreaming.

“He convinced Ronald Archer to verify it was his. The serial number matched.” It was a letdown. This was circumstantial.

Rosa took a bite of her banana and stared at me. “I see that look. Remember, Rob was sharp. He audio-taped a phone conversation with Ronald and Ray. The two finally admitted the pistol Rob was referring to had been used to shoot Kyle.”

“That doesn’t sound smart. Sorry, no disrespect to Rob. Why would he let Ray and his father know he had possession of the murder weapon?”

“Who said he did?” Obviously, I was confused. Rosa nodded and raised her eyebrows. “Rob lied. He made Ray and Ronald think he had a photograph of the pistol.”

I looked at my watch. It was after seven-thirty, and I had a ton more questions. “Where is the pistol now, the murder weapon?”

“Hand me that notebook.” Rosa pointed to a small desk beside her end table. “And a pencil.” I complied.

As instructed, I moved her breakfast tray to the kitchen while she sketched. When I returned, Rosa motioned me to stand beside and behind her while she drew and explained. “You know for sure it’s still there?” I had to ask.

“Unless it has been discovered and moved since late Thursday night when I checked.” Rosa circled an asterisk she had made along the basement’s rear wall. “There’s a crawl-through door here, but you can use a chair to reach inside behind the concrete wall. It’s protected by a zip-lock bag.”

After printing the cabin’s address in the lower right corner, Rosa removed the sheet and handed it to me. I returned to my spot on the couch. “I need to go to Roanoke. Is that okay with you?”

Rosa nodded affirmatively and reached to her left toward the floor. She fumbled in a large leather bag and tossed a set of keys my way. “Keep them. It will soon be yours and the kids.” I wondered if she was relaying the contents of Rob’s will, her intent to make a gift, or whether she was expecting her near-term death.

The land line phone on her end table rang as I slid the keys inside my jacket pocket. She let it ring several times. “Shouldn’t you answer that?”

“I’m sure it’s Stella Reed from 144. She calls about this time every Sunday morning. She can wait.” I offered encouragement through head and hand signals to answer, thinking another voice might give my mother-in-law a respite from our abyss-like discussion. After eight rings, she finally answered. “Hello.” A five second pause was followed by, “okay dear, love you.”

“I’m betting that was Randy.” I said, standing, acknowledging my desire to avoid my brother-in-law and his girlfriend in this setting. At the funeral home, small talk won’t be an issue.

“He’ll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes, just coming into Guntersville.”

That should be enough time to ask one more question. I stepped towards Rosa and knelt on one knee. “Mom, I need to be going, but I have one last question. Okay?” I took hold of her hands. Tears came to her eyes, and mine.

She again nodded up and down. “Rachel’s baby?”

I reciprocated the head movement.

“There was never a question. Rachel, or me and Rob only considered full term and adoption.”

“Did she promise Ray she would have an abortion?”

“Yes. No. Before we left for China, she told him she had the abortion.” Rosa looked to her right toward the open blinds. I imagined her thoughts transported her to another world, one half-a-century ago, probably to China and to the day baby Elita was born. Then she smiled. “Just to think Rob and I considered raising the precious little girl.”

That seemed reasonable, given the circumstances. “What stopped you?”

“Two things. The Mission Board and Rachel herself. Rob and I speculated about the Board’s reaction. Rob confided in a missionary friend, then retired, who had spent his last ten working years in Nashville as a compliance officer of some sort. His advice was to stay quiet and put the baby up for adoption. That, and Rachel’s plea on Elita’s behalf for her to have a normal life.”

“I guess I’ll never know why Rachel swore that her reason to attempt suicide was her abortion, one that she never had.” My last statement was confusing.

“My sweet daughter was beautiful inside and out, but she was also mysterious. You probably never realized she was a woman with many masks.”

I could have pursued that point several ways, but it was time to go. We released hands as I stood half erect and gave Rosa an awkward hug. “I’ll see you at the funeral.” She smiled and returned her gaze to the blinds, the gray sky, and likely, to a time and world long ended.

At 7:00 PM, Ray backed the Suburban down the hill to the detached garage. Once the automatic door opened, he eased the overgrown vehicle halfway inside the bay opposite his Corvette. Everything he needed was stashed among the cluttered shelves: two camouflaged tarps, a six-box case of baking soda, four gallons of white vinegar, a four-pack of 3% Hydrogen Peroxide, a box of vinyl gloves, and a 9mm SIG Sauer P226 with titanium suppressor. Ray unlocked an adjoining storage room and slid an over-sized box of Christmas decorations out of the way. He removed a duffel bag stuffed with $110,000 of fake money and marveled at the Internet and the near infinite number of items that could be purchased with the click of an electronic mouse.

Ray exited and relocked the storage room and tossed the duffel into the Suburban. He closed the hatch and walked to the still open driver’s side door. Before sitting, he felt his iPhone vibrate in his jacket pocket. It was Ted King. “I’m here waiting.”

In ten minutes, Ray joined his best friend at their usual back wall table and ordered matching rib-eyes. Ted chose a glass of red wine. Ray opted for water. He needed to keep a clear head for the night’s mission.

After their food arrived, Ted couldn’t wait to ask. “Did she get everything moved?” Like Ray, Ted hated the nosy and manipulative Jane, but neither man, for now, could do without her skills and inner-circle connections.

“Everything is safe and sound, locked in a closet six feet behind my desk.”

“Downtown?” Ray had called Ted early this morning and relayed Jane’s suspicion that Lee and Lillian had burglarized her house last Thursday night while she and Kyla were at the movies in Gadsden.

“Yeah.” It was still shocking that nothing was missing. The only evidence anyone had been inside Jane’s house was a stack of newspapers lying on her desk. “We dodged a bullet, well, at least I did.”

“Rachel’s diaries?” Ted knew Ray had been right in his first statement. If not for Ted, Jane wouldn’t be reviewing Rachel’s basement diaries. A friend who owed the mayor a favor had driven to New Haven, Connecticut, and broken into Lee’s home. But the actual hero was Jane and her former relationship with Rachel. The two shared everything, including their daily diary writing ritual.

“I’ve got bigger problems, at least potentially.” Ray said, devouring a fresh roll.

“What?” Ted braced himself for the news, yet not expecting a surprise.

“It seems Rachel lied once again. This time, about the 38.”

“The murder weapon?”

“Yeah, she didn’t hide it at the Hunt House.” Ray took a big bite of rib-eye and marveled at the taste. Best steak imaginable and available every day at The Shack.

“So, where is it? Where did Rachel hide it?” Ted knew he had nothing to do with Kyle Bennett’s death, other than his half-century silence. However, he feared Rachel’s diaries as much as Ray. Ted’s appetite waned as he thought about how he had helped Rachel to cover up a totally different crime.

“Roanoke. Rosa’s had it all these years. I just don’t know if she knows it.”

By 9:30, Ray had fielded all the questions he could take. He had more pressing things to do. Although it was over two hours before Billy and Buddy arrived, Ray pulled the Suburban inside the barn’s hallway a few minutes before 10:00.

He grabbed a flashlight, stuck the SIG at his back inside his waistband, and explored a long-abandoned cattle stall. This would be a perfect place to hide the supplies, better than overhead in the loft. Ray didn’t trust the rickety ladder hanging from the hallway’s wall.

After removing and concealing the supplies (other than the duffel of fake money), Ray walked outside, disgruntled over the rain. It had drizzled as he pulled into The Shack’s parking lot. Now, it was approaching a downpour. Ray returned to the Suburban and pulled it forward another six feet. He wanted plenty of room for him and the James twins to conduct business in the dry, at least in the first phase.

At 11:30, a set of flashing lights behind him aroused Ray from a semi-slumber. He had sat the last hour on a too-heated front seat and broken his number one rule: to stay alert.

Ray turned off the Suburban and slid out the driver’s side door. By the time he turned, Billy and Buddy had exited their vehicle and raced inside the barn. “Shitty weather.” Billy said, taking in a panorama view of the barn’s hallway.

Buddy’s face was mixed. Ray couldn’t figure if his squinting eyes were from his truck’s headlights glaring off the rear bumper of the Suburban, or from his skepticism about meeting this late and at this god-forsaken spot. “I almost called to reschedule, but I was already here before the bottom fell out.” Ray thought his statement would cause Billy to relax a little.

“What’s the new job?” Buddy asked, easing closer to the unhinged gate Ray had leaned against the opening to the converted cattle stall. Ray wished he’d opted for the loft despite the questionable ladder.

“Abduct Lillian and bring her to me. She and I need to have a little talk.” Ray opened the Suburban’s rear hatch, tired and eager to get on with things.

“That’ll cost extra, given the risk.” Billy and Buddy saw the duffel and edged forward, revealing their curiosity.

“That’s a hundred and ten thousand. Half.” Ray chose not to delineate the specifics.

Billy took another step forward and leaned into the Suburban, pulling the duffel towards him. “You promised two hundred.”

“I did, half up front, the other half upon job completion.” By now, Buddy and Billy were both reaching in and removing bundles of cash.

Buddy fanned through one bundle, then another, laying each on the carpet beside the duffel. “Add an extra hundred up front and an extra fifty on the back end.”

Billy was about to say something when the first bullet entered his left ear. He started falling to his right, into Buddy. Ray’s second shot hit Buddy in the heart a micro-second after turning toward his falling twin. Two seconds later, both men sprawled in the hallway’s dirt, Billy’s head lying across Buddy’s stomach. Ray shot each man once again, this time between the eyes. Just to make sure.

He had to hurry. The decision not to use the suppressor might be Ray’s undoing. After arrival and storage of the supplies, he’d decided the extra length on the P226 could cause handling problems if stuck inside his pants. Now he needed to hurry. The deafening noise could carry at least as far as the nearest house.

Ray tossed the SIG inside the duffel along with ten bundles of fake cash. He moved the gate, walked to the far back corner, and grabbed the two tarps. He lowered the third-row bench seat and made a camouflaged bed for Billy and Buddy. After removing his coat and donning a pair of coveralls stuffed behind the driver’s seat, Ray removed a pair of vinyl gloves and stretched them over his hands. He then returned to the dead and rolled Billy over. Though the twins were not half Ray’s size, their lifeless bodies were heavy. It took three times to position himself. First, he sat Billy upright on his butt and leaned behind him, inserting his arms underneath the dead man’s armpits. Clutching his own hands around Billy’s chest, he stood him straight up and leaned him inside the Suburban. After two tries, Ray shifted Billy’s center of gravity forward enough to twist the legs and push him forward to the rear of the second row’s bucket seats. Ray repeated the exercise with Buddy.

Ray returned to the cattle stall and removed the baking soda, the four gallons of white vinegar, and the four-pack of Hydrogen Peroxide. He quickly poured each over the bloody mess that saturated the soil where the two men had fallen. After tossing the empty containers inside with Buddy and Billy, Ray lowered the hatch and walked to the still-running pickup.

It took ten minutes longer than he’d estimated, given the rain. He repositioned Buddy’s vehicle and nearly got stuck connecting the Suburban to the flatbed trailer hidden behind the barn. One loading ramp gave Ray a fit, but he finally managed to lower it, and drive the truck onto the trailer. Thoughts of how close he had come to forgetting two chains and come-a-longs made Ray realize how easily things can go astray when you’re committing crimes.

It was twelve-thirty-five when Ray turned right onto Cox Gap Road. Phase one was complete. Phase two was just beginning. Even though it would take between three and four hours to deliver Buddy’s truck and the dead bodies, Ray was thankful for the rain. Even though wet and sloppy, it made for an excellent cover.

After two days of careful research, Ray had decided on Horse Pens 40 as the drop-off point for Buddy’s pickup. His thinking was that it would add a layer of mystery, including an alternate direction for law enforcement officers to begin their search once they found the truck. Horse Pens 40 is an outdoor nature park and campground nestled atop Chandler Mountain, thirty-two miles southwest of Ronald Archer’s Dogwood Trail farm.

Ray soaked but satisfied, did not see a sole after unloading Buddy’s truck beside the campground’s bathhouse. Again, thankful for the rain, but also for Jane’s hacking skills in accomplishing what most believed impossible. She had removed his ankle bracelet without triggering an alarm. A literal roll in the hay with the least desirable woman was a small price to pay for his eventual freedom.

***

The trip to the chosen dead body disposal site took seventy-five minutes. The location wouldn’t have occurred to Ray if it hadn’t been for pastor T. J. Miller. He often spoke of the Holy Spirit’s powerful movement during two revivals he’d preached in 2012 and 2013 at Valley Head Baptist Church.

Just as Google Maps had revealed, Church Street turned into Hammond Street. Ray made the ninety-degree turn to the left. In five seconds, he saw the Southern Properties Realty sign on the right in front of an unoccupied house that held the key to Ray’s success in disposing of Billy and Buddy’s bodies.

The driveway was narrow. Once again, Ray was thankful. This time for having temporarily parked his twenty-foot flatbed trailer behind the body shop of McLarity Ford in Fort Payne. Otherwise, he’d be stuck and unable to turn his rig around.

The owners nestled the house along the edge of a multi-thousand-acre span of forest that ran north and south along the west side of Highway 117. That thick forest engulfed the home of Alister and Gaynell Fortson. The Southern Properties listing had mentioned hiking as a valuable benefit that accompanied the Fortson’s home. This had led Ray to discover, via Google Maps, a beaten path up the mountain from the home’s detached garage. Ray hoped it was wide enough for his Suburban.

Fortunately, it was. In fact, it was wide enough to turn the vehicle around after reaching the crest of the mountain. At two minutes before 2:00 am, Ray removed the bodies and drug each southward fifty feet over the ridgeline toward Hwy. 117, hoping scavengers would do their thing before the twins were discovered. Of course, even if law enforcement found Billy and Buddy tomorrow, they wouldn’t find a clue that would implicate Ray Archer.

A hot shower couldn’t come too soon. At 3:35 AM Ray pulled his Suburban into the Lodge’s garage. He sat and reviewed his mental checklist to verify he hadn’t forgotten a thing. Buddy’s truck hidden. Check. Billy and Buddy’s bodies secreted miles from the truck. Check. The two camouflaged tarps dropped at five-mile intervals along I-59 north of Fort Payne. Check. The bag of fake money (and a host of empty cleaning containers) tossed in a garbage bin at a Jack’s Restaurant at the Collinsville exit. Check. The SIG Sauer lay at the bottom of Lillian’s pond. Check. The flatbed trailer parked inside the barn behind Lillian’s cabin (with the roll-up door closed). Check.

Phase Two was complete. Ray stayed in the shower for almost an hour.

Ray spent all day Friday and half of Saturday plotting the best way to rid his world of Billy and Buddy James.

Ray had left three messages at The Shack’s kitchen office for Billy to call. He’d also asked Wesley Jones, the restaurant’s owner, an hour ago to have Billy call.

It was five minutes before one when Billy returned his call. Ray recognized the number. “Hold on, let me go outside.” He knew it was safe to discuss only the most innocuous subjects inside his house. Lillian had dropped a recording device when he’d pushed her back against the garage stairs. Unfortunately, she’d taken it when she and Lee had left.

“Okay, but hurry. I’ve got people to feed.”

Ray exited the Lodge through the rear door and walked down the sidewalk toward the detached garage. “Thanks for waiting. I’m out of jail and have your money. When can we meet?”

The loud clanking of pots and pans and the loud cries of finished orders muffled when Billy entered his office and closed the door. “I get off at 10:00. I could drop by.”

“Not here at the Lodge. It’s too dangerous. Let’s meet at the farm. Dogwood Trail, off Cox Gap Road.” Ray had already calculated it was within the five-mile radius allowed by his ankle monitor.

“I guess I can. Send me the address and I’ll Google it.”

“After you turn right on Dogwood, keep going until you see a Remax Real Estate sign. It’ll be on your left. If you go to the dead end, you’ve missed it.” Ray stuck with his plan to discuss other business face-to-face but decided now might be better.

Billy spoke first. “Let’s be clear. You’re bringing me ten grand. In cash. Right?” The noises amplified and Billy mumbled something about a non-functioning fry machine to someone.

“That’s right. And more if you want it.” Ray paused for Billy’s curiosity to kindle.

“What’s the job this time?” Billy knew there was never a free lunch with Ray Archer.

“You’ll need Buddy. Can you bring him? I’ll explain to both. It’s worth another hundred grand. Each.” The James twins had worked for Ray long enough for him to know they couldn’t resist a financial temptation.

“It’ll be midnight before he can get here. And, just so you know, we both agree they’ll be no more fires.”

“No problem. I’ll see you in seven hours. Be on time.”

“We’ll be there. One other thing. Don’t bring anyone, especially that bastard Ted King.”

“I’ll be alone. Turn left at the Remax sign and keep going straight. I’ll be waiting at the barn.”

After ending the call, Ray returned inside the Lodge. He’d prefer staying put in his rocker underneath the porch of his detached garage. This position provided an unobstructed view of the valley below. Ray always preferred wintertime, especially days when the sun hid. The panorama of leafless trees underneath a gray, foreboding sky reminded him of life. No matter success or happiness, just beneath the surface was heartache and tragedy ready to prick his skin and remind him spring might never come.

The good thing about being inside the Lodge was the warmth. Ray added another log to the great room’s fireplace and sat eight feet away in his leather Lazy-Boy. Thoughts of the claustrophobic jail cell reminded him of important things he needed to accomplish to guarantee his long-term freedom.

Ray knew better than to let his emotions dictate his actions. Without doubt, his unrestrained libido was the direct link to his current predicament. If only he could go back and undo all the sex, surely his life would be as sublime as strawberry jam on wheat toast.

A ding from his cell brought Ray back to the present. He reached to the side table for his iPhone. It was a text from his jail mate. “They released me. Yea, and thanks. I’ll come to see you Monday at your office. Call me if you need me earlier.”

The mind is a strange beast. Orin Russell, still a teenager, was from Albertville. Ray’s sexual history anchored in that very spot. If not for Sharon Teague he might have been a virgin on his wedding night, but the promiscuous fifteen-year-old had been all accelerator, no brakes, from their first date. She’d been an excellent teacher, and Ray had been a fast learner.

But, after a year of sex (and a surprise pregnancy), Ray had grown bored and confident. That’s when Rachel Kern had moved to Boaz. She’d been a challenge, just what Ray needed. A two-month steady bombardment had destroyed the MK’s tall and thick walls of resistance, culminating fifteen months later in another unrevealed pregnancy, followed by Rachel’s return to China.

Ray knew he was wasting time and mental energy but hoped his digression would yield the motivation for what had to be done. After Rachel came Vanessa Elkins, now Clausen. The ninth grader’s willingness had reminded him of Sharon, other than the experience. Ray had become an excellent teacher himself. That intercourse had lasted a month (not counting the reconnection in college) before everything changed forever.

Ray closed his eyes and thought of the many affairs over the years, all briefly exciting, all except one. It was neither brief nor exciting. The half-century screwing of plain and formless Jane Fordham had always been a repetitious nightmare. When sex becomes a duty, it’s no longer pleasurable. Instead, it’s a sickening chore. It’s like downing a large dose of Castor oil to trigger a messy bowel movement. Ray opened his eyes and laughed out loud when he realized the insanity of the thoughts flooding his mind. Prison would be an oasis just to be free from Jane’s slavery.

So, Ray had no choice but to develop an alternative plan to rid his life of the woman who knew too much. But first things first. She wasn’t the only one who needed to begin their eternal rest.

Ray found it difficult to decide his order of service. Lee and Lillian were two bloodhounds on his trail, but he was confident the pair would never discover the deeply buried secrets. No matter the odds, Ray knew they had to go.

Another text from Orin, this one asking what time he should come Monday morning, diverted Ray’s attention to tonight’s meeting. He shouldn’t miss this opportunity. It might prove difficult to replicate the privacy needed for what had to be done. Plus, Billy and Buddy, especially Buddy, were currently the biggest threat to Ray’s freedom. The stocky man could easily trade his knowledge for a sweet deal with the DA, resulting in Ray’s fast march to an eight-by-eight jail cell.