Category: Novels

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 58

It rarely happened.  One lesson plan for every class.  Thursday was rare.  Record-breaking cold, a bout of snow, my own recent and frequent sick day absences, two surprise fire drills, and an unscheduled visit from newly elected Senator Doug Jones that precipitated a school-wide, gymnasium-busting, presentation, had converged to create the rarity. 

My students and I had spent all day discussing Anton Pavlovich Chekhov.  He was a Russian playwright and short story writer, considered by many literary critics to be the greatest writer of short fiction in history.  Even though I had, at different times, assigned to each of my five classes, the task of preparing an investigative report on Mr. Chekhov, at no time had we spent class time discussing any of his actual works.  Today’s focus, in every class, had been The Kiss, my favorite of Chekhov’s early stories. 

It’s the story of Ryabovich, an artillery brigade officer who attends a party with several of his fellow officers at the country home of a retired general.  At some point during the night Ryabovich wanders down a lonely hallway and into a dark room and experiences the thrill of his boring life.  He isn’t alone.  A woman kisses Ryabovich, mistaking him for someone else.  The woman recoils and Ryabovich rushes away.  He becomes obsessed with the event.  The story continues with him surging and sagging from joy to torment.  Ryabovich is in love with an unknown woman who he will never see again.  It is a wonderful story and the students loved it.

After the last bell, I sat in my office waiting for Cullie, and couldn’t get Mr. Chekhov off my mind.  I kept thinking of the solid piece of writing craft he is universally known for. The advice comes two ways, with both packing the same intent: “One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn’t going to go off. It’s wrong to make promises you don’t mean to keep.”  And, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.” 

Since the first creative writing course I took in college, my teachers had tried their best to instill this advice into me and each of my fellow, aspiring writers.  I could hear Professor Killian now, “Chekhov’s gun is a dramatic principle that states that every element in a story must be necessary, and irrelevant elements should be removed; elements should not appear to make false promises by never coming into the story.”

Cullie was running later than normal.  Cindy poked her head in and said goodbye.  Alysa stood beside her but didn’t wave or smile.  It’s funny how just seeing someone often causes them to unwittingly rush into the last scene that was actively playing in your mind immediately before they appeared.  After the two beauties walked away, my mind somehow placed Chekhov’s gun into Cindy’s hand.  Actually, it was Cindy’s gun in my hand. 

We had spent the last two weekends, in part, with her guns and my pasture (Wayne’s actually) target practicing.  It had been her idea.  It seemed Steve, an avid hunter (as well as fisherman) had left her with a hefty stockpile of pistols, rifles, shotguns, bow and arrows, knives, and hatchets.  He must have loved Ruger since Cindy seemed to have an endless supply of SR9’s.  Cindy was one of the best teachers I had ever seen but her skills were limited to the English language classroom.  She absolutely sucked at firearm instruction.  But Wayne Waldrup was the master.  Not only had he joined us both afternoons, he seemed to not mind the almost limitless times I needed personal attention in just exactly how to hold the weapon.  I’m glad he liked hands on instruction.  As Cullie walked into my classroom looking a little haggard, I was pondering Wayne’s last statement Saturday afternoon as he was about to leave on a work call, “Half of my deputies right now can’t shoot as good as you.  You may be a beginner, but you’re definitely a natural.”

Cullie was silent on the way home.  No doubt upset over something.  Since she wouldn’t give me a hint what was bothering her I let it slide, assuming some boy had dissed her, or her hormones were soaring or sagging.  Before I turned right on Highway 431, she asked if I would carry her to Alysa’s.  I was in a hurry to get home but couldn’t help but realize how difficult it was to be a teenage girl, especially one in the ninth grade, in a new school, in a new town.  I turned left instead and dropped her off ten minutes later at Cindy’s. 

It’s not unusual for me to replay the day’s classes and the most marvelous moments mentoring minors as Ellen Fink like to say.  I could hear her, the spry little New York City teacher who no doubt had prepared me for my roller-coaster ride with Cindy: “Katie, you need to expand your thinking.  Five m’s or five of anything will drown your mental sluggishness.”  I made a mental note to at least email the energetic, enigmatic, elegant, eager, and enlightening Ellen.  Wow, six e’s. 

Replay I did.  Chekhov’s gun kept pointing at me all the way home.  It didn’t relent as I changed clothes and drank a glass of milk and ate four Oreos.  I lay on the couch until dark.  After sitting up to talk with Cullie who pleaded with me to let her spend the night with Alysa, the weirdest and wildest idea clutched my mind and promised to not let go until I had fully submitted.

Maybe the idea would never have appeared if Cindy hadn’t left two SR9’s at my house last Saturday afternoon.  I walked to Wayne’s study, rolled the bookcase from the wall, entered the security code and opened the safe.  The green knapsack hadn’t moved since I had stored it there before Cindy had left.  It was amazing how generous Wayne was.  He not only shared his gorgeous body with me but his giant safe.

It was risky, but I went anyway.  For some unknown reason, I was propelled to take the chance and sneak back to Club Eden.  From the Spy App, I suppose my mind knew that something was going down Saturday night at the little cabin in the Aurora woods.  Even though my clothes were wet from sweat and my heart was tired from its heavy beating, after climbing over the gate and walking a half-mile under a glowing moon, the worst feeling occurred during my return trip home.  My mind auto-played one sentence: “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”  When I turned left off Sardis Road onto Wayne’s long driveway, I surrendered to the fact my life was caught in a story I had not written.  It was like Cindy and I were actors on a stage.  But, not just any type actors.  We were first and foremost prisoners and the play director was making us dress-up, rehearse, and prepare for the first night’s performance.

As I rounded the curve before reaching the back side of my wonderful and rent-free ranch-style home, I saw Wayne’s tan and gold Sheriff’s car with the red taillights glowing.

I nearly panicked.  This wasn’t a good time for Wayne to show up.  He often called before coming, but not always.  During these latter times I had never minded because I hadn’t been sneaking around planting guns at places I wasn’t supposed to be. 

After I parked, and we shared a sweaty hug, my sweat, I invited him in.  It was obvious he noticed how unkempt, disheveled, and anxious I was.  Thankfully, he didn’t ask any questions.

“I needed to talk with you.  I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”  Sometimes I wish he weren’t so damn polite.

“No problem.  You seem tense.  Is there anything wrong?”  I asked, noticing I wasn’t the only one with darting and blinking eyes.

“I’ve just come from the hospital, Marshall-Medical South.  Raymond Radford is there.  Another heart attack but fortunately for him not deadly serious.”

“You now making hospital calls?”  I asked.

“No, he called me, asked if I would come talk to him.”

“Reckon which will kill him first?  I bet it’s his heart.  His guilty heart probably.”  I said recalling the deep hole he was in with two murder indictments hanging around his neck.

“He wanted to get something off his chest and try to use it for his benefit.  Said he had tried to reach the DA but he’s in Denver at some conference.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Katie, I think, surely, we are close enough by now for you to be able to confide in me.  I hope you know how much I care for you.  You know that don’t you?”

“I do.  And, the feelings are mutual.  Certainly, you know that.”

“I do.  After Karen died I didn’t think I would ever care for another woman, certainly not care for one like I care for you.  That’s why I want us to have a little talk.  It’s important to me that you know what caring for a woman means to me.”

“Okay, we can talk.”  Wayne sat at the kitchen bar and I put on a pot of coffee.

“I’m going to be direct.  Raymond told me an almost unbelievable story.  He said if someone else had told him the same story about his family that he would think the guy was making it up.   Raymond told me about how Darla got pregnant.”  Wayne said and stopped.  I guess he was wanting me to respond.

“He did?”

“He told me how you came to be.”

“That’s an odd way to put it.”  I said.

“Katie, I know that Darla got pregnant during her graduation party May 25, 1972, and that nine months later, to the day, according to Raymond, you were born.”

“Seems like mother dear liked to party.”  I poured us both a cup of coffee.  Three creams and one sugar for Wayne.  Three sugars and one cream for me.

“You’ve never mentioned your father.”  I couldn’t tell if Wayne was asking me a question or simply making a statement.

“No.  It’s a little difficult to talk about someone you’ve never met, and don’t even know their name.”

“Do you want to know his name?”  Wayne now had my full attention.

“Until tonight my answer to that question had always been no.  Now, I’m not sure.  Should I want to know?”  I asked, still standing across the bar from Wayne.

“Yes, I think you should.”

“Okay, I’ll trust your judgment.  Who’s my daddy?”  I halfway was trying to be funny.

“Randall Radford.  At least that’s what Raymond said.”

“Oh, hell yes.  That’s just perfect.  Ryan Radford is Cullie’s father and Ryan’s father, Randall, is my father.  The Radford’s must have some aggressive sperm.

“I know this is shocking to you and I wouldn’t dare have come here and pushed this on you if it weren’t for Raymond and what he offered.”

“He wanted you to stop pursuing his grandson.  Right?”  I asked, pouring half my coffee down the sink.

“Actually, he asked on his and Cynthia’s behalf.”

“No doubt.  She, along with Ryan, are one excited utterance away from prison.  Why wouldn’t she also want to make a deal.”

“I thought the same thing.  To begin with.  But, I think Raymond is seriously trying to do everything he can to straighten out his life, do what he can to make some amends.”

“I assume since he knows Randall was the winner of sorts among the Flaming Five, then Darla knew also?”  I asked, pulling a step-stool out of the pantry and using it to remove a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the top shelf nestled behind the three #10 cans of mixed vegetables Wayne had left and that I hated.

“He said that he and Darla had agreed to investigate whether Randall was the father.  It seems the paternity test results had something to do with him, Raymond, marrying your mother.  He knew Randall wouldn’t take responsibility for you, so he decided he would, in his sort of way.”

“I’m still confused.  What did he offer?”  I asked, reading Wayne’s head motion that he wanted a round of Jack.

“To give you what he had promised Darla in their prenuptial agreement.  Half of his estate.  You know the details.”

“What did he want in return?  It has to be something.”

“For you and Ryan to be real parents to Cullie.”

I’ve heard about people whose anger can ignite in a nano-second, but I had never experienced such instant rage.  Until this moment.  I had to assume Raymond knew the truth.  How Ryan had raped me.  Or, did he?  Had Ryan simply made up a story about how the two of us had an affair.  Either way, the end of the road and dying Raymond wants his grandson and me to be real parents.  Does that include working on reconciling and remarrying, marrying.  I was mad as hell.  “I don’t suppose the repentant Raymond told you Ryan raped me, that’s how I became pregnant with Cullie?”  My words had poured out of me almost as quickly as my anger had boiled up.

“Oh no.  My dear Katie.  No, he didn’t.  I’m sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know that.”  Wayne said standing up and walking around the bar to me.  I stepped back just as he reached for me.

“And, no doubt you don’t know that Ryan’s four buddies, Fulton Billingsley, Danny Ericson, Justin Adams, and the late Warren Tillman joined in the fun and gang-raped me for two plus hours during the late afternoon of December 23, 2002?”  The words kept pouring.

Wayne stood still, frozen, his eyes and face flashed anger and sadness as he slowly shook his head.  He bit his lower lip and said, “Katie, let me in, let me support you.  Katie, I love you and I’m here for you.”  I could tell he was dying for my response, for me to reach for him.

“I’ve lived with it for almost fifteen years.  I’ve never told anyone except Cindy.  I hate you found out this way.”  I moved my body inch by inch towards Wayne.  He stepped forward half a foot and then stopped.  Just another sign of his respect, his politeness and tenderness.

“All I want is to take care of you.  Oh, that didn’t come out right.  I know you’re strong.  I didn’t mean to imply you needed me.”  He wanted to keep apologizing, but I shut down his words.

“Oh Wayne, stop trying to be so damn nice.  Hold me.  I am strong, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you and your strong arms around me.”

Over the next three hours, we made Jack disappear.  He had followed Wayne and me to my bedroom and had vanished somewhere between two passionate scenes, both involving the most aggressive love-making the beautiful Wayne had ever revealed.

Thoughts, I’m convinced of it, come unsolicited.  As I lay in Wayne’s arms, all I could think about was how strange it was for Marshall County Schools to postpone the beginning of the two-week Christmas holidays until Thursday, December 21st.  I suspected the late November’s coldest four days in recorded history had something to do with it.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 57

Cindy didn’t go to church Sunday morning.  Neither did I, even though we had agreed she’d drop by and pick Cullie and me up.  Her non-tan-colored van had plenty of seats.  She called at ten minutes past six, just a few minutes after I walked out of The Thread.  “I’ve decided to stay home.  It’s going to be a circus on Sparks Avenue.”  Cindy said, and my mind jumped like a frog to flies and afterbirth, things nature provided in spades (I was regretting mine and Cindy’s final visit to the pasture after the kids had run in and said the calf was born dead).

“Circus?  Are you talking about church?”  I asked.

“According to Facebook, the Deacons have planned a memorial for Warren, one on steroids.  They’re bringing in pastors from all around: Albertville, Guntersville, Sardis, Douglas.  I imagine this is just a warm-up to the funeral, which is Saturday, assuming the autopsy is finalized.”

“I’m glad I limit my Facebook time to my groups.”  I said, pouring another thermos of coffee.

“Speaking of Real Justice, I don’t suppose you’ve yet visited your two outlier groups?”

“Meaning, the groups my tenth and eleventh graders set up in defiance of my refusal to include them in the novel writing project?” 

“Yes.  There’s already been several comments to Riley Radford’s post.”  Cindy said.

“Riley?  She’s a ninth grader.”

“I guess someone added her to the tenth-grade group.  Doesn’t matter.  She posted that the four jaybirds had kidnapped Stella’s daughter and were holding her at a cabin in the backwoods of Cherry Log.  The comments are all over the place but basically address various components of Riley’s story, such as who lured Candy (that’s Stella’s daughter), how they abducted her, and what they planned on doing with her.”  Cindy had apparently been up since 4:30 as I had.

“Did I hear you say four?”  There are five jaybirds: Mason Campbell, Noah Fletcher, Aiden Walker, Jackson Burke, and Daniel Taylor.”  I said with almost perfect knowledge of the story.

“Seems like your third character, Mr. Walker, the pastor of First United Baptist Church, is halfway to Heaven, kind of like my Ruger, depending on what you believe about purgatory.”

“That’s not part of either one of the story-lines.  Certainly not from my five Creative Writing teams, the official Real Justice project.”  I said.

“It’s more difficult to control outliers.  I guess that’s why they’re called outliers.  But, here’s my concern.  Sorry, is now a good time to talk?”  Cindy asked.  She could be so funny, without realizing it.

“I’d tell you if Wayne was here.”

“You wouldn’t have to.  I’m not deaf.  I could hear your heavy breathing.”

“Don’t go there.”  Cindy’s words reminded me that I wouldn’t see him today.  “Back to your concern dear.”  I sometimes had to redirect Cindy, or she would chase two rabbits in four different directions.

“The place Riley described sounded eerily like Club Eden.  Obviously, I wouldn’t have been able to see in my mind’s eye the inside of the cabin close to Aurora Lake and almost feel the rough and rusty cast iron coffee pot where you planted your little bug, if you hadn’t given your jot and tittle description yesterday while I was chefing.”

“And to think, I believed Riley.  She was so humble and apologetic, virtually swearing she had learned a good lesson.  She’s such a busy body, always trying to stir shit up.”  I said.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but she scares me.  Not so much her, but what if she is creating this shit, as you call it, from a mix of truth and imagination?”  Cindy asked.

“Oh shit, you’re saying Riley might be hearing, someway picking up on some words or vibes around her, maybe at home?”

“I’m getting another call.  Let’s talk more later.”  Cindy said ending our call before I could respond.

Cindy wasn’t the only one who received a call.  Before my two slices of bread popped out of the toaster, Wayne called. “Morning beautiful.”

“Morning beautiful.”  He was the most beautiful between us.  If he could see me now he would say, “makeup is a gift from God.”

I could tell he wasn’t alone.  I couldn’t make out what they were saying but it appeared two or three deputies were having a conversation in the background.  “I’m missing you already and that doesn’t include missing you yesterday and last night.”  I loved hearing a beautiful man tell me he was lonely for me.  This had never happened, not with Colton Lee Brunner, or anyone.

“What’s up?  I suspect you’re in a meeting or something.”

“I am and have some news, other than my longing for you.  Sorry, I’m turning into a deranged romantic.”

“There’s no such thing, but I like whatever you’re becoming.” 

“Back to the news.  It seems Walmart keeps extensive records.  They have some more sophisticated software.  They can match a sale to a customer.  The gas cans that were discovered at Beverly’s were not purchased or acquired from Radford Hardware as we earlier thought.  I must admit I’ve learned something that most fifth graders would have easily known.  Two of my deputies had learned early on in this investigation that Walmart, both local Walmart’s, sold the identical gas cans used in your fire.  They had been able to tell us when the gas cans were purchased and that they were bought with cash.  But, we failed to ask one more question—a broad, catch-all type inquiry: can you tell us anything else about this purchase?  Sit down, here comes a shocker.  On Friday, September 15th, at 3:40 p.m., Nathan Johnson bought the three gas cans that were used to torch yours and Beverly’s home.  Bought them at the Boaz Walmart.”

“Wait a minute.  That can’t be right.  You’re sounding like a preschooler.  Nathan Johnson was already dead.”  I said, thinking Wayne was losing his ability to reason.  Was his loneliness and our love-making leaving his mind in a puddle?

“Not so fast Sherlock.  Remain seated.  Nathan Johnson and Nathan Johnson are twins.”

“Their parents named them the same thing?”  I asked, never hearing of such a weird thing.

“Seems so, but I doubt it was intentional, a screw-up in the birth certificates.  According to my friend, Sheriff Blaylock in San Marcos, although he did say they had different nicknames.

“So, you believe the Radford’s are behind this?  Pretty much what I had thought.”  I figured I was saying the obvious.

“I don’t have time to go deeper into the details.  It’s an interesting story.  I’ll leave it at that.  Brother rivalries sometimes turn deadly.  Recall Cain and Abel, don’t you?”  Wayne asked.

“I think so.  Tell me every detail as soon as you can.  I appreciate you calling.”  I knew he was busy and I always hated myself when I became too clingy.

“Not so fast literature lady. I don’t know if Darla was writing fiction or the real thing, but it seems she had or imagined she had a daughter conceived by an unknown man.  I’ve had my secretary reading through all of Darla’s journals.  I just wanted to ask you if she was a writer wannabe, maybe inspired you to start writing.  I didn’t think you had a long-lost sister, at least you’d never mentioned her.”

I surprised myself at how quickly I framed my response.  “I inherited Darla’s imagination gene, no doubt.”

“I figured that and just wanted to share a little story, hoping it would bring back good memories.  Revisiting them is important, you know.”

If I was one to have a panic attack now would have been a good time.  “Get back to work and call me tonight if you have time.”

After our call ended, for the first time, I felt the initial rumblings of a desire, maybe a need, to reveal my past to Wayne.  At least some of my past, maybe the part about Darla becoming pregnant with me during the night of her high school graduation party at Club Eden.

I was as giddy as a teenager.  Wayne should arrive within an hour.  Late Sunday afternoon he had called and said something came up. An emergency trip to Texas.  He later had explained that the Lone Star state acts quickly on extradition warrants.  Wayne had left Alabama in a hurry and flown to Dallas, taking a rental car to San Marcos.  He hadn’t been in such a rush to return.  He had spent nearly three days with Sheriff Blaylock, working the case, as he put it.  He and Nathan Johnson, the living breathing one, had landed in Huntsville, along with their 747 I suppose.  I was anxious to crawl under the sheets with the beautiful Wayne, but I was nearly as eager to hear his Texas story.

At 9:15 p.m., I had just walked back in from the patio and looked down the long driveway hoping to see Wayne rolling towards me when I heard my cell phone vibrating on the coffee table.  It was a text notification that my Club Eden bug was active.  I certainly didn’t understand the technology, but the spy gadget had come with an offer from the manufacturer to subscribe to a service they provided through a sophisticated App.  Instead of carrying around the receiver, I could listen on my iPhone to what was being transmitted from the spy sight.  After receiving a text notification that the transmitter was live, I could either open the App and listen as the conversations and sounds were occurring or I could listen to them via a recording the $19.99 App had waiting on me.

By the time I opened the App to hear the live version, all I heard was, “8:30 p.m., just like at Warren’s.”  The voice sounded like Fulton’s but could have been Justin Adams.  I wasn’t sure.  I knew it wasn’t Ryan.

I selected the ‘Unopened Recordings’ file and heard the complete conversation that had just occurred in a little cabin next to Aurora Lake.

“Fire out?” 

“Yea.  You lock the cabinet?”

“Don’t worry.”

“But, I do.  Be sure and relay every detail we discussed at the fire with Ryan.  I’ll do the same with Danny.  Clockwork, it has to be exact, but you know that.”

“Saturday, right after Warren’s funeral.  Let’s make him proud.”

“8:30 p.m., just like at Warren’s.”

I replayed the recording three more times.  All I could figure was that the Faking Five, now the Faking Four, had something up their sleeve, and it was to take place Saturday, December 23rd.  No doubt, this year.

Wayne tapped on my back door as I was about to listen the fifth time.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 56

After staying at Cindy’s until almost midnight Wednesday night, I almost used another sick day on Thursday.  It would have been a mistake.  Both Thursday and Friday were surprisingly focused and productive.  There were no Real Justice discoveries and no one except Ben Gilbert for some odd reason, was late turning in their short, short story (Piggly Wiggly, a spoof of John Updike’s A & P) I had assigned via Facebook on Sunday night.  It was almost like everything was back to normal.  Other than the absence of Cindy, and that would be changing this coming Monday. 

The only thing I could honestly claim was even remotely uncomfortable was Riley Radford’s surprise visit to my office at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday.  I had never seen her so humble and contrite.  She just kept apologizing and saying that her father had put her up to bugging my office as a joke.  She relayed he had somehow obtained a key to my office and that she had sneaked in during a Friday afternoon pep-rally last August.  As she was walking out, she also apologized for how she had been maligning (not her word) Cullie and promised she would start treating her like a real sister.  I hoped she was sincere.

Last night, with Cullie at Cindy’s, Wayne and I spent some quality time beneath the sheets.  Well, at least until a little after 11:00 when he was called away.  Earlier, during a candlelight dinner over another customized meal by Pirates Cove, he explained why Ryan and Danny and Cynthia had been able to make bail.  “Money and power.”  He had said while dipping another plate of spaghetti.  “Judge Tyler Broadside probably wouldn’t be sitting on his bench if it weren’t for the five most powerful families in Boaz.  Even with their money and influence he only won the last election by forty-three votes.  It was dessert time before I asked him for the day and time of their preliminary hearing. 

“Katie, ever since Cindy was released on Wednesday, I’ve been trying to find the best time to tell you.  I apologize for the delay.  I feel I’ve broken my promise to keep you posted about what’s going on in your mother’s case.”  He had pushed aside the slice of coconut pie I had just sat in front of him, pulled out his chair, and stood beside me as I reached for his hand.  I wasn’t sure if I should kiss him or slap him.  The latter certainly wasn’t feasible or seriously considered.

“Okay, what has had you so reluctant to talk to me?”  I said.

“Barbara Burgess is missing.  DA Abbott told me late Wednesday afternoon after Cindy’s hearing.  I don’t think you knew, but I stuck my head in the back of the courtroom for a few minutes.  I left when you were called to the witness stand.  I didn’t want to make you nervous.  I waited out in the hall.  Never did come back inside.  But I did follow Abbott to his office before you, Cindy, Matt, and Jed Cole exited.”

“What exactly does this mean?”

“There won’t be a preliminary hearing.  Its main value is for the defendant, for an opportunity for the Judge to determine whether the DA has legal reason to go forth with his case and to determine the amount of bail, if any.  Since the three defendants have posted a bond, they are free, so that’s not an issue.  Abbott will be taking their case to a grand jury, but that probably won’t happen until Ms. Burgess is found.”

“You’re telling me her testimony is critical.  Right?”  I asked.

“Absolutely, without her or Ms. Robinson there is no way for the DA to present the excited utterance.”

“What about the written copy, what Clara had Barbara write out?  It describes exactly what the two women saw.”  I said.

“It does.  Abbott says he’s never seen such a legal quandary.  An excited utterance is normally admissible as an exception to the hearsay rule.  The utterance can be admitted even if it is written, but it must have a foundation.  That brings up the authenticity issue in our case.  Without Barbara to testify that Ms. Robinson had her write out what both had seen and what she had said, the excited utterance that ‘they have killed Darla,’ the written document is strictly hearsay.”

“Let me see if I have this correct.  A criminal defense attorney would argue at trial, right before DA Abbott was about to offer Clara’s written statement into evidence, her excited utterance, that the document was hearsay and that it hadn’t been properly authenticated.  He, the defense lawyer, would argue that the DA himself could have written the statement a few minutes before the trial began.  Am I right?”

“Absolutely.  You now see why I didn’t want to tell you this.  Again, I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.”  Wayne said, pulling me to him.  This was about the time my body started talking louder than my mind, but I did find the strength to ask one final question.

“Barbara Burgess won’t ever testify.  Will she?”

“Katie, we have no evidence of what you’re thinking but you have every right to believe there is foul play at work here.”  Wayne said.

“The sorry bastard, bastards, have killed the dear, sweet Barbara.  I feel it in my bones.  There can’t be another explanation.”

“Don’t repeat me, but I suspect you are correct.  I’ve had my deputies looking for her, calling her cell and her two out-of-state children since Wednesday night.  I also had them go by her apartment and make an emergency entrance, thinking she might be inside and in trouble.  No one seems to know where she is or what has happened.”

I almost felt guilty taking Wayne’s hand and leading him to my bedroom.  After several minutes of passionate kissing and as he unbuttoned my blouse with us still standing, my mind released a non-verbal whisper, “would a loving daughter who had just found out the three people who had killed her mother, choose love-making over a night of crying and hand-wringing?”  My choice to crawl beneath the sheets was clear evidence that mother and I had never been close.  At least I was truthful.  But it still pained and encouraged me to do everything I could so Cullie knew she was the most important person in my life.

Saturday afternoon I went to pick-up Cullie at Cindy’s.  She insisted the two of us stay for dinner.  It was unseasonably warm and for some reason all four kids stayed outside until dark infatuated over a cow giving birth in the pasture along the fence line next to the Barker’s driveway.  Cindy and I had walked out twice and finally decided to let nature take its course, including the raw and bloody education of four smart, but naive, children.

For nearly two hours, I sat at Cindy’s kitchen bar while she cooked an elaborate meal including her grandmother’s sweet-potato cobbler.  With its hand-crafted dough, it took more time than the six-layered salad, the three-meat casserole, and the one-dough homemade bread, all combined.

“I guess you’re dying to know how I straightened out the mess you made?”  Cindy said, facing away from me, as I pulled and tied off her red mane.

“It’s been on my mind.  Along with the matching mess you made.”  I was again reminded of how much I had missed our talks.  I couldn’t imagine two people being closer friends and enjoying more engaging dialog.

“It had to be God’s will.  Thanksgiving was a disaster.  After everyone went to bed that night I went driving and wound up buying a six-pack of beer.  Can you believe that?  Why on God’s green earth would I do that?  Looking back, I suppose there’s something true about that old saying, ‘beer, alcohol, and whiskey, gives you liquid courage.’  After two beers, I was buzzing.  Halfway through my third I was buzzing more and madder than hell.  The beer and blinding memories, whatever they were, prompted me to relive the conversation Warren and Paula had on his patio outside his basement.  I could have walked across a bed of burning coals.  I ended up hiding my car behind an abandoned house on Sparks Avenue, west of the church, and walking to the parsonage.  I sneaked through the hedges and crawled beside the brick wall.  You know it.  This was probably midnight, might have been a little later.  Here’s the weird and crazy part, so far at least.  After fifteen minutes or so alternating between looking over the wall into Warren’s basement and lying on my back, remember, I am still pregnant, looking at the stars overhead, I fell asleep.  I probably would have slept till sunrise if I hadn’t smelled cigarette smoke.  I’ve told you how my sense of smell has transformed into an eagle’s since I’ve been pregnant.  Eagles have keen eyesight.  Maybe, it’s dogs that have such a keen sense of smell.  Anyway, I rolled over and eased onto my elbows and saw Warren outside, on the patio, smoking.”  Cindy stopped and pushed a pan of bread into the oven and used her blender to mix seven eggs, eight ounces of flour, and way too much milk.

“How in the hell did you get inside the house?”  I asked.

“Rain, righteousness, and Ruger.  The last motivated Warren more than doing the right thing.  It was barely drizzling when he was smoking but apparently it had rained enough earlier for the leaves to lose their voices.  I was able to sneak down the stairs without his detection.  The nine-millimeter Ruger spoke clearly even though, at the time, it didn’t make a sound.  As God would have it, Warren had disabled his alarm when he came outside for a five-minute smoke.  Oh, the power of small blessings.”

“You’re an idiot.  Warren knew exactly who you were.  Still knows.”  I said.

“That could be a problem.  If he goes back on his promise.”

“Promise.  You got him to promise he wouldn’t tell?  And, then you shot him.  Two times?”  This was turning into more of a horror story than I had imagined.

“Shot the windows three times.  That for sure was a mistake.  Shot them from inside Warren’s basement.”

“How on earth did he survive two blasts from a nine-millimeter?”  I asked.

“God works in mysterious ways I guess.  I would have sworn I killed him.  Looking back, it didn’t make much sense to tease out that promise from him.  Does it?”  Cindy asked buzzing around the kitchen like she was a professional chef.

“So, before you shot him, he gave you the tape.  Where is it now?”

“That’s how I got arrested.  After I got back to my car I smashed it up pretty good with my boots, even pulled out most of the tape.  As I was driving down Mill Avenue I must have been going too fast or driving a little erratic.  I saw the blue lights behind me as I got into the curve at Five Points.  I slowed but then at the last moment I jerked toward Bethsaida Road and tossed the tape out the passenger window.  There’s a drainage ditch there.  I then pulled into Dollar General’s parking lot and waited on the cop to circle back around.”

“I’m afraid to ask what happened to your Ruger.”  All I could think was why hadn’t Cindy already been arrested.  God must be taking care of her to keep Warren quiet.

“I hid it under the porch at the abandoned house on Sparks Avenue.  Don’t ask me why I didn’t leave the tape there.  Also, don’t worry.  I sneaked back over there late morning for my Ruger.  It’s halfway to Heaven by now.”  Cindy said, looking at me with both hands raised with palms pushing back and forth towards my face.  “Don’t ask.”

Cindy’s dinner was ten times better than anything I could have imagined preparing, even better than the Pirates Cove meal I had fed Wayne last night.  After three episodes of Quantico on Netflix, Cindy’s cell phone rang.  It was nearly ten o’clock.  It didn’t take long to figure out it was Maxine.  The caller had undoubtedly asked if Cindy was coming to church tomorrow.  As I paused the TV, I heard Cindy say, “oh goodness, that is so sad, so tragic.”  Less than a minute later the call ended, and Cindy returned her iPhone to the coffee table.

“Sad, tragic, but real justice.  Warren Tillman died tonight at 7:30. That was Maxine.  She had just heard.”  Cindy said without emotion, the only indication of what she was feeling was a slight smile, almost a smirk.

“What else did she say?”  I asked.

“Just how the doctors were surprised that he never regained consciousness after his surgery.”

“Maybe we can conclude he never got a chance to tell who shot him.”  I said.

“Looks that way.  Let’s watch Grace and Frankie.  You like that don’t you?”  Cindy certainly was putting on an act.  Surely, she wasn’t this cold of a person.  It was like she had swatted two big green flies.  It wasn’t at all like she had killed two people in the last two months.  But, what did I know?  I didn’t have a clue what it was like to lose the love of my life, a man who had rescued me from a harsh and hillbilly upbringing, who had loved me like a princess until the night he left my bedside and never returned to say goodbye.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 55

I had never taken off from my teaching duties as much as I had during the last two weeks.  It was now Wednesday, the 13th of December, and I had only worked four days.  Worked, as in taught school at Boaz High.  However, I had toiled diligently at developing what I had dubbed my ‘Friends Forever’ project.  What had made this both difficult and easy was Cindy’s preliminary hearing set for this afternoon at 2:00 p.m. in Judge Tyler Broadside’s courtroom. Ever since sitting in McDonald’s parking lot, drinking coffee, and designing the outline of a strategy to help Cindy, I knew whatever I did, had to be completed before District Attorney Charles Abbott presented his case for probable cause that she had kidnapped Patrick Wilkins.  I had always operated better with a deadline.  I was glad the Alabama Rules of Criminal Procedure mandated such a hearing take place within twenty days of the arrest.

Three major tasks had been accomplished during the past two weeks.  One of them was more closely related to mine and Cindy’s ‘Six Red Apples’ project, but it was now clear that was only a component of my ‘Friends Forever’ campaign.  I cared more about securing my relationship with Cindy than I did in getting revenge on the Faking Five.  This task, the less-related task, had been the most difficult.  After a week of tailing Justin Adams, I had finally located Club Eden next to Aurora Lake.  Once again, Tina, Matt Bearden’s assistant, had come to my rescue. 

Matt’s partner, Micaden Tanner, had been the key to learning the Club’s location.  It seemed his files, particularly one involving a civil lawsuit brought by the parents of Wendy and Cindy Murray, two girls who were abducted and murdered in 1972, contained enough notations for me to conclude that where I had followed Justin last Saturday was both the place the Faking Five were rumored to hang out and the place most likely they had taken me in 2002.  After seeing Justin last Saturday open a locked gate two hundred yards beyond the Aurora gas and food market and drive a narrow dirt road towards a grove of trees, I had returned late Tuesday afternoon and hid the newly acquired Audio Bug Transmitter Spy Gadget inside an old cast-iron coffee pot above a fireplace in a log cabin nestled beside a small creek.  So far, the bug has not activated.

The task that would either set Cindy free or enslave the both of us was my deal with Jed Cole.  In a way, it was a simple agreement and didn’t take long hours of preparation on either his part or mine.  All he had to do was testify he had shown the tan-colored van to Cindy and me on Saturday, September 30th, and we had taken it for a test-drive.  I had called him late Sunday afternoon and met with him on Monday the fourth.  Sunday, I had introduced myself and declared my need for an expert in used cars to testify in a civil case in Marshall County.  I told him I would make it well worth his time and effort to come to Guntersville during the afternoon of December 13th.  On Monday, I had carried him $10,000 in cash I had withdrawn from mine and Cindy’s Wells Fargo money; the withdrawal had been part of my overall scheme at the time of having a lot of cash available in the event Cindy, or Cindy and me, ever needed to make a sudden trip to Siberia. 

Immediately after Jed and I sat down at our booth at Lanny’s Diner on Monday, I slid an envelope across the table.  Before meeting him in Centre, I had stuffed it with over half of the cash I was carrying.  The amount was irrelevant.  I simply wanted to whet his appetite.  Green happened to be his favorite color and over a slice of fresh and steaming apple pie and hot coffee he had warmed to my idea.  What helped us both was his love for justice.  I sensed he believed he had some sort of duty to protect the local community from folks like Jeff.  Jed also was eager to correct Judge Cole’s divorce decree; nothing could be better for Jed than ridding his life of his ex-wife and her bastard son.  I left Lanny’s with a verbal agreement that Jed Cole would cooperate with attorney Matt Bearden and testify before Judge Tyler Broadside on Wednesday afternoon, December the 13th.  Jed left with less than $10,000 cash in an envelope, but with an additional $40,000 in a dark green pillowcase I had given him standing beside my car before we drove off in separate directions.

The third main task I had accomplished over the past two weeks was learning that Riley Radford was the one who had planted the bug in my school office.  I had already figured it had to be someone at school, someone with easy access to my office.  Cullie and I had pulled a sting of sorts.  Last Friday morning upon arriving at school, I had returned the bug to the top shelf behind the picture frame.  During lunch with Cullie in my little office, a rare treat by itself, we made the perfect presentation of our carefully rehearsed script.  The thing that made it perfect was Cullie’s spontaneous statement before leaving for Algebra class.  “Ryan called last night and said he was thinking about sending Riley to a private school next year.  Oh, by the way, he’s taking me shopping tomorrow in Huntsville.”  Riley had bought into our script.  She had heard Cullie and me discuss a scheduled meeting after school with the counselor to pre-plan Cullie’s next year’s AP classes.  We had made sure I would leave the door open for Cullie to return to my classroom after the meeting since I had to stay for a similar meeting with Alysa.  My 2:45 p.m. iPhone photo of Riley standing in a chair holding the Spy Gadget she had removed from my top shelf, was a magical moment.  At that point, I knew for sure why Real Justice was akin to real life.   

At 1:30 p.m., I walked across the street from the Marshall County Jail and into the Courthouse.  I had spent the last two hours with Cindy in Interrogation Room Four as Matt Bearden’s assistant (he had arranged this through the wonderful Sheriff Wayne Waldrup).  Cindy and I had used nearly a full notepad scribbling notes back and forth.  I wanted her completely prepared for what was about to happen.  At first, she thought I was nuts.  No doubt, she was correct.  After a while, she was elated over my wonderful story idea, gaining hope she might soon be able to see and hold her three children.  By the time I had fully explained what Matt should be able to accomplish (I was glad I had lied to him about mine and Cindy’s van-shopping trip and Mr. Cole’s fanciful and fictional story), it was showtime.

At 2:00 p.m., I was seated in the courtroom on a bench in the first row behind Matt and Cindy who were at one of the two counsel tables arranged in front of the old and wise-looking judge.

Judge Broadside: “Mr. Abbott, call your first witness.”

DA Abbott: “The State of Alabama calls Delton Rains.”

The hearing had begun.

In less than five minutes, Abbott directed Rains, the heavy-set man with the gentle smile I had met when first going to see Cindy after being arrested, to describe how he had taken the fingerprints of Cindy Barker at the Boaz City Jail on the morning of Friday, November 24th.  His testimony seemed unnecessary, but I guess DA Abbott was not taking any chances because as far as Matt knew, his only evidence tying Cindy to Wilkins’ disappearance was the lone fingerprint in the back of the tan-colored van.

After Abbott directed Dekalb County Sheriff Jimmy Harris to describe the discovery of the tan-colored van just south of DeSoto Falls, he called Quinton Reed with the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences.  He testified about the intricacies of the National Fingerprint Database and the “It’s a Match” software program Wayne and about a zillion other local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies used.

Matt had declined to cross examine either of Abbott’s witnesses so far.  No doubt, the seasoned criminal defense attorney had a strategy and it included a full admission that Cindy Barker had been in the van and would likely have left one or more fingerprints.

What had surprised Matt, and Cindy and me no doubt, was DA Abbott’s surprise witness.  Etowah County Sheriff Todd Entrekin testified that late yesterday afternoon the body of Patrick Wilkins had been found by a youth group from Salem Baptist Church.  I could see the small white-clappered church sitting on my right about a hundred yards before turning left towards Wilkins’ final resting place.  It seemed the group’s leader was the grandson of the owner of the land.  The group had been on some strange search for bigfoot or some similar creature the group believed lived in the forest just northeast of the church.  Entrekin testified he was aware of the Marshall County missing persons case and had been for weeks communicating with Sheriff Wayne Waldrup.  Apparently, the efficient Wayne had thoroughly investigated Wilkins and learned he had a tattoo of a naked lady on the inside of his right thigh.  So far, according to Entrekin, this identification and the fact the corpse was of virtually the same size as the late Wilkins left little doubt they had found the missing educator, although the Department of Forensic Sciences had not completed an autopsy.

DA Abbott completed his case presentation by calling me as a witness.  Matt had told me to be prepared but it still came as a surprise.  It was maybe the second or third worst time of my life.  I had no choice but to give full details of what Cindy had told me about what Wilkins had done to her.  By the end of my testimony, even a person of average intelligence would conclude Cindy had a vibrant motive to kill her rapist.  I was relieved when Matt stood and started his cross-examination.  Before he finished, Judge Broadside heard me testify I had no knowledge whatsoever of Cindy’s involvement with the kidnapping and murder of Patrick Wilkins.  This was not the first moment I realized that desperate times call for desperate measures; the word, self-preservation, came to mind.

I was the final witness called by Mr. Abbott.  Now, it was the defense’s turn.  I assumed Matt felt stronger about it than I did.  Even to a layman, Abbott’s case seemed weak.  I’d always heard that motive alone was insufficient for a court to find probable cause.  Of course, Abbott would say, “we also have opportunity and we have the killer’s fingerprints in the van where the victim’s dog-tag was found.”  I guess the State’s case was stronger than I thought.  I had forgotten that crime scene investigators had also found a slight trace of Wilkins’ blood in the back of the van.  Reed had testified to this.  I guess the tarp we used wasn’t as drain-proof as Cindy and I had believed.

Jed Cole was perfect.  He was well worth the $250,000 expenditure.  The $40,000-plus I had already paid him, and the $205,000 I had in the trunk of my car to give him this afternoon at 5:00 p.m. at the Lake Guntersville State Park Town Creek Fishing Center.  I had given him the benefit of the doubt over how much money was stuffed in the envelope I had slid across the table to him at Lanny’s Cafe. 

Jed’s testimony was anything but a memorized statement.  He was downright believable as he spewed and spurred over whether it was a Friday or a Saturday late September afternoon that he was manning the car lot by himself with Jeff away in Atlanta on a car-buying trip.  The thing that sold him as solidly credible could have also been damning if either Cindy or I had been questioned tightly about our schedule and activities that day.  Jed said the main reason he remembered Cindy and me coming that day and test-driving the 2005 tan-colored Nissan van was that it was the day of the Cherokee County Public Library’s annual book sale.  He said that Cindy had shown him a trunk full of books that she and I had just purchased.  Jed then said, “the ladies wanted the van so they could buy more books, but I talked them out of buying this particular one.  Jeff had just brought it in a few days earlier and I hadn’t had a chance to check it out.”

On cross-examination, DA Abbott wholly failed to crack Jed’s confidence.  But, this was insufficient to stop my heart from racing and my face from sweating.  Abbott was ready with a clearer than anticipated video of two shapely women in bold-colored pant-suits, one a curly-headed brunette, the other a pony-tailed blond.  If it had not been for the distortions produced by the pair’s fake teeth, I thought Abbot would have noticed a striking similarity between the on-screen dolls, and Cindy and me.  Before Judge Broadside ruled that “The DA has failed to show probable cause in the case of State of Alabama vs. Cindy Renee Barker,” he had said, with a smile on his face, “Mr. Abbott, don’t bring this case back before me until you’ve found these two gorgeous Sunday-School teachers with matching fingerprints.”  I hope he will never know how accurate he was in labeling the killers as teachers.

The Judge’s ruling was exactly what Cindy and I were after.  Along with the Judge’s order that Cindy be released.  Of course, the DA could submit his case to a grand jury and it could issue an indictment but without more, Matt stated he believed this would be the end of Cindy’s legal problems.  Oh, if Matt only knew.

After a five-minute meeting with Jed at Town Creek, I drove Cindy back to her sprawling ranch-style home in Smith Institute, where three children were eager to hug and hold the best mother in the world.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 54

“The worst cold wave in forty years is headed our way.”  Gabrielle Deabler had said last Monday night a few minutes before 10:30. She is the Huntsville, Alabama WHNT News 19 meteorologist I have been following since the late Patrick Wilkins said, “you and the gorgeous Gabrielle could pass as sisters.”  The only thing he had failed to mention was that I was the older sister and Gabrielle was much younger.  Patrick’s statement was made at the end of a faculty meeting last August.  Now, after three months of keeping abreast of local weather from Ms. Deabler and inspecting some teacher-photos of me from old school annuals, I was beginning to believe Patrick was right.  I also knew she had been correct with her Monday night weather forecast.  With temperatures hovering just above zero degrees on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday mornings, Boaz City Schools had closed.  It was now Saturday morning and the thermometer outside on the patio gate beside the driveway read nine degrees.  Clearly, the cold wave was breaking.  By the time I passed Walgreen’s in Albertville on my return trip from Guntersville at 11:00 a.m., the temperature sign indicated a scalding nineteen degrees. 

My visit with Cindy at the Marshall County Jail had been the most depressing hour of my life.  Period.  She was not doing well, physically, or mentally.  Last Thursday night, a deputy had discovered her in a virtual coma lying on her cell floor.  She had been rushed to Marshall-Medical Center North in Arab.  By late yesterday afternoon, Dr. Ireland had finally gotten her blood pressure under control but was pleading, via phone with Sheriff Waldrup, to keep her in the hospital, on bed rest, until she delivered her baby. 

Last night at 8:30, the hospital had discharged Cindy to the coldest weather in forty years. Our visit was the first time since her arrest that she had not repeatedly asked questions about her children.  I knew, mentally, she was spiraling downward.  The deputy came for her, an older man much more sympathetic than the other younger deputies I had met at the jail.  He hadn’t attempted to interfere with my efforts to hug Cindy.  As our bodies embraced, I whispered to her, “you don’t have to save me, say whatever you need to negotiate the best deal with the D.A.”  As the deputy led her out, she turned and said, “friends are forever, so are their promises.”  After I had walked out of the waiting room and into the frigid air, my depression transformed into determination.  I had to do something to save Cindy.

Twenty minutes later, after passing Walgreen’s in Boaz, I turned right to McDonald’s and sat in the drive-through order lane for another five minutes before a large coffee was finally handed to me.  Oh, the joy of simple pleasures.

I parked on the back side of the parking lot.  I needed more time alone to think.  My return trip from seeing Cindy in Guntersville hadn’t been the first time I’d brainstormed the best way to resolve our mutual problem, our criminal dilemma.  Maybe it was the hot coffee, or the instant slimy condensation I felt as I removed the cup’s lid and held the steaming cup to my face.  It was the idea a week ago that, until seeing Cindy today, I had poured into a quart fruit jar, attached and tightened its lid, and had set on the highest shelf in The Thread’s closet, no doubt a converted clothes-closet that Karen, Wayne’s wife, had used to store her cross-stitching supplies.  Of course, my little jar was make-believe.  But, the idea that now bounced around my mind was as real as Cindy’s depression.

Jeff Chandler of Jeff’s Car Sales in Leesburg was the absolute key to mine and Cindy’s future.  Or, so I thought.  If not our future, no doubt he was critically important to the plan I was seriously considering.  If anybody deserves credit for seeding this plan, albeit unknowingly, it was Cindy.  I think it was her ability to create two undeniable hookers that had, pardon the pun, set the stage.  Apparently, those two actors had encouraged Jeff to slip into the mind and clothes of a character he was well-trained to emulate. 

Without Tina, attorney Matt Bearden’s secretary/paralegal, I would never have had access to Alacourt, the State of Alabama’s Unified Judicial System that maintains case data, both civil and criminal, for each of the 67 trial courts throughout the state.

Jeffrey Scott Chandler was and is a convicted felon.  In 2013, he was convicted in Cherokee County of two counts of receiving stolen property in the first degree.  Receiving stolen property which exceeds two thousand five hundred dollars in value constitutes receiving stolen property in the first degree.  This is a Class B felony that carries with it up to a twenty-year sentence.  Tina apparently was tight with the Circuit Clerk of Cherokee County and had her fax a copy of the court’s file.  She shared the complete file with me.  It was, by the way, a public record.  According to the Investigative Report, two undercover agents had, on two occasions, purchased stolen vehicles from his car lot, with Jeff, both times, describing to his high school buddies, in detail, how he was able to sell the vehicles so cheaply.  Chandler’s honest openness came with a special bonus.  A ten-year visit with the nice folks at the Alabama Department of Corrections.  However, the need to share their limited facilities with more seasoned and dangerous criminals enabled Mr. Chandler to earn parole after only eleven months inside the high fences.  Parole always came with its own promise.  Violate one or more of a long list of terms and conditions and find yourself once again behind bars serving the remainder of your sentence.  So far, Mr. Chandler had avoided the one-way bus ride to Kilby Prison in Montgomery, Alabama.  The contents of the court file would be helpful given what the sly car salesman had attempted to do when the two hookers had purchased their tan-colored van.

After we had inspected the van, including sitting in the front seats and crawling into the back where two bench seats had been removed, we had spent almost thirty minutes test-driving to determine if it would blow-up after a bout of high speeds and rough roads.  When we returned to the car lot Jeff had said, “I can make you a great deal on this shaggin-wagon, if you can keep a secret.”  At first, Cindy and I hadn’t responded but kept walking around the van.  Jeff had received a call, now it seems, a gift from God, and excused himself by walking back into his office.  Cindy and I had discussed doing whatever it took to buy the van while in our role as two hookers.  Looking back, it seems Cindy was prescient.  Jeff returned and said he could save us a thousand dollars if we weren’t too concerned about the title.  “It’s a little cloudy, comes from a dysfunctional family.”  Obviously, we had bought the van thinking that doing so would convince Jeff we were for real, two loose ladies doing whatever it took to make a living, including buying a stolen van.

As we signed some make-believe papers the second key ingredient appeared.  At the time, it was virtually meaningless, just the humdrum of daily life in a Southern town.  Jed, Jeff’s father, walked through the office and said, “never again or your vacation begins.”  Neither Cindy or I were interested in anything but getting out of there without being discovered or detected.  We certainly hadn’t understood what he meant.  That is, until Tina’s Alacourt search for ‘Chandler’ in Cherokee County. 

Jed Cole’s past (I did not grasp the reason for the difference in last names) had not gone unconnected to the judicial system.  His troubles were of the civil sort, a divorce action in 2009.  Once again, Tina had given me a copy of the court file; I wanted to hug the Circuit Clerk.  The file contained a motion by Jed (through his attorney) contesting the court’s award of Jeff’s custody to the Plaintiff, Jed’s wife.  Long story short is a paternity test during the case proceeding determined Jed wasn’t Jeff’s father.  The court’s final decree awarding Jed and his wife co-ownership of the auto lot was nearly as predictable as a loaded gasoline tanker truck parked beside a roaring house fire.  

Last week as I seriously contemplated how I could use all this information to mine and Cindy’s benefit, it finally dawned on me that I needed to write a new story.  One where Cindy and I had visited Jeff’s car sales and had test-driven the tan-colored van.  With a clear objective in mind, and a slew of incriminating facts and smoldering family dynamics in hand, I had used one of my sick days to hang around Centre, Alabama.  I had latched onto an older man who was the straggler among five others who had just finished a round-table discussion over coffee at Lanny’s Diner on West Main Street.  As luck would have it, old Mr. Sandler had lived in Centre all his eighty-three years and knew pretty much everybody in town, at least those forty and older.  He filled my ear with stories of how Jed hated his ex-wife and her son Jeff.  What Jed hated more was having to deal with Jeff, who had purchased his mother’s half of Jeff’s Auto Sales.  Jed and Jeff were constantly at each other’s throats, and both stubborn as hell.  My favorite Sandler statement had been, “Jed would do anything to get rid of the asshole Jeff.”  

After going for another large coffee through McDonald’s drive-through, I was confident I had acquired the ingredients to cook up an interesting little story, one I felt Jed Cole would find a pleasure to read.

Saturday night Maxine Fulton, Cindy’s Sunday School teacher, came for Anita and Arlon.  The three were headed for fast food and hopefully a mind-grabbing movie.  I think Maxine had called and offered her support every day since Cindy was arrested.  Alysa and Cullie had gone to a basketball game with Lane and Kathy McRae and their daughter Lana.  I had Cindy’s house to myself. 

According to my internet search, it was an Audio Bug Transmitter Spy Gadget.  For seventy-five dollars I could buy both items: an audio transmitter and receiver.  According to the online description, “the small wireless transmitter is a super discreet unit with a built-in microphone and flexible antenna, enabling it to be easily hidden anywhere ….”  Anywhere, including behind an 8 x 10-inch picture frame on the top shelf in a teacher’s office.  The Audio Bug was no doubt a match to the one I had discovered last Tuesday in my small office at school.

After discovering the Spy Gadget comes with an earphone jack for on the spot listening, and an extra 3.5mm audio-out jack for recording to a digital audio recorder, cassette tape, or portable DVR, I submitted my order.  I needed two of these adorable units.  One to hide at a place I hadn’t visited in nearly fifteen years.  The other needed to be returned to its home. 

I was dreaming about the giant set of tweezers I had used (I had used latex gloves) to remove the Spy Gadget from the top shelf above my credenza, when the sounds of car tires rolling across gravel awakened me.  It turned out to be two cars.  Maxine and the McRae’s both drove up at the same time.  I was happy for the noise, otherwise, I wouldn’t have had time to use the lone pencil on the coffee table to push the small transmitter back into the side pouch of my book bag.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 53

I had never spent an entire class period discussing one vocabulary word.  Until today.  The word was self-preservation.  Yesterday afternoon, before leaving school, I had almost forgotten to post Tuesday’s focus word.  It was only the second week of following this new routine.  For nearly three months, I had provided these words a week at a time.  But, with the Facebook groups and the Real Justice project, the students had the tendency to jump ahead and pick and choose their favorite word or words and use them to speculate about how they related to our novel writing project.  I liked my new routine.  At least, until today.

Initially, I wasn’t sure why I had chosen self-preservation.  It isn’t included on either the SAT or ACT lists of words to know before taking either of the standardized college admissions tests.  Maybe, probably, my own quest for self-preservation caused this aberration.  Every one of the sixty-three words so far had been selected from one of those two key lists. 

If I had paid more attention to the chatter on Facebook last night I would have been expecting a lively discussion in the classroom.  I heard, more than once, a reference during class time, to a comment made by another student either yesterday or earlier this morning. 

After checking the roll, I said, “let’s spend a few minutes on our vocabulary focus.  We need to finish our discussion of An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce.”

Surprisingly, not one of the seventy-four students, Joanie Kittle was absent, said a word.  I proceeded to read Merriam-Webster’s definition: “Self-preservation is ‘preservation of oneself from destruction or harm; a natural or instinctive tendency to act to preserve one’s own existence.’”

Before I could begin the illustration, I had chosen, Ben Gilbert sat straight in his seat on the front row and said, “is this tendency innate, like, built-in to our DNA?”

After I told him it probably is, but our class purpose wasn’t to focus on the science of the word, what causes us to have such a tendency, Clara Ellington asked another question, “Do we have any power to ignore this tendency?  Does something like our environment, our education, even religion, do any of these things?  Do they give us the ability and strength to resist this tendency?”

From there, I lost complete control of the class.  Looking back, if the class discussion hadn’t been so personal to me, I would have relished every moment.  The fifty-minute class came as close as any one I had ever taught to being the near-perfect illustration of what high-school teaching and learning, at least the learning part, should be.  The class did a good job of incorporating Bierce’s An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.  From the Facebook comments that were brought into our discussion, it seemed Eric Smothers was infatuated with how Peyton Farquhar would have felt as he contemplated his hanging in Bierce’s short story.  Eric did quite a good job illustrating Peyton’s desire to preserve his life, stating at one point, “the ticking of Peyton’s watch and the few moments before the cannonball landed two feet from him, reveal what’s important.  It’s seconds, not minutes, and it’s family.” I had always loved this short story masterpiece, set during the American Civil War. It’s the story of Peyton Farquhar, a man, believed to be a Confederate sympathizer, one about to be hanged, whose love for his wife and children help him envision his escape..

Eric’s statements seemingly had launched the class into a subject closer to home.  My own self-preservation.  Although the class, as far as I knew at the time, talked only of their outlier Real Justice project and not about me directly.  I must admit, before the class ended, I felt I had been standing too close to a raging fire and that my hair, skin, eyelids, every part of me, had been singed.

The consensus of the class was that self-preservation was for all humans as natural as breathing.  Just as education, environment, and religion did not determine whether humans continued to breathe, at its heart, self-preservation was, like the ticking of Peyton’s watch, unalterable, even unstoppable.  The class however did expand on Merriam-Webster’s definition.  They believed that every human has the same tendency to preserve his loved one’s existence.

This is when the class, Ben Gilbert to begin with, brought up Stella Gibson.  It seemed the class was upset that I hadn’t responded to last night’s Facebook comments asking when I would be writing my chapter on the disappearance of Stella’s daughter.  I would have been caught off guard if I hadn’t noticed a week or so ago that my Creative Writing student’s outlines had changed their third plot point from the destruction of Stella’s house by a secret arsonist, to a kidnapping and contemplated murder of Stella’s daughter.

For a few minutes my mind left the classroom and visited its private little zone.  A place I had often visited but never when I had chosen the time.  The class continued its discussion but all I could think about was the strange and eerie feeling I had last week, maybe the week before, in The Thread.  A side benefit of this little semi-dream visitation was a reminder that my writing life was going to hell.  I had missed more early morning writing sessions recently than I had in years; I anticipated that a whole other habit, one of not writing, was in full development.  The main benefit, or purpose, of my zone visit was to remind me that the only real explanation for what seemed like a direct connection between the Real Justice project and my own life was that someone had bugged my office or had crawled inside my head.

My mind was faster than a train and landed back in the classroom, hopefully without a single student knowing I had taken a worldwide trip in less than two minutes.  The first thing that registered upon recovering from my landing jolt was, “Cindy Barker is a real-life example of self-preservation.  Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Katie?”  Clara apologized for having to rephrase her question.  I was glad she had because I hadn’t heard her first version.

“I’m not sure what you are talking about?”  What else could I have said.

“She kidnapped Mr. Wilkins to preserve her marriage.”  Ben said.  I could tell by how he slumped in his seat that he wasn’t too proud of himself for saying this, maybe he was worried he had done something illegal in making such an accusation.

“Class, let me be clear.  There is a limit to what you do with rumors.  The first rule, the best rule, is to never repeat them.”  I said with another paragraph to follow but I was almost verbally attacked by the entire class.

Almost in unison, the class said, “it’s not a rumor.  She’s been arrested.  She’s in jail.”  I heard one student, I think it was Eric Smothers but I’m not positive, say, “Hell, she’s in jail.”

“Just because someone is arrested doesn’t mean he or she is guilty.  I would hope you learned that in ninth grade civics class, at the latest.”

Again, I didn’t have to plead for class participation.  “She’s also pregnant.  Most likely, Wilkins’ baby.”  Clara said, sounding unlike the polite and respectful scholar she had been since the first day of school.

“Now, you are back to rumor.  What did I say you’re to do with rumors?”  I said, never so anxious for the end-of-class bell to ring.

“It’s not a rumor if what Riley Radford said on Facebook is true.  She said she has proof.”

Ben’s words were only half-way drowned by the bell.  It was louder for some reason, in the auditorium versus in my classroom.  I was glad for that and stressed.  The loudness of the bell reminded me of the booming anger that was welling up in my mind and gut.  For once in a very long time, the two were in sync.  So much that I thought I could kill myself over letting my class get so out of control. 

As I exited the auditorium and headed the hallway to my classroom several of my tenth graders tagged along, including Clara and Ben.  Both were apologizing at virtually the same time asking me if I was okay.  Clara said my face was redder than the flag.  I think she meant the red in the American flag.  “Are you having a heart attack?”  Ben asked. 

I finally shooed them away as I was unlocking my door.  I made it halfway across my classroom toward my little office before the cannonball landed.  It wasn’t a heart attack, but it was just as life-altering, or so it seemed.  What I had learned in the classroom I had just left, combined with my sudden recall of an episode of CSI last night dealing with an FBI-planted bug at a Senator’s house, prompted a moment of clarity I rarely experienced.  At that moment, I knew my little office had been bugged.

Ten minutes later, I was five minutes late for my eleventh-grade English class, but I was holding what no doubt had to be a listening device.  I found it on the top shelf above my credenza, behind an 8 x 10-inch framed photo of me accepting the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in the Great Hall of the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., in April 2002.

Only Wayne could tell me for sure, but that would have to wait.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 52

No doubt I was changing, even transforming into a whole new person.  By midnight Sunday night, I was thrilled to finally lay down.  I didn’t care if it was Cindy’s bed.  For most of my adult life I had dreaded going to bed, always thinking and believing it was such a waste of time.  This was why I had survived, even thrived, on four or five hours of sleep per night.  But now, I wanted to go to sleep to forget all my troubles.  I hadn’t been like this in nearly fifteen years.

Last Friday, I returned to Guntersville to deliver Cindy’s medication to the chief jailer.  I left without visiting.  But I returned four times.  Twice each on Saturday and Sunday.  After my second visit yesterday with Cindy, I drove to McDonald’s to meet with attorney Matt Bearden.  This had been arranged during my first visit with Cindy on Saturday morning.  I had anticipated learning the intricate details of how Cindy had persuaded Warren to let her in his basement and what had prompted her to shoot him.  I was vastly disappointed, or relieved.  I wasn’t sure which.  Matt declared he was representing Cindy on a charge of first-degree kidnapping.  He did admit it looked likely there would be a forthcoming charge of first-degree murder, even though Patrick Wilkins’ body had not been discovered.  He said he knew nothing about any other charges against her, pending or not.  After I asked him, questions concerning what Cindy had told him, he made it clear that he could not, that he would not, divulge any confidential communications he had with his client.  He explained that if he did then I would become a potential witness.  The privilege, the confidential communications privilege, was between the attorney and his client.  Period.

Right before I dozed off, I couldn’t help but ponder my amazement at how strong and courageous Alysa, Anita, and Arlon had been since their mother was arrested last Friday morning.  They had gone about their lives almost as though both their parents continued by their sides.  They had even wanted to go to church Sunday morning.  I hadn’t thought it a good idea, especially given the likely confusion over Warren’s shooting but I had acquiesced nonetheless.  I hadn’t stayed but had spent two hours in my classroom trying to get the ox out of the ditch.  My desk, my lesson plans, the Real Justice project, everything about my teaching, was worse than a train wreck.

Monday morning, Wayne was waiting on me outside my classroom door when I returned from my twelfth grade English class at 10:30.

“I’m sorry to bother you but I promised.”  Wayne said.  I could barely hear him.  It was morning break and the halls were buzzing with the thunderous rumble of youth.  I looked in Wayne’s face but could hardly detect a smile or any other sign he was glad to see me.  Further, he hadn’t made his normal greeting, “Katie, is now a good time to talk?”  I knew something was up.  And, it was serious.

“What promise?”  I asked, unlocking my door and motioning him inside my classroom.

“I promised you I would come tell you when we resolved your mother’s case.  I think we have.  At least we are getting close.”

We walked into my small office and sat beside each other in the two chairs across from where I normally sit.  “What’s happened?  What have you learned?”  I asked.

“We’ve discovered a witness who saw Ryan and Danny Ericson putting what she described as a ‘rug bag’ in the back of Ericson’s truck.  We believe your mother was in that bag.”  Wayne said reaching to take my hand.

“Should I assume this took place at Ryan’s house?”  I was surprised Wayne’s statement omitted such an important component.

“Yes, sorry.  I should have said that but knew you had talked to her earlier and that’s where she had said she was.”

“Tell me about the witness.  It seems odd someone could see Raymond’s place.  It’s pretty secluded, the last house on the left on Lindo Drive.”  I said.

“And, you can’t see the driveway from Clara Robinson’s house across the street for the hedgerow.”  Wayne added. 

“The witness can’t be Ms. Robinson.  I heard she died.”

“She did but actually, she is the witness.”  Wayne said.  I was more confused than ever.  “I see that look on your face.  Your eyes blink more rapidly and dart around when you’re confused, and your mind is seeking an answer.”

“I stay confused, so I guess I blink and dart a lot.  To prove a case, doesn’t a witness have to take the stand?  Seems like that’s going to be rather difficult for dear Ms. Robinson.”

“It’s called an excited utterance.  What the witness said when she saw something startling or shocking.  Normally, a witness has to give her own testimony.  If one person tries to say what another person said or saw, that’s hearsay, and therefore inadmissible in a court of law.  However, there are exceptions to this general rule.  One of them is the excited utterance.”

“I understand, mostly.  I guess I have learned quite a bit from Law and Order.  Question, why are you just now finding this out?  Not about the law stuff, but about Ms. Robinson.  I assumed your deputies did it, what is it called, canvassing?”

“That’s right.  They did.  After your mother went missing I had deputies knocking on every door in the neighborhood.  We were unable to talk with anyone at the Robinson household.”

“Why is that?”  I said.

“Later that morning, before my deputies knocked on her door, she had to be transported to Marshall Medical Center South.  That’s where she died.  As far as we were concerned, that ended our motivation to return to her house.  She had no family.  A Barbara Burgess, Clara’s caretaker, who seemingly disappeared after she died, is now back in the picture.”

“Wayne, I hate to rush you, but I’ve got a ton of work to do.  Maybe give me the short version now and then maybe we can find some time tonight to discuss the details.”  I said.

“Sorry.  I’ll do that.  It seems Ms. Clara loved to take a walk every morning, except she couldn’t.  But Barbara would follow along as Clara drove her mechanized wheelchair around the neighborhood.  That morning, they had just passed Raymond’s house when they heard a gunshot.  It wasn’t loud but apparently the two women both heard it.  They kept going thinking it might have been a firecracker or something.  When they returned, they were just past Raymond’s driveway, they heard commotion coming from his front porch.  The dense hedgerow protected them.  Clara drove close enough to get a peek.  The dense growth is next to the street.  Barbara followed.  That’s when they saw the ‘rug bag.’  And, that’s not all.  They both saw Cynthia Radford and an unknown man, who, according to their descriptions, had to be Nathan Johnson.”  Wayne sat back to catch his breath, I’m sure anticipating a barrage of questions from me.

“I come to you with blinking and darting eyes.  Meaning, I’m thoroughly confused.  What’s the excited utterance?”  I asked.

“Barbara told us yesterday that Clara had said, right there in her wheelchair, hidden behind the hedgerow, ‘They’ve killed Darla.  She’s in that rug.’”

“Why would she say that?”

“It seems Darla and Ms. Clara were friends.  According to Barbara, Darla often came to visit, sometimes twice a day.  She had come over that morning, earlier.  Barbara didn’t know what the two ladies had talked about, but Darla had seemed greatly stressed when she left.”

“I’m certainly no lawyer but this seems a little weak, especially now, after all this time.”  I said.

“I’ll leave on this.  But, here’s the ace we have, or Charles Abbott, the prosecutor will be able to use to convince Judge Broadside if this case goes to trial.  After Clara and Barbara returned to Clara’s house, she made Barbara write down what they had seen and put it in her Bible.  That’s where it’s been until we discovered Barbara.  Right now, I won’t go into how that came about.”

My thoughts alternated between thankfulness for rejecting the idea of going to law school after finishing my English degree and wondering why the note was so important.  So, I asked, “why not just let Barbara testify as to what she had seen.  Didn’t she see exactly what Ms. Clara had?”

“She did.  And, Barbara’s testimony will be offered.  It’s important.  She will testify who she saw and what she saw them doing, but her testimony isn’t nearly as important, as persuasive as Clara’s.  Barbara’s observation didn’t lead her to the same conclusion as Clara’s.  DA Abbott will be offering her statement for context and almost for what Darla would say if she were alive.  Barbara didn’t know what Darla and Clara had talked about earlier at her house.  This no doubt influenced Clara to say, ‘they’ve killed Darla.’”

“I’m still confused, didn’t Barbara hear Clara make her, what’d you call it, excited utterance?”  I asked.

“Yes, but what makes Clara’s verbal statement even more valuable is the fact she insisted Barbara record what she had uttered.  Now, we have an excited utterance and documentation in writing that it was made.”

I wanted to be the devil’s advocate.  My thoughts seemed relevant.  “Clara was only speculating.  Her utterance was her opinion.  The rug bag as you call it could have simply been a rug.  How does DA Abbott prove that Darla was in the rug?”

“I never said Clarke’s entire case is Clara’s excited utterance.  It’s one piece of the puzzle.  This evidence, along with what turned up last night at Ryan’s when we executed a search warrant, and the clear inferences that can be drawn from Raymond and Darla’s prenuptial agreement, builds a solid case against Ryan Radford and Danny Ericson.”

“Look closely, my eyes are blinking and darting.  Search warrant?”  I said.

“Thank God for luminol.  You know, the chemical used to detect blood.  Crime techs discovered it in Raymond’s den.  I feel certain blood and DNA testing will reveal it is Darla’s.”

“Obviously, I have a thousand more questions but for now, see if I’m properly summarizing.  Ryan, Danny, and Cynthia will be charged with murdering my mother?”  I left off Nathan Johnson since he’s obviously dead.

“Correct.  Warrants for their arrest are being prepared as we speak.  I’m sorry I’ve taken so much time.  We’ll talk more, maybe tonight.”

With that, Wayne gave me a quick hug and walked away.  Poor Darla.  It took the rest of my planning period, which was not long, and my entire thirty-minute lunch break, to gain some semblance of control and refocus on my work.  Finally, I had real proof that Ryan Radford had killed my mother.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 51

By 5:30 a.m., Ryan, Fulton, and Danny were on the eighth floor of the University of Alabama’s Medical Tower waiting outside the Critical Care Unit.  They had left Boaz within twenty-five minutes of Justin’s call from Marshall-Medical Center as he and Tiffany climbed aboard the helicopter that was air-lifting a near-death Warren to Birmingham for more specialized and intensive medical services.  Justin had been the first and only person Tiffany had called at 3:00 this morning after she heard the muffled explosion from two floors below where she was sleeping; Adams was simply the first name in her Contacts list.  The hospital staff in Boaz had valiantly attempted to stabilize Warren but the wounds were simply too serious for their facilities and expertise.

Ten minutes after first sitting down, Fulton was the first of the three to see Tiffany, Justin, and Kathy McRae exit the elevator directly across from their waiting area.  Tiffany’s face, except for her eyes, could easily match the whitest snow.  Her normally blue eyes were now deep-set, black, and were accompanied by the darkest of circles.  She clearly wasn’t wearing makeup, but it would have been unable to conceal the sadness and bewilderment beaming across her face.  Kathy, Tiffany’s best friend in all of Boaz, by luck, fate, or God, was already at UAB with her cancer-ridden mother when Tiffany had called upon arrival.  The way she was touching Tiffany’s arm, even how she held her head, revealed a leadership courage a virtual widow needed at such a time.  Justin, absent his usual smile, appeared even more stoic than normal, nonetheless his hand-wringing indicated he was at least minimally rattled.

After an exchange of hugs and sincere sympathy, Kathy and Tiffany receded to the far back corner of the waiting area.  What to many should have been a simple task of saying her husband was in surgery, had agonized Tiffany and nearly triggered a panic attack.  The four men retreated to an opposite corner, feeling it best to give the two women a semblance of privacy.

“What the fuck happened?”  Ryan exerted his best efforts to whisper loud enough for Justin to hear.

“About 3:00 or so this morning Tiffany was awakened by a loud noise.  First, she thought it was a dream.  She hadn’t gotten out of bed when she heard it again, another explosion she called it.  It was then she speculated she had heard gunshots but was confused over how many she had heard.  Warren wasn’t in bed but that wasn’t unusual.  Often, he slept on his couch in the basement, more so here lately.  Tiffany rushed to check on the kids and then descended two flights of stairs to investigate the source of the blasts.  There, she found Warren in a pool of blood, totally unconscious.  Two of the large floor-to-ceiling windows had been shattered.  She called 911 and then me.  After I arrived, she kept saying, ‘I don’t understand why the alarm system isn’t blaring.’”  Justin said standing in front of his three friends, all seated side-by-side.

“He probably forgot to activate the system.”  Danny added.

Ryan sat on the edge of his seat and said, “Justin, this ain’t the game Jeopardy.  How about telling us how bad Warren is.  Where was he hit?”

“One bullet just missed his heart.  It seems the second one pretty much destroyed one of his kidneys.  He lost a lot of blood.  The surgeons are trying to stop the internal bleeding and explore the full extent of the damages.”  Justin said, now sitting in a row of chairs across from the other three.  “Word is, he could die any time.”

As though Fulton had just heard his biggest banking customer explain the intricacies of a football strategy, he said, “Cindy Barker and Katie Sims come clearly to mind, but I’m not sure.  For some reason, it seems too aggressive for them, especially after Cindy got caught spying just a few days ago.

“People can surprise you.  Cindy’s lost her husband, maybe she’s suspicious of us.  Hell, maybe she’s figured out it was us who killed Steve.  Tipping point.  I think that’s what they call it.  When someone reaches the point their anger and determination for revenge overcomes their fear and normal inhibitions.”  Fulton continued applying his logical mind.

“The bitch is also carrying around a bastard child.  Shit, not just an illegitimate child, but one conceived by rape.  I’d say she’s got every reason to tip over.”  Ryan said, sounding more intellectual than usual.

“Don’t forget the second bitch, Katie.  Wouldn’t you all say she’s experienced enough to be double or triple-tipped?”  Danny asked, continuing to whisper like all the rest.

“Okay, enough.  We’re wearing out the tipping point metaphor.  Whoever shot Warren, this incident raises an important issue.  Where is the tape, the altered tape that the idiot Katie gave us?  Warren likely would have kept it somewhere in his basement, maybe locked up in his safe.  She, Katie, screwed up when she included that clip of Patrick Wilkins.  We all know we can use that against her if push comes to shove.”  Fulton said.

“I think there’s no doubt we’ve been shoved.”  Ryan said as the elevator doors opened. 

“It’s the surgeon.”  Justin said as he got up and walked to join Kathy and Tiffany who looked like she could barely move as she struggled towards the doctor.

“Given the circumstances, I have good news.  We were able to stop the bleeding.  We removed Warren’ left kidney.  Fortunately, both bullets exited the body.  He was fortunate with the one that came closest to his heart.  A quarter inch lower and he would be dead.  Good news certainly doesn’t mean he’s home free.  There’s even the possibility he will never wake up.  No doubt, he’s still in very serious condition.  But, for now, he’s stabilized and in recovery.  Tiffany, you can see him in about an hour, but only for a few minutes.  He’ll be brought back down here.  His two doctors will keep you updated.”

“It’s not here.  It can’t be.  We’ve searched every inch.  Whoever shot Warren, robbed him first.  The safe is still open.  If I had to bet, he had the tape, along with other valuables, there.”  Fulton said to Ryan.

The two had left Birmingham at 3:30 p.m. to return to Boaz.  Warren’s condition had remained stable and Justin and Danny were spending the night. 

Fulton and Ryan had arrived at the parsonage just as the crime techs with the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences were concluding their investigation.  One tech had said that, “no doubt it was a robbery/murder.  The broken glass is the give-away.  It was broken by gunshots from inside the basement.”

That statement and the missing videotape combined to be another give-away.  They were now certain that Cindy or Katie, or Cindy and Katie had somehow persuaded Warren to let them inside. 

Fulton and Ryan sat at the round table after retrieving each of them a beer from Warren’s bar.

“Cheers my friend.”  Fulton said as he held out his beer towards Ryan.  “It’s not every day we encounter someone as ruthless and cunning as the infamous Club Eden.  We might as well celebrate.  Tomorrow, we might not be able, just ask Warren.”

I had to wait over an hour to see Cindy.  I’d heard Wayne had made a lot of improvements after becoming Sheriff two years ago.  I’d have to encourage him to focus on new-inmate processing.

I was glad I had my notepad.  It was something I was rarely without.  A lingering habit developed early on by all serious writers.  Cindy refused to talk to me about what had happened.  But, she would exchange written notes.

After a couple of minutes of me asking her how she was feeling and especially about her blood pressure, she wrote her first note.

“I promise I will do everything I can to protect you.  That’s what friends are for.”  Cindy wrote, and slid the three by five-inch sheet of paper over to me.  I was thankful we were sitting across a table from each other and not separated by glass.  I doubt if Cindy would have said much at all through a jail-house phone.

I picked up the only pen we had from the center of the table and wrote: “I know about Warren.  I don’t know if he is alive or dead, but I know he’s been shot.  Have you heard this?”  I was hesitating to be direct.  I could just imagine a deputy storming in and seizing mine and Cindy’s written notes.  I laid the pen back on the table.

Cindy picked it up and wrote on the backside of her earlier note.  “I haven’t heard about that.”  After I read her note I wondered if she was being coy or simply acting truthfully.  I doubted it was the later.  She probably hadn’t heard about the shooting from radio or TV news, but I suspected she had seen the whole scene in vivid color.

“I don’t know how much time we have together, just write out what you want me to know.”  I wrote and slid my paper over to Cindy.

“You don’t have to worry anymore.  The silly tape your Creative Writing students made of Nancy Fletcher was destroyed in one of their most recent scenes.”  Cindy wrote.

At first, I was confused, but then, after looking into Cindy’s eyes, and seeing her head move in a slight affirmative nod, I realized she had written code for “the clip you stupidly included on your altered videotape is no longer a potential problem.”  I wrote, “I understand.  Cindy, you need an attorney.  Have you thought about that?”

At that point, she surprised me.  She answered me verbally.  “Before the deputy brought me here he let me make a call.  Matt Bearden should be coming to see me this afternoon.”  I didn’t know Mr. Bearden personally, but had heard nothing but good things about him.  He had practiced law in Boaz for as long as I could remember.

  “That was smart.  Other than taking care of your children, what can I do?  You know I will do everything I can.”  I said, desperate to know the full details of what had happened early this morning at Warren’s, but I knew Cindy wasn’t about to disclose anything incriminating.

“Tell my kids I love them.  Can you stay with them until my mother arrives?”  Also, I need my blood pressure medicine.  I meant to put it in my purse this morning, but I forgot.”

“Your mother?  Cindy, I can take care of your children.  I know how you feel about your family.”  I said, not truly realizing the full extent of the responsibility I was accepting.

“I didn’t have any other choice but to ask Mother.  She promised to come by herself.  I can’t put the full weight of my kids on you right now.  That will come if I die.  You know we’ve already talked about that.”  Cindy said.  I wasn’t sure if she was making a generalized statement or if she was revealing some sort of premonition she had experienced.

“I respect your decisions, but please know if that doesn’t work out, I’m more than willing to help any way I can.”  I said.

“Just bring me my medication, please?”

 “I’ll go get it and bring it back.”  I said.  “Anything else?”

“Bring me the two novels beside my bed.”  Cindy said, as though she had nothing to think about or worry her as she planned a summer afternoon beside her swimming pool.

“Okay.”  I said as a young deputy came in and said our time was up, unless Cindy intended on missing her lunch.  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours with your medicine.  Also, if you see your attorney maybe you could authorize him to talk openly with me.  You think?”

“I agree.”  Cindy said reaching over to hug me but being restrained by the deputy.

“Miss, press that buzzer and another deputy will come get you and escort you out.”  The deputy said as he led Cindy away.

While I was waiting on my escort, I sat down at the table and pondered the surreal moment I had just experienced.  Cindy in an orange jumpsuit, shackled like a serial killer.  Shackles around her ankles with an attached chain ascending to and connecting with cuffs securing her hands.  Three months of our indescribable pleasure co-teaching English and Creative Writing now juxtaposed alongside a nonfictional criminal, was more than I could stand.  The words, ‘serial killer’ rang in my ears as I thought I would suffocate before the deputy delivered me to freedom inside the crowded waiting room with double doors leading outside to the parking lot.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 50

While I sat in the interrogation room, I dialed Cullie several times.  It was probably my fifth call before she answered.  I told her what had happened and that I would be home as soon as I could but that it might be a while.  I figured it would be at least 8:00 or 9:00 a.m. before the city attorney would set Cindy’s bail and I could find a bondsman.  I doubted the City would allow her to leave on her own recognizance.  All of this was delayed because of the Thanksgiving holiday, which I had forgotten.  It seemed the city attorney was out of town and the jailer was having trouble reaching him.  It was almost 9:45 a.m. before I learned the real problem in the delay over Cindy’s release.  

The jailer returned to the little room that was growing smaller by the hour.  It was a different jailer this time.  This one, a tall, older gentleman who was grossly overweight but with a pleasant smile and a calming disposition, apologized for the delay and said, “Ms. Barker is being transferred to the Marshall County Jail in Guntersville.”  I voiced my confusion, confessing my layman’s understanding of the law.  I sensed he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he explained that municipalities in Alabama didn’t have jurisdiction over felonies, that’s reserved for district and circuit courts at the county level. 

After I expressed my belief that first-time charges for drunk driving were misdemeanors and not felonies, he surprisingly agreed.  He then said, “sorry, it seems Ms. Barker’s fingerprints relate to an outstanding case.  The County Sheriff and District Attorney will have to sort this out.”  I don’t remember but I figure I just sat there for a while.  Finally, he said I could continue my visit at the county jail.  He escorted me out of the interrogation room, down a short hallway, through a small office with the dispatcher busy manning the switchboard, and through the front door of the police department.

When I walked outside there were two officers standing between their police cars parked right in front of the station.  The parking lot was nearly as small as inside the police department causing me to walk close enough to them to smell Old Spice aftershave on one or both young and fit men.  They greeted me politely and continued their talk after I had passed.  I was still within ear shot when I heard one of them say, “it’s getting pretty bad when someone wants to kill a preacher.”  I almost turned and asked what they were talking about but continued forward and across the street to a larger parking lot and my car. 

Before I had driven twenty feet, my mind, seemingly without effort and automatically, retrieved Cindy’s statement, one I had attributed to the two beers she had drunk.  “I hope I killed him, I hope I killed him.”  I fought back anger, fear, and hopelessness and turned left on Highway 205.  It made little sense, but I extended my return trip home by driving to Sparks Avenue and First Baptist Church of Christ.  There, in the smaller east side parking lot, along the street, and in the driveway to the parsonage next door were parked two Boaz police cars, three Marshall County Sheriff’s cars, and probably a half-dozen unmarked, black SUV’s.  There was so much commotion two police officers were directing traffic.  As I eased past the church and approached the parsonage I rolled down my window and asked one of the young officers what was going on.  “There’s been a shooting.  This is a crime scene.  Please keep moving and allow others to pass.”

As I drove home there was no doubt in my mind that Cindy had been involved.  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that somehow she had gotten hold of a gun and had come here to do what she could to square things with Pastor Warren, the man I knew and certainly Cindy knew, was responsible for the death of her dearly departed husband.

Wayne called as I was heading home from Cindy’s.  After leaving the church I had driven home, picked up Cullie, and taken her to spend the day with Alysa.  I wanted to go home, quickly shower, and head to Guntersville to meet with Cindy.  I had to know what she had done.

“Katie, is now a good time to talk?”  Oh Wayne, just skip the damn politeness.

“It is.  I’m glad you called.” 

“Baby, brace yourself.  I have some bad news.  I might as well tell you straight up.  Cindy Barker has been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of Patrick Wilkins.”  Wayne’s words hadn’t come as a shock, but they were shockingly painful nonetheless.

“What on earth do you mean?”  I said.

“She was arrested early this morning for drunk driving in Boaz.  The short of it is her fingerprints matched one of the ones retrieved from the 2005 Nissan van found in Dekalb County.  You know, the one sold by Jeff’s Car Sales in Leesburg.”

“I remember you telling me.”

“After Cindy was arrested, Boaz printed her and submitted them to the National Database.  We have a computer system that constantly runs and attempts to match unknown fingerprints with those that have been newly added.  I received a text alert this morning at 8:25. It’s a good system.  Now, we know Cindy Barker was in that van.  Hopefully, she will confess and disclose who helped her kidnap Mr. Wilkins.  I suspect she is also responsible, partially at least, in his death.  From what we’ve learned during the investigation of her husband’s death, Cindy was after some vigilante justice.”

“Wayne, just when I had thought things couldn’t get worse.  I hear what you’re saying but I can’t for the life of me see Cindy doing such a thing.  She is so sweet and loving.  Such a faithful Christian.”  I said, unable to know what to say.

“Sometimes it’s hard to figure.  The ones you would never think capable of horrendous conduct can truly surprise you, no matter how strong their faith.”

“Changing the subject, but what is going on at First Baptist Church of Christ?  I just came by there and saw a bunch of police cars.”  Hopefully, Wayne wouldn’t think it odd and incriminating for me to ask this question.

“If the County didn’t already have more crimes to investigate than ever, more than we can say grace over, now we have another.  Sometime last night or this morning, we’re not sure, someone shot Warren Tillman, pastor Warren Tillman.  I’m headed there now but from what my deputies are saying, someone shot him through a wall of glass windows down in his basement.  So far, we know very little.  He’s in critical condition in Birmingham.  I think at UAB.  He’s bad.  I suspect this will become another murder investigation.”

“Oh, my goodness.  ‘It’s getting pretty bad when someone wants to kill a preacher.’”   The young officer’s words, said standing outside the Police Department, just rolled off my tongue.  Then, just as automatically, I said, “Of course, it can be the other way around.  It’s getting pretty bad when a preacher does something to cause someone to want to kill him.”

“Katie, I wish all of my deputies were as sharp as you.  You seemed to always see beyond the obvious and into the real world.  As much as I hate to, I must go.  I’ll talk with you later.  I am so sorry about Cindy.”  Wayne said.  I knew he meant what he said.  No doubt, his job was difficult at best.  He truly cared about people, but he also was fully committed to upholding the law. 

After showering and dressing, I drove to the Marshall County Jail to see Cindy.  On my drive to Guntersville, all I could think about was how Wayne would feel when he discovered the remaining unknown fingerprint belonged to me.  Our relationship obviously would be over.  And, that wouldn’t be the only thing that ended.  My life, my life as teacher, mother, and aspiring writer, would be lost forever.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 49

At 4:30 Thursday morning I was more eager to crawl out of bed and start my day than I had been in a long time.  I think it was because it was finally Thanksgiving and Wayne was coming.  My eagerness was diluted when I remembered there would only be two of us to share the fully-traditional meal I had planned.  I still hadn’t decided if I would tell him I hadn’t cooked a thing, that I had bought the complete meal from Pirates Cove in old downtown Boaz.  A private meal, alone with the man I had recently shared two passionate kisses on the patio just outside my back door, should have been enough to buoy me above the most treacherous ocean, but it hadn’t.  As I walked to The Thread, all I could think about was yesterday’s surprise classroom visit from Cindy, and Cullie’s scheduled first-visit tonight at the home of her father, the adorable Ryan Radford.  My sarcasm was up and active even before the first hint of daylight.

Someway, maybe because of my hallway prayer petitioning God to help me focus on my fiction writing, over the ninety minutes, I was able to create an impressive chapter for Real Justice.  Stella was inching closer and closer to discovering the true threat the Jaybirds posed to her well-being.  One scene depicted her budding relationship with Aiden Walker, the pastor of First United Baptist Church.  What started as a once a month meeting at the newspaper to discuss the church’s ads and marketing plans, had accelerated into a once per week rendezvous at a wilderness cabin outside Cherry Log, a small unincorporated rural town ten miles northeast of Ellijay.  What was still unclear to Stella was how much of Aiden’s pillow-talk she could believe.  The man was an enigma to say the least.  He both loved and deplored the other four members of his secret club.  But, the thing Stella found most baffling was how, almost in the same breath, after their lovemaking, he would pray for God’s forgiveness and verbalize, “we still on for next week?”  The second scene of my chapter, one that seemed to sprout so easily, dealt with the growing threat from Nancy Fletcher, Noah Fletcher’s wife.  The more I brainstormed and wrote, the more I descended into a dark ethereal world.  I was surprised at the peace I found the more I wrote about Nancy’s intensifying anger over something untrue, Stella’s intent to steal her husband.  Again, once again, I had this eerie feeling I was bouncing around in a world where fact was fiction and fiction was fact.

As I exited The Thread, Cindy returned, the thought of Cindy, yesterday, sitting across my desk in my little office at school.  She had shown up at 10:30 a.m., the beginning of my planning period.  I will never forget her first statement.  “Half of me hates you.  The other half loves you.  I’m in the struggle of my life to determine which side wins.  I wanted you to know this.  I also want to ask you to try, try real hard this time, to keep a promise I’m asking you to make.  Think of it as another chance to be my friend.  I’m asking you to promise you won’t try to save me ever again, like you did when you broke your promise and told Steve my secret.  Let me sink or swim by my own choices and actions.  Can you do that?” 

Looking back, I wish that I had not agreed.  How can one honestly promise her best friend she won’t interfere ever, even if it is to save her friend’s life?  That promise was so fucking stupid, just as insane as including the clip of Patrick Wilkins in the back of mine and Cindy’s van, on the altered videotape I had given Warren Tillman at Wells Fargo Bank.  It was probably stupid enough to have switched out the tape to begin with.  But, I now feared the Flaming Five were gloating in their good fortune.  I had given them a virtual confession that I was responsible for the disappearance of the criminal asshole Wilkins.  My stupidity was driving me straight to prison. 

As I walked into the kitchen, I was still confused over the one other thing Cindy had said.  Something about the many calls she had discovered on her cell phone that occurred after her altercation with Paula and while she was in the hospital.  Cindy knew they were made and received by Steve.  I recalled that Steve had told me he had left his cell phone at home.  There were no voice-mail messages but only two phone numbers and she didn’t know whose they were.

If this wasn’t bad enough to lock down my mindset before breakfast, my concern for the most important person in my life did the trick.  As I poured my second thermos of coffee, I again swung a big stick at my head.  I was the idiot who had agreed, if Cullie agreed, for Ryan to have a first-visit with our daughter, as he had put it.  I had been both surprised and hurt that Cullie had elected to spend Thanksgiving afternoon at the home of Ryan and Karla Radford.  Hurt, because it felt like a betrayal.  Why wouldn’t Cullie hate Ryan as much as I did?  It seemed only normal that she felt as I did about my father, the man I never met, the one man out of five who had helped create me but whom I would never know.    

Wayne arrived at 4:30 p.m.  We had planned on him arriving a couple of hours earlier but, as usual, something had come up at work and he had to go to Guntersville.  Our meal was excellent.  Wayne slathered on the compliments over everything.  He particularly liked how I used just a little extra sage in my cornbread dressing.  After nearly an hour of expressing his thanks and how wonderfully blessed he was of finding such a wonderful woman who can cook a carrot cake as good as his mother, I could no longer live my lie.  By now we were seated on the couch in the den.  I confessed and told him if I had cooked our meal he would probably already be at home laying across his bed with a queasy stomach.  The eternally kind and respectful Wayne had reached for my hand and stood us both in front of the fireplace, in front of the fire that he had built when he arrived, and gently pressed his lips into mine.  “You are still a wonderfully gifted woman.  Most any woman can learn to cook, given sufficient effort, but only one in a zillion can draw me in to a story and hold me for four hundred pages and then, when the tale had ended, make me want more.”  Wayne had impressed me.  He had finished reading my first and only book, Out of the Darkness. 

The heat became unbearable.  The heat from the fireplace.  I cast away all inhibitions, took his hand, and pulled him away from the fire’s intense heat.  I led him to my bedroom and the passion that erupted between us was just as hot as the fireplace, but totally bearable.  After ten minutes of standing beside my bed and exchanging kisses like I never had with anyone, Wayne, the kind, respectful, and shy Wayne, unbuttoned my blouse.  I helped him with my bra and pants.  He didn’t offer any help with his clothes allowing me to take my time.  Our serious march towards our first sexual union was interrupted only by his request we turn down my covers.  Apparently, the gorgeously beautiful and well-equipped Wayne was more comfortable and confident beneath the sheets.  I no doubt acquiesced. 

His shyness vanished as we lay side-by-side kissing passionately and exploring each other’s bodies.  I was so happy that he loved foreplay.  He also knew how to bring me to the perfect moment, to the place I hadn’t experienced since Colton, hell, never.  Even though Wayne was surprisingly enduring, it wasn’t enough, even though our mutual climax surpassed every love scene I’d ever experienced through the written word.  As we lay on our backs side by side I was dreaming about and hoping for Wayne’s quick recovery, when my cell phone in the den rang.  I normally had it set to vibrate but with Cullie’s visit I didn’t want to take any chance I might miss her call. 

At first, I stayed in bed.  I even rolled on top of Wayne and told him how wonderful he was and how I didn’t want our time to end.  No doubt I wasn’t fully convincing.  He undoubtedly sensed my anxiousness and said, “it was even more wonderful for me and I want more and more of your love, but don’t you think you might want to check your phone.  It might be an important call.”  The kind and respectful Wayne had been so attentive during our Thanksgiving meal as I had described to him Cullie’s visit across town.  I was glad he hadn’t asked any questions about mine and Ryan’s relationship fifteen years earlier.

By the time I reached the den and my phone I knew it was Cullie.  Call it a mother’s intuition.  Her voice-mail message was clear.  “Mom, please come get me.  Ryan and Karla have been nice, but I hate Riley Radford.  Please, please come now.”  I returned her call and promised I was on my way.

Wayne rode with me and offered assurance Cullie and Riley would find a way to work out their differences.  I wanted to agree but could not think of anyone except Alysa and Cullie and what should have been happening right now.  Cullie and I should be at Cindy and Steve’s with all three of their children eating a wonderful meal, not store-bought, but one painstakingly prepared by as good a cook as I had ever seen.  Cindy, my dear Cindy, now a widow, now missing the near-perfect husband who was now dead because of me.

Cullie wouldn’t talk on our way home.  It might have been because of Wayne, even though it seemed she worshiped him.  As soon as I parked beside the patio, Cullie fled into the house.  It was only then that I saw the envelope taped to the back door.  It was from Cindy.  I wasn’t positive when she had brought it.  On our rush to go pick up Cullie I could have missed it.  She might have brought it while Wayne and I were making love.  Had she knocked?  Had she thought I had refused to come to the door?  I walked into the kitchen and lay the letter on the bar.  The last thing I wanted was for Wayne to learn something about the woman he had just made love to and who he thought was one in a zillion.  I would read it later.  Right now, the man of my dreams was rekindling the fire and wanting me to come engulf him in my arms.  At least that’s what I hoped he was thinking. 

Before I was halfway to him, he reached in his back pocket for his damn cell phone.  No doubt it had vibrated.  And, no doubt, it wasn’t good for me.  “I have to go back to Guntersville.  Same issue.  Baby, I’m sorry.  I’ll call as soon as I can.  Maybe we can share another slice of that carrot cake when I return.  Okay?”

After Wayne left, I opened Cindy’s letter and sat down across from the fireplace.  “Katie, my life is over.  Steve was my world.  I know I have three beautiful children, but I will never be what they need.  There is such a void in my life.  And, I have hurt you so badly.  I’m sorry for all the hateful things I have said.  I wish there was some way I could make you know how much I love you and have enjoyed our friendship.  It’s been real.  I have one other request: I am asking for another promise.  If something were to happen to me, would you take care of my kids?  They love you like a mother.  I know this is a lot to ask.  If the worst happened to me, I want to know I have taken care of things.  You are named both executor and primary beneficiary in my new will.  Everything I own will go to you in trust for my kids.  This includes my share of the money at Wells Fargo Bank.  I love you and I know you are promising me that you will do what I’m requesting.  Again, I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.  I will never forget all the wonderful times we’ve had at school.  Now, there’s something I must deal with.  Our six red apples project is not yet finished.”

I reread her letter three times.  I could reach only two conclusions.  And, both were clear.  Cindy was anticipating her death, and she intended to do everything she could to mete out revenge on the Faking Five. 

Cullie finally came out of her room at 10:00 p.m.  She had calmed herself enough to talk.  How openly I wasn’t sure.  It seemed that after a rather pleasant Thanksgiving meal, Riley had asked Cullie to hangout in her bedroom.  This is where she verbally attacked Cullie for ruining her world.  “Now, I doubt my life will ever be the same.  Daddy will dote over half of his affections on you and push me down to living like an average girl.”  Cullie also shared how Riley accused me of fabricating the whole story, that of her father being Cullie’s father.  She said Riley had said, “your mother is just a fucking whore and got what she was after.  There was never any rape.  Next thing we’ll know is her Stella girl will be fucking Aiden Walker in Cherry Log, Georgia.”

I’m not sure I heard anything else Cullie said.  She could easily recognize when I entered the zone, as she called it.  She knew it was a world beyond her world, one I often chose to enter and one I just as often had to be forced into.  This time was one of the later.  How in the hell did Riley Radford know about Stella and Aiden and their ventures to Cherry Log?  The only other person in the world who knew about this other than me was Cindy.  Yesterday, when she had dropped by my office, during a few minutes while we returned to a semblance of our previous normalcy, I had shared with her what my imagination was prompting me to write in the Real Justice project.  I doubt Cindy would have told anyone.  I wasn’t even sure she had been listening to me close enough to relay these facts.  In my gut, I knew that Cindy had not divulged my writing intentions.  I also knew that none of the five creative writing teams had included any such detail in any of their outlines.  It had been my responsibility all along to create and write scenes that dealt with Stella’s interactions with the five Jaybirds.  The only logical conclusion was that Riley had overheard yesterday’s conversation with Cindy.  Hell, Riley couldn’t have looked over my shoulder this morning in The Thread as I had described the Cherry Log scene.

It was after midnight before I went to bed.  I had finally given up on reaching Cindy by phone.  My belief and desire that Wayne would return for another slice of cake had prevented me from driving over to her house.  If Cindy did not return my call by morning, I would drive over before going to school.  At 4:15 a.m., I learned I wouldn’t need to do that.

Alysa called fifteen minutes before my alarm was set to ring.  She sounded concerned.  She was only semi-panicked.   She was not frantic.  “Katie, mother has been arrested.  She just called and wanted me to call you.”

“Oh baby, what’s happened?  Where is she?”  I said, wondering what in the hell Cindy had done to get arrested.

“She’s at Boaz City Jail.  You won’t believe this, but she was arrested for drunk driving.”

“Oh my gosh.  Cindy doesn’t drink.  Does she?”  I asked.

“No, never.  She would pitch a fit if Daddy drank one beer.  She wouldn’t even let him bring it into the house.  Of course, Daddy probably only drank four or five beers per year.  Always after an extraordinary day of fishing.”  I was amazed at Alysa.  She had astounded me and the crowd at her father’s funeral.  As controlled, professional, entertaining as a Sandra Bullock would be in a similar scene on the big screen.  Now, here she was, again not acting, but living like the young woman any mother would covet.  Cindy wasn’t leading the badly damaged family, but the fifteen-year-old Alysa was.

“Okay, don’t worry.  I’ll go now, and I’ll call you later.  Why don’t you and Anita and Alton stay home from school today.”

By ten minutes before five I was sitting with a semi-conscious Cindy in a private interrogation room at the Boaz City Jail.  At first, she wouldn’t say much, just that after she couldn’t find me she had written the letter and taped it to my door.  Then, she had bought a six pack of beer and driven to Nanny’s place, now my place, on Bruce Road and had sat for hours.  She said she had drank a little over two beers and was feeling a buzz for the first time in her life.  I kept asking her why she had done this since she had never drunk.  She kept shaking her head and saying, “I hope I killed him, I hope I killed him.”  As I completed my third attempt to persuade her to explain what she was talking about the jailer came in and said my time was up.  As he removed Cindy from the room I heard him say, “my shift just ended, and I still haven’t fingerprinted you.” 

I sat back down, but not until my mind flashed a picture of a 2005 tan-colored Nissan van across my eyes. The van was super small, or the outline of a thumb-print was super big.  I wasn’t sure which.  Either way, I felt someone had pushed me over the edge of Noccalula Falls and I was tumbling towards a certain death.