Category: The Boaz Stranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep,” was Kyla’s response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drowned. Again, where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Connor had learned something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d appreciate you keeping me updated.”

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

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

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

***

“Hey brother. How are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see any police or deputies?”

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

“Tell me what she said.”

“‘Thankfully, never.’ Her words.”

“What did that mean? Did you ask?”

“Well, of course. Just listen.”

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

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

“Deidre said that, exactly?”

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

“I will and you too.”

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

I used the fading glow of the campfire to make my way to a point I felt safe to turn on the flashlight. The terrain wouldn’t be that bad if I could take my time, but that wasn’t an option. I ran as fast as I could, slowing only to climb over fallen logs and to duck underneath low hanging limbs.

Although I tried, I couldn’t stop analyzing the situation I was in. I figured Ted would follow a similar path, but not at my pace. It was Ray I had to worry about. According to my quick calculations, it would take him and Jane only two minutes to reach his Suburban and drive Ted’s long driveway to Bruce Road. It would take another fifteen seconds to reach Bethsaida Road and make a right turn. Maybe twenty-five seconds to arrive at Simpson Street.

I broke out into a cold sweat, and it wasn’t from my running or the cool weather. There was no way I could reach my Hyundai before Ray and Jane arrived at the Clausen’s. I could forget making a get-a-way without being seen. There was only one way out, Simpson Road, and that’s the exact path they were on right now.

I was a little over halfway to my car and was moving too fast to manage a steep bank. I fell face forward, sliding twenty feet before ending sideways in the ice-cold creek. Thankfully, the water was only inches deep. I used both hands to pry myself upward and realized I’d lost the flashlight. My handkerchief was in my back pocket. I removed it, dried off my hands, and retrieved my iPhone from my front left pocket, hoping it had survived my fall. It worked. I activated the Flashlight App but still couldn’t find my Walmart flashlight. I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. If it hadn’t been for the moonlight, it would have taken an extra five minutes to reach my car.

The moment I exited the woods, I saw Ray’s Suburban nudged against the Hyundai’s rear bumper. Even with the Clausen’s streetlight, I didn’t see Ray. Maybe he had gone into the woods looking for me. I walked as fast as I could thirty feet to my driver’s side door. The second I placed my hand on the handle, I heard his voice several feet behind. “You fucking bastard.” I turned and saw him entering the shadows of the streetlight. I froze, not knowing what to do. “You fucking bastard.” He kept repeating himself. I thought of the H & K underneath my seat and leaned into my open door. 

I grabbed the pistol, stood and swiveled in one move. That’s when Ray’s right fist cocked my left eye. I fell backwards, slouching into the front seat with the H & K landing on the floorboard. The pain in my head was like none I’d ever experienced. And I thought the Walmart scene was bad.

“Get up you fucking loser.” Ray gave me no choice. With both hands, he grabbed my jacket below my collarbones, lifting me like I was a sack of groceries. Out of my right eye, I saw Jane for the first time. She was less than ten feet away, her back to the woods. All of this was happening fast, but somehow it felt like slow motion. She raised her right hand and pointed toward the Clausen’s.

“Ray, Barry, he’s got a gun.” At first, my confusion led me to believe she was referring to my gun. That’s when I heard the first shot. Ray released his grip on my shoulders and turned to his right. I swiveled to my left so I could see out of my right eye. A short, pudgy and balding guy who I assumed was Barry Clausen was running our way with a rifle pointed more at Ray than anybody. Behind Barry, fifty feet, was an expensive car. A Mercedes, I think.

I knelt on one knee and felt for the H & K behind me on the front floorboard. Ray was quick as a cat. In the seconds since I’d seen Jane point and announce Barry’s presence, Ray had simultaneously crouched and removed a pistol from his rear waste band.

Two shots rang out together. My hand located my pistol, and I slid a round into the chamber maintaining my kneeling position, somewhat protected from Ray by the driver’s side door. 

Jane screamed. It was more of a loud moan than anything. I looked through the glass window and saw her fall backwards. That’s when Ray stood and pointed his pistol towards me. Here’s for stealing my wife. He didn’t hesitate. The bullet shattered the Hundyai’s window and missed my right ear by only a hair’s width. I fell to my left and somehow fired the H & K. I hit Ray with my first shot.

He slumped to one knee, clutching his stomach with both hands before reaching for his pistol five feet in front of him. I got to my feet and kicked his gun away as Ray collapsed onto his right side. 

That’s when I heard a siren and saw the bodies. To my left, Barry was lying on his back, his rifle at his feet. To my right, Jane was also on her back, but she was moving, albeit slightly. I raced to her as I estimated the siren had just turned onto Simpson Street and would arrive in fifteen seconds. 

Jane was bleeding from her right shoulder. Thankfully, it wasn’t a deadly wound, but given her moaning, I knew she believed otherwise. “Help is coming, lie still.” I applied pressure to her wound and heard a woman’s voice.

“Oh my God, he’s dead.” I turned my head and saw a woman on both knees beside Barry’s body. Her crying seemed artificial. It had to be Vanessa Clausen.

***

A City of Boaz police car and two ambulances arrived at 7:13, according to my iPhone. While Jane and Ray were being attended to by the paramedics, a D. Wilson ordered me away from my car while his associate, an E. White, commandeered Vanessa Clausen.

Neither officer knew who to trust, so they put the woman and me in handcuffs and started lobbing questioning. Once Wilson saw my swollen eye, he became more sympathetic. “I’ll transport you to the Emergency Room to get you checked out, then we’ll need to go to the police station.”

“I understand.” I said, feeling like I could pass out at any moment.

White did the same with Vanessa even though she showed no signs of injury. With me in the back seat as Wilson followed White’s car, I volunteered what had happened. The only thing Wilson would say was, “it’s a good thing, for you at least, that we received an anonymous tip.” He wouldn’t say who it was, but Orin Russell came to mind. I didn’t think it likely Ted would have tipped off the police since he had never arrived at the Clausen’s.

Upon arrival at the Emergency Room, they took me to an exam room, accompanied by Wilson. We waited for nearly an hour before he finally agreed for me to call Lillian. She didn’t answer. Maybe it was because it was 8:45, three-quarters of an hour after our scheduled call. All I could do was assume she had fallen asleep when she returned to her room. I knew she wouldn’t trail along as Stella met up with the Greg fellow.

The Emergency Room doctor, the same Dr. Clifton who had attended to Lillian and that I’d talked with, finally checked on me at 9:20. By 11:30 PM I exited the police station and climbed into my shattered-window Hyundai, thankful E. White and another officer had transported it from the Clausen’s. And, more thankful for Micaden Tanner. He’d responded to my call from the police station and come to Interrogation Room #2. Although it had taken quite a while, Micaden had persuaded Officer Wilson that my story was credible.

Just as I waved at Micaden in his truck and pulled out of the parking lot onto Highway 205, my iPhone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway. “Hello.”

“Is this Lee?” The woman’s voice was high pitched.

“It is, who’s calling?”

“Lee, this is Stella and I have some bad news.”

Her voice, now frantic. “Tell me, what’s happened?” I replied, a sick feeling engulfed my gut.

“Lillian has disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“She wasn’t at Starbucks at 10:30, as promised. I arrived on time, but Lillian wasn’t there. After waiting fifteen minutes, I called, but she didn’t answer. I waited another hour before walking back to our room. She wasn’t there either. For the next two hours, I walked back and forth between our hotel and the coffee shop, trying to call Lillian every few minutes. Finally, around midnight, she answered, or that’s what I thought. She said nothing. I kept calling her name. I swear I could hear breathing, like a man, like he was listening to me but wasn’t saying anything. And he didn’t.”

Stella and I talked the entire time I drove to Kyla’s. Somehow, I knew something was wrong. It was like I was living a nightmare. My mind kept telling me I had to do something if I ever wanted to see Lillian alive again.

A few minutes before 1:00 AM, I turned Kyla’s Silverado left onto the I-59 entrance ramp at Collinsville. My intended destination, Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

I turned left and pulled my iPhone from the windbreaker I’d grabbed from Lillian’s back porch. I didn’t relish this call, but Kyla was expecting me, even though I was already half an hour late for dinner. Plus, there was that promise I’d made to keep her updated on what was going on.

When I turned right on Simpson Street, Kyla was brainstorming positive reasons Jane was at Ted’s cabin. Things like, “I think she’s brave. Probably trying to gather more ammunition for us to ambush Teflon Ray.”

I had to cut her off and end the call when Barry and Vanessa Clausen’s house came into view. There was a light upstairs, but no vehicles or other signs that either of them was home. I eased past the house and opted for a spot fifty yards beyond the attached garage where Lillian had parked her Aviator during our last visit.

I pressed the trunk release button and thought of the flashlight I’d purchased at Walmart the night I’d arrived in town. After verifying it still worked, I thought of how unprepared I was for this little hike, and especially for what could go wrong if discovered. If I had been prudent, I would have at least explored Lillian’s cabin to find the night vision goggles she’d brought on our first trip. Thank goodness the moon was almost full. I closed the trunk lid and gave myself an audible “Oh boy.” At least three additional items, a toboggan or a handkerchief large enough to cover my face, and a baseball cap, would be welcomed.

As I entered the woods, I activated my iPhone. It was 6:30, ninety minutes before calling Lillian. I knew my round-trip hike took forty minutes, an hour at an outside extreme, given the weather. This would still leave more than enough time to get in a suitable position to see, and hopefully hear, what Jane and Ted, and probably Ray, were up to.

It was 6:49 when I reached the giant oak I’d seen during my last hike. This was the last time I could safely light my surroundings before I got close to the cabin. To be safe, I powered down my iPhone and continued in the bright moonlight toward the rear of the cabin, remembering that I had forgotten to bring the H & K.

***

I continued my march to the backside of Ted’s cabin, relieved I hadn’t brought the pistol. Besides its weight and bulkiness (I didn’t have a holster), I wouldn’t need it.

All I intended to do was get close enough to see who was there. I knew Jane, more accurately, Jane’s Equinox, was present, but I needed to know if Ray was. If so, that would go a long way to confirm my suspicion that Jane couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t expect to understand a single word since I’d be looking through a door or window.

To my surprise, when I reached the creek, I saw a blazing fire only fifty or sixty feet away. Through the trees, I could see Jane standing and facing me with the cabin behind her a similar distance to what I was from her. To Jane’s right and left were Ted and Ray, respectively. Both sat, their backs to me. Jane appeared to be roasting hot dogs on a stick. There was a portable table to her right containing ketchup, mustard, and probably buns, but a tree obstructed my view of the left half of the table. I edged forward and sideways enough to gain the security of a larger tree. By the time I crouched, Jane removed the wiener from the stick, stuck it inside a bun, and added the condiments. Ray stood and reached toward her.

Over the crackling of the fire, I heard Ted’s voice. “I thought we were having your scrumptious chili.”

“Shit Ted, give her a break. Even Wonder Woman needs to rest.” It was Ray’s words, although altered by a mouth full of hot dog.

“Yeah Ted, how about a little gratitude?” Jane reached under the table and grabbed what was probably a beer. She handed it to Ray.

“Okay, sorry. Thanks for all your efforts. So, what time did you get back?” What was this all about? Where had Jane gone? And here I was thinking she had been home since late Friday night. Apparently, that applied only to her Equinox.

“Just before daylight. It took five hours.” Jane waved the stick with flaming wiener back and forth above her head. “Shit, I’ll take this one.”

“Any problem with Enterprise?” This was getting weird. Was Ted referring to the car rental company? I stood to ward off a cramp but stayed solidly behind the oak.

“Easy peasy. My disguise was a killer. So was Mandy’s.” Mandy? Who was Mandy? Man? Woman? The only Mandy I knew, rather, had heard of, was Alex Mandy.

“Give me another dog. I’ll take the crispy one.” Ray stood and walked to a tree to his right, maybe ten feet away. He returned with a stick and started prodding the fire. “Where did ya’ll switch?”

I shook my head sideways and closed my eyes. I wanted to cross the creek and join the conversation around the fire. So far, my best guess was that at some place five hours away, two people, Jane and a Mandy, had rented vehicles from Enterprise and then later met to swap. I assume their rentals.

“Cracker Barrel in Pigeon Forge.” Jane pulled a chair away from the fire and sat. Her statement was troubling. She had gone to Pigeon Forge. I now knew Jane had feigned her sickness.

Ray returned the fire poker to the tree and headed to the cabin. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Tell me you reviewed the itinerary before you started home.”

“She better have.” Ted added.

“You two know me better than to doubt. Unless preacher man is a fucking idiot, he knows to do his deed and then swap vehicles at Laurel Point Resort. When he gets back to Fort Payne, he’ll dump the Ranger and return to Boaz in my old Impala, assuming Chevrolet of Boaz’s new engine did the trick.”

A wave of terror ran through me like an electrical shock, but before I could review what I’d heard, another man exited the cabin, walked across the porch, and descended the steps. At first, I didn’t recognize him, but then I recalled a photograph Micaden had shown me. The young man had to be Orin Russell.

“Anything?” Ray asked, motioning for Orin to join the bonfire and wiener roast.

“He’s still not home, neither was Vanessa even though there’s a light on upstairs.”

“What do you like on your hot-dog?” Jane asked, looking at Orin.

“Everything you got.” He sat in the folding chair that Ray offered. “Funny thing happened while hiding at Barry’s.”

“What’s that?” Ted asked.

“A maroon sedan drove past the Clausen’s house. It finally stopped along the edge of the woods. I couldn’t make out who was driving, but I got the heck out of dodge.” Orin motioned Jane for a beer.

“What brand?” Ray asked.

“Uh?” Orin popped the top and guzzled several swallows.

“The car. Honda? Toyota?” Ted asked, standing and tossing another log on the fire.

“Neither. It’s the one with the two men shaking hands.” Orin set his beer on the ground and formed a circle, maybe an oval, with both hands. “Hyundai. The H, its crossbar, represents the men shaking.”

Jane handed Orin his hot-dog, raised both hands, palms open and semi-shouted: “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

“What the hell is wrong?” Ted asked.

“That could be Lee’s rental car. It’s maroon, and it’s a Hyundai.”

“Fuck. That must be where him and Lillian parked when they came snooping around when Buddy came for his pay.” Ray said, looking at Ted, who was now walking straight towards the creek. And me.

I stood sideways behind the big oak, knowing he couldn’t see me. If I didn’t move.

“Come on. Let’s take a ride.” Ray said.

“Can I come?” Jane asked.

“Okay,” Ray barked and pointed at Orin. “You drive to Lillian’s and look for Lee’s car, the maroon Hyundai. If it’s not there, go to Kyla’s.” Ray turned to Ted, who had moved back toward the fire. “Ted, you hike through the woods. We’ll meet you there.” Apparently, Orin knew about Kyla’s place.

Ted didn’t verbally respond, but I knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t the hiking type, although he had on a pair of new-looking boots. I’d never seen Ted when he wasn’t dressed to the nines. I painted him soft, not as a Ranger type.

This was my chance. I eased backwards from tree to tree, keeping the fire in sight. I had to get back to my car and away from the Clausen’s before Ray and Jane would arrive.

I almost turned left at the McVille Road intersection. I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to spend with Kyla before I returned to New Haven.

Instead, I continued straight on Bruce Road, still intent on going the back roads to the little cabin by the pond. I wanted to talk or text with Lillian to share what I’d learned from Rosa. Plus, a nap on her soft but squeaky king bed would hopefully spawn a host of peaceful images of the two of us in New Haven, immersed in our new life.

It was two hours before Lillian responded to my first text. I was semi-dozing on her couch (postponing the king and more serious sleep) and barely heard the notification ping from my iPhone. I’d forgotten to turn up the volume after leaving Rosa’s room.

After returning from a shopping trip to Pigeon Forge, Stella had laid across her bed and was now snoring. Although I’d rather hear Lillian’s voice, out of respect, she’d insisted we stick to digital communications (I wondered why she didn’t simply step out into the hallway). I was glad she promised we’d talk tonight after her and Stella’s dinner at The Peddler. I couldn’t help but wish it was Lillian and me awaiting our reservations at the five-star restaurant.

After an exchange of ‘I miss you,’ and ‘I love you,’ I shared my news, assuming Stella had preferred shopping over revealing secrets. I was wrong. Apparently, the ICU nurse had been in the talking mood during their near bumper-to-bumper return drive from Pigeon Forge to Gatlinburg. I’d only made that trip a handful of times but recall it’s only eight or ten miles. Normally, it takes thirty or forty minutes given the traffic, unless of course, it’s the middle of the night.

Lillian’s simple “what’s Nick been up to?” question was all it had taken.

Although Stella repeatedly prefaced her statements with either, “I don’t know for sure,” or “Nick may change his mind,” she provided a plethora of details concerning the upcoming Sand Mountain Reporter article. They centered it on Nick’s interview with the old and highly respected Jackie Frasier, also known as (at least among the Greasy Monkeys, as the ‘tag thief.’)

Things had happened fast since Jackie’s appearance at the groundbreaking ceremony. Sometime late Friday afternoon, complaining of chest pains, an ambulance transported him to Marshall Medical Center South. Skipping a few sidelines and pit-stops, the near-death experience had prompted Jack to call Nick. Before the sun set, Nick had the makings of a great article, and Jack had the security of the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.

Long story short, years ago and unknown to everyone save employer and employee, Jackie had worked for Roland Archer, Ray’s father. After Rachel had shot and killed Kyle (this was obviously confusing given Rosa’s account), Rob, on Ray’s insistence, had called Roland. A team was assembled, and Kyle’s body was disposed of, leaving not a trace for anyone to discover. Except Kyle’s dog tag. Somehow, it wound up in Jackie’s pocket, unknown to everyone except himself. That is, until a few weeks ago. Possibly prompted by Lillian and my investigative interest, Jackie had given Ray the only piece of evidence he thought could tie him to criminal conduct.

To my surprise, just as I finished typing Lillian a follow-up question, her pretty face appeared on my screen. She was calling.

“Hey dear. Did Stella wake up?” I asked, standing and walking around the den to ward off an expected leg cramp.

“She did. Headed straight for the bathroom. I couldn’t resist calling. I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too. Please promise me you’ll never leave me again.” My words both surprised me and didn’t surprise me. Before coming to Alabama, I was stoic, virtually emotionless. Now, I was transforming into a full-fledged romantic.

“I promise, but we can talk lovey-dovey tonight. Here’s one final tidbit before I have to go.”

“Okay.”

Lillian turned the volume down on the TV. “Ten days ago, Stella was with Jade, conducting her once-per month medical evaluation that’s required by Medicare. To Stella’s surprise, Jade had purchased a new camera. Later, Stella researched the make and model and discovered it sold on Amazon for ten thousand dollars. This was way beyond the reach of someone living at Mt. Vernon Homes.”

Before I could respond, I heard Stella in the background say, “Let’s go ride the tram to the Park, you know, Ober Gatlinburg.”

“Okay, I guess.” Lillian responded to Stella. “Lee, I need to go. I’ll call you tonight, 9:00 o’clock sharp. That’s 8:00 your time. That’s when Stella meets Greg. Love you always and forever. Bye.”

The call ended as my mind contemplated the Greg fellow. Who was he? His appearance in our conversation, heck, his appearance in Stella and Lillian’s entire weekend adventure, seemed odd.

I considered going outside and sitting at the end of the pier. Instead, I chose Lillian’s king and the sweet smell of lavender.

***

After an hour or more of tossing, turning, and imagining Lillian’s reactions to her first visit to the Yale campus, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed. It may have been triggered by our imagined tour of Yale’s mock courtroom on the law school’s fourth floor.

I dreamed I was back in law school, at Harvard. My trial practice class. It was early evening in the middle of the week. I’d just completed my cross-examination of Dale, an auto mechanic. What followed was the worst intimidation I’d ever endured. Alan Dershowitz, my Trial Practice professor, spent half an hour before the entire class, excoriating every mistake I’d made. Although he was an excellent professor, who later became a friend, his dress-down of my cross seemed savagely brutal.

When I heard a bell ringing, I thought I was at the end of classmate Tony Rawling’s redirect examination. The bell was Dershowitz’s way of signaling we were out of time.

Instead, the shrill and repetitive sound was my iPhone. I struggled to escape my dream and grab my cell on the nightstand jammed between the king and the outer wall. The dinging bell was Spytech’s way of telling me my tracker device had been activated. Jane was on the move.

I tossed back the covers and stood. After sliding the notification to the right, I touched OPEN. A Google Maps screen appeared. I saw a blue dot moving north on King Street. If this was happening in real time, Jane would be driving slowly. I glanced at the time at the top of the screen. It was 6:06. I couldn’t believe I’d slept for nearly three hours. I peeked through the blinds. It was midnight dark.

When the blue dot turned left on Highway 168, I guessed Jane was headed to Foodland for some groceries. She hadn’t moved since Friday night. Maybe it was time for milk and bread.

I walked to the den, sat on the couch, and laid my iPhone on the coffee table. Just as the blue dot did what I thought it would do, Kyla called. We spoke for five minutes, a mere one-sixth Dershowitz dress-down, but still unwelcome, all for me forgetting to be at her house ten minutes ago for dinner. I promised I would hurry.

When she ended her call, the Google Maps screen reappeared. The blue dot now was passing through old downtown Boaz, headed toward Highway 431. I slipped the iPhone into my pocket and walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, gargled, and slipped on the sweatshirt I had hung over the shower curtain rod. I reconnoitered the house, locking the front door, turning off lights, and tossing an empty Coke can in the trash.

By the time I locked the back door and exited the porch, I rechecked the Spytech App. The blue dot was turning right onto Bruce Road. This caught my attention. Where was she going?

I quickened my pace to my Hyundai parked outside the detached garage. Jane had gone to Foodland, for food and drink of some sort. Was she headed to a party?

After I backed toward the barn, I reached underneath the seat. It was still there. I liked the feel of the polymer on the frame.

Shortly after Ray assaulted Lillian in his garage, I had purchased the Heckler & Koch VP9 from Sand Mountain Pawn in Boaz. I probably couldn’t have done it without Micaden Tanner’s help. In my concealed permit application, I’d told a white lie about my residency. Micaden’s relationship with the Etowah County Sheriff’s Department and his vouching for my ‘moral character,’ were the deciding factors.

I was adept with guns as a boy growing up in the country—thanks to Dad. Until this purchase, I hadn’t touched a firearm of any type since moving to Virginia and college at age 18. The adage, “it’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget,” seemed à propos given the three or four times I’d practiced firing the 9mm at the C. A. Langford rock quarry west of Guntersville (again, thanks to Micaden’s relationship with the owner).

By the time I reached Highway 431, I answered my question. Jane was headed to Ted King’s place. The blue dot had already passed underneath his arched entranceway and was now past his main house and pool, transitioning from a paved driveway to a winding gravel road. A quarter mile down the deeply forested trail was the dead end and the mayor’s log cabin, the place Lillian and I had visited, and where no doubt Ray had paid Buddy James for burning the Hunt House.

Over the next five minutes, I brainstormed my plan. One thing I knew for sure. I wasn’t about to follow Jane’s path. Following the one-way-in, one-way-out approach wasn’t wise. I only had two choices: either abandon my idea of learning what Jane was up to or repeating what Lillian and I had done during our adventure over seven weeks ago. By the time I reached Bethsaida Road, I’d made my decision. I think the bright moonlight and cool weather caused it. If it had been rainy and cold like the last time, I probably would have made a U-turn and headed to Kyla’s.

It was the first night I’d spent away from Lillian since the end of November. That night, she’d come to Kyla’s, scared of Ray after learning he had a powerful motive to kill the two of us.

It was also the first night I’d stayed alone at Lillian’s cabin on Cox Gap Road. There were two reasons I had awakened this Sunday morning at her house, in her tiny bedroom, on her squeaky king-size mattress. The first was Lillian’s decision to go to Gatlinburg, and the second was yesterday’s frustration at Kyla’s nosy intrusion into mine and Lillian’s business.

I activated my iPhone. It was 6:00 AM. I eased out of bed and peeked through the window blinds. The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. I slipped into the jeans and sweatshirt I’d worn yesterday. After a pit stop at the bathroom, I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and succumbed to the temptation to go back to bed. At the last moment, I changed my mind and took Lillian’s advice. Before she and Stella had left for Gatlinburg, my dearest had declared, “if you want to stop missing me so much you should go to my house and grab Grisham’s latest novel, A Time for Mercy. It will keep you mesmerized and intrigued. It’s lying on my desk, next to the bookcase lined with every novel he’s ever written.”

I needed something to occupy my mind. I walked inside the spare bedroom she’d converted to an office and instantly saw the book where she said it would be. Instead of grabbing it and heading to the pier as I’d intended, I sat in her over-sized chair and turned to Chapter 1. The scene was intense, ending with sixteen-year-old Drew shooting his wife-beating stepfather. Interesting as it was, I wasn’t in the mood. I sat the book aside and pondered calling Lillian. It was nearly 7:30 in Gatlinburg. Surely, she was up, or at least awake. Finally, I dialed, needing desperately to hear her voice. But her phone went straight to voicemail. I continued to sit, gazed left to right at the clutter, and recalled she’d said her mind was more organized than her scribbled meanderings.

After Friday’s groundbreaking ceremony, Jane and Stella had asked Lillian to join them on their annual trip to the Smoky Mountains. They somehow persuaded Lillian she needed a respite from her stressful life. The planned departure time was early yesterday morning, but a bug Jane blamed on Taylor’s Tacos had delayed the trio. Why Lillian had agreed to go without Jane and with Stella had everything to do with her crime reporter brother. “Baby, you know I’d rather stay here with you, but this might be our best chance to learn what Nick knows.” Lillian had said this to me in a whisper before she and the ICU nurse departed in Lillian’s Aviator.

As to the second reason I was alone at the small but rustically appealing cabin just off Cox Gap Road, my dear sister had spent every opportunity yesterday advising me to marry Lillian as soon as her divorce was final. Kyla’s chief argument was that an honest beauty like Lillian didn’t come along every day, especially one with a half-billion dollars. By twilight, with the goats fed and my impatience firing, I’d packed a bag and headed to Lillian’s vacant oasis.

I made a round-trip to the kitchen to top-off my coffee. When I returned, my iPhone vibrated. It was a text from Lillian: “Glad I came. Stella is opening up. Nick says another search warrant is in the works for Ray’s properties, including his office. Will call later tonight, hopefully with the smoking gun! Oh, BTW, Jane wasn’t sick at all. What’s up with that?”

It was refreshing to hear the news about the search warrant. Maybe Ray wasn’t Teflon Man after all. Lillian’s last statement confirmed I was on the right track. Jane was playing both sides to the middle, as the old saying goes. I activated my iPhone, and the Spytech APP. Jane’s Equinox was sitting in her driveway. It hadn’t moved since late Friday afternoon after the ground-breaking ceremony. I wondered what made Lillian conclude Jane hadn’t been sick. I’d be sure and ask her tonight when we talked.

Hearing Lillian’s voice, although written, made me miss her that much more. I wish I had gone with her and Stella. I stood and started stacking the scattered papers on her desk, hoping this would somehow bring me closer to the one who had transformed my heart.

After sorting the household bills and bank statements, I stacked two dozen letter-size sheets, all containing Lillian’s scribblings. I noted each was a half-page quote from one of Grisham’s books. Lillian had simply rewritten his words. I guessed she liked the language and hoped that someday she could return to college and learn to write as well.

To the right of her closed laptop was a wooden stacker containing four shelves. Lillian’s custom stationery and envelopes filled the bottom two. The next-to-the-top contained several monthly statements for an account at Wells Fargo Bank. The balance on the most recent one was $158,768.43, a small sum for a woman who was about to receive half-a-billion dollars. The top shelf contained two legal documents: a deed and Lillian’s Last Will and Testament, both prepared by Micaden Tanner. I couldn’t resist reading, although I should have. If Lillian had wanted me to know the details, she would have told me.

It was a simple Will with me named as executor and primary beneficiary. Kyla was the second in line for both positions. This was shocking. For two reasons. What had compelled Lillian to prepare a new Will, now? Why hadn’t she waited until the court issued the divorce decree? Or after we moved to New Haven and married?

The deed was also a surprise. On the same day she’d signed her new Will, Ray conveyed to Lillian the house I was sitting in, including the surrounding ten acres. I pondered the date of both documents, January 6th. That was two days after Lillian and Micaden had traveled to Huntsville for the quasi-mediation session with Ray and his attorney. Apparently, Micaden had used his experience and skills to persuade Ray it was in his best interest to show good faith even before Lillian’s deadline for accepting or rejecting his offer. Shrewd indeed.

I slid the legal documents back inside the stacker’s top shelf and walked to the kitchen. My iPhone rang while I poured a bowl of cereal. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello.”

“Lee, this is Randy, Randy Kern, your brother-in-law.” I knew his voice.

“I know who you are. How are you? What’s going on?” I tried to remember the last time I’d spoken to Rachel’s brother. I recalled how disappointed Rob had seemed when he and I, and Rosa, had breakfast at Bella’s last November.

“Mother wanted me to call and ask you to come see her.” I felt guilty. It had been over a month since I’d paid her a visit, although I had called once a week. And I still needed to return her book, The Cost of Discipleship.

“Okay, I’ll go this morning.”

“She’s on the third floor, Room 323.” Third floor? There wasn’t even a second floor at Bridgewood Gardens, much less a third. Plus, I remembered the numbers 188 on the sign at the top left of her door.

“Uh?”

“She’s in the hospital, Marshall Medical Center South. They admitted her Friday night. Celia and I arrived this morning, maybe an hour ago.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Double pneumonia. A nurse just started her on the last antibiotic available. If this doesn’t beat the infection, well, you know.”

“Oh boy. Your dad and now your mom. I can’t believe this is happening.” While Randy and I talked, I returned to the bedroom and remembered I didn’t have any decent clothes. I’d have to swing by Kyla’s before heading to the hospital.

“That’s life. The good thing is they both lived a long and happy life. Well, mostly.” I felt Randy was meaning more than his words were conveying. I figured he was referring to Rachel and her suicide. Either way, he seemed a little too nonchalant.

“Will I see you there?”

“No, if you’re coming right on. Mother wants to talk to you alone, so Celia and I will eat breakfast and hang out at The Shack. I’ve wanted to try it since Dad’s funeral.”

“Okay, I should be there in thirty or forty minutes. Take care.”

I thought the call ended, but Randy semi-yelled, “Lee, you there?”

“Yeah.”

“I almost forgot. Mom wants you to bring the book. She said you’d know which one.”

***

It was 9:00 AM when I walked inside Room 323. What I saw shocked me. Rosa was lying on her back with an oxygen mask across her face. Her gray hair was all disheveled, something I’d never seen. Her face was gaunt and almost as pale as the closed curtains on the far wall. I walked to her bedside and stood staring. She was asleep and labored to breathe.

As I retreated to a nearby chair, Rosa pulled off her mask and announced, “I’m glad you came.” Her eyes were sunken and dark. Foreboding was my first impression.

I stood and held her right hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.”

“Raise my bed.” She untangled our hands and fumbled for the controller.

“Here, let me do that.”

“Thanks.” Rosa smiled and her eyes froze on Bonhoeffer’s book I’d laid on the mobile food counter at the foot of her bed. “I see you finally returned my book.”

She nodded when I situated the bed like she wanted. “All I can say is I’m sorry. I don’t have a good excuse.”

“You’re not the only one who is sorry, but mine is for good reason.” Rosa motioned toward the book. “Hand it here. Please. And hand me my glasses.” She nodded her head towards the table beside her bed.

I did as instructed. She used her stiff and twisted fingers to put on her glasses. She struggled to turn the pages. “You want me to find something for you?” I figured she was looking for a favorite passage or two.

“That would help.” She handed me the book. “Turn to Chapter 11, the last page.” I took the book and turned to the Table of Contents. Chapter 11, “Truthfulness,” Chapter 12 was “Revenge.” I turned to the latter and backwards one page to 155.

“Okay, I have it.” She or Rachel had highlighted several lines. There were also two notes in the margins.

Before I could read them, Rosa said, “read the highlighted sentences. Out loud. Just the first one to start.”

It was in the third paragraph from the end, “‘Complete truthfulness is only possible where sin has been uncovered and forgiven by Jesus.’”

“Stop there. Lee, I wasn’t exactly truthful with you when you visited me a month ago.” Rosa glanced at me but didn’t continue. Instead, she looked down at her folded hands, then closed her eyes. “My sin, and Rob’s, goes back half-a-century. We’ve been living a lie, and now Rob’s dead. And my time is fast approaching.”

Rosa’s breathing looked difficult. She needed to lie back and relax. “Mom, you don’t have to do this. Let me help you put your oxygen mask back on.” I reached for it, but she softly slapped my hand.

“Please, this may be my last chance at complete truthfulness. Now listen and do what I say.”

“Okay, I will.” I concluded Rosa needed to get something off her chest, something more painful than the lack of oxygen.

“Let me have it.” She reached both hands upwards for the book. When I let go, it fell in her lap, but she quickly saved the place. “‘There is no truth towards Jesus without truth towards man.’” Rosa took two deep breaths and continued. “Here, Rob and I failed. We should have gone to the police and told the truth. All I can do now is tell you. It’s too late for Rob.” I wondered why she hadn’t summoned the DA or some other law enforcement person if she’d wanted to confess. Of course, I really did not know what Rosa was about to say. I might not relate it to what I thought it was. She paused for quite a spell, like she was fighting the temptation to remain untruthful as opposed to what Bonhoeffer was advising.

Finally, I said, “has this got something to do with Rachel?”

Rosa nodded but returned her gaze to page 155. “We cannot follow Christ unless we live in revealed truth before God and man.”

“You’re feeling the need to confess something, something you’ve concealed, as you say, for half-a-century? And, that truth that you failed to tell me at your apartment?” I felt Rosa needed some nudging.

“Yes.” I wasn’t expecting her next words. “Ray Archer didn’t kill Kyle Bennett. Rob did. With Rachel’s help.” I thought I was going to faint. With both hands, I grabbed the metal railing on Rosa’s bed. I closed my eyes to gain balance and composure.

“Mom, I’m confused. There have been too many trails since reading Rachel’s journal entries, all attempting to describe that awful night.” A question popped into my head. Could I trust Rosa? I was just about to ask whether I could believe her, even now at what could be the last time we would ever talk. But I kept quiet.

She handed me the book. “Read the two notes.”

The first one, scrawled in an upward direction along the left side of the page, read: “I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”

As though she knew which one I was reading, Rosa said, “That one’s by Rachel. She knew she could never reveal the truth because it would destroy her daddy.”

I nodded and then read the second note, the one on the right edge with a faint pencil line connecting it back to Rachel’s note. It read, “I hope you are wrong Mr. Bonhoeffer.”

“The one on the right is mine. I wrote it many years before Rachel wrote hers. I’m sure you could say I haven’t been a true disciple, a loyal follower of Christ, since I’ve kept this horrible sin buried.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I asked a question instead. “Mom, please tell me exactly what happened to Kyle.”

Rosa talked for several minutes until a nurse came in and checked her temperature and pulse. After the grossly overweight woman left, Rosa summarized: “In a nutshell, after Rachel returned home that night, she shared what her and Ray and Jane had been up to and that they couldn’t go through with it. That’s when Rachel and her father left the Hunt House. Several hours later, they returned. When Rob and I finally went to bed, probably three or four AM, he said, ‘It’s done. Rachel’s safe. So is Ray. Kyle won’t ever say a word or ever be discovered.’”

I don’t know how long I would have stood there in silence if Randy and Celia hadn’t walked in. For me, it was the worst timing ever. There was much more Rosa knew, answers to questions I had on the tip of my tongue. Things like: What was Rachel’s motive? (Although I guessed it had something to do with her pregnancy, Sharon’s death, and clearly, Kyle’s knowledge); How did Rob kill Kyle? (Shot him with Roland’s 38 caliber pistol?); How did Rachel help Rob kill Kyle? And on and on.

After exchanging pleasantries, I made the mistake of asking Randy how life was out on the road. This triggered the retelling of a frightening experience when he and Celia were in Hackberry, Louisiana last August. Five minutes later, his too-long story about Hurricane Laura was still gaining steam. Contrary to my usual style, I faked an iPhone notification, announced I had to run, kissed Rosa goodbye, and exited Room 323. Randy had never been my favorite brother-in-law, albeit my only brother-in-law, thanks to Kyla’s celibacy.

To my amazement, before reaching the elevator, I received a call from Attorney Tanner.

“Hello.”

“This is Tanner, can you talk?”

“I can listen for now. I’m leaving the hospital.”

“Sorry about Rosa. I wish the Macrolides had worked.” Micaden not only knew my mother-in-law was in the hospital but that the antibiotics of choice weren’t effective in treating her pneumonia. Obviously, the man has eagle eyes and bat ears.

“Thanks.” I eased to the rear of the elevator behind two older women. They, too, were headed to the ground floor.

“I wanted to give you an update. Connor spoke with Orin Russell after he caught a DUI. He, Ford, is pretty sure Orin has defected, but he unintentionally divulged a good tip.” I’d heard Orin liked the bottle.

“What would that be?” I allowed the two women to exit, then followed at a distance, all three of us headed to the main entrance.

“Your friend Barry Clausen.”

“I’m not following.” Other than him being married to a woman Ray had often bedded, it seemed, according to Jane, he was the one who’d traveled to New Haven, ransacked my home, and stolen Rachel’s diaries.

“The deputy who stopped and arrested Orin said he had delivered a Rylan’s leasing packet to Barry and had stayed long enough to consume two beers. That caught Connor’s attention. It made little sense. The kid must have been delivering something else.” Lillian had said Barry was retired but spent his time managing his investments. Maybe he was interested in retail.

I exited the hospital and walked to my Hyundai while Micaden was semi-whispering with Tina, his assistant. “I can talk now. So, Connor payed Barry a visit?” I said, speculating but believing that’s where our conversation was leading.

“He did, and it was fruitful, potentially a motherlode. Connor can be persuasive. Clausen folded, or so it seems.”

“How so?”

“After a call to the DA and her strong indication she would cut Barry a break, he revealed his relationship to what he referred to as the ‘Grease monkeys.’ That’s a slang term for a burglar with entry skills, someone with a slight build. Apparently, they don’t hold tightly to the size characteristic.”

“Interesting. I guess that makes sense given Barry and my home burglary.”

“You’ll find this interesting. Clausen said there were three main grease monkeys, the others were underlings. Buddy and Billy have obviously cleaned up, sorry for the dark humor, which leaves a preacher named Alex Mandy as the head greaser. He’s the James brother’s nephew.”

“Dang, it’s a small world. If it’s the same man, he recently preached a revival at Gadsden First Baptist Church. Jane and Lillian attended the Friday night service.”

“Two other things Connor learned before I have to go.” I wondered why Micaden, and Tina were working on a Sunday.

“The underling monkeys are Eric Snyder and his brother Ethan.” Micaden paused. I heard him rustle some paper. When he restarted, I could tell he’d eaten something. “Of course, you know Eric died in the Hunt House fire. Oh, are you sitting down?”

“I am, please don’t give me any bad news.”

“I’d say it is possibly good news, for where it can lead.”

“Okay.” I backed out of my parking spot and headed for the exit.

“Jackie Frasier. He’s known amongst his Grease Monkey friends as ‘the tag thief.’”

“Oh, my gosh. You are talking about the hundred-and four-year-old that everyone-loves?”

“The same. That might explain his new garden home.” Micaden said, continuing to munch on something.

“This is unbelievable. I’m now thinking it might be why Ray didn’t eliminate Jade Frasier, instead of paying for her silence.”

Micaden paused and rustled some papers. “I agree, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All we know is Ray paid her $25,000, if we believe the photos Jane took of Ray’s ledger. The twenty-five grand might be a donation for Jade to have correctional surgery.”

“I doubt that.”

Micaden interrupted before I could continue. “There’s one other thing before I have to go. Derrick Hart and your Walmart attack. You know, the ‘God4USA’ tag.”

“Yeah, the case that got lost. The one I’ve been calling about for nearly eight weeks.”

“The tag was stolen. Most likely, by Jackie, but I’m speculating who stole it.”

I quickly posed a question. “Do you have any idea how Jackie got entangled with Ray Archer?” The connection seemed impossible. Jackie, Jack, as he was known, had a stellar reputation. Everyone loved him. His story was inspiring. For decades, the man had worked three jobs. Why did he need a fourth?

“We don’t know for sure. Might just be that Jackie loves money. But that’s a guess. One thing seems certain, according to Conner, is the connection between Ray and Alex Mandy, the preacher.”

“Don’t tell me it’s their love for the Lord Jesus.” Micaden belted out a thunderous laugh.

“That’s close, but not like you’re thinking. It’s a woman named Becky Brownfield from Albertville. Apparently, she was both men’s plaything. At some point, she recommended Mandy to Ray. You can figure out the rest.”

What Micaden told me was refreshing, hopefully helpful, but I had that nagging feeling it wouldn’t amount to much. Ray had too much Teflon in his blood. He was slippery as an eel. He would somehow wiggle out of all his crimes. I turned left on Bruce Road. “I hope you’re right that Connor found the motherlode, but I kind of doubt it.”

“Keep the faith, my friend. It ain’t over till the skinny girl jumps.”

“Uh?”

“See you later. The fish are biting.”

Our call ended. I couldn’t help but envy Micaden. Hopefully, someday, he and I will become good friends. I’d love to hear his story.

The fallout triggered by Lillian and Ray’s quasi-mediation session wasted over a week.

To her surprise, he had offered to settle: Lillian would receive half a billion dollars in cash plus 49% ownership in Rylan’s Boaz location, with quarterly dividend distributions expected, but not guaranteed.

I had to admit, the offer was generous, except for two conditions Ray claimed were non-negotiable. The first required Lillian’s best ‘stand-by-her-man’ performance at today’s groundbreaking ceremony for the Rylan’s development on Thomas Avenue. This was distasteful to say the least. The second condition was wholly despicable and revealed Ray’s guilt and fear. It mandated that Lillian, and thus me, cease all efforts to implicate him in a crime.

 Oddly, the second condition was a deal breaker from the beginning, but it had consumed virtually every waking hour since Lillian and Micaden had returned from Huntsville eleven days ago.

There was one other issue with Ray’s offer. At the end of their session, Ray’s attorney had told Micaden in private that the offer had to be accepted by 5:00 PM January the 15th. That’s today. And, the closing of the transaction, including transfer of a $500,000,000 cashier’s check, would take place Friday, January 29th at 2:00 PM in Huntsville. No doubt Ray had learned of mine and Lillian’s plans to return to New Haven that very afternoon. Micaden had protested, but attorney Selvidge had said two weeks was the minimum Ray needed to raise that much cash, since he didn’t intend to start the asset juggling and swapping until Lillian accepted his offer. In writing.

It was 1:00 PM when Kyla and I exited her house and walked to her Silverado. I’d asked if I could borrow it late afternoon for an errand I had to run. Lillian had driven her Lincoln Aviator an hour ago and was now rehearsing the ceremony with Ray, Mayor Ted King, and the five city councilmen.

 It was four hours until Ray’s settlement offer would evaporate, unless Lillian hand-delivered her written acceptance. I knew the two of us had prepared two letters, one accepting Ray’s offer, and the other a counter, the details of which he likely would find repulsive. For many reasons, I was nervous, even anxious about today’s event. Much could happen in four hours. The only thing that gave me consolation was that the ceremony was out in the open with an expected standing-room-only crowd.

“Stop at the mailbox, I’m expecting a package.” Kyla said as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.

Although Lillian and I had invested considerable time in Ray’s offer and brainstormed a zillion potential responses, this didn’t mean the investigation had ceased. P.I. Connor Ford had pursued Darrell Clements from Jane’s photo of the note Ray had tucked inside his cash disbursements ledger. The bottom line was that he had paid Clements $7,500 to vouch for a cleverly concocted story about Buddy’s truck. In the fictional narrative, Buddy had sold Clements the blue Chevrolet pickup and Ray had delivered it to his HorsePens 40 campsite. Impressive as they were, Ford had determined the transaction documents—Bill of Sale and Title—were forgeries. Shocking as this discovery was, it paled, considering what had occurred in the Sharon Teague case.

Nick Pearson, current General Manager and CEO of MUB Electric in Albertville, and pastor at Skirum Creek Methodist Church in Crossville, was arrested last Wednesday night a week ago during midweek prayer time. Supposedly, Pearson was standing at the pulpit petitioning God to heal Christine Dalrymple’s varicose veins when four Marshall County deputies entered the church and handcuffed the sixty-seven-year-old bi-vocational preacher.

After seeing Pearson’s arrest in the Sand Mountain Reporter’s Crime Blotter, I almost called District Attorney Pam Garrison to tell her she’d made a grave mistake. But I’d resisted the temptation. I knew her to be competent and extremely detailed. Through Micaden and Connor, I’d learned what had led to this surprising event.

An anonymous tip had prompted DA investigator Avery Proctor to pay a friendly at-first visit to Pearson at his MUB office. Neither Micaden nor Connor knew the details of the tip but had learned Pearson was adamant he had nothing to do with the disappearance of Sharon Teague over half-a-century ago. In fact, he was so confident he volunteered to take a lie-detector test, and suggested, even encouraged, law enforcement to search his home in Albertville Country Club Estates.

Proctor had acted promptly. After accepting Pearson’s offer and having him sign a written consent form, the veteran investigator had requested three deputies meet him at MUB. Less than an hour later, Deputy Jared Lang found Sharon Teague’s 1970s dog tag and her Albertville High School class ring in a shoe box on the top shelf of Pearson’s closet. This find prompted Proctor to secure a search warrant for 683 East Mann Avenue, Pearson’s childhood home where his ninety-year-old parents still lived. There, in a bedroom virtually unchanged since their only son had left for college in the fall of 1972, deputies found three bones, a human’s left femur, right tibia, and left fibula, tucked inside an Albertville High School gym bag filled with hundreds of unbound baseball cards. That was nine days ago, and the bones have already made a round-trip to and from the Department of Forensic Sciences in Birmingham. With the help (including DNA contribution) of Susan Vick, the victim’s sister, the Department positively identified the bones as those of Sharon Elizabeth Teague.

As Kyla and I waited for the red light at Highway 431, I was more confident than ever that Ray Archer or a crony had planted the evidence and made the anonymous call. How he had stolen Sharon Teague’s dog tag from Dorothy Bennett’s jewelry box, and how he had hidden the bones inside the elderly Pearson’s home was shocking and scary. I was sick by the thought the Teflon man was, once again, going to escape prosecution. I made a mental note to ask Connor or Micaden what the DA’s theory was, and what Nick Pearson’s motive was to kill Sharon Teague.

***

I made the mistake of turning right on Darnell Street and left on East Mann Avenue thinking I would find a spot next to Old Mill Park like I did at Kyle’s memorial. That area was overflowing, so I continued to Highway 205 and turned right. I eased through the red light at Thomas and into a gravel and chert area once occupied by Cox Chevrolet directly west of Rylan’s. It was the city block the mayor and council had recently purchased to resolve Ray’s concern his development would be doomed if customers didn’t have a nearby parking lot. So far, all the city had accomplished was razing the one residence and four dilapidated commercial buildings, and doing a little land prep.

By the time Kyla and I exited her Silverado, another vehicle pulled beside us, and two younger couples nodded as they hurried east on Thomas. I semi-yelled, “what’s the rush?” earning a ‘you can be an obnoxious dumb ass’ look from Kyla.

“Free food.” I didn’t figure out Kyla’s response until we reached the Brown Street intersection. Beginning there, parked along Thomas Avenue and facing future development, were a dozen or more food trucks offering anything from BBQ sandwiches, pizza, and tacos to snow cones and cotton candy.

“Not your typical groundbreaking ceremony.” I said, glancing toward the row of garden homes behind all the food trucks.

 “Food is a good way to draw a crowd.” Kyla added as we headed to the makeshift platform the city had built where Julia Street Methodist Church once stood for a hundred years. There were several hundred metal chairs set up in a semicircle around the stage. Thankfully, half the folks in attendance were more interested in food than boring speeches, leaving at least a third of the seats empty. We grabbed two in the center section underneath the outstretched limbs of an aging oak. Oddly, it was the only tree that survived the month-long demolition.

From our vantage point sixty feet from the stage, I could see, all seated, the mayor, five councilmen, Dan Brasher, and of course, the photogenic couple who’d spawned the Rylan’s idea. Lillian was smiling, but it wasn’t genuine. I could hear her thinking, “oh shit, what have I gotten into?” It was like she was directing her thoughts at Jane, seated in the front row between Stella Newsome and Nick Lancaster.

We hadn’t been seated for five minutes when the mayor walked to the podium. He welcomed everyone and promised today would be a new beginning for Boaz. He then launched into a rather long and overly detailed explanation of the Hunt House fire and the death of Eric Snyder, ending with a short moment of silence for the dead man, followed by an excited declaration as he turned and stared at the slippery eel sitting beside the woman I loved. “Ray, my friend, I’ve always known you had nothing to do with any of that, but you know how rumors ignite. I’m proud to announce they have completely exonerated you.” Mayor Ted said the last sentence after he’d returned his gaze to the crowd.

This was my queue to leave, for at least two reasons. I hated lies and the smarminess of Ray’s protector, and I needed to find Jane Fordham’s Equinox.

***

I patted Kyla’s knee and exited the semi-circle of metal chairs. I’d wasted enough time grading papers and batting Ray’s settlement offer back and forth with Lillian. It was time to shake the tree.

I weaved my way to Thomas, keeping my head down. I continued west to Taylor’s Taco truck and waited in line. After ordering a burrito and leaving a $5.00 tip, I mingled with the crowd for a few minutes before easing my way between Taylor’s and a pizza rig to the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. I walked eastward and reached Whitman Street before finishing the overly spiced burrito.

Jane’s Equinox was parked next to Lillian’s Aviator, just like she’d promised. It was the exact spot I’d used while attending Kyle’s memorial service. I did a slow 360-degree turn and scan before unlocking the Aviator. I opened the passenger door and leaned forward like I was grabbing something from the console. As far as I could tell, no one was paying any attention. I semi-stood before squatting. I reached inside my jacket pocket and removed a metal, magnetic case. Inside was an inch thick GPS tracker. I opened the case and flipped the ‘ON’ switch. A green light appeared in the lower right corner. I lay on my back and slid a half-foot underneath Jane’s SUV and found a spot on the frame to attach the magnetic case. Online reviewers touted the GL300 as the best on the market. I bought it, along with the case, from Spytec. Lillian and I tested it, along with its accompanying real time iPhone App, yesterday afternoon.

For several reasons, I didn’t trust Jane. I rooted my primary reason in how quickly Ray had emptied his safe. If Jane had told Lillian, Kyla, and me the truth, she would have left things exactly like she’d found them. Jane had shown us the photos she’d taken, both before and after removing the contents. To me, Ray would have no reason to suspect Jane had been inside his safe. Sure, given the mess we had made in the snow, he might have suspected her, but he knew Jane didn’t have the safe’s combination. Again, if we believed Jane. At least, that’s what she had said. I doubted the empty safe was simply a coincidence.

***

I retraced my steps along Whitman and the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. After I edged my way between Taylor’s Taco and Perfect Pizza, I noticed the food junkie crowd had disappeared. They had migrated to the semicircle and filled every metal seat I could see. I had to slide sideways across a dozen knees before I reached my spot beside Kyla.

She gave me a questioning look. I nodded affirmatively. “What’d I miss?”

She leaned toward my left ear and whispered, “nothing.” I knew I hadn’t been gone long, but something had to have happened. “Five councilmen, all boring, repetitive. Thank goodness their ‘Boaz is on the upswing’ speeches were short.”

Next up was Dan Brasher, the graying, middle-aged man who likely fought a daily weight battle. He clearly was losing. Since I’d seen him last November, he’d gained at least ten to fifteen pounds. His soft-spoken and careful articulation had remained, subjectively conveying his goodness.

“Thank you, Mayor, for giving me the honor of speaking today. Let me first say that God is good.” I heard a chorus of scattered voices respond in virtual unison, “all the time.” I closed my eyes in befuddlement and concluded Dan was also going to be boring.

“I want to brag about my city. Somehow, our wise leaders realized it was time our community entered the promised land. Thank you, Mayor King and councilmen, for your foresight and bravery.” I was about to dose off when a loud and cracking voice to my left boomed disagreement.

“Debt feeds the devil. Don’t you know that?” Apparently, everyone in the crowd didn’t agree with Dan, or the ‘wisdom’ of the city fathers.

Not to be deterred, Dan outstretched his hands as though commanding the sea to calm. “My church, Julia Street Methodist, stood on this very spot for over a hundred years. It was dying in more ways than one. Our sanctuary was teetering on collapse. Now, our new facilities are about to sprout-to-life on three beautiful acres across from The Shack. To God be the glory, great things He has done, and is doing. This is good news for everyone.”

I tried to relax and grade Dan’s talk so far on the shallowest of curves. I started brainstorming reasons Mayor King and Ray would have asked Dan to be the event’s keynote speaker. The most logical was that Dan, as pastor and spokesperson for the development’s largest former-occupant, was the best choice to dedicate Rylan’s to future success. And God’s glory. I was a stranger in a strange place.

Dan spent the next few minutes similarly praising the other nine landowners who had ultimately seen the light. He then launched into a detailed description of how the city had, without obligation at all, gifted an extra $10,000 each for living expenses while they constructed a new home or otherwise dealt with the transition. Kyla whispered the city was priming the pump for the next project on the horizon. Rumor had it the city was interested in using its eminent domain power to convert the residential block to the south of the new Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop building into a commercial zone.

Finally, Dan caught my attention, but not until he had praised Ray Archer, and Rob and Rosa Kern. His words continued their generic and bland flavor. “In closing, I want you to know the city cares about each of its citizens, not just those owning properties situated inside the progressive wave.” That was an odd way to put it. Dan continued as he walked down the platform’s make-shift steps and approached an elderly gentleman in the front row that I hadn’t noticed before. “Please stand,” Dan said, reaching out his hand to assist. “Folks, this is Jackie Frasier, Boaz’s oldest citizen. Yesterday was his birthday. He’s now one hundred- and four-years young. Doesn’t he look good?”

Jackie rose, and Dan gently manipulated the ancient relic toward the crowd. “Folks, Jackie has a new home, actually two.” Dan paused and leaned into whisper something to the man I recalled as the high school custodian, tall, slender, confident. Now, he seemed a half-foot shorter, almost gaunt. Dan pointed toward the sky. “Yesterday, over cake and ice-cream, I had the honor and pleasure of leading my newest friend to the Lord. He now has a home in Heaven.” Dan turned and looked across the platform behind him and pointed again. “And, while his journey in this life continues, Jackie has a new home on Elm Street. Our wonderful city has gifted him one of Randall Pankey’s new garden homes across from the library.” Jackie looked tired, but he managed a weak wave and a fake smile. Or that’s what it seemed to me. “Folks, Jackie has lived west of Boaz on King Street for over eighty years. My fellow citizens, take note, the city takes care of its own.”

The same craggy voice we’d heard earlier spewed forth a volley of questions: “Is that legal? How much did that cost? Is the city going to buy my parents a new home? Like Jackie, they live in a mobile home dump.” It took a police officer to shut down the bearded man in an Earnhardt racing cap.

“Give Jackie a round of applause to show your support to a man who’s weathered many a storm.” I clapped, as did most of the crowd. You must respect those who’ve beaten life’s odds.

As the applause settled, I captured a scene that highlighted the red flag that had appeared in my mind when Dan introduced the City’s oldest citizen. I saw Mayor King and Ray exchange a rather long look. I couldn’t help but believe the two had conspired to figuratively put duct tape over Jackie’s mouth. If gut feelings could talk, mine would declare the longtime occupant of 275 King Street knew some things the two criminals didn’t want revealed.

Finished. Finally. It had taken two weeks to grade the one-hundred and five exams, including a thirty-one-hour marathon over the three-day New Year’s Day weekend. Overall, I was disappointed. Only nineteen students earned an A. Unsurprising, Jodie Allison’s brilliance garnered her an A+ and the top spot among all three of my classes.

Other than helping Lillian and Kyla rescue a stranded Jane the day after Christmas, I had done little else, including nothing to assist my friends and colleagues in finding justice for Kyle and Ray Archer’s other victims. That had to change since there were only twenty-five days until my return flight to New Haven on the 29th. I didn’t doubt the competence of DA Pam’s team, along with Connor Ford and Micaden Tanner, to continue the mission after I left town, but I subconsciously knew these next few weeks would likely be my last chance to discover what really happened to Kyle, and why Rachel committed suicide.

I wanted to go back to sleep, but Lillian’s clanking in the kitchen dissipated all hope. She was tired of Kyla’s dominance at Hardy Hillside, especially her unwillingness to share the cooking department. Lillian’s desire for her own pancakes was one reason we’d opted for a little sabbatical. I crawled out of bed and slipped on a pair of sweatpants and tee-shirt. At 9:30 last night, after uploading my grades to the Yale Law School teacher portal, the two of us had come to Lillian’s house for our first overnight stay since someone (Ray or Ray’s goon) had riddled Lillian’s bed and bedroom with what Etowah County investigators said were 45 caliber hollow points. I understood their explanation to mean that when the projectile impacts a soft target (the bed and wooden wall), it would expand the surface area of the projectile, increasing the kinetic energy transferred to the soft target.

I walked to the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Now that I was free from essay grading, my mind couldn’t resist regurgitating the ice and snow scene at Ray’s lodge. It had been a close call for the four of us. If he had shown up a minute earlier, our safe escape would have been impossible.

After Jane had called and announced her predicament, Lillian, Kyla, and I raced to Skyhaven Estates in her truck. Before leaving Harding Hillside, I’d grabbed a long chain from the barn and hoped Kyla’s four-wheel drive would find sufficient traction to extricate Jane’s Equinox. It had, but only after repositioning the Silverado three times. I was wet and freezing by the time the four of us exited Ray’s driveway. Halfway down Skyhaven Drive, we met Ray’s Suburban, sending us all into heart attack territory. Thankfully, he was preoccupied in thought and unfamiliar with Jane’s exchange of vehicles. Either way, he didn’t stop, or turn and follow. Regardless, one thing was certain, Ray would see the mess we’d left in his driveway and along the south side of the detached garage: the snow and ice, the footprints and tire marks.

***

I eased into the kitchen and paused. The smell of cheese-eggs and sausage triggered my hunger. Lillian was doing something at the far counter, facing away from me. I couldn’t help but notice her figure. How could a sixty-six-year-old woman be so, well, shapely? Although her house seemed a little cool, she was wearing a pair of red running shorts and a gray Nike sports bra. She must have changed clothes since donning the bulky Alabama Crimson Tide tee-shirt when she’d crawled out of bed forty-minutes ago. No doubt, kitchen work is a hot job.

Lillian’s body looked younger, tighter, and stronger. It could be the walking and slow jogging she’d done at Kyla’s the past two weeks while I was immersed in schoolwork. Whatever it was, I liked it.

Lillian had pinned her silky hair to the back of her head, exposing her neck and back. I explored every inch of exposed skin resting my eyes on her especially tight thighs. Her skin tone had always been a light caramel color, but now it seemed she’d spent a month at the beach.

“I know you’re staring.” She said without turning toward me. I smiled, amazed at my own amazement over the transformation Lillian Archer, soon-once-again-to-be Lillian Bryant, had brought into my life.

“Caught me. What’s my punishment?” Although I was still recovering from last night’s romp, I would endure a short and figurative whipping to balance the scales of justice. I shook my head sideways. I was losing it.

Lillian turned with a platter full of buttered pancakes, smiled, and answered my question: “Sing that song. Right now.”

“Uh?” Then it registered. Saturday night, when Lillian headed to bed and I was focused on essay grading, she’d placed a yellow sticky on Kyla’s table beside my laptop. In elementary print was, “listen to this song before coming to bed. ‘She’s Everything to Me.’”

At midnight, I’d found it on YouTube. Written by Brad Paisley, it was redneck country. Not my favorite, but intimately meaningful. My favorite line, one I dared not share, “She’s the giver I wish I could be and the stealer of the covers.”

I couldn’t resist and belted out with my oh so terrible voice, “She’s a soft place to land.” My second favorite line.

Lillian set the pancakes on the table. That’s when I noticed she’d prepared a feast. She motioned me to sit and gave me a pardon. “Let’s eat before it gets cold. You can hum it to me tonight.” Relieved, I obeyed.

While she poured coffee, I noted the spread before me. Besides pancakes, Lillian’s table hosted scrambled cheese-eggs, bacon, sausage links, blueberries, banana slices, and both maple and strawberry syrup. This woman offered way more than a shapely body, including domestic skills that would rival my sister.

***

We ate in silence for the next ten minutes, other than a few “Mmm mmm good” declarations from me. When I forked a banana slice to sop my remaining syrup, Lillian walked to the counter and returned with the coffeepot and a plain #10 envelope. She laid the latter halfway between my plate and hers while filling our cups. After re-nesting the pot in the coffeemaker, she turned and leaned against the sink. The slightly upward cock of her head made me believe she had shed some of the sadness she’d worn since before her accident. I wondered if it had anything to do with her recently revived exercise program.

“Open says-a-me.” Lillian’s eyes glanced at the blank envelope.

“Is that the bill for this wonderful breakfast? If so, I’ll gladly pay.” I glanced from the envelope to the beauty standing at the sink. I considered offering a tip of the non-cash type but declined.

“Look first. The amount might be more than you can handle.” I tried to imagine what little game Lillian was playing. She normally wasn’t as mysterious. Again, I did as instructed, and was pleased by what I found inside the envelope. It was a Delta airline ticket, a one-way flight on January 29th from Birmingham to New Haven. I chose a smart-ass response.

“I don’t need another ticket. Remember, I already bought one.” Lillian rolled her eyes and walked to me. She took my hands in hers and gently had me reposition my chair. As she knelt on one knee beside me, I noticed she wasn’t wearing any makeup. The slow crawling of crow’s feet away from both her eyes reminded me we were two individuals on a fast track to the big 70.

“Lee, that’s my ticket.” She released my right hand and placed her left on my cheek. “I’ve changed my mind. If you will have me, I’m yours forever.” Although she didn’t mention the marriage word, that’s where my mind went. It didn’t matter. This was Lillian’s way of proposing, accepting my earlier invitation, she return to New Haven with me at the end of the month.

I semi-stood, scooted my chair backwards, and joined Lillian on one knee. I smiled, nodding affirmatively and pulled her close. “Thank you,” I said, hugging her tightly. “I love you baby and am ecstatic over your decision.”

“Are you sure?” Lillian asked as we untangled and stood. Her smile evaporated and she creased her eyebrows as she stared into my eyes—that always means she’s serious. “You better be because once we touch down in New Haven, I’m never leaving.”

“I’m sure. Surer than you can imagine, or I can express. That’s what I mean when I say I love you.” I meant exactly what I said, but this didn’t imply I wasn’t dumbfounded over what had happened since I’d arrived in Alabama shortly before Thanksgiving.

“And I love you more Lee Harding.”

Lillian insisted we sit. Over our second cup of coffee, she brought us down from the clouds and encouraged me to share my vision of our future life together in New Haven. When I’d finished sketching a picture of me as professor and her as household manager, she took out a figurative eraser. “Old boy, you’re in for a rude awakening. I’m ready to live and learn. I’ve been dreaming of going back to school for a creative writing degree. We’ll share household duties. On weekends, I want to explore all New England.” And on and on Lillian painted the landscape of our upcoming weeks, months, and years.

At 7:45, I interrupted. “What time do you have to be at Micaden’s?” Even though it had only been eighteen days since he’d filed Lillian’s divorce complaint, the case had launched like a rocket. This afternoon, Lillian and Micaden were traveling to Huntsville to meet with Ray and his attorney for a quasi-mediation session (absent the professional mediator). Such settlement attempts normally followed months of pretrial proceedings, including in-court motion arguments and several rounds of out-of-court discovery.

“He wants to leave at 11:00. The meeting is at 1:00.” Lillian stood and transferred our plates and coffee cups to the counter next to the sink. She probably was regretting her earlier decision not to install a dishwasher given the pile of dirty dishes scattered about.

 I had an idea. “That means you have a couple of hours before getting ready. Let’s take a walk or go sit on the pier. I promise I’ll cleanup this mess.” Lillian gave me a frown. I took it to mean, ‘let’s see if you can do any better when it’s your turn to cook a breakfast feast.’

Instead, she stopped running water in the sink and said, “Sounds good, but first let me put on a sweatsuit.” That was a good idea, given the forty-degree weather.

 After feeding the fish, Lillian and I settled into the two Adirondack chairs at the end of the pier. I wished I’d grabbed a thicker jacket.

“Today is going to be a total waste.” Lillian said, crossing her arms in frustration. I nodded in support, but she was staring across the pond at the homesteading geese making their way from an adventure on the other side of Cox Gap Road. “He’ll be such an ass.”

“Because he feels emboldened?” This was the umpteenth time since New Year’s Day Lillian had raised this subject. She wasn’t the only one frustrated. One of my chief pet peeves is plowing the same ground over and over. Two times was usually my outside limit but given the subject’s importance (not to mention my feelings toward Lillian), I made an exception.

“Ray’s like Teflon.” Again, I nodded. I had no basis for disagreement. In fact, Lillian was spot on. Last Friday, the Marshall County District Attorney’s office had directed the execution of a search warrant at Ray’s lodge. To everyone’s surprise—other than Ray—the hidden safe was empty.

The DA had spent the better part of two weeks evaluating the photos Jane had given to Micaden Tanner, her attorney. He’d performed admirably as usual and had extracted a conditional immunity agreement for her in exchange for illegal discoveries inside Ray’s home (conditional on Jane not being involved with the murder of Kyle Bennett, Sharon Teague, or anyone else).

The leading explanation among the DA’s office, Micaden, Connor Ford, and the four horsemen (a label I’d adopted for Lillian, Kyla, Jane and myself) for Ray’s decision to empty his safe, was the mess he had found in his driveway and yard the afternoon of Jane’s burglary. The DA had reasoned that Ray’s empty safe gave defense counsel an almost unbeatable argument: the whole thing was a setup; Jane had fabricated the whole scenario. The missing evidence also meant the DA had insufficient evidence to pursue murder charges against Ray for the deaths of Sharon Teague, Kyle Bennett and Billy and Buddy James.

And, if an empty safe wasn’t good enough to assure Ray’s Teflon status, yesterday afternoon’s news would do the job. Apparently, Judge Broadside worked weekends, including holiday weekends. At least sometimes. Micaden had called a few minutes before 5:00 pm and read me the two-sentence Order that had just been posted to AlaCourt. “This Court grants Defendant Archer’s motion to suppress evidence. An agent of law enforcement illegally discovered it.”

Although he didn’t know for sure, Micaden speculated that Judge Broadside had based his decision on Ray’s Brief in support of his motion. To me, it was too tenuous a connection. Attorney Morton Selvidge had argued that Lillian and I were acting as agents of the District Attorney when we’d recorded Ray meeting Buddy James at Ted King’s cabin.

Unbelievable. I had called P.I. Connor Ford to ask him to perform the task, but he had been in Gatlinburg. What I didn’t know until I’d read Selvidge’s Brief was that after I called Ford, he had called Avery Proctor, the DA’s investigator, who had admitted saying, “that’s a good idea.”

There was no way an appeals court would uphold Judge Broadside’s Order, but the Alabama Court of Criminal Appeals could take weeks to consider and rule. In the meantime, the DA’s office would have to keep searching for credible evidence in order to proceed with the Hunt House arson case.

For sure, Ray was the Teflon man.

***

“There’s Jane.” Lillian said, snatching me back from an intensifying nightmare. I looked to my left and saw the blue Equinox pulling to a stop beside the pasture gate.

“Are you expecting her?” I figured Lillian would have told me, but it could have slipped her mind.

“No.” She walked the pier halfway. “Hey, we’re out here.” Jane apparently had not seen us and was headed to the back porch. “Grab a chair.” Lillian pointed to the small gazebo where several were stored.

I tried to read Jane’s face as she and Lillian approached. My conclusion was mixed. Other than a quick exchange of hellos between Jane and me, the first thing she said was, “I’ve got to get something off my chest.”

“Okay.” Lillian said, giving Jane’s arm a soft touch. “But first, let me give you some good news. I’m moving to New Haven with Lee.” I couldn’t have been more surprised. First, Lillian had butted in just as Jane had an urgent need to confess something. Second, although I knew Lillian was excited about our move, but now didn’t seem the time to make such an announcement. Mainly because I still had this nagging feeling about Jane, that she was still playing chess.

“That’s great, I needed some good news.” Jane said, glancing my way. “When are you guys leaving?” I thought she knew my plans, but she could assume Lillian and I had bumped-up our departure date.

“End of the month, now, back to you. Sorry I interrupted.” I sometimes wished Lillian was a little more careful about sharing.

“No problem.” Jane twisted in her chair, probably because it wasn’t comfortable, being it was metal with no cushion or padding. “This is going to be shocking, and that’s one reason I haven’t told either of you, but it’s time.”

Lillian activated her iPhone to check the time. “Just tell us, you know I’m on a schedule today.”

Jane sat straighter and said, “I betrayed Elita and received a reward for disclosing her whereabouts.” At first, my mind locked. It couldn’t decide the time frame.

I quickly said, “explain, please.” Before she responded, I concluded she was referring to something that happened thirty-five years ago.

“The flier. Clipped to a newspaper article. At your house.” Lillian’s mind was working faster than mine.

“Yes. Let me give you the full story.” Jane looked straight at me. “It was late fall 1985, around Thanksgiving. You and Rachel were living in Washington, DC. You were working for a law firm and…”

“White and Case.” I added.

“Rachel was teaching.” 

“At Hardy Middle School.” Lillian gave me her cocked head with creased eyebrows look. “Hardy, not Harding.”

Jane continued. “Somehow Elita had found Rachel. The fifteen-year-old was pregnant. Elita’s adoptive parents, the Packer’s, had recently shared the truth, which included that her biological mother had got pregnant when she was fifteen. Elita and Rachel bonded almost instantly, but she knew she was ill-equipped to deal with a teenager and an infant, not to mention the shock this would be to you.” Again, Jane poured her piercing green eyes into mine. “Plus, Elita had shared that her parents were good people determined to find their daughter. They had already hired an investigative team and had posted a reward offer.”

“Take a breath and let me project.” Jane waved me away, but Lillian came to my rescue, insisting it would be best. Jane agreed. “You and Rachel were close and the two of you concocted a plan. Rachel was a mothering figure to you. So, she suggested you notify the Packers of Elita’s whereabouts and receive the reward. Right?” If true, this was wrong on so many levels.

“Pretty close, but there was an intermediary. A guy she taught with. The Packer’s never knew about me.” Lillian stood and eased past me to the end of the pier. I wondered if she was going for a swim. If she did, I’d join her in the frigid water. Anything to get away from this sordid tale.

“Cut to the chase. I’m about to have to get ready.” Lillian was angry, probably because she knew how personal this was to me. Rachel, my wife, had never breathed a word of this to me. I wondered where Elita had stayed the few days she was in DC, certainly not at our townhouse.

“A pair of investigators came and escorted Elita back to Sydney and her adoptive parents.” Jane paused and Lillian returned to my side, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Sit, this is the sad part.”

Lillian did as instructed. “Go ahead.”

“Six months later, Elita was dead, complications during the delivery.”

“What about the baby?” Lillian’s question was instant.

Jane paused, stood, glanced at the geese swimming by, and answered. “It was a little girl. Although born a few weeks premature, it lived. After a few weeks of intensive care in the hospital, they placed the baby in foster care.”

“What?” I said. Something was wrong with Jane’s story. The Packer’s would never have allowed that.

“It gets sadder. Shortly before the baby was born, Elita had run away again. This time to Hong Kong. Before you ask, yes, she and Rachel had kept in touch. By this time, Elita knew every detail about Rachel’s teenage pregnancy, including the hospital where she had given birth. Elita apparently wanted her baby to be born in the same place, maybe in the same hospital room, as she was sixteen years earlier.”

Lillian stood again. “Why didn’t the Packer’s keep the little girl? Quickly, please.”

“They didn’t know. Somehow Elita had concealed her identity, and the baby went into foster care until it was adopted almost two years later.”

“Who? Who adopted Elita’s baby?” I couldn’t help but sense, strangely, a connection between the little girl and myself. It was almost like she was my responsibility.

“I don’t know. Neither did Rachel, but it was a couple here in the states.”

“You two can talk as long as you want. I have thirty minutes to shower and drive to Micaden’s.” Lillian blew me a kiss and headed to the cabin.