Category: The Boaz Stranger

Last night, after the quick trip to her house, Jane had reluctantly agreed to sleep in Kyla and Lee’s parents’ old bedroom. It had remained the same since Bonnie and Zeke Harding had spent their last night snuggled in each other’s arms. Less than sixteen hours after awakening, a horrible auto accident ended their lives. That was New Year’s Eve 2018, minutes before the dawning of a new year.

Before crawling into bed, Jane had spent an hour researching home safes. There were many brands, models, and sizes, but only two types: dial and digital. The latter would contain a keypad and require the entry of a numerical code. Numbers also dictated the dial type, but the method of entry was more complicated, including a four-step process of spinning the dial in alternating counter-clockwise and clockwise directions. The final article she’d read described the emergency key feature of all dial types, but Jane didn’t pay it much mind since she figured Ray’s safe would be the digital type; he always tried to shun the difficult.

 Jane felt befuddled. Ray’s safe was the combination type. Unusual, she thought, more difficult than simply punching in a code on a keypad, but doable.

Jane turned the dial counterclockwise, passing 12 four times. She stopped at 12 on her 5th rotation. Her best guess, again, was that Ray had chosen his football number in some alternating sequence. She next turned the dial clockwise, past 21 twice, and stopped at 21 on her third time. Jane removed the slip of paper from her jeans pocket containing notes she’d made from an article found last night online. She wanted to verify the third step. She did, and proceeded, turning the dial counterclockwise, passing 42 once, and stopping at 42 the second time. On to step 4, which required her to turn the dial clockwise until the dial stopped. Jane eased the dial towards the diary table, hoping she’d guessed right. She hadn’t. The dial didn’t stop.

Forty-five minutes later, Jane was ready to give up. She had attempted four additional times to discover the correct combination, using various sequences (including doubling and tripling) from the numbers embroidered across Ray’s football jersey.

Jane had also left the hidden room and searched in three places for the infamous emergency key: Ray’s desk, his gun-cleaning kit atop the giant gun cabinet in the great room, and the cabinet style toolbox in the detached garage on the wall behind Ray’s shiny Corvette. No key anywhere, but she had discovered the weather was getting colder, and it was sleeting.

Now, shivering and staring at Ray’s safe, she decided she needed a break. Maybe that would somehow generate a better idea. Jane exited the hidden room, yearning for a cup of coffee. She closed the bookcase door. As she slid the bolt to the left, she recalled something she’d seen when helping Ray remove his ankle monitor. It was a small and weirdly shaped piece of copper wedged inside a clear plastic sleeve rolled up with a dozen sizes and types of tweezers. That day, also a Saturday, the last place Jane remembered Ray had gone before the little green pouch had appeared, was the master bathroom. And that’s where Jane found it, lying along the right edge of the middle drawer of the massive mahogany dresser that served as the vanity.

After returning to the hidden room, Jane pushed back the diaries and unrolled the pouch, laying it open and flat against the table’s top. There, in the brightness of her flashlight, lay twenty or more types of tweezers. And that odd-shaped piece of copper. It had to be the emergency key.

And it was. From her research, she had learned how to remove the dial contraption itself from the front of the safe. All it took was a firm grip and a quick snap to the left. Once removed, Jane used the flashlight to locate the tiny keyhole. In the center, with three teethed wheels forming a pyramid style triangle around it, the emergency key fit snug like a gloved hand. One simple and easy turn to the right was all it took. Jane depressed the handle and pulled the thick door open. She had done it. With God’s help. It had to be a miracle. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said in a whisper.

***

This time, it was Lillian’s voice. “If you’re successful at opening the safe, snap a photo of the insides. This way you can return the contents to their same position. Ray would notice this type of thing.” Jane laid the flashlight on top of the diaries, removed her iPhone from her left rear pocket, and did as instructed. A timesaving and light enhancing idea came to mind.

It took three trips for Jane to remove the safe’s contents, walk them to Ray’s study, and lay them across his giant desk. Nothing struck her as a smoking gun: a ledger book with frayed spine; one bundle of cash; one or more deeds folded inside a plastic sleeve; an opaque ziplock bag containing what felt like an assortment of jewelry; and one canary-colored envelope, thick like it contained several DVDs.

Jane stared at the items and pondered where to start, jewelry or the envelope. The former seemed uninteresting—probably trophies from the many women Ray had bedded. The envelope it was.

Jane unfolded the metal clasp and removed the contents. One rubber-banded stack of 4 inch by 6-inch photographs was it. An over-sized sticky note concealed the top photo. Ray had scrawled ‘Destroy,’ across it. Jane whispered, “who keeps photos in a safe unless they are vitally important?” She sat in Ray’s antique desk chair, removed the rubber band and note, and was shocked by what she saw. Who in the hell had captured this on camera? It was her, Ray, and Rachel standing in front of his blue Chevrolet pickup; it had to be the night Kyle disappeared, and there she was, decked out in his clothes, all for Ray and Rachel to create a story, one untrue, but one to be masqueraded and marshaled to sustain a fictional account. Given the required position of the photographer, someone took the photos (all fourteen of them) from the direction of Jackie Frasier’s mobile home.

Then Jane recalled the rumors. Jade, Jackie’s daughter, disabled, disfigured, lived a lonesome and solitary life in the tiny mobile home. She wouldn’t dare appear in public, but word was, she roamed the sparsely populated neighborhood at night, secretly capturing outdoor scenes in the rural world she loved to explore.

It was Rachel’s idea. “It’s well known that us four left the warehouse to return the church’s PA system, and for Ray to taxi each of us home. We made it look like that’s what he did.” Rachel’s statement had come after her, Ray, and Jane had bound, gagged, and stashed Kyle inside an old shed between the train station and the ice plant. Ray had pointed a gun at Kyle to convince him to strip down. Rachel had insisted Jane slip on his clothes. Ray had driven to King Street and the intersection of Kent and Kyle’s driveway. Someone, no doubt Jade Frazier, had captured multiple photos of Jane walking away, along the Bennetts’ driveway towards their house. Until she was out of sight. A hundred feet before reaching the old rickety house, Jane had turned right into the woods and hiked a semi-circular path back to King Street, where Ray and Rachel were waiting. Jane couldn’t do anything but close her eyes and shake her head. This was unbelievable. But how had Ray come to have these photos in the first place?

Jane used her iPhone to snap a copy of each of the photos before returning them to the envelope. The last one, the fourteenth one, felt thicker than the others. As she tucked them away, she noticed it was two stuck together, making fifteen photographs that Ray had labeled ‘Destroy.’ Jane gently separated the two and was again surprised. It wasn’t a photo of her strolling down Kyle’s driveway. It was a snapshot of a much younger Stella Lancaster (now Newsome). Jackie Frasier was standing beside her. The two were in front of Jackie’s mobile home, posing along the edge of the small front porch. It looked like someone snapped the photo at sundown, given the dark sky beyond the single bulb to the top right of the door. The only thing Jane could conclude was that Jade was a former patient of Stella, who was a private nurse for at least twenty-five years before going to work at the hospital in the ICU. Jane snapped a copy of Stella and Jackie and returned the stack to the envelope, not forgetting to secure them with the rubber band.

Five minutes later, Jane believed she had figured it out. From a quick review of the ledger, she discovered Ray had recently paid Jade Frasier $25,000. Jane surmised that somehow he had learned Jade possessed incriminating evidence against him. Maybe it was Jade who had started the conversation and asked for money. Either way, Ray now possessed photos that revealed Ray, Rachel, and Jane were involved with Kyle’s disappearance.

The ledger was old. In fact, it predated Ray’s adulthood. There were payments to Rob and Rosa Kern, payments to Buddy and Billy James, and many others. The amounts varied from small to large. The writer provided no explanations. Each contained only the name, date, and amount. The most recent payment was to Jade. The one before that was to Buddy James for $100,000. Jane figured one had to do with the Hunt House, given its proximity to the fire.

Jane flipped through the few remaining blank pages in the ledger and found a half-folded sheet of notebook paper tucked inside the back cover. Written across the top was $7,500. Underneath was “Darrell Clements/Buddy’s truck and HorsePens 40.” Jane didn’t have a clue what this meant. Had Ray paid this Clements fellow $7,500? And how was this related to Buddy’s truck and HorsePens 40? Finally, why hadn’t Ray already recorded the amount and date (what date?) in the ledger?

It took several minutes to snap photos of every page in the ledger, including the Clements note. It was now 9:00 AM. The three hours Jane had allotted were racing by. She sat aside the ledger and picked up the plastic sleeve.

It contained two deeds. One evidencing Ray purchased the Hunt House property. Rob Kern was the grantor. The second deed posed another mystery. Again, Ray was the buyer/grantee. The seller/grantor was a man named Harlan Johnson. Jane attempted to read the legal description, but it was all gibberish, stuff like “Southeast quarter of Southeast quarter (SE 1/4 of SE 1/4),” but a little farther down she noticed a comprehensible phrase, “containing sixty (60) acres of land, more or less, together with residence, garage, barns and garden used by Henry and Nancy Johnson for the past sixty-eight (68) years.” The date at the bottom of the deed was December 11th, 2020. Two weeks ago. Jane had no inclination why Ray had purchased another piece of real estate. What was he up to? She surmised it was a response to his father refusing to sell him the Dogwood Trail farm. Ray would never, could never, cede defeat.

Jane started brainstorming ideas to find the sixty acres. A gust of wind against the side of the Lodge made the blinds rattle. A heavy thud followed. Jane walked to the window and saw that a large limb had fallen from the tree nearest the driveway. What really startled her was a landscape of solid white. The sleet had turned to snow. “I’ve got to get out of here,” Jane whispered, and activated her iPhone. It was now 9:24, but she still wanted to inspect the jewelry.

She returned to the antique chair, opened the brownish-colored bag, and gently dumped the contents on Ray’s desk. Jane had been correct. There was an assortment: ten or twelve rings, all for females, some with diamonds, some without; a gold cross and chain; and two items wrapped in tissue paper. Jane removed the paper from the lightest and thinnest item. What she saw further validated that the contents of Ray’s safe would be his undoing. The small, thin, silver-colored metal was easily identified. It was a dog tag. Jane held it near her eyes. The machine-stamped indentions read:

KYLE THOMAS BENNETT

DOROTHY BENNETT

294 KING STREET

BOAZ, ALA,

12 3 53 P

“Kyle’s dog tag? Ray is so stupid. This is almost as bad as having a video recording of him committing murder.” Unbelievable, Jane muttered, shaking her head with eyes closed. She couldn’t help but recall what Kyla had told her that Lee had discovered: Mrs. Bennett had Sharon Teague’s dog tag. She had found it in a shoebox in Kyle’s closet after he disappeared.

Jane removed the tissue paper from the second item. It was roundish and much thicker and heavier, a class ring. It too was gold or gold plated. Starting at the left side of the beautiful emerald stone and continuing in an arch were the words, “Albertville High School.” Inscribed inside the band was “Sharon Elizabeth Teague.” Oh, my fucking god, Jane thought, pausing a second to seek God’s forgiveness. “Ray’s ass is cooked,” was her loudest whisper so far.

Another gust of wind, this one stronger than the previous, was Jane’s siren call. She had to leave even if she wanted to stay and read a while in the diaries.

It took five minutes to photograph the jewelry and return everything to its proper place. Jane verified her arrangement by thrice checking her previous photos. She removed the emergency key and re-affixed the dial to the outside of the safe. After returning the tweezer pouch to the vanity drawer, Jane returned and snapped a few photos of the diary table. She exited the hidden room, closed the bookshelf door, and slid the bolt in place. She stuffed the flashlight inside her duffel, walked to the kitchen, and stared outside at the snow-covered deck.

Jane’s journey to her car took several minutes, given the icy, snowy conditions. She nearly slipped when she transitioned from the steps to the sidewalk. Thankfully, the backyard provided more traction and improved her pace. When she reached the Equinox, she looked at her iPhone. It was 10:48 AM. She had been at the Lodge going on four hours. As she tossed her duffel in the back seat, she remembered she’d forgotten to reset the disconnect breakers. “Oh my God, that was close.”

During the two-minute walk to and from the corner of the house, Jane worried about two things: what if Ray returns home before the snow melts and sees all her tracks? And, what if he has some type of battery-operated camera that captures her every move?

She almost slipped again as she crawled inside the Equinox. It started on the first attempt. Jane breathed a sigh of relief, concerned that her soon-to-be car might present problems given the harshness of the weather. She let the engine warm a minute before shifting the transmission into reverse. She eased pressure on the gas pedal. That’s when she learned she had another problem. Her rear tires were spinning. She was stuck in the ice and snow. She’d made a terrible mistake pulling onto the grass beside the detached garage. Oh, my fucking god, Jane thought, pausing a second to seek God’s forgiveness.

It had been the best Christmas Jane ever experienced, at least since she’d become an adult. Kyla had called Thursday night and insisted she spend the entire day at Harding Hillside. Both Lillian and Lee had voiced their agreement, albeit in semi-distant voices half-suffocated by Bing Crosby’s legendary performance of “Happy Holidays.”

Although the day had provided a healthy dose of normality—listening to more Crosby and Lillian’s favorite, Barbra Streisand, sharing childhood stories of Santa beliefs, and eating a five-star-chef level mid-afternoon dinner compliments of Kyla—the four had spent two hours contemplating and planning today’s mission.

The skull session was prompted by the richness of the meal—honey-glazed ham, several casseroles including nibblet corn, green-beans, sweet potatoes, homemade bread, and two desserts, pecan pie and coconut cake—and two round-trip walks to the mailbox and back.

Lillian fumed after Lee expressed gratitude that Connor Ford had delivered two recording devices to the District Attorney’s office before someone ransacked her house and riddled the king’s headboard with sixteen nine-millimeter bullets. “We have no choice but to kick Ray in the balls.” Lillian then suggested she and Lee, Jane and Kyla if they chose, go to Ray’s house and shoot out all eight of the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the Lodge’s great room.

Thankfully, Lee had offered a better idea. “Too noisy. We silently broke into his place once, let’s do it again. We just need to find a time he’s going to be out-of-town a day or two.” Jane instantly knew Lee’s suggestion was one that fit her to a tee, with slight modifications. Not because she was a seasoned burglar, but because she needed to prove her worth to her three companions.

“Too risky, and don’t forget you two got caught.” Jane had said. “In the off-chance Ray was to show up at the worst time, I’d have a better chance of weaseling my way to safety than if he caught you two lovebirds. Again.”

Lee had given Jane an opportunity to further distance herself from Ray and to earn some loyalty points for the good side, as Lillian called it. “He’d probably shoot you on sight. You’re ten times the threat to him as the three of us.” Lee said, reaching for Lillian’s hand as they approached McVille Road and Kyla’s mailbox.

Jane had quickly responded. “No, he won’t. He doesn’t know I’ve jumped ship.”

And this convinced Lee and Lillian to support today’s project: Jane, after verifying Ray was spending two days with Ted at his Guntersville cabin on the lake, would go to the Lodge alone, enter, and explore to her heart’s content. She was confident Ray had not changed the back door security code but was less certain she could figure out the safe’s combination.

***

Now it’s showtime. Christmas is over. And so was yesterday’s gorgeous weather. A cold front had moved in at midnight. At 6:00 AM, it was foggy and 34 degrees with only a light mist, but forecasters warned of freezing rain mixed with snow by midmorning. Saturday was going to be sloppy and slippery.

After plotting today’s mission, Kyla had insisted Jane spend the night. The two had made a quick run to Jane’s house for proper clothing, toiletries, her One Year Bible, and her leather-bound copy of Oswald Chambers’ “My Utmost for His Highest.” The last two items Jane described as, “something she couldn’t live without.”

It was now 6:30. God and Chambers had spiritually refreshed Jane during her one-hour devotion. As she descended the front porch steps, she couldn’t believe her good fortune. The new Equinox was a godsend. Although the deep blue Chevrolet was only a loaner, she believed she could afford it. “Thank you, Jesus.”

The problem hadn’t been money, although that’s the excuse she’d used with Lee when she’d asked for his advice. Her 1999 Impala had broken down, for the umpteenth time, last Tuesday and she’d called Lee. He and Lillian had come immediately and given her a ride to Boaz Chevrolet. After the wrecker arrived with her old clunker, Lillian had insisted it was time for Jane to pull the plug on the car her parents had bought new, even offered to help Jane make the car payment.

For two hours, Jane, along with Lee and Lillian, had considered new vs. used, Malibu’s vs. Equinox’s. Jane had finally decided on a gorgeous but high-mileage 2019 Equinox, with one condition: she be allowed to test drive it a few days before making the final decision.

Jane slowed as she approached Highway 431. She glanced to her left and saw her decrepit Impala in the Boaz Chevrolet service center’s parking lot. Lee and Lillian were so good to her. It embarrassed Jane, given her lying, especially lying about something as insignificant as whether she could afford a newer vehicle. “Little things can become big things,” Jane thought as the red light changed and she pressed the gas pedal. The Equinox lunged forward, nearly bumping the car in front. Her Impala would have barely moved.

Ray was the only one who knew (other than her out-of-town bank) that she was a wealthy woman, wealthy by Boaz and Sand Mountain standards. Lee and Lillian would die if they knew Elita’s adoptive parents had paid Jane a million dollars in 1986 as a reward for the disclosure of the whereabouts of Elita, their adopted daughter. Jane thought of nothing else as she drove south on Highway 431.

At Mountainboro Road, Jane turned right and tried to imagine the pain Rachel felt when she lost Elita the second time.

***

The mist had turned to a drizzle by the time Jane arrived at the Lodge. She eased the Equinox down the steep incline to the left side of the detached garage. Here, her vehicle was hidden from Skyhaven Drive.

Jane exited, grabbed an empty duffel except for a flashlight, and cut across the yard to the back door. She didn’t hesitate at entering 12122121, Ray’s high school football number forward and backwards two times each. Almost instantly, the green light appeared at the top right of the keypad and the device beeped. She depressed the door handle and breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing what she would have done if Ray had changed the code. She took two steps inside and recalled what Lee had suggested.

Jane left the back door open and retreated across the small deck and down the stairs. She walked the sidewalk to the right rear of the primary structure and stood inspecting the electrical panels. Lee had noticed during his and Lillian’s break-in that the electrical power to the Lodge was fed underground from Skyhaven Drive. There were three 200-amp boxes connected to the main meter. Jane suspected one fed the Lodge, another, the detached garage, and the last, Ray’s outdoor kitchen and pavilion. As instructed, she flipped off all three disconnects. Now, any electrically energized cameras or other recorders would be inoperable, and she knew Ray didn’t have a generator.

Back inside, Jane walked across the great room and suppressed the temptation to ascend the angled stairway to explore the upstairs. Instead, she continued and turned left down an L-shaped hall and on to the master bedroom. It was a mess. The bed was unmade. Clothes scattered on the floor and slung across a rocker in the far-right corner. The door to Ray’s separate study was closed, but thankfully, it was unlocked.

 Jane walked past Ray’s giant custom-built desk and opened the blinds. Across the room, she stood staring at the bookcases. She almost panicked when she imagined the doorway to the hidden room would need electricity to open. After moving a few books on the eye-level shelf, a slide-bolt appeared. “Thank you, Jesus.” That’s all that secured the hinged bookcase door from the bookcase to its left. In seconds, Jane was inside the hidden space, mostly dark given the overcast sky and the absence of electricity. Jane retrieved the flashlight Kyla had insisted she bring. The safe was on the left wall, a little above chest high, but something else caught her attention.

On a far table, one maybe three feet by three feet, virtually the width of the narrow room, she instantly recognized her and Rachel’s diaries. Jane took two steps and saw an accordion file folder toward the back of the table. Inside was her wall decor: an assemblage of printed photos, newspaper articles, and even the red, white, and blue streamers she’d salvaged from the spinning ball at the Valentine’s dance that night fifty years ago where it all started. “Ray must have moved everything from his office to here.” Jane said in a whisper. “I guess he thought it was safer.”

Jane found Rachel’s 7/1/69 – 12/31/69 diary and turned to the first page. Again, tempted. This time to retreat into Ray’s study, sit at his desk, and read for hours. Thankfully, she recalled Kyla’s words before leaving Mom and Pop Harding’s bedroom last night, “stay brave and stay focused. Sharon, Kyle, and the James brothers are depending on you.” Jane closed the diary, laid it next to a dozen others, and returned to Ray’s safe.

Don’t forget to check the temperature of the chicken.” It was the third time this morning Kyla had reminded me. I guess she saw how focused I was on grading exams.

She was scrambling to leave for Sunday School. Common to both of us was the habit of forcing too much into too little time. Sometimes it worked, often it didn’t. Kyla had risen a little later than normal, but had already made a trip to Walmart, fed and watered the goats, replaced a set of white lights on the Christmas tree, baked a cake, and put on a whole chicken in the crock-pot for today’s lunch. Her hair was only half-dry as she tucked her Bible under her arm and headed for the front door. “Anything else I need to do?” I said, trying to look like a team player, though truthfully, I was enjoying being a professor again.

“Turn it to ‘Warm’ when it reaches 160 degrees.” Sis rolled her eyes and shook her head as she backed through the opened door onto the front porch. “And you can set the table before I return.”

“Yes, ma.” Kyla’s religious beliefs were a mystery, but she leaned toward some form of supernatural being, maybe even the Christian God. She seemed especially interested in Dr. Mork’s prayer prediction although I’d argued it was a post hoc fallacy: if B follows A, it doesn’t mean A caused B. Now, I didn’t know why I’d shared the doctor’s opinion or been verbally critical of his response.

Lillian was half-dozing in a Lazy Boy while listening to Pandora on her iPhone. I was glad she was using her earphones.

Three hours ago, I’d taken over the den and kitchen, arranging one-hundred three bluebooks neatly, by class, along the leather couch. Bluebook #6719 was at the opposite end of the table; a B minus earned by one of thirty-eight students in my Torts II class. I was now reviewing #4382, which had to be Jodie Allison’s almost incomprehensible scribblings. Although Dean Waters had granted my request to alter the end-of-semester exam and grading procedures (normally, exams are taken on computer and the professor reviews and grades them without knowing the student’s identity), Jodie’s awful penmanship was a megaphone, slowly, clearly, and loudly announcing every syllable of her name.

My teaching colleague Lea had called at 4:30 Friday afternoon and announced her and Steve had packed and shipped the hundred and five blue books an hour after they administered the last exam. Fed-X had delivered the package to Kyla’s before dark yesterday afternoon while Lillian and I were at her house, for the second time since the hospital released her from ICU a week ago.

I returned to Jodie’s (aka, #4382) poor penmanship but par excellence for legal analysis. This Grafton, West Virginia native had grown up with three strikes against her but was inspiring despite her stubbornness. By third grade, the school had identified her as learning disabled and placed the awkward child in special classes. Truth was, Jodie suffered from writer’s cramp and chose not to do any work that required the use of a pencil. Bored, she began reading every book offered by the library in her small and pitifully poor hometown. By age 14, she’d used cunning and shamelessness to misrepresent her age and earn her GED. How at 15 (and after one semester at Pierpont Community College in Fairmont, WV) she’d won a four-year scholarship to Yale was still a mystery. However, Jodie’s near-perfect score on her LSAT was clear-as-day proof why she’d been admitted to the law school. I’d learned a lot about her as a faculty adviser and had somehow convinced her to seek medical care. Jodie suffers from hand dystonia, which causes excessive muscle contractions in the hand and arm. Thankfully, after six weeks of arguing, I’d persuaded her to enroll in a long-term occupational therapy program. Unfortunately, it was too early to tell if penmanship improvements were on the horizon.

I placed an A+ at the top of #4382’s first essay and glanced at Lillian. To my surprise, she was looking straight at me. I returned her smile and slid my chair backwards. Given my mental trip to West Virginia, I needed to stay focused on my grading. Then, I remembered how close I’d come to losing the most important person in my life.

It was now December the twentieth, eight days since they had released Lillian from ICU. As far as we knew, she was doing well. The only noticeable change from her pre-injury status was her frequent naps. This had worried me the first few days after her discharge but now seemed natural and harmless since otherwise she was the same wild and crazy woman I’d fallen in love with.

Speaking of mysteries and injuries, the Etowah County investigators had refused to bring charges against Ray Archer. After interviewing Lillian last Tuesday, they concluded there was insufficient evidence to connect Ray to her injury. Their hypothesis was that a two by four board with an attached L-shaped piece of angle iron had fallen and struck Lillian’s head. Prior to falling, the board hung horizontally across the barn’s ceiling. Somehow, like the closing of a hinge, the end pointing to Cox Gap Road had fallen, hitting Lillian on the side of the head as the board completed its journey, ending in a vertical position against an interior wall. It was the weirdest coincidence I’d ever encountered, making me think it wasn’t. I stood, took three strides to Lillian, and knelt beside her chair, wishing Sherlock Holmes was real and currently applying his enormous mental skills to this deeply troubling mystery.

I clutched her right hand with both of mine and kissed her fingertips. “Have I told you this morning that I love you?”

“Two times, not counting that one.” She lowered her footrest and pulled my head forward. “I’m not complaining,” she whispered as our lips met. It seemed Lillian’s injury and recovery had affected me more than her. I was now a full-blown romantic: more touchy, talkative, and embarrassingly clingy than I’d ever been with Rachel. My discovery of intimacy had to be the product of brushing against the near loss of the sensuous Lillian.

I was still feeling guilty for not going with her and Jane last night to Gadsden. It was the first time we’d been apart since her release from the hospital. I should have joined their shopping and worshiping adventure. Jane had broached the idea, saying it would do Lillian good to go to church and express her thankfulness for her new lease on life. And the shopping would be like icing on the cake.

My left leg was cramping, so I stood and pulled a chair from the dining room table and nestled it close to Lillian’s Lazy Boy. “Don’t forget to give me the receipt.”

She reached to the end table to her left and snatched a slip of paper. “Two hundred thirty-eight dollars and forty-two cents, including taxes and shipping.”

“When should they arrive?” After Lea had called late Friday updating me on the bluebooks, I’d realized I’d forgotten to buy her and Steve a thank-you/Christmas gift. Lillian had suggested HoneyBaked of Rainbow City, relaying that their hams and turkeys had been her choice for the past ten years.

“Tuesday. Even though you paid for overnight shipping. They won’t process your order until tomorrow.”

“Thanks again for taking care of me.” I’d given my debit card to Lillian and insisted she buy Lea and Steve each a turkey and a ham, and another ham for our own Christmas dinner at Harding Hillside. Lillian had taken Kyla’s cooler and a few icepacks and left our ham protected in Jane’s trunk as the two attended a revival service at First Baptist Church in Gadsden. The evangelist must have been long-winded since it was after nine when Lillian walked through the front door with notable sadness on her face.

Now I looked into Lillian’s eyes and saw the same sadness. “What’s wrong, you’ve seemed distant since you returned last night?” I had a feeling I knew the answer. It had everything to do with how I felt. No doubt we brought it on when she helped buy my airplane ticket. We were at her place in Sardis when I reviewed my To-Dos in Evernote. It was a practice I’d let slide since coming to Alabama. I’d seen the one instructing me to buy Lea and Steve a gift. Thankfully, Lillian had the answer to that. Then, I’d seen the task I’d dreaded and subconsciously postponed: the purchase of a plane ticket heralding my departure from Alabama and the woman I loved. I’d used Lillian’s laptop to purchase a Delta one-way ticket to New Haven, departing Birmingham at 2:50 PM on Friday, January the 29th. That date seemed like a semester away, but in the grand scheme of things, the forty-one days would pass like a single sunset.

A lone tear rolled down Lillian’s right cheek. She glanced at me and lowered her footrest. “I can’t stand it. Lee, how long are we going to postpone the inevitable?” I knew what she was talking about. One of us had broached the subject several times since her release. Each time it had been after we’d made love and were lying in her oversized bed in her undersized bedroom.

“You know I’m against you staying in Boaz while you wait for the divorce proceedings to end. That’s why I wanted to purchase two tickets.” I didn’t care if Lillian ever divorced. During the days she was in a coma, I discovered how truly important she was to my very existence. I wanted us together forever, and I intended to make that happen.

“Ray will be in jail before you leave town. I’ll be safe for the few weeks it takes to settle everything. By spring at the latest, I’ll be knocking on your door.” Lillian was exuding her self-confidence.

I thought differently. “You can be so naïve. Why not come with me and deal with the legal wrangling from a distance?” We both stood at the same time.

“I need more coffee and you need to get back to grading papers.” Lillian reached toward the end table for her mug and headed to the coffeemaker beside the sink. I reluctantly returned to my bluebooks.

I mumbled under my breath, “what you need is glasses,” before attacking Jodie’s response to essay question #2.

Before I could absorb three paragraphs of the brilliant student’s near-incomprehensible scribbling, Lillian’s half-scream (a high pitch, ‘oh’) brought me to my feet. She had wandered to the kitchen counter closest to the front door. Her hands were outstretched, holding onto the edge of the countertop. Something was wrong. Was she having a stroke? A heart attack?

Thankfully, in two seconds I learned she was reading yesterday’s Sand Mountain Reporter that Kyla had retrieved from the mailbox earlier this morning and had laid, along with a stack of bills and junk mail, at the end of the counter. “This better be good for the scare you gave me.”

“Read this.” Lillian pointed to an above-the-fold article titled, “Hikers Discover Two Bodies in Dekalb County.” To the right of the text was a bird’s-eye view of a map where the bodies were found. The artist had identified and labeled several locations in the small town of Valley Head, including Valley Head Baptist Church. Each location was to the west of the heavily forested discovery area.

I stood beside Lillian, who was ready to turn the page and read the rest of the article on page 9. “Hold on. Let me catch up.” The first sentence declared the moderately decomposed bodies of two men related to a puzzle local law enforcement were trying to solve. The article didn’t disclose their names but did share those matching tattoos across their lower backs pointed to the same two men from Guntersville who’d been missing for over a week. Before I motioned Lillian to flip the pages, the journalist reported that a 2015 pickup truck found a week ago by a St. Clair County Sheriff’s deputy at Horse Pens 40, a nature park in Steele, Alabama, was likely owned by one of the men. “I’d bet they know more than their sharing.”

“How so?” Lillian said, turning to page 9.

“This article is too aggressive. Better put, the newspaper wouldn’t have announced a connection between these two events—the bodies in Dekalb County and the missing truck in St. Clair County—unless they had confirmed these facts with the investigative agencies.” I tried to think of a way to learn more. I’d always heard and believed the Sand Mountain Reporter was a first-class operation, one with outstanding journalistic integrity.

Lillian seemed to read my mind. She flipped back to page 1. “Nick Lancaster. That’s Stella Newsome’s brother.”

“Uh?” I quickly answered my question when I noticed who’d written the article.

“Jane and Stella are good friends. Maybe she could get us an inside view. I’ll call Jane.”

“Not yet. Flip back to page 9. Let’s see what else Nick has to say.” I couldn’t help but think of what Jane had told me in the hospital’s dining room a few minutes before Lillian had awakened from her coma. Jane had followed Ray to Dogwood Trail and waited. Later, she’d seen him turn right onto Cox Gap Road with his Suburban pulling a flatbed trailer. On it was Buddy’s jacked-up pickup. Before continuing our reading, Lillian and I exchanged looks. Without words, our expressions were clear. We both were confident Ray had killed Buddy and Billy.

“Ray was transporting more than Buddy’s truck. If Jane was being truthful, Ray had killed the brothers at the farm and was moving them to what he thought was their eternal resting place.”

“Like he did Sharon Teague and Kyle Bennett.” I said, sick of the man’s horrendous brutality. Almost as bad was the vivid reminder that he and Lillian had shared a bed for half a century.

On page 9, Nick was even more aggressive. He described a third piece of the puzzle: Sheriff’s deputies had discovered several incriminating items inside Buddy and Billy’s travel trailer. The two had rented space from the State Park in Guntersville for over three years. A nephew had become suspicious when his uncles disappeared. He had attempted to find them, including calling their cell phones, visiting The Shack, the restaurant where they both worked, and finally, breaking into their camper. Inside, he’d discovered a sizeable amount of cash and two paperbacks describing the process of remotely starting a fire.

Nick was thorough. He even answered my question, why would the nephew disclose his findings? There were two reasons. One had to do with the campground’s manager who’d threatened to call the police after being tipped off that a burglary was in process. The second reason, probably the most important, was that the nephew was a preacher. “Though tempted, God gave me strength to do the right thing,” was a direct quote by Nick.

After Lillian and I read the full column on page 9, she repeated her “oh,” thankfully not as loud as the first one, and added a “my goodness.”

“What now? What’d I miss?” I was feeling guilty over the misuse of my grading time.

“The preacher, Alex Mandy, last night at the revival. He’s the nephew, Billy and Buddy’s nephew.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s highly unlikely.”

“Hear this before you walk out that limb.” Lillian refolded the newspaper and returned to the coffeemaker. Without looking back at me, she said. “Last night, before the evangelist started preaching, he asked the congregation for prayer. He shared that his two uncles had gone missing, and their bodies had recently been discovered. He said they’d been murdered. At the end of his sermon, Mr. Mandy returned to the subject of his uncles saying that as far as he knew, the two had never accepted Christ as savior, and now it was too late. There were four people in the congregation who responded to the evangelist’s end-of-sermon altar call. Two said Jesus saved them.”

All I could say was, “it’s a small world,” before returning to the bluebooks.

For the middle of December, it was a beautiful day: sunny, warm, and just enough breeze to spin to the ground the few remaining leaves clinging to the giant oak at the north side of Ray’s detached garage.

He had pulled his red Corvette outside onto the driveway and was applying butter wet wax, the best product he’d found to provide the deepest, wettest look imaginable in a matter of minutes.

This every-two-month chore had always been Ray’s favorite way to relax. Give him a beautiful day, a six-pack of Coors Light, and Elvis Presley’s gospel music on Pandora repeat, and Ray’s mind, body, and soul would portal to a countryside nirvana.

Except today. Instead of an actual place of bliss, delight, and peace, Ray’s world was sliding towards Hell, both figuratively and literally. Three bottles of Coors weren’t helping. Nor was the Corvette’s shine. Ray was in a slump. He was miserable, troubled, and agitated by the voice in his head reminding him of his many problems.

The least of which was Lillian, or rather, the living Lillian. His creative but failed attempts to eliminate his estranged wife left his estate completely exposed. Damn, if he hadn’t been so eager to sign that last prenuptial agreement. And, double damn, for the divorce lawsuit that private investigator Connor Ford had served on him yesterday afternoon. Lillian was serious. Not only about robbing him of half his wealth, but more so about sending him to prison. The worst thing of all, well, other than inside a jail cell, was living the rest of his life knowing Lee Harding had taken what was his, the woman who had always clothed him in honor and respect.

Ray backed his Corvette into the garage and lowered the overhead door. It was two hours before his meeting with Orin at Dogwood Trail Farm. He walked around the detached garage to its back porch and sat in his favorite rocker. The valley below was lifeless. Ray imagined each leafless tree represented a pending decision, the result yielding fresh growth and life, or decay and death. A rush of cold raced down his spine, though the sun was bright and warm. For a second, he felt he was being smothered, his problems encircling his neck like strong fingers, squeezing harder and harder.

Ted’s call at midnight was the last thing Ray had expected, not to say anything about the surprise news his best friend had shared. The bodies of two men, most likely Billy and Buddy James had been discovered. Murdered. Ted heard this and more from his longtime friend and local crime reporter, Nick Lancaster. Ray hated the guy.

Nick had emailed Ted a draft of the lead article in tomorrow’s Sand Mountain Reporter. Nick argued it connected the two murders to a 2015 pickup truck found at Horse Pens 40, and the Black Friday arson of the Hunt House.

After Ted ended the call, Ray had contemplated calling Jane and asking her to disable his ankle bracelet for the second time. And to run away with him. Although the thought of being with her nonstop was sickening, it was better than leaving her to spill the beans on his life of flaunting the law. She was the key to a vault of evidence against him. Ray considered a series of what-ifs that could easily snowball to his ultimate arrest, conviction, and lifetime incarceration.

What if Buddy had recorded their arson-planning conversations? What if Buddy and Billy had left something exposed, like a stack of photos or a pile of cash hidden beneath a mattress? Anything that could somehow lead the law back to him? What if a security camera had captured him along with his late-night body and truck disposal adventure? Ray could think of many other what ifs.

He stood and walked to the porch railing, imagining he and Jane could already be two or three states away if they’d left early, maybe out of the country if they’d chosen to fly. The latter was still an option, especially a private chartered flight. Ray had connections. And money.

He gripped the wooden post holding the porch ceiling and would have kicked himself if he could. After paying Billy and Buddy for the Hunt House job, he had meant to restock the money in his home safe. He had often thought of setting up offshore bank accounts. There was no excuse. It all had to do with his damn self-confidence. Now, that had fallen to the wayside like the remaining leaves in the valley below.

Ray closed his eyes and clutched the wood railing as tight as he could. He wondered if he was about to have a panic attack. Although he’d never experienced one himself, he’d heard how they were a spitting image of death itself. That’s what Ted had said. The figurative hands around his neck returned and squeezed tighter. Were they retributive hands? Aligning the stars of his demise? Doling out punishment for his past mistakes and crimes?

Why was the Dogwood Trail farm even an issue? Why had his father chosen to sell it and not let it be, allowing Ray to inherit it when his father passed? Thoughts of the domino effect of that sale flooded Ray’s mind, as did the faces of Jackie and Jade Frasier, two folks he knew he could trust. But then, why had they come to mind at such a time as this? Ray’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, diverting his attention from a question he’d never considered.

He started not to answer, not in the shape he was, but he knew he had to. It might be Ted. Or Jane, Ray’s single hope for redemption and escape.

It was neither Ted nor Jane. “Orin, what say you?” Ray answered with his best effort toward levity.

“I can meet earlier if that works for you?”

“Awesome, I was getting bored sitting here waiting for spring.” Ray said, no longer feeling powerful hands around his throat.

“Uh?”

“Nothing. Just a joke. I’ll head to the farm in ten minutes.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.” The thought of Orin reminded Ray of how close he’d come to jumping into the abyss. How gullible and stupid he’d been to think he’d found a replacement for Billy and Buddy. Thankfully, Jane had snatched him from the jaws of death.

Maybe Ray’s unwillingness to run was rooted in his subconsciousness, or a revelation from the Holy Spirit, or some other mysterious voice guiding him to the light, to a vision and hope of how to resolve, once for all, his legal problems. The key was Jane and her idiotic plan, or the absence of Jane. Ray walked down the sidewalk to the Lodge’s back door and inside to his bedroom. Killing Jane was not an option. It was unnecessary. She would never abandon him. She was smart, smart enough to know she’d never be intimate with anyone as powerful and mesmerizing as himself. Truth is, Jane is addicted, and once an addict, always an addict. Ray opened the bookshelf door and walked inside the narrow corridor to his safe. Orin would respond. Ray worked the combination lock and pulled open the ten-inch-thick door. He removed one of two ten-thousand-dollar bundles, and an unregistered SIG Sauer P226 Equinox. It was Ray’s favorite 9 mm pistol.

Ray took his time driving to the farm. In Mountainboro, waiting at the red light, his mind reproduced the image of himself standing on a small platform hundreds of feet above a rocky valley below. It was his first attempt at bungee jumping. But he was fully untethered, about to descend to the rocky shore where a painful and obliterating death was certain.

A blaring horn from the car at his rear bumper catapulted Ray back to reality. He eased his Suburban across Hwy. 431 and away from the scary platform. Ray figuratively shook his head in amazement at how Jane had discovered Orin was a rat. “The Internet changed everything,” she’d said. “Anna could do this for you all the time if she wasn’t such a lazy ass.”

A few keystrokes, a few dollars for two pay-for-service databases, a phone call to a friend in the county clerk’s office, and a serendipitous tailgating adventure had yielded Jane a wealth of information.

Susan Vick was Orin’s sixty-three-year-old widowed grandmother. She was also the lone biological sibling of the long-dead Sharon Teague. The clerk friend had pulled the case file of State of Alabama vs. Orin Everette Russell. Although Orin was initially charged with kidnapping and sexual assault of his stepmother’s 15-year-old daughter, the Case Action Summary revealed the case was weak. “An unfortunate misunderstanding,” was the subject line from the alleged victim’s hand-written letter she’d filed. The clerk had read the letter to Jane. The victim had lied. She was 17 years old and had been mad at Orin. The two of them had taken a weekend trip to Mentone, Alabama, and made love and hiked for two days. By late Sunday afternoon, they’d discussed marriage, which had led to a fight, and the filing of a false report. The victim admitted the photos were fake, merely staged at her request. The case was still pending, but, as per the clerk, “Orin doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of being convicted. This isn’t the victim’s first rodeo.”

Two days after the helpful phone conversation, Jane had followed Orin from Ray’s office to a long-abandoned logging road in the Mount Hebron community. There, waiting, was Connor Ford. The conclusion was certain: Orin was a rat. He was an enemy working to destroy Ray.

Half-a-mile from Cox Gap Road, Ray contemplated a Plan B. He eased his Suburban into a cell tower’s driveway to let the bumper-hugging aqua-colored bug pass. Instead of a Volkswagen Beetle as Ray had thought, it was a Chevrolet Spark. He’d heard of them but hadn’t seen one. He couldn’t imagine riding around in something so small. The Suburban was a Goliath compared to the tiny David.

At Cox Gap Road, Ray turned right, and his mind returned to the Biblical reference. His enemies, including the criminal justice system, were the Goliath in his story. Although Ray wasn’t a sheepherder, nor had he ever fought and killed a bear or a lion, he had five smooth stones, all held and controlled by Jane Fordham. Each stone was a weapon and, properly launched, had a good chance of destroying, or at least diverting attention from, the five giant-size threats that were attempting to engulf him. For the second time in less than an hour, Ray concluded Jane was more valuable to him alive than dead.

Ray pondered the first stone, the threat posed by the Sharon Teague investigation. This is where Orin came in, even if he was a rat.

Ray tuned his Sirius Radio to Elvis Channel 75. Playing was an all-time favorite: Peace in the Valley. With the volume just shy of deafening, Ray sang along with Elvis:

There will be peace in the valley for me, some day

There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord, I pray

There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow

No trouble, trouble, I see

There will be peace in the valley for me.

Orin was sitting on the tailgate of his new Ford Ranger, parked in front of the barn, when Ray arrived. Furnishing his youngest and newest employee with a company vehicle was part of Ray’s initial plan, not Jane’s.

There was nothing Ray hated more than losing. After Jane told him about Orin and him being a snitch, Ray’s anger exploded. Not so much at Orin, but at Connor Ford, Micaden Tanner, and Lee Harding. Those three, enemies all, believed they were running the perfect con. But they didn’t know Ray Archer as well as they thought.

Over every objection Jane could name, Ray was determined to win Orin’s unwavering loyalty. Their week sharing a jail cell had convinced Ray the kid, as he often called him, was all ego and dreamer. He was too much like Ray to give up fame, fortune, and females at his beck and call, to be satisfied with simple, less than fulfilling things such as justice and family commitment.

“How’s Connor Ford?” Ray asked, pulling perpendicular to the Ranger and maintaining a neutral face.

At first, Orin didn’t respond, but after Ray exited his Suburban, he asked a question instead of providing an answer. “Is it too late to get us right?” Smart, thought Ray.

“It’s totally up to you. Do you want a straight road to money and all the good things it buys, or a crooked downhill path to boredom and beans?” Ray pondered his metaphor as he exited the Suburban.

Orin eased from the tailgate and held out his hand to shake. Ray rejected the offer. “I made a giant mistake and I’m sorry.”

“Words are cheap. Actions are the real megaphone.” Ray adjusted the SIG Sauer at his back inside his waistband as Orin walked to the Ranger’s cab.

“I’m listening and not ignoring you. Let me show you something.” Orin reached through the lowered window and removed a folder. “I snapped these photos at my grandmother’s house.” Orin handed the file to Ray.

Inside were two documents, both photographs that had been processed, probably at Walgreen’s or Walmart. The first was a hand-written note. It read: “Per Mr. Ford, Lee Harding found Sharon’s dog tag.” The second document was an 8 1/2 by 11-inch photograph. It brought to Ray’s mind a host of memories, some good, some bad. In the late sixties and early seventies, all schools in Marshall County required their students to wear the thin silver metal identification tag around their neck. Ray vividly remembered removing Sharon’s tag before rolling her into a four-foot-deep grave fifty yards beyond the pond.

“Who knows you took these?” Ray asked.

“Nobody. I was at Granny Vick’s a few days ago. She had to run an errand. So, I snooped around.”

“Tell me what you want. You could still be a rat.” Ray looked closer at the dog tag photo, trying to see signs of being faked. “Matter of fact, why don’t you strip and prove you’re not wearing a wire.”

“What?” Orin paused, contemplating his response. “I said I was sorry. Here’s my answer to your question. I want to work for you. I want fame, fortune, and females. You can trust me, I promise.”

“Orin, you’re smart. Therefore, you should know I have to verify.” Ray’s conciliatory tone was disturbing to him on many levels. He thought of pulling out the SIG and putting a hole in Orin’s head but knew he didn’t need another body to deal with.

Orin started unbuttoning his shirt. After removing it, he kept going to his underwear. When he started to lower them, Ray held up his right hand like a traffic cop. “Get dressed. I don’t need to see your dick.” Truth was, Ray was envious of Orin’s physique. What he would give to be young again, strong, sleek, and sexy like he was in his youth.

“Okay, but I have nothing to hide,” Orin insisted. He redressed and sat on the tailgate to tie his shoes. His next words surprised Ray. “Is Aunt Sharon’s body in your father’s cemetery?” Now, the subject had changed to Jane’s plan. Yesterday, Ray had asked Orin to meet to discuss a new assignment. For the past twenty years, Ray’s grandfather, Randall Archer, had rested in a family plot that his son, Ronald, had established. The plan was to have his body exhumed and moved to Hillcrest Cemetery in Boaz. Jane believed that Connor Ford, Micaden Tanner, and Lee Harding would learn this and conclude it was a ploy, hiding the truth that what Ray was up to was disposing of Sharon Teague’s bones.

“No. And I do not know where she’s buried since I had nothing to do with her death.” Ray knew exactly where he and Rachel had buried Sharon Teague, but he wasn’t about to tell Orin. “But I know where Kyle Bennett is buried.” Ray started not to disclose the location but since the theme of Jane’s plan was all about misdirection, he knew he had to. “They buried his body at the Hunt property, behind where the primary structure was before it burned. Beside the detached garage, which someway survived.”

Connor Ford had shared his theory with Orin that Ray had killed both Sharon Teague and Kyle Bennett. “Are you saying you killed Kyle?” Before Ray could respond, Orin added. “Not that it matters to me or is something I’d ever repeat.”

“No. Orin, to be so smart, you can sometimes be such a dumbass.” Ray verbalized the words exactly like Jane had demanded: “Rachel Kern shot and killed Kyle. Her and her parents buried him there half-a-century ago.”

“I won’t ask how you know this.”

“It’s simple. Rachel told me.”

Ray and Orin spent the next hour exploring the barn and inspecting Randall Archer’s burial plot. Inside the barn was an assortment of Rylan’s signs and fixtures Ray wanted Orin to move before the ground-breaking ceremony. At the cemetery, nestled in a grove of oaks on a hill beyond the pond, Ray instructed Orin to have his grandfather’s body exhumed and transported, being careful to obey all the legal niceties as demanded by Alabama law. The bodies of Roland’s two wives, Norma and Geraldine, were to remain unhindered. Ray had not lost love for either his biological mother or his stepmother. Ray never mentioned the bones of Sharon Teague that lay underground, just outside the white picket fence encircling the family cemetery.

When Ray and Orin returned to their vehicles, Ray removed the SIG Sauer from his waistband and handed it to Orin. “It’s time for a test.”

The worst thought imaginable flooded Orin’s head. ‘He wants me to kill somebody.’ “Ray, I’m sorry. I’ll do most anything you ask, but I can’t shoot anyone. I hate jail.”

Ray belted out a laugh. “That goes for both of us. But you need to take the first step toward proving your loyalty. Think of it as homework.” The two men leaned against Ray’s Suburban as he described what he had in mind. Orin would follow Ray west on Cox Gap Road towards Highway 431. As he passed the pond before reaching Alexander Road, Ray would turn on his flashers. The target house would be on the left, in front of a red barn. Orin would return at dark and break in through the back porch entrance. Once inside, he would search for electronic devices. Ray was particularly interested in the two recorders Lee and Lillian had used at Ted’s cabin the night Ray paid Buddy a hundred grand. After a thorough search, Orin would shoot the SIG sixteen times into Lillian’s bed and snap two photos with his cell phone. One shot of the bullet-ridden bed; the second, a selfie with Lillian’s den in the background. That was it.

Orin hesitated for a few seconds. “No problem. Just never ask me to kill someone.”

“When you’re finished, come to The Shack and I’ll buy you the best rib-eye steak in Alabama. I’ll be waiting for you.” Ray said, smiling and holding the cash towards Orin’s head, thumbing through the hundred-dollar bills. “After we eat, assuming you’ve completed your mission and shown me the photos, this will be yours.”

Orin, still worried, inspected the SIG and walked to the Ranger’s tailgate. “What if I get caught? Remember, I hate jails.”

“You won’t. Lillian will be with Lee at Kyla’s house. I promise, no one will disturb you.”

Orin shook Ray’s cashless hand and nodded affirmatively, acknowledging his commitment to Ray and a future of fame, fortune, and females at his beck and call. The kid was clueless.

I extracted myself from the Lazy Boy and stood beside Lillian’s bed, wishing she was alert and healed. I needed her by my side, no matter what Jane Fordham was about to say.

My cell vibrated. Again, it was Kyla. She suggested we meet in the cafeteria instead of the small waiting room outside ICU. I agreed, kissed Lillian on the cheek, and walked outside her room, nodding to Stella Newsome sitting at the nurses’ station.

***

Kyla was paying the cashier for coffee when I entered the cafeteria. I was confident sis would buy me a cup, so I turned right to the open table next to the windows along the outside wall. Naturally, I chose the best seat, the one that presented a full view of the entire dining room. It was a habit that was hard to break.

I watched Jane as she paid the cashier. She was not wearing her red, close-cropped wig. Her hair was gray, bordering on white. I wondered if she kept her natural hair cut short or if she still suffered from the effects of two rounds of chemo, she’d endured a few years ago.

I pondered Lillian, and Dr. Mork’s encouraging statement while staring at the saltshaker, waiting for Kyla and Jane to reach our table. Instead of sitting, Kyla handed me a large coffee and announced she was heading to the ICU. Our eyes met, and she gave me a slight nod of encouragement. Or, it might have been a “brother, you’re on your own” look.

Jane sat in the chair to my right and offered me one of two bran muffins she’d bought. I declined, and she asked about Lillian. I shared Dr. Mork’s words and rejected any temptation to drift deeper into small talk. Jane thanked me for my willingness to meet.

I took this as an open gate to race forward. I couldn’t suppress my legal training and its natural quest for logical reasoning. “Kyla tells me you want to help.” I took my second sip of coffee. It was still too hot for my liking. I removed the lid and let the steam escape.

“I do, and I know you’re skeptical. As you should be.” I glanced at Jane as she stared at her coffee. She, unlike Kyla and Lillian, wasn’t aging well. There were lively crow’s feet engulfing both eyes, and gravity was doing its thing at both corners of her mouth.

“It might have something to do with the lies you told me when we talked on the phone.”

“I was just trying to protect you.” I raised my eyebrows and stared at Jane. Her statement made little sense. “I know that sounds crazy, but, in one sense, telling you Rachel had an abortion seemed easier to swallow than dealing with her child, Elita.” I noted Jane mentioned nothing about Kyle.

Kyla had told me she admitted to Jane that Lillian and I had gone prowling in her house and had seen Jane’s war-room, as sis labeled it. “I prefer the truth, no matter how painful.” This sounded righteous to me. And it was probably false. I suspect there are plenty of potential scenarios where the truth would be worse.

It was like Jane showed up. Rachel had said more than once over the years that Jane was the smartest person she’d ever met. I’d never given it much thought, or credence. The woman two feet from me sat straighter in her chair and angled her body to square her shoulders directly at me. Symbolically, as though she was penetrating my skull, she poured her piercing green eyes into mine. Her body language said she was ready to debate, or duel if need be. “Let’s be brutally honest. What you found in my study shocked you. I’m sure I could have conducted myself more honorably concerning Rachel’s child and many other things, but I’m here now, with more secrets to share, if you can forget the past and move forward.”

“That’s fine with me, but I have two conditions. One, you acknowledge and agree with my goals. By the way, they are the same as Lillian’s, Kent’s, and Mrs. Bennett’s. And Kyla’s, to be thorough. Second, you must earn my trust. I need more than words. I need you to show by your actions that you are trustworthy.” My coffee was better now.

Jane must have eyes on the side of her head. She caught sight of Stella Newsome as she entered the cafeteria. The nurse didn’t look our way. “I’ll agree, but why don’t you lay out the goals. I feel I know what you’re after, but I want to be crystal clear about what I’m agreeing to.”

“That’s fair. The top priority is to see that Kyle gets his long overdue justice. A close second would be justice for the family of Sharon Teague. I assume you are familiar with this case. Actually, it’s a few weeks or months older than Kyle’s.”

Jane didn’t answer my question. “Any other goals?”

“One, maybe two more. The first concerns the Hunt House fire. The arsonist needs to be convicted, not to belittle the death of Eric Snyder and his need for justice. From your conversation with Kyla, you know that Lillian and I believe Ray Archer is the mastermind behind the fire.” I paused for Jane to ponder.

She stared again at Stella, who was now dealing with the cashier. Jane turned her head back to me. “You said there might be another goal.”

“It’s now public knowledge Billy and Buddy James are missing. Today’s Sand Mountain Reporter has a lengthy article about them, including their friendship with Eric Snyder, and their last known whereabouts. The paper says they are people of interest concerning the Hunt House fire. To me, its apparent Ray had a motive to get rid of the twin brothers.”

Jane finished her first muffin and wadded up the paper wrapping. “That’s a bunch of goals, so why don’t you ask whatever questions you have. I’ll answer to the best of my knowledge and ability.”

“Before we go there, let’s revisit our phone conversation. I need truthful answers to the two questions I asked. Let’s start with the night Kyle disappeared.”

Before I could complete my question, Jane interrupted, “Kyle was still in the truck when Ray dropped me off at home.”

“I thought so, but let’s come back to that night a little later. Now, tell me the truth about Rachel’s abortion.” I was sure I knew the answer, since I’d seen the photo of Rachel holding a newborn in a Hong Kong hospital, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something, like another pregnancy or another opportunity for an abortion.

“Rachel never had an abortion. You saw the picture. She lied to Ray about having one before she and her family left for China in the tenth grade.”

“And she was pregnant just the one time?”

Jane seemed semi-pissed that I’d ask such a question. “Well, of course.”

“And Ray was the father, Elita’s father?”

“Yes. Rachel never had sex with anyone but Ray.” I wanted to ask how she could know this but opted to keep my question to myself. Jane picked at her second muffin and continued, staring at me again with those piercing green eyes. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I promise, from now on, I’ll be truthful, no matter how difficult or embarrassing your questions.”

Dr. Mork entered the cafeteria and walked toward Jane and me. Two tables before he reached us, he sat with an older couple, clutched their hands, lowered his head, and prayed. Or so it seemed. “Thanks. Now, one other question before we discuss the goals. Do you know who broke into my house in New Haven and stole Rachel’s diaries?”

Without hesitation, Jane said, “Ray was the snake’s head, but a friend, associate, whatever, of Ted King performed the slithering. He did it as a favor to Ray.” I liked Jane’s metaphor and she sounded believable. But I wanted to follow-up, anyway.

“How do you know this?”

Jane seemed distracted by Dr. Mork’s tuned-up volume. His prayer was intense. She turned back to me. “I believe in prayer but there’s a time and place, and it’s not here.”

I didn’t take the bait, if that’s what it was.

“Pillow talk. Well, it plays a minor role, but mostly from my friend Vanessa Clausen.” Jane used her second muffin as a pause button. “Let’s not go down that rat hole right now or we’ll be here till lunch. For now, just know that Vanessa’s husband, Barry, does some odd jobs for Ted King.”

Again, I refrained from getting sidetracked, although it was tempting. Why in hell would Barry help Ray, the man who’d banged his wife since early high school? I could only assume Barry wasn’t privy to that little detail. “So, what did Ray do with Rachel’s diaries?”

“He gave them to me. Ray doesn’t have the patience to read.”

“Did you?”

Jane raised her eyebrows and stared my way. “Yes, I have the patience and yes, I read them. Now, they’re locked inside Ray’s office. Along with my diaries and all the wall decor you saw while snooping around inside my house.”

“I assume this means you told Ray about Lillian and me discovering your decorated walls?”

“I did.” I stared straight at her and drummed my fingers on the table, hoping Jane would feel the need to describe her and Ray’s relationship. Jane would obviously know that Lillian and I had seen her and Ray’s high school dance photo.

Thankfully, she was perceptive. “Therefore, trust me. I’m willing to give up a lot to help you and Lillian. You’ve probably already figured out that I’ve been in love with Ray since high school. Thanks to Rachel.”

“Because she persuaded Ray to take you to the Valentine’s Dance?” It was like Jane, and I were playing chess, talking about our future moves before revealing our next one.

Two could play this game. “You fell for Ray when Rachel moved away, but to him it was just business.” I paused as she considered her next move. “Sorry to be so blunt, but you got what you wanted and so did he. It just wasn’t the same thing.”

Jane shook her head sideways and rolled her eyes. “You’re too smart for your own good.” Without skipping a beat, she again stood. “Want some more coffee?”

I declined. After she returned and sat, I didn’t hesitate to be bold, and knife edged. “You’ve been living a lie for physical intimacy?” I could be bolder. “In exchange for sex, you protected Ray?”

Jane’s face turned red, but she plowed ahead, undaunted. “Those days are over. That train has left the station. He’s headed to destruction and I’m afraid.” Snakes and trains, Jane liked her metaphors.

“Please explain.”

“You may not want to hear this, but I have more than one motive to help. Ray is in eliminate mode, and no one knows more than me. He’ll silence me, anyone who has the potential of exposing him.”

“Like Billy and Buddy?” I had no actual evidence of my accusation, but my education and experience fed my drive. It seemed only logical that Ray orchestrated their disappearance. Buddy had helped Ray burn the Hunt House. Buddy could cut a deal with the DA and leave Ray hanging. Now, I’d bet he’s dead. Ray had eliminated Buddy, maybe Billy too, just like he’d eliminated Kyle fifty years ago.

“Yes. Do you want to get into that now, or stick to the diaries and my wall decor?” Jane knew how to keep a conversation on track.

“We can come back to the diaries. Did Ray kill Billy and Buddy?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m highly suspicious.”

“Why?”

Jane told me how she’d disabled Ray’s ankle monitor, providing details I didn’t need to know. That was last Saturday. Later, she’d gone to visit Rosa and dropped by The Shack for a takeout order before heading home. There, inside the restaurant, she’d seen Ray and waited in her car. After two hours, she’d almost given up, but Ray and Ted King exited around 9:30, with both leaving in separate vehicles. Jane had followed Ray. He had driven to Dogwood Trail in a steadily increasing rain. Jane had hidden her car in a grove of trees and again waited on Ray. She knew he’d eventually have to exit the one-way road. Around 11:30, a pickup truck turned right onto Dogwood Trail. After another long wait, Ray, in his Suburban, approached the stop sign at the intersection of Dogwood Trail and Cox Gap Road, but instead of turning left to Hwy. 431, he turned right. What was stranger still was that he was pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with the same pickup that she had seen earlier. Jane had followed Ray all the way down the mountain to Attalla, where he proceeded south on I-59. After reaching the Ashville exit, Jane had returned home, not knowing where Ray was heading.

Sunday, Jane had conducted research and determined that Buddy owned a blue Chevrolet pickup, the same one she’d seen atop Ray’s flatbed trailer traveling south on Interstate 59.

Just as I was midway asking Jane if Ray had said anything about the Hunt House fire, she jumped up and literally ran to catch up with Stella exiting the cafeteria. It was five minutes before she returned.

“One other thought I had about last Saturday night. Earlier that afternoon, at the Lodge, I was sitting at his desk doing some final research on disabling his ankle monitor.”

I couldn’t resist interjecting, “trading favors.”

Jane shook her head and mouthed, “don’t go there, lurid details won’t get us anywhere.” I credited my nonsensical statement to my lethargy.

“Sorry, that was uncalled for and I’m thankful for your willingness to be open.”

“Next to Ray’s computer was a real estate flier advertising the Dogwood Trail farm for sale. You know his father is the legal owner?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Anyway, I made a comment, something like, ‘I didn’t know you were selling your farm.’ Ray’s response seemed normal at the time, and I didn’t give it any thought. Until later that night.”

“What did he say?”

“I’m not. I’m trying to buy it. That was until my asshole father refused to sell it to me, and now he’s received an offer.” Jane fiddled with her iPhone and exchanged a quick text with someone. “This got me to thinking. Ray walked out of his office and back into his bedroom, but I heard him mumble. ‘I wish the weather would clear up. I’ve got stuff I need to move.’”

I couldn’t help but recall what Rachel had written in one of her diaries, that Ray had something to hide. “What were your thoughts?”

“That the sixty acres would have been a safe and private place to dispose of Sharon Teague’s body.”

“Or Kyle Bennett’s.” I added. Even though Rachel had written almost this exact thing, I guess I didn’t believe her. Especially after discovering her diary inside the wall at the Hunt House. The two supposedly covered the same time period but were anything but consistent.

Jane looked me straight in the eye and shook her head sideways. “No, I’m pretty sure Kyle’s not there.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s too obvious. Rachel was my dear friend, but she had her secrets. She pointed the finger at Ray, probably wrote that shit in her diaries.”

“Maybe you don’t see your bias. You favored and protected Ray.”

“Ray swore he had nothing to do with Kyle’s disappearance. Rachel swore she had nothing to do with Sharon Teague’s disappearance. Frankly, I don’t know the truth, but I’m certain they both could play games and they both kept secrets.”

It was a good time to ask. “So, did either of them ever confess to you? I mean, did Ray confess to killing Sharon or Kyle?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“What about Rachel, did she confess to any crime?”

Let me put it this way. Ray accused Rachel, and she accused Ray.”

“Of what?”

“Rachel of what happened to Sharon, and Ray for what happened to Kyle.”

“Let me see if I’m understanding. You’re saying Rachel accused Ray of killing Kyle, and Ray accused Rachel of killing Sharon Teague?”

“Pretty much, other than they both believed the other had help.”

“Help from who?”

“I don’t know, but I have my suspicions.” My iPhone rang before Jane completed her statement. It was Kyla.

“Hey sis, how’s Lillian?”

What I heard felt like I was experiencing a miracle. “Get up here, Lillian just woke up.”

Jane must have noticed the shock rolling across my face like a massive wave. “What is it?”

I stood and grabbed my empty coffee cup. “Come on, Lillian’s back with us.”

The two of us weaved our way around tables, tossed our garbage in the can by the exit, and raced to the elevators that led to the ICU. All I heard Jane say as my mind alternated between happiness and worry that Lillian might have suffered brain damage was the repeated statement that I needed to talk with Jackie and Jade Frasier.

I spent Tuesday night and all day yesterday with Lillian. It was now early Thursday, and the first light of morning was filtering in through the closed window blinds. Dr. Mork walked in two hours before his usual rounds. After a ‘good morning’ and a few minutes reading Lillian’s chart, observing her breathing, and registering the readings from the many connected monitors, he lifted her eyelids and focused a small light on each of her pupils. According to the doctor and head ICU nurse, Stella Newsome, who accompanied him, Lillian was doing great other than being in a coma. Her vital signs were good. She simply needed to wake up. After his examination, Dr. Mork head-motioned the nurse to leave, and sat beside me in the extra chair. He expressed his firm belief Lillian would exit her coma in the next few days. When I asked why he thought this, he surprised me. He and his staff were praying for Lillian and God had assured him she was going to be okay.

To his credit, he added a factual basis: the lack of swelling and bleeding, and near-perfect electrical activity. He emphasized he had seen nothing in Lillian’s recent electroencephalogram (EEG) that would lead him to a troubling diagnosis, things like seizures, epilepsy, head injuries, dizziness, headaches, brain tumors, and sleeping problems. I asked him several nonmedical questions and offered head-nodding to his responses.

It was troublesome to hear a medical doctor, especially one board certified in both psychiatry and neurology, ground his professional opinion, in whole or in part, on something as subjective as prayer and God. Regardless of Dr. Mork’s insane beliefs and sane thinking, I hoped he was right. I missed the intimacy Lillian and I shared and couldn’t imagine my life without her.

After he left, I stood by Lillian, held her right hand, and shared in a soft whisper the hypothesis that had been forming inside my head ever since leaving Ms. Bennett’s room on Tuesday. Rachel had not accidentally found Sharon Teague’s dog tag. Ray had given it to her for safekeeping, like he had the pistol he used to kill Kyle. I suspected Rachel had knowledge of what Ray had done to the Albertville cheerleader. Possibly, Rachel assisted in her disappearance and presumed death, like I suspected she had with Kyle.

 I had just kissed Lillian’s forehead and vocalized an ‘I love you,’ when nurse Newsome reappeared. At first, she didn’t say a word, but the look on her face was sympathetic, a slight smile with soft, non-staring eyes. She walked to Lillian’s bed, opposite from where I stood. She finally spoke. “Ray Archer came last night. It was early this morning, about 2:00.”

I released Lillian’s hand after Ms. Newsome noticed. “What did he want?”

“Lee, can I call you Lee?”

“Sure, that’s my name.” My tone carried with it a tinge of smart ass. I sensed Rachel telling me, once again, ‘Honey, it’s not always what you say, but how you say it.’

“Lee, working in ICU is great training for personal observations and what they mean. I know love when I see it.”

“Are you speaking of Ray?” The nurse smiled as though my question was funny. “I’m talking about a different type of love. Ray, according to my friend Jane Fordham, loves Lillian for the benefits she provides, things like status and respectability. Oh, maybe sex on demand, but that’s not what I see in you. Lillian isn’t an object of desire. She’s your heartbeat.”

“Okay.” I paused, hoping someone would summon Nurse Newsome away. This conversation was too, well, personal.

“By the way, in response to your question, Ray asked how Lillian was doing. It might be the rumors, but I didn’t want him alone with Lillian, even if you were in the same room.”

“Why? What rumors are you speaking of?” I felt like a stranger in my hometown.

“Ray has always been a bully and is used to getting his own way. You are taking away the principal thing that gives him respectability.”

We spent another ten minutes talking. Mostly, I listened. ICU nurse Stella Newsome seemed to have a monitor connected to the entire town of Boaz. She was aware of Ray’s trouble concerning the Hunt House fire and was sympathetic to the rumor it involved him in the disappearance of Billy and Buddy James.

The moment she returned her focus to me personally, declaring her sorrow over Rachel’s death, a gruff-voiced woman paged Nurse Newsome to Room 106. Our conversation was over. Thank goodness.

I returned to the Lazy Boy and explored the Internet for over an hour searching for an appropriate gift for the two law school colleagues saving my butt during upcoming exams.

A few minutes before 8:00 PM, my iPhone vibrated. It was a text from Kyla. She and Jane had just parked and were headed inside. I both dreaded and looked forward to my second meeting with Rachel’s best friend. Yesterday, I was eager to meet and talk but Jane had some all-day thing at First Baptist Church of Christ. Today, I was reluctant. Jane’s secrecy had me on high alert, especially given what Lillian and I had found inside her house.

I’d let Kyla convince me to hear Jane out. Somehow Jane persuaded my normally skeptical sister she was serious about joining our team and seeing that Ray receives justice.

I kissed Lillian on the cheek and whispered in her ear that I needed her to wake up. I then left the hospital and headed to Bridgewood Gardens. This time, I was paying a visit to Dorothy Bennett, Kent and Kyle’s mom.

While driving, I called Kent. Fortunately, he picked up the first ring. I thanked him for the email and asked if he minded me visiting his mother. He was almost offended when I asked. The four of us, Kent, Kyle, Ms. Bennett, and myself, had always had a great relationship. During the years growing up, especially before Kyle disappeared, it was like having two families.

Without question or prompting, Kent consumed the remaining fifteen minutes of my drive, sharing his hypothesis on what had happened to his twin brother. Kent believed Ray Archer had killed both Sharon Teague and Kyle. Sharon, to prevent her from disclosing her pregnancy and rape by Ray, thus destroying his relationship with Rachel, and exposing him to criminal prosecution. As to Kyle, to prevent him from disclosing anything about Sharon to the police, and secondarily, to eliminate him from interfering with Ray’s relationship with Rachel.

When I turned into Bridgewood Gardens’ parking lot, Kent’s confident voice disintegrated. His next words were whispered and laced with sadness. I could almost see him shaking his head sideways. “My problem, our problem, shit, every decent person’s problem, is we have no credible evidence. Kyle and Sharon will never enjoy a minute of justice.”

As I walked to the main entrance, I tried to give Kent hope. Before our call ended, I encouraged him not to give up. That many times in cold cases, some small and seemingly insignificant morsel was discovered and later proved key to solving the case.

Inside, I signed the guest register and walked to Room 114. Like Rosa on Sunday, Dorothy invited me in after one knock,

She stood, albeit slowly, when she saw me enter. She held out both arms. I crossed the intervening space, kissed her cheek, and gave her a big hug. She seemed in deep thought as she continued our embrace. Finally, she said, “see anybody you know?”

I had already spotted the many photos chronologically arranged beneath glass in an oversized picture frame hung on the wall behind Dorothy’s chair. “Oh boy, those trigger mixed emotions, bitter-sweet.”

After we untangled, she insisted I step around her Lazy Boy and inspect Kyle’s progressive growth, from first to tenth grade. Dorothy had chosen two photos per year: one from the school annual, and the other a random shot from many scenes, including several that Mom had taken during Kyle’s frequent visits to Harding Hillside. At the bottom right corner of the fourth row was one Dorothy had taken at the creek beside their house on King Street. It was a snapshot of Kent, Kyle, and me, each clothed only in a bathing suit. The sun reflected off the water behind us. It was almost as though we were standing in the bright shadow of the supernatural. I eased my way around Dorothy’s recliner and fixed my eyes inches from the glass. I couldn’t help but notice all three of us were wearing dog tags, those worrisome metal identification necklaces that practically became an additional appendage. It would have been a cardinal sin to remove them since you never knew when you’d die in a nuclear holocaust.

“Do you still have yours?” At first, I guessed Dorothy was asking about those god-awful pictures taken at the beginning of each school year. Before I could respond, she clarified her question. “Your dog tags?”

“This probably sounds strange, but I have them, along with every report card I ever received. They are in a lockbox Dad gave me when I was five years old.” I returned to the middle of the room and Dorothy motioned me to a couch. I couldn’t help but wonder if the dark green Army surplus container was still on a shelf in the garage or whether it had disappeared during the recent burglary.

Dorothy eased into her Lazy Boy and gave me a long stare. Her white hair and the dark circles under her eyes revealed the half-century mental strain she’d endured since losing her youngest son. “What I would give to see my baby sitting beside you today.” She reached for a Kleenex from the nearby end table and daubed her face high on each cheekbone. “Every morning before I sit, I look at Kyle’s tenth grade class photo and then at the three of you beside the creek. It never fails. I always think about Kyle’s dog tag and how that will be the first way police will identify him. I hope and pray I’ll hold that little metal tag in my hand before I die.”

I felt the need to apologize once again for my failure to help my dearest friend. “Mom.” The word came so naturally. “Mom, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for Kyle when he needed me.”

Quickly, soothingly, Dorothy responded. “Oh honey, you have no reason to apologize. How could you have known something bad was about to happen?”

An image of Kyle, upstairs with Lillian and me at Fred Kings, came to mind. “Since we’re talking about dog tags, I remember Kyle fiddling with his as we watched the parade that night. You know that was a good sign something was bothering him.”

“I do. Kyle was too curious for his own good and couldn’t conceal his excitement.” Her response seemed a little off key, but I let it go. Dorothy paused, once again using the Kleenex to catch her tears. “I’m the one to be blamed.” I was even more confused.

“Why do you say that?”

“I knew better than to let him go to the parade. My gut told me otherwise, but I let him go. I obviously didn’t take Kyle’s teacher seriously enough.” It surprised me Dorothy brought up a subject I’d come to discuss.

“Are you referring to Ms. Smith, Linda Smith, our tenth-grade English teacher?”

“Yes, she called. It was Wednesday or Thursday. The week of the parade. I think it was Wednesday afternoon. She was sincere and apologetic.

“Why? I mean, what was she apologizing for?” I thought I knew but needed to verify.

“She’d promised Kyle to keep secret what he’d shared with her. I could tell she was torn, but she was honest. On one side, she thought Kyle might be overreacting. For caution’s sake, she thought he might be in trouble, the type that could get him hurt.”

I moved the conversation forward. “I assume,” I caught myself. I shouldn’t do that. It might make Dorothy feel worse than she does. “I mean, did you speak to Kyle about Ms. Smith’s call?”

I caught the look, one that screamed, ‘well, of course.’ “Any good mother would.”

“Would you share that conversation with me? It might be helpful to our investigation.” I took the dive and told Dorothy what I was up to and what I had learned since returning to Boaz.

“Thanks for all you’re doing for Kyle. And me.” A knock at Dorothy’s door interrupted our conversation. The same tall and skinny young man who’d brought Rosa’s breakfast two days ago entered and delivered a banana and a small container of ice-cream.

Tad was cordial. “Can I bring you something?”

“No, but thanks for taking care of Dorothy. She’s always been my second mom.”

Dorothy continued even before Tad exited the room. “I’m sure Kyle shared only select details, but they convinced him Ray Archer had something to do with the disappearance of the Albertville cheerleader. Her name escapes me.”

“Sharon Teague.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Dorothy opened the ice cream and asked me to retrieve a metal spoon from the minimalist kitchen nestled along a wall inside the foyer. She despised the small wooden spoon Tad had brought. “What seemed to conflict with what the teacher said was Kyle’s take on Rachel. Even after I asked him whether he and Rachel had a spout, he defended her, said it caught her in a dilemma.”

“What exactly did that mean?”

“I took it to mean she, Rachel, cared for Ray but knew he was trouble. But that’s not what bothered me the most. And it’s not something Ms. Smith knew about. At least she didn’t mention it.”

I leaned back and motioned for Dorothy to continue eating her ice cream. She took another bite and set the plastic container and spoon on the end table. “That Rachel was pregnant?” I asked this question to motivate Dorothy to be completely open. I thought if I shared that I knew about my wife’s teenage pregnancy, it would be her permission slip to be factual about anything bad concerning Rachel.

“No, that’s not what I’m referring to, even though Kyle shared that fact. We’re back to dog tags.” Again, Dorothy paused. She had to have noticed my puzzled look.

“Huh?”

“I’ll probably never know the truth. Kyle, bless his loving heart, may not have known the truth himself.”

“You’ve kind of lost me.”

“Rachel had given him the Teague girl’s identification tag.” This news floored me.

“You mean her dog tag?”

“Yes. I’ll try to explain.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“She, Rachel, wanted Kyle to hide it. He said she’d found it one afternoon when she’d borrowed Ray’s truck. It was on the floorboard. I’m not sure if Kyle said where, passenger or driver’s side.” I thought there had to be more to the story, but Dorothy stopped talking, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

I waited thirty seconds before saying, “I may be wrong, but that seems like a made-up story. Rachel finds it in Ray’s truck?” I plowed forward. “Did Kyle offer any reason Rachel wanted him to hide Sharon’s dog tag?”

“Not really. He left me believing it could prove important, but not now.” I could never have guessed what Dorothy would say next. “And not for the next fifty-plus years and I’m still counting.” Again, I was confused. Dorothy was an expert at reading my mind. “I see you thinking, ‘what happened to Sharon’s dog tag?’”

That wasn’t what I was thinking. Instead, I was trying to figure out what exactly Dorothy was counting. “That is an excellent question. Do you know the answer?”

“It’s in my jewelry box.” Dorothy pointed to the door to my right, the one I assumed led to her bedroom. “I found it in a shoebox at the back of Kyle and Kent’s closet a month after Kyle disappeared.”

I uncrossed my legs and sat along the edge of the couch. I hoped she’d sense I wanted to see the mystery dog tag. Instead, she reached for her ice-cream and spoon. I asked another question that was burning a hole in my mind. “Not to be judgmental, but why didn’t you report this to the police?” The moment I finished my statement, I realized my assumption. “Sorry, awful question.”

“It’s not. There are two reasons for my secrecy. By the time I found Sharon’s dog tag, the police had already arrested Nick Pearson. My other reason is the most important. I had promised Kyle not to tell anyone unless he said it was okay. Since he never did, I kept quiet.” Dorothy again leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Kyle, my baby, please forgive me for breaking my promise.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever been so sad. My despair seemed equal to that feeling when I’d found Rachel hanging from the basement beam. I stood and walked two steps to Dorothy. After lowering myself to one knee, I took her hands in mine and poured my empathy into her eyes. “Kyle was so blessed to have you as his mother. You kept your promise and now, I believe you are hearing him say you did the right thing in telling me. You want justice for your son. So do I.”

She stared at me for a good long time, saying nothing. Finally, she released my hands and shooed me backwards. “Stop it. You’re going to make me cry,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

The two of us spent the next fifteen minutes standing beside her bed with an open jewelry box along the edge. She insisted I take Sharon’s dog tag, but it just didn’t feel right, so I refused. But I snapped a picture with my cell phone’s camera and with little thought asked, “Does Kent know about this?”

Unsurprisingly and promptly, Dorothy responded, “No. Remember, I promised Kyle, I’d keep it a secret.”

We exchanged another long hug before I departed.

Monday night had slouched along like the world’s slowest turtle. It ranked high on Jane’s list of the worst experiences of her life.

Even though she’d loved Ray since high school, she knew it wasn’t mutual. For him, it was nothing but business. And now, minutes into Tuesday daylight, Jane’s guilt for helping Ray remove his ankle bracelet Saturday afternoon overwhelmed her. What in the Hell had she been thinking? Her desire for sex had once again blinded her reason, her mind, and her moral judgment, to the point of stopping her from asking Ray two simple questions. Why? And where do you need to go?

That criminal conduct had gone far beyond Jane’s half-century faithfulness to conceal information and protect the man who used her like a cast-iron skillet. The worst part, the thought of which had been last night’s constant companion, had been the imagined scene of being locked behind steel bars in a cramped jail cell, not just for hacking Ray’s ankle monitor, but for whatever he may have done, and may still do. Jane considered calling Micaden Tanner right then to confess and learn just how legally entangled she was.

As Tuesday’s light inched along the outside edges of her bedroom shutters, and with her bed tossed and her body tired, she sat upright, looking toward the dresser mirror across the room. The figure approached the grotesque, displaying the head and shoulders outline of a homely and destitute creature, hair electrified and frizzled. Finally, Jane vomited a disgusted smile, recalling the unthinkable that had become possible only because of Stella Newsome’s 3:00 AM phone call.

The longtime friend and ICU nurse had said, without greeting of any kind, “Lillian’s now my patient, in a coma, from blunt force across the side of her head.” The words had seemed surreal. How could this happen to the wife of Boaz’s wealthiest man? Jane surmised the reason for Stella’s call. It was her memory of spoken snippets from a long line of midweek Bible studies, including Jane and Lillian’s oft-repeated heated exchanges.

At first, Jane had not connected the dots. She still didn’t know for sure, but it didn’t appear far-fetched to imagine Ray was involved. Even though he had not admitted it, Jane was convinced he was responsible for the Hunt House fire, especially given the information gathered from Kyla, and partly from her own serendipitous followings of Lee and Lillian. Two plus two equaled four. There was only one reasonable conclusion. Lillian was a threat to Ray’s freedom.

Jane stood and slipped into a camel-colored housecoat and matching house shoes. After peeing and washing her face, she walked to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, adding a teaspoon of instant coffee for an extra kick. She grabbed a notepad and pencil, sat at the kitchen table, and scribbled the names Rosa and Ray.

It seemed Jane had an endless supply of reasons to feel guilty. Rosa was near the top of the list. Jane had visited her at Bridgewood Gardens late Saturday afternoon, intending to take her to The Shack and grow the courage to inquire about a certain pistol that Rachel had left in the Roanoke cabin. Maybe this, at least a delicious meal in a happy setting, would, in some small way, provide Rosa with a respite from the sadness of losing Rob. However, as God often does (so Jane believed), Jane’s plans were thwarted. Rosa was too tired to leave the facility, plus she had already agreed to dine at the Gardens’ cafeteria with three of her friendly neighbors. Jane’s guilt was rooted in her unwillingness to disclose the exactness of her prayer request, choosing instead to tell Rosa she was facing a life-changing decision.

After leaving Rosa’s apartment, Jane dropped by The Shack and placed a to-go order. That’s when she had seen Ray enter the gift shop and walk across the dining room to a table along the back wall occupied by Ted King. Instead of heading home, she had eaten in the car after sequestering her ten-year-old Impala in the darkest corner of the near-full parking lot three rows behind Ray’s black Suburban.

It was a few minutes past 9:30 when Ray walked outside and to his Suburban. To Jane’s surprise, he quickly exited the parking lot and raced south on 431, making it more difficult for Jane to follow given the increasing rain and the fear triggered by an image of her parents losing their lives when their vehicle lost control that fateful July day.

Instead of turning right on Gaines Street to weave his way to Hwy. 205 and Skyhaven Drive, Ray continued another quarter mile and turned left on Cox Gap Road. The only thing Jane could think of was Ray was headed to Lillian’s place. But why? She abandoned her brainstorming when the black Suburban motored past Alexander Road and kept going, speeding haphazardly into an approaching curve. Jane slowed while Ray recovered.

She was even more puzzled a mile and a half later when Ray turned right onto Dogwood Trail as the downpour intensified. Jane slowed, allowing Ray’s vehicle to disappear. She knew it would be crazy to follow him down a dead-end road. Thoughts from half a century ago appeared: a secluded farm, an old barn, and a huge campfire the night of Rachel’s going-away party. It was in the middle of tenth grade, the day after Christmas, a Friday night. Cold wasn’t the right word to describe the weather that night so long ago.

Jane turned around and drove forward a hundred feet and saw a narrow drive to her right into a thick grove of oaks. She assumed Ray’s visit would be quick, so she backed her car deep enough to maintain a direct line of sight to Dogwood Trail. What on earth could Ray do in this weather?

A shocking answer came over two hours later. Jane first saw the headlights and wasn’t certain it was Ray. But when he turned right instead of left, she saw the black Suburban pulling a long flatbed trailer holding a muscular-looking blue pickup truck.

Jane had followed Ray down the mountain all the way to Attalla and the entrance ramp to I-59. That’s when she had called it quits and headed home.

Now, pouring another cup of coffee, Jane wished she hadn’t given up and had continued to follow Ray southward. After two quick sips, she sat aside her second cup and returned to the bathroom. She needed to shower and visit Lillian. Hopefully, Lee would be there, and she could share her once unthinkable decision.

***

I was finally in a deep sleep when my iPhone dinged. I glanced at Lillian. She didn’t budge and probably hadn’t since I’d zonked out around noon. That was two hours ago, and over sixteen since I’d returned to the ICU. The ding was notification that I’d received an email from Kent. Once opened, I saw “Linda Smith” typed in the subject line. I started not to read it, thinking I already knew what it would say. After all, a little over a week ago, I’d received an email from our former English teacher that included the complete manuscript of Kyle’s essay. Basically, the only thing I’d learned was that Kyle had included the fact the Albertville High School cheerleader (Babe 2) had disappeared. Some way I’d missed this in my initial phone call to Ms. Linda while preparing my Memorial service eulogy.

Since I was now wide awake and had nothing better to do, I read Kent’s email twice. Doing so reminded me of the time Kyle and I jumped off the pier into a near-freezing pond on New Year’s Day, 1969. It was bone-chilling. Although Kent shared what I already knew, Ms. Linda had disclosed additional information (to Kent, not me) that Kyle hadn’t included in his own essay assignment but had included in one he’d written for Ray (she referred to it as Essay 3; Kyle had also written Essay 2, but it was rather innocuous about Ray’s challenge to get a football scholarship at the University of Alabama). Also, Ms. Linda had shared events that weren’t included in any of the three essays.

It was the Monday after Thanksgiving. Teacher Linda had observed a heated argument between Rachel and Kyle while the two stood in the hallway in front of his locker during the mid-morning break. The next day, during Ms. Linda’s regular office hours, Kyle had dropped by to discuss his essay project (Essay #1). This wasn’t out of the ordinary. In previous meetings, Ms. Linda had learned a few things about Kyle’s situation and the two essays (Essays #2 and #3) he was drafting for an unnamed student. Later, she’d determined the Brute character was Ray Archer, and Babe was Rachel Kern. Until this office visit, Ms. Linda had been concerned about Ray’s bullying but was confident he and Kyle would reconcile. Ms. Linda had viewed her non-disclosure decision as an acceptable outcome and had decided she wouldn’t penalize Ray for not failing to complete his own assignment. Ms. Linda’s decision changed after Kyle disclosed the following.

After initially promising Kyle she would keep everything a secret, he revealed the contents of yesterday’s verbal assault by the girl he thought a dear friend. Kyle’s disclosure of an overheard conversation between Ray and his father triggered Rachel’s surprise anger. She had warned Kyle to keep his nose out of Ray’s business.

The overheard conversation had taken place ten days earlier, just after the final football playoff game between Hartselle and Boaz. Most everyone had already left the stadium, except Kyle, Ray, and a couple of older guys with metal detectors looking for coins and jewelry beneath the stadium’s bleachers. Kyle was hiding in the equipment room at the back of the field house, waiting for bully Ray to leave. Kyle heard voices and eased into the adjoining hallway. Ray’s father had come inside through the office entrance and was yelling at his son. It seemed Mr. Archer had spent the past several hours at the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department answering questions about his son’s whereabouts the day Sharon Teague had gone missing.

Although the cheerleader’s disappearance occurred several weeks earlier, Marshall County Detective Charles Darden was pursuing a new lead, thanks to a former boyfriend of Sharon’s, who’d now come forward after an agonizing time of silence. The boy, Nick Pearson, alleged Sharon had confided in him that a popular jock from Boaz had raped her and gotten her pregnant. He’d also mentioned the jock’s current girlfriend was harassing her to the point of threatening her life if she didn’t shut up or disappear.

Kyle had concluded his office visit by again having Linda swear her secrecy, and by revealing that Rachel was two, if not three, months pregnant. He also shared that Ray was trying to convince Rachel to have an abortion. Kyle’s last statements that day had been a declaration and a question: “For the first time in my life, I’m scared and don’t know what to do. Ms. Smith, do I go to the police or just keep my mouth shut and play dumb?”

Kent closed his email with the sad fact Ms. Smith, two days later, left town on a family emergency. Before flying to Washington State, she’d battled the dilemma posed by her promise but ultimately disclosed Kyle’s secrets to his mother.

When Ms. Linda returned to Boaz on Saturday, December 12th, she discovered Kyle had disappeared.

By the time I approached Christiansburg thirty-five miles south, I was running on fumes.  My overindulgence of the food that friends and neighbors had brought to Kyla’s after the funeral no longer fueled my energy needs. I exited and pulled into a Citgo. After refilling, I bought a large coffee and two Little Debbie Honey Buns.

The only other stop I made during my return trip was a two-hour layover at the Tennessee Welcome Center in Bristol. My intermittent sleep in the reclined driver’s seat was fitful, but at least I got to rest my eyes.

Once again, from north of Knoxville to just south of Ft. Payne, Lillian was a soothing tonic. This time, I’d called her. We shared our hopes and dreams, our fears and foibles, and our investigative plans for my remaining days in Alabama. I’d driven, and she’d rested under a remarkably warm December sun in an Adirondack at the end of her pier.

I’d just exited at Collinsville when Lillian called again. “Lee, this is odd, and I’m scared.” Her voice, muffled, like she was trying to disappear into a crowd.

“What’s odd? What’s going on?”

“Ray just drove up, acting like he owns the place. He’s turning his Suburban around and backing to the barn.” I heard her footfalls on the wooden deck.

“Go inside and lock your doors. I don’t trust him at all.” I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and raced toward Crossville. Lillian had told me of a shortcut through Rodentown, but I was afraid I’d get lost and take even longer to get to her house.

 “Hey Lil, sorry to bother you.” I heard Ray in the background. His voice was friendly.

“He apparently has a key to the big door on the right. This is strange.”

“Lillian, did you hear me?”

“Uh?”

“Don’t approach Ray. Go inside. Now.” It was the safest plan. It was eerily comforting to remember Lillian kept a 32-caliber pistol in her bedroom’s nightstand.

“This is my place. He’s not welcome.” She paused, and I heard her open and shut the gate next to the driveway. “Lee, I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

“No, Lillian. Lillian.” But she had already ended her call.

I met a State Trooper halfway up the winding road this side of Crossville. He flashed his blue lights but didn’t turn around. I was at least fifteen minutes, probably twenty, from Lillian’s. I had no choice but to slow to the speed limit.

It was the longest and worst time of my life, even worse than when I’d found Rachel hanging in the basement from an overhead beam. The memory of the tall and strong Ray pushing Lillian backwards onto his garage steps two weeks ago came rocketing across my mind. I shook my head to avoid even worse thoughts.

All the way to Kilpatrick, I tried to call Lillian. No luck. When I turned left on Hwy. 168, I called 911. After several requests, it felt like my pleading had fallen on deaf ears. The throaty sounding woman made no promises other than, “I’ll pass this along to the Sheriff’s Department.”

Based on what I knew about Ray Archer, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect himself, his reputation, and his sordid past.

After twenty terrifying minutes, I rounded the last curve before reaching Alexander Drive. There was no sign of Ray’s Suburban, and Lillian’s SUV was behind the house next to the back porch. I pulled to the far side of the Aviator and ran to the barn. I wasn’t sure why, other than this was the direction I’d imagined Lillian walking when she’d ended our conversation.

The right-side door was raised. I could see deep tire tracks just outside the bay. Lillian had mentioned a flatbed trailer. I went inside, saw nothing, and turned to the left. I loudly announced my presence, realizing the logical first thing to have done was to go inside the house. Why would Lillian still be out here?

I almost collapsed when I entered the room the neighbors had temporarily borrowed. Lillian was sitting upright on the ground, leaning against a tall stack of square bales. Her head slumped to her right.

“Lillian. Baby.” I took three steps and knelt beside her. Her neck revealed a pulse, but it was weak. “Talk to me.” I gently shook both shoulders without response. She was unconscious.

There were no visible signs of injury. Until I saw a pool of blood soaking the loose strands of hay on the barn’s dirt floor.

Struggling, I pulled her forward by her legs, allowing her to lie flat on her back. I lifted the hair on the right side of her head and saw a big gash just above the ear.

I again dialed 911, silently questioning whether I’d made the right decision to move Lillian’s body.

While I waited for the EMTs to arrive, I held my ear to Lillian’s face. Thankfully, she was still breathing, evidenced by the soft puffs emanating from her mouth.

When I heard a siren in the distance, I stood and edged myself through the corridor created by stacks of hay. I raised the overhead door, hoping help was only minutes away. The blue sky was beautiful, as clear as a glass of mountain water. The sky, sun, and temperature were perfect for a leisurely conversation sitting with Lillian at the end of the pier. Yet, reality had struck. Lillian’s coma like condition was no doubt the work of Ray Archer, the man I hated more every day.

The siren grew louder, and the ambulance appeared, rounding the last curve on Cox Gap Road. I walked outside ten feet and started waving both hands over my head.

The two men and one woman were fast and efficient. One man with a large medical bag and a woman followed my pointing while the other man removed a gurney. Within seconds, the woman assessed the situation with a stethoscope, pin light, and blood pressure band. She never looked at me while asking questions and ordering the two men to cradle Lillian into an immobilizing contraption before lifting her onto the gurney. “We’re headed to Marshall Medical Center South. You can follow but speak to Deputy Franklin first.”

An Etowah County Sheriff’s car pulled beside the ambulance as the female EMT walked away. “Miss. How is she? Will she make it?” It was something I had to ask.

The short, stocky redhead opened the van door and was intent on ignoring my question. Before sitting, she paused. I glimpsed a sympathetic eye. “She’s suffered a traumatic brain injury. She’s in a coma. It could go either way.” The redhead closed her door just as the male driver started backing toward the garage. The siren blared as the ambulance raced away. I’ve never felt so alone.

“Sir, I’m Deputy Franklin. This is Deputy Moore. Please tell us what happened and why you think a Mr. Ray Archer is involved.” Apparently, my first call to 911 had made its way to the Sheriff’s Department.

 I must have appeared weak or subject to fainting. Deputy Franklin took me by the elbow and walked me to the front fender of his patrol car. He let go as I leaned back. “Had you rather sit?”

“No. This is good.” I had trouble focusing on anything except Lillian. I needed to leave and head to the hospital, but with both deputies staring at me, I had to speak, or I’d be here all afternoon. “Lillian called me, not exactly in a panic but halfway there.”

“Where were you?” Deputy Franklin asked.

“I had just exited I-59 at Collinsville. I was returning from Roanoke, Virginia.”

“What did she say?”

“That Ray Archer had just arrived and was backing his Suburban toward the barn.” I pointed over my shoulder.

“Who is this Archer fellow?” Moore asked.

“He’s Lillian’s husband. They’re separated. He’s a dangerous man.”

“How so?” Franklin asked. I really didn’t want to get into the complete story. I chose my words carefully.

“He’s out on bond, recently charged with arson and murder.”

I was glad Franklin skipped forward in the chronology and took us in a new direction. “What was going on when you arrived?”

“There was no sign of Archer. Or Lillian. I found her collapsed inside the barn. She was barely breathing, unconscious.” I again pointed. This time toward the square bales.

“So, you’re saying you didn’t see Mr. Archer at all, certainly didn’t see him harm Lillian?”

I figuratively shook my head. I knew where this was headed. Either they would think I’d hurt Lillian or that it was an accident. “No, but how else can you explain that gash on her head?” This sounded intellectually silly, even to me.

After pleading for permission to leave, Deputy Franklin said I could and that he and Moore would drop by the hospital for me to sign a statement.

I thanked them, walked an unsteady path to the Hyundai, and headed to Marshall Medical Center South.

Before I reached the four-way stop at Johnson’s Builders, my mind was in a tug-of-war. One side pulled at the practical. On the other side, the emotional.

From a practical standpoint, it was only natural for me, an attorney, to favor a reasoned and logical approach to every issue. The big question, ‘what had happened to Lillian?’ was central. I had conducted a cursory search around Lillian’s body for a weapon, something solid Ray could have used to strike the side of her head. Nothing. I knew Ray was smart. How else could he have gotten away with a murder, maybe two, for over half a century? I then realized he would have taken the weapon with him—be it a pipe wrench, a baseball bat, or a shovel—intent on not leaving a trace of evidence. Turning onto Hwy. 431, I made quick disposal of the idea that Lillian’s condition was accidental.

Instead, my mind slid sideways into an emotional abyss. Lillian was about to die. Just when I had believed I was no longer jinxed and could experience contentment, happiness, even intimacy, fate had intervened (I dared not think it God’s will). Lillian’s death would return me to loneliness. Worse still, I had no one to blame but myself. I was defective. I was wholly incapable of taking care of the ones I loved.

I fought this battle all the way to the Emergency Room, surrendering to the dreadful thought that everyone I loved, Kyla, Leah and Lyndell and their spouses, and my four grandchildren, all were vulnerable, possibly each walking a tightrope above a raging and deadly sea.

Finally, after three hours of pacing the ER waiting room, and receiving repeated “she’s undergoing tests” update, a bulimic looking nurse approached and asked if I was Lillian Archer’s next of kin. I lied and said I was and wondered exactly how they’d determined the last name. The nurse advised me to go outside to the Ambulance entrance and talk with a Dr. Gerald Claburn who, of all things, was on a smoke break.

I did as instructed, thinking the doctor was a Clint Eastwood look-a-like as I approached. “How’s Lillian?” I asked as he gave me a slight head nod, crumbled a short, still-smoking butt into a disposal bin, and removed another cigarette from a pack of Winston’s he’d tucked inside his shirt pocket.

“Stable. She took a wicked lick on the side of her head, but no skull fracture. The CT scan shows no swelling or bleeding on the brain.”

He took a long pull on his cigarette. “Is she conscious?”

The double doors to the ER opened, and the same bulimic nurse motioned for Dr. Claburn. “No, and I do not know when she’ll return to us.” I thought that was a strange way to put it. I guessed the doc was some type of spiritualist.

He started backing towards the door and I followed him asking, “Give me your best guess, please.” I knew my request wasn’t meritorious. My feelings for Lillian now depended on guesswork.

“Doctor, come on.” The nurse announced, her face clearly unhappy.

I appreciated Dr. Claburn stopping and placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’s possible the blow to the head did not cause Lillian’s coma. Other possibilities are stroke or brain tumor. It’s simply too early to tell.”

With that, the doctor walked into the ER. I couldn’t have felt worse if I had fallen headfirst into a dark, heated tunnel.

I don’t know how long I stood blankly staring towards the sliding glass doors. The shrill sound of an approaching ambulance rocketed me to reality.

***

Before returning to the waiting room, I walked to my car and checked the trunk. The plastic-enclosed Chiefs Special was still wedged between a windbreaker and a pair of jeans inside my overnight bag. The sudden sound of a man’s voice behind me asking how I was doing shocked me. A quick turn convinced me he was no threat but a persuasive trigger that I had to deliver the murder weapon to either Micaden or the Marshall County District Attorney.

I chose the former, but not before calling and updating Kyla, and requesting she fill in for me while I ran an errand. She arrived in fifteen minutes and promised to call with any news.

Thankfully, a quick call verified Micaden was in his office, and not with a client. Tina was waiting by the outside door when I arrived and hustled me back to the conference room, where I found my attorney and Connor Ford.

After a head-nodding greeting from each of us, I placed my overnight bag on the table and removed the S & W. I had elected, for now, to stay mum about Lillian’s attack. Connor spoke first: a polite, thorough, and figurative dress-down of me inserting myself, once again, in the investigative role.

Before Connor finished speaking, Micaden was on the phone to the DA, but had to leave a message for her to call. “Assuming this is the pistol that killed Kyle Bennett, what do we have in order to conclude Ray pulled the trigger?”

I sat and said, “Rosa.” Connor held out his hand like a traffic cop. I didn’t heed his warning. “She says Rachel told her everything, including that Ray had shot Kyle, in her presence.”

“Inadmissible.” Connor said, fingering the weapon. Unfortunately, I had to admit to myself that he was probably correct.

“I’m afraid Ray is going to slip through the net once again unless we find Kyle’s body.” Micaden said, walking to the hallway to converse privately with Tina.

I couldn’t disagree with my colleagues. Short of an error by the trial judge (one certainly to be appealed), our evidence against Ray Archer was circumstantial. I felt like I’d been chasing a ghost. Just the moment I thought my hands were around its neck, the damn thing evaporated into thin air.

“Here’s some news.” Micaden said when he returned. “Maybe nothing. Tina’s niece works at The Shack. Seems that Billy and Buddy James didn’t show up for work yesterday or today. According to the niece, neither one has missed a day since the restaurant opened three years ago.”

Connor stood and announced he would deliver the pistol to the DA’s office. He abruptly left the room. I think he doesn’t like me.

“How’s Lillian?” Micaden asked. He obviously saw the confusion on my face. “Scanner.”

I delivered the short version. We spent another ten minutes brainstorming how we might precipitate another arrest of Ray Archer.

In the end, the best we could hope for was for Lillian to come out of her coma and tell us how Ray attacked her.

I returned to the ER and Kyla. The only news was that Lillian was now in the ICU and we could visit her for five minutes each.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lee, can I ask a serious question?”

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

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

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

“Yes, and us, afterwards.”

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

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

“Uh?”

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

“Okay, but first a question.”

“Always.”

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

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

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

“Shit, it’s locked.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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