Category: The Boaz Stranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You and Rob?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom, remember, I need the truth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reciprocated the head movement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The murder weapon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As promised, the back door was open. I wondered if Kyla’s late ‘need to use your bathroom’ trick was the reason.

I walked into a long narrow den overfilled with furniture.

Lillian followed. “Jane’s parents added the deck and this room when we were in high school.” I couldn’t help but think of Mom and Dad here two years ago.

I walked forward three steps and stopped, resting my hands on the top of a love seat. New Year’s Eve 2018 had been Blaine and Zadie Fordham’s turn. My parents and Jane’s folks had alternated hosting the end-of-year party for countless years. The thought of that happy and lighthearted evening was smothering. “This is like going back in time.”

Lillian stood beside me and rested her hand on mine. “It’s so sad. And to know that Blaine and Zadie would suffer the same fate.” I shook my head sideways and was reminded how unfair life can be. It was nigh unbelievable that the Fordham’s had died in a car accident mid-July 2019 while returning from a week’s vacation in Gulf Shores.

I didn’t need or want to think of death. Plus, Lillian and I had work to do. “Come on, let’s get with it.” I eased through the den, meandering around chairs, tables, and piles of books, magazines and newspapers.

“You’re headed to the kitchen. The bedrooms are this way.” I’d missed the sliding glass door to our right when we’d entered from the deck. Curtains hung from ceiling to floor.

“I want to see the entire house. This way probably ends up in the same spot.”

“Okay.” Lillian said, walking to me and the cased opening leading to the utility room. “Can you imagine living in one spot your entire life?”

“Jane?” I hadn’t thought about it. I knew she had never married, but I’d assumed she had moved back to her home place after her parents died.

“Yes. Jane’s been here for sixty-six years.” Lillian nudged me forward when I looked through a half-glassed door onto a carport.

“That too is sad.” The kitchen was a rectangle about as long as the add-on den but felt wider.

“This room used to be the kitchen and the den.” Lillian pointed to the far end. “During their remodel, they removed this wall.” She pointed as she walked to the other end of the room. “What used to be the living room is now the dining room.” I joined Lillian and saw a large table, a buffet, and a china cabinet. So far, the floors, except for the carpeted den, were cheap linoleum.

“I take it you came here a lot while growing up.” Lillian nodded affirmatively and disappeared into an adjoining hallway.

I almost opened the front door to my left but joined Lillian instead. By now, she was inside a bedroom at the end of the hall. There was a closed door to my left. “This was Blaine and Zadie’s bedroom.”

The room was small, just large enough for a regular size double bed, an upright chest of drawers, and a mismatched dresser with a cracked mirror. I walked inside and to my right, past a small bathroom and a narrow closet with its door wide-open. Nothing but clothes. “I don’t think we’ll find anything here.”

“Two more bedrooms. Come on.” Lillian walked back into the hall and turned right, opening a closed door as she moved forward. I heard the click of a light switch. Before I could exit the master, Lillian semi-yelled: “oh my god.”

I was equally shocked when I arrived. Photographs, large and small, and countless newspapers clippings, filled the back wall. We both eased forward like zombies. The only furniture was a small wooden desk and chair in the middle of the room. Along the walls to the right and left were three-foot-high narrow tables lined with books and supported by heavy angelic-looking bookends. They reminded me of Rachel’s Heavenly figurine collection. “Ray Archer,” I said before I reached the back wall.

It didn’t take Lillian but one visual pass across the huge montage to see something that caught her eye. “Damn, look at this.” I edged her way. “This has to be Ray and Jane at the Valentine’s Dance.” The photo was an eight by ten color photo of a tall, muscular Ray with a solemn face standing beside a skinny girl with a giant smile and heavily make-upped face. I hardly recognized her.

I gazed around the central photo. It was the only one that included Jane. All others were of Ray, including his senior portrait and several feature shots of him playing sports: football, basketball, and baseball. There was one of him standing outside his red Mustang. Newspaper articles encircled the photos. After a cursory glance, I concluded they dealt with Ray’s professional career. Those across the top and down the left side focused on his pharmacy empire, from the first operation on Mill Avenue to the last sale of 232 stores to Walgreen’s in 2015. The articles underneath and to the right concerned Rylan’s. In two of these articles, Jane, someone, highlighted several sentences. I chose not to read.

“God almighty, you got to see this.” Lillian snapped her fingers and head motioned me to her side. During my focus on Ray’s photographs and media coverage, she had slid to the left of the back wall’s central window. I had subconsciously assumed that half-wall contained more of the same. It didn’t.

Like the Valentine’s Dance photo of Ray and Jane, this wall contained a central feature. It was a young girl sitting upright in a metal bed. She was wearing a white tee-shirt or gown and was holding a baby, a very tiny baby. “Who’s that?” I asked, squinting my eyes while moving my head closer to the smaller picture. My conclusion shocked me.

I silently breathed to myself, that’s Rachel, the instant Lillian said, “She never had an abortion.” The words sounded like she spoke to them from a faraway foghorn, distorting enunciation and emphasis. I couldn’t tell if Lillian was making a statement or asking a question.

“Oh my God.” I asked Lillian to read the hand-printed text below the photo since I couldn’t.

“The chosen one. Elita Ann Kern. Born June 1, 1970.” Lillian started counting backwards, “May, April, March, February…” My mind and ears stopped working. It was like someone flipped the switch off. I backed myself to Jane’s desk and sat along the edge. I don’t know how many times Lillian said it, but I finally heard, “Lee, talk to me.”

She walked to me and took my face in her hands. “This is too much.” I’m sure I mumbled.

“It’s too shocking. Now I know for certain Rachel lied to me.” Her competing stories about the pistol seemed unimportant, nothing like the deception I’d just experienced. Lillian pulled me into her bosom and rubbed my head.

“Maybe she was trying to protect you.” Lillian’s words were the dumbest I’d ever heard. They made me mad. The hair on my neck bristled. My eyes shot poison rays towards the immoral woman in front of me. I stood, causing Lillian to stumble backwards.

“You can be so stupid. Rachel had a baby. She didn’t even know I existed.”

“Lee,” Lillian reached for my hand as I returned to the wall. “I’m sorry. My statement made no sense. What I should have said was that not telling you all your married life was her way of protecting you.”

“You’re right. And I’m sorry for my response. Come here.” We returned to Rachel’s picture. For the first time, I scanned the wall encircling the baby photo. Jane had covered the wall to the left of the window with newspaper clippings and hand-scribbled notes whose subject was Rachel Ann Kern, my deceased wife.

“Jane was not only obsessed with Ray, but Rachel also obsessed with her. Look here.” Lillian had removed the push pin holding a 4 by 6 card. “It’s yours and Rachel’s wedding invitation.” I ignored it and kept scanning the wall.

“Here’s the bulletin from mine and Rachel’s college graduation. How the heck did Jane get this? I sure don’t recall her coming to Charlottesville.”

“Jane must be omniscient.” Lillian said, repining the invitation and pointing to another picture. This one to her left and higher on the wall. “How did she get an article from Australia? Uncanny.” I moved next to her and started reading the text.

The Blue Mountains Gazette had chosen “Dream Comes True for Local Couple,” for the article’s title. Frank and Gina Packer had been home less than a week with their newly adopted daughter. The June 8th, 1970, story described the Packer’s long attempt to have children on their own. Two paragraphs on in vitro fertilization led to the end of the page. “Continued on Page 9” was italicized. Lillian flipped the semi-yellowed paper. There, in the lower right corner, was another photograph, no doubt showing the Packer’s, with Gina holding a pink clad little girl with two green ribbons tied to her jet-black hair. The caption underneath the photo said they took it at the couple’s Blue Mountains cabin. A newspaper used color photography over a half-century ago. Amazing.

Lillian and I finished the article, learning the Packer’s were prominent citizens of Sydney, and had made their fortune in iron ore mining. My guess is the couple was in their mid-forties. “What’s your conclusion?” I asked. I knew my own but wanted to hear Lillian’s.

“It’s not dispositive, but the Packers are the couple who adopted Rachel’s baby. Especially since Jane posted this clipping on ‘Rachel’s wall.’” Lillian handed me the article and used both hands to signal quotation marks.

While I kept staring at 16-year-old Rachel in the hospital bed holding her baby daughter, Lillian removed several newspaper clippings and returned to Jane’s desk. “I wonder if Rachel sent these.”

“To Jane? What are they?” I needed to stay near Rachel.

Lillian sat and paused a minute to review the articles. “All are from the New Haven Register. Two concerns. One’s about Rachel being teacher of the year at Amity High School. The other shows her with a student who made straight A’s her senior year.”

“2008. The student was Isabella Lopez, a special needs girl Rachel taught and tutored for three years.” The memory of a teacher and student spending hours on Saturdays in Rachel’s basement flooded my mind. “What about the others?”

“A group of cheerleaders, including Leah. One is dated May 18, 2004. The next one is Leah and three others winning the regional debate tournament.” I could see Lillian had stacked these to her left. She was staring at another photograph in the last article. “Lee, come here.” I guessed it might be Lyndell running track or pitching a baseball.

Lillian stood and clutched the article to her breast. She insisted I sit. I followed her instructions and again was shocked by what she laid on the desk in front of me. “Reward” blazoned across the top of a flier stapled to the newspaper clipping. I continued to read, searching for a date. There wasn’t one, but I soon figured it out. Fifteen-year-old Elita had run away. The Packer’s offered a million dollars for information that lead to her discovery and return.

Lillian leaned over my shoulder to read the smaller text below the teenager’s ninth grade school photo. “Elita was last seen by a driver for Maxi Cabs who dropped her off at Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport.”

My iPhone chirped the second I flipped back to the newspaper article. It was from Kyla. “We’re fifteen minutes from Jane’s. She’s stopped for gas. The movie was horrible, so she insisted we leave.”

“Change of plans. We need to go.” I showed Lillian the text.

“Quick. I’ll snap some photos and you explore Jane’s desk.” Lillian removed her iPhone from her jeans and returned to the back wall.

I rolled the chair backwards and opened the lower right drawer. As expected, stuffed with file folders. I read a few labels, Elita, Leah, Ray, The Packer’s, and decided it was time to leave. “Lillian, let’s go.”

“Just a minute.” I could tell she was video recording everything on both sides of the window. I stood and walked to the bookshelf closest to the bedroom door. After seeing half the books read ‘Diary’ on their spines, I whispered, “shit, shit, shit,” knowing that Lillian and I were likely leaving a ton of relevant information tucked inside this room.

When I backed the Hyundai onto King Street, Lillian ordered me to, “go back, we forgot.” I rejected her demand and drove north towards Summerville Road.

“It’s too risky.” I couldn’t believe we’d been so distracted and left the stack of newspaper articles on top of Jane’s desk.

Lillian and I had given Kyla a half-hour head start. She was dropping by Jane’s house and the two of them were going to Gadsden to see a movie at the Gadsden Mall’s Pitman Theater.

I was proud of my sister. Unknown to me, she had been grooming a relationship with Jane. That’s why she had agreed to help her last night feed the Fusion youth group at First Baptist Church of Christ.

With my permission, Kyla had read and reread Rachel’s ‘wall’ diary. Until an hour ago, I was unaware she’d also read The Cost of Discipleship. Well, at least the penciled notes. I still felt guilty for holding on to a book that was so important to my mother-in-law. I’d flipped through it shortly after removing it from inside the Hunt House wall and concluded the hand-written notes were a mix of Rosa’s and Rachel’s. The one’s I’d read were comments on Bonhoeffer’s Christology. Since I no longer believed in God, my interest was non-existent.

However, Kyla was smarter and more adept at recognizing patterns than me. Her near-photographic brain was a resource I had always envied. It, and my curiosity, had triggered the idea of Lillian and me paying a visit to Jane’s house while she and Kyla were at the movies.

Besides a general feeling that Jane was pro-Ray Archer, two objects had motivated Kyla’s encouragement. One was a timing issue. The other was a coded note. The first one was more embarrassing.

Given my focus on the ‘wall’ diary’s shocking details about Kyle’s extortion attempts, his brutal murder, and Rachel’s surviving pregnancy, I’d overlooked an obvious issue: the writings covered the same period as the LONDON diary I’d found in our New Haven basement.

Kyla had been more observant. Before reading the ‘wall’ diary, I’d shared memories from the LONDON diary, including its time frame. Sis had instantly asked two opposing questions: 1) why had Rachel written two diaries covering the same six-month period? and 2) what if someone else had written the ‘wall’ diary? Naturally, I’d responded to 2) with, “only Rachel could have hidden The Cost of Discipleship inside the Hunt House wall.” In some ways, I was as quick as Kyla, but my reaction speed often revealed confusion. Sis got a laugh out of my illogic, offering several other possibilities for how Bonhoeffer’s book could have gotten inside the wall.

I could still kick myself for not bringing Rachel’s basement diaries with me to Alabama. Of course, they were now gone forever, given the New Haven burglary. I, like Kyla, was also questioning the credibility of the diary, now in the hands of Marshall County’s District Attorney.

Another object had caught Kyla’s attention. Scribbled inside The Cost of Discipleship, on page 118 and buried among Rosa and Rachel’s reactions to Bonhoeffer’s thoughts, was “38 to friend.” Kyla believed this referenced the murder weapon and the fact Rachel had given it to a friend.

Ultimately, I’d agreed with my brilliant sister, although I had vehemently argued we didn’t know what to believe, which of the two diaries held the truth. Nor did we think Rachel was referring to a pistol in her coded message inside the book. Come to think of it, we didn’t have clear evidence of who had written it, Rosa or Rachel. Their writing was eerily similar.

Regardless of my confusion (and possibly Kyla’s still-developing pattern), Lillian and I set sail for 282 King Street, our third break-in since forming our detective partnership.

***

It was the second time Lillian asked to drive the Hyundai. The first was early afternoon when the two of us had gone to Walmart for Kyla. “I don’t know why you’d ever get rid of the Aviator.” I’d already made a mental note to investigate a used one when I returned to New Haven. It was by far the most comfortable vehicle I’d ever driven, not to mention its luxuriousness.

Lillian paused halfway to Kyla’s mailbox to change her mirrors. “What’s your theory on Rachel’s diaries, the two with the same dates?”

“Hypothesis.”

“Uh?” Lillian turned right onto McVille Road. Sometimes I was too exacting.

“Never mind. Your guess is probably as good as mine, but I think it’s connected to the pistol.” The time on the dash was 6:35. Kyla should have sent a text by now if there was a problem. It was her first opportunity to go inside Jane’s and determine whether she had a security system. No text by 6:45 meant mine and Lillian’s visit was a go. I’d opted for the opposite: a text saying it was a go, but I’d let strong-willed sister win the argument.

“You’re saying that since it wasn’t the murder weapon, the diary likewise was a fake?” I stole a sideways view of Lillian as she asked her question and couldn’t help but inspect her cashmere sweater and tight jeans. I chose against asking her if she knew someone made her sweater from a goat.

I too-quickly responded. “That may be a shallow argument.” She glanced at me with raised eyebrows. “I mean, you stated what I’m thinking, but I could be wrong. One side of me wants to believe Rachel in the wall diary is being more detailed and open, certainly pointing the finger at Ray. My other side believes she was undecided, that she was torn over whether to reveal Ray’s crime.” The more I talked about the two 1969 diaries, the more confused I became.

“Whoa, I better slow down. I love this car. It sure didn’t feel like I was going seventy.”

“What’s your thoughts?” Lillian was smart and perceptive. More so than I’d believed when we were kids.

“Let me start with an assumption, I mean, one that Rachel had.”

“What’s that?”

“No one would find her basement diaries. To me, this gave her permission to disclose the Hunt House hiding place?”

“I see your point. Obviously, she was wrong.”

“About?”

“I found her diaries. Which, come to think of it, makes me think she wanted me to find them.”

Lillian turned left onto Highway 431. “What if, and you might not like this, what if Rachel was lying?” Wow, that felt like a drill bit piercing my ear. The words repulsed me.

“No way.” I said, recalling the sick feeling I’d already experienced over the fake pistol, and possibly Rachel’s abortion.

Again, Lillian glared at me. This time not raising her eyebrows but silently breathing a big ‘whoa.’ “Lee, I’m sorry this is so personal, but we promised to be open, even brutal, when dealing with the truth.” Lillian returned her gaze to the highway and laid a hand on my knee. “Baby, dear, Rachel took her life. She was troubled. And I doubt her story about Kyle’s death is all fiction.”

Lillian and I stayed silent as we passed Piggly Wiggly and Old Mill Park. She spoke when she stopped the Hyundai before crossing the railroad track. “Do you remember our first date?” I turned and looked at her, but she was looking south, toward First State Bank, like she was making sure a train wasn’t approaching.

I did not know why Lillian would ask, but I didn’t have any trouble recalling the tenth grade Valentine’s Dance, one of the most embarrassing scenes of my life. “How could I forget? Horrible.” My words didn’t match my intent.

“Uh? So it was that bad?” We continued to sit at the railroad tracks. Now Lillian was looking north. Past what I felt was my reddening face.

“No. I meant my dancing, in public. My homebound experiences didn’t translate well inside the school lunchroom.” I paused, wondering whether I should be completely open. Oh, why not. “Other than most everyone laughing at me, it was a wonderful night.”

“That’s better, old boy.” She started laughing as she eased forward across the less than smooth tracks. “Just so you know, I wanted to go steady with you before Ray spiked the punch bowl.”

Even though there wasn’t a red light, I looked both ways when we crossed Main Street. As usual, the downtown was dead. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment or simply a revelation of how tipsy you got.”

“Don’t you dare go there.” Before I could respond, Lillian asked me another question. “Do you think Ray spiked the punch?”

“Maybe. Probably. What makes you ask?” We passed Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop. The remodeled office was impressive.

“To drown his sorrows, I guess.”

“Uh?”

“You must have forgotten. But let’s see. Who was Ray’s date that night?” I hoped the Boaz cops weren’t out. Lillian had a heavy foot.

Again, it was a crazy question. I guess she was killing time by making small talk. “You. In your dreams.”

“Oh, that hurts. Absolutely not. You still don’t know how much I liked you.”

“It’s getting deep in here. Don’t miss your turn.” We were approaching King Street and Lillian was still speeding up.

“Whoa Nellie.” The Hyundai’s brakes worked, and the tires squealed. I don’t know how she made the turn. “Jane Fordham.”

“Now I remember. No wonder Ray was downing so much punch.” I hadn’t thought in half a century about the weirdness of seeing Ray walk into the high school lunchroom with Jane on his arm.

“Talk about a mismatch. As far as I know, this was the only date Jane ever had.” Lillian fiddled with the air conditioner and fan when she slowed at Snellgrove Avenue. I guess her goat sweater, or something, was causing a hot flash.

 “I see your point. Jane, like me, was born with brains and not beauty.”

“Funny. You’ve always been the most handsome geek in the world.”

“Here’s a thought. Maybe Ray was desperate for, well, you know.” I figured Ray would hump a pig if that was all he could get. The mental image was repulsive.

“According to Jane, that’s exactly what he wanted, but she had the self-control to make him wait.” I couldn’t tell if Lillian was speculating or revealing facts.

“What does that mean?” We crossed Short Creek Bridge and Jackie Frasier’s dilapidated mobile home came into view. A single naked bulb cast light above the newly constructed front porch.

“The next week after Fusion, I asked Jane how her date with Ray had gone. She pulled me aside and said something like, ‘I’m in love.’ What she said next brought clarity. She said it had been Rachel’s idea.”

I interrupted. “For Ray to take Jane to the Valentine’s Dance.” I stated without asking.

“Yep. Looking back, here’s what’s weird. Jane also said, ‘Ray didn’t have a choice but to take me to the dance, but now he does. I’ll keep him waiting.’”

We were almost to Pleasant Hill Road and Jane’s house. “I’m lost. Maybe I don’t have brains after all. What did Jane mean?”

“Given Jane’s look, double eye raise, I took her ‘wait’ statement to mean sexual. What I don’t know is how Rachel could make Ray take Jane to the dance. Of course, you know, that was a month and a half after Rachel left for China.”

“Park under that Weeping Willow tree at the side of the garage. It’ll hide the car.” Lillian did as instructed. We exited the Hyundai and walked to the back deck. I hoped Kyla had been right about Jane not having a security system.

It was Thursday morning. Ray sat inside an attorney/client interview room next to Judge Broadside’s courtroom. Patience had always been an ephemeral idea, which, to Ray, made it a vice and not a virtue. Quick decisions and immediate actions were the stalwarts of his success. Or, so Ray believed.

It was ten minutes before his bond hearing and Morgan Selvidge was nowhere in sight. Ray’s attorney had not called or visited since Ray’s Tuesday afternoon arrest. Equally troubling was his cuffed hands and shackled feet. Apparently, the Deputy who walked him to the courthouse this morning hadn’t communicated with Deputy Jared. Thankfully, only his hands were cuffed in front and the shackles weren’t tight.

The Hearing was at 10:00. Ray countered his sweaty forehead and aching stomach by reflecting on the past forty hours inside Marshall County Jail.

Cell Block D had been worse than expected. Although the food was acceptable, the privacy was not. Unlike what Deputy Jared had promised, the jailer forced Ray to share an eight-foot by ten-foot cell with another inmate. Now, waiting at the courthouse for his defense attorney, Ray acknowledged things could have been worse.

The bad appeared shortly after breakfast yesterday morning. Ray had been told the visitor was his chef and kitchen manager. Neither were true. It was Billy James, Buddy’s brother, sitting opposite the thick plexiglass inside the visitor center. Ray couldn’t recall when he’d been so angry.

Billy demanded money, his share of ‘the job.’ Ray almost hung up the phone and called for the guard. What he learned from staying and listening confirmed the stupidity of what he’d done, the entire endeavor to burn the Hunt House for an estimated quarter million-dollar profit. The irony was that Buddy had disappeared with Ray’s hundred thousand dollars, leaving him zero profit, given the likelihood the insurance company would balk at paying the claim.

Another thing Ray had learned was that Eric Snyder, the man discovered in the ashes, had bragged about making a quick ten thousand dollars. Of course, Buddy had never paid him. This was the money Billy demanded. His twisted thinking convinced himself he deserved a share of Buddy’s windfall despite his lack of participation.

Before Billy left, Ray concocted a plan and promised he’d pay fifty thousand dollars, but it would have to wait until he was released. Billy left with a fist bump toward the plexiglass. Ray reciprocated with two hands for double assurance. Secretly, Ray knew he had no choice but to quiet the James brothers’ unpredictable tongues. They could no longer be trusted to protect him. How he could accomplish this goal was now merely an idea.

An unknown deputy entered the witness room and relayed to Ray that his attorney had called Judge Broadside and announced he was running fifteen minutes behind. After an affirmative head nod, Ray considered firing the uncommitted Morgan Selvidge and asking the Court for a continuance. Unfortunately, that would return him to his jail cell. Ray waited.

Orin Russell had been the good thing about Ray’s two-day stay inside the Marshall County Jail. By luck or the grace of God, Russell had the makings of a trainable and trustworthy replacement for the incompetent and disloyal James’s brothers.

Orin Russell was from Albertville, nineteen years old, and charged with the kidnapping and sexual assault of his stepmother’s 15-year-old daughter. The tall and muscular jail mate reminded Ray of his younger self. Both had been star athletes in high school and had dreamed of going all the way to the pros. Both had a commanding presence and an entitlement attitude. Like Ray, Orin had an insatiable appetite for women and wealth. Yet, he lacked a viable pathway forward, especially when considering his inept and lethargic court-appointed defense attorney. Last night, it had taken little for Ray to convince Orin his ticket to success lay with his sixty-seven-year-old jail mate.

Ray always believed he had the near-supernatural ability to discern real from fake. But he’d always been cautious to double-check and verify. So, Ray anchored his plan for him and Orin in high moral principles and undetectable coded language.

After an hour of Ray sharing a brief biography, his hopes and dreams for Rylan’s, and the name of a criminal defense attorney who’d be in touch, Orin had accepted Ray’s generous job offer. His primary responsibility would be to mirror Ray’s daily activities and learn the intricacies of real estate development. In sum, to perform duties as delegated by his boss. Like Ray, Orin had made good grades in school and learned quickly. He eagerly promised to devote “every waking hour to making Ray happy.” This morning, before the deputy arrived to walk Ray across the street to the courthouse, Orin had jotted down all his new boss’s contact information.

It was 10:20 AM when Morton Selvidge joined Ray inside the interview room. “Before you go ballistic on me, let me share the good news.”

Ray listened. He could always give his lackluster attorney a pink slip after leaving the Marshall County jail.

“The DA’s agreed to my offer.”

“And that is?” Ray would quickly agree to ten million dollars if that’s what it took. It was only money.

“A million-dollar cash bond and an ankle monitor.”

“I’d rather pay more money and keep my freedom.”

“I expected that. DA won’t have it. To her, you’re too much of a flight risk.”

After offering to put up ten million dollars, Ray asked for details concerning the ankle monitor, primarily whether he could leave the Lodge.

“Five-mile diameter. From your home. Otherwise, we’ll have to ask special permission.”

Ray finally agreed and Morton left to tell the DA and Judge.

***

What Ray didn’t know was that his jail mate hadn’t been completely truthful. Although he was Orin Russell, nineteen years old, and a former Albertville High School star athlete, he had already accepted another position working for private investigator Connor Ford. His assignment was to gain information. Ford hired Orin to snitch on Ray Archer.

The idea hadn’t originated with Connor. Last Saturday afternoon, Lee had received an email from Linda Smith, his former English teacher. As promised, she had sent a copy of Kyle’s tenth-grade essay, a complete manuscript. In it, Kyle had learned of Ray’s secret involvement with a girl he referred to as Babe 2. She had been a young and beautiful Albertville High School cheerleader. That was before she disappeared. Kyle had used this to persuade Brute to “do the right thing,” about not only Babe, but Babe 2’s family. To Lee, it strongly suggested Ray had learned Kyle had become a threat to his success, even his freedom. And this was before Lee had conducted any investigation.

Lee’s sources were the archives of the Sand Mountain Reporter and The Advertiser Gleam. Articles dated during the summer and fall of 1969 revealed the girl, a Sharon Teague, had disappeared after being raped and before she had disclosed to her mother the name of her attacker. From these definitive facts and Kyle’s nondescript essay, Lee framed the hypothesis that Ray killed Kyle to prevent the disclosure of his criminal actions.

Lee’s call to Micaden Tanner had triggered a causal reaction. Micaden shared Lee’s hypothesis with Connor Ford, who conferred with his longtime friend Mark Hale. Fortunately, Hale was privy to investigator Avery Proctor and the DA’s recent interest in cold cases. Proctor had revealed the name of Orin Russell, the grandson of Susan Vick, the late Sharon Teague’s sister.

Orin’s recent arrest was a fortunate occurrence, or a gift from the gods. To avoid future evidentiary reasons, the DA’s office had declined involvement. That hadn’t stopped Ford from meeting with Russell and motivating him to seek justice on behalf of his deceased great aunt, especially when the opportunity came with hopes of probation or a much-reduced sentence if convicted.

“I have a theory,” was the only thing Lillian would say as she drove us to her place off Cox Gap Road.

For the fourth time, as she unlocked the back door, I repeated my response, “let’s hear it.”

Inside, she motioned me to sit at the kitchen table and said, “I’ll be right back.” I did as I was told and wondered if she was playing some silly game.

I waited several minutes. She finally yelled, “Lee, come in here.”

I stood and shook my head whispering to myself, “is Lillian playing a new version of hide-n-seek?”

She was sitting at a makeshift desk in the spare bedroom, half piled with unloaded boxes. “What you got?” I asked as she pulled two folders from an opened box.

Without introduction or pretext, Lillian announced: “Ray’s been paying Rob and Rosa for years. Grab a chair.” She pointed back toward the kitchen. I returned and sat beside her before an unlevel platform constructed from a weathered door and three semi-squished boxes on each end.

“What in Heaven’s name makes you say that?” Lillian had placed one folder on the desk and was rifling through another one lying across her lap. I could see the documents were bank statements.

“I’ve long wondered what this $2,500 was for.” Lillian pointed to a line item on a July 1990 First State Bank of Boaz account, and the same amount on the October 2020 statement she had removed from Ray’s study on Monday.

“I’m lost. What makes you think this monthly disbursement had anything to do with Rob and Rosa?”

“Two things.” Lillian flipped the 1990 statement over, revealing an index-sized hand-written note taped to the back. It read, ‘It’s your turn. I no longer will pay for your mistake. Pay or sink, your choice.’ It was signed, ‘Dad.’

“I’m guessing Dad is Ray’s father.”

“Right, and this is where the $2,500 per month draft started.” Lillian returned the older statement to its place in the folder and stared at the one she’d just stolen. “See, it continues.” She reached for a highlighter and swiped across the disbursement.

“Sorry, I’m not seeing the connection, but you said you had two reasons. What’s the other one?” I was thinking Lillian was trying to see a non-existent pattern.

She laid the thick folder on top of the other one and started clicking at her laptop. She must have turned it on when she first came in. After a couple of screen changes, I could tell she was at First State Bank of Boaz’ website. Two keystrokes later she said, “look here.”

“Okay, I see a bunch of debits and credits. Ray’s account?”

“Yes.” She scrolled the screen, stopped, and pointed to two withdrawals. “This is Ray’s discretionary account.” One is for $150,000, the other $100,000. “This one was for me.” Lillian pointed to the larger amount.

“What about the hundred thousand?”

“I bet the Aviator it’s what Ray paid Buddy James. Look at the date.” It was the 25th of November, the day before Thanksgiving and two days before the Hunt House exploded and burned the interior to a crisp.

My feelings were mixed. I was happy Lillian had ongoing access to Ray’s online banking but was frustrated by her interpretation. I couldn’t see any connection to Rob and Rosa other than the obvious property-destroying fire. “You’ve got me where you want me.” I said. Our eyes met. She smiled and nodded.

Lillian reopened the bank statement folder and removed a single sheet of letter sized paper with a large paper clip at the top. “Union Central Bank.” She handed it to me and pointed. The sheet contained a copy of both sides of a much smaller document, one the size of a personal check. “That’s both sides of the $2,500 draft I copied. Notice the bottom picture.” It appeared to be a rubber stamp. It read, ‘Union Central Bank, Roanoke, VA.’

Now I was catching up. “That’s odd and interesting.”

Lillian interrupted before I could continue. “Earlier, after you got off the phone with Rosa, you mentioned the cabin being in Roanoke. I didn’t know that, but when you said Rob and Rosa owned the place, I remembered this monthly draft going to a bank in the same city. Don’t you think that’s more than a coincidence?”

“Not sure. I’m skeptical of your conclusion. It appears unwarranted.” Lillian slapped my knee.

“You damn attorneys, needing to read the entire book, twice, before you fathom the ending. This all fits with Ray being Kyle’s murderer.”

“How so?”

“Remember, I told you Ray does nothing for free or out of generosity. When Rosa told you about the extra funds he’d paid Rob for the Hunt House, he got something in return. Now, I believe he, and his father before him, have been paying Rob and Rosa for years and years.”

It was now my turn to interrupt. “For what, Shirley Holmes?”

“Let me answer with a question. What subject would be so important to Ray, again assuming he killed Kyle, to motivate him and his father to pay a shit pot full of money over all these years?”

Lillian had a point, but I was nowhere ready to reach her conclusion. But I could craft a hypothesis. “What if Ray has paid all this money to Rob and Rosa in exchange for their silence?”

“Good boy.” Lillian swiveled toward me in her chair and nudged my knee with hers. I won’t say how I felt. “And, let me say it for you, what would your in-laws know that would motivate Ray to keep the money flowing?”

My legal hat nestled downward around my head. “Here’s another question. Would my in-laws, for any amount of money, keep quiet for Ray alone? Do they, did they, have another reason to keep quiet?” Lillian’s leg pressed against mine, easy, but firm.

“Let’s continue this discussion on the couch. This chair is hurting my butt.” I stood and caught the scent of lavender. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it before.

***

I followed Lillian to the den and to the couch. Just as we sat, she quickly stood and headed for the front door. “I’m expecting a package.” She walked outside and immediately yelled, “Lee, come here.”

The near pungent smell dominated the air. “Wow, I haven’t smelled chicken litter in a while.”

“Burning rubber?” Lillian reached for a small box seated in a rocking chair.

I looked across Alexander Road to the neighboring house. There was a streetlamp on the far side, maybe half a football field away. Smoke was circling the pole like a swarm of bees. “I don’t know if it’s rubber, but something is burning.” I pointed to the ghostlike figure.

“Oh yeah, I see. Let me grab my phone to call Neva. Do you think we need to walk over there?”

“We can.” I wasn’t too interested, given the cold. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had plunged since we arrived an hour earlier. At least it wasn’t raining.

Lillian was in and out of the house in no time. “Come on, I’ll call while we walk.” Again, I trailed along, wishing we’d grabbed our coats.

By the time we reached the far side of the Clifton’s house, we heard a fire truck’s siren, and saw the flames. Nestled between a detached garage and a six-bay clean-up shop was a large barn. They had stacked round hay bales three high as far as I could see. The fire had engulfed the far-right corner of the half-sided pole building.

“She’s at the fire,” Lillian said, pulling me forward. “Tony’s in Atlanta and Neva’s spraying water.” I marveled at how quickly Lillian had met her new neighbors. She’d already entered Neva’s phone number into her iPhone’s contacts.

The firetruck arrived as we rounded the corner at the clean-up shop. “There she is.” I saw a woman standing thirty feet from the barn arching a pencil size stream of water from a garden hose onto the chaotic flames.

Neva and Lillian exchanged a few words as the firefighters positioned their truck, and the heat from the growing flames grew.

“Stand back,” a big burly man with a thick gray beard said, unfolding a hose in our direction. I retreated toward the shop. “Ladies, please move.”

I grabbed Lillian by the elbow. “Come on, they’ve got this, and I’m freezing.” Once we circled the firetruck, I felt a shy hand engulf my own. Oddly, I seemed to forget the knifing wind and numbing cold as we scurried across the neighbor’s yard to the home of the woman who had broken my heart half-a-century ago.

Strangely, I did not disconnect hands during our entire walk. Lillian did that when we stepped onto her front porch, and she reached for her package. “Hurry, let’s get inside.” I opened the door, allowing her to go first. She set the box on the coffee table and hustled to a wall mounted gas heater I hadn’t noticed before. “I’m so glad I had AllGas install this. My central unit sucks.”

I asked for details. With no response forthcoming, I complied with Lillian’s head motion, ‘come here and warm.’ I stood beside her while we both held our hands close to the welcoming heat. In a minute, she pivoted her body to warm her backside while I continued to massage my hands.

I’m not sure how it happened. We both had pursued a pivot-and-warm routine at least three times. The last one was defective since we made it only halfway. Now, face to face, our hands reached out and pulled the other one close. I must admit I’d considered this moment since I’d laid eyes on Lillian two weeks ago at Old Mill Park. What had started as a fantasy had evolved into reality.

As Lillian laid her head on my shoulder and clutched both hands behind my back, she was the first to talk. “Lee, I’m so sorry. Please know I have always regretted what I did. Can you forgive me?”

I normally didn’t enjoy plowing the same ground more than once, but I sensed her seriousness and need for affirmation. I nuzzled my mouth close to her ear. The lavender scent grew stronger, triggering feelings I feared. “I know, and I forgive you. Ask me tomorrow and I’ll tell you the same.” I gave her a squeeze.

Lillian popped her head back and said, “are you being a smart ass?”

“Maybe, but a serious one.” She smiled and returned her head to my shoulder. Our bodies couldn’t have gotten a hair closer.

Without thinking, I brushed back her hair with my hand and kissed her neck. Once, twice, three times, each time exploring a unique spot. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

By now, I was sweating. I manipulated us both a yard away from the heater. “Whew, I’m on fire.” Secretly, I laughed at my involuntary statement.

“Me too, for several reasons.” We untangled ourselves and what started quietly transformed into a knee-slapping roar. Finally, Lillian returned to the heater and dialed it down from HIGH to LOW.

Just as quickly, she returned to me and pulled my head to hers. The kiss was intense, inciting, and irresistible, a one-way ticket to her king-size bed.

It was after ten when we reassembled our clothing and exited her back porch. We said little during the drive to Kyla’s. Tonight, for me, was something I’d never experienced with Rachel. It really wasn’t the sex, although it was the most passionate I’d ever experienced. It was the time, touch, and talk we’d exchanged under the covers. This new road was going to be a leap into love or a stumble into the abyss. I hoped it was the former.

Kyla was backing out of the carport when Lillian and I returned from Guntersville and a late meeting with the DA. I stopped as she eased backwards, unaware of our presence. I was still thinking of the District Attorney’s professionalism and her proactive nature. She had promised to touch base with law enforcement folks in New Haven to discuss the likely connection between my home’s burglary and local billionaire Ray Archer. It hadn’t hurt that DA Pam was understanding after hearing of Monday’s altercation at the Lodge and mine and Lillian’s subsequent arrests.

“I’m headed to church. There’s homemade chicken soup in the crock pot.” Sis said as she finally pulled beside my Hyundai. Tonight, was Kyla’s first time to help Jane prepare and feed a hundred hungry teenagers inside First Baptist Church of Christ’s basement kitchen/cafeteria combo. The youth group’s name, Fusion, sounded like something to do with a nuclear power plant.

“Sounds good. I’m hungry.” I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was only a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal. Lillian and I had spent the day trying to absorb and digest Kyle’s tenth grade essay, the full version. Thankfully, Ms. Smith had kept her word and forwarded a copy of the complete version my dear friend had written and submitted before disappearing.

“Your Mom’s recipe?” Lillian asked as Kyla raised her window and drove away. “Oh, well.”

I parked near the front of the barn and headed to the house while Lillian stood and watched the five Nubians locked inside the hallway. I was halfway to the front porch steps when my cell rang. It was Rosa. It was a dreaded call.

“Hey Mom.”

“Well, he’s gone.” Over the past several days, Rob’s condition has deteriorated. His brain had bled and had become infected. Last night, despite the craniotomy, the swelling had intensified. Early this morning, after a conference call with the five of us, including Randy, Rosa had decided it was time to remove life support. It was what Rob wanted per the advance directive he’d updated less than three months ago.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there for you.”

“Lee, I don’t want to hear that. Remember, I’m the one who made you stay. Please never blame yourself.”

I wanted to disagree, maybe to lessen the pain she was feeling, but I didn’t. “Are you still at the hospital?”

“Leah and Lyndell are exploring the best way to transport Rob’s body back to Boaz. I’m in a small waiting room outside the Chapel.” I didn’t ask about the grands, knowing they were safe.

We talked at length about Rob’s funeral after his body arrives. I walked inside and dipped a bowl of soup while Lillian remained intrigued with the goats. Frank probably was showing out for his four wives, and number two fan.

I sat at the kitchen table listening to Rosa argue with herself over the funeral’s order of service, especially which songs Rob would want. Her sudden pivot surprised me. “How’s the haul?” It was an odd way to put it, but I knew she was speaking of the Hunt House.

“Sand Mountain Demolition & Removal Company moved sixteen loads yesterday. Remember, it’s going to take at least a week.” The State Fire Marshall had released the property Monday afternoon around sundown, but it was too late for Sand Mountain to begin work.

I’d been wanting to ask Rosa, but never felt the moment was right. Now seemed the time. “I have a question if you don’t mind me asking.” I burned my lips on my first bite of soup. It was scalding hot.

“Of course, you know that.”

“Why are you paying for the debris to be hauled off if you no longer own the Hunt House?”

I heard a familiar voice in the background. It was Leah. “Honey, give me a few minutes,” Rosa said as Lillian came inside from the front porch.

“Lee, sorry about that. I guess now is as good a time as any to be fully open, but first let me ask a question. How did you find out Rob had sold the Hunt House?”

Before responding, my mind thought of wires and recording devices. Surely, there was no way Kyla’s place was bugged, or the Roanoke General Hospital. “The deed. I have a friend of a friend who works at the Probate Office. He found the deed. It was recorded three days before the fire.”

“Okay. I see. Well, it’s true. Ray Archer owns the Hunt House, or better put, the real estate it once sat on.”

“May I ask how the sale came about? To be blunt, it shocked me to learn Rob would do business with Ray.” Lillian dipped a bowl of soup and joined me at the table.

“He saw the writing on the wall. I suppose that’s one way of looking at the transaction. Now, looking back, I believe he was contemplating his death, almost like he saw what was coming. So, he took the money to make sure it got to the ‘right’ people, as he described it.” Now I could faintly hear Leah and Lyndell talking in the background.

“Since we’re being open, and don’t think I’m acting greedy, how much was the sales price?” Lillian cocked her head sideways at me and squinted her eyebrows.

“Lee, I know you are not money hungry. And, you would have learned all this if Rob had lived to get back home. Ray paid $800,000.” I had Rosa repeat the number. According to Micaden, it was $500,000. Someone was wrong.

“That’s a lot more than I would have thought given Ray’s last offer.” I quickly realized my statement was inaccurate. I had no way of knowing when Ray made his most recent offer.

“Honey, can you get me a cup of coffee?” I heard both my children agree.

“That’s not the full story. Again, you would know this as soon as we returned.”

“What’s that?”

“Rob persuaded Ray to pay off the cabin and give us what he called, ‘a bonus.’” My shock level skyrocketed. I did not know Rob and Rosa owned the cabin.

“Are you referring to the Roanoke cabin you guys have visited for the last fifteen or twenty years?”

“Yes.” I was hoping Rosa would provide more details. The difference, whether it was two or three hundred thousand, was a chunk of money. Ray’s generosity didn’t fit.

“Let’s go back just a moment and address a legal question that’s got me in tangles.”

“Okay, ask anything you want. Thanks, dear.” Leah and Lyndell had returned.

“My question is mere curiosity, not that it’s important now.” I paused and contemplated my words. I didn’t want to appear insensitive. “Now that Rob has passed.”

“Lee, just ask. Quit being so formal. We’re family and I love you.” Rosa sipped her coffee.

“Thanks. Was the Hunt House titled to Rob, or you and Rob?” I motioned for Lillian to dip me more soup.

“Just Rob. Funny, we had talked a hundred times over the years about putting the property in both our names. I’m sure you recall some of those discussions.” I breathed a sigh of relief. This was one good thing to come out of Rob’s death. Wow, that was insensitive. If Rob had died before deeding the property to Ray Archer, his estate would have to be probated.

“I’ll answer it before you ask. The money from Ray is still in mine and Rob’s joint checking account. Well, other than the check we mailed Wells Fargo Mortgage.” Rosa had just given me credit where none was due. I hadn’t considered that the same probate issue would exist if the money was now sitting in an account titled solely to him.

“Thanks again for your openness. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Rosa’s voice rose but maintained total civility. “Oh Lee, you’re as curious as a newborn tiger, but thank goodness your teeth are not as sharp.” We both laughed.

I heard Leah tell Rosa they needed to be going. The babysitter had an appointment in an hour. “One last question. Back to the demolition and haul bill. I’m still confused about why you are paying for that.”

“We got sidelined, didn’t we? Sorry. Ray asked me to pay for it and promised he’d reimburse whatever I spent.”

Again. Something odd. “Why didn’t he pay for it himself, directly?”

“I really don’t know. Maybe he thought it would look suspicious.” Unfortunately, Rosa didn’t give me time to explore her last statement. She politely ended our call and left me, as usual, confused over things as innocent as words.

I finished my second bowl of soup and shared with Lillian what I’d learned. She presented a good question. Two in fact. How does a missionary couple afford to buy a mountain cabin? And why would Ray suddenly become so generous? The only probable answer to the latter question was that the extra cost to Ray got him something in return.

“The man does nothing for free. Someone always pays a price.” Without comment from me, Lillian stood, walked our empty bowls to the kitchen sink, and announced she had to go check on her place. Even with Ray in jail, I sensed I shouldn’t let her be alone.

Kyla and Lillian were sitting at opposite ends of the couch when I entered the kitchen. I greeted both and poured a large mug of coffee. “I need some air.” Yesterday morning I’d ventured upstairs to borrow one of Dad’s heavy coats.

“You want some company?” Kyla asked as I walked to the front door.

“No. Not for an hour. I need to think.”

“It’s only seven, but we’ve reached today’s high: a scorching 30 degrees.” Lillian should have been a meteorologist. She tracks the weather like a bloodhound tracks a rabbit.

It felt like ten degrees as I eased down the frost covered steps. I didn’t need another fall. The last one had aggravated my shoulder, but it was Ray’s kick that had kept me awake most of the night. I wondered if he’d broken a rib or two.

I walked to the barn, through the gate, and on to the pond. I opted against the pier. Too frosty, and the two wooden Adirondack chairs sitting at the end would freeze my butt even though I had on two layers. Instead, I started making laps around the half-frozen water.

Yesterday was unbelievable. What had started as hopeful had ended in third level Hell. Good ole Ray had wasted no time. He made a 911 call at 10:08 AM. My co-conspirator and I learned this from the two Boaz police officers who appeared at Kyla’s front door at 3:00 pm. Officer Wilson had announced they were here to arrest Lillian and me on charges of criminal trespassing and assault. After a ride to the Boaz City Jail, it had taken nearly three hours for processing, including Micaden’s intervention to convince the city judge to ignore the city attorney’s no-bail warrants and grant our O.R. (own recognizance) request to avoid bail at any amount. The asshole City Attorney had likely kowtowed to Ray’s instructions, knowing his request was illegal.

Three laps down, and out of coffee, I returned to the gate and headed for the mailbox. Mine and Lillian’s inside look at the criminal justice system had not been yesterday’s last adventure. The call came at 4:30 PM. Unfortunately, I was sitting in a holding cell awaiting news concerning bail. It had been six before our release and the jailer returned my iPhone. During the ride home, thanks to Kyla, I returned the call wholly unconcerned. Sophia had misunderstood my instructions and hadn’t looked in the right place.

My hands and feet were freezing although I had on gloves and a pair of Dad’s insulated boots. I ended my pilgrimage into the cold and returned to Kyla’s toasty den recalling Sophia’s frantic words displaying her worst English, “Mr. Lee, I can’t find the diaries. Please call me.”

Her first words had been all Spanish. She kept saying “robara.” I finally convinced her I didn’t understand. A youthful voice (probably her teenage son) in the background finally said, “ransacked.” After I relayed an imagined scene in Rachel’s library, Sophia calmed down and delivered a reasonably cohesive and coherent accounting of her early afternoon experience. The bottom line, someone had broken into mine and Rachel’s house and stolen her diaries.

I kept standing in front of the gas heater for half an hour, ignoring Kyla and Lillian, and thought there was only one person who could have masterminded the burglary. Hopefully, the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department would cuff Ray Archer for arson before sunset.

***

Ray slept later than normal. The digital clock on his bedside table read 8:21. It was 8:26 when he returned from the bathroom. The thirty-foot round trip was a struggle. Hopefully, the three Tylenol would dull his screaming neck.

After dressing in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, Ray inched to the kitchen using walls and furniture for support. Breakfast comprised a bowl of oatmeal, two slices of dry toast, and a large glass of orange juice. His stomach didn’t feel like coffee.

Ray stared through the back door glass, across the valley below, and remembered yesterday’s invasion. His anger was still raw from what Lillian had done to his neck, but it was the thought that Lee Harding might have been prowling around inside his house that made him want to break things.

Enough of that. For now. It was past time to update the Lodge’s security system. And, as expected, it was a bitch, partially because it was Ray’s first attempt. Before, he relied on the tech-savvy Lillian to reset the codes. Today, it took forty minutes and two calls to ADT support before the system accepted the new eight-digit number/symbol combination, and the three exterior keypads reactivated. The delay had something to do with Ray’s failure to be in ‘programming’ mode. Ray slammed the ADT door panel on the utility room wall and walked to his study. There was another pressing issue he had to address.

Two recent cash withdrawals had ravaged his discretionary account, the one only he and First State Bank of Boaz knew anything about. It was the hundred-grand to Buddy. The other was the hundred and fifty thousand to Lillian. Fire and fucking were getting a tad expensive. The laptop booted up and Ray squirmed in the wooden hand-me-down chair from his father, much too stiff for an aching neck.

Ray opened the bottom right drawer and virtually kicked himself for being so lax. He had, again, left it unlocked. He thought of Lillian, and possibly Lee, inside. Could he believe her excuse for the framed picture? Was that the real reason for her unannounced visit? The bank statement at the front of the file was for September. Ray had made the cash withdrawals in early December. He recognized that he should have the October bank statement. November’s would arrive any day. He checked the next two folders for misfiling. They were correct. After accessing First Bank of Boaz online and replenishing his secret account (from his Real Estate Acquisitions account), Ray brushed aside the thought of Lillian stealing a bank statement or two. The only revelations would be the account name and number and the debit and credit amounts. He never wrote checks, and he never labeled deposits or withdrawals. Ray gave himself a praiseworthy nod, closed the drawer, and logged out of his account.

Ray closed his laptop and retreated to the master and his favorite recliner. Pulling up the footrest, he reminded himself that Lillian was the least of his worries. Although she had seen and heard what had gone on at Ted’s cabin on Friday night, it was only circumstantial evidence. No one had said or done anything that directly linked him to the Hunt House fire, and that was why Ray’s attorney assured him the Judge would have little choice in setting Ray’s bail in the event of arrest. Of course, this ignored the possibility that the DA might squeeze Buddy James enough to make him squeal.

A genuine concern was what his father had told him yesterday morning. Ronald was about to sell his Dogwood Trail farm. He had threatened several times over the years to give the proceeds to Ray’s estranged brother, Roland. The idea the farm’s new owners might discover and reveal long-buried secrets triggered panic and an image of a multi-year stay inside an eight-by-eight prison cell.

The second concern, equally frightening as the first, was Kent Bennett’s quest to avenge the death of his brother. An early Sunday morning email had been short, cogent, and direct. Kent had accused Ray of killing his twin brother, Kyle, and admitted he had evidence that would reopen the cold case. First was that Ray had lied in the statement he had given Detective Darden the day after Kyle disappeared. Kent had not elaborated, but Ray knew immediately what he meant. “Damn you Jackie Frasier,” Ray spouted to himself.

Kent’s second source of evidence was mysterious. He had alleged that Kyle himself left clues pointing to his killer. Kent had asked Ray a question. “Do you remember Kyle writing two essays for you in the Fall of 1970?” Ray recalled Mayor King asking him about this during their ride to the cabin Friday night. Ray wished he’d attended Kyle’s memorial service, where he could have heard exactly what Lee Harding had said.

***

The vibration of his iPhone awakened Ray. It was Ted King, and it was almost 2:00 PM. Ray had been asleep in his recliner for three hours. “Hey.”

“You ready for a ride to Guntersville?” Ted liked to joke. Ray rarely knew when to take him seriously.

“I am if you’re buying. I’m hungry.”

“They say the food’s unique.” Ted paused, dreading the news he had to deliver. “Ray, the DA secured a warrant for your arrest.”

“Oh shit. That was quick. What do you know?” The news wasn’t surprising, but it was unnerving. Ray lowered his footrest and stood wincing from the neck pain. He repeated his question. “What do you know?”

“My source in the Clerk’s office said the District Attorney tried for a warrant yesterday afternoon but someone had alerted Morton. He’d called Judge Broadside and requested an immediate hearing.”

“I know all that. Morton called me last night and said the hearing wasn’t until later this afternoon.” Ray headed for his bedroom.

“It got moved up. Just concluded.” Ted worried little about his own freedom. First, because he had done nothing wrong, or at least nothing he couldn’t explain away. Second, he knew too much dirt on the Judge Broadside.

Ray asked Ted whether he knew if bail was discussed at the hearing. Before he responded, Ray received another call. This time, it was Morton Selvidge. “I’ve got to go. It’s my attorney.”

“What about bail?” Ray asked without greeting. There were several disparate voices in the background. Ray imagined Morton in the Courthouse’s cafeteria. The basement was like the inside of a drum.

“Bad news. Won’t be until Thursday at the earliest.”

“What the fuck?” Ray collapsed onto the foot of his king-sized bed.

“The charges: arson and felony murder. Judge B promised the new DA forty-eight hours to prepare.” Morton’s office was in Huntsville, but he’d driven to Guntersville late Saturday afternoon after receiving Ray’s call and desperate plea.

“Murder?” Even though he’d known about the charred body found inside the Hunt House, he’d naively believed he bore no responsibility. That was on Buddy. Morton’s description of felony murder had fallen on closed ears.

“The news favors the prosecutor.”

Ray interrupted before Morton could continue. “What news?”

“Eric Snyder and Buddy James. They have a history together, not to mention both worked at The Shack.” Ray closed his eyes, confused. How did the DA know about Buddy? Lillian and Lee Harding flashed across his mind. Fuck. 

“Why does this matter?” Ray believed he understood the law. But beliefs aren’t always true.

“You’re tied to Buddy. Buddy’s tied to Eric. That ties you to Eric. Hold on.” Ray heard Morton order a large coffee and more chattering. “Listen, I have to return to Huntsville, but I’ll be ready on Thursday. Just keep your head up and your mouth shut.”

Ray almost yelled a dozen cusses at Morton but didn’t. He needed the man. “Please don’t let me rot in jail.”

Ray ended the call, but not before Morton guaranteed his client’s release from jail no later than Thursday afternoon.

***

The doorbell rang at 4:52 PM. Ray was ready, well, as ready as he could be. He had been watching his driveway through the master bedroom window ever since his phone conversation with Morton. After seeing the two deputies, one male, one female, Ray walked to the front door.

On the second ding, Ray opened the door. “Are you Ray Archer?” the woman, Tammie per her name tag, asked, standing on the narrow front porch beside the much taller Jared.

“I am. Come in out of the cold.” Ray was the master of a unique smarminess.

“Sir, we are Marshall County deputies and have a warrant for your arrest.” Jared said, stepping a foot closer, laying one hand on the giant front door.

“I understand, but come in. Can I grab my coat?” Ray inched backwards, allowing the two officers to enter.

“Whoa, hold on. We must go with you.” Jared said as Tammie slapped a cuff on Ray’s right hand.

Ray had planned this moment. He knew he would panic. The imagined scene, handcuffed, waist-chained, and shackled around the ankles, left him with no option. “Please don’t put me in restraints. Can we make a deal?”

“Sorry sir, its standard procedure. Where’s your coat?” Tammie asked as she pulled Ray’s hands behind his back and secured the other cuff. By now, the three had retreated several feet into the cavernous den with its thirty-foot ceilings, grand rock fireplace, cypress walls, and spiraling staircase.

“Wow, what a place.” Jared said.

Ray was fidgeting and attempting in vain to free his hands. His face turned pallid. “Please, I can’t take this. I’m about to pass out.” Jared and Tammie each grabbed an arm and lowered Ray onto the stairwell’s third tread. “I’ll pay you $500.00 each if you don’t cuff me.”

Jared and Tammie exchanged looks. “I’m sorry, that would be a bribe. Now, where’s your coat?” The two said almost in unison. What Ray didn’t know was he had triggered a negotiation.

Sheriff Wayne Waldrup started the program shortly after being elected in 2016. Technically, the practice was unethical, and Wayne was a highly ethical man. However, budgetary constraints allowed only minimum wage pay for beat deputies, slightly more for supervisory officers, and no room for bonuses. These ‘accommodations,’ as Waldrup called them, were pooled and distributed to every employee to maintain and improve morale.

“I have the cash on my desk.” Ray nodded to his left, sweat popping out across his forehead.

“Not enough for the risk,” Jared said, pulling Ray to his feet while Tammie unlocked one cuff.

“How about a thousand? Each.”

“Can you make it five total?” Tammie asked, easing Ray forward and clutching the hand that was still cuffed.

“I can, but I’ll need to access my safe.” Ray was already feeling better, but he wanted to clarify the deal. “What exactly do I get for the five grand?”

“No cuffs or restraints of any kind until we’re parked outside the jail. Then, I’ll cuff your hands, in front of you, and lead you into the jail. As soon as you’re inside a holding cell, I’ll unlock you.”

Jared walked past the stairs and looked down a short hallway. “Is the safe back here, with your desk?”

“Yes.”

“Bring him Tammie.” The officers followed Ray down the hallway and through the master.

“Can I have some privacy? My safe is hidden.” Ray knew the answer but thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Sorry Mr. Archer. You know we cannot let you out of our sight.” Jared said, trailing behind inside the master and marveling at all the mounted deer heads.

“Okay.” It’s behind the bookshelves.

It took less than ten seconds for the hidden passage to open, Ray to work the spinning combination, and remove five thousand cash, all denominated in hundred-dollar bills. Tammie had the best view, standing closest to Ray. She could see many stacks of cash in the thick walled Mosler. She concluded it was a floor model that had been raised to sit at eye-level on a concrete platform. What she didn’t know was that after Ray had purchased the Lodge, he’d hired a crew from Birmingham to move the Mosler from Wiley Jones’ upstairs study. The out-of-town crew had hidden it inside a newly created room behind a now smaller walk-in closet.

After closing the safe and the sliding bookcase, Ray handed Tammie the five grand and walked to his desk. “Here.” He held out the two five-hundred-dollar bundles toward Jared. “If you’ll make sure I have a private cell and quality food, you can have this as a bonus.” Jared accepted the money. More ‘accommodations’ for higher morale.

The thirty-five-minute drive to Guntersville was uneventful. Just what Ray wanted.

After breakfast, Lillian took a shower, and I called Sophia who was elated to hear from me. She vowed she’d turned the heat down last Tuesday after cleaning the house. It took at least five minutes for her to conclude she understood exactly where Rachel’s diaries were located, how many there were, and the exact mailing service I wanted her to use. I could tell she was a little frustrated with her English skills, but mostly her concerns were overdoing exactly what I wanted. She agreed she’d do this just as soon as school was out. Her elation returned when I promised to add an extra hundred dollars (plus shipping cost) to this week’s pay.

In the same two seconds, I said goodbye and received a call from “Unknown.” If it had been an 800 number, I wouldn’t have answered. Sometimes I wasn’t logical. “Hello.”

“Mr. Harding?”

“Yes.”

“This is Avery Proctor. We met yesterday.”

“I remember.” It was DA Garrison’s chief investigator. “What can I do for you?”

“The DA wanted me to call and ask a favor.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Do you think you could take a photo of Ray Archer’s tag? The stills you brought don’t fully disclose the tag number. He parked the Vet at a weird angle.”

“You’re referring to the red corvette?” I could hear others talking in the background.

“That’s right. Pam is an absolute stickler for details. But she wanted to stress you shouldn’t take any risk.” My first thought was to decline. I assumed Ray parked his Corvette at the Lodge, inside the garage. I quickly concluded, based on all that Ray now knew, it could be dangerous going to his home. “If she wasn’t so crunched for time, she wouldn’t ask, but our entire team has a conflict: me, Mark at the Sheriff’s office, your investigator, even Joe and his assistant.”

“Well, I can try. Maybe I’ll get lucky. By the way, what’s my deadline?”

“I’m sure Pam prefers you not to look at it that way, like it’s imperative. However, her plan is for ADA Vincent to be at the Magistrate’s office ready to apply for warrants no later than 3:00 PM today. Again, don’t put yourself in a confrontation position.”

Investigator Proctor said it would be okay to send him a digital copy and not to worry about having the photos developed. He gave me his email address and again strongly advised me to, “think before you shoot.” Neither the joke nor laughter created an apple pie and football image.

He ended the call just as Lillian descended the stairs dressed in tight jeans and a baggy, crimson-colored sweatshirt. I shared DA Garrison’s requested favor and received a puzzled look, scrunched forehead, and squinted eyes.

Lillian’s response surprised me. “Good news. We can go to the Lodge after we leave Ray’s office.” She removed a scrunchie from her jeans and returned to the kitchen table. There was something mesmerizing about watching her pull back her silky brown hair.

“Maybe the corvette will be at his office.”

“No way. It’ll be at the Lodge. He always drives the Suburban to work.” Lillian scanned her iPhone for a long minute. “He’s at the office or will be shortly.”

“How do you know?”

“Facebook. Anna. Ray’s secretary. She’s like a fountain, always spewing subtle clues. Today’s post, ‘Workday,’ along with a GIF of a man operating a jackhammer, means she’ll be busy and not play Solitaire or surf the web like she loves to do.”

“Whatever. Grab your camera while I take a quick shower. Let’s get this done.” Maybe I was taking this too seriously. Lillian had half-a-century with the son-of-a-bitch.

“I see you’re worried, so I’ll verify.” Lillian shushed me toward my bedroom and finger-tapped her iPhone. Halfway down the hall, I heard her tell somebody she was coming by and to make sure her check was ready. I showered and changed without finding an answer to my nagging question: how would Ray respond to me spending so much time with his wife? I couldn’t wait until his arrest.

***

Lillian insisted we take the Aviator. There were several boxes of books she’d left in Ray’s garage. She insisted I drive. “You drop me off in front of Ray’s office and circle the block. I’ll be outside before you complete one loop.” I’d seen his building when Kent and I tried to visit Jackie Fraiser on Thanksgiving.

Turning onto Mcville Road, I remembered the corner building had been a church when I was growing up. The post office was next door. The Sand Mountain Bank was beside it. “I’m such a lucky woman.” Lillian said, as I crawled through the stop sign at Beulah Road.

“Uh?”

“Few wives get paid when their husband screws another woman.” I didn’t know how to respond to the shocking statement. I glanced toward the Jane Seymour look-alike but didn’t tarry. “Micaden Tanner’s idea.”

I stared at the road and sped up, barely secreting an “uh-mm.” Lillian would fill in the blanks if she wanted to.

“He’s brilliant. We’re fortunate to have him on our team.” I couldn’t disagree with that assessment.

“I agree, Micaden is impressive.”

“If you didn’t know, Ray’s always been a philanderer. My opportunity came when he was on the verge of selling the pharmacy chain. He was in the spotlight, and I was ready to get out, at least to cause him some pain. Micaden suggested I demand a redo of our prenup. Long story short, Ray loved his reputation more than his money. He promised, in writing mind you, to pay me $50,000 every time he had an affair. That’s when I hired Connor Ford to keep tabs on my pussy-loving husband.”

“You paint a vivid picture.” And I thought I’d met some interesting characters in the thousands of cases I’d read over the years. Lillian was head of the line.

“Today’s check is $150,000. It should be 200K, but I gave him a twenty-five percent discount.” I cut my eyes her way and nodded. We rode the remaining few miles in welcomed silence.

Ray’s dark blue Suburban was on the street in front of his office. I stopped without pulling into a parking spot. “I’ll drive at normal speed. Be careful.” I still didn’t like the idea of Lillian confronting Ray, especially over money. Hopefully, it won’t be that big of a deal.

In less than three minutes, I returned. Lillian was waiting behind the Suburban. She hopped in, holding a number ten envelope in her hand. It was already open. “When Ray’s arrested, I’ll treat you to a steak, but we best go out of town.”

 I smiled. Sort of. “Any trouble?”

“No Ray in sight. Anna handed me the envelope and volunteered her boss was with Mayor King at City Hall.”

“Good. Ray may be near seventy but he’s still a powerful man.” I crossed Highway 168, remembering how he’d stabbed my forehead at the Hunt House with his long-pointed finger. I imagined he would have beaten me to a pulp if it hadn’t been for Ted King.

***

I’d never been to Skyhaven Drive. The mountainside subdivision was three miles south of Boaz. Charles Cooley, a high school classmate’s father, developed it in the early seventies. The Lodge set at the peak and provided an enviable view of Pleasant Valley below.

I took the right fork of the concrete driveway that led to a three-car attached garage along the north side of the rock and cypress house. All three doors were closed. There was another garage, this one detached, a hundred feet to the west and down a gently sloping yard.

“The corvette will be there.” Lillian said, cocking her thumb to her right toward the detached garage, with its two doors similarly closed. “Come on.”

I exited the Aviator and followed her across the yard. “Are they locked?” I said as she walked around the side of the building and disappeared.

I heard her say, “Wait.”

In less than a minute, I heard metal clanking and saw the right-side door opening. The corvette’s rear tag appeared. Lillian started snapping photos with her iPhone, including several random ones around the inside of the garage. She must have noticed my puzzled look. “No need for my fancy Nikon.”

“That’ll make it easier to email the photos to the DA.”

She lowered the door and disappeared again. When she walked around the corner, she motioned me to follow her up the hill to a sidewalk that led to the rear deck of the house. “I want my books.”

“I thought you said they were in the garage.” Lillian ignored me and started punching buttons on the security pad next to the back door.

“They are, but those three doors are locked. Plus, we need to grab my recorders.”

“Whoa, whoa. This isn’t a good idea. What if Ray shows up and we’re inside the house?” It was a dumb question. One I already knew the answer.

“It won’t take but a minute, now come on.” For some stupid reason, I ignored my best judgment, any judgment, and followed Lillian. She opened a set of bottom cabinet doors in the middle of the kitchen island before I could walk fully inside. She first knelt and felt around the underside of a stainless-steel sink, then transitioned into lying flat on her back and inching her head inside the cabinet. “Here it is. Whew, I thought he’d found it.”

“Hurry. Where’s the other one?” I knew Lillian said she’d hidden two devices. She held up her right hand for my help in standing. With her left, she tossed me the cell-phone sized device.

“It’s in the master.” The teenager acting woman was around the island, across a giant great room, and circling a spiral staircase when I heard a deep baritone horn.

“Shit.” I again followed Lillian and the direction of the outside blare. I peeped through the blinds next to the front door.

“It’s just the UPS guy.” I kept following my ears down an L-shaped hallway into an over-sized bedroom. Lillian was atop the bed on her knees, reaching behind a row of leather-wrapped biographies.

“Risky place to leave a bug.”

“Not really. Ray’s not a reader. These are all for show, whose I’m not sure.” I could see inside two connecting rooms. One was the master bathroom. The other looked like an office or study, given the large wooden desk and chair.

Lillian clutched the recorder and rolled to the other side of the king-size bed. “We need to do one more thing. Come on.” Oh my god, wonder woman trolling for trouble.

This time, I eased to a window and its opened wood blinds. All I could see was a circular drive and a forest of trees beyond. When I found Lillian, she was sitting at Ray’s desk prowling through the bottom right-hand drawer. “What are you doing? Let’s get your books and go.”

I scanned the room while Lillian ignored me. There were no windows, but two mounted deer heads cast a dark light from the wood-paneled walls. Although the photons weren’t real, my thoughts were. It takes a dark individual to kill other sentient beings and showcase them, even inside a private room.

“Okay, got it.” She slammed the drawer and grabbed my hand as she jogged past. “Come on. I thought you were in a hurry.” I obeyed.

We exited the master, made a U-turn around the spiraling staircase and jogged down another hallway lined with photographs, paintings, and plaques of the only person I hated. “Ego walls,” I noted.

The moment we entered the laundry room, we both froze at the sound of an automatic garage door. “Oh shit, it’s Ray.”

Lillian’s transformation was instant. She turned to me with a gapping mouth and hollow eyes, her face ghostlike. Shocked was the best description. “Okay, here’s the plan.” My quick decision reminded me of long-gone days in court: objections or follow-up questions rooted in seconds, not minutes. “I’ll go out the back door while you distract Ray.” I eased backwards and scanned the ego wall for the framed newspaper article, including a photograph of Ray and Lillian. “Here, tell him you’re sorry for not asking, but you wanted this picture.” I nodded affirmatively while retreating to the kitchen. “You can do this. Go now, I’ll be hiding in the Aviator.”

Lillian finally gave me a weak thumbs up and opened the door to the garage. I turned and hustled to the kitchen and outside to the rear deck, descending the steps two at a time. My ears were on alert as I raced the sidewalk to the north end of the house. Maybe I expected screaming or gunshots, but there were neither. Exhausted, I eased into a row of shrubbery at the corner. In this position, I could hear Ray’s loudmouth from inside the open garage but couldn’t understand his words. I turned the corner and hugged the wall towards Ray’s Suburban parked halfway inside the garage’s nearest stall.

“And what the fuck were you and that dumb ass Lee Harding doing at Ted’s cabin Friday night?” I peeked around the wall and saw Lillian standing at the bottom of the utility room stairs, holding the framed picture. There weren’t two feet separating her and Ray. He loved to intimidate. No doubt he was angry. Both hands were by his side, rapidly opening and closing like he was preparing to fight.

Wonder woman lost her cool. “I’ll answer if you tell me why the fuck you burned down the Hunt House.” Oh my gosh Lillian. What are you doing? I thought about sprinting around Ray’s Suburban and on to the Aviator. I leaned back against the outside wall, shook my head sideways, and stared into the beaming sun.

“Don’t you fucking accuse me of anything.” Fuck was a popular word. Then, I heard glass breaking. I peeked again. Ray had grabbed the framed article and slammed it against the stairs. He hurled the twisted remains against the rear wall and rammed his right index finger into Lillian’s forehead. Much harder than he had me outside the Hunt House. She fell backwards and awkwardly slid down the steps onto the garage floor.

I didn’t hesitate half a second. I ran as fast as I could toward Ray. He heard me coming and turned just as I did my own ramming. It was like hitting a stone wall, but my momentum caught him off guard just before he could brace. The two of us tumbled ten feet and crumbled to the floor before impacting the wall. My shoulder cried out in pain, reminding me it was nowhere near healed. Ray was fast to be so big. He was on his feet in no time. His right foot centered on my upper stomach while I used all fours to stand. If it hadn’t been for Lillian, the beast would have killed me.

Later, she told me the moment she saw me running towards Ray, she’d seen a set of golf clubs leaning against the wall beside the steps. She’d grabbed a six iron and shellacked Ray’s neck before he could kick me twice. She’d used her best baseball style swing.

We waited ten minutes to determine whether Ray would live or die. He lived but moaned and groaned a lot as he labored to reach a sitting position against the wall. “Don’t you ever lay a hand on Lillian, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” My anger, boldness, and growing stupidity prompted Lillian to demand our withdrawal and exit.

During the drive to Kyla’s, I kept verbally kicking myself for allowing this to happen. I knew there could be multiple consequences, one being mine and Lillian’s arrest, another being Ray’s next murder.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue. I’ll never forget.” Lillian said as we turned right at Walgreen’s.