Category: The Boaz Stranger

Goats drink a lot of water, even in colder weather, I thought as I waited for their trough to fill. Hopefully, this will be my third and last day to care for the five Nubians.

Kyla had left Friday afternoon and traveled to Atlanta to pick up a former co-worker before they headed to the Smoky Mountains. She promised to return by late afternoon.

The goats hadn’t been the only ones I’d babysat. Lillian had dropped by at sunset Saturday and insisted she stay. I could hardly decline after hearing her latest recording. She was correct in concluding our lives were in danger, but I disagreed that she was the only one responsible for getting us into this mess. In fact, the initial idea of staking out Ted King’s cabin had been my own. I felt both guilt and an impending sense of foreboding.

I turned off the faucet and heard my new roommate yell something from the front porch. I looked her way. She was standing with a cup of coffee and her back to the open storm door. She wore a thin pink housecoat and the same toboggan from Friday night. Our short co-habitation felt odd, maybe even wrong, for several reasons. I almost regretted the respect she’d shown for my Friday night hesitancy. But respect and thoughtful restraint are two different things. Although there had been no actual kissing, holding, or lovemaking, an intersecting theme flooded my mind that pointed in the same direction.

“What?” She’d said something about a phone call. I was halfway to the front porch when she repeated her earlier statement. “The DA lady wants to talk to you.” Dang, she’s early. It was barely daylight.

I walked to the carport, kicked off Dad’s muddy work boots, slipped on my house shoes, and headed inside.

Governor Williams had recently appointed Marshall County District Attorney Pam Garrison to fill the spot vacated by the death of former DA Charles Abbott. A good thing, according to Micaden, was Pam had only recently returned to her hometown of Albertville after a forty-year career in Atlanta, the last half spent as a Fulton County prosecutor. It was unlikely local politics had entangled her. I grabbed my iPhone from the kitchen table and realized if it weren’t for Micaden, I wouldn’t be receiving this call.

“Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting.” Pam and Micaden had worked for the same Atlanta law firm after they graduated from Emory University’s School of Law in 1977. Of course, this didn’t mean she would convey favors, but hopefully it meant she’d follow the law.

“No problem.” It sounded like classical music playing in the background. “Lee, if you will, get me all of Rachel’s diaries.” DA Pam’s request didn’t surprise me. I’d contemplated the same yesterday afternoon when I handed her the diary I’d discovered inside a Hunt House wall.

The last thirty-six hours had been a whirlwind. After the shock of listening to Lillian’s last Lodge recording, I’d called Micaden. It hadn’t taken ten minutes, including my recap of everything relevant to Ray and Buddy as arsonists, for my lawyer to slip into his grand master mode. He’d contacted Connor in Gatlinburg, who contacted Mark Hale in the Sheriff’s Department. Then Mark contacted Avery Proctor, the District Attorney’s chief investigator, who’d obviously communicated with DA Pam. Finally, she closed the loop back to her old friend Micaden.

At noon yesterday, all of us had met in the DA’s conference room (Connor via video) for Pam and Avery to listen to all recordings, review the Hunt House lawsuit documents, and inspect the seventy-five still shots from Ted’s cabin Lillian had traveled to the Gadsden Walmart for development and printing. Pam’s assistant district attorney, Greg Vincent, had also joined the meeting.

Three and a half hours later, the DA concluded the evidence justified the issuance of arrest warrants. After a brief break and before our meeting disbanded, Micaden had requested permission to address one of Marshall County’s oldest cold cases: the disappearance and presumed death of Kyle Bennett. Maybe Micaden had read my mind during the three plus hour meeting. I had kept thinking we needed to use full disclosure with the woman who had been so open-minded and gracious.

I’d often heard shocks or surprises come in triplet. DA Pam’s response to Micaden’s request had baffled him and me. It seems ever since she’d arrived, cold cases had become a popular topic, including one that occurred only a few weeks before Kyle disappeared. Eerily, the two had similar characteristics. Sharon Teague, an Albertville High School rising senior and cheerleader, had gone missing during late summer or early fall of 1969, around the time Pam Garrison herself began her freshman year at the same school.

After Micaden provided a summary (including Rachel’s diaries) of why he, Connor, and I believed Ray Archer had committed the crime of kidnapping and murdering Kyle, DA Pam had responded rather cold and disinterested. But she had asked me to read the diary I’d found behind the wall inside the Hunt House.

As Lillian attempted breakfast in a foreign kitchen, I finally responded to Pam’s question. “It’s not that I don’t want you to read them (in part, it was), but I’ve been reluctant to have them shipped, afraid they’d get lost in the mail.”

“I understand your hesitation and cannot grasp what’s it’s like to lose your spouse in such a tragic way. However, from strictly a legal viewpoint, I cannot properly consider the diaries value until I read every page.” What DA Pam was saying without putting it into words was Rachel’s diaries (assuming the court ruled them admissible) could do more harm than good. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp defense attorney turned a prosecutor’s star witness or smoking gun document into a pile of smoldering ashes.

DA Pam and I ended our conversation with me reluctantly promising to deliver Rachel’s remaining journals. Right now, the prospects of Ray being brought to justice for Kyle’s death seemed remote. Especially since we didn’t have a murder weapon, and it appeared Rachel’s writings might be the key to Ray’s exoneration.

I would call Sophia and ask her to package and mail my late wife’s long hidden scribblings.

***

I poured two glasses of grape juice while Lillian redialed Kyla’s new toaster. The first attempt had produced four slices of charcoal. “I like mine burnt,” I joked. At least the bacon smelled good.

Lillian offered a slight smile and her customary eyeroll as she removed two plates from the oven. “I hope you like southwestern omelets.” I kept quiet and figured the pink-clad cook had her own unique cooking style.

“I do.” I carried the juice to the table and sat. Lillian followed with egg and pepper aromas wafting from the still-opened oven.

We ate in silence, interrupted only by the ding of the toaster. Lillian’s meal impressed me, including the sauteed onions and peppers inside the omelet, and the brown sugar sprinkled on the bacon. But I avoided the bread, not burnt this time but overly brown.

“How well do you know Jane?” I asked as the two of us washed the dirty dishes.

“I’ve known her all my life, but you knew that.”

“Describe her, not her physically, but her character, her personality.” Before I asked my questions, I wanted to learn Lillian’s thoughts.

“To be blunt, I’ve never really liked her, even though she probably doesn’t know that. Truth be known, I’d bet Rachel felt the same.” I was listening carefully, but my mind was also straying. It felt weird being here with Lillian. It was almost like we were playing house. I wondered what life would have been like if we’d married or at least gotten engaged before Ray had swooped in, or Rachel and I connected at the University of Virginia. “Plus, she’s a manipulator of sorts. You know she loves chess.”

“The game of chess?”

“Yes.”

“That’s surprising, the manipulator thing.” I found an empty coffee can under the sink and drained the skillet grease, while Lillian wiped the table. “Question, and it may sound silly, but do you think Jane has a thing for Ray?”

Without hesitation, “oh gosh yeah. Now you’ve got me curious. Why do you ask that?”

“Kent seemed to think Jane might protect Ray. Plus, the last recording. I’ve been contemplating the differences between what Jane told me and what Ray said Jane told him.”

“I think I understand. But explain yourself.” I couldn’t help but notice Lillian’s cleavage as she leaned down to return the coffee can under the sink. Again, the never-to-fade, long-ago image of the naked goddess in Kyla’s bedroom flooded my mind. In a weird way, it was refreshing to know I hadn’t lost my libido, but I had to maintain focus. For Kyle and Rachel’s sake.

“You heard Ray’s recap of his and Jane’s conversation on Saturday afternoon’s recording: that Ray had dropped Kyle off first, and that Rachel’s abortion was before she returned to China. Notice, these two things all favor Ray. I mean, if he was being accused of doing something bad, like murder. What Ray’s recap didn’t include were two other things.” I rinsed the skillet and reached for the drying towel. Lillian and I bumped shoulders.

“What two things?”

“Jane made a couple of remarks during our phone conversation. The first one seemed out of place.”

“What was that?” Lillian closed the oven and drained the dishwater.

“She said that when they dropped Kyle off at the end of his driveway, she and Rachel made fun of Jackie Fraiser’s car. They called it the ‘blue moon.’”

“That seems odd, given your question. Why would that be relevant?”

“Here’s my theory. Jane and Ray talked after he had breakfast with Kent. Remember, I told you what Kent said.”

“I do. He thinks he caught Ray in a lie.”

“It’s like Jane wanted to emphasize that Jackie was home much earlier than normal. Therefore, Ray was telling the truth in his conversation with Kent.”

“Let me see if I understand. Ray’s witness statement says he and Rachel dropped Kyle off around 9:00 p.m., but Kent thinks it was much later because he, Ray, admitted Jackie’s car was already home. So, if Jackie had come home from the Spinning Mill much earlier than usual, there wouldn’t be a conflict in Ray’s statements.”

“Right. Again, Jane protected Ray, but she didn’t tell Ray that she mentioned Jackie’s car to me.”

“It’s a little confusing but I see your point.” Lillian edged toward me as I wiped down the sink. The woman always smelled of Lavender and she hadn’t yet taken her morning shower. “So, what was the second thing?”

“To me it’s wholly irrelevant.”

“No way. You remember the rule: you bring up a subject you don’t get to avoid explanation.”

She was correct. This practice among Kyla, Lillian, and me was a tradition even in high school. “When I told Jane about finding the diaries, she blamed Rachel for her own journaling addiction.”

“That sounds like Jane. In Bible study, she often mentions her diaries. She’s a firm believer in confessing her sins in writing.”

I laughed out loud, but then remembered during the last year or so of Rachel’s life, it obsessed her. What she believed wrong, what she called disobedience, was amazing. It could be as innocuous as eating a 150-calorie glazed cookie. Amazing, and sad.

It was 3:00 PM Saturday afternoon before Spectrum’s serviceman arrived. He was thirty minutes late but had called Ted to let him know. “Sorry, last night’s storm has us scrambling.” The fireplug shaped woman surprised Ted as she exited her pickup. Terrie had sounded like a man over the phone.

The temperature was hovering at freezing, so Ted went inside the cabin. Terrie wanted to check the panel first. She walked to the side of the house and quickly noticed the incoming cable had been severed.

“That was easy to diagnose.” Terrie said, joining Ted in the great room.

“How so?”

“Someone clipped your line; cut it in half.” Terrie pulled her right hand across her throat to dramatize her words.

“Damn. Probably the same person who took my whiskey. And left the front door unlocked.” The service lady gave both affirmative and negative nods, one after the other.

“Well, I can’t help you there, but I can splice your incoming and have you going in fifteen minutes.” Terrie exited the cabin while Ted watched, confused. He wondered if the Spectrum rep was a trans: a male trying to become a female, or the opposite.

Ted shook his head and walked to the rear of the cabin. He opened the blinds and looked through the sliding glass door across the porch and to the over-sized and barren fire pit. He closed his eyes and recalled the many times he and his buddies had drank beer and delivered bullshit stories of their female conquests. But, what he’d truly love is to return to younger days, a simple life with Julie, even if they didn’t have an extra dime.

The suction from the front storm door and a triple ding from his iPhone startled Ted. He turned. “Done already?”

“Yep. You should be good to go, but let’s check.” Terrie walked in front of the giant screen TV and picked up the remote sitting atop the entertainment center. After a few seconds, Ted watched Alabama’s quarterback Mac Jones complete a thirty-yard pass against Auburn. “Just in time to watch the massacre.” Terrie flipped a few channels before activating Netflix. It wouldn’t connect. “Where’s your router?” Ted pointed to the master bedroom and waited for a quick minute. “That should do it.”

Ted walked Terrie outside and watched him, her, drive away, waving an Alabama hat outside the driver’s side window. Back inside, Ted removed his iPhone and sat on the couch, intent on watching at least the first half. What he heard changed everything.

 The break in Wi-Fi service had delayed his cell notifications. When Julie had left him and before she moved into the cabin, Ted had hired a friend from Atlanta to install two devices. One was a video camera hidden inside a smoke alarm. The second was an audio recorder secluded inside a largemouth bass mounted next to an eight-point buck above the front door.

Ted would have to remove the memory card from the video device and insert it into a PC before reviewing its contents. However, the audio was already on his phone, sent via email after Terri restored his Internet service. Ted opened the clip and pressed PLAY. The voices were clear but unfamiliar. One was a female; one was a male. Ted replayed the recording three times:

Female: “I see you like playing in the mud.” Long pause.

Male: “Don’t we need to remove the recorders?” Minimal pause.

Female: “Done. Now, come on. I can’t wait to weigh our catch.”

“Oh shit,” was all Ted could say. He stood and pulled a dining room chair to the doorway leading to the master bedroom. He climbed up, reached for the smoke detector, and opened its outer door. Inside was another door. Ted removed the memory card and stepped off the chair, nearly falling as he questioned and doubted whether the female voice was Julie’s, and whether she had found a new playmate.

During the return drive to his house, he concluded it was unlikely his former lover knew about the recorders. So, what was the man’s voice referring to?

All Ted could say as he parked in front of his sprawling mansion was, “shit, shit, shit, if it’s not Julie, who the hell could it be?”

***

Ted was more confused after watching the video. The woman inside his cabin could be Julie. The two were the same or similar height. But something was off. The woman on the screen was too thick. Ted admitted the camouflaged outfit could be the difference, especially if it was double or triple layered. Of course, identification would have been easier if the woman hadn’t blackened her face. Woman? Ted questioned his gender analysis; maybe the figure was a man.

After an unsuccessful attempt to call Ray, Ted had driven to Julie’s house. Her car was missing. He thought about calling but decided against it. Instead, he checked Julie’s Facebook Page. Last night, contemporaneous with the date/time stamp on both the audio and video recordings, Julie was enjoying a meal at Cotton Row in Huntsville. Somewhat tentatively, Ted concluded his estranged wife wasn’t the intruder. Maybe Ray would know.

It was 5:30 PM when Ted parked outside the Lodge’s triple-car garage. Ray was unloading groceries. “We need to talk. Now.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Ray said, motioning for Ted to grab some Walmart bags from the back of the Suburban.

“I did. Both your cell and your land line.”

“I don’t enjoy talking when I’m in such a public place. Too many eavesdroppers around.”

After two more trips each, Ted sat at the breakfast bar while Ray put away the groceries. “You hit the nail on the head.”

“Uh?” Ray glanced at Ted before shoving a box of dishwasher detergent underneath the sink.

“Someone was inside the cabin last night, both before and after we arrived.”

“Holy shit. How do you know?”

Over the next hour, Ted and Ray reviewed and discussed the two recordings. According to Ray, there was little doubt the woman on the video was Lillian. The main giveaway was the knitted Deerhunter toboggan he had given her for Christmas two years ago. The second giveaway was the female voice from the audio recording. “I’d know that voice anywhere.”

“Then, who’s the man?” Ted asked, accepting a Budweiser from Ray.

“Now that I’ve spoken to Jane, I think I know. It’s Lee Harding.” Ray removed his iPhone from his shirt pocket, clicked a couple of buttons, and laid it on the counter next to the sink. “Listen to what she said.”

Jane had reported that Lee had called her this morning. He relayed that he had found several of Rachel’s diaries. Lee had asked two questions. One concerned Jane’s knowledge of what happened the night Kyle had gone missing, particularly whether Ray and Rachel had dropped Jane off at her house while Kyle was still in Ray’s truck. The second concerned Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion. Jane had been certain of both her responses. She had sworn that Ray had first dropped Kyle at the end of his driveway before driving to her house further down King Street. She had also sworn that Rachel had her abortion before she and her family returned to China in the middle of tenth grade.

“It’s good to hear Jane is still on your side but what I don’t understand is why Lee and Lillian would come to my cabin.” Ted said, shaking his head.

“We have to assume they heard every word uttered after we arrived, including my argument with Buddy.” Ray paused and took two long draws of his beer. “Thank God there was no mention of the Hunt House.”

Ted stood and pushed the bar stool back under the counter. “Ray, promise you’ll protect me. From the recordings, I’m just along for the ride. I had nothing to do with you and Buddy.”

“You dumb fuck. It was your place. You were there. You’re guilty by association.” Ray’s declaration spurred Ted to stand, walk toward the giant fireplace in the den, and return to the kitchen. Ted was clearly worried.

“I think we better protect each other. We both are at risk of going to prison. You for the fiasco with your Albertville cheerleader and the Hunt House fire, among a long list of other things, and me for financial corruption.”

“And you for arson.” Ray added.

“The hell you say. All I did was manipulate the police.” Ted had placed an anonymous call to the Boaz dispatcher who’d sent three patrol cars to a domestic violence inspired shooting outside Barry’s Barbecue south of town. This had provided safe passage for Buddy and Eric’s visit to Thomas Avenue and the Hunt House.

 “That’s conspiracy to commit a crime you dumb ass.” Ray hated lawyers but had always been fascinated by the law.

“Come on, let’s go to The Shack and eat a steak. While we can.” Ray nodded, flipped off the kitchen lights, and followed Ted outside.

***

Lillian’s iPhone vibrated. For the past two hours, she had napped on her couch under a throw. She reached for the coffee table and read the text notification. Device A triggered an hour ago. She tossed her heavy Afghan aside and sat up.

She pressed PLAY. Lillian didn’t recognize the voice who said, “You hit the nail on the head.” The second voice was clearly Ray.

Lillian stood after the third statement. “Damn, that has to be Ted King.”

She rewound and replayed the words that scared her to death: “Someone was inside the cabin last night, both before and after we arrived.” Lillian listened and re-listened for thirty minutes, alternately rewinding and fast-forwarding at critical spots. Finally, she stood and walked through the kitchen, across the back porch, and toward the pond, dreading and postponing her call to Lee. “What a fucking mess I’ve made. I’ve just given Ray the motivation to kill Lee and me.

Lillian located the cabin’s key without trouble or fanfare. It hung on a nail six feet above the creek on a tree whose roots splayed into the rushing water like a web of miniature piers. Thankfully, someone had strategically placed flat rocks to use as steppingstones to cross the creek. Lillian executed the ten-foot walk flawlessly. My right foot slipped into the cold water halfway across. I somehow avoided a complete dunk in the fast moving but shallow water. Without ridicule or sympathy, Lillian led us to the front side of a log cabin, sitting dark, silent, and lifeless. “Walk three hundred feet and hide.” She pointed away from the cabin along a tree-lined narrow gravel road. “Use this to warn me if you need to.” She unzipped her fanny pack and removed a set of walkie-talkies, something I hadn’t seen in half a century. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Wonder Woman had spent a career in the military.

I paused at the road’s edge and wanted to ask a dozen questions. Like, where are you going to put the recorders? What if they bugged the house with motion detectors, cameras, alarms? “Message me when you’re done.” Lillian nodded and shushed me away.

A football field’s walk brought alarm. I had just rounded a curve and saw lights in the distance. It took me a minute, but I finally figured it out. The three corners of Ted King’s house had floodlights, and they were on. I eased into a ditch and struggled to climb what, in my youth, would be a shallow embankment. I used a smaller tree to pull myself up. The pain from my hurt shoulder was the second thing that reminded me of my age. I found a large tree to hide behind and messaged Lillian. “Base to Alpha. Are you okay?”

“Damn, you scared me. Is something wrong?” I hoped she had already completed the mission and was making her way to her post across the road from the cabin’s front porch.

“Just checking to make sure we’re connected.” I rolled my eyes as I repeated my statement to myself.

“We are. Believe me.” I think I heard her sigh. “Okay, I’m finished. You can come back. We need to take our position and get ready to snap some photos.”

“Roger over and out.” I did not know why I was acting so silly. It made me wonder whether the Vicodin had a long-term effect.

I used the same sapling to return to the ditch and road. Ten steps toward Lillian I heard a sound, like distant thunder, but that seemed unlikely given the weather. Instead, a slow-moving vehicle came to mind. After making a 180-degree turn, I saw a dim, expansive light filtering through an ocean of trees. I removed my walkie-talkie and announced. “I think we’ve got company.”

“Hide. Now. Don’t come any further.” Lillian’s order matched my intent.

I jammed the walkie-talkie into my pocket and hustled back to my first hideout. By now, I could see a pair of headlights coming my way. I grabbed the sapling and pulled. A thin layer of ice had formed where I’d last gripped my hands. This time, I slipped and fell to my knees. When I regained my footing. I removed a bandanna from my back pocket and wrapped it tightly around the small tree. This time I made it up the embankment, but my walkie-talkie didn’t. It fell out of my pants pocket and tumbled into the ditch when I stood. I was out of time. I reached my hiding spot as a red Corvette rounded a curve a hundred feet from where I squatted. Damn, Lillian is on her own.

It felt like an hour before the second vehicle arrived. Although I couldn’t see the rear bumper and tag, I knew it was the same jacked-up blue Chevrolet that had tried to kill me. For the first time since the red car passed, I stood. I was the coldest I had ever been. Thankfully, the rain, now sleet, hadn’t penetrated my clothes. But only because of my windbreaker jacket and the pair of rain-pants Lillian had insisted I slip on before backing out of her garage.

I worried about Lillian but didn’t know what to do. So, I did nothing but follow orders, the last one being, ‘Hide. Now. Don’t come any further.’

Fortunately, Ray and Buddy opposed chattering. In less than ten minutes, I heard the blue truck rumble and figured the money exchange was over. I painfully eased to the other side of the tree and waited. The sound grew louder, and the truck picked up speed. I stayed put another ten minutes until the red Corvette crawled by. Hopefully, it was my imagination, but it seemed to slow down when passing my spot.

I waited another two minutes before repelling the embankment and mentally punishing myself for leaving my red bandanna wrapped around the sapling. I grabbed the walkie-talkie from the ditch and jogged the best I could toward Lillian.

Wonder Woman was sitting on the cabin’s front porch steps when I ended my sprint. “I thought you’d left me,” she said, standing and throwing her backpack across her shoulder.

“No, just a little clumsy these days.”

Lillian gave me a quick head-to-toe inspection. “I see you like playing in the mud.” At least she smiled.

I wanted to explain, but she waved me off and onward. I read her action as ‘shut up and follow me.’ “Don’t we need to remove the recorders?”

“Done. Now, come on. I can’t wait to weigh our catch.” Her last phrase gained clarity during our twenty-minute return trek to the Clausen’s. The sleet was now mixed with snow, and I was still freezing.

Ray had arrived first. In a red Corvette. He had brought a friend. None other than Mayor King himself. Lillian had taken a dozen photos before the two had gone inside the cabin. Buddy had arrived in the blue truck ten minutes later. More photos. The money exchange had taken longer than expected. The second surprise arrived when Buddy exited the cabin and walked to the passenger side of his truck. Through a lowered window, a hand and half an arm emerged to secure a thick envelope and pull it inside the cab. More photos. Ray and the Mayor had ridden away a few minutes later. More photos.

It was nine-thirty before we arrived at Lillian’s. She’d insisted we buy coffee. I hadn’t resisted but was glad she removed her black face before entering McDonald’s drive-through. I’d kept a low profile in the passenger seat, semi-concealed under an overly stretched hoodie.

After the two of us changed out of our combat uniforms, we again settled around the kitchen table. Lillian removed the two recording devices from her backpack and shared how the two she’d concealed at the Lodge sent her updates because of Wi-Fi, something Ted’s cabin didn’t have.

It pleased Lillian that both recorders matched conversations. The extra cost had proved valuable. With one secured on a front porch beam and the other hidden inside on a bookshelf, the captured words were identical.

Ray: “Damn, it’s freezing out here. Let’s get inside.”

Ted: “No shit.” Pause. “That’s weird.”

Ray: “What?”

Ted: “The door’s unlocked.”

Ray: “You probably forgot.”

Ted: “I doubt it, but it has been weeks since I’ve been here. I’m calling Julie.”

Ray: “Forget it, just open the damn door.”

Rustling noises, including cabinet doors slamming.

Ted: “Shit. No Jack. Somebody’s been here.”

Ray: “Probably teenagers. Stole your booze. Forgot to lock up.” Thunderous laughter.

Ted: “I’m headed to the bedroom. Buddy can’t see me.”

Long pause. Minutes pass.

Ray (louder this time): “He’s here.”

Ted (faintly): “Roger.”

Lillian and I listened to the money-exchange scene three times. The conversation was as expected. Except for one part. There, through an angry back and forth, we learned the name of the tall man whose charred body was now lying on a cold stainless-steel table in Birmingham at the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences. Eric Snyder was from Guntersville, and, like Buddy, an ex-con experienced in sophisticated detonation methodologies. Ray accused Buddy of being stupid and incompetent.

Buddy shared his theory, a hypothesis. A few minutes before eleven, Eric, as instructed, had reentered the Hunt House for one last inspection. Although the gas explosion was scheduled for midnight, something went wrong. Buddy blamed Eric and his steel-toed boots. Ray had repeated his demeaning accusation. A money argument ensued, with Ray threatening to pay only half. Buddy countered with his own threat, “You and me both will rot in jail if you don’t pay every fucking cent you promised.”

For the next two hours, Lillian and I bantered back and forth about the best course of action to pursue. We settled on a presentation of our evidence to Micaden and Connor with hopes one or both would connect the last and most vital link in the chain, from Ray and Buddy’s arson and murder to the halls of justice.

***

At midnight, I remained chilled from the night’s activities. Lillian’s central heat sucked. “I’ve got to go. Kyla’s propane heater is beckoning me home.” I stood, walked to the back door and reached for my duffel. When I turned back toward the table, Lillian was standing less than a foot away.

“Before you go, I have to say thanks. Unless something drastic happens, I’m on the quick road to my ultimate freedom. And I owe it all to you.” She stepped closer and placed her hands, palms out, on my chest. Our eyes met.

“Truth is, you didn’t need me. You’re a one-woman platoon. I just got in the way.” She laughed and shook her head, shifting strands of still-tousled hair away from her eyes. She laid the left side of her face against my cheek and slid her hands around my waist. Her lavender scent was mesmerizing. I almost put my hands in my pants pocket but connected them around her back slightly above her hips.

“Lee, I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” I knew what she was thinking and subconsciously I’d waited for some arrangement of these words for over half a century. She pressed her body against mine.

“I can. And I do, but next time, I get to use the Nikon.” She raised and cocked her head sideways. Smiled. Her forehead creased.

“You dufus.” She released her grip slightly. “You don’t know what I’m talking about.”

My body wanted to disconnect my hands, slide one up her back to the base of her neck, and pull her lips toward mine. But my mind questioned whether I was ready. “You retard, I know, and yes, I forgive you.”

Unlike me, Lillian responded to her body’s desire. She laid her palms across my cheeks, pulled me forward, and planted a soft kiss on my lips. When I didn’t immediately respond, she said, “Lee, I love you. I always have.”

My mind flashed forward to Lillian’s bed and her naked body. I was losing my struggle with temptation. But I knew I’d hate myself in the morning. I admitted to Lillian my lustful thoughts and ended our night with, “I’m just not ready.”

With that, I retreated through the back door, and across the porch and yard to the Hyundai. I drove home aching for Wonder Woman’s soft kisses, sexy words, and sensuous touches.

My iPhone beeped an email alert. I exited the Hardee’s restroom in Springville, where I’d relieved myself for the second time in twenty-five minutes. My frequent bathroom breaks should be an ongoing reminder I needed to see a urologist.

The email was from Bert Stallings. I settled into my Hyundai and read his response to the one I’d sent before leaving the airport. “The committee has approved your request for emergency leave.” Bert’s terseness reminded me of Micaden. Thankfully, my law school colleague’s words were more forthcoming when dealing with personal matters. Bert’s P.S. expression of care and sympathy for Rob’s health, and for speed and effectiveness in dealing with the Hunt House fire, was heartfelt and welcomed.

So far, the timing has been perfect. The last day of classes and the beginning of the Thanksgiving recess had been the 20th, a week ago today. Beginning next Monday, the students begin a seven-day reading period to prepare for their fall exams. The testing period will end December the 18th.

Thankfully, two of my colleagues, Lea Doherty and Steve Cunningham, had agreed to proctor my exams in Torts I, Appellate Advocacy, and Legal Writing, and overnight them to me for grading. I entered Reminders in Evernote to buy Lea and Steve a delightful Christmas gift, and to book a return flight that will put me in New Haven no later than Friday, January 29th, three days before the beginning of Spring term.

I started the Hyundai and exited Hardee’s parking lot. I’d always favored a tight schedule, knowing it helped occupy my mind and control my curiosity. However, two months seemed laughingly inadequate to alter the trajectory of Ray Archer’s life. In fact, it felt like a noose around my neck. And this said nothing about the time and effort required to grade a hundred and ten bluebooks, and prep for my Spring-term classes.

I called Lillian when I took the Highway 77 exit. She would know the answer to my question. “Hey.”

“Hi, it’s Lee.”

She didn’t pause. “I figured you were over Virginia by now.” Before Lillian finished her statement, I heard three bleats in unison. The goats. I doubted my former girlfriend had twisted into a tomboy and purchased her own Nubians. She had to be at Harding Hillside.

“Are you with Kyla? Outside?” My second question was unnecessary.

“Yes. Kind of. She’s in the barn.” Clear and cohesive speech is rare.

“Lillian, please don’t tell her it’s me. I’m in Attalla and need your help. I’ll tell sis later.”

“Okay. What do you need?” I heard Kyla ask Lillian to turn on a faucet.

“Can you meet at your house in thirty minutes?” I couldn’t imagine a scenario where Kyla didn’t sense it was me. Lillian wasn’t a good liar.

“I can. You didn’t tell me what this is about.”

“A stakeout. Tonight. Ray and Buddy. You know.”

Lillian ended our call with a “Thanks Justin for calling me back so soon. I’ll see you in half an hour.” I didn’t know Justin, but I suspected Lillian did, probably a plumber, an electrician, or a heating and air guy.

***

Lillian was sitting at her kitchen table staring at her open laptop when I walked in. Five minutes ago, she had sent a text telling me where to park and to enter through the back porch.

“Hey. Sit here.” Without greeting, she patted the extra chair positioned next to her own. I sat my duffel on the floor and did as instructed. With barely a glance, Lillian asked, “Do you know Barry and Vanessa Clausen?”

I craned my neck toward the laptop and Google Maps. “No. Never heard of them.” Lillian magnified Google Maps’ satellite view and used a number two pencil to point at a large house with an in-ground swimming pool nestled among a forest of trees. I gave her a confused look: cocked head and squinting eyebrows with creased forehead. I even held both hands palm up.

“Doesn’t matter, but I do. We’ll use their place to access Ted’s cabin.”

“Okay.” After half a century, I’d forgotten Lillian’s take-charge nature. If, and only if, it concerned a mystery. Normal stuff, like ‘the barn’s on fire’ (the girl loved candles in the barn loft) were boring and others (mostly me) could take care of them.

“Vanessa is CEO of Colormasters in Albertville. Her and Barry left Wednesday for Gatlinburg.” I didn’t need to ask how Lillian knew this. I wondered what Barry did for work.

Over the next several minutes, Lillian provided all the context I needed. She started with geography. Bruce Road was the only access to Ted King’s estate. The arched brick entrance and paved driveway led to his grand, sprawling home with two turrets. A gravel road started just beyond an Olympic-sized pool and red metal lawn mower shed and led a quarter mile through a forest of trees to a log cabin Ted had built ten years ago as a ‘boys-night’ hangout. The gravel road ended at the cabin, but the forest continued another half mile to include and surround the Clausen’s home. Access to their place was via a long private driveway off Simpson Road to the north. From Lillian’s pencil pointing, I concluded there was no workable way for us to drive to Ted’s cabin, hide a vehicle, and make a safe getaway if needed. The only logical way for the two of us to witness the midnight meeting was to park at the Clausen’s and hike southward through the woods to the backside of Ted’s cabin. It didn’t sound fun, given the drizzling rain and the declining temperature.

Lillian next introduced me to Julie King, the current principal of Boaz High School. She is Mayor King’s wife. Sort of. Like Lillian, Julie is estranged from her husband. In fact, she is distraught over a failed relationship with a man named Carl Stallings, who married a woman thirty years his junior. They now live in Knoxville, Tennessee. I considered introducing Lillian to Bert Stallings but recognized she had already sidelined our conversation. “Julie lived at the cabin before she shacked up with Carl.”

“That’s helpful.” Lillian’s eyeroll told me to be quiet and listen. The laptop said it was approaching 9:00 p.m.

“Two years ago. Julie’s party became a sleepover. Just us five girls. She showed the hidden key in case any of us ever needed a safe house.” I kept quiet. If Lillian’s words were a book, she’d need an excellent editor. “We need to go inside and hide these.” Lillian reached to her left for two boxes lying on a chair tucked underneath the table. ‘Spyware’ was written across each black and gold box.

The smaller print said they were voice-activated recording and transmission devices. “Leftovers from the Lodge?”

Lillian laid one box on the table and started opening the other. “These came today. Pricier but longer reach.” At that moment, I realized the woman without a college degree had thought out our mission better than me, the seasoned attorney and law professor.

After reading the box, I offered an opinion and a fact: “Those will record voices and sounds, but not visuals, and the only camera I have is my iPhone.” Lillian scooted her chair backwards and whispered, “hold on.” She left the kitchen and returned with an expensive-looking camera.

“Nikon D7500 with a 70-200mm lens. The lens cost more than the camera.” Lillian shared, laying the expensive-looking camera in front of me for my inspection. I knew nothing about photography. My iPhone’s pointing and shooting didn’t count.

“Hobby?” Kyla had said Lillian never finished college. That apparently hadn’t stopped her education or curiosity.

“Mostly.” She then cut short my inspection and moved the Nikon with attached lens next to the Spyware. She untied the rubber band that was holding up her hair and asked, “You want coffee?” I pinched my leg to divert my attention and avoid an instant trip to 1971. Rachel said nothing.

“Not now, maybe later. Do you have a thermos?” I was visualizing cops on stakeouts. They always had coffee.

“I do.” Lillian walked to a pantry in the corner, opened the door, and grabbed a stainless-steel Yeti from an upper shelf. “Here it is.” Women are graceful creatures.

While she made a pot of coffee for the thermos, we discussed Connor Ford. I shared my unsuccessful efforts to reach him and learned he and his wife were also in Gatlinburg.

“Woman,” Lillian corrected me and provided a quick rundown. Connor’s female companion, Camilla, was the best hairdresser at Serenity Salon. She and the private investigator had lived together for several years. Although they were engaged, they’d never officially tied the knot.

“You realize Connor is the one who should conduct this stakeout?” As an attorney, I knew depositing myself inside a case was a thousand times worse than ideal. The legal community frowned upon the lawyer as a boots-on-ground investigator, at least in the United States. Becoming a witness in my case was clearly a duty-divider, as Professor Goff, my law school ethics instructor, had called it. Worse still, it could be dangerous.

“Yeah, probably, but he’s unavailable. What choice do we have?”

Lillian was correct. In a way. “One choice is to do nothing, let the criminal justice system do its thing.” I was back in the classroom with my theoretical argument.

“Like it’s done for Kyle these past fifty years?”

“You have a point. ‘The wheels of justice grind exceedingly slow.’ I think this came from Longfellow, the poet.”

Again, Lillian surprised me. “I think it was Plutarch. In the first century, he said, ‘The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.’ It’s about divine justice.”

As she stood and backed to the kitchen sink, we engaged in a softball argument about God, the afterlife, and the likelihood that evil was ever truly punished. In the end, I learned Lillian was an active reader and had grave doubts about the divine or anything else that could be supernatural. In my experience, those who read broadly, especially fiction, are more open-minded and empathetic.

I was glad she suggested we get going. “You can have the bathroom,” she said, glancing at my duffel. I grabbed my bag and followed her to the short hallway connecting the cabin’s two bedrooms. The bath was squeezed into the middle. For a few seconds, it was like she lost her way. Finally, she turned and walked to the front room containing an oversized bed. I entered the bathroom and closed the door. As I stripped down and climbed into an unmatched insulated bottom and top, a pair of camouflaged pants, and a sweatshirt, my thoughts returned to New Year’s Day 1971 and seeing Lillian naked inside Kyla’s bedroom. The knock on the door confused me. I didn’t remember putting on my boots, my windbreaker, or my toboggan.

“I’m coming.”

***

We left Lillian’s SUV a few minutes before 10:00. Hopefully, this would give us plenty of time to prepare for Ray and Buddy’s arrival.

The Clausen’s place was ultra-secluded, including a quarter-mile gravel driveway off Simpson Road. After our ten-minute trip, I felt I could recognize Barry at a party or at Walmart. However, striking up a conversation wouldn’t be easy. According to Lillian, Barry wasn’t homegrown, but Vanessa was.

Barry was from Dothan, short, bald, and a good forty pounds overweight. He wore thick glasses and had trouble mowing the lawn. He’d retired from the Alabama Department of Revenue and now preferred sitting at his computer, trading stocks, bonds, options, and commodities.

Vanessa was only a year younger than Lillian and me. I couldn’t spin-up a memory. The voluptuous freshman clarinet player was Ray’s first girlfriend after Rachel left town in the middle of tenth grade. The two were on and off during Ray’s senior year but shut down completely when the jock moved to Tuscaloosa. It was several years later that Lillian learned Vanessa and Ray had carried on a torrid affair after he had proposed and during their married-student days. The sex exchange had ended when Ray graduated. Apparently, Barry was Vanessa’s rebound, and after long careers as accountants in Montgomery, the odd couple had returned to her hometown and built this colossal home.

Lillian followed the circular driveway to the rear and pulled into a three-car carport next to a like-new red Alfa Romeo. I was dying to ask how in heck she and Vanessa had become friends. I stayed silent, convincing myself the common denominator had to be Ray Archer. Sergeant Bryant ordered me out of the Aviator and to follow her, pausing briefly to smear black paint on my cheeks. The toboggan-hidden, silky-haired commander had to be a clone of my sister.

We crossed the side yard and were ten feet inside a grove of pines when Lillian stopped me for the second time. She removed her backpack, knelt, and removed two pairs of sophisticated goggles. “Here, wear these.” I bit my lip and did as told.

Although I’d seen Lillian place two flashlights in her bag, she was smart enough to recognize the danger. I wondered how often she used the night vision goggles and why she had two pairs. Again, I chose silence.

The pelting rain and plunging temperature made our long hike through the woods triply difficult. Tracking Lillian was demanding, given her pace, but it still gave me time to ponder the weather and its effect on our plans.

When we reached the creek behind the cabin, I removed my iPhone and checked the time. I’d never seen Lillian move so fast. It was like an attack. She lunged at me, using both hands to engulf my cell. “Lee, think.” I quickly realized what I’d done and jammed the iPhone back inside my pocket. She continued clutching my left hand and stared into my eyes. Hers were bright green, distorted by the goggles. I smelled a luscious lavender as she reached up and touched my cheek, exclaiming via whisper, “this is not a game. Remember who you are dealing with.” At that moment, I thought about Ray and the fact he was a murderer. However, what consumed me was the radical new feelings Lillian had triggered. I accepted them as a portal into a whole new world.

For what seemed like minutes, Kent, me, and the other sixteen attendees acted like mechanical manikins, revolving half a turn one way, then another, raising an arm here and there. It was like the resonating blast had short-circuited everyone’s brain. The explosion was terrible, but seeing the ascending fireball left us all speechless and saddened. I know it did me. Plus, I was torn whether to remain at Old Mill Park in honor of Kyle or rush to the Hunt House to pay tribute to a disintegrating landmark. Either way, I felt the two subjects were hopelessly entangled.

Finally, Kent clutched my forearm. “You need to go. The firefighters may have some questions, plus you might learn something.”

I shook my head sideways. Kyla and Lillian inched forward, one to my right, one to my left. Both placed a hand on my upper back. “No. Not yet. Let’s continue here. You have a speech we all need to hear.” I realized what I was doing. The guilt I’d always felt from leaving Kyle after the Christmas parade was overwhelming. And now, there was no way I’d leave him again.

Kent looked toward Ted King, who was already halfway to his car. “It doesn’t matter. Kyle is gone and long forgotten by this little town. I was wrong to assume the mayor, the council, and two or three hundred citizens would attend.” Kent was clearly in pain, likely feeling a sense of disrespect for his brother. “Folks,” Kent gazed over the dispersing group. “Thanks so much for coming. I’ll never forget.”

 I was thankful Kyla took charge. “Lee, go see what you can find out. I’ll stay and help Kent roll-up Kyle’s banner and finish up here.” She asked Kent if it would be okay to leave the food for the firefighters and the city workers who’d helped set up several hundred chairs. He agreed.

“Sounds like a plan.” Kent patted me on the back and started toward the stage. I kept watching him, wondering what was going through his brilliant mind. I had a feeling he would make another attempt to talk with Jackie Frasier before he returned to Houston. Kent stepped onto the stage and turned. “I’ll send you a copy of my speech. Call me anytime.”

I gave him a nod, returned to my seat for my notebook, and reluctantly headed to the Hunt House.

***

I crossed E. Mann Avenue and walked to the backside of the parking lot to store my notebook and suit jacket inside the Hyundai. As usual, I engaged in some self-talk. Should I move the rental to Piggly Wiggly’s parking lot? Ultimately, I opted against that since I barely felt the fire’s heat given the Hunt House was a good two hundred feet away.

I reopened the back door and tossed in my tie. “Lee. Wait.” The voice came from the direction of Old Mill Park. It was Lillian. I raised my hand, more to acknowledge I’d heard her than as an invitational wave. She was semi-jogging and carrying two bottles of water. “Can I go with you?”

My first thought was Lillian was doing a good job of smothering me. Why I said, “I guess,” and accepted her gift of water probably came from Mother’s undying influence in my life.

We exited the parking lot and walked Whitman Street to Thomas Avenue where a line of wooden blockades demanded we stop. We joined half-a-dozen other spectators staring toward the glowing structure. I thought of a miniature Titanic waging a lopsided battle against nature.

But for now, the Hunt House remained solid and erect. From where I stood, the massive brick and tile structure seemed unharmed. Except for the wild and raging flames erupting from every window on all three floors. Even if the walls remained after the fire expired, the beauty and comfort of the interior vanished forever. I couldn’t help but think of Rosa and Rob, insurance coverage, and Ray Archer’s victory.

“Do you need to call Rosa?” Lillian must have been thinking the same thing. Omitting Rob’s name meant Kyla had told Lillian about his stroke and his admission to Roanoke General.

I think it was the two ladies to my left who caused my turn toward Lillian. It’s funny. Sometimes I hear worthless chatter too well, and life-changing prescriptions barely at all. “Probably.” I said, realizing how out-of-place Lillian looked. For Kyle’s memorial, she’d chosen an all-black outfit: a below-the-knee skirt with matching jacket over a white mid-cut blouse. Her stockings were skin-toned, and her shoes were black, low-heeled. A strand of white beads hung from her neck. The redbird pinned to her label couldn’t be the one I’d given her Christmas 1971. Or could it?

“Lee. Are you okay?” No doubt she caught me staring but couldn’t have known I’d noticed her lack of makeup except for the pale red lipstick.  She’d never worn much makeup. I quickly cocked my head sideways and upwards, capturing two firefighters walking the yard between the Hunt House and Julia Street Methodist Church. That’s when I saw Dan Brasher coming our way.

I pulled out my iPhone, dialed Rosa, and stepped backwards a few yards towards Old Mill Park. Earlier this morning, I’d spoken with Lyndell. Rob still hadn’t awakened from his surgery. Six rings later, I heard Leah’s voice, “hey Dad.”

“Hey baby. How are you?” My mid-thirties daughter looked so much like Rachel, even though adopted.

“Tired and worried about Papa.” Leah was in the cabin. I could hear the grands in the background, maybe in the kitchen having breakfast. “Dad, before I get sidetracked, Rosa wants you to stay in Boaz and take care of the fire.” It was a peculiar way of putting it.

“So, she already knows?” News travels fast in small towns, even when the recipient is multiple states away. I gazed at Lillian, who was deep in conversation with Pastor Brasher.

“Jane called a few minutes ago, right as Rosa got home and headed to bed.”

“I’m not sure what I can do here.” Leah interrupted me before I could continue.

“Dad, since I’m alone, I can tell you. Lyndell spoke privately with Papa’s doctors. They say he’s in a coma. He might never wake up.”

“Oh my, that’s awful.” Lillian motioned for me to return. A firefighter had joined their conversation for a few seconds before walking away. “Honey, I need to go for now. Call me if there’s any change.” I struggled whether to go to Roanoke or stay put.

“Dad, quick, before you go. Mama Rose said to tell you to hire someone to haul off the rubble once the sight’s released.” Sadly, that sounded more like Rob than Rosa.

“Okay,” I said, confused over my mother-in-law’s instruction. I returned to the blockade and a growing crowd of onlookers.

“Lee, you need to hear this.” Lillian said as I saw three fire hoses arching thick streams of water through the upstairs windows. The flames were undeterred.

“Hey Dan,” I said, reaching out and shaking his hand. He nodded and motioned me to walk with him to the sidewalk leading to Dr. Hunt’s long-abandoned office.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.” Dan held out a hand, like a stop sign, as Lillian approached. “Give us a minute.” He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

“What’s that?”

“It may be nothing but since the blast my mind’s grown suspicious.” I almost laughed at Dan’s word picture.

“Okay.”

“First, let me ask you something.” He stared into my eyes, waiting for my response. I gave him an affirmative nod. “Have you recently hired anyone to do work at the Hunt House?”

“No.”

“Now, I’m even more suspicious. Yesterday afternoon I saw an older model van parked in the driveway.” Dan pointed at the Hunt House as though I couldn’t follow his story. “Two men got out and walked to the back door. They stayed fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then left.”

Dan’s story triggered a dozen questions. I started with, “can you describe the van?”

“It was white, off-white, or might have been dirty. The back panel was solid with a sign in blue lettering: ‘Larry’s Electric & Plumbing.’ Funny, the painting or decal, whatever, looked much newer than the van.”

“Why?”

“It was cleaner, bright white.”

“I’m curious. Where were you when you saw this?” Dan’s story was already believable. He is the pastor of Julie Street Methodist.

“I was in my study.” He turned and pointed to the church. “Corner window, second floor.”

Dan turned back to face me. I again nodded. “What time yesterday afternoon?”

“That’s one thing I didn’t peg, but it had to be between 2:45 and 3:15. On Thursdays, I meet my daughter at the library after school.”

I was about to ask my next question when I heard a loud crash. It sounded like breaking glass. When I looked, I saw tile after tile slip from the front side of the roof and land on the ground and sidewalk. “One other question before you go.” I had noticed Dan, twice, looking at an oversized wristwatch.

“Go ahead, but hurry. I have a lunch appointment.”

“Can you describe the two men?” Sometimes, but rarely, I knew the answer before the witness or student responded. The rare occurrence had normally happened in court, but that was nearly twenty years ago. Although it had happened twice in a Torts class.

“Mutt and Jeff. One was tall and thick, the other was short and thick. Both wore uniforms: light blue short-sleeved shirts, darker navy pants, tan-colored hats and work boots.”

“Short sleeves?”

“Yes.”

“Were they carrying anything?”

“The taller man had an over-sized toolbox. From the way he was toting it, I’d guess it was heavy.”

“Okay, thanks for telling me.” Dan looked at his watch for the third time. “You better go.”

This time, he nodded. And walked away.

***

By 2:30 PM, I’d tired of fire watching. For two reasons. The first was the lengthy delay in holding a promised press briefing. To me, after the firefighters extinguished the flames, the firefighters followed a never-ending loop. Like an episodic story, scene after scene repeating the same thing. Two walked inside the Hunt House, stayed a few minutes, exited, and two more followed the same pattern. Things finally made more sense when a firefighter with a megaphone yelled that Chief Beck was waiting on the State’s Fire Marshall to arrive before a briefing could take place.

The second reason was more troubling. The subtle insults from several gawkers had made me angry. And filled me with an emotion I’d classify as ‘isolated.’ Several times over the past few hours I’d heard remarks such as, “the greedy bastards got what they deserved,” and, “I hope the insurance company cancelled their coverage yesterday.” I’d even heard a Boaz police officer mumble a response to a younger man in shorts and a tee-shirt, something like, “God is good.” The young gawker’s response was probably, “All the time,” although I couldn’t make out the words. Walking back to my car, I’m still wondering whether anyone present knew who I was. It probably wouldn’t matter if they did.

At 4:30 PM, I exited Highway 77 in Attalla and pointed my Hyundai south on I-59. I’d spent the past hour and a half alone at Kyla’s, considering whether to cancel my flight. Although my departure time wasn’t until 7:00, I looked forward to reflecting on the day’s events, and considering what awaited me in Roanoke.

***

I took the Springville exit and bought a chicken sandwich and fries at Hardee’s. I hadn’t eaten since Kyla’s scrambled eggs and toast early this morning. After eating inside, I visited the restroom before continuing to Birmingham’s airport.

I’d just merged into traffic when my iPhone vibrated in the seat beside me. It was Micaden Tanner. I’d been eager to speak with him ever since dropping off the pistol Tuesday afternoon. “Hey Micaden.”

“You got a minute?” The salt and pepper haired man was like a stingy book editor, cutting unnecessary words with abandon.

“Yes. I’m driving to the airport.” I chose context and brevity.

“My best to Rob.” Unsurprisingly, Micaden already knew about my father-in-law’s stroke.

“Thanks.”

“Just came from the press conference.” A tractor-trailer rig pulled beside me, muffling Micaden’s voice. “They found a body.”

“What? Hold on, let me get my ear-buds.” I fumbled with the wires, half expecting a state trooper to zoom in behind me. “Okay, you said you attended Chief Beck’s press conference.”

“Don’t add words. Beck was there but didn’t say ten words. State fire Marshall Kendrick and Boaz Police Chief Gaskin did most of the talking. Did you hear me say they found a body?”

“Damn. Let me guess. The man was tall and thick, or short and thick?” I was projecting from Pastor Brasher’s story.

“Don’t know. They’re awaiting an autopsy.” Micaden said goodbye to Tina in the background. “One thing seems certain. There was a gas leak. However, they’re not sure about the ignition.”

“What set it off?” Dumb question.

With no transition, Micaden added, “Connor says the pistol can’t be the murder weapon.” Before I could respond, Kyla called. I ignored her for now, not knowing when I’d have another chance to talk with Micaden.

“Connor Ford, our investigator?”

“Who else? He’s excellent but said a third grader could have figured it out.”

I was feeling stupid but didn’t know why. “How’s that?”

“Serial number. Smith and Wesson’s web page provides this information all the way back to its founding in 1856.”

“So, what year was it manufactured?”

“Between 2015 and 2019.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I felt like such a dumbass.”

“It happens to me sometimes, but usually for a more respectable reason. Just kidding.” Micaden was loosening up.

“Since lately, I’m rather slow, let me summarize. The pistol Rachel led me to is irrelevant to Kyle’s murder, and the Hunt House fire is arson.”

“Your latter point seems certain. Not sure I agree with the former. But, at a minimum, it couldn’t have fired the deadly shot.” I heard a phone ringing. “Hold on, I need to get this.” Our call went mute. After a minute, he returned. “You still there?”

“Yep.”

“That was Connor. Be sure you’re sitting down.”

“I am. Remember, I’m driving to Birmingham.”

“It was a metaphor. Listen to what Joe found.”

“Joe?”

“Connor’s employee. Sidekick. He stumbled over a deed in the Marshall County Probate office. Your father-in-law signed over the Hunt House property to Rylan’s of Boaz three days ago.”

My response was predictable. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Rarely. Since this is confidential, you want to know my theory?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ray Archer bought the Hunt House for two reasons. One is to make a quick buck. The other was to destroy evidence.” Micaden went silent. I imagined his rudimentary pencil sketching. This time of fire raging skyward from the Hunt House’s windows.

“That’s clear as mud.” Maybe Micaden wasn’t so bright after all.

“According to Connor, Ray paid your father-in-law half a million and insured it for $750,000. I admit, this next statement is Connor’s hypothesis. Ray thinks Rachel hid the murder weapon at the Hunt House, and since she is dead, that pistol was the last link to the crime he committed half-a-century ago.”

Ten minutes after Micaden ended his call, a car accident in Roebuck forced all southbound traffic to detour onto Highway 11. In less than a mile, it was bumper to bumper. I activated my iPhone. It was 5:40. When Micaden called, I’d slowed my speed, as though that would help me digest all the bad news he’d relayed. Now, with the detour and snail-paced plodding, I worried if I’d make my flight. Thankfully, I only lost ten minutes. At East Lake Park, a state trooper directing traffic signaled approval to rejoin I-59.

My mind returned to Micaden’s call. And Ray Archer. In law school, I’d learned to ask questions, especially, ‘what does this mean?’ Professor Stern loved analogies, so he’d encourage his students to think of their case as a puzzle, and ask, ‘where does this new piece fit?’

Until the Hunt House fire, and Micaden’s call, I’d thought my puzzle was an old one, that I was on a mission to find the missing pieces that would enable a prosecutor to convict Ray Archer. One mistake I’d made was subconsciously believing Ray Archer’s horrible criminal conduct was in the past. Now, I realized I was in a whole new ball game. If Connor Ford’s hypothesis was true, Ray Archer is just as much a criminal now as he was half-a-century ago. But, with one giant difference. Now, his defense counsel couldn’t argue his client was just a kid and should be granted youthful offender status.

As I exited I-59 to Birmingham-Shuttlesworth airport, I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach, one reminiscent of the day I’d read Rachel’s story of Kyle’s murder. Sweat popped out across my forehead. There was one difference. For the first time, I was afraid. If Ray Archer would risk his financial empire and his freedom to destroy the Hunt House and any incriminating evidence it might contain, what in Hell would stop him from killing me, or anyone else who became a threat to his comfortable life?

I chose Car Park 1 since it was the closest and, I assumed, the safest place to park my Hyundai. Before leaving Kyla’s, I’d read it contained 3,497 spots. I finally found an opening on the fifth floor, remembering it was Thanksgiving weekend. This probably meant the check-in process would be as slow as traffic had been on Highway 11.

I parked, grabbed my carry-on, and headed for the elevator bank. When I exited the parking deck, my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. This time, it was Rosa. Our conversation was quick and pointed, not to mention virtually one-sided.

***

For some strange reason, nothing to do with being hungry, I ate at McDonald’s in Roebuck before I left Birmingham. My decision to stay in Alabama seemed wrong. But Rosa had been so adamant, even pleading, almost begging me to remain in Boaz. “Lee, there’s nothing right now you can do here. I promise I’ll tell you soon, but now I need you. Rob needs you to have the Hunt House mess hauled off.”

It was a strange request. I didn’t have the heart to ask her about the sale to Ray Archer, but I now knew I had to act instead of react.

The dreaded moment came Friday morning a few minutes after 6:00. A few days ago, Kyla had demanded I help vaccinate her five Nubians. I had never liked farm work as a kid, especially if it involved cutting, clipping, ringing, or shooting animals, even if the latter required injection by syringe (I had refused to put a 22-caliber bullet between the eyes of a fattened hog).

Kyla put me on notice last night before she’d gone to bed. “Tomorrow. Early. Goat work. I’ll wake you.” She’d sounded like a Marine sergeant, barking military-terse instructions as she’d ascended the stairs. She disappeared before I could interpret her face or convey my reverse thankfulness. I almost followed her upstairs to beg off, reminding her I didn’t need distraction from my Old Mill Park responsibilities, or that I was two days post-accident. Instead, I stayed glued to the couch with her laptop, making last-minute edits to Kyle’s eulogy.

Unlike my all-night restlessness, the ‘goat work’ wasn’t as bad as expected. Sis, the planner, had found a pair of Dad’s coveralls and work boots, and had kept the five Nubians corralled in the barn’s hallway all night. The only one who put up any resistance to the CDT subcutaneous vaccine was Frank, the lone male. I imagined he was just showing out for Nancy, Bess, Georgia, and Nedra. However, it was Kyla’s rope trick that convinced the viral male to take his medicine.

Walking back to the house, Kyla shared the source of her name choices. As a kid, she’d always loved mysteries, including the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series. Voila, names for five Nubians, although George became Georgia, and Ned became Nedra.

When we reached the front porch, I stripped off Dad’s coveralls and work boots while Kyla opened the storm door and spouted more orders. “Please put Dad’s things on my tailgate.” At least she’d said ‘please.’ Sergeant Harding went inside to shower and cook breakfast. I was halfway to the Silverado when she reopened the front door and said, “Lillian needs to talk.” I left my iPhone beside Kyla’s laptop at 1:30 this morning. I guess sis had heard it vibrate. She raised her eyebrows and smiled as she waited for me to take the phone.

“Hello.”

“Lee, I’m sorry to keep pestering you, but I think it’s important.” Lillian shared that she’d left a voice mail twenty minutes ago.

“Sorry, I was helping Kyla with the goats. What’s up?” It had barely been half a day since we’d talked and made our agreement. I couldn’t help but question my decision.

“I wanted to tell you about my spyware last night, but you were in a hurry to leave.” I closed my eyes and pondered, acknowledging some things that need to remain private.

“Spyware? Is that what you said?” I stared at my iPhone, checking the time. It was 6:34. I’d told Kent I’d meet him at the north entrance to Old Mill Park at 8:30.

“Do you agree we should be open and honest about our detective work?” The attorney in me wanted to discuss Lillian’s adjective. I walked through the den and was two steps inside the hallway when she asked her next question. “Lee, you there?”

“I’m here. And, confidential.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s just say, we need to discuss before any outside disclosure. To anyone.”

“Except Kyla?”

“Okay, except Kyla.” I conveyed my schedule, hoping that would speed things up.

Lillian shared extra details, but the bottom line was she had hidden two recording devices at the Lodge before she’d vacated the premises. Device B was activated late last night. It was a call by Ray to a man named Buddy. Lillian could hear only Ray’s side of the conversation (since he wasn’t using Speaker), but concluded it was about the job he’d hired Buddy to complete. To Lillian, it was a go for today based on Ray’s repeat of what Buddy had said. ‘Today.’ Ray had responded with, ‘Daytime? That’s risky.’ The recording had ended with Ray confirming the time and place he would meet Buddy later tonight. ‘Mayor’s cabin. Midnight.’

“What makes you think this conversation relates to our investigation?” I admit Lillian might be serendipitous, but the job probably was wholly innocuous.

“If it’s the Buddy I’m thinking about, he is an ex-con.” I could hear geese honking in the background. I suspected Lillian was outside, maybe walking or sitting on the long pier I’d seen when she’d turned on the eve light.

“He works at The Shack. Right?” I had put that much together. He’d also been at McDonald’s yesterday afternoon with a much taller man.

“How do you know that?”

I shared my deduction. Lillian said she’d keep me posted and wished me good luck with my eulogy.

“I’ll be with Kyla, so I’ll see you there.” With this, Lillian ended our call.

***

I parked in a once-familiar place off E. Mann Avenue. During my growing-up years, IGA was Mom’s favorite grocery store. It was smaller than Piggly Wiggly but offered coupons in Thursday’s edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter. This provided “extra value,” according to our household’s chief financial officer.

As part of its Old Mill Park project, the City had purchased the property, razed the old building, and constructed a hundred-car parking lot. I pulled to the far side and wedged my Hyundai between Kent’s rental and an older model Impala, although there were 97 other options.

I grabbed my notebook and walked across E. Mann through a gated entrance denoted as “Support Staff Only.” Other than three guys setting up folding chairs in a semi-circle in front of the stage, the only other person I saw was Jane Fordham working behind a row of tables lined up outside the nearest pavilion. Kent had told me the mayor had arranged for Grumpy’s and The Shack to provide food.

Jane waved twice as I approached. “Hey Lee, want some coffee and a cinnamon roll?” The far-left table had a sheet of letter size paper taped to the thin tablecloth. The sign was troubling; it read, “Light Breakfast.” Besides a large aluminum pan full of rolls, there were also several dozen plastic containers of fruit.

“Thanks, maybe some coffee. Black.”

“It’s self-serve.” Jane said, handing me a small Styrofoam cup. “Rosa said Rob’s still sleeping.”

We talked back and forth about my father-in-law’s stroke and how worried Rosa seemed during her and Jane’s early morning conversation. “I’m flying there late afternoon.” I wanted to ask a dozen questions but now didn’t seem the time.

“Here comes Kent.” Jane said, looking to her right. I had already seen him walking our way from the Park’s east side entrance. “He went to Piggly Wiggly to get more tape.”

Kent was still a good fifty feet away. I summoned my courage, realizing now was as good as any. “Jane, would you be open to talking to me about Rachel when I return from Roanoke?”

Her response was instant. “I guess.” The tall and thin redhead (I’m sure the short-cropped hair is a wig) gave me a quick look with her piercing green eyes. It seemed my request was unsettling, but I didn’t know why.

“Good morning, Lee.” Kent said, handing Jane a plastic shopper bag.

“I’ll finish attaching the food signs. More brunch over there.” She looked at Kent and pointed to two larger boxes on a table underneath the pavilion. “Kyla will be here any minute.”

Kent motioned me to follow him toward the stage. Two city workers were struggling to hang a giant banner. The other one continued arranging chairs. “I have a feeling I’ve been too optimistic.”

“Crowd size?” I asked.

“Yes. Three hundred chairs are probably six or seven times too many.” Kent stopped behind the row furthest from the stage, staring at the unfolding banner.

“I like your idea.” From left to right were blowups of Kyle’s class photos, beginning in first grade. The next to the last one on the right was from tenth grade, a short three and a half months before Kyle disappeared. The last photo was a recent one of Kent, relaying the idea this was what Kyle would look like today. If he had lived.

“Thanks, but it was Jane’s creation.” Kent removed his iPhone and checked the time. “Question. Did you know Ray gave Jane a ride home that night?”

“You mean, after the parade, the night Kyle went missing?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve never heard that.” This struck me as odd, especially since Rachel hadn’t mentioned it in her diaries.

“It was news to me. I’m still not sure why she told me, but she did, right after we arrived this morning.” Kent gave a thumbs-up to the two city workers securing Kyle’s banner.

“What exactly did she say?”

“First, I admit it was me who brought up the subject. Like I’d done during each of our conversations while planning the memorial.” I saw Kyla enter through the support staff entrance. She started walking towards Kent and me and I shushed her away with our long-established tradition of flapping a low-reaching hand. “Jane said the four of them, Ray, Rachel, Kyle, and herself, crammed into Ray’s truck at the warehouse. After a quick stop at the church to leave the PA system, Ray dropped Jane off at her house around nine. The plan was for Ray and Rachel to carry Kyle home, and then for the two of them to ‘hang-out’ a couple of hours before reuniting at the Hunt House for Rachel’s all-girl sleepover party.”

“So, now it seems, there were three people and not two who saw Kyle right before he disappeared: Ray, Rachel, and Jane.” I said, looking toward the pavilion at Kyla reading something on her phone.

“I agree. If Jane’s telling the truth.” The city workers turned their attention to checking out the sound system.

“What would make you think otherwise?” Kent, like me, had worn a suit, but he’d shed his coat.

“Seems to me Ray would have dropped Kyle off first since Jane lived further down King Street. At the intersection of Lee Holcomb Road.” How I recall ordinary things from long ago never ceases to amaze me.

“Uh, I’d forgotten that.” Kent said, inserting what I assumed was a receipt, probably from Piggly Wiggly, into his wallet. I mentally scanned Rachel’s diaries. “But it makes sense.” Rachel had written that she and Ray had gone to a farm his father owned down Cox Gap Road. “That supports your conclusion.” Kent focused on the sound volume and interacted with the city workers.

I shared Ray’s most logical travel route. “To me, the four would have left the warehouse after disassembling the PA system. Dropped it off at First Baptist Church of Christ and wound their way back to Highway 168 West. Ray would have turned left at King Street. The first relevant driveway would be yours. Drop Kyle there, continue to Jane’s place, turning left on Lee Holcomb Road. From there, they’d connect with Pleasant Hill Road and turn right on 205. That’s the most logical route if they’re headed to Cox Gap Road.”

“It’s definitely an excellent theory.”

Kent spent until 10:00 a.m. working with the city workers, refining the sound system and instructing them how to operate the three video cameras he had brought.

I helped Kyla place an order-of-service flyer on each of the three-hundred chairs and made two trips to Piggly Wiggly for bagged ice. The only thing I could think about was four tenth graders squeezed inside Ray’s truck with one of them only minutes from death.

***

At 10:00 a.m. on the nose, Kent walked to the stage and asked everyone to take a seat. Although he didn’t show it, I knew the crowd size devastated him. Kyla, Lillian, and I sat alone in the section to Kent’s left.

“Good morning. I appreciate you coming on this warm and beautiful November day.” Kent introduced himself and thanked Mayor King for allowing the use of the park. He also thanked the city workers for their help.

The mayor stood and scanned the small audience. He smiled at a young woman with thick glasses who’d just arrived. An index card sized plastic tag hung from her neck. Kent had said a reporter was coming. “I’m sorry we’re here under these circumstances, but please know the City of Boaz will never forget Kyle Bennett. I hope his case will soon be resolved.” Really? Not a single city councilman was anywhere in sight.

The mayor placed his hands on the shoulders of Kent and Kyle’s mother, who was sitting one row in front of where he stood. He bent down and whispered something in her ear. Kent had said she would be here with several of her friends from Bridgewood Gardens. I counted six older women, three to Mama’s left, three to her right. I hoped none had a story as horrible as the woman who’d always welcomed me into her home.

“Before I forget, I wanted to apologize for the absence of Mountain Top Trio. You may or may not know this band started half-a-century ago and is still performing.” A train engine’s deafening horn announced its arrival a block away. And Jane’s. Kent allowed the sound waves to dissipate. Now, dressed in all black, Jane sat beside Lillian, who, like Kyla, wore the same dark color. “I suspect if Kyle were here, he’d still be Mountain Top’s manager. The group had an accident last night in New Hope. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but, as a precaution, Huntsville Hospital admitted them for observation.”

The train rolled through town, headed to Gadsden and on southward to parts unknown. The rocking and rumbling sounds grew weaker. Kent used the interruption to review his notes and maybe create suspense. I didn’t know.

“I feel I should publicly answer the question local entrepreneur Ray Archer asked me last Sunday morning.” Kent paused and gave a shout-out to Grumpy’s and The Shack for providing food and invited everyone to stay and eat after the memorial.

“Ray asked me, ‘why have a memorial service for Kyle fifty years after he was killed?’” If Kent’s quote was accurate, I questioned Ray’s word choice. ‘Killed’? Why not say, ‘after he died,’ or, better still, ‘after he disappeared’? I almost smiled when I acknowledged how difficult it was to conceal a lie.

Kent continued. “Folks, here’s the reason. I fully believe Kyle’s case is about to bust wide open and the guilty party or parties will be brought to justice. The truth is all around us. We just have to keep looking.”

The thick glasses lady wrote frantically to get down Kent’s every word. I hoped the quote would be in tomorrow’s Sand Mountain Reporter. I felt certain Ray Archer wouldn’t like the attention.

“Okay, I’ll sit for now. After my brother’s best friend presents his eulogy, I’ll return. Lee, come on up.”

***

I stood and edged sideways in front of Kyla, Lillian, and Jane. Sis whispered, “break-a-leg,” and tugged my suit pants behind my right knee. Funny. My stomach did its little queasy dance like it always did before I took center-stage in a courtroom or before a classroom of intellectually gifted students.

“Good morning,” I said immediately after reaching the podium. Saying anything quickly always settled my nerves. “I’m Lee Harding, Kyle’s best friend forever.”

Mama Bennett was already crying. “Kyle and I met in the first grade, Mrs. Gillespie’s class. I hated school, but Kyle loved it and took me under his wing.” I pointed to Kent sitting ten feet from me in an otherwise unoccupied row. “By day two, Kent had connected with Micaden Tanner, who has a law office straight across the railroad tracks.” I pointed diagonally to my right.

“By the end of August 1960, I loved school, and I loved Mrs. Gillespie. It seems her and Kyle teamed-up behind my back and conspired to transform my thinking.”

“Story time after lunch each day became the key to my happiness and determination. I can still hear Mrs. Gillespie after she got all twenty-five of us huddled around her: ‘education is like a train, it can take you anywhere you want to go, but you have to choose a destination, and you have to climb on board.’”

“Although I could already read, I wasn’t in league with Kyle and Kent. From day one, they were the best readers in class. I soon learned why. It was Mama Bennett.” I pointed again. She cried more. “Mama worked long and hard all day but had her own story time routine. During my first overnight visit, the four of us took turns after supper reading a short story, things like ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro’ by Ernest Hemingway. If you’re surprised by the Hemingway choice, you don’t know Mama. Even though he wrote in simple, unadorned prose, his words were not ‘See Spot Run.’ Mama Bennett, intelligent and loving, challenged her twin boys to learn and grow. She knew what they needed to maneuver a tough world.”

I looked at my time. There was no way I could present all my material, all the stories I recalled. I wanted to share mine and Kyle’s fourth-grade winter-time swimming experience in the creek beside his house. I wanted to share stories that emphasized each of his positive character traits, things like his perceptiveness, his alertness, his analytical ability, and his cautiousness. But there was not enough time, so I chose courageousness instead. Because to me, it took place near the end of Kyle’s life, and contained strong hints about his destination, one not of his choosing.

“The last story I want to share with you is about Kyle’s courage. If it hadn’t been for my sister, you wouldn’t be hearing this.”

“After Kent asked me to talk today, I called Kyla and asked her what she remembered about Kyle. At first, she mentioned general stuff like how he enjoyed fishing in our pond and how he and I loved playing at the creek beside his house. Almost as an afterthought, Kyla had said, ‘I wish you had his essay, the one he wrote for Mrs. Smith’s class.’ I’m sorry to say I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Mrs. Linda Smith, Ms. Linda, as she insisted we call her, was our tenth-grade literature teacher. At the first of the year, she’d assigned a project to be turned in anytime we wanted, but no later than the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. The assignment was to write about a challenge we were facing—and what we planned to do about it.”

“You might ask yourself how my memory got refreshed. That’s a straightforward question: I called Ms. Linda. Finding her was the hard part. She had recently moved from Boaz to Eugene, Oregon, to be closer to her son and was still unpacking. She instantly recalled Kyle and his essay as though it had been only a week.”

“Come to find out, Kyle’s was one of ten Ms. Linda had kept from her thirty-year teaching career. And, in somewhat of a surreal way, before moving to Oregon, she’d read all of them. Now, they were in a box somewhere in a storage unit.”

“Now, to Kyle’s essay. I ask you to keep in mind two of his dominating personality traits, one negative, the other, positive. Kyle was a fanatic, meaning he could be intensely devoted to a cause or idea. As we all know, that can turn negative. On the bright side, he was perceptive. Kyle was intuitively observant and insightful.”

“It was only natural for Kyle to respond to his challenge the way he did. And what was his challenge? He was being bullied. By a fellow student named Brute. Of course, this wasn’t his real name. Nor was Babe, Brute’s girlfriend’s name. More on her in a moment.”

“The bullying started at the beginning of ninth grade when Kyle tried out for the football team. He hadn’t made it as a player but won the team’s water-boy position. Brute was big and mean. Kyle was no match physically. At first, Brute demanded Kyle wash his practice uniform every day through the week and his game uniform over the weekend. Once Brute learned Kyle was smart, he had him do his homework. This went on throughout ninth grade, no matter the sport Brute played or the classes he took.”

“While Brute was bullying, Babe was befriending. Kyle hated Brute, but mesmerized Babe. What infatuated Kyle was the irreconcilability of Babe’s intelligence with her devotion to Brute. Somehow, Kyle learned Brute was two-timing Babe with an Albertville Aggie cheerleader. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the girl was pregnant with Brute’s baby.”

“Let’s pause a second and make sure we understand the context. Kyle realized he would have to write Brute’s essay. Even though the two were not in the same literature class, they shared the same personal essay assignment. Oh, one thing I forgot to mention, Ms. Linda promised the essays were for her eyes only given their personal nature.”

“Listen carefully to how Kyle used his brain and his courage to outfox Brute. He first created a plan. He would write two essays for Brute, not one. It would be Brute’s choice which one to submit to Ms. Linda. The first essay was generic. It presented Brute’s response to the challenges of earning a football scholarship to the University of Alabama. The second essay was more revealing. It dealt with Brute’s love life and the problems and challenges he faced having two girlfriends, with one being pregnant with Brute’s baby.”

“After Kyle completed the essays, he presented them to Brute. Of course, Brute chose the innocuous essay, and according to Kyle’s essay, promised two things. To stop bullying Kyle, and to come clean with both girlfriends.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, it took great courage for Kyle to confront Brute, but there’s one thing we need to remember. Danger is the seed of courage. Without the first, there’s no need for the second. Ms. Linda told me all of this. I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. To this day, none of us know what happened to Kyle, and we can only speculate whether the writing assignment had anything to do with Kyle’s disappearance.”

“Thanks for listening to my too-long eulogy. I’ll leave you with this. The world would be a much better place if my best friend had lived and were with us today. I miss you, Kyle.”

***

I closed my notebook and exited the stage as Kent approached. We shook hands and clumsily executed what Rachel called a man hug.

I returned to my seat beside Kyla. We exchanged smiles, and affirmative head nods, our lifelong habit showing agreement. Just as Kent was introducing himself, a deafening noise shook the large speakers set at opposite ends of the stage. The sound originated from the north, the direction I was facing, but the huge banner displaying a collage of Kyle’s photos blocked my view. At first, I thought the noise was a monstrous thunderclap, except there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The eighteen-person crowd remained calm and seated, but each person’s quick head movement and lowered eyebrows revealed a united uncertainty. My second guess was a sonic boom, but a billion-dollar jet flying low altitude at 700 miles per hour over Boaz, Alabama seemed a long shot. When I heard a fire siren, I concluded there had been a giant explosion in the industrial park.

Kent’s puzzled looks and bodily movements showed he had conducted a similar analysis. He finally walked off the stage onto the grass to his right and looked to the north. He yelled ‘fire’ a split second before spinning to face me. With head shaking back and forth, he motioned for me to join him.

Almost in unison, the entire crowd stood and moved toward Kent. Most gasped at something they witnessed. I think I heard one person say, “that’s one way to skin a cat.” Kyla, Lillian, and I were the last to arrive. What I saw was both shocking and sickening. The Hunt House was on fire. Boiling orange flames were already engulfing the surrounding treetops.

I’ll never forget what Kent whispered in my ear as he eased beside me. “That’s a message. I just don’t know what it is.”

Kent wound his way to Sparks Avenue. Neither of us said anything until he rolled through the stop sign at Brown Street. “How about going with me to see Jackie Frasier?”

I was still pondering tall man and short man. I must have misunderstood Kent’s question. “You’re joking, right?” There was no way old ‘Jack’ was still alive.

“Not at all. And he still lives across from my childhood stomping grounds.” Kent pulled beside my rental. There were other things I needed to do. One was to call Lyndell. An hour and a half ago, he’d sent a text saying he and Rosa were still waiting to talk to the ER doctor. I was eager to hear how Rob was doing.

“That dump of a single wide?” I also needed to do a hard review of tomorrow’s eulogy to determine where to insert Kent’s two suggestions but seeing a freak-of-nature sort was hard to pass.

“Yep. So, can you come along?” Kent seemed anxious. He was drumming his fingers on the stirring wheel. I wondered if he wanted a witness. I couldn’t imagine why.

“Yeah, I can go. But I need to be back within an hour.”

“That’ll work.” Kent backed onto Sparks, turned left on Highway 205, and drove toward old downtown Boaz.

I tried to visualize the last time I’d seen Jackie Frasier, the high school custodian. I still remembered his shiny Bel Air Chevrolet. “He’d have to be a hundred years old, probably more. I recall he was an old man when we graduated.”

“He’s now a hundred and three. I’ve tried all week to see him but he’s never at home.”

“What does a hermit do at a hundred and three?”

“Chase women, I guess. Or, he’s making excuses, given how many times I’ve dropped by this week and taped a note to his front door.” Kent said as the Thomas Avenue light turned red. Knowing me, I’d have run it.

“Seems like I’ve read the oldest person ever was a hundred and twenty.” The woman’s name slipped into my mind, Jeanette, somebody.

“Don’t forget, Methuselah.” Kent had a comical side. This was the second time we’d laughed in the past hour.

“Are you sure old Jack still lives there? How do you know he’s still alive?” I always had questions.

“The same way I know his age.” Kent tapped his fingers as we sat waiting on the red light beside Weathers Furniture. I figured it was to release energy. Maybe he was frustrated from wasting time, not being productive. I could appreciate that.

Kent had become a reluctant witness. I had to work for every fact. “So, how do you know Jackie’s age?”

“His daughter Jade.”

“Daughter?” I didn’t see that coming. “Jackie Frasier had kids, has kids?”

“She’s disabled, been that way all her life. Here’s what’s weird. I never saw the girl during all the years I lived at 294 King Street. I guess Jackie was too proud to let her out of the trailer.”

Kent shared his visit with Jade while he drove us to his childhood home. Jade Elizabeth Frasier is the daughter of Jack and a woman he worked with at Boaz Spinning Mill in the 1940s. Jade’s mother had abandoned her after birth, probably because of the child’s cerebral palsy and disfigured face. Since 2000, Jade continued her secluded life, not in a dilapidated single wide mobile home on south King Street, but at a government subsidized apartment in Mount Vernon Homes. Like her father, Jade never married.

If it hadn’t been for a sticky note inside the anonymously mailed package, Kent would likely have never learned of Jade Frasier. Handwritten were Jade’s full name and address, and: “witnessed 12/09/69 argument.”

“Question.” I hated to interrupt, but Kent paused while he slowed to cross the rickety Short Creek bridge. He stared to his left at what had once been Boaz City Park when we were in high school. Now, according to the sign, it’s a soccer field.

“Ask.”

“Would you agree the person who mailed you the package had spoken to Jade and knows the details of the argument you mentioned?”

“Woman. The expert said the same woman had written the sticky note and the message across the envelope.”

Kent exited the bridge and, after fifty feet, stopped again. This time, he pointed to Jackie’s trailer, now fully engulfed with rust and raging vines. Although the tiny deck and two steps outside the front door looked new.

Kent turned left into his old driveway after a car approached from the bridge. “Jade has a lot of health issues, but her memory seems perfect. This is what she told me. Kyle had exited the school bus that Tuesday afternoon, December the ninth. After the bus drove away, Jade saw a pickup truck coming straight towards her from our house. The driver stopped at the edge of King Street. It was a young girl, maybe sixteen. She exited the truck and started talking with Kyle. Low and civil at first, then the conversation got heated. Loud. It was about money. The girl demanded Kyle return it. That’s when she mentioned Ray. Then, Kyle asked the girl if she had gone inside his house. I’ll stop here and let you ask questions. I don’t want you to make your lips bleed.”

“It’s a tell. The first thing that came to mind was ‘how did Jade hear the argument?’ It was December cold.”

“Maybe she liked it cold. Maybe it was a warm day.”

“Next question. Did Jade describe the girl Kyle argued with?”

“I quote, ‘tall, dark curly hair, and built like Jane Fonda, and just as loud.’”

“Sounds like Rachel, but not my Rachel. She never raised her voice.” By now, Kent and I were out of his rental, leaning against the trunk lid. During high school, I rarely ever heard her speak.

“People change.” Kent said and started walking across King Street towards Jackie’s trailer.

Once again, Jack was not at home. However, Kent had another adventure in mind: visiting his old home place. He’d insisted we walk.

I’d forgotten how far the house was from King Street. The driveway was dirt potted with holes and lined with leaves and limbs of all sizes. I imagined the engulfing forest awakened by long-silenced conversations.

Like humans, houses age. The Bennett’s was no exception. It was a wood-framed house with a tin roof. The front porch had collapsed from the rotten posts. Many of the clapboard planks along the north wall had curled and twisted like toenails long abandoned.

We entered through an open back door, but our exploring was short-lived. Wind had blown back several pieces of tin and exposed the house’s interior. Rain had free reign for years, eventually rotting everything in its wake. It was all for the best since I really didn’t want to go inside Kent and Kyle’s old bedroom. I did my best to push back memories of my last visit. It was Thursday, December the 11th. I could still smell Mrs. Bennett’s fresh baked cornbread. After she insisted I eat a plate full of the golden bread buttered and soaked in sorghum syrup, Kyle and I had ridden in my car to Young Supply’s warehouse to work on the tenth-grade float.

Kent snapped a dozen photos as we walked around the south side and returned to the road. And he answered my questions. Mrs. Bennett now lived at the Bridgewood Gardens Assisted Living facility in Albertville, where she’d been for twenty years. Kent had insisted his mother leave the decaying structure before a life-crippling accident. He willingly continued to pay for his mother’s monthly care and the annual taxes on the home place. It was another way he could honor the memory of his long-lost brother.

It was after four when Kent dropped me beside my car. My one-hour limit had transformed into two, but I didn’t regret a thing. The time with Kent was sadly refreshing, a vivid reminder of days gone by, and a friend never to return.

***

I drove to Boaz Discount Drugs to buy a thank-you card for Lillian. I’d write a quick note and drop it in the mail. Now, that method seemed an insensitive way to express my gratitude. It might be perfect if I were back in New Haven, but I wasn’t. I was here, a few miles from the only one, among many, who had helped a hurting man. The drugstore included a large gift shop, so I ambled its aisles for ten minutes. I opted for a clip-on book light and a Hallmark card featuring an Emily Dickinson poem on kindness. I paid for my purchases and left.

Instead of driving straight to Lillian’s, I dropped by the Hunt House. I guess it was my second unsuccessful attempt to reach Lyndell that kept the place on my mind. I parked in the carport and checked both exterior doors. Locked. However, the rear one wasn’t the way I’d left it. It was an investigative trick I’d learned in Michael Dugoni’s novel, The Eighth Sister. Place a piece of writing lead from a mechanical pencil across the top hinge. When the door opens, the lead will fall. It’s so small most people would never see it.

I returned to the front, unlocked the door, and walked inside. After a thorough inspection of the entire house, I found nothing that disturbed or alarmed me. I secured the door, castigating myself for having forgotten my mechanical pencil. The front porch seemed a good place to pause and ponder who else had access to the Hunt House. Rosa and Rob came to mind, but neither was a possibility. Unresolved, I gave up and returned to my rental. I shifted the Hyundai into reverse and eased into the turning around spot. Maybe Barbara had an extra key and had returned for something. I eased forward to Thomas Avenue and waited for a red, older model Corvette to pass before heading to Lillian’s.

***

Lyndell called as I passed Wendy’s and merged onto Highway 431 South. “Hey son, how’s Rob?” I hoped by now the hospital had transferred him into a private room and he was resting comfortably.

“Not so good. It was a major stroke, much worse than we first thought. Hold on Dad.” I could hear a cacophony in the background. While I waited, I glanced at the bright green package with a red bow lying on the passenger seat. I second-guessed my decision to have the clip-on light gift-wrapped. “Sorry Dad, the ER’s a madhouse.”

“So, what’s going on right now?”

“He’s in surgery. The doctors are trying to deal with his brain swelling.” I heard a siren in the distance. I assumed Lyndell had walked outside.

“Wow. That’s serious.” I felt a rush of guilt for not being on the way to Roanoke right now. I knew little about strokes, but I knew Rob was 86 years old. That couldn’t be in his favor.

“Here it is, I wrote it down.” Lyndell spelled out, “H e m i c r a n i e c t o m y,” before pronouncing the surgical procedure, “hemicraniectomy. The surgeons remove a portion of Papa Rob’s skull to relieve the pressure.”

“Sounds like he might have a long road to recovery.” I turned left at Cox Gap Road and made my decision. I would deliver my eulogy in the morning and, out of respect for Kyle and Kent, remain until the memorial ended. Then, I would fly to Roanoke. It was the least I could do for my in-laws. And Rachel.

“That’s assuming the best. You know Leah, she’s at the cabin but reading everything she can on strokes. She said there could be permanent brain damage if the swelling isn’t relieved quickly enough. Also, there are several other potential complications, including pneumonia.”

I briefly shared my plan to fly to Roanoke late tomorrow afternoon before Lyndell ended our conversation. Apparently, he had seen Mama Rosa’s worried face staring at him through the glass wall of the Emergency Room.

***

My bravery evaporated when I reached Alexander Road. Instead of turning right, I kept driving east on Cox Gap. As I passed the pond, I glanced to my right and to Lillian’s cabin. The place was dark. She wasn’t at home. Kyla had said the Community Meal was an all-day thing.

That fact changed my mind. I would find a safe spot to turn around and then return to Lillian’s. I would deposit the card and gift on the front porch and leave. That was safe, and it showed the personal sincerity of my gratitude.

I didn’t see Lillian’s SUV when I pulled into her driveway. I exited my rental with a card and gift in hand. Halfway to the front door, the porch light came on and then a stronger one at the corner of the eve. It was like I had been thrust on stage and had forgotten my lines. I should have retreated but didn’t. I continued to the front porch, and without hesitation, rang the doorbell.

It felt like an hour before Lillian responded. My first thought was she had arrived soon after I’d driven past Alexander Road. She’d parked out back or in a garage I hadn’t noticed and walked inside through the back door. Before she could switch on a light, she’d seen a vehicle turn into her driveway. Maybe she was tired and didn’t want to be disturbed, but that didn’t explain why the outside lights were now on. Just as I discarded my first hypothesis, I heard the deadbolt click.

Lillian opened the front door and smiled. I don’t think it was noticeable, but my mind snapped a head-to-toe virtual photograph of the woman I saw. I would inspect it as she opened the storm door. If she did. She retreated for a moment to flip on the inside lights. The pine-paneled walls of the den became visible.

“Hey, come in.” Lillian said, pushing back the door to give me room. I combined my items into my left hand and used my right to assist with the stubborn door. The sweet and flowery scent of lavender was inescapable as I squeezed into a small open foyer. I felt a twinge more at ease. “What brings you out?”

I didn’t instantly respond. She closed the storm door and moved to a lamp beside the couch. She switched it on. “I wanted to thank you for coming to my rescue Tuesday afternoon.” I handed her the card and the green-wrapped gift with a red bow.

“You didn’t have to do this. I’m pretty sure you already said thanks, but you might not have known it.” It took me a second to realize she was referring to my Vicodin encounter. We both laughed and Lillian motioned me to sit.

“I wanted to. It’s the least I could do.” I also wanted to clarify my confusion over Rachel’s diary, but it wasn’t the time.

“Should I open this now?” Lillian sat on a leather couch across from me and reached for the coffee table for the green and red package.

“It’s yours.” I sucked in the personal communication department. I also sometime missed the obvious. This entire scenario was inappropriate on many levels. First, the last thing I needed, or wanted, was a relationship. I had utterly failed at the two most important ones I’d ever had: Kyle and Rachel. Both died because of my inability to recognize warning signs. My presence was wrong for an equally disturbing reason: Lillian is married. As she read her card and delicately opened her present, I did what most men would do, regardless of propriety. I took in the scenery.

I would bet most people at age 66 look radically different from their 16-year-old self. I know I do. But Lillian didn’t, at least in the virtual photograph I was inspecting. Her silky brown hair was still, well, silky, even though she now wore it shoulder length instead of halfway down her waist. My mind’s camera might be low tech, missing a few wrinkles and some loosening of Lillian’s neck muscles, but it had clearly captured her beauty, but not sensually. Even though she was heavier than at 16, the extra pounds had found suitable homes. How bad an effect would an extra fifteen or twenty pounds have on Julia Roberts? None. Come to think of it, Lillian had a lot of Julia’s features: amble and shapely breasts, and luscious lips.

“It’s perfect.” Lillian finally said after folding the green wrapping paper and setting it, along with the red bow, on the coffee table. “I love to read.”

“Kyla mentioned it.” Guilt washed over me, submerging my unintended sexual thoughts, and reminding me I needed to leave. Lillian’s phone chirped once, then a second time. It sounded like birds talking. She looked at me before grabbing her iPhone from the nearest end table.

I stood, realizing Lillian’s distraction was a good time to leave. She looked at me and mouthed the words, “please wait.” I guessed she had received a text and a voice mail at the same time. She read and listened. To avoid eavesdropping, my mind refocused on that easily accessible virtual photo. Finally, she returned her phone to the coffee table. “Lee, can I ask a big favor?”

I didn’t hesitate. “You can but know that I’m not much of a handyman.” Lillian smiled, stood, and walked to me. “The storm door does need adjusting but what I need requires little skill.” She softly poked me in the chest and laughed. “Only kidding.”

“What do you need?” I was feeling awkward, not knowing what to do with my hands. I quickly executed the hands-in-pocket routine.

Lillian’s look was somber. Her blue-green eyes stared into mine. “It’s rather personal. Do you have five minutes to let me explain?”

What was I to say? She motioned me back to my chair. She rejoined the couch. “I’m going to divorce Ray and, to put it bluntly, I need some dirt.”

Lillian summarized her and Ray’s latest prenuptial agreement. She, like a lot of other women in America, could not secure a divorce without negative financial repercussions. What Lillian wanted were two things: money and justice, including an ample dose of revenge for Ray’s many affairs. Fortunately, the prenup was her gateway. It contained a clause whereby each, Ray and Lillian, had promised the other they had fully disclosed their assets, and every other issue that could apply to the prenuptial negotiations. The bottom line for Lillian was that if she could prove Ray had withheld knowledge of his criminal activity, then she was free as a bird, a wealthy bird at that.

After Lillian’s rather long monologue, she still hadn’t told me where I fit in this convoluted story. “I’m confused about how I can help.”

My question triggered an equally long explanation. Unsurprisingly, Kyla had already shared with her best friend the two primary reasons I had come to Alabama. One was to help Rob protect the Hunt House, and the second was to seek justice for Kyle and Rachel. “Here’s what I propose since we’re after the same thing.” Lillian sounded like a lawyer, or one well read and with an excellent memory. “I’m asking you to share with me the fruits of your investigation.” I couldn’t help but think of the U.S. Constitution and ‘the fruit of the poisonous tree,’ one of the most dominate principles in Fourth Amendment search and seizure law.

I again stood and, being the excellent negotiator I am, said: “I will if you do the same.”

“Agreed,” Lillian said, standing and walking two steps toward me. She held out her right hand. We shook, and after standing, repeated my hands-in-pocket routine.

“Well, I need to be going. I’ve still got some homework.”

“Your eulogy?”

“Yes,” I said, retreating two steps. Lillian nodded affirmatively and walked past me to the front door. At 16, she loved the sweet smell of lavender.

After I reached the front porch, we exchanged goodbyes and promises to keep each other up to date on the fruits of our investigations.

I took Sparks Avenue, thinking I’d park across from the church’s front entrance. That parking lot was full. I drove to Elm Street and turned right. The rear parking lot looked impossible. Undeterred, I wound my way through the giant U and back to Elm Street without finding a single spot. Now, readily deterred, I crossed Sparks and missed a turn into the library’s rear entrance but continued to Thomas Avenue and turned right. I thought about driving all the way to the Hunt House and park there but opted for a spot I saw coming open in the Boaz Public Library’s front parking lot. By the time I’d walked to First Baptist Church’s Family Life Center, my stomach had sung all four verses of ‘Feed Me.’

I nodded at two women standing out front smoking. When I walked through the propped-open double doors, I saw a flood of people inside a large foyer. A long line of people snaked back and forth toward the heart of the Center. Portable three-foot-tall expandable railings organized the waiting crowd. The scene reminded me of my tenth birthday and a trip to Six Flags Over Georgia with Mom and Dad, Kyla, Lillian, Kyle, and me. The line waiting for the Logs was always the longest.

I eased twenty feet to my left and stood behind an older couple who anchored the end of the line. They continued their conversation, both talking at the other at the same time with the husband (I assumed) slowly turning counterclockwise like he was standing on a turntable. After a minute, I concluded they were reciting their many blessings.

Neither husband nor wife (I’m assuming) acknowledged my presence. The man, tall and thin, had a shock of thick gray hair combed straight back. It was wet or oily. The woman was short with an odd-shaped rear end. She used a cane. Probably because of her hip problem. One was inches higher than the other, cocked upwards like it was trying to look over a wall. Her hair was gray, almost white, curly, and all tucked under a dark brown crocheted toboggan. Both husband and wife wore matching jogging suits, once navy blue but now displaying an array of bleach spots that might form an interesting pattern if I focused.

The line inched forward, and the wife powered past the husband as we approached the first turn-back. A family of six younger kids entered the foyer and took places behind me. “Margaret, I’d say 1:30.” The husband in front of me stood at a ninety-degree angle and stretched his neck, looking towards the far side of the foyer. I had seen another set of open doors there. That would be the entrance to today’s dining room.

Without attempting to look higher than the floor, the wife responded. “It was almost 2:00 last year. You in for a dollar?” The two old geysers were betting. I opted for an educational route.

“How does this work once we get inside?” The husband turned and looked down at me. He wasn’t but a couple of inches taller, but he’d craned his neck up and out, leaned his head backwards, and squinted his eyes towards me. It was clearly a look of disdain.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I couldn’t imagine how my inquiry had disclosed my domicile. Wasn’t it possible I lived at Cooper Courts and had never been invited? Or, as a CC resident, I’d never heard of this glorious event? I could go on. To this census taker, I was a stranger, “not from around here.”

I figured I might as well be a smart ass, albeit one semi-cultured. “No, I’m from up north but I have my red and green ticket.” The husband’s neck grew an inch closer to Heaven but paused for a quick glance at the wife, who was in another world, one of numbers and simple calculations to determine if she was soon to come into great wealth. I gave up and turned to ask my question to the father of six, who, unsurprisingly, was scrolling his phone.

“Sometimes I can be a smart ass.” I heard behind me. Him and me both.

As we trod at a turtle’s pace, Jim Hawkins transformed into a pleasant and knowledgeable fellow while wife, Margaret, I think I’d heard, gathered more useful data, staring at the floor and softly reciting each discovery. T. J. Miller, the pastor, caused the slow-moving line. At least, that was Jim’s opinion. The Church’s senior pastor stood, like last year, inside the gym to the left of the double-doors. He greeted everyone, teased out their first name, and asked the person what he was thankful for. Then Miller gifted each, young and old, a copy of Impact, an index card sized booklet he had written several years ago. I decided not to ask my question.

After providing the layout of buffet tables and the categorization of the food groups along half the gym’s circumference, Jim invited me to sit with him and Margaret. He said, “if you don’t mind sitting with us Manor House folks.” The intelligent Jim was also adept at recognizing patterns. The entire gymnasium floor (minus the buffet tables) served as the dining area: row after row of connected eight-foot tables. I lost interest a quarter of the way through Jim’s groupings, Summerville Homes, Mt. Vernon Homes, Cooper Courts (I half-smiled), Country Club, and his rendition of past awards. Jim’s voice trailed off at Hunter’s Run when I thought I spotted a ghost. It was a grownup, none other than Kyle Bennett. In fact, it was his ninety-second older brother, Kent. And he was looking straight at me. I returned Kent’s wave two seconds before Jim mentioned the name Ray Archer.

“What did you say about Ray?” acting like the two of us were best friends.

“That’s what I’m going to say to Pastor Miller. I’m thankful for Ray Archer.”

I stared and Jim answered before I could ask, ‘Why?’

“He furnishes the meat. Ray pays for it and The Shack cooks it. Must cost a fortune since the entire town will eat here before dark.”

“He must be a kind and generous man.” Again, I felt like a stranger. Other than Kent, since joining the line, I’d not seen one person I knew. And Kent no longer lived in Boaz. ‘He’s not from around here.’

“Lee.” I turned back toward the gym when I heard my name. I saw Kent slowly hurdling over the nylon railings coming toward me. “Why don’t we get out of here. I’m starving and tired of waiting.”

He entered my aisle, and we shook hands. “Sounds great to me. Man, it’s good to see you.”

***

I rode with Kent since he’d parked his car in the Church’s rear lot. He suggested we eat at Grumpy’s, but they were closed. As was every restaurant on Hwy. 431, except McDonald’s. Oh well.

The drive-through was busy. We chose the dining room and didn’t have to wait to place our orders. We both started with chicken sandwiches, fries, and water.

“Let’s sit outside,” Kent suggested. The weather was beautiful, blue skies, and a warm sun. The uninhabited playground was the perfect spot to enjoy our first visit since graduating high school in May of 1972. We chose a bright red two-seater. All the tables were two-seaters.

Kent’s height had struck me since watching him hurdle the railings. “I can’t get over how tall you are.” From the ninth grade, there wasn’t two hair’s difference in mine and Kyle’s height. Kent was, at most, an inch taller. But now, we weren’t close. I’m five feet nine and a half. Kent had to be six foot two.

“I started stretching at MIT.” Kent was looking down, unwrapping his sandwich, so I couldn’t get a read on his eyes. I assumed he was joking. “Just kidding,” he said as I ate three fries. “Mother nature, I guess. Two inches at MIT. One and a half at Stanford.”

Kent caught me staring after one bite of my sandwich. “Sorry, I imagined Kyle.” Neither Kent nor Kyle, nor me, were top athletes in high school. The three of us had tried out for football in the ninth grade, more as a dare than for justified reasons. Kent was the only one who made the team, but never became a starter. I admired him for not quitting and wondered what would have happened to Kyle. If he had lived. I wondered if he would be the successful salt and pepper haired guy sitting before me.

“No problem. You’re not the only one I’ve caught staring since coming to town.”

A young woman pushing a baby stroller clunked through the door, made it halfway to Kent and me, and announced it was too cold for little Jamie. It was at least fifty degrees.

“Better than getting smashed by a truck.” My statement jumped from my mouth like a freed bird. I really didn’t want to remind myself why my shoulder and head were hurting.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t fracture your shoulder or suffer a grade 3 concussion.” Kent took the last bite of his chicken sandwich.

His statement triggered my curiosity. I knew he had arrived in town last Saturday. We talked on Sunday about my plans for Kyle’s eulogy. It was a mystery how he knew about my shoulder injury. “I agree. I don’t need to lose more brain power. By the way, how did you hear about my little adventure?”

“Hold on, you want anything?” Kent stood and wiped his mouth.

“No, I’m good.” Soon, he returned with another chicken sandwich and two pies.

“Can’t have a Thanksgiving meal without apple pie.”

I nodded, then wondered how he stayed so trim and fit with such a voracious appetite. He probably had continued his weightlifting or became a jogger.

“Jane Fordham.” Kent said right before taking another huge bite. I had almost forgotten my question. “Yesterday afternoon was the third time she’s called me since Saturday.”

“I don’t remember you guys being friends in high school, but that has been a lifetime ago.” I might understand one time, but three?

“We weren’t. She’s too much of a busybody for me.” Kent eyed my uneaten fries. I pushed them his way.

“Then, why three calls?” I had slipped on my lawyer’s hat.

“I agree, but she’s also a fixer. I probably couldn’t have pulled off such a big memorial for Kyle if not for Jane.”

“I see.”

“But here’s the thing. Jane seems worried it might backfire.”

“Meaning what?” I wanted to know more since I had planned on calling her myself. Jane’s name was all over Rachel’s diaries. The two had been best friends during ninth grade and half of tenth.

“I’m not sure but I got the strange vibe Ray Archer is her primary concern, like the memorial would cast him in a poor light since he supposedly was the last person to see my brother alive.”

“Along with Rachel.” I added.

“And another reason I don’t like her, I assume we’re speaking privately in Kyle’s best interest?”

It was a question. “Absolutely.” I was no longer hungry. I rolled up the rest of my chicken sandwich.

“Jane’s a tease. That might not be the correct word. I mean nothing sexual, but she likes to toss out a subject and keep you dangling.”

“Like what?” Short, simple questions were always the best.

“Something about a promise she’d made to Rachel. Don’t ask me why that came up.”

Kent seemed high-strung. He grabbed our cups and left for refills. Hearing my dead wife’s name was worse than bittersweet. It bordered on tragic. I’m rarely angry, but an unearthed horde of despicable secrets had sent my already fragile life into an inescapable spin that seemed destined for a fatal crash. All these years, I had thought I was the problem, the reason Rachel and I could not be truly intimate. Although I was a good provider and father, nice, respectful, and considerate, now, looking back, I was simply a placeholder. A husband as marital status, but nothing remotely akin to a romantic partner. The bald truth is the woman I loved had been a mirage, a slave to her past, incapable of confiding and trusting me, thus unable to love and accept love. One thing was for sure, casting blame upon Rachel didn’t assuage my guilt or a stomach knotting nag it had all been my fault. Kent’s return relieved me. Thoughts can be painful. “I take it Jane never divulged her promise?”

“No, she later made a comment I now sense was the truth.”

“What was that?”

 “That ‘Ray had lied to Detective Darden, to protect Rachel.’” That was confusing. Context is critical to understanding. “How did you two get into that subject?”

“Sort of out of the blue. The two of us had been talking about the memorial when she asked about that night, what I had been doing, what I knew.”

“The night Kyle went missing?”

“Yes. When I asked her how she knew about Ray’s statement and that he had lied, Jane just said, ‘a little birdie told me.’ I hate that phrase.”

“Me too. Mother loved it.”

“Here’s what I was about to tell you earlier.” Kent shared his experience of receiving a large package containing a copy of the official witness statement detailing Detective Darden’s interview of Ray. Kent also revealed the conversation he had with Ray last Sunday morning at Grumpy’s, including how he used Jackie Frasier to catch Ray in a lie. “Jane is dumb as a rock or is crafty and cunning.”

I again was confused, but not because of Kent’s logic. It was because of the two men who entered the dining room and were walking to the cashier. One was tall and thick, the other was short and thicker. I could have sworn I’d recently seen the short one. But where? Kent snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Sorry. I think I see your point but talk as though I’m a third grader.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing.” We both had a friendly laugh. I wasn’t sure it was for the same reason. “Jane seemed to know Ray had not been completely truthful with Detective Darden.”

“You’re implying Jane’s the one who mailed you the package.” If she hadn’t seen Ray’s documented words, how would she know he had lied. ‘Most times, there’s another question you need to ask,’ my law school Evidence professor had oft repeated. Kent tore into his apple pie. “What else did Jane know?” Ray’s words alone wouldn’t be enough. She had to have something to compare to.

“Yes, I believe my package came from Jane. Also, she had to have learned something else from Ray or Rachel.” Kent looked at me and shook his head sideways as though apologizing for saying her name. “It’s like Jane knew I knew Ray was lying.”

I think Kent eyed my pie; I’d eat it later. “Here’s a possibility. Ray and Jane talked after last Sunday’s breakfast.”

“Maybe. Here’s another option. Jane has known this for half-a-century.”

“I see three scenarios from 1970. The conflicting information had come from Ray, Rachel, or personal observation. When Jane read Ray’s witness statement, she realized the discrepancy.” I felt like I was working on a hypothetical with my students.

Kent started neatly folding the paper wrappings from his two sandwiches. “If this didn’t concern Kyle’s death, it would almost be funny. After all our wanderings, we still don’t know what Jane promised Rachel.”

Kent was right. But I couldn’t resist. “Or, if Jane promised anything at all.” I learned the ‘opposite’ strategy as a 1L.

“Yeah, right. You agree, it’s certain that Jane leans toward protecting Ray?”

“That’s a strong possibility.” I enjoyed hedging my bets.

We gathered our garbage and dropped it and our trays at the station just before leaving the dining room. Kent detoured to the restroom while I headed to his car. I placed both hands on the roof beside the passenger door like I was about to be patted down, maybe arrested. Rachel and Jane again crossed my mind. What on earth had she promised my wife? I had nothing factual to support my feeling but deep down I believed there was something else, itching to join that horde of despicable secrets I’d already discovered.

“You ready?” Kent’s question returned me to reality. I’m not sure why I gave him a thumbs-up. “Let’s ride down King Street and talk about your eulogy?” I had prepared a solid outline, but I was open to Kent’s suggestions.

As Kent drove toward the Bethsaida Road exit, I glanced through the passenger side window. Tall man and short man were walking toward a truck facing Highway 168. I couldn’t tell the make or model, but two things were clear. It was red and wasn’t jacked up. Then, I recalled where I’d seen short man. It was last Friday night when Kyla and I ate supper at The Shack. I’d seen his face inside the kitchen. He was standing next to a stainless-steel shelf lined with finished orders awaiting customer delivery.

While Kyla made a congealed salad and tried her hand at Mom’s green bean casserole, I called Enterprise Car Rental. Since I had purchased insurance, all I had to do was return the Explorer, or, if it was inoperable, arrange a rollback. If I needed a replacement, I’d have to come to their nearest location. That was Guntersville.

A few minutes before 11:00 AM, Kyla dropped me off at Walmart. The rep I’d spoken to had instructed me to use duct tape to secure the damaged rear door. He asked if I’d taken pictures. I hadn’t. He also inquired whether I’d called the police. I hadn’t done that either but revealed an officer had come to the ER and taken my statement.

Exiting the parking lot, I almost called Lillian. I’d noted her phone number at the bottom of her email. I was indebted to her not only for my rescue but for the return of my iPhone. The OtterBox protective case had done its job and earned a lifelong customer, even if their products were expensive.

I opted to postpone my call, subconsciously plotting a drop-by visit to deliver a Hallmark thank-you card, a box of chocolates, and a bouquet. Strike the flowers. A potted green plant would be more appropriate. Come to think of it, strike the chocolates also. She’s dieting or thinking of dieting, according to Kyla. Although I hadn’t taken a Vicodin since midnight, my thinking remained unique, akin to chit-chat. Maybe the drop-by wasn’t a good idea either. For now, I’ll keep the card idea for further review. I turned right into Circle K since the Explorer was flashing “Low Fuel.” I’d promised to return it with a full tank.

I completed my purchase, rejoined 431’s northbound traffic, and replayed last night’s voice mail from Rosa. She and Rob had met Leah and Lyndell and their families in Roanoke, Virginia for the long Thanksgiving weekend. This had become a tradition for at least ten years. Rachel and I had never attended. Rachel’s idea, not mine.

“We made it before dark, no problems. The grands should be here in a few hours. Hickory Hill is still beautiful. Wish you were here. Call Rob when you get a chance, he’s not feeling well, so he’s thinking about taking the City’s offer.”

I would love to visit the rustic and secluded cabin in the mountains to the northwest of Roanoke. I’d prefer to be there with just my children and grandchildren. As always, I looked forward to the photos Leah and Lyndell captured every year.

Coming into Albertville, I stopped at Raceway and bought a bottle of water to swallow three Tylenol. Both my head and neck hurt, but enough of Vicodin and its hilarious hallucinations. I am now more convinced than ever that we have little control over our thoughts. They just appear out of nowhere. Like the one that confused me when I reentered 431.

Why was Rachel’s ‘wall’ diary in my briefcase? I’m certain Kyla said Lillian found it and the pistol receipt when she’d returned to the Explorer. I’d left the diary in my bedroom, or so I thought. When I entered Micaden’s office yesterday afternoon, I didn’t see how it had traveled to my briefcase. If it hadn’t, how did it get there after my altercation at Walmart? Unless it didn’t. I wondered if the Vicodin was affecting my memory, or my ability to construct cohesive ideas. I couldn’t help but consider whether my sister and Lillian, or one of them, had found it in my bedroom when they were stripping me down and settling me into bed. If so, why would Lillian say it fell out of the backseat when the unlatched briefcase had opened? Was it unlatched? I hated being confused. If it wasn’t the Vicodin, maybe my head injury was worse than I thought. The car horn from a Toyota Camry scared me. I admit the light at the Highway 431/75 intersection had already turned red.

The rest of the drive was uneventful thanks to my extra precaution and turning on WQSB radio. There’s nothing like country music on Thanksgiving Day to highlight all your blessings. The twang and the drawl made me focus on the road. And trigger a memory from twenty years ago. Leah’s trademark statement concerning country music came during a period of teenage rebellion, but I have to say, she nailed it. It was something like, “listening to country music in reverse, you get your dog back, your truck back, your house back, your girl back, and you stop drinking.” I slowed even more before going down the mountain and fought back random and ridiculous thoughts of getting my girl back.

Enterprise’s holiday staff was nearly as limited as its car inventory. I had wanted another SUV but had to settle for a mid-sized compact. However, it all worked for my good. The Hyundai Elantra is exactly what I need; it’s much more comfortable than the Explorer and should use a lot less gas.

***

My iPhone rang as I eased up the mountain. It was Rosa. “I was just about to call Rob.” I lied.

“That’s why I called. We’re on our way to Roanoke Memorial Hospital.” I thought I heard a siren.

“You mentioned he wasn’t feeling good. How’s he now? Are you driving him?” I was asking too many questions.

“Rob’s in the ambulance. We’re trying to keep up.”

“You’re not driving, are you?” Truth be told, neither Rob nor Rosa should operate a motor vehicle.

“No, I’m riding with Lyndell. Leah stayed at the cabin with the children.”

“What’s going on? What are Rob’s symptoms?”

The siren sound faded. “It’s classic stroke. His face started drooping and his left arm grew numb. We were eating a snack lunch and his speech got slurry. Lyndell helped him to an easy chair and tried to have Rob repeat ‘my name is Rob Kern.’ He couldn’t do it. Leah dialed 911 immediately.”

I pulled into another Raceway and parked to avoid distraction. “Do you want me to catch a flight?” Rosa had always treated me with such respect. Our relationship had grown closer since Rachel’s death. My mother-in-law knew I’d come in a heartbeat.

“No, the EMTs encouraged us since we had called for help so quickly. Maybe it’s a just a mild one.” I wondered if she was trying to convince herself, Lyndell, or me.

“Okay, but you keep me posted. I’ll answer anytime you call.” Rosa didn’t respond directly. She was probably wondering why I hadn’t answered last night’s call.

“Lee, we’re here. Say a prayer for Rob.”

“Okay.” What was I to say? “And tell Lyndell to call me when it’s convenient.”

Instead of leaving Raceway, I sat and imagined the scene in Roanoke. What if it wasn’t a mild stroke? What if they hadn’t acted fast enough? Hadn’t Rosa in yesterday’s voice mail said Rob hadn’t been feeling good? What if Rob died? I didn’t want to think about that, but I considered the legal ramifications.

My mind replayed Rosa’s message. The first time I’d heard it, something had struck me as odd. I grabbed my iPhone from a cup holder and listened again. Her last statement got my attention: “he’s not feeling well, so he’s thinking about taking the City’s offer.” The ‘so,’ implied cause and effect. A causes B. My shortened version: since Rob is sick, he will sell the Hunt House to the City. I laughed to myself, feeling like a 1L. There would be an effect caused by the effect: the lawsuit dismissed. That would be a good thing. Right?

A large semi swung through the parking lot and blasted its air-horn, insisting I pull forward a few feet. A causes B. I admit I had oddly parked. My mind flipped back to legal mode. I needed to brainstorm the real estate closing. There seemed to be only two scenarios; I didn’t like the second.

The first closing would take place while Rob was alive and legally competent (I didn’t know if he’d executed a durable power of attorney). Here, Rob and Rosa would do what they wanted with the money. I’m certain they wouldn’t blow it in Las Vegas. They would probably put it in the bank until their deaths and then their wills would control.

The second closing would take place after Rob died. I forced myself to think it through. Assuming Rob hadn’t changed his will, the proceeds would be divided three ways: a third to Randy, a third to Rachel (since she’s dead, Rob’s per stirpes provision would dictate this third be distributed to Leah, Lyndell, and me), and a third to the Southern Baptist Missions Board.

I looked at the time and needed to get rolling. I reentered 431. Two new thoughts entered my mind. What if Rob had changed his will? Of course, it was his right to do so. My second thought revealed another assumption I’d made years earlier: that Rob and Rosa owned the Hunt House as joint tenants. But what if the title is solely in Rob’s name? The answer came quickly. Rosa would inherit the real estate, assuming she survived Rob. But there would be a delay in distribution. Probate, the legal process of administering a person’s estate after death, is inefficient. I made a mental note to talk to Rob about the Hunt House deed. I certainly was no expert in wills and trusts, but I could still give him some excellent advice: consult an estate planning attorney.

My mind changed gears again when I approached the Guntersville Walmart. If it hadn’t been for the empty parking lot (they were closed for the Holiday), I would have stopped and bought Kyla a replacement crock-pot. Yesterday, I had never made it inside Boaz Walmart to make the exchange, and I’d forgotten to remove it from the Explorer. Maybe because it was no longer in the backseat. Maybe Lillian had returned it to Kyla. I’d have to ask, but that could wait.

I found a classical music channel on the radio and concentrated on my driving. I’d already had too many horns blowing at me since I’d left Kyla’s. She had instructed me to be at the Church’s Family Life Center between noon and 1:00 PM for the most food choices, including Mom’s green bean casserole. I was hungry, so I took her advice.

“Lee, Lee, wake up.” It was Mom, and we were in Panama City. My twelve-year-old self had been at the beach outside our hotel, lying on my stomach for hours. Mom, Dad, Kyla, and Lillian had gone to a mall and left me alone. “You need to take this.”

I opened my eyes and wondered why Kyla looked so old, and why I needed the pill and glass of water she was holding. “Sunburned?” I knew that’s what it was because I’d already seen myself in bed in this very room for a week after we’d returned from vacation. How was I still on the beach and why was Kyla’s hair streaked with gray?

“Lee, you’re dreaming. Sit up and take this.” The old Kyla raised her voice. She set the pill and the glass on my nightstand and started tugging at my tee shirt. She forgot my shoulder.

“Shit.” 2020 rushed inside my old bedroom like a wave at high tide. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.” It was then I noticed Kyla’s face matched that of a ghost. She had some sort of white cream smeared everywhere there weren’t eyeballs or a mouth. Her night gown reminded me of Mother. “Your prescription says you can take one pill every four to six hours as needed for pain. You’ve been groaning and moaning ever since Lillian left.”

That last fact was confusing. It wasn’t connected to anything else I knew other than Lillian had delivered me home. Painfully, I sat against the headboard and realized I was nearly naked. Underwear and a tee-shirt. The weird thing is I had no memory of undressing and crawling into bed. Heck, I didn’t recall walking inside Kyla’s house at all. I swallowed the pill. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

Typical Kyla. “Why start now?” Without missing a beat, sis continued. “Mark it down in your little book. Tomorrow we’re going to have a talk about what’s going on. You hear?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“If Lillian’s theory is correct, you’re fighting a losing battle and a mild head wound and a bruised shoulder are the least of your troubles.”

I was in no mood for this conversation, but ‘theory’ had my attention. “What did Lillian say?”

“Later. You get some rest. I’m headed upstairs but here’s a whistle if you need me.” Kyla left. I inched my body back horizontally.

I was asleep before she was halfway up the stairs. The Vicodin kicked in soon afterwards, followed by a speed of light return to 1970. During the next several hours, I experienced a virtual replay of my last two years of high school.

Lillian was the first girl I ever saw naked. In person. It was New Year’s Day 1970. Until that experience, I had always viewed my sister’s best friend as just a member of our household, like Mom, Dad, Kyla, and Kyle. She was part of the family, just another sister. I think it was my infatuation with Rachel that had blinded me to the metamorphosis happening right before my eyes.

Our pond froze six inches deep. According to Dad, it was the worst ice storm since March 1960. Lillian and Kyle had already spent two nights at Harding Hillside. After a big breakfast on the first day of the new year, Mom suggested we bundle up and get some exercise. That seemed to connect with Lillian and Kyla. They quickly raced from the kitchen to her upstairs bedroom. Mom asked me to grab her camera from her desk. Years earlier, she’d fashioned an office of sorts from an upstairs closet.

When I entered the hallway, Kyla’s door was open, and I heard laughing and singing but continued. It didn’t take a minute to find Mom’s camera. I tiptoed back to Kyla’s room, planning on executing one of my best scare tactics. When I peeked my head around the door frame, the most unbelievably gorgeous site of my young life met me. Apparently, Kyla was changing inside her walk-in closet, but there stood Lillian facing away, towards Kyla’s bed and the room’s sole window. I even recall how the incoming light created a shadow on the floor that matched Lillian’s hour-glass figure.

She must have heard my mind revving like a car engine. She turned and saw me, doing nothing except slipping inside the thermal top she was holding. I’ll never forget her smile and her boobs, not to mention anything else. That day, I learned Lillian was a young goddess. She might have a teenage mind and a queen-size Southern drawl, but her body was the epitome of a Playboy’s luscious centerfold.

My dreaming, hallucinating was more like it, had continued nonstop until 4:37 a.m. according to the digital clock/radio on my nightstand.

It might have been a hard fall on the ice that morning that changed the directory of my life and my Vicodin adventures. It wasn’t my head slamming against the pond’s concrete surface when I was showing out for who? No, not Mom and Dad. Instead, it was the unplanned and totally unexpected experience of seeing the naked Lillian that changed the trajectory of my life. At least for the next two years.

I doubt if I would have ever had the courage to ask Lillian for a date. I was more of a nerd; no way am I a narcissist. That was my understanding of what a guy had to be to have the courage to ask out the prettiest girl in the universe. Yes, that’s how star struck I was. Fortunately, I didn’t have to conjure up the courage or attempt the impossible transformation toward loving myself to the extreme. On the twentieth day of January, Lillian asked me to the Valentine’s Dance.

It seemed like a five-minute fight to crawl out of bed. There were four of us entangled, me, of course, along with a sheet, a thermal blanket, and a quilt. The latter was one of Mother’s beautiful designs. I wondered why I was sweating.

At 4:59, I exited my bedroom and inched toward the kitchen. Exhausted, but proud. Somehow, I’d been able to slip inside the sweat-suit Kyla had left hanging over my rocker, not to mention my bathroom adventure of off-loading pee, washing my face, and brushing my teeth.

***

Kyla was sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading Chambers, her since-middle-school devotional. Kyla’s faith had always been a strong flame. I’d also read Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest. That daily practice stopped when Rachel killed herself. My faith had weakened since my youth, flickered after her overdose, and slithered away to hide under the proverbial basket after she hung herself. That eventually prompted my research into the overwhelming facts of pain and suffering. Ultimately, the truth of reality doused my faith forever.

“Fresh coffee.” Sis said without raising her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Why are you up so early?” I poured a cup and wondered if Kyla was wishing I hadn’t disturbed her.

“Too tired and worn out to sleep.”

“Uh?” Kyla said, laying Chambers face down on the table.

“The bananas were too ripe.” Why couldn’t we siblings have a normal conversation, absent the jokes, digs, and sarcasm? Before she responded, other than giving me her best quizzical look, I leaned back against the kitchen sink and shared street slang for Vicodin and Dr. Claburn’s hilarious story.

I thought about sharing a few of my late-night hallucinations but concluded that was off-limits for brother-sister talks. Kyla motioned me to join her at the table. “Promise me you won’t be mad if I tell you I snooped inside your briefcase.”

My mind had slowed a million degrees since last night’s light speed wanderings. Briefcase? It was on the back seat of the Explorer. It’s still in the Walmart parking lot. “Uh?” Kyla and I learned this word when we were quite young.

“After Lillian and I got you in bed.” Sis stopped and released her trademark yelp. It only appeared in those rare foot-in-mouth moments. “Man, did that sound sexual.”

“I understand. The two of you stripped me down. I don’t remember being gratified.”

“Ugh, that’s a mental picture I’ll burn. Listen, big brother. After you zoned out, Lillian suggested she return to Walmart and secure your vehicle. She had seen your briefcase lying in the seat. Also, she worried about the back door. It’s badly damaged. It doesn’t fully close.”

“So, the two of you preyed on my vulnerability, concocting a scheme to steal my money?” The Harding siblings are far from normal.

“Shut up and play civil. It was an innocent mistake. Well, mostly. When she grabbed the briefcase’s handle, the contents went flying. Apparently, you hadn’t snapped it shut the last time you used it. Long story short is that Lillian couldn’t help but see Rachel’s diary and a receipt from Micaden Tanner’s office. After she returned, the two of us talked, even engaged in a little speculation.” Kyla walked to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup. “Want more?”

“No. So, I might as well be interested in the story you two thieves have conjured.” My phrasing was still off.

“Lee, where in heck did you get a gun and why did you give it to Micaden Tanner?” Kyla’s question wasn’t bad. She’d already reasoned I could not have cleared airline security with a pistol in tow. But, not to credit smart sister too much, it appears she hadn’t connected the Hunt House to the mystery gun.

Oh well, I might as well take in some new partners. Over the next half-hour, I painted Kyla a rough picture of what I’d pieced together since finding Rachel’s basement-concealed diaries. This included search and discovery at the Hunt House Friday night. I started not to mention Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion, but these were the moon, the mountain, and the merciless ocean of the landscape I was painting. After relaying that Ray Archer must have killed Kyle Bennett, I warned Kyla about discussing these details with Lillian. I also promised to fabricate a story about the pistol.

“Big brother, I know you’re a little slow but hear me out before you write off your first lover.”

I wanted to lasso that calf and tie it up, neck and legs (the Vicodin?), but shook my head sideways instead. Kyla could be wrong on so many levels. “I assume we’re speaking of Lillian.”

“Well, duh, who else? Okay, let’s move along. The married woman who’s always had your back left here a little before midnight. While you were tossing and turning, moaning and groaning, she was a dog after a bone.”

“Did she find it?” At most, I guessed Lillian had followed up with the Boaz Police officer who had dropped by the ER. The sharp pain erupted from my shoulder when I made too-quick-a-reach for the sugar bowl. I hoped Lillian had not broken her promise to stay mum. My mind was still several thousand degrees below optimum processing.

“She did. With some help. Lillian is not dumb, nor is she untrustworthy. She called and got her investigator out of bed, and he awakened one of his contacts. You can read the email she sent about an hour ago.” Kyla pointed to the couch. Until now, I hadn’t noticed her laptop.

“Investigator?” Why would Lillian need an investigator? A couple of vague reasons started revealing themselves.

“Oh, sorry. Lillian said not to give you any of her personal information. She didn’t know if she could trust you.”

“Uh?”

“I’m kidding, you dote.” Kyla stood and retrieved her laptop. “Do you want to know the name, address, and phone number of the owner of a 2014 blue Chevrolet Silverado?”

“Shit, Lillian doesn’t fool around.” Five thousand degrees.

“Let’s not go there. Derrick Hart’s your man. Well, he’s the owner of tag number ‘USA4GOD.’” Kyla turned her laptop screen so I could see. Lillian’s email was open.

I scanned the three short paragraphs and then reread them more closely. Two things caught my attention. The first was the name of Lillian’s investigator: Connor Ford. Interesting that she was using the same guy Micaden had recommended I use. The second was Lillian’s admonition to Kyla for her to keep quiet about anything related to the tag number. I liked her last statement: “Lee will know what to do. Remember, he plays chess; we play checkers.” The Vicodin almost triggered another hallucination.

I looked over the laptop’s screen at Kyla. She was shaking her head sideways. “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” She and Rachel had always said I over-think everything. “You need to give this information to the police. They can hunt him down and charge him with attempted murder. Right?”

I wasn’t interested in Kyla’s question. What I needed to know was something far more personal. “Sis, this might be uncomfortable for you, but I have to know. So, be honest. How long have you known about Rachel’s high school pregnancy and abortion?”

I wasn’t expecting such a quick and hurtful response. “Since eleventh grade.” Kyla’s eyes teared as she mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

“One last question, for now. I know you have things to do.” Today was Thanksgiving, and Kyla had volunteered to help with the community meal at the church. She used a napkin to wipe her eyes. “To your knowledge, who else was aware of Rachel’s situation?”

This time she paused, like she was alphabetizing a long list of names. “Jane, Lillian, and me. Ray and Rachel, of course, and their parents.”

“Kyle Bennett?”

Kyla shook her head. “Not that I know.”