Category: The Boaz Stranger

I noticed the jacked-up blue truck in my rear-view after I turned right off Highway 431 and passed McDonald’s. It came out of nowhere. I slowed, not wanting to wreck my rental and deal with that hassle. By the time I eased into the curve at five-points, the driver tightened the gap between our vehicles and started blasting his horn. I veered to the right towards Y-Mart to give the idiot all the space he needed to pass. Finally, he jerked his behemoth to the left and pulled next to me. There, he stayed, until we reached Mill Street Deli where he sped ahead, but not for long and not far enough. The right side of his rear bumper clipped my left front fender when he reentered my lane. I barely controlled the steering wheel to avoid leaving the road and barreling into the Domino’s Pizza parking lot. The idiot gave me the middle finger through his opened driver’s side window as he raced west towards downtown.

My hands were shaking, and my brow was sweating. I almost pulled into the Key West Inn to gather myself but didn’t. Although I was running a little early for my 1:00 PM appointment, I was ready to shed the responsibility for managing the pistol I believed had killed my best childhood friend.

I successfully timed two red-lights, crossed the railroad tracks, and turned left into the parking lot Micaden and eight other businesses, including First State Bank of Boaz, shared. I easily found a spot and parked. When I exited the Explorer, I looked around in all directions before removing the plastic-wrapped Smith & Wesson from beneath the floor mat. I quickly secured it inside my briefcase and walked even faster towards the law office, feeling more vulnerable than ever. Tina, the take-charge secretary/paralegal, was standing at the all-glass front door and welcomed me in. I felt safe. It turned out that Micaden had an emergency hearing in Etowah County and wasn’t available to meet. Tina assured me she’d lock the pistol in their safe.

I thanked her and returned to the Explorer. After circling the parking lot, I turned right and re-entered Highway 168. My luck was missing. I hadn’t gone twenty feet beyond the railroad track until the same damn truck slid in behind me; it couldn’t be an inch away from my rear bumper. At least this time, the damn horn wasn’t blasting.

***

The driver slowed when a Boaz Police car eased past us on the left. By the time I made it past five-points, the blue truck had faded to ten car lengths behind. Things stayed the same until I passed Pizza Hut and turned right a block from Walmart. I circled to the front of the Grocery section hoping I’d find a parking spot near the building entrance. Again, luck was on vacation.

Rachel had always advised, even demanded, I make opportunities for exercise. Today, I didn’t have a choice. I assumed Thanksgiving was the cause. I finally found a spot nearly a mile away, or so it seemed.

I exited the Explorer and walked to the rear passenger door to remove a box containing a new crock pot Kyla had asked me to return. The inner pot had cracked. Before removing the box, I checked my wallet to make sure I’d inserted the receipt. The last thing I remember was that it was still lying on the kitchen counter. Lucky for me, luck returned. I found it tucked where I’d put it.

Before I could fold my wallet and return it to my back pocket, I heard the blue behemoth. I turned to my right just enough to see the idiot barreling straight for me at maybe a forty-five-degree angle from where my Explorer was setting. A smothering fear engulfed me a split second before a knife-like pain tore through my left shoulder. I’m not sure, but it seemed the driver veered to his left a second before his bumper slammed into my Explorer’s right side passenger door. Like football, life was a game of inches.

As the driver sped away, my body collapsed to the ground though I was clutching a seat belt to maintain balance. Somehow, I could contort my body into an upright sitting position, squeezed between the still open door and the frame of the now-damaged rental. My shoulder was hurting. Blood pooled inside the palm of my hand after I touched my pounding forehead. I needed to call 911, but I couldn’t access my iPhone. I could see it but didn’t know if I could crawl that far. The impact had knocked it from my left hand, catapulting the needed device a good twenty feet from where I sat. Life isn’t just a game of inches, it’s a game of seconds.

The number of cars that passed within fifty feet surprised me. If the drivers hadn’t seen the accident, they certainly could see a man lying crumbled on the ground next to his car, most likely needing help. I guess everyone had that ‘I-don’t-want-to-get-involved’ attitude, in part because of tomorrow’s holiday. My theory held true for another couple of minutes until a large black SUV pulled within ten feet.

At first, I thought the woman sliding out of the driver’s seat was an angel.

***

“Lee, oh my God, what happened?” The woman who knew my name knelt and lightly re-angled my cheek to inspect my forehead. “That looks bad. Hold on.” She raced back to her vehicle. The perfume scent was faint, memorable I think, but I was woozy, and my eyes were glassy. I closed them and heard her calling 911. I wondered if she found my iPhone.

“Thanks for stopping by.” I whispered to no one as I felt I could pass out at any moment. I opened my eyes and saw an attractive woman, vaguely familiar, standing at the rear of her SUV with head cocked to the side, holding her phone to one ear as she scrounged through what I assumed was a pile of Walmart bags. Again, I closed my eyes, this time wondering if angels wear tight jeans and bulky Christmas sweaters.

The weirdly dressed angel returned, knelt beside me, and nudged my right shoulder, my good one. “The ambulance should be here in a minute or two. They said to keep you still as possible, but that I could wipe the blood from your forehead if it wasn’t too deep a gash.”

“Okay,” I said and looked into the woman’s eyes. They were bluish green. She had a pretty face, high cheekbones, and lips, the lips were.

“Lee. Look at me.” I thought that’s what I’d been doing while she kept wiping my face and forehead with a damp cloth. “You need to stay awake. What am I holding?” She reached to the ground beside her and held up a bottle of water. “Lee, answer my question.”

I wasn’t hearing very good, but it was how she said ‘question’ that I recognized the woman. Well, that and her shape, her face, her eyes, her lips. “Me, you’re holding me.”

“No dufus. This is water, bottled water.” She had brought an entire roll of paper-towels from her SUV, and several bottles of water. She kept pouring more onto clean towels. “Look at me, tell me your name, your full name?” I heard the siren getting closer.

I knew the answer, but I was also traveling to a place I’d never been. It was like I had fallen out of an airplane from thirty thousand feet, without a parachute. I was falling and spinning, and the air was thin. I was out of control, but crazily, I was hopeful. The cool water was keeping me afloat. With eyes closed, I said, “Thanks L, you’re the only one to stop.”

I opened my eyes and met hers. Blue for beautiful. Green for gorgeous. She smiled and caressed my cheek. “Did you call me L?”

The ambulance parked in the lane behind my Explorer. I saw two men and a woman exit. One man and a bulky leather bag were heading my way. The other two were removing a gurney through the opened rear doors. “Yes.” I returned my gaze to L. “You’re Lillian Bryant?”

The attendant arrived. “Please move.” He knelt and removed a stethoscope from his bag.

As L stood and backed away, I heard her say, “yes, I’m Lillian Bryant.”

“USA for God.” I said, still looking up at L while the EMT checked my vitals.

“What? Lee, what are you saying?” She squatted down four feet away.

“Tag number. The blue truck’s license: U S A, the number 4, and G O D.”

“Good, very good. I’ll go write it down.”

***

It was 5:55 pm, and I was semi-comfortable in the front passenger seat of Lillian’s SUV. She was inside, picking up my prescription. Through the side mirror, I stared at Walgreen’s front entrance, estimating how much longer it was going to take.

At straight-up six, she walked through the automatic doors. She was clutching a white paper sack. Assuming no mistakes by the pharmacy, the enclosed pill bottle contained the most powerful painkiller prescribed by U.S. emergency room doctors: Vicodin.

Dr. Claburn had taken an extra five minutes after he’d issued his discharge order to share a funny story about a man who had grossly mistaken the doctor’s home-care instructions. I guess he thought I was smart enough to not make the same mistake. The doctor had told the man he was recommending bananas. Two times the doctor had said he was only joking, that the word ‘bananas’ is street slang for Vicodin, that most powerful painkiller. When the orderly arrived to cart me to Lillian’s car, I’d told Dr. Claburn I would never see another banana unless I thought of him. He smiled and waved me off.

The afternoon visit to Marshall Medical Center South’s ER Department had been long and tiring. About an hour after my delivery, my wooziness had decreased by half, thanks to a covey of nurses and assistants administering an assortment of drugs by injection, intravenous drip, and via swallowing and dissolution under the tongue.

While waiting for x-rays and a nurse to stitch my head, Kyla had appeared. Shaken, especially after Lillian shared what she knew, some of which might have come unintentionally from me. Now, looking back, I’m sure Kyla’s fear had spawned from Lillian’s conclusion: “Someone tried to kill him.”

Lillian had stood watch over me throughout the entire ordeal. After the short ambulance ride, I’d groggily attempted to persuade her to leave. She’d refused and responded, barely above a whisper, something like, “Once is enough.” I didn’t comprehend her words.

I also didn’t understand why I wasn’t riding home with Kyla. “Damn, I’ve never had to wait this long. Your insurance card was out-of-date, and I’m pretty sure they had to call some place in India.”

“Surely not.” I let Lillian get situated and backed up. I didn’t need to cause another wreck. “Question, why did Kyla leave you to do all the dirty work?” I felt high as a kite.

“She told you and so did I. She was doing a lot of baking for tomorrow and was afraid she’d left her oven on. Once she saw you weren’t going to die, she asked if I would bring you home.” Lillian patted my left knee.

My emotions were a roller coaster. I normally keep my gratitude to myself, but not now. “I have a lot to be thankful for. An unbroken shoulder, an unbroken head, and an old friend showing up at the perfect time.”

Lillian turned left on Bruce Road and gave me a head-to-toe inspection, lingering an uncomfortable moment on my eyes. “I’m not old.” We both had a pleasant laugh.

Neither of us said much until she slowed for the stop sign at Beulah Road. I thought an 18-wheeler was about to hit us after she said, “Oh shit.” She paused and looked at her rear-view mirror. “My groceries: ice-cream, milk, hamburger meat, pork chops. They’re ruined.”

I almost told her I’d make it right but didn’t. Instead, my smart-ass mouth activated. “Friendship can be costly.” She pulled her left signal to Kyla’s driveway and rolled her eyes, half looking at me and half at the road.

That had always been a sign she thought I was rather lame.

At 5:00 AM, Ray finally threw the covers back. “Shit, I might as well get up.” He had barely slept. Judge Broadside’s ruling had crawled around Ray’s head all during the night, slithering into two dreams, one involving a drop-by-visit to the aging jurist with a gun-to-the-head threat.

After showering, shaving, and dressing, Ray cooked a large breakfast: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and four slices of crisp bacon. Cooking and eating always settled his nerves. But not this time.

Ray ate at the bar, standing. He removed a cell from his pants pocket. It wasn’t his iPhone. It was a new burner. A twin of the one he’d hidden Friday night inside the mouth of a big fish mounted to the wall of The Shack’s rear hallway.

Ray dialed The Shack. And waited. Six rings. “Kitchen. Buddy.” Ray smiled at his good fortune.

“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.”

“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll look into it.” Buddy knew the routine. It was Ray and Buddy’s way of communicating. And it wasn’t the first time Ray left a burner inside the large-mouth bass.

While waiting for the callback, Ray pondered whether it was time to update his code name. He had used ‘Braxton’ three times already with Buddy, the greaser. It was the same number for the fish reference. Greaser meant fixer, one who slicks things up and makes them work, not a long-haired dumpy little man who liked his ponytail. Although Buddy was that too.

In less than two minutes, Ray’s new burner rang. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.”

“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” The name wasn’t code, but a belief Buddy knew Ray never called unless he’d already packed his sleigh. Ray heard the loud sound of traffic from Highway 431.

Ray drank the last swallow of his orange juice and walked outside onto the Lodge’s rear deck overlooking his outdoor kitchen and attached pavilion. “You got time for a little job before Christmas?”

“Sure boss, as long as it’s safe and worth my time and skills.” Buddy knew he could trust Ray. He was a man of his word, protected his sources, and paid top dollar. It was what Buddy needed since he was still on probation for something not connected to Ray Archer.

“It’s a fire and smoke sortie. Buddy also knew this was code for arson.”

“Local or foreign?”

“Local.”

“High profile?”

“High.”

“Figures?” Money motivated Buddy, especially now. He’d just bought a new camper and the rent was high at Guntersville State Park.

“Mid-fives.” Ray figured $50,000 was cheaper than legal fees. Or offering more to Rob Kern.

“Make it upper fives and I’ll do it, no matter the profile.” An extra twenty or thirty would pay off some old gambling debts, maybe save his hide.

“There’s homework.” Ray needed Buddy’s expertise. The last thing he wanted was a slow-burning fire, especially with Boaz Fire Department close by.

“No doubt. Give me the address and I’ll start my inspection.”

Ray walked down the stairs, across the stone pavers encircling the open-air kitchen, and to a picnic table underneath the pavilion. “309 Thomas Avenue. It’s the Hunt House.”

Without a single pause, Buddy semi-yelled. “Shit man, that is high profile. The risk is God-awful.”

“I’ll make it a hundred grand. You in or not?”

There was more pause this time. “Okay, I’ll do it, but I may need Billy.” Billy was Ray’s other greaser. And Buddy’s brother. The two of them managed the kitchen at The Shack.

“Pay’s the same. You and Billy can split it any way you want.”

“Plus, expenses.”

“Damn, Buddy, you’re pushing it.”

“High profile ain’t cheap.”

“Do your homework and report back.” Ray pressed end and tucked the burner in his shirt pocket.

***

It was almost 6:30 when Ray tapped on the door to room 343 at Bridgewood Gardens, an assisted living facility in Albertville. “Come in.” The voice surprised Ray because it was not his father.

Inside, a young red-haired man was situating a food tray in front of Ronald’s chair. “Morning Pop,” Ray said as he entered. His father’s face, puffy and fleshier than Ray recalled, revealed his anger. Ray knew that look well.

“Who says you can’t feed me? I’m paying a shit-pot full of money for this damn place. It’s a fucking ripoff.”

Stan, per his name tag, remained calm. “Mr. Archer, you agreed to take your meals in the dining room. There’s an extra charge for room service.”

“Hey Dad, let me feed you.” Ray said, circling Stan and kneeling beside his father.

It took five minutes for Ray to convince him he would talk to the administrator and make sure they delivered his meals, and that they fed him if needed.

Seeing his father become an invalid had been wearing on Ray for the past five years. The cause of Ronald’s near incapacitation was a rare form of Parkinson’s disease. Even in Stage Four, he was semi-mobile but had little strength or power. He had the usual tremors but, so far, Bridgewood’s level of service had been adequate. What worried Ray was the medication that caused his father to talk so much. Ray had zero control over what might come out of Ronald Archer’s mouth.

If it hadn’t been for his father, he would be in a dark and dank prison with a cellmate who was barely human.

After a few bites of oatmeal and toast, and a few sips of grape juice, Ray used a napkin to wipe jelly from his father’s chin. “Thanks son.” These words were also rare.

“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” Ray moved the tray out of the way and retreated to an over-sized couch across the narrow room.

“It’s about time I go home.” Ronald was an enigma. It was his idea to move to Bridgewood when Evelyn, his second wife, had died five years ago. Ray could have paid for round-the-clock nurses, but Ronald wouldn’t have it. He was fiercely independent and didn’t want any of Ray’s ‘damn’ money. But Ronald griped everyday he was at Bridgewood.

“Dad, it’s about your will. I think it’s time you made some changes. Lillian and I are in trouble.” Ray was shocked two years ago to learn his father was leaving everything to Lillian. Ray’s problem wasn’t the money, his father wasn’t wealthy by any means. It was the real estate, more particularly, the old Hibbs place. It was the sixty-acre farm off Dogwood Trail that had concealed secrets for half a century.

Ray and his father had rarely spoken about the crimes. But truth was, both men had near perfect memories of every step they took that long ago fateful night.

In a frenzy, with the victim lying beside the pond, Ray had driven to Ronald’s house. He knew that if anyone would know what to do; it was his father.

Ray was right. It had taken several hours, but after dismembering the corpse and digging three graves, his father had given him confidence. Ronald had repeated over and over during the entire ordeal that ‘without a body, they couldn’t convict.’ Ronald still believed that to this day. But now, what worried him was not the body, but the bones.

“Did you ever find the pistol?” From Ronald’s statement, Ray knew his father was confused. He had a right to be given the five decades that had expired since the two murders. Two, not one. But either could spell doom for Ray, since publicity over the one he didn’t commit could lead to the one he did. Ray answered his father’s question.

“No.” Ray knew his father was importing facts from one night to another, from one cover-up to another. For all Ray knew, now in the present, his father could believe his son had killed two people.

“How well did you look? You remember it was my gun?” After the second murder, and after the body disposal, Ronald stayed and searched for the 38 Smith & Wesson. Not so much because he was the owner, but because it was the murder weapon. Ray had shared that the shooter had dropped it to the ground after shooting Kyle. It was only later, after Rachel had returned to China, that she had told him she had returned to the crime scene, located Ronald’s pistol, and had hidden it in a secure place.

“I know that. And I’ve looked for it a dozen times. I still believe it’s somewhere in the Hunt House.” Over the years, Ray had rented all six of Barbara McReynolds’ guest rooms, at least twice each. Ray’s excuse was always that he loved Rachel and the Hunt House (now, the bed-and-breakfast) was the last place he’d seen her. Barbara had believed him.

Ray helped his father go to the bathroom. With Ronald sitting on the commode, Ray turned away. “I’ve wiped your butt a thousand times when you were a kid. You can wipe mine this once.” It was all Ray could do to keep from gagging. He rushed out into the hall and soon found Stan.

Five minutes later with Ronald back in his Lazy Boy and Ray claiming he was late for a meeting, Ronald said, “be careful who you trust and remember what I taught you. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Ray smiled, leaned down and kissed his father’s forehead, and left.

Returning to Boaz, he pondered how lucky he had been, so far, in breaking his father’s guiding business principle.

***

It was almost noon when Spectrum Cable completed their installation. Before moving, Lillian had convinced herself that starting over didn’t require TV cable or Internet service; instead, she could rely strictly on her cell phone. However, all that was before her last-minute decision to install two recording devices inside the Lodge. Lillian had rationalized that the cost of the listening equipment, and the monthly price to receive the transmissions, were simply investments in her future. Hopefully, a future as a divorced woman disentangled from Ray Archer, and comfortably situated with half the man’s estate. Starting over didn’t mean giving up her two favorite past-times: watching Netflix movies, and reading or listening to books either through OverDrive or her Kindle APP.

“Which plan did you choose?” Kyla said, standing inside the kitchen as Lillian palmed the Spectrum installer a tip. Generous to the core, Kyla thought.

Lillian fiddled with the storm door. It wouldn’t shut properly. She gave up and joined Kyla, retreating to the pantry. “Silver. Who needs two hundred channels? Really, I don’t watch that much TV.”

“Let me show you what I’ve done and then I’m heading out.” Kyla was the organizer. That’s why Lillian had delegated the storage closet to her best friend.

For such a small house, the kitchen had a large walk-in pantry lined with multiple shelves on two sides. Lillian looked inside and made a mental note to buy more can goods during her next trip to Walmart. The shelves were almost bare except for a few things contributed by an unaware Ray: three kinds of Campbell’s soup, four bags of beef flavored Ramen Noodles (Lillian preferred chicken), and a bottle of medium spiced salsa. No Tortilla chips. Lillian was pleased. Kyla had spent two-hours installing bright green adhesive shelf liner she’d bought at Dollar General during her ride over earlier this morning.

Kyla encouraged Lillian to consider a pest service given the two bugs and several mice turds she’d seen on the floor inside the pantry. After agreeing and soliciting Kyla’s promise to work together at tomorrow’s community-wide Thanksgiving meal, the friends hugged, and Kyla departed.

Lillian was mildly hungry but didn’t like her options, so she grabbed her laptop and retired to the couch. She checked her email and reread a few old ones, since nothing was new. Lillian then clicked on the ‘Educate Yourself’ icon that was automatically created when she’d downloaded the Spyware APP that came with the two recording devices.

“Click here for today’s lessons.” Lillian liked Spyware’s take on education. She imagined it would be like reading a good mystery. Learning something that helped solve the case.

Lillian clicked Device A, that’s the one she’d placed in a lower kitchen cabinet, hung over a bracket that kept the sink from moving. The first sounds were a voice and name she didn’t recognize: “Kitchen. Buddy.” The clarity impressed Lillian.

“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.” Lillian never doubted it was Ray’s voice; it was clear as blue sky, not disguising his Southern drawl in the least. But why was he pretending to be Braxton? Buddy was another unfamiliar name. Lillian paused the replay to think. After an unsuccessful thirty seconds, she again clicked the Play icon.

“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll investigate it.” Back to the initial voice. Buddy. Kitchen. Fish. It was true Ray was always complaining about something. For years, something had often embarrassed her when the two had gone out to eat. Lillian waited for another minute, but no familiar sounds. She looked closer at her laptop. The tiny red line had scrolled across the screen. This conversation had ended. She X’d the file and clicked on the next one, the last one listed under Device A.

Lillian clicked on the darkened triangle. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.” Ray’s voice.

“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” That must be Buddy.

There was a slight slurping sound. Lillian wondered if it was Ray or Buddy drinking. There was a pause and then, in Ray’s voice, “You got time for a little job before Christmas?” This statement was half as clear as the others. Then, a door slammed. The red line stopped again, far right side of the frame, like it does on YouTube.

Lillian could have kicked herself. She’d opted for the cheaper models. For an extra $250, she could have bought the premiums; their reach was a hundred feet, including most obstructions. All she could visualize was that Ray initially had been in the kitchen, maybe right next to the sink and counter. Then, when the sound grew weaker, he’d walked to the Lodge’s back door, ultimately walking onto the deck and closing the door. That door was always a little hard to close.

Lillian attempted to analyze what she’d heard. If she could believe the words, Buddy must work at a restaurant, one that served breakfast, one that was busy on a weekday morning. Grumpy’s came to mind, but there was also The Shack. Lillian shook her head and breathed aloud, “you dummy, why do you think Buddy works in Boaz?”

She closed her laptop and walked to the bedroom. In ten minutes, she had changed clothes, made a list, and was on her way to Walmart. She’d forgotten her promise to Jane. A sweet potato casserole for tomorrow’s Community Wide Thanksgiving meal was the last thing she wanted to do.

Lillian’s mind returned to the recordings as she passed The Shack on her left. She realized she had no good reason to conclude Buddy worked there, but that didn’t keep her from wondering what type of job Ray needed finished by Christmas.

Four hours of preparation down the drain. That’s the time I’d spent yesterday afternoon and evening pouring through case law while anticipating being on the hot seat presenting my best argument for saving the Hunt House from the greedy hands of Ray Archer and the City of Boaz.

I shook my head in disbelief as I descended the courthouse steps and headed across the street to my Explorer. Why had Judge Broadside demanded my appearance for a sixty-second hearing where I didn’t say a word? Heck, he hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. My aggravation was barely assuaged by the fact Broadside had ruled in my client’s favor.

After the short hearing, I’d wanted to quiz Micaden, but that had to wait. The second the judge called his next case, Micaden leaned toward me, instructed me to meet him at his office in an hour, and quickly disappeared through a door marked ‘Attorney/Witness Rooms.’

Since I had time to kill, I used my iPhone and found Jamoka’s, a great local coffee shop. Lucky for me, it was on East Main Street, less than a block away. For forty minutes, I enjoyed an organic blend, Moka-Java, and responded to a few student emails. At 2:50 PM, I left and drove to Boaz.

As Tina led me into Micaden’s office, he was standing and staring westward through an enormous window. The glass served as an outside wall. The blinds were fully open, allowing the blazing afternoon sun easy entry into a room that was too hot for my liking.

“You can sit.” Tina pointed to two wingback chairs in front of a giant wooden desk. “He’ll be back shortly.” I looked at her, confused. Before I could say anything, she retreated through the doorway into the hall.

It felt like five minutes, but it was probably one. “I remember when I was a kid. I rarely wore a coat, even in weather as clear and cold as today.” The tall and fit Micaden with his unruly shock of salt & pepper hair closed the blinds and sat behind his desk. “But, enough about the past and my aging body.” The two of us had been friends from a distance in high school. He was always cordial, but since he played football, we didn’t share the same social circles.

“I still cannot believe Judge Broadside. Did you have any inkling he would rule against the City?” I asked, still thinking I was in a dream.

Micaden placed a stack of documents inside a folder and laid it on the credenza to his right. “I’ve learned to never be surprised by anything that happens around here. But don’t forget, the Order is conditional.” He was right. Judge Broadside had stated he would reconsider his ruling if the City produced credible evidence Rylan’s would have a significant impact upon the local economy. The deadline was December the 24th.

“Do you think….” Micaden lifted and waved the palms of both hands. I stopped talking.

“Let’s leave the Hunt House for now. You said before we entered the courthouse you wanted to discuss another case after the hearing, one that is rooted in our high school days.” Micaden was more of a no-nonsense, get-to-the-point type of attorney than me. That’s saying a lot.

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got me intrigued, so let’s hear it.” Until yesterday, I had been only vaguely familiar with Micaden’s story. While I was in Charlottesville, Virginia, my freshman year, he had nearly lost his freedom. While Kyla and I unloaded hay, she revealed that a jury had acquitted him in a double-homicide case where two girls from Douglas attended the same high school graduation party as Micaden.

“I appreciate you meeting. First, I must know you don’t have a conflict of interest.” My words sounded elementary, even condescending, given I addressed them to an experienced criminal defense attorney.

“I would be the first to tell you.” Micaden opened his middle desk drawer and removed a yellow legal pad and pencil.

“Let’s start with Ray Archer.” Again, Micaden did his palm thing.

“Done. No conflict. I wouldn’t have associated with you on the Hunt House case if there was.” It was small, but I think Micaden was drawing a barn at the top of his pad.

“Right. What about Rachel, my late wife?”

“No.”

“Kyle Bennett?” I was trying to be terse.

“No. I suspect you can figure out that I wasn’t an attorney when I knew Kyle, and the same for Rachel. And I never saw or talked with her again after she moved away in the tenth grade.” Micaden paused. “Strike that last statement. I saw her at our thirty-year reunion. That was 2002. I cannot remember if I spoke with her, other than maybe saying hello.”

I dropped the bomb and filled in the details as Micaden would allow. “Here’s why I need your help. I believe Ray Archer killed Kyle Bennett.”

Micaden’s response surprised me. “Me too, but believing something, without evidence, is not worth a cup of coffee.” I should have said, ‘Ray Archer killed Kyle Bennett, and here’s why.’

“You’re absolutely correct.” I knew I was taking a risk to bring up conflicts of interest again, but I had to. “Do you know of any reason to end our conversation?”

Micaden continued to doodle for a few seconds and then said, “no, but again, if I sense a potential conflict, I’ll let you know. Can we move along?”

“Okay.”

“Since you are an attorney, I assume you have some proof, something more than a dream that has persuaded you to accuse, albeit privately, Ray Archer of murder?” Micaden laid his pencil down and stared at me.

He let me talk for several minutes. I shared most of what I’d learned from Rachel’s diaries and that I had located the murder weapon. “I’m hoping you have a good connection to have the pistol tested.”

“Tested for what?” At first, I thought Micaden was joking, or at least being condescending. However, he had a valid question.

“I guess I was hoping for fingerprints, Ray’s fingerprints on the Smith & Wesson.”

“Okay, I’ll stipulate.” Micaden was ready to hypothesize and play the devil’s advocate. “I’ll also stipulate it was Ray’s fingerprints that your expert used to conduct his analysis.”

“Okay. I see your point. That wouldn’t be enough for a prosecutor to go forward. Ray and his counsel would pursue several avenues of rebuttal, including that someone had tampered with the pistol, it was his and a present from his father, and the two of them had used it frequently for target practice.”

Micaden added another possibility: “Or, Ray admits the pistol discharged accidentally and killed Kyle Bennett.”

“Right again. The list is almost endless.”

“You mentioned Rachel’s diaries. I’m confident an impartial judge would admit them under a hearsay exception, assuming a proper foundation. But, and here I’m speculating. What if Rachel wrote things the defense could use in their favor? For example, Rachel had mixed in some creative writing. Let’s say, a fictional story about the wind, the sun, a tiger, anything that she personified.”

“Oh my. I agree. Ray’s lawyer could say Rachel was a loony, always making shit up. I can hear him now, ‘Rachel killed herself, that proves she was crazy.’” I hadn’t been down this trail and felt like a dumbass. It felt like I was dull and had never practiced law. Truth was, I hadn’t tried a case in nearly twenty years. Being a professor was nothing like the daily battle of facing opposing counsel figuratively trying to cut your throat.

Micaden nodded in agreement and returned to his drawing, pencil in hand. But then he laid it down. “Sorry I sent us down a rabbit hole. Here’s something we should have already discussed. Why in God’s name would Ray want to kill Kyle Bennett?”

The answer was one reason I was here. Fortunately, I was smart enough to know that the old saying, ‘he who represents himself has a fool for a client,’ is remarkably accurate. Even though I was not here as a criminal defendant, I was personally and deeply embedded in this entire ordeal. I had no choice but to be totally honest. “Ray Archer got Rachel pregnant early in the tenth grade. It seems both wanted to keep it a secret, and at least Ray wanted Rachel to have an abortion. Somehow, Kyle found out about the pregnancy, or the pregnancy and the planned abortion, and tried to extort money from Ray.”

Micaden let me stop when I chose. “At sixty-six, it’s difficult to understand teenagers, but I can imagine a popular teenage boy with a bright future might take risky steps to protect his reputation.” Tina stuck her head in and said she needed to run to the post office and for Micaden to listen for the phone. “Come to think of it, this is prime territory for a father, Ray’s father, to be a heavy influence. I’m not speaking of persuading Ray to kill Kyle, but simply of wanting, maybe needing, Ray to persuade Rachel to get an abortion. To silence the matter forever.”

“I’ve had the same thoughts, but it gets more complicated. Rachel’s diaries are a little confusing, directly conflicting, but my current position is that before she and her family returned to China, around New Year’s Day in the tenth grade, she lied to Ray about having the abortion.”

Micaden drew a rudimentary ocean liner underneath his barn. “Look at it both ways. Rachel had an abortion. Rachel did not have an abortion. Can both be true?”

“That’s easy. No.” I shared how I had a crush on Rachel since I’d first seen her in the ninth grade. I also shared how we met at the University of Virginia during the first semester of our sophomore years. “There was no baby.”

“You want another straightforward answer?” It was sadly refreshing to be discussing these harrowing circumstances with such an experienced and intelligent professional.

“Absolutely. What else could I say?”

“Rachel didn’t have an abortion but gave the child away. Adoption.”

“You may be right, but here’s the rub, the thing that has torn my life apart since discovering the first set of diaries. Rachel took an overdose in April 2019. She almost died. The reason she tried to kill herself, so she said, was her regret over the abortion. She told me about Ray getting her pregnant. One thing she didn’t say was when she got the abortion. Looking back on those conversations, she led me to believe it was before she returned to China.”

“So, Rachel lied to you?” Micaden was polite, but in no way did he coddle.

“I have to say yes. I can’t see it any other way.”

“You’re missing something. I don’t know what it is, but, and you know this, there’s always one more fact we need to know. Especially, at the beginning of a case.”

I almost laughed. “There is, and it’s a good one. I wish, oh how I wish. Let me tell you about last night’s dream.” Micaden returned to his sketching. I think he rolled his eyes when he looked at his notepad. “Kyle Bennett showed up at his memorial service. And, you know who was with him? Rachel. Neither could stop laughing about the biggest punk ever perpetrated.”

Without looking up, Micaden said, “I doubt that’s the missing fact.” I heard the same ding I’d heard when I’d entered the office and when Tina had left to run errands. Micaden continued, “I was leaning more the other way, you know, bad news. Don’t you think it’s time we address the elephant in the room?” I glanced at the notepad. That had to be what he had just drawn.

Without greeting, or verifying whether I was still present, Tina started talking in the hallway a few steps before reaching Micaden’s office. “You need to warn me when you’ve pissed off an entire city.” She walked through the door and next to the desk. “That way I’ll be better prepared.”

“Okay, what happened this time?” Micaden asked, as though this was a daily occurrence.

Tina laid a box at the edge of Micaden’s desk. Based on its size, I guessed it contained a book. I wondered what genre my old classmate liked to read. “Dan Brasher, I like Dan, but he sure likes to talk. His wife, sister, somebody related, works in the Clerk’s office. He said she’s a busybody. I wanted to say, ‘oh please, it must run in the family.’ Apparently, news of Judge Broadside’s ruling has hit the streets and people are mad, including Ray Archer, who’s being pressured to up the ante for the other nine landowners. I don’t know how he knows so much. He said more, including we might want to board up our windows, but you get the drift. I’ve got a hair appointment so I’m out of here.”

Tina left. Micaden paused until he heard the front door ding. “She’s a great secretary and paralegal. Don’t overreact, the locals raising a ruckus are harmless, just looking for a pot to piss in.”

I hoped he was right. Micaden started opening his package while I pondered whether the locals might have more than piss in them. I wondered how they would respond when they discovered the man who was the city’s financial savior was destined for a cross, one he wouldn’t survive.

The book was Grisham’s latest novel, A Time for Mercy. Kyla had a copy lying on her coffee table. I’d read the back copy. The author’s legendary character, Jake Brigance, and Clanton, Mississippi, were back. Micaden grabbed the book from his credenza and tossed it inside his briefcase. “Let’s get back on track. I had asked about the lost and lumbering elephant.”

“Okay, I guess there could be more than one, so where do we start?” I made it appear I didn’t have a clue what Micaden was referring to. But I did.

“Lee, you came to me seeking legal advice and counsel. I’m sure you’re hoping I can bring something positive to the table. You are asking me to use my knowledge, connections, and resources, to assemble enough evidence to present to the DA. Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“How about a hundred dollars an hour? I’ll give you the high-school-friend discount.”

“I agree. Thanks for your generosity. How much for the retainer?” I knew how this worked.

“None, just pay my monthly invoice within ten days of receipt. Cash is welcome.” Micaden laughed. “And no written agreement required.”

“Okay, we have a deal.” I stood and offered my right hand. We shook, and I sat.

“Now, officially, as your attorney, you know I’m required to be a bloodhound after the truth. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, off the table.”

“It has to be this way.” I could almost hear the thunder, feel the wind, and see the lightning from what Micaden was about to say.

“I assume you have given some thought that your deceased wife might be an accessory to the murder?”

It was something I had resisted since the beginning, since I first learned from Rachel’s diaries that Ray had killed Kyle. To me and what I knew about the only woman I’d ever truly loved, there was no way she was a criminal. “I’ve avoided it like the plague. Rachel didn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“You think that. You believe that. But don’t expect me to get on board that boat right now. We must question everything. Remember, all the knowledge you have that implicates Ray Archer comes from Rachel’s diaries. There, she directly admits her knowledge, and indirectly, her involvement.”

I ignored Micaden’s statement. “Can we talk about another elephant in the room?”

“What’s wrong with my elephant? We’ll have to pursue it at some point. The defense won’t let us avoid it. Shit, the DA will ask the same thing.”

“You’re right but help me scope this out. I’m at a standstill, which is obvious since I’m coming to you asking for help. I don’t know what to do next. Last night I almost poured the whole can of beans on Kyla, but I didn’t. Question. Who could I talk to, what could I try to verify? I’m sounding rather ignorant.”

“Join the club, but I have an idea. Attorneys should avoid becoming investigators. You know, becoming a witness in your own case. I suggest we hire a private investigator. Let him do what he does best and let us do the same.” Micaden drew a large P and a large I, then he printed something beside it I couldn’t make out.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Dollar signs streamed across my eyes.

“Connor Ford. He’s across the street.” Micaden pointed his left thumb over his shoulder.

As usual, I had a bag of questions. “Can we trust him? What’s his experience?” I should have expected Micaden’s waving palms.

“We’ll be here until midnight if we play your conflict-of-interest game. Not being condescending, but Connor’s as good as they come. He’s helped me on a dozen or more cases in the four years he’s been here. I guarantee you’ll like him and his work.”

I had no choice but to trust Micaden’s judgment. I had complete confidence in the salt and pepper haired man across the desk. Since I’d called him the first time, I’d done a lot of research, including reading several cases he’d tried. Micaden was unique, a loner who could make a jury dance if he wanted to. And he was not part of the good-old-boy system. I’d characterize him as almost a radical. “Let me know the cost.”

“I will. I’ll talk to him this evening or in the morning. And here’s a big bonus, which might be a starting point. Connor, unlike me, has a good connection with a Marshall County detective, Mark Hale. The two worked together as cops years ago in Dothan. Now, they swap information when it’s legal, but don’t ask me to draw that line. Regardless, I’m thinking Connor might gain access to the initial file. It’s buried somewhere. It must exist. Damn, a young man has been missing for half-a-century.”

“Exactly.” I stood. I’d been here long enough. Micaden had checked something on his iPhone twice in the last fifteen minutes. It might have been the time. “I best go. Kyla is insisting we eat out tonight at a place called The Shack.”

Micaden stood, and the two of us walked into the hallway. He stopped me when I reached for the doorknob that led to the waiting room. “Here’s a final thought for today. You mentioned your reluctance to disclose this story to Kyla. You might rethink that. Isn’t she friends with Ray’s wife? Lillian?” I didn’t know how Micaden knew this, but I suspected it had everything to do with life in a small town.

“Best of friends.” I pondered his suggestion. “Not a bad idea. But she’s recently moved out of what’s called the Lodge.”

“Wiley Jones’ place. Was. Where someone murdered him a year ago. Just think about it. What Lillian might know, from years past, might give us a lead or two.” Micaden reached above my left shoulder and swung the door farther open.

“I will. I removed a business card from my wallet and handed it to Micaden. Other than the law school, you can reach me on my cell. It’s written on the back. Thanks for your time.” I walked across the waiting room and opened the outside door.

“The Corbett place.” I turned back toward Micaden, wondering if his cell had vibrated a call. His hands were empty. “That’s Lillian’s new digs. Ray bought it several years ago and had it remodeled. She moved in last Saturday. By the way, I live about a mile further south on Cox Gap Road.”

I gave a slight nod and left. All the way home, I kept opening and closing my hands, gripping and re-gripping the steering wheel, trying to figure out if I was inside a dream. An image of me standing a few feet from a train that had just arrived at the long-gone Boaz railroad station. Slowly, the passenger train pulled away, leaving me with an unobstructed view of the raised platform attached to the ticket office. There, all alone, was Lillian, clutching a heavy suitcase and looking all around for the person she was supposed to meet.

When I turned left into Kyla’s driveway, I apologized to Rachel for having such thoughts.

I hate hot and prickly tasks, but that’s what Sunday afternoon and half of Monday morning brought my way. Although the weather was warm for late November, it was a marathon of physical activity and the barn loft’s inadequate airflow caused seven hours of profuse sweating. To my surprise and consternation, Kyla thrived. Without a handkerchief in sight, she drank coffee during our rare breaks while I swiped my face, head, neck, and arms with Dad’s old bandannas between gulps of bottled water. When it related to the farm, Kyla had always been the boss.

After she purchased the five Nubians, the goat man had related that alfalfa hay was the best source of roughage given the condition of the farm’s pasture. Lucky for Kyla, the business-savvy goat expert had a hundred and fifty bales available, and all for the cheap price of $600. My gullible sister took the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and called my name when the delivery arrived.

It was after 11:00 when I hefted the last bale through the barn loft’s paint-peeling door and scurried up the ladder to satisfy Kyla’s weird hay-stacking fetish.

***

After taking a cold shower, I flipped on my old window unit air conditioner, repositioned my Lazy Boy, and dialed Connie Dalton.

She answered on the first ring. I was glad we had exchanged texts earlier this morning. That icebreaking had revealed she wasn’t hostile to my call.

“Hello.” Her voice sounded much younger than I’d expected, almost like a teenager. From Bert, I’d learned her late-term abortion occurred in 2011 when she was twenty-five. That would make her thirty-four now.

“Hi Connie. This is Lee.” I didn’t repeat my last name. “Is now a good time to talk?” In my text, I’d promised I’d call before noon. Given the subject, I wanted to be extra sensitive.

“It is.” I heard arguing in the background, younger kids, girls, I think. “Hold on, let me close this door. The twins are at it again.”

“Okay, take your time.” While I waited, I heard Connie firmly, but respectively, instruct her kids to be kind to one another and remember Tolstoy’s calendar. I understood her first statement, but not the latter.

“Sorry about that. The kids are out-of-school today, teacher workday or something.”

Connie and I spoke ten minutes off-topic. From Bert, she had learned about me, Rachel’s suicide and my widowhood. He had warned me the conversation might be uncomfortable and shared that the best way to get our interviewee talking openly was to personalize myself, the questioner. Before Connie took the lead and transitioned us to the purpose for my call, she had given me an insightful perspective on the pain Rachel likely experienced before ending her life.

Connie and Lawrence married in 2007. Their son William was twenty-one months old at the time of the abortion. The couple had not planned the pregnancy but were happy. That changed over the next several weeks.

A sonogram at week twenty-nine revealed the network of cavities in their baby’s brain was larger than normal. Connie’s doctor referred her to a specialist. It was two weeks later, after another sonogram, that the couple learned their baby had a brain abnormality. The part of the child’s brain that connects the right and left hemispheres was missing. It didn’t exist.

The specialist told Connie and Lawrence their baby could never suck or swallow and would likely suffer from uncontrollable seizures after birth. There would be no end to the medical attention and care needed. The baby’s quality of life would be nonexistent.

Connie shared how at first, she blamed herself for not detecting the problem much earlier, but the specialist assured her that would not have been possible.

For several minutes, Connie’s mind and memory returned to 2011. Her sorrow and grief figuratively leaked through our phone connection. Finally, after what seemed minutes of her soft, semi-controlled crying, Connie said, “Lawrence and I faced the most horrible dilemma. We could end sweet Justin’s life and spare him unspeakable pain and suffering, or we could follow the religious teachings we’d held sacrosanct all our lives. Our decision was straightforward. How could any normal human being decide otherwise?”

I responded with, “you two were loving, and courageous.” I really didn’t know what to say, but I wholeheartedly agreed with their decision.

Connie, now more in control, continued. “What once was pure joy became unbearable. For several days, back home considering our options, sweet Justin persisted in kicking my belly. I finally realized his kicks were not playful but were his only way of screaming his pain. This realization was the final straw. God or no God. It would be inhumane to not give our dear baby the peace he deserved.”

The time had come. Per instruction from Bert, I asked a mind-numbing, heart-stopping question. “If you would be so kind and courageous, please share how Justin’s life ended and how you and Lawrence dealt with it.”

Connie didn’t hesitate. “The doctor used a sonogram to find the baby’s heart. He gave me an injection through my stomach to stop it from beating. My baby gave me one last kick. I believe it was to assure me of two things, that he loved me, and everything was going to be okay.”

That’s when I cried. It was the saddest story I’d ever heard. “I’m sorry,” I said. As quickly as it started, my sorrow turned to anger. The steady drone of “abortion is murder” from right wing evangelicals exploded in my mind. In the seconds before Connie shared her next thought, I shook my head in amazement at how ignorant, no, stupid, humans can be. If not for religion and what the Bible supposedly says, humanity would stop painting every issue as black and white. The world is full of gray. For an unknown reason, I was glad I’d gone to law school and gained critical thinking skills.

“Your crying assures me you are a genuine human being.” Connie paused for a few seconds. “As to the second part of your question, I delivered sweet Justin at the end of my thirty-second week. Deceased, of course, but beautiful, a spitting image of William.” I had planned on ending our call by asking what life was like today for Connie and her family. However, she beat me to it. “Now, although we have three healthy children, William, almost thirteen, Carrie and Lauren, eight going on eighteen, Justin is still with us. The only difference is he isn’t suffering. He’s healthy and headstrong.”

I think Connie would have continued her daydreaming if all three of her kids hadn’t rushed in and announced they had found a turtle on top of the tarp covering the swimming pool. “Sounds like you need to go. Thank you for sharing your story with me, Bert, Yale Law School, and the world. We will do everything we can to protect the right to late-term abortions in situations like yours.”

After our call ended, I cried some more, wishing life didn’t include such tragic events.

***

I stayed in my chair another thirty minutes, reliving the pain of losing Rachel. It didn’t take long to realize I was heading toward despair, something I’d often done during the past year. It normally took at least twenty-four hours to resurface. I lowered my footrest and stood. I didn’t have the luxury of time, not with tomorrow’s court appearance looming.

Twenty minutes later, my mind was unwilling to focus. I moved to the kitchen table and scanned Alabama’s eminent domain statute, and two federal circuit cases I’d found on point. At 12:30, it was time for a drive to clear my head. Afterwards, I could focus.

By the time I reached the Explorer, my mind was revisiting something Kyla had said yesterday afternoon. Her chosen subject was Lillian, more particularly, her constant presence while the three of us were growing up and her love for the barn loft. Kyla’s last statement before I descended the ladder to hoist up more bales was, “now Lillian has her own barn, red with a big loft. And her pond is gorgeous, complete with its enormous fountain.” These statements, plus my recall that Kyla had said Lillian’s place was on Cox Gap Road, tricked me into an adventure of sorts.

Before departing Kyla’s, I programmed the Explorer’s GPS to guide me to Alexander Road, the other identifier sis had mentioned during my phone call Saturday morning.

The weather had turned cooler since this morning, but the blue sky was ablaze with a brilliant sun. The GPS instructed me to turn left on Beulah Road. As safely as I could, I scanned the screen to get a feel of where I was going. After two miles, I’d turn right onto Highway 168, then proceed south to Highway 431 and make another left turn. From there, I’d drive two miles and turn left onto Cox Gap Road. After another mile, Alexander Road, along with Lillian’s red barn, huge pond, and spurting fountain, would be on my right.

I didn’t expect unsafe twists and turns, so I used my time to make a dreaded call. After speaking with Connie, I recognized two things. One, my mental state wasn’t stable enough to deal with stories seemingly like Rachel’s. And second, I wanted to give all my attention to the mission I’d set for myself here in Boaz.

I reached Cox Gap Road without clearly articulating what that mission was. Regardless, I called Bert and relayed that I wasn’t the right person to interview those who’d experienced a late-term abortion. As expected, he was sympathetic, leaving open the door for my return if I changed my mind.

I passed a six-bay cleanup shop and rounded a corner. I knew instantly that the Norman Rockwell scene before me was Lillian’s place. A large pond, a gorgeous deep green with fountain spurting water ten feet in the air, nestled next to Cox Gap Road. A right turn on Alexander Road led quickly to the driveway and a cute one-story cabin that was fifty yards in front of a like-new red metal-sided barn with a distinguished gambrel roof and an over-sized loft.

I thought about stopping but kept driving. A large, late model black SUV was parked in front of a matching garage at the rear of the cabin. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from venturing across the back porch and inside. I drove another half-mile to a driveway and turned around. A quick calculation yielded forty-eight years as the time span since the silky and sexy Lillian had called me at the University of Virginia and told me she was marrying Ray Archer. That too was the week of Thanksgiving.

Again, I drove past, looking left across the pond and seeing for the first time Lillian sitting inside the gazebo with her head down, probably reading a novel.

I returned to Harding Hillside, hoping the entire time that Lillian hadn’t seen my blue Explorer.

Ray wasn’t interested in cooking breakfast. It was the first morning to awaken without Lillian in the house. He already missed her, even though they hadn’t been intimate for years. After showering and dressing, Ray left the Lodge and drove to Grumpy’s Restaurant in the old Boaz Outlet Center.

A broad-hipped middle-aged server led him to a table along the back wall. The man sitting alone at the corner table next to the windows laid his newspaper aside as another server delivered his food. The man’s profile startled Ray. It was a grown-up version of the young man who had inhabited his dreams for over half-a-century. The man was Kent Bennett, Kyle’s twin brother. Ray had heard he was already in town, five days before Black Friday and Kyle Bennett’s memorial.

Kent noticed Ray staring at him, said “good morning,” and returned to his food. Ray had an idea.

“Mind if I join you?” Ray said once, then twice a little louder, to grab Kent’s attention.

“Sure, do I know you?” Kent knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Ray Archer. From high school. You’re Kent Bennett, right?”

“I am. Ray, I didn’t recognize you.” Kent said, motioning towards an empty chair on the other side of the large round table.

Ray sat. “Aging is brutal, more for me than you. I’ve gained a half-ton, shrunk a couple of inches, gone ghost gray, and turned out a barn full of wrinkles.” Ray stared at the trim, blue-eyed Kent with near-perfect teeth and wondered if his old high school classmate had found the proverbial fountain of youth. Ray’s stomach started a mild revolt as his memory poured forth a brutally cold and bloody image, like a bucket of hot lava. He figuratively shook his head, wondering why and how that thought appeared.

Kent nodded as his server refilled his water glass. “My friend needs to order.” Kent said, motioning towards Ray.

“I’ll have what he’s having.” Ray no longer felt like a plate of grease-saturated bacon, sausage, and eggs. Instead, he opted for a bowl of oatmeal with a side-serving of bananas, grapes, strawberries, and cantaloupe. The server left. “Can I run something by you?” Ray believed himself to be a master manipulator.

“Sure.” Kent was patient. He had his own ‘something’ to run by Ray.

“You may not know, but the City and I are in process of developing a piece of property off Thomas Avenue.”

Kent jumped in. “And you guys are experiencing a temporary delay. Others call it a brick wall.”

“Well, yes. What I wanted to ask is whether you’d have any opposition to us honoring Kyle with a bust, maybe a full statute.”

“Probably not, as long as it is professionally done with a suitably worded plaque.”

Ray continued, as though Kent hadn’t responded. “I call it the Oasis. It’s in the middle of the development with trees, plants, flowers, benches, and will encircle a beautiful fountain.”

“Okay, but with one stipulation. I serve ex officio with the right of final approval?” Kent was just as rich as Ray. But, much smarter.

“Not a problem.” The server delivered Ray’s breakfast and refilled his coffee cup. Kent again declined caffeine.

“I have a question myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Fair enough.” Ray figured Kent would ask for a donation to the Kyle Bennett Charitable Foundation he had established a few years ago. Ray had learned about it through a recent Sand Mountain Reporter article that discussed Kyle’s upcoming memorial.

“That night.” Kent paused. “Let me start over.” Ray now knew Kent’s direction. A day or so after Kyle had disappeared, Kent had approached Ray asking him to confirm the rumor: Ray and Rachel were the last to see Kyle alive.  They had dropped him off just beyond the city dump on King Street at the end of the Bennett’s long driveway. “Why didn’t you take Kyle all the way to the house that night?”

It was a softball question. Ray and Rachel had rehearsed their story a hundred times. “Kyle said he would walk. I guess he wanted to look at the full moon.”

Kent had no follow-up. But he had a different question. “Do you remember the blue and white car Jackie Frasier drove?”

“Are you talking about the custodian and bus driver?” Ray was looking down, eating furiously, hoping Kent wasn’t noticing the sweat popping out on his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I remember. A 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.”

Ray never saw Kent activate his recorder. Not that he thought it likely since it was an APP he’d developed and installed on his iPhone. “Do you remember where he lived? It’s for a story I’m writing.” Kent was nudging Ray further from safety, ten feet out on a scraggly limb.

“Straight across from you and Kyle, didn’t he?”

“That’s right. One more thing if you would be so kind. When you and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of our driveway, do you remember seeing Jackie’s Bel Air?”

“Yep, it was parked in front of his old dingy mobile home.”

Kent, and most everyone else in Boaz, knew of the good-hearted Jackie Frasier. The man worked three jobs. Bus-driver, but only in the early morning, then chief custodian five days per week at Boaz High School. By three PM every day except Sunday, Jackie was clocking in at Boaz Spinning Mill for a full nine hours. The shift bell rang straight-up at midnight. Jackie was always home by twelve-twenty. His 1957 blue and white Chevrolet Bel Air was his pride and joy and by far the most valuable thing he owned. It was beautiful and good old ‘Jack’ deserved it.

Kent knew if Jackie was already at home that long-ago Friday night, that Ray had lied to the Marshall County investigator who had interviewed him and Rachel. This aspect of the official report read: “It was a few minutes after ten when me and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of his driveway.”

Kent whispered to himself, “If Jackie was home, Ray had lied to the tune of at least two hours. But why?”

It seemed like only a few days since Kent and Kyle had shared a tiny bedroom in the dilapidated old house just south of the city dump. The brittle wooden frame around their northern-facing window guaranteed the twins had an unending supply of putrid smells, everything imaginable discarded from kitchens, bathrooms, garages, restaurants, and a butcher shop on South Broad Street.

Ray excused himself when he saw Mayor King and Pastor T. J. Miller enter Grumpy’s and seat themselves two tables over. “Listen. Kent, thanks for breakfast, but I’ve got some business with the mayor, so I need to run. I’ll see you at the memorial. Maybe afterwards we can talk more about Kyle’s statute.” Ray scurried away, but not before laying down a ten-dollar bill.

For several years after Kyle disappeared, Kent had suspected Ray Archer. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on the exact reason. But he knew Kyle had an odd reaction every time he saw Ray at school and especially during the last week as the tenth graders met to work on their Christmas float. But, as the decades had rolled by, Kent had chalked his feelings up to, well, feelings, just a hunch.

That had changed less than a month ago when he’d received an anonymous package, a box large enough to hold a dozen paperback novels. The package had been postmarked in Birmingham, Alabama on October 2, 2020. It contained a single number ten envelope. Across its seal someone had printed: “Thought you’d be interested.” Kent had been patient and waited a week for a hand-writing analysis. The expert had concluded a woman had written the four-word phrase.

Inside was a form document titled, “Witness Statement.” Along the bottom, in tiny print, was “Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.” Detective Charlie Darden had taken the statement of one Raymond Carl Archer.

Kent took a last drink of water and grabbed his check and Ray’s ten-dollar bill. After paying, he walked outside and headed across the parking lot to Mill Avenue, and on to his room at Key West Inn. He smiled at his luck and voiced his satisfaction: “I never could have dreamed a sit-down with Ray Archer would have been so easy.”

***

Five minutes after Kent paid for his breakfast and left Grumpy’s, Ray told Mayor King and Pastor Miller he needed to review his notes before teaching today’s Sunday School lesson. He exited the restaurant, slid into his Suburban, and drove south to Billy Dyar Blvd. It was only 7:20 and Sunday School didn’t start until 9:30. Ray told himself he had plenty of time for a quick visit to Dogwood Trail.

As he drove south on Highway 431, Ray couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. Somehow, Kent had tricked him. Ray cursed aloud, “why in the Hell did I commit one way or the other? Why didn’t I say I don’t remember if Jack’s Bel Air was home or not?”

Ray continued to curse and almost missed the left-hand turn onto Cox Gap Road. He turned on the radio, hoping to find a calming song, but gave up in thirty seconds. Seeing the pastor of Cornerstone Baptist Church closing the trunk of his car distracted Ray and had the sought-after soothing effect. But not enough to stop his questions. “What kind of story was Kent writing? Why was he so interested in Jackie Frasier?” At the stop sign, Ray convinced himself it all had to do with the upcoming memorial. Ray guessed that as part of his speech, Kent would set out a detailed chronology of what was known about that fateful Friday night.

Ray slowed when he approached Alexander Drive. He wanted to stop and see Lillian but decided against it. Even though he fully intended to woo her back to the Lodge, now was not the time. She might still be asleep, and he didn’t want to upset her. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Lillian’s move foreshadowed the end of his successful life, and the beginning of another phase, one filled with failure and pain.

 At Happy Hill Baptist Church, Ray’s attitude leaned toward positive. Mayor King’s attorney had promised Rob Kern’s opposition to the City’s eminent domain action was doomed. The Hunt House would be demolished, and Rylan’s would be built. The worst-case scenario was a week or two delay.

Ray smiled as he imagined the bulldozers doing their thing, followed by the dump trucks hauling away load after load of debris, that included a key piece of evidence. Then Ray remembered his last conversation with Rachel. That was Halloween a year ago.

She had called during her ride from Birmingham’s airport, declaring there was still time for the two of them to do the right thing. They had argued. He still didn’t know why she had come so far, refused to see him, and then simply vanished.

All he knew was she’d received an anonymous package. Shortly afterwards, she traveled to Alabama. The package had contained copies of the statements the two of them had given to Detective Charlie Darden two days after Kyle disappeared. A scared Rachel believed the case was heating up, and fifty-year-old secrets were about to be revealed.

Ray tried to calm her. Like he always had, but this time it didn’t work. Finally, Rachel had assured him the murder weapon was still where she’d hidden it fifty years ago.

In a sick and morbid thought, Ray was glad Rachel was dead. She was the only one who could incriminate him. Thank God she was successful in her second suicide attempt. And thank God, the destruction of the murder weapon was inevitable.

Ray turned left onto the old logging trail and stopped to unlock and open the gate. Three hundred yards beyond was the barn and the pond in the center of what once was the only clearing on the entire sixty-acre tract. When Ray arrived, the dilapidated barn reminded him again of the brutality of aging. He drove another hundred feet and parked at the same spot he had half-a-century ago.

He sat in the Suburban and closed his eyes, reminded that Rachel had lied to him about the abortion. He considered whether that was her only lie. What if she had lied about the pistol? What if she had removed it from the Hunt House and hidden it somewhere else?

Ray slid out of the Suburban and walked to the water’s edge. He stared at an odd-shaped limb that had fallen from the giant oak behind the barn and someway floated here. The image presented by a large knot and two outstretched limbs from the main branch sent a shiver down his spine. To Ray, it looked like a human head with outstretched arms arising from the pond, and coming back to settle a score?

***

Rosa saw Jane the minute the elevator doors opened. She was standing at a podium across the hall, inside her classroom, a few feet from the rear wall. Jane was reading or meditating.

For nearly a year, Rosa and Jane had been prayer partners. Any time Rosa was in town, the two met in the Ruth Sunday School class before any of the twenty-plus ‘senior’ women arrived. Even when Rosa was out-of-town, no matter the state or country, no matter the time zone, the two always did their best to connect at this hour and have a few moments of prayer.

Rosa paused until Jane looked up. And smiled. It had been Rachel’s wish that her mother and her lifelong friend connect. Rachel’s plea to both women had started as, ‘if something were to happen to me…’

“Hey baby.” Rosa said, walking across the hallway and into the classroom. She wanted to honor Rachel’s wishes, but sometimes this time on a Sunday morning was not the most convenient. Rob was waiting in the car in the rear parking lot. The two were scheduled to speak at a church-wide assembly at Cullman First Baptist. Rosa knew the time was tight.

“Good morning. You look nice. As always.” Jane hoped she would look as young and beautiful as Rosa when she was eighty-six. “Why don’t we pray? I have a little reviewing to do before the girls arrive. I’m having a little trouble describing the end times.”

Rosa smiled, eased around the podium, and wrapped her left arm around the lower back of the tall and thin Jane. “Don’t we all?”

After a few minutes of intercessory prayer, the two women had exhausted Rob, Lee, Judge Broadside, and everyone else loosely connected to the Hunt House dispute. It had been Jane’s idea to limit each prayer session to one issue. She was a big fan of the Gospel of Matthew, especially chapter 18, verses 19-20: “Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

The two hugged and recited their weekly post-prayer ritual: “God is good. All the time.” Jane knew the Hunt House situation was in excellent hands.

Rosa departed and Jane wondered why she couldn’t come to peace about another issue. A big one that Rachel had left with her that Rosa knew nothing about.

Rachel and Jane had hit it off from day one in the ninth grade. To those outside their circle, it would not have been unreasonable to think the girls were gay. Even some of their closer friends, Lillian and Kyla, often questioned (in a lighthearted way) the two about whether they would tie the knot before they turned eighteen.

Rachel and Jane shared an openness and intimacy that rivaled the most star-struck couples. Yet, it wasn’t sexual. Rachel and Jane shared most everything, including their deepest fears, failures, and fantasies. And that hadn’t stopped when the MK had returned to China. What troubled Jane now, and ever since her best friend had died, was what Rachel asked her to do.

Elita Ann Kern was born June 1, 1970, at the Tung Wah Hospital in Hong Kong. Three days later, Rachel and Elita (Latin for ‘the chosen one’) were discharged. Rachel returned with her family to their thirteenth floor Hong Kong apartment in the Lower Ngau Tau Kok public housing estate. Elita and her adoptive parents traveled by plane 4,580 miles to her new home in Sydney, Australia. One of Rob’s missionary colleagues arranged the transaction. At the time, all the Kern’s had been told was that the middle-aged couple was well-off, childless, and would provide young Elita with a God-fearing home and every opportunity for health, happiness, and education.

Other than her parents and her diary, Rachel didn’t share the wonderful but sad news of the arrival and departure of Elita Ann Kern with anyone except Jane Fordham.

I still thought it was surreal. Kyla and a truck. I first saw it last night when I arrived. It’s big, a 2500 Series Chevrolet, a Silverado model, and it’s silver colored. With four full doors and 4-wheel drive. It’s three times as big as the last Lexus she owned.

Sis had been a tomboy growing up. Every chance she got, she’d be outside exploring the woods behind the house, helping Mom in the garden, fishing at the pond, or hiding in the barn loft. Even more boyish, Kyla was a master at castrating baby piglets, at least according to Dad.

The odd thing was Kyla had been both a tomboy and a scholar. Even though she was a year younger than me, we finished high school on May 26, 1972. I think it was third grade she sailed right over. I had always been jealous of her memory. It was close to photographic. She could capture, process, collate, store, and retrieve so much faster than me. However, my claim to fame, and an intelligence greater than little sis, was that I had been the Valedictorian of our high school class. Of course, Kyla was the Salutatorian.

Sis circled my rental and eased toward the attached carport, smiling and waving as she passed. At sixty-five, she was half-a-century beyond her tomboyish days, yet her looks were beating a path towards beauty unlike so many other women her age. Sis had graduated magna cum laude from Emory University in Atlanta and gone on to a stellar career at Coca Cola. She’d retired a few months ago, second in seniority and compensation to the Vice President of International Marketing. Her world in Atlanta, including life in a sophisticated Buckhead neighborhood, had shaped Kyla Harding into cultural elegance. Now, back where she began, I wondered how easy it would be for her to return to her tomboyish roots.

Sis finally appeared from the carport toting several Walmart bags. “Here, let me help.” I should have already gone to meet her. People often misconstrue introverts. Until Rachel’s death, I’d always figured if someone wanted help, they would ask.

I tried to untangle a few bags from her hands, but she refused, “just open the door.”

Inside, Kyla set everything on the kitchen table. She gave a quizzical look at the two books still laying open where I’d been sitting. I quickly stuffed them into my briefcase.

“Work related?” Kyla asked, now removing the crock pot lid and using the wooden stirring spoon to sample her re-creation.

“Yes.” After I watched her put away the groceries, she suggested we go back outside. The temperature had risen into the mid-fifties since I’d checked my rental.

“I hope you don’t mind me making some changes around here?” Kyla was always considerate, sometimes too much.

I sat on one of Mom’s old benches to give Kyla the more comfortable swing. “Not at all. Why should I? It’s your place.”

“I still feel guilty taking your money.” Mom and Dad’s Will left everything they owned in equal shares to Kyla and me. The accidental death of our parents, strangely, came at a perfect time for sis. She had been toying with retirement for at least a year. Her call had surprised me. “What do you think of me buying you out? I’m ready to return to Harding Hillside.”

“You should. How about a refund?” Kyla and I had always prided ourselves on quick retorts, often brutally sarcastic.

Sis had paid for two independent appraisals and yet still insisted she pay fifteen percent more than half the highest valuation. “I love the fresh paint on the barn. Do you remember the summer we persuaded Dad and Mom to pay us to paint the front?”

“Oh yeah. Summer before we started high school. We nearly killed ourselves.” If pushed, Kyla could probably share the top three things we’d talked about as we’d stood side by side on two heavy ladders Dad built.

“Question. Isn’t it difficult living here, knowing what happened to Mom and Dad?” I could still hear Kyla’s trembling voice when she’d given me the call everyone dreads to receive. It was New Year’s Eve 2018. Mom and Dad were driving home after a Sunday School get-together at Blaine and Zadie Fordham’s. Earlier in the day, it had rained. That was hours before a cold front had moved into the area. By midnight, the temperature was in the mid-twenties. Mom and Dad were crossing Highway 431 headed straight for McVille Road when an eighteen-wheeler slammed into their little Plymouth. They never knew what hit them.

“This may sound crazy, but I find it rewarding. It’s like their spirits are everywhere. I know that sounds silly, but I find myself in conversation with one of them several times a day.” Kyla leaned to her right and touched the window shutter. I’d already noticed them but had said nothing. “Dad wasn’t so crazy about the color, but you know how Mom loved forest green.”

I chose not to inject my thoughts, pro or con, about the spirit world, concerned it might lead to a full-blown discussion on souls and the afterlife. Instead, I played a polite game of brother-sister ping pong. After all, it was only a few hours into our family reunion. “Who painted the barn?” I suspected it wasn’t Kyla.

“The goat man, Donnie Tolbert. He was highly recommended from a guy at Lowe’s. Not only was he a talented painter, but he also raises goats. Voila. My beautiful Nubians.”

“Kyla, the goat lady. Why not a few chickens? With your marketing background, you could start peddling milk, cheese, and eggs.” I was still trying to figure out what my little sis was going to do with all her time.

“And you could retire and move back home.” Kyla walked down the porch stairs and to the edge of the house. She turned on the water faucet. Although it was late fall, she dragged the attached hose in front of a flower garden that bordered each side of the porch steps and watered two Azaleas and some Monkey Grass surrounded by a thick layer of new mulch. “Plus, you could refund my money and own half of Harding Hillside.”

I joined her and offered to do the watering. She refused. So, I backed away toward the barn to gaze at the six new shutters and how they’d given new life to an old farmhouse.

I sometime ask too many questions. “Did Donnie help install the forest greens?” I was fishing to find out how much he had charged her. I knew it wasn’t a really demanding job, especially on the first floor.

“Interesting that you ask. What you’re looking at is a masterpiece by a pair of talented and gorgeous felines.”

“Okay, so you and Donnie’s wife installed them. She’s gorgeous and you’re talented.”

“Smart ass. Think you know everything. Truth is, Lillian and I did the work all by ourselves. It wasn’t difficult at all.”

The last thing I wanted to do was signal to my sister I was interested in Lillian Bryant. Archer. But I was curious. What I really wanted to know was whether Lillian was aware she married a monster. I tip-toed into the water. Sometimes acting dumb is the best approach. “Where did you say Lillian and Ray were moving to?”

“I didn’t. As far as I know, Ray’s staying at the Lodge.”

“Where’s the Lodge?”

“Top of Skyhaven Drive. I’ve been to it twice. It’s beautiful, like a Vail, Colorado chalet.”

“Trouble in paradise?” As kids, Kyla and I had always been open, virtually no filters between us. Not as true as the years had rolled by.

“You could phrase it that way. From what Lillian has told me over the years, Ray’s an asshole. And that’s putting it mildly. Strictly between you and me, Ray has always been a womanizer.”

“He’s also a crook, but I’m speculating.” As an attorney, even under the umbrella of openness and confidentiality, I was careful with my words.

“Lillian is a great gal who made a big mistake when she dumped you.” My sister had always thought Lillian was the right woman for me. And that there was something a little off about Rachel.

“Her words or yours?” I was now in deep water. Surely it was about time to feed the goats or go fishing or something.

“Both.” Kyla looked at me with those deep green eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. Not a word about the beautiful and sexy Lillian. Not a raised eyebrow you’re also interested in her mind, soul, and spirit.”

“We best check the chili,” was all I could say.

***

According to Kyla, the chili was too spicy. She added a little water, and we settled in the den around the big screen TV. It didn’t take long for the Alabama Crimson Tide to put Kentucky’s Wildcats in a chokehold.

At halftime, we each ate a bowl of chili. Kyla added Tostito chips. I chose saltine crackers. She swore she followed the recipe to the letter, but admitted Mom was not one to divulge her secrets when she scribbled down ingredients and instructions. Regardless, Kyla’s chili was certainly better than store bought.

At 49 to 3, I made my decision. I asked sis the question that had been burning my gut long before I ate my first bite of the crock-pot chili. I grabbed the TV remote and lowered the volume. “Sis, I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot, but the answer is still no.” I instantly knew what she was talking about. Her upstairs bedroom. Growing up, I had always wanted it. It was much more private than mine downstairs, the one set between the laundry room and the corridor to the back porch.

“Okay, but is this your final answer?” We both laughed. Finally, I said, “I have a second question.”

“Shoot.” We laughed some more.

“Sis, think hard before you answer. Please. Do you remember Rachel coming to Boaz after she first tried to kill herself?”

“Lord have mercy.” It wouldn’t take Kyla five seconds to recall if there was anything filed away. Yet, she paused. “No, to your question, but I suggest you frame a follow-up.”

I repeated my question, slowly and out loud, to myself. Sis would have made an excellent attorney. I crafted a broader interrogatory. “Do you have any information, whether directly gained or via hearsay or any other method, that Rachel Harding came to Boaz after she tried to kill herself in April 2019?” I could probably do better, but Kyla was giving me an affirmative nod.

“Your honor, I have a question for the learned counselor. Sir, does your question include a Rachel Harding look-alike?”

“Yes. It does.” I now shook my head. Sideways. Kyla could always split hairs better than me.

Sis stood and transferred our bowls to the kitchen sink. When she returned, she sat in a new Lazy Boy recliner facing me. “It’s pure hearsay, but this is what I heard. Lillian told me. Jane Fordham told her. What caught Jane’s attention was a Birmingham taxi turning right onto Darnell from Mill Street. Jane had just exited Piggly Wiggly and was walking to her car. You know how nosy a spinster can be.” I laughed to myself, wanting to comment, but didn’t. “Jane quickly stuffed her three bags of groceries in her back seat and took off. Following the taxi. It stopped in front of the Hunt House and a woman got out clutching a leather-looking bag. The taxi drove away. Jane said the woman was wearing a blond wig and a long raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining. Or, cold. Jane circled the block and wound-up parking at Dr. Hunt’s old office. Thirty minutes later, the taxi returned. The same woman, tall and thin from what Jane could see, crawled into the back seat and away they went. Jane followed the taxi south on Highway 431 as far as Carlisle Elementary School.”

After Kyla’s lengthy monologue, I was at a complete loss when Rachel could have made this trip. It finally came to me after sis told me the phantom visit was sometime around Halloween. That was all I needed to hear. Rachel had gone with a group of middle-schoolers to Washington, D.C. It was a two-day trip. Even though she taught high school, the group needed another chaperon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kyla’s answer came quick and surprised me. “I knew it wasn’t true.”

“Uh?”

“First, the woman in Jane’s story could have been anyone. And second, I talked to Rachel two, if not three, times that weekend. There’s nothing in my head that, even now, makes me think she was anywhere but home.”

Over the next hour, I shared every dot and tittle of what was going on. Whatever reluctance I had in sharing information that painted Rachel in such a poor light was easily overcome by my solid belief that my sister’s intelligence could be invaluable in helping bring Ray Archer to justice.

Before the evening was over and we retired to our separate rooms, I knew I had no choice but to stay in Alabama and prove my case.

I hoped the stay would not be a problem for Yale Law School.

After stirring the chili, I walked outside into a cool but gorgeous blue-sky day. I stared at the barn, the five goats nudging the fence, and the pond beyond, before checking the doors on my Explorer. I had no good reason to believe they had somehow come unlocked, but I had to verify. Last night I’d left the pistol in its plastic bag laying underneath the floor mat behind the driver’s seat. I’d stuffed the diary and Bonhoeffer’s book inside my briefcase and brought them inside to the bedroom of my youth, tiptoeing to avoid waking Kyla, who I assumed was sound asleep in her upstairs bed.

I went inside and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee from Kyla’s automatic maker that had already turned itself off. After nuking it for forty seconds, I almost returned to the front porch, but given the temperature, opted for the kitchen table. I was glad I had this time alone to organize and digest the things I’d learned from yet another one of Rachel’s diaries. This one, found stuffed inside a wall for who knows how long.

I don’t know why, but last night, lying in my old bed, I read Rachel’s last entry. It was dated Saturday, December 27, 1969. Now, more alert, I fetched it from my bedroom, returned to the den, and again flipped to the back. “In two days, I will fly with my family from Atlanta to Miami, and from there, sail to Hong Kong, along with the baby turning and kicking inside me.” I was still as much in shock as I had been at 2:00 a.m. this morning.

Since I hadn’t brought the diaries from Rachel’s basement library, confusion set in. My memory was cloudy, but before I set foot on Alabama soil, I would have bet her abortion had taken place while she was still living in Alabama. Now, the latest diary stated the very opposite. Had Rachel lied to me?

After her first suicide attempt, she told me the reason she had tried to kill herself was because of an abortion at age 16. During the months after her disclosure, I’d fought my way to acceptance, concluding teenagers do stupid things; I chalked her sex, pregnancy, and abortion to youthful indiscretion.

Maybe I had read between the diary lines or subconsciously created facts that didn’t exist. But one thing now appeared true. The diary I was holding laid out Rachel’s account of her last thirty days as a tenth grader at Boaz High School. Two other things I felt were correct. This diary and the pistol had been inside the wall since shortly before Rachel returned to Hong Kong in December 1969. However, the Bonhoeffer book had joined its companions in the not-so-distant past. The reason I believe the latter to be true is that Rachel had written notes that strongly suggested she had made them after her first suicide attempt. Somehow, during the six months before she hanged herself, November 29, 2019, she had traveled to Boaz and visited the Hunt House. Then I realized there might be another option. What if Rachel had given The Cost of Discipleship to someone else and that person had hidden it inside the wall?

I raided Kyla’s refrigerator for a bottle of grape juice and changed mental gears. What I’d learned early this morning about Kyle Bennett was even more shocking.

In all the years we’d been friends, I’d never known he was greedy or opportunistic. That assessment had changed whether Rachel’s diary was trustworthy. Somehow, Kyle had learned about her pregnancy. Rachel had expressed confidence Kyle’s source had come from Dr. Harold Malone’s office. Kyle’s mother worked for him as a nurse. Kyle and Kent often took the bus there after school.

With his newfound knowledge, Kyle had concocted a plan, one that would eventually (so he thought) enable him to purchase a car. Even though Kyle, like me, was a half foot shorter than Ray Archer and a hundred pounds lighter, he presented a demand for $500.00 in exchange for his silence. Apparently, at first, Ray kept his cool, even seeking Rachel’s advice. This negotiation had ended with Ray borrowing the money from his father (the ruse being Ray needed the money to buy Rachel a ring) and giving it to Kyle. Per Rachel’s stipulation, Kyle had signed a document she had prepared that acknowledged his promise of confidentiality, and that Ray had paid him in full for his ‘knowledge.’

Kyle’s second demand took only a week: “one-thousand dollars by Thanksgiving.” This demand revealed my friend’s naivety and stupidity, illustrating he was unaware of the risks he was taking. Albeit Ray’s hair-trigger temper and superior strength.

To Rachel’s surprise, Ray again paid the money. This time sweet-talking Arlene Baker, his father’s bookkeeper, for a ‘short-term’ loan. After Ray tendered the money to the conniving Kyle, he expressed his anger at Rachel and acknowledged their near-hopeless situation. “This shit won’t ever end (Ray was sometimes short-sighted).” He pleaded with Rachel to do something. “Use your smarts and figure out a way to convince Kyle this has to stop.”

By the morning of Friday, December 12, the day of the Boaz Christmas Parade, Ray had given up on Rachel’s intelligence and creativity. Just as she had written in one of her basement diaries, she and Ray had taken care of Kyle after removing the PA system from the tenth-grade float.

Ray had shot and killed Kyle. But, unlike the basement diaries, the walled-off diary provided additional details. After dropping off the PA system at First Baptist Church of Christ, with Kyle sitting between Ray and Rachel on the bench seat of his 1968 step-side Chevrolet pickup, he had driven to a farm his father owned off Cox Gap Road. It was a subterfuge. Ray shared his intent to give his 1964 Ford Mustang to Kyle in exchange for his eternal silence and that, “tonight was as good a time as any to show off the red fireball.” According to Rachel, Ray’s father had bought the car directly from the factory and it was one of the first ever to be built by Ford Motor Company.

Once Ray turned right onto Dogwood Trail, Kyle started fidgeting, like he’d just had a rude awakening. He offered to refund the money and asked to be let out of the truck. Ray laughed. In a mile, he turned left onto an old logging road and wound his way beyond a barn and to a clearing next to a pond. Ray had parked, gotten out of the truck, leaving Kyle and Rachel sitting. During this time, Kyle had asked why they had stopped and where the Mustang was. In less than a minute, Ray was back. Rachel opened her door and exited the vehicle. Ray ordered Kyle to slide on the seat and come to him, all the while pointing the Smith & Wesson at Kyle’s head.

Ray had walked a shaking and nervous Kyle to the edge of the pond and ordered him to keep walking and never come back. Kyle had screamed, cried, and begged Ray to forgive him and save his life, again promising to return the money. Ray had shot two times, the first hitting the water ten feet from the shore. Rachel didn’t know if this was simply a bad shot or a tease to terrorize Kyle even more. The second blast hit Kyle in the head, at the base of the skull. He was dead before his body hit the water.

I closed my eyes and lifted my head. In my thirty-eight years as an attorney, I’d read countless murder cases appealed to a higher court. Everyone sets out facts determined at trial. Everyone involved a victim, all horrible situations, some more terrorizing than others. Now, my mind changed forever. The victim in this case, my best childhood friend, had experienced mental trauma I wouldn’t wish on the most horrible person I could imagine. Then, it hit me, this was no appeals case on behalf of the murderer. No defendant existed or ever argued for a directed verdict or a new trial. In Kyle’s situation, there had never been a trial. There had been no justice of any kind for my dearly departed friend. For half a century, the brutal and evil billionaire enjoyed unlimited freedom. Tossing and teasing justice like a cat terrorizing a mouse.

I stood and walked to the front porch. It seemed colder than it had an hour earlier. I sat in Kyla’s swing and started audibly repeating the same word. “Why, why, why?” Why would it have mattered if Ray and Rachel disclosed the commonly occurring facts? Why would they take such drastic steps to keep them secret? Why did they value their future, which was uncertain, over the life of a fellow human being, one they should have considered a friend?

The answer I kept getting had something to do with Rachel’s abortion. The lawyer in me couldn’t stay still. What if Rachel admitted her abortion to Ray, but that had been a lie? If the last entry in the walled-off diary was true, Rachel was pregnant with Ray’s baby the day she left with family to return to Hong Kong.

I became nauseated when another thought crossed my mind: what if Kyle knew more truth than he’d shared with Ray? What if Kyle knew Rachel had lied to Ray about her having the abortion?

And more nauseating still: what if Rachel herself was an accessory to Kyle’s murder? Doing more than simply hide the Smith & Wesson? Again, if she had written the truth, she had done nothing to stop Ray. Couldn’t she have warned Kyle? Somehow? Couldn’t she have talked Ray out of his evil intent?

I dug myself deeper into my hole of confusion. I stayed there until I heard Kyla’s truck crunching gravel as it left McVille Road headed my way.

By 7:00 a.m. Saturday morning, Kyla had already fed the five Nubians, walked twice around the pond, and started a recipe of her mom’s slow-cook chili in the crock pot. Lee’s bedroom door was still closed, and she hadn’t heard a peep. The only way she knew he was home was by the silver Explorer parked halfway to the barn. Kyla wrote a note and placed it in the hallway, where he’d be sure to see it. “Helping Lillian move. Call me. Hope you rested.”

Easing through the stop sign at Johnson Builders, Kyla tried to remember the last time she’d been on Cox Gap Road. It had to be Rachel’s going-away party in the middle of tenth grade. It was the day after Christmas, a Friday night. Cold wasn’t the right word for that God-forsaken farm owned by Ronald Archer, Ray’s father. Kyla turned up the heat in her Silverado and tried to recall the name of the road. All she could say for sure was that it was a couple of miles past Happy Hill Baptist Church. She remembered the church because her grandparents had taken her and Lee to an all-day Sunday singing when they were in the third grade. Or was it the fourth? Anyway, the road was quite a way beyond the church, and it was a turn to the right. Lillian and Jane had both screamed at Kyla’s attempt to navigate the winding road.

Rounding the curve, Kyla saw a Weathers Furniture truck backed to the front door, a one-story cedar-sided cabin. Small, but cute. Lillian had asked her two days ago if she would mind helping her move. Kyla turned right on Alexander Road. She pondered where to park, beside the split-rail fence along the road or in the driveway. She opted for the latter.

It was between another split-rail fence surrounding a pond and the cabin. Kyla parked next to Lillian’s Aviator. The pond was gorgeous. Kyla especially liked the spewing fountain in the center and the gazebo at the beginning of the pier.

“Hey friend,” Lillian yelled from the back porch as Kyla removed a dozen donuts she’d purchased at Y-Mart.

“Hey, hope you’re hungry.” Walking to Lillian, Kyla considered what was happening with her best friend. The place was quaint, naturally seductive, even romantic. Any outdoorsy person would love it. But Lillian had never been that type. She had grown up in town and, after marrying Ray, had enjoyed all the finer things of life. Kyla concluded that, unlike herself, Lillian was too sophisticated for this place.

“Come on in, the Weathers guys are just finishing up. I hope you like my cabin.” Lillian held open a screen door and pointed across the porch to the kitchen door. There was another arched doorway on the opposite end, closed.

Inside, the place seemed larger. Pine-paneled walls perfectly accentuated the rusticity of the outdoors. The cabinets were the same. Kyla laid the donuts on a small but new-looking table. “Wow, I love it.”

“Let me give you a quick tour. It won’t take but a minute.” Lillian laughed and pointed toward a coffee maker about half finished with a fresh pot.

Lillian was correct. The cabin was small, with a ‘big enough’ den. There were two bedrooms on the north side separated by a ‘not-quite-big-enough’ bathroom. The bedroom toward the barn was full of boxes. No furniture. The front bedroom had a way-too-big bed. Kyla quickly calculated that Weathers had delivered a leather couch and matching chair, two end tables, an oversized coffee-table, a huge Armoire, and the small round table in the kitchen. According to Lillian, the former tenants left the gigantic bed in the front bedroom.

“When did you move all those boxes?” Kyla had understood Lillian to say two days ago they would make several trips this morning between her and Ray’s lodge and what she called ‘the Corbett place.’

“Uh, last night.” The two returned to the kitchen. “Coffee?” Lillian asked as she motioned Kyla to sit and handed her two paper plates and plastic forks.

“Half a cup, black.” She had already had two cups in her den waiting for Lee to join her. “Why not wait until morning? You asked me to help.” Kyla opened the box and removed her favorite, a lemon-filled with thick layered melted cream cheese.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why? I thought you take a sleeping pill.”

“Didn’t work, thanks to you.” Lillian delivered two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups and sat facing the back door.

“Uh? What did I do?”

“Like you are that dense, you twerp. Do I have to draw you a picture?”

“Seems so, you got me.”

“I can’t draw, so I’ll spell it out for you: L E E.”

“Oh, my gosh.” The sophisticate surprised Kyla once again. Even though she knew Lillian had recently asked about her brother, it was only after Kyla had mentioned Lee. She recalled telling Lillian her brother was helping his in-laws with a case involving the old Hunt House. Now, she appeared star struck for want of a better term. “You’ve got to be kidding. That train left the station a century ago.”

“Half a century. Can’t you count?” Lillian paused and closed her eyes like she was searching the universe. “See if you can visualize this picture. Lee and I were both on that train. Unfortunately, we were in separate cars, rolling down the track headed in the same direction for fifty years. Now, here we are.”

Kyla broke her fork and grabbed another one from a box beside the coffeemaker. Instead of sitting, she leaned against the sink. “You’re fantasizing. The real world is brutal. Lee has scars, deep scars that feed his depression. I’m afraid he’ll never recover from Rachel’s suicide.”

Lillian stood and joined Kyla next to the sink. “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

“Of course. But you must be realistic. Even if by some miracle the two of you, what should I call it? Reconnect? I can think of at least two mountain-size problems. Three. I already mentioned the effects of Rachel’s death.” Kyla took one step and faced Lillian. Her eyes were sad. A tear was running down her left cheek. “Here’s the second problem. It’s called marriage. The way you’ve been for many decades. I doubt your loving husband will send you off with his blessings.”

“Oh please, I can do without your sarcasm. And I doubt even the repulsive Ray would appreciate the smarmy compliment.” Lillian rolled her eyes.

Kyla didn’t relent. “If those two are not large enough obstacles, there’s the third one. It likely is the worst: too tall, deep, and wide for a petted and pampered little darling like you.” The girlfriends had always preferred openness and honesty, albeit brutal.

Lillian turned away from Kyla and looked out the kitchen window toward the pond and the gushing fountain. “You’re so negative. Just like a psychiatrist I once knew.”

“Okay, I’ll hush. Don’t we need to get to work?” Kyla said with a twinge of sadness. She, like Jane Fordham, was an old maid, as in single. And, even worse, she’d never even been in love, so what the heck did she know?

“Oh girl, you don’t get to play that smart ass professor routine and then skip out to your next class. Tell me about the enormous elephant blocking my path.”

Kyla pondered Lillian’s analogy. Not bad for the girl who’d never worked in her life, assuming you didn’t count her teenage job at Fred King’s. Kyla nudged Lillian to the side. Now, each had their own sink to hold. “Okay, you asked for it. It’s called first love or teenage infatuation. No matter the label, it has long since faded into the sunset. Those feelings you shared with your first boyfriend weren’t real. Here’s reality. All you and Lee would get out of a current day soap opera would be some passionate sex. Don’t forget, because I haven’t. These are your words on more than one occasion, ‘there’s so much more to love than sex.’”

Lillian poured the remaining coffee down the drain and turned off the warmer. “I know you’re just trying to help, but I’ll always believe there is one special person out there who would get me and get to me. It would be a real intimacy that electrified every cell in our minds and bodies.”

Kyla walked to the table and closed the lid on the donuts. “I think you’re reading too many romance novels.”

Lillian said something about chemistry when Kyla’s cell rang. She removed it from last night’s jeans. It was Lee. “Perfect timing you have big brother.”

“Uh?” Lee was stirring the chili, trying to decide what he wanted to do while Kyla was away.

“I bought donuts at Y-Mart. Your favorite, lemon-filled smothered in cream cheese. I’m saving you one.”

“No way.” Lee asked questions about Lillian and why she and Ray were moving. “This chili smells great. Mother’s recipe. Right?”

“Always. Oh, if you will, add two tablespoons of sugar. Don’t forget to stir.” Kyla couldn’t imagine what Lee had gone through, was still going through. They had lost both parents in a car accident, but, as tragic as that was, Lee losing his wife to suicide seemed worse. No wonder he was so depressed.

“What time will you be back? I’m trying to plan my day.” Lee said, removing the crock pot’s lid and using the sugar bowl to pour in an undetermined amount.

“Probably by early afternoon. Lillian had her furniture delivered. We’re about to unpack and shelve her kitchen stuff.”

“What about Ray’s stuff?” Lee doubted Ray would move his own furniture. Something seemed odd.

“He’s staying at the Lodge. Lillian’s leaving. Moving in here at the old Corbett place.”

Lee didn’t pursue additional details. “I may get out a while. Do you need anything?”

“No, but thanks for the groceries. I saw them this morning. By the way, why were you so late?”

“Listen, we can talk this afternoon. You better get to work.”

Lee ended the call. He knew nothing about the Corbett place.

***

Lillian knew instantly that Kyla’s call was from Lee. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” She’d said as she exited the kitchen.

When Kyla joined her in the front bedroom, Lillian had already unpacked an assortment of burgundy sheets, pillows and cases, an ocean scene quilt, and a dual-sided black and gray coverlet. “Grab the box-spring cover.” Lillian motioned her head toward the back room.

It took the two of them several minutes and multiple tries to lift each side of the heavy mattress and manipulate the extra tight cover. “Dang, how about some fresh air?” Kyla assumed the sunshine coming through the thick wooden shutters against the outside wall hid a workable window. That statement had triggered Lillian’s story of forest scented Febreze and a woman named Faye. Their laughs became exhausting. They ultimately crashed across the bed.

Lillian finally stood, opened the shutters, and raised the window. “I bet I’ll never come to bed at night without seeing Faye and the adorable Eddie making love. Maybe I should have sold it to her.”

“Well, it’s not too late. Don’t you have a better king than this in your bedroom at the Lodge?” Kyla despised the idea of sleeping on a used mattress even if Febreze sanitized every inch.

“I do, but I don’t own it. It belongs to Ray.” Lillian said, tossing Kyla the edge of a mattress pad.

To Kyla, that seemed an odd way to operate a marriage. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. When you two tied the knot, it was the first marriage for both. Right? So, why the ‘his and mine’ routine?”

“Pull it down, tighter toward the bottom.” Lillian said, as a domestic expert. “Who said anything about my stuff?”

Kyla couldn’t believe sophisticated Lillian didn’t own a thing even though Ray (and presumably she herself) was rich. Gossip was that he was worth a billion dollars or more. Further, the two married five decades ago. “So, you don’t own a thing? Then how did you buy new furniture from Weathers?”

Lillian struggled to stuff an over-sized pillow into its case. “It’s complicated. I used Ray’s account, with his permission, mind you. And I don’t literally own anything. He’s about to pay me $100,000. Less what I’ve charged.”

Kyla asked a dozen questions, and Lillian answered them all. Yet, there was something confusing about the one and only modification to the prenup. “Then how did you get to move out and still keep your place in Ray’s will?”

“I grew a second set of balls.” Lillian’s word pictures were getting worse. “The first time was when Ray was negotiating the sale of his pharmacy chain. This time, he’s on the verge of building a Rylan’s in our hometown. There’s nothing more important to the local boy who made it big than his personal reputation, and his standing with First Baptist Church of Christ.”

“So, you threatened to disclose the three affairs?”

“Four actually, but let’s not quibble.”

“You said the prenup prevents you from divorcing Ray and from ever remarrying.” Kyla was having the same difficulty as Lillian with the undersized pillowcases.

“Or, ever cohabitating.” Lillian added.

Kyla had learned a lot about the law during her forty-plus year career in the marketing department at Coca Cola in Atlanta. “Dear, I don’t think that’s exactly legal. Are you sure you have a correct interpretation?”

“You’re not only beautiful but extremely perceptive.” Lillian smiled and motioned Kyla to follow her to the den. After sitting on her new leather couch, she continued. “It’s illegal, but my attorney has advised me to keep my mouth shut on that subject. Until I find some credible evidence, something that would transform my husband into playdough.”

“Now, I’m really confused.” Lillian patted the couch cushion beside her, showing she wanted Kyla close by.

“Listen carefully and know you’re sworn to secrecy. This is something I’ve told no one. Except my attorney. For years I’ve suspected that Ray, to put it mildly, isn’t a saint, not even considering his womanizing. I could provide a litany of examples, but the most recent might be more interesting. Did you know that Mayor King had initially suggested the old Outlet Center for Rylan’s location?”

“No. So, what changed? Why move it to a low-traffic area like Thomas Avenue?” Kyla knew little about the City’s expansion plans or its politics. But she had read one article in the Sand Mountain Reporter describing Rob Kern’s opposition to Boaz taking the title to the Hunt House. And, of course, she knew this controversy was why Lee was in town for the first time since 2002.

“This may sound crazy, but I think it has something to do with the Hunt House. Something infatuated Ray with that place.” Lillian pivoted her neck up and down, then back and forth, her neck bones making multiple cracking sounds.

Kyla was second to only her older brother in her ability to think, especially brainstorming. “That’s so weird. You know, the first thing that came to mind was Rachel Kern. Shit, if that’s true, this hits too close to home. My poor depressed brother.”

“You’re not totally wrong, but it might be for a different reason than you’re thinking. Ray is not pursuing a way to honor his high school girlfriend but to wipe away all her memories, his memories of her.”

“You’ve lost me. I know Ray and Rachel dated only during the first two years of high school, well, until Christmas of our tenth-grade year. Then, she and brother Randy, along with their missionary parents, left for China. Fast forward three years, might be four, and Lee and Rachel were engaged after meeting during their second year at the University of Virginia.”

Lillian started speaking before Kyla could finish Virginia. “And Ray and I were in Tuscaloosa and engaged about the same time.”

“So, what is it? Why would Ray have such negative feelings toward Rachel?” Kyla asked, remembering how smitten Lee had been when the mature-beyond-her-age brunette had moved to Boaz at the beginning of ninth grade. Lee literally fell in love after one look. But he didn’t have a chance against the athletic Ray Archer.

Lillian jumped up and ran away. Kyla thought she had suddenly gotten sick. But she returned as quickly as she’d left. “It’s getting cold in here. I forgot I left my bedroom window open. Now, to your question. I don’t want to say much because it’s mere speculation right now, but I’m searching. Based on what I’ve observed with Ray, when the name Rachel Kern or Rachel Harding comes up, he’s like the proverbial deer in the headlights. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s a physical reaction.”

“Let’s make a list.” The brainstorming Kyla was always eager to create a hypothesis. “I’ll start. What if something bad happened between the two?” Kyla laughed out loud. “Like, Rachel discovered Ray was gay.”

Lillian returned to the end of the couch. “Funny. Let me assure you that item doesn’t belong on your list. But I know there were rumors.”

“Rumors of what?” It was now Kyla’s turn to stand. Her mind was the one now racing.

“That Ray got Rachel pregnant.”

“No.” Kyla shook her head. “That isn’t enough. Especially given what you’ve said about Ray. And don’t forget, Rachel moved away. She took Ray’s problem to China.”

“Okay, that’s enough of the guessing game. Hopefully, I’m going to learn Ray’s financial secrets, maybe discover he’s dealing drugs or something. Anything to give me an out.”

“What does that mean?”

“The prenup. There’s a clause where he and I promise we have disclosed all our assets, and everything that would apply to the negotiations. If Ray’s been lying to me, let’s say he is a drug dealer, then I am free as a bird, and get half of his wealth.”

Kyla looked at her iPhone. It was half past noon. “I got to get going. I told Lee I’d be back by early afternoon.” Before she left, she apologized to Lillian for not being more help. The two hugged at the back door and Kyla made her way to her Silverado.

Lillian stepped off the bottom step and yelled. “I’ll keep you updated. And you take good care of Lee Harding.” Kyla shook her head and gave her best friend a wave.

When she turned left on Cox Gap Road, she regretted not asking Lillian the question that was on the tip of her tongue: “How are you going to learn this juicy stuff now that you’re no longer living with the man you despise?”

Little did Kyla know Lillian had a plan. Last night, in between moving relays, she installed two hidden video/audio cameras.

It took several tries before I got the key to work. It was old. Probably as old as the house itself, being passed down from Mr. Whitman, the original builder, to Dr. Hunt, then to Rob’s brother Randall, whose estate turned it over to Rob. I assume Barbara as tenant had used it for the fifty-plus years she operated her bed-and-breakfast.

Once inside, I flipped on three light switches to my right. The grand foyer came alive, as brilliant as an exploding star. The chandelier contained dozens of uniquely shaped bulbs. It was like each had a specific job: to highlight a particular section of the walls and ceiling. I was glad Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop had not yet disconnected the power. If it had, I’d be dependent solely on my iPhone’s flashlight.

Everything I saw was oak: the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the staircase. The only difference was the stair treads were stained a darker color. As I headed to the second floor, I expected some creaking and groaning. None. I don’t know why I’d imagined the Hunt House was falling apart.

My knowledge of the house came mainly from Rosa. During mine and Rachel’s marriage, we’d see Rosa and Rob once a year, unless they were still serving as missionaries in China. During those rare visits, I’d always quizzed my mother-in-law outside Rachel’s presence. She despised the place.

On the second floor, Randy’s room was to the left, Rachel’s to the right. What interested me was the narrow stairwell landing behind her bedroom that led two ways: down sixteen steps to the first floor beside a pantry, along the east side of the giant kitchen, and up eight steps to a low-ceiling attic transformed into a reading and pondering room, as Rosa described it. This cozy room had one double window facing Julia Street Methodist Church and was Rachel’s favorite spot.

I entered Rachel’s old bedroom and immediately saw the door that led to the narrow stairs. Stepping inside, I turned, looked up, and reached above the door frame and felt the board that lay horizontally above the stairwell’s entrance. The light from Rachel’s bedroom sufficed to descend the stairs to the kitchen, but it barely reflected upwards where I needed. I removed my iPhone and clicked on its flashlight. Four nails secured the board I had felt. Two nails per side. But, higher, above the ten-to-twelve-inch first board, looked like a hollow cavity. My problem was I couldn’t reach it.

After descending the stairs to the kitchen, I exited the back door and walked to the detached garage. It was locked, but I found a half-rotten stepladder entangled along a vine-infested rear wall. Another problem. It seemed clear to me it was too long to do me any good. I probably could use the front stairwell to tote it to the second floor and inside Rachel’s bedroom, but even if I could stand it inside the closet-sized space, the ceiling of the narrow stairwell was such that I couldn’t climb the ladder. I needed something else, maybe a stepstool.

I had no choice but to return tomorrow better equipped for the task.

***

I hurried down the foyer stairs. It was a few minutes before 10:00. I wanted to be at Kyla’s before she got home.

I had already closed the door and was fiddling with the key when I looked upwards through the glass panels. The chandelier was still on. I turned the knob and reopened the door. When I reached to my right to flip the three switches, I heard a thud. Something had fallen. It was heavy. I left the lights on and returned to the porch. Two men were sitting in a swing twenty feet away. A shattered pot of red Mums lay inches from the feet of Mayor Ted King. Black soil lay across the wooden floor. At first, I didn’t recognize the other man, but then, like a computer, my brain searched for and retrieved decades-old memories and superimposed a fifty-year aging process. Voila. Ray Archer.

“I hope we didn’t startle you.” Ted had changed clothes. He was now wearing a pair of blue jeans, crimson red running shoes, and a dark brown cardigan sweater. His carefully combed dark hair looked like he’d pulled his sweater over his head and didn’t bother with his disheveled look.

Both men stood and walked towards me. I had no known reason to fear either of them, physically. Yet, I did. I now knew the fight-or-flight feeling I’d heard about my whole life. Ted was only slightly larger than me. I would describe both of us as scrawny. Ray was six or more inches taller and outweighed me by a hundred pounds. Although he had lost most of his high school physique, he could decimate me with one blow. I stayed quiet.

“You find what you’re looking for?” Ray’s attire was halfway between formal and informal. Unlike Ted who had been at the park, formal. But not as casual as Ted was now, informal. Ray’s pants were more elegant than your standard Khaki’s and his blue oxford cloth shirt looked like he’d just taken it from an ironing board. He wasn’t wearing a tie, coat, or sweater. His shoes were casual, tan-colored loafers. Ray’s gray hair made him look older than the image in my mind, a youthful Ray sporting a full mane of brown hair.

I wanted to lock the door and walk away, never saying a word to either of them. I decided that wasn’t a viable option. “Just looking, always wanted to see inside.” For a lawyer, that was an unneeded admission.

“But Rachel wouldn’t let you.” Ray said, now standing two feet away like a light-pole. His eyes were dark, like the inside of a cave. Outside of my one attempt to play junior high football, I’d never wanted to hit someone. That had changed.

“Let it go, Ray.” Ted stepped in. “Listen, Mr. Harding. We respect what you’re trying to do for your in-laws, but the law is on our side.”

“Whose side is that? The City’s or Mr. Archer’s?” I was saying too much. Ted reached his left arm out as though blocking Ray, like a traffic cop stopping someone from crossing the street.

Ted continued. “I admit this is a beautiful place, a landmark, but half-a-million dollars is a lot of money. A lot of help for Rob and Rosa. You should encourage them to take it.”

Ted could restrain Ray just so much. “Would help them forget their dead daughter.” What a complete asshole.

“Ray, go sit.” I was glad Ted had more control than his lumbering friend. “Lee, may I call you Lee?” Ray didn’t do as told but retreated to the brick and concrete porch railing. He leaned back and removed his cell phone.

“Okay, Ted.” I wouldn’t ask permission.

“I’ve read your motion and I must admit, it rings true if you look at history, what’s in the past. But let’s be practical. Barbara is gone. It’s unlikely there will be another bed-and-breakfast host to come along. And, you know Rob and Rosa will never return. The house is too big, I’d say awkward for such an old couple, and this ignores all the needed maintenance.”

I interrupted. “I haven’t seen problem issues.”

“Mold and mildew. Plus, the foundation is cracking. Again, the only reasonable way to look at this property is from a financial standpoint.”

“Rachel would vote for progress.” Ray couldn’t keep quiet.

I felt my blood pressure rising, but I bit my lip. “Ray, I’m warning you. Have some respect.” I must admit, I saw some decency in Mayor King. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Monday night, I’ll ask the council to approve another $50,000. That’s $550,000 for a property that two appraisers have said is worth, at most, $300,000.”

“How about three-quarters of a million?” I was pushing the envelope, wanting to see how high the mayor would go. I had no authority from my client to make an offer or settle on any terms.

Ray got riled. He stood straight and came at me, ignoring Ted’s arm. I didn’t back down as he stared down at me. He had been drinking. “You little shit-face. I’ll burn this fucking place to the ground.”

I’m not sure what would have happened if Ted hadn’t squeezed himself in between Ray and me. For sure, it wouldn’t have been good for me. “Okay guys let’s keep this civil. Ray, you agreed to come here to negotiate, not start a bar brawl.”

What Ray did and said next went beyond anything I could imagine, especially his words. He pointed his right finger in my face even though the mayor was trying to hold him back. The tip of his finger poked my forehead. “You’d think you wouldn’t be so damn interested in where your wife lost her virginity.”

How I kept from physically responding is beyond me. But this didn’t mean I wasn’t responding inside. It was like the proverbial fire hydrant exploded. Revenge was all I could think about. Thankfully, Mayor King persuaded Ray to retreat. The two walked down the stairs.

“Lee, I’m sorry about all this. Please know my offer stands.” I was still staring in disbelief when the two drove away in the Mayor’s Mercedes.

***

I forced myself to switch gears, away from Ray’s horrible words and toward the puzzle that presented itself. Once I focused, it didn’t take long to frame the most likely scenario.

After Kyla and I walked away from the refreshments table, Lillian had answered Ted’s question: “who was that guy?” Also, earlier, she may have seen and heard Rosa and Kyla exchanging the key. Later, Ted found Ray somewhere within the park and hatched the plot. Together, they agreed to pay me a brief visit at the Hunt House.

Without going back inside and turning off the lights, I locked the front door and semi-jogged to my Explorer. Ray’s statement, “I’ll burn the fucking house to the ground,” rang in my ears. I wondered if it had a hidden meaning.

I drove to Walmart and bought a three-foot stepstool, a claw-hammer, a screwdriver, a flashlight, and a box of vinyl gloves. During the return to the Hunt House, I mentally reviewed Rachel’s diaries. The 38 caliber should be right where she had hidden it. Unless she had lied. I truly believed I’d find the Smith & Wesson in that hollow space at the top of the narrow stairwell.

When I returned to the Hunt House, I exited my vehicle and did a full 360-degree scan of my surroundings. Once clear, I grabbed my purchases and climbed the front porch steps. Luckily, I was learning how to use the old key. The scene with Ted and Ray prompted me, after flipping on the chandelier, to lock the door from the inside.

I took it slow up the foyer stairs, not wanting to slip and fall. I didn’t know why I was now stepping so softly. Who was listening?

Inside Rachel’s bedroom, I laid aside the tools, gloves, and flashlight and expanded the stepstool. I placed one side on the stairwell landing and the other half about a foot inside the bedroom. I centered it below the door frame and provided the right amount of clearance to ease to the second step. Now, I could reach inside the hollow void above the board Rachel had said she removed.

Even though I felt something, maybe the spine of a book, I couldn’t reach down far enough to grab whatever was behind the board. This made me question why Rachel would need to remove the board. If she could access the opening, she wouldn’t need to do anything else. Just slip it over the board’s edge and let it go. She was right and often said I had the unpleasant habit of over-analyzing things.

I eased down from my perch and opened the vinyl gloves, sticking two in a front pocket. After tucking the screwdriver in a belt loop, I grabbed the hammer and flashlight, and re-climbed the steps. It didn’t take but a couple of minutes, holding the flashlight handle between my teeth, to pry the board away from the studs. It was maybe 30 to 32 inches long. Once removed, I lowered it to the floor and dropped it. Another thud, which rekindled my anger at the son-of-a-bitch Ray Archer.

By now, the flashlight was shining sideways, and I couldn’t make out what I’d uncovered. As I clutched it in my right hand and turned it toward Thomas Avenue and inside the now exposed hollow cavern, I saw the pistol. Rachel had sealed it in a zip-lock bag and laid it sideways against the boards that lined the wall inside Rachel’s bedroom. And there was more. To the right of the pistol were two books, both laying on their side with the spine reaching skyward. The one whose front faced me was another diary. I paused and put on my gloves. I removed the diary and couldn’t have been more shocked. The other book was The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the book Rosa had loaned Rachel.

I was only semi-surprised there was no security checkpoint at the entrance to the park. The only sort of inspection was an older man and woman who stood ten feet inside the open gate. They stared at me warily. From head to toe. I guess they didn’t approve of my outfit. Neither did I, other than for 58 Ansonia Road, New Haven, Connecticut, aka home.

After my plane landed in Birmingham, I tired of my suit. I found a men’s restroom and changed into my favorite jogging shorts and a Bella’s tee-shirt the owner had given me for my faithful patronage. I didn’t know how Charlie and Jeannette (per their name tags) viewed my Yale Law School hooded jacket, the one I’d pulled on in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.

Finally, Jeannette spoke, “welcome weary traveler.” I don’t know how she knew. “Are you here for the gospel singing or to assist with the Nativity scene?” Charlie turned toward the amphitheater when a band started, ‘Love Lifted Me.’ He quickly drifted away.

“Thanks, but I’m looking for my sister. Kyla Harding’s her name. She’s working the refreshments table.”

“Never heard of her.” At least the woman had good ears.

Before I could ask for directions, Jeannette revealed her skills as a food critic. “Try the Deviled Egg Pie. Brenda’s the bomb.” There was too much here to unpack, so I ignored it other than making a mental note to ask sis about Brenda’s infatuation with the Devil.

I finally clawed directional help from the delightful blue-haired Jeannette.

As I walked away, she literally hollered at me, “hey hiker.” I’d forgotten I’d changed into my comfortable brogans. “Here’s your ticket.”

Long story short. I retraced my steps. The sleek looking red and green ticket offered free admittance to the community wide Thanksgiving meal hosted by First Baptist Church of Christ. The green side, in bold, simply said: “Community Celebration. God is Good.” On the bottom right corner, not so big and bold, were the words, “See over.”

On the red side were details concerning the day and time (Thanksgiving Day, 12:00 noon), location (the Family Life Center at the corner of Sparks and Elm streets), clothing requirements (long slacks, a loose-fitting shirt or blouse, and clean shoes), cost (zero), and one request (after eating, please stay for a short devotional).

I smiled and tucked the ticket inside my coat pocket, thinking I’d give it to Kyla. Maybe she would invite someone, but that didn’t seem likely, although she could ask that nice man who had brought her those five Nubian goats. The goat man.

Thankfully, I’d be alone, eating my pre-ordered meal from Bella’s, sitting comfortably in my Lazy Boy, watching the Detroit Lions mangle the Houston Texans. The Lions? Not likely. That was before I remembered my promise to Kent.

***

There were two pavilions. Given the crowd, I could see the rooftops of both, but Jeanette hadn’t been clear which one was the refreshments site. I passed several vendor tables on my left and quickly decided each of them was promoting a particular church organization: WMU (Women’s Mission Union); GA’s (Girl’s in Action); RA’s (Royal Ambassadors); Awana (Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed), and on and on.

A new band was being introduced at the amphitheater. This caused several people blocking the sidewalk to sidle onto the grass in anticipation of their brand of music. Now, I could see the first pavilion. Not my target. From a hundred feet away, it appeared to be the work base for the nativity scene project. One man was using a skill saw to rip a sheet of plywood while another held it. Two other men were supervising, with backs leaning against brick columns.

I continued toward the second pavilion and recalled Wednesday’s conversation with Micaden Tanner after his secretary had emailed final approval of my motion. His willingness to talk had come as a surprise, given our earlier encounters.

He’d opened the door by stating, “Lee, I hope you’ve not set your sights too high. It’s doubtful your motion will do much good. At most, it might delay the inevitable for a couple of weeks.”

I’d asked why he felt that way. Funny, his explanation had started with these two damn pavilions. Initially, the plans had called for true pavilions, not the two tiny structures that housed male and female restrooms with a porch out front, maybe a twenty-four-foot square. Hardly big enough for a family reunion.

Micaden had said the same thing had happened with the amphitheater. “You know it’s not truly an amphitheater.” Again, what started out in the architectural plans as a sloping, semicircular seating gallery had dwarfed into a small concrete stage maybe two feet off the ground, with no sloping, and no seating. It required fans to bring their own lawn chairs to sit on the level ground in front of the little stage.

By now I could see sis buzzing back and forth behind three long tables, handing out cellophane-wrapped brownies, fudge squares, and peanut brittle. The Deviled Egg Pie was nowhere in sight.

I waved when she looked my way and kept walking, still in disbelief at what Micaden had claimed: Ray Archer had made a million dollars on Old Mill Park. Somehow, he had gained ownership of the real estate that once housed Boaz Spinning Mill. This had taken place just a few months before the groundbreaking. Micaden supposedly had a keen nose for rats. He believed the City of Boaz was in dire financial straits, mainly because Ray Archer was a double-dipper, one enabled by an untrustworthy mayor.

***

Kyla saw me staring when I was ten feet away. She was in process of handing a very obese middle-aged woman a small paper sack stuffed with goodies she certainly didn’t need. Sis gave me a circular wave and asked, “are you planning on sleeping in the barn?”

I kept walking, laughed, then reached out my right hand to shake since she was standing behind the tables. It was best since I wasn’t much of a hugger. “I didn’t expect to come to the revival when I changed clothes in Birmingham.”

“You look tired. Here, have a cookie.” She held out a rice Krispie square wrapped in cellophane. I guess ‘cookie’ covers a lot of ground. “Oh, before I forget. Your key.” Kyla said, reaching into her tight blue jeans. I took it and stuffed it inside my jacket beside the red and green ticket.

Kyla had put on some weight since I’d seen her a year ago at Rachel’s funeral. But my tall, red-headed, younger sister was still cute, not pretty, just cute. I’d always loved her freckles.

Suddenly, “Victory in Jesus” exploded from the stage. The voices were vaguely familiar. “How long do you have to work?” I asked, gathering data to estimate when I needed to be home. Per my iPhone, it was nearly 8:30 PM.

“Ten, I think.” I could barely hear above the ramped-up sound system. Kyla pressed her emerald eyes into mine and asked, “do you remember Mountain Top Trio?”

I thought for a minute. I semi-yelled, “from high school. A few years younger than us?”

Kyla nodded affirmatively and walked around to the front of the table beside me. The sweet seekers had suddenly disappeared after ‘the old, old story’ began. We exchanged hugs, me reluctantly, and she whispered in my ear, “the group singing is second generation, sons of the three we knew.” We both slowly spun toward the stage, each leaving a hand around the other’s waist. I was rarely this chummy.

Then I heard a voice behind us. It was one I’d never forget. “Kyla, where’s the last box of peanut brittle?” Again, sis and I made 180 degree turns, this time without the sibling affection. Standing behind pie slices, fudge squares, cookies, and a dozen other sweet delectables stood Lillian Bryant. For a second, I saw the younger version, the silky brown-haired girl with bluish-green eyes, built better than any fashion model. In my imagination, L (that’s what I called her during the second half of high school) was seventeen and we’d exchanged our first kiss.

After what seemed like an hour, a man I hadn’t noticed asked, “do you have any more peanut brittle or not?” My mind quickly slotted the well-dressed man into the impatient category.

I reentered earth’s atmosphere, now aware that Kyla had walked behind the tables and was scavenging through a stack of boxes piled haphazardly on yet another makeshift table.

Until sis found the missing Brittle, the two-way staring between L and me didn’t stop. I guess it was our way of digesting the past half-century.

Kyla gave L a nudge and said, “that Brittle-seeker wants to know if you’ve seen Ray.”

Lillian finally gathered herself, turned, and responded. “I thought he was with you. Didn’t you two eat at The Shack?”

“We did, but he said he was coming here to the festival.” The man dressed himself in an expensive navy-blue suit and a still tight-around-the-neck yellow and green-striped tie. He was wearing a pair of black, high-priced shoes. I think they were Oxford Leather’s.

“Mr. Ted, you should know by now Ray Archer is a little unpredictable. He might be out evangelizing.” I couldn’t tell if L was being sarcastic. Years ago, that had been a favorite past-time.

The exchange between Mr. Ted and L got heated. I was glad Kyla suggested we take a walk. “That was Mayor King. If you were wondering.”

“I take it they’re not best of friends.”

“Right on.”