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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow

No trouble, trouble, I see

There will be peace in the valley for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who knows you took these?” Ray asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t ask how you know this.”

“It’s simple. Rachel told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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