I’m sure I won’t miss anything.
As Palmer started reading, his mouth dropped open.
This can’t be true.
He kept skimming the pages, hesitant to look too closely. The story Elizabeth recorded nauseated him—and angered him.
This is disgusting.
After two minutes, he couldn’t take any more. He slammed the book shut and stormed out the door.
***
THE GENTLEMAN’S CLUB sounded more like lore and legend than reality when Palmer listened to others describe it. A structure hidden deep in a holler on some land owned by Wilfred Lee. The roads looked more like trails and were supposedly cordoned off with natural vegetation; the kind of place you wouldn’t know existed unless someone told you where it was and what to look for. But a creepy shack in the forest wasn’t altogether interesting. Those types of places populated the Kentucky woods like fireflies at dusk. It was what went on inside that drew the interest of most people listening to the tall tales. Of all the stories he’d heard, if any of them were true, Palmer believed the word “gentleman” to be a blatant misnomer. But for years he dismissed the rumors as nothing more than titillating locker room talk. The stories he heard were always secondhand, or thirdhand, never straight from the mouth of the person who experienced it. However, the minute he read his wife’s story, that all changed. He knew some—if not all—of the stories he’d heard contained some shred of truth. Tonight, he was going to see for himself.
Palmer stepped out of his truck and crept toward the cabin several hundred yards away. The thick growth in the forest made it difficult to see, but the glow from the cabin served as a homing beacon.
He’d paid a visit to the place once when he was a teenager bored on a Saturday night. He and one of his friends thought it would be fun to check it out and see if the stories were true. They didn’t get within a hundred yards before two men armed with rifles shoved the butts of their guns into their stomachs.
“See, I told you this was a bad idea,” his friend said as they both writhed on the ground.
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who said we ought to do this,” Palmer shot back.
A swift kick to the gut then another to the face—that was the last thing he remembered before waking up an hour later next to his buddy in his truck parked just off the side of the road.
On his return trip, Palmer considered going armed with a handgun. But he decided against it just in case he was captured. He didn’t want to send the wrong message about his intentions. At this point, he wanted nothing more than to scope out the place before planning a way to exact justice.
He stole through the forest in relative silence, even while trudging through the swamp in the hollow. As he edged within fifty yards of the cabin, he started to notice several trucks that belonged to his co-workers. He even saw Wilfred Lee’s vehicle with its unique identifying mark: his vanity plate. It read, “GR8TWSKY.”
Palmer pulled out his binoculars to observe the happenings inside. Through one of the open windows, smoke billowed into the cool fall air. The chimney chugged out large plumes as well, giving Palmer the idea that the place was a hot box. But the wisps of tobacco breath failed to cover the proceedings in the room. He could make out the faces of several prominent people in Miller County politics. Garrett DeMitt, their state representative, was present along with Sheriff Wilson and Victor Lyman, the Miller High School principal. And of course, Wilfred Lee, who appeared to be leading some type of ceremony, aiming his cane around the room at different people and calling them out.
He continued to peer through his binoculars at the events unfolding. Lee hoisted his glass and made a toast. A deep chorus of “here, here” bellowed from the building. And that’s when Palmer saw it. He couldn’t believe his eyes, though it meshed with the stories he’d heard throughout the years. He didn’t want to watch, but needed to verify the activities inside.
As he remained entrenched near the outer perimeter of trucks parked haphazardly outside, Palmer dropped to the ground when two armed men burst out of the cabin and started scanning the woods in his direction.
There’s no way anyone heard me.
He glanced around the tailgate of the truck he was using to shield himself from the guards’ line of sight. One of the guards on the porch was giving signals to another—a guard he couldn’t see. The guard on the porch continued to scan the area, prompting Palmer to duck back behind the truck.
The screen door rattled against the doorjamb and Palmer jumped. He wanted to turn around but resisted the urge. He was defenseless against the guards, both in number and in firepower.
Someone’s coming this way.
The soft crunching of leaves and twigs beneath the heavy boots of one of the men left Palmer praying for him to look in another direction. He decided to prod him by tossing a nearby rock in another direction.
The crashing of leaves sent what sounded like at least two men scurrying off in the direction of Palmer’s diversion. He thought it might be enough to give him the time he needed to dash back deep into the woods and out of sight.
As Palmer stood up to run, he realized his assumptions were wrong as a cane struck him square in the gut and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“Goin’ somewhere, Palmer?” came the familiar voice.
It was Wilfred Lee. Palmer moaned and doubled over. He pushed himself up and was on his hands and knees, staring at his boss’s feet.
Lee lifted Palmer’s head with his cane. “You are goin’ somewhere alright—just not where you think,” Lee said. He grunted and then called over for his some of his men.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Palmer said. “Tubby Moore invited me.”
“Tubby doesn’t get to do any invitin’ until he’s been properly initiated,” Lee growled. “And besides, if he invited you, why are you sneakin’ around out here?”
“I was just—”
“Tie him up and then come inside,” Lee said. “We’ve got important business to attend to.”
CHAPTER 19
MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS had passed since Miller County’s courthouse hosted such an event. The last time the center of town bustled with this much media was when civil rights groups led marches after a white man avoided jail time in the rape case of a black teenage cheerleader. Josh Hood wasn’t even alive then, but he’d heard all about it. He couldn’t imagine it being any worse than it was on this drizzling Friday just after eight o’clock in the morning.
Media vans with satellite dishes lined the streets. Outside each van were at least one reporter and cameraman discussing the best angles and positions from which to report. A helicopter circled overhead, beaming shots of the circus to several networks that had chosen to air the event live.
But Josh scrolled through Twitter and saw that #Justice4Emily was trending. If the media wasn’t a lynch mob camped out along the street in front of the Miller County courthouse, there was one with virtual pitchforks and lanterns ready to shred him on social media. He turned his phone off and walked outside.
Resisting the urge to speak when a microphone was in his face proved to be a significant challenge for Josh, no matter how much his lawyer insisted that he must decline to comment. He was so used to accommodating all questions from the media that he considered many of the people he’d met his friends. His uncle told him that they would be the ones who would make him famous if he treated them right. So he did. When it came to answering the media’s questions after basketball games, Josh refused to duck and run if his team lost. His coach taught him that being a leader meant accepting responsibility for failure and deflecting praise in success. Not that he had much practice in the former—or that he was all that good at the latter. Nevertheless, he tried.
But all it took were two questions.
“Why did you kill her, Josh? What did Emily Palmer do to you that deserved death?”
Flashbulbs from photographers exploded in his face. Video cameras came within inches of him. Microphones swirl
ed around him like bees around a hive. His lawyer nudged him forward through the throng.
Am I really supposed to just ignore all this?
Josh stopped, ignored his lawyer’s firm shove in his back, and glared at everyone shouting questions or jamming recording devices near his face.
“I didn’t do this. I’m being set up. Emily was my friend and I’d never want any harm to come to her. This is all just a big misunderstanding,” he said.
Josh’s lawyer stepped forward and shielded his client with his sports jacket, effectively ending all questioning.
Within seconds of Josh’s comments, several reporters spun around to file a report, some even live.
Josh Hood, the privileged basketball star from Millersville, Kentucky, denies murdering National Honor Society member Emily Palmer after she rebuffed his advances at a party several weeks ago.
Josh stared in disbelief.
She rebuffed everyone’s advances. Where do they get this stuff?
“I’m innocent,” he screamed. “This is ridiculous.”
Josh put his head down and mushed forward through the throng of media members trying to capture an image or a quote to please their editors.
“No more questions,” his lawyer added.
It’s not like he can stop me.
Josh stopped again. “Just because I’m good at basketball, everyone wants to tear me down. I just say screw them. I didn’t do this and you’ll all regret the day you reported something negative about me. I didn’t do this.”
His lawyer pushed him forward again, this time with the point of his pen to inflict pain on Josh. It didn’t deter him.
“I didn’t do this,” he shouted.
A few steps from the FBI-issued black Suburban idling near the sidewalk, Josh heard a question that froze him.
“Why did you kill Billy Riggins?”
Josh spun and turned toward the reporter. “Billy Riggins? I barely knew who he was?”
“Then why did they find your DNA in his truck?”
Josh stood still, mouth agape. He turned to his lawyer. “You didn’t tell me I was accused of murdering Billy Riggins. Is this some kind of sick joke? I would never hurt him—or anyone else.”
His lawyer didn’t say a word, content instead to help get his client into the FBI’s custody and speak with him in private, something he’d wished Josh followed through on his agreement to do as well. Instead, Josh had unknowingly generated plenty of clips for the 24-hour news cycle and beyond.
***
TOM CORLISS SLID INTO THE SEAT next to Josh Hood and cut his eyes toward his prisoner. If there was one thing Corliss knew, it was that people who proclaimed their innocence on the courthouse steps were anything but innocent. He was sure Josh Hood was no exception.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Corliss said, gesturing toward the media now snapping pictures just outside the vehicle.
Josh hung his head. “I doubt that.”
“Why? Cause you didn’t do it?” Corliss asked.
Josh didn’t move. “Exactly.”
“We have evidence that suggests otherwise. Your DNA was in Emily Palmer’s car. It was in Billy Riggins’ truck. More importantly, it was also in Emily Palmer. You might be able to fool those folks beyond the confines of this truck, but not me, kid. I know a criminal when I see one.”
“Maybe you need to get your eyes checked.”
Corliss shook his head. “We go much easier on criminals when they’re compliant. I’d advise you to avoid the snarky comments.”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a superstar athlete, which puts you above the law. You think you can get away with anything. Perhaps you should’ve waited until you made it to the NBA before you raped and killed a girl—and then murdered the coroner who was investigating the murder.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve made a mistake.”
“The DNA doesn’t lie—but people do. That much I’ve learned since joining the bureau. You’re no different.”
Josh huffed and used his jacket to hide his face from the media still snapping pictures of him. “People have judged me my whole life. They made fun of me because I was super skinny and said I had an eating disorder. Now they judge me because I’m a superstar basketball player. They all just want to tear me down.” He took a deep breath. “And you’re no different either.”
Corliss shifted in his seat. “I’m not a judge, kid. I’m a special agent tasked with investigating certain cases. And if there’s one thing you’ll find out about the bureau it’s that we don’t go after someone unless it’s a rock-solid case. Yours is unshakeable.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“I already have. I found motive, means and material. Wish I could help you, but you made your bed a long time ago. Time to lie in it.”
Josh rolled his eyes.
Another agent tapped on the side of the vehicle, signaling for them to drive off.
Corliss looked at Josh. “Say goodbye to your town—and your dreams.”
CHAPTER 20
CAL AND KELLY LEANED against their car and watched as the black Suburban and the rest of the FBI entourage rolled away. Cameramen whom Cal had seen scarfing down doughnuts at the hotel’s continental breakfast a few hours ago stumbled after the vehicle that carried Josh Hood. Cal snickered as one videographer finished in a most ungraceful way, splayed in the middle of the street with accessories from his camera bag strewn about.
One too many doughnuts, buster.
Not that unhealthy eating was unique to news photographers and videographers. Poor eating habits—along with drinking problems—were systemic in newsrooms across the country. Whether delivered as peace offerings for a blowup in the editorial department the night before or as a way to butter up colleagues for a special assignment, sweet pastries seemed to possess a magical elixir. And everyone partook of them. Cal patted his stomach as he recalled the two he ate earlier that morning. A little stale, but they still hit the spot.
At least I can still see my toes.
However, what Cal wasn’t likely to see any time soon after the end of the month was a paycheck. Wilfred Lee had seen to that with his vindictive antics.
The scene at the Miller County courthouse remained carnival-like. Reporters jockeyed for position to capture the iconic Miller County courthouse in the background while they told the public about the atrocities allegedly committed by this privileged superstar. Cal and Kelly snickered watching the prima donna news reporters contort their faces as makeup artists powdered them up.
“The joys of reporting in HD,” Cal remarked.
With the crossover appeal of the story, every mainstream national news outlet had a presence there—and so did many sports outlets. Sports radio and sports news stations made this event reminiscent of the Super Bowl to Cal. Total chaos and one-upmanship. He knew he would’ve been right there with them, scrambling for the story scraps if he hadn’t been summarily dismissed by the paper for false allegations. Though he was relieved not to be shoe horned into the masses fighting for a unique angle to the story, he would’ve traded his peaceful moment for the frenetic pace and thrill of chasing down such a story. Deep down, he knew he still was going to write one—even if he didn’t have a paper sponsoring his journalism habit at the moment.
Kelly put her arm around him and pulled him tight.
“So, is that it?” she asked. “Josh Hood rides off in the Suburban and the big boys take over the story from here?”
Cal took a deep breath and kissed the top of her head. “The big boys just regurgitate what they’re fed.”
Kelly sniffled, catching Cal off guard. He pulled back from her to confirm what he heard.
“Hey, honey. What’s wrong?”
She whimpered and took a deep breath. “At least they’re getting fed.”
“Oh, come on, now. It’s not that bad.”
Kelly wiped a streaking teardrop and took a step back. “Not th
at bad? Not that bad? Are you kidding me? We’ve got a baby and a mortgage—and no income. Not to mention that Mister Whiskey Man has annihilated your career this week.” Her hands were waving wildly. “So, yeah. It’s that bad—and quite frankly I’d like to see you exhibit a little more concern.”
Cal stepped toward her and gently held her with both his hands. “Honey, don’t mistake my calm demeanor for not having any concern. I’m very concerned. But I’m also trying to figure a way out of this.”
“A way out? Are you kidding me? There’s no way out of this. You’re going to have to reinvent yourself. Your credibility is gone. Do you not get that? It’s gone. Everyone thinks you’re plagiarizing.”
Cal peered down the street and didn’t respond to Kelly’s rant.
She snapped her fingers. “Hey, Cal. Over here. Are you listening to me?”
He put his hand up. “Does anything look odd to you down there?”
Kelly sighed. “I give up. What are you talking about?”
“Look at Wilfred Lee. He doesn’t appear to be so upset about his nephew getting hauled off by the feds. And that’s very strange considering how much he tried to bully us when we first started working on this story.”
“He’s a heartless man. We get that. He’s also doing some illegal things he needs to be nailed for.” She paused and put her arm around him. “But we’re not going to be the people who get to do that.”
Cal pulled back and looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “If you think I’m going to let Wilfred Lee and his thugs steal my livelihood away—my passion for journalism—you’re wrong. I’m going to fight until I’ve got nothing left. And we’re going to win.” He stopped and took her hands. “And I need to know that you’re with me. I can’t do this alone.”
She tilted her head. “How do you think we’re gonna do this? We’ve got nothing but hunches and disconnected evidence at this point—evidence that proves nothing.”
“Well, let’s connect it then and get our lives back.”
Cal turned to see Wilfred Lee and two other men lumbering toward them.
Dead Man's Curve Page 8
