The Mur­der of Bet­ty Lou Mundy

Feb­ru­ary 19, 1967, Sun­day morn­ing

A shaft of ear­ly morn­ing sun­light broke through pine branch­es and fell across the gate of a pick­et fence that front­ed Leland Mundy’s prop­er­ty. Sit­ting in a patrol car parked on the side of the road with the engine idling and the heater whirring full blast, Sher­iff Cole­man Grundy stared at a crim­son stain on the gate post. He broke open his ser­vice revolver to find two bul­lets in the cham­ber. He loaded four more rounds from his belt loop, hol­stered his gun, and cut off the engine.

When he opened the door to climb out, a wall of cold air hit him and a spear of pain stabbed him in the low­er back. He winced and stood up straight, press­ing his fist against the base of his spine. When the pain eased off, he looked at Leland’s house, a lit­tle yel­low clap­board box with a screened porch that bare­ly accom­mo­dat­ed two rock­ing chairs. Through the dark screen, Cole could make out Leland, a mid­dle-aged bear of a man, sit­ting in one of the chairs, star­ing off into the dis­tance. He didn’t look at Cole or acknowl­edge his pres­ence in any way.

Cole limped over to the gate. As he’d sus­pect­ed, the stain was blood. He passed through the gate and stopped. Bet­ty Lou Mundy lay on her back ten feet away. He walked over to her. Her robin’s‑egg-blue eyes looked up at him, glassed over and life­less. A heart-shaped blood­stain crust­ed the front of her blouse.

Cole looked over at Leland again. He was still star­ing straight ahead.

Press­ing his hand to his back, Cole eased down to one knee and put his fin­gers to Bet­ty Lou’s throat, know­ing he would feel no pulse. Her flesh was cold, damp, and rigid, like soft plas­tic. He wiped the mois­ture off on his pants and looked her over. A sheen of frost cov­ered her hair and cloth­ing. Her clothes and make­up cor­rob­o­rat­ed the gos­sip he’d heard, that she’d been step­ping out on Leland. All the gray was died out of her chest­nut hair. She’d blacked her eyes with too much eye­lin­er and paint­ed her lips cher­ry red. She wore a black leather jack­et over a red blouse that was too tight and cut too low, and a black tube miniskirt, too short. An attrac­tive woman push­ing fifty, try­ing hard to look twen­ty-five.

He peered at the blood­stain that soaked her blouse from her left breast down to her black leather belt. The entry wound was a small hole about two inch­es above the nip­ple. A small-cal­iber bul­let, he guessed. He saw streaks of blood on her thighs and drops of it on the toes of her black spike high heels, one of which rest­ed on its side in the frost-cov­ered brown grass by her bare foot.

He took off his hat and swiped his hand over his bald head, think­ing. Some­one shot her while she stood by the gate. She leaned on it for sup­port. Then she stag­gered into the yard. Her chest wound dripped blood on her thighs and the tops of her shoes, and she fell where her corpse now lay.

Her dead eyes gazed at him, as though plead­ing for help. Her moth­er had had those same blue eyes. Hazel Emley died of nat­ur­al caus­es a cou­ple months ago on Christ­mas Day, which now seemed like a bless­ing.

Cole put on his hat and stood up with some dif­fi­cul­ty. He glanced at Leland, then went back to his car, sat down behind the wheel, and radioed dis­patch to send the med­ical exam­in­er, a foren­sic tech­ni­cian, and two deputies. When he climbed out of the car again, anoth­er stab­bing back pain weak­ened his knees. He grabbed the door and pulled him­self up to stand straight. He gri­maced and pressed his fist against the small of his back. The pain last­ed longer this time, and when it eased off it left him weak and dizzy. He leaned against the car, breath­ing hard.

He was wor­ried about Leland. He wasn’t sure he could man­age any trou­ble Leland might cause, but he knew he need­ed to approach him. The now famil­iar thought flit­ted across his mind that fil­ing for retire­ment might be best for the coun­ty. He squint­ed at the slants of amber light that sift­ed through pine branch­es to streak Leland’s tin roof and screen porch, and knead­ed his back while let­ting out a long, slow breath. Best for the coun­ty, per­haps, but not for him. Thir­ty years as sher­iff. No hob­bies. No out­side inter­ests. Now that Car­rie was gone, he wouldn’t know what to do with him­self.

He pushed his hat back from his face and ran his hand over his brow, which was damp with sweat despite the cold, and looked at Leland. It would take an hour for his men to dri­ve out from Jeeters­burg. If Leland took a mind to run off into the Shenan­doah Nation­al Park, he’d be long gone before the first patrol car arrived.

Cole pulled his hat down low over his eyes and walked through the gate and over the con­crete step­ping stones to the porch, car­ry­ing him­self as tall and straight as he could man­age. He stopped just shy of the screen door.

Leland sat motion­less in a rock­ing chair to the right of the front door, seem­ing­ly unaware of Cole’s pres­ence. Cole looked him over. Noth­ing in his hands. No bulges in his cloth­ing. No weapon on the porch.

Cole put his hand on the butt of his ser­vice revolver. “I’m fix­ing to join you on the porch, Leland.”

Leland looked at Cole with a blank expres­sion. “Suit your­self.”

Cole opened the screen door and stepped up on the porch. The door slapped shut behind him. Sweat glis­tened on Leland’s brow and his thin­ning blond hair was damp. His big, rough hands clenched the arms of the rock­ing chair. He wore a dark gray work shirt and pants, like he had just come home from a plumb­ing job. There was an auburn smear on the chest of his shirt. Bet­ty Lou’s blood, Cole guessed. A sweet odor came off him, a dis­tinc­tive flow­ery smell, not the kind of scent you’d expect a burly man like Leland to wear.

An emp­ty bot­tle of Jack Daniel’s sat on the con­crete beside Leland’s chair.

“You been drink­ing, Leland?”

“All night long.”

“You shoot Bet­ty Lou?”

“No.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long’s she been lay­ing out there?”

“She was there when I come home.” Leland deliv­ered his answers in a flat tone, like he was dis­cussing the weath­er or lay­ing pipe for a sew­er line.

“What time did you come home?”

“Bout sev­en.”

“Where you been all night?”

Leland hes­i­tat­ed and then said, “Drove the back roads. Parked at the dam and drank my whiskey. Came home when it ran out.”

A cold wind whis­pered in the pines and pushed through the screen mesh. Cole pulled the fur col­lar of his jack­et tight­ly around his throat and snapped the top but­ton. Leland wore no coat or hat or gloves. “Ain’t you cold, Leland?”

He shook his head.

Cole stud­ied him. His face was the col­or of oat­meal, his eyes cloud­ed, his mouth pulled down at the cor­ners.

“You have any guns in the house?”

“Win­ches­ter 64. Twelve-gauge shot­gun.”

“Any hand­guns?”

“Not in the house.” Leland swiped his hand over his mouth. A tear bead­ed in his eye and ran down his cheek. “They say . . .” He fal­tered and then cleared his throat. “They say she’s been seein a man in Jeeters­burg.” He took in a deep breath and let it out through his mouth. He looked up at Cole, his eyes full. “You hear any­thing about that, Cole?”

“No, sir,” Cole lied.

Leland’s chest heaved and tears slid down his face. He reached for some­thing behind him. He’d placed a small pis­tol to his tem­ple before Cole real­ized he’d with­drawn a gun from his back pock­et. Cole threw him­self on Leland and grabbed his gun hand. The rock­ing chair tilt­ed back­wards, struck the wall, and fell over on its side, spilling Leland and Cole on the con­crete floor in a tan­gle.

The Pris­on­er

May 5, 1968

A prison guard ush­ered Nate Abbitt into a room marked Vis­it A—Max Sec and closed the door. The room was divid­ed by sound­proof glass, with desks snug to the pane and tele­phones bolt­ed to the walls on each side. Nate sat at the desk and with­drew doc­u­ments from his brief­case. He heard the crack­le of light­ning and felt the rum­ble of thun­der as it passed under the cell block and sub­sided in the dis­tance. He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his close-cropped gray hair.

The barred door on the oth­er side of the divider rolled open and Ken­neth Deather­age entered the room. Dressed in a kha­ki prison jump­suit, he was in his mid-twen­ties, aver­age height, with a round florid face and oily red hair that fell to his shoul­ders. Man­a­cles were chained to his ankles and his wrists were cuffed behind his back. A guard closed and locked the door. Deather­age backed up to it, stuck his hands through the bars, and stared at Nate while the guard uncuffed him. Deatherage’s pale blue eyes betrayed no hint of the crimes he was accused of—assault, rape, mur­der. The guard walked away, and Deather­age sat in the chair and grabbed the phone. Nate picked up the phone on his side.

“Who are you?” Deather­age said.

“Nate Abbitt.”

“What do you want?”

“Did you receive my let­ter of intro­duc­tion?”

“I won’t sign for the mail. They won’t give it to me with­out me signin for it.”

“I’m a lawyer. The court asked me to rep­re­sent you.”

“What hap­pened to Swiller?”

“Ran­dolph Swiller died of a heart attack last month.”

Deather­age paused. “Did he file the appeal before he died?”

“No.”

“Have they set a new exe­cu­tion date?”

“No. Your exe­cu­tion date was post­poned indef­i­nite­ly. Swiller explained that to you, didn’t he?”

“I haven’t seen Swiller since they threw me in this hole. The war­den told me they put off my date, but he didn’t say why.”

“Cas­es are pend­ing before the Unit­ed States Supreme Court chal­leng­ing the con­sti­tu­tion­al­i­ty of the death penal­ty. There’s a nation­wide mora­to­ri­um on exe­cu­tions until the court rules. All exe­cu­tion dates in Vir­ginia were sus­pend­ed indef­i­nite­ly.”

Deather­age seemed sur­prised. “How long will they hold off on the killins?”

“The court won’t ren­der a deci­sion for at least a year or two.”

“A year or two.” Deatherage’s heavy body set­tled into his chair. He chuck­led. “I’ll be damned. A year or two.”

Nate placed a court plead­ing, a let­ter, and a pen in a met­al tray in a slot below the win­dow and shoved the tray through to Deather­age. “The court asked me to take your case, but it’s sub­ject to your con­sent. I pre­pared these doc­u­ments. The court plead­ing says you want me to rep­re­sent you. If you sign it, I’ll file it with the court and begin review­ing the case. The let­ter is from you to Swiller’s estate, telling the execu­tor to send me Swiller’s files. His estate can’t release his files to me with­out your con­sent because they’re pro­tect­ed from dis­clo­sure by the attor­ney-client priv­i­lege.”

Deatherage’s eyes traced the path of a scar that slashed across Nate’s fore­head and down the side of his jaw. “What hap­pened to your face?”

“I was in a car acci­dent.” Nate point­ed to the plead­ing and the let­ter. “Read the doc­u­ments and tell me what you want to do.”

Deather­age stared at Nate’s scar for a few moments and then looked at the doc­u­ments. He moved his lips as he ran his fin­ger under each line. When he came to the last page, he squint­ed at Nate’s name. “Nathan A. Abbitt. I’ve heard your name some­where.”

“I was a pros­e­cu­tor. I pros­e­cut­ed some of the men in here with you.”
Deather­age fur­rowed his brow. “You’re that crooked lawyer, the one from Selk Coun­ty, the one they ran out of the coun­ty lawyer’s job.”

Nate showed Deather­age noth­ing, no change in expres­sion, no col­or in his face, no dis­com­fort.

“You’re the one who sent Jim­my Deeks to death row.”

Nate didn’t say any­thing.

“They claim Jim­my Deeks put a bul­let through his daddy’s head while he was sleepin, but Deeks says he didn’t do it.”

“Deeks is lying.” Nate point­ed to the doc­u­ments again. “Decide what you want to do.”

Deather­age leaned for­ward and jabbed his fin­ger at Nate. “Deeks says you’re crooked. Says you framed a man, a ree-tard. Says you talked the retard into signin a pho­ny con­fes­sion that said he killed some­body when he didn’t do it. Deeks told me that tough old judge in Selk Coun­ty caught you and threw you out of the coun­ty lawyer’s job. The old judge tried to keep what you did secret, but Deeks says every­body in Selk Coun­ty knows about it.”

“That case has noth­ing to do with you.”

“Don’t I have a right to know if you framed a man?”

“You have a right to reject my appoint­ment. Turn me down and I’ll be on my way. The court will send you anoth­er lawyer.”

Deather­age stared at Nate for a long time.

“Make your choice,” Nate said.

“You were a big-time coun­ty lawyer. Why did you switch sides?”

“I have to make a liv­ing.”

“Why did you agree to take my case?”

“You have a con­sti­tu­tion­al right to coun­sel.”

“You think I killed her, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Deather­age fell silent.

“Make up your mind,” Nate said.

“I don’t know, mis­ter. You look beat down. How old are you?”

“Fifty-six.”

“You look old­er than that. You look tired and worn out, like you don’t have much fight left in you. How long were you the coun­ty lawyer?”

“Twen­ty-six years.”

“How many men did you send down the riv­er to this hell­hole?”

“I didn’t keep count.”

“How many did you send to death row?”

Nate con­sid­ered whether to answer the ques­tion. He said, “Four.”

“They die in the chair?”

“All but Deeks. He got the ben­e­fit of the mora­to­ri­um, the same as you.”

“You watch the killins?”

“Two of them.”

Deatherage’s eyes set­tled into the trench of Nate’s scar. “You’ve seen em do the deed. That’s some­thin in your favor, I sup­pose. You know what it’s like when they pull the lever and shoot the juice into a man. Nobody could watch em fry a man and not want to put a stop to it.”

Nate returned Deatherage’s stare even­ly and said noth­ing.

Deather­age said, “If you framed the retard, you know how it’s done. That’s anoth­er point in your favor. And you can’t be workin for em. They threw you out of the coun­ty lawyer’s job so they can’t trust you. You’re prob­a­bly the only one they could send here who can’t be workin for em.”

“Make your choice,” Nate said.

Deather­age looked at the doc­u­ments. Thun­der sound­ed faint­ly in the dis­tance. He signed the plead­ing and the let­ter and shoved them through the slot. Nate looked at the plead­ing that placed him between Deather­age and the elec­tric chair.

“They framed me,” Deather­age said. “Swiller and Judge Her­ring and the sher­iff and God knows who else, the whole Buck Coun­ty crew, they rigged the tri­al to put it on me. I didn’t kill her.”

Nate placed the doc­u­ments in his brief­case. “I’ll meet with you again after I review the files.” He hung up the phone. Deather­age said some­thing into the phone but Nate couldn’t hear him through the sound­proof divider. He didn’t care what Deather­age had to say.

Nate left Vis­it A—Max Sec and walked back to the guard’s desk. The guard was a short, stocky man with bushy eye­brows.

He pushed a ledger across his desk to Nate, and Nate signed it and entered the time of his depar­ture.

“One of your clients do it to you?” the guard said.

“What?”

“That big old scar. One of your clients cut you?”

Nate turned away from the guard, opened the prison door, and emerged from the pen­i­ten­tiary into a pour­ing rain.

The Abduction

Thanksgiving Day, 1967

Whippoorwill Hollow, Virginia

A red pick­up truck crest­ed a knoll on Whiskey Road two hours before dawn. Its dri­ver cut off its lights and engine and the truck drift­ed down a hill, rolled across a one-lane bridge, and came to rest in a clear­ing beside the road. The door creaked open and a tall, stout man wear­ing a red ball cap, a hunt­ing jack­et, and bib over­alls stepped off the run­ning board into the pale glow of a sil­ver-ringed moon. He blew a stream of vapor into the cold night air and leaned inside the truck cab. He with­drew leg irons and man­a­cles and shoved them in the side pock­ets of his jack­et, lift­ed a rifle from a rack over the back win­dow, pulled its strap over his shoul­der, and walked across the clear­ing to a split-rail fence. He unlatched a gate and closed it behind him.

A rust-red barn stood fifty yards in front of him. To his right, Lit­tle Bear Riv­er snaked through pas­ture­land. A hill rose up steeply on his left and a two-sto­ry white farm­house with a green tin roof stood on its sum­mit. The house was dark and qui­et and he saw no move­ment inside. He took off his hat, pulled a black ski mask over his head, and lift­ed the rifle off his shoul­der to switch off the safe­ty latch before he walked to the base of the hill.

In the house, Bil­ly Kir­by lay in bed think­ing about the mess he had made of his life. He had passed his eight­i­eth birth­day in August. In Sep­tem­ber, his wife suc­cumbed to can­cer. They were estranged when she passed and she died hat­ing him; his ser­i­al infi­deli­ty had bro­ken her heart and wrecked their mar­riage. They had sep­a­rat­ed and rec­on­ciled many times, but even when they were togeth­er, they fought. Their only child was the worse for it all. He grew up to become a cru­el drunk and an angry brawler. Bil­ly had paid off Blakey’s vic­tims and man­aged to keep him out of jail for most of his adult life, but in Blakey’s ear­ly for­ties he assault­ed the boyfriend of a woman who had jilt­ed him and held her at gun­point in her bed­room for four hours. He was con­vict­ed of assault and kid­nap­ping and was sen­tenced to ten years in the state pen­i­ten­tiary in Rich­mond. Bil­ly blamed him­self in part for the way Blakey turned out. Blakey blamed him for all of it.

Thanks­giv­ing morn­ing Bil­ly was alone and mis­er­able and saw no prospect of hap­pi­ness in his future. He lay on his back in bed with his arm draped over his brow and stared at moon-shad­ows on the ceil­ing. Mary Jo’s death had pitched him into a deep well of grief and hope­less­ness. Since her pass­ing he had become obsessed with the many mis­takes he’d made that had ruined their lives: the trysts, the affairs, the scores of women who lined the long hall­way of his mem­o­ry. Most of them had meant noth­ing to him at the time beyond the plea­sure and excite­ment of the moment, but for the past few weeks, his thoughts kept return­ing to a sum­mer after­noon many years ago, before he mar­ried Mary Jo, when he lay on a blan­ket with a young beau­ty under a maple tree beside Lit­tle Bear Riv­er. She told him she loved him that day, and he turned away from her. In the win­ter of his life when it was too late to make a dif­fer­ence, he was con­vinced that reject­ing her was his biggest mis­take. He thought he could have lived a good life with her, but in his youth he was too fool­ish to under­stand that. He made the wrong choice and reject­ed her love. Now, in his old age, he was alone; no one loved him; and he loved no one.

Bil­ly rolled over on his side and looked out the win­dow at the bar­ren limbs of a sweet­gum tree sway­ing in the wind and thought about the pis­tol that lay in a bureau draw­er fif­teen paces from his bed. For three nights run­ning, the specter of the revolver, its smooth blue bar­rel and its wood­en grip, had haunt­ed him. It offered the best way out, he thought. If his hand was steady, he would feel noth­ing. Death would be instan­ta­neous, and the eight decades of mis­takes that rode in the bot­tom of his heart like a sack of cold stones would die with him.

He was still think­ing about the pis­tol when a scrap­ing sound down­stairs broke his con­cen­tra­tion. The noise seemed to have come from the din­ing room win­dow below his bed­room. He sat up in bed and lis­tened. The din­ing room floor creaked near the win­dow and then groaned far­ther into the room.

He got out of bed, crossed the bed­room, and with­drew the pis­tol from the bureau draw­er. He stood look­ing down at it, cold and heavy in his hand, his thoughts of end­ing his mis­ery still fresh in his mind. The faint pop­ping and crack­ing of the stair­case drew his atten­tion back to the prob­lem at hand. He took a step toward the hall­way and lis­tened. He could bare­ly hear the light tread of some­one creep­ing down the hall. He tip­toed to the bed­room clos­et, stepped inside, and peeked through the crack between the door and the frame. A man wear­ing a black ski mask and car­ry­ing a rifle stepped into the moon­lit room and went to the foot of the bed.

Bil­ly stepped out of the clos­et and trained his pis­tol on the man’s back. “Drop it.”

The man turned and faced Bil­ly.

“Drop the rifle,” Bil­ly said, “or I’ll shoot you down in your tracks.” The man hes­i­tat­ed and then took a step toward Bil­ly. Bil­ly squeezed the trig­ger. There was a click, but no explo­sion. The man in the ski mask flinched. Bil­ly squeezed the trig­ger again, but there was no report. Again. Still noth­ing. The man closed the dis­tance between them and brought the bar­rel of his rifle down on Billy’s head.

Bil­ly lay on a blan­ket under a maple tree by Lit­tle Bear Riv­er. A young woman lay beside him, sleep­ing. A soft wind rus­tled the leaves and leop­ard spots of shade and sun­light quiv­ered on her smooth skin. He traced his fin­ger­tips from the curve of her hip up her back to her shoul­ders and caressed the silky blonde curl at the nape of her neck.

She stirred and rolled over, cov­er­ing her breasts with her arm. A lock of gold­en hair fell across her eyes, and she smiled. “I love you, Bil­ly.”

His gut tight­ened, but he forced a smile. “Come on now, dar­lin. Don’t spoil the fun with that fool­ish­ness. You don’t love me. You love the good times we’ve had. That’s what you love, the good times.”

The hurt took a while to gath­er in her eyes, but it soon came on strong. She rolled over and pressed her face into the folds of the blan­ket and her shoul­ders shud­dered with qui­et sobs.

When he reached out to touch her, the blan­ket beneath them began to move and he fell back­wards, con­fused. Night had fall­en sud­den­ly and she was gone and he was on his back. He raised a hand to his throb­bing head and his oth­er hand dragged strange­ly along beside it. He held his hands up to the moon­light. They were hand­cuffed togeth­er and there was blood on them.

He groaned and looked around. He was slid­ing across frozen ground on his back. His ankles were bound by leg irons and a ski-masked man with a rifle strapped over his shoul­der was pulling him across the yard by the chains of his leg man­a­cles. He pulled Bil­ly through a break in the box­wood bush­es that lined the dri­ve­way and Billy’s night­shirt rode up his back and grav­el raked his flesh. The man stopped, leaned over, and propped his hands on his knees, breath­ing heav­i­ly. Bil­ly want­ed to get to his feet to try to over­whelm him, but the blow to his head had robbed him of his strength and his will.

Billy’s assailant seemed to recov­er his wind. He picked up the leg irons and pulled Bil­ly on across the yard to a split-rail fence. He grabbed Billy’s hand­cuffs and pulled him up to a stand­ing posi­tion. Then he shoved Bil­ly against the fence, forced him to bend over the top rail, and pushed him over it. Bil­ly slid down to the ground on the oth­er side and lay help­less­ly on his back while the man climbed over the fence. His trail­ing leg hung on the top rail and he almost fell, but he right­ed him­self as he pitched for­ward and he land­ed on his feet. He bent over and grasped his knee, groan­ing. After a short while, he straight­ened up, grabbed the leg irons, and dragged Bil­ly down the hill toward the barn.

Grit and rocks sliced Billy’s back and he want­ed to scream, but he could not; a farmer had crushed the life out of his voice dur­ing a fight in a saloon in 1938. After that brawl, Billy’s voice sound­ed like a file drag­ging across a piece of iron. Thir­ty years lat­er, his cries were rasp­ing hiss­es that didn’t car­ry across the cold night air.

The man stopped at the bot­tom of the hill and propped his hands on his knees again to catch his wind. Bil­ly tried again to muster the strength to resist his attack­er. He rolled over and slow­ly got up on his hands and knees, but the man kicked him in the side and he fell over on his back. The man grabbed the leg irons and dragged Bil­ly through the gate to the rear of a pick­up truck parked in a clear­ing by Whiskey Road. He leaned against the truck, gasped for breath for a few sec­onds, and then low­ered the tail­gate and pulled Bil­ly up to a stand­ing posi­tion. He motioned with his rifle for Bil­ly to climb up on the truck, and Bil­ly crawled into the truck bed on his hands and knees. His assailant climbed up to stand beside him, put his boot on Billy’s back, and pushed him down to lie flat on his bel­ly.

Bil­ly rolled over on his side. “Who are you?” he said. “Why have you attacked me?”

The man cried out, a gut­tur­al sound like the cry of an ani­mal caught in a trap, and kicked Bil­ly in the gut. Bil­ly curled into the fetal posi­tion and retched. His attack­er stood over him, point­ing the rifle at him. Bil­ly stared at the mouth of the bar­rel, his heart pound­ing. After a few sec­onds, the man stepped back and cursed under his breath. He leaned over the side of the truck bed, set the butt of the rifle on the ground, and propped it against the truck.

He forced Bil­ly to roll over on his back, looped a chain through the hand­cuffs, and attached it to an anchor on the cab. He slid a chain through the leg irons and hooked it to the tail­gate so that Bil­ly was stretched out on his back. The man picked up a rolled-up tarp that lay in the truck bed, unfurled it, and spread it over Bil­ly. It was coarse and rough against Billy’s face and car­ried the scent of gaso­line.

Bil­ly could see noth­ing with the tarp cov­er­ing his face, but he felt the truck bed rise slight­ly and heard the crunch of grav­el at the rear of the truck, fol­lowed by the creak and clank of the tail­gate being lift­ed and shut. He heard steps mov­ing to each cor­ner of the truck bed, fol­lowed by a rustling of the tarp, and he guessed that the man was tying it down. Bil­ly heard the door slam and the engine start and felt the truck move for­ward. From the shift­ing of his weight, he thought the truck turned right out of the clear­ing and climbed the hill to Kirby’s Gen­er­al Store, Billy’s store. It felt as though it stopped there at the inter­sec­tion of Whiskey Road and the state road, turned left, and sped up.

Wind surged under the tarp and whipped at Billy’s face and he shiv­ered and took his breath in short bursts. Ten min­utes into the ride, a cor­ner of the tarp broke free from its tie-down and blew across his chest and he saw steep moun­tains ris­ing up on both sides of the road and leaf­less branch­es arch­ing over the truck like bony fin­gers claw­ing at the pur­ple night sky. Much lat­er, he heard the roar of water falling from a great height. A cold mist kissed his brow just before he passed out.

When Bil­ly regained con­scious­ness, dawn had bro­ken. The air was still and cold. The aro­ma of gaso­line was strong, but the truck was parked and the engine wasn’t idling. The tarp was gone, but he was still chained on his back in the truck bed. The ear­ly morn­ing sun cast shafts of light through trees on a hill to his right, and there was a cho­rus of bird­song.

Bil­ly knew where the man had tak­en him. He had felt the truck turn left at the T where Whiskey Road met the state road at Billy’s store in Fox Run to head north into Whip­poor­will Hol­low. Twen­ty-two miles from the farm town of Fox Run, the state road passed Whip­poor­will Hol­low Dam and end­ed at an entrance to Shenan­doah Nation­al Park, and from there a net­work of dirt roads main­tained by the park for fire­fight­ing cut through moun­tain­ous wilder­ness.

Foot­steps rus­tled through a slush of leaves and the ski mask loomed over Bil­ly. The man’s dark eyes glis­tened through the eye­holes.

“I know where we are,” Bil­ly said. “I felt the spray off Whip­poor­will Hol­low Dam last night. We’re in the park. Why did you bring me here?”

The man unlocked the chain anchor­ing Billy’s hand­cuffs to the cab and moved to the rear of the truck. Bil­ly sat up on his haunch­es. “Who are you?”

The man dropped the tail­gate and dragged Bil­ly out of the truck. He threw him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs, and Bil­ly curled up and gagged. The man went to the cab and returned with his rifle. He motioned with it for Bil­ly to stand, and Bil­ly strug­gled to his feet. He grabbed Bil­ly by the shoul­der and turned him to face a steep hill, pok­ing him in the back with the rifle. Bil­ly stag­gered for­ward, but the restraint of the leg irons made him stum­ble. He stopped to regain his bal­ance; the man prod­ded him in the back again; and Bil­ly hob­bled for­ward slow­ly. His bare feet were ten­der and his ankles were sore from abra­sions inflict­ed by the irons. Each step was tor­tur­ous, but the man gave Bil­ly no mer­cy. He punched Bil­ly with the rifle when­ev­er he hes­i­tat­ed, and each blow was more painful than the last.

The climb was steep and ardu­ous. Near the top of the hill, exhaus­tion over­came Bil­ly and he fell to his knees, gasp­ing for air. The man poked him in the back with the rifle and Bil­ly fell for­ward on his face. “I can’t go on,” he said.

The man put the bar­rel to the back of Billy’s head. Bil­ly squeezed his eyes shut, fear chok­ing him. The man held the gun to his head for a few sec­onds and then pulled it away. Bil­ly rolled over on his back and looked up at the man, who was stand­ing over him and glar­ing at him, trem­bling. The man motioned for Bil­ly to stand.

“I can’t,” Bil­ly said. “I’m spent.”

The man cursed, bent down, and grabbed the leg irons. He twist­ed Bil­ly around and dragged him up the hill, stop­ping once to catch his breath before he pulled Bil­ly the last few feet to the sum­mit. He dropped the leg irons and leaned against a big oak tree, gasp­ing for air.

Bil­ly rolled over and slow­ly got up on his hands and knees. His head hung down between his shoul­der blades and spit­tle ran from his mouth to pool on the car­pet of leaves beneath him. After a while, he lift­ed his head and looked around. A deep ravine lay at the bot­tom of a cliff about twen­ty feet to his left. He could see the face of the oppo­site moun­tain­side and a good ways down the hill they had just climbed. There was noth­ing but wilder­ness as far as he could see.

The man kicked Bil­ly in the side again and Bil­ly fell and rolled over on his back, clutch­ing his side and gag­ging. The man picked up a long chain that was coiled at the base of the oak tree and dragged it to Bil­ly. He grabbed Billy’s hands and stretched them over his head, looped one end of the chain through Billy’s hand­cuffs, and pad­locked the end links togeth­er to bind it tight to Billy’s cuffs. Then he car­ried its oth­er end to the oak tree, slipped the chain through a steel ring attached to the end of a met­al stake that pro­trud­ed from its trunk, and pad­locked the chain to the ring.

Bil­ly rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. He looked up at the man. “Do you aim to kill me?”

“I do.” The man’s voice was choked with anger.

“Why?”

The man turned with­out a word, trudged down the hill, and dis­ap­peared in the growth below.

Bil­ly crawled to the oak tree and sat lean­ing against it. He felt the wound to his head. It was swollen. A crust­ed scab under his hair was sore to the touch and his ribs ached from the man’s kicks. Bil­ly pressed his hand against his side and winced.

A cold wind blew across the top of the hill. He pulled the col­lar of his night­shirt tight­ly around his neck and looked up at the stake he was chained to. He grabbed the stake and pulled him­self up to stand beside the tree with his legs quiv­er­ing. He tried to pull the stake out of the tree trunk, but it was pound­ed deep into the oak.

He slumped to the ground and rubbed his shins and his bare feet to warm them. The sky dark­ened and the wind blew. Tree branch­es clat­tered togeth­er like brit­tle bones. A hawk float­ed just under the cloud cov­er, search­ing for prey. It tilt­ed its wings and banked down behind the oppo­site moun­tain.

Bil­ly thought about his assailant. The truck’s pres­ence inside the park meant he had a key to the gate. To have a key, he had to be some­one who worked for the park, a ranger or a fire­man, or some­one who owned prop­er­ty on its far side. He had to be some­one who knew Bil­ly couldn’t cry out, because he hadn’t both­ered to gag him. He was famil­iar with Billy’s house because he’d come straight to the bed­room. Bil­ly knew the man’s stiff legs and short­ness of breath all too well as the infir­mi­ties of old age. The man had to be old, per­haps as old as Bil­ly. Bil­ly reviewed his acquain­tances search­ing for a match, but he could think of no one who would attack him so vio­lent­ly.

The wind blew hard­er and the cloud canopy descend­ed upon the sum­mit of the hill like a slate ceil­ing. Bil­ly gath­ered his night­shirt more tight­ly around him and thought about the man’s stat­ed desire to kill him. He should embrace the man’s homi­ci­dal inten­tion, he told him­self. His mis­ery was so deep that he had con­sid­ered death by his own hand. Why not give in to this man’s mur­der­ous rage?

A gust of wind blew Billy’s hair across his face. He brushed it back and stared into the gray mias­ma, pon­der­ing his own death. After a few moments, he stirred from his thoughts, put his hand inside his night­shirt, flat­tened it over his chest, and felt his heart beat, steady, strong, per­sis­tent.

Secrets, pas­sion, love, and vio­lence: they’re not for the weak of heart or body, which is what makes the sep­tua– and octo­ge­nar­i­ans in Ken Oder’s lat­est Whip­poor­will Hol­low nov­el so intrigu­ing. The char­ac­ters are endear­ing and eccen­tric, and the set­ting at once bru­tal and brood­ing. I couldn’t put it down, and I can’t wait for the next one.”

- Pamela Fagan Hutchins, Bren­ham, TX, USA Best Book Award win­ning author of Heav­en to Bet­sy and the What Does­n’t Kill You mys­ter­ies

“. . . a thrilling expe­ri­ence . . . a work of art, or poet­ry, or beau­ty and all of the above. It is historical—1960s. It is roman­tic, but not a romance. There is some mys­tery because the read­er has to won­der if the main char­ac­ter will sur­vive. I guess this is a lit­er­ary nov­el. Oder takes you back in time to a place in a rur­al Vir­ginia town and gen­tly reveals parts and pieces of its topog­ra­phy and peo­ple. The sto­ry is not a gen­tle one . . . The con­clu­sions are a com­plete sur­prise. The things Bil­ly has done to some of his friends and fam­ily pro­duce a lot of regret and worse. The emo­tional range por­trayed by the char­ac­ters as they strug­gle with mem­o­ries or con­se­quences of the same events brought me to tears or smiles. I was remind­ed that all our actions bring con­se­quences, even heart-wound­ing ones.

I’ve read Ken Oder’s oth­er nov­el, The Clos­ing, and liked it. Old Wounds to the Heart is noth­ing like that thriller, but I liked it just as much or more. . . . sim­ply beau­ti­ful.”

- Rebec­ca Nolen, Hous­ton, TX;
author of Dead­ly Thyme and The Dry

“. . . mas­ter­fully craft­ed, brim­ming with the sort of spell­bind­ing wis­dom that takes your breath away. Cast from char­ac­ters who could eas­ily be our friends and fam­ily, this sto­ry con­fronts the dark­er side of human nature with unflinch­ing pre­ci­sion. It reveals that the line divid­ing right from wrong isn’t always clear­ly defined, that an unde­ni­able sym­bio­sis exists between joy and heartache.”

- Daniel Wim­ber­ley, Collinsville, OK;
author of The Pedestal

“A fas­ci­nat­ing yet sim­ple sto­ry that grabs you imme­di­ately. . . . I loved the way the scenes were set and yet left room for your imag­i­na­tion. Giv­en the advanced age of the char­ac­ters, I was sur­prised to find how well I relat­ed to their feel­ings. This sto­ry was beau­ti­fully told, and I very much enjoyed it.”

- Jason Holmes, St. Louis, MO

“. . . fan­tas­tic. I love romance-based books. Hav­ing lived in the Blue Ridge Moun­tains all my life, I thought the author couldn’t have picked a bet­ter set­ting. The whole sto­ry is won­der­ful.”

- Justin Lambe, Fan­cy Gap, VA