A Thorn Among the Lilies Read online

  Outstanding praise for Michael Hiebert and Dream with Little Angels

  “Hiebert has an authentic Southern voice and his protagonist is as

  engaging as Harper Lee’s Scout. A masterful coming-of-age gem.”

  —Deborah Crombie

  “Gorgeous prose and some thoughtful characterizations, with

  attention given to theme and setting . . . Michael Hiebert’s debut

  delivers . . . a breathless, will-they-get-there-in-time affair, with a

  heartbreaking resolution. Hiebert’s skill at character and

  storytelling should take him a long way.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A trip to the dark side of a town much like Mayberry, filled with

  that elusive quality of childhood and the aura of safety that often

  settles, unjustifiably, over rural small towns in the South.”

  —Carolyn Haines

  “Dream with Little Angels has engaging characters, a riveting plot

  and pacing that flips between languid and runaway train. It’s a

  marvelous portrait of small-town America, and families struggling

  to come to grips with a trying, terrifying series of ordeals.”

  —The Missourian

  “An atmospheric mystery.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Dream with Little Angels is quality storytelling

  sure to keep readers enthralled.”

  —Kane County Chronicles

  Books by Michael Hiebert

  DREAM WITH LITTLE ANGELS

  CLOSE TO THE BROKEN HEARTED

  A THORN AMONG THE LILIES

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A THORN AMONG THE LILIES

  MICHAEL HIEBERT

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Outstanding praise for Michael Hiebert and Dream with Little Angels

  Books by Michael Hiebert

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  For Yvonne . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As usual, props must go out to my absolutely brilliant agent, Adrienne Rosado. Without her, this series would not exist.

  I also must thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, and the whole slew of other tremendous people working alongside him at Kensington. It’s unbelievable how much support they offer to lowly authors such as me. They almost make me feel like I’m Stephen King. Other than the royalty checks.

  Props to my publicity director at Kensington, Vida Engstrand, for constantly going above and beyond the call of duty.

  To Yvonne Rupert, my late-night poetry friend whom I’ve never met and yet probably know better than most people in my life. You are an inspiration, and without you I couldn’t possibly write all these books and still teach at Writers Village University Online (www.writersuniversity.com), a very good place to visit if you’re interested in learning to write and meeting a lot of friends for support.

  To my children, Valentine, Sagan, and Legend. There are days I truly believe I owe my life to you three.

  More thanks go out to the Chilliwack Writers Group (And I promise to stop missing meetings, guys. I mean, seriously. My excuses are starting to sound lame even to me.): Garth Pettersen, Mary Keane, Fran Brown, Terri McKee, and Wendy Foster. You all provide excellent feedback.

  I’d like to send thanks to Ken Loomes, who continues to read everything I send to him, even the tripe. Ken’s yet another friend I’ve never actually met, but hope to one day soon. I especially owe Ken for his help on this book. He really came through for me in the home stretch.

  This story came into existence through the help of two friends I met while inside an institution full of beautiful minds. These friends are Shauna Ryall (most of whose ideas will likely be used in the next book, but some appear here) and Hazel Rambaran, who, for such a quiet little religious girl, comes up with some pretty scary ideas involving serial killers.

  I have to mention my parents, especially since I occupy their basement. My computers wouldn’t last long outside in the rain, so they play a major part in my writing process. Abe and Ann Hiebert, thank you for providing everything that you do, even the occasional supper I have to gag down since y’all are vegetarians.

  Also a big thanks to Ginger Moore for coming up with my title. I think it’s one of the best in the series so far.

  Add to that Pastor Badwell of the Parkway Baptist Church in Alabama for making sure I understand the Baptist faith. You’re a busy man, and you’re very gracious with your time.

  To Mark Leland for all the time he spends answering my endless e-mails full of stupid questions about police procedure and firearms that I either can’t find answers to anywhere else or am just too lazy to look for.

  To the Mobile Police Department in Alabama and their willingness to answer all my questions about Southern police work. I’m still dumbfounded that most of the sheriff’s detectives carry .50 caliber handguns.

  I doubt they miss much.

  PROLOGUE

  Alvin, Alabama—1976

  The moon hangs in the sky above Alvin like a sickle surrounded by a field of stars. It’s a pretty night, but it’s cold, being barely two months since Christmas. Susan Lee Robertson is on her way home from the five-and-dime after buying a quart of milk for her baby, who is at home with her twelve-year-old son. The milk sits on the passenger seat beside her.

  Rain had been pouring all day, but it finally let up and a westerly wind quickly blew out all the clouds. But the dampness is still in the air, making the storefronts on either side of her look slick, like oil paintings. She hits a pothole and the car bounces in a splash of rainwater, nearly hydroplaning into the oncoming lane. She’s driving east up Main Street when she comes to the intersection of Sweetwater Drive. It’s a one-way intersection, with n
o stop signs for Main Street, so Susan Lee continues through with the streetlights reflecting brightly from the hood of her car.

  That may explain why, when it happens, she never sees it coming.

  A blue Buick with out-of-state plates screams through the stop sign on Sweetwater Drive from Susan Lee’s left. The driver, Anna Marsh, is coming back early from a bachelorette party for one of her friends after having a fight with the maid of honor. The party was at the Rabbit Room, a place normally reserved for male patrons and female strippers who take off their tops for ten-dollar bills. But, somehow, the fourteen girls in the wedding party managed to come up with enough money and a good enough argument to convince the owner of the Rabbit Room, Gus Snow, into letting them have a girls’ only night with male strippers. And, of course, cocktails. Lots of cocktails.

  Anna Marsh never did well when it came to lots of cocktails.

  She doesn’t hesitate at the stop sign. Without touching her brakes, she T-bones Susan Lee’s silver Honda, hitting it near the rear of the car, causing it to spin, and caving in the driver’s side, breaking both of Susan Lee’s arms—one when the door collides with it, the other when it’s slammed against the console. The top of her spinal column is partially severed on impact. The windshield of the Honda explodes in a shower of glass as Susan Lee Robertson’s body (which was not secured by a seatbelt) gets tossed through it in a sideways motion. The glass rains into her eyes, blinding her for life.

  She lands headfirst on the asphalt in front of her car after bouncing off the hood and is still lying there unconscious when the authorities show up. “I reckon she’s lucky to be alive,” one of the EMTs says to another.

  “I don’t know if you’d call this lucky, Jerrod.” They try to ascertain where her head is bleeding from. A pool of blood has formed beneath it, with tiny rivers that run along the road.

  Carefully, they lift her onto a gurney and place her in the back of an ambulance. She’s taken to Providence Hospital in Mobile, where she’ll remain in a coma on life support.

  With Susan Lee still alive, Anna Marsh is arrested for first-offense DWI. Her blood alcohol level is measured at just over 0.12. Her license is revoked.

  Despite her Buick looking like an accordion, Anna’s wounds are superficial. She actually gets out of the car and can walk. She doesn’t look any worse than if she’d fallen down a few stairs.

  Authorities take a slurred statement from her. Turns out she lives in Clarksdale, Mississippi, and, along with her other thirteen friends, came down to Alvin specifically for the bachelorette party. Her friends had arranged a limo back to their hotel, but after her fight with the maid of honor, Anna decided to drive herself home.

  Probably not the best decision she ever made.

  Twelve years later, when doctors take Susan Lee off life support and pronounce her dead, a jury at a circuit court changes Anna Marsh’s sentence, giving her five years for reckless vehicular manslaughter, the maximum sentence in Alabama. Her appeal is turned down.

  But before that, for twelve years of her life, Susan Lee Robertson lies in that hospital bed unconscious while the world continues to go round without her.

  Twelve long years.

  For her, it’s just a blink.

  But for those who love her, it’s an eternity....

  CHAPTER 1

  Almost Thirteen Years Later

  It was a clear winter day when the Christmas parade wound its way down Alvin’s Main Street. Which, of course, meant it was cold. Dewey said it smelled like snow, but I told him he was crazy. First off, it ain’t never snowed in Alvin far as I know, and second, it wasn’t that cold. I guessed it to be probably in the midforties somewhere. Still, I was glad I had my heavy jacket on. I wasn’t used to this sort of weather.

  We were all standing together as close as we could, which was extremely strange for my sister, Carry. Normally, Carry liked to be as far away from everyone else as she could get, but I guess huddling to keep warm took precedence over trying to look cool. Other than me, Dewey, and Carry, there was my uncle Henry, who had come down to spend the holidays with us.

  Christmas was barely two weeks away, and boy you could sure feel the excitement in the air. I loved Christmas. It was the best day of the year as far as I was rightly concerned. My mother always played Elvis songs at Christmastime and he had this one that was called something like “If Every Day Was Christmas.” I found myself thinking that same question all the time. Of course, then it probably wouldn’t be so special. Which sounded just like something my mother would say.

  More and more, I found myself saying stuff that sounded like it should be coming out of her mouth instead of mine.

  Carry was extra lucky. She not only got Christmas to celebrate, but four days later, she got her birthday, too. If she had been born just four days earlier, she’d have the same birthday as baby Jesus. I’m glad she didn’t. That would be just too weird.

  “Here they come!” Uncle Henry said. “Can you see all right, Abe?” he asked me.

  “I certainly can!” I said.

  Down the street, the float my mother was on turned the corner and came into view. There was a tall riser up front where Hubert James Robertson, the mayor of Alvin, stood waving to people on both sides of the street. Beside him, on much lower risers, stood my mother on his left and Officer Chris Jackson on his right. Both my mother and Chris worked for the Alvin Police Department. Chris was just a regular officer, but my mother was a detective, which meant she didn’t have to drive around in a special car or wear a special uniform. She could go out looking any way she wanted. Although, sometimes, she worked as a normal officer, too. They were the only two police officers in Alvin other than Police Chief Ethan Montgomery, who ran things at the station.

  “Where’s Chief Montgomery?” I asked, blinking into the sun as I looked up at Uncle Henry. A cold breeze hit my pant legs, sending a chill up my body.

  Uncle Henry shielded his eyes with his hand, almost looking like he was saluting someone. “I don’t know. You’d reckon he’d be on there, too.”

  There were all sorts of floats. The one my mother was on didn’t seem to “be” anything in particular, but the one coming up behind it was a pirate ship advertising the Alvin First National Bank. It was big and it blocked out most of the stores on the other side of the street. It had a huge Union Jack flag that flapped and snapped in the winter wind.

  “Isn’t that a weird float for a bank?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Dewey asked back.

  “I mean, didn’t pirates steal money? It’s like they’re sayin’ they’re gonna steal your money.”

  “You think too much, Abe,” Uncle Henry said.

  “Maybe they’re sayin’ that they’ll steal money for you and put it into your account,” Dewey offered.

  “Maybe it’s just a friggin’ pirate ship,” Carry said.

  She could be very unsociable at times.

  Someone in a giant kangaroo suit came bounding down the side of the road and stopped right in front of us, waving.

  I waved back, but the kangaroo didn’t move on. It just kept waving. I felt very awkward and uncomfortable, waving from the sidewalk with the kangaroo two feet from me, waving from the street. Finally, the kangaroo reached up and took off its giant head. It was Police Chief Montgomery. “You guys all havin’ fun?”

  “Um, yeah. It’s dandy,” Dewey said.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “My feet are killin’ me,” Carry whined. “How much longer is this thing anyway?”

  “They’re all having a terrific time,” Uncle Henry said, swatting the back of Carry’s head.

  Chief Montgomery leaned in, and whispered to Carry, “At least you don’t have to hop around in a stupid kangaroo suit. My legs feel like Jell-O. I can’t wait until this is over. I reckon there’s only three or four more floats until the big guy comes round and finishes it.”

  “The big guy?” Dewey asked.

  “You know,” Chief Montgomery said. “Mr.
C? Ho ho ho? St. Nick?”

  “Santa Claus!” A huge smile beamed from Dewey’s face.

  Oh my God, he didn’t really still believe in Santa, did he? Me and Dewey were practically exactly the same age. Our birthdays were within days of each other, which meant he would be thirteen in March. Someone had to put an end to this.

  “Dewey,” I said, “you do know there is no real Santa, right?”

  I got instant glares from three people. Even Carry joined into the Glare Group.

  “What?” I asked. “He’s almost thirteen for cryin’ out loud. Do you want him to go into the workforce believin’ in the tooth fairy?”

  “Wait,” Dewey said, sounding dejected. “There’s no Santa and no tooth fairy?”

  “Dewey, you have no baby teeth left. Why do you even care ’bout the tooth fairy?”

  “She was nice to me. She gave me money.”

  “He’s got a point, ass face,” Carry said. Uncle Henry swatted the back of her head again.

  “Language,” he said. To me, he didn’t sound too much like he meant it.

  “Are you serious about Santa?” Dewey asked.

  I took a deep breath and let it go, looking at all the heads shaking behind Dewey’s back. I smiled. It was a terribly faked smile. “No, Dewey, I’m just pullin’ your leg. Of course there’s a Santa Claus. Who else would be eatin’ those carrots and drinkin’ that milk you put out?”

  His face immediately transformed. The wonder was back. It sort of peeved me off because he was living in a world much more spectacular than the one I was.

  “And just so you know,” he said, “I am aware there is no Easter bunny.”

  I squinted at him. “Why do you reckon there’s no Easter bunny, yet you believe in Santa?”

  “Duh. Why the heck would rabbits be givin’ out eggs? It makes absolutely no sense.”

  “He’s got a point,” Uncle Henry said.