No excerpt was provided by the author.

CHAPTER 1

The night of February fourth, Seattle might as well have been relocated to the North Pole.

Parker Berenson, alpha of the city’s werewolf pack, slammed the door to his aging brown Chevrolet Caprice. “Stay human. Stay human. Stay human,” he muttered. Hands clenched into fists, his feet pounded the icy pavement leading from the driveway to his blue-gray stucco house. He wore neither overcoat nor jacket, but he didn’t feel cold. Sweat streamed down his face and neck. His white dress shirt was soaked, as were his trousers. In the frigid air, the tiny tendrils of steam rising from his muscular shoulders made him look as if he were smoldering.

His wolf’s hard push against the mental bonds that held it inside their shared body and mind made him stumble. it roared.

Regaining his balance, Parker ignored his beast as best he could and kept walking. “Stay human. Just stay human.”

“At least wait until we get inside,” he said through his teeth.

The porch light was out again, but Parker could see well enough by the streetlamps’ ambient glow. Reaching his front door, he shoved his key into the lock and gave it a savage twist. The bolt didn’t move. Using more pressure, Parker tried turning the key again and this time nearly snapped it in two. He grabbed the knob. “Open, you…” he said, jiggling the key in its slot.

This didn’t work either. Cursing, Parker battled with the stubborn deadbolt. his wolf snarled and gave another hard mental shove.

“No!”

Just then the cylinder aligned in its track, and the key turned. Parker threw the door open, stormed over the threshold, then banged the door shut.

Parker leaned against the door, panting. “You and me both. Now calm down, will you? Calm—”

“Shut up. We need a drink.”

“Shut up, I said.”

His wolf didn’t reply. That was a good sign. Feeling more in control over his beast now, Parker strode away from the small patch of faux-slate tiles that served as a tiny foyer. The room he marched across comprised nearly all of the main level. White walls supported glass and metal sculptures whose jagged edges appeared sharp enough to carve an Easter ham. These stood in stark contrast to the rest of the sparse furnishings scattered about—the clean, straight lines and ninety-degree angles formed by industrial-grade steel pipe. The severe black leather seat cushions on the sofa and chairs did little to soften the interior’s threatening appearance.

The decor wasn’t pretty, but it had its uses. The lack of furniture allowed enough space for all of his wolves to sit when the pack met at his place. And in case his neighbors discovered what he was and decided to do something about it, the wall hangings and furniture could be broken into makeshift but lethal weapons.

Parker headed straight for the freestanding bar about twenty feet away. Reaching it, he grabbed the jumbo-sized bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the counter then turned and snatched a double shot glass from a nearby storage rack. Pouring the glass full, he drank it in one gulp, ignoring the liquid fire searing his throat. He tossed down two more shots.

After his fourth drink, Parker felt at least some of the tension leave his shoulders. Holding the glass in two large, strong, and trembling—but very human—hands, he set the shot glass down on the upper counter. He leaned against the marble and closed his eyes. “Okay. We’re okay now. Right?”

His wolf remained silent. Another good sign. The last thing Parker wanted was to morph into his other, a gargantuan manwolf eight feet tall. A forced morph was always triggered in werewolves by the full moon and sometimes, like now, by powerful emotions run amok. And the greater the size differences between the human and were selves, the more agonizing the change. Parker-the-human stood six feet, six inches tall in his stocking feet. For him, morphing into his eight-foot were hurt like a knife-wielding bitch.

Parker had been just about to let out a sigh of relief when his sensitive nose caught a whiff of cologne clinging to his shirt. It wasn’t his. Revolted, he ripped the still-wet shirt off and threw it across the room. His broad, hairy chest heaving with anger, he watched the discarded garment land in a crumpled heap about ten feet away.

his wolf growled.

“That bastard” was Kurt, the vampire Master. Old and ex-tremely formidable, Kurt extended preternatural protection against Seattle’s human horde to just about every exotic—zot—that lived there. The smell Parker had picked up was the vampire’s favorite scent.

Parker poured a fifth shot of whiskey into the glass. “Quit calling me human. Besides, what do you suggest we do about it?” he said. “We’re Kurt’s servant. Bound to him by blood. Day or night, he calls, we come, and then we do whatever he wants.” He downed his drink and grimaced. “Like we’re his damned dog or something.”

Parker felt his wolf’s anger surge. A mental picture flashed in their shared mind’s eye, one Parker would rather not have seen. Once again, he saw Kurt’s grinning face poised above him, heard the seductive whispering in his ear, and felt the sweet ecstasy of fangs piercing his flesh.

Parker’s face reddened. “You think I wanted to go down to Kurt’s nightclub tonight?” he shouted. “You think I wanted his hands on me? No. You know what he does. Takes over my mind and twists my head around until I’m practically begging for it.” He tossed down a sixth shot. “And while he’s doing it I sure don’t feel you trying to stop him.”

“Shut up.” Parker poured himself an seventh shot and drained it, which was followed by an eighth. But Jack wasn’t doing the job. The humiliating images of what had happened to him and his wolf in Kurt’s office beneath the vampire’s Last Chance nightclub refused to fade.

He gripped the shot glass harder. His blood pressure skyrocketed. Rivers of sweat burst from his pores and ran down his face and chest. His wolf’s snarling inside their shared mind swelled into a howl. Parker started grinding his teeth, a sure sign he was losing it and going into a forced morph.

“Oh, shrrit!”

Unfortunately our free enterprise system is not working as it should for many reasons, all bad for the average American entrepreneur. Many equate free enterprise with capitalism. It is my contention that our brand of capitalism will cause the demise of free enterprise and left to its own devices will eventually make every American a unit of labor competing with every unit of labor overseas. We are in the process of becoming indentured servants to the corporation, a working commodity.

Those afforded the ability to gain the most from American innovativeness are no longer the innovators; they are no longer the entrepreneurs. We have become a society that rewards those who move capital and have the ability to cater laws to their benefit. We reward a class of people that provide no real tangible service or product of value proportional to their earnings or wealth.

The wealth and income disparity in the country is not an accident. There are many systemic reasons why this disparity will continue. As long as we have a Right Wing misinformation engine that remains effective in indoctrinating a large percentage of the population to vote policy makers into office that ultimately pass laws that is against their own financial interest, the trend will continue. The following chart shows the progressive decline in wealth of the bottom 80% of the US population.

The smell of blood was overpowering and his stomach was yearning for more.

The girl, where was the girl? Had she been telling the truth? He ran to the door and opened it to find her sitting on the doorstep. He ran to her and pulled her roughly to her feet. She shied away and cringed before him.

“What have you done to me?” he screamed. “What in God’s name did you do?”

He was shaking her and screaming at her. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

“Take your hands off me before I break your arms off!” she snarled.

She was no longer a demure little girl. Her eyes were ice blue and her canine teeth had grown in length. She looked very scary and very angry. He dropped his hands to his sides in shock.

“I tried to tell you, I turned you into a Vampire,” she said talking through her teeth and not taking her eyes off him.

“Now, if you will shut up and stop whimpering, I’ll tell you what you need to do to survive. It’s my duty, as I’m the one who changed you. But once I’ve warned you and told you how to hunt . . . the responsibility stops there and you’re on your own!”

He nodded and sat down on the step next to her, docile and attentive. She proceeded to tell him that life as he’d known it was over, as was his career, until he could get a handle on the blood thing and find a mortal woman to love him!

No excerpt was provided by the author.

This life is dark, my Father,
I cannot go aright,
Oh, take my hand, my Father,
and guide me to the light.
the way is long, my Father,
thorns bleed my weary feet,
Oh, come to me, my Father,
it will be very sweet.
Long have I toiled, my Father,
while fears oppressed me sore,
Lift me above them, Father,
up to the heavenly shore.

#98 Hymns and Sacred Songs of the Old German Baptist Brethren

“And he shall go before him in the spirit and power of Elias, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children … to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” Luke 1:17

The Ohio Valley, May 29, 1973

Chapter One

She’d been called Birdie for so many years, that when the superintendent called on Roberta Mona Alexander to give the Valedictorian speech, she didn’t respond.

If a classmate hadn’t jabbed her and whispered, “That’s you,” Birdie might have missed the second call as well.

~~~

The following morning, as Birdie entered the conservatory that housed her father’s experimental plants, the rest of her life stretched before her. The lyrics of Helen Reddy’s song, I Am Woman, raced in her mind.
Elation surged through her body like a jolt of lightning. If she had her way, by the end of summer any one of these plants could win a blue ribbon.

During her high school years Birdie had taken special care in learning about each of the cultivars Alexander’s grew. Wanting to learn more about plant genetics, she’d checked out the horticulture classes at the local junior college.

She knew that some plants needed to dry out between watering while others preferred to be kept constantly moist. But no plant liked soggy soil. Birdie was determined to give each one the exact amount of water and fertilizer they required.

It was still dark outside. Birdie flipped on the lights and almost tripped over a two-foot roll of ½” tubing that wasn’t in the room yesterday. She wondered how long it would be stored here. Could she find someone to scoot it out of the path?

Moments later, as she headed down the first row of herb-scented geraniums, a tickling sensation crossed her ankles. Birdie bent and scooped Miss Chloe into her arms.

The cat smelled of the foliage where she loved to play. “If you get much bigger, I won’t be able to lift you,” Birdie said as she straightened and draped her pet around her shoulders.

Last winter when she’d found the miniature cat shivering in the snow-covered display garden, the kitten was just a fluffy fur ball and fit into the palm of one hand. Now five months later, she weighed twenty-five pounds. Chances were she wasn’t yet full grown.

Birdie hummed as she deadheaded the plants. The contented purr from Miss Chloe was like a massage on the back of her neck. The dried blooms crumbled between her fingers gave off a lemon-rose scent.
Before long, the tabby jumped down to pounce on the wilted flowers. Birdie laughed and threw a few more of the special geraniums blooms toward her. Miss Chloe tried to catch them in her paws.

How had Birdie’s father known which genetics to track to get the various scents? Would he take her more seriously if she learned more about DNA? Would he take her more seriously if she used her formal name? Would he ever take her seriously?

A powerful thud startled Birdie from her thoughts. A head poked into the doorway’s opening, and Uncle Bryce filled the doorway.
“We’re short-handed today, Birdie. Can you help sort orders?” he asked.

“Just let me finish here.” Birdie grinned. As one of the taller girls in her peer group, she always felt petite working beside her uncle. “Where will I find you when I’m done?”

“We’re working outside in unit three,” Uncle Bryce said, then he swiveled and disappeared.

Birdie finished grooming the experimental plants and took one last glance around before she left the Victorian-style conservatory. She loved the arched windows and the curved glass roof. Grandfather Ora had built the glass room twenty years ago, in the days when supplies were less expensive and labor was cheap.

She shut the door and headed toward the main block of newer greenhouses with Miss Chloe at her heels.

Once outside, Birdie glanced back at the building. The filigree trim at the very top of the antique hothouse blended with the gingerbread on the old brick building. It was off limits to the customers, because it housed their trial cultivars, but it still gave the place dignity.

With a grin, she continued on the path until she passed the first two greenhouse units and entered number three.

“We’ve sorted the purchase orders according to the time they came in,” Nathan said as he handed her a clipboard. “This is the next one in the queue.”

“Thanks, Nathan.” She took the large order and looked it over.
Birdie sorted out five sold tags and wrote Fran’s Fantasy Gardens on them with a Sharpie, then wired the tags to each of the trolleys she would use to assemble the inventory.

She knew where Alexander’s kept every cultivar, and rushed to the proper unit for each item on her list. She gathered six-packs of petunias and snapdragons in several colors, then marigolds, salvia, and alyssum. Before long, large plastic trays full of blooming annuals overflowed three of the trolleys.

Geraniums were next on the list, and she filled empty cardboard flats with six-inch pots. While these varieties are considered perennials in southern locations, they’re annuals in Ohio’s climate. Dad was experimenting with a hardier strain, but those plants weren’t ready to sell yet.

The last line item called for twenty medium sized hostas. But Birdie could only find eighteen. She glanced at the order again, then checked and rechecked the other plants in the unit. The remaining sizes weren’t close enough to substitute.

Her shoulders sagged. She’d learned life was a competition, and she’d have to hustle to keep up with men. And that included her Uncle Bryce and her brother, Nathan.

As they continued throughout the afternoon, Birdie kept glancing at Nathan and her uncle. She made sure she worked faster. Faster and harder was her motto. It was the only way to get ahead in this male-dominated world called Alexander’s.

No excerpt was provided by the author.

Some people say, when a person completes a stretch in a Tennessee correctional facility, they’ve paid their debt to society. They didn’t know Noyd LeQuire.

After his release from Brushy Mountain State Prison and a bus ride to Knoxville, a taxi delivered him to the town square in Prospect.

After he rented a single-wide on Doc Beasley Road, it became known as a bad neighborhood and property values dropped drastically.

All that happened just before Thanksgiving.

Four weeks later, I sat double parked in my unmarked police car outside Prospect Bait & Tackle waiting for Sergeant Bettye Lambert to purchase a Christmas gift for her son.

The city’s Department of Buildings and Grounds had once again overdone the holiday decorations with illuminated wreaths on every utility pole, millions of twinkling lights in the bare branches of trees on the town square, and a Christmas tree to rival the monster at Rockefeller Center in front of the municipal building. If the citizens of Prospect didn’t know the city’s kilowatt hour meter was spinning at warp speed, they should have.

I looked in the rearview mirror and watched a GMC suburban vacate a spot three car lengths behind me. As the big SUV drove past, I tapped the gear shift into reverse and parallel parked in the vacant spot.

Two minutes later, a twenty-year-old Chevy Caprice slid into a parking spot near the Prospect Citizen’s Bank & Trust.

As I looked away from the yellow Caprice, Bettye startled me by opening the back door of the Crown Victoria and tossing in a disassembled fishing rod. Then she jumped into the passenger’s seat, next to me.

“Hey,” I said. “That was quick.”

“I sure hope you’re right about what rod and reel to buy for Li’l Donnie.”

“Of course I’m right. My friend Richie is a fisherman and he says a Penn reel and Ugly Stik rod is the way to go.”

To my left, three car doors slammed. I looked across the street at a trio of men wearing night watch caps and rain coats exit the Caprice and head toward the bank.

“Damnit,” I said. “This does not look good. Get on the radio and tell all units we’ve got a 10-15 in progress at the bank.”

“What?” she said.

“I’m moving up to that blue car across from the entrance. Get backup and meet me there. And be careful.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

I stepped out of the car and tried to stroll to the sidewalk without drawing attention to myself. As I reached the first parked car, I ducked down and scrambled to a spot directly across from the bank. A few moments passed and luckily no pedestrians showed up on either side of the street. After making a radio call, Bettye hustled over and squatted down next to me on the sidewalk, her back against the Camry I hid behind.

“Come over here behind the wheel,” I said. “I don’t want you to get your backside shot off.”

She moved and I peeked over the hood. One man carrying a sawed-off shotgun with a cut down stock emerged from the bank. He looked right and left through the eyes of the cap which was now rolled down into a ski mask.

In only moments, a second man wielding a handgun emerged carrying a cloth sack.

To my right, a Prospect PD cruiser with its blue lights flashing stopped, blocking both lanes of Main Street. The robbers looked to their left as a second police car came screeching up from the opposite direction, assuming a similar posture on the roadway.

I could feel the panic emanating from the two criminals as their heads darted left and right. And then a third man hurried from the bank carrying another bag and a short barreled riot gun.

To prevent a hostage situation, it seemed essential to keep the robbers from reentering the bank. The sporting thing to do would have been call out and give them an opportunity to surrender. But I didn’t have the luxury of time to take that chance, and I couldn’t talk and shoot simultaneously.

“When I tell you,” I said, “as loud as you can, yell police don’t move.”

Bettye nodded.

I braced my Smith & Wesson on the hood of the Toyota. As soon as I said, “Now,” Bettye yelled. The robbers turned toward us and I squeezed off two quick shots. Each of my hollow-points struck the man with the cut-off scattergun in the chest. His weapon fell to the ground and he crashed, face first, on the concrete.

After seeing their comrade fall, the crook with the other shotgun ran toward the Caprice and the man with handgun fired three quick one-handed shots at me. Two went high and shattered the plate-glass window of the store behind us. One hit the side window of the Camry. The booming reports echoed in the narrow street. I guessed a .45.

Bettye drew her Glock and began to peek over the fender just as a fourth shot hit the sheet metal of the Toyota. I grabbed her shoulder and pushed down.

Two more shots sounded from our left and right. The sharper, cracking sounds told me they came from two cops firing their .40 caliber Glocks. One hit something with a thud. The other sounded like it hit metal, but both missed the gunman.

Leather soles tapped the blacktop just before two more .45s struck the Toyota. I dropped prone and looked under the car. The man shooting had walked toward our hiding place.

I had counted his shots. If he was using a traditional Army .45, he might have two more rounds.

I tried an old trick by firing three shots under the car at the ground in front of our assailant. If you don’t have a big target to aim at, sometimes the bullets can do the finding for you. Before I could roll over and conceal myself behind the rear wheel to reload my revolver, I heard a scream.

Bettye and I peeked over the car at the masked man writhing in pain and clutching his ankles.

I stretched over the trunk lid and fired my last shot at the Caprice, but only shattered the moving car’s left rear door window as the third robber accelerated straight for PO Lenny Alcock’s cruiser. The Chevy hit the rear quarter of the police car and spun it sideways. Alcock ran for cover behind a nearby Honda. After grazing another parked car, the escapee nailed the gas and took off down South Main.

I ran to the wounded man and Bettye followed. We met Alcock there with his gun pointed at the bank robber’s head. I used my foot to move the big automatic from the man’s grasp.

PO Billy Puckett maneuvered his patrol car through the carnage in pursuit of the one who got away.

Bettye scurried back to the radio to alert the adjoining districts. I ejected the six spent shells from my Smith and reloaded.

“Cuff that son-of-a-bitch, Lenny. Then get something to wrap his ankles. I’ll cover him.”

When Alcock returned with a first aid kit, I bent down and pulled a navy blue ski mask off the prisoner’s head.

He kept repeating, “Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Got-damn that hurts.”

Bettye returned looking a little out of breath. “I put out an alarm for that yellow Chevy—for all the good it’ll do. And I called the medics for this one.” She pointed to the wounded man. “I’ll go back and see if Billy’s called in yet.”

“Okay. Lenny’s got this guy. I’ll check the one across the street.”

She nodded.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yes. You?”

“For a minute there, I almost soiled my knickers, but yeah, I’m fine.”

She touched my arm. “I’m glad you’re a good shot, darlin’.”

“Just like the OK Corral.”

Bettye shook her head and walked off saying, “We really don’t need this.”

From far off, the hi-low siren of a Rural Metro Ambulance broke the silence of the crime scene.

“I think the cavalry is coming,” I said, to no one in particular as I reached the second gunshot victim.

A pool of blood covered the sidewalk in front of the bank. The manager, Joe Rex Wilcox, and three of his employees stood in the doorway looking into the street.

I lay two fingers across the man’s carotid artery and felt nothing. I rolled him over, looked into the lifeless blue eyes, and turned to the banker.

“Joe, stand here and keep an eye on this shotgun and the sack of money. This guy’s not going anywhere. Don’t touch anything and don’t let anyone near you.”

My ears were ringing from the gunfire and I couldn’t hear well.

When he didn’t respond I yelled, “You hear me?”

“Yessir, yessir. I’ll do it. Lord have mercy, Sam . . .”

“Everything’s okay now. Just keep an eye on things until I can get another cop here.”

Joe Rex nodded and I walked over to Lenny and the wounded man, who had calmed down a little and might have been lapsing into shock. I kneeled down next to him.

“Boss, I’m sorry,” Lenny said. “I couldn’t get off a second round without shootin’ at Billy.”

“It’s okay, Lenny. Sometimes you can only do so much.”

I took hold of the shooter’s face and turned it.

“Hey, look at me,” I said.

His glassy eyes focused on mine.

“The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

He nodded.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

He gave a slight shrug. “Von Butler.”

“Who’s the other one over there?” I gestured to the body with my head.

“You killed my brother, Wyatt.” Butler spoke with as much distaste as he could muster.

I couldn’t resist a little sarcasm. “Yeah, sorry for your loss.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And the one who drove away?”

“I ain’t sayin’ no more.”

I made a fist and rapped my knuckles against his bandaged ankle, hoping to change his mind.

“Ahhh, got-damn!”

Von Butler passed out and I didn’t get my answer.

 

Bettye walked over scowling. “What did you just do?”

“I was questioning him.”

I guess she saw me hit his leg.

“What am I gonna do with you, Sam Jenkins?”

It was a rhetorical question. One she often asks.

“You have news for me, Sergeant?” I returned her scowl.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I do, Chief. But not good news. Billy lost him.”

I shook my head. “How could he lose a tub like that old Caprice?”

“On the Thirteen Curves. And there’s more bad news. Billy ran off the road.”

“Jeez. He get hurt?”

“No, but the car’s mashed up a little.”

“Mashed up?”

“The air dam got ripped off and the grill’s broken. He’s not sure if the frame was bent.”

“Can he drive it?”

“Stuck in the dirt.”

“Super. Two cars out of commission.”

“A deputy’s coming up from Maryville to help out. The County’s dispatching a wrecker.”

“And the Caprice is?”

“Last seen headin’ down Sevierville Road.”

I began to open my mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “I amended the alarm.”

“See why you’re my favorite desk sergeant?”

“I’m your only desk sergeant.” She made a face again.

“You know you’re beautiful when you’re being sarcastic?”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

I laughed. She smiled and ran a hand through her blond hair.

 

Since the FBI claims to have a vested interest in bank robberies—Federal Deposit Insurance and all—I called Ralph Oliveri at the Knoxville field office.

“Just my luck I’m catching the squeals today.” Ralph’s from Queens and speaks with a very New York accent.

“For a young guy, you sound like an old squad dick. Where do you get language like that?”

“Probably from you. Sometimes I wish you had stayed in New York. My caseload would be much lighter.”

“Fate brought us together, Ralphie. Hey, before you leave the office, bring additional help along with your evidence technicians. We’ve got one bad guy dead and one wounded.”

“You guys killed one and shot another?” He sounded surprised.

“Well, actually just me. But one more got away. Sorry.”

“So, you want us to investigate the shooting, too?” Now he sounded overworked.

“For chrissakes, Ralph, there’s not much to investigate. I was justified. One pointed a 12 gauge at me and the other was popping caps at Bettye and me when I took him out.”

“Okay, don’t get your dander up. Who’s the third guy?”

“Beats me. I can’t do everything for you.”

No excerpt was provided by the author.

Things happened in 1968. Assassins killed Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I was a young soldier waiting for my twelve-month vacation to the Republic of South Vietnam. And Prospect, Tennessee, a small town in the foothills of the Smokies, gained prominence. Thanks to the national media, an armed robbery which took place in Prospect became known as The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job.

Forty-three years later, Sergeant Bettye Lambert buzzed my intercom.

“Chief, there’s a Miss Lucy Frobisher here to see you.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Something you’ll want to hear.”

I get suspicious when a good-looking and well-dressed woman walks into my office carrying a briefcase. I expect her to hand me a document and say the magic words, “You’ve been served.”

That didn’t happen.

Instead, she offered me a hand. “Hi, I’m Lucy Frobisher. I’ve got a problem and Special Agent Ralph Oliveri thinks you can help me.”

I grimaced at the mention of Oliveri. “Obviously you already know I’m Sam Jenkins.”

She smiled. “I do.”

I shook her hand.

“Sit down,” I said, pointing to one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. “Tell me about your problem.”

Lucy took a seat and looked at me with expressive light brown eyes. Her two-piece navy blue suit appeared expensive. The skirt landed only an inch above her knees, which she held together very properly.

“My father was murdered,” she said. “I’d like you to help me find the killers.”

That’s not the kind of request you hear everyday in a small Tennessee police department. I’d ask how Ralph Oliveri, my pal from the FBI’s Knoxville field office, got involved, but I started with a few more basic questions.

“Did this happen in Prospect?”

“It did.”

“When?” I sounded surprised. No one had mentioned it to me.

“April 15th, 1968.”

After that I was surprised. I did some quick math and came up with a figure. I would have placed Lucy Frobisher in her late-thirties, but with her father getting killed forty-three years ago, she had to be at least forty-two.

“I assume your father’s death was reported back then?”

“Of course. My father was the guard at the Prospect Citizen’s Bank and Trust when it was robbed. Are you familiar with what the papers called The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job?”

“No. I’m sorry. In 1968 I was at Fort Bragg and not reading too many newspapers.”

“The robbers were anarchists—anti-war types. They killed my father when he tried to stop the robbery.”

“And you spoke to Oliveri because the FBI assumed responsibility for the case?”

“Yes.”

I noticed her looking around the room—at the flintlock Tennessee rifle hanging on the wall behind my desk, at the shadow box with the medals and badges from my time in the Army, and at the counter where the mini-refrigerator, coffee maker, and a vase of artificial flowers sat.

“And no one was arrested for the robbery or your father’s murder?”

“No.”

“Why do you think I can solve this mystery after forty-three years?”

“Because I think at least two of the robbers were from New York.”

I stared at her. She pushed a few strands of shoulder-length dark brown hair behind her right ear and smiled. Lucy Frobisher was trim and quite pretty in a very professional way—like a tall Audrey Hepburn.

“And Oliveri told you I was a cop in New York for a long time.”

She nodded. “He did.”

“And you think I can resurrect an old case and track down former SDS or Black Panther members or other anti-war, anti-government thugs when the entire FBI couldn’t?”

“They were part of the Revolutionary Youth Movement and I have new information.”

I heard the radio crackle out in the lobby. Bettye dispatched PO Jamey Hawkins to a first aid case at a trailer park off Doc Beasley Road.

“Why won’t the feds act on this information?” I asked.

“They say it’s not sufficient to reopen an old case.”

That sounded like rubbish to me.

“Ms. Frobisher, I’m sorry your father was killed, but I’m only one guy with a small police department to run. Even though it happened in Prospect, I doubt I can . . .” I let my sentence trail off.

“May I tell you the whole story?” she asked.

She sat back and crossed her legs. I think she anticipated my answer. That or she knew a big smile and a few extra inches of lovely knee would influence my decision.

“Sure.” Then thinking she may take more than a few minutes, I said, “Would you like coffee? I have a fresh pot.”

“Thank you. Dark no sugar, please.”

I fixed two cups and watched her take a stack of newspaper clippings and official reports from her briefcase.

I sat behind my desk, took a sip of an extremely hot Indonesian blend, and listened to Lucy tell me her father, Douglas “Buck” Frobisher, not only worked as a bank guard, but also served as a Blount County deputy sheriff, the security job being only a part-time gig.

According to Ms. Frobisher, the robbery went off like something from a 1970s “heist” movie. Three males and one female entered the bank just before closing time carrying shotguns and pistols. All wore rubber Halloween masks. After an attention-getting shot went off and Buck Frobisher stepped out of the men’s room, he drew his revolver and foolishly told the four armed felons to drop their guns. One of the males fired his shotgun and Frobisher bought the farm. The anarchists made off with $46,000 dollars before a bank employee could trip a silent alarm connected to the police station.

Two days later, in a message sent to the Knoxville News-Sentinel, members of the RYM claimed responsibility for the robbery.

The former Prospect police chief, one Eli “Peanut” Crowder, called in FBI assistance. Lucy said the investigation lasted for months, but as with many crimes perpetrated by a crop of home-grown anarchists from the late ‘60s, it remained unsolved.

“You don’t seem to have a problem talking about your father’s death,” I said.

“No, I’ve lived with the fact all my life. And I never knew him. My mother was pregnant when he died.”

“You’re certainly tenacious.”

“Unfinished business.” Lucy slowly nodded with a look of resolution crossing her pretty face. “I think these people should pay for what they did to my mother.”

She looked at me over the top of her coffee mug.

“No argument there. But the same question keeps popping up, Ms. Frobisher. Why do you think I can solve this?”

“Please,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “call me Lucy.”

“Okay, Lucy, back to my question.”

A little more eyelash action, then, “May I call you Sam?”

“Sure, everyone else does.”

“Well, Sam, I believe you know one of the killers.”