Dillard managed to say that he’d finally called his children, but he’d instructed both of them to stay at school until the weekend. He said he hoped Caroline would be out of intensive care by then, but the way he said it made Fraley think it would probably be much longer. Dillard had also pointed out Caroline’s mother in the waiting room. He said he thought she somehow blamed him for Caroline’s illness, because she was all the way across the room reading a book. She left around nine without speaking.
Fraley tried to tell Dillard about the raid at Natasha’s and the progress he’d made with the necklace, but nothing he said seemed to have any effect. It was like talking to a mannequin. Sheriff Bates had shown up around nine, so for a little while, Fraley at least had someone to talk to.
Fraley donned his favorite flannel pajamas and went to the refrigerator. He grabbed a can of Budweiser and went into the den. Just as he was about to sit down, Clementine meowed again, signaling that she was ready. Fraley opened the front door and let her outside. He sat down in the recliner, sipping his beer and watching a rerun of his favorite show, Law amp; Order. Just as he finished his beer, he heard the cat scratching, got up, and let her back inside.
“Pops is bushed,” he said, “and he’s going to bed.”
An hour after Fraley lay down, a noise awakened him. He lay in bed listening for a few seconds, heard it again. It was a soft thump, as though someone were knocking on the side of the house. It sounded as if it were coming from just outside the back door. Fraley sat up and reached into the drawer of his bedside table and retrieved his pistol. Leaving the lights off, he crept through the house in his pajamas, stopping briefly at the closet to pick up a flashlight. He moved silently to the front door, let himself out slowly, tiptoed down the front steps, and moved along the wall on the side of the house, his heart pounding. The wind was whipping and the ground beneath his bare feet was cold and hard. When he reached the corner of the house, Fraley flipped on the flashlight. The small backyard was quiet and still except for the wind. He walked slowly all the way around the house, finding nothing. As he doubled back, he heard a scraping sound. He looked towards the sound and realized a maple that needed trimming was rubbing against the house in the wind.
Fraley’s feet were beginning to go numb because of the cold, so he moved quickly back around the side and up the steps. Clementine regarded him curiously as he locked the door behind him.
“Sorry, honey,” he said. “I guess Pops is getting a little jumpy in his old age.”
Fraley bent over, picked up his pet, and carried her off to the bedroom. Ten minutes later, he was sound asleep, his left hand resting on his beloved cat, his right hand resting on his revolver.
I’d been at the hospital for thirty-six hours, unable to sleep or eat, barely able to communicate. The sparse news I received about Caroline was dire, and I kept experiencing feelings of desperation and hopelessness. My head was pounding, my throat was dry, and it seemed that every joint in my body ached whenever I attempted to move.
The intensive care waiting room was recently constructed, a large, open space with a skylight above, comfortable chairs, and tapestries on the walls. Jack and Lilly were calling every hour or so for updates, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them how serious Caroline’s condition really was. Fraley and Leon Bates both stopped by sometime during the evening, but I had very little recollection of anything they said.
I was sitting in the chair with my eyes closed and my feet propped up on a table in front of me when my cell phone rang. I opened my eyes to find that I was the only person left in the waiting room. I picked the cell up off of the table next to me and didn’t recognize the number that was calling. I looked at my watch-twelve minutes after two in the morning. I pushed the button and lifted the phone to my ear.
“She’s killing the policeman! She’s killing the policeman!” a female voice screamed.
“What? Who is this?”
“Natasha! She’s killing him!”
I suddenly recognized the frantic voice. It was Alisha.
“Who?” I said. “Which policeman?”
“Mr. Fraley! You have to help him!”
I stood up, unsure of what to do.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know! He’s in bed!”
I pushed the button on the phone and started running down the hall towards the stairs. Along the way, I dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one dispatch, what’s your emergency?” a female voice said.
“This is Joe Dillard. I’m an assistant district attorney, and I’m calling to report what might be a murder in progress,” I said breathlessly as I started down the steps.
“A murder in progress?” she said in a skeptical voice. “Where are you, sir?”
“I’m on my way there. You need to send someone to Hank Fraley’s house. He’s a TBI agent and he lives on Cranston Street.”
“Do you have the address?”
“No, goddammit! Hank Fraley! TBI agent! Cranston Street! He’s being attacked right now! Get the police and an ambulance over there!”
I pushed my way through the door that led to the parking lot and entered the cold night air. The wind was blowing so hard that it almost knocked me off balance as I ran towards my truck.
“Did you say your name is Joe Dillard?” I heard the dispatcher say.
“Yes! I’m an assistant district attorney. Have you sent a patrol car?”
“How do you know that a murder might be in progress, Mr. Dillard?”
“What fucking difference does that make?” I yelled. “It’s happening!”
I jumped into the truck and tossed the cell phone down on the seat next to me. Fraley’s house was a short distance from the hospital. If I got there in time, maybe I could get my hands on Natasha, or, at the very least, keep Fraley alive until the paramedics arrived.
It took me only a couple of minutes to get to Fraley’s. I parked the truck near the curb right in front of the house and turned on the emergency flashers, hoping the police would see them and know exactly where to come. As I sprinted towards the front door, I realized I wasn’t armed. I stopped, turned around, and raced back to the truck. I opened the passenger-side door and reached beneath the seat, where I kept a tire tool and a jack. I felt the cold steel of the tire tool, pulled it out, and ran back towards the house and up the front steps. The house was completely dark. I opened the storm door and grabbed the doorknob, hollering Fraley’s name at the same time. The door was locked. I broke out a window with the tire tool, reached inside, and unlocked the dead bolt and the knob.
I kept telling myself that Alisha was wrong, that she’d probably just experienced a nightmare, that there was no way Fraley would let Natasha get the best of him.
“Fraley!” I called as I stepped into the den. I’d been in the house only once, the night Fraley rode with me to Crossville to get Sarah, but he’d given me a little tour. He showed me the pictures of his family that he’d hung on the wall and his medals from serving in the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam.
The house was dead silent. As I crept down the short hallway towards the bedroom, gripping the tire iron tightly in my right hand, I felt the temperature drop, and I immediately knew Natasha had been there. I heard sirens in the distance just as I reached the bedroom. The door was open slightly, so I gently pushed it with the tire iron. I reached around the doorway with my left hand and slid it against the wall until I felt a light switch.
The scene before me caused my knees to buckle, and I staggered towards the bed, trying to keep my balance. Fraley was faceup, his eyes and mouth wide open. I stood over him and reached down to feel his carotid for a pulse, but he was perfectly still. Fresh blood was everywhere. It covered his face, arms, and pajamas. I forced myself to look more closely, and could make out several puncture wounds. There was blood on the walls, even on the ceiling. The bedroom window was open. Natasha must have made her exit through the window. As I backed awkwardly away from the bed, I noticed something on the floor. It was Fraley’s pistol, and it too was covered in blood.
I reached down and picked up the pistol, the sirens outside growing louder with each passing second. As I tried to decide what I should do next, several images again began flashing through my head: the Becks’ bullet-
