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“Yeah, at least for now anyway. I just hope OSHA will be satisfied with that.”

In a couple of days, OSHA would be swarming like flies, checking everything from guards on the saws, voltage on the equipment, to making sure that “Joe Blow” was wearing a hard hat and steel-toed shoes.

Avery voiced their greatest fear. “If things are not just right, they’ll close the mill.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this job.”

He looked up and saw Walter studying him with concern. He had to fight the urge to run his fingers across the shadow stubble on his jaw. He knew he looked as tired and worn as he felt. He was giving everything he could to his work, trying to kill the pain, but nothing seemed to work. It was like the chipper was taking him out one piece at a time until he was as flimsy as a piece of balsa wood.

“Do you remember?” Walter motioned to the framed picture, displayed prominently behind his desk.

“How could I forget?” The print titled The Goal Line Stand depicted a legendary football play made by Alabama Crimson Tide. The print was by Daniel A. Moore, and it was the first of his many popular football paintings. Avery knew it was Walter’s pride and joy.

Walter studied the picture, a tone of reverence in his voice. “Sugar Bowl, Superdome, New Orleans, 1978. National Championship riding on the line. Penn State was ranked number one. Lots of people didn’t think Bama stood a chance. But there we were, fourth quarter, minutes to go … inside the Alabama one yard line, and it all came down to the goal line stand.”

The painting captured the fierce battle taking place on the goal line. Alabama linebacker Barry Krauss held back Mike Guman, Penn State’s tailback. Krauss’ body stance was a combination of anger and determination. He was a rock, holding back the wave, pitting his strength against his opponent like it was the last battle on earth.

“Alabama was ahead, and Penn State got the ball and was going for a touchdown. It was fourth down with seconds left in the game. Penn State made it to the goal line, but that’s as far as they got. Alabama held them back to win the 1978 National Championship.” Walter’s voice grew more intense. “Two football teams and a stadium packed with over seventy thousand fans, and it all came down to a battle between two men. Do you think victory that day went to the strongest or the best? No!” He paused. “It went to the man who wanted it the most.”

Walter turned to face Avery, his piercing blue eyes had the power to bore holes. “That’s what we have to do. It’s fourth down, seconds left. We’ve got to hold that line.”

Avery’s conversation with Walter did little to diminish his concerns. He had to get to the bottom of what really happened to Buford Phillips. He unfolded the directions Barb had given him.

Turn right when you get to the top of the mountain, go about three miles past the church, and the Phillips are in a white house off the road on the left.

Avery wasn’t sure what he hoped to gain by visiting Buford Phillips’ widow. No, that wasn’t true. He knew what he was after—reassurance. Maybe this visit would give him the reassurance he needed to put those pleading eyes, Buford’s eyes, out of his mind.

He rechecked the address when he saw the freshly painted white house with a swing on the front porch nestled at the foot of a hill. Huge shade trees surrounded the house. Over to the left fruit trees were planted in neat rows. Grape vines crawled up the fence, separating the house from the vineyard. Not your typical drunk’s house.

A huge dog chained to a tree barked at him as he got out of the car. Was he at the wrong house? Avery cautiously knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” An elderly woman stood at the door. Her short, steel-colored hair stuck straight out like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. Clear, mournful eyes stared back at Avery from her puffy face, and he realized with a jolt that she wasn’t as old as he first thought, no more than ten years older than he.

“Ma’am, I’m Avery, the operations manager of the?—”

“I know who you are. What do you want? My Buford’s gone.”

Avery cleared his throat and looked away from the woman’s accusing eyes. She wasn’t making this easy. “Um, I’m investigating his … death … accident, and I just wanna ask you a couple of questions.”

Mrs. Phillips stepped back and let Avery through the door. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

The cozy kitchen was neatly kept with a built-in stove on one side of the room and a refrigerator on the opposite wall. The door of the refrigerator was covered with tiny magnets holding up pictures of several children. A round table covered with a checked tablecloth was in the middle of the room with a bowl of plastic fruit in the center. Avery noticed a Reader’s Digest, a cup of milk, and a plate heaped with chocolate chip cookies sitting on the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to catch you at a bad time.”

Mrs. Phillips waved off the apology. “Have a seat. Buford talked about you sometimes. He told me about your wife. I’m sorry.”

Avery nodded and swallowed hard. She of all people could relate to his loss. He’d come here to comfort her, not the other way around.

“Would you like some milk and cookies?”

“No, thank you. I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your husband if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Mrs. Phillips, do you know if Buford was drinking the day of the accident?”

“Drinking! What are you talking about?” Red patches the color of blood were making their way up Mrs. Phillips’ neck.

“Look, I didn’t mean to offend. I just have to know.”

Now the patches were closing in like thunderclouds, making her neck a solid red. A tear formed in the corner of Mrs. Phillips’ eye and dribbled down her round cheek. “Didn’t you know Buford at all?” She dabbed at her eyes with her apron.

Avery shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Buford ain’t had a drop for over three years, not since he started going to church.”

His eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure of a lot of things, but I’m sure of that!” Mrs. Phillips closed her eyes as if she were in deep thought.

“Did he say very much about the sawmill and the people he worked with?”

“No, I just know that he thought a lot of some of the men there, and he worried about them. He said they were headed for trouble.”

Avery jumped on her comment like a coon dog sniffing a scent. “What kind of trouble?”

The woman’s thick lips clamped shut, causing her chin to wiggle. Avery was afraid he’d pushed her too hard. He sat back in his chair and tried to give her some space. Her jaw worked back and forth. A moment later she spoke. “He didn’t say what kind of trouble. I reckon he just worried about them, that’s all.”

An alarm went off in the back of Avery’s mind. She knew something. What was she not telling?

The silence stretched on until Avery spoke. “Thank you, Mrs. Phillips. You’ve been a big help. I’d better get going.” He started down the steps.

“Avery?”

He turned.

“I don’t know what happened that day at the mill, but I know it weren’t my Buford’s fault. He was a good man.”

She closed the door, but not before he caught a glimpse of tears streaming down her face.

A nagging feeling gnawed at the pit of Avery’s stomach. It was the same feeling he’d had just before Susan’s death: the feeling of impending doom. He thought about his visit with Buford Phillips’ widow. What was bothering him about that? Her denial that Buford had been drinking? No, that wasn’t it. Of course she would deny that Buford had been drinking. Who wouldn’t want to keep the memories of a departed loved one untainted? He didn’t blame the poor woman for that.

Still, he admitted, Buford’s drinking was mighty convenient for the mill and a lot easier to explain than a dull, cracked blade. He kept going over his conversation with Mrs. Phillips, dissecting every portion of it. She’d mentioned some trouble at the mill. Yes, that’s what had been bothering him. What kind of trouble was Buford mixed up in?

Even if Buford had been drinking and had gotten too close to the saw that still didn’t excuse the poorly maintained equipment. There was only one way to be certain that the third-shift filers were doing their job. He would go and see for himself.

He parked several blocks from the mill and walked in the cover of the trees as much as possible. He had his flashlight but kept it turned off. He didn’t want to give any advanced warning that he was coming. A thick blanket of fast-moving clouds battled with the light of the moon. Shadows rose and became slithery living shapes when a shaft of pale moonlight broke through the clouds. It was an evil moon. That’s how his grandmother would describe it. The old woman was superstitious. He brushed off the thought and reminded himself not to become prey to such rubbish. Nevertheless, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Maybe coming down here at 2:00 AM wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Avery made his way up the creaking stairs. He swore when he discovered the filing room was empty. There were saws scattered over the floor, all untouched by the filers. Where were they? Avery had hoped that his worries would be wrong and he would find the filers sharpening the blades.

If his suspicions were correct, those guys were responsible for several accidents and a death. They’d better have a good explanation.

After leaving the filing room, he walked outside and back toward his truck. A flicker of light bouncing off a stack of wood caught his attention. It was coming from the wood yard. Another beam of light flashed and then disappeared. Why would anyone be in the wood yard this time of night?

He moved in the direction of the lights, hiding behind one stack of logs and then another, to get a closer look at what was happening. As he stealthily made his way, he could hear voices floating in the night air. He treaded as lightly as he could and then cursed as his feet snapped a stray limb that had fallen from the log trucks. He halted in his tracks. No one heard him. So far so good.

Fifty yards up ahead, he could see a hauling truck surrounded by three or four men. His pulse quickened. They were loading logs onto the truck. He ducked lower to the ground and made his way to the large stack of logs nearest to the group. If he got close enough, he just might be able to hear what they were saying. He inched to the side of the stack so he could get a good look at the men. His eyes strained through the darkness. He could make out the filers. His pulse raced when he recognized another face in the group: Lewis Jackson, the first shift foreman.

Something had to be done. Theft was one thing, but what about Buford Phillips? Had the filers’ negligence caused his death?“

Sherman, hand me that binding so we can get this load bound and out of here,” Lewis said.

There had been several complaints over the past few months from the loggers about being short on their pay. Lewis had dismissed their complaints, saying they were just disgruntled, overworked old men. Now Avery understood why. They were stealing logs that hadn’t been receipted or scaled.

One of the men shined his flashlight in Avery’s direction. Avery jerked back behind the stack of logs, causing his foot to slip. He threw out his hand to catch himself before hitting the ground. Pain wrenched through his hand when he sliced it on a piece of metal that had been left lying on the ground. His low moan pierced the night air.

“Did you hear that? Listen!” Lewis left the group and started walking in Avery’s direction.

Avery was afraid he would hear his heart hammering out of his chest. He held his breath and tried to flatten himself into the logs. Lewis was only a couple of feet away. Run! his mind screamed, but his body was paralyzed. All he could do was pray.

“Come on back, Lew. There ain’t nobody out here this time o’ the night. We gotta get this load out before somebody does come.”

Avery didn’t exhale until Lewis walked away. His hand was throbbing, and he could feel blood oozing out with every beat. The front of his shirt and pants were covered with the sticky liquid. He closed his eyes and tried to stop his head from swimming.

He sat behind the stack of oak for almost an hour until he heard the log truck pull away and was sure that everyone had left.

Judge Crawford leaned back in his chair and drank the last sip of his coffee. He winced when it slid like mud down his throat. Nothing worse than cold coffee. He pulled out his planner and skimmed down the page for his next day’s appointments, not really seeing the words. He shut the planner. His mind wasn’t on anything except the phone call he received a couple of hours ago. After all these years on the bench, the surprises that cropped up still had the power to knock him off his feet. He straightened the papers on his desk and stared at the phone, attempting to bolster his nerve to call Harriett.

His fingers knew the number better than his mind. He swallowed as he waited for his wife to answer. “Hon, I’ve gotten held up tonight and won’t be able to make it in time for dinner.”

The silence on the other end stretched on. “Harriett, I know I promised we would go out to dinner tonight, but I just received a call about an important matter, and I have to go meet someone.”

This time Harriet responded with a long tirade of complaints followed by insults.

“I’m real sorry, but you know how it is around here. It comes with the territory,” he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He let her go on a little longer and squeezed in a goodbye when she paused to catch a breath. He hung up the phone and looked at his watch.He didn’t blame Harriett for being angry. Their marriage had been rocky the past few years since their children had married and moved away. Harriett already hated his long hours, and then she found out about Kim. That little fling had only lasted a few weeks, but Harriett had never forgiven him. He’d broken enough promises to her to last a lifetime, and a lifetime was probably how long it would take to make it up to her.

He picked up the note from the call he’d received earlier in the afternoon and stuffed it in his brief case. Yes, this could be the break he’d been waiting for. Everyone else had left the office hours ago. It was past 7:00 PM. He would have to hurry to get to his destination in forty-five minutes.

He locked his door and ran down the stairs. The extra twenty-five pounds he was carrying left him out of breath. He cursed when he remembered he was parked in the parking deck a couple of blocks away. He usually parked in his designated spot in front of his office, but a van had been parked there. Someone had moved it before he could have it ticketed or towed away.

Judge Crawford entered the parking garage. Footsteps on pavement—voices bouncing off walls. Was that what he was hearing? He scanned the parking deck. It was empty. That’s another thing his job had instilled in him, paranoia . He opened the door of his new Mustang convertible, fastened his seat belt, and started the engine. He frowned. It was acting funny. He’d have it checked tomorrow. He turned the key again. This time the car exploded, and the upper floor of the parking deck collapsed with a deafening crash.

Avery ran his hand down the side of the Suzie Q, caressing her graceful, ageless lines. Susan had loved this boat . He remembered the first time he’d gone to Maryland with Judith to meet her family. There he saw Susan for the first time. It wasn’t long until it was apparent to everyone that he and Susan were meant to be together.

On the third day of the visit, Judith insisted that he and Susan go sailing. It was then that he discovered Susan’s love for the Suzie Q. She was in her element as she told him what to do and explained the rules of safety. Then she named off every part of the boat from the bow to the tiller. Her love for sailing was contagious, and it wasn’t long before he felt the same way. No one was surprised when Susan inherited the boat after her parents passed away. Avery closed his eyes. He could see Susan on the boat with him, her green eyes sparkling in that mischievous way he loved so much—her deep tanned face with her sun-streaked hair blowing in the wind.

“Dad, you ready?”

Avery looked up to see Cindy standing on the pier. He watched her balance precariously, one foot on the pier and the other on the boat, before nimbly jumping into the boat. “Untie the rope and give ‘er a push.”

She tossed her honey-colored hair and saluted him in the mock solemnity only a teenager can perfect. “Aye, aye, skipper.’”

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road. But first, I need you to check the bilge.”

“You got it.” She climbed down in the cabin while Avery took care of lowering the centerboard and rigging the rudder and tiller. A few minutes later, Cindy reappeared. “Bilge is clear, skipper.”

He expertly guided the boat into the open expanse of the river and turned toward the warm breeze that kissed his cheek. He breathed a sigh of appreciation at the shimmering reflection of the afternoon sun on the mirror of glass around him. Sailing on the Tennessee River was a far cry from the Chesapeake Bay, but he loved it. March was one of the rare months that he could sail away from the shore without using his motor.

“Hold on.” He and the boat were one, skipping over the waves like they could almost fly.

Cindy braced herself against the steady onslaught of bumping waves, her lean face eager with anticipation. The tenderness that welled in Avery when he looked at her hit him so strong it almost hurt. Out here, the problems seemed to melt away. It was just he and Cindy. Nothing else mattered. Cindy’s athletic frame was softening into womanhood, and Avery knew it was only a matter of time before she became the spitting image of Susan. Cindy’s uncanny resemblance to her mother had tormented him in the bitter months after her death. Cindy had needed him then, but he’d been too engulfed in his cruel hurt to open himself up to her. They were like the same poles of two magnets, feeling the same pain, the same emptiness, yet repelling each other away. Gradually, as the healing balm of time eased his grief, he’d gone the opposite direction, feeling the need to cling to Cindy. She’d been wary of his sudden interest at first but seemed to be warming up to him. Still, their relationship was fragile, a tender seedling taking root in soil of doubt. It was going to take time for it to grow into the sturdy oak it once was. She was his reason for living, and he knew he would do everything in his power to keep her safe. He just hoped someday she would understand.

When they reached the middle of the river, Avery dropped the sails and heaved the heavy anchor over the side. Cindy noticed the grimace on his face and the way he was protecting his hand.He reached for his rod and reel. “Let’s try it here. We’ll see how they’re biting.”

“How’s your hand?”

He flexed and winced. “Still sore, but okay.” Cindy had asked him about his injury, and all he said was that he cut it at the mill. She accepted his sketchy explanation without question. “Hand me some bait, honey.” The scowl on Cindy’s face broke his thoughts and made him chuckle as she reached in the cup and pulled out a slimy worm. This was Cindy’s least favorite part of fishing, but she never complained. It took him a fraction longer than normal to thread the hook. “Do you wanna take this one?”

“No, I can do it.”

He stifled a grin. “Okay.”

She reached for another worm and cringed as it slithered around her fingers when she tried to hook it. “Yuck!” She dropped the worm, handed the rod to Avery, and smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Dad.”

It was one of those rare moments when they could shut out the world and just be father and daughter. What he would give to make times like this last longer. But he knew it couldn’t last. The problems at the sawmill were closing in. His stomach churned when he thought about his reason for bringing Cindy on the boat. It was time to do some serious talking. His grandmother always said if you looked deep enough into a pool of water, you’d find your future reflected. He looked over the edge of the boat and down into the water. There was no reflection, only muddy water staring back at him.

He cleared his throat. “Cindy, there’s something I wanna talk to you about.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about what your aunt Judith said before she left. I think it might be a good idea for you to go and live with her for a while.”

Cindy’s face crumbled like a piece of wadded up paper. “What? Why?”

Oh, how he wanted to take her in his arms and hug her until that wounded look in her eyes disappeared. She’d been through so much. It seemed unfair that he had to hurt her more. If only he could unload his fears, make his daughter understand. He wanted to tell her that nothing short of fear for her life or his could ever separate them. But, he couldn’t. Worry over him was the last thing Cindy needed. “Judith can give you so many more opportunities than I can,” he finally said.

“This is my home. What about my friends? I want to stay here with you.” Her chin quivered. “You promised. Don’t you want me anymore?”

Avery clenched his fist. Everything he loved was being pried away from him, and he was powerless to stop it. He moved closer to Cindy. “I love you, honey. You know that. We’ll be back together again before you know it.”

“No, I don’t know that you love me. I don’t know anything anymore. I won’t go. I won’t go live with that stuffy old battleaxe. I hate her!”

“Cindy, be reasonable.”

“You can’t make me! I hate you!” She took her rod and reel and tossed it as far as she could and then watched in dismay as it sank to the bottom of the river.

Avery moved to the stern of the boat. He shook his head. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Cindy crossed her arms and moved to the bow, as far away from him as she could get. She turned her back on him, and for an instant, he wondered if she was going to dive off.

Dusk settled in, and the air became cooler as lights began popping out of neighboring piers and then stretching down into the water like long icicles.

Avery looked at his watch. Time to go. He didn’t want to be late for his appointment. It was time to face the music. He pulled up the anchor.

The wind had died down, so he would have to use the motor. He turned on the switch and it stalled. He tried again several times to no avail. “Come on,” he said, turning the switch with a vengeance. “We’ve gotta get home,” and then, “there she goes,” when the engine caught.

The people sitting on the pier were the first to hear the deafening blast invade the still evening. The boat changed to a ball of fire, sending splinters of debris shooting into the air like fireworks.

Then there was silence.

Cindy’s head was whirling. Treading her legs through the water was like pulling a lead ball with a chain. She was cold, and everything was moving in slow motion. If she could just make it to her dad. Was that him holding out his hands calling her name? Or was it her mom? Just when she thought she’d reached the spot, there was no one there. Seconds … minutes went by—or were they years? Time ceased to exist. Her eyes closed against the hurling blackness.