A Thorn Among the Lilies

“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

MICHAEL HIEBERT

KENSINGTON BOOKS

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

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.

P
ROLOGUE

 

T
he 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 no 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....