Chapter 1
Thursday
Crutchfield County, Virginia
Margaret Hendershot stood before the portrait of her late husband.
“At 3:33 am,” she said, “on a freezing cold February night, Edwin Hendershot was brutally murdered, four years ago to this day. He was a husband, a father, a faithful man of God, a good provider, and a friend to all who knew him. He left his warm house—this house—to help someone in need. And a vicious criminal, who should have been in jail, killed him.”
After a brief pause, she continued. “So we stand here every year on the anniversary of that night, at 3:33 in the morning, to honor his memory.”
Another image hung on the wall next to Edwin’s. It showed a man wearing a military uniform. To that image she said, “Inspired by your truth, we shall have our justice.”
Her son and daughter, standing behind her, said, “Amen!”
Miles Flanagan’s sleep was plagued by memories of “The Incident.” He saw himself pointing a pistol at his intended victim. The image of another man’s body moved quickly in front of the target. A large hand grabbed Miles’ arm. A flash of flame and smoke exploded as the black powder charge ignited. A deafening roar and panicked screams echoed in the small room.
Miles awoke. He tapped his phone screen. It read 3:33 am.
Tavina Doddridge’s bed partner rolled over and began to snore. A sharp elbow to the ribs corrected the annoyance. Awake now, she thought of the appointment she had for the coming day. More ambush than appointment. Would the target take the bait? If the plan worked, it would be a new highlight on her impressive résumé, assuring her ascension to the next rung on the ladder. Squinting at the bedside clock through drowsy eyes, she could make out the figures: 3:33.
At mid-day Tavina was waiting for her mark to arrive at Kimber Farm, the second-largest estate in Crutchfield County. Cecelia Broadhurst, the estate’s owner, conspired with Tavina in a plan to catch the subject alone and off guard. The chosen spot was a large equipment shed that housed two massive tractors, an array of farm machinery and tools. It was the last place the target would expect to encounter an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney.
She held a flyer in her hand, a call to a protest rally. The inflammatory tone and emphatic cries for urgent action galvanized her resolve. These people had to be stopped.
Miles Flanagan parked the McKendrick delivery truck by the equipment shed’s door. Carrying an ordered part, he stopped short when he entered the building. A young, well-dressed Black woman stood next to a John Deere 7830 tractor.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone was here. Just leaving this off.”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
He set the package down and took a moment to assess the incongruity of her presence. Maybe she was Mrs. Broadhurst’s accountant. Whoever she was, and why she was there, was no concern of his. He had other deliveries to make.
With a typical Flanagan smirk, he said, “Well, if you’re waiting for this carburetor so you can fix the tractor, you might want to change your clothes.”
She took a step toward him. “Do you know who I am?”
“Ah, nope, can’t say I do.”
“I’m Tavina Doddridge.”
She took two more steps and hovered over his diminutive frame. Miles squinted as her perfumed scent collided with the shed’s odor of oil and grease.
“Nice to meet you,” he replied with a sarcastic twist. He took a step back and turned to leave. “Gotta go, more deliveries to make.”
“We need to talk.”
Her commanding tone halted Miles before his hand reached the doorknob.
“I’m an attorney for Crutchfield County. I need your help.”
“My help? Look, lady, I’m just a delivery boy. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
She handed him the flyer. “Are you familiar with this organization?”
Miles gave it a quick glance. “Never heard of them.” He handed the flyer back.
She shrugged. “I thought you might have some familiarity with this type of thing. As I understand, you’ve been part of another group that endorses keeping African-Americans in bondage, glorifying the cause of secession to preserve slavery. Isn’t that similar to what this group is promoting?”
Miles felt his short fuse start to sizzle. No, he told himself, be cool. This does not look like a woman you want to mess with. “You mean the Rangers? That’s not what we were doing.” He repeated the oft-recited words as politely as he could. “We were helping people understand history. And Mosby’s Rangers weren’t fighting to preserve slavery. They were patriots trying to protect their homes against an invading force.”
“And,” Tavina countered, “isn’t that what a group like this might say they’re doing?” She handed him another piece of paper. “Do you recognize any of the names on this list?”
Two or three names looked vaguely familiar. One stuck out. Hendershot. “No, I don’t know any of these people. And I don’t ride with the Rangers any more. In fact, that’s all over. Completely disbanded. And whatever it is you think I can help you with, I don’t have time for that either.”
“You might want to make time.” She pulled another piece of paper from a manila folder. Miles could see the official letterhead for the Crutchfield County Commonwealth’s Attorney. “It seems you attracted the attention of my predecessor, an assault accusation some years ago filed by a woman named Natasha Nutchenko. Ultimately dropped, but it raises questions.”
“That was just a misunderstanding,” he said with a dismissive wave.
“Perhaps. Actually, Mister Flanagan, it’s the possibility of another charge, or charges, far more serious, that you should be concerned about. Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder. Does that mean anything to you?”
Tavina saw the color drain from his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he half-whispered.
“Oh, I think you do. Your friends all refuse to talk, obviously protecting you. Impressive to have such friends, including one who’s considered a leader in the community. You should appreciate their willingness to cover for you. But, well, you know, rumors leak out. The kind of rumors that could lead to an investigation. An investigation that, once the truth is revealed, might result in decades of prison time.”
Miles tried to rekindle his usual bravado. “You’re making all that up. Look, lady, I don’t know what your game is here. But I ain’t got time to listen to this bullshit. I got work to do.” He started toward the door again, hoping his knees wouldn’t buckle.
“But,” she said, “I’m offering you a chance to make all that go away. No investigation, no charges, no risk of prison time. Like it never happened.” She paused. “Even though you and I both know that it did.”
When he turned back toward her, the faint glint of interest on his face confirmed the hook had been set.
“And,” she continued, “with the resources available to my office, it won’t be hard to put the facts together. So I suggest you listen to my offer.”