We stand there in silence, both studying the arrangement of headstones and both, I’m sure, imagining what happened to the father and grandfather, why they’re not with the rest of the Stitcher line, and what the maternal side of this family might be able to tell us from the grave. At least those are my thoughts. I know my wife well enough to know that she’s also assembling not only a plausible history, but also a “to do” list for when we get home. That list is likely to have nothing to do with any investigation, especially of a murder, but plenty to do with the satisfaction of her own curiosity. I’m guessing that when she gets into the post-Civil War history of Kansas and Missouri, she’ll find some of the most brutal violence on record, beginning with the Quantrill Raiders and their attack on Lawrence. I hear a voice.
“What in the hell are you people doing?”
I turn and recognize Naomi Stitcher. She evidently is on foot because we’d heard no car and there is none parked within sight.
“Get away from my sister’s grave.”
Mykala starts to say something then decides to stay silent, just observing what might happen in the next few minutes.
“I said get away from my sister’s grave.”
Her tone is flat, business-like. She’s shivering a little bit; I can’t tell if it’s from the morning chill or the fact that we’re here.
“You must be a relative,” says Mykala. I now remember that the only time either of us had encountered Rebecca’s sister Naomi was when I was in the funeral home, so Mykala has never seen this woman.
“How many times do I have to tell you to get away from my sister’s grave?”
Now I’m wondering if Naomi is carrying a concealed weapon. In a fit of good judgment, I don’t ask.
“I’m Mykala Marshall.” My wife introduces herself. “We’re just paying our respects to these individuals.” She gestures toward the headstones. “So if you’re a relative, can you tell us why there are no grandfathers or fathers here?”
Naomi Stitcher responds to Mykala’s question by opening her coat, reaching inside, pulling out a black pistol that looks exactly like one of those still packed in the boxes in the back seat of my truck a hundred yards away, and working the slide to load a round. She holds the weapon down at her side, pointing at the ground.
“Now get away from my sister’s grave.”
We turn and walk back to the truck. As I start the engine, I look back. Naomi Stitcher is kneeling on her sister’s grave, her head in her hands. It’s another fifty miles down I-35, through the Flint Hills, before either of us speaks.
“Do you believe she would have shot us?” asks Mykala.
“Through the left eye, with a large caliber pistol,” I answer.
“Gideon, do you think we should get those guns out of the boxes?”
“And do what with them?”
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