Radiant in her white satin wedding gown, Patricia Blakley was living a dream come true. At last, she was marrying the man she loved, Ted Kimble—a fellow Christian and son of a local preacher. But little did she realize her new husband had a dark side. Shock waves rocked the small, North Carolina town of Pleasant Garden when Patricia’s charred body was discovered inside the Kimble’s burned-out home. Soon family and friends learned an even worse truth—Patricia had died from a bullet wound to the head. Now, in Unholy Covenant, North Carolina journalist Lynn Chandler-Willis uncovers the story behind the crime. Taking readers from the crime scene to the courtroom, she delivers a passionate account of a crime that forever changed the lives of many in the small North Carolina community. Lynn Chandler-Willis is the founder of the Pleasant Garden Post, a biweekly newspaper, for which she is publisher and editor. The paper was a 1999 recipient of an Outstanding Community Service Award. She lives in North Carolina. Unholy Covenant A True Story of Murder in North Carolina By Lynn Chandler-Willis Addicus Books, Inc. Copyright © 2000 Lynn Chandler-Willis All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-886039-41-4 CHAPTER 1 Who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, quenched the fury of the flames, and escaped the edge of the sword. Hebrews 11: 33-34 October 9, 1995 8:40 P.M. Richard Blakley took off his shoes and wiggled his toes. His feet were tired. They were always tired this time of night. Maintaining BP's fuel pumps was tiring enough, but the hour-and-a-half daily drive from Pleasant Garden, North Carolina, to Raleigh, the state's capital, wore him out. Richard had just settled into his worn recliner when lights flashed through the window. He heard a truck engine running and waited for it to shut off, but it didn't. His daughter-in-law, Kristy Blakley, burst through the back door. "You've got to come! Now!" she screamed. Her narrow cheeks were flushed and reddened with tears. "Hurry! There's no time." "Kristy, what's the —" "Hurry!" she screamed, all ninety pounds of her pushing Richard outside to the waiting truck. "At least let me get my shoes." Richard turned back toward the house, but Kristy grabbed his arm. "No! There's no time! We've got to go now!" Her words were clipped, escaping between gasps and sobs. This wasn't like Kristy at all. She seldom let excitement, good or bad, overrule her quiet, reserved nature. Richard slapped the seat belt around himself as the pickup gained momentum. He braced his hand across the roof of the truck since Kristy wasn't slowing for the potholes that canyoned the private road. "Honey, we're not going to be any good to anyone if we don't get there in one piece." Kristy wiped the back of her small hand against her cheek but didn't respond. "Kristy, please tell me what's the matter," Richard begged, his voice rising with fear. Her knuckles were white from gripping the wheel, her eyes fixed on the gravel road ahead. As she turned off Branchwater Road onto Highway 22, she yanked the truck back into the right lane. Dusk had already fallen. The acres of farmland and pasture along Highway 22 blended into the outline of trees and woods. The porch lights of neighbors' houses, people Richard had known all his life, glared like fireflies as the truck raced by. "It's ... it's ... Patricia," Kristy finally stuttered. "There's a fire." Richard's heart stopped. Fear clamped it like a vise, then gradually released its hold, allowing the fright to spread through his body like a fast-growing cancer. "Patricia ..." It was the only word he could say as thoughts of his only daughter raced through his mind. Even through the darkness, Richard could see ominous black smoke roiling from the chimney and seeping from the vents of his daughter's ranch-style home. He prayed it was all just a bad dream, that the smoke was really just a thick fog clouding his perception. Richard's son, Reuben Blakley, rushed to meet them in the front yard. "I think Patricia's inside, Daddy. I think she's in there." Reuben bent over, gasping for breath, crying. Kristy grabbed her husband's hand and squeezed it tightly. In his stocking feet, Richard ran from window to window of the gray-sided house, pounding on the white-hot glass, screaming his daughter's name. Twenty-four-year-old Alan Fields buckled his helmet and leapt from the jump seat of the fire engine. An uneasy feeling gripped Alan, a six-year veteran of the Pleasant Garden Fire Department, when he heard dispatch's second call. Dispatch said someone may be trapped inside. Dispatch's first call had confirmed that it was Ted and Patricia Kimble's house. Theirs was the only house on Brandon Station Court. Now, as Alan eyed Patricia's car in the driveway, he feared the worst. Alan knew Ted and Patricia well. He had gone to school with Ted; he had dated Patricia's cousin. At times lik