I went through the coffee-making ritual and opened the laptop. There were a few new emails, including one from Perry, checking on me—“Stay focused and finish that book,” he’d written. I’d rather he’d said he’d found the man in the gray Audi and that Greg was out of his coma and on the way to a full recovery. I hoped that news would come soon.
I closed the laptop, threw on a jacket, and took my coffee out to the deck. I fished one of the pills out of the bottle and placed it under my tongue, the fastest way to get it into the bloodstream. Nineteen left, I thought—not nearly enough.
With Cold Mountain looming in the distance, I sat back and thought of how I would spend the day. I could ride into Waynesville and pick up a Wi-Fi router at a big-box store. That would allow me to bring the laptop out to the deck, but I was still debating whether or not that was a good idea. While in town I could swing by Long Branch Brewery, grab a couple of growlers, and try to catch a glimpse of the “hot as shit” owner. Then I could pick up the parkway on the west side of town and follow it east back toward the cabin. That would take me past Graveyard Fields and give me a chance to see if the BMW was still there. From there I could continue on to the ranger station at Mount Pisgah and drop off the keys and talk to Terry about my book.
In the end I decided my head and stomach hurt too much to venture out into society, so I closed my eyes and let the first pill of the day do its work.
A few moments later my phone vibrated in my pocket. For a second I thought the stars had aligned and sent a beam of cell service down to the deck. But it wasn’t a call or text; it was the calendar reminder I’d set up the previous day: 12:30 – SHERIFF BYRD LUNCH.
“Shit,” I said, although no one was around to hear it but the squirrels.
I had one hour to clear the cobwebs and become human again.
* * *
El Bacaratos was less than ten minutes down 276 toward Waynesville. I pulled into the parking lot at 12:40 and slid the Mercedes in next to a large black SUV with tinted windows.
I’d never been to the restaurant, but when I walked in, an older woman with a tight white perm nodded at me and said, “He’s waiting for you back here.”
She led me toward a booth tucked away in a back corner. Above the booth was a giant sombrero attached to the wall. It was one of many Mexican stereotypes that passed for decor: maracas, bandannas, serapes, piñatas. The restaurant was a virtual fiesta, but from what I could see, not a single person in the place was Hispanic.
“Here he is,” the tight-permed woman said as we walked up to the booth. I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me or the man I assumed was Sheriff Byrd.
“Guacamole,” the man said, dipping a tortilla chip into a small bowl of green mush. “I’d never had it until this place opened up. It looks like cat puke, but damn if it’s not tasty. Royce Byrd; nice to meet you, son. Sit down.”
I slid into the booth with a craving for a cold Mexican beer. But El Bacaratos was outside the city limits, which meant the restaurant was dry—no alcohol. I grabbed a menu off the table and looked at the beverage choices: sweet tea, coffee, or Pepsi products. I opted for a root beer, hoping it would settle my stomach.
“Eating this makes me think of all the things I might like that I’ve never tried,” Byrd said. “I guess it’s natural when you get to my age to start wondering about all the things you might have missed. Although I did try sushi a couple of weeks ago at some place in Asheville my granddaughter took me to. And let me tell you, they can keep that.”
The tight-perm lady returned and set my drink down in front of me.
“Doris,” Byrd said, “how about another bowl of this delicious guacamole?”
“Some more chips too?”
“Well, of course.”
I guessed Byrd to be in his early seventies. He had short white hair and the droopy eyes of an old basset hound. His face was worn and tired and his jowls hung down just above the top of his shirt collar. Unlike Dale’s uniform, which always looked as if he’d slept in it, Byrd’s was crisp and neat. He looked like a man who had seen a lot in his lifetime but still woke up every morning, put on his perfectly pressed uniform, and went out the door willing to see more.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time,” Byrd said. “Dale tells me you used to be with the Charleston PD. And that now you’re a private detective, come up to our neck of the woods for a little R and R. Is that correct?”
“Close enough,” I said.
“I always like welcoming new people to our area, especially those in the investigative field. It’s stimulating to talk shop with those who understand the business. What kind of detective work do you do?”
“Surveillance, mostly,” I said. “But I’m taking a break from that to give writing a shot. That’s actually why I’m here. I’m working on a book.”
“Yes, Dale mentioned that. About that B-25 that crashed on Cold Mountain, right?”
I nodded.
Byrd shook his head, then used a chip to transport the last glob of guacamole into his mouth.
“That’s a tragic story. The men on that plane fought dozens of air battles against the Japanese and came away unscathed. Then after the war they crash into the side of a North Carolina mountain. Just goes to show you how something can appear out of nowhere and take you down.”
“Just when you least expect it, just what you least expect.”
Byrd nodded.
“Yessir. You never know what’s out there waiting for you. So what made you decide to write a book about it?”
That was a good question and one I’d often pondered. I’d seen a documentary about the plane crash a couple of years earlier, and the story had stuck with me. The idea that you could outwit and outmaneuver highly trained enemies determined to kill you only to fly straight into the side of a mountain somehow resonated with me. Maybe I identified with those men. It wasn’t the things I was aware of and tried to avoid that hurt me; it was the shit I didn’t see coming that slapped me in the face and took me down a few notches. I’d flown into the side of a mountain many times, so to speak. The only difference between those airmen and me was that I survived each crash, then crawled back in the cockpit and took off again, completely unaware, or in complete denial, that another mountain was out there waiting for me.
“Like you, Sheriff, I guess I started thinking about all the things I might have missed. Writing a book has always been on my bucket list. That plane crash seemed like as good a subject as any.”
Byrd nodded thoughtfully, as if he understood some deep meaning to my response. The way he’d talked about something coming out of nowhere to take you down made me think he just might.
Doris waited for us to pause our conversation, then placed a fresh bowl of guacamole and towering basket of tortilla chips on the table. “You fellers ready to order?”
“Doris, I’ll have a plate of those delicious enchiladas,” Byrd said. “One chicken, one beef, one shrimp.”
He handed Doris his menu and looked at me.
“Now the shrimp here certainly aren’t as good as what you’re used to down in Charleston, but once they’re mixed in with all those beans and sauce, you hardly notice them. Here they’re more of a texture than a flavor.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Doris said. “Hey, are you going to write about the gold that was on that plane when it crashed?”
I studied Doris’s face for a second, then turned to Byrd just in time to see him roll his eyes.
“Now, Doris, don’t go filling his head with that nonsense.”
Doris shrugged and walked off toward the kitchen. I tried the guacamole and decided it was a lot better than it had any right to be. Hopefully my stomach could handle it.
“What was she talking about?” I asked.
Byrd shook his head and laughed.
“Some rumors never die. Years after that plane crashed, people started talking about bricks of gold bullion being found near the wreckage. Of course
it wasn’t true, but you know how people talk. I was just a teenager back then. One summer my friends and I scoured the mountainside looking for that treasure. But by that time the crash site had been picked nearly clean. All we ever found were a couple pieces of burnt metal.”
For someone planning to write a book on the subject, I’d actually done very little research on the Cold Mountain plane crash. It was my usual MO, narcissism mixed with laziness. I’d always found it easier to fantasize about something than to actually do it. Why write a book when you could just dream about writing a book? Plus, I’d been pretty busy. Moving to Cruso, recuperating from my leg injury, and spending evenings arguing with Dale.
“How did the rumor get started?” I asked.
“Aw, an old bear hunter started carrying on about finding a chest full of gold on that mountain somewhere near the crash site. According to him, it was too heavy to carry down the mountain by himself, but when he went back up there the next day with some help, the chest was gone. Now, some people believe he buried the gold as soon as he found it, then couldn’t remember where it was. Others believe he actually did get the gold down off the mountain and just made up the story about it disappearing so no one would come after him looking for it.”
“And what do you believe?”
Byrd laughed again.
“Ol’ Gerald Johnson told more lies than truths. And every lie was the same: missed opportunity. The prize bear that got away, the UFO sighting when he didn’t have his camera, the sweepstakes check that got lost in the mail. That chest of gold was just another one of his tall tales.”
Doris brought Byrd’s food and refilled his sweet tea. As the sheriff dug in, I had a couple more chips topped with guacamole. So far my stomach was cooperating, but I didn’t want to push it.
“So how long will you be staying with us?” Byrd asked.
“I’ve rented the cabin through March. I hope to be finished with the book by then.”
“So how does one go from private detective to author? I guess we all have to change gears at one time or another. Although I never have.”
I didn’t get the chance to answer. For the next half hour, Byrd talked about himself. About how he’d been elected sheriff in the mideighties and had been reelected unopposed ever since. How he’d handled different drug problems over the years. Pot in the eighties, coke and speed in the nineties, meth in the early 2000s.
“These days it’s prescription drugs,” Byrd said. “A man gets hurt down at the paper mill or gets himself in a car crash and some doctor goes and prescribes him six weeks of painkillers. The man can’t do nothing but sit in a La-Z-Boy and try to manage his pain. After a while he becomes a lazy boy himself. He’s no longer managing pain, he’s chasing a high. Now, I don’t mind somebody having a little fun or trying to escape their worries. These days I figure if you want to smoke a little marijuana every now and then, well that’s your business, safer than drinking that ’shine that used to flow around these parts when I was young. But I have a no-tolerance policy when it comes to abusing pharmaceuticals. I will not let that get out of hand here like it has in so many other rural areas. It may happen here one day. But it won’t happen on my watch.”
I wasn’t impressed by Byrd’s speech, but it did remind me to call Dr. Landry.
After Byrd’s plate was clean, I walked with him to the counter by the front door. As Doris rang up the check, Byrd said, “Your root beer was a dollar fifty. The guacamole is on me.”
I pulled out two singles and handed them over. Byrd didn’t bother giving me my change.
Out in the parking lot Byrd stood next to his SUV and used a toothpick to pluck the remnants of his lunch from his teeth. I told him it was nice to meet him and thanked him for the five bites of guacamole. I was reaching for the door handle of the Mercedes when the sheriff said, “About that business down in Charleston.”
Finally, I thought.
“You know, son, I have a good friend with the Charleston PD—Jack Emory. Do you know him?”
“Can’t say I do. I wasn’t with the department very long.”
“Jack and I go back a long way. He told me there’s something not quite right about that robbery you and that other man were involved in. His advice to me was that I’d be wise to keep an eye on you.”
That statement didn’t do much for my queasiness. I didn’t care for the fact that someone with the Charleston PD thought I needed to be watched closely.
“From what I hear, Sheriff, you keep your eyes on everyone in this county.”
Byrd flicked his toothpick across the hood of his vehicle.
“Well, son, that’s my job.”
At that, Byrd climbed in his SUV and drove away. I hopped in the Mercedes, pulled out my cell phone, and noticed two bars illuminated on the signal-strength indicator. I called Dale.
“How was El Bacteria?” he said. “I hope you’ve got plenty of toilet paper at the cabin.”
“I had the guacamole, and it was actually pretty good.”
“What did Byrd have to say?”
“He just wants to know what I’m doing here.”
“Listen, Byrd’s been sheriff going on thirty-five years. He’s a good one too. He stays in control by knowing everybody’s business. So I ain’t surprised he wants to know yours.”
“He told me a story about a chest of gold being found near where that plane crashed on Cold Mountain.”
Dale laughed. “Ah, that’s an ole wives’ tale; they ain’t no truth to it. Don’t stop people believing it, though.”
“And what do you believe?”
“I believe in getting my drink on. I picked up a couple a growlers of IPA from that new BearWaters place in Canton. I’ll come over later and let you have a sip.”
I heard a squishing sound and assumed Dale was loading his mouth with tobacco.
“D’you take them keys back up to Terry?” he said.
“No, I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
Dale snorted. “You don’t get around to much, do ya?”
“Not if I can help it. Hey, why don’t you run the tag on that BMW?”
There was a pause, and I figured Dale was trying to find a place to spit.
“Now why the fuck would I do that?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Daddy says being curious is a good way to get your ass handed to you.”
I rubbed my leg. “He’s right about that.”
* * *
I drove back up the river to the cabin, swallowed a pill, and took a beer out to the deck. A storm was brewing off to the west, and the peak of Cold Mountain was hidden under a cover of gray clouds. I closed my eyes and imagined an old man and his dog tracking a black bear across the side of a mountain. He stumbles over a tree root and falls face first into the moss and damp leaves that cover the forest floor. As he’s pushing himself up, he catches a glint of something shiny in the distance. He investigates and discovers it’s a metal chest sitting on its side. He rights the chest, then bends over to lift the buckle securing the lid. He stands up straight and looks around to make sure he’s alone. When he’s satisfied, he bends back down and raises the lid. He can’t believe what he sees. He thinks his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Just like when he saw that UFO.
6
“Wake up, brother!”
When I opened my eyes, Dale was sitting next to me on the deck with a brown growler of beer balanced on his formidable stomach.
“This shit’s pretty good,” he said, taking a swig right out of the jug. “There’s another one in the fridge, if you want a taste.”
“Did you run the plate on that BMW?” I said.
Dale sneered, then pulled a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He jerked the paper open with a flick of his wrist and read from it.
“Lester Cordell, thirty-five years old. Address is in someplace called Deerfield Beach, Florida. Got a list of priors as long as my dick. Mostly petty shit. B and Es, bounced checks, simple possession.”
> Dale handed me the paper, and I stared at the mug shot in the top right corner. Cordell looked like a man trapped in the wrong era—thick black moustache, curly black hair, white V-neck T-shirt revealing a thick gold chain. It was like a time machine had coughed him up from a seventies porn set.
I handed the paper back to Dale.
“Where do you think he is?” I said.
Dale shoved the paper into his pocket.
“I don’t give a shit,” he said. “Why the fuck do you?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know. I just feel something’s off.”
“Listen, when Cordell comes out of the woods after a few days of beating his bongo drum, he’ll realize his keys are missing and call the ranger station. End of story.”
I nodded while Dale hoisted the growler off his stomach and took another giant swig.
“Don’t you want a glass?” I asked.
“That would involve getting up. So what did Byrd say about that shit that happened down in Charleston?”
I shrugged. “He said he’d been told to keep an eye on me.”
“Yeah, I figured that. I think his buddy down there’s filling his ear with a bunch of shit.”
“What’s Byrd’s deal, anyway? How’s he been sheriff so long?”
“Byrd can be a hard-ass, but he’s a good man. He grew up in this county and he’s got his fingers in a bunch of pies. Owns a few rental properties and a couple of mini storage places. Was part owner of that Ford dealership over by the interstate until a couple of years ago. And he does an ass load of charity work. He knows everybody in this county, and everybody respects him. But like I said, you don’t want on his bad side.”
“I really don’t care what side of Byrd I’m on. I’m just here to write a book.”
Dale fiddled with his phone, and soon “Walk in The Shadows” by Queensrÿche echoed through the trees.
“Well, if you ask me, you’re off to a slow fucking start,” he said.
“You know, I read somewhere that there is nothing easier to do than not writing. So far I’ve found that to be pretty accurate.”
Graveyard Fields Page 4