by Lewis Shiner
“Antree apparently lost control of his car,” the article said, “and crashed into the concrete columns supporting the Fayetteville Street overpass.”
Michael felt dizzy. He read the line again and then looked up, suddenly convinced he was being watched. Nothing had changed. Two children chased each other through the nonfiction stacks. An overweight high school girl in the chair across from him chewed on one fingernail as she read an encyclopedia.
“The accident took place Wednesday between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m., according to Durham Police. Investigators speculate that Antree might have fallen asleep at the wheel, as there were no indications of skidding or an attempt to apply the brakes. The car, a late model Corvette, was traveling well in excess of the speed limit, police say.
“The car’s fiberglass body ‘basically disintegrated’ on impact, said a department spokesman. ‘Nobody walks away from a crash like that.’ ”
Michael didn’t think Antree had fallen asleep. Not on the anniversary of putting Barrett Howard into that very overpass.
There was one final revelation. Antree, whom Michael had always pictured as a clichéd sixties swinging bachelor, had left behind a widow named Frances.
Michael went to the index and found a single entry for Frances, on the line before the ones for Mitch. It turned out to be the wedding page for Sunday, July 27, 1980. The former Frances Antree had married career Army officer Major Richard Stanley and moved to Fayetteville, North Carolina, home of Fort Bragg.
The library’s Fayetteville phone book had no listing for Frances Stanley. On impulse, he checked the Durham directory and there she was, on Emerald Pond Lane. Emerald Pond was a retirement complex that his parents had looked at when they still had some hope of his father’s recovery.
Michael’s hands trembled as he walked out the front of the building, dialing the number as he went. A woman answered on the second ring.
“Mrs. Stanley?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“My name is Michael Cooper. My father, Robert Cooper, used to work with Mitch Antree.”
“Oh dear.”
“Is this Mrs. Stanley?”
“Yes, it is. I didn’t mean to be rude, dear, it’s just that you gave me a bit of a shock. The past never quite stays put away, does it?”
“I’m in Durham, Mrs. Stanley, and I’d like to come talk to you.”
“This is a very busy day for me, believe it or not. We’ve got a book club this afternoon and two birthdays tonight.”
“I understand. Would you be available tomorrow?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I promise to let you know as soon as I figure it out myself. Is ten in the morning all right?”
Friday, October 22
Emerald Pond was only a few years old, and the landscaping around the small artificial lake meant to be its namesake had yet to finish growing in. The entrance road wound past a series of duplex cottages before arriving at the massive main building. Michael parked in the visitors’ lot and went in the front double doors.
To his right was a crafts room and a large dining area that looked out on the pond. There were offices and a hallway to the left. All the residents Michael saw were white and upper middle class, the men mostly in short-sleeved dress shirts and slacks, the women in jogging suits, frequently with embroidery or appliqué.
He took the elevator to the third floor and found Frances Stanley’s apartment easily. In addition to a nameplate, her door had red tissue chrysanthemums and an origami crane. Michael looked around and saw decorations on most of the other doors as well: flags, bells, ribbons, plastic or ceramic animals. They weren’t just relieving the monotony, he realized, but providing a series of intricate landmarks to help jog failing memories.
Frances Stanley was out of breath when she let Michael in. “Time got away from me,” she said. “I meant to get the place straightened up before you came.” She was about five-six, thin in the face and arms, with a small paunch. She’d dyed her hair an unnatural shade of orange and had on quite a bit of makeup; still Michael found it easy to conjure a 40-year-younger image of her, freckled and somewhat delicate, with a sparkle in her eyes.
The apartment was scrupulously clean, and a small canister vacuum cleaner stood on end in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’ll just put that away,” she said.
The Japanese theme that started on the door continued with a glass-framed red and gold kimono that took up most of one wall, and a black enameled folding screen inlaid with an elaborate maple dragon. Soapstone figurines sat on the low tables at either end of her black futon. If there was a TV, it was shut up in one of the low wooden cabinets. The overall effect was spaciousness, peace, and elegance.
Mrs. Stanley reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Would you like some tea? I have a weakness for hot tea in warm weather.”
“No, thank you,” Michael said. “You go ahead, though.”
She pointed him to the futon and settled herself in a chair with wooden arms and black fabric cushions, holding a white porcelain cup with no handle. “How is your father?” she asked.
Michael told her about the cancer.
“I didn’t know him well,” she said. “I don’t think I saw him in person more than half a dozen times. Please give him my best wishes.”
“I’ll do that,” Michael said. He wasn’t sure where to begin. “Your apartment is beautiful. I wish my parents had your taste.”
“My second husband and I spent many happy years in Okinawa. He was with the 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group.”
“He sounds very different from Mitch Antree.”
“He was. Night and day.”
Michael noted the past tense. “When did he die?”
“Two years ago. His heart simply gave out. He was a good deal older than me. So I’m twice a widow. I think it’s remarkable the different lives one can lead in a single lifetime. My life with Richard was so unlike my life with Mitch, it was like I became another person. And a much happier one. Everything about Richard was there in front of you, in plain sight.”
“You’re saying Mitch had secrets.”
She laughed with what seemed genuine amusement. “Oh my. He was like one of those unsinkable ships, where every compartment is sealed off from every other, watertight and impenetrable.”
“Something finally sank him.”
“Yes, I never believed the accident explanation. They told me he’d been drinking. I didn’t want to accept it at first, because he’d quit. He’d been sober for two years. Everyone smiled at me in this very condescending way when I would say that. People don’t change, is what they wanted me to believe. I don’t think that was the case. I think he was fighting, and he was winning, and he had a setback, and it was just bad luck that killed him. I would rather believe in bad luck than believe that people can never change. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I would. Did anything specific happen that you knew about? Problems with his job or anything like that?”
“Not that I know of. I didn’t find a stack of unpaid bills, or a drawer full of empty bottles, or letters from one of his mistresses. Mitch had a lot of sadness in his life. I didn’t see things the same way, but I know it was difficult for him.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry, but did you say, ‘mistresses’?”
“Oh yes, dear, there were quite a few. He couldn’t seem to help himself, though he was always most contrite when his indiscretions would come out. And those were different times. There was a sort of acceptance that ‘men had their needs’ and there was nothing to be done. I think part of it was the company he kept. He would go down to Hayti and listen to jazz and drink, and there were women there…well, you can figure out the rest. That also changed when he quit drinking.”
“Were there reasons for this ‘sadness,’ or was it more like a clinical depression?”
“It’s hard to say, isn’t it? He always had reasons, though who knows if another person
would have taken it so hard. We were never able to have children, and I think that was a disappointment for him. There was his work, for another thing. He was very ambitious, and he wanted to make his mark on Durham. He had a few major projects in the middle sixties, what with the freeway and RTP, then things seemed to slip away. He wanted so much more.”
“Was Hayti part of that ambition?”
“That’s right. He couldn’t believe the city bulldozed everything and never followed through on any of their grand plans.”
“Did he ever blame anyone in particular for what happened?”
She was suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”
“I guess I’m asking whose fault it was. Was it the developers? Was it the mayor? Was it somebody else in politics?”
The last question startled her, and Michael watched her wariness turn to fear.
“Mitch is dead, Mrs. Stanley. If you’re still trying to protect him, there’s no need.”
“I know that,” she said. “I know that.” She sighed. “Mitch was involved with Congressman Randy Fogg. Congressman Frog, they used to call him. Do you know who Fogg is?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s famous even in Texas.” Michael was thinking of the photos on Wilmer Bynum’s wall.
“Congressman Fogg was a racist. He pushed hard for government money to tear Hayti down, then when it came time for new construction, he fought it until everyone gave up.”
“Was Mitch involved with him somehow?”
She sighed again. “In the late fifties, when Mitch was first starting out, he wanted his own firm more than anything. Fogg was only a sportscaster then, but he had lots of connections and access to money. He offered Mitch financing and promised him all the work he could handle—government contracts, downtown renovation, even hints about a new corporate development, which turned out to be Research Triangle Park. Mitch was elated. He knew what sort of person Fogg was, but he considered that no more than another cost of doing business. He liked to think he could deal with the devil and come out ahead. ‘I’m running with the big dogs now!’ is what he used to say.”
“What did Fogg get in return?”
“If there was a price—beyond a share of the business, which he was legitimately entitled to—Mitch never mentioned it. Still there was a sense, ever after, that Fogg didn’t just own the business, he owned Mitch as well.”
“How do you mean?”
“He would ask Mitch to do things for him. Things that I think were meant to humiliate him. I remember one night I had to drive Mitch to the airport to pick up a car that Fogg had left there. Mitch drove it to Fogg’s home, with me following in my car, so I could bring Mitch back with me. Mitch was fuming.”
“I know this is asking you to remember a lot. Is it possible Mitch got a call from Fogg on September fourth of 1969?”
“Goodness, that was thirty-five years ago.”
“It would have been after midnight, and he would have had to call a couple of other people. My father would have been one of them, and Leon and Tommy Coleman. There was a cement mixer involved.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I do remember that truck. He got the call very late at night and he had the dickens of a time locating one. I don’t remember the date, but that sounds about right. And I remember him calling your father.”
“Did you answer the phone? Do you know if it was Fogg on the other end?”
She shook her head. “Mitch answered it. He kept the phone by his side of the bed. I assumed it was Fogg. Mitch had that defeated look as soon as he heard who it was.”
“Do you know why he called my father?”
“I assume because the Congressman told him to. My sense of your father is that he was very much like Mitch in some ways—very idealistic, very kind. But much more innocent. If there was wrongdoing involved, I don’t think your father was part of it.”
“There was wrongdoing.”
“I have a dreadful feeling that you know what happened that night.”
“A man was murdered. I don’t think Mitch or my father had anything to do with killing him, but they were involved in covering it up.”
“Literally? Covering it in concrete?” Michael nodded. “Is this related to that body that’s been in the news, Barrett Howard? In the embankment of the freeway?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The same embankment where Mitch killed himself?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh my.” Michael watched the realization sweep over her. “Oh my,” she said again, and tears rose in her eyes and gently overflowed down her face.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“Mitch knew Barrett Howard,” she said, “knew him and admired him. I can’t believe that he would have gone along…Excuse me.” She took a tissue from the end table and patted at her chin and cheeks. She seemed determined not to surrender her composure.
“Mitch told me once that Congressman Fogg was a member of a hate group. I often discounted Mitch’s wilder stories, though I suppose there could be some truth to it. If so, they killed Mitch as surely as they killed poor Barrett.” The tears welled up again.
“I hate to keep asking questions,” Michael said, “but do you know the name of the hate group?”
“Yes,” she said, patting again with the tissue. “They’re called the Night Riders of the Confederacy. They’re bigger than the Klan in this area.”
“They’re still around?”
“Oh yes, you still see them on the news now and again. People talk about how far we’ve come, but it seems to me we’ve been moving backwards for far too many years now. Have you talked to the police?”
“I was the one who told them about the body. I found out about it from Tommy Coleman on Monday.”
“I remember Tommy. How is he?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“You’ll tell the police about Congressman Fogg?”
“As soon as I leave here.”
“Thank you. I hate to be rude, but—” Another flood of tears started. “This has been a bit upsetting. Would it be possible for us to talk another time?”
Michael stood up and held her hand. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s always better to know the truth. I seem to have been telling myself that for most of my life.”
*
Michael called Bishop’s cell phone, and Bishop agreed to meet him at headquarters. “How’s the excavation going?” Michael asked, on the way up in the elevator.
“It’s going well,” Bishop said. His tone and his distracted stare failed to invite further questions.
Once in Bishop’s office, Michael said, “I’ve got a lead on Howard’s killer.”
“Is this related to the tattoo?”
“I know who called Antree and told him to pour the concrete.”
“I’m listening.”
“Congressman Randy Fogg. He was a silent partner in Antree’s construction business.”
“And how did you come by this information?”
“Antree’s widow.”
“Christ. I thought she was dead. Do you have her address?”
Michael read him the information from his sketchbook.
“And she can positively identify Fogg’s voice?” Bishop asked.
“Well, no,” Michael said. “But it’s obvious that’s who it was. There’s enough evidence to bring him in.”
“We’ll check into it.”
“The people who tried to dynamite the body. They were white, right? Fogg is involved with a racist group called the Night Riders of the Confederacy. If they killed Howard, it would make sense that they would try to destroy the evidence.”
Bishop leaned back in his chair and spoke in a soft, matter-of-fact voice. “Michael. I understand your emotional involvement here. But I have to remind you that you are not a police officer. You have no training. There is every chance you could screw up our chances of getting a
conviction if you keep meddling in this case. You need to back away from this and let me handle it. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Like a few other genuinely tough people that Michael had met over the years, Bishop had a quiet, easygoing charm because he had nothing to prove. It was not a good idea to push people like that, and Michael saw that he had gone too far.
“All right,” Michael said. “I understand.”
*
He ate a quick lunch while he packed up his laptop at the hotel, then set it up again at a bookstore called the Regulator, near Duke’s East Campus. They had a café downstairs with a high-speed Internet connection and Michael had a lot of studying to do.
He started with nightridersoftheconfederacy.org, an object lesson in outmoded design techniques: repeating rebel flag backgrounds that made the text hard to read, flashing text, and a marquee that scrolled horizontally across the screen.
Michael found the content oddly masochistic and self-pitying, at the same time that it hijacked the rhetoric of reason. Southern Whites were persecuted by the NAACP and other “racist hate groups” who stripped them of their flags and subjected them to other “heritage violations.” The NRC believed in “diversity,” in preserving the “rainbow of human colors,” which was being wiped out by race mixing. There was much mention of God, Jesus, Christianity, and the Church, all of whom seemed to be major supporters of White Rights. The NRC was looking for proud Whites to join the group, which it insisted was a “legal and law abiding” nonprofit organization, with no room for “drug users/dealers, perverts, or those of immoral or unstable temperament.”
The site’s logo included a Celtic Cross, a cross with arms of equal length extending out of a circle. Michael stared at the symbol, feeling again the chill of connection. If the cross had smaller circles at the ends of its arms, it would be the Sign of the Four Moments of the Sun.
Links from the site pointed to the Southern Legal Resource Center (not to be confused, a note warned, with the Southern Poverty Law Center, an arm of the “Communist miscegenation conspiracy”), to the Heritage Preservation Association, and the Sons of Confederate Veterans. No links to the KKK, the Aryan Nation, or any other major hate group. Slick, Michael thought. And smart.