by Glenn Meade
He offered his hand, and Tanner said, “This is Dale Dexter. He’s with the NTSB. That’s the National Transportation Safety Board. It investigates aircraft crashes, Ms. Kelly.”
“I know what they do.” I recalled two men from the NTSB who came to talk to me, accompanied by a pair of sheriff’s deputies, after Jack’s aircraft disappeared. They bombarded me with all kinds of questions, everything from if I’d ever heard my husband express any concerns about the maintenance of the corporate aircraft to his knowledge of flying, even his drinking habits and mental state.
Jack was a qualified pilot when he served in the military, but he’d allowed his license to lapse. And on the night his aircraft disappeared en route from New Orleans to Savannah, a corporate pilot was in command of the flight.
Now I stared over at the tents. “I don’t get any of this.”
Tanner gestured to the Ranger, as Agent Breedon and Dexter jumped in. “Climb aboard, ma’am. Mr. Dexter here will explain. I guess what he has to say may come as a shock.”
* * *
Dexter gripped the steering wheel hard as the Polaris bumped and jolted its way along a rutted track. “Did you ever hear of the term synchronicity, Ms. Kelly?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Simply put, synchronicity is when there’s an apparently meaningful coincidence in time between two or more similar or identical events that appear unrelated. It’s a term that’s often used to explain when paranormal events occur simultaneously. Kind of an unnatural coincidence, really. Not that I’m suggesting any paranormal significance here, but in this case, there is a commonality. A storm, we believe. But a bizarre synchronicity kind of links the events.”
I felt muddled as I stared back at Dexter, but I stayed silent.
“Let me explain. Last night, a Cessna twin-turboprop aircraft crashed, carrying a retired couple from Louisville, Kentucky. Those are the remains of the collision you just saw. The Cessna plowed into the cabin back there, killed a guy, probably the owner. We’re still trying to figure that one out.”
I said nothing, just listened.
“The craft went down about midnight during a bad storm. Aircraft crashes are not uncommon in this area in very bad weather, especially light aircraft. But here’s the thing: one of the Cessna’s engines sheared from the wing structure.”
“You mean it broke off?”
The NTSB man nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The separation may have been caused by the g-forces as the plane came plummeting out of the storm. The engine may have already been damaged and on fire. It hit the ground and tumbled away from the main body of the aircraft—almost four hundred yards away, to be precise. And that’s the strange part.”
Dexter shot me a quick look. “Not far from where the engine was embedded in the ground, we found the wreckage of another aircraft. It was probably on much the same flight path as the one that crashed last night. Synchronicity of a kind. Except that this wreckage had been there a very long time. Eight years, in fact.”
My blood iced up. Dexter slowed. Up ahead I saw a clearing, a forest behind it. An NTSB crew in white disposable suits was working away, probing the ground near the woods and what looked like a solid chunk of an aircraft engine. Bits of aluminum were scattered about, the ground plowed up for about eighty yards before it hit the solid wall of forest.
Despair overwhelmed me. Jack, my children—were their bodies here, in this remote, swampy forest? Is this how it had ended for them? Anguish thudded in my chest with a powerful jolt as Dexter halted and stepped on the parking brake.
“I ought to tell you that the fuselage identity markings match your husband’s aircraft. It’s the wreckage of a small business jet, a Beechcraft Premier, Ms. Kelly. We’re pretty certain it’s his missing plane.”
11
* * *
The Polaris buggy snarled along a track overhung with tall trees.
Finally, we burst out into a clearing and came to a stop. Fifty yards away, I saw what looked like a mangled aircraft engine. More people in white forensics suits were using sifters and trowels, and others hefted bigger parts toward a blue canopy erected thirty yards away.
I held my breath until my lungs hurt. My heart swelled with fear.
Near the canopy I saw what looked like blue windbreaks propped up here and there. We all followed Dexter, cautiously leading the way along a trampled-down path through grass and ferns.
“Watch out for snakes. We had to warn our people. One of them almost got bit by a copperhead. So holler if you see anything.”
I barely registered the warning, my eyes fixed on the crash site ahead. I saw a tangled mass of metal and aluminum that had plowed into a slowly rising hillside. In its wake, a six-foot-wide streak was gouged into the rich red earth. About eighty yards farther into the woods, I spotted another crew moving under a huge green tarpaulin. A few more National Park rangers stood around chatting. Dexter led us past the tangled ruin of an engine.
I felt barely able to stand, my legs shaking violently.
The NTSB man said, “Air crashes are not all that unusual in this region, with so many mountains, Ms. Kelly. Less experienced pilots can wander off course in the haze that you often see all over the Smokies.”
He jerked his head toward the wrecked engine. “And sometimes they get disoriented and crash. Maybe they lose contact with the nearest airfield, too, which wouldn’t help. They’ve had a good number of crashes in the park in the last decades. A few of the aircraft have never been found.”
“Never?”
He pushed aside an emerald-green fern on our path and shook his head. “Never. Have you got any idea how big an area we’re talking about? The Great Smoky Mountains National Park is more than five hundred square miles. That’s more than half a million acres.”
Tanner added, “Here’s the thing. The park rangers say that two inches of natural debris covers the woodland here every year—leaves, soil particles, and so on. If a plane crashed and wasn’t found immediately or it wasn’t known that it crashed in the park area . . .” Tanner spread his huge hands. “And if it’s lying there eight years, well, by then we’re talking about over a foot of debris covering the wreckage. Ain’t nobody going to find that, except by luck or chance.”
Dexter said, “In this case, a part of the separated engine from last night’s crash slammed in there.” He pointed into the woods, where the crew was working. “It hit a tree. When we were searching for that wreckage, one of our guys exposed the fuselage of an older aircraft, covered in debris. The two aircraft were probably on the same flight path. Maybe bad storms in the area took them both down; only time will tell.”
It was all becoming chillingly clear to me now. I felt tightness in my chest as we got closer to the canopy. My heart was racing so fast I could hardly breathe, my legs still shaking.
“Can you confirm the ages of your husband and children when they went missing, Ms. Kelly?” Dexter trod through the long grass.
“Jack . . . was thirty-five. Sean was eight. Amy . . . my daughter, Amy, was five.” I felt my eyes well up. “Did you find . . .” My question trailed away. I couldn’t finish it.
Dexter said, “It’s early days, and we’re just starting to excavate the site, but yes, we found human remains, Ms. Kelly. It’s undetermined for sure as yet whose remains they are. That’s why we needed you here. There were some personal belongings we hoped you may be able to identify.”
I felt afraid, afraid to look at any remains. My heart was stuttering, and I had an ache in my breastbone, as if a knife were stuck there. All I could think of was Jack and my beautiful children, Sean and Amy, their bones rotting in this moist silt. I felt a hot flush ripple inside my body, a weakness again in my legs. “Whose . . . whose remains did you find?”
My voice must have sounded hysterical—I registered the pitch of it becoming higher. I felt Tanner gently put one of his huge hands on my shoulde
r. “Ms. Kelly, I know this is difficult, but try to stay calm. We’ll get through this quicker.”
In the tangled undergrowth, I saw two little yellow cards. They marked two objects, one a shred of gray corrugated leather that may have been part of an aircraft seat, the other a small, cheap black plastic comb. A powerful memory jolted me. My son, Sean, age six. We were in a Target store one day, grocery shopping, and Sean wanted me to buy him a comb. He was to have a class photograph taken in school the next day, and he wanted to “Make sure I straighten my tornado, Mommy.”
We used to joke about Sean’s “tornado,” a little clump of hair on his crown that he would nervously work into a twirl whenever he got fretful or anxious. Sometimes I’d catch him unaware, in the middle of a store or among his toys, standing with one hand behind his back and the other twirling his hair. It was an image of Sean I never forgot.
It may not have been the same comb, but the sight of it brought the memory of my son back. My legs felt shaky, and I seemed to lose it, my body heavy as if I were moving in water. Everything was in slow motion, and I felt I was about to collapse. I was taking shallow breaths.
A man’s hand gripped my arm. “Ms. Kelly? . . .”
And then my head started to spin and I slumped. Tanner and Dexter held me up. Someone brought a fold-up chair. I took a deep breath.
“Ms. Kelly? Ms. Kelly, are you OK?”
No, I wasn’t OK. I felt cool water splash my face. Someone must have grabbed a first-aid kit, too, because there was a sharp scent, like smelling salts, and all of a sudden my lungs jolted and I snapped wide awake.
I sat forward in the fold-up chair. Tanner and the NTSB man were beside me. A woman, too. She had a first-aid kit.
Tanner knelt, but I could see that it was an effort, and he had to put a hand behind himself to keep from falling over. Close up, I saw that he had pitted skin, and his breath smelled bad—not terrible but not pleasant, either, kind of sour.
I felt groggy, but I still had my senses. “You never answered my question. Whose remains did you find?”
“We don’t know yet for sure,” Dexter said. “We found a skeleton, or at least most of one. It may be your husband’s. Only tests will tell for sure.”
“Why . . . why haven’t you found Amy? . . . Sean?”
Dexter didn’t answer. Neither did Tanner. Both men looked uncomfortable.
“Why?” I repeated.
“Ms. Kelly, in this area . . .” Tanner shrugged. “Well, forest creatures roam wild here, including bears. The remains could have been carried off.”
I felt faint again, my entire body shaking. Dexter saw my reaction and added quickly, “But we’re not sure that occurred, Ms. Kelly. As I said, it’s early days. And more than likely, the remains were not taken by animals.”
“Why?”
Dexter gave Tanner a quick look before he answered. “Because there’s something odd about the crash scene, something that just doesn’t add up. Can you walk, Ms. Kelly?”
I struggled to my feet with Tanner’s help. My legs still felt rubbery, but I knew I had to face whatever lay ahead in those woods. “Odd in what way?”
“Let me show you.”
12
* * *
The past
The day of my wedding, my mother cut a pathetic figure—a once-pretty woman of fifty-four, her face deeply wrinkled, her alcohol addiction and the mental ruin of her only son’s affliction aging her at least ten years.
Skew-eyed with booze, she did the Hokey Pokey alone around the dance floor, looking like a sad, middle-aged victim afflicted by palsy. I watched her trampling all over one of the most important highlights in my life, and I felt a terrible hurt inside—not from anger or shame but from knowing the suffering she was trying to hide. If I’d had some knowledge of the horror she planned that afternoon, could I have intervened? I was to wonder that for years afterward. I blamed myself for not deciphering a hint of the misfortune that was to come. But would it have changed everything that happened? Would it have saved the lives of those I loved?
Maybe.
Or at least, that’s what I sometimes tell myself.
I certainly sensed my mother’s resentment. She often had a vicious streak when drunk. But I didn’t realize how the volcano of despair and anger boiled inside her. I did, however, hear it in her tone of voice when I got up the courage that day to beg her to behave.
“Behave? You’re telling me to behave? Don’t tell me how to behave, missy. This family doesn’t know the meaning of good behavior, and certainly not that father of yours. Who does he think he’s fooling? He needs to pull that head of his out of his rear end.”
Her cruelty blazed back at me through drunken eyes. “And don’t think he’s the officer and gentleman he pretends to be! He’s a sham, a pathetic liar, a fraud!” She fled the room.
I had no idea what my mother meant or where she disappeared to. Probably the restroom, I guessed. She often did that after her drunken outbursts. Sobbing into a tissue, shouting insults that made no sense, sounding like a high-strung Southern belle from a Tennessee Williams play.
Jack, familiar with my mother’s ways from years of knowing her at Fort Campbell, usually offered the wisest advice. “Leave her, she’ll sober up. Then you’ll see the real Martha Beth again. The kind woman with a good heart.”
I’d touch Jack’s face with the back of my hand, and then he’d kiss me. Nobody kissed as well as Jack or could hold me the way I wanted to be held when I felt vulnerable—tight and close and safe.
My mother was kind and good-hearted when she was sober. But drunk and roused, red-haired little Martha Beth was a snarling panther. That afternoon of my wedding, my father and I tried to plead with her, but when she was in her cups, she never listened to anyone. And so we endured the tongue lashings and backed off, hoping she’d tire herself out and sleep it off in a corner somewhere. Besides, what bride needed a wedding album with a photograph of her mom being dragged into a squad car in handcuffs?
But I know now that I should have tried to sober her up, talk sense to her, anything but leave her to drown in her own pool of booze and bitterness.
But I didn’t, and I didn’t know about the gun in her purse.
And that was my big mistake.
13
* * *
Tanner moved toward the canopy. It covered most of the wreckage.
Under it, behind one of the windbreaks, I saw two stainless-steel tables side by side. One was bare, the other covered by a white sheet, a lumpy form underneath. I felt my legs shake again, emotion welling in me. I could see a corkboard on a trestle and what appeared to be photographic images tacked to it, but someone had covered them with a light-blue tarp. The woman who had tended to me with the first-aid kit joined us, and Dexter said, “This is Carole, by the way. She’s one of our forensics techs.”
The woman gave me a sympathetic nod. “Ms. Kelly.”
I shook her hand. “Can . . . can you tell me more about the remains?”
Carole guided us toward the tables, past a jumble of plastic and aluminum storage boxes. I felt overcome by a terrible feeling of dread. As I stared at the table with the white sheet, my breath caught in my lungs. Were these Jack’s remains?
I wanted to weep aloud, to collapse again. I fought my emotions. And then I thought of Amy and Sean. What if forest creatures had savaged them or dragged away their bodies? That kind of horror was too revolting for any parent to contemplate. I felt my stomach churn, tears welling.
“It’s a male,” the woman said, and she consulted a chart. “Your husband was thirty-five when he disappeared? Six foot one, I believe. A tattoo on his right arm.”
“That . . . that’s right.”
“We haven’t identified the man yet, Ms. Kelly. He had no ID that we could locate.” Carole gently touched my arm as if to prepare me before she lifted back the sheet.
/> I must have let out a gasp, because I felt Tanner’s hand tighten on my other arm. I pulled my right hand away to cover my mouth.
Laid out on the table were muddied bones that formed most of a human skeleton. The bones had a tint of green, as if oxidized or stained by forest lichen. I saw that parts of the right arm were missing, as was the left leg below the knee. I felt my stomach heave and wanted to retch. Was this all that was left of the man I had loved, even still loved?
I felt bile rise from the pit of my stomach. I kept my hand on my mouth.
At the bottom right of the table was a pathetic-looking collection of corroded items. What looked like a belt buckle, scraps of clothing, and a messy bunch of clothes fibers, mostly dried out. Lying next to them was a big set of stainless-steel tweezers.
Dexter said, “Is there anything here that you recognize among the items, Ms. Kelly? Some scraps of clothes? A belt buckle, perhaps?”
“Is . . . is that all you found?”
Tanner gave Dexter that look again. “No, but we’ll get to that later. Do you recognize anything here, ma’am?”
The clothing fibers were dark gray or black. The belt buckle was gilded, a simple, plain design; it was badly tarnished. A piece of a blue shirt, maybe the collar. I had packed Jack’s bag the night before he left with Amy and Sean. I didn’t have to struggle to remember what their three suitcases contained or what they wore.
In eight years, I replayed that list over and over in my mind. Jack’s bag contained a Brooks Brothers business suit in dark blue. Tan corduroys and two pairs of cargo shorts. A half dozen pairs of Old Navy underwear in dark blue and black. Two white cotton business shirts, a blue silk tie, and a pink one. Three pairs of black business socks, three pairs of white cotton crews, and two old, faded Nike T-shirts he loved, one red and the other sepia-brown that matched his eyes. A brown leather belt.