by Glenn Meade
There’s a Hooters T-shirt logo that kind of sums up the South: “Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined.”
The South has a kindness and a charm that are warmly eccentric, a touch wacky, jagged around the edges. As my mother used to say, a Southerner will bless your soul and then slap you six ways from Sunday, gossip about your deepest secrets on the grounds that “we need to pray for them,” and still come by with a smile and a home-baked pie.
Although I come from a military family, I wish I didn’t.
I used to aspire to a normal existence, one where my father’s armed-forces background didn’t intrude on every facet of my life because we often lived on or near a base. I’m more of a dreamer, a reader of books, not the spit-and-polish parade-ground stomper.
But my father’s ancestors saw service in every major battle since the War of Independence, and as a consequence, my early life was spent as a military brat at Fort Campbell, on the borders of Tennessee and Kentucky.
As lives go, it was rich in drama.
Maybe the wild, Celtic DNA in our blood had a fatal taste for it or maybe it was just bad luck, but the drama was about to go off the clock when my mother arrived at Cedar Springs Church for my wedding.
And what was to unfold in the wicked heat of an August day in Knoxville—what was to forever maim my soul with a festering scar—seemed to set the tone for everything bad that came after.
23
* * *
After I ended my father’s call, I got my handgun from a drawer in the kitchen.
I really don’t know why. Maybe I felt safer. I’d had a handgun conceal-carry permit for years, which allowed me to carry a loaded firearm on my person. I was no great gun lover, but when I was in my late teens, my dad insisted that I learn how to defend myself. My silver-toned Taurus .38 revolver gave me a feeling of security when I was home alone or when I traveled. I often kept it in my car’s glove compartment or in a drawer, by my nightstand, or in my purse.
Now I took it with me. I felt a strange, inexplicable instinct to protect myself. My gut, a fear of the unknown.
I left Jack’s old keys on the kitchen table, but I could not let go of the blue sweater and the purple hoodie. I clutched them as tightly as a drowning man might clutch a life buoy.
I sat in my room and picked up the two photographs by my bed. I held them close to me, as if they were delicate lace. After I finally laid them down again, I took two pillows and padded into my mother’s bedroom. I hated this bedroom. Hated it with all its associations of grief and pain and tumult. This was the place where she’d faced her final moments, where she took her life. But for some reason, I needed to be here, to be comforted by my mother’s long-gone presence, as troubling as it so often was to me. But not now. Now she was that soft place to fall.
I looked toward the far wall. The safe was still there, behind my mother’s portrait. Her eyes looked out at me. Those thin, unhappy lips seemed to emphasize her unhappiness, and those deep brown eyes forever guarded her secrets.
And her dress.
Red.
That word again.
What did it mean?
I stared out at the lake and the view my mother looked upon on her last day. The waters calm, an occasional motorboat passing, a single white sail in the distance. Probably the same last images my mother saw before she pulled the trigger.
Eight years. Eight long, agonizing years, and I was going to see my children again.
They say death is the cruelest blow. The hardest cross to bear. But it’s not. Hope is harder. And when you live with it for months and years, when every day it worms its way into your heart and eats it away from the inside, it leaches your energy. You cannot stop it. You cannot reconstruct your life. In a way, that hope becomes no hope. You are a prisoner who can never be free. Not until you have proof positive.
Now I had proof.
Not proof of death but proof of life.
At least, that’s how I perceived it. A door had opened.
And while I was filled with hope, I was obsessed by fear.
What revelations lay ahead? What shocks? As my mother liked to say, when one door closes, another one opens. But it’s the hallways in between that kill you.
I pressed the blue sweater and the purple hoodie to my face and inhaled. Overcome again, I felt I was breaking down, a floodgate was opening, drenching me with memories. As if something inside me was starting to tear apart. I recalled a hot July day by the lake with Jack and Amy and Sean. I made a picnic, and Amy played and giggled in the grass next to me, a powerhouse of life as usual, wearing that purple hoodie, until the heat finally got to her and she fell asleep in my arms.
Sean and Jack were by the water, pretending to be bears, fighting and rolling in the grass, Sean’s laughter saturating the air. He wore the blue sweater that day, until his child’s body was drenched in sweat and he peeled it off and went bare-chested. I recalled the smell of Amy’s hair; I’d washed it that morning in apple-scented shampoo. They were achingly wonderful memories, yet these were the ones that hurt most of all, because of their simplicity and beauty. I felt beyond tears, and yet I wanted to cry, but then the numbness I longed for suddenly washed over me.
Why I had no idea, but perhaps it was because I was being pulled by two polar emotions at once: hope and dread. Hope that my children might be alive and dread that they might not.
I stared at my watch: 5:55 p.m. I had just more than twenty hours before Jack called again. It seemed so far away. Could I bear to wait that long? As quickly as I felt numb, I felt raw again, brittle, fragile as a reed. And exhausted. As if a tiny whisper of wind would knock me down.
Still, I opened a window. Darkness was falling, the light in the western sky an aching burnt amber. There was a slight breeze. It brushed my face.
Moments later I laid my head on the soft pillows, closed my eyes, and wept, deep, violent convulsions that racked my body, and every wicked part of my life seemed to flash before me.
24
* * *
Thunder Mountain, Smoky Mountains, East Tennessee
6:55 p.m.
Dusk. The smoky amber sky the color of fire.
Lights blazed around the crash site. The hum of electric generators sounded like a zillion angry mosquitoes.
Brewster Tanner emptied the last of the peanut M&M’s from the bag as he watched the NTSB crew finish up their work for the evening. He crunched the candy, swallowed, and crumpled the empty packet, slipping it into his pocket.
The dizzying sugar rush came seconds later.
He fumbled for the hypodermic pen in his other pocket and lifted his shirt to reveal the rolls of stomach flesh. Slapping the pen into the fat, he depressed the plunger. When he took the pen away, a faint speck of blood stood out against his dark flesh. He started to feel better.
“Hey, you’re back. My wife swears by a vegetarian diet, by the way. She’s got the curse, too.” Dexter came out of the tent, his shirt patched with sweat.
“Yeah?” Tanner stared over the NTSB man’s shoulder, past a crack in the tent flap. He glimpsed the aluminum briefcase from the cockpit laid out on a table. It was unlocked, spread open, a black plastic garbage bag laid over it.
Dexter took a cloth neckband from his pocket and wiped sweat from his face and throat. “For dinner and lunch, use a teaspoon of oil to stir-fry all the vegetables you care to eat, add some soy sauce, a little ginger or spices if you like. Helped her lose fifty pounds, got her blood sugar right down. Ever try a diet like that?”
Tanner tucked in his shirt. “That and a million others. Story of my life. Lost three pounds a month ago. Put on four this week.”
“Exercise?”
“Hey, keep that dirty word to yourself. You done for tonight?”
“Yeah, we’ll keep a watch crew on-site, to keep the local sheriff’s deputies company. It’s getting late. We’ll carry
on tomorrow and try to wrap it up as fast as we can. You eat lunch or dinner?”
“Yeah, earlier. Saw a Subway ten miles back on the main road. Got me a meatball sub the size of a small torpedo. I reckoned I needed to put on a nose bag before I passed out.” Tanner jerked his head toward the tent. “So, you find anything interesting?”
“You sure could say that.” Dexter finished mopping his face, tucked the neckband into his pocket, and glanced up at the burnt-orange sky. It was really quite stunning, with the darkening outlines of the Smoky Mountain peaks. “That’s an awesome sunset. You from around here, Tanner?”
“Naw. Hometown’s a place called Jameson, Louisiana.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Man, you wouldn’t want to. Lived in a neighborhood that was tough as a jockey’s hide. The German shepherds used to go round in pairs, just to stay safe. Home sweet home was a trailer at the end of a dirt road.”
“Happy times.”
“You kidding? I never really knew my dad. My mom’s sister helped take care of me for a few years when I went through a rebel phase. She was a teacher. Made sure I got my grades.”
Tanner stared at the remains of the shack.
“I used to dream of living in a shack like that. Inside toilet, a piece of land to do some growing. Not have to share a room with three female cousins.”
“Sounds like some guys have all the luck.”
“Not if you have to wait in line for an hour to get into the bathroom. So, I see you guys got the aluminum case open. You find anything inside?”
“Something weird, Tanner. Mucho weird, in fact. Let me show you.”
25
* * *
Tanner followed Dexter into the tent. Two techs in white boiler suits were finishing up examining part of an aircraft engine.
Dexter stood over the black plastic sheet covering the briefcase and grabbed a fresh pair of forensics gloves from a box.
Tanner said, “You find any more remains?”
“Nope.”
“What about personal effects?”
“Nada. But you know my theory.”
“Yeah, I know it, Einstein.”
Dexter slipped on one of the forensics gloves. “One or all of the remaining passengers survived.”
“A crash like that?”
“A small aircraft. Low undergrowth with a clearing. No fireball. I’ve seen enough crash sites in my day. I reckon it’s possible.”
“How many you think survived?”
“Maybe all of them. But I figure at least one survivor walked out of here, for sure. By the way, we’ve searched the entire site pretty thoroughly and still haven’t found the aircraft’s first-aid kit.”
“Yet.”
Dexter shrugged a whatever you think.
Tanner said, “Could it have been stolen?”
“You mean, did someone scavenge the site?”
“I guess.”
“If that was the case, they would have taken more than just a first-aid kit. I’ve known scavengers to strip a crash site to the bones, like piranhas. But there’s no evidence there’s been any tampering.”
“You sound pretty certain, Dexter.”
“Bet my pension plan on it.”
“Yeah? I wouldn’t care to bet mine. The feds ain’t that generous.”
“We also found more small blood smears. We can have those checked against the family DNA.”
“And why here? What was it doing near Knoxville? The pilot was supposed to be on his way to Savannah. He wasn’t due in Knoxville until the following evening.”
“You got me there. I checked. The flight plan the pilot filed would have put the aircraft almost two hundred miles away, heading toward Savannah, when it vanished.”
“Ain’t that weird?”
“Mucho.”
“Didn’t radar pick it up or something?”
“Yeah, it had a transponder identifier.”
“A what?”
“Aircraft have a unique code pertinent only to that aircraft during its flight. It’s transmitted to ATC—air traffic control—by something called a transponder. That way, air traffic control knows where the aircraft is, relative to altitude, speed, and direction of heading. Atlanta records show that the transponder signal vanished off ATC screens about forty-five minutes before the aircraft was due to land in Savannah and about a hundred and sixty miles south of here.”
“Which tells us?”
Dexter shrugged. “It could tell us that there was a catastrophic event on board and that the aircraft was lost. But we know it didn’t disappear in that area or disintegrate, because we found it here. The aircraft was still flying.”
“Anything else the vanished signal could tell us?”
“Yeah, that the transponder simply became unserviceable. Or it could have been deliberately switched off.”
“On purpose? Why would that happen?”
Dexter made a face. “If a pilot wanted to fly a route or land without air traffic control knowing about it, maybe.”
“For what reason?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But illegal activity of some sort would be high on the motive list.”
“You think that could have been a likely scenario?”
Dexter gave a fleeting smile. “Hey, you’re the law, baby. I guess anything’s possible. I mean, what’s your definition of illegal? That’s a broad beam, my man.”
Tanner considered and ran two fingers over a part of the mangled engine. He saw that the techs were heading off, heard the sound of vehicles starting up.
“You look like a man with something on his mind, Tanner.”
“You know much about the missing husband?”
“Nothing.”
“Interesting past.”
“Yeah?”
An edge of bitterness crept into Tanner’s voice. “Eight years ago, when he vanished, I was on the case.”
“Why didn’t you say that before now?”
“Wasn’t important.”
“So, you’re still looking for him?”
“This is between you and me, OK?”
“Sure.”
“I mean it, Dexter.”
“Won’t tell a soul.”
“A month after Jack Hayes vanished, my house was burned down one night. My wife died in the blaze. I hit the bottle. Had to take six months off work on health grounds.”
Dexter’s face showed alarm. “Gee, heavy stuff. You have kids?”
“Naw. There was just me and Lorrie. I reckon someone tried to put me off the scent. Tell me it was personal.”
“What scent?”
Tanner didn’t answer.
Dexter said, “You’re saying there’s more to this than I know?”
“Yeah, a lot more.”
“Can you tell me?”
Tanner shook his head. “We’re straying into the realm of case confidentiality, bro.”
Dexter raised an eyebrow. “They get anyone for the arson?”
“Never. Case is still open but no suspects. That’s why I need you to give me your all on this one. Help me in every way you can. No matter how small the details seem, I want to hear them. And I want to hear them first. Will you do that for me, please, Dexter?”
“Sure, man. I’ll do my absolute best.”
“In a way, it’s why my gut’s telling me the guy’s former wife may be in serious danger.”
“From what?”
“Her husband. If he survived the crash, I’m betting he’ll turn up.”
“For what reason?”
“Can’t go into that. This case has a lot of confidential stuff. Fact is, CID is involved on this case with me, but the feds have supremacy.”
“You mean the military Criminal Investigation Division?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.”
“But you sound sure about the threat,” Dexter said.
“If he’s still alive, yeah, I feel sure.”
“Why did he disappear?”
“That’s a whole other story for another day. But it’s a weird one.”
“Yeah? Which brings us back to the aluminum case. Let me give you a cherry on top of that weird, a cherry with a dollop of whipped cream.”
Dexter’s eyes were wide open, mimicking an expression of surprise, as he slipped on the second glove and lifted the plastic cover over the briefcase.
“Just feast your eyes on this.”
26
* * *
The past
It’s easy to lie to ourselves.
As a child, I knew my mother drank too much, but I pretended she didn’t.
I also knew she tried to stop drinking. I’d find little notes, written to herself. “Start Monday. Only water, lots of exercise. I will do it.” “Please God, please help me stay sober.” “I beg you to give me the willpower, Father, to fight this terrible, evil addiction.”
She tried, and when she failed, she’d smoke an occasional joint to calm her down, a habit that horrified my father. Sometimes I witnessed her smashing bottles of liquor with raging frustration, and when her temper burned out, she would go to her bedroom and cry herself to sleep.
Although she seldom talked about it, my mother came from a dirt-poor family of nine. A grinding, bleak struggle on a twenty-acre holding made her dream of escape, hankering after a more fertile soil for her dreams than the dry red earth of her father’s farm and a momma so impoverished that she could not even afford a decent purse.
My mother was a pretty girl with a good figure, and she longed to be the lady of a mansion with a rich husband to support her, but she was neither classy enough nor smart enough to attain either. Her dreams would always lie beyond her. Like Gatsby, she believed in the green light, the promising future that always seemed to recede before her.
She fell in love with my father after meeting him at a dance in Athens, Georgia. She fell in love with a West Point graduate, the status conveyed by my father’s crisp white dress uniform, and the promise of his promotion. The fact that his father was a relatively wealthy doctor with a busy practice who owned a substantial farm and that my father was one day likely to receive a decent inheritance probably influenced her, too. I know my father loved her. I know he worked hard to give her some of the status she craved.