Unquiet Ghosts

by Glenn Meade

  He was joined by two other men. Mehmet, short and aggressive, with a flat face like an angry bulldog. Abu, tall and robust, with hands like iron lump hammers and a muscled body beefed by steroids.

  Tarik said to Kiril, “Well?”

  “It’s done. Babek did his work well. The device is fitted to her car. Another is planted in the purse she left on her car seat. With luck, we’ll know where she is at all times.”

  Tarik smiled and let go of the flag. “Good.”

  “Did you really need to have her come here and see us? She’ll be curious about why you wanted to see her.”

  Tarik placed his open palm on his heart once more. “And she has her answer. A believable one. I kindly offered her my sympathy and my services.”

  “But we could have put the tracking devices on her car and belongings elsewhere—at her home or in the mall.”

  “True. But learn this lesson well, Kiril. Know your enemy. Find a way to look them in the eye, to appraise what you are up against. In this case, the woman won’t be a problem.”

  Tarik took a slim cigar from his top pocket and lit it with a gold lighter. “I’m certain she will lead us to the others.” He gave Kiril a look of steel. “And once she does, you know what must be done.”

  31

  * * *

  The past

  By the end of my wedding day, the question of what had led to Kyle’s suicide attempt was not the only mystery I couldn’t solve. I also wondered what was on my mother’s tortured mind when she left my wedding reception.

  When she vanished, she didn’t go to the restroom as I thought she had. Instead, witnesses saw her leave in a Knoxville cab that she called from the hotel front desk.

  Someone else claimed they saw my father leave, too, saw him drive out of the lot in his car in a hurry and return thirty minutes later. He admitted this. He said he went looking for my mother in a bunch of nearby restaurants and bars, places she often vanished to after a tirade, but he said he couldn’t find her and returned.

  She was still drunk, that much I know. I also know that when she arrived at our family home, she went to the wall safe in her bedroom, swung back the portrait of herself in the red dress, and removed a diary and some envelopes. It must have been at this point that she saw no hope or was consumed by drunken rage.

  I believe that because she burned the diary and the papers and all my father’s love letters to her in the bedroom fireplace. The blackened ashes and the remains of the diary’s cover and the envelopes were testament to that. All that remained unburned was a single discarded piece of paper, part of a page from her diary, lying under her bed, on which she had once written in black ink: Red. There was another illegible word scrawled next to it.

  But what secrets the pages contained or what Red meant I had no idea. My father didn’t know, either, and always said my mother’s behavior that day was brought on by her distress at Kyle’s hopeless mental state. That she had lost her baby boy. The enigma of what my mother might have kept locked in that steel safe or in the envelopes remained a mystery.

  I know she set fire to the diary and the papers in the fireplace using the same cheap plastic Bic she used to light her Marlboro Golds, her cherry lipstick staining the cigarette filter, as always. And that she took a handful of antidepressants from a pill bottle she kept in her safe. The investigating detectives mentioned those things—and the discarded paper—in their report.

  My “terrible event,” as my father called it—the loss of my husband and our beloved children—was still to come, to alter my life forever with its cruel, heart-wrenching mystery, but even if I’d known, I could never have imagined how they were linked to the envelope bearing the simple word Red.

  The police questioned me about my father’s movements being partly unaccounted for in the thirty-eight minutes after my mother vanished. His claim that he searched for her in the nearest local bars and restaurants that she liked to haunt could not be proven. I always thought it seemed weird that they might even vaguely suspect my father in any way. That aspect of the case came to nothing in the end, but there were still questions left unanswered about the tragedy that unfolded that day.

  Why would my mother do what she did during such an important event in my life, unless her motive had some deep personal significance? I could not fathom it. I would often ask myself that question afterward, but I found no answers.

  I can only imagine what might have happened, that my mother may have looked out over the view of Loudon Lake from her bedroom window as she smoked her cigarette, that lake view being her favorite ever since she nursed Kyle and me on her lap as children.

  And maybe she thought about those days or the way she had ruined my wedding but not intended to and of her sad, screwed-up life that she had made worse with alcohol and pot or Kyle’s shattered life or her youthful dreams of riches that lay far beyond her grasp. Faded now, they were wisps of dying smoke in a distant sky.

  But the tragedy of my wedding was so disturbing that it would forever haunt my memory, for my mother’s senseless act seemed to set the tone for every bad thing that followed from that day on.

  That evening, after leaving my reception, after burning the diary and the envelope contents from her safe, after smoking a cigarette and looking out at Loudon Lake, I think she must have made up her mind to seek the peace and solace that had so long eluded her but to seek it in a different place.

  Martha Beth Kelly drew a Smith & Wesson revolver from her purse, put the barrel to her temple, and blew her brains out.

  That was my mother.

  And as flawed as she was, I loved her.

  32

  * * *

  Loudon Lake

  The man heard the GPS ding, and a metallic voice announced, “You have arrived at your destination.”

  Not that he needed to be told. He knew the house. A white-painted sign in wrought iron above the mailbox announced the name: ­Lakeview.

  It was set back from a minor country road that hardly saw any traffic. He could just make out the two-story home through some tall pine trees, built of brown cut stone and gray-painted siding. A lake and a private dock lay beyond. A calm expanse of water beyond the trees, with a few sailboats and motorboats.

  He drove past Lakeview and at the end of the road did a U-turn, kept the engine idling, and stared out. Two more properties lay farther along the road, but he saw no one. No sign of any external security cameras, either. Thick woods lay to the left and right. He figured he could walk up to the house through the woods and approach the rear without being seen.

  The neighborhood was mostly small farms and multiacre lots. Tons of privacy, which was perfect for what he had in mind. He’d already checked on Google Maps, wanting to make sure there were no changes since the last time he was here.

  Eight years was a long time, and he wanted to be certain of the layout.

  Lots of tracks and narrow roads snaked off in every direction, a public walkway and park nearby that wound its way down to the lake. He knew which track to take.

  He shifted into gear and drove until he turned the Explorer into a heavily wooded parking lot for lakeside walkers. A track veered off, thick woods on either side. He drove the Explorer along it for another hundred yards, then reversed the vehicle into the track, careful not to rev the engine. After reversing twenty yards, he turned off the ignition and jerked on the parking brake. His car was masked by trees now, and it couldn’t be seen from the road.

  He rolled down the window and listened. Silence, except for the birds. He glimpsed the brown cut stone and gray-painted house through the trees. No cars were parked outside in the driveway. He knew from Google Maps that it could be approached through the woodland from two sides.

  He’d go the rest of the way on foot, taking care not to make too much noise. The damp ground was strewn with dead leaves and rotted wood, the smell of forest mold drenching the air.
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  His jaw hurt, and so did the gaping wound that the prosthesis covered. It happened now and then, a deep seething pain that seemed to begin in the bone. He took a couple of OxyContin painkillers, swallowing them with some water from a plastic bottle on the passenger seat.

  Then he pulled on the black pigskin gloves. Removing the Kimber .45 from under his seat, he found the Taser in the glove compartment and slid both into his jacket pockets. Next was a set of locksmith’s skeleton keys on a steel ring that he kept in the CD compartment. He stuffed them into his jeans.

  The last thing—a black woolen ski mask—he tucked inside his jacket.

  He grabbed his black leather jacket and climbed out of the Explorer. He locked it with the key instead of the remote so as not to make any noise.

  A jolt of dread slammed into him, knowing what he had to do.

  But first he needed to watch the house, check things out before he made his move.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, he filled his lungs, then started to walk into the woods.

  33

  * * *

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  9:50 a.m.

  Four hours until Jack’s call.

  I drove up into the Seven Oaks subdivision, off Kingston Pike. The place was heavily wooded, like a forest in places.

  Courtney’s aunt Jean lived in a rancher built in the seventies, a ­butter-colored brick-and-siding that looked a little dated by now. Courtney’s Toyota convertible, scarlet with a brown top, was already there.

  I kept the sweater and hoodie on the passenger seat. Just seeing them made me hopeful.

  Courtney came to the door when I rang, looking glamorous as always. And even without the helping hand from a Nashville plastic surgeon and a regular Botox fix, the years had been good to her. Just saying.

  Her last husband—there had been two—had been a well-off but slightly dodgy haulage company owner named Sammy Frisco. A divorce settlement from Sammy kept her in a little extra comfort. Kids never seemed to be part of her plan. “They looked great on paper, honey, but I want a life, not servitude. Got enough of that in the military.”

  Her current beau—she never told me much about him except that she was lukewarm about the guy—was a divorced colonel, and he wanted her to quit the service. He planned on retiring to the Florida Keys and wanted her to come with him. Courtney claimed she’d be taking off the harness in eighteen months and was thinking about taking up the offer. Daiquiris and ocean sunsets and Jimmy Buffett appealed, even if the guy didn’t exactly ring her bell. “Even so, when the time comes, I’ll be out of the trap faster than a greyhound on speed. I’ve had me enough of military life.”

  When she came to the door, Courtney wore her captain’s uniform, with the CID flashes, everything crisply pressed, with a white shirt.

  “How are you doing, honey? I know that’s a dumb question, you’ve got to be in turmoil.” She hugged me warmly, holding my hand tightly, her eyes showing her concern.

  I was glad to feel the comforting embrace of an old friend, and when we finally let go of each other and I wiped my eyes, we moved into the kitchen. “I’m still in shock, Courtney. My mind’s a riot.”

  I so wanted to confide in her about Jack’s call. Wanted to show her the sweater and hoodie. But I couldn’t, not after Jack’s warning. We sat at the kitchen table. Courtney poured us coffee.

  “I can’t see how it could be any other way. I had some time before work intrudes and wanted to let you know I’m here for you. Saw the story on the news.”

  “It . . . it all seems so crazy.”

  “I can get that.” She shook her head. “After eight years, then for things to turn up like this and to have to deal with it all over again, why, that’s mind-wrecking. Twilight Zone stuff.”

  On a table lay her belt and holstered sidearm. Her civvies were on a hanger on the kitchen door—a pastel-pink sweater with a string of sequins across the top, designer jeans, and heels, to be topped off by a couple of expensive rings and a diamante bracelet. Her blond hair was cut shoulder-length, her nails expertly manicured. On summer holidays she always put tiny glitter sprays on the cuticles, but on duty it was Plain Jane stuff. She was still sexy, vivacious, a looker.

  And here’s the weird thing: Chad saw Courtney for about six months after his first divorce. She did a single tour of duty in Iraq, and that’s where they “hooked up,” as she liked to put it, in Courtney-speak meaning they had a fling. She liked the idea of the high life.

  “I should have found me a millionaire a long time ago. Money can be an aphrodisiac, honey.”

  I guess I knew what she meant. And I think for a time Courtney thought she had found her millionaire with Chad. But once or twice after a few vinos too many, she told me she always felt she was punching above her weight. “Old money and West Point, they set a kind of high bar, you know. A high one to keep reaching for.”

  I knew what she meant. When the fling ended, there were no hard feelings—or as Courtney claimed, “Chad and I can still be friends.”

  We never talked about it. I guess our individual relationships with the same guy were a no-man’s land between us, a territory we never really explored—or wanted to. Maybe there were mines we were afraid would go off? Especially when Chad and I started seeing each other. But I never sensed any animosity from Courtney when I started seeing Chad. And I could understand that Chad would have found her attractive.

  Any guy would, money or not.

  She held my hands in both of hers. “You look tired. Did I disturb you? Were you trying to sleep?”

  “No, I was visiting Kyle. I slept badly last night. Just lay on my mom’s bed, got to thinking about the past . . . all the bad stuff that happened.”

  She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. “Hey, you don’t want to do too much of that, not right now. It’s not good for you. I wonder if Jean has any wine.”

  “I couldn’t drink, Courtney.”

  “Hey, I’m not talking about you, it’s for me, honey. I need something to settle my shocked nerves.”

  She found a bottle of cabernet in a cupboard, poured herself a large glass, and looked at me. “Sure you won’t have one?”

  “If I start now, there’s no telling when I might stop.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  I told her. My eyes were wet.

  Courtney meshed her hand with mine. “It’s all so weird. But the one shining ray of hope is that they may all be alive. Do they honestly think Jack and the children could have survived? I guess they wouldn’t feed you bull on something like that, give you false hope.”

  “It’s what Dexter, the NTSB guy, is saying. He seemed certain. They’re still looking, searching the undergrowth for evidence.”

  Courtney massaged my arm. “Did you tell your dad?”

  “Yes. I think he’s already on his way back.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s good, you need him around right now. Me, I’m still reeling. Even to think they could have somehow survived and yet Jack never contacted you. I just can’t get my head around it. It’s . . . it’s like something you’d see on TV, in a movie.”

  I could feel the empathy, her voice warm with concern. She was such a good friend.

  “Your poor heart . . . I don’t know what to say, Kath. I really don’t. Except I’m sure that everybody involved will do everything they can to get to the bottom of this.”

  “You know what’s bizarre, now that I think of it? Something I never told anyone.”

  “What?”

  “Twice in the months after Jack disappeared, I thought I saw him in the woods behind our house. I was sure it was him. So sure I thought I was going crazy.” I looked at Courtney. “And there was another time. It was kind of scary.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d started seeing Chad. It was maybe eighteen months after Jack disappeared. Chad and I c
ame out of a downtown restaurant one night. It was winter and cold. He put his coat over my shoulders. Just then, I saw a car start up across the lot. An old Ford pickup.”

  “So?”

  “The driver lit up a cigarette. That’s when I got a shiver down my spine. The guy behind the wheel wore a baseball cap, and his collar was pulled up, but he still looked so much like Jack that my breath caught in my throat. I was stunned.”

  “You should have told me, honey.”

  “The Ford drove off. I said nothing to Chad. But that . . . that image stayed with me for a long time. I told myself it couldn’t have been him. He was dead, I felt sure. But now . . . now I’m not so sure.”

  Courtney hugged me again, patted my back. “Like I said, you don’t want to do too much of that kind of thinking right now. It ain’t good for you.”

  The back of her hand touched my face. “Hey, you mind if I change out of uniform? I’m on a case, and I’ve got a meeting to go to.”

  Courtney often swore civvies on a job. “Sure.”

  In uniform, Courtney reminded me of the contradiction of some convent girls I knew, demure on the outside but smoking hot and wild on the inside. She slipped off her tunic and skirt, stripping down to her panties and bra. Once she pulled on her civilian clothes and let down her hair, the transformation was immediate. Gone was straitlaced Courtney, all professional and somber. Now she was a woman who’d catch your eye in the mall or on the street. It was easy to see why men found her attractive.

  After that time when I found Courtney and my father kissing, their clothes half off on a warm summer night along the lakeshore, we never talked about it. A couple of times we tried, but neither of them had much to say about it, and I stopped bringing it up. I didn’t like to think about it.

  She grabbed her sidearm. Out of uniform, she was addressed in civvy street as Agent Adams, not by her military rank. “Would you like me to come over later tonight? We can talk, if you feel up to it?”