Chapter 21
Phoebe pondered death and dreams as she drove away from Mrs. Willard’s house and toward her next call. When her phone chirped to let her know she had a message, it startled her out of her meditative state.
She played the message. “Hey Phoebe, it’s Henry. It looks like I’ll be goin to Cataloochee to change out that elk’s collar this afternoon. I’z wonderin if you might still wanna come along. You’ll like it. It’s a real pretty area.”
“Oh, and I found out who that backpack belonged to, but I can’t get in touch with the owner, so I need to keep tryin to track em down in case somethin’s gone wrong. They coulda got hurt or somethin. I doubt any of our bears would’ve hurt em, but you never know. Bears are like people, they all got different personalities. If you run into the wrong bear on the wrong day …. Well anyway, let me know if you’d like to go.” Then he gave her a number to call.
Henry was such a good person. Phoebe didn’t have a single bad memory of him. Of course, nearly all her memories of him were more than half a lifetime ago. But still, she hoped they could be friends again like they’d been when they were little. She could use a friend.
She thought about the invitation, but she was torn. She wanted to see Cataloochee and the elk, and even Henry. But the Henry she’d been friends with had been young. Now he was a man.
Phoebe didn’t want any more man problems. She wasn’t in any condition to go through more of that. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn’t want to go on another date for the rest of her life. She liked men, but at this point she didn’t really want one in her house. She knew she was getting set in her ways, but she enjoyed directing her own life.
So, she decided to give the trip a pass and continued toward her next house call. A few minutes later, though, as she thought about the mystery of the backpack, she realized Henry hadn’t told her who it belonged to. In the end, curiosity won out and she returned Henry’s call and arranged to meet him later in the day.
***
Phoebe made a stop at the gas station that was used as an office by White Oak’s redneck mafia. It was a charming old Esso station that Lester and Fate had spared no expense in restoring to glittering original condition.
Sitting around a table in a vintage booth from a diner surrounded by Sinclair Dino and Tony Tiger memorabilia, the low key duo oversaw all the illegal, surreptitious, and questionable activities in the area, including most of the professional plant and animal poaching, illegal drug and alcohol production, thieving, and goodness knew what else.
Times were changing in East Tennessee. Law enforcement’s tentacles could reach nearly everywhere nowadays – everywhere but a place that enjoyed the isolation and insularity of the Smokies.
In White Oak any stranger would be immediately obvious and locals weren’t likely to tell a stranger anything. Cell phones and computers were useless in most of the area. The dense vegetation and cave-riddled rock made many kinds of aerial surveillance ineffective, as Eric Rudolf had demonstrated to the intense frustration of national law enforcement authorities.
A place like this was in great demand by criminals of all stripes. That meant the men’s connections were no longer merely local, but extended into organized crime both in the U.S. and overseas. In this new market, white trash could trade up. Lester and Fate’s kids could be the next Kennedy or Rockefeller.
Criminal dynasties fascinated Phoebe. America was run by them, and as far as Phoebe knew, so was every other country in the world. The most successful ones hid not only in plain sight, but in the Presidency, Capitol Hill, and as CEOs of all the biggest companies.
She’d never thought much about badness in a bloodline til a friend who worked at Child Protective Services said they’d done a survey and found that nearly every serious case of child abuse or neglect in Knoxville involved one of seven local families. So, crime, like a lot of other things, ran in families.
As Phoebe walked through the door, Steve Earle’s redneck anthem, Copperhead Road, was playing from a beautiful antique jukebox. The eerie wailing of bagpipes, manic Irish fiddle, and percussion at the emphatic but constrained pace of clogging perfectly conveyed the raucous and relentless mood of the mountain culture.
Fate pointed a remote control toward the jukebox and the volume was reduced to a faint background noise. Polite greetings were exchanged. Not for the first time, Phoebe marveled at the lovely manners you so often encountered in sociopaths, at least the ones you got along with.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” asked Lester, pronouncing the last word play-zure, then spitting tobacco into a container at his feet. At least Phoebe hoped there was a container there. He was a huge man with hands big enough to palm Phoebe’s whole head.
He was wearing a vintage green work shirt with the name Bob embroidered in an oval patch on the left chest. For a moment Phoebe wondered if it was some sort of hillbilly alias, Lester, AKA, Bob. But then she realized it was simply more of the gas station memorabilia.
“I just wanted to thank you gentlemen for the antibiotics. I really appreciate em. Your kindness will help a lot of people around here who can’t afford the high-dollar medicine. Might even save some lives.”
The men looked at each other with feigned confusion.
They were good, Phoebe thought to herself. Real pros. But if you knew who they were, the performance seemed more like a skit in the Redneck Crooks Comedy Tour.
“Well, thanks anyway,” she said and started to leave, then remembered Henry saying he couldn’t get hold of the owner of the backpack. Maybe these guys would know something that would help. She knew they’d never tell her anything straight out, but she also knew she’d be able to tell if they actually did know anything from the way they answered her.
She turned back and said, “I’d don’t mean to bother ya’ll, but it looks like somebody mighta gone missin in the park. I’z wonderin if y’all’d seen or heard anything about that.”
Both men shook their heads with expressions that said they were terribly sorry not to be able to be of assistance, but they just didn’t know a thing about it. Seeing this pantomime performed à deux, Phoebe realized it was an expression that men in their lines of work would’ve had to perfect early in their careers.
Engaging in the occasional brief conversation with them was one thing, but Lester and Fate had reputations for being mean, which, in the Smokies and depending on who was talking, covered anything from rudeness up to and including serial killing. Phoebe wasn’t exactly scared of these men, but something in their manner made her wonder if the missing backpacker might’ve accidentally stumbled onto something they shouldn’t have. And maybe Sean had, too.
If these guys didn’t want a body to be found, it wouldn’t be. Thugs in the Smokies didn’t fool around with sissy drive-by shootings or botched disposals of ashes. They were highly effective killers, trained from childhood to hunt, shoot, and everything that went along with that. It was why most of the military snipers were recruited from the southern Appalachian highlands. Heck, Phoebe could shoot better than most law enforcement or even military personnel. It was just part of the local culture.
“Well, I sure would appreciate it if you’d let me know if you do happen to hear anything.”
“We sure will,” said Fate.
Phoebe wasn’t certain, but she suspected both of them were struggling to hide smiles.
Chapter 22
“Where are ye?” said Waneeta.
“Just leavin the Esso station. Went by to talk to the guys.”
“Why? Did yer car git stole?”
Phoebe laughed. “No, I went to ask em for a favor.” She didn’t dare mention the drug theft, even to Waneeta.
“You want em to steal ye a new car? God knows you need one. What’re ye gonna git?”
“No, I’m not gittin a new car!” said Phoebe, laughing even harder. “And don’t you talk bad about my car. Me and Eleanor are doin just fine. We understand each other.”
“Okay,” said Waneeta in
a huff, “Then don’t tell me what you’re doin consortin with the hillbilly mob.”
“I was gonna tell ye, ye just kept interrupting me! I’z tryin to help Henry. He’s lookin for somebody who mighta gone missin in the park, so I asked em if they knew anything.”
“Think they’d tell ye if they did?”
“Not straight out and certainly not in front of each other, but yeah, one way or another, they’d tell me what they could.”
“Those two are scary. They’d cut yer heart out for a nickel.”
“I know they’ve done some bad things, and thank God I don’t know exactly what, but honestly, they’ve always been good to me. I’m not afraid of em. They got a code they go by and I can sorta understand what it is. They’re not crazy.”
“It’s funny,” said Waneeta, “we can find a way to get along with the criminals we know, but we want the other ones locked up.”
“Nobody’s all good or all bad. People aren’t that simple,” said Phoebe. “That’s the thing I love about White Oak. Everybody’s got their place in the community. Nobody gits left out.”
“Nobody except the whole rest of the world!” Waneeta crowed.
“If you can still remember,” Phoebe said, “would you mind tellin me why you called?”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Waneeta. “It’s Nerve. She’s bein a real pill today. “The family’s askin for ye. Accordin to the daughter, you’re the only one left Nerve’ll recognize. That says loads, don’t it?”
Minerva Langston, called Nerve by everyone who knew her, was suffering from dementia. She’d never been easy to deal with, thus her nickname. And if a vote had been held she’d have been voted by the whole community to be the person most likely to go senile in a way that would make her even more cranky.
“Doc always says when people get old, especially if they get senile, they just become more of whatever they’ve always been.” She didn’t add that he’d told her that when she’d asked him about an old man she saw beating his elderly wife with an aluminum quad-cane in front of the grocery store.
A bystander had intervened before the old coot could kill her, but Phoebe’d always worried about what went on at home when nobody was there to help the woman. She hoped the old lady had put a cast iron skillet upside that mean old man’s head.
“Nerve’s no problem,” said Phoebe. “I’m not far from there.”
Phoebe found Nerve interesting. She was crazy and mean, but Phoebe still loved to talk to her because she’d come out with some of the most fascinating things sandwiched in with the ranting. It was like the devil and the angels were at war in her head and if you listened to her, you could hear both sides. Like a radio tuned to the Apocalypse.
***
When Phoebe got to the house, Nerve’s oppressed daughter-in-law, Teresa, nearly collapsed with relief and gratitude. Phoebe hugged her and asked how things were going. She learned that Nerve was refusing food and medicine, staying up day and night, ranting, and accusing everyone of trying to poison her. “Give me a few minutes,” Phoebe said, “Then bring her food in. I’ll try to git her to eat and take her meds.”
She went down the hall to Nerve’s room. It was easy to tell where she was because she was shouting in a harsh nasal twang, “Who the hell’s that? Whoever it is, tell em go to blazes. They can git the hell outta my house. I don’t give a damn who it is.”
“Hey there Miss Minnie,” Phoebe said, coming into the bedroom where Nerve sat in a rocking chair next to the window. “Hope it’s not a bad time. I was missin ye and thought I’d come by for a visit.”
Nerve instantly quieted when she heard Phoebe’s voice. She held out a gnarled hand to her. Phoebe took it and pulled a beautiful old cane-bottom chair over to sit beside her. They sat like that in silence for several minutes til Phoebe could feel Minerva relax.
Teresa crept into the room and set a tray on the bed. She slid it close enough for Phoebe to reach. “This is some pretty good lookin vegetable soup, Miss Minnie, whaddya say?”
Nerve, it seemed, had run down. She had nothing at all to say. She let Phoebe feed her like a small child and then took her medicine. “Do ye think you might be able to rest now?” Phoebe asked.
Nerve closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the high-backed rocker. Phoebe waited, hoping Minerva’d be able to drop off to sleep. As she sat there, her mind wandered to her grief over Sean’s death and then to her sadness over never being able to make her relationships last.
Without opening her eyes, Nerve spoke in a soft voice, saying, “Honey, they’s only one kinda woman who’s a lookin fer a husband … and that’s one who ain’t never had one before.”
Chapter 23
Jill was cleaning the restaurant when she glanced out the window and saw another flash. Any sign of human in an area like that, particularly prolonged signs in the same place were so unusual she decided to take a walk around Greenbrier to see if she could get a better look.
Like most people from the area, Jill loved the mountains. She’d knew she’d never be able to be happy living anywhere else. And she wasn’t afraid of the woods. She’d spent her whole childhood and youth roaming around by herself or with friends, building little cabins out of sticks and carpeting them with moss.
She felt safer in the woods than she did a city. The forest was so peaceful. So beautiful.
Jill drove as close to Laurel Mountain as she could, then got out to walk the rest of the way. There was an old logging track that sidehilled, ran parallel to but below the ridgeline. She made her way downhill through the woods, knowing she’d intersect it eventually.
She walked a few minutes until she heard a faint sound like wind chimes, but it was gone before she could be certain she wasn’t imagining it.
Moments later, she stepped down onto the old track worn smooth by mules pulling wooden sleds loaded with lumber. The trail wasn’t maintained, so it wasn’t easy to travel along it, but it kept to a gentle grade that hugged the side of the hill.
She heard the tinkling sound again. She was sure of it this time. The track was leading her toward it.
The tinkling grew louder. She walked til it was coming from somewhere above her. The footing was uneven, so she walked a few steps, then stopped and scanned the canopy overhead, listening, then walked a few more steps and scanned again.
She could tell she was zeroing in on the source of the sound. She prayed for a moment that the Lord would show her whatever He needed her to see, then she looked up again.
***
During the lunch hour, Phoebe called her office.
“Hidey there sister, it’s Phoebe. Anything goin on?”
“Nothing you’d wanna know about,” said Waneeta. “Remember what the politicians say, it’s all about plausible deniability.”
Both women laughed heartily at Waneeta’s wit.
At the sound of Waneeta’s rowdy laughter, Bruce heaved himself out of his chair and came to stand in the threshold of his office. He was hesitant to encroach on Waneeta’s physical space, but his obvious eavesdropping provoked Waneeta to issue one of her trademark non sequiturs, asking Phoebe, “Is the blood bright red, or is it black?”
“Are you on a personal call?” Bruce asked, with narrowed eyes.
Waneeta kept the phone to her ear and shook her head. Bruce didn’t move. Okay, she’d have to ramp it up to get rid of him. Speaking as if trying to reassure a frightened patient, she said, “Honey, they’s all kinds of reasons you might be seein blood in the toilet.”
Her verbal gambit had the desired effect, Bruce ducked back into his office, but he left the door ajar. In case he was still spying on her conversation, Waneeta added, “Is the blood mixed right in with the stool or is it just floatin out by itself in the toilet water?”
At that Bruce’s door slammed.
“How’s things goin with that cute ranger?” Waneeta said, as if they’d never been interrupted. “I heard he’s single.”
“I ain’t lookin to git married and anyway, he�
�s married to his job, or so I’ve been told,” said Phoebe.
“You two are pitiful. Just pitiful.”
“I’ll be perfectly happy to find a kind fella to be friends with. That’s all I’m lookin for these days. I am over romance.”
Waneeta let out a huge sigh.
“A lot of marriageable women don’t wanna get married,” said Phoebe.
“Name one.”
“Queen Elizabeth I, Greta Garbo, Coco Chanel. None of them would’ve had a bit of trouble findin a husband.”
“Doris Day got married four times,” said Waneeta, “Cleopatra was married four times, twice to her own brothers. And then there’s Elizabeth Taylor.”
Phoebe was momentarily confused, thinking Cleopatra was Elizabeth Taylor. She didn’t want Waneeta to get away with double counting. “Haven’t you ever wanted to give up?”
“Oh, hell no!” Waneeta said, laughing. “You fall off the horse, you gotta git right back on or else ye might lose yer nerve. Men can smell fear, honey, you can’t let em git the upper hand.”
“I thought it was horses that could smell fear, or maybe animals in general.”
“Men is animals,” Waneeta said. Over Phoebe’s laughter she added, “I’m serious.”
“I ain’t getting married!”
“Oh well, marriage ain’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Or divorces neither.”
“You get more work out of your ex-husbands than most women get out of men they’re still married to.”
“That’s true. Jimmy’s a great cook. Lately he’s been cookin everything off Dale Jr.’s website.”
Phoebe tried to imagine Dale Earnhart Jr. cooking and wondered what NASCAR cuisine might be. She visualized frying bacon on an engine block, or a drive thru for cars going over a hundred miles an hour. Her thoughts were interrupted by Waneeta saying, “Carl can fix anything. He’s a genius with cars, plumbing, electrical. And Wayne’s the best babysitter you could ask for. But it ain’t all been a bed of roses, I’m telling ye. I went through a rough time after my second divorce. I hadn’t ever told anybody this story cause I was too ashamed, but I’ll tell you.
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