When Secrets Die

by Lynn S. Hightower

  It was an area that offered the kind of vacation no one admits they actually take—a vacation of mini golf, Wal-Mart, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and pancakes. If you figured that the locals made a living by giving people what they wanted, then I took the optimistic view that Americans weren’t as spoiled as people say they are, since so many of them seemed perfectly content to come and stay here.

  Each of the three towns had its own flavor. Sevierville was a town devoted to the locals, though it allowed for the seasonal influx of tourists. Sevierville had the most normal things—a movie theater, a Kroger’s, and a Golden Corral Restaurant. Pigeon Forge was wall-to-wall souvenir shops—my personal favorite the one advertising SWIMSUITS, LEATHER, FUDGE & KNIVES. Something for everyone. Gatlinburg defined cute, tucked away at the bottom of the Smoky Mountains. If you followed the narrow and climbing Ski Mountain Road, you would find chalets and a ski lodge, and perhaps the occasional bear.

  We passed outlet malls, Hillbilly Golf, horseback riding stables (including one where you could get married in the saddle), and Dolly Parton’s Splash Country. Most of the hotel rooms advertised rates from twenty-nine ninety-nine a night all the way up to fifty dollars. Some of the marquees claimed that their rooms were newly renovated, and I pictured worn hotel rooms that smelled of industrial-strength cleanser and embedded cigarette smoke.

  The trio of towns was surrounded by mountains and farmland. I was struck by the way the locals adhered to truth in advertising. All of the people filling the tour buses and driving the RVs knew exactly what to expect. The signs were very specific. COME AND SEE THE LEAVES. And they did have leaves, lots of them, on and off the trees. COME AND SEE THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. We were months from Christmas, yet the lights were up everywhere, all over all three towns. I counted three Christmas stores. The residents landed on the high-end slope of genius. They invited the world to visit and enjoy what they had, leaves and lights and mountains, and made a living in a town with few natural resources and little industry. Everyone was happy—the tourists, who got what they came for, and the locals, who did not have to move away from their beautiful mountains to make a living. I felt a certain admiration.

  The area clearly had one industry, and that was marriage. It was Hillbilly Vegas and the Poconos—southern style—with chapel after chapel, jewelry stores that promised one-hour wedding ring sizing, and boutiques that sold wedding dresses at half price. The little motels showed heart-shaped Jacuzzi tubs on their signs.

  A new segment of the highway funneled traffic directly into the expansive parking lot of Dollywood, and billboards proclaimed an assortment of local shows that included The Dixie Stampede, Country Tonight, and The Black Bear Jamboree. There were pancake houses on every block, sometimes more than one, and signs for the Gatlinburg artists’ community that included a world-renowned chain-saw carver and a boutique called Treasures from Around the World.

  Joel and I were intrigued by the sign promising a real English pub, the Fox and Parrot, which seemed an odd thing to find in the middle of the Tennessee mountains.

  “Do you think they have real English beer at that pub?” I asked Joel.

  We were stuck behind another RV, this one from Wisconsin. It amazed me that someone would drive here all the way from Wisconsin, though I had only the vaguest idea how far that was. Far.

  “Let’s put it on our list of things to do. Going to an English pub in Tennessee.”

  “Not everybody can say they did that.”

  “See that chapel back there?” Joel said.

  I turned and looked over my shoulder. I saw three. I wondered which one he meant.

  “It’s a drive-through. Like Vegas.”

  “How come you haven’t asked me to marry you?”

  The cab of the car flooded with tension. Joel did not answer, just kept driving. I watched the scenery go past. Another wedding chapel, and then a welcome center. It seemed to go welcome center, wedding chapel, pancake house, then start all over again.

  “Are you going to do that thing where you pretend you don’t hear me?” I asked.

  “I heard,” Joel said.

  “Because I asked you why you haven’t asked me to marry you.”

  “I figure we’ll get married one of these days.”

  “One of these days?” I pulled my hand, which he happened to be holding, out of his.

  He gave me a sideways look, and then checked the rearview mirror and both side-view mirrors. I’m not sure what he was looking for. Help, maybe.

  He took my hand back. “We can get married if you want to.”

  “If I want to? Like, against your will?”

  “I wouldn’t marry you if it was against my will.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When do you want to get married?”

  He shifted his weight and frowned. The serious frown that made me worry. “Give it a couple more years, and we’ll see.”

  “What do you need a couple more years for? What exactly are you waiting to see? We’ve been living together for a year.”

  He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Nope.”

  He looked at me. I was still holding his hand and had not moved to my own side of the front seat, which is what I do when I’m mad. And the truth was, I wasn’t mad. You can’t fault a man if he doesn’t want to get married. I wouldn’t want a man who didn’t want me.

  “Joel. You should know that I have definitely decided that I want to get married.”

  “Okay.”

  “You should also know that it doesn’t necessarily have to be to you.”

  “Lena—”

  “That’s all I have to say, right now.”

  Because my feeling is that while you certainly cannot blame a man if he does not want to get married, you cannot blame a woman if she does.

  Joel’s mobile rang. He answered quickly, his mobile his lifeline, muttering so that I could not hear what he said. He pulled into the left lane and made an illegal U-turn.

  “Time,” he said.

  We drove in silence. I counted welcome centers. I was at sixteen by the time we made it back to the Sevierville courthouse, where we were meeting up with the FBI.

  The head FBI agent, McKay, waited for us outside in the parking lot. He was stocky and about five-ten—not the tall and perfect physical specimen you see on television—and he wore round spectacles that reminded me of the granny glasses John Lennon used to wear way back when. He was nicely pulled together, in the way of FBI agents, with brownish blondish hair gelled and sprayed back. I could smell the aftershave he used. He wore his deep black suit coat and crisp white shirt with flair. This is the mark of an FBI agent, this little bit of style. It separates them from the Secret Service (studied dullness) and the ATF (individualists, as much as one can be on the federal payroll). Of course, my favorite ATF agent, Wilson McCoy, had a lot of style, but he was from Los Angeles, so you can’t judge by that. Also, last I heard, he was out of ATF and running a restaurant at the beach in Marina Del Rey.

  McKay gave Joel a nod and a smile that had a hint of warmth. They seemed friendly enough, for mortal enemies.

  “Joel.”

  “Booker.” Joel waved a hand in my direction. “This is my fiancée, Lena Padget.”

  My mouth opened, but I managed to say hello.

  Booker McKay shook my hand, and then actually grinned at Joel. “Congratulations,” he said. “I hadn’t heard you were getting married.”

  I hadn’t either. Wasn’t there supposed to be a proposal or something? Or had I actually done the proposing myself, as far as Joel was concerned?

  “When are you doing the deed?” McKay asked.

  I looked over at Joel. I wanted to know too.

  “Next week,” Joel said.

  McKay looked down at me. “You guys could always stop off here at one of the chapels.”

  I waited t
o hear if Joel had made any specific plan, but McKay’s cell phone rang, ending the flow of information.

  McKay glanced at his watch, then nodded at Joel. “War room’s ready. Local sheriff’s department set us up. We’ll brief everybody in twenty minutes. Before we go in there, though—” He looked over at me.

  “Am I a problem?” I asked.

  “No, no. But here’s the thing. We’ve got a lot of civilians here—you, and the girl’s mother, Emma Marsden. Dr. Tundridge and his wife. Everybody’s anxious, and everybody wants to be involved. And I’m glad everybody is here, on hand, in case I need to consult with somebody. But I’ve still got a job to do.”

  I folded my arms. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve set up a spare conference room for the families. I’d like you to be the liaison.”

  “You mean the babysitter,” I said.

  “I mean the babysitter,” he said.

  I pointed at Joel. “What about him?”

  McKay raised an eyebrow. “He gets to choose. He can come with me or stay with you.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Whatever I can do to help.”

  “Good,” he said. He headed toward the door. Joel hung back and looked at me.

  “You want me to go with him and report to you?” Joel said.

  “You know me well.”

  He kissed me, just a quick brush of the lips. “I’ll tell you what I want you to know.”

  “I’d like it better if you’d tell me what I want me to know.”

  He winked and walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Joel swore afterward that it had been a mistake, but he almost smiled when he said it, so I’ve never been sure. He called me ten minutes after we’d parted in the parking lot, told me the FBI had just gotten moving on their plan and were calling it Operation Angel. Then he said something muffled that sounded like good-bye, except he did not hang up. I heard voices. I heard McKay arguing with someone, and I put my mobile on speaker phone and set it down in the center of the table where I sat with Emma Marsden, Marcus Franklin, Syd and Theodore Tundridge, and Mr. French. The newest member of our group, Janine Russell, sat near Emma. They had hit it off. Janine was the wife of Charlie Russell, a social worker from Lexington who had gone out to visit Amaryllis Burton this morning and never returned. Charlie Russell had been looking for Blaine, unofficially for a friend, according to his wife. He was not there “officially,” as in with the knowledge of the Office of Child Protective Services, because, as she told me privately, out of earshot of Tundridge, he thought that Emma Marsden was being railroaded.

  They’d put us in a small room on the second floor, off a courtroom, and it had a faux wood table and twelve folding chairs. I had been worried that Dr. Tundridge would recognize me from the night I had met him in the pathology lab, but evidently cleaning crews were invisible. He shook my hand when I introduced myself, nodded curtly at Emma Marsden, and immediately engaged Marcus Franklin in technical conversation. Although he sat next to his wife, they seemed miles apart.

  It was not a congenial grouping. The Tundridges sat with Mr. French on one side of the table, and Janine Russell, Emma, and Marcus Franklin sat on the other side. I didn’t sit at all.

  From the noise of chairs scraping the floor and random coughing, it sounded like McKay was addressing a full house. I listened while he introduced everyone—a six-person FBI team, my future husband, Joel, and three sheriff’s deputies. I had met the deputies in the hallway. They wore beige uniforms, and were friendly. They did not seem inclined to turf wars, and in fact were low-key and professional. One was female. I was impressed.

  I heard a tapping noise, like someone was using a pointer, then McKay’s voice.

  “This is the subject, Amaryllis Burton. We’ve had agents researching Ms. Burton’s background, and we’ve had somebody talk to the husband.” This was the value of the agency. They could send people out literally all over the country, everybody pursuing his one piece of the puzzle, and reporting back in a matter of hours.

  “She was born here in Sevierville, got a nursing degree in Louisville, Kentucky, and worked as an LPN for about ten years. During that time she was employed by three hospitals, one rehabilitation center, and a doctor’s office, where she was employed until early this week. She left under shady circumstances in every work situation; usually she was fired, or about to be fired. She is manipulative and twisted. Do not underestimate this woman. People around Ms. Burton tend to get very sick with liver ailments. The second hospital she worked for was pretty sure she was poisoning patients, and she worked in the pediatric unit with children. In every work situation, she’s been involved either with infants or young children.”

  Emma Marsden sobbed. I looked at Marcus Franklin. We might have to take her out of the room.

  “Agents have searched her home in Lexington. The toothbrush, shampoo, things you’d need every day, are all gone. Clearly, she packed up and left. She told a neighbor, who saw her packing things into her car, that she was taking a leave of absence from work and would not be back for a few weeks. She stopped her mail.

  “We talked to the husband. He is employed as a mortgage portfolio analyst, and at best is home three weekends out of the month. He says there are no problems in the marriage.”

  Someone in the back of the room laughed cynically.

  “Mr. Burton says that he and Amaryllis had three children, total, none living. The first two died of SIDS as infants—one at two months, one at five. Both girls. Their third child, a male, lived to the age of eight, but was sick off and on most of his childhood. Mr. Burton said that doctors thought the boy had some kind of rare and congenital liver defect. Mr. Burton said that he got a vasectomy after the birth of the third child, much against his wife’s wishes. She has reportedly never forgiven him, and has several times looked into adoption and foster care, but has always been turned down.”

  “For once the system worked,” Janine Russell said softly.

  Dr. Tundridge gave her a look, and I thought for a moment that he was going to shush her. But the look she gave him across the table made him change his mind. I realized I was holding my breath. McKay should have given me one of those deputies.

  McKay was still talking. “Deputy Sheriff Krupp says that the local police had a call three hours ago from a Janine Russell, wife of Charlie Russell, a social worker with the Department of Child Protective Services in Lexington, Kentucky. Mr. Russell and his wife arrived in Gatlinburg early this morning, rented a hotel room, and split up. His wife went shopping, and Mr. Russell went to check on Blaine Marsden, who was reportedly at the home of Amaryllis Burton. Mr. Russell was working unofficially on information provided to him by one of his charges. One of Blaine Marsden’s friends from school called Mr. Russell, who is her social worker, and said that her friend Blaine had called for help, and that she was staying at the home of Amaryllis Burton. It was unclear whether or not she was there against her will. Mr. Russell went to the Burton home this morning to check the situation out, and has not returned. We had an agent do one drive-by in front of the house. Lights are on, someone is home. Mr. Russell drove a silver Nissan, and that car is nowhere in sight. The local police and deputies have had an APB out, but so far, there’s been no sign of Mr. Russell or his car. His wife is extremely concerned and says there is no way he would not have called her by now. He does not answer his cell phone.

  “We have reason to believe that Ms. Burton is holding Blaine Marsden in order to sell her blood.”

  There was a murmur in the room, but McKay held up a hand.

  “I know, I know. But Blaine Marsden is the half-sister of Ned Marsden, who was a patient of the clinic where Ms. Burton worked. The boy’s blood had unusual genetic materials that were patented for over four million dollars by the doctor who employed Ms. Burton.”

  Someone muttered something, but I did not look up. I did not want to see them glaring at each other across the conference table.

  Some of McKay’s people were whisperin
g. McKay kept talking.

  “This doctor, Theodore Tundridge, received an e-mail offering to sell him blood that contained the same genetic material for research purposes. Doctor Tundridge did retrieve this blood sample, and had done so before we caught up with him. We have established that the offer was not some kind of hoax, and Dr. Tundridge is cooperating fully with this investigation.”

  And that lets you off the hook, I thought, giving him a look.

  “The theory,” McKay said, “is that the blood sample was left by Amaryllis Burton, who is assuming that Blaine Marsden’s blood will contain the same material as her half-brother’s. We think that’s why she’s holding the girl.”

  The tapping noises again. McKay probably had a diagram he was pointing to—X’s and O’s, like football strategy. Their plan was simple. The FBI would surround the house, one of the agents would ring the doorbell, and they’d swarm, heavily armed and ready for anything. They would take Amaryllis Burton by surprise to avoid any kind of a hostage standoff. They were set to leave in twenty minutes. Were there any questions?

  “I’ve got a question,” Janine Russell said.

  I turned the cell phone off.

  Russell was looking at the doctor. She was small and slender, hair severe in a French knot. “What made you accuse this woman here of Munchausen by proxy? Just what kind of evidence did you have? Because from what I know, and I know a lot, you don’t have a shred of proof.”

  “Who exactly are you, anyway?” Tundridge said.

  Janine Russell leaned across the table. “You know exactly who I am—you heard the man in there. I’m Charlie Russell’s wife. And I happen to know that Emma Marsden here isn’t the only person you’ve made accusations against. And what I want to know is why.”

  “That kind of information is confidential. And frankly, I don’t care what you want.”

  Syd Tundridge looked at her husband. “Well, I want to know, Ted. Do you really have anything on Emma Marsden?”