In the private waiting room, I gave Melissa Bigham a barebones summary of what happened at the warehouse. She let me talk without interrupting, and then asked a few questions for clarification. I knew she buried her aggressive reporter’s instinct out of respect for the ordeal I’d been through and for Rachel. When she closed her notepad, she came over and hugged me. That simple gesture brought tears to my eyes. Receiving sympathy is much harder than giving it.
“Do you need a ride?” she asked.
“No. I’m going to walk across the street to Susan’s clinic. She’ll take me home.”
Melissa nodded. “Okay. In a day or two, when you feel up to it, maybe you’d give me another interview? I’m sure more stuff will come to light.”
“Just give me a call. I’ll be around.”
“I’m really sorry, Barry. I liked Rachel. She was a good reporter. A tough competitor.”
“Underneath it all, she was a good person.”
“I know. You wouldn’t have married her otherwise.” She kissed me gently on the cheek. “You’re always there for others when they lose someone close. Let us be there for you.”
She picked up her coat and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
I stood in the empty room, dreading what I had to do next. Someone needed to notify Rachel’s parents. It wasn’t the kind of news that should come from a stranger. I sat to collect my thoughts. My cell phone had been destroyed but I didn’t want to wait till I got home. The shooting would make the eleven o’clock news across the state. Her parents shouldn’t hear the report of their child’s death sandwiched between car commercials on a TV screen.
A gentle rap sounded on the door. Tommy Lee stepped inside, his battle-scarred face drawn and pale. He spoke no playful insult this time.
“How you doing?” He took a plastic chair beside me.
“Not so good. I’ve got to phone Rachel’s parents.”
“Not tonight. Not if you’re not ready. I notified the sheriff of Anson County. He’s going to break the news in person and take their minister with him.”
Some of the weight lifted from my shoulders. “Then I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Thanks for coming back to tell me.”
Tommy Lee cleared his throat. “I want you to listen to me for a few minutes.” He rubbed his rough hands together, and then gripped the chair’s armrests tightly. “You’ve come through a hell of a mess.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, but don’t kid yourself. You were in a small war up there. I know more about that than I care to remember. I know what it’s like to kill someone hand-to-hand and to see friends shot down beside me. You can’t just push those images to the back of your mind.”
My chest tightened as Tommy Lee’s words hit home. I could only nod.
“But you make peace with it,” he continued. “You did what you had to do because it was your duty. For a while, I thought it was duty to my country. But as I learned how the Vietnam War was conducted, how the politicians played games to cover their sorry asses, I realized my duty was to my men first, and whether the war was right or wrong didn’t matter. We put ourselves in harm’s way for a mission, but we rose to what others may call heroic efforts of self-sacrifice because of our buddies. We laid our lives on the line for each other.”
Raw emotion vibrated in his voice. He paused. His one eye studied me closely and his mutilated face bore silent witness to the extent of his self-sacrifice.
“We were a unit, a platoon, a band of brothers to use the Hollywood label. We were committed to something greater than the individual. We shared responsibility as well as danger.”
I didn’t know where Tommy Lee was going with this. Whether the words were for my benefit or for his.
“Now I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. Your actions went beyond the call of duty. You’d have made a damn fine soldier and I’d have been proud to have you in my platoon. Hell, you are in my platoon, and our duty is to this community. That’s a goal worth fighting and even dying for.” He shook his head and stared at the closed door for a second, as if seeing through it to the operating room. “But you aren’t responsible for the death of people who needlessly put their lives in danger. And for what? To get something on the air thirty seconds ahead of someone else? This wasn’t breaking some cover-up that would have gone undetected. This was personal ambition, pure and simple. That’s what cost Rachel her life.”
I said nothing.
“So you can’t blame yourself. I won’t repeat this outside of this room, but Rachel’s goal wasn’t worth the price. No way. It was a price she paid because of her foolishness, and not because of anything you did or didn’t do. I don’t want you carrying a burden that’s not yours to carry. Don’t pile one tragedy on top of another.”
I looked him in the eye. “I won’t.”
He slapped me on the knee. “Good. You need a lift?”
“Susan’s meeting me at the clinic.”
He stood and waited, expecting me to get up.
“I’m going to sit a few more minutes.” Then I lied. “Susan’s not quite ready.”
He turned to go and then stopped. “I’ll have a press briefing in the morning. You can skip it.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Say as little or as much as you want. The reporters will want to hear it from you.”
“Thanks. And thanks for what you said.”
Tommy Lee shrugged. “Let’s hope it’s the last speech you hear from me.” Then he laughed. “You were a good sport to stay awake.”
After he left, I spent several minutes reflecting on his words and how they fit with my feelings about Rachel’s death. One thing Tommy Lee would never know were the final words Rachel and I spoke to each other. I doubted Dave Brock would remember them or attach any special significance to them.
“I still love you,” she said. “I love you too,” I replied. “But you made the right call. What was best for you and for me.” Tommy Lee’s concern about piling tragedy on top of tragedy wouldn’t happen. In a strange way, Rachel and I had reconciled during those terrifying moments, as we lay bound to Travis Oakley’s Christmas trees. And I saw how unimportant the pursuit of a career could be. A life without holding family and friends close becomes the real tragedy. Because of Rachel’s choice, I’d returned to Gainesboro and found both family and friends who would never leave my heart.
I got up and left the waiting room. My waiting was over.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The follow-up to the Christmas tree case was fairly simple. Paulo Oliveira painted a detailed picture of how Carl and Bruce Hampton operated their scheme. The migrants were paid bonuses for their afterhours work, but Hampton made it clear anyone who refused lost his regular job and would never be hired again. He had threatened their lives and the income for their families. Some of the stolen trees were mixed in with the Atkinsons’ legitimate trees; others were snatched straight from the fields and delivered out of state. Carl and Hampton split the money. Paulo said it was the second year and the two men had grown bolder in the number of fields they planned to rob.
Rachel’s murder made all the networks, a terrible irony that negated any satisfaction I might have had from breaking the case. Brock sold the footage he’d taken at the warehouse and he sent Rachel’s parents half the proceeds. I gave him an on-camera statement summarizing the investigation and praising Rachel’s bravery and journalistic integrity. I heard that it aired, but I couldn’t bear to watch.
D.A. Jamison offered a plea bargain to Paulo that was generous. Brock and I testified how Bruce Hampton had duped him and that Paulo tried to help us once he realized Hampton’s true intentions. But Paulo had tied us up at gunpoint, and that action led directly to Rachel’s death. Jamison said four years active time was the best he could do, and Paulo’s public defender jumped at the deal.
Mayor Sammy Whitlock avoided Tommy Lee and me like we had the plague. He understood the consequences caused by his call to Ralph Atkinson a
nd he lived in fear his involvement would be made public. Tommy Lee was happy to keep him worrying.
Deputy Shelton was back on duty. It included Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Those who suffered the most from the aftermath besides Rachel’s parents were the Atkinsons and Mrs. Oakley. Ralph admitted Bruce Hampton had threatened to expose Carl if he didn’t keep quiet. Hampton also threatened to kill Greta because he wanted free access to the warehouses. Ralph had called Hampton with Mayor Whitlock’s news of the surrender, hoping Hampton would flee. When Travis was shot, Ralph knew he and Greta were in real danger.
Ralph had been bedridden since Carl’s funeral. Mountain wisdom prophesied he was “curlin’ up to die.”
Ron Simmons not only ran the dealership for him, but also started supervising the operation of the farm. He genuinely cared for the Atkinsons and I understood he’d been concerned that Carl had tried to bleed the dealership. He thought Carl had gotten involved with loan sharks and he believed he was giving me a real tip. That was the reason for the new safe and for Lucille going back through the books to search for any embezzlement that might have slipped past them.
I also understood why Ralph had been puzzled when I questioned him about his calls to Simmons. He knew what the phone records would show and tried to explain them as business calls. I jumped to the erroneous conclusion he’d contacted Simmons, but Hampton’s number was the first one he dialed after Mayor Whitlock tipped him off about the surrender.
Uncle Wayne checked on Greta now and then. He mentioned it in an off-handed way to Mom and me. I never batted an eye.
The week before Christmas we held a party at the funeral home. More than six weeks had passed since the events surrounding Rachel’s death and Mom insisted we do something cheerful for the holidays.
When I needed to get our Christmas tree, I went to Mrs. Oakley. Travis’ stolen crop had been recovered from the Atkinson warehouse and Tommy Lee and Jamison expedited its release so that Mrs. Oakley could get a fair price while the market was at its peak. Ron Simmons handled the transaction.
I asked Mrs. Oakley if I could hand cut one of the trees in their field, one that Travis had tended. She seemed appreciative and told me her husband would be released for Christmas. I got the impression she was looking forward to his return. She said Travis’ death had shaken him and he had found Jesus. He would be coming home a saved man. I just hoped he’d be coming home a gentler man.
The Oakley tree stood in our parlor next to the fireplace. The gas logs blazed and the Christmas tree’s multitude of white lights twinkled off the shiny brass ornaments that Mom had collected over the years.
Our small but festive party included Tommy Lee, his wife Patsy, Susan, Reverend Pace, Uncle Wayne, Fletcher, his girlfriend Cindy Todd, Mom, and me. Nine total. My dad would have made ten. This was the second Christmas without him, and I realized his spirit would always be counted present.
There were no gifts to exchange. I made that clear with the invitations. However as host, I could break my own rules. When the conversation momentarily lulled, I walked to the front of the fireplace.
“Can I have your attention a second?”
Everyone turned toward me. Those not holding glasses looked for theirs, assuming I was about to make a toast.
“Christmas is about love and joy and hope and peace. These are all things to be shared with others. So thank you for sharing them with us.”
A murmur of approval surrounded me.
“But one of us doesn’t seem the same this Christmas and that’s just not right.”
Eight faces exchanged curious glances.
“Especially since his job is to travel over mountain and stream to spread the Christmas message.”
Now all eyes focused on Reverend Pace. I reached behind the tree.
“So I thought this might set him straight.”
I held up a new rhododendron walking stick, as twisted and gnarled as the one destroyed by Bruce Hampton’s bullet.
Everyone applauded. Pace grabbed it, tapped it on the floor, and took a few steps around the room.
“Perfect,” he said. “I hope it comes with a lifetime warranty. Or in my case, thirty minutes, whichever is longer.”
Over the laughter, I heard the doorbell ring. Mom looked at me with concern. We weren’t expecting anyone else.
I opened the front door and my Christmas joy dropped a notch.
“Hi, Barry. Merry Christmas.” Archie Donovan stood in the porch light wearing a red parka, Santa hat, and blue mittens. He gave a little wave, stepped back, and his two little girls ran in from one side while his wife came from the other.
“Away in a Manger” started in two keys: one from the girls, and one from Archie.
I felt Susan and the others press behind me. After “Jingle Bells” and “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” we all applauded. Archie’s daughters beamed with delight, and Mom invited them in for hot chocolate.
Archie caught my arm and whispered. “I took them out caroling. There’s nothing more important than family at Christmas.”
“Family,” I agreed. “And friends.” I patted him on the back.
“Gloria said my singing would wake the dead. And I said let’s go to the funeral home. Good one, huh?”
“Archie, don’t push it.”
Later, after Susan and I helped Mom clean the dishes and she excused herself upstairs to bed, the two of us sat by the fire, enjoying the quiet and a last cup of coffee.
Susan snuggled into me. “This was fun. Even talking to Archie.”
“He’s trying,” I said. “Boy, is he trying.”
She punched my shoulder. “Don’t be that way. It’s Christmas.”
“You’re right.” I got up and walked to the back of the tree. “And I picked something up when I was buying Pace’s cane.”
I returned to the sofa with a small, wrapped package in my hand.
“Oh, Barry, we said no gifts. I don’t have yours ready.”
“I don’t want to wait till you’re ready. I don’t want to wait till I’m ready.”
She took the gift and held it in the palm of her hand. “But if we’re exchanging presents, then I should have something for you.”
“Open it and then you can give me a present.”
“What?”
“A word.”
“A word?”
“Yes.”
Acknowledgments
I’m indebted to Sheriff James Williams of Ashe County, North Carolina, to Junior Anderson, a pioneer of the Christmas tree industry, and to State Representative Cullie Tarleton for their help during my research on the growing cycle, harvest, and protection of Fraser firs. Any factual errors are my responsibility.
Thanks to my wife Linda, daughters Lindsay and Melissa, and son-in-law Pete for their love and support.
Thanks to Linda Allen, my agent, for her encouragement and to my editor, Barbara Peters, who makes sure that all’s well that ends well.
The staff of Poisoned Pen Press keeps the whole process enjoyable, and I appreciate Rob, Jessica, Marilyn, Nan, and others for keeping their mission of “Publishing Excellence in Mystery” broad enough to include Barry Clayton and Sam Blackman.
I’m grateful to the booksellers and librarians who continue to recommend my stories to their patrons, and to you, the reader, for spending your time in Barry’s world.
Mark de Castrique
Charlotte, North Carolina
February 12, 2010
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Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 23
