The Reunion (6 page)

Rose cackled. “Baby, I haven't gotten to the weird part yet.” She took the head of the scalpel between her thumb and forefinger and with her other hand grabbed the base and started twisting. “These open up too. The handles are hollow, to keep secret messages.”

Carolyn was punchy. She giggled, which eventually grew into a laugh so hardy her eyes began to tear. “Rose, please, you're kidding, right?”

“I'm serious. All six of these handles were choked full with paper when I came across them. There were little scrolls all twisted up in there.”

“No kidding?”

“They didn't say anything, just random letters.”

“Probably German,” Carolyn suggested.

“No, honey, this wasn't any foreign language. There'd be an A, then another A, followed by two C's, that kinda thing. It was all typewritten. It must have been some kind of code.”

Carolyn's face revealed her excitement. “Do you still have them?”

She nodded. “I'm a pack rat. I put them in one of those plastic slips in a photo album. Eventually all the junk I have at home will make its way over here.”

By six o'clock they had moved to the basement and the dozens of crates her father had left behind. Carolyn called her mother and was relieved to hear that she could watch Kenny a while longer. After about two hours of digging, something on the bottom of one of the boxes caught her eye. The textured green and gold leather binding had a familiar look and feel. When she flipped it over she understood why. It was a copy of the 1984 Yukon Eagle High School annual, her senior yearbook.

A wave of emotion swept over Carolyn and she let out an audible gasp. Tears followed. She had never kept her high school annual. It wasn't a keepsake for her, merely a book that documented a time in her life she desperately wanted to forget. Yet there was no anguish this time as the young, familiar faces stared back at her from the pages, faces from a world away. In fact, she felt an overwhelming sense of tranquility.

She hadn't fully understood her need to find her birth parents until that exact moment. When people asked, she was never able to articulate exactly what she was looking for, but it was all clear now. The yearbook was proof that her father had been following her progress, secretly and from afar, yet still caring. For the first time in her life, Carolyn felt with certainty that she was the recipient of a parent's unconditional love.

9

Dunlevy rapped on the thick metal door. “Anybody in there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” the startled reporter said as she peeked her head out of the truck.

The agent flashed his badge and identification. “Martin Dunlevy. I'm with the FBI. I didn't come at a bad time, did I?”

“No, no, I'm Sally Jamison. Come in.”

Dunlevy climbed up the short stepladder into the TV station on wheels. He gave Sally the once-over, staring hard into her eyes. “You look pretty good for an injured woman. I'd heard you were listed among the casualties,” he joked.

Sally laughed. “You heard about that? I fainted. Nothing serious, just the heat.”

All the pretty TV types usually looked the same to Dunlevy, but there was something familiar about this face. “I know you from somewhere.”

She giggled. “Well, I don't think my picture's up at the post office. I haven't made your most wanted list yet,” she smirked. “People are always telling me I look like somebody they know. I must have one of those faces.”

“Atlanta, maybe?”

Sally smiled up at him. “Yes, I was the weekend anchor at WXIA a few years ago. You have a good memory. So, you lived there too?”

The FBI agent smiled. He didn't forget faces. “I was in the Atlanta office for the Olympics. I knew you looked familiar. I hear you and your photographer were just leaving when the banquet room went up.”

“Actually, we were across the street in the parking lot. Gregg and I were on the way back to the hotel. Morehead City was the closest place we could find a room.”

“Lucky for you.”

“You're not kidding!” Sally stated as she shook her head. “Are you heading up this investigation, or is it the ATF?”

“We are, but the reason I'm here is I need a favor.”

She was wary. “What's that?”

“Now and then, an arsonist will hang around and admire his work. There's a chance you may have taken a picture of the person I'm looking for. I need a dub of your tape.”

Sally gave him a quizzical look. They both knew this drill. “You have a subpoena?”

He shrugged. “No. Do I need one?”

“Come on, you know that you do.”

So much for the straightforward approach,
Dunlevy thought to himself. “It's Sunday. It'll take a few hours. I thought you might be willing to save me a little time.”

Sally didn't answer. But like a child with a new bike, she had a juvenile need to show off her prized work. She pointed to the monitor above the editing bench. “You want to see?”

“Please.”

Sally hit the shuttle knob and rewound the raw tape to the beginning. The images started to flicker on the screen. The camera had also captured the loud crackling of the fire.

“This is probably two to three minutes after the first explosion,” Sally said, pointing to the monitor.

“How long did it take for the first fire trucks to arrive?”

“Not more than five minutes. You'll see the first trucks pulling up here in a minute.”

“Were there any people on the streets?”

“I didn't notice anyone until much later. There was a park bench across the street. I sat down when I started to feel lightheaded.”

Both continued to stare at the glow of the flames, but pictures of the fire were of little use to Dunlevy. The FBI agent broke the silence. “Some people did get out,” he said. “Some of the staff that were asleep at the other end of the building survived. Did you see them on the streets?”

Sally shook her head. “No. Like I said, I passed out. When I woke up my head was in the lap of one of the waiters from Clawson's. He was wiping my face with a wet towel.”

“What's Clawson's? A bar?”

“No, a little seafood restaurant there on Front Street. They'd been closed about an hour or so, but some of the employees were still around cleaning up. They rushed out when they heard the explosion.”

Dunlevy opened his notebook, jotted down the name of the eatery, and made a note to himself to question the staff. “When you left the party it was just you and the photographer?”

She shook her head. “No, we walked out with Professor Derek Hudson. He had his own car, but had been drinking a little too much to drive. I offered to give him a lift back to Morehead City.”

“He was drunk?”

Her eyes diverted from his. “No, not really. In fact, Hudson tried to run back into the building but never got closer than thirty yards. He was overcome by the heat as well.”

Again, more notes. “Where's Hudson now?”

“He could still be at the hotel, or maybe he went back home. He teaches at UNC-Wilmington. He's the man who organized the whole reunion.”

The videotape now revealed many people in the street. Dunlevy leaned over the edit bench, his face just inches from the screen, to catch the sweeping pan of the crowd. The agent pointed to the monitor. “Were you conscious at this point?”

“I think so, why?”

Dunlevy didn't answer. “I'm going to need a dub of this tape. What do you think, Sally? Are you going to make me pull a judge off the golf course?”

The reporter gave it some thought. She knew saying no would simply delay the process. If she turned it over now maybe the agent would return the favor. “No, I'll dub it for you,” she finally said. “But give me a little something in return.”

A broad smile crossed Dunlevy's face. “What is it I can do for you?”

She paused, carefully choosing her words. “If you were in Atlanta for the Olympics you must work domestic terrorism.”

He laughed out loud. “Big jump of faith on your part. I happen to be stationed in Wilmington. I'm the closest field office, that's all.”

“This isn't a terrorist act?”

The agent threw up his hands. “Who knows? Maybe. But it could be a faulty hot water heater. All we know for sure is there's been a natural gas explosion. You still going to give me that tape?”

Sally nodded. As she started the dubbing she heard the clank of footsteps outside on the metal ladder. Gregg entered and stood at the doorway for a minute to let his eyes adjust from the sunshine to the dark edit room. He carried a cardboard tray of cold drinks and a bag full of greasy hamburgers and fries.

The agent stood. Sally started the introductions as she reached over to help Gregg with the food and drinks. “Gregg, this is Martin Dunlevy with the FBI.”

The agent extended his hand. “I've just been admiring your work.”

Gregg wiped the wet from his fingers on his tee shirt before shaking hands. He shot Sally a quizzical look. “Oh, you've seen the video?”

“Yeah, we need a dub. I want a look at some of the crowd shots.”

Sally moved away from the edit bench. “I was just about to make a dub for him, Gregg. You want to do it?”

Gregg was glad he had arrived when he did. He didn't like reporters screwing around with the equipment. “Sally, it's going to have to wait until after our liveshot. We go on in less than twenty minutes,” he said, giving her a stern look.

She looked over at Dunlevy. “Is that okay with you?”

He nodded. “I'll wait. I'm in no hurry.”

“Fine, take a seat,” she said, pointing to one of the small stools.

Dunlevy shook his head; he didn't like confined spaces. “You know, I'm probably in your way. I'll hang around outside. I'll get the tape when you're done with your report.”

Outside, a line of reporters, all neatly groomed, stood ready for their live hits. They were from local affiliates across the southeast: Raleigh, Charlotte, Richmond, Greensboro, even Atlanta. There were at least twenty cameras braced on tripods. Photographers stood at attention with headsets covering their ears, waiting for their respective satellite windows to open up.

Sally and Gregg stood by WNCN's truck as the local reporter completed her liveshot. Local news hit at six o'clock straight up.
NBC Nightly News
would immediately follow.

When it was her turn, Sally strutted in front of the camera, instinctively catching a glimpse of her reflection in the lens. She unrolled her IFB, a clear plastic molding much like Secret Service agents wear, and pushed it into her left ear.

“Give them a mike check,” Gregg ordered.

“Audio test from Morehead City.” Sally started to count, “One, two, three, four…”

“Picture and audio both okay,” said the voice from New York.

“Anybody talking to you in your IFB yet?” Gregg asked.

Before she could answer the voice of the producer interrupted. “Two minutes to you.” The distinctive NBC chimes blared in Sally's ear. Her stomach was in knots.

“This is
NBC Nightly News,
reported tonight by Brian Williams,” boomed the announcer.

“One minute,” the producer informed the crew.

Sally could hear Williams tease the headlines. “Tonight, Robert Hager reports on wind shear. It's claimed three jetliners in five years. What's the FAA doing to keep it from happening again? And from Denver, Roger O'Neil. Meet an eighty-year-old doctor who still makes house calls.”

“Stand by,” the producer cued.

“But our top story tonight,” said Williams, “comes from the small coastal town of Beaufort, North Carolina, where FBI and ATF agents are investigating an overnight bombing that has claimed at least twenty-five lives, and the death toll is expected to climb.”

Sally leaned forward and filled her lungs with air. She held her breath for just a second before slowly exhaling.

The anchorman was in her lead-in. “An apparent terrorist blast destroys an historic bed and breakfast, hosting the sixty-year reunion of several World War II survivors. Not Americans, but German soldiers captured in their U-boat just off the coast of the Carolinas in 1942. Standing by live in Beaufort is NBC's Sally Jamison with the latest.”

Gregg counted her down. “Three, two…cue!”

“Good evening, Brian. Thirty-four men, the elite of the German Navy, had the misfortune of crossing paths with a U.S. Coast Guard cutter just a few miles off the coast of Beaufort, North Carolina, on May 9th, 1942. The cutter trapped the U-boat, forcing the captain to surface and surrender.” Sally dropped her sharp blue eyes and paused for effect. “Yesterday, almost sixty years to the day of their capture, nine of these surviving soldiers became targets again. This time the enemy didn't miss.”

“You're on tape now, Sally,” said the reassuring voice of the producer in her ear.

Sally let out a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the nearby monitor. She could hear her own voice in the IFB. The two-minute package was rolling without a flaw.

The producer came back in her ear. “Back on camera in five, four, three, two, one, cue!”

The jitters were gone now. Sally was in the zone. “Brian, tonight Rolf Werner is in critical but stable condition at the burn unit at Duke University Medical Center in Durham. He is now the lone survivor of the crew of U-352.”

“Sally, does the FBI have a short list of suspects?” the anchorman asked.

“If they do, Brian, no one is saying. FBI agent Martin Dunlevy is heading up this investigation, and he says it's too early to tell if this is an act of domestic terrorism. However, sources within the ATF tell me tonight there is little doubt this was intentional. In fact, investigators believe someone tampered with the gas lines both under the building and the street.”

“All right. Sally Jamison from Beaufort, North Carolina, thank you.”

Dunlevy clenched his fists as he listened to her report. “That fuckin' Anderson,” he grumbled to himself. He hated leaks.

Again, the producer was in her ear. “Clear. Nice job, Sally.”

Dunlevy followed the camera crew back to the satellite truck. “You think you could get me that dub now?” he asked.

“Sure,” Sally said without missing a step.

As she opened the truck door she heard a loud ringing. Startled, she shuffled through the bag for her Motorola flip-phone. “NBC, Jamison.”

“Sally, it's Derek Hudson,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

“Derek, where are you?”

“I'm at my mother's house in little Washington. I couldn't hang around there.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” he said, changing the subject. “I saw your story.”

“Really?”

“It was great,” he said hesitantly. “One factual error though.”

Everyone's a critic,
she thought. “What's that, Derek?”

“Rolf isn't the lone survivor of U-352.”

Dunlevy, immediately recognized the name. “Don't hang up. I need to talk to him,” the agent ordered.

Sally stopped in mid-sentence and handed him the cell phone.

He grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear. “Dr. Hudson, this is FBI agent Martin Dunlevy. We need to talk as soon as possible.”