When Secrets Die (35 page)

There was a car show in town, and few hotel rooms to be had close to Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg, so we were all staying at the Clarion on Highway 66, on the outskirts of Sevierville.

Joel had insisted on exploring while we waited for the FBI. Exploring meant driving up and down the four-lane highway, and I knew he was trying to keep me distracted. I wanted to go straight to confront Amaryllis Burton, but I knew it was best to let the FBI handle it.

So I let him distract me; I watched the scenery.

If Amaryllis Burton wanted to pick an area where she could live cheaply, drive to Lexington on half a tank of gas, and pretty much go unnoticed, she had chosen wisely.

The Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge/Sevierville area survived on the tourists. The traffic was bad, bumper-to-bumper, most of it comprised of gigantic RVs, all inching their way up and down a four-lane highway that stretched between all three cities. It was impossible to tell which city you were in unless you knew the order, which was one, Sevierville, two, Pigeon Forge, and three, Gatlinburg.

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 to 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.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-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.