“No.”
“Father and son explorers. In 1766 the Cherokee took exception to their being here and scalped them both.”
“Ouch.”
The corners of Ramsey’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Got their name onto a busload of landmarks.”
It was true. In addition to the gorge and river, caverns, a waterfall, a wilderness area, and several towns bore the name Linville.
“Still a tough way to get press,” I said.
Again, Ramsey may have grinned. Or not. He raised an arm and gestured, fingers straight, palm sideways. “Beyond the gorge is Jonas Ridge.” His hand did little chops as he named a series of rock formations. “Sitting Bear, Hawksbill, Table Rock, the Chimneys. The area’s a labyrinth of hiking trails.”
“Good word, labyrinth,” I said.
He did grin at that. Below the knit cap, drawn low to his brows, his face performed its rearranging act. Oh, boy.
“Where’s Brown Mountain?”
“See that low peak in the distance, beyond the ridge?”
I nodded.
“That’s her. Maybe eight miles off.”
“Where does the light show take place?”
“Most tourists point their cameras there.” He indicated the mountainside opposite.
“Think they’re real?”
“I’ve seen them.” At my look of surprise, “Kind of a flickering, like people waving flashlights around in the trees.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Some say swamp gas.”
“Swamp gas never spontaneously ignites in nature.”
“Agreed. It takes a specific mix of chemicals. Researchers have created it in labs. They say it happens with a pop followed by a blue-green flame.”
“No slow burn.”
“Nope.”
The gaggle behind us moved our way and took up positions along the rail. The loner trailed the others, but again stayed apart.
“Cherokee widows?” I asked.
“So you know the local lore.”
“Very little.”
“Problem is the ladies are supposed to wander the sky, not the land. But the lights aren’t refracted above the ridge, they’re down in the trees.” As though my suggestion had been serious. “And I doubt the Cherokee had lantern technology.”
“Carrying torches for their dead hubbies?”
Ramsey ignored the pun. Or didn’t get it. “I’ve done some looking. Haven’t come across a single mention of such a legend in Cherokee writings. Only references I’ve found are in literature concerning the lights. Doesn’t mean native stories don’t exist. Just means I didn’t find them.”
“Reflections of moonshine stills?” I threw out the only other theory I knew.
“You think illegal moonshiners are going to set up ops right there among the hikers and the rock climbers, in plain view of the state’s most popular overlook?”
“In the heart of the labyrinth.” Jesus. Was I flirting?
Ramsey straightened.
“But cause doesn’t matter. What may matter is that a lot of folks believe the lights are real, and that they’re paranormal or mystical or what have you.”
“That the mountain is haunted.”
“In a sense.” Ramsey’s jaw tightened, relaxed. “A few believe they’re the work of the devil.”
It took a moment. Then the implication hit. “Are you suggesting that’s the reason human body parts might have been tossed from these overlooks? Devil worship?”
“Demons? Aliens? Nymphs? Sprites? Who knows? These mountains have more than their share of loons.”
I said nothing.
“Sound crazy?” Ramsey asked.
“I’ve heard crazier.”
Down the rail, the three tourists continued pointing and jabbering. The loner had drifted closer to us. He wasn’t admiring the view. He stood motionless, eyes down, as though mentally plotting his route.
Ramsey straightened. “Crazy or not, no one did any tossing from here.”
“I agree. Too populated. And too hard to access.”
“Let’s roll.”
“Where?”
“The place I’d choose to off-load a body.”
Ramsey strode toward the walkway, Gunner trotting at his heels, leaving me no choice but to follow. When I reached the parking area, the canine was in back, the deputy at the wheel of the SUV. The passenger and rear doors stood wide. Subtle.
I dumped my gear in back and climbed in. After pulling from the lot, Ramsey surprised me by continuing to talk.
“What do you know about the Teagues?”
“Not much.” I told him what I’d learned from Hazel Strike. John. Fatima. Five kids. No MP report on Cora, the second youngest, last seen by an anonymous poster on the websleuth site CLUES.net three and a half years earlier.
“I did some asking around.” Ramsey turned onto 1238, and we began bumping and lurching south along the ridgeline. “Teagues belong to some oddball Pentecostal group. Congregation has maybe a hundred members.”
“What’s it called?”
“Church of Jesus Lord Holiness.”
“Snake handlers?”
I referred to the holiness movement, founded by George Went Hensley back in 1910. Members handle venomous snakes, drink poison, and, if successful in hooking up with the Holy Ghost, speak in tongues. Holiness churches are big in Appalachia, including the mountains of North Carolina.
Ramsey shrugged. “I’ve no idea the theology. All I know is they keep to themselves.”
“If they’re holiness, they wouldn’t be crazy about Satan,” I said.
“Don’t figure they would.” Sun slanted across Ramsey’s face, lighting his nose and deepening the lines and creases cornering his eyes and mouth. “I swung by the Teague place.”
That surprised me. “Were they cooperative?”
“I wasn’t invited in for biscuits, if that’s what you mean. Talked to John through the screen door.”
“What was your impression?”
“Intense.” He thought a moment. “Belligerent.”
“Abusive?”
“Possibly.”
“And the mother?”
“Never saw her.”
“What did John say about Cora?”
“She left with a man. Both are sinners. Both will burn in hell. Get off my property or I’ll bust your ass.”
“Think he’s telling the truth?”
“About busting my ass?”
“About Cora.”
“The guy’s big into God and not what you’d call forgiving.”
Ramsey pulled to the shoulder and cut the ignition. I looked around. Saw nothing but the same mix of trees, the same unpaved road we’d been navigating for the past ten minutes.
After pocketing the keys, Ramsey draped one arm on the wheel and turned sideways toward me. “Except for one thing.”
I couldn’t interpret Ramsey’s expression. But his voice had a hardness that hadn’t been there before. I waited.
“At your suggestion, I dropped by Cannon Memorial yesterday to ask about dropout chemo patients.” Ramsey referred to the Charles A. Cannon, Jr., Memorial Hospital in Linville. “Got zip. But when I floated the name Cora Teague, one doc suggested I take a look at the death of the younger brother.”
“Eli died when he was twelve.”
Ramsey gave me an odd look. “Right.”
“Cause?”
“Acute traumatic subdural hematoma. Parents said he fell down the basement stairs.”
“But this doctor had reservations?”
“He was working the ER back then. Remembers the kid. Couldn’t discuss details because of confidentiality, you know the drill. But he’s always felt that something was off.”
“Meaning the injury didn’t tally with the parents’ version of events?”
Ramsey’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He nodded.
I heard the voice of a terrified girl on a recording. Sensed the dark specter of Brown Mountain outside my window.
“You’re thinking zealot father. Rebellious daughter.” My voice sounded hushed in the quiet interior of the SUV. “Violent death of a younger sibling.”
“Could be a deadly trifecta,” he said.