Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (33 page)

Tim nodded. “Yes. I have no choice. State law requires it. And, Walt, the law requires you to do the same. But we can do it all in one report.”

“But,” Barb stammered, “then everyone will know what happened to our children. Tim, you know there are very few secrets in this town!”

“Not necessarily, Barb. You may be surprised how many we're able to keep a lid on. What's more, since Mickey's a minor, we can protect your children and keep this out of the public eye.”

Barb sighed deeply and then slowly nodded.

I looked out the window and could see that darkness was settling across Bryson City. I also felt a darkness settling across my soul.

chapter thirty-two

THE CONFRONTATION

T
o my shock, as we drove up the driveway at home Mickey Thompson was sitting on the steps outside our kitchen door. His car was parked by the house.

As I pulled past him toward the garage, I could hear Barb gasp. The kids, sitting in the backseat, had, fortunately, not seen him.

“Just stay here,” I instructed Barb.

“Be careful, Walt. Don't do anything you'll regret.”

“OK,” I replied tersely. I got out of the car and walked toward the young man. He looked so childlike and benign — but I now knew that lurking below that benevolent-appearing exterior was an evil heart. As I walked toward him, he jumped to his feet to greet me.

“Hi, Dr. Larimore. How ya doin'? I was just gittin' ready to leave when I saw you drivin' up the hill.”

My first instinct was to punch him as hard as I could and then beat him to a pulp. But I swallowed my anger. “What do you want, Mickey?” My voice sounded steely cold — even to me.

He seemed taken aback. “Well, I left the house so quickly last night I forgot to get my money.” He grinned.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. I held it up and looked at it. “Mickey, I only wish I had thirty pieces of silver to give you,” I commented as I handed him the bill.

He was still smiling as he took it. “What do you mean, Dr. Larimore?”

“You remember the story in the Bible when the religious leaders paid Judas Iscariot for his treason against Jesus? They paid him thirty pieces of silver. And, son, you're asking me to pay you for your treason — for your evil?”

Mickey looked astonished. “What in the world are you talking about, Dr. Larimore?”

“The kids told us how you abused them last night. How you pulled down your zipper and made them touch you. How you put them on our bed.” My voice was getting uncontrollably louder with each statement. “We
know
the truth, Mickey. Why'd you do it?”

In an instant he changed. His face turned red, and his smiling eyes became unyieldingly cold. And then, in an instant, like a chameleon, his innocence reappeared. “Dr. Larimore,
nuthin'
even close to that happened. No way! If your kids told you I did that, they're lyin'.” But I could sense
he
was lying to me.

I stepped toward him, and he stepped back, his retreat halted by the bush near the steps. I put my nose close to his. “Mickey, my kids are
not
lying. Not only do I believe them, but we've been to the authorities — and
they
believe them too. I've got the right and the ability to have the police charge you with child abuse. The only hope you have is to tell me what happened. I want the truth, and I want it now!” I stepped back and stared the teenager down.

Slowly, I saw an entirely different Mickey Thompson appear — an angry, evil, twisted young man. “I'm tellin' you the truth. I didn't touch your dumb kids. They're lyin' about me.” His voice was rising in a crescendo as he wadded up the five-dollar bill and threw it at my chest. It bounced off and fell to the ground. “Here. Keep your stupid money!”

His face was growing redder, and he was nearly screaming as he menacingly pointed a finger at me. His voice changed pitch, and in a gravelly, nasty tone he threatened, “You better not tell no one else these lies. You got no idea who you're dealin' with. My daddy can destroy you and your practice.”

He was shaking in anger as he continued. “If you're even half as smart as you think you are, you better drop this now. My daddy'll squish you like an old stinkbug.”

With that he tried to push me out of the way and walk by. Overcome with anger and emotion, and without thinking, I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, seized him by the collar with both hands, and lifted him off his feet until my nose touched his. “You go home and tell your daddy that I'll be giving him a call. And after that, I plan to visit the police. I suspect they'll want to talk to the sheriff over in your county. Maybe you and your daddy will be making a visit to their station.”

I put him down and let go. He spun around, ran to his car, jumped in, and, after starting it up, sped down the driveway. I sat down on the kitchen steps. I couldn't stop shaking.

No sooner had we put the kids to bed than there was a knock on the door. I walked through the dining room to look out the window. There was a man I didn't recognize outside our kitchen door.

“Who is it?” Barb called out.

“I don't know,” I called back. “You stay here. I'll take care of it.” I opened the door and stepped out, closing the door behind me.

Initially, the man looked calm.

“Dr. Larimore, you don't know me. I'm John Thompson.”

Neither of us offered a hand to the other. Mr. Thompson continued. “My youngest son, Mickey, told me you made a ridiculous accusation against him. He told me your kids made up a horrible story about him just because he made them mind him and go to bed on time. He said your little girl said that if he didn't let her stay up, she was gonna get him in trouble. He said you wouldn't listen to the truth. Then he told me you attacked him and he had to run for his life.” His voice changed and became harder. “I've got a good mind to whup you myself.”

I took a deep breath and struggled to remain calm. “Mr. Thompson, I can understand your love for your boy. And I'm sympathetic to your wanting to protect him. But both of my children say he pulled down his zipper and made them touch his genitals. When they refused to continue, he put them on our bed and made them lie in sexually provocative positions while he fondled and played with himself. Then he threatened to hurt them if they told us.”

Mr. Thompson's demeanor instantly changed as he vehemently defended his son. “All lies! We're churchgoin' people, Dr. Larimore. Mickey and his brother and sisters have gone to Sunday school since they were tiny tots. My boy would
never
do anything like that.
Never!
Ya hear?”

I
nodded and took a deep breath. “I understand your feelings. But the kids have been interviewed by the experts at Mental Health. Both of my children tell the same story. There's
no
way kids this young could make all this up. The counselors believe my kids, and so do I.”

Mr. Thompson's face became crimson, and he began to shake as he pointed a finger at me. “I'm a pillar of the community in my county, son — not you. Folks in my neck of the woods
know
you come here just to run off our good doctors. Your reputation in this town is mighty shaky as I hear it. Let me tell ya this — and you better listen to me real careful.”

He stepped toward me with his outstretched pointer finger just inches from my nose. “You spread these lies about my boy to anyone else — you even think of callin' the police — and I'll smear your name in the mud and grime of every gutter, not just in Bryson City, but in every town in western North Carolina. You, your wife, and your kids won't be able to show your faces in public without folks gigglin' and sneerin' at you. Your tiny little patient base will dry up, and I'll see to it that the funds from the state to run your piddly little practice are gone in a New York minute. You best not even
think
of foolin' with me, Doc!”

I was shocked at his verbal onslaught and at first just stood there in stunned silence. Then an emotion I didn't expect welled up from my soul — pity, a deep and profound pity.

“Mr. Thompson, believe it or not, I'm trying to
help
Mickey. I know you love your son. But if you really do, you need to find out the truth. Kids who begin to do these types of things can continue this behavior and harm other children in the future. You may be his best chance to turn around, Mr. Thompson.”

“You look here,” Mr. Thompson countered angrily, “our boy's been saved and baptized since he was little. If there's any change needed here, it's
you
and your kids. You best put the lid on this right now — or you'll live to regret it.”

With that, he turned and stormed toward his car.

After Barb and I had talked and prayed about what had happened, she suggested we call Rick over to talk. We heard his soft tap on the bedroom window.

As he settled on the foot of our bed, we shared with him the details of our day. He expertly and sensitively clarified information and asked questions. As an excellent family physician and our closest friend, he probed not only the facts but our responses and emotions as well. He asked questions about Kate and Scott.

“This is terrible,” Rick concluded. “It's not like we're in some big city where you can have the kid charged and put away. This will affect every single area of your lives — of
our
lives.”

We nodded, knowing he was right.

“Worse yet,” he continued, “I've heard about some of the politics that Thompson is involved in. He's got a lot of power in his county, Walt. If he puts this out on the gossip lines, and I have no doubt he will, then Kate and Scott are not only going to be dragged through the mud in the immediate future, but this will follow them like a dark cloud every day. This is
terrible
,” Rick said again.

“To tell you the truth, Rick,” I began, “I didn't even think about that aspect. I just want this kid brought up on charges and punished for what he did. And I
don't
want him doing this to other children”

“Walt,” Rick responded, “you know the Bible tells us that revenge and vengeance are not ours.”

“I know that, Rick,” I answered sharply, “but I can make sure that the proper authorities carry it out!”

Rick was silent for a moment, letting my emotions simmer down. Then he softly answered, “You can't be part of wounding your kids more than they've already been wounded. Walt, listen. I'm not here to tell you what to do, that's for sure. You and Barb will have to decide that. What I
will
assure you is that I'll be with you every step of the way. Anything I can do, I will do. You know that. But I want to help you all think about and pray about the implications of what you decide. OK?”

I sighed. He was right, and I knew it. And I was thankful for a friend and partner who was both wise and caring. I knew two things at that moment: first, Rick, as a practice partner, was one of God's most precious gifts to me — a gift I was losing — and, second, that the Larimores were most likely going to have to leave Bryson City.

I felt a great sadness overcome me as my head fell into my hands. Barb leaned toward me and held me in her arms.

chapter thirty-three

THREE WISE MEN

B
uck Buchanan was in the staff lounge at my office when I walked in the next morning. He rose as I entered. “Well, good morning, Dr. Larimore!” He extended his hand, and when our hands met, he pumped mine like a pump handle.

“Good morning, Mr. District Attorney,” I stammered, perplexed by his presence. “I didn't know you were here, or I would have come on over sooner from the hospital.”

“I know, son. I told Dean not to bother you. She makes about the best pot of coffee in these mountains, so I enjoyed a cup and just caught up on this week's version of the
Smoky Mountain Times
. I tell ya what, Pete Lawson writes a fine paper. Wish our paper in Sylva was half as good.”