Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (34 page)

“Something I can do for you, Buck? Here to discuss one of the coroner cases?”

“Well, I am here to talk about a case, Walt. Mind if we talk in your office? I've got some good news and some bad news to discuss with you.”

I poured myself a cup of “Dean's Best” and refreshed Buck's cup, and then we walked down the hallway, greeting Bonnie and Patty on the way to my office.

Once settled in place, Buck broke the news. “Let me start with the bad news, Doctor.” His countenance became deeply serious. “Carl Arvey's one fine police chief,” he began. “Turns out he got a call from one of the social workers at Smoky Mountain Mental Health first thing this morning. He went over and met with them and then gave me a call.”

I felt nauseated. This thing really was spinning out of control. Why didn't Tim call me before he called the police? And why hadn't Carl called me before he called the DA?

Buck must have read my mind. “The counselors had no choice but to call the local police, Walt. You know it's required by state statute. Moreover, it's the right thing to do. But, knowing small-town gossip lines and politics, as well as the fact that the kid lives in another county, Carl immediately called my office — thought it might be better to have the law from another jurisdiction take a look at this, and, as you know, my office has jurisdiction over this end of the state. I think it was a wise move on his part. That way, no one in his police department or in either of the county sheriff's departments has to know anything — at least right now.”

“Right now?”

Buck took a sip of his coffee. “Walt, we've had our eyes on this kid for a while. We think he's responsible for a number of petty crimes, and we think it's likely to get worse.”

“Oh my!” was all I could say.

“Son, we want this boy bad. No question about it. We have lots of circumstantial evidence on him, but not enough to put him away — at least not yet.”

“Will what he did to my kids give you enough?”

Buck shook his head. “Unfortunately not. In a court of law it would be your kids' word against his. But, worse yet, if it ends up in court, there's the possibility your kids would have to testify. Since he's a minor, the entire record could be erased with a court order. And his daddy has enough political power to make this one tough case for me
to prosecute.”

My stomach twisted yet again. “Can't you keep my children out of the courtroom, Buck? Look at how young they are.”

“Oh, I'd definitely try, Walt. But there's no way I can guarantee it. And there's no way I can keep Thompson from spreading all the rumors he wants about you and your kids.”

“Oh dear,” I muttered, feeling utterly beyond any more words.

“Here's what I suggest, Walt. You and Barb come to my office and file a formal complaint. We won't charge him formally, but we'll have enough evidence to get a court order to put a tail on him twenty-four hours a day. That and the two informers we have will allow us to collect the evidence we need to put him away for a few years — let him see the inside of a state facility for juvenile offenders until he's eighteen and then he'll likely face some prison time. We'll get him, we'll put him away for a while, and we'll keep your kids out of the public spotlight. What do you think?”

I took a sip of my coffee and thought for a moment. “Buck, if I could have a day to talk it over with Barb and pray about it, I'd appreciate that.”

“It's the least I can do, son.”

“So, Buck, you also mentioned you had some good news.”

“Yep, I do.” Buck took a sip of his coffee as I waited. “I think you helped me break up a gang that's been infesting this neck of the woods.”

“Are you serious?”

Buck smiled. “You ever know me to kid?”

It was my turn to smile. “No sir.”

“Well, the impact you've had on Sam Tanager has caused that gang to break up. That kid has turned over a new leaf. Since he was leading the gang and it had his name, it just wasn't able to keep going without him. Not only that, he's recruited some of the gang members from his supposedly secret gang and got them involved in church.”

“Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, realizing at the same moment that he was not. “And what do you mean the gang was named after him? Wasn't it called the ‘Satan Gang'?”

“Well,” Buck responded, “just look at Sam's name.”

I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean, Buck?”

“S-A-T-A-N,” Buck spelled out.

“I don't get what you're driving at,” I responded.

Buck pulled out a pen and reached over to my desk to pick up a prescription pad. Then he wrote on the pad two words that made his contention make sense.

SAm TANager.

“Oh my!” was all I could mutter.

Buck's famous smile flashed across the room. “It's a win for the good guys, Doc! We'll keep watching the kid, but I think he really has turned over a new leaf. And the way I hear it,
you
played an important role in that.”

He took a last sip of coffee as I wrestled with conflicting emo-tions: joy and satisfaction for my impact on Sam and his apparent redemption, fear and uncertainty for my family. I knew I could claim little credit for the former — and I knew I needed wise advice for the latter.

Ken Hicks and I met at Super Swain Drugs for lunch. But rather than sitting in our usual spot, we took a corner booth in the back — where we could have some privacy.

As I explained what had happened to Kate and Scott, my friend looked shocked. But as the story went on, the shock wore off his face, and he assumed his role as a pastor. He asked questions and listened. And by doing so, he helped me clearly see the options that lay before me — along with the costs, benefits, and risks of each.

As our time together was drawing to a close, Ken asked, “What do you think you're going to do, Walt?”

“I don't know, Ken. I just don't know.”

“Can I share a passage from the Bible with you?”

“Sure.”

Ken stood and walked across the grill and behind John's counter. “Doc John,” Ken explained to the pharmacist, “OK if I borrow your Bible for a moment?”

“No problem,” John called out.

Ken was flipping through the pages as he walked back. As he sat down, he found what he was looking for.

“Mind if I read a passage to you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It's from 1 Samuel, chapter 19.” Ken cleared his voice and then began to read: “But an evil spirit from the LORD came upon Saul as he was sitting in his house with his spear in his hand. While David was playing the harp, Saul tried to pin him to the wall with his spear, but David eluded him as Saul drove the spear into the wall. That night David made good his escape. Saul sent men to David's house to watch it and to kill him in the morning. But Michal, David's wife, warned him, ‘If you don't run for your life tonight, tomorrow you'll be killed.' So Michal let David down through a window, and he fled and escaped. Then Michal took an idol and laid it on the bed, covering it with a garment and putting some goats' hair at the head.”

As Ken read, I was trying to figure out what the passage was saying to me. I couldn't see the message. “What are you trying to tell me, Ken?”

Ken took a deep breath as he looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he looked back at me. “Walt, let me tell you a secret. Tina and I are in the process of considering a call to another church. My focus lately has been in another direction as opposed to taking care of my flock. Emotionally, in some ways I think Tina and I have already left Bryson City, even though we're still physically here. Does that make sense?”

“I'm not sure,” I replied, not having a clue where this conversation was going.

Ken took a sip of his iced tea and smiled reassuringly at me. “I remember doing a marriage enrichment study with Tina and me, you and Barb, and a couple of others. I remember going water-skiing with our family and yours. I fell when a boat wake hit us, and a sharp boat cleat punctured the base of my right palm. You took us to your office and sewed me up. I still have the scar.” Ken showed me his palm.

“I remember taking you flying in that old Cessna 172 that belongs to the Jackson County Flying Club. As you know, the flying club lets me keep the plane here in Bryson City, and Leroy Sossman has given me permission to keep it tied up at his airstrip.”

I nodded as I remembered flying over the town and the surrounding countryside with Ken. It was a glorious afternoon of soaring.

“And, Walt, I remember when you came to meet us at the hospital when Tina had the placenta previa. The hospital bed was covered with blood. I was so scared that Tina had lost the baby, but the electronic stethoscope picked up Jacob's rapid, steady heartbeat. Our baby was fine! It was Tina's blood, not his. Do you remember praying with us and for us?”

I smiled and nodded.

“And,” he continued, “just a few months later, Jacob was born safely, alive and well, wasn't he?”

I nodded again, recalling other times Ken and I had supported each other spiritually and emotionally. We'd gone through the trial of the handyman together. We both testified, and we prayed for each other while on the witness stand. We prayed together several times for the accused — before and after his conviction and sentencing. Ken had confided in me how troubled he'd been after visiting the handyman in prison and hearing the man confess to some terrible things he'd done. Ken had also shared his hope for the convict, who had been open to hearing what the Bible had to say about forgiveness and redemption. The last Ken had heard from a chaplain at the prison, the man
had been actively considering the truth of the gospel and whether or not he would seek a personal relationship with God.

“Walt,” Ken continued, “we've been through a lot together. We've learned together. We've soared together. We've been scared together. We've ministered together. We've prayed together. You've cared for me and my family, and from time to time I've had the privilege to care for you and yours.”

“I've not thought of it that way, Pastor,” I commented, “but it's true.”

“I know I could stay here in Bryson City and do much good. But circumstances and the leading of the Spirit have convinced us it's time to go in another direction.” Ken was quiet as he took a bite of his sandwich.

“Ken, are you saying I should leave? That I shouldn't fight this evil and put a stop to this kid's evil activity?”

“I'm not saying one way or the other, Walt. You see, I don't think it's especially important what
I
think you should or shouldn't do. What I'm saying is this: I believe circumstances, the Holy Spirit, Holy Scripture, and God's people can offer excellent clues as to what God wants you to do.”

“So Ken, what does the passage you read have to do with all this?”

Ken reached across the table and placed his hands on mine. “Walt, the one who inspired its writing, the Holy Spirit, is perfectly capable of letting you know the answer to that question. I encourage you to meditate on this passage. Listen carefully to others who give wise counsel — and then make a Spirit-led decision. If you do that, you
won't
go wrong.”

I nodded, and he gave my hands a squeeze.

“Mind if I pray for you, my friend?”

I shook my head and then bowed it, my eyes filling with tears.

Arthur Stupka was scheduled to lead a walk from the Hemlock Inn the next morning. And as had become our habit, I planned to meet him after work that Friday afternoon to take a short walk together up Deep Creek.

We greeted each other in the Deep Creek parking lot and headed up the trail. The summer crowds of tubers and hikers were gone, and we had the trail to ourselves. I was hoping just to get lost in his historical, biological, and botanical lessons, but his simple question — “What's goin' on, Walt? You seem worried” —unleashed a flood of emotion. I told Arthur about the events of the week and the incredibly difficult decision Barb and I were facing.