Trail of Terror, page 11
He’d found it heartbreaking to see the scale of the drug problem in the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indian community.
Before that, he’d volunteered to participate in the FBI Safe Trails Task Force, helping to investigate everything from homicides and robberies, to crimes involving the sexual exploitation of children on the reservation.
Not everything was a cakewalk though. He hated three things: First, he cringed at having to provide support and counseling to grieving families when he found a drowned or deceased body — especially when children or teenagers were involved. Second, he hated public speaking and making formal presentations to large groups of people. He guessed it was because he just wasn’t cut out to feel comfortable standing alone in open territory with no place to hide, without a weapon, in front of a large crowd of hostiles staring at him.
Spreading cremated remains in the mountains was the third thing he didn’t particularly care for. He’d received numerous requests to participate in the distribution of cremated remains of family members and friends in the forest — all without incident. However, on the last occasion when asked to participate in the scattering of ashes at sunrise, he’d accompanied the family to the summit of a mountain and helped them select an area near one of the more frequently visited overlooks. As the group approached the rim of the overlook there was a light breeze blowing, but it did not appear to be of any consequence. After a few moments of silence and meditation, one of the family members opened the container and poured out the contents of Uncle Joe over the edge of the precipice. He was one of the few people in the entire state of North Carolina who’d died from tuberculosis, no less.
What happened after that was totally unexpected. The ashes were caught in a fairly strong updraft, made a quick return and coated him from head to toe with the decedent’s white powdery remains.
Joe still shuttered every time he thought about the incident.
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WITHIN MINUTES JOE ENTERED the small town of Murphy, slowed the truck, exited off the Joe Brown Highway and turned right onto Hiwassee Street, crossing over the Hiwassee River bridge. McDonalds was located on the right, south across the river. Joe’s office was located a few miles north of McDonalds in the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office complex on Regal Street.
Murphy was the county seat of Cherokee County, North Carolina. It had the distinction of being known as both the first and last town in North Carolina, depending on which way you were going, of course. It had quite a bit of early pioneer, Native Cherokee Indian and Civil War history, resulting in nearly the entire town being on the National Register of Historic Places. Nestled deep in the Nantahala Forest, it was the small charming town that everyone thought of when they think of North Carolina, kind of on the edge of being a small-big town. It had a great downtown area with tree-lined streets and town statues, with just the right number of antique stores, a few delicious bakeries and hometown restaurants.
Even though it only had a population of slightly over 4,500 people, Murphy was a natural small-town superstar nestled in the center of the beautiful Nantahala National Forest. It was well-known for its summer vacations, fly fishing, river water adventures, log cabins and superior hiking trails. It seemed to share two qualities: First, it was a great place for families, couples and lone wolves like himself to live; and two — many of the Native American Cherokees still lived there.
It was the kind of small town that naturally seemed to be pedestrian friendly because it dated back to a time when sidewalks and front porches made it easy for folks to talk to each other; and there was no such thing as “big box stores” because everybody shopped local. Most people still ate local, too…but times were slowly changing.
Many neighbors could still be seen gathering on front porches to drink sweet tea, where tradition was the lifeblood, a helping hand was a given, and everyone still watched the sun dip below the horizon.
Back in the 1830’s the town hadn’t existed, it was nothing but Cherokee Indian Territory. Eventually, Murphy was named for North Carolina politician Archibald Murphy. The site of the original settlement Murphy, along the Hiwassee River, was built on some of the most beautiful scenery known at that time. It was known to the Cherokee people as Tlanusi-yi, or the “Leech Place,” because of a legend about a giant leech named Tlanusi that lived in the river there.
Joe had been told by numerous old relatives on the Cherokee Reservation that the old Cherokee Trading Path that connected the Cherokee lands east of the mountains with the “Overhill Towns” of western Tennessee, was now called the “Unicoi Turnpike” or Joe Brown Highway.
In 1836 disaster struck the Native Cherokee. The United States Army built Fort Butler and began the Cherokee removal from the region known as the Trail of Tears. Fort Butler acted as the main collection point for all Cherokee Indians east of the mountains.
From Fort Butler the Cherokee, including many of Joe’s relatives, were taken over the mountains to the main internment camps at Fort Cass in Charleston, Tennessee. Most of them died due to disease and starvation during the horrific journey. Fortunately for Joe Bird, his father’s ancestors, chose to defy the army and hid deep in the forests. They lived in secret caves for many years and survived on small animals, birds and whatever plants they could forage.
The stories of their survival and escape from the white soldiers were passed down through the generations that followed. Oral tradition.
Bird drove past the old L&N train depot, now a community center just southwest of downtown Murphy. Murphy was once the terminus of the two prosperous train lines back in the 1800s: The Mineral Bluff, Georgia spur line, called the “L&N Railroad,” came out of North Georgia and the Murphy Branch (Southern Railroad) came from Asheville, North Carolina. Like the dinosaurs, it all came to an end in the mid-1990s when the remnant of the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad discontinued service between Murphy and Andrews.
Fortunately, over the last ten years, a revitalization had turned Murphy into the ultimate small-town utopia. When townspeople realized that a lot of small towns were struggling, people came together and put into place a plan to revitalize itself so they wouldn’t go the way of the Dodo bird. They began to realize its’ rich history and wonderfully preserved and restored Nineteenth Century architecture was a prime destination for what has been the newly minted category of ‘Heritage Tourism” and a perfect place for summer vacation homes. It had more than enough history to make for interesting sightseeing. More than enough forests and lakes for hiking, fishing and boating. So far, it managed to fend off all the crimes against tourism like strip malls and big chains.
A decidedly laid-back kind of place, there was now an active little arts colony scene in the picturesque town and some serious chefs with some outstanding restaurants. Blessed with superb nearby attractions, old growth forests, fauna, copious scenery and activities, it re-established itself as pretty much a ‘something for everyone’ kind of place. The town’s website promised “small-town charm and hospitality.”
Five years ago, a few civic-minded people organized a “Friends of the Riverwalk” nonprofit organization to work in tandem with city officials to transform downtown’s waterfront into an active, pedestrian friendly environment for tourism, entertainment and fitness — all to enhance the city center. The organization raised money and constructed over five miles of beautiful paved trails, starting at the far end of Konehete Park along the Valley River and ending at the Old L&N Depot by the Hiwassee River bridge. It included a beautiful overlook deck at the convergence of the Valley and Hiwassee Rivers, a covered bridge that connected the Fisherman’s Loop with the main trail, and a huge outdoor performance pavilion for plays and civic activities.
It had turned out to be a huge tourist attraction.
Joe Bird thought the people themselves were the real charmers though. They smiled a lot, seemed to talk with their hands moving a lot, told great stories and didn’t obsess with the past or the future. It was the kind of small town that the onslaught of “gentrification” hadn’t touched. People knew each other and they minded their own business. Rents and home prices were still very reasonable.
What was there not to like? It had everything except big city traffic congestion, big city gentrification or some commercial Disney Epcot version of what it once had been. A chance to get up close and almost personal with wildlife, it was an ideal place for families, tenderfoots or hard-core outdoor hiking and camping types.
That’s why Joe Bird lived there. It was his home.
As he pulled his F-150 pickup truck into the McDonalds parking lot, parked and turned off the ignition. Otis stood up in the rear seat and let out a loud woof in anticipation.
“Good boy Otis, just sit down and I’ll bring you an Egg McMuffin for breakfast!” he remarked, as he exited the vehicle.
He scanned the parking lot and spied his mother’s bright new red four-door Kia Soul small SUV. It was parked away from other vehicles so it wouldn’t get dinged. She’d be inside waiting patiently at a table drinking coffee with her hands folded, watching the entrance door.
Joe Bird loved his mother, he always looked forward to seeing her, but dreaded her weekly discussions about his “unmarried life.”
He’d once had a girlfriend when he’d left to join the Army, and even thought seriously about marrying her. He’d even gotten as far as considering proposing and buying an engagement ring. But before he’d even finished boot camp training, she’d run off with a local businessman who owned a small car lot in neighboring Clay County. Since then, he’d dated a little, but nothing serious.
He sighed as he walked toward the golden arches. Parents spent years deciding every detail of your life when you were a kid. For some parents, it was hard to let go.
That was his mother.
Getting married and having a family was a huge responsibility, and he tried to tell her many times that it really didn’t fit into his plans for now, if ever. He’d seen people get in and out of jobs, colleges, marriages and cities in order to please their families. He didn’t want to be one of them. His mom had this stubborn way of trying to push his emotional buttons, attempting to make him feel guilty and start a family — even when it would be saner at the moment to nail his head to the wall.
God, he hoped she still wasn’t on her kick of trying to arrange dates so that he’d meet her idea of a perfect match. There were few things in life worse for him than being pressured by his mom to get married and have a baby when he wasn’t really ready.
So far, he had managed the impossible and knew how to skirt around the sensitive topic with grace and diplomacy, which allowed him to preserve his family relationship while standing his ground…his brother Ancil, well — not so much.
His brother had a tendency to be more abrasive.
Joe Bird was in no particular hurry to get married and have children. He’d seen way too many couples out there who filed for a divorce after just a few years of marriage because of incompatibility not only in the bedroom, but also in terms of handling emotions and finances.
To avoid this kind of disaster, he wanted to take it slow and make rational decisions.
Lonely? Sometimes yes, he had to admit. But until he met the right woman, being with Otis would do just fine.
CHAPTER 19
AS HE WALKED THROUGH the entrance into the busy restaurant, he stepped aside out of habit and his eyes automatically scanned the entire area. He was satisfied there was nothing unusual going on, just the usual morning rush crowd, everybody standing in line impatiently waiting for their sack full of processed fast food.
When you’re running late, Joe Bird thought, it was hard to beat something as quick and easy as a McDonald’s. The menu was full of items both healthy and unhealthy, and nowhere was that disparity more glaringly obvious than their breakfast menu. The place was packed. Everyone in line looked up at the large menu-board looking for something different for their first meal of the day, no matter whether it was a fruit parfait or a big plate of pancakes and eggs.
Everybody sitting at tables just stared at their phones, silently texting and thumbing through messages.
Trouble was, most of what he saw on the menu smelled delicious, but contained enough saturated fats, cholesterol and buckets of sodium to clog an elephant’s arteries. Really unhealthy stuff. Worse, some of the customers he noted were even adding sides of fries and milkshakes to their breakfast orders.
Joe figured cynically that most of the customers would be needing angiograms or heart bypass surgery within a couple of years. He’d read an article about health in Readers Digest that said heart surgeons made lots of money jump-starting people because of fast food.
His mother saw him and shot up a hand, smiled and waved. He walked over to her table and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek.
Even at age sixty, Maise Bird still walked briskly and looked twenty years younger. She had very little if any gray hair.
She was not only facially attractive, she was one of those few women who still had that “beautiful” personality, proving that beauty wasn’t just a façade, but an iridescent quality that was not solely dependent on one’s gene pool. She still had most of the smooth curves that made older women look appealing. Not stringy, droopy or lumpy like most older people.
Her dark brown hair was set in a simple combination of bangs, braids and a messy bun, all three elements working together that was somehow very stylish. The longish pieces of her bangs slimmed her oval face, inset with her classic Indian high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes.
Joe noted every week she wore a different hairstyle. Last week she had her hair in some kind of Bohemian arrangement that looked like a milk maid braid; sometimes it was even in a ponytail or traditional Indian pigtails.
Her facial features were like those of other Cherokee Indian women in the community, but that was where the physical similarities stopped. Due to early contact with Scottish and German miners in the southeast by her ancestors, she wasn’t bronze-colored like his father, but was more light-skinned, more athletic and had decidedly European features.
But she had grown up on the reservation and raised as a full-blooded Cherokee and a member of the Eastern Cherokee Nation.
She was much taller and had longer limbs than most Cherokee women. Both Joe and his brother had inherited her physical traits: She always looked beautiful — even without makeup — it was only natural that her sons were both handsome too, since they shared the same gene pool.
She didn’t have to downplay her beauty, gifts or intelligence in order to please others or make people comfortable. It was in the way she walked, talked and presented herself that made her so unique. One of those rare women who just seemed to radiate from the inside, out.
He really wished he could find a woman with her qualities.
“I’ll be back in a sec, Ma — got to order breakfast for Otis and me!” he said.
“Oh, you and that dog! You need to find yourself a good woman to cook your breakfast,” she trilled.
Joe grinned good naturedly, turned and stepped in line to order his food. Here we go again he sighed to himself…eventually their discussion would morph into her version of life advice and a repeat of the weekly Wife-Hunting 101 course.
“M’yelp’u?” a bored teenage cashier asked him. It sounded like one word.
He stepped up to the counter and ordered a sausage burrito and Egg McMuffin for Otis, hot cakes and a large coffee for himself.
By the time he paid for everything, his bag of food was handed to him along with the coffee. Fast service.
Joe hustled out to his truck to give Otis his tasty breakfast. As always, the huge dog greeted him as though he hadn’t seen him in months.
Joe smiled, tossed him the food and made sure Otis’s water bowl was full. He’d already gulped down the sausage burrito and had started on the Egg McMuffin by the time he lowered all the windows in the truck.
“Guard!” Joe commanded in Cherokee.
Joe knew his possessions in the vehicle would be safe. Otis would protect everything with his life.
Joe scanned the parking lot for his brother’s Cadillac, didn’t see it, then made his way back into the restaurant.
Joe loved his mom and dad and looked forward to seeing them every week. They were both leaders and elders in the Cherokee community. Within the Native American community and according to Indian culture, there was an abiding tradition of respect for the importance of family and the honoring of elders. Elders were known for being the kind of people who paid attention, gaining knowledge and wisdom from life.
Both his parents thought it was their duty to teach younger tribe members about Cherokee culture and traditional ways of life; they believed it was through the oral traditions shared by the elders that social values and beliefs were preserved. Essentially, they were libraries of Indian knowledge, history and tradition.
Joe and his brother grew up believing, when one of the elders spoke, they listened — it didn’t matter if the person was directly related to them or not, or even if they agreed with what was being said. They listened, well — at least Joe did — Ancil, well not so much.
Growing up, his mom had set high standards for both her sons: She taught them to always thank people, no matter who or how small something seemed. Moral excellence - to always do the right thing even when no one else was looking, and to take time to find a trash can rather than tossing something on the sidewalk.
The problem was, his mother also had an eclectic tendency.
She was a tribal shaman, sometime acting as a medicine woman who took care of the health needs of the tribe, who knew what natural remedies to use. At times she was a healer, a midwife and a purveyor of wisdom and history. She prescribed roots and medicinal herbs for whatever ailing condition that her tribe member had. Joe thought she spent most of her time ministering to tribal women bearing children.
