David piloted his SUV west on the interstate through the Pigeon River Gorge, the pair of federal agents following in their own black SUV. He glanced across the highway to the point where Deputy Patterson had picked up the boy the night before and shuddered. He’d been out there, all alone, so desperate to escape the horrors. Other than the highway, though, no other sign existed of other humans. Not a single building. No power lines or lights. Absolutely nothing other than mountains and trees.
To think that kid probably was in Miller County all along, and David hadn’t figured it out. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, vowing to rescue any other kids before the sun set. But he had to find the house somewhere in that vast wilderness.
The tall mountains towered over either side of the highway, blocking the direct sunlight from the road except for a few brief hours every day. The snow berms lining the highway, the efforts from the previous night’s snow plows, were melting and sending sheets of water across the road. The road crews were busy spreading salt brine to keep it from refreezing overnight.
David slowed as he entered Tennessee and passed the turnaround point his deputy had used the night before. He took the first exit, its green sign reading “Wattsville,” and followed the two-lane road as it doubled back into North Carolina. The snowplows had cleared the path as far as the power plant, but only ruts through the snow greeted him after that, a fitting symbol of the isolation of the community. He engaged his four-wheel drive and cautiously moved down the road.
Wattsville was built in the 1920s by the utility company erecting the dam across the Pigeon River. With no roads leading to the area and limited access to the river, the houses, school, and community center supported the isolated families. The formation of the surrounding Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Pisgah and Cherokee National Forests in the coming decade cemented the isolation.
As more modern power plants were built and the workforce slimmed, the school and community center were closed, and houses were abandoned. The opening of the interstate in the late sixties made things worse by highlighting how much closer Tennessee was despite the fact that the few remaining citizens of Wattsville paid Miller County and North Carolina taxes.
David understood how little allegiance the residents felt to his county. He had to think hard to come up with when he had last been in the area himself, realizing it had been on a fishing trip three years earlier. He resolved to come more often. The residents were voters, after all, even if most of them didn’t bother. They still deserved to see their sheriff.
He spied a gravel driveway on his left. Plowed clean, it snaked its way through the forest. David bumped his vehicle off the road and followed the half mile of twists and turns until he emerged into a clearing. A timber-frame house with a green metal roof stood in the center. Smoke curled from the chimney and was swept away by the stiff morning breeze.
They came to a stop in front of the house, parking side by side. David signaled to the FBI agents to stay inside the car. The reason for his caution appeared in seconds—a pair of Plott Hounds, one black and one brown brindle, raced from the back of the house and circled the arriving cars, snarling and snapping in warning to the visitors. Bred in the mountains for hundreds of years as bear hunters, the large dogs were sleek, muscular, and fierce. Loyal to their owners, they were excellent protectors against both human and animal invaders.
The front door of the cabin opened. Colonel Buck Sawyer stepped onto the wide front porch, crossed his arms, and glared at his visitors. He had close-cropped gray hair and wore a red flannel shirt, tan Carhartt jeans, and scuffed work boots. His demeanor matched the attitude of his dogs, unwelcoming of the intrusion.
David waved a tentative hello from the safety of his car. The colonel scowled but nodded in recognition. He pursed his lips and whistled, the shrill sound echoing off the nearby barn. The dogs fell silent, turned, and raced across the gravel and up the steps in leaps. They circled the colonel’s legs with tails wagging and sat on either side of him, sentinels watching the guests warily and waiting for commands.
David stepped from his vehicle and motioned for the agents to join him. Once on the porch, he extended his hand to shake while the dogs sniffed at his legs. “Good to see you, Buck. It’s been a long time.”
“Years,” the colonel replied and refused the handshake. He glowered at the other visitors standing behind David. “Still can’t believe you asked to bring Fibbies onto my land.”
The shedding of their suits for more casual clothes did little to help the federal agents blend. Dressed in blue jeans, hiking boots, and windbreakers, they looked more like city slickers out for a day hike than the mountain people who lived in the area. Roxanne remained unflustered and introduced herself. “Surprised an old army colonel has so little regard for a federal agent.”
“My upbringing in these mountains gave me a natural dislike to anything out of Washington. My time in the army confirmed it. Nothing good comes from that swamp.”
She waved her arm toward the mountains rising on the horizon. “Brings tourists to the area for the Great Smokies, right?”
“Tourists? They bring litter, traffic, and crime, but everyone caters to them, right?” The colonel harrumphed. “But they don’t let those of us who live here hunt in the park. They don’t even let us take our dogs to walk on the trails. Not to mention they evicted my ancestors—and lots of other people’s ancestors—to create your little playground.”
David stood silently. He had heard the rant before from many of the longtime locals. Buck needed to get it out of his system before anything productive could happen.
“Hell, Washington at least acknowledged they treated the Cherokee poorly with the Trail of Tears, so they let ’em have a casino on their reservation to earn some money from them tourists. But we hillbillies didn’t get squat when they took our land. Just a bunch of empty promises like the Road to Nowhere. You know what I’m talking about, agent?”
Roxanne shook her head and stayed silent. David worked to keep the smile off his face, knowing she understood the game as well as he did. Buck needed to work himself down.
“Family cemeteries are up there, centuries old. And they promised people they would be able to visit them anytime they wanted. Even promised to build a road to make it happen. Eighty years ago, that road was promised, and it’s still not built. They lied to the mountain people to get them to move. And they continue to lie to them every year when some slick politician promises this time will be different if only you’ll give him your vote.”
Figuring Buck was about done, David took the time to interject. “Blame me. I asked the FBI to Miller County to help me find the worst kind of man there is.”
Buck glowered at the agents for a minute longer before slowly turning to the sheriff. “What type of man?”
“One who hurts kids.”
David knew his tactic had worked as Buck’s eyes flicked across the faces of his visitors. Without another word, he pushed open the front door and waved them inside.