“So do a lot of kids.”
“I checked. O’Hare has to run for reelection this year.”
“So do a lot of kids.”
“O’Hare and Notter were frat bros at Wake Forest.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Go Kappa Sig.” Danny was trying hard for casual. It wasn’t working.
“Is Notter worried?” I asked.
“Lowery was pretty upset. Wants to know why some guy in Canada is questioning his son’s proud record.”
“Understandable.”
“Why some Frenchie’s calling his kid a deserter.”
“I doubt the coroner used that term.” Or provided details of the circumstances surrounding John Lowery’s death. I kept that to myself.
“Congressman O’Hare has vowed to protect his constituent from a smear campaign by our neighbors to the north.”
“He said that?”
“In a statement to the press.”
“Why would O’Hare notify the media?”
“The guy’s a showboater, jumps at every chance he sees to ingratiate himself to the voting public.”
“But it’s ridiculous. Why would the government of Canada pick John Lowery of Lumberton, North Carolina, as someone to smear?”
“Of course it’s ridiculous. Merkel thinks O’Hare’s probably in trouble over NAFTA. Lashing out at Canada might make him look good with the home folk.”
That theory wasn’t totally without merit. North Carolina was hit hard by the North American Free Trade Agreement, lost thousands of jobs in the textile and furniture industries. But the agreement had been signed in 1994.
“Lowery senior also demands to know, if John died in Quebec, who the hell’s buried in his son’s grave.”
Understandable also.
“Notter wants to make sure the thing doesn’t turn into a media nightmare.”
“What’s his plan?”
“You live in North Carolina.”
“I do.” Wary.
“Y’all speak the native lingo.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Notter wants you to go to Lumberton and dig up whoever is in that grave.”
PLATO LOWERY WAS YOUNGER THAN I EXPECTED, EARLY EIGHTIES at most. His hair was the kind that turns L.A. waiters into stars. Though white with age, it winged thick and glossy from a center part to swoop down over his ears.
But Lowery’s eyes were what grabbed you, black as wormholes in space. His gaze seemed to laser straight into your soul.
Lowery watched as I called a halt to the digging. Others in the assembly: the backhoe operator; two cemetery workers; two coroner’s assistants; a reporter from the
It was Tuesday, May 11. Two days since my call from Danny.
Though the time was barely 10 a.m., the temperature already nudged ninety. Sun pounded the cemetery’s psychedelically green lawn. The scent of moist earth and cut grass floated heavily on the air.
I squatted for a closer look at one side of the freshly opened grave.
Stratigraphy told the story.
The uppermost layer was a deep black-brown, the one below an anemic yellow-tan. Four feet down, the bucket’s teeth had bitten into a third stratum. Like the topsoil, the dirt was rich with organic content.
I gestured the tractor back and the cemetery workers to action. Collecting their spades, the men hopped in and began shoveling dirt from the grave.
In minutes a coffin lid took shape. I noted no protective vault, only the remnants of a crushed burial liner. Bad news.
A vault, whether concrete, plastic, or metal, completely encloses a coffin. A burial liner covers only the top and sides and is less sturdy. Dirt is heavy. The absence of a vault boded ill for the integrity of a box forty years underground.
