Page 27 of Dead Mountain

In the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, Gardiner’s life had been a blur of confusion, followed by endless, unrelenting anguish. It was in that early period—after the first three were found—that the families had come together in an ad hoc group. His own wife, gone these five years now, had been instrumental in organizing this support group. It was after her death that Melody Ann arrived on the scene and made the group official.

What a fifteen years it had been. The investigation had started with a roar of promises, furious activity, proclamations of progress, pressers and releases, news programs, and eventually documentaries and a made-for-TV movie. The FBI were everywhere, Agent Gold’s serious, careworn face ubiquitous on television. And then came the long, slow, gradual trickling down of the investigation as it stalled and cooled and finally iced over.

The Manzano Families Memorial Association had not, however, given up. Under Melody Ann’s leadership they gathered petitions, wrote letters, went en masse to the state capitol, and created a web page with biographies and photos of all nine students. They collected donations to help fund the cause and keep the search alive. But over the years, their raw grief and anger had faded into sorrow, and the get-togethers had become solemn reunions rotating among the three or four houses closest to the university and the mountain range that had taken their children.

On this evening, however, things felt different. People had now helped themselves to food and taken their places on the living room sofas, and Adele had brought in more chairs and trays to accommodate the rest. Instead of getting a plate for himself—Gardiner never had an appetite at these affairs—he looked around, taking an almost subconscious count. Twelve people, including himself. Originally the number had been more than double that, with siblings and other family joining in solidarity. Among those twelve, though, the small talk that usually went around the room—the murmuring, occasional sobs, infrequent laughter—was missing tonight. People just seemed to push food around their plates in silence. It was, Gardiner knew, the return of the old specter, thanks to the recent news: still vague and uncertain, but promising renewed investigation and grief to come. Right now, it seemed nobody had the heart to rake off scars only partially healed.

“Well?”

A woman’s voice had punctuated the silence. Melody Ann’s.

“An hour has gone by, and I can’t believe everyone is just dancing around the subject. It’s as if a ghost were sitting here and we’re all pretending not to see it.”

“We” was an interesting term to use, Gardiner thought. Three years after the tragedy, Harry’s first wife, Ruth, had fallen down the basement steps after one too many and broken her neck. Harry had quickly remarried—to Melody Ann—and then just as quickly died too, taken from this earth by a massive heart attack, which to Gardiner was just another expression of his grief.

There was silence for a moment.

“What are we supposed to say?” This was from Paul Tolland, whose son was among the missing, perhaps now found.

“Anything. Everything. I mean, you must have heard about what’s been found. And the FBI’s surely going to reopen the case. You’ve all heard that!”

Of course they’d heard. It had been all over the news. Two bodies had been discovered in a cave several miles from the site of the tent. An FBI agent had just confirmed this much, but she’d given no further details other than they were probably victims of the tragedy. There was the brief television spot at the cave where the discovery was made—but no further details, which simply added to the agony.

Suddenly confronted by this development, everyone appeared paralyzed . . . everyone, that is, except one.

Melody Ann O’Connell put her plate down and went on. “I look around, and . . . what? It seems like we’re half-asleep.”

When nobody said anything, she continued. “I mean, I don’t want to be the one to bring this up, but—why aren’t we, of all people, hearing anything? Why haven’t they been in contact with us? Doesn’t it seem suspicious?”

You love bringing this up, Gardiner thought. She was just the type—with her braying Long Island accent, botoxed face, too-skinny limbs, and frosted blonde tips—to be the center of attention. She hadn’t lived it; she was late to the party. He tried to be charitable, telling himself she’d been incredibly helpful with both her time and legal expertise. And she was a fighter. They needed a fighter.

Terry Van Gelder said in a low voice, “We’ve been through this before. We can’t do anything but wait.”

At least Terry tried. But it made little difference.

“Of course we’ve been through it before,” Melody Ann went on. “They’re expecting us to wait. They’re counting on our passivity.”

Van Gelder, whose daughter had been found near the campfire, said nothing.

“Look, for quite a while now I’ve wondered why the case was shelved so fast—given it was never solved. Anyone else had those thoughts?”

There was a vague murmuring.

“Maybe they didn’t want to solve the case. Now two more bodies turn up and they have to do something. Or at least look like they’re doing something. Am I right? Harry told me about Agent Gold, that guy in charge of the first investigation. Sounds like a Mister Do-Nothing to me. He may be gone, but the FBI’s the same.”

Gardiner had heard this before from Melody Ann and didn’t really buy it. Although he didn’t think Agent Gold, for all his promises, had done a very good job, he’d always considered him an honest man. But now a tiny doubt crept into his mind, which he quickly pushed away. Over the fifteen years, members of the group had floated, discussed, and argued over a hundred theories. They were drowning in theories, paralyzed by theories—not one of which seemed to fit the facts.

“I took an undergrad course in poli sci at Levittown Tech,” Melody Ann went on. “And the professor gave a lecture on the subject of propaganda and social influencing. This is how they do it: they keep saying the same things again and again. We don’t know much at this time. Information is still coming in. The investigation is making progress. Sorry, the details are confidential. How often have we heard that?”

Gardiner could hear some low murmurs that sounded like agreement. He also wondered if, despite her shrillness, she wasn’t right.

“And now and then,” she said, “they drop a little crumb of hard information to deflect or mystify.” She paused. “We’re only people. But they’re a machine. They don’t get tired.”

“Tired of what?” Fred Hightower asked. Everyone was listening now.

“Of keeping their secrets. Of manipulating us into believing their lies. Whatever. That’s the method and it works every time. If you don’t know what questions to ask, you exhaust yourself guessing. That’s why we have to start with simple questions and demand answers. For example: Why haven’t we been contacted yet? Not just over the last fifteen years . . . but the last fourteen hours. Does it seem right that the press is given this information first? That we find out what’s going on from a television screen?”

Now everyone was nodding and agreeing.

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