Soul Survivor (33 page)

By this time, Ralph and Mary and Jack had also pushed away their breakfast plates. Bruce leaned in and told them that James
had explained that his plane—James Huston’s plane—had been hit directly in the engine, just as Ralph had described a moment
ago.

Ralph’s eyebrows lifted.

Bruce told about tracking down the families of the dead fliers, about finding Anne Barron, Huston’s sister; he described the
fiery drawings of screaming air battles signed by “James 3,” his son.

The people at the breakfast table were frozen. Finally, Mary interrupted. “How is James doing?”

“The nightmares have virtually stopped; now he’s just a normal five-year-old.”

Bruce had been speaking for almost an hour. The first to respond was Jack Durham.

“Well, let me tell you something…”

Bruce flinched, expecting to be attacked, or at least denounced for his deceit.

But he wasn’t. Jack had his own dramatic story. He had been shot down shortly after Huston was killed. On the same mission.
His shoulder was dislocated, and his teeth were knocked out in the crash. And he had close relatives who would swear that
on that day, at the hour of his great peril and anguish, they heard him cry out.

They all had their own little paranormal markers. Mary said her son was killed in Vietnam. When the Army reported his death,
she already suspected that he was gone. She had had premonitions about him being wounded or killed. Such things were not uncommon
among the veterans and their families.

“We believe your story; we know these things happen,” said Mary.

The others nodded.

They wanted Bruce to go on an excursion to San Diego Harbor and then tell his story the next night at a squadron dinner, but
Bruce was reluctant. This was still tender material—things he himself did not completely understand.

He needed some time alone to think about it. To talk about it in a large group seemed a little like preaching, maybe even
presumptuous.

Bruce didn’t even understand why he had fought against it so hard, resisting for so long. It had to be more than just showing
up “the panel.” Somehow, he would have to come to terms with the twin phenomena of fact and faith.

Alone in his hotel room, Bruce picked up a Gideons Bible. He leafed through the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes.

“There is an appointed time for everything… A time to be silent, and a time to speak…”

And I had a kind of revelation. James’s experience was not contrary to my belief. God, I thought, gives us a spirit. It lives
forever. James Huston’s spirit had come back to us. Why? I’ll never know. But it had. There are things that are unexplainable
and unknowable.

I was overcome. I did not owe anyone an explanation of why. All I needed to do was tell people what happened.

My torturous journey provided facts. The secular culture demanded facts and proof, and I had done that heavy lifting.

I had made a leap of faith. I believed—truly believed—in the story. I did not need a reason.

O
N SEPTEMBER 15, Bruce Leininger flew home to Louisiana in a cloud of newfound satisfaction. He had cracked the case, and,
more important, broken free of his own annihilating doubts. And his story had been accepted by the only constituency that
counted: the veterans themselves.

All that research—all those documents, all those dry airline meals—all of it was now just so much historical detail. Technical
experience. The whole thing had tipped him from the undecided to the yes column. He was as content and happy as he could get.

Of course, it would not last. First he would have to undergo the usual rough debriefing by the Scoggin panel, which was okay
now that he was with them. Nevertheless, they were the Scoggin girls, and they had a taste for I-told-you-so’s and demanded
a slice of his flesh—and Bruce was compelled to be a good sport.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “you got it right. What more can I say? James had a past life. You were right and I was wrong.”

“Okay,” said Andrea, “but you’re not going to go diving down to that plane and try to crack open that cockpit, right?”

“No, no, no. Although, I don’t see the harm…”

And then the phone rang, and Andrea picked it up and heard a familiar voice.

It was Friday, September nineteenth—the fall, which in Louisiana is still hot and muggy. James had started kindergarten at
Ascension, and I was puttering around the kitchen with all this extra time on my hands.

“Hi, Andrea, this is Shalini Sharma from ABC Studios in New York.”

“Shalini! Oh, my gosh, how are you?”

She was the young field producer who had worked on the
20/20
story that never aired.

“How are things? How’s James? Anything new? Did you ever locate Jack Larsen?” Shalini asked in a breathless rush.

Was anything new? Hold on to your hat!

I brought her up to date. In the past year and a half we’d found Jack Larsen; we found a lot of the surving
Natoma Bay
aircrew; we verified great chunks of James’s story, including the fact that he did fly a Corsair. We’d learned the name of
the pilot James had remembered: James M. Huston Jr.

Shalini was very excited. Her ancestral roots are Indian, and she is a true believer in reincarnation.

I said, “And Bruce is on our side.”

That may have been the biggest shock of all. Bruce was such a hard-line disbeliever.

“You know, I’m not with
20/20
anymore.”

Well, that was natural in the TV business. Young producers switched around like tag-team dancers.

“So who are you working for now?”

“I’m working for
ABC Primetime
.”

She said that there was a brainstorming session at
ABC Primetime
and that our name had come up when they were kicking around story ideas. She asked if we would be interested in telling the
story again on
Primetime.

I said that I had to discuss it with Bruce. I told her that she could give our name to the producer, Clem Taylor, and that
we would discuss it in-depth with him.

She said that there was a time factor. They wanted to move quickly, since they were looking at an air date of October thirty-first.

Bruce sat down and had a drink.

“I don’t like the Halloween part,” he said.

No, neither did Andrea.

Still, one step at a time. Naturally, they brought in the panel, who were all for getting the story on television. Their attitude
was a very Cajun “
Laissez les bon temps rouler
”—“Let the good times roll.”

Over the next few days, as the debate in Louisiana shifted back and forth, Shalini called and said that if they agreed, the
correspondent would be Chris Cuomo, the son of the former governor of New York, Mario Cuomo, who was a very personable and
rising young television correspondent.

Andrea was still bothered by the Halloween angle. It could rob the whole thing of some gravitas, make it seem like one more
vaporous tale of ghosts and goblins. Just another spook story.

On the other hand, there was a big incentive. There were still about eight families of
Natoma Bay
casualties that the Leiningers couldn’t find. Putting the story on television would spread the word and, perhaps, coax the
survivors into the open.

By the beginning of October, Shalini was pressing for an answer. She wanted to make firm arrangements for Chris Cuomo and
the crew to come to Lafayette for the taping. After a lot of back-and-forth, they finally settled on the crew arriving on
Sunday, October 19. The actual taping would take place the next day.

Now the pressure was on the Leiningers. The producers wanted to interview all the people from the
Natoma Bay
end: Al Alcorn, John DeWitt, Leo Pyatt, Jack Larsen, and James Huston’s sister, Anne Barron.

The problem was that none of the people they wanted to talk to about James and his past life knew the real story of why the
Leiningers had gotten involved. Bruce had told a few people at the
Sargent Bay
reunion, but
Natoma Bay
veterans were still under the illusion that Bruce’s interest had started with a neighbor and morphed into the desire to write
a book. If they agreed to the
Primetime
story, everyone would have to be told. Someone would have to break it to them. With the film crew scheduled to come to the
house in less than a week, they had to tell Anne Barron fast.

Andrea was a nervous wreck. She worried that Anne would think that they were complete lunatics or con artists. She might even
have a cardiac event. So Andrea got the number of the Los Gatos Fire Department in case disaster struck while they were breaking
the news.

Anne was, after all, an eighty-six-year-old woman. On the night of the great revelation, Andrea had fortified herself with
a drink and handed another to Bruce as they got ready to make the conference call. They waited until ten p.m. Louisiana time—eight
California time—to call. It took them that long to screw up their courage.

Bruce picked up the phone, punched in seven or eight numbers, then hung up. Another glass of wine, perhaps; that would make
it go easier.

Finally, he punched in all nine numbers and let the chips fall on the conference call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Anne. This is Bruce and Andrea.” They sounded cheerful, but it was the wine. “How are you doing?” they were both chirping,
like TV game-show hosts. If Anne had any kind of complaint, if she was not in good health, they would abort. But she said
that she was doing just great. Couldn’t be better. The Leiningers danced around and around, avoiding the crucial moment:

“How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Fine.”

“How is James?”

“Fine. Just great.”

Andrea was wagging her hands, mouthing, “Just spit it out, for the love of God!”

Then she suggested that Anne be seated. “Anne, do you drink?”

“No,” said Anne.

“Oh, that’s too bad, because this story may take a glass of wine,” said Andrea.

Bruce said, “The reason we’re calling is because we have some interesting news.”

“Oh?”

“
ABC Primetime
has contacted us about doing a story about
Natoma Bay
—and your brother.”

“Really?” said Anne. “That is interesting news. How did they find out about it?”

“Anne, you sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” persisted Andrea.

“No.”

“Well,” said Bruce, “I’m just going to start at the beginning. When James was two years old, he started having these nightmares
about being a pilot in a plane and getting shot down and crashing in the water.…”

Silence.

“Are you still there, Anne? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

Andrea told her the whole story—the vivid descriptions of battle, the accuracy in naming the ship, coming up with the names
of the pilots—and all the while, Anne never uttered a sound. Occasionally, Andrea asked if she was still there, if she was
still okay, and Anne would say, “I’m still here; I’m fine.”

Bruce went into a lot of detail about his research and all the things that had happened over the past three years. Finally,
when they got to the end of the story, Andrea asked Anne if she had any questions.

“No,” she said quietly. “I just need to think about everything that you’ve said. I want to call my daughter, Leslie, to talk
to her about it.”

“We totally understand,” said Andrea. “But we wanted you to know—we’re not crazy; we don’t want anything from you; we just
wanted you to know what’s going on in our family.”

She thanked the Leiningers and said that she would be in touch with them soon. Then she hung up.

The next day, Bruce got an e-mail from Leslie Frudden, Anne’s daughter.

“Don’t know where to begin! Guess I’ll just ask you to e-mail the information you gave to Mom last night… This will make things
more clear as Mom, needless to say, was somewhat flustered on the phone this morning. I will also be able to pass on your
e-mail to Mom’s grandchildren as well as her nephew John before they happen to watch
Primetime
(I rarely miss it.)… I must say thank you again for giving Mom a part of her past which she had suppressed for very good reasons,
which I will share with you in confidence. At the time of Uncle Jimmy’s death she was in California with me and my brother,
feeling very much alone… Uncle Jimmy’s return was the one bright spot in her life.… Love to you both and your precious James
III.”