Southern fury, p.10
Southern Fury, page 10
Leon placed his hand atop hers, and as if agreeing to give up the last thing he ever valued, his body drooped. “Mother Hope asked me to search for the grave of a man named William Crutchfield. She’s got me inspecting every cemetery in the state. I figured it was busy work, but looking at your faces, it seems that name may mean something.”
Max said, “It does.”
“Do you know who this guy was? Where I can find his resting place?”
“I’m looking for him too. If you find his grave, please text me the address.”
“You do the same for me.”
For a few seconds, all three exchanged looks without a word being spoken. With an abrupt motion, Leon slid out of the booth. He paused as if about to say something, then thought better of it. He finally rested his hand on Sandra’s shoulder and closed his eyes. It seemed to Max that the man prayed. Then he strolled out of the restaurant.
“That was weird,” Sandra said.
Max set the menu aside. “Time to go back. I got a ghost to find.”
Chapter 14
THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON, Max worked at his mother’s apartment. Sandra needed to research the symbol from the cloaked witch’s casting circle, and the best way for her to do that was to use the casting circle in the office. In order to give her a peaceful place to concentrate, Max opted to go home. He considered a visit to the library, but with all that had happened to J, he thought the boy might appreciate seeing Max’s face when he got home from school. J certainly looked unhappy about going back to school that morning.
Sitting on the long couch, Max propped his laptop against his knees and continued taking notes on William Crutchfield. Off to his right, by the window, PB worked on multiplication and division of fractions while Max’s mother watched over the boy’s shoulder. Now and then, she made small noises — some approving, some warning of a pending mistake. PB focused on his work, and in a strange way, the two appeared happy with their roles — strange because most teenage boys would be rebelling against any authority figure. But each time Mrs. Porter gave the boy structure, he thrived.
The same could not be said for William Crutchfield. What small amount Max could find on the man suggested he had a healthy distaste for things like law and order. Yet Walker had been telling the truth — a man named William Crutchfield did turn up at the Bakersville, California Sheriff’s Department in 1904 and claimed to have been involved with the murders from so many years before in North Carolina. The first thing that stood out to Max suggesting that this man might actually be Straw Hat lay in the alias.
Back in 1891, when the Winston police were heavily involved in charging people for the murders of Mary Goins and John Smith, three men had been arrested in connection to the crime. Lack of evidence set all three men free. They were Owen Walker, William Fansler, and Charles Crutchfield. The odds that this man in California happened to share the first name of William Fansler and the last name of Charles Crutchfield seemed highly unlikely.
Once Max decided that William Crutchfield was, in all likelihood, Straw Hat, following the man’s movements became easier. Whatever his reasoning, Crutchfield retained the alias. Max kept expecting the trail to go cold, but it led right back to Winston.
“Very good,” Mrs. Porter said. “You know, when Max was little, when he was my Little Max, he struggled with fractions. He did. All through school. I tried to help him like I’m helping you, but he would fight it and cry and whine and complain. You are a much better student than he ever was.”
PB had the sense not to say anything, but he could not hide the pride glowing off of him. Max gave him a thumbs up, and the boy went back to work on the next problem.
Max located a manifest that listed William Crutchfield as a passenger aboard the SS North Dakota. About a decade too early for use of the Panama Canal, he had to take the long way, going down the Peruvian coast, around Argentina’s Cape Horn, and back up along Brazil. Upon arriving in North Carolina, he apparently returned to his old stomping ground. In fact, according to the diary of Victoria Brandymore, old Straw Hat may have had vengeance on his mind.
August 24, 1905
It was so good to spend time with my old friend. He asks that we call him Crutchfield now, and we all agreed to do so. Just another one of his eccentricities. His travels have suited him well. He looks healthy and strong and handsome as ever. I do hope he’ll spend more time with me once his business affairs are concluded. The only downside to the evening was his constant mentioning of women that I did not know. I had come fully prepared to help him find old W—, but he seemed more worried about these old flames. What’s a girl to do? Maybe Edna was right. I should just let the wild ones go and put my heart into a more stable man like Samuel or Reginald.
Max wondered if one of those women went by the name Mobley. Or possibly even Mother Hope. If vengeance wasn’t his goal — and according to the diary entry, he showed a lack of interest in Wilburn Walker (if, indeed, W— was Walker) — then maybe his fascination with witchcraft had sent him down the wrong road.
He read what more of the diary existed, about twenty pages, but beyond that entry, Ms. Brandymore had nothing to say of value. She did reference the fact that she knew Crutchfield by another name, but whatever that name was, it most likely was another alias. Still, Max made a note to check it out in case he hit a dead end.
“You did it again,” Mrs. Porter said. “Perfect. Little Max, you better watch out. PB here is going to be able to do all the accounting for your company soon.”
Max said, “That would be wonderful. I hate doing the paperwork.”
Slapping his laptop shut, he rolled up to his feet and headed to the front door. He needed some quiet to think through all the details he had discovered, and that kind of quiet would not be found in the cramped quarters of the apartment.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Mrs. Porter said. “We’re only teasing.”
Max made a show of stretching his back. “It’s fine. I’m just going to get a little air. I’ve been sitting for far too long.” He took the stairwell down to the front entrance, stepped outside, and inhaled the cool, evening air. Pieces were coming together. He didn’t know how it all made sense yet, but his research intuition told him he neared a solution.
“About time,” Drummond said, appearing in front of Max. “I’ve been waiting over two hours for you.”
“You could’ve come inside at any time.”
“Why would I want to do that? After all the complaining I hear between you and your wife about your mother’s place, the last thing I want to do is go in there unless I had to.”
Not wanting to get drawn into discussions of his mother, Max asked Drummond the key question. “Did you find William Crutchfield?”
The ghost shook his head. “He’s not in the Other, either. Maybe the cemeteries are the place to go. That’s where we found Walker.”
Max took a few minutes to outline what he had learned about Crutchfield. When he mentioned that Crutchfield might have taken a ship around Cape Horn, Drummond made a face.
“What?” Max said.
“Travel back in those days wasn’t the best thing for a person. Especially travel that isolated you in a confined space for a lengthy period of time.”
“If you’re thinking he got sick and died, you’d be mistaken. The diary entry I found on the Historical Society website says otherwise. He definitely made it back to North Carolina.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t get sick later. And if he was, in fact, involved with one of the witches, that sickness may not have been natural.”
“Hmm.” Max brought out his phone and pulled up the Historical Society site again. After flicking around for a minute, he said, “I wonder ...”
“You going to keep standing there making noises or you going to let me in on whatever it is you’re thinking?”
Looking up, Max reddened. “Sorry. It’s just that I remembered a few references to something called a pest house.”
“Oh, sure.”
“You know what that is?”
“Back in my day, and long before my day, pest houses were places to quarantine people. They were houses usually on the edge of town or further away. Somebody comes down with a disease that’s highly contagious, and you send them to the pest house. I never actually saw one, thankfully. They were not known as pleasant places. And, frankly, if you ended up going to one, your chances of ever getting out alive were slim. You think Crutchfield went to one of these places?”
“Seems like a possibility. Especially because he took a ship all the way from California to here. Like you said, possibility of picking up a disease on his way, especially going around South America, it’s not that hard to believe. Except this lady, Victoria Brandymore — she wrote in her diary that she saw him and said he looked healthy.”
Drummond crossed his arms and thought. “Smallpox. He could have been infected over a week and not known.”
Bouncing from one foot to the other, Max said, “Yeah. This connects. I can see it.”
“You got that bookworm excitement I’ve seen before. Does this mean you’re headed off to cram your head in a bunch of texts?”
“If Crutchfield was sick with smallpox or some other horrible disease, he would have ended up in a pest house. There can’t be that many of them around because if there were, I would’ve heard about them long before now.”
“Modern medicine did away with them.”
“And it’s not like somebody would come along and want to live in a house like that. They’d have been tough to sell. There can’t be that many still standing or they’d be more well-known. So, if one is still around, it might be a historical landmark. I can search for that easy. All we have to do is figure out which one Crutchfield went to, and chances are —”
“We’ll find Crutchfield.”
“Okay, I’ve got to go back inside and do some research on my laptop. You’re welcome to hang out in the apartment.”
“Gee, that sounds like such a swell time. I think I’ll float around out here for a while. When you’re ready, come on out and call for me.”
Back in the apartment, Max delved into research on pest houses and his attempt to locate any still standing in North Carolina. As he worked, part of his brain noted J returning from school and both boys helping Mrs. Porter prepare dinner. Shortly after, Sandra came home.
She dropped on the couch close to Max so they could discuss things without being overheard. “I tried out a lot of what I know,” she said. “Not much luck. It’s a very old symbol, and a rather unorthodox version of it. That’s the problem. The classic version of it would be some kind of location spell, but the drawing was very strange. One of those kinds of things that makes you think the person drawing it is either insane or a genius.”
“A location spell would make sense — trying to find Wilburn Walker since he was the last known connection to Crutchfield.”
“Only problem is the symbol could also be some kind of curse or maybe a different kind of attack. None of the books I have go back far enough to match it exactly. I put out a couple calls, but this late in the day, nobody’s going to bother calling me back.”
“Really? I’d think witches didn’t even get started on their day until the sun went down.”
“And you think they’re eager to do busywork for me? Besides, with everything that’s going on, most witches don’t want to talk to me at all. They don’t want to be seen as taking sides with us.”
“So, tomorrow?”
“If I’m lucky. Otherwise, I’ll have to figure out some way to get access to a few fairly rare books.”
Max looked at the boys and Mrs. Porter in the kitchen before turning his attention back on his wife. His gut told him one thing while his chest told him another. He could see that she had noticed the turmoil on his face, but she simply waited for him to speak.
“I’ve got a hunch where I can find Crutchfield.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but it bothers me that the witches in the area are getting cold feet. If they won’t talk to you about something as simple as that symbol, things are even worse than I realized. And I realized a lot.”
Max smelled the onions and green peppers sautéing on the stove. They sizzled and crackled, and the boys jumped back as a small bubble of oil popped. With nervous laughter, they edged back in as Mrs. Porter stirred the pan.
Watching them, Max said, “I know you’re not going to like this, but I was wondering if you would take the boys and my mother out of state? Just for a few days. A week at most. Let this situation cool down.”
“Absolutely not.” No anger. No frustration. Simply matter of fact. “First off, if we even tried to leave the state, the witches would know. Mother Hope and Grandma Mobley are not fools. They’d find out and they would never allow it. Secondly, and far more important, we are a team. You need me.”
He had no expectation of a different outcome, but he held a glimmer of hope. In his mind, he had leapt ahead to what seemed the logical culmination of all the paths converging. He did not like what he saw.
“Okay,” he said, placing his hand on her knee. “At least, watch the boys the rest of the night. I’ve got to get out of here. Finish my research in quiet.”
“Of course.” She picked up his hand and kissed his palm. “See? You do need me.”
He chuckled.
“You know what else you need? Your own home. If you had your own place, your own study once more, none of this would be a problem.”
The smile on his face dropped. “How could you bring that up right now? We’ve talked through this, and —”
“Exactly for that reason. We did talk through this. And you keep missing the point. You ask me to take the boys and leave? The point is that we do this stuff together. You’ve always known it, and every time you get scared, you forget. So I’m here to remind you. Witches or no witches, life goes on. And our life would run much smoother with our own roof over our heads.” She kissed his palm again. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. Not trying to pressure you. I just want you to see the bigger picture.”
He looked into her eyes and saw her sincerity. He gazed back at the boys once more. “I do see it. And I love you, too.”
As Max headed to his car, he scanned the parking lot. Too many times he had been attacked by focusing on getting his key in the door rather than being aware of his surroundings. Never again.
Despite his attempted awareness, Drummond managed to sneak up behind him. “Ready to get the work?”
Max jumped and tried to pass it off with a laugh. Getting into his car, he said, “I have a hunch how we can find Crutchfield. The answer is in the branch office of the North Carolina Historical Society.”
Drummond made a face as if he smelled something foul. “That’s as bad as spending time with you in a library.”
“Trust me, you’ll have fun.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“The sun’s gone down. The building is most likely closed. That means you’re going to help me break in.”
Perking up, Drummond said, “A break in? That’s more like it.”
Chapter 15
THOUGH THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY’S BRANCH OFFICE was technically a state building, Max did not expect it to be highly secure. Located off Broad Street, Max parked three blocks away to be safe. Just because his expectations were for an easy break-in, he did not want to take chances.
Walking toward the converted townhouse, Max avoided conversation with Drummond — he did not want to draw attention from anybody passing by. Drummond seemed to understand, or at least, he was in a quiet mood. Either way, they did not discuss anything until they reached the building.
The branch office stood three stories with a brick front and white-trimmed windows. From the outside, the place looked sturdy despite its age. Except the closer they came, the more Max saw that the brick was only a layer of siding. Not real at all. In fact, the house had been constructed like any other wood frame dwelling. Only the surrounding buildings protected this place from high winds and storms.
Drummond slipped through the faux-brick walls, rummaged around for a bit, and returned. “Looks clear. Just a basic locked door.”
“Can you unlock it from the inside?”
“I think so. I didn’t see a keypad or any kind of surveillance equipment. It’s really just an old house.”
“I figured that might be the case. The actual Historical Society headquarters is in Raleigh — that’s where the majority of important papers pertaining to the state are found. We’re only looking for things related to pest houses in Winston-Salem. If William Crutchfield needed such a place, he would not travel far across the state.”
“Just to be safe, I think you should enter through the back door.”
Max nodded and followed the ghost down a concrete alley. They emerged in a small parking area for two cars. Wooden steps led up to a patio that connected to the back door. Drummond slipped through again, and Max could see him as he checked over the door one final time. Then, wincing through the entire experience, Drummond unlocked the sliding glass door. Max slid it open and paused. He listened for any sound of an alarm and looked for any blinking lights. Nothing.
He entered and waited again — this time wondering if he would hear police sirens scream from a few blocks away. When the quiet continued, he turned on his flashlight and headed deeper inside.
The building’s former glory as a residential townhouse had not been altered much — at least, not on the first floor. Several rooms had been converted into offices but the walls remained, the original flooring remained, the old doors remained. Even the kitchen in the back remained a kitchen. Max took the stairs to the second floor where the real changes had been made. The walls between bedrooms had been knocked down and replaced with a bank of file cabinets pressed up against each other. A metal desk with rusty corners occupied the middle of the room.
