Southern graves, p.2
Southern Graves, page 2
“We know anything about that?” Max looked to the rest of his team.
Sandra said, “Just let him finish.”
“At first, after I said I wanted an answer, he didn’t say anything.” J no longer paced but rather held still in front of Max. “I could tell from his clothes that he was a soldier. Old soldier. And when he started talking, the words sounded like he was underwater. I mean I could hear that he was speaking, but I had to strain real hard to make out a single word. That’s why he ain’t talking right now. I think he knows it’s not easy for us. Might not be easy for him, too.”
Max looked to Drummond. “What about you? Can you talk to him?”
“I tried.” Drummond shook his head at the empty corner. “Whatever’s wrong with him, he can’t talk like a normal ghost — even to another ghost.”
J said, “Here’s what I’ve gotten so far — he’s a Confederate soldier. First thing I did was check online at different soldier uniforms through US history. I also got him to tell me that he died in 1902. That one took a long damn time. Not as long as where he’s from, though. It’s a town called Whitten. Or Widdin. Something like that. Last thing I got from him was the words No bones. I’m guessing that he can’t find his bones or they’re gone. He’s been separated from them, and I’m pretty sure from listening to you guys over the last few years that he can’t move on to whatever’s after when he’s not with what’s left of his body. Right?”
“Sometimes that’s right. What’s his name?”
With an embarrassed frown, he said, “Don’t know. I forgot to ask at first, and when I finally did, it was too late. He’s very confused. That and how hard it is talking to each other, I’m lucky to get what I got. But it’s a good start, I think.”
Max paused to mull over all that had been said. It occurred to him that J not only looked different but sounded different, too. More mature.
He spotted a tremor in J’s hand, and Max understood more of the situation than before. J worked hard to speak more formally. He wasn’t only trying to lay out the particulars of the case, but he also tried to make a case for himself — he wanted to be involved further.
Max shook his head. “That’s not a lot to go on, but I’ll take it from here. We’ll see what we can find out.”
“I knew it.” J spun away clenching his fists and stomping off a few feet. He spun back. “This is my thing. I brought it here. I ain’t some naïve fool who doesn’t know anything about this world you guys work in. I can see it. That’s more than you can do.”
“I appreciate that,” Max said in as calm a voice as he could manage. It had been a long day. A hard day. And he heard more of an edge to his words than he wanted. “This isn’t something to jump into lightly, though.”
“I’m not. Sandra, tell him I’m not.”
Sandra shifted, putting a little distance from Max. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. You might not have noticed, but J not only sees the ghosts, he knows about witchcraft, he’s even helped on a few spells.”
“I’ve been around for all of that.” Max breathed deeply to stop the irritation he heard scratching up his throat. “But there’s a far cry from helping us with an aspect of a case and getting involved as deeply as I can see he wants to be.”
J said, “I’ve got to start somewhere.”
“You don’t have to start at all.” Max popped to his feet. “This may seem exciting and interesting and fascinating or whatever, but it’s dangerous. It’s frightening. It’s not something to be toyed with or explored like a game.”
“I guess you all were just masters of the whole thing before you ever started. Is that it?”
Drummond forced a chuckle. “The kid’s got you there. Nobody’s ever prepared to deal with this stuff.”
Max glowered at Drummond. “You’re not helping me.”
“I’m not trying to. Look at your kid. Look at him close. Any idiot can see that the more you tell him he can’t do something, the more he’s going to want to do it. All teenagers are like that, but with something this big, you’re not even playing with fire. You got your whole hand in the furnace to begin with.”
Max could feel those flames burning up his arm, reddening his face, threatening to boil over. Sandra must have seen it too because she said, “J, please understand that Max has had a very rough day. Grandma Porter is ill, and we’ll talk about that later, but it’s bad enough that he may not be thinking entirely clear right now. And Max, J isn’t a little boy anymore. He’s not an orphan on the streets anymore. He’s been going to school, he’s smart, and he’s been involved enough with all we do that he has as good an idea as he could possibly have about what he’s getting into. Besides, the Porter Agency is not run as a dictatorship. The three founding members each have an equal vote. I, for one, vote that we should give J a chance with this case. There’s also the fact that this ghost client seems to insist on it. He doesn’t want to let J out of his sight.”
Max said, “Well, I vote no. I’m sorry J, I know that upsets you, but I think we need to look into it much further before we put your life at risk.”
“Uncle Drummond?” J asked.
The old ghost took off his hat and scratched the back of his head. “It’s been my experience that the best way to learn about something is to do it. In this situation, with Max and Sandra and myself being a part of it at all times, I can’t think of a safer way to introduce this fine young man into our world.”
Sandra said, “Then it’s settled.” She looked to Max. “Is this going to be a problem?”
Before he could think through his answer, Max’s mouth opened. “If you’re going to be a part of this, you still have your regular responsibilities, too. Tonight’s a school night. Go do your homework and get to bed. Drummond, will you see this ghost out of our house? Try to get through to the guy that we’re going to help him and that we don’t appreciate him following our son around. And Sandra, we need to have a talk.”
Without waiting for answers, Max stormed off to his bedroom.
Chapter 3
ARGUING WITH SANDRA NEVER FELT GOOD, but at least, if done right, Max usually experienced a catharsis from addressing whatever problem they faced. Unfortunately, in a house with hallways too short and walls too thin, Max and Sandra had to speak in lowered, controlled tones in order to maintain any privacy. Not ideal for a good argument.
It didn’t help that Max knew he had gone too far. He had not intended to push back so hard against J — in truth, a bit of pride pulsed through him at seeing J’s confidence and conviction — but that didn’t change one important fact. “I’m trying to do my job as a father — protecting the boys.”
“We’ve been through this,” Sandra said, gently pressing their bedroom door shut. “You can’t protect them. Not from ghosts and witches. But we can equip them to deal with reality.”
“Why can’t they enjoy the reality that everybody else enjoys? Most people don’t go around concerned that they’ll be assaulted by ancient spells. If the boys don’t know about ghosts and witchcraft and all of that, then they can be in blissful ignorance like the majority of the world’s population.”
“Honey, that horse left the barn years ago. At least, with J. Perhaps PB could live a life not knowing about it all, but he’s already seen a lot anyway. He’s yet to accept it, but that day is bound to come. Probably, sooner than we think.”
Max deflated on the edge of the bed. “I know. I do. I want them to be ready to deal with these things. That’s part of my point — they’re not ready. PB won’t acknowledge any of it, and J doesn’t take the danger seriously enough. To him, ghosts are all like Drummond.”
“Then we have to be the ones to set him straight, but we won’t accomplish that by shutting him out of everything. Drummond can be a big help with that, too. J’s really fond of him.”
“I don’t think Drummond is a great role model. Unless you want J drinking hard whiskey and calling every woman doll.”
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Don’t undercut one of your best friends because you don’t like the situation. Drummond still tries to better himself — and he’s dead, for crying out loud. Plus, have you forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager? Teens don’t listen to their parents. Not much, anyway. Somebody like Drummond might be the only way to get through to J.”
Max rubbed his face. “I hate this.”
“Nobody ever said we had to like it.” Sandra lowered to her knees and rested her head on his thigh. “But think about the rest of it, too — J did really well out there presenting everything to us.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“He should be rewarded for that, not stymied. So please, let’s help him with this case.”
“We will. I will. Heck, you knew I was going to before I even stepped into the house.”
She tittered. “I didn’t know for certain.”
“Besides, digging into some research will probably make me feel better. Let me forget about my mom for a while.”
“I figured as much.”
He kissed the top of her head. “There’s still one thing that bothers me with all this.”
“Oh?”
“Ghosts don’t pay. Every single case we’ve ever had when a ghost hired us, they never delivered on payment.”
Sandra laughed as Max grabbed his laptop. Before he could open the bedroom door, Drummond pushed through, a grim expression pulling his face down. Max’s nerves fired off.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“We got a problem with this ghost,” Drummond said. “A big problem.”
The harsh look on Drummond’s face forced Max back several steps until he hit the bed and sat. Sandra remained standing but only with the help of the wall.
“What happened?” she said.
Drummond removed his hat. “I should’ve seen it earlier, but I didn’t think to look. It just never occurred to me.”
“I swear,” Max said, “if you don’t start talking, I’ll find a way to punch you.”
“Sorry. The short of it is that I think — no, I know — that this ghost has attached itself to J.”
“When you say attached, do you mean —”
“Tethered. Cursed. Look, I took the guy for a stroll outside, figured it’d be easier to get through to him when we weren’t surrounded by so many of the living — that can be a thing for some ghosts. We didn’t go far, but I noticed it then. His shape pulling. Not hard, not so bad as to stretch out his head or anything, but enough that I realized he was tethered to something close by. But J said they met at his school.”
Sandra said, “Which would have had the ghost stretched thin if he were tethered to something in this neighborhood.”
“Exactly. Only thing that makes any sense is that the ghost is connected to J.”
Max grabbed his knees and forced a few slow breaths. To Sandra, he said, “You think J’s been messing around with spells? Maybe he accidently cursed himself.”
“I doubt it.” She opened the closet door and pulled out her box of special texts — rare and powerful books on witchcraft. Not long ago, she had an entire section of shelves in their office filled with such books — grimoires of long-forgotten covens, collected essays handwritten by notable witches, and even a few spell books bound in skin. But when their last big case resulted with the office building burning to the ground, those precious books were lost. Turned to ash. Sandra had been lucky enough that three of her books were at home during the fire. “Whenever I’ve shown J anything to do with spells, he’s given it great respect.” She flipped through one book, then switched to another. “Was the tether visible?”
“Yeah,” Drummond said. “I thought that a bit odd. It was like a thin fishing line. I didn’t even notice it at first.”
“That’s a good way to describe it. My initial guess is that the ghost has been floating around, waiting for a person to come along that had enough of a gift to see him. Like he was fishing — trying to catch someone. He probably hoped anybody with the ability to see a ghost would also be able to help free him.”
Max said, “And J’s the first one he found?”
“Doubt it. If he’s from the Civil War, then he’s probably gone through several people over the decades. Maybe hoping each time to get free and failing. J’s just the latest.”
“None of this is making me feel good about accepting this case or letting J be a part of it.”
“Not much choice now. Unless you want to go back on your word. Plus, whatever this ghost has done, it won’t just go away. We’ve got to deal with it.”
“Any suggestions on that front?”
Sandra placed her hand on top of the open page. “Drummond, do what you can to talk with that ghost. Anything he can tell us will help. And if you can see the tether again, try to note any details — what color it is, how thick it is, anything at all. I’m going to research what I can here.”
Max popped to his feet and gave his laptop a little shake. “I was heading off to my own research anyway. Guess I’ll double my efforts.”
With the team splitting off on their assignments, Max headed toward his new office tucked away in the back corner of the kitchen. Armed with a date of death and the name of a hometown, he figured he had a decent chance of finding out the name of their ghost soldier. He sidled into his little desk built into the tiny alcove and got started. Tried to, anyway.
His mind rehashed his earlier conversation with Sandra as well as J’s behavior when presenting the case. His son had looked so excited, so thrilled to be dipping his toes into Max’s world. What would he think when he learned that this ghost might not be so easy to get rid of?
Maybe Sandra was right. She usually was. But it seemed like the boys had only come under their guardianship a short while ago. How could so many years have passed already? How could it be possible that these boys were both teenagers? Heck, the simple idea that J had a date in two days befuddled Max. Now he had to deal with a ghost causing trouble.
Before he could fire up his laptop, the kitchen door to the outside opened and PB entered. A car backed out of the driveway, its lights flashing across the kitchen window. PB glanced over, gave Max a nod, and headed toward his bedroom.
Max said, “It’s okay. I haven’t started working yet.”
PB paused, and Max swore he caught an irritated sigh before the boy turned back. “Hi, Max.”
“Have a good day at school?” As with J, Max took a moment to notice how PB had changed. Broad shouldered now, the slim beginnings of a mustache, and the telltale crack in his voice. These changes had been brewing for a while now, but Max felt as if he saw them for the first time.
“School is fine, but I’ve got a lot of homework tonight, and it looks like you’ve got work to do, too. I’m really tired, and I don’t want to be up all night, so if you don’t mind —”
“Of course. Go do your work. Good night.”
PB clumped off to his room, and as Max listened to the murmured conversations between the Sandwich Boys, he thought again about all that had transpired that day. Sometimes he wanted to hold the world still. But that only made it spin harder.
Opening his laptop, he shut out the uneasy sensations wriggling under his skin. Research — that’s what he needed to do. The best cure-all for his worried mind.
The town of Whitten (or Widdin) did not appear in North Carolina on any map search. No surprise there. The ghost had a clouded mind and difficulty speaking. So, Max focused on the famous text A Roster of North Carolina Troops in the War Between the States by John Wheeler Moore. Published in 1881, the four volumes of Moore’s Roster included the names of 106,498 soldiers from North Carolina, listing military units, service records, ranks, and remarks about everything from promotions to court marshals, injuries to captures, desertions to deaths. By cross-referencing the Roster with more modern Civil War registries and then comparing his findings to any man surviving the War in North Carolina with towns that began with the letter W or ended with TEN or DIN. Max eventually produced a list of nearly ten thousand names which could be their ghost.
As he organized and sifted through the endless information, Drummond drifted into the room. “Got our friend all squared away,” he said.
Max lifted his head. “Oh? What’d you do with him?”
“I tried to show him the Other, but he wouldn’t come. Probably can’t since he’s disconnected from his body. Not like me — he’s disconnected in an unhealthy way. Clearly because of the tether and all. But I got him to understand he needed to give you some space to work. At least, I think he understands. He’s pretty much hanging out across the street.”
“It would really help if he could tell us his name.”
“I tried to get that out of him. I did manage to get the first letter. At least, I think so. It’s A, by the way.”
“That will actually help a lot. If my data search on that comes up empty, we’ll assume whatever he said was wrong and go from there.”
Max returned to his laptop, adding the new parameters into his search — knocking down the list to three thousand names. After a few moments, he could feel the ghostly cold in the air. Looking up, he found Drummond staring back, arms crossed over his long coat.
“What?” Max said. “You got something else?”
Drummond tipped back his head. “When I was young — I mean little, like a kid — I had this friend, Paul Ricker. Everybody called him Pokey. His dad wasn’t around much, always on the road — salesman of some kind. I was too young to care, so I never found out. But his mom — she was always around. Whenever we got together to play ball or shoot marbles or anything, she was there to see him off with a whole bunch of questions and concerns. She made sure he had a little bag with food even if we were only to be gone for thirty minutes.
“Back then, kids would get together in a little gang and go off into the woods or play on a baseball field or get in fights in the mud. Anything we wanted to do. As long as we were back for dinner. But not Pokey’s mom. She treated him like he was made out of glass. Could break anytime.”
