The max porter box set, p.3
The Max Porter Box Set, page 3
“A lot. Hundreds.”
Setting the journal on the table, Max tapped the top of it. “Well, we got a name now. Archibald Henderson.”
“Anything else? You know yet why he’s trying to break out of his coffin?”
“We don’t even know if that’s what happened. It’s clear that his family came from the back country and they were involved in some of the precursors to the American Revolution. That’s all I got so far.”
Drummond pursed his lips. “Any idea what’s really going on here? I mean with Mother Hope and the Magi.”
“Haven’t a clue. But I’m glad to see that you’re thinking it, too. I can’t believe this is just some simple research.”
“Is there such a thing when it comes to our cases?”
“Exactly.” Max warmed at the reassurance — even if it meant that something darker hung over them all. “I guess we’ve got to keep digging. I’ll get back to the journal. You—”
“I know. Back to the Other. See if I can find Archibald Henderson.”
“Good luck. We’ll meet up at the office in the morning.”
Drummond brought his collar tighter around his neck. “Will your mother be coming?”
“Charming as ever. No, I’ll try to keep her clear.”
“Thanks. I don’t mean to be rude to you, but I can only take small doses of people like that.”
Max tried not to be offended. He knew his mother rubbed many the wrong way. But she was his mother. And she could be kind, too.
“Good night, Drummond.”
“Night, Max.”
Max sat alone in his office for a little. Cool air followed the whoosh of the central air kicking on. He brushed his fingers over the journal. Almost two hundred and fifty years old and here it sat on his desk, under his fingers, divulging its secrets only to him. It seemed as if there should be some ceremony before he read it again, but he would have to settle for standing up, stretching his arms over his head, and grabbing a drink of water from the kitchen.
Heading back to his study, he heard murmured voices from the living room. He stopped and listened closer. Inching down the hall, Max maneuvered near enough to see his mother tucking J into the makeshift bed on the couch.
She beamed at the teen. “You listen to me. Your life is important. Don’t go wasting it on stupid risks. Okay? And I’m not talking about running around at night. I’ve lived a long life. I know a thing or two, and I see that you can handle yourself well. But that kind of surety brings along with it arrogance, and arrogance can get you hurt.”
“Don’t worry about me,” J said, with his cocky I’m the man voice. “I’m always a step ahead.”
Max cringed, bracing himself for the tirade his mother would now unleash. But she laughed — a short, quiet sound unlike anything he had ever heard from her.
“You get some sleep,” she said. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
J actually snuggled further into the couch. “Thanks. You’re a sweet lady.”
“I’m glad somebody here thinks so.”
Popping up on his elbow, J frowned. “Why is that? I mean, why are you and Sandra so mad at each other?”
“I’m not mad at Sandra. Really, I’m not. But I think Max could have done better. He could have found a woman who made him happy. That’s all parents ever really want for their children. I don’t care if Max is rich or poor — as long as he’s happy.”
“You don’t think he’s happy with Sandra?”
“Whenever we talk on the phone, I can hear the tension in his voice. Ever since they got married, they’ve struggled, and he never sounds content, let alone happy. Look at this place. It’s gorgeous. But do they enjoy it? They look as stressed as ever. Do they cling to each other? Help each other through? I don’t know for sure, but it doesn’t seem so. Never has.” She re-tucked J’s blanket. “Max is my boy. You understand? My child. It hurts me to see him this way, and it angers me to see the source of that being the person who should be loving him, not hurting him.”
“Hey, at least they’re together. My folks split up when I was a baby. Then they both split town. I ain’t ever had anybody care enough even to be mad at me.”
“Don’t say ain’t.”
J glanced around the room. “Fact is, Max and Sandra and my pal, PB — they’re the closest thing I got to family. So, even if they are a bit messed up, they’re better than nothing.”
Mrs. Porter leaned over and kissed J’s forehead. “If they’re your family, then that makes me your family, too. I guess I’m your new grandma.”
He smiled. “Cool.”
Before she could leave J’s side, Max hurried back to his study. He banged into his chair with a clumsy escape like an amateur. He stared at the journal on his desk, even reached out to open it and get back to work, but he pulled his hand away.
In all his years, she had never spoken to him like that. Never shown him such affection, such warmth, such understanding. Or had she? Did he simply ignore those memories because they didn’t fit a narrative he had constructed about his relationship with her?
With a jolt, Max straightened in his chair. “Oh, man. Am I jealous?”
Chapter 4
MAX AND SANDRA usually spent their mornings drinking coffee, eating some toast or bagels, and reading the news on their phones. They might talk a little, but only if they had both slept soundly the night before. When the sun rose that following morning, however, the Porter house rattled with activity.
Mrs. Porter clattered pans and plates as she nailed off pancakes, toast, and bacon with the expert efficiency of a pro — which Max fully admitted, she was. Coffee brewed while J thumped about the breakfast table, placing plates and silverware with plenty of noise and cheer. Mrs. Porter hummed a tune that Max recognized long before he entered the kitchen — a meandering melody of her own creation that accompanied her whenever she worked around the house.
“Good morning,” Max said. Sandra had yet to reach the talking stage of waking up. She followed him to the table.
J handed them each a paper napkin. “We made you breakfast.”
“Thanks. We could both use some coffee to start.”
Mrs. Porter carried over a hot pan of eggs. “Sit down, J. Max can get the coffee. You’re a growing boy. You need to eat.”
J looked at Max and rolled his eyes, but he could not hide his delight in being treated his age. A bit less than his age, Max thought.
Near the end of the morning meal, Max downed the last of his coffee and said, “Mom, I’m sorry but you’ll be on your own today. I didn’t know you were coming, so we’ve got work that has to be done.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’m real sorry. I know you were expecting —”
“I said it was fine. No need to worry about me. I can entertain myself. I do it all the time back home. Besides, as long as you don’t need this young man, I think we will go to the zoo together.”
“The zoo?” Max said.
“The zoo!” J said.
Mrs. Porter brushed toast crumbs into her napkin. “Why not? It’s not that far. You don’t mind letting us borrow a car, do you?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” Max said, though a sharp pain formed in his chest.
Sandra, on the other hand, let out an audible sigh. “I need a shower,” she managed. As she left the kitchen, she added, “Thanks for breakfast.”
An hour later, Max and Sandra parked on Liberty Street and walked to their downtown office. On the short drive, he brought Sandra up to speed on the case, but before they entered the building, he halted. “Do you mind taking care of the office work this morning? I want to go to the library and check out a few things.”
Though Sandra said nothing, Max knew that she understood. He would do the research, but he also needed some space. No other place gave him sanctuary like the library — in particular, the Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University.
The library consisted of two old academic buildings that had been reformed into one. The former alley between them had been walled in and topped with tempered glass that let sunlight fill the area. What would have been outside walls now boasted balconies that looked over this garden-like space, and instead of plants growing, young minds blossomed as they studied at the tables spread out below.
The Zen quality of any library compounded in this particular place, and Max needed that now. He needed to focus on the case, but his mind refused to quiet. He kept thinking about his mother and J and their budding relationship. Why should she suddenly be doting on this young man? Did she truly have a connection with J or was this some passive-aggressive way to strike at Max? She wanted to be a grandmother. Could this situation be nothing grander than a surrogate?
Whatever the case, he could not deny how much it bothered him. While part of him wanted to mull over the whole thing, the rest of him knew he had to take advantage of the limited time he had been given. Because no matter what else, Mother Hope had brought this case to them, and that still bothered him more than anything his mother could do.
Setting up at one of the library’s computer stations, Max began with a search for Archibald Henderson. The first hit surprised him. Brigadier General Archibald Henderson held the distinction of being the longest-serving Commandant of the Marine Corps — from 1820 to 1859. Unfortunately, he was born in January 1783 — well past the Revolution. Not the man they sought.
After numerous other attempts to find Henderson, Max had to accept the logical result — Archibald Henderson was not a man who made it into the history books. All they had was the man’s journal. A great primary resource, but limited by the man’s infrequent entries.
“Wait,” Max said. “The entries.”
Henderson had written about his father’s involvement in the Enfield Riot. Perhaps the father could be found. Max searched the Enfield Riot and dug into his work.
Over the next few hours, he went through various accounts and reports. Unfortunately, with around five hundred farmers participating, Max could not find the name Henderson. Indeed, most of the names involved had been erased from history, leaving only the major players.
Max did stumble upon a reference to the Sugar Creek War which occurred six years after the Enfield Riot. Experience taught him to follow this kind of lead. What emerged from his research built a large picture of the situation.
Governor Tryon had become the leading authority in North Carolina, but he did little to tamp down the corruption that had caused dissent among the back country folk. Though called a “war,” the various protests that comprised these events were often less violent and more about public shaming and humiliation. Even the Enfield Riot was less a riot in the modern sense and more like an intense gathering of a mob. Not to be discounted, but hardly a full-scale riot.
Several names kept appearing in Max’s research, and he jotted down each one that he found in numerous texts. Edmund Fanning and William Tryon on the English side of things and Herman Husband on the back country side. Husband started out merely as a facilitator for those trying to get land from the old Granville Parcels and ended up being a major player in the group that would be called the Regulators.
He had heard of the Regulators before — a semi-organized group considered to be precursors to the Revolutionary forces. He also knew that researching them would take most of the afternoon. Max’s stomach grumbled, and he gave it a gentle pat. He decided to listen to his body and grab some food before jumping back in. As he put his things together, he checked out three books — might as well start while he ate.
From the library, Max cut across the grounds, went by the biology building, through a student parking lot, and onto a walking path through the surrounding woods. This short, well-maintained path led to the Reynolda House shops which included a handful of places to eat. The Village Tavern could be pricey and seating was limited, but Max wanted to treat himself — or, at least, ease his worries with the sensory pleasures of a good steak.
Nicking a table in the back corner, he ordered a Delmonico and opened one of the three books he had lugged along. Before he could read a word, however, a young man paused long enough to grab Max’s attention. The man had his head cocked to the side as he read the spines of Max’s books.
“You interested in the Regulators?” the man asked.
Max smiled. “A bit of a hobby.”
The man had a distinctive, dark look. His cheeks sunk in a little, and his eyes popped out a little. Dark, shaggy hair softened an angular nose while a lean but strong body gave him an authoritative presence. He reminded Max of the way some movie stars could be seen as intensely attractive despite having unattractive features. Something about the combination of the parts mesmerized the audiences. On some level, this man’s charm had worked on Max because as he sat at the table uninvited, Max cleared a book out of the way.
“My name is Edward,” the man said, offering his hand. He spoke with a rich North Carolinian accent that drew a person in to whatever he said.
Max shook the hand and gestured to the books. “You have an interest in this?”
“Very much so. I’m a history grad student. I love the stuff. But my favorite period is the American Revolution. My dissertation will be on something to do with that time. Once I can lock down what part to focus on.”
“What about the Regulators? You know much about them?” Might as well mine the kid for information. A researcher always had to take advantage of the sources available.
Before he answered, Edward’s eye twitched. Nothing more than a slight spasm, yet it changed the shape of the man’s face. Only for a fraction of a second, but Max shivered. Then, Edward’s face returned to a smile.
“I know a lot about them. They were the kicking off point of the Revolution. Not as violent as many think, though. I mean, they spent years just complaining, marching on government steps, signing petitions, and writing op-eds, that kind of thing.”
“Yeah. I noticed there was a long gap between the Enfield Riot and the Sugar Creek War.”
“That’s right,” Edward said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Even after it all boiled over, even after the big battle at Alamance, many of the Regulators fought for the British during the War. Hard to call those ones traitors since the United States didn’t exist yet, but still, as far as I see it, they were traitors.”
“They were farmers, not soldiers.”
“True. I mean they really just wanted a fair shake at getting land, not being overtaxed, and having a real voice in the government.” Edward lowered his head, and the dark restaurant brought out that unsettling flicker on his face. “But what gets me mad at them is that the deeper cause underlying everything was the divide between the rich and the poor. It was a big gap, with no such thing as a middle class, and the rich kept rigging the system to make it worse. Now, that’s nothing shockingly new, but even after the Regulators had a few small successes, even after they had major losses, when it all was over, what did they do? They got paid off and joined up with their enemy. Never made much sense to me.”
Forcing levity into his tone, Max said, “It’s like you said — nothing really new there. People have always been looking out for themselves first.”
“Not me.” Edward spoke with a fierce strength, low and dark, that made every word drip with threat. “I think we have a duty to our country, our people. I’m not like Archibald Henderson.”
Max’s head snapped up as his pulse quickened. The smell of cooking beef reminded him that he had not been served his food. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but why hadn’t the waitress interrupted them yet? His eyes searched for her, but she had managed to disappear. Hearing the tremble in his voice, he asked, “Who are you?”
Edward grinned at him, a toothy, wolfish grin. “I’m the one telling you quite clearly that you are on the wrong side of this.”
“Wrong side of what? All I’m doing is reading some history books.”
“Not all history books know the truth.”
“What’s this about? What do you want?”
“You have a choice, Mr. Porter. You and your wife can turn away from this, forget about Henderson, forget about the Regulators, and go on with your little research firm. Or you can keep stoking the flames that you don’t even realize surround you. Do that and the fire will burn hot.”
Max’s jaw jutted out as he brought his face close to Edward. “Since you obviously know who I am, I have to wonder what kind of idiot you are.”
Edward hesitated. “Watch yourself.”
“There’s no shame in being mentally disadvantaged. Clearly, you aren’t too bright. How else to explain your behavior?”
“I came here as a courtesy to warn you —”
“You came to threaten me. But my wife and I have taken down the Hull family, the most powerful wielders of magic in the area. You think you can intimidate me?”
Whatever advantage Max had gained by his bluster, it vanished in a blink. Edward pulled back, but the movement carried with it a dollop of condescension, and when he spoke, he layered on a thick amount of pity. “The Hulls boasted a lot but brought about little results. That you and your wife defeated them is not as impressive a feat as you think. They were bound to fail. You were simply the catalyst.”
“If you’re really a history student, you must major in revisionism.”
A smirk crossed Edward’s mouth. “Witchcraft existed long before the Hulls, and it will continue on long after. The Magi are no better, and Mother Hope is a newborn fawn when compared to the infinite lifespan of magic.”
Max suppressed the urge to shiver. Though he still didn’t know the connection between Archibald’s skeleton and magic — Edward’s comments were about as close to a confirmation as Max would ever get. Whatever was at the heart of all this, it had to do with magic.
Edward gracefully stood. “That’s it, Mr. Porter. Walk away and you’ll be unharmed. Keep moving in on this, and you and Sandra will suffer for it.”
Max considered a sarcastic remark, but Edward turned on his heel and strolled out of the restaurant. Max took a few breaths and went through the entire exchange in his head — he needed to remember as many details while they were still fresh. Less than a minute later, the waitress returned with his steak as if nothing had happened.
