Dover smiled. “Of course. Buddy, give us a few minutes please.”
Buddy excused himself and walked to the rear of the small establishment.
“Now, what’s this all about?” Dover asked as he sat up a little in the chair.
Chan took a seat in the waiting chair directly across from Dover. “I understand you’re supporting Trey Richards for the state senate this November.”
Dover’s face lit up. “Yes, Trey’s family and I go way back. I was very proud that he took the Democratic primary several weeks ago. He’s smart, energetic and dedicated to improvements in his district. I believe the young man will go very far.”
“Can you speak to any specifics? What’s he targeting in the election?”
“Well, education is an overriding concern. Mr. Richards knows the value of a solid education and wants all of District 47 to be on par with the rest of South Carolina. And then on par nationally, of course.”
“Will he increase taxes to get the district on par?”
“Increase taxes? Now, why would you go and use such dirty words?” He laughed then leaned forward in his chair. “We need not break the backs of the good people of Macinaw to improve their quality of life. Sometimes, Mr. Adams, the grease can come from other fry pans.”
“Then how is Richards going to get his district’s schools up to speed?”
“Rob from the rich and give to the poor.” He smiled at his own words. “What I mean is, it would be to our advantage, along with Orangeburg, Colleton, Jasper and other rural counties, to have financial backing from all the districts of South Carolina. We are but poor farmland, Mr. Adams—goat fields and swamps. We have no industry to speak of. We have no commerce. It’s Trey’s plan, by virtue of legislation, that all counties share from the same pie.”
“Interesting,” Chan said. “Do you think the richer counties will go for it?”
Dover crossed his legs at the ankles. “They sure asked us to participate in that de-segregation of the schools a couple of years back, didn’t they? Now, how is everyone supposed to be equal if the finances aren’t there?”
“You were against de-segregation?”
“I personally have never seen anything wrong with separate schools for the races, but if we must send our children to schools with the colored folk, then at least we should have the finances to deal with their special problems.”
“Special problems?”
Dover laughed acerbically. “I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know, Mr. Adams. Blacks don’t think like whites. They don’t take to our society. They’re of a different ilk.”
“In what ways?”
“Their lack of intelligence. Their demeaning way of life. For goodness sakes, some of ‘em act closer to barnyard animals than actual people.”
“Like the Macinaw Seven?”
Dover dropped his smile, his face immediately flushed blood-red, and his hands coiled and uncoiled. “Exactly. Like the Macinaw Seven.”
“Are you aware, Mr. Dover, that someone killed Tyrell James, one of the Macinaw Seven, just a few days ago?”
Dover bit down on his bottom lip—his blue eyes inflamed. He then lifted his chin in defiance and tried to steady himself. He uncrossed his legs, stood, removed the barber smock and tossed it in the chair. He walked up to Chan, looked down on him and seethed out the words, “Yes, Mr. Adams, I am well-aware of that nigger’s death.”
Ellis Dover marched out the door leaving Chan sinking in his chair. Chan turned and caught the stare of the man who had been reading the paper. The man made a snide grin, popped the paper in front of his face and kept reading.
1:33 PM
Norma used the back of her hand to rap on the door at Luther’s house. “Luther?” she called out. She noticed the door was slightly ajar and pushed it open a tad more. “Luther? It’s Norma Wiles.”
She continued to swing the door open until she had a good look at the small foyer that led into his house. A few lights showed into the hallway, and she heard music coming from the back. It sounded like gospel music.
Norma entered cautiously not wanting to share the same experience that Chan had had with the man. “Luther? Are you home?” She methodically put one foot in front of the other. Despite her soft approach, her heels could still be heard on the wooden floorboards.
The music gained strength in her ears as she continued to the back. Norma recognized it, Mahalia Jackson’s Move On Up A Little Higher. It had a grainy tone like it was coming from a radio. “Luther, it’s Norma Wiles. I’d like to talk…”
Norma stopped at the end of the hall. From her vantage point she could see the dark, pooling substance on the yellow linoleum floor of the kitchen. She knew right away, but forced herself to take the remaining few steps.
Norma gasped at the sight, covering her mouth with her hand. There on the kitchen floor, shirtless and splayed out on his back was Luther Jennings. He had several stab wounds to his neck and chest which had pumped blood to all corners of the room.
Norma resisted the urge to flee and swallowed her nausea. She stepped further into kitchen, careful to avoid contaminating the scene. The room seemed undisturbed otherwise. The radio was on the kitchen table—Mahalia still wailing away.
Then she saw something on Luther that she thought was not possible. “No…it can’t be.”
She moved closer and took a good look at the killer’s work to make sure. “It is…my God…Henry Brooks.”
2:34 PM
Chan flew down the street—his bandaged wounds throbbed as his feet pounded underneath him. He never dreamed he would be back in this neighborhood so soon.
He waved his press badge at the Macinaw policemen who had cornered off a section of Luther’s street and hustled beyond the flashing lights of the gathered emergency vehicles. He saw Norma alone, smoking a cigarette, on the sidewalk out in front of Luther’s house.
“Are you alright?” Chan asked.
“I’ll be okay,” Norma said. “But it looks like you and I are two for two at this address.”
“It was Luther?”
“Yes.”
“Killed in the same manner as Tyrell?”
“I’m afraid so. And perhaps in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?”
Norma did not answer and instead looked to Luther’s porch as Sheriff Crawford and Chief Deputy Haskit emerged through the front door. Chief of Macinaw Police Aaron Stodges, a short, wiry man with wavy brown hair, followed close behind with two of his officers. Norma tossed her cigarette, broke past the police line, hustled to the foot of the stairs and blocked their exit.
“Now, hold on, Norma,” Crawford said. “We’re not in a position to discuss this with the press just yet.”
“Too bad,” Norma said. “You’re gonna have to discuss this whether you like it or not.”
“Tomorrow, I promise. Chief Stodges and I will hold a joint press conference…”
“Bullshit, Justin. You’re not going anywhere until we get some answers. Now, c’mon, you know how much this means. I saw what he cut into Luther’s chest. Was the same done to Tyrell?”
Crawford hesitated. He looked at Haskit and then turned to glance at the chief. Stodges shrugged and then nodded the go-ahead. Crawford turned back to Norma. “Yes.”
“Jesus…and which mark did he leave on Tyrell? Michael or Abaddon?”
Crawford hesitated again, putting his hands on his hips. “The Michael symbol was carved into Tyrell.”
“Wait a minute,” Chan interjected. “What do you mean carved into Tyrell? And what or who is Abaddon?”
Crawford drew his large hand across his face as he eyed the two reporters. “Why don’t we let the detectives and deputies do their job here. We can go back to my office. If you promise to sit on the details until we can make sense of all this, I’ll share with you what I know.”
5:33 PM
Norma and Chan found themselves back in Crawford’s office in the same chairs as before. Deputy Haskit wa
s leaning up against the gun rack—weariness etched into his face. Sheriff Crawford was at his desk signing papers. He finished and handed the papers to a waiting Deputy Evans who then exited the office.
Crawford took an unlit, half-smoked cigar from the ashtray, popped it in his mouth and chewed on the end. He looked up at his visitors. “Y’all look as confused as I feel.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the mark on Tyrell?” Norma asked—her tone blistering and direct.
“You know why, Norma. It was bad enough that Tyrell was dead. Just having one of the Macinaw Seven murdered was enough of a problem, but then throw in Henry Brooks….”
“The people have a right to know.”
“The right to know what?” Crawford asked. “That the crazy man who scared this community to death years ago is back? That we have another Henry Brooks on our hands? To be honest, Norma, I didn’t know what to do with the information. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Besides, everything is case-sensitive right now. I don’t want anyone blabbing any of this to the public.”
“Explain more to me about these angel tattoos,” Chan interrupted. “You and Norma both said that Brooks carved them into his victims.”
“That’s right. Henry Brooks was a psychotic killer who used the demonic angel Abaddon, and Michael, the archangel of the Lord, as a means to separate his victims.”
“What do you mean separate?”
“Those who were good would go to heaven and serve God,” Norma stated. “And those who weren’t would spend an eternity in a fiery abyss, tolling for Satan.”
Crawford nodded. “Exactly. According to Henry, the two angels resided in him and were in a constant struggle with each other, vying for people’s souls to add to their mounting armies.”
“Mounting armies?”
“For Armageddon,” Crawford said. He leaned back in his chair. “Henry believed a war of souls was coming and that he was the chosen device in which heaven and hell divided these souls.” Crawford shook his head at the absurdity. “Pretty screwed up, huh?”
“To say the least,” Chan said. “How did he decide the fate of his victims?”
“Don’t know, really. It seemed a fairly random selection—any fly in the web so to speak. It’s hard to understand a mind as warped as Henry Brooks’ that’s for damn sure.” Crawford leaned back in his chair and momentarily looked to the ceiling as he tried to recall some of the victims, “Walker Stevens, Ancil Tucker, George Garrick, Esther Jefferson…all locals with little to no connection…besides living on the same side of the Edisto as Brooks.”
“Esther Jefferson,” Norma repeated. “Sweet lady. She lived alone out there off Watkins Bridge Road—she had been recently widowed. Friends saw her at church that morning, doing as she had always done, going through her normal routines.” She looked over at Chan. “They found her tied to a tree behind her house—butchered like some animal.”
“Many of his victims he lured to his home and killed them out there. We found several in that old barn of his,” Crawford said.
“Once he selected a victim,” Norma added. “He would kill them with his right hand if the soul was destined for Michael and used his left hand for Abaddon.”
“Right. They say he was ambidextrous,” Deputy Haskit said, raising both his hands.
“Tell me about the tattoos,” Chan said.
“Sigils,” Crawford corrected. “It’s the signature or mark of the angel. Abaddon had one as did Michael.” Crawford looked at Haskit. “Did you get Henry Brooks’s file?”
Haskit leaned up off the gun rack and pointed. “There on your desk, Sheriff.”
Crawford scanned his messy desk. He found a yellowed folder jammed with documents. He pulled off a rubber band used to hold the folder together and flipped through the papers. “Here.” He pulled a page and turned it so that Chan could see.
It was the sigil for Michael. A long fluid line adorned with loops and sharp angles. Chan traced the sigil with his finger. “Looks like the number two with a cross on the bottom and then a series of scribbled peaks and valleys.”
“It’s an ancient sigil,” Norma stated. “They have found it on the walls of tombs, churches. It was even tattooed on several preserved bodies that were unearthed in Turkey in the 1950s.”
“Supposedly, the sigil contains the essence of the angel or demon in question and gives the bearer the power to summon it when needed,” Crawford said. He pointed to indicate Norma and his deputy. “We were all schooled on this stuff years ago. Though to be honest, I never thought we would have to talk about it again.”
“And this Abaddon, the demon angel, had one as well?” Chan asked.
Crawford pulled another paper from the file and showed it to Chan. “Henry used a pentagram-like emblem to indicate Abaddon—the encircled star there. Generally, he would carve these sigils into his victim’s chest after stabbing them in the throat.”
Chan looked up from the drawing and caught everyone’s eye. “So now someone is using Henry Brooks’ methods again. To murder two of the Macinaw Seven.”
Crawford blew out a held breath. “It appears so. Crazy as it sounds.”
“And what of the other five men?” Norma asked. “I know of at least three that still live in Macinaw.”
“We’ve got patrols out already on the known addresses, monitoring their homes and streets,” Crawford confirmed.
“It’s gotta be just a scare tactic,” Haskit said. “Get inside those boys’ heads.”
“It’s working,” Chan chimed back in. “Somehow Luther knew that Henry Brooks had gotten to Tyrell and believed that he would be coming after him. The night he shot at me he was scared to death.”
“And now he is dead,” Norma said.
Deputy Evans appeared at the door and interrupted. “Sheriff, phone call for you. Line three.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Crawford focused on the reporters. “Look, I better take this. I’ve got a long night ahead of me, and I’ve told you all that I know to this point. We will set up some kind of press conference when we know more.”
Norma and Chan rose, thanked the sheriff and left.
Outside the law enforcement complex, the sun was still high in the Macinaw sky and the temperature still hovered near ninety degrees.
“What now?” Chan asked
“I’ll head back to the paper, get started on our story. You hang out around here in case we need to squeeze out any more information from Crawford,” Norma said as she walked to her car.
“Norma,” Chan called out. “Not to make assumptions, but Ellis Dover still harbors a lot of hate for the Seven.”
Norma came to a stop. “How much hate?”
Chan thought for a moment and then said, “Enough hate to raise the dead.”
JUNE 27, 1976
7:56 AM
Chan followed the Lowcountry highway out of the city as he headed south. The morning edition of The Macinaw Republic lay on the passenger seat—its headline screamed: SECOND MACINAW SEVEN MURDERED. The associated article on the front page was just as provocative: HENRY BROOKS’ METHODS USED.
As unfortunate as the subjects of the articles were, Chan couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride that his name was added to the byline alongside Norma’s. It was his first article ever and it was front page news. It had been picked up by The State and The Post and Courier, two of South Carolina’s largest papers. The story was so hot that Darby ordered two additional printings to keep up with demand. Chan laughed to himself when he thought of how earlier in the morning Darby had congratulated Norma on the articles but then had completely snubbed him, only demanding that Chan get his coffee. Keeping me humble, I guess.
It had been decided that Chan would continue to highlight the Brooks angle in the paper for the next few days, and so he was first instructed to interview the psychiatrist that had done the final analysis of the madman before his execution. Chan protested, thinking that his time would be better spent on gathering information on the recent killings, but Nor
ma convinced him that a look into the past may help clear up things in the present. Besides, any article on Brooks was a sure-fire seller for The Republic.
Chan passed the hospital on his way out of Macinaw. He thought about taking five minutes and wheeling in to say hi to Jean, but he wasn’t sure if she would be working today. Closer to the truth, he didn’t want to look like a fool and get shot down by a woman he barely knew as he feared he may have read too much into their moment they had shared days ago. So he rolled down the window, fired up a Marlboro Light, slipped Toys in the Attic in the eight-track tape deck, grinning as he joined Steven Tyler’s bellow, “…talk about something you can sure understand. ‘Cause a month on the road and I’ll be eatin’ from your hand.” He and Mr. Tyler met the morning journey head-on.
11:33 AM
Chan maneuvered down Lighthouse Road on Hilton Head Island until he reached the Harbor Town Yacht Club in the Sea Pines Resort. He had been to the coast before but had never spent any time this far south of Charleston. He thought the drive into Sea Pines was especially appealing with its oak-lined streets, exquisite homes and manicured lawns.
Boat traffic was already picking up as dozens of vessels pushed wakes along the Intracoastal Waterway and headed to the open ocean. Chan parked, passed the marina’s series of shops, and crossed a walking bridge to the semi-circular dock area. The morning heat was on the rise, and so was the smell, a mixture of the harbor’s pleasant and unpleasant aromas.
As he continued down the wooden planks, he glanced at the numerous yachts and sport fishing boats resting comfortably in their slips. The names ran from the grand: Nautilus, Poseidon, and Liberty to the sublime: Fishful Thinking, Meals on Reels and Lobster Mobster.
On the fourth to the last slip, Chan came to a 1972 fifty-three-foot Hatteras fishing boat called Whaleman. It was stark-white fiberglass, scrubbed clean from top to bottom. The fly bridge stretched well into the island’s blue sky—a tower Bimini Top blocking the sun. The Whaleman had polished teak wood on the deck and cabin door. The door was latched open and Chan heard noises coming from the galley.
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