by Stuart Jaffe
“Hey, you are learning.”
“Only problem is we have no idea where this building is.”
Drummond rolled his shoulders which made him look larger. “You have no idea where the building is. Me, on the other hand, I know exactly where it is.”
“You’re going to make me guess?”
“We don’t have time for that kind of fun. This is the North Carolina Transportation Museum.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Spencer. Small town about a half-hour from here.”
Sandra dug her hand in the cookie jar and pulled out forty dollars. She stared at the cash for a moment, and Max felt the same desire he read on her face — shove the money back in the jar, forget everything, close their eyes, and wish it all away. But their eyes met, and they both knew the only way to deal with the Hulls — push forward.
Max smiled. “Let’s get some gas and hit the road.”
Sandra handed him the money and grabbed the car keys.
Chapter 16
Max accelerated onto Route 85 South toward Spencer. The steady white noise of wheels on the pavement weaved around the tense silence in the car. With no access to money, Max guessed Sandra thought the same things he did — every mile in the car meant cash out of their pocket, every exerted muscle that needed food meant cash out of their pocket, every moment of life meant cash out of their pocket.
On the backseat in a bag next to Drummond sat the lunch Sandra had prepared — two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tap water in a thermos. Max’s stomach groaned at the mere thought of the meager fare. It seemed crazy that they had to spend more on gasoline to feed the car than they could on the food to feed themselves.
“No, no, no, I’ve got to stay with them,” Drummond said.
Max glanced back to see Drummond talking to his pocket once again. “What’s Leed want?”
With a perturbed grimace, Drummond said, “He’s being a pain because he wants to help and he doesn’t have a body in which to do it. So, he’s asking for me to be his body.”
“You can do that? Let him possess you or something?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. He wants me to leave you all and go to the library with him.” Drummond said the word library as if it had caused a little vomit to rush up his throat. “He wants to do research on the witch, curses, stuff like that. I admit it was his area of expertise and he might be able to help us out, but you guys need me.”
Sandra snorted. “I think we’ll be fine on our own. We’re going to a railroad museum. Unless you once dated an engineer who later became a witch.”
“Oh, very funny. I’ll have you know I dated plenty of women who never turned to magic, witchcraft, or anything arcane.”
Max knew Drummond hated the library. He also knew that Leed would be a good researcher. It would drive Drummond crazy being forced to look up books, turn pages, and do all the labor of research so that Leed could read the texts, but the idea of having expert help hard at work while Max and Sandra did the on-site research appealed to Max. He thought it might also give Leed a sense of purpose.
“It’s a good idea. Drummond, go ahead and help Leed. We’ll be fine with this on our own. See if you two can turn up something.”
“Sure,” Drummond said, the scowl on his face and the growl in his throat not nearly as accommodating. To his pocket, he said, “Enough already, you’re getting your way. I’m going, I’m going.” Seconds later, Drummond disappeared.
At first, neither Max nor Sandra spoke. Less than a minute later, however, they both broke into hysterical laughter. The wonderful release warmed Max.
“Is it wrong that I found that so fun?”
Through rapid giggles, Sandra managed, “Not at all, Honey, not at all.”
Shortly after, they exited the highway and found the entrance to the museum — a road nestled between two grassy mounds with an unlit sign easily missed. Though the small town of Spencer designated the area with homes and a few local businesses, the majority of the land remained for the museum. As Max drove up to the grass and gravel parking area, he understood why.
The “museum” was not a specific building but rather an enormous acreage that had once been an active rail yard with numerous spurs to handle a huge volume of rail traffic. All of Spencer had existed to service the yard. But those days were long gone. Most of the rail spurs had been removed, and all that remained were a few nonstop rail lines, several old buildings (now converted into museum walk-throughs), and the shining jewel of the museum — the roundhouse.
Max got out of the car and took one look at the depot ahead. They were supposed to go in there to pay for tickets, but the idea of giving up more cash twisted his gut hard.
Reading his mind, Sandra said, “Let’s skip that part. Chances are that whatever we’re looking for isn’t part of the routine tour.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t look like they mind if you walk around. Probably won’t be able to get in the buildings though.”
“I hate to say it, but a ghost would be handy right now.”
“Let’s walk. See what we see. If we decide we need to get in any of the buildings, we can either come back here and pay up or send Drummond back later. Unless you happen to see any other ghosts around. They might help.”
Sandra turned her head as she checked out the area. “Looks like we might have a few back there. Probably old railworkers killed on the line. No telling if they’ll be friendly or not.”
Offering his arm, Max said, “We don’t need to worry over that now. Let’s go for a walk.”
They crossed a wide, grassy area with concrete pathways cut in. Max imagined that in the spring and summer this would be a lovely place to come for a picnic or an afternoon stroll. It was a park for the train lovers. With winter pushing in, however, few people came, and those that did hurried their bundled bodies towards the various buildings.
As they passed between two massive structures — long ago used to house machine shops, warehousing, and construction of all sorts — Max felt dwarfed by the sheer power of the trains. A track ran down the middle of the street and snaked off toward the roundhouse ahead. A steam locomotive sat on the track, waiting for an engineer to guide it somewhere.
Of course, Max had seen plenty of large, man-made structures — skyscrapers, jumbo jets, cruise ships, and such. Something about this locomotive, though, impressed him more. It wasn’t simply the thing’s size. No, it was the power inside it. Max could feel the explosive force within this massive hunk of metal straining to be free.
“I know how you feel,” he whispered, and an image of the horned beast flashed in his mind.
Before he could ponder what that meant, Sandra kissed his cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Do I need a reason?”
He looked at her and leaned in to give her a more passionate kiss. But she put her hand on his chest and pushed back.
With a cute wink, she said, “It was just an ‘I love you’ peck. We’ve still got work to do here.” She pecked his other cheek and they headed on.
The roundhouse took up a large swath of land. With thirty-seven bays housing forty locomotives, it remained one of the largest preserved roundhouses in the country. Each bay of the crescent-shaped building had a track flush with the pavement that shot straight toward the fully-operational turntable — one of the last in existence.
A turntable was a large piece of track bridging a circular pit that could turn a full rotation. Thus, a locomotive could drive onto the track, stop, and be turned around. In the case of the roundhouse, it saved the trouble of having to design thirty-seven complex switches. Instead they have one turntable track that could service each bay of the roundhouse.
While Max found the whole setup ingenious, and part of him wanted to come back under less stressful circumstances so he could look in depth as to how it all worked, he had a job to do. The turntable had his attention because of the deep pit. That could be an excellent place to hide something.
Except they weren’t even sure if what they sought was hidden. He didn’t recall Sebastian having a photograph of the turntable — just the roundhouse. Did that mean the turntable was not important? Or that Sebastian had made a mistake in discounting its value?
“I wish I knew what we were looking for,” he said.
Sandra blew on her hands. “That would make it easier. Especially in this cold.”
Max pointed to a door on the closest side of the roundhouse. “Let’s go inside there. Even if they stop us from going further, we can at least warm up a little.”
They entered a gray lobby, more like a wide hallway, with blown-up black and white photos on the walls. The photos depicted the hard work of railroad men — covered in soot, shoveling coal, reaching into these ferocious machines, praying not to lose an arm while trying to tighten a hard to reach bolt. Further along the hall, large windows allowed a clear view of the first few bays, each holding an old steam locomotive.
Max stopped to look closer. Craning his neck, he could see clearly through gaps in the track. Underneath was another level — one for repairmen to have access to the bellies of the engines. It reminded him of how auto mechanics used to work before they invented the hydraulic lifts found in most garages today. Back then, they had a trench dug into the ground. A car would be driven over it and the mechanic would be in the trench. Same concept here except the grander scale of the roundhouse required a grander trench — an entire sub-floor spanning the entire roundhouse and possibly more.
At the far end of the lobby, an elderly man sat next to a small podium and a glass door. “Y’all have tickets?” he asked.
Sandra smiled over at him. “How much are they?”
The man pointed to a clearly marked sign. “Six dollars for an adult gets you in all the buildings on the premises.”
Max gestured to the sub-floor. “Do we get to go down there?”
“No, sir,” the old man said.
Max looked through the window again. To Sandra, he said, “I doubt the answer’s in a regular tour. If it were that easy to find, this would have been all over long ago.” He turned back to the old man. “Is there a different tour that goes down there?”
The old man’s lips rose in a devilish grin. “No, sir. That’s for the volunteers.”
“Volunteers?”
“Yup. All the people down there working on the restorations and maintenance of these wonderful engines, they are all volunteers. Do it for the love of railroading.”
“What if we were thinking about volunteering and we wanted to check it out down there?”
“Well, then, I’d be happy to show you around. But I think we both know you aren’t really interested in volunteering.”
The old man remained at the podium, that creepy smile on his lips. He didn’t get angry, didn’t ask them to leave, but he wasn’t helping them either.
Sandra cleared up the matter. “You’ll have to excuse my husband. He can be a dolt sometimes. Perhaps a private donation would get a few minutes downstairs?”
“Of course, ma’am. We’re always happy to entertain the rail enthusiasts with special treatment.”
Sandra placed a twenty dollar bill in his hand. When he didn’t budge, she placed another. After the third, he hesitated, but the stern look on her face — one Max knew too well — warned the old man off trying for more.
“Follow me,” he said and led them through a side door.
As they walked behind him, Max leaned close to Sandra and whispered, “You’re right. I can be a bit of a dolt sometimes.”
At the bottom of a metal staircase, the old man opened a door. “Here you go. And if you cause any trouble, you snuck down here while I was off pissing. Got it?”
“Thank you,” Sandra said.
After the old man left, they walked along the back wall. The entire floor resembled a mechanic’s garage. Tools of all sizes and shapes lay about. A radio played Led Zeppelin. Calendars stuck to the walls and tool chests — though instead of nude women, most of these depicted long trains cutting through mountain passes.
Several men and women meandered about — some working, others chatting. They noticed Max and Sandra but none seemed bothered by the intrusion. None of them seemed particularly welcoming either. Max had no idea where to begin until he noticed the young man working under one of the locomotives.
He had his dark hair buzzed close to this head and despite the cold, he wore only an oil-stained t-shirt and jeans. He hung a lamp near where he intended to work and stretched to reach something in the locomotive above. When he did this, Max noticed a tattoo on his forearm — a circle with a swirling yin-yang design. Just like the one he saw on the witch’s hand at the fights.
“That’s our man,” Max said, and waved until he got the young mechanic’s attention.
“You people lost?” the man said as he walked over.
Max put out his hand. “We’re looking to talk to somebody.”
The young man shook Max’s hand. “You’re in luck. I’m somebody. Name’s Pete Venter. You?”
“Max Porter. This is my wife, Sandra.”
Pete took Sandra’s hand gently and gave it a graceful kiss. “So, what is it you want to talk about?”
“I’m not sure,” Max said. He hadn’t thought this far through and now his mind blanked.
Once more, Sandra rescued him. “We’re gathering strange stories for a book on the weirder side of railroads.”
“The weirder side?”
“You know, like haunted railcars and mysterious happenings. A place as old as this has got to have some cool history to it, and we’re looking for the history that doesn’t make it into the usual books.”
Pete scratched his chest with a blush. “I don’t know about hauntings or anything mysterious. I mean we just work on the engines here. You ought to talk with some of the old dudes. They probably know all kinds of stories.”
Max gave Pete a playful bump on the shoulder. “Aw, c’mon. You look like a popular guy around here. I’m sure you know a good story that the others wouldn’t dare share.”
“Well, I know one story, but it ain’t got ghosts or anything like that. I’m not sure it’s what you’re looking for.”
“Try us.”
Pete glanced back at the other volunteers who appeared to be embroiled in a deep discussion of HO-scale versus O-scale for model railroading. “The story I know is about lost gold. You think that might be of interest?”
“Definitely,” Max and Sandra said simultaneously.
“Okay, then, here it is — a long time back there was a town called Company Shops. It’s now part of Burlington, but back then it was basically a place to repair trains as they passed through the state. At the tail end of the Civil War, a shipment containing bales of cotton and kegs of gold was sent to Company Shops. Only problem was nobody had ordered it, and there was no designated person or company to deliver it to. It just got sent. The locals in the area swiped all the cotton but the gold — well, no one knows what happened to it. It vanished. Lot of people still look for it. You go out to Burlington and check the line, old Trollinger’s bridge, anywhere related to the route that train would’ve traveled, you’ll find people looking for the gold. Some come all the way from California with their metal detectors. It’s ridiculous.”
Max said, “Because you don’t think it’s true?”
“Oh, it’s true. It happened. But we’re talking 1865. Nobody’s going to find that money. It’s probably long gone and already spent by now, anyway.”
“Thanks, Pete. You’ve certainly given us a strange story.”
“Not all that strange when you think about it. I mean, the war was lost. Things around here were descending into madness. The Northern soldiers were looting everywhere they went. It was a mess. Can’t say I’m surprised that somebody tried to ship a bunch of gold out of here nor that it got intercepted.”
“Guess you’re right about that. But kegs of gold don’t simply vanish. Not easily anyway. Even in 18
65, trails of evidence can be found.”
“Maybe so,” Pete said. “Still, people been trying since it went missing. That’s nearly a hundred and fifty years, and nobody’s found squat.”
They thanked Pete for his time and made their way back to the car. Driving toward Winston-Salem, Max tapped his fingers on the wheel and mumbled to himself.
“You going to let me in on your conversation?” Sandra asked.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what you’re thinking. Everyone’s after this gold, right?”
“If it’s real. When we get back, I want to go to the library and look into this. Stories of lost gold aren’t the kind of thing that gets forgotten. Somebody will have written about it. But I’m feeling optimistic on this one.”
“A gut feeling? I’ll alert Drummond.”
“While you’re having fun ribbing me, make sure to call Cecily Hull and set up a meeting with her. I think we’ll have a far more interesting conversation now.”
Max focused on the road as his mind went over the details of their talk with Pete Venter. The gold story was only part of it, of course. That symbol tattooed on his arm — that had to be important. Max resolved to research that as well, but he had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t like the answer.
Chapter 17
Max needed to clear his mind before facing Cecily Hull later that evening, so he went to the one place that he knew would help — the library. Before he reached a table and removed his coat, Leon hurried to his side.
“I’m so glad you showed up. I was afraid I’d miss you when my shift ended.”
Max loved the giddy enthusiasm of his friend. “I take it you found something about Sebastian.”
“No. But that O. Henry story you found — I looked into Cal Baxter some more. In particular, I learned that his famous house has had an interesting history.”
Leon launched into a tale that took Max by surprise. In addition to Baxter House’s odd creation and eccentric owner, the place had a dark reputation. Over the decades since Cal Baxter’s death and the Hull family’s purchase of the house, four people had attempted to break into the building.
