Cop and Call A Novel

by R. Scott Lunsford

  Jennifer took little comfort in this information. She still worried the man would return to hurt her remaining relatives; the nightmares indicated as much. Jennifer and her aunt and uncle had been talking to a counselor about the murders, but Jennifer felt uncomfortable disclosing her nightmares. She was afraid that speaking them aloud would somehow bring them into being. At this point, she was flush with anxiety and became determined to take matters into her own hands. She needed to be certain the man could never harm her or her family again.

  Studying her mother’s handwritten book, Book 7, she thought she’d found her answer in a section titled Vengeance Mort. A large part of the text was hard to understand; it referenced strange things that Jennifer assumed were explained in books 1 to 6. So she headed to the library and managed to track down several resources that she hoped would help her to untangle the plot.

  Jennifer learned that her family was indeed “special”, as her Aunt Kathy had promised. She set out to collect the items to which her mother referred throughout the book: a bundling of herbs, found in a small shop downtown on Lexington Avenue, and two 5-inch squares cut from a red sweatshirt that had belonged her sister, which Jennifer sewed together by hand into a small pouch. She placed several items into the pouch as instructed by her mother’s writing, while reciting verses from the book of Psalms: first came a square of paper cut from her cousin’s drawing pad on which Jennifer scribbled the word punishment on both sides. Next, she added a pinch of ground red pepper and black salt. She plucked a pair of leaves from a tree in the yard that her family had planted last spring and the root of a High John the Conqueror plant, purchased from the shop on Lexington. Finally, Jennifer recited a closing Psalm and sewed the red pouch shut.

  Book 7 indicated that this strange collection of miscellany, referred to as a “mojo hand”, needed to be placed somewhere where other people had been punished in the past. Jennifer’s destination was a large oak tree a 20-minute walk from the house. The local kids had told her the stories about the tree: it was called the “hanging tree” or the “township tree”, depending on who she talked to. The oak was said to be over 500 years old, stained by tales of wayward Indians, robbers, and hangings—quite a laundry list of past punishments.

  Dusk had begun to fall in the woods where the tree stood, adjacent to a small church. The horizon spilled an unsettling orange hue upon the foliage. Jennifer felt as though she were walking through a sinister forest: the naked, brittle branches creaked in the wind and cast scrabbling shadows on the ground. She hurried through the brush as quickly as she could, intent on making it to the tree and back home before dark. When she finally spotted the oak, she removed a small garden shovel from the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. Its blade dug furiously into the moist loam to create a cavern in which to bury the pouch. The soil yielded easily under her frantic pace. In what seemed like no time at all, Jennifer found herself staring into a hole at least several feet deep. She anointed the pouch on either side with a bead of olive oil from a small dropper she’d shoved into her small blue nylon back pack. Then, at last, she clutched the bag in both hands and addressed the High John the Conqueror root sewn into the pouch: “It’s time to wake, High John, you have work to do.”

  Following the detailed instructions from her mother’s book she patted the pouch thrice, she took seven deep breaths and blew the last directly onto the mojo hand before dropping it into its hole. She replaced the dirt that had mounded around her feet to conceal any evidence of her disturbance, making sure to do so using her left hand only as per her mother’s instructions. For now, at least, she could rest assured that she had followed her mother’s written words to the letter. Jennifer pulled her hood tight around her head as a brisk wind ushered in twilight. She shook off a chill and set off back toward her house, eager to see if vengeance was on its way.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE ASHEVILLE SCHOOL CEMETERY

  Chris drove up the tree-covered street, passing by a two-door red Ford parked on the side of the road, its wheels up on the curb. A swinging barricade of yellow iron pipes marked the Sulfur Springs Cemetery trailhead. The area comprised part of the grounds of the Asheville School, an exclusive boarding school. Chris paused to record some information on the small laptop he kept in his car for notes. Then he zipped up his coat against the autumn wind and climbed out of his seat. As he made his way past the parked car, he brushed his fingers over the hood to see if he could tell how long the vehicle had been parked there. The hood wasn’t warm, so he assumed it had been there for at least an hour or so.

  Chris sidestepped the barricade to start down the dim, wooded path. Piles of dry leaves cracked beneath his feet as he walked, and a few torpedoed across the trail and scuttled into the dense shrubbery nearby. Halfway to the cemetery, Chris heard a set of voices downwind, although he couldn’t quite make out from whom they came. He ducked behind a large oak tree so as not to disturb whoever was up ahead. His dark jeans and jacket camouflaged him in the waning light of dusk, and he stood still as he took in the scene at the end of the path.

  The cemetery was shrouded in a grove of mixed hardwood and pines. Near the woods’ clearing stood a tall, bronze Remington statue of an Indian on a horse. It looked somewhat out of place against the smattering of anonymous grave markers, most of which served as the final resting places of slaves who had died on the land over a century ago. Chris’ eyes were trained on two young women hard at work, seemingly oblivious to his presence. There was a tripod camera nestled in the corner of the clearing. One of the girls held a clipboard where she was jotting down something, and the other had an equipment bag slung over her shoulder from which she plucked a series of small devices before setting them rather precariously atop nearby gravestones, small benches, and other markers. UV cameras, digital cameras, and digital recorders were arranged around several plots as well.

  Officer Chris Metcalf watched the goings-on for a few more minutes until the police radio on his belt crackled with a request for a report on his status.

  “Adam, 37, are you 10-4?”

  Still watching the girls’ activities, Chris spoke into the microphone attached to his shirt epaulet. “Adam, 37 dispatch, 10-4, out with two,” he replied, referring to the two young women.

  “Adam, 37, are you familiar with the history and registered owner of the vehicle?”

  “10-4, I am aware.”

  The two women had frozen in place upon hearing the chirps from Chris’ radio. As he stepped out from behind the tree, smiles bloomed on their faces. “Hi, Chris,” they said in unison. Then the taller of the two added, “Did someone call about us again?”

  Chris held out his hand for a friendly shake and replied, “You know they did. You guys need to do something about that. Maybe introduce yourself to people in the neighborhood where you’re doing your investigating. We tell folks all the time to call us if they see something out of the ordinary. You guys show up, we start to get calls on ya. It’s not as bad as it used to be, since you guys seem to be known for being harmless, but even still. Be careful.”

  Michele, the shorter of the two, was relieved it was Chris who had been sent to investigate. He never mocked them or made idle threats of arrest, unlike a few of the other officers, especially rookies who were eager to climb up the ranks. At this point, though, most officers in Western North Carolina knew who Michele and Jessica were, as they often encountered the pair out and about when on patrol. The girls’ business, called G.I.F.T.—Girls Investigating Fantastic Things—could put them in some unusual locations at times. Their tasks were varied: pet sitting, dog walking, housesitting, messenger services, running errands, and last but certainly not least, ghost hunting. All this kept the two very busy along with their classes at UNC-Asheville.

  Chris enjoyed running into the girls every now and then. They were always involved in something interesting. “What have you guys got going on tonight? “he asked.

  “We finally were able to buy an infrared night vision camera.” Jessica pointed prou
dly to the larger camera mounted on the tripod at the edge of the clearing.

  Intrigued, Chris noted, “Cool. What’re you guys doing with it here?” Chris was interested in the paranormal in his own right, always quick to sign up for any sort of ghost tour that may be in business when visiting another city. He wasn’t one to go out and search for ghosts and the like on his own—he was a bit too superstitious for that—but he didn’t mind poking his head in when other people were doing it.

  “A friend of ours is into geocaching and called to let us know there’s been some unusual activity in the cemetery,” Jessica explained. “There’ve been sightings of shadow people around here and supposedly on the school campus.”

  ” Geocaching? Shadow people?” Chris echoed. “I’ve been here less than five minutes and I already have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s a new record, I think.”

  “Geocaching is like a game,” Jessica explained. “People will hide objects and clues to prizes that you can locate using maps and GPS devices. Lots of people play it. It’s popular all over the world.”

  “Huh. OK. And what about these shadow people?”

  Enjoying her role as a teacher Jessica continued her lecture. “It’s like seeing a patch of shadow as something alive. Maybe moving on its own, regardless of the light source or the presence of one. They have been documented in history by lots of people. Kind of a shadow that looks like a person where a shadow should not be. Lots of theories about what they, time travelers, inter-dimension beings, ghosts or something else paranormal.”

  Chris shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly chilled. “So, have you seen any shadow people? They sound… strange.”

  ” Well no, that’s one reason we’re here. That, and we wanted to test the new camera and see how it worked,” Michele chimed in.

  He watched as the pair continued to toy with their various equipment. He had already decided to clear this call by giving them a verbal warning, but about exactly what, he wasn’t yet sure. He snuck a look at his watch and decided to stay a few minutes more before returning to his car to take more calls. Jessica the more talkative of the two had started to explain the reason why the large statute of the native American was there, the Sulphur springs curse and the large bronze art she believed, was to appease the young Indian who had died by poison in a local fresh water source. Chris knew the large bronze statute was in fact a reproduction statue called the Mountain Man by Frederic Remington. The original art piece cast in 1903. Chris not wanting to insult Jessica, so he did not correct her. The fur trapper depicted in the Western themed sculpture showing a mountain man riding a horse down a steep and treacherous mountain could be interpreted as looking like a Native American. A sudden cold snap crept from Chris’ feet up to his shoulders. He could see his quickening breath in puffs of vapor as they floated away from his mouth. And then, as quickly as the blast of frost arrived, it dissipated. He shuddered and glanced over at Jessica and Michele, who each stood a few feet away, looking at one another quizzically. Jessica blinked. “Did you feel that?”

  “Yeah,” Michele nodded tentatively. “What was it?”

  Jessica studied her hands, flexing her fingers as if they, too, were cold. “Don’t know. Never felt anything like that.”

  “Don’t ask me,” Chris offered, adjusting the zipper on his coat. “That was weird.”

  Michele smacked the thermal digital thermometer she was holding against the side of her wrist. “It’s dead,” she stated simply. She held the device toward Jessica and Chris, face-up, as if to prove her point. “Whatever that was must’ve sucked the juice from the battery.”

  Chris tapped at his radio and noticed it wasn’t working, either. The trio could do little more in the moment than look at each other, flabbergasted. To clear the silence, Jessica piped up, “Would you mind hanging out while we take a look at what we might’ve recorded on the equipment?”

  The three of them were veiled in almost total darkness at this point, with night having cloaked the forest more quickly than Chris had expected. He tried to jiggle his flashlight to life, but it refused to cooperate. He raked a hand through his shorn black hair and suggested, “Why don’t you pack the equipment up and review what’s on it someplace else?”

  The girls agreed, quickly gathered their things, and headed back up the trail in linked arms toward their parked Ford. They thanked Chris for his help and tucked their bags behind the driver’s seat before backing away from the trail. As they left, Michele jabbed a finger from the passenger window toward a concrete shell of a building set off to the side of the road, barely visible amidst the now pitch-black of the woods. Jessica took a quick look but shrugged, having never really noticed the dilapidated structure before. Michele stared at the abandoned structure wondering if the incident that occurred was related to the strange building. It being all that was left of one of the original Sulphur Springs resort buildings covering the original spring.

  Michele twisted around to retrieve the backpack from the floor behind Jessica. As she tried to power up their different pieces of equipment, she realized that none of it appeared to be operational; the batteries were nearly drained on everything. She and Jessica thought it was odd because they always made a point to replace the batteries before beginning any investigation. But then, Michele noticed that one of their devices did appear to have some life left: the small recorder she’d placed on tombstone 15 feet away from where the group of three had been standing.

  “Did you catch anything?” Jessica asked.

  Michele pressed PLAY on the recorder and heard nothing other than her own voice at first, calling out locations and temperatures as she had been noting them on her clipboard. Then, almost like a soundtrack in the background, there was a distant laugh that faded in and out. The girls listened to their conversation with Chris, and then the laughter wove in again, louder this time, stopping just before Jessica heard herself ask on the tape, “Did you feel that?”

  Turning onto Patton Avenue, Jessica pulled into the parking lot of a Goodwill shop. “Play it again,” she said. She cut the engine, so they could listen more clearly.

  Michele restarted the recording, and what they heard was precisely the same. Jessica locked eyes with Michele, suggesting, “We need to send this to LEAMUR to see what Josh Warren and his people think.” LEAMUR being a locally operated paranormal investigative organization run by radio host, author and tv personality Joshua P. Warren.

  CHAPTER 15

  WEST ASHEVILLE

  It had been awhile. Looking around, he took stock of the changes: a host of familiar buildings were gone, long replaced by faceless modern counterparts. Yet some constants remained. The river had barely changed; it still wound lazily through the city, separating East from West. It was West Asheville that held his attention now. He needed a starting place and so set off in his signature, methodical way.

  He had work to do and was as anxious as ever to get started. Truthfully, he was relieved to be occupied again; he loathed whittling away time with nothing to do. But folks these days seemed not to care about punishment as much as they used to. Personally, he blamed lawyers. He frequently recalled what William Rogers had once told him: “The only way you can beat lawyers is to die with nothing.” The court system had stolen quite a bit from the punishment and revenge trade, it seemed.

  He quickly homed in on a place that would meet his needs—that surpassed his needs, really, and promised to make his work much easier. He recognized the place, having been there several years before. But he had been encouraged to leave as soon as he’d arrived. This only amplified his satisfaction: a little turnabout for fair play was in order, he thought. With no one to object to his presence now, he might just stay in Asheville for a while and put in some extra time, perhaps having some fun for himself for a change. He had never forgotten the incident. The quick eviction had angered him and brought him more than a little grief from his coworkers. He’d been in the revenge game for as long as he could remember; now, it was high time h
e got to savor a little revenge himself. Combining his present job with a personal vendetta would surely let him kill two birds with one stone. Bearing his new target in mind, he began setting up shop and set to work drawing up some plans.

  CHAPTER 16

  PISGAH VIEW APARTMENTS

  Mackey had been back in Asheville for five days. Winston-Salem was starting to get uncomfortable. With no local connections there, making a name for himself in the criminal community had proven nearly impossible. Even worse, when he was away from Asheville, his associates’ profits plummeted. He thought it best to return to check on his business interests.

  Now he found himself in the Pisgah View apartment complex with a couple friends, feeling at home. His pal Eric Jefferson, towering beside him, seemed more concerned about Mackey being back in Asheville than he was. “Man, you best be careful,” he warned. “Five-O be around.” Eric nodded toward a set of closed-circuit cameras mounted on the side of the building across from where the men stood.

  Mackey shook his head, unfazed. “Ease up, man. Gotta get some travelin’ money, then I’ll be out of here. No one looks at those cameras ‘til somethin’ happens. And by then it’s too late.”

  Eric was not satisfied. “Listen, someone snitched that you’re back in town. The police’ve been ‘round asking questions and offering a reward to turn you in.”

  Gary Hendricks, who flanked Mackey’s other side, seemed to agree with Eric and echoed, “Mack, just watch yourself.”

  Their voices lowered as an older model Isuzu Trooper, mottled with dents and rust, rumbled into the complex. Its tires were mismatched, and the body was painted black with dark tinted windows. But the paint job was shoddy enough that the truck’s true orange color peeked out from beneath thin layers of what appeared to be spray paint. The vehicle stopped just past the steps where the trio was waiting, and the driver’s window cracked down about an inch. The driver’s face was concealed by the inkiness of the windowpane. Eric drew a pistol from his waistband, but Mackey hurried to stop him, saying, “It’s OK, man, he’s a regular. That’s the kid who works at the Burger King on Patton Avenue.”