by Stuart Jaffe
“It’ll be different at night.”
“Yeah, darker.”
“But it’s really Drummond that’ll need to do the seeing, and a ghost can see things you can’t.”
Floating backwards so he could scrutinize the field, Drummond said, “There’s a dim glow in the woods. Is that what I’m supposed to see?”
“That’s the energy from the circle they’ll use tonight. According to the book in the car, all locations frequently used for spells start to give off a glow. The more a place is used, the stronger the glow.”
“I always thought those glows were the remains of other ghosts that moved on or came to a bad end or something. Never realized they were special spots for witches. Those woods aren’t glowing very much, though. Looks like it’s barely been touched.”
“Don’t forget, you’re seeing it in the daylight. The glow should be more pronounced at night.”
They approached the house from the side. It had no windows, and the logs that formed the walls were all cut flat. A stone chimney rose on the far side, and the warped porch dipped in the center. Around the back, Max noted doors to a root cellar and also a second porch loaded with cut firewood.
An information table explained that this house had been built around the 1780s by a Quaker named John Allen. It was not originally on the battlefield, however. It had been built in a nearby area called Snow Camp. In 1966, the state moved the dwelling to Alamance partially to display living conditions of that era, but also because John Allen’s brother-in-law was Herman Husband, leader of the Regulators.
“Well?” Max asked Drummond.
Drummond squinted into the distance. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell in the daylight.”
“No,” Sandra said. “We’re too far away. I’d hoped it would work here because of all the cover. There’s not much on the other side of the street except open fields and a couple of statues.”
They strolled through the battlefield, acting like tourists, and worked their way to the street. The father and his children emerged from the visitor’s center. He made a half-hearted comment to his boy, but the children sprinted across the grass, screeching and giggling.
Mrs. Porter’s wistful gaze followed them. “You know, it’s not too late to —”
“No, Mom. We’re not having that conversation today.”
Sandra squeezed his hand as they crossed the street. Like tourists, they meandered across the open battlefield and stopped at the statue in the back, not far from the wooded trail entrance. Sandra shielded her eyes as she checked back across the way.
“This would be the best place for being close to what goes on inside there tonight, but it’s so exposed. Anybody driving by could see us, if they happen to look our way.”
Drummond said, “It shouldn’t be a problem. We’re doing this thing around midnight, right?”
“We do our spell whenever Wallace does his. It should be near midnight, but that doesn’t mean he’ll do things the right way.”
“Relax. He’ll do it right. Besides, he’ll never get a chance because Max is going to take care of it all right now.”
Max’s stomach turned, but he kept quiet. He thought he saw a similar unease cross Sandra’s face. That didn’t make him feel any better.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get this going. We need a flat rock from the battlefield. Something big enough to write on that looks like it would be good for skipping across water.”
“Over here.” Mrs. Porter picked up a rock the size of her palm. “Will this do?”
“Perfect.”
Sandra dug a piece of chalk from her pocket and wrote three symbols on the rock. Max recognized the first two symbols — a group of wavy lines and one that made him think of a sharply angled ‘P’ — but the third symbol was new. It was a circle, filled-in, but the longer Max looked at it, the more he thought it represented a skull.
Just my imagination. It’s a big dot and nothing more.
“You drawing a skull there?” Drummond asked.
“Don’t worry about that.” Sandra handed the rock to Max. “Your mother and I will be back tonight. We’ll get everything ready, and as long as you do your part, it’ll all be fine.”
Max took the rock and tried to ignore the way it seemed to heat up in his hand. “No problem. As long as Drummond doesn’t make me crazy.”
“He’s not going with you, honey.”
Drummond leaned his head in towards the trail. “Don’t worry about it. I’m coming along at first, but then I’ve got a side job your wife wants me to do. I promise I’ll be back before the fireworks get going.”
“You better,” Max said. “If you’re late and anything happens to J —”
“No need for that. You know I’ll be there.”
From her purse, Sandra took out a garden trowel. “Take this, too.”
“You think of everything.” He put the trowel in his coat pocket.
“You know what you’re looking for, right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Sandra leaned into Max and kissed him — a soft kiss, a gentle touch that quivered underneath the skin. “Be careful.”
Between the odd heat radiating from the rock and the odd timbre in Sandra’s voice, Max felt a pit of worry form in his gut. The mouth of the trail called to him with a rustle of leaves. The sound, normally peaceful and pleasant, now filled his ears with dread. He wanted to hear Drummond throw off a wisecrack or two, even a corny pun would suffice, but the ghost eyed the trail entrance with as much trepidation as Max.
Placing the stone in his pocket, Max kissed Sandra — more firmly this time. Then he headed off, not daring to look back for fear that he would run straight to Sandra’s arms and refuse to return to the trail. What did it really matter if Wallace succeeded? Mother Hope in charge or Wallace in charge, it made no difference.
Max shook off the thought. He was here to save J. That mattered. Why would he think otherwise?
Heat from the stone in his pocket warmed his thigh. Max tapped his fingers against his side. Could that be altering his thoughts? Could it be filling him with doubts and fears?
“I’ll be happy when this is done,” he said. “You ever notice that we’re the two always going into the dangerous parts of case?”
Drummond chuckled. “First, Sandra’s been involved in the dangerous parts plenty. Second, you’ve got to accept the truth — we like the danger.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure, you do. Afterwards. During these things, like right now, it’s frightening. Maybe sometimes you have a real rush when caught up in the middle of things. But after, when you’ve survived, that’s the real thing that we seek. That’s when the adrenaline is still pumping and you can smile because the danger is gone.”
Max stopped on the trail. A metal signpost to his left read:
A Regulator Moment
Some memoirs of the battle state that Tryon had a horse shot out from under him during the battle, but Tryon failed to mention this in his report on the battle.
Max said, “You think Governor Tryon was smiling afterwards because he survived that?”
“Tryon was smiling because he won the battle.”
“Well, if I’m smiling when this is done, it won’t be because I survived. It’ll be because J is alive and I won’t ever have to see Wallace’s face again. Let’s go.”
They followed the trail until they reached the split in the path and the circle beyond. Max strained a look back up the way they had come. Trees poked and twisted like a tangled wall. He could not see the battlefield. The branches above him seemed to lace together in an effort to blot out the clouds and sun.
Drummond flew over to an overturned Eastern red cedar, its reddish-brown bark had rotted long ago, its few remaining limbs poked out from the far end, its base and roots a vertical mass of dirt and rock. “This looks like a good spot.”
Humming an aimless tune to ease his nerves, Max sauntered over to the fallen cedar. Drummond was right. Max would be able to hunker
down behind the trunk and nobody would see him. He had a clear view of the circle, and when the time came, he would be able to sneak around without detection.
“What do you think?” Drummond asked.
Max crossed his fingers. “I think Sandra better get everything she needs because I don’t want to be stuck here for nothing.” He plunked down with his back against the trunk. “Go over to the circle and make sure you can’t see me.”
Drummond moved away. A second later, he said, “You’re all good.” He returned with an unsettled look on his brow. “That circle gives off some weird sensations.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m guessing that’s a good thing. At the very least, it means we’re in the right place.”
“Yeah. Then I better get moving.”
“You have to go already?” Max hoped the pitiful sound he heard was more in his head than in his voice.
“I don’t relish the idea of coming back to Sandra empty-handed. She’s always been a tough gal, but since your mother has been here, Sandra’s downright frightening.”
“I’ll let her know you’re scared of her.”
Drummond’s chest rose. “Now, that’s not what I’m saying.” But the concern in his eyes did not agree with his words. “Look, we’re here to save J, and I’ve got my part to do. You worry about your part. I’ll be back later to help you out, if you need it.”
He didn’t wait to be baited into further talk. For a minute, Max watched the empty space where Drummond had been as if the old detective might materialize, say he was joking, and float overhead for the next few hours. But that did not happen. After it became undeniable that Max was alone, he let out a sigh, tightened his coat around his shoulders, and leaned his head against the log.
Most likely, nobody would be coming by until the park closed and night fell. Until that moment, there was no reason to expect any trouble. Yet Max could not shake the feeling that he sat in the middle of a searing skillet. He only hoped he wouldn’t be soon thrown into the fire.
Chapter 24
Max had run through the lyrics of his favorite Led Zeppelin songs, tried to decipher the lyrics of his favorite Red Hot Chili Peppers songs, pondered why a great band like Foxy Shazam never received the accolades they deserved, and pondered why a band like Nickelback received more than they deserved. And yet, when he looked at the time on his phone, he still had a few more hours of waiting ahead of him. His nervousness had long since departed since nothing much had happened. He did see a rabbit, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a rabbit-shaped rock.
Twice he considered pulling out his phone and playing Candy Crush or some other time-waster. Twice he rejected the idea. He could put the phone on mute, but he couldn’t afford to get caught because of the light announcing his location like a lighthouse beacon.
In an effort to stay awake, and also out of bodily necessity, Max stood, stretched, and walked deeper into the woods until he thought he was safely from view. Then he opened his pants and relieved his bladder upon a sapling. After, he headed back to the safety behind the fallen tree, but before he reached it, he spotted a figure approaching the circle.
Max jumped behind a maple with a narrow trunk. He could hear the man’s steps crunching the dead leaves on the ground. Squatting low, Max peeked around the tree. He could not see the man — which, hopefully, meant the man could not see him. Slowly, he duck-walked to the fallen log. He thighs burned with each step, and his breathing tightened. By the time he reached his position, sweat dampened his arms and back.
Peering through the rotted cedar, he finally laid eyes on the man. After having fought several of Wallace’s followers, Max had imagined a burly man with a thick beard and scarred face. Instead, the man looked like a college kid. Not only young, but thin and gawky. He wore wire-frame glasses, had short hair, and sported khaki pants with a green, button-down shirt.
Had the sun still been up or had the young man not gone directly into the circle, Max might have concluded that the young man was, in fact, a college student doing research for a botany class. But the sun had set hours ago. And the young man had gone straight for the circle. There was no mistake. This kid was here to get things ready for Wallace.
Max observed as the kid walked the circle, picking out stones and twigs and tossing them into the woods. He then used his foot to sweep the leaves into a pile which he did his best to set outside the circle. Finally, he searched for a tree limb. At first, Max thought the kid wanted a good walking stick, but that proved to be wrong. Once the kid had selected the right tree limb, he consulted a wrinkled paper dug from his pocket and proceeded to use the tree limb as a writing implement. He drew a large circle on the ground and then the necessary symbols.
When the kid lifted his head and stretched, Max pressed close to the ground. A leaf vibrated from his shaky breath. He trusted the fallen cedar to obscure him from view, but he didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances — especially with J’s life at risk.
Like a string of squid-ink pasta shoved through a press, a black snake slipped out of a hole in the log. Its head touched the ground less than a foot from Max, and its body continued to flow out of the hole. A pink, forked tongue darted from its mouth as it slithered alongside Max. Then it shifted to the left and across the back of Max’s legs. Still, its body had not completely left the log.
Max didn’t dare breathe.
He watched the scaled body undulate as it moved and wished he knew how to identify a snake. The thing had to be over six feet long, and its head had an oval shape. At least, Max thought it was oval. The snake’s appearance had startled him, and he already couldn’t count on his memory. All he knew as that it was snake, and that he could feel its weight crossing his legs.
Black rat snake. Max had heard of those and knew they were plentiful in North Carolina. Were they venomous? Or were they constrictors? What if it was a cobra? No — those didn’t live in the United States. They were in India and Africa and maybe Australia. Everything deadly lived in Australia. Did it matter? Where the snake came from, what kind of snake it was, or whether getting killed by snake venom or getting killed by a snake crushing the trachea didn’t make much of a difference. Dead meant dead.
The snake paused. Its weight pressed against Max like a firehose full of water. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Sandra at the beach. Warm, the sound of rushing waves, chatter of children playing in the surf, the smell of sunblock and fried food. And Sandra — reading a book under the sun. But the snake started up again, and Max opened his eyes to see dirt and the log and the leaf and the tail end of the snake as it continued on its way.
Again the snake stopped, and this time, Max felt it tugging at his pant pocket. Gently lifting and turning his head, Max peered down his leg. It had doubled back over itself and halted with its tongue flicking around the pocket — the pocket with the stone Sandra had inscribed. Thinking about the stone made Max acutely aware of the heat building around it.
The snake reared back and opened its mouth. Max’s entire body went numb as he stared at those two small teeth that might carry his death. It swayed before the pocket, and Max thought he saw fear in the snake’s eyes. The stone or the heat from the stone bothered the creature.
Don’t be stupid, Max. You can’t know what’s in a snake’s mind.
After one more cautious tongue flick of the pocket, the snake turned away. Apparently, it had decided the effort required to get in the pocket wasn’t worth it. It chose an easier path — down Max’s leg and back onto the dirt.
Once the last of the snake had slithered off his body, Max gasped an intake of air. His breath rushed in with a strong vocalization, and his mind shifted to the young man at the circle who must have heard the noise. Max popped his head above the log — not a smart move but his body reacted before his mind could stop him.
Empty.
The circle was empty.
With a quick scan of the area, he saw that the young man had left. Max checked his phone — 10:30 pm. He had t
o hurry. The spell had to be conducted at midnight, but the ceremony would have to start earlier in order to finish on time. He fully expected Wallace and his followers to arrive within the next thirty minutes.
Popping on his phone’s flashlight app, Max headed into the circle. The full moon provided plenty of light to maneuver, but he needed to find a specific symbol on the circle — three lines with jagged ends laid over each other to form a rough triangle. He found it rather quickly — it was the seventh symbol going clockwise from the northern compass point — and counted four paces toward the center of the circle.
From his coat pocket, he brought the garden trowel, dropped to his knees, and dug a hole in the ground. Sandra had told him to make it two feet deep. That sounded fine in the car but only because Max forgot how uncooperative North Carolina’s red clay could be.
Slamming the trowel blade into the earth plunged the tool less than inch. Scraping back did little more. Tiny chunk after tiny chunk, he dug. Sweat dribbled down his back from his continued efforts, and when he finally had to lean back to stretch his aching muscles, he discovered he had only managed one foot.
Resuming his labor, he wished this would have been as simple as running his shoe across the circle, breaking it open, and thus destroying the spell. That move had worked with other spells in the past. But Sandra had pointed out that Wallace would not be careless. They had to expect him to make a close inspection of the circle and its symbols to make sure everything had been done correctly. A break in the circle would be caught long before Wallace cast his spell.
The digging continued and Max’s hands grew sore. “Great,” he said to the hole. “Just some more pain for my bruised body.”
Three thumps echoed in the distance like car doors slamming closed. Max’s spine stiffened as he scanned the woods. Like an animal searching for a predator, he watched, listened, and waited while his heart pounded adrenaline deep into his body.
Beams from flashlights dappled across the trees. Crap. They’re here.
Max threw the stone down the hole and plowed the dirt back inside to cover it up. He had to hope the two-feet measurement was never intended to be exact. With the back of the trowel, he smoothed the dirt with the rest of the ground.
