“It says ‘Open In Private’.”
“Then I’ll wait in the hall,” Modesto said and stepped out.
A little part of Max, a childish, naïve part, wanted to sprint down the hall, out the building, and head straight back to Michigan. He understood Michigan—Lansing, Alpena, Kalamazoo, it didn’t matter what part of the state—cold, hard, practical with a side of cutting loose. This envelope had none of those qualities. It was a bizarre way to handle business.
A book clattered to the floor, and Max jumped in his seat, letting out a girlish screech. Then he laughed at himself—hard. Modesto probably thought him mad.
Careful, Max, the South just might make you nutty.
Max recomposed himself and opened the envelope. It read:
MR. PORTER—
WELCOME TO WINSTON-SALEM AND YOUR NEW OFFICE. IF YOU REQUIRE ANYTHING, DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT MR. MODESTO. YOUR FIRST TASK IS TO RESEARCH UNITAS FRATRUM. THE BOOKS PROVIDED HERE SHOULD SUFFICE BUT IF YOU REQUIRE ANY OTHERS, DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT MR. MODESTO. AT THE END OF EACH DAY, REPLACE EACH BOOK IN THE EXACT PLACE YOU FOUND IT. MAKE NO MARKS IN THE BOOKS. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF BASIC USAGE OF YOUR CHAIR, DO NOT MOVE ANY FURNITURE IN THIS OFFICE. DO NOT ADD OR REMOVE ANY FURNITURE IN THIS OFFICE. IF ANY LIGHT BULBS NEED TO BE REPLACED OR ANY OTHER SUPPLIES ARE REQUIRED, DO NOT HANDLE IT YOURSELF. PLEASE CONTACT MR. MODESTO INSTEAD.
No signature. No explanations.
He pulled open the top-right drawer and found a small ledge with three pens—nice pens, Monte Blanc. He picked one and then tried the drawer beneath. As he leaned down, he noticed some metal screwed into the underside of the desk. He had seen this type of thing before but only in old black-and-white movies. It was a gun tray meant for holding a small caliber weapon that would be pointed towards the door.
“Wild,” he said.
In the bottom drawer, he found one plain, spiral notebook—the kind he preferred to work with. Well, the boss does his homework, he thought, smirking at his own use of the male pronoun. Sandra could turn him around on many things with just a few words.
Mr. Modesto returned with his eyes surveying the office (checking that I haven’t moved anything, Max thought), and said, “I trust everything is clear and to your satisfaction.”
As much as Mr. Modesto already pushed Max’s desire to spew out sarcasm, he had to focus on keeping the job. Strange orders and a pompous manager should be the last of his concerns. “Um, just one thing,” he said, hating the contrition in his voice.
“Oh?”
Gesturing to the empty desk, Max said, “No computer. I’ve got my own laptop. I can—”
“Our employer wishes for this room not to be altered. A technology such as that would severely alter the room.”
“Perhaps our employer did not explain to you that you’re to help me out. It says so in this letter.”
Mr. Modesto’s face tightened. “The contents of that letter are marked ‘private’ and you should not be divulging them to me. As for my duties, I am well aware of what I am to do.”
“Our employer wants some in-depth research done, and I’m assuming he wants it done in a timely manner. Without a computer, this task will be—”
“It is a short drive to the Wake Forest campus. You will find an excellent library there which will supplement any research requirements this room does not fulfill. Including a computer.”
Max held his tongue for a moment and forced a pleasant face. “My apologies. I’m sure the University will be more than enough.”
“I’ll be checking in this office a few times each week. If you require anything for your research that does not violate my other orders, I’ll be more than willing to help you. Also …” Mr. Modesto’s eyes narrowed on the floor as he walked toward the bookshelves. In one graceful motion, he swiped the book off the floor, snapped it shut and returned it to its rightful place. Without looking at Max, Mr. Modesto said, “Keep your focus on your research. These other matters are none of your concern. Good day.” He walked out of the office, never once glancing back.
Max rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. A little sweat had broken out—he had to be careful. Mr. Modesto had been working for their boss a lot longer—Max had no leverage.
He could hear Sandra warning him to keep his cool, and she was right. In this economy, he had been more than lucky to land a good-paying job. Especially considering that right before the market crumbled, Sandra had just started out as a real estate agent in Michigan. She had a few contacts in the Southern real estate world, but upon moving, they all told her the same thing—find a different job. She did, at a bakery, but that didn’t bring in enough on its own. Max needed to keep his job.
With a stretch, Max stood and checked out the bookshelves. He wasn’t trying to be difficult. He simply couldn’t stand when people purposefully did the wrong thing because they had the power to do so. Like Mr. Modesto and this job—they wanted him to do research. No problem. Let him do the research. Don’t make up all these stupid rules to control him. No computer? Don’t move the furniture? Come on.
To prove his point, Max lifted the edge of the desk and set it down an inch forward. He waited. “Nope,” he said to the room. “Not struck by lightning.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw something. Max jumped back and scanned the office. Empty.
With cautious motions, he turned his head toward the floor. There, curving under his desk, Max saw the edges of colored lines. Something had been drawn on the floor.
His hand tapped the edge of the desk, wanting to shift it just a tiny bit more, but his heart pounded a warning. “Aw, hell. In for a penny,” he said, grabbed the desk and yanked it to the side.
A large circle had been painted in red and blue. Zodiac symbols marked compass points on the circle’s inside edge. Two concentric circles were inside the largest one, and each also had symbols on the inside lines, but Max did not recognize them. Painted blood red, a jagged-toothed mouth occupied the center—one of four serpent heads attached to the same body.
Cocking his head to the side, he read the words cruor and teneo. They meant nothing to him but sent shivers straight through to his hands.
He slid the desk back in place, covering the circle, and glanced at it from several angles. It appeared to be in the same spot. He checked from his desk chair—only with a flashlight would he have ever found the circle.
Research, he thought with relief. Get out of the office. Get fresh air. Do what he had been hired to do. Forget about this other nonsense.
Max gathered his things and headed out. As he walked by the bookshelf, his eyes caught the book that kept falling out. Its cracked spine read—WITCHCRAFT IN WINSTON-SALEM, VOL 7, 1935-1950.
“Holy crap,” he whispered and hurried his steps.
Chapter Two
Max loved the way the Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University really was two separate structures—the former alleyway had been enclosed long ago to form an exquisite reading space full of light and air. Like any good library, Wake’s was a labyrinth of floors and nooks and dusty corners each promising to hold great discoveries for anybody bold enough to explore. For Max, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he would admit that he loved doing research, and he loved being in this quiet, solitary sanctuary. Teaching had its joys, but the students always made him feel unfulfilled.
After several minutes on the library computers, Max had a few call numbers to check out. Later, he could use what he learned to validate the accuracy of any websites claiming to have information. This approach took more effort than just using Google, but since he was being paid for quality work, he figured it was worth it. Which meant that for now, books were the place to start.
He climbed a narrow staircase to the seventh floor. Most of the lights were off and each row of stacks had a separate switch. In the quiet, he worked his way through until he matched the call numbers, popped on the light, and started searching through the old titles.
Research was a treasure hun
t, and as the familiar sensations of discovery flooded into him, he began talking to the texts—a habit that Sandra found amusing, annoying, and sometimes cute. “You look promising,” he muttered to a reddish-brown book.
Hours passed with Max sitting in a cubicle, his head stuck between book covers. His hand ached from taking notes (he made a mental note to bring his laptop next time), but a picture of Winston-Salem’s early years had formed, one that struck him as both daring and desperate.
In the 15th Century, in Moravia, a Czech named Jan Hus preached about a church based on moral purity and conduct rather than doctrine and consistency. His disciples, the Brethren, called the new church Unitas Fratrum, and by 1467, they seceded from the Church of Rome.
Max predicted the backlash would not be pretty. Nobody seceded from the Church without repercussions—often violent repercussions. For the Brethren, he read on, persecution and dispersal rained upon them for hundreds of years.
“Told ya,” Max said.
A door squeaked open. Max glanced around, heard a few footsteps, and settled back to his book.
In the 17th Century, the Brethren hanging on in Germany found a safe haven in Count Nicholas Ludwig von Zinzendorf. He provided them his Saxony estate, an arrangement that lasted many years. In 1722, the Moravians (as they were becoming known) created the Renewed Unitas Fratrum (“Such originality,” Max said) with Zinzendorf as their leader. Shortly after, they began missionary work.
Max jotted down these key dates. He imagined Zinzendorf angered a lot of Brethren. Many would have accused him of purchasing his leadership role. Others, well, religious politics always had been as bloody as the secular variety.
Max heard a single beep and whispering. He swore he heard his name. He glanced around, but the stacks and the darkened floor hid just about everything. Again, he heard the whispering followed by the beep.
“Now,” he said, trying to bury the nervousness growing inside, “America has to come into the picture.”
Seeking religious freedom, word of America worked its way to the Moravians. In 1741, after a failed attempt to settle in Georgia, they founded the town of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania. A decade later, they bought land in North Carolina and settled Bethabara. Later growth led to Bethania, and in 1765, construction of Salem began.
Another beep.
“Hello?” Max said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the library’s quiet.
Several stacks down, a figure darted into the main aisle. Max jumped from his chair to peek down the aisle just in time to see the fire door closing. His skin prickled.
He shook off the feeling, unwilling to give it much credence. After all, if he voiced the idea that somebody had been watching him, perhaps following him, perhaps checking up on him—he didn’t want to consider what that implied.
By noon, Max was finished with his initial survey. He met Sandra at a little diner and was surprised at her excitement.
She bit into her cheeseburger with a strong appetite. “This has been a great day,” she said. Max gnawed on a fry and quivered out a grin. “Everybody’s been so nice.”
“Nice?” Max said. The word creepy described things far better.
“I mean it. We have this reputation in the North of being harsh and cold and full of bite. I never felt it I guess because I lived there my whole life. But now, meeting these people down here—it’s weird. Every single person here is nice.”
“Real nice,” Max said, thinking of the stranger in the library. In Michigan, he didn’t have these kinds of problems. And they said the economy was picking up back there. Something would have come his way. Or he’d have done something online. Lots of people telecommute nowadays. This whole job smelled illegal anyway—but he had known that from the start.
Sandra continued, “I called to set up DSL today and when the lady found out we’d just moved in, she gave me the warmest welcome. Up North it’s all, ‘What do you want?’ as if you’re imposing on their time to sit on their asses and do nothing. Here, I don’t know, I guess I expected banjo-pickers at the gas station ready to string us up if we looked at them wrong.”
“It’s definitely not like back home.”
“And did you notice all the Japanese restaurants? There’s also some Indian places and even Greek. We never had that. They’re more cultured than we’ve ever been.”
Max looked at Sandra’s beaming face and his stomach dropped. First day of work, less than a week living here, and she already had fallen for the place. And the money—they would never get back on their feet without real money coming in like this.
She must have picked up something in his body language, she could always read him well, because she stopped talking, clasped his hands, and said, “Did something go wrong at work?”
Max sniffled and shook his head. “Mr. Modesto. I don’t care for him.”
“Well, no job is perfect, honey.”
“I know.”
“And we need this money. We still owe the credit card company—”
“I know,” he said with more force than he intended.
They grew silent, and Max thought about the tension their silences had acquired. There was a time when he would bring her a single rose every day. She would see it, smile, and say nothing—those were the silences he craved. He leaned closer and said, “Hey, hon, guess what? I know my boss is a man.”
“I told you that,” she said with less bite and more play.
“When I was talking with Modesto, I referred to the boss as ‘he’ and the guy didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch.”
“You’re quite the detective.”
“I try,” Max said, a genuine smile opening up.
Sandra took his hands again. “I want you to help me make this work. This is our best opportunity.”
“I will.”
“And we can’t afford not to take it.”
“I know.”
“So please, honey, deal with whatever nastiness this Modesto ass sends your way. Please.”
He looked at those brown eyes and his heart lurched. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Then you are definitely getting lucky tonight.”
Max burst into laughter and that sent Sandra into her own fit of giggles.
When he returned to his office, he received a surprise. Behind his desk, admiring the woodwork, sat a well-groomed man in his thirties, dressed in an old-style suit. He did not appear embarrassed at being caught messing with the desk nor did he even acknowledge Max’s entrance.
Max cleared his throat. The man startled at the noise, then looked at Max with a different sense of surprise as if amazed Max could produce such a sound. Finally, he stood (a rather tall, strong body) and said, “You the boss here?”
“Max Porter. Pleased to meet you,” he said offering his hand.
The man ignored Max’s hand but said, “Name’s Drummond. Marshall Drummond.”
“Well, what can I do for you?” Max said as he sat in his chair, forcing Drummond toward the guest side of the desk.
“Other way around, friend. I’m going to help you.”
“You are?”
“Maybe. After you do something for me.”
“Make up your mind,” Max said, writing a mental note to ask Modesto for some kind of security.
“What I mean is …” Drummond said, his focus drifting to the bookshelf.
“Mr. Drummond?”
“The world is much stranger than I ever thought.”
Max shifted in his chair. “If I can help you with something, please tell me. Otherwise, I’ve got a lot to do and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Drummond’s eyes snapped onto Max with a fierceness that dried Max’s throat. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Excuse me.”
“You said you’d have to ask me to leave. Go ahead. Ask.”
“Um … will you please leave?”
>
“No.”
Drummond sat in the left guest chair, leaned back, and rested his feet on the desk. Max sighed as he rose to his feet. “Look, I’m not interested in stupid power games. Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“You need to listen up. I know a heck of a lot more about things around here than you. And I’m willing to help you out because right now, our interests are pretty much the same. After all, don’t you want to know who’s pulling your strings? So, sit.” Drummond waited. Max held still a moment, his brain tumbling to catch up on how fast the tone of this meeting had altered. He sat. “Good.”
“What do you know about my boss?”
Drummond chuckled. “Stan Bowman.”
“That’s his name?”
“No. That’s the name I want you to find out about. I want to know what happened to that bastard. You find that out, and I’ll tell you all about this office, that book that keeps falling out, and the witch’s spell under your desk.”
Max’s stomach churned hard. “Witch’s spell?”
“Stan Bowman. Research him and I’ll tell you.”
With a shaking hand, Max pulled out a pencil and wrote down the name Stan Bowman. “O-Okay,” he said, “What else?”
“Don’t do this from here. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t say a word to Modesto about me, Bowman, or this meeting. You so much as hint about it, you’ll find out how bad things can get.”
Chapter Three
Max tried to keep silent around his wife that night. He told himself that he wanted to find out all about Stan Bowman, find out about Drummond, find out anything, any concrete answer, before he spoke with Sandra. Otherwise, she would be full of questions and he would be full of idiotic silence. She would worry and regret relocating. She would find some way to blame herself.
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