Modern Magic
Page 170
“No way. No. Not going to happen.”
“You don’t have a choice, unless you want Sandra to be a widow. Or worse, they might go after her. Threaten you through her. I’ve seen much less men do much worse things.”
Max blotted away the image of Modesto beating Sandra and focused on Drummond. For the moment, at least, Drummond made sense. What other choice did Max have? Of course, Drummond could be lying, but Max would have to figure that part out later. Whatever the truth, Max knew he stood at the foot of a mountain range of old pain, deceit, and treachery. He just prayed he’d find a way to climb to safety.
“Okay,” he said, clearing away all the nagging words his conscience wanted to weigh on him, “where do we start?”
Chapter Five
Before Drummond could answer, the office door opened and Mr. Modesto walked in. He nodded at Max, clearly unable to see Drummond, and sat in a guest chair.
“You and I are to have lunch,” he said, disdain dripping from every word.
Max tried to look at the desk, to keep his eyes off Drummond, but he caught sight of the ghost disappearing into the bookcase. “It’s a bit early for lunch,” he managed to say while staring at the books.
Modesto stood, straightening his suit, and stepped between Max and where Drummond had been. “There is no need for rudeness. You and I are to have lunch this afternoon.”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do. Instead, can we—”
“What makes you think our employer is any less specific with me in his instructions? Now, please acknowledge that you understand what I’ve said, so I know you will meet me.”
“Okay, sure.”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be working on—”
“I don’t really care.”
When Modesto left, Max slumped into the desk chair and let out a long sigh. This was how he had lost his job in Michigan—an early morning request to join the boss’s assistant to lunch. False accusations came with that lunch. Before the entrees hit the table, his job had disappeared.
He should call Sandra. She would ease his mind. She knew what to say. But if he called her, she would also know that something else had happened, and he wasn’t ready to explain about ghosts. Besides, there was no reason to think he had lost this job. He had moved the table, true. But could they really know that?
“Not unless they’re bugging the office,” Max chuckled. His eyes darted to the dark corners of the room. No, he refused to let paranoia attack. He had no control over this lunch, so best to just go to the library and get some work done. Whatever happens after that would happen regardless.
At 12:30 exactly, Mr. Modesto arrived and brought Max to the Village Tavern—a small restaurant adjacent to the university campus. Max loved the place the instant he stepped inside. It reminded him of visits to New York City—the dark, cramped restaurant that utilized every last inch of space, the jostle of people all grumpy with hunger, the clatter from the busy kitchen underscoring the delightful aromas drifting throughout. When they had money again, Max wanted to bring Sandra here to celebrate.
After they were seated, Mr. Modesto folded his hands on the table and said, “Tell me everything you’ve learned.”
Max frowned. “I’m confused. I assumed I would be writing a report for our employer,” he said, fully conscious that he had just used the phrase Modesto always applied to their boss.
“You will write a report, too. However, our employer desires a faster reply at the moment. So, tell me what you will eventually write down.”
“Okay,” Max said, holding back a sarcastic—you asked for it.
Halfway through their filet mignons, Max entered into the work he had explored in the last few days—the Moravian congregational government. “It’s fascinating stuff,” he said. “They divided their government into three branches just like America would do shortly afterward, but these branches acted very differently.” Modesto appeared to pay attention in a polite manner but showed no surprise as Max explained the system. “The first branch was the Elders Conference. They dealt with the spiritual affairs of the congregation and ensured that all the various officials worked well together. The Congregation Council handled broader issues that affected the long-term—like an overseer. And last was the Aufesher Collegium which dealt with secular matters such as town administration.”
“And this system worked?” Modesto asked, but something in his voice told Max he could care less. Max didn’t mind, though. He’d babble for a week if it kept his mind off of ghosts.
“Well, it worked for them. They used their three-branch government to regulate all aspects of life so nobody would profit at somebody else’s expense. They sought harmony for everybody.”
“But it didn’t always work that way, did it?”
“Of course not.”
“And do you have any examples of this not working?”
Max took a bite of his steak to force a pause. Even as he discussed Winston-Salem’s history with more enthusiasm than he realized he had for the subject, he found Modesto’s attitude disturbing. Perhaps that’s what the man wanted—he clearly did not like Max. Yet something else gnawed at Max.
“Surely you’ve come across at least one example?” Modesto said. “Our employer would be unhappy if your research was so superficial.”
“I have examples.”
Modesto ordered a cup of coffee and said, “I’m waiting. Just one example, please.”
Like a bull let out of the shoot, Max barreled into a verbal assault. “In 1829, there’s a man with the ironic name of Thomas Christman who decides to become a Baptist. He takes his son with him in this move away from the Moravian beliefs. Christman is ordered to leave town, but he refuses. This is considered a spiritual problem, so the Elders Council is called. They decide not to evict the man—they don’t want to go through the North Carolina legal system. Instead, they buy the house from under Christman. He can still live there, but he owns nothing and has nothing for his son to inherit. They’ve effectively removed him from their world, though he still occupies its space.”
“I see.”
“You don’t. It’s not how strict, vengeful, or even creative these people can be, but rather how patient. They wanted a man who had betrayed their beliefs to be driven from their town, and they were willing to wait a lifetime in order for it to occur. Compare that to the Christians or the Muslims—two groups of many that are prone to act now in order to achieve their goals as soon as possible. The kind of patience displayed here is an amazing quality of the Moravians.”
Modesto let out a sly grin. “You seem to be very excited about our little city in the South.”
Not sure how to take the comment, Max sat back and spread his hands. “If I can’t get interested, I wouldn’t do a very good job at the research, would I?”
“That is beyond my expertise. Excuse me a moment,” Modesto said as he stood. He placed his briefcase on his chair and inched by a waiter as he walked toward the restrooms.
Max looked at the briefcase and wondered at the point of this display. Was Modesto testing Max’s trustworthiness? Was this an order from the boss or just a game from a jealous employee? And Modesto was jealous, Max had no doubt. The condescension oozing from Modesto’s words could not be mistaken. Somehow he felt threatened by Max’s presence. In fact, this entire lunch may not have been ordered by the boss.
Peeking over his shoulder, Max checked to see that Modesto was not heading back. Could this be some sort of probe into his work by Modesto? Max envisioned the arrogant prick groveling at the boss’s feet, presenting Max’s information as if it were his own.
As he considered this possibility, Max noticed the tip of a paper poking from the front sleeve of the briefcase like a teasing leg-shot on the cover of an old girlie mag. Checking once more that Modesto was not on his way back, Max leaned closer and made out a logo—the letter H in a blockish style, colored blue, with a white rectangle on the right leg as if it were a door or window.
When Modesto returned
, he said, “I just spoke with our employer. He’s pleased with your work.”
“Good,” Max said, and then part of what bothered him finally discovered its form. “Everything I’ve told you today was not difficult information to find. Rather basic, actually. Why would our employer want—”
“Our employer recognizes that you need a little time to catch up on the foundation before you can do the more serious studies. After all, you’re still talking about the Moravians. You haven’t even begun to look into the Reynolds family which made this city noteworthy. So, your immediate job is to catch up. Our employer does not want to waste more than another week, if even that. I’ve hired an assistant for you to help you along. We particularly don’t want you bogged down with the busy work of the reports.”
“An assistant?”
“Yes,” Modesto said as he readied to leave. “Once you’re ready, the real work can begin. We’ll be researching various land deals. I must go now. I’ll be in touch next week.”
As Modesto walked away, Max was surprised his thoughts were not of land deals, the blue H, or even Modesto. Instead, Max thought only of two names—Marshall Drummond and Stan Bowman.
Chapter Six
“I must be crazy,” Max said to his empty car as he drove toward the campus. “No, no. They say if you can think that might be the case, then it’s not. Crazy people think they’re perfectly normal. Then again, I’m talking to myself in a car, so what does that say for me?”
When his cell phone rang, Max answered it without looking at the name. His mother’s voice screeched in his ear. “Max, I’ve been so worried about you. I’ve been trying to get you for days.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“You eating all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom. The move went fine, Sandra’s fine, and we’re just busy getting settled in.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Listen, I sent you a housewarming gift. Did you get it?”
“Yes, thank you,” Max said, trying to blot out any memory of the ugliest ashtray ever made in the seventies—something she had lying around her attic.
“I’m glad it arrived. You never know with the mail. And since I didn’t get a thank you note, I wasn’t sure.”
“Like I said, it’s been busy.”
He could hear his mother working herself into a nitpicking froth. “Well, I have to say that it doesn’t take that long to write a thank you note, and it’s very important. I know I taught you better than that. Now, I’m not joking. People will look down upon you in your life if you fail at the little things. It’s that important, and it’s a mark of a civilized person. For me, it’s okay, it doesn’t matter, you understand. You forget me, I don’t mind. You’re my son. I know you love me. But other people, they need to be properly thanked.”
“Yes, Mom. I’m very sorry. I’ll try to be better,” Max said, not paying attention to his words as he took the Wake exit. By the time he found a parking spot (and hoped he’d avoid a ticket for using the student lot), his mother had wound down and said her good-byes. As annoying as she could be, though, Max wanted to thank her this time. By distracting him from all that had occurred that morning, she had managed to untangle his thoughts enough for him to function.
He still shuddered at the idea that a real ghost haunted his office, but he no longer feared the thing—especially since Drummond needed his help. His own situation bothered him far greater, yet even that no longer rattled him like earlier. Now, he started to see that Stan, Annabelle, Hull, and Drummond all were just the dots he had to connect. If he could do that, then perhaps he had nothing to worry about. Besides, as odd as his employer had been, it was only Drummond saying that Max was in danger.
A ghost might say anything to be freed from a curse. And what, exactly, did he do to deserve a curse?
By the time Max entered the now-familiar library lobby, his curiosity had risen above the tide line of his fear. No matter what else, Max agreed with one thing Drummond had said—he needed to find Annabelle Bowman.
After an hour had passed, Max admitted that all his research that day on Moravian history did nothing to help him find Annabelle Bowman. It did, however, help Max avoid thinking about ghosts and dangerous bosses. Don’t slow down. Keep pushing ahead. As long as he kept moving forward, logic and common sense would prevail. He hoped.
Leafing through a pictorial history of Winston-Salem as he climbed a stairwell, Max jolted at the sound of his cell phone ringing. A glance at the phone’s face—Sandra. Max sat on the stairs (cell phone reception only happened in the library’s stairwells) with the book on his lap and answered.
Sandra’s day had not fared any better than Max’s. She launched into a detailed account of being rear-ended by “some jerk in a jaguar who insisted on pulling over and getting an official police report even though all I got was a scratch on the bumper.” She ended up late to work and had to deal with a lecture from Mrs. McCarthy, the owner, that ended with a reminder, “There’s lots of good people looking for work right now. People who know how to be on time.”
Max listened and did not interrupt. The more she spoke, the less he wanted to say. What could he tell her? That a ghost hired him on the side and promised him that his new employer, the one that would save them financially, was somehow associated with the spawn of evil, Stan Bowman? But he didn’t want to lie to her either.
When she finished, still huffing at unspoken thoughts, the dreaded question came out. “So, what happened with Drummond?”
Turning the page in his book, Max saw a picture of a large building on fire in the middle of a field while numerous, well-dressed people stood at a distance and watched. The caption explained that on November 24, 1892 the Zinzendorf Hotel (named after the beloved former leader) tragically burned to the ground in about two hours. Max looked at the billowing smoke and wondered if he had started his own tragic fire.
“Honey?” Sandra said.
“I’m here. Things have gotten a little bit more complicated, but don’t worry.”
“Just tell Drummond—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to solve my problems and tell me what to do. I’ve got it all being taken care of. And I can decide for my own career if I want to do a little work for Drummond or not. I promise you I won’t be fired from my job. Okay?”
“I guess I’m just a little worried that—”
“We’re not in Michigan anymore.”
“I know,” Sandra said. With forced levity, she changed the subject, and as she chattered on, Max flipped through a few more pages.
“It can’t be,” he said, staring at a picture from the 1980s. He read the caption twice.
“What did you say?”
“She might still be here.”
“Who?”
“Annabelle. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight,” Max said, cutting the connection without any further good-bye.
He went to his cubicle, gathered his things, and rushed to the microtext room. With the aid of a librarian, he found several spools containing all issues of the local paper, The Winston-Salem Journal, for the year 1989. In a short time, he found the story he had sought, and the photos of several Winston-Salem residents, including an older lady attempting to hide behind harsh-looking men—but her spry eyes gave her away. Annabelle Bowman. A quick search online gave him the address.
As he drove to the South Side home, Max considered calling Drummond. Two thoughts stopped him. First, he saw no reason he should feel obligated to make reports. Second, and far more important, Drummond was dead. How would a ghost answer the phone?
The house appeared to be nothing special. A beaten Chevy with a layer of dust resided in the driveway and leaves dotted the walk. Fall would arrive soon, but for the moment, the warm air felt just right. As Max waited on the brick porch for the doorbell to be answered, the distinct odor of stale flowers and unwashed blankets drifted from a rocking chair at his side.
“Yes?” a weak voice asked from behind the doo
r.
“Annabelle Bowman?”
“What do you want?”
“My name’s Max Porter. I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes. I have a few questions for an article I’m researching.”
The door opened a crack. “Article?”
Max flashed his warmest smile as he peeked in at the elderly woman. “Yes, I’m writing an article for, um, I don’t know yet. It’s kind of a freelance thing.”
“Freelance?”
“It means that I don’t have—”
“I know what it means, you idiot. Sure, what the hell, I ain’t had anything interesting happen in months,” she said, nudging the door open and shuffling toward her living room. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve got to worry about you raping me, and there ain’t anything here worth stealing.”
Max stepped inside to find a home cramped with books, statuettes, and trinkets of all kinds. Next to a mirror, a framed cross-stitching hung on the wall declaring “Home is life.” Two overstuffed sofas dominated the living room. A coffee table covered with photos of young children, sat between them.
“My nieces and nephews,” she said.
“They look lovely.”
“The one in the green shirt is. The other two are a pain but they’ll outgrow it. And this picture is my sister, Emily. I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Her husband thinks I’m a bit of a bitch, I suppose. Excuse my language. I used to be more refined but at my age, you start to realize all that politeness doesn’t get you very far. Better to be honest and direct, even if it does piss off a few people along the way.”
Max chuckled as he sat. “I won’t take up too much of your time,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere. Would you like some sweet tea?”
“No, thank you,” he said. Sweet tea was everywhere in North Carolina, but for Max’s northern tastes it was much too sweet, not enough tea.
“What do you want to talk about?” Annabelle asked.
“Well, I saw a picture of you in a story about Millionaire’s Row.”