by Stuart Jaffe
SOUTHERN BOUND
by Stuart Jaffe
For Glory
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Southern Charm
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Chapter 1
Max Porter stood at the door of his new office — old wood with a frosted-glass window; the 319 painted in gold and outlined in black. The keys jingled in his trembling right hand. His left held Sandra's hand tight. He wanted this job to go well for them. It had to.
Seven months without work had cleaned out the savings account Sandra's father started on their wedding day. They had nothing left. The endless job search during a recession had been gut-wrenching. So when an opportunity came along, even one that meant moving to the South, even one as weird as this one, Max grabbed it. Seeing Sandra's huge smile as he handed her the key made the decision feel right.
"You're sure it's okay for me to come in?" she asked.
"The note didn't say anything about you."
"I know, but it was so specific about a lot of things. Maybe we should check it again."
Max laughed. "Go inside. I've got the job."
With a girlish shrug, she kissed him quick and unlocked the door. The office dated back to the 1940s, and much of the original work remained — hardwood floors, two built-in bookcases with ornate but not obnoxious molding, a small bathroom on the opposite side, and three large windows giving view to the old Winston-Salem YMCA across the street (the word BOYS carved into the stone above one entrance, the word MEN above the other). Faux-lemon cleaners coated the air, and Max noticed the lack of dust anywhere.
He stepped closer to the bookshelves. His footsteps echoed around the high ceiling. He saw rows of reference materials — two German-English dictionaries, a full set of encyclopedias, a ten-volume local history, basic biology, geology, and physics textbooks, a few bits of fiction, and even some on divination.
"Strange," Max whispered, letting out a long breath he didn't know he had been holding.
"Got another note," Sandra said standing in front of an imposing oak desk with a heavy, leather desk chair and two less impressive guest chairs. He followed her gaze to the desk blotter where he saw a manila envelope with his name written in a fancy script bordering on calligraphy. Beneath his name, in bold block letters read — OPEN IN PRIVATE.
Sandra hugged Max long and tight. "Told you he didn't want me here."
"What makes you think my boss is a he?"
"Much too dictatorial for a woman."
Max thumbed the envelope's corner. His failure to deal with a dictatorial boss had led to his firing. It was more than that, he thought but buried those memories as fast as they threatened to emerge.
"You have your own job to get to, you know."
"Danishes and bread can wait."
"Honey, oh my, gee whiz, you should've told me you became the owner of a bakery. I can quit right now."
"Don't you dare," she laughed. "And don't worry. I'm going," she said with a wink. "Unless you want to play on the desk."
Chuckling, Max pointed to the door. "You're only offering that 'cause you know I can't accept."
"You'll have to wait until tonight to find out."
A man standing in the doorway cleared his throat. He wore a tailored H. Huntsman suit and smelled clean like he had just stepped from a shower. Not a whisker stood on his face nor did a hair dare to stray from its assigned location. "You're early," he said.
Max recognized the voice right away. The same voice that had called to interview him for a job for which he had not applied. The same voice that had hired him and helped negotiate the move to North Carolina. The same voice that had set him up with a used car, a decent apartment, and a signing bonus to get them started. Mr. Modesto.
"We are early," Sandra said, extending her hand. "We were too excited to wait."
Mr. Modesto looked upon Sandra like an insect. "You were not to bring guests this morning."
"I was just leaving," she said, mouthing Told you so to Max and adding, "Have a great first day. Love you."
Sandra patted the door as she exited. He watched her move down the hall to the stairs on the end — her dark hair dancing on her shoulders, her not-too-thin I'm a real woman physique moving with enthusiasm. She made waking each morning worthwhile.
A hall door opened and an old lady with a coffee mug picked up her morning paper. She scowled at him. Modesto closed the door and said in his deep voice, "This building consists of apartments, some offices, and on the first floor, a small art gallery. Please keep in mind you have neighbors." With a disapproving glare, he added, "You've not opened the envelope?"
"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 a
re 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 2
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 hunt, 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 appe
tite. "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 —"
