by Stuart Jaffe
"But I see you now."
"That's right. You moved the desk."
"I put it back," Max said, his eyes darting to the desk's feet. Looking far closer than ever before, he saw a sliver of a circle marking where the desk had been for many years. "Modesto," he said.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he noticed," Drummond said.
"Wait a second. Modesto knows about the desk, and I was even given orders not to move the desk. Are you telling me my employer did this to you?"
"What do you know — you're not so slow after all."
Max rubbed his face. "I think I need another drink."
"We got a lot of work ahead, so take all the liquid courage you need."
"No, no, no. I'm not getting into this any worse. No. I'll quit the job. Sandra and I, we'll go back to Michigan. The heck with this."
"Sorry, pal. Maybe last week you could've gotten away with it. I doubt it, but you could've tried. Now that you've seen me, now that Modesto knows you moved the desk, Hull's not going to let you go."
"Hull?" Max asked. "Is that my employer's name?"
Drummond pulled back. "You went to work for somebody you never met, and you don't even know his name? Are you insane?"
"I'm not the one ended up a cursed-ghost, so you better hold off on all the judging."
"Whatever."
"You speak like somebody from today? I thought you died in the forties."
"Back to doubting me, huh? I did die in the forties, kiddo, and I've been stuck here ever since. I've seen generations come through these doors and I've listened to them. I remember in the sixties, this couple squatted here for awhile. Used to screw on my desk everyday when they weren't too stoned to do it. I got so sick of the word groovy I wanted to die — if I wasn't already dead."
Despite all the fear and trepidation surging through Max, he chuckled. "Okay, so who's Hull?"
"William Hull, and I don't know much about him other than what everybody knows — very rich, very powerful, very private family. I was just turning my focus onto him when this happened to me."
"You think he did this to you?"
"I'm sure of it. This is his building."
"So, he finds out you're interested in him in connection with Stan Bowman and he kills you?"
"Strikes hard and fast. He's a dangerous man, that much should be obvious, and that means you are in a dangerous situation."
Max grabbed the flask and swung back a little more whiskey. "What was the connection to Bowman?"
"I don't know," Drummond said. "His company owned the warehouse where Stan took the POWs. That was it. I wanted to talk to him as a matter of routine but his people stonewalled me. That got me heated up. I started looking into court records, newspapers, anything I could find his name on. It all turned up empty, but I must've been getting close to something because here I am."
"Here you are," Max said, his brain finally putting pieces together. "Why, though? Why do this whole curse thing to you? Why not just kill you and get rid of the body?"
"You figure that one out, and we'll both be a lot happier."
Max grew quiet for a moment as he let all the things he had seen and heard settle inside him. In a calm tone that frightened him more than his anger ever had, he said, "He's going to come after me, isn't he?"
"Hull? Maybe. He might play this one a little different. In my case, he was trying to shut me up. For you, though, he hired you. He wants you looking into some things, right?"
"History of the area. That's all."
"As long as he doesn't know that we've talked, you should be able to stay alive long enough."
"For what?"
"To solve the Stan Bowman case."
"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 5
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?" Mode
sto 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 6
"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 l
ap 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.
