by Stuart Jaffe
Max said, “No school today. Or maybe we’ll call this a field trip.”
With a slight shake in his voice, PB said, “Look, I didn’t mean to tick you off. I was just blowing steam. We can go to Grandma Porter’s. It’s okay.”
“You were right. Not about school — that is important, but about this case and the way I’ve shut you out of it. This whole thing is about you, and you deserve to know what’s going on. So, you can come with me today. I’m going to check out an old farm where a terrible thing happened.”
From the back of the car, Drummond’s gruff voice said, “What’s that kid still doing here?”
Max winked in the rearview mirror. “That sound good to you? You come with me to the farm?”
“No, no,” Drummond said. “I don’t want to have to deal with a kid during our investigation. I mean J is tolerable, but only because he sees me. Besides, how are you going to talk with me with this kid around?”
PB nodded. “Okay. You tell me what I need to do.”
“Right now, we get a bit of a drive. So let me tell you everything I found out about the Lawson family.”
Despite Max’s intention to detail the Lawson story in full, part of him thought it best not to get too graphic. PB was not squeamish and had lived a far tougher life than most, but considering the life-threatening pressure upon the boy, Max did not want to add to it. PB did not need to imagine his own death as anything similar to the Lawson family.
At the same time, Max wanted to keep talking throughout the drive. He did not want to give PB a chance to change his mind. So, he mentioned some of the smaller incidents that had occurred in the build up to the murders. Namely, a strange little side story that had tickled Max when he first read it.
Early on, long before Charlie had the accident that injured his brain, there came to his attention a strange odor coming from his property. People complained to his brother Marion, and it did not take long for Charlie and Marion to discover the source. Protected by a wall of trees, one of the Lawson’s other brothers had decided to set up a moonshine still. Charlie was not happy — he was trying to build up his tobacco business and did not need a bad reputation following his product.
PB snickered at the tale, so Max decided to share another side story that involved two people on the lead up to the murders. First, in late-summer 1929, Marion’s little daughter, Stella, woke up with a frightening vision of death to her beloved cousins. It shook her awful, but nothing came of it in the following days, and her family dismissed it as a nightmare. But also, on the Christmas morning of the massacre, Joe Lawson — the brother who had a fondness for making moonshine — began to cry uncontrollably at breakfast and continued to do so throughout the day. He could not explain why, but he felt deep to his bone something bad had come over the world.
Max hoped that those two stories would be the start of leading PB toward the truth about the supernatural. J had come to accept that ghosts existed — hard to deny them when he started seeing Drummond. But PB still thought that the Porter Agency hustled a scam by placating foolish marks who believed in magic and such.
When they drove up Route 8 through Germanton, Max could feel the tension rising. PB stared at the trees and fields with an eager enthusiasm, but his fingers danced on his jumping knees. To Max’s eyes, however, he saw little to be either excited or apprehensive about.
The road look like any rural road with a few houses spaced far apart and plenty of land — some cultivated, some growing wild. As they turned onto Brook Cove Road, Max glanced at Drummond in the rearview mirror. “You see anything?”
PB shook his head, but Drummond checked on both sides of the road. “Nothing that matters,” the ghost said. “There are some ghosts around, but there are always ghosts around everywhere — most everywhere, anyway. Nothing stands out as important.”
“Well, keep your eyes open.”
PB said, “What am I looking for?”
Drummond said, “How about a taxi to take you home, kid.”
“I’m not sure,” Max said. “That’s kind of the nature of what I do. Sometimes you just have to look around and see what pops up.”
Following his map program, he found the driveway to what had been the Lawson farm. It was a dirt and gravel road, snug between the trees, and led several acres length away from the main road. Trees surrounded the property, cutting off view of the rest of the world.
Before they reached the current owner’s house, Max pulled over. “We have to be careful. We’re not supposed to be here. But since what was the Lawson house is no longer around, and the new house was not built on the same spot, I’m hoping we can check out the areas we need to investigate without alerting anybody.”
“Plus,” PB said, “it’s still the morning. Whoever lives here probably is off at work.”
“That, too.”
Drummond said, “Huh. The kid actually has a good brain. If he keeps thinking like that, I might like him a little better than you.”
As they exited the car, Max said, “Stay close. Don’t go wandering off.”
“I trust you’re talking to the boy and not me. And you’re right about that — keep a close eye on that kid. A lot of dark things happened here, and evil as a way of sniffing you out.”
Despite the shade provided by the trees, the day’s heat had already kicked up. Humidity pressed against Max’s skin, and even the slight breeze in the air could not cool him. He moved slowly. PB, on the other hand, ignored the heat and started exploring with verve — his curiosity overcoming whatever fears had developed during the car ride.
Max strolled along the gravel drive, keeping an eye on PB while also scanning the area for any signs of where the Lawson house might have once stood. Even with the heat, the place had a soothing, peaceful aura about it. Hard to believe a horrific massacre had occurred here so long ago.
“I’m getting mixed feelings about this place,” Drummond said.
Speaking low so as not to alert PB, Max said, “Feelings? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I don’t mean I’m getting all mushy. But this place has a strength that still holds on to some of the darkness that happened here. It’s beautiful and calm, but I still can feel that bad thing.”
“I feel it, too. Like being in a bakery but smelling something off mixing in with all the cakes and breads and stuff.”
Drummond looked at Max with incredulous impatience. “I swear sometimes your brain makes no sense to me.”
Up ahead, Max spotted a small clearing. It looked too uniform, too square, to have naturally occurred. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Drummond pushed back his hat. “It certainly is. I can almost hear the gunshots echoing in the air.”
“Literally? Or are you just being poetic?”
“Not sure. But I don’t think you should let the boy go anywhere near that clearing.”
Max turned back toward PB, but the boy had headed off to a string of trees near the bottom of the sloping ground. Max opened his mouth to call PB closer when the boy waved his hands in the air. “Come here,” PB said. “I think I found something.”
Max and Drummond exchanged a curious look before they headed down the slope. Unable to wait for the old folks to hurry up, PB sprinted uphill toward them. In the thick heat, he dripped with sweat and panted heavily, but that did not stop his excitement.
“Down there. There’s a little open area with some rocks for a campfire, and from the story you told me in the car, I’m thinking that’s where the moonshine still was.”
Max did not know whether to put much faith in that guess, but at least it took them away from where the house at once been. “Let’s check it out.”
Stepping between the trees, Max saw immediately that PB was right. It made sense for Joe Lawson to put his still there. Not only did the trees provide privacy and protection from people snooping about, but Max could hear the gentle trickle of a nearby creek — accessible freshwater would have made the moonshine business substantially easier.
“I think it might be,” Max said. “If not, it should have been.”
Passing through the thick trunk of a maple, Drummond said, “This was definitely the place. I saw enough illegal setups in my time to recognize a site like this. Even without the equipment, this would definitely be the kind of spot a moonshiner would want — especially if his brother owned the land.”
Off to the right, a large rock invited Max to rest. He sat and had to admit that it felt as if many people had sat there previously. The rock beneath him was smooth and perfectly fit the needs of his posterior.
Taking a cue off Max, PB leaned back against one of the trees. With one foot up and pressed into the trunk like some cool kid from the 1950s, he crossed his arms and said, “What happens now?”
“Don’t know,” Max said. His eyes roved to the ground as he tried to picture the moonshine still from over a hundred years ago. “It would sure be nice if we could magically look under the ground and see if several feet below are remnants of something related to the Lawson family.”
With a gruff snort, Drummond said, “Not being subtle, are you? Okay, okay. I’m on it.”
Drummond lowered through the ground until only the top of his hat broke the surface. It moved back and forth like the dorsal fin of a shark prowling the shoreline.
“Can I ask you something?” PB said.
“You never need permission. Just ask the question.”
“Why is it that you and Sandra try to help people so much? I mean, sometimes you’re stringing them along with all that ghost stuff, but even those people, it seems like you’re trying to help them, too. I don’t get what you’re up to?”
“Well, first, good for you for thinking through some of this. Second — I know Grandma Porter can be a bit much sometimes, but she taught me a lot of good things growing up. One thing she sure taught me was that when given the choice of showing kindness or being mean, you’ll always benefit more from kindness. Being hateful and mean, spiteful or violent, these things seem like solutions at the time, but they rarely are.”
“Yeah, but sometimes you have to fight.”
“Sure. Sometimes it’s the only way to stop a hateful person. But you shouldn’t be in a position where you have no other choice. Because anytime you have another choice, it’s better to be kind. Simple as that.”
“I guess Charlie Lawson never learned that. Because for some reason he killed his whole family. I can’t believe there was no other choice.”
“Yeah.” Max watched PB’s drawn brow and the way he bit his lip. The Lawson story may have been too much to throw at the boy. Max went on, “Whatever the reason that he chose to kill them, he realized later he had made a mistake. Too late, of course, but even people consumed with hate eventually have to face their actions. His guilt over what he did showed in the fact that he took his own life.”
Drummond rose from the ground. “This is definitely the spot where the still was. There’s some copper tubing and a whole boxful of Mason jars down there. Something else, too. Not far below, there’s a ring of stones — and each one has a symbol like the ones we found on that car.”
Max’s stomach sank. But he had no time to consider the implications because he heard footsteps approaching.
A gray-haired man wearing overalls and carrying a shotgun stepped into the clearing. He rested the shotgun casually on one shoulder. “Good morning,” he said, making the words sound more like a threat than a greeting.
PB pushed off the trunk and inched towards the nearest gap between the trees. Max remained seated. In his experience, acting guilty only heightened the threat.
“Morning,” Max said with a wave of his hand. “How’re you doing?”
“This here is private property.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We had no idea. You the owner?”
“Caretaker.”
“I’m sorry if I caused any trouble. I’m a historian, that’s my son, and I was just doing a little research. I’m wondering if I might talk with the owner.”
“You may not.” In a smooth motion, the caretaker lowered his shotgun — not in a threatening manner but clearly with overtones of threat. “I’ll have to see your phone before you leave. Make sure you didn’t take any pictures.”
“Excuse me?”
“The people that live here care a lot about their privacy.”
Max stood and could not miss the man’s hands tightening around the shotgun. “Now look here, I’m sorry this is private property — we didn’t mean to cause you any fuss. We’ll go back to our car and be on our way. But you have no right to look through my phone.”
The old man raised his shotgun. “I’d say I have all the right I need.”
“You’re going to shoot me? You’re really going to kill a man over some accidental trespassing and end up in jail for the rest of your life? Does that make any sense?”
Without a smile on his face, the caretaker said, “I’m sure I could pull together a story that you attacked me. An old man like me being jumped by a guy like you — I think self-defense ain’t that hard a case to make.”
Max’s stomach twisted tight. Before his mind could suggest otherwise, he lunged forward, shoving the barrel towards the sky. “Run,” he yelled at PB.
The boy took off like a rabbit frightened by a dog. The old man struggled for control of the weapon. He had more strength than Max expected, and if Drummond had not intervened, Max did not know who would have won. Thankfully, the ghost passed his hand through the man’s head — not enough to knock the man unconscious but enough to chill him hard.
“Sorry old timer,” Drummond said. “I’d rather knock you out, but at your age, I’m worried you might die.”
The caretaker bent over, clutching his temples. Max reached for the weapon, but Drummond said, “Forget that and get to your car.”
Max sprinted through the woods. He found PB already sitting in the passenger seat with his seatbelt locked. As he rushed toward the car door he could see PB urging him to move faster. He hoped the old man was not catching up.
Seconds later, Max dropped into the car, thrust his key in the ignition, and tore off down the driveway. Once they hit the main road and were back on Route 8 heading towards Winston-Salem, Max and PB took one look at each other. They burst out laughing.
Chapter 12
PB’S ENTHUSIASM KEPT HIM IN GOOD SPIRITS for the rest of the day. Even when Max dropped him off at Grandma Porter’s, he energetically rushed inside to finish the last half-day of school. Max could not hold back his own smile.
Over dinner that night — Max did not dare miss the makeup date for that — PB regaled Sandra and J with tales of the harrowing adventure. “I never run so fast in my life. And I could’ve sworn we were going to get shot.”
“Sounds like you had quite a day,” Sandra said in a pleasant tone that did not fool Max. Of course, he understood her concern for PB’s safety, but she knew Max could handle things. Surely, she could not blame him for the caretaker’s actions. Plus, they had the benefit of a ghost on their side. If anything, he expected her to be happy that he had found a way to connect with PB.
J also sent mixed signals that PB did not pick up on but Max recognized. J said, “Better be careful or you’re going to start believing in ghosts like Max.”
“Shut up. It wasn’t no ghosts chasing us. He was a bad dude with a gun.”
“I’ll bet there was a ghost with you. You just don’t see him.”
J sent a knowing look to Max and Sandra. They would have to talk with him soon. Max understood that the boy’s jealousy toward PB getting a day off overcame his sense of what he should and shouldn’t say, but Max also knew how that kind of behavior left unchecked could turn into something very ugly. They would all have to be careful.
The rest of the meal played out much the same. PB’s unbridled excitement bubbled over and he would tell more
details of the day. Things that really had not been too thrilling became monumental events building like a symphonic crescendo to the climactic showdown with the evil caretaker. Sandra and J politely listened, smiled and said a few kind things, but neither hid their displeasure either. When the meal ended, Max hoped to get a moment to talk with Sandra alone, but cleanup, homework, and the chores of the evening kept them busy.
Later that night, as they settled in for bed, Max finally had a chance to speak. “Why are you mad?”
Sandra propped up her pillows to read a little. “I’m not. But I am disappointed.”
“I thought this was a great thing. I found a way to get PB to talk with me — a little, at least. It was kind of a bonding thing.”
“No, what you did was similar to a step-father trying to buy a child’s love.”
“He needs to be a part of this. He told me so. He wants to feel some control over this insane thing that’s happening to him.”
“Maybe so. But you went about it the wrong way. Not to mention that involving one of our boys in our cases without consulting me was not smart. But I am not mad. If you or PB got shot, I’d be furious with you. As it is, I think you need to be smarter about this.”
Slapping his pillow and rolling to the side, Max said, “At least I didn’t miss dinner tonight.”
She smacked his back. “How is it that you don’t understand? We’re usually on the same page with things, yet now that we’re all under one roof in a permanent situation, suddenly you don’t comprehend being a parent like I do. Why?”
“What did I say now?”
“You don’t get bonus points for doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Showing up for dinner does not make you a great father.”
“But not showing up makes me a bad father?”
“There — now you’re starting to understand.” She tugged on his shoulder until he turned to face her. “I’m hardly an expert on being a parent. I’m winging it just like you. But I know one thing — we get penalized for doing things wrong and we get zero credit for doing them right. That’s part of the deal. When it comes to the Sandwich Boys, that all goes double. They’ve been let down so many times that the slimmest infraction is going to hurt terribly. And they’re going to doubt everything you do right.”