by Stuart Jaffe
Drummond thrust his hands in his pockets. “Not sure what more I can do. I got my contacts working on it. But if Edward sent those goons after me, then they certainly are tracking down anybody else poking into Henderson. My contacts are good but they’re also in it for themselves. They won’t risk getting beaten to a pulp just to help us out.”
“All the more reason for you to head back to the Other. Your contacts might be afraid of a fight, but you’re not.”
Drummond grinned. “Will you look at that? The kid’s learning. Appealing to my masculinity like a pro.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeah, I’ll go. Just once, I’d like for you guys to be stuck in there while I’m back here.”
Sandra scoffed. “Do you understand that Max’ll have his nose buried in books while you’re out being a detective?”
“Fair point. I’ll stick to what I know.”
“If you can’t find Henderson,” she went on, “you ought to look for any ghost that was a Regulator. Maybe somebody else can shed light on this case for us.”
“Good thinking. I’ve said it before, but Max is a lucky man to have you in his life. You’re a helluva smart gal.”
With a wink and a tip of his hat, Drummond disappeared. Max paused to look upon his wife. Drummond was right, of course. He was lucky, and she was smart. Right now, he needed that brain of hers.
“Hon, you still have your old real estate contacts?”
“Of course.” She brought up a file on her computer. “Once I started working with you, I made sure to keep those contacts alive. You never know when you’ll need one. I’m guessing you want me to look into the history of the house we found Henderson in.”
“Exactly. I’ll get cracking on these books, see what I can learn about the whole Regulator movement, and if I’m lucky, find some reference to Henderson.”
“What about my other contacts? I’m not familiar with the magic used here, but I’m a novice at the whole witch thing. I could call up a few people, see what they say.”
Max tried to hide his expression. Sandra’s interest in witchcraft had grown stronger ever since becoming friends with Maria Cortez-Kane, a hobby witch of sorts. Even after the showdown that destroyed the Hulls, even after seeing what became of their once-powerful witch, Dr. Connor, even after Maria shut the doors and refused Sandra’s calls — after all of it, Sandra still wanted to become a witch. Though it would be a useful skill set to have in the firm, Max tried to temper his wife’s enthusiasm on the subject. Witchcraft could consume a person, then spit out a being that looked the same but whose heart had been carved out and left empty.
“Let’s hold off on the witches until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” he said, forcing his tone to stay low and calm.
Sandra drew to attention and offered a mock salute. “Aye-aye, Cap’n.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him gently. “I can see the worry on your face. This Edward guy really got you, huh?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t like people threatening to harm you. I know we’ve been through a lot of crazy in the last few years, I know you’re tough and capable, but there’s a primitive side of me that wants to protect you.”
She kissed him again. “You’re a sweet man, Maxwell Porter.”
“Oh, don’t call me that. Only my mother calls me Maxwell.”
“I’m well aware of that.” She laughed. “Now, come on. You’ve had your moment of doubt. Can we move on to the point where you buckle down and figure this all out?”
Chuckling, Max said, “Am I that predictable?”
“Hon, when it comes to solving this kind of thing, I’m always going to bet on you — because, yes, you’re predictably good at this.”
With that, they got to work.
A few hours in and Max had developed a clearer picture of the Regulator movement and how it related to the American Revolution. It all came down to a long, slow simmer of anger that developed over the course of decades. People can handle a bit of corruption in their government. In fact, most people expect it. But when that corruption becomes flagrant and when the divide between rich and poor becomes outrageous, then that slow simmer starts to boil. That was what happened in North Carolina.
“It all came down to a sense of entitlement,” Max said to his books.
The corrupt land system only received patches that were designed to look like the government had fixed the issues upsetting the back country people, but in reality, the changes only made things worse. It manifested in little things at times such as the road crews. The law stated that anybody who lived near a road, whether free or slave, had to work on a road crew to maintain that section. However, there were loopholes that made it easy for the rich to avoid the work. The poor noticed.
It also manifested in larger events like Tryon’s Palace. Governor Tryon wanted to construct a massive residence that could double as a central government office. A White House long before the White House existed. He commissioned detailed plans and broke ground. But when the state and county money dried up, he brazenly used taxes to pay for the endeavor.
Any one of these types of things would cause the people to grumble. But added together, the people started to talk to each other, to organize, and soon the Regulator movement was born. Their simple goal rested in their name — they wanted real regulation to rein in the out-of-control government.
Max jotted down a few notes. “No government official would go along with that easily.”
More injustices occurred. Several meetings took place but little progress happened. At one point, Herman Husband and other locals managed to get seen by the Grand Jury, only to find that when they showed up, the jury had been stacked with the very people the locals were upset about. Then in May 1768, Governor Tryon had Husband arrested.
“Not a smart move.”
As Max expected, arresting Husband only galvanized the locals against Tryon. Around one thousand men surrounded the town of Hillsborough and demanded his release. Tryon complied but, later that year, he made sure the Hillsborough District Superior Court washed clean his tarnished record. To insure his success and to avoid any Regulator disruption, he marched in with troops as a clear threat of force.
“The amazing thing,” Max said to Sandra, startling her from her own research, “in all this history is how the English had so many opportunities to avoid the Revolution. I mean look at this. Even after decades of corruption and abuse of power, the Regulators still attempted to fix things in a peaceful manner. They started running for and winning local offices, trying to change things by legal means. They even drafted yet another petition outlining their problems, but this one is a legal document, not simply a complaint, and it’s intended for King George to read. And, get this — this’ll show you how serious things got to be — they needed somebody to deliver the petition and they wanted an agent unconnected to Tryon that all sides could trust. So, who do the get?”
Sandra played along, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Tell me, oh genius of the historical texts.”
“Benjamin Franklin. Can you believe that?”
“Actually, I can. Wasn’t he constantly acting as an Ambassador of sorts?”
“I know, but this is 1768 — nearly a decade before the Revolution.”
“Well, Benjamin Franklin didn’t appear on the scene fully-formed. He had to get his start somewhere.”
“Exactly my point. Each piece leads to the next. If the English had simply dealt fairly with the people of North Carolina instead of trying to grab as much for themselves as they could, then the Battle of Alamance would never have happened, and many consider that the first true defiant battle against the Crown. The precursor battle of the Revolution.”
“Brilliant work.” Sandra threw a pen at him. “Now, maybe you can turn the focus onto something about Archibald Henderson?”
“This is. Remember, his journal references some of the early actions that led to Alamance.”
He went on to explain that in May 1771, the Battle of Alamance
changed the situation for everybody. It began like most of the other incidents — with a large group of back country folk pulling together in protest. Had the English simply let the protest happen and peter out on its own, it would have been nothing special or unique.
But Tryon had reached his limit. Plus, he had pressures from outside: people questioning his ability to control North Carolina, people wanting to make a profit off him and frustrated by profitless inaction, political motivations, and a personal distaste for these low-class types. He marched his troops in, including eight cannons.
The cannons of the time did not have much range but they still packed a whollop. Tryon went through all the formal steps — displaying the superior force he held, sending messengers to the Regulators demanding surrender, and giving final warnings. But the Regulators, thinking they were involved in another protest that might turn a little violent but mostly would be a lot of posturing, played along.
Until Tryon opened fire.
“The Regulators never stood a chance. They were ridiculously out-gunned, and they had no serious military organization among themselves — no General to order movements, no serious fire power beyond the weapons they usually used for hunting, and no training to hold ground in the face of a terrifying force. The battle went fast, and the Regulators scattered.”
Max got to his feet, speaking rapidly as he moved around the room. “Here’s where it gets even more interesting. After the battle, the Regulators fall apart. Many of them pack up, go home, and that’s it for their involvement in any kind of rebellion. Quite a few join up with the English in a bit of if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em mentality. And many of the others remain upset and eventually help fight in the Revolution. But before all of that, shortly after the battle, Tryon rounds up twelve men suspected or known to be involved with the Regulators and their attempted rebellion at Alamance. Six of these men are hanged.”
“You think Henderson was one of those six?”
“I thought so, at first.” Max scurried to his desk to check his notes. “We know four of the men hanged — Benjamin Merrill, James Pugh, Captain Messer, and Robert Matear. But the last two are unknown. But then I checked Henderson’s journal.”
“Let me guess — he’s got entries after the hanging.”
“Yup. After Alamance, he becomes very vague whenever he writes about anything even remotely related to the Regulators. I think the whole thing scared him bad. But whatever his connection, I don’t see anything that suggests witchcraft. No spooky stories about the six hanged men walking the battlefield at night or some cursed family that traces its lineage back to those men, or anything like that.”
While Max reported his results, Sandra had been working on her computer. Nodding half to herself and half to Max’s tale, she said, “So, we don’t know much really. Unfortunately, I don’t have much here, either.”
“What are you looking at?”
“My real estate friend sent me a history on the house. It was built in 1927 by Mr. Jackson Gates. Changed hands a few times over the decades, nothing that stands out as strange, until it’s finally bought by Mother Hope. Technically, it was bought by Raymond Watterson. I’m guessing Mother Hope uses various Magi to front for her purchases.” She clicked a few times to bring up her other research. “Now, the only weird thing is that the land the house sits on traces back to around 1780 and the Moravians.”
Max sat on the edge of his desk. “What’s so weird about that? They founded Winston and Salem. I would expect almost all of the land here to have once belonged to them.”
“The weird part isn’t that they owned the land. It’s that their ownership doesn’t go back any further. The Moravians were in North Carolina well before 1780, and that house isn’t in some remote section of the area. It was prime real estate.”
“So, who owned it?”
“I’m not sure, yet.”
The phone rang and Max jumped. “Hello, Porter Agency.”
“It’s Leon Moore.” Leon sounded out of breath.
“What do you want?”
“Got another body for you to look at.”
“Wasn’t much of a body the first time around.”
“A skeleton, then. Just get over here right away.”
Grabbing a pad and pen, Max said, “Have a little patience. We’ll get there. Don’t worry.”
“Quit being a smart-ass. I’m trying to keep this thing protected but if the police do a sweep, I’m going to have to run.”
“The police? Where the heck are you?”
“The Bog Garden in Greensboro. I don’t know if the police, or anybody, sweeps through the park before closing the gates, but I’m not taking any chances. Get your ass out here.”
Leon hung up without waiting for a reply. Max set the phone down, considering whether to hurry out to Greensboro or do nothing and cross his fingers that Leon would get caught by the cops.
“Well?” Sandra said. “I can see on your face that something happened.”
Letting Leon hang out in jail for several hours while the cops try to figure out why they found him near a centuries-old corpse would be fun, but then Max would have a tough time getting the answers he sought. And he had to admit it — doing the research and unraveling even a small chunk of this mess had excited him.
Max snatched his keys off the desk. “Grab your coat. We’re going on a field trip.”
Chapter 6
By the time Max and Sandra parked their car at the Friendly Shopping Center in Greensboro, the sun had set. Located off Friendly Avenue, the shopping complex filled enough acreage to build a large housing development upon. People bustled about the various restaurants and stores while a number of cars headed for the multiplex movie theater. The Bog Garden was behind a specialty soap store in the northern corner of the center, across Northline Avenue and surrounded by houses on the other sides.
Max led the way by two dumpsters and down a grassy hill. They crossed the street and walked along the metal fencing that lined the park. The gates closed at dusk, but they were designed to keep cars out, not people. Max and Sandra slipped around the posts that held the gate up and strolled along the well-groomed park.
“Over here,” Leon said, stepping out from behind a group of pine trees. “Follow me.”
At a quick pace, he moved along the dirt path. Soon it became a gravel path and after that wood-shavings marked the way. Finally, they climbed up to a running boardwalk. Wood slats and railings cut through the bog like rails in the forest — a man-made pathway that disturbed the natural beauty of the area while attempting to protect it at the same time.
Max halted. He heard something. Looking back over his shoulder, he squinted into the dark.
“Come on,” Leon said.
“I heard —”
“Squirrels and chipmunks. This park is overrun with the vermin.”
Leon pushed onward and they followed, but Max continued to peek back now and then.
“Where exactly are we going?” Sandra asked.
“The bog opens up into a lake. The body is at the edge.” Leon waved vaguely ahead. “You’re lucky I got here in time. I had to chase off a young guy.”
Max said, “What did he look like? Dark hair, good-looking sort?”
“I wasn’t really worried about that. I figured making sure Mother Hope had something to show you two was more important. Besides, after he ran off, I had to jump under the walk to avoid the park sweep.”
In the dark, Max had difficulty telling for sure, but Leon’s back did look wet. Even if Leon lied about that much, Max suspected the first part to be true. Though he couldn’t prove it, his gut told him that their uninvited guest had to be Edward Wallace.
He glanced back into the darkness once more. Did he see something move? Probably a branch or a small animal. Probably.
Sandra drew his attention back when she nailed a vital question. “How did you find this body, anyway? The first one makes sense. You guys bought the house and stumbled upon the body. But out here?”
Leon walked stiffer. “That’s not important.”
“Actually, it is,” Max said. “We need every bit of the picture in order to do our job properly. I’m sure Mother Hope would want us to be fully-informed, or else we wouldn’t be able to give her what she needs to know.”
“Mother Hope is the one who instructed me to come here, and so I did. I did not question her nor would I ever do so. If you want answers to those questions, you’ll have to ask her yourself. But I’m telling you now, she won’t like it.”
The boardwalk path split off east and west. They took the eastern path which ended in an octagonal viewing station like a fancy end to a dock. Leon climbed over the waist-high railing and splashed below.
Though right in the middle of a heavily populated area, the bog remained dark. Max could hear the steady shushing of cars driving by and the occasional boom of a radio playing music too loud for the speakers to handle well. Through the trees, he could spot the flicker of light from nearby homes. Despite this, he had a sense of cold isolation.
“Come on,” Leon said, adopting a harsh whisper. Perhaps he felt it, too.
Max turned on his flashlight and peered down. “You could’ve warned us to wear some boots or something.”
Leon stood shin-deep in mud. “It’s called the Bog Garden. What did you expect?”
Climbing over the railing, Sandra said, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Fine,” Max said, rolling his shoulders. “But if we have to replace any of our clothes, I’m billing the Magi for it.” He snatched a peek back into the woods — he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a shadow that looked distinctly human in shape. When he stepped closer, he only saw trees with odd-shaped branches.
“Max, quit stalling,” Sandra snapped.
“I’m coming. Sheesh.” He sat on the railing, swung his legs over, and dropped into the mud with a splash.
“Hey!” Leon shook the splattered mud from his arms.
“Sorry.” Scanning the bog with his flashlight, Max said, “Where’s the body?”