Cop and Call A Novel_When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds

by R. Scott Lunsford

  Sure enough, one of his companions noticed him slumped against the oak and hurried over to check on him. Chee-sq one wasui-ah quickly realized he had been poisoned and was likely facing death. Struggling to breathe, he explained what had happened. They brought him to a thicket close at hand and hid him there until he passed. He was buried in a sitting posture. On the northeast side of the thicket in a vertical grave, a small white oak seedling planted by his comrades to mark the grave of their friend. The grave close to their place of concealment. With his last breaths, the young warrior whispered a curse of vengeance on those who had taken his life in a way no warrior should die. He also cursed the very land upon which he expired, including all those who resided there.

  Hundreds of years later, the white oak is still standing. It was known for many years as the Township Tree, as it marked the dividing line between two modern-day townships in Buncombe county. The grave, too, can be seen. The mound was once three or more feet high, but it has since been eroded by the elements. Today, it sits a mere foot above the ground surrounded by a parking lot for a church and a private school. Chee-sq one wasui-ah’s memory lived on in the local children who visit the tree and knock its trunk thrice before asking, “Indian, what did you die for?” It is said that the spirit of the Indian will reply, “Nothing at all.” Never receiving an answer, children have often returned, puzzled, to their storytellers who will then remind them, “I told you, you would hear nothing at all.”

  The story of the curse has also been handed down through the local communities. Several businesses were established in the olden days to profit from the sulfur spring, but everyone failed in mysterious ways. For many years, students at the nearby boarding school, The Asheville School, would report sightings of what was referred to as the Shadow of Revenge. It was always spotted late in the evening, wandering at the edges of the campus in search of someone upon whom to exact Chee-sq one wasui-ah’s promised vengeance. Financial ruin, lawsuits, marital separations, brawls, violent deaths, fires, shipwrecks, family quarrels, and other misfortunes have been blamed on the young Indian’s hex.

  CHAPTER 3

  BUNCOMBE CO. JAIL, ASHEVILLE NC 1910

  James B. Allison

  The jailer held a copy of the four-day old Asheville Gazette-Newspaper at an angle to make use of the single hanging light bulb above him. He had removed his pipe to read to the man before him behind the bars. James B Allison lay on the metal shelf hung from the wall that passed for a cot listening as the newspaper article was read to him.

  “When the Jury Foreman Mr. Sams, pronounced the verdict of murder in the first-degree, Allison stood unmoved. There was not the twitching of a muscle; his face was expressionless; there was not the quiver of an eyelid. Through an ordeal that would have made many another man quake in his boots Allison was unaffected.

  The trial of Allison ended Saturday afternoon as it was begun Thursday: without demonstration; without appeal to passion and to prejudice. It was one of the most dignified murder trials and one of the most fair trials that has been had in Buncombe county for many a year. The state charged Allison with the deliberate and premeditated murder of Floyd McGee. Prosecuting on behalf of the State were Solicitor Brown, Judge Thomas A. Jones and Robert R. Williams. They presented to the jury- the facts and the law.

  Representing Allison were W. O. Fortune and Gallatin Roberts, who, while lighting a hopeless cause, made the best of every point in their client’s favor and stuck to him liken a leech. The jury was retired at 5:20 and court Immediately took a recess awaiting the making up of the verdict. It was a few moments before 6 o’clock that the court house bull announced that the jury was ready to report.

  Judge Council and the clerk, the lawyers Interested and the defendant at the bar, were soon in the court room and likewise a great crowd of spectators. In fact, when the jurors filed into the jury box the court room was jammed and packed.

  The formality of rendering a verdict was soon over; the jurors were discharged with the thanks of the court; the prisoner was remanded to the custody of the sheriff and announcement made that sentence would be passed this week. Allison was taken back to jail, where he will remain…..”

  “That’s well enough Pete”, said the man on the metal cot. “Fair? Don’t know about fair. I reckon the jury fellows didn’t have much choice. Truth is the Truth. Hell, I was still standing over McGee holding that damn hammer when Officer Albright ran into the black smith’s shed.” Swinging his feet from the cot to the floor, convicted Murder James Allison continued, “Thanks Pete for taking the time with me. Think I’ll try and get some sleep.”

  Pete the jailer had known James Allison way before he had become the night watchman at Asheville’s City Hall. He had even been out drinking with both Allison and the victim, McGee many times after the three had finished their work shift. Allison at City Hall, Deputy Pete Ammons at the Jail and Floyd McGee who drove the City Police Patty wagon. “Sure thing Jimmy, I’ll check in on ya before you and the Sheriff goes to Raleigh.” Pete the jailer tucked the paper under his arm, replaced his pipe between his teeth and left his condemned friend to his own thoughts.

  Allison shook his head. He had not had his own thoughts for some time. Even now he could hear the laughter inside his mind that no one else could hear. Allison had learned to ignore it at times. The problem was sometimes he could not. The voice sometimes could take over, pushing Allison’s conscious mind back. It was a lot like drinking too much and passing out then sobering up to discover you did something you could not recall doing. Ever since the winter of 1908, alcohol wasn’t necessary to have one of these blackouts.

  As he lay back down on his cot and tried to remember. It all seemed like it had happened to somebody else. He was the night watchman for City Hall that winter. He slipped out of the building one night for a quick sip from the jar he kept neath a bush on the side of the building. Walking back to the front of City Hall, Allison found a tall black man looking in the front door glass of the building using his hands as a shield from the glare on the street lamps. Drawing his Indian club from his belt, soundlessly he approached the man from the rear. Using the heavy hickory club, Allison struck the man on the head knocking him to the ground. Quite literally busting his head open.

  Another black man walking nearby saw the incident and hollered out “oh lord” and ran.

  Thinking the two were together, James Allison drew his 38-colt revolver and shot the man twice in the back as he ran.

  The shooting placed Allison in court, where he was found not guilty and acting in self-defense according to a jury of 12.

  Leaving the courthouse to celebrate with his friends McGee, Pete Ammons and a few others, were stopped on the way to a tavern on main street by an older woman. She had stepped down out of the shadows near the intersection of eagle street and main street. An area, referred to as Hells Acre at that time. The Women stopped in front of Allison and McGee. She said something unintelligible and threw down a glass jar, busting it open at Allison’s feet then disappearing back into the shadows. The only proof she had been there was the brown liquid and several iron cut nails that had been contained in the broken jar now on the ground. The contents splashed across Allison and McGee’s feet.

  Shocked the group of men stood speechless. Finally, Deputy Ammons leaned over to Allison and whispered that the woman was the mother of the young man Allison had killed with his Indian club.

  Allison laughed replying “well, I guess that shows me.”

  A forced laughter from the other men was the only response. Later a resident of Hells Acres who provided and delivered Allison his regular order of moonshine whiskey, told him the liquid he had been splashed with was called “war water”, the mother was seeking revenge for the killing of her son. He added, Allison would have to find another supplier for his shine, no one from the black community would be doing business with him as he had now been cursed.

  That’s when the voice in his head and the blackouts began. Now Allison felt he was never al
one. When he concentrated, hard enough Allison could define what the voice was telling him, and at times could even converse with the entity in his head. It told him it was nothing personal, it was just a job to the voice. The voice had been involved in this activity for thousands of years. Allison needed to just sit back and enjoy and not worry. At first, he tried to fight it, then hide it in alcoholic stupor, finely resigning himself to the fate. His new inner body companion was usually easy to get along with. Though it became angry when Allison had killed another man, Daryl Roberts, a train engineer from Charlotte, in a dispute over a woman. The man had turned to walk away, and Allison shot him in the back. During this trial, Allison’s attorneys argued the engineer was going for a weapon behind him and Allison had to shoot him in self-defense. The jury agreed with the attorney’s perspective and acquitted Allison. The acquittal enraged Allison’s inner voice telling Allison he had no intention of spending eternity with Allison. Allison lost his job as night watchman, became estranged from his family and the blackouts and lost time episodes became longer and more frequent.

  James Allison moved in with an Alice Gonce, a convicted prostitute and alcoholic. It was a disagreement over her, who the newspapers referred to as “a woman of ill repute.” That led to the argument and fight with his friend, Floyd McGee and McGee’s overzealous death. Allison was told he had lain in wait for the man, emptying a pistol in McGee’s back as he passed the black smith shed’s open door. Not satisfied with the dead body on the ground before him, Allison took a heavy hammer from the forge and demolished his former friends head and face till there was nothing left but a headless body.

  As he lay still, and concentrated Allison realized the voice was again talking directly to him. Telling him it was time for him to leave. The voice told him he had enjoyed his time with Allison, yet had other calls of vengeance to get to. Allison was now receiving the ultimate vengeance. The voice told him, “I will catch up with you in hell one day and we’ll talk old times. But now I have more waiting for me to do.”

  The laughter in his head fading off into silence. For the first time in many years Allison realized he was alone.

  Later, Allison attempted to take his own life with a small penknife smuggled into his cell. But was interrupted from finishing the job and medically treated till he was well enough to die at the hands of the State of North Carolina.

  Allison was able to keep his appointment. He sat stiffly in the former North Carolina State’s electric chair that had been moved to the new gas chamber. Once strapped into the wooden and copper chair a series of switches were activated. Allison heard a 1-pound satchel of potassium cyanide fall from the steel box mounted under his seat and splash into the large vat of acid below. The resulting gas filling the chamber, burning Allison’s nose and lungs with fire and he died in convulsions. The old women’s’ requested punishment and vengeance satisfied.

  CHAPTER 4

  HIGH POINT NORTH CAROLINA

  Bill Payne

  Work and doing what he was told was all Bill Payne knew the first part of his life. He worked on the family farm until he was big enough to work at the mill. At the age of eight Bill started working at the notorious “kindergarten mill” factory operated by the Piedmont Hosiery Mill in High Point and continued to do so till he was 23 years old. Life was hard but orderly. He was still attending Abbot’s Creek Primitive Baptist Church in Wallburg NC just as he had since a boy. He married there, had a daughter and seemed set in his place in the universe. At times, he helped his mother with a boarding house she ran in High Point, when he was not working at the mill. Bill’s life was uneventful and routine. Then the Gypsies came.

  High point North Carolina 1890.

  The leather reins controlling the team of horses before him in hand, Zindelo continued looking for a new campsite. Where he had camped in the past was no longer available. The old man who had owned the property frequently camped on in the past, had died. His family had traded handmade willow limb chairs and labor around the property with the old man for years to have the privilege of setting up camp beside the creek. Constructing front porch chairs from bent weeping willow branches was an art. Methods of constructing the chair’s to only last a year or until this family returned to that area was a skill taught to Zindelo by his father and he had taught it to his son as well. Zindelo knew how to build incredibly strong willow branch chairs. Ones that would last for many years with the proper treating of the cut willow limbs, using the correct methods of weaving them together. But as his father said, what good was it to make a man a chair to last a lifetime, he would not need you to come back next year to sell or trade for another chair.

  Zindelo was the head of his family. They traveled together by multiple horse wagons around the south. They were in fact three separate family’s in their group. Zindelo his wife and child, two-brother’s in-law, their families and his wife’s grandmother Miss Vadoma. Zindelo was the head of the family, but he knew Miss Vadoma was really the one in charge. The old woman had the final say in most decisions. Zindelo did not mind, Miss Vadoma was a very smart woman and had seen many things and traveled far in her life. At this moment, she and his wife were attending his sick son who was not doing well. The boy was getting worse and even Miss Vadoma could not help him and ordered that a Doctor be located for the boy. Once a camp had been set one of the boy’s uncles would search out a doctor. The Consumption or tuberculosis was a serious health issue of the day. The family had kept the boy hid in the wagon in fear the discovery by a community they passed through. If discovered they would be forced to move on sooner than they wished. Or worse, burned out.

  Driving the wagon Zindelo could hear his wife and her grandmother tending to the sick boy behind him. Miss Vadoma was telling the boy again the story of the Fourth Nail. Zindelo had heard the Romani Crucification story many times, as had many Romani Gypsy children for 1000s of years. The story told that when Christ was crucified, the Romans had ordered a black smith to create 4 nails. One to be used in Christ’s feet, two to nail his wrists to the cross, the fourth to pierce his heart and affix his body to the cross. It was told that a Gypsy child stole the forth nail from the Romans. The child and his descendants for this action were given instant forgiveness for any actions they committed by God. This leading to the belief by some Romina descendants of the child they could take or trick others for their survival as needed. Zindelo knew the story was true. Miss Vadoma herself had a tiny glass bottle on a silver chain around her neck. Inside the small sealed bottle were small iron filings. Very tiny specks of black iron. They were filed off the fourth nail 100’s of years ago, and distributed among certain Romina families. What is left of the iron nail is hidden somewhere in the mountains of Europe.

  Zindelo continued the search for a new campsite. After several hours, he located a flat field next to a stream beside the road near a boarding house. Zindelo’s brothers in law and other family members begun setting up camp. One brother in law left walking towards town to find a Doctor for the sick boy. Zindelo went to locate the property owners and possible customers for his family’s skills and trade. Furniture repair, tinkering, knife sharpening and the like. Skills handed down in the families

  The Payne boarding house

  Bill Payne always stopped by his mother’s boarding house after work to see if chores or other work needed to be done. Dark clouds were rolling into town. Darkening the sky forcing night to come early. Walking up the drive, Bill could hear the shrill shriek of his mother’s voice. She was angry and yelling at someone. Bill grinned saying to himself “at least it’s not me.” Getting closer to the house he met a tall dark complexioned older man walking away from the shrieking sound emanating from the front porch of the boarding house. The swarthy man was in no hurry to leave but showed no desire to stay.

  It reminded Bill of an old bull dog ignoring the yapping bark of a tiny dog. The man did not make eye contact as he passed. Bill, against his better judgment continued towards the high-pitched ranting from his upset mother.
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  Bill’s mother was a good size woman, not that anyone would call her that to her face. She was still in vocal overdrive pacing back and forth on the boarding house front porch as Bill Payne walked up. Her voice punctuated by the sound of rolling thunder in the distance.

  The upset businesswoman was going on about the evil gypsy thieves passing through town and the gold in a person’s teeth wasn’t safe from there treacherous larceny.

  Bill let her continue, taking a seat in one of the white washed rocking chairs on the porch. When his mother paused to take a breath, Bill injected “maw do you have anything you need me to do before I go home to supper?”

  The question did not move his mother from the gypsy topic. Now directing her wrath at Bill. “Bill, those gypsy thieves and murderers are back in town.”

  “Well Maw, murder is a mite serious thing to say. Who’d they kill?” was Bill’s response.

  Without slowing she continued, “why don’t you remember last year they tried to kill me?”

  Thinking back a moment Bill smiled and continued, “mother, they didn’t try to kill you. The chair just broke.” Bill was referring to a previous visit, where his mother had purchased a collection of willow branch chairs to set on her front porch for her renters. A week later while his mother was enjoying the evening on the covered porch with her boarders, the chair snapped and came apart leaving his mother on the ground in a pile of willow branches to the delight and entertainment of her guests. The snickering and guffaws only making her madder. To compound the incident, the day before raccoons had entered her chicken coop and made off with a few backyard birds in the middle of the night. For most of the remaining year she hobbled about using a cane telling anyone who would pause long enough, that the gypsies had tried to kill her using a faulty willow chair and stole two of her best laying hens as they left town.