MAX, SANDRA, AND THE SANDWICH BOYS enjoyed the evening until midnight rolled around. Though it took some prodding to get the hyped-up boys to go to sleep, once their heads hit the pillows, they crashed hard. As the peaceful night settled around them, Sandra rested her head on Max’s shoulder.
“Are you going to try to get any rest before you start working?” she asked.
With the boys curled up in sleeping bags on the floor (Sandra thought of everything), Max figured he would be better off getting his work done before his energy waned. But no sooner did he get situated at his desk then he felt his eyelids grow heavy.
“How do you sleep like that?” Drummond asked.
Max startled. His eyes wide, his heart hammering, he tried to figure out where he was, and once he established that he was in the office, he needed to figure out what time it was. Two o’clock. The time he had agreed to meet with Drummond.
Snickering, the ghost said, “Should I let you sleep?”
“Hey, I’m mortal. I need rest.”
“I’m actually kind of jealous. I’ll never know again what it feels like to have a good night’s sleep. The good news — it does mean I can do a lot of searching. The bad news — no luck in the Other. Wilburn Walker has never been there.”
“Damn. I’d meant to try researching his story more, but obviously, I fell asleep.”
“I didn’t fail entirely. Once it was obvious that the guy wasn’t in the Other, I had another idea. I went to visit Irene.”
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Max said, “I thought we agreed no details of that kind of thing.”
“Is everything a joke to you? Don’t answer that. So I visited Irene because she’s a psychic. A beautiful psychic but the focus here is on the psychic part. She speaks with the dead. Here’s the important part — she can’t speak to anything in the Other. Ghosts in the Other are separated from this world. That’s kind of the draw for a lot of them. So, she has no way to communicate there. Witches can do it with spells but not a psychic.”
Max’s mind shifted into hyper-awareness as if he had gulped down three shots of espresso. “She found something. What? How?”
“Take a breath, pal. Being a psychic means she speaks with both ghosts on our plane, like me, and she can also speak with ghosts who’ve moved on. That’s how real psychics can tell you what your loved ones are doing and all that kind of stuff. Get it?”
“Wilburn Walker moved on? And she spoke with him?”
Drummond shook his head. “She couldn’t find him. He never moved on.”
Max sat up. “He never moved on and he’s never been to the Other.”
“Exactly. Which means —”
“That he’s still on this plane of existence as a ghost.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“If he’s around here somewhere, can’t Irene find him?”
“Oh, now you want her help.” Drummond rocked on his heels that did not touch the ground. “I did ask her, but she couldn’t make contact. He’s not answering. That could mean a ton of things, but she said he is here. We just need to figure how to find him.”
From the couch, in a groggy voice, Sandra whispered, “That’s probably what your witch was after.”
Max looked across the office. “You think that spell in the hotel was some kind of location spell?”
Sandra stretched her arms as she joined them. “Either that or it’s the strangest summoning spell I’ve ever seen.”
Max pulled over his laptop and tapped away at the keyboard. “If Wilburn Walker had been cursed, then somebody would know where that happened. He would’ve died in his home or on the road or somewhere and it would have been known by witches where to find him because clearly he holds some importance to the Mobleys and Mother Hope. And I don’t believe for a second that those witches would forget where they cursed somebody.” It took a breath of concentrated willpower not to rub his chest.
Drummond tapped his lips. “I can buy that. Which leaves the question — where did Walker go?”
“Presumably, he was buried like most people. I’m guessing he’s in a cemetery.”
Sandra squinted at Max. “No offense, but you might need some more rest. If Walker was buried in the cemetery, that would make it even easier for the witches to know his whereabouts.”
“Only if they kept tabs on him. Bodies have been moved in the past. Cemeteries get lifted and changed locations when developers want land. And that’s assuming they know exactly where he was buried to begin with. Considering all the trouble this guy is bringing down on our heads, I think it’s safe to assume that nobody knows where he is. So, you can go to sleep, and Drummond, you can chill in your bookcase — I’ve got this. By morning, I’ll know what cemetery to go to.”
“How are you going to do that?” Drummond asked.
“It’s me. I research.”
It took Max close to three hours, but he did succeed. He skipped over all the obvious ways to find a grave — checking obituaries, contacting cemeteries, and looking for family plots. Surely, Mother Hope or Lena Mobley would have thought of that long before. Instead, he located all the cemeteries within a ten mile radius of Winston-Salem and started there. In some cases, he pulled up plot maps and simply went through every single name. In other cases, the cemeteries were more twenty-first century with searchable databases accessible online. That sped up his work. However, after several long and fruitless attempts, he realized that any online searchable cemetery would have been easy access for the witches, too. Yet while most cemeteries did not have complete, digitized data available, nearly every scrap of documented paperwork had been scanned into the internet. With the tedious and meticulous skills he used to go through census data from the early 1900s, Max approached the cemetery data as well.
Much of it was poorly scanned and in atrocious handwriting. In some cases, names and dates had been crossed out and the correct information squeezed in, barely legible. Other times, entries were blotted out, scratched out, or abbreviated. In one case, the name and date looked fine but the headstone location had been altered so many times that there was an arrow leading to the information scrawled in the margin. But Max stuck at it. By morning, he had brewed coffee, slurped down two cups, and sat at his desk with a satisfied smile.
Drummond flew in from the bookshelf. “You found him.”
As PB and J took turns in the bathroom washing up, Sandra said that she would stay behind and make sure the boys got to school. Max explained that the cemetery would be a bit of a drive, and Sandra added that if necessary, she would pick up J from school, too.
Drummond tipped his hat at Sandra. “Don’t worry, doll. I’ll be there to help Max out.”
An hour later, after Sandra drove the boys off to their full day of education, Max walked out to his car with Drummond at his side. As he opened the car door, he thought he saw a cloaked woman dashing around the corner.
“Is it just me, or have we been watched by that witch for a few days now?” Max asked.
“You saw her, too? She might be hoping you’ll do her work for her. Find Wilburn Walker so she won’t have to.”
“You know what really bugs me about her?”
“That she’s a witch? That she’s spying on us? That she’s the cause of flaring up this witch war? Take your pick.”
Max got in the driver’s seat and stared at the corner as if she might reappear and blow her cover. “It’s the idea that she was having an affair with Mr. Berkley. I mean, for whatever stupid reason, he’s unhappy in his marriage and wants to fool around — but why is she messing with him? What does he offer her?”
Drummond gazed off at the same spot. “If we’re lucky, Walker will be able to fill in some gaps for us. Then we’ll have a better idea of how the start of this fits in with the rest.”
Turning over the engine, Max said, “Maybe you can teach me a little bit more about evading a tail today. I don’t want that witch following us straight to Walker.”
With a big grin, Drummond said, “Thought you’d never ask.”
An hour later, after two wrong turns and a missed exit, Max finally reached the Oak Crest Cemetery. He had been to numerous cemeteries over the course of his career with the Porter Agency, but never before had he gone during daylight. Turned out, a daylight cemetery held an equal amount of disturbing energy as a nighttime cemetery. Mainly because Max’s purpose had not changed — to talk with the dead.
It did not help that this particular cemetery had been abandoned for fifty years. The church it had been attached to burned down in 1982, and while several people maintained the graves for a few years afterward, eventually nobody put money into it anymore. Even the paved road winding through the woods to the church property had become a cracked, pothole-riddled mess.
Max got out of the car as Drummond said, “You really think Walker’s here?”
“If he is, he’ll be buried somewhere in the back with the oldest graves, but I could be wrong. Is there anybody around?”
Drummond angled his head as if to say Are you serious? After all, ghosts abounded in any cemetery.
They strolled through the rows of graves — some headstones knocked over, some chipped or cracked, some so weatherworn that the information could no longer be seen — and Max had to fight the urge to whistle. He guessed all the ghosts had heard jokes like that for ages. Drummond smiled in one direction, nodded in another, even waved to someone in the distance.
“Are you actually going to talk to anybody?” Max asked.
“Have some patience. There’s etiquette involved. This is their permanent home. I can’t just go barging in demanding answers. Not only that, but have you considered the fact that these ghosts are stuck here? If they could’ve moved on, they would’ve already done so.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Sorry.”
Drummond winked. “It’s not really that bad. In fact, I see a redhead with curls that would be the perfect one to talk with. Be right back.”
Max watched as Drummond drifted off three rows and leaned his elbow on a headstone with a small angel perched at the top. He tipped back his Fedora and spoke quietly. Like a high school football player leaning in on a cheerleader, he even over-laughed and reached out with a gentle graze of her shoulder. Of course, Max could not see the little redhead, but watching Drummond’s performance felt like watching a trained actor demonstrating a scene-for-two without a partner.
“My life is not normal.”
A moment later Drummond returned. “Nice gal. If she ever makes it out of here and gets to the Other, I told her to look me up.”
“Does she know where Walker is?”
“That she does. Follow me.”
Drummond cut across several rows, but Max could not pass through headstones, so he walked around. The soft ground smelled of rich earth, and he wondered how deep the coffins were buried so long ago. Without a backhoe to make the digging easy, did people prefer shallow graves? Did he have to worry about stepping on somebody? When he caught up, Drummond had already started a conversation with Wilburn Walker.
“This here is my partner, Max. He can’t see you, but I can act as a translator for you. Is that okay?” After listening to the response, Drummond leaned toward Max. “He says it’s okay.”
Max tried to clear his mind. He imagined all the other ghosts forming a circle around them. An abandoned cemetery did not get many visitors, if any at all — this had to be one of the most exciting things to happen in a long time.
Looking in the same direction that Drummond had been talking, Max said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Walker.”
Drummond made a face like a parent on the verge of losing his patience. “He says he won’t talk with us for free.”
“What kind of payment does he want?” Ghosts had no need for money.
Drummond listened. Confused, he turned to Max. “Do you know what a Jenga is?”
Minutes later, Walker brought Max and Drummond to the old groundskeeper’s shed. Apparently, a decade ago, several teenagers would hang out in the shed drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and playing the old wood tower game. The ghosts were fascinated each time the kids played, but of course, the ghosts could not play unless they wished to cause themselves a lot of pain.
Drummond stared at the wood blocks. To Max, he said, “This is it? A bunch of building blocks? Isn’t this what babies play with?”
“It was bit of a fad for a while.”
“You people got real weird after I died. Anyway, Walker says that he’ll tell us everything he can as long as you act as his hands and play the game for him and his friends.”
Max made a short tour of the tiny shed. He checked the walls, the floor, and the ceiling for any sign of a casting circle or a witch’s curse. Nothing suggested that Walker’s request was anything more than what it appeared to be on the surface.
With a shrug, Max said, “Um, okay.”
Drummond’s attention turned toward the shed door. He suddenly straightened and a sly grin crossed his lips.
Max said, “Did your redhead just walk in?”
“A bunch of ghosts walked in. They want to see what’s going on. Daphne just happens to be one of them.”
“Daphne? You know her name now.”
Drummond had his arm hanging in the air, and Max could only assume that his partner held Daphne’s shoulder.
“Ready?” Drummond asked the empty space that was Walker. “Here we go. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present a game of Jenga — whatever that is — with Mr. Walker facing off against Mr. Randolph from 1962. Good luck, gentlemen. And the first move is Mr. Walker’s. Max, he said he wants the middle one at the bottom.”
Withholding any display of mirth, Max pointed to the wood block, and when he received confirmation, he slid it out. He placed it atop the tower.
“That’s it?” Drummond said, shaking his head.
To Walker, Max said, “We appreciate you talking with us. We’re interested in your case and how it pertains to current events.”
“Mr. Randolph wants the block on the left side four from the bottom.”
As Max performed the requested maneuver, he said, “I’ve read the testimony you gave in court about the murder of Mary Goins and John Smith, but that all seems rather straightforward. Certainly nothing to get a bunch of witches riled up. The only part I can think of that’s still murky is the man in the straw hat.”
Drummond made an odd face — one Max thought meant disappointment. “Walker’s insisting on telling you his version of the story from the beginning. If you ask me, I think he wants to make sure this ridiculous game lasts as long as possible.”
Max took a deep breath, noticing how musty the shed smelled. It amazed him that the place remained standing. Weeds penetrated every crack on the floor and sunlight broke through every crack along the ceiling.
“As long as this place doesn’t collapse on us, we can play.”
With his chilly head close to Max’s ear, Drummond said, “Don’t forget that these ghosts have been here a long time. Don’t piss them off. We don’t want any of them losing their cool.”
“How am I to do that? I can’t even see them?”
“Just don’t lose.”
“But —”
Backing up, Drummond said, “Okay, Walker’s turn. He wants the block seventh from the bottom on the right side.”
For the next hour, Walker doled out his tale in dribbles. He refused to add anything until after each play of the game had been made. At first, Max gave little thought to the procedure. But as the tower grew taller and less sturdy, he wondered what might happen if the thing toppled over. Would that be the end of the interview? If Walker lost, would he take it out on Max? Drummond certainly thought so.
By the time Walker had reached the point of the story where he had been released from custody, a cold sweat had broken out on Max’s brow. Both contestants had figured out the benefit to taking pieces off the sides. In short time, they had constructed a long vertebrae-like tower. It swayed with every brush of air. Even Max’s breathing threatened to knock it down.
Wiping his damp hands against his pants, Max looked toward where he thought Walker floated. “This all brings us to our main point of interest — this mystery man. The one in the straw hat. According to all I could find, he disappeared and left you in the lurch. But since you don’t seem to be too worried about all these witches looking for you, I’m thinking they’ve been looking for you in order to find him.” That thought had not really occurred to Max until he spoke the words, but it sounded like a reasonable conclusion.
Apparently Walker thought so, too. Drummond said, “He wants to move the left block from that middle section.”
Max circled the table until he thought he had a good angle on the piece. Licking his lips, he hunched over and concentrated on controlling his fingers. Gently, he nudged the woodblock halfway out. And then it caught.
Sweat dripped into his open mouth. The salty taste reminded him what the rest of his body already knew — this was not a simple game. His pulse throbbed against his temples. He stepped back and stretched his arms. Wanting nothing more than to ask Drummond how much was at stake by this move, he stared at the table in silence.
“You okay?” Drummond asked.
Max knew Walker watched him. Might even have made a bet on the outcome of the game. Lowering towards the tower once more, Max thought about Sandra. She would tell him to keep going forward. Play the game.
With a quick motion he snatched the block free and stood back. The tower swayed far to the side, but before it fell over, it swayed back until it found a new balance. Max laid the tile on top and stepped away from the table, afraid to even breathe in its direction.
“I’m ready for the answer to my question.”
Drummond winked. But the amusement drained from his pale face leaving behind a concerned stare at Mr. Randolph. “Says the game ain’t over yet.” Drummond’s head snapped towards Walker. “Now this nut is saying he decides when the game starts and when it finishes. Now they’re both yelling at each other.” Drummond drifted alongside Max. In a lower voice, he said, “I’ve heard about this kind of thing, but I’ve never seen it.”
“What thing? What the hell is happening?”
“Some folks in the Other told me that ghosts stuck in cemeteries, especially ones that had been here a long, long time, well, they go a bit nutty. They develop grudges over minor matters and they come up with crazy deals over things you don’t make deals about. In other words, they’re all stuck together and are looking for ways to amuse themselves.”
“You’re saying that Mr. Walker made me play this game to settle some kind of disagreement that might have been going on for decades?”
“Give me a second. I’ll find out what’s going on.” Drummond drifted off, bent his head down toward one corner of the shed, and a moment later returned. “Daphne’s friend says that Randolph blames Walker for killing a tree that shaded his gravestone. She’s not sure what the game had to do with any of it, though.”
“I do,” Max said. Waving his hands in the air, he said in a loud voice, “Everybody calm down. Stop this fighting.” He glanced back at Drummond, and his partner nodded that things had stopped for a moment — all curious eyes on Max. “Mr. Walker, you need to step outside with my partner and me, right now.”
Max glanced back and Drummond said, “He’s using some colorful language to suggest where you can take your demand.”
“In that case, Mr. Randolph, allow me to explain to you why Walker wanted to play this game.”
Drummond popped up. “It appears Mr. Walker has decided that the three of us should talk outside, after all.”
As Max started toward the door, he said, “Everybody else just stay here. We’ll be right back to finish the game.”
Once they were outside, Max made sure they walked several feet away from the door — he had no idea how good a ghost’s hearing could be but had no intention of aiding eavesdroppers.
Drummond said, “Walker’s here and wants to know what you’ve got to say. And frankly, I want to know what’s going on with that game.”
Max gestured to Drummond, asking where Walker stood. Drummond indicated the space toward his right.
“Don’t get too excited,” Max said to his partner. “There’s nothing nefarious going on here. Like you said, these people have been cooped up here too long. I’ve seen it with my own boys. The one starts picking on the other for no reason. I mean those boys have been through so much together. They got each other’s backs. Like partners. Yet, stuck with each other for a few months day in and day out, and the one is just pick-pick-picking at the other. I figure it’s the same thing here. That right, Mr. Walker? You don’t really care about Randolph. You just want to embarrass him. Have a little fun at his expense. It’s amusing. So, along comes me — a living human being that wants information from you — and you think jackpot. You knew I would do everything I could to make sure you win. It wouldn’t do me any good to have you lose, have you be in a bad mood, and then you won’t help us.”
Drummond said, “He’s laughing.”
“It is kind of funny. Especially because you are going to tell us everything we want to know right now, or I’ll go back in there and see that you lose the game. I wonder how many decades Mr. Randolph will hold that loss over your head. I hear there are a lot of pretty ghosts around here. They might not be so interested if you fall flat in front of everybody, I mean, really, if you think about it, you’ve created a rather high-stakes game — for a ghost. One reputation versus another. You ain’t got much else worth anything.”
“He’s not liking what you’re saying, but I think he’s ready to talk.”
He did talk. A lot. He blubbered on about how he never actually knew Straw Hat, never knew where the guy came from, never knew his real name, never knew why he wanted to kill John Smith. But after all that had happened, Walker couldn’t let it go.
At first, it haunted him in his dreams. He kept reliving the gunfight — the most frightening experience of his life. Kept seeing Mary Goins fall to the floor as guns roared in the air. So, he tried to find out what he could about the men who had attacked him and Smith. That didn’t go very well.
Drummond said, “He says he’s no good at finding things out. Not that bright a guy.”
Walker continued for several years with no success. Poking around here and there. Whenever he thought he had a lead, he’d do his best to follow it up, but it all amounted to nothing. Until one day in late-1904, an odd thing happened.
Way out across the country in Bakersfield, California, a strange man entered the county jail. He asked for the Sheriff. When the Sheriff approached, the man said that he had committed a murder in Winston, North Carolina. Said it happened sixteen years ago and that he had committed the crime with three other men. This strange fellow called himself William Crutchfield.
When Walker heard about it, he thought this surely was the guy. But, in the end, his excitement at the news waned. The guy was in California and a rumor had floated around that this William Crutchfield dabbled in witchcraft. Walker admitted to having committed many sinful acts, but he would never risk his soul to such evil things. He decided to let the matter go. Even if Mary Goins’ face still haunted his dreams.
Max wished he could see the ghost. Partly to judge the truthfulness of the statements made, partly because he wanted the satisfaction of seeing a haunted ghost. Drummond must have been thinking along similar lines because the ghost made a shoving motion and said, “What else about Crutchfield? What are you holding back?”
Max’s phone rang — Sandra. He thought about letting it go to voicemail, but Sandra knew what he was doing. She wouldn’t call casually. “What’s the matter?” he answered.
“You need to get back now,” she said.
“I’m a little busy at the cemetery.”
“One of the Mobleys tried to pick up J from school.”
The world skipped a beat. Another second went by as Max tried to get his lungs to fill up with air. At length, he said, “Be right there.”
He turned to leave, but an icy wind passed through his chest.
Drummond said, “I don’t think Walker will let you go until you finish the game.”
“One of the Mobley coven tried to nab J.”
“Crap.” Drummond turned to Walker. “Look pal, we promise to come back and finish the game. But right now, we have an emergency to handle.”
The cold brushed against Max’s body again.
“You do that to my partner once more, and I’m going to knock you senseless in front of all the other ghosts,” Drummond said, moving in quick.
Max raised a hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You want to win the game? Fine. Let’s go.”
They entered the shed. Max stepped toward the tower. “I believe it’s Mr. Randolph’s turn.”
Drummond floated nearby. “Randolph says he wants the middle block from the third at the bottom.”
Max pulled the block out with ease and smashed it on the top. Before all the wood blocks had finished rattling to the floor, he had left the shed. He never worried about the consequences.
Drummond had his back.