Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (8 page)

“We don’t have any idea the barn burned because of my work with family violence victims.” I could feel my blood pressure, and my voice, rising. “What would you have me do, refuse to help because I’m afraid? Which I
am
not. Don’t you see, that’s
just
what those guys want? Isolate their women and children, and then scare the rest of us into hiding from them so they keep control. We have to break the cycle, if for no other reason than for the children.”

“No use preaching, to me, Babe. I understand. I’ve seen the billboards, ‘Love Shouldn’t Hurt.’ And I agree, love shouldn’t hurt. But why you? You’re too
old to be worrying about some fool coming after you just because you are trying to help his woman.”

“Oh Daniel, please!
Too old?
I can’t believe you said that. At what age do we hang it up and play safe? I do what I’m trained to do. If I don’t, someone else might not do it. Then the bad guys win.”

“Don’t yell at me, Babe. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Let’s talk then, okay? No yelling. I’ll try not to be bullheaded. Right now, I gotta go down to the hotel lobby and see if I can find some Tums.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I said everything I have to say. I’m hanging up the phone now. Thank you for your concern. I hope your stomach quiets down, and I hope you have a safe trip home from your cattlemen’s thing…your meeting. Whatever.”

7

The next morning my shoes crunched across hoarfrost on the grass when I left the house. The Weather Channel said we would be in the fifties by afternoon, but this morning I was grateful to find leather gloves nesting in my coat pocket. My mission, after a visit with my neighbor, Fletcher Enloe, was an appointment with a retired minister who was somewhat of an historian for the First Methodist Church. First Methodist was the oldest church in Perry County, and, according to records I’d found in the library, January McNeal and Reba Connell were married there. Records also indicated Reba and a McNeal child were buried in the church’s cemetery.

I don’t know what made me think I could have a civil conversation with Fletcher Enloe. He positively lives to wind me up. You’d think, after earning a doctorate in psychology, and spending years counseling unhappy people, I could rise above his sharp jabs at life, and at me. Not so. The conversation positively rained verbal javelins.

“Ain’t you got chores at home? Something better to do than banging on my door asking questions? Sure seems to me like you got a swarm of bees in your bonnet about old January all the sudden.”

Fletcher seemed to be trying not to smile, but the fun he was having sparked behind his blue eyes and gave him away. How is it this man is almost eighty and doesn’t wear glasses, except to read? I can’t even tell the color of the clock without my contacts, let alone the correct time.

“It isn’t all of the sudden. You’re the one who told me a year ago that you thought I had kinfolks who once lived in Perry County. I’m just following up on what you said.”

“How come you asking questions this morning of all mornings, iffen you been thinking about it for a year?”

I could feel my teeth grinding together with frustration. There was no way I was going to tell Fletcher Enloe that I’d now had two dreams starring my great grandfather, both leaving me with a sense of urgency to find answers. “Fletcher, please just answer my question. Have you seen a burned out cabin near a waterfall up on Fire Mountain, or not?”

“It’s my land, ain’t it? I reckon I’ve walked about every square foot of it since I bought it off the Sorleys. Iffen old January’s cabin was to be there, I’d know it, now wouldn’t I?”

“Is that a yes? You’ve seen the cabin?”

“Course I seen it. Hit’s a far piece up the mountain. Don’t you go traipsing up there looking for it. You’ll get lost in the mostest laurel thicket you ever want to happen
on. You hear me, girl? Come warmer weather I’ll take you to see it. There ain’t nothing but rotting timbers and a scrap of a chimney left anyhow. But like as not, it’s your great granddaddy’s place. That is if the stories are true. You can ask that prissy Methodist preacher-man about the stories. Yes ma’am, you go ahead and ask him why they tossed old January out of the Methodist church. He’ll no doubt give you an ear full.”

“How’d you know I have an appointment with Mr. Kolb?”

Fletcher smiled like a little elf about to do a victory dance. “Cause some old men ain’t got nothing better to do than gossip. Me, I’m going fishing where there’s less conversation and more peace and quiet.” With that announcement, Fletcher closed the door, leaving me standing alone on his front porch.

The man I found waiting for me in the church library was a tall, older gentleman wearing a starched, white, long-sleeved dress shirt, brown tweed blazer, and red tartan bowtie. From the yellowish tones to his thinning gray hair, I’d say Mr. Kolb was once a blond. From the pink blush to his fair cheeks, I’d also say he shaved this morning in honor of our appointment.

I don’t know why Fletcher would say Mr. Kolb was prissy. I found him scrubbed clean and smelling of Old Spice cologne, but not prissy. Mr. Kolb turned out to be a lot more informative than Fletcher Enloe. In fact, once the introductions were said and we settled in soft cushioned, wing back chairs, he was positively chatty.

“I don’t mind admitting to you, Ms. McNeal, I was fascinated by your inquiry regarding your relative,
Mr. January McNeal. Your great grandfather, did you say?”

I nodded, yes.

“It’s been years since I was asked about anything as interesting as a former parishioner. Usually a new pastor or committee chairperson wants to know about business or building issues—the budget in 1976, who donated funds for refurbishing the nursery—that sort of thing. But a chance to research a real person, now that is exciting.”

I nodded again and interjected what I hoped was a small push to get him to the point. “And did you find anything interesting in the church records about my family?”

He reached for a slim file folder on the table and opened it on his lap. “Well, yes I did. Though I’m not at all sure you will be happy with what I found. The event doesn’t seem to recall one of the finest hours of our church. And it may not give you the great grandfather you hoped to find.”

Well, I already knew from my dream that January had stood on the wrong side of the Perry County jail walls. What else could he tell me? “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Kolb. I really don’t have any preconceived notions about January. Were you able to determine if he and Reba Connell were married here in the Methodist church?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied and handed me a very poor copy of a church ledger. “In 1900, the church was not the present grand sanctuary with its carved doors and stained glass windows of course. Then it was only the small brick building we presently use for staff offices.
But the church was well attended, and the members were careful record keepers. Our marriage ledger notes Enid and Joab Sorley were witnesses at the marriage ceremony.”

If I squinted just right, I could read the Sorley’s signatures, and that of the officiating minister, on the ledger page. Mr. Kolb handed me a second page. This copy was even harder to read.

“Granted, it is difficult to decipher the words. However, I’ve had many years of practice reading the old records, so I can tell you what it says. It would appear that the McNeals had a child, a son, Ephraim, who was born in September 1900 and died in March 1901. He was buried in the church cemetery. Another son was born 1902.”

“That would be my grandfather, James. I believe he was born in 1902. I wasn’t aware until recently that another child was born before my grandfather James.”

“Sadly, it would seem so. Not unusual during those times. So many diseases lurked in the water, or came with the hard winters and hot summers. Couldn’t just drive down to the doctor and get a prescription for an antibiotic, now could we?”

January’s voiced echoed from my dream,
take the baby and run
, he cried out through the jail bars. “Do you know if March 1901 was the time of the great fire that burned most of Fire Mountain?”

“Yes, that does sound right…somewhere just after the turn of the century. Could have been 1901. That little mountain was called Sorley’s Knob before the fire. You’ll see it named that way on most of the old maps.” A look of recognition dawned across his face. “Ah, I
see where you are going. I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be a clue as to how the baby died. But if he did die in that fire, that could be a clue as to January’s, shall we say, emotional outbursts alluded to later on in the church records.”

I listened with half an ear to Mr. Kolb and remembered what else January said in the dream. He was screaming something that sounded as though it came from the Old Testament.
Rise up oh Israel
. Was that what January said? I turned back to Mr. Kolb. “Tell me about the emotional outbursts.”

After a deep breath, and a quick nervous adjustment of his plaid bowtie, Mr. Kolb extracted several sheets of paper from the file and handed them to me. “Look over these as I tell you the story—at least as much of the story as I could glean from the church records. The rest may be lost in time.

“What you have in your hand is the letter from the church membership committee informing Mr. McNeal that his name is being stricken from the membership rolls. The other three papers detail the meeting, or hearing, if you will, conducted to decide if that action would be taken or not. You will see that Mr. McNeal did not choose to attend.”

I must have frowned as though I’d bitten into a persimmon. I’d heard of Amish being banned and Catholics being ex-communicated, but I’d never heard of a Methodist being thrown out of the church.

Mr. Kolb extended his hands toward me. “I know you must be upset. But here is the remainder of the story. The pastor at the time spoke
against
expelling Mr. McNeal. His testimony is quite passionate and, by
my reading, convincing. He admonishes the committee that it is the Christian duty of the church to stand by those in need and sorrow. However, two members of the committee recounted several incidents where Mr. McNeal was arrested by the local sheriff for disrupting the peace at various gatherings in town, as well as on the Methodist Church grounds. It would appear Mr. McNeal was a self- proclaimed apocalyptic preacher, anointed by the Holy Spirit, he claimed. As such, Mr. McNeal lost no opportunity to preach turning away from sin, and strictly following the Bible’s written word. Apparently, his opportunities also included speaking out, uninvited, during Sunday morning church services.”

I felt my frown relax into a slight smile. So, my great grandfather was somewhat of a rabble-rouser. Surely January’s behavior was harmless, a little over the top maybe, but not enough to get him arrested? Or thrown out of the church? I must have inherited the tendency to want everyone to straighten up and fly right from old January—certainly it didn’t come from my hard-drinking, poker-playing dad. Hard for some of us McNeals—meaning me—to see the shades of gray between the black and white of life. “I’m sorry, what exactly do you mean by
apocalyptic preacher
?”

Mr. Kolb folded his hands in his lap and looked off into the distance. I feared a long dissertation on church theology was at hand.

“Well, Ms. McNeal,” he began, “You might say your great grandfather lived in a very interesting period for much of American Protestantism, and the Methodist
Church especially. For you see, around the turn of the twentieth century, this country experienced what was to be called The Third Great Awakening. It was all very exciting, a veritable revolution in accepted church theology. I could go on and on about that exhilarating phenomenon, but we don’t have the time today. Let’s just say two factions fighting for dominance within the Methodist Church emerged to do battle. One side gravitated to the newly emotionally expressed holiness, or Pentecostal movement, where a second baptism by the Holy Spirit was said to enliven the gifts of healing and prophesy. This group of believers felt called directly by God to preach the literal word of the Bible, the Second Coming of Christ, and to stamp out social ills such as liquor, gambling, violence, and so on.”