In The Beginning

Although William Hunter had lived his entire life as a slave on a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, he had never experienced anything like the horror he was about to face.

His muscles ached. His hands were sore, and dark with gunpowder. Blood--not his own--soiled his ragged shirt and pants.

Killing was hard work.

But they weren't done yet. The worst was still ahead of them.

He was part of a group of four men. One was a black man, a slave from the same cotton fields on which William had once toiled; one was a young white man, their slavemaster's son; the last man was a warrior from a Chickasaw Indian tribe.

They were an unlikely team, drawn together to battle a common enemy. Only an hour ago, there had been seven of them. Two had been killed; the other, unable to endure the terror, had run away.

"We don't have much time till dusk," William said, looking to the edge of the forest, where the orange-red sun steadily sank into the horizon. "We must finish what we've begun."

The men grunted. Their faces, sweaty and spattered with blood, were grim with resolve.

William knew that every one of them was as frightened as he was, but they were determined to conceal their anxiety. True courage was doing what you had to do--without giving in to fear.

Almost as one, they shifted to confront the cave. The ragged mouth was large enough to admit three men. Sharp stones jutted from the ridge of the maw, like teeth.

Like fangs, William thought. A shiver rattled down his spine.

The fading sunlight did not penetrate the thick blackness that lay beyond the entrance. Stepping inside the cavern would be like plunging into a deep Mississippi night.

He hoped that their weapons would be sufficient. He was armed with a rifle. The Indian warrior had arrows, the heads wrapped in kerosene-soaked cloth. The other black man gripped a shotgun, and the white man had a revolver--and a supply of dynamite powerful enough to shatter the cavern walls, if need be.

All of them carried whiskey bottles full of kerosene. A cotton rag dangled from each lip, a poor man's fuse.

They'd done the best they could with the wreckage they discovered at the ravaged plantation, the place that, only yesterday, had been his home.

William had fashioned a torch from a broken broom and a towel. He struck a match and lit the makeshift wick. The fire sputtered, then strengthened into a healthy flame.

He advanced to the front of the group. Holding the torch aloft, he looked at each man.

They were brave men. He did not understand how he'd become their leader. He did not understand much of anything that had happened since his old life had ended last night. He walked on instinct--and faith.

"One day, our children will thank us for this," he said. "Let us pray that they never have to follow in our footsteps."

The men nodded and murmured their agreement.

William Hunter turned to face the cave's mouth. This close, the stench of death wafted from inside like a dense fog.

He whispered a prayer, for himself and his men.

Then, he led them into the darkness.

# # #

Part One

Homecoming

Evil knows where evil sleeps.
-- Ethiopian proverb

One who enters the forest does not listen to the breaking of the twigs in the brush.
-- Zambian proverb

Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse.
-- Nigerian proverb

Chapter One

1

At sunrise on Friday, August 23rd, David Hunter drove away from his townhouse in Atlanta with a U-Haul trailer hitched to his Nissan Pathfinder. The trailer contained clothes, two computers, books, small pieces of furniture, and other assorted items that held sentimental or practical value. He had left behind everything else at the townhouse, which, in his absence, would be occupied by his younger sister and her roommate.

In the SUV, David had a roadmap, a thermos full of strong black coffee, a vinyl CD-case full of hip hop, R&B, gospel, and jazz discs, and his four-year-old German Shepherd, King. King lay on the passenger seat, looking out the window as they rolled across the highway. David tended to drive with one hand resting on the canine's flank.

They made excellent time. Traveling Interstate 20 West, they swept through Georgia and entered Alabama within a couple of hours. It was a fine day for a road trip. The morning sunlight was golden, and the cloudless sky was a tranquil ocean-blue. Traffic was light and flowed smoothly.

After three hours on the road, sixteen miles outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama, David pulled into a rest area. He kept King on a leash as they walked along the grassy sward of the designated Pet Walk, but the dog was well-behaved and didn't wrestle against the leash or try to force David into a run. King handled his business near a tree with the solemn dignity that befitted his name.

David was returning to the truck, planning to let the dog inside so he could go back and use the rest room himself, when he saw the man.

He leaned against a white Cadillac DeVille. Slender and brown-skinned, perhaps in his mid-fifties, he wore a green shirt and tan slacks. He talked on a cell phone, checked his watch.

From a distance of about thirty feet, the man looked like David's father.

David stiffened and stopped. King, brought to a halt, looked at David questioningly.

Although the day was warm and humid, a chill fell over David.

As if sensing David's attention, the man turned. He met David's eyes briefly, then looked away, continuing to chat on the phone.

The man was not Richard Hunter, his father. Of course, it wasn't him. His father had died five months ago.

David sighed, went to the SUV, and let King climb inside.

I need to stop this, David thought, as he walked to the rest area washrooms. I'll never see my father again. I have to accept it.

He used the restroom, then returned to the parking lot. The man who resembled his father was gone. Whoever he had been.

David got behind the wheel of the SUV.

His cell phone chirped.

"Hey, it's your mama. Where are you?"

It was just like his mother to call the moment after he experienced an episode of weirdness.

"Hey, Mom. I'm right outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I passed the big Mercedes-Benz plant a little while ago."

"You're driving too fast. You shouldn't be that far already."

Although David was twenty-nine years old and had traveled extensively throughout the country, by air and by car, Mom never hesitated to dole out travel tips and cautions.

"I've been cruising at seventy-five. Traffic has been light." He paused, then added: "I'm at a rest area. I just saw a man who looked like Dad."

"Oh," Mom said. A note of melancholy crept into her voice. "Remember how the same thing happened to both of us, when your granddad passed? For a while, it seemed that once a month, we'd see a man who looked exactly like him."

"I remember. But I feel different about this. Because there's always a chance . . ."

"David, honey, it's not good for you to think about that. I know it's painful for you, but you need to try to let it go. Your father is gone."

David swallowed. A monarch butterfly landed on the windshield, its colorful wings gilded with sunlight. It seemed to peer inside the truck at David.

His mother was right. He had told himself the same thing, many times. His father, Richard Hunter, was dead, and gone forever. Any stranger who looked like him was just that--a stranger.

But the circumstances of his father's death stirred a naïve hope that he might be alive.

Richard Hunter had not been an ordinary man. He was a writer, not merely good but brilliant; a Pulitzer Prize winner who evoked favorable comparison to the revered literary lions in the canon of African-American literature: Ellison, Hurston, Wright, Morrison. Richard Hunter had lived an adventurous, colorful life that matched his literary accomplishments. After a brief, disastrous marriage to David's mother that produced only one child, Hunter moved to Paris to write his first novel, an immediate bestseller, and thereafter embarked on a series of journeys that took him from Morocco to China, from South Africa to Nepal, from Australia to Indonesia, from Brazil to Denmark . . . his father's travels could've filled a dozen issues of National Geographic. Writing and publishing one bestselling novel after another, publishing essays in The New Yorker, crafting stageplays that opened on Broadway, and penning the script of an Oscar award-winning film, Richard ! Hunter had the proverbial Midas touch in the literary world. But his ability to sustain meaningful, long-term relationships seemed to be directly inverse to his writing talent.

David hardly knew his father. Throughout his dad's endless globetrotting, it was a rare event to receive so much as a postcard from him, to say nothing of a birthday or Christmas gift. He called or wrote David every few years, and visited less often. Although Hunter married three more times, and entertained countless girlfriends and mistresses, he never had another child. Often, David had thought that being Hunter's only child would have meant something to his father, but their relationship never developed beyond a superficial, awkward friendliness. David had learned more about Richard Hunter by reading about him in magazines than he had through direct contact with his dad.

But in March of that year, his father had been on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, deep sea fishing, when a storm swept him off the deck and into the ocean. An extensive search by the Coast Guard failed to recover his body. At the coroner's inquest, he was declared legally dead.

Richard Hunter's will revealed that he had bequeathed his money, property, and belongings to David-- the total value of which equaled over four million dollars.

David was suddenly rich, granted a fortune by a man who was a relative stranger to him.

Nagging questions circled David's thoughts. Why did his father ignore him for his entire life, and then will him everything he had owned? Had his father loved him, but been unable to express his feelings? What kind of man had Richard Hunter been, outside his literary exploits?

And the question that haunted David most of all: Was his father really dead? His body had never been recovered, which gave David a fragile hope that, somehow, his father had survived the accident. But if Richard Hunter had survived, then where was he? Why hadn't he resurfaced to reclaim his life?

It was hard to speculate about stuff like that. One bewildering question led to a slew of others even more puzzling.

"I hope you learn a lot about your dad while you're in Mississippi," Mom said. "Like I've told you before, I don't think you need to make this trip, but I know you won't be happy otherwise."

Although his father had been a world traveler, between his journeys, he always returned to his hometown: Mason's Corner, Mississippi. There, he lived in a modest house that had been in the Hunter family for generations. The home had been vacant since his father's death.

"Well, like I've said, I'll be there for a year," David said. "Maybe not that long. It depends on how things go, what I find out."

"What do you expect to find out, David?" Mom said. Mom had asked him the same question before, but there was a desperation in her voice that he hadn't heard previously. "It's a tiny town with three traffic lights. What do you think you're going to learn there?"

David turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed into life.

"I don't know, Mom," David said. "Maybe . . . the truth."

2

At a quarter past three o'clock in the afternoon, driving north on Interstate 55, David passed a road sign that announced the upcoming exit for Mason's Corner.

Anticipation tingled in his gut.

It had been about fifteen years since he had visited Mississippi. He had purposefully taken a longer route to Mason's Corner, traveling Interstate 20 West into Jackson, at the center of the state, where he then connected with Interstate 55 North, which would take him up to the northwest region, at the edge of the Delta. He wanted to absorb the sounds and sights, and immerse himself in this place where his father's family had lived for so long.

Mostly, the land was covered with verdant hills that appeared to stretch to the edge of the world. At other times, maple and pine trees crowded the highway, their trunks festooned with kudzu. In many of the open stretches, he saw vast fields of soybean and cotton.

It was easy to imagine that this had once been a land in which cotton plantations had sustained the economy. The earth was so fertile that it seemed anything might thrive in the rich soil. North of Jackson, David had stopped to refuel, and the warm, humid air was like the inside of a greenhouse.

The exit ramp for Mason's Corner came into view. He turned onto the winding lane, and entered a tunnel of trees that blanketed the road in dense shadows. Then, the trees thinned out and gave way to a suspension bridge. A sunlight-spangled river rushed in the chasm below. Two black children stood along the sandy bank, working fishing poles.

The bridge, about forty feet long, rattled and clinked as he drove across it. King poked his nose out the half-open window. He whined.

David stroked the dog's neck. "We're almost there, boy. I know you're fed up with riding in here."

Ahead, a blue sign read in white letters: "Welcome to Mason's Corner, the Jewel of Mississippi. Pop. 3,200."

The town limits were marked only by small, erratically spaced homes. Rusty cars sitting on concrete blocks filled front yards, and clotheslines heavy with garments snapped in the summer breeze. People--everyone David saw was black--sat on porches and lawn chairs. They watched him drive by, and he thought he could hear what they were thinking: "Who's that guy moving here?" This wasn't like Atlanta. In a small town like Mason's Corner, a new resident would be noteworthy.

The road, Main Street, cut through the center of downtown--though calling the tiny business district "downtown" was being generous. While he waited at a traffic light, he looked around. Faded store fronts lined the road: a diner, a clothing shop, a florist, a furniture store. Old black men sat in chairs in front of a barbershop, talking and watching anyone of interest--all of them looked his way, their gazes lingering over the trailer. A scattering of cars and trucks were parked diagonally along the curb; a lot of people owned pick-up trucks.

The light switched to green. He rolled forward.

He spotted other buildings: a People's Bank branch office, an elementary school, a library, the police station, a Baptist church, a BP gas station, a barbecue joint, a pool hall with a Old Style beer sign in the window. Farther ahead, there was a large park that had basketball and tennis courts, a baseball diamond, a playground, benches, and a pond that sparkled like quicksilver.

Everywhere, when he passed people, they looked his way and appeared to take note of the trailer. He could only smile. "Welcome to Mississippi," he said to himself. King chuffed.

David consulted his directions. The family home was located on Hunter Drive, which was coming up. He made a right turn, and found himself in a peaceful neighborhood of mature, leafy elms and modest houses.

The place was half a block down, on the left. A black mailbox at the curb had the name "Hunter" written in fancy script.

He pulled into the asphalt driveway.

3

Sitting in the idling truck, David stared at his new home.

A sensation of unreality washed over him. He had really done it. He had left behind his life in Atlanta and moved here, to the land of his fathers.

"My new home," he whispered.

It was a two-story house, painted eggshell white, with clapboard siding and forest-green shutters. According to Earvin Williams, his father's estate attorney, the home was almost eighty years old and had been constructed by a team of men that included David's great-grandfather. The place looked as though it been kept in good repair. It had a screened-in porch, a two-car garage, and a tool shed, too.

The lawn, however, badly needed to be mowed. Earvin had said that he'd hired someone to cut the grass, but that was a few weeks ago. The property had been undisturbed since his father's death. The lawyer had paid the utility bills, in the meantime, and promised David that he only needed to bring his belongings, and move right in. "There's no telling what you might find in there," Earvin had said. "Your father lived the last few months of his life in that house, may his soul rest in peace."

That's perfect, David had thought. Maybe I can figure out what Dad was doing before the accident . . .

King clawed the glass, jarring David out of his reverie.

"All right, boy, we're getting out." David cut the engine. "We're here."

King looked at him as if to say, It's about time, man. You've kept me cooped up in this thing forever. Let me outta here!

David opened his door, and King, normally patient, didn't wait for David to walk around and open the passenger door. The dog scrambled over the seats and leaped outside. He roved across the yard, sniffing.

"Don't run off," David said. He raised his arms and stretched.

At a brick home across the street, a woman who might have been his grandmother tended a bed of flowers. She waved at him. He returned the greeting.

He could get used to having friendly neighbors. At his townhouse community in Atlanta, he and his neighbors had rarely spoken to one another.

He had a lot of unloading and unpacking to do, but he'd take care of it later.

The screen door was unlocked, and opened silently.

Thick waves of humid air churned in the porch. Three lawn chairs stood inside, ranked beside one another. A copy of The Chester County Ledger lay on an end table, beside a glass ashtray filled with a cigar butt. His father had loved cigars.

David picked up the newspaper. It was dated March 9th. Two days before his father had vanished.

A chill zapped through him, like an electric shock. He dropped the paper.

There was something eerie about touching an item that had been last handled by a dead man. But he would have to get used to it, if he was going to live in this house.

King bolted inside the porch. Tongue wagging, the dog bumped against David, eager to go inside.

David opened the door.

4

The first thing that struck David was the smell: a stale odor hung within, as though the house had been sealed for years and not only for a few months. He found the thermostat in the entry hall, and switched on the fan. He'd open windows, too, as he encountered them, then turn on the air-conditioner later.

King set off down the hallway, sniffing eagerly.

As he stood in the foyer, David had the distinct feeling that he had walked into a dream. Like a place in a dream, the house felt familiar, yet foreign. The last time he had visited, he was fourteen. He'd spent two weeks there during the summer, entertained by his two cousins (whose names escaped him) and, less often, by his father. He'd left convinced that it was the most boring place in the world--they had none of the cool stuff they had in Atlanta--and vowing that he'd never visit again, no matter how badly he wanted to spend time with his dad.

Funny how time could change a person's mind.

A staircase twisted up to the second floor. Four doorways were in the first-floor hall. David slowly walked past each room. The living room was the first room he passed, a spacious area full of overstuffed furniture, a grandfather clock, framed family photos, a television, a fireplace, and a rocking chair. Next was the dining room: a large oak table stood in the center, circled by matching oak chairs. On his right, a bathroom. A familiar slurping sound came from within.

"King!" He opened the door. The dog had its snout in the toilet, lapping up water.

"I'll get some water for you." David went through the doorway at the end of the hall, into the kitchen. He found a large bowl in a cabinet, filled it with tap water, and set it on the tile floor. King drank greedily.

The kitchen was basic: it had a gas range, Formica counter tops, a pine dinette table. A Polaroid photo was pinned against the refrigerator with a magnet: his father, clad in fishing gear and standing on the deck of a boat, showing off his catch of the day, a large, gleaming bass.

Dad died on a fishing trip like that . . .

David's breath caught in his throat. He left the kitchen to explore the rest of the house.

On the second level, there were five rooms: a master bedroom, a guest room, another bedroom, another bathroom, and an office. One look inside the office confirmed that this was where Richard Hunter had spent most of his time, because the other rooms lacked any distinctive mark of his personality.

Two large windows, veiled with half-open venetian blinds, admitted afternoon sunshine. Oak bookcases lined the walls; the shelves were packed with tomes--his father's works, and many others. A large oak desk stood along the far wall, a black leather chair in front.

From his research, David learned that his father had written at least three of his novels while sitting at this desk. An IBM Selectric typewriter sat in the middle of the desk, like a museum relic. His father composed his work only on typewriters, never on computers. A jar full of sharp pencils stood to the left of the typewriter, and a rubber coaster lay on the right, marred with a coffee stain. His father would drink coffee continuously as he hammered out his prose.

At David's townhouse in Atlanta, he had arranged his desk similarly: writing implements on the left, a coaster on the right, and a computer, instead of a typewriter, in the center.

He settled into the chair. He was the same height as his father, six-foot-one, and he found the angle of the chair and desk comfortable. Perhaps he would set up his own computer in this room, right here.

"This is where the great man worked," David said. His voice seemed loud, and he laughed, uneasily. The office was so quiet and still that he might have been sealed inside an air-tight cell.

He noticed that a framed photograph lay on the corner of the desk, face down. He picked it up. It was an old picture of David, at maybe three years old, his mother, and his father. All of them had afros, and wide grins.

He was shocked to find that his father had kept this family photo close at hand. This gave him something new to think about. Had his father missed the family life he had once had?

He looked around. No additional clues jumped out at him--yet.

David yawned. He'd driven over nine hours and needed to take a nap. Thinking about this stuff was tiring him out.

Before leaving, he opened the blinds of the window nearest the desk, to see what kind of view the office provided. He saw a vista of rolling green hills, deep forests, and, perched on a hilltop in the distance, a sprawling, antebellum mansion, a remnant of the old South.

Coldness tapped the base of his spine.

He didn't understand why looking at the house made him feel cold. He could not remember ever seeing the mansion, though surely it had been there when he'd visited the town as a teenager.

Someone should tear down that place, he thought, suddenly and irrationally. It should be demolished--

The door burst open, and David almost screamed.

It was only King. The dog dashed inside and leaped onto David, tail wagging.

"Okay, okay, I know, you're your bladder is full now and you need to pee." David stroked the dog's neck. "Come on, let's go outside."

David looked out the window one last time. The chill returned, skipping along his spine like an icy finger.

Hurriedly, he left and shut the door.

5

Outside, while King cavorted across the yard, David began to unload the trailer. Although he was exhausted, he worried that if he dared to sleep he would not wake until late in the evening. He didn't want to leave his possessions in the trailer overnight. He likely had no need to fear thieves in this town, but years of city living had made him cautious.

He had opened the trailer door and gripped a cardboard box full of books when the grandmotherly woman who had waved at him earlier walked across the street. She was accompanied by a tall, lean man who appeared to be her husband.

"Good afternoon," the man said. He had a crisp, deep voice. "Are you our new neighbor?"

"That I am." David placed the box on the ground. "My name is David Hunter."

"A pleasure to meet you," the man said. "My name is Franklin Bennett. This is my wife, Ruby."

David and Franklin shook hands. Franklin had a strong, dry grip. David immediately had a good feeling about him. One of the few things his father had taught him was how a trustworthy man will always have a firm handshake.

Franklin and Ruby looked to be in their mid-sixties. Ruby was dark-skinned and petite, with large, clear eyes. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, a United Negro College Fund t-shirt, and a cap that covered a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. Franklin was bespectacled and balding, with a trimmed grey beard. He wore a white dress shirt, slacks, and suspenders. He had a scholarly demeanor. David was willing to wager that he was a teacher.

King came over and snuffled the Bennetts’ legs. David introduced the dog, and the couple smiled and petted King. They were obviously dog lovers.

"So you're a Hunter?" Franklin said. "Was Richard Hunter your . . ."

"He was my father," David said.

"We're so sorry to hear about what happened," Ruby said. "What an awful accident."

"Your father was a good man," Franklin said.

"Thank you," David said. "I moved here from Atlanta. Someone has to take care of the house for a while. It's been in our family for a long time."

"That is most certainly true," Franklin said. "Since nineteen twenty-seven, in fact."

"Really?" David said. "I didn't know that."

Franklin chuckled. "I'm a bit of a history buff, David. One of my long-standing hobbies has been exploring the history of our fine town."

"Don't get Professor Bennett started." Ruby grinned. "Will you be living here permanently, David?"

"Maybe for a year. After that, we'll see. I've never lived in a small town, so I'll see how I like it."

"It's a markedly slower pace of life than what you're likely accustomed to," Franklin said. "But we love it. We grew up here, moved away to Washington D.C. to have our careers and raise our family, then decided to come back here for our retirement."

"What's the age range of the people here?" David said.

"It's not a town full of old folks, sugar," Ruby said. She chuckled. "We've got retired folks, like us, stable, working families, then some kids your age, and younger. We've got our share of young, pretty women, too. Are you single?"

"Ruby, don't pry--" Franklin started.

"It's no problem." David laughed. "I'm single."

"Keep your eyes peeled, then," Ruby said. She winked. David laughed again.

"We could talk your ears off all day," Franklin said. "But I see that you were in the process of unloading this trailer. Why don't I assist you?"

"Thanks, but that's okay. I don't have that much to take inside."

"Frank only wants an excuse to keep asking you questions," Ruby said. "David, please let him help you, or else he'll talk me to sleep wondering about you."

Franklin scowled. "Woman, you do not know my mind at all." Then he laughed.

"Since you put it that way, I could use a hand." David smiled. These were the nicest people he had met in ages. Although he could have unloaded the trailer on his own, he was interested in continuing his discussion with Franklin. The old man claimed to be a history buff, and he might know a great deal about David's own family history as it related to the town.

Most of all, David wanted to ask him about his father.

6

They chatted as they conveyed boxes inside. David learned that Franklin really was a retired history professor. He had taught at Howard University for over thirty years. In his life as a retiree, he spent his time pursuing his lifelong passion--history--and had become the town's official historian. The historian position had never been formally conferred upon him by town authorities--they didn't have an official post for such a person. It was official, Franklin said, because everyone, including the mayor, approached him whenever a question about history arose.

"Are you a writer, like your father was?" Franklin said as they hefted boxes full of books into the house. "You've got quite a few titles here."

"I'm an avid reader. Outside of English classes in college, the only writing I've ever done is in computer code. I worked as a programmer for a consulting firm before I started my web design business, two years ago."

"Ah, so you're an entrepreneur!" Franklin set down the box he'd been carrying beside the staircase. Sweat glistened on his face. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his skin dry.

"Listen, you don't have to help me with all of this moving," David said. "I can finish the rest on my own."

"Nonsense. I need the exercise. Don't be concerned, I won't have a heart attack on you."

It took half an hour for them to finish lugging everything inside. Ruby returned to bring them tall, icy glasses of sweet tea. David sipped the tea gratefully; King looked at him with sad eyes, as if expecting him to share. "None for you," David said, and stuck out his tongue at the dog. King barked.

Exhausted, David and Franklin took seats at the dinette table in the kitchen. David thanked Franklin again for his assistance, and Franklin waved it off.

"The only physical exercise I pursue these days is riding my bicycle around town," Franklin said. "I'm happy to do some weight lifting."

David nodded. "You know, since you live across the street, I was wondering: Did you know my father?"

Franklin pursued his lips. "Interesting question. Although I was Richard's neighbor for seven years, and though he was often present during that time, I'd have to say that we were acquaintances, not genuine friends. This is the first time I've set foot within this house."

"So my dad wasn't very friendly."

"He was friendly, but he was a private man--rightly so considering his public persona. I think when he was here, in his home, he wanted to be left alone, to enjoy life like an ordinary man. He was famous here, understand. Tourists came from hundreds of miles away to drive by this house and gawk, or they hoped to spy him as he made one of his brooding walks throughout the town.

"That said, I don't think Richard had many friends in Mason's Corner. But of course, absolutely everyone knew him."

"I didn't," David said. When he realized what he'd blurted out, he blushed.

Franklin arched his eyebrows.

"I might as well tell you," David said. "My father and I didn't exactly have a good relationship. He was a stranger to me, to be honest." He swept his arm across the kitchen. "Then, when he passed, he gave it all to me. Everything he'd owned."

"Which perplexes you, and understandably so," Franklin said. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, David. Richard Hunter was an enigma to me. I don't pretend to understand his motivations."

"Neither do I, and that's why I'm here. I want to piece everything together--as much as I can, anyway. I won't be satisfied until I get some answers."

David was surprised by how openly he spoke to Franklin. He'd told his mother, and no one else, about his purpose for moving to Mason's Corner. His family and friends believed that he was there because he wanted a temporary break from Atlanta.

"I wish you Godspeed in your mission," Franklin said. "I suspect that you'll find life in Dark Corner to be an enjoyable change of pace."

"Dark Corner?"

"The locals call the town Dark Corner. Do you think you know why?"

"I've no clue."

"Because the town is over ninety percent African-American, and has been for generations. Dark Corner was originally a slanderous name, actually--think of the derogatory term, 'darkie'--but over time, it acquired a certain charm and became part of the shared language of the residents. I suspect Edward Mason would be aghast if he were alive today to see what had become of his lovely corner of the South. The Negroes have taken over the plantation!" Franklin laughed.

David laughed, too. "Was Edward Mason the town founder?"

"Correct. Around eighteen forty-one, Mason established an immense cotton plantation here. Have you seen his estate, Jubilee?"

David thought about the mansion he had spotted from the window, upstairs. The place that had given him a chill.

"Is it one of those antebellum houses, with columns out front?"

"That's the one, you can't miss it. It's perched on a hill at the eastern edge of town, like a castle. Edward Mason liked to stand on the veranda of Jubilee and survey his cotton kingdom, and glorify in his achievements."

"Does anyone live there today?"

"Certainly not. Jubilee is reputed to be haunted. Townsfolk won't go near it."

David's hand was curled around the cold glass of tea; the iciness in the glass traveled up the length of his arm, and spread throughout his body.

"Haunted?" David said. "Are you serious?"

Franklin shrugged. "That is what the stories claim. I've never seen evidence of it myself, but then, like other townspeople, I avoid Jubilee, too. It has an aura about it that . . . well, it disturbs me, to be frank."

"I felt the same thing when I saw the house earlier. A chill."

"Trust your instincts," Franklin said. "I'm a man of reason and logic, but the more I learn, the more I realize that there is much in our world that resists easy classification."

"I don't plan to visit the place anytime soon," David said.

"Wise choice." Franklin nodded. "One of these evenings, you must join Ruby and I for dinner. I'll share some of the tales with you. There are many. Mason's Corner is a small town, yet claims a colorful history."

"I'd like that," David said. A yawn escaped him.

Franklin hastily pushed away from the table.

"You need your rest, you've had a long day, " Franklin said. He retrieved the empty glasses. "We'll talk more soon. And you're welcome to come over anytime."

"Thank you again for your help." David accompanied Franklin to the door. Franklin crossed the street, a bounce in his step.

David smiled. What a guy. He had made his first friend in Mason's Corner.

But he'd had enough activity for one day. Tomorrow, he'd finish getting settled in and would begin exploring the town.

He dragged himself upstairs. In the master bedroom, King lay across the bed, snoring loudly.

"King, I think that's my spot."

The dog raised its head, groggy.

"On the floor, buddy," David said. "The rules haven't changed."

Groaning, King hopped onto the floor, and slumped on the rug.

David lay on the mattress and sank into a deep sleep.

7

"Now David seems like a nice young man," Ruby said to Franklin. She was in the kitchen preparing dinner. "He's a spitting image of his daddy, too."

"That's the first thing I noticed." Franklin put the empty glasses in the sink. "For a moment, I thought I was seeing a ghost."

"I hope you invited him to dinner."

"I extended a dinner invitation for the near future, but I'll wait a few days before I mention it to him again," he said, thinking of David's purpose for moving to Mason's Corner. The boy was on a mission to learn about his father, and Franklin didn't want to hound him, though he would like to spend more time in the Hunter house, exploring.

"He's a friendly kid, quite open, not at all like his father," Franklin said. "We'll be spending more time together, chatting."

"Don’t you go digging through his family's possessions," Ruby said.

"The Hunters have lived in Dark Corner for generations. They must have books, photos, relics--"

"Like I said, Professor Bennett. Respect the young man's privacy."

"Am I that intrusive, my dear?"

She smiled. "Sugar, when you’ve got something you want to find out, only God Himself can hold you back."

Franklin leaned against the counter. He stroked his chin.

"Ruby, as much as I've learned about this town, I feel as if I'm missing something. I know all about Edward Mason and his vile plantation; I know sordid tales about many of the families here; I could draw a timeline of every major incident that's occurred in this town over the past one hundred and sixty years. But my intuition tells me that I am missing an integral piece of the puzzle. The Hunters always have been a private clan. I believe there's a reason why."

Ruby clucked her tongue. She opened the oven and checked the progress of the roast beef.

"I'm not befriending David only because I want to discover his family's secrets," he said. "You know me much better than that. I genuinely enjoyed speaking with him and hope to develop a friendship. However, if I can discreetly uncover a few historical gems in the process, that would please me immensely."

"You know how I feel about digging into people's business," Ruby said. "But I know your ways. You won't be satisfied until you find the dirt."

"It's not dirt. It's only data."

She smiled. "What do the kids say these days? Whatever, man."

He kissed her on the cheek. "I'm going to feed the hound."

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," she said.

A large bag of Purina dog food stood near the back door. Franklin took the big scoop that lay on top of the bag and dug it inside, filling the cup with the brownish nuggets.

The dog waited for him at the foot of the steps. It was a mutt, a mix of a Collie and another breed he couldn't place. He'd discovered the hound rooting through his garbage one day, and he had adopted it as his own. He never brought the canine inside the house or threw a leash around its neck. He let the dog roam throughout the town as it wished. It came to him when it was hungry and wanted to be petted, normally at the same time every day.

He'd named the mutt Malcolm, because on the day he found the dog he'd been re-reading the autobiography of the famous civil rights leader.

"Hey, how're you doing, Malcolm?" Franklin scratched the dog behind the ears. It whined in pleasure. He poured the food into the large bowl that rested at the base of the steps. He refilled the water bowl, too.

As he watched Malcolm eat, he considered what he and Ruby had discussed. He had been honest with his wife--after being married for over forty years, he'd learned that it was simply easier to be honest. He was convinced that the Hunter family possessed information that could deepen his knowledge of the town's historical background. After living across the street from the notoriously taciturn Richard Hunter for seven years, Franklin had almost given up hope of learning what secrets the Hunters might be guarding. But David--now he was a nice young man. And Franklin suspected that David did not know his family's history himself. The two of them could, if David allowed it, learn together. Indeed, he might very well be a great help to David.

Life in Dark Corner, normally predictable and quiet, was going to become a lot more interesting, very soon.

Copyright 2004 by Brandon Massey. All rights reserved.