South of Reason

Kendi Thompson

Three Pearls Publishing

Three Pearls Publishing

4648 Mercersburg Road

Mercersburg, PA 17236

South of Reason Copyright © 2014,

Kendi Thompson and Three Pearls Publishing

No part of this publication may be reproduced in totality or in part, or

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without

written permission by the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

South of Reason/ by Kendi Thompson

Cover Art by: Rebekah Joy Walck --- 1st Edition

This work is fictional. It is based on the town of Abbeville, South

Carolina. The names and situations depicted are from the author’s

imagination and not real. Any semblance to a particular person’s life,

past or present, is completely coincidental. Although the storyline is

fictional, there are some historical references throughout the book.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947692

ISBN: 9780985552343 ---- Printed edition

ISBN: 9780985552367----- EBook edition

DEDICATION

I began writing South of Reason over six years ago. I wanted to write a

fictional story around a small southern town and was drawn to Abbeville,

South Carolina based solely off images I’d seen on the internet. When I

was finally able to visit in the summer of 2013, I knew I’d chosen wisely.

This charming southern town is truly inspiring and although Abbeville

is immersed in its own history and some hold strong opinions, you cannot

help smile at the people and places as you walk down the street. “Thank

you” to the wonderful people I met during my visit and especially to Lynn

and Fred at the visitor’s center for all their help.

Second, I want thank my mother and my friends who supported me even

when reading through incomplete drafts while I ping ponged on the

storyline.

Tom, my editor, thanks for your support and guidance.

I dedicate South of Reason to my kids and husband for their

encouragement and patience. I especially appreciated my husband cooking

meals and handing me plates on days I was so engaged in writing, I’d forget

to eat.

Kendra "Kendi" Thompson was born and raised in

Maryland. She graduated from Shippensburg University

with a BA in Communications/Journalism.

Her early work history included: ad copywriter,

writing for newspaper and television commercials,

marketing representative, project coordinator, and substitute

teacher.

Nowadays, she prefers to write for pure

entertainment. Plots that twist and turn and make the reader

think, is her goal. “I don’t aspire to be a great author; I

aspire to be a great storyteller.”

She is currently working on her next book, “Year of

the Cat.”

He gagged and coughed… thick smoke scorched his lungs. Fighting the pain, he stumbled

through darkness until his hand touched the burning handle flinging the rough wooden door

wide open. Taking a few staggering steps outside, he collapsed. Gasping for air, he lay face

down in the soft, cold grass. The fire reflected in his blue-green eyes while flames ripped

through the roof of the two-story Victorian manor. A searing pain stung the back of his skull.

He cried out, “Wh…where…are you?”

Sawyer shot straight up in bed. Sweat drenched the white shirt clinging to his chest. He looked

around a moment steadying his breath then walked uneasily to the bathroom. Smacking cool water

on his face he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while. “Damn nightmare,” he cursed

crawling back into bed. He tucked the sheets under his chin and glanced over at the clock. It was

after 3:00am and in less than three hours he’d be up preparing for work. “What’s the sense?” he

groaned throwing the sheets off. He couldn’t go back to sleep.

His foot hit something on the floor at the side of the bed causing a faint whimper from the dog.

He was always tripping over her. Stumbling downstairs towards the kitchen, he pressed the button

on the coffee maker. The red brew light illuminated the dark room. A loud snoring came from under

the kitchen table just as he sat down. Abby propped her huge jowls on his lap. “Hey, girl,” said

Sawyer rubbing her ears. Her nubby tail wagged at the attention, but the snoring continued. It was

Apollo who remained asleep inches from his feet.

The sun came up a few hours later. Sawyer emerged from the front door leaning over to read the

rusty thermometer that barely clung to the outside wall. “Hmm….four degrees warmer than

yesterday,” he thought. The weather was unusual in South Carolina for this time of year. It was

Thursday, and the beginning of November. It should be much cooler with a slight chill. Instead, the

warm sun shone bright with barely a cloud in the sky.

With a black thermos in hand, Sawyer began making his way toward the truck. He paused to

observe warped wooden boards on the porch steps. They were one of a thousand things he hadn’t

gotten around to repairing. The two story home with the wrap around porch belonged to his uncle

who died about six years ago. Sawyer bought it shortly thereafter not realizing just how much

maintenance and fixing it needed. His uncle wasn’t a fixer and left things deteriorate. Rooms full

of cardboard boxes and covered furniture littered the place. The family blamed his uncle for being

a hoarder, a behavior he learned growing up poor. When he moved in Sawyer found containers of

old spit out chewing tobacco hidden behind curtains in window sills. The smell was unbearable.

Sawyer opened the driver’s door to his dark gray 2007 Ford pick-up that sat in the stone covered

driveway. The motor whined as he shifted in reverse. Two streaks bolted from the back of the

house before coming to a halt beside the truck. Sitting like stone statues, the two tan and white

Boxers looked at him pathetically. Most days,

they just sat on the porch until he got home. He rolled his eyes and sighed, “Come on!” Huge paws

pounced on the seat knocking over the coffee thermos. Apollo attempted to sit in Sawyer’s lap, but

was quickly swatted away. He had difficulty shifting gears, but managed with the dogs crammed

in the front seat. Gravel kicked from the tires heading down the long driveway.

As an only child, Sawyer McKinley lives alone. Employed as a general contractor in the family

business, he works for his father, Thomas. When he was a little boy, Sawyer watched how his

father ran the business and knew he’d be prepped to take it over one day. A firm, but gentle man,

Thomas had an impeccable work ethic. He never yelled and there was an unspoken knowing that

Thomas never accepted a half assed job. His employees and subcontractors respected him and as

a result took pride in their work. McKinley Contractors had a good reputation.

After Thomas encountered a series of health issues, from a mild heart attack last fall, Sawyer

took over the reins. The business had been in the family for a long time, but with the downturn of

the economy and the mortgage crisis, home building came to a screeching halt. As a result, Sawyer

had to seek opportunities anywhere he could, even out of state on occasion. Sometimes he’d unload

equipment or do work himself just to keep the doors open. Thomas appreciated his son’s

dedication, but even he could see the toll it was taking on him, and how his social life suffered.

Even though McKinley Contractors built houses in popular residential areas, Sawyer always

favored older homes for some reason which is why he bought his uncle’s house after his death. The

older rustic structures and unique designs always appealed to him with their antique smell and

scratches in the flooring. It gave them an historical feel, like the energy of the previous occupants

from long ago still lingered within its walls. His own home was built in 1924 on a lot of land with

wide open space. Sawyer liked it because he could walk about his property without another soul

around.

An older house has character and often folks left bits and pieces of furniture and knick knacks

behind, much like his uncle. One day while he was moving a box full of his high school

paraphernalia, he spotted a caned rocking chair and an old roll top desk beneath sheets in the far

right corner of the attic. They fit perfectly in the study adding a familiar sentimental touch. His two-

story home had a wrap-around porch with gray siding and light gray shutters. Pocket doors divided

most of the rooms downstairs. Beautifully preserved hardwood floors were discovered only after

removing the smelly stained carpets that had been in there for over forty years. Sawyer did his own

repairs, but had no idea how much work needed to be done. It seemed like everyday something else

needed repaired or replaced.

Growing up in Spartanburg, South Carolina became his permanent residence. Many of his

childhood friends stuck around too. Everybody knew everybody, and people followed conservative

rules. Kids played at each other’s houses after school. When the dinner bells rang it was time to

come home. Each kid knew whose parents rang which bell and if they weren’t home in time for

supper they wouldn’t be back for a few days. A slap across the cheek cleared up a smart mouth and

‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir’ were just common courtesy. Families and neighbors helped each other

out. This was a true southern community.

As a boy, Sawyer played just about every sport invented. The handsome lad with dirty blonde

hair was a natural athlete. Once when he was 8 years old and playing baseball for a team his father

coached, his front tooth was knocked out from a fast pitch. Without hesitation, he snatched the

small ragged object up and held it tightly in his hand as he rounded home base. The 5x7 team

victory picture showed the players in their dirty white and royal blue uniforms holding up a trophy;

Sawyer held up his lucky tooth. His mother put it in a mason jar that’s still on the top shelf of his

desk in his old bedroom.

Basketball and football occupied most of his teenage years. As a senior, he played quarterback.

He pulled the team through an 8-2 season before graduating. Awards bearing his name still hang in

the dusty glass case outside the boy’s locker room. It was obvious that he was more athletic and

less academic when B’s and C’s were the norm for his report cards. Grades didn’t bother him and

he didn’t much care if his name ever appeared on the Honor Roll. Being voted, “Most Athletic,”

and, “Most Likely to be a Comedian,” for Senior Superlatives, described him perfectly.

Sawyer had charisma and was pretty popular with the girls. His blue/green eyes accented an oval

face with sculpted cheekbones, and his muscular build made him very attractive. He was friendly

and attentive to the girls which resulted in mixed signals. Rarely was he seen unaccompanied at the

local pizzeria after the games. Still, he never got that serious with any of them. Now, thirty years

old, Sawyer barely had time to himself, much less contemplate a serious relationship. Managing

McKinley Contractors consumed him.

Chapter 2

The sun disappeared behind the horizon. Darkness came early as the air turned crisp, the smell

of a southern autumn returned to the Carolinas. Outlines of puffy clouds hung in the sky as Sawyer

watched the sun dip lower and lower. The seasonal change relieved him, because summer had been

brutal working outside on the construction sites. Some trees held leaves of yellow, red and amber.

The ones too impatient to cling to their stem, dotted up and down the long gravel driveway.

Sawyer opened the truck door as Apollo and Abby greeted him. They ran circles around each

other before bolting up the front porch to scratch at the door. Grabbing a huge pile of leaves,

Sawyer whistled for the dogs. Both clowns raced toward him, tongues hanging from their mouths.

As they neared, a burst of color exploded before them. They sprinted up the steps toward the

wooden swing. Piling on together they swung back and forth for some time until only the porch

light was visible.

The timer on the microwave beeped indicating another frozen dinner was nuked to perfection.

Sawyer grabbed beer from the fridge and settled on the couch with his faithful four-legged friends;

T.V. blared in the background. Sawyer opened the newspaper stuffing a forkful of lasagna in his

mouth. Half of another beer followed before he was finished reading and climbed the stairs to his

bedroom. Feeling unusually exhausted, he lay across the bed dangling his feet from the side. Apollo

sniffed them. “Stop it!” he yelled. His eyes were closed for only a minute when a strange heaviness

pulled him into the mattress. A wave of nausea began followed by a dizzying ringing in his ears, he

felt weak. He lay there paralyzed.

A wall of thick black smoke stood before him. His lungs burned; pain seized up his

beaten body. Trembling fingers felt for the door knob that seared his hand when touched.

Taking steps outside, he fell to the ground watching fire dance through the roof of the

house. A shadowy female figure knelt beside him touching his face.

Sawyer awoke flaying his arms and legs. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The room was

now pitching dark. He blinked trying to reorient himself. Reaching for the alarm clock, which was

now on the floor along with the bedspread, Sawyer read, 7:33 pm. Bewildered, he sat up. He’d been

asleep for over an hour.

The nightmares were like torture. What was happening? Grabbing his sneakers from under the

bed, Sawyer headed downstairs. His unfinished bottle of Budweiser stood on the kitchen table. The

lukewarm brew moistened his dry throat while he pulled on his shoes, not bothering to tie them.

Snatching his keys, he ran out the door. He had to get out of the house; go somewhere; anywhere

to help clear his troubled mind.

Driving several miles southwest, rain pelted the windshield as he wrestled with his emotions.

The steering wheel felt moist under his hands. “What’s goin’ on?” he thought. Road sign after road

sign passed him gently in the night while the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers echoed

through his troubled mind.

Gloomy clouds appeared to follow him on his journey even though the rain eventually

stopped…he’d been driving for hours. A sign came up along the side of the road for Abbeville.

The Ford pick-up entered the square of the little town that for some reason looked oddly familiar.

He spotted a diner and pulled into a parking spot. The neon open sign lit up the window. He walked

up and peered in leaving a smudge mark on the glass.

A plump, middle aged waitress smiled waving him in, “We’re open, honey.” Her two toned curly

hair matched the color of her bright orange-red lipstick. She wore a yellow top with black pants and

a white apron. The name ‘Dottie’ was engraved in blue on her name badge that adorned a little

pink ribbon on top. Sawyer walked in surveying the place then slid into a booth. The waitress carried

over a silver pot, “Good evening, honey, would you like some coffee?” she said in a thicker southern

accent.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” He turned over the mug that was already arranged along with the

silverware.

She started humming a tune while wiping a splotch of ketchup off the table, “There’s our menu,”

she said pointing toward the salt and pepper shakers. “Tonight’s special is chicken fried steak with

two sides and a dessert.” Dottie poured his coffee then reached in her apron pocket plopping three

creamers on the cup’s saucer before walking away.

Sawyer looked around the quaint diner. It reminded him of somewhere he’d been before. The

inside was simple too; small with a long red counter facing the kitchen grill in the back with six

silver bar stools lining it. Toward the sides were booths spaced apart, five on each side. The original

black and white tiled floor was in good shape, minus a few cracks and yellowing. Food stains

marked the white table tops making them look old and dull, but overall the place was clean. Sawyer

noticed the pictures of nostalgia hanging on the walls.

The waitress returned minutes later, “Ok sugar, you ready to order?”

“What town am I in?” he said trying to sip at the coffee. It was really hot.

“You’re in Abbeville, honey,” she said taking out her pad and pencil.

Sawyer cocked his head and frowned as if the name jolted a memory. He stuttered, “I… I’ll have

the special, ma’am.” He hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“What sides do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

The waitress flashed a smile. Her pearly white teeth shined in contrast to the orange-red lipstick,

“Ok…now save some room, ‘cause we’ve got lots of yummy desserts.”

He managed a tired smile, “Yes, ma’am.”

The coffee’s aroma went up each nostril. Still it was the most comforting thing he’d had all day.

His aching legs started to throb so he stood up and walked around making his way to the men’s

restroom in the back left side of the diner.

On his way out, he stopped to look at old photographs. The collage pre-dated the diner to the

civil war. A photo of Jefferson Davis hung up top in a round frame with a few individual photos of

young Confederate soldiers in their uniforms directly below, their names written on a gold plate at

the bottom. Grease from the diner lined each frame. Another grouping was a picture of a painting

that showed people standing together. “First Organized Meeting of Secession,” it read. Photos and

names of cotton plantations from all over the state of South Carolina displayed off to the left side

of the wall; many pictured with slaves standing in front of them. A picture of a horse and buggy

parked in front of the old Abbeville bank and another showing the square from sometime in the

early 1900’s was the last picture he observed before wandering back to his table. Dottie was just

bringing out his food.

He devoured his meal, and sat satisfied with his legs stretched out under the booth. Sawyer only

noticed two other patrons and they were up at the bar stools. The cook yelled out to one of them.

Dottie returned to top off his coffee again, “What kind of dessert do you want, honey? We’ve

got ice cream, apple pie, pecan pie…” she paused, “Oh, and pumpkin pie that was made this

evening.”

Sawyer thought a moment, “I’ll take a bitty bit of pumpkin pie, please.”

As she walked away, he picked up his mug strolling over to the other side to look at more

pictures. There he found photos of the diner when it was built in 1929. From the looks of it, not

much had changed. The old Abbeville jail and firehouse hung in black frames beside each other

and photos of the railroad depot with different train engines depicted in them. Strangely, these

images were familiar, but Sawyer dismissed them. The row of pictures below showed six Victorian

style homes from the area with the owner’s name, and year built in the bottom right corner. These

houses were built between 1880 and 1907. Being a general contractor he liked the detailing and

appreciated the construction of older southern homes.

Focusing on the details, he caught a glimpse of a specific house. As he approached it, his eyes

widened. A sinking feeling entered his gut. There in a gold toned oval frame was the white two-

story Victorian manor from his nightmares! “It can’t be…” he whispered aloud. Leaning closer he

stared at it. The plate read, McKinley Manor -Built 1897 by Andrew McKinley. His knees buckled

as he fell into the empty booth. Visions flashed before his eyes. “This is the house,” he muttered

running a hand through his hair.

He stood up pointing to the photo. “I remember this house!” The waitress swung around from

behind the counter. An old man minding the cash register stopped and glared for a second, then

resumed fiddling with the money. Sawyer approached the old man; whose gray hair was neatly

combed. He wore a shirt of the same color yellow with black pants; obviously he was employed

there. Boney in frame, his long thin fingers were engaged in his task.

“Excuse me, sir.” said Sawyer. The man ignored him.

“Sir,” he said again touching him on the sleeve, “Do you know anything ‘bout this house?”

Sawyer pointed toward the wall. The man eye balled him a minute. Then he shuffled across the

floor to the mysterious photo to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s the old McKinley Manor here in Abbeville…burnt down ‘bout… 85 years ago,” he replied

in a slow gruff voice.

“It…burnt down?” Sawyer said hoarsely. The scrappy old man looked at him irritated. He didn’t

like being interrupted when he counted money. They were in the middle of closing and he’d lost

count for sure. He’d have to start all over again.

Sawyer composed himself, “What happened?”

“Let me think,” he said rubbing his chin. “It was around 1926. Then ‘bout a year later or so, it

was restored and resold ‘cause see, only the back half of the house was in need of fixin’.”

Sawyer frowned. “So it wasn’t destroyed?”

“Oh, it was destroyed alright…burnt down shortly after that older feller moved in…there was a

second fire; gutted the whole thing.” The old man turned and scooted back to his register. Sawyer

stood with his mouth open, perplexed, then gradually walked back to his booth.

Dottie returned, “Here’s your pumpkin pie, honey,” she said laying the plate down.

“Ma’am, could you please wrap this up for me…I need to go.”

“Sure,” she said.

A minute later she returned with the pie wrapped in plastic on a paper plate. She couldn’t help

notice his distress. “You ok?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her, “Do you know where this McKinley Manor is?”

She handed him the bill. “I think it’s a mile or two up the road that way,” she pointed, “But it

sits a good ways from the main road. I don’t think there’s anything left of it… just a shell of a house

there now. You ain’t fixin’ to go up there this late at night?”

Sawyer pulled out his wallet giving her $20 and smiled. “No, ma’am. Keep the change.” He

scurried out the door.

Chapter 3

It seemed like a never ending road back to Spartanburg. The tires of the gray pickup truck

squealed pulling up the driveway of the home of Thomas and Anna McKinley. It was well after

midnight.

Sawyer sprinted to the front door ringing the bell impatiently. His mother, Anna, was still awake

in her pink bathrobe and slippers. She didn’t get to bed until well after 1am most evenings because

she stayed up to watch the news and old re-runs. Opening the door she was greeted by her frantic

son; he looked pale and tired,

“What’s wrong Sawyer…what’s the matter?” she said alarmed.

“Sorry, mama, I know it’s late,” he said.

Anna hugged him, “That’s ok, is everything alright?”

Sawyer fidgeted with his keys, “No, not really.”

Anna got nervous. This wasn’t like Sawyer to show up at all hours. A frown curled her brow,

“Come sit down, I’ll get ya some tea,” she said softly. “Your daddy and Grandma Ellen are asleep.”

Her son followed her to the kitchen sitting down at the table while she fiddled around the

refrigerator for the tea pitcher.

“Do you know anything about a McKinley Manor in Abbeville?” he added. Anna poked her

head around the door and nodded. “How come I never heard ‘bout it?” he pressed her.

She found glasses pouring them both full of sweet tea, “Well, I didn’t think it was

important…that was ages ago.”

Sawyer rubbed his brow in deep thought, “Don’t we have a scrapbook of old pictures here

somewhere… I remember lookin’ at them when I was younger. I’d like to see them again.”

Anna handed him the glass. She leaned in to take a deep whiff wondering if he’d been

drinking…nope, nothing. She wasn’t sure why old pictures needed to be looked at this time of night,

but his behavior concerned her. “Well, that scrapbook’s around here somewhere.” She squeezed

his shoulder, “I’ll go look…drink your tea.”

Anna, a cute, petite, woman, enjoys cooking and keeping house, and loves her only child. She

pampered him too much, but raised Sawyer to be a smart, strong minded boy. His visit tonight

surprised her since she didn’t expect him until Sunday. That’s when he came for dinner and watched

sports with his dad. Sawyer looked forward to their Sunday meal; he loved her cooking. He ate

anything she made.

She searched for her pair of bifocals in the living room. Spying them on the coffee table next to

a box of her favorite chocolate candies, she snatched them and scooted upstairs just as Grandma

Ellen appeared on the stairway. She leaned on her cane. Sawyer looked over as he took a huge gulp

of tea. He was shocked to see her up and about since her knee surgery a week earlier.

“Hi Grandma…sorry if I woke you,” he said softly.

Grandma Ellen smiled at him waving her finger, “Wake me? I can’t sleep with this damn knee

throbbin’ like it does. Although it’s better since the swellin’ went down…but the pain medication

they got me on makes me loopy. Oh…and now the doctor says I have to lose weight…do y’all

believe that bull?” Sawyer grinned at her. She was a feisty woman. Her quick witted nature kept

everyone on their toes. She limped over teetering herself ungracefully into the chair next to him.

Grandma Ellen is his father’s mother, and a big woman. She’d always been that way, but since

her knee problem started a few years back, the added weight contributed to her immobility.

Otherwise, she’s as healthy as a horse; full of spunk and straight forward as ever. Certainly not

someone you’d want to butt heads with, because Grandma Ellen didn’t put up with foolery. Now

she’s living with Anna and Thomas, much to Anna’s mortification. It’s not that she doesn’t like her

mother-in-law, but the woman’s rudeness drives her up a wall.

“Why are you here so late?” she grumbled propping the cane against the table.

Sawyer glanced at her, “I need to look at that old photo album we use to have.”

Ellen looked at him strangely, “You said y’all lookin’ for a photo album?” She yelled up the

stairs, “Hey, Anna…didn’t I give you that album years ago? Maybe it’s under that pile of crap you

have under the bed.”

Anna cringed. The sound of that old woman’s voice was like fingernails down a chalkboard.

She knew where the album was and started rummaging through the hall closet. After moving several

objects around she found a large, dusty, old green colored box toward the back shelf. Carefully

placing it on the floor she removed the lid and took out an old engraved photo album and leather

bound book. Struggling to read the engraving she tilted her head back, “Oh! I need better glasses!”

she gasped.

A few minutes later her voice bellowed down the stairs, “I think I found it!” She shushed herself

remembering Thomas was asleep. Returning to the kitchen, Anna fetched a hand towel and placed

the album and the book on the kitchen table wiping dust off the covers. A small round mirror

encrusted the front of the album while a large metal clasp held it shut. Covered in an unusual green

and brown fabric; vibrant at one time, now clearly faded; it remained bound by rusty hinges, but

still in good condition. She attempted to open it, but it held tight from all the years it lay unopened

in the box.

“Here…let me see it,” Grandma Ellen said snatching it away from her.

“These are pictures from your daddy’s side of the family,” she grunted trying to open the clasp

with her clumsy hands. “Now… darn it, why can’t I get this? Sawyer, help me open this thing!”

she whined.

Sawyer reached for the album. His strong hands gently opened the clasp, “There, you just have

to slide the latch up first.” He said handing it back to her.

A strong musty odor permeated from its pages as soon as Ellen opened it. Each photo appeared

to be bound by little pocket corners attached to some type of brown parchment like paper. An old

relic indeed, yet some photos had been taped on from the back. Someone had tried to piece it

together at one time, but black and white pictures still fell out within its pages. One was a tin type

dating back to the Civil War. Sawyer grabbed it delicately tucking it back in.

Ellen stared at Anna’s face giving her a puzzled look, “Why are you wearin’ my bifocals?”

Baffled, Anna took the glasses off to examine them, “Well no wonder I couldn’t see a thing,”

she said handing them over to her. Items were always getting mixed up with Grandma Ellen around.

Anna sighed remembering the glasses were next to her favorite box of chocolates. “Oh, that

woman!”

Ellen positioned the spectacles on the bridge of her nose, while she glimpsed over the pictures.

“This is the McKinley family album…what are you lookin’ for?”

Sawyer took another sip of tea, “I want to know ‘bout the house in Abbeville… McKinley

Manor.”

“McKinley Manor?” she sighed, “Well the only stories I got are from your great-grandma, Sarah.

I’ll tell you to the best of my memory…which ain’t that good,” she chuckled.

Carelessly flipping through the album pages, she licked her index finger with each turn. Anna

cringed at the burly woman’s disregard for the heirloom. Ellen would pause every once in a while,

as if she found something. “Nope, that ain’t him,” she’d announce and continue with the page

flipping. Finally she stopped, tapping on a picture attached in the upper right corner. “Here he is…

the handsome devil,” she smiled. “This is your great, great, grand pap Andrew McKinley. He’s the

one who started McKinley Contractors,” she elbowed Sawyer in the ribs.

Ellen noticed the sparkling glass of sweet tea sitting in front of her grandson. She picked it up

and took a swig. “Mmmm…this is delicious. Hey Anna, get me a glass of this stuff would you? That

pain medication makes me thirsty.”

Anna stood up and walked to the refrigerator. “Lord, give me strength,” she whispered under

her breath. Pouring a glass, she plunked it down in front of the annoying woman and sat back

down.

“Thank you,” Ellen said with satisfaction. “Okay…where were we?”

After a long pause, the gruff woman spoke, “Andrew McKinley, your great, great grand pap,

started McKinley Contractors sometime in the early 1890’s. They built very nice houses in

Abbeville and other counties further west from here.” She took another sip, spitting an ice cube

back in the glass. “Around that time he married Evelyn and built McKinley Manor just outside of

Abbeville.” She referred to a picture showing three men standing in front of a building. A rickety

sign hung on a wooden post that read McKinley Contractors, “This one’s kinda fuzzy, but here’s

Andrew again.…”

Sawyer studied it. “And who are these other two men?”

She tilted her head, “That’s Andrew’s two sons, John and Samuel. John’s your great grandpa,

and the other one is Samuel, his younger brother…. your great uncle.”

He looked up at Ellen with his bright eyes, “Was Andrew the one who died in a house fire?”

“Yes,” Ellen said bewildered. “How’d you know ‘bout that?”

He shrugged, “Somebody told me.”

“Andrew, Evelyn and John all died in that fire.” she added. “The business went belly up until

your granddad William was able to start it up again here in Spartanburg in the late 1930’s. It was

just before I met him…”

“So, how’d the fire start?” Sawyer squirmed in his chair.

Ellen touched her silver gray hair wrapping each curl around her wrinkled fingers. “I don’t

know.”

“Is there a picture of the manor in here somewhere?”

She searched through more photos, “Here,” she said turning the album to the side for him to see

it better. Several pictures held fastened in it. Finding a smaller version than the one in the diner,

Sawyer starred with an instant familiarity.

The manor wasn’t as elaborate as some southern Victorian homes, but it was a beautiful white

two story structure with living space that was more deep than wide. The front of the home appeared

rather small with a porch and stained glass framing the front door.

Photos were taken of the manor during various seasons: Summer, when the trees appeared full

with leaves; Christmas, with a wreath hanging on the front door. One pictured an outside terrace

with an arbor full of roses sitting close to the house on the far right of the property. There was a

small trail of stones leading down to what looked like a pond in the distance. Even though the

photos were in black and white, you could make out its grand scenery.

One photo showed Evelyn McKinley standing in front of the manor in what appeared to be an

Easter dress and a floppy hat. Sarah stood to the right of her with an equally long dress and hat. On

the other side of Evelyn stood a woman with a shorter dress and a cloche hat with a small feather

on it, her long hair pulled back and tucked under it slightly. A chill went down Sawyer’s spine.

“Who is she?”

Ellen looked at it. “I believe that’s Sarah’s sister.”

His expression became childlike, “What was her name?”

“Pretty, isn’t she…oh, what was her name…” she snapped her fingers hoping it would magically

pop into her head.

Captivated, Sawyer couldn’t pull his gaze away from her image. He looked up, his face flushed

from embarrassment. Who was this woman and why was she having this effect on him?

“Carrie!” she finally blurted.

Sawyer ran his hand through his hair. “Carrie,” he mouthed.

“Here’s another picture,” replied the old woman referring to a photo she found of his uncle and

young woman standing together. “She was Samuel’s fiancée, Carrie Allison.” Ellen looked at

Sawyer oddly then back down at the picture. “Now ain’t that a funny thing! You resemble Sam a

bit,” she snorted.

Sawyer spied something on the back of the photo, “Look…there’s writing.” Written in cursive

with black ink the words Sam and Carrie- Fall 1925 appeared. He stared at the picture wondering

what the couple must have been thinking when it was taken. They looked so happy. “What

happened to Samuel?” he said clearing his throat.

“Samuel was away in Georgia at law school. A real shame what happened.”

Sawyer frowned, “What do you mean?”

Ellen rubbed her knee again and yawned. “He was killed…shot to death.”

“Shot!” Sawyer gasped, “Are you kidding?”

“A group of men were arrested for running liquor back and forth from South Carolina to Georgia.

Sam was assisting in a case involving these fellas. Bootlegging was going on during those days, my

boy…good ole’ prohibition, but folks needed to make a living somehow. The men were going to

trial and somehow got hold of shotguns…started shooting up the courtroom. I think there’s a

newspaper clipping in here somewhere.” She fingered through the papers, “Yep, here…‘Massacre

in Courthouse.’ Your Aunt Sarah kept all this stuff. Here you read it, my eyes are blurry.”

Sawyer snatched the article, reading a portion of it aloud:

Several people were injured and two killed when alleged bootlegger, John Snipes and four

other men pulled out shotguns while entering the courthouse on Monday. Among other

allegations of corruption the men are accused of running alcohol between South Carolina and

Georgia…those injured were Robert Greene, Marcus O’Malley…

He scanned further down the article,

Among those killed during the incident were State Prosecutor Assistant, Samuel McKinley,

and Court Clerk Doris Burns.”

Sawyer felt sick inside.

Anna spoke up, “Goodness, the McKinley family has seen a lot of drama…”

“You ain’t kidding. I’ve got stories I could tell you ‘bout your grandfather that’d make your head

spin…but, I’ll save that for another day, my knee is killing me and I’m no spring chicken…so I

think I’ll head on up to bed,” the feisty woman replied.

“Wait Grandma…just a few more questions. What happened to Carrie?”

“Hmm…as I recall she was a seamstress somewhere in Abbeville. She met an older man after

Samuel died.” Ellen rubbed her eyes again. “People were afraid of him ‘cause he wore a cloth like

thing over his face. Your great grandma, Sarah, told me ‘bout him. He was the one who restored

the manor…but then he died in the second fire.”

“But Carrie continued to live in Abbeville?”

Ellen looked at him, “No, I don’t think so.”

Sawyer shook his head in disbelief, “So, there were two fires? I guess there isn’t anything left

of the manor anymore, huh…probably gutted?”

She yawned, “I guess.”

He scratched his chin, “Doesn’t it seem odd that there were two fires? The women nodded.

He stared at the picture of Samuel and Carrie. The whole McKinley history was beyond bizarre.

Sawyer felt a restless compulsion to do something, but what? Staring at her image evoked a rush of

feelings he’d never felt before. This woman on some level was extremely important to him.

Suddenly, something clicked in his head. Horrific images splashed across his mind while a sharp

pain seared through the back of his skull. Feeling like a caged animal he stood up.

“Are you alright?” his mother asked.

“I’m…I’m fine, mama.” he said rubbing his neck, “It’s late. I need to leave now…can I borrow

this?”

“Sure, honey, but please be very careful. It’s been in the family for a long time.”

He leaned over giving his mother and grandmother a big kiss, “Sorry for coming over so late.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it… I’m glad you came over,” Anna said. “Oh, and your daddy wanted me

to remind you that the contractor’s meeting is cancelled next week and won’t be rescheduled until

the spring. He said to take the week off ‘cause we both know you’ve been working so hard.”

Sawyer managed a half smile. He turned to leave, but something caught his eye.

“What’s that,” he said pointing to the leather bound book.

“It came with the album.”

“Can I take this too?” he asked.

She handed it to him placing a kiss on his forehead, “Love, you. Don’t forget supper on Sunday.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied. With album and book in hand he hastily left.

Anna waved goodbye from the living room window as Sawyer pulled out of the driveway. Then

she returned to the kitchen. The two women looked at each other.

“You best keep a close eye on that boy, something’s off,” Ellen warned.