Southern Haunts

by Stuart Jaffe

  Max raised an eyebrow. “Would you trust any witch that studied under Connor? She tried to kill us way too many times. Not that one time is okay, but you get my point.”

  “And that’s my point. I’m no witch, and we can’t trust a witch. So, be satisfied knowing that the bottle has something going on.”

  “Hold on.” Much like Drummond, Max tapped his chin and pursed his lips as he thought. “We do know a witch — one that’s on our side. Sort of. Mother Hope.”

  “Are you crazy? Those Magi people may not be our enemies, but I wouldn’t trust them. And neither would you.”

  “Who said anything about trust? All I’m saying is that we can use them.” Max checked his watch. “We can clean up and be in Greensboro before the morning rush really hits.”

  “It’s a bad idea, and you know it.”

  “Of course, it’s a bad idea. But who else can we go to?”

  Sandra brushed by Max on her way toward the stairs. “You can go, but I’ve got an appointment.” Before Max could say a word, she added, “A real appointment. Doctor’s appointment.”

  Though he tried to keep his eyes on Sandra, he snatched a glance at the bathroom trash. “Something wrong?”

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  Chapter 11

  Before traversing Route 40 to Greensboro and Mother Hope, Max stopped by his office. He went straight to the little corner shop and bought a bagel and a bottle of water. Setting a rapid pace, he walked down the block and into the rundown section of the city. He headed straight for PB’s place.

  As crazy as the last day had been, PB rumbled in the back of Max’s head all the while. Sometimes it was little more than a feeling; sometimes PB’s bruised image flashed in his mind. Yet even though he knew he should focus on the Darians, that he should focus on research, that he should focus on Sandra and her pregnancy test, he could not purge the kid from his mind. PB had become a subconscious flicker, a subliminal message flashing during a movie, yet that kid probably thought of Max only when his stomach grumbled in the morning.

  As Max navigated around the piles of rubble and trash, he found PB lounging in the shade of a brick wall. “Brought you some breakfast.”

  PB never bothered looking at Max, but instead, he scrunched his face as if smelling something distasteful. Max set the meager meal across two bricks. He surveyed the area.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble yesterday. I don’t see any sign of that guy, Wolf, around.”

  Hunger beat out pride. PB snatched the bagel and water and turned away, facing the wall. Max’s heart dropped. One bad morning and this kid had reverted to an animalistic state.

  “C’mon, PB. Who are you going to talk with, if not me?”

  “The rats are good company. At least, they’re upfront about what they want.”

  “I don’t want anything. I’m only trying to help you out.”

  Shifting back around, PB guzzled the water and belched. “You want to ease your guilt — for being rich or white or whatever. I don’t really care. Every guy like you is guilty about something, and you think by passing a little food my way, you’re such a big help. Really making a difference. But you’re always going to leave, and I’m always going to be stuck here.”

  “Doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “Oh, what now? You going to bring me into your home? Is that it? You want me to call you papa and give you lots of hugs?”

  “No,” Max said, and before he could think, he added, “But you could work for me.” He felt the same shock he saw on PB’s face. The words hung in the air and neither knew what to do with them.

  Finally, PB threw the plastic water bottle at Max’s feet. “Get the hell out of here. You ain’t going to give me a job. What am I going to do, huh? Answer phones? I’m sure your clients would love to see somebody like me at the desk when they come in.”

  “What are complaining about? It’s better than this, and it’ll pay you cash. Besides, you don’t even know what I do.”

  “You look like a cheap lawyer. Ambulance chaser type.”

  “Really? You think a lawyer can scrap it up like I did yesterday?”

  “Don’t care. You ain’t seriously hiring me and I ain’t doing no job. I got all I need, and what I don’t got, I can get. You want to keep showing up with breakfast, that’s fine. I’m no fool. I’ll take your free food. You want to force me into labor, the hell with that.”

  Though none of this conversation had gone the way Max intended, he had to admit that he felt better overall. He gave a little wave and walked away.

  “Hey! Where you going?”

  Max paused. “I got a job to do. Got to earn my living.”

  He walked a few more steps before PB said, “If I want to check out your so-called job, if I want to see if you’re legit, where do I find you?”

  “A block over.”

  “What building?”

  “Kind of work I do, you should be able to figure that out yourself.”

  Max left, suppressing a smile. He had a good feeling the next time he saw PB, the young man would be asking for employment. Now, all Max had to do was figure out how they could possibly afford to hire him and what he could possibly do.

  About twenty minutes later, Max drove to a gas station and filled up for the trip to Greensboro. Modern country played over the loudspeakers — an ode to drinking hard and falling in love. His mind played ping-pong between his upcoming discussion with Mother Hope and his previous discussion with Sandra.

  “You think any harder and smoke’s going to come out your ears.” Drummond appeared on the opposite side of the car.

  Max checked if anybody around could catch him talking to thin air. The only other car sat two pumps over, and the driver had gone inside only moments before. “Did you find anything in the Other?”

  “I’ve searched all over there, put out a few feelers, and nothing. Can’t find anybody who died in the house or built the house or anything.”

  “How’s that possible? Those people can’t all still be alive. Even someone who built the place at a real young age would be over a hundred by now.”

  “The Other doesn’t house all the dead. It’s not as if George Washington is hanging out with Lauren Bacall. It’s a place for the ghosts — an alternate plane for those of us who are still here.”

  “I know. But none of the people who should be connected to the house are there? That’s crazy. Somebody should be around.”

  “They’ve probably all moved on to whatever comes after. It’s possible that one or two are in the Other and hiding, but I can’t imagine why that would be. No, my gut tells me that they’ve all moved on.”

  Max topped off the gas and recapped the tank. “That doesn’t leave us much.”

  “Just whatever you found out last night at the Darians’ house.”

  Indicating the blue Casper bottle on the passenger seat, Max said, “There’s that. The house made a big show of noise and lights and then it left us that.”

  “Wow, I haven’t seen a Casper Blue in a long time.”

  “You know about that bottle?”

  Drummond stuck his face through the side of the car and right up next to the bottle. Though he couldn’t smell it, he inhaled anyway. “My father’s favorite whiskey. Whenever he could afford it, he’d announce, ‘I’m getting me some Casper Blue.’ That’s what he liked to call it. I don’t know if that was a real brand name or anything, but I do recall that it was expensive stuff.”

  “The ads I found all claimed to be the lowest-priced whiskey around.”

  “Back when the company was running, sure. By the time my old man was a full-fledged alcoholic, the Casper Company hadn’t been around for some time. Finding an unopened blue bottle was a delight, and since each one meant one less in the world, they were expensive.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  Drummond’s wistful eyes looked over the bottle once more. “Never had it. My father wasn’t about to give his kid a shot of whiskey — espe
cially the expensive stuff. When I got older and gained an appreciation for whiskey, I never found a bottle that I could try. According to my father, though, ol’ Casper could sure make a hell of a good drink.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Max said, his focus drifting off as his thoughts raced around his head.

  “What is?”

  “I want you to go back into the Other.”

  “I told already, I didn’t find anybody. And my sources will let me know if someone’s hiding.”

  “No, no, forget about all that. I want you to look for John L. Casper.”

  “Casper?”

  “He died somewhere in Mexico and nobody really knows what happened to him. Considering how big The Casper Company became during its heyday, and if you add in the fact that they dealt in whiskey, I’m thinking there’s a good chance Casper didn’t move on with ease. Right? He could be in the Other.”

  Drummond brought his hands together in one strong clap. “This is why I like working with you. That brain of yours comes up with some clever ideas now and then.”

  Max started the car and pulled into traffic. “Let me know as soon as you find anything out.”

  “You got it. So, what about you? Where are you going?”

  “Me?” The seatbelt rubbed against Max’s neck. He readjusted it but still felt as if it dug into him.

  Drummond pointed a finger at him. “You going to answer me or are you going to keep fidgeting like the guiltiest criminal ever to sit in an interrogation room?”

  With his face heating up, Max said, “Sorry. I just don’t think you’re going to like this.”

  “I already don’t like it. So, out with it.”

  Max explained how Sandra could feel energy pulsing off the bottle, how they didn’t have a witch they could use, and that the only option was to take the bottle to Mother Hope.

  Drummond flicked the rim of his hat. “That woman is not going to bring you anything but trouble.”

  “You got a better idea? I don’t see another option.”

  “Unfortunately, you might be right. She’ll still cause you trouble, but I don’t know how else you’ll get the answers. I’d think maybe Leed could help, but he’s been pretty quiet since being at the Darians’ house. He’s still with me, but he’s not the same.”

  Max eased along the Route 40 on-ramp. “I’ll be in Greensboro in about twenty-thirty minutes. You come up with something better before then, please tell me. Otherwise, go find Casper.”

  Drummond faced Max with a grave look. Usually, his ghostly temperature didn’t bother Max or even register, but this time, Max could feel the air in the car chilling around him. “You be real careful,” Drummond said, each word dropping the temperature faster. “Never forget that she’s a witch. The Magi group may be on our side — at least, most of the time — but no matter what Mother Hope says, she’s still a witch.”

  “I know. Don’t worry.”

  “And above all else, don’t you dare promise her anything. You understand? Don’t make any promises.”

  “All I want is for her to check out this bottle. That’s it. I’m not going to let our conversation go down any other avenue. And if she won’t help me out, then so be it. I’ll thank her for her time, get back on the road, and come home. It’ll —”

  Drummond snapped out a finger and pointed at Max’s face. “Don’t you dare say it’ll be easy.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  Of course, Max had lied.

  Chapter 12

  Standing in the shadow of the brick and granite O. Henry Hotel, Max tried to shuck off the sense of dread driving down his shoulders. Hard to do when the last time he had stepped foot in this place, he nearly lost his life.

  “You sure there isn’t another witch?” Max muttered to the parking lot. When no answer came, he trudged up to the lobby.

  The place had not changed. The dark wood walls, high ceilings, and overwhelming smell of a fireplace gave the hotel a dignified and stuffy aura as if at any moment, British gentlemen from the 19th century would enter smoking cigars and swirling cognac. The brass elevators on his right and the classy reception desk on his left broke the illusion but not by much.

  A short walk ahead, the wide lobby opened into a large sitting room. Thick, heavy furniture created a miniature labyrinth and classical music swept around the area, floating up to the ceiling two stories above. And, of course, the most important part of the hotel rested near that ceiling — O. Henry’s famous short story, The Gift of the Magi, had been painstakingly painted in one long spiraling path covering all four walls. It looked like an artistic homage of the hotel to its namesake, but Max knew better. Those words acted as runes to a spell that formed a protective barrier around the building. Not protecting Max, of course, but rather the witch he intended to see.

  Since nobody bothered to greet him, Max approached the reception desk. A man and a woman worked at the desk. The woman busied herself with her computer while the man picked up a phone and spoke in a low tone. Neither smiled at him or welcomed him or even offered to help him. The suspicious way they eyed him suggested all he needed to know.

  Instead of talking with them, Max turned toward the lounge area and plunked down on an overstuffed couch. And he waited. His eyes felt heavy. He had been up for over twenty-four hours, and the idea of a quick rest pushed him deeper into the couch.

  He knew they watched him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel it. But even if that detective’s sense for danger hadn’t been improving, simple logic told him that the Magi group would never allow their leader and witch to be anywhere that wasn’t under surveillance. Only a short time later, he heard footsteps approaching. He forced his eyes open and saw two broad-chested men wearing ill-fitting suits.

  With a low groan, Max got to his feet. “If you two aren’t the muscle around here, I’ll have to go buy a hat just so I can eat it.”

  One of the men had a pencil-thin goatee. His square head blocked out his partner. “Is there something we can help you with?”

  “I’m here to see Mother Hope.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “That’s for Mother Hope.”

  Square-head grinned as if Max’s stubbornness would make his day. “Nobody gets to see her without declaring their intentions.”

  “My intentions? Gentlemen, I’m not interesting in marrying the woman. I simply have a question for her. I’m sure if you let her know that Max Porter is here, she’ll see me.”

  To his partner, Square-head said, “Everybody thinks they’re special.” The partner snickered.

  “I’m not saying I’m special. It’s simply that Mother Hope and I have had some past dealings. She knows who I am and will, at least, hear me out.”

  Square-head’s voice turned grim. “About what?”

  “About none of your damn business. Now, I understand you’ve got a job to do, but you need to understand that your boss deals with sensitive information and I’m not about to tell just anyone —”

  Square-head grabbed Max’s hand and twisted it in such a way that Max spun around. His wrist burned and his elbow locked. Square-head’s partner chuckled as Square-head continued to speak in a calm but menacing tone. “We understand our jobs perfectly. You want to see her? Then come with us.”

  With a push of the arm, Max had no choice but to stumble forward. Trying to stand his ground would only result in breaking his arm. “I’m moving. Let me go and I’ll keep moving.”

  Square-head maintained his control of Max’s arm. He turned Max down a hall and into a private elevator. If anybody witnessed this assault, they chose not to offer help. At least, Square-head released Max’s arm once the elevator started to descend.

  To avoid making eye contact with either thug, Max watched the display above the door. When the elevator eased to a stop, the display read B4. On the floor selection panel, there were buttons for the Lobby (L) and the floor below (B1), but none other after that. No B2 or B3, and certainly no B4.

  The elevator doo
rs slid open, revealing a dismal hall with a wood-slat door on each side — one close to the elevator, the second about halfway down the corridor — and one metal door at the end. They stopped at the second wood-slat door. Square-head shoved Max inside.

  Max had expected the sparse room to have a two-way mirror much like a police interrogation room, and the Magi group did not disappoint. However, he did not expect the absence of a table and chairs. Most certainly, he had no inkling that the wall opposite the mirror would bear two thick, metal rings — the kind used for prisoners in medieval dungeons.

  “Perhaps we’ve got off on the wrong foot,” Max said.

  As he broke for the door, his gut met with Square-head’s solid fist. The air rushed out of Max’s lungs as his stomach slammed up against its neighboring organs. With his legs weakening, Max groped for the wall to keep from falling over. Square-head’s friend, the one who kept chuckling, rushed in and smashed his shoulder against Max’s.

  “Don’t break his bones,” Square-head said.

  Chuckles hocked up in his mouth and spit on the floor. “You gotta let me do more than that. C’mon. I been waiting for this.”

  “Tie him up for now.”

  Chuckles knotted one meaty hand in Max’s shirt and thrust him against the wall. “I’d love for me a reason to pound your skull, so give me a hard time. Please.”

  Max opted to put his energy into standing. As his legs regained their strength — at least, a modicum of strength — he noticed Square-head locking the door. Chuckles continued to earn his name as he used coarse rope to tie Max’s wrists to the iron rings in the wall.

  “What’s that?” Square-head stepped across the room to where Max had fallen. From the floor, he lifted the blue bottle. He pressed the bottle against Max’s cheek. “What’s with this? You got poison in here or something?”

  “Poison? There’s no top on the bottle.” Max knew Chuckles would punch him for being snide, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Answer my partner,” Chuckles said and did as expected.

  Max clamped down his jaw, hoping to avoid throwing up. Not only would that signal weakness to his captors, but he feared what they might do should he accidentally hit them with his vomit.