Southern Curses (Max Porter Mysteries Book 6)

by Stuart Jaffe

  He eased behind his desk and rubbed his face. The situation had moved faster than he had expected, and he wondered if he had any real control. Sending Jammer J off on a crucial mission with a vital message meant trusting the outcome to the skills of a teenager. He had done it before but not with so much in the balance. At least he knew Maria would look after PB. If it all fell apart, if Max and Sandra never came back, at least that much good would come out of it. PB would be fine.

  He pulled a blank piece of paper from a drawer and an expensive pen as well. Unscrewing the cap, he looked at the empty page like a daunting mountain daring him to take the first step. He thought about what he would write as he hovered the pen over the paper.

  After a minute, he set the pen down and picked up the phone. On the second ring, his mother answered. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Maxwell, I’m so happy you called.”

  They chatted about nothing important for a little. He asked how she was doing, and she blabbed on for five minutes about her adventures with doctors and health insurance. While she spoke, he picked up the pen again and figured he knew enough to write the title — Last Will and Testament of Maxwell Samuel Porter.

  “Enough about me,” his mother said, her voice bubbling with excitement. He understood — though they spoke every week, he rarely was the one to reach out. “Tell me how you are. I take it you’ve got some good news?”

  I, Maxwell Samuel Porter, being of sound mind ... “Sorry, Mom. I know you’re hoping I’m calling about a baby, but she’s not pregnant.”

  “Oh. Well, is everything okay? You sound a bit strange.”

  “I’m okay. Very tired.”

  “You work too hard. Whenever I call, you’re doing research for one client or another. You’ve got to take time for yourself. Go on a vacation. Or at least take your wife on a date. How can I expect any grandchildren, if you’re exhausted all the time?”

  To my wife, I leave ... “A vacation sounds nice right now. Maybe when I’m done with my current assignment.”

  “That’d be smart. You listen to your mother. I know a thing or two.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘I know’ business. You need to listen to me. I’ve been looking out for you and your health my whole life. That’s my job. So, let me do my job.”

  To the boys I know as PB and Jammer J ... “That’s true. You have been looking out for me. Makes me think of when I was a kid and I thought the jackets in my closet turned into monsters at night.”

  His mother rumbled a soft chuckle. “You had quite an imagination. The teeth on the zippers became big mouths that wanted to gobble you up. For two nights, you refused to sleep in your room.”

  “But you fought them for me.”

  “I tried. I did that thing they tell parents where I filled a spray bottle with water and told you it was monster spray. But you were too smart for that.”

  Under the authority of Sandra Porter, I wish to set up the Marshall Drummond College Scholarship ... “I don’t know why I did that. If I believed the coats could become monsters, why couldn’t I accept your monster spray?”

  “It sounded phony. Because you remember what actually worked, don’t you? The truth. I simply told you that monsters didn’t exist. We sat in your room and waited until night, and then I turned out the lights. I took you by the hand, and we opened the closet door and touched the coats. After that, you had no problems because you knew there were no monsters.”

  Max dropped the pen. “I wish that were still true. But I know better now. There are monsters. Real ones.”

  His mother lost all the forced frivolity she usually employed. It was scary hearing her speak serious. “Yes, there are. People can be evil things.”

  “Was my father? We never talk much about him.”

  “At times. At times, he was wonderful. I guess that’s the way most people are.” Like turning a light switch, his mother shifted back to her normal self. “Why are you asking such things? What good comes from dwelling on the bad stuff in life?”

  “Sorry. It was just on my mind. I’ve got to get going. I have an important meeting tonight. But I wanted to call and, oh, I don’t know. I hope I’ve done good by you, made you feel that you did a good job raising me.”

  “Of course, I do. I’m proud of you all the time. I love you.”

  Max smiled. “I love you, too, Mom. Good-bye.”

  As he hung up the phone, Sandra walked in. Her hair was wet and she wore clean clothes. The delightful aroma of shampoo and soap covered her skin. She placed a fresh pair of jeans, clean boxers, and a clean shirt on the back of a chair. “You about ready?”

  “I’ll put those on and we can go.”

  “You hungry? Want me to make a sandwich or anything for the drive?”

  “Sure. That’d be great.”

  After she left, Max picked up his pen and read over the paper. Satisfied, he signed it at the bottom and quickly got dressed.

  Chapter 22

  Sandra took the wheel and guided them all the way out to Route 64. On his phone, Max juggled between his maps app to help Sandra and his browser to research the Devil’s Tramping Ground.

  “There isn’t much solid info here,” he grumbled. “Mostly just legends.”

  “That’s better than nothing.”

  So, Max told her the legends. From what he could find, the Devil’s Tramping Ground had existed since the birth of Chatham County. On the surface, it didn’t seem that strange — a circle of tramped down grass about forty feet in diameter sitting in the woods. Except according to the locals of the time, nothing would grow there. If they left a bottle or a hat or any object in the circle, they would return the next day to find that the object had been violently thrown aside. Supposedly, anybody who dared attempt to spend the night in the circle ran off a raving madman.

  Nobody knows what was really wrong with the place, but there were plenty of hypotheses. The most prominent, and the one that gave the ground its name, was that the Devil himself rose at night and paced the circle while laying plans for the suffering and destruction of mankind. However, another story traced back to before the European settlers arrived.

  According to that tale, two native tribes had clashed in a massive battle that converged on the area. Casualties were high, and the blood of both tribes seeped into the ground, killing the soil and preventing life from taking root. One tribe was decimated to extinction. The other tribe, horrified by their deeds, left the area forever. They relocated eastward on the coast, forming the Croatan tribe which connected with another great mystery — the lost colony of Roanoke Island.

  “Those are both good stories,” Sandra said.

  “Not much in the way of facts, though.”

  “It still confirms what Maria said — that the area is filled with significant negative energy. Perfect for the kinds of spells and curses we’ve been dealing with. I imagine covens have been using the circle for the last hundred years or more.”

  “It appears teens use it now as a party spot.”

  “That figures.”

  After leaving the highway, they wound through one twisted road after another until they reached the intersection of Siler City Glendon Road and Route 902. On the map the place was labeled Harper’s Crossroads. Odd enough that an intersection in the middle of nowhere had a name that showed up on a map, but supposedly the Devil’s Tramping Ground Road connected due north — except when Sandra turned north on Siler City Glendon Road, all they saw surrounding them was a large field with head-high grass.

  Unless ... Max pointed to what looked like the narrow driveway that led through the fields to a farmhouse. No road sign. No indication that a road even existed.

  Sandra pulled a sharp turn. The GPS in Max’s phone said they were on the correct road.

  “Guess the locals or maybe even the county took down the road sign to keep the tourists of the weird away,” Max said.

  The area they drove through struck Max with its serenity. Beautiful trees in a thick fores
t on the left side. On the right, endless fields. About a mile up on the left, Max noticed a little cutaway with a few cars parked. It stood out because there was nothing around to stop for — no homes or businesses or anything. Just field and forest.

  They kept driving on, but after another mile the forest gave way to a typical suburban development. Max didn’t have to say a word. Sandra took the first opportunity to U-turn and head back.

  She parked the car near the others, and the instant they stepped out, Max knew they were in the right place. The air smelled dead. The temperature chilled his skin. Lime-green fungus dotted the trees. He could feel the threat pressing in from the soaked bark as if the forest had been mutated into a shallow bog.

  Shouldering the backpack, Max led the way with a flashlight. He didn’t have to go far. Gnarled tree roots formed natural stairs leading up into the wooded area, and only twenty or so feet in, he saw it — the wide, blackened circle littered with beer cans, bottles, and cardboard boxes. Apparently, the Devil got tired of removing the trash from teen parties.

  Though close to the road, the circle felt secluded, protected, hidden in the darkness of the trees. A mound of earth held the center of the circle with the remnants of fires set for warmth or possibly offerings. Several trails led off deeper into the woods.

  Max would have loved to explore the whole area, but unfortunately, they were not alone. Mother Hope and Leon Moore stood in front of the north trail with a burning torch stuck in the ground. Opposite Max and Sandra, on the west side, Tucker Hull and the Pale Man stood with their torch. And to the south stood Cecily Hull and her bodyguard, Mr. Pescatore. Flicking off the flashlight, Max waited for his eyes to adjust to the amber torches.

  Nobody moved, but everybody watched. Eyes darted from face to face. Fingers twitched. Tongues licked dry lips.

  Max noticed that Cecily held the bowling bag at her side. She had to know it was empty. The weight of the skull and the iron gag dug the backpack into Max’s shoulder, and that bowling bag had to be light. A bluff that appeared to be holding the others back — good for her. But that bluff would only last so long, and since Max held the real threat, he could stop her anytime he wanted. The way her eyes fixated on his backpack told him she shared the same thoughts.

  Tucker stood with his legs apart and his eyes squinting like a cowboy in an old western. Since his resurrection, he had been burning through bodies. His current choice — a square-jawed, military man — appeared to be holding up better than the others Max had seen. But it wasn’t enough to convince Max of Tucker’s strength.

  Not that the patriarch of the Hull family was weak — after all, Max had been there when Tucker fought a hellish spirit in the depths beneath Baxter House. But that had been over a year ago, and other than that moment, Tucker had displayed little in the way of power. Perhaps returning from the grave had cost him more than he cared to admit. That had certainly been the prevailing hypothesis to explain why Hull had failed to take out Max and his wife.

  The only problem with that line of thinking was Mother Hope. Max watched the old woman closely. She snatched glances at Tucker but refused to look too long. She was afraid of him. That was enough to give Max a shiver.

  Leon, the Pale Man, and Mr. Pescatore all watched each other like growling dogs aching to be let off the leash. Drummond slipped out of the woods and weaved around the groups, observing up close the things Max inferred from a distance.

  Max saw that Drummond had no trouble moving close to Mother Hope. The energy of the Devil’s Tramping Ground must have prevented Mother Hope’s wards from working. That’s why she’s scared. Not simply because of her vulnerability to Drummond, but her vulnerability to Tucker as well. He existed in both the living and the dead worlds. Her wards must have protected her ever since his return. But not here.

  Tucker lifted a hand. He spoke with a thick, wet voice. “We all know why we came. We all know what’s at stake. But unless my dear Cecily can produce the skull, there is no point in letting this situation escalate.”

  “Yes,” Mother Hope said, shifting on her feet like an anxious child. “Show us.”

  Displaying nothing but calm confidence, Cecily glanced at her watch. “The witching hour isn’t here yet. You’ll have to wait.”

  Tucker bent down and picked up two rocks from the blackened earth. One, he threw into the woods. They all listened to it clatter against the trees and thud into the ground. The other rock he tossed at Max’s feet. “How about you? You’re the one who trades in knowledge. Does she have the skull?”

  “She always had the skull,” Max said. “That’s why nobody could find it. I suspect the day she took it was the day she committed to overthrowing you.”

  “But what about now? Does she have the skull now?”

  Cecily’s focus on Max was palpable — a bitter blend of dare and threat. He could feel the truth rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He had no idea when he should reveal that he held the skull, but his instincts told him to hold back. Besides, if at that moment, he revealed that he had the skull, all the pressure would leave Cecily and fall upon him.

  “Well, you clearly don’t have it,” Max said and felt a tinge of satisfaction watching Tucker bristle. “Mother Hope also doesn’t have the skull. If she did, she would have used it to destroy you the first chance she got — which would have been long before tonight. So, I guess we’ll have to wait until the witching hour to find out.”

  “Perhaps,” Tucker said, miming the weighing of possibilities in his hands. “Perhaps not.”

  The Pale Man raised his handgun which set off a chain reaction of appearing weapons. Leon whipped out a long-barreled revolver while Mr. Pescatore had a straight-forward semi-automatic. Safeties were clicked off, hammers were cocked, bullets were chambered.

  Drummond floated into the middle of the circle. “Max, pal, don’t let this fall apart. We’re not that kind of people.”

  But Max found the idea that they might all shoot each other appealing. Still, he knew Drummond was right, and he had no intention of risking Sandra’s life just to see his enemies destroy themselves. “Everybody calm down. No need for all the guns.”

  Looking younger and stronger than ever before, Leon said, “Sorry, Max, but some people only respond to a little violence.”

  “Not these people. Maybe you guys with guns want to shoot holes into each other, but you all know the families you’re working for. You really think a bullet is going to do any good against Tucker Hull?”

  “It’ll do damage. And it’ll certainly do damage to little Cecily.”

  Cecily glowered at Leon but said nothing. The three men with guns continued to point them at each other while their bosses stood still and watched.

  “Come on,” Max said. “You can’t be serious. Are you really willing to kill yourself for these people?”

  The muzzle of the Pale Man’s gun had a slight tremor. Of course. He was a hired gun and nothing more. He’d kill for money, but he’d never sacrifice himself for a client. Leon, on the other hand, was a zealot. Anything Mother Hope asked of him, he’d do. Simple. As for Cecily’s man, Max had a big question mark.

  Mother Hope entered the fray with a simplicity of her own. “Cecily, I know you want to take control of the Hull family. Well, I’m agreeable to that. My Magi exist to maintain order in this world. We’ve let the Hull family operate for decades because order existed. Only now have things become unacceptable.”

  Tucker clasped his hands behind his back. “If you’re going to try to sway my own family against me, you shouldn’t start with lies. The truth, Cecily, is that Mother Hope is striking not for order but for domination. She figures, since you’ve yet to defeat me, that if you join her, she can easily control you.”

  “Lies! If I wanted to destroy your family, I would have done it before they resurrected you. There have been plenty of weak fools running the Hulls since you died.” To Cecily, she added, “You know I’m right. You would have taken over earlier but you were still a child.
Join me against Tucker and we can win this. I’m the only one here who can make that happen with you. I can see to it that you get what you long for. But in order to do that, I need Dr. Connor’s skull.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Tucker said. “If you listen to that foolishness, then nobody will win.”

  “That skull is all that stands between you and immense power.”

  “She’s a witch. You’ve been around their kind long enough to know that you can’t trust a witch.”

  Cecily raised the bowling bag. “You want this? Both of you?” She cheated her head to the side, enough to see her bodyguard. “You can have it.”

  “Shit,” Max whispered. He put his hand on Sandra’s shoulder. “Get ready to duck.”

  With an unpleasant grunt, Cecily hurled the bag high into the center of the circle. As Tucker and Mother Hope looked up at the bag, Mr. Pescatore opened fire.

  Tucker’s shoulder popped back, and the world became a torrent of explosive noise and staggered flashes of light. Max shoved Sandra. “Go!” They dropped to the dirt and crawled behind a large tree.

  Peeking around the trunk, Max saw that everyone had found cover behind trees standing or fallen. Shots spit bark into the air. Cecily’s man reloaded his weapon before spraying bullets near Mother Hope. Leon repositioned and fired back. But doing so left him open on the other side, and the Pale Man caught Leon in the leg.

  “Get down!” Sandra grabbed Max’s jacket and wrenched him back behind the tree. “You’ll get yourself shot.”

  “We’ve got to see what’s happening.”

  “They’re killing each other. That’s what’s happening. As long as they don’t see us, they won’t remember we’re here because we’re not shooting anybody.”

  More shots blared away. Max and Sandra scrunched lower to the ground, holding each other tight. His face pressed into the top of her head, and even the delightful smell of her hair would not comfort him. This was only three men with guns — he couldn’t imagine what a war between armies would feel like.