Enough, he thought. He was wasting his time with this and unnerving himself with every step that sounded like somebody following him. But if I’m being followed, then perhaps I’m close to something worth keeping an eye on. After all, didn’t Hull order Modesto to get me researching this area?
Cold air blew across his forehead. Max looked up to find a small vent cooling the room for guests—most certainly not a historically accurate portrayal of colonial times. And, of course, another possible hiding place.
Max stormed out of the building and stomped his way back to his car. He hoped the others had fared better.
With a few hours left before he had to meet at the office, Max went back to the library. He didn’t want to show up empty-handed, and he had the research itch attacking the back of his head.
It was those POWs. Too many questions. But now he had names, and names could be researched.
The amount of information regarding World War II would have been staggering had he not seen it before. Even in the subset of POWs (and just German ones no less), Max’s searches turned up thousands of hits. Yet when he plugged in the specific names, things became more manageable.
Krause, Richter, and Bauer had little in their records to suggest anything noteworthy other than all three had visited the States prior to the war. Schulz and König were strong men with families and neither had any contact with the U.S. previously. Fritz Keller was the most educated of the lot and had authored several articles in German newspapers before being called to duty. And Walter Huber proved to be the criminal of the bunch. In less than six months upon returning to Germany, he ended up in prison for armed assault. Nothing singled any of these men out.
“Not that I even know what I’m looking for,” Max said to the computer screen.
One odd piece of information did perk up, however. Max found an artist’s website that included dramatic collages made from World War II paperwork. The papers were chosen to match a theme—a picture of a gaunt Jewish prisoner had been made from Auschwitz population lists; a tribute to the fallen soldiers of D-Day came from copies of Eisenhower’s famous orders; and there was even a German POW made from transfer papers.
Max spent close to an hour magnifying each small section of the collage, looking for any of the names, and to his surprise, he came upon the name Butner. Two sheets from about a week apart. The first showed the release orders for seven POWs to be sent to RJR. The second showed a return order, and though it was difficult to read, Max thought the sheet only showed six POWs returning.
“We got nothing,” Drummond said before Max could kiss his wife or even sit at his desk.
“Speak for yourself,” Sandra said.
“Doll, you were just saying that you didn’t turn up anything else. Now that Max is back here, you going to make up some flimflam so you look good for your lover?”
“I swear, you act like you were a teenager when you died.”
Max blotted out their noise as long as he could manage. When he couldn’t take anymore, he raised his voice and said, “Do you have something or don’t you?”
“Honey, relax.”
“See,” Drummond said, “You’re making Max all tense.”
“Be quiet. Now, Max, I found out that the Old Salem area is still active. It’s not just public, historical buildings. Many of them are privately owned residences. The owners have a strict set of rules they have to follow to preserve their buildings, but they do live there.”
Max nodded. “The lady I got my ticket from mentioned something about people still living there. It just makes matters worse. I went into several of the buildings and walked the streets. That book could be anywhere, and now you’re saying it could be in a private residence.”
“You’re not letting me finish.”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“I found out that two of the buildings have been very quietly put on the market.”
Max leaned forward. “How much are they going for?”
“Nobody’ll tell me, but I wouldn’t doubt for a second that Hull could buy them if he wanted to.”
“I think he just might.”
Drummond brushed by Max, Max’s arm feeling as if it had been dashed with icy water, and said, “Looks like we have a bit of a pickle.”
“What now?” Sandra said.
“Easy there, I’m just pointing out the fact that if you intend to find this book before Hull, you’ve got to do it before he buys those homes. Unless you can purchase them.”
Sandra said, “It might not even be in those homes.”
“That’s right,” Max said. “All of the building names on the list are buildings open to the public.”
“But if it is in one of these private houses, you lose. If it isn’t, Hull has a central location from where he can conduct all the searches he wants. Every night, he can check out each one of those old buildings until, voila, he finds his little treasure.”
“Then we’ve got trouble. I was told there’s a good chance Hull will make an offer in the next day or two. Well, actually it’s that company Oxsten and Son, but of course, that’s Hull.”
Max glanced out the window. A chubby fellow with a thick mustache hustled up the sidewalk, a blue coffee mug in his hand. Across the street, a woman with her baby in a stroller walked by the YMCA. Normal life.
“I might be able to stall Hull for an extra day,” Max said. “After all, I’m supposed to be researching this kind of thing for him anyway. Perhaps if we give him some misinformation, he’ll waste a day or two checking it out.”
“Ah,” Drummond said with a lascivious smile, “we’re finally getting into a little deception here. I like it.”
Sandra said, “We still have the problem of the book itself. You said it could be anywhere in there.”
“Well, true,” said Max. Then he paused. An idea popped in his mind, one he knew would work, but he worried about suggesting it. The idea of using his wife, even if in a harmless manner, did not sit well. He could hear Drummond’s reply in his head—Better to use the wife than end up like me. “I have a thought,” he finally said.
“Congratulations,” Drummond said.
“Let me meet with Modesto to try to stall Hull. Then, tomorrow night, Sandra and I could go to Old Salem together and you could—” He looked long at his wife. “—well, I’m sure there’s a lot of ghosts around there.”
Drummond perked up. “Hey, that’s great. You could just ask the locals where this book is. Some of them may have even been there when it was hidden in the first place.”
Sandra shook her head. “This is not a good idea.”
“I don’t think we have a better alternative,” Max said as he sat on the desk’s edge.
“I know, but I haven’t told you everything about ghosts. See, when they’re not bound like cheerful here, they’re a lot different.”
“How?”
“More capable.”
Drummond pouted. “Hey. I’m plenty capable.”
“What do you mean?” Max asked.
Sandra stared right into Max’s eyes. “I mean they might not be so friendly, so willing to help. And they might be able to hurt us.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Modesto arrived at Cities restaurant for their regular meeting, he looked haggard—still immaculate to most eyes, but Max knew better. His hair perfect but for a few strands, his clothes sleek but for a subtle wrinkle, Modesto moved toward the table with an urgency that lacked grace. With his face crinkled in worry, he fumbled a greeting. Max tried to put these observations out of his mind. He had one job to do in this meeting—buy some time.
As Modesto slipped into his seat, he said, “What’s been your progress in Old Salem?”
“Old Salem?” Max said, tinting his expression with as much innocence as he thought Modesto would swallow.
Modesto frowned. “You do recall who is paying your bills?”
“There’s no need to be hostile.”
“It seems your extra-curricular activities are cl
ouding your judgment. So, let me ask this way: what exactly do you have for me today?”
“Why did you hire me?”
Modesto shook his head. “Mr. Porter, if you have failed in your duties, then please stop wasting my time and admit you have nothing to offer me. If you have information, then let me have it. I am extremely tired and our employer has not been pleased with you so far.”
“I’ve done an excellent job. You asked for research on the Moravians, and I provided. You wanted research on various land deals, and I provided. I’m good at what I do.”
“Then you have your answer, don’t you? That is why you were hired.”
“Why is he dissatisfied, then?” Max watched Modesto’s face contort as the man strived for an answer that would not betray anything.
“I do not claim to understand the ranking system of our employer,” Modesto finally said. “I am merely reporting his concerns to you.”
Max said nothing for a moment, enjoying every second of Modesto’s squirming. Even in the way they looked at each other through sideways glances and indirect observations, both men were dancing around the facts. “In that case,” Max said, “let our employer know that you’ve informed me of his displeasure. If he desires to fire me—”
“He does not.”
“I’m confused. I thought you said he felt my work was unsatisfactory.”
“Just focus on your report.”
“No, sir. Not when the quality of my work has been called into question.”
Modesto glanced upward as if asking for strength. Or perhaps, Max thought, he’s looking at what liquor they have on the wall.
“I assure you, I have found your work superior to most. I give you my word I shall state my satisfaction in my next report. Beyond that, there is little for us to discuss on the matter because I cannot speak for our employer on the subject. Is that enough for you?”
“A little appreciation is all I ask. Thank you, sir.”
“What do you have for me?”
“There’s one building in Old Salem up for sale.”
“Just one?” Modesto asked, and Max saw in his eyes he not only knew that there were two, but he knew Max had lied.
“You’ll find the details and my assessment in the folder,” Max said, pushing a blue folder across the table. “Little company called Oxsten and Son is in position to take it. I can’t find too much about them, but I will eventually. There might be more homes available soon, though. Including one near the Vogler house.” This part was an entire fabrication, but Modesto’s eager ears perked up, and Max knew he had bought a few hours while Modesto wasted time trying to find out anything about the fictitious house.
“Near the Vogler house.”
“Yes, not on the market yet, but my wife has a friend in real estate who mentioned it in passing, so I’m doing the same. I hope you don’t mind me using her for a little information. She doesn’t know that I’m giving it to you, so don’t worry about that.”
“No problem.”
“Would you like me to keep looking?”
Modesto stuffed the folder in his briefcase and said, “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll review your work and we’ll decide then what to do.”
“I did uncover some interesting points concerning the area. Just a few things that might be of use to our employer.”
“Oh?”
“For example, the Moravians put in the first waterworks system right here in Old Salem. Pipes and plumbing and such to bring running water into the homes.”
“Mr. Porter, we are well aware of the basic knowledge available from an Old Salem tour.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“And this would be?”
“Obviously I don’t know anything specific about our employer but it seems clear that he is interested in antiquities of all kinds. Why else the search for old history and old land? I figured if he could acquire some of these ancient pieces, they would be worth a lot of money.”
“I see.”
“Another little tidbit I found was that during World War II, the Reynolds family used German POWs to help make cigarettes and such.”
“Also a widely-known fact,” Modesto said in a way that sounded more like a threat than a statement.
“My mistake. I just thought there might be old bits of memorabilia and such from the Germans, just something of value for the antiquities trade.”
Modesto stood, regaining his composure so fast that Max thought he had pushed too far. With a slight bow of the head, Modesto said, “I don’t think you’re a very smart man.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You don’t lie very well and the choices you’ve made seem to be less than logical. I can’t imagine how you manage to survive the rigors of life.”
“Perhaps I’m not much of a liar, but I don’t need to be one for this kind of work. All I need is for the person I’m talking with to be a liar as well.”
“Excuse me?”
For the first time since Modesto had arrived, Max looked straight at him. “When you lie, you make it difficult to expose another’s lies and near impossible to reveal the truth. It’s a case of mutually assured destruction.”
“Good day, Mr. Porter,” Modesto said and left the restaurant.
Max waited until his food arrived. As he ate, he kept thinking about the little taunts and jabs he had used against Modesto. He had hoped to get Modesto riled enough to slip up with some information regarding Old Salem. Instead, he got little to help save for one thing—his own words. Max had mentioned the possibility of World War II memorabilia still in existence in the area. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he should take a visit to Annabelle Bowman.
“What do you want?” Annabelle asked from behind her screen door. Her stern brow and hard glare invited little opening for reconciliation—not that he had expected a warm welcome.
“Please, Ms. Bowman, just a few moments of your time.”
“I’m done talking with you.”
“It’s important.”
“Go away. I’ll call the police.”
“I doubt the Hull family would be too keen on the police poking around why I’m here.”
That got her. She glanced behind and when she looked back, her troubled eyes undercut her icy face. “If I let you in,” she said a bit softer, “they’ll hurt … I … I don’t want this. Please, just go.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I just need to see a few things of Stan’s—stuff he kept during the war, during his time at Reynolds, that kind of thing.”
With a bit of the cold returning, she said, “I know what you want, but you can forget all about it. I told them the same thing. I destroyed it all. Hull wanted it gone and it’s gone. So, let an old woman alone.”
“The longer we argue out here, the more likely it is that somebody is going to see us.”
“Shit,” she said under her breath, opened the door, and rushed Max inside. “Now, look, I’ll give you five minutes and then I want you out of here. Do you understand? You stick around any longer and I will call the police and I’ll tell them you tried to rape me or murder me or something, but I assure you whatever I come up with will be ugly enough to divert all attention from Hull and me.”
“Fair enough,” Max said, hoping just to keep the lady talking. His eyes searched the room he sat in the last time he had visited—something had to be here, something from Stan. “I’m just trying to help out a friend. He was involved with Stan back during the whole affair and, well, I just need to clear up a few details. That’s all. I promise.”
“And what friend is that?”
“Considering how worried you are, it’s best you don’t know,” he said, more confident about his skills than the last time he interviewed this woman but still knowing Drummond could do far better.
“Why can’t you all just let that be buried?”
“I wish I could,” Max said, as he read book titles, noted old pictures, and spied a dying fern in the corner. Nothing useful. This is stupid, he tho
ught. I’m fishing and I don’t even know how to hold the rod. Just before he apologized his way outside, he processed the words she said only a moment earlier—that she knew what he had come for and something about others coming for it as well. He pictured how Drummond would handle the matter, wiped away all the rudeness, and attempted a suave smile. “Listen, you’re a nice lady and I don’t want to cause you any more trouble than I have to.”
“Then get out of here and leave me alone.”
“I can’t leave until you give me what I’m here for.”
“I don’t have it. I never did. Everybody thinks Hull and I were so close, but I’m telling you I never saw any book. After Stan had his troubles and I cleaned out his old footlocker, I did find … but none of it matters anymore. So let it all rest.”
“Hull came to you for a book of Stan’s?”
Wiping her hands on her legs, she nodded. “After Stan died. Mr. Hull visited me several times.”
“Is that when he bought you stock in RJR?”
“He felt terrible about everything that had happened to Stan and wanted to help me out. At least, that was what he said to me. But he really wanted Stan’s book.”
“What’s in the book?” Max asked and the second the words left his lips, he knew had made a mistake.
Annabelle’s posture stiffened and she tapped her watch. “Time for you to go. And I mean it this time. I will call the police. So, please, go.”
“But—”
“And don’t ever come back again. You are no longer welcome in my home.”
Max sipped a mug of hot chocolate at the kitchen table. Sandra stirred her tea from the opposite side. The little wall clock ticked sharp and clear in the otherwise silent room.
At length, Sandra said, “I’m a little scared.”
“Me too.”
“I just wish we could pack up and leave.”
Max set his mug on the table. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had that thought. You know what, though? These things never leave you. You can’t outrun them. Isn’t that why we left Michigan—just running away from our problems? But look where we are now.”
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