“Are you sure about that name. Günther Scholz?”
“Yup. That’s the name. Strange thing, though. Hull gloats about all of this, except he doesn’t say why that one POW made a difference anyway. I mean who was this dude who was so damn important that Hull had to screw Grandpa Stan over, wreck my family’s life, and send me on a path that led here?”
“I don’t know,” Max said, but he kept trying to recall the names he had seen on that transfer slip. He thought Günther was not on it. An idea had formed that he suspected might be right; however, with the remaining time, he had a more urgent line of thought to pursue. “I’m going to try to help us both out here.”
“Oh, are you?”
“Listen to me, please. You are not in a safe position just because you have the journal. But you can be. Together we can guarantee our safety.”
“Nobody’s safe, man. Nobody,” Stephen said with an all-knowing smirk on his face. “You find some way to get rid of Hull, there’ll be some other bastard taking his place. Fuck, our own government is the worst one of all. At least with Hull, I know who I’m dealing with.”
“That’s fine, if it’s just you. But your Grandma is involved in all this, too.”
Stephen’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You stay away from her.”
“I’m not trying to bother her, but like you, I’ve got to protect those I love. And right now, you and her are standing in my way. But we can do it all different. The problem for both of us is Hull. So, if we work together, we can solve our problem.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need something that’s in that journal. Not the journal, itself. I promise I won’t take that from you. In fact, it’s in both our interest for you to keep hold of that. But I do need a page, a single page.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The green Ford idled just outside the prison. As Max and Sandra exited, its driver straightened and woke the man next to him. Max, however, did not head for his own car. This time, he walked straight toward the Ford. He thought they might drive away, but the closer he came to them, the more he understood that they were no longer trying to hide their interest in him. The driver’s side window rolled down, and Max saw a muscular man who would have looked right at home in the prison Max had just left.
“Mr. Porter,” the man said as he exhaled cigarette smoke, “we’ve been looking for you.”
Max peered in the car and saw the other man, this one chubby but strong. “I want you to deliver a message to Modesto,” Max said, impressing himself with his sturdiness of voice.
“Tell him yourself. We’re here to escort you and your wife to see Mr. Modesto.”
“No.”
The chubby one unbuckled his seatbelt. “Looks like I get to do something after all.”
Max knew he had only a few seconds left before these fools would stuff him in the car. “I have what Modesto wants. You guys try to hurt me or my wife, and he’ll never get it. Tell him now. Call him up. You can see I’m not running. Heck, I’m the one who approached you, right? So, call him. Tell him I want to meet with him.”
Chubby, his hand on the door, looked to Smoker for guidance. Smoker drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he strained his gray matter. “Okay. Jack’s going to help you wait, though, just in case you change your mind.”
With more relish than he should have displayed, Jack, the chubby fellow, opened the car door, walked around the front, and stood behind Max and Sandra with his arms crossed over his chest. Sandra inched closer to Max, and her presence gave Max a slight comfort. He hoped he offered her some peace as well.
Smoker flipped open a cell phone and made the call. Less than a minute later, he said, “Okay, Porter, what do you want?”
“Tell him to come to my office in about two hours. We’ll deal then.”
Smoker relayed the message. “Done. Mr. Modesto wanted me to assure you that if for any reason you fail to deliver what you say you have or you try to run, the order to bring you in unharmed will be rescinded.”
“I kind of figured that.”
“And we’re still going to be following you.”
“I kind of figured that, as well.”
“Don’t try anything stupid.”
“No, I won’t. I’m just going to the library to do some last minute research. Then we’re going to the office to meet your boss. That’s it.”
As Max and Sandra walked back to their car, Max kept calm. Sandra, however, had enough agitation for them both. “What are you doing? You don’t have anything to give him.”
“Honey, trust me. I’ve got this one covered.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Upon entering the office, Max discovered a thrilled ghost, bubbling and chatty. It was the most frightening experience Max ever had with Drummond.
“Thank goodness you’re okay,” Drummond said and he flew around the room with nervous energy. “I mean I knew when you called Sandra that you were okay, but after they took you, well, I just started thinking about all of this and how I really got you involved and all that. I’m sorry. Really. I don’t want you getting killed on my account. Oh, crap, look at your hand. They tortured you. I tell you if I wasn’t stuck in this room, I’d be right out there helping you out. I mean it. I think you’re okay, and I’m telling you, you need to have some backup. You can’t go charging into a criminal’s home—”
“Drummond,” Max said. “Be quiet.”
“That’s a real nice thing to say. I’m just trying to let you know I was concerned and you’re putting me down.”
“Modesto’s on his way,” Max said. To Sandra he added, “Help me move this desk.”
“Modesto?” Drummond said. “Why’s he coming? The bastard already took the journal.”
The desk scraped the floor, making a grating, high-pitched tone, but they managed to get it pushed toward the back wall. The binding curse marking the floor could now be seen in its entirety. In the center of the circle the four-headed snake bared its bloody mouth. The creature looked in all directions, promising to see all things at all times. It was disturbing, and Max tried to put it out of his mind even as he walked over the image.
“What’s going on?” Drummond asked.
“We need to clean up as much as possible. I don’t want anything that could be used as a weapon sitting around.”
As Sandra picked up a few items, the old Drummond tones returned. He stood in front of Max, and said, “What the hell are you doing cleaning up for Modesto? You’re not making any sense. What happened to you?”
“I need a lighter,” Max said.
Sandra looked around in her purse. “I haven’t got one.”
“Drummond, is there a lighter in here or matches?”
“You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
With the same strong tone he had used with the men in the green Ford, Max said, “If you want be stuck in this office for all eternity, then keep standing in my way.”
“Fine,” Drummond said and with a petulant grimace, he pointed to the bookshelf. “The book next to the one with the whiskey—two cigars and matches.”
“Thank you. Now, relax,” Max said as he retrieved the matchbox and placed it on the desk. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Then tell me—”
“No. Not you. Not even Sandra. I don’t want Modesto even getting a hint of what I’ve done or what I’m going to do until I tell him.”
“Son of a bitch, you’ve got something on him, don’t you? You’re going to stick it to him.”
“Just be here and be ready.”
“I ain’t going anywhere, and I’m always ready.”
Max let the comment stand as he wiped down the desktop. “Watch the window. Let us know when he arrives.”
“Will do,” Drummond said, his excitement palpable.
Using every last drop of strength, Max attempted to maintain a positive, confident, and winning attitude, though he knew the coming mom
ents might hold the highest risk of anything he would ever do. If Modesto called his bluff, the whole thing would end with their deaths. He had no doubt. But he also believed the bluff was just powerful enough, with just enough proof to give it merit. They had a truly good chance of making it work out.
“He’s here,” Drummond said.
“Damn, he’s early.”
Sandra said nothing as she sped up her cleaning. “You can stop,” Max said. “This’ll have to do. You just stand back there, lean against the wall, and trust me.”
“I do,” she said. “If I look worried, it’s not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I can see on your face just how dangerous whatever you’re planning is going to be.”
“I’m only going to talk. Lay out a few facts, and nothing more. Modesto’s a logical man. He can understand basic reasoning.”
Before any more words could be exchanged, Max saw Modesto’s silhouette grow in the door’s frosted glass. The door opened and in walked Modesto. He looked awful. Wrinkles marked his shirt as being at least a day old, his skin glistened with sweat, and the pressure Hull had placed upon him registered in the deep lines on his face. He also looked determined—this meeting would be the end, his eyes said. That stern gaze, more than anything else, gave Max both hope and fear.
Max watched Modesto, ready for any threat. At length, Modesto said, “Are we just going to stand here, or do you plan on telling me what you want for the journal?”
“You found Hull’s journal?” Drummond asked.
“I don’t want anything for the journal. I’m not giving it to you.”
Modesto noticed a spot on his shoe, bent down, and rubbed at it. “You really are an idiot. I always thought you were just being blinded by greed or love for your wife or something normal like that, but to stand here and start playing this kind of game with a man like Mr. Hull—you’re a fool.”
“You don’t think I know him? Let me tell you a few things. See, even after I’d put together most of the pieces of Stan Bowman’s unfortunate final years, it wasn’t until a little bit ago that I finally got it all.”
“And now you think you know everything.”
“I know enough. I know all about how Hull was responsible for driving Stan insane, how he pushed Stan to torture those POWs, and how he bought off Annabelle’s silence. That’s nothing new to you, though. But a few things gnawed at me. Why, for example, did you really hire me? How was I connected to all this? And why did you help me get those boys arrested when you had to have known that one of them was Stephen Bowman?”
Drummond’s mouth formed an O, and he said, “Who the hell is Stephen Bowman?”
“I can understand,” Max continued, “how Hull might’ve overlooked Bowman—just another cog in his machine. But the idea that you might? There’s no way you would hire anybody for Hull’s company without doing a thorough check. You knew that kid was Stephen Bowman. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“May I sit?” Modesto asked as he noticed Sandra standing in the back.
“No,” Max said. “The first question that we have to address is why did Hull want those POWs tortured. It’s perhaps the most crucial question because everything else, including me, flows from that. See that’s what I missed at first. I was too busy dealing with the details that I forgot the bigger questions. You’ll have to forgive me, though. I’m new to this side of things.”
Drummond snorted. “Savor this moment, pal. I can tell the way you’re talking, you’ve got something on him. Savor this. It’s this very moment that always made my job worthwhile.”
Taking a few steps closer, Max went on. “The bigger questions. That’s what this is about. And that requires a bigger viewpoint—one that stretches across centuries even. When I saw that, it started making more sense.
“Tucker Hull. The founder of this whole clan. The one who left the Moravians to create his own version of religion—a sort of shadow Unitas Fratrum. Very secretive. You guys have gone to incredible lengths to remove as much mention of you as you could find. Hull never wanted anybody to know anything about him. Especially after he married Eve Hull. Especially after she taught him about witches and magic. Hull never wanted anybody to know that he used evil forces to gain wealth and to destroy those in his way. But, of course, you can’t become as wealthy as the Hull family and leave no trace behind. And there were those pesky journals. Stan’s was out there somewhere, and you needed to get it into your possession. The Hull journal, however—I’m guessing that every patriarch in this family has continued writing in that one. It’s the only real record of your organization and your crimes.”
Modesto slouched as his face took on a queasy appearance.
Max continued, “So what about those POWs? Stan said he noticed an odd look of recognition between one of them and Hull. That’s why he tried the blackmail route. And he was right. There was recognition. The POW was a German named Günther Scholz. Now the Moravians, the branch that led to Tucker Hull living in North Carolina, well they’re the German Moravians. William Hull knew of the Schulz family name and when he learned that Günther was being brought over to help make cigarettes, he used his witch to set up a meeting with Günther. He had seven POWs sent to the Reynolds factory in Winston-Salem and arranged to have a tour of the factory the same day. They shared a look, but it told Hull all he needed to know. He had been noticed as more than just a good businessman. Günther saw the leader of the cult who perverted his religion. Of course, Hull couldn’t just kill the man. Too much attention gets wrapped up in a murder. So, he used Stan to eliminate the possibility of being revealed. When Stan lost it, he tried to stop the whole thing, but the kidnappings had drawn too much attention. It was too late. That’s why Hull couldn’t get rid of Annabelle. If she had met up with an accident, the press would’ve really started digging. And protecting your little cult is everything. So, instead, he bought her off.
“But that was a long time ago, and I suspect William Hull is dead. The Hull in charge now is trying to get back to the world of anonymity that his family has cultured and enjoyed for so long. And that is what this is all about. Secrecy.”
Modesto shook his head in disbelief, but his hard face told Max the strikes were hitting close to the heart. “This is absurd,” Modesto said. “If the Hull Group wanted secrecy so badly, why on Earth would they hire you to come look into the Moravians? It makes no sense.”
“Because you needed to find that journal, and you wanted to test how secure your secrets were. You figured that if I couldn’t find out anything about Hull, then the average person not even looking, or maybe some gung-ho reporter, nobody like that would ever find out. And then even if I never found a single thing about Hull, you were planning on doing away with us. Let the witch practice a few spells, perhaps. Get rid of every thread that led to Hull. Isn’t that right? No need to answer. For now, there is one question that still bothers me. Perhaps you’ll help.”
“To this ridiculous—”
“I just can’t figure out why you had Stephen Bowman arrested. On the one hand, you were trying to ease my mind, keep me focused, but that’s not enough. You could have killed him, gotten the journal, and made up any story you wanted to satisfy me. Why put him in jail?”
Anger, or perhaps burned pride, swept across Modesto like an unforeseen squall. “Kill you, kill him—you’re awfully quick with murder, Mr. Porter. We, however, are not. We are not thugs. We are not miscreants. And we are certainly not criminals. We merely appreciate a deep level of privacy, and for that, we are willing to go to great lengths.”
“Is that what the witchcraft is all about? Great lengths?”
“There was never the intention of killing Stephen Bowman,” Modesto said, his fists clutched white. “I had him put in jail so you would not get hurt and so you would not find him. You just couldn’t let it lie, though. You had to keep digging.”
“It’s my job.”
“How smug you are now. I assure you that even if we don’t kill people with the casualn
ess you suggest, we do know ways to make you pay dearly for threatening us.”
“I have no doubt.”
This caused Modesto to pause. “Then why do this? You’ve been running around the city for over a day. You clearly know the kind of trouble you’re in. What do you get out of it?”
“The only thing that ever matters—my freedom.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand the true depths of what is going on here.”
“I do,” Max said, taking one step further. “And now, I’m going to tell you exactly what will happen. First off, you and Mr. Hull are going to call off all threats against me, Sandra, and the Bowmans. You’ll also stop the surveillance. Basically, you’re going to back out of our lives and leave us in peace.”
From the back corner, Drummond shouted, “Keep the office.”
“This office stays with me,” Max said.
“Rent free.”
“No rent. Consider it part of my severance package. In exchange for all of this, I will see to it that Hull’s journal is returned. Of course, a complete copy of the journal will remain in my possession. Should anything happen to me, Sandra, or the Bowmans, the contents of that journal will be made public, as well as the results of all my research.”
Modesto tucked in his shirt, straightened his hair, and looked a shade whiter. “All of that would be acceptable, if I believed you actually had Mr. Hull’s journal. However, you don’t. Everything you’ve said has been nothing more than conjecture—well-researched conjecture, I grant you, but conjecture nonetheless.”
“You might be mistaken,” Max said, holding up a sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” Modesto asked, a visible tremor rumbling across him.
“This would be the binding curse written into the back pages of Hull’s journal. I’m afraid when I return the journal, this page will be missing.”
Drummond zipped across the room. “You got it! I never doubted you, ever. You’re the best friend I could ever have.”
“Again,” Modesto said, “without seeing the actual journal, I find this all rather unconvincing.”
Modern Magic Page 186
