“I’m convinced,” Drummond laughed. “Destroy it. Please. Set me free.”
Max removed a match from the matchbox. “I’m standing in the center of the binding circle. When I light this paper, the ghost of Detective Marshall Drummond will be released. I suspect when he finds out why he was cursed, he’ll be quite displeased.”
“Now you claim to know that as well?”
“You’re damn right. Poor Drummond had stumbled too close, and Hull was ready to have him killed.”
“I told you, we don’t—”
“Yes, you do. See, I found the little bits of a paper trail you’ve all missed. I found the transfer orders for the POWs, the ones Hull forced to happen. Funny thing about them, though, seven POWs go but only six return. How can that be? This is before Stan Bowman. And then I saw it—Hull had Günther from the start. He just didn’t know what to do with the man. Now, this next part is a lot of conjecture, but I think it’ll probably be close to the truth. Hull had been sleeping with a young woman, a witch. She also had bedded Marshall Drummond. And together, she and Hull came up with an idea of what to do with his POW problem. He would have her put a binding curse on the POW, just to make sure his privacy was maintained. However, she never did one before, so they cursed Drummond as a test and a way to get rid of Hull’s rival.”
“Entirely false.”
“You may think so. It doesn’t really matter. If I were you, being the sole representative of Hull standing in this room, I wouldn’t want to be around that angry ghost when he’s released. Of course, since you don’t believe this is the actual paper, you have nothing to fear.”
When Max lit the match, Modesto inched backward toward the door.
“Let’s make this simple,” Max said. “I’m going to light this paper. If you remain here, I’ll know you’ve chosen to turn down my demands, and I’ll release the journal to the public. If you leave, that will be considered acceptance and we can continue our lives in this lovely city with our strained but healthy peace.”
“Look at that bastard sweat. Give him a countdown. They hate that,” Drummond said.
“I’ll count to three,” Max said, dangling the cursed paper just out of reach of the flame. “One … two …”
Modesto stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
“Three,” Max said and let the paper burn. He set it in the circle and stepped back. In seconds, the fire consumed the sheet and there was an audible pop like an enormous light bulb burning out.
Sandra rushed over to Max. “You did great.”
“Great?” Drummond said. “Look at me.”
Max and Sandra could not find him. “Where are you?” Max asked.
“Behind you.”
Floating outside the window, Drummond waved and did a gleeful spin. “Congratulations,” Max said. “And thanks.”
Drummond slid back into the office. “No, no. I’m the one thanking you. I can’t believe you found the journal, and making a copy was a bright idea.”
“I don’t have a copy. I lied.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. When I told Bowman my plan, he refused to help me out. He thought it was too risky giving the journal back.”
“But he gave you the cursed paper?”
“I threatened to tell Modesto everything about him. Of course, Modesto already knew but Bowman didn’t know that.”
Sandra frowned. “But Modesto thinks he’s getting the journal. What happens when he doesn’t get it?”
“He will get it. I’m going back to the jail tomorrow, and I’ll tell Bowman what I did. He’s got no choice. Either he copies the journal and returns the original to Hull, or his grandmother is in danger and he’ll be dead before the end of the week. My only worry was that Modesto would press the issue before I worked out the details with Bowman.”
“A good bluff, you rascal,” Drummond said.
“Tomorrow, I won’t be bluffing.”
“I tell you, if I were a genie instead of a ghost, I’d gladly grant you a thousand wishes.”
“Throwing in that bit about this office was enough. Now I’ve got a place to work that won’t cost us anything.”
“What work?” Sandra asked.
Max raised an eyebrow before he kissed her with a long, loving embrace.
Chapter Thirty
Four months had passed. Sitting behind his desk, Max still found the whole experience hard to believe. That first week had been the strangest.
He enjoyed a final visit with Annabelle Bowman in which, for once, she was pleased to see him. He told her the truth about her husband and how she no longer needed to fear Hull. She offered him a bit of vodka and said, “You’re a silly boy. I don’t fear Hull. There’s nothing he could do to me anymore.”
A few weeks later, he filed all the necessary papers to officially start his own business as a research consultant. “What exactly is that?” Sandra asked.
Max shrugged. “Whatever somebody wants me to look into, I guess.” They shared a look, one that said she knew what he really wanted to call his new venture but could not do so legally—private investigator.
“Do you think there’ll be enough work?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m tired of us living under other people’s rules. It wasn’t just Drummond’s freedom we won. It’s ours, too.”
“Sounds like there’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Sounds to me,” Sandra said with an impish grin, “you’ll be needing a secretary, maybe even an assistant.”
“Oh, well, now that you mention it—yup, I just might. Maybe a young, hot, buxom little secretary.”
“That’s the kind of gal Drummond would hire. You need somebody more sophisticated, more reliable, and more sexy.”
“You have somebody in mind?”
Sandra playfully slapped his chest. “If you don’t let me work with you, you’ll sleep on this office couch for the rest of your life.”
“How about we sleep on it together, my new assistant?”
The next day, Max left a single rose on Sandra’s desk. For a moment, she stared at it and smiled. The silence was wonderful.
Work trickled in—two cases really. One was finding a lost dog, and the other dealt with an odd fellow who wanted help researching his family tree. Max’s mother called every week, each time showing her great enthusiasm for his endeavor.
“I don’t understand you. You were a bright kid. You could have been a lawyer or a doctor. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m happy. Isn’t that enough?”
“But what do I tell the girls at the bridge club?”
“You could try the truth.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man. I’m still your mother. Now, what about kids? How are you going to have kids when you have to struggle to make ends meet? I’m not one to butt in your life—you never really listened to me anyway—but you’re ruining your life this way.”
After Stephen Bowman delivered the journal, Max had not heard from Modesto. That was fine by him. In fact, he only harbored sadness for Drummond. About an hour after being freed, Drummond became difficult to see—even to Sandra. A little bit later, he had disappeared entirely. But Max hoped that Drummond was in a peaceful place, wherever spirits go.
“Wake up, Max,” Drummond barked as he flew through the office walls, looking thicker than ever.
“Drummond? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you plucking harps or dancing on clouds or something?”
“It was boring. I can’t even begin to tell you how boring. Besides, I kept peeking in here and I could see you needed my help. You’ve had two cases and you botched them both.”
“I solved them.”
“Well, yeah, but you could’ve billed them for far more money and used them to leverage out a few more gigs. You’ve gotta learn about per diem, kiddo.”
“You came all the way back here to tell me that?”
Drummond gazed at the second
desk in the office. “Well, well, you’ve got the missus with you, huh? Dangerous move.”
“I thought you said you were watching me. Why didn’t you know Sandra was here until now?”
“Hey, I can’t be expected to take care of all the details. That’s your job. I’m the guy who steers this ship in the right direction which it ain’t going in at the moment. That’s why I came back. You need me.”
“Hold on. Stop. You are not a partner in this.”
“Sure I am. This is my office.”
“It’s mine, now.”
“Thanks to me.”
“You’re dead, for crying out loud. You’re not supposed to be here.”
Drummond sat in Sandra’s seat and spun it around. “I know, I know, but really that’s a small detail, and one you don’t have to worry anything about. They’re not going to miss me up there anyway. I think most of them think it was a mistake in the first place. Besides, I’m valuable to you.”
“You are?”
“I’m going to bring you clients.”
“You are?”
“Got one lined up already.”
“A client?”
“Sure. The guy’s name is Barney. He made this will, but his wife—who if you ask me may have poisoned the guy, though she’s quite a looker—well, she’s using the old will, the one that gives her all of his estate. So, he wants you—”
Max raised a hand. “Barney’s dead?”
“Of course. There’s a whole slew of ghosts who could make great use of a guy like you. And they’ll pay anything. They don’t need money anymore.”
Max opened his mouth, ready to send Drummond back from where he came. Yes, the bills were stacking up. Yes, he was glad to see his old friend. And yes, the two cases he had were not very interesting because of their mundane nature. But he pointed a finger at Drummond and said, “Look—”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Sandra said from the doorway. “Just promise us we won’t be dealing with ex-girlfriend witches again, okay?”
“Done,” Drummond said.
Both of them looked to Max who shook his head. He opened his mouth, ready to list the infinite reasons this was a bad idea, but said nothing. He glanced at Sandra, smiled, and saw in her eyes something he always trusted whenever he saw it. He just knew she was right.
The End
Afterword
For those of you wondering about the historical facts, I don’t want to add pages and pages of non-fiction here, so I encourage you to do some research of your own. I will say that this story grew out of learning about the very real POW camps we had in North Carolina. That really happened.
Also, for those of you wanting to drive around Winston-Salem to see the various places mentioned, I promise you that you’ll never find Max’s office. The only thing that sits across the street from the YMCA is a parking lot. Many other locations do exist, though I sometimes took liberties with the details. This is fiction, after all.
Acknowledgements
No book is created by one person, and this is no exception. My sincere thanks goes out to Rod Hunter who made crucial contributions to the story; the wonderful people at the Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University; the dedicated people of Old Salem; Duncan Long for his stunning artwork; my good friend, Garrett; all of my family for their support; and my closest and dearest, Glory and Gabe. And of course, none of this is worth anything without you, the reader. Thank you.
DON’T MISS THE REST OF
THE MAX PORTER PARANORMAL MYSTERIES!
SOUTHERN CHARM
SOUTHERN BELLE
SOUTHERN GOTHIC
SOUTHERN HAUNTS
SOUTHERN CURSES
About the Author
Stuart Jaffe is the madman behind The Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries, The Malja Chronicles, the Nathan K thrillers, Founders, Real Magic, and much more. He trained in martial arts for over a decade until a knee injury ended that practice. Now, he plays lead guitar in a local blues band, The Bootleggers, and enjoys life on a small farm in rural North Carolina. For those who continue to keep count, the animal list is as follows: one dog, two cats, three aquatic turtles, one albino corn snake, seven chickens, and a horse. As best as he’s been able to manage, Stuart has made sure that the chickens and the horse do not live in the house.
THE SOUL CAGES
Nicole Givens Kurtz
The Soul Cages copyright © 2004 Nicole Givens Kurtz.
Originally published by Crystal Dreams Publishing.
Chapter One
It was not the fact that it smelled like smoke, or the fact that dried blood stained it. It was the color, an ugly green that reminded Sarah of the time she ate too much gosha and threw up everywhere. That was long ago before the cages robbed her of her taste and every other sensory experience.
But she had finally tricked them, and now she had regained her flesh and could taste the bitter sulfur that saturated the air. The air always tasted stale, manufactured and compressed, as if they piped it out of along underground tub stained with grease that clung to it.
“Come on, Amana. It is cold here. Put it on,” Sarah urged as she gestured the green wool coat toward the mousy haired girl.
“It is green…” Amana whined, pushing the offending color away.
“You are being silly. Put the damn thing on before he gets back.”
“But…”
“Now! We have to get out of here,” Sarah insisted as she turned to search the sinister gloom for Valek or one of his henchmen. They didn’t have time for pride or foolish superstitions. Not when Valek crept around, waiting to pounce on them and return them to the cages.
Wrapping the ugly green coat around her, Amana followed Sarah along the dimly lit passage leading from the cages. This cave forced them to crawl on hands and knees. They have barely enough room to rise up and slip their arms into the cloaks. They passed several sacks of skins that had once been human. Where the eyes once were there were now only burnt, empty sockets.
Sarah shivered, but pressed on. She could barely move her fingers. Cold turned them to stiff sticks. Blowing on them only warmed them for a second before they chilled again. Not that she could complain. She and Amana had not been able to feel, smell or anything else in years before their recent reincarnation back into fresh flesh. Sarah secretly relished the numbness in her hands and the stench of the cages that even as they hurried further away seemed to race after them. These were the only signals she knew to be real—smell, taste, touch. The times when she thought shadows were only shadows, they turned out to be Valek’s henchmen or worse, Valek himself. She could never tell until it was too late.
“Where are we supposed to meet them?” Amana asked softly for third time that night.
“At the Circle of Allerton. How many times do I have to tell you?” She pinched Amana’s cheek and winked, alleviating the sting of her words. Her little sister worn down to mere bones, gave her a weary wide grin in return.
Leaving the soiled cages behind, they could still smell the filth and stench of the closed-in prison. Built beneath Solis’s rocky surface, down under layers upon layers stone, no light reached them. Their eyes had grown used to the dimly lit tunnels and passageways. She saw better that way.
They scraped and cut their feet as they traveled the rough trail to the Allerton Circle. The pain, something else they were not used to, was welcomed now that they could feel the stinging pain, the sharp points of rock ripping skin. It had been many rotations since they had felt anything at all, so they welcomed the stinging pain of cut toes and bruised feet. Pain was a joy. They did not stop for food or drink as they hurried, as if there were any such things close by to obtain. There was no time. Any moment could be their last, any wrong turn could lead them back to the pits.
The Allerton Circle was a passageway to other worlds. Sarah did not know who built them, but the older souls of the cages told stories that these circles were gateways to other places far from Solis—far from Valek—from the cages. She wanted to
be anywhere but Solis. Anywhere but the cages.
The murkiness strangled any green vegetation from growing, leaving only fungi and lichens to flourish. By the time they reached the last row of cages, the ground was heavily laced with minerals from the planet’s poisonous surface industries.
“I think I see the blue light of the circle!” Sarah whispered excitedly; her heart sped up in anticipation.
Scurrying toward the azure glow, they reached the circle, just as one other arrived.
Sarah gasped as she yanked on Amana’s sleeve. Fear crept into her stomach and a screamed died as she opened her mouth, no sound escaped.
“Hello there,” Orono laughed as his bulging ice-blue eyes sparkled in the bleak and dismal night. The wind howled around him like a choir of madmen.
She became even more aware of the frigid air as she stepped in front of Amana protectively… instinctually.
“What is he doing here?” Amana stuttered from behind her.
“I assume we were betrayed.”
Amana’s breath rasped quickly and she held tight to Sarah’s top. Orono had captured Amana before and the horror of the cages was too near for the young girl to forget.
The low humming of the mines filtered through the air in a sort of tribal beat. When she had worked in the mines, Sarah had listened to the beat of the same horrible drums. Drums made of human skin. Shaking off the memory, she crouched in an aggressive pose with both arms extended out in a ready-made karate chop. No way were they going back without a fight. Too many had died already.
Orono smiled. Round and pudgy with a head much too small for such a bulky frame, his cheeks shook as they attempted to lift the heavy amounts of flesh to form his smile. It revealed three razor sharp fangs pointing downward toward a row of yellowing lower teeth. Despite the coolness of the air, his face was wet with sweat, giving his complexion the color of moist clay. The smell of decaying flesh followed him like a cloud of cologne.
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