by Stuart Jaffe
"So, now I guess we look into that stock information?"
"It's not too late to stakeout Ms. Annabelle."
Max's cell phone buzzed — Sandra. "Hi, honey," Max said while scowling at Drummond. "I'm fine ... well, today's been interesting ... I've still got some research to do ... sure, honey, if it's important, I'll be there ... oh, I see."
"Well?" Drummond said to Max's stunned face.
"My wife has informed me that we have a date tonight."
"A date? With your wife? You're married to her but you're still dating? Oh, hell, the 1940s made a lot more sense."
Chapter 8
Max disliked low-priced restaurants because all the families with obnoxious kids ate at such places. With their finances strapped, however, he and Sandra had little choice in the matter if they wanted to eat out. So, as Max bit into the dry turkey and over-ripe tomato of his club sandwich, he listened to a four-year-old scream "Mine! Mine! Mine!" while the sweet darling's adoring parents smacked him across the head.
Sandra cracked a grin and shrugged. "It could be worse."
"Really?" Max said, thinking about the day he had endured and how little of it he dared to share with his wife.
"Sure. That kid could be ours."
This elicited a slight chuckle. A moment later, they settled into silence and ate. Max wanted to relax, to pay attention, to be a good date, but he could not stop thinking about Drummond, Bowman, Modesto, and Hull. Even if he had the courage to divulge a tiny portion of what had happened, Sandra could not possibly believe him — a detective ghost and office witchcraft and a forgotten madman.
"Come on," Sandra said, her voice soft yet firm. "Please try to have a good time."
"What? Oh, no, I'm fine. Just a bit preoccupied."
"Honey, I know you don't like your job, but you've got to deal with it."
"I am," Max said, snapping harder than he had intended. He drank some soda through a straw and continued, "I've just had a stressful day, that's all."
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."
The brat screaming "Mine! Mine! Mine!" hit the high-point of his meltdown. He sprawled on the floor and wailed. Two haggard parents scooped him up, dodging his flailing arms, and lugged him outside. Sandra could not hold back her laughter.
"It's not funny," Max said. "Those are horrible parents and they have no consideration for anybody else."
Sandra whooped a short laugh and regained her composure. "You could really use a hard drink, couldn't you?"
Max sipped his straw again, making a silly face that sent Sandra into more hysterics. "So let me ask you something," Max said, deciding at that very moment upon a way to lightly dance atop the explosives that had become his life. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Wiping her eyes, Sandra said, "Ghosts?"
"Spirits of the dead. Y'know, ghosts."
Sandra took a long drink, giving Max the impression that she was stalling. "Yes, I suppose I do. Why are you even asking?"
Waving away the question, Max said, "Forget it. How was your day?"
"Fine," Sandra said with a touch of relief. "Actually, I'm still having problems with my boss, but it's nothing to worry about."
"We both have boss problems, then."
"And we'll both persevere. Now, let's talk no more of work and bosses and anything like that."
"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"
Sandra opened her mouth but said nothing. Then, with a shake of her head, she started to laugh again. They enjoyed the rest of their meal, talking about a television show, Max's mother, and something Sandra heard on the radio. Savoring the weightlessness of the evening, they both relaxed for an hour.
Max would later recall two sounds as they headed toward their car in the brisk night air. First, he heard the crunching of heavy feet in the gravel — a sound that spoke of urgency and threat. The second sound, however, would be forever chiseled into his being — Sandra's terror-filled scream as two men wearing ski-masks shoved her aside and assaulted Max.
They each took one of his arms and threw him against the restaurant's wall. The cold brick scratched into his back as one of the men, the heavier one, punched Max in the gut. The other one pulled out a handgun that shined its metallic blue under the parking lot lights and pointed it at Sandra. Max gasped for enough air to speak, his lungs burning and his stomach stuck in a tight clench, but he only managed to cough up phlegm.
The heavy man grabbed Max's hair and wrenched his head back. Max could see Sandra shaking, her face looking upon him, terrified she might never see him again. He wanted to reach out to her, to give her some assurance they would be fine, but the gun pointed at her head kept him wondering.
"Stop looking into things that don't matter anymore," the heavy man said, his breath reeking of alcohol. Another punch to the gut and a kick in the side capped off the performance. Then the two men dashed off into the darkness. As Max rolled to his side, Sandra raced over and wrapped her arms around him.
She whispered words he could not decipher, and he knew the words were more for her own comfort than his. After a few minutes, his stomach muscles loosened a little, and he found the strength to stand. Pain shot from his side. He prayed they hadn't broken his ribs — paying for medical care was not a line item in the Porter budget.
Later, in their kitchen, Sandra helped Max ease out of his shirt. He winced and groaned but managed.
"That looks pretty bad," she said, placing an icepack over the purple/black bruise on his side.
"Easy," he said, hissing air as he lowered his arm onto the icepack.
"Don't be a baby."
"I got kicked in the ribs!"
"And I had a gun to my head," Sandra said, slamming a second icepack onto the table. Her hands shook, and her face quivered as tears welled in her eyes. She rubbed them away and returned to checking his wounds.
"We're okay now. We can relax. It's all over."
"No, it's not. You know that. I heard what he said to you. This was just a warning."
"They may not even have had the right guy."
"Bullshit! They targeted you and you know it," Sandra said and the two locked eyes like poker players attempting to cover all sense of meaning in their expressions. Breaking away, Sandra fixed a glass of cola for Max and said, "Doesn't look like you've got any broken bones."
"At least that much is good."
"Sure," she said, the sarcasm dripping heavy and thick, "real good. Just wonderful, in fact. We ought to get attacked more often."
Max sipped his cola and said, "I know it was scary and all, but it's over."
"Stop saying that. I'm not a child and I'm not a fool. This was a warning. To you. This is all because of Drummond, isn't it? It is. I can see it in your face. So, you tell me right now, what's going on?"
Despite her stern mouth, Max saw the fear dancing on her skin. He knew exactly how she felt. He felt it, too. Anger strong enough to tear down walls. Fear powerful enough to keep him frozen.
"I don't know if it's the Drummond thing. I don't. Honest. I mean it probably is, but I don't know one hundred percent for sure. But come on, now, this shouldn't be such a shock."
"What?"
"We both know something's not right about my employer."
"What are you saying?"
Max gestured to the chair opposite him and waited for her to sit. Sandra glanced at the chair; then leaned against the counter. "It's truth time," he said. "Okay? Don't you think? No more pretending. We've both kept quiet about it. We've both ignored all the red flags smacking us in the face because we wanted the money, the security. We wanted to get out of the mess in Michigan."
"You made that mess."
"I'm not trying to dredge up all that. I just —"
Sandra shook her head as she pulled a beer from the refrigerator. "I see how you want this," she said. "It's truth time but only when you've got something to say."
"No, I just didn't want us to rehash an old fight."
"Well, we're here, right now, talking about a
ll of this because of that old fight. Maybe we should consider finishing it this time."
Never before had Max seen his wife carry such a harsh expression. Disgust and hatred filled him at the sight — not for her but towards himself. He had caused her to look that way. If this was "truth time," then he had to start with himself. "Okay," he said. "Michigan was my fault, and I think all of this is my fault, too."
Sandra drank her beer as she settled into her chair. Then, with a tired yet still boiling tone, she said, "They accused you of sleeping with a student, and I believe whole-heartedly you didn't do it. So, let's start with that. I want to know why you let them fire you. And don't tell me how you hated your boss and the legal costs were too high and all those other excuses you've used before. I want to know the truth. Why didn't you fight for that job?"
Max closed his eyes and nodded. "It's funny, I always tell myself it happened because of the boss thing or that my ideas were stolen or a number of other excuses. Truth is, though, I deserved to be fired. That's why I didn't fight. I knew if we fought back, they'd look into my work, my files, everything. They'd poke into everything, and eventually they'd learn that I had done something wrong. Not what they accused me of, I never slept with a student, but something that could've landed me in jail."
"What did you do?" Sandra asked, her voice quiet and frightened like a girl being told her mommy was being arrested.
Max swallowed hard. "I found a loophole in their computer accounting system. I was talking with the principal one day and it was just there on her desk and she was nowhere and I don't know what I was thinking, but I just reached over and made a few checks for CASH."
"You embezzled from a school?"
"We were freezing to death, for crying out loud. I'm sorry I'm not the great provider, but I had to do something. And really, isn't that why we're here? We hated how hard our lives were back there. We hated it. All the time, we complained and griped and it was ripping us to pieces. We barely talked about anything else. Then, this job landed in my lap and we saw the dollar signs and that was it, no questions."
"It wasn't like that."
"No, no. This is truth time. We both accepted that there was something odd about this job. We both knew it was not on the up-and-up."
Indignation flashed in Sandra's eyes, only to be replaced by calm acceptance. A single tear escaped her tight control, and with a trembling voice, she asked, "How bad is it this time? Are you going to go to jail?"
"What? No. I've done nothing wrong. I'm just researching old history looking for buildings. That's it. But obviously, there's more to all this than real estate deals."
"Obviously."
Max shifted in his chair and fire swelled from his bruises and seared up his side. "It's all crazy. I've actually been thinking how nice Michigan was."
"Michigan was a crappy mess."
"My point exactly." Max dropped his hands to his lap. "I've just got to get through the job. Just do the research, get my check, and then I'll quit. I'll walk away."
"Honey, you're not thinking. When does somebody ever get to walk away from people like this?"
"But I don't know anything."
"Does that really matter? What you need to do is quit all this Drummond business, do your job, and keep your mouth shut and your ears open. We need to find some way to get out, something to hold over their heads."
"Are you crazy? These people sent two men to beat me up. They had a gun to your head."
"I haven't forgotten," Sandra said, her anger erupting as tears streamed out unchecked. "But we can't just sit back and wait for you to piss them off enough to kill us. You need to do something. You don't like my idea, fine. You tell me, then. What can we do?"
Max sagged in his chair. He knew all along this question was coming, and he knew the answer. "You won't like it," he said and finished his drink, the clinking ice cubes underscoring his soft words.
"I don't like any of this."
"I'm going to help Drummond. I know that seems nuts to you, but there's more to it than you know, and if I can find out what happened to ... what happened, then maybe I'll have that missing something you want me to find. Something to protect us from my employer."
"But all of this started with Drummond. Why help him?"
"I think his case is connected to everything else. At least, I'm pretty sure it is."
"Okay, okay. But, honey, I'm scared."
"Me, too," Max said.
Sandra took a shaking breath and placed her hand on the table. Max reached out, and they held hands in the kitchen without another word.
Chapter 9
The next morning, after overcoming the difficulty of taking a shower and driving to work with half his body throbbing in pain, Max opened his office door to discover a tall, blonde man moving papers on his desk. He was young, perhaps still in college, and had a boyish smooth face. He looked up, adjusted his glasses, stood, and offered his hand.
"Are you Mr. Porter?" the young man asked with a slight drawl. He pushed his thin hair back, but in moments it had swooped down to cover his right eye once again.
Max shook the hand. "I am. And this is my office, though that doesn't seem to matter to anybody around here."
"I'm sorry. I was told to let myself in. My name's Taylor. Mr. Modesto hired me to be your assistant."
Drummond slipped out of the bookcase and started shouting. "Can you believe this? A damn spy. I tried to get this idiot to leave. I've been knocking books to the floor and throwing papers around, but the prick won't go."
Taylor moved around the desk, his hands jittering as he pointed at Drummond. "I think that bookshelf is not flush with the floor. Things keep slipping out of it."
Drummond stomped around the room. "I'm sick of him. He's been here less than an hour and I can't stand him. If only I could deck him. I know, I know, but that's it for me — books are the biggest thing I've been able to move. Kind of stings, too, but for this clown, I'll suffer it."
Max tried to ignore Drummond for the moment. "You said that Mr. Modesto hired you?"
"Yes, sir," Taylor said. "I'm to help you however you need. He said you were doing research."
"Um, there's been a misunderstanding. I don't require an assistant."
Drummond slapped another book to the floor. As Taylor placed it back, he said, "Mr. Modesto said you'd say that. He told me that I had to stay even if you tried to fire me. He said only he could fire me. I'm sorry, sir, but I need this job. It pays really well and college is expensive. And, frankly, there isn't much else out there. So, if you don't put me to work, I'm supposed to just sit here." With that, Taylor took the left guest chair, looking more uncomfortable than before.
"I see," Max said. "I guess I'll work elsewhere today."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"What?" Drummond asked.
Max stepped to the side so that he could face both Taylor and Drummond while speaking to Taylor. "I don't mean to offend you. Mr. Modesto can hire you to do whatever he wants. He cannot, however, force me to accept it. I'll do my work elsewhere. Please leave by five and be sure to lock the door."
Drummond walked right through Taylor in his desperate approach to Max. "Don't do this. It's bad enough being stuck in this room all day, but don't leave him here with me."
Taylor appeared to be working a complex problem in his head when Max opened the office door. "Goodbye," he said and walked out.
The lady living down the hall stepped out for her newspaper. She eyed Max as he said, "Good morning."
As Max reached the end of the hall, Taylor exclaimed, "This is a test, ain't it? Don't worry, sir, I'll be right here to five o'clock. You can count on me."
The lady cocked an eyebrow. Embarrassed, Max said, "New assistant. He's a bit overenthusiastic." With a grunt, the lady closed her door.
Max had two distinct impressions of Taylor. One — he was like any other college kid and would goof around all day unless Max stayed in the office. And two — Drummond was right. Whether the kid knew it or not,
he had been hired to spy. That last idea sent nervous tingling through Max's skin, but not because he feared its veracity — rather, Max chilled at how easily he accepted the idea of being spied upon. I'm starting to know my enemy.
By the time he reached Wake (and after seven minutes of searching for a parking space), he had formulated his next few steps. First, when he entered the library, he found a private corner and sent an e-mail to Roddy, his pal in Michigan. They had been college roommates, and Max hoped he could still trust the man. Before moving to Michigan, Roddy had worked on Wall Street, and Max's e-mail asked Roddy to draw on those old days to get any information about Annabelle Bowman's stock acquisitions. With the e-mail sent off, Max started his own research on local land deals.
The work kept Max's mind from wandering which kept him from worrying. Hours passed by in research bliss until he had to admit that all his work had turned up no results. According to all the records he could find, nobody named Hull ever owned any land in Winston-Salem. While certainly odd, it was not unfathomable. The Hull's could have numerous dummy corporations set up to hold the land. Such things were done all the time in order to protect family money from litigation damages.
With a loud gurgle, Max's stomach protested the long day. His watch read 3:30, so he hurried over to Benson University Center to grab a quick bite among the students. No sooner had he left the library than his cell phone chirped — his mother.
"Hi, Mom," Max said as he weaved around students.
"Hi, dear."
"I can't talk long. I've got to get some lunch before I get back to work."
"Oh, that's nice. Your work is going well?"
Max sighed. "Yes. It's fine."
"And how's Sandra?"
"She's doing well. Loves it down here."
"I'm so glad. As long as you two are happy than the rest of it doesn't matter."
Here it was. Max tried to refrain from taking the bait but he had to ask, "The rest of what?"
"Oh, never mind. I'm just an old woman all by myself waiting for her grandchildren."
Bingo! Grandchildren. "I know. But we can barely afford to keep ourselves going. A child is way too expensive."
