Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1)

by Stuart Jaffe

  "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 moments 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 casualness 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."

  "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 30

  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?"