Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

Only the whisk of passing cars responded.

It would take another hour-and-a-half before his car had been towed and a new tire installed. A few more hours drive, and Max made it home. The day had ended.

Except for the phone call.

Before Max had removed his coat, the phone rang. He answered it, clamping down on his desire to bark out a few rude remarks, with a simple, "Yes?"

A deep voice said, "Last warning, Porter. Next time we won't be shooting at the tires." The phone went dead.

Max slammed the phone down and tore off his coat. "Fuckers," he spat out. Then he grabbed the phone and punched in a number he knew too well.

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Modesto said.

"What the hell is the matter with you people?" Max said, his voice rising as he stormed around his living room.

"Calm down, please."

"Fuck you. You send your muscle to threaten me and my wife, and now you're shooting at me? I'm doing everything you've asked of me. I'm working as fast as I can."

"Shooting? Somebody shot at you?"

"Don't even start with that crap."

"Mr. Porter, I assure you we are not the cause of this. Now calm down and explain to me what happened."

"You know what happened," Max said, but he doubted himself now. Modesto sounded truly surprised by the call.

"Please, take a moment to think this through. What good could possibly come from our employer attacking you? As you pointed out, you're doing a fine job for us. Why would he spend all this money and effort to bring you down to North Carolina and put you to work, if he simply wanted to kill you? It makes no sense, does it?"

Max flopped onto his couch. "No."

"Now what happened?"

In a few minutes, Max laid out the events of the shooting. He avoided any mention of Phillip King, Butner, Bowman, and World War II POWs. The shooting itself was sensational enough to make omissions easy.

"Thank you," Modesto said. "I think I understand quite clearly now."

"So, what do we do?"

"You just go back to your job. I'll handle this."

"I want to know who did this. I want them to be put behind bars."

"I will find out who is responsible, and you can rest knowing that I will make sure they are taken care of."

Max straightened. "Wait a minute. No, no. I'm not saying I want that. Just get them arrested."

"I don't know what you mean by 'that' but don't worry."

"You know exactly what I mean. Don't kill them," Max said, whispering the last two words.

"Good-bye, Mr. Porter," Modesto said and hung up. Max looked at the phone as if he had no clue how it had managed to get in his hand.

"What was that?" Sandra asked.

Max dropped the phone as he jumped. His eyes darted toward her. "Honey, I didn't mean to wake you up."

Sandra stood in the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed, all sensuousness missing despite her negligee. "Who were you talking to?"

"What? Oh, just Modesto."

"Just? Are you going to tell me that I misunderstood? That you didn't talk to him about killing people? Are you?" Angry as she was, Max could see her desperate hope that he would tell her just that — she had misunderstood.

"Come here. Sit down."

Tears welled in her eyes. "What's happening here? Please, tell me you didn't ... please."

Max waited for Sandra to sit next to him on the couch. He held her hands, and said, "I was shot at tonight."

"Shot?"

"I'm fine. I was just angry. That's all you heard. And I didn't tell him to kill anybody. I told him
not
to. I just want them caught and put in jail. Honest."

"Honest?"

"You know me. I wouldn't try to kill somebody."

"I know."

"It scares me that you'd think that."

Sandra pulled back. "It scares
you?
What am I suppose to think? You've been acting weird ever since that Drummond stuff started. I know there's a lot of pressure on you, and I know this is a tough situation, but still — you don't even call to say where you are, when you'll be home, or anything. I've barely seen you the last few days. And these people — I mean, your employer is powerful. I think that much is clear. And powerful people can be very persuasive. Power can be very alluring. I worry."

"Honey, look at me. I'm one of the good guys."

As Sandra's tears fell, she wrapped her arms around Max and kissed him. He held her tight, pressing his lips hard against hers, his body acknowledging that they had not made love in far too long. Heat washed between them like water cascading across their limbs. Both struggled for breath but neither let go of the embrace.

Max's kissing moved to Sandra's neck and she let out a soft groan. He pulled back and held her face. "I'm scared," he said. "I want to run away from here but we can't."

"I know," she said, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt. "I know. I'm scared, too. When you don't call, I worry you might be —"

"I'm here. I'm fine." He pressed his body against hers.

Max kicked off his pants and eased inside Sandra. They both let out moans of pleasure mixed with relief. Then they giggled at their own sounds.

"See," Max said, "we're fine."

Sandra rocked her hips back and forth. "That's because you're the good guy."

"That's right. Very right."

Making love erased the world around them. Max gave in without protest. He felt a bit disoriented when, late in the evening, he sat on the couch flipping through television channels. Sandra's head rested in his lap, her soft snores a gentle reminder of how pleasant life could be when given the opportunity.

Max stopped at Channel 12 local news and listened to tomorrow's forecast (cloudy and sixty-five). The anchor came back on and pictures of four men appeared. Two were tattooed thugs who looked as if a few years in prison would be a vacation. The third man, a crew-cut blonde with a tight face and hateful eyes, looked to be the brains among the four. Either that or he would be playing the girl during his prison stay. The last man, a heavyset man — Max recognized him. Max would never forget him — he could still smell the man's reek as he punched Max in the gut.

Max turned up the volume. "... were arrested today on charges of racketeering following an anonymous tip ..."

He hit the MUTE button and gaped at the television.
An anonymous tip.
Modesto? Could it all be over? And if so, then what does it mean that in a matter of hours, Modesto had managed this? Max felt both filthy and relaxed. He had four men arrested with just a phone call.

"Am I the good guy?" he asked. Sandra's soft snores were his only answer.

Chapter 13

After a full breakfast of eggs and toast smothered in kisses, cranberry juice with a flash of skin, and a glass of water with dessert upstairs, Max extracted himself from Sandra's arms and drove to his office. Their morning together helped keep him from reviewing the disturbing events of the previous night. As far as he cared to recall, the night was filled with making love. What had led up to it needed no analysis — at least, not for the moment.

"Good morning, Mr. Porter," Taylor said.

Max strode by the young man and powered up his laptop. Drummond poked his head from the bookcase, winked at Max, and floated closer.

"Thought I heard you," he said. "Any developments overnight? Any closer to finding that book?"

Once the laptop was ready, Max typed out a quick detail of his meeting with Phillip King and then being shot at. As Drummond thought, he passed through Taylor several times. Max suspected this to be more malice than accident but grinned nonetheless. Before Drummond could ask again, Max typed I'VE GOT NO INFORMATION ON THE BOOK YET.

"As long as you're trying. I've been stuck here for a long time. What's a few more days?"

ASSUMING I FIND IT.

"You'll find it," Drummond said, his façade of confidence unable to mask his nerves. "Tell me, did you get a name for the POW?"

IT WAS YOUR CASE. DON'T YOU KNOW IT?

"That was over a half-century ago. You expect me to remember every little detail? Check the police report, it should be in there."

Max pulled up the file and skimmed over it.

JOSEPH RICHTER?

"That's one of them. Also Günther something. You need to check on those today."

I WILL. BUT I ALSO NEED YOU TO TELL ME SOMETHING.

"What do you want to know?"

WHY IS YOUR NAME CONNECTED WITH BROUGHTON AND THE KIRKSBRIDE PLAN?

Drummond halted.

I CAN DO THE RESEARCH RIGHT HERE, BUT YOU'LL SAVE ME A LOT OF TIME, Max typed. Drummond said nothing, so Max pulled up his internet browser and searched Broughton. As the listing came up, including the heading WEST CAROLINA INSANE ASYLUM, Drummond said, "Stop that thing. Let me tell you before you get it all twisted up in your head. Just shut it off."

Max closed the browser, and Drummond sighed in relief. "Thank you," Drummond said. "Look, this is nothing like it appears there."

BROUGHTON ISN'T A MENTAL INSTITUTION?

"You know it is. You just saw it. But just hear me out, okay? I'm not crazy. Of all the people I've ever told this to, what I'm going to tell you, I think you might believe me. After all, you're sitting here listening to a ghost."

I'M WAITING.

"Okay, okay. Don't get all snooty with me," Drummond said. After a slight swipe through Taylor's head, he settled in front of Max and said, "Well, at first, I was a cop walking the beat, just getting started. I drank a little but not too much and even back then people said I had a knack for solving tough problems. Everybody thought I'd be a full-fledged detective in no time at all.

"One night, a blistering August night, I was done and on my way home when I heard an odd noise coming from a second-floor window. It had a mournful sound like a kitten crying 'cause its mom had died. I saw right away that it was Ms. Holstein's apartment — nice old lady who spent much of her time knitting by that window. I wasn't on duty anymore that night, but when you're a cop, you're never really off duty — not for a real cop. So, I went up to take a look.

"Before I reached the door, I knew Ms. Holstein was dead. That nasty Death-smell had already begun to seep into the hall. And then that sad sound cried out again. I knocked on the door. Said something stupid like 'Ms. Holstein? Are you okay in there?' but of course, I got no answer. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Now at this point, I should have — I don't know anymore, really. Maybe it all was inevitable."

Max watched Drummond fidgeting and felt the sudden urge to pat the detective's shoulder. He couldn't, of course, but the urge grew anyway. The way Drummond had said
inevitable
struck Max with a sense of recognition — he, too, felt much of what had been happening to him was beyond his control. Perhaps, even though he loathed the idea of destiny, perhaps
inevitable.

"Well, I went into that apartment," Drummond continued, "and I found Ms. Holstein face down by the window. No blood or signs of struggle. It looked like she just finally died and that was that. Then I heard that crying again. I turned around and standing by the bedroom door was Ms. Holstein — only she was shimmering. I guess I don't have to tell you what I'm talking about, do I?"

"You saw her ghost," Max said.

Taylor startled from his book. "What was that, sir?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

Taylor eyed Max for a moment before returning to his book. Drummond tsked. "That boy really should get another job. Anyway, yeah, I saw her ghost and it scared the hell out of me. I probably looked like an imbecile standing there with my mouth open, but I couldn't move. I just kept thinking that it didn't make any sense. I don't know how long I stood there waiting for something to happen, maybe my own death — I don't really know. Eventually, she vanished but slowly. More like she dissipated. Anyway, she was gone.

"To prove how much of an idiot I was back then, I opened my big mouth and wrote up the whole incident in my report. The week wasn't over before I'd been canned.

"The Depression was on, so losing my job was serious. I was lucky, though — no wife, no kids, nothing but myself to cost me a dime. So I rented out this office and became a private detective. The landlord knew I was using it as an apartment as well, but he was a good man and I paid my rent which was more than many people did, so he let me stay."

Drummond took in the little office with a reminiscent gleam. "Anyway," he said, "I did a few jobs here and there, just enough to keep me afloat, but I couldn't stop thinking about that ghost. So one night after I had a whiskey or two too many, I went back to that old place. Nobody had moved in — or at least, nobody had stayed long. I walked inside being cautious and sure that nothing would happen, but there she was standing by the door as if no time had gone since she last saw me. This time she pointed to the wall. It took me forever to move my body, but in the end, I found what she wanted. Hidden in the wall was a box full of cash and a note that she had saved it for her niece. I delivered the cash, almost two hundred dollars, and before you even ask, the answer is no, I didn't take a nickel. Heck, I didn't dare. And that was it for the ghost. She was gone.