Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (23 page)

Taylor squealed in surprise and dropped the gun. Drummond screamed and flew off clutching his hand. Sandra dove for the gun while Taylor looked upon his empty hand in shock. As Sandra picked up the gun, Taylor gained his senses and kicked her in the side. She rolled over seizing her ribs. At the same time, Max launched from his desk to tackle Taylor. The two men tumbled to the ground, grappling and punching while Drummond crouched in the corner wheezing.

"That hurt," he managed to say, but nobody bothered to listen. Sandra struggled for her own breaths of air while Taylor had managed to roll behind Max and get an arm around his throat. Max tried wedging his hand between his throat and Taylor's arm but the boy's grip was too tight. He tried elbowing Taylor, and though he made contact, the boy did not loosen his arm. Max's lungs burned at the lack of oxygen.

"I'm not such a peon now, am I?" Taylor said. "You think you can defy a great man like Hull? You think you can mess with his people? Well, I'm his people, and this is what you get."

When Max saw the ceiling light go dark, he figured the end had come. Then he heard a high-pitched cry and he could breathe again. Taylor shoved him over, and as he strained for air, he saw Taylor rolling on the ground clutching his groin. The ceiling light had not gone out — Sandra had blocked it when she stood up and kicked Taylor.

Her sweet hands rubbed Max's back for a moment. "You okay, honey? Can you talk?"

"I feel like dirt," Max managed.

"Me, too."

"Get the gun."

"I got it. Don't worry. Guess Taylor forgot to put on a new cup."

The way her sentence drifted off scared Max. He looked up. Mr. Modesto stood at the door, taking in the disheveled room.

Despite his pain, Taylor rose to his feet and bowed. "Mr. Modesto. I, well, I'm, um, that is —"

"Please be quiet," Modesto said in his rich tones.

"Yes, sir," Taylor said, looking younger with every second.

Modesto offered a hand to help Max, and with it came the rich scent of cologne. Max ignored the hand and, with Sandra's help, stood. "I think," Max said, "we can agree that Taylor should no longer be here."

"I think we are beyond that." Modesto lifted his right hand, and two men entered to escort Taylor away.

"Wait. What's going to happen to him? Don't hurt him."

"He tried to kill you."

"He tried to impress your boss."

"Your boss as well."

"Not anymore. I don't think that I can continue to work for him," Max said, and he could feel Sandra's tension grow.

"I see. Then I suppose I'll have to inform our employer. He will be disappointed."

"I'm sure."

"Of course, you'll no longer have access to this office."

"I only ask for a few days to pack up."

"That should be acceptable. And naturally, our files will remain with us, as will the journal you acquired this past evening."

"Journal?"

"You don't really believe I'll let you keep it, do you?"

Max considered his options and saw fairly fast that, unless he planned to attack Modesto, he had none at the moment. Attacking Modesto did not strike Max as a wise move — satisfying but not wise. Modesto stepped over to the desk, lifted the journal, and placed it in his briefcase, his movements always graceful, always controlled. Then he left, saying over his shoulder, "Good day, Mr. Porter."

"Why the hell did you do that?" Drummond said once Modesto had exited.

"What could I do? He knew we had the journal."

"Not the journal, you idiot. Why'd you quit working for Hull? Now you've lost this office. And that means I'm stuck here — still."

"Don't get mad at me. You didn't seem to be doing much good either."

"I've got a damn foot-long blade of fire cutting through my hand right now thanks to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're the one who told me to attack Taylor. Do you know how painful it is to hit somebody in the corporal world?"

"Like a foot-long blade of fire cutting through your hand?"

"I swear if it didn't mean more pain, I'd punch you in the jaw right now."

Sandra helped Max back into his chair. "Back off," she said. "Max has gone through a lot to help you out."

"Some help."

"He could have left you from day one. You'd still be just a bodiless spirit in the bookcase. He didn't have to do any of it."

"But he did do it, and now he's got my hopes up and what's going to happen? Nothing. I'm given the short stick again."

"Sorry if I don't cry, but my husband has risked his life for you. Hell, so have I. And by quitting this job, our lives may be in even more danger."

"Exactly," Drummond said as if everything out of Sandra's mouth had supported his view. "Call Modesto and apologize for talking so rashly. Get your job back. Maybe Hull won't try to silence you if he still thinks he controls you."

"Not likely," Max said.

"Then why'd you do it? I don't get it."

"Because I'm angry," Max said, pushing away at Sandra's fawning. "All that we went through tonight and the moment that ass walked into this office, I knew he'd be taking the journal. It's not fair. How are we supposed to do anything good in here when everything is stacked against us? It's like they brought us down here just to play with us, and I'm tired of it. I just want to go home, get some sleep, leave this place, and move on."

Drummond let out a defiant laugh. "You're only saying that 'cause Modesto showed up. Before that, when you'd thought you'd won the day, you were all smiles. I saw it. You like this. I know. I've seen that look many times — half of them while looking in the mirror. Let me tell you something, though. You can't win every day. Sometimes you've got to be humbled a little. The important thing is —"

"Will you shut up already," Max said.

"Hey, I don't deserve that from you."

Sandra threw a towel through Drummond. "Just leave him alone, already."

"I'm just saying that —"

To Sandra, Max said, "Please go home ... and start packing."

"Okay," she said, her disappointment obvious.

Max buttoned on his shirt and stormed out of the office. "I'm going for a walk," he said, ignoring the chill brought on by his shirt — still damp from the evening's excursion.

At least an hour passed, Max did not keep track, when he found himself rambling down Fourth Street for the umpteenth time. When he had started his walk, he was fed-up and anxious to go. However, after he had calmed a bit, he remembered the way Sandra had fallen in love with the area when they first arrived. And now he liked it a lot, too. Winston-Salem was more than just Hull, and he had to admit that he would miss some of this place. If only he had enough strength to turn away that carrot from the beginning. Of course, then he would never have come here. He and Sandra would be wandering somewhere in the Mid-West or the Northeast, struggling to build a life.

"Some life," he said — ghosts, witches, graveyards, curses, blackmail, and torture. Yet, the morning air smelled fresher than any he had experienced elsewhere. The people (except for those associated with Hull) were genuinely nice.

No, it's none of that. I'm just tired of disappointing Sandra.
This move to the South was meant to be their fresh start — his new job, his chance to make it all right.
And it's all just crap, now.

As the road inclined, Max noticed the sound of a car just behind him — not passing but following. He quickened his pace and tried to get a glimpse of the vehicle in the store window reflections. He saw a dented van with no specific markings. When he turned around the van slowed, inching forward with trepidation. The driver wore a mask. With a sudden motion, the van gunned forward, screeched to a stop in front of Max, and the side door slid open. Two masked men jumped out, grabbed Max, and pulled him inside.

Just got crappier,
Max thought as the van drove off.

Chapter 25

A rich aroma — cinnamon and burnt incense. The odor was strong enough to wake Max. With the back of his head throbbing in time with his pulse, he opened his eyes. Wolves, bears, and hyenas glared back at him. Wood-carvings. He knew them, too. They were on a rolltop desk — the one that belonged to Dr. Connor.

He sat in a wooden office chair — his wrists and legs tied to its frame. Every muscle in his body complained, and his eyes threatened to close for a long, relaxing sleep. A man crouched nearby and a woman stood a few feet further away. "Modesto?" Max said, a grim, dry taste in his mouth.

"I apologize for the rather rough way you were handled, but I did not think you would have come here otherwise," Modesto said. He had removed his tailored jacket and his sleeves were rolled up like a harried newspaper editor from the 1940s. His disarray frightened Max more than anything else at that moment.

"I already gave you the journal."

"And I thank you."

Dr. Connor bent closer to him and said, "You were an easy one. We led you a little down the path and you went for the bait. I thought you'd have been tougher to wrangle, but —"

"That's enough," Modesto said. "I apologize for the doctor as well. She's a little excited. We've been searching for this journal for quite some time. I had always suspected it was in the cemetery, but our employer has a lot of strong feelings when it comes to Moravian cemeteries. And then there was no way to find out which grave. Until we had you find it for us."

"What made you think I could do it?"

"We simply hired you to help us out. We figured that your information would aid us in our search. I never really thought you'd be the one to locate the journal. You've never shown yourself to be all that bright. So, this was just a bonus."

"This whole job was a setup to find that journal?" Max said. He was about to point out that it didn't contain Drummond's curse but held back. Instead, he added, "All this just to protect Hull? From what? A little embarrassment. The guy's dead now, anyway."

Modesto brought his face right in front of Max and studied him. Then he backed away and said, "I don't think he knows much more. We should be fine."

"Then ..." Dr. Connor said like a girl awaiting her turn for a pony ride.

"Yes. You may do with him as you like. Just make sure there's nothing left to find."

With a relieved shudder, she said, "Thank you." She handed Modesto his jacket. "If you need anything else, of course, I'm always here for you."

"We appreciate that."

"And I will take care of everything here. Don't worry."

"I never do," Modesto said and walked away.

Dr. Connor turned towards Max. "Let's see now. I still have a little of your blood and hair. What shall I do with it?" She took the seat Modesto had occupied and with a giddy laugh, she folded her hands in her lap. With exaggerated surprise, she said, "Oh, I know, I'll make a little spell you might be familiar with. It's called a binding spell."

Max stayed silent. He guessed that pleading would gain him nothing, and the idea of spending what little time he had left negotiating with this awful person (let alone begging) did not sit well. Instead, while Dr. Connor mashed various plants in a wooden bowl, Max scanned the room for anything that might help.

She had a number of sharp implements — some obvious like knives, some less so like a hooked item that reminded Max of a dentist's pick. The remnants of rope from what they had used to tie him had been piled on the floor. Three candles burned in an ornate holder sitting on the desk. However, nothing could be considered useful unless he got out of the chair.

"Can I ask you something?" Max said, trying to go with his gut like Drummond.

"You can ask. I don't guarantee I'll answer."

"Your grandmother — why did she bind Drummond? I know what you said last time, but seeing as I won't have time to get Drummond to talk with you, I'm just curious. Was it just a lover's revenge?"

After placing another ingredient in the bowl and stirring it up, she said, "A little revenge, yes. I don't think she was too mad at him, though. She was a wise woman and knew what sleeping with a man like Drummond meant."

"Then it was something else?"

Dr. Connor sniffed the bowl and reeled back. "That's about right. Maybe a little more of your blood just to be safe." She walked behind him, and for a second Max thought she would slit his throat. She laughed at his tensed body. "Not yet. You don't die until the end, when your soul gets bound to this chair. Then I suppose I'll put the chair on the curb. Let whoever wants it, take it. Or perhaps the garbage men will take it away and you can haunt the dump forever. For now, I just need this." With a hunting knife, she made a thin cut in Max's bicep and let his blood drain into the wooden bowl. "That's better."

"So, why bind Drummond when killing him off would have worked better?"

"That was the backup plan."

"Backup? Why would she need a backup plan? Unless, you mean, she didn't know if it would work?"

"My grandmother was a fantastic witch. Just because Hull didn't trust her doesn't mean she would ever have failed. And the proof is haunting your office."