Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

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."

"Your father and I did fine with you, didn't we?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Times were harder then. So, enough excuses. You talk with that wife of yours and get some children. Why on Earth get married if you didn't want kids? It's beyond me."

"Okay, I'll do that," Max said as he stepped into Benson University Center. "I have to go now. I have to eat."

"Are you eating well?"

"I'm trying."

"It's important. Lucas Hoffmeyer died last week because he stopped eating well. Of course, he was ninety-two but still, you have to take care of your body. Do you know I used to bring Lucas meals and read to him and things like that?"

Max dumped his things at the nearest available table, resigned to the fact that he would not get to eat until the phone conversation ended, and that would only happen when his mother decided it would happen. "No, Mom, I don't think I knew that."

"Well, I did," she said, her pride boosting every word. "He would call me 'one of his gals' and he'd tell me stories of his youth. Remarkably warm, gracious man. I really enjoyed talking with him. Oh, and his grandfather, you wouldn't believe the stories about his grandfather. Why the man served during the Civil War! Can you imagine that?"

But Max had stopped listening. The Civil War. Something about it clicked, and he found no internal resistance to interrupting his mother. "Mom, I have to go. I'll try to call you later. Bye," he said and closed the cell phone before she could say another word. Without bothering for food, Max rushed back to the library, his excitement held in check only by the odd looks he received from passing students.

The Civil War. The Hull family may have covered their tracks with dummy corporations now but back during the Civil War? He doubted they would have been so thorough back then. They would have tried but deleting files is different from hunting down every scrap of paper with the name Hull written upon it.

In less than an hour, Max had sifted through the entire roster of Civil War participants from the Winston-Salem area. It had been a fascinating experience in itself, but more so because of what he discovered. The name Hull came up several times often accompanied by the phrase "of the prominent family" or "married into the notable family" or even in one case, "proud grandchild of the great family." In each instance, Max wrote down the name and any particulars provided. He then began researching land deals from the Civil War era. As dinnertime neared, his unappeased hunger rebelled against his enthusiastic curiosity, and he had to admit that he had come up empty. All those "prominent" Hulls, yet not a single one owned any property.

After shoving down a burger and offering an apologetic call to Sandra, Max shuffled into his office. His watch beeped the arrival of seven o'clock, and thankfully, his new assistant had followed orders. Max dropped into his chair and said, "So, how was your day?"

Drummond stepped out of the far wall, his shoulders raised and his face scrunched. Through clenched teeth, he said, "You must get rid of that bastard."

Max's body still ached, though not as bad as that morning. But the thought of dealing with a belligerent ghost caused many of his bruises to flare up. "I can't fire him and he won't budge."

"Do you know what he did all day while you were out? He opened that window and he smoked. He smoked! Oh, if that smell isn't the most intoxicating, I swear there's a Devil and it wants to torture me every chance it gets."

"I really am sorry. But I have no way."

"Yes, you do," Drummond said, sliding closer with a boyish twinkle. "I've been waiting for you to broach the subject, to even suggest it, but you've clearly got a lot of other things to worry about. Either that or you're a thoughtless bastard."

"I'm really tired. Whatever you want, can it —"

"I don't have to be stuck here."

"You don't?"

"Not at all," Drummond said, his eagerness beaming.

Max had so many little puzzle pieces refusing to fit together that playing a guessing game with Drummond held no appeal. "Just tell me," he said.

"I'm here because of a curse. You can change that. You can undo the curse and set me free. Then I can help you with the case, be right by your side the whole time."

"Oh, sure. That'd be great," Max said, picturing how impossible his research days would be with Drummond floating around the library making boisterous comments —
I'm bored — I want to smoke — Look at these co-eds.

"Okay, okay, so I won't be by your side all day. The point is I can do more out there than I can stuck in here. Besides, if Hull wants me stuck here, shouldn't that say to you that I present more of a threat to them if I'm unstuck?"

Max yawned and said, "Hey, I've got no problem with the idea of setting you free. I do, however, have the problem of not having a clue how to do it, and while I know there's a book on that shelf about witchcraft, I find it highly unlikely that they would give me the curse-breaking spell so easily."

"You're right. That book won't help. In fact, you can't go to a book on witchcraft to help me. You have to go to a witch."

Max started shaking his head before Drummond finished speaking. "No, no, no. A witch? No. I am not going to ... no. I'm sorry but that is just ... no."

"Oh, come on," Drummond snapped. "I'm not asking you to give her your blood or something. Just find out what we need to do. That's it. Besides, she's a beautiful woman."

"What? Are you saying you know a witch? A real witch?"

Drummond gave a sly wink. "I knew her grandmother. Look, I promise it won't be any trouble. Just go to her house, explain who I am, tell her I need her help, and she'll help you out."

"She isn't the offspring of your illegitimate love-child or something?"

"Very funny. Now, come on, help me out."

"I wasn't joking."

Drummond stared at Max's pale face and pointed at him. "You're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are."

"I don't care about the witch. You want me to talk to her? Fine, I'll go talk to her. Okay?"

"No, you're scared. Maybe not of the witch, but of something. Me, maybe? You're worried that if you let me loose, I'll start haunting you."

"You already haunt me," Max said, trying to let the sarcasm ease his wounded nerves. "Really, though, I'm not scared. I've just got other things on my mind, that's all."

Drummond clapped his hands. "I see, now. You're scared that I'll just leave. Break the curse and your good pal, Marshall Drummond, the detective, will vanish forever."

"You highly overestimate yourself."

"I think you underestimate how dead-on I can be. Go see the witch, Max. And stop fretting. I'm not going away. Even if I didn't want revenge, I'd stick around. This is just too much fun."

Max tried to look away from Drummond, but the ghost kept floating before him. Drummond's eyes pleaded and smiled and harbored hope. Worse, Drummond was right. Max feared being alone in all of this.
But what right do I have to keep this man imprisoned?

"Okay," he said.

Drummond put his arms out wide. "If I could, I'd hug you right now. Thank you. I promise I'll stick around. You've got my word as a detective and a ghost."

"Just tell me her name."

"Ashley Connor. You go see her tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Come now, my new partner, you're not going to make me stay stuck like this another whole day, are you?"

Like an old cop faced with yet another petty crime, Max donned his coat and said, "Fine, fine. Just give me the address."

Chapter 10

Sitting in his car, staring at the two-story office building amongst many clones in the office park, Max shuddered. Across the street, somber brown signs with white lettering pointed to the dwellings of lawyers and dentists. An auto insurance salesmen used the bottom floor of the tan building Max had parked in front of, and just a few blocks over was Hanes Mall and the endless rows of chain stores built up around the shopping Mecca. In this little, tan building, if Drummond had told the truth, Max would find a witch — not somebody playing at being one with nature or hoping to pull off a few sparkly magic tricks, but an authentic witch. He shuddered again.

His mind kept dragging him back in time to the life of an eleven-year-old stuck in an apartment while the Michigan snows piled ever higher on the ground. School had been closed for two days and though Max's father risked his life to escape to work, his mother had been just as stuck as Max. At first, she attempted to entertain him, but he acted so moody that she left him alone most of the time. They would, however, sit together in front of the television for lunch — sipping soup and munching on grilled-cheese sandwiches. Max loved that tiny half-hour — the only minutes of the day his mother did not flit around the house cleaning, organizing, rearranging like a nervous animal convinced a predator lay in wait should anything be out of place.

The strangeness of the memory crept under his skin, jangling his nerves to a higher degree than his fear already had achieved. For now, that predator was a witch. A witch? How can this really be a witch? He never believed in such things.
Until last week, I never believed in ghosts, either.

From his wallet, Max produced a picture of Sandra. He gave it a kiss and said, "I wish I could tell you all this, but even if you believed me, and I know you'd believe me, I don't want you getting caught up in it." He could hear her arguing back, saying that they were supposed to be a team, that the whole purpose of marriage was to form that team, and that he could never protect her from bad things by keeping her ignorant of them. "I know," he said to the picture as he placed it back in his wallet.

Max clapped his hands in a way that reminded him too much of Drummond, and he got out of the car. Everything looked cold — the empty parking spaces, the quiet night air, the pale parking lot lights. Even the simple, brown door carried a weight of threat.

Inside, he found a waiting room — one sofa, two chairs, boring coffee table with assorted magazines, jazz playing quietly from ceiling speakers, a few live plants dotting the corners, and framed photographs of deer and elk hung on the walls. A woman behind a counter like that in a doctor's office smiled at him and said, "Evening. How are ya?"

"I'm sorry. I think I'm at the wrong place."

"This is Dr. Ashley Connor's office," the woman said.

"Doctor?"

The woman kept her smile strong, but Max saw doubt entering her eyes. "Yes," she said, "Dr. Connor is an ophthalmologist."

"Oh, then I'm at the right place, I guess. Sorry for the confusion. I've got a lot of doctor appointments this week. Trying to catch up on the backlog," he said, hoping to sound convincing.