Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (9 page)

"Are you Mr. Porter?"

"Yes?"

"She's got you down for a nine o'clock appointment."

"She does?"

"Yes, dear. Nine o'clock."

"Isn't it a bit late?"

"Certain appointments are considered of the highest priority."

"I see," he said, knowing he would regret asking the next question. "Except I didn't make an appointment. I was wondering how —"

"Everybody does. Now, if you'll just fill out this paperwork, we'll get you back there as soon as possible. Thank you."

Max took the clipboard the woman offered and sat on the leather sofa feeling like he just stepped out of a boxing ring after being pummeled in the head for ten rounds. How could she have written in an appointment when he hadn't even decided to go ahead with this until he left the car? How did she even know his name? Confusion painted every motion he made, but he pushed on despite his desire to run. He hated to admit it, but the more he thought over the possibilities, the more he agreed with Drummond — he needed the detective's help.

Fifteen minutes later, the receptionist sent him back to Room #4 where he found the traditional mechanical chair — several metal arms poked out of the side, each ending in a different tool. A hefty, attractive woman swept into the room and said with a thick Southern accent, "Good evening, Mr. Porter. I'm Julie."

"Good evening."

"You're new here. Where you from?"

"Michigan."

"Oh, that's much too cold for me," she said, as she turned down the lights and covered one of his eyes. With pleasant, pointless conversation, Julie tested Max's vision and finished by putting dilating drops into his eyes. "Dr. Connor will be in here in just a few minutes once those drops have a chance to work."

"Do you always stay open this late?"

"Only when we have special appointments, but then that happens a lot. Dr. Connor is very much in demand. It's a pleasure meeting you," Julie said and whisked out the door.

Max waited. Time crawled.

This is a stupid idea,
he thought. Just taking the smallest step back and examining his recent circumstances, Max would have to admit that everything appeared crazy and dangerous. If he told anybody he was at the eye doctor waiting to talk to a witch about freeing a ghost so he could protect himself and his wife from an obsessive real estate developer — heck, just stating it in his head made him want to be committed.

As the impulse to leave gained enough momentum to raise Max from his chair, the door opened and in walked Dr. Ashley Connor. She was younger than Max, looked to be straight out of school, and her features reminded Max why college had been such a wonderful experience. Often when confronted with a beautiful woman, Max would half-jokingly say to himself, "Remember, you're married." This time, however, he found his mind altering the mantra to "Remember, she's a witch."

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Dr. Connor said as the light scent of rosemary perfume drifted toward Max. She closed the door and turned on the lights. Max winced — his dilated eyes unable to see her well in the brightness. The blurry image took him by the hand and headed toward the backend of the room. "Do I understand correctly that you wish to see me not as a doctor, but in a different capacity?"

"That's right," Max said, shading his eyes with one free hand. "I want to discuss an old friend of your grandmother."

"Just wait, please. We'll get to it all."

Dr. Connor opened a door Max had not noticed earlier and escorted him through a brightly lit passage to a round room covered in items. Max squinted, trying to see what the things hanging on the walls and stacked on the floor might be, but everything was a blurry confusion. Dr. Connor placed him by a stool, asked him to sit, and settled on another stool just far enough away that he only saw the fuzzy outline of her shape.

"This is about Marshall Drummond," she said.

"How did you know that?" Max asked. "And how did you know I was going to be here today?"

Dr. Connor leaned forward and whispered, "Because I'm the real thing, Mr. Porter."

"Then I guess I don't need to bother telling you the problem, and you can just give me whatever I need to help Drummond get free."

Though Max could not make out the doctor's face, he had no doubt she wore a broad smirk. She said, "You don't really think this would be that easy, do you? I'm a witch, after all. I don't just give things away. You have to pay for them."

"Something tells me we're not talking about money."

"Now you're starting to think. I make plenty of money as an eye doctor, and it keeps the IRS off my back. But the witch business — there never seems to be an end to people calling for these talents."

"So, what exactly —"

With a swift stroke, Dr. Connor cut the back of Max's hand. Before he had time to do more than jump a little, she scraped something across the wound and settled back as if nothing had happened. "That will do for a start," she said.

"What did you do to me?"

"Nothing bad. Not yet. Just a little insurance. After all, your kind have a long history of poorly treating my kind. So I now have a small sample of your blood. If you ever attempt to hurt me, there's a lot I can do to you with just a few drops."

"Don't you dare threaten me," Max said as sweat trembled out of his body. He tried to keep a brave outward appearance, tried to think of cool Drummond on a case facing some thugs, and it helped a bit.

Dr. Connor walked behind Max and stroked his hair. She then plucked out a few strands. "No threats. Just insurance."

"Fine. You've got your insurance. So, how do I get Drummond out of that office?"

"We're not there yet."

Max swallowed back his anger and unclenched his jaw. "I am not going to play games."

"It's all games. You can't even see five feet in front of you. You have no concept of who it is you're fighting against or what they're capable of. Because of your dear wife —"

"You stay away from her."

"— you're in a highly vulnerable position. You have high debt and the only money you're receiving is from a man you don't even know, let alone trust. It may just be my opinion, but I think you'd be best off to do whatever I say."

Though he hated hearing his weaknesses pointed out, he had to admit their validity. Even without the eye drops, he had been traipsing through his days blind and ignorant. He felt like the tail of a kite being whipped around in a heavy wind, unable to know what direction events would lead, just hanging on tight.

But it doesn't have to be this way.
Drummond could help him get ahead for a change.

"Fine," he said. "What do we do next?"

"Next, you take off your clothes and make love to me."

"What?"

"Just kidding. Though I should tell you I don't care about marriage as an institution. If you ever feel like a little variety, I'd be interested."

Dr. Connor sat again, this time holding a book in her lap. "Let's see now," she said, and her tone told Max that this was going to go on for awhile longer. A loud buzz interrupted his thoughts and Dr. Connor scowled — at least, Max thought she scowled.

She walked to her wall and pushed a button. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Seaton is here."

"Thank you," she said, took a breath and sauntered back to her seat. "Okay, Mr. Porter, you might be having some luck tonight. Seems I'm a bit crunched for time. Everybody needs the help of a strong witch. Your friend, Drummond, has been put under a fairly simple binding curse. The markings used to keep him in one place have to be locked into a book or a scroll or something similar by copying the image on your floor into whatever item was chosen. To break the curse, you need to get ahold of the item, bring it to your office, and destroy it in the center of the floor marking. Understand?"

"I got it. Except how do we know where this copy is?"

"You just ask me."

"Okay, I'm asking. What do I need and where is it?"

"You go back to work now," Dr. Connor said with odd precision. "Please inform Mr. Drummond that when he is ready to talk with me, then I will gladly share with him the information you require."

"Wait a second."

"Good-bye, now," she said and placed her hand on his head.

When Max opened his eyes, he was alone and in his car. His head throbbed. His muscles tightened as a rage built, but he clamped it down — no use getting angry just yet. He couldn't go back to the office, though. The idea of talking with Drummond ticked him off too much. He'd end up saying something he would no doubt regret. Instead, he drove home.

Chapter 11

"You had me worried," Sandra said as she refilled Max's coffee mug. "I can't even think of a time you've been out so late before. Maybe in college. And when you got home, you just crashed."

Max's head pounded as if he had drunk whiskey all night. The coffee perked him up a little, but his dry mouth and aching bones made him want to crawl back to bed.

"You better get out of those clothes," Sandra said.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay. It's just that with everything that's happened, I was really worried. I'm just glad you're okay."

"I should've called," Max said as he slipped off his clothes and hunted for something clean to wear. "It all came down real quick. I'm sorry."

"I said it was okay."

"Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem." She stopped at the bedroom door. Before she spoke, Max's heart quickened — it knew what she would ask next, and it feared the question. "What exactly were you doing last night?"

He could hear the tenseness, the worry, the battle between the need to be comforted that all was well in their relationship and the terror that things might be as she suspected. A little assurance was all she sought. However, that required Max to tell her not to worry, that all was well — to lie. He couldn't tell her that he had been to see a witch. Would she even believe him? And offering anything simply to acknowledge that he wasn't having an affair would bring up further questions.

"Just work," he said, hearing his shallow lie.

"Oh," she said, that one utterance carrying far more disturbing depths.

"I have to go," he said, rushing downstairs, ignoring the pain in his body, and wishing he could do something to protect Sandra from her false belief.

By the time he reached his office, his horrible mood soured more. Taylor did his best to make matters worse. He offered an exuberant greeting and a cup of coffee. The coffee smelled delicious but Max had no intention of giving the boy any form of encouragement. He took the coffee, grunted, and plopped down at his desk. Before he could finish the first, sweet sip, Drummond appeared — cranky, as usual.

"Oh, the King finally decides to show up," Drummond said, kicking the furniture and acting as if he were destroying it instead have passing right through. "I cannot believe you care so little that you would keep me stuck here all night and tortured by this bastard kid all morning. I swear I've got it in me not to help you at all. Then where'd you be? Huh? You'd be a dead man. Your wife, too."

Max put the coffee cup down too hard and Taylor glanced up from paper sorting on the floor. "Everything okay, sir?"

"Fine," Max said.

"Not fine," Drummond went on. "Not fine, not one iota. Get me out of here, Max. Send this cretin packing and get me free."

Max crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. With a shocked gasp, Drummond said, "This a joke? You won't help me? For crying out loud, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm just anxious. Please, pull out your phone, so we can have a conversation."

The slim line of Max's mouth curled just a bit. Listening to Drummond whine had brightened his morning, and despite the pounding in his head, the aches in his muscles, or even the consistent pressure mounting on all sides, Max found the discomfort of a ghost amusing. However, the longer Drummond persisted, the more Max saw the play as cruel rather than simple teasing. "Taylor," he said. "I've got a terrible headache. Do me a favor, please, and get me some ibuprofen or something."

"Sure, sir," Taylor said and stepped into the bathroom. "I don't see nothing here. Where else would you have them?"

Snapping his fingers, Max said, "Oh, that's right, I must be all out. Will you please go downstairs and get me some? There's a convenience store on the street. I'm sure you'll find something in there."

Taylor hesitated. The tug-o-war between this request and the overriding rules set out by their mutual employer battled on his face. Max sensed that Taylor was going to refuse, so he added, "Taylor, this is not a test. You're doing a fine job, okay? It'll only take you a minute, and I promise I won't tell on you. I just really need to get rid of this headache."

"Oh, okay."

When Taylor left the office, Drummond clapped his hands. "Well, done. You're starting to get the knack of some of this job. A few days ago, you'd never have pulled of such an easy lie like that."

"I'm not lying. That witch of yours gave me a horrible headache."