Southern Haunts
Page 15
“I was talking to Drummond.”
Drummond floated in the backseat. “Don’t hold back. Go faster.”
“I am.”
“You can go faster than this. Mother Hope’s got her whole organization based in Greensboro. With a phone call, she could have somebody after Robertson before we get halfway there.”
Max cut off an eighteen-wheeler in the right lane and received a blaring horn in response. “We’re almost halfway to Greensboro, now. Can’t you go ahead and check that everything is okay?”
“Of course, I can. Once we’ve got the address. Plus, I wanted to make sure you both were okay and doing the right thing.”
“Got it,” Sandra said, showing Drummond the address. “He lives on Lawrence Street. Just off Randleman Road on the south side.”
“Thanks, Doll. I’ll go take care of that. Be back soon.” Drummond disappeared.
Five minutes later, he snapped back into the car. Both Sandra and Max jolted.
Sandra whipped her head back. “Do you have to do it like that?”
“Time is of the essence. I’ll be subtle when we’re not trying to save a life.”
“Save a life? Did they get to him already?”
“Not yet. I didn’t see them anywhere nearby. It’s possible Mother Hope is keeping the whole thing quiet — even from her own people. I don’t know why, though.”
As they neared the edge of Greensboro, Max said, “I suspect she doesn’t want them knowing she’s been siphoning magic off that Casper bottle.”
“Whatever it is, it’s buying us time. But not much. Ol’ Freddie is looking in bad shape.”
Max exited onto Randleman Road, drove a few minutes until he reached Lawrence Street, and pulled in. Sandra pointed out the house, and Max screeched to a halt. It was a small, starter home, peeling yellow paint and a half-dead yard. They hustled up to his door and banged loud three times on the wood. “Freddie, open up.” To Drummond, Max added, “Would you go in and unlock the door for us?”
Drummond thrust his head through the door. “He’s got a dresser barricading it, but I unlocked the door. Good luck.”
Max backed up a few steps, ready to charge forward. He’d only done this a few times before, and each time resulted in a sore arm. But as Drummond had pointed out, they didn’t have time for subtlety.
He shot forward and slammed into the door. The door slammed back.
Max stumbled to the ground. As Sandra helped him up, he saw that the door had poked slightly ajar — enough to get a foot in. Pressing his face against the opening, he said, “Freddie, come on. Open the door. Don’t do anything stupid. We’re here to help.”
A small voice responded, “There is no helping me.”
Max backed up again and charged the door. He launched all his weight into the air. The dresser knocked back far enough that when he returned to his feet and rubbed his sore arm, they could slip into the house.
“Over here,” Drummond said, waving them down a hall.
They entered a small bedroom with family photos on the walls and a cobwebbed ceiling fan hanging askew from above. Old boxes had been dumped on the floor amongst piles of old newspapers, article clippings, and photos — all the memorabilia of a lifetime. Freddie Robertson sat cross-legged on the bed. His head hung low. In front of him, he had placed a .38 Special, a noose, and a bottle of pills.
“Can’t decide how to do it,” he said. “The gun’s heavy in my old hands, and I’m shaking a bit. I might not be able to hold it in the right place and still pull the trigger. A noose — well, I suppose it’d snap my brittle neck well-enough. Except I’ve always feared drowning, and I think asphyxiating while hanging from a rope seems about as bad. The pills — I don’t know if I like the idea of going to sleep and not waking up. I’ve worried about that happening every night for years. Why should I make my final moments the same?”
Drummond swished in close to Max. “We cannot let this guy off himself.”
Max wanted to level his most sarcastic Really? I’m so thankful to have you here to tell me these things, but he didn’t want to confuse Freddie. Instead, as Sandra bent down to look through one of the boxes, Max moved further in the bedroom and said, “Clearly, you’re upset. Let’s talk about it.”
Freddie wiped the mucous dripping off the tip of his nose, but he never lifted his eyes from his weapons of choice. “Talked enough. It was your talking that brought it all back. Your talking ruined everything.”
“I don’t understand. Tell me, what was so terrible about our conversation? I can see that it was a scary memory for you, but you didn’t mention anything that would warrant killing yourself.”
“Get out of here. Leave me alone and never come back. Stop meddling in my life.”
Drummond flew behind Freddie. “What you’re doing isn’t working. We’ve got to try something a little different. You should threaten to kill him.” Drummond raised a hand to hold of Max’s reaction. “I’m talking about reverse psychology. The guy says he wants to die, but he hasn’t done it because part of him wants to live. So, threaten to kill him, threaten to help him along with suicide, and he’ll blubber out everything he knows.”
Max did not like that idea. But he had no way to argue with Drummond in front of Freddie — especially an unstable Freddie. He also worried Drummond might try a hard chill on the old guy. It would help saving the guy from suicide, but it would also knock him unconscious, making him useless for information. Mother Hope would gain time, too, to make her move. Plus, at Freddie’s age, Max wasn’t so sure the guy’s body could handle the pain of a ghost’s touch.
Sandra rescued them. She gently pushed Max aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “Freddie? Is that your name? I’m Sandra.”
“Hi. You’re a lovely lady. What’re you doing in all this?”
“I’m Max’s wife. We’re partners in this.” She spoke calm and soft. Her tone brought Freddie’s eyes up to face her.
“Then I’m sorry, Ma’am, because I can’t help you.”
“It’s not me we’re trying to help. There’s a woman, a pregnant woman, and her life is in danger. That means her unborn child’s life is in danger, too. You understand? We’re here not to cause you pain, but because we believe you didn’t tell us the whole story you knew. We think that story could help us save her life.”
Freddie sniffled loud and rubbed his wet eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re choosing not to.”
“I just want to end my pain. That’s all.”
“Tell me something — have you ever murdered anybody?”
Freddie’s mouth dropped open. “Of course not. I’m no monster. I just saw something.”
“What did you see?” But Freddie shook his head. Sandra went on, “If you won’t talk to us, and you kill yourself, then you will be responsible for the deaths of this woman and her child. And that will make you a murderer. So, you’re not only taking your life, you’re taking the lives of two others.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know it sucks, but that’s the truth. I can’t stop you from suicide, but I can offer you this — if you talk with us now, tell us what we need to know, you might save their lives. Isn’t that better than taking them?”
Freddie’s head swayed to the left and right. Finally, his chin moved up and down in a weak but steady nod. At first his jaw opened, but no sound followed. When he finally spoke, each word seemed to shrink him right before Max’s eyes.
“Everything I told you was true up until we were in that tunnel. Me and Coco listened to that closed door, all that moaning, and that’s when Felix looked up and found a symbol on the wall.”
Max settled next to his wife. “A symbol?”
“You never learn to shut up, do you? You’ve got to keep your mouth clamped, if you want to hear my story.”
Drummond barked out a laugh. “You tell him, Bub.” Max startled but if Freddie had noticed, he must have assumed it was in reaction to his own voice.
Max wanted to make a comment about racism but held back. At ninety-something years old, Freddie wasn’t going to change.
To Sandra, Freddie said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you intend to hear this, you should know that it will get rather impolite.”
Sandra warmly rubbed the old man’s shoulder. “I think I can handle it.”
“I suppose you already know the tunnel led to the brothel. While I sat there looking at this witch’s symbol, the sounds of sex got louder. Really loud. It was like it was all around us. My friends, they got scared. Jimmy, the one on the stairs, he panicked and called for us to run. Felix and Coco took off with him, but I stayed. In order for you to understand, I have to say some very indelicate things. See, I stayed because I liked those sounds. Of course, I did. I was a young man and what young man wouldn’t want to hear those things. But I especially liked it. I became aroused.”
Max said, “So? Why is that so horrible?”
“You see these weapons in front of me? You keep interrupting, and I’ll use them. I’m old, but I still know how to fire a pistol — aim may not be that good, but that don’t matter when the job gets done.” Freddie stared at the weapon, his words filtering back through him. His fingers inched forward. But Max didn’t have to lunge across to stop the old man. Freddie stopped himself. He turned up a pathetic grin and said, “Where was I?”
“We were talking about —”
“You stay quiet.”
Max made a motion of zipping his lips.
“Understand that back then I had never heard sex before. I was too young. But years later, when I lost my virginity, I got to hear sex again. It was completely different. Nothing was the same. I was not stupid enough to think that every woman would sound exactly alike, but surely the sounds should have been close. There should have been some resemblance. But this was completely wrong. It confused me.
“So, I decided to write down what I remembered from that day in the tunnel. Over and over, I would write the same story. Because each time I went through it, I would recall different details. I was only fifteen at the time I started this; otherwise, I would’ve figured it out. I’m sure you already have. Anyway, it took me time. Going through that day, writing it down, forcing myself to remember. And finally, I saw it all.
“It was the day after we had been in that tunnel. That night my father came home, and he looked shaken. That’s not something he often showed. He would hide an emotion like that. But he was blatantly shaken. From the stairs, I listened as he told my mother about a horrible murder. It was in that house. That’s what I had heard. Not sex, but murder. And I had gotten off on it.”
Freddie paused. When he spoke again, his pitch lowered, and his countenance darkened. “I’ve never told anybody that. I’ve kept it buried all this time. But the past, it always returns. You can’t outrun it. You can’t out-age it. No matter what, it’s there. And it knows. It knows me. Every night, it gets into me. Pounding in my head. Telling me what I already know deep in my bones. That I’m a monster.”
Tears welled in Freddie’s eyes as his hands caressed the noose. Max walked around the room, trying to give the man some space but also inspecting the boxes spread around the floor.
Sniffling, Freddie said, “Yes, I think the noose is the way to go. Least chance of something going wrong at my age.”
Max heard Sandra trying to talk Freddie out of suicide, trying to comfort him from his dark memories, but their voices drifted away. His attention had locked in on one particular box. A stack of notebooks had been placed neatly in the box. The one on top had been labeled in clear, precise print — CASPER BLUE.
He picked up the top notebook. “Did you write this?”
Sandra and Freddie stared at Max as if he had walked in on them in a compromising position.
“Way to go, kid,” Drummond said. “Here I thought your wife was going to talk that guy out of killing himself.”
Once Sandra read the label on the notebook, her expression softened. She asked Freddie, “Did you write that?”
“Oh, yes,” Freddie said. “That picture of my father holding up that bottle became famous in my household. Here was his proud moment until the whole scandal. And I wanted to understand because I feared that maybe it was something I had done that night. That somehow, my sin in that tunnel had tarnished my family, and that bottle in his hand was the result. I suppose it was a young boy’s mind trying to pull reason out of insanity, but it never quite left me. I became a bit obsessive about it. I’m practically the perfect historian on the subject of The Casper Company.”
Max could feel it inside — all the pieces were finding their places. It formed an intuitive leap within him — a sensation he trusted to follow and accept the thoughts that erupted in his head, even if he couldn’t grasp his own reasoning. “This is really important. Please let me know — does the name Unger mean anything?”
Freddie nodded. “Sure. Unger General Store. Tragic story, really. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Chapter 25
DAY FIVE
Max awoke in his office chair with a kink in his neck, a book in his hand, and an article on his laptop about Unger’s General Store. It had been a long night. When they had returned from Greensboro, Max immediately hit the research books. Sandra had planned to help, but a phone call from Libby changed all that.
Shawnee Darian sat in Libby’s apartment, crying and shaken. Unable to deal with the stress of her house, she had left. She hoped Wayne would have joined along, but instead, he pulled a knife on her.
“Something in him, though, stopped it from going further, and I got out of there,” she had said.
Sandra could hear Shawnee making excuses between sobs. She left for Libby’s place straight away. Max knew that whatever help she could offer, she would. He promised he would find out what Unger’s General Store was all about. Drummond even agreed to hit the books with Leed, so Max sent them off with a highly specific research task.
Hours later, as he pored through his original notes, he discovered that he had been sitting on the answer from early on. It had been staring at him the whole time, but he missed it. “Well, I got you now,” he said to his notebook.
As the morning light freshened the office — stale coffee being only one of many stale odors in need of freshening — Max stretched his aching body and organized his thoughts. He had the puzzle together now. The story behind the Darians’ home led to the story behind Unger’s General Store which led to the story behind Floyd Johnson and, to some extent, Milton Hull.
As with all Hull references, the Hull family had done a remarkable job removing their name from every article, entry, book, or paper that he could find. Their thoroughness never ceased to astound. But despite their efforts, Max had managed to piece together the tale. That was why they had hired him years ago — he was one of the best.
Max scratched the coarse stubble on his cheek. That would have to wait a day. He had a plan now — most of a plan — and he would need help. Before he could enact anything, however, he had an important step to take. Shrugging on his coat, Max left the office and went to the corner store for a bagel and coffee.
He walked over a block and up the street. He searched for the young boy — PB, Peanut Butter, Punching Bag, aka the Kid. As he neared their usual spot, his heart sank.
The tarp PB had used for protection from the elements fluttered in tatters. The few possessions PB had kept along the back bricks had been tossed about like the trash scattered about the area. Max’s eyes roved for signs of struggle. Thankfully, he saw no blood, but that was small comfort.
He placed the bagel and coffee next to where PB often slept. He stared at it, hoping that his assessment could be wrong, but he
knew better — the thugs he had fought with had come back and took their displeasure out on the Kid.
“And I’m responsible.”
He should have done more. He could have helped. Only a short while before, he and Sandra had been on the verge of homelessness. Yet all he had done was bring a cheap cup of coffee and a bagel. Not a piece of fruit or a chicken sandwich or juice or anything that might keep a body strong. No, he had opted for the cheap and easy route. With his thoughts clouded, he meandered back to the office.
He stopped at the bank of mail slots. His hands shook badly, and he had to try three times before he could get the key in. Images of PB being beaten to death swirled in his head. He grabbed his mail, slapped shut the little door, and trudged back to his office.
“Man, I had no idea you had such a cushy pad,” PB said.
Max stood in his office doorway, his jaw gaping wide open as the Kid spun circles in Max’s chair.
“I was just at your place. I thought something had happened to you. I felt terrible. You’ve been here the whole time?”
“No, man. I was hiding nearby. Watched you and everything. Very nice tears, by the way. I really thought you felt sad for me.” PB gestured across to a young, black boy sitting on the couch. “That’s my friend. He wants a job, too.”
“What?”
“You said if I could find your office, you’d give me a job. What do you think I was hiding for? I didn’t know your name, so I couldn’t 411 you on the library Internet. So, I waited for you to show up and I followed you here. You bumbled around enough at the mailboxes that I got plenty of time to pick the lock and settle in.” He flicked a business card on the table. “Got your name now, too — Max Porter.”
Though still in shock, Max smiled. “Oh, you’re going to fit in fine here.”
“Now, hold on a minute. I ain’t heard terms yet. I got to know what we’re being paid and what you want us to do. Jammer J here, he ain’t even met you until now.”
Max arched an eyebrow. “Jammer J?”
“We call him Jam.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me — PB and J?”