Southern Gothic

by Stuart Jaffe

  “Damn,” Drummond said. “This guy’s the kind of cop I hate. You watching this, Max?”

  Max watched. From inside his coat, Rolson removed an envelope filled with cash. He placed the envelope under the floor. Then he opened the plastic evidence bag and removed a few fibers which he let drift to the floor like falling leaves.

  “He’s setting you up. He can’t solve the case on his own and you embarrassed him the other night at Baxter House, so he’s bent on making you the killer. What really gets me is that guys like this convince themselves they’re doing the right thing.”

  Rolson replaced the floorboard and headed downstairs. Drummond shoved his head through the closet. Max started but managed to keep his mouth shut.

  “Look, you’ve got to move fast. Once he’s gone, you have to get rid of that money and those fibers. He may not wait very long before pretending to come back here and find this bullcrap evidence. And wear gloves when you do it. You get your fingerprints on that envelope, and you’re sunk.”

  The moment Max heard the front door close, he did as instructed. Putting on his winter gloves, he pulled up the floorboard, removed the envelope, swept the fibers in with the money, and closed the floorboard. As he descended the stairs, he heard Rolson’s car back out of the drive.

  “Tell me when he’s gone,” Max said.

  “Count to ten or something. I’ve got to go with him. You toss that envelope and catch up with us. We’ve got to find out where he’s going next.” Drummond flew out of the house to follow Rolson.

  “Wait.” Max stood alone on the stairs. His head swirled and he found it difficult to breathe. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his rapid pulse. He counted to ten.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing, heard nothing — Rolson had left. Max rushed out of the house toward his car. Halfway across the street he remembered the envelope in his hand and walked fast toward the neighbors trash can. He wanted to run but feared he might cause somebody in a nearby house to look out a window.

  At the trash can, he paused. Glancing in the envelope, he only saw hundred dollar bills. There had to be at least two thousand dollars. If he took the money, he and Sandra could pay off a lot of bills and still have enough to keep the heaters running through the winter.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered.

  If he got caught with that cash on him, he would be helping Rolson frame him. Even if he didn’t get caught, a sudden increase in his measly bank account would be evidence as well. It hurt, but Max let the envelope fall into the trash can. He stared at it. Even considered reaching in for it. But finally, he let the can close and returned to his car.

  Pulling onto the road, Max felt a drag line connecting him back to that money. It tugged at him, stretching him, but he drove on.

  Drummond swooped in. “Get on Business 40 West.” Then he swooped out.

  Five minutes later, Drummond returned. “Take the Kernersville exit.” And he was gone.

  Max followed Drummond’s directions. He drove right by Korner’s Folly and his body shuddered. He could feel the ghosts residing in the attic of that strange house looking at him. We almost had you here with us, they would be saying. It seemed ages ago that he had been sneaking around that place, and now, it was no more than an old house he drove by.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Drummond returned and settled on the passenger seat. “Don’t go too fast. There’s a turn coming up. Then you go about five miles and there’s an abandoned gas station on the right. We can park a bit back on the left and get a good view of what’s going on there.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Looks like Rolson has the same addiction as Luther Boer — up ahead, it’s another Midnight Fight.”

  Chapter 14

  Max spied on the rundown gas station from far up the road. He watched through binoculars he had bought months earlier at Drummond’s insistence. Thankfully, Drummond had not rubbed it in his face.

  “Aren’t you glad I made you buy those?” Drummond said.

  At least, he hadn’t rubbed it in right away.

  From a rental truck, three men worked hard unloading boxes, folding chairs, tables, a generator, and all the other necessities required to convert the station into an illegal boxing arena. Rolson had parked next to the rental truck. A fourth man, tall and dressed in a fine suit, stepped out from the gas station and approached Rolson. They shook hands, exchanged a few words, and then the tall man ushered Rolson inside.

  “Rolson keeps getting dirtier and dirtier,” Drummond said. “Makes me sad.”

  “Am I seeing this right? Rolson’s getting paid to look the other way on this boxing thing and maybe to make sure no other cops take notice. That’s why he was the one in charge of me when I got beat up at the fight in Winston-Salem.”

  “Looks that way. Otherwise, how would he know this place was out here?”

  Max continued to watch through the binoculars though nothing had changed. “You think he works for Hull, too? That witch I saw connects the boxing with the Hulls.”

  “I doubt it. You know what Hull’s like. He wouldn’t be messing with a loose gun like Rolson — planting fake evidence, framing you — it’s all rather sloppy for a Hull endeavor.”

  “Still. If he’s not with Hull, this is an awfully big coincidence.”

  Drummond snickered. “Let me put it a different way. I don’t think Rolson knows he’s working for the Hulls, though he probably is working for them. If they really do run this boxing thing, then it’s their money bribing him. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had set up the whole Midnight Fights to lure in gamblers, get them on the hook for a large sum, and use those debts to their advantage. Any big, illegal organization needs leverage against cops to force them into the fold. Despite what it seems like in the media, most cops are hard-working, decent folk. Just not enough corrupt ones out there to use. So, they set ‘em up through gambling debts. That’s probably how they got Luther Boer.”

  Rolson stepped out of the building with the old witch at his side. His eyes searched around as if expecting a gang of bandits to attack at any time. When they reached the car, he held the door open for the witch before walking around to the driver’s side.

  Drummond sighed. “On second thought — ain’t no way he’s escorting a witch and doesn’t know who his dealing with.”

  Rolson’s car backed into the street and turned to face Max. As the car approached, Max scooted low in his seat. Drummond spun around and watched.

  “He’s gone. You can get up.”

  “We should follow him, right?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve got to know where that witch is going.”

  As Max started the car, his cell phone rang. He checked the call — Cecily Hull. He turned the car off. Showing the caller ID to Drummond, Max took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

  When ready, he answered. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mr. Porter. It’s been a few days, and I thought that should be ample time for you to have fully considered my offer.”

  “I thought my wife made our opinion fairly clear.”

  He swore he could hear her titter — a horrid sound. “Do you really think posturing like that would dissuade me? I’d have never accomplished anything, if that were true. No, Mr. Porter, I’ve been waiting and watching.”

  “Watching?”

  “Of course. I have my own people who specialize in keeping tabs on those I’m interested in. It seems to me that you are getting close to some big answers.”

  Max glanced in the rear view mirror — no sign of Rolson. “That’s funny because I haven’t a clue what the questions are. Let me ask you something though. Detective Rolson — is he on the Hull payroll? How many of the police are working for you?”

  “Good going,” Drummond said. “Press her and she might slip up, give us something useful.”

  Cecily sniffled as if dealing with Max’s pedestrian questions had fouled her air. “Police? Oh, I don’t know. As a lowly woman i
n this absurdly patriarchal family, I’m not privy to that information. However, you can rest assured that this isn’t the world of Serpico. In Winston-Salem, we may have a few police officers or detectives or what-have-you who value us and are willing to aid us in our needs, but we don’t go around bribing those in authority. We have no interest. After all, we have far more powerful tools at our disposal.”

  “You mean witchcraft.”

  “Amongst other things.”

  Drummond leaned closer to listen. “She’s dodging. Don’t let up, now.”

  Max shooed him off. “What else do you have besides witchcraft?”

  “Money, of course.”

  “Obviously. What I mean is —”

  “Mr. Porter, that’s enough. You are, and have always been, a mere pawn to us. There have been times when you’ve been a powerful pawn, but now is not one of those times. If you wish to understand what your real role in all that’s going on is, then you’ll have to agree to work for me. Otherwise, I see no value in our conversation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that because there’s no way Sandra and I will ever work for a Hull again.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re going to have a very bad day tomorrow.”

  Before Max could find out what that threat meant, Cecily ended the call. Max had to laugh, though. Lately, every day had been a very bad day for him.

  With a frustrated huff, Drummond lowered his hat over his eyes. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

  Max bit back the sarcastic comments in his head. They had lost Rolson and the witch, and they had pulled little more than a threat from Cecily. He had to agree with Drummond’s frustration.

  Closing his eyes, Max exhaled. Time to drive home. He opened his eyes and checked the rear view mirror. The horned-beast stared back at him.

  “Shit,” Max yelled, wrenching his body around to see the backseat.

  Empty.

  “What is it?” Drummond looked all around, ready for action.

  “I ... I ... Is there a ghost in the backseat?”

  “I don’t see any ghosts anywhere. The area’s empty. You saw another ghost?”

  Slouching back in his seat, Max shook his head. “I don’t know what I saw.” He reached down to put the car in Drive when he noticed his fingers tingled — the same fingers that had touched the circle painted on Cal Baxter’s floor.

  That can’t be good, he thought and drove off, letting the hypnotism of the road ease his mind.

  Chapter 15

  “Wake up,” Sandra said, shaking Max’s shoulder. “Money day.”

  Max lifted his head only to have gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt thrown in his face. “Good morning to you, too,” he said and quickly dressed.

  In order to stay financially afloat, Sandra and Max had decided to strictly limit their spending. Once a week, they walked up to the bank at Oliver’s Crossing, a strip mall situated a short distance north of them, and withdrew all the cash they needed for the next seven days. If they had anything left at the end of the week, they usually saved it. This week, however, they decided to splurge on some frozen yogurt at the TCBY next to the bank. Sandra liked cold treats in the winter, and Max liked making Sandra smile.

  As they trudged up the road, passing the gas station and then the fire department, Sandra leaned against Max for warmth. The crisp morning air lay still against their skin — thankfully, the harsh winds that often blew throughout the winter had taken the morning off. Sandra started going over the case, discussing each bit they had learned, trying to see how it all fit together, and Max joined in.

  “You know what really bothers me about all this?” he said.

  “Besides murder, witchcraft, and the Hulls?”

  “Yeah, besides those things. The part that keeps bugging me is why did Sebastian hire us in the first place? What could we have found that he couldn’t get on his own?”

  “We found the hidden room in Baxter House.”

  Cars whisked by as Oliver’s Crossing neared. Max held Sandra closer. “Given enough time, I think he would’ve found that room on his own. And for all we know, he actually did find it — or at the least, he was closing in on it. I think that’s what got him killed.”

  “Except we don’t know for sure why he was murdered. We only think there’s a connection to that room, the House, and that those two things connect to Hull.”

  “I’m sick of hearing that name. I swear, when we’re done with this case, I hope we never have to deal with them again.”

  They walked into the bank, filled out a withdrawal slip, and handed it to Ms. Birch, the teller. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Porter,” Ms. Birch said. She knew every customer by name and that local touch always thrilled Max. It gave him a sense that communities still existed even as people stretched their worlds further and further apart.

  As Ms. Birch clacked away at her keyboard, wrote something down, and clacked some more, Max noticed the stern worry on her face. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  She trembled out a smile. “N-No. The computer’s just giving me a little problem. Hold on a moment, please.” She walked from behind the counter, across the lobby, and entered a manager’s office.

  “What’s that all about?” Sandra asked.

  When Ms. Birch returned, she had Ms. Arnez following along. The tapping of their heels on the floor sounded like nails pounding into a wall. No, Max thought, pounding into our coffin.

  Ms. Arnez stopped in front of them. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but apparently there’s been a hold put on your account. I can’t authorize any withdrawals until the hold is removed.”

  “A hold?” Sandra’s voice rose. “You mean our account is frozen?”

  “That’s right. I suggest you contact a lawyer and check with either the police or the D.A.’s office to find out why this has happened, if you don’t already know.”

  “Does it look like we know?”

  Shifting on her feet, Ms. Arnez said, “Please, calm down. I know this is disconcerting, but since you didn’t know this was being done, it’s most likely a simple mistake. It’s happened before. The D.A. wants to freeze assets of somebody whose name is close to yours. Porter isn’t that uncommon a name, after all. I’m sure you can get it cleared up quit quickly.”

  “What are we supposed to do for money until then?”

  “Normally, I’d offer to loan you some emergency funds for the short term, but I’m sorry. We can’t help you. When accounts are frozen due to legal actions, my hands are tied. But I promise you, the moment you clear this up, we’ll be happy to get you cash right away.”

  With an uncomfortable smile and a nod, Ms. Arnez walked back to her office.

  Max thrust his hands in his coat pockets and led the way outside. “Looks like we’re skipping TCBY today. We need to hold on to that extra cash.”

  They headed back to their trailer. Though Max still held Sandra close, the cold air chilled him under his skin. He knew the Hulls were powerful, of course — he understood they had hands in the police and politics and magic — but the idea that they could freeze his assets disturbed his sense of how the world worked. Public corruption was one thing, but manipulating a person’s private life burrowed deep into him and left him questioning whether or not they could stand up to the Hulls anymore.

  But another thought struck him, and he laughed. To answer Sandra’s curious look, he said, “In order for us to cause this kind of reaction, we must be getting close to the truth — especially about Sebastian’s murder.”

  “Doesn’t feel like much of a Go Team moment.”

  “Being close to victory and achieving victory are two different things. But we’re close.”

  Sandra wrapped her arms around Max’s waist. “I hope you’re right because being close to victory feels a lot like being close to defeat.”

  “Oh, honey, that doesn’t sound like you. You’re usually the one telling me we’ve got to push forward, suffer through it, and it’ll all work out one way or the other.”

&n
bsp; “Having our money cut off changes things. How are we going to fight back when we can’t even afford a loaf of bread? Or gas — how are we going to get around this place if we can’t afford to drive our cars?”

  Max held the trailer door open for Sandra. “Isn’t that what our cookie jar is for?”

  Sandra stepped over to the refrigerator and pulled down the cookie jar from above. She removed a layer of cookies and turned the jar over on the small dinette. Change rattled out and with a few shakes, she dumped the cash out as well. They counted it up in desperate silence.

  At length, Sandra sat back. “Not bad. We can get by a few more days on that. A week if we stretch it.”

  “Then we stretch it.” He scooped the money back into the cookie jar. “So, where do we begin?”

  Drummond cleared his throat. “You could try back here.”

  “Get out of our bedroom,” Max said.

  “It’s not really a bedroom. More like a bedspace.”

  “Then get out of our bedspace. What were you doing in there? Wait. Don’t answer that.”

  Sandra smirked. “Do I need to burn the sheets now?”

  “Relax, you two.” Drummond drifted towards them. “I was looking over those photos we nabbed at Freeman’s house. If we’re going to figure out what he was after, what the Hulls are hiding that he may have found, then it makes sense to retrace his steps.”

  “Good idea,” Max said.

  “It’s a pretty standard move. You should pay more attention. I’ve been doing this a long time. You’ll learn a few things.” Drummond waved his hand to stop Max from throwing out a sarcastic response. “Look, I’ll make this simple enough for you. These pictures are all over the area, but several of them involved the railroad. So, that seems the most promising place to start.”

  Max walked over to the bed and brought back the photos. Five of them were of the same place — a large roundhouse filled with old locomotives and a few diesel engines. “If we’re going by the logic of what Sebastian had the most pictures of, then this is the place to start.”