“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.”
“You saw her, then. Great! What did she say? What do we have to do?”
Max got out his laptop and powered up. “Taylor’ll be back pretty fast and we can’t have a non-stop phone conversation while he’s here.”
“That’s true. You’re not that great a liar, yet.”
“But I can type out my answers here,” he said, pointing to the laptop.
“Fine, fine. Now before that dimwit gets back, what did the witch say?”
“She said that you’re under a binding spell.”
“Gee, really? I could have told you that.”
“Then why didn’t you? From what Connor said, I gather you know a lot about witches and voodoo and all that nonsense. Why not just tell me what you need instead of sending me off into the night like that?”
Drummond stepped closer to Max like a father trying to explain the hard choices of parenting. “I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t think you’d believe me otherwise. Even though you’ve handled this whole ghost business very well, and I’m proud of you about that—heck, most people would’ve packed up and moved home already—but now we’re getting into something a little harder to swallow. Ghosts is one thing. Everybody has a haunting story in their lives—friends, family, or personal experience. There’s enough evidence out there to bring in enough doubt that you can accept such a thing when it’s in front of your eyes. But witches? Magic spells? That’s a whole lot harder to accept.”
“I suppose. I’m just sick of being everybody’s pawn.”
“Help me get free from this binding spell and I promise you, I’ll do all I can to get you in a better position.”
Taylor walked in carrying a paper bag. His eyes burst out at the sight of the laptop. “You-You-You can’t do that in here. Please, Mr. Porter, put that away.”
“Just give me the bag,” Max said, his headache winding up again at the sight of relief.
As Taylor handed over the bag, he said, “You know you’re not allowed to use that laptop in here. Please put it away. I promise I won’t tell.”
Max popped two capsules in his mouth and swallowed them dry. “No,” he said, savoring the moment of defiance. “You can tell Modesto or whoever you want. Go ahead. Tell him I don’t care about his stupid rules anymore.”
Drummond nodded his approval. “You tell him.”
With his face tightening, Taylor said in an odd and unnerving quiet, “Okay. If that’s what you want. I’ll just be over here.” He walked to the wall opposite the bookshelf and sat on the floor.
Drummond laughed. “That’s one troubled kid. Forget about him, Max. He’ll be fine. Now, tell me what we’ve got to do. See there are lots of binding spells and I don’t know this one at all. If I did, I wouldn’t be stuck here still.”
Max’s attention lingered on Taylor. However, Drummond was right. There were more important things at hand. Max pulled the laptop closer, opened his word processor, and typed: CONNOR SAID THE MARKINGS ON THE FLOOR HAD TO BE COPIED IN A BOOK OR SCROLL OR SOMETHING.
“It was a book. I remember that.”
WE HAVE TO FIND THAT BOOK AND DESTROY IT HERE.
“Okay. Does she have any idea where to find it?”
SHE MIGHT.
“But she wouldn’t tell you, would she?”
SHE WANTS TO SPEAK WITH YOU.
“Crap.”
WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?
“Nothing. Not to her, at least.”
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
“There’s got to be another way.”
JUST TELL ME.
“I don’t want to go into it. You need to find some other way. There’s got to be.”
The laptop beeped the arrival of an e-mail. Max opened the program and read the e-mail twice. ARE YOU READING THIS?
“Yeah,” Drummond said. “Looks like Annabell
e got all her stock as a gift.”
LOOK HERE. IT WENT THROUGH FOUR DIFFERENT COMPANY NAMES BEFORE IT REACHES HER.
“We need to find out who owns those companies.”
SOMETHING TELLS ME THE NAME HULL MIGHT COME UP.
“Congratulations. You’ve experienced your first hunch. Now do your book thing you’re so good at and let’s get some answers.”
WHAT ABOUT YOU?
Drummond passed through one of Taylor’s paper stacks and watched it fall over. “We’ll do the best we can until you figure out another way to break this spell or where that book might be.”
Taylor jumped to his feet and said in that same odd tone he had used before, “Gee, sir, I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Modesto wanted to have breakfast with you at 10:30. I believe he said at Cities. I guess you’ll be late.”
“That little prick,” Drummond said. Max closed his laptop and glared at Taylor. “Keep it cool, Max. We’ve got a lot of information on our side. Just go meet with Modesto and make him think we don’t know anything.”
Max nodded, grinned, and with as much control as he could manage, he said, “That’s okay, Taylor. Mistakes happen. Please be more mindful of my appointments in the future. You wouldn’t want me to be late again. Mr. Modesto might ask for an explanation.”
Without a further glance in Taylor’s direction, Max grabbed his laptop and left the office.
Chapter Twelve
When Max arrived at Cities, a restaurant not too far from Dr. Connor’s office, Mr. Modesto had ordered for them both and offered a curt nod. He snapped his fingers toward the chair opposite him and waited for Max to sit. Though the gesture (too close to being treated like a dog) boiled in Max’s heart, he remained quiet and did as commanded.
“I do not appreciate being kept waiting,” Modesto said as he typed out a text message on his phone.
“I’m sorry. My new assistant made a mistake.”
“So quick to blame others.”
“No blame, just a mistake.”
“Of course. In other matters, I trust you are settling in fine since I’ve not heard otherwise. Our employer wishes you to be as comfortable as possible. Also …”
Modesto droned on, but Max only half-heard anything the man said. The briefcase stole Max’s attention. He noticed it when he had arrived, leaning against the legs of Modesto’s chair as if it could feel casual and relaxed. Inside, Max suspected, would be much of the information he wanted. It had to be there. Modesto handled Max for Hull which meant that Modesto would have all the papers pertaining to Max. Even if his hopes were misplaced and the briefcase did not contain crucial information, it still had to have something of use. All Max had to do was wait until the end of the meal when Modesto would to go to the bathroom like always.
“… Moravian government proved quite interesting,” Modesto went on. “In fact, you’ve helped us fill in a few blanks we …”
Even if Modesto went to the bathroom, could Max do it? He stared at that briefcase, trying to hold down the nerves bucking to get out, trying to keep his mind focused. If he got caught, if Modesto returned early—but no, he couldn’t think in those terms. In order to rifle through that briefcase, Max forced himself to ignore all other concerns—one languishing moment of fear would stop him from doing what he now believed to be imperative.
“Excuse me a moment,” Modesto said and left for the restrooms.
Just like that, Max’s opportunity landed. He made no motions at first, caught unprepared. How long had he sat at that table while Modesto prattled away for them to reach this point in the meal? If not for the clicking of forks on plates, Max would have remained frozen until Modesto returned; however, he did hear that sound and it brought to mind a ticking clock.
Swallowing any guilt, Max slid the briefcase toward his chair (it was heavier than it appeared) and pulled a handful of papers out. The top ones carried the Hull corporation header and had been addressed to Modesto. A cursory glance showed they were daily orders with reference to “reports” made by his assistant. No surprises there.
The next was a letter dated the day before and read:
Mr. Modesto—
Your recent account of Max Porter’s activities, particularly his unforeseen visit to Dr. Connor, requires an acceleration of our timetable. While it would have been preferable to wait for Mr. Porter to conclude on his own that the location of Old Salem was most profitable to our interests, we can no longer afford such patience. Therefore, we ask that you steer him toward that locale.
Max re-read the letter, all the time feeling as if a hidden psychopath stalked his every move. He wanted to rush home and search for bugs, wire-taps, or whatever high-tech surveillance equipment he could find—not that he had a clue how to look for such things, but he could not idle on the idea that he was being watched. He considered reading the letter a third time but instead he pushed the papers back into the briefcase. Modesto would be returning any second. As Max attempted to get the papers to look untouched, the name Drummond flashed from one page, and Max turned his head to read it clearer. Laughter from another table brought him to his senses, yet even as he used his foot to slide the briefcase back into position, he caught the words Broughton and Kirksbride Plan.
“That’s really all we have to discuss today,” Modesto said as he stepped toward the table. Max put on his best attitude of nonchalance as Modesto lifted his briefcase onto the table and began looking through it. The paper with Drummond’s name on it stuck a little higher than the others, and Max felt sure Modesto had seen it. However, the man did nothing but take out a hundred dollar bill and hand it to the waitress.
“I’ll be leaving, now,” Modesto said. Then, as if just recalling a little, unimportant thought, he added, “By the way, our employer feels you have proven yourself well. Your historical research was adequate and the initial land deals researched was fine. You have enough background to start seeking out the properties we may wish to acquire.”
“Okay, great.”
“Articulate as ever, I see. Regardless, you’ll find it easiest to begin in the historic areas as they have some of the oldest land which I know to be of high value.”
“The historic areas,” Max said, hoping the sourness he heard in his voice could not be detected by Modesto. “Any suggestions?”
“If I knew the best way to handle this, your services would not be required, would they? But, if I must hazard my opinion on the matter, then I’d suggest considering Old Salem. It’s the closest in the area. There are others as well, but I suppose that’s a good place to start.”
“Old Salem? I’ll be sure to look into it.”
“I’ll let our employer know. I must go now.”
Max sat alone for several minutes, listening to the restaurant bustle around him and waiting for his heart to stop racing. When he reached the point that he felt he could stand without an embarrassing stumble, he left the building and settled in his car. Again, he waited awhile, just letting the world slow down around him.
When he finally headed onto the road, his mind juggled one idea after another, trying to make sense of all the insanity that had occurred since his arrival in North Carolina. None of it added up to his liking (though he did admit that some things were coming together). The thought that hit him at least once each day now blared into his brain—I should grab Sandra, sell the house, and leave this town. But he knew he would not do it. First—Sandra loved it here, and he refused to ruin it for her like he had in Michigan. Second, and far more important if he was honest with himself—he wanted to solve these mysteries. A sliver inside him understood what drove men like Drummond, what drove many to read about men like Drummond, and what drove even more to watch television shows about men like Drummond. The puzzles had to have answers, and even though his life careened onward like a drunk driver passed out at the wheel, the puzzles could be solved. That’s the allure. Solving the mystery gave him a little control in this world.
As he slowed down to pass a parked poli
ce car, he decided to put everything into some order. He had a lot of research to do: Old Salem, Hull, and now Broughton and Kirksbride. That alone could take days. The letter in Modesto’s briefcase made it certain that Hull, Drummond, and this missing book to break the curse were all related, so his level of thoroughness would have to be extreme. However, his mind gravitated toward Annabelle Bowman.
Hers was the oddity in all this. What about her and her husband, Stan, connected to Drummond and Hull? Drummond said his investigation into Stan Bowman led to Hull. Maybe so. But how and why? Annabelle received a gift of R. J. Reynolds stock via dummy corporations that lead back to Hull. This stock made her millions. Why? What did Hull seek to buy with this money?
“Okay,” Max said out loud. “The truth is I’m sick of the library.” Research was one thing. Research trying to save your butt was another—a far more stressful way to work.
When his cell phone chirped, Max jumped. He growled at the car, and with shaking hands, he pulled to the roadside before he answered the phone. “Hello,” he said, all civility absent.
“Mr. Porter?” a muffled voice asked, but it had a clear Southern drawl.
Max’s nerves tightened even more. “Yes?”
“Please start driving your car.”
Any threatening message, any bullying tone, would have angered Max, but he would have managed. This, however, churned his stomach. With as nonchalant a maneuver as he could muster, Max tried to look around the area for a spy.
“Please, Mr. Porter,” the voice said. “If you want the truth about Stan Bowman, pull onto the road.”
Unsure what to do, Max did as ordered. “Who are you?”
“Take Route 40 East to Durham, then take 85 North.”
“Durham? That’s almost two hours from here.”
“From 85 North, get off on Exit 189 for Butner. You understand?”
“Who is this?”
“Do you understand?”
Max repeated the directions.
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