“Damn,” he said, walking to the car with a firm step and a defiant scowl. Sandra came behind, de-activated the alarm, and unlocked the doors before they reached the car.
Once inside, Sandra drove off, not waiting for either of them to settle in, put on a seatbelt, or even open the package. She let out a long sigh dotted with chuckling. Then she reached above, flicked on the interior light, and said, “Well, go on. Let’s see if this was worth it.”
With careful motions, Max produced the package and unwrapped it. A journal—a leather-covered journal. The smell of old age and forgotten times wafted over him as he opened it to the first page.
“Oh,” he said.
“What?”
“This isn’t Hull’s journal.”
“What? No. That can’t be,” Sandra said, her eyes welling.
“It’s okay. Really. Maybe even better. This journal belongs to Stan Bowman.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Max settled into his desk chair like an injured dog—slow, cautious, and whimpering. Every bit of skin, muscle, and bone throbbed. Every motion, every glance, every sound pulsed pain through his head far exceeding the worst hangover of his college life. Wrapped in a blanket while his clothes dried over a chair, he sipped a little of the whiskey Drummond had provided, turning his whimpers into less embarrassing grumbles.
“Enough of your whining; what’s in the journal?” Drummond asked as he paced the room.
Sandra eased in the other dry chair, also wrapped in a blanket, also sipping Drummond’s whiskey. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and would have fallen asleep if not for her own intense curiosity over the journal.
Max yawned. It was close to four in the morning, and his body reminded him for the hundredth time that night, he was no longer a young man. All-nighters of any variety were a thing of the past.
“Let’s see,” he said as he opened the journal. Its distinctive, earthy odor lifted into the air as he turned the pages. “You gotta be joking.”
“What’s wrong?” Drummond asked.
“No dates,” Max said, skimming page after page. “Not a single date is recorded. What kind of nitwit writes a journal without dates?”
Sandra smiled. “The kind that only writes it for himself. I hate it when people date their entries as if expecting that someday when they die, the public will cry out to know about their lives and all that crap. Nobody cares about that stuff. He wrote this for himself. And that’s good for us. It means we’ll get the unvarnished truth as he saw it.”
Drummond pointed to Sandra. “You are a bright, bright lady. I’m telling you, sweetheart, if you weren’t married and I wasn’t dead—”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Here,” Max said. “Yeah, listen to this one—‘It’s been a long time since I’ve written in this thing. Part of me thought I was done with it. I thought I didn’t need this old book anymore. Guess some things never finish. They just hang in the back of your head waiting for a chance to spring alive again. The war was like that. I’m done with it. Served my time, did a good job, and gave up good use of a leg in the process. Damn Krauts took my leg. And I’m thinking I’m finished, it’s over for me, nothing more to do with it. But some things just never die. I don’t think a single one of us will ever be done with this war. We’ll be in our eighties, walking with canes, and we’ll still be living the whole nightmare over and over. And to prove this, I merely have to think about today. Mr. William Hull dropped by with RJR himself. They walked in like two noblemen come to look at the serfs. For the first time in my life I thought I might know what a negro feels like. I think some others felt it too. Especially Artie Thompson. After the two kings left, one of the black boys who tries to pick up a few bit helping with trash and such came in. Artie hollered on and on, spit on the boy, and kicked him a few times until the tike ran off. But that’s not the thing. The thing was Hull.”
“Skip all this,” Drummond said. “Somewhere in the back there should be papers or drawings or something like this curse on the floor.”
Max skimmed through the final ten pages. Then he went backward until he reached the spot he had read from. With a gentle shake of his head, he closed the book and said, “Sorry. It’s not here.”
“It has to be.”
“This is Stan Bowman’s journal. Your curse must be in Hull’s or the witch’s, if either of them even kept a journal.”
“Damnit!” Drummond swiped his hand through the clothes drying on the chair, knocking a few to the floor.
Setting her mug on the desk with a hard thump, Sandra bent over to pick up the fallen clothes. She said, “Read some more. Bowman knew Hull, right? Maybe there’s something in there that will help us find Drummond’s—”
“That’s right. She’s right. Read more. Come on.”
Max re-opened the journal, snapping the pages as he found his place. Drummond hovered behind, his eagerness wrapping around Max like a python. “A little space, please,” Max said. Drummond muttered as he drifted toward the door. “Thank you. Now, here it is. ‘The thing was Hull. I’d never met the man before today. I’d heard about him, of course, and like many big names, he did not match his celebrity. He struck me as a priss. To be fair, I didn’t think too highly of him before any of today happened. He used his influence to avoid serving. How can you respect a man like that? Anyway, there he was acting as if he were better than the rest of us and he starts looking over the Krauts. And here’s where today got real weird. I swear he recognized one of them. He doggone knew one of those Krauts for sure. I have no doubt. And the Kraut knew him. They locked eyes for just a second, but I saw it. So, the real question now is what do I do about it?’”
“Well, well,” Drummond said. “I smell blackmail.”
“You see the worst in everybody,” Max said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“‘I called on Hull today. That must have given his staff a fit or two, crappy little nothing like me just walking up to his gate. They were all ready to throw me out but I told them they’d lose their jobs if they didn’t see that William Hull read my letter. There was just enough conviction in my voice that they weren’t sure what to do. So, they did what any fearful staff does—they hedged their bets. One took the letter to Hull while the other glared at me and waited for the merest sliver of a signal to pound me into the dirt. Less than five minutes later, I was sitting in Hull’s office. The letter said that I saw the look between him and the Kraut. That was it. Simple and direct. I was nervous going in there. Not everyday you try to blackmail a multi-millionaire.’”
“Told you so.”
Drummond’s crowing rattled Max’s ears, sending another splitting ache through his head. “Great,” Max said. “You’re gifted at predicting the evils within men’s hearts. Can I continue now? ‘I know it was a bad thing to do but we’re just getting our feet back on the ground, and to give Annabelle more than just getting by money. To be able to buy her a nice coat or even (I can’t believe I can even consider writing this down) to buy her jewelry, it’s just too much to turn away. Besides, Hull don’t need all that money. He can spare a little and still live like a spoiled king.’ He goes on for a few pages ranting and cursing about Hull.”
Max poured more whiskey in his mug. Drummond said, “Hey, go easy. That’s all I have.”
“You’re dead, remember?”
“It’s still mine. I like to have it around.”
Turning the page, Max read on, “‘Annabelle is asleep and I’m sitting here writing and in my coat pocket is a check for more money than I can even think about and now I’m saying the hell with all of them. I’m going to do what the government paid me to do for the last few years. Not exactly but close enough.’”
“Man,” Sandra said, “this guy is a piece of work. He can justify anything. Blackmail, torture. What’s next?”
With a far-off gaze, Drummond said, “Let’s just hope he didn’t write in detail about that. I’ve seen the end result of his handiwork. W
e can skip those details.”
Sitting up in his chair, his drying hair matted against his forehead, Max said, “Listen to this: ‘I’ve done it. The bastard Kraut is sitting here in front of me as I write this. I can’t believe it. It was so easy. I rented this place with Hull’s money, and nobody is going to bother us.’ There’s a break and then he writes …”
“What? What does he write?” Drummond asked.
Max swallowed against his nausea. “Details,” he said.
“Skip ahead.”
“Please,” Sandra added.
While Max tried to avoid various combinations of words like ‘inserted the rod into his intestines,’ Drummond resumed his pacing. Sandra said, “It’s a good thing you’re a ghost. We’d have no carpet left.”
Drummond ignored her. “When I was on this case, we never were able to trace the money Bowman used to finance his torture chamber. Mostly he paid in cash, but this says he paid for it all with blackmail money, and that Hull gave the initial payment by check.”
“So, how come there’s no record?”
“And why did Bowman take a check at all? He’s not brilliant but he never struck me as a dumb man. Why would he leave any kind of a paper trail?”
Sandra yawned. “Maybe he knew from the start there wouldn’t be a paper trail.”
“The bank,” Drummond said. “I’ll bet if we look a little deeper into Bowman’s bank we’ll find it was owned in some large part by William Hull. He could make the trail disappear with relative ease. Whatever was going on with that look, whatever was worth paying off Bowman to keep secret, Hull must have planned to fix the paper trail as well. And it’s got to be far easier fixing it when the paper belongs to your own bank.”
“He gets pretty nuts near the end,” Max said as he turned another page. “It all becomes jumbled rambling. He thinks Annabelle is cheating on him. ‘All the time I catch her looking away from me, wracked with guilt. And she stares at me too. She stares and stares and stares as if I’m going to jump up and yell that yes I am the man! I am the one! The scourge who has kidnapped and tortured five German POWs. Look on me with disgust, disdain, diswhateverthefuckyouwant! I am all you hate! So go off and fuck whoever you’ve got! But she’ll get no satisfaction from me. And I’ll find out, don’t worry about that, I’ll find out who she’s seeing.’”
Sandra said, “Sounds pretty out there.”
Drummond grunted. “You think she really was cheating on him? That’d be great.”
“It would?”
“Well, not for him, but for us. Her lover might still be around. It’s a lead.”
“But we don’t know who he is.”
“Not yet.”
“Wow,” Max said. “Listen here: ‘Hull came by tonight. I was chiseling out Günther’s incisors and then there’s Hull standing behind me. He blows on and on about how what I was doing was wrong. But he wasn’t there. He never fought against these bastards. Money kept him from serving a day in the war. I got no money. My leg is worthless. But I got these POWs, so I’m not stopping. It’s the only thing that gets me through the day. Hull said I’d go to Hell for all this. Probably. But I’m doing it anyway.’ That’s it. No more entries.”
“He must’ve disappeared after that,” Drummond said.
“Well,” Max said, “at least you know what happened. Or most of it, anyway.”
Sandra collected their mugs and cleaned them in the bathroom sink. “You know,” she said, “I still don’t understand why all this cursing business happened. So what if Drummond was closing in on Hull? There was no paper trail. Hull bought off Annabelle with a stock option. He covered his tracks except for this journal. Right? Whatever Hull’s big secret was, he had buried it fine. And what does it matter now? I mean why was somebody trying to stop us tonight from finding this thing?”
“Honey,” Max said as she stepped back into the office. Taylor leaned in the hall doorway, sopping wet, bruised and bleeding, and holding a handgun. “I think we’re about to have an answer.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sandra edged towards Max. “You?” she said. “You’re the guy that’s been after us?”
“That just takes it all, don’t it?” Drummond said.
Taylor ran his tongue over a bloody gap in his teeth. “You really think I was just some idiot lackey? You really think I just sat around all day waiting for orders from you? I’ve been working for Hull this whole time.”
“Well, we knew that,” said Max. “We just didn’t think you’d be—what are you?”
“I’m a hitman,” Taylor said, kicking at a chair and spitting out blood.
“More like a wannabe hitman,” Drummond said as he floated behind Taylor and made goofy faces. The gun in Taylor’s trembling hand persuaded Max not to laugh. Sandra, however, took a less tactful approach.
“So,” she said, “you’re a hitman? Hull hired you to kill us? I don’t think so. I mean if that were true, we would’ve been dead awhile ago. You’ve been in this office for a long time. You had plenty of opportunities to do away with us.”
“I was ordered to watch you.”
“That I believe.”
Taylor stepped forward, letting the gun lead him. “Shut up, bitch. I’m going to take care of you two and Mr. Hull will know then just who he can count on.”
Max spoke up. “Hull doesn’t know you’re doing this?”
“I’m going to solve his problem with you.”
“On behalf of my wife, I take back everything she said. You are a brave man.” Max looked right at Drummond and tilted his head toward Taylor. Drummond contorted his face into another silly expression. “After all, you know better than us just how terrifying Hull can be. You know how powerful he is. And I’m sure you know how specific he is in his orders. Yet in spite of all of that, you’re still willing to take this matter on yourself. You’re making your own decision regardless of how it may go against Hull’s wishes. That’s seriously brave.”
“He’ll promote me, he’ll be so happy,” Taylor said, but doubt covered his face. Again, Max tried to signal Drummond, and this time Drummond looked in the direction Max nodded, then shrugged.
“If he’s happy, you’re absolutely right—probably. Of course, if you’re wrong, if he had you watching us so that he could learn something important or maybe choose a specific moment to hurt us, then you’ve screwed things up for him. That’s a ballsy decision you’ve made. I admire your willingness to take the chance.”
Spitting more blood, Taylor said, “Stop that. You just shut up. I know what I’m doing. Hull needs good thinkers, good soldiers, and best is those who can do both. That’s what I’m going to show him right now.”
“You know, ghosts did that to you,” Max said, once more trying to get through to Drummond. “In the cemetery, when you felt all those cold stabs of pain, those came from ghosts.”
“What the fuck are talking about now? Just shut up.”
“I’m merely saying that many people don’t realize just how strong ghosts are, just how much they’re able to interact with our world. People may think they can only move a piece of paper or a book, but they can cause real pain.”
Drummond’s eyes widened and a malicious grin rose from his lips. With a wink, he made a fist, pulled back, and punched Taylor hard in the ribs. Then everything went crazy.
Taylor squealed in surprise and dropped the gun. Drummond screamed and flew off clutching his hand. Sandra dove for the gun while Taylor looked upon his empty hand in shock. As Sandra picked up the gun, Taylor gained his senses and kicked her in the side. She rolled over seizing her ribs. At the same time, Max launched from his desk to tackle Taylor. The two men tumbled to the ground, grappling and punching while Drummond crouched in the corner wheezing.
“That hurt,” he managed to say, but nobody bothered to listen. Sandra struggled for her own breaths of air while Taylor had managed to roll behind Max and get an arm around his throat. Max tried wedging his hand between his throat and Taylor’s arm
but the boy’s grip was too tight. He tried elbowing Taylor, and though he made contact, the boy did not loosen his arm. Max’s lungs burned at the lack of oxygen.
“I’m not such a peon now, am I?” Taylor said. “You think you can defy a great man like Hull? You think you can mess with his people? Well, I’m his people, and this is what you get.”
When Max saw the ceiling light go dark, he figured the end had come. Then he heard a high-pitched cry and he could breathe again. Taylor shoved him over, and as he strained for air, he saw Taylor rolling on the ground clutching his groin. The ceiling light had not gone out—Sandra had blocked it when she stood and kicked Taylor.
Her sweet hands rubbed Max’s back for a moment. “You okay, honey? Can you talk?”
“I feel like dirt,” Max managed.
“Me, too.”
“Get the gun.”
“I got it. Don’t worry. Guess Taylor forgot to put on a new cup.”
The way her sentence drifted off scared Max. He looked up. Mr. Modesto stood at the door, taking in the disheveled room.
Despite his pain, Taylor rose to his feet and bowed. “Mr. Modesto. I, well, I’m, um, that is—”
“Please be quiet,” Modesto said in his rich tones.
“Yes, sir,” Taylor said, looking younger with every second.
Modesto offered a hand to help Max, and with it came the rich scent of cologne. Max ignored the hand and, with Sandra’s help, stood. “I think,” Max said, “we can agree that Taylor should no longer be here.”
“I think we are beyond that.” Modesto lifted his right hand, and two men entered to escort Taylor away.
“Wait. What’s going to happen to him? Don’t hurt him.”
“He tried to kill you.”
“He tried to impress your boss.”
“Your boss as well.”
“Not anymore. I don’t think that I can continue to work for him,” Max said, and he could feel Sandra’s tension grow.
“I see. Then I suppose I’ll have to inform our employer. He will be disappointed.”
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