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

by Stuart Jaffe

  "I know," she said, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt. "I know. I'm scared, too. When you don't call, I worry you might be —"

  "I'm here. I'm fine." He pressed his body against hers.

  Max kicked off his pants and eased inside Sandra. They both let out moans of pleasure mixed with relief. Then they giggled at their own sounds.

  "See," Max said, "we're fine."

  Sandra rocked her hips back and forth. "That's because you're the good guy."

  "That's right. Very right."

  Making love erased the world around them. Max gave in without protest. He felt a bit disoriented when, late in the evening, he sat on the couch flipping through television channels. Sandra's head rested in his lap, her soft snores a gentle reminder of how pleasant life could be when given the opportunity.

  Max stopped at Channel 12 local news and listened to tomorrow's forecast (cloudy and sixty-five). The anchor came back on and pictures of four men appeared. Two were tattooed thugs who looked as if a few years in prison would be a vacation. The third man, a crew-cut blonde with a tight face and hateful eyes, looked to be the brains among the four. Either that or he would be playing the girl during his prison stay. The last man, a heavyset man — Max recognized him. Max would never forget him — he could still smell the man's reek as he punched Max in the gut.

  Max turned up the volume. "... were arrested today on charges of racketeering following an anonymous tip ..."

  He hit the MUTE button and gaped at the television. An anonymous tip. Modesto? Could it all be over? And if so, then what does it mean that in a matter of hours, Modesto had managed this? Max felt both filthy and relaxed. He had four men arrested with just a phone call.

  "Am I the good guy?" he asked. Sandra's soft snores were his only answer.

  Chapter 13

  After a full breakfast of eggs and toast smothered in kisses, cranberry juice with a flash of skin, and a glass of water with dessert upstairs, Max extracted himself from Sandra's arms and drove to his office. Their morning together helped keep him from reviewing the disturbing events of the previous night. As far as he cared to recall, the night was filled with making love. What had led up to it needed no analysis — at least, not for the moment.

  "Good morning, Mr. Porter," Taylor said.

  Max strode by the young man and powered up his laptop. Drummond poked his head from the bookcase, winked at Max, and floated closer.

  "Thought I heard you," he said. "Any developments overnight? Any closer to finding that book?"

  Once the laptop was ready, Max typed out a quick detail of his meeting with Phillip King and then being shot at. As Drummond thought, he passed through Taylor several times. Max suspected this to be more malice than accident but grinned nonetheless. Before Drummond could ask again, Max typed I'VE GOT NO INFORMATION ON THE BOOK YET.

  "As long as you're trying. I've been stuck here for a long time. What's a few more days?"

  ASSUMING I FIND IT.

  "You'll find it," Drummond said, his façade of confidence unable to mask his nerves. "Tell me, did you get a name for the POW?"

  IT WAS YOUR CASE. DON'T YOU KNOW IT?

  "That was over a half-century ago. You expect me to remember every little detail? Check the police report, it should be in there."

  Max pulled up the file and skimmed over it.

  JOSEPH RICHTER?

  "That's one of them. Also Günther something. You need to check on those today."

  I WILL. BUT I ALSO NEED YOU TO TELL ME SOMETHING.

  "What do you want to know?"

  WHY IS YOUR NAME CONNECTED WITH BROUGHTON AND THE KIRKSBRIDE PLAN?

  Drummond halted.

  I CAN DO THE RESEARCH RIGHT HERE, BUT YOU'LL SAVE ME A LOT OF TIME, Max typed. Drummond said nothing, so Max pulled up his internet browser and searched Broughton. As the listing came up, including the heading WEST CAROLINA INSANE ASYLUM, Drummond said, "Stop that thing. Let me tell you before you get it all twisted up in your head. Just shut it off."

  Max closed the browser, and Drummond sighed in relief. "Thank you," Drummond said. "Look, this is nothing like it appears there."

  BROUGHTON ISN'T A MENTAL INSTITUTION?

  "You know it is. You just saw it. But just hear me out, okay? I'm not crazy. Of all the people I've ever told this to, what I'm going to tell you, I think you might believe me. After all, you're sitting here listening to a ghost."

  I'M WAITING.

  "Okay, okay. Don't get all snooty with me," Drummond said. After a slight swipe through Taylor's head, he settled in front of Max and said, "Well, at first, I was a cop walking the beat, just getting started. I drank a little but not too much and even back then people said I had a knack for solving tough problems. Everybody thought I'd be a full-fledged detective in no time at all.

  "One night, a blistering August night, I was done and on my way home when I heard an odd noise coming from a second-floor window. It had a mournful sound like a kitten crying 'cause its mom had died. I saw right away that it was Ms. Holstein's apartment — nice old lady who spent much of her time knitting by that window. I wasn't on duty anymore that night, but when you're a cop, you're never really off duty — not for a real cop. So, I went up to take a look.

  "Before I reached the door, I knew Ms. Holstein was dead. That nasty Death-smell had already begun to seep into the hall. And then that sad sound cried out again. I knocked on the door. Said something stupid like 'Ms. Holstein? Are you okay in there?' but of course, I got no answer. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Now at this point, I should have — I don't know anymore, really. Maybe it all was inevitable."

  Max watched Drummond fidgeting and felt the sudden urge to pat the detective's shoulder. He couldn't, of course, but the urge grew anyway. The way Drummond had said inevitable struck Max with a sense of recognition — he, too, felt much of what had been happening to him was beyond his control. Perhaps, even though he loathed the idea of destiny, perhaps inevitable.

  "Well, I went into that apartment," Drummond continued, "and I found Ms. Holstein face down by the window. No blood or signs of struggle. It looked like she just finally died and that was that. Then I heard that crying again. I turned around and standing by the bedroom door was Ms. Holstein — only she was shimmering. I guess I don't have to tell you what I'm talking about, do I?"

  "You saw her ghost," Max said.

  Taylor startled from his book. "What was that, sir?"

  "Nothing. Forget it."

  Taylor eyed Max for a moment before returning to his book. Drummond tsked. "That boy really should get another job. Anyway, yeah, I saw her ghost and it scared the hell out of me. I probably looked like an imbecile standing there with my mouth open, but I couldn't move. I just kept thinking that it didn't make any sense. I don't know how long I stood there waiting for something to happen, maybe my own death — I don't really know. Eventually, she vanished but slowly. More like she dissipated. Anyway, she was gone.

  "To prove how much of an idiot I was back then, I opened my big mouth and wrote up the whole incident in my report. The week wasn't over before I'd been canned.

  "The Depression was on, so losing my job was serious. I was lucky, though — no wife, no kids, nothing but myself to cost me a dime. So I rented out this office and became a private detective. The landlord knew I was using it as an apartment as well, but he was a good man and I paid my rent which was more than many people did, so he let me stay."

  Drummond took in the little office with a reminiscent gleam. "Anyway," he said, "I did a few jobs here and there, just enough to keep me afloat, but I couldn't stop thinking about that ghost. So one night after I had a whiskey or two too many, I went back to that old place. Nobody had moved in — or at least, nobody had stayed long. I walked inside being cautious and sure that nothing would happen, but there she was standing by the door as if no time had gone since she last saw me. This time she pointed to the wall. It took me forever to move my body, but in the end, I found what she wanted. Hidden in the wall
was a box full of cash and a note that she had saved it for her niece. I delivered the cash, almost two hundred dollars, and before you even ask, the answer is no, I didn't take a nickel. Heck, I didn't dare. And that was it for the ghost. She was gone.

  "I'll tell you something. If it had ended there, I would've been happier than if I had been Marilyn Monroe's pillow. But a few weeks later, in walks this gorgeous dame, says she needs some help with a delicate situation. I'm thinking it's adultery but it turns out something else entirely. She says she's a witch and she's ticked off some evil spirits. I wanted to think she'd lost it, but I knew about ghosts now, why not witches? And before you ask, yes, she was Connor's grandmother. After that case, word spread that I was the go-to-guy for the weird and spooky. Four cases later and I started looking for a 'special' kind of vacation. When I found out about the whole Kirksbride thing, I checked myself into the asylum."

  WHAT'S KIRKSBRIDE? Max typed.

  "Well, you know, asylums weren't the nicest places to be, even back then. It wasn't the dark ages or anything, and it certainly wasn't England, but it was an ugly business. Except this Kirksbride character. He had this idea of making a peaceful, open place where one could rest his mind and deal with his troubles. It wasn't a prison guarded by sadists. They offered real help. And by that point, after all the things I'd seen, I was close to losing my mind. I was desperate for help. And that's that. Now you know why I was there. This is a bizarre world we live in, and I just needed a little help in finding a way to cope with it."

  BUT THE ASYLUM DOCTORS DIDN'T BELIEVE YOU, DID THEY?

  "Of course not. But that didn't matter. Being there, seeing people who had truly lost their minds, helped put everything in perspective. I mean that's a big part of handling life. You have to maintain perspective. You have to realize that all the decisions you make don't really add up to all that much. You're not going to stop the Earth from moving or the Sun from burning. So just relax."

  Drummond made it sound simple, but Max did not subscribe to the notion with ease. For him, echoes of the previous night bounced in his head. How could he "just relax" when people had shot at him, when a move to the South to fix his troubled life had only made it worse, or when his own actions may have sent men to prison? Granted, they belonged in prison, but nothing he could reason made him feel any better because in the end, it didn't matter that the thugs were in jail. They were just hired hands. Whoever wanted to hurt Max was still out there.

  The rest of the day, Max buried himself in research. He stole his WiFi access from somebody nearby so he wouldn't have to leave the office. Twice Taylor asked if Max would be going out, and twice Taylor fumbled his reaction when Max said he would be staying in.

  The research did not go well. He found out the basics about Old Salem — the historic area that comprised some of Salem's original buildings and had now become an attraction with actors portraying the city's early settlers. Before long, however, he scoured the local newspaper websites for reports on the arrests. Upon locating two articles, he read them several times. Except for one bit of information, the articles had little to say. That one bit, though, made up for a lot: the names of the four men — Wilson McCoy, Edward Moore, Chad Barrows, and Cole Eckerd.

  The names settled around Max's head like taunting devils — one on each shoulder, one at each ear. These little pieces of evil did not try to tempt him, however. Instead, they threatened him and Sandra over and over. He could hear them saying he should back away before something bad happened.

  By the time Taylor gave a weak good-bye and left with his head hanging and his hands stuffed in his pockets, Max had not thought of anything else but those men for hours. The sun had set. Drummond watched Taylor leave and then clapped his hands. "Okay, now we can get to work," he said, settling in the chair opposite Max.

  "And do what? Get my house blown up?"

  "Look, fella, I'm not thrilled to hear you're seeing the ugly side of this business but that doesn't change a damn thing. You get shot at sometimes. You learn to live with it."

  "I don't want to live with it."

  Drummond laced his hands behind his head. "Then go."

  Max didn't bother with an answer. He delved into more online research and ignored the impatient ghost mulling about the office. He found an article about the POWs that had one interesting point — several politicians were suspected of taking bribes because of the unnecessary and unwanted seven POWs from Butner. No names, though. No pictures.

  About an hour later, a man with white hair ringing a bald head knocked on the door. "Come in," Max said and gestured to the chair.

  The man stepped in, his eyes surveying the office, and with an astounded smile, he said, "Nothing's changed."

  "Can I help you?"

  "I don't know. My name is Samuel Stevenson and I was good friends with Marshall Drummond."

  Chapter 14

  Max narrowed his eyes upon Samuel Stevenson, not out of a desire to intimidate but because Max knew that if he allowed himself one moment to breathe, his eyes would dart to the back corner of the room where Drummond, with his chest puffed in triumph, leaned against the wall. Stevenson gazed at the ceiling, then the bookcase, and finally onto the floor. When he saw the markings, he clicked his tongue.

  "I always said Drummond would go out 'cause of something like this."

  Drummond laughed. "That's true. All my weird cases gave Sam the willies."

  Max gestured to the chair once more. "Mr. Stevenson, please have a seat."

  Stevenson walked toward the books and began mouthing the titles. Drummond came closer and said, "Don't take offense. Sam here has had quite a nerve-wracking day."

  "What did you do?" Max said before he could stop himself.

  Sam faced Max. "For Drummond? Never anything official, but I helped out whenever I could."

  "He was a cop," Drummond said.

  "I see," Max said. "You were with the police?"

  With a hesitant nod, Sam descended to his chair. Max thought the man might just hover an inch above the seat, afraid to commit to the act of sitting, but at length, Sam sat. His eyes jittered around the room.

  "I can't believe this place," Sam said.

  "It is rather a bit of time traveling. So, Mr. Stevenson, what can I do for you?"

  Sam shook his head. "I'm here to help you."

  "Me?" Max said, finally casting his gaze toward Drummond.

  Drummond returned a proud smile and said, "You didn't think I'd just sit around and do nothing. I spent the last twenty-four hours working at getting my voice through the phone."

  Max had to focus all his energy not to jump to his feet yelling about the irresponsible nature and uncaring attitude his ghost-partner exhibited. He frowned and said to Sam, "I don't follow you. How can you help me?"

  "I see that look," Sam said. "I understand what you see in front of you."

  "You do?"

  "Sure. I'm an old man whose lost his marbles and is living in days gone by. Something like that I imagine. But you've got to trust me. I am sane. I think. It's just that I've seen something, that is, I've heard something that ... well, I don't know what to say to you. Good heavens, I sound crazier now than when I walked in here."

  As Sam rubbed his face, Max looked at Drummond and asked, "What happened?"

  Sam shuddered. "I don't know if I can explain."

  "Look, I called the fellow, okay?" Drummond said. "I don't know how much he heard, but clearly something made it through. Now, listen to him because you need his help."

  Sam cleared his throat, coughing phlegm into a handkerchief, and took a cleansing breath. "This is not going very well, is it?"

  Max chuckled. "Let me help you out a bit. Did something strange happen to you? A voice, perhaps, or you saw something that might have been ghostlike?"

  Sam's eyes widened but Max could not tell if this was a reaction of fear or astonishment. Then Sam broke into an old man's cackle. "I should've known," he said. "Marshall always was involved with the weird cases. Why shoul
d I be surprised to hear his dead voice? I mean, after all, I've seen some mighty oddball things working with him." For a few seconds, Sam's expression grew cold as his gaze drifted into memories. Then he said, "But how are you involved with Marshall?"

  "This was his office."

  "I guess his weird world stays close to home."

  "I suppose. So, how exactly are you going to help me?"

  "I don't really know."

  Drummond stepped forward. "I figured he might still have access to information you can't get on your own. Ask him to look into the names you found of those morons who shot at you."

  Max offered the task, and Sam brightened. "That's perfect. I still have a few old friends that could help us out. And, well, maybe that'll ease Marshall's spirit. Do you think? I mean, I know it's just Marshall — I hope — but having a dead man whisper to you over the phone ... look, at my age, I can't handle that."

  "I understand," Max said. "I'm sure he'll leave you alone after this."

  Drummond clapped his hands. "Don't bet on it," he said.

  With the eagerness of a young man, Sam left the office, still talking. "I'm on this right now. I'll call the moment I have anything helpful. Don't worry about it. You hear that Marshall? I'm helping out your friend."

  Max pointed at Drummond and said, "How could you do that to a good friend?"

  "Who? Sam? Do you have any idea how many times I saved his job? He'd have been a bum in the streets if it weren't for me. He owes me."

  "You could've caused the old guy a heart attack."

  "If having him help you gets me out of this curse, then I'll risk his ticker. Now, enough of that. Let's find this book already."

  "No," Max said, his cheeks heating up.

  "No?"

  "Before I do anymore of this for you, I want you to promise you won't pull another thing like that, like what you did to Sam. You promise me that."

  "You needed help."

  "I need to know that you're not going to go haunting people. If Sam had a heart attack, if he died, then we'd have been responsible."