by Stuart Jaffe
"I'm happy. Isn't that enough?"
"But what do I tell the girls at the bridge club?"
"You could try the truth."
"Don't get smart with me, young man. I'm still your mother. Now, what about kids? How are you going to have kids when you have to struggle to make ends meet? I'm not one to butt in your life — you never really listened to me anyway — but you're ruining your life this way."
After Stephen Bowman delivered the journal, Max had not heard from Modesto. That was fine by him. In fact, he only harbored sadness for Drummond. About an hour after being freed, Drummond became difficult to see — even to Sandra. A little bit later, he had disappeared entirely. But Max hoped that Drummond was in a peaceful place, wherever spirits go.
* * * *
"Wake up, Max," Drummond barked as he flew through the office walls, looking thicker than ever.
"Drummond? What are you doing here? Why aren't you plucking harps or dancing on clouds or something?"
"It was boring. I can't even begin to tell you how boring. Besides, I kept peeking in here and I could see you needed my help. You've had two cases and you botched them both."
"I solved them."
"Well, yeah, but you could've billed them for far more money and used them to leverage out a few more gigs. You've gotta learn about per diem, kiddo."
"You came all the way back here to tell me that?"
Drummond gazed at the second desk in the office. "Well, well, you've got the missus with you, huh? Dangerous move."
"I thought you said you were watching me. Why didn't you know Sandra was here until now?"
"Hey, I can't be expected to take care of all the details. That's your job. I'm the guy who steers this ship in the right direction which it ain't going in at the moment. That's why I came back. You need me."
"Hold on. Stop. You are not a partner in this."
"Sure I am. This is my office."
"It's mine, now."
"Thanks to me."
"You're dead, for crying out loud. You're not supposed to be here."
Drummond sat in Sandra's seat and spun it around. "I know, I know, but really that's a small detail, and one you don't have to worry anything about. They're not going to miss me up there anyway. I think most of them think it was a mistake in the first place. Besides, I'm valuable to you."
"You are?"
"I'm going to bring you clients."
"You are?"
"Got one lined up already."
"A client?"
"Sure. The guy's name is Barney. He made this will, but his wife — who if you ask me may have poisoned the guy, though she's quite a looker — well, she's using the old will, the one that gives her all of his estate. So, he wants you —"
Max raised a hand. "Barney's dead?"
"Of course. There's a whole slew of ghosts who could make great use of a guy like you. And they'll pay anything. They don't need money anymore."
Max opened his mouth, ready to send Drummond back from where he came. Yes, the bills were stacking up. Yes, he was glad to see his old friend. And yes, the two cases he had were not very interesting because of their mundane nature. But he pointed a finger at Drummond and said, "Look —"
"Sounds like a great idea," Sandra said from the doorway. "Just promise us we won't be dealing with ex-girlfriend witches again, okay?"
"Done," Drummond said.
Both of them looked to Max who shook his head. He opened his mouth, ready to list the infinite reasons this was a bad idea, but said nothing. He glanced at Sandra, smiled, and saw in her eyes something he always trusted whenever he saw it. He just knew she was right.
Afterword
For those of you wondering about the historical facts, I don't want to add pages and pages of non-fiction here, so I encourage you to do some research of your own. I will say that this story grew out of learning about the very real POW camps we had in North Carolina. That really happened.
Also, for those of you wanting to drive around Winston-Salem to see the various places mentioned, I promise you that you'll never find Max's office. The only thing that sits across the street from the YMCA is a parking lot. Many other locations do exist, though I sometimes took liberties with the details. This is fiction, after all.
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Acknowledgments
No book is created by one person, and this is no exception. My sincere thanks goes out to Rod Hunter who made crucial contributions to the story; the wonderful people at the Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University; the dedicated people of Old Salem; Duncan Long for his stunning artwork; my good friend, Garrett; all of my family for their support; and my closest and dearest, Glory and Gabe. And of course, none of this is worth anything without you, the reader. Thank you.
About the Author
Stuart Jaffe is the author of The Malja Chronicles, After The Crash, and 10 Bits of My Brain, as well as numerous short stories appearing in magazines and anthologies. He is the co-host of The Eclectic Review — a podcast about science, art, and well, everything. For those who keep count, the latest animal listing is as follows: five cats, one albino corn snake, one Brazilian black tarantula, three aquatic turtles, one tortoise, assorted fish, two lop-eared rabbits, eight chickens, and a horse. Thankfully, the chickens and the horse do not live inside the house.
Stuart can be easily found online at these sites:
Website
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Copyright Notice
Southern Bound is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SOUTHERN BOUND
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2012 by Stuart Jaffe
Cover art by Duncan Long
First Edition: June, 2012
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Afterword
Copyright Notice