Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

"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 should 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."

"So what? I'm already dead."

"I'm not," Max yelled.

Drummond rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay. I promise I won't haunt people to help us out."

With two raps on the door, Sandra walked in. "Knock, knock," she said.

"Honey?" Max rushed over to greet her, his mind racing for an excuse if she heard any of his argument with Drummond.

Sandra looked around the room before placing a wonderful smelling bag on the desk. "I brought dinner."

"How sweet."

"Well, with all you've been dealing with, I haven't seen you much. Besides, last night —"

Max hugged her. "Thanks, hon."

"Hey," Drummond said. "Don't stop her. I want to hear about last night."

Sandra shot a nasty look in Drummond's direction. As Max pulled out the fried chicken dinner, Drummond moved closer and said, "Um, I think she can see me, Max."

Max and Sandra traded stunned eyes and both said, "What? You can see him?"

Chapter 15

Over the next few hours, Max and Drummond listened as Sandra told them of her long history with the dead. It began at the age of thirteen when she saw the ghost of a neighbor shortly after the neighbor's wake. From then on, it never stopped. She spoke with the dead sometimes. Mostly she ignored them.

She glossed over much of her story, and Max did not press her for details. Her unusual shy behavior as she spoke told him to back off. Besides, he had enough imagination to paint in the missing parts — he saw the struggle she endured, the attempt to blot it out through destructive behavior, and finally, the acceptance of her ability. And after awhile, it became a regular part of her life.

She said that the ghosts never asked for her help or bothered her. Once in awhile they interrupted her during private moments in her life (like her honeymoon night), and she had to learn to live with the intrusions. Sometimes she found ghosts surprised she could talk to them, but usually they were too caught up in their own worlds to notice a living being — which was fine by her.

She never told anybody about her ability. Once, when visiting a psychic with her girlfriends, she thought she would be exposed. The psychic clearly sensed something odd about her, but he never gave her away — looking back, Sandra often dismissed the whole thing as a coincidence brought on by a clever actor. "The only time I ever truly considered telling somebody was when you asked me to marry you," she said. "But things were so happy for us and I figured no good could possibly come from it. And I was frightened that you might react badly to the whole thing."

"Well, I'm angry. And hurt. You didn't trust me, and here I am trying to get things back the way they were, but now that's not even what I thought it was."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm upset, but that's just a gut, of-the-moment reaction. The fact is I'm just as guilty."

He proceeded to explain all about Drummond and the curse and Hull and everything regarding their predicament he had held back before. The words gushed out and relief followed. Even as he spoke, he thought about what her world must have been like — living a duplicitous life like a covert spy only she never saved the world, she only fought for a normal routine.