Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

"That's right, and when I reminded them of that pesky little fact, they threatened to burn down the building which, when you consider that the symbols on the floor would become charred ash, would make it very difficult to release me from the binding. They said if you didn't come up with what they want, they'd destroy us all."

"Man, Drummond, I'm sorry."

"I don't really care about it. I mean, nice place and all, always was a good office, but they haven't got anything I want badly enough to give them what they want."

"They've got the book."

"Not if they're threatening to burn down this building. They acted coy, but come on, now, what else could they be after but the book? They know I'm after it. They fear what I might do if I were to gain my freedom. So, it's pretty clear that they don't have it either."

"Then why me?" Max asked. "I'm sick of this. Why go to the expense of moving me down here, setting me up, giving me all this time-wasting research — I mean, they could've done all this on their own. It doesn't make any sense. I didn't have any connection to them. There's no logical reason to bring in a stranger. It only opens them up to outside scrutiny."

Sandra sat in Max's desk chair and folded her arms. "It seems to me that there are three key things going on here. First, there's the book, and I think we're all crystal clear on that one — we want it to set Drummond free, they want it to keep him in place, and nobody knows where it is. Then there's this old case regarding Stan Bowman. Obviously, this ties in with Drummond since it's the reason he's stuck here. So, perhaps they don't want us learning whatever you were getting close to finding out way back when."

"I'm right with you," Drummond said with a wink.

"Last is Max's employment. The Hull Corporation says it's buying up properties and wants an expert to research the area."

Scoffing, Max said, "I'm no expert. I'm good at research but hardly an expert."

"Well, they can't hire anybody too high profile. So, they hire you. Perhaps they know that the answers to the Bowman case or the book can be found in some land here. Perhaps this is all about attacking the same problem from different angles."

"Possibly," Drummond said. "In fact, that makes quite a bit of sense. After all, Hull is a large company. They can't go searching for this book or this land quietly — not under their own name. That would draw plenty of attention. But if they hired somebody ..."

Max nodded. "Somebody with no ties to the community. Somebody from the North that has no family or friends in the area. A couple with no children. A couple down on their luck that would dive in without too many questions. Okay, I'm sold. Now what?"

Drummond thought for a moment, circling the room in a wide arc. "I think Max should go hit the books again. See if you can find more about Hull."

"I've looked into the Hull family but there's not much. A Civil War reference but that's about it. The name doesn't really kick into use until Reynolds and Hanes become big."

"Amuse me. There's got to be something to find."

"They could just be paranoid. Perhaps they think there's something major hidden in the records, but there really isn't."

"Either way, you're the one to go find out," Drummond said and then pointed to Sandra. "You work at a bakery. What can you do?"

With a patronizing shake of her head, Sandra said, "You boys never talk, do you? Max, tell Drummond what I did right before the recession hit."

"You worked in a bar. What's that got to do with —"

"After that, honey. Use your brain."

Max slapped the desk. "I'm such an idiot."

"Yes, you are. I didn't want to step in your way, especially when we weren't really talking, but now I can help."

"Great," Drummond said with a scowl. "Now tell me what the heck you're talking about."

"Back in Michigan, I sold real estate."

"Wait a minute. You sold real estate?"

"Not commercial," Sandra said.

"That's not the point. Hull hired your husband as a researcher when they should've hired a real estate agent."

Max said, "Unless they wanted me to do research on more than just properties."

"Keep that in mind. This is getting weird in a way that reminds me too much of the final days in the Bowman case. Everybody needs to be careful."

"Perhaps Sandra should look into recent real estate activities under the Hull name. Can you do that?"

Sandra nodded. "I still have some contacts."

"Good," Drummond said. "And I'll just float around here and play tricks on Taylor."

As Max and Sandra got up to leave, Max had another idea. "What about other ghosts?"

"What about them?"

Sandra said, "I don't see any others in here."

"That's 'cause I'm all alone. I don't have contact with other ghosts."

Max shook his head. "But you were able to make contact with that old guy, Sam. You got him to come here and see me. If you can do that, maybe you can find another ghost."

"And do what?"

"Maybe get a message through to the ghost community. Maybe somebody out there knows something."

"The ghost community? What the heck are you talking about? We're just dead. We don't have a community."

"How do you know? You've been stuck in here since you died. Maybe there's a thriving world of ghosts out there."

"Sandra, set your husband straight, please."

"I don't know," Sandra said. "I've seen lots of ghosts, and they always seem to be unaware of each other."

"That's right," Drummond said, clapping his hands.

"But then again, communities behave in all sorts of different ways. Max might be right."

Max smiled. "Besides, what else are you going to do all day. Picking on Taylor is going to get boring after awhile."

"You'd be surprised," Drummond said. "Okay, I'll try it, but don't expect too much."

"Let's meet back here tonight for dinner. Hopefully, we'll all have good news to contribute."

"Aren't you the optimist?"

Max put his arm around Sandra and left the office. He didn't bother with a response other than to whistle a meandering tune. He wished he felt half as casual as he behaved, but a brave front helped him keep pressing forward. Having Sandra by his side helped more.

Chapter 17

The morning dragged on for Max as he rummaged through one useless book after another. As lunch approached, he closed the last book in his pile and resigned to the fact that no matter where he looked, he could not find anything helpful on the Hull family.

"I'll have to go talk with that old guy in Butner again," he said to the books. That sparked an idea. A second later he rushed to the nearest computer to search Butner and POWs. Only two books showed in the results but that was two more chances than he had before. Twenty minutes later, he had learned that bringing the POWs caused a bit of controversy and required Reynolds to smooth talk a lot of people.

"Yeah, but was good ol' Hull in the picture?"

Not surprisingly, Max found no references to Hull; however, the entire program smelled of the Hull Corporation. Next, he searched through the newspapers and found several articles about the POWs. One in particular announced the special transfer of seven Germans from Butner to Winston-Salem. All seven names were listed: Dietar Krause, Joseph Richter, Herbert Bauer, Günther Scholz, Stefan König, Fritz Keller, and Walter Huber.

Max jotted down the names. "It's a start," he said.

In the course of packing away his notes, he glanced at his scribblings from the first day — Moravians and Unitas Fratrum and the founding of Bethabara. The foundation for this little research construction project had proven quite unstable. "Wait just a moment," he whispered. Why would Modesto have started him out looking into all this old history if all he had wanted was the binding book?

Even as an idea formed in Max's head, he rushed toward the Special Collections room of the library. He spent a short time plugging in keyword searches until he found one promising entry. After handing in the request, he paced in front of the doorway as if expecting somebody to stop him at any moment. Then, before Max knew it, he sat in a private cubicle with the 1825 diary of Jeremiah Childress.

Bound in leather (throwing Max awful recollections of human skin bound books) and written in steep-angled, cursive lines, many of the entries proved to be mundane accounts of the Childress farm. "I know you've got something in there," Max said, turning a page. He learned that Childress was well-respected and that by 1828, he had been invited to become a member of the Elders Conference. Then Max read:

It is to my great dismay this twenty-first day of our Lord's year eighteen hundred twenty-nine that I must partake in a most unpleasant meeting of the Elders Conference. Our good man Thomas Christman, though perhaps I must restate his standing, has made it known his intentions to leave the warming fold of Unitas Fratrum. His soul has been poisoned by those who call themselves the Baptists. Indeed, Thomas claims he has stepped into the waters with their so-called holy men. I have known Thomas for many years, and though I cannot claim to be surprised by this development, I am, as I stated previously, dismayed. It is never a joyous occasion when we lose one of our own. Making this saddening situation worse is the indecent act dear Thomas has chosen to lay upon us. After receiving the Elders Conference's order to depart from Salem, Thomas shocked us all by refusing, such is his disdain for what he once held sacred. I am troubled by what has transpired since that moment of defiance. It was my fullest expectation that the Elders Conference would evict Mr. Christman from his home and send both he and his child away from Salem so as not to pollute the holiness and well-being of our citizens. That has not happened. In this action's stead, the Elders Conference voted not to evict as that would bring unwanted attention to our actions in the public forums. No, this honorable organization deemed it more appropriate to allow a soul-fouled man to retain ownership of his home until the Elders Conference could purchase the house from under its occupants. I spoke against this course and for my troubles discovered myself much alone.

Max skimmed through the next few days, discovering little of value. When he turned the page, however, he found more than he could have wished for.

Only one is willing to stand beside me and for that I thank the Lord for providing and His kindness and His grace. Tucker Hull is a young man in years but wise enough to despise this hypocrisy. We have shared numerous conversations and I believe he may understand our Lord's will better than any other I have ever conversed with. I consider him a friend. His comprehension of scripture far exceeds my limited fumbling and I do believe wholeheartedly that should he ask me I would willingly follow his leadership in any capacity he wishes. Truthfully spoken, I hold suspicions that he plans to remove himself, and those of us who support his ideas, for there are more than just myself, from the Unitas Fratrum and inaugurate a new Church, one unpolluted by the corruption of power, under his supervision.

Max stared at the name
Tucker Hull
for a full minute. He might have spent another five minutes sitting in shock, if not for the two women who walked by murmuring to the tune of their clicking heels. These sounds roused him, and with quiet, determined motions, Max copied down the diary entries. When he finished, he hurried back to the office.

Sandra and Drummond were waiting. Upon Max's entrance, Sandra gave him a quick hug and kiss. Drummond, however, burst into a rant that clearly had been rolling in his head for hours.

"Nothing," he said. "I tried everything I could, but they won't talk to me."

As Max took off his coat, he winked at Sandra and said, "You mean other ghosts?"

"What the hell do you think I've been doing all day? There's even one standing outside in front of the Y. I know he can see me. He glanced up here a few times, but he won't come in. He won't even shout something my way. And why? I never did anything to him. I don't even know the guy. Oh, I know the reason he'd give. Same reason I've heard ever since I got stuck here. Connor warned me — actually, she taunted me with this but it's ridiculous."

"You're losing me. What reason?"

"The binding. Pay attention. Connor said that I'd be forever alone because no ghost would ever talk with me or be around me or anything if I'm bound. They fear they'll get caught in the binding, too. But this is important. I understand their worried and all, but if I saw some poor muck who had been cursed and I could help him, I'd be there right away. I can't believe none of these ghosts have any sympathy for me. It's downright immoral."

"I thought you didn't know about any other ghosts or a community or anything."

Drummond whisked over to the window, crossed his arms, and glared toward the street. "I may have misrepresented matters."

Max looked at Sandra. "How did it go for you?"

"Better," she said with a chuckle. "I found out that witchy-poo doesn't own her office and she doesn't lease it. She doesn't pay anything for it at all."

"Do I even need to bother guessing?"

"Oxsten and Son own it and they, according to your stock trace for Annabelle Bowman, are one of many dummy corporations. So, that's right, hon. Hull owns it. Owns most of the buildings on that block, actually."