Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (20 page)

"Shh. Please, let me do this."

Max waited, wondering what the ghosts were doing, where they stood. Did they see him? Did they feel his presence? Perhaps that's why he felt so closed in — perhaps he felt them surrounding him.

Sandra turned right and crept down the trade hall. The joiner's room on the right looked menacing in the flashlight beam — wooden skeletons of unfinished furniture surrounded by tortuous tools of assorted sizes. They proceeded further down the hall. The potter's room on the left with its foot-powered spinning wheel turned into a macabre lair where strange experiments of creation occurred under their nighttime gaze. Then, to Max's dismay, the ghost led them downstairs to the darker, colder basement floor.

Max struggled to recall the pleasant daytime feel of this building but even the scuffling of their feet against the stone floor transformed into a hideous monster lurking just beyond the flashlight beam. He followed Sandra and the ghost down the hall until they stopped at a door on the left. A placard on a podium explained that this room had once been used for training but later came to be a storage room. Sandra stepped over the rope barring the entrance and pointed to a dusty pile of junk filling up the corner.

"I think it's in here," she said and started sifting through the pile.

Max entered the room to help. Broken pottery and old wood scraps lay around, haphazardly discarded in the room. A broom, a mop, bits of paper, and other leftovers filled in the numerous nooks of the small room. When Max pulled out a large, metal hook, Sandra said, "Crap."

"What?"

To the empty space, she said, "Book. I said, 'Book.' With a
B
. Damn."

Letting the hook clatter to the ground, Max said, "Great."

"Don't go," she said, stepping toward the outer-wall. Then her shoulders drooped. "He's gone."

"I'm sorry, honey, this was just a bad idea. These ghosts aren't going to help us."

"That's only the second one. We've got to give it more time. It's not easy. Not all ghosts are as connected with the world like Drummond. Some of them are barely here at all. It's like trying to get directions during a snowstorm in Siberia and you don't speak Russian. Get it?"

"I know. I'm not blaming you. But, really, this could go on all night with no luck."

"Or we might hit it big."

Max heard wood creaking from above. "Shh," he snapped and turned out the flashlight. With slow, quiet movements, he edged toward Sandra. He stepped into the corner of something sharp, pain bursting at his hip, and grunted as he wrangled back the urge to yell. He felt around — the podium with the placard. Inching a few steps at a time, he worked around the podium and reached Sandra, put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "I think somebody's been following us since we got here."

"How do we get out?" she asked, her voice steady despite her rigid body.

"To the left and upstairs there's a door. It leads out back to the gardens. When we go, I'll turn the flashlight on and keep it pointed straight at the ground. At the stairs, I'll turn it off and the rest we have to do in the dark. Move quick but not so fast that you'll get hurt. And ... I don't know. That's the best I can come up with."

"It's plenty good."

"I love you, you know."

"Right back at you," she said, turned her face and pressed her lips against Max with such force that his chest swelled with an overwhelming sensation — love and dread swirling like two wrestlers forever clenched together.

When she pulled back, she exhaled slow and deliberate. "Okay. I'm ready."

"Okay," he said, "I'm turning on the flashlight. Get ready to move. Here we go."

Max pushed the flashlight's button, and it blazed light onto the floor. He saw the podium and the various piles of wood and boxes, and in the doorway, he saw the figure of a man lunging toward him.

Chapter 21

Together, Max and Sandra let out a startled cry. The man leapt atop Max and the flashlight banged to the floor, shutting off, leaving them in darkness. Max shoved hard but could not budge his attacker. Two strong hands gripped his throat, pushing his head back and slicing his ear against the corner of some plywood. Again, Max attempted to push off the man but the struggle for air weakened him.

"Max? Max?" Sandra called as she fumbled in the dark. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold her hand, and the thought flashed in his mind that, at least, it wasn't her throat being strangled at the moment. He pictured this man straddling her, choking her, and hoped she had the sense to run now while she could get away.

The image in his mind brought to the forefront that he should have done what any sensible woman would have attempted from the beginning. Mustering the last of his strength, Max garbled out a yell and rammed his knee upward into the man's groin. His knee hit something hard and he heard a crack. The man grunted a cry and rolled to the side, curled in a fetal position and whimpering.

Max wheezed and gasped as he crawled forward, one hand massaging his throat, the other seeking the flashlight. The fight had sent ages of dust into the air, drying out Max's mouth with its dead taste. Blood dribbled from his ear. He felt a hand grab his wrist, but before he could utter a painful yelp, he heard the welcome voice of his love.

"It's me, it's me," she said. "I can't find the flashlight."

He pulled her hand towards his chest and breathed in her hair. Together, they stumbled to their feet and groped a path into the hall.

"This way," Max said, every syllable searing his throat. He turned left and moved as fast as he dared in the darkness. When he reached a wide door, slants carved into the wood, he searched for a handle or knob.

The door wouldn't open.
Calm down,
he scolded himself.
Don't panic.
"I think it's locked," he said.

"Be sure," Sandra yelled.

"We're wasting time. That guy's not going to be down for long. He was wearing a cup, for crying out loud. A fucking cup. What kind of person wears a cup?"

"A professional, honey."

"That's what I'm saying. Now, let's go back the way we came. I can get us out of here."

"But the door."

"Sandra, trust me."

He heard the rustling of her clothing as she nodded. Then he heard something that shot adrenaline through his body — silence. Why didn't he hear the groans of their enemy?

"Sandra," he whispered. Her hands fidgeted about his arm until they found his right hand again where they affixed firm. Without another word, he led her back down the hall, his left hand trailing the rough wall.

He heard the grunt a second before he felt the man's fist strike his lower back. Max arched as the man grabbed his head and tossed him into the wall. His left arm blocked much of the impact, but still he saw little blue flashes in the darkness.

He heard Sandra scream. He heard the man yell. He heard a body smack into something hard and drop. As he forced himself to stand (he only just noticed he had fallen to the floor), Max felt hands grab hold of his arm. He yanked back, flailing in the dark.

"It's okay. It's me," Sandra said.

"Where's —"

"I don't know. He grabbed me and I bit his hand. Then I swung my fist and hit him — I think in the head but I'm not sure. I can't see anything. Can you walk?"

"I'm okay," Max said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and using her as a crutch. His head blazed, and he wanted to vomit but managed to keep setting one foot in front of the other.

They reached the stairs and clambered up to the main floor. Light from the streets pierced the darkness in sharp slivers — enough to move fast. Max took three deep breaths, let go of Sandra, and focused on walking in a straight line. Each step sent stabs up his side but he pushed on. Knowing the danger just one floor below motivated him plenty.

Sandra darted ahead, reached the backdoor and rattled the handle until it opened. He could see her triumphant smile. "I got it," she said.

She put her arm around his waist for support, and together they stepped into the backyard, light rain dancing on their faces and filling the chill night air with its fresh smell. They hurried along the path leading to the garden and the fenced-in crops. Max expected to hear the man slam open the door and chase after them but nothing came. Not yet. Sandra slipped on the wet ground, causing Max to stumble as well, but they managed to stay standing and rushed to the garden's end.

"Can you climb over?" Sandra asked.

The fence was made of wood and only chest high, but Max knew the climb would hurt. The idea of going back and around the fence did not sit well, though, so he nodded. Wincing and grunting, and with the aid of Sandra, he managed the small feat.

"The car's this way," Sandra said, heading left.

"No," Max said. "They might be waiting for us."

"They? There's more than one?"

"I don't know, but we're not risking it. Let's go around, take the long way, and we'll circle back. If there's only one or a whole gang it won't matter. Either they'll have left by that time or we'll be able to see them as we approach. We'll know then and figure it out from there."

"Okay," she said, scanning the area. "We're on Old Salem Road."

"Follow it to the right. I think it curves a few blocks up and connects with Main Street."

As they walked along the glistening street, several cars shot by. Max felt too unsteady for this street. He kept seeing himself weave into the path of an oncoming car. With a nod, he led Sandra back onto Salt Street, heading away from their car and paralleling Old Salem Road.

He checked over his shoulder for any pursuit. Just empty street. White streetlamps dotted the right side of the road, one with a white street sign — the paint chipping off. The left side had a brick sidewalk and homes. The cracked pavement pooled water. A weird sensation formed in Max's chest, worked upward until it reached his face, and emerged with a fit of giggles.

"What are you laughing at?" Sandra asked, smiling at his infectious sound.

Max tried to suppress the noise, clamping his mouth down, but it only served to strengthen the laughter until it burst from his nose. He shook his head as he laughed, wiped his tearing eyes, and said, "I'm just thinking about that guy. He's all acting tough and then Wham! You nailed him." The laughter erupted again.

Sandra joined in. "I wish it hadn't been so dark. Can you picture his face? Duh!" she said and crossed her eyes. Max laughed so hard he stopped making sound and clutched his side in pain yet unable to stop smiling. After a few more feet, they had to sit on the wooden steps of a house until all their tension had been released. With a cleansing breath, Max said, "Oh my. We shouldn't laugh. When we get back we should call the police or somebody. That guy might've gotten hurt."

"So what? You really care what happens to him? He tried to kill you."

"I don't know if he would've gone that far."

"They've already shot at you."

"I just don't want to become like them. We can be better people. You know?"

Sandra squeezed his arm. "Okay. We'll call. But right now, let's keep moving. Whoever they are, they probably don't care about being the better people."

"Good point," Max said. They got back to their feet and headed along the street, their steps not filled with as much dread as before. Up ahead, the road ended. The grass rose steeply for just a short step and off to the right they saw a giant, silver coffee pot, at least ten-feet high, probably more, surrounded by flowers. "What the heck?"

A small plaque explained that the large tin coffee pot had been created in 1858 by the Mickey brothers as an advertisement for their tinsmith business. Max shook his head. "This place is nuts," he said.

"I think it's neat," Sandra said. "It's like a touch of the modern day seeping back into history. Granted, advertising isn't the best aspect of us to have seep back but still it just makes me ..."

"Are you okay?" Max asked. Sandra turned around and stared. Max followed her gaze and saw nothing. "Another ghost?"

She nodded. Then she whispered, "It's coming straight at us. It's beckoning us."

"Tell it to go away. We're done for the night."

"I can barely hear him."

"There's nothing worth hearing."

"Shush already."

Sandra leaned forward and cupped one ear. She looked so ridiculous, appearing to listen to the giant coffee pot, that Max felt another wave of giggles rising. But before he could utter one chuckle, Sandra stepped back with her face drained of color. A few months ago, Max would have said, "What's the matter? See a ghost?" Of course, now, he knew she had and that something far worse bothered her.

She turned her gaze toward him and said, "He says he's been watching us tonight. He says he knows what book we want. We just have to follow him."

"So, what's the matter?"

"We have to go over there," she said pointing further along the way they had been traveling.

"Why's that scare you? I just see trees and the street. Is there something else?"