Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (27 page)

"I just can't figure out why you had Stephen Bowman arrested. On the one hand, you were trying to ease my mind, keep me focused, but that's not enough. You could have killed him, gotten the journal, and made up any story you wanted to satisfy me. Why put him in jail?"

Anger, or perhaps burned pride, swept across Modesto like an unforeseen squall. "Kill you, kill him — you're awfully quick with murder, Mr. Porter. We, however, are not. We are not thugs. We are not miscreants. And we are certainly not criminals. We merely appreciate a deep level of privacy, and for that, we are willing to go to great lengths."

"Is that what the witchcraft is all about? Great lengths?"

"There was never the intention of killing Stephen Bowman," Modesto said, his fists clutched white. "I had him put in jail so you would not get hurt and so you would not find him. You just couldn't let it lie, though. You had to keep digging."

"It's my job."

"How smug you are now. I assure you that even if we don't kill people with the casualness you suggest, we do know ways to make you pay dearly for threatening us."

"I have no doubt."

This caused Modesto to pause. "Then why do this? You've been running around the city for over a day. You clearly know the kind of trouble you're in. What do you get out of it?"

"The only thing that ever matters — my freedom."

"Perhaps you don't understand the true depths of what is going on here."

"I do," Max said, taking one step further. "And now, I'm going to tell you exactly what will happen. First off, you and Mr. Hull are going to call off all threats against me, Sandra, and the Bowmans. You'll also stop the surveillance. Basically, you're going to back out of our lives and leave us in peace."

From the back corner, Drummond shouted, "Keep the office."

"This office stays with me," Max said.

"Rent free."

"No rent. Consider it part of my severance package. In exchange for all of this, I will see to it that Hull's journal is returned. Of course, a complete copy of the journal will remain in my possession. Should anything happen to me, Sandra, or the Bowmans, the contents of that journal will be made public, as well as the results of all my research."

Modesto tucked in his shirt, straightened his hair, and looked a shade whiter. "All of that would be acceptable, if I believed you actually had Mr. Hull's journal. However, you don't. Everything you've said has been nothing more than conjecture — well-researched conjecture, I grant you, but conjecture nonetheless."

"You might be mistaken," Max said, holding up a sheet of paper.

"What's that?" Modesto asked, a visible tremor rumbling across him.

"This would be the binding curse written into the back pages of Hull's journal. I'm afraid when I return the journal, this page will be missing."

Drummond zipped across the room. "You got it! I never doubted you, ever. You're the best friend I could ever have."

"Again," Modesto said, "without seeing the actual journal, I find this all rather unconvincing."

"I'm convinced," Drummond laughed. "Destroy it. Please. Set me free."

Max removed a match from the matchbox. "I'm standing in the center of the binding circle. When I light this paper, the ghost of Detective Marshall Drummond will be released. I suspect when he finds out why he was cursed, he'll be quite displeased."

"Now you claim to know that as well?"

"You're damn right. Poor Drummond had stumbled too close, and Hull was ready to have him killed."

"I told you, we don't —"

"Yes, you do. See, I found the little bits of a paper trail you've all missed. I found the transfer orders for the POWs, the ones Hull forced to happen. Funny thing about them, though, seven POWs go but only six return. How can that be? This is before Stan Bowman. And then I saw it — Hull had Günther from the start. He just didn't know what to do with the man. Now, this next part is a lot of conjecture, but I think it'll probably be close to the truth. Hull had been sleeping with a young woman, a witch. She also had bedded Marshall Drummond. And together, she and Hull came up with an idea of what to do with his POW problem. He would have her put a binding curse on the POW, just to make sure his privacy was maintained. However, she never did one before, so they cursed Drummond as a test and a way to get rid of Hull's rival."

"Entirely false."

"You may think so. It doesn't really matter. If I were you, being the sole representative of Hull standing in this room, I wouldn't want to be around that angry ghost when he's released. Of course, since you don't believe this is the actual paper, you have nothing to fear."

When Max lit the match, Modesto inched backward toward the door.

"Let's make this simple," Max said. "I'm going to light this paper. If you remain here, I'll know you've chosen to turn down my demands, and I'll release the journal to the public. If you leave, that will be considered acceptance and we can continue our lives in this lovely city with our strained but healthy peace."

"Look at that bastard sweat. Give him a countdown. They hate that," Drummond said.

"I'll count to three," Max said, dangling the cursed paper just out of reach of the flame. "One ... two ..."

Modesto stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

"Three," Max said and let the paper burn. He set it in the circle and stepped back. In seconds, the fire consumed the sheet and there was an audible pop like an enormous light bulb burning out.

Sandra rushed over to Max. "You did great."

"Great?" Drummond said. "Look at me."

Max and Sandra could not find him. "Where are you?" Max asked.

"Behind you."

Floating outside the window, Drummond waved and did a gleeful spin. "Congratulations," Max said. "And thanks."

Drummond slid back into the office. "No, no. I'm the one thanking you. I can't believe you found the journal, and making a copy was a bright idea."

"I don't have a copy. I lied."

"You're kidding."

"No. When I told Bowman my plan, he refused to help me out. He thought it was too risky giving the journal back."

"But he gave you the cursed paper?"

"I threatened to tell Modesto everything about him. Of course, Modesto already knew but Bowman didn't know that."

Sandra frowned. "But Modesto thinks he's getting the journal. What happens when he doesn't get it?"

"He will get it. I'm going back to the jail tomorrow, and I'll tell Bowman what I did. He's got no choice. Either he copies the journal and returns the original to Hull, or his grandmother is in danger and he'll be dead before the end of the week. My only worry was that Modesto would press the issue before I worked out the details with Bowman."

"A good bluff, you rascal," Drummond said.

"Tomorrow, I won't be bluffing."

"I tell you, if I were a genie instead of a ghost, I'd gladly grant you a thousand wishes."

"Throwing in that bit about this office was enough. Now I've got a place to work that won't cost us anything."

"What work?" Sandra asked.

Max raised an eyebrow before he kissed her with a long, loving embrace.

Chapter 30

Four months had passed. Sitting behind his desk, Max still found the whole experience hard to believe. That first week had been the strangest.

He enjoyed a final visit with Annabelle Bowman in which, for once, she was pleased to see him. He told her the truth about her husband and how she no longer needed to fear Hull. She offered him a bit of vodka and said, "You're a silly boy. I don't fear Hull. There's nothing he could do to me anymore."

A few weeks later, he filed all the necessary papers to officially start his own business as a research consultant. "What exactly is that?" Sandra asked.

Max shrugged. "Whatever somebody wants me to look into, I guess." They shared a look, one that said she knew what he really wanted to call his new venture but could not do so legally — private investigator.

"Do you think there'll be enough work?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I'm tired of us living under other people's rules. It wasn't just Drummond's freedom we won. It's ours, too."

"Sounds like there's going to be a lot of work."

"Why do you say that?"

"Sounds to me," Sandra said with an impish grin, "you'll be needing a secretary, maybe even an assistant."

"Oh, well, now that you mention it — yup, I just might. Maybe a young, hot, buxom little secretary."

"That's the kind of gal Drummond would hire. You need somebody more sophisticated, more reliable, and more sexy."

"You have somebody in mind?"

Sandra playfully slapped his chest. "If you don't let me work with you, you'll sleep on this office couch for the rest of your life."

"How about we sleep on it together, my new assistant?"

The next day, Max left a single rose on Sandra's desk. For a moment, she stared at it and smiled. The silence was wonderful.

* * * *

Work trickled in — two cases really. One was finding a lost dog, and the other dealt with an odd fellow who wanted help researching his family tree. Max's mother called every week, each time showing her great enthusiasm for his endeavor.

"I don't understand you. You were a bright kid. You could have been a lawyer or a doctor. Why are you doing this?"

"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.