Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

"I'm not getting fired."

"You said that in Michigan," Sandra said, her mouth a tight line.

Max downed his glass of wine and then breathed deep. "I thought that was all behind us. You said you forgave me. We're supposed to be building a new life down here. Now I'm trying my best. You like it here, right? The people are nice and all, right?"

Sandra nodded.

"Okay. Then allow me a little room to find where I fit in. I won't lose my job. I'm doing this research at home on my own time. I never signed anything, never agreed to anything that says I can't do this thing at home. Besides, if they try to fire me for the way I use my personal time, we'll sue them for millions, and then all our money troubles will be gone."

Sandra let out a relieved shudder. "I'm not happy about it."

"I see that."

"But okay."

Max kissed her hand. "I love you."

"You piss me off lots, but I love you, too."

Refilling their glasses, Max said, "So, do you want to hear about Stan Bowman?"

"No, but you'll tell me anyway."

They both laughed a bit too hard — the wine contributing as much as the tension. "Okay," Max said, and as he summoned the images and story in his head, his face hardened. Sandra must have seen the change in his demeanor because her laughter died and her concern returned.

"During World War II," Max began, "Winston-Salem gave three-hundred-and-one men to the fight. Stan Bowman lucked out, though. He only got shot in the leg. Before he left, he was a decent enough man, I guess. Helped out with the scouts and stuff like that. I don't know for sure, of course. Online info isn't that trustworthy. Plus, there's only so much you can get from newspapers and police statements."

"Police? That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't. He had a girlfriend, but she left while he was in Africa. By the time he returned to the States, she had married and had a kid. But he met a new gal and married her — Annabelle Grier. She told the police that Stan suffered terrible nightmares, waking up drenched in cold sweat, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like Post Traumatic Stress."

Max nodded. "Everything probably would've just settled into your typical nuclear-family, fake-happiness thing, been just fine — except the POWs arrived."

"POWs?"

"R. J. Reynolds just about owned all of Winston-Salem. His tobacco company employed a huge percentage of the city. Heck, he built Wake Forest University."

"Well, his money did."

"You know what I mean. Anyway, at the time, he was providing the cigarettes for the soldiers. Demand was huge, and he started having trouble keeping up production. So, he managed to get a deal with the government to ship over German POWs and put them to work in his factories."

"Are you serious?"

"It's all true. Two hundred and fifty soldiers came, all of them from Rommel's Afrika Korps."

"And Stan served in Africa."

"Right."

"Oh, that can't be good," Sandra said, and Max saw that she had become intrigued. He had to admit it — despite his fears, he was intrigued, too. He sipped his wine, making her wait a moment before he continued.

"About a month after the Germans arrived, Stan goes missing. Annabelle contacts the police, says she hasn't seen Stan in two days, but apparently, they don't give her much credence. Stan had been known as a heavy drinker, so the police figured he'd gone on a binge and would turn up sooner or later. Of course, Stan wasn't drinking."

"Of course."

"One by one in turn, seven POWs go missing. Each one abducted from the factory floor," Max said, pausing to let his words sink deep inside.

"Wait," Sandra said a moment later. "How's that possible? I mean, these are POWs. There had to be guards all around. I know our government can do some stupid things, but they wouldn't let a bunch of German soldiers loose in America. Would they?"

"No, honey, there were plenty of guards. Best anybody figured out was that the abductions took place during bathroom breaks. But here's where it gets interesting. In each case, the prisoner was found several days later, gibbering like a madman, completely nuts. Only one thing they said made any sense — each one mentions the name Stan Bowman. The police go on a manhunt, but nobody ever finds Stan. A private detective, however, does locate this little apartment-type room in an old warehouse. The place must have reeked of tobacco. Inside, they find Stan's workplace. He'd been torturing these men, but not just physically. He messed with their heads. Hours and hours of slow, mind-boggling torture."

Sandra stood to clear the table. "And they never found him?"

"He disappeared."

She placed a hand on her hip. "You can't possibly be serious about following this."

"Why not? It's fascinating."

"Hon, you're talking about crazy people doing crazy things over seventy years ago. Nothing good could ever come from digging this up."

"Come with me," Max said, getting up. "I want to show you one of the crime photos. Relax, it's not bloody. I just want you to see something that'll make it clearer to you."

With a reluctant stretch, Sandra followed. The bedroom of their apartment doubled as an office for Max, so she settled on the bed while he scooted into the small desk chair in the corner. He pulled up the photo on his laptop and angled it for her to see.

The black-and-white photo depicted a stool in the middle of an unfinished room. Two buckets had been placed next to the stool, one clearly filled with a dark substance. Gruesome pictures of women and children being shot or tortured had been nailed to some of the wall studs. Straight in front of the stool, Stan had mounted a film screen. Two detectives were shown in the photo — both looked queasy.

"Stan forced his victims to stay awake the whole time, or I suppose, as long as Stan could handle it himself. Nobody ever found what film he showed them but based on the wall pictures, I'm guessing it ain't a Disney classic."

"Okay, now I'm thinking this Stan guy is super nuts. Why is this going to convince me you should get involved?"

"Because," Max said pointing to the detective standing near the stool, "this man here is the spitting image of Drummond. Very strong family resemblance."

"It's still a bunch of crazy people."

"You're missing the point, honey. Drummond is interested in this because of a family matter. This detective had to have been some close relation. The Stan Bowman crazy part of all this is secondary. This guy is just looking for a lost relative."

Sandra frowned. "You really believe that?"

"If that's all it is, then I might be able to help him out, help him find his family. I do that, and I'm sure he'll pay well. We need all we can get." Before Sandra could speak, Max put out his hand. "If it's something more, I'll let it go. Don't worry. I'm not getting fired."

Sandra crossed her arms but didn't protest further. Max smiled.

* * * *

The next day, Max bolted down his breakfast and rushed to the office. To his pleasure, he found Drummond waiting for him.

"I take it you found some things," Drummond said.

Max circled his desk, pulled out a hard copy of the photo, and tossed it down. "I'd say I'm getting somewhere."

Drummond looked at the photo and grimaced. "Boy, I haven't seen this in a long time."

"So, what's the relation?"

"I can still smell the place."

"Your grandfather?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

Max sat on the edge of his chair, his knee bumping the gun tray screwed into the desk's underside. "You've been to this place?" he asked.

"You think this is my grandfather? You did look closely at this picture, right? I'm right there."

"Mr. Drummond, that picture is seventy years old."

"I know. Last one of me ever taken. Two days later I wound up dead. Shot right here in my office."

"Your office?"

"Are you pretending to be this lost?"

"No," Max said, his face locked in total confusion.

"Let me lay it down for you. In the 1940s, I was a private investigator. The police called in for my help on the Bowman case, and then I was murdered. Pretty clear now?"

"So ... you're ... dead?"

"Yup, I'm dead."

Chapter 4

Max let out a nervous laugh as he stood and worked his way from the desk. His chest tightened and his face heated up. Now he understood why rich people had panic rooms or emergency buttons installed.

"You don't believe me," Drummond said.

"Take it easy. Just stay calm."

"I'm completely calm. You're the one whose voice is rising. I'm sorry to rattle you, but this is the way it is."

Max wanted to break for the door, but he would have to pass right by Drummond. He glanced out the window. Three stories high — too far for any kind of escape.

"Look," Drummond said, straightening his blazer as he stood. "Let me prove to you that I'm dead. Then, if you can't handle it, I'll just go away. Okay? That sound fair?"

Max nodded, his mind otherwise blank.

"Good," Drummond said and stepped forward until he stood in the middle of the desk, the top slicing right through his body.

Max let out a tight-lipped screech. With his eyes locked on the bizarre sight, blood drained from his head, paling his skin and making him light-headed.

"Don't pass out on me," Drummond said. "I hated it when women did that, I'm really going to be angry if you do it. Just take some deep breaths and sit down."

Following instructions, Max breathed deep and eased down to the floor. The room swirled around him as sweat beaded on his forehead. For a second, he thought he was nine and visiting the Fun House for the first time. He motioned for Drummond to step away, and Drummond complied.

With a smile from one side of his mouth, Drummond said, "You're going to be fine, kiddo. I see color coming back to your face. Have a drink. That'll do the trick."

"I-I don't have anything."

"Lucky for you this is Marshall Drummond's old office. Fourth book from the right, bottom shelf — my gift to you."

Despite his shaking hands, Max crawled to the bookshelf and found a copy of
Beyond This Horizon
by Anson MacDonald. Inside the hollowed out book, he found a silver flask. He glanced at Drummond, received a knowing nod, and grabbed the flask. The whiskey it contained slipped down Max's throat, warming his body, and calming his nerves.

Without waiting for Max to settle back, Drummond said, "Good. Now that that's done, let's talk about Stan Bowman."

"B-But you're a ghost."

Like a weary school teacher, Drummond said, "We've covered this already. I'm a ghost and you're in my office. You're going to help me and I will help you."

"But you're
a ghost
."

"Are we going to have a problem?"

Max's gut dropped a bit, but he managed to shake his head. "You need to answer some questions first."

"My, aren't we bold with well-aged whiskey?"

Perhaps a little whiskey had helped. It certainly relaxed him enough to see that this thing — this ghost — before him could not be denied. It was real. Ghosts were real. Marshall Drummond, dead since the forties, stood in Max's office.

And he hadn't tried to kill Max. Or even scare him. Drummond was asking for his help. With his brain wrapping around this idea, Max felt much better.

With a slight grunt, Max got to his feet and paced the room. The movement got his circulation running again, and he could feel his thinking process kicking in. "For starters, why did you wait until now to show yourself? I've been here for awhile."

"I couldn't. All I could do was drop that book."

"That was you?"

"You know any other dead people?"

"Okay," Max said, his pacing getting faster. "Why couldn't you show yourself?"

Drummond nodded towards the floor. "That symbol is a curse that was put on me."

"A curse?"

"A witchcraft sort of thing. I'd been investigating the Stan Bowman case when it happened. They attacked me with four guys, and the next thing I know, I'm spread on the floor, bleeding slowly all over, and they've drawn this whole mess here. When I finally died, I was stuck."

"Stuck?"

"I can't leave. Not with that thing here. The curse ties me to this office. And as long as everything in here is in the exact place it was when they finished the curse, I can't even show myself. If I move something, like the books, it doesn't matter. I've tried. It only works if a living person does it, and whatever was moved has to stay moved for quite awhile. Otherwise, I'm locked away."

"But I see you now."

"That's right. You moved the desk."

"I put it back," Max said, his eyes darting to the desk's feet. Looking far closer than ever before, he saw a sliver of a circle marking where the desk had been for many years. "Modesto," he said.