Southern Gothic (13 page)

They walked deeper into the house. The kitchen cupboards had plenty of instant soup while the freezer had been stocked with microwaveable dinners. Two used coffee mugs waited in the sink.

Upstairs Max found Sebastian’s bedroom — the only room with anything in it. A mattress on the floor, a small television sitting on a milk crate, and stacks of books. It looked like the apartment of a college student.

“Over here,” Drummond said, leaning near one stack of books.

Max saw the title
Cabbages and Kings
by O. Henry. Also in the stack, he saw
The Gift of the Magi and Other Stories
as well as a biography of O. Henry. “Guess we’re not the only ones thinking there’s a bigger connection to be found.”

Next to the mattress, Max caught sight of a manila envelope. He swallowed back hard. A moment passed in which he expected to see the handwriting of Mr. Modesto on the outside and orders from the Hulls on the inside.

Instead, Max found photographs — lots of photographs. All different sizes, all black and white, many labeled on the back. Photos of Baxter House, streets of Winston-Salem, streets of Greensboro, an old locomotive roundhouse, the covered bridge leading into Old Salem, and more.

Drummond whistled. “You think he took all those?”

“No,” Max said, flipping a few over. “Some of these are dated from the 1930s.”

One photo depicted a small brick building surrounded by open fields. On the back, somebody had written —
NGFS, Upper, before.
Max showed it to Drummond but the ghost only shrugged. Another photo showed a railroad bridge and on the back Max found the description —
Trollinger’s bridge over Haw River
.

“What is all this?” he asked.

Drummond startled and he opened his coat pocket. He nodded at Leed, then shot out the door. Before Max had time to question him, Drummond returned. “We got trouble. Detective Rolson’s here.”

Max wondered how Leed knew about Rolson — assuming that’s what the ghost blob said to Drummond — but that would have to wait for another time. Max gathered up the photos, stuck them in the envelope, and shoved the envelope down the back of his pants. He made sure his coat covered the envelope.

“You planning on talking with him?” Drummond asked, his incredulous tone unmistakable. “You do that, you’ll end up in jail.”

“I’m planning on hiding. I just don’t want him knowing I’ve got the photos if he sees me.”

“Well, he’s going to see you if you don’t move your ass.”

As Rolson opened the front door, Max darted across the hall and into the opposite bedroom. There was only one place to hide — the closet. It had slats in the door, so as Max closed himself in, he could peek through the slats and see a bit of Sebastian’s bedroom.

Drummond stood in front of the door and shook his head. “The closet? Really? Why didn’t you go out the window or up into the attic? You make one little noise and Rolson will find you here with ease.”

Though he wanted to argue, Max knew Drummond’s last statement was right. He had to stay quiet or else Rolson would find him, in which case Drummond’s initial statement would prove to be true — Max would end up in jail.

Rolson climbed the stairs in slow, plodding steps. Max pictured the tubby man laboring his way up, perspiring under a single-color sweater and a blazer. Though not necessary, Rolson clicked on a small penlight and inspected Sebastian’s bedroom.

Drummond glided back toward Max. “You know, I have to hand it to this guy. If he were on the right track thinking you were the killer, he’d be doing a good job being a bug up your rear. He’s been working out what moves you might make — going back to Baxter House, coming out here — and then making sure he’s in those places to piss you off.” Max scowled. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m happy about this guy, but he’s doing a good job.”

Rolson turned his attention to the room across from Sebastian’s — the same room in which Max hid. He played his penlight around the floor, never once bothering with the closet. Stepping near one of the room’s two small windows, he rolled back and forth on his feet until he smacked his lips as if confirming this action tasted right to him. Without pause, he knelt and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. In seconds, he removed one of the floorboards.

“Damn,” Drummond said. “This guy’s the kind of cop I hate. You watching this, Max?”

Max watched. From inside his coat, Rolson removed an envelope filled with cash. He placed the envelope under the floor. Then he opened the plastic evidence bag and removed a few fibers which he let drift to the floor like falling leaves.

“He’s setting you up. He can’t solve the case on his own and you embarrassed him the other night at Baxter House, so he’s bent on making you the killer. What really gets me is that guys like this convince themselves they’re doing the right thing.”

Rolson replaced the floorboard and headed downstairs. Drummond shoved his head through the closet. Max started but managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Look, you’ve got to move fast. Once he’s gone, you have to get rid of that money and those fibers. He may not wait very long before pretending to come back here and find this bullcrap evidence. And wear gloves when you do it. You get your fingerprints on that envelope, and you’re sunk.”

The moment Max heard the front door close, he did as instructed. Putting on his winter gloves, he pulled up the floorboard, removed the envelope, swept the fibers in with the money, and closed the floorboard. As he descended the stairs, he heard Rolson’s car back out of the drive.

“Tell me when he’s gone,” Max said.

“Count to ten or something. I’ve got to go with him. You toss that envelope and catch up with us. We’ve got to find out where he’s going next.” Drummond flew out of the house to follow Rolson.

“Wait.” Max stood alone on the stairs. His head swirled and he found it difficult to breathe. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his rapid pulse. He counted to ten.

When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing, heard nothing — Rolson had left. Max rushed out of the house toward his car. Halfway across the street he remembered the envelope in his hand and walked fast toward the neighbors trash can. He wanted to run but feared he might cause somebody in a nearby house to look out a window.

At the trash can, he paused. Glancing in the envelope, he only saw hundred dollar bills. There had to be at least two thousand dollars. If he took the money, he and Sandra could pay off a lot of bills and still have enough to keep the heaters running through the winter.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered.

If he got caught with that cash on him, he would be helping Rolson frame him. Even if he didn’t get caught, a sudden increase in his measly bank account would be evidence as well. It hurt, but Max let the envelope fall into the trash can. He stared at it. Even considered reaching in for it. But finally, he let the can close and returned to his car.

Pulling onto the road, Max felt a drag line connecting him back to that money. It tugged at him, stretching him, but he drove on.

Drummond swooped in. “Get on Business 40 West.” Then he swooped out.

Five minutes later, Drummond returned. “Take the Kernersville exit.” And he was gone.

Max followed Drummond’s directions. He drove right by Korner’s Folly and his body shuddered. He could feel the ghosts residing in the attic of that strange house looking at him.
We almost had you here with us,
they would be saying. It seemed ages ago that he had been sneaking around that place, and now, it was no more than an old house he drove by.

Fifteen minutes passed before Drummond returned and settled on the passenger seat. “Don’t go too fast. There’s a turn coming up. Then you go about five miles and there’s an abandoned gas station on the right. We can park a bit back on the left and get a good view of what’s going on there.”

“Which is what?”

“Looks like Rolson has the same addiction as Luther Boer — up ahead, it’s another Midnight Fight.”

Chapter 14

Max spied on the rundown gas station
from far up the road. He watched through binoculars he had bought months earlier at Drummond’s insistence. Thankfully, Drummond had not rubbed it in his face.

“Aren’t you glad I made you buy those?” Drummond said.

At least, he hadn’t rubbed it in right away.

From a rental truck, three men worked hard unloading boxes, folding chairs, tables, a generator, and all the other necessities required to convert the station into an illegal boxing arena. Rolson had parked next to the rental truck. A fourth man, tall and dressed in a fine suit, stepped out from the gas station and approached Rolson. They shook hands, exchanged a few words, and then the tall man ushered Rolson inside.

“Rolson keeps getting dirtier and dirtier,” Drummond said. “Makes me sad.”

“Am I seeing this right? Rolson’s getting paid to look the other way on this boxing thing and maybe to make sure no other cops take notice. That’s why he was the one in charge of me when I got beat up at the fight in Winston-Salem.”

“Looks that way. Otherwise, how would he know this place was out here?”

Max continued to watch through the binoculars though nothing had changed. “You think he works for Hull, too? That witch I saw connects the boxing with the Hulls.”

“I doubt it. You know what Hull’s like. He wouldn’t be messing with a loose gun like Rolson — planting fake evidence, framing you — it’s all rather sloppy for a Hull endeavor.”

“Still. If he’s not with Hull, this is an awfully big coincidence.”

Drummond snickered. “Let me put it a different way. I don’t think Rolson knows he’s working for the Hulls, though he probably is working for them. If they really do run this boxing thing, then it’s their money bribing him. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had set up the whole Midnight Fights to lure in gamblers, get them on the hook for a large sum, and use those debts to their advantage. Any big, illegal organization needs leverage against cops to force them into the fold. Despite what it seems like in the media, most cops are hard-working, decent folk. Just not enough corrupt ones out there to use. So, they set ‘em up through gambling debts. That’s probably how they got Luther Boer.”

Rolson stepped out of the building with the old witch at his side. His eyes searched around as if expecting a gang of bandits to attack at any time. When they reached the car, he held the door open for the witch before walking around to the driver’s side.

Drummond sighed. “On second thought — ain’t no way he’s escorting a witch and doesn’t know who his dealing with.”

Rolson’s car backed into the street and turned to face Max. As the car approached, Max scooted low in his seat. Drummond spun around and watched.

“He’s gone. You can get up.”

“We should follow him, right?”

“Absolutely. We’ve got to know where that witch is going.”

As Max started the car, his cell phone rang. He checked the call — Cecily Hull. He turned the car off. Showing the caller ID to Drummond, Max took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

When ready, he answered. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mr. Porter. It’s been a few days, and I thought that should be ample time for you to have fully considered my offer.”

“I thought my wife made our opinion fairly clear.”

He swore he could hear her titter — a horrid sound. “Do you really think posturing like that would dissuade me? I’d have never accomplished anything, if that were true. No, Mr. Porter, I’ve been waiting and watching.”

“Watching?”

“Of course. I have my own people who specialize in keeping tabs on those I’m interested in. It seems to me that you are getting close to some big answers.”

Max glanced in the rear view mirror — no sign of Rolson. “That’s funny because I haven’t a clue what the questions are. Let me ask you something though. Detective Rolson — is he on the Hull payroll? How many of the police are working for you?”

“Good going,” Drummond said. “Press her and she might slip up, give us something useful.”

Cecily sniffled as if dealing with Max’s pedestrian questions had fouled her air. “Police? Oh, I don’t know. As a lowly woman in this absurdly patriarchal family, I’m not privy to that information. However, you can rest assured that this isn’t the world of Serpico. In Winston-Salem, we may have a few police officers or detectives or what-have-you who value us and are willing to aid us in our needs, but we don’t go around bribing those in authority. We have no interest. After all, we have far more powerful tools at our disposal.”

“You mean witchcraft.”

“Amongst other things.”

Drummond leaned closer to listen. “She’s dodging. Don’t let up, now.”

Max shooed him off. “What else do you have besides witchcraft?”

“Money, of course.”

“Obviously. What I mean is —”

“Mr. Porter, that’s enough. You are, and have always been, a mere pawn to us. There have been times when you’ve been a powerful pawn, but now is not one of those times. If you wish to understand what your real role in all that’s going on is, then you’ll have to agree to work for me. Otherwise, I see no value in our conversation.”