Southern Haunts (21 page)

He picked up the top notebook. “Did you write this?”

Sandra and Freddie stared at Max as if he had walked in on them in a compromising position.

“Way to go, kid,” Drummond said. “Here I thought your wife was going to talk that guy out of killing himself.”

Once Sandra read the label on the notebook, her expression softened. She asked Freddie, “Did you write that?”

“Oh, yes,” Freddie said. “That picture of my father holding up that bottle became famous in my household. Here was his proud moment until the whole scandal. And I wanted to understand because I feared that maybe it was something I had done that night. That somehow, my sin in that tunnel had tarnished my family, and that bottle in his hand was the result. I suppose it was a young boy’s mind trying to pull reason out of insanity, but it never quite left me. I became a bit obsessive about it. I’m practically the perfect historian on the subject of The Casper Company.”

Max could feel it inside — all the pieces were finding their places. It formed an intuitive leap within him — a sensation he trusted to follow and accept the thoughts that erupted in his head, even if he couldn’t grasp his own reasoning. “This is really important. Please let me know — does the name Unger mean anything?”

Freddie nodded. “Sure. Unger General Store. Tragic story, really. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Chapter 25

DAY FIVE

Max awoke in his office chair
with a kink in his neck, a book in his hand, and an article on his laptop about Unger’s General Store. It had been a long night. When they had returned from Greensboro, Max immediately hit the research books. Sandra had planned to help, but a phone call from Libby changed all that.

Shawnee Darian sat in Libby’s apartment, crying and shaken. Unable to deal with the stress of her house, she had left. She hoped Wayne would have joined along, but instead, he pulled a knife on her.

“Something in him, though, stopped it from going further, and I got out of there,” she had said.

Sandra could hear Shawnee making excuses between sobs. She left for Libby’s place straight away. Max knew that whatever help she could offer, she would. He promised he would find out what Unger’s General Store was all about. Drummond even agreed to hit the books with Leed, so Max sent them off with a highly specific research task.

Hours later, as he pored through his original notes, he discovered that he had been sitting on the answer from early on. It had been staring at him the whole time, but he missed it. “Well, I got you now,” he said to his notebook.

As the morning light freshened the office — stale coffee being only one of many stale odors in need of freshening — Max stretched his aching body and organized his thoughts. He had the puzzle together now. The story behind the Darians’ home led to the story behind Unger’s General Store which led to the story behind Floyd Johnson and, to some extent, Milton Hull.

As with all Hull references, the Hull family had done a remarkable job removing their name from every article, entry, book, or paper that he could find. Their thoroughness never ceased to astound. But despite their efforts, Max had managed to piece together the tale. That was why they had hired him years ago — he was one of the best.

Max scratched the coarse stubble on his cheek. That would have to wait a day. He had a plan now — most of a plan — and he would need help. Before he could enact anything, however, he had an important step to take. Shrugging on his coat, Max left the office and went to the corner store for a bagel and coffee.

He walked over a block and up the street. He searched for the young boy — PB, Peanut Butter, Punching Bag, aka the Kid. As he neared their usual spot, his heart sank.

The tarp PB had used for protection from the elements fluttered in tatters. The few possessions PB had kept along the back bricks had been tossed about like the trash scattered about the area. Max’s eyes roved for signs of struggle. Thankfully, he saw no blood, but that was small comfort.

He placed the bagel and coffee next to where PB often slept. He stared at it, hoping that his assessment could be wrong, but he knew better — the thugs he had fought with had come back and took their displeasure out on the Kid.

“And I’m responsible.”

He should have done more. He could have helped. Only a short while before, he and Sandra had been on the verge of homelessness. Yet all he had done was bring a cheap cup of coffee and a bagel. Not a piece of fruit or a chicken sandwich or juice or anything that might keep a body strong. No, he had opted for the cheap and easy route. With his thoughts clouded, he meandered back to the office.

He stopped at the bank of mail slots. His hands shook badly, and he had to try three times before he could get the key in. Images of PB being beaten to death swirled in his head. He grabbed his mail, slapped shut the little door, and trudged back to his office.

“Man, I had no idea you had such a cushy pad,” PB said.

Max stood in his office doorway, his jaw gaping wide open as the Kid spun circles in Max’s chair.

“I was just at your place. I thought something had happened to you. I felt terrible. You’ve been here the whole time?”

“No, man. I was hiding nearby. Watched you and everything. Very nice tears, by the way. I really thought you felt sad for me.” PB gestured across to a young, black boy sitting on the couch. “That’s my friend. He wants a job, too.”

“What?”

“You said if I could find your office, you’d give me a job. What do you think I was hiding for? I didn’t know your name, so I couldn’t 411 you on the library Internet. So, I waited for you to show up and I followed you here. You bumbled around enough at the mailboxes that I got plenty of time to pick the lock and settle in.” He flicked a business card on the table. “Got your name now, too — Max Porter.”

Though still in shock, Max smiled. “Oh, you’re going to fit in fine here.”

“Now, hold on a minute. I ain’t heard terms yet. I got to know what we’re being paid and what you want us to do. Jammer J here, he ain’t even met you until now.”

Max arched an eyebrow. “Jammer J?”

“We call him Jam.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me — PB and J?”

Jam answered in a thick, Southern accent. “Hey, are we all gonna sit around and shoot names, or are we gonna talk money?”

“No problem,” Max said. “I’ll pay you each one hundred and fifty dollars, but you have to do a very specific task, today, exactly as I tell you.”

Both boys snapped to attention. PB wiped at his mouth. “Did you say a hundred fifty?”

“Yup. That is if you don’t mind breaking a few laws.”

The boys grinned.

Max gave them money to buy a cell phone and then told them what he needed. Once PB and J had left the office — Max decided he would call them the Sandwich Boys — he called out for Drummond. It took a few tries, but eventually the ghost appeared. He asked Drummond to get Sandra, Libby, Shawnee, and the others together, and to have them meet at Little Richard’s BBQ for lunch.

Drummond frowned. “What about the thing you had Leed and me looking into?”

“Did you find it?”

“No. Looks like somebody took those blueprints a long time ago. But Leed wants to keep trying.”

Max paused to think it over. “Forget that. Please, do what I’m asking. Get everyone together. I’ve got a different tactic to try, and I’ll finish it by lunch. I’ll meet you all there, and I’ll explain everything.”

“I like the look in your eye. Don’t you worry, I’ll get everybody together. Leed won’t be happy about it, but I got no problem stopping — if I had to look at one more registry, I’d have lost it. So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to visit a brothel.”

Max paced the sidewalk, snatching glances up at the brothel house. It was a white building on a short incline with a gray stone retaining wall and similar stone stairs leading up. To the right, an overhang covered the concrete drive, and a BMW had been parked underneath — Max stared at that overhang. He had noticed it before, when walking this street with Libby.

Of course, I saw it. It’s only two houses up from the Darians.

But still it struck Max as odd that this particular house had garnered his attention during that walk while others had been ignored. Down the street, the Darians’ blue house appeared unoccupied. But Max knew Wayne was in there. He could practically feel the man staring out, watching him like a sniper choosing targets.

“Careful. Don’t let your imagination get you.”

Wasting the morning on the sidewalk would help no one. Max climbed the stairs and rang the brothel’s doorbell.

A woman with a healthy countenance cracked the door open. “May I help you?”

Max attempted his most-easing smile. “Hi. My name’s Max, and I’m writing a book on famous homes in the South. Are you aware of the unique history of this place?”

Her cautious stare relaxed. “You mean the brothel?”

“You know?”

“There was an article written recently on it. Would you like to come in and see?” She held the door open wider, and Max entered. He couldn’t believe it had been so easy, that the cautious face had become so trusting, which oddly made him feel more cautious. “I’m Denise Williamson. Feel free to look around.”

“Thank you, Ms. Williamson.”

“Most of the woodwork and moldings are original. Do you know much about the place, yet?”

“Some.” On the right, he saw a wooden staircase with a black banister. The risers had been painted white with finished wood on top. It led to a second-floor landing. To the left of the staircase, a hall led to the back, and further left, Max saw a wide open room. It appeared the woman used it as a living room with its large windows and a rather open plan by today’s standards — nine foot ceilings, old moldings around every door, a beautiful airy place.

Ms. Williamson stepped into the living room. “I think this was originally the sitting area. Maybe where the girls were put on display.”

Max pulled out his phone. “Mind if I take pictures?”

“Be my guest.”

As he walked through the house, he felt a strange dichotomy developing between the old and new. In each room, he could feel the nearly-hundred year old occurrences. He could hear the jazz music. He could smell the cigar smoke and flowing whiskey. The pleasurable moans and boisterous laughter — it echoed around him. Yet he also saw modern furniture and decorations, the latest magazines, an ereader, a cell phone, a laptop, a flatscreen, a dishwasher, and a microwave.

As they moved upstairs, he asked the woman about her life. She remained tight-lipped, though she did say that like many in the neighborhood, she worked up the road at the hospital. The upstairs consisted of a narrow hall with rooms attached along the way. Like below, the floors were all polished hardwood. A slight curve near the end led to the master bedroom on the left.

On a king-sized bed, Max noticed an open suitcase and neatly ordered piles of clothing next to it. He paused to stare at the bedroom’s ceiling lamp with its ornately-designed molding connecting it all together. “This is a beautiful home.”

“Thank you.”

Walking back, he glanced through a window into the backyard. It stretched out a small ways with a wooden fence traveling the perimeter. She had a little garden off to the side and a large shed in the back.

“Is that shed original, too?” Max asked.

“I don’t think so. If you go in, it certainly doesn’t look like it’s from the twenties. More like the fifties or sixties, if I had to guess. But I could be wrong.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

“I’m sorry. I am a bit pressed for time, and I’d have to fish out the key and all.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want to trouble you.”

When they reached the front door, she added, “I hope you saw enough. Got what you needed to.”

“There is one more thing. If it’s okay, I’d like to check out the basement.”

“The basement?”

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

Her cautious eyes returned. At that moment, it might have been dawning upon her that she had admitted a complete stranger into her home based on nothing more than his word. Yet, she led the way to the entrance underneath the stairs. Flicking on a switch, she let him go down the creaking wood stairs. The stairs were simplistic with a single strip of one-by used for a handrail. She did not follow.

Even before he had gone halfway down, the smell of wet earth crept into the air. As he suspected, he found an unfinished basement in the truest sense — dirt floor with an old brick foundation and a low ceiling. It was a narrow, dank, rather creepy place. Duct work hung below, as did loose wires, while pipes went off in different directions. An old wash basin stood in the middle next to a modern water heater, both perched on a brick slab. The basement was lit by a single, bare bulb and two half-covered windows. Black tarps had been used to cover a large number of objects — presumably the things Ms. Williamson wanted to keep dry in this dank section of the house.

Max walked the length of the narrow basement, taking pictures every few steps — far more pictures than he had taken while pretending to be an author upstairs. No matter where he looked, he did not see anything that resembled a door to a tunnel. But there had to be one. If not, if Freddie Robertson had been lying or if he had remembered a different house from somewhere else, then all of this would fail.