Southern Haunts (23 page)

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Libby said. “Never broken into somebody’s home.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we won’t be breaking anything. We’ve got an ace up our sleeve.” The door unlocked and Max gently opened it. “It sure helps when you have a ghost on your side.”

Libby’s eyes roved around, perhaps hoping to see Drummond in some spectral form, but if she spotted anything, she did not react.

“Will you look at this place?” Drummond floated around the brothel, taking in every detail of the ceiling and flooring. “I haven’t been in a place like this since I was a young man.”

Max’s mind filled with a hundred questions, none of which pertained to their current situation. “Please focus,” he said. “We’ve got to find that tunnel.”

“Relax. I got this.”

But Max couldn’t relax. Everything rode on finding that tunnel. If they failed to find the tunnel, or if his instincts were mistaken and there simply was no tunnel, then the whole operation would be a bust — and the two homeless kids he had hired would get the shaft.

Drummond disappeared through the floor. Seconds later, he returned, rubbing his head. “The tunnel is definitely here. I can’t get in close. Feels like it’s covered in wards. Really hurts.”

Though they had now succeeded with step one, Max could hardly be relieved. “No worries. You did your job. We know it’s there for real. Libby and I will find a way in.”

“I don’t mind looking around here some more.”

“You can go on a nostalgia trip another time. I need you to talk with Floyd Johnson. He’s our insurance policy.”

“I know, I know. I’ll take care of it.” With that, Drummond left the house.

Libby’s uneasy laugh echoed in the dark halls. “It’s really strange seeing you talk to emptiness. Makes you look a little crazy.”

“Maybe I am crazy. Let’s get this done.” Max checked his watch — ten after midnight.

DAY SIX

They didn’t have much time left
before the Sandwich Boys carried out their assignment. If they didn’t find the tunnel by that point, everything would fall apart. Maybe he should have let Drummond stay and help. Except convincing Floyd to aid them would be difficult. Max had to give Drummond as much time as possible for that task. “You take the upstairs. I’ll look down here.”

Libby gave a short salute, her humor more to ease her nerves than be sarcastic. As Max poked in the rooms, checked doors, knocked on walls, and looked for hidden entrances, part of his mind noted how odd everything sounded. Libby’s footfalls upstairs, his own knocks — every sound became hollow and distant in the dark of Ms. Williamson’s home.

He had been illegally in places before, but they had been crime scenes or abandoned buildings or businesses. Rarely had he broken into the private residence of an innocent — certainly, not as innocent as Ms. Williamson. This was just some woman’s home. Everywhere he looked, he saw the furniture, the photos, the pieces of life that he trespassed. If all went well, she would never know, but that was no comfort. Her touch lay within everything, and he did not relish intruding upon it.

He pushed on, reminding himself of all the people counting on him — especially Shawnee’s unborn child.

He entered the kitchen, a narrow but functional room, and caught sight of the green digital display on the stove — 12:15. Only five minutes left. He checked under the sink and in the lower drawers. He removed all the pots and pans to gain access to the back walls but found nothing. His heart quickened even as his stomach sank.

Three more minutes gone and still nothing.

He heard Libby call from upstairs, “I think I found it!”

Max raced up the stairs, two-at-a-time, and bolted around the landing. Libby’s shocked face filled his view. Pushing off the wall, he escaped colliding with her.

She stood in front of a thin, door. “Is that what we’re looking for?” She opened the door and shined her flashlight on the back wall of the broom closet.

Max followed the beam. A dim, door-shaped outline about chest-high peeked through the painted wall. Max walked right up and kicked hard against the drywall. It crumbled. Cold, dank air puffed out. With his own flashlight, he saw a stone stairwell with an old pipe handrail going down. Above the handrail, painted in white, Max saw a circle with several symbols surrounding it.

“Yeah, this is definitely it.”

Sirens rang out. He checked his watch — 12:20. The boys had started their work. The fire department was on its way across town.

Max kicked at the wall. “Shit. We’re out of time.”

Chapter 28

Max flew down the stairs.
Gripping the metal handrail tight, he negotiated the twisting, steep descent until he reached a brick and concrete floor. The researcher in him wanted to stop and examine every detail — the low, arched ceiling made of brick, the wooden shelves stocked with old, half-filled bottles, the rusty lanterns hung from the ceiling, and the repeated wards painted on the walls. But he had no time for such an indulgence. He pulled out his cell and speed-dialed Sandra.

When she answered, he spoke one simple word. “Go.”

With Libby safely down, the two stepped through an open metal door and proceeded along the tunnel. About halfway down, they found a metal ladder suspended from the ceiling like the exit out of a sewer. Max aimed his flashlight upward but saw only darkness. “We must be under the house in between. Looks like it’s been built over, but I’ll bet you, years ago they must have had access to several houses on this block. Makes sense. If your main routes got compromised, you’d still need a way to bring in all the alcohol and VIPs who didn’t want to be seen.”

Rats squeaked from the darkness. Ignoring the noise, and not wanting to indulge the idea of beady-eyed rodents scurrying around their feet, they pressed onward. At the end of the tunnel, they found a staircase leading up and at the top, a metal door — only waist high and completely flat other than a sliding peephole. And no doorknob.

Max glanced back at Libby. “Okay, this is it.”

Though he had seen the fear in her eyes and the slight shake in her knees, her voice sounded firm and in control. “You got it.” She hurried back the way they had come.

Max traced the seams of the door. Years of dust caked it like shriveled paint. The cool metal had a slight vibration as if from something mechanical on the other side. Freddie Robertson had never mentioned any of this. But then Max didn’t expect a ninety-five-year-old man to remember exactly something from when he was a child — even if he did write about it obsessively. He only remembered the details that mattered to him. Like the sounds.

Max placed his ear against the metal. It was difficult, but he thought he heard a woman’s cries. He shook it off, hoping it to be nothing more than his imagination. When he stepped back, the cries continued. They were real —
Shawnee
.

With renewed urgency, Max’s fingers retraced the surface of the door. There had to be a way in. Along the top — nothing. Around the peephole — nothing. Along the right side — nothing.

But on the left side, close to his knee, Max discovered a sliding-panel flush in the door. He pushed it back, reached in, and encountered a small hand-grip. He grabbed and yanked back, receiving the satisfying sound of a metal clank.

Max put his shoulder to the door, ignoring the pain from his earlier bruises, and shoved as hard as he could manage. It budged a little but not enough.

Great. Here we go again.

Max moved down two steps. He didn’t know if he could generate enough force coming at the door from this angle, but he didn’t see any alternative. He shot up and forward, banging into the metal surface. It jerked inward with ease. As he stumbled forward, he found that the door had been hidden behind mounds of clothing next to the washer and dryer. The mechanical vibrations came from the spinning dryer.

Why would Wayne be doing laundry?

Max opened the dryer. His mind yelled at him to leave it alone, but he crouched down and turned his flashlight into the machine. What he found made sense yet turned his stomach at the same time — baby clothes. Wayne was getting ready.

Libby ducked in carrying two canisters of gasoline. Max grabbed them and sent her back for more. From above, he clearly heard Wayne yelling at Sandra.

“I will call the police if you continue to harass me.”

Max could not make out Sandra’s reply, but he knew she would be calling the man on his bluff.

Wayne’s footsteps stomped around for a moment, then even louder, he yelled, “You can’t do this.”

Max stared at the ceiling and muttered, “Don’t push him too hard, hon.”

Libby returned with two more gas canisters. After setting them down, she scurried back into the tunnel, and a moment later, she appeared with a crate full of blue Casper bottles. They clanked at different pitches — some were empty; others were filled to varying degrees.

To Max’s quizzical look, she said, “They were in the tunnel. I’d hate to see them destroyed. We can use them to prove to the world that magic and ghosts exist.”

“You know there’s no way I’m taking those out of here.”

“Relax. I’m joking,” Libby said, but she didn’t look too amused. “If I really wanted to take them, I would’ve gone the other way. I’m giving them to you, so they can go up in the fire with everything else.”

Max didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but there was no time to argue. He lifted the crate of bottles. While Libby doused the wooden shelves and clothes piles in gasoline, he set the bottles at the top of the stairs.

He could hear Wayne and Sandra arguing, as well as periodic cries that were, no doubt, Shawnee. Max dropped back several stairs and looked at Libby. “Can you handle the rest of this?”

“I’ve got it. You go do your part.”

“When you finish, you make sure to close the tunnel door as well as the one at the brothel. I don’t want any of this fire going back up in the other houses.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Be safe.”

Normally, Max would take a moment for a deep breath, to clear his mind, and possibly count to ten before jumping into any potentially life-threatening situation. But as another fire engine shrieked down a road in the distance, he could not afford such luxuries. He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

Little had changed since his previous visit. Wayne had not disposed of the equipment, though much of it remained in disarray from the last scuffle. To Max’s left, at the end of the counter, a door led out to the backyard. Max unlocked it, and in came Carl and Jack. All three men stayed quiet as they tiptoed towards the living room.

“You are not coming in here. You are not seeing Shawnee. And you are not welcome — even on my stoop,” Wayne bellowed.

“Well, I’m not leaving. You want to threaten about calling the police, again? No? Then all you have to do is let me in. Let me see Shawnee and make sure she’s okay.”

“I’m her husband, and I’m telling you, she’s okay.”

“It’s after midnight, Wayne. How long you think it’ll be until your neighbors call the police for me?”

Max poked his head around the corner. On the opposite side of the room, he saw Wayne filling up the doorway. Max allowed himself a second to marvel at Sandra’s strength. That she would stand in front of this bear and continue to find reasons to keep him there, arguing over and over, knowing that at any moment he might snap and attack her — it all made Max love her more.

Other than Carl’s equipment, the living room had not been cleaned up from Milton Hull’s attack. Along the back wall, Max spied Shawnee. She lay on the couch, sweat soaking her sundress, her legs apart, her face a tight grimace. Another labor pain struck and she moaned while holding her swollen belly.
Crap.
Shawnee delivering her baby now was not part of the plan.

With a wave of his hand, Max motioned to Carl and Jack. Like soldiers on the battlefield, they crouched as they approached Shawnee. She saw them, and Max gestured to keep up the sounds of labor or else she might give them away. Her face trembled out a smile even as her eyes widened with another labor pain wracking her body.

Carl and Jack helped her get up and escorted her towards the back door. Max positioned several feet behind Wayne. He could see Sandra easing back a few steps, giving him room to dash forward and tackle Wayne straight out the door. It would save them both. Once out, the fire would be lit, and they could watch the house burn. All the fires the Sandwich Boys had set would keep the fire department too busy to save this house. It all came together at that moment.

Except Carl’s elbow bumped a glass off the kitchen counter. As the shattering sound cut through the air, Wayne whirled around. Though his mouth did not move, the word,
NO!
reverberated throughout the house. The front door shut. Max heard the back door slam shut as well. The blinds screamed down and folded over. Carl, Jack, and Max had one second to exchange looks before each of them lifted off the ground and slammed into the walls. Shawnee screamed out, and Max strained to reach her, to aid her.